The Gift at Dusk.

“Öm Namah Swaha …Thora sa ghee daliye...” . Heat and smoke bellowed out while the flames grew brighter and longer. The fiery fire had me transfixed, as if I was transcending through time. The orange glow slowly gave shape to the silhouette of a green sari clad figure with a bundle in her hand. The city beyond was burning. Dusk was setting in and I was in a hurry to put the fruit caskets inside and close the shop before the curfew set in again. “Bhaya ji  meri bacchii ko bachalo, bhayaji..” her fear grasped eyes pleaded. Some more chaotic noises arose in the background with shouts and slogans in the praise of the almighty. My fellow brethrens were rumbling down the street mad as the hatter brandishing the ugly cloak of human religion.  I found myself being violently nudged by this skin & bones figure now. Dumbfounded I frantically took the bundle and hid it among my fruit baskets.

 She vanished in the growing darkness with the mob cheering behind never to be heard of or seen again. There were many tragic series of news that followed in the local newspaper headlines for some days. But my world was filled with the crying of a new-born, a sudden rainbow of joy in our solitary world. My begum named her “Sarina” meaning "Princess" in Hebrew. A game of Hide and Seek prevailed for the angels safety but the tense days passed soon. I too shifted base from Aligarh to the “Dilwalo ki Delhi” for better business. We easily folded into the capitals fast paced cultural potpourri. Sarina grew up, her little family made of Ammi , Abba, some friends and her favourite Gods Allah & Krishna. The Joyous festivities of Eid , Holi, Diwali or Christmas touched us in equal fervours. I realised time flies by fast when I see her doning the black cape and leaving for practise to fight for the blind law. Where was the law I wonder when I was being nudged 25 years back.

 The nudging suddenly grows stronger now as the burning flames scorch me afresh.  The chanting of mantras and melody of Shehanai was gradually coming closer. I can hear the voice again, now clearer. “Abba ghee dalo hawan mein” Sarina's face now glows in the orange halo, the freshly smeared sindur sparkling brightly on her forehead. My princess had given me all the joys of fatherhood . “Kanyadaan” they say is the most pious act of all, a milestone towards salvation. I smiled, being her abba has been the best gift . I could feel that river of joy flowing.

Reality of Surreal LIfe

The view outside my cars windscreen suddenly blurred in a maze of dust & sand storm as I took a sharp bend. I had no option but to brake my car to a screeching halt. The radio was still blaring on with SRK’s: “You r my chammak challoo..” but all I could  hear was my heart pounding loudly. Slowly the view cleared up and I could see a group of semi clad kids running behind a monstrous yellow coloured rumbling machine.

“The JCB” I murmured, feeling that sense of civil engineering pride. Gazing ahead I could see the skyline dotted with high rise buildings, some completed, some receiving the final touches and some still in their infant stages. Suburban Noida was developing fast transforming vast stretches of agricultural tracts to  modern high rise apartments. Everywhere advertisement boards of the realtors promised the dream home to the “AAm AADmi”. I was at Sec-120, paying a visit to my colleague who had just moved into his new two BHK dream home. My thoughts turned back to the rumbling, which by now had moved quite a distance and was taking an entry through the gate of a realtor estate. The kids though were retracing back their steps fighting over something among themselves. “Stupid kids” I thought. Childhood of course is fraught with such acts of stupidity; God knows what fun they derived running in the dust behind the beast.

Spotting a juice stall a few feet away I drove towards it to quench my sudden pang of thirst arisen out of all the adrenaline pumping. Baba Ramdev’s advertisement for “Lauki ka juice “adorned the juice cart, besides the usual faces of Katrina and Kareena. “Ek mausambi ka juice dena bhaiya’’. His mixers whirring were soon replaced by the deadening rumbling. Sipping on the extra sweet juice I watched the kids all bare feet in action. The JCB was carrying long reinforcement bars which were grouped together with steel rings. As the bars dragged on the road some of these rings came loose. All the kids jumped in that direction and after much fight one of them collected the prized possession. A rusted steel ring of hardly 15cm diameter.

My glass was empty. I started off again. News headlines in AIR FM gold blarred of RBI’s monetary policy. The repo rate was being cut by 75 basis points to boost investment ,growth and competition in the private sector. Competition I thought. Competing not for a JEE rank, or UPSC, or to get better appraisal but only for a rusted steel ring. I do not know how many each of them collected. I do not know how much it will earn them. I do not know what the Repo rate  will bring to them. I only know now the blunt face of haves and have-nots.