Don't Know

The only reason I touch the toolbox is to work on my PC, and I only use the screwdrivers. 

“I’m sorry dad”, he apologised.

“It’s okay, it’s okay”, the father repeated as his fingers were busy turning the tap handle. His back was bent as he was engrossed in his work.

“It’s been leaking for almost a week now”, the son commented, “I tried to fix it, but I just can’t make out head or tail”.

The father loosened the handle and pulled it out. A bit of grime got on to his fingers and he cursed silently.

“It’s about time you started learning you know”, the father commented.

“I know, I know”, the son spoke helplessly, acknowledging the futility of his situation.

“Pass me the spanner”, the father requested.

There was a tool box at the son’s feet and it’s from there, he dipped in his hand and after sometime of digging, he produced a stainless steel metal with two tiny claws.

“Here you go”, the son spoke as he handed it over. Without glancing up, the father took hold of the spanner and began rotating it back and forth, loosening a nut. Afterwards, more of the tap was dismantled.

“I think the nut's a bit loose”, stated the father, “Hand me the tube from the tool box.

Once again, the son’s hand vanished inside the tool box and a second later, a small tube was gripped between his fingers. The father took it and with a slight squeeze, a little gel slid onto his finger. He applied it inside the nut and put the tap back together.

“There, it won’t leak any more”, the father pronounced with a tinge of pride in his voice as he stood up.

“Thanks dad”, the son spoke as he walked his father out the apartment door.

“I know you were too busy with college and now, you’re busy in the office, but you need to learn all this. There is no certification for it, but these simple tricks will help keep your house together.

The son stood there silently brooding to himself, that he should have learned these tricks when he was at home, but he didn’t.

The father sighed silently to himself waiting for the elevator to arrive. His son, what would he do if he had to run a house of own with his own family. I won’t be here forever. There was a time once that his son would just absorb everything, from how the bulb turned on to how the plugs in the house worked. Somewhere along, that curiosity died out and he never bother to pick up on those thoughts again. He was just never there at home, maybe I could have thought him something!

‘Ting!’

The father’s thoughts were cut with the elevator parting doors. He stepped inside and sighed again silently to himself.

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The Savage Man

Over twenty people stood patiently and impatiently at the bus stop. All of them waiting for a bus to reach their destination. In front of the bus stop was a road packed with vehicles zipping away. In the distance a red bus appeared and suddenly, everyone was edging forward on the road. A slight tensed feeling seemed to float in the air among the waiting crowd. The bus rolled onto the stop. At least a dozen hands, taking the shape of claws, must have shot out, grabbing the railing inside the bus to haul themselves in. 

A dozen hands acting at the same time, all for their own gain. 

It must have been 30 seconds, that’s how long the bus stood there before the wheels began moving. A small number of people were still trying to shove their way into a bus that was already full of people.

“Janwar !”, screamed out one man, “You scratched me! Should I throw you out of the bus”. The screamer was a thickset man who stood inside the bus, just in front of the entrance. He was shouting at a thin, lanky man who had a confused expression on his face. “You scratched me when you jumped into the bus. You savage!”, the thickset man accused again.

His hands were raised, elbowing several passengers, as he showed a few slim scratches on his hand. The thickset man had an accusing glare.

“I... didn’t do it”, the lanky man managed to answer against his accuser’s aggressiveness.

“You savage! You liar”, cried out the scratched man, not giving a care of the passengers around him, both his hands shot up and grabbed hold of the lanky man. “Janwar! I’ll throw you off this bus”.

In a mad rage, he started pushing the lanky man out of the bus. The poor souls behind the lanky man battled for their life against the anger of thickset man as they hung out from the bus.

“Oye! Oye!” the bus conductor shouted from the front, but his voice was far from them, had no effect, and there were just too many passengers in the passageway to reach and stop the man in time.

“Stop this!” a shrill voice of a woman called out as she was shoved down the bus’ staircase. Her feet were struggling to stay on the bus and her hands fought to keep hold on the railing. All it would take was a slip and she would tumble down the staircase, out the bus and so would everyone else in front of her.

A dozen hands move in unison, all with the same purpose. They grabbed the thickset man’s collar and jerked him back. Now, you can guess the rest of what happened to the savage man who gave in too easily to his anger.

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An Old Visit to Murud Fort

Water waves crashed against stone. White foam frothed to the top of the wave signifying the salt of the sea. The stone blocks at the base were the thickest and though you wouldn't notice it, the thickness reduced as the black stone wall rose above the sea into air. The wall had four sides which made up the fort. Right on top, lining the walls were twenty pound cannons.  From outside, you would only notice the tip of the cannon protruding, but once inside you would see the cannon stretched across for 10 meters. A cannon that would surely blow an enemy ship that dared come near it.

The fort was well hidden and by three sides it was surrounded by hills. Though the fort was smack in the middle of the sea, the surrounding hills blocked any person’s view. Three sides surrounded by hills and only one side was open to a sea which stretched out and out. Thick trees, branches, leaves,
vegetation and wild animals were the only inhabitants of these surrounding hills.

Buildings that had stood years ago proudly stood in ruins. A wall, two walls, three walls and one or two whole buildings are what you would see, beautifully built, brick on brick and some carved into stone.

Three thousand, that was the number of inhabitants that lived in the fort. A large pond of at least twenty meters in circumference gave them fresh water. In the future, that is now, it has a thick coat of algae covering it. A secret tunnel was built from under the sea bed to the land, a precaution that was perhaps never used.  Traders all the way from Africa came to trade at this fort.

The fort was not owned by Shivaji or Shambji, though the later tried to take it by. Neither did any other King, Prince or Emperor rule it. Instead, it was owned by a Raja who had only four thick walls of a fort to call his Kingdom.

One would think that such a structure, a fort which is only accessible by water would have a grand entrance. Indeed, from afar you could see the twenty feet entrance and wonder what sort of docking bay would be inside. But, no there was none. The entrance was impossible, yet possible. It was direct steps that walked into the sea. There was no ring or hook to tie a boat to the wall that would grant it some stability. The boat was pulled and pushed by the sea, never staying still. It was a wonder how sailors and merchants leaped onto the mossy, slippery steps.

On stormy nights and on monsoon days, it would take a mad Captain to command his ship to approach this fort for surely the rough water would shatter his boat to bits of wood and the sea would swallow up the sailors. The whole of monsoons, three months, three thousands souls of this fort would live with food stores and nothing to do... for none would dare attack them during monsoons.

Perhaps children would look down from the ramparts and stare into the dark, rough waters and watch the violent waves thrash against the wall. Perhaps, they would tremble in fear as they felt the splashes of water splatter against their check and wonder if the sea would swallow the Fort. How little they knew, for generations later into the 21st century , the Fort stood the wrath of the sea and envy of enemies.

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The Lament of Herc

Herc looked at his reflection in the mirror and asked himself the same question that he asked when he was coming here. He wanted to just lash out, a punch on the mirror causes it to crack, cracks spread,in seconds it shatters and glass pieces fall. “Hey man”, a voice called out to him and a shoulder nudged his own. A hand that was not his own stretched out beside him and washed him under a gush of tap water. “You mind?” the man asked as Herc stared at the face beside him. He was in the bathroom, there was crowd behind waiting to use the wash-basins. He took a few steps back and made way for the man.
 
Rays of multicoloured headlights poked into his eyes. Herc was angry at himself, no not at himself he decided. “Hey Herc, over here”, he could barely hear Rocky’s voice over the blaring techno music. His friends were sitting at the table, the waiter had already bought their drinks. Holding on to threads, that’s what this meeting was about. Friends trying to hold onto their friendship as life spreads them apart.

“This one’s yours”, Cass pointed out to a glass when he took his seat. In spite of that stupid question that made him angry, Herc was happy to be among friends. They drank, they danced, they drank a bit more. Once upon a time, they all would have said, the night is young, but now, it is more like the day is over. To each of their own home’s they went.

The next day may have bought on a new day for Herc, but there was still a lingering anger and it never effing went away. Yet, with that anger, there was a joy, a new day brought new opportunities.

To office he went, he did not hate his job, neither did he like it. It was something like... you rather relax at home, but work is okay. The work was something he like to do, but there was as much as he wished it, his rules were not abided here. It was the market rules and his bosses rules, but not his own... that was only in his head.

The sun went down and the moon rose up and darkness was put at bay with artificial lights. Yet, Herc chewed on his pencil completing work that never got done which pushed him to sit in office and get home late. He may be done with today’s work, but tomorrow’s remained and day after thats too. A list was there with his name – his to-do’s. He just wanted to get it completed.

His real work awaited Herc at home, but he would be too tired when he reached. Work that he did not get paid for, it was his passion and you get paid only for your passion when you get recognition.

The second hand ticked forward, the countdown for the next precocious minute. Getting off late made it difficult for his passion, for his friends. Oh, what would Herc give to change all that. Life would be much easier then.

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The Lone Woman and her Son

Her head rested on the on a make-shift pillow of a bag of clothes. Her eyes silently stared out, watching helplessly, knowing that right now, she has done all she could. Her son silently lay on the hospital bed. A needle protruded from his vein and an IV drip was connected to it. For the time being, he was asleep. A large plastic bag hung from the bed railing with a pipe connected to his body. She would have to call the hospital workers to empty it soon. 

Taking care of her adult son made her realise how old she was. The grey strands of hair were pulled back on her head and always felt like they were just there, but all this worry, all this hassle seemed to be taking a toll on her age. Gautam, that was the name she gave her poor fool. Once, what seemed ages ago, he had plenty of friends. Then, in time, from an occasional alcoholic to a constant one, he pushed people away from him and now only she remained. 

His liver was weak, crushed by the constant alcohol. Every night, she lay in a room that was dominated by men. The patients were men and the ones who stayed overnight were men. My husband would have never allowed me to do this. A memory of handsome man came to her mind.  He would be disappointed in his son, maybe in her too for the way things turned out. Then, she recollect, ‘the sins of our children are not our own, it is theirs alone’. Was it that man from AA who told her that? She failed to remember. 

Gautam was her son and she was all he had. No one would come to help up, but she would always be there, she promised herself. 

“Aaaaa...”, he began softly moaning as his eyes flicked out from his sleep. The pain was back. Her feet swung off the bench she lay on and she stepped towards him. Her thumb jabbed down the button, calling a nurse, but she knew that was useless. Until the dialysis was done, her son would be in pain.  

As both of them waited, the mother opened her mouth and softly began humming a tune. Perhaps a tune will reach out to him and ease his sufferings. 

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The old man in the Hospital

The needle was stuck in his arm for three days and through it drugs and medication was pumped in. Even now a pipe was stuck in the needle and liquid poured forth, pushing inside his vein and entering his blood stream.  Just like blood thickens to stop the bleeding of an open wound, so did the same thing happen and now the old man could not move his wrist without pain shooting through his arm. The doctors came and went, barely speaking to him. Always their stethoscope  hung around their neck and like some ritual they learnt in school, all of them would do the same thing.

The cold metal would press against his chest and back, and then they would ask him to breath. They would mutter a few words, speak to the nurse and vanish. 

Being bedridden the whole day was, without a doubt, a waste of time, a waste of a week. The fields back home awaited him and that’s where he deserved to be; labouring with the sickle, digging the mud, planting the seeds and chopping of the weeds. 

Yet, for no reason at all, he was tied here, drugs being pumped into his body. 

The food that is the worst part of a hospital, the moment he lifted that gruel to his mouth, he just knew it. Nutrition is the most important to getting better, but how can one get better if the food is tasteless, saltless and just plain unappetising. The hospital food was just plain horrible. Sometimes, for the old man, it was just so bad that his stomach rejected it and threatened to vomit it out. 

Imagine, eating the same dal four days in a row, day and night, that was the hospital food. 

The drip was almost over. His fingers crawled to the switch near his head and pressed it. From the open door, his ears picked up the blaring of the alarm at the nurse’s station. Soon enough, one of them entered the room, turned a knob on the pipe and pulled it out. 

The nurses here were the only ones who were worth a damn, but even they did not always respond promptly to the ring. They too were at times over burdened with the number of patients in the hospital. 

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Mother at the Counter

She was a single parent on at the ticket counter. One child tugged at her hand, while the small one hugged her shoulder as her hand wrapped around him for support. Her youngest child sucked his thumb while staring out at the strange world around him. The elder son who stood on his two feet was tired of waiting here and continuously tugged and pulled his mother’s arm, but his attempts only seemed to annoy the mother. She sharply looked at him, try to communicate a message across, a message to stop tugging and one of patience. He glance at her and stopped his tugging for a moment. 

The line moved forward and the family moved with it. The mother dragged the large trolley bag which was taller than her eldest son. Passengers and the general public starred glancing at her. All of them probably asking themselves the same questions – Where was the husband? Why wasn’t the husband here? 

However, if the mother hassled by such looks, she did not show it, she just hugged onto her child. The mother’s eldest son threatened to run off and she wanted to let him, but her fingers grabbed him arm. Without another pair of eyes she would rather not risk him running around a station full of strangers. 

Now, he was the one glaring at her with his small eyes. He tried to jerk his hand free of his mother’s grip, but she did not let go and neither did she offer her son any explanation for her action.  

The line moved forward and from the purse that hung around her shoulder, the mother extracted some notes. She paid the ticket counter and got the tickets. 


She began tugging the big trolley bag as the crowd parted in front of her, making way. The eldest child was swiftly stepping ahead and then stopping, waiting for his mother to keep up. Then for the mother, came the dreaded stairs which she had to struggle down with the humongous bag. 

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