Visit to a Dargah

Ajmer was very different from the tourist sites we had visited during our tour through Rajasthan. We were offloaded from our bus three kilometres away from the Dargah, our area of interest. A share auto rickshaw shunted us to the crowded street where the Dargah was located. The same auto was to take us back to the bus after two hours. We walked along the narrow road among jostling pilgrims heading our way to the main entrance. The 13^th century Dargah was virtually a tomb of a Sufi saint called Moinuddin Chishti whose prayers supposed to have granted a descendant to King Akbar. It is recorded in the history that the king and the queen traversed on foot all the way from Agra every year to get the blessings of the saint. The white marble structure bore signs of Mogal architecture. King Shah Jahan had erected a huge gateway to the Sufi shrine. None of the tourists were allowed to enter the shrine without covering their heads with white kerchiefs. Obviously some young boys were making quick change with their white wares. Everyone was obliged to wash their bare feet before they ventured into the holiest enclosure which housed the remains of the Saint. Some of us came out of this very crowded structure with intimidating experience of losing their money. However, we didn’t stay long enough inside the shrine to learn the details of history and soon found our way out.

Three in one

We were told that the journey from Jodhpur to Jaipur via Pushkar and Ajmer was long. So after a wholesome breakfast we settled in the air-conditioned bus comfortably. The merciless sun almost roasted me through the curtainless window. Still a new countryside ride prompted me to ignore the heat. Some twists and turns did divert the sun from its target. Since a wayfarer suggested the driver to take a shortcut that would save him about thirty kms. we were driven through narrow dusty roads that were not equipped to accommodate a huge bus. A discussion was mooted to ward off the boredom of the journey. The topic was demonitisation that left thousands of Indians clueless. The microphone meant for the tour guide was utilized for the discussion. The long queues outside the banks and ATMs throughout the country from 10   ^th November spoke volumes of frustration and anger of millions of people who were hardly aware of the meaning of black money. The party men were hilariously singing  varying tunes in praise of one man who routed the promise made by the Governor of RBI. They were almost blinded by the hero worship for which our country is notorious. Those who were immediately in need of their hard earned and saved cash in the bank were running from pillar to post. They did not know how to pay the rent, hospital bills, plan marriages, pay the children’s school and college fees, buy gifts for friends and meet the funeral commitments. A few highbrows pretended to defer their expenses to a later day. Well, the discussions were quite interesting. Two youngsters who were fortunately employed in the IT sector innocently proclaimed that they were least affected by this overnight policy change. In fact they did not mind the inconvenience caused because they always carried their debit cards along and managed to sail by. Do they know what is happening around them? Are they worried about the vast multitude whose contribution might be the dark shadow behind their cosy life? Around 1.20 pm we reached Pushkar, a small temple town full of  tourists and merchandise. Pushkar is home to the only temple dedicated to Lord Brahma in the whole world. Hindus consider a journey to Pushkar to be the ultimate pilgrimage that must be undertaken to attain salvation. Since the temple would close its doors for lunch break at 1.30 we hurried along its narrow crowded streets to discover the hidden temple. We went around the maze like temple and gathered at the bank of a huge lake which attracted many to pay homage to the dear departed.  The lake is surrounded by 52 bathing ghats and over 400 temples and is truly a magnificent sight to behold. Some priests fleeced the superstitious tourists telling them various legendry tales. Some of them were seen carrying trays full of flowers, articulating Sanskrit slokas, joining a small procession down to the water, and emptying their trays, hearts and purses. The short ride from Pushkar to Ajmer was mesmerizing. The road was wide going zig-zag beside a hill. All of a sudden when we took a sharp curve, Ajmer came alive down below 500 meters amidst lakes and landscape.

From the Golden city to the Blue city

The day long ride was hot because we were passing through the Thar desert. But before sunset we could road dash to the Jodhpur fort in spite of our bus driver’s unfamiliarity of the route. Every now and then we stopped to ask some passing stranger where the fort was. Sometimes we were misled and then we had to make a U turn. Well, finally we were led by a local guide who knew some English. As usual the entry fee was high because we were entering the private property of an erstwhile king. The climb up the fort

was rather steep. A lift which took the tourists up to the twelfth floor was in service for an additional payment of Rs. 40/-. But the long queue discouraged us and so took to our steps courageously. On the way the guide explained how the builder Marwar king rewarded the family of a commoner who willingly sacrificed his life by standing amidst the stones which buried him alive. The sacrifice was for a successful architecture. Every fort has its specialties. This one exhibited many colourful  palanquins  that were used to transport royal families and sharp glittering swords with jeweled handles. The old city with many blue painted houses was visible from the parapets. We were told that high caste Hindus preferred their houses in blue in order to discriminate their dwellings. A local wedding was in progress, for the fort was offered for such family occasions, on a handsome rent. The bride and the groom were led by a few relatives to a hall above. A souvenir shop was quite crowded in spite of expensive small take-away tit bits. The drive from the fort to the hotel in the city was roundabout due to the heavy traffic. We had only one day’s tour left before we reached New Delhi.

A Border Conundrum

A border conundrum

                      Throughout the cold night we half-slept, cursing the occasional bumpy ride. When we finally sat erect on our seats, we could see why Jaisalmer  is called the golden city. The arid region near Pakistan in the Thar desert showed us no trees, no vegetation whatsoever, no water anywhere but only creamy sand and yellow stones. We traveled around 500 kms Northwest to entertain ourselves. The hotel itself wore a deserted look. No inhabitants were visible for miles. In was very much unlike the Indian setting. A horn or two finally brought an attendant out. He courteously led us to the foyer of the hotel.

After a token breakfast we drove to the distant hill which covertly accommodated a fort along with half of the city’s residents. Unlike other forts in India, 4000 families were living inside this fort which was built in the 11^th century by the then Rajput ruler Jaisal. There were also a palace, some ornate Jain temples, hotels and small shops that traded souvenir to excited tourists.The people had no  occupation other than catering to avid tourists' shopping mania. They managed to make handicrafts, art work in sarees, design playthings and fancy wear. Alcohol was cheaper than it was sold elsewhere. A desert safari in the model of one offered in Dubai was promised and after an hour’s drive through a narrow lonely road we reached a dusty village. A few camels and boys surrounded us. Coaxed by our guide, we made up our mind and climbed on the back of the camels, two each. Our camel was led by a small boy who showed us distant sand dunes, our ultimate destination. The ride was slow and laborious. Posing for a few photographs, we settled for a beautiful sunset. The closing clouds betrayed us and we treaded back once again on the camels. An open hall in the village was kept ready with a camp fire and folk dances. The cold wind and the gazals with rhythmic dance mesmerized us. Soon after a Rajasthani meal we rode back to the hotel and went to dream desert legends.

Rajasthan Paradox

Rajasthan Paradox

                      The hotel at Udaipur, the lake city and the Venice of East,  was cosy and happily withstood our day long journey and its consequent weariness by offering us a good night’s sleep. The habit of early morning walk impelled us to walk out of the hotel in spite of the chill weather. A hot cup of ginger flavoured tea was very tempting and a long walk around the pollution free park the Maharana Udai Singh II had built for the womenfolk was simply energizing. Contrary to the general opinion of the Southerners about Rajasthan being a desert state, the city was surrounded by many lakes and palaces which are too many for a day’s sightseeing. Still we could do some justice by taking a boat ride  around a vast water body named Lake Pichola by paying a hefty Rs. 100/= per person. Tourists everywhere were stripped of their cash mercilessly by taxi drivers, auto wallahs, hotel owners, guides and even small merchandisers who make big money selling fake products. And the visitors take this daylight deceit in their own stride and quickly move with audible murmur. We had to climb huge stony pavements to look around palaces up the fort which , we learned , are private properties of the descendants of the Kings. Obviously the entry tickets were quite dear. The Monsoon palace on top of a mountain was no exception. Winding pathways, romantic and sometimes incredible tales told by strange guides who posed to speak English with stranger accents, high windows which offer beautiful views of the valley beneath, royal courtyards, regal wardrobes, armories which exhibit odd weapons – all these hijack the visitors to another world. A part of the palace is converted into an expensive hotel which augments the princely income. Only foreign tourists haunt those places with lavish exchange of Indian currency. We had a late lunch and were off to watch a folk dance and a puppet show accompanied by live vocal music. The same night we bid good-bye to the city unsure of my second visit.

Another Face of India

Another face of India:

                      On November 2016 we landed at Ahmadabad airport for an ambitious journey through Rajasthan. The prospect of walking along the Gujarat former capital city thrilled us because it was claimed to be the model state ruled by the erstwhile Chief Minister and the present Prime Minister. Quite contrary to our expectations the city was not different from any North Indian city: dusty, crowded, unkempt streets, littered slums and poverty stricken dwellers. My Hindi in tits and bits was more than enough to locate a mediocre hotel, an eatery and back to the airport the next morning. Twenty six people joined us flying from Chennai and together boarded an air-conditioned bus for a seven day tour across the state of Rajasthan. Our first stop was the only hill station in the state. Mount Abu situated at a distance of 235 kms from Ahmadabad was about six hours drive of which one hour was on winding hill road. When we reached the top at sunset we knew that some interesting places were inaccessible. However the famous 11^th century Dilwara Jain temple with its intricate marble carvings and architecture opened its gates for us. No belts, no leather bags or cameras were allowed inside the temple. An old guide who spoke non-stop in Hindi went on elaborating the nook and corner of the temple.  Some Hindi speaking friends among us were patient enough to explain some features. Marble stone was supple for the artisans to make incredible shapes and marvelous designs everywhere. The whole temple was deliberately hidden inside a huge fort like structure to mislead the invaders. Thanks to the farsightedness of the builders the site was very much there to give a visual treat to thousands of visitors everyday. Our tour operator pacified us that there were no more places that would entertain us and led us to the bus quickly because his destination was Udaipur where we are to be lodged and fed.  

The sounding cataract

The sounding cataract

                     

                      The hotel room was adequately curtained to help us sleep late in the morning. The overnight long drive from Detroit had prompted all of us to steal some morning slumber. Since the long awaited visit promised a lot, I tossed in the bed and was awakened by the rustle of sheets. It was eight. I knew it was already late. Quietly I got out of the room and was on my own. There were many tourists on the road and almost everyone was only on a specific direction. I followed them.

                      Soon I could hear the roar. Among all sounds the sound of water is unique. It never bores you. A narrow walkway led me to a parapet with steel railing. As I edged it I could see it. Gallons of pristine white sheet of water just vertically fell down to giant boulders at the base. The Niagara was making a thunderous blow while spewing a huge spray of whiter mist. All around me I could see the excitement of those whose dream came true. Their cameras grew busy. The joy of sharing this experience with their kith and kin was manifest on their smiling faces. Meanwhile the river, unmindful of the enthusiasm it created went on its way down the vast valley of blue green water. Freezing some moments in my handset, I retreated my way to the hotel to explore more

adventure.

                      Two hours made a lot of difference. The crowd swelled around the ticket counter. Nobody minded the cost; they only wanted fun filled moments to let them frolic with its violent fall and the hazy spray which was very welcome under the hot summer sun. We were ready for the adventurous voyage in the Maid of the Mist, claimed to be America’s most amazing boat ride operated only from April to October. All the languages under the sun were heard mingled with gleeful laughter. Provided with thin blue rain ponchos which we wore over our clothes to arm ourselves from getting drenched, we slowly queued into the huge boat destined to carry at least 500 tourists into the middle of the swirling deep waters. Every second we were getting nearer and the scream mingled with the resounding thunder of the grand fall enveloped everyone. The climax was when we got into the Canadian Horseshoe Falls. Blinded by the attack of water spray and deafened by the roar of the falls and the people we were safely navigated by the crew from the deep pool. Many of us got wet in spite of the covering. The powerful summer wind soaked us and the half hour thrill made us remember the experience for a life time.

 

                      A walk on the Rainbow Bridge which connects USA with Canada is possibly a dream of all tourists. But the formalities of international emigration defeated the dream. So the bridge in an almost semi circle was just a visual feast from hundreds of feet below it. Pocketing the Niagara sojourn, we left the small town to reach home through Buffalo and Cleveland. Driving on the long bank of the Lake Erie on the summer evening was another memorable keepsake.  

The long flight

The long flight

                      Flying has its social status and other added attractions. But truly speaking, it is the most monotonous medium of travelling. All the charms of looking out through the window of a bus or train just vanish when you have an air ticket. Howsoever the tedium is compensated by other miscellaneous sidelines, the long flight lasting for about fourteen hours is not my cup of tea. Hours before I boarded this huge aircraft I happened to take a short journey by train. To me there is nothing comparable to a train. How cosy, how relaxed, how expansive it is! You may not view your favourite movie, you may not be served something of everything in a narrow tray which would overflow with smaller containers; still the train by its modest service suits me as the best mode of travel. If you are bored of sitting hours in a train, you could always choose to get up, stretch yourself, walk away to an unseen corner, look out through a door, get the wind on your face as long as you want and then when you had  had enough, come back refreshed to your seat. The joy of opening your snack bag which is ready to offer you home packed food is indeed matchless. On the pretext of washing your hand, you get away and remain standing as long as you please. One of my friends even managed to have a bath in the toilet which had provided him with homely comfort.The window view brings a series of pictures of greenery, hamlets, cattle lazing and dozing, babies waving, boys hooting and chasing their pets, old men and women open mouthed and chewing and watching the moving train philosophically, impatient drivers waiting for the train to disappear at the level crossings, passegers in the smaller stations wondering at the speed of the passing train and the innumerable visions that defy words and description.  Every second hour the train slows down to stop at a big station to offload some and to accommodate a few among the sea of people crowded there. Sometimes you meet different co-passengers too. You may also get down on the platform to breathe the local air, walk around, buy something and leisurely get in. I miss all these fun in the plane.  If you are on the wrong side of luck, your plea for an aisle seat would be smilingly  and sadistically negatived. Then, huddled in a row of three or four seats,  you are at the mercy of the stranger beside you. Only if he is inclined to entertain your longing look, he would let you get up and move to the restroom. If you have a corpulant and sleepy passenger on the aisle seat beside you, your fate for the next several hours is sealed. Sometimes you gamble with the limited choice of meal and would be terribly disappointed because the next man would be slurping every bit on his tray with visible pleasure thanks to his preference to the alternative meal. You cannot but curse your prudence of choice. And whoever designed the restroom in a plane! Every inch in that cubicle matters. And when I depressed the flush sign for the first time I was in a plane, the explosive sound it made nearly shook me out that I cautiously came out to see whether everything was alright. I was expecting the entire crew to survey the state of the mischief monger. The prospect of taking a long flight back home gives me the creeps and it is my prayer that I should get an aisle seat and a friendly passenger of medium frame beside me.

A bug that cost 210 dollars

A bug that cost 210 dollars

                      It all began with the curiosity and anticipated fun of swimming in an American pool. So, out we went to the Troy Community Centre which housed a big blue pool that was accessible for 10 dollars each. The cool water was so inviting in the hot sun. Though it was crowded with more women and children, the deepest part, which was only 5 ft, was quite free. Sporting a new pair of trunks, I cautiously ventured in. But due to the sudden influx of water, I inadvertently swallowed some water. My swimming history was not without many failures. But the accessible depth and the strip of long fibre chord withstood my short breath and some compulsive rest now and then. When I got back home for lunch the onslaught of the bug had begun. Someone was hammering my head continuously. As hours passed by, the pounding was severe. Pearl diagnosed it as an attack of migraine. So a few pills went in along with massaging. Then began the nausea. I was throwing up whatever I attempted to swallow. By next evening food was anathema to me. A visit to a local physician was inevitable though it was expensive. Only after a series of formal declarations that ensured the doctor's safety I was led through a narrow corridor. When the doctor met me in a small cabin I was feeling dizzy due to incessant vomiting. Previous history was looked into and a series of questions was answered in monosyllables. The doctor complacently concluded that it was a stomach bug that infected me and dismissed me suggesting a pill every 8 hours to stop the nausea after depriving us her fee which was 50 dollars. We drove six miles to collect the prescribed tab which was packed under instruction through email. A pack of 30 tabs cost 160 dollars. I wonder at the quantity recommended by the doctor. Did she expect me to go through this illness for a week or so? But contrary to this weird notion, the first tab squeezed the bug, the second one deactivated it and I did not need the third one. I was back to form by the second day. The pack of remaining 28 tabs is still with me. Is there anyone smitten by the mischievous bug hidden in the pool? Don’t go to a doctor. Come to me. I will cure you for 5 dollars. I can treat 15 patients before I leave for India. I can make some money too.

Troy Public Library

Troy Library

                      The library was discovered on the net. When I casually aired my opinion about having nothing to do at home other than watching TV and dozing off at very odd hours, the net was surfed to find out the existence of a library in the vicinity. Then we found that there was this TroyPublic Library within 2kms. We breezed through the two minute formality of taking a membership and wow that’s it. A vast expanse of neatly stacked volumes welcomed anybody inside. Only one hindrance: the labeling of the shelves was going on and so you didn’t know where was what. It was rather a voyage of discovery – hundreds of authors from all over the world, from fiction to biography, from humour to adventure from science to history, from pulp to piety, from known to unknown, from knowledge to infinite ignorance. Any voracious reader would be humbled by the variety offered by the city library happily, conveniently and cozily. There were reference desks, help desk, cushioned sofas near the stacks, expansive journal section, potable water, cafeteria, restrooms, self-checkout counters, children’s play area and enormous parking space. Besides, the public was offered immense kind of seasonal activities that kept every member in good humour. I happened to flip through many books with palpable interest throughout the forenoon and jotted notes and references in a small green notebook for later use. Anyone who wishes to while away the available time by casually flipping pages, struck by a phrase that stands out, kept wholly absorbed by some lines here and there may boldly venture into this cavern of books and would never regret their endeavour.

My stint with music

My stint with music

                       I am not a musician. But I can loudly say that I love music. And I appreciate it and enjoy it when it is to my liking. I also admire those professionals who could appeal to our musical sense and make us forget everything else. I cannot imagine a world without music. How dull it would be! Hats off to those who discovered the charm of it and those that invented myriad instruments and to those who experimented the lilt, melody and rhythm. I salute those experts who made it a science.

                      Many a time I have watched those musicians who blindly let their fingers slide through the strings with such ease and grace. In fact I too wanted to experiment with those. But somehow I couldn’t. I remember how my mother with her humble dreams had sent me at the age of nine to a convent where a seventy year old British nun was teaching the violin. Though the class was only for an hour and half it was an ordeal for me mainly because the instrument was almost my size and howsoever I positioned it, the nun’s expectation was not achieved. Moreover I couldn’t manage to bring out any sweet strain from it. The unearthly babel of the strings shocked everyone near me. And the nun would make a most unpleasant face that horrified me. My sincere plea to let me out of this bitter venture was unheeded. The only consolation that encouraged me to pursue this weekly pilgrimage was the snacks the convent hospitably provided me at the end of the session. Quite often I would dream about the savour of the delicacy while the nun was seriously instructing me about the nuances of the bow movement. However this experiment did not last longer than two months. Then I was able to conclude that I had no special musical flair.

                     

                      It was my friend C- who played an important role in awakening my taste for music. During my postgraduation we had plenty of time due to the working schedule of the college department. So my friend persuaded me to spend some time in learning Hindustani music. It was agreed that he would learn the sitar and I would pick up the tabla. But in spite of our genuine efforts we could not pursue it due to the frequent closure of the music school. Then I suddenly had an urge to learn the guitar which was acquired by my friend.  On the whole my musical trip was literally a hop between the sitar, guitar and keyboard. When I came home after my studies I was armed with used books and a sitar  What I missed in Agra, I tried to compensate at Nagercoil. I found out a Carnatic vocalist who came every afternoon home to sing for me. The musical notation was scripted down and I dutifully tried the same in my sitar. It was a queer fusion of Carnatic and Hindustani. Though my old teacher did not know anything about the sitar, he was sure enough to shake his head vehemently when a wrong note was depressed. When he ceased to come after a couple of months, my sitar found a convenient corner to rest by itself. After a few months a man who came home to bargain old furniture took a fancy to the sitar coated with a thick layer of dust. His offer price was much more than what I had paid for it and so I gladly parted with my sitar. And that was the end of the classical saga.

                      Now that I am retired and have not much to do anything, I try my hand in the guitar my friendly cousin had left with me. The instrument though meant mainly for rhythm was a melody thing for me. I experiment my favourite tunes in it and sometimes get mild approbation from my loved ones. I play it now and then because I still believe that I have some music in my gene. Moreover it washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.

Password syndrome

This password syndrome

                      In this technology driven era one has to have a sharp memory. If you cannot boast with it your life is going to be a misery. You must be armed with innumerable passwords if you want to withdraw your own money, if you must operate a computer, if you need to be connected to a network, if you have to pay online, in case you want to access your bank account, if one has to open a high tech office door, the list is endless. The other day I read about a very cautious mother who had instructed her nine year old school girl not to get into a vehicle unless the driver reveals the password. If things go on such a scale then I am afraid you have to have passwords for almost all day-to-day transactions. Unable to remember so many of such kind I made a wise decision to have only one all purpose password for everything. Somebody unearthed my smartness and then required a combination of digits and letters and special characters. Someone else wanted case specific passwords too. The burglars need not loot the entire house. All they need to take away is a small diary in which all these damned entries are carefully listed. In the morning you would be left homeless. Some smart bankers insist that you change these passwords as often as you can and thus make sure that you would soon be a pauper.

Morning Walk

Health and habit probably go hand in hand. Sometimes one tries to outsmart the other. Then we are forced to change our habit to maintain our health. Unwilling to change my habit and breathe some fresh air I restore my customary morning walk every morning here in Troy, an American nondescript town. The long walkway beside the road is always deserted. Only the speeding car drivers sometimes eye me curiously. The doors of all houses on my way are all securely closed with impenetrable curtains. Privacy, noise and life itself are locked in there. Humming my favourite songs I speed past houses, offices, clinics and shops. The pavement is very clean and flat. There are occasional cigarette stumps, a price label and some incomprehensible objects. They are very noticeable because of the absence of trash. A stranger coming opposite you sometimes chooses to offer a friendly smile and how-do-you-do. Reciprocating is fun because back home, even very familiar people don’t seem to recognize you. In fact I have habituated to meet many morning walkers during the span of ten years to the extent of recognizing their T-shirts, their complexion and style of their gait. I cannot but admire their dexterity in averting their eyes very naturally as they approach me. Probably I don’t look like one who could be befriended. Or maybe they want me to volunteer. Anyway I am taking back a lesson to be more friendly with strangers.

My second innings

My second innings in Detroit

                      July 14 happened to be an eventful day with Pearl’s wedding day coinciding with her son’s birthday. 2016 assumed more significance because Shaun celebrates his first birthday. It was an occasion to be remembered for long. Grandparents, granduncles, aunts, cousins, friends and neighbours made a beeline to 1989 Shepherd’s Drive with gifts, hugs and promises. The house like a big balloon expanded itself to accommodate everyone with almost some sort of private space to everyone. Unending chats went along with unceasing cookery. All sorts of Indian cuisine challenged the American snacks. Everyone contributed their own advice to everyone to make the dish tastier. No guests were special. None but babies were pampered and persuaded to help themselves with more. It required some effort and skill to keep the conversations going especially among men. To this horde of kith and kin,  a new man joined to make the occasion very official. In spite of his efforts to sound it casual,  his presence in black with a white round collar made all a little uneasy. Moreover his request for emulating the church choir made some of us jerky with unknown verse with familiar tunes. However, the mass at home got going with a high tech assembly of handsets and iPods assisting the congregation to maintain the required solemnity. Whatsoever you do, a home will hardly be a church notwithstanding the compulsive paraphernalia. 

Neither here nor there

You should know where you are. Otherwise you will quite often land yourself neither here nor there. A middle class educated citizen with reasonable awareness cannot help browsing through newspapers and flashy magazines and sometimes TV ads. The advertisers, the articles and photos and channel programmes gradually work their way into their mind and angle them into the trap. The victims think they deserve the luxury even if it bites into their hard earned deposits. The hawks polish their persuasion with sugar coated phrases that are just enough to ease the fall. The consequence is this philosophical ramblings. You don’t enjoy the fun without a qualm. But then you end up coughing up an unaffordable sum and silently justify your act. A poor man clearly defines his limit and takes utmost care not to cross it. A rich man never cares about the money and he is in search of means to spend it. But a middle class creature dreams about the possibilities and takes a dive. This is how I ended up owning all those things that I presently have. Are they useful to me? Well, they must be, otherwise I wouldn’t have ventured buying them. Still a nagging thought haunts me now and then. Where am I? Here or there?

The stranger

The stranger

                It was late afternoon when I knocked at the gate. There was no sign of life inside. The car shed was empty. What could have happened? Where could he have gone, my friend? When I visited him two weeks before, he was wearing an oxygen mask. His wife had led us to his dark room and alerted him about our presence. After repeated requests, he just opened his eyes and then without any signs of recognition, he went back to his disturbed sleep. Reassuring her, we retreaded our steps promising her to remember him in our prayers. Now the house wore a deserted look, untidy and very much vacant. Since there was none to help, I somehow found a doorbell at the bolted gate. Gently I depressed the switch. I couldn’t hear any faint sound of bell ringing in the house.  Three or four times I tried again with more insistence. The deadly silence confounded me. Was his condition worse, that he had been shifted to hospital again? Boldly I tried to open the gate stretching my hand as far as I could. No, it was hopeless. I mumbled something to myself about the oddity of the hour and drove back home. I did share this strange experience to a few friends and invited stranger responses.

 I got the news around three in the next afternoon. My friend had passed away exactly twelve hours ago. How strange! Probably the stranger had been lurking around the house when I was there yesterday. Or probably I led him there to wait for an appropriate time. I could sense his presence there in the deserted house. Like a thief he had waited there determined to make away with his loot. I had not known then that I would get back there after twenty four hours. Where did all these people come from? Where were they yesterday? The doors and the gate were very much ajar. Apart from some shrieks made by children, there was no sound. Only the dull hum escaping from the cooler in which my friend lay still, silent, calm and unperturbed by the many footsteps of those dear to him. He would have been so proud and happy to see all those lovely faces in his remote home which he had bought a few years ago. I spotted his wife, whispered that I had been there a day before. She sounded surprised. She reassured me that they were there at home when I kept knocking but she was unaware of that. May be the stranger made sure that his presence was more felt than mine. How stealthily he had crept in there and took him into his confidence! Had she also known his scheme? Had she helplessly acceded to his proposition? What else could she do? She might have recognized that resoluteness in his white eyes, the black stranger.