Short Story – The Atom Bomb.

“Aga Baaai!!”
She looked down at the kitchen floor. The vessel had fallen down from the kitchen cabinet. And the entire contents had spilled out creating a big mess. Great, she thought. Just as she had completed her household chores, one more had crept up. Her gaze then shifted towards the culprit behind the spill. He looked at her with eyes which conveyed guilt and naughtiness at the time. Only kids can pull off such an expression without looking fake, she thought. He then spoke up. “Sorry”. She softened up and told him to get out of there and watch some TV. She then silently began cleaning up.

A few years ago, Supriya would have unleashed hell if the same had happened to her. She used to be a girl with a fiery temper. She always used to be the one who used to back answer her teacher. She used to be the first to get the punishment if the teachers found the class to be behaving in an unruly manner. She used to get into fights with boys over trivial issues. Her friends had a nickname for her. “Atom Bomb” she was called. As time went by, it became AB (Generation Y hai bhai. Everything is shortened. Not just clothes.). Actually, the boys called her AB not just considering her temper, but also her looks. She looked good or as the romeos used to say, ekdum pathaaka. Every rose day in college, there used to be a bet on whether anyone would have the guts (and football sized balls) to give her the red rose. If that bet was won, there was another bet. This was on whether the chap would get a 1000 decibel strong scolding or a sound beating.

In her third year, AB met a guy. He was an aloof boy with radical ideas. While others in her class (including her) were busy pursuing CA or CS or getting ready for the CAT, this chap was busy doing extra curricular work with the juniors. He was academically strong (88 % in SSC. Hence the nickname “Crazy 88”. When Kill Bill released a few years later, his friends jokingly told him to take royalty from Tarantino.). Hence lack of intelligence was not the reason for his choice. He had totally different fundas. “College life is for living, not slogging. I have my full life in front of me. No tension.” This was his funda. Also different was his total disinterest in Supriya in a romantic way. While Supriya never craved attention, she was used to it. This boy’s aloofness infuriated her. Maybe this was one of the main reasons why she fell for him.

Rose day came again. The last rose day of her college life. The bets were on again. However this time, kahaani mein twist aa gaya. Supriya gave Crazy 88 the rose. He was shocked. Her entire class was shocked. He just kept staring at her, rose in hand. Slowly he walked off without uttering a word. AB the fiery one, she started sobbing. Maybe for the first time in ages. After what seemed like eternity (actually 15 minutes), she heard the voice of Crazy telling her to open her eyes. She saw him kneeling down in front of her, a bouquet of red roses in hand. She started crying again. He got a little confused. Looking at his confusion, AB’s heart melted even more. She hugged him. Everyone seeing this scene straight out of a twisted Mills and Boons started clapping. Crazy and AB. A couple which could not be odder. It seemed perfect.

Convincing the parents took some effort. Crazy’s lack of complementary degrees (“CA, CS ya MBA to karma chaahiye. Sirf BCom se ghanta kuchch hoga” were her father’s words.) made it difficult. It took all of AB’s negotiating abilities (screaming so hard that the windows almost cracked, crying so much that she got dehydrated, not eating food for a couple of days, etc.) to soften them up. Then came the clincher. It seemed Crazy and AB could not wait for marriage to express their love, well, fully. When the news of the pregnancy reached her parents’ ears, all remaining resistance was broken. AB and Crazy got married even before graduation. AB could not be happier. Crazy started getting doubts.

The marriage and the baby changed Crazy overnight. From the chilled out, happy go lucky person that AB loved, he became responsible and burnt out Not So Crazy. He started hunting for a job. His lack of, you guessed it, complementary degrees meant that he got a low paying job, that too through connections. This wounded his ego. As the years went by and Crazy kept seeing his friends drawing more salary than him, the wound festered. He became reclusive and prone to angry fits. He started blaming his wife and the kid for his misfortune. The early marriage and Chintu were the reason for him taking the job so early, he said once during one of the many quarrels with Supriya. He was hurt inside. And he was hurting his marriage as well.

As Crazy was slogging himself to death and wallowing in self pity, Supriya was concentrating on her studies. The birth of Chintu had stalled her CA preps. However after 2 years, she restarted her studies and through hard work (compounded with house work, as they could not afford a servant) became a CA. She got a nice job in a bank as a risk analyst in the SME sector (as they called it in her bank, SPRG risk analyst). The pay was good, almost equal to what Crazy was earning. She thought that the doubling of the house income would cheer up Crazy. On the contrary, it led to the biggest quarrel. Crazy became, well, crazy. He hollered, “7 years I slog my butt off while you sit in the house. You get to be around Chintu while he barely recognizes me. And now, you get this job and become my equal!!” The male ego was at its ugliest.

Six months had passed since that day. Husband and wife were barely on talking terms. Eight years of a troubled marriage had taken a toll on her. The phataaka had lost her zing. As she went on her haunches cleaning the mess, she wondered whether her marriage had been a serious mistake. Whether the 8 minutes of impulsiveness had led to eight years of nightmares? She contemplated divorce for the first time. Just then, Chintu called out to her. “Aai, come here. The building is on fire.” Supriya went towards her son and her gaze fell on the TV. It was showing the Taj burning. She wondered how this could happen. Then a Breaking News flashed. The terrorist had also struck at the CST. This news hit her hard like a punch. Crazy takes the train till CST, she told herself. She panicked. She tried calling on his mobile. The mobile was unreachable, the operator said. Tears started rolling down her eyes. She then saw the helplines numbers flashing on the TV. She dialed one of them. After what seemed like an eternity, she got a response.

“Hello. May I help you?”
“Yes. My husband normally takes the train till CST. He has not reached home yet.”
“Ohh, I understand. Please tell whether he has any identification with him.”
“Yes. He carries his PAN card and driving license with him always.”
“Any identification marks?”
“A scar on his left cheek.”
“His name?”
“Cra…. sorry, Pendse. Shriram Pendse.”

Note: This was long overdue. And yes, the stories based on 26/11 have not ended.
To read some of my other attempts at short stories, please click here

Short Story 5 – Struggler

13th October 2006:
Today I have reached the city of dreams. I am so happy. I have finally reached my karmabhoomi. The journey was a little difficult with the mosquitoes making me do involuntary blood donation. However, no problem. If my parents could not stop me from coming here, what are a few mosquitoes going to do? You have to make sacrifices to succeed. In comparison to getting disowned by the family, mosquito bites are nothing. They said that thousands go to Mumbai everyday with stars in their eyes. They expect to get success but end up getting only the tag of “struggler”. I said that I am different. I have the talent. I have the willingness to slog. I will not just remain a struggler.

16th November 2006
It has been a month since I have reached here. I have been able to get a room at a building near Film City. It is decent but not as big as my room in Rohtak. The rent is high at Rs. 3000 and the deposit of Rs. 50000 made me almost faint!! I was shocked at such a high price for such a small room. The agent told me that this is Mumbai. If you want to earn big, learn to spend big. Had to agree to his terms. However I had not accounted for this high expenditure this early. Also, the film agent told me to get my photos taken by a proper photographer. He called my existing photos “shaadiwala photo”. That cost me Rs. 15000 more. Itna paisa nahi tha mere paas. Had to sell my gold chain. However, no problem. I have confidence in my talent. Forget this chain. Once I become a star, I will buy a 50 tola waala chain, like Sanjay Dutt in Vaastav.

26th December 2006:
Merry Christmas, dear diary!! This will be a short entry. I have to go out with my friends to celebrate. Nothing fancy, just going to the Nightingale bar. Nice quarter system they have No no, I have not got “the” break. One of my fellow struggler friends got a small role in a TV serial. He is giving a party. He was saying that there is a role lke his for which auditions are going on. He asked me to try. I refused. I am not made for small TV roles. I want to be a star. When I told him this, he just smiled.

15th June 2007:
Sorry for neglecting you for his whole time, dear diary. I just do not have the time. Within 3 months here, I became penniless. What can I do? It is not easy to struggle and remain presentable. I have had to join a gym to maintain my physique Hritik style. I have to get more photos taken. I exhausted the first batch in only one month. It seems like these producers eat up photos of strugglers for lunch. They willingly take our photos and just do not respond. Also have to dress well. All my savings which I thought would last a year gone in no time!! So, against my principles, I have started doing a part time job. As a waiter on the 2nd floor food court at Infinity mall. What would my father say if he knew about it? I feel so ashamed clearing the leftovers with my bare hands. Par kya karein. Paapi pet ka sawaal hain. My big break does not seem to be coming. I even tried for a villain’s role in a South film. I do not want to do a sidey role in Bollywood. I want to remain “fresh” here. My friends laugh at me. All are doing bit roles here and there. I just cannot. I want to be a star. And nothing else.

2nd January 2008:
Dear diary, I just cannot explain to you what happened to me today. got a call today from a producer. He has called me for a screen test. Normally I get called to a lot of screen tests. But this time, it is for the second screen test. I am one of only three to be called in. If convert this, I will be finally achieving my dream!! Please pray for me.

4th January 2008:
I hate this city!! I hate this film industry!! They do not give a shit about talent. This industry is full of bastards!!
I went for the screen test. The test was done by no one but the director of the film. He explained me the shot. Before I started reciting, he said that the clothes worn by me are not proper. This scene is supposed to be happening while I am having a bath. So he told me to take off my clothes. I did as he said. I stripped naked but for my undies. Then this guy, this guy, he felt me. He started touching me all over my body. He even asked me, “Do you bath with your chaddi on? I want you to be as realistic as possible.” I wanted to slap him. But I did not. I pushed him away. As I started putting my clothes on, he said with a smirk, “One has to compromise, young man”. I called him “gaandu” and stormed out.
Today I hear that I have been blacklisted by his banner. People are looking at me funnily. Even my friends got to know about it before I told them. They were like, dude, did you not know about that guy. He has different preferences. They were even saying that I should have done “it”. I cannot. I will never do such a thing. It is against my principles. Should I?

2008:
After almost two years, I am getting my break. While my bad experience in the beginning of this year left me with no job, it at least taught me something. One has to compromise, that creep said. He said correctly. So I have learnt to compromise. No, not like that, cheap diary  I started taking odd jobs. Anything and everything which let me do my stuff in front of the camera. It at least allowed me to say tata to my waitergiri. I developed contacts through my odd assignments. That helped me more than those blasted photos. Now I am finally getting a big role. Not of the hero though. I am playing side hero to Salman Khan. I have been called to the Hyatt day after tomorrow where the producers are meeting to finalise the schedule of the film. If this thing works, I can tell my parents that I am not just one of the strugglers. I can finally buy a gold chain. Not the 50 tola waala. At least 0.5 tola. Things are looking good.
P.S.: Date daalna bhool gaya. 24th November.
P.P.S: Producer called. Venue changed to the Taj. Always wanted to go there.

Note 1:
I have never done the “struggle”. I do not understand why people would want to get into so much hardship when the success rate is so abysmal. However, I do empathize with the strugglers. I have seen a lot of them when my office was in Oshiwara. Their eyes have a sort of a glint. As if they are literally seeing stars. Many a times I have seen them when they look sad. Maybe a failed audition. Sometimes I have seen them in a good mood. Maybe an encouraging gesture by the producer. It is difficult not to feel sad for them and their uncertain future. It does take balls to live that type of life where you have no idea where you will be in one week.

Note 2 :
I used this post as a reference. In fact I do recommend PFC as a site to follow if you love cinema and the people behind it.

Short Story 4 – Been there, seen that.

“Saale Kutte”

Rahul Pandit swore with disgust. In the office, he sat watching the live telecast of the terror attack right in the heart of his city. He kept hurling abuses at the TV screen. He had a lot of pent up frustrations. He hated these terrorists.

It was too hot that day. Rahul kept fanning himself with one of his school textbooks as he waited for the bus to come. He was one of the very few kids at his school who preferred to use the BEST bus over the school buses. He was always taught to be independent. He liked it that way. The boy was a loner.

“Yeh saale l**nde kisi ke sage nahi hote. Maar daalo inhe. Bhagaa dalo inhe Hindustan se”. These words kept echoing in his ears. These words were uttered by the shakha pramukh of the Hindu Rashtra Sena. Others called them a right wing party full of fanatics led by a scheming bastard. Rahul was wary of them at first. He was alarmed at the hate and anger in the speeches of the pramukh. Why was he so angry at them? He had not even faced an ordeal as horrific as he had.

The wait was getting excruciating. Why was the bus not coming? He had the bus time table memorized. They were never this behind schedule. There must have been a traffic jam, he thought. But at 1 in the afternoon, the chances of traffic jams were very low. Then he saw the bus coming. At first he was relieved. As the bus came closer, he noticed the broken window panes. He saw some bright flashes of red coming out from the back. As the bus came really close to him, he saw that it was on fire.

“Haraami hain ye sab. Khaate hain yeh idhar ka, dil hain unka us taraf.” These were the words of another leader of another hindu right wing party, the Hindu Swatantrya Sena. Rahul  wondered how this gentleman had understood the “khwaaish” of his “enemies”. “Sab ek jaise hain ye” was the reply. How did he know that? Had he seen them as closely as Rahul had that fateful day?

He saw the group of men running towards him. They had an assortment of weapons in hand. Choppers, swords, axes, you name them. The sight of this mob with their steel accessories would have frightened a grown up man. What chance did a 14 year old boy have? He did the only thing he could. He ran. However they were faster and caught up with him in a few minutes.

“Kya naam hain tera”.

“Hindu hain na tu.”

“Tere logo ne hi masjid todi na”.

“Maar daalo ise”.

“Jalaa daalo ise”.

“Kyun de inke Haj ke liye hum subsidy. Humein bhi Kashi jaana hota hain. Humein koi nahin deta discount.” Another leader of a party, the Hindu Prajarakshak Sangh had said these words. Though not as inflammatory as the others, this leader seemed to be well, more “active”. His men were at the forefront of all anti Muslim riots and fights. He seemed to be a man of action. His party seemed apt.

The mob walked him to the middle of the street. They wanted him to burn in the middle right in front of everybody. He was going to be the symbol of their fury. As he was being walked he was being bathed in rockel. He was going to make headlines. As he became more terrified, the adrenaline in his body kicked in. He bit the hand of the person holding him and ran. This time he ran faster than them. For some time. He could see them gaining on him. He turned a corner. Briefly he was out of their sight. He frantically searched for a hiding place. He could hear their footsteps now. They were going to catch him. Then suddenly…

“It’s time.” He woke up from his reverie and saw the person who said those words standing in front of him. “Okay. Let us go. Got a long night ahead.” She smiled.

It was dark in there. He had no idea where he was. He could figure that he was inside a small house. He could see his would be murderers searching for him through a small window. They went all over the place. He feared that they would barge in this house and catch him again. Then they seemingly lost interest in him and left, probably searching for another bait. He heaved a huge sigh of relief. Then he felt someone standing behind him.

“Lagta hain wo chale gaye, beta. Thode der ruk sakte ho. Shyaam hote hi jab yahaan police aayegi, tum unke saath nikal lena”.

She led him to the others. They were all there in their “assault” uniforms. All of them looking like god’s own soldiers. Eyes full of intent. Waiting to kill.

“Thank you sir. You saved my life.”

“Jaan maine nahi, Mere bete ne bachai hai. Usi ne to tunhe andar ghasita. Badaa bahadur hai yeh. Naaz hain mujhe ispe.”

“Gentlemen, meet Rahul Pandit. He is a native here and knows inside out the area we are targeting. He knows the soft targets where we can concentrate first. He will be here in the office and will be communicating with you all on the walkie talkie.”

“Kya naam hain tumhaara bete”.

“Rahul…Rahul Pandit”.

“Main hoo Ishrat Ali aur yeh hai mera beta…kya hua bete??”

Rahul fainted with shock.

“So you are Rahul Pandit.” So said the leader of the NSG commando unit.

“Loved your work in flushing out the conspirators of the Jalgaon blasts. Which party were they from?”

“Hindu Prajarakshak Sangh. Had to go undercover there. Full of dangerous bastards.”

“Brave chap. Now let us get to work. Commandos. Next stop, the Taj.”

Rahul saw them leave. Go get those bastards, he said silently. He hated these terrorists for sullying the names of their co-religonists. People like Ishrat uncle who was like a father to him. Then he remembered. Uncle had called. His son was missing.

Where are you, my brother? Where are you Akhtar?

Short Story 3 – Stylebhai

“…..Is there any problem in your jurisdiction? Over.”

“No Sir. No problems till now. We are monitoring the situation continously. Over.”

“Okay. Keep a watch. Be extra vigil. Over and Out.”

Waman Bhosle offed the walkie talkie. He asked his colleagues in the police station to assemble. When all had done so, he told them what had happened. Apparently a few belligerants had landed at the CST and started firing indiscriminately. They seemed to have no agenda, no demands and no motive to negotiate. They were firing to kill. Without any apparent motive. He had been instructed by the Control Room to be on alert and monitor the situation. His area being “minority” dominant, any and every incident, from a blast in the train to a blast of an LPG cylinder would lead to such warning calls. Normally it was ignored. Not today. Today was different. Today was going to be a long day (rather night).

Bhosle always wanted to be a cop. Not because he wanted to clean the society of criminals (well, not just to). Not because he had no other option. He wanted to become a cop because he thought of them as stylish. When he was a little boy, he used to always observe one of his neighbours who was a cop. He used to like his “style”. The way he walked, the way he talked. The way he kept his gun in the holster just like in the films. It did not matter that this neighbour of his was later suspended of having relationship with those he was supposed to apprehend. What mattered was the style.

As he finished telling about the situation, he began to observe their reaction. There was a gamut of emotions and reactions in front of him. Some were shocked, some were in a state of denial and some (mostly the oldest serving members of the force) had that kind of weary expression which said “It had to happen sometime. Why during my lifetime?”. He waited for their questions. And after a few moments of silence, they poured. How, when, why, Why was the Intel not aware of this, What are we going to do? Questions to which he had no answers. Because no one gave it to him. He was given just one order. “Monitor the fucking situation”.

Bhosle became a cop at age 25. Unlike what they showed in the films, he did not top the class. He did not get any special pat on the backs from his teachers. He was an average student who did just enough to move smoothly up the order. His first posting was at his current station only. He was happy. Now he could move around stylishly with his service revolver. He had stars in his eyes. What a rude shock he was in for.

As instructed, Bhosle started telling the havaldars to start making rounds and be “extra vigil”. Which was nothing but havaldars moving around with their “dandas” looking important. What else could they do? There was confusion all around. Apparently there was no organized plan to counter the attack. He started getting more info from the unofficial mode of communication i.e. other Sis located near Ground Zero and his band of khabris. More whackjobs had entered the Taj now. They had started taking people hostage. Firing was heard on the streets outside CST as the first batch of  killers made a run for it. Most probably their attack was going to be restricted to the area in and around South Mumbai. He wondered what it took to co -ordinate a counterattack on this small bunch of chutiyas who had boxed themselves in a corner. Must be difficult if the eminent people handling the control room were not able to do it. He wondered what the superstars of Mumbai police were doing. Mumbai police was famous for its daredevil supercops. Definitely they were on to something. Then he got the shocker of the night. Karkare sir dead.

Your first days on the job are an eye opener. They are a reality check. Like when your dreams get cut short by the sudden splash of water on your face. Yes, those first days are like a splash of water. Cold water to be precise. Bhosle’s were icy. As he became acquainted with the inner workings of a police station, he became disillusioned. The long hours, the registering of FIRs regarding petty issues like fighting over water taps, theft of rubbish items, etc. Sometime a real case came his way. However they ended up pretty quickly unlike in the films. Most of his time was spent doing totally “unstylish” work. Then there were the under table adventures. Bhosle was not the Harishchandra type. He did not mind the “extra” income. What he minded was the pettyness and the shamelessness which he felt while going about collecting it. Once, his team set out in their fancy Toyota SUV  for their hafta collection. He watched the havaldar going around and trying to collect the money “dicreetly” just like a black marketeer going around selling his tickets in law. There they were, upholders of law in all their glory watching one of their own going around and acting like a fucking “tapori”.

Bhosle had tears in his eyes. Karkare sir was one of the supercops who he looked up to. One of those rare tough officers who brooked no nonsense. He was handling the Malegaon riots and had the balls to charge the local toughies there who had political connections. Those bastards took away Kamte sir. This was getting personal. But what could he do? Except being “extra vigil”. Was this the reason he took this job? He was feeling frustrated.

Just then, a lady walked in. She was wearing a Punjabi suit with the typical jari work which the women in the neighbourhood of his station found fashionable (What did he know? He was a bachelor and had no clue about such things). She came up to him. Closer and Bhosle could see that she was a little tense. Of course she would be tense. No one comes to the police station on their own when they are happy.

“Inspector saab, My name is Rubina. I want to file a missing report.”

“Who is missing”.

“My husband.”

“Where was he last before you lost contact.”

“At the…near CST. Around 9.00PM. He had called saying that he was reaching the station in fifteen minutes.”

“Ohh…I am sorry. It will be difficult to find him this soon considering the situation there. What is his name. Do you have any photo.”

She gave a photo of her husband to him. He looked a man in his 20s. Sharp features. A confident look. Smart beard.

“His name is Akhtar Ali Sheikh.”

Short Story 2 – The trier

As he was lying on the cot, he was wondering what had happened some 15 hours ago. In fact he would have started wondering about it some 15 minutes after the first gunshots. However a combination of heavy stampede, adrenalin flowing through his body due to the scampering for dear life and the staredown with the gun totting maniac for that brief moment had led him to a state of black out.

With an almighty heave and push, he had got out of the First Class “dabba” of the train. It was a huge pain, this daily exercise of pushing and shoving and grappling and wrestling, all for a small part of the hard seat (First class seats, they were called!!) to rest your butt and get a chance to catch some sleep. However he did not mind it. In fact he had no choice but not to mind.

The pain though still stinging had subsided somewhat. In fact he was thankful for the pain in his arms and legs. It gave him the reassurance that they were still attached to the body. Yes, it was that kind of a day.

His pushing ordeal for the day was over and he started his walk towards the exit. He had to reach office to attend the graveyard shift. This new part time job he had taken up was becoming full time leading to lesser and lesser time for himself and his CAT studies. And he was not happy with that. This was his third shot and he was starting to get frustrated.

Hs first thought was of calling up his parents and telling them that he had been in an….. incident. Luckily the medical people were thoughtful and gave him his phone. However the phonelines were jammed. Last time this happened was during that rainy day.

He wanted to clear CAT badly. He had spent his college years just practicing it. An MBA in an IIM was his dream. And the failure of his first two tries had not deterred him anyway. His new job was doing a great “job” in that aspect though. He took it up to earn some money and get some “work ex” : Work Ex was good for you chances of cracking an IIM, those counsellors continuosly yapped. But this work ex was jacking him up.

He then starting recapping the past events. There was a gunshot, that he was sure of. It was not like that shown in the films, where every action scene is backed by techno dhingchak music. But it was more dangerous than those cool scenes. In the films, the hero gets away with some minor bruises. Here it was anything but that.

The job was breaking his will. But he could not leave it. The pay was decent and he needed money to foot the expensive bills of his CAT classes. Also it helped in shutting his parents’ mouths. He spotted an ad of a CAT class which boasted of the best results in a newspaper read by the fellow sitting next to him. It was interesting to note that these classes were at the top in terms of fees charged in the coaching class market and lowest when it came to results. You could not blame them as CAT was tough. But the ads never gave that picture.

The sight was gory to say the least. The gore he had seen and enjoyed in R rated horror movies was PG-13 compared to this. Bodies strewn everywhere. People running for cover. People   searching for help or their dear ones. He thanked his stars and his habit of always walking by the edge of the station. He did not know why he did it, but it saved his life. That and the fact that the maniacs entered from the opposite side. But that did not mean he was out of danger. Bullets are dangerous if shot from five feet or five hundred feet.
It was action time. He knew he had to get out of range of those stingers.  There was a mass of panicky, paranoid commuters in between him and the shooters. He could not do anything for them as many fell down lifelessly in front of him. What he could do was grab a few hands next to him and scream “Neeche” (Down!!). The scream must have been quite loud as the maniac nearest to him suddenly jerked his neck and stared directly at him. That is when the moment happened. His eyes met the maniac’s. They seemed cold. As in the eyes of the tiger (he was a major fan of Animal Planet)when it gets ready for the kill. How apt as the maniac aimed for him
As he slowly became aware of his surroundings, he saw that next to him was the same person who was next to him. This guy had actually saved his life by throwing a brick at the maniac. That created a diversion and he could run out of the station but with two bullets lodged in his hand. The other guy was also shot. Not fatally, as he thought with relief as this guy was breathing.

Not that they were 100% safe then. However one of the manics (there were at least 3 of them) with the walkie talkie yelled some orders and they just vanished from the sight.

As he sat there thinking, he could see this other chap, his savior stirring. They seemed to have been given the tranquilizer (again, Animal Planet) at the same time.

“Hello, I am Akhtar Ali Sheikh. Thank you for saving my life.”

“Its OK. You were quite heroic in there.”

“That was nothing. By the way, I did not get your name.”

“Ohh…Sriram Pendse. You can call me Sri”.

Short story – Priorities

Shriram Pendse was pensive that evening. He was in one of those contemplative moods of his when he used to get lost thinking about his life, the complex (according to him) journey it had endured so far and where it was headed. As he sat there on the leather cushioned seat he had found for himself after a brief struggle similar to the one he endured every day, he was as they say, deeply immersed in self pity, the newspaper open in his hand for name only. For try as he might he just could not free his mind and get himself to solve the Sudoku puzzle. This was notable because he loved solving them since it was one of the few things (according to him) he could do properly and in time.

He had lived a tough life (according to him). As a Commerce graduate, he had committed the cardinal sin of not doing a CA mainly because he wanted to do something different and “hatke” (interpreted by many as the unwillingness to work hard). According to him a CA/CS/ICWA student was a big bore and not worth his time. The something “hatke” did not materialize and Shriram was soon part of the “unemployed” fraternity. What helped him in breaking away from the brotherhood were some connections of his father  which helped him in getting a job in a bank in the MIS department. What did not help was the fact that he was now working with a few former classmates who were hired at a higher grade (and by extension, higher salaries) mainly because they were a “bore” during college. These people did not forget to remind him of his thoughts and what they led him to. It hurt.

Sriram had by now spent 8 years in the bank working harder than most to rectify the mistakes he had done during his college days. His promotion was stalled many times mainly due to his “B.Com only” tag. He tried to rectify that by doing an MBA course in correspondence. But that led to the “B.Com with a part time degree” tag. The tag just became longer. Sriram was getting more frustrated.

Now, as he sat there looking through the window grill, he was thinking about his next move. What was he to do? Workwise he could not do more. He was putting 14 hour workdays daily. Appreciation from the boss was rare. You know about bosses. If you run a 100 meter race in 9.01 seconds, they would say “you missed the 9 by 0.01 seconds, not good enough”. If you did it the next time, they would say “why didn’t you do it the last time, you are just too inconsistent.” He had virtually no social life. In reality he cared for no one. Except for one. His little son.

Sri doted on the boy. But he rarely expressed his love for him publicly to him. He just did not have the time. He was beginning to get the feeling that his son was drifting apart from him. Not his fault since how can a boy sustain affection for someone who was just not around home most of the time. Thanks to the efficient transport network of Mumbai, Sriram left the day when it was too early for his kid to even contemplate getting up. And he normally reached home at a time when every self respecting mother thought it a blot on their motherhood for letting their child stay awake. Sriram would often find it difficult to remember the last time he had seen his kid awake and moving around the house with his childlike enthusiasm. It was a pleasure seeing him playing and laughing. And it was painful not being able to experience that pleasure.

Just then there was a jerk. The bus had reached its last stop .The Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus stood proud just a stone’s throw away from him.  As if “jerked” into clarity, Sri decided that enough was enough. It was 9.20 PM in the night and he was again late. He felt enough is enough. Enough of complaining about past mistakes and injustices. His little boy meant more to him than ambition and more salary. This day, the 26th of the month of November 2008 was going to be the first day (or rather night) of his new life. He was going to reset his priorities. He just hoped that he was not too late.