The end of something beautiful

She was listening - "A for apple, B for ball" recited playfully by a small voice - the innocence and musical rhythm that to her untrained ears became pieces of music that you yearn to hear. She could peek through the small crack in the door and her eyes got dazzled by the bright colors and the unicorns and fairies. But the most intriguing of all was the sweet fragrance that seemed to ebb her other senses. She felt dizzy and clutched the soggy dirty rag tightly with both hands to regain the assurance of reality.She must return to work, the adult in her seem to suggest. But the inquisitive child in her rooted herself to the spot, motionless, against all fear and inhibition.
Reality dawned on her when she sensed someone standing right behind her. She startled and crouched down. "So what are we doing over here, loitering? Haven't you been ordered not to peep into that room, not to come into this part of the house?" Her mistress's harsh voice rained down on her like punches while she tried to cower down as low as possible, fighting tears and shame at something she didn't quite pinpoint.
Her Mother's face glowered in the coal fire and the wrinkles on the premature face made her wonder how much Maa must have aged in these two years. Trying to earn two square meals for the both of them seemed a monumental task in this city of dreams and joy. Under the fire, the whole shack seemed more gloomy with the shadows dancing and angry sparks flying in between. She tried her best to keep her eyes open - trying to concentrate on the "History Std. V" book.  But no matter what, her eyelids kept drooping and she gave up resisting altogether. She dreamt about Baba - they were going to their village fair in new colorful clothes. There were lots of people, fireworks and lots of syrupy sweets. She held his hand but somehow couldn't see his face. Then something happened and she was snatched from her Baba's hands. The frantic unending search ensued and she woke up panting and sweaty. She found Maa sleeping close by and hugged her tightly.
The door was open. She threw furtive glances around. Nobody seemed to be coming this way. Her heart was pounding so hard that she could hardly breathe. All her resistance crumbled as she entered the world of her dreams. The room was bigger than her whole shack and every wall was colored with very bright colors with various cartoons drawn on it. She tried to take it all in. The sights and smell all fused in and she felt nauseated. Something attracted her attention. A red polka dotted handkerchief.
Fat teardrops ran down. Her mistress was calling up the guards to throw her outside. The red handkerchief lay infront of her.
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This story was first written by me in 8th grade and published in a small magazine. But the story stayed along with me. Hope you like it.

2 strange meetings part - 2

"Namaste". I had walked far more through the maze of giant buildings looking down upon me and cars whisking by than I had primarily intended to. I was planning to return home at this point. I was pretty sure this was aimed towards me. I found an weather-beaten African-American face with a good-natured smile beaming and his hands folded in the manner of greeting of Indians. "Namaste"-he said again-"How are you today?". "Fine".
"Can I have a moment?". This is when I get apprehensive. "You are an Indian, are you not?" This is not a question but more of an conversation starter. I nod quickly but firmly. "Aap Kaise hai?" (How are you?) Wait a minute. This guy speaks Hindi. The Indian in me is elated but the foreigner in me is suspicious.
"Where are you from?"
"Calcutta".  
"Oh really!!! Aapni bhalo achen?" (Are you fine in Bengali).
I am awestruck.
"But you don't look bengali!! " He seems confused. I shrug. Its not the first time.
"Apnar naam ki?" (Whats your name)
He hands me a book. "The book of self-realization". It has a cover of Chaitanya Mahaprabhu (a spiritual leader in the medieval India). "I am a permanent member of ISKCON. I have been to Mayapur several number of times. I love India." And then he stops to quote from Bhagawat Gita -  "Tomasho Jyotirgamayo " to the best of the imitated Indian accents.
He tries to tell me about Enlightenment, about Krishna, about ISKCON. He is from Chicago. I ask him "How is it possible that an African -American like you gets devoted to an Indian philosophy?"
He says its his calling - Karma - to serve God. He got interested through a friend who was in ISKCON. He had questions which he could'nt answer. He went to one of the sessions of Bhagawat Gita reading.
"It changed my life"- The radiance in his eyes support this- "completely. I have found a new faith in myself".
A pause.
"You know you are tremendously lucky", he says longingly.
"Why is that?"
"Your Bengali culture is so rich and the great thinkers like Ramakrishna and Vivekananda and Tagore came from there".  He quotes Ramakrishna - "Joto Moth Toto Poth" (There are as many ways as there are beliefs to reach God).
I am terribly amused and bewildered at this point. I am used to seeing the opposite - American accents, hip-hop music and burgers. And here he is- trying to talk to people to get them to believe in Indian Philosophy and "simple living, high thinking". We discuss spirituality and religion for some time. Then he thrusts the book into my hands, introduces himself as Shankar and with a folded "Nomoshkar, Hare Krishna" departs. I clutch the book in my hands. I feel rejuvenated.

2 Strange Meetings part - 1

When you have travelled as much as I have, having shifted base so many times, you tend to meet a lot of people and have conversations. Sometimes, these are terribly mundane and you tend to forget them as soon as they are gone. But once in a while, you meet people and they latch onto your memories in a way that makes you ponder long after the conversations have ended. They seem to drag on like stretching a rubber band and as it so happens, compels me to share them as anecdotes with others.
Today was a day of such unnatural encounters with two of the most bizarre people I have ever met in my stay on this planet. This was the first one. I was roaming through Downtown Houston aimlessly on this pretty sunny spring afternoon. Suddenly there was someone calling me "Hey, are you an Indian?" I have found out by now that being Indian is a great conversation starter. I turned and saw this man of about fifties (he told me later he will exactly fifty in some days). He had a persian cap on and glasses with one side missing. A huge beard over his face , a handle bar mustache and very intense eyes blazing through me. I responded with a short nod. (You must understand that the enthusiasm of being indian in a foreign land fades with time). "Which part of India?" Now if there is a list of questions that people asked Indians, this would always be the invariable no.2. Though more often than not, people who ask this have a very poor grasp of world geography and I get blank faces after this.
Me - "I am from a city in the east, Calcutta".
Him-"Oh Kolkata!!".
My interest got piqued. I checked again. No, this guy certainly didn't look Indian. I was pretty much certain that this guy was American. I approached cautiously - "So where are you from?"
Him - "Oh I am born here but my ancestors, they were gypsies from Eurasia. [A pause] I am Michael Zargarov, His Highness of the Sovereign of Zargaristan, exiled in America. Nice to meet you." (He shook my hand).
I was pretty certain at this point that this guy was trying a practical joke on me or was a lunatic. Still to humor him and the fact that I had no work in my hand, I asked "So where is this place?"
Him - "Oh this is near Iran. It was a very small country and when the Pashtuns attacked us, my grandmother and grandfather had no choice but to fled the country. I was born here and brought up here but I am trying to get back to my country. Its a country that belongs to me through my ancestors and you are nothing but a fruit of the legacy of your ancestors. You exist simply because your ancestors existed."
And saying this, he whipped out his "business" card and handed it to me. I studied it intently. Nothing amiss. It proclaims him with all his royalty and his temporary address. I don't know whether it was the incredulous look on my face that did it or just his habit, but then he moved onto how he was conceived. He laid a crisp two dollar note in front of me and continued- "I will give you this two dollars if you can answer my riddle. I was born in Houston but I was not born in the territory of America. I was born in a foreign soil".
I frowned. This didn't make an iota of sense to me. I just moved my head sideways conveying my ignorance.
He suddenly got this misty look in his eyes as he recounted his birth story. "When the royalty is born they have to lay claim to the land, the soil. So my grandparents brought suitcases filled with soil, and I was anointed after being born in a Houston hospital".
"My grandparents used to tell me stories of my place. They used to travel through the middle east to as far as Rajasthan. The ancestors, they live through us". He sighed audibly. He offered me the two dollar note. I politely refused.
"Come and have tea sometime".
"Sure"
And then he was gone. I stood there looking at him going away diminishing from my line of sight. Was it real? I asked myself. Why will anyone devise such a cock-and-bull story? At last consciousness came back in the form of a homeless person asking for money for a meal. I briskly departed from the scene.

Epilogue
Came back and found something interesting on google -
http://pasadenaadjacent.com/2012/03/06/zargaristan-beloved/
https://www.facebook.com/HSHMICHAEL

Life in an engineering hostel....a summary

Charles Darwin, in his famous Theory of Evolution, coined a phrase-

"Survival of the Fittest",

and starting to write about such an enigmatic topic ( the enigma that almost turns into a nightmare for the newbies), I cannot not find a more suitable and apt phrase for describing it. A friend of mine actually suggested and I quote : "Jab bacchcho ko mard banana hai na usse dono jayga pe bhejo, NDA ya Engineering Hostel!!!!". Weekend mornings should best describe this place..the corridors are as empty and lonely as in a curfew situation with everyone dutifully tossed up in their beds even after noon. I actually have a feeling that people turn blind and deaf when they enter into a hostel. They are quite dutifully ignorant of the litter that they create in the rooms and move around them very precariously as if they are some form of priceless art. And speaking of deafness...it stems from a communist thought that any song played in any room is meant for the whole hostel to listen and appreciate. I do believe that people turn quite saintly while they live here..(if u leave the obvious adult stuff going on..its just another form of entertainment)...u will find people actually sleeping on the ground with a bed stacked with materials accumulated over a period of years and juxtaposed beautifully. I dont deny the fact that people ( homo sapiens of the outer world) may find these beings as eccentric...(I cannot decide if it is schizophrenia,paranoia or any other compulsive disorder or accumulation of all). But the fact of the matter still remains that these creatures are the ones highest paid after they graduate. I feel because the employers get an engineer, a night guard, a xerox machine, a machine which can cram loads of un-important imformation and a donkey all combined into one.
How is an engineering hostel different from other hostels ?????????????????
An important question nevertheless. The answer to this question depends upon the extent of your imagination. Imagine the life of the first humans. Living in caves, hunting for food, coming together into a herd, protecting himself from the dangerous animals while engaging in a battle for survival against the fury of mother nature. I hope I have given u the answer.