Copyright © 2014 by LJ Haravu.

ISBN:          Softcover          978-1-4828-3906-7

                    eBook               978-1-4828-3905-0

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Preface

Foreword

Short Stories

1.   The Wayside Railway Station

A young journalist challenged to write an interesting story, jumps out of a train that stops at a wayside railway station and meets his family from a previous birth among other things.

2.   The Quest

Two people: a Frenchman and an Indian go in search for a unique figurine in Chennai temples mentioned in a 1787 French document found in the French National Archives.

3.   The Indian Soldier and Pakistani Fruit Seller

Tale of a Hindu and a Muslim, classmates in Lahore in pre-independent India, and their separation during the partition of the sub-continent and what happens to their lives, post-partition.

4.   The Trader and the Saint

Two bothers born with different dispositions and how their lives unfold: one as greedy politician and another as a saintly person.

5.   One and the Same

A student of pure mathematics meets Lord Krishna in his dream and gets his lesson on spirituality.

6.   Shivu and Pinni

Two rag pickers who come to the city to earn their livelihood and the efforts of an urban couple to return them to their village.

7.   Ramaswamy, the Watchmaker

A street-side watch repairer and his empathy for beggars and the lesson he teaches the educated arrogant.

8.   Accident’s Child

A child is rescued by monks in a devastating flood; the values he imbibes, and finally, how he meets his mother, thought to be dead in the floods, after many years.

9.   A Hole in the Heart

A village boy who becomes a doctor and has dreams for a hospital in his village has to face an intransigent Khap Panchayat because they will not allow him to marry a foreigner.

10. The Wronged One

The friendship between classmates: 3 girls and 2 boys in an IIT-like institution. One of the boys is implicated in a crime. How he is cleared of his charge

11. Marriages are made in Heaven

Typical south Indian arranged marriage and how the younger of the two brothers finds that his marriage seemed indeed because of a benevolent hidden hand.

12. The Guest

An absent-minded professor drives this comedy of errors.

13. Will the real Sheela come to the witness box?

Based on a true story of how the author’s aunt was duped by a con artist.

14. Faces, Names and Memories

Inability of the author to remember faces, names and memories of people and their connections and the embarrassment that ensues.

Poking Fun stories of a husband-wife pair

15. No Reference, No Context

Hilarious events in the life of a husband-wife couple because the wife always talks in sentences without any reference or context, people, past or future.

16. The Wife and the Word ‘Sorry’

The husband finds his socialite wife not at home after inviting his classmate for lunch and the embarrassment and misunderstanding that ensues.

17. Generosity to Small Faults

The wife cannot tolerate small faults of her husband and the funny situations it gives rise to.

18. The Seventh Sense

The futility of a husband who tells white lies to his wife.

Poems of the Head and Heart

Life and Living

1.   Life’s Daily Cycles

2.   Glass Bottles

3.   The Plight of Man

4.   The Ego

5.   Is it not meet that we ask?

6.   Subject and Object

7.   Happiness

8.   Connection

9.   Inspiration

10. The Path

11. Lonely Travelers

12. Today’s Opiates

13. Indian Scam a day

14. What have you given today?

Divinity and the Divine

15. Divine Love

16. Transcendent Prankster

17. Here, There, Everywhere

18. Parcel of Love

19. Divinity

20. My Divinity?

21. Change and Beyond

22. The Path

23. Temple in the Heart

24. Take me into that Temple

Guru’s Wisdom

25. Margins and the Core

26. Life Lesson

27. The Sage

28. Drop of the River

29. Tiny Drops, Momentary Sparks

30. Drop of the River

31. The Ego Cage

Meditation

32. The Seeking

33. Surrender

34. Pure Consciousness

35. Unquiet Mind

36. Watch. Observe. Witness

37. My True Self

38. Pranayama

39. Meditation

40. The Bee, Rose and the Soul

The Mind

41. The Mind

42. The Mind’s colourful glasses

To

My late mother who gave me more than life; the values she imbued me with have propelled my life’s journey.

Acknowledgements

I am deeply grateful to Sri. V. Siddharthacharrya, scholar/diplomat and a retired officer of the Indian Foreign Service and Indian Ambassador to many countries, with whom my association has been a long one of over 50 years. The title of the book came from his insightful mind. I have figuratively sat at his feet to imbibe much of my inspiration and understanding of the meaning of life and how it is best lived. He has thus subtly influenced my thoughts in these stories. His contribution specifically to the stories and poems in this book in the form of guidance and unobtrusive criticism has been invaluable and I pay my homage to him.

Many of my relatives and friends have been the sounding boards for my stories. I cannot list them individually because there are too many. But I must make special mention of Karuna, my niece and her husband Ravi Ganesan, who have taken exceptional interest in reading my stories and poems and have given me painstakingly considered views on the content, presentation, language and story endings. They have helped quite invaluably in the shaping of this book. I must also thank my wife Sharada and my sister Kusum Nagaraj. Their kind words of appreciation have encouraged me to publish this book.

The stories in this volume have been looked at by Dr. D.R. Mohan Raj, a professional editor and a long-time educator in communication skills, who was my colleague at a research institute many years ago. The care and thoroughness of his work and his suggestions for improvements have made for a smoother flow in the writing as it now appears.

I gratefully acknowledge the contribution of the idea of the image for the cover page to the Editor of the web site, www.lifepositive.com.

I am deeply grateful to Deepak Chandrashekar of SDM-IMD, Mysore who has designed the cover page of the book. My gratitude is also to my professional colleague, Dr. M V Sunil also of SDM-IMD, Mysore for his ready assistance in various ways in making this book possible.

Preface

S tories and poems in ‘Eavesdropping’ have come from the Mind eavesdropping on the mind, conditioned by experiences, recent and remote; memories that come forward for one reason or another: a book recently read, an emotion, a song heard, a face in the crowd, a news item on TV. None of the pieces arrived as one integral idea; they formed over a few days when thoughts form in mind’s peaceful moments and magically, almost compulsively, rise to the surface. The intellect has then played its part in polishing the thoughts and emotions that arise. My morning’s meditations, recitations of one or other adhyāyās (cantos) of the Bhagavad Geeta, and listening to discourses of the enlightened have triggered many thoughts leading to the poems. Some stories in this collection have a serious intent. A few poke fun mainly at the relationship between man and wife. All positive references to wives were inspired entirely by my own wife, while any observations on the foibles of wives come from observations of other wives! The foibles of men are entirely my own.

My poems, my stories

These poems, stories for you;

Benign missiles;

From my inner space;

Born in heart;

Crafted in mind;

Polished by intellect;

For you to read.

See if these strike;

Sympathetic chord or soft target;

In mind, heart or intellect;

For you to enjoy;

Perchance reflect.

I know not what’s happened to me;

Thoughts that come to me;

Come to me in story and poetry;

No matter what;

With God’s eternal blessings for you and me.

L Jayaram Haravu

jharavu@gmail.com

Mysore, 2014

Foreword

I don’t really deserve the honour bestowed upon me by my nearly lifelong friend, Jayaram Haravu. I may aver that the friendship began, as does true love in Western Novels, at sight; from the start we had something important in common: we earned our living as teachers. We were both parted early from our families and had no inclination whatever for suicide. We both involuntarily found other jobs, too, shortly thereafter. The tide of times that swept us apart, curiously often brought us together too. And now, in our final stages of life, we are back together, making up for lost time, teaching sometimes, but always in the company of teachers. The environment is provided by a hospitable school. It has given us the opportunity to conceive our respective intellectual offspring. My brood were essays, dressed up fancifully as Vignettes. As I was labouring, Jayaram most helpfully midwived. Having no talent as acoucheur, I am unable to return his favour. Therefore, I try to pass off as a mere foreworder.

His collection, named Eavesdropping by me, actually peeps into Indian idiosyncrasies. The reader will find that the characters here are very much like others close to him or her. They hold an un-distorting mirror of today’s India. In a way, the stories are humorous rather than witty. They are couched in the actual tongue of the man or woman you meet and fall into conversation with. I particularly recommend Wayside Railway Station. Of course, mystic India pops up now and then, and is demystified; lovely truth is laid naked. I was most moved by the author’s Indian Soldier and Pakistani Fruit Seller, which I consider a faithful rendering of the atmosphere of horror and reconciliation during the partition of India.

If you want a humanistic darshana (view or outlook) of India, give yourself the leisurely treat of reading Eavesdropping.

V.Siddharthacharrya

of Acharya Vidya Kula

Mysore

6-7-2014

The Wayside Railway Station

R ajesh had just passed out with a Bachelor’s degree in Journalism. His passion for good writing and reading had stood him in good stead, and he topped his class in the degree examination. He applied for a position in the City Chronicle in the small town of Lakhampur. Rajesh did creditably in his interview with the Editor, who was impressed with Rajesh’s knowledge of current events and his willingness to work on sensitive issues.

Good, said the editor, I shall first offer you an internship. You will work with me, but before that I give you one week: I want you to bring me an interesting story. You have full freedom to go wherever you wish, and meet anyone you want to. I also promise that if your story is interesting, I will right away give you a Junior Reporter’s job.

Rajesh smiled, Sir, thank you. I accept. Rajesh liked the challenge he was offered. He was to go to his home town, Bareilly, 60 km away, for a family wedding the day after. That might be a good place to get my story, he told himself.

He took the 55-Up the next day, a passenger train that he had taken many times. His mind wandered, searching for ideas for a story that the Editor wanted; he stared vacantly at the passing scenes from his window seat. He closed his eyes for some time, but he could not still the mind. The more he tried to think of a story and from where it might emerge, the more his tired mind eluded him. To hell with it, he told himself. If I can’t get a good story, so be it.

The train had stopped at a wayside station and he looked out. He did not see anyone; there was nothing extraordinary in the surroundings. Something clicked in his mind; impulsively, he jumped out of the train.

He then saw a dhoti-clad, middle-aged man, flagging the train on its way to its destination. He looked around the station; like many other stations, it had yellow coloured spiked cement pillars, making up its boundary, and a yellow board that announced the name of the station as Kashipur, written in English and Hindi. It also had the year 1957 and 900 ft above MSL (mean sea level) written on it. Rajesh walked up to the dhoti-clad person. He must be a railway servant, he guessed, a rural station master and points man. The two briefly exchanged the usual pleasantries.

Babuji, he asked, Whom have you come to meet here? Rajesh said that he was a Patrakar (journalist) and that he wanted to just go around and write something about the village. Very well, I wonder what you will see in our small village to write about. Will you be staying here for a few days?

No, replied Rajesh. I plan to go to Bareilly as early as possible; if possible this evening.

There are only two trains on this route to Bareilly: one the 55-Up, by which you came, and the other 685-Down, which does not stop here. The 56-Down comes tomorrow in the other direction.

Rajesh, by now wondering if he had done the right thing by getting down in this godforsaken railway station, engaged the rural station master in conversation. True to his profession as a journalist, Rajesh, trained to probe in interviews asked, Bhai sahib, tell me why this station is called Kashipur?

Interesting that you ask that question. Some years ago, an MLA wanted a stop here, so that he could visit his village some 10 km away, which was not on the train route. His name was Kashiram; so the station was called Kashipur. Kashiram is no more, but the train still stops here.

Who are the people who use the train? asked Rajesh.

During the fruiting season, some of the farm labour board the train to sell guavas, litchis, and chickoos. They come back by the 56-Down the next day.

Rajesh nodded his head. A moment later, he asked, Is there no way I could take the 685 today?

The rural station master smiled, Yes, there is. I could signal the train to stop for a minute or two. Later, I could signal it to leave. Mind you, I am not doing anything wrong. I am allowed to do this when I see cattle on the tracks. Visitors to our village are rare. I will do it for you, but you must come before the train arrives at 3:47 this afternoon; you must be ready to jump onto the train the minute it stops.

Rajesh promised to do so. He pressed a 10-Rupee note into the hands of the rural station master. The station master smiled and politely refused the offering, smiled again, and walked to his small quarters close to the station. Rajesh made his way to the interior of the village.

Five minutes into the village, he saw a Sadhu sitting on a stool-shaped rock. The Sadhu smiled and beckoned to Rajesh, "Beta tumhara swagath hai. Accha huva ki tum apne purane janm ke parivar se milne aye hö? ¹"

Rajesh was taken aback. His eyes must have betrayed his surprised disbelief. "Nahin Maharaj, main ek patrakar hun," he said. "Main is gaon ke bare me kuch likhna chahata hun²"

"Abhi tum rail gadi se bina soche samjhe, achanak utter gaye na? Mujh par tumhe vishwas nahnin hai na. Chowdhary Ramprakashji ke pas chale jao, tumhe vishwas hojaayega. Aaj hi jana, kyunki Chowdharyji bahut shigre hi chale jayenge.³"

The Sadhu spoke as if what he said was a matter of fact. Rajesh was even more intrigued that the Sadhu knew about his impulsive act to get down at the station. He bowed to the Sadhu, touched his feet, and reached into his pocket to give the Sadhu some money. The Sadhu shook his head, indicating that he did not seek any reward.

Rajesh, shaken by what he heard, but curious nevertheless, made his way into the village. He saw a small thatch-roofed building with a middle-aged man, probably not more than 50 at the most, with a curly moustache, sitting on a charpoy. This is like a scene from a Bollywood film, thought Rajesh. This must be the Chowdhary, he surmised correctly. The Chowdhary got up to welcome Rajesh and seated him on the charpoy.

"Rajesh ki amma," he called out. "Athiti ke liye paani lana.⁴" What a coincidence, thought Rajesh; the Chowdhary’s son’s name is also Rajesh. The lady of the house, her head covered, brought water for Rajesh.

Predictably, the Chowdhary asked next who the visitor was and what brought him to the village. Rajesh confided that, as a journalist, he visited places in search of stories.

This was a good opening move; Rajesh pursued his mission, Chowdharyji, he said, "Mujhe aap ke jeevan ke bare me bataiye. Hum shahar ke log, goan ke jeevan ke bare me bahut kam jankari rakte hain. Ho sake to is ke bare me kuch likhna chahata hun.⁵"

The Chowdhary smiled.

"Kya bataun beta. Yeh hamara gaon, sath pushton se hamara jeevan ka hissa hai. Jab main baccha tha to mere dada hamare saath jeevith the. Voh bhi apne dada ke saath rahe hain; ab mera beta hamare saath hai.⁶"

"Kya aap ke bhayi, behen bhi hain?⁷"

"Mera ek bhai tha. Voh Baghvan ko bahut saal pahle pyara ho gaya. Ek choti behen shadi shuda hai; Barielly me rehti hai. Yeh gaon hi hamara jeevan hai. Baghavan is choti si duniya me hame basaya hai; hum ko yahin par sukhi jeevan bitane ka aadesh hai. Isse aadhik hum logon mein kuch bhi nahin dikhta hain⁸"

As he said those words, his face glowed with a smile. The simple man and his contentment with the world he had inherited was so much in contrast with urbanites, including him, always looking for more and more, thought Rajesh.

He also recalled the words of a guru whose discourse he had heard in college. The Guru had said:

"All human beings seek lasting happiness. But, what we experience is a hankering undercurrent of insecurity and un-fulfillment in our lives. There is a constant drone of ‘I want, I want, or I am wanting, I am wanting’ playing in our minds. We delude ourselves that by acquiring new material objects, more wealth, or new relationships, we will achieve that elusive, lasting happiness. Like a peg-board that children use with many holes of different shapes, and blocks that fit these holes, we choose block after block to fill the holes. Each time, the block drops into the box, but the hole still remains."

A farm labourer, hands and legs calloused by hard farm work, face creased by long hours in the sun, walked in and touched the feet of the Chowdhary. "Kya bat hai⁹, Hariya, he asked. The labourer handed over a just ripe papaya to the Chowdhary with obvious glee and said, Yeh hamare naya ped ka pehla phal hi Chowdharyji.¹⁰ The Chowdhary looked at the fruit with interest, and told Rajesh that his son had tried an experiment to grow papaya in the village. Hariya, he said, "Yeh tumhara phal hai Hariya. Apne parivar ko khilao.¹¹" The villager bowed and then went on to ask for pardon that he could not go the farm that afternoon as his son had fallen ill. The labourer’s face showed concern. Without a word, the Chowdhary walked into the house and came back to press some money into the labourer’s hand and tell him that he should go to the village Vaidya. The farmer left, gratitude dripping from his toothless face.

The Chowdhary came back to his seat on the charpoy. Before Rajesh could speak, the Chowdhary walked up to a calf that was