Sadasiva's lyrical treat

photo m murali

By Gollapudi Srinivasa Rao

AN old man clad in white dhoti sits on the lawns amidst flowers of all hues. It's a cloudy morning as he reads out from his memory the best of Urdu poetry. "Unki jo bath hi/who hahle siasat jaane/meera paigam mohabbat hi/jaha thak pahunche/ and then "Mere roshan se lehare hi/tabassum hai pinahaki/shuame kya padi/rangath nikhar ayi gulisthan mey."

If Samala Sadavisa comes to Warangal, it's celebration time for literary and music lovers. As he speaks, the young and old listen to him as if they are watching a mythological film. "Telanganalo Carnatakam ledayya, antha Hindustaniye,'' he tells those who queue up to see him at Hanamkonda on Tuesday.

And suddenly he remembers somebody and asks him, "how's your father? It sounds as if a veena is talking when he speaks." His speech is enchanting for many as it has a sweetness about it. Septuagenarian Sadasiva is an authority on Urdu poetry and Hindustani music. His simple and educative articles are popular among literary lovers here. Since his retirement as a teacher, he has been striving to pen his experiences and document his knowledge on people, culture and literature of Telangana region.

On February 2, 2005 in Warangal.

Into a timeless zone - in Tadvai forests

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Into a timeless zone

By Gollapudi Srinivasa Rao

As a journalist working in the naxal affected district, I always focused on covering new stories related to it. Any activity assumes importance and every issue is looked at from the naxal angle.

Young, able bodied and creative I am, and so there is the penchant for always looking for something new to write or always wanted to explore the unexplored places in the district that has 12,846 square kilometres.

During the last Assembly elections, I attended an official press conference where the election authorities handed out a list of villages that are classified as sensitive, hyper sensitive and so on. It also had a coloumn that read `inaccessible.’ Immediately, I decided to visit one or two of six listed there.

Amidst busy electioneering and visits of star campaigners, one day I set out to a hamlet called Chowledu with my photographer M Murali on his two-wheeler. When I gathered little information on how to reach, people told me vaguely that it would be over hundred kilometers but were not sure of exact location of the habitation.

After travelling for ninety kilometers towards Eturunagaram, we took a right turn and travelled another 20 kilometers into thick woods and reached Katapur, reasonably a big village. So, we waited for a few minutes on the main road to ask any passerby about the road we should take to reach Katapur, only to be very sure.

After riding for nearly ten kilomteres, our two-wheeler was punctured ditching our hopes of embarking on adventure. There is no help from any quarter, no water and nothing in sight. On a great stretch of slim road that pierced through thick jungles, we both stood there helpless. My photographer was very confident that an occasional road user would help us fix the problem and he was right. An auto driver carrying goods offered to give lift back to Tadvai. While I sat lonely in tense, my photographer took out the wheel and sped with him to get it repaired. Every second passed like a long day. After about an hour, my photographer came back on another two-heeler. “It was over within ten minutes, but I have been waiting for lift,” he told me. The water bottles we were carrying were emptied even before we reached half way. We planned to fill them up at a village ahead.

We were thrilled at having reached Katapur after passing through the jungles. We contacted our friend Saraiah, a local vernacular reporter who promised to go along with us.

After an hour of ride and passing two more small habitations, we finally arrived at Kousettivai, our last habitation en route.

Saraiah who said he had visited the Chowledu a few months back with the elections officials said, we should all proceed by the traces of bullock cart track. I suddenly got tense. There are several cart tracks. Some used by surrounding villagers who go into forest for timber. Saraiah and his friend led the way on a bike while I and my photographer followed them on another. It was already afternoon when we started our journey into godforsaken land.

Having ventured into forests to cover naxal encounters, I knew that, it will become dark too early in the forest. My worry is to start our return journey around 4 pm.

After riding for a few furlongs, we had to get down our vehicles and carry the two-wheelers virtually. Crossing the streams, trekking long gravel paths, climbing steep hillocks, we somehow made our way still. Several times, we stopped, gasped for breathe, craved for water but in vain. We stood still and struggled to regain our balance.

Passing by gigantic cave like structures, mammoth boulders covered with strong roots like a stone held in a big fist we just wondered at the ageless formations. We seemed very tiny and weak before the splendor of nature. The sky neighbouring trees, wild environs and the grave silence and unknown fear sent a chill in our spines. For a while, I lost all my senses. I was only worrying how to get back. My sole concern at that moment was how to get back. For some time, I was also wondering what if a herd of wild boars attacked and killed us all the four. How would our death news be known to the world? What if a python attacked us? I was just imagining the agonizing moments one experiences just before death and what happens after.

Perhaps, my other companions too were feeling the same and we were all virtually sprinting in the forest unconsciously and silently. We walked and walked as if journeying towards end of the earth. Our walk appeared very mad and never ending. For about two hours, we were just walking. Our friend Saraiah said the habitation would be eight kilometers deep inside the forest from Kousettivai.

At last at about 4 pm, we saw the huts. It was the time, I actually planned to leave from that spot. Now I forgot all that.

For a second, the scene that appeared before our eyes unveiled an altogether a spectacular sight. The earth is like a high raised dais cut around by a deep ravine into which a spring flowed from atop a hill. A range of verdant hills surrounded the habitation where only five people live with their half a dozen kids. A tribal woman Neela Laxmi, her two sons Bikshapathi and Laxman live with their wives and kids.

Tribal youth, Neela Bikshapathi was not surprised by our entry into his domain. He took us to be those election officials who make several visits during the elections once in five years only to convince them to migrate to nearby village.

He just then moved aside a wooden log kept across a thatched hut shanty. Suddenly a hundred or more lovely calves in white and brown colours surged out in all directions. We were startled at the gush of animals while my delighted photographer Murali at once got into action. He forgot everything and went on clicking the stunning surroundings. “It is time they join their mothers who return from grazing in the wild. They feed their off springs,” Bikshapathi told us.

I briskly walked all over. There stood three huge trees. Two heavily fruit laden mango trees and one widely spread tamarind tree. They are out of place there. “The three plants were gifted to us by ITDA project officer Sharma twenty five years ago,” tribal youth Laxman said.

The gesture of the officer really amazed me beyond description. During the last 40 years, efforts were made to shift this tribal family to nearby villages and during one such trial, one officer took along with him a small gift. The gift is now helping them survive in the wild. The fruits fetch little money, which is big for these innocent tribals who once in a while venture out on bullock cart to buy salt, oil and turmeric.

Ends/

NEW WRITINGS

NEW POSTINGSNEW POSTINGS

EVERBODY TOOK THEIR TIME OUT FOR TELANGANA

Gollapudi Srinivasa Rao

WARANGAL: The times have come to such a pass that people do not mind to part with few rupees but not with few minutes of their time. The separate Telangana movement is an exception. It is unique in many ways. People’s participation in it is voluntary cutting across party affiliations and community divisions. The rich and poor alike took part in the agitation with gusto. It brought together everybody and held them for days on and on. It is something phenomenal in modern times primarily because it followed a non-violent line even when tempers ran high. The people poured onto streets and main thorough fares taking out processions, staging demonstrations and obstructing vehicular movement. They were all demanding a separate state-hood to the Telangana region. The rallies, rasta-roko and demonstrations have become order of the day. Since the last week of November 2009, the mass movement gained momentum by the day and soon every section of the society took part either directly or symbolically expressing their wish for a new state. Persons practising every vocation came together to form Joint Action Committee (JAC) – potters, cobblers, painters, masons, smiths, workers and every section virtually in every village. And then they had a village level JAC. People cutting across their political differences, castes and religions came together with one demand – separate Telangana. There were women living in colonies who came together taking out candle light rallies at the dusk every day. Every person in the district was in one or the other JAC.

As a member of public, I used to rejoice seeing large number of people at several places and often to great stretches of roads fighting for a cause. The old idealism is back or so it seemed. I was pleasantly surprised at the intensity of sentiment for separate Telangana that brought everybody together especially the students’ community. It was heartening to see that when leadership failed, it was the students who led the movement from the forefront in a peaceful manner.

As a journalist, I saw everyday as an opportunity. Every day was a challenge too. I am an addict of printed word. I read all the time. I search for international reports filed by Reuters, AFP and other agencies on all issues. I read magazines and relish much the offbeat and human interest stories. The everyday events posed a challenge to me. How would I write this event? This question always was heavy on my mind. The same events were taking place every day and everywhere. I have to think of a new angle in every report and in every event. Thanks to my well-wishers – Mr K Damodar Rao of English Department of Kakatiya University and Lok Satta leader Mr Parcha Kodandarama Rao who read my writings every day in The Hindu and evaluate them. They would often point a mistake or appreciate something good. The regular interaction with them gave me new insights into the events. It was Mr Damodar Rao who wanted me to focus exclusively on the folk art forms and how they were utilised by the people to express their protest.

People came out in large numbers everywhere and I standing amidst the crowds reminded me of Polish journalist Ryszard Kapunscinski who reportedly witnessed about 27 uprisings across the globe escaping death a score of times. His book Another Day of Life featuring his experiences in Angolan civil war was written beautifully. I often wondered if the situation warranted me, whether I would write like that. Would I be witness to a historic event of formation of separate Telangana – a new state with its unique cultures, languages, new geographical borders and with so much euphoria? There was exhilaration all around. The rallies and rasta-rokos seem to have become part of life here. But what pained me most was reporting of the suicides of young people and students who took the extreme step as a mark of protest. I felt for them as most of the youngsters are from the downtrodden sections of the society. My wishful thinking is that the emotive issue will be resolved soon in favour of the decades-old demand so that loss of precious lives would be averted.

Ends/

FRUIT & OTHER STORIES

FRUIT & OTHER STORIES GOLLAPUDI SRINIVASA RAO

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

This book is dedicated to my mother................................................ G Jayalakshmi

Gollapudi Srinivasa Rao (40), born at SCCL headquarters, Kothagudem in Khammam district is a post graduate in Human Resource Management and a graduate in Law. He is currently pursuing his Ph D programme in HRM as part-time research scholar at Kakatiya University, Warangal.

Mr Rao is a journalist working in The Hindu as Principal Correspondent and is based at Warangal district headquarters in Andhra Pradesh. He had earlier worked in The Indian Express and The Times of India at Hyderabad. He has received Best Journalist award from the Government of Andhra Pradesh for the year 2004 for his stories on women empowerment and illicit liquor menace in tribal areas. He has to his credit several short stories in Telugu published in popular literary magazines and also English short stories published in Pratibha India, New Delhi and The Statesman, Kolkatta.

***

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my mother G Jayalakshmi.

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FOREWORD

Pro K. DAMODAR RAO - DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH - KAKATIYA UNIVERSITY- WARANGAL

Literarycritics and laymen alike opine that anyone who ventures into writing is, moreoften than not, a person with a social conscience, with empathy and commitmentto healthy human relationships. The hallmark of a writer is that he/she willhave the ability to ‘feel’ the real and imagined experiences and truthfullyportray it. There is that powerful urge in him to find expression to hiscreativity in words and images without which he feels helpless, thinks there isa void in his life. Thus, his creative pursuit becomes his raison d’etre. In other words, a sense of fulfillment marks the vocation and life of awriter. A good writer, in addition, will have the confidence and capability inmaking excellent, even extravagant, use of his good sense, sensibility, andsensitivity in the process of creating a corpus of his own, a niche forhimself. A good writer is invariably socially informed; and is expected to bealive to socio-political realities so much so that he creates a context forunfolding these in his writings in an artistic manner. He thus, inter alia,discharges his social responsibility.

Gollapudi Srinivasa Rao is a bi-lingual short story writer, he writes both inTelugu and English. Many of the well-formed stories included in this collectionhave been published in The Statesman and Pratibha India, kind ofconfidence-boosting approval for a promising writer. It must beacknowledged that not many English writers, especially fiction writers haveemerged from the state of AP so far, and the Telangana region is no exception.I hope that Mr. Gollapudi fills this void in the days to come. He is coming upwith this collection at a relatively young age, and if the promise it holds isany indication, one can expect more from him in terms of quality and quantity.And he has the needed qualities: He is talented and he is ambitious. He hastime on his side, and good temperament too. Anyone who reads his first Englishshort story collection will be convinced of his qualities as a good writer: Hehas a compassionate view, attentive and sensitive eye, and more importantlyfine sensibility, and feel for social realities. In most of Mr. Gollapudi’sstories, pacing of the narrative is smooth, free-flowing and effortless. Thecharacters too, are rooted firmly in the soil, and hence carry the stamp ofauthentic feel; they are down to earth, drawn from different walks of life,some simple and rustic, others wily and exploitative who know ways of theworld. The focal point in all the stories is contemporary middleclassmilieu wherein the writer examines how a set of individuals living in a(dis)comfort zone of their own behave and interact with others in a given context.The writer succeeds in bringing out their different shades, moods, temperamentsand attitudes.

Most of the stories here, or for that matter anywhere, proceed from asubjective stance and it is from this standpoint, a picture of reality/world issought to be portrayed by the writer which need not necessarily be subjective.It does not mean that the writer’s work is marred by any inconsistency, but thesubjective-objective elements become complimentary. As in many fictional worksthe subjective is self-sabotaged here to such an extent that the finished workgives a construct of objective reality. There is also the equation of thelocal-universal. Creative works, especially fictional ones, though rooted in aparticular context and specific social milieu, possess the self-gyratorydynamics of transcending the local and particular into something universal withthe deft touch of mastery over the medium employed by the writer. Thesefictional techniques are employed in some stories, but if Mr. Gollapudi keepsthem in mind more authentic works could be expected from him.

The setting in many stories in this collection is the Telangana region. A largenumber of NRIs in Americaconstitute Telugu speaking people, especially from Telangana region. Millionsof people here suffered many decades of impoverishment and malnutrition,backwardness and misery, humiliation and exploitation. A sort of social andeconomic engineering has been taking place in Telangana of late. It is only inthe last one and half decades, with the boom in IT sector, students of theregion began to migrate to Europe and America, perhaps the main cause ofthe empowerment of their poverty-ridden families, of the middleclass people aswell as backward sections. As a result, new-found possessions came up,progress of less privileged sections took place, but then new problems toobegan to crop up as in other parts of country. Comfort zones are there, butthey began to give way to anxiety zones as well. Nuclear families havereceived a setback in that the parents here are left uncared for with theirchildren settling in other parts of India and the world. The muchcelebrated Indian family system is cracking up with the indifference of thechildren towards their parents, leaving them a deserted and dejected lot. Thistheme forms the core of Mr. Gollapudi’s story, “The Heir.” In Shanti Nivas, aHome for the Aged, the inmates proudly discuss how they brought up theirchildren, how they provided guidance to find suitable jobs (maybe suitable spousestoo) for them. But when one of the inmates, Mr. Jogeshwar Rao dies, his threesons settled abroad could not make it to the funeral on one pretext or other,and consequently it was left to the young ward boy to lit the pyre.

The story begins with Mr. Vittal, a septuagenarian-widower-inmate, feelingvindicated. His argument and the cause of his satisfaction form the course ofthe proceedings in the story. He had no children and refused to adoptchildren. His point is that Mr. Jogeshwar Rao with his three children lived thelife of an uncertain man and died a miserable man while he, in a strange twistof irony, would die a happy man because he knew beforehand that it would be theward boy or someone else who would lit his pyre. In fact, it does notmatter whether one has ‘such’ children or no children in the end. Perhaps thisis the argument Mr.Vittal has built for nearly forty years. This is a movingstory that records the plight of many uncared for parents whose number isincreasing by the day in the country in imitation of the West. The storycautions that ‘Home for the Aged’ is fast becoming the address of millions ofpeople.

Long periods of stay abroad, resultant greed and the race for riches corruptedthe mind-set of large sections of the emergent, neo-rich middleclass youth. This is portrayed in the story, “A benefactor” in an engrossing manner. Ayouth resigns his software job in the USmuch to the dismay of his friends and relatives, and joins the most lucrativeprofession in Indiaat the moment called politics. His investment here is next to nothing whencompared to the enormous returns he earns after becoming MLA and then aMinister. Everything moves as planned with clockwork precision, or like somecomputer programming he had earlier been used to. He not only succeeds in hisventure of amassing wealth and popularity with least trouble, but at the endtells his friends proudly how he has made it really big—without scruples, ofcourse. Vulnerable people, as usual, feel cheated and it has been proved timeand again that people do not easily learn from their past mistakes, that theirmemory is short The story is an experiment with ‘aesthetics of negation.’The writer focuses on negative attitudes and tendencies prevalent in societyonly to draw attention, by implication, to the opposite of what has beenprojected—a conscientious mind-set, humane approach, healthy atmosphere, andpositive living.

In another NRI story “The Reluctant Philanthropist,” published in a reputedEnglish daily, The Statesman, a young NRI, Rakesh, inspired by the newslogan of the NRIs in the US “Do something for your motherland” comes to Indiaand wishes to do something different. Finally, with the help of his friends andwell-wishers he completes a Home for the Aged in his village and experiencesthe thrill of hogging all limelight. The story ends on a note ofinflation-deflation. As he distributes clothes to the aged people he sights anold man standing in the queue and he begins to tremble even as discomfortingthoughts of old age and loneliness seize him. The success of the story lies inthe fact that the ending is muted, the narrator does not overtly state who thatold man could be. It is left to the conjecture of the readers. Poetic suggestiongets precedence over fictional statement here. The pitiable plight of a numberof parents of NRIs in Indiais poignantly portrayed in this story.

Of the fourteen stories in this collection, five stories deal with the theme ofcorruption in varied ways. The narrator, in the story “The Design,” lets divineintervention to teach lessons to corrupt ones, and in “The Riddle” he depictshow a corrupt man’s habit of receiving kickbacks proves to be his undoingas he cannot find, literally, space and time to perform funeral rites of hismother despite his best efforts. “Bloody Revelation” depicts thehaunting images of a bloody accident changing the corrupt ways of a governmentemployee.

I shall take up two stories for a closer examination of the theme of corruption—“Canker to the Core and “Bitter Fruit”. because these address legal, andlong-practised customs of nyaya and ethical and practical questions of dharmaand I would like to interrogate some sociological aspects too: a) corruptionvis-à-vis class, and b) corruption and its levels/scales. In “Canker tothe Core,” a young and ambitious man, Sandeep, tries to build his dream housewithout resorting to corrupt practices. When he follows normal procedurenothing works his way and fails to get his license; he meets the wardcorporator and then the Mayor. Both of them demand money for the license andthey also mention the reasons: The corporator says that there is a hierarchy inthe office and the amount of Rs.25,000/- would be distributed among them as perthe established practice and he would be left with a pittance. The mayor toomakes a telling comment that the young man’s salary is ten times the amount heis paid, and when VIPs like the Chief Minister visit the city, it is his look-outto play host and decorate the city and says money collected that way would bespent on such occasions. For the young man obviously the license is moreimportant than his ego. Ironically, he would have avoided all this trouble forhimself if heeded to the advice of the office boy who had promised to get histhings done following the established ‘procedure.’ But Sandeep learns hislessons the hard way.

The justification given by the corporator and the mayor is built on sound logicand practical approach, given the system they operate in. One cannot butsympathize with them, because they are following their dharma. It may not be agood practice in legal and ethical terms in an ideal situation, but given thecontext, it is not against dharma. If they don’t take money they will belosers, if the young man gives the amount he will not be a loser. It is notuncommon for us to find on tv, images of clerks and superintendents gettingcaught red-handed while taking amount as little as two thousand rupees. Whencompared to thousands of crores of kickbacks routinely involved in armypurchases, that too at the cost of national security (The film “Rang deBasanti” was released more than seven years ago and Mig-22s are stillcrashing), or fourteen thousand crore fraud committed on gullible investors byone land-greedy individual, Satyam Ramalinga Raju, or the more lucrativebusiness of taking kickbacks and giving license to unscrupulous elementsfor mining operations (a state Chief Minister was implicated, and in anotherstate the late Chief Mnister’s kin is supposed to have interests in miningoperations), what does the act of the clerk amount to? What is the amountdemanded by the corporator and the mayor? Ethically, legally they are on thewrong, but if we listen their version and empathize with them, we are not onthe wrong side. And dharma is a concept unique to Indian thought since the daysof Kurukshetra war and Krishna’s preaching toArjuna in the Mahabharata. Dharma and nyaya meet on the same ground sometimes,but take opposite dimensions and in many directions intricate cases. Perhapsdharma makes a fine distinction between all-evil and not-so-evil or less-evil,scales and layers which do not matter to nyaya.

In “Bitter Fruit” a popular pan-shop owner, Yadav, gets jittery when he learnsthat his shop would be demolished in the road-widening course. He approachesthe local MLA who demands fifty thousand rupees to protect it. But what worriesYadav is the kind of humiliation meted out to him. He learns that others toogot similar treatment from him and then he begins to mobilize the locals. Hebecomes the centre of protest and agitation and soon, when elections areannounced, he is forced by his supporters to contest as MLA against the arrogantincumbent. He wins by a good margin, but the problem is that he begins tobehave in the same way as his predecessor, demanding money. But his needs aredifferent. The story ends on a note of disillusionment on the part of thepeople as one of the fellow trader quips, “some trees always bear bitterfruits.” Once again, levels of corruption as well as the question ofclass disparities come into picture here. Yadav’s hard work alone gives himfood for the day and he must be regarded as belonging to below middle class. Inhis pre-MLA days he is projected as sincere, hard working individual unmindfulof the remarks of his customers, but when his very existence is threatened, andfeels humiliated at the hands of the MLA, he wants to pay back. He wins theelections, but he is left without any money to meet the huge expenditure thatthe position involves. What does he do in this piquant situation? He has nomeans of livelihood, and he is in the thick of politics. As he performs hisdharma, one cannot but sympathize with him, whatever the law says, even ifpeople comment him as bitter fruit. The tree is not to be blamed, it is thesoil that should bear the brunt. Any given system or society or people get thekind of rulers they deserve.

There is a basic difference of ‘kind,’ ‘logic,’ ‘judgment’ and more importantly‘dharma’ in the type of corruption portrayed in these two stories and theearlier one, “A benefactor.” There, the youth’s decision to join politics,exploit the people, and amass wealth in a short time, was premeditated and evencold-blooded. I do not know on which side is the narrator; in fact, itdoes not matter as the narrator’s job ends with projecting the grey shadeswhich could be seen all around but the biggest challenge is taking sides, andof course interpreting subtleties of nyaya and dharma.

I hope Mr. Gollapudi concentrates more on focusing the customs and traditionsof the Telangana region which need to be highlighted and celebrated infiction form to reach a wider audience, for greater appreciation. At thesame time I wish he would give more space to female characters in his futureendeavours. Creating a context for the valour of Rani Rudrama of Kakatiyakingdom or giving fictional space to Batukamma festival, Sammakka-Saralakkajatara which are celebrated on a grand scale in this region would serve thetwin-purpose of cultural specificity and female space. But it is the writer’sprerogative to choose his themes and techniques. His choice and my suggestionproceed from a subjective standpoint as mentioned earlier. All the same I thinkalter-‘native’ paradigms, local variables, would serve his purpose better.

K.Damodar Rao 13-12-2009

Departmentof English

Kakatiya University

Warangal

PREFACE

AUTHOR............................................................................................. GOLLAPUDI    SRINIVASA RAO

As a journalist, my task has been to write just three hundred word news items or feature stories. Having worked in three national newspapers and being in the field for more than a decade, I could master the art of writing in a gripping fashion with my feel for the language. I always doubted whether I can write anything beyond three hundreds words, gripping and beautiful still. To test myself, I thought, I shall write some short stories which are bigger than my news stories. As many stories got published in leading papers and literary journals my confidence only increased. It also provided inspiration to come out with an anthology.

I thank the publishers of Pratibha India, The Statesman for their encouragement, museindia.com.

I am extremely grateful to my friend and senior journalist G S Vasu, Editor (Andhra Pradesh), The New Indian Express, who initiated me into the field of writing, to James Edwin who is always with me through thick and thin. My special thanks to Mr K Damodar Rao, Associate Professor of English, Kakatiya University, who has been a constant source of inspiration and encouragement. I thank my well wishers Sri Parcha Kodandarama Rao and Dr Anjani Devi, Kondapalli Dayasagar Rao, poet V R Vidyarthi for their valuable support and many other friends who wish to see me as an accomplished writer.

A word of thanks will not be enough to my wife Neelima and my daughter Medha Thanvi who made my life brilliant. Special thanks to them.

GOLLAPUDI SRINIVASA RAO

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AESOP'S GOOD FATE

GOLLAPUDI SRINIVASA RAO

                                 

                                     

It all took some time for Aesop to comprehend. Okay, he told himself and desired to go to meet his people at home. When he came out of his new abode, a tall senior police officer saluted him and opened the car door for him. Aesop startled at seeing him and a shiver ran through his spine. The police officer was none other than the same Laxman Singh, promoted in rank. The same man at whose hands Aesop escaped death several times. Concealing his feelings and reminiscing the past, he settled down in the car smiling at Laxman Singh, who closed the door and again saluted.

            *                          *                    *                        *

# All that the able bodied and young Aesop yearned is a sumptuous meal and a pitcher of toddy to drink and sleep. Nothing else mattered to him in this world.

He knew well that he neglected his education and is paying for that. Though the government funded for education for some communities including the one to which Aesop belonged and however, his father Azaraiah longed to see him an educated man, he just did not care.

Aesop born in that part of the country which has been witnessing strife. Some people who claim to be leading the most oppressed took up arms against the state. The battle intensified with each passing year with the extremists succeeding to rope in youth like Aesop. But this man desired only a meal and toddy, all for free, if possible without sweating.

When the armed personnel of state and revolutionaries gamed claiming public support, the people, mostly the youth were at receiving end. The police men would pick up anyone from the streets and bump them off branding them as members of revolutionary group.

These developments forced many people to flee the rural parts, others join the revolutionaries, but the lazy, indiscriminate Aesop remained indifferent as usual. He had luck in life.  He escaped the death at the hands of warring groups. Despite being beaten blue and black, very often by the state police, he did not choose to move out. He only developed aversion and revenge against the police.

It was on one August night, it was raining. As was his habit, Aesop fell asleep after consuming the toddy belly full with the money earned by his wife labouring hard in the day.

At midnight, a group of policemen swooped on the slum like a thunder bolt and went berserk. They went on whipping the people and razing the huts to dust. The women and children were worst affected. On finding Aesop in his sound sleep in his dungeon, inspector Laxman Singh’s blood boiled. Unable to control his emotions, he used both his legs and hands at sleeping Aesop. The poor creature could hardly understand anything for a while. By the time he came to his senses he was in stink in the police station compound. He realised then and visualised, how brutally the police dragged him in slush last night. He said to himself that he was treated like a pig.

Later, in the day, he comprehended by the murmur of constables that the extremists blew off a van killing a dozen policemen and decamped with the latest weapons. It sent shocks through the spines of police officials who boasted about their powers.

Aesop craved for few drops of water he would not get. In the afternoon, inspector Laxman Singh came sweating with his body guards. Immediately on seeing Aesop through the window from his chamber, he came out rushing and began kicking him hurling abuses. `you son of a bitch, tell me where your friends are hiding or I will crush your balls.’ He tortured and tortured until his energies lasted. Aesop pleaded innocence, folded his hands and prayed. He groaned as his body ached and lay motionless.

Aesop remained confined. The gun totting constables going in and out of the station kicked and abused him as and when they passed by the side. They played with him as if the children enjoyed playing a gifted ball.

He remembered times of his tender years when his father would read out the stories from the Holy Bible. He tried to draw an analogy between the hell, his father described and the police station. The hell seemed better to him. All that his father and elders preached sounded better. Aesop cursed himself for not giving an ear then. He prayed god to give him an opportunity and energy to kick and kill the devilish inspector Laxman Singh. For, the police officer seemed bigger and unmanageable to him in life. He decided to agree with the extremists without paying any attention to that `ideology’ they had been talking about for decades on and on. His blood boiled more with revenge and the next instant, fell sick. He thought the police might bump him as they did others. They might show him as accomplice of revolutionaries who plotted the massacre of police men. He grew sicker. He experienced a shiver in his spine whenever he saw the inspector Laxman Singh came in and out of the police station all the day.

At last, luck smiled at Aesop. The police elsewhere in the province avenged killing some extremists and that set this poor creature free from the hell here.

Back at home, his wife, relatives and neighbours were praying god for his return. They were all not so optimistic about his survival although. Aesop was dumped from the police truck one midnight near the slum. The children, who rose early that day, spotted him and yelled back to their parents `Aesop is back. Aesop is back’. Curious neighbourhood came rushing only to see a motionless body. Energy sapped out, battered and exhausted, there he lay.

Some in the crowd began wailing while an elderly woman sprinkled water on his face. When they saw slight movement, they were in joy to see him alive. He was carried home. His wife sent a youth to fetch for toddy which he most loved and another to bring fish fry and other for rice. It took a week for Aesop to be able to walk.

Aesop was not sure when and how the end would come at last. He had been near it for several times and every time the police torture grew intense. He turned deaf ear to people pleading him to flee the house and to those who begged to join either the ruling or opposition political party as a worker to escape the frequent torture.

When the change swept the world, so did the province of Aesop’s. The government in a bid to end the strife encouraged the ultras who gave up arms when they floated a political party.  There was euphoria and everybody joined it. Even Aesop was forced to. When the people of his ghetto celebrated his joining, he felt so powerful and grown up suddenly. He imagined himself in good clothes moving in official car with a police vehicle escorting it. As he visualised the life of a politician, he felt happy. Slowly, his life became busy moving all over the province. The people looked at the new party and the new crop of politicians in awe. All that people desired was the new party would definitely bring down the war and bring peace into their lives. Not riches and crowns. When people in other corners of the province accorded warm reception, Aesop’s joy knew no bounds. He not only accepted the new role but owned it as well.

He put his heart and soul into building the party. The party was geared up to fight the local council elections that were fiercely contested by the ruling and main opposition parties. The New Party failed to make a mark of its own, except winning a few seats. As part of its strategy to cling to power to itself and to stop the waning public support, the ruling party suddenly befriended the New Party and even came forward to share power with it.

Luck smiled on Aesop as it always did. He was chosen to be the chairman of the newly elected council of the province. The chairman is the person who decides the fate of people and course of development holding key to millions of rupees in the province. There was jubilation all over and people in large numbers welcomed a common man being crowned with the highest job. In less than a day, Aesop experienced his life changing beyond his comprehension. The top officials of the province made a beeline to him to receive commands from the new chairman. Some advised him against staying at his slum and said they turned the palatial guest house as a temporary quarter for him to stay. The police advised him not to move freely as he did earlier without their knowledge as the extremists might liquidate him. Everything sounded strange to him.

Suddenly, a well groomed man appeared from nowhere and introduced himself to be his secretary saying he would tell him who the chairman should meet and when. A group of armed policemen came and said they would be his personal security. And then the chief administrator arrived. He said that a new car was arranged for him for use.

It all took some time for Aesop to comprehend. Okay, he told himself and desired to go to meet his people at home. When he came out his new abode, a tall senior police officer saluted him and opened the car door for him. Aesop startled at seeing him and a shiver ran through his spine. The police officer was none other than the same Laxman Singh, promoted in rank. The same man at whose hand Aesop escaped death several times. Concealing his feelings and reminiscing the past, he settled down in the car smiling at Laxman Singh, who closed the door and again saluted.

Aesop came to his senses when he found an armed guard sitting beside the driver and his secretary by his side.

Turning towards his secretary, Aesop said `brother, enough for this life. I will die happily now. I could make that same bloody fellow salute me’.

The secretary hardly understood what the new chairman said but smiled back at him.

Ends/

BITTER FRUIT

GOLLAPUDI    SRINIVASA RAO

When pan vendor Yadav smiles, it is as intriguing as that of Monalisa's. It is very difficult to understand. He is always seen wearing a smile on his ugly looking face dealing with perhaps a thousand odd people of all walks of life each day.

Yadav's pan corner at the town centre is very famous and is one among the few to make a roaring business. Here, it is most sought after, as people believe, he uses only original ingredients without compromising on the cost involved. Morning and evenings are the busiest hours when one had to virtually wait his turn to get one. For, it was peak rush hour and mostly the office going people throng his shop. Everybody narrates a story or relates a reason to press him to dispose them off at the earliest. Having listened to them for about three decades, Yadav says nothing but simply would smile at them.

At the break of the dawn, Yadav comes to his small shop in his usual shabby clothes and settles in that dungeon sans any tidiness. Perhaps many customers are very young compared in age to the jar, which Yadav uses to mix `chunna' or the table and chair in his shop. As the thousands of his customers are hard pressed for time or engrossed in their worries, one never tried to inquire about Yadav's personal life beyond his smile. He too always appeared reluctant to share his personal details with anybody.

But, going by the turnout of customers, often some one would remark `Yadav bhai, how much do you make in a day? Thousand rupees a day? or two thousand rupees.
One would easily guess what his answer could be. He smiled back uttering nothing. But, he made more than that.

Never has any customer recognised pan vendor Yadav as equal or as a fellow human being. Often many appeared to have entered into a strange relationship with him where he always looked at the receiving end. In that five minute or ten minute drama that takes place at the road side pan shop, the customer always imagined himself as a hero and Yadav, a non-entity.

Any slight delay, whatever be the reason, will always make Yadav listen to a heroic act of that customer.

A lowest rung employee in the revenue department and regular customer of Yadav once went on -
"Yadav, you are an illiterate brute! Do you know how important I am in my office? People will have to wait for a day to meet me or get their things done. Not a single paper goes up to the district magistrate bypassing me. But for this pan habit, do you think a person like me will come here and stand. I make many influential people to wait, often to test their patience. But, you make me stand for that silly pan."

A wayward youth with connection to a political party was once seen grilling poor chap Yadav.
`Hey man, what do you think of me. Why you never look at me or give the pan immediately. How dare you make me wait? You cannot make an MLA wait for your pan. The MLA will not step out until I go to him. I am telling you again, never make me wait here."

And the police constable, another regular customer did not wish to lag behind on the heroes list when he threatened to drive away all the customers slapping heavy fines for illegal parking on the road infront of pan shop.
"Just because you are known, I am ignoring only to help you earn your bread. If you keep me waiting, someday I will see that not a single customer comes to your shop."

There are so many heroes who turn up there. If resolved, anyone of them could really to affect the whole life of Yadav or threaten his very survival. Hardly any of them ever did, though. He matured and aged listening to people say how important they are in the society and how indispensable to the system. Yadav hardly realised that one day one of his heros really meant what he said. He smiled as usual when the municipal employee got offended for having made to wait for the pan till such time, he thought.
"I am a key man in this town council who will decide how a road should take its course" he said adding that he would mark Yadav's pan shop as obstruction to the free flow of traffic and would order for demolition. Rather, for the delay, the municipal employee got very much enraged at his smile. He saw some viciousness in that smile or felt too humiliated for not seeing any remorse in Yadav with so many people around on the spot.

Just a week after this incident, some municipal employees were seen marking the road and buildings on either side of the thorough fare in the town. The traders came out and were seen talking with each other in commotion. When Yadav went there in out of curiosity and came to know that council had decided to widen the road demolishing the buildings, he murmured
`Bloody fellow! What a dangerous man. I should have given him the pan without any delay."
He did not reveal that the municipal employee threatened him the other day for fear of earning their ire. He listened to them and agreed with them to approach the higher officials to spare their properties.

The efforts of traders did not yield result. But, their blood boiled when the very tall building belonging to a top businessman was left out untouched. Soon, they learnt that he bribed the MLA who prevailed upon the council officials to change road plan.

Yadav was so disturbed at the thought of remaining without his shop in the town centre. He felt his life crumbled. He mobilised all the traders nearby and decided to meet the MLA. Accordingly, they did. Yadav took the lead and approached the MLA. The petty traders expected that they would get a positive reply and were prepared to relate their woes in as dramatic way as possible. It was Yadav who first received the shock when the MLA asked for a Rs 50,000 to be paid as party fund. He wore a question mark face. The MLA was equally surprised.
"Can't you part with just Rs 50,000?" was his remark.

"Sir," Yadav pleaded "I am a small time businessman who earn for the daily bread. I don't have the capacity to...

Even before he completed his sentence, the MLA rose on his feet and shouted back  - "Stop the nonsense you bloody creature. You want your property to be protected, but you won't pay anything for that. Am I your servant? Is it for this I spent a crore of rupees to become MLA. Did you vote for me at all? Even if so, do you think your vote alone helped me win? How do I recover my money? You make Rs 50,000 per month and amass all the wealth. When you have a problem, you want others to help you. But for free. I know everything – who earns what on the road. If you are prepared, talk to me, else get lost you bastard," he concluded.

Not just Yadav, but other traders too got the earful. They all came out and it was Yadav's time to burst.
"Dirty bastard, you see he pleaded us all like a dog for our votes to win the election and suddenly changed. You know, when I started my pan shop, that fellow was rearing pigs to eke out a living. But for the vote politics, that fellow would have never got a party ticket and never become an MLA. Are these bloody politicians there to serve the people or to amass the wealth? The country is going to dogs each day," he rued. Other traders echoed similar feelings.

Deep inside his heart, Yadav resolved to teach the MLA, a lesson. Whenever and wherever he met the fellow traders during regular meetings and at other times, Yadav went on encouraging each of them to contest for the MLA seat next time while the road widening programme, like any other government development plan kept postponing. To everyone Yadav spoke, he got similar reply.
"Brother Yadav, why don't you contest as MLA in the next elections? I cannot do it because I have many family responsibilities. Instead of giving party fund to all sundry fellows, I will ensure that our trading community funds your election expenditure."
This is what he was expecting from all and he got it indeed. His strategy worked out well and without going round the political parties, he got sufficient money to contest as an independent candidate. While all other aspiring candidates waited for their names to be declared by their parties, Yadav began his campaign much ahead leaving his pan shop to his wife and children.

Yadav got earful from scores during the course.
One said "Why you poor fellow get into the dirt? Do you think you can win the election? It is not a child's play."
The other said "Brother, why you waste your hard earned money. He wore broad smile on his face as usual.
He told himself "whether I win or lose, it doesn't matter. I will divide the votes and defeat that pig. That is all."

Women in the village demanded for prohibition of illicit liqour and wanted the candidates to promise regular supply of drinking water. The youth demanded for more jobs while the government employees and pensioners urged for pay revision. Every party and candidate promised to do much more than asked for if voted to power. After a six month heat and storm of elections, the dust settled down and the life which virtually came to a standstill returned to normalcy. People in large numbers began searching for the employment for the day.

Yadav's wishful thinking not just came true, but with a bonus. This time he smiled at himself. He won the election much to the surprise of political analysts somehow.

But, very soon the new MLA proved himself to be a `no different man'. He perfected the art of making money at others' cost.
 
 A fellow trader who had been with him ever since the election process began was shocked after witnessing Yadav dealing with a group of women who came to ask for drinking water supply to their slum. "Ok. The council has enough funds to lay pipelines to your slum. Since, you are all poor, I want each household to contribute Rs 200 and give it to me to meet my expenditure. The work will begin in one month after you pay me."

The reaction from the women was instant. They rose to their feet hurling all kinds of profanities at his shameless demand for money. The fellow trader quipped "Some trees always bear bitter fruits."

Yadav smiled at him, as if he understood it.

EOM/

CANKER TO THE CORE

GOLLA PUDI                                                                                     SRINIVASA RAO

'You can leave it to me sir. At the most, it will cost you a few extra rupees. Moreover, you can't go round those government offices. I will do it for you," said office boy Ramli.
"Okay, but I want to see canker it done without further delay," said Sandeep with dreamy eyes. He was building his own house at last and that too on the auspicious occasion of his 29th birthday.
He was trying to visualise how he would prove his father's statement wrong that it wasn't easy to build one's own house so early in life or get one's ugly daughter married off in safe hands. Days have passed since his father was at the prime of his life and times, seemingly, have changed. Soon after his graduations, he went away in search for greener pastures and succeeded in earning a few extra dollars.
By the time he was 25 he bagged the job he was looking for and after another three years of service, was able to prove his mettle in that prestigious software company in USA. He returned to India to head the company's operations and earn a staggering one lakh a month. His sole priority after he returned was to own a dream house. It's not that difficult any way.
Unaware of the ways of the land for he was away for long, he couldn't understand the procedure he was required to follow, and which, his real estate broker took pains to explain to him. Ramli, who was there, assured him that he could get it done. He felt much relieved thinking that all he had to do was to shed a few extra bucks. That was all.
Sandeep was busy making enquiries about the best architects in the city and getting all the beautiful houses photographed. But, when Ramli charged him Rs 50,000 extra for registration of the plot he felt a bit uncomfortable. "Oh! It's too much. I thought it would cost me 10,000 at the most but 50,000 is more than a bit too much."
"Sir, the file has to move from the bottom of the pile to the top. You will have to make preparations to grease the palms of the officials if you want it to move steadily. Why bother about 50,000 when you are actually spending hundred times the amount. Think again. Your work will be done in a week's time while it usually takes months," explained Ramli. But, this sermon didn't quite pacify Sandeep. He tried to console himself, but in vain.

He kept pondering over the incident and calculating how much time it took him to earn 50,000. As the days passed by, the confusion subsided, but he just couldn't get the incident out of his mind. He repented having entrusted the responsibility to the office boy.
By the time the construction work started he had gathered all the necessary information about the procedure of obtaining a municipal license. Armed with the registration papers he went to the municipal office. To his utter confoundment he found the office empty. On inquiring he was told the personnel were all away on field duty and would return in evening. "But, it coincides with my office hours," he murmured as he made his way out of the office deciding to come some other time.
After three successive attempts he finally succeeded in obtaining the application. Going through the form, he thought it would be easy finding out a solution to the new computer application rather than filling it. But determined to do it in a cost effective manner Sandeep filled it and submitted it in due time.
He waited expecting he would get the permission letter by post or in person within a month's space. Meanwhile, he busied himself making preparations for the construction. He talked to a contractor relating his preferences and calculating the total expenditure.
After about a couple of months he got a phone call from the municipal office. The person at the other end asked his name and address. It was the local corporator. "Do you think the license will come walking all the way home to you? Don't you think you should talk to me about it," posed Ramesh Yadav, the corporator.
"Why should I?" retorted Sandeep. "I filled it up according to the procedures and paid the fee in due time. Is there anything wrong?" he asked feigning innocence.
"Everybody does that. But, until I say yes, none will pick up your file let alone pass it. You should come and meet me and I'll let you know what you are expected to do," the corporator answered.
"Tell me what I should do? Are the papers not in proper order or are some of them missing?" Sandeep inquired.
"You didn't get my point. This is the problem with you educated fellows. You come and meet me here and I'll tell you everything you need to know," said the corporator.

Sandeep was deeply irritated but kept his tongue in check. He thought hard where this would lead him. Committed to working within deadlines he rushed to the office next day. The corporator wouldn't be available in office, he was told. "He can be got at his residence," Sandeep was told. "Why should I go all the way to his house to meet him? Okay, let me see," he frowned. He copied down his telephone number and address.
When Sandeep telephoned, the corporator answered roughly and asked him to come down between 3 and 6 in the evening. "I'll be busy at office. Any other time," asked Sandeep.
"Busy? Very well, I too will be very busy. But surely you want your license," he hung up much to Sandeep's frustration. He felt it humiliating to talk to this fellow. None in office dare to talk to him in that strain. "But, I want my license," he said to himself trying to control his anger.
Sandeep made at least four rounds around the residence of the corporator. He was amazed at the way the fellow conducted himself. He was literally holding a durbar with petitioners on one side and the municipal officials on their toes taking notes. "Ah! What power?" felt Sandeep.
He got a earful from the rustic as he went on explaining how he has to appease the officials back in office to get his license sanctioned and wanted him to pay Rs 25,000. "I will have to pay 5,000 to every one of them. That is really the bare minimum. I'll be left with the same amount," he summed up. Having cursed himself for embarking on the project, Sandeep decided to leave. But, it didn't end his tale of woe.
Sandeep had a wild argument with the mayor when his file reached its last stage. The mayor was a middle aged, semi-literate man.
Sandeep was enraged at him on hearing: "You will have to pay Rs 20,000 to my personal assistant. Come back tomorrow evening and take your license."
Unable to control his anger Sandeep shouted, "What the hell should I give the money for. Is it not your job to sanction licenses? I paid the entire fee as per statute and even greased the palms of your dirty employees."
"Wait, wait. Don't lose your cool young man. This is a common feature here. If you want your license follow the instructions or else better depart before things take a wrong turn," said the mayor.
"Why should I pay? Are you not paid for this job?" Sandeep inquired.
"How much do you get for sitting in that air conditioned room for just eight hours a day. You know the amount I get for being on this job round the clock. I need to attend to each and every problem the residents face," the mayor posed.
"You are here by choice," said Sandeep.
"Of course. But in times such as these when smart, young and able-bodied youth like you are busy chasing wealth who do you think will take the burden of ruling this town. Don't make me talk more else you will feel bad for having let your tongue loose. Enough is enough, my boy,"
"Why? What should I feel bad for? Aren't you ashamed for trying to justify blatant corruption"
The mayor's face reddened. He took a deep breath. "Do you think my fortunes will brighten up with that paltry amount you have been asked to give? Who do you think will decorate the entire town when a VIP like the chief minister comes for a visit? Where is the money going to come from? Do you think the honororium I am paid every month is more than enough to take care of my family? I am certain your salary is ten times the amount I get every month," said the mayor his eyes fixed on Sandeep all the while.
Sandeep took out his handkerchief to wipe the sweat off his forehead. He came back to his senses slowly. He felt lonely and helpless. Pondering over the people he had met and their behaviour he had a sudden feeling that his license was more important than anything else in the world. He walked out of the mayor's office with that precious bit of paper in his hand.
Ends/

This story was published in The Statesman on December 2, 2007.

THE NEW EMPEROR

GOLLAPUDI                                                    SRINIVASA RAO

James came to his senses when he heard the question `what gives ultimate happiness to a human being?’ posed by his roommate Krishna Iyer. His head was still heavy with what he read till late in the night. Waking up from his bed, he was trying to list out things to do for the day.

`Is it sex, money or political power?’ another question was shot at him.

Slightly feeling irritated, `did you sleep or just reading that philosophy all through the night?’ James asked him.

`Ok, I think you are in a hurry to go to class. Let us discuss in the evening,’ Iyer said closing the door behind and left hurriedly for the class.

James came back into his own world and thought he should first go to library to return the books and then to attend the seminar to be addressed by a foreign professor. Meanwhile, thoughts about his roommate too occupied his mind. `Was he moving in the right path? Will he get deranged in middle of the course reading that philosophical stuff?’ He planned to have a detailed discussion with him when both of them returned to their hostel room in the evening.

Son of a coal miner, James grew up as a disciplined child with his father always asking him to concentrate on studies and nothing else. He never allowed his children to do anything other than studies. He somehow disliked his children from taking risk and going astray. He ordered his son to study properly, get a job, marry a decent girl and raise a good family. But, James was interested in business and dreamed building an empire. He wished to join the elite group of businessmen of the country. Restrained by his father, he decided to pursue higher studies and joined a premier institute to complete his master’s degree in engineering.

James’s neighbour in the town, Krishna Iyer comes from still poor family that was all dependent on their mother. His mother worked at a mission school and she often undertook other menial jobs to make both ends meet. She took pride in her son who was pursuing higher studies with James. Unmindful of aspirations of his toiling mother, Iyer always dreamed a lot. Appearing over ambitious, he looked as if he wanted to conquer the world.

                                           *                    *                                *

`What according to you is most satisfying to a human being? Is it sex or money or political power?’ Iyer posed again as James entered the room without any formal conversation.
`Will you please wait till I take my bath? We shall go to canteen and go for a walk on the campus discussing the issue that is eating your brain’ said James.

`Sure’ said Iyer with glee.

They were roommates at the engineering college and again became roommates by chance at the university. They admired one another but are poles apart in personality traits. James was introvert, always preferred solitude while Iyer is opposite of him. He liked being in the crowd always cheering and talking. He cannot bear even two minutes of silence.

As soon as James came out of the bathroom, eagerly awaiting Iyer asked `Is it over? Shall we go?’

`Two minutes please’ replied James while putting on clothes leaving the towel behind.  `Did you attend the class or just whiled away your time with the books at library?’ James wanted  to know. But, Krishna Iyer was in no mood to answer. `Ok. Let us go’ he said.

James dressed very simply. He put on a T-shirt and a jeans pant while Iyer neatly shaved and well dressed in a formal manner. `you were asking something, what is it’ James wanted to know.

`What is so gratifying to a human being? Sex, money or political power,’ repeated Iyer.

`I think it is glory’

`How’

`Everybody knows that they will die one day. But they want to be remembered forever. It is for this reason, they do lot of things like charities, donate money to non-governmental organisations, build temples and do lot of other things’.

`But how many people do it. Only few do it. If you are correct, a large number of people must be doing that,’ pointed out Iyer.

`what do you think is the answer to your question’ impatient James sought to know.

`So you say it is glory’ paused Iyer.

`You must be thinking it is the political power that is most gratifying to a human being? posed James while his friend Iyer suddenly came to senses and focused on keenly listening to him.

James went on “But, I read somewhere sometime back that when M K Gandhi who led India to freedom refused to accept the Prime Minister post. He wanted the countrymen to remember him as Mahatma and as father of the Nation but not as the first prime minister of the country. As long as life exists, he will be remembered as father of the nation by his countrymen. He opted for glory not for transient power,’ explained James.

`Yes, but glory is not so gratifying in this age anymore’
`Then what is that most gratifying?’ James waited for Iyer’s answer.

`That is what I am searching for’ he answered and said `what if one has large number of people on globe at one’s command and all that wealth. Will he or she be happy?’

`Is it possible? One should become a king or an emperor. Go back to the olden days. It is history now. It is not possible anymore,” James added.

They walked in silence along road from one end to the other on the campus with the grownup trees forming a green canopy over. Each of them was busy with their thoughts and suddenly breaking the silence, James asked `what do you want to become in life? I think you are not serious in your studies. Think of your mother who works hard to send you to university. You should make her happy by securing a good job.’

Perturbed Iyer was ready with his answer `everybody grabs a job. What is great in it? Do you think I will renounce this world and join the band of ascetics?

James did say nothing but thought Iyer would definitely go mad with his useless questions and doubts.

As the examinations neared, both became very busy and their discussions became less and less frequent. While James stuck to his room for most part of the day, Iyer went out and came in as he liked. Both of them prepared for the campus interviews to get into best of the corporate companies for a good salary.

                             *                                  *                                 *

Mr Francis told his son James, if he wanted to go abroad to earn more, he could do so. But, he wanted his son to return before he retires. Mr Francis had eight more years to retire from the coal mines. He decided to let his son embark on a bright career, but asked him to come back to the country to look after the family. Had James decided to stay on in the country, he would have got decent salary, but going abroad means more prestige and more money as well. He would also get an opportunity to realise his dream of setting up his own business as he would be far away from his father who opposed the very idea of giving up job and taking risks.

Iyer too was planning to go abroad but did not like to discuss his plans with anybody including his roommate. James lost track of him and he went his way thinking seriously about his future. Having got into a multi-national company, James kept aside for the time being his own plans and began enjoying trotting the world as part of his job. Married to a girl of his choice, he had great times in life. The thought of returning home back always pinched him. He did not dare ask his father to allow him to stay for more. But, deep inside, he was interested in discharging his responsibility towards his mother and father and wanted to see the happiness on their faces.

James came back with his wife and two children to join his parents after serving eight years in various parts of the globe. Meanwhile, the parents shifted to the city to enable James settle conveniently without burdening him much. His father deposited his retirement benefits in bank from which he received monthly interest. Except for sharing the dwelling with his parents, indeed, James did not have much to worry about as he need not share his wealth or spare much of his time with his parents. He happily enjoyed their presence without disturbing them or getting disturbed by them.

Unlike in other parts where he worked, where employees always minded their own business, the colleagues back in his country mingled freely with one another and shared their joys and sorrows with each other. James came to know personal stories of many of his colleagues in the office. He observed everyone working hard and earning reasonably well. But, everyone has a complaint. Every one appeared somehow disgusted with the routine life. Everyone appeared to be waiting for a great escape. Everyone had a question sans any answer.

Majority of employees in the office had other avocations besides the office and family. Some went for Yoga practice; others sought peace attending meditation classes. Some hunted for pleasure elsewhere and others followed a spiritual guru. There were times, some spiritual guru suddenly appeared from nowhere in the office complex. The heads of departments would ask all the employees to gather at conference hall to listen to ancient wisdom and improve their efficiency. The so called lectures promised or taught tips on much wanted balance between personal and professional lives. Exposed to a different kind of environment, James found it all funny and often intriguing.

Whenever he interacted with his colleagues, they would say `a human being also has a soft corner. Not to have it is like living like a machine.’ Others would say `fear of a divine force is noblest of all.’ James grew curious of the language his colleagues spoke and desired to taste it. He began moving close to one of them who followed a new age spiritual guru.

James was invited to the meditation classes which all seemed trash to him. When he visited the ashram, he was taken aback seeing the most influential people of the society doing menial jobs there. The top cop of the place was washing dishes while another top bureaucrat was setting right the shoes and slippers left behind by the devotees outside the meditation hall. It all seemed too funny. “The fellows who have dozens of servants back at home come here to show another face. What hypocrisy?’ he told himself. At the same time, he could not resist praising this new age guru who appeared all powerful to him who had at his command the high and mighty. He strongly resolved to meet this man at any cost and asked his colleague to help meet his spiritual guru. He was astonished when he was told it was not easy to meet him in person.

“My spiritual master is a globe trotter. It is difficult to track his tour schedule and he rarely comes to India. Those who happen to meet him feel very fortunate and a rare opportunity they consider the result of good deeds they did in their past life.”

“It appears to me that it is easy to meet a Prime Minister or President than your guru,” said James feeling more intrigued. This made him resolve once again to meet this `mysterious’ man who held so many people together being far away. As he moved close with his new friend, James was surprised at the revelations about this spiritual guru. This spiritual master had among his followers, the high and mighty of the society – businessmen, top government officials and politicians. Not from one country, but of several countries across the globe.

Thoughts about this man and his ways occupied the mind of James completely. While others saw him as a reincarnation of God in him, James saw an `astute politician’ and `apt businessman’ in him and `meeting this man in person’ had become his mission now. He tried all the methods known to him to reach his goal.

James recollected reading very often in newspapers how powerful the godmen are. How they moved all over meeting the heads of states and influencing the politicians across the globe and some even owning ultra modern cars and airplanes. “How amazing the creatures really are? The empires have crumbled and kingdoms have gone, but these inscrutable `swamis’ succeeded in establishing new empires across the borders” he tried to explain himself.

Having proved himself an ardent follower, he became close with the top people of new institution who appeared to him, would fulfill his wish arranging a meeting with the spiritual master. He was told that after a year, again the master was coming to India and would stay for little over a month.

For James, it was astonishing to see so many devotees from different sections being so possessive about their spiritual guru. It looked funny to him to see everybody trying to show that he or she is more devoted than others. Their behaviour appeared weird to him. And when their `guru’ came, it all assumed an epic proportion. During his trials to meet this man of substance, James at one point of time, thought to give up his mission. He just could not get through the so called security covers and possessive circles formed by the ardent devotees around their master.

The spiritual master named `Atmananda’ looked like a movie hero. For James, he appeared like a gladiator – with well built body shining in full glow, sporting a long thick black beard and a white silk cloth across his upper part of the body while a lion clothe covered his lower part upto knees. His presence at the place seemed right. His body emanated a sweet smell which took those around into trance.

`Come, Mr James’ his first words as James appeared before him.

James was dumbstruck. He was a bit confused looking around to know whether the master was calling anybody else.

`Please come,’ said Atmananda again.

Looking into his eyes, James suddenly felt very much happy. Yes, he was right in his guess. He was overtaken by a variety of feelings – jealousy, sense of pride and a sense of achievement which did not belong to him.

EYE

GOLLAPUDI                                           SRINIVASA RAO

Nandita slipped her cell phone into the side pocket of college bag and hung it around her neck. She slipped the ipod into front pocket of her jean pants’ and drew the earphones and fixed into ears. When she was about to start her moped, she saw her grandmother alighting from the auto rickshaw.
She left the vehicle and went to receive the elderly woman. Taking the suitcase from her hands, Nandita inquired about her health. “You should have informed daddy. He would have come to the bus stand to receive you. Why trouble yourself?” she said.
Septuagenarian Rajamma smiled and said “I know the way to come. You people are busy in city and I do not want to disturb your schedule. Is your father there or left for the office?’ she asked.
“He is getting ready,” Nandita replied.
“Okay, you go to college. We shall talk in the evening. I think you are studying well,” said Rajamma as her eyes searched for her son Prakash.
Observing her grandmother lost in another world, Nandita kept the suitcase on sofa and left for the college.
Tucking his shirt, Prakash came out from the bedroom and felt a little surprised at the sudden arrival of his mother. She never comes when asked to come. But gives occasional surprise, he told himself and asked ‘Amma, how are you? You should have written a letter,’ he said being casual.
Rajamma felt happy seeing her grown up and accomplished son “I thought of writing you a letter, but our tailor Silar’s son Imam is writing seventh class board exams and did not spare time for me,” she explained.
Busily searching for his cell phone, belt, and watch, he again asked her “How was your journey? Did you get the seat?
“Yes, I got the seat,” she replied.
“Okay, take rest. I will come in the evening,’ he told her calling his wife Rama to give instructions.
Soon Rajamma and her daughter-in-law were busily engaged in inquiring about their worlds.
As usual, Rama expressed her unhappiness. Relating her life, she said “There is nothing great to tell you. My life revolves within these four walls. I wake early to arrange things for him and children. After they leave, I busy myself washing clothes and setting the things in order. All I get is an hour of time after lunch when I feel like sleeping or watching television. Once they return, again my work awaits me and by the time, I am finished, it will be 10 pm.
Earlier, before we had children, he used to take me to shopping or movie during the weekends. Those moments are gone. I have no time for those outings and I deliberately lost interest in going out now. I will only be bothering you with all these. By the way, how you are able to stay alone there in the village?” Rama asked Rajamma.
Though happy being in village’ Rajamma said “There is no way. When the children fly like birds, what will any parent do? Parents cannot fly with them. I am comfortable if not happy,” the elderly woman replied.
                                       
                                   *                                 *                                   *

Entering the home, Nandita smiled at her grandmother and threw herself in the sofa beside Rajamma without even taking out the shoe. “Ah, tell me Nanamma, how are you? You came after a long time. You stay with us here forever,” she said.
“First you go and wash your legs and come, ordered Rajamma.
Without any word, Nandita followed her word. Changing into casuals, she again came to Rajamma and tried to drag her into conversation. The elderly woman was watching the television as if she was seeing it for the first time. She was deeply engrossed.
“Did you listen what I said. Now be with us forever,” prodded Nandita.
Turning her head impatiently, Rajamma asked “Why? What will you give me if I stay here?”
“Anything you ask,” said Nandita childishly.
“No need to give anything to me. I am happy where I am,” Rajamma said appearing disinterested to talk more.
“Why Nanamma you won’t listen to us even your own son. What treasure did you hide there in that worst thatched house. I wonder what happiness you get there in that small remote village. You don’t have a bus there, no telephone and nothing. There will be no power and you do not know when will it come or whether it comes at all in the day.  Don’t you get bored living here in god forbidden place? I went mad when I came last time during the summer holidays. I swear I will never come there again,” Nandita went on and on.
Rajamma rejoiced at her grand daughter’s talkativeness but at the same time got irked by her criticism. ‘Shut up. I feel bored here not there in the village my kid,’ he said preferring not to annoy the girl.
“Why you got bored here. We do not get time to what all we want to do here. You can go to shopping, hotels, theatres and do lot of things. You hardly find time to live. But in your place, the time hardly passes. There is no place to go and none to talk to. You can just live your life surfing the countless number of channels here.”
The elderly woman wanted to put a full stop. “Okay kid, I agree. Your place is great to you and my place is great to me,” she said.
“What is great Nanamma? How are you getting along with all illiterate people there who only wake up to collect the cow dung madly running to the muddy fields? Nandita remarked.
Immediately observing the elderly woman is hurt at that she again said prolonging her voice to please her ‘I am not worried about those people Nanamma. I am worried about you. You are lonely and get bored there.”
Rajamma got a bit angry and said “You need not worry about me my child. I do not get time to get bored there. I am as busy as you are.”
Growing curious and to corner the old woman, “How? How busy are you there?” Nandita posed.
“What do you want to know all that? Don’t you have home work to do?” said Rajamma growing impatient.
“Please Nanamma, tell me how you keep busy there?” pricked Nandita again.
“I find everything very good there, the smell of wet mud, the simple people, the trees and the green fields and what not?”
You find endless rows of coconut trees giving you a beautiful look dancing with the passing winds. Next to them flow small canals sparkling with the early morning sun rays. Adjacent to them, you find vast stretches of green paddy fields converting the hot air into smooth and cool and you can really feel it as you pass by. One is always in tranquility devoid of hustle and bustle you find here.
Majority of the people go to the fields in early hours while some remain at home to rest or to care for their children. As I complete my cooking and settle in the front courtyard grinding the pigeon pea, the passersby would say hello to me and inquire `Amma, how is your Prakash? Did you go to town?’. Meanwhile, our tailor Silar’s son returns from school and asks me “Amma, should I write letter to Prakash uncle?” Time just passes quickly. After my lunch, I sleep for a while. Waking up in the evening, I water the plants in the backyard where the chirping birds try to speak something which I hardly understand. The banana tree wears a new bunch and guava tree bears more fruits. It is new experience every time I go into the backyard. I pluck some to hand over to the children passing by my home. When it is dark, people of my age – cobblers, carpenters, ironsmiths and all flock around and we keep talking about the times we had experienced or talk about our children, their jobs and places.
In the last summer, after waiting in vain for the government to desilt the sprawling tank, we decided to do it ourselves. Every villager gave one day labour and I carried ten baskets of mud. Being an elderly person, I was asked to do little while the younger people worked more. This time, the tank was full which will take care for three full seasons.
Unlike here in the town, we need not exchange money. We all exchange what we have for free. It is like a big family where everybody knows each other. I witnessed majority of villagers born and grown up. There is none I do not know or none who do not know me. I feel more comfortable and happy.
My child Nandita, we do not have comforts like you town folk, but villagers are contended lot. Though the village does not have good huge schools like here, the one very old and simple one produces proud people like your father Prakash. There are many who went to that school and are now making a decent living at distant places.
Having completed, Rajamma posed `Tell me do you have all that here? Leave about that tranquility, I do not find people talking affectionately with each other. It is really disgusting to be here. But, I want to see my son and you all loving children. It is good if I stay as little time as possible. Surely, your world is great, but to you,” Rajamma concluded taking a deep breathe.
Nandita remained silent trying to recollect the scenes she had seen in the village, now through the eyes of her grandmother.

Ends/