Author: Monica Gupta

Back in Haridwar, walking on the bridge over the Ganga. White-capped mountains rose in the distance. The river was a gigantic being flowing beneath. Anushri walked a few steps behind me. 

Things wriggled in the river. I clutched the thick jute ropes and stuck my head out through the loose-knit loops for a closer look. Snakes and crocodiles slithered entwined below the surface. I wondered how they survived in pure, flowing water. 

The splash that came then was like a whiplash. 

My head snapped around. The bridge was empty and for one moment, I froze. 

Anushri was gone! 

Frantic, I scanned the bridge and the water on both sides. 

My little sister was gone. 

“Oh God! Help!” I screamed.

Falling down on my knees, I squeezed into a ball and burst into loud, crying hiccups. 

Of a sudden, a voice called out. “Didi! Look Didi! Look!” 

I couldn’t trust my ears. I looked up and there she was. Anushri, smiling and holding a stranger’s arm. A man in his 40s, radiating calm and assurance. 

The phone rang again. I didn’t wait for mom to speak. 

“Who was he?” I asked. 

“God,” she said. “Appeared out of thin air and vanished into one. As if someone had called out to him from the heart, and he came.” 

Mere coincidence? Did I call him? Was he God? Does God exist? Was it my prayer? How could I have called a God I didn’t believe in! 

After hearing the details from mom, I walked out lost in thought and found myself at the chapel. Night had fallen. A candle moved in the darkness, lighting a small path. It was the chapel sister. 

She ran her soft palm over my head. “A power cut, child,” she said.

“The chapel has called you though. Take this candle and walk right in.” 

My newfound faith in the almighty found the certainty it didn’t find in books and logic. 

“Anu…!” 

I came awake with a silent scream on my lips. Eyes flashed open. Adrenalin coursed through my veins. 

My little sister! Anu! 

Open or shut, my eyes were seeing the same dark night. Someone snored. It took me a moment to realise it was matron in the room next to our dorm. I heaved a sigh of relief. 

Just a dream! With a trembling hand, I reached for the bottle by my bed. 

Cold water trickled in, easing the dream out. One of the girls turned over and the sheets rustled. 

“Anu’s fine,” I told myself. 

“It was a dream. A bad dream! That’s all it was.” 

My watch showed 4 a.m. We had a physics test today. The dream was fading already. Switching on my desk lamp, I settled down to revise. Last minute revisions are important. 

Five hours later, dream forgotten, I was whistling on my walk to the school. 

“Looks like someone’s well-prepared,” said Sally who struggled as much with physics as with her frizzy hair. Right now, it was an electric halo around her head. She was never put out by my silken straight hair nor my affinity to physics. 

“It’s a hack to beat nervousness,” I winked. “There’s science behind it.” 

“We’ve got ten minutes,” she said. “Let’s go to the chapel.” 

“Chapel?” I asked. “You should be revising now.” 

“To ask for blessings that we do well in the test,” she said. “Equally important.” 

“Prep and revision, Sally,” I said. 

“These get you through the test. Not blessings!” I was sharp, but Sally was a sweet friend who shrugged off life’s troubles easily. 

“I forget!” She slapped her forehead. “Atheist! Logical, scientific thinking nerd!” 

During the test, my focus wasn’t fully on the paper. Anushri was on my mind. I had been in the 2nd grade when she was born. When I visited her and mom in the hospital, the first thing I noticed was her tiny nose. 

Born seven years apart, we had the big sister-little sister thing going. When she’d throw a tantrum for the TV remote, all it took was a warning glance from me and she’d drop it in a sulk. 

Last night’s dream remained clear in my mind. Hard as I tried to block the disturbing images, they continued to return. 

Next day, the first bell for breakfast found me knocking on the bathroom door. I shared one with Radhika. No response. She had been in there for a while now. 

I pressed my ear to the door and heard her muttering. 

“Are you talking to someone?” I spoke. “You sound like you do.” 

Radhika slammed the door open. “I dreamt,” her voice trembled. 

“I dreamt our dormitory had caught fire and everything was burnt.” 

“It’s just a dream,” I said, holding her wrist. 

“Not so,” she shook her head. “Dreams come true. But, if you sit on the pot and narrate your dream aloud, the dream won’t come true. I was doing that.” 

“Really, Radhika! Sitting on the pot and saying your dream aloud? Did you just say that! Dreams don’t come true. Not the ones you have in sleep. They’re just your subconscious manifesting itself. Now, please move! I’m late already!” 

My dream returned, and I tried to shrug it off. It was just a dream! 

But, was it? It was a constant presence through the day, during classes and at play. The encyclopaedia, which I could usually rely upon to calm myself didn’t work either. I shut it after a few minutes. Anushri played behind my eyes. 

What was she doing now? Watching TV, I suppose. I needed to hear mom’s voice, for her to tell me that all was well. 

In the phone room, I avoided Sister Angie’s eye while I wrote down mom’s number for her. Sister Angie was bone thin and leaned heavily towards moral science and I wasn’t in the mood for it. 

A senior was on the phone. I sat on the wooden bench, smooth with use, but with the ink and scrapes of a thousand girls who had shown their stress, fear, and happiness on it. 

The senior leaned against the wall, answering in monosyllables. 

I began rocking back and forth. I was restless. 

Finally, the girl put the receiver down. Not a moment later, the phone rang. 

“Your mother’s call, Mann!” Sister Angie called out cheerfully. “The wireless connection of the divine. Connected before I could dial.” 

Strange coincidence! Now that I had mom on the phone, my hello was muted. 

“Mann! Manu. All well with you?” 

“Yes, mom,” I said. She sounded fine. Maybe a tiny bit breathless, but fine. Anushri must be fine. Not that the dream meant anything. 

“You don’t sound like your normal self, beta. Don’t tell me you’ve been through something too! Is all well? How are things with you? I am worried. Say something!” Her words were tumbling over one another, not giving me a chance to answer. 

“What do you mean me too?” I said, holding my breath. 

“Anushri!” her voice wavered. “Anu almost drowned at Haridwar. Two days ago…” 

A chill ran down my spine. Her voice receded. 

“She slipped in the Ganges,” I cut in. “A stranger appeared out of nowhere and…” 

“Did…did dad call you? How do you know this?” mom was saying. 

“A dream, ma,” I said. “I dreamt the whole thing at night.” 

The line disconnected and I found myself back in the dream. 

TO BE CONTINUED……

What was the dream? What happened to Anu? How did Mann find the path of faith? To know, read Part-2 of “THE CALL”

“Aisee Vani Boliye, Mun Ka Aapa Khoye Apna Tan Sheetal Kare, Auran Ko Sukh Hoye” (Speak with a language that brings healing and peace not just to others but to oneself.)

The legendary 15th century poet, Kabir Das, wrote the above mentioned words to highlight the purpose and art of using spoken words. The Indian culture has always been an epitome of compassion, hospitality and holism. For aeons, language has been used for constructive measures. Statesmen and leaders like Swami Vivekananda, Mahatma Gandhi, Priya Kumar, Shiv Khera and many others have influenced and driven people to progress with the right and articulate use of spoken language. Their list of testimony, which is filled with fans sharing how their words have transformed their and many other lives, is exemplary in showcasing the power and might of right words.

Like the two faces of a coin, language also has two effects based on its use and form. Akin a sword, it can be used for a massacre and it can be raised for safety. Language’s form changes its course with the agenda attached to it. Words can be used for healing, encouraging and motivating, and they can also be used for abusing, brainwashing, shattering dreams, tainting identities etc. History has shown how razor-sharp weapons have coloured the soil red, with the bloodshed of millions in the battles that were fought either to avenge, usurp or sometimes defend in the display of ego wars. Such wars are not over, they do not occur once in a millennium; propelled by odious words, they are a part of our present-day reality. Although we have peace treaties, ammunition acts and various international organizations upholding world peace, the ego wars continue to be an innate part of our daily life. These are wars of egos fought with the weapons of words.

In the present times of pandemic, the celluloid screen has increased its TRPs with a 24*7 live telecast of such wars. The Talk Shows have given the talk a whole new meaning and form, which often appear abysmal. The shrill, blaring tone, harsh and brutal words make your ears bleed, opinions are spoken with affirmation that matches a prophecy. Such mannerism not only kills the person targeted at, but its bloodshed of an identity. At a larger level it is an injury to the art of speaking, of our language culture that has been traditionally marked with compassion and empathy. The repeated sessions of debates have lesser content and meaning, appearing more like a teaching session of how to use words as lethal weapons. And how they must be used for the baseless killing to unfurl the flag of victory even if that means a walkover on virtues associated with humanity and culture. And not to forget the national platform is a place which the future generation is looking up to. Hence, before we view or deliver, let us stop and think – is the language ki laathi used for killing or saving, or should the language be used as a laathi altogether? When we think about the undesirable or harmful effects and outcome of words used as

weapons, doesn’t it call upon us for their use in more conscious, and thoughtful ways ?