20 minutes of flying time

An airport worker was inspecting the fans of the turbo-prop plane I was about to board at the Sacramento airport. I had a nervous feeling, looking at the size of the plane and the flimsy staircase leading me inside that asparagus shaped aircraft. I climbed aboard while stepping inside it with ever loosing confidence. There were about 16 seats and I got into mine - 2A by the window. A middle aged woman in blue jeans, a red sweater and auburn hair boarded the aircraft and settled in 2B next to me. We exchanged the usual pleasantries while the only cabin attendant did her bit on oxygen masks, exits and floatation devices in case of a water landing. She announced that it will be a short flight with a total flying time of 20 minutes. I planned to take a quick nap before we landed in SFO. Planned to have some dinner at the SFO airport and continue working for a little bit on the flight back to Washington DC from there. I was about to close my eyes when I overheard the lady next to me talk to the attendant about the ring she was wearing.

Lady - "I know that symbol on your ring, I have a tattoo on my ankle with the same symbol."
Attendant (who by now had revealed her name to be Alexis) - "Ohh really....can i see?"
Me (in my head) - "There goes my 20 minute nap!! Now I have to listen to this tattoo crap.....come on lady bring it on"
So the lady goes - "Sure" and with tremendous zeal unzips a boot from her left leg and removes her sock. Alexis goes - "Awww...it's so cute". Me - "Ok, now that the tattoos are out in the open, the conversation will end." Nope, they had other intentions:
Lady - "My three daughters also have the same tattoo, but the color of the heart in their tattoos is different than mine"
Alexis - "Ohh, that's cuter, what colors did they get"

And then the lady went on a description of the colors and why a certain color and the names of the daughters and on and on and on. I was seriously craving for a water landing at that time and was looking out the window to beckon a flock of wild geese to play with the propellor fans. No such luck, all I saw was the lights of the bay area. I resigned to my fate and took a deep breath. Alexis had to now attend to the landing procedures and the lady stopped talking. I was hoping she wouldn't turn to me and well we all now how hopes are shattered etc.
Lady - "So do you live in San Francisco?"
Me - "No, Washington DC"
Lady - "Ohh, what brings you to Sacramento?"
Me - "Work"
Lady - "What kind of work?"
Me - "We help State Governments do their jobs better"
Lady - "Ohh Yeah! they do need a lot of help...what a mess the CA budget is in!"
Me - Just an understanding vague smile.

We were now about to land and I was ready to leap out of the plane. We landed, I heard the lady in 2B say "have a good flight", without looking back I muttered "You too!", deboarded with tremendous alacrity and sprinted towards the first open walkway I saw. I had about an hour to kill, so grabbed a soup from the San Francisco Soup company, enjoyed it in perfect solitude in a crowded food court. As I was approaching the gate for my connecting flight, I saw the lady in 2B sitting on a chair right outside my gate and my heart sank to my tattooless ankles. I was hoping she doesn't see me, but you know the drill with hopes. So she saw me and smiled at me. I smiled back and naturally walked towards her - "Hey...you again! So you are also on the same flight to DC?" I was impatiently waiting for a response. Lady - "No my flight's not in another 2 hours, from the same gate though. I am going to Grand Rapids, Michigan". I must say, I was relieved, I felt like hugging every stranger there. With this light headed feeling, I asked the lady with a wide grin on my face- "So Grand Rapids, visiting family is it? Not a good time to leave sunny California for a cold wintry Michigan".
Lady - "Yeah, you can say that, my only family there was my mother, she died today. Going there to arrange for her funeral and take care of other things. Her second husband and her step sons have pretty much abandoned her since the cancer took hold of her." It was like I was slammed on the ground from a thousand feet. There, right there, I was put in my place. I hugged the lady "So sorry for your loss, have a safe flight and may she rest in peace". The lady smiled - "Thank you and I know she is peaceful, she is with the only man who really truly loved her and cared for her - my dad".

All along my flight back I kept thinking, I used to be a compassionate and a completely non-judgmental person. Was it the stress of the last few weeks that had made me so callous? Whatever it was, note to self: Be more compassionate, non-judgmental and kind to all, no matter what my mental/physical condition.

Aniket

I met Aniket on 3rd February 2007. He was a thin, bespectacled, cheery eyed twenty year old boy. Along with the light blue scrubs, he wore a constant smile on his face. He was the “ward boy” at the Intensive Cardiac Care Unit (ICCU) in a major cardiac care hospital in Nagpur. I had just arrived in Nagpur. My father was undergoing treatment in this hospital for congestive heart failure. I entered the ICCU and Aniket was the first person I saw in there, he smiled at me and asked me to take my shoes off before entering inside. There was something very genuine in his smile and his request. I obeyed, and silently asked him where my dad’s bed was. If you have never visited one (and I pray you never have to), the ICCU is a strange, ghostly and creepy place. There are constant beeps of the many monitors, oxygen level meters, and other array of gadgets attached to the patients in there. Each patient in there is struggling to hang on to life while the doctors are trying to bring the patients out of their fragile state. There is nothing, and I mean nothing cheerful about the place. This ICCU was no different. It was spotlessly clean, the air in there was purified, conditioned and had that sharp tang of artificial purity. There were about 12 beds in all. Three of the beds were vacant and there were nine patients on the rest of the beds. Each patient had multiple IVs, a catheter, a heart rate monitor, a blood oxygen level monitor, an oxygen mask. They were all covered in a pastel green blanket. The attending doctor’s station was in the right corner with 12 video monitors displaying the vitals of all the patients. Two nurses were attending to some nursing duties and the doctor on duty was busy reading the monitor and some files.

Aniket walked me to my father’s bedside. Over the next couple of days, I metAniket a number of times thereafter. He would update us with my father’s health and any changes in the medication that the doctors were doing even before the doctor’s told us. For a ward boy his knowledge in cardiac procedures and medicines was commendable. I assumed that if you spend 18 hours of your day seven days a week around cardiac surgeons and cardiologists, it rubs on you. His job comprised of cleaning up the patients everyday, changing their clothes, making their beds, assisting the doctors and nurses when the patients need to be moved physically, helping the patients in any of their non-medical needs. He was also in charge of keeping the ICCU clean. He had a couple other helping hands for the cleaning job; however he seemed to be the one who led the rest of the cleaning staff.

His job was extremely demanding and he was always on his toes attending to one patient after another. Despite the grim job, Aniket managed to maintain a happy and an energetic attitude and was the ever-helping guy. Relatives of the patients loved him, the doctors and nurses liked him, and my father liked him. Since relatives were not allowed to hang out with the patients in the ICCU for more than 5 minutes, Aniket was the one who spent time with them. Things were not looking very bright for my father. Close family and friends were constantly at the hospital in consultation with doctors who were figuring out the next steps. Aniket knew the situation quite well; he would spend time with my mother who was a wreck by then and tell her little details about dad’s time in the ICCU. He would tell her how he asked for milk at 2 AM in the night and ate a Parle-G with it. His concern and manner was genuine and his choice of words was such that it would convey hope and optimism in a way the doctors could not. The doctor would convey progress by saying that the blood oxygen level was improving or some such medical detail, Aniket would talk about how dad’s eyes had a slight twinkle when Preity Zinta showed up on the TV. Dad left the ICCU on Feb 8th and Aniket helped him move to a regular room. He said he will stop by each day to say hello and he did for the next 2 days.

Dad was back in the ICCU on Feb 11th as he suffered another CHF. He was moved in the middle of the night and was put on life support. His condition deteriorated rapidly. Aniket was off duty that night. He showed up next afternoon and was surprised to see dad back in the ICCU. The next couple of days were extremely difficult for all of us. Dad was relentlessly drugged; his doctors consulted other doctors in the city and around the country for other treatment options. One look in dad’s eyes was sufficient to see a man who had given up and resigned to fate.

We had lost count of days and nights; each day was roller-coaster ride of hope and despair. One such morning, I and mom were in the ICCU besides dad’s bed. Aniket walked in the ICCU and he was his cheerful self. He seemed a tad more chipper that day. I saw he was holding a large brown paper bag. From this bag he pulled out a long stemmed red rose and handed it to mom to give to dad.
He said “Kaku aaz valentine’s day aahe. Kakanna rose dya”.
(“Aunty, its valentine’s day today, you must give this rose to uncle”. )

My mother is from a generation where public display of affection is not the norm. Valentine’s Day, anniversary gifts, greeting cards, roses, chocolates and all the paraphernalia associated with “couples in love” is alien to her. This Valentine’s day however, she took the rose from Aniket and opened the thermos flask on the medicine stand next to dad. She carefully placed the rose in the flask. She ran her fingers through dad’s silvery white hair. Dad opened his eyes and for a moment looked back at her and closed them again. I saw that Aniket had brought a rose for all the patients in the ICCU and moved on to the next patient. In any other setting, I would have considered this youngster’s actions cheesy, but that day his enthusiasm was infectious and it put a smile back on our faces.

Dad recovered and in three weeks he was back home. Aniket was there to say good-bye when we took dad home. In the days that dad was in the hospital, I got to know Aniket a little more. He wanted to be a nurse some day and was studying to get into nursing school. He was saving from his Rs. 7000 monthly salary to pay for nursing school. Next time I visit Nagpur, I plan to visit the hospital to see Aniket. I hope I do not find him working as a ward-boy. I hope to hear that he has joined a nursing school, or better yet, he is now a Nurse.

Rupabai

Almost all households in India - middle class and upwards have a maid for doing the dishes and washing clothes. This maid is typically called “Bai” in most of Maharashtra. My home in Nagpur is no different. Our bai’s name is Rupabai. She has been our “bai” for about 19 years now. I was only 13 years old when she started working at our place. She was hired as a result of some recommendations that came through word-of-mouth from some neighbors. Rupabai is from a lower caste (quite common for this profession); she is about 5 feet tall, broad and heavy-set. She wears a typical Maharashtrian nine-yard sari worn in the old fashion of tying it in the back from between the legs. She has a slow walk and wraps the loose end of sari on her head and holds it between her teeth when she walks from house to house, while working she tucks this loose end at her waist. She has the typical tattoos of women of this sect on her forehead and forearms. She wears a thick round red vermillion bindi on her forehead.

When I was growing up she would come to our house at about 10 AM. That was the time when everybody – grandmother, mother, father, grandfather, I and my brother would have finished their morning bath in that order. She would have a bucketful of laundry soaking in Nirma (as we grew older, this was replaced by Rin and eventually to Ariel) waiting for her. Mom would have also kept the used utensils from the previous day in a container made of wrought iron out on the porch of the kitchen.

Rupabai would open the compound gate of our house and walk to the back-yard at around 10 AM (she kept this time quite consistently). She had a singular style of opening the wrought iron gate – she would be very delicate in opening so as to make minimal noise. The faint ding of the gate was an indicator of her arrival. If either I or my brother had not bathed yet, mom would yell at us “Rupabai is here; you better take a bath and throw your clothes in the bucket on the porch”. There were only two free-passes to get out of this – either you were sick or it was Holi.

Rupabai would carry the bucket of clothes and the dirty utensils to the back side of the house to her “workplace” – a small cemented open water tank and a washing area with a stone in the middle for scrubbing clothes. Her tools were simple - a plastic bristled brush to scrub the clothes, a soggy cake of Rin soap, a roll of steel wool and some white powdery substance for scrubbing the utensils. For the next hour or so (depending on the quantity she had to clean) she could be heard scrubbing the utensils or beating a piece of clothing on the stone. She would then hang the clean wet clothes on the clothesline for drying. She would carry the container full of clean utensils back to the porch by the kitchen. So long as my grandmother (aaji) was alive she was not allowed inside the kitchen. So she would place the clean utensils on the porch and aaji would keep each utensil in its proper place – one by one. After aaji passed away, Rupabai started keeping the container in the kitchen and mom would arrange the utensils back in the shelves. Rupabai would say quietly from outside in the general direction of my mother inside the house “Bai, jaate” (“Madam, I am leaving now”). It’s strange how she addressed my mother also by “Bai”. The difference between the social statuses of the word “Bai” depends on which “Bai” says it to which “Bai”.

This routine continued with minimal changes for years. Rupabai’s presence was always there in the background in festivals, in our little family functions. My mother and she slowly developed a strange bond. My mother is not the “secular-all-creation-is-equal” types, but she was a little less stringent than aaji. Aaji never directly took anything from Rupabai. Rupabai would place the item on the floor and then aaji would pick it up. I and my brother would deliberately tease aaji by making direct contact with Rupabai. Rupabai would discourage us from doing so but we continued the game. Aaji would get furious but gradually ignored us. My mother, Aaji and Rupabai had a strange love-hate relationship. There were arguments and bickering on the pay, the quality of work quite regularly. It was all in the background of our growing up years. During religious festivals there would be a multitude of people eating at our place and consequently the number of utensils to be washed would go up during these times. Aaji and my mother would save food for Rupabai and would ask her to eat at our place on such occasions. She would probably spend 4-5 hours washing utensils on such days.

Then in the summer of 1992 I left my home for pursuing engineering in a far away town. As much as my family was sad when I left the house, Rupabai was also in the background saying her goodbyes to me as I left my home into the unknown. It was during my years staying in the hostel, that I truly realized the importance of Rupabai. This was the first time, I had to wash my own clothes - it was either spend money on laundry or beer, well I do not have to explain to you kind folks what my choice was. As the semester would come to an end, I would not wash any clothes and carry the whole stinking lot back to Nagpur and eventually to end up in Rupabai’s able and skillful hands. She would instantly know looking at the 4 buckets of laundry that, it’s the end of a semester at Shivaji University. And then all those nasty, smelly clothes would do emerge clean and would be dancing all happy and smelling of Rin on the clothesline.

After four years of this routine, I moved to Pune for a job, and eventually started earning enough to afford the luxury of giving my clothes in a laundry for cleaning. I would still be glad to see Rupabai on my occasional visits to Nagpur. She continued to lead her same routine, but now the numbers of clothes and utensils to clean were significantly lower. My grandfather (Dada) had passed away; I had moved out and my brother was also in Pune. Religions festivals were no more the huge gatherings of the extended family anymore. Rupabai was the silent spectator through all these years.

January of 2000, I moved to the United States. It was a different continent; it was a developed world – a world of common laundry rooms in apartments, a world of dates at the neighborhood laundromat. Guess what, memories of the hostel days came flooding back. That aching feeling of missing Rupabai resurfaced. No sir/madam - no matter how much you enjoy the feel of the fresh, warm and soft laundry out of the dryer or the smell of “Tide with a touch of downy”, give me Rupabai any day of the year and I will be in laundry Nirvana. In the meantime Rupabai kept serving the remains of the Kulkarni household. In 2001, Aaji passed away, and Rupabai was still very much there to witness it and to clean after the flood of relatives who stayed at our place. I guess, she was expressing her grief and paying her respects to Aaji by not crossing the kitchen line even in her death.

I got married to A in 2002. Rupabai was there assuming the role of the head-bai of the other bai’s that she had summoned to handle the extra load of the many relatives staying at our place. I must say her supervisory skills were a surprise to all of us as she managed the whole backstage operation with extreme efficiency and finesse. Mother bought Rupabai new clothes on occasion of the wedding. She gave her blessings to me and A. When me and A left for the USA, she said very earnestly to me “Shirpa” (she calls me that, I still don’t know why) “sunbai chi kalaji ghya baga”! – “take care of the daughter-in-law now”. And just like that I was gone again.

Last year when dad fell really sick, I had to fly back on a short notice. I reached home from Nagpur airport and there was nobody but Rupabai at home, everyone else was at the hospital attending to the situation. Rupabai was busy cleaning the utensils from the previous night. She said, “Shirpa, saahebala bara nahi haay. Bai gelyaat dawakhanyat. Baai mhanalya tumi aanghol karoon lawkar jaawa, me haay hitha,”. “Your dad is not doing so well, your mother is at the hospital, she said that you should take a shower and rush to the hospital. I will be here”. I did as she said, gave my clothes with the grime of three continents to her and rushed to the hospital. I looked at her while handing her the clothers and something about her had changed (other than her age). I could not put my finger on it but had too much on my mind to think about it.

In about 3 weeks dad came back home. Rupabai did her best to keep the household running during those trying times. One fine morning as I was handing over a bucket of dirty clothes to Rupabai, I noticed the change in her. She had no “sindoor” in the parting in her hair, she had no red vermillion bindi on her forehead. I was shell-shocked. I ran inside and asked mother – she told me about the sudden death of her husband 2 months ago. I was ashamed at my own callousness and apathy towards her, towards a woman who had washed the dirty laundry of this family, who had been through births, deaths and marriages of this family. I somehow never thought of her as a person who had her own family and a life outside of serving us. I was disgusted of myself. I went back on the porch and saw her hobbling back with the same wrought iron container. I ran and took the container from her hands, she hesitated, and I looked at her. She had a distant look in her eyes but she knew what I meant. She let me carry the container from the cement tank to the kitchen.

Today, she still serves the Kulkarni household. She has gotten old and tired. I bought a washing machine for my mother and now the machine does the laundry. I could tell Rupabai was a little jealous of the new “Videocon-bai”, and was worried about the pay cut. I assured her that her pay will not go down. She smiled, that’s the least I could do for her.

Chotu

It was mid March 2007 and I was visiting the Kanha National Park, in Madhya Pradesh, India. I was traveling with four other 50+ years old friends of my father. How I ended up in a National park with such an elite group of individuals is for another posting. Kanha’s primary attraction is a State protected sanctuary for tigers. As of the census of 2006, the park had 131 adult tigers (the cubs are not counted). This makes Kanha a popular park for spotting a tiger in the wild. Tourists from India and abroad flock to the park to get a glimpse of the majestic Indian Tiger. The State Government’s wildlife department has set up strict rules for controlling the number of visitors and automobiles that enter the park. The department has issued permits to local taxi companies to drive people inside the park during certain hours of the day. These taxi companies own a fleet of the gasoline (petrol) model of the open top Maruti Suzuki Gypsies. They employ local teenagers to drive the tourists around and pay these drivers on a per trip commission basis. This incident is about one such driver.
We reached one of the entrance gates (Kisli gate) of the national park at around 2 PM on a Saturday afternoon. As one of us was enquiring about lodging at the State Dept office, a scrawny teenager of about 15-17 years approached me:
Kid: Namaste Saheb, hotel chahiye kya? Chotu naam hain, hotel yaheen pass hee mein hain. Le chaloon?
(Greetings sir, are you looking for a hotel? I am Chotu and I can take you to a nearby hotel)
He was about 5 and half feet tall, wore a full sleeved beige colored shirt which was tucked out over bell bottomed grey polyester pants. He was wearing dark colored rubber sandals. He was thin, with a pale brown complexion, and had that earnest and unadulterated look which can be seen only on the real village folks of India. (Higher education and urban living washes that look away quite effectively).
I responded:
Haan, lekin hotel acchha hona chahiye. (Sure, but the hotel better be good).
Chotu nodded and asked us to follow him. He hopped in an open top Maruti gypsy and we followed him on a mud road deep into the woods. After driving for about two kilometers through a cloud of dust we entered a driveway of a modest resort. My older fellow travelers checked out the property and haggled over the prices. After about 30 minutes of deliberation we settled in a modest lizard infested room. The bungalow had a nice covered wrap-around porch. The resort was surrounded by tall trees (primarily timber). Chotu had receded in the background and was watching the proceedings. I was wondering what his part in the whole affair was. He probably got some commission from the resort owner for bringing in guests to his property during the off-peak season (March happens to be the end of winter and the mercury slowly rises to an uncomfortable zone in the Central part of India). I noticed that he was not leaving but was observant of all of us. As soon as he noticed that we were all settled in the room, he made his sales pitch:
Chotu: Saheb, aaj sher dikhega, thodee der pehele hi ranger office mein report aayee ki teen sher dekhe gaye. Main le jaoo saheb? Gypsy hain aur permit bhi. 4 ghante ka Rs 750 aur video camera ka upar se Rs 250. Mera nahi, Sarkaari rate hain. (Sir, I guarantee that you will spot a tiger today, a little while ago the ranger’s office got a report of 3 tiger spotting. Can I take you? I have a car and the permit to drive in the park. It’s Rs 750 for 4 hours and Rs 250 extra if you wish to take a video camera. It’s the Govt rate, not mine).

Chotu had spotted the handy cam bag on my shoulder. My company of old men got into a discussion with him about the rates, the time, how he can be so sure of a tiger spotting, the weather, and the condition of his Gypsy etc. I was the silent observer. Chotu answered each question patiently. He showed a surprising knack at fielding these questions for someone his age. (This might not sound like a big deal, but try doing a business deal with four middle aged Indian men - all of them Government employees themselves). The smile on Chotu’s face indicated that he had made a deal.

The five of us settled ourselves in his car and Chotu hit the gas. We arrived at the check post of the park where after paying the fees at the forest department office we were allowed entry into the park. I noticed that Chotu was quite a well known figure; he was waving and talking to a number of the forest department employees and other fellow gypsy drivers. No sooner did we enter the park, we spotted a number of wild animals – flocks of deer grazing in sun-soaked grasslands, peacocks, bisons, the Indian jungle pig, antelopes, the famous and elusive Barasingha (a large deer with huge antlers with 12 branches from the main antler). All of us were quite thrilled by the experience of seeing these animals in their natural setting, minding their business and in tune with their surroundings. While I was busy enjoying and soaking up these sights and capturing them on film, the rest of the group was asking Chotu about his claims of the “tiger spotting”. Chotu was quite confident that he will be able to lead us to a tiger. It was about 4 PM in the evening and all cars were supposed to be out of the park by 6:30 PM. Chotu informed us that the rangers enforce this rule quite strictly and the drivers who are late in leaving the park are made to appear in front of the officer on duty. The taxi company is fined a sum based on how late the driver was. The fine is subsequently passed down to the driver in the form of less commission or no commission at all. This left us with 2 hours to try and spot a tiger. The time was ticking and the pressure mounting. I could see the stress on Chotu’s face; he was sincerely praying and hoping that a tiger crosses our path. It was 6 PM and there was still no sign of a tiger. We were getting a little desperate now – the deer, peacocks, bisons, monkeys were not amusing anymore. At this time Chotu spoke in a disappointed voice: “Saheb, cheh bajj gaye, ab toh wapasi ka rasta pakadna hoga, warna deri ho jayegi aur mujhe peshi deni padegi.” (Sir, its 6 PM and I think we should drive towards the gate since we might get late. If we do get late I will have to appear in front of the Forest Officer)
“Sher toh nahi dikha, par kal subah le jaoonga saheb, kal zaroor dikhega!” (We did not spot a tiger today, but I promise I will take you in the park again tomorrow and I assure you we will spot a tiger). By this time all of us had also given up and resigned to the fact that a trip tomorrow morning was inevitable. My fellow travelers were no longer blaming Chotu for the no-show by a tiger. The sun had set and it was getting dark. Chotu told us that he was not allowed to turn on the headlights inside the park. We were driving in the dusk light and heading towards the exit of the park. Everyone was quiet in the car. All through our drive Chotu was constantly listening to the rustling of the leaves, watching the behavior of the monkeys and the birds in the trees. It was as if he was trying hard to listen to something that we could not. As we were driving back, Chotu suddenly slowed down the Gypsy and was focusing on something in the bushes on our right. I was trying hard to see amongst the thick vegetation but all I could see was more vegetation. Chotu then with restrained excitement asked us to focus in the bushes; he had spotted the royal beast. After a lot of training our eyes to separate the out woods from the animal, we were able to spot it. Each one of us jumped out of our skin. A chill went down my spine. In minutes the tiger crossed the road we were on. His stride was regal, his look was menacing. The evening air was full of excitement and thrill. It is a singular feeling of being in such close quarters with a tiger in the wild. Clichéd but true – you have to experience it to understand it.
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-7541012846557960277&hl=en

After about 2 minutes the tiger disappeared in the woods and we were all still squealing with joy like little girls. Chotu let out a sigh of relief and his face and eyes wore a perma-smile. He was glad to have satisfied his customers. We drove out of the park. We thanked Chotu, patted his bony back and praised him for his keen eye-sight and intuition. Chotu left after leaving us at our hotel.

We were still talking and re-enacting the tiger encounter. Hunger beckoned and we found ourselves in a roadside dhaba (eatery) not too far from our hotel. The radio was playing some old Hindi movie songs, all kinds of flies were buzzing around every lamp and the monotony was broken by squeal or a shriek of a wild animal deep in the jungle. The smell of the fresh tandoori rotis from the tandoor was making as all salivate. I noticed that Chotu was around the eatery with a couple other kids of his age. One of my fellow travelers also noticed him and wondered whether he is loitering around for some extra cash or a free meal. I got up from my chair and approached them. The group of kids suddenly fell silent as they saw me walking towards them. I said “hello” to Chotu and his friends. I noticed that Chotu was still wearing the same clothes and that he was trying hard not to smile. I asked him if they had dinner or if they would like to join us. Chotu replied – “Haan, khaana toh kha liye hain”. (Yes, we had our dinner). I handed him a 100 rupees note for a job well done. He very respectfully denied saying “Saheb Sher nahi dikhayee deta toh kya main tumhen rupaye deta? Yeh toh mera kaam tha, aur mera commission toh mujhe mil hi jayega kal. Agalee baar aao toh meri hi gypsy mein chalna.” (Sir, had we not seen the tiger would I give you money, it was my job and after all I will get my commission tomorrow. When you come next time, look me up and hire my services again). I did not try to force him into accepting the money and quietly slid the money back in my pocket.
I said that since we spotted a tiger today, we would not need his services the next day and that we will head back to Nagpur after tea early next morning. Chotu just nodded in approval. I noticed his hesitant body language and asked him if he wanted to say or ask something. He grinned and in a very diffident voice said “Saheb, kya aap wo sher ki video shooting mere doston ko dikhaa sakte ho?” I broke into a spontaneous chuckle by this simple request! These boys have probably seen a live wild tiger a number of times and here they were asking to see it again on the tiny LCD screen of the video camera. I asked them to come to our hotel room in an hour. The boys were waiting on the verandah when we returned from our dinner. I got the camera and we sat on the cold floor of the verandah. I replayed the footage on the camera; the boys were struggling to shove their heads in front of the small screen to get a good look. I could tell that they were quite ecstatic. I replayed the scene about 5 times. Chotu was very thankful and a little confident now. He asked me about what I do. I talked to the group of kids about my life in the US. They had many questions for me – “Udhar maruti gypsy hain kya?” (“Do the Americans drive Maruti gypsy?”) I tried to respond to each question with utmost sincerity and the conversation continued with questions from my side about their lives. Chotu said that he used to go to a polytechnic in Seoni to be an electrician but it was hard for his mother to pay for his tuition (I sensed that he did not want to be an electrician and hence probably was using the “fees” excuse). I enquired about his father. His father used to work for the Madhya Pradesh electricity board and had died 4 years ago of a freak road accident. Chotu was the youngest of the three brothers. He was 17 years old. His good name he said is Manish but only his teacher at the polytechnic school called him that. He was Chotu for everyone else. He started driving the tourists in the park about 2 years ago. He made on an average of Rs 3000 per month in the peak season he said. His aspirations were not too high - Chotu talked about going to Jabalpur or Nagpur in a couple of years to work as a driver. He added that he aspired to be a driver in Nagpur and wanted to drive the Indian cricket team from their hotel to the cricket ground someday. Despite these aspirations, he seemed strangely at peace with the life he was leading. We spent quite some time talking about tigers, America and cricket. They left after admiring the video one last time. I sat there on the verandah of our hotel room in the silence of the woods and the faint blue glow of the LCD screen.