The Truth – A Short Story

This story has already been published by YourStoryClub (An Online Publisher) @ http://yourstoryclub.com/short-stories-social-moral/short-story-the-truth/

“What would you like to order, Sir?” asked the waiter, carefully pouring water into the glass.

“Masala tea with toast for me and what would you have Mihir?” replied Sam who was sitting at the preferred table of his favourite cafe. This table was at the farthest corner from the entrance, having open terrace at one side while the city traffic bustling on the road on the other side of it. Glass window provided the needed separation between the two worlds – AC cooled, peaceful, coffee smelt interior from the hot and humid, dusty and dark outside.

“I will also have masala tea with toast. Bring in two” said Mihir, signalling the waiter to leave.

Sam sipped some water from glass, looked at Mihir and said with a smile, “You know Mihir…I might not be a very lovable and popular manager, but I have always delivered the goods. Never ever in my career, I have missed any deadline and nor would allow my team to miss any at this stage of my career. I might be ruthless, but I am effective. I have built my reputation within the organization on this strength. This is my last lesson for you as a manager – never lose sight of the goal i.e. deadline”

He paused for a while. The pride in his eyes was visible, his voice got hard and confident. He continued, “And if it is a deadline and someone in the team will have to die. I mean…will have to work till he is dead…..do you understand?”

Sam laughed loud. Mihir could only match it with a fainted smile.

Sam was Mihir’s manager for last five years. He had now been promoted to senior manager position and was asked by organization to handover his responsibilities to Mihir. He had been grooming Mihir for some years and after handing over most of his responsibilities in last six month, was invited by Mihir for coffee at Sam's favourite café.

“Sam..but where is the line between me as person and me as an employee? Can I allow organizational needs to spoil my personal relation with colleagues?” asked Mihir.

“Aahaa…there you go. Remember….Mihir cease to exist the moment you reach the desk. He is the employee of the organization and should do whatever has been asked by the seniors…whatever is good for the organization” replied Sam.

Waiter had brought the tea and toast, and left after putting it on table. Sam pushed one set towards Mihir and continued after taking a bite of the toast, “You know Mihir…on this very table…I have given termination letter to more than 20 of my colleagues. Do you remember Saurabh? I was very close to him personally but I had to terminate him because organization wanted me to do so. But to control such incidents to some extent and to relieve myself of depression, I made the separation smooth, for all of them, by doing if outside the office with a parting coffee at my favourite cafe…at this very table. That was the only luxury I allowed myself while dealing with my colleagues.”

There was no sign of remorse on his face. Stone faced, he continued sipping tea.

“I understand Sam. But why should an organization lay off an employee who has given his best for years to it. We are a family. If the organization is not doing well, if external business environment is adverse……..other alternatives could be found out like reduction in salaries, or job rotation rather than terminating the services.” countered Mihir.

“It’s easier said than done Mihir. Employees’ salaries are the largest operating expenditure for the organization and it is the first thing we should be controlling. Those who are laid off are not the under performers all the time. Sometimes they are the well paid ones whom company can’t afford in the times of distress.” added Sam.

Mihir had, meanwhile, finished his tea. Sam signalled to the waiter to bring the bill. They walked towards parking after Mihir had paid the bill. Mihir brought out one envelope from his bag and passed it towards Sam, saying "Kiran (senior of Sam) gave it to me to pass on to you as he is outstation at the moment".

“What is it?” asked puzzled Sam and looked at the envelope. It had the seal of the organization with ‘Confidential’ marked in bold red font over it. He tore it apart and immediately his eyes caught the subject line ‘Termination of Service’.

“How can they do this to me? I was promoted just 6 months ago and have I got so expensive in these six months that they can’t afford me now. I had given my blood and sweat for this organization…literally……..I have sacrificed my personal life. And see what did I get in return? “thundered Sam.

He was visibly shaken up. Never did he imagine himself facing such a moment even in his dreams. However hard he might have tried to control, tears were visible in his eyes. He stood still, looking at the car which he has brought on loan some months ago.

Mihir gave him a soft pat on the back, held his hand for a while, and suddenly turned back and walked away, like Sam had done on Saurabh and 19 others.

__END__

Becoming of a Hopeless Nation

I was standing in the queue for speedpost delivery at a non-descript post office in the National Capital Region. There was a long queue for registered and speedpost delivery, while other windows for stamp sale, passbooks and railway reservation were relatively free. Being an Indian one can’t afford to dislike queues. I stood patiently waiting for my turn. Suddenly some people in the queue starting ‘protesting’ and asked the post master to start another window for registered and speedpost service. He first ignored but when the ‘protest’ turned loud he rudely starting counting his own problems like inadequate manpower, lack of facilities and unplanned rush on Saturdays. The verbal duel continued for some time but led to no solution. Post master went back to his seat and we in queue kept waiting for our turn in front of the single window for registered and speedpost services. Then happened another incident, a girl standing suspiciously near the front of the window, kept trying to enter the queue. Others in queue ‘protested’ again. Another tussle erupted, but neither the girl moved nor did our turn came quickly. This experience was different to what I had experienced in my childhood in government offices. Such incidents did happen in those days as well, but we seldom protested. Standing in queue that day, there came the realization that India had finally found its voice.

2012 has been a year of protests in India. We protested against corruption for the larger part of the year. Ramlila Ground to India Gate to Bandra Kurla in Mumbai to smaller towns and villages, we protested against corruption! After a gap, we protested again in end of Dec’12. This time the protests were against the crime against women when the gang rape of a medical student in Delhi became the ‘tipping point’. We, meanwhile, protested against some ministers in the central cabinet, we protested against opposition leader, we protested against black money…and we protested strongly…yes, it is evident, we have found our collective voice. This voice in collaboration with 24*7 media becomes a heavy cocktail. Media gets its story and we romance with the idea of serving to the call of the nation. In this heavy cocktail, we, media and us, have both lost the plot. And add to it the arrogance of those in seats of power, like the post master and ministers, who cushion their arrogance in disguise to save democratic principles and institutions. So finally all of us need to ask ourselves what have we achieved of these protests? Has there been any reduction in corruption or crime against women, which were the main aims of these protests? 

The ruling class also needs to introspect. What’s wrong if people ask for control on corruption and crime against women? Are these unjustified demands or against the constitution? These were the issues over which all political parties could have come together. This could have enhanced the stakes of politicians in eyes of people.  But they failed. They failed miserably. The ruling class off their cocky ignorance saw the public demand and protest as intrusion on their right. Directionless opposition kept shuffling from one side to another for want of immediate gain. Where political class failed, the so called civil society also went into different ways leaving the whole movement into lurch. So as we stand today…people protest, aspiring to live in India of 2050…..politician sleep, still in dreams about India of 1990s………and the civil society, confused and collapsed, needs urgent oxygen.

A solution is reached when both sides reach to a common point. But where is the middle way here? Where is the solution to these problems? In this hoo hoo gulla of protests, arguments, discussions and mud sledging….the whole plot is lost. The basic issues for which we protested are lost. As we hold our heads down in frustration, the elusive light fades somewhere away at horizon. Where is the hope? This is becoming of a hopeless nation.

!!!!!! मैं हूँ एक आम आदमी !!!!!!

मैं हूँ एक आम आदमी |

सब मेरी बात करते हैं |

मेरी फ़िक्र में वे चर्चाएँ आम करते हैं |

कोई फाइलों के कागज़ पे मेरी कहानी लिखता है,

तो कोई मुझे टोपी पे डाल पहनता है |

आम आदमी की बात हर ख़ास आदमी करता है|

हाँ मैं वही एक आम आदमी हूँ,

जिसकी सब बात करते हैं !!!

मेरी रोज की जिन्दगी ही मेरी लड़ाई है,

और वो सब मेरे लिए लड़ते हैं!

जब कुछ नहीं बदला सालों में,

क्या कोई बदल देगा कैमरें के सवालों से?

एक अथाह जिन्दगी, गुमनाम चादर डाले जीता हूँ |

हाँ मैं जीता हूँ !

मैं वही एक आम आदमी हूँ,

जिसकी सब बात करते हैं !!!

'आम आदमी' मेरा नाम नहीं,

मेरी कोई पहचान नहीं !

फिर क्यूँ आज सब मेरे जीवन पर नजरें डाल रहें ?

नहीं चाहिए मुझे चमक कैमरे की, और ना ही सभा की ताली |

है बस जिन्दगी एक आश्रा, मुझको जीने दो,

हूँ एक आम आदमी, ना बनाओ मुझे गाली !!!

मौत की बरात

अँधेरे का हुआ बसेरा, 
छिप गया कही सवेरा!

चिता भस्म की गंध से,

हुई अपावन वसुंधरा!

बेमोल हुआ मानव,

नंगी हो गई मानवता!

गंगा, ब्रह्मपुत्र के देश में,

बहने लगी लहू की धारा!

यह कैसी लगी आग, 

किसने लाई मौत की बरात!!!

दिल में भड़े थे अंगारे,

हाथों में थामी थी तलवार,

आँखों पे धर्म की पट्टी थी,

जुबा पे इंसानियत की ललकार!

लुट गया था जहाँ,

बिखरी पड़ी थीं खुशियाँ,

कदम कदम पे धब्बे थे,

बच्चे तक ले रहे थे सिसकियाँ!

टुटा था भारत सपनो का,

गम था बस अपनों का,

बाजार भी कम पड़ गया...

मांग था इतना कफनों का!

यह कैसी लगी आग,

किसने लाई मौत की बरात!!!

(Photo Source: Google Image, Search Word: Riots in India) 
(Hindi Typing: Google Transliterate Tool)                                  

DHAMI - A Short Story

Dhami was her name. There is no literary meaning to it, nor did happen any elaborate discussion when she was named. Someone just said it and others followed. Carelessness is life in villages, and it can be deceptive at times as well.

It was one of those regular days when Dhami had put the night lamp on the front of the house, and was preparing for cooking when she saw a packet kept on the wooden box. She rushed to check and it contained a dress for her, the same yellow churidar which she has been asking for last 2 years.

“Bapu(Father), did you bring this for me” she asked Sukhiram, her father, sitting outside.

“Yes Beti (Daughter), wear it” replied he and started collecting buckets and ghara (earthen pot) to bring water from the well.

“Naah...I will wear it on Deewali, not today” she replied.

He gave her a terse look and said, “You have been asking for it for last 2 years and you don’t wear it when I have brought. Go…get ready and I will accompany you to well today.

They walked towards the well. It was a very small path through the fields which were ready for harvest. They walked along, Dhami ahead and Sukhiram following her. It was a winter evening and had already gone dark. Villagers get habitual of their path and routine; and the habits get so engraved in them that they lose need for any physical support. They reached the well in moon light and Dhani started filling in buckets. One…….two…three…….but Sukhiram stood still. He had been silent all the way.

She was wearing the yellow dress which he had brought. Dhami was his first child. He still remembered the thrill when he had seen her for the first time. He had raised her in arm and proudly said ‘meri bitiya’ to the assembled relatives. Later on she turned into a dutiful daughter and he was a doting father. He would put her on shoulders and go to field, to market. She was very talkative and would keep asking him numerous questions. Some Sukhi would answer, some he would let pass. And today…..she is 25 years old, a marriageable age. He had been looking for prospective grooms for last 2 years…….but not able to fulfill their demands.

 Sukhil came out of his thoughts; Dhani has picked the fourth bucket and was bringing the water up. This is the moment Sukhi, He thought. Just don’t think……..go forward………..it’s all dark………..nobody is here…….sukhi……….sukhi……….go ahead.

“Then why are you telling all this today” asked Mayank, the Dr. Mayank sitting beside Sukhiram in Hospital.

“I have lived with this truth for 30 years, doctor. I won’t live long…….want to go in peace. Tell my wife tomorrow that Dhami didn’t slip in well” said Sukhiram. His eyes were dark and body frail. Mayank was holding his hand. Sukhi took a deep breath and was gone.  Mayank put off the light and closed the door.