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.