It was almost ten thirty at night when there was a loud knock on the door. Mrs. Das was alone at home that night; her husband had gone on an official tour. With her heart beat increasing, she proceeded softly to the entrance and shouted from inside "Who is it?"
"Didi, it's me, Aarati."
Arati? At this hour? "Wait a minute. Let me get the keys."
As Mrs. Das opened the wooden door which led to the verandah with the iron grill she asked "What's the matter? Didn't you go home today?"
All she could hear in response was the sound of Arati's sobs.
Arati was Mrs. Das' maid of ten years. In addition to Mrs. Das she worked in twelve other houses where she washed dishes twice a day and swept and mopped floors. This has been her job for the last eighteen years. Her day started at three in the morning. Before cleaning up other people's houses she had to clean up her home first. She'd sweep and mop the floor, boil some rice and vegetables, pack some of it for herself and leave most of it for her son and then rush to catch the four o' clock train which would bring her to the city. Just in time to reach the first house at 5.30 a.m., after a thirty minute walk from the railway station.
Things were not like this from the beginning though. She was the third child born into a lower middle class family of two brothers, two sisters, a hardworking father and a caring mother. At the age of nineteen her parents married her off to Bablu, a garment factory worker who turned out to be the creator of her present condition. She got to find out Bablu's true colors a few months after their marriage. He turned out to be a regular drinker bordering on the verge of alcoholism. She tried to stop him but whenever he faced opposition he became ferocious and signs of domestic violence began to appear on the scene. Seeing Bablu squander away his money she started working at a tailor shop, stitching blouses and dresses where she got paid by the number of pieces she could stitch. She brought a bagful of cut out pieces and then stitched them at home. A year and a half into her marriage, her son, Raja was born. With the arrival of Raja, Arati thought things would improve. But Bablu continued with his drinking and now he stopped coming home at times. Every other day he would disappear and come home early in the morning or later in the day. When Arati questioned him, he remained silent. The frequency of his disappearances started increasing as the days went by till one day he just vanished. There was no sign of him. None of his friends, the people he used to hang out with, drink and gamble, knew about his whereabouts. Arati went to file a complaint at the police station but the officer on duty dismissed her saying that such things happened, and that he would appear on his own when he was done fooling around. This made Arati furious and having no further knowledge of what to do she resigned herself to the task at hand.
Arati continued stitching the blouses but soon she realized that she could not survive on that alone. It was then that she took up the job of a nanny. She used to take Raja with her, who was two and half years old by this time. There Raja would play with the kid while Arati would do all the work and then return home in the evening where she would then become busy with her sewing. The hardships took a toll on her and the strains started showing in the form of her deteriorating health and her irritable mood.
One day as she was sewing the blouses she heard a few loud thumps on the door in quick succession. Her heart started racing. Must be one of those drunkards! Can't even locate their own house, they are so drunk. She looked at her son, who was sound asleep on the bed. She sat there tightly, not budging an inch. And then she heard someone call out her name.
"Open the door…it's me."
Still she kept quiet and sat still.
"Open the door". This time Arati thought she recognized the voice. It seemed like her husband's. She asked "Who is it? Raja's father?"
"Open up you …" the expletives confirmed that it was indeed her husband. She opened the door and there stood her husband, bloodshot eyes staring at her wildly.
"What took you so long you bitch"
Arati's feelings of happiness soon gave way to disgust as she realized her husband was drunk as ever. The way he spoke to her was as if he had never been away. It was just like before.
"Or do you have a man in the house, eh?" he took hold of her cheeks and squeezed them vigorously.
"Lower your voice. Raja is sleeping."
"This is my house. I'll do whatever I want. Do you understand?" Arati gritted her teeth and kept quiet. With that he took one look at his son and then dropped onto the bed beside him.
During his stay Bablu remained comparatively sober. He still drank with his friends but he was nice to his wife and son. Arati thought that he had changed. He persuaded her to give up the work of a nanny because he had found work as a rickshaw puller. He still didn't like the fact that his wife went outside to work, not realizing that it was that work which had kept them going.
"What guarantee is there that you will not take off again?" she asked.
"Trust me, I won't go anywhere. That is why I got the rickshaw," he said.
Arati wanted to ask him where he had been but fear stopped her.
"What use will the rickshaw be…you will drink away whatever you will earn," she said.
"Now don't worry about that. I'll stop drinking. You don't have to work anymore at that house. Go and tell them tomorrow, ok?"
Arati wanted to believe him but she couldn't. In spite of that she left her job as a nanny but she continued to do the sewing. Life continued as before for Arati. The money her husband earned was spent mostly in drinking. Sometimes he came home in a good mood, sometimes he was enraged. She couldn't figure out what made him happy or angry but she always dreaded when it was time for him to come home.
And then one day Bablu vanished again taking with him Arati's gold jewelry that she kept in a suitcase and a thousand rupees that she had saved from her earnings. Arati's loss left her distracted. The jewelry was the ones given to her by parents during her marriage and the thousand rupees she had managed to save by working as a nanny. She was at sea now. She needed a job. She went to her former employer but they had already hired someone else. Why did she listen to that cheat, that son of a bitch? What was she thinking? She asked people about jobs but all she found were the jobs of maids. The idea of washing and cleaning other people's mess did not appeal to her. But she had no other choice. Raja was growing up and now she had to think of his schooling and education. If she worked as a maid she'd be able to work in multiple houses and earn more money. She needed all the money she could get. Her neighbor helped her get a job as a maid and slowly she built a network through which she got more work. Initially she felt nauseated cleaning other people's dishes and utensils, and all the mess and dirt but with time she got accustomed.
What kept her going through all these years was her son Raja. She slogged on untiringly day after day, year after year with the single hope that her son will grow up to be a successful man one day and relieve her of her misery. With her husband gone, her son was her only hope now. There was only one motive in her life and that was to take care of her son to the utmost, to provide him with all the luxuries of life, so that he didn't feel left out amongst his peers. She admitted her son to a government aided school, fed him properly complete with health drink and all and even provided private tutors. All this expense stretched her income to the limit. In order to make some extra income she stopped taking sarees from her employers' during the time of Durga Puja. (Durga Puja is the most important festival of the Bengalis.) Instead she asked for cash and she even argued with her employers over the amount of cash she wanted and in the process lost jobs a few times. But she found others fairly soon.
As her son grew up his demands started increasing. Previously one new shirt or a new pair of trousers was enough but now he was becoming aware of himself and the fashion of the day.
"Ma, I want a new jeans and new shoes this puja," Raja said one day.
"Raja, I can't provide both. Which one do you want more? You know I don't have the money to buy both," Arati said.
"I don't know…I need both. Money is your problem," he said.
"Well you can't have both. I don't have so much money," she said.
"You'll get a lot of cash during the pujas. What will you do with so much money?"
"What will I do with so much money? Don't you know? Who pays your tuition fees, your books, your private tutors? I have to pay for all these year round. Where will the money come from? Don't you have any shame? I am spending so much money but look at your report card…" she said.
"Ok ok. Now don't start lecturing again."
"What do you mean ok? I take the cash in place of sarees. Have you ever asked if I have a new saree for the pujas? Have you ever taken any note of me? Aren't you old enough? Why bother? All you need me for is the money. You will understand when I am not there…" Arati's voice became louder with each word.
"Oh come on. Don't start whining again. All I wanted was a jeans and a pair of shoes…and she starts off…"
He started walking towards the door.
"Where are you going?" asked Arati.
"Do I have to tell you everything?"
"Raja, don't forget I am your mother. Because of me you are standing here today and making your demands…" she raised her finger at him as she walked toward him.
"Will you stop nagging?" with that he shoved her away and she lost her balance and fell.
'I am your mother'…can't buy a jeans and shoes at the same time…'I am your mother,' he muttered as he left the house.
Arati sat there weeping, comforting herself in her own sorrow. After a few hours things were back to normal again. Arati forgave her son for his rude behavior with the excuse that he was still young and he was justified in making demands. She didn't buy any new saree that year, saved money and somehow managed to buy both the jeans and the shoes. After all it was Durga Puja. Everybody would be wearing new clothes and enjoying themselves and as a mother it was her duty to see that her son didn't feel left out. 'After all, he's a young boy', she thought. 'A few more years and Raja will be eligible for a job. Then I will quit working for the Ghosh's and the Roy's…stingy people.' With that she justified everything and resumed to her life of slogging.
Grade ten was the magical key to all the problems in Arati's life. Once you crossed that hurdle there were thousands of jobs with decent salaries and Arati looked forward to the day when her son would pass out and land a job and lend her support. But that was not to be. Her son had decided to drop out in the middle of grade eight. Arati could see all those years of struggle and slavery go down the drain right in front of her eyes. All her employers told her not to waste any more money on her son's education. Instead they told her to get him involved in some work. But how could she listen to them? She had ignored her entire life for her son and his upbringing.
"Didi will you talk to Raja? Will you persuade him not to drop out now?" she asked Mrs. Das. Mrs. Das was the one to whom she went for advice. She was a nice lady who had helped Arati time and again through her struggles. It was she who had opened a bank account for her so that she could accumulate her savings and it was with that savings that Arati had built the house.
"Have you asked him why he wants to drop out?" asked Mrs. Das.
"He doesn't talk to me properly these days. If I ask anything he doesn't give any clear answer and starts showing his temper…" Arati said.
"Can't you give him one tight slap? You should have slapped him earlier when he was young. Now it's too late," Mrs. Das said.
"What shall I do Didi? I worked so hard for him; I spent so much money…now he wants to drop out. I don't know what to do…Will you please talk to him?"
"See Arati…I'll talk to him since you are asking me. But let me tell you something honestly. Since he's not interested don't force him. You'll only waste your money and he'll be fooling around the whole time. Instead make him do some work. Ask him to find a job. What happened to his soccer?"
"He plays at the club. They said that if he can complete grade ten they will put him in the state team if he performs well," Arati said.
"Then why don't you go and talk to the manager of the club? See if he can persuade your son," Mrs. Das said.
Arati kept quiet.
"And if that doesn't work then ask him to do some work…" Mrs. Das said.
"But can he work now? He's still so young,"
"Arati, your son is growing up. Start giving him some responsibilities. If you think he won't be able to work, then let him enjoy his life while you slog like an ox."
Mrs. Das saw the expression on Arati's face change from concern to anger as she completed her sentence. She continued, "Look, I want him to study but I don't want you to waste your money. I know how much you have to struggle to earn that money."
Raja came to Mrs. Das but from his attitude she knew that she was wasting her time. Still she tried her best to make the boy understand out of concern for Arati.
Raja promised to work and he did work after his mother pestered him day after day, but they were sporadic. He found work in a store but didn't stay there more than a week because the store hours of 9:00 – 8:00 were too much for him. He didn't get to meet his friends or play soccer. So he left after a week. He worked at times but most of the time he remained idle while Arati continued with her struggles. He took to smoking and drinking and gambling. Everyone started seeing traits of his father in him including Arati. She was worried that her son would end up walking in his father's footsteps in spite of her best efforts. Raja whiled away his time doing nothing and constantly pestered his mother with demands. The demands were endless starting from a shirt to a watch to eating meat and other delicacies to a few hundred rupees. Seeing Raja's behavior and mannerisms everyone warned Arati to be tough and strong and not to give in to all his whims and wishes. Even she wanted to, but her emotions got the better of her and that proved to be her doom.
Life for Arati continued in its own way. She had accepted the fact that her son wouldn't be a secondary school graduate. All she hoped now was for him to do some proper work so that he could support her. In the meantime she had built a house with the savings she made each month from her meager salary. Her house was a tiny one roomed building with cemented floors and an asbestos roof with no electricity. Small as it may be this was something she could call her own. Now there would be no trouble with the landlord or the tension of increased rent. One problem though was that it was quite a distance away from her work place. She had built the house twenty kilometers away in a suburban ghetto outside the city. Land was cheap there and it was inhabited mostly by working class people like her. Things had been going on in this fashion for a few years till one day Raja landed up with a wife in tow. He had met this girl at a friend's place and after meeting her for a few days they went to a nearby temple and got married. With an extra mouth to feed Arati was furious at her son. He worked on and off but none of it went in supporting his mother.
After the arrival of his wife Raja started pestering his mother to transfer the house in his name. This was one thing Arati had decided from the very beginning that she won't do. Altercations and quarrels between the three of them would occur every other day regarding the ownership of the house. Her daughter-in-law never participated directly in the arguments but she didn't prevent her husband either. She didn't really care much for either the house or her mother-in-law. As long matters didn't affect her directly she didn't bother. Things took an ugly turn one day when her son in a drunken rage charged at her with a knife in hand. That'd have put an end to all her miseries but for the intervention of her daughter-in-law. She pushed Arati out of the way and grabbed the knife from her husband. Still under the influence, her son pushed her out of the house while his wife stood and watched. A few moments later he opened the door again and threw her bag at her. The bag landed with a thud a few feet away from her.
"Remember, you will have to pay for this. I will come back to this house. This is my house, I made it with my flesh and blood…Don't forget there is a God above. He is watching everything."
She stood there hoping that the door would open, but when there was no response after a long time from inside the house, she picked up her bag and started walking. She walked on unmindfully not making any effort to wipe away the tears when at one point she realized that she had reached the station. She was so accustomed to her daily routine that without any effort she took the path. That was the only way she knew. Home to work. Work to home. Slaving at an endless round of cleaning and washing for others, denying herself everything so that her son may benefit.
When Mrs. Das heard what had happened she wasn't surprised. She had seen the possibilities of such a scenario but had hoped against it. Along with others she had warned Arati time and again. But her love for her son had brought her to this stage. Mrs. Das let her stay at her place. Arati waited for her son to call but with each passing day the flicker of hope diminished. Time and again she thought of going back to her house but in the end her mind won the battle over her emotions and she gave up what was rightfully hers. If only the mind had won earlier.
Ding dong. The calling bell struck. It's eight in the morning and Arun's mother wondered who it could be at this early hour. 'Maybe it's the maid,' she says to herself and walks to the door. On opening the door she is startled by a tall and hefty man in a green turban. "Is this Mr. Ashok Roy's house?" the man asked. "Yes?" she said with a questioning look. "I am from the CBI٭. My name is Jaswinder Singh". He showed his badge to Mrs. Roy. Hearing the word CBI she thought it best to hand over matters to her husband. "Wait a minute," she said and called her husband. "Can you please come down? Someone from the CBI is here." she shouted. Mr. Roy rushed down in his pajamas and a vest. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Are you Mr. Ashok Roy?" Jaswinder asked. "Yes I am." "I am Jaswinder Singh from the cyber crime department of the CBI. Can I come in?" He showed his identification. "Uhh…yeah…sure." Behind him his wife whispered not to let the man inside the house. Who knows if he is a fake? Anyone can forge an ID now. But Mr. Roy ignored his wife. The CBI is not to be messed around with. "What's the matter Mr. Singh?" he asked as the detective entered the house. "The State Bank's security system has been hacked and our detectives have traced it to a system in your name." "What?" Mr. Roy cried out at first and then he burst into laughter, "how is that possible Mr. Singh? Look Mr. Singh," Mr. Roy said, "there surely must have been some mistake. I do have a computer, in my name but I am not at all tech savvy. I can't even attach files in the e-mail without a hit and trial method. How can I possibly break into some network system Mr. Singh? Aren't they super protected?" "Can I…" Jaswinder pointed to the sofa. "Surely…yes…please…" "What do you do Mr. Roy?" Jaswinder asked as he sat down. He pulled out a tiny little notebook and a blue pen from his shirt pocket. "I retired a few months back as an accountant of SBI٭٭." "Which branch?" "Salt Lake branch." "That's the branch which has been affected Mr. Roy." "What!" "When did you retire?" "Three months back, in July." "Who else lives with you?" "My wife Mita and my son Arun." "Are you his wife?" "Yes," "Your name please," "Mita Roy," "What do you do Mrs. Roy?" "I am a housewife," "So you must also be using the computer for email and chat?" "No, not at all. I don't know all these things and frankly speaking I don't have any interest in them. The phone is here. I can talk to anyone I want over the phone. Why do I need all that email and other things?" "That's true. That's right," Jaswinder focused his attention on Mr. Roy again. "So Mr. Roy, how's retired life? You must be having plenty of time now. How do you utilize it?" "It's difficult you know, staying at home, after all these years…I have taken to writing now, you can call me a writer," "Really? That's good. What do you write?" Jaswinder marked Mr. Roy's present occupation in his notepad. "Short stories…have written quite a few now," "Published anything yet?" "Yes, one in The Sunday Statesman and two others in the ABP magazine." "That's great! So what are your stories about?" "Nothing in particular…crises of modern life, you know. Currently I am working on a thriller." "What kind of thriller?" "A murder mystery." "Sounds very interesting." "Let's see how it turns out." "I'm sure it'll be great. Where's your son? You said he lived with you." "He's in Kanpur." "In Kanpur? What does he do there?" "He's a Computer Science student at IIT٭٭٭ Kanpur." This piece of information caught Jaswinder's attention. "What's his name?" "Arun Kumar Roy." "Which year?" "Final year." "So does he come home often?" "Only during his semester breaks." "When did he come home last?" "A month ago." "Give me his phone number and address. I'd like to talk to him." Jaswinder took Arun's phone number and address and stood up. As he was leaving Mr. Roy asked Jaswinder, "Mr. Singh, when did this incident happen?" "About fifteen days ago." And with that he walked away leaving the Roys with their own queries. Immediately they rushed to the phone and dialed Arun's number. --------------- He googled hacker and the bright computer screen stared back at Arun with eight definitions of the word. Numbers five and six appealed to him. Definition number five read, "A person who enjoys the intellectual challenge of creatively overcoming or exceeding limitations." Definition number six read, "A malicious intruder who tries to detect sensitive information by poking around. Therefore 'password hacker' and 'network hacker'. The correct term for this sense is 'crack'." He finished reading and muttered 'I am feeling lucky'. ------------------ "Upen Biswas from the CBI," "Nice to meet you. How can I help you?" the dean of the Computer Science Department at IIT, Kanpur said. "We have reasons to believe that one of your students may be involved in meddling with the SBI security network," "And what makes you think that it is one of our students Mr. Biswas?" "Is Arun Kumar Roy a student here?" Mr. Biswas continued ignoring the dean. "Yes," "Well, Dr. Das, the system to which the crime has been traced is in Kolkata, in Arun's father's name. Now Arun's father did not seem to be very technologically competent, at least not enough to cause any major damage like this…so that leaves us with Arun as the major suspect…" "But it is also possible that someone else might have done the crime remotely using that particular system. So how do you know for sure that Arun is to blame?" "Dr. Das, I didn't say that we were sure. I just said that he is under suspicion. Mark my words carefully. Now let's not complicate matters and waste time. I'd like to talk to Arun Roy." "Do you have a warrant for interrogating him?" "Here you go," Mr. Biswas handed over a sheet of paper to Dr. Das. "Then there's nothing to stop you I presume. I'll send for Arun," "Thank you Dr. Das." A few minutes later a tall lanky guy with a day old stubble walked into the dean's office. He had longish hair which could be tied into a ponytail with some difficulty. Behind the latest fashion glasses were a pair of light brown eyes, alert and roving. He looked first at Mr. Biswas and then at his dean. "Arun, this here is Mr. Upen Biswas, investigating officer of CBI. He'd like to talk to you regarding a hacking case," Dr. Das said. "Hacking?" Arun said nervously. "Actually you are their prime suspect now," "But I am trying to come up with anti-hacking systems…" "That's what I told him, but…" "Dr. Das, let me take it from here. Now where can I talk to him in private, without any disturbance?" "You can use the conference room down the hall. Arun you can take him there, and don't worry. Everything will be just fine." "Thank you Sir," Arun said and readied himself to face the CBI investigator. Inside the conference room Arun sat at one end of the huge table. The detective pulled out a chair and sat opposite to him, facing him directly but from a distance. Arun looked at the man, he was completely bald and the arched bushy eyebrows gave his face a menacing look. Not sure what to do, Arun smiled at him nervously and without realizing started drumming his fingers on the table. He looked towards his right where the blinds on the windows were drawn. He wanted to go and pull up the blinds, let in some light in the room. The conference room had never felt so claustrophobic before. "So…your name please, young man," Mr. Biswas' voice boomed. "Arun Kumar Roy." "Occupation." "Final year Computer Science student." "And final year would be…fourth, fifth?" "Fourth year." "Ok. So do you have any idea why you are here?" "Not exactly…other than the fact that I am a suspect in a hacking case." "Your parents must have told you something regarding this," Arun swallowed before replying, "Yes, the CBI had been to our home and interrogated my parents regarding a security breach in the SBI networks." "So you do know why you are here," Mr. Biswas leaned forward. "Wait a minute. Are you hinting that I am the culprit? You can't do that. You have no proof whatsoever," Arun shouted, little realizing that his reaction was not helping him in any way. The investigator sat quietly and observed Arun's every move. He waited for him to cool down. "Tell me Arun how much knowledge your parents have about computers." "My mom has zero knowledge. I've tried so many times to teach her how to e-mail, but she's just not interested. It's so hard to even make her sit in front of the computer for some time." "And your father?" "My dad is learning. At least he's interested. Even a few months back he didn't know much. But now he can do all the e-mailing and chatting. I used to chat with him almost every day so that he had the practice. Previously anytime he had to send an attachment he used to call me up for instructions. Now he's ok." "But didn't his work at the bank involve computers?" "It did. But that was only work stuff. When the banking system was being computerized all the employees had to take training. So that took care of the office work. And you can't really use the office system for your personal work, right? A year ago he bought a computer at home, that's when he started learning." "I heard he's a writer now. Does he write the old fashioned way, you know pen and paper or use computers?" "He started with pen and paper, but I switched him to MS Word. He's now quite comfortable with it," Arun said with a smile. "How often do you go home Arun?" "About twice a year, during my semester breaks." "When was the last time you went home?" "Last month." "That would be September. Can you give me the exact dates you were home?" "Umm…I came back here September 23rd. it was a Sunday I remember." "You must be using the home computer when you are there" "Actually I have a laptop. I pretty much use that. I generally don't use the system at home." "Why?" "Because it's easier for me to access things from my laptop. I am always signed into my mail account and all my coursework and related stuff is in my laptop. So it makes things easier for me. A different system means I have to log in again, and then sign out…" "Where's your laptop?" "In my room." "Let's go to your room. I want to have a look at it." "Visitors are not allowed in the hostel rooms." "Look kid, don't try to act smart. I have a search warrant. And it's in your best interest that you co-operate with the law or else I can have you arrested under Indian Penal Code 732 for obstruction of justice." Immediately Arun stood up and started walking towards the door. The investigator smiled to himself. This threat always worked. The boy's room was a total mess. On one side of his bed books and clothes were piled up. His laptop was open on the table. The investigator sat down at the desk and checked all the tabs which were open. The first tab he saw was about Chinese restaurants in the area, the next few were about IP addresses and networking but the one which caught his attention was related to hacking trails. He shut the laptop and took it in his custody. "But…that…" Aun couldn't complete. "Remember what I said earlier." "Yes Sir," Arun said. "Tell me one thing Arun, why do people hack?" "I don't know." "Suppose you were a hacker. I am not telling that you are one. Just assume. What would your motive be for breaking into a restricted system? Why commit this kind of crime?" "You know what Mr. Biswas, people who hack don't always have a criminal bent of mind. Many people do it for the sheer challenges it provides. Hackers are very sharp people, they love what they do. It's like a game you know, how far can you take it, how far can you make yourself go, how far can you push yourself? It's all about trying new things and not ruling out possibilities Mr. Biswas." "If hacking is such a challenging job why are you specializing in anti-hacking?" "Good point. First of all, hacking is something which can't be taught. You just learn if you are interested. Secondly, hacking is challenging, but containing hackers is even more challenging." "So in a way, your anti-hacking skills also allow you to sharpen your hacking abilities." "How is that?" "If you don't hack, how will you know how to stop it?" "Hahaha…if I were to follow your logic Mr. Biswas, then I have to assume that a fireman sets fire to a house, before he learns how to douse it, or a policeman commits the same crime as his criminal in order to arrest the criminal! It doesn't work that way Mr. Biswas. You need to think like a criminal, in order to catch him, not commit the crime yourself." "In that case, tell me how is hacking done?" "How am I supposed to know how hacking is done. I am not a hacker." "What happened to your logic…what about thinking like a hacker, try thinking. Someone as intelligent as you can definitely do this. Don't rule out your possibilities, push yourself Arun." Arun started sweating profusely. He had gone too far. Somewhere down the line he had forgotten that the man in front of him was from the CBI. He had said too much. Every time, every time he got carried away. While leaving the campus Mr. Biswas thought about the case. "The boy was very smart and he didn't come all clean. He was hiding something definitely. But what? But the boy's father…he didn't sound all that technologically challenged from his son…maybe Singh should check on him again. Need to talk to Singh." Three days after the CBI interrogated him and intercepted his laptop, Arun received a call from his mother. She sounded very tense. "Arun, the CBI came again today. They searched the house and took away the computer. They also took your father with them for additional questioning but let him go afterwards. They told him not to leave the state." "Ma, don't worry. I'll leave for home today evening. I'll talk to my dean. Don't worry Ma, I'm coming home tomorrow." Arun went to notify his dean that he was going home in the middle of the semester. "But you are not supposed to leave town," the dean said. "I know Sir. My parents are alone at home, and the CBI is harassing them. I just have to be with them now. In any case if the CBI wants me again they can always find me at Kolkata." "Arun if you are involved in any of this…" "I am not involved in anything Sir. Believe me." "I do believe that you are innocent but if your involvement is found we will have to rusticate you." "Yes Sir," Arun said softly. At home Arun could see the strain the situation had created, on his parents' face. His father's health had broken down, he looked so much older. His mother's face was tense. Usually when her son came home she'd cook all his favorite dishes but today she just made rice, daal (lentils) and a curry. No fish, no meat, no dessert. The three of them ate in silence. After dinner Arun's mother asked him if he was involved, "Tell me Arun, if you have done anything. I'll tell the CBI officer to forgive you. I am your mother, they will listen to me." "Ma I didn't do anything. What makes you think that I am behind all this?" "If you didn't do this, then your father must have done it because I don't even touch that computer. Now tell me, does your father know so much about computers? No. but you do Arun, you do…" "But Ma, you just can't blame me like this. Is this why you wanted me to come home, so that you could blame me?" "I don't know what to do Arun. Look at your father, his health has deteriorated so much in the past few days. He doesn't talk much now. Do something Arun, do something," Mrs. Roy broke down. "Don't worry Ma, everything will be ok, everything will be ok. Try to sleep now." After the talk with his mother Arun went upstairs to his room. He opened his laptop and tried to access the home computer. Access denied. Just what he had thought. The CBI had already sealed off any remote access possible. He sat there thinking when his father came into his room. "Won't you go to sleep?" "Yes dad. Tell me one thing. When did this happen?" Mr. Roy sat down on his son's bed, "The CBI said it happened fifteen days ago, but that was the first time they came here. It's been almost a week since then, so that would be almost three weeks ago." "Hmmm. That was like a few days after I left for Kanpur. Wish I could see the system before they took it away." "Didn't they take your laptop too?" "Yeah, they did but returned it again. Couldn't find anything. All clean." Arun started muttering again, "Why would any hacker leave a trail like that? That's against the hacker mentality, unless he's trying to leave a trail deliberately for some reason. But what can the reason be? Or maybe he was a rookie." "He was a rookie. He didn't know how to cover up the trails," Mr. Roy said slowly. "But how can you be so sure dad?" Arun said and then looked at his father, sitting on the bed, staring at the floor. "Oh my God! Dad! But why, dad?" It hit him like a bolt from the blue. "I am sorry Arun. I never thought…" "What do you mean I am sorry? Do you have any idea what you have done? Why did you do this?" "I had always dreamt of becoming an engineer. But your grandpa wouldn't give a single penny for our education. He wanted all of us to look after his farmland. I had to struggle a lot to complete my masters. After I got the job at the bank, I supported your two uncles with that meager salary. All my life I have struggled, I have always lived for others. For once I have lived the life I wanted to…I am tired of this middle-class life, this life of anonymity. I wanted to be famous, to do something…" "But look what living for yourself has done…you were better off living for others." "I am sorry son. This was never my intention…" "It's so easy to say you are sorry. Think about me, think about mom. Here I am, specializing in anti-hacking while my father is figuring out ways to hack right under my nose. Why did you do this dad? You wanted to be famous? Your stories could have done that," Arun said, "Wanted to be famous!" he muttered to himself. Mr. Roy sat there silently. He had nothing to say. He was tired and exhausted. He stood up to leave. "But how did you do this? Where did you learn all the stuff?" "I always had interest in computer science. In our days it was in a nascent stage but nowadays everywhere you look you find the application of computers. More than a year ago I read an article on Robert Morris and his Internet worm and it triggered my interest. My job at the bank was very tedious, so I decided to satisfy my interest. I got books from the library, plus I had your books. They helped me a lot in understanding the basics." "How come you never told us? Does mom know about all this? How did you manage to keep it a secret for so long?" "Your mother doesn't know anything about this. She'd never have approved. It's wastage of time to her." "You could've at least told me dad. I would've understood and I could've helped you in your learning." As Arun listened to his father revealing a completely different part of his life, how he wished for the circumstances to change. If only the times were different he would have reveled in his father's determination and his success. Was he supposed to be happy? He wanted to be happy; maybe he was happy in some corner of his being. His reverie was broken by a touch on the shoulder. "Arun, it's quite late now. Go to sleep," his father said. "You didn't tell me how you managed to do this," "After reading the Morris article I looked up many websites related to hacking. From there I got ideas. The networks security person in my office also helped me understand a few things. Talking to him I learnt about the weaknesses and the loopholes of security systems. I was writing a story at the time related to it and I decided to try out my ideas. I wanted my story to have an authentic feel." "But why your own bank? There are thousands of other sites." "Because I was a bit familiar with the systems and their IP addresses. I accessed a public web site and then bypassed additional secured databases stored on the same server." "What kind of data did you get access to?" "I had access to customers' account numbers, their account balance, their entire banking history. But I didn't tamper any of them. I only added an extra zero to my savings account balance." In spite of their situation both of them smiled at this bit of information. "Why didn't you use onion routing dad? It is a technique for anonymous communication over a network. It doesn't disclose the origin, destination and contents of a message." "I didn't know about it. Now I understand totally why they say 'a little knowledge is a dangerous thing'." "You could've at least told me dad. I could've tried to cover up your trail. " "Arun, you are my son. How could I have told you that your father was a criminal?" "I don't know…I don't know…you are not a criminal dad. If only I had known earlier…" Mr. Roy stood up and started walking towards the door. And for the first time in a long long time Arun went up to his father and hugged him tightly. "Everything will be ok dad, everything will be fine," he whispered. Mr. Roy struggled hard to control the tears as he left his son's room. The next day the CBI came with an arrest warrant for Mr. Ashok Roy. But there was no Ashok Roy anymore. Early that morning Arun was awakened by a sharp scream. It sounded like his mother. Somewhere in the middle of the night he had dozed off. He jumped out of bed looking for his glasses. 'Where did I keep those damn glasses,' he thought and then realized that he was wearing them. He ran downstairs to his parents' bedroom. There in the attached bathroom he found his father lying on the floor, froth and blood had oozed out of his mouth. He found an empty bottle of rat-kill lying beside him. He bent down and touched his father's forehead. It was cold as ice. His mother was sobbing hysterically; in her hand was a piece of paper. He took the paper from her hands. In his father's crisp handwriting he saw the words: I am responsible for my own death. Arun and Mita, forgive me, if possible.
In the US for the first time, I faced a difficulty from an unexpected quarter. Water taps. I’ve lived all my life in a city more than three hundred years old where taps work in a single uniform way -- clockwise to turn them on and anticlockwise to shut them off.(Well, it used to be this way when I grew up and left the country.)
In the restroom of the airport what I saw was a very fancy looking thing in the name of a tap, I could by no means find out its head which I could turn. I just stood at the wash basin staring at the curvy shining metal object in front of me, trying to figure out a way to make it flow for me. When staring didn’t help I decided it was time for action. I pushed and pulled and tapped but nothing happened. In desperation I poked at the mouth of the tap. And voila! Water gushed out of the tap onto my wrists wetting the sleeves of my sweater. I moved my hand away instantly. The flow stopped within seconds. Tentatively I moved my hands underneath the tap again. Water started flowing. These things need to come with instructions, I thought.
Now that the water’s flowing I merrily started washing my hands, taking my own sweet time -- completely forgetting that this is not holy water from the Ganges washing away my sins -- when all of a sudden the tap runs dry. My hands had moved away a bit. That’s what happens in the US when you are not paying attention to business on hand, even if you are only washing your hands. I moved my hands again, washed my hands as quickly as possible and proceeded.
Hands all clean, and all refreshed I now needed to drink water. One look at the water fountain and my thirst vanished. Am I supposed to drink from here? How do people manage to drink from that thing? Don’t they use glasses here? My only other option to quench my thirst was to buy bottled water which I was not willing to do for various reasons. Firstly, I don’t trust the bottling companies. I am very much convinced that they are selling tap water in the name of mineral water. Secondly, the conversion of dollars to rupees was quite shocking. So I just stood at a distance and watched people. The restroom episode was behind closed walls. But this was an open space. I didn’t want to provide free entertainment to hundreds of people out there. All they did was press the big button at the base, water came out and they drank. Looked simple enough.
As the coast cleared up I marched ahead confidently, took my position and pressed the button at the base. Water did come up sure enough, but instead of filling my mouth it spluttered in my face. Taken aback I glanced sideways to find out if anybody had noticed what was going on. As luck would have it I saw two kids smiling mischievously at me. Ears burning and my face as red as an apple, I walked away stoically. As the days passed I learnt to drink from the water fountain, though not without a bit of choking and getting my dress wet.
My ordeal was not over at taps and water fountains. Once I stepped into the country I realized I had to deal with Fahrenheits and Miles and Pounds and Gallons. I could leave behind kilometer and litre and make do with the mile and gallon, but the Celsius I couldn’t forget -- the chilliness of 5°C couldn’t be brought out by 41°F and the frequent conversions from Fahrenheit to Celsius have left my brains racked..
I drove down the highway,
And on the way I saw a man
Jump off the bridge and die.
I should've called 911
But I drove on,
My car stereo blaring music
Louder and louder.
On the way I hit a bike,
I should've called 911
But I drove on.
And then I saw a car
Coming from the opposite direction
I should've stopped
But I drove on.
I was lying on a stretcher,
Somebody had called 911.
After speeding at almost double the speed limit in a foreign country we arrived just in time for our check-in only to find out that our flight schedule has been changed from two in the afternoon to 8:50 pm. Great! We could have spent more time in exploring Chichen Itza. So what do we do now? We reorganized our things a little bit in the airport and transferred some essentials into a small dark green backpack and decided to check-in the suitcase and the rucksack and go out to Cancun. We locked the suitcase and transferred some unimportant things (or so we thought) together with a laptop power cord into the unlocked rucksack.
Finally we reached Havana around 11 pm. The plane was a very small one and reminded me of the planes back home which flew in the north eastern part of the country. As soon as the aircraft touched ground people started clapping like little children satisfied with a good movie. This was a very familiar scene in early 1980s India.
The weather outside was warm and sultry very much like the weather in Kolkata. The airport was a small one considering it was an international airport. As we entered the terminal we were greeted by the flags of nations with which Cuba had diplomatic relations and there I saw my tricolor sharing the space proudly with a host of other nations and I felt very proud at the moment because we don't often get to see the Indian flag amongst other flags. We headed straight to the immigration centre where five or six counters were open at the time. When our turn came both of us walked together to the counter when we were stopped and told that only one person at a time was to proceed to the counter in spite of the fact that we were a couple. I proceeded first. The lady at the counter had a tough look on her face and she proved to be quite tough too. She took my passport, flipped the pages and asked me,
"Which country?"
"India", I replied.
She continued browsing through my passport and then told me "Wait there", pointing to the queue from where I came. I was a bit worried about leaving my passport in her hands but with no other choice I joined my husband over there and told him the proceedings.
In the meantime the lady had called some higher level personnel and he approached us with a bunch of questions. He had my passport in his hands.
"Where do you come from?", he asked.
"India. We are Indians.", my husband replied and showed the man his passport.
"Your address in passport says USA?", he said.
My husband had his California address in the passport. I still had my Indian address.
"Right now we stay in California, USA. But we are not US citizens. I work there.", my husband told him.
"Why have you come here?", the man asked.
Hearing this I wondered what sort of a question was that!
"For tourism.", my husband replied.
"How many days will you stay?", he asked.
"Seven days…in Havana…in Casa de Ana…a casa particular in Vedado.", my husband showed him the printout of the email confirming the reservation.
"Are you going out of Havana?"
"No we are not…we are staying in Havana for seven days."
"How much money did you bring?"
"We have around 900 Euros with us in cash."
He browsed the passport once again and then handed it back. The tough looking lady called again and this time my husband proceeded first. She asked him a few things and then stamped his passport. Then she buzzed a door open and let us step out into her country. It was my turn at the counter now. This time she just looked at my face, matched it with the photo in my passport and stamped it without any question.
As we were coming out we were greeted by a bunch of cab drivers and somehow managed to get rid of all but one. He was a bulky man in his late 40s and seemed respectable and his rates seemed reasonable enough so we decided to go with him. Once outside the airport we were again greeted by the sultry warm weather.
"I am Marco", he said.
"I am Shanto and this is my wife Yasho.", my husband said.
"Which country you from?", Marco asked.
"India", my husband replied.
"India…Indiana Jones right?"
"Actually no…India is not Indian Jones…it is a country…", a bit amused I corrected him.
"Oo I know India…Bollywood…"
"That's correct…do you watch Hindi movies?", I asked.
"Not much…but I watch…Madhuri Dixit…Aishwarya Rai…I know them…very beautiful ladies…"
I knew that the names of Madhuri Dixit and Aishwarya Rai were known in many parts of the world but didn't quite expect it to be known in a small Spanish speaking country like Cuba.
"All Indian ladies very pretty…I like them…Indian ladies wear that big red thing on forehead…", Marco continued.
"That's a bindi…", I replied.
"You don't have bindi…why?"
"Modern Indian women you see…", my husband smiled.
Tired as I was I didn't take the trouble to make him understand that though it was a traditional custom for the married Indian woman to wear a bindi I did not want to run the risk of making a weird fashion statement by wearing it with a pair of jeans and sneakers.
We reached our casa particular
around 1a.m. and apologized to our host Pepe for the extreme delay and for keeping him awake till a late hour. He asked us not to bother about it and expressed some dissatisfaction with Cubana Airlines and showed us our room. It was a medium sized room with two single rattan beds attached together to make a double bed. The room had an AC, attached bathroom and a mini fridge filled with water and juice and soft drinks but the price list on the top of the refrigerator kept us from using them unless absolutely necessary. Eventually we did use a few bottles of water.
We woke up late the next day, around 9o' clock. Our hostess Ana Maria introduced us to two other ladies who were also staying in the other room of the casa. Over breakfast we came to know that they were from Ireland and had already spent a week in Havana and were leaving after two days. After breakfast we decided to explore the area and its neighborhood.
We were staying in Vedado, a residential area as well as a place full of high-rises, restaurants, clubs and other businesses. We were just roaming around the streets and looking at all the houses and the surrounding environment. The houses seemed so familiar to the houses back home in India. They were flat roofed concrete structures with iron railing balconies jutting out and more often than not clothes were hung out to dry in the warm weather. It seemed so much like home. We kept on drifting from one part of town to the other and I was taking it all in. Big buses loaded with people plied on the roads but the crowd was much less compared to Kolkata buses. We spotted a few vintage cars and even rode one of them although they were not supposed to carry tourists.
I am not very familiar with car models so I am unable to describe the make and the model of the vintage car we rode from the Capitolio to the Malecon for 5CUC per person. It was a red colored car and the system of opening doors was like the Indian Ambassador cars where one had to twist a small handle kind of thing. The same thing would lock the door and also open it depending on which direction you twisted the knob. These old American cars were called colectivos and they usually plied on fixed routes leaving when full. On the way, at a red light our driver gave a lift to a lady who waved at the taxi. The old man charged her nothing and the woman got out with a smiling gracias.
We drifted to the Parque Lennon area where there is a big bronze statue of John Lennon sitting on a bench. The statue was unveiled in December 2000 by Fidel Castro on the 20th anniversary of Lennon's death. The Lonely Planet informed us that the Beatles' music was banned in Cuba in the 1960s for being too decadent but following Lennon's strong social activism and opposition to US involvement in the Vietnam War he quickly became a hero among Cuban music fans and Castro proclaimed him as a revolutionary. An interesting thing about the statue was that its glasses had been stolen a number of times and now there's a guard to protect the glasses who by the way seemed nowhere in sight until I sat on the bench next to Lennon. He came running towards us and I thought that taking photos were not allowed and stood up straight. But he smiled at us and offered to click a photo of both of us with the statue along with the glasses. Having a guard seemed to have helped Lennon retain his glasses.
Walking further down the street we were happy to see the Indian Embassy right in front of us. We paused a bit in front of the building, looked around and when we were sure that no one was looking took a photo because we didn't know whether photography was prohibited. With a rucksack and a Lonely Planet book in hand we looked quite touristy. From the book I was trying to figure out which direction to take to reach the Museo de Artes Decorativas, because it was in the neighborhood, when an elderly lady in her mid-fifties caught hold of us and told us something – in Spanish. "Sorry. No habla Espanol.", both of us said in unison. This phrase was like a chorus in our entire trip. She went on speaking but we could not figure out what she was trying to tell us. She caught hold of a young man passing us and asked him if he knew English or so I figured. Seeing that she was trying so hard to communicate my husband tried to apply his forgotten knowledge of French and proceeded a bit. Somehow she understood that we were from Kolkata, India and that excited her all the more. A few moments later we found out the reason for her excitement. She knew a Missionaries of Charity nun who came from the Kolkata centre and before long she took us there. I had to abandon the museum for the day, and for the trip. She called out to the nun and told her about us. The nun (I can't remember her name now) was from Jharkhand, a state adjoining our state of West Bengal and was in Cuba for the past three years. We talked to the nun for some time when the Cuban lady asked her if we had been to Coppelia. Not yet, but we had plans of going there tomorrow. But we had to make a change in our plans since the lady practically accompanied us halfway to Coppelia. I was sure that she would have accompanied us the whole way but some friend of hers was sick and she was going to visit her friend with a bag full of grocery supplies from which I could see a pineapple peeping out.
Built in the 1960s Coppelia is structured like a spaceship in a park. You could sit outside in the garden, in the patio or upstairs. There was more than one entrance and each time we entered the complex from a different entrance. According to all the material I had read regarding the place, there was supposed to be a long queue. But on our first day only four or five people were in front of us and that wasn't time enough for us to make a decision between ensalada (four scoops of ice cream with chocolate sauce on it), fresa y chocolat, vanilla and a few others. We settled for an ensalada and a vanilla ice cream and went back again for a fresa y chocolat. The ice creams were wonderfully delicious. They were rich and once in the mouth they melted smoothly and left a silky aftertaste.
Our second visit led us to a different section. This part was almost full and we had to wait some time for a table. After we were seated a waitress came and told us what was available for the day and we went for an ensalada, a chocolate-vanilla swirl, and to try something different, a coconut ice cream. I didn't quite like the coconut flavor (though it was my suggestion) and slowly pushed it to my husband's side of the table and sneaked the chocolate-vanilla swirl towards me while he was busy working on his portion of the ensalada. Somehow he caught my trick and told me with a naughty smile, "So…I see you didn't like the coconut flavor…"
"Nothing like that…I just wanted you to taste it…", I said.
"The entire bowl?", he asked.
"I don't mind…", I said with a laugh and gave up.
Opposite Coppelia on La Rampa was Cine Yara, a cinema complex built in the 1950s with a main auditorium for feature films and two smaller rooms for video projections. We browsed through the shop adjacent to it selling movie posters, T-shirts and other souvenirs.
**********
"Are you hungry?", I asked my husband.
"A bit. Why? Are you hungry?", he asked back.
"Yeah…be on the lookout for some place to eat.", I tell him.
We were walking down the streets of Havana when a very old lady asked us something in Spanish. Her appearance was strikingly familiar to the picture of the old woman in our Lonely Planet guide book with a cigar in her mouth and round black glasses. Only she didn't have the cigar.
"Sorry. No habla Espanol. Habla Ingles" was my husband's reply.
"You speak English?" she asked us.
"Si. Si", was our joint reply.
Hearing the si and the enthusiastic nodding of heads she continued in English,
"Help me cross the road."
"Sure...Sure…", I said.
She was dressed in a red and white printed cotton frock, and had a brown shawl wrapped around her even though the weather was warm, had a bag full of groceries in one hand and a walking stick for support in the other. It was a narrow uneven road with two way traffic. My husband took hold of her grocery bag. I held her hand and both of us helped her cross the street. Her thin hands and wrinkled brown skin reminded me of my grandmother's hand and the times when I'd do the same with her. At times it was fun because she wouldn't be ready to cross the street if she spotted even a rickshaw (a tricycle kind of vehicle which carried passengers) at quite some distance and then I'd tease her. And she'd defend herself by saying "I am old. I can't run like you people do nowadays."
After crossing over to the other side of the road she asked,
"Where do you come from?"
"India", my husband replied.
"India …o…India…Gandhi…", she trailed off.
"That's right…it is the land of Gandhi…" my husband replied proudly.
"I speak English better than this in young days…but now out of practice…I no longer remember.", she told us.
"Even now you speak English very well", I told her.
Before bidding goodbye I applied my limited knowledge of Spanish and asked her,
"Un foto?"
"Yes…yes…", she replied with a smile and posed with me.
It was our second day in Havana and we were on a mission to find out a computer store which would have laptops. Why did we need a laptop store on vacation in Havana when we were already armed with an IBM Thinkpad.
3 GBs of camera memory were full after two days in Mexico and a day in Havana. It was then that we looked for the power cord and it was missing. That was the only important thing in the rucksack, we realized, a little late. The laptop was almost out of charge and we needed to transfer our photos to the computer. That was the sole reason for carrying around the five pound laptop. We asked our host if he had a power cord. Even if he had a power cord chances of his having a Thinkpad was limited but he didn't even have a laptop let alone a power cord. He had a computer but without a CD writer, so there was no point transferring to his desktop. So we asked him where we can find a shop which would have the necessary item. He directed us to Miramar, the bordering town.
After breakfast the next morning we decided to go in search of the power cord. There were two types of breakfast—big and small. Big breakfast included bread, jam and butter, eggs, ham, juice and coffee, and small breakfast subtracted the ham and eggs from the big one. We had a combination of big and small breakfast and then took the Havanatur bus service to Miramar. The Havanatur tour service plied tour buses on three main routes which pretty much covered the entire city of Havna and its outskirts and for a price of 5CUC per person you could take the bus on any of the three routes for the whole day. So we figured that would be the cheapest option to go to Miramar.
Reaching Miramar we located a mini shopping complex and after scanning the entire premise we found a shop which looked like it'll save the day for us but upon entering we found otherwise. They told us power cords could be found in a shop in a different part of the city. Time was running by and we had so much to see in Havana. This time we took a cab and after a lot of confusion the cab driver understood the location which was written on the piece of paper. Miramar seemed to be a posh area with big, grand houses lining the streets. Unfortunately this shop didn't have them either and they directed us to another shop named 'Control C'.
"That's a funny name", I said to myself.
We took the cab and reached 'Control C'. It was a small shop in a very quite part of the city by the sea. The place seemed more like a financial district. The shopkeeper's name was Iran. The shop had a copy machine, computers, CDs, DVDs but no laptops and no power cords. After much difficulty he understood what our problem was and offered to transfer our photos to his computer. From there he would then write it in a CD. We were so grateful to Iran. It took almost two hours to complete the entire process. He didn't charge us for anything except for the two CDs to which he transferred the photos. We asked him to sign his name on the CD along with the date which he happily did. We walked out of the shop and into the street hoping to find a cab to take us back to the heart of the city.
After helping the lady cross the road we resumed our search for a food joint. Finally we spotted something with the name 'Pan.com' and a chef's smiling face peering out of it which prompted us to enter it.
Pan.com had exquisitely restored interiors with slanted ceilings and wooden beams and stained glass bay windows. The walls exposed carefully peeled off plaster to expose the bricks beneath. All this décor lent a old world charm to the place.
Our waiter was a very friendly man by the name of Gustavo. After taking our orders of ham and cheese sandwiches and soft drinks, he struck up a conversation with us. As usual he began in Spanish and we had to repeat again "Sorry. No habla Espanol. Habla Ingles."
"O…Ingles…", he smiled, pointed to himself and said "not much Ingles…"
"That's ok", my husband assured him.
"Which country you come from?" he asked us.
"India.", I replied half hoping that he wouldn't repeat the "ah India…Indiana Jones" thing. Most of the times when we said we were from India people related the country to the man with a scholarly attitude! At first I tried to correct them but that seemed to dampen their spirits a little so I just let go after sometime.
"Have you heard of India?", my husband asked him.
"Yes…yes…I know India…I have friend from India…Delhi…", he replied.
"O…that's great…have you been there?", my husband asked
"No-o…no…", he replied.
"O…"
"You see…it difficult for us to go outside Cuba…", he said
"Why is that?", I asked.
"You see first problem is foreign consulate…you need to have friend there because they ask for invitation letter for visa"
"You mean you need to have a friend in the foreign embassy?", I asked.
"No…no…not in embassy…but in country…",, he said.
"O…you mean the country you want to go to?", I said.
"Yes…yes…"
This reminded me of the Indian situation even a few years back when it was so hard to get a western country visa from India.
"Then it also cost a lot of money…we don't have so much money…"
Earlier in the day we were talking to Ana Maria, and she said that she goes often to Europe, particularly Belgium as her elder daughter lives there. But Ana Maria seemed somewhat rich which was sort of natural because she was in the tourism business. People who were involved in the tourism sector seemed quite well off than the average lot mainly because they had access to the Cuban convertible pesos (CUC) which was the Cuban currency for tourists and was almost equivalent to the US dollar. The CUC's value was almost 20 times the value of the Cuban peso.
"Then there is Cuban government…it do not allow us to go…it ask a lot of questions…why I am going…where I am going…its difficult…you know…", he said.
Given the fact that Cubans are so patriotic and love their country so much it seemed a bit weird on the part of the Government. I guess foreign exchange spent by the Cuban tourist would be a concern; remember the times when I was young, dad had to travel with $500 as getting over $500 required special permission. But it seemed that if a Cuban had enough money to travel he could freely do so.
"So…does your Indian friend stay here in Cuba?", I asked.
"No not now…now he is in Toronto…his name is Ajay...he work with me in Santa Clara hotel…I work before in Santa Clara…"
"O...ok…"
He scribbles something in his waiter's pad and hands it over to my husband.
"This his e-mail ID…you send mail to him…tell him you friend of me…he is good friend of me"
"Sure…sure…"
"How long you in Cuba?"
"We are here for seven days only", my husband replied.
"Have a seat", I told him. He was a tall man and my neck kind of hurt from having to look up to his face.
"No…no…I can't sit. I am on duty.", he told me.
All the time he was talking to us he kept a careful eye on the other customers, and whenever his services were required he excused himself. We were to witness a repetition of this incident towards the end of our trip. We took a guided tour to Pinar del Rio province and when the tour-guide was asked to join us for lunch he said the same thing, "I am on duty. I cannot have lunch with you." This struck me as a bit odd.
"You like Habana?"
"Yes…Very much. It's a very beautiful city.", my husband replied.
"You must go to countryside also…it is more beautiful. You should go to Santa Clara and see Che memorial…you know Che is very big hero in Santa Clara."
"And Fidel? Isn't he a hero there?", I asked.
"Fidel is hero…but Che…Che is…"
"…even bigger hero…", I chipped in.
"Yes…yes…Che very big hero", he said proudly.
Che Guevara freed Santa Clara from Batista's army which was particularly strong there, which I guess would be the reason Fidel sent his best commander to take Santa Clara. Fidel and Che freed the eastern and central provinces while Camilla freed the western part.
"Have you been to Santa Clara?", mu husband asked.
"Santa Clara is my home…I work here…in Habana…"
"O…"
"You go to Capitolio?"
"Actually we arrived yesterday late at night…so we haven't seen much. Where is the Capitolio?", my husband said.
"Capitolio in Centro Habana…my wife Imara work in Capitolio…she is PR person…you go there and ask her name…"
"Sure…sure…I think we'll go to Centro Havana day after tomorrow. We'll meet her..."
Capitolio Nacional is similar to the US Capitol Building but richer in detail. There is a 17m statue of a woman which is the third largest indoor bronze statue in the world. Directly below the Capitolio's dome the replica of a 24-carat diamond is set in the floor. Highway distances between Havana and all sites in Cuba are calculated from this point. We did ask for Imara but were unable to find her. Behind the Capitolio is the Real Fabrica de Tabacos Partagas, one of the two cigar factories which currently allowed tours where we got to watch the entire process of making a cigar starting with the sorting of leaves to the boxing of the finished products.
Then Gustavo took out his wallet and showed us a picture of two lovely kids – his six year old son Jonathan and seven year old daughter Melissa. Surprisingly he didn't have a photo of his wife in his wallet. I guess the wife's photo has given way to the children's photo. That's what happens to the wife after a few years of marriage! Gustavo himself was a handsome man with a bronze complexion and closely cropped hair and a dazzling smile which he frequently charmed us with. Since his knowledge of English was limited he had to struggle a lot to express himself but he never gave up and at times he would have trouble finding the right English word for what he was trying to express and once said "Sorry for my English".
My husband apologized for our Spanish and said "I feel so sorry for not knowing Spanish." Both of us felt guilty about not putting in that much effort for learning Spanish although I did try with some CDs and books brought from the library. That did not help us much beyond one liners and single words. Most of the time we had to make do with sign language and broken Spanish and English mixed together.
While sitting inside Pan.com I was browsing through the Lonely Planet book and all of a sudden I happened to see Pan.com under Eating. With a broad smile on my face I circled it in red and noted down the time and date of our presence there.
After finishing our food and chat session with Gustavo we took a cab to the nearest Havanatur bus stop. Luckily that was the route 2 stop which would take us to the Plaza de la Revolucion, Cuba's most important public space. This gigantic square has come to symbolize the Cuban Revolution due to the huge political rallies held there in the '60s although most buildings date from the Batista era. The square holds more than a million people and until now I had only seen pictures of Fidel addressing a packed square. Standing in the empty square I could visualize the scene. What probably helped me was the packed rallies held back home in Brigade Parade Ground, a scene I grew up on. In the square is a very high star shaped structure – the Jose Marti Memorial which has a 17m marble statue of Jose Marti who was not only a poet but also a patriot and martyr of Cuban independence.
Behind the memorial is a long building which houses Fidel Castro's office. After looking around and seeing no guards we tried to sneak inside the premises although "do not enter" signs were posted. As soon as I set foot voices started shouting from nowhere. I followed the direction of the sound and saw an army man in a green dress holding a big rifle. I said "tourist…photo" and he replied in a grim voice "no foto". So I said sorry and backed out. This building was kind of located on a raised hill and covered heavily with trees. We walked around the premise and found another opening on a different side. We could see guards here also. This time I pointed to myself and my husband and said "tourist…un foto ok?" He thought for a moment and said "ok" and my husband went click click click. On the northern side of the square is the Ministerio del Interior which was easy to spot for its huge Che Guevara mural and the famous slogan Hasta la Victoria Siempre. Che was my husband's childhood hero and I took a few pictures of him keeping the mural in the background.
On the way home we sat for a while on the Malecon, the seafront with a 8km seawall. It snakes along the coast from Habana Vieja to a fort at the mouths of the Rio Almandares which houses the Morro lighthouse. On the other end across El Morro is La Cabana, one of the largest colonial fortresses replete with grassy moats and cobblestone streets and had shops and restaurants inside. Everyday cannon balls are fired at 9 pm on the harbor side of La Cabana by a squad dressed in 19th century Spanish attire.
From the top of the fort we got a wonderful view of the entire city. The sun had already set and the sky was now painted in hues of orange, pink and purple.
The Malecon was somewhat similar to Mumbai's Marine Drive along the Arabian Sea. This place seemed to be a popular spot for lovers, loners, musicians, joggers, in fact everyone. The Malecon was a 20 minute walk from where we stayed and I think was our most visited place in Cuba.
Once while we were enjoying the view from the Malecon it started to drizzle and that proved a perfect opportunity for me to ride a coco-taxi -- small yellow colored three wheeled vehicles very similar to our yellow and black auto-rickshaws in India. We stopped one and asked the driver if she'd take us to Centro Havana. She agreed but in the meantime her engine had stopped and it needed a manual push of the vehicle to get started. So in the rain both of us started pushing but the effort was not enough. So the driver whistled to a young man playing soccer in a field nearby and he lent a hand. His rubber slippers were slipping in the rain, so he opened them and pushed with all his effort. The engine came to life and she told me to jump in which I did instantly and by the time my husband jumped in the vehicle was already moving. It was like a joy ride with the vehicle swerving now and then to pass traffic and we held on tightly to our seats. It was all so familiar to the auto-rickshaw rides in India where passengers were often warned of the 'flying start' of an auto-rickshaw.
Close to the Malecon is La Rampa, one of the most crowded parts of the city due to its concentration of business offices, hotels, restaurants, shops and clubs. Some of the most famous hotels like the Hotel Nacional and the Focsa building which has an excellent restaurant, La Torre, on the top floor and provides a wonderful view of the entire city are located here. Even though Nacional and La Torre served excellent food nothing appealed to me like the Cuban black beans and rice. Though I liked their fish preparations the chicken and pork didn't quite attract me because as Bengalis the meat we eat is cooked until tender and soft, most of the time the meat barely manages to cling to the bones. So the Cuban version proved to be a bit stiff for us.
Between the mojitos and the helados, the music and the dance we almost missed out on the Museo de la Revolucion which provides an exhaustive exhibit of Cuban history from the revolutionary war of the 1950s to the country's history after 1959. Some parts of the museum are also dedicated to pre-revolutionary Cuba and the War of Independence against the Spanish. We started our exploration of the museum half an hour before it closed so the authorities asked us to retain our tickets because we could use it the next day. Next day afternoon was our flight back to Cancun. We had to start for the airport by 11o' clock latest and the Museum opened at 10:00 a.m.
The next day we vacated our casa particular
room, left our luggage there and rushed to the Museum. We had one floor to complete before we came to the tank used by Fidel Castro during the Battle of the Bay of Pigs in 1961 and the Pavilion Granma which had the famous yacht Granma in display, in which Castro and 81 others had entered Cuba from Mexico which marked the beginning of the end of the Batista regime. While we were rushing out we saw another Indian family. They were thrilled to see us as were we. Finding an Indian in a far-off land like Cuba was the most pleasant surprise of the trip.
Nov,2008
She saw him at the Caltrain station. Apart from putting on a few pounds he hadn't changed much. As he boarded the northbound train she followed him and boarded the train. She sat down after two rows in the opposite side so as to keep an eye on him. As the train whistled her mind drifted back ten years. Leela was a small town girl. She lived almost 50 kms away in a suburb of Kolkata. She had spent twenty three years of her life in this not-so-small but not-at-all-glamorous town. She was bored of her surroundings, her life, and her existence. Her job as a teacher in the local elementary school added to the boredom. She wanted to escape from it all and she dreamed of her escape every moment. And then one day her means of escape appeared in the form of an eligible bachelor her father had chosen. The man had completed his PhD in the United States and was soon to become a faculty member in the university where he was teaching. The man's educational qualification earned the father's approval and his residence in the US earned the approval of Leela. What better chance of escaping all the drudgery of this place, she thought to herself. Within a few weeks the marriage was fixed and Leela happily moved base. She saw him standing up, getting ready to get down at the terminal station. She followed him at a gap of two or three people till he crossed the road and headed towards downtown. She followed him with her eyes and then took the southbound train back home. At home her husband was worried. "Where have you been?" "What do you mean where have I been?" she snapped. Then in a calmer tone she said, "Actually I mistakenly took the northbound train and didn't realize until I was at the terminal station." "See that's why I am always so worried about you. You should be more careful and more alert." "I know I know. It was my mistake. Now stop treating me like a child." "I am not treating you like a child. I was just worried…and your behavior and actions sometime force me to treat you like a child." "Ok ok. I've had enough of your lectures." She walked into the bathroom and slammed the door while her husband heaved a sigh and tried to concentrate on his paper. The next day she went to the station again around the same time. She looked around hoping to see him. Then she saw him coming. He walked past her and stood at a distance waiting for his train. She walked up to his side with a thumping heart and said, "Remember me?" He was startled and turned his head to face her. His eyes searched her face and then a faint smile flashed across his face. "Leela?" "Yes Amit…You remember me. How are you?" "How could I forget you? You do look different though." "What are you doing here?" "I work here. I live in the city." She couldn't take his calmness and his distance anymore. "Why didn't you contact me? I sent you so many letters. Why didn't you write back?" "What do you think I am? Don't I have any dignity? Don't tell me you expected me to contact you after knowing me for all those years. I may not have a PhD but I do have some self respect. And did you really think I will contact you after all that you did to me?" "Amit…I want you back in my life Amit. I made a mistake. Please forgive me…" "Its too late Leela…I am getting married in a month." "Oh…Who's the girl? Does she know about us?" "Us? What us? You mean the us that I was fool enough to believe in? There was never any us between you and me Leela. If there's any us it's between me and Anita." "But you don't love her. How can you love her? You love me. I still love you Amit. I have always loved you Amit." "I loved you Leela…not anymore. Remember how you handed me your wedding invitation? I tried so hard to hate you Leela, but I couldn't. And yes, you are probably right," he said, "I probably don't love Anita…probably not…definitely not the way I loved you…" "Then you shouldn't marry her…you can't marry her…" "Why not?" "Because no marriage can survive without love you fool…" "I was a fool ten years back. I was a fool to have loved you the way I did. I have had my share of loving Leela. I no longer want to love, I want to be loved. And Anita loves me..." Amit looked at Leela one last time. "I have to go now…" With that he walked away from her. Leela tried to call out to him but her voice was choked with tears.
