Idhar Udhar Ki Baat

“Saare hi chale gaye…” (“All of them are gone now”), my father-in-law, well into his ninties, would say almost every time we sat together for a drink. And every time he said it, I would wonder—How does a man feel when he outlives almost everyone he once loved? Like the winner of life’s race? Or like a forgotten straggler left behind after the crowd has disappeared? One evening, perhaps sensing my thoughts, he smiled faintly and said, “You know… at this age, I feel like that one cup, saucer, or glass tumbler left behind after the rest of the crockery set has broken.” He paused and took a sip. “People cannot throw it away… but among the new crockery, it becomes an eye sore.” I laughed softly. But the truth inside that metaphor stayed with me. I was never his ideal drinking companion. He liked lively company. Loud laughter. Long evenings. Stories flowing with whisky. Perhaps too much of it in his younger days. In fact, I suspect he had spent so many evenings outside the home during h...

“Dadaji, your generation was funny. Look at that old man at the bus stand. He has covered his suitcase with camouflage-pattern cloth. It must take him ages to open it,” said Sonu, the eldest among the three Gen Z boys travelling with me in the car. I smiled. “Beta, these things came naturally to our generation. Firstly, because we were not very well off. Secondly, because our parents taught us to preserve things.” “But Dadu… why cover a suitcase?” “Not just suitcases. In my childhood, transistor radios came in leather covers. Our old valve radio had a beautifully crocheted cover on it. Later, the same thing happened with televisions. Some people even used covers for their wrist watches,” I replied. “Watches? Then how did they even see the time?” Sonu laughed. “There was a flap. People became innovative. Some used press buttons, some used Velcro. Lift the flap, see the time, and close it again. The idea was simple—don’t let scratches ruin the watch,” I replied. The boys burst into laugh...

“Get me out of here.” That was the first thing my cousin said with tears in his eyes, when I visited him inside Tihar Jail. It was his seventh day there. I had avoided going for all those days. Not out of indifference… but discomfort. A strange mix of hesitation, shame, and helplessness. But family pressure finally got the better of me.     My cousin had lived in the United States illegally for over ten years.       Then one day, something changed within him. Perhaps guilt or fatigue or a longing for home. He walked into the Indian Embassy and requested to be deported back. The family was relieved. We went to the airport to receive him. But he was arrested at the airport.      Only later did the truth emerge. The agent who had sent him abroad had used stolen visa stickers from the U.S. Embassy in Delhi. When the agent was caught, he revealed the names of everyone who benefited.      Like many others my cousin had handed ...