But Where? A short story in Hati series,

 But Where?
Edited by Sayam Suraj Senapati who also contributed the photograph.

(Pleasantly surprised to get this mail from Dr Hati after so many days. Must be a new story!)

                                                                              Mumbai, Dt .12.12.2015.

Dear Rabi!

World is so small; problems, so common. I realized that with my stay in this metropolitan city of Mumbai since a year and more. You know, it feels so lonely, away in this neighbourhood of skyscrapers. Sometimes, quite frustrating.

When I came here, Tapas helped me get a one BHK flat on rent. You remember Tapas and Pinky? This couple, some eight years back, was blessed with a son in our hospital. Remember how the grandfathers went to a high on alcohol and celebrated; till it became so disturbing that both of them had to be driven out of the premises!

It did take some time for me to adjust here. But my attempts of socializing with Tapas and his family were futile. Although, he arranged the flat, I could never see him or Pinky; even if they were staying in the same apartment. When your bhaauja was here for a fortnight, I passed the message to Tapas but they never invited, nor tried to have a courtesy visit. I assumed it to be a metropolitan culture, where nothing ran without an event manger. I felt bad to think of the culture in this manner without knowing the essence of it. May be, they were avoiding me due to some reason. The reason for this couple, to leave Mumbai and come to our hospital for the care of their first pregnancy in Odisha, could never be economical; considering their high income. The reason must be social; The euphoria of both the grandfathers on the birth of their grandson! With time and my increasing work pressure, I stopped thinking about them.

During your bhaauja's stay, Chinama, my aged cook, opened up the apartment lives to her. She knew so much about the residents of this apartment! More than any of  us, society members. Or may be it was my uninvolvement that made me so ignorant. The old lady always came with Gem, a kid who looked so decent that it amazed me to think, the help’s grandson could be so smart! But your bhaauja clarified from Chinama that he is the son of another resident of this apartment. She is their recent cook. The previous cook, as per Chinama’s version, was a young Chudhail who destroyed the family. The sahib was trapped by her and the matter went so far that sahib had to compensate heavily for the alleged pregnancy she carried and her demands to marry him. The chudhail is still in terms with sahib; even that pregnancy is now a beautiful baby girl. So, during evenings, neither the sahib nor the maimsahib stay and the kid remains under her custody. She, in a whispering voice, further added,”Another man has entered maimsahib's life and sahib knows that. Once their divorce is accepted, she is going to marry him and move away.”

So what about Gem!?

Both of them want to keep Gem but that decision is pending in court. She made her tone further low and hissed,"I don't think any of them has a real intention to keep Gem. The claim is merely superficial.”

So after your bhaauja left, Gem came with Chinama every evening and watched cartoon channels. His pain was observable or may be, my thinking was biased, knowing his background. Once, Chinama, after finishing her work, asked the boy to leave with her as usual. But he was reluctant. The boy looked up to me and asked, “Lekin hum jaenge kahan?”(But where should we go?)

Chinama explained, “His mother will be late and father will come later, He remains scared and depressed at home. Neither does he like to go to our jhopadpati. And the last option is to sit in the security room without a TV.”

"Then, let him stay here and watch TV."

I locked the main door to prevent him from leaving the drawing room without my knowledge. I remained busy. When the calling bell rang, it was his mother in her most modern office outfit. The corridor was too dark to see her face properly. She took the poor kid home. But the echoes of his voice remained for a long time. "Lekin hum jaenge kahan?" Where does a single kid of a modernised ultranuclear family go in a period of distress! How can a kid fear his home and like mine? Surprisingly, Chinama told me the very next day that maimsahib did not send the kid with her to my house. I did not see him for a week. And suddenly today!

Today, for the first time, I saw police in this apartment. Gem had died last night in his sleep! His father was away. Gem was sick. Her mother took him to the hospital where he was treated for Asthma. After getting cured, she brought him back. Everything was normal until she discovered Gem, lying dead. The father complained the police with the suspicion of fowl play. The police could not ignore that knowing their disturbed background and the burning issue of the recent Sheena Bora murder case. The news spread like wildfire throughout the apartment where, in good days, nobody knows anyone else. When I reached the spot, it was terrible. I saw the known faces of two grandfathers mourning arms in arms, the same ones who once celebrated in our hospital and Gem was none but the same newborn whom I helped to bring to this world. It was one of the most difficult deliveries. Tapas and Pinky stood there; not as mourning parents but as complainant and accused. 

I was profusely sweating, cursing myself, why did I not care to know who Gem was! Why did the boy not talk to me in Odia? Why did I not investigate the reason of Tapas avoiding me? Why the corridor light was so dim that I could not recognize the modern woman who had once come to me like a country girl for her pregnancy care! All these questions were meaningless as both the grandfathers hugged me, screaming loudly; mourning that they came all the way from village to see their grandson, dead!

Gem was no more but "where should we go uncle" kept bursting my eardrums.

                                                                                                                             Yours Dr Hati.  

Divided by democracy. A walky talky molecular story. Dt.05.12.2015.

Divided by democracy.
A walky talky molecular story. Dt.05.12.2015.

From the battle field of Kalinga War

It was Chetan calling Biju.
Very rarely he talked to BIju after the last general election that made C jobless and B roaming places with government money, a reversal of role. They are friends from childhood.
When his highness honourable President of the nation wanted to refrain from voting, with a wish to remain neutral, people debated it in many ways.
Why should the common man be criticized not casting one's choice?!

 Had he not the option to maintain the secrecy and voted for NOTA that was the real neutral way?! 
B debated it differently with C.
“You are losing dear; Mr President not voting is not a neutral position as his voting means he votes for C even if he may have other choice. He is not interested means he doesn't want to vote to his own previous party as it is useless or he is angry for some other reason.”

 
C defended,"No no! He should not be dragged to controversy; your quarrelsome mind set raises war between historical souls like Gandhiji, Nehru, Patel and Bose that is OK but don't bring the ultimate peace maker of my party to controversy. Why should he think against party that made him the president!!"
B smiled with sarcasm, “Oh! But he should have been the prime minister that hurts him.

C was annoyed,then!!

 Netaji should have been PM, Patelji should have been PM, President should have been PM, Jinnaha ji should have been the PM to save partition, and many virtual prime ministers. Why didn't your party declare the name of two or three prime ministerial candidates but chants Har Har......

This was before the election result when both of them claimed in favour of their own party.
After the result cameout, B hosted a party where C was integral to tell that the democracy was mature.
Time passed, they were not too political in their communications till Mr Shourie told, B is C plus a cow.
Chetan ridiculed Biju for this. They were discussing it in presence of Ashu the supporter of party A.
A concluded,"Doesn't it mean Shourie told, C is B minus a cow, so where is the point for Chetan?"

And now Chetan calls Biju!
Honourable President told in Sabarmati in the Bapuji Ashram that garbage is not in our lanes but in our mind.
What does it mean?
Is he referring that Bapu should not be minimized for external cleanly ness but in addition to that to our internal Swachhata? Doesn't it mean he is very disturbed with the tolerance debate and the irresponsible statements thrown by people in high position?

Who listens? Every one is measuring oneself by one's own cubit that comes as fourteen quarters.

Biju concluded yeah people should introspect, make a full stop to the debate and start cleaning the garbage both from inner self, outer lanes and from the whole environment.

Next day it was seen both of them resigned from their respective party and were doing Kara seva as shoe keepers in the Delhi Gurudwara.

Monkey Terrorist.

   Monkey Terrorist..

There was a black smith in a big village. He always had work. He had no assistant. He brought a wild black faced baby monkey and domesticated it. To make it's loyalty sure he trained it to smoke tobacco, in form of hand made bidi. Very soon it obeyed him to wind the mill to keep the smiths furnace burn. He called it Jayvir to the annoyance of people as it was smoking. But the smith didn’t listen to anyone.

Soon Jayvir was so addicted to bidi that it begged any customer who started smoking there. It also enjoyed cigarette.

The wild monkey herd while merry making from tree to tree looked at Jayvir with pity and wished to remind it the length and breadth of free air, bright sun light, tender tasty leaves and fruits of all taste and state of ripeness. But custom forbade them to bring back it to their herd.

When Jayvir looked at them it also felt sorry for those unfortunate animals unable to take the real charm of a puff of tobacco. It was too happy to do the work of a full labourer in a very disciplined manner until it brought back some of its animal instincts.

If anyone smoking in his front denied offering a bidi, it got enraged. It made its fore claws wet and put some ash with it. The paste it made on its both claws was looking like black ink. It used that ink to tarnish the other man. Soon it became a menace.
He was the only blacksmith in the area, customer had no other options. 

The smith always took Jayvir's side as losing it meant a lot for him.

One day a terrorist in disguise came to the smith to make a deal of an order of some hundred of swords. He was taking marijuana in bidi that the monkey for the first time enjoyed with his delight. Wah this man is better than the smith. The terrorist did several visits to the smith and in the processes Jayvir became very fond of his new smoke.

With the new addiction Jayvir soon shifted allegiance and followed the terrorist. Needless to say too soon it became a slave to marijuana and to the terror organization. They trained it to be a suicide bomber..

It was utilized for its purpose in a market place killing hundred and eight persons several children included.

An evening with Sri Samir Ranjan Das.

An evening with Sri Samir Ranjan Das.

He is an ordinary man like me or any other reader of Odia literature. Like many of you who will love to read this piece, I also know him as the most dedicated fan of the legendary Sri Manoj Das and the point of our affection to the person is what we feel about his ability to remain in constant inspiration to continue any work in relation to sir. Literally we feel him as a Kuni Hanuman.

That makes a sense that he may be an eccentric pro Manoj Das feeler that is typical to the behavior of a fan of any celebrity. I also had a small similar feeling till yesterday when he spent a wonderful evening with our family.

I was wrong so also you all if you feel so.

He now stays at Hyderabad and has come with his family for limited number of days to his native place and that of in-law. In addition of enjoying the festival he is busy to utilize his time in relation to literature.

He is a banker not a professional in a literature related field.

He attended a big seminar of the Odia Wikipedia ongoing work on E-book making of Odia literature at BBSR. Spent some good time with Mr Saroj Bal of timepass Prakasan with some positive discussion with the enthusiastic publisher.

The time we spent was very interesting that he brought the topics of his association with Sri Radhanath Rath (psychologist), personal experience with Sri Chandrasekhar Ratha, topics related to Sri Mohapatra Nilamani Sahoo, the script writer of Odia serial Duhita, late SrI Gopinath Mohanty, Late Sri Manmathnath Das, our Sarala Das, Jagannath Das, Swami Ram, ex editor of Sachitra Vijaya, Dr Bani Samant, Sreema, Sri Aurovinda, Dr Sanyal, The Samaj, The Sambad, Sri Bibhuti Patnaik, Sri Sitakant Mohapatra, Madam Prativa Ray, late Sri Biju Patnaik, Sri Harekrishna Mohatab, and sure I am forgetting so many names.

He was telling his unfruitful yesterday’s venture when he with Sri Dattatreya Dash went to meet Sri Hrishikesh Panda in his village and several other things at Balasore. Young Dattatrya should accept that time sometimes deceives you so that your time becomes more intense with some desired persons that it was.

In a nutshell this man Samir is not all about our link to sir he can be a very beautiful link to the huge encyclopedia of Odia literature.

My wife Dr Sarita Behera joined in the discussion a little later, after finishing her work and enjoyed.  

Some years back in a small meeting in presence of Madam Professor Sarojini Sadangi I questioned whether Odia is heading towards the similar fate of Sanskrit and should you or anyone else write in Odia if there is no reader.

I know the success of Pustak Melas gives an opposite and positive feeling.

The same odd feeling came when I saw a book on the footpath that was brand new, with the autograph of the author obviously gifted to a person as if praying the customer to bail it out which I did and it was not badly written either.

But I am wrong.

Till a single reader like Samir is there the writers ( he himself is one) are morally bound to write something to carry on the legacy of Upendra Bhanja, Sarala Das, Fakir Mohan and Surendra Mohanty. Proud to be an Odia, a reader and proud to be a small Odia writer. Very proud to know a friend like Samirbabu.

(His philanthropic activity and desire not to make our present work commercial is intentionally not discussed)

God bless you Samirbabu and your family. Thanks from my parents, Sarita and me to make an evening we shall remember forever. 

In Service..... The story of a lost bike.

In service.
In the far away place from capital where a lot of hype was generated around, poverty, hunger, trafficking and people selling their children, they had to work till their eligibility to apply as in-service candidates for higher studies.
 Of course they were doctors for whom doing a post graduation is as ritualistic as a Brahmin doing a thread ceremony for his son.
It did not come as such but after reading the whole of the forgotten courses that was read in five years to complete in five fortnights. The council played a hide and seek that took a lot of time exhausting all savings they had for the purpose. The delay was not as such but a scam , the big scam where a dozen  direct and another half a dozen in service candidates could get the question by malpractice on which they had nothing to say as the court order was favorable that one was bound to honour.
All money exhausted in the process of waiting in loss of pay making the couple the poorest parents of two.
To add to it the association always demanded the registration fee of five hundred that was never available. After working six years in government they had lost the attitude of begging that the secretary never understood. Rather he ragged taking the name of the most illustrious teacher that it was his order. And here the story began.
 There was no billing by police as it is seen today, "This medical college is the high prevalence zone of bike burglars, Honour them with two locks, keep vehicle in stand." As if the role of police ends there to remind you about burglars, which was not enacted then.
Being a Student that the public said as PG and the faculty said as in service PG, you felt as if you were yet in your mother"s womb to come out in the labour room after three years if they had mercy on you, the same labour room where you were born some thirty three years back.
Of course it was true. Who could proclaim on the judgement day that he had enough knowledge to pass!
Yes what was told...., yes as a PG student you were allowed to keep your bike in the stand free of cost because that cost even counted. There was no clue when the government would be pleased to sanction your study leave may be after a complete year.
But it was bad luck that he kept his bike in front of the main building for fifteen minutes by mistake that was enough for the specialist bike burglar.
Your first reaction, rush to the police station with a feeling that they threw a net to snatch back your most valuable possession after six years of service, ha ha ha , it was not you it was both of you.
The first advice by the friendly police was whether the insurance was up date or not.
No.
"Do it first then do the FIR."
(Now they are verifying but then it was possible as was the usual practice.)
He was quick to think the burglar did the same thing what he should do to the insurance company. That he could not do actually.
Next good advice was, go to Mr X of and he would help you to get back your bike if it was done by the usual group.
He was very confused, it was not his cup of tea.
But next day he being further advised by two more senior persons wanted to visit the Mr X.. Mr X was known to him since long when they were tenets as nascent couple some seven years back in his locality.
He was greeted well, was recognised and consoled well but Mr X told that it was wrong on his part to believe what people told.
He could not understand the mystery!
He reported the matter to the investigating officer and came back with a strong sense to revolt but against whom he was not finding it out. There were so many recovered bikes in the police station. He developed a bad habit to visit several police stations to see bike after bike. He felt if no one was taking those bikes then why one was not given to him although he knew that was not possible.

He remembered the SP of the town is the husband of his friend. Also knew he helped another doctor recovering his bike but should he disturb the SP for the small thing, a lost bike!! No he could not.

The next day in the department he told the thing to everyone to draw a little bit of sympathy that never stopped the right person to ask him to make no delay in registering himself as a member of the society.
He learnt he was nothing more than a student that to one in service being ready to march forward when there was a cyclone or a flood any where on the earth.
Never he could forget the bike 4S Champion of Bajaj make bearing number OR-05-C-1559, on which he biked 476 KMs at a stretch not once but six times in life. After sixteen years even the lost bike is so meaningful that always told him to be a villager only..    

.A Literature farmer's suicide .

A Literature farmer's suicide .
Sangram Lal (Red rebel) was a firebrand poet during his time. Got an award from Sahitys Academy in 1978, in post civil emergency period for his relevant literature during the preceding time.
He forgot to marry till he became beyond age. He was not a government officer or a professor of literature, to get pension after retierment. Neither he was an MLA or MP to get similar benefit. As he felt to retire he had no other option other than returning to his remote village in Phulbani(Kandhamal). There in his childhood, he became a rebel poet, seeing the oppression and atrocities towards people by high hands.
 His joint family and villagers took care of him. He remained engaged in plantation in personal and public land. He also loved to teach small children of his village. Children enjoyed his way of teaching loaded with stories. He was happy.
 No one from outer world remembered him till recently. In recent time, returning or non returning the academy award became a topic in society, after one after another awardees returned their award complaining intolerance to free speech and difference of opinion. A group of digital ghosts of literature in Bhubaneswar, the capital city of Odisha,  formed a committee to contact all awardees to take their views and indirectly pressurize them to return their awards. They met Sangram All in his village.
Red rebel had retired in true sense and was not aware of the current topics. He felt elevated and happy that, he still existed in the literature circle.
After listening every thing he committed nothing. He behaved indifferent. He was falling short to react.
 The committee did not expect it from a person called Red Rebel.
When they insisted, the slept tiger in him got up to tell, "In the name of freedom of expression you young men are killing my freedom". He recited his still remembered poem that shook the state against civil emergency.
Red Rebel however cooled down himself. His village life taught him to work on the ground reality. From where should he bring one lakh rupees to return. His family lived hand to mouth. It would be a great burden to them in the prevailing drought situation.
The next day however the unkind media printed a twisted story and took great care to send him copies.
Red Rebel became restless. His village folk reacted against it. Their voice did not reach the capital.
He picked up his pen and started writing.
After three days he approached the bank in the block head quarter for a loan of one lakh.
They declined to sanction any such loan, on the ground of uncertainty of return.
He tried to convince them that his poem compilation sells well. As the book got published he could repay. The bank manager politely told, "Sir! Your leftist ideas have no customer today, better to take rest not succumbing to the politics of literature".
He came back shutting up all his renovated ideas.
In the next morning he was found dead on his bed that all people thought to be a natural death, a heart attack of the old. However the sad bank manager was seen telling himself,"Oh another farmer committed suicide, a farmer of literature although".

Ruki and Khairun Hamma AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A COW. in Hati series.

            Ruki and Khairun Hamma

                                                                                  AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A COW.

                                                                                                                in Hati series.

It was half past mid night in the windy showers of unseasonal rain when nature was playing its own song; Dr Hati got the time to come back from labour room ending the day’s heavy work. Some unusual sound he heard that was difficult to tell whether to be a new born baby’s cry dragged by the wind with some Doppler effect that changed its pitch or the wind some where whistling a bottle neck. It was a real sound appeared to be a call to him only, so he moved towards its direction.

He had to travel through the corridor to avoid the rain.He moved towards the sound in the process stepped on heapes of cow dung in two occasions. The innocent destitute cattles self rehabilitated in Abantipur hospital have packed the corridor. 

They also had no chance to withstand the weather in the open space as was their usual practice. He saw a relatively healthy cow in the middle was weeping with audible sound as if in her better time some body taught him to express like her master.

Not only had she weeped she could speak even that Dr Hati halted to listen. She spoke with semi human accent but the language was not Odia, it was Urdu.

Salaam walekum daktar sahib!
Walekum..

     Rukeya, the weeping cow introduced herself, the daughter of her ex-owner Khairun (H)amma. Hati had no chance to guess her stuffiness of nose was because of hours of weeping or as she caught cold in the bad weather. Rukeya cleared her air way with a sneeze followed by a short bout of cough.

Can you not find me my Khairun Hamma’s house?

Where and why asked Hati!

Where I can’t say as I travelled some miles on vehicle. But you have to listen to my story and decide.

Hati was stunned and obliged to stop there to hear her autobiography.

All Hati listened till the end, and then from some cues he drew a thread to do a research on it that finally might lead him to find out her foster house.

Khairun Nisha was leading a very pleasant family life till the death of her husband Gaffur who was an automobile mechanic with enough income, enough for his village level living style. He was a nice man that never did forbid Allah to endear him.

Khairun’s passion for cows now became her means to survive. Her father was a live stock inspector who had chosen for her the best possible cows to keep. Khairun had three cows to start with which doubled in usual time. Gaffur was planning to have an extension of the cow shed when he met the fatal accident.

Things changed dramatically. Difficult time comes with intensity as Khairun’s father was diagnosed to have a cancer.

The last hope remained Rajaram, Gaffur’s very close friend who also was his co-worker. Rajaram is the man who used to take their weekly offer of milk in the local Shiva temple. There was no problem as human can have a water tight compartment of religion, caste and class but cows never enter to this controversy so also the milk. Rajaram also channelized the entire yield to OMFED the most trusted milkman so that there should be no marketing problem. However as it seemed there was no chance to save enough money to extend the shed having a maximum capacity for five. They had to sell one for this reason explained Khairun. Money was needed for elder daughter Guddi’s form fill up for the board examination. How can she tell Rajaram about the monetary need! So instead she pointed the crowding problem.

She selected Rukeya to bear the burnt as it was her most favorite and healthy cow. She felt Rukeya can withstand any kind of lack of care. Rukeya never fell sick, ate whatever was given to her, and was the most docile one to Khairun’s children. She felt sorry for choosing her to sell. She cried.

But what else can be done? They are now poor. Poverty forced to change her priority.

So Ruki had to go.

She felt Rajaram was the right person to do this job. She knew no fool would sell it to a butcher. Khairun herself never cooked beef because of her fond association with cows. She wanted to be sure that in future too when Ruki will be old there should be absolutely no such chance for Ruki to be sold to a Kasai. In this regard naturally her husband’s trusted Hindu friend was to be relied.

She told not to sell it to any Muslim or a cow trader Hindu even.

Rajaram took it to the weekly cattle market. He kept a good price for Ruki. Anyone who came for a bargain was asked about his details. The trader lobey was not much interested seeing the price. Rajaram like a very expert salesman described the milk yield Ruki had for her first calf. So many customers discussed and left for its price and the price he hiked when there was a little doubt on the customer’s purpose of purchasing the cow.

Finally he got a customer. The man Pintu believed if he donates the best of the cow to a Brahmin his father in death bed should directly go to heaven. He was ready to give the demanded cost without any bargain.

All formalities of the cattle market was done and Rajaram left back Ruki for a good amount of money. Ruki did not like the happenings. What was within her hand?

There was a rope around her neck and tag of being docile on her back.

 This had to be the attire of one who suffered man or pet.

 Moreover the transaction was over. Rajaram left the place with a heavy heart. Ruki didn’t know how to react as she was being sold for the first time in her life being born and brought up at Khairun’s house.

Soon she could know she was dragged to a different village with a new master Pintu.

Pundarkshaya Panda was the only Brahmin in the entire Panchayat who received the donation of cow. It was his family tradition which he was committed to continue. All other stoped taking cow as a donation. Who could take their care? It was a problem for him too. He was staying alone in village. Both of his sons were now employed in the city. Agricultural helps were not available. Cheap rice scheme made labour class people reluctant to work, he cursed. He knew he was unable to take care of the animals however he was reluctant to stop the tradition. He had some responsibility for the common people in the society. How could he stop sailing someone’s boat towards the entry gate of heaven? It was his inner feeling not greed. Had he any right? Our forefathers did it. He was in no mood to stop taking this difficult donation. It was a big responsibility.

So he prescribed Pintu the time method and logistics for the small ritual.

Now Ruki was gifted to Pundarikshaya.

Pundarikshya had a method. He any how kept the new animal for some period.He delegated the work of disposing the animal to needy people at a nominal price to one Pabitra who was trustworthy.

Pabitra played a villain without Pundarikakshaya’s knowledge. He sold all such animals in a distant market and to traders supplying to slaughter houses at Kolkata. He deceived Pundarikakshaya in a very fine manner. to Pundarikakshaya who now felt relieved.

 Ruki was taken to a different market where Pabitra sold her to the traders after doing all lawful formalities.

That was a very successful market day for the one trader group as their rival group for some reason did not come to the market.

 Transport facilitators who charged some money from the traders to facilitate smooth passage till they reach Kolkata. They were a kind of Mafias. That day because of their cheap purchase the mafia group demanded more which the traders declined to give.

A conflict started when the mafias telephoned to the cow savior unit of the circle in secret. Now they allowed the transport without taking their price.

Ruki was packed in side the carrier of the truck that was packed up to its full capacity. None liked to hear Ruki crying Khairun Hamma! Khairun Hamma! Khairun Hamma as the truck moved some miles to reach Abantipur where the cow savoir unit was ready to snatch these animals to set them free in front of camera.

Ruki didn’t know where to move. Wherever she went someone drove her out. No one was ready to keep such a healthy and productive cow free of cost! Ruki now joined the group of above fifty destitute cows staying in the government hospital’s open space. No shelter, no protection from rain and sun. No social status. Whenever the moods of the staff made them remember the cows’ existence the only thing they did was to drive them out of the campus to some distance from where they returned back as soon as the staff returned.  

When someone succumbed to death no one was interested for its cremation. After taking a heavy amount two sweepers came and carried them to the village cow field to throw the caracass.

Ruki only cried at her top Khairun Hamma, Khairun Hamma, and Khairun Hamma!

Where was Khairun Hamma? Possibly this thread would help Hati to reach the noble lady that made Ruki’s journey a full circle and she got back her right place right care.

(Dedicated to those golden time of two months in 1983 when the author

 was close to his family cowshed of six bullocks three cows and a Hariyana Bull. The bullocks were named even.)