173. Blank Pages

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 28; the 28th Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'BLANK PAGES'.

The great news today in the newsroom is sudden announcement of a press conference by PD. Poornendu Dey, lovingly called PD by the press is one of the most popular novelists and thinker of the era. He is not only popular amongst intelligentsia but also among the common ranks. He is not only popular in the East but also in the West.  He is known to be fearless and stands for the tribal and the exploited. He basically writes in Bangla but almost all his works have been translated in the major Indian languages and even the other major languages in the world. He travels a lot and his lectures on various topics ranging from literature to atomic energy and from dam displacement to ecology are well attended and appreciated.

“Now what would be the announcement?” everybody in the room is guessing. They are all budding journalists and are willing to do anything to achieve name and fame. Each one of them would like to cover the press conference today and each one is trying to find who would be that lucky fellow! Within five-seven minutes they come to know that one of the Senior Editors would cover the prestigious Press Conference. So all of them- the juniors - have nothing else to do but have enough time for some gossip. Such opportunities are rare indeed. The world as if has come to standstill – every telephone call, every news channel is talking about only one thing – PD and his Press Conference.

“Has PD finally accepted the proposed honor of Bharat Ratna?” asks Nandita loudly.  But in that case some high profile Government official would announce it and not PD.

“Has he rejected it?” asks Sameer. But then PD is decent enough not to make miles out of other’s failure. So, it won’t be about any award or any kind of fight with Government.

“Is PD going to return Padmashree Award in protest of tribal exploitations in Niyamgiree in Odisha? Or anything related to the proposed Refinery in Chhattisgarh?” Sahu has another question. But PD had accepted Padmashree long back that returning it now won’t be relevant. PD is shrewd enough to be relevant all the time.

“What would PD by saying?” everybody is still guessing.

“How many novels has he written? And how many awards?” one asks.

“Aranyer Satya, is the best” one says.  “Oh! I like his sense of humor. Do you remember the political satire he wrote about communist power in West Bengal?” another asks. “No, I like the one he wrote about a tribal boy turning out to be Nakshalite the best”, third opinion is expressed. The discussion goes on and on. It brings out three facts clearly: PD is a multi-faceted personality, everybody loves PD and everybody loves PD for different reason.

*****

Time is clicking. TV channels are showing the venue of press conference. All big names in the media are present, cameras are flashing. Mani Shankar, PD’s close friend cum secretary is smiling as usual. He is busy with checking microphone and talking to all the journalists. Everybody is waiting for arrival of PD.

It is indeed strange that PD is making people to wait for him today. Generally, he is a person who abides by his high standards; he is never known to have reached late to any venue or event. Today something seems to be very special.

One TV channel is smart enough to show coverage of area just outside the residence of PD. They would gain extra TRP for covering PD leaving his house and entering his car. The time is running. The press conference is at 4.00 PM and it is already 3.50 and PD has not left his residence yet. Everything seems to be peaceful and quiet there. PD has such a kind of aura that nobody dares to enter his house or call him saying that he is getting late. They all wait for him like the subjects wait for the King.

It is 4.30 PM. No PD yet on the scene. Channel anchor persons are tired of saying the same things about PD which almost everybody knows for years. The speculations of why PD might be late are on – not on the channel but off the camera. People are convinced that there must be something very important and that is why PD is getting late. Is he discussing his announcement with someone placed in a powerful position? There are guesses and guesses.

Mr. Mani Shankar is trying to hide his stress. He has been working with PD for more than 25 years and as far as he remembers, it is for the first time PD is getting late. To his embarrassment, he does not know what PD is going to say to the press. It was decided so suddenly that Mani Shankar had no time to speak to PD about the event.

*****

A senior police official is walking with a constable holding a young child. They all walk towards the stage. The child seems to be frightened. The official calls Mani Shankar in a corner and hands over an envelope to Mani Shankar. “What is it?” Mani Shankar asks.

“This bloody rascal brought it to the security guard saying that it has to be given to you. I just want to ensure that there is nothing threateningly serious.” The officer speaks gravely. The child shivers.

Mani Shankar opens the envelope. Two pages come out of the envelope.  Mani Shankar hides them in his shirt pocket and looks helplessly at the police official. Then he takes a closer look at the envelope.

“What is this letter? Is PD Sir being kidnapped? Is he not well?” the officer demands.

“Well, my name is written on the envelope. And no doubt it is the handwriting of PD Sir. Let me call him first.” Mani Shankar is sweating now. He is under tremendous stress.

 “The mobile you are trying to connect is switched off” – the announcement keeps on repeating; as expected by the police officer.

Now some journalists have realized that some other drama is going on in the corner. A police officer; a constable; with a child and stressed Mani Shankar and no PD. What could be the story?

Police officer pulls both the child and Mani Shankar in another room. Constable follows the direction automatically.

“Who gave you this envelope?” asks the police officer to the child.

“A sahib came on a motorbike and gave me ten rupees. He said he was in a hurry and asked me to give this envelope to the guard at the entrance.” The child is frightened.

“Do you remember the bike number? Do you remember how the man looked like?” the questions are thrown at the child again. He shakes his head tearfully.  “He was wearing helmet, goggle; had beard and his bike was Bajaj …” the child is trying to be helpful. But the officer knows that if he starts searching a man with this description, he will get thousands in the town.

“First things first”, says Mani Shankar. “Let me announce that PD is not able to address the journalists today. That will make us free from the wolves …”

Mani Shankar regretfully announces postponement of Press Conference. The journalists are trying to get reasons from Mani Shankar but he refuses to answer. The journalists are shouting, pushing the microphone, the flash is passing through the wires with speculations.

After about 10 minutes there are very few people in the hall. The child; Mr. Mani Shankar and police personnel.

“Ok, we already have police in the residence of PD and he is not there. So, his ill health is out of question,” the officer says calmly.

“Now what does the letter say? Is any ransom demanded? Who has written it? Can you know the handwriting?” the office continues to throw the question.

Mani Shankar is completely clueless and helpless. He hands over the two pages to the officer.

Nothing is written on it.

They are Blank Pages.

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172. Mind Games

On that day, I was traveling from Mumbai to Pune once again. During summer vacations it is difficult to travel on this route. Though there are innumerable options, they are all crowded. It is hard to book tickets in advance and even if you have 'reserved' seat, it is of no use is my experience. So, there is an inevitable discussion among the co-passengers on "vacation - crowd - railway reservation - corruption - railway management - government - increased population ..." and so on. Some respond to the situation coolly and some show their experience by saying something like "Oh! This crowd is nothing. Last year I was traveling to ...." 

We Indians like to discuss. The discussion does not end even if everybody agrees. The disagreement is generally on un-important points. These points vary according to the season and situation. On that particualr day everybody agreed that 'the summer is getting intolerable' -and on this the discussion continued. 

In my childhood the topic of summer had a short life. The summer was either mild or strong or severe. Now even kids talk in terms of temperatures like "Yesterday Pune was 39  (degree Celsius), our Mumbai is much cooler you know, it was only 34." The credit goes to 24X7 news channels as well internet. I never find news on TV channels interesting, but people refer to those news bites seriously in various discussions. 

Everybody was sweating during the journey. The price of cold-drinks was making poor parents sweat more. Then the discussion as expected turned towards 'water' and especially 'drinking water." People remembered how the delayed monsoon caused trouble last year and hoped that "this year the monsoon is on time."

The discussion continued. The train passed Kalyan station and then Karjat station. The train was on time. People were planning what they would do when they reach Pune. Outside, the Sun was blazing, the hills were barren and dry. Everybody was waiting for the end of the journey. 

When we reached around Monkey Hill, there was a sudden change in atmosphere. There was wild breeze and the sky was covered with black clouds. The blazing Sun had disappeared behind those clouds. There was the typical smell of earth when it rains .. and within moments we met stormy Rain.

I love rain. Even by its hope, I become happy and fresh. My mind becomes rain when it actually rains outside. 

I was happy. I looked at my co-passengers and was surprised!  Nobody was in a mood to welcome Rain. All windows were hurriedly shut down. The train lost its speed. It stopped for ten minutes in Khandala station and took twenty minutes to reach Lonvala from Khandala. Passengers were not comfortable and everybody was looking at his/her watch after every minute.

Slowly, people started complaining about the delay, about the railway management, about the rain. Someone said, "Why this rain had to come only now! It  could have come later!!" Others agreed. They continued the discussion on 'how untimely the rain always arrives". Some other even suggested that "why it does not rain only on agricultural and forest lands? Why do we people in cities need rain for?" The argument no doubt was unwise, foolish and disastrous. It clearly showed selfishness and lack of understanding and respect for Nature. However, nobody argued and it seemed to be that everybody was thinking on the similar lines. 

I found the change in response of the people around me rather funny. Why are we always dissatisfied with what we have? In summer, have we ever tried to exchange a smile with the Sun? In summer we complain about the heat, in winter we complain about the cold and in rainy seasons we complain about rain. Why do we do that? Why do we behave and respond like this? Why do we think that only a farmer could be happy with the arrival of rain? 

"I should get what I want" is not a very healthy attitude. 

And do we really know what we want? 

Are we aware that our wants, our desires, our demands keep on changing. 

Whatever we have, we are not happy with; and whatever we don't have, we always want. 

What kind of Mind Game(s) are we playing? 

Will it ever end? 

**

171. Dedication

Two evenings.
Two separate incidents.
Two different persons.
But we were the same - going through both the experiences.
But our understanding was different on two different occasions.

One famous dam.
We visited the site.
The Chief Executive Engineer was present.

"Would you like to listen to a power point presentation before we visit the site?" he asks.
I am no expert on Dams. I don't understand technical things.
But the person asked me so humbly, that I said 'Yes'.
A good presentation for half an hour, with tea, and on the spot focused answers to the various questions.
I realized that this person is calm, disciplined, knowledgeable and humble.
I like such people.

Half an hour was assumed for the visit of Dam.
It took us two and half hours.
Because this Engineer was giving us information in details.
I could see that his heart was in his work, he remembered history and dreams of every stage in the project. Moreover, he wanted to tell me the story completely.
I was touched by his involvement, his dedication towards his work.
It was as if I was visiting his home - with so much of affection he was showing me everything.
I enjoyed it.

Next evening, we visited a Museum.
This was a small kingdom, there was a king, his palace is now a Museum.
Two persons were there. Initially they were reluctant to allow us inside - but somehow we managed to take a round. I asked few questions and they answered in a matter of fact tone.
I had planned one hour for the Museum visit - but within ten minutes I was walking out of the Museum - dissatisfied.

A woman in her 50s was standing outside.
"Come this way", she ordered me.
I followed her.
She opened the door and asked me to come inside.
There was a an image of a Goddess.
"Who is this Goddess?" I asked.
The woman said, "I cannot speak Hindi."

During next ten minutes, in fluent Hindi, she told me the story of how the Goddess who was originally in the city of Ujjain was happy  with the king; how she promised the king to reside in the palace temple; how the king was asked not to look behind for her; how when  she approached the king's palace she realized that her common devotees would not be able to meet her; how she removed anklet; and how king feared that she is not coming with him and turned around and the Goddess stopped then and there. The king had to build a temple where the Goddess stopped and he built an underground path from palace to temple to visit the Goddess everyday.

"Have you understood what I told you? Otherwise I will have to tell you again," the woman said and I smiled.
Then she showed me many photographs of film stars. It seems that movie shooting happens in this palace  and happens frequently.
Queen Victoria had awarded the king in 1877 - the woman showed me that award.
She also showed me 'dance room' in the palace and also a temporary jail created for shooting of a film.
I was touched by the dedication of the woman.

It was as if I was visiting her home - with so much of affection she was showing me everything.
I enjoyed it.

The woman came to the palace at the age of 18 as a maid servant of the Queen.
She is now 54 - she is staying here for the last 36 years.
Her husband passed away.
Now she works here.

I realized that this person is calm, disciplined, knowledgeable and humble.
I like such people.

I casually asked my team (all men, two in there 40s, two about 25, all working in technical field) - "Do you find any similarity between the experiences of these two evenings?"
They all thought about it and said, "No".

I changed my question. I asked, "Do you think there is any similarity between the Chief Executive Engineer of the Dam and the Maidservant we met at the Palace Museum?"
"Oh! Not at all!!" they said unanimously. "The man was highly educated, holding an important and responsible post, he must be earning a good salary. How can he be compared with this illiterate and low paid woman?" they shot back.

Why do we look at 'dedication' with a filtered perspective?
Why do we think that those who are better educated, those who are more aged, with who hold power position, those who earn more money, those who can speak more languages .. are more dedicated?
**

170. Once Again

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 27; the 27th Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'Once Again'.

Jaaswandee was happy that the bus had not yet turned up. If she had missed the bus, it would have been very difficult for her to survive the day. Today she desperately wanted to go to school; not because she loved her school but she hated her home.

Yesterday evening when Baabaa came home, it was obvious that he was completely drunk.  His drinking was not a rare scenario in the last couple of years or so. Jaaswandee fearfully waited for things to happen; the way they usually happened on such evenings. Baabaa would start abusing Mother – that was the first stage. Mother generally kept her cool, cooked, fed everybody. And then Mother would force Jaaswandee and Amol to go to bed early. Amol always enjoyed this luxury and slept calmly. However Jaaswandee was always kept awake by the painful sobs of her Mother. Throughout the night she sensed something was wrong around her, but never was able to pinpoint what it was. Next morning she would glance at her mother and her mother’s face would tell her the horror story – the same story once again.

On some other days things would become worst. Mother would lose her patience and start counter arguing with Baabaa. Both Baabaa and Mother would shout at each other, accuse each other, abuse each other, threaten each other and ultimately it was always Baabaa who would overpower Mother. After violent attacks from Baabaa, Mother would be left limp and she would just lie down and weep silently – nonstop; for hours.

Yesterday was one of those days. The neighbors were always useless in these situations. Nobody would turn up and offer help. Jaaswandee could call nobody. She had to cook, feed Baabaa and Amol, and entertain Amol so that his attention was diverted. After all that she also had to feed Mother – who generally refused to eat and drink. Jaaswandee had to clean, and she could never sleep on such nights. She had no problems with occasional extra work, but she hated the environment in which the work was put on her shoulders.

Yes, fortunately these nights ended, always ended. With the rising Sun, Baabaa would become sober once again. He would be silent; he would talk to Amol and Jaaswandee with love and care. His voice would be soft; his eyes wet, his face thinking something deeply. He would glance at Mother and whisper something which made Mother smile irrespective of the pain and sorrow. That made Jaaswandee mad at her Mother. How could Mother forget her pain and the beating so easily? How could Mother forgive Baabaa again? Why can’t Mother just walk out with her and Amol? Why can’t three of them together punish Baabaa for drinking and spoiling their life?

Jaaswandee wanted to tell her Mother something that had happened to her last week. She wanted to weep on the shoulders of her Baabaa. But somehow, the whole last week was strenuous at home too. Things had gone wrong too many times and the frequency of the fights between her parents alarmed her. Even Amol, who was so innocent and noisy had become calm and quiet and that was not a good sign – Jaaswandee knew it well from within her heart, she had gone through the same realization process. She had no time for her sorrow, no time to weep, no will to share, no motivation to live.

****

Reaching school was not fun today. Examinations were approaching and teachers were stressed more than the students. First lecture went on okay. The bell rang, another teacher entered and Jaaswandee’s heart sank.

Mr. G was nicknamed as Mr. Good by his colleagues and students had picked up the name fondly. He was old, very loving teacher. Generally all students liked him, though there were few exceptions. He had his unique way of handling even notorious students. He never had to use any brutal power to control his class. He was good in his subject and taught in an attractive manner. He was famous for inviting select students at his home for special coaching – and that was free coaching. Sometimes he worked with them in the staff room after the school was over. He did not invite only rich students but poor students as well. He did not invite only girls but boys as well. His special effort was considered as a kind of free service in the field of education and in his school circle.

“Submit your homework.” Mr. Good said in a manner which did not sound as an order but in a way it was an order.

Jaaswandee realized that she had not completed her homework yesterday.  

The students moved in a queue – everybody happily submitted the notebooks. Jaaswandee’s legs became wooden. Drops of sweat started flowing from her neck to back. Her eyes became misty. Her hear started beating faster and faster. Her palms were cold. Her mouth went dry. The world collapsed around her.

“Yes, Jaaswandee, where is your homework, my child?” Mr. G was standing close to her. Jaaswandee shivered at his closeness. She wanted to run away from him, but could not.

“Ok, I understand. You need some special coaching. Meet me in the staff room after the last period is over.” G told her sweetly and smiled at the whole class.

“Once Again?” Jaaswandee asked with horror.

“Yes, my dear. Once Again. You seem to need some special attention from me.” He added and chuckled mischievously.

Jaaswandee panicked. She remembered the last week’s coaching. She knew ‘not completing homework’ was just another cause for her own trouble. She had become an instrument in his hand which would destroy her and leave Mr. G unscratched. She did not want again to be alone with Mr. G. She knew she had to avoid him at all costs. She knew she had no one to turn up and share. She knew that she would be punished – for no fault of hers. She had to find out a way – on her own, without any help or support. She knew submitting to Mr. G’s wish today knowingly would be worse than death. Last time she did not know, so she had no option; today she knew- she had to find a way out.

Even before the last lecture began, Jaaswandee walked out of the school. She did not take her usual direction and did not go towards her bus stop. Jaaswandee could see only one option. For a moment, she thought of Amol – who would take care of him if she was not there? But this would teach a lesson to Baabaa and Mother. Mr. G would still go unpunished – but she knew she could not do much about it.

At 6.36 that evening a girl continued to walk in the rail track in spite of shouting by other people and blowing of the train horn. It was a very tragic accident. She died on the spot. She was 13 years – too young to die.

The police could trace her identity from her school uniform and notebooks. Her parents were informed.

****

Next morning, a young lady teacher in the school whispered, “A girl from our school committed suicide.”

“Once Again,” added someone with suppressed anger.

And the silence comfortably stretched its jaws to gulp everything around.

Once Again.

****
*

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169. Honesty

Do we really value honesty?

That is what I kept wondering about when I happened to listen the conversation.

I was in the Saphal outlet to purchase some fruits.  Delhi has this chain of  Saphal and Mother Dairy Outlets in every nook of the city. 

Three people – probably father, mother and son entered the outlet. The son was in his 30s and parents in their 50s. They wanted to purchase watermelon.

“Is it sweet?” father asked.

The man on the sales counter answered, “Sir, I cannot assure you. If you are fortunate, it would be sweet, otherwise it won’t.”

“Oh! Stupid! What has fortune and fate to do with taste of Watermelon?” the son exclaimed. “Why can’t you keep only sweet watermelons?” He added irritably.

The sales man just smiled. He politely said, “Sir, how can we do that? We try the best of the watermelons, but it is nature’s gift, we do not have control over these things.”

Now the woman spoke, “But in some other shop I saw the man tapping the watermelon and identifying whether it was sweet or not. Can’t you do that? “

“Oh! Madamjee that is just a trick, a trick to satisfy you. Was the watermelon thus tested always sweet?”

“If you don’t know, don’t teach us  ...” the father was now angry.

“Ok, let us go, let us try at some other shop” the woman said and they all stormed out, dissatisfied.

“Why did not you try to play the trick? Don't you know it?" Some other customer asked the salesman.

“Oh! I never understand why city people do not have patience with uncertainty. Why don’t  you people value honesty?”

He looked at me.

I had no answer.

I will never have one to this question.

168. Trigger

Life has been too busy lately.

By ‘lately’ I mean for many years now.

Every morning I wake up with the thoughts and ideas of the work I have to carry on that day.

Every night I sleep with the experiences of the day and the life that I have planned for tomorrow.

This assumption that ‘I will wake up tomorrow and will be breathing and living after (say) 24 hours’  always amuses me.

However, I have spent most of my life with that assumption – taking life granted is integral part of me.

Sometimes I realize that this assumption has become a trap – assume, run, assume, run and assume again to run further and to assume again.  Not exactly never ending chain; it has an end but when that end would happen is completely unknown to me.

What will happen if I stop assuming about life?

Well, with all imagination – I can’t experience my death. After seeing so many dead bodies and experiencing loss of many friends, I know death in a way is very normal – it is pretty routine happening; innumerable people die every moment.  Nothing very significant is going to happen to me or to others after I die.  As I assume life, I assume death too. I see and experience death around. I technically know that I am not going to be here forever. But this thinking is all on ‘intellectual’ level; it no doubt creates wisdom and understanding – but it is still not an experience. It never will be – I fear sometimes.

Maybe if I stop running, would I find another aspect of this complicated truth?

I tried.

I stopped running for a while.

And I realized that desire, want, aspiration – none of them is the real trigger. It is not because of all this I live. It is actually the other way round. It is because of life desires happen. It is because of life, wants occur. It is because of life aspiration arises. It is because of life, I dream and breathe and run and think.  

Life is the real trigger and everything else is secondary.

The uncertainty of this trigger called life is the real pleasure. Nothing else really matters now as I have experienced this truth. 

167. That Last Night

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 26; the 26th Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'That Last Night'.

I am busy with my computer when Bahadur enters my cabin.

“When did you come, Madam?” he asks.

“Oh, just now, a few minutes ago.” I answer without taking my eyes from the screen.

Then I realize that he is still standing there.

I look at him questioningly.

“I was at the reception and I did not see you,” he complains.

“Maybe I came in an invisibility cloak,” I joke but he does not smile.  He goes out reluctantly.

After five minutes, he returns with a cup of coffee.

“Madam, at what time did you leave yesterday?” Bahadur pretends to be casual but there is something funny about his question.

“Bahadur, you know better than me that we have a definite time to come in, but never for leaving the office“, I am getting little irritated. I have a report to complete and this guy is asking stupid questions early in the morning.  “Now, go away, I have to complete this document. Then I will answer all your questions,” I almost order him.

***

Fifteen more minutes and Kapil enters. “Madam, Sirjee is calling you.” He tells me. OMG, the boss is already here and I am still in the midst of the document. But no excuses! I will have to bargain for at least an hour.

“Savitri, Yes, where is the report?” boss asks without any formalities.

“Sir, just give me an hour. I am giving final touches to it.” I say politely.

Boss looks at me with surprise. “But you were to complete and email me the report last night.” He barks.

“Sorry Sir. Just 60 minutes and it will be perfect.” I add apologetically. I am the Project Leader, so he knows I am the best person to write this report. He nods and I start leaving.

“By the way, last evening why did you not pick up my calls?” he asks.

“Your calls?  Sir?” I am surprised.

“Why did you switch your cell phone off?” He looks sternly at me.

I pull out my cell phone from the pocket.

I am bit confused. How come my cell phone is switched off? I think fast.

“Sorry Sir, the Metro does not provide charging points and the battery was almost over, so I switched it off,” I am telling a complete lie. He too knows. He is asking about why it was switched off yesterday.  But he looks concerned.

“Are you telling me that you traveled by Metro today to reach office?” boss asks.

“Yes Sir, as usual,” I am happy with the change of topic.

“Have you lost your mind? Since yesterday evening, Delhi Metro is not running. There was a bomb blast at Rajiv Chauk station. Don’t tell me you don’t know that. If you want to tell a lie, at least be smart enough about it.” Now his rising temper is visible. I am clueless.

Raina, my colleague helps out, “Sir that blast was on Dwarka line. They have restored the Huda City Center line today morning. Savitri must have taken an auto from Central Secretariat.”

I am indeed thankful to Raina.

*****

I come back to my cabin and concentrate. The doubts can wait for a while; the report is the topmost priority now. I am good at focusing, so I complete the report and send it to the boss. On this final report the remaining 20% fund release will happen – so this report needs to be perfect. However, as I am working with this international funding agency for a decade, I know what they want and I have done it without any kind of exaggeration.

I press the bell and ask Bahadur for a cup of coffee. Now I can entertain his questions. In the mean time, I switch on the cell phone and see number of missed calls. It seems that all the people from A to Z in my contact list have called. I have to call back at least some of them But when did I switch off the cell phone and why? I also find it surprising that there is no call from Shaunak. 

With Bahadur, comes in Raina. Bahadur waits in the corner. Raina asks in a conspiracy tone, “By the way, how did you come to office today? You should have called me and I would have picked you up somewhere near your residence.”

“You know it, you told it to boss, and why are you asking me again?” I feel uneasy.

“To tell you the truth, not a single Metro line is yet restored, I said so to save you from wrath of boss.” He says. Is he joking? My head starts spinning.

Diya comes in – bubbling with enthusiasm as usual.

“Are you not well?” she asks.

“Why, I am fine. What makes you think so?” I am not at all polite with her though she is not at fault.

“No, your clothes are not ironed today. Oh, look, you are wearing the same set of clothes that you were wearing yesterday. Is something wrong with you?” She starts laughing initially and then sounds worried.

“Oh, just did not get time to iron it. But I had washed it yesterday evening.”  I say casually. I make out a story – that after bomb blast I took a cab; I was caught in traffic jam; the network was temporarily stopped by officials and I stayed with one of my friends. In the mean time the battery was down …

Neither Diya, nor Raina nor Bahadur are convinced. They exchange looks hoping that I have not noticed it.

They leave but I am sure the discussion continues outside.

*****

Is it all a dream and actually nothing of this sort has ever happened?  It is only that my office colleagues are playing a mischief with me? Let me check about the bomb blast first – whether it is right or not.

I open e-paper and the images tell the true story. The Metro as Raina mentioned is not yet running. I open my purse. My debit card, I card, entry pass, cash – everything is intact.

I make few calls. Everyone shouts at me for switching off mobile and not calling them. After the news of bomb blast, everyone is concerned about my safety and security. I repeat the story. They are angry but happy that I am safe. This continues for more than an hour.

The Tiffin lady (who delivers home cooked food to me) too calls. “Deedee, you did not come in the morning. Yesterday night too Bipin said that the house was locked so he brought the Tiffin back.” I explain again and ask her to send Tiffin today night.

Now I sigh. Something is absolutely wrong here.

When did I leave yesterday evening? Why don’t I remember anything about bomb blast? How did I reach home? If I did not go there, where was I the whole night? Why did I switch off my cell phone? Why did I not complete the report? Why I am wearing the same clothes? Why Bahadur could not see me coming in? if Metro is not running, how did I reach this office?

Questions after questions.

“Am I dead?” I ask myself.

No, it can’t be. My heart is beating, I have taken two cups of coffee since morning, I have done a quick report finalization job, I can breathe, I am anxious. If I am dead, I can’t be doing all these things.

Was I drugged? But then my body and mind both seem alright – no scratches. Did I sleep in the office itself and nobody noticed? But then I would have remembered that. And Bahadur always checks the whole office before locking.

Was I kidnapped by some aliens? That seems to be the only possibility – I say sarcastically to myself.

*****

Cell phone rings. I am surprised to receive a call from Avinash. He is Shaunak’s friend and Shaunak you must have guessed rightly is my husband. Why is Avinash calling instead of Shaunak and at this hour?

“Savitri, here is a good and a bad news for you. Which one you want first?” he asks. He seems to be in a good spirit.

“Where is Shaunak?” I ask.

“Don’t worry, he is absolutely fine. “ Avinash assures.

“Where is he? Is anything wrong with him?” I demand.

“Savitri, listen. Shaunak had a bad accident yesterday, must be around 7.00 PM India time when it happened….”

“What?” I shout before he completes.

“But nothing to worry. He is completely out of danger now. I called you because he keeps on telling me a funny thing and he wants me to tell you that immediately.” Avinash sounds little confused.

“And what is it?” I wait.

“Well, it sounds weird. But Shaunak keeps on repeating that you saved his life. It was you who fought and brought him back from the clutches of Death.”

I smile.

Now I understand the mystery of that last night.

No time to think about it. Maybe I will be able to put the pieces together when I meet Shaunak. 

However, that will come later. Now  I will take the first available flight and see Shaunak. This is my top priority today night . How would I explain that last night to the world, will always remain a problem. 

****

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