I looked out of the open door. Vast open spaces rushed past. Trees, lamp posts, men, women glided away. I sensed how every second brought me closer and closer to her.
=========================================== ================Often a problem with writing novels is that one has to follow a theme. Each incident in a novel must be linked to the central theme of the novel. One can’t stray here and there too much, or else he’ll be called directionless, incoherent and all those adjectives that only critics have knowledge of. Therefore one has to painfully delete incidents, no matter how interesting, which though occurred in progress to the climax, are essentially irrelevant to the theme, viz. the train incidents: ‘When Rishabh rubbed oil on an uncle’s back’, ‘The journey of the stinking socks (of Jasdeep)’, ‘the Adventure of the Missing Blanket’, but they have to be excluded presently. They can, of course be produced separately as ‘A Tresure Trove of Train Tales’, as I am wisely advised by a friend.
However, at this point in the narrative, it will suffice to say that the train rattles and swayed all the way, and rattled and swayed to a halt at the Pune station at about five next evening.
Thus I completed what can be called the first leg of my voyage. I was some thousand kilometers closer to my love and that brought to my heart a buoyant feeling. A small step it may be for others, it was a giant leap indeed for me.
=========================================== ================Doctor Prabhakar, our man, was not in. he was out on an emergency. It had been as hour since I left Ram Lodge, our residence, with Rishabh and Pritish. Every minute added to the tension. I moved restlessly outside the clinic, while Pritish and Rishabh chatted on. Peela, the person commissioned by Shraddha to help us, smoked nonchalantly.
“Man,” he said in a tapori Mumbaiya accent, “You should smoke!” “Should?” I asked, puzzled. Made it sound like a motherly advice. “I should say you must!”
“Must?” Now it sounded like a thing that ought to be done. I wondered if I had always been kept her in the dark about all the vitamins and minerals that filled the cigarette stick.
“Yes, must! Look at you, man, moving about like a chicken. This,” he said, pointing towards his cigarette, “Curse it all. You feel low, you feel aglow, you feel crappy, you feel happy, howsoever you feel, this is your best friend; loyalist, I should say, if there is such a word.”
“There is no such word, and, besides, what about the damage…”
I was about to begin a didactic discourse on the damages of the damn thing when a handsome man in late forties, dressed neatly in blue, rushed past me into the clinic. He had a stethoscope around his neck and thus had to be the missing doctor. I must say that the sight of the physician didn’t do anything to alleviate the tension that was crushing me. The fact that he was so well dressed and looked like a proper doctor didn’t go down well with me at all. I had expected the man to alleviate the tension that was crushing me. The fact that he was so well dressed and looked like a proper doctor didn’t go down well with me at all. I had expected the man to e like the amoral ones they show in the movies – shabby-clothed ones, who peer crookedly from the corner of their narrow eyes, probably have a nasty scar or two, or, at least, a big black mole somewhere on the chin. But he had none of these features that a man, if he churns out false certificates, ought to have. And that made me quiver. I hadn’t the time to look at his shoes and that bothered me. If only I had looked at the time to look at his shoes and that bothered me. If only I had looked at his shoes. Shoes give away the scruples, I have heard, and I prayed presently for dirt on the doctor’s boots. And then I had a brainwave, what if I hadn’t seen the shoes, may be one of the other three had.
“Did you see his shoes?” I asked,
“Why the hell, man? Why should I look at his shoes?” “Did you or did you not, just tell this.”
“No, man,” he said, and resumed blowing smoke rings. “No,” said Rishabh and Pritish on my questioning glances, thinking I was out of my mind. I pursed my lips.
So the mystery remained a mystery. With each passing second, I grew more and more jittery. What if the doctor didn’t agree to do the hob!
“Are you sure he will do the job?” I asked Peela, again. “Man, you need a smoke!”
“Are you sure?”
“Man, how many times I tell you?”
“He doesn’t look the sort who’ll do unethical work. And besides, you didn’t even see his shoes.”
“What about the shoes, man? Screw the shoes. And, man, I tell you, he is a damn good person to do unethical work. He doesn’t do it.”
“Then?”
“Then, what man, he is a friend. I told him you had a severe family crisis and thus…”
“Family crisis?” I shot out loudly, with a look as if I had been punched in my belly.
“Yeah, family crisis” he said coolly, as if my family didn’t matter to him.
“What family crisis?” I demanded, indignant that I had been kept unaware of any crisis, real or fake, which concerned my family. What if the idiot had driveled about death or something; I had often seen it happen in movies, and especially detested such shameful, morbid excuses.
“I just told him, it is one of those things that you wouldn’t like to talk about. You know, one of those things that one can’t talk about openly, and he understood. He said he understood what it could be and that he’d help you,” and at that I cooled down.
“Great, man,” I told him borrowing his ‘man’. He was an intelligent guy. I was relieved. A nice excuse – a thing that cannot be talked about!
“So even if he asks, which, I am sure he is understanding enough not to, just tell him you are not comfortable discussing it. Fine, man?”
“Yes,” I said and Peela was called in by the doctor. He emerged out in about a minute and winked at me. He patted my back and told me to go in. “It’ll be done,” he said. I entered a little nervously. There was a look of condolence on the doctor’s face. His eyes told me that they sympathized with my grief. He told me to sit and asked me, “Are you fine, son?”
“Yes,” I said hesitantly.
“You should be brave, son, the night will pass and the day will dawn,” he said. He thought of me a one of those unlucky sons of misfortune.
“Yes, sir, I am trying my best,” I continued in my mournful tone. “Listen, now; you want a broken leg, don’t you?”
“Sir, only a certificate!”
“Yes, of course!”
“Yes, sir!”
“See… plastering your leg is not required. I’ll write such a thing on your medical certificate that no one will question. You’ll only require a creps bandage.”
“Sir, but it won’t produce the same effect. A plaster is much more profound.”
“I’ll handle if your ‘Sir’ questions. Don’t worry, son. I’ll write a ligament tear. You say you tripped on a stone while walking. Even if one does an X-ray, a ligament tear doesn’t show, and so, it is the safest. You don’t worry about all that. Fine?”
“Thank you, doctor.”
“Oh, don’t say that. I am pleased to help you. Now tell me your name and college,” he said and tore off a sheet from his pad. “Sir, Tejas Narula, IIT Delhi.”
He stopped in between. He had lowered his pen to the paper but he stopped. He looked up at me and there was astonishment in his eyes. I wondered what it might be. He studied me, and his mouth opened wider with each passing second, like an inflating balloon.
“Oh-my-g-a-w-d, this cannot be possible!” he uttered and shook his head.
“Huh!” I uttered, almost involuntarily.
“Tell me, aren’t you Ravi’s son?”
I jumped from my chair and sprang a good meter or two in the air, narrowly missing the ceiling. If ever there was a line that could induce more horror in a human, I hadn’t heard it – “tell me, aren’t you Ravi’s son”…hell, that is precisely who I am – Ravi’s son, Dr. Ravi and Dr. Madhu Narula’s proud son. How on earth did he know my dad’s name? he wasn’t an astrologer or something. My eyes bulged. It was evident that something in my name had struck a chord, and it had to be my surname. He knew my father’s and I was shaken to my foundations. I kept starting at him, wondering what to say.
“Tell me, boy, aren’t you the son of Ravi Narula, J Batch, AFMC, Pune? You resemble him so much.”I was speechless. I congratulated Mr. Fate. If you put a black ball in a bag full of nine-ninety-nine red balls, your probability of drawing the black one is still higher than mine drawing a doctor who was my father’s classmate. Mr. Fate has switched sides again. Little use cursing fate, I thought, for I realized that I had been starting at the doctor for too long. What to say though was another question that perplexed me. I could tell him he was mistake. That it would have been nice and merry, if I was indeed his pal’s son, but I hated to break the news that I was not. But then he, in his suspicion, may decide to call my dad and tell him, “Tell me Narula, was your son in Pune?” to which my father will reply, “Yes!” “He was up to something. Something dubious, I tell you,” this doctor would say and all hell will break loose.
“Yes, sir, I am his son,” I said, hoping I’d be able to persuade him not to bother my dad.
“Oh, I know it. But tell me, what happened? Is all well at home? Your friend told me that there was a severe family crisis. Is my friend fine?”
I had forgotten all about that rotten excuse. Family crisis, forsooth. What was to be done now? I kept on gaping at the doctor stupidly. What was to be done? That was the only question that rang loud and clear in my ears.
“You can tell me, son, he was a great friend at college. I feel bad that we are not in touch, and that I couldn’t help him, when he was in trouble. But in seems God has sent you to bring us back together. These ways of providence! Strange, but wonderful!” The ways of providence, indeed! Strange and loathsome!
There was no escaping now. There was only one way out. To tell the truth and hope for sympathy. I couldn’t conjure a family problem, and assure my dad’s friend that it was alright, and that he shouldn’t bother. I know how these old chums are. The moment they hear that an old crony is in a soup, they waste no time in picking up the phone and dialing the pal-in-soup’s number.
“Uncle,” I began, “My friend has lied to you. There is no family trouble. I wanted an excuse out of this tour for a different reason, and I am not sum if you will agree with it. But I beg you, not to tell my father because then, surely there’ll be a family problem.” “What is it?” he asked suspiciously, and I told him all, like the way I have been forced to tell all, to so many for so many reasons. He stood up and came to my side of the table and looked at me with fatherly eyes. i saw his shoes, finally. They were shining black. And so shining were his scruples.
He looked at me dreamily and said, “Do you really love the girl or just want to have fun?”
“Come on, uncle, I won’t risk so much, just to have fun.” “True! You know, if you love her so much, you should have told your father.”
“Uncle, I didn’t know how he’d take it. You know how it is with parents. I am really friendly with my dad, but…”
“He would have been proud of you, son!”
“What?” I uttered.
“Yes, it would’ve reminded him to his days, and he would have helped you to go and meet your love. That is how he is, your dad.” “Really?” I asked surprised. I knew my dad was a playful lad In his days, but this was a bit too playful.
“You know what, if this helps you, your dad would have done the very thing if he were in your place,” he said, smiling.
It did help me. The man was indeed a person with a golden heart. But then, a curious question came to my mind.
“Uncle, did my father ever do such a thing?”
He smiled. His eyes lit up and he said, “I have told you enough, my friend. Let secrets remain buried between old timers.” I understood. I had got it. My father had done something in his heydays. Not may be spanning the country to meet his love, but something crazy, something that couldn’t be told to all, I was relieved.
“So will you help me, uncle?”
“Of course,” he said smiling, “But don’t you cheat a girl, I tell you. At your age, one does want to do it all, but be good, you, okay?” “Yes, uncle, I will be.”
“You know, you resemble your dad in looks, and even more in disposition; I am proud of you, son. Always follow your heart.” And with that he went back to his desk, and resumed writing the medical certificate.
It made me so happy to see the doctor, a gem if ever was one, writing the false certificate. It made him glad to help his friend’s son, and he didn’t find anything wrong with what I was doing. I had always known it, but it was extremely pleasant and comforting to know that someone, so much like my father, approved of my ways. There were people in this world who understood love, and that made me happy. I always salute these people who have their heart in the right place, and will do anything to help others, as long as their heart says, it is right. I presently saluted to help others, as long as their heart says, it is right. I presently saluted the doctor, my father’s friend.
He tied the crepe bandage neatly and firmly on my ankle, and taught me how to limp, laughing all along, and reliving his youth. At the end of it, he is said, “Come, son; let us go to the professor.”
“You will come?” I asked surprised.
“Of course, I have to. Nothing must go wrong. I’ll drop you personally in my car and no one will ever suspect.”
I looked at him appreciatively, silently. I could never thank him enough. Here was a man I always aspired to be. He had taught me so much in that brief meeting. Now, I wished I had told my dad too.
“You are the best, uncle,” I said, smiling.
“No flattery here, and, remember, whenever you tell your dad, one day you will, of course…tell him, to give me a call. I’ll call him in a couple of days, oh don’t worry, I’ll mention nothing of this, just a li’l catching up, son. So, yes, tell him to give me a call then, he owes me one, now.”
“Sure,” I said and put his arm around my shoulder.
“Now, let us move and tell the professor what happened,’ he said with childlike enthusiasm.
“Thanks a lot, uncle. I can’t believe any one can be so helpful.” “Oh, I should thank you, son… thank you for letting me relive my college days. Oh, what crazy, fun-filled days those were,” he said dreamily, “And after such a long time, I am back to doing what I enjoyed most-playing around with prickly professors,” he laughed at that, and added as I walked, “Remember, son, you have a ligament tear, and a man with ligament tear should limp,” and we both emerged out of his clinic laughing, much to the surprise of my three friends who stood outside, waiting.
Mr. Fate had switched sides, yet again.