Travails Of A Married Man - Part 2

Travails of a married man - Part 2

A fictional story by Prakash Subbarao (Prakash@3xus.com)

You’ve read part I of this story, right? If you haven’t, you need to catch up, dude. It’ll be good for you. It will make it easy to understand this story. As David C. McCullough said: “History is a guide to navigation in perilous times. History is who we are and why we are the way we are”. Who is McCullough? The guy who made the statement, dude. That’s all you need to know at this stage.

To read Part I of the story, search for it on my blog:

(http://prakashsubbarao.blogspot.com).

Those who have read Part 1 and forgotten it, go back and re-read it. Do not pass GO, do not collect $200.

Those who remember it with clarity, uncomfortable or otherwise, read on………………..

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The cast so far:

Me

My wife: Sarita

My friend: Probir

His wife: Malini

His sister: Rani

The action is taking place circa 1986.

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About ten days after I had visited Probir’s place and taken Rani to the school as the surrogate mother of my daughter, the itch to see Probir again surfaced. It was more an itch to have a drink with him; you will remember that the first time around I went for whisky but was served tea instead. I was determined that this time, whisky I would drink. It was not to be, but I didn’t know it at that time.

I was staying in Madras with a friend and unfortunately he had fractured his hand so I had full use of his Bajaj Chetak scooter. My company car had not been allotted to me as yet, so that evening I drove to Probir’s place on this two wheeler. I reached there at around 7.30 p.m.

I rang the bell of his flat. Rani opened it as she had done the previous time. I fleetingly experienced a sense of déjà vu and then the sensation was gone. She smiled at me. “She’s in a good mood today” I thought to myself. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. Details later, dear reader. Patience!

Malini was at home and she smiled. “Hi!” she said. “Hi!” I replied. The mood was light and easy.

“We are going out to a friend’s place for dinner but you must join us” Malini said to me. She emphasized the “must”.

“Shit!” I thought to myself. Another evening down the drain. “No thanks, Malini” I replied politely. “I will come by another time”.

“Do come!” said Rani. She was looking at me strangely. Her eyes caught and held mine for longer than necessary. I felt confused.

Malini took my silence for assent. “It’s settled then! We will leave as soon as Probir arrives. He will be here any moment”.

Probir arrived from work a few minutes later. “Hi guys!” he said cheerfully and vanished to have a bath and get ready. He reappeared a few minutes later wearing a colourful batik shirt and his trademark jeans. “Chalo, let’s go!” he said and we all trooped out of the house.

“I have come on a scooter. I’ll follow you guys” I said. “That way I can head directly home after the party”.

“I’ll ride with you on the scooter” Rani hurriedly said. I looked at Probir and Malini. “OK” Probir nodded.

We had driven for about ten minutes when Rani surprised me. “I am in a bad mood. I don’t want to go to that wretched dinner. I feel like having a drink. Let’s go have a beer somewhere”. I was amazed. I was astounded. I was astonished. But, more importantly, I was game. I too didn’t want to go to some silly dinner somewhere and babble small talk inanely with people I hardly knew, with a false smile plastered on my lips.

“But what shall we tell them?” I asked.

“That we had a puncture and had to stop the scooter; that we didn’t know the way to their friend’s place and since we didn’t have the keys to the house, we decided to go and have a drink instead and await their return”.

It made sense.

“She has planned this in advance” I suddenly realized. She had delivered a flawlessly executed coup d'etat.

“I’m game” I said.

“I know a nice restaurant near Music Academy” she said. “Let’s go there”.

We were soon settled comfortable at a fashionable restaurant. There was nothing stronger than a beer available, the maître d'hôtel told us. I grimaced. I would have loved to have a whisky (or two) rather than a gassy beer but beer it would have to be.

When the beer arrived she took a big swig without saying the traditional “Cheers!”.

She suddenly fell silent. She kept toying with her glass, wiping the condensation off it with her fingers. There was a far away look in her eyes.

“I am sorry! I am in a very bad mood” she finally said. I just nodded.

“Do you know that I am married?” she suddenly asked.

“No” I replied, surprised. I had assumed that she was still single.

“Yes. I am married. To a wonderful guy”. She sounded very bitter. “I got married just six months back. Now we are already separated. I am asking for a divorce”

I didn’t know what to say. I just nodded.

“I needed to talk to someone all these days. I felt very depressed, very lonely. But there was no one to talk to. When you suddenly landed up unannounced at our home today I was happy. I thought I’d be able to talk to you. If I don’t talk to someone I will go mad”.

“Have you met my cousin, Prasad, by any chance?” she asked, after a pause.

“No” I replied.

“Prasad and I fell in love many years ago. It was a very deep and passionate love. Both of us wanted to marry and we approached our elders regarding this but they refused. They said the bloodlines are too close. So who cares about bloodlines!” she flared. “The moment that I told my parents that I love Prasad and want to marry him, my parents ensured that we stopped meeting each other. They used to lock me up at home. Prasad’s parents did the same. Then my father and mother started looking for a marriage partner for me. I told them that I would never marry anyone other than Prasad, but they didn’t listen.”

She was crying by now, the tears flowing unhindered down her face. She made no effort to wipe them away.

“I tried every prayer that I could think of. I used to sit in front of God for hours together and pray that he let me marry Prasad………..but it didn’t work. God never heard or answered my prayers. One day a boy came home, with his parents, to “see” me. They agreed to the union on the spot. He is an IAS officer and doing very well. I told my parents that I would never agree to this marriage but they forced me. Till the day of the marriage I was kept locked up at home. When the time came for me to marry him, I just went numb. I sat through the ceremony and we were pronounced man and wife.”

She wiped her tears and fell silent, introspective. Her eyes had a far away look.

“I know what you are thinking. “What happened on the wedding night?” The answer is………nothing. I refused to let him touch me. Not that night, not ever. After a few days he became perplexed with my strange behaviour and asked me why I was behaving this way. I told him that though he appeared very nice to me, I loved someone else and had wanted to marry him. We sat up late that night, talking. I told him the truth; I told him everything.

Give me a divorce, I requested him.

“I am sorry but I cannot do that” he said.

“Why not”? I screamed at him in frustration and anger.

“Because I am an IAS officer and our lives must be above reproach; it must be perfect. If I ask for a divorce, it will go against me in my career record, for no fault of mine. If you wish to have an ongoing affair with your lover, please do so, but don’t ask me for a divorce!”

She was sobbing violently now.

“I ran away from his house the next day. I caught a train and came to Madras. To Probir’s house. I will not go back to my parent’s home nor to my husband’s house. I want a divorce but cannot get one. I am stuck!”

“I don’t want to “have an affair” with my lover! I want to marry him! I want him to be the father of my children!. What can I do! Oh what can I do!” she sobbed.

I kept quiet. There was nothing for me to say. “It is best to let her keep talking and get it off her chest” I thought to myself.

Finally, after about twenty minutes later she regained her composure. “Thank you for listening to me!” she said over and over again “I feel much, much better; much calmer. I am glad that we had this drink. Thank you!”

I felt glad too. I have known her from childhood, as you have gathered, and that was, then, for a good thirty years. Though we had never interacted much, we weren’t strangers to each other.

After that we sat and talked, like old friends, catching upon the news. I told her in detail about my family; about Sarita; about Preeti, our daughter. I told her about my life in Chloride and my life with Vikrant Tyres. And about my new job at T.I.. She listened attentively.

At 10.30 p.m. we settled the bill and left the restaurant.

Probir and Malini had returned home. Malini looked at us very strangely. “Where were you guys?” she demanded.

“Oh, the scooter got punctured and we had to stop and we lost you” Rani told her. “We tried changing the spare tyre but it was jammed so we had to push the bike to a mechanic…….it’s a long story” Rani broke off lamely.

“But your hands are clean” Malini said, looking at me with open disbelief. “You don’t look like someone who has been trying to change a scooter tyre”.

Not knowing what to say, I just shrugged.

There was nothing to say.

A few weeks later, Rani called me excitedly at my office. “I am going back to Bangalore to my parent’s house” she told me “My father has found someone very influential, very high up in government, who will put pressure on my husband to give me a divorce. My parents have agreed for me to marry Prasad! I am so happy!”

I felt happy too. I wished her well.

“Come see me when you are in Bangalore!” she ordered imperiously.

“Yes ma’am!” I responded. “We are old friends now. Just whistle and I will come, I joked.

She laughed.

A few months later she did whistle. Very despairingly. She was out of the frying pan but had fallen into the fire!

But more of that in the next episode.

………………End of episode 2. To be continued…………..

We were just classmates.......

We were just classmates

The story of Chotu. Part 1

By Prakash Subbarao (Prakash@3xus.com)

Introduction

This is a true story. It was told to me by a friend about ten years ago. The story begins in a college in New Delhi.

Picture a girl around 5 ft. 5 ins. tall. She has a warm and friendly look. She is good looking but in a homely sort of way. She isn’t one of those ‘fast’ girls. She loves Daler Mehndi’s music, cooking and sewing and darning and being with family. Outwardly she appears a carefree type. Inside there is a secret longing to find the perfect mate, get married and raise children. She fantasizes about her future husband. He will be tall and handsome. He will live in a far away land. He will come and sweep me off my feet and ask for my hand in marriage. My parents will readily agree and I will start a new life with him……….These are the thoughts that run through her head when she is alone.

In this tale, her name is “Chottu”. She is one of those ‘Kaurs’ – Baljeet, Simranjeet,….it really doesn’t matter. “What’s in a name?” Shakespeare wrote “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”. Her nickname at home is “Pinky”, because of her pink complexion. We will call her “Chotu” for reasons that you will find out later in this story. Not in Part 1. Not even in part 2. But much much later.

The story begins……………

Chotu was a very sweet girl. The apple of her father’s eye, she had been brought up in a warm and friendly atmosphere in which nothing was denied her. Her father worked for an international airline. By virtue of this, she was an inveterate traveller and had been to most of the places on the airline network. She had been to the US several times, and while she liked the country, it held no special fascination for her. She was a ‘desi’ girl. She loved her homeland.

Chotu tended to be mischievous and full of pranks which she regularly played on her classmates. It was all in good vein.

There were a large number of people in her class but her ‘gang’ consisted of just a few people. Amongst them was a Punjabi boy, Rohit, whom she secretly liked. She sensed that Rohit was attracted to her but for all practical purposes they remained good friends.

The seasons melted into one another and very soon they were in the final year of college.

All good things must come to an end, and soon the time to leave college approached. The classmates decided to have a last picnic together that weekend. There were just a few days of college left.

Rohit was strangely subdued during the picnic. She frequently caught him looking at her with a strange look in his eye, but she was so engrossed with her classmates and didn’t gave it much thought.

As the picnic was coming to an end, she was laughing and joking was her classmates. They had formed a closed ring. Rohit, who had been standing in the outer periphery, suddenly caught her eye, and beckoned to her, with a nod of his head.

“Kya bath hein?” (What is it?) She laughingly asked as she came to him.

“Pinky, I need to tell you something” Rohit said. He was very serious.

“What is it?” she said. She wanted to get back to her circle of friends where there was laughter and gaiety. The mirth in her hadn’t died down. Its embers glowed strong. She could be hooting with laughter any second. All it would need would be a spark; a spark that wasn’t at that moment with Rohit but with the friends standing nearby.

“Pinky, I love you” Rohit said, after a pause. “I want to marry you. Will you marry me?”

“Kya, shaadi? Aur tumse? Never!” she impulsively replied, laughing, and ran back to her friends. She thought that he was joking. She didn’t even stop to see the effect her words had had on Rohit.

Rohit’s face went beetroot red. He felt as though he had been slapped. He suddenly felt like an outsider looking in. Time seemed to stand still for him. The world went silent. All he could hear were the taunting words “Kya, shaadi? Aur tumse? Never!” echoing in his mind repetitively. He abruptly left the group. Flagging down a passing taxi he went home.

A little while later Chotu looked around for him but couldn’t see him anywhere. The picnic came to an end and he was still nowhere to be found. That’s when it occurred to her that she may have hurt him with her blunt reply; that he may have been very sincere in his request. “I will call him as soon as I reach home” she promised herself. When she reached home, she found the house full of visiting cousins from Ludhiana and her promise to call Rohit receded to the back of her mind.

The next day she found that Rohit was not in class. During the break she called his house but the servant simply said “Rohit baba ghar pe nahin hein” (Rohit is not at home) and put down the phone.

There was no sign of Rohit during the next few days. Soon college ended.

That weekend she decided to visit his house to find out first hand why he had been absent from college. She found the house empty except for the servant. “Sab log Chandigarh chale gayen hein” (Everyone has gone to Chandigarh) he told her. She returned home with a sense of unease. This was very strange.

That night she had a dream. She was on a picnic with her dream lover. They were laughing and joking and hugging each other. In the ethereal dream, she was having a great time. This is the man I want to marry, she thought to herself. Let me get a good look at his face. When she turned to see his face it was blurred; out of focus. She kept attempting to see his face but all she could clearly see were his eyes; there was a strange expression in them. Why that’s the same expression that Rohit had the day of the party, she thought to herself. And in that instant her dream lover’s face came into sharp focus. It was Rohit!

She came awake, startled. Rohit! Suddenly it fell into place. She hadn’t known it, the feelings had never surfaced but lain dormant. Suddenly she knew deep in her heart that she loved him. That he was the one for her. They were mentally on the same wavelength. He would make an excellent father to her children. “I’ll track him down!” she promised herself. “If need be I will go to Chandigarh!”

The next day she waited for an opportune moment to talk to her mother. She wanted to talk privately to her. Finally the moment came. “Maaji, there is something I want to ask you” she said to her mother. “I have fallen in love with a Punjabi boy and want to marry him. He feels the same way about me and has even asked for my hand. What do you think?”

“Who is the boy?” her mother asked.

“It’s Rohit, maaji! He has come here several times; the tall one! Last time he came he talked to Papa about golf and how to improve his handicap. You know him…….” She trailed off.

“Oh! That well behaved boy!” her mother exclaimed. “Ask him to come over for dinner. Let us talk to him”. She waited for Chotu to respond. When there was none she looked at her sharply. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

Chotu broke down and sobbing, told her mother everything that had happened; how Rohit had proposed and how she had laughingly dismissed him. She told her mother that Rohit had stopped coming to college and had gone with his family to Chandigarh.

“Do you really love this boy?” her mother asked. “Are you very sure?”

Chotu nodded.

That evening, when they were sitting at the table for dinner, Chotu’s mother told her father “Chandigarh jaana hai, ji! Ticket shicket ka bandobusth karo”. (We have to go to Chandigarh! Arrange for the tickets).

“Kab?” (When) her father asked, surprised.

“Kal!” (Tomorrow) her mother replied. “Pinky wants to visit a friend there and I too wish to see my aunt, Mrs. Chadda, who lives there. It’s been a long time!”

“Theek hai!” (OK!) her father responded. “Tomorrow may not be possible but we can go on Friday evening and return on Sunday night I will ask Indian Airlines for some complimentary tickets”.

Friday was a good two days away. Chotu decided to spend that time finding out where Rohit stayed in Chandigarh. Through tremendous persistence, she was finally able to get it. His house was in sector 14. She smiled to herself as she wrote down the address on a piece of paper and put it in her purse. “I wonder what the expression in his eyes will be when he sees me” she thought to herself as she lay awake in bed that night. She was so excited that she couldn’t sleep.

The next evening, when her father came home, her first question to him was “Papa, have you got the tickets for Chandigarh?”

“Haan beti” (Yes, daughter) he smiled. “The flight is at 8 p.m. I have also arranged for our stay there at a friend’s place”.

Friday night saw them comfortably settled in at Chandigarh. Chotu was so excited, she couldn’t sleep tonight either.

The next day mother and daughter woke early. Papa was still sleeping. They left a note for him that they had gone out for some shopping and would be back by lunchtime. They flagged down an autorickshaw in front of the guest house.” Sector 14 chalo!” they ordered the driver.

They found the house quite easily. With mounting excitement Chotu rang the bell. Rohit’s mother opened the door. “Arre, Pinky, thu!” (Pinky, it’s you!) she exclaimed in surprise. “Aao! Come in!”.

Chotu introduced her mother to Rohit’s mother. They explained that they had suddenly arrived in Chandigarh to see the Chadda’s and knowing that Rohit was also in Chandigarh, had decided to come and see him.

Rohit’s mother frowned. “Who told you that Rohit is here?” she asked. “Woh tho yahaan nahin hein” (He isn’t here).

Mother and daughter looked at each other. “Where is he, aunty?” Chotu asked. She hoped the trembling in her voice wouldn’t give away her seething emotions.

“Who tho America chalaa gaya” (He left for the US) his mother replied.

“This is unbelievable” Chotu told herself mentally. “How come? It is very strange!” she said aloud, as casually as she could.

“It’s a long story” Rohit’s mother said. “Rohit told me that there is a girl in Delhi that he loved and who he wanted to marry. He didn’t tell me her name or who she was. “I will bring her home and show her to you, mama” was all he said”. I laughed at his enthusiasm. “Marriages are made in heaven” I told him “but you can certainly bring her home. Let me meet this wonderful girl whom you love”. One day recently, he came home looking very dejected. He didn’t eat dinner that night, nor did he have breakfast the next day. I asked him what was the problem and after a lot of cajoling he told me that he had proposed to this girl and she just laughed at him and walked away. He said that he was so upset that he could not eat or sleep. “Let’s leave Delhi and go to Chandigarh” he said, so we came here. He wasn’t at peace here too and would sit staring at the wall all day. I realized that he was extremely upset. I told Chinky, his sister in USA, about this. “Send him here. Maybe he will forget her once he is away from India” she said. Anyway he had a ten year multiple-entry US visa, so we made arrangements and he is now in the US”.

“When will he return, aunty” Chotu asked.

“Not for a few years” Rohit’s mother said. He has enrolled in a college there to do his MS.”

“Can I have his number, aunty, so that I can talk to him?” Chotu asked, on the verge of crying.

“I am sorry, beti, he made us promise not to divulge his whereabouts to anybody. He doesn’t want any of his old friends contacting him. By the way, who is this girl that he loved so much? Do you have any idea? Was he close to any girl in his class?”

“I don’t know, aunty” Chotu lied. “We were just classmates”.

.........To be continued.............

The love of my life; the apple of my eye…………….

The love of my life; the apple of my eye…………….

A true story by Prakash Subbarao (prakash@3xus.com)

She was beautiful.

When I first saw her, she was as small as a rabbit. Pure white, she was the most active of the brood, and I saw her chasing her lazier brothers all over the room. That’s the one I want for Trupti, I thought and negotiated for her purchase. This incredibly beautiful mini Pomeranian pup was “Kennel Club” certified.

Trupti is my daughter. She was then in the 9^th standard and I wanted to give her a pup as a birthday present.

Trupti squealed with delight when we presented her the little bundle of flesh and fur. She now had something of her very own and they soon became inseparable. “She is so cute, let’s name her Cutie!” Trupti said.

A year passed; then two. Time flew.

We moved to a house near that of my in-laws and because my wife and I both worked, we didn’t want to leave the dog alone at home all day. So she started spending half her time at my in-laws place and the balance at home.

Cutie’s one and only enemy was Pimbi, another mini Pom in the house opposite that of my in-laws. Pimbi reciprocated the hatred with a passion. Both dogs soon associated the other’s families as ‘enemy’. Visitors to the enemy camp were also snarled and growled and barked at passionately.

Cutie saw Trupti graduate from school and join college. She saw Trupti leave college and get married. She saw Trupti suddenly vanish.

Probably the most disquieting part of Cutie’s life was the regularity with which the people she loved vanished mysteriously only to reappear at random intervals.

After Trupti got married, we relocated to Dubai and Cutie became a full time resident at my in-laws place. Her battle with Pimbi escalated to a 24x7 one.

Cutie was witness to the passing away of my father-in-law. She sensed the loneliness of my mother-in-law and took it upon herself to console her. She was always at my her side, or under her chair, or outside the bathroom door. When my mother-in-law prayed, there Cutie was, fully stretched out on the floor, panting the prayers alongside.

Soon another enemy crept into her life; the vet.

She fell ill one day and the vet was summoned. She willingly allowed him to examine her for after all she was an extremely friendly dog who loved being around people. It was the instant that he inserted the painful injection into her rump that she reclassified him as an enemy, not to be trusted. Thereafter he could approach her only when she was muzzled.

“I want Cutie to experience motherhood” Trupti used to lament but mating a pedigreed mini Pom in no mean task. She remained a virgin in spite of everyone’s best intentions and strangely, this was the cause of her downfall. But I digress………..details about that will come later.

After six long years we returned from Dubai to Bangalore but decided to leave Cutie as my mother-in-law’s custodian. Both reveled in each other’s company and were by now inseparable.

Cutie was now over eleven years old (a seventy year old woman by dog’s standards) but as beautiful as ever. She had the most beautiful eyes, brimming with love. She had a tongue ever ready to give a loving lick. She always looked at me with the “shall “I-come-over-for-a-hug?” look.

One day, she suddenly fell sick. The hated vet was summoned. “She has a uterine infection” he said “I have been telling these people all these years that we should remove her uterus but they haven’t listened to me. I would recommend removing it immediately”. Two days later her situation worsened. Though she was on strong antibiotics, the infection spread to her kidney and they started getting damaged. Almost daily blood tests revealed an ever growing quantum of creatinine in the blood, indicating that the kidneys were failing.

Soon she was too weak to eat. She also stopped drinking water. “This is because of the toxins in her blood stream” the vet told us. “The kidney is unable to clean up the toxins and she must be feeling nauseous and sick all the time and cannot eat or drink water”.

We had to put her on life sustaining saline and other drips. She hated those trips to the vet though she loved the ride in the car. She would stand, balancing herself, with her front paws over the window sill, her tongue hanging out and taking in the cool breeze. She looked so lovely and healthy that people just couldn’t believe that she was so ill. Once when I was buying some medicines for her, the chemist and his colleagues at the counter were smiling at the beautiful dog in the car. When I told them that the medicines were for her and that unless her deteriorating condition improved, she would soon die, they were shocked. They just couldn’t associate death with this lovely looking animal.

One day, unable to bear the agony that she was going through, I asked the vet to put her to sleep. She had by then not eaten for nearly a month! Nor had she taken a drop of water on her own. We had had to start force feeding her and she didn’t like this one bit. Soon after the feeding she would bring it all up. Her stomach was unable to accept the food though the doctor had told us that if she didn’t start eating and drinking, she couldn’t be sustained indefinitely on drips.

One day, she took what I then thought would her last ride. My eyes were brimming with tears as I carried her in to the vet’s office and placed her on the gurney.

“I just cannot bear to do it” the vet said “she is so beautiful and looks so strong though we know that she is sinking. Let us do a blood test to see the creatinine level in her blood stream before we take this step!” he said. I nodded in agreement.

To everyone’s amazement her creatinine level showed an improvement!

The next day, the level had fallen even lower.

By day three we were even hoping that she may recover! “This is a miracle” the vet opined “I have never seen anything like this before!”

They say dogs know things much in advance of humans. Cutie knew something that we didn’t.

That Trupti was returning to Bangalore from Canada.

It actually had nothing to do with Cutie’s condition. There was a sudden change in Trupti’s status there; she quit her job and, since the Canadian government would pay her 50% of her salary for up to a year of unemployment, she decided on the spur of the moment to visit India.

A day before Trupti was to arrive, Cutie’s condition started suddenly deteriorating. The energy was draining out of her body.

Cutie was waiting to see Trupti one last time before dying.

The next day Trupti’s flight was to land at around 4 p.m. and she was expected to be home by 6 p.m.

The vet had confirmed that the dog was sinking. “Please bring her over to my clinic at 6 p.m.” he had said. Apparently he had an operation to perform on another dog at 6.30 p.m. and had to leave by 6.15. p.m.

The whole family had gathered together for Cutie’s last moments. Trupti had landed and was on the way to the house. 5.30…….5.35……..5.40……5.45……..there was no sign of Trupti. She finally arrived at 5.55 p.m.

Cutie was dying by then. She could hardly stand but she made a valiant effort to get up and greet Trupti. She just couldn’t manage it and fell back to the ground. Trupti scooped her up and tearfully held her dog tightly to her chest. It had been several years they had said ‘Hi” and now they had just a few seconds for their final goodbye.

I carried the dog down to the car. It was an extremely emotional moment. Pimbi, her arch enemy was standing on the road. Strangely both dogs remained silent as we passed by her.

I had asked our servant, Ramanna, to come with me and help me with her burial and he too got into the car.

We reached the vet’s clinic. The dog made no effort to growl at him. She knew that she was dying and had apparently reconciled to it, because she readily sat on the gurney.

Today she wasn’t fighting. She was ready to go and make her peace with her maker.

The doctor was moving around busying himself. He took out a hypodermic needle and inserted it into the bottle of anesthetic. “The anesthetic will act within 30 seconds” he had told me “I will be giving an excessive dose”.

The doctor was ready. He approached the table.

“Shall we go ahead, Sir?” he asked.

I nodded. I picked up Cutie and held her close to me. I wanted her to die in my arms.

He inserted the needle into her leg. She didn’t react.

“Shall I do it?” he again asked, just to be double sure. Yes, I nodded and he pressed the plunger, pushing the deadly fluid into her. As I watched the plunger depress, I realized with a shock, that I was seeing the face of death. “Stop!” I wanted to scream. “Let her live!”

Cutie was still in my arms when, ten seconds later the vet told me to put her on the gurney. I stood her upright and she tried to stand but she was already dying. Her body started shuddering and she collapsed on to the aluminium table. A minute later the doctor’s stethoscope revealed no heartbeat. “She’s gone” he said. “When you bury her, make sure to put a lot of rock salt in the grave”. I nodded numbly.

When I went to pick up the dog from the table, I noticed that she had urinated. The doctor saw me looking and matter-of-factly said “that’s perfectly normal. When they die they lose control of body functions”. What he didn’t realize that my horror stemmed from the fact that every time I had brought her to his clinic, I had made her do her “potty”. This time I had forgotten and she went to her maker with a full bladder. It was so unthoughtful of me. And she hadn’t even brought it to my notice.

I felt terrible.

A living dog uses its muscles to stay upright. A dead dog is like a limp rag in one’s hand.

I carried the limp Cutie to the car and placed her on the back seat.

“Where shall we bury her?” I asked Ramanna blankly. “Let us drive around till we see an empty plot and we will bury her there” he suggested. So we drove around. Finally we saw a residential plot that was perfect. “Can we please bury the dog here?” we asked the watchman. “No, the owner will be upset” he said “but there is a perfect place nearby. I will take you there”. Saying this, he put on a shirt and hurried with us to the car.

The place that he took us to was really beautiful. It was a huge and empty area devoid of any buildings for hundreds of meters. On the opposite side of the road was a massive building housing a software company. “It’s a perfect and peaceful resting place for Cutie” I thought. That’s where we buried her.

We were on a side road and I had lost my bearings. “Where does this road go to?” I wondered as I started the car. Half a kilometer ahead I could see a busy main road. As I turned left on the main road I gasped in surprise. We were at the vet’s clinic! By some quirk of fate, Cutie is buried right behind his clinic!

Mysterious are the ways of the lord.

Oh God! Bad luck again!

“Oh God! Bad luck again!”

A short story by Prakash Subbarao (Prakash@3xus.com)

Once upon a time there was a learned man in a village in North India. He had the ability to foresee the future; he had the ability to heal. He had the ability to calm ignited passions and quarrels; he had the ability to offer sound advice.

His fame spread far and wide and people came to consult him.

One day there was a large commotion in the village. A runner came puffing and panting into the village to say that the Maharani of a nearby town was approaching the town in a huge cavalcade of elephants and horses. All the people spilled out of their houses for a better look. Soon, the convoy came slowly into view.

“Which is the way to the learned man’s house?” the leader of the convoy demanded. An eager lad showed him the way.

The Maharani alighted outside the learned man’s house and walked in. He was sitting cross legged n the floor in deep meditation but she didn’t appear to notice. “I am the Maharani of Bhahawalpur” she announced importantly. “I have come to consult you on an important matter”.

The learned man opened his eyes, and looked at her calmly.

“I wish to do a pooja to appease the Gods. A lot of bad things have been happening in my family recently” she went on tactlessly. “I heard that a pooja invoking Agni the fire God will help”.

The learned man nodded.

“I will do a pooja on a massive scale. I have asked my palace cooks to prepare tonnes of ghee which we will pour into the fire to appease the Gods. I have asked that a thousand Brahmins be invited for a huge feast that I will throw in their honour. I will spare no expense for this function. I have come to take your blessings”. Saying this, she touched the learned man’s feet.

He just smiled.

Taking out her purse, she threw a few gold Mohurs at his feet and left the room.

The convoy of horses and elephants soon left the town.

Months passed.

One day the town folk spotted the horses and the elephants of the Maharani wending their way to the village. Once again, as before, the Maharani alighted from the convoy. She was weeping profusely. She entered the learned man’s chamber.

As before, he was meditating but when he heard her anguished sobs, he voluntarily opened his eyes.

“What is the matter, my child” he asked her kindly. “Why do you weep so grievously?”

“O learned one, I came to consult you” she said. “As you will remember, I came here a few months ago to take your advice. As we had discussed, I did a very big pooja to all the Gods. Yet nothing positive has happened and my bad luck continues. My only son was killed yesterday. Tell me why this is so. Tell me what I must do to stop this wretched phase of bad luck!”. Saying this, she fell at his feet.

The learned man was silent for a while. Finally he asked “What did you ask of the Gods when you did the puja?”

“I asked for everything!” she replied “For wealth, for health, for happiness. Not only for myself, but also for all those close to me. I cannot think of anything that I did not ask for. Why are the Gods not granting me my wishes?”

“Would you like me to ask the Gods why?” the learned man enquired.

“Yes” she nodded eagerly. “That would be very nice! Then I will know why I have failed”.

“Leave me for a while. Come back after ten minutes” the learned one ordered.

When she returned ten minutes later, she found him sitting, in a deep reverie. His eyes were tightly shut. His body was motionless. She sat down quietly so as not to disturb him. Finally, after what seemed an eternity to her, he opened his eyes and saw her. He smiled.

“Maharani, you said that you have asked the Gods for everything” he said.

“Yes, yes!” she replied. “There is nothing that I have forgotten”.

“But there is one thing that you have forgotten” insisted the sage.

“What is that?” she eagerly asked. “Tell me and I will immediately ask them!”.

“You have forgotten to ask the Gods for forgiveness for all the sins you have committed”.

Mathematic Musings

Mathematic Musings

By Prakash Subbarao (Prakash@3xus.com)

His name was MG and he was our maths professor in college. Very popular, very friendly, with a booming voice, that’s how I remember him. In my mind’s eye he was over 6 feet tall, extremely well built, always smiling, always willing to help a student in need.

I was a 5^th semester student in need, one day. For some reason, my Jawa motorbike, which normally started with half a kick of the pedal, wasn’t starting. I had been kicking the starter pedal over and over again for about ten minutes and was exhausted. “Yennayaa Subbarao!” I heard a booming voice say. I looked around to see MG standing behind me. He had obviously seen me struggling to start the bike.

“Good morning, Sir!” I said. “The bike is not starting”.

MG looked at the bike for a moment as though surveying its innards with X-Ray vision. He too had a Jawa; a beat up one at that. Finally he turned to me and said “I will give this bike’s starter one massive, powerful kick. Either the bike will start or the starter pedal will break. Are you willing to take that risk”?

“Yes Sir” I said.

He gave one horrendous kick to the bike and lo and behold, it sputtered to a start!

MG just smiled and walked away.

My classmates and I maintained a close rapport with MG. His rule of friendship was simple. You needed to hate his colleague, MKM, with a passion. If you could do that, or could successfully pretend to do it, you were his bosom pal.

The problem was that MKM was a distant relative of mine and an old family friend and MG perhaps knew it.

Some quick and cold blooded calculation told me that MKM, though friendly, was aloof and distant whereas the fire-breathing MG was a man of all seasons, a man to be retained as a friend and possibly as a Godfather. So I put on a big show of support to him and took a vaguely anti-MKM stance. That was enough for MG. I was accepted into the fold. My classmate M.S.P. followed my footsteps.

M.S.P. was always with me because of two reasons. Firstly, because we were classmates and secondly, but more importantly, I was his ride home! He was my neighbor, you see, in distant Jayanagar, 8 kilometers away from college. He came with me and went with me. On occasion, when we crashed up, he fell with me. But the falls were far apart and in general he sat behind me, on the pillion, eyes tightly shut, praying fast and furious that his life would be spared. Unaware and unconcerned, I sped on, doing the 8 kilometers to college at an average time of 6 minutes.

Time flew. Soon we were in the 10th and final semester.

Somewhere along the way M.S.P. applied for a job with the army and was selected. He started getting a salary from the 8^th semester onwards. He would get to retain the salary if he passed out of college and joined it; if he failed, by any chance, he forfeited his job and had to return the money. Those were the terms of agreement.

The final examination of the 10^th was mathematics. The moment we completed the exam and stepped out, we would step out as free men; we would be moving on to a different station in life.

But first things first. We had to pass the maths exam.

A first cursory glance led to alarm. The paper was tough! A more detailed look confirmed this and our hearts fell. This was sadism at its worst. Instead of a farewell, moderately tough maths exam, we were to be tortured a la the Spanish Inquisition!

After the exam was over, when we emerged onto the college quadrangle, there was no sense of joy that five years of engineering study was over. We were filled with a dread that we may indeed ‘plug’ (fail) the exams. A more detailed autopsy estimated me as just scraping through but M.S.P. as being a definite casualty.

The thought was horrifying.

He would lose his army position.

Our first thought was MG and we rushed to him. We found him in the teacher’s staffroom having a cup of coffee. “Yenrayyaaa!” he bellowed upon seeing us (The equivalent of “Hey guys! What’s up?”)

“Sir, M.S.P. is in deep trouble” I told him, taking on the role of a spokesman while M.S.P. hung his head in shame and wrung his hands.

“Yaakayyaaa?” (“Why? What has happened”) he asked M.S.P.

“Sir, I think I have failed in the maths exam” M.S.P. stammered.

“So why are you so upset? Study well next time and appear again and pass!” a nonplussed MG said.

“I will lose my job in the Army” M.S.P. said. He was so overcome by this ghastly prospect that he actually started crying. We explained the implications to MG.

“Do you have the supplementary answer sheet number?” MG asked M.S.P. “Yes” he sobbed. It was an SOP (standard operating procedure) amongst us engineering students to note down the supplementary answer sheet numbers; in the event of a calamity such as this, it would come in useful (as you will see). “Give it to me” MG demanded. M.S.P. meekly handed over a chit of paper with the information on it.

“I will give you a ring when to come and see me” MG told us. We left, our mood much lighter and hope in our heart.

In those days our college, The University Visvesvaraya College Of Engineering (also known as the Government Engineering College) was a premier institution. The exam papers were invariably set by its professors; the answer papers were invariably corrected by its dons; the entering of marks into the various registers happened there and, at the end of the long process, the final (10th Semester) Bangalore University marks cards were also filled up there. A small army of professors, administrators, clerks etcetera descended on the college for this purpose, and took over various portions of the institution.

About a month later I got a call from MG. “Come to the college tomorrow” was all he said.

The next day a very tense M.S.P. and I were in the college quadrangle at ten a.m., and we took up position outside the library. We had established that MG was within the hallowed building where the entering of marks into the University registers and marks cards was in progress. A lot of people were bustling about officiously; serious looking professors came and went; clerks with piles of registers precariously perched in their arms tottered into the library only to leave bare handed a few minutes later......

Of MG there was no sign.

Finally at around 2.30 p.m. a weary looking MG emerged. Looking around he saw us and came to us. Putting a hand around M..S.P.’s shoulder he said “Pass aaythoo kanayyaa!” (“You have passed my friend”). M.S.P. just could contain himself. He fell on the ground and hugged MG’s feet with respect.

We later learned how he had done it. He had positioned himself where the 10^th semester mathematics papers were being checked and entered into the marks register. He had checked each and every paper’s continuation sheet’s numbers till he had found the ones with the number given by M.S.P. He had then, just when the paper was coming to be entered into the register, offered to relieve the person doing the task. Such was his standing in the academic community and personality that he had had his way and the authorized officer had made way for the unauthorized MG to take up this task. When he had M.S.P.’s answer sheet in his hand, he mentally noted that M.S.P. had scored a paltry 23 out of 75, a failing score, since for a pass one needed 25 out of 75.

“Score please” the clerk entering the marks into the marks card had called out to MG.

“30” MG had replied coolly. The clerk entered ‘30’.

M.S.P. passed.

We soon left Bangalore. M.S.P. took up his military career. I went to Calcutta to join Chloride. I lost track of MG.

Years passed. Decades passed.

One day in end 2004, I had just parked my car in Jayanagar when I saw MG on the pavement in front of me. “Good evening, Sir!” I wished him. He peered myopically at me and failed to recognize me. “Yaroo” (“Who”) ? he asked in a shaky voice. “I am Prakash Subbarao, Sir” I told him. “Don’t you remember me?”

“Oh yes! I remember you. How is M.S.P.?” he immediately enquired.

“He is doing well, Sir. How are you?” I asked of him.

He told me that old age had caught up with him. He spent his time at the club drinking and playing cards. I filled him in on my personal details and we chatted for a few minutes.

“I have to go” he finally said.

“What happened to your Jawa, Sir” Do you still ride a motorbike or do you have a car?” I asked.

“I rode the Jawa till a few years ago. Now my eyesight is weak, I cannot see properly so I don’t drive” he told me.

We said our goodbyes and I watched him shuffle away.

Such were the teachers of yore. There is only one word to describe them.

Stalwarts.

And oh! I forgot to tell you. M.S.P. was promoted recently. When I last heard he had become a Brigadier.