The Little One

The Little One

1

Because it was well known

that I had no children,

I was always embarrassed

-although I love her,

to call her my daughter.

Because for one thing-

she was not, and for another-

though discarded and in disuse,

she had a father,

whose name she carried.

Until, one day,

a friend speaking to another,

smoothly introduced her

as my daughter

and I,

was surprised,

when the other

did not object

or think it irregular!

2

When my wife,

I and she,

had all given him

our names-

to fill a form,

the clerk in the college office,

looked embarrassed-

but did not ask,

how we could make a family?

To comfort him,

I said briefly,

“We are a modern Indian family.”

3

“Don’t leave him any money”,

said the jealous relative

to my mother.

“He will pass it on that girl,

She is not even our caste!”

And my mother,

though old, clear headed,

said,

“Mind your own business”.

Later, in a pensive mood,

my mother,

when we were alone said,

“Do what you will,

with my money.

But educate her first,

till she can study no more.

She is after all-

a girl child and

will bring you much credit”.

4

“How can he be your uncle?”,

Asked her nosy teacher,

“Your name is different from his’.”

She, then only eight years old,

stood in silence

and did not reply.

Years later,

when asked the same question,

with a twinkling eye,

she replied,

“Many years ago,

when I came here from Kolkata,

I found him in my neighbourhood

-lonely, sad

(and also probably hungry).

So I adopted him

as my Uncle.

My Father-2

My Father-2

“He has changed so much,

You can scarcely recognize him”,

Said my mother, of my father,

In one of my usual dreams.

I was greatly pained,

Wondered, if I had not done

The right thing by him-

In his old age.

After all, I had not seen him for five years

-since his death.

I went looking for him

And found him-

Clad in his home dhoti

And light blue shirt,

His hair disheveled in the usual way,

As it always did-

After his bath and before he had combed it-

With his stainless steel comb,

Made in America, with

A life time guarantee.

(It is now safely pouched in my travel bag.)

He did not look bad at all-

Spoke his usual jokes and

It was then that I noticed the change

-he laughed with remarkable ease

And did not wheeze,

Breathlessly, as he had always done.

I woke with relief to realize,

That there is no asthma in after-life.

Fever

Fever

When my brother, his wife

and their daughter,

until now of robust health,

took turns to fall ill with fever,

each for several weeks,

the new maid servant-

young, with yards of coal-black hair,

oiled, coiled and knotted in a bun,

said firmly,

“It is due to change in the water.”

The earlier maid servant

visiting from afar

out of loyalty gathered over the years-

her hair, thinning and grey,

head filled with wisdom,

said,

“It is due to change in the water.

The Delhi waters are healthy.”

My sister,

Government doctor,

in her usual manner,

pursed her lips

and said,

“It is a genetic disposition!”

When I,

with my new found knowledge asked,

“How can a married couple share genes?”,

She stiffened her lips further

and only glared in reply.

And I,

many years younger

wilted in silence.

Only recently,

my mother- in the evening of her life,

Less discrete, than in years past,

said reflectively,

“Your brother and his wife are

cousins- three branches removed

in the family tree.

My Pet Dog

My Pet Dog

“The dog has no caste”, said my

very upper-caste mother,

as she washed the red meat

with her vegetarian hands

and set it to cook

on an oil stove in the outer courtyard.

And he, begged and yelped in impatience

for his meal to cool.

At other times, he was always

silent, dignified, patient.

Even when,

my infant niece, rained torture-

sat on him with a thud,

rolled over into the hollow of his stomach,

tugged at his tail

and

plunged her baby fingers into his nose.

Only once,

when the neighbour’s mongrel,

emboldened by his master’s presence,

barked sharp aggression,

something, gave way.

The wolf within uncoiled its fangs.

He left a deadly imprint-

a Gothic arch of red beads

on the other’s shoulder.

The mongrel in terror

screamed, inconsolable.