Growing Up Pains
R.K. Murthi
'Life is hard/ I tell myself, as I stand before the mirror and watch acne, that dreaded scum of a disease, playing havoc with my face. I wish I could drive the pimples out with a wave of the hand. Then I tell myself that acne is a temporary ravage that makes life a little less comfortable for a teenager. But it is a sure sign of a child moulting into an adult. 'Life is tough/1 turn away from the mirror, when it strikes me like a bolt of lightning. My voice has turned rough, almost raucous. It grates, if I may add. Where has my sweet, soft voice gone? Have I caught a cold? Such gruffness goes hand in hand with a cold. But, the common cold and I have nothing to do with each other, at least at this moment. 'Is there an uncommon cold?' a light banter lifts my spirits. A common cold is common to all mankind. But every time I catch a cold, it becomes an uncommon one for Appa and Amma. They think I have come.
down with a dangerous cold, one that could kill! They force me into bed, send for the doctor who pumps all sorts of medicines into my system. They pray to all the gods and goddesses—according to our religious texts we have thirty-three crores of them—to cure me quickly and set apart money for donating to the gods, once I am back on my feet. That is what I do in a day or two, none the worse for the temporary cold. When I tease them for being over-protective, they grunt, "How would you know? You are too young to understand our fears. Our only child, the apple of our eye." As if they understand my fears! I too have my fear. It was not there till the other day. But, suddenly, out of nowhere, it has appeared. It fills all my waking thoughts and haunts my dreams too. I try to dispel the fear, tell myself, 'Only cowards fear. I am no coward.' But this bravado doesn't last long. The more I think of it, the stronger becomes the hold of this fear. I am no longer my usual self. I have become a stranger to myself. Till the other day, I used to feel happy when Amma walked in unannounced, surveyed the room, gently chided me, "Is this a room or a pigsty?" and quickly got down to the task of cleaning the room. She would work at it with total dedication. The books would go back into the bookcase or side rack; the caps and pens, pulled .
apart by me, would get reunited; bits and pieces of crayons that dot the floor would go into the bin; the dust would be swept off the table and the room would gain a fresh look. How I hate her now when she does that! I have put up a warning on the door: Knock Before You Enter Beneath the above instruction is a warning: My Room! Love It Or Hate It! Amma sees the notice, but behaves as if it is Greek or Latin. She continues to step into my room, unmindful of my privacy. How can I Is that why, at times, he makes extra efforts to be overtly affectionate! I do not know. May be he tries to kill the fear in him by treating me with caution. He finds safety in treating me as a child. He runs his fingers through my thick, curly hair, holds my head close to his chest and pats me. I would not say I hate him for doing that. But I am not able to enjoy it as I used to. Once, I would give the whole world for being held lovingly by Appa. Now I feel as if it is not what Appa should do to me. Is it not time, I tell myself, that he treats me as a grown-up. Especially when he has been reminding me to behave like one. I fall and slip and scream with pain because of a sprain. Amma is all kindness. Not Appa. He growls, "You are fourteen, Samir. It is time you learnt how to bear pain with stoic courage. You are no longer a child." I cannot forget those words. Next evening, before Appa has returned from office, I walk up to Amma. She welcomes me with a big smile. But the smile turns into a frown when I ask her whether I could go for a party at Vishal's house. Amma says, "Must be back before nine." "Amma, I am grown-up now. Can I not stay out till all my friends leave?" I ask. "You think you are old enough to be on your own, Samir? Remember you are still a child even though you think otherwise. You are at an in-between age. A Teenager." 8 her understand that I need privacy? If only she senses the gossamer-thin curtain that has come up between me and my parents! Is this what growing up is all about— a matter of individuality, a snapping of bonds? Who wants to snap bonds with one's parents. Not I. The very thought makes me cry. Yet, I feel I am drawing away from them. Or am I imagining! I think Appa is watchful and wary when he meets me. Of course, his eyes gleam with joy whenever I walk into his presence. But is it as spontaneous as it used to be? Or am I unable to feel its warmth because of the curtain that has come up between us. May be, because of the curtain, he sees me as someone different, a rather misty figure, imprecise, vague and elusive, developing a form that is difficult for him to gauge. May be he too is scared of this new figure.
Is that why, at times, he makes extra efforts to be overtly affectionate! I do not know. May be he tries to kill the fear in him by treating me with caution. He finds safety in treating me as a child. He runs his fingers through my thick, curly hair, holds my head close to his chest and pats me. I would not say I hate him for doing that. But I am not able to enjoy it as I used to. Once, I would give the whole world for being held lovingly by Appa. Now I feel as if it is not what Appa should do to me. Is it not time, I tell myself, that he treats me as a grown-up. Especially when he has been reminding me to behave like one. I fall and slip and scream with pain because of a sprain. Amma is all kindness. Not Appa. He growls, "You are fourteen, Samir. It is time you learnt how to bear pain with stoic courage. You are no longer a child." I cannot forget those words. Next evening, before Appa has returned from office, I walk up to Amma. She welcomes me with a big smile. But the smile turns into a frown when I ask her whether I could go for a party at Vishal's house. Amma says, "Must be back before nine." "Amma, I am grown-up now. Can I not stay out till all my friends leave?" I ask. "You think you are old enough to be on your own, Samir? Remember you are still a child even though you think otherwise. You are at an in-between age. A Teenager."
That raises my hackles. I stamp my feet, shout at her, "I am old enough, Amma. Old enough to be on my own. I will not allow myself to be treated like a kid!" She gives me a stern look and asserts firmly, "My decision is final. No party for you. Not today. Not ever. I do not want you to end up as a wild colt." She has her way. I miss the party. But it does not endear her. I sulk. I do not talk to her for a whole day. She coaxes me, placates me till I succumb to her molly-coddling. Then I hug her and cry. Pat comes her remark, "At fourteen, a boy must know how to control his emotions!" That is the trouble. Am I a child? Or have I grown-up? When will my parents see clearly what I am. Either I am a child or, I am a grown-up. I cannot be both at the same time. May be I am a mix of both. I do not know. That is what makes my fear so scary. I know my fear will die if my parents stop treating me like a child. But no. They will not do that. They have their fears. That is why Amma says every time I try to assert myself, "At your age, you need to be kept on the leash. It is for your good, Samir. We shall take the leash off once you are capable of knowing what is right and what is wrong. Freedom never comes in a day. Freedom will be yours once we feel you are mature enough to handle situations." "When will that be?" I ask.
Appa walks in. Amma warms up to his presence with a gentle nod, then tells me, "Samir, everything takes time. A flower take s time to turn into a fruit. It takes a year for you to go from one class to the next" she grins. Appa caresses my arm and says. "I know you have your fears. We have ours. We must fight our fears together. You must understand our concerns. There are so many temptations to which a youth is drawn. I do not want to list them. You knowr them now. Come to us, talk to us openly. Let us learn to be friends. Take every advice we offer as coming from true friends. We, in turn, promise to do all that we can to appreciate your viewpoint. Will you let me be your true friend?" "Me too," Amma lifts my chin and smiles into my eyes. I press her palm and grin happily, "We are three friends, bound by love. We will never do anything that hurts the others." "That's it! Happy are we, now that we have, from fear, been set free." Papa gently ruffles my curly hair.
Right Stand
NR.K. Murthi
Shanti swung the satchel lightly and made the instrument box which contained the protractor, the divider and other assorted items that one needs to draw geometrical figures, sing to her. The notes it produced were the beats she needed to provide the orchestra for the gentle notes produced by the breeze that ran into a dancing cluster of bamboos. "Hi! Shanti," she heard the shriek of brakes biting into the tyres. She turned quickly and noticed her cousin, Arumugham, tilting the bicycle and gaining stability by simultaneously taking his left foot off the pedal and planting it on the ground. She acknowledged his call with a smile, her fair cheeks turning pink, her lithe figure feeling strangely electrified. Perhaps the heart had its reasons. She wanted to say—Glad to meet you! So your course at the Military Academy is over! You are now an officer in the Army! Congratulations!—but the words died in her throat.
Not that she was short of words. In fact, in the 16 years that she had been on this planet, she had spoken more than most girls of her age. The children of the village looked upon her as a fantastic story teller. Her teachers relied on her to win laurels in elocution competitions. Hari Shastri, the village priest, hailed her every time she came to the temple and recited verses: "Vagdevi resides on your tongue," he would say. Yet, she was speechless in the presence of Arumugham. He was not a stranger to her. He was her maternal uncle's son. Four years older to her. They had grown up together. Played together. Fought together. All that ended once she attained the age of maturity and the family dropped the hint that in a few years she would marry Arumugham. She liked the idea. Arumugham was tall, wellbuilt and had a native sense of humour. 'Not a bad catch,' she told herself, when she heard of the family's decision. But from that day, she became tongue-tied whenever she ran into Arumugham. "Shall I call you Mookambika?" Arumugham teased her. She took the rebuke in her stride. She could not gather enough words to respond. "Well, my dumb doll, get it into your head. In a fortnight, you will have to speak to me. Ask me why?"
Shanti raised her eyebrows, signalling that he could give her the answer. "Because, in a fortnight, we are to get married." Arumugham swung off the cycle, rested the cycle against the cluster of bamboos and started moving closer to her. She could not believe her ears. Nobody had told her of the decision. She had heard the elders whispering behind her back, but every time she tried to find out, they told her, with that supercilious look, "You will know, girl. Soon. Not now." So that was the secret. They were conspiring behind her back, deciding her life, without taking her into confidence. "That cheers you, doesn't it, Shanti?" Arumugham gently picked up her hand. "No." She finally found her voice. He dropped her hand, instantly. "I thought, fool that I was, that you loved me too." He was rattled. "Who says I will not marry you?" Shanti now found her voice. "Ah, my sweet little girl. You gave me a fright. You always manage to do that. Wait till I get my chance." He came closer and stood before her. "That remains to be seen. You will not get one for another four years," Shanti bit her lip. "Why?" "Because I want to complete my studies. Because Nl want to be capable of earning a living. Because
you will be away, posted at non-family stations, and I will have to manage on my own. I can give you a hundred reasons to justify why I shall not marry now. If you are in a hurry to get married, forget me. Find another girl." Shanti was eloquent. "But our elders think we are both old enough to marry," Arumughan tried to bring her round. "Go and tell them what I told you. Will you? Otherwise I will fight my own battle. If that happens, you will not have a face to show," she warned. "I shall speak to them. But I wonder whether they will agree," Arumugham hedged. "They will. They have no option. I am sure I can make my parents understand. Hope you manage your end equally well," Shanti started moving off. Arumugham watched her till she vanished from view. His face fell. With what hopes he had sought out Shanti! How eager he had been to give her the gift he had brought for her! She had dampened his enthusiasm. He ground his teeth and pedalled along the metalled road at breakneck speed. After dinner, his parents moved to the central hall. His father sat on a swing and enjoyed its gentle movements. His mother sat on the floor, stretched her legs, got hold of the paan (beetel leaf) box and started preparing the paan she and her husband usually enjoyed after dinner. Arumugham came and sat by the side of his father.
"Ah, Aaru, did you meet Shanti? Poor girl, she doesn't know that her days of freedom are over, that you have come to tie the mangalsutra on her neck and take her away with you. We let her have all the fun till you came on leave." The old man had a big smile on his face. "You should have taken her into confidence," Arumugham mumbled. "We, the elders, decide what is good for you. You are children. What do you know?" his father was stern. "But, Appa, Shanti doesn't want to marry now," Arumugham sighed. "She thinks she is too young for marriage?" his mother stopped rolling the paan leaf and gaped at him. "Anuria she says she wants to complete her studies," he replied. "I will talk to her, and to my sister," his father bristled. That was when they heard the rustle of feet. All eyes turned to the sound. Moving across the door were Shanti and her mother. "Come, Thankachi. How are you, Shanti?" Arumugham's father welcomed them, warmly. Shanti bent and touched the old man's feet, before turning to her aunt to do the'same. "Anna, has Arumugham told you?" Shanti's mother sat on the swing by her brother's side. "Yes. That is the stupidest thing I have heard.
Remember, Thankachi, you were hardly twelve when you got married. Are you not happy with Mani? Such a nice man. Who chose him for you? Our parents. I think choosing the bride or the bridegroom is our right. Further, Shanti and Arumugham are cousins. And they are made for each other, muraipenn and muraipillai," Arumugham's father laid down his case. "Mama!" Shanti was happy that Arumugham had already talked to his parents about her view. "Yes, my dear," the old man gave her the nod. "I never question your rights or your decision..." she paused. "Do you not like Arumugham?" his mother interuppted. Shanti's face turned red. She bent her head, stared at the floor for a few seconds before regaining her courage. "Mami, you know the answer," she hedged. "Good," Mami purred. "I talked to your son. We agreed we would wait for four years before we marry," Shanti said. "Is that so?" the old man shot the question at Arumugham. "Yes, Appa. I met her this evening when she was returning from school. I told her of your decision. She was shocked. She said she wants to complete her studies, become a graduate at least," Arumugham pleaded her case. "Why does she need all that education? It is enough she knows how to keep a happy home, cook well, look after the children when they arrive..." Arumugham's mother scowled. "Amma. Days have changed. Appa was always with you. I will be posted at non-family stations often. Shanti will have to be on her own. She is right, Amma, let her complete her graduation. Then we will marry. Till then..." "Till then?" "Till then we remain engaged," Arumugham said firmly. Next day, when he ran into Shanti near the cluster of bamboos she was bubbling with joy. "I am proud of you. You stood by me, fought for my right. You brought your parents round," her eyes held a rare glow. "Tamed them, girl! Four years hence, it will be your turn," he joked. "Who tames whom? The future will tell," Shanti smiled. "The future is not ours to see," Armugham gently took her hand and placed in it the eardrops that he had brought for her.
Chasing A Dream
Ramendra Kumar
"Has Priya not come home as yet?" Surya asked, depositing his bag in the cramped drawing-cumdining-room of his tiny two bedroom flat. He had just returned from work. He was a cashier in the State Bank of Hyderabad, while his wife, Sharada, a lab assistant in Reddy College for Women. Their daughter, Priya, was a Class X student in Saint Anne's School. They lived in Vidyanagar, while Priya's school was in Tarnaka around six kilometres away. There was a direct bus from Priya's school to Vidyanagar. "She should have been here by 4.30. It is 5.30 now and she still has not come," Sharada replied. Sharada's college closed at 3.00 and she was usually back home by 4.00 p.m. "Yesterday too she was late." "In fact, since the last few weeks she has been coming home late." / "Did you ask her?" "Yes, I did, last week."
"What did she say?" "She mumbled something about spending time with her best friend, then she kept quiet. You know she is not very forthcoming. If I ask her too many questions she just clams up or bursts into tears. Sometimes when I talk to her I get the impression I am conversing with a stranger, not my own daughter." "I know she is a difficult child. But should we at least not know what she is up to? I...I hope it has nothing to do with some boy... You know at this age..." "No, I do not think our Priya would get involved in that sort of thing." Priya was to appear for the Class X examination in April the next year. This was the month of July and her studies had started in real earnest. Morning six to eight she went for Maths and Physics tuition, and in the evening seven to eight for Chemistry. The next day, Surya happened to discuss Priya's strange behaviour with his colleague, Durga, who too had a teenaged daughter. Durga was a despatch assistant in the same bank. "Surya, you should not take it so lightly. With teenagers one can't really say anything. One never knows what they are up to." "So what do you want me to do?" "Why do you not confront her?" "She will simply clam up and withdraw into ashell. I am worried what her reaction will be if she knows that we are even remotely suspicious of her activities. With so many youngsters running away from home at the smallest pretext and news of teenaged suicides appearing in the newspapers almost everyday, frankly, I am scared. You know, with both of us working, Priya is left alone in the house quite a bit. What goes on in her mind only she knows. I would not like to probe too deeply and upset her. All we know she may just be going to her friend's house for some combined study." "I have an idea. My brother, Ajay, works in a Detective Agency. I will tell him. I am sure he will agree to follow her. Since Priya does not know him, she will not get suspicious. Moreover, it will all be done in strict confidence." Surya kept silent for a while, finally he spoke. "I think it is a good idea. How do we get started?" "I will talk to my brother and let you know." Two days later, on Monday, 'Operation Shadow' had begun. Surya took Ajay to Saint Anne's and showed Priya to him from a distance. Ajay promised he would have the required information in a day or two. On Wednesday, Surya got a call in the office. "Hello! Surya? This is Ajay?" "Yes, Ajay. Any news?" "Plenty. Can you come to Arts College at 4.30 in the evening?" "Why?"
"I will explain when we meet." Sharp at 4.30, Surya parked his scooter in front of the Arts College Building. It was an imposing stone structure which formed the nucleus of the sprawling Osmania University Campus. Ajay was waiting for him. "Come with me," he said and started walking briskly with Surya keeping pace with him. They went behind the building and took a path which led to a small Hanuman Temple. The temple, under a huge banyan tree, was surrounded by a cluster of trees and boulders. As such it was hidden from the college. Surya had been there a couple of times and quite liked the serenity of the place. When they reached the place, Ajay asked him to quietly peer from behind a boulder. As Surya looked, he saw Priya sitting in the small courtyard in front of the temple. There was a canvas in front of her and she was busy painting. A few paint bottles, brushes and drawing sheets were lying around. "What do you think you are doing?" They heard a male voice and turned round. A tall, well-built man of around sixty years was standing there. He was clad in a dhoti and his chest was bare except for an angvastram. "We...I...I am that girl's father and he...he is a friend." "Oh! So you are Surya Naidu. I am Chari, the pujari of this temple. Come with me. Let us not disturb her."
He took them down a narrow path that led to a small house behind the temple. "This is my humble abode. I am sorry I cannot offer you chairs," the pujari said, spreading a mat in the tiny verandah. "You must be surprised to find Priya here." "Yes... I.. .had no idea that she was coming here. Only when my friend, Ajay, followed her..." "So you had to take the help of a detective to know what is in your daughter's mind," the pujari said with a chuckle. Stung by the remark, Surya started to say something when Chari held up his hand. "Surya, I know it is very difficult for parents to understand the minds of their kids, especially teenagers. Let me tell you how I came to know Priya. She had come once with a friend of hers. She was fascinated with the peace and calm here. "Is it always so serene here," Thaatha?" she had asked me. "Yes, my child," I replied to her. "There is always peace and calm in the Lord's abode." "Thaatha, can I come here every day?" "Why not, my child. But don't you think you are too young to spend your evenings praying in the temple?" "Thaatha, I do not want to come here to pray. I want to come here to paint." "To paint?" I asked in surprise. "But you can do that at home."
"No, Thaatha. My parents will not allow me." "Why?" "They consider painting a waste of time. They want me to study Physics, Chemistry, Maths, Biology, and become an engineer or a doctor. They believe painting cannot guarantee a person his bread and butter but engineering or medicine can." "Child, don't you think they are right?" "But I do not want to become an engineer or a doctor. I want to become a painter. I do not mind struggling, even starving to realize my dream. Is it really that wrong to chase one's dream?" "No, child, no," I replied. I was really struck by the child's determination. "That was almost two months ago. Since then she has been coming here almost every day and painting for an hour or so. Since she cannot carry the canvas home, she has been keeping them in my house. Come inside and take a look." They went into the one-room house. In one corner were several canvases. As the pujari spread them out one by one, Surya was stuck by the beauty, the raw energy, of his daughter's art. "Beautiful," he heard Ajay mumbling. "Surya, I know Ramji Jain, the owner of an art gallery. Can I take these paintings to him? I think Priya is really talented. I am hopeful Ramji might give Priya some guidance," Ajay said. Surya did not hesitate. "Of course. But let us check With Priya first."
The next three months were hectic for both Priya and Surya. Ramji Jain was impressed with Priya's talent. He agreed to sponser a solo exhibition of Priya's paintings and explained to Surya the groundwork that needed to be done to make the exhibition a success. While Priya got busy creating magic on her canvas, Surya ran around helping with the arrangements. Finally, on October 25, the exhibition was inaugurated. Priya was hailed as the youngest and the brightest star on the art firmament of the city. The painting which drew the greatest appreciation was a simple one. It showed a tall and well-built pujari praying to Lord Hanuman with a fifteen-year-old girl sitting beside him. The painting was titled 'My Inspiration.'
As Clear As Crystal
Cheryl Rao
Fifteen-year-old Hemant threw the pebble viciously into the pond. He did not care that he could have hit the fish his father loved to watch when he sat outside on the rolling lawns. All that luxury and the old man was turning into a skinflint! Thrice this month he had refused to give him more than fifty rupees when usually he just handed over his purse to Hemant to help himself! What could he do with fifty rupees? He had promised the gang a treat at the movies. He looked at his watch. Just another half-hour before the booking opened and no way to put together the cash for five tickets. What should he do? Suddenly, a fragment of his mother's conversation with a friend ran across his mind. "I have collected this crystal from all over the world and it is my pride and joy." What a great idea! Hemant jumped up and sneaked back into the house. There was no one in the living room. He picked up the first piece of crystal he saw—a tall vase—and made off with it. Hemant arrived at the theatre after the other four boys. Panting, but pleased, he grandly pulled out the four hundred he had got for the vase and peeled off a hundred rupee note for the tickets. Akash, Arjun and Rohit took it for granted that he should pay. Only Gaurav, whose father supplied steel to Hemant's father's factory, felt a bit awkward. He would have preferred to buy his own ticket but he had seen how annoyed Hemant got if he suggested it, so instead he bought two packets of chips to pass around as they watched the movie. Hemant was relieved that he did not need to spend any more money. The remaining three hundred would see him through the next few days. The missing vase was not noticed for almost a week. By then, Hemant had helped himself to an ashtray and a three-cornered bowl as well. "That is strange," commented Mrs Khanna. "Where did I keep the gladioli vase?" She questioned the household staff, but no one seemed to know anything and Hemant, who was listening, just pretended he was reading. When the sixth piece disappeared, Mrs Khanna could no longer take it lightly. "You must call everyone and question them," she said to her husband. "I have no time for that," he replied. "My hands are full with the factory and the labour there." His father had not mentioned it at home, but he had big problems at work. Huge payments (fortems his factory had manufactured and supplied) were held up because a defect had come to light, and he was finding it difficult to keep going. The manufacturing process had to be looked into and fresh supplies made. Labour had to be paid or they would go on strike. He did not share his worries with his family because he did not want them to think that his business was collapsing. Hemant did not ask his father for more money for an entire month, but Mr Khanna did not give much thought to that. Mrs Khanna, on the other hand, was not going to let go of her crystal that easily. She began keeping track of the number of pieces she had and made sure she arranged them in such a way that even one empty space would be noticed. Hemant did not have a chance to pinch any more of his mother's collection to acquire spending money for himself. "Let us go for the Daler Mehndi show next Saturday," suggested Akash and Arjun, when the gang was together. They were confident Hemant would, as usual, manage to get the expensive tickets for them. Rohit's eyes shone at the thought. He fancied himself as a singer and wanted to become another Daler himself! Gaurav shook his head. "No, I cannot come. My parents will not allow me to go for a late night show like that." Hemant did not say anything. He had a sinking sensation in his stomach. He knew he could never.
ruffle up the money for the tickets. Gaurav saw the look on Hemant's face and suddenly recalled the conversation he overheard between his parents a couple of nights ago. "Arrey," replied Akash. "Hemant's father always gets such things for us. He can afford it. What is a couple of thousands for him?" Hemant glared at Gaurav. "Yes, spending on tickets and such stuff is chicken feed. If you ask for return tickets to the U.S. then he might think twice..." He walked away and Gaurav ran after him. "Hemant, wait!" He waited for them to be out of earshot of the others, then he spoke rapidly. "I know things are not good at the factory, Hemant. You can always tell the others to pay for their own tickets. You do not have to treat them." "Why don't you mind your own business?" Hemant snapped. He headed home, putting Gaurav's words firmly out of his mind and concentrating on a way to get some money. Ma's crystal was out of the question. The silver was not. He went straight to the sideboard and opened the drawer where the six heavy, silver mugs lay. He dumped them in his backpack and headed for the lane of silver shops his mother often visited. He did not know that Gaurav was on his trail, determined to reason with him. When Hemant dumped the silver mugs on the jeweller's counter, Gaurav rushed into the shop.
and confronted his friend. "Do your parents know what you are doing, Hemant?" he asked. "Get lost!" snarled Hemant, pushing Gaurav away. "What is this? What are you boys up to?" asked the shopkeeper, pressing an alarm under his table. A siren went off and an armed guard rushed in. Hemant panicked. He left the mugs on the counter and ran into the market-place with Gaurav close on his heels. When they were at a safe distance, Hemant stopped and turned on Gaurav. "Why did you interfere? Now look what has happened! I don't have the silver and I don't have the money for it either!" "You can get the silver back," said Gaurav. "Oh sure. I just walk back to the sweet, helpful jeweller and tell him that it was all a mistake and that I want the mugs back," "Well, not exactly. You may not be able to pull it off on your own, but if you got your father or your mother to go with you..." "Brilliant!" growled Hemant. "I may as well handcuff myself and go to the cops." "I will come with you," persisted Gaurav. "You don't have to face your parents alone. I will tell them how it is in our group. How everyone expects you to pay for everything..." Hemant shoved Gaurav aside. "You have done enough damage for one day. Just stay away from me. I do not need your so-called help." Hemant decided that he would forget about silver mugs and just hope that his mother did not think of using them. She had not taken them out in months anyway. But luck was against him. That very evening, when his mother's chacha, Prem, came over, she insisted that lassi be served in the silver mugs. Hemant cringed in his chair, waiting for the uproar when the drawer was found empty. But there was none. When at last he found the courage to look up, Uncle Prem and his wife, Papa and Ma, were all helping themselves to their favourite drink—from the silver mugs! Hemant looked at the tray as if it was going to bite him. 'How? How did the mugs get back into the house? Who brought them?' He looked at his mother. 'What was she hiding behind that smile? And Papa? What would he do to him when they were alone?' Hemant sat like a robot until Uncle Prem left. Then he tried to move away, unobstrusively, but his mother called out to him, "Hemant! Just bring me that bunch of flowers chacha brought!" Hemant picked the bouquet that was lying on the coffee table and went to his mother. His legs trembled and he felt sick. She didn't say anything but took the flowers from him and began to arrange them in her tall, crystal vase. 'Wait a minute. The tall vase? That was the one he had sold! How did it get back into the house?'
Hemant looked around wildly. The ashtray was back, and also the three-cornered bowl! It was too much for him. He crumpled on the floor and began to cry. "I am sorry, Ma, I'm sorry. I'll never do it again." Mrs Khanna bent down and smoothed Hemant's hair back from his forehead. "Why, Son?" she asked, "why did you do it?" Hemant sobbed out the tale of his friends and the money all of them had needed to have fun together. As he tried to explain, he heard himself for the first time. How lame his excuses were! What foolish aims he had! Trying to buy friendship with his father's money and robbing his own parents to do it! "Gaurav told me everything," Mrs Khanna said, "but I was waiting for you to talk to me." Hemant wiped his eyes and as he did so, he saw his father's feet next to him. He waited fearfully for the blow to fall on him, but nothing happened. "I should have taken you into confidence, Hemant," his father said, "but I was always far too busy. I did not credit you with the ability to understand that there are hard times as there are good times and we must know what to do in each." Hemant stood up. "I was selfish, Papa. I thought only of myself. I thought Gaurav was interfering . But now everything is clear to me. Now I know that he is the only true friend I have."
R.K. Murthi
'Life is hard/ I tell myself, as I stand before the mirror and watch acne, that dreaded scum of a disease, playing havoc with my face. I wish I could drive the pimples out with a wave of the hand. Then I tell myself that acne is a temporary ravage that makes life a little less comfortable for a teenager. But it is a sure sign of a child moulting into an adult. 'Life is tough/1 turn away from the mirror, when it strikes me like a bolt of lightning. My voice has turned rough, almost raucous. It grates, if I may add. Where has my sweet, soft voice gone? Have I caught a cold? Such gruffness goes hand in hand with a cold. But, the common cold and I have nothing to do with each other, at least at this moment. 'Is there an uncommon cold?' a light banter lifts my spirits. A common cold is common to all mankind. But every time I catch a cold, it becomes an uncommon one for Appa and Amma. They think I have come.
down with a dangerous cold, one that could kill! They force me into bed, send for the doctor who pumps all sorts of medicines into my system. They pray to all the gods and goddesses—according to our religious texts we have thirty-three crores of them—to cure me quickly and set apart money for donating to the gods, once I am back on my feet. That is what I do in a day or two, none the worse for the temporary cold. When I tease them for being over-protective, they grunt, "How would you know? You are too young to understand our fears. Our only child, the apple of our eye." As if they understand my fears! I too have my fear. It was not there till the other day. But, suddenly, out of nowhere, it has appeared. It fills all my waking thoughts and haunts my dreams too. I try to dispel the fear, tell myself, 'Only cowards fear. I am no coward.' But this bravado doesn't last long. The more I think of it, the stronger becomes the hold of this fear. I am no longer my usual self. I have become a stranger to myself. Till the other day, I used to feel happy when Amma walked in unannounced, surveyed the room, gently chided me, "Is this a room or a pigsty?" and quickly got down to the task of cleaning the room. She would work at it with total dedication. The books would go back into the bookcase or side rack; the caps and pens, pulled .
apart by me, would get reunited; bits and pieces of crayons that dot the floor would go into the bin; the dust would be swept off the table and the room would gain a fresh look. How I hate her now when she does that! I have put up a warning on the door: Knock Before You Enter Beneath the above instruction is a warning: My Room! Love It Or Hate It! Amma sees the notice, but behaves as if it is Greek or Latin. She continues to step into my room, unmindful of my privacy. How can I Is that why, at times, he makes extra efforts to be overtly affectionate! I do not know. May be he tries to kill the fear in him by treating me with caution. He finds safety in treating me as a child. He runs his fingers through my thick, curly hair, holds my head close to his chest and pats me. I would not say I hate him for doing that. But I am not able to enjoy it as I used to. Once, I would give the whole world for being held lovingly by Appa. Now I feel as if it is not what Appa should do to me. Is it not time, I tell myself, that he treats me as a grown-up. Especially when he has been reminding me to behave like one. I fall and slip and scream with pain because of a sprain. Amma is all kindness. Not Appa. He growls, "You are fourteen, Samir. It is time you learnt how to bear pain with stoic courage. You are no longer a child." I cannot forget those words. Next evening, before Appa has returned from office, I walk up to Amma. She welcomes me with a big smile. But the smile turns into a frown when I ask her whether I could go for a party at Vishal's house. Amma says, "Must be back before nine." "Amma, I am grown-up now. Can I not stay out till all my friends leave?" I ask. "You think you are old enough to be on your own, Samir? Remember you are still a child even though you think otherwise. You are at an in-between age. A Teenager." 8 her understand that I need privacy? If only she senses the gossamer-thin curtain that has come up between me and my parents! Is this what growing up is all about— a matter of individuality, a snapping of bonds? Who wants to snap bonds with one's parents. Not I. The very thought makes me cry. Yet, I feel I am drawing away from them. Or am I imagining! I think Appa is watchful and wary when he meets me. Of course, his eyes gleam with joy whenever I walk into his presence. But is it as spontaneous as it used to be? Or am I unable to feel its warmth because of the curtain that has come up between us. May be, because of the curtain, he sees me as someone different, a rather misty figure, imprecise, vague and elusive, developing a form that is difficult for him to gauge. May be he too is scared of this new figure.
Is that why, at times, he makes extra efforts to be overtly affectionate! I do not know. May be he tries to kill the fear in him by treating me with caution. He finds safety in treating me as a child. He runs his fingers through my thick, curly hair, holds my head close to his chest and pats me. I would not say I hate him for doing that. But I am not able to enjoy it as I used to. Once, I would give the whole world for being held lovingly by Appa. Now I feel as if it is not what Appa should do to me. Is it not time, I tell myself, that he treats me as a grown-up. Especially when he has been reminding me to behave like one. I fall and slip and scream with pain because of a sprain. Amma is all kindness. Not Appa. He growls, "You are fourteen, Samir. It is time you learnt how to bear pain with stoic courage. You are no longer a child." I cannot forget those words. Next evening, before Appa has returned from office, I walk up to Amma. She welcomes me with a big smile. But the smile turns into a frown when I ask her whether I could go for a party at Vishal's house. Amma says, "Must be back before nine." "Amma, I am grown-up now. Can I not stay out till all my friends leave?" I ask. "You think you are old enough to be on your own, Samir? Remember you are still a child even though you think otherwise. You are at an in-between age. A Teenager."
That raises my hackles. I stamp my feet, shout at her, "I am old enough, Amma. Old enough to be on my own. I will not allow myself to be treated like a kid!" She gives me a stern look and asserts firmly, "My decision is final. No party for you. Not today. Not ever. I do not want you to end up as a wild colt." She has her way. I miss the party. But it does not endear her. I sulk. I do not talk to her for a whole day. She coaxes me, placates me till I succumb to her molly-coddling. Then I hug her and cry. Pat comes her remark, "At fourteen, a boy must know how to control his emotions!" That is the trouble. Am I a child? Or have I grown-up? When will my parents see clearly what I am. Either I am a child or, I am a grown-up. I cannot be both at the same time. May be I am a mix of both. I do not know. That is what makes my fear so scary. I know my fear will die if my parents stop treating me like a child. But no. They will not do that. They have their fears. That is why Amma says every time I try to assert myself, "At your age, you need to be kept on the leash. It is for your good, Samir. We shall take the leash off once you are capable of knowing what is right and what is wrong. Freedom never comes in a day. Freedom will be yours once we feel you are mature enough to handle situations." "When will that be?" I ask.
Appa walks in. Amma warms up to his presence with a gentle nod, then tells me, "Samir, everything takes time. A flower take s time to turn into a fruit. It takes a year for you to go from one class to the next" she grins. Appa caresses my arm and says. "I know you have your fears. We have ours. We must fight our fears together. You must understand our concerns. There are so many temptations to which a youth is drawn. I do not want to list them. You knowr them now. Come to us, talk to us openly. Let us learn to be friends. Take every advice we offer as coming from true friends. We, in turn, promise to do all that we can to appreciate your viewpoint. Will you let me be your true friend?" "Me too," Amma lifts my chin and smiles into my eyes. I press her palm and grin happily, "We are three friends, bound by love. We will never do anything that hurts the others." "That's it! Happy are we, now that we have, from fear, been set free." Papa gently ruffles my curly hair.
Right Stand
NR.K. Murthi
Shanti swung the satchel lightly and made the instrument box which contained the protractor, the divider and other assorted items that one needs to draw geometrical figures, sing to her. The notes it produced were the beats she needed to provide the orchestra for the gentle notes produced by the breeze that ran into a dancing cluster of bamboos. "Hi! Shanti," she heard the shriek of brakes biting into the tyres. She turned quickly and noticed her cousin, Arumugham, tilting the bicycle and gaining stability by simultaneously taking his left foot off the pedal and planting it on the ground. She acknowledged his call with a smile, her fair cheeks turning pink, her lithe figure feeling strangely electrified. Perhaps the heart had its reasons. She wanted to say—Glad to meet you! So your course at the Military Academy is over! You are now an officer in the Army! Congratulations!—but the words died in her throat.
Not that she was short of words. In fact, in the 16 years that she had been on this planet, she had spoken more than most girls of her age. The children of the village looked upon her as a fantastic story teller. Her teachers relied on her to win laurels in elocution competitions. Hari Shastri, the village priest, hailed her every time she came to the temple and recited verses: "Vagdevi resides on your tongue," he would say. Yet, she was speechless in the presence of Arumugham. He was not a stranger to her. He was her maternal uncle's son. Four years older to her. They had grown up together. Played together. Fought together. All that ended once she attained the age of maturity and the family dropped the hint that in a few years she would marry Arumugham. She liked the idea. Arumugham was tall, wellbuilt and had a native sense of humour. 'Not a bad catch,' she told herself, when she heard of the family's decision. But from that day, she became tongue-tied whenever she ran into Arumugham. "Shall I call you Mookambika?" Arumugham teased her. She took the rebuke in her stride. She could not gather enough words to respond. "Well, my dumb doll, get it into your head. In a fortnight, you will have to speak to me. Ask me why?"
Shanti raised her eyebrows, signalling that he could give her the answer. "Because, in a fortnight, we are to get married." Arumugham swung off the cycle, rested the cycle against the cluster of bamboos and started moving closer to her. She could not believe her ears. Nobody had told her of the decision. She had heard the elders whispering behind her back, but every time she tried to find out, they told her, with that supercilious look, "You will know, girl. Soon. Not now." So that was the secret. They were conspiring behind her back, deciding her life, without taking her into confidence. "That cheers you, doesn't it, Shanti?" Arumugham gently picked up her hand. "No." She finally found her voice. He dropped her hand, instantly. "I thought, fool that I was, that you loved me too." He was rattled. "Who says I will not marry you?" Shanti now found her voice. "Ah, my sweet little girl. You gave me a fright. You always manage to do that. Wait till I get my chance." He came closer and stood before her. "That remains to be seen. You will not get one for another four years," Shanti bit her lip. "Why?" "Because I want to complete my studies. Because Nl want to be capable of earning a living. Because
you will be away, posted at non-family stations, and I will have to manage on my own. I can give you a hundred reasons to justify why I shall not marry now. If you are in a hurry to get married, forget me. Find another girl." Shanti was eloquent. "But our elders think we are both old enough to marry," Arumughan tried to bring her round. "Go and tell them what I told you. Will you? Otherwise I will fight my own battle. If that happens, you will not have a face to show," she warned. "I shall speak to them. But I wonder whether they will agree," Arumugham hedged. "They will. They have no option. I am sure I can make my parents understand. Hope you manage your end equally well," Shanti started moving off. Arumugham watched her till she vanished from view. His face fell. With what hopes he had sought out Shanti! How eager he had been to give her the gift he had brought for her! She had dampened his enthusiasm. He ground his teeth and pedalled along the metalled road at breakneck speed. After dinner, his parents moved to the central hall. His father sat on a swing and enjoyed its gentle movements. His mother sat on the floor, stretched her legs, got hold of the paan (beetel leaf) box and started preparing the paan she and her husband usually enjoyed after dinner. Arumugham came and sat by the side of his father.
"Ah, Aaru, did you meet Shanti? Poor girl, she doesn't know that her days of freedom are over, that you have come to tie the mangalsutra on her neck and take her away with you. We let her have all the fun till you came on leave." The old man had a big smile on his face. "You should have taken her into confidence," Arumugham mumbled. "We, the elders, decide what is good for you. You are children. What do you know?" his father was stern. "But, Appa, Shanti doesn't want to marry now," Arumugham sighed. "She thinks she is too young for marriage?" his mother stopped rolling the paan leaf and gaped at him. "Anuria she says she wants to complete her studies," he replied. "I will talk to her, and to my sister," his father bristled. That was when they heard the rustle of feet. All eyes turned to the sound. Moving across the door were Shanti and her mother. "Come, Thankachi. How are you, Shanti?" Arumugham's father welcomed them, warmly. Shanti bent and touched the old man's feet, before turning to her aunt to do the'same. "Anna, has Arumugham told you?" Shanti's mother sat on the swing by her brother's side. "Yes. That is the stupidest thing I have heard.
Remember, Thankachi, you were hardly twelve when you got married. Are you not happy with Mani? Such a nice man. Who chose him for you? Our parents. I think choosing the bride or the bridegroom is our right. Further, Shanti and Arumugham are cousins. And they are made for each other, muraipenn and muraipillai," Arumugham's father laid down his case. "Mama!" Shanti was happy that Arumugham had already talked to his parents about her view. "Yes, my dear," the old man gave her the nod. "I never question your rights or your decision..." she paused. "Do you not like Arumugham?" his mother interuppted. Shanti's face turned red. She bent her head, stared at the floor for a few seconds before regaining her courage. "Mami, you know the answer," she hedged. "Good," Mami purred. "I talked to your son. We agreed we would wait for four years before we marry," Shanti said. "Is that so?" the old man shot the question at Arumugham. "Yes, Appa. I met her this evening when she was returning from school. I told her of your decision. She was shocked. She said she wants to complete her studies, become a graduate at least," Arumugham pleaded her case. "Why does she need all that education? It is enough she knows how to keep a happy home, cook well, look after the children when they arrive..." Arumugham's mother scowled. "Amma. Days have changed. Appa was always with you. I will be posted at non-family stations often. Shanti will have to be on her own. She is right, Amma, let her complete her graduation. Then we will marry. Till then..." "Till then?" "Till then we remain engaged," Arumugham said firmly. Next day, when he ran into Shanti near the cluster of bamboos she was bubbling with joy. "I am proud of you. You stood by me, fought for my right. You brought your parents round," her eyes held a rare glow. "Tamed them, girl! Four years hence, it will be your turn," he joked. "Who tames whom? The future will tell," Shanti smiled. "The future is not ours to see," Armugham gently took her hand and placed in it the eardrops that he had brought for her.
Chasing A Dream
Ramendra Kumar
"Has Priya not come home as yet?" Surya asked, depositing his bag in the cramped drawing-cumdining-room of his tiny two bedroom flat. He had just returned from work. He was a cashier in the State Bank of Hyderabad, while his wife, Sharada, a lab assistant in Reddy College for Women. Their daughter, Priya, was a Class X student in Saint Anne's School. They lived in Vidyanagar, while Priya's school was in Tarnaka around six kilometres away. There was a direct bus from Priya's school to Vidyanagar. "She should have been here by 4.30. It is 5.30 now and she still has not come," Sharada replied. Sharada's college closed at 3.00 and she was usually back home by 4.00 p.m. "Yesterday too she was late." "In fact, since the last few weeks she has been coming home late." / "Did you ask her?" "Yes, I did, last week."
"What did she say?" "She mumbled something about spending time with her best friend, then she kept quiet. You know she is not very forthcoming. If I ask her too many questions she just clams up or bursts into tears. Sometimes when I talk to her I get the impression I am conversing with a stranger, not my own daughter." "I know she is a difficult child. But should we at least not know what she is up to? I...I hope it has nothing to do with some boy... You know at this age..." "No, I do not think our Priya would get involved in that sort of thing." Priya was to appear for the Class X examination in April the next year. This was the month of July and her studies had started in real earnest. Morning six to eight she went for Maths and Physics tuition, and in the evening seven to eight for Chemistry. The next day, Surya happened to discuss Priya's strange behaviour with his colleague, Durga, who too had a teenaged daughter. Durga was a despatch assistant in the same bank. "Surya, you should not take it so lightly. With teenagers one can't really say anything. One never knows what they are up to." "So what do you want me to do?" "Why do you not confront her?" "She will simply clam up and withdraw into ashell. I am worried what her reaction will be if she knows that we are even remotely suspicious of her activities. With so many youngsters running away from home at the smallest pretext and news of teenaged suicides appearing in the newspapers almost everyday, frankly, I am scared. You know, with both of us working, Priya is left alone in the house quite a bit. What goes on in her mind only she knows. I would not like to probe too deeply and upset her. All we know she may just be going to her friend's house for some combined study." "I have an idea. My brother, Ajay, works in a Detective Agency. I will tell him. I am sure he will agree to follow her. Since Priya does not know him, she will not get suspicious. Moreover, it will all be done in strict confidence." Surya kept silent for a while, finally he spoke. "I think it is a good idea. How do we get started?" "I will talk to my brother and let you know." Two days later, on Monday, 'Operation Shadow' had begun. Surya took Ajay to Saint Anne's and showed Priya to him from a distance. Ajay promised he would have the required information in a day or two. On Wednesday, Surya got a call in the office. "Hello! Surya? This is Ajay?" "Yes, Ajay. Any news?" "Plenty. Can you come to Arts College at 4.30 in the evening?" "Why?"
"I will explain when we meet." Sharp at 4.30, Surya parked his scooter in front of the Arts College Building. It was an imposing stone structure which formed the nucleus of the sprawling Osmania University Campus. Ajay was waiting for him. "Come with me," he said and started walking briskly with Surya keeping pace with him. They went behind the building and took a path which led to a small Hanuman Temple. The temple, under a huge banyan tree, was surrounded by a cluster of trees and boulders. As such it was hidden from the college. Surya had been there a couple of times and quite liked the serenity of the place. When they reached the place, Ajay asked him to quietly peer from behind a boulder. As Surya looked, he saw Priya sitting in the small courtyard in front of the temple. There was a canvas in front of her and she was busy painting. A few paint bottles, brushes and drawing sheets were lying around. "What do you think you are doing?" They heard a male voice and turned round. A tall, well-built man of around sixty years was standing there. He was clad in a dhoti and his chest was bare except for an angvastram. "We...I...I am that girl's father and he...he is a friend." "Oh! So you are Surya Naidu. I am Chari, the pujari of this temple. Come with me. Let us not disturb her."
He took them down a narrow path that led to a small house behind the temple. "This is my humble abode. I am sorry I cannot offer you chairs," the pujari said, spreading a mat in the tiny verandah. "You must be surprised to find Priya here." "Yes... I.. .had no idea that she was coming here. Only when my friend, Ajay, followed her..." "So you had to take the help of a detective to know what is in your daughter's mind," the pujari said with a chuckle. Stung by the remark, Surya started to say something when Chari held up his hand. "Surya, I know it is very difficult for parents to understand the minds of their kids, especially teenagers. Let me tell you how I came to know Priya. She had come once with a friend of hers. She was fascinated with the peace and calm here. "Is it always so serene here," Thaatha?" she had asked me. "Yes, my child," I replied to her. "There is always peace and calm in the Lord's abode." "Thaatha, can I come here every day?" "Why not, my child. But don't you think you are too young to spend your evenings praying in the temple?" "Thaatha, I do not want to come here to pray. I want to come here to paint." "To paint?" I asked in surprise. "But you can do that at home."
"No, Thaatha. My parents will not allow me." "Why?" "They consider painting a waste of time. They want me to study Physics, Chemistry, Maths, Biology, and become an engineer or a doctor. They believe painting cannot guarantee a person his bread and butter but engineering or medicine can." "Child, don't you think they are right?" "But I do not want to become an engineer or a doctor. I want to become a painter. I do not mind struggling, even starving to realize my dream. Is it really that wrong to chase one's dream?" "No, child, no," I replied. I was really struck by the child's determination. "That was almost two months ago. Since then she has been coming here almost every day and painting for an hour or so. Since she cannot carry the canvas home, she has been keeping them in my house. Come inside and take a look." They went into the one-room house. In one corner were several canvases. As the pujari spread them out one by one, Surya was stuck by the beauty, the raw energy, of his daughter's art. "Beautiful," he heard Ajay mumbling. "Surya, I know Ramji Jain, the owner of an art gallery. Can I take these paintings to him? I think Priya is really talented. I am hopeful Ramji might give Priya some guidance," Ajay said. Surya did not hesitate. "Of course. But let us check With Priya first."
The next three months were hectic for both Priya and Surya. Ramji Jain was impressed with Priya's talent. He agreed to sponser a solo exhibition of Priya's paintings and explained to Surya the groundwork that needed to be done to make the exhibition a success. While Priya got busy creating magic on her canvas, Surya ran around helping with the arrangements. Finally, on October 25, the exhibition was inaugurated. Priya was hailed as the youngest and the brightest star on the art firmament of the city. The painting which drew the greatest appreciation was a simple one. It showed a tall and well-built pujari praying to Lord Hanuman with a fifteen-year-old girl sitting beside him. The painting was titled 'My Inspiration.'
As Clear As Crystal
Cheryl Rao
Fifteen-year-old Hemant threw the pebble viciously into the pond. He did not care that he could have hit the fish his father loved to watch when he sat outside on the rolling lawns. All that luxury and the old man was turning into a skinflint! Thrice this month he had refused to give him more than fifty rupees when usually he just handed over his purse to Hemant to help himself! What could he do with fifty rupees? He had promised the gang a treat at the movies. He looked at his watch. Just another half-hour before the booking opened and no way to put together the cash for five tickets. What should he do? Suddenly, a fragment of his mother's conversation with a friend ran across his mind. "I have collected this crystal from all over the world and it is my pride and joy." What a great idea! Hemant jumped up and sneaked back into the house. There was no one in the living room. He picked up the first piece of crystal he saw—a tall vase—and made off with it. Hemant arrived at the theatre after the other four boys. Panting, but pleased, he grandly pulled out the four hundred he had got for the vase and peeled off a hundred rupee note for the tickets. Akash, Arjun and Rohit took it for granted that he should pay. Only Gaurav, whose father supplied steel to Hemant's father's factory, felt a bit awkward. He would have preferred to buy his own ticket but he had seen how annoyed Hemant got if he suggested it, so instead he bought two packets of chips to pass around as they watched the movie. Hemant was relieved that he did not need to spend any more money. The remaining three hundred would see him through the next few days. The missing vase was not noticed for almost a week. By then, Hemant had helped himself to an ashtray and a three-cornered bowl as well. "That is strange," commented Mrs Khanna. "Where did I keep the gladioli vase?" She questioned the household staff, but no one seemed to know anything and Hemant, who was listening, just pretended he was reading. When the sixth piece disappeared, Mrs Khanna could no longer take it lightly. "You must call everyone and question them," she said to her husband. "I have no time for that," he replied. "My hands are full with the factory and the labour there." His father had not mentioned it at home, but he had big problems at work. Huge payments (fortems his factory had manufactured and supplied) were held up because a defect had come to light, and he was finding it difficult to keep going. The manufacturing process had to be looked into and fresh supplies made. Labour had to be paid or they would go on strike. He did not share his worries with his family because he did not want them to think that his business was collapsing. Hemant did not ask his father for more money for an entire month, but Mr Khanna did not give much thought to that. Mrs Khanna, on the other hand, was not going to let go of her crystal that easily. She began keeping track of the number of pieces she had and made sure she arranged them in such a way that even one empty space would be noticed. Hemant did not have a chance to pinch any more of his mother's collection to acquire spending money for himself. "Let us go for the Daler Mehndi show next Saturday," suggested Akash and Arjun, when the gang was together. They were confident Hemant would, as usual, manage to get the expensive tickets for them. Rohit's eyes shone at the thought. He fancied himself as a singer and wanted to become another Daler himself! Gaurav shook his head. "No, I cannot come. My parents will not allow me to go for a late night show like that." Hemant did not say anything. He had a sinking sensation in his stomach. He knew he could never.
ruffle up the money for the tickets. Gaurav saw the look on Hemant's face and suddenly recalled the conversation he overheard between his parents a couple of nights ago. "Arrey," replied Akash. "Hemant's father always gets such things for us. He can afford it. What is a couple of thousands for him?" Hemant glared at Gaurav. "Yes, spending on tickets and such stuff is chicken feed. If you ask for return tickets to the U.S. then he might think twice..." He walked away and Gaurav ran after him. "Hemant, wait!" He waited for them to be out of earshot of the others, then he spoke rapidly. "I know things are not good at the factory, Hemant. You can always tell the others to pay for their own tickets. You do not have to treat them." "Why don't you mind your own business?" Hemant snapped. He headed home, putting Gaurav's words firmly out of his mind and concentrating on a way to get some money. Ma's crystal was out of the question. The silver was not. He went straight to the sideboard and opened the drawer where the six heavy, silver mugs lay. He dumped them in his backpack and headed for the lane of silver shops his mother often visited. He did not know that Gaurav was on his trail, determined to reason with him. When Hemant dumped the silver mugs on the jeweller's counter, Gaurav rushed into the shop.
and confronted his friend. "Do your parents know what you are doing, Hemant?" he asked. "Get lost!" snarled Hemant, pushing Gaurav away. "What is this? What are you boys up to?" asked the shopkeeper, pressing an alarm under his table. A siren went off and an armed guard rushed in. Hemant panicked. He left the mugs on the counter and ran into the market-place with Gaurav close on his heels. When they were at a safe distance, Hemant stopped and turned on Gaurav. "Why did you interfere? Now look what has happened! I don't have the silver and I don't have the money for it either!" "You can get the silver back," said Gaurav. "Oh sure. I just walk back to the sweet, helpful jeweller and tell him that it was all a mistake and that I want the mugs back," "Well, not exactly. You may not be able to pull it off on your own, but if you got your father or your mother to go with you..." "Brilliant!" growled Hemant. "I may as well handcuff myself and go to the cops." "I will come with you," persisted Gaurav. "You don't have to face your parents alone. I will tell them how it is in our group. How everyone expects you to pay for everything..." Hemant shoved Gaurav aside. "You have done enough damage for one day. Just stay away from me. I do not need your so-called help." Hemant decided that he would forget about silver mugs and just hope that his mother did not think of using them. She had not taken them out in months anyway. But luck was against him. That very evening, when his mother's chacha, Prem, came over, she insisted that lassi be served in the silver mugs. Hemant cringed in his chair, waiting for the uproar when the drawer was found empty. But there was none. When at last he found the courage to look up, Uncle Prem and his wife, Papa and Ma, were all helping themselves to their favourite drink—from the silver mugs! Hemant looked at the tray as if it was going to bite him. 'How? How did the mugs get back into the house? Who brought them?' He looked at his mother. 'What was she hiding behind that smile? And Papa? What would he do to him when they were alone?' Hemant sat like a robot until Uncle Prem left. Then he tried to move away, unobstrusively, but his mother called out to him, "Hemant! Just bring me that bunch of flowers chacha brought!" Hemant picked the bouquet that was lying on the coffee table and went to his mother. His legs trembled and he felt sick. She didn't say anything but took the flowers from him and began to arrange them in her tall, crystal vase. 'Wait a minute. The tall vase? That was the one he had sold! How did it get back into the house?'
Hemant looked around wildly. The ashtray was back, and also the three-cornered bowl! It was too much for him. He crumpled on the floor and began to cry. "I am sorry, Ma, I'm sorry. I'll never do it again." Mrs Khanna bent down and smoothed Hemant's hair back from his forehead. "Why, Son?" she asked, "why did you do it?" Hemant sobbed out the tale of his friends and the money all of them had needed to have fun together. As he tried to explain, he heard himself for the first time. How lame his excuses were! What foolish aims he had! Trying to buy friendship with his father's money and robbing his own parents to do it! "Gaurav told me everything," Mrs Khanna said, "but I was waiting for you to talk to me." Hemant wiped his eyes and as he did so, he saw his father's feet next to him. He waited fearfully for the blow to fall on him, but nothing happened. "I should have taken you into confidence, Hemant," his father said, "but I was always far too busy. I did not credit you with the ability to understand that there are hard times as there are good times and we must know what to do in each." Hemant stood up. "I was selfish, Papa. I thought only of myself. I thought Gaurav was interfering . But now everything is clear to me. Now I know that he is the only true friend I have."
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