You’ve Got a Friend – A Short Story

September 22, 2018, Vadodara, Gujarat

“Are you done yet?” the man called out crankily while checking his wrist watch yet again. “We’re getting late again.”

“Just another five minutes, babe,” a female voice called out from somewhere inside.

32-year-old Rishi Sood shook his head and grumbled to himself. He looked dapper in a neat-looking black suit which fit his tall and sturdy frame very well. His face, however, was contorted with displeasure.  

He picked up a magazine lying on the table near the sofa and began flipping through its pages thoughtlessly.  

The phone inside Rishi’s pocket began ringing. It had been buzzing all evening. He sighed. Assuming that it was one of his friends calling him to get to the restaurant quickly, Rishi picked up the phone with trepidation.

It was an anonymous number.

“Hello…Hello…Rishi?” a female voice from the other end said. She sounded tense.

“Um…Who is this?” Rishi answered, feeling confused.

“Rishi…Rishi bolcho?” she asked.

“Um…Yeah…Who…”

“Rishi…This is Paritosh’s mother. Do you remember me?” the female voice at the other end said.

There was a moment’s pause. Rishi stood up all of a sudden.

“Kaaki Maa?”

“Yes, Rishi…” said the voice, trembling a little.

“How are you doing? Um…How is everything?” Rishi asked. He felt a little blank.

“Rishi….Khoka…He…He isn’t doing well. He is very sick. Can you please…Please...Come and meet him once?” she said. Rishi could sense she was choking up.

“What? What happened to him?”

“I…I can’t explain everything. The doctors say it’s some form of depression. He’s...He’s been in his bed for weeks now and refuses to speak at all. I am so worried, Rishi… I feel like I am losing him. Please…Please come just once. I know he needs you,” she said.

“I…I will try, Kaaki Maa. I have this thing, actually,” Rishi said, feeling uncomfortable and awkward.

“Rishi… I…I know you are extremely busy. I managed to get your number after a lot of hassles. Please…Please try and come…You were his only friend…I don’t know who else to turn to” the female said, in between little sobs.

Rishi stared blankly at the floor for a moment. His head spun. Then, something flickered inside. A memory. A very distant memory that he had long buried away.

“It’s okay, Kaaki Maa. Don’t worry,” he said finally. “ I am coming,”

“Shotti? (Really?) Oh, thank you, shona!” she said. Her voice had a trace of sanguinity in it now.

 “You remember our house, I hope?” she asked.

“Of course I do, Kaaki. Of course, I do.”

“God bless you, shona. Please come soon. I am really sorry for bothering you with this. But… I really had no other option,” she said.

“That’s okay, Kaaki Maa. I will be there. You don’t worry now.”

Rishi disconnected the call and slumped down on the sofa. He felt dazed; as if somebody had just punched him in the gut. He covered his face with his palms; trying to block the overwhelming dizziness that was sweeping over him.

“Hey, I am ready. Now, don’t you start lecturing me for being late…”

A curly-haired female had sauntered into the living room Rishi was seated in. She must have been in her late twenties, appeared quite tall and was dressed in a sparkling green saree. It was Kavita, Rishi’s fiancé.

The instant she looked at Rishi slouched on the sofa, she knew something was wrong.

Kavita walked up to him in concern, bent down close and asked, “What’s up, babe?”

Without even glancing at her, he said, “I need to go.”

“Go? Go where?” Kavita asked, sounding perplexed. “You know that we have to be at your book launch party in twenty minutes. There are about a dozen people waiting…”

“Cancel it…I am going to Calcutta.” Rishi stood up and removed his coat.

“Wait…what?” Kavita stood up as well, looking on shocked and baffled at her fiancée.

“I am leaving for Calcutta. Tomorrow morning. A friend needs me,” Rishi said quietly while walking up to the armchair near the sofa. “I will explain everything to you. For now, please just trust me. I have to book my tickets right away,” Rishi said.

For a few seconds, Kavita just gaped at him, her mouth hanging half-open. But she could sense that something had stirred up inside her usually sedate fiancé. This must mean something of serious consequence to him.

“All right. You go book your tickets. I will manage everything here,” she replied calmly.

“Thank you,” said Rishi, heaving in relief as he sat down on the armchair.

“Do you need anything else?” Kavita questioned earnestly.

“Yeah…” Rishi said while starting his laptop.  

The light from the screen reflected on his face; his eyes were fixed on the screen but appeared distant, almost unfocused.

“Can you please get me my comic book carton from the storeroom?”

*******************************************************************************************************************************************

April 1, 1995, Calcutta

As he stepped inside the classroom, almost all eyes immediately turned to him. Feeling hot under the collar, 12-year-old Rishi Sood quietly averted every inhabitant of the room and made his way past a sea of desks and chairs.  

His bag laden with heavy books, the short and plump-looking boy with crew-cut hair dragged himself across the classroom nervously. To make matters worse, his legs felt like lead. Not wanting to speak to anyone, Rishi began scanning the room for an empty desk. Every seat was occupied, barring one. Rishi noticed a bespectacled boy sitting alone at a desk at the extreme right end corner of the class, right beside the window. The boy seemed to be lost in a book and was oblivious to the cacophony around him.

Rishi decided to move to that spot.

“Hi, is this seat taken?” Rishi asked the boy after reaching the desk.

 He turned around and looked at him.

“This seat is always vacant,” he said plainly and returned his attention to the book in his hands.

“Um, so can I sit here?” Rishi asked apprehensively.

“If you want to,” said the boy without even glancing from his book.

Rishi kept his heavy bag near the chair and sat down. He could notice that several students were still eyeing him suspiciously. It was hot and sultry and Rishi felt even sweatier with so many eyes on him. He hence decided to turn his attention to his desk partner.

The boy had short, wiry hair, an oval-shaped scrawny face and wore really thick-framed glasses. He scrunched his nose from time to time, Rishi noticed, and was munching an apple as he read. He was at absolute ease with himself and seemed to not care about anyone else.

Rishi couldn’t put a finger to it, but something about the boy attracted him.

“Hey,” he finally said. “My name’s Rishi Sood. I just shifted from Rajasthan to Calcutta. This is my first day in this school today.”

“I am overjoyed to know that,” the boy said in a drawling tone, without a single change in his expression; his eyes refused to leave his book.

“So…Um…Can you tell me a little something about the teachers and the subject?” Rishi asked.

The boy finally turned his face towards Rishi. “Look! You really shouldn’t be speaking to me, okay? You are already at the risk of being branded a geek for life and will be treated as an outcast if you continue sitting here,” he said, slowly and firmly.

Rishi was perplexed. “Okay, then,” he muttered and picked up his bag. The first period was about to commence and he needed to get his new text books out.

As he was scouring for his books inside the bag, the boy suddenly said, “What is that?”

Rishi looked at him and saw that he was pointing at a particular book inside his bag. It was a comic book with a glossy cover. The title read: “Chacha Chaudhary, Billo aur Pinki.”

“Oh, this? This is my new Chacha Chaudhary comic book. I just bought it yesterday. I have kept it for my comfort. Don’t tell anyone, okay? I know we aren’t allowed to read it at school,” he said.

“You read comic books?” the boy questioned him, almost defiantly.

“Uh…Yeah…I am a huge comic book fan.”

“Are you now?” the boy said, smirking.

“What is the name of the creator of the Chacha Chaudhary comics?” he asked all of a sudden.

“Uh… Pran Kumar Sharma,” answered Rishi, feeling a tad odd at the abruptness of the question.

“Hmm…” the boy’s eyes were now narrowed.

“What is the name of the first Super Commando Dhruv comic?” he asked again.

“Pratishodh ki Jwala,” Rishi replied calmly.

The boy was now keenly scrutinizing Rishi. After a moment’s pause, he shot another question.  

“Who illustrates the character Suppandi in the Tinkle comics?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” smiled Rishi. “Ram Waeerkar. He’s my favourite.”

The boy appeared to be a tad annoyed.

“What about Shikari Shambhu? Tell me who draws him?” he asked sharply.

“That would be Vasant Halbe. Another favourite,” Rishi said with a wide grin. He was quite enjoying this question-answer round now.

The boy’s eyes lit up. The glasses of his spectacles glinted with the sunlight coming in from the window behind him. Rishi could detect a faint trickle of a smile on his face.

“Okay, let’s see if you get this one. In his initial appearance in the Chacha Chaudhary comics, what was Sabu’s character originally shown as?”

“A genie,” Rishi replied coolly. “I remember that particular chapter very well.”

The boy nodded. He didn’t say anything, but Rishi could clearly sense that the round of questioning had left him impressed.

Rishi smiled and resumed extracting his text books from his bag.

“Our class teacher’s name is Indrani Haldar. She is strict and boring,” said the boy suddenly. “I will tell you about everything else at Tiffin break,” he added.

Rishi was about to say ‘Thank You’ when the boy cut him off and showed him his text book. There was a comic – a vintage Tinkle magazine – concealed inside the text book the boy had been holding.

“I am a comic book fan too,” he said, beaming widely.

Rishi returned the smile. The nervous knot that had formed inside his chest at the fear of attending the first day of a new school was unfastening slowly.

The class suddenly hushed up and students scampered to their respective seats as Indrani Haldar – their surly-looking class teacher – made an entrance.  

As everyone in the room stood up to greet the teacher for the morning wishes, the boy whispered quietly to Rishi.

“By the way, my name’s Paritosh," he said while extending his right hand, “Paritosh Banerjee.”

***

April 23, 1995, Calcutta

“Wow! You have the entire Indrajal comic collection?” exclaimed Rishi in wonder.

He looked in awe at the sea of comic books around him while Paritosh smirked at him.

“Phantom…Mandrake…Bahadur…You’ve got them all!!! Wow!”  Rishi said.

The two boys were at Paritosh’s residence located in a little lane of Hatkola in North Calcutta. The house was small but very tidy. It had just two rooms and a small kitchen.

Presently, the two boys were sprawled on the floor of Paritosh’s little room which was colored entirely in hues of dark green. It had one wrought-iron bed at the center, a large Goddess Kali photo frame above it, a little armchair on the bed’s left, and two rickety cupboards on opposite ends teeming with books. The room had a single large window – a shuttered one having large and slender pillars – facing the bed. Warm sunlight streamed in from the open window, shedding light on the sea of comic books strewn across the floor the two boys were drowned in.    

This was the first time Rishi had come to Paritosh's place. Their common love for comics had made them great friends in a very short time and today being a Saturday, Paritosh had invited him over to his place to show him his comic book collection.

“And you have Chaturang Katha as well?” Rishi said as he picked up a comic book titled ‘Roopmati’. “I had only heard of these,” he said while slightly shaking his head, marveling at the enormous collection in front of him. He felt like he had entered a comic heaven.

Pretty pleased with himself, Paritosh pulled out a stack of books from the bottom of the cupboard near them.

“This is my Tinkle collection. Many date back to the early 80s,” he said and offered the pile to Rishi.

“Man, you are awesome!” Rishi said as he placed the comic on his hand on the floor and began exploring the stack of Tinkle comics. He opened each comic and inhaled its pages deeply before browsing them.

“Smell good, don’t they?” Paritosh said with a slight smile.

Rishi just nodded. His eyes were closed, allowing the smell to invade all his senses.

Somewhere outside the room, there was a noise of a door opening and a woman’s loud voice flowed in, “Khoka!!! Kothai tui? (Where are you, Khoka?).”

A moment later, a stout-looking woman entered the room. She must have been in her late thirties and had short, curly hair. Draped in an orange saree, the woman was carrying a basket on one hand which seemed to be crammed with vegetables.

“Oh…” she paused as he looked at Rishi.

“You must be Rishi. I have heard a lot about you,” she said. The woman had a heavy, scratchy voice.

Rishi felt awkward and uncomfortable. He wanted to mutter a respectable greeting, but somehow the words were caught in his throat. He always felt uncomfortable talking to elders. All he could manage was an uneasy smile.

“Ahh…Ki mishti chele ta! (Ah, what a sweet boy you are!),” she said with a beaming smile.

Rishi did not understand Bengali but he gauged the meaning of what she was saying. He could feel himself flushing at his plump cheeks.

“Maa…Tumi jaao! (Maa, you leave!),” said Paritosh irritably.

“Jacchi (Leaving),” she said, her eyes still on Rishi. “What will you have, shona?” she asked.

“Um…Nothing, aunty. I…I am full,” Rishi replied uncomfortably while running his fingers through his hair.

“Nonsense! You are the first friend of Khoka who has come to our home. I will make you a special lunch,” she said with a glowing smile and left.

“Maa, get us two glasses of Rasna first. It’s so hot today,” Paritosh hollered after her, scrunching his nose again.

“I…I really don’t think I should have lunch,” Rishi said. “My parents will be expecting me home by then.”

“Well, there’s nothing to do now,” Paritosh said matter-of-factly. “Maa loves feeding guests. And you are a new one. So you will have to bear with it.”

“But…”

“Here…Look at my Chacha Chaudhary collection,” Paritosh said, ignoring Rishi completely and handed him another batch of comic books. “It has all the ‘Raaka’ comics…”

Rishi sighed and moved his attention to the bunch of comics.

“Can I take this one home today?” he asked while leafing through the pages of ‘Chacha Chaudhary aur Raaka ka Inteqam’. The cover had a giant of a bearded man wearing a  sleeveless t-shirt and holding a sword in one hand, looking on menacingly while a building burnt behind him.

There was a brief pause where Paritosh considered his friend for a moment, unflinchingly. It seemed he was struggling with himself.

“Okay,” he said finally.

***

October 1, 1995, Calcutta

Rishi was mesmerized.

He stared transfixed at the group of people at a little distance from him. Outside a pandal with a goddess Durga idol inside, four men wearing shirts and lungis were steadily playing large drums hanging around their necks, with the help of two thin sticks. The sound emanating from those drums was so enchanting that Rishi remained rooted to his spot, staring at them hypnotized. His feet tapped on their own and his head swayed with the entrancing rhythms of those drums.

Even though it was 9 in the morning, there was a healthy crowd streaming in and out the pandal. But Rishi’s eyes were glued on the four men with the drums outside it. That music. He had never heard anything like that in his life. The more he listened to it, the more he felt pulled towards it. Like he was being absorbed into a different world.

“Come on, let’s go.”

Rishi was rudely pulled out of his reverie as Paritosh, who had just appeared behind him, began dragging him forward, by his hands.

“Hey, wait…” Rishi protested. “I want to listen.”

“Darn it, you imbecile! They are just dhakis,” Paritosh said, sounding restless, “They will be everywhere for the next three days. Hear them later. We don’t have much time.”

It was the morning of Ashtami – the second and the most significant day of the Durga Puja in Bengal – and the street around the two boys was bustling with energy and colour. Men and women clad in the most colourful traditional attires rushed past Rishi and Paritosh as the two young boys made way through the jostling crowd.

“I just have fifteen minutes,” Paritosh said as he dragged Rishi ahead, “Maa is waiting for me”

“Why?” Rishi asked, feeling peeved. He was still craning his neck to have a look at those dhakis.

“Because today is the day of unending traditions that I must follow,” said Paritosh through gritted teeth. “Now, stop talking!”

Paritosh finally came to a halt in front of a magazine stall. Since it was the first day of the new month, the two boys were eager to lay hands on one of their favourite Hindi children’s magazine, Champak. The stall was a stone’s throw away from Paritosh’s house and on every first day of the month, the two friends would come here to buy the latest issue of Champak. They were even more eager for the current issue as it was supposed to be a ‘festival special’.

“Finally,” Paritosh said as he picked two copies of the new Champak from the magazine stand. Handing one over to Rishi, he immediately began scouring the pages inside.

“Excellent!” he remarked in delight, “Sixty-four pages this time. These Puja holidays would be awesome.”

Rishi smiled too as he checked out his favourite comic strip “Chiku Khargosh” inside the magazine.

As the two boys paid for their purchase and began walking back, Rishi noticed Paritosh was wearing a turtle-green kurta that he had buttoned up right up to the collar. Rishi had never seen his friend in a traditional dress and noticing him dressed like that at present brought the image of a skinny tortoise in his mind for some reason.

Rishi snorted. “Oh, wow! Khoka Babu is wearing a kurta today!”

Paritosh withdrew his face from the magazine in his hands and just stared at Rishi with his usual deadpan expression.

“Just be at my place by five, will you?” he said while returning his attention to the ‘Champak’. “I don’t want to go pandal hopping alone. Maa makes me crazy.”

“You are crazy,” Rishi said, laughing. “I am so looking forward to this. My first Puja experience it will be. I have never experienced anything like this in Rajasthan,” he added while gawking at the endless sea of tiny bulbs and billboards everywhere he laid eyes on.

“Good for you,” Paritosh said as they reached the crossing of the street they had met earlier.

The sound of the dhak punctured the breezy morning air again as the two boys stood there, leafing through the pages of the Champak in their respective hands. Unconsciously, and almost at the same time, both of them began tapping their foot on the ground with the frenzied beats of the dhaak and swayed their heads from side to side.

People hustled past them. But they seemed not to care. They had forgotten their need to hurry for the moment. Right now, they were at peace.

***

July 14, 1996, Calcutta

“How are you today, Khoka Babu?” Rishi said as he entered his friend’s room.

Paritosh looked up at him from his bed; his eyes were red and puffy. He had been hauled sick at his home for the past three days and had not been able to attend school. Today being a Sunday, Rishi had come in to check in on his friend.

Paritosh shrugged lazily and closed his eyes. He seemed exhausted. His bed was littered with comic books but he was gazing outside the window in front of his bed.

Rishi settled himself in on the little armchair beside the bed and began unzipping the bag he had brought with him.

“Don’t you worry, my friend. I’ve got the perfect thing to recharge your batteries. You won’t need any medicine after this,” said Rishi as he extracted a bundle of comic books from inside the bag.

On the top was a comic titled ‘Billoo Digest – 2”. The smiling face of a teenage boy, with thick hair that covered his eyes, beamed brightly on the cover.

“You got it?” said Paritosh, while getting up a little. His voice was throaty but his eyes sparkled with excitement.

“Yes,” said Rishi triumphantly. “Today morning. From the Shovabazar magazine stand.”

“Excellent,” said Paritosh.

“Arre, Rishi, you came?” said a female voice.

Rishi turned to notice that Paritosh’s mother had just entered the room. She looked very tired and seemed to have just come from somewhere. She was carrying a polythene bag with some medicine’s shop name on it.

“Hi, Kaaki Maa,” Rishi said with a smile and tried to get up.

“Arre, bosho, bosho! (Oh, sit, sit!),” she said seriously. “I am just glad you came.”

“Maa, tumi jaao! (Mother, you leave!),” said Paritosh weakly from his bed.

“Please stay for a while, Rishi,” she said earnestly. “We don’t have anyone else to fall back on here. You are the only friend he has,” Her eyes became a little moist.

Rishi remained silent. By now he knew that Paritosh’s mother had shifted from Durgapur to Calcutta with her son about seven years back. Paritosh’s father still stayed there and apparently had not maintained any form of communication with his family. Rishi never asked his friend about this, but his mother had brought this up on several conversations, much to Paritosh’s dissent. Paritosh’s mother worked at a local bank as a teller and was managing everything on her own.

“Don’t worry, Kaaki Maa. I won’t go anywhere,” said Rishi quietly.

“God bless you, shona,” she said, wiping her eyes. “Now you boys enjoy. I will get you a glass of Rasna.” Saying so, she left.

“Right, now can you just read me the comic,” Paritosh said scrunching his nose, clearly disgruntled.

“Read it?”

“Oh, I am too weak to hold and read this myself. Just read it, will you?” he said.

“All right, you weakling. But it won’t be the same,” Rishi said and opened the comic book.

“I know. But something is better than nothing,” Paritosh said.

“Okay then,” Rishi settled himself back on the armchair.  “The first chapter is titled ‘Shehar aur ghaati’,” he read out aloud.

“First panel:  Billoo and Gabdu are traveling on a scooter. Billo says, “Alvida, Comicpur!”.

Paritosh shut his eyes. He had a faint smile as his friend narrated the chapter. He was weak. But he felt comforted with every passing second.

“Second panel: Joji enters the scene…”

Rishi was right, Paritosh realized. This was all the medicine he needed, after all.

***

November 23, 1996, Calcutta

“Oww…!!!” Paritosh yelped as the ball hit his left ankle. Dropping the bat from his hands immediately, Paritosh bent down and began rubbing the area that had been hit.

“I told you to bowl slower,” he said in anger.

Rishi howled in laughter and had to sit down on the floor to restrain himself from falling.

The two boys were playing cricket – an activity they rarely indulged in – in the little backyard of Paritosh’ home. It was a tiny area – about twenty feet in length – and was covered with little tufts of grass patches all over. It was a Saturday afternoon and both had time to kill.

On Rishi’s insistence, the boys had taken a break from their comic reading sessions and had decided to play a game of cricket instead, much to Paritosh’s chagrin.

“You are hopeless,” Rishi said in between his guffaws, “Absolutely hopeless.”

“I told you I hate cricket,” Paritosh said irritated and flung the bat a few feet away.

“Dude, we were playing with a tennis ball and that too underhand,” Rishi said, still chortling away.

Paritosh grumbled and sat down on the stone porch that led to the back door of his house.

After a couple of minutes, Rishi finally got up and joined him there.

“You really are a geek,” he said as he sat down next to him. “I mean, you don’t play any outdoor sport and all you do is read comic books and watch cartoons.”

“Yeah. So? I like it that way,” Paritosh said simply.

“I know. But you ought to shed your image of a geeky kid a bit,” Rishi said while gulping down Rasna from the bottle that they had placed near the porch, beforehand. “That is why they tease you so much at school. I mean, just look at you…Why do you wear such thick glasses, man?”

“These are my Clark Kent spectacles. Don’t you dare say anything about them,” Paritosh said firmly.

Rishi smiled. “I see. You are Superman’s alter-ego, then?”

Paritosh shrugged and said, “I like the way I am.”

There was a sincerity and confidence in the way he said those words that struck Rishi. He realized Paritosh really did not bother what others thought of him. He loved being in his own little world.

The two sat there silently, watching the orange sky littered with flying birds.

“Sometimes I wish I could lose myself inside the panels of the Chacha Chaudhary comic books,” said Paritosh, puncturing the silence all of a sudden. He was staring at the skies, apparently lost in his own world.

“Pran Kumar Sharma has created such a charming world,” he said. “The trees, the skies, the homes, the characters themselves…Everything is so alluring. If I could somehow escape into it and never come out, I wouldn’t have to face this stupid world and its stupid rules.”

Paritosh generally spoke less, but sometimes he had a habit of saying such deep things that Rishi had no answers to them.

“Maybe someday you will, brother,” is all he could say finally. “Maybe someday you will…”

***

March 28, 1997, Calcutta

“What time is your train again?” Paritosh asked.

“8.30 PM,” Rishi answered quietly.

The two boys were seated on a bench in a garden. It was afternoon and little kids were scurrying about everywhere around them.

Paritosh took a deep breath and looked skywards, lost in apparent thought.

Rishi felt heavy. Like someone had poured a barrel of lead inside his chest.

“You know I don’t want to leave, right?” he said morosely. “I would never want to stay in Ahmedabad instead of Calcutta. I…I feel so nervous…,” he stuttered, “But…But dad’s government job is such that they keep shifting him every three-four years.”

“That’s okay. I understand,” Paritosh said, still staring at the skies blankly.

The two sat there silently for a couple minutes, just staring at the bunch of kids playing football merrily.

After a while, Paritosh pulled up a worn out nylon bag he had kept near the bench. He withdrew a stack of comic books from it and handed it to Rishi.

“Here…These are for you,” he said plainly.  “These are some of my favourite collection of comic books. I couldn’t think of any other gift…” he trailed off.

Rishi looked at the pile. There were about a dozen or so comic books of different shapes and sizes, neatly wrapped with a cotton thread. He felt overwhelmed and embarrassed. In all the haste of the previous week, he had forgotten to get anything for his best friend before he left.

“Thanks…Thanks, man!” is all he could say.

Paritosh nodded and resumed staring at the skies.

“Tell Kaaki Maa that I will call her once I settle down in Ahmedabad,” Rishi said, trying to get a reaction out of his friend.

Paritosh simply nodded again.

Rishi sighed and brought the stack of comic books in his hands to his chest; as if embracing them tightly.

“You were a good friend, you know,” said Paritosh all of a sudden, and very matter-of-factly.

Rishi turned to look at him. Paritosh blinked a couple of times, while still steadily staring skywards.

“We…We will keep in touch,” Rishi muttered.

Paritosh did not respond.

“I wish we had more time,” he finally said.

Rishi looked at his friend and felt a wave slap at his insides. He clutched the pile of comic books tighter to his chest and closed his eyes, not wanting the moist in his eyes to escape.

“I wish we had more time, too,” he whispered.

**************************************************************************************************************************************

September 23, 2018, Calcutta

Rishi Sood took tentative steps up the dingy and dimly lit staircase. His heart pounded with each step he took. Nothing had changed, it felt. Even the peeling, yellowish paint on the walls near the stairs was the same as ever.

As he approached the first-floor landing, Rishi’s breathing got heavy. The echo of two young boys bounding about these very steps reverberated inside him. Rishi paused and placed his luggage on the floor. He took two deep breaths, grabbed his luggage again, and moved towards the door.

Although he had knocked on this very brown wooden door so many times a lifetime ago, he felt odd, almost nervous, as he was about to do so again. Rishi steadied himself and knocked the door firmly.

A few seconds went by and then Rishi heard some movement inside.

“Ke? (Who?),” came a female’s voice.

Rishi said nothing. He just gulped down some air.

The door opened and a woman appeared in view. She wore a red floral gown and squinted at Rishi through her half-moon spectacles. She had short, curly hair which had strands of grey all over.

“Bolun? (Say?)”, she said.

Rishi gaped at her, his voice stuck in his throat.

“Kaaki Maa,” he mumbled.

For a few seconds, she looked confused. And then recognition dawned on the woman’s face and her eyes widened in surprise.

“Rishi?” she said, sounding astonished.

Rishi smiled and took a step inside the little corridor of the house. He bent and touched her feet in respect.

“Rishi…,” she almost whispered. “Amar shona…You…You really came?” she uttered in hushed tones and caressed his hair, his face. Her eyes gleamed with tears.

“Koto lomba hoye geycho tumi! (How tall you’ve become!),” she said, gawking at his six feet two frame.

Rishi laughed.

“How are you, Kaki Maa?” he asked.

Her face became solemn as soon as he asked this.

“Rishi…Khoka…I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” she said, sounding completely exhausted.

“He is not responding. He just stays there on his bed. Just mumbles,” she added, her voice breaking with each sentence. “I have taken him to so many doctors. So many…They say it’s a form of depression. But are unable to find a cure.”

“How long has this been going on?” Rishi asked while closing the door behind him.

“About four months now,” she said, wiping her tears. “Actually he had been slowly retreating into his shell for a couple of years, but now he has completely shut himself off…I…I am losing him day by day.”

“Don’t worry, Kaki Maa,” Rishi said, putting a comforting hand on her shoulders. 

“Everything will be all right.”

“Rishi, I am sorry I caused this inconvenience to you…But…” she trailed off.

“You did the right thing,” Rishi said. “Let me see him now.”

Rishi walked along the little corridor and then made his way inside the room at the left corner.

He pushed the doors open and pale darkness greeted him.  The windows were closed shut for some reason.

“Khoka…Khoka, dekh ke esche!…Rishi! (Khoka, look who has come! It’s Rishi!)," called out Paritosh’s mother who had just entered the room behind Rishi.

A man wearing a light-cream kurta and pajama lay on the bed, blankly staring at the ceiling. He wore thick glasses, had an oval-shaped face and a curly mop of hair. Rishi felt like his friend had just grown in height and had developed a patchy beard. The rest of him felt almost the same as he had last left him.

In fact, the room too felt much the same as Rishi had last seen it more than twenty years back. There were the same two rickety cupboards crammed with comic books. There was the same dark green color, albeit a little faded now, on the walls. There was that same little armchair in the left corner of the bed and the same Goddess Kali portrait atop it on the wall.

The only addition Rishi could notice was a messy working table on the right side of the bed. It was stuffed with various drawing materials: bottles of black ink, a few brushes, and a dusty old drawing board.

Rishi put his luggage on the floor and moved forward cautiously. “Hey, Khoka Babu,” he said as he reached near the bed. The man’s eyes moved towards him, but he did not respond.

Rishi noticed a pile of comic books lying on the arm chair. He picked it up. All had covers of a mustached hunter in different locations, wearing a khaki uniform and holding a gun. The titles were the same – ‘The Adventures of Col. Patterson’– while the subheading of each comic had different taglines. A line at the bottom caught Rishi’s attention. “Illustrated by: Paritosh Banerjee” was written on each of them.

“Wait… what!” Rishi exclaimed.

“He draws a comic book series for some UK-based company,” said Paritosh’s mother, proudly.

Rishi checked each title again and smiled widely. “Way to go, Khoka Babu!” he said looking at his friend who refused to say anything.

Rishi placed the comic books on the side of the bed and headed towards the window. He opened the shutters to let the early morning light stream in through the large and slender pillars of the window and lighten up the entire room.

Paritiosh’s mother looked on curiously as Rishi removed his jacket and picked up his little bag from the floor. He then sat on the armchair beside the bed and began unzipping his bag.

“You know, Khoka,” Rishi said as he extracted a pile of comic books from inside, “I have got the perfect medicine for you.”

He held the stack firmly in his hands and began displaying each title to his friend one by one. “Tell me which one do you want me to read and I will. These are all vintage ones, you see,” he said exuberantly.

“See, this is Tinkle Digest Vol.1. This is Champak Vol. 25. This one is Chacha Chaudhary aur Raka,” Rishi said, after showing each comic to his friend.

Paritosh’s eyes moved as Rishi held each comic book at him. They narrowed a bit with every title. But he still remained silent.

“You know,” Rishi said, “I wish I had the first sequel to the Raka series. What was its name? You had that one, right?”

Paritosh stared at Rishi, his eyes were still narrowed, as if trying to make sense of something.

“Ah, I forget the name,” Rishi said, snapping his fingers and shutting his eyes tightly. “What was it? ‘Raka ki Vaapsi’, ‘Raka ka Hamla’, or was it ‘Raka ka Challenge’?”

“Inteqam,” said a hoarse voice all of sudden.

Rishi flicked his eyes open to see Paritosh looking at him directly, an almost exasperated expression on his face.  

He cleared his throat, scrunched his nose a bit and said, “Chacha Chaudhary aur Raka ka Inteqam, you imbecile.”

 Rishi beamed widely. He felt like getting up and embracing his friend. But he didn’t.

“Yes, yes! You are right. You are the master, after all,” he said and turned to look at Paritosh’s mother.

Rishi could sense that she was quivering all over. She appeared stunned and was attempting to hold herself back.  

She looked at her son and then at Rishi again. Her mouth opened, as if she wanted to utter something, but could not form any words.

 “Don’t you worry, Kaaki Maa. I won’t go anywhere,” Rishi cut her off with a smile. “Not until Khoka is perfectly fine again,” he added and settled himself nicely on the armchair.

“What shall I get you, tell me?” Paritosh’s mother asked eagerly. Her tired and wrinkled face looked a little relaxed now.

Rishi pondered for a moment and looked at his friend, who seemed to be observing the comics in his hands intently.

“A glass of Rasna would be good for now,” Rishi said.

“Of course! Of course!” said Paritosh’s mother, as tears trickled down her face. “You boys enjoy. I will be right back.”

Rishi picked up his pile of comic books and addressed his friend again, “So, Khoka Babu. Tell me which one shall I read to you today?”

Paritosh got up slightly and picked up one comic from Rishi’s pile. It was pale and the cover was extremely crinkled.

“This one,” he said throatily.

Rishi looked at it and beamed. “Ah… ‘Chacha Chaudhary, Billoo aur Pinki’. Excellent choice,” he remarked.

Rishi opened the first page of the comic and dusted it a little with his hands. He brought the book close to his face and smelled its pages deeply. Then, he got up a little and extended the comic towards Paritosh’s face. Lying on his bed, Paritosh too inhaled the pages of the comic.

“Smells good, doesn’t it?” Rishi asked his friend with a smile as he withdrew the comic.

Paritosh nodded; he had a satisfying look on his face.

Suddenly, Rishi’s phone buzzed from inside his shirt pocket. He picked it out and saw an unread message flashing on the screen. It was from his fiancée, Kavita.

“Hey, babe! Hope you reached safely.

Buzz me once you are free. And I hope Paritosh is fine, too.

Can’t wait to come there and meet him. See you two soon.

Love.”

Rishi smiled and placed the phone back inside his pocket.

“Right,” he said, “So the first chapter is titled, ‘Chutti ke din’. First panel: Sabu and Chachaji are sitting outside their house. Sabu says, ‘Chacha ji! Sab log hafte me ek din chutti rakhte hai. Hum kyu nahi?’”

Paritosh smiled, for the first time in what felt like ages, and closed his eyes. The warm sunlight felt good on his face and so did his friend’s voice from close to him. The gloom that had engulfed him these past few months seemed to be clearing bit by bit.

“Chachaji says, ‘Sabu, humein bhi araam ki zarurat hai’,” Rishi’s voice echoed across the room.

With each word of his friend, Paritosh felt lighter, calmer; like somebody was siphoning off something dark and murky from inside him. Paritosh let out a soft breath of air, while his eyes remained closed. 

Rishi was right. This was all the medicine he needed, after all.

All rights reserved




( End Note: The inspiration for this story primarily came from this song.

Yes, I have borrowed the title of this song for my story, but that is only because I felt it suited it pretty well. I had initially titled the story, "My Friend, Khoka". But this one just seemed better. I can't really explain how or why, but while listening to the song, the idea for this story took birth; especially the character of Khoka. Hence, I am grateful to it. 

The story is dedicated to the imaginary friend I never had in school life. I always wanted a comic-friend in my childhood, but never had a serious one who shared my intense love for comics. Hence, this story is kind of a tribute to that friend. 

I know this is a simple and unassuming tale. But it took me a really long time to finish it and it has been a learning experience that I shall remember. Hope that some of you might have liked it.)

The Mending – A Short Story

She took a tiny bite from the sandwich and handed the rest of it to him.

“You need it more than I do,” she said, her big, round eyes shining brightly.

He took the sandwich but did not eat. He just stared at her hungrily. It had been so long. Who knew how much time he had this time?

He looked around. It was a deserted railway platform with no shed and not a single other soul could be seen for miles.

She closed her eyes and quietly munched the morsels of the burger. He felt relieved. He was being needlessly worried. She seemed hale and hearty.

“You know, I scored a hat-trick in yesterday’s match. Everyone was cheering for me. It was such a great day,” she said, her eyes sparkling in excitement.

He nodded, feeling thrilled to see her happiness.

“I can’t wait for the final match. Amma will be there too. I know it,” she said confidently.

A train came into sight at the distance.

“It’s time,” she said, looking at the train calmly.

His heart began thumping. No, not so soon!

The train halted at the platform. She got up quietly and boarded the train, standing at the door.

She turned to look at him. “I have to go now,” she whispered.

He tried to stretch his arms to hold her back, but they seemed stuck.

No, no, no! This can’t be happening. Not again!

“It’s alright, Appa,” she smiled. The train jerked and began moving.

“Just promise me one thing…”

Anything, anything…

“Don’t ever forget me, Appa…Please, never let me go,” her eyes glistened with tears, but she kept smiling.

He struggled, trying hard to break free.

No, no, no!

“Never let me go…”

“Nooooo…!”

Srinivasan woke up with a start, screaming loudly. He was breathing heavily and perspiring. A cell phone was ringing beside his bed. But the sound seemed very distant. He was panting, the images from the dream still fresh in his mind. He gulped in the air to steady his rampaging heart.

Srinivasan looked around. His little room was a complete mess with clothes, plates, bottles, and bits of papers strewn across the floor. There was a steady hammering of falling rain outside the window.

Slowly, Srinivasan began collecting his thoughts to come back to the present. 

The present. 

His insides ached again as realization of the present dawned on him.

The phone rang again. This time Srinivasan turned around to pick it up from the bedside table. It was Anitha, his elder sister.

He took in a few more gulps to stabilize his breathing and then took the call.

“Yes, Akka?”

“Srini, where the hell were you? This is the fifth time I have called you,” she hollered into the phone.

“I was sleeping.”

“Sleeping! Srini, it's 1 o'clock in the noon right now!”

He checked his wrist watch and realized his sister was correct.

“Um! I overslept. I was not feeling well,” he mumbled.

Anitha sighed.

“Srini, you came to Cherrapunji more than three months back, despite my repeated objections. You said you will start a new life there. But what are you doing, Srini? What are you doing?”

Srinivasan remained quiet. He knew she meant well, but he simply did not have it in him to reason with her sister at the moment.

“I am worried about you, thambi. I can’t imagine what you must be going through. But you have to move on now. It’s been…”

“Akka, I have to go. I am hungry,” he cut her off mid-sentence, knowing what was coming.

Anitha paused for a moment and then said, “Okay, Srini. But at least tell me if you are rejoining the school on Monday. This is your third break. If you don’t want to carry on there, you should come …”

“Akka, I will talk to you later, okay?” Srinivasan said and disconnected the call.

He knew he shouldn’t have done so, but he wasn’t in the mood for any conversation. He looked outside the window beside the bed. The rain was unrelenting and was falling in the same steady rhythm it had been for the past six days now.

Srinivasan turned and sat at the edge of his bed, staring vacuously at the floor of the room. Although it was a rented single room apartment, it was still quite systemized. The room had a half-bed at the far right-end corner and two armchairs and a table at its opposite end. There was a tiny space near the chairs that worked as a kitchen and opposite the bed was a small bathroom. The best thing about the house was that it opened up to a little lawn outside which was always lush with green grass.

The current inhabitant of this house, however, hadn’t really given heed to any of its finer elements. Ever since Srinivasan had moved to the small town of Cherrapunji in Meghalaya from Chennai about three months back, he had been leading an almost impassive existence.

Srinivasan now realized that his head was throbbing. Perhaps it was because of the disturbed sleep or because of the incomplete dinner he had last night, but the need to focus on getting rid of the pain inside his head allowed him to momentarily forget the distressing dream.

He looked for the bottle of aspirin on the bedside table and his eyes fell on the solitary photo frame kept there. Enclosed within the frame was the picture of a little girl of about eight years old. Wearing a red, floral skirt, the little girl was laughing widely and holding a football in her hands. Adorning the frame was a peacock-blue scarf; it had been lightly wrapped around the frame.

Srinivasan stared at the picture for a moment, his eyes devoid of any expression. Then, turning his back to it, he curtly got up and headed to the bathroom.

***

Perhaps a lifetime ago, Srinivasan would have been enchanted by the view in front of him. But right now, he quietly munched at his soggy sandwich thoughtlessly. It was a clammy Saturday afternoon and he was sitting on a bench in a park at a little distance from his house. Wearing a hat and a large raincoat - apparels he wore daily to shield himself from the rain that pounded this town literally every day - Srinivasan liked coming to this place and particularly to this spot; there was hardly any soul around to bother him here.

There was a little pond in front of him and rich foliage all around. The persistent falling rain had only accentuated the verdancy of the surroundings that Srinivasan was so familiar with now.

The 39-year-old had become accustomed to the never-ending gray clouds and the incessant rains of Cherrapunji ever since he had moved here three months back. The steady drum of the unfluctuating rains here was something he woke up to almost every day and it was also the pattering of the rains that lulled him to sleep every night.

About four months back, Srinivasan was a respected English teacher in an elementary school in Chennai. A widower since the age of 32, Srinivasan had been living his life with his nine-year-old daughter, Aswini. His wife and childhood love, Rohini, passed away just one year after giving birth to their daughter. Srinivasan did not even get the time to grieve his loss as he had to tend to his one-year-old infant then. Rather than brooding over the enormity of what he had lost, Srinivasan dove into the role of being a single father with great passion.

As she grew up, he saw traces of his lost love – the innocence, the warmth, the tenderness – in Aswini as well and slowly Srinivasan found a reason to smile and love again. Being a teacher himself, Srinivasan did not have much difficulty in tutoring Aswini and the two of them bonded over studies, books, and sports. Much like her father, Aswini grew up to be an ardent football fan and the father-daughter duo would often stay up late at nights watching English football league matches.

After picking Aswini up from school, Srinivasan would take her to the local park near their house in Chennai where they would spend their afternoon hours playing football. A natural at the sport, Aswini looked certain to make it into her school football team. More than her skills at football, however, what made Srinivasan surge with pride was how nicely Aswini was shaping up to be as a person just at nine years of age. He felt he had done a good job and knew that Rohini would be proud of him. He was eagerly looking forward to helping mold her growing up years and be the perfect guardian to her. Aswini was not just the light of his life but had become his singular driving force. To love. To live.

And then, in a single moment, everything changed.

It was a Saturday afternoon in June and Srinivasan and Aswini had just finished an extended game of football at the local park. Srinivasan was picking up a pack of sanwiches from the food stall just outside the park gates. While he was paying for the purchase, Aswini, who was dribbling her football beside her father, lost control of it. As her precious ball bounced away from her towards the middle of the busy road, the little girl ran after it. And just as Srinivasan turned around, he saw Aswini bending down to grab her football right in the middle of the road and an SUV heading straight towards her.

And just like that, everything was over.

Srinivasan had gone numb with shock after the loss of his daughter. He had no recollection of how the last rites and the ensuing rituals were performed; his elder sister and other friends took care of it. Strangely enough, he could not even bring himself to cry or mourn the loss. He had simply retrieved into a shell.

Anitha, his elder sister, and all his close friends desperately tried to bring him out of it. But Srinivasan did not want to. He was getting tired of their constant display of sympathy and wanted to get away from it all. Hence, he quit his job in Chennai, and with the help of a senior professor in the city, he got himself a job as a teacher at a government school in Cherrapunji. Srinivasan had deliberately chosen a small town far away from his home; no one would know him here, no one would pity him and no one would remind him of his past life.

But a change of place had not allowed him to get away from the torment he had hidden deep inside. Regular, disturbing dreams kept plaguing him and guilt had enshrouded his soul. Despite not wanting to, Srinivasan would keep revisiting that fatal day. “Why didn’t I turn sooner?” “Why hadn’t I held her hands?” he would keep thinking. All of this had taken a toll on his body and who was once a clean-shaven, handsome and sturdy God-fearing Brahmin man had morphed into an empty shell with a gaunt face, unkempt hair and shaggy beard and absolutely no interest in life.

He had lost his will to live completely. The death of his wife Rohini had shaken him badly but Aswini’s passing had dealt a severe blow to his spirit and had ripped his soul to little pieces; try as he might he simply could not bring himself to pick those pieces again. He had fallen into an abyss and knew there was no way he could come out of it now.

At times, Srinivasan had even considered ending his life, because living in the present with the pain and the memories of the ones he had loved and lost was getting too much to bear. But the human brain inside him did not allow him to do so. Thus, he was leading a robotic existence here, allowing nature to dictate his remaining days, and had become numb to everything.

Srinivasan finished the sandwich and threw the wrapping paper on a puddle of water nearby.  He stared at the pond and found interest in the ripples created by the falling rain on its surface. Swathes of greenness everywhere around him were soaked in water and the leaves of the trees flowed brightly and merrily.

Then he heard a sound: a whimper coming from somewhere nearby. Srinivasan looked around but could not find the source of the noise anywhere.

The whimper grew louder and after peering closely for a bit, Srinivasan finally located where the sound was coming from. It was a pup, about six months old and light-brown in color, stuck near the banks of the pond. The cub was about eight feet at the extreme right of Srinivasan and was half-concealed in the dense underbrush at the banks. It seemed to be struggling to get up and was probably tangled in something. The consistent rain made it slip repeatedly on the grass, but the dog kept trying.

Srinivasan could not recognize the breed of the young dog, but seeing it squirming and whimpering made him feel uncomfortable. He tried to avoid looking at it, but could not take his eyes off. He noticed that the pup was absolutely drenched and was also shivering. Its mother could not be seen anywhere. Perhaps it had passed out earlier due to weakness, tired and alone, and had only come to its senses now.

But the more Srinivasan looked at the struggling dog, the more uneasy he felt; and he did not really know why. One part of him wanted to help the poor animal, but the other part, the dead one, held him back.

As the dog’s cries grew louder, Srinivasan hastily got up and without glancing back, marched away.

***

“Appa! Where are you?”

She looked around, worried and tense.

His heart skipped a beat. He did not want to look away. He could not.

“Appa! Why don’t you say something?”

He wanted to say something desperately. But try as he might, words simply refused to come out from his mouth.

There was water all around her. Up to her knees.

She appeared to be shivering now and held herself tightly by her little arms. Her pretty, wide eyes kept searching for him. But they could not locate him.

Why?

He wanted to scream out at her. Hold her. Comfort her. But he couldn’t.

He felt helpless.

And then, very slowly, she began sinking.

The water inched upward, crossed her knees, her thighs, and then reached her waist.

His heart hammered madly in his chest. But he remained motionless.

Her eyes fluttered and a solitary teardrop glided down her cheek.

“Appa..!”

Srinivasan woke up abruptly, his chest heaving madly and breath feeling constricted.

It took him a moment to realize where he was. The dim light in his room was still on. It was dark outside and the rain was pouring down hard. He checked his watch: 1:20 A.M.

He took in a few deep gulps and steadied himself. And then, instinctively, he turned to look at the photo frame on his bedside table. The little girl was still smiling.

Suddenly, something clicked inside him. Srinivasan got up, hurriedly and purposefully; he knew what he had to do.

He grabbed his raincoat and took his torch. Without wasting another minute, he dashed out.

***

Srinivasan struggled to walk; the darkness and the heavy rain made it difficult for him to see ahead on the muddy path of the park.

But he knew where he had to go. He had come to this park every day since the past three months, and his brain automatically guided him to the precise location he was heading towards.

There was no one around. The only sound that was made was that of the rain falling on the foliage and the squishy sound of Srinivasan’s footsteps on the puddles of water in the mud. He was completely drenched despite his large raincoat covering him. But he did not seem to care. He strode ahead.

As the pond came into view at a bend and then the bench, Srinivasan literally ran. He reached the banks of the pond in just a few large steps and almost slipped over on the grass. He stabilized himself with his right hand and pulled out his torch from the inside pocket of the raincoat with his left hand.  

Crouched on his knees, Srinivasan directed the light from the torch at the spot he had noticed it the last time. It was hard to see anything, and his heart was hammering inside his ribs. He did not want to fear the worst but he could not hear any sound at all.

“Come, on! Please! Please,” he said out in desperation.

And then, finally… A little cry; almost like a soft moan.

Srinivasan jerked around and shone his light at the source. There it was!

He could make out the light-brown fur. And then he saw the little pup, concealed behind a bunch of big leaves and twigs. He had stopped struggling, apparently, and was shivering badly, barely being able to make a noise.

Holding the torch by his mouth, Srinivasan quickly tore at the leaves that the puppy had been entwined in. He had to be careful, lest he hurt the little animal, and all the water made his hands slip on the leaves. But with one big grunt, Srinivasan was able to rip out the leaves from the soil and the dog was finally free.

He threw away the clump of leaves and put the torch down. Then, he held the puppy in his left hand and brought it close to his chest, covering it with his raincoat. It was soaked and was shuddering, taking very slow breaths. Srinivasan touched it lightly on the head. Its eyes still closed, the pup whimpered feebly.

“It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay,” Srinivasan whispered to it, collecting his breath.

“I got you….” he said and got up, all the time ensuring that the dog was properly covered inside his coat in the pelting rain. 

“I got you…”

***

Srinivasan scoured through the little toolbox, ensuring that everything he needed was in place. He had borrowed the box from his next-door neighbour and looked very composed as he searched through its contents. The room looked much cleaner from last night; the bottles and newspapers were neatly stacked at one corner and a fresh bedsheet had been fixed tightly on the bed.

Satisfied, Srinivasan got up from the edge of his bed and then moved to the kitchen where, in a small vessel, milk was being warmed on the stove. Checking the warmth of the milk with a spoon, he then poured it in a little bowl and took it back towards his bed. He kept the milk bowl beside the toolbox on the floor and exhaled softly.

There was only one thing remaining to do now.

He turned to look at the photo frame on the bedside table. The little girl with the football and the big, round eyes smiled back at him. Srinivasan breathed in again and very gently removed the blue scarf that had been wrapped around the frame.

It was Aswini’s favourite scarf, given to her as a present by her father when she was seven. It was a blend of cotton and velvet and Aswini loved wearing it around her neck on all her excursions. The scarf was the only item of his daughter that Srinivasan had brought back from Chennai; everything else had somehow felt inconsequential.

Srinivasan held the scarf in his hands and closing his eyes, he smelled it. A whiff of a floral scent emanated from it, instantly bringing to his mind the image of his daughter; her pure, innocent face, her smile, her flowing hair and the pleasant fragrance of lily flowers that always came from them. He could hear the echo of her giggle and every little note of that laugh reverberated through his soul. “Appa…!” 

Srinivasan’s chest heaved up and down and a little pearl of tear coursed down his face. The knot that he had bound inside his chest so firmly and for so long was slowly unfastening. He buried his face in the scarf and finally allowed himself to let go. He sobbed and sobbed while taking slow, convulsive gasps. He drenched the scarf in his tears and as every tear leaked out from within, he felt that the toxins that had filled his heart were now being slowly removed.

After what felt like an eternity, Srinivasan finally removed his face from the scarf and kissed it tenderly.

“I love you, baby!” he whispered.

He wiped the scarf with his hands and neatly folded it up. He then opened the last drawer of the bedside table, containing just a few sheets, and placed the scarf at its deep end.

“I will never let you go, my baby!

Very slowly, he proceeded to close the drawer.

“I promise. I will never let you go,” he whispered and shut the drawer securely.

Srinivasan stood up and let out a few deep breaths. He then went into the bathroom and washed his face. After coming out, he picked up the bowl of milk in one hand and the toolbox in the other. With a slight push of his left leg, he pushed open the main door beside the bed and stepped onto the lawn.

Warm and pleasant sunlight greeted him. After a week of incessant rain, the sun had finally shown its face in its full splendor in Cherrapunji.

The sun was directly above him and Srinivasan closed his eyes and allowed the warmth to permeate through every cell of his body. He would have stood there for some more time, but a yelp distracted him.

The pup was looking up at him, its little tail wagging furiously behind it. The little thing had been tied to a small piece of stick and stood under a big cardboard box. After bringing it to his house last night, Srinivasan had dried the dog clean with a hair-dryer and had fed it warm milk. He had stayed awake tending to it all through the night and had wrapped it firmly in a warm blanket. Miraculously, the dog had revived within hours and as the sun came out, Srinivasan had taken it outside in the lawn and tied it up in a temporary cardboard kennel before going out to take the toolbox from his neighbour.

Looking at Srinivasan, the pup jumped up and down and rolled itself on the damp surface of the lawn. He bent down and placed the bowl of milk in front of the dog. Without wasting a second, the pup began lapping up the milk with great relish, its tail wagging behind in delight.

Srinivasan smiled and caressed the dog’s nape softly; its light-brown fur felt smooth and dry. Aswini would have loved the puppy. She had always wanted one but Srinivasan had repeatedly insisted that she was too young to handle a pet. Perhaps, she would be pleased now.

“Have your fill, buddy. I will now build you the perfect home,” Srinivasan muttered.

The dog looked up at him with its small, innocent eyes.

“You will never get lost again. I promise,” he smiled and patted it again.

The puppy resumed its focus on the milk and Srinivasan then turned towards a set of plywood sheets of different shapes kept at a little distance from the dog. He got up and took out two long sheets of wood. He had bought these from the local market a little while back and it was now time to give them their purpose.

He placed the toolbox down and took out a measuring tape, a claw hammer, and a bunch of nails from inside it. Carpentry had been his hobby as a teenager – a skill gifted to him by his father – and it was going to come in handy today.

Placing the two sheets of wood at a slight angle so that both their corners were closed together, Srinivasan deftly put a nail on the top and began driving it in with the hammer.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The puppy’s ears twitched up at the noise and it glared at the wood in his hands with suspicion. Srinivasan smiled and continued his work. One nail was done. Time for another one.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Suddenly, his phone rang. Srinivasan halted and took the phone out of his shirt’s pocket. It was Anitha, his elder sister.

“Yes, Akka,” he answered.

“Oh. I wasn’t expecting you to take my call so soon,” Anitha said, sounding quite surprised.

“I woke up early,” he said simply and placing the phone down on the floor, he put it on speaker mode.

“Oh, I see,” she said. “So, are you joining the school tomorrow?”

Srinivasan adjusted the sheets of wood again and took out another nail from the tool box.

“Yes, I am.”

There was silence for a moment at the other end and then Anitha said, “So ... you won’t be returning to Chennai, then?”

“I don’t think so, no,” he said while placing the nail dexterously on the surface of the wood with his left hand and gripping the hammer firmly in his right hand again.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“What are you doing, thambi?” she asked, sounding genuinely concerned.

Srinivasan paused, took a breath and smiled ever so slightly before bringing the hammer down on the nail again.

“I am rebuilding.”

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“I am rebuilding…”

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(Suffice to say, I have never written anything even close to something like this ever. It was very challenging as I had no reference points to take for the events in the story and neither could I relate to the lead character; except maybe in one little way. But, somehow, this was something that I had been waiting to write for months now. It's a very simple story; perhaps unexciting and dreary for most of you. However, writing this one, especially, made me feel extremely relieved as I was quite nervous about it prior to attempting it.

The idea for this post came from the picture I have posted here. I can't really explain why or how, but it just did. I was looking at this picture while listening to a song and the story began forming on its own. Whether it is good or bad, I do not know. But over the past three months, this story has been constantly on the back of my mind. Hence, I am quite pleased that I was finally able to finish it. 

I hope some of you would have liked it. )

GUEST POST : Rabindranath Tagore the Storyteller by Dr. Sunanda Bhattacharya

(Pleased to present to you the first 'Guest Post' in my blog: a short, informative and engaging essay on Rabindranath Tagore the storyteller.)

By Dr. Sunanda Bhattacharya

Department of English

Women’s College, Shillong

Storytelling is something that one is familiar with from one's early days of life. It is an art that when handled with extraordinary skill surpasses time and space. A good storyteller is capable of weaving magic and wonder through the stories, which has a lasting impression in one's mind. 

One such storyteller is Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941), who remains one of the greatest storytellers of all times. His stories are an assortment of different themes, characters, and situations. He created stories revolving around common human experiences reflecting the different shades of life. In "The Cabuliwallah" one meets Rahmun, a father who has left his home and family in Afghanistan. Like all fathers, he too is extremely fond of his daughter. He carries with him a piece of paper that "bore the impression of a little hand" which belonged to his daughter. Mini a little girl in the story reminded him of his daughter and he showers his affection on her. When he is offered payment by Mini's father for the fruits, nuts, and raisins he brought for her, he refuses to take saying that he too has a daughter in his homeland just like Mini. He says: "I too have one like her in my home. I think of her, and bring fruits to your child – not to make a profit for myself". The words not only have an impact on Mini's father, but also the reader who identifies with the delicate deep emotions expressed by Rahmun, an emotion that any father would harbor for his daughter.

When one meets Phatik Chakravorti in "Home Coming" one is at once captured by the boy's innocence and mischief. This lively boy is uprooted from his natural environment in the village and is shifted to the city of Calcutta. Pahtik was excited to go with his uncle; but once there, the indifferent, hostile attitude of his aunt coupled with his failure to adjust in the city ultimately brings his doom. Fourteen-year-old Phatik yearned for love but received none from his aunt. Tagore brings out the trauma of this free child of nature in such a manner that it leaves one teary-eyed. In an alien space, Phatik is lost completely. "The cramped atmosphere of neglect oppressed Phatik so much that he felt that he could hardly breathe". He could fit himself neither at his uncle's home nor in the city school. Tagore here seems to warn all that if one is denied his natural environment to thrive and grow there lurks the danger of being annihilated.

"The Parrot's Training" is another brilliant piece of a short story by Tagore, where he critiques the system of education prevalent in India. The "ignorant" bird is synonymous of the learners who are taught the routine syllabus during education. The pundits tell the Raja that "the first thing necessary for this bird's education was a suitable cage". There was a particular "method" that was "followed in instructing the bird" which immensely pleased the Raja. Tagore's sarcasm garbed in humour is obvious when he says: "The method was so stupendous that the bird looked ridiculously unimportant in comparison". Gradually the wings of the bird were "clipped". The bird trapped in the "golden cage" was stuffed with information and "every creature…connected with the cage flourished…excepting only the bird". The entire "Education Department" of the Raja kept themselves busy with the education of the bird. This is symbolic of the kind of education that one receives – an education that restricts the learner's imagination and creative freedom. The "sound principle of education" followed by the Raja, in reality, killed the bird. One day the Raja is informed that the "bird's education has been completed". He asks "[d]oes it hop?... ‘Never' … Does it fly? ‘No'". Tagore speaks about this kind of "parrot learning" in connection with his own education. Because he felt strongly about it, he came up with his own university Visva-Bharati. 

"The Patriot", a short story by Tagore focuses on nationalism and patriotism through the characters of Girindra and Kalika who are husband and wife. Kalika is involved in the freedom struggle of India and when the story opens one is told that she is an active participant "in picketing British cloth in Burrabazar". The setting is that moment in Indian history which saw the peak of India's struggle for freedom from British dominance. Because her husband refuses to subscribe to her way of thinking she calls him "unpatriotic". Girindra knows that he loves his motherland but he does not wish to be a part of that "brand of nationalism, professed by [Kalika's] own party". He refuses to "wear Khaddar". This is because he by nature "shrink[s] from all conscious display of sectarian marks about [his] person".

One day an incident takes place which is revealing in itself. A sweeper is beaten up badly by a group of people just because he accidentally "came in contact with somebody, or something". The poor man along with his little grandson pleads with the group but without success. Girindra desperately wanted to rescue the man by taking him in his car. But Kalika threatened him that she will leave the car if the sweeper travels with them.  Kalika fails to rise above the social divisions prevalent in Indian society. Who then is a patriot? Tagore here compels one to think for oneself and comprehend the difference between Kalika an active participant in the cause of nationalism and Girindra. One here understands that India will be really free when Indians rise above divisions of caste and class. Tagore had once said: "The real problem in India is that we must make the whole country a creation of our own. A creation in which all the communities and individuals will participate."

Rabindranath Tagore the storyteller has crafted a huge number of short stories. He uses them to focus on different issues whether it is nationalism, education, or social injustice in India. In them, one finds diverse human experiences of love, joy, trauma, and pain…in short, his stories reflect life.