BROAD CANVAS

2024-05-01T18:39:00.000+05:30

CATHARSIS - INTO THE WILDS AND OUT

CATHARSIS

INTO THE WILDS

AND OUT

“Into the wilds together they all rode, only to disperse as individuals again.”

Disclaimer. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this story, other than those in public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Synopsis

Our lives are too complicated, not always by default, though. Since human nature is complex and humans all too weak, we unwittingly begin weaving webs around us, more often than not getting trapped in our own webs. We forge new relations, raise our expectations, anticipate things and get disappointed when our expectations are not met in full measure. This gives rise to problems. Our credulity plays a major part in this cycle of affliction.

The author, Zorawar, primarily a journalist of many hues, had never done a story before this. This is his maiden attempt. In this brief story, he recalls an event of 20 years into the past, observing a small group of friends in India, who are on a pleasure trip to the coastal state of Goa. The group is boisterous but also nonchalant. He soon finds out that a few members of this group make all too obvious and conscious efforts to have happiness as their mission while on their short vacation. They have cracks in their seemingly normal lives. Outer appearances conceal their real emotions. But they must make the best use of time and situation to entitle themselves to a well deserved break. However, fangs of loneliness still manage to ensnare them, however much they remain surrounded by friends. In the process, the writer realises his own life hasn’t been as perfect as he would have liked it to be. Life is not all that fair, after all.

It is a story inspired from a few pages of some ordinary peoples’ lives, narrated in an extraordinary style.

My profession of investigative journalism takes me many places all over the globe. I investigate people, I spin factual stories. I present facts to the public and I help them form opinions on matters of varied interests.

My base has always been in a very unlikeliest of places; Sharm el-Sheikh (Bay of the Sheikh), situated at the southern tip of Sinai Peninsula, at the confluence of the Gulf of Suez and the Gulf of Aqaba, all part of Red Sea. Unlikeliest, because the town is just a tourist place, though of immense strategic importance. Mount Catherine rises grandiosely in the North. Looking over the Straits of Tiran, which is a narrow passage between the Sinai and Arabian Peninsulas, this once sleepy town of a few thousand soon got converted into an important Naval Base of the Egyptian Defence Forces. It may sound a bit weird but the original Sharm was founded as an Israeli settlement by the name of Ofira when the Jewish State occupied the region between 1967 and 1982.

Nothing much happens here. The current population does not even touch the figure of 100,000. However, clandestine activities always remain afoot. It is here that my employer, an investigative agency of proven credentials, has its offices.

On an average tour of work I travel, make notes, investigate, collect evidences and then prepare a detailed report, more often than not at the scene of the crime/incident as it helps in gathering last minute information, if necessitated. I hardly get caught up in local affairs unless they have a direct or indirect bearing on my work. But I do observe locals, more as a time pass and less out of my inquisitiveness. Since I am from the Indian Sub Continent, my understanding of local languages, dialects and traditions of the region has been very helpful to me in absorbing the culture and studying people.

Prologue

Many years ago, if I recollect correctly the year was 2016, the cruel summer of 2016, I happened to be assigned a task in Karachi where assassination of a dissent leader had taken place and the state of Sind was in turmoil. Karachi, as the reader would surmise, is always on the boil, thanks to organized crime coupled with government inaction. I wound up my work in the Shah Faisal Town area, which is close to Jinnah International Airport and Malir Cantonment, a large and important base of Pak Army, Navy and Air Force, and decided to have two days of leisure in Karachi itself. I wanted to see the famous Clifton Beach, Pakistan Maritime Museum and most of all, Mazar-e-Quaid, the final resting place of Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the founder of Pakistan. Though I was also keen to visit the strategic Gwadar Port, 700 km West of Karachi, I could not afford to due to paucity of time, as I had to spend a day with one of my old friends in Delhi, and then enjoy a well earned, pre planned weekend break in Goa, while on my way back to the Gulf.

The period was summer and the season in this part of the world is genuinely harsh, with high level of humidity in coastal areas and extreme temperatures and hot winds engulfing the whole of the sub continent, barring the Himalayas. Turbulence and high winds in May-Jun seem to compete with Wellington, the windiest capital in the world. Having finished my business in Pakistan, I found myself deposited at Delhi by PIA, the national carrier of Pakistan. One full day in Delhi afforded me quality time with my old friend Sikander, known in the literary circles of Delhi as S’ana Sikand. The story of his pet name is another one, and I reserve that for another time.

They All Came Riding on the Wave of Excitement

The next day I was to board a flight to Goa for a much looked forward to unwinding time.

Barely had I arrived at Terminal 2 of Indira Gandhi International Airport, when I heard a taxi speeding into the Terminal Passenger Drop Area and coming to a sudden, screeching halt. Two young, pretty women, a young gentleman and an elderly, windblown kind of a man climbed down the cab. They lugged their baggage across to the Terminal Entry. I generally am oblivious to what happens around me unless it’s a scene that interests me from a purely professional angle. However, something about this group attracted me and I began to observe them. I soon learnt they were on a leisure trip to Goa. Great, I thought, “I am also headed there.”

I inched up in the queue and began to shadow them. As we stood in the queue, two more young men, both fairly tall, came and joined them after exchanging pleasantries. They stood together, talking about the impending arrival of yet another member of their group, a lady. So they were a bunch of three ladies and four gentlemen, flying down to Goa, for pure fun.

As we reached the flight counter for getting our boarding passes, I bunched up with an aim to secure a seat close by so as to enable me observe them during the flight which was a good two hours plus. I was now setting up my ‘travel menu’ for pleasure. Mean of me but it was a good time pass for me - a self assigned observer of a group I had never known but I intended to invade their privacy into.

After they left the counter, I requested the lady manning the counter to allot me a seat close to the group that had collected their boarding passes just ahead of me.

“Sorry, Sir, I cannot do that,” replied the official.

“But why? You have to provide me a seat and some travellers have to occupy seats close to them. So, why couldn’t it be me?” I demanded.

“Sir, that would be unethical from our Airline’s policy point of view. Why would you want that, by the way?”

“I am a writer, I write stories on people. Harmless stories, believe you me.” I had lied.

The young lady gave me a charming smile, punched a number and handed me the Boarding Pass, wishing me a safe journey. Having thanked her profusely, I marched to the Security Check and on to the Waiting Lounge. It wasn’t difficult to trace this vibrant group. They were talking, laughing and on their way to a fast food joint in the terminal. The long and short of the matter is that I discreetly became the group shadow. More they talked, more I learned about them. A little while later, their awaited friend, a young lady with a praiseworthy body language came up and joined them after wishing everyone and hugging her lady friends.

My learning so far was that they all were working colleagues, with one couple thrown in. The wife was a colleague of the rest of the group and the husband worked elsewhere.

The flight to Goa was announced and we all boarded the aircraft. As luck would have it, I had a seat which was directly behind the group. I could partially see them and overhear their conversation. My interest grew as they began to have more fun and took photos with their mobile phones.

It was important to know their hotel if I was to write about them later, as I had started mulling by now. I decided to befriend at least one of them. My target was the eldest man of the group. We both were almost the same age. After the flight had stabilized, he rose from his seat, walked through the aisle and stood next to the lavatory, waiting impatiently outside for his turn. I followed him.

“Hello, Zorawar is my name.” I made an attempt to introduce myself with a pleasant smile and an extended hand.

“Hi, I am Hanit.” He was more serious than casual, his handshake said it all.

“That’s an interesting name! What does it mean, by the way?” I enquired.

“Hanit may mean many things – honey, happiness or even a beautiful diamond.”

“Great. That’s one beautiful name.” I could guess he was viewing me with suspicion.

“Well, thanks.” He wasn’t interested.

“My name means ‘forceful’,” I tried to educate him.

Just then the person in the lavatory stepped out and Hanit took his turn. I wondered as to why this man wasn’t pleased to meet me? To my mind, there could have been two reasons: either he wasn’t much of an extrovert or he suspected my intentions, my suddenly having cornered him while in early part of the flight, right next to a toilet, and thus my motive. This certainly wasn’t a good place to initiate a friendship. Silly of me, I thought, and cursed myself for the wrong move.

We reoccupied our seats. The rest of the flight was uneventful save for their giggles and selfies. Upon landing at Goa, we all emerged out of the airport building. The day was a welcome change with 27 degree Celsius, clear sky and scented air all around. Goa, for that matter, is a year round, anytime destination. If you are stressed out and want a change, just take the next flight to Goa and I can bet the place will never disappoint you. I have myself been there umpteen times and every time I went, there was something new to be explored and the spirits higher than they were during the previous visit. There was a short time lag between our landing and hiring of taxis. As I was again in a queue behind one of the group members to book a prepaid taxi, Hanit strode toward me and offered a sheepish smile, appearing innocuous. “Sorry about today morning, I wasn’t in my element. You know how it is at times.” He attempted an apology.

“No, mate, I understand as I have been through such times more than a score.” It was my attempt to make him feel comfortable. “By the way, I am a friend.” I offered my hand to him again.

Hanit flashed another smile, this time a bold one, if not aggressive. “Why, yes, we can be friends if we share same experiences and have a shared outlook. I am particular about whom I choose as a friend.”

“We do, I am sanguine. Looking at you and studying your body language, I am sure we do.”

We shook hands very enthusiastically and I moved forward in the queue to book my taxi. As Hanit mentioned, them and self were to stay in the same location – Calangute Beach, a beach with a claim to have spent sleepless nights always - vibrant, zestful and noisy, all at the same time. Having done our reservations, my new friend briefly introduced me to his friends. It went something like this:

This is Deepali (a chain of lamps), Misha (smile), Manvi (humanity), Ajar (one who is not old), Kamran (success) and Sanjit (victorious). I was glad – each one of them gave me a wide grin and shook my hand, some warmly, but some dead cold. I introduced myself as a warm, cordial journalist from across the Arabian Sea and managed a show of interest and warmth. Restive mind, cursed journalist. I soon began to paint a mental pen picture of the group:

(b) Misha. A fair complexioned, beautiful lady apparently in her early 30s. Stunning looks with a slightly upturned nose and golden brown hair; not exactly burgundy, but nothing less than the Burgundy Region of East Central France which boasts of the world’s best vineyards. Friendly. Add to that deep dimples with a couple of beauty spots thrown in and you have a beautiful Indian lass.

(c) Manvi. A beauty rare to be found. Looked the youngest in the group, something like mid 20s. Sparkling smile, confident and genuinely warm. No pretentions. Conducted herself with élan. But all genuine.

(d) Ajar. This young man was tall, heavily built and cheerful. He struck me as a synonym of life. So full of life. He seemed like the cheerleader of the group.

(e) Kamran. Probably in his early 30s, he was the husband of Manvi. A simple, unpretentious man, kind of ‘rose from the soil.’ A good match for Manvi.

(f) Sanjit. A lean, wheatish, thin youngster came across as an innocent, simple person who had seen the worst part of life already, as I was to learn later. Likeable, highly likeable. It was so easy to see the child in him.

And then I focused once again on Hanit. My first reaction was to study this man’s face. There were timelines on his face, a face so weather beaten you could literally count the seasons he had seen. Mature face, serious and white as dead. It is another matter he tried to look happy. Many questions popped up in my mind to which there were not likely to be full and justified answers anytime soon.

“And the day came when the risk to remain a tight bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

Barely had the group alighted at their hotel, Estrela Do Mar, when suddenly they all came into their element – shouting, laughing, dancing and looking forward to their stay ahead.

I had by now become a habitual liar and informed them that this was the hotel one of my friends had recommended me. “I will stay here,” I announced. Somehow, most of the members had begun to trust me and treat me as their friend, save a couple. We all checked in.

The sun decided to descend into the sea – a scene marvellous by any standard. Estrela Do Mar is an all wood resort, owned by an Army Veteran from the Armoured Corps. From a distance of approximately 300 metres from the Arabian Sea, two parallel rows of wooden huts sit neatly in sand, surrounded by greenery, gradually merging with the beach which is so vast and serene; you could easily lose yourself into it. All huts are double deckers. I occupied a hut on the upper floor diagonally opposite the two rooms occupied by the group; their third room took my weight on its shoulders.

My new friends were already merry making - drinking and yelling, hastily preparing to go to the sea to begin what they came here to accomplish: unwind. All wore exotic attire.

My own take is that you need to target the right person to tap the right kind of information. To that extent my choice of Hanit wasn’t wrong. He was a strong man but occasionally overwhelmed with emotions. He seemed to have been living in his past which seemed to be traumatic and devastating. I often wondered what his past profession must have been like. Was he a farmer? Or a lumberjack? Or perhaps a soldier? It was difficult to guess without adequate knowledge. I decided to have a heart to heart talk with him once they had all settled down. Right now the time was for fun only, no serious talk. As soon as they left for the beach, I fell in their vague footprints in the loose sand, retracing their route. Upon my rejoining the group I announced beer and other drinks for them all on the house. We all got together, had fun, laughter and those who tried to drown their sorrow in the rising and falling waves of the Arabian Sea, nearly succeeded. Soon, it was time for the sun to head home.

Arabian Sea, or Persian Sea, is a part of the Northern Indian Ocean, bounded by Pakistan and Iran (or Persia) on the North, North Eastern Somalia on the West and India on the East. More than 4.6 km deep, the Sea hasn’t found tranquillity still. Strong waves rise and fall continuously to remind the man that motion is essential in life. In many respects the Arabian Sea seemed to be like some members of the group whom I had known a little by now – vast, deep, magnanimous, yet restive.

It was here, at Goa, that the famous Portuguese explorer Vasco da Gama had landed on 11 Sep 1524. Unfortunately, just after three months of landing, this great seaman died at Cochin.

It was my objective to learn as much about all the members as I can and to that end, I jotted down short notes on each, albeit discreetly. Hadn’t I intended to write a short story on them, if not a full fledged book? The reader might be thinking as to what took me so long in bringing these characters alive on my canvas. Actually, initial period of about seven years had been very busy for me, extremely hectic. This was the period when the European Union, after the exit of the UK (Brexit), started to crumble and Eastern Europe began rising like a proverbial Phoenix. The world started shifting from being unipolar to bipolar once again when Vladimir Putin’s Russia regained her lost glory. Since I am an specialize on Eastern Europe and Russia, my company put me in a grinding routine, sometime living out of a suitcase for weeks on end. This routine also had a terrible effect on my married life. My relations with my beautiful, charming wife, Gazala Andalib, became strained. But she fought back her fears, allayed her apprehensions with her amazing strength and we survived the scare. Her name means ‘intelligent angel’, which she definitely is. The next was something which I had never expected would happen to me – I was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma. 6.1 persons per 100,000 are diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma, and I was one of them! My journey through this whole ordeal was not tortuous or difficult. In simple terms, it was the purest form of hell. I died many times. But my strong will power and ‘Never Say Die’ spirit kept me alive. My Gazala was my greatest strength. She was beside me round the clock. I am blessed. It took me years to recover and return to work. But return I did. Before I could settle down to write about my ‘Goa Gaggle’, I got heavily involved in a legal case, that seemingly took ages to get over. Be that as it may, I am happy I am able to write about this ‘case’ before I put down my pen.

I decided to corner each one of them, turn by turn, and write their pen picture, sort of.

Meanwhile, my most desirable but vulnerable target, Hanit, wandered ashore, away from his team members and suddenly collided with me in hot, wet and humid sand. I decided to trap him into conversation and my bait this time was a very simple sentence, spoken in an innocent manner, “You seem to be at war with yourself, is there a matter?”

“At this stage in my life, I have more battles to fight than I ever did. But I don’t intend to give up. A soldier never gives up, he fights to the finish.” He wearily looked at his big hands and let a wry smile out.

“So, you’ve been a soldier? I have been wondering what you did in your earlier life.” I chuckled.

“Earlier life? I don’t believe in rebirth. This is my first and the last life.” Hanit sounded honest.

“No, I meant previous career. I mean before you joined your present workplace.” I struggled to find words.

“Yes. I was a Ground Soldier, meant to lead from the front and take the first bullet. But I survived.”

“Good to know that. I can guess what it must have been like. May I ask you a few questions?”

“Go ahead, unless your questions harm me mentally.”

“I will try they don’t. What is it that you seek? Is it pursuit of well being or redemption?”

“What do you mean by that?” Demanded Hanit.

It took me eternity to reply to this question as oblivious of my surroundings I had begun to study this man’s body – average build, lean, muscular, stretched and weathered. His hands were very large with strong fingers and hard skin of palms. With gaze as intense as the sun that day, he repeated his question with a slight movement of his head and with a clever use of his small, narrow eyes. My constant gaze made him a bit nervous and he strayed across to a dry patch on the beach, bent down and with his index finger began to write something on sand. I followed him, standing closely beside and read what he had just scribbled:

DUST UNTO DUST

Just then a wide, high wave came crashing and obliterated what was recorded in sand. You cannot trust sand to hold your secrets; writings on sand are always momentary.

“You have answered your own question, Hanit,” I said smiling.

“I don’t quite get you, man.”

“Which normal person would write such scary words onto sand, and that too in a place like Goa where you are supposedly for fun?” I demanded.

“You see, Zorawar, this is the fact of life. I am just being blunt. I ... I am normal, only a bit shattered by certain circumstances. I have lived an extremely happy and contented life, beginning with when I was with my parents and ending with when I spent many, many blissful years with my wife, a woman whom I have always loved intensely. I have had my shares of joys already, I suppose. I had never seen bad times, not financially, not bodily, and of course, not mentally, which I suppose I now have to suffer. Every person has ups and downs, so have I, so there is nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Tell me more,” I prodded.

“There is nothing much to tell. The woman I chose as my companion for life, my woman, isn’t with me anymore. Our relations are strained. Badly strained.”

“So? So you gave up on life, huh?”

“No, as I said earlier, I will never give up. I am determined to win her back. But I find myself trying to change the definition of life after this incident.”

“That’s pretty much OK. Why feel guilty about it? You yourself said a little while ago that we live only once. And believe you me, if you live well, once is enough. Yes, you must explore new vistas, do whatever your heart tells you to do, do what the world thinks is a taboo, miss on things the world will have us believe must be done. Who wrote those ‘Rules of Conduct’? Someone as average as you and me. Rewrite them, Hanit, rewrite them. Make your own rules. Chart your own path. Do whatever gives you happiness. Live life to the fullest, there is lot of time to be dead anyway. Do you know about my life?”

Hanit suddenly looked up with curiosity, “What?”

“When you are drowning in water, struggling to stay afloat, clinging to an object, all you want to see is hope, you fail to see others around you who are in as bad a state as you, if not worse – clinging to an object. That object may be anything – a person, a place, a situation, a hope, or even a dream. That’s what the situation you are in right now. You just want to latch on to something you hold close to your heart. You failed to see there is another person near you who is also desperate for life.”

“Who?”

“That’s me, buddy. You think you are the only one suffering? There are millions of people who suffer one way or the other, many for life. My dear friend, this is life. And life is all struggles, if you have not made that out yet. Do you have some knowledge of Urdu poetry?”

“Why, yes, I am a lover of Urdu poetry, know the language well.”

“Good to hear that. Good to hear that you heal yourself with some rich poetry. Today I will tell you a fact of life, which the Great Asadullah Khan Mirza Ghalib had revealed to the world in a rather subtle way more than 250 years ago:

“Gham-e-hasti (life/existence) ka 'Asad' kis se ho juz (other than) marg (death) ilaaj,

Shama har rang mein jalti hai sahar hone tak.”

“Life is all suffering, ‘Asad’. Its cure is only death.
The candle burns in many colours till the morning comes.”

“Yes, Zorawar, that is the eternal truth and I agree with you. Like a candle each one of us has to burn in many colours before the dawn comes. So I am just doing my duty of burning, waiting to be extinguished by morning.”

“I had never thought you could be so negative, such a defeatist,” I protested.

“It is not a matter of pessimism; I am just trying to live through the marshes life has laid before me. At no stage did I say I concede defeat. I am good, I am strong and I intend to bounce back, catching hold of my life by lapel and saying, ‘let’s go’.”

“OK, what made you come to Goa?”

“My candid answer would be that I am trying to find a new meaning of life. Can I live happily without my love? That is one question that has been weighing heavily on my mind and I am trying to find an answer to that question. The one whom I literally worshipped, whom I loved more than my own life, the one who gifted me a beautiful child, the one who had vowed to live and die with me, how could she not love me anymore? What went wrong with our equation?”

“Have you found any answers yet?”

“I am afraid, no. It will take time, I suppose. When I make an attempt to enjoy in her absence, without her, there is a feeling of guilt. I am not supposed to be happy alone.”

“Life is not the way it’s supposed to be. It’s the way it is. The way you cope with it is what makes the difference. It is not what I say, but what Virginia Satir, a famous American author, had to say about life. Earlier you learn to cope with your changed circumstances, the better it will be for you.”

I left Hanit wondering and contemplating by the beachside and moved on to other group members who were now pushing one another in water, running, shouting, falling down and rolling over in sand. For a moment I was deceived into believing they were real small, little kids. In a way they were, at the moment. They were entitled to some break from the monotony of life and have their time out. Life is a canvas of myriad colours, some soothing, some agitating. All the same, there are more soothing colours than there are nettling in an average man’s life. Some of the colours of life are so grey in shade you could almost feel the absence of life signs during those moments – everything stands still in those moments and life just is transparent, a feeling of being in space – weightlessness, absence of gravity. But it is to the credit of man that he has learnt to bear the onslaught of adversity in many ways. Some take it on with grit and resolve; some others do so giving it a humorous hue, and still some of us trip over weakly and then fall down hopelessly.

Kamran suddenly ran ashore after a playful hot chase by Ajar. He walked across to the beach toward the shack, panting and squeezing his shorts of water. I decided to give him some company.

“Where to?”

“Just going to the corner to relieve myself. How about you, you don’t like playing in water?” Kamran asked me.

“No, I do. As a matter of fact my house in Sharm el-Sheikh is a beautiful beach house. Do you like water?”

“Intensely. Unfortunately, I stay in Delhi. Would love to buy a beach property sometime in future if and when I have enough dough.”

“Then?”

“Then Manvi and I will make our nest there, bringing up children by the seaside. Do you know something?”

“What?” I did not know what he was going to talk about.

“Children who grow up in coastal areas are generally bold, fun loving and willing to take risks in life.”

“I am with you. Go on.”

“This is because they imbibe all these qualities from the great teacher – the sea!” Kamran stated matter of factly.

“I couldn’t agree more with you. By the way, what do you do for your living?”

“Till recently I worked in a publishing house but recently switched over to the marketing profile in another company. I love to read and travel and also meet people and interact with them.”

“In that case you should be happy meeting and interacting with me, shouldn’t you be?”

“Oh, yes, I am happy to make your acquaintance. But some of the members of our group are wary of you. They do not trust you, not fully at least.”

“And you?” I asked him.

“See, I am a very straight forward person. I wouldn’t tell stories. Initially I did not, thinking you were after our womenfolk, but by and by I realized that is not your motive. I now know you a bit and have placed my trust in you.”

“That’s a grand one, friend. My interest is only limited to knowing something about you all as I intend to write a story sometime about this group. I don’t know why but you people have come across as an unusual group to me.”

“Why do you call us unusual?”

“Because I feel, and I may be entirely wrong in my reading, that there is more to this group than just friends and fun. There is pain hidden somewhere and there is hope on the horizon, some members are just waiting for a better time ahead, while passing through their current predicament. I believe that each one of you have had some personal purpose to be here in Goa. Given a choice and circumstances, some of you would rather be someplace else with someone else. Hope I am not too off the mark?”

Kamran gave vexed smile, jerked his head sideways and said, “You, typical journalist. Please do not assume things. Yes, some of us do have broken lives, if that is what you want to hear. But then who doesn’t? The world is full of people who have had a raw deal. Yes, some of us are indeed planning which hand to deal next but mind you, Zorawar, we are here as friends and for pure, unadulterated fun. Is everything alright with your life, if I may ask you?”

“Yes, Sir, please ask me anything you want. The doors to my heart are all open, I do not hide my personal side. You may take a walk as far as you please. I went through a rough patch when I was away from my wife and kids for months during the days of the Perestroika and the Glasnost. I was fascinated with Mikhail Gorbachev and wanted none of the news to be out of my earshot and vision. I wanted to see all, hear all and cover all. During that time I was a plain reporter, working for a news company based in the Balkans. My wife moved away from me because I had no time for her. Later on when I realized my grave folly, I asked her forgiveness. Good Lord, we are back together and happy again.”

“Hmmm.” Kamran saw the point. By now he had done his job and we were now walking back to the beach. I coaxed him into having a drink with me lying on the beach chairs. He agreed. And we both soon settled down, lowering our bodies into relaxing beach chairs and ordered some beer. The noise made by the revellers on the beach side was effectively drowned by the Arabian Sea; its humongous body threatening the man but also providing him an opportunity to play with the waves and help him forget the worries and sorrows of this world, if only momentarily. The drinks were served and I prepared to go further with Kamran into his life – as far as he would permit me to.

“So, Kamran, what exactly do you want from life?”

“A handful of sky. A moderately built and furnished house which I can call home with my wife Manvi and son Aarav. Health for all of us and a respectable regular income. My ideas about life are clearer than most. You just need an average life to enjoy and live to the fullest, you don’t need the universe, and your small family is your universe.”

“We seem to share that view. To be happy you need not be rich or powerful. What makes you happy are your own thought process and values. Although in the beginning of my career, I was very ambitious and willingly joined the rat race but later a friend of mine made it clear to me that even if I won the race, I would still be a rat! I dropped out. And my life has been a blessed one ever since.”

“Yeah, you said it.” Kamran endorsed my views. “My parents migrated from Pakistan during the Great Divide in 1947. They lost all their belongings, their savings, land and the worst of all, their many loved ones. They had to start all over again, building their lives brick by brick. But I have never seen them brooding or complaining. They simply took it all in their stride and moved on. I owe my good qualities and peace of mind to my parents.”

He continued. “Even Hanit’s parents suffered a lot. They, too, moved eastwards from their ancestral place in Pakistan during the partition. Hanit, of course, was born much later in India but to me he appears to have inherited some of the wounds and scars of partition from his parents, especially his father. He becomes bitter and dejected sometime and craves for ‘good old times’.”

“Personal circumstances and your upbringing do play an important part in rest of your life.” It was a delicate attempt to justify Hanit’s sullenness. I had come to like this man and thought it my duty to protect his persona as well as reputation.

“Oh, yes. You are right. A man is what his circumstances have made him. Incidentally, he is a good friend. Well read, warm, respectful and eager to help anyone to the extent he can.”

“That’s good to know. Tell me, Kamran, what precisely are you thinking these days while in Goa? I mean, what all crosses your mind?”

“Absolute zero. I am here to enjoy with my beautiful life partner and nothing bugs me as of now. I will think of worldly issues when I am back home. There is enough time to do that though I generally do not harbour too many thoughts. While here, it’s all fun and I am loving every moment of being here. Period.”

“What is your Zodiac sign?”

“Gemini. In fact I just celebrated my birthday soon after we checked in today into the resort. Should have invited you over.”

“Well, that’s OK. I am not yet fully acceptable to some of your group, I gather.”

“Sort of.”

“And what are your traits as a Gemini?”

“Blessed with the gift of the gab, Geminis, wield the sword of communication so well that their enemies are left reeling under the impact of witty use of words and as far as our friends are concerned, they often wish if they could be as tactful as we are. Clever! Considered to be one of the most intelligent signs of the Zodiac, Gemini derive great pleasure in communicating. Everything under the sun is a hot topic for us, for we are able to make sense of the mundane of things. Therefore, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that we are an encyclopaedia of sorts. But we are fickle minded which messes up our minds.” He flashed a naughty smile.

The night now was deep, partially moonlit, and silent except for the roar of the sea and yelling of Kamran’s friends who now walked toward us both. We both were silent now, just soaking in the serene environment. I found many similarities between Kamran and me. The moon was being intermittently shielded by grey-black clouds moving at a moderate pace across the sky. This hide and seek game gave a unique pattern of alternate light and dark on the brown sand of Calangute Beach. Somewhere far off a church bell rang. A believer meeting the Almighty, may be confessing his sins and asking for His forgiveness. I have always seen man as a selfish creature.

Time to reach out to another one of my new friends. I thought it was a good idea to catch up with Manvi in the wake of my interaction with her husband. Manvi, a classic beauty and one of the most liberal and cheerful persons I have ever met in my life, seemed to be enjoying the most. I reached out to her.

“Hello, Manvi.”

“Hi. How you doing?” She enquired.

“Well, I am good and enjoying the company of such lovely people. My aim is to get to know you all better, rather as best as I can.”

“You seem to be taking an unusual interest in all of us. Hope we are safe?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh! Come on, it is just business as usual for me. Yes, I have never written a story before as I am always taken up by my investigative job, which is my bread and butter, but the fact remains I am a journalist. So, by that definition, I can write on any subject, you see.”

“Hmm. So you are doing a story on us?” She sounded convinced.

“I plan to as and when I am able to gather my thoughts with sufficient energy. So, will you tell me something about yourself?” I ventured ahead in her private territory.

“Well, I am a proud Punjabi, born and raised in Khatauli in UP (a state in India). Having done my graduation, I joined the Aviation industry as a cabin crew member. Life has been very kind to me and I enjoy every moment of being alive.”

“Is that all you want to share?”

“What else do you want to know?”

“Something about your likes and dislikes may be.”

“Well, I am quite an easy going person and my perspective on life is pretty straight forward. I do not carry any emotional baggage. I enjoy living in the present. Bygone is bygone. Its history, not to be revisited. Look forward to future. That’s what my philosophy is. I never harbour ill feelings for anyone, however nasty a person might have been to me.” Manvi explained all this in one single breath and looked at me questioningly.

“What? Why are you looking like this at me?” I demanded of Manvi.

“No, I was just wondering you have been asking questions to each one of us but have never even told us a thing about yourself.”

“Manvi, please remember that I am the writer writing about you people. It’s not the other way around! And it’s not that I want to hide anything from you all. By the way, my life is an open book and you all can read it but not now. First you give me time and when I am done with all the members, you will have a barrage of information from me. Since I have travelled the world and am a writer, I have the advantage of understanding the world better than the most.” The lady looked perplexed.

“OK, tell me something about your wife, your children. Just in brief. I am curious to know.” She said in a persisting voice.

“I had met my wife, Gazala Andalib, when she was still many months shy of 16 and was caught up in a whirlwind in the Bekaa Valley War in 1982. In Jun of 1982, Israeli ground forces had pushed into Lebanon in an effort to put an end to cross border terror attacks on Israeli territory. The operation led to a prolonged conflict with Lebanon and produced mixed overall results. Gazala’s parents, utterly poor and defenceless, survived weeks in the battle zone without food or water but bullets aplenty overhead. When, as a war reporter embedded with Lebanese Army, I reached Tair Harfa, I found Gazala huddled up in a corner of a forlorn hut near an outcrop. I saw terror and fear in her beautiful green eyes. In her hand she clutched a small vessel having freekeh and stared into nothingness. Freekeh is green wheat put through roasting and rubbing process. It is an Arabian staple diet, consumed the same way rice is consumed in the Oriental. Her parents had suffered badly during the shelling and were severely wounded. I immediately fell in love with this beautiful but frail, terrified, hapless girl. With the help of the Lebanese Army, I arranged their extraction from the battlefield and took them along to Beirut where I put them up with one of my old friends till the war was over and they could return to their land.”

“I haven’t much understood what you have described. What is her nationality?”

“See, Bekaa Valley is a beautiful pastoral valley of Lebanon, close to the Israeli border. It is famous for its archaeological sites of Baalbek and Aanjar and infamous for being the homeland of Hezbollah (Party of God), along with crops of ‘Red Leb’ (high quality cannabis). Heavily cultivated over millennia (the valley was one of Rome’s breadbaskets), it’s actually a high plateau between the Mount Lebanon and Jebel Libnan ash-Sharqiyya ranges. My wife is of Lebanese nationality who later learnt English and Urdu. We have two beautiful, lovely daughters, Humaira and Hadiqa. I just adore them, they are my lifeline.”

“Very interesting, I would love to meet your wife and daughters some day.” Manvi looked genuinely interested.

“I would love that, too. For now, let us get on with your life. Tell me more about yourself. What you aim for in life?”

“In many respects I am much like my husband, Kamran. We both hate to let our lives be hijacked by our past. See, everyone has a past and everyone’s past is not all smiles, there are tears, too. Future no one knows, no one can control. So why brood over your past and worry about the future? Live. You only live once. And if you live right, once is enough. People who are unduly worried, long for another life where they can apply lessons learnt from their previous lives. You don’t have to do that, neither is it ever possible. I, for one, do not believe in this business of rebirth. I am here, now and how!” She let out a loud scream of joy, holding out her left arm to flash her son’s name tattooed on her forearm. And then in an instant she picked her mobile phone and showed me their son’s photo. This was it. This was what I liked this young lady for. So full of life. No worries, no living in the past. It now became clearer to me that she was in this place for only fun and no other reason. Manvi and Kamran, a loveable couple deeply in love with each other, often holding hands, looking mysteriously into each other’s eyes, holding a hope for a secure future for themselves and their beautiful son.

“You know what, Manvi?”

“What is it now?”

“No, I just wanted to say that our world needs more of your types. More of Kamrans, more of Manvis. I am convinced you cannot ever harm anyone. I wish I had some of your qualities.” I meant it.

“Come on, you are now flattering.”

“Call it what you will. But I mean it. Incidentally, are you a Scorpio?”

“Amazing. How did you find that out?”

“The Scorpion symbolizes Scorpio, and that is no accident. Much like the Scorpion would rather kill itself than be killed, those born under this sign are in ultimate control of their destiny. It is life on the Scorpion's terms and they see to it that things go forward. Others may find this overbearing and even self-destructive, but that's the beauty of the Scorpio: they have tremendous regenerative powers; much like the literal Scorpion can lose its tail and promptly grow a new one. Fearless Scorpios rarely lose; they just keep on going, since they are stubborn and determined to succeed. You are intense, passionate and filled with desire. But you are also complex and secretive, so others don't expect to get much out of you all, lest you become suspicious and exit the stage.” I rattled whatever little I knew of Scorpions, since S’ana Sikand is a Scorpio.

“I am a Scorpio – 14 Nov 1990. And I am also the youngest in this group. I have a very positive attitude, I am confident but then I am also very short tempered. Goodbye for now.”

And then with a broad grin she suddenly jumped across the hot sand and joined her husband, who had already been waiting for her with her favourite drink in his hand – fresh lime.

“Phew!” I let out a relieving breath and thought, ‘who next?’

My radar homed on to Ajar now. He was, in his usual style, the centre of attraction, thanks to his wits and presence of mind. He had an amazing capability to keep people around him amused. He spared no one, poking fun at everyone, but Manvi was his favourite punching bag. I admit Ajar had rare comical timings, spontaneous as current. I approached him smiling, the best way to connect.

“Hello, Ajar. How do you do? I have been observing you keenly and I bet you beat all others hands down when it comes to having fun. Where do you draw your energy from? But before that, where do you get your readymade answers?”

He gave the widest grin I had ever seen, which made me laugh aloud. He picked up his drink, shoved the barm aside with his palm, waved it in the air in a semi circular fashion, gulped almost half a pint in one go, put it down and began: “Sire, it all depends on what you think in your mind. If you think well about others and the world in general, the good is returned to you. I have inherited my temperament from my mother, a lady of great resilience. A person whom I admire the most. She has the ability to radiate positivity all around in abundance. I owe it to my mother.”

“And what about your spontaneity?”

“As long as I can remember, I had it all along. In my childhood, I would counter my parents’ every command with some or the other logic and more often than not, they would give in. May be they found it difficult to match up to my wits! Again, the credit goes to my mother, and father, too. I respect and love them a lot.”

I asked him as to what did he aim for in life, to which he replied:

“Good life, maximum fun, no worries, good money, all good, you see! I enjoy the most when I am with my friends, I rarely venture out alone. Most of my trips out are well thought out, planned and done with my friends.”

“I wish you all the best Ajar. A jolly person like you does deserve all things good. There perhaps is a lesson a crepehanger like me can learn – positivity and hope. I am thankful to you for the lesson.”

“Thanks, Zorawar. Though I have my reservations accepting your definition of yourself. You are such an experienced and cheerful person.”

“I hear you just got engaged? Who is the lucky dame?”

“You heard it right. Her name is...hmm... it’s a secret! Ha..ha..ha!! See you!!!” And then he burst out laughing, making others also laugh. He picked up his glass of beer, poured the whole thing onto his head and body, threw the empty glass aside and ran fast to fall headlong into the crashing waves. So typical of him, so positive. I was now convinced this man can teach others around him how to enjoy life, how to live in the present.

As we were busy talking, Sanjit had pulled a chair and sat down next to us, keenly listening to our conversation. This young man from the Eastern part of India was a close pal of Ajar. As soon as Ajar left the scene, he got a break and spoke.

“Mr Zorawar, do you always write stories?”

“No, I never write stories. Stories are more of fiction and less of facts. I have always been writing factual reports. I have been a war reporter, a political commentator and nowadays I am into investigative journalism.”

“Then why are you planning to do a story on us?”

“In all probability I may not. It is just a thought as of now. As it is I remain occupied for a minimum of 18 hours a day in collection, collation, analysis and inference of so many reports. Yes, I want to write about you people. You have caught my fancy and compelled me to ‘study’ you.”

“Why so?”

“One reason may be that there are a few similarities between some of you and me. Some of your friends over here have had fractured lives, they just pretend to be happy or at best try to be happy. I have been through this state – a time when my wife distanced herself from me. For years we had no contact. Mobile phones were not even conceived back then. I wrote her many letters, most of them in my own blood, but she did not reply to a single letter of mine. I am an emotional person, there is a poet in me; she is a practical person, goes by logic. But we were destined to live together. One day I just showed up on her door. I rang her doorbell. This was in Beirut. I can never forget that scene - she emerged out of the front door, wearing a pure white Lebanese dress – a top and a skirt. She looked so pure and beautiful in that plain white dress. I simply knelt down and asked for her forgiveness, and she just melted away like a candle - held me by my shoulders and pulled me up to her face. What happened after that, I don’t remember much. All I can remember is that we both cried uncontrollably, breathing on each other’s face, tears rolling down and smudging her eyeliner. She returned in my life and we have now been living in a bliss which seems eternal.” I was surprised I was sharing my personal details with this stranger but somehow Sanjit had at once connected with me.

Sanjit seemed moved. In a very sober tone he said, “It must have been a very emotional episode of your otherwise nomadic and illustrious life?”

“It indeed is, without a doubt. I have always considered myself very fortunate to have been leading a contented and fulfilling life. How has your life been so far, young man?”

“I had a couple of bad patches rather early in my life. We are from a place in Bihar which is just about two hours’ run from New Jalpaiguri (NJP) Junction in West Bengal. Do you have any idea where NJP is?”

“Yes, a vague idea. It is somewhere in the Chicken’s Neck area where North Eastern Region of India joins the mainland and the area borders Nepal, Bhutan and Bangladesh. Hope I am dead on?”

“You are amazingly dead on, Sir. So, that is the place where I learnt some of the hardest lessons of my life.”

“Like?”

“The gist of my learning is that, “Life isn’t fair.”

I was wondering what this man must have gone through which made him so

philosophical about life at such a young age. I was at once reminded of Baha’i

teachings which state: “As long as there is life on earth, there will also be suffering;

only the degree varies. Suffering is both, a reminder and a guide. It stimulates us

better to adapt ourselves to our environmental conditions, and thus leads the way to

self-improvement.”

“I was barely five years old and my younger brother about two and a half when the tragedy struck. My paternal and maternal uncles often stayed with us. That black night when my uncles were out of the village on some business, about 15 robbers attacked our house, with an intention to rob us. My father is a brave man. He asked my mother and all others in the house to hide in an adjoining room, and himself faced the gang. They fired six 12 Bore rounds into my father’s body; it is to the credit of my father that he still stood strongly in their way and also survived. He still carries most of those pellets in his shoulders, chest and abdomen. When my mother heard the shots, she came out of hiding carrying my younger brother, and as she was running to the rescue of my father, the assailants fired a shot at her face through a window. She died on the spot, still clutching my younger brother, both bathed in blood. My father struck the group with a sword and chopped the right arm of one of their leaders, making the gang flee. Today he bears many physical and a huge psychological scar, we have the night etched in our minds as a nightmare. Life hasn’t been the same again without our mother. She died while trying to save the person she loved so dearly – my father. I have not been able to forget that weeping night and am often haunted by those moments when our small, beautiful world crashed. So much for the God’s justice and his universe.”

“Sanjit, any regrets in life?”

“Almost none. Just wish my mother were alive today.”

That set me thinking what kind of strength this man must be having. He lost his mother in the most tragic way imaginable and still has no complaints against life?

“What is your line of work?”

“I am an accountant in my organization. I have a goal – someday I want to be a Chartered Accountant! That’s my father’s dream, too.”

Sanjit had won my heart in more ways than one. He demonstrated a healthy character despite a major setback in his early life. I encouragingly replied, “Sanjit, you will one day be not only a CA, but a highly successful one at that. You seem to be a man of an extremely strong mind. Anyone else in your place would have harboured bitterness for life but you have shown the strength of your character by developing into a positive and a cheerful person. It is not common we come across people of your stature.” Something stirred in my mind; I rose, grabbed his shoulders, pulled him up and took him in a tight embrace. He just tightened his arms around me. The silence said it all – we were connected emotionally.

Sanjit was the only one who kept in constant touch with me through emails after I returned to work. His mails would keep me updated of all other members. Unfortunately, after some months of our chance meeting I got sucked up in the evil vortex of reportage of world politics, followed by my ailment, and as I gather from our old exchange of mails, Sanjit was occupied with preparation for his CA Examination, followed by his marriage and the resulting family life. Family life is a full time commitment and takes an overriding priority over everything else.

Two pretty ladies remained to be interviewed - Deepali and Misha. Both beautiful, both graceful, both elegant, both in full command of English language, but both differed in their destiny, Misha had been a victim of her circumstances. Life indeed is unfair. How do you explain injustice done to so many people around the globe? To be born poor, oppressed, exploited, discriminated against. You may be very balanced, morally upright person but may run into someone who devastates your life for no fault of yours. I was told by a few members that hers was a similar case.

The next friend on my list is Deepali. She seemed to be the most apprehensive about me and my intentions. Hardly ever spoke to me. Her friends challenged me if I could extract any information from her. If at all, she would give me a tough time with her outer shell she remained ensconced in and then intellect in Phase 2. I was prepared to take up the challenge. In hindsight, I feel Deepali proved to be a harder nut to crack than I had expected. She would smile and appear very friendly but would remain tight lipped. The correct expression would be ‘she kept a stiff upper lip’. This expression also means that she displayed fortitude in the face of adversity and exercised great self-restraint when it came to expressing emotions.

Deepali’s parents migrated from Dera Ismail Khan to Delhi during 1947, having had a traumatic experience of bearing the tag of ‘refugees.’ Times were difficult but the family endured and somehow managed to reach safer grounds. Lives were rebuilt painstakingly and with their hard work and honesty they soon carved a niche in the new society. The new generation came along and shone high on the Indian horizon. Somewhere deep down, Deepali bears the burden of her forefathers – it is no longer required but she still does so. She found an emotional bonding with Manvi and Misha for the reason unknown to me. My guess is Manvi and Misha both are benevolent and have that innate quality to attract like minded people.

The next day the group headed to Anjuna Beach on their rented bikes. By now I had become a full-fledged member of this group and they consulted me on matters like where to eat the next meal, what to have in evening snacks and where to go next for fun and frolic.

Anjuna Beach has quite a high bank; the sea remains low. The relative height must be about 50 metres or thereabout. As all were rolling down the beach leisurely, I caught up with Deepali and started an indirect conversation.

“What a magnificent view and such beautiful boulders.” I said to no one in particular.

Since she was in the closest proximity, she took it upon herself to save me from the embarrassment of having gone unanswered. “The view certainly is mind blowing and cool sea breeze soothing. It’s a lovely place to be in.”

“You are right, Deepali. Perfect place to spend an afternoon. Let us sit on a boulder and talk.”

“OK, that’s fine with me,” she said with a lovely smile and a slant of her eyes.

We both occupied a huge boulder and began with small talk. The roar of the sea, however, was so loud that it was difficult to hear the conversation. Deepali suggested we move up and sit in a shanty and talk over a cup of coffee. Today she looked happier than the day before. We sat opposite to each other in a half open eating joint, surrounded by coconut palms which swayed in a very rhythmic manner, reminding one of melodious music of 60s and 70s.

I resumed the conversation. “So, Deepali, how has been the journey of your life so far? I mean, where all have you been, what all you did, and what future do you foresee for yourself?”

“Well, my life has been normal, barring one odd incident.” She flashed a big grin.

“Good to know you smile. I had almost convinced myself you don’t laugh at all.”

“No, why wouldn’t I laugh? Am I not entitled to happiness? I love good moments of life and these days I am very happy. Beautiful place, merciful weather, nice company of some wonderful friends. Everything seems my way.”

“Deepali, is this happiness temporary in nature or permanent? I mean, are you serious that you are a happy person?”

“Look Zorawar, I don’t need a shoulder to cry on, if that is what you want me to do.”

“You are unnecessarily getting worked up. When did I ever say that you need sympathy? I am just trying to be friendly with you and since you struck me as an intellectual, I thought we both can strike a chord, if you know what I mean.”

She relented.

“I want to know something about you and that odd incident you mentioned a while ago.”

“Let us just forget about that incident; it is so inconsequential. I think the best option for me is to briefly give you a run down in general and be done with it.” She was being wise.

“Go on.”

“My parents migrated from Pakistan as refugees during the Great Divide. They lost everything they had – their valuables, landed property, relatives, friends, society, peace, everything. My father and mother both worked all their lives, bringing up their three children. There were times when we did not have enough to eat, we siblings shared whatever little we had. I came up the hard way. You know, I am extremely proud of my humble background and my parents. They sacrificed their today so that their children can have a tomorrow. We were put up in good schools even though they had to work longer hours. How can I ever forget what they have done for us?”

“So, how do you plan to repay your folks?” I was curious to know.

“I always try to hold on to the moral values they have ingrained in us. They taught us compassion, tolerance, honesty, humility and forbearance. They both are my ideals and I want them to be proud of having me as their child. So I always am conscious of my responsibilities at home and in the society.”

“That sounds great, Deepali. What more? What Zodiac sign are you?”

“I am a Cancerian. Born on the 08^th of July.”

I was now flabbergasted. What this lady really is - chirpy, sombre or distant? She is all of these and still, she is none of these. Even more confused? A Cancerian woman has mood swings every now and then and these are only a few of her mood swings. However, her basic personality traits remain the same. She is very sensitive, emotional, kind and caring. Now's the catch! Most of her traits will be hidden behind a shell of indifference and aloofness, breaking which will require quite a lot of effort. She had already proved it. My fingers are crossed!

“What are your likes and dislikes as far as Homo sapiens are concerned?”

“To tell you the truth, I generally do not despise people, unless someone is cunning or a cut throat. You know, cut throats will not blink an eyelid stepping on even a friend’s dead body to achieve success. I like people who have a simple heart, a pure heart, I mean. These are the people who make our world a better place to live in.”

“May I ask you a personal question, if you allow?”

“Now that you are hell bent on digging our lives up, you might as well go ahead!”

“Why aren’t you married?”

“Why? Who says a person must be married?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. Just out of curiosity I asked you.” I added sheepishly.

“No person of my intelligence and taste has come along so far. But I do want to get married, have children, travel the world, read a lot, cook to my heart’s content, sketch and go for long, long walks. I want my parents to feel proud of me. I want a future where I can work as a true professional and contribute to the society in a major way. I am a woman of strong faith. Faith is believing in something when your commonsense tells you not to. I have this bonding with Manvi, you know. We both have faith in something common – Buddhism.”

“Tell me Deepali. Has anyone told you before you have an attitude?” I enquired.

“I don’t really understand you sometime. Are you out of your mind? Why would someone like to do that? I am such a simple lady, of a very humble background, why would I have an attitude? I pity you, Zorawar. Do you know I have done all household chores as a child and then as a teenager? I am glad I have no respect for people of your kind. I am sorry for being so upfront. For your information, you are the first and the only one to have told me I have an attitude. By the way, that’s news to me, too. And yes, this group of friends, if you care to know, did not come about as a result of deliberate efforts. It was serendipity at its best; we were only colleagues till a few days back but one by one we got connected and hooked on to the group and to the credit of each member, it has become a cohesive one in a short span of time. Doesn’t that speak of my personality?”

“Some of those around you feel you are an enigma?”

“Zorawar, I don’t think anyone of those around me feels that. It is the invention of your mischievous mind, although I don’t understand why you would do that. If a person of my humility can be called an enigma, then I do not wish to be part of this conversation any longer. Excuse me, will you?” And she left her seat and started to move out.

This lady had become difficult to handle. But then didn’t her friends forewarn me?

I instinctively held her hand and asked her to forget what I had said, while pulling her back to her chair. She yielded again, her anger petering out. This was the second time I cursed myself for an error on my part since I had run into this group.

She had a cut scar on her left upper lip. I observed it closely and couldn’t help asking, “Where did you earn your stripes?”

“What?” Deepali asked me with a squinted eye.

“I mean, where did you earn your scar?” I pointed at my own upper left lip.

“Oh, this! I was just three years and was drinking water from a glass and walking carelessly when I suddenly tripped and had a terrible fall, with glass edge cutting into my upper lip. It has stayed ever since.”

“Some scars are good – they add value to your persona as well as keep reminding you of an important lesson.”

“I don’t know what but it sure reminds me of my childhood. And I am so happy about it. It also conveys to strangers I am not the one to be messed around with!” Aah, a good smile on the lady’s face!

“You bet!”

By the time I finished my conversation with Deepali, I came to actually admire this lady – audacious, recklessly daring, and beautiful. Beautiful physically, beautiful internally. I regretted having classified her as the one with loads of attitude. May she forgive me!

Time to move onto the last character of this story – Misha. My favourite. Am I being biased? Nope, I don’t think so, since she deserves all accolades – beauty, pure heart, grace, maturity, intelligence and compassion. She had it all. In equal measure. I felt intimidated. How to approach her?

Our last evening in Goa the next day. With her brown, straight hair flowing in the beach wind, she looked more like an angel than a human. Lost in her thoughts on the vast beaches of this heaven called Goa, she wandered across to the beach side hovel which by now had become our favourite joint. I gathered my courage, took a few long, measured strides, while maintaining a balanced composure, and almost ran into her headlong.

“Misha, we have had little interaction so far. Do you know the reason?”

She just twisted her lips and shook her head in a clear ‘nyet.’

“I have been talking to all members of the group but you. You intimidate me.”

“I never meant that,” defended Misha.

“I know, it is just that I am in awe of your persona. How could you arrange a series of qualities?”

“I don’t quite know what you are talking about. I don’t know of even one quality I possess, though I wish I did.” Humility was at its best.

“Misha, you, above all, have immeasurable grace. You are grace personified. You are intelligent, well composed and an epitome of beauty. Simply put, you are blessed in many ways.” I summed up as best as I could.

“I wish I was. But I am not. You know nothing of my past and hence not qualified to deliver any judgement on me. You are either being magnanimous or are plain naive. Going by your experience and your field of work, I am not convinced you are naive. And that leaves me with my first inference – magnanimous, in a generous way. You are too quick to form opinions, I feel.”

“Yes, may be. May be my view is tinted by your outer appearance and your disposition; by the way you seem to be enjoying this trip of yours. What is it that sets you apart?”

“Nothing sets me apart per se. I am one with the world – just a small part. Like everyone else, I have my strengths and my flaws. Yes, I always make an endeavour to improve upon my grey areas and take a step towards perfection. Slow and steady wins the race - this pretty much sums up a Capricorn's life.”

“Oh. You are a Capricorn? Then I know you real well; my wife is also a Capricorn.” I then softly muttered. “The Tower of the Babel.”

“What did you say?”

“Capricorn – achiever, organized, patient, good leader, hard working, good friend, practical, disciplined but reserved and gloomy.” My rattle was breathless.

Misha gave a natural smile – her two dimples became noticeable as a result of protuberant cheeks. “You are one very clever person, I say.”

“Thanks for your compliments. But I am more interested in your side of the story. Tell me what kind of life you have been leading.”

“My ancestors were from the Kashmir Valley (that explains her beauty, my suppositional hunch) who migrated long ago to the plains of Bihar. I grew up and studied in Patna and was a pampered child of my doting parents. Having completed my education I landed a good job in an international bank. Life couldn’t have been more beautiful. And then came the man in my life – initially everything looked good but the life soon took a bitter turn – my husband was orthodox, violent and abusive. He stormed into my life in an intensive way, professing absolute love and devotion. But he soon changed. Always under full influence of his parents, especially his mother, he would not trust me, would object to my wearing Western dresses and be violent when I tried to reason out. Difficulties knock at your door in many ways. While all this was going on and I was trying to win him back, along came that proverbial ‘another woman.’ I was at my wits’ end – what should I do? Where should I go? I was mentally strong but circumstances made me weak – in those weak moments I confronted him, wanting to snatch him away from the devil. He just seemed possessed and any amount of reasoning would not hold water. We began to drift apart and a time came when we were on two opposite shores – miles away from each other. It was the time to break away. Our relations have been strained ever since. For the last five years I have been a single parent to my daughter and my son. Single, but not scared.”

“Doesn’t that evil spirit remember his beautiful daughter and adorable son?”

“He does. Calls often. Also talks to me. It is painful as a thorn. I have now reconciled, however.”

“Would you remarry if you came across a person of your choice?” I asked.

“I would love to but call me a pessimist; I don’t think there will ever be a real man who would love me the way I expect to be loved.”

“That brings me to the next question, “Why are you here?”

Misha was frank. “I am here to rediscover myself, to convince myself that I am entitled to good things in life. I must not lead a lonely and painful existence. I know I am clean, pure and morally upright. My aim in life now is to bring up my two beautiful children as the best possible human beings and secure their future. And at the same time, give myself the credit I deserve.”

“I admire you and wish the best the life can offer. You deserve a beautiful life and I know you will soon have one. Burn on and stay blessed.” We shook hands.

On the fourth day we all were to leave Goa to be back at our respective places of work. Although my flight was full two hours after their flight to Delhi, I decided to travel to the airport with all of them. The group, me included, took two taxis and arrived at Dabolim Airport by lunch time. Having lunched together, I bid them goodbye, promising to keep in touch. But then business took over and we lost touch.

Epilogue

A New Dawn Awaits Us All

“Everyone dies, but not everyone fully lives.

Too many people are having a near-life experience.”

Before I sat down to write about the Goa Group, I made concerted efforts to trace out all members once again. It was a formidable task and it took me intensive internet search, two trips to India, hundreds of phone calls, and an astonishingly long period of 16 months to pick up the lost threads. I was able to reconnect with Hanit on the internet, now an aged but still an agile person as his latest photos suggested, who gave me an extensive run down on each member. I am sure the reader would like to briefly know about the present location and state of all characters of this story. Here is what Hanit informed me.

Hanit himself lives on the West Coast of the United States with his graceful wife. His son is a very senior officer in the Indian Army. They have an elegant daughter in law, or their daughter, as they insist, and two beautiful grandchildren. Life couldn’t have been better. The family picture is once again complete in a near perfect way.

Kamran and Manvi had an addition to their family – a daughter. Currently living in Delhi, they do own a decent 2 BR house in Goa, on Miramar Beach. The couple is blessed with good health, two lovely grown up children, and prosperity. Manvi still works and both have done considerably well in their respective careers.

Ajar. Ajar married his sweetheart he was at that time engaged to. Later in life he moved up the corporate ladder rather fast and today enjoys a blessed life in Delhi, with a posh bungalow, two big cars, one wife and two children – a daughter and a son, both of whom are studying in reputed colleges. Ajar has travelled half the world over and keeps his passion for fun burning.

Sanjit ultimately did what he always wanted – be a Chartered Accountant. He cleared the examination in his second attempt and rose to become one of the successful CAs in the region. He has also been fortunate to have married his childhood sweetheart, equally pure of heart as her husband. Both have three lovely children, two daughters and a son, who have blossomed into wonderful humans, just like their parents. The couple worked in Nepal for some time but later moved back and settled down in Patna. He also evolved as a photographer and currently subscribes to various magazines and online portals.

Deepali excelled in her faith – she mastered the art of living, delivered lectures on the subject at Gaya as well as Dharamshala and became a sketcher par excellence. The lady started her NGO ‘Faith’ after her marriage to a perfect gentleman in Delhi and raised two beautiful children who inherited their mother’s traits – refinement, grace, honesty, purity of heart. She is also a frequent speaker at Toronto School of Theology, Toronto, Canada. She often travels to Tibet, writes, cooks and keeps her body and soul fit, by physical exercise and meditation and concentration. Wish I could learn a lesson or two of life from her.

Misha found the man of her choice – equally intelligent, equally calm and equally compassionate. This woman deserved the best of life, and she got it all again. Her son is a very competent corporate executive and the daughter is married to a UN official in Antwerp, Belgium. As Hanit tells me, Misha looks as beautiful as she did those days – beauty and grace combined. For good people the sun shines extra.

“The soul…in most of us, desperately needs to be developed. Too many of us live in a fractured state, deeply divided against ourselves. We exist in a self generated vacuum of moral ambiguity, where everything is relative and our attention is focused mainly on our emotional state… We need to embrace a kind of fearless vulnerability where our transparency is our strength and the living experience of connection is permanent, unbroken and inescapable.”

Andrew Cohen

2016

“Shabnam ke barasne se shadaab (succulent)nahin hote,

Sookhe huye patton ki haalat main samajhta hoon.”

2036

“My scars remind me that I did indeed survive my deepest wounds. That in itself is an accomplishment. And they bring to mind something else, too. They remind me that the damage life has inflicted on me has, in many places, left me stronger and more resilient. What hurt me in the past has actually made me better equipped to face the present.”

Steve Goodier

Acknowledgement

I personally remain indebted to some of my close friends who allowed me to have a furtive look into their private lives to help me understand human nature to a very small extent. They know who they are. Without their cooperation, this story would not have been complete.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Zorawar, born and partially raised in Kabul, was educated at Kabul, Cairo, where he moved as a teenager, and Moscow, from where he earned his Masters in Journalism as well as a degree in International Relations. He had the yearning for being a global citizen and in this quest of his he switched jobs, job profiles and work stations to cover an astounding 19 places across the world during his chequered career. While serving these jobs he had opportunities to travel far and wide for coverage of various events and assignments. He is an expert on the Eastern Europe and erstwhile USSR politics as also the Cold War.

The author has a special interest in the geography and people of Indian Sub Continent, having roots in the region.

In his leisure time Zorawar hikes, treks and spends quality time with wildlife mainly on the African continent. He is also a keen sportsman and a fitness freak.

He lives with his Lebanese wife and two daughters in Beirut.

2016-09-28T08:25:00.006+05:30

2016-09-28T08:25:00.005+05:30

CATHARSIS

INTO THE WILDS

AND OUT

“Into the wilds together they all rode, only to disperse as individuals again.”

Disclaimer. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this story, other than those in public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Synopsis

Our lives are too complicated, not always by default, though. Since human nature is complex and humans all too weak, we unwittingly begin weaving webs around us, more often than not getting trapped in our own webs. We forge new relations, raise our expectations, anticipate things and get disappointed when our expectations are not met in full measure. This gives rise to problems. Our credulity plays a major part in this cycle of affliction.

The author, Zorawar, primarily a journalist of many hues, had never done a story before this. This is his maiden attempt. In this brief story, he recalls an event of 20 years into the past, observing a small group of friends in India, who are on a pleasure trip to the coastal state of Goa. The group is boisterous but also nonchalant. He soon finds out that a few members of this group make all too obvious and conscious efforts to have happiness as their mission while on their short vacation. They have cracks in their seemingly normal lives. Outer appearances conceal their real emotions. But they must make the best use of time and situation to entitle themselves to a well deserved break. However, fangs of loneliness still manage to ensnare them, however much they remain surrounded by friends. In the process, the writer realises his own life hasn’t been as perfect as he would have liked it to be. Life is not all that fair, after all.

It is a story inspired from a few pages of some ordinary peoples’ lives, narrated in an extraordinary style.

My profession of investigative journalism takes me many places all over the globe. I investigate people, I spin factual stories. I present facts to the public and I help them form opinions on matters of varied interests.

My base has always been in a very unlikeliest of places; Sharm el-Sheikh (Bay of the Sheikh), situated at the southern tip of Sinai Peninsula, at the confluence of the Gulf of Suez and the Gulf of Aqaba, all part of Red Sea. Unlikeliest, because the town is just a tourist place, though of immense strategic importance. Mount Catherine rises grandiosely in the North. Looking over the Straits of Tiran, which is a narrow passage between the Sinai and Arabian Peninsulas, this once sleepy town of a few thousand soon got converted into an important Naval Base of the Egyptian Defence Forces. It may sound a bit weird but the original Sharm was founded as an Israeli settlement by the name of Ofira when the Jewish State occupied the region between 1967 and 1982.

Nothing much happens here. The current population does not even touch the figure of 100,000. However, clandestine activities always remain afoot. It is here that my employer, an investigative agency of proven credentials, has its offices.

On an average tour of work I travel, make notes, investigate, collect evidences and then prepare a detailed report, more often than not at the scene of the crime/incident as it helps in gathering last minute information, if necessitated. I hardly get caught up in local affairs unless they have a direct or indirect bearing on my work. But I do observe locals, more as a time pass and less out of my inquisitiveness. Since I am from the Indian Sub Continent, my understanding of local languages, dialects and traditions of the region has been very helpful to me in absorbing the culture and studying people.

Prologue

Many years ago, if I recollect correctly the year was 2016, the cruel summer of 2016, I happened to be assigned a task in Karachi where assassination of a dissent leader had taken place and the state of Sind was in turmoil. Karachi, as the reader would surmise, is always on the boil, thanks to organized crime coupled with government inaction. I wound up my work in the Shah Faisal Town area, which is close to Jinnah International Airport and Malir Cantonment, a large and important base of Pak Army, Navy and Air Force, and decided to have two days of leisure in Karachi itself. I wanted to see the famous Clifton Beach, Pakistan Maritime Museum and most of all, Mazar-e-Quaid, the final resting place of Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the founder of Pakistan. Though I was also keen to visit the strategic Gwadar Port, 700 km West of Karachi, I could not afford to due to paucity of time, as I had to spend a day with one of my old friends in Delhi, and then enjoy a well earned, pre planned weekend break in Goa, while on my way back to the Gulf.

The period was summer and the season in this part of the world is genuinely harsh, with high level of humidity in coastal areas and extreme temperatures and hot winds engulfing the whole of the sub continent, barring the Himalayas. Turbulence and high winds in May-Jun seem to compete with Wellington, the windiest capital in the world. Having finished my business in Pakistan, I found myself deposited at Delhi by PIA, the national carrier of Pakistan. One full day in Delhi afforded me quality time with my old friend Sikander, known in the literary circles of Delhi as S’ana Sikand. The story of his pet name is another one, and I reserve that for another time.

They All Came Riding on the Wave of Excitement

The next day I was to board a flight to Goa for a much looked forward to unwinding time.
Barely had I arrived at Terminal 2 of Indira Gandhi International Airport, when I heard a taxi speeding into the Terminal Passenger Drop Area and coming to a sudden, screeching halt. Two young, pretty women, a young gentleman and an elderly, windblown kind of a man climbed down the cab. They lugged their baggage across to the Terminal Entry. I generally am oblivious to what happens around me unless it’s a scene that interests me from a purely professional angle. However, something about this group attracted me and I began to observe them. I soon learnt they were on a leisure trip to Goa. Great, I thought, “I am also headed there.”