Mira's Masala Chai

Mira had gotten up early in the morning; it was 4:30 AM. She had put the potatoes in the instant pot to boil. Simultaneously, she quickly goes and does the morning rituals before descending to the kitchen again, ready to take care of breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Mira had to go to work even though the pandemic was going on. She was a Lab Tech in a laboratory that temporarily suspended its research project to focus on doing COVID tests. Mira lived in Oakville and travelled every day to her workplace in Brampton, the city where the reported cases of COVID was one of the highest.

Mira's job was challenging, but not many people knew of what she did or maybe they didn't focus on it much until the pandemic hit everyone. Even Sarla Aunty, who thought a white coat was only meaningful if a Doctor wore it, now called Mira up to ask her the authenticity of different remedies; she was sent via her 40 Whatsapp groups. Mira's white coat didn't offend her suddenly, nor the fact she had no 'Dr' designation in front of her name. Time changes the best of people; after all, why would a lesser mortal called Sarla Aunty be left behind?

Mira was happy that she was able to contribute to the community. Her diabetes research helped the diabetic patients, but the work she was doing now 'everyone' came to know of, and it was like there was a spotlight on her every time she walked into a room. People knew she was a warrior helping us, protecting us from the enemy called COVID. 

A pang of guilt hit Mira; she was thinking of her own family right now. Like any mother, Mira was filled with self-doubt and add to that- this pandemic. In contrast, other working mothers stayed home with their families, Mira still had to go out and that too to deal with tests, which was why everyone was home! She was grateful for the strict protocol put in place that made going to work possible. Behind gloves, masks, glass tubes and cubes, they were safe at work, ensuring her husband and 2 daughters were safe at home.

The years went by so quickly; just a month ago, they had celebrated their 15th wedding anniversary. While most years they would take this opportunity to travel the world, they were home for obvious reasons this year. 15 years, 1 husband and 2 teenage daughters later, life seemed good; it seemed settled in. 

Mira opened the inspatpot; the pot in pot method helped her boil daal (lentil) and potatoes together. She then quickly put a pot to boil water for her masala chai, and in another pot, she did the tadka for her daal. While the potatoes cooled down a bit, her tadka was on the daal and was simmering on the stovetop. Her poha was nice and clean ready to be used for breakfast. 

Today's menu consisted of Poha for breakfast, daal, rice and yesterday's okra sabzi for lunch. She had dosa batter ready for dinner and would come home and quickly use the leftover boiled potato masala for the masala dosa, which would be accompanied by the Molaha Podi (chutney/ condiment) she had made over the weekend. 

Mira lived a very simple life with her family, which consisted of her husband Harsh, and 2 daughters. Mira had dedicated her life to overseeing her daughters growing up to be good, responsible Indian, sorry Canadian girls. Reflecting on their personalities brought a smile to Mira's face. Aditi, 14 and 13 years old Aadya, were staying at home and attending online school. Mira was comfortable knowing that her husband was there to oversee things while she was away. The girls were old enough to take care of themselves but always needed a referee to be around. Mira and Harsh did a good job of that. 

She would come back home to a tidy house; she had trained the girls well, just like Mira's mother had trained her. One would do the cleaning up while the other would do the dishes, everyone in the house had a chore to do, and everyone did it well. Mira ran a tight ship; she had to if she wanted to have a sane home. There was a time when she tried to do everything independently, but soon was going crazy, exhausted and resentful of everyone. Now she maintained a balance; listening to Osho's teaching on her ride to work also made her mellow down a bit; she wasn't as hyper anymore about things being a particular way; Osho's audio teachings made a huge difference in her attitude towards life. She wasn't as stressed about what others were up to or didn't bother competing in the rat race of life. She was happy and secure with her grey locks that had started to show 2 years ago. Mira did try to colour her hair a few times, first with henna, then with the store brought hair colour; she just didn't feel the need to hide her age. She will turn 40 in a few months and was ok with what she has achieved in those 40 years. Besides, Harsh actually found her salt and pepper look very attractive.  

The chopping for the veggies to go in the potato masala for dinner was done. Now, Mira started with the poha. The daal was ready; in the boiling water, she added fresh ginger, a few cloves and 2 cardamom pods and let it boil for a bit; the masala chai was looking good. 

She smiled when she thought of how well Aditi had learnt to make masala chai. Mira's mother had taught her, and now she had taught Aditi. Mira saw so much of herself in Aditi, but she was a lot different when she was her age. 

Mira had come a long way from what she was in a small town in Gujarat to now being such an independent woman in Canada. Mira was from Surat, where her parents lived a very traditional orthodox lifestyle. A very God-fearing family with two daughters were extremely strict with their children. Mira had never worn a skirt in her life before Harsh insisted on it during their honeymoon in the Maldives. She drew the line when it came to the swimsuit in public. This brought a smile on her face; how naive she was then.  

In school, she used to wear a salwar suit. She had 2 long pigtails oiled with coconut oil that mummy put on her every day. Even before her hair would dry off from a bath, mother would take a bowl of heated oil and put it on her!  

Thinking about it, Mira couldn't even remember when she last put oil on her hair. Her dislike of coconut oil was so strong that she never used it on her daughters; coconut oil was banned in her house. 

Mira feels a pang of guilt for not doing that, you know, traditional mother-daughter stuff like oiling hair on a sunny afternoon. There is a lot of things that she can't do with her daughters that her mother used to do with her because she's going out to work every single day. A lot of her friends are staying at home moms (SAH) or working moms who are now home because of COVID. Come to think of it, everybody she knows is staying at home these days, except her colleagues who work with her side-by-side every single day wearing their scrubs, standing for 8 hours continuously. 

Mira has got used to standing and staying up on her feet; wearing comfortable shoes really helped. But for how long would she be able to do this job? Mira was not sure of it as her knees had started to make her aware of her increasing age. 

The poha was now cooling down when she strained the tea into her favourite mug, which Aadya had gifted her for Mother's day this year and sat down to enjoy her quiet time. Her kitchen duties were done for the time being. 

Like the quiet time she had on her drive with Osho to work, Mira found this morning time ritual where all her chores were done; she would sit and drink her chai calm before the day's chaos. 

Those 15 minutes while she sipped her hot tea alone, quietly in the silence of the early morning right before dawn, she would sit on her favourite chair and enjoy the hot chai. She would contemplate on so many things, her experiences, aspirations and dreams. This was when she spent time with herself, not calculating, not planning for the future but contemplating and reliving the past.

This year was particularly tough on her and her family. Her mother in law was very ill in February and her husband Harsh had to rush to India to oversee her care. Her mother in law lived most of the year with them, but the winters were brutal in Canada, so she preferred the warmth of Rajasthan, amongst her extended family and friends. Her health took a turn for the worse, and Harsh lost his only living parent. Harsh did the last rites and other rituals amongst his relatives, some of whom he had never seen before, but these people loved his family so much that they turned up for his mother's last rites during such tough times. 

Due to Aditi's project, Mira and the girls could not make it to the funeral. By the time Harsh was to come home after finishing off all legal paperwork that needs to be done when one loses someone, the Indian Government had announced the lockdown. Harsh was stuck in India for another 2 months in his childhood home with no one there but the memories of his parents. Being an only child, Harsh always considered as an advantage, until now. He was alone in the world, no one to call his own. Relatives who were now just a part of his memories were what's left of his family roots.

Living in North America had made Mira's family very practical. Although there were many hushed voices that voiced how poor Harsh was left all by himself to take care of everything in India while mourning the loss of his mother. How insensitive of his wife and daughters not to mourn the loss of Harsh's mother. 

Only people living in North America know of the limited vacation days they get or of projects and deadlines and how important it was to fulfill them. Besides, Harsh's mother has passed away after the lockdown was announced. There wasn't much that Mira or the girls could do. But no one wants to get into such mundane details when you have a much juicier story to tell than the facts. Mira was so glad to have him home after 2 months. Poor Harsh had lost so much weight when he managed to come home. After the quarantine in their basement, he was able to be with his family. He gave Mira and the girls the biggest and longest hugs of their lives as if holding on to them, and Mira understood this is all that Harsh had left in this world.

Just like her life, there was nothing extraordinary about Harsh, her husband of 15 years. There was no Mills and Boons romance when they first met, nor was there any courtship period romance. Mira and Harsh had a court marriage within a week of meeting one another, and Harsh left for Canada the very next day of the wedding, as he had not planned for an impromptu wedding during that trip. They had a Hindu wedding 7 months later when Mira was all set to travel with him to her new homeland. 

They had an arranged marriage, and Harsh was the 4th suitor she saw. Both sets of parents thought it was a good alliance and hence it was decided there and then! Everything happened so quickly for them because Mira's older sister knew the family well. They were related to her husband's family and lived two houses away from my sister's home in Surat. Seema lived 2 blocks away from her childhood home, and Mira could not understand why her mother would want to send her so far away from her to the opposite side of the globe, while Seema Didi lived only 2 blocks away. Maybe she had done something to warrant such treatment from her mother. 

Harsh, an IT professional, had just gotten a Canadian PR and had moved there 4 years ago. To leave her family, her parents, everything she knew in Surat and then go to a foreign land made Mira was nervous. 

It was with age that Mira realized why her mother was adamant about having Mira marry the Canadian IT boy, for she knew how her older daughter's life had taken shape. Although she lived 2 blocks away, Seema had not come to spend the night at her childhood home since the time her youngest child was born, which was 3 years ago. She would always be in a hurry multitasking duties of being a daughter-in-law, wife, and mother. She rarely found time to put her feet up and relax at her home. Seema lived in a joint family, a family structure still prevalent in most small towns in India. Seema was a Graphic Artist by profession but had given it up for domestic duties. Mira remembered how much of an ordeal it was to plan that Goa trip with Seema and her family a few years ago. So many permissions and approvals of all elders were taken before anything was set in stone. Mira's mother had a strong feeling Harsh was not like Seema's husband, Suraj. She had hopes that she would be wiser in her selection this time. 

To some extent, Mira's mother was right; Harsh was a good man; he encouraged Mira to make use of the BSc degree and study further in Canada. She did her course to be a Lab Tech, and soon enough was able to find a job in her field. The delicate porcelain doll had now become a strong, confident, and independent lady. 

Theirs was a different kind of love, which took some time to grow, but when it did grow, Mira thanked her mother for her choice. Harsh was a very calm and composed man; he would want his wife to go ahead and achieve things that ordinarily girls from her hometown would not or maybe could not. 

Like in all arranged marriages, it took them a while to understand one another. Mira remembered asking Harsh permission to learn how to salsa; she could not believe her joy when he said he would love to learn along with her.  

To be honest, Harsh has his set of flaws too, but when you have an arranged marriage, there is only so much you can investigate through friends and family members. Harsh is a wonderful man but too laid back for his own good. He was the kind of man who would wait to be promoted and would work countless hours for projects but never log in the hours for overtime. The finances were all over the place, with him having no clue what to do with his inheritance other than spending it on frivolous things. Mira, though no mathematician, had Gujarati blood in her veins. With a little help from her father took the reins of the family finances and now was comfortably sitting on a retirement fund, savings for the girl's university and still have some leftover for their wedding costs. Had she left this department to Harsh, they might have always lived in a rented basement apartment. But that's what marriage is right you complement each others' strengths and weaknesses. 

Their love was like a homemade pot of biryani, which takes a long time to cook, but the end result tastes delicious. 

Mira was grateful for all that she had and for all that she had learnt from life. She finished the bowl of poha and now placed the empty bowl and cup in the sink. It was time now to put on her winter jacket and snow boots and leave for work. There was nothing extraordinary about Mira or her life, Mira thought, but for her, the time spent with her Masala chai early in the morning was something else. With that, she locked the door and left in her car, feeling grateful that there was no snow to remove today morning. 

Ted and I

A man can never be a friend to anyone but himself. You don’t believe me? Well, if you were a dog, you would think otherwise. I talk from personal experience. As a puppy, I spent my first few days at Mr.Smith’s pet shop. There I spent my time like most of the pups, watching television with Mr.Smith. Lassie was my favourite show. I wished to be like her, go on adventures and have fun with my master. It was from here I learnt that man’s best friend was, us dogs.
One beautiful day a little boy came with his father to the store, I knew just then that we’d be friends for a long time to come. So there I was being carried away in those little arms to my new home with my newfound friend. Ted’s house was a huge one, with more servants than people living in it. The Jones (Ted’s parents) placed a small basket with an old quilt in it, this was to be my new bed, right next to Ted’s own little bed. Ted’s love for lollypop led to my name, i.e. ‘ lollypop.’ Well, what else can you expect from a four-year-old?
We used to play all day long, fetch the ball, catch – catch is one of my favourite games. When Ted turned six, we started going out for evening walks to Central Park. I loved to go play by the pond with Ted. At times Ted would hurt himself, and I would lick his tears away till he would stop crying and started laughing .after a rainy day, digging near the old oak tree (another of our favourite spots in the park) was great. We were inseparable!! It didn’t matter what we did as long as we did it together. In the nights after Mr. Jones’s bedtime story, I’d climb into bed with Ted the second he closed the door. Ted would cuddle me close to him, and that’s where I slept.

On our trips to the park, I became friends with other dogs too. Being a Pomeranian bitch, it wasn’t difficult to get acquainted with most of the dogs. The old Bulldog, Phoenix, would always get on my nerves. Phoenix believed that man could never be a true friend to a dog, it was un-natural. He’d say that all humans ever thought of us was mere entertainment. I thought he was jealous because Tom had stopped caring for him, like most of the other dogs at the park. Most of the dogs were brought to the park by the servants, and they were jealous for Ted wasn’t like their masters. Those stray dogs, too, would call me names, for they thought I was in love with Ted.
I ask you, would you not love that boy who loved you even when you chewed off his favourite toy soldier? Or that boy who would sneak food from his plate for his dog? Once I got a big thorn stuck in my leg, not only did Ted take it out but also carried me all the way back home!!! So, I did the best thing I could then think of, ignore those good for nothing stray dogs and leave the company of Phoenix, Billy, Cindy, Sandy……..I mean all those dogs who didn’t understand the genuine relationship of a master with his dog.
Life was great until Ted turned eight. Now suddenly, Ted started spending more time with his friends from school after coming back from school in the hope that he’d not go out to play that day. I wished he’d take me along. Soon we went out to the park only twice a week. (You see when you go to school, you have to do a lot of homework and things like that. But like always I go to sleep in the bed with him, though now I slept at the end of the bed.)
Eventually, Ted stopped going for walks to the park entirely. (only because he had homework, which needed his immediate attention) This is the time when the cook's boy Fred started to take me out on my evening stroll. Old Phoenix and the rest of them welcomed me to their so-called club with much sarcasm. They didn’t know Ted, I did. Ted was a kind young boy who loved me, and I was his best friend, who he told every little thing (until he turned 8 that is.)
I spent several evenings by the muddy oak tree wishing that Ted would come out and play with me. Soon I wanted Ted would come out just once to save me my dignity, which Phoenix so easily was making fun of. I continued my routine of wagging my tail and licking Ted when he returned from school, in the hope that he’d remember me as his old friend and companion.
Ted caught the chickenpox and was confined to his room, a room I no longer shared with him, for I was too big to sleep on his bed with him. I had moved to the store only very recently when this happened. I thought I’d cheer him up in his illness, so I did the only thing I knew how to do. I climbed on top of his bed and gave him my famous slurps, but instead of Ted, I knew who’d start laughing, this boy growled at me. I only wanted him to feel better for he was my friend and my Best friend too!! I was removed from the room by Fred, but not before I heard Ted say that I was a problem for him. (But I tell you, he was just irritated by being sick.)
I sat by Ted’s door all through his illness, several of his new human friends came to visit him, and he actually felt happy with them. It was then that I realized, that Ted lived in a whole new world now, a world with no place for me. I had done the best thing I could, I tried to be the best friend I knew how to become. But no matter how hard I try to deny it, but Phoenix was right. Ted just considered me a friend as long as he wanted me around him, to love and play with him. Now that he was sick and before that, his schoolwork took up time – all the time.
I had done my part in the best possible way, I wagged my tail and licked him, spent hours worried over his health, and now when I want to be by his bedside, I am placed outside his door. I have no knowledge of how he is because I am a dog. My feelings and love do not count, for I am not like him because I am a dog. It seems he has grown too old to love his pets.
I had just started to live with the fact that Ted no longer needed me when something happened, which left him speechless. There is a saying which something like “every girl (or bitch) knows how to love, it is her capacity to suffer because of it that increases!” this sums up my entire life.
While coming back from my evening of torture, first Phoenix and his friends, then the stray dog's sarcastic remarks on my illusion of being friends with a human and then the final straw, Fred pushing me in front of a moving vehicle!!!.
Why Fred did this is a mystery to me, but I lost a leg, and the doctor said I was very severely hurt. I needed constant attention if I were to survive. The doctor gave Mr.Jones and Ted the option of having me put to sleep if they wanted. Mr. Jones said that they’d take me home for I was Ted’s pet. A pet he had loved for at least four of his 6 years that he had known me. But you know what? Ted asked for me to be put to sleep!! (For he was too busy with school that taking care of me would harm his grades.) With this decision made by Ted, Mr. Jones asked that I be put to sleep. In an hour, the doctor would put me to sleep, asleep I most probably never wake from. My only happiness this moment is that Phoenix and the rest will not see me in this state. I know I did not do anything wrong by loving Ted if only Ted saw how good a friend a dog could be…

Me?

This story has been printed in the Book Canadian Voices Volume 2

Eavesdropping, though not my profession, is my favourite pastime. Unlike most people who like spending their free time daydreaming, I prefer to be an eavesdropper. I feel I learn most about myself, by observing myself in relation to others.

At work I eavesdrop on conversations of a group of ladies who think themselves to be out of reach of the normal person. This ‘elite’ group consists of women who are usually cold to anyone who is not a part of their friend circle. As hard as I try, I cannot see myself a member of this group. I lack the tact it takes to ridicule not only others but their own friend circle.

These women pretend to live the smooth controlled, trouble-free existence, where which nail –polish to wear is the biggest problem of their lives. How can I accept that a life like that exists? Besides that, as much as I try, I cannot learn to appreciate my painted face. The remainder of my adolescent years… those few pimple marks, make me feel more prettier than any lipstick or eye shadow would. I guess, I don’t belong to this set of women.

During lunch hour I prefer eating at a restaurant near my office, where the food is edible cheap but most importantly—interesting. A regular visitor, like me, is a group of 3 girls who prefer this restaurant to their college canteen. All they ever talk about is there is the love of their life…a movie actor. Each of their faces light up when they read a new article about him. They spend most of their time quarrelling over a man who they might never see let alone talk to.

Why do you love him so much, I once got the courage to ask one of them. She looked at me in such disbelief, was it not obvious? He is very good at what he does…infact ‘ the best’. Acting is a profession, right? So why is it that the plumber, postman or the dentist …who are also good at their jobs, do not attract these girls’ attention?

I got the privilege to meet this fellow, courtesy a journalist friend, at a popular website. I had to feel all the excitement those girls felt while merely talking about him. I had thought my face would light up like their did each time they saw a new photograph of their idol. Ironically as hard as I tried to get that reaction I just couldn’t.

My heart didn’t thump any faster nor did I skip a heartbeat, at the sight of their idol. All I saw infront of me was a man …a normal man with a fatuous smile on his face. Even when he sat next to me for the photograph my journalist friend was insistent on having taken…I felt nothing.

How am I to feel anything for a man I really do not know? My curiosity had placed me beside him not any emotion. Maybe I have outgrown the Mills &Boons stage of my life…

Quite contrary to my lunch companions are my travel companions. As I travel along these other set of women on my way home in the overcrowded bus, I learn of the latest in music & fashion. These girls are the milder versions of the ‘elite group’ as they let anyone join in, as long as they are fashionable, have an absurd accent as well as fool themselves into believing that they are the centre of every one else’s world. They are loud & their activities arise much needed entertainment for all us fellow travellers.

I have sincerely tried to appreciate their music( which I can’t understand more than the initial 2 lines-ever), their choice in boy friends ,their fashions , and their jokes all-- I can’t seem to understand. The concept of ‘small in size-big in price’ clothes that they wear also confuses me.

Just when I think I have learnt the way to live , my life changes. When expected to feel a portion of the excitement , I knew the star-struck girls would feel, I felt –nothing.

I actually learnt the lyrics of the new Jennifer Lopez song…but it did nothing to my soul. Fancy clothes & painted faces make me feel like an object put on display rather than an individual.

I can’t see myself as the shy-obedient kind either. I think but I am not a thinker. I believe in religion but I am not religious. I like movies but I am not a movie buff. So who am I?

Will I ever belong to a specific group? What group does the other person place me in? can a group & its members be termed as good or bad? are we all just different? Why is it that I desire to be some one else?

The most powerful desire within me is to be more than I am now, at this moment. I want to be more, learn more, grow more & experience more . Is that the reason I push myself into being some one else? Is that how, in seeking to be someone else, makes me realize more of what I want to myself to be? Is seeking them releasing the ‘me’ inside of me?

The woman that never was….

The day could not have dawned more perfect, with birds chirping and the sunrise, all made a beautiful site. After a week full of rain, it had to shine today…The sweet smell of wet soil seemed beautiful. Yet I felt an emptiness in my heart. What else could it be other than her passing away?

She came with her mistress to her new home after marriage, as per many of the north Indian customs. She was a helpless soul, given support by her mistress. This is her story. Ganga was her mistress’s companion in her new world. Little did she know that this home would soon become hers too…for as long as she lived.
She wasn’t the least bit educated but had a good sense of judgment. She stood by her mistress through thick & thin, helped with the household chores, did the cleaning and the cooking.

Taking care of the children was her favourite chore, though she wouldn’t get any award for her manner of doing so. She had something in her which made everyone love her, despite her fits of anger at times. She was far from worldly worries, living her whole life within the four walls of her mistress’s home. She was her mistress’s friend when the children grew up, married & went ahead with their own lives.
Even her mistress’s grandchildren had a special corner in their hearts for her. Equipped with their modern knowledge & techno-know how, they would try to enlighten her. This would enrage her, for she found science ‘unholy’ & the form of the devil. During their vacations, the grandchildren had lots of fun teasing her & listening to her stories. Then one dreadful day, the grandchildren heard of her accident. She fell down the stairs n due to her age, she now suffered paralysis on both her legs.
This news had shocked young & old alike, for she was a loyal, mature and loved member of the family. After three years of this mishap, the grandchildren went to visit their grandmother & ‘Ganga Dai’. God doesn’t give anyone more than they can handle.

One only wished God would not trust her so much, for all her life she spent with her mistress & her family …not having one for herself. Now she faced this!
Spending those last days with her all that everyone prayed was for God to relieve her of this pain & suffering which she was enduring. Every day spent on that vacation was in fear of when she might pass away. Remembering her still moistens the grandchildren’s eyes. She was everything to them, yet nothing to anyone else. Her existence made no difference to the world…but her mistress & her family was the only world she knew.
Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal…with this, in mind, the whole family bid farewell to her lighted pier. Like light & darkness succeeds each other …one could only pray for her soul to rest in peace.

She was a woman of compassion who taught everyone a lot through her religious stories. She was very special to her mistress, her children and grandchildren…yet she was ‘the woman that never was,’ for anyone else…

The Le Burgs

His three-day trip to Paris turned out to be for more eventful than he had anticipated. Lying on the hospital bed reading the newspaper Reuben Le Borg, a lawyer by profession, thought about going home. How he dreaded that thought. Reuben was in the hospital due to a minor accident, which left him with a fractured leg. Today he was permitted to leave for Buenos Aires. He lived in London and returned to Buenos Aires only for funerals. This time, however, he was delayed due to his accident, ten days late, to be exact. Had it been anyone else's death, he wouldn’t have bothered to show up so late. But this was no ordinary relative; Mr. Creighton Le Borg, after all, was his only father & living relative. Now he was dead.

With his bags packed, he made his way to the airport. Thinking about his country of origin, Argentina. How he hated living there as a child. Argentina was once a rich country, but with the Peron coming into power, a lot changed. Peron was a shrewd dictator and his wife Evita, a disillusioned woman. Together they made a mockery of the country by playing with its sentiments. They took away money from the rich, treated them like degenerates and instead of giving the money to the poor, kept most of it for themselves. His father was an important cause for the rise of Peron & Evita. He had headed the ‘Personita foundation’ established for the upliftment of the poor by Evita. All Evita & Le Borg ever did was accumulate wealth for their own upliftment. Evita was the richest and most powerful woman in the late 1950s, Le Borg, her trusted aide.
With all the formalities taken care of at the airport, Reuben went on board the aircraft. Having several hours of the journey ahead, he found it hard to relax. His thoughts went back to his mother. He was at Oxford at the time of her death. His mother was a beautiful soul, who was tortured & humiliated by her husband. When Evita died & Peron was exiled, Mr. Creighton used all of the accumulated wealth to maintain the lifestyle he had created for himself. His only son Reuben was not entitled to any of those comforts nor his mother. Both of them lived in Maple mansion, but they lacked what one would call a homely atmosphere. Creighton was a dictator in his own right, and this was his country — his mansion.

When the plane finally landed, Reuben came back from his past to his present. He was in Buenos Aires for just the weekend. He had an important case on Monday in London & he would have to leave early in the evening tomorrow. He took a taxi to Maple mansion. As the cab drove into the driveway of his house, he thought of all the miserable time he had spent there as a child. He'd sell the house & settle down in London, Reuben had enough of Argentina.

It was still a handsome house, a Georgian edifice with columns, once a monument to those who had built it & now a sad reminder of a declining family. His old maid Irene greeted him, as she opened the door for him. Irene was more of his family than his father had ever been. The interior of the house was depressing, all the riches & not a penny spent on the house. Creighton Le Borg was a reclusive old man, hell-bent on giving away his money, not to charity but to every deadened practice–legal & illegal known to Argentine culture. They had nothing in common except the name...Le Borg.

Irene informed him about Mr. George Andrew, who was waiting for him in the study. Reuben told Irene he'd meet Mr. Andrew right after he freshened up & had a change of clothes. Andrew was his father's old friend & lawyer. He knew what this was about, the will. As he changed, he thought, other than the house, there weren't many of assets his father would've left him. He descended the stairs & went into the study. It was 6 o'clock in the evening, another 24 hours and he'd be away from this place for good.
George was an ageing man with gray hair & a belly far more significant than would suit his five feet four inches frame. After the initial greeting & grieving, George got down to business, Reuben would get the house & a yearly sum of a hundred thousand pesos which were sent to Maple Mansion would now be wired to him at London.
Reuben was confused, the Le Borg family had once been wealthy but long before Reuben, or so he thought. He had gone to law school by waiting on tables, for Mr. Creighton was always short on cash. Reuben asked George, "How come my father left me so much money? I thought he had spent it all. What kind of joke is this?" George looked at him with a surprised then grave expression on his face. He said, "Reuben, your father didn't leave you this huge sum of money. Your Uncle had a trust made in which all the Le Borg money was to be given to you on your 25th birthday. Since you are just 23 years of age, you were entitled to a hundred thousand pesos for your upbringing & tuition. This money was given to your father."

Shocked Reuben further asked, "What Uncle? I don't have an uncle. What are you trying to do? Joking with me like this!" George explained. "Your father didn't want you to know about your Uncle. I didn't know your Uncle personally, but I have heard that he was a rebel & a traitor to our beloved country. That might be the reason your father kept this piece of information from you." With this said, George drowned the last of his tea & left Reuben to sink in all this new information.

Reuben went straight to the Kitchen and found Irene at the stove cooking something. Reuben asked her about his Uncle. Irene looked at Reuben with surprise. In twenty years this was the first time she heard Charles name being mentioned in the Le Borg household. With a stern look on her face, she asked him, "Are you sure you want to know all of this?" "Good lord, yes! Of course Irene, you've lived all your childhood & adult life in this mansion & I trust you to be honest with me. Please tell me what and who was my Uncle?"

"Well, it all started several years before you were born, this animosity your father had. Your Uncle was two years older than your father. He was a kind man, a man with a vision. Your father tried so hard to come out of his shadows that he even got himself into trouble. I think it was twice that your father was arrested for picking up fights. Mr. Creighton was the wild one, who hated Mr. Charles for all his goodness. He ran away & married your mother assuming she was rich. But as always, he was disillusioned. Your mother came from a respectable family like your father's family, but certainly not rich. A fact learnt much too late to his liking." Irene placed before Reuben his dinner of soup, steak & mashed potatoes.

Reuben didn't have much of an appetite, yet he played with his food as Irene went on, "Your mother was a dear soul. Your father lived off whatever assets your mother owned until they finished. After that, he became restless and penniless. He tried to come back to the mansion, but the old Mr. Le Borg would hear nothing of it. Your Uncle was too kind a man to let his only brother live homeless, especially when his wife was to give birth. You were born in this very mansion & your Uncle doted on you, so did your grandfather.
Creighton was now an alcoholic who had several mistresses all over Buenos Aires and was always short on cash. Your grandfather was dying, and he could not see your father destroy the family name in the way he was. That’s why he left all of his assets to your Uncle, for he knew he'd always take care of you & your family.

At your grandfather’s funeral, your father came drunk & that’s when Charles had him thrown out. Imagine that, a son cursing his own father of being a cunning man. He even accused your Uncle of depriving him of his rightful share of old Mr. Le Borg’s money.
Why Mr. Charles tolerated, your father is still a mystery to me. How can a man be so blinded by love? Your father, however, had everything but respect for Mr. Charles. He took it as an insult, the fact that he was thrown out of the funeral. Also, he was at the mercy of the very man he hated for petty cash.

Since Mr. Charles was a prominent leader of the opposition, Eva & Peron tried to keep a close watch on him. He was, in fact, so strong that they feared he would instigate the Argentine people into a revolution against Peron. Peron could not afford that. He, being a shrewd man, used your father's animosity to his advantage. Your father became a spy for Peron. As a reward, he was promised an appointment to the post of Chief of the Personita Foundation.

During this period, Eva was getting rid of all her enemies, as she was very vindictive. Creighton was what she had needed. Creighton was now a spy & he gave constant information of what Charles was up to, to Eva personally. At a crucial meeting held by the opposition in secret, Eva had every leader arrested on the Charges of ‘trying to assassinate the President, i.e. Peron.’ That was all a lie. The opposition never believed in violence, maybe that was their only weakness.

It was because of your father that the venue of this secret meeting was disclosed to Eva. She was very cruel to all these leaders. They were imprisoned for two years before they ever had their first court hearing. All a charade I tell you. Your Uncle was ill-treated & kept in very dreadful conditions, I know of this as once secretly your mother & I went to meet him. He was a handsome man, even though he was now frail & suffering, yet he still had that fire in his eyes.

Mr. Creighton was now a hero & your Uncle a traitor according to all the newspapers. It had to be that way for Eva personally had all control over the print media. Mr. Charles was ill & he died of throat cancer far before the date of the hearing. All the papers had the news of his death as the end of an evil schemer, but the people knew better. The masses were on Charles side & mourned his death, but their fear for Eva & Peron restrained them from showing any emotion.

In his will, your Uncle left everything to you, he told us this when we went to visit him at the prison. The Le Borg bloodline was thinning to a sad & inevitable halt. Its only hope was for you to continue the Le Borg legacy in the right direction. That’s the only reason both your mother & I stayed in this mansion. She stayed till her death & I shall wait till mine. Mr. Charles was like a brother I never had. Your mother had forced your father to bury him at Le Borg graveyard. Your father would never have agreed to this had your mother not threatened to expose him for the thief he was to Eva. Imagine that your father stole from you & the people who gave him a position to be feared!!
He took your money from you & spent it on gambling, women & alcohol. Your mother didn't tell you anything about this as in you, she saw so much of your Uncle's genes rather than your fathers. She feared Creighton would get rid of you as well. He never loved anybody but himself. I'm sorry you had to know all of this. I wish you had known your Uncle; he indeed was a great man. All his life your father was anything but his brother. He was so adamant that he ended up destroying the one man who had a pure love for him. Sure your father was a hero- in the papers, but in the hearts of the old Argentine people, your Uncle was the real hero. Sure your father was powerful & feared till his death, but it was your Uncle who was loved." With this, Irene wiped off the tears from her eyes & wished Reuben good night & left.

Reuben spent countless hours turning in his bed. He was contemplating what he had learned right now. Somehow Irene's version was far more believable to him than George's. Reuben knew his father was a reclusive old man. Reuben realized that he was much like Uncle; he too believed Peron had done little good for Argentine. He didn't want to live in the country where a man who had created such a disaster in the economy was exiled, only to be called back & given power seventeen years later.

With the break of dawn, Reuben left for the family graveyard. As he walked through the gates of the Le Borg graveyard at one end of Buenos Aries, his heartfelt numb. All around him were gravestones, with his ancestors beneath them. All of them were somehow responsible for his being in this world (well at least some of them). Some day he too would join them, six feet under the ground.

That April Monday of 1973, Reuben saw himself standing in front of his father’s grave for the better half of the day. Reminiscence of his past and all that the man named Creighton meant came to him with a gush of pain. All that was left of the man who had caused so much pain to his mother, Uncle, grandfather & himself, was now just a gravestone with his birth & death date on it. So many years of hatred. All his life Creighton made a conscious effort to not walk the path followed by his brother Charles. Yet he paid the ultimate homage to his brother by following him in death. Creighton was overweight, a diabetic, yet a heavy pipe smoker had a bad heart that survived three attacks & a host of lesser ailments that had tormented him for 10 years. What is noteworthy here is that Creighton died of throat cancer, the very same disease that killed his brother.
As he made a start from the graveyard, Reuben noticed that while Charles' grave was in bright sunshine, his father was almost permanently in shadow…and he was sure that there was divine justice.

S S

Her scream woke me up with a startle. My Bua sure knows how to scream! Oh, what a hangover, I sure did have a lot to drink last night! But wouldn’t you, after all, it's not every day that you get appointed CEO of Pepi co. After what seemed like my last scotch, how many was it…10-I guess, everything seemed fuzzy. Now that my faculties have revived, this sensation of severe cold along my back and limbs is killing me. I swear I wouldn’t ever drink again-yeah, like the last time I swore.

Wait a minute, what is Bua doing in my home & why on earth is she screaming? I never liked that kurta & pyjama, a man of my exquisite taste, wears shades of cream & gray. Why did I wear it in the first place…? Hmm, see dear readers- the effect of alcohol. Oh, gad! If I’m lying down there, then how can I be standing here?
"Oh, what a shame. My nephew was not a day older than 48 (I am 45!), and the good lord took him away from us. Why God why?", having said this, there was another burst of tears from Bua Ji. God, if there was an Oscar given out for the most ‘unconvincing-actress,’ it was sure to have been awarded to Bua Ji. Look at her, pretend to cry on my death, a big charade. That’s what it is.

What am I saying? is it true? Am I really dead? How… I was going so happily back home in my car, then there was this flash of light…oh no! It's true, I’m dead. Really dead. 

Gone-History!

Wow, it’s strange being dead. Hmm…maybe it’s not all that bad…after all. Repulsive, is it dear readers? Well, I always was a sick man. Yes, I’m no saint. On the contrary, I’m quite an ambitious, sophistically sordid and manipulatively an opportunist. You have to be all of the above to achieve something in a place like Mumbai.

How rude of me…I am Mr.Saptrishi.Sharma…CEO (for a week)of Pepi co. India. I’m a bachelor whose parents passed away a few years back. I hope my introduction was sufficient. Being the only child was a wonderful gift that my parents gave me; after all, when you’ve had one like me, you’d think twice. Hey, I’m not whining about it at all.
Wonder how everyone would take my death? From what I’ve learnt from Bua’s conversation is that I died last night & she’s already given an add in the obituary section of the newspaper, stating my death.

Old Bua couldn’t wait to see someone else take up the role of leader, now could she. The office would be closed & most of the staff& workers will be here to pay their last respect, more out of compulsion than respect, I guess.

I bet Deep will be devastated. Hey, what's happening? Wow, being dead sure has its perks! I can’t believe I’m in Deep’s house …there he is on the telephone. He has heard of my death; look at him sorrow written all over his face. Sandhya enters the room, " what’s wrong Deep? Why the long face?" she asked. " Its S.S., he’s dead. Passed away while driving back from the party last night, the stupid man!"

"I told you scotch would take his life one day. That’s the very reason I kept telling you he’s no good. All that arrogance went straight up his head!" Sandhya added. Dear readers, only 10 years ago, these two people who, now ridicule me, shared quite a few cups of tea with each other at my house. That bill alone would add up to a few thousand. Had it not been for my generous offer to let them share my house till they found a home for themselves, they would’ve spent the first year of their married life in some low life part of the town. Imagine that as compared to a rent-free stay for no less than a year in a 3-bedroom flat, in one of the moderately posh areas of the city. Ungrateful souls, who needs them anyway?

Well, Vikas is in Paris so he wouldn’t come to know of my death until much later…who else…? Yes, of course! Smriti, my dear, dear Smriti. Smriti, who, you ask? Well, you are quite inquisitive, aren’t you? Smriti was my lady love. Unfortunately, she went and married a man not worthy of her. Smriti couldn’t take the backseat, she wanted the importance and attention of which only my job was entitled. Harsh on my part? Well, ask any successful man, to be a success, you have to make sure the woman stays behind the job.

Deb (her husband) seems to have told her about my demise, my frail, slightly overweight wrinkled & crying love…Deb consoles her with a few kind words about me (the actor!). "Listen, dear, what comes into this world has to go away too. Saptrishi was a good friend of yours(yeah right!), I understand that. If you think you cant handle the food for tonight’s party, I’ll get it on my way back from the office. Don’t be upset, dear." 

I am confused.

Was Deb saying he was sorry I passed away or that Smriti would not be able to cook today?
Deb gets up to go to work. Smriti calls out to him, "Deb don’t worry about dinner. I’ll have everything prepared, but tell me one thing…Indian ya continental?". "You sure about this? After Saptrishi’s…" Deb enquired. " Deb, S.S. never cared about me, I’m not going to let people who actually do care, suffer because of my past," I heard Smriti reply.

That was all I could take of these ungrateful people. Smriti conveniently returned all my letters written to her while dating and asked for hers back, to 'officially end' our relationship. The diamond earrings that I had bought from my(then, i.e. 15 years ago) two months' salary …she forgot to return. Everyone uses everyone else, dear reader.

Spending a few hours contemplating my life, I decided to go back home and see what was going on there. The ramification of this decision was unheard of. There they were Uncle Mandy & Bua Ji, fighting over why Bua ji had written her name over his in the family section of the obituary. Only Uncle Mandy & Bua Ji could fight at a time like this, for such a ridiculous reason.

To satisfy my calm & patient reader,(who have endured the torture of my writing), queries. I shall tell you a little about old Uncle Mandy. Actually Mr.Maninder.Sharma, elder brother to my father. Mandy uncle had fallen in love with a British tourist who’d come to Shimla. Uncle Mandy was in the family business, i.e. he was a hotelier. The hotel showed indomitable progress under my father (who was the real brains behind the outfit) than it could ever have.

With the arrival of Aunty Karen into the picture, Uncle sold his half of the hotel to my father. He did what many people in love would do…destroy himself. Like a love-struck teenager, he followed Aunty to London & eventually married. He didn’t get a job which lasted more than a week, owning one's own hotel is a lot different than working in one, right?

Things didn’t work out & after 2 years in London, Uncle returned with nothing else other than a divorce & that ridiculous accent.

At least I died a respectably established man, right? 

Success comes at a price, I paid that price. My lonely evenings with only a bottle of scotch are witness to that. With tears in my eyes, I see dawn arrive. It’s funny how I never noticed the beauty of nature…sun, moon, and stars until I now know I no longer can appreciate them.

These nemeses are far too much than I can handle. Yes, dear reader, even big men, can break down and cry. My ‘antim-yatra’ or funeral ceremony had already begun. There I lay all pale & lifeless waiting for my ‘loved ones’ to carry me to my bed of fire. Several colleagues and family had come to my funeral. My body was given ‘kandha’ by Deep(yes he did come), Uncle Mandy, Bua’s no-good son and a few people from work.
All the patronizing murky talk made me abhor these people. None of them were here for me, they all were here to show that they knew the CEO of Pepi…the very high profiled man. My death was just an opportunity to make new contacts like you would in a party-that my dear reader is Mumbai.

Oh, for heaven's sake, don’t pity me; I’ve done the very same thing to several others. But all those phantoms seem so different at my own death. Yes, dear readers, I have a heart. Term me as an ingenuously pestilential as a person…I did yet have compassion…even though it was for myself only. Amongst these so-called ‘influential’ people, I see my body begin its final voyage. In this crowd of hundreds, no one with real grief for me. It tells me that I died an established man, yet, it makes me wonder…
…had I ever lived…