A Love Story - Part I

The first rays of the sun shone through the window and fell on the bed revealing the sweet face of my wife, Geetha. She was sleeping so peacefully with a smile on her face. The smile that made me fall in love with her.

I remember the first day I met Geetha. It was at one of the general ticket counters at the Poona (as Pune was then called) railway station. I was waiting in the long serpentine queue, frustrated that I would be missing my train. That's when I saw her. She was standing in the next line. The smile on her face mesmerized me. I wouldn't say that she was the most beautiful girl in the world, but she certainly had a smile which set her apart from the other girls.

My heart told me that I should talk with this girl. It didn't matter whether I would miss my train or not. I left my line and went towards her. Standing face to face with her made me a bit nervous as I stammered, "H..Hello ma'am, I am Rama. May I know your name?"

The next few seconds were so difficult, believe me, I felt like running off or be embarassed before everyone. She gave me a questioning look. Of course, how could she talk with a stranger?

Then she reached for her handbag, took out a card and gave it to me. It was her visiting card. Her name was Geetha. She was working as a teacher in Spastics' Society of India, Colaba, Mumbai. Spastics' Society of India, that name conjured up memories of my school days. We used to pass through that building during our bus rides to school.

I looked up towards her. She was trying to tell me something in sign language. It dawned on me that she could not speak. My heart felt so heavy thinking how could God have the heart to deprive such a sweet girl from speaking.

I was lifted from my thoughts by her companion who had bought the ticket. She gave me a warm but stern smile as if saying "thanks and goodbye" and tugged at Geetha's hand to hurry. Geetha waved her hand towards me leaving. For a few moments I was speechless, thoughtless. Then I slowly lifted my hand and waved back towards her.

Then for the next few days I completely fogot about this incident as I was engrossed in my job. Then one weekend as I was cleaning up my table at home, her visiting card caught my sight. I felt like seeing her.

I needed some pretext to go to Colaba. I remembered we buy our monthly stock of essential items like soaps, detergent etc., from Central Stores Department (CSD) canteen. It was located in Colaba just next to the Spastics' Society of India building.

"Dad, I think our monthly stocks of soaps have been exhausted" I told my father, "let me go to the CSD canteen today and buy whatever is necessary." My mother gave a bewildered look. I never used to go there out of laziness and it was my father who always went there. My father was puzzled but anyway happy to see that his son had started taking some responsibility.

I boarded the train from Dombivli station and got down at V.T. (as CST was then called) Station. Then I got the 103 bus for R.C.Church. The bus ride gave me nostalgic feelings of my school days as I passed through the good old landmarks: Fort, Regal Cinema, Colaba Market, Fathima Manzil and various others.

I got down at Afghan Church opposite which is the Spastics' Society of India building. I thanked God that the school was open today. As I entered, I saw a small reception desk at the corner. It was occupied by an old lady who was busy filling up some register.

(To be continued...)

The Remorseful Son

Inspired by a true story. The name of the character has been changed.

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The day was nearing to an end. The station looked abandoned except for the lone begger sleeping in a bench and the empty tea stall. Mugilan sat on an empty bench nearby. The next train would arrive in an hour. He felt tired as if he had worked all day. He stretched himself, closed his eyes and let his thoughts wander. His mother. His village.

"What do you want the money for?" he heard his mother's voice. "I am planning to start some business" he said. "What about the five thousand you took last time? What happened to it?" she whispered. "You know what happened, the money got spent."

"Do you know how difficult it was for me to get that five thousand" she wailed, "none of our relatives were willing to give it, as they said you were a good for nothing. I somehow persuaded your uncle to give it."

"I know! I know!" he shouted. "But this time I promise you that this would be a very profitable business and I am sure of making a lot of money from it."

"How many times have you made such promises" she cried, hitting her forehead with her hand.

"Stop all this crying and tell me whether you would give this money or not" he said without a sign of remorse in his eyes. "I do not have this much money my son" she said.

"Listen woman, I am going out now " he scowled "and I want the money by evening when I return." He stormed out of the house in a rage.

She let her head rest in her palms and sobbed to her hearts fill. Her meagre monthly salary for working as a mid-day meal incharge in the neighbouring village's school was just enough for her living. She could hardly save anything. Whatever little she could save was spent by her son in smoking, drinking and gambling. Inspite of all this she somehow managed to get her two daughters married. They were happy and well settled.

She got up. She had to go for her work today. But before that she had to somehow collect the money. She went to her brother's house which was nearby. He had already lent her a lot of money. Last time she had to literally beg from him for the money. She was afraid of his reaction this time.

He was sitting outside. "Heard some noises from your house in the morning. Had a fight with your son again?" He queried. "I need your help" she said. "Will you please lend me some money now?" He looked at her with a scorn, "so your son has again started asking for money? Listen now, I am not going to give anymore money to be wasted by your son. He is taking advantage of you. You have to be stern with him."

"But..." her voice quivered. "Please," he said with folded hands, "don't bother me anymore. It's better dying than living a life like this."

She could persuade him no more. She took some heavy steps back to her home. Her head was aching heavily and she felt dizzy. She lit the stove to make some gruel. She gazed at the fire pondering over her troubles. Maybe she had not brought up her son well, but it was so tough for her to manage everything after her husband died.

The fire seemed to be mocking her. She smiled. It would not be for long. Her problems would now come to an end. She took one end of her saree and threw it on the stove. Everything would come to an end.

Mugilan was as usual gambling with his group of friends. At a distance he could see a fellow villager running towards him shouting his name. He felt something was wrong. "Mugilan, your mother is dead. She committed suicide." the villager shouted gasping for breath.

The sound of the distant train woke him up. It had been an hour since he had dozed off. Rockfort Express was coming right on time. He knew the train did not halt at this station. He smiled looking above towards the dark sky. The sun had set.

As the train was about to pass through the platform, he jumped onto the railway tracks. His timing was perfect.

A few local newspapers reported the suicides, but in different sections, as the body on the railway track was reported as unidentified. But none of the papers told about the remorseful son who committed suicide for his mother.

Prasanna Kshatriya

Hey, visit this blog of Prasanna Kshatriya, one of my best friend in SICSR. He is very sincere and always helpful at any moment. He is a pro in web development and PHP is his favourite server side scripting language. Ask any query and he would be quick to answer it.

Summer Of Code Proposal Submission

I just now submitted my proposal for the Summer of Code'2006 held by Google. The project is very interesting, it's about implementing the IRC (Internet Relay Chat) protocol as an Apache module. Gone down too deep into IRC to do anything else.

The meaning of Anniyan

By the way, you may ask 'what does Anniyan mean?'. Well, 'Anniyan' means 'Stranger'. It means anyone who is new. I am new to the blogging world, but no less a good blogger (I hope :-) ).

About the blog creation

Created the blog sitting in the Web Technologies - II lecture. Guess, maybe I need a place to express myself. And this looks like to be the perfect place to freak out on your thoughts! Starting off for now!!!