The Question That Changed a Household. (1186 words)

Bhavani Mami, as everyone called her, was in her early forties, though she looked considerably older. Frail and thin, with patches of grey in her hair, she carried the unmistakable marks of a life burdened by hardship. Her once-attractive face had acquired a melancholy, forlorn expression, as though sorrow had drained it of all emotion.

She worked as a cook in the sprawling bungalow of a wealthy family. Her day began at six in the morning and ended only at seven in the evening. Throughout those long hours, she remained confined to the kitchen, attending to the endless work.

It was no easy task. Family members appeared for breakfast and lunch at different hours, each with individual tastes and preferences. Bhagyam, the elderly mistress of the house, made no effort to regulate their habits or lessen the cook’s burden. Bhavani had to prepare several dishes every day, never knowing who would eat what or when. Naturally, she cooked generous quantities, for there were several servants to be fed as well.

Life had not always been so unkind to Bhavani. Her husband had worked in a railway workshop and, though their means were modest, he had been loving and considerate. They had lived peacefully, managing their limited income with care. Their greatest joy was their little son, whom they affectionately called Ambi.

Then tragedy struck. One evening, while her husband was cycling home from work, a speeding truck struck him from behind, killing him. With his sudden death, Bhavani’s world collapsed.

Her parents had died years earlier, and she had no siblings to turn to. Having studied only up to the ninth standard, she possessed no professional skills beyond cooking. Necessity drove her to seek work, and she eventually found a position in Bhagyam’s household.

Her employers were decent enough to permit Ambi, now ten years old, to have his meals there. But there was a condition, unspoken yet rigidly observed: the servants could eat only after every member of the family had finished.

Each morning, on his way to school, Ambi arrived at eight to eat the cold rice and buttermilk his mother had saved from the previous night. School ended at one in the afternoon, and he returned to the bungalow hungry and tired. “Amma, I am very hungry. Can I eat now?” Ambi would plead.

“Wait a little, Kanna. Let everyone finish first,” she would whisper helplessly.

Unable to bear his hunger, the boy would drink water and curl up on the rear veranda, waiting for his mother’s call.

Every such afternoon tore at Bhavani’s heart. She longed to feed him immediately, but fear of displeasing her employer held her back. She could not summon the courage to approach Bhagyam, who seldom entered the kitchen and remained unaware of the boy’s suffering.

Some days lunch was served on time. On others, the family lingered over their meal, and Ambi’s wait stretched painfully into the afternoon.

Then something happened that changed everything. Bhagyam’s only daughter, Aruna, came to stay at the bungalow with her ten-year-old son, Anil, while her husband was away on a temporary assignment in Germany.

Anil and Ambi were of the same age, and a natural friendship soon blossomed between them. They played together in the evenings, sharing games, laughter, and the easy companionship that comes so naturally to children. 

One Saturday afternoon, the entire family had assembled at the dining table for lunch. It was nearly one o’clock, but Anil was missing. His name was called several times. There was no response.

The servants searched the house and finally found him lying quietly on a bed upstairs.

“I am not hungry,” he declared when asked to come down. His mother, Aruna, grew impatient.

“Anil, stop being difficult! It is already late. Come down and have your lunch immediately.” But Anil refused to move.

Finally, Bhagyam decided to intervene. Anil was especially fond of his grandmother, and she knew how to coax him.

“Anil, my dear boy, what is the matter?” she asked affectionately. “You are usually so obedient. Why are you being stubborn today?”

“Grandma, I am not hungry.”

“How can that be? You had only two dosas and a cup of Horlicks this morning. It is almost half past one! You must be hungry by now.”

Anil looked at her thoughtfully. “Grandma, is it bad for children to go without food for so many hours?”

“Of course it is! Growing children must eat at the proper time. Otherwise, it is not good for their health.”

Anil sat up and looked straight into her eyes and asked, “Grandma, may I ask you something? If I must not remain hungry after having two dosas and Horlicks for breakfast, why must Ambi wait until half past two for his lunch? He eats only cold rice and buttermilk in the morning. He comes back from school hungry. He paused before asking quietly, “Grandma, does hunger hurt him any less because he is the cook’s son?”

Bhagyam stood speechless.

The innocent question struck her with the force of a hammer. For the first time, she saw what had been happening under her own roof. The image of a hungry child lying on the veranda while food remained plentiful in the kitchen filled her with shame.

Without another word, she went downstairs and summoned Bhavani. “Mami!” she called.

Bhavani came hurrying from the kitchen, apprehensive that something had gone wrong.

“Tell me, Mami,” Bhagyam began, her voice unusually subdued, “why have you been keeping your son hungry until so late? Why did you never tell me?”

Bhavani lowered her eyes and replied softly,” I have only been following the  instructions.”

 She realised that the fault lay not with the helpless mother but with her own thoughtless rule.

“I should have known better,” she admitted. “From tomorrow, Ambi must have his lunch as soon as he returns from school. It does not matter who has eaten and who has not. And the same applies to everyone working here. No one should have to remain hungry merely because we have not finished our meals.”

Bhavani looked up in disbelief. Her eyes filled with tears. For once, words failed her.

Aruna, who had been listening, turned towards her son.

“Sabash, Anil! I am proud of you. You have taught us something important today.”

Then, addressing Bhavani, she added warmly, “Mami, I have been meaning to tell you something. On weekends and on evenings when I return early, I shall help you in the kitchen. You work so hard for all of us. It is time we shared some of your burden.”

The others nodded in agreement, and a spontaneous round of applause followed.

Bhagyam remained silent, her face unreadable. But her silence was no longer the silence of indifference. It was the silence of someone who had been compelled to look within.

“Come, Ambi!” Anil   called cheerfully. “It is lunchtime. We can eat together!”

For Ambi, it was the end of a long, hungry wait. For Bhavani, it was a moment of unexpected relief. And for the household, it was a lesson that no adult had thought to teach. 

Quo Vadis (1199 words)

Captain Satish lay awake beside his sleeping wife, Sushma. In the faint moonlight, her face looked lovelier than ever. She was expecting their second child, and the thought of leaving her now was unbearable.

For over two years, their life at Chandigarh cantonment had been idyllic. But a week earlier, orders had arrived transferring him to a troubled border sector where skirmishes were frequent. He had only two days left before departure and still hadn’t found the courage to tell her.

He eventually drifted off, awakening to the irresistible aroma of aloo parathas sizzling in ghee. He entered the kitchen, put his arms around Sushma, and covered her eyes. Fresh from her bath, fragrant with sandalwood soap, she turned and embraced him. They remained locked together until the smell of a burning paratha broke the spell.

“I’m sure it’ll be a boy this time,” she said, smiling. “Tall and handsome like his father.”

“What’s wrong with another girl as lovely as our Anisha?”

“Let me have my boy first. Then you can have as many daughters as you please!”

Their laughter was interrupted by the entry of Captain Sharma, Satish’s closest friend and colleague, through the door.

“Satish! All packed for the front? Poor Bhabhi will miss you terribly, especially now!”

Sushma turned sharply towards her husband.

Satish glared at his friend, then drew her close. “I wanted to tell you, darling. My orders came last week. I leave in two days.”

Her smile vanished. Born into a family of soldiers, she understood duty. But this did little to soften the blow.

“Will you come back when the baby arrives?” she whispered.

“I’ll do everything I can. Now, please smile for me.”

Two days later, Satish departed, leaving Sushma and little Anisha with her parents in his house.

Months passed. Sushma gave birth to a healthy boy with his father’s brown eyes. Three months later, a letter arrived from Satish.

So you’ve got your wish! Now it’s my turn to ask for another daughter. Keep praying for my return, darling. I cannot say when I’ll get leave.

She read those words repeatedly, clinging to every syllable.

News of fierce fighting along the border grew increasingly alarming. Then his letters stopped altogether.

Captain Sharma, still stationed at Chandigarh, visited regularly, bringing sweets, fruits and toys for the children. Anisha adored him, and his cheerful presence offered Sushma some relief from her anxiety.

Then, one Monday afternoon, her father entered carrying a telegram.

Captain Satish was missing in action. Despite extensive searches, neither his body nor any evidence of his capture had been found.

Days later, his personal belongings arrived with a letter praising his courage and service to the nation. There was a cheque for outstanding payments but no confirmation of death.

The uncertainty was crueller than any verdict.

Sushma wept inconsolably. Her mother had to remind her to feed the baby. Anisha, frightened by the household’s grief, cried alongside her.

Sharma became a pillar of support. He handled bank formalities, helped with the children and gently encouraged Sushma to resume ordinary life.

“Men have returned after years in captivity,” he reminded her. “Don’t abandon hope and prayer.”

But hope, sustained by silence, gradually becomes its own torment. Two years passed.

Sushma took a teaching position at a local school. Her son, now a lively toddler, bore an uncanny resemblance to Satish: the same curly hair, sharp nose and dimple on his right cheek. Every smile brought back memories she struggled to suppress. Anisha was happily settled in primary school.

Sharma’s visits had become part of the family’s routine. A bachelor of Satish’s age, he had quietly assumed responsibilities that went far beyond friendship. Sushma’s ageing parents welcomed his presence.

One weekend, her parents travelled to a wedding in a neighbouring town, taking Anisha with them. Sushma stayed home with her son.

Unaware of their absence, Sharma arrived that evening.

“Why cook tonight?” he suggested. “Let’s order dinner and watch a film.”

She agreed, grateful for the company.

After dinner, the boy fell asleep. Sushma tucked him into bed and returned to the sitting room. As the film played, Sharma gently drew her closer. She rested her head against his shoulder.

For a long while, neither spoke.

Finally, Sharma turned towards her.

“Sushma, how much longer must we pretend? We love each other. We’ve waited more than three years. We cannot spend our lives waiting for someone who may never return.”

She looked away, her eyes filling.

“I loved Satish,” she whispered.

“I know. So did I, as a friend. Nothing can change that. But you’re alive, Sushma. You deserve happiness. And the children deserve a father.”

He paused.

“I’ll take voluntary retirement. With my engineering degree and MBA, I can find a civilian job. We can build a life together. Your parents will understand.”

She studied his face, searching for an answer to the conflict within her.

Then he kissed her forehead gently at first, which grew into passionate kisses on her cheeks

Sharma switched off the television and took her hand.

A few weeks later, they married quietly in a civil ceremony, followed by puja at a temple. Her parents gave their blessings.

For the first time in years, Sushma allowed herself to believe that happiness could return.

Another year passed. Diwali arrived, bathing the town in colour and light. Houses glittered with lamps and serial lights, fireworks crackled overhead, and children raced excitedly through the streets.

Sushma was radiant. Her parents sat contentedly in the courtyard while Anisha played nearby. Her little boy, fascinated by the sparklers, clung to her sari.

Sharma stood beside her, his arm resting affectionately around her shoulders.

She was expecting another child.

It was around eight p.m. when the boy suddenly screamed.

A strange figure had emerged from the darkness beyond the gate.

Wrapped in a tattered black blanket, the man advanced painfully on crutches. One trouser leg hung empty. His hair was long and matted, his beard unkempt, and a black patch covered one eye.

“Who’s there?” Sushma’s father called sharply. “What do you want?”

The stranger continued forward towards the gate, one hand outstretched.

Frightened, Sushma instinctively moved closer to Sharma, who wrapped his arms protectively around her.

The stranger stopped.

For a moment, his gaze rested on the couple. Then it travelled to the unmistakable baby bump beneath Sushma’s sari.

He stood motionless. Behind him, fireworks burst across the sky. Their brilliant colours briefly illuminated his ravaged face.

No one recognised him. Slowly, he lowered his outstretched hand.

Then, without a word, he turned and began making his way back towards the railway station.

There was nothing hesitant about his retreat. Despite the crutches and the missing leg, his movements carried a strange determination, almost a sense of purpose.

He had survived captivity, wounds and years of suffering for one dream: coming home. Now he knew that home no longer awaited him.

A faint, sad smile touched Captain Satish’s lips.

Perhaps this time, she would have a daughter, he thought. But does it matter now?

He disappeared into the darkness as the fireworks continued to light the sky.

Quo Vadis, where is he going? He knew not.

 

The Oracle at the Temple (1059 words)

The temple was not crowded early in the morning. I stood alone in the inner sanctum, looking at the deity, resplendent and bathed in sandalwood paste. Suddenly, a shrill  voice from inside asked, “Have you ever greased someone’s palm for my darshan?”

I shuddered in disbelief and mumbled, “Not today, but I fear I have done once, on a festival day.”

“When you meet me next Sunday, you will neither have to bribe anyone nor wait for darshan. It will be instantaneous,” said the voice.

“What does He mean by ‘instantaneous meeting ’? Could it mean the end of my life?” I wondered.

Drenched in sweat and consumed by fear, I began thinking of all the unfinished business in my life: an unwritten will, enormous loans given to trusted friends but remaining unrecovered, many unregularised benami land and property transactions, and, above all, the prospect of my grieving wife and growing children.

I could hardly walk back home. The moment my wife opened the door, she shrieked, “Are you all right? Why are you drenched in sweat and looking so frightened? Are you feeling unwell? Tell me the truth!”

“Leave it. If I tell you, you will be even more frightened. You may not believe me either,” I replied.

She was adamant, so I finally told her about the divine voice in the sanctum and my fear that some tragedy awaited me on Sunday. She burst out laughing.

“It is my fault. I should have told you earlier. You mentioned that you were expecting your promotion orders. I also prayed that our children should, as usual, do well in the final examinations beginning next week. So I requested the temple priest to perform a puja and offer Pongal and Kesari. He agreed to do it this Sunday at seven in the morning, when the temple would be nearly empty. Perhaps the priest spoke to you from the dimly lit sanctum. I certainly don’t believe that God spoke to you!”

“No, the priest was not there. I was alone there. My God, what have you done? God was already displeased that I had greased the watchman’s palm to jump the queue, and now you have dared to bribe God Himself for petty favours. I am afraid you have put me in great trouble,” I said, overwhelmed by my fears.

“Be sensible. Anyway, we are going to the temple to fulfil my vow,” she assured me.

When we reached the temple on Sunday morning, the priest was not seen in the sanctum. Apart from two people sitting at a distance in a mandapam, there was no one around.

“Let me check his house. It is right behind the sanctum,” I said.

It was a small tenement covered by asbestos sheets, consisting of a hall, a bedroom and a tiny kitchen. A boy of about twelve was standing on a stool beside the wall adjoining the sanctum. I saw a large hole behind  him in the wall.

“Where is the priest?” I asked.

“Appa! Someone has come to see you,” he called out in his squeaky voice.

The priest emerged from the kitchen.

“Everything is ready. The Pongal and Kesari are done. Please go to the sanctum. I will follow you with the prasadam,” he said. Then he instructed his son, “Mukunda, take them carefully to the shrine.”

I was pleased to see that the boy handled the large plate carefully, which I had brought. It contained plenty of fruits, betel leaves, turmeric, camphor and incense sticks.

As Mukundan rang the bell with gusto, the priest performed the puja properly and without hurry. After the arati, I placed a ₹500 note on the plate. The priest’s face broke into a grateful smile.

As we were about to leave with the prasadam, I said, “Can we speak privately for a few minutes?”

He looked at me apprehensively, and the colour drained from his face.

“What is this nonsense about a divine voice in the sanctum frightening devotees?” I asked sternly. “I am a devout man, though I am also a police officer. But I do not believe in an oracle speaking in a child's squeaky voice. I saw the stool in your hall, right beside the wall adjoining the sanctum, and I also saw the hole. I want that hole to be  sealed properly with bricks and cement. Do you understand?”

The next moment, the priest fell at my feet.

“Forgive me, sir. I am in the throes of extreme poverty. My salary is very low, and the trustee firmly refused any increase but expects that the offerings by devotees on the arati plate are adequate to supplement my income. There is hardly any crowd or special pujas except on festival days. I cannot even afford my children's school fees. We sometimes go without food, except on days of special puja like today. I promise I will never do such a thing again.”

“I forgive you this time because I trust your sincere regret and promise. But remember, I may be a strict policeman if you repeat it. 

I will talk to the trustee and suggest appealing to the public for donations to increase the corpus and also increase your salary.

On my part, I will bear the expenses of your children’s education, including the books and uniform, if any. But you must teach them good values,” I told him before pressing a thousand rupees into his hand.

My wife looked at me with pride and satisfaction.

As I turned to leave, Mukundan suddenly fell at my feet. Tears welled up in his eyes.

“Uncle, my father always warned me not to indulge in such pranks, but I did not listen. I only wanted to reduce his financial burden by encouraging devotees to perform more pujas with unfailing dakshina and liberal prasadam. It was my mistake that he was not aware of  it many times. I swear I will lead an honest life from now on. Please do not punish my father,” he pleaded.

I gently patted his head.

“Good boy. Study well,” I said.

As we walked away from the temple, I could not help smiling.

The ‘divine’ voice had indeed kept its promise.

My darshan that Sunday had been instantaneous, but the oracle had not been God. It had been a hungry child, speaking through a hole in the temple wall.

The Mischievous Wink

Suresh was a handsome, well-mannered young man and a good student, known for his studious habits and quiet nature. He was in the second year of his graduation course. He was considered a decent and well-behaved chap by both his professors and fellow students.

That reputation, however, was soon to be put to an unusual test.

One day, a girl student from another discipline ,named Rhea, lodged a complaint with the Principal alleging that Suresh had winked at her while passing by.

She had initially ignored it, thinking it might have been accidental. But when she noticed that he seemed to wink at her repeatedly, she decided that enough was enough.

Suresh was summoned to the Principal’s room and questioned.

He flatly denied the accusation.

“I have never winked at her, Sir. In fact, I don’t even remember having noticed her,” he said.

The Principal, aware of Suresh’s otherwise spotless record, decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. He let him off with a warning, advising him to be more careful about his behaviour around the girl students.

But within three days, two more girls came forward with similar complaints.

They said that Suresh had been making passes at them by winking. They were aware of the earlier complaint and, before approaching the Principal, made absolutely sure that they had actually seen him wink at them.

Suresh was summoned again.

Once more, he denied everything.

This time, the Principal was not amused.

He suspended Suresh from college for a week.

The poor boy pleaded his innocence. He insisted that he had never winked at anybody and, if anything, was actually rather scared of girls. He went out of his way to give them a wide berth whenever they came near him.

But by then, the matter had acquired a life of its own.

The story spread throughout the college, and almost every girl student who passed Suresh began watching him closely, curious to see whether he would wink at her.

Suresh, meanwhile, became even more cautious. Whenever he saw a girl approaching, he would immediately turn his face away and hurry past, as though trying to avoid a collision.

For a while, everything seemed to have settled down after his week-long suspension.

Then came the incident that nearly ended his college career.

One afternoon, an elderly lady professor, Parvatham, nearing fifty-five, was hurrying towards the library when she suddenly stopped and glared at Suresh.

She had caught him, she claimed, winking at her.

This, in the Principal’s view, was the height of misdemeanor.

The earlier complaints could perhaps have been dismissed as youthful mischief. But winking at a senior lady professor was an entirely different matter. The Principal seriously considered dismissing him from college.

Suresh was called in yet again.

“I swear, Sir, I did not wink at her,” he protested. “I don’t know why everyone thinks I am doing this. I haven’t done anything!”

The Principal stared at him thoughtfully.

There was something that did not quite add up.

The lady professor in question was a formidable woman, both in stature and appearance. She had a permanently stern expression, a scowl that rarely left her face, and a rather pronounced slouching mouth. The Principal found himself wondering whether any eighteen-year-old boy in his right mind would even look at her, let alone wink at her.

Moreover, all of Suresh’s professors spoke highly of him.

Perhaps there was another explanation. Instead of dismissing him, the Principal decided to investigate further.

Suresh was sent to an ophthalmologist for a thorough examination.

The doctor examined his eyes carefully. His eyesight was perfectly normal. There was nothing physically wrong with his eyes.

But the doctor, who happened to have a keen interest in human behaviour, was not satisfied with the obvious answer.

He stepped out of the room for a moment and asked a young nurse to go in and administer some eye drops to Suresh.

A few minutes later, the nurse came out.

“He winked at me,” she said.

The doctor raised an eyebrow. He sent another young nurse into the room on some pretext.

She returned shortly to say,“He winked at me too.”

The doctor smiled. He had found the answer.

It was not mischief at all. Suresh was suffering from an involuntary twitch of the nerves around his eye. The twitch became more pronounced whenever he was nervous or under stress.

The first complaint, followed by the warning from the Principal, had embarrassed and frightened him. That anxiety had aggravated the nervous twitch. Every subsequent confrontation had made matters worse.

Unfortunately, what was an involuntary movement to Suresh looked exactly like a deliberate wink to everyone watching him.

With proper counselling, reassurance and a little time, Suresh gradually overcame the problem.

When the Principal was informed of the doctor’s findings, the matter was finally explained to everyone who had complained. There was considerable embarrassment all around, followed by laughter at the strange misunderstanding.

The episode should have ended there.

But it did not.

Rhea, the girl, who had made the very first complaint felt genuinely remorseful. She went out looking for Suresh and, with some hesitation, apologized to him.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I really thought you were winking at me on purpose. I didn’t know…”

Suresh smiled.

“It’s all right. I didn’t know either!”

They both laughed.

And perhaps it was that shared laugh that changed everything. Rhea who had once been offended by his supposed wink now began noticing the shy young man behind it. Suresh, who had spent months avoiding her eyes, suddenly found himself looking into them without fear.

Cupid, who had been watching the whole absurd affair from a safe distance, finally decided that the time had come to intervene.

And this time, when Suresh looked at her, there was no nervous twitch and no misunderstanding,

Instead there was simply a mischievous wink from Suresh responded by Rhea with equal fervour!