176. Right Question

When I read the notice about a Panel Discussion, initially I just ignored it. 

Then I saw that RB was going to chair it, I noted down the date and the time. 

I respect RB though I do not know him personally. I had listened to him a couple of times and had liked his talks. So, I decided to go for it. 

And I could make it as was planned. 

Before the panel speakers started the presentation, RB announced that all questions would be taken up for discussion in the end. He appealed that all those who had questions to ask to panelists should write those on a piece of paper. the small pieces of paper were circulated. 

I was amazed to see a number of people from the audience writing enthusiastically and handing over the piece of paper to the volunteers. I was wondering how people can have so many questions to ask. It was bit ridiculous of me to think so as I too keep on asking many questions. The only difference is I ask questions to myself and they were asking it to others. Maybe, I am too egoistic to admit my ignorance. RB was going through all those questions that kept on coming to him. 

The panelists shared their ideas one by one. RB summarized the discussion. He was brilliant as usual and did a lot of value addition that the 'Chair' is supposed to do and by thanking everyone he declared 'end of the session'. 

The audience was stunned. One of the volunteers rushed to him and spoke something to him. I was sure and everybody else was sure that the volunteer must have reminded him of the questions people had asked. 

RB smiled. He nodded. He closed his eyes for a moment and seemed to lost in some kind of thoughts. Then the usual peace returned to him and he spoke calmly. He said, " Thanks .... (abc) for reminding me about those questions. I have read all those questions. None of those was a question. I invited questions and not comments, not your ideas. However, all those were comments. I kindly request you to learn to ask Right Questions. That is very important when we are seeking answers sincerely."

There was complete silence. Those who had written questions must have been hurt with the gross insult. But everybody kept quiet. 

Asking the Right Questions!!

Well, that is what I need to learn.  

175. Two Minutes

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 29; the 29th 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 'TWO MINUTES'.

Veer Bhadra Sing is sitting in the courtyard. He is just sitting. He has been doing nothing else but sitting and waiting. The Sunlight is warm and he is enjoying it. It reduces the cold that is entering into his bones. He is waiting for what?

Since when is he sitting alone like this? For how long - he does not remember. It seems that for ages, he is just sitting there; waiting something to happen. If someone asks him ‘what he wants to happen’- he will not be able to say anything. He has not spoken to anyone for a long time. Rather he wants to talk to but there is no one around.

The other day some people came to his home and asked many questions. He could follow only half of them and could answer very few of them.  They were asking about his age. How could he tell that? He is old – that much anybody can see. He has lost his wife long ago and his two sons died due to some illness. His daughters (two? or three?) were married to boys in nearby villages but he has not seen any one of them lately. Have they all died? – He does not know. Now only two of his grandsons are there; who come to village occasionally. They never send him any money. Maybe, they too are poor like him- he thinks.

Those unknown people were also asking about his home, his land, whether he has TV and what not. He wondered whether they could not see themselves that he is poor and he is hungry. He has nothing in home to cook for. Earlier his neighbors used to give him a rotee and subjee – they in their own way used to take care of him. But now they too have grown old. Veer Bhadra Sing has not seen any of them for many days now. He is not sure whether they are dead or alive.

Hunger is spreading in his veins. He wants to eat something – anything. He closes his eyes. He smells Chawal and Daal. He smells hot rotee and his favorite baingan subjee. Aroma of hot tea hits his nostrils. His lips make an involuntary movement to sip that tea only to realize that he is sitting alone and hungry.

Everything around seems deserted at first glance. Then Veer Bhadra Sing realizes that he has lost his vision and hence cannot see what is happening around. He has not been able to hear anything. Maybe the world around is as colorful and as live as was in his young days – only his capacity to experience that world has diminished. Only if somebody spends two minutes with him now and then, things would change! But alas! Nobody seems to have two minutes to spare for him.

Suddenly Veer Bhadra Sing realizes that he is waiting for death. But the Lord of Death is a brute. He visits those who do not want him. And those who want him to come and pick them up, he invariably makes them  wait.

Veer Bhadra Sing feels helpless. He wants to die, he desperately wants to die.

***

“Sir, a case of hunger death”, Nitin calls his news editor.

“Well, what is it?” news editor has no time for more details.

“Sir, I am in village Ashoh, district Banda i.e. Chitrakut district in Uttar Pradesh. A man has apparently died of hunger.” Nitin continues.

“Man, cut it short. Tell me one thing. Is it significant?” News editor.

New editor has not time. He is working in a ‘cut throat competition’ environment. He is weary of this young generation recruits who think that media coverage can bring in social change.

“Sir, he was an old man. Apparently he was alone; nobody to take care of him.” Nitin is not stopping at all.

“Old man! What caste he belongs to?” news editor asks.

“Caste? Sir….. Well, I do not know.” Nitin is suddenly apologetic. “But Sir, this shows our apathy to old people. Does it mean once people cross their productive age; we should just let them die? What is government doing – with crores of rupees being spent on ‘old age pension’ scheme? What are NGOs doing? What is society doing?” Nitin continues.

“Listen Nitin. You have a 30 second byte”, News Editor is clear of his priorities.

“Sir.. but listen … “ Nitin wants to say something.

“If you get caste of the man, if you get political equations covered in right manner, you will get two minutes, two full minutes.” News Editor emphasizes.

“Come back to me in five minutes”, barks News Editor.

Nitin is aghast.

Two minutes!

Nitin thinks bitterly of his profession, of the insensitivity of his clan, of his compulsions to be part of the rat race, of his ruthlessness ….

He overcomes his weakness. This is an opportunity for him, he can’t waste it.

Nitin knows that two minutes’ byte would give him a break. He has to catch those worthy two minutes which might turn out to be the greatest moment in his short career. This will help him to grab better job.

He turns around to the crowd and throws questions at them.

The aim is clear: 

Make a story worthy of Two Minutes. 

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174. My Choice

I was visiting this particular city after a long time.

“How many years ago, did I last come here?” I asked myself.

Well, maybe five years ago, maybe seven; I did not even remember it.

So, I gave up that idea. If I don’t remember, then it is not important for me at that moment.

I suddenly remembered my friend. In all my earlier visits, this particular friend’s home was my contact and staying place in the city.

“For how long we have not communicated with each other?” I asked myself again and had no answer and so gave up that too.

I found the phone number of that friend in the contact list.

I was not comfortable in directly making a call. I was not connected and I know I cannot take for granted anything from anybody at anytime.

I texted a message on that number even when I did not know whether the number still existed or not.

“I am in your city today. We can meet if you wish.” I knew this was rather a cryptic message.

Five minutes passed away. Another ten minutes ran away. I was waiting for the reply and was anxious about what it would be.

After half an hour, I received a text message. It said, “I have lost contacts from my old handset. Whose number is this?”

I wrote my name, which on second thoughts I should not have.

If somebody who was your close friend once upon a time has lost not only you but even your contact information - the message is loud and clear.

You are lost – forever.

Why try to keep things which are not yours?

I smiled and then forgot everything about that friend.

But then afterwards I asked one more question to myself – “What is the difference between two of us?” Nothing; actually.

So I have no business to feel bad about how others treat me.

"They" have their choice and I have my choice.

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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