The corrupt official

Tags

real life heroes, sad stories, short stories, short stories from india, short stories from life, stories about corrupt business organizations, stories in simple english

Vishal got up from the wooden stool, and stretched his back. Even after five years of sitting on it, it hurt and every few hours he used to get up and walk around. During office hours, he had to be within calling distance of the sahib.  The sahib, his boss, was the executive engineer and could call for him at any time. If there was a delay in his response, then the EE would immediately follow it up with an earful of abuses.

‘Eh, Vishal, get me a cup of tea,’ the voice from inside the room, shouted. Maybe the EE had seen his shadow against the window.

‘He has already had three cups since morning. Doesn’t he get anything to eat at home before coming?’ Vishal grumbled.

‘Ji, sahib, yes sir!’ Vishal shouted and ran off towards the canteen.

The Public Works Department or PWD handled the construction and maintenance of roads, bridges, and government buildings. Private contractors, government officials and common people, everyone came there. While for some, it would be to close out a construction contract while for others, it would be just a signature and an official seal which would start the construction of a septic tank.
There was a lot of money to be made in this department, you just had to know, how to make it and more importantly how not to get caught making it. Sitting outside Vishal, had seen and heard a lot and it upset him that he was missing out on all the action.
He joined  the PWD department as a peon, five years back. His job required him to sit throughout the day outside the office of the PWD’s Executive Engineer. Every morning he would reach the office at eight thirty sharp. Putting his cycle in a corner near the canteen, he would unlock the doors of the engineer’s office.  First with a broom he would sweep the floor and then with a moist cloth wipe the dust from the cupboards and desk. Next he would arrange the files on his boss’s desk and finally switch on the fan or the room heater depending on the climate. At last satisfied that everything was in order, he would sit on the wooden stool placed right outside the door and wait for the engineer to come in.

His boss, the engineer like all good government employees used to come in late. Office timings were from nine to five and he would come in by eleven. By then the queue of people waiting for him would be almost half a kilometer long. He seemed to enjoy seeing the long lines and knowing how important he was in that office. For Vishal, the whole day was spent running errands – fetching files and endless cups of teas. He was also expected to manage the people coming in to meet the engineer.
There were two types of people who came to the office.  The first group and the larger group composed of people who had to wait in line and hope that someday their turn would come and they would be able to get their work done. Petitions and official documents in hand which in most cases required only a signature or a seal from someone in that office, they would stand patiently for hours.
The second group of people included those who had the clout and the money to get things done. They never stood in the line, rather were escorted directly into the office. There within the office, sitting with the E.E., over whispered conversations, deals would be struck and finally all smiles they would come out of the office. This group carefully avoiding coming in contact with those standing in the queues, would get into their air-conditioned cars and leave in trail of dust. Vishal hated his job.

He was  an average student in school. More interested in cricket then in his studies, he was the star of his school cricket team. Growing up in his village, near Delhi, there was a time in his life when he had dreams of playing in the national team and becoming a famous international star. His father’s sudden death put the brakes on his dreams. His father had been a retired policeman, who had somehow managed to support their family of four, on his pension. Vishal, had a younger sister, Sarla, who was good in her studies and had always topped her class, at school.

‘One day, my daughter will become a doctor,’ his father used to say, beaming with pride every year when Sarla would bring home her report card. Sarla, would smile and feel proud that she had made her father happy. Both father and daughter knew that it was an impossible dream, but then why be stingy with your dreams.
At the time of his father’s death, Vishal had just completed his twelfth standard, and was planning on joining college.  Now those plans had to be scrapped as the burden of running the family came on to his shoulders. Along with his mother, he had met the local legislator and pleaded with him. The job at the PWD office was  a result of that meeting. Vishal was  eighteen then, just the right age to get a government job. Now every month in addition to the pension of his father, his family had this additional source of income.
Each month on payday, he used to hand over his entire salary to his mother.

‘Keep it, it is your salary. I can manage with what we have from your fathers’ pension,’ his mother would say.
‘No, you keep it and give me only what I need,’ Vishal would reply.
This same dialog was repeated every payday, but would still bring tears to both.

‘Another cup of tea?’ the canteen owner’s question brought Vishal back to the present.
‘Han, yes, one more cup,’ Vishal sighed.
‘How many cups, does your sahib drink in a day,’ the canteen owner asked as he filled up another glass.

‘Do I care? Why do you worry, as long as you are getting your money?’ Vishal replied.

‘That is right. He is good for business. Next time, ask him if he wants any snacks along with his tea. I have a packet of biscuits lying around since last week,’ the owner smiled.

As Vishal returned to the office, he could see that the table was again a mess. There were files all over the table, some even lying on the floor. Individual pages were flying around in the blast of air coming from the ceiling fan.  He put the cup of tea on one side, and began arranging the papers. The papers were petitions from poor people, people who could not pay the fat bribes that the engineer asked for. Their files would remain there in the office for years gathering dust.

‘Don’t fool around with the papers, they are all important. Put them on the desk and leave,’ the engineer shouted and returned to the newspaper he was reading.  Vishal, quietly arranged the papers, put a glass paper-weight on them and left.

‘He keeps his desk like a pig and then shouts at me,’ he grumbled.
‘How does someone like him become an engineer while I stand here and wait on him? ‘Bring me a cup of tea’, ‘Fetch me a glass of water’, ‘Pick up that paper’. What does he think I am his, his servant?’ thought Vishal and kicked the wall in frustration. He looked at the people waiting in the queue, the line snaking its way around the office corridors and down the steps and out on the ground. The sun was now right on top.
‘Has the sahib come in?’ some of the people asked.

Vishal nodded his head.
‘I have been coming for the last one week, but nothing has happened.  I only need a signature of his. When will he be available?’ asked another person. Vishal shrugged his shoulder and avoided looking at them.

The office had two sections, one where the clerks used to sit and besides it, this office of the engineer. The clerks and office staff came by ten. To get any work done in the office, palms had to be greased. Money was the only medium that could speed up the government machinery. Everyone got a ‘cut’, a share from the bribe. The amount you got depended on your seniority. Not that all the employees were corrupt, for example, there was Ram Babu, the head clerk who never took a paisa, but then he was a stickler for rules and would find problems and issues with the forms that could delay the files for months. No one went to him. It was easier to pay a few rupees to the other clerks and get the files moving rather than go to him and get pulled into a never-ending  loop of approvals and attestations.

October the month of festivals came.  While for the Muslims, there was Eid to look forward to, for the Hindus, it was Diwali the festival of lights, just waiting around the corner. For some communities, it was also the start of the new year, so everyone was in a hurry to close out existing deals and celebrate the festivals in a grand way. This was the time when a lot of money changed hands. The easiest thing in the world was to disguise the bribes in the shape of sweets and gifts. Daily, the PWD engineer’s desk used to overflow with colorfully wrapped boxes, and it was up to Vishal to ensure that each of these boxes was loaded into the office jeep in which the engineer traveled from home. One day, while loading the boxes into the jeep, Vishal accidentally dropped one of the boxes. The cover on the top tore a bit and what he saw inside took his breath away for a few seconds. There were wads of hundred rupee notes inside the box. There was more than he could ever hope to earn in a year. His hands trembled as he adjusted the paper cover back on the box and put it on the back seat of the jeep.

‘Have you still not put everything in? How long are you planning to take? I don’t have the whole day to waste, like you,’ the engineer had come up and was standing behind him watching his efforts.

‘Hogaya, It is done, Saheb,’ Vishal jumped as his boss brushed past him and entered the Jeep and drove off in a trail of dust.

‘Has he left for the day?’ It was an old man with a white beard, holding a bundle of papers in his hand.
‘I think so,’ said Vishal spitting out some of the dust that had entered his mouth.
‘How can he go away so early? It is not yet lunch hour. I have some papers that require his signature. I have been coming to this office for the last one week,’ the old man grumbled. ‘Do you know when he will come back?’ he asked Vishal.

‘Baba, do you think he tells me when he goes out? He may come if there is work. I think it is better that you come back tomorrow,’ Vishal said. The image of the box full of currency notes kept coming back to his mind.

‘Maybe some of the other boxes also have currency notes in them,’ Vishal thought.  There must have been at least three bundles inside.
‘He must be making thousands daily. The corrupt rascal, he makes money while we have to struggle for a living,’ he closed the office in a huff and came out.

‘So you are now free to go home,’ it was one of the clerks in the office.
‘Hmm, the engineer went home early,’ Vishal mumbled. ‘Just because he left ahead of time, it doesn’t mean I can also leave. I will have to sit here till five’.

The people who were waiting in the line for the engineer stood there for an hour and then one by one left, grumbling and muttering.

‘Will he come back tomorrow?’ it was the same-old  man who had spoken to Vishal earlier.

‘Look didn’t I tell you that he doesn’t inform me when he would be back. I am just a peon here. He is the executive engineer. I report in to him, and it is not the other way around.’

‘I traveled twenty kilometers by bus and bullock cart to reach here. Now I have to return and come back again tomorrow. What kind of man is he, who doesn’t care for the people who he is supposed to serve?’

‘He is a …,’ Vishal stopped himself just in time. He was just a peon in the office, any silly comments, and he would be out of a job.
’ Why don’t you pay some money? That will close this issue faster,’ Vishal whispered.

‘How much do I have to pay?’ the man asked. ‘I am a poor man, have two daughters to marry of. What will I have left if I pay all these government people,’ the man replied.

Then he looked at Vishal thought for some time and  asked,’Do you open the office in the morning?’

‘Yes, I do, why?’

‘Please can you put my file on the top of the bundle, so that it is the first thing, he clears in the morning?’

The request looked harmless. The old man with his white hair reminded Vishal of his father.

‘Ok baba, don’t tell anyone about it. I will keep it on the top of the pile, so that he sees it first thing in the morning. Here, give me the file’. Taking it from the old man, he went inside and placed it on the top of the heap.  The old man watching from the door, had a big smile on his face and thanked him profusely as he came out.

The holidays in October were about to start, and Vishal was looking forward to them eagerly. He would spend the whole day playing cricket with the boys in the fields near their house. It was the one time when he forgot the tensions of his life and was reminded of the happier times from his childhood. In keeping with the festival spirit some of the office staff contributed  and bought some decorations and buntings. It was while tying the pieces of colorful paper to the pillars outside the office that he felt a tap on his shoulder.

An old man with a w beard was standing there with a big smile on his face.

‘Do you remember me, beta ..son?’ the old man asked

Vishal, tried to remember the face, but could not place him.  The man was peering at him through his round soda bottle glasses. It was not one of his relatives. Most of them lived far away and rarely if ever visited them. He shook his head and continued decorating the walls.

‘I had come here some days back, and you had helped me…. remember?’ the old man said. ‘Remember, you put  my file on the top of the bundle,’ the man whispered.

Vishal remembered and almost missed a couple of heart beats.

‘Are baba, talk softly, you will get me in trouble,’ he sneered at the man.
‘The sahib cleared my file, and my work was completed on time. Just in time for the festival. Allah, will bless you for this. Here I have brought you a little gift,’ the man said and brought forward a small colorfully wrapped box.

‘Wha..what… what is this?’ Vishal could only stammer.

The man smiled and replied,’ It is a box of sweets. Eid Mubarak.’ the man said, patted Vishal on his back and started walking away. Then he stopped, turned around and said, ‘Ah yes Happy Diwali too!!’

‘I don’t want this. I didn’t do anything,’ Vishal protested, but the man had already walked away, leaving him holding the box in his hand.
Vishal stood there looking as the man disappeared in the distance. Then he felt as if someone was watching him, he turned and saw his boss glaring at him from his cabin window.

‘You come in here this minute,’ the E.E shouted. As Vishal entered the E.E let out a barrage of words, ‘So you dare to arrange the files in my office, so that people who give you gifts are benefited?’ he shouted.
It looked like he had heard the whispered conversation between him and the old man.

‘I didn’t do anything wrong, Sir,’ Vishal tried to protest.

‘I heard everything. You put the old man’s file on the top because of which it got cleared early. That is why you got this box of sweets.

‘I might have accidentally put it on the top… I mean.. I’.

People from the other office were gathering outside the door listening to the shouting. Vishal looked down at his hand the box was there in plain view and there was nothing he could do about it.

‘Are you telling me that he just gave you that box without any reason?  You will be punished for this. I will suspend you for this,’ the EE shouted. Vishal was scarred. He was also angry. He looked at the table of the EE and there was the usual pile of boxes there. He looked at the boxes on the desk, and one, in particular, caught his eye, the paper covering it was similar to the one used on his box of sweets, only the one on the desk was slightly torn in a corner.

‘He can get gifts, but I cannot get even one. This is just not fair,’ he thought, but there was nothing he could do about it. A suspension would mean loss of pay and given the condition at his home that meant a lot of problems for him.
‘You are suspended for a week without pay. Get lost and don’t show me your face. Go home and enjoy your sweets,’ the E.E dismissed him with a wave of hand and returned to the magazine he was reading.

Vishal stood there for some time then slowly walked out. He stopped at the door, turned back, looked at the engineer and said,’ Happy Diwali, Sir!’

‘Hmmph…’ the E.E growled as Vishal swiftly left the cabin. The people standing outside the door parted as Vishal made his way through them. He did not stop to speak to anyone, head bent, still holding the gift-wrapped box in his hand, he walked towards his cycle parked near the canteen. He put the box on the carrier behind the seat and slowly made his way out of the office gates.

At a distance from the office, on a deserted street, he stopped his cycle and removed the box from the carrier. In all the shouting and pleading in the office, the Executive Engineer had not noticed as Vishal had replaced his box with the one from the desk. He lifted a corner of the box and saw bundles of currency notes inside, quickly he closed the box and put it back safely in the carrier. The E.E. would most probably not notice the difference, with all his other gifts, and even if he did. Where was he going to complain?

A big smile spread on Vishal’s face as he shouted ‘Happy Diwali,’ and started pedaling home.

Independence Day

Tags

real life heroes, sad stories, short stories, short stories from india, short stories from life, stories about corrupt business organizations, stories in simple english

‘Wake up, you bag of bones. Today we have a lot of work to do’ Hari’s shout woke up the whole family. As usual, he was in a bad mood immediately after getting up. Hari’s family sleeping on the pavement comprised, besides him, his wife Devaki and their three children. The children were young. The eldest, Devi was five; Ram was four and Choti was a few months old. As the children sat up on the pavement, they could see that it was still dark and the street lights were shining bright and hurting their eyes. They usually shut down the lights by six in the morning, the children, thought of going back to sleep. The thick jute bags which they used to cover themselves at night, looked warm and inviting, but Hari was expecting this.

‘There is a lot of work to do. We need to complete the flags. Soon people would be coming out, and we can make some money selling the flags,’ he snapped. His family members knew that, when he was in this mood, it was better to listen to him, rather than risk a painful thrashing.  Sleeping on the pavement was not easy, one had to be careful not to run on to the street, and fall in front of the speeding cars. Not that the car drivers cared. No one cared if a beggar got hit; they were not supposed to be there in the first place. The cars would simply go around the body and disappear down the road.
‘Start working on the flags,’ Hari repeated. He had taken out the basket, which already had the flags they had completed the previous day, and had started his work. The flags, Hari was referring to were miniature  copies of the national flags that the family had been making for the past two days. They were  provided plastic sheets in three colors, white, saffron and green. While Hari had cut the sheets into strips, Devaki had chopped up thin bamboo sticks, on which these flags were to be made. The children helped stick them. The first few had been wrongly done, and both Devi and Ram had some fun with the glue on their hands, but a few abuses and some boxed ears later they had become serious and had quietly made helped with the flags as per Hari’s instructions.

‘The color on the top is Saffron, next comes the white and then green. First, stick the three colors, then roll them on the bamboo stick. Then put them out to dry. Finally, you stick this little circle in the center of the white band.’ There was one sheet, which only had small circles that Hari had carefully cut out and put into a plastic box. The previous day the family made  more than a hundred flags. The neatly made flags were  arranged in a basket. There were still two sheets of plastic left. That meant about fifty more flags to be made, and Hari wanted the work to start immediately.
The Seth or vendor, who had given Hari the sheets of color plastic had been very specific with his requirement. In exchange for the plastic sheets and the bamboo sticks he expected at least a hundred flags. Hari and his family could sell them once they were complete and whatever the price; he sold them for the vendor got a commission of one rupee per flag. It was good business for the family, as the flags sold at five rupees each. Even after paying of the vendor his commission of one rupee on each flag, there would still be four rupees to be made. If all the flags were sold that would mean an earning of four hundred rupees.

Hari couldn’t remember the last time he had seen a hundred rupee note. It may have been the time he had worked as a laborer, lifting sacks of rice at the railway station. That was five years back, but then he had met with an accident. He has slipped one day, and the heavy sack had landed on his leg and fractured it in two places. The leg had healed, but he still limped around and was not able to lift heavy weights. It was while he was recovering in the government hospital that he had met Devaki,  who was a sweeper there. He saved  her from the advances of one of the security guards. The guard, who got a punch on his nose, for his behavior,  though had good connections in the hospital management. Using his clout, he got  Devaki sacked. Hari, was also asked to leave, he was told that his leg had healed and that if he wanted any extra treatment, he would have to pay a lot more. Hari, who had already exhausted the little money he had saved from lifting sacks, had no option but to leave the hospital. On the way out he met  Devaki. She was an orphan just like Hari and with nowhere else to go to the two took up residence in a corner of the pavement.  They had never married formally, not that anyone cared. The children had come over the years, while the couple worked in the bungalows and hotels, they somehow managed to survive.
‘Get up before people start coming. Don’t think we would be the only one’s selling flags today,’ Hari told his kids as they rubbed the sleep from their eyes. Sleep came easily when you lived on the streets. After a day of begging on the street under the sweltering sun, listening to abuses thrown by the passing drivers and the occasional thrashing at the hands of the policemen, sleep came without any extra effort.
‘Why are we making these flags?’ Devi asked.

‘15 August, is our Independence day,’ Hari explained.  Years ago in his village, he went  to a school, for a few years, carrying a bag and trying to learn the alphabets. A cholera epidemic  wiped  of half the village, including his parents. He was one of the few who had survived. The village school was closed as the only teacher, was also one of the victims to the epidemic. Hari, escaped the village by jumping on to one of the first trains that passed by and had landed in Mumbai. He had promised himself never to return.

‘What is an independence day?’ both the children asked.

‘That was the day our country became free,’ Hari replied. The children thought about this for a moment.
‘Free from whom?’ Devi asked.

‘I don’t know. There was someone who was the ruling us. He left, then we became independent and free,’Hari had reached the limits to his knowledge.
‘Were we tied up before that? How did we become free’ Ram asked?
Hari, realized that this way they would never finish the work, and he would keep getting more questions for which he did have the answers.

‘Both of you shut up and start working on completing the flags. If we get enough money, I will buy some sweets,’Hari knew that the promise of sweets was always effective. The children immediately ran off to wash their face. There was a hole in one of the water pipes that crisscrossed the city. The pavement dwellers had conveniently placed a stone on the hole, which when removed would release a water fountain that serviced all their water needs.

The water was cold, and the children shivered as it hit them. Quickly replacing the stone, they wiped their face with the clothes they wore.  It was difficult to make out what color their clothes were; it was black, brown and grey in different places, depending on the amount of dirt and mud stuck to it. The children went back to their parents and started work on the rest of the flags. Since they had done the work the previous day as well, quickly they settled down into their roles. Devaki, stuck the pieces together, while Devi and Hari, pasted them around the bamboo sticks. Ram, who was too young was given the job of arranging them into neat piles.  Devaki, would stop in between to nurse the baby and then get back to the work.  The family worked quietly while in the east, the sun appeared over the horizon.
Aug 15^th was always a holiday. It had to be for it was the Independence Day, and people were expected to celebrate the nation’s freedom. Government as well as private offices would remain closed. Schools and colleges held special functions to mark the occasion. In these functions, the national flag was hoisted, and the national anthem was sung. Some people bought the replicas of the national flag and stuck it to their desks, inside cars or on their motorcycles, a show of patriotism at the individual level. Unlike normal days when the roads would be packed with vehicles, on such days the traffic would be sparse.
Hari, divided the flags into bunches and handed them out. While Devi and Ram got a smaller bundle, he and Devaki kept the bigger bundles.

‘Each one sells for five rupees, remember that,’ he instructed as the family members went off in different directions.

Near the pavement where they slept, there was a traffic island, a junction where four main roads met. On one, corner was a huge mall, with massive glass walls and multiple floors. From movie theaters to luxury car showrooms, the malls were the place for the rich and upwardly mobile to be seen. It, being a holiday, new movies were being released. On the opposite side of the street, there was a temple. Today being a holiday, the crowds were expected to pour in from all directions. It was a perfect day to make some money and Hari was not going to miss out on the opportunity.

‘I need some more flags,’ it was Ram who came back first.
‘Where do you throw the twenty that I gave you?’ Hari went mad. The boy was irresponsible. ‘Must have thrown it in some gutter and was asking for some more,’ he thought. He was about to hit Ram, when the boy extended his fist, it was clenched and full of five rupee coins.

‘All the flags that I had have been sold,’ Ram replied with a smile. He pointed at his pockets, which was also bulging with more coins inside.

‘My flags have also been sold Devi shouted as she came running. Hari, looked at his bunch, he had not been able to sell a single flag, while the children had sold out all of theirs. He looked at Devaki, running behind cars stopping at the signal, with the baby in one hand. She also seemed to have sold some. It seemed sympathy was an important factor, thought Hari.

‘Here take some of mine.’ Hari handed more flags to both the children, taking the coins from them.  Carefully, he placed the coin, below the jute sack. Slowly, he started counting. By the time he completed he realized they had already made a hundred rupees. Then he heard some sirens. It was a police van clearing the road.

‘This was bad new, why were they clearing the road?’ wondered Hari. Clear roads meant, no traffic, which meant that there would be no one to buy the flags. He cursed softly, then as he looked closely they were only blocking one side of the road. He went over and asked well-dressed man standing there watching, ‘Bhaia, brother, what is happening?’

‘Children from a school are going to walk down so, the traffic is being regulated,’ the man replied, then as he turned and saw Hari, he grimaced in disgust and walked away. No one liked to be seen talking to a beggar. Hari did not care, what people felt about him; his mind was racing trying to figure out how to make the most of these new developments
On the road where the traffic was still running, Ram and Devi were running around chasing the cars as they pulled up at the signal. Ram hardly reached up to the windows of the cars as he would try to see what was happening behind those tinted glasses. Waving the bunch of flags in his hand and with a big smile upon his face, he looked through the windows of the cars. Then slowly one of the windows would roll down, and a blast of cool air would hit him.

‘How much for one?’ a voice from within would ask Ram.
‘Five rupees is too costly,’ they would say.
‘Don’t buy if you don’t have the money!’ Ram would answer and walk towards the next car.

As the windows rolled down, sometimes they could see children sitting in the back seats, licking colorful ice-creams. Devi had once had a part of an ice-cream. It was a cone thrown out by one of the children sitting in such a car. The taste was heavenly, except for the part where there was some mud, where it had fallen upon the ground. Hari, had told her that each cone cost fifty rupees, neither of them could imagine how the children could throw a cone that cost so much money.

‘How many flags do you have?’ a man had come over and asked looking at Hari’s basket.

‘About fifty Saheb, Sir,’ Hari answered.

‘Is that all, I need about hundred,’ the man said.

‘I have more,’ Hari called all the members of his family over. They counted about sixty flags.

‘What is the price of a flag?’ the man asked.

‘Five rupees,’ Hari replied.

‘I need all of them. The children will march down this street, waving flags. I can buy all of them, but five rupees is too costly the man said.

‘Sir, I have to feed my wife and children besides; I also have to pay the vendor,’ Hari replied.

‘Five rupees is too much. I will buy the whole lot for three rupees each,’ He said.

Hari, did some quick thinking. This man could help clear out his entire stock. The price was low, but what was the guarantee that he could sell off the rest of the flags at five rupees.

‘Please give us four rupees at least,’ Hari pleaded. The man did not budge.

‘My final offer is three fifty, take it or leave it. There are other people who will gladly sell at that price,’ he said.

Hari, accepted his offer, gave the entire bundle of flags to him and walked away with the money, to his corner of the pavement.  There surrounded by his family members. he counted his bounty. He made  about four hundred rupees. After paying of the vendor, he would still have about three hundred rupees.  He hid two hundred and fifty in a hole in the wall. This was his safe deposit locker, this hole which he covered with a loose brick. Fifty rupees in hand, he bought some food from the road side stall. Ravi and Devi, had done a lot of work, so there were some sweets for them as well. They had a full meal after a long time and felt happy and satisfied. The family settled down in their corner of the pavement to watch the show about to begin on the street.

The road had been closed at one side, and there were police jeeps standing by. School children dressed in neat, crisp uniforms, were being lined up. There was a band, and its members were busy polishing their trumpets and wiping the sides of the drum. Teachers and officials were running all around making arrangements and ensuring all was in order. A make-shift  dais had been formed where a flag was to be hoisted. The plan was for a minister to come and hoist the flag. The children would march to the tune of the band and salute the flag. Then everyone would sing the national anthem. With a distribution of sweets, the program would end.

As the program started, Hari and his family members had vantage spots to the show. They cheered for the school children, dressed in their neat uniforms as they marched by. They laughed as Ram tried to imitate their marching action and ended up slipping on the pavement. The minister could not come, so a local leader, out for his morning walk, was quickly brought in to unfurl the national flag. Seeing the flag both Ram and Devi, shouted.

‘Baba, father, it is the same flag that we made,’ both  shouted as Hari nodded his head and smiled back.

As the flag fluttered through the air, the children marching through waved their flags. Ram and Devi, felt very proud, all the rich children were waving the flags they had made. Then the national anthem was played, and everyone stood up.

‘Why do we have to stand?’ Ram asked. Before Hari could reply, a policeman standing nearby hushed them into silence.

Then, there was an announcement of sweets being distributed. All the children gathered there rushed forward including Ram and Devi. There was a mad rush at the stall where the sweets were being distributed, not only the children even elders were pushing and shoving to get to the sweets. Neither Ram nor Devi could come anywhere close to the stall and had to return empty-handed.

‘Why do they have to push,’ remarked Ram to Devi. Slowly, they made their way back across the street to where Hari and Devaki were sitting.

‘They are worse than us; they did not let us come anywhere near the sweets.  There were some who had grabbed more than one packet and were laughing at those who did not get any,’ complained Devi.

The Old Faithful

Tags

real life heroes, sad stories, short stories, short stories from india, short stories from life, stories about corrupt business organizations, stories in simple english

I hated school. Still remember the day my father first took me through the huge iron gates of the building near our house. Father was in the Indian army and a captain then. Those days we were posted at an army base near Mumbai. School was a ten minute walk from home and from the playground, I could see my house

over the boundary walls. Children in nursery were expected to be in class for two hours and the entire time, I would keep looking in the same direction. Father used to drop me at the school on his way to office. Two hours later I used to run back home. Then there were changes in his office hours which made it difficult for him to do take me to school. It was as a solution to this problem, that Maria Das was brought into our lives.

Maria Das, the name meant a servant or follower of Mary. Maria Das, had worked as a waiter at the Army Officers Mess. He was around sixty when I first met him. Even though he was officially retired, he still helped out at the Mess. The only family he had been a wife, who had died years ago, now he lived alone in a room next to the mess.

During the colonial days, the officers in the Indian Army were all British. While the ‘Gora sahib’s’ or white officers as the British were called, sipped their whisky and munched on cucumber sandwiches or what ever it was that they munched on, the

native soldiers observed and learned. Post Independence, Indians got a chance to rise up the ranks. A number of the British mannerisms and attitudes were carried forward, irrespective of their relevance in the Indian context. Maria Das was a great fan of the British whom he had served with all his heart. When they left India, he had reluctantly agreed to work with the Indian replacements.
Tall, thin, white silvery hair, neatly combed to one side, Maria Das was always dressed in clean white full sleeved shirts and dark trousers. A black bow tie held his collar’s together. In his slightly frayed black leather shoes, which he always kept polished and shining, he would cover the distance up our driveway in a few long strides. His job was to take me to school, and later get me back after two hours.
Initially I used to cry on my way to school. Maria Das never tried to cuddle or coddle me; instead he simply diverted my attention elsewhere. He would tell me stories of butterflies that talked and elephants that flew, and before I realized it we would be at the school gates. Soon I started looking forward to these walks to and from school. Not that school became enjoyable; the journey up to it was no longer a burden.

“Come on, baba,” Maria Das used to call me baba.

“You should always be punctual. The British were always punctual,” he would

gently admonish me.

As I skipped towards him, he would ruffle my hair and then taking my bag and water bottle in one hand, holding me with the other, he would lead me into story land.

One year later, father got transferred and we moved to another corner of India. Maria Das was in tears as he waved us goodbye at the railway station.

Ten years later, after roaming all over the country, we returned to the same post near Mumbai. I still hated school, only I did not cry my heart out now. I had a bicycle on which I roamed the entire town, revisiting old haunts. My old school, the house where we had lived, the playground where I used to go to play in the evening, somehow they looked a bit smaller now, from what I remembered of them.

Father was a colonel now and we had a spacious bungalow. The house had large rooms and included a passage in the back with delicately carved wooden rafters to keep out the rain but let in the light.

That year the rains started early. One day while returning from school, I saw my parents standing near the entrance, waiting for me.

“There is someone here whom you should meet,” my father’s voice sounded a bit soft, which worried me a bit. Hoping that it was not my math’s teacher from school come over to complain about my performance, I followed as father lead the way towards the passage at the back of the house.

Thick rain clouds had blocked out the sun and it was slightly dark in the passage. An old man was sitting on the floor eating.

Father turned around and asked me, “Do you remember who he is?”

I tried to remember but could not place him. The old man looked up; when he saw me he slowly got up, wiped his hands and shuffled over. He came up to me, and peered at me for some time, then slowly reached out and ruffled my hair.

“Baba, has grown so tall, just like a Gora sahib” he said

It was Maria Das. He has somehow found out that we were back and had come over to meet us. He was still dressed in his customary white shirt, bow tie, black trouser ensemble. Only they looked frayed and grey from wear.

“I had brought this for you, “he offered me a small packet of chocolates.

I was feeling a bit awkward standing there, so managed a smile and slowly slid away.

Father gave Maria Das a hundred rupees and some clothes. He insisted that I give him the gifts. Taking them he gave me a half wave – half salute, thanked my parents for the food and then looking at me one last time shuffled towards the

gate.

It had started to drizzle outside. Father asked him to wait for the rain to stop, he smiled and replied that it didn’t matter as he was very happy, for he had met the ‘Chota Sahib’ or little master.

A few days later father told us that Maria Das had passed away in his sleep in his room. He was buried in the cemetery near the old British church.

A sad story from the past.

Tags

real life heroes, sad stories, short stories, short stories from india, short stories from life, stories about corrupt business organizations, stories in simple english

A few days back while cleaning my desk I came across an old pocket-diary. I had used it to record my daily expenses, while on a trip to Kolkata. A trip I had made some twenty years ago.
The trip to Kolkata had been planned at the last-minute. The train as usual was late and instead of reaching Howrah terminus early in the morning as mentioned in the ticket, it pulled in late after lunch. By the time the taxi had deposited me outside the hotel it was already four in the evening and was already getting dark. The sun sets early in the eastern parts of India and to add to my woes there was a power failure in the hotel.
At the reception desk we completed the paperwork with the help of a candle and a torch. As the lifts were also not working a small boy was called in to carry my luggage up the three floors to my room. The boy looked hardly ten years old, so I politely refused his assistance and carried my luggage up myself. By the time I reached the third floor I was completely out of breath. The passage was dark and before my eyes could get used to it, I bumped into a man coming in from the opposite direction.

He mumbled an apology and offered to carry one of my bags to my room. Too tired to refuse, I gladly allowed him to do so. His accented Hindi told me that he was from my home state of Kerala and we immediately shifted to our native tongue, Malayalam. In the room as I threw open the windows and collapsed on the bed, I noticed that he was in his early fifties. Tall, well-built, gray hair with a thick mustache it looked like he had not shaved for a few days for his chin was covered under a gray-black stubble.
He did not seem to be much interested in talking and after putting the bag down he excused himself and started to leave. I thanked him adding that I hoped to meet him again at dinner. He did not reply as he left. Glad to have the room all to myself I kicked off my shoes and went off to sleep.

A knock on the door woke me up. It was the hotel boy, who wanted to know if I wanted to order my dinner in my room or if I would be coming down to the dining hall. A glance at my watch told me that I had been sleeping for the past three hours and it was around seven. I asked the boy what was available in the kitchen and also checked the rates.  The food provided by the hotel seemed to be costly. The boy noticed my hesitation in ordering from his hotel let me know that there were restaurants right outside which offered a better selection and were also a lot cheaper. This seemed like a sensible thing to do, so tipped the boy and decided to check it out myself. As it was I was alone there and had nothing else to do.

On the street, I ran into the same gentleman who had helped me earlier with the luggage. He was standing with his back against a street lamp as if trying to decide where to go. Politely I invited him to join me for dinner. He seemed reluctant at first, but then agreed as I insisted.
Over dinner, which he didn’t seem to enjoy, he was quiet and I ended up doing all the talking. By the time I stopped talking, he knew everything about me and we still had half of the dinner to finish off. There was an awkward silence, somewhat reluctantly he started.

He told me that he was a retired army soldier, and was now working for a company in Kerala as a driver. He was in Kolkata for his son, who was an electronics engineer and had been was working with a firm there. The firm unknown to its employees was involved in some illegal activities. The police raided its office and all the employees in the Kolkata office including this man’s son were arrested and thrown behind bars. The firm owners who had prior information of the raid had managed to slip out of the country.
As he was telling me all this his voice choked and tears started coursing down his face. People sitting near us in the hotel were getting a bit uncomfortable and so were the waiters who all seemed to be hovering around our table. The man anyway was not eating much; I quickly settled the bills and took him outside on the street.
On the street he continued with his story and told me how he had pawned his wife’s jewelry and disposed of a small field the only property that he owned and with that money had reached Kolkata determined to get his son out. He had engaged the services of a lawyer, who was proving to be useless. The courts had already rejected two bail petitions and had extended the jail sentence. Court hearings were scheduled every other week which the man attended hoping for a miracle.
My stay in Kolkata was for a month. I had been sent there to scout for a new office location and interview the staff that was to join once the office opened. This work hardly took me more than a few hours a day and I would soon be back at the hotel. The man’s room was next to mine and I could see him sitting near the window looking out in the distance, a sad look on his face. It was impossible for me to ignore him now that I knew his whole story. I offered to accompany him on his visits to the various government offices. He neither accepted nor refused my offer of assistance.
Even though he was more than twice my age, I was having a tough time keeping pace with him. The very thought of his son languishing in a jail just a few kilometers from where he was, seemed to infuse him with an energy which was beyond my understanding. Like a man possessed he went from court room to jail, police stations to lawyers’ chambers, but it seemed like there was no way to get the boy out.
It was a painful sight to see the way the accused were treated. A police van would back up near the temporary jail adjoining the court. A long line of men awaiting trial for various cases would be pushed out. Some would be in handcuffs, while others had their hands tied together with ropes. Like cattle they would be herded into the temporary cells awaiting their turn to appear before the judges. The man would rush forward as soon as he saw his son, only to be pushed back by the policemen. The boy who was about twenty would slowly shuffle towards the cells, eyes cast on the ground not wanting to see his father or face the world in such a state.

In the courtroom, the handcuffs would be removed for the duration while they were presented before the judges. Those lucky enough to get bail would walk away free, while those not-so-lucky, would be handcuffed again, and herded back to the waiting police vans.
The father would be running around trying to get some foodstuffs to his son. The rules allowed relatives to bring food and a change of clothes to the prisoners.  The problem was that the food and clothes had to pass though the hands of the policemen and bullies first before reaching the prisoners. You had to bribe each of the policemen to get things moving. Pay too less and the money would disappear and no one would get any help. Pay too much and then they would realize that you had a lot of money and would ask for more. It was sickening to see the father negotiate with the corrupt policemen, some of whom even used to put their hands in the father’s pocket to take the money out. He showed no sign of emotion, smiling and joking with the policemen, consoling and comforting his son, it may have been his army training coming to the fore.

Once back at the hotel as the father in him would slowly take over and go over the scenes of his son stepping out of the police van with his hands tied together, he would burst into tears. The man seemed to hardly eat or sleep. Every day I had to force him to come along and have something to eat.

Some days at two in the night, he would come over and knock at my door. With tears in his eyes, he would tell me stories of how he had brought up his son. He would tell me how he had been a strict father and had managed his family of five, including his three children and wife on his meager salary. He told me how he never had the money to buy his children different toys and used to ask them to share amongst themselves. The boy now in jail was his eldest, while below him there was a boy and a girl. The younger children adored their brother. The father told me how his eldest son had never complained or came to him asking for costly presents or clothes like other boys his age. The story of how he had stood first in the district had even got a mention in the local newspapers. This son was the hope of the family, the father had even dreamt of retiring soon now that his son had a job and had started to earn. All those dreams were now smashed. The father repeatedly asked me the same question, as to what wrong had he or his son done, to deserve this fate? I was about twenty-two then and had no idea how to react in such a situation. All I could do was to hold his hand and try to comfort him as he sobbed.
There was a massive church within walking distance of our hotel. The man was a Christian; so I suggested that he could go there as it would help give him some peace of mind. Having been a soldier he was not very enthusiastic about the idea, but I dragged him along. So even though I am a Hindu, for the first and only time in my life, I went into a church.

I was a bit scared of offending my own gods, so I occupied one of the benches in the last row of this empty church. I watched the father make his way up to the statue of a young man, nailed to a cross and looking up at the skies. The father knelt down before the statue and remained there for some time. While back in the corner, I was not sure what to do in a church. I did something which came naturally in a place of worship. I closed my eyes and prayed to a different set of gods. I prayed for this man and for his son and for a miracle to happen for this family. A few days later I had to return urgently back to Mumbai. The man hugged me as I was leaving and took down my contact details. I also wrote down his number in the little diary and then got on the taxi which took me to the railway station.

That weekend while in Mumbai I got a call from the father. His son had finally been granted bail. The court ruled that the employees were not to be held accountable for the misdeeds of their employers and had let everyone free, while issuing orders for the employer’s arrest. The father and son were on their way back to Kerala. He had called me from the railway station. The father also said that at the time when he had met me he was on the verge of committing suicide and it had been my presence there that had somehow held him together. I didn’t know if he really meant it or was just making it up, but that choked me up. I wished them all the best and put the phone down.

The diary had bought all these memories flooded back. As I thumbed through the pages I found the phone number of the father which I had jotted down sitting in the taxi on my way back. I thought of calling him and immediately picked my cell and dialed up the number.
I could hear the dial tone and then the phone ringing thousands of kilometers away, then the sound of a man answered the call.

“Hello,” it was a voice which seemed to belong to an old man.
Something inside me clicked and I disconnected the phone. There are some memories in life which are best left forgotten. Painful episodes from the past which sear you so deeply, that you would not want to revisit them even in your thoughts. I would like to think that the family has moved on, the father would by now have retired and living if not a comfortable at least a peaceful life. The son was a smart and intelligent boy, who I am sure must have started a different career and would be thankful to God and to the great family he had for standing by him during that most horrible phase of his life.
So I quietly tore up the phone number and threw it away.

I hate dogs

Tags

sad stories, short stories, short stories from india, short stories from life, stories about dogs, stories in simple english

I was watching a movie on T.V. The movie was a modern version of a true story from Japan of a dog-named Hachiko. The story goes that Hachi used to follow his master to the railway station every day as he left for work. Every evening, Hachi would be there again waiting as the train would pull in. One day the master died while at work. Hachi apparently kept a vigil at the station for almost nine years hoping that one day his master would eventually return. The townsfolk immortalized Hachi by setting up a statue in his memory.

The story and the movie brought tears to my wife’s eyes and she started with one of her long-standing requests.

“We should get a dog”, she said between sobs.

Tried arguing with her but that as usual did not work. My problem was that I hated dogs. I was not born this way. I came from a family where we loved dogs. My father was in the army. Over the year’s we had run through a whole range of pets from Pomeranian to dachshunds.
After my father’s retirement, we had settled down in Kerala, a state at the southernmost tip of India. One day my father brought home a Pomeranian puppy, the size of a white tennis ball, which was immediately christened Bobby. This name had been used up once before in the family. Years ago when I was just a toddler, we had a Sydney silky named Bobby.
This new version of Bobby must have been a month old when he came to our house. We had put a cushion in the garage for him, but Bobby did not seem to like it at all. During the daytime, Bobby liked to explore the house. He had a knack of squeezing into the most impossible of spots. Like the time, he climbed through the car tires and tried to get into the car from there. Another time he managed to be stuck in the grille built under the main gate. It was a full-time task keeping watch on Bobby. Nighttime was different and a whole lot worse. It seemed as if he still had not got over the separation from his mother and used to wail throughout the night.

A couple of days of this and the neighbors started complaining.  Since my bedroom was the closest to the garage, I was also having a tough time sleeping. Therefore, I carried Bobby into my room and let him sleep on the carpet near my bed. Once the lights were off, he would try to climb up onto the bed. I would hang my arm off the side of the bed to let him know that I was there. Bobby would cuddle up against my hand and doze off. This phase lasted a few days. He was growing up fast, and soon got used to our home and its surroundings. He even became an expert at chasing birds that used to peck at the rosebuds in our garden.

Then I got a job and left home. The job involved a training period of a year, at locations spread across the country. A year later, I came home on a short leave of two weeks.  I reached home at one in the night. We have a bell right outside the main gate. I must have tried ringing it a thousand times, but both of my parents who were then in their early sixties, continued sleeping peacefully. I did not want to bang on the iron gates and wake up the entire neighborhood.

Then I heard Bobby. I could hear him running on the other side of the gate, barking his head off. I realized that if I did not shut him up soon the entire neighborhood would get up anyway. Our gate is a huge metallic affair and does not show much of what is happening on the other side. The lower part of the gate though had a grill like structure. This was the same grille where Bobby used to get his head stuck. Now he was grown up and I could see his nose poking through.

He was barking fiercely, so even though I was a bit worried, I held out my hand for him to sniff. Suddenly the barking stopped. He must have remembered the smell of my hand since I noticed that he had started wagging his tail vigorously and was clawing at the gates. I threw my bag over the wall and climbed up the gate like a thief. Bobby had recognized me and sure seemed to be happy. He was running all around me, licking me, smelling me; it sure felt good to be home.

Normally we used to keep the gates locked, so that Bobby had a free run of the compound. A day before the end of my leave, someone had left the gates open and Bobby ran out into the street and came under the wheels of a passing truck. None of the wheels had touched him but the shock proved too much and his heart just stopped. I buried him in our backyard. That night no one ate anything at home. Early the next morning I returned.

Now that is why I hate dogs, they have this nasty habit of becoming a part of your family. They wriggle their way into your heart and eventually end up breaking it when they leave you.
Did not want to share all this with my wife, so changed the channel and started watching Godzilla.

 

The Patriot

Tags

real life heroes, sad stories, short stories, short stories from india, short stories from life, stories about corrupt business organizations, stories in simple english

During the 1940’s the Indian Independence movement was at its peak. Under Mahatma Gandhi leadership the nation had united as one and risen against the colonial masters. Victorious but badly bruised in the World wars, Britain was in no

shape to manage such a huge empire, and was eager to make a graceful exit. The King of our state had declared his allegiance to the British monarch long back. The villagers on their part used to pay up their taxes or whatever part of it they could manage and lived peacefully.  One of these villagers was my grandfather, who owned a couple of shops, where he sold everything from groceries to fine muslin cloth.
Earlier the British officers hardly ever came to our village as there was nothing there of interest nor anything of value that could be carted back home. That was until one of the princes from the royal family, while on a hunting expedition discovered a natural beach near our village, hidden, behind a thick wall of trees. The prince had the jungle cleared and built a palace there. This palace was used as a beach resort, a place where the rich and powerful would come over to relax and get away from the tensions brewing in the capital. Overnight our village became an important transit point for a regular stream of visiting dignitaries, mostly members of the royal family and British officers.

Grandfather being one of the prominent business-men in the area was usually called upon to provide supplies for the guests at the palace. Requests would come in for silk dresses, curtains, carpets, muslin cloth, items not affordable nor commonly used by the locals and as such never stocked. Grandfather would have welcomed this extra business had it not been for the fact that the payments for these goods never came on time. On the rare occasions when the royal guests did pay up, they would haggle more than the locals.

Grandfather had a big family to take care of. He and grandmother had ten children; besides these there were two extra family members who lived with us. The two extra mouths were grandmother’s brothers, both of whom were older than her and had no other place to go. Kind hearted that he was grandfather did not mind them, for compared to the so called nobles who never paid their bills; these were after all family members. The brothers, as was the practice in those days were named after the gods, the elder one was called Hari and the younger was Narayanan. Unlike their names their behavior and habits were far from godly. Regular fixtures at all the wrong places in the village, they used to frequently get into brawls and were considered a disgrace to the family name. The brothers though had their areas of specialization, Hari the older of the two, was a wrestler and had the size and physique that went with it. The younger brother, Narayanan was a dreamer and a poet who used to write passable lines of verse, whenever he was sober. Grandfather had initially tried to get them to help out at his shops but soon realized that their surly behavior was driving away even the regular customers. Finally he agreed to pay them a monthly dole, just to keep them from bothering him.

With the independence movement moving into its final stages, talk of the British leaving India was now being discussed openly. Parties at the beach palace were also getting wilder and the order lists longer.  With the possibility of a change in the administration post-independence, the officials both Indian and British were now on a looting spree. With almost no chances of any payments coming in once these officials were removed, Grandfather on the advice of his brother in laws, decided to hoard his existing stocks.
We had farm lands in different corners of the village, and on these farms were small huts where the workers used to keep their implements. Huge holes were dug inside these huts, which were then stuffed with crates full of the expensive items from our shops. Grandfather had never perfected the art of lying convincingly, so he was persuaded by the family members to go on a pilgrimage and in his absence, management of the shops was taken over by the two brothers. One look at Hari’s massive arms and most of the palace employees would leave without pestering us.
The arrangement seemed to work perfectly for a few weeks, until one day the local British police inspector himself came over to enquire why none of the items in his list were being delivered. Riding a splendid white horse and in full official dress, a crowd of villagers quickly formed around him eager not to miss any of this free entertainment. It was not normal for a British officer to move around like this unescorted, maybe, he was on his way to the beach resort and had thought of dropping by to try and rough up the local shopkeepers.
Hari, who was minding the shop that day, came out and even though like the rest of the villagers he did not understand a word of what the officer was saying, he knew the reason why he was there. He went up to the British officer and shook his head and said the only English word he knew.

“No, No” he said and shook his head vigorously to emphasize the point.

The angry officer was furious now and started shouting, his face turning a bright red much to the delight of the gathered audience. He was nudging the horse with his boots and seemed to be about to ride into the shop, horse and all, when Hari grabbed hold of the horse’s reigns and pulled. The sudden action and Hari’s strength was too much for the horse which reared and threw its rider to the ground.
The officer landed flat on his back. The previous night’s rain and people walking through it had already churned up the mud outside the shop into a sticky paste and it was into this that the officer was now spread out. The sight of the young British officer on the ground, with mud sticking to his uniform and Hari holding on to the reins of the horse was more than the crowds gathered there had expected to see. Some of the more aggressive people in the crowd were now cheering and started shouting slogans in support of the freedom struggle, while the others were trying to silence them. The officer got up with as much dignity as possible for one in his condition and started shouting at Hari.
Hari, who for the first time in his life was being appreciated by his fellow villagers, was not going to let some young, white man dominate him and that too in his own village. He was also angry now and moved menacingly towards the young officer. What happened next is a part of local folklore; the young officer pulled out his pistol and shot at Hari from point blank range.
Caught abruptly by the bullet, Hari it is said stood there on the spot for a few seconds and then slowly collapsed and fell back on the ground. The officer got on his horse and even before anyone could react, left the scene of the crime. By the time the crowd realized what had happened or could react, it was already too late for Hari.

Later on the enquiry into the incident would claim that Hari had threatened the life of the police office, who already surrounded by a hostile crowd, had to fire to save himself. He got away with a reprimand and was immediately transferred to another state. The incident got a passing reference in one of the regional papers and was hardly noticed as more important events dominated the headlines. India got its independence, the British sailed out, the King got replaced and democracy moved in.

While in our village people decided to honor Hari, and declare him as a freedom fighter. Some argued against this as they considered him unfit for such an honor. Then there were saner voices in the crowd who reminded the others that not everyone was perfect and you needed all types to make the world. Today in our village we have a community park where children come to play and the old sit and gossip. In the middle of this park is a plaque which describes how a young man gave up his life to help build this nation. Above the plaque is a bronze statue of a young man, who stares out as if still watching over the people in his village.