THE ENGLISH TEACHER

   It was a lazy, Sunday afternoon. I seriously do not seem like doing anything on those days apart from sleeping on the bed with a warm enough blanket and maybe a cup of coffee with a good book or a good movie. That would make an ideal Sunday afternoon. That day, however, this usually attractive and pleasurable habit seemed to repulse me. But then, I always have a remedy - Vishwa! I decided to pay him a visit. Now, do not ask me where he finds the money to maintain the house. All I have ever seen him do is talk to people or narrate stories and eat-n-drink at Ramu's.
   His house was clean and tidy. Everything was in its place - organised. Surely, a guy cannot keep his house so neat. There must be a bai behind all this. Still, where did he find the money to appoint her? There are a lot of dimensions to Vishwa that I still need to understand.
   Vishwa's trunk was there and I peered into it, with curiosity. Among all the other stuff, there was a yellowed envelope in it. Knowing it would be indecent to look into it without his knowledge, I asked him if I could open it. Looking at the envelope, Vishwa smiled. I couldn't comprehend.
  "Vishwa, what is it that you are smiling about?" I asked.
  "The envelope you are holding right now, has a story associated with it" he said.
  I settled down and so did he before he began narrating in his usual, lucid style:
"As you know, I never stay in one place. I keep going to different places. And wherever I go, I do not beg for money or food. I try to find myself a job and feed myself through that.
 It so happened that on one of my tours, years back, I happened to stop in a village. I felt that I could stay in that village for a few months and rest myself before moving on. So, I decided to contact the Chairman of the village. That Chairman was a big, tough-looking guy, but hollow from inside. He was respected because his family was the richest in the village and half the people in the village were in debt for generations - taken by their forefathers from the forefathers of the Chairman.
 Before going to the Chairman, I had gathered enough information about him - that he had two wives and 3 daughters, that he also had a mistress, his house was the only one in the village to have a transistor and also that he was obsessed with English. Though he did not know English, he wanted his children to learn English. I went to him and introduced myself. I asked him for shelter, a job and did not forget to mention my fluency in English.
 That did it! I was offered a room in his house, so that I could take English classes for his daughters. The deal was that I need not pay anything as rent or for food or anything else. There was a catch - he wouldn't pay me for the classes as well! He was smart!
 I agreed to take the English classes - with a condition that other people in the village may also attend. Though slightly reluctant, he agreed. And my English classes began.
 People of all ages came. I am not being vain, but I was good-looking enough to get all the young women in the village to enroll for classes. And following them, came the guys! The numbers were huge - around 60, I guess. 60 people for an English class, back then, in a village was huge! I stayed in that village for around 3 months. People there got attached to me and me, to them. In all their little fights, petty daily issues, I could see life brimming out. They were illiterate. They were uneducated. However, let me tell you, they were alive!
 Coming back to the English class, I must confess, I did not make much progress except that the Chairman's daughters learnt quite a bit.
 One night, the Chairman's eldest daughter came to my room. She was a very beautiful girl. She had beautiful eyes that I still, sometimes, see in my dreams! "Vishwa Sir, I have something to give you" she said and gave me the envelope. She ran out blushing! To be frank, I could see that coming. For a few days I had observed that she took special initiative in tending to my needs. However, I wasn't ready for it. Besides, what would the Chairman think of me? Forget thinking, what would he do to me - with all those musclemen of his!? I still clearly remember what the letter - now in your hand - had.
 'Dear Vishwa Sir,
  I not know how to write this. If English is bad, please maafi. 
  From the day I saw you, you are in my heart. I stay cannot without seeing your beautiful face with that thin muchi. I talk to father. You talk also to father and arrange marrage. I will not live without you'
After about an hour or so, she came into the room on the pretext of calling me to dinner. She asked about the letter. I said "See, it should be 'I do not know' not, 'I not know'. It is not 'maafi' in English. It is 'Please forgive me'. Instead of 'I stay cannot' you must write 'I cannot stay'. For 'muchi', it is moustache. It should be 'You also talk to father' and the spelling is 'marriage'. This is all I can tell you."
 I could see she was terribly heartbroken. She went away crying. I knew it would be disastrous for me to stay there any longer. So, the next day, I told the Chairman that I had spent quite sometime in their village and would like to move on. He agreed and gave me some money, to cover my expenses till I found the next stop. I left that very day."
 I was silent for a while. "Vishwa, if you still see those eyes in your dreams, why didn't you accept her?" I asked.
 "Come on! You don't expect me to be tied down to a single place, do you? I can't take all that responsibility of a family. It is not my cup of tea. Yes, sometimes I do feel that I need to have someone that I can call family. But, the very next moment I realise that it is not for me. Don't bother about all that. Come, let's go and have something at Ramu's" Vishwa said, getting ready to go out. 

Just Another Story

    This obsession with coffee is something that Vishwa and I haven't been able to conquer. But then, everybody has their own indulgences. So, we don't mind. I don't think anybody else should also! We were sipping coffee in Ramu's at our usual table. The latest songs blared on the radio in Ramu's.
"You know something?" Vishwa started. "The system and society in which we live in is not at all right!"
"Who said it is? No system is perfect. It has to be made perfect. We can never be all perfect, can we Vishwa? If we were, we would be gods. But who are we? Mere mortals. Mere specks on this vast canvas of life" - I replied using all that I had listened to and learnt from a religious discourse the previous night. I had been forced to attend it with my family. They had organised it and invited the speaker - someone from one of the numerous orders in the city.
"Stop speaking like some aged philosopher! There is a flaw in our social makeup. Let me tell you what I mean.
 I was in Bengal on of my vagabond journeys. I deeply wanted to go to Dakshineshwar and visit the Kali temple. I hired a cycle rickshaw. A few minutes into the journey, the rickshaw-wallah started talking to me.
"Babu, would you mind if I tell you a story - so that both of us do not feel the journey?" he asked me in Hindi. Till then, I had narrated stories to many people. But here, I found someone who would narrate me one! I, of course, agreed.
"Babu, the story is set in a period some 20-25 years back. The protagonist of the story is a Muslim ladka. He is a very smart guy - a degree holder. During that time, you know, a simple degree meant a lot! It meant, with Allah's blessings, he was eligible for government jobs and go on to become big Sahebs. His parents were very proud of him. They decided to arrange for his nikah.
However, our hero didn't want to get married without getting a proper job. He didn't want to start a family without money. He offered stiff resistance - until he saw the girl! The girl was so beautiful that all his resistance melted! I have to add that this incident about his supposed resistance became the talk of the town and caused much embarrassment to the boy during nikah - everybody made fun of him! He took it all in his stride. Why wouldn't he? He was marrying such a beautiful girl!
At the time of his marriage, he hadn't yet found a job. However, he was confident of finding one - so was everybody around him. Unfortunately, he wasn't able to find a job soon. Around the same time, he learnt that his child would enter the world in a few months time. With happiness, renewed determination and energy, he set out to find himself a job. He drew a blank everywhere - all jobs were either "sold" or given to those with influence and recommendations!
His child was due any day. Then, a disaster occurred. A man-made one at that. The Babri Masjid was pulled down! Shock waves were felt all around the country! There was widespread communal violence. The families started evacuating and moving to places dominated by their own religion.
But our hero could not move to safety - his wife went into labor. All facilities were hit. He wasn't able to move his wife to the hospital in time. She delivered at home and died during childbirth. The child, however survived.
The troubles increased for our protagonist. There was no one to help him cremate his loving wife - beautiful even in death! There was nobody to take care of his child. Everybody had already moved out. So, he was all alone. There wasn't money to find supplies for his child. Even if there was, nobody wanted to help him - he was a Muslim! The baby cried endlessly and fell into sleep - tired! His heart went out to the child - but he was helpless! He then decided to do something that he would not even dream of in other circumstances - to steal money and go to some far off shop and buy something for his new-born child. He didn't want to let the flame of his family die out! As you might expect, he was caught in the act! Even after he told them his heart-wrenching plight, they were unmoved. They promptly handed him over to the police.
The police slapped charges of inciting communal violence on him and the court sentenced him to prison for 5 years.
Within 2 days, he received news - his only child had died!". The rickshaw-wallah stopped his narration.
I had tears in my eyes. "Babu, Dakshineshwar" he said and stopped the rickshaw. I got down and paid him money. Before leaving, he said "Babu, the story I told you all along, was mine. I am the protagonist of the story". I stood rooted for sometime."
Vishwa dabbed his eyes with his kerchief. I had tears in my eyes too.
"You tell me. Had he been given a job on his merit, would his wife have died? Would he have taken to stealing? Would his child have died? Why did the police have to frame him just because he was a Muslim? Didn't those who caught him have hearts to understand his plight? Ultimately, why did somebody have to demolish some stucture? And why should that affect somebody else living hundreds of miles away from that place? That's what I mean by there is a flaw in our social makeup" - Vishwa asked me, in a voice of anger and frustration.
I had no answer.
The songs still blared on the radio in Ramu's.