The Dilemma of Malgudi SHG – A Short Story

Ears plugged with headphones, Sekharan was glued to his laptop screen, one eye gazing at the minute hand of the clock that was racing toward 12. At the stroke of 9, Seema would call him out for being late for dinner. This was now a ritual for Sekharan—attending the TISA lounge meeting twice every week. “…and remember, running an SHG is like a marathon, not a 100-meter dash. Consistency is the key here. Stepping out of your home and meeting other people who stammer, talking to strangers…” The words echoed in Sekharan’s mind as he found himself immersed in the words of the man he considered his mentor. The speaker was a sixty-something man with grey facial hair and gracefully balding crown, a mark of the wise man he was, who had always inspired him. When these meetings would be over, he would get up with new confidence and zeal that fueled the long hours at work the next day.

Star Enterprises, where Sekharan worked, was a crowded place in the heart of the Shivamogga district in Karnataka. It was the only place that served as a one-stop solution for all desktop publishing services. Sekharan was a one-man army who very meticulously worked on every request that came from the customers—typesetting, printing, indentations, Photoshop, graphics—he had mastered it all, leaving mundane photocopying as the sole task the owner would do on and off. And yet, every day was like a battlefield for Sekharan as he responded to the unrealistic demands of his customers:

“The shade of purple doesn’t look the same as on the screen, Magaa,” a middle-aged man with thick glasses said, peering at the paper.

“Anna… the sssssscreen and ppppppprinter c-c-c-colours….”

“Ayyo, what is this? The orange also looks like yellow!”

“Anna, that’s how it is… Sorry, adjust,” was all he could say.

Explaining technical nuances to computer-illiterate people, especially with a stammer, was a twofold challenge. But this was two years ago, before he had discovered TISA on the internet.

Sekharan had enrolled in a free course two years ago. The course was delivered by volunteers of TISA, or The Indian Stammering Association, over the internet. Along with the course, the idea of connecting with a community of people dealing with the same speech dysfluency was a huge step toward his recovery. He was committed and consistent, completing the foundation course in just over two months. He still stammered, and sometimes those blocks would choke him. But, after completing the course, Sekharan was a different person at work—dealing with clients with ease, and sometimes even saying with a smile:

“Patience, Anna, I am a person who stammers. I take time because of my blocks,” and then he would continue with his answers. The customers appreciated it, too. Life was routine, until those words of his mentor on the screen that day gave him a purpose of sorts: “…talking to strangers, talking about your stammering, and listening to others is where the growth starts. If your locality doesn’t have a self-help group, you may start one with our help! If you have completed the TISA foundation course, you already qualify to be an SHG coordinator…”

Sekharan always looked at pictures of the SHG meetings from Bengaluru, Delhi, Mumbai, and other big cities. Bengaluru was the closest to him, and yet it was over 300 kilometers away. He longed to attend those meetings where seven to eight people who shared the same problem as him could meet, share, and celebrate their diversity. Everyone in the group photos smiled with fulfillment. Could he start something like that in a small town like his?

Shivamogga was a discreet town in Karnataka, but it was popular with pilgrims due to its temples and heritage. It also housed the famous Jog Falls, considered one of the tallest in India. But would there be other people who stammered like him in Shivamogga?

“Appa, come fast! You are late for dinner!” Chirayu, his five-year-old son, was already at the dinner table beside his mother. Sekharan rushed to wash his hands, wiped them carelessly, and started helping himself.

“Finally, the shutter is down for the day?” his wife taunted.

“Seema, it’s the TISA lounge call. Today the topic was…”

“The dosa is getting cold… Eat it fast!” his wife interrupted. Sekharan focused on the dosa and chutney, but his mind was still elsewhere.

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“Anna, this is Paresh. I stay near the Arasalu Railway Station. I am a stammerer. Can you help me, please?”

Sekharan was delighted to see that message on WhatsApp. He had posted on TISA’s website about volunteering to start an SHG in Shivamogga, and after toiling for about three to four months on social media, he had finally gotten his first inquiry. He jumped on a call:

“Hi Paresh, I-I-I have been part of TISA for more than two years. I will help you deal with your stammering…” he said over the phone.

“Is it curable, Anna?” Paresh asked anxiously.

“Well, there is no cure medically,” Sekharan said. “But the good news is, it doesn’t require a cure…”

“What, Anna?” Paresh said, a little disappointed. “I have an interview next week. A software company in Bengaluru. I am very scared, Anna. Please give me some tips.”

“Next week?” Sekharan said thoughtfully. “Well, let me organize an SHG meeting this coming Sunday. I will let you know how to…”

“How much time will it take, Anna, for me to be fluent?”

“Relax, Magaa, you can crack the interview without being fluent…” Sekharan tried to explain.

“Anna, my cousin Kapil also stammers. He is scared to take admission for an MBA, Anna,” Paresh added in a worried tone.

This was a jackpot for Sekharan. He now had two members for his SHG.

“Okay. You and Kapil both come to attend the first SHG meeting this Sunday. I will tell you all about stammering and how to deal with it.”

Right after he disconnected, Sekharan wasted no time in creating a WhatsApp group with three members: himself, Paresh, and soon after, Kapil was added too. Now, the next question to answer was: where would they meet? Sekharan had seen the Bengaluru SHG meeting in Cubbon Park in those beautiful huts. Shivamogga didn’t have much to offer apart from Jog Falls and temples.

“How about Malgudi Museum? It’s within walking distance from my house,” Paresh suggested in the WhatsApp group.

The Malgudi Museum, located at the historic Arasalu Railway Station, was a nostalgic tribute to the legendary television series of the 90s—Malgudi Days. Many of the iconic episodes of this TV serial were shot right here in this town, and the railway station, which was later abandoned in favor of a new platform just beside it, was formally converted into a museum by the Indian Railways. This small museum restored the non-operational station, bringing author R.K. Narayan’s and director Shankar Nag’s fictional town to life. There were peaceful sitting areas outside the museum where people could sit and talk completely free of charge. Only the old railway station building entry was charged, with just a ₹5 fee.

And it was decided—they would meet this Sunday at the Malgudi Museum. Sekharan changed the group name to “Malgudi SHG.” It sounded better than Shivamogga SHG, and it was also a tribute of sorts to the author’s works, of which he was an ardent fan.

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“Listen, Jayanti Kaki was asking if we could take her to the Rameswara Temple this Sunday,” Sekharan’s wife asked while they were seated at the dinner table.

Sekharan nodded involuntarily. “Hmm, okay. Wait! Not this Sunday, Seema!” Sekharan quickly remembered his SHG meeting.

“Why not?” asked Seema, puzzled.

“Err—actually, this Sunday, I have scheduled the first Self-Help Group meeting. It will be the first one happening in Shivamogga. We are meeting at the Malgudi Museum,” he said, a little excited, yet a little uneasy, his heart pounding at the same time.

“Not again, Sekhar.” Seema’s face dropped as she continued. “You have been so unavailable nowadays!”

“Unavailable? What do you mean?”

“You are out for work until 7:30 p.m., and then you are home at 8 p.m. You have no time to sit down and ask how my day was, or spend some time with Chirayu. You rush to your laptop with your headphones on, and then you jump to dinner and the day is over.”

“You know I have been working on myself, Seema! My speech…” He continued, “You know how much it has changed me?”

“I don’t deny that, Sekhar,” Seema said, looking away, “but don’t forget that you have a family and they need you as well.”

Sekharan looked at his son, who often recoiled during such unpleasant exchanges between his parents. He gestured at Seema and said softly, holding her hand, “Let’s talk about it later, before going to bed. I have something to tell you as well.” Seema nodded.

That night, as Chirayu was fast asleep with the dim side lamp glowing, Sekharan played the several voice notes he had received from Paresh and Kapil at a low volume.

“You see, Seema, there is this guy, Paresh, who has an interview and is afraid that he will be rejected because of his stammering. He even contemplated withdrawing his application, did you hear?”

Seema nodded.

“And then there is Kapil. He refuses to take admission for an MBA. Imagine both of these people making life decisions based on their speech dysfluency! And that is something which can be handled with a little courage. I have done this with TISA, Seema. And…”

“And…?” Seema nudged Sekharan as he hesitated.

“I don’t want them to be another Sekharan, who refused to step out of the house, take admission into an engineering college, or go to Bengaluru and work in an MNC! I don’t want them to repeat those same mistakes that I did, Seema. They need me. Will you please support me in this cause?”

Seema was proud of Sekharan. Sekharan felt Seema’s hand over his, and then she hugged him.

“I will tell Jayanti Kaki that we’ll go to the temple next Sunday,” Seema said. “But there is something else that we need to deal with before Sunday. I hope you haven’t forgotten?”

Sekharan gave a knowing smile and nodded. “Of course I remember! I will get the gift ready and keep it wrapped for Friday.”

“Did you get the same plastic cricket kit?” Seema asked as he looked at Chirayu lovingly, who was by now sleeping upside down on his tummy.

“Yes, Madam!” Sekharan jokingly saluted his wife. With an embrace, they went off to bed.

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Malgudi Museum was about a seven-kilometer ride. Sekharan neatly folded the meeting agenda that he had printed the previous day at his workplace after the crowd of customers had receded. “I’ll be back soon,” he said to Seema, who was stirring the Bournvita into the milk. Sunday mornings were slow, but not today. He put it in his sling bag, picked up the keys to his Activa, and held the latch of the main door to set it open.

“Appa, come! Cricket!” Chirayu was just out of bed, his hands wrapped around three stumps, a bat, and a ball–his birthday gift!

“Aah, not now, Puttu. Appa is going out,” Sekharan said with a smile.

“But today is Sunday, Appa,” Chirayu said with a frown on his face. Sekharan could see that familiar look. He was about to cry out loud.

“Puttu, you first need to finish your Bournvita!” Seema arrived at the scene. She pointed toward the door with her chin and blinking eyes. Sekharan got the cue. Amidst the shrieks and bellows, he could hardly hear the Activa engine as it ignited.

The crowd at Malgudi Museum was a measly eight people spread around the premises. The iconic, whistling Malgudi Days theme tune, “Taana na tana na na,” played softly from small, hidden speakers across the platform. It created a dreamlike, melancholic feeling, transporting everyone back to the time. For Sekharan, it was a usual backyard hangout, and he looked around to find a few local villagers sitting peacefully on the platform benches near the landscaped garden, chatting quietly in Kannada. The theme music was out of earshot now, and this was a perfect place for the meeting.

Sekharan absentmindedly picked up his mobile to pass the time scrolling while he waited for Paresh and Kapil. He noticed a new message in the ‘Malgudi SHG’ WhatsApp group. It was from Kapil, and the message read:

“Sorry, guys. I cannot make it today. I had to go to match practice. I got to know that I am being considered for the squad in the club cricket tournament next week.”

Sekharan thought Paresh must be arriving anytime. His house was within walking distance from the station. Several families came in and out of the Purple Train Car that was permanently parked on a snippet of old track right in front of where Sekharan was seated. The board on the bogie read, “The Malgudi Chai Café.” A train siren hooted in the distance, and Sekharan could see the engine darting along the platform of the Arasalu Railway Station right opposite the museum. Sekharan dialed Paresh’s number and waited for an answer.

“Hello, Paresh! I am sitting on one of the benches in the garden…” Sekharan began, but he had to pause as Paresh started to say something, stammering.

“SSSo-so-sorry, Anna. I cannot come today. Appa’s car broke down, helping him with the repairs” Paresh explained.

“But you can tell your Appa that you have to work on your speech. Next week is your interview, no?”

“What, Anna? You know I can’t tell Appa! Next Sunday, 100%. Sorry, Anna. Really sorry,” Paresh apologized sheepishly.

“It’s okay!” Sekharan replied. Seema’s words echoed in his mind again—“I will tell Jayanti Kaki that we’ll go to the temple next Sunday.” Chirayu’s disappointed face and loud cries also flashed in his mind.

The train had now reached and halted at the Arasalu railway platform. A handful of passengers got off the train. Sekharan eyed a young man in his early twenties, wearing blue denims and a white T-shirt, pulling a suitcase behind him. Sekharan walked toward him, waving his hand. The young man was rather surprised and taken aback by this gesture from a stranger.

“E-E-Excuse me, sir. Ma-ma-my name is Sa-Sa-Sa-Sekharan. Do you have five minutes?” Sekharan said, stammering voluntarily.

“What’s all this?” the puzzled young man said.

“Stammering interview…” Sekharan smiled.