C B Singh

CB Singh

Everybody called him C B Singh.  

No one quite knew what the initials C and B stood for.

He was just CB Singh.

CB Singh was indispensable for our office.  He ran about the whole day doing odd jobs.  He dusted the desks and the chairs, filled up the water bottles for the managers and kept them on their tables before they came in, ushered in important visitors into the CEO’s cabin and served them tea in special bone china cups and saucers. He shifted the printer and desk tops from one place to another as needed, brought the print outs from the network printer, got burgers for us when we worked late evenings – literally doing everything under the sun.

Most of the days I reached office a few minutes before 9 am.  

CB Singh was busy filling up bottles for us. 

I had a pink bottle. Quite unique. There were three rings on the bottle and between the rings, there were symmetrical bulges. It was my lucky bottle and I carried it with me to all the organizations where I worked.  But the other bottles were almost identical and I don’t know how CB Singh managed to remember which bottle belonged to whom and kept them at the correct desks.

CB Singh was short and stout.  His hands were shorter than usual. Whenever I called him or any other senior person summoned him, he would come and stand reed straight, his hands locked below his pot belly, barely able to contain it. His face was round and puffy.  His eyes were small but very sharp. His lips were thick and he sported a small moustache. There was a big mole on his right cheek and whenever he was in a thoughtful mood, he slowly stroked the mole.  

With his sparse hair, wiggly pot-belly, puffed face and jutting out teeth, he looked quite ugly.  But every morning when he greeted me with his bright smile saying “Good Morning Mam “, I found his toothful smile, crinkled up skin surrounding his sharp joyful eyes quite charming.

But it was when the Government of India passed a ruling that if a female employee is late at work, she needs to be accompanied with a chaperone in the cab to drop her home, we got to know each other better.

Mine was a very high pressure job, catering to US customers residing in the West Coast. There were late evening calls.  Almost twice a week I stayed back late, resolving issues, communicating with the on site co-ordinator, talking to my peer Project manager in the US, discussing the software requirements, the deadlines and potential risks .  

On these late night rides back home, CB Singh was my chaperone in the cab. 

I always try to utilize my travel time.  From Chanakyapuri in New Delhi to Noida Sector 127 was never less than 1 hour .  This was a pure “Me time”. I caught up on thoughts on my  unfinished writing , listened to old film songs and talked to my near and dear ones.  I really planned these conversations and had a ready list of whom to talk to on which days and at what time !  

During the late night rides,  I usually talked with my mother, my sister or very close school friends.  

On one such late night ride,  I got a call from a  long lost school friend.   She stayed in Boston and had got my cell number from another friend at a chance meeting there. 

“Seema,  Tu ? Kaisi hai ? Patna se Boston pahuch gayi ? Kaisi ? Kab, kahan ? “ . I was thrilled to hear her voice.  There seemed to be an instant connection and the 20 years of  distance melted away in a second.  So, we talked and talked. While talking to her,  the typical bihari lilt came naturally in my language. I was so excited and happy. 

CB Singh, sitting in the  front seat  beside the driver was perhaps more thrilled than me.

After we disconnected , I leaned back satiated and happy.

CB Singh said " Mam, you are from Patna? "

“Yes . Why ? “

“Mam, I am also from Bihar.  A place named Muzaffarpur, very near Patna”.

“Really ? “ I said

It had somehow never occurred to me that CB Singh also has some other identity.  It is so strange that in the humdrum of life, we miss out on certain facets of the people with whom we interact on a daily basis. We look at only at the work which we need from them, not the person in totality.

“Yes Mam . My village is near Muzaffarpur.  I have my ancestral house there.  My father, mother, three sisters , uncle , aunt all stay there ”.  His voice melted away.  

 “You miss your village CB Singh ?”

“Yes maam . Very much . It is so green there . So many trees, birds, ponds … my mother cooks the best daal in this whole world. And my youngest sister, she is so fond of me that whenever I go home, she does not leave my side even for a second”. I could feel the longing in his voice.

 In my two year stint in the organization, I did not remember a day when there was no CB Singh around .

“When did you last go home ? “

“Three years back, when my father was very sick. But Mam …”, there was a sudden excitement in his voice “I am feeling so happy … you are also from Bihar , I feel .. I feel as if I am talking to my elder sister … “ he stopped short.

It is strange how a place binds people together.  CB Singh and I were so disparate but the we somehow were bound by the  Bihar connection.

“Mam, I … I hope you are not angry with me for saying this … sorry mam .. I should not have said it … I am a very small person mam.. forgive me … “ he whispered .

“CB Singh, never ever say that again.  And always feel free to talk to me . “

By that time, I had reached home.

But our conversation continued for many more late night rides.  

CB Singh looked forward to these trips.  Sometimes, riding back home, talking on my mobile,  I observed that CB Singh was fidgeting with his hands, shaking his shoulders and stroking his mole while sitting in the from seat of the cab. I cut short my talks on the phone and  talked to him for a few minutes.  I did not want to miss the joy in his voice while talking to me.

He talked about his home, his village, his school, his friends and relatives. He talked about bhujia-chawal which his mother and chachi cooked, how he loved the spicy mutton cooked by his uncle.  He told me about his school friends and the pranks that they played.  How he lost the game of pitto because his friend had cheated on him and then he scared him while the friend was going to the field for his ablutions. 

It was mainly a one sided conversation with an occasional “hmm “ and “oh “ from me . I do not know whether he expected any comments from me or not .  It seemed that the words came out from his heart’s depth.  All pent up thoughts and emotions. His longing flowing out in the form of words.  Memories cascading down his self.  I was just an instrument for him to pour out his  feelings, passion, hope and desires. 

And I ? I was utterly amazed at the unfolding of the layers of personality of what I saw as a very mundane character.

But more was yet to come. 

The time when CB Singh came back from his two weeks leave.

I was working furiously on the project plan and I did not notice him coming inside my cabin.  Maybe because I could not recognize him.

“Sit down “ , I said, without taking my eyes off my laptop. 

The person hesitated.

I looked up.

He stood there , his short hands locked below his pot belly. He was wearing a suit ! The white shirt below his blazer as bulging near , the button jutting out. He had a faint line of kohl in his eyes. His hair was well oiled and strands of whatever was there on his scalp were lying  flat on his head.  He was wearing a gold chain and a gold ring.  And his face glowed with happiness.

“CB Singh !” I exclaimed “ Oh My God ! You look so different ! You have got married ! ”

He lowered his eyes , nodded and smiled shyly.

“You look handsome in the suit CB Singh ! But You did not invite me ! “  I joked.

He took it seriously.

“Mam, I did not know !”  He unlocked his hands and wrung them apologetically.

“My father had selected the bride and they wanted me to get married within a week because I don’t get leave so often … Sorry mam … “ . 

He really looked sad.

Suddenly his eyes brightened and he grinned , his teeth jutting out. He came closer to my desk , leaned forward and whispered “Mam, I have brought thekua for you  …  will you go in the late night cab mam ? “

“Hmm ..  not today. Tomorrow I have a conference call and I will be late .”

“Ok Mam. I will give it to you tomorrow “ He smiled. His ugly puffy face looked so happy.

That day he went from desk to desk distributing sweets to the whole office.  

All of us contributed and bought a watch for him and a red silk sari for his wife.  He stroked his mole, smiled and laughed. He looked coyly at the gifts, specially the sari and kept it safely in the cupboard near the area where he slept at night.

From then, our late night ride conversations took a different turn. Instead of reminiscing about the past,  CB Singh talked only about his future, his wife Dulari. He showed me his wife’s photograph which he kept in his wallet.  

“Mam , Dulari is very beautiful. Not like me. Her father expired two years back and her brothers wanted to get her married as soon as possible. That is why she married me … else he deserved a better husband than me … but I think my Bhagya is good that I got her .. 

“

“You are a very nice human being, CB Singh. I think Dulari is lucky to have you as her life partner “ , I said.

He smiled . He was happy. It showed on his face.

 

He talked about the 2 weeks that he spent with her. How she tickled him, cooked his favourite dishes and wore sari with pallu on her head during daytime and while going to bed she put on a nightie. CB Singh was afraid that his relatives will find out about this and create problems for Dulari, but she just would not listen to him.  She was like a child, he said. She threw tantrums, but he always managed to pamper her wishes. After all, he was her husband and if he did not take care of her then who will ?

“Right” , I said , “You miss her , don’t you ? “

“Yes, Mam… every night I dream about her…”, he hesitated,  “Mam, shall I ask you one thing ?“

“Yes .. what is it ?

“Mam, Dulari wants to come here. But , how is that possible ? I do not have a place to keep her … I stay in the office … and rent is so expensive here … how will I be able to manage ? “

“Hmm … difficult situation. But I think you also want her to come and stay with you, right ? You miss her so much ..“

“Yes mam. I call her up every Sunday at 11 am from the local PCO . She goes to our neighbour’s house , they have a phone. Nowadays, whenever I call her up , she cries and says she wants to come here… She does not like it there anymore .. I even told her that I will quit my job here and come to the village and do Kheti with my family, but she does not want that … I don’t know what to do ..”

“Have patience CB Singh. Things will work out. Don’t worry”.

I did not have any solution to his problem.  But one thing I found strange.  Dulari just wanted to come to Delhi or was it that she wanted to be with her husband ?

For the next couple of weeks, CB Singh was strangely silent during the rides. 

Then one day he told me that he had made an arrangement with someone,  a friend of an acquaintance. That person stayed in the outhouse of a flat and worked night shifts in a BPO. CB Singh had made arrangement with him to stay at night there with Dulari. During the day, Dulari would take care of the 2 year old child of the flat owner. Both husband and wife worked in an IT firm in Gurgaon. The husband’s 82 year old father also stayed with them . Dulari would stay in the flat till the time CB Singh returned from office and then they would sleep in the outhouse.

“Mam, I am very lucky to get this place . It will just cost me Rs 2000.  Dulari is very happy.  I will bring her here after two weeks“ .

“Great !”

“Yes ! Ramesh, the person who gave me this offer leaves at 6 pm. So , Dulari can cook food after he leaves”. Happiness drooled out from his tone, “Dulari is so happy ….”

The next couple of days he talked about his future with Dulari. The places which he will take her on Sundays – Qutub Minar, Red Fort, Lodhi Garden, Lotus Temple, Hanuman Mandir.

“She will love the Jalebi , chat and Biriyani of  Old Delhi .. “

“Yes, and also take her to Lajpat Nagar. She will love the shops there” , I said.

“No Mam, she is like a child and will want to buy dresses . She loves to deck up in good clothes and cosmetics. It is so costly. Right now I will give her the sari which the office gave me .  I am saving up some money . I will take her to Sarojini Nagar and Lajpat Nagar market after six months”

I smiled.  Because I knew she would not wait for 6 months. Females and their love for shopping is universal.

“What about starting a family , CB Singh ? “ I asked one day.

He went all coy . He lowered his eyes and head and nodded.

He wanted to start a family soon since he was 31 years old and it was time that he had a son.  Dulari was 10 years younger to him, but old enough to manage a child. 

“But CB Singh, why do you want only a son ? What about daughter ? “

“Mam, but we need a son to progress our family name na ?”

“Daughter’s also are your own blood !  Do you know that girls are now getting into every field ? In fact , there are some areas where the females are doing better than males .  Look at Sonia Gandhi, Sania Mirza. Think of  Indira Gandhi . See in our office, there are so many female managers , even our CEO is a female”.

My feminist speech must have taken him aback.  I don’t know how much he understood.

After a few minutes, CB Singh asked me “Mam, do you have a son ? “

“No. I have only one daughter”

“You don’t want a son ? “

“No.  One daughter is enough for me “

“Mam, in our village we have to give lot of Dahej … “

My feminist , socialist voice rose again .

“Dowry ? That is the reason the girls are not being able to progress.  Do you know that giving and taking dowry is a crime? And is it not like selling your son?  You should raise your daughter so that she can take care of herself as well as you. She should be well educated, capable and economically independent. Only then India can progress , the world can progress. “

He gaped at me, as if soaking in my words.

I stopped myself from speaking more. Poor CB Singh. Wasn’t it enough that he was grappling with his immediate problems and here I was giving him lectures on feminism.

Hardly did I realize at that point that things said casually can in fact have a  big  impact on someone’s life.

CB Singh brought Dulari from his village in October after Dussehra.  I saw him eating dal roti , subzi from his three tiered steel tiffin box. In fact he made it a point to open his lunch box ceremoniously in the canteen, heat up the food in the microwave and savour the food slowly and in a relaxed manner.  He was proud to have Dulari cook for him and he wanted everyone to know his good fortune.

Every year , in the last week of December, we had our annual office party. That year we decided to go to Wet-n-wild resort for a picnic.  The employees and their spouses were invited. CB Singh and Dulari were also invited.

When our bus reached the venue, CB Singh was already present there. His duty was to supervise all the logistical arrangements with the resort people. He and Dulari were standing near the gate to welcome us.

She was small and petite.  Her face was fair and round with full lips and big eyes. She had worn the red silk sari which we had gifted her.  Her long hair was well shampooed, braided, with locks cut on both side of the hair parting.  She had put foundation on her face, red lipstick on her lips, a matching bindi on her forehead , red glass bangles and a red bead choker adorned her delicate neck. She was indeed beautiful.

And standing beside CB Singh, they looked like Beauty and the Beast.

But CB Singh was blissfully unaware of this stark mismatch. He proudly introduced Dulari to me and others.  I smiled at her and she smiled back.  I noticed her eyes. It darted all about the place. Soaking in the lavish arrangements. Gawking at the stilettoes, jeans and fitted tops. Darting to and fro from the faces and expressions of the male employees. She was having a gala time. And CB Singh ? Well, between helping with the serving of food or arranging the games, his eyes only went towards Dulari .. gazing at her adoringly. He seemed ecstatic that Dulari was enjoying herself.  

He was proud that her  husband had earned the enjoyment for her. 

And then it was time to dance.  It was a ritual to call CB Singh to dance on the floor when everyone was tired. He loved to dance.  He would throw up his hands, shake his hips, make gestures with his short arms and groove with the music.  This time when we called him, he looked coy and shook his head.

“Please CB Singh .. please dance with us… “ all the people clamoured.  

He shot a quick glance towards Dulari. She looked excited .  He  went inside the dance floor and started dancing.  His mouth wide open - mouthing the song being played, teeth jutting out, bulging cheeks, dishevelled hair, wiggly pot belly , he was a sight to see.  He shot up his hands, shook his legs in a twist,  turned around and ran from one side of the floor to the other. 

All of us cheered in mirth. “Go on CB Singh … go on !” – and he dance the most ugly and gawky dance ever.

Dulari was standing near the floor, looking at her husband. I saw her face flushed with disgust. Somewhere in between, she had opened the pin of her pallu and draped it around her shoulders - with the pallu flowing on her left hand. She had put it in a way that her cleavage was exposed.  CB Singh came towards her and brought her into the floor.

 Everybody cheered again – “Yes, Yes, Go CB Singh Go … dance with your wife“.

Dulari started swaying her hips. Unlike CB Singh, she was graceful and matched the rhythm of the tune. Others also joined.  I sat down with a glass of lemon soda , watching the dance.  I saw Dulari smiling and laughing… her pallu falling from her shoulders … dancing, gyrating, swirling.

Sometimes too near to the young males. As far away from CB Singh as possible.

The month of January passed away in a flurry. 

December being a lean month, work is always heavier in January. Between phone calls , work and lunch time, I  saw C B Singh going back to his old ways of buying food from a roadside stall and eating it late afternoons after everybody finished their lunch. It seemed to me, that the usual cheerful person looked a bit pensive, but I never got around to asking him the reason.

I put in my papers middle of February.  I had a good offer with a better role in a bigger organization. I had to serve one month of notice period here.  That evening, while going back late after the conference call , I opened the car window and let the cool breeze play on my face and hair.  The moon was shining bright and trees along the highway were dark and dense.  

I was feeling sad.  I had completed 7 years in this office and loved every minute of my work.  It was a difficult decision for me but life has to go on. 

 

C B Singh sat on his usual front seat. I looked at him. His neck was slightly bent, his shoulders drooping , hands on his lap. I will miss him. I thought.  It struck me that he had been unusually quiet for the last few weeks but at that moment,  I was in no mood to talk. When I reached home , it was about 10 pm.  I asked him “Would you like to have a cup of tea , C B Singh ? “

He looked taken aback. After a few seconds, he picked up my laptop and walked with me.

My daughter opened the door and was surprised to see him.

“Ma, this is C B Singh ? “

“Yes , Call him C B Singh Uncle”.

I asked him to sit on the sofa.  He hesitated and kept standing. In the meantime, my daughter brought a glass of water for him and kept it on the table.

“Sit Down C B Singh Uncle “, she said, “Ma always talks about you “.

He sat down.

“Really ? Mam, talks about me ? “ , his eyes were wide with surprise.

“Yes !” She danced about him and me. “Ma, I have a debate competition tomorrow and I have written something. You have to listen “.  She ran inside and got her notebook and started reading out her speech.

C B Singh looked at her in wonder .

“Mam , she has written it herself ? “ He asked.

“Yes. She writes well.”

“Her name is Mini ? “

“Yes. Her nickname is Mini”

“Tinni’s daughter Mini … she will grow up to be as great as you are …  “, he mumbled to himself.

It was my turn to be surprised.

“How do you know my name ? “

He smiled . “When you talk to your mother on phone, you always say your name!”.

I laughed and said “C B Singh, today you will have dinner with me. We have your favourite Bihari Bhujia, daal and roti for dinner I hope Dulari will not mind“.

I was horrified to see CB Singh’s face getting distorted and his eyes welling up in tears. He put is hands on his face and sobbed, his body shaking and writhing as if in great pain.

“What happened ? Are you OK ? “ I was alarmed.

Mini sensing danger , ran to her father in the other room.

“Mam”, C B Singh said in between his sobs, “Dulari … Dulari has run away with Ramesh … “

“What !!!!  “, I was shocked.

“Yes Mam. Ramesh is very handsome. He earns well . I could not buy her the clothes, sandals and cosmetics which she wanted… “.

“But … “

“I am so ugly.. I don’t have money … I cannot talk like Ramesh. I .. I think  she deserves a better husband. Ramesh will keep her happy.“. He kept on sobbing. Tears flowed down his puffy cheeks, his pot belling trembling with his sobs.

“You do not want her back ? Do you know where they are ? You can go to the police .. “ I sat beside him and touched his hand.

C B Singh looked up

“No, No Mam … I know Dulari was never happy with me. I just hope that Ramesh keeps her happy and gets her whatever she desires … “

I did not know what to say .

“Mam, I don’t know what to tell my parents and relatives. They will make fun of me and will curse Dulari .. “

He looked at me with tears in his eyes. I held his hands.

“C B Singh, just remember one thing.  Nothing lasts forever. If there is a bad time, there will definitely be a good time. God has a bigger plan in mind for each one of us, which we are not always able to fathom.  Do not ever lose hope.  You are a great person with such a big heart and I know that something good is definitely in store for you“.

I don’t know whether I was rambling. 

I don’t remember what I said and why I said. I had to say something to console him.  Or maybe I was consoling myself for the unfairness of life.

“You really think so ? “ He searched my face with his small pleading eyes.

I could just nod my head. My throat was numb with pain.

He stood up and went away, walking slowly , with his head hanging loose , his shoulders drooping.  I was too distressed to call him back for dinner.

That Friday night, before going to sleep,  I thought about C B Singh.  I had just witnessed a real life episode of true love. 

That was the last time I saw C B Singh, or so I thought the next day.

No one knew where he went.  The calls to his cell phone went unanswered. After a few days his number was unreachable. 

I heard that he had called up Yasmin, our accounts person, from a land line number, to tell him that he will not come back. His full and final payment was credited to his bank account.  Our office got a new peon as his replacement. And within days, the  pot-bellied, puffy faced CB Singh, with his jutting out teeth, slowly faded away into the routine ho-hum of work.

My last month in the company was more hectic than usual. 

The process of knowledge transfer, completing the pending tasks, handing over the work , assisting the CEO with the upcoming appraisal ratings and of course the informal farewell lunches were a catapult of work as well as emotions. Seven years is a long time.  

On my last day, while saying goodbye to everybody during the customary farewell get together,  I remembered CB Singh. In all farewell gatherings, he stood in the corner with a bouquet in his hands, to be presented to the employee. 

My bouquet stood on the desk.

Life goes on. 

We all flow with the time, taking memories with us – some sweet, a few bitter. But sometimes, things from the past re appear with a fresh bout of locked away memories and you are left dazed, bewildered at life’s new avatar.

Mini was in the first year of college,  studying English from Lady Sriram College. 

I was the Global Head of an IT firm in Gurgaon.  In LSR, all the first year students were encouraged to be a part of any social work. Mini was the team leader of the group of students who had adopted a government school in Amar Colony, just behind the college.  Twice a week, after college, they went to the school and coached the students in written as well as spoken English.

One Saturday, she came back home after teaching in the school. She seemed excited.

“Ma ! Look at this ! “ and she thrust one small piece of paper in my hands. 

“What is this ?”, I said.

“Today we had asked the students of class 2A to write an essay about their family.  See – she has written that her father’s name is CB Singh .. ma is he the same person who worked in your office ?  Who had left the day after he visited us ?“.

I hurriedly put on my reading glasses. 

It was a letter written in scraggly alphabets. There were a few spelling mistakes.  But the description was lucid and beautiful.  Her father’s name was CB Singh.  They lived in Okhla. Her father worked in Okhla.  They stayed in a small room . They had a pet cat. Her father cooked for her. He helped her with her studies.  When she grows up, she wants to be a project manager in a computer firm. 

There was no mention of her mother.

The next Monday , I took half day leave and went to the school. I requested the principal and got permission to meet the child.

A small girl, around 6 years old, came in and stood smartly in front of me. She was beautiful. The same limpid eyes, the full lips and petite structure. She seemed a small replica of Dulari.

I nodded and called her near me.

“What is your father’s name ? “

“CB Singh” she said , looking directly at my eyes.

I was impressed.

“What is your mother’s name ? “

“My mother’s name is Goddess Durga. She stays in heaven. She has 10 hands. Papa says that is the reason she cannot stay with us. Our room is so small. How will she sleep ?  “

I smiled at her. Ah ! the innocence of childhood. 

I held her hands. Her fingers were soft and beautiful. “I know your Papa”,  I said and fished out an old office photograph and pointed at CB Singh. “There he is , right ? “

“Yes ! That is papa ! My Papa !“. She started jumping with joy.

I wrote my name, cell phone number and address behind the photograph and gave it to her.

“Give this to your Papa, and ask him to meet me once”.

The very  next Sunday , around 11 am, CB Singh came with his daughter to visit me.  He still looked the same.  Just that his pot belly had shrunk a bit , there was not a strand of hair on his head and there were a few wrinkles on his puffy face.

“CB Singh !”, I exclaimed , “How are you? Where have you been ? “. 

“Mam … “ he touched my feet.

I felt a  peculiar emotion seeing him . Memories swamped my thoughts. I ushered him in our drawing room.  He smiled but his eyes were moist. Both of us fumbled with our words. So many years in between us ….

“Touch her feet”, CB Singh urged his daughter, “She is my Mam!”.

The little one looked me and then at her father with amazement . 

”SHE is mam ? Her name is Tinni ? “ . Her father nodded.

The small girl pranced about in the room.

“Your daughter is very sweet … “.

Tears flowed freely from CB Singh’s eyes.

“Mam, I had come to meet you three years back , but … “

I had shifted to Gurgaon, near my office. My cell number also had changed.

“Dulari … ? “  I probed softly.

“Mam, she is fine, stays in Jaipur … with her husband .. “, his words coming out in staccato spurts.

“But … “ I looked at the small girl .

And then he poured out his heart, just like he did in our rides back home.

Dulari had run away with Ramesh.  CB Singh went back to his village and started working with his father and uncles, growing wheat and paddy.  They wanted him to remarry, but he refused.  After a year, he got a letter from Dulari, saying that she was very sick and wanted to meet CB Singh.  

She was heavily pregnant when he met her.  They had done an illegal sex determination sonography and found out that she was carrying a girl child.  Ramesh as well as his parents did not want the child. But Dulari was 8 months pregnant by that time and abortion was impossible. They threw her out.

CB Singh found her on a pavement.  He rented a small shanty and took her there. He washed her , fed her and took care of her. Dulari delivered a beautiful baby girl.

“Mam ! I remembered your words”, his voice trembled, “You had told me that girls are now doing so well and that our country will progress only when our girls progress.. I wanted this girl – all for myself … “. 

He looked adoringly at his daughter, who was sitting on a chair, flipping a magazine and swinging her legs.

“And Dulari ?  “

“After the delivery,  I gave Rs 5000 to Dulari and asked her to go back to Ramesh. I told her never to come back into my life again. Mam… “,  he halted , “ how I hated myself for saying this to her … my heart broke … but … “

“But what ? You could have made her stay with you … I know you still love her …   ”

He shook his head.

“Mam, I know Dulari. She would have run away again. And that would have had a very bad effect on my dear Munni … I pray to God everyday that Dulari stays happy.  I have my daughter with me … I don’t need anything else. “

“Your daughter is very bright.  I read her essay !” , I tried to smile through my tears.

His ugly face glowed with pride. 

“Mam, she can read and speak  in English ! She came first in the class in the half yearly examination. I want her to participate in debates , I will give her the best education so that she can earn money and take care of both of us … “.

Mini was sitting beside me during our conversation.

“Ma,  that day I had rehearsed the debate … “  she whispered. Mini was visibly moved.

I fed CB Singh and his sweet daughter Bihari Bhujia, mutton  and daal. 

Mini read out a story to Munni.   

Munni promised me that she will study hard and be the best daughter in this whole world.

“Mam, I want Munni to be smart, confident and successful.  Everyday, before going to sleep, she wants to hear stories about my office, you, our parties , our dance  … “, he smiled and stroked the mole on his cheek.

Before leaving, CB Singh said “Mam, you had told me that God always has a bigger plan in mind for each one of us.  Do not ever lose hope. You were so right … “ He held his daughter’s hands tightly and played with her hair.

“She is my hope … my light … my purpose in life !”

From my balcony, I looked at the father-daughter duo walking away, talking happily to each other.

I will never know what the initials C and B stands for.

But I know his daughter’s name. 

The name which made me go to her school to seek out CB Singh.

In the essay,she had written “My name is Tinni Singh”.

***

24^th January, 2019, Belvedere, Alipore