A LADY FROM THE WILD

When I switched on my laptop, on the desktop was written: This is a fiction. Any resemblance to the real life story of any person—dead or alive—is purely unintentional.

1

MR. ADAMS carefully double locked his hotel room so that no one would come in. The timekeeper on the wall showed 3 A.M.

Restlessly, he walked around the room and switched on the hotel TV set.  The old TV roared. He hit the side of the TV with a hard force (as instructed by the hotel boy the night before) and the TV tuned in to crystal clear pictures and gentle voices. He sat on the sofa with the remote control in hand and listened to the splattering sounds of water in the attached bathroom.

He still wondered: Where did the lady come from? Would he report to the hotel manager? Would he be in danger, keeping her?

His mind was fighting with a thousand and one questions. And then he thought: It would be better to keep her safe in his room. He would ask her everything. Let him help her in all his capacities. Those positive thoughts calmed him down a little.

The bathroom’s door opened slowly. And she came out. Beneath her drenched hairs, she opened the eyes of an emerald, but drenched in fear and tiredness. Her nape and arms were fair, oddly blotted by deep thorn-marks, probably inflicted by jungle bushes. She wrapped around the hotel’s towel and he could see the perfect sleek legs, sculpted none other than by God. She was still shivering in fear and sat on the opposite wooden chair. She did not look at Adams, and with an apologetic act of trying to overcome hysteria, she looked at the walls.

Who will not be sorry to walk into the hotel room of an unknown man at 3 in the morning?

Destiny slaved human. And under its constant push, we cannot choose what we want or don’t. Sometimes destiny makes us weird and funny by putting us on a place where we would endlessly wander “why”? So was she!

Mr. Adams asked, “What is your name, lady?”

She answered with a dry throat, “Rebecca.” She nervously bit her dry lips and cowardly looked at the eyes of Adams. He passed her a water bottle and she drank like a child. Adams slowly rose from his seat, pulled out the spare blanket and gave it to her.

2

MR. ADAMS was a tall, handsome and a dandy bachelor. He had a smoky brown eyes stamped to perfection by his pointed nose. His friends used to say, “You have got that gene of a model.” He was interested in designer’s dresses, and most of his readings were about fashions. He rented a luxurious apartment in the city, full with brochures and catalogue of newly designed dresses, ready to get launched in the market. Parallel to his looks he was successful, too.

He completed his B. Tech at the age of 25 and had such a demanding credential that he was invited by many reputed companies. After weighing all the available options, he chose a job that would involve lots of traveling, to suit his inborn spirit. By nature, he would become irritated, restless when he confined in the same place for a week or two.  He was governed by his undying passion of seeing places, eating different foods, meeting cultures and people of different cities and villages. And that always governed his choices in life.  

He always carries a small notebook and would jot down his varied experiences. He believes in the saying, “Writing makes a man perfect.” Every time when he thinks about his future, he would see himself as an old man, sitting on a rusty chair, scribbling down his old adventures. He believed the time for perfection is “old age” and that is the time for writing. 

He did not believe in romance and love no more; he said he was badly built for any of them. While he was in class X, he had experienced some sort of feelings that could have been love. He had an untamable feeling for his classmate Lucy. That year coincides with the study of the poem “Lucy” by William Wordsworth in their English syllabus.

“SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love…….

The young Adams memorized the whole poem for Lucy. Whenever he dictated the poem, Lucy would walk in his mind—her dimpled smiles, her slightly curly innocent hairs and her moon eyes. But Lucy was never aware of all this. She had her own likes, dislikes, desires and tastes, and Adams was certainly not in all of those. He was just not in her world. Just before the end of the final exam, he told her that he loves her. And the next second, Lucy slapped him, calling him, “You useless moron! Get lost.” After many years since that incident, what Adams learnt was that Lucy tied a knot with her childhood love, Mr. John.

Now that he was rather a successful bachelor, he got many proposals from the “Charming Gender.” He deactivates his “Facebook” account because he was annoyed after getting many friend requests. It made him engrossed into more adventures.

3

With the turn of the new Financial Year, his company involved in more investments to expand its profits and started to invest in petroleum exploration. Mr. Adams was importantly involved in studying the rock formations beneath the earth’s crust that could trap oil. Vibrator Trucks and Geo-phones (machines that send sound waves into the earth’s crust and record its echoes) were stationed in many remote villages and periodic gathering of these data was required.

Like any other time, Mr. Adams went on tour to a village more than 150 kilometers from the city to collect these data. He put up in one remote, but splendid hotel, much like a citadel, overlooking lakes and ancient monuments on the southern side and greenish paddy fields on the eastern flanks. He could see low mountains covered with dark green trees when he opened the windows. Days for him involved going to where they stationed Vibrator Trucks, collected data and heading back towards his hotel room. At night he would stay awake, reading or writing.

On that eventful night, he lay awake, reading on the bed as usual. The time was as late as 1:30 in the morning. It was drizzling but steaming hot and he opened his windows overlooking the paddy fields and gentle breeze flew in softly. The sky was dark, but reflections from the horizons made it partially dark gray. The only sound he could hear was the sound of the rainwater that hits the cemented sill and the humming sound of AC.

Suddenly, a folded paper flew into his room from the opened window and rolled on the floor. Adams was terribly awe stricken. But he was not a man that would submit to fear. He got up from the bed and looked through the window, the opened paddy fields. He could see none, not a soul. He picked up the folded paper and could see something written on it. “Please help me. Please….Please…,”  with  shaky scroll. 

It was natural: he knew that someone was in trouble. It was not a joking act. Who will play such a silly joke in that exasperating weather? He looked through his window again trying to capture any human form, and beneath from a thick bush a shadowed figure walked out and approached his window. It was a woman; drenched white by drizzles and mud, shirt and skirts torn by thorns, and her neck was covered with blood stains. She held the sill of the window, hiding from the projected light of the room and silently begging Adams to let her entered the hotel.

It had happened so surprisingly, so quickly. There was not time to love or hate, or to say yes or no, or to have any second thought. Adams ran to the door and sped through the corridor, opened the main door of the lobby of the hotel with the key that was hung by the door during night time. He silently sneaked by the side of the building reached the outside of his window where she was sitting, sobbing and shivering because of her wet dresses. He held her and took her inside.

He switched off the light of his room and peeked through the window again, beneath the curtains. He could hear furious shouting sounds of men echoing from the mountains and paddy fields, though faint enough, as the sound of the rains was more intense.  He closed his window, switched on one zero bulb so that the light could not be seen from afar. The lady was in a pitiful condition: she was bloodless white. Her feet were swollen with injuries and her back and skins were covered with bruises and mud. Adams took her to the bathroom and gestured her to take a lukewarm shower.

4

ADAMS slowly rose from his seat and pulled out the spare blanket of the hotel and gave it to her, to cover herself.

The hotel clock on the wall struck 3:30 AM. And in less than an hour, dawn was going to come. What is he going to do? He had not slept a wink, but sleep was taken away from him. Sleep can be taken as the synonyms of peace and calmness: there can be no sleep under that appalling clutch of the silent, deprived but beautiful women. He opened the fridge, poured out some milk in a glass and asked her to drink. She unhesitatingly pulled out her hand from the blanket and grabbed the glass and sipped down the milk slowly and intensely. Adams asked her to lie on the sofa and he receded back to the bed.

She acted obediently, every instruction was obeyed. Adams enjoyed that even though the whole situation could turn into something deadly.  She slowly lay down and emptily gazed at the TV: she was still occupied by her pasts and wondered how she could escape alive. She felt much safer now and tried to be positive that Adams would not do anything stupid to let her back in the open.  

The first glare of the morning light penetrated the parting of the curtains, but Adams and Rebecca were still wide awake, listening to the outside sounds and thinking about the strangeness of the situation. They were gripped by a cruel jaw of the expectation of something bad.

After some time, Adams took his first-aid box from his traveling bag (the company always provided the touring staff with this kit) and handed it to her. Rebecca applied the Betadine ointment on her cut wounds and slowly retired back to lie down. Adams thought that those were minor cut wounds and would get healed in no time. He could take her to the nearest clinic during the day and got her treated with the best medicines available. He swore in his heart. He was enthusiastic like a child and was anxiously eager to see her fair skins in the daylight. He would take her to the market and grabbed those clothes and trousers of her choice. His whole thought accumulated around her.

Human beings are generally good, although the world is cursed by the bigotries and atrocities of ideologies and beliefs. We fight wars for the sake of the nation, kinship or peace, but deep down we find ourselves demeaned by brutalities beneath the veneer of the proclaimed “good cause.” In the end, we always sighed saying, “Why can’t we live in peace, like brothers.” Is it the general goodness that creates hatred? Is it the inhuman hatred that circumcised the general goodness in us? But, no matter how the general goodness be trampled, it is always there and echoed eternity. And it easily reached its highest point when one is the only last authority to extend a charity, love and kindness to someone deprived….to someone clad in beauty. And Adams is the last refuge, the last authority on the life or death of that angel, and he automatically bowed to his instinctive goodness.  

“Where are you from, Rebecca?”

“Very far… deep in the jungle beyond those trees,” she replied in a sad voice. “I am very scared….don’t let them catch me again”

“I will not let them harm you…I promise,” Adams said.

“Lomas tribe, they kidnapped me, and they sold me to these people. Oh! I miss my town. I want to go back home”

“Now, Rebecca, tell me everything. Don’t keep me in the dark. I need information so that I can help you”

“It is a long story. Three years ago in our town the LOMAS and the RUALS, they are two different tribes in my hometown, were at war, butchering each other with long knives because of petty reasons. After a year into the war, the reason behind the war, all the killings, was more unclear—it turned into a revenge-war, revenge killings. They killed to avenge their dead parents, sons and daughters. They would abduct, kidnap their prey and then disappeared, leaving no trace. I was in my class XII and even schools were suspended most of the times because of the mutiny. The armies intervened, but there was more killing. After three years of tension, peace was partially restored. The leaders of LOMAS and RUALS held peace talks, signed accords and within a month massive killing subsided. But hatred prevailed within individuals, communities and everyone were intrigued to wage revenge in any way possible, in secrets. But as peace was restored in writing, we breathed a sigh of relief, and schools and colleges were opened again. One day on my way back from school in the afternoon, I was dragged into a van by five strong men. The car sped along the road and I was screaming for help. The last thing I remember was a stuffing of smelly chemical on my nostrils. When I regained my consciousness, I saw myself with other girls, of my age, in a small dingy room, all sobbing, eyes red and swollen. All of us were sulking, expecting the worst with every sound and footsteps of the outside. We were kept there like that, fed, loved and cared and made us their play-toys according to their moods. We were trained to be a kind of machine that could induce satisfaction to men. After a month or two, we were sold to rich people in the city. An order would be placed by these rich people to these pimps and then accordingly we were escorted to hotels or remote houses and we were forced to spend time with them. And then, after a day or two we would be escorted to our secret hideout. It was a week earlier that I planned for this escape. And thank God, you are in this hotel at the right time.”

5

Adams was listening closely, and Rebecca was narrating slowly with teary eyes. The story was so strange to believe it. But true stories are stranger than fictions and Rebecca was there, wounded and crying, bitten by the razor-sharp cruelty of life and men, never to be the same again.

The hotel timekeeper struck 6 AM and the whole outside was in full daylight. Adams peeped through the window curtain, he saw three big men approaching the manager’s room. He warned Rebecca not to make a sound or move.

The main guy (as it appeared) was formidably built with a clear scar on his left cheek. He pulled out his goggles and asked the hotel manager who had just freshen up and switched on the computer, “Hi! Manager Sir, Good morning”. The manager without looking much at them, thinking them to be the usual customers asked, “Same to you, guys. What can I do for you? An early bird catches the worm. Need reservations? You are liable to get the best rooms”. The manager was use of quoting proverbs when he attended customers. The main guy politely bent on the counter desk and said, “We don’t come for reservations exactly. You see…there is a missing lady. Yesterday, in the middle of the night and darkness, she ran away from home and her husband. She is a little bit of a psycho…you know”.

The manager remarked, “Missing lady? Strange enough to happen in this part of the county. I see…it’s a sad tale! Having problems with the husband? Or anything of that sort? Why are you not filing a missing complain at police chowkey?”.

                                                  

The three men felt the extrovert manager talked too much: the main guy was already dreaming of cutting his throat. But they had to keep their cool: politeness was the qualities required to survive their business. They needed to be smooth on the outside.

The main guy, slightly grinding his fingers and jaw gave a painful smile and continued, “Manager Sir, We come here to inquire if there was anything suspicious happening in the night. You see…people saw her running this way.”

Now, the well-learned manager was struck in the groin. He shouted at them, “People saw running this way? Do you think this reputed hotel is such a damned that a depressed lady would just walk-in in the night? Do you think this is a brothel? Now listen and listen clear. Not a soul came this way last night. Don’t try to spoil the reputation of the hotel, and of course…mine with the story of those gossip dealing villagers. My customers are all eminent and reputed people. You leave before I call the police”

The manager was scared a bit, but methodical in his approach. If  rumours spread that a lady from the village walked into the hotel during the night, he was damned. Only words, spreading rumours would be enough to keep his job on the line. Lately newspapers were filled with the plaguing of hotels by call-girls, but his hotel should be an exception. At least not during his tenure. He was expecting a promotion and reputation counts.

“Sorry to bother you. Manager Sir…it is just a search. We don’t want her dead. She is very dear to her husband. If you have any information, please give us a call” The main guy scrolled his mobile number and wrote his name as Pyarelal. The manager thought such a scared face and a lovely  name. He almost smiled, but hid it.

He repeated, “I get no information…Mr. Pyar. And that’s it. Satisfied?”

The three men left completely shattered. They looked around as they boarded the car. They could smell something, but they were totally helpless to prove the smell. Pyarelal thumped the car and whispered, “Rebecca…I will kill you. I will cut your throat.” They left.

6

His hotel phone rang and he picked it up. From the other side of the phone the manager spoke, “Very good morning, Sir. Everything all right? Breakfast is ready? Would you like me to bring to the room or come down yourself in the dinning room?”

“Please send Raju to bring up the breakfast. I am pretty hungry, so double the amount”

“With pleasure, Sir”

After 15 minutes, Raju, the hotel-boy pressed the doorbell. Adams carefully peeped through the door hole and slightly opened the door. The whole room inside was still dark because of the hanging curtains and switched-off lights.

Adams said to Raju, “I got it” and he grabbed the breakfast tray. Raju was surprised. It was his routine to lay the breakfast on the table for customers.

Raju said, “But…Sir…”

“Don’t bother it. Let me serve myself today. And I am not keeping well. Unless I call you or anyone I don’t want any doorbell sounds. Understand?”

Raju bowed, “Yes, sir! Yes Sir! As you wish”. Adams pulled out a 500 rupee note and sealed into his palm. And a prompt “Thank You” followed. Everything went good. In this hotel, the customer is always right as long as you tip them. You always get the best of services. Adams double locked the door again, and set the breakfast items—toasted bread, soup, fried eggs, milk and coffee—on the table and both retired to eating the breakfast. Rebecca was easier now: she knew that the three criminals had left and they would continue to search her in the vicinity. But that did not bother her much. She felt she was safe inside the walls of this hotel room with Adams. All that she needed was to regain her strength. She needed to stay alive, energizes herself and went home. Her misery had taught her things, and she wanted to help victims of that war in all her capacities. What would Adams think of her? A whore, a dirty bitch running into his hotel room and shattering his world? He seemed to be a respectable person, and taking her in would bring contamination to his reputation. But those thoughts were nonsense. She needed to embrace any situation where she could get help. She should not have a mind to think for others except herself. All people in this world are in a situation way better than her’s. She did not have time to show respect, or to plead for forgiveness. She would tell all the truth Adams intended to know, and eat as much to regain her lost strength.

Adams ate a single toasted bread and drank two glasses of coffee, while she kept on munching the fried eggs, soup and tea purposefully.

“So…how do you feel now? Better?”

“Safe! For the first time in my life I feel safe”, she refreshingly smiled.

“How are your wounds now?”

“I think they will be all right in no time. These are minor cuts. And the ointment has really eased them up”, she replied.

The whole conversation was like that between two unknown strangers, abridged by strange coincidence and then attractions.

7

But then wanting to “help and support” the miserable rather than love come easy under coincidence and attractions. At least for Mr. Adams. All that he knew was that he had to rescue her from those crazy pimps. But at the peak of his mind, he wondered: Was that love shown in different forms? Or, was that love already, altogether?

It was 7:30 AM after they finished breakfast. His mind was full with plans. He called up Raju again and instructed him to check around the neighborhood. After 15 minutes he came back with the information that some differently looking men are standing outside the main gate. The spying work was rewarded with another 1000 note, as before.

Now, the heart beats faster. He must take her to safety. That was the responsibility given to him by circumstances. After dressing up they sneaked silently towards the hotel garage.

After 2 minutes, a car came out of the garage. The hotel manager wondered, “Why is Mr. Adams setting out so early? It’s a strange world!”

The car slowly moved out of the main gate, and as expected stopped by the pitiless men. Adams stopped the car. Pyarelal asked him politely, “Where’re you going friend?”

He said, “For work, as usual!”

He asked, “And who is this lady?” Rebecca was largely unrecognizable. She was wearing a pair of black goggles, with white Kameez and a respectable necktie.

Mr. Adams replied with confidence, “She’s my wife.” Beneath the black goggles, tears rolled out with the word. And then it poured out unstoppable. She then pulled up the goggles to wipe them with a skirt. The whole scene, then suddenly turned action packed.

Pyarelal shouted, “That’s Rebecca!” He called out to his men, “She is in the car. Don’t let them escape.”

Adams suddenly sped. Through the rear mirror, he could see three bikes chasing him with the same speed. The road was still empty as it was early. And speed competition was at its peak. The bikers were closing up and one man pulled out a revolver, aiming to shoot at the rear tire. Mr. Adams kicked the brake suddenly and the bike came crashing against the car and rolled down the slope.

Pyarelal stopped his bike. The other biker stopped too. He furiously looked at the “speeding away” car, with one of his most costly assets within it.

8

It was 9:30 AM when Adams and Rebecca reached his rented room. But reaching home could not wipe out the thought of the dreadful encounters they met with on the road. A feeling of maximum insecurity was lingering. Even the luxurious rented room looks gloomy and meaningless. The confusing future course of action urgently needed to be taken saddens it all.

They then went to a market. He purchased a pairs of trousers, shirts, shoes and more for her. It was one of the most memorable times for Rebecca. To come across a stranger who was kind enough as much as he was a stranger seemed like a fairy tale. But it was actually happening.

They then went to an air ticket counter and booked a ticket for the town. At last, she thought, after countless days of miseries, she is going home. The thought of her town came up in her mind as she remembered as a teenager: The peaceful airs that blew and then the sudden air of destruction that separated people: the wars and the killings. Everything appeared clear but sad.

She secretly looked at Adams and wondered at why there was such an unexpected kindness in her cruel world. A kind man with a handsome face is what girls want. And he was! It is every girl’s dream to be in safe hands. She wished he could be with her everywhere, till the end of time. She wished that he, too went to the town with her.

But soon she realized that more wishing only made things more far. Adams silently drove the car, and were already heading towards the airport. When they reached the airport, he parked the car and looked across her and said, “Rebecca, so? Are you okay?”

She said, with a kind of sobbing voice, “Y-Yea! I’m f-f-fine!”

He said, “And this is it. You’re going home. In 30 minutes from now, you will be in your hometown. That’s something…no?”

She cleaned up and said, “That is going to be great. And thank you!” And she really meant the words. The words meant for the happiness she would get in her town. They meant for the sadness she would go through without him.

He took out one of his debit cards from the purse and handed it to her. He said, “The pin number is 8XX0. Money is in here. So you withdraw as much amount you want, whenever you need it. Every month my salary will be credited. Don’t you worry a thing with this card.”  

The parting with someone who was so close yet so far was aching. She kissed him on his right cheek. Tears were shed mutually, but were hidden. Two different worlds could not mingle together physically, and that fact would often drive one to control emotions.

9

When Rebecca reached her town, she at once knew that it was much worse than the worst of her expectations.  It was completely ransacked by the constant war of the tribes. The building walls were destroyed by fires and bullet holes. Markets which were once crowded in peace looked deserted. Many houses were left vacant as the owners had been chased away or killed. She would come across billboards on which were written, “Peace is the lasting solution” “Stop the war” “Where have all the tribes gone” “Wars is exterminating us” “Land valued us, but we don’t,” etc. and etc.

She went down to her old house. It was half burnt and all the household items were stolen. Her father and mother were no more. She then went to the old market. It was gone too. On its spot was a big refugee camp, guarded by armies with big guns. All his acquaintances were enrolled in the camp. She went inside looking for familiar faces. But all her teenage friends ignored her. They whispered, “You remembered Rebecca? The girl who left the town for prostitution?” They did not want to talk to her, or neared her. Some said, “She is having as dreadful disease. Chase her away before she spreads it.”

She went out of the camp towards the closest church. Inside, she saw a group of acquaintances praying. When they see her, all ran out of the church. They said, “Prostitute! She’s dirtying God’s house.” One man approached her and asked, “Are you that Rebecca!?” She said, “Yes! And I’m back!”

He said, “It’s good to see you back. But don’t you ever walk in here again. You know? Your kind of people should not be walking into a religious place.”

She asked, “Then where should I go? This is my home!”

The man was silent and walked away.

10

Exactly one month after Rebecca left him, Adams received a message. “Thank you for using your Debit Card 654XX9800 for withdrawing Rs 10000 from ATM MNC5558886542”

He smiled and said to himself, “Thank God! You are still alive. How I miss you!” And then a month passed and there were no more withdrawals of money. And then a year passed. And then another year. All the buzzing sounds of his mobile message were about something else. Not about the lady from the wild. Not about that beautiful face. Not about that lady of mercy. Not about the girl she missed the most. Not about the girl who might love him the most.

Office works kept piling up. He did more touring. But for the first time in his life, he lost interest in his adventures. Instead, he felt that life was meaningless without the buzzing message sounds of Rebecca, and that silence made him knew how much she loves her. Silence had made the horizons empty, and the whole view had changed.

Two months later, he went to a city for his office project. The hectic daily schedule of the project stressed him out. One night, he hired a taxi and roamed around the city. He viewed from the windows of the taxi the theatres, the restaurants, and then the "round the clock" night clubs.

On the roadside of one night club, he could see one tall, beautiful lady, dressed in scanted clothes, inviting the passengers of the taxis with her familiar smiles and face.

Adams quickly told his driver to take a U-turn. He said to himself in his utmost sadness, “It’s more pleasant turning around than going forward. Even though they both leads to the same destination.”  (To be continued....)

“Almost GHOST”  OR  “Really GHOST”?   

  

Even after coming across many instances which could be linked to ghost sighting, I still cannot confirm if I see real ghost. Let me tell some of the few instances.

****

ONE INSTANCE

(Even ghost could help?)

Two years ago life was so stressful to me. To overcome it, I went to mankind! But I found that we, men are in a “relationship-game” that conforms on turning our ever changing “space and time” for our own selfish-benefits. Nothing seems real enough at all! We created strangers and acquaintances, friends and foe. One is likeable or unlikable, agreeable or disagreeable in our own world---selfishly created. Just as many men are in my own world. 

You go to men to overcome stress; you will end up being a clown.

And then I took to taking a regular “long aimless” drive, by the countryside. It was rewarding indeed. I went to the scattering blue light, the yellowish ponds, the moving green leaves beneath the sun, the shades of nature, and the calling birds. Everything seemed so real! The reality weighted me down to love this one particular spot----this favourite spot of my nature.

It was a 2 hours drive from my home, about 60 Kilometers away, remarkably away from the city and mankind.  The lushness of the spot, the varieties of birds and the evergreen trees made me feel at home. I made it a point to take a long drive to my favourite spot whenever I felt bad.

But then I end up maybe seeing a ghost.

That day, it was already 4 in the afternoon. Boredom overtook me. I felt I was butchered and eroded by my survival altogether. So I drove out to my spot and sat under my “regular” tree watching the dusk as it descended down the sky.  Seven o’clock, and came a perfect darkness. With it, the sky grew upheaval with clouds and storms. Stars and the full moon disappeared beneath them quickly. Still then I sat on and on, for the changes were such a reality.

But then, heaven awaits for no men. There was a quick downpour and I was fully drenched in no time. I rushed towards my vehicle, tried starting the engine, but it won’t start. I tried five, six times maybe, but the comfort the vehicle could give dwindled with every passing moment. Much worse, the right tire explodes, BANG! It was a such a big sound! I had heard the word, “LABOU!” in younger days. That night, it sounded  clearer and more meaningful.

The downpour was unimaginable. It was mixed with forceful winds, and sorrowful lightning sounds. Much more than my expectations, some trees fell and some got uprooted. The whole view was poisoned by the ghostly sound “Vouu! Vouu!Vouu!”

I sat still behind the wheels, doors fastened, trying to team up with my coming death. And then, my  “deadly” thought was proven more correct by the sight of a big, strong man that walked towards me with a lantern.  The lantern was vigorously swaying in the forceful winds. But he did not seem to care. He did not seem to care anything---rains, thunders, the falling trees.  He came walking, looking straight at me. He looked macho, fully mustached, with red eyes. I repeated words in my mind with fright. “Voodoos are true!” I just looked at him, helpless, counting on my last valuable minutes. I closed my eyes, fighting to accept the fact that the night was for my end.

Closing eyes for the last chapter of a life, in front of an impending ghost was distressful. And more agonizing when that ghost called out your name.

He knocked the windshield calling out my name.  “What are you still doing here? I heard a bang and came out with a lantern. You are not having problems…right?”

I asked him, “W-W-Who’rrre you? Are you a g-g-ghost? How do you know my name?” My jaw was shaking.

He did not talk.

He beckoned me to get out of the vehicle. As I get out,  I was shivering beneath his 7 foot structure. His hands were as dreadful as the night itself---long nails with mud. He appeared to me as someone coming out of a tomb. More than of the living, he smelled a deadly ghost.

He changed the punctured tire professionally. During all his acts, I looked across the side of his face asking myself, if I knew him. I did not know him. I have the firmest of proof that I have not met this ordained ghost, ever before.

I was in and out of fear and senses. I kind of get back to real senses as I drove away. I could see him and his lantern, waving at me through the rear mirror. I hit a small boulder and took of my eyes for a fraction of a second from the mirror, to see the opened road. When I looked at him again, through the mirror, he was no more.  

*****

THE NEXT INSTANCE

(We did not choose a course. The course chose us?)

For 6 months I was in training, swamped with surprise questions, surprise exams and a promise that if we clear the training and exams, we were safe. Training looted me, and in the course of my training, I and my wife almost ended up seeing a ghost. Or maybe a real ghost?

Training was draining. It made us take a long drive of 600 Kilometers 6 times in 6 months. It is more draining when you undertook the journey with only the two of you, in the jungles, whose inhabitants none you know. And the worst part that came with that fact was that, you did not expect anything good on every twist and turn on the way. By faith or by faithless, you just inspired  yourself  unto the Almighty.  

The highway passed through thick jungles and tall mountains. Villages were sparse. You would come across villages only after every 5 or 6 kilometers or so. Daytime was okay. But it was during the darkness that was intimidating. Who would not think of a ghost if you see a hairy naked man sitting by the highway, looking across your headlight, in the middle of a dark night?

In one of those trips, we started from the town at 3 in the morning.  As there were no traffic jams, we reached farther in the jungle much sooner. The morning light was still not there. We only came across lorries at long intervals, enveloped each one of us by dark pre-dawn night as black as coal. And then the expected, but quite differently from the way I had expected start to unfurl.

We drove down the mountain slope and we reached on a lowly place full of “flowing clouds.” The clouds flowed like water across the road.  At once, I realized that I was driving over a smoking sea, only instinctive cowardice could halt. But maybe I did not have the cowardice, I kept on driving. She was pinched with fear. I looked straight across the front glass of the vehicle. All I saw was pouring clouds against the headlights in the middle of darkness and nowhere.

And then I saw a human form, formed within the clouds. It was a long structure, frowning at me, beckoning me to carry forward. But then, the situation was too ghastly, yet again. I stopped right in the middle of the road. She was gasping for air. I was gripped by fear, only to get me back to sense by the honking from a big lorry behind. With the help of that strong headlight beam of the lorry, we could cross the sea of clouds.

Till today, I would ask! Was it a strain eyed “human-cloud-form”? Or was it really SOMETHING, just as I had expected something of that sort?

*****

THE SECRET POOL

I was alone in my house. The scorching sun outside made the moving air, sweaty hot. So, I closed all the windows and doors and sat beneath the swirling ceiling fan. I looked around the room with an empty feeling. I surveyed at the walls, the hanging papers, those old bags, those hanging clothes. Suddenly something caught my eyes.

***********

My ancestors have one unique hobby. They would collect rare things pertaining to their own times---coins, notes, knives, waving cane mat, musical instruments made of bamboo, aged old costumes, and many more. If you happen to come to our house, it’s like retracing back history in slabs. I have grown up seeing strange people coming to our house every now and then, looking at the collections. Some even tried to purchase some of the rarest items. But none of the collections were sold. They were all regarded as sacred and my ancestors  determinedly kept as a family heirloom.  

I could recollect few instances, maybe three or four instances how determinedly my father and grandfather withheld those valuable collections. Let me tell one of those instances. I was 8 years old then. One morning, a tall, dark man came to our house.

He said to my father, “The locals here are telling me that you have vast collections of old coins and notes. Can I see them?”

My father said, “You’re welcome to see them. We indeed have a vast collection.”

My father went inside our room, and then came out with a brown plastic bag. The tall man looked at the notes and coins one after another. Five rupee notes with three and five peacocks, fifty paise coins with two boats, one rupee coin that can deflect needles and attracts uncooked grains, 20 paise coins made of nickel brass, bronze, etc.  The man was stunned.  

He said, “Offer me a price. I will buy all of these. These are collectibles and I am sure to make huge profits.”

My grandfather, who was in his 90^th birthday shouted from the adjacent room. “Nothing is to sell.” He hurriedly instructed my father to keep them back in the trunk immediately.

After the man left, embarrassed and unsuccessful, grandfather called all the family members to his room. He said, “This trunk box contains  secret of which I will not reveal now. Life is a riddle that will never get solved. The future is unknown, and the only thing we can do about it is to collect the collectible past. The only secret we can have about the future is from the past. And that trunk box contains all of it. Sooner or later, the secret will reveal itself to the one who needed the most.”

My grandfather died the following week.

******************

It was that “trunk box” which caught my eyes, thirty years after. I stood up and strode towards it. It has been with my family for generations, but none of the members have sensed a “call” from it like that day. I sensed it was a clear “call,” but I did not know why it called. I took it down from the shelf and laid it on the floor. I opened it and surveyed at the items one after another, just like how that tall man did. Coins and notes as usual, a different looking smoking pipe made of bronze, old photographs, unusual looking needles, etc. Underneath these was a small sculpted box made of stone. I opened it just to see one brown folded paper, covered with dusts. I unfolded the paper and read the scrolls on it.

“Head where your forehead points the weary sun on the longest day of the year. Don’t be mistaken—let the timekeeper strikes four. Carry no water for, you will be thirsty. Carry no food for you will be hungry. Walk like an arrow until you reach the valley, and then the rocks. Until the weary moon over the shortest night of the year shows you the secret pool. When you find the pool, be careful to make your rightful wish. Wish for what you need the most.”

I said to myself, “So, this is the secret my grandfather and his great grandfathers have been hiding?”

I gathered all the geography books I could collect. I found out that the longest day of the year is June 21^st. And that the moon looked beautiful in that night. I needed to head west, and walked straight like an arrow to lead me to the secret pool.

******************************

I looked at the calendar. I have exactly 5 days before I set sail for my adventure, to find out the secret of my ancestors. My mind was filled with only one feeling. That's when I get there, in the secret pool, I will wish for the thing I need the most. And all my suffering will be gone. The more I thought about the bliss the pool could give me, the more I was hallucinating with the belief that if there is suffering, there has to be a place, somewhere, which can cure it all.

Great expectations can chase sufferings away. Those five days were the greatest days of my life. I did not mention my planned adventure to my friends. I presumed they would think it was a silly decision. But beneath this kept secret, I was happy.  I remembered the word of my grandfather. The only reality I can have about the future is from the past. And that trunk box contains all of it. The secret will reveal itself to the one who needed the most.

Maybe I needed the most.

I roamed about the city. All my envies have been chased away. Hatred was gone. Loneliness were gone. Weakness turned into strength. I was flying with that hope that when I reach that pool, I would be as happy as anyone.

************************************

On June 21^st, the sun rose up again. Eagerly I waited for the clock to strike three. I kept my compass ready. I was already in my new pair of shoes. I also arranged a small rucksack wherein I kept one towel and mosquito repellant ointment. On the side pocket, I kept the brown paper that instructs the location of the secret pool.

When the clock struck four, I hurried out of my door. I looked towards the sun. It appeared as if it was still overhead. I said to me, “It’s going to be a trying job to follow the sun until it gets weary,” I pasted the compass near the windshield and started my vehicle. I headed towards the west.

The city looked rusty. But I thought beyond the city. I chased the secret pool- let everyone knows it- and that had made all the boredom of living away. I passed by small roads and traffic jams, selfish crowds who all said, “Don’t trust this guy, trust me!” as if they came from another planet. I said to myself, “It’s the law of nature.”  At last, I landed on the outskirt of the city. I see greenery and tranquility. I drove along and my windshield showed nothing but the secret pool.

I came across paddy fields. For this time of the year, the paddy were tall though! I saw scanted houses with cows and goats. I looked across the direction my forehead pointed. I saw the sunlight, with tall mountains under its glare, but not the sun. I sped under the governance of greenery and tranquility. My compass needle was pointing a perfect “West.”

********************************

I reached a spot where a billboard said, “It’s this far. Walk further, and you risk!” Still then I carried on. The road was still straight and the silence was calling me. I kept on driving until the road ends in the middle of nowhere. I slowly parked my vehicle under a tall tree and many small birds flew away from its branches because of the roaring sound of my vehicle. But one big bird kept on looking down and called, “Keeou!Keeou!” The sound echoed the valley and then across the mountains. I looked across, and wondered at how big hope could be!

Dearly I closed the doors of my vehicle, stretched myself and looked for directions. I had never been stronger. I started walking across valleys and then mountains. I would reach a top. Then I could see another mountain. And then more plains. And then more higher mountain. For six hours, I kept on climbing and diving, energetically.  No tiredness could defeat that hope---the secret pool..

The sun was too, already weary. I kept on walking towards the direction of my forehead that was projected on the sun. Hope rejuvenated me. I did not walk. In fact, I was always running. Quickly enough I always felt I crossed another  plains and then another mountain. Always and always. Sweats poured out like thick drizzles. For the first time after four, I felt thirsty. But I always knew the word, “Bring no water for, you will be thirsty. Bring no food for you will be hungry.” I opened up my rucksack and pulled out the towel to wipe my sweat.

It was 7:22 PM. The sun had gone down on the western horizon when  I still saw myself chasing at the sun. The transition from light to darkness is the darkest. I saw it all, all alone in the jungle.

Under the darkness, I calculated the time for the moonrise in the shortest night in a year. The moon was already risen at 5:07 PM, but I never felt that. But then, slowly but diligently, the moon kept its promise again---moonlight chased darkness away in a jungle.  

Within thirty minutes after the sun had gone, the moon took charge. The foliage appeared thicker, the plains sweeter and mountains darker. I was not worried, because underneath any changes, my compass needle was still showing a perfect west.

The longest sun had drained me off. I had never peed. All my pee had gone in the forms of sweats. Thirst erupted and so, I collected water with my cloth and drank it filtered. It was the sweetest water life could ever give. I drank in plenty.  

*************************************

It was 10:07 PM, and the moon was at its peak. From the books, I knew it would expire at 3:07 AM the next day. I applied my mosquito repellant over my whole skin and climbed the most promising tree I could see, to sleep away for at least one hour.  As I laid down on its branch, I looked over the horizon. I could see high rocks under the glare of the moonlight. The tops were pointed like the tip of arrows and on one corner, I could see a faint light.

I adjusted the senses of my ears and I felt I could hear callings. So, I climbed down the tree and headed towards the light. I crossed the plains and then I scaled up the rocks. The more I neared, the light got more profound and the sound got more clear. They were human sounds. When I reached the top, the first thing I saw was a pool, glistening under the shortest moonlight of the year. I approached the pool and then I saw things clearer.

I saw all of my great grandfathers sitting by the edges. My father was being hugged. And my brother was playing the guitar. When they saw me, they all stood up. I embraced each and every one.

I looked at each one. I recognized each one from the sound of my blood. But the family heirloom was the pending question from my side.

I asked them, “So, this is the secret pool?”

All of them answered in unision, “yes!”

 I frankly asked, “Can I too dive in so that all my sufferings be gone?”

Then my father stood up and said, “My son, think of what you wish! Your fate has led you up to here. You have learned a lot now! Is it not more precious to cherish your experiences than forget everything by diving in this pool? My son, know what you really wish!”

There was a strong whirl-wind. All of them disappeared from my face one by one. And the secret pool was more beautiful under the moonlight.

But I chose the more precious! I chose the more precious me! I chose to embrace what fate had given me, and not tried changing it.

MONEY!MONEY!TANGKA!TANGKA!

Unexpectedly, I got a call from Pu Darthangluoi, Chairman, HCFM, regarding an article coincident to the 7^th anniversary celebration of HCFM. I had wanted to say, “NO” literally. But I said, “Yes! Let me try to come up with an article,” without much commitment to my words and knowingly fully that I had none to write about the fellowship-thing, or the kohran-thing.

Lately, my thoughts and beliefs have been greatly sickened by the ideology followed by the Hmars. I choose not to think about it, but it keeps on chasing me, nonetheless. I feel I am in the sickest moment of my term here on earth.

Destiny had grabbed me to live a “choice-less” life. It shrunk me down to get married to my long time girlfriend in a way down below my worst imagination. It was a marriage of hope…just hope, with nothing tangible to show. But, it had made us to have an unfinished business in Vellore. And Vellore gave me pains whose only medicine available is “acceptance.”  It pulled us up to Mumbai, where we need to purchase a map to know if we reached Mumbai. But, destiny had made Mumbai a place we really see. It had made our life contemporary with the establishment of “Mumbai Hmar Welfare Association” and “Hmar Christian Fellowship Mumbai.”

Looking back, I missed every single piece of it.

Mumbai had made me met the couple who will be evergreen in my life---Pu Darzakhum Songate, IRS and his wife Pi Esther Songate. The helps and advices I received from the couple are incalculable. As there is no math to quantify them, my debt to them is incalculable and therefore unrequitable.

“Choice-less” life is also a “clue-less” life. Now we are here in the “My never imagining land”-Tripura, a land our tribe adamantly called “Ramthim.” Unlike Mumbai, all my close acquaintances here are the missionaries, deputed from our native lands. Had I been someone else, I would have been very spiritual, very “missionary-affianced” by now. My wife is very much affianced with the unproven cause now. But I still say, “NO.” As if we can do anything about it.  

I am me, I cannot help it. Destiny had grabbed me and shaped me in its own way.

Everywhere I roamed, destiny forcefully lets me realized that we are a ridiculous tribe, running away from plain truth. My thoughts and ideology is disgusted when I see myself and my acquaintances wearing the sheen of spirituality when, in fact, what we really yearned for, is the basic necessities of life---MONEY.

This thought always spoils my days. It stiffens more of my space and time, to know that I am living in a ridiculed world, created none other than by us.

So, Pu Darthangluoi, what should I write? You should not have requested me. My feelings and emotions froze like refrigerated water. I have gone dry of any enthusiastic topic relating to the fellowships or Kohran, whatever we may call it.

Last year during December, under the foggy morning of Agartala, I went to my regular paan dukan for my daily dose of paan. I ordered for the paan. I need not detail what ingredients I needed, the dukanwalla knew them all too well. But, unlike other days, he did not give me prompt service. He was indulging, with enormous participation, in his own spiritual business.  

I, then observed keenly, trying to register all his acts. He was holding two fuming agarbatis and waved the smokes about his items for sale---box of babul gums, assortments of sweets, candies, etc. He then took his debit and credit registers, hummed a few mantras, waved the smoke over and below them. He depicted all these acts with seamless, routine act. Only after the completion of this routine spiritual business, he took up the task of preparing my paan.

I asked him, “Which of the gods, you give devotion to?”

He said, “ Lakshmi, the god of wealth, prosperity, fortune and the embodiment of beauty.”

I said, “You are a selfish lot, asking that god only for your prosperities.”

He said, “We need to pray…no? for our own prosperities. In this life what is the most important? Chawal aur sabzi…he nah?”

I said, “For us, we don’t do like that. We are not selfish like you,” fully knowing that I lied.

He smiled and said, “Beta (for I still look like a handsome 18, Buongi mita chuh!), tum samasta nai he! Lakshmi is also protecting us from all kinds of misery and money related sorrows. She blessed us with prosperities, but she also teaches us not to be selfish, dishonest or annoyingly greedy.”

On my way back home, the conversation we had lingered in my head. I felt, I found the “Lakshmi thing” philosophy quite true. Asking god for money and wealth and also asking to help, refrain ourselves from misery and money related sorrows!

I opened the Bible: 1 Timothy 6:10:  For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.

Countless advice by my father during my childhood re-surfaced back in my head. Every time he would say, “Don’t love money. It is sin. It will lead you astray.” And then, countless sermons I had heard, I had been made to grow-up with, showers like thick rain drops. “We should not try to be rich, it is sin.” “We should be satisfied with what we have, it’s God’s way.” Then countless songs that pop-up here and there amongst us due to poverty, rung like a continuous bell in my head.

Is the love of money evil? If it is, then how are we to survive? Or, is it just that we are interpreting the above Bible verse wrongly, just like the ancient Catholics interpreting the Bible to make our earth as the centre of the Universe? Is it because of some maniacal interpretation of the Bible that we feel our sermons more spiritual if it revolved about extreme poverty?

Let us face the reality!

Is it not because of the need for this money that we send our sons and daughters to Delhi, Mumbai, Bangalore, where-where and where not? Is it not for the love of money that some of us even reached Dubai, America, England, Brazil and more? And here, for me, I reached Tripura.  Although my father used to give me that advice, what he did at the top of his capabilities was to educate me by expending his money, so that I can earn money in future, after he is gone.  Whatever we do, we seemed to be just about this MONEY, MONEY. Is it not for the importance of money in our life that we could have fellowship even on the western flank of India, in Mumbai?

Even today, the main topic of the discussion with friends is 7^th Pay Commission, merging of Basic with DA, Tax deductions, etc. When I meet older people, their first question used to be “What is your job? How much do you earn?” If the love of money is evil, then we---right from the layman to the most spiritual---are doomed. 

Each one of our congregations is crazy about money, although none will like to accept this openly. But the underlying truth is this: Mission worker who can collect more tithe received more adoration from his boss. And we are, every now and then, pampered to cast our fishing net in deeper waters, to contribute more money. “When he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, “Put out into deep water, and let down the nets for a catch. Luke 5:1-22,” is the hottest Bible verse for every fund raising speech.  Member who can contribute more for church’s contingent expenditures received more applause and praise.

It is a really confusing ideology!

Longer thought on this topic draws me closer to the conversions I had with that paanwallah. He needed money, and thus he prayed for it openly. For us, we need the money, we look for it in any available ways---fair or unfair. Yet we cover ourselves with semi-transparent veils that say, “Money is evil.”

Why are we ashamed to admit ourselves that we are crazy after money? Let us look back at the above Bible verse. The love of money might be the root of all evils for some people who wandered away from faith, who are burdened up by money-related sorrows. Not for all. Have we wandered away from the faith because of money? Have we used money for separating people? Have we used churches for personal gains? Have we created chaos because of money? Have we used fellowships just to cover up the selfish whims?

If not, then why not pray like the paanwallah directly for prosperity, for wealth. If we have the faith, loving and working for any fair money is Godly enough not to make any ridiculous move.

Then we will be trustworthy even in our own eyes.

WISHING EVERY HMARS IN MUMBAI A HAPPY, PROSPEROUS AND WEALTHY HCFM 7^TH ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION, 2014.

Meow! Meow!

JUST a few days back, the morning downpour in the steamy summer of Agartala was disturbed by a “Meow! Meow!” sound on the other side of our main door. We listened from the bed. It was feeble and overwhelmed by desperation. The sound was familiar as any childhood memories, meow! meow!.... but I heard again after a gap of many years. We were woken much earlier than the usual set-out time of our mobile alarm.

When my wife opened the door, we saw the cat “caught” on the cemented stairway literally. It was such a tender cat that It was incapable of climbing the next stairway and afraid to climb down the below one due to fear of height. From first sight, the case of the cat could be drawn easily enough: It had lost its mother and was desperately crying for her “warmth” and in its utter dismay started to scale the open roads and ridges and eventually landed up on the shade of human homes.

My wife asked me, “Shall I take it in?”

I had been quite acquainted with the breeds of “Meow! Meow!”. I recounted my childhood days closely affianced to our pet dogs and cats. We kept dogs to guard the house and cats to chase away rats. Though both canines, there is one great difference between cats and dogs. Dogs instinctively become attached and faithfully submissive to their owners, while cats are maniac of a place—warmth, houses or blankets, and craze after their own comforts. Dogs follow their masters but cats are devoted to cupboards and houses and their shits are awfully smelly. I had known it all…..

But the sight of desperation often evokes the kindness quality in human. Encompassing in my mind all those pathetic experience about cats and knowing fully what will befall, I told my wife, “Okay…No probs. Let’s keep it as a pet”

By sheer coincidence or by fate, I now see myself adopting a stray cat. And in this case, it is a “SHE”, and my friend over her named her PAWNG-SI, a friend from Mumbai named her GOLIATHA. I named her MENGKENG.

During her first day, she cried all day and all night thinking of her mother’s breast. The milk and the playing items that lay strewed on the floor of the house were meaningless to her. The only thing which could quench her hunger was her mother’s breast. On the second day I forced her and dipped her lips on the can of pure milk. She liked it. Now she starts eating chicken, biscuits and maggi. And she is growing real fast. Much faster than the rate at which she grows, she is exponentially playful.

I sit here, courting with a very hard life. However, my MENGKENG is in content—the warm house, me, my wife and the foods. Her mind is not deceived by any thought of the future. She jumps around on my laps and floor and on the warmth of my laptop disturbing more of my disturbing present. She doesn’t learn how to catch mice, for she was deprived of the luxury of being trained by her mother. How long can I provide milk and warmth? How long will the house in which she comes as a refugee stands? I am really worried. I asked my mother if an untrained cat could learn the art of catching mice when they reach adulthood. She told me that the sole purpose of a cat is to catch mice and she will eventually master the art, trained or untrained. Then, if that is the case I am saved. The cat at least will not die of starvation even if the feeble leave under which she comforts herself falls anytime, anywhere.

MEMOIRS OF KALINA

The unlucky thief

1

Of length, I used to muse about that thief who was caught on the night of July 2006. Was that thief destined to be caught? Was the catcher, above all things, an ordained thief-catcher, a specially designed "Knight" of God to lead His campaign on the world of thieves?

This writing has cropped up from the thought on the catching of that low criminal—a burglar and so altogether I don’t find quite worthy or rather an appetizing subject to write on it. But years hence, the humors and specialties associated with the incident has its repercussions: It has nostalgic effects and gets resurrected time and again to make me fill with laughter and bygone adventures. The thought would turn the subject to an appealing one.

That fateful incident happened in KALINA Village, in Mumbai around 10:30 in the night.

The topography of KALINA was a saturation of “some kind of design” that had evolved out of “no design”. Big and small apartments, shops, “unsuspecting tiny houses” filled with wines were strewn rumbled much like an assortment of pebbles dumped on the sidewalk. On the odd entrance of the main village was the statue of Veilakani (Virgin Mary) clad in glistening sarees, who silently blessed all the bows and devotions she received. Countless alleys dived-in from everywhere into the village much like the puzzling tracks and holes of rodents under jungle trees and shrubs. At night, these small passageways were marked by pitch dark corners and holes to which billowing dim lights could barely reached and making them a first class habitat for burglars.  If one is not well verse with the twist and turn of the alleys, the colour/orientation of a particular house, etc., the consequence is to get lost and loiter around whole day and night on those never-ending curves. I have had my share of experiences on that.

Let me get back to the story. KALINA, 10:30 at night was the time when the day’s shift workers returned home, had dinner and settled to rest in front of their TV set or dozed off on the bed. Reciprocally, it was also the time when night’s shift workers left their homes and were on trains or buses to attend to their duty. The time was, in fact, one short time for relaxation and calmness, much like a short serenity after a cyclone.

Having nothing to do much with the serenity of the time, we became restless inside that low-roofed house. So, Abraham L. Pangamte and I started to pour out that so called KAILASH and sipped down the throat feeling the dabbing of our intestines by KAILASH. The effect was quick and sweaty: it was like throwing oneself into a bond fire.

2

Mumbai is a place which does not have a proper winter. The weather all year round is sweaty, dry and inconveniently humid. And due to its unforgiving design, Kalina is all the hotter.  KAILASH can have its absolute impact. Yes! Let me stretched more on this. The hotness of Kalina showcased many more things; the most obvious being on the dress of womenfolk.  For those young, fair skins females with novice minds, the main battle was how to fight the hotness with dresses. Accordingly, when they went to Bandra market, they would purchase itsy-bitsy garments. They would buy clothes not for wearing but for hanging on their body. Also, they would pick jeans, so abnormally small that the wearer would squeeze inside the jeans with extra-hardships to wear them. If one exaggerates, it can be said that the wearer stays outside of the jeans. In the midst of these young girls under-dressed or over-dressed (I don’t know), there were another group of womenfolk who frowned at them, who disregarded them like whores or human baits. These groups were the member of the congregation of Veilakani who stuck strictly to knee-length skirts, full sleeves shirts and veils on the head to preserve dignity. Other group was those Muslim womenfolk who wore BURKHA, always on the guard least their skin would be shown. Except these two groups of womenfolk, the others were confused “working class” who had a stead-fast belief that the beholder of their beauty should be bewitched by their revealed young skins. But they were all justified. When one confronted anyone, the usual answer was, “Kalina is Hot” and they should embraced those “sexy-tiny” dresses as their birthright if at all they should stay in Mumbai. More, if they should stay in Kalina.

Oh! I had drifted too far from the main story. Let me go back to my story.

Under the hot Kalina roof and sky, the effect of KAILASH was unpredictable. That night, it boosted us to quarreling, and being a married man, who is there to quarrel with except the better half, who is your own, slave, smiles or tears? I could not recollect how well or how gruesome the verbal brawls climaxed. The next episode leaded to a scene where my wife packed and threatened to leave me; and Abraham Pangamte with all his inherent talent of a “KAILASH Master”, persuading her not to take any foolish decision. But the problem with any persuasive act that resulted from KAILASH was that even the persuader didn’t know his exact mission. So, the noble act of a “KAILASH negotiator”, instead of bringing peace, often leads to a more eccentric situation for both the scuffling parties and more quarreling.

3

The next episode showed my wife leaving our rented room and headed towards Paukhomawi’s rented apartment, which was just a stone throw from my room. The residue left after the quarrel for the room was Abraham Pangamte and I. Abraham Pangamte was about five years younger to me, maybe more but that night he was holding the biggest spoon of wisdoms and advises. He could recollect all the famous quotes and was not making any grammatical mistakes in his advises. He was a non-stop bore for an elder like me; and that had made the humidity higher. “Young and still unmarried and dictating the life of someone who was his elder and married” was how the KAILASH talked to me and instigated me further to quarrel. The next minute, Abraham left the room, drenched, unsuccessful and all the more angry.

In the meantime, Joseph Lalpiengrem Joutepa, staying on a small room on top of Paukhomawi’s apartment, was not feeling much of the heat of KALINA. He was in the mood and put on the song “Bed of Roses” by Bon Jovi through his tiny DVD player. With his big fingers (who were proud enough to be his) he applied face-pack to his face and admired himself, forward and sideways, through his tiny mirror. Estimating from the cachet emitted by his hulky size, well-trimmed hairs and deep classy voices, the face-pack product he applied to his face seemed to be of Avon’s. But the actual fact was proven when you walked near him----you would smell a pack of TANAKHA, MADE IN MOREH. He was unmarried and had tough battles ahead. In his world of KALINA, he was the senior most and the biggest, no doubt. But more young “fair angles” from home town had moved into KALINA for wants of “easy works” thanks to economic liberalization. And he needed to keep up with their fairness; he needed to look more handsome for the key to romancing with them depended chiefly on looks. Young girls like handsome guys. Joutepa was quite sure about that. And TANAKHA face-pack was the least of what he applied to his face lately.

My wife, with air bag full of clothing treaded the stairway of Paukhomawi’s apartment. But unfortunately the house was locked. Paukhomawi had left for his “call-center” duty and his wife and two children were out visiting friends in the vicinity. The KAILASH negotiator Abraham followed her minutely behind. Suddenly without any expectation my wife saw one local guy, with a long iron rod, trying to hook valuables from outside the open window of Paukhomawi’s house. After verifying he was indeed a thief trying to steal from the window, my wife shouted, “CHOR! CHOR!” The ever self proclaimed agile, vigilant and self-ordained peace-maker Abraham was not aware of it: he was somewhere in between heaven and hell. Within fraction of a second, the unsuccessful thief dashed away.

After all, a high-pitched voice was not made just for quarreling with a husband. It can be quite handy when spotting a thief. The “CHOR! CHOR!” high decibel sound of my wife gathered many people in the vicinity.

Some ran about looking for the thief. Among the volunteers, the one who turned up unprepared and unaware at the later time was Joutepa with his white TANAKHA face-pack, tight fitting half pants and shirtless. When he enquired about it and had learnt that a burglar was trying to rob his first-floor neighbour Paukhomawi, his biceps started to grow beefy and his senses more sensitive and his appearance changed like in that movie “HULK”. In a zillionth fraction of a second, he just vanished, no where to be seen. The next second when people saw him again he was in those dark alleys with “stood-up” ears and black shiny eyes, tracing the thief, in an exact manner of a cat chasing a mice in the dark. From the time of the first spotting of the thief in that house to the time when Joutepa was seen lurking in the dark, more than 45 minutes had passed, sufficient enough even for the slowest thief to escape.

4

Tick! Tick! The time had lapsed 1 hour. Joutepa was still sniffing, vibrating his cat ears. At last, he smelt the burglar out of his hiding- hole. Being spotted, the thief took to his heels and ran towards the closest alley with the swiftness of a mouse. And with the swiftness of a jungle cat, Joutepa pounced at him with his 85 Kg frame. The thief took the blow and laid flat on the middle of the alley; but the “jungle cat” Joutepa was still on top of him with all his weight. Tremendous weight on top is treacherously abysmal: the thief shitted and murmured a sound of surrender under the unshakable weight of the jungle cat.    

The next episode was Joutepa dragging the thief, scolding and chiding at the same time. It was to everybody’s amazements how he could capture him. When the thief was seated on the foundation of that St. Rogue statue and surrounded by people, the platform was for Abraham Pangamte. If I am not mistaken, he is the only person alive, of all the Hmars who can speak Marathi. Fortunately for Abraham but mercifully for the thief, the thief happened to be a Marathi.

Abraham at once took the matter into his hand, after the capture, and scolded the thief in Marathi language. He pointed the face of the burglar, then the whole of Kalina, and then the whole sky above with his fore finger. His voice was hoarse, intimidating, and sounded to us like any flawless Marathi. After the incident, Abraham asserted that the burglar would not steal again due to his scolding and advice. He said, “My rebuke may be the most painful one he ever comes across in his life”. But the actual underlying truth of the scolding could not be fully proven as none, other than Abraham, could speak nor understand Marathi. No one really knew what that scolding was all about.   

However, any way I feel the thief was one unlucky son: one who land up to get scold by a quarrelsome Hmar, Mr. Abraham pangamte and that too, in Marathi. Of all the rowdy scolding he came across and will come across in future, I believe the thief will always remember that scolding by Abraham as I reckon it to be the most painful of any scolding, for the past, present or for the future. Did the thief understand what he said? Or did Abraham fully understand what he spoke out in Marathi? The fact will not be proven. But I believe he would still felt them so painful.

Till today, after that incident I asked myself “Is there a destiny?” “Can we change destiny?” “Is it destiny that we make or is it destiny that makes us?”