Mani pulled the shawl tightly round his shoulders as the cold wind blew relentlessly. North India was reeling under a cold wave; it was pouring in Madras and consequently Bangalore seemed to be a little too cold for his old bones these last few days. The papers said the climate was changing because of man’s abuse of Mother Nature. He could believe that; his old father had been a farmer who said that giving back to Mother Earth was everyone’s duty. There are limits even to a mother’s endurance. He looked around the compound of the post office wondering if the lady clerk Asha who had promised to help him had come to work yet. It was 8.30 am, a half hour before the post office opened. But he had been unable to stay calmly at home. How could he? Today, the great mystery would be solved. Atleast he hoped so. The lady’s name (synonymous with hope) seemed like an omen. Today he would learn the name of his benefactor, the person whom he had wanted to meet for 15 years. Fifteen years….it seemed more like 15 centuries, each day of the last 15 years had been a burden to him. Weighed down by the grief and sorrow he had been unable to share, he was a hollow shell of his old self, that self which had burnt on the pyre of his son Shankar.

What a trick fate had played on him, to bless him with a son after five daughters and then snatch him away cruelly when the boy was only 25 years old. He still remembered the horror of it all; the broken body, bleeding head, screaming family members, police case, the disappearance of the Gokhale family…., would he ever forget it all? 3 Oct 1992…. The date was engraved in fire on his heart. It had been an ordinary day with no hint of the tragedy to come. Shankar had gone to work as usual. He worked as an electrician in the Bank Quarters nearby. These quarters were multistoreyed buildings which housed officers working for a premier banking institution of the country. He had been very happy to work there as the experience would prove very valuable and perhaps allow him to branch off on his own instead of working for contractors on a fixed wage. They needed the money; Mani had been able to celebrate the marriages of only three of his daughters. Shankar had taken on the responsibility of the last two girls. Shankar had been the hope and support of his old age. He had always been an obedient boy, hardworking, sincere; an exception in the neighbourhood they lived in where most boys his age drank smoked and whiled away their time. His friend Ramu always envied him and said that he had nothing to worry about; he had a Shravan Kumar for a son referring to the story of the devoted boy who carried his blind parents on a pilgrimage.

They had discussed the idea of Shankar working independently that very morning; Shankar had been confident that he could manage on his own. All this had come to naught. It was his helpful nature that had killed him. Mani had cursed himself for bringing up Shankar to be a helpful person. The Gokhale family lived on the third floor; husband, wife and a two year old toddler. Mrs.Gokhale was a housewife, a highly irresponsible person, in Mani’s opinion. On that fateful day, she set the cooker on the gas stove, and went to the neighbouring flat to borrow some ingredient she was short off. She left her child at home with the front door open without bothering to take the key or dead lock the self-locking door latch. When she returned she found the door locked, with her baby and a whistling pressure cooker inside. As she screamed for help, all the ladies and workmen gathered at her door. Shankar offered to climb down from the 4^th floor terrace to the third floor balcony of Mrs.Gokhale’s flat to rescue the child. That decision had cost him his life; he slipped and fell to his death four storeys below.

The shock and grief had been unbearable, yet he had borne it and lived to tell the tale.. The compensation amount paid by the contractor (Shankar’s employer) had soon melted away. The Gokhales had given him nothing. They had not even tried to express their condolences to him. They were worse than animals, in his opinion. Not a day had gone by when he had not cursed Mrs.Gokhale and her criminal irresponsibility. He had taken up whatever work he could get. His daughters too had started working. His sons-in-law had helped celebrate the marriages of his last two girls. He was fortunate to have such generous relatives or else his daughters would still be working without hope of a family of their own.

The only light in the dark tunnel of his existence had been the arrival of the money order every month. It had started on the 2 Nov 1992, like a godsend, it had paid for the groceries and some other sundry necessities. He had never been able to identify the sender, the name was never clear; it was just an illegible squiggle. The postman had told him which post office it had been sent from. He had been surprised to learn that it was from Bombay. He knew no one in Bombay and neither could he afford to go there and find out the identity of his mysterious benefactor. So, he had quietly accepted and used the money all these years, thanking God and blessing this unknown Samaritan.

The last couple of months the money orders had started coming from a post office in Bangalore and his curiosity was aroused again. There was no excuse now. He had to know. And so he had started the process of trying to find out. The post office employees had not been too helpful; but Ms.Asha had been moved by his plight and enquired why he needed to know the identity of the sender. When he told her, she promised to help. According to the records of the post office, the money was sent by Mr.Dasharatha which was of no use; he didn’t know anyone of that name. Looking at his crestfallen, woebegone face, Asha had offered to point out the person who came to remit the money. This was the reason for his cold vigil outside the post office. Suddenly, he heard his name called, Asha was beckoning him. As he walked inside, she pointed to a young boy in white uniform. Mani walked over to him and spoke to him.

“May I know your name?” Mani asked,

The boy didn’t reply immediately, Mani was worried, what if he refused to help him. But Asha intervened. Her intervention seemed to lend legitimacy to Mani’s enquiries as far as the boy was concerned. He answered readily.

“Jayaram”, he said. Mani was quiet….yet another unfamiliar name. Was he on a wild goose chase? He decided to stop beating about the bush.

“Do you send money to a person by name Mani every month?” he asked.

The boy was surprised, “No”, he replied.

Asha again intervened and asked him if he sent any money orders at all. The boy brightened, “Yes”, he admitted, he came regularly to the Post Office as part of his official duties as a peon for a bank. The employees of the bank also gave him any personal letters, money orders they wanted mailed.  Mani asked the boy to take him to the bank. The boy finished whatever work he had come for as Mani paced impatiently. They walked to the nearby branch of a bank. Mani walked into the banking hall with a heavy heart and laden feet. He sat for sometime on a chair trying to screw up his courage to look at the various employees. When at last he did, he found that they were all strangers to him. As he turned to go out he faced a cabin with “MANAGER” written on the door. He looked in through the glass, the face was unfamiliar. His shoulders bowed, it had been a wild goose chase after all. Then he turned and was confronted with the nameplate of the Manager:

G.S.Gokhale,

Asst.Gen.Manager.