M.F. Hussain's love affair with a Kolkata dhaba

There is a dhaba on Ballygunj Circular Road called the Azad Hind Dhaba.

One day in 1999, the famous painter M.F. Hussain landed up there and ordered a tandoori roti and a cup of tea. He must have liked the fare for he was soon a regular at this dhaba. Thereafter, it is said, as soon as Hussain landed in Kolkata, his first call was at the dhaba.

One day in 1996, Hussain started spontaneously sketching on the dhaba wall and a year later, a black and white sketch entitled "Gaja Gamini" was ready. Three years later, colour was added to it.

The owners of the dhaba responded by naming a chicken dish after Hussain. If you ever visit this dhaba, be sure to order the Chicken Hussaini.

What is the value of this sketch? It is anybody's guess. Like "The Last Supper", this sketch has been made on a wall and there is no way of removing it, framing it etc.

A video of the sketch is at http://ibnlive.in.com/videos/158730/husains-kolkata-connect-the-azad-hind-dhaba.html

Nokia needs to listen to its customers more closely....

It is amazing how fast Nokia phones have fallen from favour. 

My first five or six phones were all Nokias. My very first was the iconic Nokia 8110, the banana shaped phone. I made many a mobile business deal on it and still remember it fondly. I was a great Nokia fan. I now use a Blackberry.

Just two years ago, Nokia was riding a mighty reputation. Today that reputation could be in tatters.

This just goes to show how fast changing is the mood of the public and how companies need to be very alert to changing market situations.

Companies also need to keep a very close watch (and ear) on what is being spoken about them in the marketplace. I just saw an article  on Nokia, for example, where almost all the comments are negative and hostile to the company. Intrigued, I visited Nokia's Facebook page. No negativity there. Everything looks nice and hunky dory. Is Nokia's management adopting an ostrich-like head-in-the-sand policy and trying to pretend that an unhappy customer base is a mirage?

Maybe Maybe not. Only time will tell.

Although it took ages for the company to even wake up to the fact that there is a huge market in India that demands a dual SIM, to its credit it has final done something about it in the form of releasing (in early 2012) Asha 200, a QWERTY smartphone with dual-swap feature in which you do not need to switch off the phone in order to switch between SIMs. 

There is only one problem. The Indian mobile market demand pattern changes every six months. So what the trend will be in early 2012 is anybody's guess, given the fierce competition industry.

What do you think? Will Nokia make it?

Social media, smoking and Bhutan

"At present, we are stealing the future, selling it in the present, and calling it GDP." - Paul Hawken.


Soon after the demise of his father, the term "gross national happiness" (GNH) was coined in 1972 by then Bhutan's King Jigme Singye Wangchuck. He used the phrase to signal his commitment to building an economy that would serve Bhutan's unique culture based on Buddhist spiritual values. At first offered as a casual, offhand remark, the concept was taken seriously.


"GNH" was designed in an attempt to define an indicator that measures quality of life or social progress in more holistic and psychological terms than only the economic indicator of gross domestic product (GDP). However, Critics state that because GNH depends on a series of subjective judgments about well-being, governments may be able to define GNH in a way that suits their interests. 


And that is exactly what seems to have happened to Bhutan in recent times. Did you know that in Bhutan it is illegal to store tobacco at home and sniffer dogs are routinely brought in, where suspicion exists, to check whether you do in fact have tobacco at home?


Recenty a Buddhist monk was jailed for possessing $3 worth of tobacco at home. Holding a carton of 200 cigarettes is a jailable offence in Bhutan.


Earlier this year, an upset Kinley Tshering, then a media consultant in Bhutan's capital, Thimphu, discussed with friends over drinks the jailing of a Buddhist monk. He decided to form a Facebook page, a digital protest unheard of in this Himalayan kingdom.  Soon the page had thousands of followers. 


"Facebook was important. It opened the floodgates for open criticism of the government," said opposition leader Tshering Tobgay. "People feel the need to be more vocal. Only two years ago, criticism - constructive or not - was quite anonymous." 


"There are a lot of speeches about GNH. It sounds like we are doing a lot," said Tashi Choden, a senior researcher at the Centre for Bhutan Studies in Thimphu. "But there is a different reality on the ground. The youth are increasingly alienated. We could lose what we have if we are not careful." 


“The following election (in 2013) is going to be fascinating,” stated Francoise Pommaret, a French anthropologist and historian that has resided in Bhutan for 3 decades. “I’ve no clue what’s going to happen, but you will find profound social changes. Our leaders will need to listen to a different generation.”


And right there, in the forefront, is social media pushing change in this remote Himalayan kingdom.

Love of Flying

My very first flight was in a Dakota. This aircraft is an American fixed-wing propeller-driven aircraft whose speed and range revolutionized air transport in the 1930s and 1940s. Its lasting impact on the airline industry and World War II makes it one of the most significant transport aircraft ever made.

I remember flying (in luxury!) in an Indian Airlines DC-4 Skymaster sometime during the late 1950's. My sister and I traveled fairly frequently to Bangalore, from Mumbai, and we were delivered into the custody of a stewardess, who took care of us. Maybe she was extra nice to us because I have very fond memories of lovely food served in lovely cutlery aboard.

By 1957, there was a new aircraft in Indian Airlines' fold - the Vickers Viscount. A little more luxurious than the DC-4 (and I remember it as being smoother during take off and landings), this aircraft also probably boasted seats that were a little more spacious, with more leg room. The windows were also a little larger, offering a better view.

My excitement of flying probably started with the jet age in India. The very first jet that I set eyes upon was the De Havilland Comet. It was the first commercial jet in production and an aircraft was sent around the world for people to see. The fact that we saw it from outside the boundary fence (there were no walls then, just see through fences) set my pulse racing.
By the late 1950s, Air India started phasing out their propeller driven Super Constellation aircraft  and by 1960 or so had become an all jet fleet; the aircraft they opted for was the super sleek Boeing 707. In those days, our flat at Warden Road in Bombay looked out on a field where cows grazed. Believe it or not,  we once saw a Boeing 707 taking off and the cows, unfamiliar with the sound of a jet engine, stampeded hysterically! I longed for jet travel but there seemed to be one major problem - Air India flew international and I had no chance of getting on such a flight.
Many years later, I distinctly remember that I was in the library of a club in Pachmarhi, where we had gone on holiday. I was flipping through a magazine and suddenly an Indian Airlines ad leaped out at me. It announced, with great fanfare, that the airline was offering jet fights! This caught my imagination and took my breath away. Jet! Something new! (50 years + later, I can still see that ad in my mind's eye.) Here was my chance!

I ran to my father and showed him the ad. "I want to go on this jet!" I told him.

"Get a first class in your studies in the final exam and I will send you on a Caravelle jet flight" was his answer.

I did get a first class in the finals and off the family went, to the Indian Airlines office in Madras, to book a ticket for me. The travel was to take place between Madras (now known as Chennai) and Bangalore. Believe it or not, the fare between Madras and Bangalore in those days was just Rs. 50! With a student concession, that halved to Rs. 25! That's what my first jet flight cost my parents.

Just as the ticket was being issued, my sister said "I want to go too!" My father immediately agreed. My protests that it was I that had earned the distinction (and not her) fell on deaf ears. It seemed really unfair to me.

On the night before the departure, I could not sleep. I tossed and turned in excitement all night long.

The flight was at around 11 am the next day. In those days there was no one-hour before departure" rule. Sadly, my parents delayed and we reached the airport only to find that a those precious window seats had gone. This also meant that my sister and I would sit separately." Ask the passenger next to you to give you his seat" was my father's parting advice to me as we left for the aircraft.

The person in the window seat was a dour looking character (a splitting image of Sheikh Abdullah of Kashmir in his heydays). He was hunched up against the window listening to a transistor radio. I asked him several times whether I could sit at the window, even using sign language, but he just didn't respond. I was, disappointingly, destined to sit in the aisle seat.

Before I knew it the flight was over; just a measly 30 minutes between Madras and Bangalore. But before the flight was over,  I had fallen in love with this graceful, rear-engined French aircraft.

Google Akashdoot, Avandoot, Pavandoot, Rashtradoot, Gagandoot, Meghdoot etc. and nothing comes up. These were the names of the Caravelles in the Indian Airlines fleet.

Akashdoot crashed on 12 October 1976 in Bombay (Mumbai), India: The right engine caught fire shortly after takeoff and the crew elected to return. Fuel flow to the engine was not stopped and the fire spread through the fuselage and led to hydraulic system failure and a loss of aircraft control shortly before landing. All six crew members and 89 passengers were killed.

Between 1969 and 1974, I traveled up and down India on Caravelles. My father was then stationed at Calcutta (now Kolkata) and one had to take a flight from Bangalore to Chennai on an Avro HS 748 before connecting on to a Caravelle. If one was seated on the left during the fight to Calcutta, one could follow the coast line of India almost all the way.

I remember one very distinctive journey. I was returning to Bangalore and we were at the airport at around 11 a.m. to catch the fight. It turned out that the captain was a friend of my father and they sat in the restaurant sharing a beer (yes, you read that right!) before the flight. The flight was announced, my parents left, and we trudged to the aircraft. Mid-way during take off the fight was aborted; the captain slammed the brakes and we returned to the parking bay. Apparently a bunch of bees had been sucked into the engine and damaged it.

We were at the airport all day long. Finally at 7 pm the aircraft was ready  for departure. This time, lift off was uneventful.

About an hour into the fight, the captain sent word for me. "You can stay in the cockpit if you like" he told me. I gladly accepted. I stood behind him and listened to the radio chatter and really enjoyed myself.

"Look, there are the lights of Madras" he told me a while later. "Hang on to something! We will be starting our descent!" And suddenly the aircraft nose went down and we began the glide to Madras. I was in the cockpit during the landing until the aircraft had come to a halt. Exhilarating!

The Caravelle, in my opinion, with its two-abreast seating, allowed passengers to be better serviced by the cabin crew. The aisle was just one seat away. One could get up and go to the loo or wherever with ease.

The next aircraft in the Indian Airlines stable, the Boeing 737, seemed to have ushered in the era of business travel with its high density seating arrangement. If you opted for a window seat, you were well and truly stuck. To get to the loo, you had to inconvenience your neighbors, who would perforce have to get up and exit to the aisle in order to let you out. And then the process would repeat when you returned.

Indian Airlines became the first domestic airline in the world to order the wide body Airbus A-300.

Memorable flights

I was once flying in the North-East of India on an Indian Airlines Fokker Friendship F-27. The aircraft was being buffeted by turbulence and, in spite of the "Fasten Seat Belt" sign being on, the stewardess was bravely serving coffee. She had held down on the cups so that they wouldn't fall when suddenly, six black bobs leaped towards the ceiling, splashed on the roof of the cabin, and sprayed on the passengers. The coffee literally took to the skies!

On another occasion, I was flying between Mumbai and Pune in an Avro HS0748. It was my first flight on this sector and my colleague accompanying me on the flight confided in me that these fights are extremely turbulent. "Grab your balls in one hand and your briefcase in the other" was his advice.

On our very first trip abroad, from Madras to Singapore, my wife and I were flying British Airways. I had a Business Class ticket but my wife was in Economy. When I told the British Airways representative at the airport that this was our first visit abroad, he immediately upgraded my wife to Business Class. We had heard of the goodies that one gets free on Business Class so, at the end of the flight, I asked the steward whether I could take the various things that I saw next to our seat. I will never forget his reply. "Sir" he said "those are the property of British Airways but if you were to take them, I wouldn't notice." What an amazing reply reflecting the training he had been given! Needless to say, we did not take the goodies but still remember his answer over twenty five years later!

In terms of sheer dedication, one cannot forget the flight that I undertook with two of my colleagues from Katmandu to Calcutta (now Kolkata.) This was at 9 a.m. on a day in 1986, on a Royal Nepal Airlines Boeing 727. The aircraft had just lifted off and was in steep ascent when two stewardesses came huffing and puffing, pushing a drinks trolley up the aircraft. Alcohol was served at 9.05 a.m. and, thanks to their hospitality and generosity, we were gloriously drunk when we deplaned at Calcutta. That was a first for me.

Finally, the most enjoyable flight that I have ever been on was one between Chennai and Kuala Lumpur. It was on a Malaysian Airlines Airbus A-330. Mid way through the fight the drinks trolley came, but with a difference The steward, a Sardar, was cracking jokes and serving the liquor. Someone from a few rows away asked for a miniature bottle of whisky and the steward threw him one. Soon, he was throwing packets of peanuts and mini whiskey bottles into the hands of the passengers several rows away all the while cracking jokes loudly. It was the closest to my ever having had a party in the sky.

I hope you enjoyed this article. If you have had any great "in-the-air" experiences,  drop a comment.

Discussions of murder with a tea stall owner............

I woke up depressed this morning.

Why I was depressed was almost impossible to fathom because everything had been going right and I couldn't really complain about anything............not one single thing!

I was also more irritated than usual.

So with this double dose of negativity, I drove down to the Novel Business Centre in BTM Layout, Bangalore, to collect a cheque from a client.

There was a parking slot right in front of the building and I slid into it. As I got off the car, I heard a voice asked me to move the car about ten feet in the front. It was neither a polite not an offending voice. However, what offended me and increased my already high level of irritation was the gall of the request.

The source of this ridiculous request was the owner a roadside teashop-on-wheels, a diminutive five feet six, balding and paunchy individual.

"Why should I move?" I asked him, irritably. "I pay road tax and this is a parking area. On the other hand, you don't pay any tax and are a unlicensed vendor. Why don't you move?"

"Why should I move?" he hotly retorted. "I have been here at this same spot for fifteen years and no one can make me move."

Aha! This was definitely interesting.

"Why not?" I asked aggressively. "I can make you move."

"You go and finish your work and come back and I will tell you why no one can make me move" he replied.

On that mutually agreeable note I set off to collect my cheque.

What I had thought would be a two-minute task extended to twenty minutes. Every few minutes I went and peered out to see what the tea stall-on-wheels owner was up to. I was worried that he may deflate my tyres in a burst of anger. However, each time I looked out, he seemed to be busy with his own unique tea making tasks.

Finally I got my cheque and headed down to the car.

"So tell me why no one can make you move from here!" I demanded. "Is it because you pay the corporation or the police a daily bribe?"

"I don't pay any one any bribe and would refuse to!" he angrily retorted. "I am an exceedingly honest person and would never pay a bribe!"

"Then what makes you so un-moveable from here?" I asked.

"My son Sunil is a Don!" he muttered. "He is a powerful criminal in Madiwala and has huge clout. No one dares touch me." He paused for a moment and then spoke with pride in his voice. "My son has committed four murders."

Then his voice softened.

"I didn't mean to offend you by asking you to move your car. Why I asked you to move it is because people throw their leftover tea on the sidewalk and very often they do not see where they are throwing it. It may have dirtied your car."

His mood seemed to be visibly improving. I also realized with a start that my depression as well as my irritability were gone.

"Do come back some time and have a cup of tea with me" he said.

This sudden about turn killed the aggression in me. I held out my hand and he shook it. With a dirty hand covered with leftover tea leaves.

On that unhygienic note I left.

I have been wondering all day whether he actually has a son who is a Don and has murdered four people.

Or, on the other hand, had he weighed the odds and felt that if left provoked, I would take steps to make him vacate his precious perch?

What do you think?

The heartwarming story of Karma Bhutia
Part 3

Karma soon settled down to life at the school.

Having been used to hardships, school was a luxury! It felt great to lay down in the soft eiderdown mattress. The food was great! Others complained about every little thing they could think of but not Karma, no sir! He felt he was living in the lap of luxury.

Karma had always been intelligent. He learned quixkly, instinctively, but never showed that bright spark. Something told him to keep to himself; to keep in the background; to never show his brilliance.

His grades were always above average and there was no cause for complaint. His teachers, however, always felt that there an aloofness about him..............a remoteness that they couldn't understand. Oh, he was friendly enough, all right. And eager to please. But beneath the veneer, they sensed a strange indifference. They couldn't understand it.

Karma's needs were taken care of by the Government Of Sikkim. His fees, boarding and lodging were paid punctually. He even received a small amount of pocket money every month. He hid the money in a little tin, looking forward to the day when he would return to Sikkim and buy his beloved sister a lovely dress with it.

The days turned into weeks and the weeks turned into months. Soon he was in the ninth standard.

This was an age when boys started getting interested in girls and puppy love grew and flourished in the senior school; when a girl would give a guy a sly look and a smile that would devastate him for the rest of the week!

It was the time of passing secret chits to one another......... of "I love you" messages that met with less than a fifty-percent rate of success and left many a little lad depressed and moping.

It was an age when boys compared notes about their private parts and the size of various girls public parts.

It was a time of acne and pimples and cigarettes smoked on the sly, more to impress the fair maiden than for pleasure.

It was a time for all sorts of ailments, imagined or real.

It was a time of growing up.

And in the midst of all this chaos, our Karma sailed serenely on, blissfully unaware of the world around him. In his mind's eye the only two women he saw were his mother and his sister.

In his mind's eye, he would see his mother fussing around their little house, coping as best as she could with the household chores as well as the task of bringing up a family.

And in a completely different setting, he would see his sister alone, scared, unsure of herself, fending for herself against a drunken father; fighting off hunger as best as she could................

There was no place in his heart for puppy love; there was no time to get infatuated with a girl based on the momentary glance she gave him; there was no time for him to enjoy his childhood. In his heart he was a little man, in a hurry to grow up. Waiting to go back to Sikkim to rescue his beloved sister.

There were many matrons in the school............mother-figures that oozed love and kindness. But Karma's heart was hard. No one could take his mother's place.

The teachers noted that Karma never smiled or laughed. They would discuss it in the staff room. "He's a strange little fellow!" they'd tell each other. "I wonder what goes on in that head of his", they'd say. They analysed his shortcomings - both real and imaginary - to the hilt.

What they never realised was that, more importantly, Karma never cried.

He bottled all his emotions within him; he had a "mask" on at all times. No one could lay claim to the 'real' Karma.

That mask was to stay on till a fateful day when it would be suddenly ripped off.....................

That day came unexpectedly, like all fateful events do.

It was a weekend.

The boarders were allowed to go into the city of Kalimpong.

However Karma had never shown any interest in going into Kalimpong. He would spend such days alone, by himself in the school campus.

This particular weekend was no different. He wandered aimlessly around the school and, inexplicably, found himself in the school's sick bay. Why he went there he cannot recall to this day. There was nothing there that beckoned to him. But there he proceeded and found, to his astonishment, a teacher writhing in pain. She was moaning and appeared delirous.

Astonishingly, there was no nurse present.

Karma rushed to her side and felt her forehead. It was very hot!

He remembered that when he used to get a fever, his mother used to rip some old cloth, dip it into cold water and apply it to the forehead. He rushed to locate an old rag, found it, and dipped it in cold water. He applied it to the teacher's forehead.

"Thank you" the lady murmured, faintly.

Karma sat for the next several hours nursing the teacher. She alternated between bouts of feverishness and normalcy.

At 6 p.m. the nurse appeared. She shamefacedly admited that she had some urgent errand in the city and had gone leaving the patient alone to fend for herself.

A cold rage welled inside Karma but he didn't show it.

He would make it a point to ensure that he was at the teacher's side as often as possible so that she could get the best possible care. He was back at the infirmary the next morning after breakfast. The teacher appeared more lucid and in much better shape.

"Thank you, Karma, for having taken care of me yesterday" said the teacher smiling.

"Oh it was nothing, Mrs. Grey" the boy replied.

He spent the whole Sunday with her. He asked her about her family and she told him that she was British; that her husband had been a fighter pilot during the Second World War. "Flew Spitfires, he did" she said proudly. He gathered that Squadron Leader Grey had died in combat, leaving her behind with two children to take care of. She had struggled to make both ends meet to take care of the family till they had grown up. Her son got a job and moved out to set up his own establishment. Her daughter got married. That's when she had seen an advertisement in a London newspaper for a vacancy in India. "I have never been away from England" she thought to herself. "It may be exciting to see what is out there". So she applied for the position, had been interviewed and selected and here she was, albeit in not too good health at the moment.

"What about you, Karma. Tell me about yourself" she said.

Automatically his guard went up. However, when he looked into her eyes, he saw a bottomless pool of compassion. The words stuck in his throat and to his horror he heard himself sobbing. Suddenly he was crying uncontrollably. Mrs. Grey hugged him to her breast andlet him cry. He wept for nearly an hour. When he stopped, he felt much better.........relieved.

"Tell me about your llife" Mrs. Grey asked anew, and he started to eagerly tell her all about his mother and his sister and his life in Sikkim.

They spent the whole day talking and when he left her, reluctantly, in the evening, he felt that he had found a mother in her.

Travails of a married man - Part 3

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

You’ve read parts I and II 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 and II of the story, search for it on my blog:

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

Those who have read Part 1 & II 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………………..

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

The cast so far:

Me

My wife: Sarita

My friend: Probir

His wife: Malini

His sister: Rani

The action is taking place circa 1986.

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

There I am, one day, doing what I have to do at work. The time is 5 pm. For some strange reason I remember the time with great clarity. The phone rings. I pick up. I here someone whistling at the other end of the line. I am nonplussed. “Hello” I say. “Hi! This is Rani” a disembodied voice says at the other end of the line. “You asked me to whistle if I needed your help. I am whistling now. I desperately need your help”.

Memories start swirling in my brain. I remember the cool reception that I initially got from her. I remember the distant way she acted as “mum” at my daughter’s school at the time of admission when I needed a “wife” – she was distant with me but she charmed the principal and the staff! I remember the way we took off to have a drink when we were supposed to attend a wedding and how we blamed it on a punctured tyre. The memories come rushing back.

“What has happened, Rani” I ask, alarmed. There is a silence at the other end of the line. After some time I can hear the sounds of her sobbing. “When can you come to Bangalore?” she finally asks. “I am in deep trouble and cannot tell you over the phone. It’s a long story. I need help”.

“When would you like me to come?” I ask. “Will the weekend be OK”.

“No” she says. “That will be too late. Can you come tomorrow?”

Too late? Too late for what? I wonder…..

“OK” I tell her. “I’ll be there tomorrow”

I was on the early morning flight to Bangalore. In those days the first flight took off at 6 a.m. and one was in Bangalore by 7a.m. I was at the Taj Residency by 7.30 a.m. and called Rani by 8 a.m. “OK, so I am in Bangalore. Now tell me what the problem is”.

“Where are you staying?” she asked.

“Room 804 at the Taj Residency” I replied.

“I will be there in an hour” she said and hung up.

An hour later I heard a knock on the door. It was her.

She looked very harried and had dark circles under her eyes. She took out a packet of cigarettes and nervously lit one. Taking a deep drag, she looked at me with very pained eyes and said “I am in deep trouble”.

“What happened?” I asked her.

“Humph!” she snorted. “What happened? Nothing much happened! That fool of a father of mine suddenly remembered one day, some time ago that he has a friend in RAW. You know what RAW is, don’t you?” she asked.

“Yes, I know about it" I replied. “Go on”.

“My father phoned this friend, who is in Bombay, and told him on the phone about my problem. ‘Can you fix this problem for me? The IAS officer who married Rani must agree to a divorce. I will be eternally grateful if you can manage that” my father told him. “Yes, I can fix it” he said.

A few days later this person, Raj, was in Bangalore. He rang up and told my father that he would send a car over and to send me to meet him so that he could learn about the background directly from me. So I went. I thought that I was meeting a decent person, a friend of my father…………….”

She nervously took another long drag on the cigarette. The ash fell to the floor but neither of us noticed.

“He was staying at the West End. In a cottage. How can a guy who works for RAW afford such extravagance? Anyway, he was very nice and polite and heard me out and offered me dinner. After I had told him everything – I hid nothing back – he looked very thoughtful. “How badly do you want this divorce?” he asked me. “Very badly” I told him frankly. “Are you willing to do anything for it?” he asked. “Yes” I told him, without thinking. “Good” he said and smiled. He got up and came near me. He hugged me to him, holding me closely. He started fondling my breasts. “I can get you off. I can get you a divorce. I know how to twist the arm of your husband so that he will say ‘yes’ to the divorce on your terms. But I want you, my dear. Do I make myself clear?”

I was feeling wretched. I fought him and managed to get away. “Think about it” he said. “I can do what you want. I want a little something in return. It will be very easy. Trust me”.

“I have to think about it” I told him.

“Don’t take too long! I came to Bangalore only for you” he replied. “Meet me tomorrow, at 11 a.m. at my cottage” he said.

“When is that?” I asked.

“Today” she said. She looked at her watch. “In an hour from now”.

“OK” I told her briskly with a confidence that I didn’t feel. “Leave it to me. Go home and I will handle it. Don’t go to his cottage, whatever happens. OK?”

She nodded numbly. “What will you do?” she suddenly asked. “He is very powerful. Very dangerous. He can harm you”.

“Don’t worry about that” I told her.

After a cup of coffee she left. I could see a renewed sense of hope in her.

I brooded for a while. On an impulse I picked up the phone and dialled the number of the Taj West End. “Cottage 616 please” I told the operator. “One moment Sir” she said. A second later a very deep voice said “Hello!”

“Raj?” I asked.

“Yeah” the voice boomed.

“Raj, you are under surveillance” I said.

He didn’t appear fazed. “By whom?” he asked.

I just hung up.

That evening, at about 6 p.m. I got a call from Rani. “I want to meet you” was all she said. “Let’s go and have a drink”.

“OK” I said. I remembered vividly the last time that we had had a drink. This time I hoped she wouldn’t cry.

She was late and I waited for her at a pre-arranged spot. Soon I saw her drawing up in an auto. She paid off the auto driver and turned to me. Her eyes were wide as saucers and she was smiling from ear to ear. “What did you tell him?” she demanded.

“Who?” I asked, pretending not to understand.

“”Raj, you idiot!” she said, playfully punching me in the stomach.

“Nothing why?” I said.

“Because he’s on the run. He checked out from West End and rushed to the airport. I think he caught the first possible flight out of Bangalore. To Coimbatore, I think he said. He promised my father that he would do everything to help me. As a good family friend would. And I think he will. You scared the shit out of him. What did you say?”

“I told him “Raj, you’re under surveillance.”

“That’s all?” she asked incredulously.

“That’s all, Rani” I said. “Such people have a lot to hide. There was nothing else that I could think about so I just impulsively called him”.

Her eyes were sparkling. She was laughing. The world seemed so far away………………..

A few days later Raj delivered on his promise. Her husband, the IAS officer, agreed to a divorce.

A few months later, she was free of the marriage.

Her cousin Prasad flew down from the US. They announced to the elders that they were getting married. It was a firm announcement. No ifs and buts about it. The elders were silent. The silence was taken as consent.

Rani and Prasad were married a little later. She soon left Bangalore for the States. Before she left she called me. “Let’s get together sometime” she said.

That was way back in the 1986.

We never met again.

It is fourteen years later that I am writing this narrative. Strangely I have a sixth sense that I will run into her someday. I visualize it happening at a marriage of a mutual friend.

She will have her daughter with her. Not a son. A daughter. And she will tell the daughter “Say Hi to my old friend Uncle Prakash”.

And our eyes will exchange a secret message and smile.