The call centre was located in the most desolate town in northern England. At one time it had been a thriving industrial town, but now all it had was the call centre which employed over two thousand people.
The receptionist gave Ujjwal a cold stare as she printed their visitors’ passes. ‘She usually smiles at me,’ Ujjwal muttered to Venky and Pritam as they walked towards the conference room. It was not just the receptionist. The three men drew angry looks from everyone they passed.
John was already inside the conference room.
‘Hello Ujjwal!’ He mispronounced the name exactly as he had done on the last two occasions.
‘Good to see you again John. Can I introduce my colleagues Pritam and Venky?’
They declined the offer of coffee and tea.
‘We’ll stick with the same story.’ John told Ujjwal blandly.
‘Hmm, I somehow get the feeling that the people here suspect something.’ Ujjwal told John, scanning his face for a lie as he did so.
‘We haven’t told anyone anything and my instructions are to stick with the same story,’ John reiterated, as poker-faced as ever.
Ujjwal didn’t care. Word always got around sooner or later. And it was John’s problem, not his.
‘Shall I call in Peter and James?’
‘Why not? All five hundred seats are under them, right?’
‘Right’
John went over to the telephone and dialed. While he was on the phone, Venky checked his phone once again for messages.
‘Ujjwal, can I make a quick phone call?’
‘They’ll be here any moment.’
‘I’ll be quick. This is important.’ Without waiting for Ujjwal’s consent, Venky ran out of the room, dialing as he went out. His wife did not answer the phone. Either they were still in the hospital or she was still mad at him. He was about to leave a message when he heard footsteps approaching. He rushed inside but the footsteps just went past. It was another five minutes before Peter and James entered the conference room.
The introductions were brief. These men are here to assess our software and propose something better than what we have. Don’t you think its time we replaced the shit systems we are using?
Peter and James laughed easily. Of course, they need to be replaced. They then went about their tasks professionally and systematically. The visitors were introduced to various team leads. This is how we capture data, these are our servers, he does this and she does that. They took copious notes.
Venky’s mobile made a beep. ‘Doctor says no worry. Antibiotics given. No school for a week,’ the sms said. Venky considered calling back, but Ujjwal read his thoughts and frowned at him.
Soon it was time for lunch. They trooped off to the staff canteen which was crowded. On the way, Venky tried calling home, but got no answer.
‘Did John say he would join us?’
‘He said he would try, but we shouldn’t wait for him.’
Venky was a vegetarian. Would he like a cheese sandwich? But Venky couldn’t stomach the taste of cheese. He picked up a hummus sandwich instead.
As they walked in a single file past a group of men sharing a good joke, one of them put his foot out and caught Pritam, who went down with a thud. The culprit got up and helped Pritam to his feet.
‘Sorry mate,’ he solicitously told Pritam as he gathered his box-wrapped tuna sandwich and bottled orange juice from the floor. ‘Too bloody absent-minded. Too many things to think off. Mortgage, school-fees, brushing up my CV …….’
‘Bloody thieves,’ someone muttered. There was a muted giggle from behind. Neither James nor Peter said a word.
They went to their seats and quietly ate their lunch. Venky’s mobile beeped again. ‘Please call me now,’ the message said.
Saturday, 29 November 2008
Wednesday, 26 November 2008
Short Story: An Office Incident
Armaan walked up to Kritika as she waited for the lift and tapped her lightly on her posterior with the flat of his palm. Kritika ignored him, though a small hiss did escape her, raised her right shoulder a little in a defensive manner and summoned the lift yet again. Armaan did not bother to hide his lascivious intentions or his smirk when he repeated his action, his body language conveying a sense of anticipation rather than any fear of retaliation. Kritika lifted both her shoulders by an inch and stared straight into the closed lift doors.
Unfortunately for Armaan, the Human Resources Director, a smart and snappy lady who had just moved back to India from Philadelphia, was just a few yards behind him and saw everything. Shocked beyond words, it took her a few moments to express her indignation, by which time Armaan had repeated the outrageous act. Since it was obvious that Kritika was going to be a passive victim, the HR Director took it on herself to protect Kritika.
‘How dare you?’ she shouted, as both Kritika and Armaan spun around in stunned silence. They stood there in silence, which infuriated the HR Director since there was no reason for Kritika to remain silent now that someone had spoken up for her. ‘How dare you?’ the HR Director repeated yet again as the lift arrived and opened soundlessly. This time Kritika’s face actually paled as though she had done something wrong while Armaan’s face had the look of a naughty boy caught with his fingers in the jam jar. This made the HR Director angrier still. In fact, she was a lot more bugged with Kritika’s passivity than with Armaan’s behaviour. She knew that women put up with a lot of shit without complaint in India, but it was nevertheless shocking to see it played out in front of her eyes.
‘Can I have your name please?’ the HR Director demanded of Armaan and immediately felt like a fool. Both Kritika and Armaan dangled around their necks their corporate identity cards which not only gave away their names, but also their employee numbers. The HR Director noted down Armaan’s name and employee number and then decided to take down Kritika’s details as well. If Kritika should decide to disappear in order to avoid the enquiry that would follow, as she might well do, being the timid creature that she appeared to be, she would find that the HR Director had other plans.
The HR Director made Armaan sit in a room all by himself (to stew) whilst she had a word with Kritika.
‘Do you know how important it is to report incidents like this? Why on earth do you take this shit lying down?’ the HR Director asked. Kritika was silent.
‘I just don’t believe it,’ she declared, more to herself than to Kritika.
‘Has this happened before?’ she demanded of Kritika.
‘No,’ Kritika said, speaking for the first time.
‘You are senior to him. Nine years senior!’ Kritika was a team leader despite her youthful looks while Armaan was a puppy, not more than a year old in the company.
‘Even if you don’t make a formal complaint, I intend to take action against that bbbass…...that guy,’ the HR Director grimly added. Kritika did not look particularly happy at that and so the HR Director added softly, ‘don’t worry. He’ll never enter this office again. Today is his last day here.’ It was so tragic; a team leader was scared of reporting a one year old programmer who had the audacity to sexually harass her at her workplace.
Armaan’s project leader had not sounded too pleased when the HR Director demanded that Armaan be fired, but the HR Director had reminded him that they were a subsidiary of HeptaCorp Inc. which prided itself on the highest standards in matters such as these.
‘Can’t we please drop the matter?’ Kritika asked the HR Director all of a sudden. By that time, the branch manager had joined them.
‘Why are you so scared?’ the HR Director asked Kritika, her voice dropping to a whisper.
‘If my husband hears of this, I won’t be allowed to work again,’ she said, close to tears. To the HR Director’s surprise, the branch manager seemed to be in empathy with Kritika. He looked at the HR Director with sad eyes, as though it was the most obvious thing to happen. As the HR Director racked her brains for a diplomatic response, instead of the ‘for Christ’s sake, which century are you living in?’ the branch manager to his credit said, ‘don’t worry, we’ll make sure not many people get to know of this. We’ll fire Armaan, but I’ll make sure he keeps his trap shut.’
The HR Director was tempted to ask how the branch manager planned to make sure Armaan kept his trap shut, but she decided not to. That was none of her business.
That evening Armaan sat on the sofa in his bachelor’s pad, nursing a glass of whiskey. His mobile rang.
‘Where are you?’ he asked the person at the other end.
‘Almost there. I’ll be there in five minutes.’
Armaan finished his whiskey in two gulps and kept the glass on the mantel piece.
The door bell rang and he opened the door. Kritika ran into his arms.
‘How was it?’ she asked him breathlessly without bothering to disentangle.
‘If only that bitch wasn’t around, this wouldn’t have happened.’
‘I warned you so many times to not to try that in office.’
‘Not my fault. You were irresistible. Your butt, that is.’ Kritika bit Armaan on his neck by way of a response.
They were silent for a minute. Then Kritika said, ‘you’ve been drinking.’
‘Just a small one.’
‘Tell me what happened. Have you been fired?’
‘Yes. Immediate termination! Not even a month’s notice. But I will get a reference, provided I keep my mouth shut.’
‘Thank God for that!’ It must be the branch manager who arranged for that, Kritika thought.
‘Why don’t you ditch your husband and come and live with me?’
‘Especially now that you are jobless,’ Kritika teased Armaan.
‘Of course. I’ll get a job soon, just a matter of time.’
‘Fine, get a job and I’ll come over with both my kids. You will enjoy looking after them, won’t you?’
‘Why don’t you bring over your husband as well? We’ll make him look after the kids while we have fun.’
‘You bastard, you,’ Kritika said as she kissed Armaan and they both laughed out aloud.
Unfortunately for Armaan, the Human Resources Director, a smart and snappy lady who had just moved back to India from Philadelphia, was just a few yards behind him and saw everything. Shocked beyond words, it took her a few moments to express her indignation, by which time Armaan had repeated the outrageous act. Since it was obvious that Kritika was going to be a passive victim, the HR Director took it on herself to protect Kritika.
‘How dare you?’ she shouted, as both Kritika and Armaan spun around in stunned silence. They stood there in silence, which infuriated the HR Director since there was no reason for Kritika to remain silent now that someone had spoken up for her. ‘How dare you?’ the HR Director repeated yet again as the lift arrived and opened soundlessly. This time Kritika’s face actually paled as though she had done something wrong while Armaan’s face had the look of a naughty boy caught with his fingers in the jam jar. This made the HR Director angrier still. In fact, she was a lot more bugged with Kritika’s passivity than with Armaan’s behaviour. She knew that women put up with a lot of shit without complaint in India, but it was nevertheless shocking to see it played out in front of her eyes.
‘Can I have your name please?’ the HR Director demanded of Armaan and immediately felt like a fool. Both Kritika and Armaan dangled around their necks their corporate identity cards which not only gave away their names, but also their employee numbers. The HR Director noted down Armaan’s name and employee number and then decided to take down Kritika’s details as well. If Kritika should decide to disappear in order to avoid the enquiry that would follow, as she might well do, being the timid creature that she appeared to be, she would find that the HR Director had other plans.
The HR Director made Armaan sit in a room all by himself (to stew) whilst she had a word with Kritika.
‘Do you know how important it is to report incidents like this? Why on earth do you take this shit lying down?’ the HR Director asked. Kritika was silent.
‘I just don’t believe it,’ she declared, more to herself than to Kritika.
‘Has this happened before?’ she demanded of Kritika.
‘No,’ Kritika said, speaking for the first time.
‘You are senior to him. Nine years senior!’ Kritika was a team leader despite her youthful looks while Armaan was a puppy, not more than a year old in the company.
‘Even if you don’t make a formal complaint, I intend to take action against that bbbass…...that guy,’ the HR Director grimly added. Kritika did not look particularly happy at that and so the HR Director added softly, ‘don’t worry. He’ll never enter this office again. Today is his last day here.’ It was so tragic; a team leader was scared of reporting a one year old programmer who had the audacity to sexually harass her at her workplace.
Armaan’s project leader had not sounded too pleased when the HR Director demanded that Armaan be fired, but the HR Director had reminded him that they were a subsidiary of HeptaCorp Inc. which prided itself on the highest standards in matters such as these.
‘Can’t we please drop the matter?’ Kritika asked the HR Director all of a sudden. By that time, the branch manager had joined them.
‘Why are you so scared?’ the HR Director asked Kritika, her voice dropping to a whisper.
‘If my husband hears of this, I won’t be allowed to work again,’ she said, close to tears. To the HR Director’s surprise, the branch manager seemed to be in empathy with Kritika. He looked at the HR Director with sad eyes, as though it was the most obvious thing to happen. As the HR Director racked her brains for a diplomatic response, instead of the ‘for Christ’s sake, which century are you living in?’ the branch manager to his credit said, ‘don’t worry, we’ll make sure not many people get to know of this. We’ll fire Armaan, but I’ll make sure he keeps his trap shut.’
The HR Director was tempted to ask how the branch manager planned to make sure Armaan kept his trap shut, but she decided not to. That was none of her business.
That evening Armaan sat on the sofa in his bachelor’s pad, nursing a glass of whiskey. His mobile rang.
‘Where are you?’ he asked the person at the other end.
‘Almost there. I’ll be there in five minutes.’
Armaan finished his whiskey in two gulps and kept the glass on the mantel piece.
The door bell rang and he opened the door. Kritika ran into his arms.
‘How was it?’ she asked him breathlessly without bothering to disentangle.
‘If only that bitch wasn’t around, this wouldn’t have happened.’
‘I warned you so many times to not to try that in office.’
‘Not my fault. You were irresistible. Your butt, that is.’ Kritika bit Armaan on his neck by way of a response.
They were silent for a minute. Then Kritika said, ‘you’ve been drinking.’
‘Just a small one.’
‘Tell me what happened. Have you been fired?’
‘Yes. Immediate termination! Not even a month’s notice. But I will get a reference, provided I keep my mouth shut.’
‘Thank God for that!’ It must be the branch manager who arranged for that, Kritika thought.
‘Why don’t you ditch your husband and come and live with me?’
‘Especially now that you are jobless,’ Kritika teased Armaan.
‘Of course. I’ll get a job soon, just a matter of time.’
‘Fine, get a job and I’ll come over with both my kids. You will enjoy looking after them, won’t you?’
‘Why don’t you bring over your husband as well? We’ll make him look after the kids while we have fun.’
‘You bastard, you,’ Kritika said as she kissed Armaan and they both laughed out aloud.
Friday, 21 November 2008
Short Story: My Best Friend Fakhroo (Modified Version)
THIS IS A MODIFIED VERSION OF THE ORIGINAL
I must have let out a whoop of joy on seeing Fakhroo’s email since Neha dropped her book and hurried over to me. It was a cold winter’s evening in Manchester, the curtains were drawn, and the heater turned on at full blast. The smell of fresh paint hung in the air, like the promise of a better tomorrow.
‘Is this your friend Fakhroo?’
‘My best friend Fakhroo,’ I replied enthusiastically as I clicked opened the email on my smart phone. Many years had passed since Fakhroo and I had declared to the world that we were best friends and swore undying loyalty to each other. Those were the days when we skipped classes after lunch to go to the cinema and rounded off the evening with a few kebabs from Fakhroo’s father’s restaurant in Old Delhi. Time had flown by, but I still thought of Fakhroo as my best friend. That is, when I did think of him, which had not been very often in the recent past.
‘What’s he up to?’
‘Let me read the email first,’ I told Neha impatiently as I settled into the sofa. Neha sat next to me, stretched her legs sideways until they dangled over, and tucked her face into the angle between my neck and shoulder so that she could read as well. I did not mind. Neha and I had been married for over two years now but I still did not mind when she did something like that.
Fakhroo’s email was not very long. He apologised for not having kept in touch for the past many years. He was not even sure my email address would be the same. He had received my wedding invitation and was planning to travel to Gwalior to attend the wedding, but a family emergency had come up at the last minute. And then he had been busy with his new business venture.
‘What’s this business venture he’s talking about?’ Neha asked.
‘I dunno,’ I said not wanting to be distracted from the email. Neha lifted her head from its comfortable perch for a few seconds and looked at me with mock anger before sticking her head back where it had been earlier.
“I am planning to visit the UK since I am trying to find a British travel agent in Manchester or London with whom I can have a tie-up. In order to get a visa to come there, can you send me a letter inviting me to stay with you? An invitation letter from a UK resident will make it easy for me to get a visa. Of course, once I am there, I will not stay with you for more than a day or two since I plan to travel around the UK once I finish my business.”
There were a couple of additional lines about a common friend he had met recently, and the address to which I was to send the letter. Finally, Fakhroo had signed of with his full name. Fakhruddin al-Razi.
‘Show him on Facebook!’ Neha demanded.
‘He’s not on Facebook. Fakhroo doesn’t believe in wasting time on social media. He’s too busy doing real stuff.’
‘Are you going to send him an invitation?’ Neha asked flippantly, with a roll of her eyes, having finished the email a few seconds before I did.
‘Of course I am,’ I replied, showing mock anger and surprise. Of course I would send him an invitation. Good old Fakhroo. The things we had done together when we were in school. The scrapes we had got into. Fakhroo always had a million plans and they kept evolving all the time. Fakhroo’s plans to have a tie-up with a British travel agent did not surprise me. He always thought big. And his plan to travel around the UK was only to be expected. Fakhroo was the most inquisitive and restless person I had ever known.
The last time I met Fakhroo was over four years ago at a school reunion. My father had retired from the civil service and my parents had settled down in Gwalior. I was working for a hospital in Bhopal. Fakhroo was in Delhi, trying various schemes – helping his father run their restaurant, starting a courier service business, a guide-supplying business that would have ensured every tourist visiting Delhi had the most suitable guide to show them around etc. Fakhroo and I had exchanged a few emails after that reunion and then we had lost all contact. In the meantime, I migrated to the UK, completed my MRCP, got married, and bought a house in Manchester.
‘I wonder why Fakhroo signed with his full name,’ I mused. ‘I have never known him to use his full name, other than for school records. He was always Fakhroo.’
‘Maybe he’s changed. He might be a terrorist now.’ This time Neha was semi-serious, but I burst out laughing.
‘Fakhroo? A terrorist? You haven’t met Fakhroo. He’s the coolest guy I’ve known. Let him come here. When he is in his element, he can out-drink an Irishman. There was a time when he would tell people – My name is Fakhruddin, but please call me Fak.’ Neha burst out laughing at that.
‘I was only joking,’ she said.
‘I better reply to Fakhroo and tell him that I’ll send him the letter in a day’s time.’
‘Didn’t Anil tell us that he gave a letter to his friend to help him get a visa?’
‘Yes, he did. Maybe I should speak to Anil and find out what the formalities are before replying to Fakhroo.’
‘Makes sense,’ Neha agreed as she walked back to the sofa and picked up her book. I hate typing anything longer than a sentence on my phone and so I powered on my laptop and replied to Fakhroo at length. I even attached a few of my recent snaps, including some with Neha. Send me you recent photos, Mr. Fakhruddin al-Razi I begged him, as I ended my email.
At night in bed, my thoughts went back to Fakhroo. He was unlikely to be a successful businessman. He was too restless for that. He had his fingers in too many pies. He liked to try out everything. After school when most of us managed to join engineering and medical colleges or prestigious arts colleges, Fakhroo took a year off to travel around India. If I had the money, I would travel around the world, he had said. And once he got over his wanderlust, he had joined a part-time college so that he could attend accountancy classes in the mornings and help his father with the restaurant in the evenings. There are too many things I could do and too little time to do them. In such a case, how on earth can anyone justify spending a whole day in college? He had asked me rhetorically one day.
Next day morning, I called up Anil before going to the hospital and switched on the speaker.
‘It’s pretty simple,’ Anil said. ‘In order to get a visitor’s visa, your friend must prove that he has sufficient funds to travel to the UK and meet his expenses while he is here. And he must also show a hotel booking for the time he is here. But if you were to send him a letter inviting him to stay with you, he doesn’t have to have a hotel booking. Also, if your invitation letter were to say that you will meet his expenses while he is here, his life becomes easier.
‘You mean, he won’t have to show he has enough money to meet his expenses.’
‘He must show some money, but the burden is a lot less.’
‘Will a scan do?’ Neha chimed in.
‘No. Original. Hi Neha!’
‘What else?’
‘Nothing. It’s just a letter. Make sure you attach a copy of your house deed so that the visa office knows you have a spare room for your friend to stay.’
‘Well, I’m so glad that I bought this house. If we were still in that studio flat…’
‘Sometimes they don’t really check. But you’re right, a studio flat would have made things difficult. Especially now that they’ve made immigration so tight. This friend of yours, is he looking to join the NHS?’
‘The NHS? No, of course not. Fakhroo is anything but a doctor. He has tried his hand at everything except medicine.’
‘Fakhroo, did you say? Is that his name?’
‘His name is Fakhruddhin. But we called him Fakhroo in school.’
‘You know him very well, I guess. Then it shouldn’t be a problem… I guess.’ A slight hesitation sprang into Anil’s voice. He was guessing too much.
I didn’t say any more, but merely thanked Anil and switched off the speaker. Neha gave me an enquiring look, but I didn’t linger to discuss or debate.
My thoughts were not very pleasant as I drove to work. What the heck was wrong with Anil? Was it such a risk to invite Fakhroo just because he was a Muslim? I knew Fakhroo better than anyone else in the world, except maybe his parents. There was a better chance of Anil turning into a terrorist than Fakhroo, the most liberal human being I have ever known. Fakhroo was not even a practising Muslim. Not that it mattered. Even if Fakhroo were a practising Muslim, I would still cheerfully send him an invitation letter.
That afternoon, during my lunch break, I called up Fakhroo at his old number. Six thirty, Indian time. A stranger picked up the phone. As I had suspected, Fakhroo and his family had moved out of that house a year ago. I called up a couple of friends in Delhi to get Fakhroo’s number. None of them had it. Apparently, Fakhroo’s father had died and they had sold the restaurant and moved elsewhere. No one seemed to be in touch with Fakhroo.
That evening it snowed heavily and it took me a while to get home through the blocked roads. And when I finally parked the car and got inside our house, Neha had micro-waved chapattis and warm potato bhaji waiting for me. We watched TV as we ate our dinner. I picked up the remote and started to flip through the channels. Normally I hate watching documentaries, but for some reason BBC’s program about a British national of Pakistani origin who gone over to Syria and joined ISIS caught my attention. Apparently this gentleman had been very liberal and all that till he suddenly became religious. I watched the program for a few minutes and then moved on. ‘See,’ I told Neha. ‘This sort of thing will never happen to Fakhroo.’
‘How do you know that for sure?’
‘Because Fakhroo would never do anything unless it made sense, and I can’t ever think of him intentionally harming anyone else.’
Neha got angry. ‘I never said Fakhroo was a bad guy. You’ve started imagining things.’
‘Well, it was Anil who did this to me.’
‘Don’t blame Anil.’
‘I know, he didn’t say anything, but he…’
‘I think you’re worried that Fakhroo is up to no good. You’re scared of sending him that letter.’
‘Me worried? That’s a laugh.’
When our plates were empty, Neha told me, ‘you go ahead and write that invitation letter. I’ll wash up.’
‘No, I’ll help you. You must be tired as well. Did you have a good day at work?’ Neha worked for a few hours every day at the local library. It was not very financially rewarding, but Neha enjoyed it.
‘No, I didn’t. I had an argument with Elaine and…’
I helped with the dishes and watched some TV before I tore myself away, switched on my laptop and started to type out a letter inviting Fakhroo to visit me in Manchester. I promised to meet all his expenses while he was with me. I printed off the letter, signed it, and kept it on the table so that I could drop it off to be couriered on my way to work the next day. I stuck a post-it note on the letter and scribbled ‘House Deed Copy’ on it. I then clicked on gmail and composed a message for Fakhroo. I would courier him the letter in a day’s time, I told him. Was there a phone number where I could reach him? And since when did Fakhroo start signing his name in full? I preferred Fakhroo to Fakhruddin al-Razi, I politely informed him and added a smiley next to it, before clicking on Send. I then opened Facebook and was lost to the world for the next thirty odd minutes until Neha prodded me from behind, none too gently.
‘What time is it in India?’ I asked aloud as I did the mental math. ‘Three thirty in the morning,’ Neha shouted back. If I were good at Mathematics I would have been an engineer, not a doctor, I consoled myself. Most probably, I would find a reply waiting for me when I woke up in the morning.
The next day morning, I woke up fifteen minutes earlier than usual and checked my email account. There was nothing from Fakhroo. I checked again, just after finishing my breakfast and Fakhroo’s email was fifteen minutes old. It had a phone number and nothing else. I called him up immediately.
‘Fakhruddin here.’
‘Fakhroo, is that you?’
‘Yes, it’s me Fakhruddin. Is that you Govind?’
‘Fakhroo. What’s happening? How are things?’
‘Everything is all right. My father died and…’
‘When was this? When did he die?’
‘Almost two years ago.’ No wonder Fakhroo had not attended my wedding. His father must have died around that time.
‘Was this the family emergency you mentioned in your email?’
‘Yes.’
‘You sold the restaurant, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I did.’ Fakhroo’s voice sounded wooden, almost as if it were someone else.
‘What’s up man? I’m sure you’re still the same old Fak.’ I hoped to infuse some life into Fakhroo.
‘I’m still the same, but …’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve become religious and starting praying and fasting.’
‘Actually I have.’
It was a bit of a shock, but that explained the signature in full and the wooden lifeless voice. Religion usually took away a lot from a human being.
‘Well, tell me what you’ve been up to.’
Fakhroo launched into a description of his guide-supplying business, which apparently was thriving. His voice became animated. He needed a tie-up with a good western travel agency to send him tourists, if his business were to expand any further. It was so difficult to get a visa to visit the UK these days. Especially if you had a Muslim name and… a beard.’
‘Do you have a beard?’ I asked Fakhroo in shock.
‘Yes, I do.’ The response was calm and unhurried. Fakhroo didn’t care whether I was shocked or not.
‘I’ll courier that letter to you today,’ I said as I hung up.
I looked at my watch. I was running late. As I ran out of the house, I realised that I had left the invitation letter behind. I decided not to go back for it, since I also had to annex a copy of the house deed and it would take more than a few minutes to dig it out from my documents box. It could wait for another day. That evening as I drove home, I realised that I was being silly. Just because Fakhroo had turned religious did not mean that he was a terrorist. It would be a laugh, to see Fakhroo once more, with or without a beard. I would call him Fak for old time’s sake, his religious sentiments be damned.
‘Have you sent that letter yet?’ Neha asked me in the evening.
‘No, not yet,’ I said. ‘I was just thinking, do you know what will happen to us if Fakhroo turns out to be a terrorist? We would have sheltered a terrorist. And they may not believe me if I tell them that I had no clue what Fakhroo was up to.’
‘You are getting paranoid. If you are so worried, don’t invite him.’
‘I wish we still lived in that studio flat. I wouldn’t be able to invite him if we did.’
‘He doesn’t know that we’ve bought a house, does he?’
‘No, he doesn’t but, …’
I don’t care either way. You decide. He’s your friend.’ Neha went back to her book.
‘I do wish you’d stop reading when you get home. Don’t you read enough books in the library?’
‘As a matter of fact I don’t. I never have time to read a thing when I’m working.’
I had a dream that night. My memories of that dream are slightly hazy, but I do remember that it involved being arrested on charges of having abetted a serious terrorist attempt to blow up Big Ben. The attempt had ended in failure, but I ended up behind bars nevertheless. Oh no! No! Fakhroo had nothing to do with the whole thing. Not my Fakhroo! No! A bearded man who bore a distant similarity to my best friend was the brain behind the plot which landed me behind bars. I woke up sweating and panting and went back to sleep only after Neha cuffed me behind my ear for having woken her up.
When I woke up, my mind was made up. I would email Fakhruddin and tell him that that I could not invite him. My studio flat doesn’t have a spare room, I would tell him. I need to attach a copy of the house deed to my invitation letter. I’m so sorry that I cannot help you, but I am sure that you will find a more worthy friend to offer you in this minor assistance, my missive would conclude. I told myself that I was doing the right thing. Fakhruddin was an unknown quantity. He had a beard and he most probably prayed five times a day. My good old friend Fakhroo was no more and I would soon get used to that fact.
As I ate my breakfast cereal that morning, I scrolled through the multitude of notifications that awaited my acceptance or dismissal. My heart skipped a beat as I saw that there was a friend request from one Fakhruddin al-Razi. Fakhroo on Facebook? After turning fundamentalist? I clicked with my left thumb to accept and soon I was looking at Fakhroo’s photos. He looked the same, except that he had put on some weight and lost a lot of hair. Now, where was his beard? There were at least a dozen photos of Fakhroo, mostly with friends. In one, he and five others were at a well-known pub in Gurugram, one I recognized by its décor, beer mugs crowding the small table. Were all those photos taken before he had turned religious and grown his beard? No, I checked the date of the photos and the most recent one, Fakhroo posing under a Telugu billboard in Hyderabad, was just a month old. Suddenly, I started to laugh. I had been taken. Another one of Fakhroo’s jokes. I felt stupid. Did that idiot realize that his prank made me make up my mind to turn him down? Tears of joy and relief ran down my cheeks. Suddenly I felt very stupid and dumb. A shiver ran up my spine. No, Fakhroo would never have expected me to ditch him just because he lied to me that he had a beard and prayed frequently.
I didn’t feel hungry anymore, though my cereal bowl was still half full. I dumped its contents into the bin, gargled and quickly hurried over to my documents box to dig out the house deed and annex it to my letter.
Thursday, 20 November 2008
Book Review: The Enemy at the Gate by Andrew Wheatcroft
In 2004, when Turkey’s admission to the European Union was being debated, Frits Bolkestein, a Dutch member of the European Union's executive committee objected on the grounds that Europe risked becoming "Islamized" and the Battle of Vienna would have been in vain.
The Battle of Vienna took place in 1682. At that time, the Ottoman Empire had crossed the zenith of its power and glory. Almost 600 years ago in 1071, at a place called Manzikert in Turkey, Turkish forces had defeated the Byzantine troops of the Eastern Roman Empire. It was the beginning of the end for the Eastern Roman Empire, which had outlived the Western Roman Empire by almost 6 centuries. The Ottomans considered themselves to be the heirs to the Roman Empire, though other western powers did not share that opinion. The Ottomans moved from one victory to another. Murad I and his Christian vassals defeated Lazar, the Prince of Serbia at Kosovo Polje in 1389. Serbia became a vassal state until 1521 when Belgrade was captured. At the Battle of Mohács in August 1526, Sultan Suleiman I (Suleiman the Magnificent) defeated King Louis II and occupied southern Hungary. Vienna blocked the Ottoman route into the heart of Europe. At the height of its glory in 1529, the Ottoman troops led by Suleiman the Magnificent tried to capture Vienna, but the siege failed.
Andrew Wheatcroft’s book The Enemy at the Gate chronicles the second attempt by the Ottomans to capture Vienna, this time in 1683. Wheatcroft is uniquely positioned to describe this conflict since he is an expert on both the Habsburgs, the then most powerful ruling power in Europe with control over Vienna, and the Ottomans. Wheatcroft’s previous works include books on both the Habsburgs and the Ottomans. In clear, lucid style using limpid prose, Wheatcroft builds up the battle settings, giving us an inside view of the players and politics involved. The Thirty Years War had got over just a few decades earlier and there was not much warmth between the Habsburgs and the Protestant powers. It was even said that Protestants living in Ottoman Europe were treated better than Protestants under the Habsburgs. Even Catholic France was not very supportive of the Habsburgs. The Ottomans too had a major enemy in the form of the Persian Empire with whom they were constantly fighting The main difference between the European wars fought by the Habsburgs and the Persian wars fought by the Ottomans was that the Habsburgs learned a lot from their experiences. Their armies had an organisation and chain of command which the Ottoman armies lacked. The art of generalship was well developed. The Ottomans relied on individual bravery and skills, while the European forces relied on teamwork, organisation and methodical preparation.
There were so many areas where the Ottomans were much superior to the Habsburg forces. Their supply chains were much better, with Ottoman soldiers on the battlefield put up in much more comfort than the average Habsburg soldier, though the Ottomans were so far away from home. The biggest advantage which the Ottomans had was that there was a central authority in command, usually the Grand Vizier, who acted in the Sultan’s name. In the case of the European forces, the soldiers were supplied by many nation states, some of whom were reluctant to do so and all of whom required payment or other rewards.
The Ottomans lost the battle for Vienna, one of the most intense battles ever fought. There were various reasons for this loss, the main one being the incompetence of the Turkish Grand Vizier, Kara Mustafa. Do read the book to find out the various mistakes which the Ottomans committed. Both sides were charged with zeal, religious and nationalistic. Wheatcroft cites quite a few examples of bravery, but I don’t want to describe them here and spoil the fun. Wheatcroft’s descriptions of battles and troops are second to none. For example, when Wheatcroft describes the Polish hussars who arrived just in time to relieve the siege, he says:
The Polish hussars were heavy cavalry par excellence and they had no equivalent in 17th century Europe, In effect a holdover from the great age of medieval chivalry, man and horse together were a missile with their lance or wielding their long spear like triangular swords more than four foot long – they existed only for the charge. Facing the disciplined volley fire of western armies, they had largely become a liability, but against the Janissary infantry of the Ottomans or their loose flowing formations of sipahis, they could be as devastating as artillery fire.
Wheatcroft does not stop after the Battle of Vienna. He goes on to describe how the Europeans capitalised on their victory and went on to win more battles. Hungary was freed from Ottoman power, though the initial attempt to take Budapest was a failure. As the Ottomans became weaker and weaker, they began to be regarded as just another European power. The Habsburgs and the Ottomans discovered various mutual interests. After Napoleon was defeated by Czar Alexander I, the Russians became stronger and this led to the Austrians and the Ottomans growing closer. During the Crimean war, the Turks fought on the side of France and Britain against Russia. Finally, in the First World War which resulted in the destruction of both the Austro-Hungarian and the Ottoman empires, the Habsburgs and the Ottomans were on the same side.
Sunday, 16 November 2008
Short Story: A Few Reasons to Return Home
Sreejit’s face has a look of intense concentration as his fat index finger glides over his blackberry's scroller. No, Tim hasn't replied to his angry email yet. To be honest, Sreejit isn't expecting a reply from that bastard. Tim's last email had made it clear that the next round of discussions would take place only after three months.
The man sitting to Sreejit's left has a respectful look on his face. A blackberry is not a very common sight in Kerala, not even in the first class waiting room at the Ernakulam Junction railway station. The man wants to tell Sreejit something, but Sreejit refuses to make eye contact. Instead, he opens old emails on his blackberry and reads them, his eyes focussing on the blackberry's screen intensely as if he is reading something very important, as if they are unread emails.
An announcement is made over the loudspeaker. The Netravati express is 'shortly expected to arrive on platform number 3.' Sreejit rolls his eyes in exasperation and puts the blackberry into the travel pouch around his waist. 'I don't believe this,' he says loud enough for his neighbour to hear.
Sreejit’s neighbour does not let go of the opportunity. 'This train is always late. Today it is late by only forty minutes. Usually it is late by at least four hours.'
Sreejit exhales and tells his neighbour, 'before leaving for the station, I called up Railway Enquiries and asked them if this train was on time. And they said it was.'
'IST stands for Indian Stretchable Time. Forty minutes late ... that's not late at all!’ the neighbour guffaws. ‘Once this Netravati Express was twenty four hours late. It came exactly on time, the next day!'
'I guess I've got used to seeing things done in a different way. I've been away from all this for almost five years now.'
The opening is not wasted. 'Are you from the States?'
'No, from the UK. I mean, things are not perfect over there. Trains do run late once in a while. But, this ...’ here Sreejit stops for emphasis. ‘This is incredible. They don't even apologise for the train being late. And of course, there is no need to explain to us why the train is late.'
Sreejit's neighbour becomes an apologist for Indian Railways. 'Netravati is coming all the way from Bombay. A journey of over 24 hours. So it can be a little bit late.'
'I ought to have taken a taxi to Trivandrum. I was told the train will be more comfortable. Now I'm not too sure.'
'My name is Babu. What's your good name?'
Sreejit is trapped. As a rule, he does not talk to strangers when travelling on trains. A habit inculcated over five years cannot be ignored. But he does not have a choice. He is forced to admit that he answers to Sreejit.
The train enters the station majestically. There is a rush of activity. People rush to the doors and mill around. Some people start getting inside even before the passengers have got off the train. Sreejit and Babu are travelling first class and so they don't have to fight their way into the train. They settle in a section of the compartment which has only two other people, an old man sleeping in a corner and a woman in her thirties.
The first class seats are reasonably comfortable, but there's dirt on the windows. Sreejit takes care to ensure that he doesn't touch the window sill.
The train has been at the station for fourteen minutes now. Sreejit looks at his watch and gives Babu an enquiring look. Why not? Babu is more than happy to explain matters. 'This train has come all the way from Bombay. At this stage, it won't be very punctual.'
'Makes a lot of sense to me. It's a 28 hour journey to Trivandrum, isn't it? Why be punctual for the last leg from Ernakulam?' Sreejit does not hide his scorn.
'It's scheduled to stop for ten minutes. Since it is late...'
'Since it is running late, I would expect it to leave as early as possible. It's been here for almost fifteen minutes now.'
Babu changes the topic. 'Are trains very punctual in England?'
Sreejit sighs and gives Babu a happy smile. He takes his time in replying. 'You know, I have a rather long commute to my place of work. I live in Reigate, that's in Surrey and I catch a train to London Bridge from Reigate everyday. Once every ten days or so, a train will be late, by a couple of minutes. And once a month or so, a train will be held up for say, ten minutes.'
'Is that all? In India we are used to trains running late all the time....'
'When a train is late by a few minutes, we start cribbing. In the UK, people complain about minor things. Out here people are passive. People don't care if the trains run late.'
'There's not much point in cribbing in India. We have too many people and not enough ...'
'I don't think so. It's also a question of attitude. If a train is late, there will an announcement every few minutes explaining the reason for the absence. They'll tell us the train is held up at such and such a place due to such and such a reason.'
'You must find it so difficult here after living in England.'
'I hate to say this, but after living in the UK, it's so difficult to adjust to the way things are done here.'
The train moves off and Sreejit heaves a sigh of relief. 'Finally,' he exhales. Babu sighs in relief as well, as if he is too embarrassed at having been let down by Indian Railways in front of a foreigner.
Sreejit decides to re-read the email he received from Tim a few days before he went on leave. It doesn't matter how many times he has read it before, Sreejit feels a fresh pang of rejection each time. Tim's email was very blunt and to the point. As discussed at the review meeting held the previous day, Sreejit's performance was not satisfactory. They didn't think he was capable of fulfilling the requirements of his role. They realised that Sreejit had a demanding role, but if Sreejit could not improve his performance and meet the five objective parameters set out below in the next three months, they would ask him to leave.
A vendor arrives with lunch boxes – there's chicken biriyani, sambhar rice, curd rice, fish curry rice etc. Sreejit buys a chicken biriyani while Babu settles for some curd rice. They start eating.
'I heard that food in England is very bad. Is that true?'
'Not at all. It is very hygienic and clean. You won't fall ill if you eat food from a vendor on a train.'
'Oh! Do you have people selling food items like this?'
'No, but each train, especially the long distance ones, will have a buffet trolley with an assortment of sandwiches and beverages.'
'Sandwiches! Is that all you get? It must be very difficult to live on such things?'
'I am used to that now. Actually, these days, I don't like spicy food. Come to think of it, why add spices to food? They don't have any nutritional value. In fact, they deflect the real taste of food. If you eat spicy food all your life, your taste buds will slowly die. You won't be able to appreciate subtle flavours. In fact, Indian food doesn't have subtle flavours.'
They go back to their foil packed food. Sreejit chuckles to himself. At the pub the day before he went on leave, he had nicknamed Tim Dr. No and everyone had laughed. Hopefully the name would stick. Tim had a habit of starting every sentence with a No. They all hated Tim and his joke had made him very popular. But Sreejit was the first of Tim's victims. Why had Tim picked on Sreejit?
Sreejit finishes his lunch first, because he doesn't eat half of it. He looks around for a bin to dump his foil pack, but doesn't find one. 'Just throw it out of the window,' Babu tells him. Sreejit is disgusted beyond words, but he reluctantly opens a window and throws out the wrapper. He then goes to the end of the compartment to wash his fingers in the tap. When he comes back, Babu is the process of disposing his lunch wrapper through the window.
'I just don't understand why there can't be a few bins in every compartment? Labour is cheap in this country. It won't cost too much to have the bins emptied at every other station!'
'We are used to all this,' Babu put in mildly.
'I guess I shouldn't be shocked, but I am. Each time I return to India, I get a jolt when I see the way things are done here.'
They are silent for a while. The train reaches Allepey, but no one enters the first class compartment.
Sreejit opens Tim's email once again. He goes through the five parameters they have set for him. They appear objective but they are not. His technical knowledge apparently is not good enough. How the heck can such an allegation be called objective? Before Tim arrived on the scene with a mandate to 'trim' the company, no one had complained about his technical knowledge. If at the end of three months, Tim ‘objectively’ decides that his technical knowledge is still not good enough, they can fire him and there is precious little he can do about it. He has consulted an employment lawyer. His company is entitled to fire him as long as it follows all the procedures, he has been told. He can take his company to the employment tribunal claiming unfair dismissal, but unless he can prove that his termination is on account of race or religion, he is unlikely to win. No, he can prove nothing of that sort. All his colleagues are polite to him outwardly. No one has assailed him on account of his religion or skin colour. He isn't a homosexual or anything is he? his lawyer had asked him wistfully. If he is and is being harassed about it by his boss, he might sustain a claim that he is being terminated on account of his sexual orientation. No, I am not gay, Sreejit had politely replied though he wanted to scream at the lawyer who charged him 300 pounds an hour.
It is actually the last of the five parameters which hurts the most. He can live with an allegation of inadequate technical knowledge since he knows that it is a lie. But he cannot live down the allegation that his client handling skills need to be improved. He has been asked to work on his verbal skills so that clients can understand him better. It was the last parameter which forced him to shoot off an angry reply to Tim just before he caught the flight to India. Yes, I do speak with an accent. However, I've never had trouble communicating with anyone. That idiot who complained about my accent last month is prejudiced. He is biased. He is a racist. You don't have to believe him. Surely you know me better than that. I have been in the UK for 5 years now and my accent had always been legible. It was not as if I spend all my time talking to clients. Not more than ten percent of my time is spent with clients. I have been with the company for three years now and there has been only one complaint so far.
He knows that Tim won’t reply to his email. The Human Resources department has prepared Tim's email and any response will also be prepared by HR. They have done it many times before. The UK has some of the most employee friendly laws in the world, but if an employer wants to fire an employee, he can do so, provided he is patient and is willing to pay lip service to all the rules.
'So you don't see yourself ever returning to India, do you?' Babu asks him.
'Actually, I might. There are so many things about India I don't like, but India is still home. I will come back to Kerala one day and settle down here.'
'Really! That's very good. I thought you are....' Babu hesitates and then continues, '..you are one of those who hate India so much that they will never return.'
'Ha! Ha! Of course not! I have gained so much from my experience in the UK and when I return, I will have a lot to contribute.'
'I'm sure of that. When are you likely to return for good? Anytime soon?'
'I don't know. I may come back in a year's time, I may return after ten years. It all depends.'
Babu is too polite to ask what it depends on and merely gives Sreejit a smile as he goes back to his blackberry.
The man sitting to Sreejit's left has a respectful look on his face. A blackberry is not a very common sight in Kerala, not even in the first class waiting room at the Ernakulam Junction railway station. The man wants to tell Sreejit something, but Sreejit refuses to make eye contact. Instead, he opens old emails on his blackberry and reads them, his eyes focussing on the blackberry's screen intensely as if he is reading something very important, as if they are unread emails.
An announcement is made over the loudspeaker. The Netravati express is 'shortly expected to arrive on platform number 3.' Sreejit rolls his eyes in exasperation and puts the blackberry into the travel pouch around his waist. 'I don't believe this,' he says loud enough for his neighbour to hear.
Sreejit’s neighbour does not let go of the opportunity. 'This train is always late. Today it is late by only forty minutes. Usually it is late by at least four hours.'
Sreejit exhales and tells his neighbour, 'before leaving for the station, I called up Railway Enquiries and asked them if this train was on time. And they said it was.'
'IST stands for Indian Stretchable Time. Forty minutes late ... that's not late at all!’ the neighbour guffaws. ‘Once this Netravati Express was twenty four hours late. It came exactly on time, the next day!'
'I guess I've got used to seeing things done in a different way. I've been away from all this for almost five years now.'
The opening is not wasted. 'Are you from the States?'
'No, from the UK. I mean, things are not perfect over there. Trains do run late once in a while. But, this ...’ here Sreejit stops for emphasis. ‘This is incredible. They don't even apologise for the train being late. And of course, there is no need to explain to us why the train is late.'
Sreejit's neighbour becomes an apologist for Indian Railways. 'Netravati is coming all the way from Bombay. A journey of over 24 hours. So it can be a little bit late.'
'I ought to have taken a taxi to Trivandrum. I was told the train will be more comfortable. Now I'm not too sure.'
'My name is Babu. What's your good name?'
Sreejit is trapped. As a rule, he does not talk to strangers when travelling on trains. A habit inculcated over five years cannot be ignored. But he does not have a choice. He is forced to admit that he answers to Sreejit.
The train enters the station majestically. There is a rush of activity. People rush to the doors and mill around. Some people start getting inside even before the passengers have got off the train. Sreejit and Babu are travelling first class and so they don't have to fight their way into the train. They settle in a section of the compartment which has only two other people, an old man sleeping in a corner and a woman in her thirties.
The first class seats are reasonably comfortable, but there's dirt on the windows. Sreejit takes care to ensure that he doesn't touch the window sill.
The train has been at the station for fourteen minutes now. Sreejit looks at his watch and gives Babu an enquiring look. Why not? Babu is more than happy to explain matters. 'This train has come all the way from Bombay. At this stage, it won't be very punctual.'
'Makes a lot of sense to me. It's a 28 hour journey to Trivandrum, isn't it? Why be punctual for the last leg from Ernakulam?' Sreejit does not hide his scorn.
'It's scheduled to stop for ten minutes. Since it is late...'
'Since it is running late, I would expect it to leave as early as possible. It's been here for almost fifteen minutes now.'
Babu changes the topic. 'Are trains very punctual in England?'
Sreejit sighs and gives Babu a happy smile. He takes his time in replying. 'You know, I have a rather long commute to my place of work. I live in Reigate, that's in Surrey and I catch a train to London Bridge from Reigate everyday. Once every ten days or so, a train will be late, by a couple of minutes. And once a month or so, a train will be held up for say, ten minutes.'
'Is that all? In India we are used to trains running late all the time....'
'When a train is late by a few minutes, we start cribbing. In the UK, people complain about minor things. Out here people are passive. People don't care if the trains run late.'
'There's not much point in cribbing in India. We have too many people and not enough ...'
'I don't think so. It's also a question of attitude. If a train is late, there will an announcement every few minutes explaining the reason for the absence. They'll tell us the train is held up at such and such a place due to such and such a reason.'
'You must find it so difficult here after living in England.'
'I hate to say this, but after living in the UK, it's so difficult to adjust to the way things are done here.'
The train moves off and Sreejit heaves a sigh of relief. 'Finally,' he exhales. Babu sighs in relief as well, as if he is too embarrassed at having been let down by Indian Railways in front of a foreigner.
Sreejit decides to re-read the email he received from Tim a few days before he went on leave. It doesn't matter how many times he has read it before, Sreejit feels a fresh pang of rejection each time. Tim's email was very blunt and to the point. As discussed at the review meeting held the previous day, Sreejit's performance was not satisfactory. They didn't think he was capable of fulfilling the requirements of his role. They realised that Sreejit had a demanding role, but if Sreejit could not improve his performance and meet the five objective parameters set out below in the next three months, they would ask him to leave.
A vendor arrives with lunch boxes – there's chicken biriyani, sambhar rice, curd rice, fish curry rice etc. Sreejit buys a chicken biriyani while Babu settles for some curd rice. They start eating.
'I heard that food in England is very bad. Is that true?'
'Not at all. It is very hygienic and clean. You won't fall ill if you eat food from a vendor on a train.'
'Oh! Do you have people selling food items like this?'
'No, but each train, especially the long distance ones, will have a buffet trolley with an assortment of sandwiches and beverages.'
'Sandwiches! Is that all you get? It must be very difficult to live on such things?'
'I am used to that now. Actually, these days, I don't like spicy food. Come to think of it, why add spices to food? They don't have any nutritional value. In fact, they deflect the real taste of food. If you eat spicy food all your life, your taste buds will slowly die. You won't be able to appreciate subtle flavours. In fact, Indian food doesn't have subtle flavours.'
They go back to their foil packed food. Sreejit chuckles to himself. At the pub the day before he went on leave, he had nicknamed Tim Dr. No and everyone had laughed. Hopefully the name would stick. Tim had a habit of starting every sentence with a No. They all hated Tim and his joke had made him very popular. But Sreejit was the first of Tim's victims. Why had Tim picked on Sreejit?
Sreejit finishes his lunch first, because he doesn't eat half of it. He looks around for a bin to dump his foil pack, but doesn't find one. 'Just throw it out of the window,' Babu tells him. Sreejit is disgusted beyond words, but he reluctantly opens a window and throws out the wrapper. He then goes to the end of the compartment to wash his fingers in the tap. When he comes back, Babu is the process of disposing his lunch wrapper through the window.
'I just don't understand why there can't be a few bins in every compartment? Labour is cheap in this country. It won't cost too much to have the bins emptied at every other station!'
'We are used to all this,' Babu put in mildly.
'I guess I shouldn't be shocked, but I am. Each time I return to India, I get a jolt when I see the way things are done here.'
They are silent for a while. The train reaches Allepey, but no one enters the first class compartment.
Sreejit opens Tim's email once again. He goes through the five parameters they have set for him. They appear objective but they are not. His technical knowledge apparently is not good enough. How the heck can such an allegation be called objective? Before Tim arrived on the scene with a mandate to 'trim' the company, no one had complained about his technical knowledge. If at the end of three months, Tim ‘objectively’ decides that his technical knowledge is still not good enough, they can fire him and there is precious little he can do about it. He has consulted an employment lawyer. His company is entitled to fire him as long as it follows all the procedures, he has been told. He can take his company to the employment tribunal claiming unfair dismissal, but unless he can prove that his termination is on account of race or religion, he is unlikely to win. No, he can prove nothing of that sort. All his colleagues are polite to him outwardly. No one has assailed him on account of his religion or skin colour. He isn't a homosexual or anything is he? his lawyer had asked him wistfully. If he is and is being harassed about it by his boss, he might sustain a claim that he is being terminated on account of his sexual orientation. No, I am not gay, Sreejit had politely replied though he wanted to scream at the lawyer who charged him 300 pounds an hour.
It is actually the last of the five parameters which hurts the most. He can live with an allegation of inadequate technical knowledge since he knows that it is a lie. But he cannot live down the allegation that his client handling skills need to be improved. He has been asked to work on his verbal skills so that clients can understand him better. It was the last parameter which forced him to shoot off an angry reply to Tim just before he caught the flight to India. Yes, I do speak with an accent. However, I've never had trouble communicating with anyone. That idiot who complained about my accent last month is prejudiced. He is biased. He is a racist. You don't have to believe him. Surely you know me better than that. I have been in the UK for 5 years now and my accent had always been legible. It was not as if I spend all my time talking to clients. Not more than ten percent of my time is spent with clients. I have been with the company for three years now and there has been only one complaint so far.
He knows that Tim won’t reply to his email. The Human Resources department has prepared Tim's email and any response will also be prepared by HR. They have done it many times before. The UK has some of the most employee friendly laws in the world, but if an employer wants to fire an employee, he can do so, provided he is patient and is willing to pay lip service to all the rules.
'So you don't see yourself ever returning to India, do you?' Babu asks him.
'Actually, I might. There are so many things about India I don't like, but India is still home. I will come back to Kerala one day and settle down here.'
'Really! That's very good. I thought you are....' Babu hesitates and then continues, '..you are one of those who hate India so much that they will never return.'
'Ha! Ha! Of course not! I have gained so much from my experience in the UK and when I return, I will have a lot to contribute.'
'I'm sure of that. When are you likely to return for good? Anytime soon?'
'I don't know. I may come back in a year's time, I may return after ten years. It all depends.'
Babu is too polite to ask what it depends on and merely gives Sreejit a smile as he goes back to his blackberry.
Monday, 10 November 2008
Short Story: Suicide Attack
The two fighters said their final goodbyes. Almost the entire tribe was there to see them off on their last journey. One of the attacker’s brothers was in tears. However they were used to doing things without displaying a surplus of emotions and so most eyes were dry. The decision to launch the attack had been taken less than an hour ago.
Not surprisingly, there were no prayers being said. They didn’t believe in God or in any higher being. Rationalists to an extreme degree, even the two fighters about to carry out the attack would have scoffed if someone had offered to pray for them. There were no explosives to be used. They would use their traditional weapons for the attack, weapons they had used almost from the time they were born. The massive retaliation that was expected would almost certainly kill the two fighters in a matter of seconds after the attack was launched.
They had the reputation of being the most disciplined soldiers on earth. No order was ever disobeyed, though the foot soldiers did at times think their commanders were being batty. This was one of those times. There was absolutely no strategic advantage to be gained by this attack. The enemy would be displaced for less than a few minutes before he returned to his original position. What was more relevant was that the enemy's presence so close to their camp was not doing them any damage. None of their supply routes had been blocked. They even had enough stocks to last them for a week. Nor did the enemy show any signs of planning to reinforce his position. If not attacked, the chances were that the enemy would leave on his own sooner than later. In all probability one of the commanders at the top was trying to score a few brownie points with the Chief by launching this attack.
The order was given and the two fighters moved off. They carried nothing with them, except their light weapons. They reached the enemy's base and started their ascent. The smooth polished black surface offered no fingerholds and was not particularly easy to climb. The older of the two fighters, a grizzled veteran of many wars, found the going slightly tougher than his younger mate who actually skipped along, as though he were on a picnic. Once they crossed the black heath, the ascent became entirely vertical. They would have found the going impossible if they had not be so lightly armed. Their feet kept getting entangled in the black netting which succeeded the smooth black surfalce. The younger fighter was at times tempted to lend a hand to his older mate, but he knew it would not be appreciated and so he did not make such an offer.
It had taken them ten minutes to reach the top of the black netting from the time they started their ascent at the base. They were now ready to attack. At this stage, the older fighter moved slightly ahead. He was a lot more experienced and would pick out the best place to make the initial contact. It took him a few seconds to make up his mind. By this time, the enemy most probably felt their presence. The fighters could sense the enemy forces searching for them, moving towards them. Without further delay, the older fighter launched his attack, taking care not to get entangled in the outgrowth.
He bit into the fleshy leg and his victim howled in pain. The younger fighter immediately followed suit, but as he tasted human hair, he realised that he had made the mistake he had been warned against.
'Eeks Ants!'
The enemy moved his leg a bit and the ants standing around the feet cheered. Their immediate objective had been achieved. It remained to be seen if the enemy would move away from that area entirely.
A heavy hand slapped against the trouser leg and crushed both fighters, but they continued to hold their positions, their teeth firmly clamped into the enemy's leg. The younger fighter wanted to open his jaw and take another bite that didn't include human hair, but decided against it. His current bite was not too bad, there was a decent chunk of human flesh involved, though it would have been grand if he could have avoided the hairs altogether. It was not as if he hadn't been warned. Intelligence had reported that the enemy was particularly hairy.
They felt a warm current against their back and knew their end would be coming soon. They would be dying for the benefit of their brothers, who would cease to remember them in a few hours time. Sure enough, a plump hand hit them both at the same time, killing the older fighter immediately and breaking the younger fighter's back. The trouser leg was now fully rolled up and the enemy searched out the remaining source of his pain. An index finger was used to crush the younger fighter to death.
'Bloody ants,' the victim repeated.
The two brave fighters did not die entirely in vain. May be the commander who had ordered the attack was not so stupid after all. Seeing so many of the dead fighters' comrades milling around, the enemy made a strategic decision to retreat. It remained to be seen how long the enemy would stay away.
Not surprisingly, there were no prayers being said. They didn’t believe in God or in any higher being. Rationalists to an extreme degree, even the two fighters about to carry out the attack would have scoffed if someone had offered to pray for them. There were no explosives to be used. They would use their traditional weapons for the attack, weapons they had used almost from the time they were born. The massive retaliation that was expected would almost certainly kill the two fighters in a matter of seconds after the attack was launched.
They had the reputation of being the most disciplined soldiers on earth. No order was ever disobeyed, though the foot soldiers did at times think their commanders were being batty. This was one of those times. There was absolutely no strategic advantage to be gained by this attack. The enemy would be displaced for less than a few minutes before he returned to his original position. What was more relevant was that the enemy's presence so close to their camp was not doing them any damage. None of their supply routes had been blocked. They even had enough stocks to last them for a week. Nor did the enemy show any signs of planning to reinforce his position. If not attacked, the chances were that the enemy would leave on his own sooner than later. In all probability one of the commanders at the top was trying to score a few brownie points with the Chief by launching this attack.
The order was given and the two fighters moved off. They carried nothing with them, except their light weapons. They reached the enemy's base and started their ascent. The smooth polished black surface offered no fingerholds and was not particularly easy to climb. The older of the two fighters, a grizzled veteran of many wars, found the going slightly tougher than his younger mate who actually skipped along, as though he were on a picnic. Once they crossed the black heath, the ascent became entirely vertical. They would have found the going impossible if they had not be so lightly armed. Their feet kept getting entangled in the black netting which succeeded the smooth black surfalce. The younger fighter was at times tempted to lend a hand to his older mate, but he knew it would not be appreciated and so he did not make such an offer.
It had taken them ten minutes to reach the top of the black netting from the time they started their ascent at the base. They were now ready to attack. At this stage, the older fighter moved slightly ahead. He was a lot more experienced and would pick out the best place to make the initial contact. It took him a few seconds to make up his mind. By this time, the enemy most probably felt their presence. The fighters could sense the enemy forces searching for them, moving towards them. Without further delay, the older fighter launched his attack, taking care not to get entangled in the outgrowth.
He bit into the fleshy leg and his victim howled in pain. The younger fighter immediately followed suit, but as he tasted human hair, he realised that he had made the mistake he had been warned against.
'Eeks Ants!'
The enemy moved his leg a bit and the ants standing around the feet cheered. Their immediate objective had been achieved. It remained to be seen if the enemy would move away from that area entirely.
A heavy hand slapped against the trouser leg and crushed both fighters, but they continued to hold their positions, their teeth firmly clamped into the enemy's leg. The younger fighter wanted to open his jaw and take another bite that didn't include human hair, but decided against it. His current bite was not too bad, there was a decent chunk of human flesh involved, though it would have been grand if he could have avoided the hairs altogether. It was not as if he hadn't been warned. Intelligence had reported that the enemy was particularly hairy.
They felt a warm current against their back and knew their end would be coming soon. They would be dying for the benefit of their brothers, who would cease to remember them in a few hours time. Sure enough, a plump hand hit them both at the same time, killing the older fighter immediately and breaking the younger fighter's back. The trouser leg was now fully rolled up and the enemy searched out the remaining source of his pain. An index finger was used to crush the younger fighter to death.
'Bloody ants,' the victim repeated.
The two brave fighters did not die entirely in vain. May be the commander who had ordered the attack was not so stupid after all. Seeing so many of the dead fighters' comrades milling around, the enemy made a strategic decision to retreat. It remained to be seen how long the enemy would stay away.
Saturday, 1 November 2008
Short Story: A Delightful Old Lady
Mark saw the old woman wave at them and ignored her. She must be waving at someone else he told himself as he struggled with little Anna in his arms and the big rucksack on his back. When the old woman waved for the second time, John spotted her and said, 'Look Mummy, she's waving at us.'
Karen turned around to look in the direction John was pointing and was rewarded with a few more waves. There was no doubt about it. The old woman standing behind the wicket gate was indeed waving at them or rather beckoning them to her.
'Mark, she's waving at us,' Karen needlessly told Mark who was by then looking in the old lady's direction.
Mark hesitated and said, 'she looks harmless. Shall we go take a look?'
'Why not?' Karen said rather crossly because she knew that John would be upset if they didn't. She was quite tired after trekking through the tea covered hills that loomed all around them. If she had a choice, she would have rather they continued their trek back to their hotel at Peermade, which was at least 30 minutes away.
As John led the way, Karen said doubtfully, 'may be she wants to ask us for money!' There had been no scarcity of beggars ever since they had landed in India two weeks ago.
'Doesn't look like it,' Mark muttered, more to himself than to Karen, as he continued to lead the way to the small cottage, which had peeling cream paint and a red roof.
'Hi!' Mark told the old woman much before he was within her hearing range. But he nodded as well and so she smiled in reply and opened the wicket gate a little bit.
She had a squeaky high pitched voice. 'I saw you people walking with the big bags and the baby and I thought you must be very, very, tired. Why don't you come in and have some tea?'
Mark was perplexed. Where he came from, people didn't invite you for tea just like that. He gaped at the old woman who was wearing a faded red pullover that came up to her knees and a skirt with some funky pleats. Karen must have been really tired because from behind she said, 'That's so nice of you. I'd like some tea. Thank you so much.'
The old woman opened the gate fully wide and walked back to the cottage, halting after every few steps so that she could turn around to see if they were following her. Mark realised that what she wore underneath her red-pullover was a saree and not a skirt.
The cottage's veranda had an assortment of potted plants, some of which definitely needed trimming. The veranda led to a small drawing room furnished with a set of three plush settees covered in red. The walls were lined with cupboards crammed with books and toys. 'Do please sit down,' the woman said. Without losing the permanent wide grin plastered on her face, the woman rang a bell. Mark and Karen sat on the edges of the largest settee wondering what was coming next. John sat in between them. Karen had Anna on her lap. The bell was rung once more. A young woman in a dirty saree materialised with a smile and a pair of enquiring eyes. A five year old child had been clinging to her saree till a moment ago, but now the child was waiting for her mother just beyond eyeshot of the guests.
'Kavitha, some tea for these fine people,' the old woman told the maid and was rewarded with a perplexed look. The order was repeated in Malayalam.
'Actually I would like a Four X,' Mark declared, only to get a sharp dig in his side from Karen.
'I beg your pardon. I don't understand,' the old woman told them. 'What would you like?'
'Oh never mind him,' Karen waved gaily at the old woman.
'I was just joking. Four X is the amber fluid we drink in Queensland,' Mark clarified.
'Never mind him,' Karen repeated yet again.
'Bring us three cups of tea,' the maid was ordered. She left the room for the kitchen, picking up her waiting daughter on the way.
'It's so good to see someone from England,' the old woman told them. 'My husband was the first Indian hired by the Beckley's Estate.'
'Actually we are Aussies, not Pommies,' Mark said. The old woman gave him a blank look.
'I have never been to England, but my husband went there once, just after the war.'
'My name is _______.' The old woman said a name which neither Mark, nor Karen caught.
'I'm sorry....I didn't get your name,' Karen said politely, her voice trailing off towards the end and waited for the old woman to repeat her name. She did not. Instead she waited for them to introduce themselves.
'I'm Mark. This is my partner Karen, my son John and my daughter Anna.'
'I'm so glad you decided to stop by for tea.'
They were all silent for a while. 'Things have changed so much, not necessarily for the better, you know..'
A sudden thought occurred to the old woman. 'Let me make sure Kavitha does not add milk and sugar to the tea,' she told them and disappeared through a door which led to the kitchen.
'Ma, can I have a lolly?' John asked as soon as the old woman left.
Instead of answering, Karen pointed at a cupboard filled with toys. 'John, oh look at that elephant! Isn't it beaut?'
'Ma, I want a lolly!' John insisted.
Mark got up and walked around, stretching himself.
'Ma, a lolly!'
'Mark, can you please take out that elephant for John?'
'I don't think we should. It looks dirty enough. The whole place is full of dust.' He walked over to a cupboard filled with books, peered inside and said, 'these books. They are so dusty and falling apart. I don't think anyone has read them in ages.'
'I want a lolly!' John said even louder. Mark quickly opened the toys cupboard and took out the elephant. For good measure, he took out a duck as well. The elephant was given to John and the duck to Anna.
John sat down on the carpeted floor and started to bounce the elephant up and down. Anna dropped the duck to the floor from where she sat on Karen's lap. Karen picked up the duck and gave it back to Anna who held on to it.
The old woman appeared with Kavitha behind her carrying a tea tray. Kavitha's daughter had tagged alongside her mother, but once again stopped just behind the curtains. 'I'm so glad I checked on Kavitha. I've told her so many times that English people like to be served tea without milk and sugar mixed in it, but she had forgotten!'
Kavitha put the tray on the table in front of Mark and Karen and went back to the kitchen.
The old woman poured out the tea.
'Milk?'
'Yes please.' 'Yes please.'
'Sugar?'
'Yes please.' 'Yes please.'
'What would your children like? Shall I get them some biscuits?'
Before Mark or Karen could reply, the old woman said, 'Kavitha can go to the shop and buy some biscuits, but it will take some time.'
'Oh! No drama. Please don't bother.'
'I was planning to buy some biscuits, but ...'
'How is you tea?'
'Ace,' Mark said.
'Pardon me?'
'It's very good.
'Do you have a lot of English visitors?'
'No, not really. Not many people come this way!'
'Don't you like the elephant?' the old woman asked John who had abandoned the elephant and was planning to renew his demand for a sweet.
John did not reply, but looked around wildly, his eyes darting from the toys cupboard to his mother.
'Would you like another toy little boy?'
The old woman walked over to the cupboard and picked out a soldier and handed it over to John.
'John, say thank you,' Karen reminded John who mumbled his thanks.
'He is such a sweet little boy. How long are you in India for?'
'Three weeks. We've done two already. Up north. Delhi, Jaipur, Agra and now we have a week in Kerala.'
'What do you do in England? Do you work for a bank or a company?'
'I manage a station. In Australia. We're Aussies you know.'
'A station? Is that a station for trains? A railway station?'
'No, for sheep. A large sheep farm.'
'You must be joking. You are not a shepherd. You must be a station manager at King's Cross or Charing Cross or Paddington.'
'It doesn't matter, does it? How long have you lived in this cottage?'
'For the last sixty years. After my husband retired, Beckley's gave him this cottage. When my husband was alive, we used to have a lot of visitors. We...
'We ought to be going,' Mark said as he put down his cup.
'John, let's put the toys back.' Mark tried to take the elephant and the soldier from John who held on to both of them.'
'Oh, let the little boy keep the toys.' The old woman turned to Anna and said, 'you can keep the duck.'
'But we can't do that,' Karen objected. 'I'm sure they are exy!'
'Please take them. There's nobody to play with them. I rarely get any visitors these days.'
'You could always give them to someone else.'
'There is no one else.'
The old woman rang the bell once again and Kavitha came in, picked up the tea tray and left, collecting her daughter from behind the curtains on the way back.
Mark and Karen continued to look hesitant.
'Would you like a plastic bag for the toys?'
'A bag would be good.'
The old woman shouted something at Kavitha's retreating back. Within a minute, Kavitha came back with a polythene bag and gave it to Mark.
'Can't do without plastic, though we call ourselves greenies.'
'I beg your pardon?' The old woman had the most politely puzzled look on her face.
'Never mind. Never mind. We got to be going. Thanks so much for the lovely tea.'
As they walked out, Karen said, 'she was such a delightful old lady, wasn't she?'
'Yup, but she was starting to yabber and she thought we were Pommies!'
'I didn't understand half of what she said.'
'Nether did I. And I doubt if she understood more than one-fourth of what we said.'
Karen giggled. 'Still, she was such a sweet, delightful old thing.'
'I guess John and Anna are the only children she has seen in a very long time!'
As they walked away, Kavitha and her daughter watched them for a while through a window. Then Kavitha went the sink and started to wash the tea cups and saucers. After she washed the cups and saucers, she kept them on the floor and told her daughter, 'here, you take this towel and wipe these cups and saucers dry.'
Karen turned around to look in the direction John was pointing and was rewarded with a few more waves. There was no doubt about it. The old woman standing behind the wicket gate was indeed waving at them or rather beckoning them to her.
'Mark, she's waving at us,' Karen needlessly told Mark who was by then looking in the old lady's direction.
Mark hesitated and said, 'she looks harmless. Shall we go take a look?'
'Why not?' Karen said rather crossly because she knew that John would be upset if they didn't. She was quite tired after trekking through the tea covered hills that loomed all around them. If she had a choice, she would have rather they continued their trek back to their hotel at Peermade, which was at least 30 minutes away.
As John led the way, Karen said doubtfully, 'may be she wants to ask us for money!' There had been no scarcity of beggars ever since they had landed in India two weeks ago.
'Doesn't look like it,' Mark muttered, more to himself than to Karen, as he continued to lead the way to the small cottage, which had peeling cream paint and a red roof.
'Hi!' Mark told the old woman much before he was within her hearing range. But he nodded as well and so she smiled in reply and opened the wicket gate a little bit.
She had a squeaky high pitched voice. 'I saw you people walking with the big bags and the baby and I thought you must be very, very, tired. Why don't you come in and have some tea?'
Mark was perplexed. Where he came from, people didn't invite you for tea just like that. He gaped at the old woman who was wearing a faded red pullover that came up to her knees and a skirt with some funky pleats. Karen must have been really tired because from behind she said, 'That's so nice of you. I'd like some tea. Thank you so much.'
The old woman opened the gate fully wide and walked back to the cottage, halting after every few steps so that she could turn around to see if they were following her. Mark realised that what she wore underneath her red-pullover was a saree and not a skirt.
The cottage's veranda had an assortment of potted plants, some of which definitely needed trimming. The veranda led to a small drawing room furnished with a set of three plush settees covered in red. The walls were lined with cupboards crammed with books and toys. 'Do please sit down,' the woman said. Without losing the permanent wide grin plastered on her face, the woman rang a bell. Mark and Karen sat on the edges of the largest settee wondering what was coming next. John sat in between them. Karen had Anna on her lap. The bell was rung once more. A young woman in a dirty saree materialised with a smile and a pair of enquiring eyes. A five year old child had been clinging to her saree till a moment ago, but now the child was waiting for her mother just beyond eyeshot of the guests.
'Kavitha, some tea for these fine people,' the old woman told the maid and was rewarded with a perplexed look. The order was repeated in Malayalam.
'Actually I would like a Four X,' Mark declared, only to get a sharp dig in his side from Karen.
'I beg your pardon. I don't understand,' the old woman told them. 'What would you like?'
'Oh never mind him,' Karen waved gaily at the old woman.
'I was just joking. Four X is the amber fluid we drink in Queensland,' Mark clarified.
'Never mind him,' Karen repeated yet again.
'Bring us three cups of tea,' the maid was ordered. She left the room for the kitchen, picking up her waiting daughter on the way.
'It's so good to see someone from England,' the old woman told them. 'My husband was the first Indian hired by the Beckley's Estate.'
'Actually we are Aussies, not Pommies,' Mark said. The old woman gave him a blank look.
'I have never been to England, but my husband went there once, just after the war.'
'My name is _______.' The old woman said a name which neither Mark, nor Karen caught.
'I'm sorry....I didn't get your name,' Karen said politely, her voice trailing off towards the end and waited for the old woman to repeat her name. She did not. Instead she waited for them to introduce themselves.
'I'm Mark. This is my partner Karen, my son John and my daughter Anna.'
'I'm so glad you decided to stop by for tea.'
They were all silent for a while. 'Things have changed so much, not necessarily for the better, you know..'
A sudden thought occurred to the old woman. 'Let me make sure Kavitha does not add milk and sugar to the tea,' she told them and disappeared through a door which led to the kitchen.
'Ma, can I have a lolly?' John asked as soon as the old woman left.
Instead of answering, Karen pointed at a cupboard filled with toys. 'John, oh look at that elephant! Isn't it beaut?'
'Ma, I want a lolly!' John insisted.
Mark got up and walked around, stretching himself.
'Ma, a lolly!'
'Mark, can you please take out that elephant for John?'
'I don't think we should. It looks dirty enough. The whole place is full of dust.' He walked over to a cupboard filled with books, peered inside and said, 'these books. They are so dusty and falling apart. I don't think anyone has read them in ages.'
'I want a lolly!' John said even louder. Mark quickly opened the toys cupboard and took out the elephant. For good measure, he took out a duck as well. The elephant was given to John and the duck to Anna.
John sat down on the carpeted floor and started to bounce the elephant up and down. Anna dropped the duck to the floor from where she sat on Karen's lap. Karen picked up the duck and gave it back to Anna who held on to it.
The old woman appeared with Kavitha behind her carrying a tea tray. Kavitha's daughter had tagged alongside her mother, but once again stopped just behind the curtains. 'I'm so glad I checked on Kavitha. I've told her so many times that English people like to be served tea without milk and sugar mixed in it, but she had forgotten!'
Kavitha put the tray on the table in front of Mark and Karen and went back to the kitchen.
The old woman poured out the tea.
'Milk?'
'Yes please.' 'Yes please.'
'Sugar?'
'Yes please.' 'Yes please.'
'What would your children like? Shall I get them some biscuits?'
Before Mark or Karen could reply, the old woman said, 'Kavitha can go to the shop and buy some biscuits, but it will take some time.'
'Oh! No drama. Please don't bother.'
'I was planning to buy some biscuits, but ...'
'How is you tea?'
'Ace,' Mark said.
'Pardon me?'
'It's very good.
'Do you have a lot of English visitors?'
'No, not really. Not many people come this way!'
'Don't you like the elephant?' the old woman asked John who had abandoned the elephant and was planning to renew his demand for a sweet.
John did not reply, but looked around wildly, his eyes darting from the toys cupboard to his mother.
'Would you like another toy little boy?'
The old woman walked over to the cupboard and picked out a soldier and handed it over to John.
'John, say thank you,' Karen reminded John who mumbled his thanks.
'He is such a sweet little boy. How long are you in India for?'
'Three weeks. We've done two already. Up north. Delhi, Jaipur, Agra and now we have a week in Kerala.'
'What do you do in England? Do you work for a bank or a company?'
'I manage a station. In Australia. We're Aussies you know.'
'A station? Is that a station for trains? A railway station?'
'No, for sheep. A large sheep farm.'
'You must be joking. You are not a shepherd. You must be a station manager at King's Cross or Charing Cross or Paddington.'
'It doesn't matter, does it? How long have you lived in this cottage?'
'For the last sixty years. After my husband retired, Beckley's gave him this cottage. When my husband was alive, we used to have a lot of visitors. We...
'We ought to be going,' Mark said as he put down his cup.
'John, let's put the toys back.' Mark tried to take the elephant and the soldier from John who held on to both of them.'
'Oh, let the little boy keep the toys.' The old woman turned to Anna and said, 'you can keep the duck.'
'But we can't do that,' Karen objected. 'I'm sure they are exy!'
'Please take them. There's nobody to play with them. I rarely get any visitors these days.'
'You could always give them to someone else.'
'There is no one else.'
The old woman rang the bell once again and Kavitha came in, picked up the tea tray and left, collecting her daughter from behind the curtains on the way back.
Mark and Karen continued to look hesitant.
'Would you like a plastic bag for the toys?'
'A bag would be good.'
The old woman shouted something at Kavitha's retreating back. Within a minute, Kavitha came back with a polythene bag and gave it to Mark.
'Can't do without plastic, though we call ourselves greenies.'
'I beg your pardon?' The old woman had the most politely puzzled look on her face.
'Never mind. Never mind. We got to be going. Thanks so much for the lovely tea.'
As they walked out, Karen said, 'she was such a delightful old lady, wasn't she?'
'Yup, but she was starting to yabber and she thought we were Pommies!'
'I didn't understand half of what she said.'
'Nether did I. And I doubt if she understood more than one-fourth of what we said.'
Karen giggled. 'Still, she was such a sweet, delightful old thing.'
'I guess John and Anna are the only children she has seen in a very long time!'
As they walked away, Kavitha and her daughter watched them for a while through a window. Then Kavitha went the sink and started to wash the tea cups and saucers. After she washed the cups and saucers, she kept them on the floor and told her daughter, 'here, you take this towel and wipe these cups and saucers dry.'
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