Short Story 2014 Featured Writer, Vandana Jena

One Rotten Apple

The screeching of the van’s brakes brought me to the window. I pulled the

curtains apart and the sudden burst of sunlight made me blink. A truck

stood parked outside our apartment building. “We have got neighbors,” I said, a note of enthusiasm creeping into my voice. 

 There was no reaction from Mum and Dad. Their heads bent, they were pouring over the scrabble board. “A seven letter word, and that too on a triple word score,” said mother rubbing her hands in delight as she quickly made BISCUIT. Dad looked a little put out. She had won again. She usually did. 

 Ravish came into the drawing room at that time. “Mom, I want breakfast,” he muttered. He voice sounded crabby. He had not slept the whole night. The Law School Exams were around the corner. “SYNTAX,” she said swooping upon the word TAX dad had made.  “SYNTAX on the triple word score yet again,” she let out a cry of delight. “Mom,” Ravish’s voice sounded unnaturally loud, “I want breakfast.” “It’s on the table,” she said, her head still bent, “the cornflakes, apple, milk, sugar and orange juice.” “I want scrambled eggs,” he insisted, his voice peevish. 

I got up from the window sill and walked into the kitchen. I put a frying pan on the stove top of the cooking range, broke two eggs into it, added milk, butter and salt, stirred it gently on a slow fire, and within minutes had spooned it onto a plate along with two crisp slices of toast. Ravish wolfed it down appreciatively and said, “Thanks di.” I shot a look of triumph at Ma. Successful career woman, successful wife,  lousy cook. At least this was one area where I was better than her.

“Stop crouching around the house like a panther in the wilds Mita,” ordered Ma, while putting another word on the board. Playing Scrabble was her way of relaxing,  and Dad, recently retired from the Army, was pathetically grateful for her company during the weekends. I scowled and went back to the window.

The luggage was still being unloaded outside our apartment building. A large Fridge, probably GE, two LG air conditioners, double beds, a dressing table a piano and kitchen ware. I stood a little behind the curtain. I did not want to seem to be prying. 

A Honda City stopped by the van. A man stepped out of the car. With dark glasses covering his face, he appeared to be of an indeterminate age. An overgrown beard covered half his face. He was lithe, strong and muscular. I could imagine him jogging around the Lodi gardens, in shorts and tee shirt, his muscles rippling. I wondered if his wife would step out after him. No one did. “Bachelor,” I did not realize I had said the word aloud. “What?” asked Ma. “Don’t worry, Ma, it is not a seven lettered word.” I muttered. “Don’t be silly,” Ma shot me a warning look. The look spoke volumes. I saw warning in her eyes. I thrust out my chin. Ma was warning me to keep away from the new neighbor. She had not forgotten or forgiven me about Nishant. She had not forgotten the time she had walked into the house and found Nishant coming out of my bedroom. Out of a feeling of pique I had not told her that I had called Nishant simply to change the bulb in my bedroom. I was happy to let her think the worst and simmer in anger.

“Don’t worry di,” said Ravish, winking at me, “Our new neighbour will probably come to borrow a cup of sugar, or milk, sooner or later.”  Ravish was wrong, he did not come to see us under any pretext. I did meet him, two days later when we were coming up the lift. He stood in the corner, his head down, as if he was warding us off. I looked at him with curiosity, my eyes roaming across his face, or whatever little of it was visible, his shirt and his faded jeans. Ma seemed annoyed at me for my open display of curiosity. But there was little she could do about it. Just as the door opened he left without even a backward glance. His message to us was loud and clear. “Stay away.” “There was an air of mystery about him,” I muttered, secretly wishing that we stayed on the eighth floor and not the third so that we could have been together in the lift for longer. “Probably he is a small time crook,” Ma hazarded, making her dislike of him very evident. “Small time crooks do not live in our kinds of apartments,” I argued. Dad had never stopped boasting that our four bedroom luxury apartment had cost us one crore rupees. 

For days I kept a watch  on the neighboring apartment. But I never saw any visitors coming to see him. He was clearly a recluse. I had all the time in the world to do it. I was preparing for my CAT  exam.  Ma wanted me to do an MBA. “What else is there to do?” Ma’s eyes spoke volumes. “Not everyone is brilliant like you,” I said, thrusting out my chin, “some of us are average, people like me.” But Ma, a Senior Vice-President  in Hindustan Unilever, would never be able to understand how a girl could be satisfied with being just a homemaker. Luckily she was a realist and realized that the chances of my cracking the CAT were almost negligible. But it made a good conversational gambit.  Ma’s statement, “Mita is taking the CAT exam,” explained to her friends why I was lounging around the house for months instead of doing something useful with myself. 

 Although I did not meet my mysterious neighbor again, I got regular updates on him from our Bai. His Bai and ours  were friends which was not surprising. All the Bais who worked in the apartments were known to each other. “All he does is drink,” she disclosed, screwing up her nose in disgust, as though she could smell liquor around her, “He sits in the evening, eating chicken tikka and drinking. He stares at the walls all the time. He does nothing. At times he sketches furiously, at other times he writes furiously. He does not leave the house. He is like a prisoner. He remains locked up in the house.”

 “A graphic designer or an architect,” I surmised, “that would explain the sketching and the writing.” “Or a writer-cum- illustrator,” I added as an afterthought. “Perhaps he has been a prisoner,” Ma murmured, “Perhaps he is not used to freedom.” “True,” Dad’s voice was mild, he seldom disagreed with Ma, “What do you think he is?” “A small time crook?” Ma could not hide the contempt from her voice. 

“Perhaps he has a disease. Perhaps he is dying of cancer,” Ravish’s interruption surprised me. He took an apple, polished it with the edge of his tee shirt and crunched it loudly between his teeth. “Can’t be true,” interjected Ma, “he looks healthy, disgustingly so.”  Ravish gave Ma a telling look. He hadn’t finished as yet. “Or AIDS,” he concluded. Ma’s eyes began to glint. “That,” she said with relish, “is a distinct possibility.”

 Perhaps it was this conversation which stoked my curiosity further, so when I found the neighbour’s door slightly open I gave it a knock and walked in. He was sitting on a rocking chair, rocking himself slowly like an old man, his back to the wall. He was impervious to my presence. I walked in and stood before him, till he was forced to look at me. “I wanted to borrow…… some sugar,” I almost said, but stopped myself at the right time. I was carrying no sugar bowl. “The newspaper,” I substituted, “we get the Indian Express at home.” I had already espied The Times of India lying on the sofa. He handed me the newspaper, the gesture signified dismissal. It robbed me of an excuse to stay on in his house. 

 I went out and stared at his back. I realized that I would need to borrow the newspaper every day. It seemed a good excuse as any for seeing him. The next day I knocked at his door boldly after I had seen the bai leave. “I wanted to borrow the newspaper,” I requested, “I am preparing for the CAT exams.” He continued to look unseeingly at the wall, as if he could see a unique mosaic on it, invisible to other eyes. He did not even turn when I said, “thank you,” and closed the door behind me.

The third day there was a knock on our door around 11 a.m. and I saw with dismay his Bai standing with a copy of The Times of India. His message was loud and clear, “Do not intrude.” But I chose to be obtuse. After going through the Delhi Times quite avidly I trotted off to his apartment. I found the door ajar once again. I was sure he had not heard his Bai leave. I knocked perfunctorily and then walked in. He seemed surprised to see me. “I had sent you the newspaper,” he said. “I came to return it,” I retorted. “Just push it under the door, will you?” he asked sarcastically, “If it is not too much of a botheration.” This was the longest sentence he had spoken to me. I would have called it progress, had  he not robbed me of any excuse to see him. 

 For the next week or so I had no news of him. Then his bai Mamta took a week’s leave to go to her village. “How would he cope?” I wondered, although I did not have the courage to barge into his house once again. I knew the answer to it soon enough. Delivery boys from Domino’s Pizza, Subway and McDonald’s began frequenting our apartment block regularly. I had no doubt where all the food was going.

A fortnight later as I was passing by his door I found him rasping loudly. The door was ajar. The pizza delivery boy had just left and I was sure that our  neighbor  had no time to close the door. I stopped outside and listened. When he coughed once again I barged in. His face was completely flushed. His eyes seemed dilated. I put my hand on his forehead. It was burning with fever. “Where do you keep the thermometer?” I asked briskly. This time he did not argue. “In the bathroom,” he said weakly. “And paracetamol?” I asked. He gestured at the dining table. I took his temperature and was shocked to see that it was 104 F. I made him swallow two paracetamols and then asked him if I could ring his doctor. “Will you?” he asked humbly, “Dr. Shroff’s number is in my diary.” He propped himself on his elbow and took out his diary.  I could not see a telephone instrument anywhere but I saw his cell phone on the table. I picked it up and dialled the doctor’s number. The phone kept ringing but no one picked it up. “Probably a wrong number,” I surmised and dialled again. This time I got the doctor’s clinic. I handed over the phone to the neighbour and the doctor, obviously a friend of his, decided to drop by. I was with him when Dr. Shroff appeared and if he was surprised to see me he did not show it. “Chest infection,” he diagnosed, “Aloo, I am leaving you some antibiotics.” “Aloo?” I giggled to myself. The neighbor glared at me. Dr. Shroff chuckled and said sorry although he displayed no sorrow whatsoever. “Aloo,” I thought exultantly. I now knew his nickname. I had still to learn his name and surname. His house had no name plate on it. He seemed almost paranoid about keeping his identity a secret. I realized I would not able to learn my neighbor’s identity from Dr. Shroff. “If he can get some good home cooked food and medicines he shall be fine,” Dr. Shroff told me, possibly misreading our relationship.

I nodded my head. That evening I returned to the neighbor’s apartment with a bowl of homemade soup and some khichri and left it on his table. I would have loved to feed it to him, spoon by spoon, but I was a realist and did not push my luck. His illness gave me the opportunity to show off my culinary skills.  The next day I brought him  sagoodana khichri. He  opened the door and asked, “what have you brought for me?” “Sagoodana Khichri ,” I  said, entering his house. “Sagoodana,” he blew up, “I hate it.” Tears sprang up in my eyes. I began to rush out of the door. “Wait,” he said, getting hold of my hand and pulling me inside. “Serve me the khichri,” he ordered. “Eat it yourself,” the words were on my lips, thankfully I did not utter them. I spooned the khichri onto a plate and found him eating it with his fingers. “Delicious,” he murmured, “you are a whiz cook, kid.” Kid! Just how old was he? Thirty,  thirty-five or forty? I had no clue. But his words filled me with pride. “Since you are bent upon playing nursemaid,” he said, his smile taking the sting out of his words, “let me confess that I hate  brinjals, pumpkin and bitter gourd.”  I smiled. Those were my least favourite vegetables as well. We had something in common after all. “Tell me what you want to eat tomorrow,” I asked. “Can you make aloo ka paranthas?” he asked. “No,” I vetoed,  “You are ill. Aloo ka paranthas are out.” He made a face at me. The next day when I came I said conspiratorially, “I have got you aloo ka paranthas without oil.”  He grabbed the plate from my hand, tore a large piece of  the parantha  and stuffed it into his mouth. He munched it happily and after polishing off a parantha said, “You have magic in your fingers.”
 

The next afternoon when I arrived his house carrying pasta in tomato sauce  Dr. Shroff was already present there. “Mita, you are a miracle worker,” he said appreciatively, “your patient’s fever is down and he is  much better.” My heart sank at the thought that my neighbor would not need me anymore. I had come to look forward to his dependence on me. He surprised me by saying, “I still need home cooked food for some more days, at least till my Bai  returns.” “You must be an excellent cook if he relishes your cooking,” grinned the doctor, “your patient is a gourmand.” This revelation gave me the incentive to experiment with the meals I planned to bring him. For once I was glad Mom was the Vice President of an MNC and returned late from work. I had all the time to myself and no one questioned me about what  was cooking. On the fifth day I made him some Thai chicken curry and jasmine rice. “Are you a mind reader?” he asked wonderingly, “I love Thai food. It’s my favorite.” “It’s my favorite too,” I confessed. On the sixth day his Bai had returned and I realized that I no longer had any reason for seeing him.

 A few days later, when I was unable to restrain myself any longer,   I dropped in to see him. He was sitting on the rocking chair and rocking himself slowly. He looked at me without recognition. He seemed to have forgotten all about the past week. “How are you today?” I asked him, but he looked at me as if he was seeing me for the first time. I felt a pang of disappointment. We were back to where we had started. He had become a stranger once again. “What do you want?” he asked his voice brusque. “You know I am taking the CAT exams,” I said, “I was hoping that you could teach me.” It sounded like a pretty weak excuse, even to my own ears. “The only thing I can teach you is about death, I can teach you nothing else.” he said abruptly. There was no point in carrying on a conversation with him, I realized and left.

 A week later I heard his rasping cough and finding his apartment door open I walked in without knocking. He frowned when he saw me. “Why do you keep coming here Mita?” he asked. “I don’t know,” I admitted. I did not know myself what drew me to him repeatedly. Was it sheer curiosity? Was it an unknown attraction? Was I falling in love with him? “I do,” he challenged,  “I know why you come.” “Why?” My eyes widened. “Because,” he said... A minute later, I left his room crying. It was unfortunate that Ma came out of the lift just then and saw me rushing into our house.

“Where are you coming from, as though the devil himself was at your heels?” Ma asked me sharply. “Nowhere,” I muttered mutinously. But Ma had seen that our neighbor’s door was ajar. She figured that I had returned from there. She barged into his house without even a perfunctory knock at the door and said in a loud voice, “Let me warn you once and for all, just keep away from my daughter.” My face burnt with humiliation as I imagined him retorting, “It is your daughter who cannot keep away from me.” But he said nothing. He continued to look through her, as though she didn’t exist and Ma confessed that even she was intimidated by his cold stare.

Three days later he left his apartment. I did not know when he had left but I saw a van taking away his furniture. No one knew where he had disappeared. The next day the maid came with a sheaf of newspapers. “Saheb said you may find then useful,” she murmured. Ma looked at me meaningfully, while I muttered something about needing TOI for my CAT exams. “You could have subscribed to the newspaper yourself,” she admonished as she picked up the newspaper on the top of the pile and began reading it. 

The newspaper was opened onto  a page where our neighbor  had doodled a lot. He had drawn a long line against the margin of the story. Ma gave but a cursory glance to the main story of a woman who had drowned her two children in the bathtub. She had been considered mentally unstable and committed to an institution for life. After all, who was interested in a woman? 

 Ma’s eyes were focused on the next item, the story of a man who was suspected of brutally murdering his wife whom he had suspected of infidelity. He was given benefit of doubt, as there were no eye witnesses and the evidence against him was circumstantial. The man had left Kolkata, unable to withstand the hostility of his neighbors and acquaintances, and moved to Delhi. Ma was convinced that the man was our mysterious neighbor. “Alok Virmani,” she said ruminatively, “that is his name.” “Now you know who he is,” she said, “He must be this man. He must have left the city once again. I had warned you not to go to his apartment.”

I did not pay any attention to what she was saying. I remembered him saying, “I know what you want,” and his pinning me against the wall, looking at me with tortured eyes and saying, “You don’t know anything about me Mita, you do not know you are playing with fire.” I had closed my eyes, parted my lips and felt his lips cracked and salty, on mine, felt his beard graze my face, the bristles hurting me. I could feel him raise his head suddenly, as if to clear it, and his whispering, “Get out, get out of here, will you?” I felt my bruised lips with my fingers and was shaken, both by his touch and the emotions he invoked within me. I rushed from his house, as though the devil himself was at my heels. Now I realized what he meant when he had said, “You do not know anything about me.”  Alok. Aloo. It all fitted in.  We had not heard of the case, because we had been away for a family holiday to Singapore and  had missed the TV news and the newspaper reports. All I felt now was loathing for him, for what he had done and contempt for myself, for falling for a criminal like him. 

I would never have known the truth about him but for a sheer chance. One Sunday Ma was channel surfing during a two minute break while watching a serial, when she suddenly switched to a show, where they showed the woman I had read about in The Times of India, the Mumbai resident who had drowned her two children in the bathtub. She had been declared legally insane and committed to an institution. She sat on hospital bed, her eyes unseeing, staring at a large family photograph on the wall. The cameras zoomed on the photograph and there was no mistaking it. Sitting with her and her two sons was her husband. It was our mystery neighbor. “Mannan Aluwalia,” the announcer disclosed. 

Aloo. Aluwalia. Once again everything fell into place. His inability to live in his old house, his need to escape from the old friends and acquaintances and the old memories, his coming from Mumbai to Delhi and shifting to our Apartment Building almost incognito, his staring into space for long intervals, his abrupt sentences, his long silences, his glazed eyes, the bottles of whisky and his need to be loved. 

 For days afterwards I went to the Delhi Public Library and read  about the murder in the old newspapers.  I read about his wife, a schizophrenic who took her two boys for a bath and then drowned them in the bathtub. Mannan returned from work to find his wife  sitting beside  her two dead children asking him, “why don’t they laugh anymore Mannan, and why don’t they cry?” Suddenly he had lost everything he had held dear, his wife and his two sons. I recalled that there was so much sadness in his eyes and raw passion in his voice when  he had said, “Mita, you are playing with fire.” 

“You did the young man a grave injustice,” Dad told Ma, a mild reprimand in his voice. Ma bristled with anger initially and then admitted, “I was wrong about him and I would like to say sorry to him but no one knows how to contact him, no one knows where he has gone.”

I did not admit it before Ma that I knew how to contact him. That day when he had been down with raging fever,  on the pretext of ringing up  the doctor, I had first given a blank call to my own cell phone and then claimed that I had connected with a wrong number. I had got the doctor on the second ring. I now had Mannan’s number with me. I closed my eyes and thought about him. I still knew very little about him. He was years older than me. He had been the victim of a grave tragedy. He had built a wall around him which no one had been able to penetrate. I had tried my best to do it but had failed. He was possibly attracted towards me. Or maybe he was just lonely. He did not even like me very much and he had made that abundantly clear. But he needed someone to wipe away the pain of all that had happened, and give life another chance. It was a chance I was willing to take. He would no doubt rebuff me but I was willing to risk it.  He had warned me that I was playing with fire but I was prepared to have my fingers burnt. I went to my room, picked up my mobile and dialled.

 

ShortStory 2014 Featured Writer, Amar Agarwala

DIARY OF A HORSE TRAINER

When Haskell Williamson David passed away at the ripe age of eighty seven, he left a void in the world of horse-training and in racing circuits of the country.   Not only was he amongst the foremost trainers during his times, but was widely regarded as a legend. Despite of his humble Jewish origin, was unorthodox and most forthcoming when it came to his friends, that included animals – particularly horses – his first love.  One of his best friends happened to be Sudarshan Chaki; a man who belonged to the same era as Haskell and was a sought after racing correspondent.  He wrote for leading newspapers and his penchant for journalism and relating satirical tales on and off the racing field was well-known.

The passing away of Haskell, rung a warning bell for Sudarshan – who was eighty five himself.  He was both saddened and crest-fallen at having lost his life-long companion and a friend who during his hey days provided him much fodder for the columns he wrote.  Sudarshan was a charming man and despite his age, had not lost any of his enthusiasm for wry journalistic humor.  I distinctly recollect one such occasion, when I happened to meet him at a dinner hoisted by a common friend at the Far Pavilions of the classy Tollygunge Club. No sooner had the bar thrown open its counters, a crowd of invitees gathered there.  Sudarshan was quite in his elements that evening and a shade nostalgic reminiscing his old friend.  As the evening rolled on and alcohol flowed freely, he took upon himself to regale us with notes his best friend had penned, which otherwise none of us could possibly have known. Much of this had even escaped the obituary of Haskell David, which Sudarshan had penned down as his swan song for the media.

Haskell Williamson David was born in Ascot, Berkshire, during the days of the Raj.  His father was an emissary of the Queen during the colonial times, which brought him and his miniscule family – of wife and son – to India.  Young Haskell had virtually no interest in academics and soon dropped out of convent school to pursue his passion which quite unconventional, and it left his parents distraught.  His loved spending time with nature, animals and insects; the horse in particular was his favourite.  He simply adored horses and horse racing, which was then in its nascent stages in the country; having being introduced by the British Royalty to spruce up entertainment for their commissioned officers and citizens, in their colony – widely acclaimed as a jewel in the crown.  

While in his early teens Haskell happened to meet Jonathan Stuart Mills; who was a reputed horse breeder.  It was quite by a strange quirk of fate, that sometime later, he went to work for Mills in his sprawling stud-farm, which happened to be one of the best the country had. His dedication to his work and a strange ability to read animals and their behaviour made his a favourite of his employer.  Within a short-span of time, Mills soon promoted him to the position of an assistant trainer, wherefrom Haskell never looked back. After independence his parents returned to England but Haskell stayed on, much to the disapproval and dismay of his parents.  He loved India and his heart was set upon becoming a horse trainer.  Besides, Mills who was then ailing had put him in charge of his stud farm, to which Haskell was dedicated, as a padre is to the church.

Sudarshan then essayed some rare incidents from the life of his old friend; tales which lent credence to the fact of his being able to decipher animals and particularly horses, in a manner unimaginable to many.  Once when Haskell was newly recruited by Mills, he was tending to a prized race horse called ‘Gladiator’, which belonged to the Nizam of Hyderabad.  The horse was suffering from colic and was in the care of a prominent veterinary doctor.  Haskell had remarked to Mills that the horse would not survive the illness, which quite shocked Mills, as colic was a common ailment with many horses; and most regained fitness within a couple of days.  Gladiator was treated with mild antibiotics and was declared fit by the evening.  To which Mills had mildly admonished Haskell at his negative premonition; until the horse lay dead early next morning.  The cause of its death was a mystery, even to the attending Veterinary Doctor, who was unable to ascribe reasons for the unsavoury incident. On being asked, Haskell told Mills; that he noticed since the horse had taken ill, a number of vultures hovered around it, at a distance.  At the veterinary hospital, where the horse lay recuperating, the vultures kept a vigil round the clock, until the horse returned to the stables.   According to Haskell, the animal world always sensed incidents well ahead of their happening. They had this strange knack of knowing and understanding the future, more particularly when it comes to deciphering death.  Vultures particularly being a bird of prey have an uncanny ability to foretell death; even though it may not be discernable to the human eye.

Once the Seventeenth Earl of Derby – Lord Stanley, had pitted his best horse for the Derby which was to be held on New Year’s Day of 1942. Haskell was the official trainer and considering past performance, the horse called: Brutus was a favourite to lift the prized cup that winter.  On the morning of the races, he asked Mills to speak to the Earl to withdraw his horse from the race.  To which Mills reacted with a mixture of annoyance and ridicule.  It seemed most awkward for him to do at Haskell’s bidding, citing that the horse seemed to have drooping eyes the night before and that it had put its head mournfully on Haskell’s shoulders and made strange whimpering noises.  The Earl was not given any hint of Haskell’s prophesying, until the final Derby race took place amidst the loudest cheer for Brutus.  The horse led from start and was barely hundred meters from crossing the finishing line, when he veered against the railings and had the most awkward fall.  It broke his hind leg and seriously injured the jockey Brian Alford, who was flown in from England to ride the Earl’s ward.  Mills was in a dilemma whether to reveal Haskell’s premonition to the Earl – which he finally did, purely out of guilt. Brutus’s leg was quite beyond treatment and he was put to sleep.  It did not go down well with Lord Stanley, who took away his remaining horses from Mills and entrusted them to the care of another trainer.  Haskell’s prophesy had come true. 

Haskell’s premonition was evident once again, sometimes, in the early sixties, when horse racing was becoming the toast of the rich and the erstwhile royalties of the country.  Haskell informed his best friend that he strongly felt a major calamity was to befall the racing circuits of the country.  He feared that many horses and even owners would suffer untold contingencies.  A few months later, an equestrian flu caught the horses down south.  It soon turned to an epidemic and quickly travelled north to the other racing centres, despite the rigorous measures of quarantine adopted by the racing bodies.  Horse racing was held up country-wide for a good three months – that too in the peak winter period.  Almost a hundred horses died of the flu, which the vets were unable to quell.  Quite a number of horse owners threw in their towel; many lost almost their entire string of horses and lakhs of rupees in the bargain.  Haskell’s stables were the least affected, even thought the calamity did take its toll upon his horses; for he lost  four of his expensive fillies, a couple being the most prized of the lot.  When Sudarshan asked Haskell of his premonition, he simply said that he had noticed crows sitting in long rows in and around the stables mournfully looking towards the stables and the horses.  He had made it a point to travel to the other racing centres of the country and noticed a similar pattern. He was absolutely sure that it was an omen for dark days ahead in horse racing.  According to him, a crow did not only fly straight but also thought straight; besides the bird was a messenger of Satan and a harbinger of death and sorrow.

Much after his prime, when Haskell was poised on retirement, he was once asked by Sudarshan, of his strange ability to read animals and the omens.  He revealed, that many a time during his career, he felt that he understood the language of the animals, which unfailingly warned him of the events that would unfold.  He also said, that a horse would often gesture its intention to win a race or even lose it; merely by the manner of rubbing its head on his shoulders when he went near it.  The secret being, that the animal world would be quick to latch on to the dress rehearsal of events that were to happen, long before it really did.  Haskell had remarked, before an event or incident took place, it would have already taken place in the virtual world in another realm.  Just that man rarely paid attention to the omens which were suggestive of such facts. Animals are not as intelligent as their shrewder contemporaries, yet, have this uncanny ability to sense the unknown preludes, it enables them to know the future, without a semblance of doubt. Perhaps that is what has helped them survive the vagaries of nature and even man. Haskell extolled having witnessed countless such events and readily acknowledged that it was pivotal in his becoming the best there ever was in horse racing.

It was nothing short of ironic when a couple of months before he died, he had called his best friend and related an astonishing incident. He had gone for his morning walk – a ritual he never omitted all his life, when a stray horse near the racecourse seemed to follow him around.  While he traced his steps homeward, the horse followed him right up to his front door.  Then without warning the horse thumped its head on Haskell’s shoulders and made a whining sound, almost as if the animal was mourning.  Ever since the incident took place, his pet Labrador would often be heard crying at midnight. Haskell was quick to grasp the subtle significance of both omens and made the last of his prophecies – that of his imminent death – which he knew was approaching rapidly.  Once again, Haskell’s prophesy came true – it was his last!  Sudarshan mourned that along with his dearest friend, departed the fine art of reading and communicating with the most prophetic and admirable friend man has ever had – the horse. An animal which symbolizes valour, grace, strength, with an uncanny ability to read the omens; others miserably fail in.

Rarely are people blessed with the finer quality of being able to relate to the animal kingdom.  It enables to decipher the future, which has intrigued mankind since ages. Haskell Williamson David, effortlessly deciphered the omens from the language of animals, yet he could not alter destiny.  Even his imminent death was soulfully predicted by a horse; the animal which he loved and lived by all his life. Perhaps it was a favour; the animals owed Haskell, for championing their cause lifelong. For animals unfailingly return favours, unlike humans – as gratitude has never been the virtue of mankind.