Jab we met...! जब वी मेट

By Rajbir Deswal
We met almost every day. On our evening stroll. I didn’t know her. Nor did she know me. Her walking laps were smaller. Just close to her house. She preferred going not too far.
I saw her reverting back to her house after completing a lap or two. Then again she was there. Alone, or with someone from the neighbourhood. I could also once in a while listen to something like crooning of a song, when she passed by.
Her children used to catch up with her sometimes. She seemed to be someone who was a favourite in the neighbouring houses. But we had no interaction amongst ourselves. Not even formally greeting each other.
Then one day I found there were many vehicles parked near her house. There were no signs of any kind of a celebration or revelling. The atmosphere looked to be very gloomy.
I passed by her house. Tried to figure out if something had gone wrong. I couldn’t know. The following day when I again went on the same stroll route with my wife, she told me that the owner of the house had died.
“O’ God that is why I don’t see her out of the house anymore!” I murmured to myself.
After some days I could spot her standing near the gate of her house and talking to another woman of the neighbourhood. Suddenly, I got worried as to how would I gather courage to pass by her, without saying a few words of condolence.
And what would I say. As I said, we never talked to each other. My steps dithered and failed their direction. I couldn’t lift my eyes to catch hers. How would I do that? What if our eyes met? What would be my reaction? I was still walking towards her.
And she bowed her head and wished me with folded hands. Things suddenly became very easy for me. I told her I was sorry to have heard the sad news. “But what happened all of a sudden?” I asked her.
“He was straight-bodied like you. His heart failed.” She was able to barely speak. Her voice died in a choke. Tears rolled down her eyes and she went inside her house. I also went my way. With a heavy heart.
Now we meet oftener. Now we greet each other with folded hands. We have no hesitation at all. She seems to have come to terms with her tragedy. Time is a great healer. Also that we unite in grief and stand by each other, than in happier times! Life goes on. But walk we must.To meet one another at some point of time lest we fight shy of letting our eyes meet!

And life came back to me...!

SHE LOVES ME! SHE LOVES ME NOT!
BY: RAJBIR DESWAL
Well, she is my granddaughter. Twenty-one months old, little Anaysa. She was to leave for the U.S. when we decided to spend maximum time with her. Only a day was left in her exit to the land of opportunity. To fulfill her parents’ American dream.
I planned the entire day with little more goodies to involve Anaysa more endearingly. We went to the lake and fed her favourite duckies. We also had a rickshaw ride. It was a day stuffed with Hi-Fives, Peek-a-boos, ghoomi-ghoomi, and gooli-goolis. We also went to our backyard where she always called out to the ‘white bird’ saying, “Wi-baad,wh-er-you! Kahan ho!” And believe you me the avian never missed putting up presence.
She posed for photographs as if she understood we would need them during her stay in the U.S. She was a tad more lovey-dovey that day. More cherubic and more responsive. We were amazed at her over indulgent behaviour with us. That day I didn’t have the faintest of an idea how differently she would behave with me the following day. It was quite baffling for me to understand child psychology.
Early morning the next day she said a casual “Good Morning” to me .I tried to pamper her as usual like a buffoon, but to no avail. She simply chose to cold shoulder me. She did not jump on to my lap. Didn’t respond to my gimmicks either. All through the train journey she avoided me.
Anaysa’s sudden change in behavior, particularly with me, baffled me the most. To very upsetting extremes. Why was she doing it? “Perhaps to make you feel the pangs of her separation in little less measures!” my wife tried to console me. “How come a child less than two years of age could be so impish, so elfish?” I wondered. And remained sad.
On the way to the airport, Anaysa was sleeping in her Dadi’s lap with Tanu sitting by her side. Sawan was driving while I was sunk in my seat by his side, utterly depressed. Quietly we pulled off having arrived at the airport. I stepped out to find out the gate we were to line up for bidding good bye to the threesome. When I joined them back Ana was looking through the window. And she smiled at me. My wife told me that the moment I had moved out of the car, Ana had said, “Where is Dadu gone?” This was so relieving to me as if it was a divine call that I missed. But I was relaxed.
Back home, shouldn’t those empty spaces which were full of screams, bawls and yelps, stare deep at us! “Life is like that only” wife and our younger son Sagar tried to console me. “Grow up Dadu! Crying like kids! Chee-chee-chee!” Ana would have said if she were around.
Next day the phone bell rang. We were expecting a call from Sawan. Know who was on the line? And what was I to hear! “Hello Dadu! How-er-you? Love you! Mich you!” And life came back to me. The call was no less divine. No less heavenly.
Click OFF TRACK - She loves me not, she loves me'HindustanTimes ePaper to see it published in The Hindustan Times of Feb. 19th 2008

That one night stand...

And once again I was compelled to repose my faith in human relations...!

That was a rain-soaked night in Chandigarh some 25 years back. Completely drenched from head to toe, and stepping in on the verandah, I thumped my feet one by one to shake off some water, before pressing the doorbell. My friend came behind me.
A woman called up to hold on “for a while”. Some creaking sound from inside and I could make out her steps leading on to the entrance. I had not met her earlier. She unbolted and pushed both door panels. There she was, with her bold and stout built. In her early thirties. And smiling.
I had met her husband only once. We had no association except that he had used some of my pieces for the magazine he edited then. He was from Himachal and since he had given me his residential address for posting my stuff, lest it be lost in a bigger postbox, I knew where he lived.
That night we were to return to our hometown but the work whole day could not be finished and there was no way out than to stay back. I didn’t know many people in the City Beautiful then. There being no other choice, the decision of trying the editor’s home was taken instantaneously. We hired a rickshaw though my friend hesitated in bothering someone at that odd hour of the rainy night.
I introduced myself to her. She let us in, informing that her husband had to go to the Press for some urgent work, and that he would come back in a couple of hours. She then pointed to a settee for us to sit on and a table in the corner to put down our bags.
She went to the kitchen to make some tea for us while we exchanged glances.
After having tea, we announced our intent to leave. “But why?” she questioned, “I guess you’d come to stay for the night. Isn’t it! Where will you go while it is raining so heavily? Moreover, think of this home as your own.”
“That’s so very nice of you and thank you indeed for your kindly feelings but…!” I couldn’t even complete the sentence when she pitched in, “Is it because my husband is not at home? I am not alone in the house. ‘Amma ji’ and my kids are here.”
I was hardly able to mutter, “Still…!” when she silenced me once and for all, “What if my brothers should visit us like you have! Should I turn them away?” That clinched the issue and there we were laying cots with bedspreads. Like stones we dropped and slept off.
We met her smiling husband in the morning over a cup of tea when he was already awake and reading his newspaper. His looks betrayed all expressions of knowledge of our feeble disposition exposed the previous night. I looked for her around but she had already left for her school. It was a fine sunny day to begin afresh and repose faith in human relations. Thank you, sister. Unknown till then. Unseen till now.
(This piece was published in The Tribune of September 10th,07, under the title The Benefactor)