KshitijLiterary Magazine

“Winter had descended on Roorkee and mercury scales were hovering around the zero mark. Every morning I would wake up to its cold call, and let the freezing water cut through my fingers. As I walked to class every day , I would see people pass in and out of the sea of mist. Like ghosts in silence , the trees in the Thomson Marg would watch me pass. Only the mist was privy to my thoughts.” She was unforgiving though, winter.She gnawed on cold bones and blew frosty winds across your face. You covered it up with the flaps of your coat. You thawed your hands inside warm gloves. Layers of woollen clothes shielded you from her cold touch.Some were not so lucky, and among them are the brave rickshaw-wallahs of Roorkee. They often bear this predicament without grunting their disapproval. They will wait outside the gates at four in the morning dressed in half the number of layers you are clothed in and ferry you across the timeless channels of Old Roorkee, for a mere forty rupees. They will work their weary bones up the slopes, you know how hard it is, right ? even without the extra passengers ! You wonder, “ What sort of a hellish occupation is this ? “ . But there are thousands of rickshaw-wallahs, suffering silently. Some will try to drown the pain in their joints with liquor. They will look at you with expectant eyes, and sometimes call out. They will haggle for prices, because money for them constitutes the bare necessities, comfort, not extravagance. If this does not move you, you can turn your lens towards the rest of the world. As someone once said , you can drink in all the sorrow you want and find your glass barely filled.Suffering, it would seem is natural after all. Like winter, it will come and go.However, as winter seemed to finally depart, an extraordinary thing happened, it rained. The air was washed clear .The tall oak trees on Thomason marg looked regal. “Oaks sustain all life in the Himalaya “ , a drenched stone read. Many saplings, with an ancestry that could be traced back to the Himalayas had been brought down and planted here. Somebody once told me that it was the work of a determined professor, who fought his way with the administration to clothe most of Roorkee in a green cover.Every place has a story to tell, you need only listen.

This semester’s issue brings to your table, 10 interesting stories that focus on different experiences. We hope that each one urges you to pause, and think.Happy reading !

Editorial

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Editor-in-ChiefPriya S.Executive EditorsAbhinav SharmaHanan T. Qureshi

Aditya GargRose RanjanGagandeep GillAnjana DeepuMohit ChoudharyNakshatra SinghPiyush GargShubhechyya Ghosal

Editor-in-ChiefSankalp AgarwalExecutive EditorsShivani SinghGaurav Goswami

Kumar SnehansuDivya SinghPiyush AgrawalMukul KaushikPuneet PandeyPranav SharmaKumari ShikhaPurva Pruthi

Chief CoordinatorAshutosh Jha

Co-CoordinatorsMohit Kumar

Divyaa SaxenaMayur Karodia

Y.V.Sneha SameeraWeb-Design Coordinator

Siddharth Maheshwari

MembersMeenakshi Verma

Akhil ThomasMurtaza Mohammadi

Saket SarupriaUjjwal Vasisht

Rajat Saini

Finance CoordinatorApoorv Pandey

Publicity CoordinatorIshika Arora

Co-CoordinatorsAteev GuptaDhruv Gaur

MembersNihar Agarwal

Shubham GuptaTanay Dindor

Utkarsh Sharma

Hindi Editorial

Finance and Publicity

English Editorial DesignPresidentTarun Valecha

Vice-PresidentsKanik GuptaVishal Mittal

Chief AdvisorDr. R. Krishnanmurthy

Faculty AdvisorDr. B.R. Gurjar

Lakshay Sharma Viplow KumarVarid GuptaRahul RajAstha KhuranaDivya PandePranav Lahoti

Sripad BeheraNabeel Kangoo

Abhishek JhaNishit Taparia

Shiv SagarTanvi Sinha

Medha Pandey

Manoj SardaArunanshu PrakashShivam BhattNitin DhakadOmkar KulkarniHimanshu YadavShubhanshu Dubey

Amber MishraBhavnoor Singh

Garima JaganRohit Chauhan

Prakhar VarshneyRitu Madan

Siddhant Malhotra

First Year Members

dqN vVds] dqN HkVds!

The Lighthouse

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Across the River

:M+dh iqjk.k

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16

2018

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12

3

6

7

9

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Contents

Roorkee

Ykkirk

The Witness

Departure Night

2

;s fj'rsa------

Khush considers the possibility that there is no God. He hates to make such a supposition b u t a s ing l e p i ece o f b l a sphemous misinformation is weighing heavy against his resolve to think otherwise. God is the wavering flame of an earthen lamp. Death begets immortal memories. Even if the departed were frail, puking and old individuals, death endears them to you and their memories live with you for life. A foot jerks out of the fire.There is a lump in his throat. He visualizes it, feels it and then lets it go. He allows it to slowly slide down his throat. The lump shrinks until it is no more than a point. The world, living or dead, is only a point of light.Oblivious to how hoarsely the Hugli howls or how raucously the rain rams the colossal edifice, its occupants- white and ochre-robed monks- breathe peacefully. They are not the living or the dead world. They are neutral spectators. ***Nakhush, buoyed with the opportunity at hand, optimistically conjures the image of him hitting the ball into the net. A boy kneels and looks above to thank the heavens- he cross-marks this image in crimson.But then, a man, resembling his dead father, comes hurtling down from heaven and starts cheering him. This image does not appeal to him either. So, he thinks there is just the goal post; and the goalkeeper definitely has a problem with diving to his left. He feels the blade of his kicking-foot press against his boot.Deaf to the euphoric cheering and chanting, agile Nakhush moves his nimble feet and

sends the ball zooming into the net. Next, he is soaking in the jubilant celebration. ***At night, after the football match, Nakhush does some terrible things; things that he does whenever he is happy. Now, Nakhush is a smart kid. He knows that there is no God and hence there is no one who will come to know of those terrible things. No celestial lighthouse is sweeping the darkness of the ignominious expanse of the Immoral Sea. Couple of years ago his thoughts were tumultuous. He would weigh the promise of instant gratification against the hope of eternal joy. Now all that is gone. Now, probably, he does not even think of the 'terrible things' as being terrible. And sometimes, he does not even know what he is doing and so there is no question of earmarking his acts as acts of debauchery. He is intoxicated, obviously. Poor lad! What started with alcohol and cigarettes has ended in Bazuco and Bazuco eates his brain, like termites. He is drowning in the darkness and there is no lighthouse, no d a y - o f - r e c k o n i n g a n d n o d i v i n e retribution at all. As Nakhush himself mused- no one is watching. But, that also means that there is no one watching over him; that is to say that no one can save him from drowning. He is sitting on a pavement or maybe a footpath, sniffing or licking something. It is so dark, I cannot see. He must be happy that he isn't being watched. But suddenly, there is a blast and there is light all around. Nakhush is certain that the lighthouse has finally found him. He is scared silly, I tell you. He is so scared he starts weeping. The noise of the blast grows louder and louder until it stops but by then Nakhush is already asleep. The people from Fundación La Luz have found him. ***Far east from Nakhush, the monk, Khush, is l eav ing for Bogotá . T he Colombian

Katha Upanishad 1:2:1There is a path of joy and there is thepath of pleasure. Pondering on them, the wise (one) chooses the path of joy; thefool takes the path of pleasure.

The Lighthouse-Abhishek Jha

3

government, disillusioned after numerous reports of death of teenagers due to drug-addiction, has decided to employ the services of Khush and his fellow monks to pull out people like Nakhush from the dark abyss. Fundación La Luz, a voluntary group of doctors and psychologists is supporting the cause.Khush thinks of his own childhood. He remembers the sweets in the kitchen that he used to steal. The sweetness of the sweets often overcame the guilt of stealing. The C o l o m b i a n c h i l d r e n h e i s t o address....tch....serve have this syndrome. They know that it is wrong to do certain things. But who is to stop them? Parents? He chokes at this thought. He thinks of his dead father; his father who had ingrained in him this tiny notion of a watchman called God- a watchman who stops all bad things from happening. When his father died, his faith in God began to shake until it was restored some years later. These thoughts trouble him as he flies across continents. ***It is a bright sunny day. Khush takes charge of some forty bright boys in a classroom. I call them 'bright', because they know why the earth goes round the sun or why the apple does not shoot upwards after having detached itself from the apple tree. They know that depravity is depravity. Khush explains to this audience why they should and how they could follow the moral laws of the society. Now Khush is as bright as any of these boys, in fact a little brighter. So, he is able to convince them, logically, of the need for self control and can explain how b y p l a c i n g o n e s e l f b e t w e e n t h e u n c o n t r o l l a b l e c o n s c i o u s a n d subconscious levels of the mind, self-control can be achieved. One man is not convinced. Nakhush knows how to shut images that distract him and how to send dead dads back to heaven when

they defiantly tumble down to earth. So when the lecture gets over, he stands up and confronts this shaven man with brazen audacity. He does not ask any tough questions.“Sir, may I ask a question?”“Go ahead.”“You say that I follow certain moral laws. What happens if I happen to break one of these laws? What if I shut myself in a room and smoke marijuana in Cambodia? Forget God in heaven, I don't have a father at home. Who is going to stop me from breaking these laws?”Here Khush loses his composure because, you see, a dead father has been mentioned. The lump-in- the-throat exercise has to be repeated before he can answer.“To understand my answer to your question son, you will have to first experience the change. You will have to abandon certain things. Only then, I will answer your question.” He has to say this in a calm and assuring voice to ensure that his message is delivered. Nakhush, determined to know the secret, has to submit himself to the monk's wishes.The monk is back in India, but he continues to think of the boy. He knows that he has cheated. The truth is that he doesn't know the answer. He doesn't know where to find it. So, he is looking for it everywhere. While everyone recites the mangal aarti from memory, while they close their eyes in chanting, he is reading through his hymn book; like a novice- the shanti mantras, the purushasuktam. He is scrounging for his golden verse in the Testament, the Psalms, and the Quran; his lesser known texts. While he is working, he is chanting the Gita to himself. He knows it by heart.Nakhush is unhappy. He has waited for a month. He has exercised restraint but his body aches. Every moment is a battle. His mind is tumultuous again, like in the old days. The camp at Fundación La Luz is over. He thinks, 'The monk is bad… The monk is

4

not coming… How will the monk know he has broken his promise?' He resents his own bril l iance at arriving at this logical conclusion. It is not long before he gives in to the temptation. His feet drag him along the dark alleys. There is a huddle in the shadows. He moves closer. There 's Bazuco and they are quarrelling over their quota. As the quarrel grows into fisticuffs he pushes himself through and grabs a fistful of packets and shoves them down his pockets, inside his shirt. Suddenly, his eyes meet another pair and he freezes. Now, more eyes turn towards him and he sees them clearly. They are older than him and stronger. He must run. 'Not so easy boy!' 'Grab him!' He is a tough fighter. Here a jab, there a kick but they are too many in number. He is bleeding and breathless. He finds his senses failing. There is a light again. He welcomes it this time. The others abandon him and melt into the darkness. He slumps down and passes out.Khush is exasperated at his inability to solve this riddle. He, the conqueror of scriptures, the intellectual hermit, he, whose, company alone is benediction to many a bereaved souls, defeated at the hands of a mere child. He is persevering. His melancholy eyes bore into his subjects for answers. They stare back at him. He's perplexed. He goes on with his sermon, “The finite contains the infinite.” The audience stares at him, harder than ever before. “The finite contains the infinite”, he repeats slowly to himself. He has found his answer and must hurry. How simple indeed! 'The infinite, which is the world and all its stuff, in this little kernel of a thing called brain.' The story is 'The Return to Faith'. He recounts it: It is the rainy season. In the month of Shraavan, Shiva is worshipped. Pilgrims throng the holy city of Deoghar to pay obeisance to the Lord. Lepers, urchins, bastards, orphans- all of them are welcome. This is the house of the Lord. Beg and you will be granted. It does not matter if you have sinned. Who brought

this lingam here anyway? Raavan- the devil himself. He listens to the seasoned beggars- 'There is a monk here. Ochre-robed. Just look out for him. He will never leave you hungry.' The temple is lousy with pilgrims and it is difficult to find anyone but he is small and hungry. He sees a flash of saffron. He leaps, trips, and falls down at the feet of the monk. Instinctively, he starts crying. The crowd is indifferent, the monk furious. “Pull yourself together boy! Now get up!” he shouts over the noise. Khush cries louder. “Now there, don't stare at me. I didn't do this, did I? You made the choice, little monster, between free food and free fall.” He is pulled up.

***Khush rushes through the prison gates, ashamed. He cannot stop reproaching himself but he must conceal his guilt. He remembers his mentor. He must be as stern as possible.He speaks from behind the bars, “Now, look at you. Why should I keep my promise when you didn't?” The boy is bruised and listens in total silence, head bowed in submission. His heart reaches out for him but he cannot commiserate with him now, not for a few moments. He summons his strength. “That day when you asked the question, I did not answer because what you said was actually true. No one does anything if you happen to break any moral laws,” he went on, making the sarcasm in his voice felt. Now, with a touch of compassion, “However, you cannot break these laws, you know, like the law of gravity? You can only break yourself against these laws.”

5

lqgkuk lQj vkSj ;s ekSle glha-------] ,sls gh dqN [kV~Vs&ehBs

/kqu xquxqukrs gq, dqy 16 jpukdkjksa dh gekjh fganh

laikndh; Vhe ,d jksekapd lQj vkSj eaft+y ds fy, jokuk

gks pyhA bl ;k=k dh yxke gekjs Jheku] eq[; laiknd

egksn; us vius gkFkksa esa Fkke j[kh FkhA

'kksj epkrh gqbZ] /kqu ctkrh gqbZ] u,&iqjkus xhr xkrh gqbZ

vkSj fgpdksys [kkrh gqbZ gekjh xhrxkM+h ;kuh gekjh cl

nsgjknwu&elwjh ekxZ ij igkfM+;ksa dh Qsfj;k¡ ysrs gq, f'k[kj

dh vksj ean xfr ls c<+ jgh FkhA ,slk izrhr gks jgk Fkk ekuks

;s igkfM+;k¡ f=nso egknso dh vkd`fr;k¡ gksa vkSj ge mudh

ifjØek dj jgs gksaA bruh lqanj okfn;k¡] dgha&dgha ij

igkfM+;ksa ls fudyrs 'osr >jus] eueksgd /kqa/k vkfn ,d

vfoLej.kh; n`'; izLrqr dj jgs FksA ,d vksj Fks]

pyrs&fQjrs] epyrs] 'kDy cnyrs ckny vkSj nwljh vksj

Fkk gekj fLFkj euA vkt dqN vyx gks pqdk FkkA Ckknyksa dh

vfLFkjrk us papy eu dks fLFkj dj fn;kA cl lc dqN bu

nks NksVs us=ksa esa lesV ysus dh vHkwriwoZ bPNk FkhA izkd`frd

lkSan;Z dh bruh HkO;rk dks eglwl dj ikus esa 'kk;n gekjk

rh{.k efLr"d Hkh vlgt gks pqdk FkkA oks gok,¡] oks izoklh

i{kh] oks ckny] oks >jus] oks taxy] oks tuthou] Le`fr;ksa dh

Ük`a[kyk esa tqM+rs pys x,A [kkbZ dh xgjkbZ esa Hkh ;s u;u Hk;

vkSj ekSr ugha] oju laqnjrk vkSj vk'p;Z ds Jksr ryk'k jgs

FksA

� nsgjknwu ls elwjh gksrs gq, ge /kukSYVh igq¡p x,A

vHkh gekjs ikl iwjk fnu 'ks"k FkkA /kukSYVh dh vkSj T;knk

Å¡pkbZ ij eu esa vkSj Hkh T;knk ftKklk dk LoPNan gksdj

c<+uk] lc dqN tkuus dh pkgr] vf}rh; lkSan;Z ls vkSj

T;knk ifjfpr gksus dh pkgr] cknyksa ls Åij xkus dh

pkgr] vkt eSa Åij vklek¡ uhps----------A yach ;k=k dh Fkdku

ls gekjh Hkw[k c<+ jgh Fkh ij fQj Hkh dksbZ :dus dks rS;kj u

FkkA ml eueksgd okrkokj.k esa tYnh ls tyiku dj ge

fQj ls LQwfrZoku gks] 'kq: gks x, izd`fr ds vUos"k.k esaA

/kukSYVh ds bdks ikdZ vkSj bdks gV~l i;kZoj.k ds

laj{k.k dh felky is'k dj jgs FksA fcuk izd`fr dks {kfr

igq¡pk,] ,d lqanj thou;kiu dk fnyd'k mnkgj.k tks

ekuo vkSj izd`fr dh xk<+ fe=rk dks n'kkZ jgk FkkA

lsc ds nwj&nwj rd QSys cxhps] igkfM+;ksa dh vifjfer

Ük`a[kyk,¡] rHkh ,d pyfp= ds n`'; dk Lej.k gks vkuk vkSj

gekjk ,d lkFk fpYykuk]

^^pEik-----------pEik----------^^

tksj&ls] fcuk fdlh cafn'k dsA ¼;gh rks izd`fr dk peRdkj

gS] dksbZ cafn'k ugha] cl lsok------!½

vkSj] xw¡trh] /ofu&izfr/ofu] ekuks nwj [kM+k dksbZ rqEgsa cM+h

vkRerk ds lkFk iqdkj jgk gks] iwjs fny ls] varjkRek ls

varjkRek dks vkSj rHkh mu igkfM+;ksa dks yka?k ml vkokt dks

idM+us dh gekjh ps"Bk] lc dqN fdruk fof'k"V Fkk] 'kCnksa esa

c;ka ugha fd;k tk ldrk] cl eglwl fd;k tk ldrk gS]

tSls oks vkt Hkh gS] mruh gh xk<+rk fy,A lwjt dh

fHkuh&fHkuh jks'kuh BaM ls jkgr nsrs gq,] dHkh&dHkh xjtrs

ckny ckfj'k dks U;kSrk nsrs gq,] Qwyksa dh okfn;k¡ izd`fr ds

Ük`axkj esa foyhu] mudh egd ls laqxf/kr c;kj&ekuksa lc

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[kksa tk,¡] nwj [kM+s fgef'k[kj ij igq¡p tk,¡] cQZ ds pknj esa

ysVdj izd`fr ds lq[k esa foyhu gks tk,¡--- ;s eu irk ugha

D;k&D;k pkgrk gSA

� dHkh ge b/kj nkSM+rs] dHkh m/kj] mu dqN ?kaVks esa

lc dqN ik ysus dh vfHkyk"kk] [ksyrs&dwnrs] rLohjsa

[khaprs&[khapkrs] vius cpiu dks vkt esa thus dh vfHkyk"kkA

cl dk le; gks x;k FkkA dksbZ Hkh tkus dks bPNqd u FkkA ij

ml nqfu;k ds lkFk&lkFk ,d vkSj nqfu;k clrh gS] ml

lkSan;Z ls FkksM+h nwj] ftlesa gesa okil tkuk FkkA ij ge fQj

okil vk,¡xsA vkt ys[kd&ysf[kdkvksa] dfo&dOkf;f=;ksa dh

;g Vksyh tks dqN ikus pyh Fkh] dqN fy[kus dks ykus pyh

Fkh] ;g fdlus lkspk Fkk fd ge lc ;g Hkwy tk,¡xs fd ;gk¡

D;w¡ vk, Fks vkSj vius fopkjksa dh my>u esa vkSj my>

tk,¡xsA tSls&tSls gok dk Hkkj cny jgk Fkk] izkd`frd

lkSan;Z viuh ijkdk"Bk dks Nw jgk FkkA 'kjhj dk jkse&jkse

vkeksn&izeksn dh [kq'kcw ys jgk FkkA lkSan;Z dh ekndrk

c<+rh tk jgh Fkh vkSj ;g dye varr% gkFkksa ls fQly gh

xbZA

&ih;w"k vxzoky

6

She rummaged through her bag to find a five-pence coin to pay the confectioner. When she finally found one, she handed it over to him with the air of a pearl diver who had just found a treasure. She scurried to her car, and bit her tooth into the brownie before the long forgotten taste of her dida's payesh could return and send her taste buds for a mutiny. She finished it off with a devilish grin and smacked her lips clean. After dinner, she was lying in her couch watching TV, when there it was again. A bowl full of payesh, thickly condensed milk and rice, colour a most inviting shade of rich, creamy brown, and a taste that lingered on in the senses, long after the memories attached with it had gathered dust. Her dida appeared with her toothless grin, her white plain bordered saree. She switched off the TV and shut her eyes, but the scenes just hung there; only flickering, but never fading. She dreamt of a little school girl returning to her city dwelling, amidst the beating of the dhaak, and the incense-filled air, while her friends headed to their deshe'r baari, their ancestral home, for the Pujas....................................................................Kobita sat there, huddled in a corner of the boat. The coarse saree stung her skin. She pulled the saree down to her belly to hide the tears that were falling. She tried to keep herself from quivering, and drew her bundles closer. She was on her way to where Padma would become Ganga, to where Ileesh would lose its taste, where her language would become too mired by Hindustani, and lose all its sweetness. She worried over the garden, the orchard, the ponds and the home that had she would never set her eyes on again. Before leaving, she had made sure to drink in every little detail, so that they would remain etched in her memory the way she would like to think of home. She worried for the shiuli flowers in her garden, the numerous mango trees and coconut palms and the fish in the ponds. She wept for her unborn child who would never know the lands that were his. She remembered an incident

from her childhood. During a visit to Sundorbon, she had secretly smuggled in a plant from the mangroves and planted it in her backyard. She still shuddered to think about how it had wilted.Durga Pujo was just a few months from now. At other times, the artisans would have been commissioned by now. Would not a sudden stop to the Pujo bring ill fate upon the family?......................................................................One evening, she decided to pick up grocery on her way back from work. There was a new man behind the counter. A South-Asian, in his fifties, she noted. As she was picking up what she would need for the coming week, she heard someone talking; trying to keep his voice low, in what she could clearly make out was an argument. But suddenly, the words stirred in her a sense of familiarity, longing and emptiness. She realised it was the very tongue that had been in use by the older members of her family. She followed the voice, and found herself staring at the cashier. He looked at her questioningly. She left the grocery without a word.Thereafter, her visits to the store became more frequent. Within a month, she had learnt that he was from Dhaka, indeed the very place that her family came from. His name was Imran. She started conversing with him in that vaguely familiar dialect, which she had never quite used before, but was surprised at how easily she used it now.He would cook for her, at times Ileesh of the Padma that friends would sneak in to this faraway land. The tantalising aroma of mustard would arouse in her the memories of those long autumn afternoons, when she would try keeping a count of how many times the fan blades went round. He would describe Bangladesh to her, breaking all the confines that had existed earlier. He would play the latest renditions of Rabindra Sangeet. He was the one who introduced her to Nazrul Geeti. She found

Across the River -Shubhechyya Ghosal

7

herself spending more time with him. He would ask her to describe Shantiniketan to him. He would never tire over listening to her, painting with words the Jorasankho Thakurbaari, Sarat Chandra Kuthi, Presidency College, Calcutta University, and other seats of the Bengal Renaissance. For them, they were each a part of a shared past, that they had been brought up not to forget, to remember through the experiences of those who had lived through it. A cruel hand had forced them to change their entire beings.It was a March morning, when it was exceptionally warm for the part of the year, that he informed her that he was going home for his daughter's marriage. Indeed, when she had first heard him speaking on the phone, he had been chiding his younger brother for his inability to find a suitable groom within their own district. Too much difference in dialect and culture, he said. A smile

crossed her face as she was reminded of her own aunts, who would search for matches tracing their ancestry to o'paar bangla, the other side of Bengal, and then fuss over the differences in culture and tradition, if the match happened to be from a different district.“Would you like to come over? ““No.”“I leave in a fortnight.”“Hmmm.”Almost immediately, without even noticing it, her visits grew infrequent. She got caught up in her work that she had neglected for a while.One day, as she was leaving for work, she found a parcel at her doorsteps. It contained a bowl full of payesh in it, the colour a rich, creamy brown. Along with it was a note. “Happy Birthday! I made it especially for you. I hope it brings with it the luck that it promises.”

8

vkt ls yxHkx o"kZHkj iwoZ n¶rj esa nsjh gksus ds dkj.k eSa ;gha [kM+h FkhA eSus

ek¡ dks Qksu yxk;kA

^^gSyks! ek¡-------- ek¡ eq>s nsj gks tk,xhA**

^^rqe :dks csVk! eSa rqEgkjs ikik dks Hkstrh gw¡A**

Lkkeus ls ,d vkWVks esjh vksj vkrk fn[kkA

^^ek¡! Ekk¡! vkWVks fey x;k gS] eSa vk tkÅ¡xhA gSyks-----gSyks------gS-----------A**

cSVjh ̂yks* gksus ds dkj.k esjh ckr iwjh ugha gks ik;hA

^^vkb, eSMeA dgk¡ igq¡pkÅ¡\**

eaSus mls irk crkdj tYnh pyus dks dgkA dqN gh nwjh r; dh Fkh fd jkLrk

vutkuk izrhr gksus yxkA

^^HkS;k] ;s vki--------------\^^

^^vjs eSMe! nksigjh esa ogk¡ ,DlhMsaV esa ljdkjh vQlj dh ekSr gks xbZ gS]

tksjksa ls Nkuchu py jgh gS] ogk¡ vkoktkgh cUn gSA** vpkud vkWVks dh

j¶rkj c<+ xbZA

^^HkS;k /khjs pykvks ;k jksd nksA**

ysfdu tokc Fkk [kkeks'kh] ,d vVwV pqIihA mldh bl [kkeks'kh us esjs ekFks

ij ydhjsa [khap nha] fny tksjksa ls /kM+dus yxk] ?kcjkgV ls xyk lw[kus yxk]

eSaus xgjh lk¡lsa ysdj fQj dgk&^^HkS;k Iyht+ okil ys pyksA^^ ysfdu tokc

fQj ogh [kkeks'kh] Hk;Hkhr dj nsus okyk lUukVkA xyk :¡/k x;k] vk¡[kksa ls

vk¡lw cgus yxsA dqN gh {k.k esa eSa dgk¡ Fkh ugha irk] dgk¡ tkus okyh Fkh ;s Hkh

ugha irk] ,glkl Fkk rks fdlh vugksuh dk] ,d Mj Fkk] oks ,d vkHkkl Fkk

var dkA vpkud vkWVks :dk] esjk Mj vc pje lhek ij Fkk] lkspus le>us

dh 'kfDr vc {kh.k gks jgh FkhA eSa ph[k&ph[kdj jksus yxh] ysfdu mldh

Øwj g¡lh us eq>s [kkeks'k dj fn;kA eSa vk¡[ksa ew¡ndj dksus esa fleV xbZA eSa

Hkwrdky esa pys tkuk pkgrh Fkh] lc dqN cny nsuk pkgrh Fkh] ?kj tkdj

ek¡ ds vk¡py esa fNi tkuk pkgrh Fkh ysfdu ----------ysfdu dgk¡ laHko izR;apk

ls NwVs ck.k dk ykSVuk------------dgk¡ laHko dkypØ dk foijhr fn'kk esa

?kweukA vkSj -----------vkSj var esa eSa fgEer gkj xbZA

phj xbZ phRdkj esjh ml lUukVs dks

fuokyk cu pqdh ijHk{kh dk]

fgEer ugha

Lohdkjus dksA

'kkar dj yksyqirk dks oks ik[kaMh

Qsad x;k fdukjs

v/kejh nsg dksA

dj u`'kal gR;k vkRek dh]

D;ksa NksM+ x;k thfor

fQj ejus dks\

vkSj vkf[kj oks gh gqvk tks gksrk vk jgk gSA ml vHkkfxu dks balkQ pkfg,

Fkk] lgkuqHkwfr ugha] [kq'kh pkfg, Fkh] ysfdu d`f=e ugha] mls balkQ ugha

fey ldk u ifjokj ls] u lekt ls vkSj u gh dkuwu lsA mlds vJq n;k dh

Hkh[k ek¡xrs jgs] igys ml nfjans ls vkSj fQj dkuwu vkSj lekt ls] ysfdu os

mldk thou mn~ns'; vc dqN vkSj gh Fkk] dqN ,slk ftls 'kk;n og balkQ

dg ldsA

^^vkb, eSMe! dgk¡ igq¡pkÅ¡\**

vkSj vkt fQj oks gh vkokt+] mlds ;s 'kCn dkuksa ij iM+rs gh lkjs 'kjhj esa

flgju nkSM+ mBh] ân; esa ØksèkkfXu lqyx mBh] eSa d¡id¡ik mBh] ysfdu ;g

Mj ugha Fkk] uk gh nq[k Fkk dqN [kksus dkA udkc ds dkj.k og eq>s igpku

ugha ik;k vkSj vkt eSa fQj mlh vkWVks esa cSB xbZ ysfdu vkt ,slk eglwl

gqvk ekuks dSn fdlh iaNh dks NksM+ fn;k gks [kqys vklek¡ esaA thou mn~ns';

iwjk gkus dh [kq'kh ykykf;r dj jgh Fkh] lw[ks jsfxLrku esa pydj r:oj dh

'khry Nk¡o dk ,glkl Fkk oks ysfdu I;kl vHkh cq>h ugha FkhA fdlh cM+s

rwQku ds mBus ls igys dh 'kkafr Fkh ogA lglk eSaus pkdw fudkyk vkSj Hkksad

fn;k ml nfjans dh ihB esaA

ph[k fQj phj xbZ

lUukVs dks]

HkkSpDdk gqvk fQj ns[k le{k]

e`R;q dks]

le>k;k dkj.k fQj gVkdj

psgjs ls udkc dks]

vk¡[ksa fQj ewan yh mlus]

le> x;k ik[kaMh D;ksa thfor

NksM+k eq>dks]

Lo;a ejus dksA

rwQku dh ckn dh fLFkjrk dh Hkk¡fr vc lc dqN 'kkar Fkk] esjs ân; dk Toj

Hkh vkSj jDr dk mcky HkhA yxk ekuks eu esa fueZy /kkjk dy&dy djrh

cgus yxh ysfdu ut+j tc mu jDr&jaftr gkFkksa ij iM+h rks vk¡[ks Lor% gh

cUn gks xbZA eSa ml lPpkbZ dks vc >qByk nsuk pkg jgh FkhA cnyk ysus dh

{kf.kd [kq'kh vc Hk; esa cny xbZ] eu dpksVus yxkA D;k eSaus dksbZ iki dj

fn;k\ D;k eSa gR;kfju gw¡\ D;k eq>s Lo;a ds lkFk balkQ djus dh ltk

feysxh\ ;g lc lkspdj eSa flgj mBhA esjh fgEer vc VwwV jgh FkhA pkjksa

vksj v¡/kdkj dk ,glkl gks jgk FkkA eu v'kkar gks x;k] dkuksa esa ph[ks xw¡tus

yxhA eSa Hkkx tkuk pkgrh Fkh] ;gk¡ ls dgha nwj] cgqr nwj ysfdu dksbZ jkLrk

ugh lw> jgk FkkA eSa ;gk¡&ogk¡ nkSM+h ysfdu esjk gh izfrfcEc eq>s dV?kjs esa

[kM+k dj jgk FkkA vkSj fQj eSa mlds 'ko ds ikl cSBdj fcy[k&fcy[kdj

jksus yxhA fQj vpkud mldh ihB esa Q¡lk pkdw ns[kdj eu 'kkar gks x;k]

'kk;n ;gh og jkLrk Fkk] ftl ij eSa pys tkuk pkgrh gw¡] cgqr nwj----------dHkh

uk ykSVus ds fy,A vkSj eSa ,d vkSj gR;k djus ds fy, nksuksa gkFkksa ls

pkdw mBkdj fpYykbZ vkSj--------------

ph[k esjh lqudj]

nkSM+rh ek¡ lgykdj cky

fQj dgrhA

tkxks csVk!! HkkSj gqbZ]

dHkh cqjs lius vk tkrs gSaA

eSa dgrh ek¡!!!

D;k ;s Hkh lp cu tkrs gSa \

izfrdkj& fufru /kkdM

9

50% of the world’s population lives in cities and by 2050 it will grow to be 75 %. Like a dragon that entices you to look into its enormous eyes, cities are captivating millions with the lure of high paying jobs, better living standards and for the young people, a place where the party is happening. But the town we live in, Roorkee, is a stagnant settlement, with a lowly population of 3 lakh people. For none of us it is a home and neither is the prospect of camping here for the remainder of our lives an enthusiastic option.

India is building to grow and growing to build; every city in the country is undergoing rapid urbanization and the city borders are expanding to accommodate the overflowing population. Bangalore is restructuring its internal transport network; Mumbai, Chennai, and Kolkata are launching their new airports. In contrast, the biggest construction site in this tiny town is a multi-activity center in the IIT campus and this is a reflection of the peace that commands the silhouette of Roorkee’s ground-hugging skyline.

As the sun sets over the main building on a summer evening, a starry sky cloaks the night and you are lost in wonderment at its clarity, so unlike the smog that shrouds the cities; a ghastly reminder of the perils of environmental pollution. Roorkee is an over-productive Pappu’s dream destination with every need a stone’s throw away; a bicycle is enough to score the limits of its perimeter. For the residents who are either academics, non-civilians or natives, a weekend of tranquility in the Himalayas is just a two hour drive. A walk through the bustling bazaars of

Old Roorkee will show you how the town has juxtaposed its old, fading self with the boom in modern day consumerism. It may not be one's ideal shopping destination, but you will find several ways to amuse yourself in those queer, petty shops just around the corner.

Severely handicapped in the aspects of quality health care and institutions that can drive the economy, Roorkee, w i th i t s p i c tur e sque autumn leaves and slow rickshaw rides , sadly, can never hold the young, restless population with their worldly ambitions. To me, Roorkee is restricted to my life in the neighborhood of the IIT campus and the thought of living here is analogous to taking up sainthood. But even with its incapacity, you come to love it. The canal and the solitary walk on its bank is my way of bonding with the town’s so called ‘it’ place and I wouldn’t want to give it up for a night at the disco bar.

The small scale of one’s neighborhood will become a luxury with cities being stretched beyond their elastic limit to sustain millions of people. It is then, that a town like Roorkee becomes everybody's Utopian village. When I take leave of the town after four years of stay, I can only be grateful to have lived here; but the holiday is over, and the lucrative job (hopefully) in traffic clogged Bangalore or slum-choked Mumbai awaits.

Roorkee An ideal town that none can make their own

10

-Chandana Rajanna

tkus D;k <¡w<rk fQjrk gS tqxuqvksa esa jkr Hkj]

ftls ykuh gS jks'kuh oks [kqn gS v¡/ksjksa ls f?kjk gqvk]

tkus dSlh mYk>usa HkVdkrh gSa ukgd gh mls]

eu mldk tkus yxrk D;ksa ugha

vc csckd y{; dk ihNk djus esa]

;k Hkwy x;k gS 'kk;n rV ls nwj gksdj

Okks ek>h dks fn;k opu iqjkuk]

,d vksl dh cw¡n ls tks [kq'k Fkk dHkh

D;ksa ygjksa esa [kks;k gS ysdj I;kl dk cgkuk]

mls [kcj ugha vkleku dh ;k t+ehu ls yxko xgjk gS]

r; djuk Fkk ehyksa dk lQj dHkh ftls]

igys eksM+ dks eaft+y ekudj Bgjk gS]

oks fn[kkrk ugh vk¡[kksa ds niZ.k ij

;k QdZ iMrk ugha mls vc jLeks&fjok;kr ls]

Okks u;siu dh ckSjkrh pdkpkSa/k esa /kq¡/kyk;k flrkjk

Tkkus ukjkt+ gS [kqn ls ;k lkjh dk;ukr ls]

eq>ls iwNrk gS oks uk;d esjh x<+h dgkfu;ksa&dYiukvksa dk

&& tc eqlkfQj gw¡ eSaA

Rkks esjs HkVdus esa rq>s gt+Z D;k----eq>s ijgst+ dSlk]

eSa dgrk gw¡ varjs ls vius& rq>s tgk¡ ns[kw¡ rw esjs rks ikl gS exj

rsjh ryk'k esa xqelqe ;gk¡ gj t+jkZ gS]

lUukVk Nk;k gS ,sls ekuks gks dksbZ [kaMgj]

[kSj ;w¡ rks fQdz rsjh gS eq>s] ijokg lkjs vkye dh ugha]

Ikj fQj Hkh jg&jg ?kcjkrk gw¡ 'kgj esa QSyh vQokg dks lqudj]

rw [kqn ls Hkh dgrk gS vc ;s lp ;k ugha fdls irk gS]

Ikj dgus yxs gSa rsjh cLrh&dwps&eksgYys esa yksx lkjs------

rw cjlksa ls ?kqe gS ;gk¡ ls----- lkyksa ls ykirk gSAA

Ykkirk& 'k'kkad >k

11

“Order! Order!”, said the judge in a loud voice, striking the table twice with a gavel. The incomprehensible chattering ceased quickly, and there was pin drop silence as the court stood up in respect.

“Witness number six, Sameer, depose before the court.” The sound of his name brought him back to reality. As all the heads in the packed courtroom turned towards him, he became nervous. Trembling with fear, he got up from his seat and wearily walked towards the witness box. He didn't get a wink of sleep the previous night as he had restlessly contemplated the proceedings. One thought after the other had kept him tossing and turning, and his weary eyes betrayed his exhaustion.

As his dad stood surrounded by a posse of cops, he didn't desire to look at him in the eye. Perhaps he was afraid, or even ashamed to testify against his own father. For the next hour he answered a volley of questions from the prosecution, was cross examined by defence lawyers; he maintained his composure with great difficulty. Soon the judge adjourned the hearing, and the packed courtroom dispersed, like grains emptied from a wide mouthed vessel .He stood dazed at the outcome of his resolve. His father had left quietly without saying anything. It seemed that he was playing a mute spectator to the proceedings against him. His indifference left Sameer numb. The least he had expected was a commotion. Perhaps he showed the same politeness that he expected from his employees at United Builders, a million dollar enterprise.

It had taken years of brainwash by his mother that made him testify in an open court against his father's alleged wrongdoings, while he had headed the United Group, which split after his parents' divorce a decade ago. Although they had separated after a bitter battle in court, the hatred and animosity refused to die down, even after so many years.

Since he grew up as the only child of his expatriate parents, he was made to believe that his father was responsible for the miseries of the family and every hardship that came their way. This left an indelible

impact on his mind, and the troubled childhood made him believe that suffering was his destiny. Time, they say is a great healer, and it had healed his wounds too, but this event had brought all the long forgotten memories before his eyes. He vividly recalled the acerbic comments that his classmates passed when his father didn't turn up for the annual sports days. Those were the times when he was growing up into an introvert young man, continuously hiding his feelings from his mom, who loved him dearly but was too busy with her job to understand the emotional imbalance that troubled him. Sameer confided in no one except his own intimate self, made few friends, for the fear of losing someone dear obsessed him.

Dragging his steps towards his car, he thought about spending some time alone on the beach side for introspection. He came to abhor this predicament. Looking at his footsteps, alone on the moist beach sand, a strong feeling of guilt overpowered him. Life seemed cruel, and existence only a burden. Although his dad hadn't met him all these years, he remembered the happier times. He got a sudden urge to go back to the past, a human tendency when one feels guilty about any wrongdoing. The foamy tides came ashore and receded. “I have lived long enough and can't bear all this. Maybe I can't bear this guilt any more. Maybe I could make new friends. Maybe I will get over this.” he thought. “No, I think I should be where things make sense, where I don't have to curse myself again and again.”

The perpetual gloom made him contemplate the possibility of suicide. He started walking into the deeper sea. Not knowing swimming left him with a very low chance of coming out alive. One last look behind, and he could see the human activity, busy vendors, moving cars but all that was too meagre to break his resolve. He walked and began to feel the sheer force of sea water, carrying him in, like a helpless prey in the claws of the predator. Although he resisted, involuntarily, his weary legs gave up and he could sense being carried in a mother's lap like a child. Feeling dizzy, the sun setting in the distant horizon was the last thing he could see, and he could relate it quite well to the situation he was in.

****

The Witness-Nabeel Kangoo

12

“Cell number 680”. The sentry opened the rusty lock with a cling, after finding the right key from the bunch, and pushed a prisoner into the cell. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness, his nostrils lined with the dusty air. The cell was a damp dungeon. As he sat on the dilapidated chair, bringing himself to terms with the new surroundings, he found that he didn't have a cell mate which added a further touch of desolation. Without touching the food that was served, he slept in the pitch darkness, as an eerie silence filled the cell, where a man's dignity is chained and shackled. It was already nightfall, and he fell into a deep slumber sooner than usual, thanks to the extensive counselling therapy at the Aryrdham. It was then that he was shifted to the Crawley Detention Facility, charged with 'attempting suicide,' owing to his candid confession.

In the morning, after he was successful in striking a conversation with the guard, he came to know that a prisoner from cell number six would be shifted to his cell. The guard had just finished speaking when the opening of the door and the jingling of the keys broke the silence. Slowly, he looked awkwardly to the other side .That's when a tall figure emerged from the darkness. “How are you here? You look frail? ”, his voice was filled with concern. “I...I ...was just arrested

for ...” and he had barely completed speaking when his dad interrupted him. “And don't worry, I would have done the same had I been at your place. I just wanted an end to this hate story. We can at least be friends.”

The rest of the time they spent, passed quickly, and perhaps they would have even wanted to stay longer after the kind of truce that they had declared. His father left a week after and the day soon came when he, too, was free to smell the fresh air, and admire the glistening morning dew on the ever green leaves.

The sun shone brightly as he left his cell to complete some final formalities. He had thought of a lot to do, after walking free. Completing a solitary hiking trip, a boat ride alone across the channel of Dave, a trip to India, but he would have a lot of time to plan. His heart felt lighter .He had left an enormous burden back in the past. A last look back, he could see the letters in bold, “CRAWLEY DETENTION CENTRE”He smiled, and could see his mother waving from a distance. He looked up into the wide, blue sky. He could see birds soaring at great heights. Smiling, he embarked on a new journey in life.

13

24AUGUST

^^vkf[kjdkj dkWyst dk izFke

o"kZ vkt lekI

r gks gh x;kA

fiNys ,d

o"kZ ds lQj ij

n`f"V Mkyrk gw¡

rks izrhr gksr

k gS ekuks bl

Hkkxrh&nkSM

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ft+anxh esa [kqn d

ks dgha [kks lk fn

;k gSA ij v

kt eSa le; dks vk¡[k

&fepkSyh ugh

[ksyus nw¡xkA ân

; esa vadqfjr i

zR;sd Hkko dks O;Dr

dj nw¡xkA rqe

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h

gks u fd vkt bl i

xys ds lkFk ,slk D

;k gks x;k\

vc ckr gh d

qN ,slh gSA r

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kurh gh gksA v

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pd&mpdj viu

h ̂xyZQzSaM^ ds ckjs

esa crk jgk F

kkA tkurh gks] Ldwy esa ml

dh nks ̂xyZQzSaM^ Fkh

vkSj vc rhu

A lksp dj gh g

Sjkuh gksrh

gSA gekjs 'kg

j esa rks ,slk

dqN ugh gksrk

FkkA dbZa ckj

lksprk gw¡ l

aca/k rks vusd

izdkj ds gksrs gSa ij

,d ukStoku yM+dk&yM+dh ds chp

laca/k dks rks e

Sa dHkh le> gh

ugh ik;kA c

piu ds bl f

j'rs

ds ek;us dkWyst esa vk

D;ksa cny tkrs gSa\

,d yM+dh tks QzSaM gS vkSj xy

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nksa ds Qsj ls

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gks ldrs\ mQ

! eSa Hkh fdlls i

wN

cSBkA rqEgs r

ks dqN irk gh u

ghA**

FRIDAY

^^vkt nhokyh dk fnu gSA pkjksa rjQ jks'kuh vkSj pgy&igy gSA gok esa ;k rks fe"Bkuksa

dh lqxa/k gS ;k iVk[kksa dh xw¡tA ;w¡ rks gj nhokyh esjs fy, leku jgrh gS ij bl ckj dh nhokyh

dqN [kkl gSA rqe ;gh lksp jgh gks u fd ckgj fdruh pgyigy gS vkSj eSa cq)w rqels ckrsa dj

jgk g¡wA iVk[ks Hkh ugh tyk jgk g¡wA njvly] vuq'kk dgrh gS iVk[kksa ls izd`fr dks gkfu ig¡qqprh

gSA fdruh vthc ckr gS u ;g rks eSa ges'kk ls gh tkurk Fkk vkSj fQj vkt rks-------------A vc ,sls

Hkh er ns[kks! rqe rks tkurh gh gks fd vktdy gekjh fdruh ckrsa gksus yxh gSaA fQj vkt rks

mlus eq>ls feyus fd bPNk gh tkfgj dj nhA nks feuV ds fy, nksuksa rjQ [kkeks'kh lh Nk xbZA iwjs 'kjhj esa daiu dh

ygj lh nkSM+ xbZA le> gh ugh vk;k fd D;k cksyw¡] ̂g¡k^ dk Loj ftg~ok ds vklu dks NksM+us dks rS;kj gh ugh FkkA vc

bl rjg g¡l D;ksa jgh gks\ bl lanHkZ esa eSa dksbZ cgqr cM+k f[kykM+h ugh g¡wA vHkh g¡k rks dg nh ij u tkus] ;g ?kcjkgV

lh D;ksa gks jgh gS\ mlls feyw¡xk rks D;k dg¡wxk\ vkSj fey¡w Hkh rks dg¡k\ dgha fdlh us ns[k fy;k rks\ D;k mls Qksu dj

euk dj n¡w \ rqe gh crkvks dgha eSa ikxy rks ugh gks jgk\^^

13SEPTEMBER

^*rqe lksp jg

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kr gqbZ\ vjs!

vuq'kk lsA H

kwy xbZ D;k vu

q'kk

dks\ vjs ogh t

ks esjs lkFk Ld

wy esa i<+rh FkhA

;kn ugh] tc ,d

ukVd ds nkSjku

esjh /kksrh

[kqy xbZ Fkh rks

dkSu eap ij fp

Yyk mBh Fkh] ^

vjs! bldh rks /

kksrh [kqy xbZ!^

gk¡ ! ogh

vuq'kkA izs{kk

x`g rks Bgkd

ksa ls xw¡t jgk F

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dj ge nksuks g

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gks x,A okd

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gksrh gSa tks ut+nhfd;ksa dks c<+k

nsrh gSaA tkurh g

ks] mldh rLo

hj ns[k rks e

Sa vpafHkr

gh jg x;kA

vkf[kj Qslcqd dh ̂ek;

k^ us mldh ̂dk;k^ d

ks Hkh iyV gh f

n;kA u tkus ml

dh vkokt+ fdruh

cnyh gksxh\ vksg

! vuq'kk dh ckrk

sa esa eSa rqEgs rks

Hkwy gh x;kA vj

s! ;g D;k] r

qEgkjs psgjs ls

izrhr gksrk g

S fd rqe vkSj dqN ug

h lquuk pkg

rhA Bhd gS rk

s fQj ckdh

ckrsa dy ----------

--^^

MONDAY

04WEDNESDAY

NOVEMBER

;s fj'rsa------

14

14SATURDAY

AUGUST

31DECEMBER

^^dgrs gSa le; dk pØ fdlh ds fy, ugh :drkA 'kk;n bl o"kZ dk vkt

lekIr gks tkuk bldk l'kDr izek.k gSA ij eu pkgrk gS vkt ;g pØ Fke tk,A bl

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tk,A rqEgkjh ftKklk dks eSa le> ldrk g¡wA tkurh gks] vkt esjh vuq'kk ls eqykdkr

gqbZA mldh lqanjrk ds fy, 'kk;n 'kCn Hkh de iM+ tk,A mldh pqycqyh g¡lh dks ns[k

rks eqj>k, iq"Ik Hkh f[ky mBsaA vkSj tc og viuh gB djrh tqyQksa dks >¡q>ykdj ihNs

/kdsyrh rks mlds lkSan;Z es pkj pk¡n yx tkrsA ij fny esa ,d d'ked'k lh FkhA D;k vius eu dh ckr mlls

dguk mfpr gksxk\ ijarq vktdy fQYeksa esa tSlk fn[kkrs gSa] mlds ckn dqN Hkh dguk cgqr eqf'dy FkkA fQj tSls

gh og cksyh] ̂vknh ! ;w gSo fj,yh fcde LekVZA^ eSa rks lc Hkwy cl gok esa mM+us yxkA og eq>ls ckrsa djrh jgh

vkSj eSa mldk psgjk fugkjrk jgkA vc rqe rks ,sls er ns[kks! tkurh gks u vly esa eSa D;k ckr djuk pkgrk FkkA

fdruk epy jgk Fkk ;g iwNus dks] ̂vuq'kk! Mw ;w gSo ,suh ckW;QzSaM\^ vkSj tc iwNk rks og eq>ls gh mYVk loky

iwN cSBhA fQj D;k\ eaS rks 'kekZ gh x;kA [kkus ds le; Hkh og cksyh] ̂vknh! de uh;j ehA^ vius gkFkksa ls uwMYl

Hkh f[kyk,A le; dc chr x;k irk gh ugh pykA ysfdu vc lksprk g¡w mlus eq>ls og mYVk iz'u D;ksa fd;k\

[kkus ds le; vius ikl D;¡w cqyk;k \ vius gkFkksa ls uwMYl D;ksa f[kyk,\ rqe gh crkvks] D;k ;g dksbZ bZ'kkjk

Fkk\^^

SUNDAY

14FEBRUARY

^^dk'k! vkt lw;Z vkus dh bPNk R;kx nsrkA dk'k ! vkt ?kM+h dh fVdfVd can gks tkrhA dk'k! ,d QVs

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MONDAY

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ugh le>k;k] dqN ugh dgkA Hkyk rqe dgrh Hkh dSls] vkf[kj gks rks rqe esjh Mk;jh-------^^

15

Rachel Perkins longingly stared at the clouds floating

across the huge grounds of Midway High as she rested

herself on Jim Merton's lap. She could sense his vision

boring through her head. She didn't find it cheeky

though.

“You don't seem very happy”, Rachel broke the silence.

“Graduation's in a couple of days.”

“Your application is decent enough.”

Jim shrugged. It wasn't a good topic for today.

“On the contrary…”

“I know. I am happy.”

“So you took it.”

“Yes.”

“It's not very good.”

Rachel sat up. “Do we need to start over about this?”

Jim looked down; half of him giving-up, the other half?

Well, he had no choice.

“Café then?”

Jim nodded.

****

Captain Jeremy Swintern killed the engine of his Honda

and got off the car in his usual brisk manner, which

almost disguised a slight limp in his left leg. His

expression was not the usual one, though. A slight curl on

his lips hinted a smile. It was unusual enough to create

murmurs through his office staff as he got off the elevator rd

on the 3 floor of the headquarters of the Colorado State

Patrol. Swintern's secretary was too observant not to

notice his expression and knew that the job had been

executed well. The last time she was witness to this visage

of his was when he successfully carried out a drug bust. It

was a secret op, and nobody knew about it save for the fact

that it involved some gunfire: Swintern was shot in the

thigh and his 3-month leave wasn't a secret. The State

Police Awards were announced later that year and

Swintern was the top-cop for the third time in a row, for

tracking and hunting down Julius Mercante, the third

most wanted man in the southwestern U.S.

****

Bernard Perkins liked having a whitewashed image.

Among the general community he had created a lasting

image of an honest and philanthropic businessman. But

most of his wealth came from his moonlight trade. He had

started a motel business in'77 along with three of his high

school friends which ran well for a couple of years,

earning each of the partners a small fortune. All was rosy

until an afternoon when the police arrived and found

Aaron Smith and Jack McGee unconscious in a room

along with a kilogram of cocaine. The following

investigation led to the seizure of incriminating evidence

that Smith and McGee were embezzling business funds

unbeknownst to Perkins and Julius Mercante, to conduct

a sizable drug racket. They were sentenced for 48 years of

imprisonment.

****

The cold February night didn't seem to bother Jim as much

as what he had learnt recently. He walked absent-

mindedly out of Larry's Coffee on to its porch when

Rachel said something about meeting a friend. He walked

back into the café to wait for Rachel.

Rachel.

Perkins Sr. had managed to keep the halves of his double-

life admirably separated. Only those deep within the

police ranks knew about his reality, without documented

proof though. It also did not matter if there was any, half

of the force already was his personal asset anyway. Jim

knew about this, as his uncle was a policeman. But that

did not bother Jim as much as the fact that Rachel had

accepted her father's offer to join his empire. Lost in his

frustrated thoughts, he did not realize that the door he

had just pushed through was not the restroom. Not until

he saw the white powder on the table in neat linear

mounds. Not until he saw the men standing behind it pull

out their guns. Instinctively he ducked as bullets whizzed

right above his head, one of them smacking a coffee cup,

spraying steaming liquid on the poor customer's face.

People screamed. Jim dashed past the doorway. Quickly

calculating that the main door was too far, he aimed for

the kitchen. The gunmen were probably too high to care

that there were people around. They gave chase, shooting

all the while. Jim was aware of their inebriated state given

by how widely they were missing him. He ran across the

kitchen taking tight turns and throwing utensils behind

him all the while. It slowed them down, giving him just

enough time to push past the alley door. Only to find two

more burly men waiting. They pressed the gun against his

temples. Jim stopped and raised his hands. Exactly at that

moment, the gunmen burst through the alley door.Jim

ducked again as the bullets whizzed past him and hit the

bouncers. The men stumbled on Jim before they even

Departure Night-Sripad Behera

16

realized what they had done. Jim quickly got up and was

about to run when their heads exploded.

****

Swintern settled back in his chair behind his cluttered

desk. It was rarely so, but he knew many of the files were

now useless. Soon it would be back in its original state:

notebooks on the left, pencils and files on the right,

flanked by a vase and two photo-frames. He found the

frames hidden behind a particularly large mound of files,

covered in a thin layer of dust. He looked lovingly at them

before placing them appropriately and getting back to

work. He powered up his computer to check his e-mail.

No new messages. He switched over to “Compose” to type

out the report of his previous operation to his superior

officer. It beeped. “1 new message”. Anonymous source.

Swintern clicked on it. The next second he grabbed his

coat and dashed out of his office.

“Perkins is back”.

****

Blood and brains spattered all over his face. Jim

immediately closed his eyes to prevent the semi-liquid

grossness from wetting his eyes. He got up on his feet and

wiped his face before opening his eyes. He wished he

hadn't. Rachel stood five metres away with a smoking gun

in her right hand. Jim couldn't take his eyes off the gun for

a minute, and her for the next one. She didn't move,

perhaps dazed at what she had just done. Jim's mind

revved. He ran towards her, snatched her gun away,

dragged her towards the alley exit and pushed her inside

the café kitchen. She didn't resist. A couple of police cars

screeched to a halt at the alley entrance, probably called

in by one of the customers. Jim watched in a daze as his

uncle came running towards him with his gun raised. He

saw him freeze in shock. Slowly, his expressions began to

harden.

****

Swintern took a call as a 2-car police motorcade

consisting of his trusted officers took down the road to

Binn's Mansion.

His face contorted. “What do you mean 'He's gone in' ?”

“The undercover operative has entered the mansion and

has broken all communication lines. It would be advised

that you do not attempt a forced break-in.”

“That is outrageous! What are our other options?”

“A strategic entry, if that is possible. We are not sure

whether the operative's comm range is affected. You can

attempt contact at close range”.

Swintern knew that Perkins had enough sleuths in the

force to know that he was on his way. Time was not his

piece of cake.

“Negative. Attempt contact with the op or he is on his

own.”

****

The view from the Cherry Hills was magnificent. The

entire Denver suburb could be seen flowing like a river

from where he stood, the city skyline visible in the

distance. It made for a very absorbing view which

definitely did not bother him in the least. What did was an

elaborate Victorian house in a secluded wooded portion

of the Hills. He took his eyes off the scope. It was 12 years

since he last saw Rachel, until now. And he wasn't going to

miss a date.

****

The cars screeched to a halt at the gates of the mansion.

Two teams got off the cars. The first team immediately

created a gunfire diversion taking down the gate and

escort guards to let Swintern's team advance inside.

Meanwhile inside the mansion, the gunfire outside drew

no specific panic. The bodyguards simply raised their

guns and waited. Orders came from a woman who looked

like she was in her late 40's. Only, she was just 30:

hallucinogenic substances had, quite literally, grown old

o n h e r .

The guards nodded. But they had hardly taken a step,

when a man emerging out of the curtains with his sub-

machine gun blazing, proved it to be their last. The thud

of three men falling and Rachel's surprisingly quiet gasp

was followed by the click of a magazine being reloaded.

Their eyes met.

****

All those years hadn't changed Jim's feelings for her in any

manner. His mind flashed back to the night of the café

shooting. His uncle had no choice but to arrest him,

neither did Jim offer any explanation or resistance before

entering the car. He quietly watched the scene outside as

his uncle drove out of the alley and onto the road by the

café entrance. A sizable crowd had gathered around: too

busy watching the bullies being pushed inside another

police car to see Jim being driven away. But that wasn't

what he wished to see. What he did wish was standing on

the first floor of the building; half of her face hidden

behind the curtain, her emotionless blue eyes focused on

17

him as he moved farther away. The same blue eyes today

stared at him from less than a meter, before the wrinkly

eyelids closed over them. Jim wasn't at all repulsed by her

appearance. It was her eyes he had fallen in love with

first, and they were just the same. He held the reloaded

gun close to his chest, as if to calm his heart down which

was beating rather awkwardly. He had to get back to his

senses, things weren't the same as before. And by the look

of things, never going to be.

****

Swintern had taken cover expecting backup guards to

come exploding out of the ornate Greco-Roman doors.

But there was none. A minute later, he heard gunshots

inside the house.

What the…?

However, when there was no action for yet another

minute, he had reached a certain conclusion. He signaled

his team towards the doors.

****

Rachel was almost facing an information overload. The

irrational emotions she had buried deep beneath twelve

years of materialistic and selfish life gained new energy at

the sight of Jim. She no longer felt old and burdened. She

was 18 once again. Jim dropped his gun to grab a running

Rachel in his arms. The world may have ended for them,

and they couldn't have cared any less. It did not last for

long though, as Rachel felt Jim's body go limp and a hot

liquid trickle down on her face. She came out of her

embrace to recognize the red liquid, just when Jim's ear

mike radio came alive. “Cherry 4, Cherry 4! Do you hear

me? Bailout now! Advance team has been dispatched and

will soon break in at your posi…”. Static. A bewildered

Rachel turned around to find Bernard Perkins standing

behind her, his gun raised. Just then, Swintern and his

team burst through the doors. Perkins opened fire again,

now on the police. One of them was shot on the shoulder.

But he was no match for the fire power. Three bullets

pummeled his chest and one through his eye. He died

before he hit the ground. Two policemen now had their

guns trained on Rachel who had dragged Jim's body out of

the mess. Swintern, however, broke down at the sight of

Jim. Rare tears trickled down his face as he crawled

towards Jim and clasped his nephew's hands to his face.

****

Jeremy Swintern and his wife Stella's happiest day was

when Jim arrived at their Arvada home. Stella was born

with a uterus disorder, which meant that she would never

be able to carry. She had told Jeremy about her

abnormality, expecting fully that he would track back on

his decision to marry. But she mattered too much to

Jeremy now; he never had any second thoughts. Stella's

sister had declared Jeremy as Jim's godfather. But as fate

would have it, Jim and his parents were spending the

summer holidays in Colombia when disaster struck in the

form of an earthquake. Jim and Stella's photos on

Swintern's desk was all that was left of his family.

****

Rachel had grown up among men. Men who did not

flinch at the idea of shooting a man standing next to them

and smiling after it. The only soft corner of her life was

her mother. Rachel's only memory of her mother was her

image in the mirror as she combed her long hair. The first

five years of her life, Rachel was a happy child, the apple

of her mother's eye. She was probably the only human in

the inhuman Perkins household, where guns

outnumbered spoons. Her mother doted on her and

pampered her to no end. But she too could tolerate

Perkins only so much. He had completely changed in the

eight years she had known him. She could take it no

longer and left her husband a crying 5-year old girl

behind. She had inherited all her mother's qualities,

which in her father's eye, became a bane for Rachel. From

the comfort of her mother's lap, she was pushed into her

father's world. Perkins loved her daughter but he was no

father-figure: he would get her anything she wanted, but

was immediately put off by any kind of cheap emotion.

All her tenderness got eroded away by her father's taunts.

Most of her childhood was spent crying until she turned

13, when her father gifted her something that changed

her life completely: a Beretta pistol. She died down,

suppressing all her feelings beneath a hardy exterior that

she had begun to develop. And then Jim Merton came into

her life. Jim was an escape from reality. She never knew

what liking someone meant, she did not like him. But

when things became really hard for Rachel to handle, Jim

was a cushion she could always rest on.

****

17 years later.

Rachel opened her sleepless eyes as the first rays of the

18

spring sun streamed through the small window of her

dormitory. The usual cling-clanging of the morning

checks echoed through the long hallways of Denver

Women's Correctional Facility. Monotony was an integral

part of her life now. And she liked it that way, she could

work her way through the day without thinking or

remembering much. Her first few years were

excruciating: never had so much changed in her life in

just one day. For a short moment, she was on the top of the

world. She toppled down in the next. It was her childhood

all over again. It haunted and pained her for days until she

began to shut them all out of her mind. But in the process,

she shut herself from the outside world.

At 2:15 pm, she was called on by a visitor.

Jeremy Swintern waited for her in the airy visiting area of

the facility. It reminded him of his visits to Jim when he

was imprisoned for the café shootings. Though it had

been proved that he had shot those men out of self-

defense, Bernard Perkins's lawyers had pressurized the

jury into accepting a felony of provocation against Jim,

which required him to spend three months in prison. Jim

had changed significantly when Jeremy visited him there

for the first time. Jim had never hidden anything from his

uncle this long, so when he told him the truth about the

café incident, Swintern was in a daze. However, Jim

painstakingly managed to convince him and make him

give his word not to take any action against Rachel, as she

had saved his life. Jim became oddly involved in criminals

and began to make his own investigations. In fact, on one

of his uncle's visits, he had passed on crucial evidence

incriminating Julius Mercante for the first time, as many

of his accomplices were his prison-mates. On his release,

he broke the news to Jeremy and Stella that he wanted to

join the police forces. Jeremy knew his nephew too well to

miss his motive behind his decision. He knew Jim's

relationship with Rachel since their high school days. It

was obvious to him that his involvement in law

enforcement was less due to fascination than it was a

rescue mission to pull Rachel out of that hell-hole she had

stepped into.

****

Rachel never had a visitor before in her 5-year stay. She

calmly walked into the hallway leading to the visitor's

area. Her mind was too numb to even wonder who it was.

Swintern stood up when he saw Rachel enter. She actually

looked younger than she was ten years back, now that she

was off drugs. However her face had matured and

showed no emotions. He smiled slightly as he shook her

hand before offering her a chair. Rachel looked on as he

took a small package in his hands and offered it to her.

“Jim wanted you to have this.”

She opened the package to find a leather-bound

notebook. Jim's diary. It was a long time since she had

spoken to someone.

“After all these years?”, she asked hoarsely.

“I could not part with it. This was his only memory”,

Jeremy managed to say.

Rachel could see his face contort in pain when he parted

from the diary, and knew he was not lying.

“Thank you”, she did not look up at his face.

****

Rachel entered the room quietly. Bernard Perkins did not

like to be interrupted in his thoughts. She had left her car

keys in her father's office backdoor, the place from where

he conducted his other businesses.

“Is it you, honeypie ?”

“Yes, dad.”

He handed over a couple of sheets. “Please darling, do

check these accounts for me. ” It was not rare that Perkins

made use of his daughter's arithmetic skills, so that he

could mull over the more sensitive parts of his trade.

She was leaving when, “Rachel ?”

Something serious. Her father rarely used her name. She

walked back over to him.

“Things aren't smooth anymore, child. You know what

happened to Uncle Jimmy, don't you?”

“Yes dad, I do.” Jimmy Wilkins, a close associate of

Perkins, handled the imports. He had been caught in New

York receiving a shipment, though the transaction had

not been traced back to Perkins yet.

“It's no longer safe to work here. Considering how

established we are, we will be caught even if we stop all

this.”

Rachel was silent for a minute before she spoke, ”What do

you mean dad?”

Perkins knew what his daughter had in mind. “You're

right, darling. We have to move abroad.”

As if on cue, gunshots were heard from the café below.

Rachel dashed from the room, despite her dad calling her

back. She took the exit that opened onto the alley, and

found Jim facing her father's butlers.

***

Rachel's tears shone in the moonlight, as she silently

watched the car pull away with Jim.

19

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ns[kus ;ksX; FkkA :M+dh ou ds bfrgkl esa igyh ckj leLr }kj [kqys Fks

rFkk lHkk ckgj gksus ds LFkku ij vUnj gks jgh FkhA vo'; gh dksbZ

egÙoiw.kZ fu.kZ; fy;k tk jgk gksxk] ;g lkspdj tSls gh geus lHkk ds }kj

ij vUnj ds fØ;kdyki dk vuql.k dk iz;Ur fd;k rFkh vH;arj ls d`".k

o.kZ dh iks'kkd igus ,oa xys esa ̂ ^Qhrs** dk vkfyaxu fd;s ̂ ^lTtuksa** dh

Vksyh mB dj ckgj vkus yxhA ogha gkFk es uhys jax dk ̂ ^okf"kZd iapk¡x**

Hkk¡fr ys[ki= fy, ,d cqf)thoh ds eq[k ij /kwi&Nk¡o Hkk¡fr fefJr Hkko

FksA Qyr% gs loZt! gekjh bl fpark dk fuokj.k dhft;sA**

^^gs foizo! 'kk¡r gks tkvks] ge vkidh euksn'kk ls iw.kZr;k ifjfpr gSaA ckr

vusd o"kZ iwoZ lr;qx dh gS tc fo|ktZu gsrq leLr cqf)thoh xq:dqy esa

dBksj] ifjJeh ,oa lgt thou O;rhr djrs FksA ml le; fo|kFkhZ

'kkjhfjd] ekufld ,oa vk/;kfRed fo|ktZu djrsA os xq: ds dk;ksZa esa

mudk gkFk Hkh c¡Vkrs rFkk muds vuqHko ls cgqr dqN lh[krsA ijUrq muesa

,d cqf)thoh ̂^xzUFk&dhV** FkkA og lEiw.kZ le; iqLrdksa esa yhu jgrk

&iwokZ izqFkh] dqekjh f’k[kk

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