SENSATIONAL NEWS (SHORT STORY)
It was around eight'o clock in the morning and the Railway canteen looked almost empty. Twelve year old Ayyappa Das - a neatly dressed, bit dark, Telugu boy entered in quite happily.
“What would you like have today?”, waiter asked.
“One plate Iddly* Sambhar*, and two sets parcel”, he answered coolly in an alien language... a perfect blend of Malayalam, Tamil and Telugu...
Ayyappa Das carefully dipped one small iddli in hot sambhar and started eating very slowly. It resembled a practical demonstration: how to eat!
“Only those who know real hunger can eat like this”, a Sergeant, belonging to Railway Protection Force, opined. He was watching him carefully, from the very moment he had entered in.
“Sir... he is seen here for the last two weeks... Nobody has any idea about him... like from where does he come... or what does he do?”, the Railway canteen owner told the Sargent in Malayalam... “quite mysterious”
“Will he come tomorrow?”
“I think so”
Ayyappa Das collected the parcel and handed over a five hundred rupee note. The boy collected the balance and left the canteen. Sergeant's face grew darker and darker.
Sixty eight year old Krishnan Namboodiri was watching BBC News, after finishing the morning duties, inside that two bedroom flat. The slanting rays of the morning Sun fell on his wrinkle-free face, which gave him an additional aura. Devaki Antharjanam, his beloved wife, was bedridden inside, as steel rods were inserted in her left leg due to multiple fracture. She needed someone's help always.
“Thanks to painkillers”, Namboodiri told himself as she was sleeping peacefully when he had a quick glance through the half closed door.
“Good Morning... Namboodiri Sir”, I greeted him warmly.
“Good Morning... Premji... Today is a holiday for you, isn't it?”
“Yes Sir... one of the state ministers is no more”
“That is the one and only advantage you get from a politician... that too after his death!”, he said while laughing.
“How is Madam today?”
“Much better”
Suddenly a twenty five year old beauty entered in without even asking for permission.
“Pardon me Madam... I am afraid... I don't know...”, Namboodiri stopped abruptly.
“Don't worry Sir... Premji knows me”
“Sir.. She is Ms. Sangeetha... a noted journalist by profession...”, I introduced her. “She has a couple of great stories in her credit and one of them lead to the political exile of some leaders...”
“Please... take your seat Madam”, he welcomed her. “Premji, you talk with her and in the mean time I will prepare some coffee”
“No need of it... Sir, where is that boy?”, her voice was not that pleasing.
“Who?”
“I don't know his name...”
“O... Ayyappa Das... He has gone for tuition... without knowing Malayalam, it's not easy for him to survive here in Kerala”
“Don't you know that child labour is a criminal offense?”, she was getting aggressive.
“What offense? I am his local guardian... Let me ask you a very simple question....
Who are you?”
“I am Sangeetha. We run a non-profit organization named “M&K”, partnered with Childline*. We got a complaint from a very reliable source...”, she replied, that too her temper was steaming up!
“Will you please explain me what is Childline?”, Namboodiri asked.
“We support children... We save them from all sort of exploitations...”
“What kind of children?”
“Children who live on the street with their families and often work on the street. There may be children from migrated families, or temporarily migrated and are likely to go back to their homes. Children who live on the street by themselves or in groups and have remote access or contact with their families in the villages. Some children travel to the cities for the day or periods of time to work and then return to their villages. Children who have no ties to their families such as orphans, refugees
and runaways....”, she started talking quite fast as if recorded in her soul!
“He doesn't belong to any of these”, Namboodiri declared openly in the middle.
“Is he your son?”
“No.”
“Is he your adopted son?”
“Yes”
“Do you have any substantial evidences with you now?”
“No”
“What?”
“What is wrong in helping a child?”, Namboodiri was getting confused.
“Sir... There is nothing wrong in helping a child... But, what you do now is illegal... I am so sorry... we are be forced to lodge a complaint against you”, she told her clear-cut decision.
“Sangeetha... Why do you want to insult a reputed man and his bedridden wife, without even knowing the truth?”, I asked
“What truth? Premji... Such people will have a million truths to say! Everyone wants someone to relieve his or her burdens... Unfortunately children are the victims”, there was contempt projected in her voice.
“Madam, are you bold enough to go Hyderabad along with Premji? You can go by the morning flight... and come back in the evening flight... don't worry... I will bear the expenses... ” Namboodiri asked her politely though he was burning with anger.
“For what?”
“To know the truth... the truth... brighter than millions of Suns...”
“Yes”, she said aloud as her boldness was deep hurt!
Anuradha Menon was waiting there in Hyderabad Airport with her white Maruti van.
“Hello Premji”, she hugged me tightly.
“Hi Anu... How are you?”
“We are fine...”, then she extended her hand towards Sangeetha.
Sangeetha stood motionless for a moment... she couldn't believe her eyes...
“Anuradha Menon... Anuradha Menon...”
“Do you know me?”
“Yes... Madam... I admire you... from my college days....”, Sangeetha replied with lot of admiration.
Sangeetha was almost silent during the whole journey. It took almost forty minutes to enter into the compounds of 'Swathantra' (the freed), the head quarters of an NGO, helping destitute women and children. The tall buildings made of mud resembled the simplicity of life there. Constructions were still going on.
“Mud is stronger than concrete... It was the building material of the past... future too!”, Anuradha Menon told. “Sangeetha... This place was donated by Devaki ji”
“Who is that.. Madam?”, Sangeetha asked.
“The better-half of Krishnan Ji”
“Krishnan Ji?”
“Yes... He only send you here...”
Sangeetha felt somewhat guilty...
“Premji”, Anuradha Menon tossed the van key to me, “Go and meet your old friends”
“Krishnan Ji was the Chief Editor of “Jwaala... the flame”, one of the top circulated dailies in Telugu. He was the only man who stood with us when we started saving women and children from brothels... His people protected us day and night from their gangsters... He arranged for loans for us... He is our one and only surety other than God!”, Anuradha Menon told her while walking through their campus.
“But, only very few know that”
“Good Morning Deedi*”, children, who were studying under a tree, greeted her warmly.
“A very Good Morning”, she cheered them up. “I will clear your doubts in the evening”
“Wonderful kids... Deedi...”, Sangeetha told.
“None of them knows their father... So sad...”
“Deedi... You didn't say anything about Ayyappa Das?”
“We are going to meet his mother”, Anuradha said calmly.
There... she was lying inside a well ventilated room... her hands and legs resembled twigs in the winter... her eyeballs were like two burnt out stars... Yes.. she was the star of so many 'fleshy dream nights!'
“Banu... how are you today?”, Anuradha asked.
“I am so tired... Deedi... I can't even move my fingers...”, a pale voice escaped from a drum ribbed with two hundred and six bones...
“See... Ayyappan has sent presents for you through Sangeetha... Cakes... Christmas cakes... We will cut them in the evening...”, Anurandha introduced her.
“Madam, how is he?”, the feeble woman asked Sangeetha in Tamil.
“He is fine”, Sangeetha told.
“Does he eat anything? Does he study well? Do you teach him? Will he come to meet me?”
“Yes... he misses you a lot”, she prepared herself to tell a series of lies...
“She is counting her days... slim disease eats away her life like hungry maggots”, Anuradha told.
“Slim disease... what is that?”, Sangeetha asked.
“H.I.V”
Ayyappa Das was away at school when we reached his home on the very next day.
“Sir... I am really sorry”, Sangeetha didn't feel like talking more as her soul was bruised with guilt.
“Don't worry... experiences strengthen life”, Namboodiri told her.
“I know...Sir”
“Sangeetha, why don't you write about Arundhathi Menon and 'swathantra'?”, I asked.
“That's a wonderful idea... Premji... I will write about our trip to Hyderabad... Sure... I will write about Ayyappa Das too...”, Sangeetha was really exhilarated.
“Sorry... I will not allow that...”, Namboodiri's voice raised above all.
“But, Sir?”, Sangeetha was perplexed.
“You have every right to write about Anuradha and Swathantra... that's sensible journalism... But... you have no right to write about Ayyappa Das... If you do that... that's called sensational journalism... A journalist is not a hunter... but a fighter... Daughter... do have empathy on anything or anyone... about whom you write...”, the old man told, with an unexpected glow on his face.
“I understand... Sir...”, Sangeetha told.
“A wrong information shared with the public can cripple many lives... Clarifications on the next editions do nothing...”
“I understand... Sir”
“She passed away yesterday evening”
“I understand... Sir”
Picture courtesy
http://www.flickr.com/photos/migrationmark/6308535508/
Your dramatic view is exemplary! “One plate Iddly* Sambhar* My favourite dish too while I was in Bombay in 1980's........... I go through the 'Yellow gate' in the port, showing a laundry chit as a pass looking for ships to join?..........O time flies and here I am?
A superbly told story and engaging from the first line - - so much depends on the motive of journalists these days Prem and you have made that your strong point in this bitter-sweet story. An educational read. Thank you for posting.
hello Premji. I like that you are often, if not always, a character in your own stories. It makes them more real and it makes you a real, present person. And i also like very much the fact that your stories have an important message expressed elegantly, without being educational. They make me feel better about the world around me. thank you. Cecilia
I read this story twice, Premji. Experience strengthen life...quite true. Sangeetha must have learnt a lot. Life simply does not end with headlines. Engrossing one.
very nice and touchy story. May God Almighty save all the of us and may He grant us the strength to do good for less fortunate people. Thanks for sharing this beautiful short story.
The deeper I went into this story-where Sangeetha entered the more upset I got at her..I'm so glad that the ending was a good one..I agree with what Kesav said..some reporters try to boost rating by lying....I know I haven't red you in a while..but I do so enjoy your " down to earth" stories...excellent write-Premji..
Prem, I think this is a true story. Even if not, your narration made it sound so real... a touching story. There are really good people in this world, who work for the poor and destitute. The media's aggressive nature has to change and they must try to see the truth behind every interesting happening. If Sangeetha writes a story on Krishnaji, even that will be sensational...It's media's wrong conception that only negative aspects of the society attract the attention of public...very well written. HAPPY NEW YEAR... I love to read more stories from you and wish to see published book this year with collection of your short stories.
I am inside a family that feeds almost 450 mentally retarded destitute in the city of Madurai SI, three times a day, every day, since 2003. Please visit www.akshayatrust.org. We have seen persons like that Sangeeta in your story. These persons help nobody. They try to build their own image and boost up their dirty vanity in the name of voicing for the cause of the poor and the suppressed sections of society. Good story, Premji
Wow, what a poignant tale of the ugly side of this reckless life mingled so beautifully with the wonders of such great charity. I really enjoyed this story, excepting the miserable reality of that poor woman destroyed thus. Excellent, riveting, realistic, lovely though bittersweet. The compassion is so consoling to hear in the midst of the suffering. Excellent ending too.
Premji , the short story has a dramatic ending , which also made me recall O' Henry's Short Stories ! -Raj
Is it true story? This story is giving an important message to the mass. Well expressed. tfs