The Ballad of Thief and the Priest

The thief came in the dead of night,

When lamps were burning low,

He moved as softly as a thought

Afraid the dark might know.

He searched for gold, for silver bright,

For things the rich might keep,

But found an open holy book

While all the house did sleep.

Its page lay bare, and there he read

A truth both grave and plain:

Do right for right, not hope of gain;

Be true when none remain.

The unseen act reveals the soul,

Not praise, nor fear, nor pain.

The thief stood still; the night stood still;

His restless breath grew tight.

The priest awoke with sudden fire

And cursed the thief in sight.

“Why crawl like rats through holy doors?”

The angry priest then cried.

“Your hands are stained, your soul is dark,

Your path is built on lies.”

“I came to steal,” the thief replied,

“My hunger led my feet.”

The priest struck words like blows and said,

“Your sin is base and cheap.

Walk straight, speak truth, fear God alone,

Leave theft and crooked ways.

The righteous need no hidden acts,

Their lives are clear as day.”

“I own no wealth,” the priest went on,

With sharp and narrowed eye,

“No gold defiles this sacred house—

Here, even want is dry.”

The thief believed the bitter words

And bowed his lowered head.

“I will not steal,” the thief replied,

“I’ll live the truth instead.”

He left the house with empty hands,

The verse his only gain,

And carried it through hunger, cold,

Through dust and falling rain.

The door stood open to the night

A little while too long.

The lamp burned low; the house held still,

As if it sensed a wrong.

The priest sat upright on his bed,

The dark still in his eyes.

The words he’d hurled like stones at sin

Now circled him like lies.

The book lay open where it was,

Its page unchanged, unmoved.

The truth it asked of any man

Had not been disapproved.

He rose and checked the silent rooms,

Each lock, each careful door,

His fingers knew the hidden paths

They’d learned so well before.

Behind the wall, beneath the stair,

The gold lay safe and sound.

He touched it once, then turned away,

Yet stayed within its ground.

The night did not accuse his hands.

No voice called out his name.

The scripture did not close itself

In protest or in shame.

Outside, the thief walked through the rain

With nothing but a choice.

The verse moved softly in his chest,

A small but steady voice.

Two lives went on before the dawn,

No balance struck, no sign—

One kept his wealth and lost his words,

One kept the words, not coin.

At dawn, the book lay open still.

Its page had not been turned.

The words were there for any hand—

Unkept, unread, unearned.

Where You are

The wind is my friend—

it dances beneath the sky,

and on days when I’m lazy

it kisses my cheeks

with its cold, playful lips.

And the rain, like a distant friend,

returns for a few months,

and unlike the wind

that brushes only my skin,

the rain loves me whole.

Under the dim lights of the ghats,

the river hums its song.

I listen with sand between my toes

while the moon keeps watch above.

A thousand colors of flowers are mine to see,

and the soft humming of birds

is mine to hear.

I walk freely—

the wind on my face,

the sun warm on my head.

A distant wedding plays its music,

threads of joy drifting through the air.

It is almost perfect…

yet I must return home,

away from the charm of all these things,

back to where you are.

Because even in the calm of nature,

in its beauty, in its peace—

I could give it all up for you in a single breath.

None of it makes sense without you.

I find you every morning

before I open my eyes,

just by stretching my hand

to the space where you should be—

and that simple act

is the happiest thing in my world.

For the wind, the rain, the river, the sun—

they are lovely.

But you are life itself.

Is It?

Is it love? As I was told ,

In the books that I read centuries old .

Is it the moon in the palm of my hands?

Or is it your face that I hold.

Is it heaven infront of me?

Or is it your sight that I behold.

Is it madness as I lose myself in you,

Or is it my Passion that i can't control.

 

Is it the union of two souls?

It is LOVE, As I was told.

YOU

The sights that this world hold,

And the beauty that nature unfold,

The songs that the birds sing,

The seasons- summer, winter or spring,

All of these are for us to behold,

As I've heard in the stories told,

Experience of this world makes a man wise,

Gradually one gains it and gradually one rise.

But I'm not an ordinary man, you see,

Your love, darling, has set me free,

And I don't care if it's false or true,

I dont need to see the world if I've seen you.

Because I've seen the world and that's YOU.

Remembrance

I think of a time when I'll be old,

Everyday sitting by the window pane,

I'll remember today if it rained,

And remember that I was once young and bold.

I observed you in silence while people approached you,

And told you stories some false some true,

But one man saw the soul in you,

And loved those moments that were loved by few.

Leaning across I will put my hands on your shoulder,

And say - What beautiful times, What beautiful scenes,

Or stare at the empty chair, 

Wondering - What could've it been?

The Ghost of Patpadganj

 ‘The boy is no more than 10 years old’,  I heard as I stepped on the platform of Patpadganj Station. It was a  chilly night in the small village of Patpadganj in Northern India.  A group of men was sitting on their toes, near the platform, surrounding a fire.  They had shawls over their shoulders and one could only notice their boney orange faces in the light of the fire.  I was the only one to deboard at the station. The platform was nearly empty except for a few dogs, who were roaming here and there, and those men who, for reasons unknown, were spending a chilly night at the platform.

The winter season in North India brings a halt to everything including transport services. The already late trains would run more late and every now and then flights would be canceled.  The Government would blame every delayed train on fogs and bad weather and the public would, just, somehow agree with their reasoning. I was a second-year student of Archaeology and an assignment from the university brought me to this secluded town of Patpadganj. My train was supposed to reach Patpadganj at 5:00 in the evening but it was 6 hours late and I reached Patpadganj at 11:00 clock in the night.

I was chilling in my expensive jacket while I noticed that those men were sitting with only a thin shawl around their shoulders casually talking to each other with their palms facing the fire. Who are these people? Aren’t they feeling cold? I asked myself as I rubbed my shoulders with my hands to produce some warmth. I had no clue where to spend the rest of the night. I didn’t know anyone in the village and the hope of finding a hotel or a place to stay in the village seemed unrealistic. I glanced left and right, up and down for no reason whatsoever, and decided to talk to these men. Maybe they were local people and could arrange a place for me to stay in the village, I thought. With a rucksack on my shoulder,  I walked towards them cupping my hands over my mouth blowing hot air, in an attempt to warm them.

‘It was all over the news.’, said one man to the other.

‘What was all over the news?’, I asked in an attempt to strike a conversation with them.

Those men gave me a chilling stare. They seemed offended, either by my interruption or my lack of knowledge on the subject. I felt goosebumps all over my body. A cold gush of wind hit my face and for some reason, I felt extremely vulnerable in presence of these men.

‘The boy. Haven’t you read the newspaper.’, said one man in a dead tone.

‘ What boy?’ I asked hesitatingly. I was a regular reader of the newspaper but I found it hard to recollect any mention of a boy in it.

‘The tea-boy of Patpadganj. He was no more than 10 years old.’, whispered one man. He adjusted himself, tucked his knees, and hugged them in his arms as he spoke,’ He used to sell tea, right here at this platform until he died. He got hit by a train. His ghost has returned to take revenge. A few people have seen him. Kyu be hariya, toye toh dekhe rahe oo ladke ka. Tell him.’, said the man to the one on his right.

The man on the right, Hariya spoke,’ Jay Bajrang Bali.’ as he folded his hands in a praying gesture. ‘Bajrang Bali saved me that day. I was returning from the Thakur’s field after a hard day’s work. I had earned well, that day, and I was just near the old guest-house when I saw that boy around the corner of the main road. I immediately recognized him and my legs froze in my place. I was terrified and I wanted to turn around and run as fast I could but I couldn’t move my feet. I was looking at him as he sailed and stopped a few inches in front of me. He lifted his glass holder and offered me tea. I was sweating profusely and chanting Hanuman Chalisa the whole time in my mind. I, hesitatingly, took a glass from the stand. He presented his other hand as if he was demanding payment for his tea. I didn’t know what to do so I hurriedly put my whole pagar in his hand. I knew I was going to die so I closed my eyes and waited for him to kill me but nothing happened. When I opened them after some time, the boy was gone;  he was nowhere to be found. There was no glass in my hand either.’

The man’s voice was shivering while narrating the incident. He seemed terrified.  An older man from the lot spoke ‘ maya aat-jaat rhi, jaan jahan hai’ (Money will come and go. Life is precious).

I was a little spooked too. I had always thought of myself as a man of reason, of science and there’s no space for ghosts and witches in science. Village people have a penchant for narrating extraordinary stories and they believe in anything and everything. If they say that they have seen a dragon in the skies blowing fire all over their village, would it become true? Definitely Not.  I should not believe them. I tried to console myself with these thoughts but they seemed to be working vaguely.

While I was immersed in my thoughts, the men put out the fire, stood from their places, and begin to walk towards the village, probably to their homes. I came back to my senses,  and noticing them walking away, shouted,’ Arey Bhaiya, Suno. Can I get any place to stay in the village for the night?’

‘Try the guest house’ one answered and pointed in the north with his hand. They all seemed to be in some kind of hurry. Soon, they disappeared behind the houses in the village and I was left alone at the station with some dogs who were looking at me curiously.

I had no other option so I decided to walk in the direction of the guest-house. After walking a mile, I guess, I saw a light coming from a small house. It must be the guest-house, I said to myself. I brisked my pace and reached there. There was no one present at the guest-house. I called Hello several times but to no avail. The Watchman or the caretaker would have gone somewhere, I thought. The door to the house was open and I decided to make myself comfortable inside. I decided that I would explain everything as soon as the guard would return. The room had a decent space. On one side was a properly made bed with quilts and pillows and the other side had a table with a jug of water and glass over it. The rest of the room was nearly empty.

I put my bag on the table and took off my shoes. I closed the door make the room warm. I was feeling cold so I decided to tuck myself in the quilt on the bed.  The warmth inside the quilt felt heavenly and since I was tired I didn’t know when I dozed off.

Suddenly, I was startled by the loud knock on the door. I, immediately, stood up and gazed at my wristwatch. It was 2:30 in the night.  ‘Who’s there at this hour? Must be the watchmen’ I thought and put on my shoes lazily and walked towards the door.

As I opened the door, I was shocked to my core to see the person who stood at my door. It was that tea-boy.  He was a frail boy, probably 8-9 years old and not more than 5 feet. He was wearing a thin white shirt and a half-pants. He did not lift his head to see me in the eyes but rather moved his eyeballs up to make contact with me. He had a tea-holder in his right hand. His face had a liitle dirt over it and he was shivering.  I was dumbstruck to see the ghost of the tea-boy. All my nightmares came true in one moment and all the science and scientific thoughts were thrown out of the window in another. I could not move.  I wanted to shut the door but instead,  I  froze at my place. The cold beads of sweat appeared on my forehead. The chilly breeze hit right on my face and I felt a lump in my stomach. I felt hollow. My mind was blank and I didn’t know what to do.

The boy lifts his right hand and offered me tea. I was too scared to make any movement. I feared that if I made any movement the boy would pounce upon me and probably kill me. The boy waited for a while but seeing no reaction moved his right hand a little bit more in my direction.  I had no option but to take the tea. With trembling hands, I took the tea glass. It was hot. The boy moved his left hand towards me as if he was demanding money. I immediately got hold off my wallet and took out whatever money I could get my hands on and put it in the boy’s hand. The expressionless boy turned and started moving away. In a flash, I closed the door and sunk down on the floor with hands over my head.  I couldn’t believe what just happened to me. I just sat there for a few minutes trying to grasp the situation. My heart was pounding inside my chest. I decided not to stay at this godforsaken place for any moment longer. I properly put on my shoes, took my bag, and left the guest house.

I was pacing myself towards the station. The temperature must have been 2 or 3 degrees but I wasn’t feeling it. My body was warm, my heartbeat was high and I was running towards the station. To hell with science and scientific studies; to hell with archaeology, I was cursing myself out of desperation. I had no control over what I was saying. I was blurting all sorts of stupid things. I just wanted to reach the station as fast I could.

As I turned right on the main road to continue my journey to the station  I noticed the boy again. The hollow feeling came back and the lump reappeared. The boy was on the far end of the road walking away from me. I decided to let the boy disappear and then continue my journey. To my surprise, the boy turned towards the left on the far end of the road, and in doing so he jumped in the puddle and splashed water all over himself.

The science and scientific thoughts came crashing back into my mind and logic took over. I decided to follow the boy and I ran towards the far end of the road. I followed the boy in several narrow lanes of the village until he reached its outskirts. There was a small hut nearby. The boy paced towards the hut and went inside. Through the narrow straws of the hut, I saw a woman embracing the boy with the palloo of her saree.

‘Mera raja beta’ she said lovingly. ‘He is so cold’ and she immediately put him inside a quilt and brought some fire near him.

‘You will kill home someday. He is freezing’ she said angrily to a man who was busy smoking a hookah.

‘ Nah, he is a tough kid.’ He said blowing a large puff in the air. The man was Hariya from the station.

He finished his hookah and went outside the hut. He came back in and said,

It’s almost 3. The passenger train comes at 3. I am going to the station.

He took his shawl and some money and paced towards the station. I followed him. He reached the station and moved to the spot where his group was waiting for him around a small fire. He distributed the money, he brought, among them. They silently put the money in their pockets.

I was noticing them from a distance. Soon, the passenger train arrived and a couple deboarded at the station.

The men adjusted themselves around the fire. Hariya in a loud voice started talking, ‘The boy is no more than 10 years old’.

The Adventures of Duggal Sahab

The Mr. Duggal or ‘Duggal Sahab’ of the ‘Kshatriya’ colony is the oldest person alive in the neighborhood. He used to work in the local post office in his youth. The children of the neighboring SDM colony were fascinated by his stories. He would tell them all sorts of extravagant stories about a headless ghost, scary pirates, lazy soldier, and a one-eyed dog. The children would come to sit on his porch every evening and on Sundays to listen to his stories. They believed them to be true. Duggal Sahab has a natural flair for telling stories and creating a scene. Children would be so engrossed in his stories that sometimes they would lose track of time and would only go home when their mothers would come searching for them. Duggal Sahab was a magician of words, a master story-teller, a craftsman of tales but more than that he was ‘Moody’. Nobody, in the three colonies, knew the reason for his behavior but they all knew that he was moody. Duggal Sahab would be religious one day; the other day he would be a communist and yet another day he would be a nationalist. His moods and ideology changed with the moon, was the guess of an infamous astrologer of the town. Once, Duggal Sahab became a literary critic and I am quite sure that if Premchand, RK Narayan, or Rabindranath had been alive and heard Duggal Sahab criticizing their works they would, surely, have chosen a different line of work. 

It was evening and the sun was setting down. Duggal Sahab was sitting on a chair on his porch. A band of enthusiastic children came and sat on the stairs near him. As usual, the children expected to hear some interesting stories from their favorite story-teller. 

‘Tell us the story about the one-eyed dog.’ said Mangal Sr. in excitement.

‘No. Don’t tell us Ghost stories. They scare me.’ said little Aditi in fear. ‘Tell me a jungle story.’

‘ I know a story from The Jungle Book.’ shouted Shubham in excitement. ‘ I know its author too. It’s by Ruyard Kilping.’

‘Ruyard Kilping?’ frowned Duggal Sahab. ‘You mean Rudyard Kipling. You mean that fraud- Rudyard Kipling.’ Duggal Sahab's face was red in anger.

‘But I like Mowgli and Bagheera.’ said Myna timidly. She was small but she could sense that Duggal Sahab would not like what she has to say.

‘I like Sher Khan. The mighty Sher Khan.’ announced Mangal and he roared towards little Aditi and scared her. He then laughed at his mischief.

‘Duggal Uncle.’ cried little Aditi in complaint.

‘ If you don’t sit down right now, I will beat the Sher Khan out of you.’ said Duggal Sahab angrily. ‘ I don’t understand these kids and their liking for Mowgli. Rudyard Kipling is a fraud; I am telling you he is.’

‘ Why?’ asked Mangal authoritatively. He wanted to know why Duggal Sahab was so critical of The Jungle Book. It was, after all, his favorite book.

Why? you ask me. Everything is wrong in that Godforsaken book. You tell me, what tiger’s name is Sher Khan? And he named a panther- Bagheera. Baagh is a tiger; Sher means lion. Even kids know that. He must have been high when he was naming his characters. He was firangi, you see, and that’s why he did this. All firangis are fools.’ blasted Duggal Sahab in almost one breath. He paused for a while to catch his breath.

‘But our teacher told us that he was born in India.’ said Myna innocently. She wanted to make sense of what Mr. Duggal was saying but she couldn’t. 

Absolutely nonsense.’ cried Duggal Sahab. ‘For me, he is a firangi.’ he added. Duggal Sahab had a peculiar habit of twisting facts to his advantage. When he would run out of words or arguments he would simply announce For me…it is what I am saying and then there would be no point left in the debate further. You can give a thousand arguments but they wouldn’t really matter because for Duggal Sahab the truth is only what he believes in. Nobody dared raise his voice against Duggal Sahab because of his old age. The other person would simply sigh in despair and leave and Duggal Sahab would announce himself ‘The Winner’.  Myna wasn’t looking for a debate but Duggal Sahab felt that he was being questioned and he used his famous ‘For me’ argument.

‘Okay.’ said Myna. She didn’t want to offend Duggal Sahab.

Duggal Sahab continued, ‘ Rudyard Kipling must have been a communal man because this book is the most communal book I’ve ever come across. A firangi and a communal. God save the kids. The Government should ban this book immediately. I mean, can somebody explain to me why the villain is Sher Khan and not Sher Sharma or Sher Singh or even a Sher D’Souza. And why is a tiger, A Sher? This is an insult to the whole animal kingdom. Imagine how must have people felt reading this book in pre-Independence times. I think this man was the brains behind the infamous ‘Divide and Rule’ policy of the British. Nobody really thinks as to why this is one of the most famous books in the world and why so many movies are made about it, continuously, again and again. I know the reason. Because firangi people don’t want peace in India and that’s why they have popularized this book. This is all a conspiracy.’ Duggal Sahab adjusted his glasses on the nose and wrinkled his forehead. This was his gesture to indicate that he was going to tell something profound.

The kids were awestruck at the seriousness displayed by Duggal Sahab. Obviously, they didn’t understand a word of what he said but they all heard him attentively because they must have thought it was something important. Little Aditi wondered what’s is a firangi and a communal. Mangal knew the meaning of firangi but he was having a hard time remembering the word communal.  Myna didn’t even bother to think about these words. She was thinking about how bad this Rudyard Kipling is what injustice he did with the poor Sher Khan. 

Duggal Sahab said’ Men like Rudyard Kipling are the reason for India’s communal problem. The Jungle Book should be banned and the name of Rudyard Kipling should perish from the memories of the people.’ Duggal Sahab felt like a philosopher. His status had elevated from being a literary critic to a philosopher in his head. And why wouldn’t it, after all, he successfully explained what scholars from generations had struggled to explain. He even provided a solution to the problem. It was obvious that Duggal Sahab wouldn’t face any opposition from these little kids. On the other hand, the children were convinced that Rudyard Kipling must have been a really bad person. 

‘ I would crush his head if I find him.’ said Mangal angrily.

‘ He is dead.’ said Myna in a sad tone. She had every reason to be sad as his hero was, after all, a villain the whole time. She felt cheated.

‘ Good, otherwise I would have killed him myself.’ announced Mangal as he pumped his fist in the air. 

Some other children were quiet the whole time. They, too, were pumped now. One of them suggested that they should hurl slogans against the wicked man. The idea became popular instantly. All of them stood and started shouting,’ Rudyard Kipling murdabad’ (Damnation to Rudyard Kipling)  with Mangal leading the procession. Liitle Aditi was just behind Mangal and Myna was the third in this human train. Other children were behind them.  They all headed towards home shouting the slogan. Mangal thought that the lone slogan is not that effective so he combined it with Duggal Uncle zindabad. Now the slogan was ‘ Duggal Uncle zindabad, Rudyard Kipling murdabad’( Long live Duggal Uncle, Go down Rudyard Kipling). The sun was was almost set and the birds had returned to their nests. The silence of the night was being pierced by the slogans of these little children. Some came out of their house, others peeked out of their windows to see this grand procession.Some of them became nostalgic about their own childhood seeing them. The people of the colony were happy to see their children having such a good time. The children were elated in their own sense. The silent night suddenly burst into activity. The slogans died down eventually. The children returned to their homes. 

Two college students were observing the whole scene from the street. 

‘Who is Duggal Uncle, Is he someone important?’ one asked the other.

The other replied,’ Nah, not important. He is just the oldest person alive in the neighborhood.’