Memory

Memory

©Manas Gupta

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In Memory Of My Nanaji

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"Let me tell you about the woman who transformed my life."  This was how Harry would always start his favourite story

Harman Singh Sidhu was seven years old when he first saw "Stella ma'm". He was now 77. A retired professor, he could never stop speaking about Stella, the gorgeous English teacher who "changed his life". He told everyone about her. He told his college buddies, his cousins, his paanwala, his doctor, his students, his children and now his grandchildren. And then he told them again.

His eyes would glaze over as he narrated the story, a tiny smile showing the spark of happiness that the memory brought and it would always start with "Let me tell you about the woman who transformed my life."

Harman, Harry to his friends, believed attack was the best way of defence and was often on the lookout for naive targets to capture and regale with stories of his youth. This time, as he finished listening to his customary news on TV, he decided to make a surprise assault on his granddaughter Harneet. His grandson Harpreet had no time for him and was usually busy with his videogames and Internet. But Harneet had a soft corner for him. "That's why I always say one should have girls," he used to tell anyone who would listen.

He looked at Harneet and asked: "What are you doing bitiya?" The word 'bitiya' was his favourite weapon for Harneet. "Won't you come and sit with your nanu for a while?"

Harneet sighed. She knew what was coming. A second-year college student, Harneet was already a graduate from the school of Harman affairs, having heard his stories more times then he heard the news.

"Achca theek hai nanu."

"Good, said Harry. "Let me tell you about..... "

"the woman who transformed your life," Harneet finished the sentence. "Yes, yes. Let's hear it nanu. I wonder why you didn't tell me this story 45 times before."

Harry ignored the sarcasm and began. "It was 1989. My father, he was an Air Force officer you know, had just brought us to Delhi from our hometown Bijnor, near Meerut."

"I know where it is nanu," Harneet interjected, a tad irritated. "We go every year, don't we?"

"Yes, yes, the same place," Harry said, eager to continue his story before she lost interest and left.

"I was an intelligent boy who abhorred taking risks, hated sports and was in love with comics and storybooks. The problem with me was my language. I was fluent in Hindi, but very poor in English. My Hindi was quite good... you know I got a distinction in my Xth Boards. I..."

"I think you're digressing nanu," Harneet said, well aware that he was wandering off the plot.

"Oh! Where was I?"

"Poor in English," said Harneet.

"Yes, yes, I was very poor in English. What happened was that I flunked the entrance test of the Air Force Golden Jubilee School. Can you believe it? I actually flunked. My father was so embarrassed, he threatened to send me to boarding school."

"After my parents had explained to the authorities that I had been in a Hindi-medium school all this while, they decided to give me another chance. This time, I managed to scrape through by the skin of my butt..."

"Teeth," said Harneet.

"Huh? No, no, I have eaten breakfast. I don't need my teeth."

"No nanu, I am not talking about your false teeth. The skin of your....Oh never mind.  So you scraped through, haan?"

"Yes, I was admitted in that lovely school where I met Stella. I saw her on the very first day of school. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. At that age, I didn't even have the right hormones you know, but the sight of her made my cheeks turn red. Red enough for her to notice and even pinch them."

"'So, you're the new boy Mister Red Cheeks,' she had asked."

She was tall, had shoulder-length curly hair, large and full lips and a bright smile that lit up the room she entered. What really captivated me was her voice. A low melodious voice combined with a clear diction as she elucidated every word. She dressed smartly, especially for 1989, wearing skirts and trousers and large dangly earrings and was generous with make-up. For a boy from Bijnor, she was a captivating angel."

"I replied to her cheek-pinching query with a "Ji madamji. Main new hoon", pleased as punch for having understood her English and her accent."

"Her frown told me I had said something wrong. Personally, I thought I had done pretty well for Bijnor standards."

"'What's your name son,' she asked, choosing to ignore what was obviously a language barrier."

"Harman," I said, happy that my English was improving by the minute since I could decipher the madamji's language.

"'Well, Harman, welcome to the school. You're in my class (III-A) and one of the rules we follow is that we always speak in English. Now quickly go to your class."

"Ji madamji"

"'You can call me ma'm. I am Stella ma'm.'"

"Ji ma'mji"

"'No son, just ma'm, not ma'mji'," she said with a sweet smile.

"I nodded, afraid of saying anything else lest I upset her."

"Despite the faint rebuke, I was happy. Back in Bijnor, such a long conversation with a teacher would have undoubtedly included a few slaps and even a Hindi expletive."

"Anyway, that was how I met Stella. A teacher who communicated to me the fact that my English needed more work than the Parliament, but she did so without insult, without shattering the tiny little morsel of confidence that I had carried with me to the big city."

Harry's story was interrupted by a loud bout of coughing. As a concerned Harneet gave him water and rubbed his back, he gestured to her to sit down and allow him to continue the story.

"Thanks Harnu bitiya. Let me tell you about the woman who...."

"Nanu, we're already halfway through the story. You just finished describing your first meeting with Stella. Let's finish this story quickly, I have to go for my tuitions class soon."

"Oh, okay," said Harry, a faint light of gratitude in his eyes.

"What I wanted to say was that this woman, this charming, elegant woman with such beautiful command over English, passed on some of her love and dare I say expertise of the language to me. Let me tell you how she did that."

"She never rebuked me in public. No sir. She always quietly took me aside. Her masterstroke was telling all my friends to speak to me only in English. They would not reply to me when I spoke in Hindi, the buggers."

"What that did was, it not only boosted my confidence, it transformed me from a gawaar boy to a civilized brat capable of looking after myself in the big bad world."

"The truth is I didn't just change because of Stella. I changed for Stella. She was more than just a teacher for me. Everything I did in school was to please her, to impress her. Everywhere she moved, my eyes would follow. I think if she wasn't a teacher, she could have been a model," he said, his eyes glazing again.

"I think you should rest now nanu. I too have to go," Harneet said, interrupting his train of thought.

"No, no. Wait. I am finishing. I soon lost touch with Stella ma'm, you know. Your granddad was transferred to Jammu and we had to shift base. I hated moving. Hated losing my friends. And most of all, I hated losing Stella."

"I wish I could have gone and met her once, just to thank her for looking after this chubby little sardar. And maybe look at her once more... show you how beautiful she is. Would have loved to introduce her to your nani if she was alive."

He had closed his eyes while talking and Harneet felt he had drifted off to sleep. She quietly got up, covered him with a blanket, kissed his forehead and was about to leave when he held her hand.

"Thanks bitiya, for listening to me. I know I bore you sometimes but no one else likes to talk to a boring old man, you know."

"I know nanu. Now go to sleep. I'll come back and talk to you more if you like," she said.

As she left, she saw he had already dozed off, a content expression on his face.

Harry died that day. In his sleep.

Chapter -2

Harneet was ushered into the large bungalow in Delhi's Greater Kailash area by the maid. "Stella aunty is in her room," she told Harneet. "You'll have to speak up, she's hard of hearing."

As Harneet entered the room, she saw a short, frail and heavily wrinkled woman sitting on a rocking chair, dressed in a stained drab nighty. She was watching some saas-bahu serial on TV.

"Namastey aunty," Harnu said loudly.

Stella looked at her, a blank look on face, and said: "Yes beta."

Relieved that Stella seemed in her senses, Harneet started speaking. She told him about Harry's memories, his transformation, and how he told everyone about Stella. She held nothing back, even telling her about Harry's infatuation. When she finished, she was exhausted, and a tear rolled down her eye.

"I am really sorry for your loss beta," Stella said. Her voice was firm for a woman in her late 90s but dry and without warmth.

"But I won't lie to you child. I don't remember Harry. I taught hundreds of students at that school and I did it for years. But I don't remember any sardar kid called Harman. I am really sorry." Saying this she returned to her serial, as if dismissing Harneet from her presence.

Shocked and a little affronted, Harnu got up to leave when her glance fell upon a framed photo on the wall. It was Stella at the school, giving away a prize to a student.

She was short and plump and was dressed in an ordinary grey salwar-suit. Her face was devoid of make-up and her features looked stern. There was nothing kind about that face.

Harneet got up and walked out of the house.

©Manas Gupta

3 Seasons And A Smile

© Manas Gupta

It was a freezing Delhi morning when I first saw her.

The weather forecaster had droned on about how this was one of the coldest winters since 1929. I was waiting for my bus, wearing my made-in-China jacket with the hood that gave one just enough anonymity to not stand out.

It wasn't her appearance that drew my attention at first. It was her laugh. A loud, full-throated, uninhibited laugh that irritated the grumpy old men standing near her but drew a smile from the younger ones, some of whom stared shamelessly.

It was a laugh full of life and warmth and it touched something inside. I stole a glance. She was on the phone, her breath visible in the cold January morning. Thankfully, the sound of the laughter went well with the pretty face. She had nice, even teeth which made her smile dazzle. Her eyes had a life of their own and changed with every sentence. She wasn't very tall, about 5'4. She was wearing jeans, a bright multi-coloured polo-neck pullover and grey sports shoes. "College girl," I thought as I strained to pick up her conversation on the phone to hear her voice again.

My heart was beating loudly and there was this feeling in the pit of my stomach, a combination of fear and excitement, as if I was going to dive into a pool from a really high cliff. In the midst of that loud Delhi traffic, I could hear my heart beat. Thump, thump...thump, thump.

Her bus came before mine. No. 570, I noticed. "Must be going to Janakpuri," I thought. As she climbed aboard, she glanced in my direction, as if she knew I was staring. I was embarrassed. She smiled. I wanted to avert my head in shame but something kept it in place. I blinked. And she was gone.

Chapter 2

I reached the bus stand 5 minutes early the next day, hoping to see her again, desperately wishing that she be a regular. She came. Thump, thump, thump, thump. I gathered some courage and withstood the glare of a chubby lady in a sari to position myself closer. This time I got a whiff of her perfume. Thump, thump. "Quiet, damn you," I thought, scared that someone will hear the heartbeat.

 I wanted to start a conversation. Should I ask her the time? Naah! Too lame. Should I ask which bus goes to Janakpuri? Yeah, right, and come across as stupid. Just then, her phone rang, preempting any chance of a conversation. "Yeah mom, I've taken the lunchbox," she said. Her voice was like molten chocolate, syrupy and sweet with just enough bitterness in it. And then the bus came. I again stared, hopeful for an encore. She did glance back and this time I smiled. She didn't. Her mind was elsewhere. And then she was gone. I hadn't blinked this time.

Chapter 3

Our meetings became regular and winter turned to spring, the season of love. But Delhi doesn't experience spring. It's just a warmer winter masquerading as spring. But for young people, it's enough. This doesn't mean I discovered the courage to open my mouth. But I was sure she knew I existed.

We started arriving at nearly the same time everyday. She had smiled at me on the third day when she reached the bus stand, encouraging those hormones that had gone into hibernation after college. But still, I kept quiet. The only sound being “thump, thump”. For some strange reason I believed that she could hear it, and I stopped telling it to shut up.

The plump lady in the sari too seemed to have jumped to her own conclusions. Her hostility dropped and when I reached the bus stop she would slide over with a conspiratorial smile.

Chapter 4

Summer came with a vengeance. A lot of people hate the cold, harsh winter in Delhi. I love it. Sometimes I think I only love it because I hate summer so much. The heat saps you of all energy, turns you into an irritable wasp and makes the soles of your feet burn like a frying aaloo-tikki in Chandni Chowk.

In this insufferable weather, I decided enough is enough. Today is the day I speak to her. A do or die moment, the impulsiveness brought on by the heat and perhaps the shame of having waited forever.

She came at the same time. I was waiting. There was no hiding behind a hood today. I was wearing an ironed, white linen shirt and emitting the new deodorant I had seen on TV. The one that attracts women like a millionaire attracts blondes.

Today, she was in a salwar-kurta. She wore a bindi and there was a glow on her face. It was as if she knew today was going to be a special day.

As I moved closer, waiting for her smile, another man came and stood beside her. She smiled at him. He quietly, without drawing attention, held her hand. She blushed. I watched.

She got on to the bus as usual and while climbing, she looked at me and smiled...like everyday. I couldn't smile back.

©Manas Gupta

The End

The Three Warriors

©Manas Gupta

Rashtriya Rifles Camp, Pahalgam, J&K.

Hawaldar Shankar Singh got off the army truck with his rucksack and looked around the camp. It wasn't the kind of camp he was used to and he could sense tension in the atmosphere.

The Rashtriya Rifles was an organisation formed to combat terrorism in Jammu & Kashmir and was made up of a blend of all kinds of units. Shankar Singh belonged to one such unit. He reported to his Subedar Major for duty and after his introductions to some of the unit members, was sent to his allotted tent.

"Come inside son", a shrill voice boomed as he was stepping in the tent. He looked up to see an overweight Sikh soldier in an olive green vest and camouflage pants reading a newspaper. "Hawaldar Major Gurmel Singh Sandhu from 2nd Sikh Light Infantry," he said without getting up "and this is Lance Nayak Suresh Mahajan from the 10 Para Commandos", he added, pointing to the figure sleeping on the adjoining cot. Shankar immediately saluted the Sikh and introduced himself. Disturbed by the noise, Mahajan also got up and flashed a smile revealing the absence of two front teeth.

"Imammuddin has struck again yaar," he said to no one in particular. "This time he killed two buffaloes and kidnapped the senile Mukhiya of the neighbouring village's panchayat. Of course they will have to release him soon, because nobody is ready to pay a ransom."

"Yeah man," chipped in Gurmel. "This Imammuddin is turning out to be a real pain. We need to take him out as soon as possible."

"Who is this Imammuddin?" asked Shankar.

"He's a sadistic monster," said Mahajan. "He heads the commando unit of the Barkat-ul-Mujahiddin and leaves a trail of bodies wherever he goes. Rumour has it that he is an Afghan and killed over a 120 Russian soldiers during the Soviet invasion in 1979. "

"How come you know so much Suresh Bhai? I guess being in the Para Commandos must have given you a lot of experience," said an awed Shankar.

"Oh yeah, Suresh is tough," said Gurmel. "In fact, he once managed to knock out the entire 10 Para Commandos." Seeing the disbelief on Shankar's face he continued, "Of course that is entirely due to the fact that he is their cook," Gurmel guffawed.

Mahajan obviously didn't like this introduction and counter-attacked. "Our esteemed Hawaldar Major," he said "is of course very experienced in counter-terrorism you know. After all, serving as an orderly in the house of a Colonel for the last five years must have made him eligible for a Param Vir Chakra. "

"Watch your tongue you impotent son of a jackal," shouted the enraged Sikh. Before Mahajan could come up with a suitable retort an officer entered their tent. "What the hell is happening here," he bellowed?

The three at once came to attention. The officer, Major Rathore, unleashed a tirade, calling the trio the scum of the Indian Army and comparing them to the rear end of the endangered wild ass.

Major Rathore had joined the Army with illusions of fame and glory. However, fate and the Indian Army had other plans in store for him. After 15 years of service, he had remained a Major with nothing illustrious to his name. When he had been transferred to the Rashtriya Rifles, he had sensed an opportunity for a promotion and a couple of medals, but the last eight months of his tenure in the strife-torn state had largely been incident free. Imammuddin, he felt, was his ticket to fame. Born to a well-to-do family, he considered all enlisted men as filth.

On that day, his informer got him news that Imammuddin was holed up in a cave nearby, and he immediately jumped into action. With a force of 20 men, which included the trio of Shankar, Gurmel and Mahajan, he left for the cave.

The location of the cave was about 38 km from the camp and after about 20 km of road, the terrain became mountainous and hostile and the soldiers had to continue on foot. The troops made their way silently towards their destination; eyes alert, guns ready, moving with practiced coordination.

Shankar, who wasn't used to the thin mountain air, had trouble keeping up and lagged behind. Gurmel, the fat Sikh who just needed an excuse to avoid exertion kept him company and Mahajan too hovered nearby. The trio was having trouble getting along and frequently broke into arguments using colourful language. Major Rathore, who was already tense, lost his temper when the fat Gurmel rolled down a hill after a push from Mahajan and ended up with his feet on top. While the rest of the soldiers were trying hard to control their laughter, the Major went down and gave the "three bungling buffoons" another dressing down. He now realised that the three actually posed a threat to the mission. He decided to send them on a separate errand, away from the action.

"You three will go to the other side of the hill and scout for enemy snipers and signs for suspicious activity," he ordered.

While the rest of the soldiers continued towards their objective, egged on by the angry Major, the trio headed in a separate direction, exchanging dirty looks. Major Rathore reached his objective in another hour-and-a-half. He surrounded the cave and placed himself at a safe distance, away from the line of fire. There was complete silence as the soldiers waited for Rathore to give the order to charge.

Meanwhile, the trio of Shankar, Gurmel and Mahajan reached a small stream, where they decide to refill their water bottles and rest a while. Not surprisingly, they were in the middle of another argument. While Shankar was insisting that camel's milk was the answer to treating infertility, Gurmel thought that mixing butter with garlic juice on betel lead was the better option and Mahajan of course thought that an infertile person should be banished to the Andamans.

During the course of this very outlandish squabble, Gurmel Singh went on to place his not-so-light frame on what he thought was a very nicely placed boulder. What he didn't know was that he was sitting next to the posterior of one of the most feared men in the Kashmir Valley. Self-styled Lieutenant Commander Imamuddin Khan was at the moment struggling to stop his shivering, as he stood on all fours, stark naked behind that very boulder.

On recalling this incident later, Imamuddin is said to have cursed all species of the common frog. Just as the three soldiers were planning to move, a frog that might in this situation be described as a naughty tadpole with raging hormones, decided that he wanted a different place to sit on. The frog made an appreciable attempt to cross Imammuddin's body, but unfortunately collided with his armpit. As fate would have it, Imammuddin was extremely ticklish and this collision made him shake his arm violently. This movement sent him, Gurmel and the frog tumbling into the stream.

While the frog understandably, didn't stay to vent his anger at the carelessness of the militant, both Gurmel and Imammuddin were rooted to their spots, paralysed with fear. Gurmel was more shocked from the fall while Imammuddin feared for his life. Mahajan and Shankar, though unaware of Imammuddin's identity, apprehended him as his antics fell under the category of suspicious.

In the intervening time, Major Rathore was justifiably irate when his charge in the cave revealed only one sheep, four mountain goats and a young sleepy shepherd aged about 8 who also went by the name of Imammuddin.


Epilogue

From A News Agency

Srinagar. Three commandos of The Rashtriya Rifles apprehended hardcore militant, self-styled Lieutenant Commander Imammuddin Khan yesterday. The three commandos, who were on a routine patrol mission, spied the militant in the treacherous terrain of Pahalgam and managed to arrest him without firing a single shot. The three have been recommended for the Vir Chakra by their commanding officer. Imammuddin is an Afghan national who saw action during the 1979 invasion of Afghanistan by the former Soviet Union. He was wanted in a number of cases, and with his arrest the Army claims to have uncovered an operation to unleash a string of explosions across the Valley. 

©Manas Gupta