Newflash: Eka Lavya's daughter V.Pranitha makes it to the Olympics

http://www.thaindian.com/newsportal/sports/pranitha-dola-make-it-to-beijing-olympics_10065913.html

I wrote a story called Eka Lavya's daughter a couple of weeks ago. The story is loosely based on a true story of a girl who went a rural school in Kalleda, Andhra Pradesh, operated by India Rural Development Foundation.

The news is that she made it to the Indian Olympic team.

Here is the full story on her.

Kolkata, June 29 (IANS) Junior archer V. Pranitha and veteran Dola Banerjee made the cut for the Beijing Olympic Games archery on the concluding day of the trials for the mega event here Sunday. The duo would join L. Bombayla Devi in the Indian women’s recurve archery team at Beijing.

At the end of the four-day trials at the SAI, Eastern Centre, the 17-year-old Pranitha of Steel Plant stood first with a cumulative total of 5167 out of a possible 5760 points. Railway employee Dola, who got her second successive Olympics berth, was second with 5141 points.



Uttar Pradesh girl Punya Prabha, Chekrovolu Swuro of Nagaland and Railway’s Reena Kumari were third, fourth and fifth with 5128, 5124 and 5119 points respectively. Another junior Pratima Boro of Steel Plant, came sixth with 5043 points.

Each archer was asked to shoot 144 arrows daily for four days over a distance of 70m for a total of 576 arrows.

At the Olympics an archer will shoot only 72 arrows over the 70m distance in the FITA round qualification. Only 64 archers make it to the Olympics round knockout individual championship and top 16 nations for the team championship.

Indian archery squad for Olympics:

Men: Mangal Singh Champia (Railways). Women: Laishram Bombayla Devi (Rly), V. Pranitha (Steel Plant) and Dola Banerjee (Rly).

Congratulations to the IRDF and RDF teams who made this happen, especially Mr. Ram Mohan Rao Erraballi.


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Chester is dead

“Chester is dead! I killed Chester! Oh my God! I killed him!” I ran inside with my high heels into an empty house. I ignored that wearing shoes inside the house was a taboo. It had become a habit not to wear shoes inside the house ever since I got married to Henry. Henry is a Japanese American who called himself a banana. Henry joked with me that he was yellow outside and white inside, except when it came to wearing shoes inside the house. He followed Mrs. Matsuhito’s often repeated dictum about not wearing shoes inside the house to the tee. He also never tired of eating sushi when we went to the Japanese restaurant. But Henry hadn’t been home for the last five years since he tried to kill himself the first time. I forgot what Henry’s real name was. I think it was Hisao or Hisoka. God! How could I forget my ex-husband’s real name? It is the word that means ‘Long Lived Man’. How is that for an irony? I guess it doesn’t matter if my high heels scratched the impeccably clean maple floors since he is not here right now.




How could I kill the darned cat? I was horrified as I remembered the lifeless glassy eyes popped out of the flattened furry body. I didn’t even feel the bump as my SUV ran over him, the big wheels rolled over the cat casually without making much of an impression on me, the driver of the car. I was oblivious to the fact that I creamed the cat. Several years ago when I bought the car, the dealer had said that the SUVs are made to go over obstacles such as ditches, bumps and even the pavements and the vehicle was perfectly suited for rough terrain.

No one was home to sympathize with me, no one was there to assure me that I did nothing wrong and that it was just an accident. Sam and Mark were with grandma Matsuhita, probably learning Japanese alphabet or praying to the Budha or eating the Udon noodles. No one knew that the grey colored stray that took over my drive way for the past eight years was dead, flattened to the ground by me. I knew all along he was my nemesis.

I ran to the bathroom and retched over and over again. It was still alive when my eyes alit on the moving furry fat tail that was almost the same color as my driveway.

Let me be completely truthful. I never liked Chester, I told Samantha to stop feeding the stray and told Mark to stop touching it. The dirty, matted, and mangled overcoat of Chester always made me feel nauseous. I was allergic to cats and dogs and anything that shed hair or pollen. Thank god Henry was hairless for the most part. Even his legs were smooth and devoid of body hair. Since Mark was born slightly asthmatic, I always gave that as a reason whenever Samantha pestered me to get a pet.

Chester and I had a fearful and respectful relationship. I never let him come into the garage, and I stepped away gingerly whenever he came near me. I feared him, the few times he came near me and tried to rub his fat and obnoxious body and twist it around my trousered leg, I ran inside, took off my pants and washed them in hot water to disinfect, even though the label said ‘Dry Clean Only’. He, on the other hand, respected me enough to stay away from me most of the time.


I moved into the house with Matt, Mark and Sammy when Samantha was six and Mark was less than one. Chester came in a few months later. Mark was two when he toddled to the cat and said his first word, to-to…Mark was a late talker. He dropped the long breadstick he was munching on to the ground and clapped his hands delightedly as to-to ate the breadstick. When Mark attempted to retrieve the breadstick back and put it in his mouth, I ran from the plant I was tending to and hoisted Mark high up in my arms and took him inside, ignoring his wail of protest.

When Chester and I met each other we parted ways without much interaction, our eyes clashed once in a while, mine with reluctant guilt for not taking care of him and his with ‘damned if I care’ attitude. The studious ignoring worked wonders for me. I went to work, took the children to their soccer games, cooked dinner on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday and let in the cleaners in every ten days to clean the house. I dropped off the laundry at America’s best cleaners regularly without bothering to ask the name of the Chinese woman at the counter. In between raising the kids, ignoring the cat and working for a non-profit environmental agency as an attorney, I lost my husband. He is not dead! he is just lost. He said that he had an identity crisis. For a man of forty-five it is more likely that he was going through midlife crisis. He compared himself to the dormant Hawaiian volcano Mauna Kea; the lava spent, the magma cooled, and the dead ashes scattered. He said, he didn’t feel anything these days.

I married him thinking that he would be the stable Asian man with a steady income and a balanced temperament. I had enough of the loud, obnoxious WASP lawyers I dealt with. Henry had his own business. He sold landscaping supplies wholesale. On the side, he nurtured his passion and raised bonsai trees. He twisted the branches of the small saplings with wires to make them malleable and tortured them without water for days. Some times he planted them in pebbles, some times he placed them in the crevices of jagged volcanic rock and sometimes he planted them in wine barrels. When my lawyer friends came to the house, they oohed and aahed at his collection. Henry was a polite man, I knew he did not care for my colleagues but he was never overtly condescending to them.

I enjoyed showing off my husband to my colleagues, it always threw them off that I had an Asian spouse. They admired my Amerasian children, with their sandy hair and oriental eyes and pale skin that was somewhere between yellow and white. My children would be devastated to know that I killed Chester. I picked up the phone and called my next-door neighbor. The nosy old man kept an eye on the neighborhood, our very own private eye in the quiet cul-de-sac. He noticed and commented about Henry’s absence the first week he left and I have ignored him since. I noticed when I stopped seeing his wife five years ago, but I never commented on it. Nosy old man!

“Hello, Ken Wentworth speaking!” His raspy voice scared me. His telephone voice was quite different from the outside voice.

“Mr. Wentworth, I killed Chester!” My voice fell a few notches as I revealed what I did.

“I know! I saw you run over it!” He stated with a matter-of-fact tone. Yes, of course, he would know. His omnipresent eyes did not miss anything.

“What do I do?” I hated asking him for advice.

“Well, there is only one thing to do! Call the SPCA and tell them to take away the animal.” He paused. “I looked up the internet, they want you to put the dead body in a plastic bag.”

“I can’t touch it!” I choked with a heaving sob.

“Get some gloves and a garbage bag. I will help you bag it.” He was waiting for me to shatter into pieces and act like a damsel in distress to offer help.

I grabbed the black sunglasses from the kitchen counter and rummaged under the kitchen sink for gloves and a black plastic bag. White kitchen trash bag some how wouldn’t cut for bagging a dead cat. I donned the glasses and went out through the open garage door.

He was outside, making clucking noises at the dead cat.

“There is no blood, I think you went cleanly over the bones.” Yes, I am glad you told me that, Mr. Wentworth. “Don’t worry! It didn’t suffer one bit.” I guess I was fortunate to have killed a cat without making it suffer too much.

“Take off your glasses and look at the cat, Mrs. Matsuhita! Life and death are part of nature’s cycle.” Since I need his help, I have no choice but to hear his amateur philosophy. I think the older Mrs, Matsuhita must have spent some time with Mr. Wentworth talking about Zen Budhism.

“You didn’t kill the cat on purpose, did you?” the question threw me off guard.

“No!” I answered sharply. “I would never do that. I am not that cruel.”

“Aren’t you?” he put on the gloves. I noticed that they were slightly smaller on his large hands. I never noticed this, but for a guy with a small frame, the man had large feet and large hands.

“Why are you asking me these questions? What makes you think that I killed it on purpose?” My schooling as an attorney at law made me ask rapid questions that demanded answers.

“I saw you every day in the morning trying to push the cat out of your driveway, it was becoming an annoyance, wasn’t it?” he calmly asked while he tried to pick up the dead corpse. Chester was too large and sagged and fell to one side, making it difficult for him. I opened the mouth of the garbage bag wide, trying to facilitate his job. He struggled with the dead cat for a minute; finally placing one had under the stomach and the other holding it’s hind legs. Together we shoved the cat into the bag.

I put the tie around the bag and looked at him to give me further instructions.

“I called the SPCA already, they said they will come and pick it up. I will put it on the side of the pavement.” He flexed his muscles while getting up slowly and said, “My arthritis is acting up.”

I stood up quickly, the blood rushing to my head and I teetered trying to find my balance.

“Mrs. Matsuhito, let’s go inside. You need a hot cup of tea.” I watched him go in and out of focus as he dropped the bag on the driveway along with the gloves and held my upper arm with gentle force.

“No, I am OK!” I protested weakly.

“We are all OK most of the time! This minute you are not! Let me help you, Mrs. Matsuhito.” He looked into my sunglass covered eyes with concern.

I nodded and let him lead me into the two-storied house. Henry lived behind the nursery in a one-bedroom cottage not too far away from here. It was ages since I heard from him. If there is one thing he and I truly shared, it was the dislike of cats. I was scared of the cat, but he genuinely disliked it. It somehow permeated into his sense of cleanliness to have a cat in the house.

“Where do you keep the tea bags?” Ken asked me.

“In the pantry, on the third shelf, second jar from the left.” I replied mechanically.

“And the tea cups?” His voice came muffled, I wondered if he was inspecting my pantry, with its neatly arranged cans, jars, cereal boxes and snacks.

“Outside, in the shelf next to the fridge.” I wanted him out of my pantry and to a place where I could see.

He walked out shuffling his feet. I noticed he left his shoes outside like I did. For the first time, I noticed the man in front of me, he wore dark but expensive pants above his waist with a stark white shirt neatly tucked in. I couldn’t tell his age, he was one of those people with an indeterminable age. He had a full head of hair and he probably wore dentures, because he didn’t have a sagging jaw most people of his had. He must have been a good-looking man in his younger days.

“Mr. Wentworth, Do you think that I killed the cat on purpose?” I asked him with a curiously ill feeling in my stomach.

“I apologize for insinuating that you killed it deliberately. It came out wrong. Please call me Ken.” He opened the shelf and retrieved the cups and filled them with water.
“But something made you ask that question.” I pressured him to give me an answer.

“I wondered why you didn’t get up from the car and shooed him out of the driveway like you usually did. That’s all!” He put the cups in the microwave and looked at me questioningly.

“Press the power and hit –nine-zero- and press start.” I gave him instructions. “I don’t know why I did that, may be I was pre-occupied” I went back to the subject at hand.

“Yes, we are always pre-occupied with things, must be something at work, right?” He sympathized but somehow it sounded condescending to my ears. “It could be the kids, they must be missing their father, may be you are too busy dealing with them.” He punched the numbers on the microwave and pressed the start button. As the microwave carousel started the whirring sound, I played his words in my head.

“How is Henry doing?” His nosiness was getting on my nerves.

“I wouldn’t know!” I straightened my back in the dining chair and gave him a fulminating glare.

“I remember the earlier days of your marriage, you guys were happy. Can I call you by your given name, Rachel?” I don’t think he is really asking for my assent. He took the teacup out after the beeping on the microwave stopped and dipped the tea bag in the hot water several times.

Yes, you would know, you always had your eyes glued to my bedroom window. My accusatory eyes hit his back and glanced off harmlessly.

“And then he started to look sad and morose, like Chester before he died.” He brought the cup to me and handed it over. The hot tea warmed my fingers and as the heat seeped into my senses, I hastily put the cup on the table, this time, juggling to hold it with the handle.

“Chester was sad?” I changed the subject as I gulped the tea, almost scalding my tongue and throat in the process.

“Chester was old, Rachel! He was suffering with some unknown illness, haven’t you noticed?” His probing question made me bristle with anger.

“I never notice these things, I didn’t know he was sick. It was like he wanted to die! He would come deliberately and sit behind my car. He wanted to annoy me. He wanted to get my attention.” The cup wobbled in my hands.

Ken sat in the chair in front of me.

“Why did he have to die under my car? Why didn’t he die under the wheels of the Chinese couple’s car, or the Indians next door? He knew I didn’t like him, he knew that I was the only one who would kill him. He wanted me to feel guilty because I don’t love him anymore, but I don’t want him to die!” I don’t know when I stopped talking about Chester and started talking about Henry.

“You did love him once, Rachel. You still do. As a father of your children, as a human being.” Ken started tracing the pattern on my dining table without looking into my eyes. “Every day for the last one month, you got up and pushed Chester out to a safer place before you left to work. But you got tired one day and you didn’t have the energy to drive him out from the driveway.”

“What are you? A shrink?” I stared back at him.

“No, I am a writer and a very bad one at that. I observe things that happen around me.” He smiled.

“I don’t want Henry to die. I never meant to hurt him. I just didn’t know that he was hurting so much. I should have put him in the hospital.” Tears pooled behind the sunglasses I wore.

“His mother told me that he is suffering from manic depression. I know he tried to kill himself several times.” He knew everything about my not so secret life.

“I know your wife left you, I don’t see her anymore.” It was payback time.

“She died, Melanoma. She loved the sun.” The dispassionate voice offered an explanation for his wife’s long absence.

The bastard, I should have known why he had a holier-than-thou attitude.

“I am sorry!” I weakly mumbled an apology.

“What are you going to do with Henry?” He rejected my apology.

“Are you saying that I want Henry to die because he is suffering so much?” I was astonished at the audacity of the man and what he was insinuating.

“No!” he gently admonished. “I am saying that you are tired of taking care of him and one day you want to give up. You can’t help Henry anymore. You should put him in a facility that could help him. You should have asked the SPCA to come and take Chester away when you noticed he wasn’t feeling well.”

“But he is my husband. I am responsible for him.” My tears dripped and fell in the now lukewarm tea.

“You have two choices, Rachel. You can ignore his sickness and disregard his need for assistance or you can keep helping him until one day you lose your patience.” He got up from his chair and walked toward the door without a backward glance.

***

I picked up the phone to call my mother-in-law. We had things to talk about, mostly regarding Henry.



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Escape From Uganda

Previously published in Red Wheel Barrow - A literary magazine

November, 1971

Ajai looked down from the open terrace of the Casablanca Café down to the valley below. The magnificent evergreens covered the valley, gently interrupted by the villas with their red-tiled roofs, and white bungalows with large iron-gated compound walls. He loved Kampala this time of the year. The rain pitter-pattered on the concrete tiles outside. The city sat astride the equator and was blessed with two rainy seasons; One in April, lasting two months and one in November. Legend has it the city spread over ten hills was named after a Kigandan expression “kasozi K’empala”, the hill of antelopes.



He had a troubled expression on his face; things were not going well in Uganda. News was travelling fast that Idi Amin Dada started ethnic cleansing, and was persecuting the religious minorities, after overthrowing Obote. He heard that there was a big political turmoil going on and Amin had no love lost with the Indian community. Many of his friends started leaving Uganda to go and settle down in UK and US. Friends and family were trying to force him to sell his businesses and divest the money abroad.

His businesses were entrenched in the black communities, ranging from construction and motels, to factories and quarries that mined the local ores. The Israelis were building the airport in Entebbe and he bid to subcontract with them. He saw how the properties and businesses that were expropriated from other Indians were being mismanaged without having properly trained people at the helm. The Indians in Uganda were highly educated, doctors, lawyers, teachers, and engineers…the emigration of the skilled people was taking a toll on the Ugandan economy.

His ancestors had come to Uganda 100 years ago as merchants during the British regime. They had settled down and made money by their sheer ingeniousness. He chose not to go to the traditional business of selling spices and hung around with the locals much to the dislike of his late father, who tried to keep himself and his family in the segregated parts like the rest of the Indian families.

The café was named after the famous Humphrey Bogart flick. The foreigners hung out, drinking, socializing and talking about politics. Some of the Indians did too, although, most of the Indians stayed within the confines of gated communities. He was beginning to know the meaning of birds of the same feathers flocking together.

He was unhappy about the growing distance between him and the locals he grew up with. The blacks seem to be segregating themselves with the rest of the folk. Some sided with Idi Amin while others were persecuted by Amin. The seemingly intellectual leader was turning into an eccentric; rumors of his polygamy, his megalomania and his cannibalism spread like wild fire. Ajai heard he was amassing vast army to go against Tanzania and usurp the country. Another neighbor, Kenya was wary of Amin and was helping the ousted leader Obote.

His own personal life was at a turning point in the midst of chaos. He had resisted for so long for an arranged marriage to a girl from India. Soni Verma had lost her parents and came to Uganda to get married to him a year ago at the request of his aunt and lived with her sister in his guesthouse. He had called her a sort of mail order bride and tried to send her back to India several times, before falling in love with her finally and succumbing to the marriage.

Two days before his marriage, trouble came looking after him. The Israeli experts, who were building the new Entebbe airport were kidnapped by Idi Amin’s army. Some of his engineers were also in the kidnapped list.

He wanted his right hand man Vishy to take the family and leave to India. Though Uma maasi, and Vishy had British passports, Soni, and her sister Mira did not. All the negotiations by the Indian government with Amin to deal delicately with its citizens fell on deaf ears. The ones who stayed behind were butchered mercilessly and Ajai was scared for his family.

He spotted General Magute coming into the Café. Ajai picked a cigar from his private stash at the café and lighted it. He hid them away from Soni’s prying eyes. Even before she was his wife, she already took over the nagging, not to work late, not to smoke, not to drink, and not to gamble. He looked at the chessboard in front of him, planning his next move.

“In two moves, there is going to be a check mate, you need to be more careful, Mr. Mitra” Magute’s double meaning wasn’t lost on Ajai.

“A good chess player always has an alternate plan and thinks at least two moves ahead, General!” Ajai removed the cigar from his mouth.

“And if all the roads are closed?”

“What would it take for the roads to be re-opened?” Ajai kept his eyes on the chessboard.

“I want this café. I can give you a permit to transit for six people. If you don’t sign it over to me, I can still get this property, but the road will be closed forever. Your choice!”

“I need to know my employees will be treated well!” Ajai made a valiant effort to negotiate.

The General laughed, “Mr. Mitra, you are in no position to negotiate!”

“I live by the quotation, ‘Negotiate out of fear, but never fear to negotiate.’” Ajai replied.

“If they are Ugandans, they will be treated fairly, if they are not, you have three days to get them out of here!” The General took a sip from his drink.

Ajai made his move on the chessboard.

“You have till tonight to think about it.” The General dragged a last puff from his Cigar. “You have good taste in Cigars, Mr. Mitra!”

“Why do you need me to write it on your name? You can kill me and confiscate my property.” Ajai was puzzled.

“There are at least 5 generals like me in this area, all looking out for themselves like vultures waiting to swoop down on good real estate and businesses. If you say that I am already a partner, then I won’t have to deal with those guys!” The General’s pursed his lips.

Ajai nodded. He had at least 20 Indian families that depended on him. “How about you give the transit visa to four more Indian families?” Ajai pushed the General.

After a brief hesitation, the General nodded. Ajai released a breath that he was holding carefully. Now, he had four more generals to negotiate with. He placed telephone calls each of them. He negotiated 4-5 Indian families’ safe departure in lieu of his properties.

He encountered one issue, General Kibuki wanted the Casablanca Café, just like General Magute…Ajai didn’t hesitate, the circumstances were dire and he couldn’t waste any more time. He knew he would be in deep shit, if the Generals came to know that he played them against each other.

The plan was to get the 25 Indian families to Entebbe and fly them out to Tanzania or Kenya and then to other destinations. He summoned Vishy to spread the word that all Indian families must flee Uganda and no one should stay behind, hoping to save their businesses, properties, and their belongings; He told them to take jewellery, cash, and bare minimum necessities with them.

He looked around one last time and left the Café.

***********************************************************************************

Soni waited until he came home, he usually came home late, but today was later than usual. The news she heard on radio was scary. She had been here less than year, but she was already so attached to the place, the rolling hills, the lakes and the waterfalls. She was going to miss the peacocks that danced in the early mornings in the backyard, Gazelles that walked in and out through the broken fence and the amazingly colorful birds that chirped sitting on the tall evergreen trees.

She smiled dreamily. In two days time, she was going to be Mrs. Mitra. This was going to be her permanent home. Vishy was showing interest in Mira. Maybe this place would be her sister’s home too, as much as her own. Ajai Mitra - irascible, incorrigible, overbearing and smug Mr. Ajai Mitra would be hers soon.

When she heard the key turning in the door, she stood up, trying to hide her pink cheeks from him.

“What are you doing up, so late?” he questioned her shrugging off his jacket.

“I am trying to practice sleeping while standing up on one leg” She teased him.

He smiled. She was sassy and he loved it.

“Let’s see if you can sleep walk while hopping and kiss your future husband,” he said blandly.

“I have a head ache!” she blushed.

“Even before we got married and had a honeymoon?” His eyebrows went up. He came and stood close to her. His expression changed as he looked at her.

“And if today were the last time you are going to see me for the rest of our lives, what would you do?” he asked seriously.

Her eyes rounded with fear at the sudden intensity in his voice. She looked about to cry. “What are you talking about?”

He turned away without answering.

“The news says there is trouble brewing. Are we in danger?” the pulse in her throat started beating frantically.

Silently, Ajai pulled her into the Prayer room. He reached to the small box containing the vermillion powder and took a pinch between his fingers. Her eyes dilated with confusion. In a Hindu marriage, when an unmarried man lined the vermillion in an unmarried woman’s parted hairline, it signified marriage.

“Will you marry me tonight, Soni Verma?” He asked her sincerely.

She nodded silently, confusion apparent in her eyes.

“I am sorry, this is a lousy way to get married!” he held her face between his hands and looked into her eyes, his own filled with love and desperation.

Her steady expression, which did not waver, was all the answer he needed.

With a trembling hand, he lined the vermillion over her parted hairline carefully, making her his wife.

Later in the night, he explained to her the plan, and promised that he would join her and the rest of the family in Bombay in a few days.

When she resisted, he bullied and blackmailed her, telling her that he is her husband and that she needs to obey him, finally making her give in.

In the morning, like little children, they had to explain why Soni slept in Ajai’s room amidst disapproving looks from Uma maasi and Mira.

***********************************************************************************

The exodus started in the morning. The farewells began, silent and secretive. The tears wouldn’t come for the travellers yet - it wasn’t sinking in that they had to leave their homes of many years.

For Soni, the departure was unpalatable without Ajai, for Ajai it was heart wrenching. He held her silently, kissing her eyelids as her eyes welled with unshed tears.

“Take care of Uma maasi, Soni…if I don’t come within one month, don’t wait for me.” He whispered in her ear.

She struggled to get out of his embrace then; hit him in the chest, sobbing uncontrollably. He pushed away, almost carrying her to the vehicle. They held each other’s hands through the window. The sadness stabbed at their hearts.

The convoys started moving. Ajai stood until the bus became a speck in the distance. He craved for the whispery softness of her lips as they pressed on his chest. He turned blindly and walked to his car.

***********************************************************************************

February 1973

Vishy married Mira and left for the UK six months later. Soni got a job as a pre-school teacher. Uma maasi remained with her. Not all the émigrés came to India, some left to UK, some to USA and some to Canada.

One winter day, Soni came back from school, exhausted. She knocked on the door and when she got no response, she put the key in the door and walked in. She remembered that Uma maasi was going to go to her friend’s house for a prayer. All she wanted to do was plop in the wooden rocker that belonged to her father. She didn’t bother to turn on the lights. Just as she was about to sit on the chair, she saw the figure sitting in it. A silent scream left her throat as the figure stood up and came toward her.

She turned to flee. Then she heard his voice.

“Soni!”

She stopped in her tracks.

“Ajai?” hope flared in her eyes and she turned slowly to look at him.

“Not Mr. Mitra, like the way you used to call me?” he smiled, the white flash in the otherwise dark face provided stark relief. She switched the light on. They both blinked at the brightness. She stared at him. His hair was cropped short; his stubble was at least a few days old. His face was haggard and lean. His clothes hung loose on his thin frame.

“How are…?”

“How did…”

They both started talking at the same time and stopped midway.

“Did they…” she hesitated. “Did they treat you well?”

“Let’s just say, that I survived.” Ajai averted his face.

“Who let you in?”

“I came this morning, Uma maasi was home; she just left, asking me to rest.” He answered briefly.

“I always knew you would be back one day!” She closed her eyes thanking the God.

“I didn’t have the same faith as you, Soni. The day I was supposed to leave, I was detained by the Ugandan army just outside the Entebbe airport; they wanted to send me back to Kampala, but I twisted some arms to be put in a different prison. It wasn’t easy to get out.”

She reached out and touched him. He flinched. “I need a smoke, badly” he trembled as she embraced him from behind.

“What you need is a wife that tells you what is good for you and takes care of you!” Tears started falling unbidden.

“Are you applying for the job?”

“I remember getting hired!” She returned his joke.

He turned in her arms, his finger tilting her chin, and he kissed her hungrily. Their tears intermingled with each other’s.

They stayed together like that in the dark for a while. He looked around the small room as she moved out of his arms to remove his jacket.

“This time, I am the one with no place to go!” his eyes looked empty.

“Yes, you do! You have come home!” Soni wiped the tears on his cheeks.

“You are not sending me back?”

“Not a chance, this package is mine to keep” she hugged him tightly.

It was only when they were laying on the bed, he told her haltingly about his prison stay, the torture he went through along with some of his Israeli friends. It was the Mossad, the Israeli secret service that finally came to the rescue just like they rescued the hijacked passengers at the Entebbe airport. She held him close, her tears washing his face.

After a while, she reached to the nightstand and placed a Cuban cigar between his lips and lit it.

“Don’t expect me to do that ever again!” She warned him threateningly.

He laughed softly and removed the cigar from his mouth.

The End

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Eka Lavya's Daughter

The lorry was a deep blue with white fangs streaking from front to back. The wheels were huge and had shiny flaps to protect them from dust. The glass on the windshield sparkled brightly. On the bumper, there was a fierce looking Kali Ma with a dark face with the words, Buri Najar wale tera muh kala, a warding off of the evil eyes.

We went for a ride in the shining new lorry, after mother performed a vahana pooja, a prayer conducted for new vehicles. Father made bali with a bloodied chicken to appease the God. He placed six lemons under the wheels of the lorry. He made me put vermillion and turmeric on the hood and my brother Nitin broke the coconut in front of the lorry.



My mother insisted we stop at the roadside dhaba to show off the lorry to Aunty Raji, our family friend. Father indulged me when I asked for another Mango Lassi (buttermilk) drink. He was smiling a lot that day. He said we were celebrating because he bought the new lorry on loan and also because brother was going to junior college in a nearby city.

He and mother sat on an iron cot that creaked while my brother ate the tandoori chicken. I was happy that Nitin was leaving, he always hit me on my head for no reason and mother always sided with him. I ate a lot of sweets and lassi made my stomach squeezy. I had to go to the outhouse urgently. Mother asked Aunty Raji at the dhaba to keep an eye on me for an hour or so because she wanted to go and buy some clothes for Nitin. I was upset with my mother for not waiting for me.

It started raining in sheets, and I clutched Aunty Raji’s hand as lightening struck close by. The thatched roof started leaking. It had been three hours since mother, father and brother left. I was sure they hated me, may be they left me behind on purpose. My tears became torrential just like the rain.

XXX

The small baby goat grazed in the meadowland that was covered with the golden dandelion dust. The small goat looked about nervously, perking her ears at the smallest noise, geared to flee at the earliest danger. The tall eucalyptus and low lying willows provided gauzy veiling to the needles of the sun descending over the ancient hills.

The mountain wind swept my hair with a gusto; the freshness of the scent made me feel dizzy. It was the same brook where I waded in, in search of the rounded pebbles with which Jesse and I played. There was a time when the dense foliage used to scare me, but now it just made me feel safe. It provided a sense of peace, blanketing me warmly.

Father wanted his body to be cremated along with mother and Nitin at grandfather’s house. I guess it was not a bad idea for mother and brother to be with him as well. I wondered why the Gods never appreciated the bali we made.

As I stepped into the thick layers of the eucalyptus needles and decomposed leaves, the rustle made the baby goat look up, its entire body stretched taut as a bow then ran away like the devil was on its heels. Poor baby goat, it looked all alone in the world, just like me.

The afternoon was waning like the strength of my fight to keep the tears at bay. The billows of clouds were changing from the color of alabaster to a dark, murky grey black that spelled storm. The rain meant trouble for the burning funeral pyres.

As I slid down the slope of the grassy ridge, I picked up a tall blade of grass with yellow dandelion flowers. Amidst the yellow flowers, the pale dried rosettes stood out with their dusty whisks of white hair in dozens of round clocks. The gently blowing wind was dispersing the pollen of the dandelions and spreading them in the air giving it an appearance of windblown snow.

Grandfather always said the pollen and the leaves were shed for a reason. At the turn of the season, the flowers would be back, spreading the hills with their thick, yellow carpets. Grandfather was dead too! I see uncle climbing up the hill slowly; the pyres must have burnt to cinders now. I guess I will have to go with him.

XXX

The bus smelled of sweat and dirt. I saw an old guy who was sitting next to me wrinkle his face several times. He had a nylon bag in his hand, holding it like a weapon in the mythological play I saw last summer. With every bump on the road, his bag hit me on the head. Uncle had to stand because there was no sitting room in the bus.

Uncle started a conversation with an old woman who lost her front teeth and her husband, a skinny man in wearing a loincloth.

“I heard your brother died!”

“Yes, one more mouth to feed!” My uncle said it under his breath, but I heard it.

There was a bump on the road again. The old man’s bag whacked me on the head again. I glared it him. He looked out, there were no apologies from him.

“How are the crops this year for you?” the skinny man asked my uncle.

“Bad! I am going to lose money again this year!” My uncle looked morose.

“And one more to add to your woes…” said the ugly looking woman. Why didn’t the bag hit the old crone instead of me?

The man who was sitting in the front gave free advice to my uncle. “I heard the landlord donated the ancestral house to start a free school for the villagers.” He said. “They are going to provide children with a mid-day meal. Send her along with Ramu and Shamu!”

“The master is also starting an archery program, with real bows and arrows! These rich people are crazy!” the skinny man snorted.

I felt the man next to me stiffen. But he kept quiet.

“I heard the coach is a retired officer in Indian Railways. He won many competitions, so the government gave him a job. I heard that his only son died in the Kargill war and his wife passed away couple of years ago. He wants to help build the archery program in the village.” The man in the front seemed like a local news carrier.

I saw the old man grip the seat in front tightly. His knuckles were full of scars and bruises.
The talk turned to Lord Rama and his skills at archery. He was my favorite hero. I leaned forward to catch the story of Lord Rama.

I dozed off in the middle, but I was dreaming that I was the ticket collector in the Indian Railways, with a white uniform. Ticketless passengers were begging me to let them stay in the train.

I woke up as the bus came to a lurching stop.

XXX

The driver of a battered, old car collected the old man with the long bag. He left without looking back. My uncle and I had to walk with my bags in tow. We passed the school building on the way. It was huge, the compound walls were too high for me to see what was going on inside.

Aunty wasn’t too happy to see me. She always disliked my mother; she thought that my parents were uppity because they sent us to school while her own kids worked in the farm alongside their father. Ramu and Shamu are twins. They were 11 years old, just one year younger than me. They showed me the place here I would be sleeping, in front of the kitchen. There was a mat, a coarse blanket made with lamb’s wool and a tired looking pillow.

The food was not as good as mother’s but I ate it and slept in the corner. I saw some cockroaches coming toward me in the dim light and asked meekly if I could sleep on the broken cot that was leaned against the wall. Aunty rolled her eyes but gave me permission.

XXX

We went to the school in the morning, the three of us with my uncle. The steep compound wall was painted in white. The paint was peeling off everywhere and at places there was exposed brick. The wall was thickly covered with green moss. One or two dwarf trees stuck out from cracks in the wall. The entrance was impressive, lined with Asoka trees, pink bougainvillea and white jasmine hedges.

The building looked like a palace, but it was old and in a slightly dilapidated condition. Huge cracks criss-crossed on the wall, the windows had rusty iron bars. It looked a bit scary, dark and ominous. But the courtyard outside was lovely, with a large vacant ground and a makeshift stage. I watched the children line up in blue-and-white uniforms for their morning assembly.
Uncle asked me to fill out the forms because I knew how to read and write but Ramu and Shamu did not. I wrote the information neatly, my mother used to say my handwriting resembled black even pearls; each letter perfectly rounded on the white paper.

The headmaster looked up and down at me. “She is twelve? She looks like a ten year old, don’t you feed her?” I wanted to glare but looked down at my toes, clad in Hawaii slippers.

“Nita is my brother’s daughter” My uncle apologized for my father for giving birth to a skinny and petite daughter.

“You can come tomorrow. We have to take half girls and half boys in the school. More people are sending their sons than their daughters! Old mentality never changes.” Headmaster used an epithet to describe the villagers. Ramu and Shamu laughed but I controlled myself.

“I know why you are sending them to school! You get free uniforms, free books, free tuition and free shoes. And you get a decent meal to top it off.” The headmaster made it sound like he is the one providing was with everything from his own pocket. But I knew better.

I saw the old man from the bus coming out from the office. Our eyes met. I knew who he was. I had a suspicion before, now he confirmed it by being there. He gave me a wary look and went back in again. I remembered my dream, the one from the bus where I was the ticket collector.

XXX

“I don’t have the proper equipment for the program and the playground is full of weeds. The kids are more eager to learn about drip farming than archery! I don’t know why I listened to you and came here!” The coach was shouting at the man inside the office. I came to pick up my uniform and books but instead I was eavesdropping shamelessly as I stood waiting.

“Balwant saheb! I will make sure you get your equipment, have trust in me! My whole family is against this program, but I convinced them to give the kids something more than just education. We need to give them an ability to do well in sports. Do you know that Indian Olympic team had one bronze medal in 2004? And we are a country with over a billion people. I am disgusted, no one cares about sports in the country except for cricket. I want our school to train an archery team that’s worthy enough to go to Olympics.” The man’s voice was energetic and strong.

The coach interjected. “Mohan saheb! We will have better chances with girls than boys, there are other schools in the country that have been concentrating on the boy’s teams for a longer time.”

“So, let us start a girl’s program.” The man called Mohan was impatient.

The distinctly raspy voice belonging to the headmaster butted in, “Sir, no parent will send daughters to the program. As it is, they are complaining that the girls are not doing chores at home.”

“Then tell them, that their daughters will get free dinner along with a free lunch!” said the man called Mohan.

“But we have to ask for more funds from the board.” said the headmaster.

“Leave it to me, sir! I will take care of both!” the man called Mohan brooked no more arguments.

I knocked on the door and went in.

The younger looking man with rough hair and straight nose looked at me absently. Then his eyes narrowed in on me. “There, you have your first student! What’s your name?”

XXX

I was ecstatic. Ramu and Shamu were jealous that they couldn’t participate in the program and life wasn’t too bad! I had uniforms, two meals a day, shoes that covered my toes, and I had a coach that was going to teach me to be a competitive archer.

But my hopes were dashed on the day I was supposed to start.

“You are too weak! I need a stronger and taller girl.” Said the coach.

I gritted my teeth and picked up the heavy bow. I glared at him. I did not miss his amused look.

“I will run 2 kilometers with this on my head. If I do it, will you let me be in the team?” I worried inside, because the bow weighed a ton.

The man stopped twiddling with the bow and arrow in his hand. “Let’s try one kilometer!” I felt he was still laughing at me. I started running, the playground was full of weeds and the dandelions reminded me of grandfather’s place near the cemetery. I started running, my grandfather belonged to the dhobi caste, he used to tell me stories of how he used to run in front of the bullock carts that belonged to the landlords. His job was to make sure there were no rocks on the ground to topple the cart. He ran for thirty kilometers at a stretch. If he could do it, I could do it! Grandfather always said the long road always tests the strength of the horse.
I made it to the half a kilometer mark and collapsed. When I fell, the dandelions got disrupted and the dust flew in swirls around me. I looked up to see Balwant’s impassive eyes on me.

“Give me one more chance! I can do it, in one week. Please!” I begged him. He looked at my bleeding knee and then absently nodded. I limped away from him.

Every day for a week, I went to Grandfather’s barn, picked up a heavy branch that bolted the fence and started running with it. It was heavier than his stupid bow. I ran and ran, by the end of the week, I think I ran at least two kilometers. When I went home, Aunty gave me chores to do.

XXX

There were five girls already on the team. He lied. He lied to me about giving me a chance. He was never really going to give me a chance. When he saw me, he stopped teaching and stared. I ran up to him and grabbed his bow and started running with it, leaving him standing there with an astonished look on his face. I ran and ran until I could run no more. I felt the sticky wetness on my face.

I dropped the bow at his feet and turned to leave. I will have to live in my uncle and aunt’s house forever.

I heard him say distinctly, “Come back tomorrow, I will see you at 3:30 sharp. And you better eat the snack that will be given in the kitchen before coming.”

XXX

The training was arduous. He made us run, lift, do stretching exercises and funny things that made us laugh.

Then we heard Mohan sir announcing triumphantly that he got a donation of bows and arrows, and money to buy some new equipment from UK. I didn’t know where UK was, but assumed it was a long way from here.

I made a lot of adjustments, I talked less and less, tried to stay in the background and out of Aunty’s hair. I did what she asked me to do without complaining, I helped Ramu and Shamu with their homework. I had an added worry, my aunt’s brother was looking at me with weird eyes. I heard Aunty say that I would marry him when I pass my 10th class. Whenever he came to the house, I slipped away to the barn and did all the exercises the coach had asked me to do.

Two years later

I learned about the different types of bows and arrows. I memorized them all, longbow, flatbow, shortbow, recurve bow, compound bow and crossbow.

I knew a normal arrow consisted of shaft with an arrowhead attached to the front end, with fletchings and a nock at the other. I knew which type of materials were better than others.

But doubts nagged me. The team had one extra person on it. I had to practice to get better than her. I stayed with the pretext of helping. I did target shooting, short, long and mid length. Each of us had 72 shots at 70 meters in a match. I wanted to get the most. I was always veering to the right. No matter how much I tried I could get no more than 50.

I started having nightmares of being left in the crumbling barn with cockroaches all over me. Then one of the cockroaches turned into my aunt’s brother.

It was the end of the year, and when my math teacher called out my name I started crying, the deep sobs wracked me until I thought I would stop breathing.

My math teacher said coming sixth in the class wasn’t that bad. He didn’t understand. I wanted to be in the top five.

XXX

Balwant Sahib was popping some pills in his mouth. He didn’t look well. When he first came, he was burly and tall. I felt he shrunk a little. I asked him if he was feeling all right. He nodded.

I did the ten shots that he asked me to. I was surprised that I hit all of them on target. May be the practice I did for the last two years helped. He asked me to shoot another ten, and I hit bull’s eye again. I looked at him. He didn’t look impressed. He gave me ten more arrows. This time I missed one. He gave me ten more to shoot, I was getting nervous. Why doesn’t he say something? I missed two more. His looks were still bland.

Ten more, I missed four this time. By then end of 72 shots I had missed 18, the first half was almost perfect with just three missing the target, the next half was pretty dismal. He took the bow and arrow and started shooting. He got the target every single time. I just felt like hitting him on the shin. I knew he was trying to tell me something. I hated the silent lessons he gave me more than the preaching.

He asked me if I was drinking the milk and eating meat every day. At the school they gave me an egg in the afternoon, but no meat. And I hardly ate at home, meat was not a daily staple at uncle’s house. The coach told me I need protein and I need endurance. Then he said a long road tests the strength of the horse. I looked at him suspiciously.

Balwant sir asked me to meet him at the kitchen in the evening. He sat next to me and gave me the chicken on his plate. He continued doing that every single evening.

The school was closed in the summer, and it meant no mid-day meals and no practice. But I kept running and doing the exercises every day without fail, even when I had my monthly cycle. I threw rocks long into the brook, to train my biceps and become strong. But I lost weight because of the lack of nutrition.

But I grew taller that summer. But Balwant Saheb went missing. No one knew where he was.

XXX

When school started he was there on the first day. I wanted to go and launch myself into his arms but stopped myself. I was getting enough lectures from my aunt about behaving myself now that I was fourteen years old. I didn’t feel much different from twelve.

The head girl who was his favorite wanted to get married at seventeen and leave. Balwant saheb was upset. I was ecstatic. I would get a chance to be on the team. I knew I was better than some of the other girls, but he never let me practice with the rest of them. I was always alone when he taught me. I didn’t understand why he gave me special attention.

I heard the boys talking badly about Balwant saheb and me. They were saying that I was his keep. I knew what they meant, because our headmaster had one. The arts teacher was his keep, they were always in the staff room after work. I cried and I cried, I didn’t want to be anybody’s keep.

XXX

I begged the coach to give me a chance to practice with other girls. He was adamant and said no. He said I was not good enough, and that I need to be better. I argued with him saying that I was hitting 65 out of 72. It can’t be that all the girls were doing better than me. He didn’t want to answer me. I wondered if the boys were right, and if he liked me a bit too much.

The next day, he made me practice with Madhu, a boy from 9th class. He hit 71 out of 72. I was devastated. The coach was right, I was not good enough.

I stopped going to the practice for a week. The coach came looking for me. He asked me what I wanted - to compete with girls who couldn’t hit more than 60 out of 72 or compete with a boy who hit 71 out of 72? I looked at him. I think he was telling me I was better than the other girls. I wiped my tears and told him that I will be there.

By the end of the year I was competing with Madhu, but he was always a bit ahead of me.

Balwant Saheb started coughing more and more. One day, he was coughing so much I thought he would die before I got to my first competition. But he didn’t die. He kept losing weight, though. I asked the village medicine man for a potion to make the coach better. The coach laughed through tears when I took it to him.

It was my first match at the district championship. I looked around, there were just two more girls competing other than the girls from my school. I wasn’t too happy! I wanted more people to compete. The coach took me to the side and said not to be too cocky. I glanced sideways at him. Why was he telling me all this?

Madhu and I won the district championship. My teammates came second and third. It was a big win for my school. My uncle and aunt started paying more attention to me. The headmaster announced our names at the assembly and showed us the local paper with our photographs with Mohan Saheb. He looked proudly at us.

Then we competed in the state championship. We both won again, easily. We had no competition. I turned fifteen that year and came to the 10th standard. My board exams were coming up soon. Our teachers told us to concentrate on our studies because the school needed a 100% pass rate. The non-profit board members insisted on it. I began hitting the books until late in the night. I worried what will happen to me, because there was no more school in the village after 10th standard. I didn’t want to marry my aunt’s brother.

A month after I finished my exams, Balwant Saheb and Mohan sir called my uncle and me to the office. It was summer, so school was not in session. I didn’t know what I did wrong. I hoped I passed my exams.

Balwant Saheb looked haggard. There was grimness in Mohan Sir’s eyes, which was surprising because he always had a boyish enthusiasm on his face. Then I saw Madhu and his mother sitting in one corner. I expelled a sigh of relief. Both of us could not have failed the exam.

“You guys are invited to an all India competition in July.” Said the coach with a smile. That was not really news to us. We knew we would be going because we were the state champions in the under-16 tournaments.

“Balwant Saheb will not be here to teach you next year. You will be going to a sports school conducted by the Indian government in Delhi.”

Balwant Saheb started coughing incessantly.

My uncle decided to speak up. “I am not sending my niece to Delhi. I think she should get married or get a job and help the family.”

Balwant Saheb spoke up. “She has a good chance to make it onto the Indian girls team in Recurve Bow championship. If she qualifies, she can go to the Olympics, to Beijing.”

My uncle looked confused. What are Olympics? What is Beijing? He never heard about either of them.

Uncle only understood money and not having another mouth to feed.

“Will they give me a scholarship if I go? And a job if I qualify for the Indian team?” I asked eagerly.

The word Job perked up my uncle’s interest.

Balwant Saheb nodded. “You will get a scholarship to study further if you make it to the Indian team and possibly a decent job after that. If you don’t make it, the state government will still give you a job and scholarship to study further.”

I looked out into the playground. The weeds were out again, but the yellow flower was in full bloom, I could hardly see the dandelions on the ground.

“How much will they pay?” My uncle suddenly pulled me closer to him.

“Enough for your household to run smoothly.”

I touched Balwant Saheb’s hand. “Where will you go?”

“To see my family…” he smiled. He didn’t seem very sad.

“I want to see my family too…” tears burned in my eyes.

“Don’t say that. Not for a long time!” He reached and shut my mouth with his fingers.

I hugged him with all my might and cried, my misery washing away in tears. “God has no reason for making people die!”

“Every thing has a reason; at the turn of season, flowers will bloom again, new leaves will come!”

“I have something for you!” he gave me a nylon bag, the same one that hit me on my head when I was traveling in the bus. I knew what was in it. It was his bow. He lightly touched my head and got into the old car that took him to the bus depot.

I joined the sport school run by the Tata’s. The Tata’s were a prominent business family in India. I made it to the Indian juniors team in 2006. Madhu did too. Madhu and I went to the World Archery Championship in Merida, Mexico. I won a silver medal and he won a bronze. In 2008, I competed in the Olympic trials and lost by a small margin. I remembered Balwant Saheb, he used to say there was no margin for errors in shooting. I picked up his bow, there is always next year.

The end

Legend of Eka Lavya

Source: Wikipedia

In the Hindu epic Mahābhārata, Ekalavya is a young prince of the Nishadha tribes, and a member of a low caste, who nevertheless aspires to study archery in the gurukul of Dronacharya. After being rejected by Drona, Ekalavya embarks upon a program of self-study in the presence of a clay image of Drona. He achieves a level of skill equal to that of Arjuna, Drona's favorite and most accomplished pupil. Fearful that Ekalavya will excel him, Arjuna begs Drona to take action. Drona goes to Ekalavya and demands that Ekalavya turn over his right thumb as a teacher's fee. The loyal Ekalavya cripples himself, and thereby ruins his prospects as an archer, by severing his thumb and giving it to Drona.

Author's note: Title of the story

Drona was the teacher who asked EkLavya to cut off his thumbs in the old days. Today, it is the society that does it to women and underprivileged in rural India. They cut off their opportunities, and give them lower priority compared to boys. That's why I called this story EkaLavya's daughter. It's the story of girl who is from the wrong side of tracks, becomes a great archer overcoming so many hardships.

Real or Embellished?

The story for the most part is embellished with some reality embedded. While the school, the girl who made it to the archery team and the free schooling with archery are very real, the coach, the death of the girl, the aunt and uncle are fictional.

Pranita is a product of a free rural school in AP. Her parents brought her into the school with hopes of giving her decent education and because the school is free.

She won the silver medal in Mexico, and now in the run for making it to the Indian olympic team. She won the Eklavya Award in Jamshedpur last year awarded to 8 young archers every year.

http://www.hinduonnet.com/2006/10/24/stories/200610241709040 0.htm

http://www.telegraphindia.com/1061201/asp/ranchi/story_70739 40.asp

The person who started the Archery program in the rural school is Mr. Ram Mohan Rao Erraballi - he wanted to inculcate a sense of pride in Indians that we too could compete in sports. Thanks to him, there are several kids from Kalleda Rural School that are competing at the state and national level in Archery.

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Writing - The splicing of the gene

I looked up the dictionary to find out the definition of splice, and here is what the dictionary.com says.

splice: to join together or unite (two ropes or parts of a rope) by the interweaving of strands

I realize now, that writing is in my destiny, my grandfather was a writer, my uncle is a writer and my dad is a writer. We all dabble in writing because it is in our blood. I write because it is a compulsion, I write because I can not stop, I write because I enjoy writing...



Some people are great story tellers, some people are simply good writers, some people are both. I wish to be the third kind...I hope my blog will entertain you in the future, if you like a story or an entry, please do leave a comment. I would love to read your comments.


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