Glimpses of India - 'A Baker From Goa' by Lucia Rodriguez

 About the text:

            The chapter, 'A Baker From Goa', is a nostalgic trip to the journey of the Goan bakers, their contribution in Goan culture, and the memories the people of Goa (the narrator) have made with them. The chapter talks about Goan's love for bread (right from the times of Portuguese's invasion of Goa until now), the description of the lifestyle of these bakers, their daily schedule, and their inevitable contribution in making the Goan life exclusive.

Summary:

            It's been a long time since the Portuguese left Goa, but their love for bread, those old furnaces and the old-aged style paders have become an inseparable part of Goa.

            The pader would carry a bamboo in one hand and a big basket of bread on his head. He would place the basket on the vertical bamboo. His bamboo thudding would be a wake-up alarm for young children. Paskine or Baskine (the maidservant of the house) would bring the bread from the pader who would arrive at the house door. However, the bread bangles and sweet bread were special to the kids. The kids would be so excited to relish the bread that they would not brush their teeth.

            Goan marriages are meaningless without a special bread called 'bol'. On the daughter's engagement, the lady of the house would prepare sandwiches. Cakes and bolhinas for Christmas and other festivals are a must. Thus, the presence of the baker's furnace in the village is essential.

            In those days, the baker used to wear a special dress 'kabai' - a single-piece long frock reaching down to the knees. But in recent times, the bakers started wearing a shirt and three fourth sized trousers. Even now, anyone who wears such a trouser in Goa is funnily called pader.

            The monthly credit of the baker would be written with a pencil on the house wall, and the baker would collect his money by the end of the month. In the old days, baking was a profitable profession, and the baker and his family would look so plump that people would say that the bakers do not starve at all. Even today, any person with the jackfruit-like physique is compared to a baker.

Vocabulary:

§  Pader: It is a name given to the bakers to Goa. Bakers have been called as Pader since the time of the Portuguese rule in Goa.

§  Kabai: It is the peculiar dress the bread-seller of those days would wear. It was a single-piece long frock reaching down to the knees.

§  Bol: It is a special kind of sweet bread made as marriage gifts.

§  Bread-bangles: A round-shaped bread with a hole in the middle. It looks like a donut.

§  Bolhinas: The cookies

§  Jackfruit-like appearance: Fat, plump.

Questions-Answers:

Explain the following lines:

1)      'Those age-old, time-tested furnaces still exist. The fire in the furnaces have not been extinguished.'

            The culture of bakery products and the bakers that was brought to India by the Portuguese is still alive in Goa. The bakery products, especially bread, is loved by all. There are people who are still working as the mixers, the moulders and the bakers. There are ancient, time-tested furnaces still exist in Goa.

2)      Who would take the trouble of plucking the mango-leaf for the toothbrush? And why was it necessary? The tiger never brushed his teeth.

The children in the house would meet the pader twice a day: once in the morning and once in the evening when the pader would come with an empty basket after selling all his bread. Early morning, the thudding sound of his bamboo would make the kids wake up in excitement. They would climb a bench or a parapet to peep in the basket. They would be so excited to eat their favourite sweet bread and bread bangles that they would not even care to brush their teeth. While asked the reasons for not brushing the teeth, they would reply that the tigers don't brush the teeth.

3)      The presence of the baker's furnace in the village is absolute essential.

The bakers are an essential part of Goan culture. Whether it is a marriage ceremony where the sweet bread bol is made, or the daughter's engagement where sandwiches are made, or any festival like Christmas where cakes and bolinhas are prepared, it requires a baker's furnace in the village.

4)      Even today, anyone who wears a half pant which reaches just below the knees invites the comment that he is dressed like a pader!

Paders were the bread-seller who used to wear a shirt and trousers which were shorter than full-length ones and longer than half pants. Even today, when anyone who wears a half-pant which reaches just below the knees is jokingly called as pader.

5)      Even today, any person with a jackfruit-like physical appearance is easily compared to a baker.

Baking was a profitable business. The baker, his family and his servants would earn a lot of money. They would always look happy and prosperous. The would have a plump (fat) physique which was an open testimony to their prosperity. Thus, any person, who has a jackfruit-like (fat) physique is compared to a baker.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

U - TURN

During the lockdown, I had almost forgotten that my bike servicing was due. Today, early morning, I went to the service station and gave my bike. On my way back home, I had to book an OLA cab. 

As a habit, I sat next to the driver, and to my surprise, he was Sandesh Waghmare, a college friend. We both were happy to see each other after 15 years. After conversing about family and old friends and after avoiding Modi Vs Rahul debate, when he came to know about me (that I am the Principal of a school), I could see his eyes sparkle with delight, but he could not control the words that came out of his mouth, "You are doing extremely well, and I am in this mess. Fate. Nothing more."

Sandesh was a left-handed batsman in our college and was very famous for his winning sixes. I was never successful in taking his wicket during practice sessions. While chatting over a tea, Sandesh would hold the cigarette in the corner of his lips and would imitate Ajay Devgan's Malik from the movie Company, and would say, "This cricket is just for fun. I want to be a PSI. Police Sub Inspector." We had seen him working hard for his dream. He was the first one to come to the college ground. Till the time we arrived, he would bathe in sweat. Even after exercising for almost one and a half hour, he would be left with enough energy to hit the balls out of boundaries. Long jump, volleyball, kabaddi, kho-kho and whatnot, he participated and was excellent in all the sports. 

During exam times, he would bribe me for Kheema Paav, and while sitting in the canteen, I would help him learn English and Mathematics. He would say, "I would pass the Physical test for PSI very easily, but Amit, only you can help me pass the written test. You are very good at Maths." Laughingly, I would say, "You can't do it. You are good for nothing." 

All these memories flashed like a bullet train in front of my eyes. 

He might have realized that I would ask him about his dream of becoming a PSI and mock him, so he said, "You know I wanted to be a PSI. In 2006, riots broke in Maharashtra due to Khairlanji massacre - the massacre that witnessed the atrocity against Dalits and the deaths of four. They have been doing this to us since ages. They couldn't see that our people are getting education and are becoming officers. They burnt the entire family alive. That time, in Uttar Pradesh, Babasaheb's statue was vandalized. This very news was enough for me to come on the streets asking for justice. We gathered at the Collector's Office near Pune Station. We were shouting slogans with our blue flags in hands. Things turned worst and we got arrested - arrested for protesting, arrested for asking for the justice. I was in custody for two days. My bail was granted."

"For the next two years, I worked hard for the PSI exam, attended the classes as well. I was an inch closer to my dream, but when I was asked to submit a character certificate and police verification certificate, I was proven as the defaulter. My application to appear for the exam was rejected; not once but for forever."

He paused for a while. I could listen to him sniffing a tear. How it feels to see your dreams getting destroyed, I experienced its horror's into that 30  seconds silence in the cab. 

After dropping me at my society's gate, I asked him to come for a tea, but he refused by saying, "Next time." I saw his cab disappearing behind the society walls. 

I still could feel the silence. To gather myself up, I sat on the garden bench, and I remembered. 

"December 2006. I too was angry when I heard about the Khairlanji Massacre and the news of Babasaheb's statue vandalized in Uttar Pradesh. I too left my house in anger, took my bike, and went to join the protest. I too felt like burning the entire city down with the same fire that was burning inside me, making me more explosive with each passing moment. Suddenly I realized that I had to submit my B.Ed. practicals and I was left with hardly any time. The books borrowed from the library were due the next day. I took a u-turn, and came home to study."

When I sit in my armchair and think about this event, I ask myself a question, "Who was right? Sandesh or me?" I think we both were right. 

But who was wrong then? I would say, "System - the same system that promotes such incidents like Khairlanji and vandalizing of Babasaheb's statue. The same system that makes sure that we, the people of marginalized sections of the society come on the roads for our rights. The same system that then arrests us and put us behind bars. The same system that has crushed thousands of dreams, thousands of Sandeshs' careers. 

Sandesh was a driver now, and not a PSI, but now, there is less sympathy and more respect for him. 

Author - Amit Kharat

A Night At A Morgue

"Do you think it is easy to work in a morgue?"

The word 'morgue' caught our attention. We kids had heard this word from the adults and we were also aware of what it stands for, but we never dared to ask anyone more about it. While playing around in the chawl, we overheard Sanjay bhaiya saying this. '

"It is not as simple as electric welding or breaking an iron bar into two. You people live a safe life. Go to the office or your fabrication workshop, come back, eat and sleep. There is no fear, no danger at all." Sanjay Bhaiya said while taking a beedi from someone else's hand and smoking a puff. 

"My job is full of thrills. You know only brave people are recruited for such posts. If you are scared of ghosts and have weaker hearts, dude, then this is not your cup of tea. Have you seen an open dead body?" He asked the crowd of five to six people gathered around him and listening to him with pin-drop silence. He realized that nobody had understood his question, so he rephrased it and said, "Dude, I am asking if you have seen a dead body cut opened from head to waist?" The people looked at each others' faces nodding their heads. With one more puff of beedi, he unbuttoned his shirt. His pot like belly was now clearly visible, stuffed behind that white coloured vest. While rubbing the curly chest hair, he said, "Let me tell you what happened one night."

This sentence was enough to make everyone aware of the upcoming story-telling session. Everyone sat on the ground. Some squatted while some sat on the wooden logs kept aside. Appa, one of the listeners loudly asked his wife to make tea for everyone. 

"Sanju bhaiya, you were saying something about 'that night'", Appa said while handing over a cup of tea to him.

Sanju bhaiya took a sip of tea and instantly expression on his face changed saying that he didn't like its taste. He continued.

"It was Karthiki Amavasya, the darkest night of the year. It is said that people should not leave their houses in this night as mighty demons and spirits roam around. Being the only brave ward boy of Sassoon Hospital's morgue section, I was asked to do the night shift for that particular night. Other colleagues gave reasons and got an off. Gopal said that his grandmother died the previous day and he had to attend her funeral. I don't know how many grandmothers Gopal have. Every month, his grandmother dies." He grinned. "Subhash said that he had to leave as there was some puja at his home. Dr Gandhi said that he had to go to Mumbai to attend his sister-in-law's engagement. But they didn't know that I knew that they were scared. You need to be a real man to face such problems. I could have easily given any dumb reason and taken an off, but fear, thy name is Sanju." He said while squeezing the ends of his tiny moustache. 

"Then?" asked one of us. 

"It was ten in the night. I went inside the morgue. Sassoon's morgue always has a dead body or two. But that night, there were four dead bodies. They are dead. They don't do anything to you. And you know, I am a Hanuman-bhakt", he said while flaunting the locket around his neck with Hanuman's image in it. "I know Hanuman Chalisa by heart. So, I am scared of none." 

"I sat down, opened my tiffin, ate my food, and was on the verge of switching the radio on, and suddenly I heard a thud as if something fell down. I turned around to see what that was." He whispered. 

We kids were so scared that our bladders were about to burst. But look at our desire to get scared to death, we stood there like a Rambhakt Hanuman, listening to his Sanju bhaiya's story. 

"There was no one. I went to fill my water bottle up from the tap, and again I heard the same sound. I went in the direction of the sound. A hand of a dead body was moved, maybe because of the wind. I went closer to keep the hand properly. As I held that hand, the lights went off. There was pitch black darkness in the morgue except for her eyes. The hand I was holding was of a woman's dead body, and her eyes were wide opened. In the darkness, her eyes seemed white as the full moon. It seemed as if she was still alive. I thought that the very next moment, she would rise from the bed and tell me the story behind her death. Was I scared?" 

We didn't understand whether it was a rhetoric question. He again flaunted the Hanuman locket around his neck, "I was not. I placed her hand properly on the bed, recited Hanuman Chalisa, and with my own hands, I shut her wide-opened eyes."

The entire chawl was silent. From Shinde Mama's house, we could hear the twelfth stroke of the clock, and before he could tell the further part of the story, the lights in the chawl went off. We fumbled to hold each others' hands. 

"Baaki ki story baad me (the next part of the story will be told later)" said Sanju bhaiya while cleaning the dirt off his pants. 

The kids ran to their houses and shut the doors. Almost everybody left for the bed except Sanju bhaiya and Prakash bhaiya. Prakash bhaiya said, "Good night, Sanju!" Sanju bhaiya held his hand tightly and said, "Come with me. I have to go to the toilet. Just stand outside."

"Are you scared of ghosts, Sanju?" Prakash bhaiya asked. 

"No. not of ghosts, but of darkness," Sanju whispered. 

"I can't come with you, dear. I neither have a Hanuman locket nor do I know Hanuman Chalisa." Prakash bhaiya replied and quickly disappeared inside his house. 

"HELP"

That day, Rajesh could not sell a single book. It was getting dark. For survival, he had to do this. After thrown out from the waiter's job in the Radhe-Krisha restaurant on the Main Street, it was the only job he could get, and he wanted not to lose this too. On the day of joining as a salesman, he had made a promise to himself that he would not return home till he would sell at least one set of books. 

Rajesh, aka Raju, was a second-year student in one of the local colleges in Nana Peth. He had the burden of educating his orphan nieces. Though he was only 20 years old, he was the head of the house. Some days he would work as a caterer and would bring the left-over food to his nieces. Some days he would go to assist the fabrication workers in his chawl in painting the window grills and cots. Two months ago, he was appointed as a waiter which earned him more than his expectations, but he left that job too due to late-night duties. 

It was getting darker now. He was about to return home. "If I could find a society or some houses where I could sell at least one set ...," he still had the hope. While pedalling his cycle, he heard a cracking sound from the chain. He parked the cycle on the side-stand and found that the cycle's chain was broken. He had to take the cycle and walk the next eight kilometres to reach his house. 

On his way home, he saw a line of bungalows to his right side. All standing tall. From inside of some bungalows was coming the sound of the English opera music played on the old gramophone, while from some bungalows came the sounds of Doordarshan TV news. 

"How happy their lives are! They don't have to work day and night to earn two times meal." He thought to himself. He looked at the cars and bikes parked in front of the bungalows. "They don't have to walk throughout the day in the sun carrying such a cycle that demands repair every now and then." Angrily, he kicked his cycle and the cycle's wheel started wobbling now. While thinking about the luxurious lives inside those bungalows, he was cursing what fate had offered him. 

He walked for a while. Now there were no bungalows, houses or human around. To reduce his fear, he started humming a tune. There were no streetlights and the road was covered by the canopy of tall trees, and that was giving him an eerie feeling. His mouth was parched. He knew that the water bottle in his sack was empty. 

As he walked some more distance, he saw a bungalow. "Shall I go and ask for some water?" 

"No, you shouldn't. You never know what kind of people must be living there?"

"Come on dude. You are tired. People are good. They help poor people like you."

Thoughts lingered in his mind till he reached in front of the bungalow's gate. He saw a girl around 22 to 25 years old who was opening the latch of the gate and was about to enter. Thinking that it was a good opportunity to ask for help rather than knocking someone's door, he moved quickly towards the gate and asked the girl politely, "Excuse me! Can I get some water? I have to walk for the next eight kilometres and I am very tired." He wiped his sweat on his forehead with his sleeves. 

The girl looked at him from head to toe as she wanted to confirm his intention, and then asked, "What are you doing in this Cantonment area? This is Army area. Aren't you aware of this?" She adjusted her glasses on her nose while holding a bunch of books in her other hand. 

"I knew but my cycle got ..." before he could finish the sentence, she said, "It's ok. Please come inside."

Rajesh went inside the bungalow. It was the biggest house he had ever seen. 

"Please sit on the chair in the corner. I will get you some water," the girl said. He looked at the dressing room. There was a grand piano kept in one of the corners. It seemed that it had not been dusted for days. Some tinted photo frames were on the wall. From the look of the people in the frames, he could guess that the family belonged to an army officer. There was a bronze statue of Emperor Alexander with a spear in his hands. A bookshelf was on the wall. As a keen reader and a book-salesman, he went closer to have a look at it. Before he could touch Agatha Christie's 'The Witness For The Prosecution', the wooden windows opened with a thud and the wind rushed inside the house making a grunting sound. His hand was still in the mid-air, and before he could take his hand a little closer to the book, he heard a growling sound. 

"Don't worry. It is our kitty." The girl said while handing him over the glass of water. 

He looked at the pitch-black coloured cat jumping off the window on the piano, and to his surprise, the cat had only one eye, and that too was as white as marble. 

"Thank you, madam. Thanks a lot." He said with an intention of leaving that bungalow as soon as possible as he gathered his books and the sack. 

"Wait !" The girl said. "Do you sell books?"

"Yes, mam. I could see you have a great collection of suspense novels." Rajesh replied. 

"Then you are of my help. I need the complete work of Shakespeare. A collection of all his dramas. I tried to search it in Crossword but in vain." She said in a whispering voice. 

Raju smelled something was eccentric about this girl, but if she would buy the entire set of Shakespeare's dramas, it would fetch him a good amount. So, for a moment, he ignored the eerie feeling.

"Yes mam, I have that. I can bring it tomorrow for you." He said and then suddenly he paused as if he remembered something, "Sorry ma'am. Tomorrow it won't be possible for me" He took his wallet out and handed a card over to her and said, "This is my card ma'am. If I will not come, you come to my owner's shop and collect it yourself. I will pack the items for you and inform my boss about your order." He wanted to finish his meeting with her as early as possible. 

"Thank you. I will try if possible," the girl said while closing the doors of the bungalow. 

Rajesh left the place and walked as fast as possible till he saw the bungalow disappearing in the road. 

The next night, the girl waited for him to come with the books, but he did not. Three days past. She called in other book shops to see if they had those books, but it was of no use. She was left with only one option to go to Rajesh's shop. She had never been out of that bungalow except for computer classes. That evening, after coming from the class early, she hired an autorickshaw and asked the autorickshaw driver to drop her at the address mentioned on the card. Till she reached her destination, it was about to get dark. 

The autorickshaw driver dropped her in front of a hut. From no angle, it looked like a book shop though there was a signboard 'Novel Bookstore' hanging on the door. 

She knocked on the door. Nobody responded. She knocked on the door one more time. Twice. Thrice. The tin door was opened with a cracking sound by a small girl. She looked at the girl. Her hair was dishevelled, clothes were dirty, and she was looking weak. 

"What do you want madam?" Who do you want to meet?" The girl asked. 

She looked inside for that boy from the half-opened door, but nobody was there. Some other girl was sleeping on the ground.

"I came here to collect some books. I was told that my books will be packed and kept aside." She said.

"Come inside madam." The little girl said. 

She opened the rusted tin trunk kept in the corner, and took a pack of books out of the trunks, and handed over the pack to the girl. 

"Are you talking about these books?"

The girl took the books and a wide smile spread across her face. She read the price on the pack, took money from her purse and handed it over to the little girl. 

"Thank you. You don't know how valuable these books are for me. Say thanks to that book salesman" said the girl and was about to leave the open door.

"Who salesman?" 

"The one who came to my house some night ago." She said. 

"Is he the one you are talking about?" The little girl said while pointing a finger at a photograph hanging on the wall.

The photograph was of the same book salesman. In the photograph, he was wearing the same shirt and the same pant, and the same sack on his shoulder. The girl got the shock of her life when she read what was written under the photograph:

Rajesh Sampat Shinde

Birth: 12 April, 1998

Death: 7 March, 2018

(to be continued)

Author: Amit Kharat

THE NEVER GONE

I had just returned from the coaching class and sat down to dinner. Usually I let my mother's talk wash over me while she served me food — mostly it was about whether I was dating someone, or when I planned to marry. I would nod, say "Hmm," and keep chewing. But that night, the word possessed stopped me mid-bite. A piece of chapati hung between my fingers, halfway to my mouth.

"What?" I said.

"Arrey, Lokhande's Prakash — that Pakya — a ghost has taken him. Since last night he's been acting strange, talking in some other voice," my mother said, chin resting on her palm, as if she were describing the weather.

I finished eating before I let myself react. "Ghosts, possession — Aayi, it's all superstition. Good stories to tell over tea, nothing more."

"You educated people think you know everything. On top of it you're a Nastik, an atheist — you won't even trust your own mother. After everything I did to raise you, to educate you—" I left before she could finish. I knew emotional blackmail when I heard it coming.

Prakash was from my chawl — a waiter-cashier-cook, all in one, at the nukkad's chai stall. I walked straight to his jhuggi. A crowd had already gathered outside, the way it always did in our locality whenever something unearthly was rumored. People here loved nothing more than a good fright to pass around. I pushed through the shoulders and elbows until I could see.

Prakash sat on the ground, knees drawn to his chest, shivering — in April, in that heat. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips cracked and colorless. Fresh scratches ran down his arms. His shirt hung torn at the shoulder. I was still taking in the state of him when he opened his mouth, and the shock of what came out of it hit me harder than anything I'd seen so far.

"I won't leave him. I won't go anywhere."

It wasn't Prakash's voice. It came from somewhere lower in his chest, hoarse, edged — a woman's voice, furious, wearing his throat like a borrowed coat. I felt my own skin go cold, April heat or not.

"He shouldn't have kicked the Utara. Now I won't leave him. Never." He kept saying it, over and over, banging his head against the wall between each sentence, until his father and brothers pinned his arms down.

I didn't stay to watch more. Someone in the crowd muttered that Pakya had kicked over an utara left in the lane — a lemon pierced with pins, dusted in kumkum, meant to hold a spirit that had been conjured out of somewhere it didn't belong.

That night, I heard voices in the chawl, low and urgent. A woman knocked and told my mother, "Shut the door — now. They've caught the spirit in a lemon, they're carrying it out." My mother closed the door before the woman finished the sentence. When I opened my mouth to ask why, she cut me off: "During this, you don't leave a door open, and you don't cross the tantrik's path while he carries it. The ghost can jump to whoever's nearest." It was, I thought, the single most ridiculous thing I'd heard her say. After the ritual passed, every house threw a bucket of water across its verandah, to wash the chawl clean.

The next morning, on my way to office, I saw Prakash sitting alone on his porch. He looked like himself again. "Good morning, Amit," he said, and I returned the greeting, though I didn't have the nerve to ask about the night before. By afternoon, word had gone around the chawl: the spirit was gone. He was fine.

For a few hours, the chawl exhaled. Kids ran hide-and-seek under the hundred-watt bulbs strung along the lane. Women sat out on their porches, trading the day's gossip. Men played cards in a haze of beedi smoke, laughing too loud, the way people do when they want to prove to themselves that they're not afraid.

Then a scream cut through all of it.

The cards stopped mid-shuffle. The kids froze behind their mothers' legs. The scream came again, sharper this time, from Sheru's house. The men were the first to move, and I saw their faces change before I even reached the doorway — Sheru's younger sister, Sanaa, sat in the middle of the room, hair torn loose from its braid, eyes red-rimmed, lips cracked and pale.

"I won't leave her. I won't go anywhere," she said, in a voice that wasn't hers — hoarse, furious, and exactly, unmistakably, the same voice that had come out of Prakash the night before.

"She shouldn't have kicked the Utara. Now I won't leave her. Never."

(to be continued)

Double Seat

Mohan Mama. 

He wasn't our maternal uncle, but all the kids in the chawl would call him by that name, except his own. A middle-aged man, tall and slim, a little bent in the back, Mohan mama was always seen smoking bidi or occasionally, a cigarette. Early in the morning, we would see him going to work on his bicycle, and coming in the night, drunk. Though he had the habit of drinking, he never troubled anyone. On the other hand, he was a source of amusement for all of us. On Sundays, when he would not drink, and if he was in a good mood, he would tell us stories. In the night, when he would sit on the porch in front of his house in his lungi and vest, we would go to him for a new story. 

"You know what work I do? I am a car mechanic." He said taking a puff of smoke. 

"Thus, I have to deal with work that needs a lot of strength, and for that, I had to eat a lot of meat and beef. Sometimes, I had to work with a sledgehammer." He held the beedi in between his lips and showed us his palms. 

"Look at my hands! They are so hard and rough. If I slap someone, the man would not wake up till the next day." The beedi was still in between his lips, and the smoke was coming out from his nostrils. 

We would touch his hands, and truly, they were rough as a stone. 

"It's not easy to do this job. I have to cycle around 10 km to reach my garage near the University of Pune. Do you know how far it is?"

We nodded our heads. 

"Once, it was a Friday. My boss asked me to do some denting-painting work of a damaged car all alone. Everybody in the garage left for the home, but I. I told my boss that I would not leave the garage until I am done with this car. I also told him to go home as I would lock the garage myself."

"After completing the task, I packed my sack, put my tiffin in it. The tiffin still had the smell of the beef curry and paayaa your Maami gave me for lunch. I locked the garage. I looked at my watch. It was 11 o'clock in the night. The streets were almost empty. Only a bus or two, and some rickshaws were there. I cycled towards my home."

"On the way, I had to cross Lakdi Pool (the Deccan Bridge). There were no street lights that night. I looked at the sky, the moon wasn't there. It was an amaavas night. Was I scared? No. I am a devotee of Hanuman and I always carry his photo in my pocket. As I was cycling, I saw a white figure from a far distance. Was I scared now? Hmm ... A little bit. I started reciting Hanuman Chalisa in my mind. As I came closer to that figure, I saw that it was a beautiful woman draped in a white saree. She was asking for a lift. At first, I thought not to give her a lift as it was too late for me, but then I thought, she is a lady, and being a gentleman, I should help her." He took a new beedi out from the pouch and lit it.

"Can you drop me till Nana Peth? I missed my last bus." 

"Hmm ... I don't mind. I stay in Nana Peth only."

"Thank you very much. It was difficult to get any help at such an hour on a night of amaavas."

"What number bus did you miss?"

"Bus number 13."

She sat on the carriage seat behind me keeping both of her legs on one side of the bicycle. 

I started pedalling my bicycle. 

"Where do you stay in Nana Peth?"

"Near Bharat Talkies."

"I too stay there only. But where exactly?" I asked her.

The wind was growing wilder now. Her hair was flying on my face.

"I stay near the mosque."

"Where near the mosque?"

"Don't you know what is near the mosque?"

"I know. It is Kabristan (a cemetery)."

My mind paused for a while. "Did she say that she stays in Kabristan?" To reassure my fear, I asked again.

"Where near the mosque? Any exact location? Any chawl number?

"Not in a chawl. I live in a Kabristan. In a grave." She said with a weird voice that sent chills down my spine. 

I looked behind. Her beautiful face now turned into a witch's face. She held my arms tightly. I tried to pedal faster, but I could see that my bicycle was not moving. Before anything could happen, I jumped off my bicycle and looked at her. She was still sitting on the rear seat, mid-air. I looked at her legs were crooked. Without wasting any second, I ran for my life."

"The next day, when I got from my bed, I called a Brahmin Pandit and told him about the incident."

"That was an insatiable soul whose wish was not fulfilled before her death," Pandiji said.

"But why was she after me only?"

"Because you were all alone in the amaavas night, and on the top of that, you were carrying non-veg in your tiffin. Ghosts can smell non-veg from miles." 

Panditji did some prayers and I felt good."

Mohan mama was done with his story so with the last beedi remaining in the pocket. 

"Were you not scared at all?" asked one of us kids. 

"Not at all. I am not scared of the deadliest of the ghosts or the witches because I have this Hanuman's photo in my pocket and I know Hanuman Chali ..."

Before Mohan mam could complete the word 'Chalisa', shouted his wife loudly, "It is too late now. Would you come inside or shall I come out?"

Mohan mama got up from his seat, and said, "and I am not scared of anyone because I know Hanuman Chalisa". 

We kids could not control our laughs as we went to our beds. 

पाहिलं आज दृश्य

पाहिलं त्याला आज ...

भुकेसाठी कॉम्प्रोमाइज करून 

भीतीच्या अंधारात मरत-मरत जगताना. 

जीभ कापल्यासारखं , मुक्याच सोंग घेताना.

९ ते ५ ची डयुटी  करून डाळ भात खाऊन झोपताना.

पाहिलं त्याला ... रोज रोज हरताना .

रिटायरमेंट ची वाट बघताना.

त्यालाही पाहिलं आज ...

दगड हातात घेऊन रस्त्यावर उतरताना,

डोळ्यातल्या रागातून पीएमटी जाळताना,

पोलिसच दांडकं पडताच जोरात विव्हळताना,

मलम पट्टी करून परत उभा होताना ...

पहिला त्यालाही ... रोज रोज झगडताना 

फ्रस्टरेशन मूळ बिघडताना .

आणि यालाही पाहिलं आज ...

शिकून सावरून मोठं होताना,

बुद्धिवाद्यांची  भाषा वापरताना,

कधी फेसबुक तर कधी ट्विटर वर निषेध नोंदवताना,

गर्दीला दिशा दाखवताना...कधीतरी जिंकताना. 

पहिला यालाही ... कधीतरी जिंकताना

दररोज झगडताना .... 

आणि पाहिलं माय बाप सरकारला 

यांच्या जखमेवर मूतताना ,

पिढ्यानं पिढ्या  सडवताना ,

एकमेकात लढवताना ,

मुडद्या च्या कपाळावरील लोणी चोरताना,

स्वतःची पॉट भरताना ... या तिघांवर हसताना 

पाहिलं माय बाप सरकारला ...

रोज रोज जिंकताना ... हसत हसत जगताना.