Hi All, this is my first attempt at a short story. I had always wanted to do it but never happened to pen one. But thanks to my ever supporting wife who has constantly encouraged and pestered and pushed me to write, I have taken this important first step. Do let me know how you feel about it, if you like it or not, suggestions, encouragement, criticism, feedback, everything is welcome :). Also I could not think of a title for the story if you have any suggestions let me know. For the time being, I am just calling it "A Short Story". Please note that all people, places, incidents etc used here are fictional.
A Short Story
It’s such a relief to get off these cramped small buses that run in these hills. Aah..a breath of village fresh air, I turn around to have a look at the old banyan tree, the pond beneath it and the long winding road disappearing in the distance. This is Nandel a small tiny village of a few hundred people in the lower hills of Himachal. This road that passes through Nandel took some 16 years to build or you can say I and this road have grown together. As a child I remember getting off at the bypass some 3 miles away and then taking a walk across the long narrow winding trail to reach Nandel. Then we moved to the city and during one of my vacations we discovered that the narrow trail has turned into a kachhi sadak (unmetalled road). It took another 10 years for it to be tarred and during the process it was laid with gravel several times and in each iteration, given time for the gravel to settle-in so that the road didn’t cave in with the first monsoon shower, the process is called weathering, a slow and deliberate process usually undertaken in the absence of modern machinery.
Anyways a lot has changed over the years; Nandel is now a developing village, if not a developed one. Now the bus drops me just a few hundred meters from my ancestral house near the pond and the banyan tree. And then a bricked path takes me to my home, on my way I cross two major landmarks the Choudhary sahibs’ house and the dry handpump outside it. It is said that the contractor in charge of installing the handpump under a Government scheme wanted to install it closer to the road. Because the survey indicated that an underground water stream flowed down there which could be a perennial source of water. But Choudhary who was also a panch (member of the village local governing body) used his influence to have it installed outside his house under the Shehtut tree. The pump it is said spewed water only for two days after installation, probably scared of Choudhary’s reputation but after that it seems his guts gave up. Water is still scarce in Nandel, but government records indicate that it is self sufficient in terms of water as it has a handpump installed. But the government records probably would never indicate the pain of the dry thirsty throats of its inhabitants. But Nandel is a peaceful village, there are whispers at times mentioning the hand-pump but a very few and far in between and Nandel is still a peaceful and content village.
I was lost in these thoughts when I saw Kushala in Chaudhary’s verandah. Kushala is Chaudhary’s daughter. It is said that when Kushala completed her matriculation from the nearby village’s school (there was no school in our village at the time and college completely out of question!) Chaudhary married her off to an armyman in Baniyal, another village some 50 miles away. But Kushala’s fauji died in an anti-insurgency operation in the valley within a few months of their marriage. Her in-laws left her at Chaudhary’s place. Some three years have passed and never on any of my visits have I seen Kushala smiling, never heard her say a word. Colors have disappeared not only from her clothes but her face as well. There is only one color pale on her face and only one expression which is equally pale.
Close to the village is a government re-forestation area, a piece of land which was acquired by the government to reclaim the lost forests. A barbed fence guards the new forest from the village cattle. In this reclaimed forest there is a small temple which was built by my grandfather but in a dilapidated state as anybody hardly visits it nowadays. Villagers are allowed in the forest as long as they don’t harm the flora and fauna and keep the cattle away. So I decided to visit the temple as I felt a connection. It took half an hour to tread through the jungle on a trail of which only traces were left indicating that a very few people went that way. As I neared the temple I heard somebody’s sweet giggles. I would have thought that I was mistaking the sound of the temple bells for the giggles had I not seen Kushala there. But there was somebody else too.
“You’re Mohan, right?” Mohan was the lone teacher, a young handsome man, at the newly opened primary school in the village. Suddenly he fell at my feet.
“Bhaiya, please don’t tell anybody. I beg of you. I am not worried about me but Kushala shouldn’t be harmed”.
“Hey, get up! Nobody will harm you if you promise not to meet till you two are married”.
“Ji..marriage?? But nobody would agree”
“Arey, why wouldn’t they? If I am so happy to see Kushala smile, Chaudhary Saab is her father, he will be more than delighted, why wouldn’t he agree?”
Placing my hand on Kushala’s head and blessing her I said, “Don’t worry everything would be alright”.
And everything would have been alright. Everything would have been alright, had it not been for a report registered in the police station after 2 days which states that Mohan had decamped with the Panchayat collected school funds that night without a trace. As per a mutilated file in the heap of the police records Mohan is still a proclaimed offender on the run till date. Kushala it is said accidently burned herself in the chulha where she used to cook. She was already cremated by the time police arrived to investigate. They had no choice but to close the case when several villagers corroborated the story that it was an accident and the police had nothing left but Kushala’s ashes for investigation..
Years have passed since. I have not visited the village after that. They say Nandel is still a peaceful village, nobody mentions Mohan and Kushala, not even in whispers and Nandel, as always, is still a peaceful and content village. But two voices burried behind the old dilapidated temple, that my grandfather built, often ask the lost passerby’s for justice. And my body dies a small death everyday, the soul died long ago……
