Poetry 2009 Longlist

Winners & Featured Writers	Short Story	Flash Fiction
Longlist
Apeksha Harihar	Neelima P	Anu Antony
Nikunj Jain	Zakir Hussain	Indira Ballal
.
Maitreyi Karnoor	Aliya Khan
.

Short Story 2009 Longlist

Poetry	Short Story	Flash Fiction
Kamalika Dutta	Neeraj Bhople	Pesi Padshah
Shaunak Bangale	Sneha Subramanian Kanta	Viplove Sharma
.
Sandeep Shete	Mohit Rao.	Zakir Hussain
.
0

Poetry 2009 ThirdPrize Aliya Khan

The Friendly & The Unfriendly Communion

The stars have gone wild and invisible, the moon hides its weak face behind patches of cloud, The moth hour has buried the old sun in a dark graveyard where the wild stars have been coffined before. Wild the night and the spirits wilder roaming in a cyclonic orbit, I know the stars, the moon and the sun all befriend when the spring heralds and goes on to the last breath of its longevity. But I don’t care whether it is spring or winter, whether the stars are wild or mild, I keep going on though the going gets tough.

Poetry 2009 SecondPrize Maitreyi Karnoor

A MURDER OF CROWS

A red and black macabre sight of the peckers of dead eyes,
Hung out like washing—washing off the burdensome guise
Of compassion from the conscience—the peckers, not the eyes;
Their own eyes staring into an ever ghoulish nothingness.                                                   

Their will-less wings flung open, at the mercy of
Merciless winds, swaying gently back and forth,
Stilted up by pneumatic bones; as light in life as in life shorn,
Scaring away their own cawing species, demanders of a share in corn.

Scariest of scarecrows—death
Fear of death to keep off food. The very food
They fight for out of a love of breath 
Sometimes—a fight to death: never a paradox so morbidly good.

Turn a blind eye to it, as blind as a dead crow’s
For its feel is unknown—unheard, unread until your own.
Let out a converse sour-grape whine;
Its rancid juices are not mine: dog-eat-dog eat crow!

Poetry 2009 FirstPrize Anu Antony

WHAT THE FIDDLE SINGS WHEN YOU PLAY HER STRINGS.

- By Anu Elizabeth Antony

The moment he picked the faded fiddle from her lonely mud-brown corner, she knew she was his. “Will it hurt?” she asked, suspiciously spying his polish-wet hands. She'd been alone so long she forgot how it felt to have her strings plucked everyday. He frowned. Too soon, and her wail would echo in every song. His fiddlestick tickled a happy tune from her, gently teasing till her watery giggles filled the air. She would treasure forever this moment, his gift to her. -- And so it was, till a teeming crowd sprung forth demanding love songs. He paled. “Will it hurt?” she teased, her strings strumming a trusting smile. His fingers tightened over her frame. No it won’t, he said, and played ruthlessly on. From her pain, his greatest gift gushed forth.

Poetry 2009 FeaturedWriter, Indira Ballal

CHILD'S PLAY

Go on!
Sweep everything under the carpet!
Like an ostrich, hide your head in the sand!
This has become a game
Of "In-The-Pond, On-The-Bank.

Many were the games we played,
Like unthinking, naive children:
"Hide & Seek"--you hid and I did seek,
And "Ring-O-Ring-O-Roses",
But, it’s me who fell down.

We played "Leader, Leader, Change, Change",
I led, you changed;
The mad swings and wild see-saws,
I took it all, till "I Spied",
You weren't playing at all.

Only, I was playing,
Playing alone,
A game of " Solitaire"
In my lonely mind:
And, it isn't Child's play anymore.

Poetry 2009 Longlist, Zakir Hussain

I YEARN TO PAINT

  

I yearn to paint with the pink colour of life
Pink from a missy’s blushing cheeks, which reveal her unannounced love.
Pink from the rose in her tresses, which her lover gifted.
Pink from her soft lips, which experienced the warm kiss.

I yearn to paint with the green colour of life
Green from the plant of Tulsi, which a mother waters every morn.
Green from the bangles in her wrist, which sing a lullaby.
Green from the banana leaf, which holds lovingly cooked meals.

I yearn to paint with the black colour of life
Black from the speck of kohl, which protects from evil eyes.
Black from the piece of charcoal, Hung from the door.
Black from the eyes, which cast evil eyes.

I yearn to paint with red colour of life
Red from a martyr’s blood, which stained the battlefield.
Red from the pyre’s fire, which cremated his body.
Red from his widow’s vermilion, which deserted her parting.

I yearn to paint with the white colour of life
White from the Imperialists’ skin, against whose rule, the Father fought.
White from the salt of Dandi, which became his weapon.
White from the cotton thread, which spun the fabric of a nation.

Poetry 2009 FeaturedWriter Nikunj Jain

MAY BE FADED

 

And when he’s written it all
He wishes he could write

After years of pain, anger, suffering, hatred, agony...
Its vellications of joy and happiness he longs for

After countless stares, it’s plastic smiles he longs for
After decades of solitude, it’s delusions of love, he longs for
After centuries of insanity, it’s imperfection, he longs for
After infinities of silence, it’s frailty of words, he longs for
After burials of pens, it’s that resurrection of that bar-less prison he longs for
After an era of darkness, it’s that obstruction of day he longs for
After a lifetime of strength, it’s human weakness, he longs for

He’s had his share of truths, it’s fake promises he longs for
No more eternal dreams, it’s feeble memories he longs for

His canvas, still, plain white, (may be faded), yet, it’s the darkness of red he longs for 

Poetry 2009 Longlist, Neelima P

ULTRASOUND

White walls
And diamond tiles
Over my head
As they gelled my womb
And looked for a life.

The red report
Had my favorite
Secret .I grabbed
It to see if there was
A form, a shape,

A beginning, an end,
A breath, a beat,
They didn’t explain
The spine and the head
But I saw

My heart beat there.

Poetry 2009 Longlist, Apeksha Harihar

LAST NIGHT …

Deep within my heart, a voice called out to me.
It asked me if I’m still alive, whether I want to live
From head to toe, you are ruined it said,
You are destroyed in every way.
You have a weak will; your spirits are now low.
 You won’t be able to face a happy world anymore.
Deep within it kept speaking a voice that would never stop.

And then I rose to put forward my condition, and then I spoke again
From head to toe I’m experienced not ruined, I screamed in my defence.
The phases of my life have taught me a lot, yes it has made me cry a lot
But, now I am not sitting back, depressed, lonely and dark.
I am up on my feet again challenging everything to its mark.

My inner voice is speaking again,
It’s asking me to leave, leave the desire of love behind and
Drown into the deep.
Save me for I don’t want to lose, I want to fight for my life
Live until the very end and prove that I am right.
No pain, no sorrow, no despair will remain, after I am gone.
So as I live I will go through them, not unhappy that I was born.

ShortStory 2009 ThirdPrize Zakir Hussain

The Hallowed Gallows

“Shamshersingh, is everything okay?” asks the jail superintendent.
“Yes, Sahib. The carpenter has repaired the gallows. I have started preparing the noose and it should be ready in two-three days,” I answer. “Good. Check everything twice, I don’t want any gaffe,” he says. “Okay Sahib,” I reply back.

In the following few days, the preparations get completed. The noose and the gallows are ready. On the eve of April 29, I come all prepared to the jail. I go and lie down on the cot. I also set the alarm. But I just can’t sleep tonight. The newness of the place, the mosquitoes, the noise of rats and the thought of Aafiyat; they all make sure that I remain wide awake.
Aafiyat Muzammil Lone.

I will be hanging her tomorrow. It’s my third time; the last time was six years ago.
A fortnight ago I had met her in the cell, for taking her height and weight after the date of her execution was fixed. She was kept in solitary confinement ever since her date of execution was fixed. 
I can never forget my meeting with her. She was offering prayer when I entered. Soon, she finished. I looked at her. She was Aafiyat, all of 21 years and 3and ½ months to be precise; a young, beautiful and charming girl. She reminded me of my own daughter, Meera, who is 23. No one looking at her could say that she was a ‘terrorist’ who could have cold bloodedly murdered the Home Minister of Jammu and Kashmir.

“Yes” she said to bring me out of my thoughts. “I am Shamshersingh Rana, the hangman of this jail. As you know the date is fixed on 29th of April. I have come to take your height and weight” I said. “Sure” she replied with ease. She was relaxed, as if it was routine. I finished taking the measurements and stood there. Her apparent innocence had raised hundreds of questions in my mind. I couldn’t resist getting answers to them, so I went ahead and asked her, “Would you mind if I ask you something?” “Go ahead” she said.

“Is it true that you have assassinated the home minister of J&K?” I asked with a look of skepticism on my face. She looked straight into my eyes, as if  thinking what a stupid question that was. Hasn’t she already confessed her crime? She proudly replied, “Yes”. I looked at her thinking if I should ask anything more.

“But what made you do so” I asked anxiously.
“You are a hangman, right. You hang people; you kill them. Why do you do so?” she counter-queried me.
“It’s my job; it’s my duty which I fulfill. I help deliver justice” I said to silence her argument.
“Well the same way, it was my duty, which I fulfilled and thus delivered the justice,” she said haughtily.
“Who gave you this authority to deliver justice? You cannot take laws of land in your hands,” I fired back.
“What can one do when the injustice is rendered by those so-called protectors of justice?” she grumbled rebelliously. I was incensed at her defiance. But I couldn’t leave as those unrequited questions were still hovering over my mind.

“I don’t want to scratch old wounds, but will you tell me your complete story” I requested.
“But why are you so interested?” she asked surprisingly.
“I don’t know? It’s instinctive,” I said.
She went and sat down. I too sat there.

She started, “It was such a fine day. That day the valley had witnessed the first snowfall of the season. That year it was a little earlier compared to the last. I knew what this meant. It meant the start of the tourist season. The snowfall would always bring joy to our family, as my father and brother were both tourist guides. I had gone to the college and was on my way back home when our neighbour, Nilufer came hurriedly towards me and asked me to rush home. I asked her what the matter was, but she didn’t say anything. There was a big crowd of crying men, women and kids outside my house. My heart started pounding. A little farther I saw my mother surrounded by a mob of ladies. I sifted through them. My mom was sitting there like a statue while everyone was crying uncontrollably. I asked her what the matter was but she didn’t reply. I stirred her, but still she didn’t reciprocate. She had lost her senses.

Meanwhile someone took me inside. There were bodies of Abba, Bhai and Aafreen, my younger sister on the floor.”
She could continue no more and broke into tears.
I could virtually see the ‘dance of death’ through her eyes. It took her sometime before she could carry on further.

“Actually a fortnight ago some pundits were massacred during Prime Minister’s visit to the valley. The police was not able to nail the perpetrators responsible for this heinous act and there was escalating pressure on them. They were being called tardy and inefficient. My brother who was involved in the separatist movement was a sore in their eyes. So they used this tried and tested trick of winning laurels and silencing everyone to surmount the pressure. They killed my father and brother in a proxy encounter, tagging them as terrorists. Not only this, Aafreen who was just fifteen  then was gang-raped by them. My mother who was a mute witness to these ghastly acts lost her senses. All this was just too much for Aafreen to cope up with, so she stabbed herself to death. In a jiffy my entire family was lost. And I was left to witness the annihilation.” There was a raging fire of revenge in her eyes.

 She continued, “What crime had my brother committed? Why are we called terrorists and agents of Pakistan? All we want is independent Kashmir, free from India, free from Pakistan. When Indians fought for their freedom they were called freedom fighters. But when we do that we are labelled as terrorists. Since that day there was only one aim on my mind; to slay the person behind all this. I came to know that it was home minister, Munavvar Ali Dar.

I joined a Mujaahideen group and took training from them. They wanted me to become a suicide bomber but I declined, although that would have been much easier and I would not have had to rot in jail. I didn’t want to commit suicide, and secondly I wanted to kill only him and not anyone innocent. So in a rally in Baramulla, I shot him dead and surrendered myself. I never appointed any lawyer for my trial as I myself wanted death sentence. My wish soon got fulfilled; I too was labelled a terrorist like my family and sentenced to capital punishment.

Unfortunately my case was referred to the President for converting my death punishment into life sentence. The President was ready to do that provided I repent my act and promise to lead the life of a responsible Indian citizen after finishing my punishment. However I didn’t want to decay in jail, so I told him that if they will leave me alive then I shall kill many such Munavvar Alis. Thankfully my punishment was not changed. It’s now only few more days. After that I will be in heaven with my family; but I will miss my mother over there.” I was taken aback after listening to her.
 This is the age when girls learn cooking; she had learnt shooting. This is the age when girls colour their hands with henna; she had coloured them with somebody’s blood. This is the age when girls dream of marrying someone and starting a new life; she was dreaming of putting a full stop to someone’s life and eventually to her own.

Everyone knows his or her birthday, but no one knows his or her day of death; she knew.
I was immersed in these thoughts.  I came back home, but I couldn’t vacate my mind of her memories.

Soon the alarm rang. I didn’t realise how time had passed thinking of my meeting with Aafiyat. I got up and went to the gallows for preparing for execution. Within no time the jail officials arrived. The time of execution was near. She was brought to the hall. She appeared pride personified. She was told of her crime and punishment, which she accepted. As I am tying her hands I could hear her saying “Laa ilaahaa illAllah, Muhammad-ur-rasul Allah” continuously. Finally her head was covered with the hood and the noose placed round her neck. Exactly at 5’O clock I pulled the lever.
A shriek filled the arena.

The justice was delivered on the ‘hallowed gallows’. After sometime her body was brought down.
 Later I went home and tried sleeping, as I was not able to sleep the entire night yesterday. But I wasn’t able to sleep. I was surrounded by the thoughts of Aafiyat. I switched on the TV. Although she had left this world, she was there on every news channel. On one, they were showing the celebrations that were going on at the house of Munavvar Ali. After all, the terrorist behind his killing was executed. While one was showing Aafiyat’s mother, lost in her own world. I switched off the TV.
Aafiyat was executed. A branch of terrorism, if it's called so, which had sprawled on the heavenly soil of Kashmir, had been chopped off. But what about it’s roots, which are deep in ground and the seeds, which are being sown perennially? Well none cares to dig to diagnose. Only that is perceived which is apparent. Is this the remedy for the malady of terrorism? Aren’t we a nation, which has been taught to hate the crime and not the criminal? Then how come we are satiated by killing the criminal and overlooking the crime and its origins? I can’t remark on the righteousness of the law but being a human I know this much that whatever had happened was unjust. It’s not that I support her, or her crime but I don’t support the punishment rather.

How then could I be a part of it? I decided to make her my last assignment. The last life to be erased from the surface of the earth by the pulling of the lever by my hands. I got up and left for the jail superintendent’s office to submit my resignation.

ShortStory 2009 SecondPrize Mohit Rao

THE DISEASE

 

Every time the young man entered the room, Nurse Ratched broke into a maternal smile that conveyed the utmost affection. She spoke about him in high praises to the other nurses and even to the other inmates. He was as rare as rare can be, a ‘blue-eyed wonder’, she declared confidently.

Initially, his arrival was regarded with suspicion. With the cynicism of experience, she viewed any such sudden arrival to the old-age home with considerable contempt. These ‘long lost’ sycophantic relatives dropped in once a year; cadged their way with unctuous smiles into the old man’s will; shed a few tearful goodbyes and were never to be seen again; That is, until the old man was buried and his will removed. But, he- he was different. 

He, with his blue eyes, a benignant smile and a poignant face, introduced himself as ‘Bob Russell’, the son of ‘Jack Russell’. Nurse Ratched hesitatingly and with great distrust led him to her favorite inmate, a seventy year old wheel chair ridden Alzheimer patient. She watched this father-son reunion with considerable skepticism. 

Jack had had a visitor only twice in the two years of his stay. Both times it was his elder son, George Russell, an avaricious salesman who had been described by Jack as “a bottom feeder. For a dollar he would sell his own soul!”. With his rough manner and unruly snide remarks, he left an unfavorable impression on Nurse Ratched. Jack sparingly talked about a second son, a vagrant, who fell into bad company, took to alcohol and eventually into drugs. The last Jack heard was that the son was jailed for larceny. ‘A leech to society’, he said contemptuously to Nurse Ratched. 

She continued to keep a close eye on the father-son interaction. It was hard to believe that a young man of such saintly features could indulge in what she perceived as such odious activities. Jack could hardly recognize his younger son. Maybe it was the disease or maybe just his change in appearance and demeanour, but Jack wore a puzzled expression. Bob explained his ‘clean-up’, his ‘spiritual awakening’. He was sober, with a low paying honest job. “Not a day goes by without remorse for my actions”, he explained. “Jail gave me time to think, for the mind wanders in the solitude of the cell. There was little to do except to review my life – all the mistakes and all the humiliation”. Jack, and Nurse Ratched seeing from afar, viewed the declamation with dubiety. “Dad, I’m a born again Christian”, he kneaded the silver cross slung on his neck,” It’s funny, how life works - for me to find God, amidst the criminals and the lost souls in prison”. He paused and with a sigh stared down at the floor – an elegy of his sinful past. A first rate act, thought Nurse Ratched. “Father, I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry for the pain and humiliation. I’m sorry for not being there during your illness.”

Jack’s eyes welled up. His throat was caught. And with a benevolent smile, Bob’s nefarious past was forgiven. However, Nurse Ratched continued to watch him with suspicion. ‘Prudence, Jack’, she muttered under her breath. 

Their desultory conversation continued for hours. Jack talked most of the time, hopping from one topic onto another and oft repeating topics, but Bob nodded with Zen-like patience. Bob and Jack proceeded to play carrom, a game in which Jack was surprisingly adept at. His unsteady fingers disposed the coins into the pockets with deft ease. Jack exclaimed joy, an expression the nurses had rarely seen before. He was like a boy, so intense was his pleasure. Nurse Ratched waited for the mention of the ‘will’ or money’, but it never came. After spending the entire afternoon, Bob promised to return the next day.

“He’s not coming back”, Ratched spewed venomously to a fellow nurse. “These greedy people always say that with crossed fingers and an eye at that money.” She eyed Bob as he was leaving and continued her tirade to a disinterested nurse.

“He has changed. That was my son, he has changed”, said a visibly proud Jack, rolling his wheelchair toward nurse Ratched. “He has got a job and forgotten about all that nasty business.” Jack said with a naive child-like innocence. 

“It would seem so. But I advise you not to raise your hopes”, Ratched replied.
“No… No. He has changed. Not like that lecherous…. ”, he stopped to remember a name.
“Yes, he seems to have changed, so unlike George. I hope for your sake”, Ratched said wearily.

Nurse Ratched’s relation with Jack had started off, like any nurse-patient relationship, as pity. She lent a sympathetic ear, listening patiently as old colonel ranted against country and children. The morose wheel chair ridden man recounted, with immense sadness, the tragedies in his life and in Nurse Ratched he found a compassionate audience. She was his ministering angel, oft muttering a kindly word to ease his troubled soul. As the disease progressed, this melancholy was replaced by a saintly innocence – almost like a lost child. His sorrowful soliloquies were gradually replaced by a confused silence. He found it hard to maintain a constant train of thought, unable to make a decision on his own. His once sharp mind was blunted by the vicious disease, rendering him completely dependent on Nurse Ratched, who assumed a matronly mantle. 

It was like a pestilential disease that would not take your life but would take from you all that made life worth living. The disease was wiping out his identity. Seventy years of experiences, of joys and tragedies, of family and friends, of childhood and adolescence, of marriage and children, were all resigned to a collection of hazy memories, which would be gradually faded away as the disease progressed. This disease had taken away from him the right to solitude in retirement, of reconciliation with life and God. Colonel Jack Russell, the celebrated hero of the Second World War, was going to die in the solitary confines of his mind. Nurse Ratched spent countless hours crying in the shelter of darkness for the old colonel. 

For Jack, the sliver of happiness came in the form of an estranged son. His son came everyday, to the absolute disbelief of Nurse Ratched. After the first week of meetings, buoyed by the candour loquacity of his father, Bob brought with him a portable record player and a bunch of old vinyl records belonging to the old colonel. Jazz and blues permeated the room as Jack fell into a sort of hypnotic trance - snapping his fingers, tapping his feet and humming along. For a man who could no more recall his achievements in the war, he recollected with amazing precision the names of these artistes. 

Their jaunts continued daily. During the weekdays Bob would visit in his lunch break, and during the weekends he would stay for almost the entire day. He pushed his father’s wheelchair, strolled through the gardens and talked in high cheery tones. In Nurse Ratched’s eyes, Bob had grown from ‘a leech to society’ to a ‘blue-eyed wonder’. With his daily visits, she became closer to him; sometimes even looking forward to his visits as enthusiastically as Jack. 

Alzheimer’ disease is unrelenting; systematically removing memories held so dear that when the last vestiges of memory fades away, one is reduced to being a stranger to oneself. In the last few months Jack’s mental health was deteriorating rapidly. Spells of confused, vacuous blankness increased. He spent most of the time staring at the wall, seemingly with no thought in his mind. Even though he recognized a familiar face, he had a hard time placing the face and obtaining a name. He gleamed with mirth when Bob entered the room but could hardly ever recall his name. Bob was usually referred to as ‘that young man’. Once while strolling through the gardens, Jack told Bob about his younger son, now estranged, who was a ‘leech to society’. Bob was crestfallen and only uttered a low sigh. Nurse Ratched, who often strolled with them, tried to explain to Jack that the companion he was talking to was indeed his own son. For Jack all this was incredulous. After expounding the facts of his return in lucid detail, Jack turned to Bob and exclaimed “You’ve changed a lot”. And with a benevolent smile, Bob’s nefarious past was forgiven, again. 

However, on the next day during a similar stroll, Nurse Ratched overheard Jack telling Bob about his younger son, now estranged and ‘a leech to society’. Nurse Ratched unable to bear Bob’s humiliation, explained to him about Bob’s ‘spiritual awakening’. But, the old colonel stared in disbelief, not comprehending the facts being told. He insisted that his son was in jail ‘for thieving from some poor sod’. However after much deliberation, the old colonel turned to Bob and exclaimed “You’ve changed a lot”. The next day, the entire cycle repeated. After getting a bit weary of the explaining, Bob turned to Nurse Ratched and said “It’s alright even if he doesn’t remember me. As long as I know that he approves of me now. All that is important to me is that he has a companion to help him live the rest of his life in dignity he deserves”. Nurse Ratched spent countless hours that night crying for the old colonel and his son. 

Bob came daily, yet the old colonel failed to recognize him as his son. Bob resigned to the fact that he would forever be a relic of the colonel’s past. He was disappointed but found solace in the thought that the old colonel eagerly waited for his company.

One afternoon, Bob did not arrive. The colonel stared at his watch for some time and then rolled his wheelchair towards Nurse Ratched.

“Where is that young man?” he asked her.
“You mean Bob?” she replied.

“I cannot remember his name now”, he said, pausing for a while to recall the name. Unsuccessful in his attempt, the colonel continued, “But, usually he comes to visit at this time”.
“He must be delayed with some work today. If not today, he will come tomorrow”
“Yes….. Yes”, Jack muttered before a quiescent, vacuous look overcame him.

Bob did not arrive that day or the day after that. Both of them grew anxious. Every half hour, a visibly restless Jack would roll his wheelchair over to the nurse’s workstation and ask Nurse Ratched about ‘that young man’. ‘Delayed by work’, would be her reply, thinly veiling her panicky solicitude. She feared for Bob. A vile thought would creep in - maybe, he has given up on his father or maybe, he is tired of the humiliation. Her eyes would moisten and would later regret ever considering such a thought.   

Another afternoon of waiting and there was no sight of Bob. The sun dipped below the horizon and a golden light seeped through the blinds. Nurse Ratched often looked at Jack who stared out of the window with his usual inscrutable expression. She knew he was eagerly waiting for someone whose name or face he could not recall.

The phone rang, she ignored it. She was lost in the monologue of her thoughts, worrying about Bob and Jack and his disease.

“Nurse Ratched. It’s for you. It is George Russell”, an attendant informed her.
Puzzled by the mention of George, she took the receiver and proceeded to talk to Jack’s seedy elder son. 

“Nurse Ratched speaking- What? n accident? When did this happen- day before? Oh the poor soul…..” before she could complete the sentence, her eyes welled up and her throat knotted. The ground grew unsteady and all senses descended into obscurity. She could not speak anymore and gasped like she had trouble breathing. She stammered a few words, a few incoherent words. Slamming down the receiver, she ran to the restroom. She wept, she cried till she could cry no more. Her throat was parched, her eyes puffy. Her lips trembled. And in the confusion of her mind, only one thought stood out clearly - Bob was dead. 

When she came out of the restroom, barely able to stand and barely able to stop herself from crying even more, she sauntered towards the window where Jack was. He was in a blissful slumber. Seeing the innocuous old man she let out an uncontrolled yelp. Jack woke up.

“Your son- Your son is dead….. Bob is dead," Nurse Ratched said softly. She had to summon these words after many aborted attempts. 

Jack stared at the weeping nurse. His countenance remained unchanged. It was obvious to her that he had not comprehended the impact of those words. He struggled to recall the identity of Bob. Struck back by this lack of recognition, Nurse Ratched was indignant.
“That young man who used to visit you everyday”, she asserted angrily and then immediately regretted the tone.  Jack showed some semblance of remembrance. “That young man is Bob, your son. He died day before yesterday in a car accident”. The gravity of these words caused her to well up with tears again.  

“No. It can’t be. Bob is in jail for stealing from some poor sod. He is a leech to society…” Jack continued his bitter tirade, as if oblivious to the weeping nurse in front of him.
“Jack!” Nurse Ratched vociferated in a tone that silenced the colonel. Jack stopped his declamation and stared at her in shock. The nurse continued in a subdued tone, “Bob was released from jail sometime ago. He came out a born-again Christian. He turned over a new leaf. He had apologized for the pain caused to you in the past. He came to visit you everyday”. She paused and covered her eyes with her hands. “He said the least he could do was to come over and give you company”. She could continue no more. 

A flood of memories rushed in and Jack murmured something inaudible in a low mournful tone. The knots in his throat prevented him from speaking anything further. He closed his eyes and his lips quivered a little. Small channels of tears made its way from underneath the closed eyelids. ‘He changed a lot’ is all he could manage.

Nurse Ratched spent the night weeping by his side. By midnight, Jack had fallen asleep. In the wee hours of the night, Nurse Ratched staggered home still thinking about Bob as she walked through an insensitive city.

The next morning, Nurse Ratched appeared by Jack’s side. Violet bags drooped from under her eyes and she appeared profoundly weary. Jack did little, spoke little and wore a gloomy demeanour – one of unfathomable sadness. There was an awkward silence between them. Both stared out the same window, thinking about the same person.

Bob’s funeral was a meager, somber affair. There was no eulogy. The tombstone read simply – Bob Russell, Son of Jack Russell. Only a handful of people attended and George was conspicuously absent. To Nurse Ratched, the funeral seemed to denigrate his entire existence.

The next day, Nurse Ratched performed her duties languidly, still distracted by Bob’s death. She frequently checked on Jack who bore an inscrutable expression. Maybe still mourning or maybe lapsed into disease provoked thoughtlessness, she could not tell with certainty. The day passed by with little being said between them. The next day too Jack bore a sepulchral appearance. He was mourning, but could not recall the name or face of the person for whom he mourned.  

The coming week was hard on Nurse Ratched. A few times, in his mentally weakest moments, Jack had asked her about ‘that young man who usually visits at this time’. This perturbed Nurse Ratched who had to relive the moments following that phone call. She had to explain again that the young man was his son Bob, who died in a car crash a few days ago. Hearing this Jack grew melancholic and withdrew into a shell. 

After the week, Nurse Ratched, anxious about Jack, pleaded with a friendly attendant, Steven, to play a game of carom with him. Only after persistent pleas, the hesitant attendant went over to Jack and engaged him in a game of carrom. That day, Jack stared at the board and disconcertedly indulged the attendant. 

Under the orders of the senior Nurse Ratched, Steven went over to Jack every afternoon and tried to draw him into a conversation or a game of carom. Initially, Jack indulged him distractedly, replying the attendant’s incessant questions with monosyllable answers and struck the carom coins listlessly. However, gradually he opened up to the young attendant. Until one afternoon there was no more perturbation on his face. 

Their afternoon rendezvous continued and Jack gradually returned to his usual jocund self. The circumstances seemed familiar enough – a young man visited him every afternoon, played carom with him and even took him for strolls around the garden; he soon forgot about the tragedy and about his son. One afternoon while strolling through the gardens, Nurse Ratched overheard Jack telling Steven about his younger son, now estranged, ‘a leech to society’, ‘thrown in the slammer for thieving from some poor sod’.

Nurse Ratched appeared crestfallen. She was about to remind Jack about the reformed Bob and all that he had done for him when the vivacity of one thought stopped her –‘He will not remember it tomorrow’. The disease ravaging through Jack’s mind had wiped out any memory of his son’s reformation. Bob would remain forever ‘a leech’ in his memory and Nurse Ratched understood it as an ignoble reality of his life. She found solace in Bob’s words “All that is important to me is that he has a companion to help him live the rest of his life in dignity he deserves”. This epiphany caused her to gaze dully at the old colonel. Nurse Ratched spent countless hours that night crying for the old colonel, his disease and his son.

ShortStory 2009 FirstPrize Sandeep Shete

Platform Times

Tingu, the 'thekbaaz', who was all of thirteen, liked his victims male and between thirty-five and forty. His partner Usman, the 'machine', a year older and three inches taller than Tingu, preferred the low-hanging fruit instead. Upper class women toddling down the footbridges dragging gargantuan shopping bags along. Harried salesmen pleading over cellphones, always too distant from the crowds they jostled in to recognise the dangers that lurked within them. And other such types. For him, even doddering old men, who would be lucky to just make it through the brutal Mumbai commute alive, were fair game.

Challenges never gave Usman a high. Like Tingu, he got his highs from the daily fix of ganja they smoked before going to bed every night. A tattered yellow polythene sheet spread underneath a staircase on Bandra station’s platform number two served as their bed. Some nights, the ganja played bizarre games on Tingu’s mind, making it stretch, reach out and try to touch the things that preceded his arrival on the platform seven or eight years before. On such occasions, Usman loved to engage his friend in a perfunctory dialogue over his past.

“Faces, places, names, shames...do you remember anything at all?” Usman would ask.

“I think I remember a face.” Tingu would say, his eyes crinkled against the haze of milky smoke, his head resting on a folded arm. “I mean, I don't remember the face. Only that there was one before I came here.”

“Man or woman?”

“Baba, I think I called that face. Maybe abba. I'm not sure.”

At times, Tingu spoke of a hand, a heavy one, crashing on his cheek, his lip splitting over his teeth spilling liquid salt on his tongue. But he was quick with the disclaimer that perhaps that wasn't baba's hand after all.

“And then?” Usman would ask.

“Nothing. Then it was here. On this platform. Just here...” And the way he would utter those last few words, Tingu would briefly sound like a stranger to Usman. 

There had been a time, a year or so earlier, when Usman had appeared a stranger to Tingu in a way that had frightened him. Made him wonder if they would remain friends for much longer. That was when Usman had begun to shoot up like a sycamore. When his voice had started sounding like it were coming from the bottom of the dry water tank atop the decrepit lavatory on the last platform. When he had started looking and behaving so unlike the fellow Tingu had known for six years that Tingu had even contemplated running away, finding a new refuge, a new ustad, on the Central Line. Or maybe even the Harbour Line. Change terrified Tingu almost as much as darkness did. For the platform is a veritable carnival of ironies, where things change every minute without anything changing at all. Where there's scarcely a moment of darkness ever and yet it makes for a tenebrous place to live on. Tingu stopped looking forward to their night-time conversations. He worried most about sleeping next to Usman. Although they ate the same unwholesome meals of vada-pav washed down with cutting chai day in and day out, Usman had somehow, all at once, become a lot stronger than Tingu. And Tingu knew what the bigger, stronger boys did to the weaklings, even within their own gangs. He began to mention Gafoor a lot more during their conversations. 

Gafoor, their one-eyed ustad, their handler, had been in the business longer than Tingu and Usman had walked the earth. He was the man with the big picture. Every night, while his boys enjoyed their ganja and chit-chat under the staircase, Gafoor, squatting in his nearby shanty, used his one good eye to count the takings from their two day shifts. Their profession had fallen upon tough times. He had realised that a long time back. Beating up the boys was no solution either. Real cash was getting real scarce what with wallets and purses these days packed mockingly with those shiny little plastic cards. Gafoor knew they could buy anything in the world but that somehow they would never work if he tried using them. It was something the owners did soon after realising they had been robbed. Black magic perhaps. In fact, those cards were a professional hazard. Only hard cash was their friend. Everything else, trouble. “Make no mistake, everyone else is getting richer but us,” Gafoor, pulling on a beedi wistfully, sometimes lectured his boys. “Just that they're also getting more careful. Still, we must keep our eyes peeled and our fingers oiled at all times.” What option do the boys have? he asked himself sometimes. If you don't possess a single skill to create anything of value for this world, the only way to make a living is by taking what you never created. 

~*~

The end of Tingu's anxieties regarding his partner had come in a way that had made him laugh like kids his age are supposed to. Soon after the aforementioned physical changes manifested themselves in Usman, Tingu found him disappearing between shifts. He used to be gone for hours and he never told Tingu where he went. Sometimes he returned just before the afternoon shift to find Tingu pacing the platform in a state of great agitation. In those moments, Tingu would feel justified in punching his buddy in the side a few times. Usman, who otherwise carried a famous temper, would never retaliate; he’d only laugh and try to wiggle away, adding to Tingu's suspicion that he was up to no good.

One day, just like that, Usman asked Tingu to go along with him on his afternoon excursion. Tingu frowned, feeling uncertain, a little scared even. Then, curiosity got the better of him. They jumped on to a twelve-coach rake from Bandra, hanging out the door all the way up to Dadar.

“Where are we going?” Tingu kept asking. 

“You'll see,” Usman replied every time, grinning. They took their time crossing over to Dadar East where they boarded a Thane-bound local. Tingu broke a sweat; this was alien territory.

“We get off at Sion,” Usman instructed him. “That's where the surprise lies.” 

Tingu heard his stomach growl as they waited on platform one at Sion. The aroma of fresh vada-pav being prepared at a stall somewhere close by tantalized him. But Usman would hear none of it. “Don't you budge, Tingu. If you miss this today, it won't happen again until tomorrow,” he pleaded and Tingu was at once intrigued. Shortly afterwards, the 11.35 am CST Slow arrived on the station. Usman's eyes twinkled as the ladies compartment came to a halt right in front of them. Out came a gang of Khalsa College girls, giggling, bantering, asking for attention even while displaying a studied indifference to everything around them. 

“That one is mine,” Usman declared, proudly pointing to a buxom Punjabi lass sporting a bosom that heaved and fell with each step. She was dressed in a red halter top, her skin-tight blue jeans slung miles below a cavernous navel. “Just see how her hips jiggle as she walks. Nice, hmmm?”

The young women drifted towards the exit, leaving behind them a wake of roiling fragrances, the gazes of Usman, Tingu, and countless other men following them till the very end. Usman turned to Tingu.

“Which one did you like?” he asked, in the manner of a salesman asking his customer to pick a cellphone model. There, perhaps for the first time in his life, Tingu blushed.

“That one,” he said laughing, pointing with his chin towards no girl in particular.

“Which one?” asked Usman earnestly. 

But it didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was that Usman could be trusted. That Tingu could sleep beside him under the staircase every night. That they could continue to live their life of fast crime and illicit gratification without personal suspicions or professional differences getting in the way. But while Usman was no threat to Tingu, a similar threat had later arrived from where it was least expected and Tingu had no choice but to surrender before it. 

At this point in the story, and in view of what is going to happen next, it is worth mentioning that the two little thieves actually followed a compromise formula as they went about their business of relieving commuters of their cash: Tingu selected their targets during the morning shift, Usman in the afternoon.

~*~
                                                                                               
Present Day. Vile Parle station: 10.45 am. The short paunchy man shuffling beside the chai-pakora stall on platform number three could have been on either side of forty. Shiny strips of oil-soaked scalp shone from underneath his frayed mattress of black-dyed hair. Dressed in a green half-sleeve shirt, darkened under the armpits, and beige corduroy trousers that shone brightly in the late morning sun, he was sweating buckets. Mopping a worry-lined brow every now and then with a soggy handkerchief. Constantly fidgeting with his cellphone without placing or receiving any calls. Mumbai does that to many. Look how he perks up each time the disembodied voice announces the trains over the public address system. How indifferent he seems to the hernia-like bulge in his trouser's front left pocket. That bulge has already caught the attention of our intrepid duo. Contrary to the widespread notion among honest folks, the back pockets are actually harder to pick than the front ones. “Remember, people with money can almost always feel it sliding up over their butts.” Gafoor had tutored his boys well. But the front pockets? “Laddoo hai,” grinned Usman as they inched closer to their target. Piece of cake!

The 10.51 am Borivali Slow lumbered into the station loaded more than usual for its time. In the beginning, the oily-haired man seemed intimidated by the crowds billowing out of it. He glanced right, then left and hurried towards a coach further ahead. Like all of Mumbai's suburban commuters, he too wasn't immune to the delusion that the coach next to the nearest one would somehow be less crowded. Watching Tingu and Usman stalking their man, a polio-afflicted newspaper seller shook his head, blew his nose into his hand and wiped the phlegm-covered fingers on the underside of his handcart. Next to his newsstand sat a row of boot-polish boys tuk-tukking on their shoe-rests with the wood of their brushes, beckoning passers-by to come, shine their shoes. At the end of that line of five sat Kallu. Until four months ago, he had been Tingu and Usman’s partner in crime. Then, one afternoon, he was caught by a bunch of commuters. Kallu had never walked upright after that day although some would say he actually started walking upright only after the thrashing. As Tingu hurried past him, Kallu whistled loudly. Tingu spun around, his eyes armed with menace. Kallu laughed, made a loose fist with his hand and punched the air three times. Boy, you're screwed today! Tingu wagged his middle finger at him and spat. Then he followed Usman into the second-class coach. The target had been acquired.

The insides of the coach were engorged with the stench of a thousand perspiring men. At least four were pressed together on each one of the sixty-four benches and a few were standing too, fists curled loosely over the support brackets hanging like handcuffs from the ceiling. Tingu disliked boarding these trains. Standing in such close proximity to grown men made him acutely conscious of his puny stature. Passengers often turned away from him, not wanting to rub their bodies against that of an unwashed urchin. A body covered by filthy undersized garments and reeking of tobacco, snot and destitution. Sometimes, they even asked him to get off the train at the next station. He had ‘Ticketless Traveler’ written all over him, if not ‘Pickpocket.’ Still, for the sake of dhanda, he climbed aboard everyday. Twice. Except on Saturdays, their weekly off.

Their target was a regular; that much was clear. He had positioned himself near the leading edge of the door, just behind the outermost ring of bodies. A stance highly recommended for stepping off the train without much trouble at the next halt. The army of incoming passengers there would mount their attack on the trailing half of the door, thwarting the efforts of anyone trying to disembark from that end. 

Usman found a gap just behind Oily. Wordlessly, he showed Tingu four fingers. They had four minutes. That’s a lot of time. Tingu slid through the other passengers like a draught through a window-crack, positioning himself right next to Usman. As a thekbaaz, distraction was Tingu’s stock-in-trade, a skill that went largely underutilized inside local trains. The noise, the relentless discomfort and the obligation to keep shifting one’s coordinates all the time were sufficient to take people's minds far away from their pockets. The nine-coach rake jerked forward, picking up speed furiously, the wheels clanging over the rails with a vengeance, the compartment rocking from side to side like a dinghy on choppy waters. 

There's a rule in pick-pocketing – a rule Tingu always broke, as on this occasion. Never ever look your target in the face. It takes the focus away from your goal. Worse, it could even invite a reciprocal glance. And that could mean a few rough weeks inside the lock-up if your victim decided to report the matter. 

But now Tingu’s gaze has already shifted to Oily's extruding pocket. How much could he be carrying? Tingu wonders. Enough to meet their day's target, he hopes. Enough to eventually convince Gafoor not to transfer them to the dangerous Churchgate-Mahalaxmi segment where newcomers get beaten up and flung onto the tracks by the entrenched gangs. Tingu shudders. Enough, he prays, to pay the new constable Kartar Singh of the railway police his hafta tonight so that he wouldn't have go with that dirty man inside the empty goods trains in the desolate marshalling yard. How he despised those goods trains filled with a thick glutinous darkness that Kartar Singh playfully stabbed with his torchlight. “What's the fun if I can't watch what I'm doing,” he would laugh. And Tingu didn't know what he hated more: the fear of the darkness or the shame of the torchlight.  

Now watch. Usman's fingers are twitching in preparation for the performance, drumming an invisible tabla in the air. He throws one last glance in Tingu's direction, the way a paratrooper might at his buddy before jumping off for a sortie behind enemy lines. Then, like a serpent striking its fear-frozen victim, two lightening fingers stab the gaping mouth of Oily's trouser pocket. A tug. A shake. And a warm chestnut-coloured wallet is scooped out from within. It is teleported instantly from the fingers of the machine into the waiting hands of the thekbaaz who tucks it under his shirt between his trouser and his belly and turns around to face the opposite door. The train is slowing down already. The yellow board announcing “Andheri” in three different languages glides past. The partners are out in a trice. They're weaving through the crowds now. Darting up the staircase three steps at a time. On the footbridge, panting, running like antelopes across five platforms. Down the last staircase and into the parking lot on the east. 

“Quick. Let me see it,” ordered Usman once they were safely crouched between rows of two-wheelers. Tingu fumbled around under his shirt and then leaned back grinning, holding up the prize. Usman counted the notes, wetting his thumb on his tongue, his mouth opening wider each time. Three thousand five hundred and eleven rupees! They laughed out, loud and long, hysterically glad at having survived yet another day on the platform. Then Usman walked away with the cash, warning Tingu to throw away the empty wallet quickly. He was already looking forward to the broken-toothed smile on Gafoor’s face, the proud gleam in his good eye. And of course their cut.

~*~

Tingu opened the wallet again, searched the various pockets. It was his lucky day too. He found what he always looked for in wallets after plundering them: a picture. It was of a boy, not more than five or six years old. Had Usman been there, he might have seen in his friend's eyes a fleeting forbidden luxury: Hope. Tingu studied the face in the picture for a long moment and then turned towards a mirror on a motorcycle. Almost immediately his eyes turned professional once again. He snorted, shook his head and tossed the wallet, along with the picture, into the nearest gutter.

Glossary:

Thekbaaz: Person who assists a pickpocket by diverting a victim's attention

Machine: The person who actually picks the pocket

Ganja: Cannabis or marijuana

Ustad: Trainer or handler

Vada-pav: Cheap Indian fast food, very popular in Mumbai; consists of a deep-fried potato mash patty (batata vada) served in a salted bun (pav) with savory condiments

Beedi: Thin Indian cigarette made of tobacco and wrapped in a tendu leaf

Chai: Tea

Pakora: An Indian fried snack made from spinach, soft cheese or onion

Laddoo: Popular Indian sweet made of flour and other ingredients formed into balls that are dipped in sugar syrup

Dhanda: Colloquial for business

Keeda: Colloquial for infection

Hafta: Colloquial for protection money

Tabla: Indian percussion instrument similar to a drum

ShortStory 2009 FeaturedWriter Sneha Subramanian Kanta

THE MARRIAGE

Morning announced itself through the perching of birds on the branches of trees. It had been 6 a.m. now and I was getting delayed to reach the airport. I woke up rather reluctantly out of my bed and went to the basin. I looked at my face in the mirror which was morose. Today was supposed to be the best day of my life. I was to get married and get the status of someone’s wife.

Only in this case, it was a runaway court marriage. 

Preparations for this day had been made since many months. Today was the best day when I could sneak out of the house for a day. I was supposed to be wearing a sari as decided by myself and Shashank. Bangles shone in my wrists and flowers adorned my hair. I stood in a red saree in front of the mirror. When I now look back, I see a young, restless, bright mind standing haplessly looking at herself. 

Somehow, all this hype surrounding my marriage did not get to me at all. When I left the house, I had a thousand odd things running in my mind. I kept thinking all about the possible future, about my life, the “new house” I was supposed to “adjust” into, as I was told by my father in-law.

I was just eighteen then, and didn’t know much about the intricacies that life held. All that grappled my mind was thoughts of running away from my house and to escape the harmful clutches of my step mother.

I reached the airport and in a flurry kept passing by each counter and finally reached mine. Whatever was happening didn’t really seep through my mind. There are so many instances in life, where, you don’t feel what actually happens to you. This was perhaps one of those.

As I boarded the flight to Delhi, I anxiously looked outside the aircraft. Something within me said that I should get up and run away. The very thought of me having to be in an entirely different set up haunted me. 

Two hours flit by and I reached Delhi. I hurriedly walked outside the airport and saw Shashank standing there. He was his usual self, tall, with a lanky frame. For a minute, all this hoopla surrounding the aura of my “marriage” dispersed into me looking into his eyes. He escorted me out of the airport and I was bought to his house. He had most of his family members and I had none but him. I thought he understood this fact somewhere down the line, fully self-conscious of the fact of my love for him. 

Finally, five of his family members and we were taken to the court of law. There, the final seal on our marriage had been put. I feel none, the excitement or the happiness a bride should feel. But I do admit, my heart leapt up to Shashak on seeing him so happy. 

I was brought to his house and everyone greeted me with a smile. Elaborate meals were cooked and people had surrounded the house as honeybees surround the honeycomb. Amongst all this chatter, I felt completely left out. “Trapped,” was it? Many a times, in so many weddings I realize the bride and the groom remain objects. Objects to be looked at and then people estimate the “approximate” price of the party given. Love somewhere down the line sneaks away out of this circle of fake enthusiasm.

I’d been terrible all day with the hectic court procedures and traveling. After people left, I was left in my own element in a room. I was told by my mother-in-law that Shashak would come to the room later. 

And this was the worse thing to do me thought- leave a young, sad girl all alone on the night of her wedding. The night when she’d meet her husband and tell him how much she loves him, the expression in the eye which expresses how a thousand moons give her solace when she hugs the man she loves. I’d felt none of this, all I could feel was loneliness. My heart ached and my mind moved from one image to another. I could see, somewhere in Chennai, my step mother filing for a police case for me missing. I could see the image of the neighboring children I used to play with and sing songs; I could feel the anger of my step mother, the anxiety of the children. Surprisingly, I couldn’t feel any joy that a newly wed bride is supposed to feel. 

I felt like running out of the room, removing all the unnecessary jewellery that I’d wore and go and melt in Shashank’s arm. I felt like crying like a child to him, laughing like a lover to him, and loving him as a wife would yearn to.

But I could do neither. It was night, about 2 a.m. I think. I heard some crackling sound and woke up. I saw Shashank right there, wanting to drink some water. He saw me open my eyes and took me in his arms. For some reason, I’d wanted to cry and tell him how much I loved him. But, something prevented me from doing so. Why can’t I cry and tell him how I felt, I don’t fathom.

Night passed and I was unable to speak anything. He made love to me, and I felt an emotion taking me higher than where I was. 

But, sex is only a temporary relief.

That night clouds had gathered and I lay awake in a now fast asleep Shashank’s arms. I quietly go up and went outside the verandah. I felt the sky curling to form a ferocious array of clouds. I stood there, my eyelids battling the drops of rain. It was now that I’d started crying too.

Morning again arrived, and a lot had changed within a day. My identity had changed, and so did my life. Shashank went to office as usual and I was kept in the house the entire day. This episode kept repeating itself day-after-day. 

Months passed and I’d started feeling the need to do something. I’d been cooking in the house and looking after Shashank’s family. He did the jig that a dutiful husband is supposed to, but I realized I looked for much more. 

Shashank kept coming late to the house and the tantrums of my mother-in-law increased. I was feeling like a bird which had been locked up in a cage, which looks golden from the outside, but is as hollow as any other cage. A cage afterall, is a cage. 

One day, as I was ironing Shashank’s shirt, I found a bill. It read as a bill given by a lingerie shop, and I’d been in a state of horror. If there was something that he had to give me, it should have been given by now, and I have never known any instance when Shashank had bought me a gift. 

That night, I felt like a robber doing this, but I checked his phone and noticed many short messages he’d sent that read-,

“She is a dutiful wife. She takes care of my house and parents. But I do love you. Don’t worry, even if I wouldn’t be able to marry you, I’d love you and only you. Love you my princess.”

I’d realize the loops in our marriage and I also could now see the futility of being into a relationship when all is lost.

I’d discovered the path I wanted to now tread on. I confronted Shashank that night and asked him about what’s going on in his life.

“What nonsense are you talking? Do you realize,” he screamed.

“This isn’t nonsense Shashank. It’s about our life,” I explained.

“Look, Priya (this was the first time someone actually calls me by my name, I thought) all you are reading is not true. Ok , tell me, even if it is true , what can you do. Where will you go? Can’t we live with it,” he asked.

“Live with it? Live with what Shashank? This life, which is futile and which binds us to a relationship we’ve long lost?” I thundered back.

“Fine, go wherever you want to. I won’t stop you. But do realize, you have no where to go,” he told me.

By this time, I almost had tears in my eyes. I took a decision in my mind that this is over today. There isn’t more I can bear.

My walking had led me to the railway station and I’d enough money to board a train to Allahabad. I waited in the waiting room of the train department. There, I felt like contemplating suicide, but something within me stopped myself.

It was again 6 a.m. of the next day and I stood near the steps of a temple All I could see is flashes of little lightning across the still black clouds, which looked like the same night. Lightning looked as though it’d would fall on me. 

As I tried breaking this day that awaits me peace, I saw a priest doing the funeral of a old woman. She had many other relatives of hers who were crying. Somewhere, something deep inside me cried too. 

After about an hour, I heard the preist say,

“Shantam. Shantam. Shantam.”

ShortStory 2009 FeaturedWriter Shaunak Bangale

THE WORLD IS ROUND!

 

Prologue-

Bang!! The World was shaking... People living near the sea-shores from every part of the earth were stunned by the ever-biggest earthquake… It was different from other earthquakes in the sense it only happened near sea-shores. It lasted just for few moments, but the intensity was just stunning. It caused the coastal people to re-think their entire lives. Though it had caused the heartbeats to run faster, it had made a favour by not taking heartbeats away from people.

But Odona had something different in her mind. She was thinking about this event as more than a mere earthquake. Since she saw the crystal ball turning black after the earthquake was over, her concern for the future of the world was obvious. She had never seen it turning black in last 30 years. Her mother had gifted it to her before dying. Her last words were punching Odona’s mind again and again, “Just take care of the crystal ball. If it turns black, it means something bad is going to happen in near future.“ She was confused because it had turned black after the earthquake. So she had become more. To investigate, she asked her son.

Nick to get a team of 5 world class scientists from different continents to think upon it who could understand the present problem and its consequences. Nick made no delay in following up mother’s order, rather advice.. Nick was the lead scientist in path-breaking Geological Research Institute (GRI) located near the west coast of south America. Next day, he was ready with the talented team of geo-scientists; two of them were the physics Nobel Prize winners. Odona welcomed all of them and came to the point without making any further late. She asked openly, “All of you know the problem world is facing today.”

Veda, another young scientist interrupted her, “yes, it’s the earthquake and the people living on sea-shores have no option except migrating.”Xander spoke, “It was a mystery that such a powerful earthquake didn’t take any lives. We are lucky.”
Odona listened to them quietly and said,” Yes, you right because the real problem starts now.” “How?”Mendis questioned. Odona started narrating the story.

25 years ago:
Odona was living a happy life with her husband Lenbo who was the chief scientist at GRI. That was the time the world was running out of coal and research was going on to find out the solution to the problem. One day Lenbo got an idea. He thought, “Why shouldn’t we try to find it on any other planet?” He spent around 10 years in finding any planet with the coal content. Lenbo was very intelligent and had very strong belief in whatever he did. His efforts were not wasted. He found out that there exists one such planet named CORUS in a star system which was 3 light years far from the earth.

Previously he had created the space ship which was able to travel at a speed 1/5th of light. So it would take 15 years just to reach the planet and another 15 years to come back. So going there to bring coal was not the practical solution of the problem. Lenbo contacted the planet through his universal telepathic machine. He could find out that there are people who are made of coal and the whole planet is full of coal content. They are called kryobuts. Their average life span was 300 years. Lenbo was amazed.

After further coded conversation Lenbo could find out that they need salty sand every 30 years to expand their life span. But amount of salty sand was insufficient to sustain the increasing population on the planet. Kryobuts were so advanced that they had space ships which can travel at the speed of the light. So they could reach earth within 3 years of journey. So calling them to earth was only the way to get the coal. Lenbo was wise enough to make the deal only for 1 year. Kryobuts also accepted the deal happily. It was decided that they will live on earth for 1 year to use salty sand and provide coal to the earth.

So the things happened as agreed. Men on earth were happy to get more than enough coal. Kryobuts were enjoying their happiest life. They had started exploring the world. The different lands, weathers and cultures fascinated them. They were more powerful than men. So, they started dominating over men and created living hell for humanity. They refused to go back to Corus and decided to live on earth forever. People all over started blaming Lenbo and insisted he be held accountable.

While thinking for different options, Lenbo got a solution. He found that though they are powerful they are not as intelligent as men. So he felt he could use a Brain Hold Sensor to control their minds and make them enter a cave which was on the west coast of south America, He lured them with high quality sand there on the sea shore which was at the other end of the cave. The naïve kryobuts played into his hands, and Lenbo’s brain hold sensor had such effect on them that entered the cave without much opposition. When he could manage all of them to enter the cave, only thing remaining was to close the cave. Their master had found out that the cave is closed at the other end and they were cheated and locked. As he was smarter than his colleagues his mind wasn’t much affected by the Lenbo’s controls. But he was also under Lenbo’s will. Lenbo called Odona to close the big cave with the magical power she had got from her mother. 

But while Odona did it, master tried to come out. Suddenly, he caught Lenbo and dragged him into the cave. Odona was helpless as she only knew how to close the cave and not to open it.
Meanwhile her mother also died.
-------------------------------------
And Odona cried in memories of her husband and her mother.
“So how does it relate to the present situation? I mean what can we do now?”, asked Calinden, impatiently.

Odona continued,”As my mother told the cave can get a crack if any big thing like earthquake happens in the area. I strongly believe that Kryobuts can come out of the cave through the crack. So task for you is to save Lenbo and simultaneously control the kryobuts using the brain hold sensor technique. So first you will have to analyse the old machine which is outdated now and create a new machine for the present. Just be alert. Any mistake will lead to danger.”

Odona’s wasn’t wrong. Soon they heard the news that nearby village was attacked by kryobuts. Odona herself with Nick went to the village to see the situation. He found out that there was one kryobut among them named Corag who was helping people rather than troubling them. He was allowing the weaponless people to escape. He wanted to fight with only the people who were equivalent to him. He was more powerful than his colleagues and so dominated over them. But another kryobut, Imperious always tried to kill people mercilessly.

So Corag always contradicted Imperious. But Imperious had a team of 10 other kryobuts. Meanwhile there was an announcement made by the governments. According to the news, ‘The recent earthquake has caused the rock layers under sea to displace which may be harmful. So the people near the sea shores are requested to move towards the inner part of the respective countries.’
Nick was able to create the brain hold sensor machine but kryobuts now knew how to counter-attack. Master was inside the cave in the form of a black hole. 

One day, Imperious succeeded in kidnapping Odona and the 5 scientists. He took them to master. Master was draining Odona’s magical power and helpless scientists’ knowledge. Corag could no longer bear this injustice. He attacked the master. So master changed his target and attacked Corag. As soon as he attacked Corag, Corag got converted into Lenbo. 14 years back, master had transformed Lenbo into a kryobut. Master acquired his brain hold sensor technique and used it against Lenbo. But master didn’t want to kill Lenbo because he was the only source of information for them. He changed Lenbo so that other kryobuts could not recognize him and didn’t kill him. He also named him Corag. He always had an eye on Corag’s activities.

He also knew one day this is going to happen. Odona saw Corag getting converted into Lenbo and she didn’t know how to express these mixed feelings. Nick was also amazed by seeing his father in such condition. Lenbo was still trying to fight back but in vain as he was a normal human being now.
 Just then, Veda got an alert from his another scientist, “We have found that there are great chances of Tsunami to happen on the sea-shores and nearby regions will be destroyed completely. You need to escape from there immediately.” Veda whispered this to Lenbo and Nick. 

Odona, Lenbo, Nick along with rest of the scientist escaped the place somehow. Master underestimated them thinking they were accepting the defeat. Just as they left, a huge Tsunami came and engulfed the entire place.

Before they could even bat an eyelid, the tsunami swept them all off to their collective doom. As they saw the ruin it left in its wake… the very ruin because of which they survived, Odona remarked, ”As you sow so shall you reap. We made a mistake by calling kryobuts on earth and they turned against us all. Nature had to intervene against the kryobut menace and solved it by Tsunami. Whoever creates the problem has to find the solution. But whatever happens, know one thing –
You are not God to play dice with this world…”

ShortStory 2009 Longlist Pesi Padshah

Spare The Rod ? 

Father Beech was a bull of a man who, the story goes, could lift, over his head, an average size seventh standard schoolboy, purely with the strength of his mighty right arm. Nobody that I know, had actually seen him do it, but legend has it that he could roll up his sleeve and perform the feat anytime, and none among us whom he taught English Language, English Literature, and Scripture, at St. Mary’s school in Bombay, long, long ago, in the nineteen-forties, ever doubted it.

I enjoyed English Language as a subject, although I’d frequently get into a tangle over grammar. However I had a powerful imagination and a certain facility with words, which managed to see me through examinations. English Literature though, was another matter altogether. It included large amounts of Shakespeare, most of which I found beyond my comprehension and which, at exam time, diluted the marks earned from my answers on the works of other authors. The result being, I seldom passed an examination in that subject. Scripture was optional, but I chose to study it in spite of the boredom it induced in me, since the alternative was Hindi, and one look at the Devanagiri script froze the blood in my veins, although I was quite happy with the language as it was spoken. 
            

On reflection, it is understandable that my sort of student would run foul of a teacher with Fr. Beech’s temperament, and what made life painfully difficult for me, was that the padre with the strong right arm, had absolutely no hesitation in supplementing his teaching skills with frequent use of a malacca cane.
            

The first time Fr. Beech had cause to discipline me, was in Scripture class when I was asked to narrate one of St. Paul’s journeys in the New Testament. I naively admitted  I had forgotten to learn it,  whereupon the cleric smilingly told me that, for the next lesson, not only was I to have a fairly good idea of what St. Paul had got up to on his travels, but I was to know the text by heart. Came the day, and I glanced through the chapter in the ten minute recess before the Scripture period. When asked to say my piece, I started off in grand style, and had Fr. Beech nodding approvingly at the part where a mysterious voice speaks to St. Paul, who was also called Saul, saying: “Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou me?” After that, I ran out of facts but soldiered on with my version of the narrative, keeping a straight face and using what I thought were genuine biblical phrases and expressions such as “Thou shalt not sin”, “Thus it came to pass”, and ”Forgive us Father for we know not what we do”. Just when I felt I had the situation well under control, Fr. Beech raised both clenched fists above his head, and cried  “Enough!  Come to my room directly after school.”

At the appointed time, I presented myself, looking sheepish and dejected, as I felt was expected of me. “Ah, there you are”, the padre greeted me genially. “Come right in”. Smiling, he produced an evil looking switch from a book rack on the wall, and pointing, first at my hands, and then at the seat of my trousers, offered me the choice of where I wished to be thrashed. Without a second thought, I held out my hands. For a lad of my age, my hands were huge. A medical student, after staring at them, once pronounced me ‘acromegalic’. I thought he was being rude until I consulted the dictionary. Then I felt he was probably right.

The switch came whistling down. As it smote my palm, my fingers closed over it, and I tugged gently. My tormentor wasn’t expecting that and, to his surprise, found himself empty-handed, with me pointing the cane at his midriff. Rather like a swordsman disarming his opponent and having him at his mercy. I held the pose long enough to convey the idea, before restoring the switch to its owner. After that display, I felt I had earned the right to make a dignified ---- if not triumphant ---- exit, with my head held high. I was mistaken. I found myself being seized by the neck and doubled over. There followed six excruciatingly painful strokes of the cane, upon my rump.

In the years following that encounter with the disciplinarian Beech, and leading up to the school leaving examination, I was chastised several times by the padre, and never once was I allowed to take it on my hands. I thought familiarity with the punishment would lead, if not to outright contempt for it, to at least a partial numbing of the nerves under the seat of my pants. Neither happened. I considered myself lucky if I could space out the canings so as to be fully recovered from one painful episode, before running into the next. 

Through trial and error, I found that the most effective way to achieve this, was to do my homework, and study diligently. It probably also accounted for my passing the final Senior Cambridge examination, albeit by the skin of my teeth, when all around me, expected me to fail. As it happened, I did fail in history and in geography, and since both subjects belonged to a ‘group’, I should, by rights, have failed the entire exam. What wrought the miracle of my getting through, was the fact that I managed to secure five ‘credits’. Three of them came from Fr. Beech’s subjects ; another, by way of a fluke, in mathematics ; and finally one in French, in which I received home tuition from my mother who, like Fr. Beech, was a disciplinarian, and a great believer in strong arm methods. 

I remain passionately opposed to the use of violence in disciplining schoolchildren. At the same time, my list of academic achievements is so woefully short, that I treasure my Senior Cambridge certificate which I know I would never have obtained, had I not been painfully coerced into studying. It leaves me undecided whether I am glad or sorry I was made to suffer in school. Under the circumstances, all I am prepared to admit to is : “Sweet are the uses of adversity- sometimes."