Adventure With A Capital ‘A’

“Please remove your car, it’s in the wrong slot. Flat 405”.  The yellow post – it on her windscreen early in the morning was enough to make Mira fume. It had been late when she had returned from work last night and she had been very tired, so she must have unknowingly parked in the wrong slot. She reversed out, grabbed the post – it and wrote on it’s back, “Happy now?” in capital letters and thrust it in the post box of flat 405.

          There she was, Mira Singh, all of twenty  three, in her first job in Bombay, foot lose and fancy free looking in every nook and cranny for adventure with a capital ‘A’. But where was it? So far, she hadn’t even caught a whiff of it. “Never mind”, she flicked her long hair back, screwed up her button nose and opened her large eyes wide. “I’m sure one day I will find it”, she thought.

          Mira had just landed a good job at an advertising firm and was learning the ropes of the business. Her parents were in Pune and so for the first time, she was completely on her own. It was fun, cooking for oneself and keeping house. Now she understood why her mother used to fume and fret when the bai did not turn up. Life was rocking, her colleagues were nice, work was challenging, what was missing? Adventure of the romantic kind of course.

          Well, there was Sanjay at the office, the local flirt, in whose company time flew in an interesting manner, but the problem was that he was the same with every female in sight from the age of six to sixty. Payal, her friend, had warned Mira about him earlier. So she dimpled and twinkled in his presence and batted her eyelashes at him and kept it at that.

          Mira reached office before time as she had to give a presentation to a new client. Everything was ready. The client walked in dot at ten o’ clock, dressed in a blue shirt and a striped tie. He looked a very nice person, listened attentively and asked pertinent questions. Mira felt her interest awakening. At the end of the discussion he got up to leave.

 “Thank you very much Mira, I will discuss it with my business partner and get back to you,” he told her.

“When will that be?” She asked.

“Over dinner… My business partner is my wife” he smilingly told her.

          “Too bad”, she thought, “end of the road here”. That’s the problem, she realised, all the good guys were committed or taken and the rest were not interested. Where was Mr. Right?

          “How are you, beta?” her mother asked at night. The night call was a strictly observed ritual. A couple of days back her mobile had not been charged and she had fallen asleep. Her worried parents called up Balakrishnan Uncle from the next flat to check up on her. If he hadn’t been able to wake her up and confirm all well back to Pune, her parents would have driven down in three hours flat.

          The next morning she was highly annoyed to find another post – it on her windscreen. “Your parking is atrocious. Your right wheel is in my slot. Please be careful. Flat 405.” Who was this serpent in Eden? She turned over the post – it and scrawled back, “The parking lot is not lit well at night, hence my mistake. Sorry.” She made a cheeky face with tongue out at the bottom of the note, dropped it in the post box again and asked the guard, “Who lives in flat 405?”

“Arre Madam, that is Mr. Rao. He is that short, bad tempered gentleman. Yesterday he had a fight with Mr. Kumar from the fifth floor about the garbage.” “Oh no!” she thought, trust her to be cheeky and antagonize the volcano in the block. She wished she could open the post box and retrieve the note, but alas, it was too late. Why couldn’t the occupant of Flat 405 be the young, handsome guy she had seen in the lift the other day? The one wearing faded jeans, T-shirt, a pleasant expression on his face with a crooked smile? Mira’s dimple had peeped out, but her floor came and she had to get out of the lift. “Be realistic”, she told herself “he’s probably married to a fantastic looking female and has a brood of kids”. Even though he didn’t look the shackled type or the harassed dad, one could never be sure.

          “Let’s go out for lunch,” suggested Payal as work was at a standstill for some time. Together they went to the restaurant next door and ordered their usual fix - burgers. More interesting than the food were the guys there. Most of them were smart and good looking, good to drool over but Mira knew that none of them would be intelligent and interesting to talk to. However, Payal and Mira had a wonderful time fantasizing and passing comments.

          It was late when Mira returned. She was tired and the parking was dimly lit as usual. She misjudged the distance and dented flat 405’s car, a smart Skoda. Surely it was strong enough to withstand the tiny bump made by a delicate Nano. “Damn, damn!” she cursed out loud “now I am done for”. With shaking hands, she opened the door and went to inspect the damage done. Sure enough the dent was visible. With her hands still trembling, she took out a piece of paper and wrote, ‘I am extremely sorry, I have dented your car. I shall reimburse the repair expenses. Flat 306.’ She dropped it into the mail box feeling scared and nervous.

          Her low mood was apparent to her mother. “What happened? Are you feeling ok? Is everything alright at work? Take a day’s leave and come back home tomorrow.” She was grilled over the phone that night.

“No, Ma…! Everything is alright. I am just feeling very tired.” She deftly fielded the questions and with suitable responses ended the call.

          “Where is my knight in shining armour when I need him the most?” Mira thought. Female equality was all very well, but she was realising the comfort of a strong shoulder at hand. She wished there was a certain someone in her life, someone who was a friend and companion all in one and on whom she could depend.

The next morning there was another note on her windscreen, “Your parking is really and truly atrocious. Please come to my flat at 8 pm to discuss the damages. Flat 405.”

          The day would not pass. Every minute dragged. Mira was irritable, distracted and couldn’t concentrate on her work. She saw her boss looking at her in exasperation as she fumbled in her presentation. Where was her confident self? Why was she getting so unnerved by this Mr. Rao. He couldn’t eat her up, could he? At most he would be nasty, demand a lavish compensation and that would be it. She just needed to avoid him and more importantly, his Skoda, in future, and all would be fine.

          Sharp at 8 o’clock, she made her way upstairs with shaking knees and a dry mouth. The entrance to flat 405 had a forbidding look. There was no name plate nor were there any artefacts or plants to soften the stark appearance. Mr. Rao opened the door with his usual frown. “I have come about the car,” she managed to say, “I am so sor… ”

“It’s my son’s car.” He cut off her apology. “Please come in. I will just call him.”

          A few precious moments’ respite were granted to her. Then the son strolled into the room, faded jeans, T – shirt, crooked smile and the twinkle in his eyes very much in evidence. Mira’s dimple peeped out. Suddenly the world started looking very interesting.

          Was this the adventure with a capital ‘A’ that she had been looking for? 

Debts from Past Life

The air conditioned bus ran smoothly on the expressway, on its way from Pune to Mumbai. It was Sunday evening and the bus was full. Weekly commuters, living in one city and working in another, made this trip regularly, refreshed after a leisurely weekend, recharged and ready to face the hectic week ahead.

In the front seat was a young couple. They looked as if they were professionals in the field of Information Technology. The wife held a sleeping infant in her arms.

“Is she still sleeping?” asked her husband. “That’s why she’s in my arms. She never comes to me at all” the wife answered sarcastically.

There was a look of frustration in her eyes as if she had reached the end of her patience. Both of them looked down at the beautiful baby, blissfully asleep with a serene expression on her face. The eyes twitched and the mouth curved upwards as if in a slight smile. Then a little hand moved up and the baby tucked it under her cheek. The expression changed and the face looked woeful as if the baby was seeing a sad dream.

“I wonder what is going on in the little mind of hers” mused the husband “I wish she could speak and share her thoughts”.

The little baby was lost in a dream world. Scenes flew in front of her eyes, scenes which made perfect sense to her, which she understood instinctively. She did not need any learning, her baby mind understood perfectly. She saw herself as a six year old sitting in a flower bedecked hall. Her beloved father was sitting next to a lady dressed in a red and shimmering saree, laden with jewellery. Her face was hidden by a veil. A priest was chanting a holy prayer and making offerings to a sacred fire.

Snatches of conversations could be heard. “So sad to lose her mother at such an early age.” “It’s lucky her father found Radha. She will be a good mother to her.”

“Yes, it’s a second chance in life.”

The scene faded away and the baby saw herself as a ten year old sitting next to a little boy. She saw Radha giving a biscuit to the child, but none to her.

“Can I have one please?” She asked hesitatingly.

“Have you done the work I asked you to do?” Radha screamed at her with fury with written on her face. Tears came into her eyes. She had never felt so alone, unloved and unwanted. If only Papa was home, he would give her as many biscuits as she wanted.

The baby moved uncomfortably in her mother’s arms. “I think she is going to wake up” murmured her father.

“Be prepared, only you can handle her,” his wife whispered.

“I wonder why…”

The baby, lost in her dream world, saw her father looking extremely upset and bewildered. “I can’t believe that Sumi has stolen money. Why should she? She knows she only has to ask me” he said in anguish.Radha dominated the scene, “I have told you so many times that Sumi has developed bad habits and you would never believe me. See, the hundred rupee note was in her pocket. The proof is in front of your eyes. ” Sumi was sobbing brokenheartedly. “I don’t know how the money came in my pocket. Papa, please believe me, I haven’t done anything wrong.” She looked up and saw her little step brother smirking. He enjoyed seeing her in trouble. She looked pleadingly at Radha, but she could see only hatred in her eyes, eyes that looked as if they would devour her…

The baby woke up with a start. In the unfocused way babies have, she looked around. As she looked upwards she saw her mother’s face with the same eyes, Radha’s eyes, looking down at her with hatred. She started sobbing, “Leave me alone, I haven’t done anything wrong” she cried out in pain. Her sobs made no sense to her parents. The baby’s cries increased in volume until she became almost hysterical.

“Take her!” her mother said exasperatedly. “Only then will she quiten.”

The baby almost leapt into her father’s arms. When she saw the eyes of her beloved father, she felt reassured and her cries became muffled. The father gave a weary sigh and lovingly cradled his daughter in his arms. He spoke in a soft soothing voice telling her how much he loved her, until she was comforted. As if the sun moved out from behind a dark cloud, her face lit up and she smiled a beautiful baby smile and cooed to her dad. Passengers could only stare at the perfect picture they made, father and daughter in joyful communication with each other.

Back To The Past

Rahul Mehta had never, in his wildest dreams, ever thought that he would, one day, be back in his college as a guest lecturer. It had been less than a decade since he had passed out with flying colours and today the head of the institution was greeting and welcoming him with a pleasant smile.

 “No, he couldn’t possibly know what I was like,” thought Rahul with an inward grin. As he walked into the principal’s office, he surreptitiously touched the right corner of the door. Yes, the deep scratch was still there under layers of varnish. He had inflicted it himself, with his penknife, as he and a few of his friends banged on the office door in protest. An inexperienced and newly appointed lecturer had unjustly suspended their batchmate and the boys were hell bent on vengeance. Dr. Subramaniam, the principal in those days, had opened the door just in time to stop it from being kicked down. With practiced ease he talked the boys out of their anger promising to look into the matter. He had kept his word and just measures were taken. No wonder he had been nicknamed Dr. Sambhalo.

           Rahul’s eyes swept over the room. The debating trophy was still there on the top shelf. He and Samir, his partner, had won it at the inter college fest Malhar at St. Xavier’s, Bombay. The students had given them a standing ovation when the proud victors had brought the trophy home. So was the shield for creative writing and for dramatics. Rahul felt a surge of nostalgia for his college days, endless cups of tea in the canteen, bunking classes, staying up late to complete assignments, planning extra curricular events, late night parties, college gossip, semester exams and back logs. He could almost hear group the chant of the third year students

          ‘Dhoom lakkad lakkad lakkad - ho ha ho ha

          Ki hum to jeet jayenge - ho

          Ki unki khatiya tooti – ho

          Ki unki lutiya doobi – ho

          Ki hum to jeet jayenge.’

          This was called out by the lusty throats of over a thousand students in the auditorium whenever there were any competitions. On numerous occasions, the outsider teams had been cowed into submission by the sheer energy of the home team supporters. The students had debated upon all possible topics – politics, corruption, terrorism, weather, inadequate allowances, strict parents, sibling rivalry, student council, faculty members, college restrictions, girls and, of course, who was linked up with who. Every girl in the college was put under a microscope and dissected, all except Aradhana.

By tacit agreement she was never discussed. Her roots were from a modest family from a smaller town. Although she wasn’t exactly in the league of the college beauties, the twinkle in her eyes and the dimples in her cheeks made her attractive in her own way. She was her own unique self, her big heart more than made what she lacked in inches. She couldn’t pass a wounded pup in the street without trying to do something for it. Aradhana had time for anyone who needed a sympathetic ear. Her innate goodness shone out of her. Rahul had met her the first day when the entire batch of new students were completing the formalities for admission. She had looked lost. Rahul helped her around and made a loyal friend for life. He remembered the day he hadn’t completed his assignment and the economics teacher was in a foul mood promising the severest punishment for all the defaulters. She had quietly passed her copy to him and unflinchingly faced the teacher’s wrath. The teacher too, had softened, no one could be angry with Aradhana. Another time Rahul had spent all his allowance for the month and he had to give the subscription to the dramatics club. No amount of pleading would extend the date to next month. The next day, his dues were cleared. Rahul had no idea who his benefactor was until he noticed Aradhana skipping lunch, which she said she was doing as a fast as per the traditions of her family. Since she had never done this before, Rahul had his suspicions.

First year went by within a flash. He shone in all the co-curricular activities, carving a niche for himself. If his studies were neglected a bit, it was understandable as all his focus and energies were in other directions.

Second year come around and his life changed forever. Chaitali came into his sphere. She was his batch mate, smart, talented, intelligent, good at dramatics and debating. Somehow Rahul had never really interacted with her before. It was her birthday the day the semester began, “C’mon, c’mon, I dare you! Are you going to take it up?” he could hear Ayush and Samirs’ voices challenging him to present her a bouquet of weeds. Rahul, the invincible, took up the challenge, presented it to her, really spoke with her and soon they became an inseparable pair. She matched him step for step in all his interests and activities, an able partner in debating, Juliet to his Romeo. Soon their friendship was accepted all around the campus. This was the best time of his college and along with Chaitali, he reached greater heights than before.

Came third year and life took a dramatic turn downward. His younger brother Nikhil was diagnosed with stomach cancer. It was in the last stage, the secondary growth had spread and affected all the vital organs. The family was shattered. The doctors gave him a couple of months at the most. Rahul quit everything to spend all his time at home. He was badly needed there to boost up the morale of his brother and comfort his aged parents. All of them tried to keep a positive outlook, tried to be cheerful in front of each other but in solitude each went through their own private hell. At night he could hear the faint sobs of his mother and low murmurs of his father trying to comfort her. So many times he would punch his pillow to take out his anger and helplessness. Death, which had formerly been something that happened to others, now became a reality for him.

Rahul’s friends rallied around the family but he withdrew into his shell. College was studies and home was his Kurushetra – to give strength and comfort. Day by day, they saw Nikhil’s face becoming wan and pale, the appetite dropping and the medication increasing. How long would a fragile body be able to withstand the onslaught? The end came soon. One evening he was there, the next morning he had departed with a peaceful smile on his face leaving Rahul to pick up the pieces of his family.

This was the time of make-or-break. Rahul could have given up in a fit of grief and helplessness but the inner core in him would not be defeated by this cruel blow of life. He realized the paramount importance of the gift of life and his entire priorities were shaken. As a result, he started concentrating on his studies. Earlier he had been working towards a management post in the corporate world, now he wanted to get into teaching. It became his life’s ambition to reach out to the tempestuous youth and try to make a difference.

At this juncture in life, he got to know his true friends, his gang of buddies. They would make a point of being around him, providing company in solitude. He was grateful for their concern, even though he was immersed in his grief.  Chaitali had moved on to greener pastures when he quit all extra-curricular activities as she was too addicted to the limelight.

The last day of college arrived all too soon. Everyone was drowning in nostalgia, exchanging phone numbers, addresses and promising to write in the pre-computer era, all except Rahul, who kept aloof and did not participate in this at all. He wanted to move on in life and put the entire phase of graduation behind him. This part of his life was inextricably bound up with painful memories of tragedy and loss. He went on to do a Master’s degree and then a Ph.D. from abroad coming back to take up an assignment as an assistant professor in a prestigious management institution.

With a jerk, Rahul came back to the present. The principal was still talking to him. His inward journey had taken a very short span of time but it was the most poignant period of his life. His reverie awakened in him a deep sense of nostalgia and he longed to see a familiar face.

“Dr. Mehta, your lecture on Business Ethics is scheduled forty-five minutes from now” the principal was saying.

“Great. Meanwhile, as there’s ample time, I’d love to go round the campus for old times’ sake. I’ll meet you at the auditorium in half an hour. Just one more question, are there any faculty members from ten years ago?”

“Actually the turnover period is very short, you should know, you are on the faculty now. Hmm… Let me see. Mr. Chaudhary, from Accounts, must have been there in your days.”

“I’ll hop along and look him up and catch up with you later.”

Rahul made his way to the accounts department. Memories were hitting him left, right and centre from all around as he saw the once familiar sights. The wide staircase leading up to the classrooms, the massive wooden door of the library, the passage to the common room, all so well known and yet strange. He remembered Mr. Chaudhary well, an elderly, bespectacled gentleman with a kind smile for all. He knocked on the door and went in as diffidently as a first year student.

“Why, I don’t believe it. Rahul Mehta, after all these years! How are you?” Mr. Chaudhary exclaimed in pleasure.

“Fine sir, it’s really good to see you. How are you?”

“Getting on son, getting on. What brings you here?”

“Sir, believe it or not, I am here to give a lecture.”

“Of course I believe it. You were one of the most brilliant students of this college.”

“Thank you, sir. Sir, is there anyone else here from our days?”

“Well… A new faculty member has just joined. She could be one of your juniors. Here she is now.”

Rahul turned around. The sight of the new lecturer was oddly familiar. It couldn’t be possible, could it?

“Aradhana!” burst out Rahul. “I don’t believe it!”

There was a glow in her eyes and a tiny smile on her face. “I was wondering if it was you who was to lecture today. I saw the name on the notice board.”

Rahul felt a gush of emotions. He realized he had been coping with Nikhil’s passing away by bottling up all his feelings. Well, that might have worked in a way for the grief and anguish, but all the positive feelings of friendship, affection, love and laughter, also were suppressed. The dam of the last few years had burst open. All his repressed feelings surged forth. He now knew what he had been missing and why his life seemed to be lacking some vital element.

“I joined recently. I was teaching in Nagpur” continued Aradhana.

The question drumming Rahul’s mind was – Was she still single? How could he tactfully find out? If she wasn’t, he could still make a graceful exit and curse himself for the rest of his life for letting go of something so precious.

“What about your family? Did they mind your move?” Rahul managed to ask casually.

There was an upward tilt to her lips and a familiar tiny twinkle in her eyes. She knew exactly what he wanted to know. Communication had never needed to be verbal between them.

“My parents are happy for me” she answered.

Rahul felt as if a thousand suns had lit up his world. He surprised her and even himself by taking hold of her hand.

“Let’s have a cup of coffee in the canteen. We have so many years to catch up on.”

Choco-Pine

            Time was running out. There was only a split second left to decide, this way or that. Why, oh why, I asked my tormented soul, did life put me in these situations of having to choose between the two most important people in my life?

          On the one hand my son – a creative genius living in his own world where he wrote the most amazing poems, stories and constructed intricate models at the drop of a hat. I’d seen him present an uncaring exterior to the world at large, but only a quiver in his lower lip and a slight moistness in his eye reflected his inner turmoil and conflicts. My daughter, on the other hand, the life and soul of our little family without whose ‘monkey’ tricks and antics, sombreness prevailed. She was the type who jumped up, brushed herself and carried on with a merry smile whenever life gave her a hard knock. This decision would favour either one or the other no way could it please both. One would be ecstatic, the other down in the dumps. As a mother I was only too familiar with these situations. I shuddered at the thought of having to coax the one out of the pits of gloom. 

          The oven was heated up, the batter was ready. Do I add cocoa and please my daughter or put in pineapple pieces as my son had requested? What usually tipped the scale in favour of the former was that I was a chocoholic myself.

          At this point, I did not want to add to my stress levels by having to decide this issue. Pondering over the situation I came up with a brainwave. The kids would be home in half an hour. The batter would perforce have to wait till then. Let the two of them battle it out and I would be ready with a handkerchief to console the loser. At least I wouldn’t be the villain of this episode. I did hope, however, that a decision would be reached and that my fussy taste buds would not have to savour a pineapple chocolate cake, if both wanted their way at any cost. The new creation could be called ‘choco-pine’, a first in the history of confectionary.

          *                 *                 *                  *                 *                 *  

She-va

Shruti wiped away a silent tear. Though it was the beginning of the day, her crisp, cotton suit was limp and she felt totally drained. The report from the clinic was negative, that meant that the child she had conceived was female. She knew the outcome. Her husband, Anand, would go into one of his rages, rave and rant, and then insist that the child be aborted. This was the second time it had happened and she had had enough. Her health was suffering from the constant tension and stress. Tanvi and Mani, her two daughters were being neglected by her as she had no energy for anything. Tanvi, in class two, needed to have her homework supervised, her grades had been falling. Mani, at the age of four, was in her own private hell. At that tender age, she carried the burden of knowing that she was unwanted and unloved in her own home by her father and grandmother.

Shruti’s heart went out to the little one. How could anyone not want a daughter? Had they ever seen the way Mani’s eyes would light up when she saw her mother? Had Anand noticed her endearing rabbit-toothed grin or the way she would run and cling to her mother’s legs? Or her interesting observations “Mummy, didi is older than me, but her birthday is in March, I am younger, but my birthday is in January. Why is that so?”

How had things come to this, Shruti wondered. Her marriage, which had been arranged by two sets of parents, had been considered good in the eyes of the world. Her in-laws had been affluent and well-known in their community. Her husband had been reasonably caring towards her. Of course, her mother-in-law, a domineering lady, would have her say in all matters but it had not been too bad. If Shruti’s parents found her less cheerful and her charming smile less frequent, it was put down to adjusting in a joint family and the responsibility of running a household.

The birth of Tanvi was celebrated by the whole family, but when Mani was born, Anand, instigated by Maji became a changed person. “I want a son” he thundered as he glared at Shruti’s cowering figure. Was he even aware that the gender of the child depended on the sperm and not the ova? How could Shruti be held responsible for something not in her control? She felt that her status was that of a child bearing apparatus. She wanted to scream out “Look at me, see me as the person that I am.”

Adoption was not an option. “No, no” screeched Maji “who knows what blood runs in the child’s veins, who are the parents or what are his family sanskars are”. What was the need for a male child? It was only the insecurities in men that wanted a son to carry on the family name. After one generation nobody cared about anybody. And if the son turned out to be “nalayak”, then anyway the family pride and honour was trampled in dust.

Anand, in his stubborn obstinacy found out a gynaecologist of questionable repute and a dubious set up which had an ultrasound apparatus. A year ago, one female child had been forcibly aborted and now it was the time for the second.

Shruti squared her shoulders and wiped away her tears. There was a cauldron of emotion simmering within her anger, rage, resentment, bitterness but above all a deep sense of betrayal and hurt. She had reached the end of her tether and she knew what she had to do. She was not going to be a part of foeticide in future and she would see to it that a father who could not value his daughters would not be rewarded with the son he craved for. 

The next day she called up the doctor. “My husband must have told you that I will be coming for an abortion tomorrow” she said. “Yes madam” was the reply. “I want to meet you before that, I am coming over” she said.

On the pretext of going to the market for some urgent stationery for Tanvi’s project, she went to the clinic. “When my husband signs the consent form, please put in a clause that you will do a sterilization procedure. Please see that he doesn’t notice it and along with the abortion, please tie the tubes so that there are no more pregnancies in future”, she said. The doctor gasped in shock. “Madam, that is against the law” he said in fearful tones. Shruti eyed him coldly. “I know how much you follow the law. A word from me can start an investigation into your activities. That will end your lucrative business. You will be blacklisted, your reputation ruined and you will be on the street”. “Madam, there will be a charge” he said ingratiatingly. She took off her diamond pendant, a gift from her parents, and handed it over, “This should take care of expenses”.  Saying this, she turned her back and went home.

In Hindu mythology, it is said that if the feminine intonation is removed from the name of Lord Shiva, what remains is ‘shava’ a corpse. That is, never make the mistake of underestimating the power of the Indian woman. 

A Shakespearean Drama

        

         “Ma, I’m getting bored. I think I’ll read some of Shakespeare’s plays. I really enjoyed Julius Caesar in the tenth,” were the words spoken aloud one bright, sunny morning.

“Good”,  I thought “that will keep her out of my hair”. The ‘her’ in question was my fifteen year old daughter, Bela, at a loose end just after having finished her board exams. With short curly hair and flashing eyes, she was a perfect example of tempestuous teens. Bela could complicate a simple situation beyond imagination and then extricate herself neatly with a winning smile.

“A wonderful idea”, I enthused “we have the complete works of Shakespeare. You can get started right away”.

          The next morning I was busy in the kitchen, preparing for the arrival of my nephew and niece from Bombay. They were to spend a week of their holidays with us.

“Oh Ma, Ma, wherefore art thou Ma?” a soulful voice trilled melodiously. ‘So it’s ‘Romeo and Juliet’ at the moment’ I thought.

“In the kitchen” I answered. She appeared in a second.

“When doth my kin arrive?”

“Now wait a moment, where’s that from?” I asked suspiciously.

“Oh Ma, you think I can’t speak old English?” she sniffed, tossed her head and flounced out. She seemed to have been well and truly bitten by the Shakespearean bug.

          The much awaited guests arrived in the evening. After a joyous reunion of cousins, the children disappeared into their room. Suddenly Bela appeared in the drawing room followed by her cousin Antara. There was an exquisite cut-glass figurine in her hand.

“Masi, I got this for didi”, said Antara. While I was admiring the gift and trying to see the light break up into rainbow colours as it passed through, Antara caught her foot in the floor rug and slipped. Her elbow jostled my hand; the figurine fell on the floor and shattered into a thousand pieces.

“You block, you stone, you worse than senseless thing”, stormed Bela as enraged as Flavius at the common citizens of Rome. 

“Hush, hush child, it was an accident. Antara, don’t cry. Bela tell her it’s all right” I tried to make peace.

“The quality of mercy is not strained. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven above upon the place beneath. It is twice blest. It

blesseth him that gives and him that takes. I Forgive Thee,” with a flourish and a suitable exit, Bela left as regally as Portia from the court of Venice, leaving me to pick up the pieces.

          “Let’s go for a picnic”, the kids clamoured the next day. “Where would like to go? To the adventure park? Trekking? Boating?” I asked.

Bela was not participating in the discussion. She was sitting dreamily on the settee with a far away look in her eyes.

“I know a bank where the wild thyme grows, where oxslips and the nodding violet grows….” she said lost in visions of midsummer nights.

“Shut up Bela, we want to go for a picnic, not the HDFC bank round the corner and let me also tell you that there are no oxen within city limits” said my son Sumit in a scathing tone.

          Just then the doorbell rang. Akshay opened the door. An elderly couple stood outside.

“I am Mr. Patel and this is my wife. We are your next door neighbours. We’re just moving in”, they introduced themselves.

 “Welcome to our housing society. Please come in. Children, meet Aunty and Uncle” I said.

“What are your names?” the gentleman asked in kindly tones. The kids answered in a kind of roll-call.

 “Sumit”

“Akshay”

“Antara”

And then “What’s in a name? A rose by any name would smell as sweet. Thou canst address me as Bella”.

“What is this now? Does she think she’s Isabella or Arabella?” I wondered. Sumit gave the guests a significant look and tapped his forehead.

“Boys go and help Aunty and Uncle, girls come and help me prepare a snack for them”, I broke up the uneasy gathering. 

“Thou art not just; thou art biased against the fairer sex, however, thy will shall be done”, delivering these words in a raging tone, Bela stormed into the kitchen.

Later on in the day we went for a picnic to a water park nearby. The children enjoyed themselves tremendously. Thankfully Bela even forget Shakespeare, except for the time when she asked for wine cakes and ale for refreshment.

“Ma, I’m getting tired of Shakespeare. I think I’ll read Daphne Du Maurier now”, she said the next day.

“Thank God for that”, I thought. But wait a minute, what’s this?

Bela sat on her bed, hugging her pillow, staring dreamily into space. “I can just visualize it, the never ending Cornish shore, waves on the horizon, the stormy seas, the lashing rain, daring smugglers, casks of whiskey, Jamaica Inn ….” she trailed off.

“Oh heavens” I thought in a panic, “how will we cope with that?”

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