SPA Sir – A Candle That Burned for Others (782 words)

 

SPA Sir, as Ambrose was respectfully called, was a disciplinarian to the core. As a high school teacher, he was admired for his sincerity and the painstaking effort he put into shaping young minds. In return, he expected his students to listen attentively, ask questions when in doubt, and complete their homework without fail.

Punctuality and silence in class were non-negotiable for him. His sharp temper and subtle irony in remarks made students both fear and respect him. Yet, once outside the classroom, he revealed a different side, warm, gentle, soft-spoken, and courteous. Deeply God-fearing and uncompromising in upholding the values of his profession, he commanded reverence from the school management as well.

One afternoon, shortly after the lunch bell, Bhavani, a class IX student, came weeping to the headmaster’s office. Asked what was troubling her, she struggled to speak through her sobs. At last, she whispered,

“Sir, after the lunch bell, SPA Sir called me to his table. When I went near, he pulled me and touched my cheeks with both hands. I wrenched away and came straight to you.”

The headmaster looked startled. He asked if anyone else had been present. Bhavani said, “No, Sir. Everyone had left. Only my friend Sowmya was waiting for me outside the classroom, near the gate.”

With measured words, the headmaster replied,

“Do you know SPA Sir is one of the most respected teachers in this school? He is older than your father, and his reputation is flawless. Thousands of girls have studied under him, yet never has a whisper of complaint been raised. Do you understand the gravity of such an accusation? If it is false, your future will be scarred. But if you stand firm on this, I will inquire.”

Through tears, Bhavani said, “Sir, I have no witnesses. But I speak only the truth. Why would I accuse him otherwise?”

The headmaster dismissed her with a caution not to speak of the matter until his inquiry was complete.

Later, during lunch, the headmaster asked Ambrose to meet him in his office at 4 p.m. But at 3 p.m., a commotion erupted outside his room. Bhavani’s parents barged in, furious.

What sort of school are you running? Do you even know your teachers? They are womanisers! Paedophiles! Our daughter came home shaken, she says her teacher tried to hug and kiss her. Call him here, we’ll break his hands!”

The headmaster calmed them and sent for Ambrose, who arrived unsuspecting, straight from class. The teacher’s face froze when he saw Bhavani and her parents. The headmaster spoke firmly:

“Ambrose Sir, Bhavani accuses you of calling her after the lunch bell, pulling her close, and touching her. Before I could even speak to you, she went home and brought her parents. What do you have to say?”

Shaken, Ambrose raised his hands heavenward and cried, “Oh, My Lord! What sin have I committed to deserve such a false charge?”

He turned to Bhavani and asked,       

“Bhavani, I only reprimanded you for weeks of undone homework and warned that I would report you to the headmaster. You stood on the other side of my table, far from me. Why do you tarnish me my name like this? I have a granddaughter your age. Tell the truth, child!”

Her father snapped back, “No need to talk to her. Our daughter never lies. We believe her, not you.”

The headmaster, determined to seek clarity, said, “It is one person’s word against another’s. Let us ask Sowmya, who was outside.”

When Sowmya entered, the headmaster spoke privately to her:

“Sowmya, your friend has made serious accusations. Tell me honestly what you saw or heard.”

The girl hesitated but spoke clearly:

“Sir, Bhavani is my close friend, but she is lying. I heard SPA Sir scold her for not doing her homework. She talked back, and he raised his voice, threatening to report her. I peeked inside and saw her standing far away from him, across the table. She came out muttering that she would teach him a lesson.”

The headmaster then brought everyone together and repeated Sowmya’s account. Bhavani, confronted with the truth, lowered her head in shame and remained silent.

Overcome by remorse, her father fell at Ambrose’s feet:

“Sir, forgive us and forgive our daughter. Punish us as you see fit, we are ashamed.”

Ambrose, ever noble, placed his hand gently in blessing and said,

“Bhavani is young and impulsive. She acted in anger. Let us forgive her, but on one condition that she would be regular with her homework.”

That day, the dignity of a teacher triumphed over falsehood.

A good teacher is like a candle—it consumes itself to light the way for others.

 

A Bolt from the Blue ( 627 words)

The show was scheduled to begin at 6 pm. Uttara clutched two tickets in her hand for this film that she had waited for a long time. All tickets have been sold out, and the theatre was filling up fast. She was standing at the entrance for her brother to join her. She was surprised when her brother, unusually, asked her in the morning to come in a blue dress. However, she respected his wish by choosing a gorgeous blue sari. 

 He had promised to be there at 5.45 pm sharp. There was no trace of him. It was 6 pm and the bell had rung. Just then, her mobile came alive. It was her brother pleading inability to be present as his boss had detained him on urgent work. ” Uttara, I am sorry. Never mind the extra ticket. Please go in and watch the film. Hurry up lest you miss opening scenes,” her brother implored.

Disappointed, she turned towards the hall. At that moment, one young man came rushing to her and said, “Sorry, madam, I see two tickets in your hand. Evidently, your friend had not turned up. Can I use the spare ticket? I will pay even double the cost. I could not book in advance as I came to this city only this morning.”

She looked at him. He was a tall, well-dressed and handsome fellow and seemed well educated.” By all means, you can come. The ticket would have gone to waste anyway. You don’t need to pay. Just come along”, she said with a smile.

They found their seats in the dark. The picture had just started. A soft fragrance from his perfume gently drifted towards her. It was very soothing and light. He looked good. Would he be an unattached single, she wondered. Unexpectedly, his hand brushed her hand on the common side rest. She instinctively pulled away her hand and made sure not to use the side rest.

After a few minutes, he mumbled, “I am sorry my hand came in touch with yours inadvertently.

“Never mind. It happens by mistake,” she replied

When the intermission lights were switched on, he turned to her and said with an innocent smile,” I am Surinder from Hyderabad. I arrived in Bangalore this morning for work and will be staying here for a week at Hotel Stay Longer. I am an engineer working for an MNC”

“I am Uttara. I am a software analyst. My brother was to join me, but could not. Lucky that ticket was not wasted and you could come,” she replied

“You consider it lucky. I think that I am lucky too to find a gracious new friend,” he said.

There was no conversation thereafter as both watched the film till the end. Surinder then turned to her and said, "I have a request. Can  we have something to eat at the big restaurant opposite the theatre, a small recompense for your kindness?"

She smiled shyly with a nod.

That night, as Uttara entered her brother’s room, she heard him talking and stopped to listen, ” Surinder, it is good that our ploy worked. You could easily identify her in the blue dress. My God, I didn't expect that you would so quickly cast a spell on her, making her agree to eat with you in a restaurant. A lucky bloke you are. She is a gem of a lady for you." 

She realised now why her brother wanted her to dress in blue

Uttara heard her brother laughing as he listened to Surinder and exclaimed suddenly with uproar, "You wish to meet her again to take things forward. Ok, let me talk to her and wangle an invite for her birthday party tomorrow."

Uttara moved away before her brother came out, wondering at the likely denouement.

 

Me, My Note and the Butterfly (672 words)

This is a story of mine  published in January 2011 under the "Timeout" op-ed page of The New Indian Express

It was dusk and getting dark. I was standing on the bridge over the river watching the gurgling water and enjoying with a tinge of sadness the fading skyline. The park in the distance, with dazzling lights and varied plants and flowers, looked alluring. A boat was seen swiftly moving down the river, splashing water along. I had no interest to rush home as my wife was away at her parents’ place. She was expecting.

I heard a soft voice by my side,” Sir, sorry to disturb you. Are you inclined to see a little magic?”

Startled I turned around to see a middle-aged man in much-worn jeans and a faded T-shirt with a coat that had seen much decay. His face was slightly long but there was a twinkle in his eyes suggesting a pleasant personality behind. He wore a Hawaii chappal that must have been in long use.

I asked him “What do you want?” even as I put my hand in my trouser pocket looking for small change.

He smiled at me, saying,” Please don’t bother. I am not a beggar seeking alms. I just wished to show you a magic if you are in the mood to witness.”

Feeling bad that I had hurt him, I said, “Why not? I would love to see your trick”

“Good. Give me a ten-rupee note. I will transform it into a beautiful butterfly,” he said with a faint wink of his eye.

Intrigued as I was as how he could change a ten rupee note into a butterfly, I played along and proffered a ten rupee note, watching his movements carefully. I thought I heard a sweet humming tone, and as my attention was distracted for not more than a second, he produced a multi-hued butterfly in his hands with the tenner vanishing in thin air. The insect fluttered its multi coloured wings as he handed it over to me. I was bemused and totally taken by surprise by the sleight of his dexterous hands.

I asked him, “Where is the ten-rupee note?”

“It is in your hands, sir in the form of a butterfly” he replied with a smile.

As I sheepishly smiled back at my naivette, he said he can transform a 100 rupee note into a 500 rupee one. I thought he did produce a butterfly as promised for a tenner and why not trust him for a 500 rupee note that surely would be in my hands. Greed overpowered my caution. I parted with a hundred-rupee note.

But this time I decided I would be extremely careful in focusing all my attention on him. As he took the 100 rupee note and asked me to watch carefully, I heard for a second a hissing sound of a viper by my feet, and involuntarily I jumped to see nothing near my feet. Meanwhile, he held in his hand a crackling new 500 hundred rupee note. I took it with eagerness and turned it several times.  When I asked him whether he can change one more hundred rupee note, he declined, saying, “It is my promise to my guru that I would not use this magic for profiteering or for personal benefit”

I walked back home happily thinking of my good fortune. I rang up my wife and told her of my good luck.

It was three days later when I met my good friend at Adyar and related to him about the man transforming a tenner to a butterfly, he interrupted me and asked whether I got a 500 rupee note in lieu of a hundred. Surprised I asked him whether he had spoken to my wife, he chuckled and said, “You are a sucker. That fellow has been cheating all gullible folks like you. The 500 rupee note you have is a counterfeit one. Go to the bank and check it”

It was then that I remembered the sounds of the tune and the hiss, and became aware he was a ventriloquist too, besides possibly a magician.

 

 

Honouring Mom's memory (739 words)

 

Kumar heard her distinctly; it was his dear mother’s voice, calling his name. He could only see a hazy figure at first. With tears welling up, he cried, “Mom, where are you?”

Slowly, the figure became clearer. Her smiling face, her kind eyes, and her radiant form appeared before him. She looked healthier, fairer, almost angelic, with two soft feathers on her back. “Do not worry, my child. I am always around you. Think of me whenever you need me,” she seemed to say.

Before Kumar could beg her never to leave, the figure faded as the bell rang in the orphanage. He awoke, surrounded by the voices of boys. It was only a dream, but one that left his heart aching.

Kumar, just eleven, had come to the orphanage after his mother’s death. His father had deserted them in anger for another woman, leaving his mother to struggle alone. She toiled in other people’s houses, even while battling cancer, to give Kumar a chance at life.

Once, when he had asked about his father, her eyes filled with pain before she whispered, “He is not a good man, Kumar. He lived with vices and engaged in illegal dealings, eventually becoming a sidekick to ruthless politicians. He often fought at their bidding with political rivals and carries a deep, long scar on his right leg. When I insisted that he leave this bad company if he wished to lead an honest and peaceful life, he left us permanently in a lurch. His absence, though painful for us, is a blessing for you.”

Her words remained etched in Kumar’s heart.

The orphanage, run on irregular donations, barely managed to feed the children. Yet, Kumar stood apart, cheerful, intelligent, and helpful to the warden, who treated him with kindness.

One day, the warden called him to his office. A tall, imposing man and his gentle wife were waiting. “Kumar,” the warden said softly, his arm on the boy’s shoulder, “This gentleman is a respected politician. He wants to adopt you from among the many he has seen. Though I would keep you here if I could, this opportunity will give you a better life with much comfort.”

Kumar’s heart sank. With tears, he pleaded, “Ayya, please don’t send me away. I am happy here. I don’t need comfort. I just wish to be near you.”

But the warden said,” I have given my word already. Be strong, Kumar. You can always reach me.”

In their mansion, Kumar was uncomfortable. The politician insisted he call him “daddy,” a word he did not like. The man’s visitors made him uneasy and fearful. But his wife was different, warm, loving and tender. She reminded him of his mother, sitting by him at meals, buying him new clothes, and even playing games with him.

Yet he was ill at ease. One day, the driver warned him,” I like you very much, and wish to warn you. You must be careful. I have seen you not answering the master’s questions or giving indifferent replies. If you displease the master, he may throw you out of the home. He is an angry and vengeful person. I have heard he abandoned his first wife and child without mercy.”

Kumar shivered but said nothing.

As he was playing one day with his new “mom,” the master emerged from the bathroom with only a towel around his waist. Kumar’s eyes froze on the long, deep scar on his right leg. His mother’s words struck him like thunder. This man, his adoptive father, is his biological father, the one who had abandoned them.

Horror and hatred filled him.

That very evening, he returned to the orphanage with a small bag. The warden, weary from the day, was startled. “Kumar! Why are you here?”

Choking back tears, the boy fell at his feet. “Ayya, I cannot live there. That man is my father, the one who left my mother to suffer alone. To stay with him would betray her memory. Please accept me back. This is the only way I can honour her. If you send me away, I would rather die.”

The warden’s eyes brimmed with tears. “Kumar, he may use his power against us. But I will not forsake you. We will face whatever comes. I hope you have not brought anything from their house.”

Kumar clung to him, relieved. He had chosen love and memory over comfort and wealth.

 

The rendezvous (872 words)

Swapan entered the bedroom looking for Divya. Not finding her there, he checked the bathroom, but it was empty too. He was to leave for Mumbai early the next morning, and he wondered where she might have gone. Walking to the window, he spotted her chatting across the fence with their neighbour, Shanthi.

On the bed lay her iPad, open. He intended only to shut it, but his eyes fell upon an email. Swapan was not the kind to snoop, yet the salutation, Divya dearest, compelled him to read further. One can gauge what went through his mind when he read the following email

Divya dearest,

After our chat yesterday, I could hardly sleep the whole night. I just need to meet you as soon as possible. You mentioned that we can meet leisurely when your husband goes on tour. You were also telling that he may go tomorrow morning. Can we meet tomorrow at Domino's near your home at 10 am and decide on the venue where we can spend the day together?

I have a lot to share with you. I loved and married the wrong person. My spouse is a clumsy blunderbuss. We are incompatible in every aspect, physical, intellectual and emotional. We frequently quarrel and stop talking to each other for days. I derive no joy. My marriage has utterly failed. I wish to put an end to this farce.

You are the only one who can help me. We have been very close since our college days, and we keep our friendship as green as ever even after marriage. I need an outlet and look to you for my next step. You mentioned that although your marriage cannot be termed as a failure, it lacked the fizz and excitement of the initial years. We are somewhat in the same boat, lol. Looking forward to meeting you tomorrow. Send me an SMS.

Love and hugs

R

Swapan froze. Who is this R she’s been close to since college? Why has she never mentioned him? Is she really skipping work tomorrow for this secret rendezvous? And what nonsense about our marriage lacking fizz?

His head throbbed. This tour is not important. I won’t go, but she needn’t know. I’ll leave early as planned. He carefully left the iPad as it was and sat before the TV in the hall.

Meanwhile, Divya came in laughing to herself. On seeing him looking at her, she said, “Sorry, Shanthi was talking to me and would never let me go. She was complaining about her in-laws, who were expected to arrive tomorrow”

“What is there to laugh about for you?” he asked rather abrasively 

“Nothing” she replied, hurt by the tone of his voice and wondering why..

“I will call you at your office tomorrow after reaching Mumbai around 11 am”, he said casually

“No, I am not going to the office tomorrow. I just wish to relax,” she replied.

He did not react and left the hall quietly. He was now convinced something was amiss that needed to be probed.

She saw the open iPad on the bed, and when she touched the screen, the email appeared. She was shocked at her carelessness. She sent a message to R that the meeting at Domino’s is not convenient and should wait for a few more days.

The next day, around 10.30 am, Swapan entered Domino’s with his hat drawn, Sunglasses and a false moustache. He saw Divya in the corner talking animatedly with another lady of her age. After some time, they left, and he quietly followed them to find them entering his house. Am I being foolish, or has she got a scent of his reading her mail, he wondered?

He rang her up after a while and asked, “How are you? I hope you are relaxing free from office pressures.”

“I am enjoying it with my friend Ranjana, my closest buddy since my college days. She sent me an email asking me to meet her today at Domino's. Poor thing, she is passing through troubled times with her hubby and looking to me for advice,” she replied.

“I know. What advice can you offer in a personal matter like that?” he asked.

“How do you know?” she asked

“I know because you were telling me. Do you suspect me of reading your emails?”

“No, not at all. I was just telling her that after some time, small differences crop up and that she should give him his space. I even fibbed to her that the fizz and excitement of the initial years had faded over the years, though you know it surely has not,” she said with a giggle. “I wish that you meet her one of the weekends at our home’ she added

Late that night, when they were in bed, he whispered into her ear,” Is it that you miss the fizz these days?” and dragged her close to him even as she hit him gently on his chest in feigned anger.

Divya, meanwhile, thought silently: Thank God, I chose to meet Ranjana at Domino's. instead of Rahul. If only Swapan had seen that one email, I shudder to think. I’d better clear my inbox first thing tomorrow morning.

Walking in Others’ Shoes (646 words)

This is not exactly a short story, an interloper finding its way here, but it has a good moral to tell in these struggling times. I would be happy to receive your feedback.

I once read a story about a king who met a sage in the forest. After bowing respectfully, the king assured the sage that he would grant him any wish. To the king’s surprise, the sage asked for his kingdom. Without hesitation, the king agreed and stepped aside.

The sage immediately began making sweeping changes. He declared that the king’s consorts in the harem would become maids, while the maids would take their place as consorts. He threw the jailer and wardens into the prison and released the prisoners to act as warders. Courtiers were sent to toil in the fields while farmers were summoned to the royal court. A young commoner was made prince, while the former prince was publicly whipped. Even the sentries at the gates were replaced. The traders were compelled to part with their shops to the willing common folks for a fair price

Those who lost their privileges rushed to complain to the old king, while those who had been elevated rejoiced. The king, however, remained silent.

After a fortnight, the sage returned the kingdom to the king, saying, “My purpose has been served.” 

Bewildered, the king asked what his purpose was.

The sage explained:

ü  “Your queen and consorts abused the maids, blind to their struggles.

ü  The jailer and wardens tormented the prisoners without mercy.

ü  Your courtiers ignored the people’s hardships and fed you only with flattering lies.

ü  The arrogant prince lashed out at all the people for the smallest reasons.

ü  Even your sentries at the gate extorted money from the poor for entering your palace.

ü  The traders adulterated the goods and sold them at exorbitant prices, even to the poor

 Now, each has tasted their own medicine. Let them reflect and reform. Rule your country well by independently checking the veracity of statements made by your courtiers and officials”.

The king bowed in gratitude as the sage departed.

The message of this story is timeless: we only begin to understand the sufferings of others when we put ourselves in their place. If rulers truly walked in the shoes of the poor, even metaphorically, since the poor often have no shoes at all, they would grasp the misery of living in filthy slums, with no clean water, no toilets, no schools, no clinics, rising prices, and meagre incomes. Officials would realise the humiliation of navigating a corrupt system where nothing moves without bribes. Traders would feel the shame of selling adulterated goods. Doctors would know the pain of patients being fleeced. The courtiers would be doubly careful in their feedback. The list goes on.

But this lesson applies far beyond rulers. It belongs in every human relationship—at home, in workplaces, in classrooms, and in public life. Imagine if spouses understood each other’s burdens, if parents and children saw through one another’s eyes, if bosses knew the struggles of employees, if teachers grasped the challenges of students, and if lawyers lived the anxieties of litigants. Most importantly, if rulers and the ruled could truly see each other’s realities without other ulterior motives, society would be far more compassionate.

Only when we learn to walk in another’s shoes do we begin to see where the shoe really pinches. Only then can we say with honesty, “I understand your pain, and I will do what I can to ease it.”

For now, however, many powerful remain cocooned in comfort, insulated from the weak and remain blind to ground realities. Yet it is never too late. Perhaps the first step toward a just and humane world is to ask ourselves, again and again: What would it feel like to walk a mile in another’s shoes?

 

Raghu, a classmate of a different mettle

                                       

I wished to write a new story about a teacher today, but with my sleepy muse, I had to look for an old story. This one caught my attention, though there was no significant role of the teacher in it. Kindly bear with me. I hope you will enjoy rereading this as I did.

Raghuram, Raghu in short, was a classmate of mine in the seventh standard in my younger days. I have forgotten most of the other boys, but I still remember his face distinctly, with its prominent beak-shaped nose. He was slightly built and had a constant puckered smile on his soft face. He never talked unless spoken to and rarely mingled with others. He did not participate in sports. He was happy to be left alone to his devices. He wore his caste mark prominently on his face. He was not distinguished in his studies. Except in Sanskrit, history and moral sciences, he had no interest in other subjects. He just scraped through, I think.

I remember one incident when the class teacher asked us to write in one page of what we wished to be when we grew old. Some of us wrote about our wish to be engineers, while some wanted to be teachers and some others business men or lawyers and such like callings. When the boys were discussing excitedly among themselves, Raghu stood aside alone without showing any interest.

We did not know that Raghu was different from us till the afternoon. We came to know when the teacher called him softly by his side and asked him to tell the class what he wished to be. He kept quiet, feeling embarrassed. The teacher goaded him, telling him that there was nothing to feel shy about and that he was proud to be his teacher.

Thus prompted, the boy said, “I wish to be a monk and retire to the forest to meditate on my God and do Tapasya till I have His darshan.” There was disbelief and stunned silence even as the boys saw the teacher wiping his tears from his eyes.

The teacher wondered at the serendipitous discovery and felt that this deep devotion and serene detachment from worldly ways of the boy’s age were not common possessions. Least of all are they to be found in a teenage school boy. Later, after the class was over, the teacher patted Raghu gently on his shoulder and told him, “Will you take me along with you to meet your parents this evening. I wish to pay my obeisance to the fortunate couple.”

Raghu immediately implored, “Sir, please do not mention this essay of mine to them. They are already unhappy with me about my poor marks and my ways.”

“Why are you not studying well? You score well in Sanskrit and a few other subjects, but seem to neglect important subjects. What is it that you do to displease your parents? Should you not listen to them?” he gently asked.

Raghu said, “Excuse me if I am in the wrong. I am a great devotee of Sri Ramachandra and Sri Anjaneya swami. I have their idols and do puja both mornings and evenings. I do not know why, but I wish to do nothing else except think of my Lord. My father is against all these, as he considers them a waste of time, detrimental to my studies and future. He wants me to stop all this and go out to play with other boys. He beats me if he sees me sitting before my darling idols. So, I have hidden them on the terrace and performed the puja without his knowledge. My mom knows, but she does not dissuade me.”

The teacher kept silent and later learnt from his parents that all he had stated was true. Both parents were dejected and had given up hope of ‘reforming’ the boy. He did not mingle with his siblings, except a little with his mom, and spent all his waking hours before the idols, deriving pleasure from dressing them and singing bhajans praising their glories.

The teacher knew that the great Acharya Sankara himself pleaded with his mother at the age of seven to allow him to renounce the world. Coming to our own time, a twelve-year-old Ramana felt a spiritual tug in his heartstrings that set him forth on his spiritual journey. In the instant case too, the teacher perceived an uncommon boy who had a rare spiritual hunger and deep devotion to Lord Ram and who gave all his unwavering attention and time praying to Him in the hope of having His darisan. The teacher kept quiet, knowing it was best not to interfere with the boy’s ‘spiritual progress’ to safeguard his parental wishes.

Years had gone by. I lost touch with Raghu after I left school, but the essay incident at school remained etched in my mind. It was some decades later that I accidentally met his younger brother, who was also then studying in the same school.

I learnt that Raghu did his graduation in Sanskrit and did not marry. He became a Sanskrit pundit in a school. He had not changed a bit except that his devotion grew intense. He did not become a sanyasin or wear ochre robes. After his parents died, he stayed alone and had his food brought from a nearby temple on payment. He spent all his leisure hours in a religious Mutt, assisting them in their activities and tending to the sick and needy persons. No one knew what puja he did and when. He lived a life of a recluse and did not participate in family functions. He gave away his share of the property to charitable institutions. The last time the brother heard about Raghu was that he lived in a temple town, spending his remaining days in the temple. He preferred solitude and discouraged any contact with him. He had obviously discovered his true identity, knew his true nature, and felt the presence of the Supreme Spirit in everything and everywhere.

I chose to visit the same temple soon, I  hoping to see him. Yes, I could see him sitting in a corner near the Anjaneya shrine and went near him with folded hands. He had grown a beard, looked emaciated, but the puckered smile was intact. I could see his penetrating eyes that seemed at once far away and distant as he saw me. When I introduced myself, there was no display of emotion or flicker of eyes but total silence with no hint of recognition. I wondered whether he was in a state of trance, Samadhi. I was convinced that he is no ordinary soul. He has become an evolved person who belongs to this world yet is not part of it. Life for him was a voyage that he had to undertake to liquidate his past karmic debts. Involuntarily I fell at his feet before leaving with my eyes moist and throat choked with emotions. That was the last time I saw him.

Fully conscious that such divine grace does not come by to all, I could only proudly tell my children and grandchildren that I had the privilege of studying together with a karma yogi who had realised himself.

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

An encounter with a young woman (939 words)

Nagaraj was held up in the city till late at night. ​The deal could not be clinched easily, as negotiations proved tough and lengthy. It was only when Nagaraj mentioned that it was getting very late and his home was far away that the other party relented and agreed to meet two days later.

It was already 11 pm, and it would take an hour or more to reach home. He was very hungry and luckily found a wayside eatery close by. He had Chole Bhature with a large cup of strong tea. It was nearing 12 when he started the motorbike, and he knew his wife would remain awake waiting for him​. He wished to reach home early.

The road soon stretched into a lonely, unlit path. Its poor condition prevented him from riding fast. Tall trees crowded both sides, their branches blocking out the moon and deepening the darkness. Though Nagaraj had travelled this road many times​, even late at night,​ an​ uneasy feeling crept over him. To worsen matters, a ​slight drizzle began to fall. Scattered hamlets appeared here and there, faintly illuminated by hurricane lamps. For the first time, Nagaraj felt a strange, unfamiliar fear. He was a strong, well-built man, but the silence ​w​as unsettling. To distract himself, he began humming his ​f​avourite tune as the bike thudded along at moderate speed.

It was then that he saw, at a distance, a woman standing by the side of a post box outside her lone hut on the roadside. There was a cluster of huts slightly away. She was frantically waving her hand to stop. He saw a man sitting on a cot outside the hut. Both appeared young as he neared them.  He was torn between stopping the vehicle and rushing past. Being a kind-hearted man, he felt there must have been an emergency, as otherwise a young woman would not come out of her house at this hour and wave a vehicle to stop. 

As soon as he stopped the bike by her side, she asked Nagaraj whether he would allow her to travel on the pillion up to his town. When he looked at the man, he signalled him with his hands to refuse. 

Puzzled, Nagaraj turned to her and said, “I do not mind, but your husband is not agreeable. Get his permission. I am in a hurry.” 

She replied, “Who is he to permit me? I told him yesterday that I am leaving him once and for all. He is a drunkard and always suspects me of having an affair with every passerby. Living with him is torture, as not a day passed without his beating me mercilessly each night on his return and falling on me shamelessly when the influence of the alcohol faded. Please take me now so that I can live with my mom peacefully. I hate to be on the same ground with this wretch.”

The man ambled his way towards Nagaraj with the help of a heavy stick and said, “Don’t trust her. She is a common whore and will seduce you. I have been putting up with her in my compassion and have no mind to part with her. I like her immensely. Leave her alone and proceed on your way. If you don’t listen to me, I will break your backbone with this stick.”

Nagaraj could easily surmise that the threat was real if he went against the man’s instructions. He started the bike, and the woman came rushing to get on the pillion. The man swinging the stick came rushing and drew the woman away from the bike, even as he rained blows on her.

Nagaraj felt sorry for the woman, but decided it was not proper to interfere in a quarrel between spouses. 

Nagaraj told the drunkard to stop beating her as he was not giving her a lift. That inebriated man, without understanding what Nagaraj was telling him, came rushing towards him, swaying the heavy stick.

Nagaraj sped away at full speed, not turning his head even once. He saw from the rear view mirror the dim figure of the woman pushing her husband away from his clasp to no avail as he dragged her inside the hut.

When Nagaraj’s wife asked him why he was so late, he told her,” The story is long and sad. I am very sleepy now and will tell you in detail in the morning.

The next morning, he recounted the story of the unfortunate woman and her cruel husband. He said he felt very sorry for ​n​ot being able to help her.

It was then she said, ‘Did you not know that our maid Ponni’s sister was living with her alcoholic husband in the exact spot you mentioned and that she committed suicide two days back by having poisonous weeds. Her husband was always suspicious and assaulting her daily. She was a virtuous young woman and tried in vain to change him from his drinking ways. When she failed to mend him and things became unbearable, she put an end to her miserable life.”

​Nagaraj’s blood ran cold​."My God, whom did I​ then meet today? Could it be her ghost? It is puzzling to see him fighting still with her ghost,” I said

“You haven’t heard me fully. Stricken with remorse, the drunken fellow had also followed suit by eating the same weeds she had left behind. You saw ​yesterday that both of them were continuing their​ quarrelling routine.  People are advised not ​to travel in that stretch after midnight. Thank God, you wisely escaped from any harm,” his wife happily concluded.