My uncle had a loyal servant of 11 years.
Biharilal.
He cooked for them, he cleaned, he washed, he served them with love and undying loyalty.
They in turn educated his kids, paid all his medical bills and gave him loans whenever he asked. He was like a member of the family.
So naturally, when Biharilal asked for leave, they gave it to him. He missed his wife and kids he said. He hadn't met his mother for a year he said.
They sent him off with clothes for the children, a saree for the wife and some ladoo's for the mother.
They waved as he left at 8 am, to catch his train to the village. 'Have a safe trip' they shouted.

A phone call disturbs the night. My uncle grumbles sleepily into it. And then is suddenly wide awake.

Biharilal is dead. He fell off the train and got 'cut' by one coming from the opposite direction. He didn't meet his wife or his kids or his mother.

My uncle is in shock. He imagines his loyal Biharilal lying on the tracks, 'cut' gruesomely into half by a big train. He shudders. He doesn't sleep a wink.

In the morning, he tells the carpenter and the watchmen and they tell the neighbours. Everybody talks in hushed whispers and sits togther in silent shock. Some of the neigbhours phone in their condolences. Biharilal was a much loved man.

My uncles makes up his mind. 'i will go to the village, i will attend his funeral. i will find his wife and children. i will look after them now. they are my responsibility.'
The carpenter volunteers to accompany him.

They jump into a hired car and drive all the way to the village. They're not sure of the exact location, but know the district and are determined to find his family. On the way my uncle can't get Biharilal's sweet smiling face out of his head. As he watches the sun set, a tear trickles down his cheek. They drive the whole night, sleeping fitfully.

In the morning they reach the main village. They start asking around and are sent to the sarpanch. As they explain their story, a crowd collects. A bystander knows this mans sister. She lives in a village not too far from there. The man volunteers to take them there. Thats the least he can do for such concerned folk.

As they drive, they cross the railway tracks. My uncle asks the car to stop. He gets down and spends a silent minute near the tracks. His eyes wander, maybe i'll find a finger or something. The carpenter joins him, he puts his arm around him and gently guides him back to the car. 'saab, don't do this. don't look at the tracks.'

They start again. They find the village, they find the sister. She didn't even know yet. She starts wailing and screaming and beating her chest. She opens out her hair and mourns. Someone slaps her.

She takes them to his home, in a village a little while away. On the way she sobs uncontrollably. She didn't even know her own brother was dead. She saw him last at her own wedding, 7 years ago.

They reach the house. the sister starts wailing loudly. The mother and brother rush out.
'What happened? Why are you here and who are these people.'

The sister narrates the story hysterically. The mother looks shocked. She doesn't speak for a whole 5 minutes. The brother puts his arm protectively around her and mutters into her ear. Slowly she breaks. And starts wailing and thumping her chest too. The sight sends shivers down my uncles back. He didn't expect to be the messenger of death.

The brother and the neighbours try and console the women. The children see them crying and start crying too. In the confusion, my uncle suddenly sees Biharilal. He's standing next to his mother, consoling her gently.
My uncle closes his eyes and opens them again. Is he seeing a ghost? And there he is again. My uncle looks at the carpenter. Can he see him too? Am i going mad? Suddenly the carpenter turns white. He sees him as well. And he's not a ghost.

They shout, 'Arey! here is Biharilal!'
The man looks at them and runs away upstairs.

They look at the family and say, 'he was right here. we just saw him. call him down.'
The family look at each other flabbergasted. 'There was no one here' they say. The sister starts crying again. The brother comes down in the same clothes that 'Biharilal' was just wearing. They say, see its the brother, they look alike. You must be imagining.

My uncle walks out of the aangan. He needs air. He needs space. This is all too much for him to handle. He leans against a tree and takes in the clean village air.

Inside, the carpenter is still trying to figure out what that was all about. He tells them, the saab is outside, its only me, i know he's up there, call him down.

My uncle enters the aangan. There stands his beloved Biharilal. Head hanging down in shame. There's silence in the courtyard. My uncle needs to sit and does so on the floor.

The sister starts crying again. This time even louder.

They all look at her strangely. Why on earth is she crying. She explains between sobs...

First she thought he was dead. Then when she realised that he faked his own death, she was ashamed. Her izzat was stolen from her. Her brother had lied and been caught in front of the whole village. They'd have no respect left. And he lied to such a caring saab.

Why? they ask. Why would you do something like this?

He doesn't answer for a while.

'I didn't know how to tell you that i don't want to work with you anymore' he whispers in a barely audible voice.

My uncle doesn't know if he should hug the man or hang him. he's so relieved that he's alive and so livid that he lied, that he just sits there on the floor, silent.

He gets into the car with the carpenter and leaves.

On the way back there's just one thought that haunts my uncle. 'Biharilal thought i wouldn't care enough to attend his funeral'

I’m outside the door of her house, a minute early.
It’s a big interview and I don’t want to mess it up.
I ring the bell and its opened by a uniformed maid.
I sit on the white sofa, in the stark but stunningly designed living room.
I’m suddenly conscious of a loose button on my shabby cargo pants.
As I wait, I glance around the room. Many paintings, a stunningly simple vase, and an elegant black piano stare at me, asking, “And what might you want?”
I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at them.
Suddenly she appears. Casual, just out of bed, in her printed kaftan.
I sit up and clear my throat, but she’s so chilled, I find myself relaxing immediately.
We chat and then move to another room so she can see my work on her computer.
I sit facing the door, talking her through my work.
She reacts positively, and seems excited.
It’s going well, I can tell.
Suddenly, there’s some movement outside the door.
Distracted I glance up.
There’s a big naked man standing there, a towel barely, barely covering his jewels.
He looks as stunned as I do.
I’m mid sentence, talking about a piece of work I’ve done for some boring bank.
I feel the blood rush to my face and think I’m going to explode.
I avert my eyes, and continue talking as if nothing happened.
In my head I’m screaming and laughing and startled all at once.
From where she sits, she can’t see the door and doesn’t seem to have noticed a thing.
From the corner of my eye I see him scurry away.
The interview over, we walk out to the living room.
On the same white sofa, sits the big man, now dressed.
She introduces me to him, “meet my husband” she says.
I’m turn bright magenta. I can’t even look him in the eye.
I mumble a hello.
And he mumbles back.
I leave.
I get the job.
I’m sure he told her.
She laughs inexplicably the next time we meet.

I have been away, doing things that make me happy :)

Like eating butter.

The sight of butter in silver foil makes me smile.
It stares at me. Flirting.
Calling my name.
In a trance, my hand moves towards it.
Warnings in my head, scream ‘Butter! Fat! Thighs!’
Yet these go ignored.
I pick it up.
I gently open one corner.
Its perfect. Not too hard, not too soft.
I put a bit on my knife.
And dab it on the corner of my toast.
I wait.
I watch it melt and disappear into the greedy hot toast.
I lift the toast to my mouth

And I am in Amul Butter heaven.