HRISHIKESHA

HRISHIKESHA Sometime in 2016 The day was balmy, with all the predominant and frequented places of the City of Joy, choc-a-bloc with people. Teeming crowds consisting of people of all hues, shapes and sizes were packed like sardines into every possible place –Victoria Memorial, Howrah Bridge, Indian Museum, Dakshineshwar Temple, Kalighat, Science City, Marble Palace, Park Street, Nicco Park and Elliot Park. Infact, Elliot Park was one of her favourite hideouts with Madhav Deb. She was listening intently to Raag Malhar rendered by a maestro and his trainee at the prestigious ITC Sangeet Research Academy, blissfully unaware of the weather turning blustery. The attractive woman, endowed with a buxom body was still carrying a hangover. But that did deter her from spiking her cup of black coffee and a glass of orange juice too, using up almost three-quarters of the contents of the bottle of gin. This was her patent breakfast like any other day. On the odd day, when famished she gorged on some sandwiches and washed it down with the lethal stuff. As the charming lady had staggered in and was seated in the hall of music lovers, she grabbed eye balls, unsavoury remarks and sniggers in equal measure. There was a time when her star had been at its zenith. She had been the toast of the academy and accorded the prized seat right opposite the performer. Till a few months back, Mona was a virtuoso teacher of Hata Yoga who ran an acclaimed yoga institution patronised by the affluent and voguish personalities of the city apart from those who were serious about acquiring skills of yoga and others desirous of losing flab gained at all the wrong places. Meanwhile, her head swam as she felt feverish. The enchantress’s throat was parched and dry looking for succour as she was suffering from an acute bout of pharyngitis. The mellifluous alap, followed by taal and accompanied by the rhythmic beats of the percussion that had sounded harmonious to begin with, now virtually cannonaded her brains. She felt dizzy; her palms were sweaty and she felt exceedingly nauseas. Quite unheeding of the demands of decorum, she took a swig from the bottle lying in her pouch and followed it carelessly with a tablet of Erythromycin that had been prescribed by the doctor. If this wasn’t lethal enough, she quickly added an anti-depressant (prescribed for recurrent panic attacks) to bottle of gin and took a few sips. Soon the combination of the strains of Raag Malhar and the dangerous cocktail did their work. The wretched image of Susmita flooded her mind. Unable to bear the turmoil in her mind, she tottered towards the door. But before she reached there she collapsed on the floor, gasping for breath as she tenuously held on to vital prana for existence. She could faintly hear Raag Malhar reaching a crescendo and visualised a glimpse of her maker as her mind became blank. A little later she was wheeled into the ICCU of an estimable hospital. Many years ago Rishikesh, a bijou religious town casts a magnetic spell on the devout, tourists, stock individuals and seekers alike. And Monalisa Sengupta was no different. The town is located on the banks of the Ganges on a cliff overlooking the river. Quintessentially the place is the gateway to Garhwal Mountains and has earned the epithet of “Yoga Capital of the World.” The town derives its name from the word Hrishikesha, one of the names of Lord Vishnu and meaning the one who has mastered the senses. Since millennia, Rishikesh has been a singular part of the legendary “Kedarkhand”. Legends and folklore exhaustively narrate that Lord Rama performed penance and observed austerities at this holy place before vanquishing Ravana, the ten-headed demon king of Lanka. Lakshmana, younger brother of the scion of Ayodhya crossed the river Ganges in assistance of his older sibling’s mission using two jute ropes at the point where today the grandiose Lakshman Jhula stands aloft. Meanwhile the prepossessing woman Madhulika Sengupta delivered twins, Parth and Monalisa at Rishikesh, at her parental house, following a series of disputations with Major Dipankar Sengupta who was insistent that a confinement at the base hospital at Joshimath would have been more prudent. He served with valour in one of the mountain brigades. However, the writ of Parbhunath Sanyal, father-in-law of the man in fatigues and a celebrated yoga teacher of Rishikesh prevailed. “Dipu, given the tough regimen of your work it is well-nigh impossible for you to look after Madhulika and the babies.” Major Dipankar Sengupta who possessed a chiselled, battle hardened frame and had been decorated with gallantry awards for operations in Manipur and the Kashmir Valley, capitulated to decree of Parbhunath Sanyal, much to the chagrin of his parents. Parbhunath Sanyal who learnt the science of yoga, pranayama and meditation from Bihar School of Yoga of Ranchi set up an establishment at Rishikesh. The patriarch of the yoga establishment began his day by taking a dip in the holy Ganges, meditated for an hour and then performed an exacting 108 sets of Suryanamaskars unflinchingly every day. This signature routine was a bulwark against creeping old age, and blessed him with a physical and mental hardihood that would be difficult to find in even one much younger. The day was spent in imparting exacting esoteric, scientific, spiritual, and sublime yogic knowledge and techniques to the tutees of the academy. Come evening, as the crimson sun sank into the Ganges, the exalted Parbhunath Sanyal once again took a dip in the sanctified river and then performed another 108 sets of Suryanamaskars. He was canonized Maharishi by other yogis and swamis who populated the pristine town. The practice of yoga transported the yogi to ecstatic heights and made him cheery and blissful. His face always radiant and bore a beatific, especially prior to the evening aarti to Goddess Ganga on the banks of the distinguished river. As per townsfolk, the yogi through the practice of yoga, pranayama and meditation had conquered his senses, truly one who was Hrishikesha. Living on a frugal diet of fruits, nuts and sprouts, the Maharishi was well-known for his seraphic personality, ably supported by his wife Sugandha. Over the years Major Sengupta rose through the army hierarchy and to become a brigadier. His winsome wife Madhulika and the twins, Parth and Monalisa, had had the unique opportunity of staying in the deserts of Thar, the mountains of North-East, in God’s Own Country and overseas as well, as they accompanied the army officer in his varied postings. But Rishikesh held special significance in the heart of Monalisa. Every summer, the twins would land at the Yoga institute and spend quality time with the maternal grandparents much to the disapprobation of the Sengupta family, who were settled in Kolkata. Monalisa embraced the holy river, the tranquil and serene atmosphere of Rishikesh and began acquiring skills of yoga under the watchful guidance of Nannu, as the children called Parbhunath Sanyal. Maharishi to his devotees, he remained Nannu to the apple of his eye Monalisa. Parth was a reluctant learner of yoga and preferred mountain climbing and rafting instead. He was attached more to his grandmother than his grandfather and to the paternal grandparents more than the maternal ones. Brigadier Sengupta was now heading a mountain brigade in Arunachal. Madhulika stayed with her husband and the children were to be admitted in college. While Madhulika respected her in-laws, she was always swayed by loyalty to her father. She felt no man could match the towering persona of her Maharishi father. This had often caused turbulence in the couple’s marital life and also between her and Dipankar’s parents. Madhulika now toyed with the idea of her children being educated at Dehradun so that they could be in close proximity to her father. But the plan was torpedoed by her son Parth. “Ma! Enough of that religious place, the ash-smeared sadhus and the whole yogic drill!” “No way am I going to study at Dehradun. I have decided to join Presidency or Xavier’s. Mona is coming with me. Do not impose your ideas and regimentation on us. We’ve had enough of that,” was Parth’s rebellious response when his mother shared her thoughts on the matter. Parth was always a more rooted-in-the-present kind of a person and luxuriated in the outdoors, perhaps influenced by his macho father. While he loved Nannu, and respected him as Maharishi, Parth was not particularly swayed by religiosity or spiritualism. There was a showdown between members of the family, but Madhulika was surprisingly outnumbered 5 to 1. It was one of the rare occasions, where daughter Monalisa was in disagreement with the ukase of her mother. This stupefied Madhulika no end, who had been a 100% sure her daughter would side with her. But mothers possess a sixth-sense when it comes to their offspring. She figured out the purported reason. Monalisa was bewitched by Abhimanyu Chatterjee a polymath in the gang of Parth’s friend. The erudite personality was a genius in mathematics and with amazing speed solved the most complex quadratic equations even as Mona struggled. He was a charming personality, well-versed with Indian cultural heritage and western philosophy. With seamless ease the bluestocking, strapping youngster doffed several hats. He could rattle off Swami Vivekananda’s speech given at the World Congress of Religions in Chicago and strum the guitar. Equally, he was adept at discussing the nuances of film-making of wizards like Ray, Mrinal Sen and Ghatak. The left and right hemispheres of the brain of Abhimanyu Chatterjee were highly developed. But the cutting edge was his regimen of practising yoga. Whenever the Sengupta children were in Calcutta, Monalisa and Abhimanyu had several sessions of yoga. Monalisa thought she saw the same spark of the Maharishi in the multi-faceted personality of Abhimanyu. Somewhere from yoga to culture to mathematics, love blossomed between the two. Monalisa defied the decree of her mother and vetoed the proposal to study in Dehradun. The couple would be locked in passionate embrace at Nicco Park. Or take a boat ride on the Hooghly River and visit Dakshineshwar. The duo was enthusiastic theatre, music and movie buffs. One weekend Mona and Abhimanyu zipped of to Digha beach a popular sea resort, where they spent highly romantic and passionate moments as the winsome girl lost her virginity. Monalisa and Abhimanyu were determined to marry and live happily. The Sengupta family, barring Madhulika was joyous with the decision taken by two. Monalisa’s maternal grandparents did not share the delight. A prescient Maharishi upon learning of his granddaughter’s decision, mentioned to Sugandha, “Mona’s temperament and her association with the Yoga institute, even her deep interest in existentialism and yoga are antithetic to her stay at Calcutta. Rishikesh and Monalisa are inseparable. This match does not augur well for our granddaughter.” “Though she is still to become Hrishikesha and conquer her senses in totality,” the venerable Maharishi was to tell his daughter. Back in Calcutta, the twins were enrolled in St Xavier’s College and pursuing economics. Abhimanyu was senior to them by two years and in the final year of studying mathematics. What began as an ordinary infatuation and attraction began to bloom and mature into unalloyed love between Abhimanyu and his beloved Monalisa. The cerebral and donnish Abhimanyu helped out Monalisa in solving dandelion questions of mathematical economics. The two performed yoga together, began sharing intimate moments at the Elliot Park, frequented Park Street and found a new passion. They began frequenting ITC Sangeet Research Academy to listen to Hindustani music. The strains and octaves of the music transported them to a different zone. Abhimanyu was now a frequent visitor to the Sengupta household and was always warmly welcomed by Monalisa’s grandparents and Parth. Madhulika, whenever in town from Niausa in Arunachal Pradesh, openly expressed her disapproval. “This boy, Abhimanyu is too crafty for our innocent Mona. My father has portended that they ought not to meet,” would be the refrain of the distraught mother. But her apprehensions were parried by her in-laws. “What is wrong with Abhimanyu? He is diligent, a scholar, does yogic exercises, looks after your daughter – what more do you want?” Time flew in the City of Joy; soon a year had elapsed and the twins moved to second year. Abhimanyu joined Presidency College to obtain a Master’s degree in Mathematics. He made grandiose plans of obtaining an M Phil, to be followed by a doctoral thesis. The subject of the doctoral thesis was to develop a robust statistical model to analyse declining crop share holding of the marginal farmers in India, with special emphasis on West Bengal. The Sengupta family other than Madhulika had accepted Abhimanyu Chatterjee to be a family member and it was virtually agreed upon that Monalisa would be his bride. For Madhulika, Abhimanyu was too canny and worldly wise and the doctoral thesis was just a springboard for greener pastures. Double Whammy Just as everything seemed to be hunky-dory, the unexpected happened. Human life is brimful of vicissitudes and the landscape is populated with numerous peaks and valleys. Brigadier Dipankar Sengupta was felled by the bullets of ultras as he was in hot pursuit somewhere in the North East on a secret mission and Maharishi Parbhunath Sanyal, who had aged over the years startlingly, slipped into the Ganges as he was getting ready to perform the evening aarti and drowned in the river. The bloated body was traced by expert divers late in the night. Madhulika and her children were devastated by the turn of events. Madhulika and her twins’ presence was mandated at the army base and also at Rishikesh. Monalisa decided that she would represent her mother at Rishikesh and her brother Parth would accompany Madhulika to Niausa. The mother was numbed at the twin tragedies and inconsolable. The feisty girl also overruled her paternal grandfather and made it clear that the immersion of the ashes in the holy river Ganges of the decorated Brigadier would be at Rishikesh. The overwrought patriarch of the Sengupta family and his granddaughter had an acrimonious discussion on the subject but the will of the hysterical wife and the inconsolable daughter prevailed. As the forlorn Sanyals and Senguptas looked shattered and devastated the ashes of the father-in-law and son-in-law were immersed on a tranquil morning in the holy river of Ganga at Rishikesh. Abhimanyu Chatterjee was conspicuous by his absence; not present to comfort Monalisa as the twin tragedies engulfed the family. The perspicacious Maharishi and his donnish daughter were proved correct. While the Maharishi had several tutees, it was his fond desire that Mona supervise the affairs of the Yoga institute upon becoming an authentic Hrishikesha. This was well-known in the family circles. Thus the plucky Madhulika and spunky Monalisa decided to stay on at Rishikesh to oversee the affairs of the Yoga institute much to the surprise of the Sengupta family and Parth. Thus a young but determined girl opted to drop out of college and live with the two widows to administer the Yoga institute for some time. She did not specify the time frame. Though her mind and heart pined for Abhimanyu, she like others in the family was grieved at the singular distance maintained by him. An anguished Parth and his distressed grandparents went back to Calcutta while his numbed sister remained at Rishikesh. Abhimanyu Chatterjee was apparently grappling with numbers and had insulated himself totally from the tragic events which had overwhelmed Mona and her family. Once he felt secure, he re-opened channels with the Senguptas. While Parth remained non-committal, the patriarch of Sengupta family goaded Abhimanyu to rediscover Monalisa in his life. So it was that Abhimanyu decided to visit the Yoga institute at Rishikesh and meet up with Monalisa and reignite the flame besides learning some advanced techniques of yoga. Reigniting the Flame It was an early Sunday morning, the bells of the temples were chiming, the gargantuan Ganges was tranquil, early morning birds left to catch their prize, the sun was yet to rise and a pleasant breeze wafted across the yoga capital of the world. Rishikesh, named after the one who had conquered the senses was suffused with efficacious thoughts and still to awake. A tall, well-built man, walked carefully down the steps, to see an enchanting well-endowed woman neatly dressed in a sparkling white churidar-kurta, practising Surya Namaskar. The practitioner’s fluid movements looked much like a dancer on a yoga mat on the banks of the river. The tall man quietly set up his mat next to that of the lady and soon started his sets of Surya Namaskar. There seemed to be a competition building up between the two and the movements gained pace. Soon the first rays of the sun encompassed the pristine Himalayas and the space was glistening with primordial incandescence. The eyes of the two practitioners met and the bearded man stepped on to the other yoga mat and held the hands of the woman and planted a kiss on her cheeks and lips. She was astounded…but did not protest. Perhaps the woman in her felt deprived of the passionate kiss of Abhimanyu. As the crimson sun rose from the bosom of Himalayan range, she tore away from her beloved. “Where have you been all this while Abhimanyu, playing with a Rubik’s cube? Solving equations? In the moments of bereavement, I had only my mother and brother as ballast. No entreaties on your part can assuage my fragmented and unsettled mind.” Monalisa continued with her tirade against Abhimanyu, quite unmindful of a motley crowd of pilgrims, a few bare-bodied sadhus smeared with ash and a few Yoga institute inmates who had gathered around the two lovers. Abhimanyu remained passive and heard Monalisa as she gave vent to her frustration. While some onlookers seemed to enjoy the diatribe and squalling, some meditators and yoga practitioners were certainly disturbed by the relentless harangue. The shrieking by the lady seemed to have an impact on the calm river which virtually became virulent. Finally, Abhimanyu broke his silence and in a most impassive manner uttered, “I never mentioned to you, your brother or your family members that my father was afflicted with cancer and passed away a few days back. Over the last few years I was nursing him and can empathise with your pain as I too suffered in a similar manner.” Monalisa was shattered upon hearing this calamitous piece of news and had no option but to be swayed. “But Abhimanyu, why did you not share this with me… After all there was nothing to hide between us,” she cried. Over the next few days Abhimanyu and Mona once again discovered each other, shared their pain, agony and reminisced of old times. Monalisa was mentally devastated to the extent that she was willing to relive the Digha Beach moments … And during the act in the hotel where she stayed with Abhimanyu wondered whether her lover was in love with her or merely her body? The words of her mother that the guy was too canny were lurking in the alcoves of her mind. But she let go her emotions as she had an orgasm. Madhulika was not too pleased with the change in the attitude of her daughter. But there was little clarity in her thought process as the double whammy had enveloped her mind with darkness and tenebrosity. A recently widowed older woman could hardly provide succour to her equally widowed daughter. Abhimanyu Chatterjee had completed his M Phil in mathematics and had enrolled for doctoral studies, while Monalisa’s education in economics came to a grinding halt once she had shifted base to Rishikesh from Calcutta. Back in Calcutta, senior Sengupta took a momentous decision and decided to draw the lines of fate of his granddaughter. It was decided that during Durga Puja, Monalisa would marry Abhimanyu. Her mother and grandmother returned to Rishikesh to look after the Yoga institute. Madhulika extracted a promise from Abhimanyu that Mona would spend at least a month at Rishikesh, at the Yoga institute to ensure it ran smoothly. While Abhimanyu’s mother was not overwhelmed with the proposal, her son caved in to the request of his mother-in-law. The couple were decked up in bridal wear. As the conches were blown in the honour of the presiding deity Mother Durga, Abhimanyu and Monalisa were married. The couple luxuriated in Sikkim for their honeymoon. Mona was blessed with an army back ground and spiritual training under the tutelage of her grandfather. She was a unique combination of tradition, military discipline and yet a free thinker. Abhimanyu Chatterjee besides being a mathematician was a well-read and cultured person. His widowed mother and a younger sister stayed with him while the older one was married and settled in the US. Monalisa, though a down-to-earth person, was upmarket compared to the middle class Chatterjee family. And there-in lay the schism between the daughter-in-law and her new family members. Yet another bone of contention was Mona’s insistence of setting up a yoga centre and continuing her academic pursuits in economics which had been interrupted. However Abhimanyu supported his wife. But the word given by him to Madhulika regarding Mona’s visits to Rishikesh for a month led to frequent contretemps in the family. They were married for now four years and Monalisa despite her engagements of completing her education and running the Yoga institute was impregnated and gave birth to twins. They were named Saumitra and Piyush. The mother-in-law tried to use this as a ruse to decree that Monalisa would be confined to Calcutta. But the spirited woman did not budge and continued her forays. “Mona how is Abhimanyu? Is he treating you well? I am quite surprised that he permitted you visit Yoga institute for a month,” mused Madhulika. Little did Monalisa or Madhulika realise that Abhimanyu was quite pleased at the prospect of his wife being away from Calcutta. Once, Monalisa had to cut short her visit to Rishikesh as her grandfather was hospitalised on account of a kidney infection and was in a serious condition. She rushed to the hospital along with the children, only to see her grandfather on a ventilator. A frantic Monalisa enquired from Parth and her grandmother, “Where is Abhimanyu?” They had no answers. She made frantic attempts to trace her husband but in vain. Finally she learnt from a professor in the Mathematics department that her husband was in Darjeeling, with Durga, a fellow student. Durga was also pursuing a doctoral thesis at Presidency College. The two had developed a phenomenal relationship. And this was not the only affair her husband had had; in fact he was a lady’s man who had a roving eye. Even during his prolonged absence from Monalisa’s life he had developed illicit relationships. “Do not trust Abhimanyu, he is a canny fellow,” the words of her mother ringed in Monalisa’s mind. Her grandfather passed away and Monalisa was in a state of despair. She had forgiven Abhimanyu, but could not accept his cheating and sought legal separation. The courts had handed over the custody of the children to Monalisa. The enchanting princess moved her base to Rishikesh to be with her bedridden grandmother and her mother along with her children. The clock in Monalisa’s life had come to a standstill. She lost her father and maternal grandfather on the same day and a few years later her paternal grandfather. In these moments of bereavement she looked for a helping hand, which came to her support in the form of Abhimanyu. She and Abhimanyu had similar tastes and likings and she was a loyal wife. But Abhimanyu was not an unalloyed Hrishikesha. He was not in control of his senses and fell prey to carnal pleasures. Soon her mind was clouded by Sisyphean and antipathetic thoughts and she began drinking heavily, smoking and indulged in cannabis much to the infuriation of her mother. This tarnished the image of the Yoga institute which was established with such penance by her grandfather and was one of the epicentres of Rishikesh. Monalisa was admitted to a rehabilitation centre for treatment, where she made valiant attempts to combat the pestilence, suffering from repeated withdrawal symptoms. As she was staging a recovery the family was struck by yet another tragedy and had to suffer bereavement of her grandmother. The family members and inmates of the Yoga institute were present on the banks of Ganga as Parth was completing the final rituals. A hazy and dazed appearing Monalisa who was encompassed with demonic thoughts slipped into the River Ganges. Was it an attempted suicide or... an accidental slip remained a mystery, consigned to the depths of the blest river? As the body seemed to be floating away … a yoga instructor, Madhav Deb jumped into the river and rescued Monalisa from the impending disaster as the opprobrious gathering were a witness to the events. Madhav Deb had arrived a few months back from Kolkata. Calcutta was now Kolkata and a new regime had breached the red fortress. This masculine man had ingratiated himself to Madhulika. Perhaps being a Bengali helped in these matters. Over a few months Madhav Deb and Monalisa grew close. She and her children had experienced innumerable hardships. Once again in her life a person interested in yoga and reasonably similar tastes entered her life. But Madhav Deb had taken enormous care of Monalisa in the rehabilitation centre and it was decided that the two get married once Parth had verified the antecedents. Both were in their late thirties and unmarried. She had two children and a mother to look after. Fast Forward to 2020 The Yoga institute in Rishikesh was being looked after by Pandit Bharadwaj, an accomplished yoga instructor and an eloquent speaker. This was the day of reckoning. He had to pass on the mantle. There were several aspirants. There were qualified yoga practitioners and administrators. They numbered around 50 which also included Monalisa. Hush and sush had descended in the hall as a lady dressed in white had tiptoed in the room. She was extremely beguiling. Her name was Susmita. Monalisa who was sitting cross-legged and with her eyes closed recalled the footsteps. She got up and escorted Susmita to the section where forms of those who join the academy are filled up. Monalisa filled the form. Pandit Bharadwaj stood on the podium and announced that Monalisa would be the first woman head of the Yoga institute; thunderous applause and some sniggers could be heard. “This announcement would surprise many. I make her my successor, not because her grandfather once held this esteemed post, but because SHE HAS LEARNT THE ART OF ACCEPTANCE AND FORGIVENESS.” He summoned Monalisa towards him and whispered, “You were always brilliant, but were your own adversary as you burnt with passion and retribution. One of the foremost principles of Patanjali’s Yoga Sutra is “Agarigraha sthairye janmakathamta sambodhaha”(II Sutra, 39) that is “Being established in non-accumulation gives knowledge of how births happen.” “On the fateful day of 2016, you attempted to snuff out your life once you realised that Madhav was living with Susmita. This development made you into a mental wreck. But someone who practices yoga needs to be perfectly balanced and poised and you have reached that exalted state today,” added the learned one. “The dark does not destroy the light; it defines it. It’s our fear of the dark that casts our joy into the shadows,” he quoted Brene Brown. “Rishikesh and the Yoga institute have found a yogini in Ma Monalisa Devi, as you have now conquered your senses and have become a true Hrishikesha as desired by your estimable grandfather. Only one who is truly Hrishikesha possesses the qualities to preside over the Yoga institute.

THE TWILIGHT ZONE

THE TWILIGHT ZONE Darling Priya, my dearest, was preoccupied with back-to-back meetings, spanning all most all of the south-east Asia. Gosh, it’s been going on for weeks now! I just want to get back home. Virtual conferencing, teleconferences, endless meetings and eating out everyday have taken a strenuous toll on my system. I am enervated physically and mentally. Rahul sent a WhatsApp message to his winsome wife around eleven in the night, as he sank into the luxuriant couch sipping wine. Whenever possible, I hit the gym or swim. It helps release of positive hormones and attempt to remain in shape. This helps to increase my prana levels. This was the second text that followed from the pretentious mobile of a loving and devoted husband to his caring wife. It was midnight by now, as Rahul had finished the bottle of Rozells Ipoh White Coffee and crashed into bed. The couple relished chatting or texting with each other. This was a long conversation spread over an hour. The endorphins you would have released Mr Tharoor, would dissipate in this cesspool of white wine. Priya Sehgal snapped back at the man who shaped her existence. Rahul was her lover, husband and the universe of her life. Priya was possessive about her husband but permitted these indulgences. It was 7:10 p.m., and the weather in Gurugram was scorching and roasting as Priya along with domestic help Gita, was attempting to feed the apples of her eyes, twins Chayya and Suraj. Rahul had done the namKarna and was insistent on the names. “These names unravel luminosity in our lives,” Rahul had said to Priya. “For heaven’s sake stop reading Tharoor. Read Chetan Bhagat for a change. I feel his presence in our flat. I actually need a dictionary while hearing you speak or write,” gushed the lady of the house. Priya looked at the crimson red sun, sinking into the jungle of byzantine towers and the labyrinths of Gurugram in the twilight zone. Unexpectedly her cell rang. It was Rahul. “Love, I will be boarding GH 197 tomorrow from KL and will land at Sahar in the morning. I’ll catch up with you in Delhi in the twilight zone,” Rahul spoke with his beau. “Hello, Hello, Rahul ... do not forget to buy the latest mobile,” were the last words Priya spoke to him. Next evening in the twilight zone she got down from her car, unmindful of the honking cars. She was taking pictures of a plane silhouetted against the sinking sun. It was a brilliant sight to watch. She had a gargantuan collection of pictures of the sun in the twilight zone. Suddenly she shrieked and others were stupefied as there were two fiery orange balls in the sky. The aircraft she was capturing had turned into a ball of fire and was diving at a ferocious speed towards the earth. “Dear God, let this not be Rahul’s plane,” she kept repeating to herself in silent prayer. Traffic came to a standstill. Even the honking ceased as everyone on the flyover was glued to watch the extraordinary but gruesome spectacle. A sobbing Priya snaked her way to the Indira Gandhi International Airport, only to find the place chock-a-bloc with security forces, ambulances, media personnel and fire brigades. There was absolute bedlam at the airport. Her worst fears came true. It was indeed Rahul’s flight from Mumbai that had crashed due to a technical glitch. There were no survivors. Some suspected this to be an act of terror. Priya swooned and collapsed. She was wheeled into an estimable hospital and was in the ICCU as she had suffered a heart attack. ************************ Over the years, Priya had developed a fetish for taking pictures from her extortionate mobile. Among her favourites was clicking the crimson sun, sinking into the bosom of Mother Earth. Years back, as a youngster, she would capture this stunning and sublime moment using her father’s camera. Mr Sehgal, her father was then working as a chemical engineer in the Rourkela Steel Plant. When the Sehgal family relocated to Kolkata, she ambushed the sinking sun in the Hooghly River with a more developed camera. Priya followed this practice at IIM Bangalore, where she was specialising in Finance and Marketing. The country had now moved ahead and mobile phones made their ways into Indian households. Meanwhile, this winsome girl was bewitched by the polymath, Rahul Venkatesan, who was her senior. North met South. Priya fell in love with Rahul, but the sun remained the same as it set in Ulsoor Lake at Bangalore. This image found a spesh place in the alcoves of her mind and in her mobile too. “Come on, shoot me, not the setting sun and the twilight,” Rahul would often say. Twilight Zone was also their favourite hangout. The two along with their buddies chilled-out on the occasional weekend and jived to some groovy music. Soon it was a champagne time during the big fat Panjabi wedding where booze flowed and Tandoori Chicken and Seekh Kebabs replaced Idli, Vada, Dosa and Sambar much to the chagrin of the conservative Iyer family. “But Appa, this is customary among Panjabis,” Rahul attempted to assuage his father. Priya was however welcomed with the traditional Tamil Brahmanical customs in the Iyer household. Rahul and Priya led a blissful married life at Chennai. They were working for pre-eminent multinational companies and led a hectic but luxuriant life. Priya endeared herself to the Venkatesan family and soon Idli, Vada, Dosa, Uttapam, Sambar, and Chutney replaced Butter Chicken, Tandoori Chicken and Seekh Kebabs. Her platter was now filled with “ghaas phoos” as she jocularly reminded her husband. While Priya would always be attired in western wear to office, she accompanied her mother-in-law to the Kapaleeswara Temple draped in a Kanjeevaram saree every Monday morning for the Rudra Puja. Rahul realised the sacrifices Priya made for him and their bonding strengthened. Thus began their rendezvous to Mahabalipuram, Ooty, Kodaikanal, Bangalore and Coorg on what could only be termed an extended honeymoon. Both Rahul and Priya gorged on Mughalai food which they savoured and washed it down with wine and beer. But they strove hard to cut the extra flab by hitting the gym regularly and footslogged on the treadmill and the elliptic. The couple were hardworking and in a short span of time they were promoted to the Delhi office. Soon the clangour and clamour for a child began from the Sehgal and Iyer families. The couple kept on postponing any additions to the family. But an unabated cacophony continued and finally, the couple caved into parental diktats. There were many vaunted celebrations in the Iyer and Sehgal extended families as the couple was blessed with twins, a boy and a girl. While Priya was on maternity leave, Rahul continued working hard and climbed the corporate ladder. Soon he decided to establish his own software company called RP Solutions bearing a logo of a sunset. “The sun may set, but we will provide all solutions” was the mission statement of RS Solutions. ************************ Meanwhile, Priya was in the ICCU and being resuscitated by a battery of doctors and paramedics. In the chambers of her febrile mind, her life history played out as she was attempting to regain consciousness. It was evening time in Delhi and nature was entering the twilight zone as the Sehgals and Iyers kept a vigil. The mothers were chanting Hanuman Chalisa and Sundara Kand as the fathers paced the floor frenetically. Priya regained consciousness and in a feeble voice and with moist eyes uttered Rahul’s name. The doctors were relieved and informed the two families, that Priya had regained consciousness. The doctors pronounced that only one person was permitted to enter the ICCU. Slowly in tiptoed a dishevelled man. Priya could not believe her eyes as she saw Rahul and looked at the clock. It was around 6:30 p.m., dusk, and in the twilight zone. “Darling, fortuitously I missed the flight and spent the night at the airport and had to catch an early morning flight,” gushed Rahul as he broke down. Both Rahul and Priya were locked in an embrace and wept inconsolably. “Rahul, from today I will not take pictures of the sinking sun,” Priya whispered slowly, in a frail voice. “No more twilight zones for me,” Priya added more emphatically. “Yes darling! Let it be the rising the sun ... udayan,” Rahul agreed tearfully. “And the logo of our company would be the rising sun.” After a few minutes of thought, he added, “Our new mission statement is going to be, ‘Solutions as certainly as the sun rises over the horizon’.”

VIBGYOR

5. VIBGYOR It was the festival of Holi. Families from the colony gathered inside the imposing gates. Fine liquor flowed like water as the festivities stepped-up and colour was generously sprayed on one another. Outside the opulent bungalow, a group of destitute people waited for some crumbs. Life has various shades and VIBGYOR is the bright and colourful part. The rich were radiant. For the poor, there was utter darkness. All they hoped for, was one meal. It was a riot of colour as Rajiv and Sangita made a dramatic entry. The upmarket couple were celebrities. Rang Barse from Silsila, a Holi staple, was playing and former college mates and new acquaintances and friends were dancing and crooning unabashedly. The pack became rambunctious with the revelry reaching a summit. Sunil, host and dear friend of Rajiv and Sangita, spiked the drinks of the teetotallers, having sought Rajiv’s consent. The situation became ugly as the majority of those present became inebriated. Drivers and staff of these silk-stocking individuals were quite amused and passed lurid remarks about the couples. “Rajiv, I am feeling sick and nauseous,” Sangita said suddenly. Fortuitously, Dr Tanveer, a friend was present amongst the revellers. He made attempts to resuscitate Sangita who had swooned by then. She was rushed to a nearby hospital, complaining of breathlessness too. A forlorn Rajiv looked as his prepossessing wife was wheeled into the ICU. Specialists conducted a battery of tests. For several days, Sangita’s life was swinging like a pendulum. Rajiv was berated by his parents and in-laws for the errant behaviour. Sunil too was not spared for his recklessness. All the Gods and celestial beings were beseeched seeking their intercession. Sangita did not recover. She succumbed after tenuously holding on to life for many days. Doctors suspected COVID-19. The woman, an MBA from an estimable management college had returned from China a few days prior to Holi. She worked for a multinational and had spent close to fifteen days at their factory in Wuhan. After the cremation, family members and all those who attended the Holi celebrations were quarantined. Sangita’s ashes lay at Lodhi crematorium for days together. Yes, life does have several colours, not just VIBGYOR. Sangita and her family had enjoyed the best and brightest colours in their lives. But the colourlessness of white, grey and black engulfed them as it perennially does of the destitute gathered outside Sunil’s house. Rajiv is out of quarantine, but a broken person. Every day masking his emotions and face, he feeds the poor and the migrant labour.

A BRAND NEW CHAPTER “Silam Parama Bhusanam”

4. A BRAND NEW CHAPTER “Silam Parama Bhusanam” A milestone – Breakthrough in 2010 “During my misadventures I spent numerous nights famished without any food, sleep and other essential amenities. There were innumerable afternoons and evenings spent traversing miles and miles endlessly for my sustenance. It appeared a road to nowhere. Frankly speaking I was blindfolded and hurtling into a precipice. As the daughter of a rickshaw puller, I never had the opportunity to attend school as I belonged to a poverty-stricken family and was at the bottom rung of this feudal and caste-ridden society. I yearned for books to pursue education, but lady luck ignored and seldom smiled at me. My parents pawned whatever little jewellery my mother wore on her frail body to ensure that I could pay my examination fees in order to earn to secure a graduation degree which I had finally managed after several swedges. My caring mother in her life endured monumental pain and agony to provide basic amenities for the family and me. At a tender age of 14 in sheer desperation in order to pursue my dreams I bolted away from home. It was a daunting task which stared at me. However, in a few years I could somehow manage to complete my studies during daylight, metamorphosed into a dishwasher in the evenings where lecherous eyes peered lasciviously at my body and transfigured into yet another personality at a call centre at night. I was leading three gut wrenching lives in a day. In some ways I was a schizophrenic while multitasking. I was genuinely concerned about my safety as prurient men passed salacious comments and was often physically touched and literally molested by debauched men of all ages. I learnt martial arts to overcome the demons in my mind and could combat perverted and promiscuous men with aplomb.” “All that I can say is that this is a brand-new chapter in my life where I have walked hours to travel places so that I could save rickshaw fare to learn martial arts to protect my modesty, study and reach the summit. Today, I am here at the VLCC Femina Miss India 2010 podium to fuel spirit in my parents’ and younger sister Supriya’s life and to demonstrate to the world that everything is achievable if a person is committed to oneself and cherishes the realisation of a dream. It is not merely holding aloft this trophy and showcasing the crown but beyond the realm of achievement. The quintessential idea is to live life kingsize and in my case it was to emerge as a queen, overcoming various Gordian knots on this stage of the world.” These were the cathartic words of Vrushali in her acceptance speech to a thunderous applause as the crowds rose up in unison. “To some I may look as a buxom beauty, to others I appear in their fantasy dreams to satiate their carnal appetite in dreams, while for those grappling with vicissitudes of life I may be a beacon of hope or inspiration. Few would know that, I belong to the family of the Nishad community (the one’s who row the boats of the devout on various rivers of this majestic country), whose father was compelled to pull rickshaws to earn a measly earning. But I was possessed by a dream to upend the pyramid break glass ceilings and carve a niche for myself in this glitzy world of razzmatazz where grey turns into dark as I look for luminosity in the tenebrous canvas of life,” added Vrushali. The euphoric crowds continued to hail the achievement of this well-endowed woman of substance, from the lower strata of a caste ridden society in the new emerging India. A lady who belonged to a bijou town but scorched the ramp. This also occurred in 2010 “I never thought think I would ever fall in love again. I know that everyone says that after a heartbreak, but the difference is that I decided not to be heartbroken. Indeed, those were depressing moments after being robbed of something precious my dear love. However, I’m not cynical or pessimistic or sad. I’m just someone who once felt something bigger than anything else I’d ever felt and when I lost it, I honestly believed that I would never have that again. But... I was a mere 25 then and life is long. And I’m feeling right things now. The frame of my mind is that which I haven’t had in a long, long time,” said Karan. Three characters in the tale Parshati Singh was a blue-blooded winsome young woman who hailed from the valorous state of Rajasthan. She was royalty. Her father Raja Dhrupad Singh was now a successful and affluent hotelier. Arjun Dubey twice born from the most populous state in the country, Uttar Pradesh was the son of a ripped bureaucrat. Like several members of his brood, he too received an education at estimable educational institutions in India and overseas. And had acquitted himself honourably. Karan Kumar was born in an indigent family which could scarcely survive on a meagre park of land for sustenance. The family from the lower lode of the social ladder could barely keep their body and soul together in unendurable debilitating social and economic conditions. Meanwhile in the sylvan surroundings, crowned by salubrious weather and an idyllic setting the three were to meet. They were strangers from varied backgrounds. But destiny had plotted that they were seated next to each other at the peerless Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy for Administration at Mussorie. Parshati Singh wearing a marigold-coloured saree. She wore royalty and beauty on her sleeve. The prepossessing young woman was promptly the cynosure in the Sampoornanand auditorium. She was sandwiched between a fidgety Karan Kumar on her left and Arjun Dubey on her right. Karan Kumar was overawed by the place and occasion, his mind was cannonaded with both efficacious and antipathetic thoughts, and there was a nervous flow of energy like a flaccid being, moving through his veins. Karan’s mind was flooded with emotions of gratefulness and gratitude towards his parents, who despite their humble background played a pivotal role in shaping the career of their son who joined the coveted service in the country. He was among lakhs of contenders who grappled hard to clear the exalted examination, and the strapping youngster was selected braving all odds. Overnight he became the toast of the Teli community to which he belonged and was felicitated at a number of functions, which was featured prominently in several vernacular newspapers and media. A few months ago – an inexplicable encounter Vrushali was to read and see about the attainment by Karan Kumar and so did Karan about Vrushali’s achievements. The Nishad and Teli communities of the villages and towns of neighbouring Uttar Pradesh and Bihar feted the two young achievers and they became iconic and inspirational figures of their respective communities. Supriya, accompanied Vrushali for the felicitation function. The organisers of the function asked Karan to address the gathering and galvanize the youngsters to pursue education and carve a niche for themselves in the society. “Shri Ram Manohar Lohia, a Gandhian and freedom fighter and was known for his anti-caste mobilisation through his Socialist Party. Lohia ji appreciated that caste, more than class, was a stumbling block in India’s progress. It was Lohiaji’s prognosis that India had suffered reverses throughout her history as people had viewed themselves as members of a caste rather than citizens of a country in a generic manner.” spoke Karan with passion. “This country was deprived of fresh ideas, because of the narrowness and stultifications of thought at the higher echelons, which comprised mainly of the upper castes. I do not proscribe to the prevalent caste system, where we are addressed as Telis, Sahus and Nishads and believe in an alloyed manner that almighty God has created man as his manifestation. We are all humans. But unfortunately, our dreams and aspirations were suppressed by the powerful. But in this age of globalisation and technology our time has arrived to make tectonic changes and contribute to the society. Look at Vrushaliji’s meteoric rise by scorching the ramp. Who would have thought that a daughter of a Nishad would one day be crowned as VLCC Femina Miss India 2010 in this country? This indicates we are not inferior in any manner and the country is on the cusp of a significant change,” an evocative Karan spoke to a rambunctious crowd. Vrushali and Supriya were indisputably impressed with the impassioned speech made by Karan which fired their imaginations. Both the sisters were smitten by the rendition by the civil servant as their hearts fluttered. Coup de grace “So, the trouble is that, you know, you have rapes, you have these brutal men who are raping women. Of course, Hindus are raping girls, Muslims are raping girls, everybody’s raping girls, and so there’s no question of it belonging to only one community. But what is new over here is that, aside from the fact that the girl was not just raped and killed, she was held in a temple—according to the police reports, held in a temple, drugged, raped and then bludgeoned to death. There’s a sort of ritualistic, Satanistic part to it, which is terrifying, you know. But leaving aside the criminals, the fact that people are marching in support of the rapists—men and women, you know, are marching in support of the rapists, marching, demanding the charges be withdrawn. This is what is frightening,” Vrushali quoted Arundati Roy the noted social activist and author. The eyes of women and young girls belonging to the Nishad and Teli community welled up as they heard the VLCC Femina winner speaking in a charged manner. Several young women for once had decided to pursue their dreams. This was to be their brand-new chapter in the drudgery of their lives. The soul-stirring speech of Vrushali stirred Supriya to complete her master’s in history, which she was pursuing through a correspondence course. She was not as well-endowed or charismatic like her sister, but was sedulous and unflagging by nature. Though she was always overshadowed by her more voguish and illustrious older sister. Supriya was nevertheless galvanised by achievements and the thought process of the police officer from the Teli community and decided to traverse the same path. She shared her unfulfilled dreams to be a bureaucrat with Karan Kumar. The son of the chauffer encouraged her to channelize her energies to become one. Back to the academy Karan looked at Parshati and was bewitched and awestruck by the lady sitting to his right, as he nodded his head apprehensively. The alluring bureaucrat was neatly attired in marigold saree, and her swanlike neck was adorned with a pearl necklace from the land of the Nizams. Further she embellished her look with sparkling diamond studs on her ears, as she merely nodded with a streak of arrogance. To her right was Arjun Dubey, neatly accoutred in an exquisite black bandh gala. He spoke flawless English with an impeccable accent and struck an animated conversation with Parshati as Karan looked on. Parshati and Arjun were to share several common interests like books, swimming, polo, cricket, soccer, and their peregrinations in India and overseas. Soon the Director of the academy entered Sampoornanand Hall and all the probationers rose to the National Anthem with the eyes transfixed at the motto of the institute “Silam Parama Bhusanam”, Character is the highest virtue. This was a brand-new chapter in the lives of 700 odd probationers of various civil services and Parshati Singh IFS, Arjun Dubey IAS and Karan Kumar IPS stepped out of the Sampoornanand Hall with great expectations. The glaring disparity between the superabundant and the hoi polloi was apparent as they formed separate groups while sipping a cup of tea. Karan Kumar was a proverbial rebel, a dreamer and visionary who entered the civil services to break glass ceilings and upend the pyramid. The marginal farm land owner and chauffer’s son was unsettled as he saw the English speaking and the affluent civil servants ensconced in a separate corner. “You know Parshati, the guy who was sitting next to you is an OBC. These guys make it through quota backdoor while we slog it out on meritocracy...,” Arjun remarked. The royal woman-turned-bureaucrat was amazed at the triumphant performance of Karan Kumar. A few days later all the probationers had once again assembled in Sampoornanand Hall where they were handed a series of instructions by the faculty and the administration. It was a public forum where the probationers spoke on a variety of subjects. And then Karan rose to speak … on how it all began. “I hail from a very poor family. My father owned hardly an acre of land and we grappled for survival. He left everything as we moved from Munger to Delhi where he became a chauffeur. He was the chauffeur of our batch-mate Arjun Dubey’s mother’s vehicle. I am not ashamed to admit it. My eyes well up in tears and are moist as today my parents luxuriate in the success of their son once I cracked the civil services examination. It will not be out of place to point out that my father drove me to Mussoorie in the very car once owned by the Dubey family,” Karan spoke with panache but with a characteristic Bihari twang. A section of uproarious officers much to the consternation of an elite group were ecstatic and in raptures. Parshati Singh stood up and began to clap vociferously and soon the entire assemblage joined her much to the consternation of Arjun Dubey. She finally met a person who though not blue-blooded like her, was unparalleled in several ways. He was swarthy looking, but handsome in an atypical manner, sagacious and well-informed. This occurred in Dwaparyuga in the court of King Dhrupad But seeing Karna, Draupadi during her Swayamvara exclaimed loudly, ‘I will not select a Suta to be my lord.’ Then Karna the tutee of Parushurama and an exalted archer was exasperated and in a state of vexation, cast a glance at his favourite deity the Sun God, and threw aside Lord Agini’s bow which he had upraised and taken aim, ready to shoot the eye of the rotating fish which was perched on the ceiling of the majestic hall of King Dhrupad’s court. धृष्टद्युम्न उवाच|| दुर्योधनो दुर्विषहो दुर्मुखो दुष्प्रधर्षणः | विविंशतिर्विकर्णश्च सहो दुःशासनः समः ||१|| युयुत्सुर्वातवेगश्च भीमवेगधरस्तथा | उग्रायुधो बलाकी च कनकायुर्विरोचनः ||२|| सुकुण्डलश्चित्रसेनः सुवर्चाः कनकध्वजः | नन्दको बाहुशाली च कुण्डजो विकटस्तथा ||३|| एते चान्ये च बहवो धार्तराष्ट्रा महाबलाः | कर्णेन सहिता वीरास्त्वदर्थं समुपागताः ||४|| In Mahabharata, though Karna who was known as Radheya, a mere charioteer’s son, a Suta Putra, he was invited to participate in Draupadi’s Swayamvar along with preeminent Kshatriyas Kings which included Duryodhana, Durvisaha, Durmukha among others. King Dhrupad had obviously invited Karna to participate in the Swayamvar or else he would not have been seated among nobility and blue-blooded kinsmen. It also indicates that Dhrupad did not quite consider Karna unqualified for the Swayamvar. This was a brand-new chapter in Karna’s life. Karan Kumar of the Teli caste, whose father was a chauffeur was not invited to the Swayamvara at the Sampoornanand Hall because of his inherent talent. His passport was not meritocracy but the caste he belonged to and that was the brand-new chapter of modern-day India. Some intriguing relationships It was one of those inexplicable relationships. Parshati was smitten and indisputably impressed with Karan Kumar. He was fascinated by her class, nobility and intelligence. But she was hesitant to carry forward the relationship as His Eminence, her father, would not have permitted such a relationship. Yet, the two were extremely matey and enjoyed each other’s company. He was a budding police officer but a flotsam and jetsam in the eyes of her estimable family. Friendship in the exotic valley of the Queen of Hills between the two was slowly but surely developing into an intimate relationship. Meanwhile there was a third angle to the triangle in form of Arjun, who despised Karan as he was not one of them. He lived in the same Narmada Hostel building in the academy and partook food at the same dining table. That was commensality, a defining moment during Kalyuga in modern times. And he did not regard it as a brand-new chapter. “Some politicians of peerless pedigree have been known to share a meal with women like Ramavati of the Dalit community to garner votes and bureaucrats too were compelled to follow suit rather unfortunately,” regurgitated the pandit from Uttar Pradesh in his elastic mind. He had read exhaustively about the elasticity of the Brahmanical mind which made them dominate Indian politics and bureaucracy for a long time and was not willing to concede space to the lower lamina of the society. There were two more edges in this pentagon in form of Vrushali and Supriya. Both were interested in a fellow backward class mate, Karan Kumar. Sometime in 2018 in Washington A distraught Parshati held a wailing Abhimanyu in her hands as she saw her husband Arjun Dubey being wheeled in to Evergreen Health in Kirkland at the University of Washington Medical Center. He was bleeding profusely after being felled by bullets. Arjun Dubey was in a precarious condition. Abhimanyu, her son had been born with a congenital impairment in his heart. Sampoornanand Hall At Mussoorie, 10 hours and 30 minutes ahead of Washington, around the same time a lady walked up to the podium tentatively and addressed freshly inducted officers to the prestigious civil services of India. “I rise to speak about Barack Obama’s rare personal account about how he has been affected by racism, during a town hall meeting on race and policing.” “The former President of America spoke of how when he was a child growing up in Hawaii a female neighbour once refused to travel by a lift with him.” “‘She was just worried about riding the elevator with me,’ Mr Obama candidly remarked.” “The remarkable former President talked of that sense of being feared as a black man that continued as he grew older.” “‘Over time you start learning as you're crossing the street, suddenly the locks start going on doors,’ Mr Obama added.” The young lady officer who was selected to the preeminent Indian Administrative Service named Supriya, spoke with candour and conviction. A few faculty members who taught at the academy in 2014 recalled a similar kind of impassioned speech made by an officer named Karan Kumar. A Few Years Back, 2013 While Vrushali clambered the ladder of the fashion industry, Supriya painstakingly prepared for the Civil Services Examination. They had both secretly nursed an interest in the Indian Police Officer. Vrushali scorched the ramp and also made a foray in the tinsel world. There was a sudden inflow of wealth in the Nishad family living in a village in the vicinity of Pratabgarh . Meanwhile Karan on completion of their respective probation period, made a formal proposal to Parshati Singh. He was always bewitched by her brains and beauty and smitten with love. Parshati too was attracted to the intellectual acumen of the police officer and his emotive speeches and writings about the impoverished and unequal conditions of the backward communities in the northern parts of India. The two married much to the consternation and indignation of Raja Dhrupad Singh. The Rajput communities of Rajasthan and Bihar were outraged. This was a brand-new chapter in the emerging India. Arjun Dubey who always fancied himself to be the rightful suitor of Parshati was dismayed by the turn of events and established contact with Parshati’s father to seek retribution. Karan Kumar’s parents too were astonished with the decision taken by their son and the former chauffeur was left helpless in the defining moment. Vrushali in Mumbai was appalled as Karan Kumar whom she considered as one of them chose to marry someone from the upper caste. Parshati was excommunicated by her family and community as the tearful foreign service officer left for Paris on her maiden assignment. Karan was allotted Tamil Nadu cadre and posted as Superintendent of Police at Dharmapuri. The two had celebrated their honeymoon at Carlton Hotel, Kodaikanal unmindful of all the chatter and clangour about them. At Dharmapuri Jail Sometime in the first week of May 2013, a group of robbers reportedly broke into a firm in Dharmapuri district and robbed the cash stored in the locker. The financial firm provided loans to women’s self-help groups. According to some sources, employees at the firm, who arrived for duty on May 6, found the doors broken open and cash missing from the locker. On receiving information, the Bommidi police registered a case and suspected the role of the firm’s staff in the incident. The staff, which had left after work the previous day, were found to have deliberately left the main grill gate unlocked with a plan to carry out the heist. Inquiries with around ten employees at the firm led to the police zeroing down on the suspects. The role of Salem Central Prison Warden, Perumal was suspected in the burglary, and a special team of police picked the 28-year-old as he emerged out of the prison in Salem. This incident triggered a flutter as news spread that Perumal was kidnapped. The Dharmapuri police, however, revealed that he was taken for an inquiry. The police also detained a thirty-year-old Senthil, a staff of the financial firm, and Ilavarasan, the car driver, in connection with the case. “They along with notorious thief Saravanan, who was then in the Salem Central Prison in connection with a different case, had executed the burglary. We also suspect the role of the prison warden,” the police said. The police had recovered Rs 10 lakh from the suspects of the Rs 1 crore stolen and plans were afoot to take Saravanan in custody to inquire into the incident. Further investigations revealed that a senior police officer had actually masterminded the case. This information was revealed to the prying media by the District Magistrate Arjun Dubey. News Channels, social media, newspapers and magazines had all reported about the heist and soon the culprit was found behind bars. He was none other than Karan Kumar, the Superintendent of Police of Dharmapuri who had pleaded guilty. The castigated and maligned police officer was suspended and imprisoned for the misdemeanour. He was sentenced to a jail term. The Year, 2014 District Magistrate Arjun Dubey, though not wearing battle fatigues or khakhi became the toast of the town for his scrupulous pursuance of the case, through the Deputy Superintendent of Police, an officer named Selvan. The twice born officer was feted at various functions for his exemplar performance in the arrest of Karan Kumar, though it led to a turf war between the IAS and IPS officers. It was at Mumbai that he addressed a large gathering of people and encountered Vrushali who was now the toast in the fashion world and an emerging starlet of the film industry displaying both talent and her curvaceous body. At Dharmapuri Jail “Dear Karan, I had always pined for you, but you never paid attention to my entireties as you were attracted to Parshati. We travelled different paths. But for once I seek redemption from utter humiliation. And for once I invoke caste and kinship feeling to avenge the opprobrium I faced. The person who is drawing all media attention and arrested you molested me. I know he is now the husband of your former wife who deserted you upon the purported crime you committed, which I am sure would have been for a motive, not to merely make money but for a purpose which I am sure a lofty purpose,” was a WhatsApp message sent by Vrushali. Karan Kumar, the suspended IPS officer was mortified reading the message. The chauffer’s son was aware of the roving eye of his batch mate, the twice born IAS officer Arjun Dubey. He recalled those romantic moments during honeymoon time at Carlton Hotel with Parshati. During one of those love making nights, Parshati whispered something sensational which rattled Karan. “I have a confession to make dear hubby. I do not wish to live with a guilt all my life. Prior to our marriage in some weak moments at Mussoorie, I had shared some passionate and physical moments with Arjun.” Once Karan was suspended and jailed, there was whopping pressure on Parshati to seek separation from her husband which she had done and was readmitted by Raja Dhrupad Singh and her clansmen in the feudal society to which she belonged and the twice born Arjun Dubey tied the nuptial knot with his love. Sampoornanand Hall, 2018 “Our struggle has reached a decisive moment. We call on our people to seize this moment so that the process towards democracy is rapid and uninterrupted. We have waited too long for our freedom. We can no longer wait. Now is the time to intensify the struggle on all fronts. To relax our efforts now would be a mistake which generations to come will not be able to forgive. The sight of freedom looming on the horizon should encourage us to redouble our efforts. It is only through disciplined mass action that our victory can be assured. We call on our white compatriots to join us in the shaping of a new South Africa. The freedom movement is a political home for you too. We call on the international community to continue the campaign to isolate the apartheid regime. To lift sanctions now would be to run the risk of aborting the process towards the complete eradication of apartheid. Our march to freedom is irreversible. We must not allow fear to stand in our way. Universal suffrage on a common voters’ role in a united democratic and non-racial South Africa is the only way to peace and racial harmony,” continued Supriya, quoting Nelson Mandela as the rapturous assemblage rose in unison . In Washington at the same time The life of chauffer’s son like his namesake life 5000 years ago, the charioteer’s son was filled with vicissitudes. But this Karan, the IPS officer requited himself something which Radhey could not do. This was a brand-new chapter in Karan’s life. There was a wry smile on his face as he surrendered to Washington Police. “I may lose Arjun whose life is hanging tenuously as he was fatally wounded, but I thank you once again for the 90 lacs you sent for Abhimanyu’s treatment,” Parshati was to inform Karan as she met him in prison. This was a defining moment and a brand new chapter in the lives of Parshati, Karan and Abhimanyu.

REIGNITING THE FLAME

3. REIGNITING THE FLAME Around 5000 Years Ago The tumultuous events in Mahabharata had occurred in 3139 BCE, also called the Dwapara Yuga. It is widely believed in Hinduism that the Dwapar Yuga lasted twice as long as the Kali Yuga would last. Pandu, one of the principal characters of the Mahabharata, and the King of Hastinapur was exiled to the forest along with his wives Kunti and Madri to perform a strict regimen of penance. He was also to abstain from any sexual gratification in order to atone for the sin he committed. Dhritarashtra, his older brother, born with a congenital eye impairment and otherwise blinded with avarice and detestation could barely conceal his glee at the plight of his sibling, especially since he was going to be crowned the King of Hastinapur. Present Day, December 2020 In the middle of the flight, Dr Kiara woke up and walked to the washroom in a languorous and torpid manner. When the winsome woman returned, she found herself too sapped to push her way into the middle seat. Her chiselled and curvaceous body was the result of hours spent in the gym, in the pool and toned with Pilates and yoga. It was no surprise that she was the cynosure at any gathering. With Rishaan readily offering to shift seats, the seating arrangement changed. With twenty minutes still remaining for the flight to land, the sleep-starved medic who had just recovered from the lethal Covid-19 decided to take another power nap, this time holding Rishaan’s right hand more firmly. Rishaan’s other hand, though, nervously moved to touch Diya’s. Her heart skipped a beat. Diya pulled her hand away. But a defiant Rishaan held her wrist, this time firmly and more reassuringly. The changing behavioural dynamics between the triumvirate was a foreboding of what could be expected in Goa. When the flight landed at the Dabolim Airport, Rishaan felt his excitement replaced by an unknown fear which he found difficult to decipher. Diya had been quarantined with Kiara and brother-in-law Rishaan, her unrequited love. The two reignited their passionate love when Dr Kiara was afflicted by the pestilence. The pandemic had wrecked numerous lives the world over. Millions were afflicted and thousands perished across the globe. Quarantine, fresh mutations, lockdown, migrant labour, human problems, unemployment, suicides, new relationships, working from home, sanitizers, social distancing and masks had entered the lexicon. Rishaan and Diya were unable to mask their feelings and keen to reignite the flame. Dr Kiara was a frontline worker in an estimable hospital and staved-off hospitalisation through remarkable fortitude and resilience. Diya and Rishaan were feeling holed up, working from home for such a long duration. They planned a visit to Goa to get over the blues and persuaded the surgeon to take a break too. Dr Kiara looked at her sister and husband somewhat incredulously but gingerly agreed. She needed a breathing space as something weighed on her mind. However, amidst the widespread bleak environment, at the end of the tunnel there seemed to be light. The cases of people testing Covid positive were on the decline. There were positive tidings on the horizon with vaccinations round the corner. Around 5000 Years Ago Pandu, the son of Rishi Veda Vyasa and Ambalika, was educated in the fields of archery, politics, administration and religion by none other than the ace warrior Bhishma himself. After ascending the throne of Hastinapur, he married Kunti, the daughter of Kuntibhoja. Younger sibling Vidura’s claims to the throne were ignored as he was the son of a dasi. Vidura was born of niyoga, between sage Vyasa and Parishrami, handmaiden to the queens Amba and Ambalika. An ambitious Pandu embarked upon an expansionist policy and annexed Sindhu, Kashi, Anga and the principality of Kalinga among others. He was bewitched by the prepossessing Madri, the princess of Madra, during one such military campaign and took her as his second wife. Now it so happened that while hunting in the forest, King Pandu trained his arrows at a deer couple. The deer were actually Rishi Kindama and his wife who were blissfully unaware while copulating. The king did not seem initially remorseful for his indiscrete act and instead misquoted Sage Agatsya’s ruling regarding the moral right and privilege of Kshatriyas to hunt. Pandu, the King of Hastinapur was cursed by the sage as he cast his mortal self, that if the latter ever indulged in sexual gratification his life would be snuffed out. This was since the king wantonly extirpated the sage’s life. However, the queens were immensely grieved and so were his grandmother Satyavati, Bhishma and younger sibling Vidura. They were overwrought at the turn of events and solicitous about the safety of Pandu. To atone for his acts, Pandu had to renounce his kingdom and live as an ascetic along with his wives. The erstwhile king while performing severe tapas abstained from any physical relationship with his wives, apprehensive of the curse of Rishi Kindama. Pandu often wondered how he would continue his lineage in such circumstances and often shared his fears with the elder queen, Kunti. Kunti however had an ace in her armory. “Lord, I have been blessed with a boon by Sage Durvasa. Through this boon I can invoke celestial beings and Gods from the empyrean and bear a child through them.” An ecstatic Pandu directed Kunti to invoke Yama, Vayu and Indra so that she could bear their offspring. Thus Yudhishthira, Bhima and Arjuna were born. Kunti generously shared the secret and the sacred mantra with Madri who invoked the Ashwin twins and thus Nakul and Sahdeva arrived on planet Earth. Goa, December 2020 Doctor Kiara, her husband and sister reached the upmarket Zuari White Sands where they were booked. The first few days were spent lazing on the beach and taking walks on the sands. Kiara was happy to feel the warmth of the sun at Goa, unlike the cold Delhi winter. She spent considerable time on the lounger, taking her vitamins to recuperate. Tenderly she felt the waves as she stepped into the water. The ace swimmer in her was yearning to get into the pool and even the sea, but held herself back. However, two images were etched in her mind as she lay on the lounger. As the sun sank in the coastline of Goa, she saw her husband and Diya rather close while swimming in the sea. Was it a delusion? Rishaan passionately kissing Diya …she wondered if she should believe her eyes. Around 5000 Years Ago Life in the forest went on, until one fine day, Pandu happened to see Madri bathing under a waterfall. She looked bewitching. From under the cascading waterfall, Madri looked at her handsome husband and could feel her hormones stirring. Pandu’s testosterone levels were rising too. Soon he could not control his carnal desires and was keen to make love to Madri. They were keen to reignite the flame. Madri could not refuse, though aware that both were hurtling towards hubris. But their minds were emblazoned with passionate and carnal thoughts. During the act Pandu suffered a major stroke and died. Wiser counsel had been eclipsed by momentary pleasure. To atone for being a complicit partner, Madri committed sati, with Kunti looking-on, aghast at the cataclysmic turn of events. Reigniting the Flame Diya who was quarantined with Kiara and brother-in-law Rishaan, her unrequited love, found her opportunity to make love at Delhi and reignited the flame at Goa. In the plenteous hotel, Doctor Kiara found Diya and Rishaan in a compromising position. Even as Kiara was going to confront the two, Rishaan suffered a stroke. Kiara rushed Rishaan to a nearby hospital, even as he sobbed inconsolably for breaking the trust of his wife. He was also concerned about his survival. At Kiara’s insistence, Diya stayed back at the hotel and did not accompany her sister and brother-in-law to the hospital. Rishaan was wheeled into the ICCU. It was New Year’s Day as he feebly opened his eyes. He had survived a stroke. “You are blessed to have such an attentive and concerned wife. Dr Kiara played a pivotal role in your recovery. Truly commendable, despite having just recovered Covid,” Dr Pinto, the cardiac specialist commented. Two weeks later the two were walking on the sands of the beach. Dr Kiara had summarily dismissed Diya from her presence. “You know Rishaan, we would not have had any children. For a moment in the hospital, I wanted to castrate you and knife Diya. But wiser counsel prevailed,” the doctor confessed. “This year, 2021, will be the year we’ll reignite our flame,” added Kiara. As they continued walking, silhouetted against the sun emerged a figure, escorted by a charming lady. The couple caught their eye and Doctor Kiara was stupefied as she recognised the blind chess player, Rishaan’s older sibling and her unrequited first love. He had been presumed dead when he met with an accident and had been untraceable for more than seven years now. The law provides that if a missing person remains unheard of for seven years, a presumption that he is dead can be raised through appropriate proceedings before a court. There need not be any evidence about the actual date, time and place of his death. However, for reasons best known to them, none from the family had raised the matter in the court of law. Dr Kiara was married to younger brother, Rishaan. She always mused that the vicissitudes of life are such that all flames are not reignited. Rishaan and her sister would learn their lessons too, not all flames can be reignited.

2. THREE DIARIES

2. THREE DIARIES There was nothing ostentatious nor any adornment about him. He was unpretentious and naïve; exceedingly shy by nature, he was a perennial victim of stage fright. His name was Gandhi. Not the emblematic Mahatma whose revolutionary and prototypical movements shook the very foundations of the British Empire in India. Eknath Gandhi was hugely inspired by the story of Mahatma Gandhi and had read The Story of My Experiments with Truth in English, Hindi and Gujarati, his native tongue. Some other books that fired his imagination included Lust for Life, Whose Life is it Anyway, and a few plays of the dramaturge Shakespeare. Eknath had developed a singular passion in life and that was to write. But he was not mettlesome enough to get his works published. He simply lacked the robustness and tenacity to disseminate his literature on suitable platforms. This Gandhi was fearful of rejection and lived in perpetual fear of non-acceptance by society. Eknath was the only child of Sudhakar and Madhuri Gandhi. His father was a domineering and tyrannical cop, while his mother though a strong personality by nature maintained an adequate distance from her husband, dreading the bouts of his wrath. The youngster was often a witness to his father’s holler in the house. He’d shed copious tears when his authoritative father gave him and his mother a hiding for no particular reason. Having a dictatorial father enfeebled Eknath. He was shrunk into a wan personality who remained insecure all through his childhood. In fact, the household resembled a prison where mother and son were no more than inmates. Several times in an inebriated condition Sudhakar Gandhi used the choicest of abuses against his Madhuri, her parents and Eknath. Redemption arrived one fine day, when the patriarch of the family was killed in an encounter while combating a group of gangsters. Mother and son caroused in private. It was certainly a macabre response, but they could not bring themselves to choose any other option available on the platter. *************** Who was telling the story? And whose story was it anyway? The words fluttered and flew in the wind, penned by Eknath Gandhi as he sat down to write an array of tales. This was yet another of his umpteen attempts to weave short stories. He had recently penned a short story called Heart Break at a Coffee Shop, but could not gather the pluck to send it in for the Times of India short story competition. His mother watched haplessly at the cowardice of her son. Eknath nevertheless was diligent and punctilious and made all efforts to hone his craft. Though unsure and tentative about his writing skills, he was in pursuit of that magical story which would fetch him wide acclaim and accolades. But on the question of putting his stories out to the prospective reader, insecurity continued to grip his brain. As a child he had suffered from a severe bout of typhoid and later was plagued with a frail stomach which added to the never-ending misadventures in life. All these events made him even more timorous. He lived with antipathetic ideas towards his father and would then be subsumed with guilt. Thus, the gifted child could not blossom as he had quotidian nightmares of his draconian father. His confidence remained at the lowest ebb and he could never develop a brawny personality or flower into a confident writer. After a series of struggles, Eknath Gandhi became a banker by profession and his passionate dream of churning out literary masterpieces languished in some cranny corner of his mind. Several plots had mushroomed but were to still see the light of the day. As he grew older, his idols were two former bankers, Chetan Bhagat and Amish Tripathi. These two exemplar Indians had emerged as bestselling and chevalier authors in India and overseas. But he, Eknath Gandhi, who had several manuscripts in his custody, he was still struggling to find his place in the sun on account of his self-effacing and timid nature. Often Eknath acted out the roles of Chetan Bhagat or Amish Tripathi by giving bytes and staging imaginary interviews to the media, as he envisioned his works being converted into movies and translated into other languages. These delightful nuggets provided a spark in his otherwise desultory life. The writer who had yet to send his first manuscript to a publisher, often enacted a scenario where he was feted by an eminent jury for winning the Pulitzer Prize, the Booker Prize or even the Nobel Prize for an outstanding piece of literature! Of course, all of this was within the four walls of his dreary bedroom. He would be thrilled to receive these imaginary accolades from book lovers. Here are some of the teachings which the mighty Bhishma gave to the new emperor of Hastinapur, Yudhishtir and his brothers, while lying on his deathbed. “It is imperative and mandatory that human beings should positively possess nine qualifications in order to live a righteous life …” Eknath continued writing this piece on the celibate and venerable ace-archer Bhishma. He chiseled it a couple of times but felt that he was still to get into the skin of the character of Bhishma and his sermon. To ensure greater authenticity he prepared a bed of arrows and ended bruising his back as the temporary bed collapsed under his weight. Eknath Gandhi was ironing out the characters of his tale and wondered as to whether he should pursue the story on Bhishma or not. As usual he remained tentative, unable to share this tale on Bhishma with publishers and literary agents. His mother was exasperated but still comforted him and hoped that one day wisdom would dawn on her son and he would emerge triumphant. *************** If not Saraswati, Goddess Lakshmi entered his life. An alluring woman from a wealthy family, blessed with beauty and brains was married to Eknath. In Apra, he discovered an ideal soul-mate and an intrepid personality. Soon Apra became aware about the banker-husband’s interest in writing and she tried to instill the confidence to continue writing and hopefully get the works published. Madhuri’s sixth sense made her believe that her daughter-in-law would perhaps perform the much-required magic and see that her doting son would get his works published someday. She was sure her daughter-in-law would play a pivotal role in this endeavour. Though she was extremely attached to the son, Madhuri decided not to interfere in the lives of the newlyweds and moved over to her brother’s household once Eknath got married. Though he resisted the move, Eknath could not compel his mother to stay with him and Apra. The protective mother who loved her son in an unalloyed manner did not lower her guard. She prayed to Goddess Saraswati that Eknath would one day emerge from the feeling of privation and meekness and find his place as a writer on the world stage. *************** One night, after an intense lovemaking session where she played the dominant partner, Apra Gandhi chanced upon her husband’s writings rather fortuitously. She had been aware of his interest in writing, but was unaware of the exceptional talent he possessed; talent which was papered over on account of his pusillanimity. “You have this exceptional talent and have never shared this with the world! Why are you not getting these published?” Apra confronted her husband. Eknath Gandhi merely sulked upon being cornered. “These are some exceptional ideas which will storm the world of writing. You are being depriving people of something newfangled, Eknath,” Apra questioned her spouse. “In my opinion it merely requires a little bit of editing and polishing. I can do that for you, and I won’t charge a penny!” Apra jocularly mentioned. Now that she had had a glimpse of his work, Apra was relentless and virtually coerced her husband to fashion his ideas and put pen to paper. “The skeleton and scaffolding are ready. All it requires is some flesh and muscle, and we will have a chart buster in our family,” Apra added, tying up her saree as Eknath lay nonplussed in his night suit wondering how to respond. *************** Eknath was born on the 15th of March, but he insisted on celebrating his birthday on the auspicious day of Basant Panchami. This was quite like the famous Hindi wordsmith Surya Kant Tripathi Nirala. For Basant Panchami is a singular festival in which Goddess Saraswati, the fountain and epitome of knowledge and letters is worshipped. The celestial personality was Eknath’s favourite deity whom he worshipped with extraordinary intensity. *************** Basant Panchami is a festival which marks the beginning of preparations for spring season. It is celebrated by scores of the populace across swathes of the land. The celebrations of Basant Panchami also indicate the beginning of preparation for Holika and Holi, which takes place forty days later. For large numbers of Hindus, Basant Panchami is a festival which is dedicated to Goddess Saraswati. The deiform symbolizes knowledge, language, music and various forms of arts. This also is indicative of the development of the right hemisphere of the brain. Goddess Saraswati embodies creative energy and power in all its majesty, including longing and love. The festival also heralds bountiful agricultural fields, ripening with yellow flowers of the mustard crop, which those professing Hindu faith associate with the deity’s chosen colour. Individuals dress in yellow saris or shirts or accessories, share yellow-coloured snacks and sweets. A large number of families mark this day by sitting with babies and young children and encouraging their children to write their first words with their fingers, and some study or create music together. The day before Basant Panchami, Goddess Saraswati’s temples are filled with food so that the celestial being partakes of the feast along with the celebrants in the traditional feasting the following morning. Several educational institutions organize special prayers. To mark the event, it is not uncommon to hold poetic and musical gatherings in reverence of Goddess Saraswati. Eknath Gandhi wrote Basant Panchami: An ode to Goddess Saraswati as a college student and was suffused with jollity. He sent the piece for publication in a magazine but under a pseudonym. The piece got published and the stripling writer’s joy knew no bounds. However, Eknath was deprived of the associated fame and the monetary premium on account of his reticence. Shyness is a coquettish quality perhaps among prepossessing women but in Eknath Gandhi’s case it was a retarder. His dreams of writing and getting his works published remained confined to his mind and the rough notes he prepared. *************** Since his childhood Eknath developed a few worthwhile qualities which any writer ought to possess. He maintained a couple of diaries to fuel his passion of writing. In one diary, the demure budding writer jotted down twenty new words and twenty quotations unfailingly every single day. This assisted him in bolstering his vocabulary and to muster fresh ideas and thoughts. There was yet another diary which was peppered with various plots and stories which evolved in the alcoves of his mind. The third diary was one where he scrupulously noted down the events of the day. Over the years he developed this unique characteristic of adding a twist, either tragic or positive to the trail of events of the day, before going to bed which created a series of tales. More often than not these were tales of how his mother like a venturous warrior had staved-off the challenges of her tyrant husband and a brutal world. Thus, there were many stories in his arsenal which could have been published with a degree of assembling and abridging. However, his introvert and self-effacing nature acted as the biggest roadblock. The diaries were Eknath Gandhi’s prized possessions, kept at the feet of Goddess Saraswati. He sought blessings for the diaries from the deiform every day after worshipping her. Only his mother was privy to this habit. “Mother, my world will come crashing in case they are not accepted,” he shared with his mother. “Let them remain in the closet, that way they represent hope that sometime in the future I’ll get my due.” Nevertheless, he was encouraged by his mother to fuel his passion. The duo continued to send articles and stories, but always under a pseudonym. On the occasions that his works were published under a nom de plume mother and son would celebrate the moment. Madhuri Gandhi fervidly hoped that one day he would overcome this trait of coyness. Writing was a way of channelizing his energies and attempt to break the ring of diffidence and apprehension. As a last resort Madhuri Gandhi prayed that if not her, his future wife would find a way out. *************** As Time Goes By, Radhika The girl next door is charming My neighbour is alluring Radhika is winsome Lord Krishna’s precious is awesome She is blessed with both beauty and brains Radhika hopefully is attracted by Sri Krishna’s strains ... Radhey Radhey Radhey Krishna... Our love is Divine The one which Radha Developed for Krishna As time goes by Radhika you would loosen the grip on that rock The only anchor you always thought was your home And you will realise over a period of time That home is not a dwelling It is a state of mind Let the moments pass by Radhika will get a clearer picture You were subsumed by your enchanting beauty You were and are always pretty But as time goes by Your thoughts will emerge with clarity And you will make adjustments in life with alacrity … And the poem went on. Eknath penned these lines as an ode to his prepossessing neighbour, but simply could not muster the courage to share it with her. His mother stumbled upon his adoration for the girl and deftly managed to pass it on to Radhika. The girl was ecstatic and at the first opportunity confronted Eknath. “Hey Eknath, you write so well. I never realised you had feelings for me,” the charismatic girl gushed. But Eknath, caught unawares by his mother’s move and subsumed by his bashful nature, was overcome by a strange sense of guilt. As a result, he disowned the poem preferring to live in the world of anonymity much to the consternation of Radhika. The shy boy failed to express his feelings for his classmates in school and college. These were smart women whom Eknath admired, but concealed his feelings and instead wrote about them and filled his diaries. As a result, when Eknath agreed to marry Apra, Madhuri was pleasantly surprised. She had often pondered on the sexual orientation and preferences of her son and questioned him obliquely on the matter, only to embarrass him. Madhuri fondly hoped that the assertive and self-assured Apra would transfigure his repressed personality. The banker had over the years developed a robot-like routine, which was observed keenly by his discerning wife. He was an early riser. After the freshening up he would jot down the twenty new words and the twenty quotations. He would then go for a long walk while his wife would practice yoga at home. At work too, he would spend time reading and writing and end the day by jotting down points and stories in his diaries. Now his mother was replaced by two characters, an old woman and his wife, though the stories continued to have amazing twists. “These are my jewels Apra, and I have placed them at the feet of Goddess Saraswati. I worship the deity and this is my humble offering to the her. My mother never tampered with them and I hope you too will never tinker with them. Your name symbolises materialistic knowledge, I hope you bring me fame, wealth and prosperity. But my affluence and collections are these three diaries. They are my treasures, so let them remain sacred,” he shared with her. His wife was supportive and understood her husband. She cajoled him to enrol for online writing courses and other programmes to hone his skills. The constrained and hesitant person agreed after enormous persuasion. Next Apra began goading her husband to get his works published. This was an uphill task. Each time she brought up the topic, Eknath’s childhood experiences and his reticence and disinclination would rear their ugly heads. She realised that she had to treat her husband with kid gloves on this matter. But Apra Gandhi was made of sterner stuff. She continued working on him. One day, Eknath went to bed after his usual routine. He had offered prayers to the celestial being as he replaced the diaries at the feet of Goddess Saraswati. It was past midnight and there was a nip in the air. Suddenly there was a sharp shower. The householder was in deep slumber when he was awakened by a shimmering light and a strong smell of incense in the puja room. He turned around and found his wife to be asleep. Eknath rushed to the puja room and to his utter bewilderment saw the vision of Goddess Saraswati. The deity in all her finery, playing the veena was seated next to the idol that he worshipped daily. The deity was looking absolutely dazzling and radiant. The banker was astounded and fell at the feet of the Goddess as he wept inconsolably. He cried out to Apra asking her to witness the divine spectacle. “Child, do you want money or wisdom? Calm down. I have come to help you and unearth the talent with which you have been born. This is an appropriate time for you to overcome your reticence. Rise to the occasion. The Divine has blessed you with sparkling wisdom and writing skills which is being wasted. You are a Gandharva born on Earth. Share this talent with lovers of literature. You have a great future lying ahead of you. Hold my hand and trust me,” the Goddess said. “Your virtuosity should not be confined to these diaries alone. The entire world is waiting to read what has been written. Let it be clear to you, it is me who is writing, you are merely wielding the pen. So, from today, commence writing and get your works published in YOUR NAME. No PEN NAMES. If you do not write, you are doing me a great disservice and an injustice to the talent provided by the Universe,” the Goddess added. She gifted Eknath a book on writing. It was called Writing Tools by Roy Peter Clarke. “Son, read this book with exceeding care and master each word with precision and write your first novel. The book will be a masterpiece and a best seller,” the deity added. Eknath continued to shed copious tears as he witnessed this spectacular event. His mind was flooded with emotions as he thought of his mother, his wife and the past. “Do not wake up your wife. Let her rest. You have to begin writing and it will not be long before your work gets published,” the Goddess added. “Now meditate on my name and take up the onerous responsibility from tomorrow after your customary walk,” she added. The following day, Eknath began writing at a furious pace. He shared the events of the previous night with his wife. Apra was incredulous as she heard her husband describe the events from the previous night. Both husband and wife read the book provided by the Goddess with utmost earnestness and sincerity. Eknath decided to take two months leave and write his first novel consulting the three diaries and the book given by Goddess Saraswati. The couple paid obeisance to Goddess Saraswati and like all Mumbaikars offered prayers at Siddhi Vinayak Mandir too. With all passion and conviction, they eschewed everything and focussed all their energies on writing. Eknath wrote and Apra edited the work with precision, ironing out all frivolous material. Through some friends of Apra, they were connected to a budding publishing house, AKS Publishers. The company had recently forayed into publishing fiction. Not one to do things in half-measures, Apra roped in an event management company, JashnEvnts, to take care of all the promotional activities. Within four months Eknath Gandhi’s inaugural venture An Author in Search of a Story hit the stands. The book became an Amazon best seller and swamped the market. Eknath became an overnight sensation. The book was also translated into several different languages. The tentative and shy Eknath became a wordsmith of repute and was feted with awards and his coffers were unexpectedly filled with enormous wealth. He became the toast of the literati and the social media. The banker was blooming with the blessings of Goddess Saraswati and Goddess Lakshmi, much to the pride of his mother and happiness of his wife. They celebrated this success eating Vada Pav at Chowpatty beach where he was surrounded by a substantial fan following seeking his autograph. In a corner stood Madhuri and Apra, basking in the reflected glory. Despite the remarkable success and accompanying fame, Eknath remained a humble being. Often, he would ask his wife to sign a few copies of the books as she was the editor of the book. The new writer on the horizon was soon approached by film makers, OTT players, literary agents and leading publishers to be signed-on by them. Eknath Gandhi continued to remain a shrinking personality who was contented with the accomplishment and returned back to work as a banker. He was happy with the achievement and thanked the Gods for bestowing this success on him. His only unfulfilled desire was to have an interaction with his icons, Chetan Bhagat and Amish Tripathi. Apra and Madhuri implored Eknath to convert writing into a full-time profession especially considering the numerous offers he received, but Eknath was content with the one-off success he had tasted. He wished to proceed at a more sedate pace, savouring the journey along the way, whether it meant dizzying heights of success or not. “You feel ashamed to be the wife of a banker! Instead, you pine for the razzmatazz and glitz of the literary world,” Eknath chastised Apra, as she wiped her tears. Very soon a leading literary agent approached Eknath Gandhi and offered him five million dollars for his next work. This offer too was turned down by the banker. The agent left the cheque with Apra and urged her to persuade her husband to take up the offer. *************** The auditorium was packed with no space for manoeuvrability. On the stage there were life-size cut-outs of Chetan Bhagat, Amish Tripathi and Eknath Gandhi. A large contingent of press corps and electronic media were covering the event. The audience consisted of noted writers, some film personalities and OTT players among others. In walked Chetan Bhagat and Amish Tripathi to a standing ovation. On stage with these literary giants was Apra Gandhi. Madhuri Gandhi, the proud mother was seated in the very front row. The former bankers and chart busters unveiled Eknath Gandhi’s second foray in literature. It was called Diary which was culled out from the diaries Eknath Gandhi kept. An absolutely stupefied Eknath watched the proceedings on television and was non-plussed. “I am going insane. My wife shares my story… The book is unveiled by my favourite authors and it is in my name and I was totally kept in the dark about the event,” he fumed. That night the couple had a major showdown. Eknath felt slighted and cheated. Their squabble went on past midnight, with both trading charges and insinuations and finally exhausted they slept. The banker was now in deep slumber when he was awakened by psychedelic lights and a strong smell of incense in the puja room. Eknath rushed to the room and to his utter surprise once again he saw the vision of Goddess Saraswati. The deity in all her finery playing the veena was seated next to the idol he worshipped daily. The deity was looking dazzling and radiant. “Son Eknath, you have disobeyed my command. How could you treat your wife so lamentably? She merely collated my writings. I think you forgot what I told you a few months back. I am the inspiration; I have written all these stories. You are merely wielding the pen. I have come here to make you realise that shyness is nothing but a form of EGO. Children are not shy. They play with gay abandon without any hesitation. How can you come between my works and my audience? Remember, I can find several Eknaths like you. Feel blessed that the Universe has chosen you to be an instrument to weave my thoughts,” the deity uttered. Eknath fell at the feet of Goddess Saraswati and once again wept like a child. “In case you are not interested in the five million, establish Saraswati Vidyalayas for students, writers. Spend it on art, culture, on supporting aspiring artistes. But never fritter away the wisdom and the wealth bestowed upon you, for they will never return to you. This is the Law of the Universe. Be grateful to nature which has chosen you for this mission. Get over your inferiority complex, your inhibitions and be ever grateful to your mother and your wife,” the Goddess admonished him. “I know you are pure of heart; hence I am giving you one last chance,” the goddess uttered. Before Eknath could process everything that was happening, Goddess Saraswati had disappeared. The following day Eknath Gandhi was extremely apologetic and made amends to his wife. Meanwhile Diary was an astounding success, a chart buster. Eknath was soon awarded by the Sahitya Akademi. That was just the first step. He went on to win the Booker Prize and the Commonwealth Prize among others. He realised the value of money and soon set up several Saraswati Vidyalayas that dotted the landscape of the country. *************** It was a wintry Delhi as fog hung thick in the atmosphere. There was absolutely negligible visibility as cars honked, trying to find space and a parking spot. Kamani Auditorium in Delhi was choc-a-bloc with writers, poets, artistes, politicians and a wide spectrum of publishers and literary agents as Ruskin Bond unveiled Shakti Power, the third book in the trilogy by Eknath Gandhi. “My mother was tormented by my father, a policeman, no less. He would brutally assault her in an inebriated state. He lashed and whipped her black and blue with his belt ruthlessly. I was a timid observer to the events. I fervently prayed to Goddess Saraswati to assume the form of Ma Durga and slay my father. Which son would beseech divinity to devour and vanquish his own father? But I did pray and a few months later my father was brutally felled by a group of gangsters. Ma and I celebrated the death of my authoritarian father. This country is populated by such personalities whose so called masculinity is nothing but false bravado…,” read Ruskin Bond from Shakti Power, to a standing ovation. The preeminent author gave Eknath a warm hug and asked the banker-author to present him with a signed copy. This overwhelmed Eknath as the two posed before a posse of press corps while cameras clicked and vintage moments were captured. The book was to become an overnight success as millions of readers swamped bookstores and procured copies online. This book too became an Amazon chart-buster. As they flew back after a holiday at Goa, Eknath whispered into the ears of his wife Apra. He had no hesitancy in holding her hands in public. “Apra, a few days before we commenced writing Shakti Power, I had the vision of Goddess Saraswati. She said, ‘Eknath now that you have accepted Lakshmi, keep writing. If you accept money, you will lose all your wisdom and the proficiency to write. Whatever gets accrued from your writings, keep ten percent for Apra and your mother and donate the remaining amount to construct schools, colleges and fund budding artistes, musicians and others who are struggling to establish themselves in the field of arts’.” “I seek your forgiveness for not sharing this interaction with Goddess Saraswati with you,” Eknath added. Apra was absolutely befuddled hearing her husband. In order to invigorate her husband, for him to rise from the slumber of constrained behaviour she had played the role of Goddess Saraswati twice … but not a third time, before they began writing Shakti Diaries. So, who was this Goddess Saraswati he was talking about, the third time he saw the apparition? Must have been the Goddess herself, Apra thought to herself as she folded her hands in a namaste to the Goddess. Back in Mumbai, Madhuri wore a wry smile on her face as she looked at the white silk saree which Goddess Saraswati apparently wore, wondering where she could keep it safely.