Half a Rupee: Stories Read Online Free PDF Page A

squeezing half the sugary syrup of the gulab-jamuns into his mouth and half onto his clothes.
    It was quite late when we left the mess. The streets were unlit, and the cold night was so dark that we could not see our own hands. We began to grope for the fight of steps that would take us to the ashram. There wasn’t a man in sight whom we could ask for help. The car headlights were hardly of any use. The wind howled. We crawled back into the car, but Taran was unwilling to get in. A few freezing minutes in the howling wind later we saw a man with a torch. We rushed out of the car and grabbed him. He explained that the fight of steps was just a little down the road and even offered to lead the way. But he only walked a few steps with us. Once he had seen the extent of our drunkenness, he simply switched off his torch and slipped away in the darkness.
    Finally, we did see a fight of steps. We were sure that these were the ones we wanted and began our climbdown. I was leading the way, feeling every step with my foot, speaking aloud, guiding Bhushan and Taran—step, slope … step, slope. Suddenly, I realized that there was no one behind me. Somewhere in the distance, drifting through the darkness, was Taran Taaran’s faint voice, ‘Step, step … slope! Step, step … slope!’
    After every two steps there was a small gap, a gradient. Taran Taaran was being painstakingly careful in guiding Bhushan.
    Somehow, we managed to reach the ashram. Only after the key clicked into the lock could we believe that we had arrived at the right place.
    Thankfully, we had made the beds before we left. We tucked Bhushan in and threw a quilt on top of him. It was so awfully cold that whatever we touched seemed to have been taken out of the freezer. We tried to start a fire—heaped some coal in the
angeethi
and tried to use some old newspaper to kindle the fames. But try as hard as we could, the coal would just not catch fire—the paper would fare up and then turn into ashes, all we got were short bursts of light. The coal looked like pieces of ice and was damp to the touch—have you ever tried setting cubes of ice on fire? Our stack of old newspapers and magazines was fast getting depleted. I had now begun to despair, ‘Taran, if this continues we will soon have to burn our books to warm ourselves.’
    The fire didn’t light up, but Taran’s eyes sure did. They lit up with a spark. There was a lot of brandy left in the bottle. He went and brought the bottle over. He then lita paper kindle under the bed of coal and began to pour the brandy on top of it.
    ‘All we want is just one piece of coal to ignite—that’s all. One piece will be enough to start a decent fire.’
    When the thin stream of brandy hit the bed of coal which was being kindled from below, a beautiful blue fire leapt out. For a few moments the coal turned into dazzling sapphires. The whole thing looked so mesmerizing that you wanted to scoop it up into your hands. The brandy was nearly over. But the effort had paid off: a piece of coal had begun to glow red, drunk on nearly half a bottle of brandy. What more could we ask for? We began stoking the fire, blowing at it from below, fanning it from above. And soon we had a steady fire raging. Pockets of smoke had begun to billow and collect in the corners, though. We had nearly spent half the night trying to turn the black coal red.
    We dusted our beds and climbed into them. Hardly had I closed my eyes when Taran softly called me. When I said ‘Hoon’, he whispered, ‘There was a lesson I had read in Matric—that one must not sleep with a coal fire raging in a closed room. Burning coal produces a gas that can knock you unconscious. You may even die. Therefore it is a must that we keep a window or a ventilator open, letting in some oxygen.’
    I scanned the room. I could see neither a window nor a ventilator in any direction. We were in a soup.
    I looked at Taran, ‘Taran yaar, did you have to remember what you read in