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shystoryrebel · 3 years

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What is the Score?

Cricket is the most popular game in the country. People forget everything. Everybody was discussing the outstanding parallels of India’s 1983 victory with March 1971 victory in West Indies against West Indies. It was a match between India led by Ajit Wadekar and West Indies led by legendry Sir Garry Sobers. I was thirteen years old when the memorable match happened and was right away enchanted by it. The timings enabled me to be often at home for the day matches due to time difference between the two nations. It was the match I remember most vividly when Late Dilip Sardesai played magnificently throughout the series. India could register her maiden test and series win against West Indies due to him.

Sunil Gavaskar’s debut match, phenomenal job by the Indian spinners, and superior performance made possible for India’s first test and a series win against the Caribbean. It was also the brilliant captaincy of Wadekar which led India to her first test and series win over West Indies led by Sobers. It was a historic win. Before the tour of 1971, India had drawn 11 Tests with them and had lost 12. Worse, It was the first time, India managed to take the first-innings lead against West Indies. So, when India managed to make West Indies follow-on in the first Test at Kingston, thanks to Dilip Sardesai’s wonderful 212 and the spinners, it was already a great moment for the Indians.

India reached Port-of-Spain for the second Test with high moral. India had a debutant in the form of a 21-year-old called Sunil Gavaskar, who would go on to rule Indian cricket for over a decade and a half.

Sobers won the toss and decided to bat. Abid Ali magically bowled a ball that nearly on the pitch and hit experienced Roy Fredericks on the pad, and then the stumps. Soon magical Indian spinners took over. They made the West Indian batsman struggled for runs. But Steve Camacho and legendry Rohan Kanhai managed to save their wickets. Solkar was fielding marvellously at short-leg and got the catch of Camacho off Bishan Bedi and Kanhai off EAS Prasanna and Abid Ali removed Clive Lloyd.

Srinivas Venkataraghavan bowled an outstanding spell and managed to out dangerous Sobers who was trying to rescue his team. The spinners kept the pressure on the Caribbean and they were all out for 214.

India had half an hour to bat. Nervous debutant came on the ground, and a Vanburn Holder ball hit his pads and the ball ran towards deep fine-leg. The batsmen took a couple, but the umpire signalled them as runs instead of leg-byes. That was the beginning off the mark of legendry Sunil Gavaskar who became a run machine later on.

Sunil Gavaskar scored a double century in the same series. I remember dreaming of playing a match in which ... I scored defend that target. Thankfully the weather was clear during the match, all in my family were interested in the cricket but no one was into cricket. My father was a teacher, mother was a housewife and they had a passing interest. My grandparents didn’t care and brothers were deeply interested in the game. Nevertheless, I and my elder brother were glued to the radio in the night for every bit of action we could catch. West-Indies made it to a good beginning. Next day nobody wanted to go to school. Well almost nobody. My father went to college and I was forced to go the school.

Most parents thought in the same manner. There were hardly 50 students in the school who came to the school that day. All the teachers had come, but given that every class had a very small number of students. However, they took all the students to the library and we all turned to the newspaper instead of the book. Now as a class of 8 students, that was already turning out to be a historical day. No classes and passing the entire day watching the pictures of players and the thrilling actions. Already this was a happy day.

Most of the students were pretty young and didn’t know much about the peculiarities about cricket. We were happy to read every detail, every inch even. As Sardesai and Gavesker began what was actually a good partnership, we became very crazy. My lady teacher Miss Fatima kept smiling at me but it wasn’t like natural. She was a young nun. The Indian team was nervous about the match and lacked their usual confidence because West-indies was a very strong side.

As the innings neared its final stage, Sardesai and Gavaskar consolidated belatedly looked to up the ante. For us kids, it was more than enough to see the good score. My teacher was getting more close and affectionate. The affection show was getting more serious. She wanted to stop me in the library. We would hug each time as and we were alone but then she started kissing and cheering if it was a boundary. She holds me back forcefully. Principal Miss Marry came to see the library, and by the time we were in a carnival mood. I told Miss Marry the last score. The teacher felt we should move to the staff room to read more seriously. At one point, my Math teacher Miss Ayesha passed in front of the library, peeping into the library, pointing towards us that one more peep and the match was shifted to the empty staff-room. Now if I could wander here for a bit, for kids in classes 7-8 (which all of us were), school teachers are next in line to superpowers.

The second morning began spectacularly, as Gavaskar and Ashok Mankad played well. After Manked was out, followed by Salim Durani cheaply, the hero of the previous test-Sardesai joined Gavaskar. Sobers wasn’t the same bowler he once used to be. Sardesai soon settled down, and Gavaskar reached his fifty just after lunch, and Kanhai congratulated him with the words, “Well played, son”. In a few years’ time, Gavaskar would name his son after Rohan Kanhai, as Rohan Gavaskar. Gavaskar scored 65 runs. Ajit Wadekar could not open his account. But again Sardesai and Solkar ended the day without any other loss, with Sardesai on 83 and Solkar on 24.

It was my first encounter with an adult woman outside my family circle. Ironically she was a nun and my teacher. I learnt to look at her for studies, permission, approval and anything like these. They shape the future world and lives. I never thought of to cross that line. But that limit seemed blurred after that. So regardless of the fantastic delight of that experience so far, when my teacher Miss Fatima raised her voice and snatched the newspapers, we knew things were getting serious. But at the same time, students were in the status of ecstasy. Those days had been like never other days. Who would students listen to? Our mindset or mood?

As soon as Miss Fatima walked in we all opened the newspaper. She again set on the next chair to me. I narrated her another big shot (It was a big hook by Solkar for four) played. I was a storyteller to her. India very intelligently resisted all calculations and logic. We couldn’t help but overlook the recent attractions and started making a touching each-other. However, the teachers knew that if they allow us to spent time like this, it would cause an irretrievable dent to their authority and respect.

This was a state of affairs that could harm the school’s moral structure. Miss Fatima moved closer without any hesitation, hiding our hand under the big pages of the newspaper. Instantly, hush. Miss Fatima, as expected, now started into an artificially heated outburst about discipline and respecting your elders and learning to behave yourselves. This continued for a few minutes. We all smiled and looked to the floor but I failed to restrain my ravenous to touch her thighs. Miss Fatima was perhaps enjoying up this moment. “You all the time makes a big noise.” We all shook our heads like disciplined kids. A few cute “sorry miss” were heard. Everyone took a sigh of relief. She put the newspapers back. The first thing I saw on her face flickered back a smile…strict and disciplined Miss Fatima, her gown above her knees, smilingly adjusted back on the chair.

There was a perceptible fear all around. For us kids, all we could not understand this. That was neither any bad news. But for the teachers, the adults, they knew what was happening. Miss Fatima was our great English mine. She was responsible for our positive changes. She had taught us through our first half-yearly success after three poor performances. The mellowness of Miss Fatima was like a shock. And the adults, especially Miss Marry and Miss Ayesha, knew that because they had their romantic adventures.

I again started reading the newspaper. Sardesai batted magnificently. Solkar, gave a very good company and runs were automatically coming. Mighty Sobers got desperate for the wickets but Sardesai and Solkar remained on the crease like a rock. Once Sardesai retorted,” a time comes when you feel nobody can get you out, and I had that feeling all through that Caribbean tour”. Ultimately, Sardesai departed after scoring 112. The pair had added 114 decisive runs. Solkar was ninth to out for 55 and finally, India ended on 352. Nevertheless, the real hero of the inning was unquestionably Noreiga, who took up 9 for 95. Miss Fatima was impressed with my art of narration.

I will never forget what happened next, even though it occurred within seconds. Miss Fatima slowly inserted her hand inside my knickers and started playing. Miss Fatima was gasping and her face became red. Her breaths were loud and fast. I could not understand what was happening. The other teachers encircled her and took her to the staff room. I was trying to put this into perspective. Adults, especially teachers, should not sit close to the kids. To see her in that manner was absolutely mind-blowing. To see her breathing loud because someone has scored a century in a match was a flash that changed my perspective on cricket and teachers forever.

Next day West Indies had a solid start; Fredericks and Kanhai opened the inning. The day ended with 150 for 1, 12 run ahead, with Fredericks on 80. The match was evenly poised. On day four, India was chasing the elusive history. During practices in the nets, Fredericks hit a ball that hit David’s right eyebrow. So, Lioyd came out with Fredericks. However, Fredericks was run out without adding any run. Sobers walked in to bat. It was the intelligence of Wadeker and he brought Salim Durani, bowled a mix of fast and spin that clean bowled Sobers. It was an extraordinary, startling sight to see mature the 36-year old Durani jump in the air and thump it in excitement.

Wadekar noticed that sharp spin of Durani and Lloyd had a weakness to turn towards the ball towards mid-wicked and often in the air. Wadekar, himself came there to field and Lloyd immediately played one towards Wadekar. He did no wrong and caught it magnificently off his fingertips. In the very next over Venkat broke the defence of Camacho. West Indies in trouble, just 169 for 5, only 31 runs lead. Soon Venkat, Solkar and Bedi finished the inning of West Indies. David, Barrett, Mike Frindlay Shillingford, and Noregia failed to stop the collapse of the Caribbean’s. Only Davis remained unbeaten with 71. The host could score 261, with only 124 lead.

Gavaskar and Mankad walked to bat. They again gave a solid start, putting up 74 before Mankad was out by Barrett for 29. Barrett struck in quick succession, removed Durani for no score and Sardesai for 3. Suddenly India was in trouble with only 84 for 3. Wadekar again surprised everybody and promoted Abid Ali, probably the best runner of the side, above himself and Solkar. It was another master move, as both Gavaskar and Abid Ali ran aggressively for the target. Gavaskar, by his admission, did not even know that he had completed his fifty. Under pressure, the West Indian fielders became nervous. Ultimately, India registered her first-ever victory by 7 wickets, Gavaskar remained.

The Indians were thrilled so am I. The West Indians were very sad but congratulated Indians. My party was going deep into the night. A well-disciplined Miss Fatima became my friend. On the other hand, the general teacher’s mood was so sore that the play was suspected.

At that moment, I knew that cricket wasn’t like most games in India. Cricket was this captivating exception that led to classes being cancelled and adult teachers sitting with students to see the details.

The biggest thing that strikes me was that Indian fans (and I guess others too) believed that their emotions could be changed with the game. I’ll never understand why all the teachers kept saying “Fatima it’s not your fault” as they led her away. Miss Fatima was a changed teacher. She remained very careful and affectionate to me until I came out of school.

For me, Sardesai and Gavaskar’s blitz meant I will never forget Miss Fatima. By the time I was at home, India had won. The world was never the same again.

As Gavaskar had an extraordinary debut series with 774 runs at 154.80 with 4 hundred — still the best debut series numbers by anyone. The other contributed as well; me and Miss Fatima.

I usually look upon life as a drive involving two gears – cricket and literature – though not related elements. A passionate follower of the history of the sport with an insatiable appetite for literature

I had also a secure love affair with the unbelievable Miss Fatima that cricket could offer. She also thinks I could bowl decent leg-breaks in school cricket, with my innocence.

After almost thirteen years I revisited the old school, the old chapel and met still young and charming Miss Fatima. She smilingly said! I never asked, “What is the score?”

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shystoryrebel · 3 years

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Poor Brahmin, cow and the feast of food

It was squalor, nuclear family neglect, selfishness and the modern technological world lurking everywhere—the situation could not have been shoddier for a poor, retired Brahmin teacher Pundit Ram Prasad Sharma. It was times of distress for Pundit Ram Prasad Sharma in the month of Ramzan, a month of the feast.

However, master Ji has no option in his hut. He was not afraid of the watchful eyes China Corona Virus or Covid-19 volunteers. After the retirement, his children settled in the cities due to working requirements. Pundit Ram Prasad Sharma built a small hut under the green peepal tree in the temple, far from the materialist world. However Muslim families were managing all their festivities of Ramzan in their palatial houses unmindful of any advisory of social distancing. They were going to the local mosque for prayers without any fear.

All the shops open and every home makes amazing dishes for the Iftar fast breaker. A deep-fried khajla was their favourite and it was homemade, not bought. "We have been chiefly having dal pakodis and some fruits, mainly dates at Iftar," told rich scrap dealer Alam. "The most important thing we get in plenty is the milk for the children. Our faith and celebrations could not be dented even under the shadow of the China Corona Virus." Shrugged Salim, a rich Maulvi.

Jawed, a rich quack, who was born in this locality, said rather arrogantly, “All talk about the risk of infection but here nobody is bothered about the rules for social distancing to care for our lives." He, further added, "The threat is bigger but we have firm faith in our Allah, that he will protect us." All were rich in the area but nobody was interested in cleanliness of the roads turned narrow lanes due to encroachments. Lanes were piled up with garbage." Manzoor a meat dealer blamed the health workers that they clean the Shiva Mandir lane, the Hindu neighbourhood, but did not come here to Zakir Nagar due to frequent beating and attacks.

The men's grievance was real. The colony is real garbage. The lane was completely drowned in the over-flowing drain. Dozens of little children run behind the kites, unmindful of the full garbage choked drain. Their parents were the least concerned about their safety. The locals, rich scrap dealers, taxi drivers were resting, undisturbed economically or psychologically due to the lockdown. "We are not worried about anything, and we have plenty of free supplies of everything by the government, amid the encroached lanes, filth and stink of the drains," murmured Chandni Bibi. The government was giving free ration, so no need to go to work and she has all the smiles on her face through the month of Ramzan.

In the evening after the breaking of the Roza, people distribute food and fruits outside a mosque. Every day a cow came there. Some naughty boys used to throw leftover or stale food to the cow to eat. But the cow never ate that food. A generous man gave a packet to cow to eat. However, surprisingly the cow did not eat but ran away towards the forest with the packet.

Next day, again the cow came. The naughty boys again threw leftover or stale food to the cow to eat. Again, the cow did not touch that food. Again, the same generous man gave a packet to cow to eat. However, the cow ate nothing and ran away towards the forest. This continued almost for a month.

One day, some people followed the cow. The running cow entered in a hut. Those people also entered into the hut. The cow gave that food packet to an old man, lying on a bed. The cow lifted a small bucket with her mouth and brought water to the old man from the village pond. All the people were surprised and bewildered.

They saw a bearded old man, only in skeleton lying on the bed. His legs were very thin and weak. He was wearing dirty rags.

"O baba, is the cow your's?"

"I have no cow. Shyama cow is my mother. Don't call her like this." Said the old man.

"Baba, every day she comes to us to take food for you. She may hit somebody. Where will we get a doctor here? Please keep it tied. From, tomorrow we will send food to you." Said those men.

"Food is not the issue. I can't stop her. Although, she does not understand my language but understands my 'So many fits of hunger.' After retirement, she is my only companion. Now, she is taking care of me like my mother. I was a teacher in the village school. Now I am retired..."

They came close to the bed of the old man. They were shocked to see the old man was their teacher Pundit Ram Prasad Sharma. They were ashamed of their conduct. They could not understand this love between the cow and the old man. The old man opened the packet with his frail hands and called "Shyama….my mother! Come and eat a little food."

The cow came running inside and started licking the hand of the old man. She ate nothing. Masterji opened the packet and took out the little share of the mother cow."

"Eat mother." Asked master Ji to the cow. The cow ate bread. Masterji also started eating. He was eating slowly. All were seeing him eating. They have no word to speak...

One of them said that "We forgot that you are living in this manner. If one's teacher lives in such conditions, all his prayers are useless."

They tried to give some money to Pundit Ram Prasad Sharma. However, self-respecting master Ji refused.

"Leave it children. Give it to those who need it more than me. I have my mother Shyama to take care of me."

Those people were surprised to see Pundit Ram Prasad Sharma. Today, man is not ready to give anything to his brothers but here a cow is sacrificing everything for an old man.

“What a man Pundit Ram Prasad Sharma is?”

After that day, those Muslims started to worship that peepal tree and started offering so that Pundit Ram Prasad Sharma and his mother Shyama are not slept with 'So many fits of hunger.'

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shystoryrebel · 3 years

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Social Service and the freeloaders

Once an NGO had to show some social service that had to do some social service under social service obligation. It was the month of December means the month of winter. Under this compulsion, the NGO announced that it will distribute blankets to the slum dwellers. In slums, it will get a large number of needy people easily. For publicity and propaganda, the NGO hired two cameramen and few media reporters.

The announcement was made with the help of media reporters. A large number of people - old, men, women and children - reached and stood in a row. The blanket bags were brought out for distribution. The poor people started to get restless to get the gift. Seeing this, the NGO activists panicked. There was almost a riot type lawlessness.

Seeing this, a shrewd activist played a trick. He announced that the dirty water from their 'juggis' was accumulating dirt and mud in the streets and it became the breeding ground for mosquitoes and spreading various diseases like dengue, viral fever, diarrhoea etc. in the slum colony. So, the people who would connect their dirty water outlet drain with the main drain built by the municipality will get a blanket after the inspection of their 'juggi'.

Hearing this announcement, almost half the crowd vanished very fast cursing the distributors for wasting their time. But again a large number of slum dwellers stayed back in the hope of getting the free blanket without cleaning/connecting their drains. When the distributors noticed that the slum dwellers are not interested to keep their illegal slum colony clean, they announced another but somewhat easy task. They announced that if they wanted to get free blankets, they should first clean the streets in front of their 'juggis'.

Instead of accepting the task happily, again almost half of the slum dwellers left the site whispering abuses and curses against the distributors for fooling them for their hidden task. Seeing the behaviour of the slum dwellers, the NGO activists were baffled. But, still, they have less count of blankets in comparison to the crowd jeering them. This time a stylish activist woman, donning a big 'bindi' on her forehead, applying a heavy layer of 'kajal' in her eyes, speaking half English and wrong Hindi, announced that 'Bhaiyya', we would come to see the cleanliness inside of your 'juggis'. Only those whose 'juggi' was found clean, would get a blanket each. Go-clean your 'juggi'.

All the slum dwellers left the site making bewildering gestures towards the NGO activists and reporters. Cameramen were taking photographs as per the directions given to them. Fifteen minutes passed, half an hour passed; one hour passed. The afternoon passed, the evening passed; night approached. Nobody came to show their clean 'juggi' and collect the blanket. This time the distributors, cameramen and the reporters grew restless, fearing the snatching and mob looting. " Why are not the slum-dwellers arrived as promised?" they wanted a reply.

The answer they got was least convincing: because they wanted everything served before them i.e. without doing anything!

Now it was the turn of the distributors to get restless. The 'artificial munificent donors' were restless to have their photograph taken in act of distributing the free blankets to make a headline and get a good 'grading' for their NGO.

Until the slum-dwellers arrived, they could show the world their generosity.

Suddenly, the street light failed. Fearing for their safety, the group decided to go back. They turned back to collect their belongings. To their bewilderment and fear, the big load of the blanket was not there.

The game of generosity was over without any photograph and show.

Dogs started to bark at them as if they were asking for the blankets in those cold - windy nights as they could not steal the blankets.

Far in the dark of night, a 'Maulvi' was blaring on a loudspeaker 'Allah-hu-Akbar,' inviting all the 'bhakts' for 'Roza Iftar' feast.

The crowd ran towards the mosque.

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shystoryrebel · 3 years

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Do thy work: work is worship

Whenever my students and cadets ask me for truly some serious advice, I advice, “Learn to do your work, specially prepare your own bed to sleep. “ My immature students go away laughing at me, saying, “Sir is still hundred years back and will never change...“ However, I am very serious. Doing one’s own work is a mark of personality, a testimonial about being a name different in the crowd, a distinctive face of one’s individuality. Do not leave it to your mother, sister or the house help; it will become their manner of work or bed, and you will have to change your persona to suit theirs. Apart from that, it is a theme of self-cultivation.

Good enough years back, I went to Naogaon, Assam, to participate in a National Integration Camp with ten cadets. We were put up in an incomplete hospital near the forest. The hospital was abandoned by the authorities due to the terrorist of ULFA. As I was Associated NCC Officer, so a separate room was allotted to me for the next eleven days.

After completing all the paper formalities, I went to my room for some rest. My bed was smartly made. Too good for my taste. I opened the bed cover and found a small black cobra welcoming me with funnel upraised. As, I am a Brahmin, so I cannot kill any one of God’s creations without necessary grounds, and so, I called the PI staff of the NCC. They, using a can (they use it in many ways), they tipped the snake into a large plastic bucket, opened a window, and threw the snake out of the room.

Returning to the room, I decided upon to re-arrange of the bed, and on lifting the mattress, found an entire family of snakes. Disturbed by my intrusion, scores of small snakes were soon scuttling about the bed. I again shouted. The PI staff room was near to my room and they took me to the guest room. I spent the night in the guest room. Better a guest room bug than a forest snake!

Doing my own work, specially making my own bed was very important for me, something NCC taught me when, as a cadet, you were at the mercy of seniors, PI staff, NCOs, ANOs, and frequent pranksters. You were trained made your own bed, washed and iron your own uniform and clothes, polished your own shoes and clean your camp area.

Occasionally a dirt would infiltrate some hurtful annoy between your sheets and you would hide it artistically, preferably with a neat towel. “English“style was popular. You reorganized the sheets in such a shrewd way that the intruder, resting on the bed, found himself in an inextricable dirt. All this meant that NCC taught you had to be very caring of your bed and work.

I became so rigid about my habits and making of my bed that when I went to Meerut as a young student and stayed with the aunt of my friend to take care of her in the absence of her family who was also a motherly lady to me. I had an expected clash with her over I had the right to make my bed. She persisted that I was her guest, with a right to take care of me; she had a right to do my work including arranging my bedroom, plus the bed. I would arrange the bed. She would rearrange it. I did it again. At times she won; at times I. We reached a truce. She would fold and make in the morning, so I would be on time to my class. And in the night, I would make it, so that she could prepare the dinner comfortably.

During winter, my aunt prepared a hot-water bottle, to keep my feet and legs warm all night. It was very useful. As a result of her affection and care, I surrendered all my work and bed making right to my gracious aunt first time in my life. A good breakfast, good dinner and warm bed, what more can an immature student can have?

Food is not a problem to me because I like simple vegetarian food but it is the beds and toilets which always trouble me. There are pillows and pillows. I threw away before I go to bed. They give me the impression as if a Psycho is lying shrunken. I always loosen the sheet and mattress, as these are always tucked into the mattress very tightly. In some cases, mattresses are too soft; throw you towards the sky if you drop on to them abruptly. At times I prefer to sleep on the floor, using a thick carpet, sheet, pillow and blanket from the bed.

Once, a very unusual thing happened with me due to my typical nature. Always remember your hotel room number because rooms are very similar to each other. Once, I was standing in the balcony of my room, leaving the door unlocked to see the city. I am very fond to see the city. On returning to the room, I found my bed occupied by lady in a saree. She was in the wrong room? Fortunately, the lady remained cool and she apologized generously.

She seemed to recognize me, even though she failed to recollect my name.

“Aren’t you that writer-bed tidy? She asked in smilingly. “Come on in and have a drink. “

She was my friend of college days.

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shystoryrebel · 3 years

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Celebrating defeat

I got a chance to visit the Bhima-Koregaon "victory pillar" in Koregaon, in Maharashtra, commemorating the British East India Company victory over the Peshwa of the Maratha Confederacy on 1 January 1818 and ensuing rule of the British East India Company in nearly all of Western, Central and Southern India.

Every day, on my visit, I go the victory memorial in Koregaon. A long pillar in bright stone is the main attraction, river Bhima that flows close to it. I'd like to swim on it but the water was very dirty like any other Indian river so almost forbidden. Near the village are the same old poor villagers and their mud houses which are painted with the names and pictures of their caste leaders.

On the walls of the memorial which is painted the names of great Bhima-Koregaon victories. Who was defeated at Bhima-Koregaon? The Indians. Who was the 1st Regiment of Bombay Infantry, Mahars, British East India Company, Captain Francis Staunton and other British officers fighting for? The Indians.

The "victory pillar" gate proudly announces the year the victory 1 January 1818 more than a century and a quarter before Independence. Who did the 1st Regiment of Bombay Infantry, East India Company mercenaries, Mahars and Captain Francis Staunton and other British officers shoot, bayonet and mine and blow up on that date? Other Indians.

The brutalities were worse than Jallianwala Bagh. Colonel Dyer only gave the order in 1919 at Jallianwala Bagh. The killing was done and triggers pulled by the Gurkhas of Gurkha Rifles, and by the soldiers of Baloch Regiment.

This is an ugly truth. I am not revealing any secret. I say that till August 14, 1947, the soldiers loyal to the Crown of England renamed itself a nationalist Indian army and a nationalist Pakistan Army, the next morning. We Indians, especially the Hindus have no history before that of a nationalist army, unlike, Muslims and Christians.

There are mentions about the fighting and warfare tradition of the Hindus or the Indians those goes back at least 2,500 years. The first Greek historian Herodotus mentioned that Indians at the battle of Plataea in 479 BC were hired by the Persian king Xerxes. The Indians fought heroically, though the battle was won by the Greek alliance and the Persian king Xerxes lost.

Eulogizing this tradition, Urdu poet Ghalib, who died in 1869, said proudly: "Sau pusht se, hai pesha-e-aba sipahgari," meaning our family profession has been soldierly for a hundred generations. The world has great respect for the Indian soldier's capabilities. Indians taught the European gorilla, bayonet and trench fighting.

The flattering biographers of Alexander the Great, Arrian, Quintus Curtius Rufus and Plutarch, mentioned that the greatest general has to use treachery to defeat Indian soldiers. This action stained the greatness of the conqueror. He had a treaty with a group of Indian soldiers and then they disarmed and deceitfully had them massacred. He used this deceit because he was scared of their fighting skill.

I have seen in India this respect mounted to reverence. Now, I have seen, it is almost a new cult of Army worship in the country. Fauj (army) and faujis (soldiers) are above criticism. The nation cannot listen to anything against the army.

People are upset with the subsequent Union governments because they have changed the rules which lower an Army officer's ranking with a bureaucrat of similar rank. Soldiers must be higher than bureaucrats. It is a well-known fact that when all fail, army steps in whereas bureaucrats have no achievements.

Same harassment was there with one rank, one pension. They had to wait for this for decades whereas the schemes benefitting the vote banks are approved and implemented in a day. Almost more than 40% of all central and state funds are grabbed by these vote banks. I have seen this national sentiment that serving and retired soldiers must get better salaries, pensions and benefits than the bureaucrats. Their contribution is much higher and necessary. Now, they are all the time on the battlefield.

A retired soldier has to commit suicide over OROP although the Aam Aadmi Party announced Rs 1 crore to the family of the soldier. Even family members of controversial deaths like that of Akhlaq, Tabrej, Pahalu Khan, Rohit Vemulla etc are showered with monetary help and jobs but at the death of a soldier, I have never seen such aggressive and competitive bidding over the bodies of a soldier. Why? Because the politicians are making a nation in which vote banks and controversies are more important than the death of a soldier.

However, the nation thinks differently. It wants all of us must pay constant and unconditional obeisance to our army. We sleep comfortably because our soldiers are awake. This is an accepted unquestioningly.

It is because of this reality we need a strong army. The government has very rightly spent Rs 59,000 crore for 36 warplanes for the defence forces. Some disruptive elements criticized this deal. We cannot because this purchase is an act of nationalism. In the 1971 Bangladesh war, we used fighters in combat and bombed the enemy very heroically.

We need more warplanes. We are always at risk of war. We are always not only surrounded by the external enemies but inter enemies have also become big threats. Naysayers ask, who are we going to war against? It is an irrelevant question. The Army must be strong and care first so that we can sleep and our boundaries are not further shrunk and encroached and I won't have to celebrate the defeats.

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shystoryrebel · 3 years

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Oxford bimari’ made this love story

When this ‘Oxford bimari’ hit the people, nobody could understand it like ‘China bimari.’ Nobody was bothered. It took everybody to the seventh cloud. I also joined lakhs of other people, running to Mumbai, Delhi and other big cities to fulfil their dreams. Suddenly men-women in my slum cluster started running away from Delhi and walking back to their lost ‘gaon’.

Perhaps all were scared of an unknown fear. ‘Gaon’? Nothing is left there. I have sold my land and mud house. Now, who will give me shelter and food there? It will be again another Delhi drama. No ration, no food, no salary. All 'lafda'. I hadn’t got my 'pagar' yet. The director of the firm was saying that he would be delaying the salary because of some ‘panga’ by the government. Hence I have to stay back and face China Corona.

But my parents were very worried about me. They called me. My mother was crying, and saying that my two younger sisters were wailing because they thought their brother will be killed by China ‘bimari’ in Delhi. But…I didn’t want to leave Shabana alone and go back to Bengal. Who would take care of my love if I leave her alone? She was a decent woman…and we have a special feeling for each other.

Shabana worked in the same office as I did as out-source employees and our company was the same. We disliked our director. He was worse than our village ‘thekedar’ and ‘zamindar’ who used to supply us for the ‘kohlu’ of the ‘zamindar,’ this out-sourcing was an Oxford ‘bimari’ exported to India by the great economist Dr.Man Mohan Singh. This was worst than ‘thekedari pretha.’

When Usman drove in his white Audy car, to the office all of us who had been abused, slapped, kicked and punched by the brute director of the out-sourcing company, wanted to beat him, once and for all but…ironically, it was his oppression, that had made our relationship firm...Shabana and me.

An incident made Shabana mine. She shared a personal secret about her monthly periods and taken a few minutes off to rest on the side of the veranda. I saw Usman, walk up to her and to my surprise touched her forehead very softly. When she did not react, he held her by her hand and lifted her face. Shabana, come to my room and take rest. What were you doing in the night that you are so sick at work? He almost pulled her inside his air-conditioned room.

I felt very bad about this behaviour of Shababa going with Usman in his room. I was a very hot-headed man in my village. On the minor argument, I used to get into fights with elders and boys much elder to me. By the time, I was a young boy; I was like a bullfighter. My neck, shoulders, arms and legs were like ‘pehlwans,’ People avoided me and became wary of me.

I could not stop myself when I listened to the pleadings of Shabana, ‘chod do, chod do, mai mahine se hu.’ I rushed inside the room like a mad bull towards Usman…I wanted to kill Usman inside the room but Shabana stopped me. Usman’s face had turned pale as my first blow hit his face. ‘Leave my Shabnam alone..or I will kill you.’ He started trembling and yelled his private guards. Luckily, one of the guards was from my village and lived one street away from my house. He recognized me and stopped other guards and pacified Usma.

Slowly, I walked away…outside the office building. Shabana struggled to walk and followed me sadly. Head down, she walked fast, till she caught me. “Why did you beat Usman for me?” she asked. For the first time, she spoke to me, standing in front of a temple. Shabana gave her hand to me as God a witness. We have been living together in the ‘jhuggi’ of my friend to safeguard ourselves from ant further harassment by Usman and his men. She decided to accompany me to my villagers, when I had decided to walk back home to escape China ‘bimari.’

Our ‘jhuggi’ colony was sealed off and everyone was scary as if death will enter in each ‘jhuggi.’ Our office was closed. Our money finished and no other work to earn. The police were not allowing us to come out of the ‘jhuggis.’ Even for the toilet, we had to take the permission of the police and pay Rs. 2/= per visit. Very pitiable condition. Death was imminent. If we stayed there, the corona will kill us and if we walk back home we will die of hunger, heat and exhaustion.

There was no place even in hospitals and graveyards. Not even for rich and big people. But for poor people like us, whether we die here, or on the road, or in the hospital, or of hunger, makes no difference. This is ‘meri Dilli’ a heartless city.

If I die here, there will be no claimant, neither for my body nor for any compensation. Some corrupt Dilli government ‘babu’ will swindle and claim the compensation. Shabana can’t get any of the two if she claims that he was my man because she doesn’t have the proper papers to claim the body or the compensation. So, better die in your village.

Shabana was ready to accompany me. Now, she can’t live without me. She always looks into my eyes. She was a young divorcee. I had seen so many others seeing her with voluptuous looks, even the rich in big cars. Her drug-addicted husband pronounced ‘talaq.’ For keeping her again he asked Shabana to perform ‘halala’ with his father, for which Shabana refused. So, she was pushed out of her husband’s house. Now, I will take her to my village and marry her.

I went out of my ‘jhuggi’ the last time in search of some food. The priest of Hanuman temple gave me a big ‘thali’ of delicious food. Shabana will be happy to eat this delicious food. We shared the ‘thali.’

Next morning we started to walk for our village hungry, bare food, no money, with a shattered dream. In all we were thirty people, some were with their little kids. We reached Ghaziabad. Suddenly, we heard a siren of a police car. Our blood froze. He took us all to the police station. Like an angel, he arranged food for us and gave milk for the children. He arranged a UP of the UP roadways.

In the bus, I read a newspaper. A fire in our ‘jhuggi’ cluster burnt all the ‘jhuggis’ that killed five people and injured many more. The list of the dead mentioned me and Shabana. The generous Chief Minister announced and distributed the compensation of rupees five lakhs each. The list of beneficiary included the kins of me and Shabana.

Neither of the two, the devastation or the corruption, are new; in fact, in most disaster stories they feature together. Yet, we rarely smiled to question how people can be so selfish in a world so narcissistic.

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shystoryrebel · 3 years

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I want my Mom

It was the celebrations of Holi. From the cold, silent and narrow streets and passages appeared white clothes clad people and skull cap on head. Seeing them, the people avoided that closed road. They did not want to spoil their mood. Some walking, some singing, some dancing, some riding on horses, some moving on bullock carts and some carrying colours. The entire city of Ghaziabad became one in this merrymaking. One little baby ran between his father and mother, filled with joy and playfulness. “Come, baby, come,” called his mother, as he left behind, attracted by the balloons, colours, pichkari and toys in the temporary kiosks those lined the lanes and roads. He rushed towards his parents, his feet dutifully followed to their command, his eyes still roving on the diminishing toys. As he reached to where they were waiting for him, he could not repress the yearning of his feeling, even though he knew well the familiar, cold gawk of a snub in their looks. “I want the pichkari,” he begged. His mother came back and bought a red colour pichkari for him. Cheeku gave a sweet kiss to his mamma. It is a well-known price for every demand. His father, softened by the joyous spirit of the festival and, giving him his finger to cling to, said, “Look, baby, what is before you!” It was a huge mall, yellow lights glittering like the rising sun as it spread across shops and shops of beautifully constructed building. A group of foreigners was busy about on their shopping spree, capturing the best price through hard bargain and other shoppers in search of low priced items from the Holi festival sale. The baby trailed them in the air with his stare, until one of them would stop their steps and relax, and he would try to go behind them with strange looks. However, they would move unconcerned, flickering, surveying different items up into the shops, when the baby had almost touched one of them by his hands. Then his father gave a reproving call: “Come, baby, come, come on with us.” Hearing the call, he ran towards his parents merrily and paced side by side with them for some time, being a child, however, again left behind, fascinated by the little children of the foreigners and shoppers in the mall. They were moving merrily with their family members to enjoy the outing and shopping. “Come, baby, come!” his parents yelled from the shade of an umbrella where they had seated themselves on the chairs to relax and take tea. He dashed towards them. A shower of multi-colours fell upon the baby as he ran towards the shade made of an umbrella, and, disregarding his parents’ call, he began to enjoy the raining colours by his tiny hands. But hay! He saw the running of a toy train and ran towards his parents, shouting, and “The train! The train!” The raining colours vanished out of his unconcerned tiny hands. “Come, baby, come!” they screamed to the baby, who had now gone chasing the toy car in another toy showroom, and holding him tightly they took the narrow, zigzag walkway which led to their house through the market. As they reached near to their colony the baby could see many other footpaths full of known faces, congregating to the eddy of the fair, and felt at once tired but happy and mesmerized by the puzzlement of the world he was enjoying. Reaching home, his mother opened her laptop. On reading an email, she was flabbergasted. She could not utter a syllable. His mother was a manager in a nationalized bank ‘Indian Osea Bank.’ She has been transferred by the bank head office to Ludhiana. She has to join the bank in Ludhiana, on the coming Monday. The atmosphere of the family was changed. Now, little baby Cheeku has to live with his grandparents. A hushed silence engulfed the house. His mother started preparations to go to Ludhiana to join the new branch. The child realized that there was something wrong in the house. Ultimately, the day of partition arrived. On Sunday evening, his parents boarded Chhatisgarh Express from Ghaziabad, to go to Ludhiana. Little Cheeku cried and cried. His mother also cried with him. Nevertheless, she had to leave. Clutched in the lap of his grandmother, little Cheeku saw the train of his mother lost in the dust. The system of transfer is a system of breaking families. Children have to live like orphans, far away from their mother or father or from both. It is snatching and killing of their childhood This transfer also snatched the happiness of litter child. Little Cheeku was silent. He did not enjoy his milk and food. Throughout the night, he kept on looking for the cosy lap of his mother. Next day, his grandparents took him to the mall to make him happy. A toy seller hawked, “Car, cycle, flute, balloon,” at the turn of the entry and a throng pushed around his counter at the base of a design of many coloured toys, decorated in papers, bright of silver and gold. The child gazed open-eyed and his heart wished for the car that was his favourite toy. “I want that car,” he slowly murmured in the heart. However, he controlled his passion. His grandparents were equally very sad on the separation with their loving daughter-in-law. He knew as he begged that his plea would be heeded because his grandparents would see him laughing. But, he remembered his mom. Therefore, without waiting for anything he moved on. A flute seller was playing on his flute, hawked, “Flute, the flute of Krishna!” The baby appeared temptingly drawn. He went towards the trolley where the flutes lay exhibited and half mumbled, “I want that flute.” But, he very well knew the sad mood of his grandparents and they would not snub to buy him those flutes because they would buy a flute for him happily. But the little baby remembered his mom and without waiting for an answer, he moved on. A man stood holding a stick with red, blue, yellow, green and purple balloons tied and flying from it. The baby was naturally drawn towards the multi-coloured brightness of their shiny colours and he was overflowed with an irresistible craving to seize them all. However, he well knew his mom was away. He did not want to disturb his grandparents. Therefore, he moved away farther. A monkey-player sitting dancing with a damroo to a monkey that danced and jumped in the open space of the mall, its head lifted in a stylish manner like the neck of a king, the music entered into its undetectable ears like the soft hymn of an invisible temple. The child went towards the monkey-player. But, knowing his grandparents’ predicament, he preferred to remain silent. He refused him to hear such coarse music as the monkey-player played, he moved farther. There was a big crowd at the clock tower of the city. Men, women and children, dancing in a revolving action, yelping and yelling with woozy amusement. The child gazed at them fixedly and then he retreated and said: “I don’t want to go to the clock tower, please, grandfather, grandmother.” There was no response. He turned to look at his grandparents. I want to go back home. They were surprised at his changed behaviour. He turned to look on both sides. They were not ready to take him back home. He looked behind. There was no sign of going back. At last, the baby could not control himself. A bursting, fierce cry ascended inside his arid gullet and with an unexpected jolt of his body he ran towards his house where he stood, weeping loudly, “Mother, Father.” Tears spanned down from his eyes, burning and furious; his red face was trembling an urge to meet his parents. Fear-stricken, upset, he tried to leave them and he started running hither and tighter, one side first, and then to the other, in all directions, knowing not where to go. “Mother, Father,” he screamed. His new clothes became dirty and his red cap came down. Having run from side to side aimlessly looking for his parents, in a fit for a short distance, he could not understand what to do, his screaming concealed into sobs. At little distances on the pavement, he could see, through his teary eyes, people talking about the transfer of his mom. He tried to look intently among the people laughing, talking loudly and senselessly about others, a typically Indian mentality, especially among the lower class people, But his father and mother were not there among those street roadies. He forced his grandparents again, to take him near a place of worship, where he was petrified to see the huge crowd. Devotees occupied every little inch of space. He ran his eyes through their bodies, his suppressed sobs persisting, fearing the devotees: “Mother, Father!” Close to the mosque, however, the crowd became very large: men bumping each other, rude men, with flashing beard, brutal eyes and sturdy bodies. The sobbing baby fought to drive his eyes between their bodies and feet but his ageing, weak grandfather was pushed knocked back and forth by their atrocious movements. They might have been crushed underfoot, had his grandfather not yelped at the maximum pitch of his voice. He too cried “Mamma, Papa!” The helpless grandfather in the swelling crowd took him out of the crowd. The baby was still sobbing. With great difficulty, clutching the child in his arms, he cursed the authorities,” Why his mom was transferred? They are responsible for killing his childhood.” The old man murmured to himself, as he came out of the crowd, protecting his grandson. The child wept inconsolably than ever now and only sobbing, “I want my mother, I want my father!” The grandparent tried to calm him by taking him to the park. “Will you enjoy swinging? He softly asked as he draws near the swing. The baby’s throat burst into a hundred piercing sobs and he only screamed, “Where is my mamma and where my papa is?” The grandfather went towards an amusement park where all typed of games were played. In an open space, children were enjoying the ride on the toy train and toy cars. “Look at those beautiful train and cars, baby!” he pleaded. But the child shut his eyes and cried his double-pitched voice: “Where is my papa and where is my mom?” The grandfather took him to a toyshop, thinking the dazzling colours of the toys would amuse the child’s attention and calm him. .“Would you like bright-coloured toys?” he believably asked. The child turned his face from the playing toys and just sobbed, “Take me to my papa and take me to my mamma!” Tired and exhausted the old men thinking to please his gloomy mood by the taste of sweets, and he will also take a cup of tea and relax there. He took him to a corner table of the shop. “What sweets would you take, my dear baby?” he asked. The child closed his eyes in the sweet shop and sobbed bitterly, “I want my mother, I want my father!” The old grandparents, still trying to please the child, took him to the gate of the railway station to console about the arrival of his father and mother. “Look! Can you see thousands of people coming, child! Soon your papa and mamma would also come.” The child turned his face and opened his eyed widely in the hope of seeing his father and mother. There was a big crowd at the railway station. All types of men, women and children, coming and was going, some of them were carrying loads on their heads. The child gazed at the cried fixedly, in the hope, finding his father and mother. All of a sudden the child cried “ My mamma-papa!” His mother dashed, clearing the crowd, ‘My son!” Swati took Cheeku in her lap. Cheeku clung about her mother. Swati kissed, kissed and kissed him. Her tears once again refreshed Cheeku, dropping like rain after a long drought. The child played and frolicking in the lap of her mother in the old innocent ways. Higher authorities were kind enough and the transfer of Swati was cancelled.

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shystoryrebel · 3 years

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Antim Shringar (The last make-up)

Sat by the almost extinguished pyre fire, father and son were protecting themselves from the biting cold: inside, a small room, covered by tin shade, Sita, the son's young wife lay and writhing in labour pain. They pressed their heads between their knees, hearing the heart-piercing screams emerging from her mouth, at short intervals. Everything was drowned in miseries in a dark winter night. The entire village had been wrapped into the darkness, lay at a little distance. "It is very hard to survive. She has been writing in pain the entire day. Go and see her condition." Said father Pundit Vishnu Prasad. Son, Shankar Lal said in a very sad tone," We poor pundits have no life. I pray to God, give her death, so that she may be relieved from all the pain and miseries of life. What's the use of my going if I cannot do anything for her?" "You are very insensitive! You have enjoyed a happy time with her for so many years-be kind to her." "My heart is very weak, I can't see her writhing and thrashing on the cot." It was a family of Brahman priests and respected in the entire area. Father and son were very disciplined and hard working. Rest and slackness were not in their character. Even then, their earning was very little because in Hindus people do not give enough money or offerings to priest for religious rituals. Although Hindus give, money and offerings very liberally to eunuchs and maulvis at dargahs due to fear and superstitions spread by Comrade Ali Mia that eunuchs and dargahs have the divine healing powers. Being Brahman priest, nobody gave them work in fields. Comrade Ali Mia has spread another rumour and superstition that if a Brahman works in the field, there will be famine or droughts. So Harijan and Muslims labourers used to hit them by pebbles if they ever tried to work in the fields. Therefore, their only income was the little offering from performing the last rites of the dead Hindus and from Braham Bhoj or mirtue bhoj (Feast for the dead). Once, Sita, covering her face entered the agriculture farm of Ali Mia. However, she was recognized and caught. Comrade Ali Mia beat her and tried to molest her sexually. However, all the other Harijan women pounced on him and beat up Ali Mia and protected Sita, being raped by Ali Mia. After that incident, Comrade Ali Mia fled from the village. The family of Pundit Vishnu Prasad was a family of ascetics. They were self-disciplined and achieved contentment and endurance. This became their nature. They have a very simple life. They have only a few kitchen pots and utensils in the room. They cover their bodies with the clothes and shrouds, removed by the relatives of the dead people, before burning the pyre. Although, they were very poor but free from tensions, grief, and debts. All respected them. They never asked for any help or money. The villagers used to give vegetables, sugar, flour etc, free of cost. Pundit Vishnu Prasad had spent seventy years of his life in this virtuous manner, and Shankar Lal, like a dutiful son, was following in his father's piousness-- or rather, was making his name even brighter. Both father and son were sitting by the fire, near an extinguished pyre. They did nothing throughout the day. The wife of Pundit Vishnu Prasad passed away long back. The marriage of Shankar Lal had taken place two years back. Sita changed the environment of the family. She started grinding grain and cooking meal at home instead of waiting for some food given in Dakshina to quench the hunger. After she came, they both became even more energetic and industrious. If someone calls them to religious work, then with splendid concern they demanded half offerings. That ill-fated woman was dying today in childbirth. In addition, these two have no means to give her medical care. Being Brahman, there was no government scheme for them, unlike so many for Harijans and Muslims. Vishnu Prasad said, "Go see what condition she's in. We'll have to go for a doctor-- what else! And here even the doctor demands a fee—we will have to borrow money." Shankar Lal said, "I'm afraid to go in." "What are you scared of? I'm here, outside." "Why don't you go and see pitaji." "I never even left the side of my wife for seven days when she died. Then, won't she be embarrassed in my presence? I've never seen her face-- and today I should see her uncovered body? She won't even have physical ease: if she notices me, she won't be able to move around freely." "I'm thinking if a child is born? We have nothing in our house, sulfur, dried ginger, cow ghee, jaggery, oil-- there's nothing at all in the house." "God will give everything if He gives a child—entire village will rush to give us everything without request. When your sister was born, there was nothing in the house, but villagers, showered all help, without request." They had eaten nothing since the day before. They have tears in their eyes. Then Pundit Vishnu Prasad remembered the marriage of the son of Kirori Mal, a rich Harijan, in which he had taken part a month after the marriage of his son, Shankar Lal. The dishes that had been eaten by him in the feast were an unforgettable occasion in his life, and even today, its memory was unsullied in his mind. With tears in his mind, he said, "I can't forget that banquet. Never in my life, had I that variety of food. The bride's family fed the best items to everyone, whatever they wanted! Old and young, everybody ate puris—cooked with pure ghee! Paneer, dal makhani, chutney, raita, four types of green vegetables, yoghurt, sweets, ice cream, milk and what not. I cannot tell you more, how I enjoyed that feast! Whatever you crave, just ask! There was no limit. People devoured so much, that nobody could even drink any cold drink. In addition, there the waiters were—serving hot, fresh, sweet, perfumed pastries before all! They just press on to take something. When everybody cleaned his or her mouths and hands, a delicious pan was served as well. In the end, nobody could stand and just staggered off to lay down on the bed. That Harijan has a big heart like a feudal lord. Feeling amazed about the story of the grand feast, Shankar Lal said," Why don't you obtain a fake caste certificate and enjoy caste quotas and unlimited government freebies?" "We can also give such feast if the government becomes generous to poor people like us." It is a different issue. Now everybody thinks about vote banks. We Brahmans do not get any government help. For political leaders, we are useless people. There is no shortage of money, but when it comes to supporting the poor, they think about the economy." "Or we must construct a Mazar outside this crematorium. Foolish Hindus will shower offerings on it" "Are you in your senses?" "I am thinking about our miseries. No reservation, no freebies, no government help, no big offerings! Although we wear the shrouds and last rites clothes and eat the food offered to dead souls." "You are very right. I have spent my entire life in burning other's dead bodies. However, I do not have even a single penny to arrange a doctor to my daughter in law. " They took a deep sigh, drank some water, covered themselves with blankets, and waiting for some miracle to happen and the cry of a newborn baby. And helpless Sita was still writing. After some time, Shankar went into the room and saw his wife had become cold. He shook her but there was no life in her. Her bulging and stony eyes swelled upward. Her body became blue. The baby also died in her stomach. Shankar came crying to his father. Seeing his son crying, the father also started crying. They began loudly weeping and beating their chests and heads. Hearing their weeping and wailing, their neighbours also came running. They were trying to control and console them. They had no money for the last rites, shroud and wood. However, being self-respecting, they were still not ready to borrow money. Like a doctor, father Pundit Vishnu Prasad was waiting for some emergency call from some devotee, so that he may get some money for the last rites. Father and son were weeping and weeping. Sitting near the dead body of Sita, they were narrating the situation that led to her death. With tear-filled eyed, the father said," I am in great trouble. Shankar's wife passed away, yesternight. Entire day she writhed in pain; we two sat outside the room all the time. We have no money to give her medicines or any treatment. Therefore, she died. We're ruined. Our family is finished without her." Villagers were very compassionate people. They became very sad, listening to reality. They all wanted to help them. Usually, they come, whenever they're called. All of a sudden, a relative of Kirori Mal came with the message that the daughter in law of Kirori Mal has committed suicide. Everybody was shocked to listen to this news. The messenger wanted to take Pundit Vishnu Prasad with him to perform the last rites of Dhanvati, the deceased daughter in law of Kirori Mal. However, he was reluctant to tell this thing to Vishnu Prasad seeing the death of his own daughter in law. The villagers were also against Pundit Ji to go there to perform her last rites when there is a death in his family. However, Pundit Vishnu Prasad was a dutiful man. He said," His need is higher than mine is. My duty is to help my villagers." He immediately rushed to the house of Kirori Mal. The men-women of the village came and looked at the body. They shed tears at its helplessness and sat by it. Kirori Mal's family was a family of Harijans, and villainous in the entire village. Due to reservation for their caste Kirori Mal and his son, Lakh Pat grabbed good government job in Delhi. However, they were work shy, inefficient, and corrupt. If Kirori Mal goes for the work for one day, then he takes leave for two days. Son was much more loafer that if he works for an hour, then he smoked his cigarette for two hours. Thus, nobody likes them in the office and the village as well. But they earned a lot due to their links with missionaries. They lured poor Harijans to convert to Christianity. Fed up with the bad behaviour of father-son duo, Dhanwati committed suicide. Kirori Mal was very shrewd; and instead of joining tough agriculture work, he grabbed the work of clever, scheming, and tricksters missionaries and a government job. However, undeniably, he was not intelligent in understanding government rules and working. In such a society, the birth of this kind of mindset was no reason for surprise. Those who knew how to exploit the systems' weaknesses were much comfortable. When Vishnu Prasad reached the house of Kirori Mal, he said, "There is enough wood for her cremation." Kirori Mal said, "Yes, there's sandal (Chandan) wood too. We have bought an expensive shroud. We also have suhagan (married woman) attire, made of silk fabric." Vishnu Prasad looked toward the sky as if persuading the angels to be born in the next life as Harijan. "Why does the world is too hostile to the Brahmins who always pray for the happiness of the world? Some people get everything even without demanding." Grieving family women gave the last bath to Dhanwati with gangajal. After that, complete make-up was done and the suhagan attire was made to wear on her dead body. The funeral procession started with the chant of ‘Shree Ram naam satya hai, Satya bolo Satya hai.' At the crematorium, the shroud and suhagan attire were removed from the body and donated to Pundit Vishnu Prasad. The body was kept on the pyre. The fire was lit and the story of poor Dhanwati was over. After completing all the rituals, tired and exhausted, Vishnu Prasad, went back to his house with shroud, suhagan attire, and other make-up items donated by the family members of Dhanwati. Some elderly village women gave last bath to Sita with gangajal. Last make-up was done to the dead body. Shankar put the sindur in the parting of her hair. In the end, again the suhagan attire was made to wear to the dead body of Sita. The shroud covered body. All these things, Vishnu Prasad, brought from the last rites of Dhanwati. Someone gave woods, others gave other items used in the last rites. People cut the bamboo poles, and so on. And, in the afternoon the pyre was lit by Shankar Lal. Vishnu Prasad bowed his head in a pious manner. "Certainly Dhanwati will receive the blessings. Bhagwan, you sit inside the hearts-- take her to heaven! We're both giving her our deepest blessing. She has got a shroud, and a very good one--a much better than we would have bought." As the darkness grows deeper and the stars glittered more brightly, the din in the village became lesser. Gloom was in the atmosphere. The silence was in the air. People came to the crematorium, only to taste the pleasure of self-forgetfulness. More than gloom, the air here purifies the spirits. The blow of life seizes them and pulls them here. In addition, for a while, they forget whether they were alive or dead. And these two, father and son, were still lost. Everyone's eyes had settled on them. How ill-fated they were! They had no family now. Vishnu Prasad said, "Give her our blessing. She whose glow has brightened this place has died, but our blessing will certainly reach her. Bless her with every hair on our body-- these are the payment for very hard labour." Shankar again looked toward the sky and said, "She'll go to Heaven-- she'll become the Queen of Heaven!" "Yes, son, she'll go to Heaven! She never troubled anyone, she never exploited anyone; even while dying, If she doesn't go to Heaven, then will those corrupt people go-- who loot the poor with both hands, and go to the dargahs to wash away their sin, and offer chadors on the concrete Mazars?" This mood of piousness too changed; unpredictability is the unique power of death. It was the turn of gloom and pain. Shankar said, "But the poor Sita suffered a lot in her life. Even her death was so agonizing!" Covering his eyes with his hands, he began to weep and sobbed loudly. Vishnu Prasad consoled him: "Why do you weep, son? Be happy that she's been liberated from this web of illusion. She's escaped from the trap; she was very lucky that she was able to smash the bonds of worldly illusion so quickly." Far in their luxurious bungalow, Kirori Mal and his son Lakh Pat, both were taking peg after peg of expensive wine, to forget the pain of the death of Dhanwati.

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