Aaru Mani (6 o Clock)

Setting : A Bench.

Characters :

R – Old man. Conservatively dressed. 65+

G – Old man. Conservatively dressed. 65+

Peanut seller – 20 something. Trouser, ill-fitting shirt, basket.

Young couple – 20ish. Dressed in smart casuals.

A senior gentleman sits, gazing into nothing. No expression. Just sitting. Enter another senior gentleman. He walks up to the bench and sits down. He speaks.

R - Hello

G - Hmm (grunts an acknowledgement)

R - Konjam late aydichu (got a little late)

G - Hmm

R - Yenna? Kovamma? (What? Angry?)

G - No

R - Oh! So… the cold shoulder technique…ah?

G - Chi …

R - There was some tamasha at home. One old fellow … I mean ... another old fellow died.

G - Oh...

R - He was fine till yesterday. This morning also I spoke to him. Nothing… Then afternoon… gone. Just like that

G - Happens

R - What?

G - Death

R - Ah …yes. Kuduthu vechavan (lucky fellow)

G - Why?

R - I mean ... he is fine ... talking, walking and all… and then suddenly … gone. Avlothan (that’s it). Lucky fellow

G - Rubbish

R - Yenna Rubbish (what rubbish). You want a long suffering death, is it? Vyaadhi (illness)... Stroke… Bed sores… Nyabaga marudhi (memory loss), Alzheimers. Parkinsons or some other bloody English man’s name. Is that what you want?

G - No

R - Then what rubbish? Who wants to be a burden? Children bloody stressing over you, cursing your bloody frailty…grandchildren poking fun of your memory. Neighbours commenting. Then some bloody home nurse from some bloody village in Kerala wiping your bum and changing your diaper… all the time flashing ample cleavage…. Knowing you can’t do a thing…Nothing. Adhe… if I had been younger, would she have done that? No chance.

G - (sniggers)

R - Yenna… sirikirey?(why are you laughing) You think I was some bayandhangoli (wimp) is it?

G - Hmmmm

R - Dei… poda (Hey…buzz off). I have also… also….

G - What?

R - I haven’t been some bloody… eka pathni (one wife) type also… I mean I have also…

G - What?

R - Borrowed ‘saami padams’(blue films) and watched on VHS. When Padma was at her mother’s place.

G - (Laughs) VHS

R - Aammam (yes)… now the bloody kids think it is Voluntary Health Service.

G - VHS

R - Aammam

G - Watched…

R - Aammam… blue filum

G - Pathetic

R - Yaaru nana? Nee mattum yenna…(who me? what about you?) what have you done…

G - Nothing

R - Chumma (just) sits and bloody judges the whole world. As if you are some great gnani (knowledgeable person). Useless.

(both are silent for a while)

(A peanut seller floats by… R buys a small packet… eats some and keeps throwing some to the birds)

R - Sorry

G - (grunts)

R - Boring da…

G - What?

R - What,..What? Life. Nothing. Nothing to do. Nothing to live for. Padma is also gone. Grey. Everything is grey. Flat. Monotone.

G - True

R - Actually no… some small excitements are there.

G - What?

R - Hmmm?

G - Cleavage.

R - Chi… poda(buzz off)

G - (smiles) Then?

R - Adhi called…Germany lerundhu (from Germany). Got a promotion. Some fancy bloody pay increase. What’s the use? He’ll probably get me an A/C in my room… so what? His life is a waste.

G - Why?

R - Pondatti odi poitaa (wife ran away) with some German fellow. Left him holding a baby and me, here. Fellow can’t even control his wife naa yennatha control panna mudiyum? (if he can’t even control his wife, what can he control?) Company? No chance. Stupid Germans… what do they know? Nalla vella (good thing) … he is there… they think It's normal to have your wife run away. So they are giving him a promotion, see… he is just like (them) now. Pondati (wife) gone… babysitter in… next… affair with German babysitter… then living in… then baby… then she will run away… and he will drink more beer. And become boss of the company… 100% German.

G - (Laughs)

R - Don’t even wash their bums.

G - Still…he is your son da.

  (Pause)

R - They`ve got me to wear diapers…Kozhandhai maathiri (like a child). Che… disgrace. Diapers. Bloody diapers… on me.

G - Relax

R - What bloody relax? On me bloody. I was senior manager da. Never missed a day at work. Never… what do you bloody know? You sit here like some know it all and say relax… why? Because you are just a faded, useless, old bloody actor. Nobody even recognizes you. Your wife is gone… dead or not who knows? Probably still screwing around with someone in hell. And after all the screwing around you must have done... bloody, poetic justice. Relax aan… yenna relax? ( relax…what bloody relax?) Do you know what it feels like… bloody wearing a diaper… do you… do you… how would you know… are you bloody wearing one?

G - (Pause) Yes

(R is silent. G stares into space)

R - Sorry I don’t know… sometimes… I just don’t know… I mean… why I act like… sorry. Yenna aachu? (what happened?)

G - Cancer

R - Shit

G - Colon

R - Shit

G - (smiles) Happens

R - No… (smiles) not like that

G - True (smiling)

R - Nadigan da nee…(Bloody actor)

G - Theriyum (silence) (I know)

R - I forget.

G - What?

R - Many things.

G - Like?

R - I don’t know. Names. Incidents. Where I keep things. Sometimes I think If I didn’t have a photo of Adhi… I might forget who he is. I stare at his picture sometimes… blank… until I remember. I am scared. Scared of forgetting. Scared I will become like so many others in the home. Scared that Adhi might forget me. Scared that I may forget him… Padma. I am scared da.

G - (pats his knee)

R - They treat you like cattle

G - Who?

R - The home people. Like we don’t matter at all… just give them food, clean their room, give their medicines, wipe their bum, change their diaper and let them exist… let their kids pay the home fat sums of money and let the old farts totter through each passing day… till they die.

G - Hmmm (Like he agrees)

R - Then a few phone calls… a well-greased palm fills out the death certificate… a rusted van takes you away… no time to wait for the children. Maybe, they had already arranged it this way… a handful of other old hags... thinking who’s next… or staring blankly, wondering who they were, in the first place. That’s it…more diapers in the store room. Another room empty… ready for the next in line. Ingaiyum (here too) line. Line. Line.

G - True

R - There’s only one thing I remember for sure

G - What?

R - This. 6pm. Park bench. You. There is comfort in this routine. Nothing changes.

G - Nothing

R - Same place. Same time. Everyday.

G - Everyday

R - Funny. I don’t even know your name, not that it makes a difference. I’ll probably forget it… but... chumma … for the heck of it… I am Ramachandran

G - Gautham

R - Gautham

G - Gautham

R - Have I told you my name before?

G - Yes

R - And you have told me yours…

G - Yes

R - (sighs) See… I’ll probably tell you may name again tomorrow

G - Probably

R - And you’ll tell me yours… again

G - Probably

R - Again and again… no use. (pause)

R - Did I tell you… this old fellow died today... just like that, phut.

G - Hmmm..

R - Gone. Kuduthu vechavan (lucky fellow). (Getting up) Time up. Appo (then)... tomorrow?

G - Tomorrow

R - Varen…(see you)

G - Bye.

(Both Exit. Stage left and right. Lights out.)

(Lights on. G sits alone on the bench. Different costume. The peanut seller comes by…G buys a packet and scatters some peanuts around. He places a hanky next to him, like he’s reserving a place. A young couple walks up to the bench.)

Young man - Uncle... is someone coming here?

G - (looks at him for a while, looks around, as if searching for someone…looks at his watch… looks around, a little anxiously…hesitates…looks at his watch again). Yes, like everyday. At 6, aaru mani.

Young man - Uncle... I've seen you everdaeveryday here...f for the last 4 months or so. Nobody comes. Nobody ever has.

G - (Gets up slowly, looking perplexed. Looks at his watch. Looks around. Then slowly begins to walk away. He stops. Looks back at the young man) Ummmm...son, what's your name?

Young man - Ramachandran. Iv've told you before.

(G looks long at the young man.)

Lights Out.

Section 376(d)

‘Help me’.

‘Please’.

‘Sir’.

‘Madam’.

‘Please’.

But you just walk on by. I’m not worthy of your attention. Just another piece of ‘living garbage’. A sore spot in your pristine world. Roadside scum.

Pause a moment.

Please.

Think.

Is it my fault? My fault, that I was born homeless? Paisa less?

My mum was like ‘that’ too.

Is it any wonder then, I own nothing? Not a home. A piece of land. A bank account. Money. A PAN number. An Aadhaar card.

Not even a shred of clothing, I can call my own.

Nothing.

But my mother loved me. As long as she was with me.

Until…they took her away.

Away.

To ‘that’ place.

I don’t know where ‘that’ place is…but it’s a place you never come back from. Others told me.

I missed her. But I survived. Learnt to survive, is more like it. It is not easy. But you learn.

From sadness. From hurt. From humiliation. From pain. From loneliness. From anger. From fear.

I know, you’re wondering why there’s no mention of happiness or laughter. Happiness teaches you nothing.

NOTHING.

As for laughter…it’s a disguise I wear with unease.

The streets have been my home. My school. My playground. And life has been my teacher.

You have seen me.

Often.

Perhaps, every day.

But I don’t register. Make a mark or effect a blip in the serene graph of your placid existence.

Even today. Even as I lie, in full view. About to bring a new life, or lives, into this…my cruel world.

How could I even hope that you would notice me?

Me?

I have come begging to your doorstep…no…gate…many a time. Sometimes you throw a packet of leftovers my way…remnants from a dinner, 3 nights ago.

Sometimes you shout, threaten, shoo me away…do I ever complain…did I? No.

There’s always another house…another garbage bin…another ray of aching hope.

Funny.

Some of you actually pretend to care for me.

Us.

My creed.

My caste.

My breed.

My ‘kind’.

Make us come running to receive a packet of food, laid down carelessly, callously, on a pavement. Picked out gingerly from the cardboard box, in the trunk of your fancy car. You even take ‘selfies’, pose for photographs, with ‘us’ around. Always careful to maintain that ‘gap’.

You get articles published, about your ‘sterling’ work. Have it published on Page 3… (now, the cover for the food packet you laid out on the pavement).

Oh yes! You’ve been feted by your peers and fellow ‘society’ folks. Your selfless dedication has been recognised over clinking flute glasses of Champagne.

Ha!

Where were you? Where were you, when I needed you the most?

Where?

It was not that long ago. Do you remember?

I do.

I’d strayed down a side street. Into an area, new to me. An area that held the promise of food. Sustenance.

I was hungry. Careless. Foolish. I’d forgotten that every area, every street, has its own ‘boss’. ‘Dada’ (thug). ‘Don’. Predator.

“He” was there.

I saw him. Just as I looked up from a packet of stale ‘Biryani’.

He had this…horrid, frightening, cold gaze. Steady…as a rock. Unblinking.

There were 4 others with him.

They fanned out and surrounded me.

And then he began.

Raping me.

While his ‘gang’ watched.

Their eyes filled with lust.

Their entire being drunk with power and my helplessness.

I shouted.

I screamed.

I wept.

I scratched

I bit.

I hit.

I tried.

I tried.

But he didn’t stop.

And then it was their turn. The gang.

One by one.

One after another.

Until I could scream and fight no more.

Until I was bleeding.

This…all this… in a public place. In full view of the passers-by who used this street.

You… yes, you passed me too. In the back seat of your car, ears glued to the mobile phone. Giggling and laughing. I could hear you.

I looked at you. I couldn’t speak. Not a sound escaped my lips. My tongue was dry. My eyes had no tears left to shed.

Sure. You looked at me. A glance. A ‘disinterested’ glance. And then you looked away.

‘It’s me’- I tried to say- ‘Meena. You called me that. You know me. Help me please!’

But I couldn’t.

I was just another disgusting creature for you… “immoral” too perhaps.

I tried to get away. Believe me…I tried. But even in my dreams---- I could not.

For 5 days it continued.

Night and day

 Repeatedly.

Sometimes I’d manage to get a bite to eat, drink a sip of water from a nearby bin. Sometimes… these moments of respite made me believe it had ended.

It was over.

Finally.

But no----- they were always around.

Always.

5 days… 5 days later… they left me.

Suddenly.

Bleeding and sore.

N0---- don’t pretend.

Please.

You saw me.

You and some of your kind.’

And you looked away.

Drove away.

Walked away.

There was nobody who would take up my case.

Nobody who cared about my plight.

I didn’t warrant a Page 3 article or a photograph now.

As for the do-gooders- ‘It’s only natural that this happened to her’, they say, as they stroll past me.

The pain is more intense now. Soon a new life will come into the world.

My world of Penury.

Homelessness.

Fear.

Anxiety.

Hunger.

Humiliation.

Pain.

What should I tell my little ones? What should I tell them about the world?

Did I…No… do I deserve what happened to me?

Sure. You think I am dirty, filthy, disgusting.

Immoral.

Well… You have the right to your opinion.

‘This’ is what happened to me.

Me.

‘This’ is what I am.

‘This’ is who I will be.

Always.

I am a female street dog.

But…even after all I have gone through…

You still call me a Bitch!

ME?!

A bitch.

The call...

 The call

She:

A cold blustery morning in Darwin. Mid June.  The temperature outside was freezingly cold.  Visibility was down to a few hundred feet.  The legendary crocs that supposedly considered every residents back yard as their own, had disappeared. 

Just a few night owls hooted in protest of the weather.  No sound of crickets or the frogs- sounds that always were a ‘given’ and a source of comfort for her.  Their daughter was fast asleep.  Her husband off on another one of his overseas assignments. 

She sat alone. 

Alone .

In the glow of a simple tungsten lamp.

 Her warm night clothes covered by an even warmer blanket. 

The tears she had shed threatened to become mini icicles on her face.  She stared. . .  blankly, at the picture in front of her. 

On her book shelf.  

A family portrait.  Taken in India when Jim and she had visited Amma and Appa.  Jim in an awkwardly tied veshti, the rest of them looking dapper in traditional clothes.  

Appa looked the best.  Confident.  Fit and smiling like he had just won the lottery. 

He

At seven in the evening it was still a blistering 29.5 degrees.  That’s how it was in summers in Betul.  – in the heart of India.  Deep in the forest, he sat in a small mud house. 

No electricity.  

No running water. 

No nothing.  

Except the pleasure he derived from working with rural folks on his avowed mission of taking education to those who didn’t know a school from a ‘Daaru Khaana’. 

The village boasted one phone . . . 

 that worked on occasion.

The occasion being when the so called post man was not drunk. 

Today he was. But his hut was next door, so he was not worried.  An owl hooted somewhere in the surrounding forest. As if in reply a fox howled and crickets and frogs chirped and chortled, bit players in a forest symphony. 

He heard none of it.  He didn’t smell the first drops of the summer shower or see the fire flies dancing to the forest’s tune.  He sat. . .  his ears attuned, awaiting the sound of a telephone to ring next door

He and she

The telephone had rung 4 hours before.  

She

“Akka” said her parents’ neighbour , the voice disembodied and rendered lifeless by poor electronics. “ Appa has had a stroke.  They have rushed him to hospital.  They need to operate immediately.  Can you come ? We are all afraid.  Amma is under sedation.  There is no one else here.  

He

“ Beta . . . . .  Baadhai ho! . . . . . meri beti. . ..   that is to say, also your wife is  in labour.  . 

Gone to ispithal.  With your saasu  -that is to say my wife . . . Cheers beta. . .  get on an aeroplane . . . jhaldi. .  I am soon to become Dadu  . . .  cheers .  They are saying some Caesar- veesar. . . .  I am said  aree king he tho tha Caesar”

Chaggan lalji. . .  Father in law -12th pass. 

She

“No flights possible in such a short time Maam”. 

He

“Nathing sir .  Koi possibility nahi hai “

He /  she

So they waited.  Waited for the phone to ring.  Below and  above the equator, strangely conjoined  by the conundrum that is life.  

She

The  night was silent. Not a single sound.  None at all.  Not even the ticking of their clock. In her head she could hear Appa’s laughter.  . .  like she had all her life.  

He

The fireflies had stopped their ballet. The symphony took on a new vigor. He heard nothing. . . . . 

Just her voice saying-“ Be there na, when we have our first baby. “ 

She

A storm suddenly hit .  Rain.  Hail.  Wind.  Little plants tried their best to hide  . . .  Away from its devastating force. 

He

The summer rain was a welcome relief.  Little seedlings struggled to push the mud away from their heads . . . and feel the rain.  

She/ He

They waited.  Worlds apart.  One fearing death. . . . . .  one fearing the balance between life and death. 

Both waited for the phone to ring.  

And then. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the phone rang. 

Sorry... Wrong number.

  

It started with a phone call. Late one night. Eyes heavy with sleep, I stumbled across to the phone in my living room. Who could be calling at this hour?

 “ Hello”, I said. It was a feminine voice that answered,” Could I speak to Piyaratna please?”

A wrong number, this late in the night! Trying to keep the irritation out of my voice I told her as much. Then she surprised me. Shook me out of my sleep.' Please don't cut the line', she said. All I could manage was a mumble. 'You have a lovely voice', she said. I had been told that before. Many times. After all I am an announcer and my voice reaches out to you everyday, selling soaps, mobile phones, fairness creams and dreams.' It is so calm', she continued, 'almost like a caress. You know, it makes me feel secure. Would you mind if I just spoke to you for a few minutes?' I started to say how strange the whole thing was when she cut in, ' I know its late and you are probably wondering who I am, what this is all about and such. Please! Will you just listen to me? I need to speak to someone. I have nobody to turn to.' I must have hesitated for a second before saying yes.

She did not tell me her name nor ask for mine. We were just disembodied voices on opposite ends of a telephone line. She lived in Colombo. A married woman, she was a victim of marital abuse. A husband who drank too much and spent far too much time at work. Suspicious about her every social contact, he kept her away from his friends and encouraged her not to have any.

She was young and in need of a shoulder to cry on, even if it was a stranger on a wrong number. And cry she did. Now I am no macho male who sits through Titanic and burps as Jack slips into an icy grave… I carry a sizeable hanky or a packet of tissues. The sight of a woman crying does something to my heart and I am overwhelmed by a deep sense of compassion and concern. Just listening to her cry filled me with a deep sense of concern and anger. What kind of a brute would treat his wife with such cruelty? Animals like him should be put away, 

I thought. I didn't say as much, after all you can't sit in judgment over a stranger's husband. I hardly knew this person. She was just a voice, albeit a voice that I was slowly beginning to like. The lilting Sri Lankan accent, the occasional Sinhala word creeping into the conversation… yes! I was enjoying speaking to her.

We must have spoken for over an hour before she said she had to go. I didn't ask for her number and she didn't ask for mine. In an instant she was gone. I stood there cradling the receiver in my hand lost in thought. I needed a drink.

Now, I am a married man and this had got me very confused. Should I tell my wife about this mystery caller? No, I thought, this was just a random incident. Why trouble her with the details…and she was fast asleep in her bedroom in any case. Nursing my drink, I walked back to the living room. 

The next day was a nightmare. I found myself distracted and preoccupied. I couldn't seem to get the mystery caller out of my thoughts. I wondered what she might be doing, how lonely she must be, cooped up in her house. Alone, with nobody to speak to or even call. Alone, in her own bedroom which must seem like a prison to her.

I decided to leave early from work. Sitting in the office was getting me nowhere. I found myself heading to my favourite watering hole. A dimly lit bar near my office. I am no alcoholic, but I like my liquor. And I needed a drink now more than ever. How else could I get her out of my mind? The minutes merged into hours. The pegs accumulated into a bottle…and she didn't go away.

I stumbled home to an icy reception from my wife. She didn't speak a word to me, but then she doesn't often speak… not when she sees me in this state. A shower and a quick meal later I crept into bed. Try as I might, I couldn't sleep. So, I tiptoed back to the living room, poured myself a nightcap and found myself hovering around the telephone. Willing it to ring.

Then… it rang! It took all my strength to keep myself from lunging at it. I let it ring for a while before picking it up. It was her. 

We spoke late into the night. I knew I was falling in love with her. Was it the voice? The vulnerability in her?  Was it pity…I will never know. All I knew was that she meant something special to me. I was the only friend she had. Her only outlet, and yet I was just a voice. She wouldn't tell me her name and she didn't want to know mine. Its better that way, 

she said. I asked her for her number and she refused. She was too scared of her husband…what if he picked up the phone…her phone, which never ever rang. I hated him even more…a brute that gave his wife a separate phone and then never allowed her to entertain any calls. What torture. I found myself wondering if he was human.

We spoke everyday…late at night. My thoughts were filled with her. I found myself giving her a name…Damayanti. A princess from ancient Indian mythology. Damayanti, who urged the clouds to be her messengers and carry her love to her lover. My princess used the telephone lines.

I even painted a mental picture of her. Petite, with traditional features, she had long hair. Her eyes were gentle and compassionate with a hint of vulnerability. Like the eyes of a doe, big and beautiful. She was dusky and never wore western garments…the kind that flaunted her figure and attracted the eyes of strangers. She was soft and demure, probably been educated in an all girls' school. She was everything I ever wanted in a woman.

We spoke to each other for nearly 6 months. Then one night as I sat speaking to her, a drink in my hand, she gave in. After months of coaxing and cajoling she agreed to give me her number. She was fed up of living the life of a prisoner, she said, and talking to me had finally given her the strength to move out of her marriage. I could have danced for joy. Once I had her number, I could easily trace her address…and finally lay my eyes on the woman of my dreams.

'Hello…Hello…did you get that', she said.

'Huh?'… I had been dreaming. There was so much to dream about now. 

'Are you taking this down', she said.

I had sat 6 months with a pen and a scrap of paper next to the phone and now, finally, I could put it to use.

'525669.'

The world began to spin in front of my eyes…. and it wasn't the liquor. Not a sound escaped my lips. It was as if all my senses had ceased to function and a scream echoed endlessly within my head.

Hello…Hello… I could hear her on the other end.

525669…it was my wife's private number.

Nines and Sixes

Grey. The only word that could describe this office. Its grey walls covered with the graffiti left by generations of spiders and their annually dusted cobwebs. The windows were a showcase of various types of patterned glass, each pane replaced, when the broken glass could no longer be held up by hastily pasted newspapers, by the lowest bidder. The faded images of gods and goddesses interspersed those of actresses from bygone times, staring with their plastic grins and outdated hairstyles from calendars. Files stood on every desk like mini skyscrapers. The petitions and lives of thousands of people lay buried somewhere in its dusty folds. At the end of this long hall, to the left, in a corner, under the wash of its single rickety ‘Usha’ fan lay the domain of Raaghavan.

R. Raghavan. B.Com. Accountant. The little wooden board on his overcrowded desk proclaimed. Placed in such a way, that no visitor could ever miss reading it. On the desk a large glass sheet held down all that was dear in Raghavan’s life. A dozen different pictures of gods and goddesses, a picture of his 3 year old son, random visiting cards, a list of important phone numbers and the train schedule from 6 months ago.

At precisely 9.34 am, Raghavan would set his ‘tiffin’ carrier to the right of his chair, his small imitation leather briefcase to the left and say his prayers, before the tiny mob of his admirers fought for his time. The first twenty or so minutes of his time would be spent going through office papers and pending files, at least the more recent ones, and then as he sipped on his tea he would listen to the problems of others. This is not to be mistaken with the problems within the office. Raghavan never bothered himself with that; there were unions to do that. The people who poured out their problems to him were colleagues (a few of them), strangers, (referred to him by word of mouth), and just about anybody else. He would listen, occasionally scribbling strange numbers onto a sheet of office stationery. Scratching his immaculately ‘pomenaded’ hair he would then offer his advise. “Add another R to your name… things will be fine”. “What is your vehicle number... aha! Terrible, very unlucky. The total is 6… enemy of your birth number. First…sell it then you will see improvement”.

Raghavan's first love in life was numbers. Numerology.

Born into a family of 9 siblings, Raghavan was the youngest. His mother, tired of bearing and rearing children, hardly had time for the eager little
number cruncher. His sisters brought him up. Despite his love for numbers, Raghavan was never a bright boy. Barely managing to scrape through his SSLC exams, his fathers influence was the only reason he got a seat in the prestigious Theyagaraya College. Of course, the fact that his father was a member of the board of trustees helped too.


His father was the first qualified Chartered Accountant in the city, some said in South India, but no one was really sure… and as long as no proof to the contrary came forth, so the legend remained.” At least one of my sons should continue my practise after my time…and you are the only rascal yet to finish your studies”, his father often said.
It took him 4 years to finish his 3 year degree program. Then it was time to study to be a chartered accountant. While Raghavan loved numbers, he could never really fathom the mysteries of accounts. Credit, debit, Malthus, supply, demand, trial balance… it was not his world. Numbers, pure and simple, were his loves. Nothing more complicated than addition and subtraction.

That’s when he discovered number plates. Those characterless little boards that are a vehicles identity. He never saw vehicles, he only saw numbers. “Akka, today, on the way back, this MRA 7841, nearly knocked down TNA 7732. luckily TNR 8145 moved forward… otherwise…avalovuthan. Periya accident!”

“Sir, big traffic jam sir. TNU 7347 tried to make an illegal U turn, but got stopped by oncoming traffic, mainly TNB 1987. In the meantime this ORG 347, Orissa, tried to get through the gap…but TMR 4065 was also trying. That’s it… big mess… that’s why I am late sir.”

Life inched along in an endless traffic jam of number plates and numbers.
9 attempts at the Inter C.A exam and he still was unable to get through. Each brother stepped in to try and help him get through.

“Come to Ooty, to the estates, nothing to disturb or distract you there”, the eldest said. Attempt number 10.

“Military discipline. There is nothing better.” Attempt number 11.

“Muttaal. That’s what you are. How were you born as my son?” his father said.

‘Get him married. That will teach him some responsibility…then he will surely pass”, said his mother.

There it was the solution to end all solutions. Marriage. 15th December… perfect, total of the numbers 9.

Soon after, he got a job…the attempts stopped. He discovered numerology. Jayshankar was born. He got a promotion. Just one… and his fame within the office seeped out through its rickety windows and leaky tiles to the world outside. Well perhaps that’s an exaggeration… for it reached the ears of just a few.




For Raghavan, the number 9 was the mother of all numbers. It is magical he would say. Add 9 to any number… add the digits and you will get the original number… go ahead try it...9 + 7 equals 16… add 1 and 6… there, you see 7. Multiply 9 into any number… same result. Why? Why are there 9 planets? Navarasas? Navadhanyam? Why… because it is magic. The purifier. The cleanser. Why do you think I am this lucky in life… because I am the 9th child in my family… what greater proof do you need?”

Nobody thought about asking him what was so lucky about the life of a low level accountant who eked out a living in a decrepit government office. Nobody wondered why this self proclaimed numerologist never got his numbers right and transformed his life to one filled with fame, fortune and recognition. But that’s the way it is. People often spend hours listening to sage advice handed out by a bird carrying gypsy. A grain of rice dropped at the right time… the picture of one of the gods from the 33 crore that we can choose from… and suddenly the gypsy knows everything about your life. How generous and talented you are. Why nobody ever understands the real you. How you have been going through a rough patch… but now things are going to change. Just pay a tiny little sum of 501 rupees… a special prayer and a talisman will transform your life. Fifteen minutes later it’s someone else. The same bird… another grain of rice… a different picture… the same story. Yet, nobody asks the bird man why he doesn’t do the same for himself? Say a special prayer, grab a talisman… and become a columnist in some weekly magazine and hold forth on television on the fate, lives, loves and fortunes of a billion different people unified under some dubious moon sign or sun sign or tarot sign… or parrot picture!

But that’s life… and for Raghavan life was all about 9. When he bought himself a small motorcycle, he paid an extra little ‘something’, to ensure that the numbers and letters added up to 9. TNZ 5475.

It’s difficult to imagine that Raghavan ever had an enemy. Such a nondescript life never attracted the attention of anybody. Not even the proverbial evil eye. But Raghavan did have a self proclaimed enemy. The number - 6. “Saathaan”, he would say,” Terrible number. Never trust someone who is born on 6th. Life number or birth number adds up to 6…don’t even let his shadow fall on you.”

It was a strange obsession. Raghavan would never travel in a vehicle whose numbers added up to 6. If a six featured in the digits and the total was not 6, and if he had no choice but to travel in it… he would do so with a prayer on his lips all through the trip. Berth number 42 on the train, the bogey number adds up to 6; train number adds up to 6… Raghavan would not travel. Life for his beleaguered wife was a procession of cancelled journeys and hours standing in the ladies queue at the booking office…but she never complained. Good, Brahmin wives of government accountants, never complain. But they do have doubts… and that’s what prompted her to ask Raghavan a pertinent question. After all she had passed her SSLC exams and knew a thing or two about numbers. Running the house on just 2675 rupees was an exercise in mathematical artistry.

So she said, “But Anna, three sixes add up to 9…isn’t that good?” “How did Ravana fool Sita?” he said. “He came in disguise. What disguise? A Sadhu. A pious religious man. That’s what this is… evil trying to disguise itself. But it could only fool Sita, and it will fool you… because you are a woman. Me… no way. I can see through the disguise.” Being compared to Sita, the so called epitome of womanhood and the role model for all Indian wives was compliment enough for Mrs. Raghavan. She never brought up the topic of numbers ever again.

Life moved on in a blur of 9’s and 6’s. The spiders worked on their graffiti. The files piled up. The tea vendor changed… the insipid tea did not. The fan creaked to a halt one day unable to cut through the stagnant summer air on its twice rewound motor. Three newspaper window panes were changed. 78 more people received Raghavan's advice. The government changed because of 18 seats lost. 6 more employees crowded in. Then one day, Raghavan did not come to work. No leave letter. Nothing.

In a grey world of conformity and routine, one change can spell a disaster. As the office tried to understand the reason for this deviation from routine, 3 of the new government appointees strolled in.

‘Terrible accident no da?’
‘Aal out, surely, on the spot.’
‘These bus fellows must be shot. Did you see the state of that motorcycle?’
‘TNZ 5475? Yes…and not a scratch on the bus TNQ 6066.’

And then they knew.
The numbers added up. Perhaps Raghavan was right.


AJS=1 BKT=2 CLU=3 DMV=4 ENW=5 FOX=6 GPY=7 HQZ=8 IR=9