GETTING NEW FRIENDS

Hello,

When you think of your dearest friends what are the names that jump out immediately?

• Names of people you are now spending time with?
• Name of your spouse?
• Name of your present office colleagues?

In most cases these names hardly ever enter your mind.
The names that jump out immediately are mainly from your childhood or maybe from the first days at your work place.
Why is it so?

Well if I have to give a one line answer the reply would be
"Your best friend is a friend who is with you not because of what you are but who you are."
Extending it further we can say that
"Your best friend is a friend who is nothing else but himself."


In most of our adult life we become too biased in our views and rigid in our choices.
We focus on results and not on processes.
It is therefore no surprise that we focus on what rather than who and fail to find the true friend later in life.

Getting a new best friend is as tough as climbing the Everest without oxygen. Possible but difficult.
It is therefore very important that we retain our friendships.

Best regards,
Manoj

Short Story - Recipe for a Disaster

Recipe for a disaster

Arpita had just lost the recipe competition. She sat in the rocking chair, going back and forth in the dark room. “How am I going to face people again”, she was thinking.

Her husband was the General Manager of Sam North Jute Mill and it was ‘Bada Khana’, a day when employees of all the five Jute mills of the ‘Duff group of companies’ got together to celebrate the year end.

It was a British legacy that had survived the exit of the Sahebs. ‘Bada Khana’ had changed from New Year eve to 26th January but the fanfare, pomp and ceremony had been retained. The celebrations included the very tough tennis finals for men and the equally exciting recipe competition for women. They had races like the wheel barrow race, the three legged race and a tug of war competition which was open to men, women and children but for the men, it was winning the tennis competition that mattered most and it had always been the recipe competition that the women focussed on.

Arpita was confident about her victory and the other competitors, who were aware of her exceptional culinary skills, were content that they competed to be second best. But she lost.

The fat and ugly Mrs. Pareek from Victoria was guffawing and she had heard loud clapping as she had made a hasty exit from the club house. She knew that her loss gave the competitors immense joy.

She gave them the reason to be happy. She was a snob. She was proud of her background, the wealth and fame of her family, the fact that she could address Satyajit Ray and Jyoti Basu as ‘Kaku’ and most importantly that she was the wife of the General Manager. She played the role of the ‘Memsahib’ to perfection. They had always been at the receiving end of her jibes and taunts on their lack of skills and polish.

Arpita was thinking about her husband.

Jiten was out with the men celebrating their victory in the Tennis court. He would not get to know about her loss for many days later. After all none of the men would have the courage to speak against the General Manager’s wife. But he would surely find out and then what?

Jiten was hard working, honest and proud of his achievements. Her loss and its manner would be a matter of shame for him.

The couple had moved here just about a year ago and this was their first ‘Bada Khana’. Arpita was an expert cook and loved to show off her skills with rare desserts recipes (collected during her husband’s assignments in tea gardens in Assam and Munnar). The women gave her the sobriquet ‘Queen of the Ladle’.

She had waited for the ‘Bada Khana’ to stamp her authority.

She knew that she would win. She had played her cards properly and trusted Mrs. Robbins.

The Robbins, the only Anglo Indian family in the mill, an old couple, stayed opposite the Yagniks. Mrs. Robbins had been a nurse with the British Army and had met her husband, an engineer in the army when they were both posted in Burma during the Second World War. They had shifted to Kolkata after the war and decided to stay back when the British left India.

Arpita met Mrs. Robbins the day she gave her first party in her new house.

‘My dear, are you having a party tonight’, Mrs. Robbins had asked Arpita.

Arpita was embarrassed. She was told that the Robbins never accepted invitations. She had invited everyone else. ‘Yes’, she said, ‘why don’t you come as well’.

‘No, my child’, said Mrs. Robbins, ‘we are too old for such outings.’

‘Do you need help?’ she asked.

Since then Mrs. Robbins had always helped her plan the desserts for her party menu.

***

Arpita presented the ‘Crepe Suzette’ - A common dessert that promised something special. Arpita felt confident. The feelings seemed justified when Sister Margaret, the nun from France, who was a special invitee, went gaga over the whiff of ‘Cordon Rouge’ flambéed over the crepe and declared ‘For me this is the winner’.

‘Why does your recipe have no mention of bananas’? Ms. Sinha asked Arpita. She was reading the recipe after she tasted the crepe. Ms. Susan Sinha was the head chef of the ‘Orient’ in Kolkata and the other special invitee for the event.

Arpita snickered. ‘Bananas in Crepe Suzette’! She exclaimed. This raised a giggle – the other ladies too had never heard of bananas in Crepe Suzette.

‘Yes, it is the bananas that make the crepe yielding and easy to fold. Is this your recipe?’ Ms. Sinha persisted.

Arpita was flustered now. ‘It’s from an old book’, she said.

‘I have the recipe in my diary’, Ms. Sinha went again. ‘I have bananas in the pancakes all the time’ and the only other person I know who would do it is Mrs. Robbins, my mother. Are you sure it is not her recipe?’

Her perfidy uncovered, Arpita ran out of the club.

She wondered if ten would be enough. The sleeping pills lay on the table next to her. She had already taken the ninth when the doorbell rang.

‘Hello dear, are you in?’ she heard Mrs. Robbins call out. ‘I am sorry about what happened. I told them that I had put in the bananas without your knowledge when I was helping you.’

Arpita tried to get up from her chair but it was too late. The pills took over. Mrs. Robbins did not have the strength to break open the heavy wooden door.

KIDNAPPED IN DARBHANGA

Hi There,

This is the frame of a Flash Fiction I hoped to expand on some day.

I have not come back to it for a year now and as some of my friends have shown interest in reading what I write I thought I might as well put it on my blog.

So here comes:

Happy reading and do let me have your comments.

Best regards,

Manoj

Kidnapped in Darbhanga

‘Can I have a glass of water’, Rahul was pleading.
Mr. Burly passed a small cup of water and Rahul finished it in one quick gulp. His captivity in the small room had entered the third day. His Rolex was still working.
‘Oh God, he exclaimed aloud, why am I here’ he asked?
No answer. He did not expect one.

This trip to Darbhanga was planned a month ago. After his final semester in the medical college he had gone home, met his parents, stayed with them for a couple of weeks and then boarded the train.

They had shared the same hostel room for the last three years and Rahul had readily accepted Amit’s invitation to visit his ancestral house. He had heard so much that he felt he had to see it. He was fascinated by the tales of movies at Jyoti Cinema, a place where songs were rerun at the point of a gun. He wanted to taste bhang, cannabis to the dilettante, sold openly at Tower Chowk and visit the ghettos, the place where they used AK- 47’s for target practise. This was a wonderland, one tourist destination Rahul did not want to miss.

‘Come on, get up’, the guard had poked his thighs with the long stick he was carrying.
‘Is there a misunderstanding, did he ask for use of the toilet’? He thought he was loosing his head when they stopped next to it.
‘I don’t need to go there’ he said.
‘Shut up’ Mr. Burly replied.
‘OK, so it is not the toilet, thank God’, he murmured, relaxing at the thought that he could still remember facts.
‘Is it done’? Mr. Burly asked Mr. Long Legs who had joined them.
‘Did they get in touch with Dad’? Rahul thought. ‘Let Dad be here’, he prayed. Dad would readily pay the ransom.

Rahul had been warned. Darbhanga was the kidnapping capital of Bihar. Businessmen, Doctors, girls, kids – anyone could become a victim. Amit had told him this. Rahul had not listened; this was part of the charm.

Mr. Long legs smiled. ‘Thank God’, thought Rahul, he had never seen them smile, ‘a good omen’ he hoped.
‘She agreed’ said Mr. Long Legs as he reached them.
Rahul was now hopeful. His eyes went moist as he thought of his mother. His father was abroad he remembered. He had departed on the same day he took the train to Darbhanga. He felt tears well up as he thought of seeing his mother. He knew he would cry the moment he saw her.

‘Come on’, the command was more forceful.
Rahul started walking again.
They reached the outer courtyard of the house where Mr. Burly pushed him ahead. ‘Take a bath, he said, time you are made ready', they laughed aloud.
‘But I don't need it now. I'll go home and take it there," said Rahul and they laughed again.
By now he was naked, Mr. Long Legs pulling off his clothes.

"We don't want you to smell like an animal".

‘So, the time has come’, he thought. He had tears in his eyes as Mr. Long Legs built up the soap lather. He was dried and made to wear the ‘dhoti’.
‘Why not my clothes’? He asked them.
‘What these? They smell like shit.' they laughed again. Mr. Burly and Long Legs were now in a very cheerful mood.

They were in the main inner courtyard now. An old man sat in the centre doing some kind of ritual. The place was gaudily decorated and women were singing and giggling. Clueless, Rahul looked around searching for his mother in this crowd of strangers.

‘Thank God you are here,’ he cried and rushed to hug him.

Amit, his friend, was there.
‘Welcome to the family’ said Amit. ‘My sister really likes you’.
Kidnapping grooms was an industry in Darbhanga.

Just Like That

Koteshwar was in a very senior position in the government. He was always brilliant in his studies and his father was a senior Judge of the High Court when he retired. The Chief Minister readily agreed to his request to attend the ancient annual cultural function at his ancestral village which he cherished. The vist had to be under high security. Jharkhand is a strife-torn state and militants are everywhere.

The function went off very well. Koteshwar was very pleased and so were the simple villagers. They dance the traditional jig with abandon and spirit even though at the last moment, due to urgent work, the Chief Minister could not come even though he really wanted to. Instead he sent two of his cabinet ministers so that the functions went off well.

Once the ceremonial farewell was done, the two ministers invited Koteshwar to join them in one car for security reasons. Their convoy could become a prized target for any ambush.

"I'll take the front seat, thank you," said Koteshwar as he stepped in beside the driver. The car followed the escort police jeep followed by two more cars packed with alert heavily armed commandos. They took an undisclosed route even though it was a detour which would take longer time.

"Its really uncomfortable with your pistol in the hip belt when you have to seat in the car," said one of the ministers in the back seat, slanting awkardly to pull out the firearm from his behind. Actually it was somewhat congested with so many in one car and they had been travelling for an hour now.

"Oh, what a lovely thing," said the other minister, taking the pistol lovingly into his hands. He removed the magazine, waved the pistol appreciatingly and pulled the trigger just like that not knowing that a bullet was already cocked in to be fired.

The gunfire shot sent the convoy into immediate action well drilled and well experienced in this part of the country. Was there an ambush ? Most probably yes. The journalists in their cars not far behind made quick approach to get their stories.

But the police escort knows, whatever happens, if the road is clear, you never stop. So move, move, keep going. Soon it is realised, there is no more firing, it looks over. "What happened," the journalists ask. The convoy moves on.

The bullet has gone through his right arm and into Koteshwar's rib-cage. Inside the city, their car breaks off from the convoy and heads straight to the Medical College Hospital. VIP emergency. Koteshwar is operated upon. The bullet has fragmented into two pieces, both are eventually removed. Still in danger, but stable, Koteshwar will live.

Suffocating Darkness

Why should anybody do it ? But she did it. Its in the local newspapers today.

Usha now of 50 years of age, lived with her husband Ramesh, alone in their sprawling house. Their son lived in the USA and daughter was married and settled in Mumbai. So Usha would everyday go to the Jain Mandir for so many years now.

It was hot in the afternoon. She took an autorickshaw. When she offered Rs.50 for the round trip, the driver thought he was having a lucky day.

Usha alighted at the Mandir entrance and asked the driver to wait. Soon the driver fell asleep in the back seat of the auto. He was snapped out of the reverie of the dancing Rs.50 note, with Ramesh shaking him by the shoulder. "Have seen a middle-aged woman come to the Mandir", Ramesh was asking him. It was late, dark and the street lights were on.

"Yes, of course, I brought her," said the driver, alarmed.

"Well, I've looked for her everywhere and she is nowhere to be seen", said Ramesh. "I've even asked the caretaker's family and they have no clue." Except, yes except, thought Ramesh, for the pair of slippers like Usha's by the 13-inch open and abandoned borewell in the Mandir courtyard. "Oh my God!"

The administration took some time to swing into action. But in a couple of hours the police procured and lowered a camera with light down the borewell. There she was. Quick, lower the oxygen supply tube. She was motionless. Bringing her up was only technical frivolity.