The Recluse in My Class (944 words)

 In my school days, around seventh grade, there was a classmate I​faintly remember as Dandapani, ​though his face remains vivid in my memory—especially his prominent, beak-shaped nose. Slightly built, he had a soft face with a constant, puckered smile. He was quiet, rarely mingling with others, and seemed content being left to himself. He preferred solitude and didn’t participate in sports or most of the usual classroom activities. An ash mark was always visible on his forehead, and he wasn’t particularly remarkable in his studies, except for his interest in Sanskrit, History, and Moral Science. In other subjects, he barely scraped through.

I vividly recall one incident when our class teacher asked us to write an essay on what we wished to be when we grew older. Excited by the idea, we eagerly penned our dreams—some aspired to be engineers, others as teachers or businessmen,​ and a tiny few sportsmen. As we discussed our ambitions, this boy stood apart, showing no interest in the conversation. We didn’t think much of it at the time.

Later that afternoon, the teacher gently called him to the front of the class and asked him​ softly to share his dream. He hesitated, clearly embarrassed. Encouraged by the teacher’s kind words, assuring him there was nothing to feel shy about, the boy finally spoke: “I wish to be a monk, to retreat to the forest, and meditate on my God until I receive His darshan.”

There was a stunned silence. Even the teacher wiped tears from his eyes.

When the class was over, the teacher approached the boy, patting him gently on the shoulder. “I’d like to meet your parents this evening,” he said softly. “I want to pay my respects to such fortunate parents.”

But the boy quickly protested. “Please, sir, don’t mention this essay to them. They’re already unhappy with me because of my poor marks and my ways.”

The teacher, concerned, asked, “Why aren’t you studying well? What are you doing that displeases them? Shouldn’t you listen to your parents?”

The boy looked down and quietly replied, “I’m a devotee of Sri Ramachandra and Sri Anjaneya Swami. I have idols of them, and I perform puja every morning and evening. I don’t want to do anything else. But my father is against all this—he thinks it’s a waste of time and a distraction from my studies. He wants me to stop and go out to play with the other boys. He beats me when he finds me sitting in front of my idols, so I’ve hidden them on the terrace and perform my puja there, secretly.”

 The teacher remained silent. Later, he learned from the boy’s parents that everything the boy had said was true. They were disheartened and had given up hope of “reforming” him. The boy did not mix with his siblings and spent all his waking hours with his idols, dressing them and singing bhajans. The teacher, sensing that this boy was different, an uncommon soul with a clear and unwavering goal, chose not to interfere with the boy’s spiritual progress.

Years passed, and I lost touch with him after leaving school, though the memory of that essay never faded. It was decades later that I happened to meet​,​ ​opposite Dandapani's house​,​ his younger brother, who had also been in the same school. Through him, I learned that ​D​andapani had gone on to graduate in Sanskrit, remained unmarried, and became a Sanskrit pundit at a school. After his parents passed away, he lived alone, receiving food from a nearby temple. His life revolved around his spiritual ​pursuits, and he spent much of his time at the Sri Ramakrishna Mutt and Sri Gaudiya Mutt, caring for the sick and needy. He had distanced himself from his family, even giving away his share of the family property to charitable institutions.

The last, his brother heard, he had moved into an old age home in a temple town, spending his final days in the temple’s quiet presence. He discouraged contact with him, fully embracing the reclusive life he had always desired. It seemed he had found his true purpose, realising his spiritual identity and recognising the divine in everything.

 Impelled by my curiosity and wish to visit the famous temple, I went there. I chose to visit the temple first hoping he may be there. After the darshan of the presiding Deity and His consort, I went around the corridor looking sideways. As I reached the rear, I saw Dandapani sitting in a dark corner close to Anjaneyar sanctum. There was no chance of mistake in recognising him though he had become old, frail and in a faded ochre robe. His personage and sharp eyes, evoked awe and respect as I  stood before him with folded hands.

"Namaskaram, I am Partha your classmate in elementary school. I came to know about you from your brother," I said.

He did not reply and looked at me intently for a moment with an imperceptible nod before closing his eyes. I continued to stand before him till a devotee touched my shoulder and said," He is observing a strict mounam(silence). Please leave him alone."

Looking back, I am convinced he was no ordinary soul. He was an evolved being, one who belonged to this world yet was not part of it. I recall his penetrating gaze, which often seemed distant and otherworldly. Life, for him, was a journey of liquidating past karmic debts. I can only proudly tell my children and grandchildren that I had the privilege of studying alongside a karma yogi who had realized himself.

 “The winds of grace are always blowing; it is for us to raise our sails.”

 

Who is Komal's Benefactor? (1051 words)

Komal had an unusual dream early one morning. In it, Komalavalli Thayar, the consort of the presiding deity Aravamudhan (Utsava murthy)of the Sarangapani temple, appeared and asked her to visit Her shrine at 9 a.m. that day to receive a personal blessing.

When Komal woke up, she was drenched in sweat, filled with awe and excitement. The dream seemed strange, but it held significance for Komal, who prayed daily to the Goddess, hoping for a good husband. She hesitated to tell her mother, worried she would assume Komal was anxious about getting married. Additionally, she was unsure whether to visit the temple at the specified time since it would make her late for work.

Confiding in her friend Pankaja, who lived in the adjacent flat, Komal sought advice. Pankaja, sensing the importance of the dream, advised her, “Komal, don’t ignore this command. Perhaps the Goddess has a plan for you. While I, too, have my doubts about Her meeting you in person, what harm could come from visiting Her shrine, which you already do daily?”

Komal agreed and decided to go.

Komal was 27, worked in a bank, and lived with her mother. With her father having passed away years ago and no immediate family to help find her a suitable match, no efforts had been made toward her marriage. Shy by nature, Komal didn’t have the courage to search for a partner on her own.

When she arrived at Thayar’s shrine, there were only a few devotees, although the main shrine of the God was crowded. After offering her prayers, she sat down with her eyes closed, reflecting on her dream. She was startled when she heard a gentle voice say, "My dear, I am happy to see you here offering your prayers so sincerely. What is your name?"

Komal opened her eyes to see an elderly woman in a dark maroon silk sari adorned with numerous pieces of jewellery and a large bindi. The woman’s twinkling eyes and captivating smile evoked instant respect and fondness in Komal.

“Komala is my name, but friends call me Komal,” she replied.

“Ah, you share a name with the Goddess. What a happy coincidence! I’ve seen you here many times but have never spoken to you. Tell me more about yourself, your family and where you live,” the woman said in a mesmerizing tone.

After gathering all the details about Komal through light conversation, the woman moved away without revealing who she was or why she needed the information. Komal, still anticipating a divine encounter as promised in her dream, waited. But nothing unusual happened. Just as she was preparing to leave, the priest called her and handed her flowers from the feet of the Goddess. This unusual gesture filled her with joy, and she returned home content.

Later that evening, while narrating the temple events to Pankaja, tinged with slight disappointment, a large car stopped in front of their apartment. A well-dressed woman in a heavily embroidered Kanchipuram silk sari and jewellery got out, accompanied by a young man. They approached Komal’s door and asked if it was her residence.

“Yes, I am Komal. Please come in,” she said, welcoming them in with curiosity.

Komal’s mother joined them, equally surprised by the unexpected visitors.

The young man guided his mother to the sofa and made himself comfortable on a nearby chair, smiling and greeting everyone with folded hands. He was around 30, tall, and handsome, casually dressed in a T-shirt and jeans.

“You must be wondering who we are and why we’re here,” the woman began. “Even we didn’t know until we reached the temple this morning. We are originally from Kumbakonam but have been living in California for many years. We returned to visit our ancestral home and the temples, which brought back many memories.”

Komal’s mother, pleased to hear they were also from Kumbakonam, moved closer, showing more interest.

The woman continued, “Something remarkable happened this morning at the Sarangapani temple. An elderly woman, whom we had never met, approached us. She claimed to know my father and grandfather, as well as our family. We were drawn to her, perhaps because of her dignified demeanour and the warmth she exuded.”

Komal and her mother exchanged curious glances.

“She told us something surprising,” the woman added. “She suggested we visit your house and seek your daughter’s hand for my son here. She said she knows Komal well and assured us that she would be an ideal match. Since this came from such a respectable lady, we felt compelled to meet you.”

Komal was startled. How did the elderly woman know so much about her, especially since Komal had only shared her name, her job and her address not in minute detail? She exchanged a look with Pankaja, both deep in thought.

Komal’s mother, still confused, asked, “Did she mention who she was or where she stays? I don’t recall knowing such a person.”

The older woman responded, “She only said her name was Komalavalli and that she has lived in this town for a long time. We didn’t question her further, as she appeared very respectable, and we were eager to meet you. My son Chakra is an engineer, well-employed in the US, but we plan to relocate to Bangalore. We like Komal, and if you’re agreeable to the proposal, he’d like to speak with her.”

Komal’s mother, sensing fate at work, replied, “We are happy with this fortunate turn of events, whoever that old lady may be.” Then, turning to Komal, she added, “Take him to your room and get to know each other, keeping in mind the purpose of the visit.”

Chakra and Komal spent about thirty minutes talking before returning to the room, both smiling. Pankaja, observing them, grinned and said, “I think I know what Komal’s answer is, and I also have a good guess about who the old lady at the temple is. I believe Komal has figured it out too.”

Everyone turned to Komal and Pankaja, eager to learn the mysterious woman's identity. But both friends remained silent, sharing a knowing smile.

Chakra’s mother, also intrigued, added, “Whoever she is, I think we can all guess her identity—given her name, where we met her, and the dignity and compassion in her eyes.”

 

 

The Tattoo (867 words)

It was a great surprise for Ashwin to run into Vinay, his school buddy, after nearly a decade at a marketing conference in Bangalore. They had studied together for six years in Chennai and were close friends, but Vinay moved to another city after school while Ashwin remained in Chennai. Over time, they lost touch, but fate brought them together again. The morning session of the conference had just ended, and as they broke for lunch, Ashwin and Vinay sat at a corner table to catch up.

“Hey Ashwin, you haven’t changed much but look a little chubbier!” Vinay chuckled. “You were always the ‘fat boy.’ But seriously, you look great and cheerful. You must be happily married with kids by now. I see from your card that you’re in a good position. Tell me what’s been going on since we last saw each other.”

Ashwin smiled. “Yes, by God’s grace, life’s been good. I have a wonderful wife, two kids—a boy and a girl—a stable job, and an apartment. Life is smooth. My parents are still in the village. You probably know I did my MTech. But enough about me—you were always the smarter one! Now, it’s your turn. What’s been happening with you?” he said, laughing.

“Don’t flatter me!” Vinay replied. “I did my management diploma at IIM and landed a good position with a fat salary. I’m based in Mumbai but travel a lot for work. My parents are here in Bangalore. There’s not much else to say—life has become somewhat routine.”

“You haven’t mentioned your family,” Ashwin said, leaning forward. “What’s your wife doing? How many kids do you have? You travel often, so you must visit next time you’re in Chennai.”

Vinay’s face suddenly changed, his smile fading. “No, I’m not married,” he said quietly.

Ashwin was surprised. “What? You’re around 33 or 34, right? Is there any particular reason you’re still single? If I remember correctly, you only had one elder brother.”

“That’s a long story,” Vinay replied with a sigh. “When’s your flight? Do you have some time?”

“Of course, I drove here, so I can spare a couple of hours,” Ashwin said, curious. “Tell me, why are you still single? Is there someone in your life?”

“It’s noisy here. Let’s move to the garden. It’ll be quieter,” Vinay suggested.

They found a quiet spot outside with two bottles of beer. After taking a few sips, Vinay began slowly.

“Ashwin, I’m pretty unlucky when it comes to love. I was in love with a girl in college in Mumbai. She was brilliant—top of the class—and we had this healthy competition to outdo the other. She was well-mannered, and I adored her. She loved me too, but she always kept clear boundaries. We planned to marry once we were settled in our careers.” He paused and rolled up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo of the letter "V" in black ink.

“Her name also started with V, like mine. We both got these tattoos as part of a promise to wait for each other. She was hesitant at first, worried about raising questions, so she got a tiny ‘V’ tattooed on the back of her calf. It’s so small it could pass off as a mole unless you looked closely.”

“That’s sweet and romantic,” Ashwin said, intrigued. “But what happened? Why didn’t you two marry?”

Vinay sighed deeply. “Be patient, I’m getting there. After two years, she told her parents about us, and her father hit the roof. He couldn’t accept someone from a different caste. She tried everything—pleading, crying—but her father wouldn’t budge. I suggested she leave home, but she refused. She didn’t want to marry against her parents’ wishes. She asked me to forgive her and released me from our promise.”

Ashwin was silent momentarily, then asked softly, “What happened to her? Do you still keep in touch?”

Vinay shook his head. “No, that was the last time we spoke. She cut off all contact and begged me not to contact her. I’ll never forget her tear-filled face as she walked away. Later, I heard from a mutual friend that she had married someone her parents approved of.”

Ashwin frowned. “That’s unlucky, Vinay. She should have courageously walked away, but some people can’t. Still, there’s no point dwelling on it now. She’s probably moved on. You should too—you need to find someone.”

After returning to Chennai, Ashwin soon got caught up in his routine and Vinay’s story slipped from his mind. One weekend, he and his wife Visalakshi went to Mahabalipuram, walking along the beach and visiting the local sites. It was an exhausting but enjoyable day.

Later that night, as they lay in bed, Visalakshi winced and said, “Ashwin, my legs—especially my calf muscles—are really aching. Could you massage the calf muscle and apply Iodex balm? It’s unbearable.”

“Of course, my dear,” Ashwin said, reaching for the spray. As he lifted her nightgown and started massaging, his hand lingered for a moment longer when he noticed a tiny tattoo—a letter "V"—on the back and top of her calf, as she lay with her eyes closed.

 

A Sincere Penitence (909)words)

The body of Nataraj was laid on the floor. Rose garlands and wreaths of multi-coloured flowers adorned his inert figure. The hall was filled with many grieving friends and relatives. The priest had commenced the ceremonies for final departure. Smoke was coming out of an earthen pot from a corner. Nataraj’s only son, who was wearing wet clothes, was standing with tearful eyes and complying with instructions from the priest. Nataraj’s wife sat huddled in a corner, her sobs muffled by the soft murmurs of the women trying to console her. 

When I entered the hall I could sense the coldness in the air- the derision in the eyes, the simmering anger beneath the grief and the hate in the looks at me of the close relatives and friends of Nataraj assembled there. I was expecting this. After all, I had betrayed Nataraj most unforgivably. I still came—because today wasn’t just about Nataraj’s death alone; it was a manifestation of my deep remorse; it was about closure for both of us.

 I wish to tell you briefly about my close friendship with the deceased and how we fell apart. We weren’t just friends; we were like brothers. We worked together in low-paying jobs for years, sharing everything. It was Nataraj who had the foresight to start a business together. He was highly intelligent and all the ideas, plans, and strategies—were from his brilliant mind. I looked after only the finance and execution part. He had immense trust in me. We pooled our meagre resources and took out a loan, and soon, the business flourished beyond our expectations.

It was then the devil took over my mind. In my greed, I siphoned off each month by fudging accounts for some portion of our income to my wife’s brother. When Nataraj became aware of my treachery and deceit, he was more disappointed than worried about the loss. He decided then and there to disassociate with me forever. He quietly took his share of the small net worth then without any fight and never spoke to me again.

I repented for my mistake and sought his pardon many times only to be rebuffed. I had requested him to join again and take control of finances also. But he did not relent though he never made good in life thereafter. Life was no more luxurious for him. If my business grew to such a phenomenal size this day, it was all because of the seed sown by him and the tremendous start he gave.

The ceremony was over and the body draped in a new shroud was ready to leave for the crematorium. A few friends spoke of the nice qualities of his head and heart and particularly of his integrity and honesty in all his dealings. My guilty conscience made me feel these references were aimed at me. As I rose to speak, I became aware of the air of embarrassment and unpleasantness in the hall. The tension in the faces of Nataraj’s wife and son was clear.

Nevertheless, I spoke in slow voice.” I am aware you might be wondering why I came at all here and why I rose to speak after the bitterness in our relationship caused by me. Though we broke up, I had always considered Nataraj as my close friend and had the same regard for him as when we started working together. I made a grievous and unpardonable mistake and caused a betrayal of the immense trust he had in me but repented sincerely for it and sought his forgiveness. But he would not accept me after the incident.

 I wish to divulge on this occasion, not in extenuation for my wrongdoings, that I still considered him as a partner and as an atonement for the grievous wrong on my part, I set apart his share of money each year in a trust of which his wife and son are the sole trustees. I have no connection to it. It has grown into a sizable amount and is engaged in charitable activities.”

At this juncture, the hall was silent, the once-hostile eyes had now softened with surprise. I gathered my courage for the final words and continued,” I had hoped that our bonds of friendship would be cemented further as we had a girl and a boy. Though this is not the appropriate moment to talk about it, I feel If God wills the two families can still get together again. I would request Mrs. Nataraj to forgive me and accept me back as a family friend notwithstanding all that had happened..”

Having said that I wiped the tears from my eyes and felt that the heaviness in my heart had gone and I felt lighter than ever. Though I wasn’t certain how those present received my speech, I felt the palpable tension in the hall had lightened.

When Nataraj’s wife beckoned me to her side and said,” Do not grieve. My husband always mentioned that you were a good person and whatever you did was just an aberration. He had forgiven you long back. Do not feel sorry.”

The unexpected remark from her, like a soothing balm, brought immense relief and a deep sense of peace. Nataraj, even in death, had given me the gift of redemption. Though he was gone, the bond between us had been mended in the way he would have eventually wanted—with forgiveness and hope for the future.

Beyond the Uniform (740 words)

Mohan was driving his jeep towards the main bazaar. He was in his starched Khaki uniform with its colourful stripes. His wide leather belt carried the holster for the pistol. His cap, a neat combination of black and white, sat trim on his head. It was evening around 5 pm.

 He saw a crowd in the middle of the road with the people on the periphery craning their necks to catch a glimpse of what was happening. The air buzzed with shouts. “Kill her!” “Strip her!” “A child kidnapper” “Break her hands!” It was an unruly scene, with the mob acting on mindless rage.

When the crowd heard the shrill horn of the jeep and saw his khaki uniform, it parted and gave way. Some bystanders, sensing authority, started to disperse silently and some stood still to witness what was likely to unfold. 

Mohan saw a woman in her mid-thirties beaten blue with bruises on her eyes, lips and cheeks. Blood was oozing out. Her clothes were torn and her upper garments were stripped away save the torn blouse to cover her modesty. Even the sari had been pulled away and she was in her petticoat. It was a distressing sight with the mob driven by mad fury based only on hearsay.

 Even as Mohan stopped the jeep, some men came near the jeep on their own and started telling him “Sir, this woman is a witch and possibly a child abductor. She stole a packet of bread from the opposite shop. We were just teaching a lesson she wouldn't forget in her life. Luckily you have come in time, Sir.”

Mohan sized up the situation. Had he not come, they would have stripped her naked, harmed her bodily and even killed her. In a commanding tone full of authority, he said,” It is wrong to take law into your own hands. Leave the job to the police. Disperse immediately.” 

He asked a couple of the men to lift her and put her in the back seat of the jeep. He added “I will leave her at the police station and have the matter enquired into. If she perchance dies, I warn you people that you will all be in trouble.” This scared the few onlookers who hastily left the place

The woman was promptly put in the jeep. One or two fellows offered to come along. 

Mohan said “So you would like to be witnesses when she lodges her complaint that you all beat and stripped her. “

The men quietly withdrew allowing the jeep to proceed.

After travelling some distance, Mohan stopped the jeep and asked the sobbing woman,” Are you okay? What exactly happened to incur the wrath of the mob.”, 

“My children have been starving for the last two days. My husband has deserted me. It is true I stealthily took the bread without realizing I would be caught and the consequences that would follow. I am sorry, Ayya.”

 Mohan sighed and said,” Don’t you know it is wrong and a crime to steal? But I understand the desperate circumstances. Luckily, I was there in time as otherwise they would have put you to great shame and injured you far worse.” He reached for his pocket, gave her 200 rupees and said.” Go home. Don’t go near the bazaar for a few days.” 

The woman, overwhelmed with gratitude, thanked him profusely before stepping out of the jeep and disappearing into the dark.

Mohan proceeded towards the school where he was supposed to be sharp at 530pm. As soon as he reached the school, his wife and son who were anxiously waiting for him at the gate came rushing towards him. 

“Why so late? The function has just started. The chief guest has come already. Hurry up. You look swell in your uniform, cap and all.” 

Mohan smiled as he looked at his son, who was dressed like a politician in a kurta, pyjama, a colourful sleeveless jacket, and dark sunglasses, clutching a Pan Parag tin. His role in the fancy dress competition was to portray a politician, while Mohan’s role was to walk behind him as a security guard. 

Mohan, a software programmer by profession, had rented the police uniform and the jeep from a studio supply shop just for this evening’s event. But fate had given him a real opportunity to act the part—and save a woman's life in the process.

  

Beyond Appearances (926 words)

 

Swarna had just woken up after a heavy lunch. It was a dull Sunday afternoon with no plans to go out. She picked up the iPad from her side and aimlessly browsed the net. She was wont to spend a few minutes on the matrimonial site, not to find for her a man, but to amuse herself reading the advertisements that usually exaggerated the accomplishments of the grooms and spoke of their tall expectations from the brides.

 She was nearing 35 but remained unmarried. A senior executive in a foreign bank, she had three anthologies of poems to her credit. She had dated a few individuals but none kindled her interest She found them boring. She stopped dating but had friends with whom to socialise. Nevertheless, her curiosity in matrimonial ads continued.

She sat up with interest when she saw this particular ad. It was unusual and candid for a matrimonial site.

Tall, 38, never married, B.Tech., MS, senior executive in IT, has a Jaipur leg on the right. Needs no help or crutch and can drive. Does a lot of social work. Desires an equally qualified and understanding partner, to work or not is her choice. Would like someone interested in social work. She must consider the disability and consequent disinterest in strenuous outings before responding. Cell: xxxxxxx.

She went through the ad again and liked the straightforward listing of his plus and minus traits and expectations from his partner. She appreciated his honesty and his involvement in social work though she had no such interest. The age suited her. She became curious to know how he would be and that led to her dialling his number

“Good afternoon. Did you place an advertisement?” she asked and paused a moment before continuing” I am Swarna. I have carefully read the ad and I think I meet your requirements though I have done no social work. I like your frankness. When and where shall we meet?”

“Thank you, Swarna for calling. I am Swaroop. There is some similarity in name,” he giggled and added “Can we meet this evening? Suggest a convenient restaurant. I will be there.”

She was touched by his leaving the place of meeting to her convenience. They decided upon Banyan Tree at 6 pm that evening.

She looked elegant and simple in her cotton Chanderi brocade Patiala suit. He came to the lounge sharp on time and had no difficulty walking straight to her. Unconsciously she paid attention for a moment to his gait and found he was not limping. He was quite handsome, and dusky and reminded her of a movie star

He took her hand, led her to the appointed table and drew the chair for her before he sat opposite to her. His smile was infectious when he said “I never expected such an attractive lady. I am glad you agreed to meet me”

“The pleasure is mine," she replied coyly

“I was apprehensive that you might ignore my ad due to the Jaipur leg,” he said

“That was no reason to deter me. Your openness and concern for the disadvantaged people touched me. By the way, did you meet with any accident for you to lose your leg?” she asked.

“Would you like to see the prosthetic leg?” he asked.

“No, no. Not now anyway” she replied feeling slightly embarrassed.

“Ha ha, not now, did you say? That means later. I am so happy. Nevertheless, you must see it” he said as he pulled up his trousers to show a healthy natural leg.

When Swarna looked up in confusion and disbelief, he smiled and said “Excuse me for the small test. I wanted to make sure my wife would be compassionate towards handicapped people with whom I spend considerable time to lift their lives. I am now happy I found one in you.”

 “Thanks” she shyly said with a small giggle and continued,” I have not revealed one matter when we spoke thinking that would not be of significant importance given your broad mind and compassion for physically disadvantaged people. I was affected by polio when I was a child and my right leg was twisted below knee. It was only when I was 15 that an artificial leg was implanted and I am now completely normal with no limp or general disability.”

Swaroop’s face darkened.” You should have told me at the outset and we could have avoided this meeting,”

“I thought given your intense concern and care for physically handicapped young women and your lie about Jaipur leg, I thought it was a minor matter that could be brought out in the personal meeting. You can see for yourself my leg now,” she replied.

“No, I am not interested. You cannot expect a rich man, who is concerned with utterly poor people and helps them to come out of poverty, to marry an impoverished woman. Care and kindness for a disadvantaged woman is one thing and marrying one such is different,’ he replied coldly.

“You must still see my leg,” Swarna said firmly as she lifted her suit to show a flawless smooth right leg.

Swaroop’s face changed from shock to embarrassment “Wow, what a pleasant surprise! I did not expect it. Why did you have to lie? I am sorry for my insensitive remark. Please, don’t reject me,’ he implored.

“You are a liar and insensitive man,” she said with cold contempt and added, “I would never want to see you again,” as she stomped to the cash counter to pay for her share of the bill.

The Aftermath of a Broken Journey (1102 words)

“Any problem? You are sweating profusely and holding your hand on your chest,” I asked the well-dressed man over fifty as he leaned on me in great discomfort. I was travelling to Chennai.

“Yes, I am not well. I have a history of heart problems and I think it is an attack. Can you kindly help me in reaching a hospital? The pain is unbearable and I am feeling breathless.,” he replied in a feeble voice.

Luckily the train had just halted at Bengaluru Cantonment station for a few minutes. I had to repeat the question before he replied in a feeble voice,

“Do you have anyone at Bengaluru? Can you give me the contact number?”

“None. I came this morning on some business and….,” trailed off as he closed his eyes.

In a split second, I decided to help him out unmindful of the interview scheduled for the next day. I knew that timely medical attention was essential in heart attacks. With the help of co-passengers, I lifted him bodily to the platform and had his luggage and mine brought down. The train left soon immediately.

With the help of the station staff, I was able to take him in a taxi to the nearest good hospital. Once in the emergency, the doctors took over inserting various tubes into him and administering medicines. In a short while they rushed him to ICCU.

I was lost in my thoughts as I reclined on a sofa outside the ICCU. It was past 11.30 PM. The interview didn’t matter much as I was already in a senior position. I waited for him to get stable to collect his contact address to inform his relatives.

“Are you his son? He is stable right now but we would wait for a day to watch his progress. Please fill in the forms for admission and pay the advance,” said a charming young doctor from the ICCU in an assuring voice.

 I replied “No, I am just a co-passenger in the train. When he fell sick and I saw his condition was serious, I decided to discontinue my journey and rushed him here. I am relieved that he is stable and in safe hands”

She looked at me in surprise. “You’ve been incredibly compassionate. Had you not brought him here when you did, he might not have survived. About thirty per cent of patients don’t make it to the hospital in time during a heart attack. He was lucky to have you as a co-passenger. “

I requested her to find out from the contents of his pocket, the contact numbers of his home and assured her that I would fill out the forms and make advance payment after talking to his people.

She smiled at me and said “I am simply touched by your extreme kindness not ordinarily seen. I will be here very soon with the details. I am a little free till the next emergency case arrives.”

My thoughts went back several years to the day my dad was in similar circumstances. We were then in Kolkata. He was travelling one night to Bhilai on official business. He suffered a heart attack midway on the train in the middle of the night. His co-passengers were sympathetic but made no efforts to attempt CPR or to contact the guard to keep a doctor in readiness at the next station. The train moved on even as my dad was struggling with angina and breathlessness. By the time the train reached the next station which was at quite a distance, he had breathed his last.

 It was in the morning the next day, as I was leaving for my school, my mom got a telephone call breaking the shocking news. Everyone felt that had he been given prompt medical assistance; he would have lived. But he was unlucky to be on a train in a desolate stretch with none capable of rendering a CPR. This was etched in my mind.

I was woken up from my reverie by the doctor, as she said, “Dozed off?  He is stable now and you can see him. Here are his details and the contact number you wanted. Let me say one thing again, I have never come across such a nice person like you in my life. Tell me, what made you break your journey for an unknown person to save his life? Do you live in Bengaluru?”

“I will explain to you in detail after meeting the patient,” I replied before I went to meet him in ICU. He looked much better, though wan.

 He smiled at me and offered profuse thanks for saving his life like a son would for his dad. He requested me to contact his son from the details given to the lady doctor on duty. As he continued talking about his gratitude, I motioned him not to strain and said that I would meet him the next day.

When I saw the lady doctor waiting for me, I introduced myself as Krishnan and gave all the details about me and my mobile number.

“I am Radha. You haven’t told me yet what made you break the journey for a stranger. This is something unusual and admirable “she said

 I then related the incident of my dad and his tragic end on the train without medical aid. I told her, “I knew when I saw the old man in distress how much he needed someone to help him. I decided in a split-second that no matter the broken journey or the missed interview, it was a call that I could hardly ignore. I am happy that I could help him survive the crisis.”

“Here is my card with phone numbers. You can call me anytime for updates. I would be happy to be of help to such a good Samaritan,” she said with a smile while extending her hand.

 I clasped her hand by both hands and said with a mischievous grin,” Be forewarned. You will get innumerable calls for updates this night and hope to continue afterwards too.”

“My pleasure. I look forward to the calls, Krishnan,” said Radha casting her magical spell on me.

It may be of interest for readers to know that the old man recovered completely and as a token of gratitude sent me a handsome reward, details of which would remain undisclosed at his specific request. But the most heartening outcome from this episode was, that the spate of initial calls for getting updates took a romantic turn eventually, culminating in my finding my life partner in the attractive doctor.

 

The Unbroken Bond (750 words)

Rajan recently took over as Secretary of the central government and moved from Gujarat to Delhi. 

He had been busy going through the files on a touchy issue that had come up in Parliament. The minister was to make a statement in the parliament. The issue had occupied centre stage with both visual and print media, seizing the matter and discussing it animatedly. As he was sifting through the files, he found a note where the issue had been brilliantly analysed threadbare bringing out the several aspects in proper perspective. 

That note was from a lower-level officer. Rajan was very much impressed. He asked about the officer from the Additional Secretary and the Joint Secretaries who were with him. They gave a good account of him. Curious, Rajan called him to his room not only to see him but also to get one particular point clarified.

A lean man with bright eyes stood before him. Clad in white in half shirt and pants he appeared to be in his early fifties like him.

“I have just now read the note you had prepared. It is excellent and shows your intimate grasp of the subject. I need a clarification on one point” Rajan said sharing his doubt.

The Under Secretary in his squeaky voice instantly clarified the issue and showed some relevant correspondence on the subject. Rajan noticed a large circular pinkish mole on his forearm. Highly satisfied with the explanation, Rajan asked him, “What is your name and how long have you been in this ministry?”

“I am Ganesh and working in this ministry for five years. Earlier I was in Commerce ministry” he said.

Rajan then continued the discussions with his senior officers and got busy with other matters.

It was in the evening as he was returning home in his car, the face of the Under Secretary, the large mole and his squeaky voice came to his mind. He was taken back to his younger days at Kumbakonam. Rajan’s father was a struggling lawyer unable to make ends meet. Life was hard. Rajan was studying in Town High School and his best friend was Ganesu. The latter was very bright and always topped the class. These two were inseparable and very fond of each other. 

Rajan had frequently visited Ganesu’s home and was treated to delicious snacks. He remembered Ganesu’s mom and on one Deepavali occasion, she gifted him with a new shirt. Ganesu had a chubby face and long hair. But this Ganesh whom Rajan saw in the morning was bald, thin and wore thick glasses. But the mole was unmistakable. He wondered how come he, a school topper, was still relatively in an ordinary position while he had cleared the IAS examination. Doubts assailed his mind as there was no sign of recognition in Ganesh's face. 

Within a week Ganesh had gone to the Secretary’s room with some files he wanted. Without revealing who he was, Rajan asked him where he belonged, where he studied and about his family. From his reply, he turned out to be Ganesu his schoolmate. It transpired that Ganesh had one son who had settled down in the US in New York. Their conversation was interrupted as visitors entered Rajan’s office, and the moment passed.

Three months later, the Additional Secretary called Ganesh to his room and asked whether he was interested in a World Bank posting in New York. Surprised at the turn of luck, Ganesh was dumbfounded with joy. Seeing him startled, the Additional Secretary said “I was not aware of this till I saw the Secretary’s nomination of your name. I am sure he is very much impressed with you. Do you know him from before by any chance?”

“Though his face is familiar, I am unable to place him. Frankly, I do not remember whether we had met in my younger days” he replied somewhat unsure.

Six months later, Rajan was talking to the Additional secretary “Do you remember, Ganesh, the Under Secretary with a mole in his hand who has gone to the World Bank? Though he doesn’t remember me, he was my classmate in my school days and we were very close friends. He was the brightest in the class. His mom was kind to me. We were not well off then. I often ate at their house. She once gifted me a shirt for Deepavali.”

The Additional Secretary was moved as he watched Rajan take his glasses to wipe the moisture from his eyes.

 

The Return of Compassion (908words)

 

I drove along the narrow road in that village. Things had mostly stayed the same. Except for a few brick houses the thatched ones remained. The walls pasted with cow dung in the form of pancakes gave an unpleasant odour. The stray dogs and hens running hither and thither under the wooden carts parked on the road were typical of an Indian village. I felt thirsty and wanted a coke.

 I stopped at the only grocery shop but also selling bakery items and vegetables. The coke was not cold. The shopkeeper said the fridge was not working. I found the shop empty with most of the shelves bare. The various drums where rice, pulses, sugar and many other items were kept seemed almost empty. There were clear signs of the shop being in the doldrums with the prospect of being shut down soon.

I asked the elderly unshaven frail man beaten by age and worry seated on the stool.” Do you know of Annamalai Chettiar who owned the shop two decades back? I think this is the same shop- the well opposite to it is still there.”

"I am Annamalai. The shop has not changed hands. May I know who you are?” asked the old man.

“Oh, oh. you used to look young and healthy then. I see the ravages of time and worry on your face. I remember your shop used to be crowded early in the mornings with many buying their small requirements from here and you were doing good business. Why, what happened? You seem to have fallen into bad days,” I asked “

You have not said who you are” persisted the shopkeeper. “

I will tell you later but I used to live in this village in my younger days”

Annamalai Chettiar after a sigh started telling.” My wife fell seriously ill. I could not attend to the shop and take care of her simultaneously. I employed a boy known to family but he swindled money and neglected the business. He put the company in deep debt. I sold my land and the house to meet the debt and mounting medical expenses. But she finally died. Without resources, I could not buy adequate provisions to stock in the store and improve the business. People stopped coming to the store. I am afraid I may have to call it a day and pull the shutters down”

“How much minimum money would you need as working capital to bring the store back to normal working” I asked “

Who will lend me money? I am a pauper,” he said with a wry smile"

“Tell me. We will think about it later,” I said “

" I would need Rs25000 to buy the various provisions. I should not send a customer away saying I do not have what he asks for. I need to have a good inventory. I would need another Rs.10000 to repair this shop as it leaks during rain and spoils the goods, “he said

“Never mind. Here is my card. Please come to the next town and see me. I will advance you Rs.50,000 from my bank.”

“What are you talking about? I have nothing to pledge except my honour. Loans are not given on honour,” he laughed wryly. He added, “Tell me why you do all this to an unknown stranger? Are you making fun of me, seeing my miserable condition,” he asked in a choking voice

“Chettiar, you may not remember me at this distant date. But I remember you as our guardian angel coming to our assistance every time, we approached you. I am the son of Singaram. My dad Arunachalam was a drunkard and spent whatever little he earned on his liquor. He only knew to beat my mom daily at night. He later deserted us. My mom was sick and yet she worked as a farmhand. We starved on many days, me and my sister. But my mother spent her money on our education. There were countless days when she would retire to bed on an empty stomach.

“When things became unbearable, we came to you, asking for rice and essentials on credit. You always helped us without hesitation, despite the old dues. I suspect now that you gave us more out of kindness than as business. Your generosity kept us alive when we had nothing. My mother was too ashamed to ask for help, but she sent me to you when our hunger was unbearable. If it weren’t for you, she might have taken her own life and ours. We owe everything to you.

Today I am in a good position. I can help you. It need not be charity. You can pay back to the bank when your store starts flourishing. I will stand surety for you and ensure it is sanctioned. Come and see me tomorrow itself,” I replied

Tears flowed from his eyes as he said “Yes I remember your mom and how she struggled with her alcoholic husband. She was like my younger sister as we grew up together in the village. I think your name is Mani. Am I right? Where is your sister?”

As I drove back, I found that my thirst was quenched somewhat despite the warm coke.  But my heart brimmed with happiness, and I switched on the music with a smile.

Gratitude is the fruit of great cultivation; you do not find it among gross people- Samuel  Johnson

 

 

The Closure (1269 words)

It is more than a decade since I left my home in anger with a vow never to return. It was a difficult decision and as an emotional young boy, I did what I thought was right. I had neither contacted my dad nor let him know my whereabouts. The years that flew did little to soften my anger towards my old man.

But now, by some strange twist of fate, I find myself on a train heading back to my village near Kumbakonam. I feel a strange mix of unease and tension inside me. As the train chugged along with intermittent long whistles, I could see green fields with crops nearly grown on either side and canals of water alongside the fields. They did little to lift my low spirit. As memories of my village gushed through my mind, a pang of guilt arose in me.

I am the only child born to my parents in their early forties. My mother passed away when I was a young kid and it was my father who brought me up single handed refusing to marry again. He was a highly principled man and known for his short temper. After my mom’s demise, he did not mingle much with the neighbours who were all part of the clan or extended family. He became a loner seeking no help from others. His world was small and revolved around me. 

All the boys and girls of the village studied in schools at Kumbakonam and usually walked the long distance except for two girls who went in bullock carts. I remember even running behind the carts on a few occasions to be in time for school. Ramu of my age who lived in the adjacent house was my best pal. He was a cheerful, mischievous boy, though I sensed a growing jealousy in him.

 I suspect his resentment towards me could be on two counts. I scored more marks than him and this displeased him as his dad always compared his performance with mine. The bigger reason is one day as we were running behind the bullock cart, it started raining. Both the girls called in chorus “Saranga, come in, before you get drenched.” Though I wished to, I did not get into the cart as Ramu was not invited.  We both walked in the rain, but I could tell that Ramu never forgot the slight.

A month later around 7 pm, when I was saying prayers with dad, Ramu’s father barged into our house in an agitated mood with Ramu behind him. Even before we got up from prayers, Ramu’s dad said “Anna (elder brother), Ramu tells me that Sarangan has stolen his new geometry box. It seems they were studying together in the evening at my house and the box is missing ever since. This is a petty loss to me but I wished to warn you lest it became a habit with him.”

My father turned towards me, his face stern and asked” Is it true? Did you steal his geometry box? I want the truth.”

“No, appa, I said startled by the accusation. Why would I steal when I have already one? He must have misplaced it.”

Ramu, intervened, “No, uncle. We studied together using the instrument box and when we finished, I went to the kitchen to have some water. When I came back, Sarangan was waiting at the front door to leave. I noticed only later the box was missing from the table. None else had come to the house. It does not matter but my father insisted that I come along with him,” said Ramu.

When Ramu’s father and Ramu looked at me accusingly, I stood dazed by the wrong accusation. My father became wild in rage and started beating me and yelling, “Have I wasted all my life on this wretch only for him to become a petty thief? I have lost all my honour this day. I neither wish to set my eyes anymore on this thief nor will I permit him to stay here. “

He grabbed my hand, dragged me towards the front door and pushed me out. “Never set your foot again here. You are dead as far as I am concerned, “he screamed and closed the door in uncontrollable anger.

That night, I lay on the front porch outside until dawn shivering from the cold and cringing in shame at being falsely accused.

Woken up from my reverie, as the train screeched to a stop at a small station, I looked out. One urchin proffered a tender coconut with a straw inside. I gulped the entire content hoping the bitterness inside would be washed away to some extent. My thoughts drifted back towards my father. I was bitter all these years that he would rather trust Ramu and his dad than me, his own son, and condemn me to be a thief.

 But the chance meeting with a penitent Ramu three days back at a mall in Singapore and the news from him of the happenings in the village after my running away filled me with endless remorse for my insensitive behaviour towards my father.

It seemed that after I left the village, my father was crestfallen refusing to take food or even take care of himself and the lands. He was always repentant of his rash behaviour towards me when he learnt that Ramu had confided to his dad that the geometry box was safe with him and was never stolen at all. Ramu’s father put the entire blame on himself for the turn of events. All their efforts to trace me were in vain.

 From then on, he started taking care of my dad as if it was his responsibility. Afflicted by the loss of his only son, my dad became a recluse and psychologically affected. He would it seems address all boys as Saranga and talk incoherently. For the last three years, he has been acutely afflicted by Alzheimer's and utters only my name.

Ramu urged me to leave for the village immediately to meet my dad before it was too late. The train now seemed to move at a snail’s pace with my anxiety increasing in inverse proportion.

I jumped into a taxi at Kumbakonam station urging the driver to take me speedily to my village. The door was ajar. I ran inside shouting “Appa, I have come, your Sarangan. Do you recognize me? “I cried with tears swelling in my eyes as my father, frail and sick, was lying on the bed.

 Ramu’s father was there. He put his arms around me and comforted me saying “Please wait. Let us see whether he recognizes you.”

Initially, my father was looking at me blankly and soon his eyes fluttered open widely. I saw a glimmer in his eyes before he touched my cheeks to say “ Happy, my Sarangan has come. My god has at last heard my prayers. "

I hugged him tightly sobbing “Appa, forgive this wretch. I was an egoistic fool and failed you when you needed me most. Please say once that you have forgiven me”.”

Instead, his eyes grew distant and stared vacantly past me showing no sign of recognition. Ramu’s father ran outside and in a few minutes returned with a doctor only to find the finally happy soul had flown away. 

Ramu’s dad drew me towards him and let my head rest on his shoulders. He waited patiently as I cried inconsolably and comforted me when I regained composure saying, “Do not grieve, Saranga. Anna has finally found his peace."

 

A Gift with a Difference (645 words)

My husband Kumar hated meaningless spending on festival days like Diwali on clothes, jewellery, sweets, fireworks and varied gifts to near and dear. He felt they had no religious sanction and each family tried to outdo others in getting bigger and costlier things. While he did not belittle the religious part of the festival, he was against aping others in this mindless spending spree. But he never imposed his opinion on me or other members of the family. He used to gently point out that the vast majority are suffering without basic requirements and that such lavish spending by the fortunate few is socially unacceptable and insensitive

He rarely accompanied me to shops on such occasions. I used to get him each year something- be it, new suit lengths, good shirts, costly tie pins, branded shoes and even gold chains. He was a gentleman who could not hurt others and when he accepted them with a small smile, I could guess what passed in his mind as a sheer waste of money to demonstrate one’s love for the other. Still, I could not allow such festive occasions to go by without a gift from me even though I was aware that they never impressed him.

Last year I did something different, something after his heart for Diwali. Kumar is not very rich though he earned enough to make us live comfortably. Yet he set apart a portion of his income for philanthropy no matter if there were pressing needs elsewhere. He donated money to hospitals for treatment of the poor, to schools for scholarships to needy students and in kind like blankets and sweaters for poor homes. He never mentioned this to others, not even to me on many occasions.

The idea came to me when I accompanied my friend Vasumati to a destitute home for girls run by private efforts with great difficulty. What started as a noble cause floundered when the promised money from different sources was not forthcoming. Vasumati along with a few friends tried to keep it running. They were after persons who could afford to donate to the cause. She wanted to involve me too in this cause of seeking liberal contributions.

 It was a pathetic sight to see young girls of varied ages from two to sixteen dressed in tatters. The clothes were not even adequate to cover themselves with dignity. Some of them did not have spare sets to wear. They were walking barefoot. They frequently stayed away from the school for want of a clean dress. The home found it difficult even to provide two square meals. Often, they had to make do with conjee for the nights. There were about forty inmates then.

 I was so moved by their condition that I instantly wrote out a cheque for Rs.25000 from my account in favour of the home for the purchase of two sets of dresses for Diwali. I kept the receipt carefully. That Diwali I kept the purchases to a bare minimum and skipped the gifts to friends and relatives.

I put the receipt in a brightly coloured envelope addressed to my husband with the inscription ‘With best wishes for a Happy Diwali”. On the day before Diwali when the family members assembled to see the purchases, they were a little shocked at the poor spread. No silks, no Kanjivarams, and no jewellery, they found just one set of daily wear clothes for each from Khadi Gramodyog.To the surprised husband who could not believe what he saw, I thrust the envelope into his hand.

 With everyone curious to know the contents, Kumar broke into the biggest smile when he saw the receipt. He said this was the best gift that he had ever received from me. His happiness was infectious and soon we were all excited to celebrate the festival in our new, more meaningful way.