I was at a restaurant. The proprietor had seated me at my favourite table, a two-seater, in the far corner of the room. Our dishes had been served and I looked at our plates. Mine was already half eaten; my wife’s was still untouched. Ah, these blissful moments were priceless, intercepted by the rustle of my wife’s sari, or by the clanging of her bangles.

I followed my wife’s gaze as she looked at the couple seated at the next table. The wife was upset about the order. She had wanted their usual selection and her husband had wanted them to try some new dishes. She had given in to his wish, but from that moment, she had spent every minute regretting her decision. Others too listened in to their conversation, for it was loud enough.

Another lady who was with a group at the table next to me was blaming her husband for their delay. A man at that same table was making fun of his wife’s choice of music. Two tables away yet another couple were arguing about the man’s wandering eyes.  Four tables away, a father yelled loudly at his child and accused his wife for failing to discipline her. Some couples joked about each other’s failings, and some attributed faults where none existed.

I looked across my table and smiled at our blissful silence.

Indira and I met in college. I was her senior by two years. It was customary for newcomers to be ‘ragged’ by their seniors. It was not the kind of violent, abusive bullying that now exists, rather the playful kind where we asked them to do jobs for us, such as go into town and bring us a snack or stand in the middle of the courtyard and sing a song. Though now, it would be considered bullying. It was my lot to rag her. My first task for her was to iron my shirts. They came perfectly ironed on a hanger, but to my dismay fell apart on me in the middle of a class presentation, for she had very cleverly and strategically unpicked the seams.  That act was not only defiance on her part, but a challenge to me as well. The next day I asked her to wash all my clothes. She did these but returned them all dyed to varying degrees of pink, for she claimed she had accidently washed a red petticoat with my clothes. Now being made to look a fool, I decided to make her carry a placard saying ‘I was wrong to make a fool of Arvi and I apologise for it’ and walk around the campus. I felt bad about my decision and felt worse when I heard people laughing at her. But only until I saw the placard. My message was clearly printed on the front but on the reverse side she had added “But he makes it so hard, when he is so easy to make a fool of.’ From then on, the battle lines were drawn but no matter what I threw at her she counter-acted and won. We spent the next few months playing these games, and then suddenly the games stopped. And we both realised things were getting serious.

Then one day, Indira suddenly disappeared from college. All we were told was that she was unwell and had returned home for treatment. She had not bid anyone goodbye. She had not even contacted her close friends.

The two weeks that followed were my loneliest. Everywhere I looked, I saw Indira, every word uttered, reminded me of her. Finally I managed to get her phone number but when I rang, her mother informed me that Indira was still in hospital but she would pass on my message. Two weeks in hospital could only mean something serious. I left on the next train and arrived unannounced at her home. I could see her family was surprised, but were gracious in their welcome. Her brother took me the hospital. Even before I entered her room, I knew I loved her. As I entered, I knew that one day she would be my bride, but I was unprepared for the sight I was to see. Indira lying prostrate still connected to tubes and a drip. She looked thinner and weaker, but her smile was the same. And those eyes still held the familiar twinkle.

“How did you get through, I thought it was ‘family only’,” she said, smiling.

“Yes, so I was told before I was allowed in,” I replied. I had conveyed my message and I knew from her teary eyes that she had understood its meaning: I was now family and I was here to stay.

“No one was to tell you anything,” she remarked. That explained why her friends had maintained their silence. It had surprised me that none of them had been in contact with their supposedly dear friend. I would learn later, that they took turns to visit Indira, always promising to keep their silence.

My weekend stay turned to a fortnight. From her father I learnt that she had a heart condition that was now ‘ticking bomb’, a bomb that would never let her be a mother. And for that reason Indira had decided that she would never be a wife. And this was one battle I would not and did not let her win.  I married her the day she came out of hospital, ensuring that she did not have the chance to escape. That ticking bomb was gracious in giving us eighteen wonderful years together. My parents’ initial disappoint at our circumstances was soon overcome by their feelings for Indira. I had a brother who would give them their grandchildren, but I had brought them the daughter they never had. We completed our college degrees, I got a job and we moved to several countries in the world. No medics in any country could fix her health condition, but each was awed by her inner strength and courage.

Most couples look for friends and social groups outside of their marriage. I had my best friend by my side. Most marriages have arguments and fights. Ours never saw one. Maybe we were done with all the fighting in college. People look for external entertainment. We were just happy to be in each other’s company. On so many occasions we would get ready for a party and then decide that we would rather stay at home and just talk.

The time bomb finally exploded and took everything from my life, but not the memories and not her presence. Even now, I see her seated across me at our table. Even now I hear the rustle of her sari and the clang of her bangles. Even now she smiles at me from across the room and I hear my Indira say, “I wish we had their time”.

I looked around. The conversations were still loud, the arguments still raging and the comments were still insulting, but it no longer bothered me.  As I got up to leave, the gentleman at the table with the group remarked, “I hope we were not too loud?” I patted his shoulder as I walked passed “Not at all, in fact, I envy you, your moment.”

*** This is a work of fiction but it is a tribute to a real-life Indira and Arvi.

“Come,my child,” Ma said as she led the way. I took my first step as I heard her add with a smile, “There is much I need to learn from you.”

‘Ma’, as Mata Sitamayee was lovingly called, was among the many neo-saints of modern India . As society moved towards materialistic success, gurus and mas were sprouting everywhere. It was normal to see each of these saints amass a large following, and amidst them were several famous and materialistically successful people. It is these folk that became the true evangelists for these saints, to whom they give the bulk of their donations.

So when Ma asked me to come forward, I was elated at the privilege, yet matter-of-fact about the honour. People knew of me, the world-renowned actress, more than they knew of Ma. Of course she would pick me from the crowd and of course, she would want to learn from me.

I followed Ma and her assistants into the prayer hall. There in the centre of the room was a fountain. Around it was a winding waterway that meandered around, forming a serpentine-like formation.  A waterfall slid over a rock face that made up one wall of the great hall.

“Come, child, it is a special night, help me prepare the lamp,” said Ma.

“Special night? Oh I see, thank you Ma, that is very kind of you,” I replied, trying to sound modest. Of course it would be a special night. It was not often that fame graced a modest ashram. I looked up to see Ma smile.

As we reached the fountain, several of her assistants came in with trays and placed them on the ground. Ma sat on the floor and motioned for me to sit beside her. As I moved to her side, I watched as more women arrived with trays, placing them besides the ones they had already put down.

“What would you like to be, the lamp, the wick or the oil?” Ma asked.

“I do not understand,” I replied.

“We are preparing the lamps for tonight. Everyone will help by adding that which represents them best,” Ma clarified and then added, “I see confusion.  What does it take, my child, to make a ‘diya’. The lamp, the wick and the oil! If you think your life is like a lamp, then decorate these earthen lamps, if your life has been like a wick, roll this cotton into slender wicks and if your past resembles the oil, take this jug and pour the oil into the painted lamps.”

“How do I know which item represents me best, Ma?” I questioned.

“Ah, I see that some things are not taught in the celluloid world,” she said, smiling. “Come, we will learn together.”

We sat down and Ma picked up an earthen lamp. With the colour yellow made from turmeric paste, she painted dots along its entire rim.

“Here take this lamp, a vessel made for our convenience, so that it can hold that which is put in it. It is made of earth, air and water and represents us. It has great capacity to hold and imbibe that which is put in and it has the strength to let burn without being burnt. It is the Karmayogi,” she explained.

I looked at the lamp in Ma’s hand and then back at her, “Ah Ma, it represents us,” I whispered.

“Yes, child, it is our body,” she confirmed.

Then, pinching apart a small ball of cotton, she rolled it between her fingers, transforming it into a slender thread.

“This ‘bati’ is made from the softest of things. It twists and merges to form a strong twine. It thirsts for knowledge, it hopes for direction. It knows its purpose. It is the Dharmayogi,” Ma stated.

“Ah I see Ma, it is our mind,” I marvelled at my own intelligence.

“Yes, it is the Dharmayogi who wanders through life burning fiercely for knowledge and is ever-thirsty for answers,” she replied

Then Ma picked up the pitcher and poured the oil. I watched as the wick absorbed the liquid until saturated, it could absorb no more.

“Fuel, the power behind every action; the strength behind every deed. It is the source sought by all. The final part, that unites and completes. It is the Purnayogi,” saying this, Ma handed me the lamp.

As I continued to frown, she proceeded with the words, “Child, it is your soul.  It is that which connects and that which empowers. It is that which enlightens and that which liberates. It is your powerhouse.”

“Ah Ma, I see now, the lamp is man, useless until the mind and soul unite to enlighten,” I said.

“Yes my child, did I not say, I have much to learn from you?” Ma smiled.

I knew by now, the game Ma had just played.  From the teacher I had become the taught. Now aware of how Ma worked, I asked, “What is so special about tonight, Ma?” Even as I asked, I knew I was no longer the reason.

“It is Deepavali, my child. The night when good triumphs evil: the evening, darkness is overcome by light. The moment when a nation welcomes back justice, truth and divinity! It is the event that confirms the return of righteousness and gives back the power that once belonged to the Gods,” said Ma passionately.

I looked down, ashamed. Here I was, Bollywood’s leading lady, thinking I was the centre of the night, when all I really was or would ever be, was another spark of the mighty flame, who Ma was uniting with its source.

When I looked up, Ma held three items in her hand – the lamp, the wick and the oil.

Two years had passed since the birth of our children. Born on the same day, they had shared much and were connected in a way that few siblings would be. Their life was united and echoed each other’s; their moments were unified and reflected their twin’s. They were conjoined sisters, connected at their side and stomach.

They shared a common history, a common past, but bound together day and night, they often wrestled to be free. Sometimes while one rested, the other wanted to play or when the first cried in hunger, the second wished to enjoy her slumber. The language we spoke to them was the same, but each comprehended it differently. Often they were drawn to different friends, yet due to their physical limitations, one always had to follow her twin’s playmates instead of her own.

Even at that young age when we could lift them together, we had found it hard to show affection for one without the other feeling left out. Who could we hug first, who should we cuddle next?  Finally as they grew older, we realised that as much as they were a part of each other, the road before them would be unmanageable unless they were separated. The doctor, who would be credited for shaping their future, took the decision for us.

Our heartache was unimaginable when the medical team spoke of the dangers of the procedure. The pain that it would cause, the loss of blood that would result and the immense risks as each tried to stand on their own feet, breaking away from the support they had always received from each other.

We were lucky that apart from a few organs, each had the capacity to be separated, yet retain a complete set of organs.  Though still early in its development, the doctors felt the surgery was worth attempting for as our children grew, their conflicting needs and wants would make an undivided lifestyle unbearable for both.

Astrologers were consulted and while both were twins, those few seconds between their birth times drew different horoscopes. The auspicious days conflicted and we were left in a quarry. The good time for one, would mean the bad time for another! Our specialist came to the rescue. Midnight! The moment that belong to both days, yet where neither could claim the hour.

The preparation was abound with mixed feelings. It was the best for their future, but as parents could we bear the division or watch the agony they would have to endure? And while the doctors assured us that essentially each could survive without the other, yet they spoke of doing that which had never been done before. History was being made in separating siblings born of the same mother.

And so at the stroke of the midnight, “while the world slept” two souls were carved out of the one entity.

The operation itself was a success. The surgeons had managed to keep separate most of their organs to make them into two complete individuals. Their skin was the only organ that was difficult to divide, for it was fused. After the division new skin was grafted onto the bare spots, taken from other parts of their little bodies. These would leave scars, but in time we were told, new skin would grow and the scarring would fade. It would never disappear but it would become almost invisible. While we would have wanted them to have as close to a perfect body as possible, a few scars was a small price to pay for what they were being offered. Freedom!

What followed next made us realise that we were naïve to fear the operation; it was the post-operative period that presented the greatest risks – loss of blood, rejection, pain and heartache. We fluctuated between elation one day at seeing them move, to tearful sobbing the next day at the sight of our helpless children crying in pain.

We kept telling ourselves that the pain was worth what their new life was going to offer them.  That is was essential for their future progress.  We often questioned if we had done the right thing when we saw each reach for their sibling and fret at not finding their other half. But to heal properly they had to be kept separated. The railings of their cots ensured that even in their sleep they could not go near the other.

My husband and I became spectators to a strange game. Our children were being born again, but this time, the journey was theirs to undertake. I did not have the labour pains, nor was I able to give them sustenance. All the duties that had been ours, the hospital took on as their own.  Mistakes were made, for they did not know our children as we did, but luckily they were not catastrophic. I remember once, them pushing our shy daughter to take the lead while holding back the one that naturally enjoyed being the leader.  Once the roles were swapped, our shy baby followed her courageous twin and also began to walk.

I remember those first steps as if it was yesterday. Each rose on their feet, yet reached out for the other, forgetting that they were now separated and needed to find their own strength. I remember the first smile as they realised that for the first time in their lives, one could cuddle her father while the other could hug her mum. I remember the joy as they played with their separate toys and as they frolicked with their own set of friends.

And I have memorised the moment when I realised that for all the pain and heartache, the moment of separation was worth it. My daughters were two individual beings now, growing up beautifully, and making choices that suited their individual needs. They have different friends, have different interests and sometimes even compete with each other when once they had fought as one.

Tomorrow they will marry and set up their own homes. They will follow different paths in their quest to establish their individuality. They may fight and they will surely argue, but deep within they will always know that they share the same blood.  And symbolically they still remain joined at the side.

While the separation was filled with danger, I know now of the merits it has brought. I see two beautiful children growing in confidence and living separate lives and enjoying their independence.

My name is best left a secret, for if I give you my name, I will be traced. I will be prosecuted.  I was a college drop-out who everyone thought would amount to nothing. For years, it seemed that they would be proven right. At thirty-three I was unmarried and living in the one bedroom apartment that had been left to me by my parents. The small inheritance I had got at their death, paid for my expenses, but, barely lasted for a couple of years. By thirty-five, I was broke and contemplated selling my apartment but finding rental property in an expensive city that was teaming with millions, proved futile and I decided I would keep the only security I had – my apartment.

Finding work was equally difficult. Even a simple job, now asked for a degree as part of the job requirement, and in a country that was churning our MBA students by the thousands, I stood no chance.  Penniless but not wanting to ask help from the relatives who had mocked me all through my life, I began going to the local temple and lived on the free meal served each night. The meal was made by the priests from donated food and money. Many joined the queue I stood in and each week the line grew longer.

It was some weeks into this routine, that I met a man just a few years younger than me.  Unlike me, he held a Postgraduate Degree in Marketing Management. Like me, he too was jobless; always missing out in that last round of interviews, to another, who came with recommendations, the neo- polite term for ‘connections’.  Disappointed that he was unable to earn a living or payback the debt his parents had taken on for his education, he had come to the temple to bid farewell to his ‘God’.

As we waited for our meal, we began to talk. Though, we were from different backgrounds, we strangely had shared the same experiences and faced the same fears, mainly of a hopeless future. When we parted that night, both had made a decision. He, that he would not end his life and I, that, I would ask him to share my lodgings.  By the end of the week we were roommates.  Still penniless but stronger for having found our friendship!

Maybe we were lucky for each other or maybe it was already time for our bad luck to end. Whatever the case was, we managed to get a casual job for the upcoming elections – as data entry clerks. Nine hours every day we sat at the computer and entered details for the electoral. The Electoral department was moving from paper files to electronic ones and hundreds of people had been employed to complete the task.  It was mundane work but it paid a wage and for that, even my over qualified new friend, was grateful.

You will be amazed at what we found out during our time transferring data. The number of people who were duplicating information and distorting facts, obviously for tax evasion purposes shocked us. Owning two or three different properties with slight variations in names and relationships was commonplace. The irony hit us – they seemed to be thriving on cheating while we were struggling to make something of our honest lives.

One night after having one drink too many, we jokingly rang one of these ‘honest citizens’ and again in jest, demanded payment in exchange for silence.  We don’t know who was more surprised, the man at being blackmailed, or us, at having our ransom delivered, with no questions asked.

The game had begun. While we entered information, we also monitored and recorded all questionable entries. Soon, the income we made in a week was enough to keep us alive for a year. But greed has an insatiable appetite, and we could not stop the game that had so innocently started from becoming our professional business. As our clientele grew, so did our fortune.  A year later we each had bought a 3 bedroom apartment and drove a four wheel drive. Life had become so sweet.

But guilt often ate at our souls. Giving up the game was not possible, so we did the next best thing. We donated some of our ill-gotten wealth. The temple that once fed us, got 20% of every take. The orphanage from where Alok had been adopted got another 10%. Another10% was given to the homeless. From worthless beggars we became the local heroes. No needy person was turned away and no opportunity to increase our wealth was lost. Our material wealth increased in equal proportion to our spiritual health.

We then set up our own detective agency with it chief objective to find more people who were duping the world. Scanning obituaries and the notices section of the newspapers we homed in on our targets. It was during this search that I came across the name of Srimati Seekay Devi in the obituary column.  A data match revealed that the woman owned two apartments in a posh building yet had declared two different men as her husband.  What we had earned so far, was small fry compared to what this lady’s estate now offered. It did not take us long to find out which name belonged to her real husband.  Since I was the older of us, I got the privilege of becoming Ajab Patwaree, the deeply saddened widower of the late Srimati Seekay Devi.

Taking our legal representative and the hired thugs with us, we walked into their home and I declared myself the sole beneficiary to Srimati Seekay Devi’s estate. Easy work? Not at all! There was shouting and screaming from the woman’s children, disbelief and anger from the husband.  After much argument, we cut a deal, the unit was mine and the rest of the estate would be theirs. To denounce me, the family would have to acknowledge their fraud and believe me when I say this, they could not afford to do that. Unwillingly they agreed, and I returned with the deed to the property in my hand. Our game had now upped the stakes. And there were many more Seekay Devi’s in this world, ripe for the picking.

Once the property had been transferred to my name, I sold my one bedroom apartment and donated the money to a local charity. When they asked me, the name of the benefactor, I replied, ‘The Virtual Robin Hood’.

Sixty-five, that magical number that I had so long dreaded, just flew by last week. It greeted me as a mature woman and left me an old lady. Suddenly I qualified for the age pension, and inherited two pairs of reading glasses instead of one. Sadly, it also meant that my memory now refused to remember where I had placed them.

My children had ventured out on their own and while we met often, the weekends were free and my husband and I spent those alone. You would think that a lifetime of living happily together would mean being content with just each other’s company. But when you get to our age, you’d want to socialise, to meet others who’ve shared a common past.

There is nothing more annoying that relating in detail the problems my flatulence has been causing me and to be told by a younger generation “Oh grandma, that is disgusting”. I needed a sympathetic ear that would hear and understand my age related dilemmas without comment or judgement. Only another of our own age group can truly empathise with our problems.

Our children invited us to their parties but we soon found that what their generation found exciting to talk about, was old news for us: Which nappies are the best? What school has a better standing? Where the best sales were taking place?

We had already been there and done that and our interest was now in a different things: dentures, walking sticks, cholesterol, arthritis, reading glasses, mammography and prostrate tests. At our age, nappies are the last things we want to discuss nor does a sale of five inch stiletto heels interest us. What we needed was a place to go and meet other of our age group and discuss issued that related to our generation.

And that is how we found ourselves as members of a senior’s group. We met on a regular basis and we enjoyed the socialising that came about. Ah! To finally find someone who understood what we meant when we said “the good old days” without the unwanted debate that inevitably followed. And more importantly to find another who had the patience to sit with me and hear about my “in grown toe-nail” and the multi-faceted problems it had created in my life. And finally to meet people who not only understood the need for me to write down everything worthy of remembering but assisted by supplying the pen and paper.

In this group we made new friends and met up with the old ones. People who we had lost contact with, having immersed ourselves in our busy working lives and in bringing up our children. Here in this group we found information that mattered to us. Through this association we were introduced to the Government representatives who had been assigned roles to specifically help the aged. How wonderful was a country that gave the elderly the recognition they deserved and acknowledged their contribution to the community! For some this contribution meant an award-worthy feat; for others it was just giving birth to productive citizens.

But what brought back memories of the places and people we had left behind were the social functions which showcased the best of local talent. The melodies of the golden era would remind us of the saffron fields that we ran through as children or the simple mountain folks that would welcome us into their hills.

The dances done by a member’s grand-daughter or niece would remind us of the shows we had watched in India many, many, years ago. Senior members of the society came and gave talks helpful for us. Mayors, Consul-Generals, and government officials enlightened us with their knowledge and guidance.

Our little group has become our lifeline. We find mutual happiness, laughter and encouragement in one another. It has become the fountain that energises us and encourages us to look forward to the end of each month.

But now a new problem has arisen. Not happy with taking over our jobs, our livelihood and our sports- golf and lawn bowls, the next generation is stepping into this arena as well. We were not yet ready to give up the microphone, yet they have come and monopolised it. We liked non-spicy food that suits our digestion. Now under the name of authenticity the snacks offered at the meetings are either burning with heat or dripping in sugar. We listened to the soft soul searching songs and hymns and now we are made to listen to the heart thumping Bollywood tunes. Stand up and dance they say, it will make you feel young. Young! Do they know how easy it is for us to slip a disc or lose a toupee?

They tell us ‘Aunteeji you are only as young as you feel’. Well I am old and I feel old – my aching back and arthritic knee tell me so. More importantly I want to feel my age. I want to walk at the pace that lets me look at each flower when I pass them. I want to chew my food slowly savouring its taste as if it is the last time I will eat that dish. I want to stand at the microphone and tell the people of my vintage a humorous story, without the microphone being taken from me because a younger person feels they can economise better – both the words and the time.

We the elderly are losing everything either in accordance with Nature’s rules or by social intervention. These senior’s forums and clubs is the last of the ‘our’ domains, where we can still be ourselves and where we can enjoy our independence and entertainment. Come and enjoy our meetings but please don’t take over. This is our stage, our drama and our actors. Let us show what we are about. We don’t want to be who you think we should be.

Our time on this earth is limited – a year, five years, maybe even ten. Come sing our lives with us, but don’t change its tune or alter the words. We have memorised the original versions and have stored that knowledge amidst memories and associations. Let us walk into your world, don’t drag us out of ours. All we ask of everyone is to let us be ourselves. Love us! Cherish us! Tomorrow will come soon enough, when we will depart and the stage will be all yours.

By RANI JHALA

Every friend of mine was on the ‘network’: praising its social capacity, marvelling at its technical capability. ‘Connections’ is a social network on the internet, that lets people instantly contact friends and family. Within moments it lets you upload and share photos, and keep a track of birthdays and milestones.

For months, they had been pestering me to join as well, but I had managed to resist. I am a Senior Citizen and consider myself way too old for this teenage pastime. Bribes, dares, challenges – nothing worked on me, that is, until our little grandchild was born.  In another city, away from our sight, in another country, away from our reach!  Suddenly the chance of seeing her latest photos and the opportunity to participate in her daily life became too strong an incentive, and like the many that were already members, I too joined in.

A world of connections

I set up my onsite name and I filled in my details. All I had wanted was to link up with my daughter and see my little grandchild.  And the anticipated pleasure did not fail to live up to the expectation. Oh, the joy of logging in every evening and seeing my little angel’s photos and antics!

By the end of the first week I had linked up with all my relations. I saw a nephew I had last seen as a child now smile at me as a man. I saw an aunt’s wrinkled smiling countenance, reminding me of the years that had flown by. And I had the pleasure of seeing the new generation that would one day, take on our roles.

By the end of the month, I had caught up with all my school friends as well. Some, grandparents like me, others with grown up kids. Ah! I thought what a beautiful medium of communication. Living millions of miles apart, it took just one click to bring the past into the present, and the distant into our living rooms.

My life began to follow a routine: work, home, dinner and then the internet. Soon I became its most vocal promoter; visibly distressed if I found out that someone was not yet a member.

Utopia! My wonder technological world, that I now so loved.

Privacy panic

Soon however, the voyeuristic lifestyle began to take over. I would begin by looking at my grandchild’s photo, and then see my daughter in her friend’s photos. From there I would go to a site following a comment that caught my eye and soon I would be looking at pictures and paintings of flora and fauna that belonged to someone in some part of the world that neither I nor my daughter knew. Within an hour, I would be in a stranger’s world and would suddenly ask myself, “Where am I, and worse still, what am I doing here?” The fascination of this voyeuristic world, however, would hold me captive. That was until one day I woke up to the fact that just as me, somewhere there was a person who was looking into my little world and participating in my conversations.  In a panic I removed all my photos, well not permanently, for soon my daughter informed me that one could control the ‘privacy’ settings and restrict who sees our site. Three hours later, I had re-instated all my friends and photos. It was hard work but oh how good it felt to be back online. It actually felt – ‘normal’.

Dilemmas and disadvantages

Then came my second hurdle. Call it childish but a few months into my new social network, a woman joined in who was the bane of my schooling life. To use today’s neo-terminology, she could be called our school ‘bully’. A week after she sent me a link, I could not bring myself to connect with her.  I am a grow woman, so why was an incident from my childhood still holding me emotionally captive? I debated over the dilemma for over a week, stressing over the repercussion of letting her join or not letting her into my world again. Finally, my daughter made the decision for me. This was a social network, meant to be for friends where one could enjoy the contact and communication. Be free to express our views and relay our cares. It was meant for people we loved. Having her as a friend was going to restrict my comments, would have me questioning the sarcasm behind every statement written, and basically ruining the fun I was having. With a clink of a button I removed her link, blocked her access and marvelled yet again at the clinically effective way in which modern technology can ‘delete’ the unwanted from our lives. If only we had the same control in our real world instead of having to work through the problems, with consideration given to all the ‘factors’.

But with all these wonderful features came two great disadvantages: the loss of privacy and the fear of information passing out into the hands of people we do not want empowered with it.

Bosses have sacked people based on evidence collected on this site, partners have uncovered secret affairs and followed through with divorces, and children have had their lives destroyed with ‘cyber bullying’.

Once your information is in that ‘cloud’, your control only exists until a hacker takes over.  I don’t let this worry me too much for the family photographs that I put on would mean nothing to someone who did not know me. The fear is for the younger generation who put some very compromising photos online. In this virtual world, all that we put out can one day become ‘virtual evidence’.  And my other fear is when friends share their inputs, the information or photograph goes over to another’s site. It then becomes common property with no exclusivity or copyrights.

With no physical being to converse with, we rely on the ‘virtual’ identity.  And that is where my circle got caught out. A friend joined our circle and for months we conversed as in the good old days until a new member pointed out that the real ‘Anita’ has passed on a decade earlier. Identity theft, I think that is the criminal name given to this. To date we don’t know who this new ‘Anita’ was or where she has disappeared too. Maybe she has become a ‘Rita’ in another circle!

None the less, this new social vehicle is one I cannot move away from. Like a moth drawn to the flame, I gravitate to it every evening. Like an alcoholic, I sneak in my daily dose. Like a drug addict, I take my daily fix.

To my critics I say, this new vehicle feeds my intellect with inspiring conversations, it satisfies my thirst for communicating with loved ones and opens the door into my grandchild’s life. For this wonderful joy, how can I ever close my account?

I first saw Bipin at my wife’s medical practice where I manned the front desk each afternoon. The job was very interesting, as it allowed me to be a curious fly on the wall, studying the sea of humanity that passed through the practice every day.

Bipin was a thin young man and dressed in very poor taste. He had a particularly uninteresting personality and his one remarkable (for want of a better word) feature was a very large mole under his right eye. He could hardly converse in English and I had to speak to him in Gujarati as he stood at the counter to fix an appointment. He had come in with a bad bout of flu and on that day there was an unusually long waiting list at the surgery. Bipin got into a conversation with an elderly Gujarati gentleman sitting next to him and from the bits and pieces that I inadvertently overheard, I surmised that Bipin was going through very hard times in Sydney and new government legislations allowed him to only just scrape a meager life in this new country.

When he came up to the desk to pay for the visit, my curiosity got the better of me and I asked him about what I had overheard. Bipin was obviously thirsting for eager ears, because he readily recounted his complete family history to me.

Bipin Patel had arrived here a year ago on a student’s visa. Born on the outskirts of a small town in India, he was raised in a lower middle-class household and grew up amidst wanton hardship, unending yearnings and incurable impoverishment. Driven by sheer need and ambition, Bipin’s father had educated Bipin at the local college and then sent him to Australia for further education. The downside was that to pay the fees for a small college in the backstreets of Sydney, Bipin’s father had to sell off his house and take a loan as well. Now all Bipin wanted was to work, study, pay off his father’s loan and go back to his hometown with some extra money in his pocket.

I felt that his continuing struggle with the English language was only second to his struggle with life in Australia. His wife, who had travelled to Australia with him was unemployed, so Bipin worked long hours in three different jobs simply to run his house. His wife continuously looked for work without success. But in spite of all this, Bipin was excited because he had heard that the Australian government was about to open doors to students to apply for permanent residency. But I was quite taken aback with his plans for the future; he had an undying passion for India and his great dream of going back home to his small town in Gujarat with money saved in Australia.

Our next encounter was about a year later, a day that came with some uncharacteristic heavy downpour. I was immersed in some administrative work and I looked up when a shadow fell across the desk. It was Bipin, and he had a very broad smile on his face. He had two pieces of news for me. He had successfully acquired a PR for Australia, and had already applied for his wife’s PR permit. The other piece of news was even more exciting – they now had a baby boy! When I asked him about his plans for his family, he was quick to reply that he wanted his PR status and citizenship only because he wanted his child to be an Australian. He was adamant about his child settling down here and becoming what he termed as a “real Ozzie”. As for himself, Bipin clearly stated that he refused to improve his English language skills since he believed that it was a sheer waste of time, given that he would ultimately return back to his beloved homeland.

Five years must have gone by and I bumped into Bipin again, with his wife and young son. This time there was a distinct change in his attitude. I was quick to observe that while he spoke to his coy wife in a heavy guttural Indian accent, he spoke very differently to his son. The change in his demeanor was subtle, but quite amazing.

Bipin tried talking to his son with a “real Ozzie” accent. Phrases like “Good on you mate!” and “Fair dinkum!” poured out in abandon. What was more remarkable was the fact that the child had an obvious Australian accent and was called ‘Bob’ by his parents! It was obvious that Bipin was trying very hard to pin the essential Australian personality on the child. When I mentioned this, Bipin (as always) had a very simple explanation. He did not want his son to be a ‘typical’ Indian.

“I was born in India and cannot be anything else but a true Indian. Bob needs to be a true Australian. He needs to talk like one, behave like one and live life the Australian way. I have made changes to my plans. Once Bob has settled down here after his studies, we will pack up and leave for good. Our town and our friends are still beckoning to us from India,” he said complacently.

That was the last time I saw Bipin at the surgery and with the passing years, memories of him faded.

It was only by chance that I came upon recently at the local shopping centre. I was unlocking my car when I noticed someone standing in front of the one next to mine. I would not have known it was Bipin, save for his trademark mole under the eye. I caught his eye and it suddenly dawned upon me that it was Bipin. It was twenty years since our first encounter and the change in Bipin and his wife were dramatic, to say the least. His sense of fashion was obviously avant garde and his Australian accent was shockingly pronounced when he spoke to me.

“How are ya?” asked Bipin in what I thought was a distinctly nasal tone. “Been a while now. Would be over five years, I reckon.”

I gulped and was a little slow in responding, while trying to fathom the change in the man’s personality.

“Don’t you remember me?” he asked, shutting the door of his Holden Commodore with a flourish. “I am Bipin. I used to come to your wife’s surgery. Gee! It’s been ages, I say!”

I smiled back. “Of course I remember you.”

We broke out into small talk about his family and life here. After a while, I could not contain my curiosity any longer.

“You have changed a lot, Bipin,” I said. “Your English accent, the way you dress… you are so different now!”

Bipin looked at me with a gleam in his eyes.

“We decided to stay back and make our future in Australia,” he said proudly. “It’s a great country and we wanted to be a part of this place. Be Australian in every way possible!”

“So,” I remarked. “After all, your original plans did change.”

“Yes,” replied Bipin with a faraway look in his eyes. “Opinions and beliefs change with time, I reckon. After twenty years in Australia, I felt like an alien during my last visit to India. Times have changed, and so have the people and their priorities in life.”

“Well, that’s life, I guess,” I replied. “And what about your son? If you have changed so much, I suspect your son would now be a true blue Aussie!”

Bipin stared at me for a few moments. When he spoke there was a remote look in his eyes.

“There has been a strange turn of events in our life,” he mused. “Although we tried to instill true Australian values and the lifestyle in him, Bob could never adjust to life here. He was always keen on the Indian way of life. Last year during our trip to India, he fell in love with the country. In fact, he also fell in love and married a small town girl there. Since then, Bob has moved to India for good!”

Exhausted after a difficult day, Elizabeth Sealy seated herself in front of the TV. She enjoyed her work, but there was no challenge left. She fought her cases and won most; then she came home tired to her cup of tea and her favourite shows.

Just as always, the news anchor informed the masses of the day’s happenings. Yesterday’s news, revamped as today’s headlines.  But this evening, the scene that unfolded caught her attention.  A meeting at a local town had been filmed. Agitated voices expressed arguments. But Elizabeth was a lawyer, an extremely successful one. And what she heard over the din was a desire to hold on to the past by some, and a fear of changes that the future would bring, by others.

The meeting had been called by the local council, in the hope of bringing about an amicable solution. On the one side stood the local residents, on the other side were the neo-locals from a diverse faith. One did not want a new Shire, the other was desperate to have a place of worship. One feared their culture would get eradicated, the other hoping to hold on to a part of theirs. One lot did not want any changes in their country, the other lot hoped to keep up with changes that were already in progress. The first feared their religion would be overtaken, the second feared theirs would be lost. But underlying all these varied emotions was the need to stay true to faiths, and a struggle to understand the true meaning of multiculturalism.

As expected, the meeting did not produce a solution. The council became wary of giving approval and the meeting ended with ‘no conclusions’.

And then Elizabeth saw him. The tall man wearing immaculate clothing, making his way slowly to the front of the crowd, shaking hands with those he passed. Both sides were known to him, both sides received acknowledgements.  As he said goodbye to the local leader, the camera picked up on the leader’s comment, “Ash, this is not personal. But a precedent will be set, and we fear that the changes which will come will be undesirable. There will be the unavoidable increase in traffic, the demand for more amenities and conveniences. Our domestic neighbourhood will become a thoroughfare for visitors. We don’t want to see our beautiful community tear each other apart when problems occur, and they will. There will always be a clash of cultures.”  

Calmly the man replied, “I understand that fear but pushing the problem onto another suburb or community cannot be the answer either. If you let us be in residence, then you must give us the privilege to worship without having to travel to the ends of the earth.”

At that moment Elizabeth knew that this was the calling she had been waiting for! Secure in her personal belief, unthreatened by moral dominance and secular in her religious views, she rang the TV station. By the next afternoon she had made contact with Ash and they met over coffee.

She convinced him that discussions do not change history. Only the law has the power to do that. She offered to be their representative. She assured him of her support.

During the next six months they met daily. She learnt of his beliefs, he read up on hers. She fought his verbal battles, he wrote the emotional pleas.  But the path they had taken was a difficult one, emotional and soul-searing; it called for fortitude and demanded perseverance.  If anything blossomed in those difficult days, it was love between two people, so different by birth, so similar in view.

Finally the day in court arrived.  It had been Elizabeth’s idea to tell Ash’s story. She had said, “It is not enough to just feel, you must make others feel. You must tell them what you have told me and what your heart tells you every day.” And so Ash’s life became the first exhibit.

“This is Ash’s adopted country and he remains loyal to it.  Proud of the land that gave him birth and glad for the opportunity to be linked to both. He gave up the language of his birth so that he could learn the language of this land. He changed his name from Ashwant to Ash so he could blend in.

“When you go to another country, it is your duty to accept their rules, to embrace their principles and forge bonds with their citizens. At the same time, when a country accepts you, it is their duty to welcome you, to bridge friendships and to tolerate differences.  

“What we are asking for is not to change what exists now. What exists here, is what attracted most migrants in the first place. Materialistic and emotional values can be adapted or compromised for a greater cause, but the spiritual need of man, asks to be met. Yes, he goes to churches, mosques and temples. Yes, he says prayers of different faiths. But on three occasions, only your own religion can perform the rites – at birth, marriage and death. You need a place for that to happen. You need a Shire for salvation.

“True he can drive two hours to an outer suburb, away from ‘native’ places of worship. But how practical would that be with infants and the elderly. How fair would that be, between residents?

“The laws of this land will not be broken. The place of worship is for peaceful congregations.  All they ask is the right to have a place to worship.

“Ash came from a land which was historically invaded. Each brought their faith, and the forced conversions. But neither was the culture nor the religion lost. Even today those that believed, continue to believe.

“Yes, society changes, but time does that, nor particular ‘people’.  Fear of that change is still – changing things!”  

Elizabeth won for them, their battle. She gave Ash, the ‘Shire of Humanity’. A year later the Shire was standing and at the inauguration, Elizabeth was asked to do the honours. During his opening speech, Ash spoke of the person who was most responsible – Elizabeth Sealy, and dedicated these words to her, “We shall always be indebted to a woman who fought for a cause that was not hers, for a religion she did not belong to, and a people, who were alien.”

This is a work of fiction; however, it is dedicated to a Sydney woman who helped a group of new Australians secure a place of worship for their faith

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard ‘Whale of a Time’ cruises.  We will be departing shortly and while you are free to roam around, it is advisable to remain seated once we have moved into open waters. Please secure loose items as the strong winds and choppy seas are just waiting to claim your treasured items, specially your caps and cameras.

“I am Andrew Waters, your captain, and am happy to say that since I began this career, I have not lost any of my passengers overboard. And I don’t want to break my record so please be careful when climbing down steps and moving about the deck. More importantly, keep your kids in view, and their Personal Floatation Devices on them at all times.

“Samantha Seale will soon brief you on the safety procedures and Matt Fisher, our own student marine biologist, will answer any questions you have about the creatures we hope to encounter on this trip.

“We want you all to not only have a whale of a time, but also a safe and memorable one. I will speak to you again at the end of the trip. This is the captain signing off”.

With that, Andrew began the task of maneuvering the vessel out into open seas.

Andrew loved his job. Ten years ago he closed down a profitable business for the one he now treasured. Even though this was routine work, each day was novel. It brought with it yet another cherished moment, it challenged him to outsmart the rough and choppy sea, and it gave him the pleasure of watching more passengers get smitten by the beauty of the sea and its inhabitants.

He loved to see the thrill people experienced as the boat rose and then dipped with the waves, as if they were on a rollercoaster. He enjoyed the laughter of children as sea water splashed onto their faces. He shared the sheer joy people felt as they watched dolphins frolic alongside the boat as they rode the waves. But the sublime moment was when his passengers got their first view of the ocean’s most majestic creature, the whale.

As soon as a pod was spotted, Matt and Sam would guide the passengers in their direction. Necks would strain as eyes scanned the surface of the water and when the first spray was seen, the hush of anticipation would inevitably be followed by a ‘Wow!’ – the Humpback Whale!  Either alone or as a pair, the beautiful big beasts would break through the surface and soar upwards as if challenging the skies to accept them. Cameras would click, camcorders would roll and all would sit in awe, watching these large mammals dance gracefully through the air, their huge bodies defying gravity as they played in their oceanic park.

From May to November, Andrew cut through the Pacific Ocean, serenading its visitors – the Humpback and Southern Right whales, the Bottlenose and Pacific dolphins and the Fur seals. He challenged the Albatross and the marine birds for the ‘right of way’. And he soaked in the sun-drenched beauty that the world’s most beautiful shore provided.

But from November he took on his true vocation; the fight to protect the rights of his marine friends and to prevent their demise and extinction. He lent his voice to their struggle for survival in a world where their death benefited only one creature – man! Commercially viable, these magnificent lords of the ocean are harpooned and slaughtered for their flesh, their oils and their skins, or in the name of scientific research. 

Andrew himself once owned a whaling company and knew the benefits these killings would bring. He would never deny a nation the right to feed its people from its oceans, or for scientists to experiment so that future generations can benefit from their research. But he saw mothers being butchered leaving  defenseless  calves mourning their deaths; he saw tankers filled with bleeding carcasses and one more mortally injured whale thrown back into the ocean because they no longer had space; and he saw man’s greed in taking more than nature offered. Andrew knew that to reclaim his sanity, he had to walk away from his occupation and commence a new vocation. And that vocation was to educate man about these oceanic dwellers and to become their ‘promoter’ and ‘champion’.

Whenever a passenger left, disappointed that they had spotted only one whale or had seen just two dolphins, he brought out the register where they could sign a petition that they would make a difference. And each time a passenger disembarked vowing to support the marine world, Andrew knew that his ‘non-violent’ fight was meeting with success.

Andrew does not expect every person to become a vegetarian, like him. He does not debate when critics argue that the life of a whale or a dolphin is the same as the life of cattle, poultry or seafood, but he challenges the people who think their today is more important than the marine life’s tomorrow. And he hopes to undo the wrong that he and so many of the human race have already done, when first they took aim with their harpoons.

Andrew’s dream is that the ‘killing’ will always be monitored and limited. His hope is that marine bounty will be shared by all nations and controlled by a common world organisation. And his plan is to ensure that international waters are enforced as safe havens. And his impossible dream is to create a playpen for his babies, and stand guard as their parent.

The tour over, Andrew once again steered his vessel towards land. The shared territory was returned to its residents.

Tomorrow will bring another encounter, another vision of sheer beauty.  And like every other day, that night Andrew will send up another silent prayer, that somehow his beautiful friends will escape their deadliest enemy – man! 

The folded sheet of paper slid across the marbled counter, pushed by one man to another. The darkened corner of the bar where they sat was robed in silence. Julian looked at the sheet almost fearfully, as if it foretold ill tidings.

“Go on, you will be pleased” the voice broke into his daze.

Julian looked up at Thomas Anthony. His classmate, one time colleague and very good friend.

“I can’t, it is not right!” Julian replied, still not moving towards the sheet, though his eyes were tempted by its silent call.

“I’m not asking you to throw your case. I’m just asking for a bit more time,” said Thomas.

“It’s my client’s inheritance,” retorted Julian. It is only a question of probating the registered will. Your client has no leg to stand on. He knows that”.

“Julian, your client can have her victory. All my client is asking is for enough time in which to dispose off two plots of land. That’s all. Your client can have her share and my client can have the two properties that he needs to sell urgently. Like you, he has his daughter’s wedding coming up. And his wife has cancer,” answered Thomas.

Julian hesitated. He was not going to change the outcome, only delaying the process. And besides …

“Julian, you need the money too,” urged Thomas. Didn’t you mention that your daughter’s wedding was coming up and that finance was becoming an issue? Give her the wedding you want her to have. There is more than enough in there to cover the cost. At least look at it”.

Julian hesitatingly reached for the sheet and then simply stared. The substantial amount written on the sheet was unbelievable. Not only would he be able to cover his daughter’s wedding, but he would not have to worry about expenses for the rest of the year. The temptation however, brought with it apprehension.

“Let me think about it. My career could depend on it. If anyone ever knew…”

“Who’s to know?” asked Thomas. “There’s only the two of us. That is a cash cheque untraceable to you. And if ever the query is raised, it’s my cheque and I’m returning the money I borrowed from you. In fact, I’ve even attached a letter saying that I’m repaying my debt as a safeguard. Look, my client is returning this weekend and he needs to ‘seal the deal’, so to speak. What do you say?”

“One month, that is all I can give and then I will have to probate the will. My client’s mother left that responsibility in my hands. I can’t let my client down either. Do you understand?”

Not only would he be able to cover his daughter’s wedding, but he would not have to worry about expenses for the rest of the year.

“Absolutely! Most likely we won’t even need the month. As soon as the sale is finalized, I will let you know. I promise!” said Thomas.

Julian took the cheque and Thomas accepted the victory. As soon as Julian left, Thomas turned to look up at a mirrored frame hanging on the wall. There in its reflection he met the eyes of his client. Seated at the far end of the room, a glass of Scotch in his hand and a grin plastered across his face, the man knew that he had met with success. He had seen Julian slide the cheque into his own pocket. Thomas did not have to tell him that the deed was done.

Three weeks later, Julian got off the phone. He had just assured his client that all the paperwork was ready, and he was going to probate the will. He had delayed the lodgment on the pretext that a new ruling was coming up which would save his client a considerable amount in fees and since they had the registered will, he had assured his client that there was no need to hurry.

He would seek Thomas out at the courts during his break and remind him that the month was ending.

Two hours later, he spotted Thomas heading towards his car in a rush. Thomas seemed a bit worried.

“Listen, I was going to call you. I don’t know how to tell you this. There has been a change of plans. Apparently Jenny left a will bequeathing her entire estate to my client’s wife, which she has already probated. I’m sorry, I really did not know! I thought when they planned to sell the land, and that is all they intended. I had no idea of this move,” said Thomas.

“What will? My client’s mother did not even like her daughter-in-law. I knew Jenny Bedah personally. She would never do that!” said Julian angrily.

“I have seen the will. It’s a true copy,” said Thomas.

“No, my client will contest it,” Julian said, but he was shaken.

“It will be a hard fight,” replied Thomas.

“At least it will be an honest one,” Julian retorted. Thomas went still.

“This is just between you and me. I was not there, but, apparently my client’s family forced the old lady to sign this will. Her own son and grandson held her hand. I will let you to guess the rest,” he admitted.

“If you knew this, why didn’t you warn me?”

“My client pays my bills. You know how it works. If you say anything I will deny this conversation ever took place,” said Thomas belligerently.

“Yes you’re right, I know how it works. We play these games on a daily basis, I just didn’t know that my friend would choose to play as well!” said Julian bitterly.

“Believe me, I did not fool you!” shouted Thomas.

“No, you screwed me!” Julian yelled back

“Hang on, mate! I was not the one who took the cheque.”

Julian looked at Thomas. There was nothing left to say, because Thomas was right. What is it that the law says? The one who offers the bribe is less culpable than the one who accepts it. Julian simply walked away. Had it been any other client, he would have applauded the trick, but Jenny had been his Godmother. And he had let her down.

What Thomas had said was true. He could not and would not deny it. He had taken that cheque. But he had not cashed it and it was time to cash it now. Let Thomas explain to his client how the extra digits got added onto the figure. After all, the supporting letter did not state how much Thomas owed and how much of it he was repaying off. And after his dirty little trick, Thomas owed him hell of a lot!

Julian had made his client’s fight harder but he had not ended it, and a fight remains a fight until it ends!