THE BOMB

“AN UNCLAIMED BAG HAS BEEN FOUND IN THIS COMPARTMENT. ALL PASSENGERS ARE ASKED TO RECHECK THEIR RESPECTIVE LUGGAGE BEFORE THE POLICE SIEZE THE BAG FOR FURTHER ACTION”

The solitary constable gravely walks up and down the compartment as he makes the announcement. He taps the backrest each seat with his baton, as if to lend emphasis to each of his words.
Everyone in the compartment is stunned to a dreadful silence. No one utters the word, but everyone is aware of what is being talked of: a bomb.
The effect pleases the constable, and makes him feel more important, more effective, and, in charge of the situation. He displays his inflated bravado by poking every piece of luggage, including the bags and purses clasped—ever so tightly in their anxiety—by the frightened passengers in their lap. Every time his baton pokes a hand-bag—and the terrified passenger shrinks with fear, the constable gives away an authoritative ‘Humm…’

The skinny, nervous old man occupying the seat in front of me, almost gets a convulsion with every ‘humm’ the constable utters. His hollow cheeks puff and sink more fretfully, and his toothless lower jaw shakes more violently. His rounded eyes, grotesquely magnified by the thick glasses, appear incongruently comic as they tremble frantically from side to side.
Ever since the oldie got into the train, and happened to take a seat in front of me with his family, he strikes me as particularly high strung. The other two members of the family are two abundantly fat ladies—mother and daughter—who occupy five-sixth of the space, and push the poor old man precariously to the edge of the three-seat-bench.
Once the initial shock wave passes off, morbid excitement takes over the people. The more the dutiful constable assures them and tries to keep them away, more they are agitated and close around the abandoned bag.
Most agitated and the foremost to close on to the bag is none other the poor nervous old creature. He points at the bag; shrieks, “bomb..a bomb..!”; runs to and fro between the bag and his seat; shakes his wife and daughter by shoulder; repeats “bomb..a bomb..!” to them; and then, without rhyme or reason or relevance flares up: “Must you choose this damned day and this cursed compartment to travel?” More than the bomb, the poor wife seems to be scared of her hubby! The family drama actually steals away the thunder from the bag and the bomb.
The constable is swift enough to draw the misplaced focus of public attention back to him.
“HELLO EVERYBODY! NOW STAY AWAY, ALL OF YOU! LET ME HANDLE THE SITUATION.”
The dutiful constable bends over the bag, with the old man already watching over his shoulder. He unzips the bag deliberately, dramatically, and inch by inch; puts a hand in the bag, first tentatively, then more boldly (now no looking back), and, finally confidently; starts bringing out the contents, mainly several well-folded new clothes, one by one; and then—
A sudden blast rocks the compartment.
No, it’s neither RDX nor nitroglycerine; it is a local leader-type of a chap that explodes.
“Why and how the hell do you dare to open the bag in a running train, and that too in the crowded compartment?” he explodes at the constable, “What if the bag really contained a bomb?”
“But see, there is no bomb…” squeaks the constable, meek under the burden of his faux pas.
“BUT WHAT IF THE BAG ACTUALLY CONTAINED A BOMB?” The constable’s meekness emboldens the leader; naturally enough, the mob sides the bully.
“BUT THERE IS NO BOMB IN THE BAG!” Right or wrong, a loud retort is the only survival for the cornered constable.
“BUT WHAT IF THE BAG ACTUALLY CONTAINED A BOMB?”
“BUT THERE IS NO BOMB IN THE BAG!”
“BUT WHAT IF THE BAG ACTUALLY CONTAINED A BOMB?”
“BUT THERE IS NO BOMB IN THE BAG!”
The full-throated argument goes on and on; and the old man, oddly enthusiastic, faithfully echoes and reechoes every sentence to the family—
“There was no bomb in the bag, but what if there was actually one?”

At last the constable, now a hero-turned-comic villain, quietly leaves the scene under cover of the confused crowd.
The crowd entertains itself with a lively debate on national security, public awareness, global politics etc.
The constable makes a come-back, now accompanied by a couple of his colleagues. They come, seize the bag, and walk away.
All excitement gone, a lull settles over the passengers.
The old man, exhausted from excitement, dozes off in his seat; he appears so puny—almost arousing pity.


The train rattles on, and finally nears the destination of the family. As they prepare to get down, they organize their luggage.

“One of our bags—the blue one—is missing!” discovers the wife; and then realizing what must have happened, cries out—
“You crazy fool, you crackpot, all the while you keep dancing around the bag like a mad monkey; watch my new costly saris being thrown around all over; and not for a moment it gets into your head that it is our very own bag?”
“..i,,i never saw the bag..or your saris..all along i..i just kept thinking ..of the bomb…” stammers the old man.

LOTUS

The lotus flowers in my garden bloom but rarely; and when they bloom, they do so in vais’akha, when the summer is at its harshest. And yes, the deep evergreen, lustrous oval leaves are a perennial relief to the eye, whatever the season.
My ground floor flat does have a space around it—alas, all so meticulously smothered under the dead RCC after the urban fetish. The lifeless RCC was a sore to my eyes; and it was then, some three years back, that i had the fancy of have a lotus pond!
Soon, the water-proof masonry was ready. What remained was to prepare a fertile water bed, an underwater mixture of black soil and cow-dung. And of course, i could not forget the guppy fish to keep the mosquitoes away.

So, half a truckload of black soil is procured. Self help would be the best, and well, the most economical. And then, one fine day (when the family is away for vacations), this brave dreamer decides to accomplish the task all by himself.

Ten minutes of the job are enough to bring home to me my fool-hardiness. Tons of unloaded soil all around; hardly a fraction of the job done; the sun and the unaccustomed physical effort already sending down streams of sweat; and backache already set in: and worse, nobody else to blame for the mess! Well boy, enough of the do-it-yourself self reliance!
What next?


“Sir...”
Turning around, i see three kids at the gate: weak, malnourished, dehydrated and bare-footed; their discolored hair unkempt, and clothes dirty. No, they are not beggars: one of them carries a pick axe, and the other, a spade.
“Sir, may we do the job for you?”
‘Ha! The angels!’ - exult i for a moment.

Next moment, the cautious householder within, checks the exultation.
I survey the kids, size up the unfinished job, and promptly put up a stern, prudent mask.
“How much..?”
“Fifteen rupees..?” says the boy tentatively.
“FIFTEEN?” screams the prudent man, who would never protest paying seventy rupees for a scoop of ice-cream, or one-hundred-and-eighty for a ticket at the Multiplex.
“No sir, fifteen rupees for all of us, together.”
“Hmm… look, i want a neat and clean job. And mind you, i won’t pay a single rupee if i am not satisfied. Is that clear?” I tell them, who is the boss.
“Right sir”’ says he meekly.
“C’mon brothers!” the leader cries triumphantly. The younger kids are already at job.

Relaxed, i sit on a bench in shade. The boys are methodic, seem to be expert in what they are doing, and fast. Unmindful of the scorching sun; unmindful of the streaming sweat; unmindful of all their deprivations; unmindful of the world around, soon they have moved most of the heap into the pit – the task which almost killed me in ten minutes! And how merrily they sing, chat, and play pranks with each other as they continue with the labor that killed me in ten minute. Blessed be the childhood that mellows down the harsh reality.

I am ashamed of myself.
What childhood do I talk of? Famine severs the poor children—the eldest one, not more than twelve, and barely older than my younger daughter—away from the family, and i, the romantic urban fool, eulogize some blessed childhood and all! Hungry and helpless, the kids sweat for their daily bread when they should be playing and studying, and i pat myself for having driven a hard bargain.

Where is their home? Do homes break suddenly - or crumble bit by bit, day by day? What goes wrong in life? What forces the parents to abandon the children to their fate? Or do the children, precociously and painfully wise, leave the house? And how do they walk all the way to this distant unknown land, so far away from home? And, does the broken family, if at all it survives, ever look forward to a reunion, when seasons would be more merciful?


“..and, what is sir going to plant here, onions?” the youngest one, made bold by familiarity and innocence, comes up to me.
“Not onions, lotus.”
“Lotus? Real lotus? Wow! They are so beautiful, aren’t they? Gods like lotuses, i know, i have seen in pictures!”
“And then you will sell the flowers in the bazaar, and get lots of money?” asks the middle one seriously.
I am speechless.


Enough of the prudent mask. Let me be myself; let me be somewhat imprudent and humane; let me follow my heart. This prudent mask always chokes me.

Finally, the job is over. Exhausted, they ask for water. They wash themselves clean, drink greedily, and give a sigh of fulfillment like an artist reviewing a just-completed work.

Arrives the pizza which i have meanwhile ordered for the boys. Let them have a small treat—perhaps a lifetime treat, heard of, dreamt of, never realized or likely to be realized.
Humbly, i pay them fifteen rupees—each.
They cannot thank me enough. And the more they thank me, the more humble I feel.

The lotus flowers in my garden bloom but rarely; and when they do bloom, they remind me of the three beaming faces, as the boys heartily ate their hard earned pizza.

God save me from prudence, so that the lotus flowers bloom in vais’akha, when the summer is at its harshest.