My blue bird

 My blue bird

Ravi Upadhye-in sombre mood 18th Sept 11

I have met this blue bird in many places. Just like clouds in the sky, I see him often. Yet there are days, like the days the sky remains cloudless, I fail to spot him. And then I start longing for him.

I see my dear little bird outside the window. He sits on the branches of the old banyan tree waiting for me to spot him. While I am reading, I pause to rest my eyes and stretch and then when I look out, there he is, all grace and smile. He wasn’t there when I had started reading. I see him in the mango grove, in the school when the children sing their prayers, in the choir and when with my dear ones. I meet him in the jungles of Kumaun,in the starlit quiet nights on beaches of Goa.I meet him in the Venkateswara temple on the banks of river Godawari.I meet him in the classroom when I am lost in flow of my admiration for the spoken word.

So, you see, I meet him in the plains, in the college, on the beach, in the jungle, on the slopes of tea gardens in Kerala. I met him at Stratford, in Scotland at Windermere, at the late Bhimsen Joshi’s concert and also when I am with my life partner and daughters. I meet him when I am called Ajja by Sahana.

He is so small; he would barely fit him in my fist. He has a shiny back and a colorful beak. His neck has a shimmering bright color. White adores his tummy. Eyes are fluid and sharp. When he flies, he leaves a colorful trail behind even in the night. When he sings, he reminds me of playfulness and contrasting serenity. This bird is royalty in all its magnificence. He is unpretentious.

The other day, I went to the hilltop. The entire world lay at my feet. The gentle breeze soothed my nerves. The sunset across sent yellow rays of divinity. I could hear the shepherd on the slopes playing his sonorous flute. The quietude of that moment

stirred nothing inside me. I was calm and free of any thoughts. All my senses relished that moment and from nowhere, my blue friend appeared .He was more majestic than any other time when I had seen him. He floated from the ocean of steel grey mist engulfing the valley. He came and sat on the branches of the lone tree. The tree too looked beautiful now. With the setting Sun in the background, the blue bird started humming in my ears.

I wondered, who would have told him that I was here? The exhilarating, divine experience drove away solitude, remorse, sadness, .I was happy, I was elated, and I felt cheerful and contented.

I have experienced this many times. And my constant companion is the blue bird. He appears from nowhere and starts singing. My entire being swims in the vast expanse of divinity.

But I often wonder, what about those who cannot see this blue bird .Or is it that the blue bird does not go to them?

Then I realize, the bird dwells within me. He loves me when I see and enjoy anything that is pure, divine, heavenly, melodious, beautiful and natural. He just comes out and joins me and sings with me!!!

After all, each one needs a small patch of blue sky to greet him once in a while, to act as an umbrella; he too needs his own blue bird, but then he is omnipresent like the blue sky and the patch of green earth.

All you need is the time and space, the eye, the ear, the feel, the nose and the tongue to relish the moment and lo he would appear!

HOPE

 HOPE

“Hello, hello, is that Mr. Sarkar speaking? I am Sachin here”

In spite of my best efforts to locate the caller by identifying his voice, name or by the caller i.d. appearing on the screen of my cell phone, I could not locate him.

”Who is it please? I am sorry I can’t locate you” was my reply

“It’s me Sir! Sachin! I was working with you in 1991 in boiler maintenance”

With a bit of effort, I could immediately remember. Sure, he was Sachin-the Graduate Engineer Trainee, the Keralite with typical accent.Oh, yes He was Sachin.The traces of accent still remained. There was a strange British or western accent too. After so many years! It was a pleasant surprise.

“Oh yes, now I remember you. Sachin how are you? Where are you calling from? How’s Annie? “I bombarded him with a flurry of questions.

“Hold on, just hold on Sir. I am in Noida right now. I live in Singapore and I want to meet you”

“Of course, of course –how stupid of me! Why don’t you really come over? When can you come?” I said

“I am here for a couple of days. I will call you again. Let’s fix up something. How’s Mrs.Sarkar?” He queried

“Oh well! She is fine and so are the kids. How’s Annie, Anand and how many kids?”

Said I.

“We will talk when we meet” With that remark, he ended the conversation. I was not sure if he was too keen to answer my questions immediately.

My mind raced back by thirteen years. It was the same old Sachin.He was tall and lanky. With a funny gait .He used to walk with a prominent swing. Typically wry sense of humour,. forever unkempt hair, equally untidy clothes, never polished shoes and a perennially lost look readily came to mind as some of the things he was known for. He was undoubtedly brilliant and intelligent, and very sharp in his work. He was impulsive too He could work relentlessly for very long hours. He spared no one for lethargy.A voracious reader; he was a contrast between Engineering skills and literary prowess.

It was these qualities that had endeared him to all of us, specially me and Seema.He was anassuming,he could spend hours together with the kids explaining them about the wonders of Universe ,reading to them from Wordsworth and teaching them about principles of computers when it was a novelty those years. Soon, he became a part of the family. Without any hesitation, after long hours, having virtually slogged out at work the whole day and the evening, he would barge into my home and ask Swati for a hot meal even at midnight. We too never complained. He was not my subordinate any more. He was more my brother than a colleague. He had filled that gap for me since I did not have any brothers. A wonderful bond had developed.

And then, one of those days he confided in us” I want to get married to a Christian girl-Annie-, I love. She is a Keralite .She works as a dietician. We are fiercely in love. And like all parents mine too are fiercely opposed to the marriage”

I could imagine why. Sachin was a Nambudri. The most orthodox of Keralite Brahmins. I could not immediately think of a way out.

“Sir, we want to get married this weekend. Her mother too is here. Shouldn’t that suffice?”

“Sachin, its Thursday already. And what’s the hurry? Let’s make some arrangements. I too need to discuss with the girl and may be your parents”

“No Sir, please do not do that. We have already decided and my parents would never relent” He said with a note of finality in his voice.

With a lot of worry and doubts in our minds we agreed.

Saturday arrived. He had called a couple of friends and their families to his flat in East Delhi.

We reached his home and to our surprise we found utter chaos. There were hardly any preparations, hardly any place to sit. The spirit of joyousness was missing. We had to create a festive mood. Garlands were brought; someone got a few cassettes from the car and played some cheerful music. Children decorated the place.Hurriedly, sweets were brought. The only thing, Sachin had planned was Registrar of marriage. I could clearly sense disapproval in Annie’s mother’s mannerisms.

Now, how do we solemnize the marriage? Seema and I took the lead. I chanted whatever Mantras I knew. Annie was foxed and so was Sachin.They did the seven feras, exchanged garlands, Naati Charami (I will not stray) got followed by “Sachin, do you

accept-------------Annie do you accept ----as man and wife?” the Christian way

With this, we solemnized the marriage. Grateful tears rolled down the eyes of these two innocent youngsters so madly in love .We too felt very happy to see Sachin happy. It was a novel style wedding-somewhat poetic, somewhat illogical, at the same time funny and spontaneous truly matching with Sachin’s personality.

Soon after that, I slowly started losing contact with him... First, I had changed my department. My contact with Sachin was minimal. He too seemed to have drifted away.

I too finally moved away from Ghaziabad.I took up a new job in Siemens.. And Sachin was out of sight and out of mind.

These memories flashed before my eyes one after another like scenes of a movie. His thought made alive by his telephone call made me happy. I rushed home and shared the news with Seema. She too was happy and asked me to call him over lunch as soon as possible. I fixed a day and went to pick him up .He had told me that he worked with Panasonic in a very senior position which was not surprising to me. He had the talent, the skill to work with people and willingness to work hard. But how did he land up in Singapore?

I reached his factory. After a few minutes, he walked out of the gate and I could not believe my eyes. Though the gait was the same, he was not lanky anymore. He had put on a lot of weight. He wore an expensive three piece suit. He was not the same unkempt Sachin any more. I could hardly correlate to him as far as his looks were concerned .He seemed to have aged in the last six years. I was nevertheless very happy to see him again.

We drove. On the way, he told me that he was the worldwide Chief Coach for a major quality initiative-six sigma. , that he was held in a very high esteem and got a very handsome salary: that he traveled extensively and enjoyed a luxurious life. He was pursuing his PhD in Engineering from Singapore University. He still longed for the good old days of fun, camaraderie and those days when he could take the liberty of barging into our home even at midnight.

He enquired about Seema and the kids who he remembered very well. We reached home. He continued to speak without a break as if he had not talked to anyone about his personal life for ages. He seemed to be pouring out his heart. He then said-

“Immediately after you resigned, we were blessed with a girl child. Like any parent, I was overjoyed. My daughter was a darling. To me, life was getting more and more beautiful day by day. Alas! How wrong I was! Annie was never happy with the

money we earned, the one room flat we lived in, the three shifts I worked in.. She kept insisting that I should look for a job abroad, may be in the Middle East. I had already broken all my contacts with my parents, a fact which kept haunting me all along. With a lot of effort, very unwillingly, just for the sake of Annie, I found a job in Sony, Singapore. I was to be employed as a maintenance fitter much below my current status and responsibilities. The money was not all that good but better than what I earned in India. Hoping to do better after reaching there, and in order to keep Annie happy, I left India. It was such a sorrow to leave my little daughter behind. I had planned to take Annie to Singapore later. I kept working very hard for almost two years. I used to call Annie every week. It was very difficult for me to send any substantial money home. We seemed to be drifting away. I was so madly in love with her and my little one that I failed to sense that something was wrong. After a couple of weeks when I failed to make contact, I rushed to India only to find Annie had deserted me. The house was occupied by someone else. Annie had not left her address behind. All I heard was, she had remarried and gone to gulf with a rich malayalee.

Heart broken I went to my parents. They refused to accept me back in my family. The doors were permanently shut.”

Tears swelling in his eyes and a lump in his throat he could not continue anymore. I had no words of sympathy to offer. His narration pierced through my heart like a sharp knife. Why?

Why? Why did it have to happen to him? Inexplicable! Cried my heart.

“Come, Sachin, wash your face and join us for lunch” offered my wife.

He came to the table and started eating with his fingers with great relish. The meal was typically Indian He refused to use any spoons or forks. He kept talking to Sudha -my younger daughter, about her school .about Maths, about new style of English teaching –it was the same good old Sachin.he seemed so happy talking. The lunch made him forget his agony for a while. He finished his lunch and we settled in the drawing room. It was January and even in the noon there was a sharp nip in the air. We ate our desserts in silence. The mood was melancholy. In spite of the pain he had gone through narrating his agony, he seemed to be at peace with himself .His face had the beauty of a child who has just cried its heart out to his mother. Without his knowledge, he dozed off, much relaxed on the sofa. I went closer, without disturbing him loosened his tie knot and shoe laces and reclined him with his legs stretched. I fetched a shawl and covered him. I tiptoed out of the room. He was soon fast asleep.

The warmth and the sharpness of the setting sun’s rays must have woken him. It was four o’clock. He came out of the room

and wanted to go back to his hotel. I did not want to stop him. I knew he wanted to be alone.

He washed his face, tidied himself and was about to bid us Goodbye. His face seemed to be so calm.

He said

” I know it is not possible for me to thank you. It would be so artificial. All I can say is this is the first meal I have ever eaten at someone’s home in the last few years. -I don’t cook at home at all .I use my fridge to stock bottles of Scotch whisky. And I had stopped believing in home as an institution. I seem to be wrong. May be, I need to rethink. Will you help me do that? Goodbye”

I dropped him on the hotel lawns. I returned home. The rays of the setting sun brought cheer. It seemed to me from my balcony that the setting sun was smiling.

English lover from China

 ENGLISH- LOVER FROM CHINA  

 

The train which ran only twice a week to the small Chinese town of Urumqi from Guangzhou chugged along crossing an enormous number of stations and carrying an equally enormous number of passengers. To be traveling with a compartment full of passengers clamouring for seating accommodation was nothing new to me as an Indian. In an absolutely unfamiliar country, without even a smatter of spoken language, hardly any knowledge of her culture, food habits and honestly a very faint memory of her history from school , I do not have a ready reason to give today; as to why I had chosen to travel in an ordinary hard seat third class compartment. With its teeming

crowds, mixture of strange and at times repelling smells I must admit, the journey was albeit getting on my nerves. I cannot even call it an adventure because every adventurer has a fair idea of what lies ahead before he embarks on his adventure. I did not have any such clue.

Like in any train journey, the rhythmic swaying of the carriage to and fro and sideways had started to have a telling effect on my eyelids. Heavy as they were getting, I started losing track of time and the topography of the passing landscape. I, at times woke up with a start ,past a scatter of meadows accompanied with the roar of my train in the shadows of mountains and across hundreds of bridges in that rarely visited range called Tian Shan.A little later, I caught the unmisttakeable glimpses of Taklimakan Desert-the harsh dunes of which reminded me of the translation-''You may go in, but you’ll never make it out”

Around afternoon as the dunes flattened, there was nothing to see. All of a sudden, the brakes caught hold; there was a screeching halt from beneath the carriage and the train slid to a stop.

I looked outside, saw a tiny but ramshackle station a small platform, like the many we see in India. Parked outside were a camel cart, a pair of bicycles and a curving oily stark black road leading to faraway mysterious lands. The name was Kun-Jai written in Chinese, some local language and English.

I clambered out from my cramped position, to catch some cool fresh air. The guard was the only man on the platform and without any explanation, he volunteered the information in broken English-The train will stop for 30minutes-for no obvious reason. How Indian! Both great Eastern similarities!!Ha!

And then behind me, most expectedly and almost startling me ,I heard a woman’s voice'' Excuse me please! Do you speak English?” Before I could muster an answer ,I had realized that I was carrying “Of Human Bondage” by W. Somerset Maugham in my hand and that ,somewhat explained the origin of the question. I turned around to see an old Chinese woman of the most astonishing beauty and grace smiling at me. She must have been seventy or more, tall with a long mane of stark black hair-so contrasting to her age and, a ramrod straight back. Only features that gave away her age were the wrinkles on her face and the eyes behind her spectacles. She had those typically oriental eyebrows .She looked radiant, dignified and very intelligent, She had a pale yellow skin and a permanent look of amazement and inquisitiveness. She had emerged almost from nowhere on that nondescript platform in an equally non descript town. She wore a thick and very colourful scarf to ward off the bone chilling wind blowing over the desert on a descending sun. Stunned by this unexpected encounter, her beauty and grace, I muttered something like''-err,how--well yes, why of course; naturally, I speak English” belying her small doubts about the correctness of

her guess earlier just based on her sighting theSomerset Maugham book. Her smile broadened for a moment-she looked at the wrist watch, and said” This train stops here for another-lets see-twenty four minutes and I am not in your compartment; so let me ask you right away: Do you know any thing about this author Somerset Mangham?”

''This can't be true”- I said to myself. ''It can’t be.” In Mainland China where I spent the last two weeks, struggling to understand the strange LL ridden clipped accents of so called English speaking Chinese experts, how could this be true? I am at this miserable little halt, on the edge of an unknown territory, praying only to finish the journey safely. And here is the most stunningly gracious and beautiful matron, speaking in English, asking me of all the people about Somerset Maugham, my most favourite author. Looking at my predicament, she pleaded once again” Sorry to ask you again, can you tell me please?” and huh! Again no accent and no mixing up of ”solly” for sorry and “prease” for please. This is when I reassured myself that it was all for real -however bizarre it may be; I might as well keep going. So I replied” Of course I know. He is my favourite author and I am fascinated by his other novels ”The Razor’s Edge”,” The moon and six pence”,” The painted veil”, and many more which I can readily recall”. I went on telling about his inspiration from Paris and the French, his being a doctor of medicine and the realism in his writing- I went on almost uninterrupted. She was fascinated

and was probably absorbing everything I said in rapt attention. I was most impressed by her childlike sense of inquisitiveness. I went on to tell her about his having won the coveted Nobel Prize for literature, his life and times and on and on I went.

The Guard rudely and suddenly pulled me out of my monologue. It was not really a monologue for Yang Yuyuhan –she told was her name- was reciprocating to me thro' her body language, her gestures and warm and kind eyes. The train was about to move. We quickly exchanged our addresses and promised to stay in touch. The last memory I had of her was that of a Chinese matron scrambling on her knees on the steps, getting into the train, probably searching for her seat, and then the train rounding a bend and when it straightened my losing her sight from the door compartment.

The train chugged along on a non descript journey taking me to my destination and soon I returned to India really not believing that Yang would write to me again.

And then a month later after my return to India, I received a letter from her. It started with

“My dear Son,

I do not know how to thank you. It was so touching to see you lost in yourself talking of Somerset Maugham”She had innocently added” I did not know he was such a great author, it was always my desire to hear about the authors from the people who held

them dear to their hearts” A misplaced flattery indeed! She added “To me, as a Chinese and in spite of being Chinese, English has been a passion. In spite of being a non-Englishman –an Indian, I saw that in you too.. My husband too loves this language. We live in a small province and my husband works with the Government. His attempts to know about literature, poetry and the plays are looked upon with suspicion.

We have been married for 35 years. He was in a Senior Cadre in the Communist party. We have named our children Henry and Jacob.

My husband is old now but continues to work to make the ends meet.

As I said, my only love all my life has been English literature.” She went on further to describe her reading of A.J.C ronin, Guy De Maupassant, John Steinbeck, Pearl S Buck and many more.

She added:” And when a couple of years ago when an international train service started which took us up to Russian border, I thought to myself, perhaps someone who speaks English will ride this train. So I began a routine. The station is about 10 kilometers from where I live. Every week I cycle to the station,and board the train twice, get off at the next station and travel back. I tap on the windows asking if anyone speaks English. Sometimes I meet a foreign worker who speaks some English but I never met anyone who could talk to me with such a passion. Not only did you speak, you spoke with such warmth, enthusiasm and care for my question and inquisitiveness. Son! This must have been the happiest day in my life. Will you please keep writing to me, about what you read and more importantly about you, your wife your children. Will you please tell them about me and convey my blessings to them” I found this expression of blessings being mentioned in the letter, again, very oriental indeed.

As it always happens, the frequency of letters, varied; more from my side.

And then in autumn of 1997, a few months after Hong Kong had reverted to the Chinese rule she stopped writing. I knew she had shifted to Hong Kong earlier when the British had ruled.

I wrote to an Indian friend whom I knew to find out why my letters came back without any remarks.

A few days later he called back saying that she had moved out from the address I had given. The police had taken her and her husband away for trying to befriend English-speaking foreigners.

I have not heard from her since then.

My recent random rendering

 

My recent random creations

 

Guilt

 

A grey Monday morning,

 Wet farms and cloudy skies,

 Winding narrow roads ,

 Passing over broken sad looking culverts

 

 Rain pours incessantly ,

 Poor farmers toiling in paddy fields

 Barely covered ,

 Knee deep in mud,

 Sowing seeds of hope ,

 For a crop of not rice but a scanty survival

 And some joy

 In coming months

 

 And then I see ,

 Bare foot children ,

 Sharing tattered umbrellas ,

 Carrying plastic bags,

 With books - their future ,

 Barely protected

 But still smiling ,

 

 And here I am in my car ,

 Comfortable and cosily protected from the downpour ,

 Guiltily proceeding to my destination,

 

 

With pain in my heart - inexplicable escapism!

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5th July 14

 Yesterday, travelling in the ghats

 A short spell of lovely drizzle drenched the hills

 Much awaited

 And far too short of our human expectations

 

 But it made the hills

 Otherwise morbid

 Smile and wear a fresh and romantic look

 Trying to relish the brief respite

 

 The hills reciprocated with gay abandon

 Albeit scanty but

 Bloom and blossom they did

 

 In a million myriad ways

 A stream here, a green patch there

 And emitting the earthy fragrance

 

 Just a brief moist caress

 Received with gratitude

 Not worried if it would last

 And quench its thirst

 

 How I wish

 We, the humans too

 Reciprocate as warmly

 Without being doubting Thomases

 

 We accept little gestures

 Of smiles and touch

 With glee and gratitude

 And respond with all our heart

 

 The entire world would adorn

 A million colourful smiles

 Turning the whole humanity

 The Universe, animate and inanimate

 Into a joyous riot of colour and celebration

 

 Have a great smiling weekend!!

 

-Ravi Upadhye – Feeling grateful

----------------------------------------------------

Turmoil

 

An uneasy calm !

 A quiet breezy evening ,

 Slips out of the day ,

 Calm , unnoticed ,

 Leaving no trace of its arrival

 

 Far away ,

 The temple bell tolls ,

 Adds solemnity ,

 To the receding daylight ,

 

 Anxious mothers ,

 Urge the kids to stop playing ,

 And head homeward ,

 

 Pensioners slowly ,

 Bid good bye for the day ,

 To their friends ,

 Hope to meet them again ,

 The next day - will they?

 Uneasy and unsure within, .

 

 Seemingly all this ,

 Runs like a well oiled machine ,

 And its so deceptively uncertain!

 Life goes on!!

------------------------------------------

 

Hope

Barren hills ,

 Serious profiles ,

 Seemingly stiff upper lips ,

 So detached .

 

 Come to life today ,

 With a monsoon shower ,

 A thunder ,

 Dark clouds hover ,

 Far above them .

 

 Remind them ,

 We are as mighty ,

 And yet humble ,

 And tender too .

 

 Hills adorn a carpet of green ,

 Fireflies light up the valley ,

 And the jungle .

 

 Moon peeps between the play of showers and thunder ,

 Content with his being ignored ,

 For rain and the lightening ,

 And the fireflies have been ,

 His lifetime friends ,

 Sadly turning up

 Just for a while in the year .

 

 After all isn't this life ?

 Some constant and steady ,

 And some whiff of fresh air ,

 Breaking the monotony!

-------------------------------------

 

Silence

 

An overcast sky,

 Rustling leaves outside the window ,

 Feeling of melancholy ,

 For no obvious reason ,

 A slow clock and a wandering lost mind ,

 Piercing silence with an exception of noises of nostalgia ,

 I wanna live in the present -

 And yet the scathing nostalgia

 Feels pleasant ,

 Paradox !

------------------------------------------

 

 

A HAPPY NEW YEAR.

 The parting year has left its footprints,

 Some indelible, some shall be erased

 But what would remain forever etched in my heart

 Irrespective of the umpteen years that have passed

 Is your love and affection

 You are my world my friends!!!!

 GOD BLESS

-----------------------------------------

Missing them!

 

A quiet noon

 An overcast sky

 Threshold of a weekend

 Not really for me

 But I feel happy

 For those tired souls

 Including my daughters

 Who will get a reprieve

 Which will make me happy too !

------------------------------------

Warm laziness

A warm afternoon

 A quiet and bright midday

 A shining and bright sunlit noon,

 Light streams into the room

 And with it comes the warmth

 

 I look out of the window

 The pond is lazing in the shadow

 Of the nearby Banyan tree

 Surrounded by fallen leaves

 

 I look all over

 Not a soul in the sight

 Except the squirrel and a few birds

 Jumping from branch to branch

 

 I too laze around

 Listening to the quietude

 A bit sleepy

 Content with a late meal

 

 There is some kind of joy within

 Of anticipation

 Of the journey ahead

 And memories of peaceful days behind me

 

 I don’t expect much

 Except a lovely morning

 A beautiful tune

 A simple meal and a siesta

 

 The warmth of the noon

 Seeps into my inner self

 It just complements the feeling within

 Of peace, joy and warmth

 

 God! You have been kind

 You gave me everything

 A simple home, a lovely companion

 And my sweet daughters!

 

 I know, it will last until you make a call

 I doze off

 Content, happy

 Grateful, reassured and carefree!!!!!!!!!!

 

 

GIFT OF DOROTHY AND SOLITAIRE-MY SHORT STORIES

A GIFT FROM DOROTHY
Ravi Upadhye



It was a cold winter evening in Canada. By Sunset, temperature dipped to subzero. To make matters worse it had started snowing. In an alien country, with nowhere to go, to pass evenings was always an ordeal. After all how often can you hire a cab and go around a small town like Midlands?

The entire small population seemed to have retired in their cozy homes, probably relaxing next to the fireplace with their near and dear ones. All I could see from my hotel room was the spread out homes with their tiny lights sparkling inside the rooms with hardly a sign of movement. Life seemed to have come to a standstill.

At last exasperated with sheer monotony, I moved out of my hotel room, wandered listlessly in the lobby and at last entered into the only curio shop.

As soon as I pushed the door, a chime rang sonorously announcing my arrival. I was welcomed with a warm and polite greeting by a distinguished looking elderly lady, pouring over some book behind the counter under the light coming from a table lamp. With a mop of snow-white hair, wrinkled face, warm eyes behind her spectacles and a slightly stooping gait she looked very graceful. Her face was serene and her eyes glowed with kindness. She must have been in her seventies or early eighties. Upon declining a courteous “May I help you, son?” by “Just browsing, thank you ma'm”, I set myself upon browsing through a large collection of old books on the shelf. Most of the books were leather bound, well preserved and in spite of being quite old they were in excellent condition. The collector must have been a connoisseur. A tasteful collection indeed! My obvious admiration for the cultured taste of the collector probably could be easily seen on my face. This pleasant surprise did not go unnoticed.
I found a leather bound volume of Reader’s Digest condensed edition of Paul Gallico’s collected works - of particular interest to me. It was a rare finding and I kept the book aside. Seeing me do this, the lady rose and started talking and also recommending various other books from the collection. Her explanation about the books, the authors spoke volumes about her taste and immense knowledge. My repeated attempts to enquire about the price of the book of my particular interest were getting ignored, probably inadvertently. She proceeded with great gusto and enthusiasm and took me around the shop; showed me fascinating potpourri, creations of by local artisans, World War medals and memorabilia, dolls and even offered me home made maple syrup, all integral parts of any small town curio shops.

Patiently nodding my head with approval, overwhelmed by her enthusiasm, sense of beauty, patriotism and last but not the least her old world charm and graciousness, I continued to try to persist with my query about the price of the chosen Paul Galico book.

At last I was successful. She responded by quoting an affordable price. I was very happy.
But then, all of a sudden her enthusiasm seemed to have waned. She looked tired. With heavy steps and a pronounced stoop she came back to the cash counter. For the last time, she wiped the book clean, probably caressed it, put it in an envelope, accepted the money, and murmured her gratitude before bidding me good night. I was not sure if I saw a tear or two in her tired and worn eyes. I came out from the shop very happy for having spent a fruitful two hours and having bought a book long cherished by me. I returned to the room and slept.

Next evening I wanted to go to the shop again. I was disappointed. The sign on the shop said
“We are closed today. Regret inconvenience – Dorothy Roosevelt”

I went to the room planning to spend a pleasant evening in the company of my favourite Paul Galico bought the previous day. I opened the book and on the front page it simply read
“To my darling wife Dorothy, on our fiftieth anniversary, a tribute to our poetic fifty years of marriage –
- Graham Roosevelt”


Solitaire
Ravi Upadhye-

People do not readily venture out on a rainy day-least of all, the elderly. I guess it was such a day but I could still see the familiar yet the odd couple. They were, apparently in their late seventies. They had ventured out on that bitter cold December noon of Delhi. They walked into Pizza Hut. The man was draped in his well worn yet somewhat old suit .A bowler hat adored his bald pate and a rose graced his lapel. The lady wore a graceful chiffon sari and a white pearl necklace. Wrinkles were a mainstay of her face. However carefully concealed thro a makeup, the age and the worries accompanying it could not be concealed.
At the usual time –12 noon to be precise-on many days, I had seen them emerge from an old Morris minor car in front of PVR complex in the posh Vasant Vihar area of New Delhi. The man would hold the door for the lady, more out of affection and care than probably etiquette. The lady would then gather her walking stick, the man his umbrella. Having dropped them, the car would be driven away by the driver to the parking lot. The couple would then slowly walk towards Pizza Hut and seat themselves at the delivery counter. They would not place any order for a long time. They would just sit and watch the hustle and bustle of the place, watch young boys and girls come and go; watch mothers pick up the children straight from the school and at times
come straight to Pizza Hut, feed the hungry siblings and go away. At times I could see them close their eyes and enjoy the smell of fresh pizzas and spices wafting away from the kitchen. An odd acquaintance would give them a passing nod and a greeting that they would rarely notice. The delivery boys too did not mind. They were probably the only ones who knew them, saw them everyday at midday. The entire scene used to puzzle me while watching from a distance. What were they doing there? Why aren’t they at home? Especially on a bitterly cold day like that, they deserved to by the fireplace enjoying a hot bowl of soup and a piping, steaming lunch. Of course, how would I ever find answers to these questions?

It was one of such days.However,on this particular day I harbored a strong desire and resolve to find out why the couple came to Pizza Hut every day. I too entered the restaurant and approached the delivery counter. There they were; seated on the bench and observing the passing world. They were lost in their reverie. I was lost in watching them. They were looking at the delivery boys, waiters and waitresses, watching at the customers, children, mothers, young boys and girls and whisper to each other in a hushed tone. This had gone on for little over an hour when I saw a young lad emerge from the kitchen. He was tall, handsome, well built, with curly mop of hair, very kind eyes and a very warm smile. They seemed to be expecting each other. I saw him rushing to the old couple and he, in true Indian style, touch their feet, hug the old lady and embrace the old man. The trio’s eyes glistened with immense happiness. Even though standing at a distance I could sense the warmth of the relationship. It was as if life had returned to their otherwise pale and tired existence. After this brief encounter, the young lad vanished for a brief while into the kitchen and returned to the delivery counter. He had changed from his uniform into jeans and a white shirt-his normal dress. Having exchanged a few words, the couple started walking back to their car. Her hand over her husband’s arm, with a stooping gait, I saw the couple fading away at a distance. They were so lonely walking towards the parking lot and soon after, being driven away.

“Excuse me, young man! May I have a word with you?” I was addressing the man who had given the bag to the old couple. A bit startled, he turned around and with a bit of suspicion but with a studied look and groomed politeness he responded to me “ I am off duty Sir, you may place the order with my colleague.”
“Oh, no no, young man, may I just have a word with you?”
“I need to return ,I need to go to my computer classes” He responded
“But anyways, what is it about and how may I help you?” He proceeded with his reply in a matter of fact way.
“I just want to know more about the old couple. I know you may wonder why? I have no logical reason to explain but it’s not just that I am curious. I feel some kind of sympathy for them. I am a social worker and I study faces .I found them to be lonely. They look so graceful but so sad. They look lonely too. I wonder why? Especially in this inclement weather, they should be at home, in the coziness of warmth of near and dear ones I thought if I know more about them, may be I could bring some joy into their lives.”
For no apparent and logical reason, the young man believed my words and started speaking

“About a year ago, I too met them in similar circumstances. It was a rainy day when they walked into the restaurant and like today, sat at the counter. After seeing them seated for a long period, I politely enquired if they wished to place an order. They declined .I really did not have the courage to offend them by suggesting to them to leave the restaurant. I just engaged in a polite conversation. They have their only son studying in the United States for the last six years. They had just returned from the States having met their son last year. They were very sad to return and appeared to be distraught over the separation from their son. To them, the day never seemed to end. Each passing day brought them closer and closer to a big hollow of grief and boredom. The only thing that kept them going was the fond hope that he would return soon and they would be happy again.. Days passed on listlessly. It was the same routine day after day-dreaming and painting the imagery of their reunion with their son on their worn out mental canvas. They used to receive scant communication; sometimes letters, sometimes birthday greetings, and scattered phone calls. The letters would tactfully avoid the mention of any plans of his return. Days turned into months and then years.
And then, sometime last year Dad-he had by now started calling the old man Dad- had a fall and had a concussion on his head. He almost lost his memory. The fading years were taking toll of Mom. Around that time, I started seeing them very regularly. The wafting aroma of freshly baked pizzas and garlic breads seemed to bring a strange kind of joy on their face-the joy of familiarity. There was some connection between those smells and the joyous expressions on their face.
And then, one day I came to know the reason.
They would fondly remember that their son too worked in Pizza Hut as a part time waiter in the States. Pizza Hut brought back all their fond memories. It meant a world to them.
Much as nature would do it, day after day, especially after Dad’s accident the accident, Daddy lost his memory rapidly and for no obvious reason except the weariness and boredom with life Mom too lost hers. They can hardly remember the day-to-day chores, leave alone their past-except of course their son, albeit sketchily. However, for some inexplicable reason, their visits to our restaurant continued almost in a clocklike fashion.
The boys here too are used to their presence. In fact, only last week we celebrated their anniversary here. It was such a joy to all of us. They do not have a family and a home you see. They live in an Old Age Home.”
“But tell me, how is it that you and only you only are so close to them? They seem to be so fond of you” I persisted.

“Yes sir” He replied. “I am indeed very close to them. They have started believing that their son is back- that’s me–or may be they are back in the States-with him. To them, I look so much like their son. The Pizza Hut décor is so familiar and yet deceptive. They look alike all over the world. It’s a make believe world.”
And then, all of a sudden with an obvious lump in his throat and tears swelling in his eyes, he said
“ But then, I too do not mind. My divorced parents too are in the States and they have no plans to return .I too do not have a home. However much I long for my parents, they will not return”
With this he abruptly left me. His fading silhouette in the fading early winter Sunlight appeared as lonely as the old couple. I wiped an unexpected tear in my eyes as I walked out of the restaurant.