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The story with a WW2 twist that I recounted in my previous two posts got me reminiscing about a few others…
During my stint as a management trainee at a Chennai hotel in the early 1980s – yes, the very same one where I had to do a juggling act with three telephones at the front desk(!) – I got talking to Mrs. Fernando*, an Anglo-Indian (Eurasian) lady in her fifties who worked in the linen room. One day she sprang a huge surprise on me when she told me she was a survivor of Japanese prison camps in Singapore/ Malaya! She was very young at the time, around nine or ten years of age, and she remembered being force marched for several months between POW camps with her family – and surviving it all!
It really is amazing how you can meet people who have the strangest stories to tell.
Which brings me to three excellent books based on each author’s experiences in South East Asia during the war.
Empire of the Sun (also made into a riveting movie directed by Steven Spielberg) by J G Ballard.
A Town Like Alice (US title: The Legacy) by Nevil Shute.
*Name changed to protect the privacy of the individual concerned.
© Sosha Srinivasan
Eleven years ago we had looked at a ready-to occupy apartment in one of Chennai’s relatively new suburbs, Porur – and had bought it without any modifications
Soon after we moved in, I realized that every time I did the dishes at the kitchen sink I’d wind up with my arms and shoulders feeling like they’d been put through a wringer! So the next time my hands went through a sinkful of dirty dishes, my mind analyzed and dissected – and my heart sank – a strange sinking feeling – as I thunk, “I’m sunk… my sink is sunken!”
It was way too low and the faucet too far back for comfort. I wondered why – and the realization sank in: The building contractor had designed the sink with his dream woman in mind, a lovely young thing, no doubt – but she just had to be real tiny – under 4 feet 10 inches tall – with peculiarly long arms! There couldn’t be any other explanation!
All this talk of love and doing the dishes reminds me of that feminist slogan:
“It starts when you sink into his arms and ends with your arms in his sink!”
Be warned!
© Sosha Srinivasan
Before she knew it, it was lunch time. Unfortunately the canteen was crowded and they had to share the table she and Surya usually occupied with two ward attendants. This lack of privacy prevented her from telling Surya about the morning’s incident. She would just have to wait until she got home that evening.
She felt nauseated at the very sight of the tiffin carrier and pushed the food around on her plate, looking miserable.
“What’s wrong?” asked Surya. “You’re not eating.”
“I’ve got a bad headache,” she dissembled. “Feeling sick…”
As usual, after lunch Surya picked up the carrier and the bag, exchanged a few words with Shoba about vegetables to be bought for dinner that evening, and left. It was only then that Shoba remembered that Surya would soak the navy blue bag in detergent solution when he got home, as he did every Sunday evening. Shoba would rinse it and hang it out to dry on Monday morning and it would be ready for use again on Tuesday. It was part of their weekly routine…
Shoba walked down the corridor lost in thought, only to find her way barred by the hospital gossip – a lady of considerably large proportions and an even larger repertoire of tales.
“Did you hear about the murder down the road, behind Bhagwandas Chambers?” she demanded breathlessly.
Stunned, Shoba could only shake her head.
“So my suspicions were right – the fellow is really dead,”she thought, desperately hoping that the guilt was not reflected on her face.
Oblivious, Ms. Information proceeded to regale her with the details of the crime – the victim’s name, profession and other particulars. The facts had been gleaned from his ID card and expanded by police enquiries.
Shoba produced gasps of surprise and interjections of “Oh really?” at the necessary intervals, hoping that she wasn’t overdoing her reactions. She gave a sigh of relief when the lady turned away to enlighten some other poor soul on the subject of crime in the big, bad city of Madras.
Now that the police had entered the picture (only to be expected, of course, in the circumstances) Shoba had to think again. She was wondering whether they would come around to question the hospital employees, when a sudden thought occurred to her. Could there have been any witnesses to the incident?
She sat back and considered. The alley wound its way between two office blocks and a shopping complex. She was sure that there were no apartments in any of the buildings immediately around the alley. It was highly improbable that anyone would have been in the offices overlooking the alley so early – and that too on a Sunday. And the spot where the incident took place was not visible either from Trinity Avenue or Mydents Road. she was certain. taking all this into account, Shoba thought she was safe. If, by any chance, the real story came out, she could always plead “self defence”. God knows it was true.
But her fears proved unfounded. the local police, assisted by the crime branch and forensic experts, could not establish any leads. Various motives were attributed to the crime but none proved for want of evidence and witnesses. It was recorded in police files as one of those unsolved crimes which crop up from time to time with unfailing regularity. Needless to say, the murder weapon was never found. Police officials were of the opinion that it lay somewhere in the murky depths of the River Cooum flowing nearby, never even remotely imagining that it sat on the kitchen shelf of a flat in Ashok Nagar.”
~~~~~~~~~~
I put down the Saturday supplement of the newspaper with a pleased look on my face. I had every reason to be proud of myself. The short story, Loaded Weapon, published in that issue had been written by me; my name was there in black and white for all to see!
The idea had come to me two months ago during the short walk to my office from the bus stop and I had thought, “Why not?” I had changed the names of the streets, organizations and characters involved, of course. It had been a long time since my campus days when I had used my talent for creative writing in the colelge magazine – as well as in the examinations!
I could imagine the reactions of my friends and colleagues when they saw the paper; some would be genuinely happy, awed or surprised, others envious, spiteful or just plain indifferent. But the negative reactions could not detract from my pride and satisfaction. That they would not miss it I was sure. Two of my colleagues avidly read every word of the supplement without fail. I was right about this and about the reactions that followed.
There was a sudden hubbub in the corner, followed by a few “Oooh!”s and “Aaah!”s, then a surfeit of hand shaking, demands for a “treat” as well as a couple of green eyed looks. After the initial back thumping and euphoria had died down, we all got down to work.
At around 11 o’clock I was summoned to the Director’s office. “Probably to congratulate you!” they exclaimed encouragingly.
I knocked on the door of the Director’s cabin and entered. I was startled to see a police officer in uniform sitting there. A faint feeling of unease started rowing in the pit of my stomach.
“Sonali, did you write this story?” asked the Director, waving the newspaper supplement in my direction.
“Yes,” I began uncertainly.
“Then please come with me.” It was the police officer who spoke. “There’s been a murder this morning – uncannily similar to the one you have described, and we would like to take you in for questioning.”
The ensuing police case, widely covered by the media, ensured that all the copies of that particular newspaper issue were snapped up and totally sold out. And I got more fame than I had ever bargained for.
© Sosha Srinivasan
Shoba neatly stepped off the bus before it had come to a complete stop, drawing a look of consternation from the conductor. It was half past seven on a pleasant Sunday morning, cooled by the unseasonal shower that had drenched Madras the previous night, and Shoba was feeling on top of the world.
She crossed the road, swinging the navy blue bag that held the lunch that she and her husband shared daily. It was heavy – a good three-quarters of a kilo – and encased in a three tiered steel “tiffin carrier”, but she hardly felt the weight, gripping it by the handle through the fabric of the enclosing bag. Her handbag swung from her left shoulder.
Shoba worked for a private hospital on Mydents Road as a dietician, and her husband Surya was a service engineer for a telecommunications firm next door. They usually shared the food they prepared early in the morning, as neither cared for the fare dished out by their respective canteens.
Surya was more often than not on the early shift from 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. and he cycled to work, only a fifteen-minute ride from home. Shoba commuted by bus, working between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. They worked a six-day week, both managing to wangle their off days each Monday. It was the thought of the fast approaching morrow that partly contributed to Shoba’s high spirits. They had been planning to go shopping at T. Nagar where she had spotted some colorful prints in a store window. She had thought one of them would be the ideal foil for the plain white kurta she had in her wardrobe. Dining out would end the day perfectly. Shoba had it all chalked out in her mind as she walked down Trinity Avenue, humming a tune to herself.
The road was deserted except for a couple of elderly men out on their morning stroll and a handful of people at the bus stop. As usual, Shoba turned right, into an small alley that branched off the main road onto Mydents Road. As she approached the middle of the alley she suddenly became aware of quick footfalls behind her. A faint sensation of unease came over her but she shrugged it off and walked on to the bend where the alley curved to the left.
As she turned the corner she realized the person behind her was now running. Shoba swung around and saw at a glance who her pursuer was. It was the young man who had been staring at her in the bus that very morning. “Loud-checks” she had mentally christened him, courtesy the bright patterned shirt he had on.
He was now only a few paces away. Any illusion Shoba had, that the man was only hurrying on his way to an appointment, was dispelled when she caught sight of the look on his face. It was a mixture of sadism and lecherous glee and then he was upon her with upraised arms.
Shoba swung her right arm up in an instinctive gesture of self defence. There was a sickening crunch as the cloth-clad
steel connected with the man’s skull. The fellow stopped as if shot, his legs buckling under him, and he pitched forward without a murmur onto the cold cement.
Shoba backed away, choking back the scream rising in her throat. She was trembling, dazed by the assault and its aftermath. It was a terrible, silent nightmare she was being subjected to. and her mind refused to function. She wanted to sit down, close her eyes and shut out the horrible scene, but she knew she had to get away from this place – and quickly.
She staggered away, down the deserted lane which curved past an empty parking lot, still clutching her belongings. Looking back once, she saw that the man had not moved. The scene was surreal, like one out of a “spaghetti” western, awash with corpses and violent crime.
As she turned quickly onto Mydents Road, she suddenly became aware of birds chirping in the tree-line street, and once again there was sound and color in her world. Now her mind raced, picturing again and again the frozen tableau of the dead man crumpled on the ground.
“Dead man!” she shuddered as the thought struck her, then suddenly wondered if he was really dead or just injured. She hurried down the street at a loss as to what to do next.
By the time she had reached the hospital staff entrance, she had calmed down considerably. During the short walk down the street she had decided not to confide in anyone, except Surya – when they met for lunch. Thinking about lunch she automatically looked down at the weapon swinging from her hand. The thought that it might show traces of the crime suddenly struck her. She smiled absently at Bahadur, the security guard on duty who greeted her, her mind working rapidly all the while.
She quickly crossed the yard and walked to the staff locker room which was fortunately empty. Entering the small changing cubicle, she latched the door and sat down with a sigh of relief. Then she turned to examine the bag holding her lunch. Shoba scrutinized the dark fabric minutely and saw a small, coin sized blood stain near the base with a few short hairs adhering to it. Removing the carrier from the bag, she left the cubicle and placed it in her locker, while she took the bag to the wash basin and after carefuly brushing off the hairs, washed out the stained corner.
Shoba returned the bag to her locker, twisted the key in the lock and left the room. She walked slowly down the corridor and entered the section where she worked. She was the first one in, as usual. Her colleagues soon began trickling in one after another, and within minutes the place was humming with activity. The normalcy of the scene had a calming effect on her mind which was still in turmoil. Work helped her forget, at least temporarily, the terrible experience of the morning.
Recently I was reduced to twiddling my thumbs at my son’s pediatrician’s waiting room. I had failed to carry reading material along and the (Film)fare on offer did not appeal. So I sat back and watched – kids of all sizes scooting around, at play in their own imaginary worlds; and their parents (in one case a grandpa had tagged along with his cane), who almost without exception had their eyes glued to the ubiquitous idiot box set up high in a corner.
Then a new set of parents entered, toddler in tow, the father still wearing his helmet…
I was overwhelmed by a sudden urge, and leaned over and whisper in my son’s ear (I know what you’re thinking – but sorry to disappoint – no, it wasn’t a case of role reversal combined with a need to use the restroom!) Sonny promptly dissolved into laughter as curious looks (as well as a couple of the dirty variety) were cast in our direction. I had described to him the impulse that had swept over me – to grab the elderly gentleman’s cane, do a quick reversal (in a parody of “Crazy Cool Paula Abdul“) and whack the newcomer across the side of his headgear, shouting “Fore!” You see this particular helmet was off-white with even dimples all over and bore an amazing likeness to a giant golf ball!
Fortunately I controlled the urge as well as my laughter (though I did dimple – you can’t blame me!) – or else I’d have served time in the clink for:
1. Assault and battery
2. Adding to insult to injury by way of hilarity.
One warm summer morning a few years ago I was running slightly late and rushed into the office vestibule where we leave our lunch bags and other paraphernalia. I had plonked my lunch on a shelf at waist height when something made me look up – inches from my face was a yawning black maw that emitted what can only be described as dungeon breath: a warm, stale stink… The bile rose up in my throat and I took a step backward.
“Barff!” it said.
I almost did.
No, it wasn’t a monster out of my worst nightmare. It was an old battered helmet set on the shelf above, its visor agape, reeking of stale sweat. It had initially borne the legend “Banff” but the “n” had been partially worn away – thus the very apt order to puke.
Guys! Besides the obvious safety factor, the helmet can cover up faults and lend an enigmatic aura. But please wear clean absorbent cotton caps beneath (the “undies” minus two holes, remember?!) and replace your armor at least every 2-3 years (which is the “life” of the helmet).
Finally, what does the “H” in “H. horribilis” stand for – “Homo” or “Helmetus”? You decide.
© Sosha Srinivasan
Last Sunday instead of sleeping in until 7, I was up as usual at 5 am. So was my son, without a murmur of protest for a change! Why? Because we had registered with Nizhal (Shade) for a “Tree Walk” as part of the Madras Week celebrating the founding of the city of Chennai in 1639. This was held at Guindy National Park, one of the handful of parks around the world that is situated within a city. It was an absolute treat. Resource person, Mr Kamaraj, who has worked at the park for long years, led us, stopping at intervals to explain the salient features of a variety of trees. I learned, for instance, that the tree I (and many others) believed to be the Flame of the Forest is in fact the flame tree (Delonix regia or Royal Poinciana). The real Flame of the Forest is Butea monosperma (also called the parrot tree due to the shape of its flowers. As it resembles the teak, it as also known as the bastard teak. Unfortunately we missed it in full bloom as flowering gets over in June.
The shrub that stood out was mother-in-law’s tongue,
ostensibly because the edges of its leaves are razor sharp! Though it is widely grown as an ornamental, purists call it a weed!
Then there was the Prosopis juliflora (belonging to the same genus as the North American mesquite) , a very hardy, drought resistant tree, which does not, however, allow other trees and shrubs to take root nearby. Another variant the Prosopis cineraria is very common to Rajasthan.
Lovely “extras” were the fauna we spotted – macaques (Rhesus monkeys), squirrels, kites, butterflies, and bugs…
We also saw a small group of deer, one at a distance of 2 feet! What gorgeous animals they are! Why anyone in their right minds would want to hunt the gentle creatures is beyond me.
So why did I go? Have you read the 2-page (not kidding!) short story, The Distinguished Stranger by R. L. Stevenson? I, too, love “the people with the green heads”!
Also I saw it as a chance to pass on some of my passion for the environment to my son. He already has caught the reading bug from me. It is really amazing – and sometimes disquieting – to consider how often we influence our children’s likes/dislikes. Other benefits – we spent time together but his attention was elsewhere and he didn’t get in my hair! It also clubbed exercise with learning. As we left the cicadas were just getting their act together – a farewell in their humming crescendo.
Then on Monday morning we climbed up and down St Thomas Mount (a hillock) twice by two different routes. It took about 2 hours but didn’t seem like it. I thought i’d pay for it the next day with sundry aching muscles but my fears were unfounded. I must be in better shape than I imagined! Hmmmm….
© Sosha Srinivasan
I live on a battleground and our home was filled with wounded soldiers this week. Huh?! I can almost picture you blinking in surprise! The suburb I live in is called Porur and a month ago I googled it out of idle curiosity. Wiki (doesn’t spare anything, does it?) says the name loosely translates as “battlefield” – as a decisive skirmish seems to have taken place here during the Pallava era (between 4 AD and 9 AD). Later it was part of a Mughal viceroyalty in the 17th-18th centuries. A neighboring township is called Mugalivakkam.
I’m not really surprised because the battles still seem to be raging hereabouts. It’s all out war when it comes to local politics, shouting matches between neighbors when it is a matter of sharing water, and of course, marital tiffs galore…
When the mood takes him, hubby loudly and arbitrarily begins barking out orders at home. When it gets unbearable, my son and I exchange a look and call out in unison, “Major Payne!” Boot camp is dismissed with a sheepish grin. There is an execrable movie by the same name (Major Payne) – give it a miss.
Last week sonny fell ill with a severe bout of sinusitis and I underwent minor surgery for an ingrown toenail. Hubs was rushing from the hospital next door to the army cantonment (no kidding – St Thomas Hospital sits cheek by jowl with the army area) to the frontline, when his trusty steed capsized. His foot was caught between a rock and a hard place (the median and the scooter). He dusted himself off and though injured, gallantly charged on in the line of duty… all for his mate!
But between two lame ducks – sorry, parents – and a son with a sore head, our place resembled a field hospital, with bandages and medication strewn all over, the air thick with the odours of surgical spirit and herbal liniment and groans and cries of pain.
I leave you with a last thought to mull over – “martial” is an anagram of “marital”.
© Sosha Srinivasan
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