Unfinished work left in our bags

This post garnered second most number of votes in Blog-a-Ton 59 and won me the Silver Blog-a-Tonic of the Month aka SILVER BATOM award. Click here to see the results page.

This post has been published by me as a part of Blog-a-Ton 59; the fifty-ninth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. In association with ​IndiCreator. For Creators. By Creators.. Share Your #LockdownTales at indicreator.com

Smiles, tears, ecstasy, cheers

Kisses, hugs and mugs of beer

Secrets, silences, taking a drag

Unfinished work left in our bags

Truths, lies, bare-it-all confessions

High on each other, make-out sessions

Passion, compassion, trust and sweat

Car playlist, matching our moods, perfect

Then an end, despair, parting of ways

Whole lifetime lived, in just one day

***

I like her

I like the way she made me feel so special

Maybe, I also love her

At least, I loved the feeling of being in love with her

Because what else it means to like or to love someone

It’s just how they make you feel

I hate this lockdown

It makes me feel dejected

It has taken her away from me

***

The two of us were at a bar, on just our second date

I had left work early, packing all pending files in my bag

She had left early too, pretending to be sick

It was the same day the first case surfaced in the town

But we didn’t know about it, until later

The virus was spreading fast across the world

But it felt safe till, at least, there was no one infected around us

I knew this safety was just an illusion

But I didn’t know what was transpiring between us was also one

It just felt so real

***

I asked her if I should drop her home

She wanted to stay for some more time

She was feeling quite vulnerable

Someone at her sister’s office had tested positive

Her sister had been quarantined

Her mother wanted her to return home

I feel suffocated at home, she told me

That was the reason she took up a job as far away as possible

***

I parked the car near her hostel

The evening had been magical

The next couple of hours in the car were even more so

***

I woke up thinking about her

I had sent her a message before going to sleep

There were butterflies in my stomach

In fact, it was at that moment I realised what that expression meant

I picked up my phone, hoping to see a reply

And also dreading one

It was there

What must she have written

Does she feel the same way as l do

I took a few moments before opening it

She was leaving for her hometown in the evening

***

Lockdown was impending

Her mother was anxious

She wanted her to be back home safe

I’ll be back, hopefully, in a month, she said

I put the figure at two months, at least

But she was supposed to be back, nonetheless

I hugged her, as she boarded the train

There was a tear I saw trickling down her left cheek

***

Our phone calls continued

Life was tough for her at home

She had told me about her abusive father that night in the car

She had cried and hugged me

I cried with her

We pulled back the seats and just kept lying there in silence

It was that emotional intimacy, not physical, that made me fall in love

Or maybe fall in love with the feeling of being in love with her

Now, a thousand miles apart, we just hoped the worst would be over soon

She was supposed to be back for her job

And for me, I hoped

She did make me feel special, afterall

***

I could keep looking at you

Silently, not saying a word

You fill me with this emotion

Heart takes flight, like a bird

Is it infatuation or is it love

To me, it's not yet occurred

But I'm hooked to you totally

To me, you mean the world

***

She had not been replying to my messages

It had been at least six hours

I was worried

The virus was spreading fast around us

Just two days ago she had mentioned about a neighbour

My flurry of messages didn’t stop

Finally, my phone rang

I gave a sigh of relief

But the relief was short-lived

***

I won’t be returning, she said

Her firm had decided to lay her off

She could get another job, I said, once things settle down

She was not too sure

She had returned home after two years

One month was enough for her mother to convince her to stay

I would move into a hostel and look for a job here, she said

What about us, I asked

She had no answer

***

Our phone calls kept dwindling

I am busy, she said

Even I am, I said, but still find time for you

It’s not that easy for me, she said

She had to deal with her abusive father, emotional mother and overbearing new boss

I want to be there for you, even if from a distance, to share the emotional load

She said thanks, and then was gone for days

The cycle kept repeating, much to my dismay

So finally, I told her I should move on

When, in fact, she had moved on already

And just like this, it all ended, but not the lockdown

***

The things that we were meant to do together will never be done

All the moments we thought we'd spend together are like ashes in urn

The memories we built in a few days together will soon gather dust

The promises we made of having a future together have all gone bust

What's left is despair, silence, heartbreak and an agonising pain

Why am I still standing here, thinking of you, when you are nowhere

Will time heal this broken heart, or will I get used to this life inane

Who ditched whom, I don't know, but believe me, I did always care

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Show your support for the hastags #BlogATon59 & #LockdownTales. Participation Count: 16.

Change

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton Season 2 edition 18; the eighteenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Change, they say is always for good. But what if the thing you fear the most is the change itself? I always thought that my path is set clear in front of me. But, some contingencies, I forgot to account for. Now, I had two options, either to keep treading the same path or change the path itself. But how could I overcome the fear of change?

*

My name is Khan and I am not a terrorist. No points for guessing that I am a huge fan of Shahrukh bhai. And my life is as filmy as his movies. However, I didn’t come to Mumbai, like many other fans of his, to see him. I was here to create a spectacle for the world to see.

I come from a village, some miles north of Peshawar. I was happy rearing my father’s cattle and my world was limited to that village and the vast grazing terrain around it. How was I to know, that my horizon will soon be broadened and I’ll become a carrier of Allah’s message. Or that’s what they claimed. They, to whom my father sold me to buy some more cattle.

I was sent to a training camp in Azad Kashmir along with two other boys from my village and about a dozen from neighboring ones. It was literally, a crash course to manhood. From there, we were sent to another training camp in Punjab, a more sophisticated one. Finally, after an intensive training of one year, a team of fifteen was formed. Our mission was to reach the shores of Mumbai and recreate the horrors of 2008. However, this time, we were to wait, live amongst the people for some time and carry out the assigned task when called for. In short, we were to form a sleeper cell.

We reached Mumbai safely. It seemed the Indians had learnt nothing from the previous catastrophe. I along with couple of others moved to a kholi in Dharavi where we were to be harbored during our stay here. And within no time, thanks to the training we had obtained, we melted within this subaltern melting pot of Mumbai.

So now, you must be wondering, when are we planning the next 26/11? You’ll get your answers soon. Picture abhi baki hai mere dost!!!

*

I wasn’t a Khan anymore, I became Raj. I had a tough time making a choice between Rahul and Raj but DDLJ made all the difference.

While, I was busy waiting for the final orders, I had no idea that here in India, I’ll also meet my Simran, my P…P…P…Pooja. And, yes that is the contingency that I had never accounted for.

I didn’t meet her on a train or a local, as they call it here, with my hand extended at the door as she came running on the platform. My life is filmy as I said, but not that filmy too. We crossed each other’s path for the first time while I was rushing to join the line outside the public lavatory one early morning. Not an ideal setting for the love at first sight but still kuchh kuchh hota hai… tum nahin samjhoge.

I can’t claim that she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my life. On the contrary, her virtue was her simplicity, the indefinable thing about her that made her look so familiar. It felt as if I had known her all along. I bet, even you must have felt like this about someone at some point of time in your life. If not, then you have missed upon a feeling which has no match.

Pooja stayed just a couple of lanes across and we started meeting in the evenings when I returned from the shop where I worked.

They had told us during our training that if we kept following His path, one day we will experience completeness – the completeness of conviction and purpose. With Pooja around, I could experience the same. It seemed as if she was the missing piece in the jigsaw puzzle of my life.

I used to wonder at nights that how could the passion for Jihad be more essential than this passion of souls? If it was so insignificant, then why did Allah allow such thoughts to enter our mind? Or was it the devil playing games on me? Should I leave her as she is the source behind all this inquisitiveness? How can I be with her when she is a kafir? But how could she be a kafir? Both of us seemed so alike. And what harm had she done to anyone?

Such jihad within my mind kept me awakened for hours.

To ward off these thoughts, I started recollecting the verses from the Holy Book which were incessantly recited to us day and night during those days of training. The things started becoming clearer as such contemplating nights passed.

They used to say that He loves the one who does good, the pure, the righteous, the patient and persevering and also the one who takes up arms to fight in His cause.

But that made me wonder, where is the love for those who have sinned and erred? Where is the love for those who are not like us and don’t share our beliefs? Is their path not righteous just because they choose to follow a different path?

We humans too tend to love those who demonstrate good qualities and are obedient to us. Then what is the difference between Him and us, the mere mortals, if his love is also based on conditions.

I had achieved the Jihad. As Shahrukh bhai would have said, "Pyaar zindagi ki tarah hota hai, Jiska har morr aasan nahi hota, Har raste per khushi nahi milti, Par jab hum zindagi ka saath nahin chorte, To hum pyaar karna kyon chorein!" Other things were of no consequence to me.

They wanted me to become a carrier of Allah’s message. And I decided to become one. So this morning, I gathered my belongings and left the kholi discreetly. I wanted to meet Pooja first but decided against it. I went straight to the police station to surrender and become the whistle blower. As it is, whistle blowing is the new fad.

In my voice, Allah won’t speak of Jihad-e-Asghar, the 'Lesser Jihad' of purifying the world with war and crusade. He shall speak only of Jihad-e-Akbar, the 'Greater Jihad' of cleansing ones soul with love and compassion. Nasrun Minallahi Wa Fathun Qareeb!

*

Sitting here in this cell tonight and thinking about what all has transpired in all these days, I realize that wasn’t it a change itself that made me change my path? Yes, the change of heart nourished by someone’s love. And wasn’t it this change that changed the very message I set out to convey to the world? And wasn’t it this change which gave me the strength to ward off the fears of the eventuality of such a decision?

Change, my friends, is indeed always for good.

***

Reflections for Reference

• My name is Khan and I am not a terrorist is the defining dialogue of Shahrukh Khan’s (SRK) My name is Khan (2010)
• Picture abhi baki hai mere dost is the famous line from SRK’s Om Shanti Om (2007) and it means, ‘The movie is still not over, my friend’.
• Raj is the name of the character played by SRK in DDLJ, the abbreviation for Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayeinge (1995) and Simran is his love interest.
• Rahul is the name of the character played by SRK in Kuchh Kuchh Hota Hai (1998).
• P…P…P…Pooja is a reference to SRK’s stuttering K..K..K.. Kiran in Darr (1993).
• Kuchh kuchh hota hai… tum nahin samjhoge is the romantic line from SRK’s Kuchh Kuchh Hota Hai (1998) and colloquially it means, 'Something transpires in the heart... You won't understand'.
• 'Pyaar zindagi ki tarah hota hai...' is SRK’s famous dialogue from Mohabbatein (2000) which means, 'Love is like life, whose every turn isn’t easy, there isn’t happiness on every path, but when we don’t let go of life, then how can we let go of love!'
• Nasrun Minallahi Wa Fathun Qareeb is an Arabic phrase meaning ‘With the help from Allah, the success is near’ which was rendered by SRK in his movie Chak De India (2007).

In the Image:
An edited poster of Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayeinge (1995)

Image Courtesy:
http://wallpapers-desktop-studio.blogspot.com/ (edited)

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

The Last Flight

He revved up his bike as he neared yet another bend. He had done it each time but somehow at the last moment, allowed himself to flow with the road. By now, he had ascended much higher than he had actually planned to. But on the contrary, his actual plans were to ascend much higher than these physical bounds and measures. He could see another bend approaching some meters away. He throttled his bike further and this time his grip on the accelerator didn’t loosen. There was no fencing on the outer side of the bend. The bike smoothly shifted from the solid concrete road to the weightless air below it. He was flying. He had heard it many times that at such moments, the whole life flashes through in front of you. He saw nothing. He shut his eyes. The only thing he could feel was weightlessness - weightlessness of his mind and of his body. Soon the gravity took over. And he let go of the bike. As he descended, his sensory perceptions kept shutting off one by one. Whole through, he could hear the air gushing past him. Soon, that sense also got shut off. However, a faint smile still remained on his face, an expression embossed there upon the realization that he had eventually ascended much higher through this descent. While the searchers recovered his dismantled body from the foot of the gorge, his soul had been recovered by him much earlier during that last flight.

P.S. Though not an ideal plot for a post commemorating a milestone on this blog, it happens to be the hundredth published post on Reflections of an Empathic Libertarian. 

Image Courtesy:

http://andrewmagrath.files.wordpress.com (edited)

Mystery of the Deserted Station

This post garnered third most number of votes from amongst the 54 entries for Blog-a-Ton 15 and won me the Bronze Blog-a-Tonic of the Month aka BRONZE BATOM award. Click here to see the results page.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 15; the fifteenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon as Vikrant deboarded the Uttar-Dakshin Express. Despite the one day long journey, there wasn’t a trace of laziness in his stride as he marched towards the exit. He was beaming from within with an odd mix of anxiousness for what awaited in his new assignment.

One could easily make out from his demeanour that this was a man of strong will and he had established himself as one, fighting the hardened criminals in his last posting as an Assistant Superintendent of Police.

Lalitgarh was a new place and he had a new position to take over. He was joining its police department as Superintendent of Police, having climbed the rung much faster than others.

He had just moved some paces when he got thronged by a dozen men with garlands in their hands. It took him about half an hour to get through the sycophants and their hollow pleasantries before he could move to the awaiting car.

As the car moved towards the officer’s guest house, Vikrant was surprised to see the railway station, he had seen just a few kilometres before his journey to Lalitgarh had ended. When he had seen it just about an hour ago, he was amazed by the beautiful architecture. It was reminiscent of the British era, something that he had only seen in the cities of Mumbai and Kolkatta.

“How come we have such a beautiful station in this remote district?” he asked his subordinate.

“Sir, this is Herbert Station. It was commissioned by the Nawab in the early 20th century and designed by the British architect Sir Herbert Manning,” he replied.

“Well, that is interesting. But then how come it is deserted and I had to deboard at that shanty of a station in the outskirts of the city instead of here?”

At that instance, the driver chipped in nervously, “Sirji, there is a long story behind it. Let us pass through this area. I’ll share it with you later.”

*

Vikrant had been in the district for a week when he decided to make a surprise visit to some distilleries in the outskirts of the city. It was then that he saw the Herbert Station again and all of a sudden all those unanswered questions sprung up again.

“Listen Raju, you never told me the story behind this deserted station,” he asked his driver.

“Sirji, its inauspicious to tell such a tale at the very place where it all has happened,” replied the driver, again trying to steer clear of the issue.

However, Vikrant wouldn’t take a no for an answer and asked again with a hint of anger in his tone.

Raju had to relent but only when they had driven past the station.

“Sirji, as DSP sahib told you that day, this station was designed by a British. He was paid heavily by the Nawab and hence, he took great care in its construction too. On the ill-fated day of the inauguration, among the entire hullabaloo, the man of the day, Sir Herbert slipped from the platform. He fell on the tracks, his head hitting hard on the steel frame. Despite the best possible medical attention of the time, he lost his eye sight due to this incident.”

“Oh, that is sad. So, this station never got inaugurated. Such a waste,” commented Vikrant empathically.

“No, sirji. That’s not the issue. The Railway Station was fully functional after that day. However, after this mishap, Sir Herbert became very reclusive. He never went back to Britain. On his request, Nawab arranged for his stay at a luxurious cottage near the station itself. One day, his caretaker, found him dead at his cottage. He had consumed some poisonous herbs. It was a suicide or yet another misfortune, no one could tell. He is buried just next to that cottage behind the railway station.”

“Ah, so that’s when this railway station was abandoned. I don’t think such a great artist would have wanted his creation to be deserted like this.”

“Sirji, even that’s not an issue. In fact, it was after this incident that the station got its name in memory of that man. No one even knew about this story until about ten years back. It was then that the first incident occurred.”

“What incident?” blurted Vikrant in a jiffy.

“It was a morning after the full moon. Just a day before that, the proposal for the renovation of the station was passed by the administration. It was then, that the Station Master’s body was found on the platform. His eyes had been gouged out mercilessly. The autopsy showed that he died of poisoning. Many investigations were carried out but no trace to the perpetrator could be found.”

“Oh, that’s terrible. What happened then?” he coaxed, fully engrossed in the story.

“Before the people could forget this incident, another body was found in the same condition. It was then that people started talking about paranormal explanation behind these happenings. The local newspaper came out with an article about Sir Herbert and gradually, a link was established between his misfortune and these deaths.”

“So, you mean to say, it is the angry ghost of Sir Herbert that is doing all this. What nonsense?”

“Sirji, there can’t be any other explanation. Till now about a dozen people have died; their desecrated bodies found on the platform by the drivers of the passing trains. People have heard noises, they claim they have seen things. After another couple of incidents, even the station was abandoned and the new make-shift station was built.”

“What about the investigations. Couldn’t they find even a single clue in all these years?”

“Sirji, one of the victim was an investigating CID official himself. There are things for which there can be no practical answer, you see. You may not believe in these things sirji, but remember, there is a big vacant space beyond our individual beliefs. Who or what resides in that void, no one can tell.”

*

Vikrant was pretty uneasy that evening. He had taken the customary shower and a drink upon returning from work. Usually, he just watched some news and waited for the dinner to be served. However, today he decided to go out for a jog. Maybe, a little fresh air will lighten me up, he thought. He decided not to go too far, the sky being cloudy; but lost in his own thoughts and jogging to the tune of the cool breeze, he didn’t realise how far he had jogged to.

It was then, that he saw that railway station again. It was across the fields with thick vegetation growing all around it. However, despite the dimming light, it looked magnificent. Someone else would have called it haunted, but at that moment he was just mesmerised by it.

It reminded him of his visits to his paternal village. There used to be a beautiful mansion there which was rumoured to be haunted. He always loved walking by it in the evenings while his cousins steered clear. It was only as he grew up, he realised, the mansion belonged to a rich influential family which now resided in the city and all the stories were just cooked up by the elders to keep the children away from it.

Suddenly, he had an urge to take a closer look. Aided by the full moon’s light, filtered and scattered through the clouds, he moved towards the station.

When, he had heard the story about Herbert’s ghost in the morning, he had been amused. If I meet this guy, I’ll surely compliment him for this beautiful architecture, he chuckled.

Upon reaching the station, he crossed the railway tracks and climbed onto the platform. He started walking on the platform enjoying the cool breeze and singing some old melodious song. It brought back the memories of his minor halt at another station while going on a trip with his college friends. They ended up making the life of other waiting passengers, a hell by playing antakshari whole through the night till the connecting train finally arrived around dawn.

Vikrant decided to enter the central hall which led to the main entrance and the exit. However, upon taking a glance, he realised there was no point exploring it as it was too dark inside. So he decided to go around by climbing a small wall which extended for some yards beyond the main structure.

Just as he jumped onto the other side, he could see a cottage on his far right. One could easily sense on seeing the courtyard that it had not been mowed since years. He got all the more excited on seeing a grave just next to the cottage. Though apprehensive at first due to the fear of any snake or scorpions, he decided to go and have a closer look.

Vikrant had always been adventurous. It was this love for adventure that made him opt for IPS  instead of IAS despite the grander status associated with the latter. He couldn’t see himself stuck with the files in an air-conditioned office. He always wanted to have a slice of the real action.

Just as he reached closer, he heard some ruffled noises. It made him freeze in his tracks. Upon concentrating, he realised they were coming from the wall behind the cottage. He moved towards it cautiously trying to find a spot from where he could see through.

Finally, he found a crevice in the wall and peeped through. It was pretty dark and he found nothing suspicious. It must have been some animal, he thought. Just as he was about to turn back, his eye caught something odd. For a moment, he didn’t realise what was happening. However, it just took some seconds to realise what lay in front of him across the bricked wall.

He stood there stunned. A drop of sweat slipped down his forehead as he reached for his revolver that was tucked in the holster below his tee. Usually, he never carried it during his morning exercises but it being evening, he had decided to keep it handy. However, standing there, he wasn’t even sure if he was relieved to have it.

There was obviously something sinister about this place. How else would one explain such stories, he thought. How could he be so naive? All this police training and on the job action and this is what I get stuck into, he cursed himself. Adventure was one thing but acting like a jerk, a different. He knew he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. He had to make his move quickly and quietly. He couldn’t just keep standing there. It was too dangerous.

He loosened his grip on the revolver and turned back. Concentrating hard on his track in the dark, he moved back slowly through the courtyard towards the wall. He was relieved that the overgrowth was cushioning any noise that his footsteps were making.

Despite the soup he got himself into, he humoured himself with the instance when he had walked unannounced into his elder brother’s bedroom while he was busy watching porn in the dark. He had tip-toed across the room to pick up his comics and moved back so stealthily that his brother didn’t have a chance to realise his presence.

Tip-toeing through the courtyard, Vikrant finally reached back to the wall adjoining the platform. Just as he tried to climb it, his foot gave away its grip and he fell down hard on his back.

*

Despite the heavy rains that had drenched Lalitgarh over the night, there was a lot of hustle and bustle around. For those who were surprised to see a sudden rush of police jeeps and other vehicles, the picture got clear as the evening newspaper reached their doorsteps.

It carried the following headlines.

Herbert Ghost strikes again - Body of new SP found with eyes missing.

The people were terrified upon looking at the picture that accompanied it. It took another month or two for normalcy to return to Lalitgarh. Investigations were held but as usual nothing suspicious was found. Meanwhile, the local community got a new tale to add to the existing tales of the haunted station. Vikrant, the illustrious police officer got reduced to a vignette in these never ending tales.

And yet again, the mystery of the deserted station remained a mystery.

***

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Credits
Image - Alston Station by Wandering Soul
Courtesy - www.deviantart.com via www.blogaton.in

Goodbye

This post garnered second most number of votes from amongst the 75 entries for Blog-a-Ton 13 and won me the Silver Blog-a-Tonic of the Month aka SILVER BATOM award. Click here to see the results page.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 13; the thirteenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

As he entered the Hyderabad station, he could hear the whistling engine. Realizing that he is losing the time, he started running towards the platform as the train chugged along. Wasting no time, he hopped onto the first wagon within reach, hurting his left forearm which was already bandaged.

“Assalamu alaikum,” he greeted the men sitting in the first compartment as he searched for a vacant seat.

“Wa alaikum assalam,” replied three of them in a chorus.

One of them, a jovial looking person, made space for him on the rugged bench.

“Hello, I am Iqbal. That wound seems pretty nasty, brother,” he said looking at his bandaged forearm.

“A blow during a riot,” he replied with lack of emotions in his eyes.

“If you are the one with just a minor injury, then I believe that kafir must have gone down after inflicting it upon you,” interjected another fellow passenger with a flowing beard.

“You bet,” he replied, smiling with an evident sense of pride.

“I don’t think there is any need to smile about this senseless violence,” commented Iqbal in a serious tone, unlike his general disposition.

“I believe, you were lucky, not to be stuck in any riot then,” said the bearded passenger condescendingly.

“I lost my brother to it,” came back Iqbal’s matter-of-factly reply.

There was silence for some time before the bearded passenger spoke up once again.

“My name is Raza Khan. What’s your name brother?” he inquired the new co-traveller.

“I am Shah Mohammad from Multan,” he replied.

“Well, I’ve heard there has been considerable rioting up north in Punjab,” said Iqbal inquisitively.

“Yes, you have heard it right. As it is, there is little love lost between Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims due to the trust deficit created by all the political activities in the recent past.

“Moreover, the partition has been pretty haphazard, Amritsar and Lahore being the bone of contention. All this has led to a lot of inter-communal violence on both sides of the border,” affirmed Shah.

“Sindh has been pretty peaceful, unlike Punjab. I see no reason why can’t the existing populations keep staying where they are,” said Iqbal empathically.

“What are you saying? Pakistan is the land of Islam. How can kafirs stay here?

"As it is, there is such an influx of our Muslim brethren from across the border. Where will they stay if we do not kick out these dogs from here?” answered Khan indignantly.

“He’s right,” said another co-passenger as others also nodded along.

Shah wiped off his brow and adjusted his bandage, evidently still in pain due to the wound.

Seeing the odds against himself, Iqbal preferred to keep to himself while others started discussing the horrific tales of massacres and violence. Suddenly, the hustle and bustle was interrupted as the wagon jerked and the train slowed down near an approaching station.

“We all are the sons of the same God. This is His Land and we all have equal right upon it and its resources. May Allah’s mercy be upon you,” said Iqbal, picking up his luggage to deboard the train.

“Ah! Thank goodness that weak hearted dog has left this train. If he had stayed anymore, I would have definitely thrown him out of it,” said Khan with raised brow and quivering moustache, as the engine whistled again.

“Indeed,” replied Shah in acknowledgement.

“So what takes you to Karachi?” asked Khan.

“Well, I work for a merchant. I am going to Karachi in relation to some consignment that is reaching the docks tomorrow,” replied Shah after a brief pause.

“So, you were part of a riot, haan” commented Khan.

“Yes. As you have already noticed, this wound speaks for itself,” replied Shah matter-of-factly.

“How many dogs did you slay?” asked Khan continuing with his volley of questions.

“Well, a couple of them,” replied Shah, keeping Khan in good humour.

“You know why am I going to Karachi?” Khan said, wanting Shah to show some inquisitiveness. 

Shah just shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, my brother worked for the government in Delhi. Upon hearing the news of partition, I sent him a telegram cajoling him to return to Hyderabad as soon as possible.

“As he was a government official, he thought unlike other fleeing Muslim brothers, he could take his time in disposing off his property and gathering some resources before he leaves India. 

“By the time he left for Lahore, violence had reached its peak in Punjab. His train was attacked by the Sikh guerrillas near the Ludhiana station. Despite the Indian army that was accompanying them, he didn’t survive. I am so sure that the army must have conspired with the guerrillas too.

“What was his fault? He was just peacefully leaving their land and returning to Pakistan. Now, it comes upon me to avenge his death.

“They killed my innocent brother. And you know, now I’ll be killing their fleeing brothers,” concluded Khan, evidently seething within. 

“Inshallah,” said a couple of co-passengers.

“Anyone of you wants to join me in this service of God,” asked Khan looking one by one at all the five men sitting in his compartment.

No one seemed to be forthcoming. Sharing tales of violence and condoning such heinous acts was one thing but being a part of it, a totally different thing.

“See, I have planned everything. As such there is little scope for violence in the city due to heavy security. 

“My cousin works at the port who’ll let me through to the ship bound for Bombay. Once it drifts away, I’ll attack the unarmed passengers and before anyone can raise an alarm, I’ll jump overboard and swim back to the shore.

“With no witnesses to vouch for it, I’ll be a free man; free from the fire burning within me and free from any potential accusation,” Khan tried to convince others, pulling out a long dagger from his bag.

The co-passengers were taken aback and conveyed their unwillingness in hushed tones.

However, after contemplating for some time, Shah replied, “I am with you my brother. It looks well planned and it also gives me an opportunity to do some good.”

Once the train reached the Karachi railway station, both Shah and Khan proceeded to the port. The city seemed pretty crowded due to the migrating population. Khan kept close to Shah to ensure that his just acquired accomplice doesn’t have any second thoughts.

“We are well in time; ship leaves in just half an hour,” exclaimed Shah on seeing the schedule hung on the rope at the ports entry.

“Just see these dogs boarding the ship. They think, they’ll just move away like this. They don’t even know what is going to strike them,” snickered Khan.

“Brother, I’ll need a dagger too. You arrange for our mini-voyage and I’ll meet you there in about ten minutes,” said Shah.

“Don’t you worry about that. You hold this,” replied Khan pulling out a sharp knife from it’s holster tucked in his salwar.

Shah put it in his satchel and soon the two of them boarded the ship, waiting with bated breaths for their final assault.

As the ship hit the Arabian Sea, Shah along with Khan slowly moved to the deck. By now the ship had drifted about a mile from the shore on its way to the Bombay harbour. A crowd was gathered on the deck, emotionally waving goodbye to their homeland.

‘Now is the time’, Shah thought leading Khan to a secluded bulwark on an otherwise crowded deck.

Suddenly there was a subdued yell followed by a loud splashing noise. Half a dozen alarmed bystanders turned their heads to see Shah standing there alone against the rail, catching his breath.

“What happened?” asked one of them.

Shah quickly lifted up the sharp dagger lying at his feet and with one quick manoeuvre, ripped open his bandage, before throwing the dagger overboard.

“What’s going on?” said another curious onlooker before seeing Shah's scratchless forearm where there had been a bandage just moments ago.

“And what kind of wound did you have? It seems to have completely healed or should I say vanished,” he added ponderously.

Tilting his forearm, Shah grinned at his own ingenuity.

The baffled bystander looked at the name tattoo on his left forearm before giving a puzzled smile to the smiling Shah Mohammad.

‘Sham Mohan’, it read.

***

Image Courtesy:
http://www.pbs.org (original)

Explanation
I know the twists in my stories can be tricky at times. So explaining the plot. Sham Mohan is a Hindu fleeing Pakistan during the partition. In those days, many people usually tattooed their names on their forearms. If caught, Sham could be killed by people like Khan.  So he applied a bandage to conceal his identity. This part of the story is based on my grandfather's escape from Pakistan.


P.S. 

• This work of fiction has been adapted from a 66-Fiction, I wrote last year - The Journey of His Lifetime.
• If you liked this short story, you can click here to promote it on Indivine.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Wish

	This post was voted as the best from amongst the 70 entries for Blog-a-Ton 12 and won me the Gold Blog-a-Tonic of the Month aka  GOLD BATOM award. Click here to see the results page.
	This post got selected for BlogAdda's Tangy Tuesday Picks. Click here to see the BlogAdda page.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 12; the twelfth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

“Oye Vijay bhai, Come fast. She’ll be in the verandah anytime now.”

Saying this customary line and banging my door hard, Arun, my neighbouring roomie rushed up through the staircase to join the other guys. As always, I rubbed my eyes, took a big yawn, got up slightly, scratched my pot belly, shedding some body hair in the process and suddenly realizing what the ruckus was all about, sprung up instantaneously. Ignoring the fact that I was in my underwear and was all sweaty due to the Delhi heat, which made sleeping at nights, a hellish experience; I too ran up to join all my fellow P.G.’s.

“Hey, you hirsute, how many times we’ve told you to cover yourself before you come,” yelled Abhinav as I barged into the roof.

“Shut up. I don’t have to mind myself in front of a bunch of gays,” I retorted, pushing him aside to take a strategic position along the railing.

“Weren’t you supposed to get a pair of binoculars from home,” I impulsively asked Rajesh who had just returned from Hyderabad.

“Yeah yeah, Narendra is repairing it and getting it in a while. Don’t get on my nerves,” snapped Rajesh, focusing his eyes towards her terrace in absence of the binoculars.

This was our daily routine, the first thing we did every morning. We, the future of India, the enlightened ones who had taken upon themselves to pull the jittery administrative system of the nation, we the aspiring civil servants, but in short, just a bunch of wannabes.

She used to come to her terrace every morning to do some yoga and aerobics. Her bungalow was a couple of lanes across. However, as both the places where we stayed were the tallest amongst the neighboring ones, we had an eagle’s eye view from our roof.

We all had gathered in the national capital from different parts of the country, some came from the plush plains of Punjab and others from the arid deserts of Rajasthan, some from the coconut coasts of Kerala and others from the mineral rich inlands of Chhattisgarh, some from the sugarcane fields of Maharashtra and others from the spicy land of Andhra Pradesh, all with the same dream in their eyes, to pursue the common ambition of joining the guild of extraordinary not-so-gentlemen.

In an otherwise hectic routine, bird watching was a great respite and since a couple of weeks, we had laid our eyes on this beautiful bird. Frankly, from this distance, it wasn’t easy to recognize her but her milky white complexion and petite physique could not be missed in the small and tight outfits she wore.

For a person like me who fell in love on every snap of the fingers, it took no time to fall in this pit once again. Yes, I loved her. In case you want to correct me and tell me sympathetically that ‘my boy, it was just lust’; let me assure you, in that case according to me, the hormonal attraction between the male and the female can be nothing but lust and the karmic connection of the hearts and the souls is all crap.

While not studying, I used to spend all the time just thinking about her. Her image that kept coming back and made me yearn for her was the one when on an evening, I had seen her grabbing some stuff from the terrace as it had started raining. It was pretty windy too and she struggled as her skirt fluttered, exposing much for a nerd like me to go out-of-control.

I wanted her badly. How I wished to clear my examination soon and barge into her house and ask her to marry me. I know, you must be thinking what a maniac I am. You must also be concerned at the sorry state of affairs that people like me can end up running the country. Well, don’t think that much. Even I knew that I am just fantasizing. But somehow deep within, I wanted at least some fantasies of mine to come true. After all, there was no harm in wishful thinking.

Many such days passed adoring her and the nights, beating the heat in her memories. With no access to television or internet, I had nothing better to do. Finally, the inevitable happened. Our preparatory course got over. Some of us decided to stay back while some like me had already planned to move back to our respective cities to prepare further. So with a heavy heart, for one final time, I woke up early to capture her in my eyes for eternity. The same afternoon, I took a bus destined for my city, Chandigarh.

*

Once back, I was engulfed in serious studies and by sheer hardwork, after just a couple of attempts, I cleared the examinations. I ranked decent enough to make it to the elitist services of the all – The Indian Administrative Services.

Suddenly there was a sea-change in the attitude of people around us. For some time, it was difficult to adapt to the change but soon, I started getting used to it.

As I shifted to Mussoorie for my training, my mother started hunting for brides. Already, I had crossed the average age at which most of my cousins had settled down. However, I was in no hurry.

As time progressed, we started receiving proposals for matrimonial alliance from unknown nooks and corners. The marriage market in India works on the simple economic principle of demand and supply. As the supply of the rare breed like me was low, the demand tended to be pretty high.

I had heard of a man who had topped civil services some years ago and went on to marry the then Union Finance Minister's grand daughter. In doing so he had dumped his girl friend who had been with him since college days, living with him in Delhi whole throughout his preparation and caring for him like a dedicated wife.

When I had heard this story from one of my fellow trainee at LBSNAA in Mussoorie, I had cursed that man. However, today I had started finding some logic in what he had done. Power corrupts, they say and it had definitely started corrupting me. Within two years, I had rejected 25 girls, that is on average more than one every month. Add to it, dozens of proposals that had been rejected at the first filtration level itself, which is by my mother, father or sister. 

If not for my newly acquired elite status, these girls would have just spitted on my face on the mere prospect of spending an hour with me and their rich fathers would have hanged me in full public view on hearing about such preposterous proposal. But today, I was the one who was rejecting them and I surely liked it.

Every time I went to see a girl in some lavish 5-star hotel or a sprawling mansion, I could hear a song playing in the background – 'I've got the power'. The parameters on which I evaluated them weren’t their beauty or intelligence but the status of their fathers and their ability to pull the strings at the centre to help me in my deputations, transfers and promotions.

Initially, I had wondered how these groom hunting scavengers came to know about me, till Arun had made an unbelievable revelation.

“Don’t you remember, after your training got over at Mussoorie, all of you were given an information booklet containing your contact details?” he asked me.

“Yeah, so what?” I had answered, puzzled by the odd question.

“So my dear friend, you don’t know that while you guys were just around 100 or so, the booklets printed were nearly 5000. Now don’t ask me where the spare copies go,” he had revealed as I saw a halo appearing around his small head.

This was a rumor or a fact, I didn’t know but it definitely had some logic to it.

Arun, who got through the civil services in the very first attempt had joined the bride hunting game a year earlier than me. Given his modest upbringing and ordinary looks, any girl would have been a prize catch for him. But now with the IRS tag, his demand had gone up by leagues.

"Are you a virgin," he had asked one girl, daughter of a wealthy businessman.

"Yaar, she was just too unbelievingly hot, that I had to confirm," he had later told me embarrassingly.

"Are you?" was what the girl had replied with a mischievous smile on her face.

Poor Arun was neatly trapped by this question. Both the answers would have embarrassed him in front of her; a yes meant he was a big looser, which he definitely was, and a no meant, he was a big hypocrite, which again he was to some extent. 

They ended up marrying and upon returning from the honeymoon, Arun proudly declared to me that she was teaching him all the moves.

*

It was a pleasant Delhi morning, a rare weather in the capital, when my mother declared that we have to go for yet another rendezvous with some prospective in-laws for me.

As most of the times, I enquired nothing about the girl but just her father. Though his credentials didn't sound so great, there was no harm in having a lavish lunch at his expense.

"Arre, this place must be pretty close to where you stayed while your preparation," my father exclaimed as we approached the area.

"Chalo, it's nice. I might give a courtesy call to Colonel Uncle," I said referring to the person at whose place I used to stay as a PG.

"It seems pretty close," my mother said as we passed the lane leading to Colonel Uncle's bungalow.

We took the next to next right and soon the driver honked in front of a massive gate.

"We've reached sahib," said the driver as I for a moment went blank.

As the gates to the mansion opened, I could just stare in amazement. For four months, I had loitered in front of these gates hoping to take a view inside. Finally, they were being opened for me, the gates to the abode where my dream girl resided.

I couldn't believe what was happening. The atheist in me suddenly seemed crumbling and I gave a sigh, 'Oh, Lord!'

We were welcomed by a horde of servants who led us to the door where the owner of the mansion was waiting for us.

“Hello, Mr. Arora. Welcome to my humble cottage,” he said extending his hands to greet my father, choosing that stale line from innumerable Bollywood movies but without any trace of humility to be found in it.

Soon we were seated in the drawing room which was big enough to accommodate my whole house back in Chandigarh.

I waited impatiently for what was next in store for me.

As I picked a glass of water, I heard a clatter of high heels and turned to my left to see a woman approaching through the lobby. I wore my spectacles to see clearly and was amazed at what I saw.

It was her, my dream girl approaching me with a huge smile on her face. I was seeing her after five long years and she definitely looked a little elder than what I had imagined her to be. Afterall, the distance between our homes had never allowed me to see her clearly and considerable time had elapsed in between.

However, she was undoubtedly angelic, someone from out of this world. Her long hair were left loose and I could smell their fragrance, sitting many yards away. Her body was toned just the way it used to be though she wore a little too much than what I was used to see her in.

“Here comes my dear wife,” announced my prospective father-in-law.

Suddenly, I felt floor slipping under my feet. I just could not imagine what I just heard. However, coming out of my dream and thinking logically, it all made sense. She by no means looked like a prospective bride.

I just kept staring at her as she came and greeted us and sat just across to me.

Soon, their daughter too joined us and my parents started talking to her, asking her about her likes and dislikes and everything possible under the sky.

“She is just 19 right. Isn’t she a little too young?” my mother asked my dream girl.

“Well, Mrs. Arora, when I got married, I was just 17. It’s a common thing in our families. The younger the bride, it’s easier for her to adapt to the new environment. Otherwise, my daughter has been good at studies. She’ll be completing her B.A. this year,” she replied with a charming smile on her face.

We sat there for about couple of hours, had lunch and had some discussions with her husband, the guy whom I envied the most today. Mere sitting in front of her was making me go crazy. I felt that same urge, I used to feel back in those days. Today sitting so close, I felt, as if I could just see her through. I could feel butterflies in my stomach on this very imagination. I wished everyone else just disappeared leaving two of us alone in this trance.

All this while, I was just lost in my own thoughts. I preferred not to have any tete-a-tete with the young girl who was also sitting there somehow uninterested, preparing herself to be slaughtered in this impersonal pact between a businessman and an administrative official.

Soon it was the time to leave and after exchanging some pleasantries, we were on our way back.

“So Beta, did you like the girl,” asked my father expectantly.

“Don’t you think she looks a bit too young for him,” commented my mother still not fully convinced.

“Maybe, I am a bit young for her,” I murmured, lost in my own thoughts.

“What?” asked my mother puzzled.

“Nothing. I mean yes, I liked the girl. I want her to be my bride,” I replied, deep inside wishing for an unthinkable as my parents gave a final sigh of relief.

***

Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction based on some ugly truths of our society. However, I have used the names of all the good friends I had made in New Delhi when I stayed there for half a year, preparing for civil services. 

Off-the-topic Reflections
I got the idea for writing this short story while travelling back from New Delhi after attending the Blog-a-Ton Anniversary Celebrations Meet. As I could not dilute the idea, I decided to write the story before doing any other writing. Because of it, I missed writing about the Meet on my blog. I'll take this opportunity to thank Richa for making all the arrangements for the meet in such an organised manner. I must also thank Geetanjali and Himanshu for the roles they played in organising the event. And not to forget all the fellow bloggers who attended the meet; thanks a lot.
While we were enjoying in Delhi, Rashi and Siddhesh organised the meets in Mumbai and Pune. I must thank both of them and all those who attended the meet for making this day so special for me and all the blog-a-tonics. I must also mention and thank Venky who did an update on Pune Meet.
Long Live BAT!!!

Image Courtesy:
http://media.photobucket.com (original)

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Escape

This post was voted as the best from amongst the 60 entries for Blog-a-Ton 10 and won me the Blog-a-Tonic of the Month aka BATOM award. Click here to see the results page.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 10; the tenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

There was not a single speck of doubt in his mind. He looked sideways and then clutched his son, close to his heart. “It is the time to escape.”

 

*

“So you are Jayaprakash, haan?”

“Ji Sahib.”

“Listen carefully. You will get a daily wage of Rs. 165 throughout this project. You are required to work for a 10 hour shift. When there is more pressure, you may have to put in more hours. There will be no compensation for the same. I believe Mani Ram has told you about the commission and all.”

“Ji Sahib.”

“So you are alone or with your family.”

“Sahib, my wife and son are also accompanying me.”

“So what about your wife? Won’t she be working.”

“No, Sahib. She is not keeping well.”

“Ok. Ok. You can put up in one of the vacant kholi there. Any questions?”

“Sahib, is there any provision for education of our children.”

“Not yet but I believe some local NGO will soon start conducting some classes. Chalo now hurry up. Put your thumb impression here.”

“Sahib, can I have the pen. I’ll sign instead.”

“Oh, signature! Fine. Have it.”

*

Jayaprakash was just another migrant labourer from the state of Bihar toiling in the sun and mud of the Punjab plains. Born under the shadow of Emergency, he had been fondly named after the great socialist leader Jayaprakash Narayan who led a student’s movement in his home state. His father, a marginal farmer had always dreamt of his son becoming as famous as JP but their circumstances never allowed their dreams to get better of their fate.

The seeds of Green Revolution bore fruit in the states of Punjab and Haryana while their state remained in darkness. Lured by the prosperity in this region, Jayaprakash too emigrated with a bunch of his friends at a young age of 15. For some years he kept moving from one village to another working on the fields of others, earning enough for his own subsistence and managing to send some money back home for his ailing father, ageing mother and younger siblings.

Soon, Punjab also saw a boom in real estate with new housing societies and malls being set up. It promised more money and Jayaprakash decided to break his agrarian roots.

Meanwhile he got married to Vimala, a coy girl from his village. Having remained away from his family for too long, the very idea of having a family filled him with hope. God blessed them with a son in the fourth year of their marriage. He had planned it that way to accumulate enough resources for proper rearing of his child. They named him Rahul. 

Working in the dust and sand, Vimala developed some serious allergies and had an attack of asthma. It wasn’t possible for her to work at construction sites. This added additional pressure on his resources. However, he was determined to provide his son what his father could not afford when he was young. This was only possible if he could dedicate all his resources to just Rahul and his ailing wife. So, he underwent vasectomy.

*

His son had now turned six and Jayaprakash was on a lookout for some work near the capital city which could ensure better medical and educational facilities for his family. It was around this time that he heard about a Metro project coming up in Chandigarh. Getting work at a government project always ensured mandated minimum wages and lesser exploitation. 

However, Mani Ram, the middle man made it clear to him that he’ll have to part away with nearly 20% of his daily wage to enlist his name amongst the workers. Moreover, he had to work for more hours than the stipulated time of 8 hours as by doing this, the contractor could enrol fake workers while getting the extra work done by the existing ones. However, it was a good bargain and Jayaprakash along with his family, moved to the City Beautiful.

*

“Papa, this fountain is so beautiful.”

“You sit here and enjoy beta. I’ll get bhel puri for you.”

It was Saturday evening and Jayaprakash had brought his son to the Sector 17 Plaza, the heart of the city. Presently, he was working at the hub station of the Chandigarh Metro which was being constructed nearby. They had been in the city for over six months and by now Rahul had joined a make-shift school being run by a local NGO for the worker’s children. College-going students used to teach the children in evenings and weekends and by now Rahul was able to rattle A to Z in one go. Today Rahul had come first in his class test and as promised, his father had brought him to the Saturday Carnival in the Plaza.

“Hey, Rahul don’t lean over the railing that much. See what I have got for you.”

“Ice cream and popcorn! Wow, I love you papa.”

It had cost him nearly third of his daily wage but he wasn’t complaining. Afterall, even they had the right to enjoy the luxuries of the richest city of India.

*

“Vimala, I’ll get a little late today. We might have to work through the night because this is the busiest area of the city and work needs to be completed before the morning traffic starts.”

“Take care of yourself. Don’t over exert, haan.”

“Yeah, I’ll take care. You too take your medicines on time and make sure Rahul doesn’t loiter around with the neighbouring kids. He should study for his test.”

Vimala was recovering well. The Government Hospital was in close proximity and she was undergoing a regular treatment. Their decision to shift to the capital city was bearing fruits. 

*

It was around two at night when Vimala heard some frantic knocks at the jittery door. She sprung up and hurried to open it.

“Vimala, there has been an accident at the construction site. The crane operator felt asleep and the chain snapped, throwing the heavy girder on the labourers working there.”

“Oh, my God. Where is Rahul’s father? He is safe na?”

“Come on. Hurry up. That’s why I’ve come here. Even he got injured in the accident. We have to go to the hospital.”

Leaving Rahul in custody of her neighbour, Vimala rushed to the hospital with his husband’s co-worker.

*

The accident proved fatal for five workers while Jayaprakash escaped  the death. However, he could not escape misfortune as his leg got amputated. All of a sudden all his dreams came crashing down. From being the breadwinner of the family, he was reduced to a dependant. Vimala had to take up his role despite her own ailments.

Government had announced Rs. 1,00,000 for the gravely injured and Rs. 5,00,000 for the kins of those who expired. Without a leg and nagging pain in the back, even Jayaprakash felt like a corpse but he could only get a fifth of the amount. However, even that money was hard to come. The Metro Corporation told him to approach the Secretariat who in turn sent him back from where he had started. Despite his dozens of visits to both the departments, he could not get his compensation.

All his savings were dwindling fast. Even Vimala could not go to work daily due to her own health problems which had once again become acute. It was not even possible to move back to the village without getting the compensation. With the help of the local trade union, he was able to extract Rs. 20000 from the Metro Corporation after obliging some officials. Now atleast he could send Vimala and Rahul back to the village with this money, without any concern of his brothers or their wife’s treating them as a burden. He decided to stay back and wait for the pending amount.

But before he could arrange for their travel, Vimala had another asthma attack.

She couldn’t even breathe her last.

Jayaprakash was devasted. It felt as if someone had also severed his other limbs. He was left alone to care for their young son. 

What could he do?

*

It was First of May and the first section of Metro was ready. It was being inaugurated by the Punjab Governor who also acted as city’s Chief Administrator. Various dignitaries were to travel in the first run of the train from Sector 17 Hub Station to the metro station located at Chandigarh Railway Station on the outskirts of the city. However, one compartment was to be occupied by some selected labourers who had made this day possible. Even Jayaprakash was selected for it.

He was confident that he could meet the Governer at the inauguration and tell him about his plight. He wanted to get his compensation as soon as possible and move back to his village where he could start some small business and ensure that Rahul doesn’t get into any bad company. He was still too young but keeping a tap on him was becoming difficult in the absence of Vimala.

*

“Today is a momentous day in the history of this city. The city of Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru’s dreams, has added another feather to its cap. To keep this city cleaner and greener, we now have our own Metro Rail network which will definitely help in decreasing the carbon footprint of the city.”

Everyone applauded as the Chief Administrator continued with his inaugural speech.

“Today also happens to be the Labour Day. We are proud of hundreds of workers who assembled from various parts of this region and made it possible for the city to achieve this feat in record time. Some of them are here with us who will accompany us in the inaugural run of the Metro train. However, I am really sorry that I’ll have to take your leave due to some emergency.”

Jayaprakash wanted to meet the Governer earnestly. He saw it as his last chance to get his due. He limped through the crowd but was stopped midway by the security personnel.

“Please, let me go.”

“Arre are you mad or what? Don’t you see, he is leaving now. Go from here.”

Jayaprakash walked back dejected hanging on to his clutches. His son was waiting for him near the railing looking at the expanse of the underground station with amazed eyes. Soon, they were told to move towards the platform. They saw the escalator for the first time. Too afraid to step onto it, they proceeded towards the staircase. However, an official seeing Jayaprakash’s condition, told him to use the elevator.

As he along with his son, reached the platform, they were separated from their group. He looked at the beautiful interiors of the station and admired them for the first time since he had arrived. All this was the result of hardwork, the sweat and the blood of thousands of men like him. However, their fate was written; to build such marvels and then proceed to the next destination. They were not supposed to reside in the sprawling buildings they built or travel on the massive bridges they constructed. They were wanderers, moving from one place to another, selling their labour, getting exploited in return and accepting their fait accompli. 

He wanted to escape from this vicious circle. He couldn’t allow his son to become slave to this fate.

He quickly hurried towards the end of the platform. Elevator, being present a little away from where all the hullaballoo was, no one noticed them. He descended onto the track along with Rahul.

“Papa, where are we going?”

“Beta, wait. I want to show you this tunnel. From within the train, we won’t be able to see it.”

He limped across the tunnel along with his son. Rahul was pleased that his father had planned this surprise detour for him. As they reached the other end of the tunnel from where the train was supposed to experience its first rays of sun, Jayaprakash moved off the track onto the narrow platform. There he waited anxiously. There was not a single speck of doubt in his mind. He knew what he was doing was best for him and his son.

He could hear the noise of the approaching train. He looked sideways and then into the innocent eyes of his son. He clutched him close to his heart, blocking his vision and getting the warmth of parenthood for one last time.

“Beta, it is the time to escape.”

***

Image Courtesy:
http://i.cnn.net

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.