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The edge of the oil-bud stood straight and naked. It exhibited it's own physiological movements, very rigid, but still mobile in it's own definition. It danced to the tunes of the humming wind very professionally amidst the lake of thick sesame oil that imprisoned it substantially, and threw a thin margin of silhouette across the rosewood stand that guarded and enhanced the aristocracy from behind. As time advanced, the fading rays of the drowning sun shed an obscure shadow of the oil-bud that swam all across right from the throat of it, onto the mask of the rosewood stand. The imperialism was short-lived when a sharp jet of flare awakened the hour of dusk and kindled life into the bud that followed with a train of smoke disappearing gradually from behind. "Yet another day without power. I had enough of this for the last two months" yelled Mrs. Patel, covering the bud with a classy-transparent body. The oil-bud seemed re-kindled casting a lurid reddish-yellow flame that dazzled the darkness and competed with Mrs. Patel's annoyed gestures, each boasting in their own way when it came to a metaphorical expression of heated frustration. "Being the landlord of the town, aren't you embarrassed to keep the whole town with these nasty power-cuts," continued Mrs. Patel. "Let alone the town, being the landlord what difference does it make between you and the town simpletons. The whole town laughs at us. When will you improve?" She shouted with an intensifying and strong air of despair that shook the rhythmic movements of the smoke jetting out of the oval-orifice on top of the landra. Mr. Patel was disturbed mentally; but his outlook seemed serene. He continued puffing the so-called famous ganesh-beedi. He didn't let his distraction bounce and tried his best to remain in the meditating world of beedis. Riya's words flowed like a river between his ears, no bridges, and no crocodiles. Very few people believed that Patel was a smart man; and of the few, the majority were pseudo- lickers of Patel's bread. But being a man of conviction himself, Mr. Patel vowed within himself that the embarrassment be short-lived. He threw the last bit of tobacco out through the window, stared at the sky and gradually sunk in deep thought. His fingers kept swaying all over his thin chin, stroking the white beard from left to right and from all the way up to his sharp mustache. It reminded of his awesome efforts in controlling the power-cut every evening, over the whole town. He brooded over the situation and felt helpless in his subsequent requests with the municipal. His attempts in requesting the municipal were seen futile and fruitless. He knew well about the municipal, perhaps more than anyone did in the whole neighborhood. He never breathed a word at home about his efforts in bringing light into the matter. His thoughts wandered deep into the predicament, when he was disturbed by the pandemonium of an empty copper-vessel rolling out of the kitchen entrance- "Meoww!" and out sprang a black kitten and threw itself out of the kitchen exhaust outlet. "Can't you take care of the kitchen at least for a few minutes in a day?" out came Riya's voice piercing through the veranda and finally flowing out the usual way, very conventionally. "It's high time you progressed and showed up some signs of improvement," she continued. "Watch out the night-flies before they eat you up; And before you forget, please lock the passage door and set the tap right in the bathroom - it's leaking for the last six days. The newspapers are being piled for the last two months; it's time you showed a way. Did you hear? And for God's sake do something good before the day ends! Earning money doesn't complete the qualities of either a husband or a landlord" Mr. Patel was reaching his saturation. He kept looking through the window all the way till the highway. It was a vivacious scenario - Multicolored lights flashing here and there, landras shooting from every corner, the town spokesmen carrying lighted flares, bicycle dynamos working over the repair shops, bullock-carts rampaging with gas-lights hung within the ceiling, diyas lit across the compounds and over the rangoli - stamped pavements, orange and yellow lanterns hanging out of the entrance-roofs, ghastly shadows and silhouettes playing and swinging from every corner of the lane and a considerable hullabaloo by the market vendors added all the flavor a market square could boast of. To Mr. Patel, the whole town seemed to accept this semi-darkness as a part of its life. Though the upper class created enough room for complaints, nevertheless life seemed unruffled to Patel. "The whole town seems ok, except my Riya," concluded Mr. Patel silently within himself. He dared not to breathe it loudly and warned himself hundred and one times to remain silent. "Here, have the ragi roti. And here's the coconut milk" Riya said, placing the dinner on a copper plate. Mr. Patel could get a glimpse of Riya when she bent down to place the food. He could observe the red thilaikam flowing like a queen on her wide forehead, the yellow sandalwood paste smeared on her bubbly cheeks, the aroma of the jasmine flowers hanging around from the back of her mask all the way onto her shoulders, the kajal streaming on the borders of her fish-shaped eyelids and the lotus like face gleaming vibrantly in the semi-light cast by the hissing landra. "If only she smiled, it would have completed my definition of beauty," shrieked Patel within himself. Mr. Patel got up without a word, put on his karts-wool shirt, tucked up his white dhoti, set his turban right, picked up the umbrella and burst "Close the door and stay indoors. I shall be back before the Gurkha patrols". "You didn't have your roti. What are you up to at this hour? You haven't even locked the passage door!" but it was too late; Mr. Patel had already decided on something very gravely; he yelled back "I need to be more political" and slammed the door without a message of completion. The moon seemed smiling in the soft ocean of the velvet bed and the town seemed perfectly blissful to the eyes of Mr. Patel. He was heading to one Mr. Chiragh, a major hand and seat in the municipal affairs and high-state government. Mr. Patel knew the so-called well being of Chiragh and the sly powers he shared at the higher authority. He was not really in good touch with Chiragh, nevertheless his conviction and a change in his attitude pulled him all the way up the neighboring town. As he advanced in close proximity, he could visualize from a little distance, a shrewd man (presumably), clad with a checkered-towel over his shoulders and just a lungi protecting him as a part of his bare necessities. He could add to his observation a credible view of a major part of his large belly and the tunes of a traditional melody flowing out of him, completing the essence of an ecstatic soul. To Mr. Patel, he seemed with incredible contentment, feeling the quite air around him, chewing paan and lost in his own world. Mr. Patel felt an air of relief recognizing it was none other than Mr. Chiragh resting on the pyol after a good day's dinner. On the other side of the moon, Chiragh could recognize the movements of Mr. Patel and was an advanced thinker when it came to political affairs. His scholarly in Max Muller, Plato and Arabindo Gosh, his wisdom in Artha Shasthra and his passion for in-depth professionalism in Chadhuranga made him a complete man in his business. He was skilled in spinning the dice and using the manure. He was aware of the ratio and the degree of his potential. The squirmy body movements of Mr. Patel, his gestures reflecting agitation, his shirt unbuttoned at the top (which presumably looked like worn in a haste), his slippers interchanged on his foot and his holding the umbrella topsy-turvy were Chiragh's immediate and prudent allegations; and his arrival at the most odd hour, added fuel to his contentions. "Greetings! There you are, after a long time" sighed Chiragh and continued "What's the matter with you? Hope Riya is….". Mr. Patel was in no mood for a casual chat. He requested Chiragh for a private talk. "You may proceed" exclaimed Chiragh and had already realized and calculated the intensity of booty that awaited him at the end of the next hour. His mathematics and business rules inside were, as complicated and sophisticated, as simplicity seemed outside him. His mastery in the profession had a strong bearing on his self-confidence and personal outlook. "Relax!" he continued, "we have all the time to share". Mr. Patel paused for a while and elucidated the intricacies that prevailed. He put forth Riya as a major cause for his consternation and sported a polished outlook on himself. He was not shrewd enough to understand that Chiragh was a mile ahead when it came to psychological flow of thoughts. Even as Mr. Patel could express his frustration, Chiragh didn't involve himself in anything more than observing the rapid-eye movements of Mr. Patel and formulated the solution for himself. His could get the substance of essence in a minute and rolled the dice mentally. After a few minutes, Chiragh abruptly ended the discussion and invited Mr. Patel to join him at his private balcony. They exchanged gestures under the moon, simplified the negotiation and narrowed down to holding their fingers under the checkered-towel of Chiragh. Mr. Patel unfolded three fingers with his right hand and stroked Chiragh's rough palm with them. Chiragh shook his thumb rigidly on his palm, patted Mr. Patel's right hand and held his thumb with his five fingers. Mr. Patel looked at the sky and shook his head with a sign of negation, which Chiragh presumably expected. They rolled the gestures for a couple of minutes and settled for a four. It's believed only angels knew what four defined between them. Mr. Patel offered a bundle and demanded a promise with a note of assertion. He signed the discussion with an awesome responsibility on Chiragh's shoulders. Chiragh instantly re-rolled the dice within himself, looked at the sky, turned sideways briskly, put his hands on Mr. Patel's shoulders and dragged him to a corner. He whispered in his ears "Two would do for now. The rest, you may materialize once it's through. Wish you good luck". Mr. Patel was elated and thanked a million. Not long before the Gurkha's siren alarmed, Mr. Patel had already made his way home. He assumed for himself that he had never felt so tranquilized like this before and retired to his bed. He prayed God for a peaceful dream and dissolved into the semiconscious world. The next evening blew and there was an air of transformation into Mr. Patel's home. The lamps continued to glow even after six. For a moment, Riya and Mr. Patel went unnoticed of the fact that the power-cut never showed-up until seven in the evening. The gramophone continued to play the Hindustani music and the ceiling fan squealed the usual. "It's already dark outside; I can't believe it" Mr. Patel broke with sheer excitement. Riya showed a restless grin on her face; Mr. Patel enjoyed it stealthily. He had never seen that divine smile on Riya in the last eight weeks. "What a beautiful woman she is; after all she is my wife!" he murmured within himself. He closed his eyes and smiled like a child within himself with absolute ecstasy. "It's time I cleared the other half" he screamed elated. On the contrary, the city seemed appalling outside. "Hey! Watch out the sahukar's house. It's still glowing while the whole town is in darkness," a street urchin bellowed. The so-assumed ill-news spread like yellow fever and not before an hour the town committees gathered and swapped agitation, frustration and amazement. The women passed grimy gestures between neighbors and some even started to curse the whole town by itself. A couple of vendors clogged their business for the day and sealed their paraphernalia, deciding to demand an explanation. A fleet of hooting jutkas ceased to continue and ended up forming sub-groups. There was enough chaos generated in the air and abuses bowled over the sahukar's family. A little boy pelt a well-sized granite stone onto the electric bulb hung outside the ceiling of the veranda of Mr. Patel's house, and his father patted and cheered his six-year-old son. "Here take another!" said he pointing to a bigger pebble this time. Mr. Patel was taken for a shock and shouted with despair "Riya! Close all the windows and shut the kitchen exhaust. I'll take care of the passage door". It was not long before Chiragh's jawan passed the news to him. "I expected this almost twenty hours ago" smiled Chiragh and ended up laughing to his hearts content. He muttered a message into his jawan and in no time the police came into the town and controlled the commotion. For some reason the police knew the cause for the turmoil. "We'll solve the problem soon. Bear with us till eight, tomorrow evening" shouted the senior and continued, "please resume your activities and leave the rest to us". The crowd cleared gradually and the jutkas resumed. The sub-groups parted reluctantly and stood aside for a while. A vendor shouted from a corner and addressed the senior police "If you play smart, your wife will be taken for a ride" and before the police could backfire him, the vendor had made his way disappearing across the meadows. Subsequently, a couple of others accused the police on similar lines and departed the market Square. Some others ended up passing unethical gestures at Mr. Patel who was peering through the window-slit, and made their way home. Riya and Mr. Patel sighed a huge wave of breath and opened the windows one by one vigilantly. "You better stay indoors till eight evening, tomorrow" exhaled Riya with an essence of fear within. "I should speak to Chiragh; I don't know when…" said Mr. Patel sweating profusely. "…The whole town seemed so blissful and ecstatic until they saw the electricity budding into my home" he ended cursing the whole town. A couple of hours later, someone tapped the door and before Mr. Patel could even think of who it could be, a hand slid from the side of the window sill and slipped a piece of card paper. The stranger shouted "Telegram!!" and vanished into thin air. "Telegram at this hour?" exclaimed Mr. Patel and before he could even get a glimpse of who popped in, the stranger had made his way into the jutka. "Patel, my friend! I'm on a vacation to Rajasthan. So don't bother to disturb me for the next few weeks" read the telegram and Mr. Patel observed an obscure signature at the bottom of the card paper. It was not too far for him to understand that none other than Chiragh had signed and telegrammed it. "The sly!" shouted Mr. Patel and cursed the day. The next evening set the whole town into anxiety. The town people had gathered outside and had already set their moods in anticipation of what could possibly happen. The vendors grouped and chatted in their local language and abused the municipal between them. The street urchins were least bothered and left the decision to God. "I hope the police sets the things right and brings in harmony to the entire town" somebody shouted from within a jutka. "I heard that Chiragh bore a strong cause on this with the municipal" an elderly man expressed at which a lorry driver joined the fray and announced "I am not sure of that; but my neighbor's wife said that he has left to Rajasthan for a vacation…". A woman from the neighboring group shouted back, "Don't spread rumors unless you know the truth". A few tens of minutes ticked by and people were anxious to know what would the municipal decision be. The whole town was exchanging unhealthy gossips and many women kept pointing at Mr. Patel's house which was the only house burning with electricity. Mr. Patel's house glowed with resplendence amidst the semi-darkness and a considerable din prevailed in front of his house too. A majority of the density was seen thronging all over in front of Mr. Patel's house. "I hope the municipal and police come out with a wise decision" somebody commented in the darkness and another woman yelled back "Will you all keep your mouths shut and wait for the hour of judgment". The whole neighborhood kept looking through their watches while Mr. Patel and Riya shared the thin panoramic view from their window slit. "Watch out the devils peering through the window" a street urchin observed and the popular little boy picked up a pebble again. "Not this time son" his father warned him and brought him under control. The whole town realized it was nearing eight. "I don't see any justice till now" a vendor outburst. Minutes ticked by and something sounded that the police were keen in bringing out a solution. Both men and women believed that the decision is going to be positive as the whole town was involved this time. The clock almost neared eight and the whole town was in sheer anxiety including Mr. Patel. Half the strength had almost lost their hopes while the other half either exchanged gossips or accused Mr. Patel staring at his brightly lit house. There were just five minutes left and all of a sudden, the town grew darker. It seemed worse than before and all sorts of comments rained across the streets. The chaos and abuses were short lived before somebody spread the news that it was justified in a way. A major surging crowd pierced into the matter and realized that Mr. Patel's house too ended sharing the common. "This is no justice!" shouted a few. "The police needs to be threatened!" shouted a few others. But the majority realized that justice was on it's own way and it was not different from what they shared before. Some woman even passed a comment "At last! Mr. Patel's house is in dark too" and most seemed to accept the thought within, though didn't express it outwardly. It acted as a tonic of consolation and gradually silenced the whole town. Some cursed for the disappointment, but realized that the police were in a way right in justifying the issue. The town gradually resumed the convention. The oil-bud was reborn, and the town people came to their original thoughts. Mr. Patel though unsuccessful in his venture, felt a sign of change with Riya. He observed that Riya never remarked on the power-cut anymore; he enjoyed the silence within him. A couple of months later Mr. Patel bumped into Chiragh who was hooting away on a jutka towards the highway. "Hey Chiragh! You son of a pig; how can you do such a nasty thing? You never solved the predicament, you scoundrel. And what did you do with that booty of two" he shouted and charged Chiragh running behind the Jutka. "I did my best Mr. Patel. Didn't you have power the next day? That is all I could do my friend; and remember! I was a respectful man, I settled for two and not four" replied Chiragh. "And what the hell did you do with that two? I need them back" yelled Mr. Patel, panting and running behind the jutka. "One, I gave it to my business-pimp for setting things right. That's why you could get the power the very next day" shouted back Chiragh. "And what about the other??" gasped Mr. Patel slowing down his pace, realizing that he cannot run any more. "I offered it to lord Siva" came the soft reply out of the jutka that gradually faded into the highway and disappeared out of the town. GLOSSARY:
Artha Shasthra: A famous work on politics and society written by a popular Indian scholar/leader Chanakya
Beedi: A tobacco-rolled cylindrical casing of leaves
Diya: Tiny clay/copper-pots filled with oil and a light bud in one corner.
Chadhuranga: The original and Sanskrit name of Chess
Gurkha: Night watchmen, originated from Nepal
Hindustani: Indian classical music
Jawan: Assistant or a servant
Jutka: Horse-chariots generally used for local conveyance
Kajal: A black paste of herbs applied over the borders of the eyelids to enhance the beauty of a woman
Landra: Hissing Gaslight with an oil medium and glass covering
Lungi: A single piece of cotton garment worn over the lower part of the body as a part of the nightdress
Paan: A mouth-freshener made of beetle nuts and leaves, sodium solution dipped in mint, concentrated rose-nectar and sugarcoated fennel seeds. Generally chewed after lunch/dinner and is believed to facilitate digestion
Pyol: A piece of granite/wooden seating in front of the house, generally for relaxing
Ragi roti: A roasted pancake-bread prepared from Ragi (cereal)
Rangoli: A classical pattern laid using multicolored chalk-solution in front of the houses, which is believed to bring harmony to home. A traditional Indian practice
Thilaikam: A paste of vermilion smeared on the forehead. A traditional practice in India, which signifies one of the qualities of a wife
Sahukar: Literally means "A rich soul". In the context put forth, the street urchin refers to the landlord
Siva: A popular Hindu God
Veranda: A passage that every house starts with, dividing between the entrance and the main hall
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