Nirmal Kumar | Stories about people who turned obstacles into stepping stones.

My very special thanks go to Janet Stern, my colleague at Oracle, for her constructive comments. She wrote a few paragraphs to make the story more appealing.

Mornings are wonderful when you wake up from a dream that is so vivid, so real. These episodes of waking up from a dream are more recent and recurrent. It is so magical and ironical as well. Would not you be surprised if someone whispers, "You're the light of the world" to a woman whose life is full of sorrows, woes, and throes? For a moment, I thought those are vapid words and I should ignore them. Nevertheless, those words stuck in my mind. Even now while talking to you I could still hear a voice chanting those magical words.

Psychologists would term it as reflections of unrealized desires of the heart. I am not a psychologist or a philosopher. My name is Krishnamma. I am a secondary grade teacher, served in a municipal elementary school for 32 long years, now retired.

You may wonder what I am doing at this hour in the hospital. Can you see the young woman lying over there? She is my daughter. The doctors said that her condition is terminal, and they are helpless.

Mine was an arranged marriage. At the tender age of 18, I got married to a man double my age. It was so common those days girls getting married at a young age.

My father did not have a regular job or a steady income. He was a freedom fighter. He was so involved in emancipating our country that he was very remiss in the government of his family. Maybe because he was incarcerated in Andamans, and was away from home for more than a decade. We lived on his meager pension that he received from the welfare scheme floated by our government for freedom fighters. It was a paltry amount, but my mother somehow managed to make ends meet. Such a shrewd woman was she.

My father begged me to marry the person he had seen for me. He even said he is our far relative, and did not demand dowry or whatsoever. He was working in a garment factory as a supervisor. Though not a white-collar job, he earned a decent salary. My mother was not at all interested in this proposal, but she did not have other choices. Tears were her only answer. My father threatened that refusing to get married might feed the rumor mills. It would also hinder my younger sister's marriage prospects. Halfheartedly, I said, yes.

It was a simple ceremony without much gala. We rented a house a few blocks away from my father's. My husband helped me in the kitchen. At times, he cooked dinner for us. Life was bliss supreme.

On that fateful day, we were preparing to retire for the day; suddenly I developed cramps in my stomach. I thought it might be because of menstruation. Nevertheless, it was weird you know. I never had menstrual cramps in my life. As the minutes passed by, the pain aggravated. He took me to the nearby hospital. The doctor gave some palliative medicine, and the pain subsided. I slept well.

I had this problem on and off for a couple of years. In the meantime, my father passed away. My husband supported my family to the hilt, emotionally and financially. Generosity of spirit, I would say. He even asked my mother and my sister to come and stay with us. Nevertheless, my mother stubbornly refused because she had an unwed daughter, and people will “talk”.

My stomach was getting worse day-by-day. The gynecologist whom I consulted suggested visiting a gastroenterologist because the cause of my abdominal pain has nothing to do with my reproductive system. After a couple of visits, the gastroenterologist said there is a blockage in the bowel that prevents the flow of fluids or solids, and I had to undergo ostomy, sooner the better. When he finished, all I understood was, after the surgery, I cannot empty my bowel in the toilet.

Laugh through life’s hardships is proverbial optimism, but reality is something different. The days after stoma surgery were challenging. It took considerable time to adjust to the ostomy pouch. Keeping the pouch clean and odorless was another onerous task. I avoided social gatherings.

Slowly my husband started detaching himself from me, first physically and then emotionally. I heard stories that he was seeing cheap women. It was a huge blow to my heart. The man I love is no more mine. Unrequited love is hard to recognize and harder to accept. I realized there is no point in crying. Life has taught me to be tough. I have to do something, but what I did not have any answers precisely at that moment.

On that fateful day, I had to return home early. The school headmaster sent a circular declaring holiday post-lunch because of some local festival. I walked home and over the paved step stones that marked a path to the front door of my house. By instinct, I put the key in the keyhole and tried opening the door. To my surprise or shock, the door was locked from inside. My mother usually comes at this time to help me with household chores because I was working. Maybe she is in, I thought. Nevertheless, what I heard was strange noises of different nature. If my mother is in, how did she allow this in the first place? I checked for my mother's slippers. Her black slippers with yellow embroidery were not there to the right of the door as they usually were. She could have gone out for some errands. Who is inside, then? I stared at the dusty white door, but it remained locked, offering no answers to my questions.

My thoughts went to a dark place. With no one to question him, was my husband emboldened? Did he dare to bring any of those women to our house? And, for how long has he been doing this? Needing to know, I walked through the sparse grass to a window on the side of the house. With bated breath, I peeked around the folds of the curtains hanging there. I was mortified. I could not believe my eyes; my husband was in bed with my sister. I did not have strength even to cry. It was as if my heart had stopped and I could no longer breathe. Agonizing moments! With immense pain, I slipped away silently.

A woman can survive anything, but not infidelity. Yet, I survived. When I returned home at the usual time, everything was normal, or seemed normal. My sister had even tidied up the house. At least she had the decency to that.

Over a casual talk, I hinted to my mother about their affair. She lambasted me for being crooked and mean. She even advised my suspicions were unfounded, and not to stoop so low. Later on, she too had to witness the ugly scene. She could not digest her daughter's betrayal of this magnitude. She realized the situation was beyond redemption. To save the family honor, she accepted to get them married. A week or so after their marriage, my mother collapsed in the kitchen. When we rushed her to the hospital, the doctor pronounced she was “brought dead”.

I used to have vicarious excitement whenever I saw my husband and my sister together, although she had usurped my rightful place. After all, she is my sister.

My salary doubled when the government accepted and announced the recommendations of pay commission. We lived a comfortable life. Although they survived on my salary, my husband and my sister treated me like a worm. Not even a single day passed by without insulting me. However, I answered them back with kindness.

When she conceived, I attended to her, as my mother would have. She did not even allow me to touch when she delivered a baby girl. This too shall pass! Doctrine of Impermanence that I learnt the hard way. I was hoping that my husband would change, mend his ways. His wayward behavior did not change a bit. Quarrel, shouting and beatings became every day affair.

I was devastated when my husband was tested HIV positive. Those were heart-wrenching moments when I saw him writhing in pain when he underwent antiretroviral therapy. Tears coursed down his checks. He mumbled incoherent things through his hands. Is he asking for forgiveness? Who am I to forgive? After a few weeks, the doctors gave up treating him since he was not responding. One fine day, he slipped into deep slumber never to wake up again. We cremated him, and immersed the ashes in the holy rivers according to our custom.

My sister could hold the heartbreak no longer. She plunged into depression that she reached the point of no return. Consumed by suicidal ideation, one fine day, she hanged herself.

Again, the burden of bringing up the girl shifted to my shoulders. I accepted the responsibility wholeheartedly. I spared no efforts to provide her the best. She is now a teacher like me.

She never did accept me as her mother. Words came thick and fast from her when I tried to correct her.

"What I feared has come upon me; what I dreaded has happened to me." She eloped. I could only shed tears in silence with grief, disappointment, and shame.

Accompanied by our relatives, I tried tracking her. All our efforts went down the drain. A few months later, she came back all alone with one more soul in her womb. She wept inconsolably for her wrongdoings. It was too late to realize her mistakes. Nevertheless, there is always a way for atonement. I accepted her, consoled her that I am her good friend whom she can lean on.

She delivered a healthy baby boy, but complications of shoulder dystocia caused post-partum hemorrhage, which the doctors could not contain.

Barely heard over the sound of the machines beeping in the room around me, a soft voice pulled me away from the thoughts racing in my head.

“Amma”

I could not believe my ears. She calls me amma. How I craved for this moment? God has relented, at last!

“Yes my child, amma is here.”

“Amma, hold my hand. Will you take care of him when I am gone?”

“Don’t say that my dear. We all three are going home”

“No amma, I know I cannot make it. I am sorry…”

She is sinking. I must do something.

“Nurse, it’s emergency!”

There is no pain greater than to see someone close to your heart is dying.

“How is she, sister?”

“I am sorry ma’m. She is not with us anymore. My deepest condolences. Is there someone around here to help you?”

“Yes, my relatives are in the lobby. Would you mind calling them, sister?”

“Sure, ma’m”

Just the three of us in the room – the withered, wilting, and the budding.

All my yearnings, desires, thoughts were centered on one thing - to become a mother. Now, I am a grandmother, mother, surrogate mother, all in one. However, I cannot be a wet mother, but that is ok.

“How should I call you my boy? Can I call you Krishna?”

My very special thanks go to Janet Stern, my colleague at Oracle, for her constructive comments and encouragement.

Today is Athena’s birthday. I should be celebrating with her. But life doesn’t always turn out the way we dream, does it? How she has grown up from a prattling baby to a ravishing beauty. Her gracefully slender figure reminds me of a Greek goddess. It’s hard to believe twenty-four years have passed since she was born. It seems as if things happened only yesterday. I still remember the day she was born. It was a season of youth, flowers, love and a new beginning. Yes, it's deeply cherished - the season of spring. It was drizzling sporadically around the city we live in. The fragrance of blossoming flowers wafted along by the breeze. The enchanting song of a cuckoo harbingered the arrival of a new day. I pulled the lift cords of the Venetian blinds; a shaft of sunlight peeked through the clouds. Cawing crows criss-crossed the sky followed by the cacophony of costermongers.

Gradually I developed labor pain. I was rushed to the hospital when I screamed for help. After examining me, the obstetrician assured me that it's going to be a normal delivery and I need not panic.

I was anxious—would it be a boy or a girl? Whoever it was, I knew it was a gift from God, one I would embrace with all my heart.

In the solemn stillness of early morning, my long awaited cherub was born. The nursing assistant stroked my cheeks and congratulated me for delivering a healthy baby girl. The ordeal consummated my womanhood. How wonderful it is to be a woman, a mother? Isn't it?

I must see her, smell her, kiss her, fondle her; hankering to see her, I tried to lift up my head up. My head felt heavy. Needless to say, my back was sore. The good-natured nursing assistant tacitly understood my awful predicament, petted me, and in a harmonious tone she said that the baby was being given the first bath, and will be with me in a short while.

After her bath was finished, an hour or so later, the nurse brought her in securely covered with a fine cotton wrap and laid her beside me. She harangued for some time about neonatal care and how I should take care of myself. She then handed to me an ice pack and instructed how to alleviate the postpartum perineal pain. I intently listened and absorbed every syllable she uttered. Before leaving, she told me to call her if I needed anything.

Isn't a full term baby without any congenital anomalies, a gift of God? I cannot agree with you more. I thought about those moments when she was in my womb. How naughty was she, kicking and jabbing. Every time I had to convince her that her time has not come yet to see the world. With filial devotion, she would go back into slumber.

She was cooing and smiling, may be she's talking to angels. Divine is the word that flashed into my mind when I saw her the first time. Her sparkling eyes spoke volumes to me. The fontanel was as malleable as clay. The curly black hairs were like strands of hanging ringlets. The eyebrows were perfect bows without strings. I wonder whether her eyelashes would require mascara when she grows up. The nose was finely chiseled. Her rosy checks were bedecked with dimples, her lips the color of rubies. "Don't worry my little child, momma's here", I mumbled. She's my blood, my vein, my flesh, and my very own image. I ran my fingers through her hair, pecked on her cheek. What could she be when she grows up? hmm... precisely at that moment I swore to God that I'd make her a queen. Days chugged on. She started exploring her body and the world around her. She was very fond of playing peek-a-boo. She was able to recognize voices. At times I could hear her making ooh, ah sounds, kicking and crawling around the bed.

One fine day she sat up and tried to stand on her feet. I marveled at her when she started staggering around the room.

I often took break from my work, rushed home to feed her. The very thought of her would wet my brassiere. It's was so embarrassing when people were around, but I never bothered.

Ouch! I squirmed, hurriedly pulled away my bosom. Is she teething? With my index finger I probed. To my delight, she was teething. Two little pearls were peeking, eagerly waiting to chomp anything that teased them. Her naughtiness, too, grew along with her. Whenever she felt ignored or to draw my attention, she would wet then play in the puddle of piddle, muster all her strength and scream in an ear-splitting voice. Steaming in anger, I rush to spank her, but the disarming smile of her would wither out all my frustrations.

Is not watching babies grow a rewarding experience? Truly, those are the moments that ought to be relished and cherished for eons… if only life had let me hold onto them.

My joy knew no bounds when the first time she called me 'Amma'. Every night at bed she asked me to sing a lullaby or tell a story. I bought her exotic gifts on every occasion. In spite of being a globetrotting entrepreneur, I never missed her birthdays. Whatever way I could, I demonstrated how far I loved her, adored her. She returned my love with the same magnitude.

She was delighted when I put her in pre-KG. At school she was the darling of everyone. She was a precocious child.

When she graduated from pre-university I asked her,

"What do you want to be, my love? A doctor? An engineer?"

"I’d rather study medicine, Ma."

"I wonder why medicine?"

"I want to serve humanity with all the love and care as you have always showered on me. You're my idol ma."

With misted eyes, I hugged her, pecked her cheeks, and whispered, "May God meet all your needs according to His glorious riches, my child."

She is now at the threshold of entering nuptial bliss. I should find her the right match… should I? The thought lingers for a moment before the world around me crashes back into focus.

Somewhere, far away, a voice calls. Faint at first, like a whisper in the wind. I push it aside. But something is slipping. An ache, dull but persistent, creeps into my bones.

The cold pavement presses against my back. The scent of baby powder and spring flowers fades, swallowed by the stench of damp concrete and rotting food.

The voice grows louder. A rough shove. Pain shoots through my ribs.

"Hey! Who’s that lying there? Get up and move!"

I blink. The dream is gone.

"Ouch…please stop hitting me sir."

"Damn it! How many times have I told you not to sleep here? If I catch you again, I swear I'll make you regret it. Do you hear me?"

"Yes sir... yes sir I understand."

"Hey, stop! Why should I have to tell you to pick up the filthy bag? Get out of my sight, you bloody skunk!"

Before the grizzly bear pounces on me, I’d better get out of here.

I clutch my bag, my fingers trembling against the worn fabric. The weight in my chest is heavier than hunger. How else do you expect someone like me—an old, forgotten transgender woman, a woman who carried love in her heart but never in her womb—to survive in this world?

This story was published in Novell Culture Handbook

I'm an ugly duckling. It gives me goose bumps when I reminisce. My first love (one and only love! trust me), my first job, my first everything still linger as fresh as a proverbial daisy. Nothing happens by serendipity; savor the perennial happiness of learning; be inclusive in your approach. Those are the lessons I've learned all through my life. I've trod on the path less traveled. The wrinkles and crevasses you see on my face are not the consequence of my old age; rather, footprints of my experience, my experiments with life that time has sculpted.

Did I mention Madhumita (madhu-mitta to me)? Let me make the long story short. I met her in the lounge while I was waiting for my turn to meet the interview panel. Instantly I was drawn to her, developed strong feelings for her. After much hemming and hawing I introduce myself to her. She just acknowledged it with a smile. A smile that the angels would envy, or that would make a nymph jealous. What an adorable dimple, I wish I had it myself. Her shiny luscious black curly hair fell loosely over her shoulders like gossamer strands. Her complexion was somewhat dusky, but immaculate. Her almond shaped eyes effortlessly mesmerized me. She had a patrician nose. Are they lips or a frozen rose, or could it be a ruby? Whatever it may be, do not fantasize, I warn you, I own them now. Her gait was even paced. Later on I learned that she's a fluid dancer. My heart missed a beat when she said hi to me every morning. She had a beautiful mind, a woman of birth in deed. Not a day passed without thinking of her. It all started with subtle signs and signals, escalated to loving gazes, and consummated in conjugal felicity. Though departed to heavenly abode now, she is never far from my mind, heart and soul.

Corporate life was not easy for me, initially. The stumbling block was my proficiency in English, because my secondary school education was vernacular. It never occurred to me to learn a second language. I was so naive. Though I had necessary skills required for my profession, I was not able to communicate, to relate to other people. In team meetings, I stuttered. I fumbled to put across my points. As the days passed, I became more and more socially withdrawn. My teammates empathized. At times my extreme sensitivity got on their nerves.

I stumbled upon the books of Dr. Samuel Smiles. Those are the fountainhead of my strength. I realized there is no point in fretting over my past, I should overcome. I resolved to fight. I had the will and conviction to learn, I learned. Let me share with you an interesting incident, a watershed in my life.

With sterling honesty I worked my way up. In a short while I was noticed, I earned a promotion. With a promotion comes perks and of course additional responsibilities. Being a senior associate I often needed to conduct team meetings, which were no breeze. The meeting room was often filled with anxious moments. Animated discussions, heated debates, conflict of opinions, fortunately no one overstepped their boundary.

Though I was comfortable handling team meetings, I was not confident enough to participate in cross-team meetings where the participants were predominantly native speakers. But one cannot escape the noose of the Providence for too long. Finally the most dreaded thing happened. My manager broke the news that he had set up a conference call with the architect seated in Provo. "Only three of us!", he said it with a smirk.

Late night calls are nightmares! Although I picked up English easily, I was not at all comfortable with their tongue twisting accent. But it's my Hobson's choice. I had to bite the bullet. This is not a school where you can say a lame excuse, "My grandma passed away" or "I have dysentery" and bunk the classes. Gone are those halcyon days. I'm a professional now, I should act as one.

With a thumping heart, queasy stomach, rubbery knees, I staggered into the meeting room.

I was so desperate to have a coffee to keep my spine warm. Darn! It's not working. I wonder why they have such vending machines that don't work seven days a week. Let me save the thought for some other day, I decided.

Stay focused! Disregard the negative thoughts, my brain commanded. I could see a Zen master say, "stay here, now." Even I have written an article, "Eight simple tips to stay focused at work and home." But it hurts when reality kicks. Momentarily, I realized desperation and anxiety is only going to drain my body and spirit. I collected my composure.

I learnt from my manager that the architect is an irascible genius known for his temper, tantrums and intimidation. But people loved him, revered him. Come hell or high water, he is dead determined to meet his goals and objectives. He comes out of adverse situations unscathed. He is capable of handling any critsit with elegance. Opinions galore!

I should not appear overly confident, neither terribly fearful; should act natural, but this queasy stomach...ouch!

"Hey! Rahul, you seem to be preoccupied. How are things?"

"About to explode your Excellency, wanna witness it?" I thought of asking, but somehow restrained my tongue. I just mumbled, "Good."

"Rahul, would you mind to dial? The number is up there in the Novell directory," he commanded. With filial piety I did what he asked me to do.

The deafening silence pushed me to Hades. Had he slept? Occupied with some other meetings? In split seconds many things crossed my mind. After a considerable number of rings he picked up.

"Hey dude! What's up?" A rhetorical question! Should I say "the ceiling?"

"Not much, Dave. Rahul is with us."

"Hey! Raul"

"Hey! Dave" Should I tell him it's Raa...hul and not Raul?

I have not met Dave in person, but I had a chance to see a group snapshot of our senior heads in Provo. He had a naturally contoured jaw line that could cut a glass. His sparkling eyes, lush lashes, aquiline nose, and tousled hair could send Vamp of Savannah into a trance. Even hard-hearted Hannah could not resist his cherubic smile. She will submit to his heavenly aura, I bet. Are they shoulders or boulders? He would have been a footballer, I guess. I have read about alpha males, today I am witnessing one.

His bass voice still reverberated in the meeting room. Sandy or Lucy or whoever for that matter, you are lucky to have him.

"Hope you have gone through the FRD, Raul. Any concerns, questions?"

Point blank, he is not a person to waste time, I presume. Thankfully, I have read and reread the FRD about a zillion times. Something disturbed me about the design. There is a flaw, but I'm not sure what it is. It may be a hunch or my thinking is childish. How should I tell him?

My manager looked like an undertaker waiting for the butcher to slay. Does he? Or, am I just imagining things? He did not seem to rescue me. He gave me a wan smile. From his spiritless gaze I could make out him saying, "It's a long way to go sonny."

So what should I say? "There is a flaw in your design, Dave." It's too condescending a remark. What if he asks for specifics that I am not too sure about? It may disrupt the status quo...

"The design could have been better." A superficial and unproductive comment, elicits nothing but wrath.

"The design could not be better." Too servile and it's beneath my dignity to flatter.

Or just say, "Dave, you are stupid. You are unfit to be an architect." It's impudent and it ill behooves any of us to mangle a person's morale. Someday I will also be an architect.

"Let's get down to the nitty-gritty Dave." Sounds perfect! I felt a lump in my throat. I cleared my croaky throat. With all the guts I could muster, I uttered, "Dave, this new product will definitely put us on the map. There is no second thought about it, but something disturbs me."

"You mean to say something wrong with the design?" he exclaimed.

"Exactly! We may have to explore the permission settings a bit extensively. The present design works for eDirectory. But when we add support for Active Directory and other directory services, the product won't scale up. This is my opinion. What's your take?"

"Good that you brought it up at the right moment. Let's put the coding part on the back burner for a while. I can understand the size of the job that's ahead of us," he admitted.

The conference call went well. We had a series of calls the following couple of weeks.

In the meantime, Novell was acquired by a company. We were a bit skeptical about whether the new management would support us. Surprisingly, the new management supported us to the hilt.

When the product hit the market we were stunned by the roaring reception it received from our customers. Our competitors were also stunned by its quick success.

After all these years the product is still admired for its stability.

Had I not opened my mouth at the right moment, the entire project would have gone down in flames. Needless to say many heads would have rolled.

"I am a slow walker, but I never walk backwards." I borrowed that from Abraham Lincoln. May be I can finally say that that this ugly duckling has turned into a magnificent swan!

My very special thanks go to Janet Stern, my colleague at Oracle, for her constructive comments and encouragement.

Then Jesus told them this parable: "Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Does he not leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, 'Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.' I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent." Luke 15: 3-7.

It's a full moon day. Children are running gaily helter-skelter through the streets. Elders sitting on the verandah are reminiscing. There ensues a burst of boisterous laughter when someone in the group passed an ignoble comment pointing his index finger at me. I am unable to hear it, but I can understand it's crawling with filth. Once the same lips praised, "A loving dove, a graceful deer," while caressing my tender breasts. Arrant hypocrite! Dogs crisscross the street with exuberance as usual. I always wonder how these cute little creatures mastered the art of loving without any expectations in this ungrateful world. The intermittent cackle of hens, the bleat of goats, and maw of cows entertain the calm still night. I hear an old woman cursing her grandson for hiding her portable grinder, which she uses to make a mortar of beetle leaves, lime, aricanut, and tobacco. I knew her grandson, who always plays pranks on his grandmother. Small children snuggling up to their mothers refuse to take a morsel from the food bowl. The sorority of loquacious women adds gaiety to the surroundings. The youth as usual loitering at the street corner far enough to hide their bidis, animatedly discuss myriad topics from cinema to the latest amatory literature they have reviewed. Knowledge-sharing? A drunkard threw out of his house, crawling in the street, blabbers, and salivates copiously like a rabid dog, what a disgrace. I hear a dreadful brawl going on in the tavern that is located on the outskirts of our village. A consortium of busybodies is spinning tall tales. Archetypal fools! Can't they do something worthy?

Except for me, everyone around is bubbling with joy, or are they just shamming? I am not myself. I am frazzled. Whomever I meet on the road scowls at me. I can hear those uttering epithets under their breath. Some shower me profusely with the choicest expletives. With a sagging face and drooping spirit, I am here at my hangout spot, the temple complex of the tutelary deity of our village.

Although it's dilapidated, I'm always enthralled by the serene ambiance of this temple. The temple complex has a placid pond, a very old banyan tree that shelters multitudes of birds in the night and provides shadow to the traveling men in the day, and a huge fierce-looking statue of the goddess. The breathtaking reflection of the shimmering moon in the pond keeps me spellbound. I do always have a soft spot for the moon. She's like me, so fragile and alone. Her prime occupation is to reflect the rays of the sun dutifully. Once I asked her, hadn't she tuckered out with this monotonous life of waxing and waning, and slavishly serving others. Her answer was no. She briefed me that she was ordained to serve and not to command. I do enjoy the cacophony of crickets, occasional squeaks of birds perching on the banyan tree and the orchestra of frogs singing all through the night ceaselessly to attract their female companions. The aroma of the paddy fields wafting through the breeze rejuvenates my dry and barren heart.

The sky is studded with glittering stars, twinkling incessantly. Are they trying to say something to me? I am shamefully ignorant. I am neither a philosopher nor a poet to wax eloquent over the ethereal beauty of the firmament. After all, I am a wayward woman wobbling in the morass of moral depravity. Have you ever felt the loving strokes of the gentle breeze when you are quartered, and dumped? It is so comforting, heavenly indeed.

"How are you?" - The chummy dulcet voice of breeze; my sole comforter.

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not okay. You are listless. It's obvious in your bleary eyes."

"No, I'm..."

"Whoa! Let me bring you the fragrance of Night Queen. It'll soothe your troubled soul."

"Ah! What a heavenly redolence!" Night Queen? Piercing-pangs of conscience seize me; for that was the epithet, I had then. "Are you like me Night Queen, used and abused? No, you smell good." I mumble. My tumultuous heart is not keen to enjoy it.

"Are you feeling good now?"

"Leave me alone, I'm tired."

"Wait, my child, I have many more tricks up my sleeve, let me undulate the paddy field."

"Amazing ripples!" What an exquisite taste Mother Nature has. However, I am unable to appreciate it further. My mental fatigue is taking its toll on my aesthetic sense.

"Shall I serenade for you?"

The breeze courses through the bores in the bamboo. Euphonious melody emanates, but my tempestuous heart forbids me to dote on it.

"You're my Job's comforter. Just get lost."

My train of thought drifts through the past that I have restrained so hard for so long. However, today I could not resist. I desperately needed my mother's bosom, my father's shoulder to lean on and to cry my heart out.

I was born to lepers on an auspicious day in a nondescript village in the southern part of India composed of 500 odd houses, mostly huts. My parents were staying in a small house in the precincts of the leprosarium, which was founded and funded by a missionary, who is now dead and gone. Although my parents were lepers, nature adorned me with impeccable skin and bestowed on me pulchritude in abundance. Therefore, I was christened as Alagi. I grew up in abject poverty. I used to wear threadbare gowns. I always craved for better clothes, but the penury of our resources forbade me.

Though my parents were lepers, they never begged. They worked hard in the fields, which belonged to the charity, to raise me. They were honest with God. When I was seven years old, I lost my father. Days together, I cried. For others, he may be a leper but for me, he was the person who gave me life and identity. His near mutilated extremities, frail body covered with fluid oozing lesions, grotesque smile, and tousled hair are still before my eyes. He was the most handsome man under the sun, I bet. His deep-grained sense of duty to the family and devotion to bring up his daughter, his belief in honor and valor...my God, what a wonderful dad was he! He was a man of integrity who stubbornly refused to live at the mercy of others. Despite all the misfortunes, he lived happily every moment of his life.

When I was 11, I lost my mother. That was the greatest disaster in my life. Losing a mother brings immeasurable pain, hard to accept, no matter who you are. Suddenly I was orphaned. Everyone around disowned me. Wherever I went, I was given a frigid welcome. Had I been a boy, they would have competed with each other to adopt me. Since I was a girl, a lesser mortal, they shunned me away. I was stymied, nowhere to go and no one to comfort. The news spread like a forest fire about my sorry state. A gentleman whom I knew from my childhood, an assistant in the hospital came forward to adopt me. Since he had no children, no one objected. They praised him to heavens for his magnanimity. I was much delighted when the hospital administrator told me about my foster parents. Later on, I learned that I was adopted not because of love, but it was an arrangement to look after his bedridden wife. My everyday tasks included cooking, fetching water from the watercourse two kilometers away from my home, washing laundry, cleaning the house, and giving my sick foster mother medication on time most importantly. The routine started at five o'clock in the morning. Since my father had to be in the hospital at seven sharp, I had to prepare both breakfast and lunch for him. I was always late to school, but my teacher who knew me well allowed it without a murmur. Hardly had I time to study. Whenever I was free, I was with my books. I stood first in the class. My teachers and my classmates always admired me. Life was good.

At the age of 13, I attained puberty. My surrogate father celebrated by throwing a feast to our relatives and friends. As my body matured, it changed things at school. Smitten by my beauty, many boys proposed me in whatever way they could. Some boys invented novel methods to get my attention. Nevertheless, I was not carried away by the fuss that was happening around me. I always focused on my studies.

At home, we had only three rooms; one was the kitchen, one my mother occupied and the remaining one my father and I shared. Since my father was always dog-tired after the day's hectic work, I didn't want to disturb my father's sleep, so I usually studied in the kitchen.

One day as usual after my day's work, I was in the kitchen. My father entered the kitchen, it was around one o'clock I believe, the whole village was fast asleep, and even the stray dogs were taking a catnap. At first, I thought he came to drink water, but he did not. He ogled at me. "What's wrong with him?" Before I could realize, he bolted the door, switched off the light, spread on me and spoiled me. In a moment all happened. He got up and went out as if nothing had happened. I was shocked to see my blood-drenched dress. I could not move my thighs. My genital was traumatized by the forceful penetration. Like a ravenous beast, he rapaciously squeezed my breasts; they swelled up like boulders. The pain was so severe. I did not know what to do. I cried my heart out in silence. Then what else could a forlorn girl like me do? The next morning, he came to me, brandished a knife and let the threat unspoken. I understood that I should not breathe a word to others. Every night the painful ordeal continued. I was tolerating the trauma in silence. However, nature was not in silence. One day in school, I vomited. The teacher who was close to me took me to the doctor. There in the hospital, the doctor revealed that I was pregnant. Hell broke out. Someone told my mother the whole episode with some extra fittings. She cursed me that I seduced her husband. She made a petition to the kangaroo court (panchayat) for justice. The village elders after a spasmodic discussion excommunicated me. They even threatened that they would lynch me if I dared to enter the village. With one more soul in my womb, I came to the village where I stay now.

I roamed around the village doing menial jobs and stayed in the temple. It went on for some time. The village head summoned me. After hearing my story, he benevolently came forward to help the "damsel in distress." The next day, he took me to a native doctor for an abortion. He asked me to stay in his house at the coconut grove, which he owned. I felt much relieved and started worshipping him in my heart. After a week or so at midnight, he came to my house punch drunk and spoiled me. It became a routine. At times, I had to entertain his friends too. I became public property. His wife came to know about the scandal and threw me out of the house. I was arraigned for adultery. Here, too, I was blamed, not the 'gentlemen' who slept with me. Now, I am again on the streets. But this time, unabashedly I vamped men. I became a streetwalker.

I advocate sex workers should be awarded the Nobel Prize for tolerance. We tolerate the musty odor that escapes from the flared up nostrils, the putrid smell and the soapy secretions oozing out from the bodies of those horny goats. It is verily a harrowing experience to embrace those putrescent corpses.

Life was moving smoothly without hassles until one day I felt irritation in my genitals while urinating. Suddenly my body temperature rose and had other symptoms that usually accompany fever. I took medicine from the medical shop and the symptoms subsided. But after a week or so the symptoms were acute. I could not bear the pain. I took one of my professional confreres to the corporation hospital in the nearby town. There they ran blood tests and informed me that I was HIV positive. I was shattered to smithereens. The whole universe started crumbling. No business, no income, no food, what will happen to me if I am bedridden? Who will take care of me? The shadow of death loomed largely. Abused at the tender age of 13 and at the threshold of death at 19. Whom should I blame? The whole night I wept.

Early in the morning, I decided to kill myself. I took a rope and went to the outskirts of the village to hang myself in a tamarind tree. When I was searching for a bough, I heard a cough from the nearby bush. Someone was there answering nature's call. I adjourned my death sentence to the following day. I came back to my house and slept for a long time. When I woke up, the sun was straight on my head. I cooked my favorite dish, ate as much as possible and slept again. Around seven o'clock in the evening, I woke up, took a bath, cooked, ate and prayed to the god of my faith to forgive my transgressions and at nine o’clock, I am at my hangout spot.

"Alagi...Alagi..."

"Yes, who is that?"

"I am here; turn around."

"Who are you, old lady? What business do you have here? Hold on... A small, stooped woman in faded blue striped sari...smiling wrinkled face...hmm... yes, I got it! You are..."

"Yes, you're right. I've just come to see you."

"See me, a prostitute?"

"Don't cry, my child. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. The mortals gave you those appellations, but for the IMMORTAL you are someone precious. Let not your heart be troubled, for the MOST HIGH is the one who judges."

"Am I responsible for my mortal sins? Certain things I did unwittingly and certain things I did by volition; then how will HE judge? When I was writhing in pain, no one mitigated it. When I was craving for love, those lecherous wolves exploited me. After satiating their lust, they looked condescendingly at me as if I am a worm. When I longed for a dignified life, I was humiliated. Even before my body prepared itself for procreation, it was torn into pieces. Now I am lower than dirt, loathsome sediment, and a cohort of evil. My heart is shrouded in darkness..."

"My heart bleeds my child. God only can answer your questions. Ask him earnestly with a contrite heart. Submit yourself wholeheartedly to the MOST HIGH. He'll guide you and protect you from all the evils."

"You're so evasive. I will not let you go so easily. Now tell me, if I am a prostitute, then who are they, who slept with me? If women are socially stigmatized, then shouldn't they be emasculated? They should."

"That is just how the world is, I'm sorry."

"Wait, lady. Don't move. It is easier said than done. Had you ever come across what I have experienced, you will not speak thus. So, stop your blather."

"Me, blathering? I understand your agony. I would like to quote from the scriptures. Listen:

“There is time for everything; a season for every activity under heaven: A time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to hate, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.”

“All your pains have culminated to the point that you can endure. Now it is time to see the congenial side of life. Cry unto Him, He will nurse your wounds. He will guide you to eternal peace. He had made a covenant to give shelter to those who are grief laden. He is the sinew of uncompromising love, the bounty of goodness. He is not human to change the stance. Taste and see that the Lord is good."

"Pardon me for interrupting; I'm prey to many doubts. Is God a man? Why don't you say She? Is that wrong?"

"Absolutely no; I appreciate your keenness. You have the liberty to call Him either way. Let me tell you, no one has seen God. He is infinite. It is blasphemous to personify our Creator on gender polarity."

"Will you heal my wretched infirmities?"

"I've no authority to that. Submit yourself. Through faith and incessant prayers, plead the Most Gracious Most Merciful."

"Thank you, mother! Your kind words are worth trying. I see a faint glimmer of life. I'll try to be an instrument of my Master, one who delivers me, one who waits to embrace me, one who longs to honor me.

Even if death calls me at this moment, I'll die in peace...for God knows I tried."

A couple, both government servants, persevered through years of struggle to finally build their dream home. They transformed their backyard into a lush haven, cultivating a rich tapestry of creepers, ornamental plants, fruit-bearing trees, and vegetables, while encircling their home with towering coconut trees. As their garden flourished, they became increasingly self-sufficient, relying less on store-bought produce.

The husband, with unwavering dedication, meticulously tended to every plant and tree, ensuring they thrived under his care. Their children shared his passion, eagerly helping to nurture the vibrant greenery. At times, visitors found themselves in awe, wondering if they had stepped into a jungle. Squirrels, sparrows, and crows made their homes among the coconut trees, adding to the garden’s lively charm.

During summer, seasonal flowers burst into bloom, painting the landscape with vibrant hues. The air carried the sweet, intoxicating scent of jasmine, often stopping passersby in their tracks as they paused to savor the fragrance. Their dream home had become more than just a shelter—it was a paradise of nature’s abundance.

Years passed. The children grew up, and the parents retired, their once-thriving home standing as a testament to years of love and toil. But one wrong move can change everything—and it did. A single misstep in business stripped them of everything they had built.

The house still stands—refurbished—but it no longer belongs to them. Some of the trees that once stood as silent witnesses to their laughter and dreams have been cut down, their absence a cruel reminder of all that was lost. Yet, life endures. Squirrels still dart through the branches of the remaining trees, sparrows and crows still nest, and a lone cuckoo sings—perhaps unaware that the hands that once nurtured this land are long gone.

You might wonder how I know this story so well. I lived it. I am the youngest child of the couple who built that dream—only to watch it slip away, like leaves carried away by the wind, leaving only memories behind.

The little boy waiting at the gate screamed, "They’ve arrived!" The gathering at the house rushed out to welcome the visitors. After exchanging pleasantries, both families entered the house.

"Make yourself comfortable," the host said warmly.

It was a traditional matchmaking ceremony. According to custom, the groom and his parents would visit the bride's home to see her in person—of course, only after the nitty-gritty of horoscope matching and all that had been taken care of.

Both parents were understandably anxious, chatting just to ease the tension. Finally, the groom’s father spoke up, bringing the anxious chatter to a halt. "Could you please call her?" he said. The bride’s father politely nodded and asked his wife to bring their daughter to the hall.

The girl entered, accompanied by little children who had no idea what the ceremony was about. Draped in an elegant silk saree, her neatly plaited hair adorned with fresh jasmine, she moved gracefully, balancing a tray of steaming coffee cups despite the tremor of nervousness in her hands.

Her father gently asked her to serve coffee to the guests.

The groom was awestruck.

Tall and striking, he bore an uncanny resemblance to the legendary filmmaker Satyajit Ray. A man of intellect and quiet confidence, he had turned down several lucrative offers from abroad, choosing instead to serve his country as a teacher in a university—a decision that spoke volumes about his character and sense of responsibility.

The girl, on the other hand, never lifted her eyes to meet his. She quietly served the coffee and slipped back into her room, leaving the groom with a heart racing faster than he had ever known. But just before leaving, she stole a fleeting glance — a subtle squint, a cursory look — so discreet that no one noticed she had seen the boy at all. Such were the women of those days — not submissive, but graceful, self-assured, and unfailingly polite in their demeanor.

Her parents sat in quiet anticipation, their anxiety barely hidden.

The girl’s parents politely excused themselves, quietly stepped into her room, and gently asked if she liked the boy. Overwhelmed with joy and blushing deeply, she simply nodded. Her parents were delighted. They, too, had taken a liking to the boy and his family. The ceremony concluded on a joyful note, with both families agreeing to consult the astrologer to fix an auspicious date for the wedding.

In those days, communication was limited to analog telephones — a luxury only the privileged could afford — telegrams, and inland letters.

It was around this time that an outbreak of chickenpox and smallpox spread rapidly, causing panic across the region. The mediator advised both families to postpone the wedding plans until the chaos subsided.

Days turned into weeks. With each passing day, the boy waited anxiously for word from the girl’s family. Then, one afternoon, the mediator arrived at the boy’s home with devastating news: the girl had succumbed to the illness.

The boy’s family was shattered — grief-stricken beyond words. An inconsolable loss for both families. The boy wept in silence.

After a brief period of mourning, he returned to work, but something within him had changed forever.

He never married. Years passed, and he remained celibate until his passing, just a couple of years ago. Whenever I visit my hometown, I make it a point to visit his grave — a gesture of respect and remembrance.

Once, during a quiet conversation, I had casually asked him why he had never considered marrying. His reply stayed with me ever since:

"I've lived my life with the only love of my life. Nothing could ever replace her."

Such was the chaste and unwavering devotion he carried in his heart — a love unfulfilled, yet never lost.

It was breeding season. Cats were making strange noises at night and prowling around the houses. Amid this, a female cat gave birth to five adorable kittens — each a unique blend of shades and stripes.

My neighbor took them in with surprising kindness, feeding them milk and giving them a cozy shelter. Though the cats were something of a nuisance, the kittens — with their playful antics and innocent charm — quickly stole everyone’s heart in the neighborhood.

The mother cat was fiercely possessive. She allowed no one to touch her babies when she was around — perhaps just a mother’s instinct at work.

As the days passed, the kittens grew — and so did their mischief. Their innocent games often took a wild turn. Sometimes, they would proudly drag home a dead chameleon, a rat, or some other unfortunate rodent — as if offering a prized gift.

Kids! Always full of surprise stunts and dramatic tantrums — whether human or feline.

When the kittens were grown enough, they left the house that had sheltered them — and the mother who had lovingly fed and protected them — to build lives of their own. The mother was alone once more.

Aged and weary, she cried for a while. She would visit the hiding places her kittens once played in, letting out soft, plaintive calls that were met with silence. Disappointed, she would quietly retreat to the bed my neighbor had kindly laid out for her — her only comfort.

"Such is the fate of parents," murmured the old man, his voice trembling as he clasped his wife’s frail hand. His eyes lingered on the grieving mother cat, her cries echoing a sorrow he knew all too well. In that silent, empty nest, he saw a reflection of their own lives — once filled with laughter and warmth, now reduced to quiet corners and fading memories.

A quiet village lay cradled in the emerald folds of the Blue Mountains, where mist curled around the tiled rooftops and life moved to the rhythm of nature. The people were humble, the air was clean, and the scent of eucalyptus drifted through narrow paths lined with wildflowers.

That afternoon, the skies darkened without warning. Rain began to lash the hills, sending farmers scrambling from their fields and cattle trotting back toward shelter. Amid the sudden downpour, a young girl — full-term and writhing in pain — was rushed to the small hospital in the neighboring town. There, under flickering lights and anxious prayers, she gave birth to a baby girl.

But joy turned quickly into dread. The doctors spoke in hushed tones — the baby was a "blue baby," struggling to breathe, her tiny chest rising with effort. The hospital lacked the equipment to treat her. A transfer was necessary — to a better facility in the city, 50 kilometers away, down in the plains. Every minute counted.

An ambulance was arranged, bare-bones but functional, equipped just enough to keep the newborn stable. As the rain beat down on the tin roof of the van, the young mother, her eyes swollen with fear, climbed in with her parents. No one spoke. Only the baby’s faint breaths and the wailing siren filled the heavy silence — a journey began, not just across mountains, but across the fragile threshold between despair and hope.

The girl's husband followed the ambulance on his bike, his heart pounding louder than the engine beneath him. The rain blurred the narrow mountain road, turning every bend into a blur of mist and danger. He couldn’t ride fast — the visibility was poor, the road slick. But the ambulance driver, a native of the hill station, knew each curve like the back of his hand and had already vanished ahead into the downpour.

Amid the chaos, a man from the plains — stranded and desperate — had waved the biker down and climbed on behind, clutching him tightly as they braved the rain-soaked path together.

They were rounding a sharp, forested bend when the bike jerked to a halt. Just a few feet ahead, a massive figure loomed out of the mist — a tusker, towering and motionless, with one tusk broken.

The locals knew what that meant. Tuskers with broken tusks were known to be dangerously unpredictable, feared even by other wild animals. They were kings of the forest, and none dared cross their path.

The biker froze, the roar of the rain swallowed by the silence of dread. His mind went blank. Behind him, the hitchhiker trembled, gripping the seat with white knuckles.

Then, as if summoned by an unseen will, the mammoth turned. Without a sound, it climbed down the steep slope beside the road and melted into the forest — like a ghost that had simply come to remind them who ruled these hills.

The biker exhaled, only then realizing he’d been holding his breath. He restarted the engine with shaking hands and rode on, every second now borrowed from something greater.

Years passed, and after moving to the plains in search of better prospects, the family slowly built a life of quiet pride and purpose. Their days were simple, but their hopes ran deep. When asked what she wanted to become, her answer was calm, unwavering — a pathologist.

It was the same little girl who once gasped for breath on a stormy night, cradled in uncertainty, racing against time and fate. The same child whose first cries were nearly silenced by fragile lungs now stood strong — aspiring to save newborn lives, to give back the very breath that once eluded her.

I’ve watched her grow over the years — from a frail infant to a determined young woman with steady hands and a heart full of empathy. Even now, whenever I visit them in my hometown, I feel a shiver run down my spine. Some stories never fade — they simply grow roots, deeper with time.