Fighting Depression and other Appurtenances of Failure (Guest Column: The Viewspaper -- for the youth)

(The Viewspaper:  http://theviewspaper.net/fighting-depression-and-other-appurtenances-of-failure/)

When you are good, and know that you are good, but don’t seem to be getting anywhere in life despite all those qualities and the sweat on your brow, it hurts. Naturally. It’s probably worse when you see so many less deserving people barging ahead, doing so much better for themselves – making it to the cut-off lists in prominent colleges, landing themselves up in the right jobs, earning heftier packages, maybe even proving luckier in love – while you have ‘failed’ to get there.

Not surprisingly, the jaws of depression – which seem to hang permanently open in today’s world – claim quite a few of such souls every day. True, it is a simpler affair when you have a flesh and blood enemy in front of you to punch but, when it’s such an intangible-abstract thing as destiny throwing a spanner in the works, how do you fight back?

Yet, the feeling of liberation and victory emerge from exactly that – conquering circumstances and trampling over failure, or what we perceive as failure. Unfortunately, in India especially, we are always all too quick, all too eager to label people as failures – right from lower kindergarten days. The huge stigma associated with the word is quite enough to keep most people terrorised throughout life. Truth be told, the whole problem with us is that we don’t allow ourselves to fail often enough.

What does failure mean anyway? It does not mean you are incapable of doing something; neither does it mean you will never get anywhere simply because you haven’t got there yet. All it means is that so far you have not done something right. Or maybe this particular time, you didn’t make the correct choices, think properly, plan ahead, or deal with a situation as you should have done.

Ninety nine per cent of the time people overestimate their problems, and underestimate their strength. Strength is not always about bashing someone up. A lot of times it is about maintaining your sanity in trying times. It is about endurance and patience, and lying low till the storm has passed. It is about going silently with the flow. It is about picking up your pieces, putting yourself together, and moving on. Sometimes, it is also about not allowing yourself to turn suicidal. If you don’t respect your life, no one else will.

So, to begin with, allow yourself to fail. Think of it as an opportunity to take a breather, step back, think things over, analyse, and re-plan. Perhaps you need a different perspective.

Your past does not necessarily determine your destiny. What you do from this moment onwards will. Learn from your ‘failures’.

Exercise. Depression is often known to be a cause of obesity. If you cannot wake up early morning and do all those painful twists and turns, never mind. Do what you enjoy most – go for a walk in the park or lock yourself up in your room, switch on the music, and dance in front of the mirror for ten minutes. Do it every day. It works!

Look good to feel good. It’s not a cliché; it’s the truth. Dress to kill at all times, and you are bound to feel much better about yourself.

Keep the company of people who make you feel great. Say a firm no to all negative emotions, vibes, and conversations. Say to yourself, ‘What if depression causes Cancer? I refuse to be depressed!’

Do what you are best at. Play a game you are confident of winning, hit the drums in an orchestra, or write a bestseller. Just do something that makes you happy and boosts your self-belief.

Count your blessings. Yes, another cliché you must learn to respect – you are still better off than a million other human beings.

Look at the brighter side. Every cloud has a silver lining; behind the cloud the sun is shining.

Lastly, always remember: nothing in the world is permanent, including this storm or impasse. This too shall pass. The only thing that’s final in the world is death – and you are not dead yet!

Divya Dubey is the publisher of Gyaana Books, Delhi. Turtle Dove: Six Simple Tales is her first collection of short stories. Her other short fiction has appeared in literary journals such as Out–of-Print, Muse India, Kindle Magazine, Urban Voice 4, and New Fiction Journal (forthcoming). She has also written for The Hindu Literary Review, Hindustan Times, Indo-Asian News Service, Pravasi Bharatiya, All About Book Publishing, Book Link, The Publisher’s Post, Chicken Soup for the Indian Couple’s Soul, etc. She writes a column for YourStory.in, and occasionally conducts lectures on publishing and creative writing. She was shortlisted for the British Council Young Creative Entrepreneur Award, Publishing, 2010.

The Patron (fiction)

(Fiction: Published in Kindle Magazine, May 2011 issue)

‘Didi, look!’ Babli’s excited voice broke upon Purabi’s reverie. ‘Isn’t that the coffee shop we were looking for? The one Anju Aunty mentioned? See, it’s got that funny round coffee cup on that board – just like the one we saw in Anju Aunty’s car.’

Purabi quit her depressing thoughts for a moment, and pushed the red cotton skirt back to the miscellany of fashion items splayed across the counter. She looked towards the little cafe in the middle of the mall. Babli’s finger was still pointing towards it.

Yes, there it was – Lotsa Coffee, the new coffee shop that had come up in place of the old Barista. She was amazed that she hadn’t spotted it and Babli had, even though Babli had never been to the mall before. It was small but swanky, Purabi had to concede, and even looked cozy without the college crowd marring the atmosphere at this hour. College crowds had begun to get on her nerves. Was that a sign of ageing too? The thought gave her goose bumps.

‘Didi?’ Babli’s voice jingled in her ear. ‘That’s the one, na, with that fat lady arguing with that man at the counter?’

Purabi joined her conspiratorial giggle and nodded. ‘Shh, you shouldn’t point at people like that, Babli! It’s rude.’

‘Oh, sorry, didi,’ said Babli in English, and quickly pulled her hand back.

‘It’s okay,’ Purabi gave her a reassuring smile. She would have to choose her cards carefully if she were to succeed in getting what she wanted. Her aunt Anju, and a few colleagues, had begun to reproach her too much for having a non-existent personal life. After much thought, she had decided to change all that. 

And it would be fun if she did manage to accomplish what she had set out to do. It would change a life and, she, Purabi, would be the great patron, the champion. People needlessly bitched about her behind her back as an interfering busybody, even though she was always trying to help people around her – lost and powerless souls who had nobody to guide them in life. It was amazing how ungrateful most of them had been.

‘You just need to learn a few things, and then you’ll be a proper memsahib,’ she pinched Babli’s cheek.

‘Shall we move, didi?’ Babli threw her green-and-gold tassel back, pleased.  ‘Why, aren’t you buying that red skirt?’

‘No, I didn’t like it.’

‘Why, didi? It’s so pretty. And it would suit you really well.’

‘Nah, let’s go.’ She took Babli’s hand and began to walk, rapidly now, towards the new cafeteria. 

By the time they reached the venue, the fat lady had left, and it was only the two of them standing on the wooden floorboards, their faces lit by soft pedestal lamps that lent an old-world feel to the place. Babli stopped and leaned against a table tentatively, while Purabi marched ahead to the counter to place the order for both of them. Babli stared at Purabi’s Capris and stilettos, still awestruck.  

‘Shall we?’ Purabi led the young girl away to a table for two at the corner. She carefully hung her leather bag on her chair as they sat down.

‘Wow, didi,’ Babli offered in English before proceeding in Hindi. ‘This shop is so beautiful! Thank you for bringing me here.’

Babli flitted and fluttered round the displays at the coffee shop, inhaling new aromas. The most commonplace things seemed to cast a spell on her, whether it was the lighting, the heavy chairs, the chequered tablecloth, or the cutlery. But then, Puabi realised, it must be all new and magnificent to her young maid. To someone who lived in a one-room hovel next to an open drain somewhere in the jhuggi-jhopdi colony that had illegally crept up behind the railway line, the mall and its chic shops were bound to feel divine.

‘There, have it,’ she said kindly, placing the cold coffee in front of Babli, whose eyes smiled at the treat. Today, Purabi was in a mood to indulge her. She needed this distraction. She had decided to give office thoughts a holiday.

‘Wow, didi, such a huge glass!’

Yes, and it costs one third her salary, Purabi couldn’t help thinking, as the thirsty girl washed down the contents in a single swig.  Purabi, however, brooded over hers, staring and stirring at intervals.

People walked in and out of the shop all the time, but Babli’s companion barely took notice. Purabi was lost in her own maze, her eyelids heavy, and Babli felt content just sitting where she was.

‘Does this mall always remain so cool, didi?’

‘I guess so. They never switch the AC off as far as I know.’

‘And it’s open all days of the week?’

Purabi nodded, bored.

‘What fun to slip here when there’s no electricity at home! You must be here quite often with your friends?’

‘Friends?’ Purabi uttered the word as if pronouncing it for the first time in her life.

‘Oh yes, didi!’

‘I don’t have any friends.’

‘Oh!’ Babli was stumped.  ‘But, how can you not? You have everything!’

Everything…

‘Munna chacha told me all about your office – the polished glass doors, the giant centre table, and vases with fresh flowers.’ Babli smiled, suddenly embarrassed. ‘He went to drop your tiffin box one day.’

‘Ah, I see,’ Purabi’s eyes narrowed unconsciously. The servants and their extended families! 

Families always complicated matters. Who knew that better than her? She knew Babli was close to her chacha and her ma the most. She was constantly chattering about them even though it was she who had moulded the girl, really. Babli had been such an ignoramus when she came. She had taught her manners, and English phrases. She had taught her to wear a cooking apron when she cooked, and tie her hair neatly so that her oily locks wouldn’t stray into the wok. She had taught her to live like a human being. And yet, she rarely heard herself mentioned in any of Babli’s conversations with other people.

Purabi’s thoughts meandered to all the people in the world who could qualify as her friends.  Her unpeopled life offered her just a fistful, and Marisha was perhaps the only one who came closest.

Strange? Not really.  Purabi had never had the time. She had been too busy mountain-climbing. Of a different kind. The mountain of professional excellence. She had joined India’s largest publishing company as a junior editor, been promoted to senior editor, commissioning, and then managing editor, between a few blinks of the eye. Soon, she would be publishing manager. She could see it in that straight, dark line running deep across her palm. And she was barely thirty-five.

Marisha had been the only one who had adopted Purabi as a friend-philosopher-guide without question, right in class five. That stupid girl could never take any decision on her own! Once, Purabi had even had to coax her to run away from home to teach her Hitler mother a lesson. Really, her mother had no right to scold her daughter like that. So what if Marisha had flunked her Science exam because they had spent the week stealthily watching movies in her house?

Purabi had thought of suggesting a suicide attempt to her first – it would have been so much more enthralling – but then decided against it. What if something went wrong? Marisha was so dumb; you couldn’t expect her to do anything right! It might have made Purabi end up behind bars. What if they tried her for murder? There was too much risk.

Had it not been for Purabi’s supervision and watchfulness, Marisha would have been devoured by the wild wolves around long ago. Well, she was, eventually, wasn’t she? All because Purabi had got distracted and loosened the collar around her best friend’s neck for some weeks.

She had warned Marisha against Gaurav but, for the first time in her life, Marisha had gone against her advice and married the piddly store manager! So what if he worked for the biggest and best-known retail chain in town? He was still only a store manager, besides being such an opinionated fool! He never agreed with anything she said! And that, Purabi thought, was his most serious defect.

She was amazed that all their gang had actually turned up at Marisha’s wedding and rejoiced! Or that’s what she had been told. She never did go across. She couldn’t bear to be at the wedding after that silly girl had dumped her advice in the bin and married the wretch.  

Initially, Marisha had made all the effort at re-connecting. After all, they’d been dubbed as Siamese Twins for a whole year at university. But Purabi was always busy: meetings, travel, conferences, book launches.

Marisha had found solace in three children instead and deleted her from her life. She always seemed quite joyful and contented, but Purabi knew it was only pretence. What else could it be? How could any woman be happy being a full-time housewife and mother? There was a whole career she had sacrificed for her stupid family life – as she called it – as if such a thing existed! It was a crude myth propagated by a bunch of indolent, conservative fools. The path to the top had no place for such fantasies.

+++

There had been Vipul, of course – the devoted Vipul Pandit.

‘Mayank is getting a package of five lakhs, Sudeep is getting a package of seven. I’m not getting anything,’ she remembered him complaining morosely, his long jaw dropping almost to his chest. Only the names and the figures altered every time they met. The rest of the report stayed the same.

Vipul had been sweet though, she couldn’t deny. He was always the first one to notice her sparkling new eye shadow, new slacks, new boots – things she really wished other guys, who mattered, would notice. Vipul accompanied her to the doctor, offered to fetch her clothes from the local drycleaner, stood in long queues to buy her air tickets – regularly.

But she couldn’t talk to him. All he had ever read in his life was account books and tax documents.

‘Let’s go to watch Macbeth at Siri Fort today. It a brilliant play,’ she would say.

‘Er … can we go for a Hindi film instead? I’ll fall asleep in the theatre like last time, and then you’ll be mad at me all over again.’

And he could be so rude at times. Once he had come home and left without even waiting for her to finish a phone call! All right, so she had invited him at twelve and he was bang on time. But she was discussing Freud and Victorian literature with Kartikay on the phone (and he was a prospective boyfriend!). So Vipul sat pretending to read a sports magazine. Serious discussions do take time, everyone knows, so what if it was two-thirty by the time she finished? And then Vipul left mumbling a barely audible goodbye before she could even hang up! His fault, not hers – obviously. Why couldn’t he wait for another five minutes if he had waited so long anyway? Nerd.

‘Did he propose you?’ Vipul had enquired on the phone an hour later.

‘What?’

‘Did he propooose you?’

‘You mean – propose to you – don’t you?’

‘Same difference.’

‘No, actually, he didn’t,’ she had sighed, and poured out her woes to his reluctant but relieved ears.

Two years later she had turned down Vipul’s marriage proposal, and he had gone and got himself a wife from the States – on the rebound. An ugly young thing. Her thighs would have put a rhino to shame, thought Purabi in disgust. Fine; so Vipul was a dumb ass. But what was wrong with Rajesh, Shiva, and Biswas? Or even Joy? – throwing admiring glances at that clumsy little pachyderm?

And Vipul was devoted to her like a spaniel! That meant he had never really loved Purabi in the first place! She felt vindicated. Only sometimes she missed him.

+++

Then there had been Priyamvada for a while – Priyamvada, who had tugged at her motherly emotions like no one else before. She used to be a junior editor on her team some years ago. Priyamvada had knelt before her like an apprentice, and Purabi had taken her under her wing – even invited her to stay over at times.

It used to be a popular belief in office that everybody revered Priyamvada’s husband. There was a considerable age difference between husband and wife and really, Priyamvada was quite a child. She believed Rahul was earning enough for both of them to live comfortably, and she was working simply for pleasure – wandering about aimlessly, un-ambitiously. Mad child!

Of course Purabi had showed Rahul his place! She had to. Nobody else would have ever had the guts. She had always known he couldn’t be as grand and upright as people thought him to be. He was ruining Priyamvada’s chances to make a career for herself completely by encouraging her dreaminess!

+++

‘How can a good editor like you sacrifice a career for a silly husband?’ Purabi said to her pupil. ‘Every woman has a husband! How many have a career? Look at me! Didn’t I sacrifice my marriage for my career? You have to make a choice. You must make a choice. Would you like to live in his shadow forever, or build an independent identity for yourself? I chose autonomy over Shantanu – and see where I am today.’

‘But Purabi di,’ Priyamvada looked timidly at her proud face.  ‘We – we want to have a child now,’ she confessed guiltily. ‘Rahul will complete fifteen years at his company soon, and he’ll be promoted. We’re sure of that. I – we –’

‘Tchah!’ Purabi raised her hand to interject. ‘Priyam, Priyam, Priyam! A child will seal your fate for good! Then you’ll never be a senior editor, or a publishing manager – ever! Think! Would you ever find the time? Never! Look at me!’

‘But di –’

‘Your choice, Priyam.’ Purabi shrugged and haughtily walked away.

+++

People whispered behind Purabi’s back that she had ruined Priyamvada’s life. She insisted it wasn’t true. Well, all right, she had been the one who had encouraged Priyamvada initially.  The girl had been desperate for her approval. But Purabi refused to admit that she had goaded the juvenile editor to divorce her husband in the process, though she had always hinted that serious sacrifices were inevitable. It was unfair that people should blame her for the mess Priyamvada had made of her life subsequently. She had misunderstood completely.

+++

‘…Vijay and Sheela would love this.’ Purabi suddenly registered Babli’s voice again.

‘What?’ 

                                                                                                          

‘If I brought my brother and sisters here, didi, they would go mad with excitement,’ Babli chuckled. ‘They’d love this place … and this coffee. None of us has ever had coffee before, you know. Our family believes in tea – kadak chai. I have to wake up at four-thirty in the morning to make it for everybody. After that there’s no water.’ She wiggled her thumb. ‘The taps are dry by five.’

Purabi tried to remember the last time she had woken up at four-thirty in the morning to do something. She realised she never had  except perhaps to catch early morning flights for seminars etcetera, or for a second round of sex with Shantanu during one of those rare, wild holidays together. Who could get up at that hour in the morning for housework?

That was what that woman, her mom-in-law, had expected her to do too – wake up at five every morning to take the milk. An educated elite like her, holding seminars on the Simone de Bouvoirs of the world, reduced to a prototype soap opera protagonist in her own house!

Shantanu…. Purabi winced again. She had tried to explain so much… but Shantanu had stood by his mom. He wanted Purabi to take over some responsibilities from her – as he called it. Rubbish! He was wrong. Both of them were wrong. It wasn’t sharing the burden. It was sheer imposition! Granted his mother was an old woman. So what? Didn’t everybody get old sometime? Age couldn’t be cited as an excuse for everything! Why couldn’t they get more servants? Six were certainly not enough for the three of them.

But then Shantanu had put his foot down, and an earthquake had resulted. She had finally decided he was a jealous lout – jealous of his wife and her achievements, jealous of her gorgeousness and magnetism. And she had walked out. She couldn’t sacrifice her freedom and career for a scoundrel who pretended to be an intellectual! All his success as a novelist was a sham!

+++

Purabi’s thoughts strayed away from the mall for a while. When the walls around her came into focus again a few minutes later, Babli was sitting with her empty tumbler, staring thinkingly at her.

‘What happened?’ Purabi found her voice again. ‘Would you like another round?’

Babli’s face lit up. But she wasn’t impolite. ‘Do you want to have another cup, didi?’

‘I’ll have one if you will.’

‘Didi!’ Babli was excited again. ‘Shall I place the order this time?  Tell me what you want. I’ll have the same.’

Purabi nodded. ‘Okay, get me a latte.’

‘A what?’

‘Latte.’ Purabi repeated slowly, and Babli pronounced it, amidst giggles, after her.

‘Didi,’ she said grinning again as Purabi handed her the change, ‘Nobody can say I work in your house. Your salwar-kurta makes me look like any other girl here, doesn’t it?’

Purabi studied her maid. Yes, the Rajasthani salwar-kurta looked good on her. For an instant she regretted having given it away. She could have worn it for a year more perhaps. But she always felt like that the moment Babli or her mother appeared in her hand-me-downs. A couple of stitches here, a corner hemmed there, a button re-stitched or replaced, a T-shirt dyed – and all her clothes were as good as new again in their hands … the clothes she so whimsically discarded at the minutest sign of defect.

Babli did look like any other girl in the mall in those clothes, slippers, and neat tresses – if a tad unsophisticated. Purabi was tempted to take her to the parlour on the second floor. Then she abandoned the idea. That would be overdoing things. Besides, she didn’t have the energy. What had prompted her to bring Babli to this mall with her in the first place?

Of course she knew the answer well. Had she not brought Babli along, she would have had to come alone. All alone. And she didn’t enjoy coming here alone now. She didn’t enjoy going anywhere alone any more. Sitting with her books, files, coloured pens, and laptop in her big, empty house, she had only had Babli for company for sometime now. And the girl had become more than a mere maid.

Nobody made friends in office anyway. In any case, female-dominated departments like hers could barely escape the soubriquets male colleagues so callously thrust upon them – a shark pool; a snake pit!

Initially, all that role-playing had been an amusing exercise: matching fake smiles with fake necklaces, and false frowns that went well with the frock for the evening. She had enjoyed those bland kisses that vanished in the air with the perfume even before they touched a cheek, and pseudo-singsong voices venturing, ‘Cottage?’ as the women’s eyes scrutinised each other’s earlobes.

Of late, it had become a strenuous task. The adrenalin didn’t rush the way it used to once. She had surprisingly morphed into a home bird. Shantanu would never believe it...

Babli was there for her morning and evening. And that lone human voice responding cheerfully to her call every time, every day, was comforting.  Sometimes she found excuses to call her, just to reassure herself. That uneducated girl from the slums meant more than the whole industry with its literati-glitterati put together now.

Purabi began digging into her doughnut. She watched Babli standing against the glass case next to the counter, looking at the jars of coffee beans with great interest.

 ‘Coffee beans,’ she explained to her when Babli returned to her seat. ‘Used to make coffee.’

Babli gave her a warm smile. ‘Didi, I’m certainly going to come here again. With my brothers and sisters. Certainly before my wedding.’

‘Wedding?’ Purabi uttered unsteadily as something went thud within.  ‘What wedding?’

‘Oh, you couldn’t have forgotten it, di. My wedding of course! I told you, na, my parents have been looking for a boy for sometime. They found one. His name’s Laxman, and he works in a factory. And he goes to college too. The wedding’s in December.’

‘Babli! Come on! You can’t let your parents do this to you! You’re barely … what … fifteen?’

A fizz of laughter flooded the shop. ‘I’m eighteen, didi,’ Babli declared with pride.

‘Nah, can’t be. You don’t even look fifteen!’

‘Well, I am,’ said Babli. ‘Our family’s like that. A family of miniatures. Nobody looks their real age.’

Again, it was true. When Babita, Babli’s mother, had come to work for her some years ago, Purabi had been shocked to hear that she was married and had six children!

‘Why aren’t you married, didi?’ Babli asked her suddenly. ‘I think you should have a very handsome husband.’

Purabi turned to her sharply, but found only an innocent question mark upon the girl’s face.

‘I was married,’ she said quietly.

Babli looked confused. ‘Married?’

‘I – I divorced my husband.’ Purabi felt annoyed at the effort it had taken her to utter those words in front of the little chit.

‘Divorced!’ Babli squealed in dismay.  ‘It happens in some big, rich families, no? We watch it on TV in our neighbours’ houses – all those women from high-class. My mother cries, and my chachi cries, and my maami also. In our colony, men beat women, and sometimes leave them after marriage. But that’s not divorce, is it didi? Why did you divorce your husband, didi?’

Purabi was quiet. She sighed at the young girl’s naive curiosity and imprudent questions – questions that had no prêt-à-porter answers.

‘Babli…’

‘Ji didi.’

‘Marriage is a union of two minds – remember that. It’s not just about the society sanctioning sex. There must be equality in marriage – equality between man and woman. When you get married, believe in your own power. Never let the man take the upper hand; never let your in-laws rule your world; never bend your knees –’

Babli’s face, tinted with silent laughter, suddenly caught her eye.

‘He calls me “madam ji”, didi,’ Babli laughed. ‘“Madam ji, will you have ice cream?”, “Madam ji, will you come with me for a movie?” And my saasu-ma teases me too. She calls me “Missej Laxman”.’

Purabi stared at her servant girl – at her make-up free face, the second-hand clothes, radiant eyes, and blissful smile. A thousand random, haphazard questions bobbed up, floated around for a while, and disappeared within her.

As she raised her eyes again, she caught her image in the mirror opposite – slender figure, a fancy black top, stone necklace, bags under pencilled eyes from too much liquor.  Had her skin begun to sag a bit too? Was that a wrinkle over the right brow?

‘Come, Babli,’ Purabi settled herself back on the chair with new enthusiasm, and patted her young companion’s hand affectionately again. She reached for her handbag, rummaged around inside, pulled out her lighter, and lit a cigarette avoiding the manager’s eye. ‘Let’s have another latte,’ she said with a charismatic smile. ‘How would you like to spend the rest of your life as a memsahib? Ever thought about it? Imagine. You could live as my daughter, in my house…’

‘Eh … how can that be? I don’t understand, di –’ Babli murmured diffidently.

‘Ah, come on. I’m not saying you have to be my daughter, but you could pretend to be, couldn’t you? Just for a few days? It would be our game. Everybody would be jealous of you – your siblings, your friends. Of course your mother would visit you as often as she wants to. Maybe every day? What do you say, hmm?’ She winked, and a warm smile appeared on her painted lips. ‘It would give me some pleasure. Haven’t I been a good friend to you? Think. You could come here every day; be your own boss. If you like, I’m willing to take you under my wing ...’

***

Ma Tujhe Salaam (fiction) : Translates as 'My Salutes to You, Mother'

Published in Out-of-Print, literary journal March 21, 2011): 

http://www.outofprintmagazine.co.in/Divya_Dubey.html


‘Hash, jump!’ Nikhil’s thrilled voice poked Harshit to take the plunge.

Harshit was standing on the ledge of the window, barely ten inches in width.

‘Come on, fast!’ Nikhil clapped his hands, and looked towards the door of the classroom. ‘Kumar Ma’am will be here any minute. You must jump before that, or I win the bet.’

Harshit stared at the drop from the second floor. Class VII-B window overlooked patches of grass that refused to be tamed, and algae-green slush. Beside it, a row of jumbled dahlias lay bleeding like wounded warriors, uncared for by the underpaidmaali of the school. If he didn’t land on his feet at the precise spot, he was sure he would crack his neck.

‘Come on, I can hear Kumar Ma’am’s sandals coming up the staircase,’ Nikhil said urgently. Harshit turned to him with a wicked grin. ‘Tsk tsk, it’s only Kumar Ma’am. She’ll never tell.’

‘How do you know?’

‘She’s a great sport. Been my favourite English teacher for years.’

‘Any teacher in her right mind would grab both of you by the ear and take you straight to the principal’s office!’ Neerja’s anxious face peeped out of the window. She tucked her hair behind her ears, and spoke in a tone only the monitor of a class is permitted. ‘Harshit, stop being silly and jump right back in.’ To tease her, Harshit stuck out his tongue and dangled a leg dangerously over the ledge.

‘HARSHIT VERMA, WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!’

Mrs Kumar’s startling bellow from behind disconcerted Harshit, and he leapt, without thinking, right over the ledge, into the open blue space, registering Mrs Kumar’s horrified scream, his classmates’ gasps and excited babble – somersaulting once, twice … and landed, very fortunately, on the bed of dead dahlias below, still breathing. Only, his left ankle was bent at an angle that he guessed could only mean one thing.

‘You still alive?’ Nikhil came panting up to him within minutes, followed by a few other panting classmates.

‘Yeah.’

‘You shouldn’t have jumped, you idiot! I was only kidding! The fall could’ve made bone marrow pudding out of you!’

‘I didn’t mean to. Kumar Ma’am’s voice made me jump out of my skin – literally!’ Harshit smiled in spite of the excruciating pain. ‘I’m dead. My ankle’s gone, I think.’

‘Now, Kumar Ma’am will make bone marrow pudding out of both of us,’ Nikhil whispered wryly as Mrs Kumar’s slim figure appeared in the distance with Neerja and two senior students. ‘The whole school will come to know, including Godzilla! There goes our sports day too! The two of us will be kneeling outside Godzilla’s office while the rest of the school watches football. How could you be so dumb, Hash? Can you stand?’

‘No!’ Harshit cried, doubling over.

‘It’s all right. Leave him to me,’ Mrs Kumar said to Nikhil, skirting the grime as she approached the boys. She shook her sandal like a cat’s wet paw, and planted it firmly on the final spot. She stood still for a bit, leisurely stretching her long neck, breathing easy. Then she inched closer to the culprit, scrutinising his ankle. Nikhil swallowed, not wishing to leave Harshit to face the music alone. Mrs Kumar’s brow furrowed over her stern, grey eyes and, after a moment’s hesitation, he decided it was best to scuttle.

Harshit groaned before losing consciousness. When he regained his senses an hour or two later, Mrs Kumar was seated in front of him, her pen doing a graceful ballet on the paper in front of her. She always wrote her comments on the mark sheets with a flourish, whether extolling or condemning a student. Her handwriting, with all the ascendants and descendants, looked like miniature art. Sometimes she left a quote on greatness in the margins – an original one – usually.

Greatness should be one’s only ambition and desire.

Great men are never small, no matter what their height.

Being great is beyond being good, beyond being the best.

His leg was firmly ensconced in a plaster now, and the pain had abated somewhat. She raised her eyes to his pale face, but didn’t say anything. She looked like an awesome, great being sitting on that chair – even more powerful than the principal. He was sure she was thinking of fresh quotes on her favourite subject. There was an aura about her that made hurrying feet instantly decelerate in the school corridors, and loud voices turn quiet. Harshit had noticed that she even cast a hypnotic charm on their teachers. How did one become so magnificent? What was it she often said?Being great is beyond being good, beyond being the best.

‘How do you feel, Harshit?’ she asked, not too unkindly. ‘You gave me a real scare today!’

‘I’m all right, Ma’am,’ he managed to utter. ‘I am sorry.’

‘That was a deliberate jump, wasn’t it?’

Mrs Kumar’s eyes were peering at him like ET’s. Harshit noticed she had relaxed her shoulders, and her pen had stopped prancing on the paper.

He chewed his lower lip for a few seconds. Anything you say might be used against you in court. Time for a court martial!

‘Well,’ Harshit rasped, ‘Nikhil said I couldn’t jump like a commando. It made me furious. Then you came in, and I had no time to think. He would have won the bet.’

Mrs Kumar sighed, looking at the earnest face of the skinny teenager in front of her. ‘You could have died,’ she said. ‘And then …?’

‘I know. I am sorry.’

‘I had pinned my hopes upon you this year for our four hundred metre-relay gold for Blue House.’

‘I know.’ Harshit winced.

‘What will we do now?’ Mrs Kumar sounded almost childlike – like Bagheera talking in Bambi’s voice. Harshit knew that to her a gold medal for Blue House really mattered.

‘Well, there’s Nikhil,’ he ventured, downcast, and feeling even worse than before. ‘He could fill in for me unless – uh – unless you plan to complain against us to Principal Ma’am, and we are ousted from the school before that.’

‘Complain? Why should I complain against my star athlete?’ Mrs Kumar’s was taken aback.

‘You mean … you mean you’re not going to get us expelled?’

‘No, I’m not, though you probably deserve it,’ Mrs Kumar replied after a pause. ‘You were foolish and reckless but … you were also very brave, son.’

‘Do you think I’m brave enough to be a commando, Ma’am?’

‘Of course! Except that commandos don’t jump off second-floor windowsills for no reason.’

Harshit grinned. ‘I’m going to be a commando.’

‘I’m sure you’ll be a great one.’

Mrs Kumar had never thought of taking the boys to the principal’s office. She considered Dr Nair an ignorant fool, who had been handed the reins of the school thanks to nepotism and puppeteering, all her blooming incapacities notwithstanding. ‘Revengeful, arrogant, and corrupt to boot!’ Mrs Kumar muttered to herself. If the word got to her, it would be suicide – for the students would obviously say that Harshit had jumped in fright when he had heard her thunderous voice. The responsibility would flap in the air for a minute, and then find her shoulders to roost upon – precisely the target Dr Nair would be waiting for. And that would proclaim the end of her career. That down-market country bumpkin would crush it with her hammer-like palms. Mrs Kumar had no suicidal tendencies.

*

‘All right, guys!’ Mrs Kumar’s deep voice rang out in the classroom, gluing all eyes to her face. ‘The teams are running neck-and-neck. Whoever answers this question correctly first, wins. Are you ready?’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Eight eager ears bent forward in anticipation.

‘Where are the following lines from? Listen carefully. You have five seconds to answer: At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps…’

‘I know! I know that one!’ Harshit’s bony figure began to tremble with energy, resembling a sleeping car engine suddenly come to life, and he leapt up. Nikhil’s arm tugged at his shirt with some urgency, but Harshit shoved it away.

‘You pressed the buzzer first. Yes, Harshit?’

‘Michael Jackson’s Thriller!’

A Niagara of laughter erupted from the members of Team A, followed by Mrs Kumar’s herself. Her stern eyes had the habit of crinkling up at moments like this.

‘Tryst with Destiny, you moron!’ Neerja spoke up from Team A.

Nikhil kicked his foot, echoing Neerja’s answer, with a purple scowl at his partner. Harshit slid to his chair, a chastened mouse now, trying to hide his face with his palms.

‘Team A wins!’ announced Mrs Kumar. ‘Class X-A, you can celebrate, yoohoo!’ Turning to Harshit, her lips stretched into a delighted smile again. ‘Really, son, that’s the best I ever heard! Our commando team loses today!’

‘Thank you, Ma’am,’ Neerja said warmly, coming up to her. ‘It was really kind of you to take time out for our quiz. I know you’ve become very busy ever since you became the headmistress of the junior wing. But our quizzes are no fun without you.’

‘Anytime, Neerja, anytime.’ A patronising smile appeared on Mrs Kumar’s face. It’s my pleasure too.’

‘Is it true that Nair Ma’am is retiring this year, Ma’am?’

‘Well, yes,’ Mrs Kumar said reflectively. ‘I think Dr Harsh Seth will be taking over soon.’

‘I wish you were still teaching us in senior school though,’ offered Harshit, with some feeling. ‘English classes are no fun without you either.’

Mrs Kumar hugged him affectionately. Once again Harshit was filled with wonder at the lady’s mesmeric power. It was as though her mere presence inspired him to do heroic things.

‘Grow up to be great men, boys! I want to be proud of you one day.’

‘Is greatness so important’ Ma’am?’ The question nagging at him for years was out before he knew it.

Mrs Kumar paused, and then replied, ‘There is nothing else.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s about earning your name, your fame.’

‘What’s in a name?’ he gave her a wicked grin.

‘Well,’ she smiled back. ‘It’s the only thing you leave behind.’

*

April is the cruellest month. And this April certainly was, thought Major Arora, sitting on the cemented sill outside the room, trying to wave away the sorrow that boomeranged into him every few minutes. He studied the plush reception, and children rushing around in their uniforms, squealing and chattering. Fourteen summers echoed from the rooms and familiar corridors.

At the sound of movement his eyes turned towards the door.

‘We are so glad our daughter’s got through, Mrs Kumar.’ The gentleman making his exit shook her hand at the door. ‘You’ve brought about an amazing change in the school ever since you took over as the principal. This school never saw such fantastic results earlier.’

Mrs Kumar smiled, swallowing the compliment.

‘You are very kind,’ she said.

Major Arora caught the same voice – deep and confident, and saw her slim figure appear. There was the familiar sternness in her grey eyes – that used to melt into laughter in an instant. She was a lot more grey now – her hair, and even her pretty face.

‘And, oh, congratulations for the great award! Terrific achievement,’ added the gentleman, still standing at the door.

Mrs Kumar bent low, mumbling her polite thank yous – the humility dissolving into an obsequiousness that seemed out of place in her.

‘All the best, Madam. We’ll meet again soon.’

‘And do remember the water coolers, Mr Singhal,’ Mrs Kumar said lightly. ‘It’s all for the sake of our school, you know. We only have our children’s best interests in mind.’

‘Sure, sure, I understand perfectly. Don’t worry about that, Madam. It’ll be taken care of.’

The gentleman left, and Mrs Kumar acknowledged the new figure who was now standing courteously in front of her. She raised her brow wordlessly.

‘Major Nikhil Arora, Ma’am,’ he said with a polite bow. ‘I’m an ex-student of this school. You used to be our English teacher … about twenty-five years ago.’

‘Oh,’ Mrs Kumar scrutinised him more carefully, showing a semblance of recognition. ‘Nikhil Arora. Your face seems familiar. Of course! Nikhil Arora, the sports champ of Blue House! Come in, come in, Nikhil. I’m sorry. You’re all so grown up now! My secretary mentioned you, but it didn’t strike me then. How have you been?’

‘I’ve been very well, Ma’am, thank you.’ Nikhil took in the well-polished desk and tiled floor. ‘The school has indeed changed a lot. I’ve been hearing a lot of great reports of course, especially after you became the principal. It always makes me proud.’

Mrs Kumar seemed pleased. Her grey eyes glowed. ‘Yes, it’s been a long journey.’

‘The school has been doing very well, I gather. The whole façade has changed – become quite modern. I went for a quick recce before I sat down outside.’

‘Well, yes. Mrs Kumar said benignly. ‘Isn’t that nice? It’s a huge change from the dilapidated rural building you left behind.’

‘Of course. There’s a certain grandeur that wasn’t there in our time.’

‘Yes,’ Mrs Kumar nodded. ‘Some parents have been good patrons. Some former students, who’ve turned out well, have contributed too. Some of them have their own children studying here now. Admission isn’t easy here any longer, you know…’ She broke off with a meaningful stare. After a pause she said, ‘And you? How has life treated you? So you did finally become a commando, eh?’

Nikhil returned her smile with a sorrowful nod. ‘Kumaon regiment, Ma’am. A major, as you can see. It’s been a long road too.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘No opulence and grandeur for folks like us. It’s an austere life.’

‘ I guess so,’ she said, wondering about the real aim of his visit. She did not entertain too many distractions at this time in school when there was so much to do. ‘So ... tell me more. What brings you here?’ He paused, preoccupied. After a moment, he continued, ‘I’m sorry I’ve brought you some terrible news, Ma’am.’

Mrs Kumar raised her brow again.

‘Major Harshit Verma, Special Forces, Para 1 regiment, lost his life in the Srinagar encounter with terrorists recently.’

‘Oh?’

‘Your favourite student, Ma’am, and my best friend. Harshit Verma; remember? He died fighting those bastards!’

Mrs Kumar’s face was as blank as the pale POP wall behind her.

‘Ma’am?’

‘Yes,’ she said, looking thoughtful. ‘I believe I heard something mentioned about some former student somewhere recently.’

‘It was all over the papers – local as well as national. You couldn’t have missed it.’

‘I … haven’t had time to look at the newspaper over the last few days.’

‘He died a hero’s death, Ma’am. We were so proud. We held a prayer meeting too, and even sent word to the school – to you. But no representative turned up.’

‘Well, really?’ Mrs Kumar’s grey eyes stared at him through her pince-nez. ‘I can’t say I received the message.’

‘We were hoping the school would do something – dedicate a library to him, offer a scholarship in his name, raise some funds for the family – ’

Mrs Kumar was silent. Her eyes were fixed on the paper weight in front of her. Almost inadvertently, her fingers began to play with it.

‘You do remember Harshit Verma, don’t you? He jumped from the second floor window once. He was our star athlete, really – the true commando – right from those days.’

‘That fat boy with a bulbous nose, right? Yellow House?’

Silence fell, interrupted only by the occasional yell outside.

‘We wanted to pay him a tribute,’ he said quietly. ‘You really have no memory of him?’

There was a knock at the door.

‘Mr and Mrs Gandhi here with their son, Ma’am. They were late with their admissions too, so…’

‘Oh yes, yes, do send them in.’ Mrs Kumar looked at Nikhil again. ‘I’m really sorry for our student, Major Arora. Rest assured we’ll do all we can. Right now I’m afraid I’m a bit tied up. It’s a busy time, you understand … ’

Nikhil’s legs refused to help him stand up, but eventually did. The head seemed reluctant to nod a farewell, but eventually did too. A hot blast of the summer loo whacked his face as he stepped out of the principal’s room. He walked towards the gate, once again engulfed by the echoes of fourteen summers spent on these grounds.

*

The title of the story may be translated from the Hindi as My Salutes to You, Mother. In this allegorical tale, ‘Ma’ is a reference to the nation.