Hari is an old man who still works in the field for a living. The meager amount he earns can hardly provide him with two square meals a day. Completely alone in this world, there is nobody to look after him and nor anyone whom he has to look after. At night he plays on a small bamboo flute under a pipul tree on the bank of the village lake.
Not that he is an expert musician. The tunes played by him just come to him. He picks one up and starts playing. As the wind blows aimlessly in the spring nights, huge leaves rub against each other in the gusty winds creating great noise. The little village sleeps peacefully. An owl hoots, other nocturnal birds of prey circle overhead in the darkness.
 Hari plays the flute unmindful of all this. The dim rays of light from the far away stars cast long shadows of the trees in the water. The eerie silence of the night is broken by the tune from his flute, played for hours together. He goes on playing the flute with an uncanny feeling that somebody is listening attentively and is even making appreciative sounds, perhaps from somewhere within the unfathomable depths of water in front.
The faint sounds of laughter emanating from far away are feminine and so sweet that Hari loses track of the rustic tune he is playing. He lays the flute very quietly by his side and waits silently through the wee hours of the morning only to fall asleep below the tree. He goes again to the same place the next day and waits eagerly.
After several days, Hari can no longer remain patient and with the flute in his hand he touches the water of the lake cautiously, as it is forbidden to do so according to the folklore. The water sends shivers through his body and starts moving round him all of a sudden, with him at the vortex. Hari has neither the power nor the wish to resists he is slowly drawn towards the center of the lake. Then in a sudden sweep he travels to the depths of water for some time. Strangely he feels no suffocation or discomfort and rather feels very happy as he is led to a chamber, well lit and very cozy.
A young lady comes running, embraces him and says, “Why don’t you play the flute now? Can’t you recognize me? I am so distressed to see your pitiable condition but can’t do anything from such a distant world except…”
Hari remains speechless, all this is beyond his wildest dreams. Nevertheless she seems very familiar. She continues, “You thought that it takes only a few moments to reach here! But it is actually far off from your world, which is full of woe. Now that you are here, I am not leaving you at any cost. We were separated long ago. Do you remember?
He tried hard to remember, but in vain. Then, he remembered the smile of a child, a heavenly one that brought home the truth; the cute daughter of his was playing the tunes all the time to comfort him. Sudha- his lost daughter.

 

This is one of the fifty stories of the e-book "Tales for Ever" that can be downloaded from the link:
http://www.intuitionpress.com/Book_Info.asp?id=48

It was since long that I tried to purchase a car for myself. But there was never enough money to fulfill my long cherished dream. Therefore I went for a second hand or a pre-owned car. The car I ultimately purchased was past her prime long back. Whatever problems she had were mainly due to old age. I did not have any complaints against her. The reverse, of course, was not true. We would come to that later.

The car dealer had gauged my financial capability correctly and kept me waiting for the entire evening while he attended to the more flamboyant. It was well after 9 p.m. that he could attend to me. He was an expert salesman eulogizing the virtues of an old car, taking care to see that no other customer was in earshot for the obvious reasons. The older the car the lesser would be the price and his profit. The dealer dealt with me in a manner that convinced me that probably I was also a second-hand customer.

I fell in love with the car at first sight. The reason was simple. I was infatuated with the likes of her long back when I was an adolescent in high school and dreamt that one day I would own one of her tribe. Now that she was no virgin any more mattered little to me for virginity is a mental attribute. She was she after all.  I paid for her and brought her home that evening itself. It was a pleasure to drive her for she was so lean, smooth and silky.

Though one could call her vintage going by her age, her elegance made me immensely happy. I realised to my surprise that it was most appropriate to attribute effeminate qualities to a car. She was benevolent (because she was mine for a pittance), sympathetic (for she fulfilled my wish to own her) and excused my inability to provide her even with a covered garage. My pocket could permit a mere open slot for her in a community garage near my house.

The only thing that worried me was that the last four digits of her registration number, when added, came to thirteen. I consoled myself thinking that on further addition of the digits that constituted 13 a wholesome four resulted. It never struck me that on that logic 13 would never be unlucky for it would always become four when one and three were added.

I started having an uncanny feeling that at times the car displayed some sort of preferences like human beings. I would come to that story now. Purchasing an old car was not that difficult but maintaining it was an altogether different proposition. By the time I realised that it was too late.

Driving an old car was not only prohibitively costly but also fraught with too many risks especially in crowded city streets. It was in the month of January that she became mine and within a few days I wanted to take her to my office on a trial basis. The radiator gave way on the road and she refused to yield from where she stopped. I could not attend office on that day. From many other small incidents it was clear that she was most unwilling to remain in the city. I could feel that. Her previous owner was based in a remote place far from the madding crowds. She liked only such places. I did not know that when I purchased her.

I was transferred in February for six months to a place about 700 miles away. It wouldn't be proper to take her along I thought. My employer would provide me with a car there. So I locked her up in the garage and left the city. I did not come to know her mind, if she had any, at that time.

She had to spend these long six months alone, without any warmth, like a prisoner. She was angry. She was meanwhile trying to arrange her freedom. I commissioned her immediately after I came back. She purred into life like a lioness after her slumber. But this time there was trouble from some other quarter.

Within days of returning to the city I was transferred to another place, a remote township, sparsely populated and with lot of greenery all around. This time the transfer was permanent. I had to leave my favourite city for good. The car had to be taken to my new location. I was not certain how she would behave in the long and arduous journey and therefore I chose the relative safety of travelling by train along with my family, leaving her at the hands of a professional driver who would drive her to my new location.

We reached the new place almost simultaneously. The driver reported that the car traversed the 500 miles through the forest and hilly areas without much of a hassle. I thought that she must have been happy to be travelling along the route, as she was very fond of desolate places, forests, rivers and everything else in their natural surroundings. Was she instrumental in arranging my transfer also? It was quite abnormal to be transferred twice within six months and that too with flying colours.

I felt restless in the new place because I had to leave my son in the city for his studies. After spending six months or so I came back to the city on three months' leave for my son's high school examination, leaving my car in the safety of a covered garage attached to my quarters. After idling for three months in the city I didn't feel like going back. I was in a dilemma and sent the professional driver once again to bring the car and my luggage back. Enough was enough. I decided to leave the job.

This time the car behaved in an entirely different manner. She simply refused to come back. The experienced driver could bring her back only after a lot of cajoling and coaxing. But again I decided to go back there because jobs were not available just for the asking in the city and I had no alternative. The world was very cruel. It pushed me away again to that god-forsaken place leaving my son in the city. The car was so happy that she travelled back without any mishap. It seemed as if she would go there on her own even without a driver. She knew the place so well and liked it beyond any doubt.

There was as it were a tug of war between the car and me. She would take me out of the city and I would come back like the proverbial monkey sliding down a slippery bamboo pole. This time I stayed in that remote place for about a year before calling it quits. I resigned and came back to the city with a firm resolve to find a job. If millions of people could earn their livelihood in the big city, so could I. But it was a hell of a job to bring back the car now. Like a most unwilling fellow she refused to budge an inch. I forcibly loaded her on to a truck along with my other belongings and brought her to the city. She suffered self-inflicted bruises on her body in the course of the journey by rejecting the cushions placed all around her.

After returning to the city I remained without job for a few months. Desperately I tried to sell her off because there was simply no money to maintain her. Even the rent for the garage seemed too much to bear. The second hand car dealer refused to cooperate with me. His logic this time was entirely different. "Who would buy a vintage car these days? You better contact the kawariwalas (scrap dealers) sir," said that man. I kept on requesting him to do something. After all I purchased it from him only a little over two years back. He had a moral duty to help me out in my present condition etc. etc.

Ultimately the dealer agreed to take her back more out of sympathy for me rather than any profit. I came back with the paltry sum that the dealer doled out. In two years since I took possession of her I lost my job and my car. Was she jinxed because of that number 13 connection?

A year later, on the way to my new place of work in the city, I saw her passing by majestically near the city theatre. She was totally oblivious of me because I was travelling in a crowded bus and peeping out of the window. I lowered my eyes in embarrassment lest she should recognise me.

The End

This is one of the fifty stories of the e-book "Tales for Ever" that can be downloaded from the link:
http://www.intuitionpress.com/Book_Info.asp?id=48

Excerpts:-
 
It is already evening. The train has traversed quite a distance. The landscape has changed from the plains to the plateau. the villages are now few and far between. Coalmines are visible everywhere now. The happy greenery of this morning has yielded place to the hard and rocky grounds. I have to prepare myself for work that will start from tomorrow. It is not only that my leave is over but my life also has to accustom itself to the changed environment now. In the township I shall again become the industrious man that I have been.

The thought of Nupur will be there in the midst of my work. Slowly Nupur will forget me again. This time I shall not write to her first. I want to see whether she remembers me at all. But I am afraid to receive her letters from now onwards because I know that they will now carry more of her odour and I shall recognize that immediately. It will pain me only.

The flame and sparkle of hers that will radiate from her letters will shake me to the core. I am happy to remain alone like this, secluded, forsaken by all in my solitary confinement. Her message will only shake me again by the fury of its calm effervescence.

("The Eclipsed Moon", ISBN: 0977966216, can be ordered on line from creativebookpublishers.com, amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, alibris.com)

One can search inside the book from the link:
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_ss_b/002-8563174-4335201?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywor

<!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><!--[endif]-->“What are the implications of the short circuit impedance of a transformer on the power supply network?” The question hit Souvik like a sniper’s bullet.
He was appearing in the interview for the post of a part time electrical maintenance engineer at the autonomous body. It was too early in the day for he was yet unprepared to answer a question of that magnitude immediately on taking the central seat opposite the three interviewers who had sharpened their arsenal well in advance.
Several precious seconds were lost while Souvik tried to size up the question before hazarding an answer. Meanwhile the man at the centre, who appeared to be the senior most and the head of the board volleyed another question at him.
“I find that you are a 2006 pass out B.Tech in Electrical Engineering. Why did you apply for a part time job in the start of your career Mr. Souvik?”
The man who asked the first question, seated on the left of Souvik was not eager to know the answer of his previous question. He was happy to append an add-on to the second one by saying:
 “And that too when the qualification required for the post was a mere diploma?”
This was a question Souvik apprehended. But the deadliest one was yet to come. Souvik didn’t have long to wait before the leftist obliged him.
“Why Mr. Souvik are you trying to get a maintenance engineer’s job, that too at a monthly honorarium of Rs. 3000 only, when the likes of you are easily bagging jobs five to six times as remunerative in the IT sector?”
Souvik still kept quiet. A few beads of sweat appeared on his face even on this cold January morning. The man on the right so long kept his cool. Now he too joined in by asking:
“Did you not score seventy per cent or above throughout your academic career? I hear that many software companies fix that as the bottom line.”
Souvik still maintained a stoic silence that was characteristic of him. As an interviewee it was so difficult to find an answer. He was afraid that anything that he said might go against him.  This was precisely the reason why he couldn’t succeed in the campus interviews. He was very calculative and preferred to weigh each word before speaking out.
He felt that a question deserved much more than a casual treatment and that required time. How could he convince a panel of three interviewers, taking an inkling of an eye, to coin an answer to each of their questions? He knew all the answers to the questions asked so far but could not blurt them out instantaneously.
The more he dithered the jitterier the interviewers grew. The head of the board now wanted to know if Souvik was physically okay.
“Are you not feeling well? If you wish we can send for the office doctor. He is around. Do you have any problem? You are well within your rights not to answer any of our questions if you feel so. Have we asked you anything that did hurt you Mr. Souvik?” 
The words of sympathy did the trick that the volley of questions was unable to do till now. Souvik said in a soft voice:
“I am all right sir. I could not answer your questions so far because the time offered to me was very less. Before I could start to answer one, the next one came in. I was baffled. I want this job because I want to pursue higher studies through the distant education mode. Since the National library is nearby I can take advantage of that. I understand that the working hours here are from twelve to four.”
The head realized that the board might have hurried because an important meeting was to be conducted at the same venue in an hour’s time. He felt sorry for Souvik, who was more or less his son’s age.
“You have explained yourself well. But you are a fresher. How will you tackle a complex maintenance job?”
“That is the challenge I am prepared to take sir. I also don’t know how I shall do that.”
“For a paltry sum of Rs.3000 a month?” The leftist interjected. “Okay tell me how is a ‘Point of Supply’ defined?”
“I guess you are asking this with respect to supply utility’s service connection sir. I can’t give you the exact details right now but can find that out from the relevant pages of the Indian Electricity Rules.”
The head of the board then declared that the interview was over and Souvik took leave thereafter.
The next man to appear was a sexagenarian. Unlike Souvik, this man was very fond of talking. Before anything could be asked this man volunteered a lot of information about him although such details were available in his application.
The board was again informed by him that he was Samir Jana, a B.E of 1964 batch from a premier institute of the state and that he had worked in a host of places including various stints as a self employed man. He further said that he was a living example of a rolling stone that gathered no moss.
The board kept quiet. The previous interviewee had made them jittery by his silence. After his departure the board decided that before asking any question they would allow the candidate sufficient time to answer the previous one.
But Mr. Samir Jana was different. He had unsettled the settled decision of the selection board by his verbal exuberance.
Among the members of the board, the leftist was the first to recover. He was an avowed sniper with his deadly arsenal of questions.
“ I would like to ask you one question if you don’t mind Mr. Jana.”
“Please go ahead by all means.” It appeared that the roles had reversed now.
“ If you could not manage your own finances in more than sixty years of your life, how would you manage our maintenance work?”
“A very valid question in deed? But the answer is hidden inside your question sir. It usually so happens that those who mismanage their own affairs can perfectly look after others’ problems. There are umpteen numbers of examples. I can furnish many instances if you desire so.”
“No. It’s not required.” The head was quick to stop him for he was not prepared to listen to another bout of lecture on this irrelevant subject. Instead, he requested the leftist, who was obviously the technical man and an expert engineer, to ask a pertinent question.
“You must have worked with transformers, sir, in your long career as a practicing engineer?”
“Yes, I have handled many of them. An electrical engineer without intimate knowledge of a transformer is like a…” Again the head stopped him at this point to save on time by mildly reprimanding his colleague.
“Why don’t you ask the question straightway instead of beating about the bush.”
“What is the highest permitted temperature of a transformer winding with class-A insulation, after passing short circuit current through it for two seconds?” The leftist was very precise now.
“Temperature? You make me laugh sir. With the work culture that prevails now, no operator logs hourly temperature readings of transformers. The equipment is nicely holed up in its chamber for months. Unless a fault occurs no body bothers to even peep in. Small birds build their nests and hatch eggs in the various niches there. Its warm out there you know.”  Jana again tried to revert to his generalizations rather than enter into the hazardous world of specifics.
It appeared that the questioner wanted to know something else. But he was afraid to repeat his question for the head might not like that. Still he tried to raise the matter:
“ I wanted to know what does the Indian Standard stipulate regarding maximum permitted temperature of oil filled transformers? It had nothing to do with day to day operation.”
“You can look that up in the Standard. I have a very old copy of the late seventies. I didn’t need any after that.”
“What is the number of the relevant Standard?” The sniper sensed blood at long last.
“ You can’t expect me to remember the IS code numbers at this age. Actually I didn’t want to apply for this job. It was my wife who typed out the application for me and almost compelled me to sign on the dotted line. She has just retired from Government service. I sacrificed my career so that she could keep her job. She now tells me that both of us staying at home for twenty-four hours, after all, is not a good idea. One should move out.”
“So you don’t need the job Mr. Jana.” The head was emphatic now.
“Not at all. On the contrary I need it very much to prove to myself that I am still useful to the society. So I thought it worth my salt to apply for the job.”
“That is your problem Mr. Jana. But how much do we stand to gain by employing you?” The head appeared confused now.
“That, sir, strictly speaking, not within my purview of things. I really cannot take that decision on your behalf. If you select me I can help you in selecting my replacement at a later date, if you permit me. But I can say that you will not regret your decision whomsoever you select out of the two candidates you called today. Before coming inside I had a talk with Souvik. He is a nice boy of my grandson’s age.”
“You can see where has the modern age pushed us. You just now interviewed two candidates, one of them younger to the other by 42 years. Unthinkable sir! It’s unthinkable. If I had not applied for this job such a wonderful side of the present era would have remained unknown to me. Thank you all for allowing a glimpse of the modern times.” 
Mr. Samir Jana left the place leaving the board in bewilderment. It was now time for the participants of the next meeting to enter the boardroom.
The End.

This is one of the fifty stories of the e-book "Tales for Ever" that can be downloaded from:

http://www.intuitionpress.com/Book_Info.asp?id=48