The Black Mercedes and Other Stories

By B. L. Gaur

The book, 'The black Mercedes and other Stories' Is the collection of beautiful and message giving short stories. With his vast experience of life, The author has very nicely narrated the changes happened in the society during last decade related to behaviour, morals, thoughts and so on in this collection, the author has touched the basic instinct of human I.E., sensitivity. Because of its deterioration how our society has been affected with this. In the present scenario, where people are running helter- skelter, living machine like life and struggling lot to meet both their ends, these stories may be a healer. The stories, in this collection have touched some of the social aspects where everyone will surely focus and rethink about how to deal life, society and develop a helpful attitude towards others. These stories are not only interesting but also going to enlighten everyone's innerconscience. Thoughts providing stories. Each story shows some sort of belonging towards society and more or less surely going to change the present mind-set to the helping attitude towards our society.the author has very successfully framed each story in its lively form and full of emotions.the stories, 'bridge', 'eid-ul-fitr', 'gurudakshina', 'Hello', 'a ruptured heart' Narrate the whole social structure to be reformed. ‘Revenge’and 'the black mercedes'are beyond imagination, will surely shake you. Mind blowing stories. The author has very successfully prepared this bunch containing different flowers, thus making it unique.the language is lucid and easy to understand. A must have book for everyone.

• Language: हिन्दी
• Publisher: Diamond Books
• Release date: Apr 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9789390504961

Book preview

Heart

The Black Mercedes

It was November. Days have begun to shrink and nights growing longer. He was standing in a forlorn bus stand for quite some time, waiting for bus no. 15. It would leave him at the Gyani border and catching a three wheeler from there will take 20 minutes for him to reach home. Thought of home brought forth flashes of usual routine to his mind. At first, the call bell would ring, Nirmala would open the door and without even looking at him would go back to her bed-room. He would hand over his pension to her and so on. Perhaps it is what a thought process is. The moment a thought comes it starts spreading like the aerial roots of a banyan and the continuous flow of thoughts saps so much time, you never come to know. This state of tranquil only breaks, when someone asks, ‘Uncle, what is the time?’ or ‘Can you tell me on which street is this house?’ etc. etc.

Thinking such irrelevant matters he started feeling a little tired when something miraculous happened. Yes, miracles do happen. Surf through the leaves of the book of your life, you will find many such miraculous moments. So, the miracle that happened was, a black Mercedes soundlessly stopped on his side. A white uniformed chauffeur came out of the car and said, ‘Uncle! Madam knows that you live in Savita Vihar. She knows you and she is saying that she will drop you.’ He thought for a moment and then proceeded towards the car. He was about to sit beside the driver when the lady sitting behind called him to sit there. ‘Please sit here’ she said warmly.

Spellbound he took the present incident as a dream and was thinking that any untoward happening might occur. But, why he should be fearful? Life is full of miracles, as well as, awkward instances. He sat in the car; it sped swiftly towards Delhi. The lady took the initiative – ‘I know you, your name is Yashpal Sharma and your house no. is 43. You and your wife live in the ground floor and on the upper two floors, both your sons live with their families – Am I correct Mr. Yashpal Sharma?’ Yashpal got into strange thoughts – this woman must be around forty, as old as his daughter, but instead of calling him uncle, she addressed him as Mr. Yashpal Sharma. Before he could ask or say anything she started saying – ‘Mr. Sharma! I’m an executive in a multinational company. My name is Nisha Luthra. You can call me Nisha. My mother Pritam Kaur is a widow. She lives in house no. 40, three houses back to yours. A tenant with his family also stays there on the upper floor, and the good part is that he is a South Indian; he works in my office only, and the best part is that Mr. Raghvan is truly a good person. I come here for two days every month and stock all her medicines and other necessities. And, in case of any emergency a sensitive person like Raghavan is always there to take care of my mother.

For a long time, without interfering Yashpal Sharma kept listening to Nisha Luthra. The car was about to reach Anand Vihar in another 15 minutes. Yashpal’s mind was full of thousands of questions. Gathering guts he began – ‘Nisha! It was nice to have you as a company in this incomplete journey and whatever you said is also more or less incomplete.’ After a pause he said – ‘Is it possible that tomorrow morning we all, I mean you, your mother, Mr. Raghvan and his wife have breakfast at my house. It will be my privilege to meet and spend time with some good people, may it be for a day only.’

The black Mercedes stopped in front of Yashpal’s house. Nisha consented for the next day’s breakfast invitation and also took the responsibility to bring Mr. Raghvan and his family.

It was ten in the morning but it was still drizzling. Last night, there was a heavy downpour and now everywhere, all around the colony, there was water logging. Yashpal had gone out a several times but there was no sign of the black Mercedes. He was about to go out again when he saw Nisha’s Mercedes in front of his house.

After the breakfast while everyone was waiting for tea, some topic made Pritam Kaur drift into her past – She had come here in 1990, but before that she would live in Janakpuri, where she lost her everything. In the year 1984, after the assassination of Indira Gandhi, the then prime minister of the country, the Congress party took every Sikh to be her killer. At that time most of the Sikh families were residing in Janakpuri. The rioters had taken vow not to leave any Sikh alive. Those who would survive would be sheer out of luck. Pritam Kaur was lost into a dark abyss where all her pleasures and happiness were buried. With great difficulty Nisha handled her. In the midst Yashpal said that one of his friends, Puran Singh also used to stay in Janakpuri. It was his ill-fate that two days before the riots he had come to Delhi on leave. We were both posted in the same office in Jammu.

After the riots when I came to Delhi, I went to Janakpuri to find his whereabouts. But, I could gather only this much that only his wife had survived and was now with her brother in Ludhiana. Actually Puran Singh was more than a friend to me. Yashpal then went inside his room and brought out an old album. There were many pictures of both the friends. Seeing the album Nisha and Pritam Kaur began to cry loudly. Puran Singh captured in the album was none other than Nisha’s father and Pritam Kaur’s beloved husband. What may happen in life is always uncertain. Nisha and Pritam Kaur were unable to hold back their tears. The Pritam Kaur whose tales Puran Singh used to narrate was sitting in front of him. Her silver hair and copper-ish complexioned face, full of wrinkles still depicted that she must have had been much more beautiful than what Puran Singh used to say about her beauty to Yashpal.

Two hours time trailed by, with a heavy heart Yashpal bid them farewell. He felt himself enveloped in a queer gloom. Now Yashpal had started calling Pritam Kaur often to his home. He would try to bring her out of her past. One morning Nisha came to say that she was leaving for London the next day, for a year. Her company has posted her on promotion to their London office.

Sometimes there come such tremors in someone’s life that not only everything changes but gets destroyed. The next day Nisha left for London. Within a month Yashpal’s wife Nirmala had a heart attack and before she could reach hospital, she expired. Both his sons concluded all the rituals related to the death ceremony on the fourth day itself, and thus got rid of all the obligations of their mother. Though Yashpal resisted insisting that they were from Uttar Pradesh, where death ceremony rituals are concluded on the 13th day and not on the 4th day, but his sons did not relent, especially the younger one, who had come from Dubai for just a week, and as he had to take his wife and sons along, he had too many preparations to do. Yashpal solaced himself by saying – Dear Nirmala, whether your farewell takes place in four days or thirteen, what difference does it make now.

Everything was changed now. At times Yashpal would go to Pritam Kaur’s house. He would go to her kitchen and make tea himself. Pritam Kaur would feel embarrassed and insist that she would make tea, but Yashpal never gave ear to it. Both would share their pains with each other. Sometimes it would so happen that while they chatted over the cups of tea, Nisha would call from London. She would one by one talk with both of them. While talking she would often say to Yashpal – ‘Uncle! You really are a true person. Please take care of my mother; I am coming back in a year’s time.’ Yashpal would stray into deep thoughts. How could he tell Nisha that within a month if so much could change, one year was a very long time. But he wanted desperately that while he was still alive, Nisha should come back and take charge of her mother. Now whenever he would go to withdraw money from his bank, he would never forget to look for a few minutes, at the direction from where Nisha’s black Mercedes came and stopped in front of him.

Bridge

There is a vast park spread over fifty acres of land in front of Mr. Dayal’s house in Delhi. It is known as ‘Yamuna Sports Complex’. Name a sport that is not being played here! Apart from Cricket, Football, Volleyball, Hockey, Badminton, Skating etc., there is a huge Swimming pool arena too.

Like Mr. Dayal many other elderly people droves in, with a desire to remain young forever, in T-shirts and pants or in jogging suits can be seen brisk walking and jogging here, every morning and evening. When the