Friday, 15 June 2012
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Vandana Jena
Memory Games
Old age is debilitating. But I have done adapted to it gracefully. Today I love my uncomplicated life in the retirement home, eating, sleeping, watching TV and walking. No visitors. People bore me. And I can no longer remember their names. I am getting old, I’m almost sixty –five, and Sister tells me. I doze in my rocking chair and see the same dream I have told Sister about. I see a log cabin on a hill top, with cobwebs covering the ebony door. Once I clean the cobwebs everything would become clear once again.
Sister wakes me up. “Did you take your pills?” she asks. “I do not remember,” I confess. She scowls. “People often forget such things,” I argue what does she think I am suffering from? Alzheimer’s?
I have stopped trusting her, ever since she brought the man with brown eyes to me who took my hand and murmured, “Sunaina.” I shrugged his hand off immediately. Undeterred, he showed me photographs of himself and me, with a child in my arms. “Try and remember,” he urged. How could I? I did not know him. The pictures were morphed of course. “Sister,” I hollered, “throw him out.’’ I then imposed the 'no visitor' rule. That was a long time ago.
“A new inmate has joined today,” says Sister. I am wary. Perhaps he is the fraud in disguise. I meet the new inmate in the garden reading a paper. “Hullo,” he says and gets up immediately. I like chivalrous men. He has brown eyes, sparse hair and a frail appearance. Sister introduces us. He mumbles his name but I can’t quite catch it. He is recovering from cancer he says. That explains his appearance. Chemotherapy. I realize. He asks me about my family. “I live alone,” I mutter, “And you?’’ “My wife is gone,’’ he responds. “Oh,” I murmur, “When did she pass away?” “She went away,’’ he explains. “Some people can’t cope with illness,’’ I murmur. He mentions a son in the United States. “He should take you with him.” I say. “I don’t want to go, in case my wife returns to me. The doctors say I have very little time left.”
“There was a man once,” I whisper conspiratorially, “who kept showing me photographs of himself and me, insisting that we were married. I got him thrown out.” He winces, and then takes out a photograph which he keeps looking at. Curious, I crane my neck to see it. It’s the photo of a log cabin on a hill top….. the same house I see in my dreams. “I know the place,” I say excitedly, “I went there for my honeymoon.” At last I remember something. If I could only brush the cobwebs away, I know, I would be able to see my husband’s face. “When?” He asks hopefully. “It was a long time ago,’’ I mutter vaguely. “I know,” he murmurs, “forty five years ago.” I frown. How does he know? I wonder.
Old age is debilitating. But I have done adapted to it gracefully. Today I love my uncomplicated life in the retirement home, eating, sleeping, watching TV and walking. No visitors. People bore me. And I can no longer remember their names. I am getting old, I’m almost sixty –five, and Sister tells me. I doze in my rocking chair and see the same dream I have told Sister about. I see a log cabin on a hill top, with cobwebs covering the ebony door. Once I clean the cobwebs everything would become clear once again.
Sister wakes me up. “Did you take your pills?” she asks. “I do not remember,” I confess. She scowls. “People often forget such things,” I argue what does she think I am suffering from? Alzheimer’s?
I have stopped trusting her, ever since she brought the man with brown eyes to me who took my hand and murmured, “Sunaina.” I shrugged his hand off immediately. Undeterred, he showed me photographs of himself and me, with a child in my arms. “Try and remember,” he urged. How could I? I did not know him. The pictures were morphed of course. “Sister,” I hollered, “throw him out.’’ I then imposed the 'no visitor' rule. That was a long time ago.
“A new inmate has joined today,” says Sister. I am wary. Perhaps he is the fraud in disguise. I meet the new inmate in the garden reading a paper. “Hullo,” he says and gets up immediately. I like chivalrous men. He has brown eyes, sparse hair and a frail appearance. Sister introduces us. He mumbles his name but I can’t quite catch it. He is recovering from cancer he says. That explains his appearance. Chemotherapy. I realize. He asks me about my family. “I live alone,” I mutter, “And you?’’ “My wife is gone,’’ he responds. “Oh,” I murmur, “When did she pass away?” “She went away,’’ he explains. “Some people can’t cope with illness,’’ I murmur. He mentions a son in the United States. “He should take you with him.” I say. “I don’t want to go, in case my wife returns to me. The doctors say I have very little time left.”
“There was a man once,” I whisper conspiratorially, “who kept showing me photographs of himself and me, insisting that we were married. I got him thrown out.” He winces, and then takes out a photograph which he keeps looking at. Curious, I crane my neck to see it. It’s the photo of a log cabin on a hill top….. the same house I see in my dreams. “I know the place,” I say excitedly, “I went there for my honeymoon.” At last I remember something. If I could only brush the cobwebs away, I know, I would be able to see my husband’s face. “When?” He asks hopefully. “It was a long time ago,’’ I mutter vaguely. “I know,” he murmurs, “forty five years ago.” I frown. How does he know? I wonder.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Nabanita Dhar
Coincidence
It was raining cats and dogs; there was an uncanny silence in the air; all you could hear were the rain drops. It was past midnight; her shift had ended; there was no soul in sight as she waited for her cab. It had been just over a month since she started working in the Call centre much against her parents’ wishes. After all a customer call centre Job in Gurgaon had all the makings of a tragedy waiting to happen.
As she waited for her cab; her mind rushed back to horrific stories where she had heard about rapes and murders in this part of the town. She was dripping wet in the rain and in the fear of the known- unknown! The rain showed no intension to subside nor the cabbie was in sight. Ironically the street light next to the stop she was waiting in started to flicker. It was right out of the scene of a horror movie, the part just before the arrival of the demon. Of course this was her real life and not a movie for her to close her eyes and pass through the scary parts.
The wind grew wilder, the raindrops bigger but there was no end to her wait. The cabbie was not picking up her calls and she could not even find an auto to take her back to her office or even her home. She was new in town, and hardly knew anyone who could come to her rescue at this unearthly hour. As she ran permutations and combinations of all the options available to her suddenly she saw a qualis approaching her. She froze in fear from the stories of women being forced into such cars and driven around city while being raped. She wished she had listened to her folks and not relocated to take such a job. She cursed her decision as she frantically sought an option to not fall prey to another such incident and become just another statistic in these ever increasing reports of crimes against women.
Running out of options she finally took out the pepper spray. As the quails stopped near her and the glasses were being drawn down; she recited couplets from the hanuman chalisa and pointed the pepper spray towards the car window ready for assault. There it was the moment of truth; the do or die hour for her. As she was about to press on the nozzle, a lady in a kind voice spoke from within the car. It was her manager! It wasn’t a rapist or a murderer. It was someone who knew her and stopped to offer her a lift home!
As she accepted the lift; she heaved a sigh of relief. She knew she couldn’t ever be gladder to see her manager then that night! It was as if someone above had made sure of her safety. It was a lucky coincidence that she would be forever grateful for!
It was raining cats and dogs; there was an uncanny silence in the air; all you could hear were the rain drops. It was past midnight; her shift had ended; there was no soul in sight as she waited for her cab. It had been just over a month since she started working in the Call centre much against her parents’ wishes. After all a customer call centre Job in Gurgaon had all the makings of a tragedy waiting to happen.
As she waited for her cab; her mind rushed back to horrific stories where she had heard about rapes and murders in this part of the town. She was dripping wet in the rain and in the fear of the known- unknown! The rain showed no intension to subside nor the cabbie was in sight. Ironically the street light next to the stop she was waiting in started to flicker. It was right out of the scene of a horror movie, the part just before the arrival of the demon. Of course this was her real life and not a movie for her to close her eyes and pass through the scary parts.
The wind grew wilder, the raindrops bigger but there was no end to her wait. The cabbie was not picking up her calls and she could not even find an auto to take her back to her office or even her home. She was new in town, and hardly knew anyone who could come to her rescue at this unearthly hour. As she ran permutations and combinations of all the options available to her suddenly she saw a qualis approaching her. She froze in fear from the stories of women being forced into such cars and driven around city while being raped. She wished she had listened to her folks and not relocated to take such a job. She cursed her decision as she frantically sought an option to not fall prey to another such incident and become just another statistic in these ever increasing reports of crimes against women.
Running out of options she finally took out the pepper spray. As the quails stopped near her and the glasses were being drawn down; she recited couplets from the hanuman chalisa and pointed the pepper spray towards the car window ready for assault. There it was the moment of truth; the do or die hour for her. As she was about to press on the nozzle, a lady in a kind voice spoke from within the car. It was her manager! It wasn’t a rapist or a murderer. It was someone who knew her and stopped to offer her a lift home!
As she accepted the lift; she heaved a sigh of relief. She knew she couldn’t ever be gladder to see her manager then that night! It was as if someone above had made sure of her safety. It was a lucky coincidence that she would be forever grateful for!
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Moin-ud-din Bhat
Blank Sheet of Cause
I felt the movement of that little creature. That cripple little creature. I felt it on my landscaped cheeks, my trembling lips, my infectious throat. It was like a massive force of air bending my heart. As my heart was at its best; jacked, I heard somebody screaming names, constantly ripping the pages of unwritten words upfront. Blank sheets of voices dragged through the air. I could feel it. I could almost touch it with my thoughts. But I couldn't feel my own movement. I couldn’t move. I was stuck. Stuck like an old man's glasses. My room though had a scary thought embedded; I thought it was an earthquake. But to my narrow thoughts I was shivering. I was cold. I was afraid of the dark night which drowned me in its hollowness. It almost killed me. There were ripples in the flooding waters that could extend to my feet almost touching them. I opened my eyes and found myself at the shore. I saw someone unholy, but yet mercifully digging a place where I could spend the night.
I felt the movement of that little creature. That cripple little creature. I felt it on my landscaped cheeks, my trembling lips, my infectious throat. It was like a massive force of air bending my heart. As my heart was at its best; jacked, I heard somebody screaming names, constantly ripping the pages of unwritten words upfront. Blank sheets of voices dragged through the air. I could feel it. I could almost touch it with my thoughts. But I couldn't feel my own movement. I couldn’t move. I was stuck. Stuck like an old man's glasses. My room though had a scary thought embedded; I thought it was an earthquake. But to my narrow thoughts I was shivering. I was cold. I was afraid of the dark night which drowned me in its hollowness. It almost killed me. There were ripples in the flooding waters that could extend to my feet almost touching them. I opened my eyes and found myself at the shore. I saw someone unholy, but yet mercifully digging a place where I could spend the night.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Deepa Ranganathan
Mirage
She looked into the mirror as if it bore a clear statement of her oblique future. It looked mystic. She couldn’t make much sense of what she was looking at. She wasn’t sure if the woman who stared at her from the other side was an identical image of her physical self. For a moment, she admired what she saw. And then she turned critical.
Rubbing the puffiness under her eyes with a wet cotton swab, she wondered what had caused them. It was too fashionable to blame it on ‘stress.’ It was like saying that the blood is red in colour. Then, what about blue blood?
Her kohl-eyed face had developed wrinkles. Intricate lines that seemed to gape at her and pass judgments. That she was growing old. In an obvious sort of way.
Much to her reluctance, she had been an unwilling host to her birthday party last night. Her husband had insisted and so she did not have the heart to say no. She despised the idea of her big fat number to be declared oh-so-openly so it could be celebrated in a loud and lavish manner. What was the point of reiterating something that had happened 33 years ago? It did not make any sense to her.
But she could not escape her husband’s sugar-coated talks. In any case, wasn’t that what she once admired the most in him? His ability to converse in the most effortless fashion. His way with words. The way in which he convinced her into doing almost anything that she would not even have dreamed herself capable of doing. His voice. His speech. And the illusory wisdom in them.
Today, they suddenly felt obsolete. All together. Was this because she was growing old? That just like she had fell in love with him, she had finally fell out of it? Perhaps she was never in love with him. She was merely in love with the idea of being in love with him*. It gave her a strange sense of security. An assurance of regular company.
Then what had changed? She looked at the lines on her forehead. As if they were expected to blurt out the answer. It wasn’t like she hated him, she told herself. She couldn’t overlook the fact that he was crazy about her. Even today: six years after their marriage. But his presence seemed to inculcate a deep feeling of self-loathing in her. And the poison was spreading fast. Right into her body. Her veins. Her face. Her self.
The kajal had spread below the line of her eyes. That she had shed a few tears a while ago helped create a merged effect under them, highlighting her dark circles like never before. She felt it gave her eyes a tired look. They didn’t even need that, she mused.
She analyzed her face crudely. Once in the abundance of light; twice in the flood of darkness. Was the mirror lying?
She prayed not.
She looked into the mirror as if it bore a clear statement of her oblique future. It looked mystic. She couldn’t make much sense of what she was looking at. She wasn’t sure if the woman who stared at her from the other side was an identical image of her physical self. For a moment, she admired what she saw. And then she turned critical.
Rubbing the puffiness under her eyes with a wet cotton swab, she wondered what had caused them. It was too fashionable to blame it on ‘stress.’ It was like saying that the blood is red in colour. Then, what about blue blood?
Her kohl-eyed face had developed wrinkles. Intricate lines that seemed to gape at her and pass judgments. That she was growing old. In an obvious sort of way.
Much to her reluctance, she had been an unwilling host to her birthday party last night. Her husband had insisted and so she did not have the heart to say no. She despised the idea of her big fat number to be declared oh-so-openly so it could be celebrated in a loud and lavish manner. What was the point of reiterating something that had happened 33 years ago? It did not make any sense to her.
But she could not escape her husband’s sugar-coated talks. In any case, wasn’t that what she once admired the most in him? His ability to converse in the most effortless fashion. His way with words. The way in which he convinced her into doing almost anything that she would not even have dreamed herself capable of doing. His voice. His speech. And the illusory wisdom in them.
Today, they suddenly felt obsolete. All together. Was this because she was growing old? That just like she had fell in love with him, she had finally fell out of it? Perhaps she was never in love with him. She was merely in love with the idea of being in love with him*. It gave her a strange sense of security. An assurance of regular company.
Then what had changed? She looked at the lines on her forehead. As if they were expected to blurt out the answer. It wasn’t like she hated him, she told herself. She couldn’t overlook the fact that he was crazy about her. Even today: six years after their marriage. But his presence seemed to inculcate a deep feeling of self-loathing in her. And the poison was spreading fast. Right into her body. Her veins. Her face. Her self.
The kajal had spread below the line of her eyes. That she had shed a few tears a while ago helped create a merged effect under them, highlighting her dark circles like never before. She felt it gave her eyes a tired look. They didn’t even need that, she mused.
She analyzed her face crudely. Once in the abundance of light; twice in the flood of darkness. Was the mirror lying?
She prayed not.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Divya Bhatia
The End
Death, is traditionally depicted to evoke horror. The Grim Reaper in his dark faceless hood. Or closer home Yama seated on a buffalo wielding the axe.
But in life, death does not always take such horrifying forms. Its shape can range from the mundane glass of sugarcane juice to the very thrilling scuba diving holiday.
On the morning of October 26 and thenceforth everyday for the mosquitoes at A 202 Defence Colony, Death came in most heart warming form of little Raghav.
At the age of three years he had uncovered a great truth. The mosquitoes that troubled ma at night, the beings that left ugly red marks all over her Sandalwood soap scented skin, the creatures that attacked her just when she was succumbing to sweet sleep, were at their most vulnerable in the early hours of the morning. As the sunlight trickled in through the wire mesh windows the mosquitoes were drawn to it like moth to flame. That’s when Raghav innocently crept in. Trapped the creatures between the mesh and his podgy hands. And squeezed them against the mesh. A few moments later, there would be a deep imprint of the mesh on his palms. And somewhere between the criss-crossing lines would be a dead mosquito. But the real treat was the smear of red along with the dead creature. Blood for blood. Raghav had had his revenge.
“Maaaaaaaaaaaaa seee” he gurgled as he sped through the house on his red tricycle manuvering it with one hand and the other proudly raised above his head.
Death, is traditionally depicted to evoke horror. The Grim Reaper in his dark faceless hood. Or closer home Yama seated on a buffalo wielding the axe.
But in life, death does not always take such horrifying forms. Its shape can range from the mundane glass of sugarcane juice to the very thrilling scuba diving holiday.
On the morning of October 26 and thenceforth everyday for the mosquitoes at A 202 Defence Colony, Death came in most heart warming form of little Raghav.
At the age of three years he had uncovered a great truth. The mosquitoes that troubled ma at night, the beings that left ugly red marks all over her Sandalwood soap scented skin, the creatures that attacked her just when she was succumbing to sweet sleep, were at their most vulnerable in the early hours of the morning. As the sunlight trickled in through the wire mesh windows the mosquitoes were drawn to it like moth to flame. That’s when Raghav innocently crept in. Trapped the creatures between the mesh and his podgy hands. And squeezed them against the mesh. A few moments later, there would be a deep imprint of the mesh on his palms. And somewhere between the criss-crossing lines would be a dead mosquito. But the real treat was the smear of red along with the dead creature. Blood for blood. Raghav had had his revenge.
“Maaaaaaaaaaaaa seee” he gurgled as he sped through the house on his red tricycle manuvering it with one hand and the other proudly raised above his head.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Lena Saha
Visions
‘Oh! How trendy those boots look,’ she thought, glancing at an eye-catching pair displayed in the shop window of a footwear store in town.
They were made of suede and maroon in colour and had chunky straps around the calves. She imagined how good she would look teaming them up with a knee-length dress and a shrug of the same colour as the boots. And how she would become the cynosure of all eyes!
As she struggled to suppress a giggle at the visualisation of herself, she noticed the price tag and all her lovely visions shrank to a point. The boots were too expensive, but finding that hard to accept, she wondered irritatingly: ‘What sort of a price is 3,999? Only a rupee less than Rs 4,000! Ha! Would that persuade me to buy the pair?’ ‘No,’ replied her inner voice – stoic and unemotional. Her shoulders drooped and her face fell.
As she was turning away from the shop reluctantly, from out of the blue a series of images flashed before her eyes: A pair of black-coloured boots of a smaller size standing in the shoe cupboard in her house in Kolkata. She had taken a fancy to them and put on a drama queen act, to make her parents buy them for her. But after wearing the boots a few times, she neglected them like a woman in a fairy tale does her stepdaughter. Dusty from not being worn for years, they now imitated her expression – when she had realised the suede boots could not be hers.
More images flashed before her eyes: the golden velvet dress she discarded after wearing once, the parrot green suit she grew tired of in no time, the pair of sunglasses she thought were cute while buying, but hideous afterwards...
Soon the images turned into a torrent and became a blur. But suddenly the torrent stopped and the images started playing slowly.
Two five-year-old girls going to school for the first time, growing up together, sharing everything – from their tiffin to their deepest thoughts; jealousy creeping into their friendship, drifting apart and then... pitch black darkness.
She winced.
A 21-year-old guy cracking jokes when she got mad. A true friend; but the selfish monster reared its head, hurt and haughtiness took over and before long he was gone.
She shivered even in the warm, sunny morning.
He had long hair, then he cut it short; his loud, clownish laugh seemed to mock her; best buddies; blissful happiness; a mistake and more of them; pleadings, a period of calm and hope of matters improving, then everything descending into chaos...
Something made of glass shattered somewhere. It startled her. She was standing in her one-room tenement.
She bit her lip. Her tongue tasted blood. Remorse swelled within her. All was lost, she thought. Or was it? Amends had to be made. Impossible maybe, but she would try without carrying the baggage of the past. Hope would be her companion, her anchor.
‘Oh! How trendy those boots look,’ she thought, glancing at an eye-catching pair displayed in the shop window of a footwear store in town.
They were made of suede and maroon in colour and had chunky straps around the calves. She imagined how good she would look teaming them up with a knee-length dress and a shrug of the same colour as the boots. And how she would become the cynosure of all eyes!
As she struggled to suppress a giggle at the visualisation of herself, she noticed the price tag and all her lovely visions shrank to a point. The boots were too expensive, but finding that hard to accept, she wondered irritatingly: ‘What sort of a price is 3,999? Only a rupee less than Rs 4,000! Ha! Would that persuade me to buy the pair?’ ‘No,’ replied her inner voice – stoic and unemotional. Her shoulders drooped and her face fell.
As she was turning away from the shop reluctantly, from out of the blue a series of images flashed before her eyes: A pair of black-coloured boots of a smaller size standing in the shoe cupboard in her house in Kolkata. She had taken a fancy to them and put on a drama queen act, to make her parents buy them for her. But after wearing the boots a few times, she neglected them like a woman in a fairy tale does her stepdaughter. Dusty from not being worn for years, they now imitated her expression – when she had realised the suede boots could not be hers.
More images flashed before her eyes: the golden velvet dress she discarded after wearing once, the parrot green suit she grew tired of in no time, the pair of sunglasses she thought were cute while buying, but hideous afterwards...
Soon the images turned into a torrent and became a blur. But suddenly the torrent stopped and the images started playing slowly.
Two five-year-old girls going to school for the first time, growing up together, sharing everything – from their tiffin to their deepest thoughts; jealousy creeping into their friendship, drifting apart and then... pitch black darkness.
She winced.
A 21-year-old guy cracking jokes when she got mad. A true friend; but the selfish monster reared its head, hurt and haughtiness took over and before long he was gone.
She shivered even in the warm, sunny morning.
He had long hair, then he cut it short; his loud, clownish laugh seemed to mock her; best buddies; blissful happiness; a mistake and more of them; pleadings, a period of calm and hope of matters improving, then everything descending into chaos...
Something made of glass shattered somewhere. It startled her. She was standing in her one-room tenement.
She bit her lip. Her tongue tasted blood. Remorse swelled within her. All was lost, she thought. Or was it? Amends had to be made. Impossible maybe, but she would try without carrying the baggage of the past. Hope would be her companion, her anchor.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Ranjan Nautiyal
The Silent Birds
Every morning, the children would wake up to the sound of something drumming on the corrugated iron-sheet roof. In their half-sleep they would mutter their prayers, hoping it was the rain. Often, it was the sound of the birds pecking at the boiled rice mixed with sugar that their grandfather would throw on the roof as the first rays of the sun worked its heat on the moisture that would settle in the night’s cold. A few times the kids’ prayers would get answered and it would actually be the rain. Rains meant no school and puddles everywhere for their paper boats. Rains also meant no breakfast for the birds. But mostly it was the birds’ prayers that got answered and the kids would drag themselves out of their warm beds to get ready for school.
As the dejected kids shuffled about with rolled rotis in their hands and bags on their shoulders, they would go past the chair where the old man sat sipping his tea under the morning sun. He was a strict man who always had a word or two to say to the boys. It could be about that ink-stain on the elder boy’s shirt front, or about the missing hanky on the youngest cousin. And for each kid he also had a coin. The kids saw it as a compensation for the sound on the roof being engineered by their grandfather. As if by feeding the birds their grandfather was somehow responsible for it not having rained today.
The night the kids were to watch their favourite movie the house was in a state of unrest. The fathers walked about and consulted with each other, the mothers sat quietly in a room with some close neighbours, the grandmother hung around the grandfather’s door as he wheezed and coughed from inside. The kids were sent to bed early and told strictly to not venture out. The only thing they liked about the arrangement was that they were sharing a room today and could kick and play around and make a mess as long as they were not heard. They were trained well in this art by their own mothers.
The next morning the kids woke up with sunlight streaming into their window, signalling that the day was well past the point they had to leave for school. The birds hadn’t dropped in, nor had the rains. Something was clearly wrong. The older kids sat up, gloomy, knowing something had changed forever. The younger ones looked at them and felt lost till one of their aunts came in. Seeing the kids were up, she turned back and fetched their mothers. The kids saw they all had tears in their eyes, and as they were rushed to go to the neighbour’s house they saw the veranda was full of people, dressed mostly in white. Their grandmother sat in a corner surrounded by women and on the roof sat the birds, not making a single sound.
Every morning, the children would wake up to the sound of something drumming on the corrugated iron-sheet roof. In their half-sleep they would mutter their prayers, hoping it was the rain. Often, it was the sound of the birds pecking at the boiled rice mixed with sugar that their grandfather would throw on the roof as the first rays of the sun worked its heat on the moisture that would settle in the night’s cold. A few times the kids’ prayers would get answered and it would actually be the rain. Rains meant no school and puddles everywhere for their paper boats. Rains also meant no breakfast for the birds. But mostly it was the birds’ prayers that got answered and the kids would drag themselves out of their warm beds to get ready for school.
As the dejected kids shuffled about with rolled rotis in their hands and bags on their shoulders, they would go past the chair where the old man sat sipping his tea under the morning sun. He was a strict man who always had a word or two to say to the boys. It could be about that ink-stain on the elder boy’s shirt front, or about the missing hanky on the youngest cousin. And for each kid he also had a coin. The kids saw it as a compensation for the sound on the roof being engineered by their grandfather. As if by feeding the birds their grandfather was somehow responsible for it not having rained today.
The night the kids were to watch their favourite movie the house was in a state of unrest. The fathers walked about and consulted with each other, the mothers sat quietly in a room with some close neighbours, the grandmother hung around the grandfather’s door as he wheezed and coughed from inside. The kids were sent to bed early and told strictly to not venture out. The only thing they liked about the arrangement was that they were sharing a room today and could kick and play around and make a mess as long as they were not heard. They were trained well in this art by their own mothers.
The next morning the kids woke up with sunlight streaming into their window, signalling that the day was well past the point they had to leave for school. The birds hadn’t dropped in, nor had the rains. Something was clearly wrong. The older kids sat up, gloomy, knowing something had changed forever. The younger ones looked at them and felt lost till one of their aunts came in. Seeing the kids were up, she turned back and fetched their mothers. The kids saw they all had tears in their eyes, and as they were rushed to go to the neighbour’s house they saw the veranda was full of people, dressed mostly in white. Their grandmother sat in a corner surrounded by women and on the roof sat the birds, not making a single sound.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Aaskti Panjiyar
Let Them Be
Priya was as usually roaming in the nearby forests when she accidentally tamped somebody’s legs. She almost tripped but somehow regained her balance. In a fit of rage, she turned back and was about to shout, but couldn’t utter a word. A voice said, “I am extremely sorry. I was tired of walking so just slept down in the tree shade.” Priya took no time to infer that the guy was blind from his countenance. But the guy had something charismatic.
Even later, no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t take her mind off him. She once again went to the place with the hope of catching a glimpse of him. She found he was picking up some herb. Astonished, she asked him how he recognised the plants. With a endearing smile on his face, he explained how each plant species had a particular smell that helped him to distinguish them. He effortlessly went on describing and Priya listened through all. She herself was surprised because she never had been such a patient listener.
On one pretext or the other, she kept on bumping him until finally he once offered her to accompany him to his village. Priya was all excited. But her excitement turned into sadness when she saw that each and every person there was blind. She decided to marry the guy and become an eye for the people there. Since both of them knew each other for so long, neither the family members nor the villagers had any objection. Every day she went there and described them about the beauty of nature, the lofty mountains, the colourful flowers, the serenity of rivers and many more such wonders that eyes could behold.
Once, just like every day, when she was coming, when she overheard two people discussing that the village head had passed on the judgment that the new would-be bride, who had the disease of seeing things would be cured on the next full moon. They had unanimously agreed upon removing her eyes off.
She didn’t wait to listen more, just turned her back and mutter, “Let them be...”
Priya was as usually roaming in the nearby forests when she accidentally tamped somebody’s legs. She almost tripped but somehow regained her balance. In a fit of rage, she turned back and was about to shout, but couldn’t utter a word. A voice said, “I am extremely sorry. I was tired of walking so just slept down in the tree shade.” Priya took no time to infer that the guy was blind from his countenance. But the guy had something charismatic.
Even later, no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t take her mind off him. She once again went to the place with the hope of catching a glimpse of him. She found he was picking up some herb. Astonished, she asked him how he recognised the plants. With a endearing smile on his face, he explained how each plant species had a particular smell that helped him to distinguish them. He effortlessly went on describing and Priya listened through all. She herself was surprised because she never had been such a patient listener.
On one pretext or the other, she kept on bumping him until finally he once offered her to accompany him to his village. Priya was all excited. But her excitement turned into sadness when she saw that each and every person there was blind. She decided to marry the guy and become an eye for the people there. Since both of them knew each other for so long, neither the family members nor the villagers had any objection. Every day she went there and described them about the beauty of nature, the lofty mountains, the colourful flowers, the serenity of rivers and many more such wonders that eyes could behold.
Once, just like every day, when she was coming, when she overheard two people discussing that the village head had passed on the judgment that the new would-be bride, who had the disease of seeing things would be cured on the next full moon. They had unanimously agreed upon removing her eyes off.
She didn’t wait to listen more, just turned her back and mutter, “Let them be...”
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Saurabh Agarwal
Remembrance Beyond Death
Tears are not how this will start. Nor is it how it ends. For where there’s pain, you won’t find such frivolities.
I speak now of the memory which stirred you to read beyond the title. I speak of the fear of a child. I speak of the twinge of regret and the wave of nostalgia. But most of all I speak of the love and question whether it dies.
Imagine smashing into a solid wall while running at your peak speed. The sudden halt is not what loss feels like. No. Try picturing that you kept on running only to look back and find that you’re still there crumpled besides the wall. The tangled and messed up pseudo reality is a truer expression.
I did not grieve, for those around me did. I wouldn’t make it worse. As I tried to contain the slipping sand with my hands, the reality of the unrealism finally struck me. Had I entered into a state of delirium or was I waking from one? I could never prove otherwise. The elements of existence and perception had fallen in the face of death.
Whispers promised salvation with time. The prospect seemed to be ridiculous. But, as always, they had a point.
A hundred days later, I think back as the world shows itself through a misty tinted glass. The throb doesn’t hurt as much. I wonder whether I have already forgotten. Had it been an illusion after all?
And then it came, tearing through the clouds of doubt, piercing like an arrow. Loss doesn’t grey with time. Rather, it is dulled by layers and layers of thoughts and happenings of everyday life.
There was something else though, shining through with the pain. A million hues were now seeping through my tinted glass and visible through them were vibrant memories of love which I had forgotten somehow. Oh what an illusion life was, where memories felt more alive than the living themselves.
Yes, there was Remembrance beyond Death. Yes, it was beautiful…
Tears are not how this will start. Nor is it how it ends. For where there’s pain, you won’t find such frivolities.
I speak now of the memory which stirred you to read beyond the title. I speak of the fear of a child. I speak of the twinge of regret and the wave of nostalgia. But most of all I speak of the love and question whether it dies.
Imagine smashing into a solid wall while running at your peak speed. The sudden halt is not what loss feels like. No. Try picturing that you kept on running only to look back and find that you’re still there crumpled besides the wall. The tangled and messed up pseudo reality is a truer expression.
I did not grieve, for those around me did. I wouldn’t make it worse. As I tried to contain the slipping sand with my hands, the reality of the unrealism finally struck me. Had I entered into a state of delirium or was I waking from one? I could never prove otherwise. The elements of existence and perception had fallen in the face of death.
Whispers promised salvation with time. The prospect seemed to be ridiculous. But, as always, they had a point.
A hundred days later, I think back as the world shows itself through a misty tinted glass. The throb doesn’t hurt as much. I wonder whether I have already forgotten. Had it been an illusion after all?
And then it came, tearing through the clouds of doubt, piercing like an arrow. Loss doesn’t grey with time. Rather, it is dulled by layers and layers of thoughts and happenings of everyday life.
There was something else though, shining through with the pain. A million hues were now seeping through my tinted glass and visible through them were vibrant memories of love which I had forgotten somehow. Oh what an illusion life was, where memories felt more alive than the living themselves.
Yes, there was Remembrance beyond Death. Yes, it was beautiful…
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Shivaja Prabod
This Life And Beyond
She smiled. They were aghast.
She smiled again, unmindful of the prying eyes, oblivious of her surroundings, the crowd of people around her. Her eyes riveted on his serene face, as he lay there.
He looked so calm as always. She could even see the unseen smile that played around his lips just like he smiled the first time when she met him years back. “How can you apply Pythagoras theorem here. It is not a right angle!” Her words trailed off as she saw the smile that hovered on his lips. She looked back into her notes and realized her mistake. He had just uttered one word “tangent”. Yes! A tangent to a circle forms a right angle with the circle’s radius at the point of contact of the tangent, how did she overlook that?
She smiled again. They were dumbfounded.
She smiled again, unmindful of the prying eyes, oblivious of her surroundings, the crowd of people around her. Her eyes riveted on his serene face, as he lay there.
She looked at his moustache, the right side slightly twirled up and smiled.
It was just after their marriage, on a lazy Sunday morning. He was fast asleep and she had woken up early as usual. She had twirled up his moustache on both sides and applied some Fevicol at the edges. She loved to see that look. He had tweaked her ears as she cried “ayyoooo, sorry “and went on to shave off the entire moustache. How she had giggled every time she looked at that face, till he grew it back.
She smiled again. Now she could hear a few of them whispering.
She smiled again, unmindful of the prying eyes, oblivious of her surroundings, the crowd of people around her. Her eyes riveted on his serene face, as he lay there.
She wanted to hug him, snuggle up to him, just as she did on those cold winter mornings, burying her head inside the blanket to grab a few minutes of extra sleep. She could almost feel the rhythmic breathing of his chest against her ears.
She smiled again. Now she could hear snatches of conversations….poor thing…..mental imbalance……not weeping…..
She smiled again, unmindful of the prying eyes, oblivious of her surroundings, the crowd of people around her. Her eyes riveted on his serene face, as he lay there.
The light from the ceremonial lamp created a halo around his serene face. Some elder from the crowd was directing a young girl to pour oil into the lamp. The strains of Ramayana recital filled the air along with the heavy scent of burning incense sticks.
“Vahni lohasthambu binduna marthyajanmam kshanabhanguram…”
(Life is ephemeral like a drop of water on heated metal)
“Oh poor thing, she has not cried a wee bit” she heard someone whisper in the crowd. She almost expected them to keep a baby on her lap like the nurse in Tennyson’s poem “Home they brought her warrior dead”. But alas she didn’t have any to call her own. He was her child and she, his. They had each other to care for and now he was gone leaving her alone.
All alone.
She got up, he was gone, his mortal body. But she could feel his presence everywhere. She walked all around their home, the home they built up from scratch, the home they built with their love, the home they spent almost 20 years together.
Tears flowed.
She wept.
She wept to her heart’s content.
All her pent up grief came tumbling down.
Only they knew the depth of their love, to her it was not something to be exhibited to others.
She wept, yet she felt a slow confidence and resignation.
A resignation to the wait till she and he would be one again.
Again they would be one. She was sure--- As was he.
She smiled. They were aghast.
She smiled again, unmindful of the prying eyes, oblivious of her surroundings, the crowd of people around her. Her eyes riveted on his serene face, as he lay there.
He looked so calm as always. She could even see the unseen smile that played around his lips just like he smiled the first time when she met him years back. “How can you apply Pythagoras theorem here. It is not a right angle!” Her words trailed off as she saw the smile that hovered on his lips. She looked back into her notes and realized her mistake. He had just uttered one word “tangent”. Yes! A tangent to a circle forms a right angle with the circle’s radius at the point of contact of the tangent, how did she overlook that?
She smiled again. They were dumbfounded.
She smiled again, unmindful of the prying eyes, oblivious of her surroundings, the crowd of people around her. Her eyes riveted on his serene face, as he lay there.
She looked at his moustache, the right side slightly twirled up and smiled.
It was just after their marriage, on a lazy Sunday morning. He was fast asleep and she had woken up early as usual. She had twirled up his moustache on both sides and applied some Fevicol at the edges. She loved to see that look. He had tweaked her ears as she cried “ayyoooo, sorry “and went on to shave off the entire moustache. How she had giggled every time she looked at that face, till he grew it back.
She smiled again. Now she could hear a few of them whispering.
She smiled again, unmindful of the prying eyes, oblivious of her surroundings, the crowd of people around her. Her eyes riveted on his serene face, as he lay there.
She wanted to hug him, snuggle up to him, just as she did on those cold winter mornings, burying her head inside the blanket to grab a few minutes of extra sleep. She could almost feel the rhythmic breathing of his chest against her ears.
She smiled again. Now she could hear snatches of conversations….poor thing…..mental imbalance……not weeping…..
She smiled again, unmindful of the prying eyes, oblivious of her surroundings, the crowd of people around her. Her eyes riveted on his serene face, as he lay there.
The light from the ceremonial lamp created a halo around his serene face. Some elder from the crowd was directing a young girl to pour oil into the lamp. The strains of Ramayana recital filled the air along with the heavy scent of burning incense sticks.
“Vahni lohasthambu binduna marthyajanmam kshanabhanguram…”
(Life is ephemeral like a drop of water on heated metal)
“Oh poor thing, she has not cried a wee bit” she heard someone whisper in the crowd. She almost expected them to keep a baby on her lap like the nurse in Tennyson’s poem “Home they brought her warrior dead”. But alas she didn’t have any to call her own. He was her child and she, his. They had each other to care for and now he was gone leaving her alone.
All alone.
She got up, he was gone, his mortal body. But she could feel his presence everywhere. She walked all around their home, the home they built up from scratch, the home they built with their love, the home they spent almost 20 years together.
Tears flowed.
She wept.
She wept to her heart’s content.
All her pent up grief came tumbling down.
Only they knew the depth of their love, to her it was not something to be exhibited to others.
She wept, yet she felt a slow confidence and resignation.
A resignation to the wait till she and he would be one again.
Again they would be one. She was sure--- As was he.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Neelam Chandra Saxena
Where Is She?
"Where is she?" I asked my mom.
Mom quietly wiped her tears and said, "She has gone to Granny's house."
"But, I never fought with her. Why did she go?"
"Dear, she went to give granny some company."
I was extremely annoyed at my mom for letting my sister go.
Initially, I thought that she would come back soon. But when days got transformed into weeks and weeks metamorphosed into months, I felt shaky.
I craved for the summers. During summer holidays, we always went to Granny's house. I will meet her there, I thought.
One day, I asked mom, "Mom, why can't I join her?"
Mom looked towards me for some time before she patted me and said, "Darling, someone has to look after me too, don't you think?"
Yeah, I knew my mom needed me for carrying things around. She would often ask me to fetch things for her. I would see her toiling all through the day and night. I felt happy that she needed me.
When the summer holidays came, I was excited. But, there were no eagerness on the part of my mom to visit Granny. I kept wondering about it for quite some time before I had the guts to go and ask her, "Mom, we are going to Granny's place, aren't we?"
Mom contemplated for some time before replying, "Darling, we don't have money for the tickets. Travel has become rather expensive."
I retorted, "But mom, we could sell my gold ear rings and go."
Mom replied, "Let us keep that for some other time. Go and play with your dolls for now."
I hated the dolls. They were all useless without Mini, my dear sister. Why could nobody understand that?
It was almost a year before I was informed that we shall be visiting Granny. I was jubilant. I packed almost all my toys. Mini must have missed them. However, my ecstasy was soon brought to a crushing halt. I could not see Mini at my Granny's house! I screamed, "Where is she?"
Mom took me in her lap and we went outside. It was dark. The stars were twinkling in the sky. Pointing towards them, she said, "Mini is shimmering there. She was a fairy. She glowed with joy and brought cheer and happiness till she was with us. God wanted her exuberance to sparkle all over the Earth. He, therefore, took her away from us. She knows how much you loved her. She is shining there for you to dazzle in her luminosity. Can you see her?"
I could see a million stars. All of them twinkled and shimmered. I really could not make out who was my Mini. But I knew that she would always be there with me watching me and smiling.
"Where is she?" I asked my mom.
Mom quietly wiped her tears and said, "She has gone to Granny's house."
"But, I never fought with her. Why did she go?"
"Dear, she went to give granny some company."
I was extremely annoyed at my mom for letting my sister go.
Initially, I thought that she would come back soon. But when days got transformed into weeks and weeks metamorphosed into months, I felt shaky.
I craved for the summers. During summer holidays, we always went to Granny's house. I will meet her there, I thought.
One day, I asked mom, "Mom, why can't I join her?"
Mom looked towards me for some time before she patted me and said, "Darling, someone has to look after me too, don't you think?"
Yeah, I knew my mom needed me for carrying things around. She would often ask me to fetch things for her. I would see her toiling all through the day and night. I felt happy that she needed me.
When the summer holidays came, I was excited. But, there were no eagerness on the part of my mom to visit Granny. I kept wondering about it for quite some time before I had the guts to go and ask her, "Mom, we are going to Granny's place, aren't we?"
Mom contemplated for some time before replying, "Darling, we don't have money for the tickets. Travel has become rather expensive."
I retorted, "But mom, we could sell my gold ear rings and go."
Mom replied, "Let us keep that for some other time. Go and play with your dolls for now."
I hated the dolls. They were all useless without Mini, my dear sister. Why could nobody understand that?
It was almost a year before I was informed that we shall be visiting Granny. I was jubilant. I packed almost all my toys. Mini must have missed them. However, my ecstasy was soon brought to a crushing halt. I could not see Mini at my Granny's house! I screamed, "Where is she?"
Mom took me in her lap and we went outside. It was dark. The stars were twinkling in the sky. Pointing towards them, she said, "Mini is shimmering there. She was a fairy. She glowed with joy and brought cheer and happiness till she was with us. God wanted her exuberance to sparkle all over the Earth. He, therefore, took her away from us. She knows how much you loved her. She is shining there for you to dazzle in her luminosity. Can you see her?"
I could see a million stars. All of them twinkled and shimmered. I really could not make out who was my Mini. But I knew that she would always be there with me watching me and smiling.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Chaitali Dasgupta
The Same Old Story – Retold
Six year old Shiv was afraid of monsters under the bed. His friend Bittu was not. But then, he had reasons not to. For starters, he didn’t
have a bed to sleep on. He slept on the bare floor which he shared with
his family of six. A family he helped provide for.
He swept floors, washed
utensils, ironed clothes – all for a measly 600 rupees a month.
Admittedly, he was in better shape than his friend Shiv – who was, well, let’s just call him a healthy boy.
Hamburgers, video games and no
play had given him a rotund shape which was slowly but steadily
approaching a complete round. Bittu on the other hand had plenty of
exercise and barely enough to eat.
Bittu was also not afraid of
the monsters on the street that his friend was so often warned about.
For one, he lived with those monsters day in and day out. More
importantly he was too busy keeping the monsters within him at bay. The monster that raged when his younger
sister was molested and the one that wanted to kill when his mother was
being beaten up by his drunkard father.
The one thing that helped Bittu deal with these monsters was his friendship with Shiv.
His own golu who had never been beaten up, whose dreams comprised of Xboxes and Playstations – games that played havoc with Bittu’s mind. Shiv’s innocence was a balm to Bittu’s torn soul.
His own golu who had never been beaten up, whose dreams comprised of Xboxes and Playstations – games that played havoc with Bittu’s mind. Shiv’s innocence was a balm to Bittu’s torn soul.
Shiv’s life was Bittu’s
imaginary world – where there was plenty of food, love and peace – a
world that became real for the few hours they met everyday. Till the day
when Shiv disappeared without a trace.
That was also the day Bittu
lost control of the monsters within him. Shiv was never seen again. And
what was seen of Bittu was not him but a monster wearing his mask and
Shiv’s Rolex watch.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Ateendriya Gupta
Shadows
The world will never know? No.
The colonies inside are spreading-
like locusts in mid-May. Peeled off; one by one- layer after layer.
His tunes are mine now; I seen them in the marble tiles. I see myself-
I’m no longer. He’s inside- spreading. I’m him, now. I use his smiles.
He lives.
A
trickle of rain blurred the view today- through my glasses, things are
murky. He walks down those dirty staircases, every Friday.
Ritualistically. And ritualistically, I wait at the sides- like waiting
at the altar; like waiting at the morgue. Like waiting around the
sixpence antique shop for the owner to leave.Sneaking, lurking- like
the snake in paradise. His overcoat brushes past me, every Friday.
Unnoticed, I smell the cologne on it; sickening, disgusting, sweet. I
can the smell that smell at the back of my neck, in the pits of my
stomach. It’s in me, inside me, settling down- making colonies.
This Friday, it rained, for the
first time since I stepped out. Rain makes me lose my head. Rain makes
me spontaneous. Planned out for ages- this spontaneous act of passion.
It’s a cold passion. Heartless, but that’s alright. The overcoat moves.
His shadow brushes past- the cologne is stronger- the rain makes it
sing. I can see his smile; I can feel those tunes in his head—who is it
this time? Ah. He’s in love. But of course, it’s that time of the
year. And I’m so long gone- that’s only right.
He moves another step down. One more
and I’m behind him. Like a shadow- like him. The subway’s clear- no
witness, no crime. My hand is faster than his were, back in the day. A
soft move, a slight resistance, a crimson dream- and a thud. I’m out,
I’m done- this altar has been blessed. I leave, but the cologne has
followed me home. Like glue, like pollen on insect-feet. I huddle in
the corner of my room- waiting for the cologne to leave; it’s a strange
colour now. It is inside, it burns. It’s red, like the back of him.
Mid-night, the phone rings. Much
expected. Yes? Yes. Voices talk to and fro in this corner- my corner,
while the phone rings. Cold receiver, wet hands. I cough out. “Hello?”
Trails of words- strung together- jaggedly, painfully. And then a
verdict- “Your father has been….murdered. Stabbed to death”, amidst
sobs. Sobs, mother? Really. I hang on to each word…tell me! Tell me
about the pictures in his pockets. Tell me about his basement hobbies.
Tell me what you found- what I knew. What you knew too. Tell me that
the world knows.Nothing. Not a word. I keep hanging on- the person
on the other side has changed. Nothing but good things- good
words.Unreal words. I’m at the end of my rope. The receiver slips- a
thud. Like he’s fallen again. Let him fall. I slide down- quietly, back
to my corner.
The world will never know? No.
Flash Fiction 2012 Longlist, Arka Bhattacharya
Words of Summer
When was it that words of love was were etched in the afternoon breeze, as the local Mosque sung praises to the one above for being there and saving us from disaster and all that disaster can touch?
When we, starry eyed and naive, measured our timid steps towards life itself, the wonders and the horrors, the angels and the demons that lay ahead?
It couldn’t have been very long ago, but my, does time fly!
But, the reprobates that we are, we weren’t
destined for such luxuries. The reprobates that we are, we sang when
the neighbours were asleep and slept off when the train arrived. Our
good has probably been interred with our bones, for we have been long
dead. Do you not remember how as foolish adolescents we jumped off the
cliff and killed ourselves, saying to each other all the while that it
was the journey that shall remain with us, not the destination?
You look at me, and I look at you, and yes, we truly do not understand, but there is consolation in the
big grand hymn of the universe, that chants.
"Fools! Nobody has ever understood, and nobody ever will! Get on with it!"
We were told dragons do not exist, and somehow we wandered off and found ourselves in one's lair.
‘Good to meet you, Mr. Dragon, will you breathe life into this precious thing we share? We’ve been shielding it from the eyes of the world for a while now, and want to bury it somewhere dark and deep, so that no harm may reach it.’
He was a good little dragon, but a dragon after all. So he breathed fire instead, and scorched our bodies and our souls.
I may be even using the royal 'We', which is to say, I may be talking only about myself. But I am not, for I am not this person. I used to know him well, though.
The dragon walks up behind me and peers into my doggerel verse.
"Is this the time or place for such mawkish sentimentality? Don't you have papers to write and people to meet?’
"Yes I do, but it's Valentine's Day! Come on, let me laze in this sunshine for a bit!"
He lowers his glasses and gives me a disapproving glare. He mutters 'Kids these days' and saunters off.
He's right though, I have things to do. But as I sit here I keep looking at the small crack in the wall and the patch of sunshine on the floor. It wasn't there this morning, but sometime in the afternoon, you, my dear old friend, struck the wall with your axe as you were going by. It was a gentle blow, but the aged wood cracked easily.
Now I sit here and warm my cold limbs for a little while, until my dragon, my good old dragon, sees it and repairs it. He means well, the poor old thing. He's just getting old.
When was it that words of love was were etched in the afternoon breeze, as the local Mosque sung praises to the one above for being there and saving us from disaster and all that disaster can touch?
When we, starry eyed and naive, measured our timid steps towards life itself, the wonders and the horrors, the angels and the demons that lay ahead?
It couldn’t have been very long ago, but my, does time fly!
You look at me, and I look at you, and yes, we truly do not understand, but there is consolation in the
big grand hymn of the universe, that chants.
"Fools! Nobody has ever understood, and nobody ever will! Get on with it!"
We were told dragons do not exist, and somehow we wandered off and found ourselves in one's lair.
‘Good to meet you, Mr. Dragon, will you breathe life into this precious thing we share? We’ve been shielding it from the eyes of the world for a while now, and want to bury it somewhere dark and deep, so that no harm may reach it.’
He was a good little dragon, but a dragon after all. So he breathed fire instead, and scorched our bodies and our souls.
I may be even using the royal 'We', which is to say, I may be talking only about myself. But I am not, for I am not this person. I used to know him well, though.
The dragon walks up behind me and peers into my doggerel verse.
"Is this the time or place for such mawkish sentimentality? Don't you have papers to write and people to meet?’
"Yes I do, but it's Valentine's Day! Come on, let me laze in this sunshine for a bit!"
He lowers his glasses and gives me a disapproving glare. He mutters 'Kids these days' and saunters off.
He's right though, I have things to do. But as I sit here I keep looking at the small crack in the wall and the patch of sunshine on the floor. It wasn't there this morning, but sometime in the afternoon, you, my dear old friend, struck the wall with your axe as you were going by. It was a gentle blow, but the aged wood cracked easily.
Now I sit here and warm my cold limbs for a little while, until my dragon, my good old dragon, sees it and repairs it. He means well, the poor old thing. He's just getting old.
Sunday, 10 June 2012
Short Story 2012 Longlist, Rashmi Menon
Muthashi’s Mysorepak
Amini was restless and couldn’t hide her impatience. What was taking her father so long, she irritatingly wondered? Her school had closed for summer and Amini could wait to spend the two long months with her beloved muthashi (grandmother). Amini had been counting days, right from the time the last vacation ended.
Although she was seven, Amini did not mind leaving her parents and spending the vacation alone with her muthashi. Besides, having her grandmother all to herself, she would be treated with delicacies and all her favourite dishes would be prepared. In short, Amini could have and do whatever she wanted, away from the watchful and often scolding eyes of her parents and her nosy, hard-to-get-away-from brother. "Absolute bliss," Amini thought.
Muthashi stayed in a town that took four hours to reach in a bus. The initial plan was to drop Amini after two weeks but Amini pestered her father to drop her the same weekend. Her father finally resigned to her tantrums and it was decided that they would take the evening bus. Amini had planted herself next to the window since afternoon. Her father was supposed to come early from office. Her mother hardly came in these trips to the grandmother’s place.
While waiting for her father, Amini guessed the delicacies muthashi would have made for her. “Mysore pak will definitely be there. She always makes it when I come,” Amini thought happily. Oh, what fun she would have with muthashi. Amini also had planned a list of things that she was going to show muthashi like the new watercolours she bought, her drawings (but of, course), report card that stated she would go to third grade, and her small trophy for coming first in a running race. She had packed them in the bag without amma’s knowledge. She mentally check listed anything that she might have missed. Her thoughts than wandered to what gifts muthashi might have kept for her. Last year, muthashi had surprised her with a kitchen set so beautiful that she saw her friends Tanya and Manjushree wanting it. The sound of the doorbell interrupted her train of thoughts. Running towards the door, she could hear amma asking her to slow down, but she had already opened the door before amma could finish the sentence. It was her father and she squealed with delight. In return, her father gave her a big smile and hugged her. Although Amini loved her mother, she was partial to her father. He would tuck her in the bed and would always play with her.
She missed her father when he was about to leave from muthashi’s house but the sadness only lasted for a few hours for muthashi always had something interesting up her sleeves to occupy Amini’s attention. She went to her bedroom again to check whether everything was ready. She was wearing her shoes, when she heard talking to each other. She could sense that they were arguing. Of late, this had been happening a lot. She went to her brother Vishnu’s crib. He was only three and was busy with his toys. Seeing her all dressed up, Vishnu gave her an enquiring look but Amini kissed his cheeks and told him goodbye. As she was turned, he started wailing and that put a stop to her parent’s argument. Amma came to console him.
It was time to leave. They had to catch the bus at 7. Amini’s father picked up her bag and gave her a backpack to carry. The backpack contained his clothes for the weekend. He planted a kiss on Vishnu’s head and told Amini to come down after saying goodbye to her mother. She kissed and hugged her mother, who told her to be a good girl. As she waved her had to say buy, she saw tears stream down amma’s eyes. She couldn’t understand why amma was crying. After all she had gone to stay with muthashi alone last year too.
Inside the bus, the TV was playing some Hindi movie that Amini could not see from her seat. She wanted to see the movie but acha ordered her to sleep. Besides, the seats were so high that even if she wanted she could not watch the movie and it was no fun listening to the dialogues. For some time Amini watched the shops zip by and eventually sleep crept upon her.
“Ammu kutty! It’s is time to get up.” Amini opened her eyes and saw old muthashi’s face. “Muthashiiiiiiiii...,” Ammini screamed and gave her a bear hug. Muthashi took her to the bathroom and got her to brush her teeth and wash her face. She then sat at the dining table, awaiting freshly made idli and coconut chutney. Her father was already sipping tea and reading the morning paper. Although amma also made the same breakfast, it tasted a lot tastier in muthashi’s house, she believed. After breakfast, muthashi showed her a tin dabba full of square shaped you want to eat for lunch,” she said. Amini took two mysore paks and greedily munched on them. Her father gave her an angry look but she didn’t care. He was in muthashi’s territory and if he scolded her, muthashi would scold him back. Ha--- The entire dabba was hers to finish, since muthashi couldn’t have any sweets due to diabetes.
Unlike amma, muthashi listens to everything Amini said. Muthashi also told her fascinating stories at night. She would caress Amini’s hair and tell stories about Mahabharata, Ramayana, Vikram-Vaithal and so on. She was awed by muthashi’s stock of stories, which never got exhausted. Sometimes, she would make Muthashi repeat the same stories and even make corrections when muthashi started mixing stories. She knew that muthashi was feeling sleepy but Amini did not mind the goof-ups. She would caress the loose, soft wrinkled flesh on muthashi’s hand and diligently listen to the stories till they finish. In the afternoons, muthashi would tell her a story while making feeding her rice and sambar, which she would make into small balls and place it in Amini’s small palm. She would then take a snooze and Amini would carry the wooden stool, place it in front of the chest of wooden drawers next to the kitchen and hunt for hidden treasures – a broken pin, a stone studded ring, pen, brass spoon. All these long forgotten junk were her treasure and she cherished them and stored them in a cloth bag, which she hid in her cupboard. Muthashi’s house was like a museum and no matter how many times Amini had seen the old, relic things in her house, it never failed to fascinate her.
As the summer ended, Amini dreaded going back. She told muthashi to tell her parents that she did not want to come and that she would study in a school close to muthashi’s house. But muthashi would just smile and tell her ‘we will see about it’. She had once cried too at the thought of leaving muthashi.
Finally, when her father came to pick her up, he looked tired. Amma and Vishnu had not come with him, even though Amma had told her she would. After getting refreshments for him, muthashi said, “Ammu kutty, why don’t you go out and play. We have something to talk, which you will not understand.”
Amini was curious but she could not disobey muthashi. After an hour when she returned, she saw her bags in the living room. “But we are going tomorrow. Why are the bags kept here now?” she asked her father. “We have to go now Amini. Muthashi will help you get ready,” her father said without looking at her.
“I don’t want to go. I am not going. Ask muthashi, I told her too. I like it here,” she said adamantly. But she could see that acha was not taking no for an answer. She decided to throw her tantrum but this time, instead of giving in, her father scolded her and told her to get ready quickly. Tears streaked her cheeks, while she looked at muthashi. Muthashi looked equally miserable. Amini hugged her tight and screamed that she was not leaving. But muthashi was steering her towards to bedroom to change. Muthashi told her that she would come and visit her soon but Amini knew it was a lie. As Amini left the house, being pulled by her father, she looked back and saw muthashi standing at the door step, wiping her eyes.
The buzzing of the telephone brought Amini back from the memory lane. She had been waiting for the call. “Hi dad! How long will you take?” she asked. She was nervous but at the same time her heart was filled with joy. She was going to meet muthashi. It had been thirteen years since Amini had met her and she was excited. Amini’s mother had taken custody her and Vishnu. Her mother was not happy with Amini’s decision to meet her grandmother but Amini did not care. She had finished her graduation and was going abroad to pursue further studies and it was her only chance to see muthashi before god know’s when she returned back. As Amini waited for her father near the window impatiently, her mouth salivated at the thought of the mysore paks. But this time, Amini was going to surprise muthashi with the ones she made for her.
Amini was restless and couldn’t hide her impatience. What was taking her father so long, she irritatingly wondered? Her school had closed for summer and Amini could wait to spend the two long months with her beloved muthashi (grandmother). Amini had been counting days, right from the time the last vacation ended.
Although she was seven, Amini did not mind leaving her parents and spending the vacation alone with her muthashi. Besides, having her grandmother all to herself, she would be treated with delicacies and all her favourite dishes would be prepared. In short, Amini could have and do whatever she wanted, away from the watchful and often scolding eyes of her parents and her nosy, hard-to-get-away-from brother. "Absolute bliss," Amini thought.
Muthashi stayed in a town that took four hours to reach in a bus. The initial plan was to drop Amini after two weeks but Amini pestered her father to drop her the same weekend. Her father finally resigned to her tantrums and it was decided that they would take the evening bus. Amini had planted herself next to the window since afternoon. Her father was supposed to come early from office. Her mother hardly came in these trips to the grandmother’s place.
While waiting for her father, Amini guessed the delicacies muthashi would have made for her. “Mysore pak will definitely be there. She always makes it when I come,” Amini thought happily. Oh, what fun she would have with muthashi. Amini also had planned a list of things that she was going to show muthashi like the new watercolours she bought, her drawings (but of, course), report card that stated she would go to third grade, and her small trophy for coming first in a running race. She had packed them in the bag without amma’s knowledge. She mentally check listed anything that she might have missed. Her thoughts than wandered to what gifts muthashi might have kept for her. Last year, muthashi had surprised her with a kitchen set so beautiful that she saw her friends Tanya and Manjushree wanting it. The sound of the doorbell interrupted her train of thoughts. Running towards the door, she could hear amma asking her to slow down, but she had already opened the door before amma could finish the sentence. It was her father and she squealed with delight. In return, her father gave her a big smile and hugged her. Although Amini loved her mother, she was partial to her father. He would tuck her in the bed and would always play with her.
She missed her father when he was about to leave from muthashi’s house but the sadness only lasted for a few hours for muthashi always had something interesting up her sleeves to occupy Amini’s attention. She went to her bedroom again to check whether everything was ready. She was wearing her shoes, when she heard talking to each other. She could sense that they were arguing. Of late, this had been happening a lot. She went to her brother Vishnu’s crib. He was only three and was busy with his toys. Seeing her all dressed up, Vishnu gave her an enquiring look but Amini kissed his cheeks and told him goodbye. As she was turned, he started wailing and that put a stop to her parent’s argument. Amma came to console him.
It was time to leave. They had to catch the bus at 7. Amini’s father picked up her bag and gave her a backpack to carry. The backpack contained his clothes for the weekend. He planted a kiss on Vishnu’s head and told Amini to come down after saying goodbye to her mother. She kissed and hugged her mother, who told her to be a good girl. As she waved her had to say buy, she saw tears stream down amma’s eyes. She couldn’t understand why amma was crying. After all she had gone to stay with muthashi alone last year too.
Inside the bus, the TV was playing some Hindi movie that Amini could not see from her seat. She wanted to see the movie but acha ordered her to sleep. Besides, the seats were so high that even if she wanted she could not watch the movie and it was no fun listening to the dialogues. For some time Amini watched the shops zip by and eventually sleep crept upon her.
“Ammu kutty! It’s is time to get up.” Amini opened her eyes and saw old muthashi’s face. “Muthashiiiiiiiii...,” Ammini screamed and gave her a bear hug. Muthashi took her to the bathroom and got her to brush her teeth and wash her face. She then sat at the dining table, awaiting freshly made idli and coconut chutney. Her father was already sipping tea and reading the morning paper. Although amma also made the same breakfast, it tasted a lot tastier in muthashi’s house, she believed. After breakfast, muthashi showed her a tin dabba full of square shaped you want to eat for lunch,” she said. Amini took two mysore paks and greedily munched on them. Her father gave her an angry look but she didn’t care. He was in muthashi’s territory and if he scolded her, muthashi would scold him back. Ha--- The entire dabba was hers to finish, since muthashi couldn’t have any sweets due to diabetes.
Unlike amma, muthashi listens to everything Amini said. Muthashi also told her fascinating stories at night. She would caress Amini’s hair and tell stories about Mahabharata, Ramayana, Vikram-Vaithal and so on. She was awed by muthashi’s stock of stories, which never got exhausted. Sometimes, she would make Muthashi repeat the same stories and even make corrections when muthashi started mixing stories. She knew that muthashi was feeling sleepy but Amini did not mind the goof-ups. She would caress the loose, soft wrinkled flesh on muthashi’s hand and diligently listen to the stories till they finish. In the afternoons, muthashi would tell her a story while making feeding her rice and sambar, which she would make into small balls and place it in Amini’s small palm. She would then take a snooze and Amini would carry the wooden stool, place it in front of the chest of wooden drawers next to the kitchen and hunt for hidden treasures – a broken pin, a stone studded ring, pen, brass spoon. All these long forgotten junk were her treasure and she cherished them and stored them in a cloth bag, which she hid in her cupboard. Muthashi’s house was like a museum and no matter how many times Amini had seen the old, relic things in her house, it never failed to fascinate her.
As the summer ended, Amini dreaded going back. She told muthashi to tell her parents that she did not want to come and that she would study in a school close to muthashi’s house. But muthashi would just smile and tell her ‘we will see about it’. She had once cried too at the thought of leaving muthashi.
Finally, when her father came to pick her up, he looked tired. Amma and Vishnu had not come with him, even though Amma had told her she would. After getting refreshments for him, muthashi said, “Ammu kutty, why don’t you go out and play. We have something to talk, which you will not understand.”
Amini was curious but she could not disobey muthashi. After an hour when she returned, she saw her bags in the living room. “But we are going tomorrow. Why are the bags kept here now?” she asked her father. “We have to go now Amini. Muthashi will help you get ready,” her father said without looking at her.
“I don’t want to go. I am not going. Ask muthashi, I told her too. I like it here,” she said adamantly. But she could see that acha was not taking no for an answer. She decided to throw her tantrum but this time, instead of giving in, her father scolded her and told her to get ready quickly. Tears streaked her cheeks, while she looked at muthashi. Muthashi looked equally miserable. Amini hugged her tight and screamed that she was not leaving. But muthashi was steering her towards to bedroom to change. Muthashi told her that she would come and visit her soon but Amini knew it was a lie. As Amini left the house, being pulled by her father, she looked back and saw muthashi standing at the door step, wiping her eyes.
The buzzing of the telephone brought Amini back from the memory lane. She had been waiting for the call. “Hi dad! How long will you take?” she asked. She was nervous but at the same time her heart was filled with joy. She was going to meet muthashi. It had been thirteen years since Amini had met her and she was excited. Amini’s mother had taken custody her and Vishnu. Her mother was not happy with Amini’s decision to meet her grandmother but Amini did not care. She had finished her graduation and was going abroad to pursue further studies and it was her only chance to see muthashi before god know’s when she returned back. As Amini waited for her father near the window impatiently, her mouth salivated at the thought of the mysore paks. But this time, Amini was going to surprise muthashi with the ones she made for her.
Short Story 2012 Longlist, Debojit Dutta
Lac-dye Tale
She is too shy for comfort. At times, I can’t even find a way to start a conversation. At the most she would nod — maybe an inch of smile on her boldest days. Leaning against the door, gripping hard on the ends of her attire she would twist its ends in nervousness. I can notice sweat trickle down her forehead, as she talks. Talk? She mewls in a voice as slender as her being.
“What to cook for dinner?” She would ask, making me feel like a guest at my own place. At times I would say, “Cook whatever you like,” in a bid to give her the liberty of being, a sense of belonging to these corridors. I still remember the day when we first met; though we never talked about it later inside these four walls. It seems now that we considered it taboo.
I remember sitting in the living room of her house, waiting. Conversation flowed all around me. Chatters, laughter and queries, I was interested in none. In between they talked about her too. I could fathom when they nudged and laughed more. Amid the noise I could hear the giant wall clock tick in soliloquy, a sound I never before paid attention to. I noticed a minute lizard amble formally around its dial in a self-formulated pattern. Intermittently it moved its back to look at me. And then ignored.
More time passed, I finally enquired. My query was countered with a boisterous laughter, as if I asked why fishes couldn’t fly. Someone said she was busy gussying up. I skipped a beat and then it fluttered. It was an anxiety like never before. I took a sip from the glass kept on the table in front and then put it down silently avoiding further attention. I moved my eyes around out of self consciousness to check if anyone was talking about me or my actions.
A sudden clinking of sea-shells, coupled with that of bangles and anklets. I presumed she was coming. Those were the beats announcing her arrival. “Maybe the curtain is made of shells,” I thought. “It should be,” I assured myself. Among the beats, that of the sea-shells’ attenuated, while the other two continued in sync with her gait. Someone removed the door curtains from her way. I started raising my eyes slowly from her feet.
She arrived in a combination of red and turquoise endowed benevolently with polka dots. I noticed a large tray of snacks and tea on those supple hands covered with ornamental designs. I gathered gumption to raise my eyes further and get a glimpse of her face, but failed. The same turquoise, red and polka dots covered her head and hid her face. Underneath it I could feel the same anxiety that existed beyond in my heart. Yet she didn’t or couldn’t move it away. Couldn’t shed her bindings. She stood behind the sofa, upright, unlike the leaning stance she uses now. I kept on gazing, the chatters around me dissolved to mist. After, maybe, half an hour they said it was time to leave.
Attendants from both sides stood up, greeted and embraced each other. I too followed, without taking my eyes off as she stood, as still as a mannequin on display. I felt intrigued to know if the lips behind muttered and pouted, if the eye-lids behind twinkled in bliss, fluttered in surprise and bowed down in sorrow. Over the years, I learnt the lips did all but pout and the eyes even in happiness would hide its twinkle.
It’s not that I never saw her before marriage. In fact, the day arrived pretty soon. That day, while the ritual of collecting water by the pond was being performed, I saw her face in water’s turbulence. Even the frills of the surface couldn’t curl her beauty. She was prettier than I had ever imagined. I believe the water agreed too. It played with her reflection. A hint of smile on her face, it showed in her eyes too and I envied the pond even more.
Rituals followed as it does and we vowed never to part. She cat footed into my life with her lac-dyed paws and left imprints never to be wiped away.
She is too shy for comfort. At times, I can’t even find a way to start a conversation. At the most she would nod — maybe an inch of smile on her boldest days. Leaning against the door, gripping hard on the ends of her attire she would twist its ends in nervousness. I can notice sweat trickle down her forehead, as she talks. Talk? She mewls in a voice as slender as her being.
“What to cook for dinner?” She would ask, making me feel like a guest at my own place. At times I would say, “Cook whatever you like,” in a bid to give her the liberty of being, a sense of belonging to these corridors. I still remember the day when we first met; though we never talked about it later inside these four walls. It seems now that we considered it taboo.
I remember sitting in the living room of her house, waiting. Conversation flowed all around me. Chatters, laughter and queries, I was interested in none. In between they talked about her too. I could fathom when they nudged and laughed more. Amid the noise I could hear the giant wall clock tick in soliloquy, a sound I never before paid attention to. I noticed a minute lizard amble formally around its dial in a self-formulated pattern. Intermittently it moved its back to look at me. And then ignored.
More time passed, I finally enquired. My query was countered with a boisterous laughter, as if I asked why fishes couldn’t fly. Someone said she was busy gussying up. I skipped a beat and then it fluttered. It was an anxiety like never before. I took a sip from the glass kept on the table in front and then put it down silently avoiding further attention. I moved my eyes around out of self consciousness to check if anyone was talking about me or my actions.
A sudden clinking of sea-shells, coupled with that of bangles and anklets. I presumed she was coming. Those were the beats announcing her arrival. “Maybe the curtain is made of shells,” I thought. “It should be,” I assured myself. Among the beats, that of the sea-shells’ attenuated, while the other two continued in sync with her gait. Someone removed the door curtains from her way. I started raising my eyes slowly from her feet.
She arrived in a combination of red and turquoise endowed benevolently with polka dots. I noticed a large tray of snacks and tea on those supple hands covered with ornamental designs. I gathered gumption to raise my eyes further and get a glimpse of her face, but failed. The same turquoise, red and polka dots covered her head and hid her face. Underneath it I could feel the same anxiety that existed beyond in my heart. Yet she didn’t or couldn’t move it away. Couldn’t shed her bindings. She stood behind the sofa, upright, unlike the leaning stance she uses now. I kept on gazing, the chatters around me dissolved to mist. After, maybe, half an hour they said it was time to leave.
Attendants from both sides stood up, greeted and embraced each other. I too followed, without taking my eyes off as she stood, as still as a mannequin on display. I felt intrigued to know if the lips behind muttered and pouted, if the eye-lids behind twinkled in bliss, fluttered in surprise and bowed down in sorrow. Over the years, I learnt the lips did all but pout and the eyes even in happiness would hide its twinkle.
It’s not that I never saw her before marriage. In fact, the day arrived pretty soon. That day, while the ritual of collecting water by the pond was being performed, I saw her face in water’s turbulence. Even the frills of the surface couldn’t curl her beauty. She was prettier than I had ever imagined. I believe the water agreed too. It played with her reflection. A hint of smile on her face, it showed in her eyes too and I envied the pond even more.
Rituals followed as it does and we vowed never to part. She cat footed into my life with her lac-dyed paws and left imprints never to be wiped away.
Short Story 2012 Longlist, Ankita Banerjee
Frozen Frame
Like the enchanting swirl of spring green, Love too circles around the myth of eternity. The fragrance stays the same but existing connotation connected with the idea changes its course as seasons pass by.
1
It was on an early winter evening when Sneha arrived on her new home in Golf Green with husband Ranjan. Maintaining the tradition of Bagchi family, Sneha was made to agree for an arranged marriage. Despite of her disapproval, the groom selection procedure started when she was still in the second year of her college.
“I don’t want marriage right now. Why can’t I choose what I wish for?” Sneha said in a grouchy tone one day during a heated argument with her mother when she was shown Ranjan’s photograph. It was a postcard sized picture of Ranjan from his graduation night party, Sneha remembered. Dusky texture with clean shaved look, a thin framed eyeglass, a light purple colored tee – the photo had nothing to get her parent’s disapproval. What worked in favor of Ranjan for the Bagchi family was that, he had a University of Glasgow return degree in his profile, a highly paid and respectable job at a multinational firm and an established family business. After a prolonged tussle with her parents when Sneha was finally sent to meet Ranjan, she realized he had nothing which can be termed as ‘incorrect’. His gestures and well measured words – everything was tailored perfectly. The whole time they spent in the restaurant couldn’t be any better to say ‘yes’ to the marriage. He asked about Sneha’s college and her future plans followed by a wholesome narration on his exciting UK days and what plans he was working on to carry forward the family business. On the way of returning home, Sneha realized she would have to tie the knot with this man. It was a bubble of ambiguity she entrapped in where things seemed too perfect to raise disapproval but hell, it was not the drab perfection she wanted.
2
The hardest part was to get used to the smell of South Calcutta. Being born and raised up in the midst of medley of pulled rickshaw and tedious hum of tramline enveloped with a strong and somewhat nauseating smell of old grumpy lanes with leftover rice spattered around the drains for cats and dogs, she realized it would not be easy to adjust with the new sophistication. The noontime was the toughest. Ranjan gone for office and the maid done with the day’s work, Sneha left with not much to do. She would wipe rag over the almost clean book shelf or aimlessly browse through television channels or unnecessarily changes the pillow covers. Sometimes she would spend hours to mix grounded almonds and sandalwood paste after reading carefully the women’s magazine for homemade recipe for face pack. Ranjan would call religiously every day after lunch time to ask whether Sneha had any plan for the evening to go out for shopping or whether she would want to wait for him to come home and go out together instead. He was a dutiful man, everyone would agree. Sneha got a life her cousins were envy of, she knew. But, much to their despair, she would always come up with the colorless routine replies to their curious questions about spicy details.
If her mother asked “Tell me sona, is there anything wrong? Don’t hide from me” with moist eyes, Sneha would sigh and change the topic. A feeling of absolute crumping incompleteness grew inside her through the sleepless nights when her husband sleeps off undisturbed.
3
It was one of those gloomy early monsoon mornings when he arrived at their house. Shamik was a batch mate of Ranjan from his Glasgow days. In the beginning Sneha felt uneasy when Ranjan declared that his friend would stay for a month at their place, sharing the same space with an outsider was not something she was accustomed with. But Ranjan said, “It is only for a month and moreover, you spend the whole day alone, at least Shamik could give you some company” and she agreed.
For first one week Shamik spent almost the entire day in their guest room, coming out only for lunch and dinner and sometimes if woke up early made tea for himself. One day coming out of the kitchen he encountered with Sneha and said “Ummm, Good Morning. Sorry, did I wake you up”? with an inept expression.
“Don’t worry; I woke up because of a bad dream and your friend is still sleeping” she answered with a smile “But why did you bother yourself? I would have made it for you”. “Not a problem, I’m used to do my things on my own anyway” he said “But wait, I made one more cup anyway, so why don’t you just seat here and lets have the morning cups together, okay?”
And that was the first time they shared their moment of silence with the early morning breeze.
4
After two days of nonstop rain that day finally a ray of sunlight beamed through the balcony window and Sneha sat at the dining table, chopping beans for lunch when Shamik hurriedly came out of his room with all dressed up and said “Boudi, I will have lunch outside today”. Sneha looked in surprise and said “But the weather is still not good, where are you going out now”? Shamik sat down on the stool to tie his shoe when he said, “Accha Boudi, are you busy today”? “Why”? Sneha asked clumsily. “No I was just thinking why don’t you go out with me? I have few works to do and a company would do wonder. And in any case, I haven’t seen you going out of the house since I came, so it will be a change for you” he said.
“I don’t know…the weather is not good…”
“Oh, come on…monsoon has its distinctive charm. Forget about the mud and rain, let’s go out”. Sneha still sat uncertain and perhaps reading her mind Shamik said “And don’t worry, I’m calling Ranjan right now. He will never say no”.
Shamik was a travel photographer and came to the city to make a photo series on Calcutta monsoon. The smell of first rain drop on the searing soil always worked as magic for Sneha. On the first season of rain after their marriage she asked Ranjan many times to take her to the ice-cream parlor at Babughat and watch the clouds pouring over the river from glass window. But his weekends were always assigned to the uninterrupted sleeps and occasional relative visits.
As a child, she used to spend her classes aimlessly watching at the drenched Krishnachura tree and the teeming overcast sky through the window. But with Shamik she experienced a Calcutta, never seen before. For five days they stroll through the waterlogged streets, to the soggy roads of Race Course and drenched Victoria Memorial, to the enthralling Outram Ghat. When Shamik would get busy in clicking the chirpy street kids Sneha would wander across the road humming a half-forgotten tune. Free and serene, with the drizzle of that season, she felt her wings for the first time.
5
That morning started with a heavy downpour. Ranjan had to go to office to attend an urgent meeting. Sneha was busy making lunch when Shamik stormed into the kitchen. “Boudi, I need a favor and you can’t say no” he said in a demanding tone.
“Now what”? Sneha asked in a false fury. “Leave the cooking stunts for sometime no, and come with me. I will shoot a few pictures of yours”.
“Have you gone total mad or what!” Sneha said in a stunned tone.
With an unimaginable amiability he convinced her for the photo shoot. In her bedroom, balcony, on the terrace. He followed her everywhere with his camera. When the first time he stroked her tresses from the forehead, she felt a fireball moving across her body. Shuddered with an overriding fear she asked him to stop shooting. That night lying in the bed she asked for love but Ranjan said he was too tired and slept off.
Ranjan would have never noticed a change in her bindi like Shamik did. He said she has a one of its kind scent in her body that could be felt even after her bath. At an evening on the terrace in front of the setting sun, he kissed her for the first time.
That was the time when her built-in notion of right and wrong evaporated with a snap and all she left with was a blurred ring of desire.
The two weeks they spent in a whirlwind, before Shamik left for Jaipur as a next destination of his India tour. When Ranjan went to call a taxi to airport, he held Sneha close to his chest and planted a Good Bye on her lips.
“When will you come again”? She asked in a tender tone.
“I will write to you” he said with a smile.
Every day she would frantically open the letter box, but the letter never came. For months she would wander through the rooms to grope for his existence. On lonely afternoons her body felt aroused when she dreamt of Shamik painting raindrops on her bare breasts. But at occasional nights when Ranjan came to her with desire, she couldn’t respond and turned to bitter cold. She felt the ogre of fear crawling to her throat with a silent scream of destruction.
6
It was after Bijoya Dashomi when the first letter came from Shamik. But that was not for her. Sneha was busy in making Payesh in desert for few guests who were about to come for a post Pujo get together when Ranjan called her. “Listen, Shamik sent a letter” he said.
She almost ran to the drawing room and asked, “To you”?
“Of course! Who else he would”? he said quickly “Anyway, now he has a good news to share. The letter says, Shamik is finally going to marry Zenny this November, can you imagine!”
“Ww…what?”
“Areh he is getting married” Ranjan said
“To whom”? she asked again
“To Zenny! Didn’t he tell you about her?” Ranjan said, “She was also our class mate. They had what like some eight years long relationship. They were living together at Boston and at last decided to get married!”
He continued while Sneha stood motionless, “You won’t believe what a stud Shamik was in our college days. He had this knack for photography since that time and used to nag Zenny with it all the time. None of us imagined they would go so far but see they did!”
“But I’m surprised why didn’t he tell you about this? You guys became a sort of good friends” he murmured to himself.
It was then the door bell rang and the guests arrived. Sneha went back to her desert and stood silently staring at the boiling milk and rice. A ball of anger tried to sprout out from the stomach and she felt like to throw up. Falling in love after a marriage is not socially considered to be a purest bliss, she was aware. But the hymns uttered to the wedding flames of lifelong commitments didn’t prove to be strong enough to have a control on her rush of desire. When she saw the smallness of the man she loved and the blot of infidelity he imprinted on her, the heart was broken with no sign of regret and finally and it was time to gather up the strewn pieces.
Ranjan asked from the drawing room, “Sneha, everybody is asking about you. How long will it take”?
She stirred the milk carefully and sprinkled pinch of cashew nuts and raisin and said, “Coming…”
Like the enchanting swirl of spring green, Love too circles around the myth of eternity. The fragrance stays the same but existing connotation connected with the idea changes its course as seasons pass by.
1
It was on an early winter evening when Sneha arrived on her new home in Golf Green with husband Ranjan. Maintaining the tradition of Bagchi family, Sneha was made to agree for an arranged marriage. Despite of her disapproval, the groom selection procedure started when she was still in the second year of her college.
“I don’t want marriage right now. Why can’t I choose what I wish for?” Sneha said in a grouchy tone one day during a heated argument with her mother when she was shown Ranjan’s photograph. It was a postcard sized picture of Ranjan from his graduation night party, Sneha remembered. Dusky texture with clean shaved look, a thin framed eyeglass, a light purple colored tee – the photo had nothing to get her parent’s disapproval. What worked in favor of Ranjan for the Bagchi family was that, he had a University of Glasgow return degree in his profile, a highly paid and respectable job at a multinational firm and an established family business. After a prolonged tussle with her parents when Sneha was finally sent to meet Ranjan, she realized he had nothing which can be termed as ‘incorrect’. His gestures and well measured words – everything was tailored perfectly. The whole time they spent in the restaurant couldn’t be any better to say ‘yes’ to the marriage. He asked about Sneha’s college and her future plans followed by a wholesome narration on his exciting UK days and what plans he was working on to carry forward the family business. On the way of returning home, Sneha realized she would have to tie the knot with this man. It was a bubble of ambiguity she entrapped in where things seemed too perfect to raise disapproval but hell, it was not the drab perfection she wanted.
2
The hardest part was to get used to the smell of South Calcutta. Being born and raised up in the midst of medley of pulled rickshaw and tedious hum of tramline enveloped with a strong and somewhat nauseating smell of old grumpy lanes with leftover rice spattered around the drains for cats and dogs, she realized it would not be easy to adjust with the new sophistication. The noontime was the toughest. Ranjan gone for office and the maid done with the day’s work, Sneha left with not much to do. She would wipe rag over the almost clean book shelf or aimlessly browse through television channels or unnecessarily changes the pillow covers. Sometimes she would spend hours to mix grounded almonds and sandalwood paste after reading carefully the women’s magazine for homemade recipe for face pack. Ranjan would call religiously every day after lunch time to ask whether Sneha had any plan for the evening to go out for shopping or whether she would want to wait for him to come home and go out together instead. He was a dutiful man, everyone would agree. Sneha got a life her cousins were envy of, she knew. But, much to their despair, she would always come up with the colorless routine replies to their curious questions about spicy details.
If her mother asked “Tell me sona, is there anything wrong? Don’t hide from me” with moist eyes, Sneha would sigh and change the topic. A feeling of absolute crumping incompleteness grew inside her through the sleepless nights when her husband sleeps off undisturbed.
3
It was one of those gloomy early monsoon mornings when he arrived at their house. Shamik was a batch mate of Ranjan from his Glasgow days. In the beginning Sneha felt uneasy when Ranjan declared that his friend would stay for a month at their place, sharing the same space with an outsider was not something she was accustomed with. But Ranjan said, “It is only for a month and moreover, you spend the whole day alone, at least Shamik could give you some company” and she agreed.
For first one week Shamik spent almost the entire day in their guest room, coming out only for lunch and dinner and sometimes if woke up early made tea for himself. One day coming out of the kitchen he encountered with Sneha and said “Ummm, Good Morning. Sorry, did I wake you up”? with an inept expression.
“Don’t worry; I woke up because of a bad dream and your friend is still sleeping” she answered with a smile “But why did you bother yourself? I would have made it for you”. “Not a problem, I’m used to do my things on my own anyway” he said “But wait, I made one more cup anyway, so why don’t you just seat here and lets have the morning cups together, okay?”
And that was the first time they shared their moment of silence with the early morning breeze.
4
After two days of nonstop rain that day finally a ray of sunlight beamed through the balcony window and Sneha sat at the dining table, chopping beans for lunch when Shamik hurriedly came out of his room with all dressed up and said “Boudi, I will have lunch outside today”. Sneha looked in surprise and said “But the weather is still not good, where are you going out now”? Shamik sat down on the stool to tie his shoe when he said, “Accha Boudi, are you busy today”? “Why”? Sneha asked clumsily. “No I was just thinking why don’t you go out with me? I have few works to do and a company would do wonder. And in any case, I haven’t seen you going out of the house since I came, so it will be a change for you” he said.
“I don’t know…the weather is not good…”
“Oh, come on…monsoon has its distinctive charm. Forget about the mud and rain, let’s go out”. Sneha still sat uncertain and perhaps reading her mind Shamik said “And don’t worry, I’m calling Ranjan right now. He will never say no”.
Shamik was a travel photographer and came to the city to make a photo series on Calcutta monsoon. The smell of first rain drop on the searing soil always worked as magic for Sneha. On the first season of rain after their marriage she asked Ranjan many times to take her to the ice-cream parlor at Babughat and watch the clouds pouring over the river from glass window. But his weekends were always assigned to the uninterrupted sleeps and occasional relative visits.
As a child, she used to spend her classes aimlessly watching at the drenched Krishnachura tree and the teeming overcast sky through the window. But with Shamik she experienced a Calcutta, never seen before. For five days they stroll through the waterlogged streets, to the soggy roads of Race Course and drenched Victoria Memorial, to the enthralling Outram Ghat. When Shamik would get busy in clicking the chirpy street kids Sneha would wander across the road humming a half-forgotten tune. Free and serene, with the drizzle of that season, she felt her wings for the first time.
5
That morning started with a heavy downpour. Ranjan had to go to office to attend an urgent meeting. Sneha was busy making lunch when Shamik stormed into the kitchen. “Boudi, I need a favor and you can’t say no” he said in a demanding tone.
“Now what”? Sneha asked in a false fury. “Leave the cooking stunts for sometime no, and come with me. I will shoot a few pictures of yours”.
“Have you gone total mad or what!” Sneha said in a stunned tone.
With an unimaginable amiability he convinced her for the photo shoot. In her bedroom, balcony, on the terrace. He followed her everywhere with his camera. When the first time he stroked her tresses from the forehead, she felt a fireball moving across her body. Shuddered with an overriding fear she asked him to stop shooting. That night lying in the bed she asked for love but Ranjan said he was too tired and slept off.
Ranjan would have never noticed a change in her bindi like Shamik did. He said she has a one of its kind scent in her body that could be felt even after her bath. At an evening on the terrace in front of the setting sun, he kissed her for the first time.
That was the time when her built-in notion of right and wrong evaporated with a snap and all she left with was a blurred ring of desire.
The two weeks they spent in a whirlwind, before Shamik left for Jaipur as a next destination of his India tour. When Ranjan went to call a taxi to airport, he held Sneha close to his chest and planted a Good Bye on her lips.
“When will you come again”? She asked in a tender tone.
“I will write to you” he said with a smile.
Every day she would frantically open the letter box, but the letter never came. For months she would wander through the rooms to grope for his existence. On lonely afternoons her body felt aroused when she dreamt of Shamik painting raindrops on her bare breasts. But at occasional nights when Ranjan came to her with desire, she couldn’t respond and turned to bitter cold. She felt the ogre of fear crawling to her throat with a silent scream of destruction.
6
It was after Bijoya Dashomi when the first letter came from Shamik. But that was not for her. Sneha was busy in making Payesh in desert for few guests who were about to come for a post Pujo get together when Ranjan called her. “Listen, Shamik sent a letter” he said.
She almost ran to the drawing room and asked, “To you”?
“Of course! Who else he would”? he said quickly “Anyway, now he has a good news to share. The letter says, Shamik is finally going to marry Zenny this November, can you imagine!”
“Ww…what?”
“Areh he is getting married” Ranjan said
“To whom”? she asked again
“To Zenny! Didn’t he tell you about her?” Ranjan said, “She was also our class mate. They had what like some eight years long relationship. They were living together at Boston and at last decided to get married!”
He continued while Sneha stood motionless, “You won’t believe what a stud Shamik was in our college days. He had this knack for photography since that time and used to nag Zenny with it all the time. None of us imagined they would go so far but see they did!”
“But I’m surprised why didn’t he tell you about this? You guys became a sort of good friends” he murmured to himself.
It was then the door bell rang and the guests arrived. Sneha went back to her desert and stood silently staring at the boiling milk and rice. A ball of anger tried to sprout out from the stomach and she felt like to throw up. Falling in love after a marriage is not socially considered to be a purest bliss, she was aware. But the hymns uttered to the wedding flames of lifelong commitments didn’t prove to be strong enough to have a control on her rush of desire. When she saw the smallness of the man she loved and the blot of infidelity he imprinted on her, the heart was broken with no sign of regret and finally and it was time to gather up the strewn pieces.
Ranjan asked from the drawing room, “Sneha, everybody is asking about you. How long will it take”?
She stirred the milk carefully and sprinkled pinch of cashew nuts and raisin and said, “Coming…”
Short Story 2012 Longlist, Suchithra Pillai
1.30 pm- Netravati Express
July 20, 2010: I still remember the day, the time, two years ago; which changed everything in my life. It was just another railway station situated in Thrissur, the culturally rich city of God's own country, Kerala. But from that day onwards, it became something more than that to me.
Netravati Express, 6345- from Mumbai to Kerala, that day, the train was on time- 1.05 pm. With chattering passengers, S10 coach was filled with warm talks and stories of those, who were mere strangers till the day before.
Sitting near the window (my ever-favourite seat in the train), I watched the green meadows pass by. As the breeze kissed my cheeks, I remembered him, those talks, and those wonderful moments. With the rattling sound of the engine, I sang one of my favourite songs, “Ek din aap yun humko mil jayenge, maine socha na tha.” But, why was I singing when nothing existed? I was not supposed to think about him. He did not care for me neither did he call me. Doesn't he care about me as I think?
Boarding the train the day before, I was very much excited, with the mere thought of travelling in the train and moreover I wished to see him. The one, who had captured my thoughts and was the cynosure of my mind, since a year. Well, it was not just a usual year of love, it was a year of pure love unexpressed from my side and over expressed from his side. He was trying to fill my space as well, pouring all the love to make it complete, to make it work. I couldn’t do justice from my side. I loved him a lot but still didn’t want to express it fully.
Being tomboyish by nature, it was not fear that made me hesitate. Always living on my own terms, brushing aside other's opinion, I was always a rebel. But in this case, the feeling which tied me was something more than that. It was not lack of love or trust. The hiccups emerged from the mere fact that, I hadn’t seen him till now.
I knew him, his talks, his behaviour but still I hadn’t seen him. This mere thought created a shiver in me. But his faith and belief in the words that, “I want to share my whole life with you and make you my life partner”. It gave the love, the strength it needed. Hearing his voice everyday through the phone and getting mails at regular intervals added oil to the fire of love. But one day, few months back, these very same things gave me the shock of my life.
That day, I can never forget in my life. I got up in the morning at my home in Mumbai, to find no good morning call, no message. I called him back but could just hear the computerised voice saying that the subscriber is not answering. I messaged him but again no reply. Starting my duty for the day as a trainee journalist for a leading newspaper, the quest for finding stories kept me busy till noon. Once I reached the office, the first thing was to check the mails, but unfortunately no reply from him. A small wave of fear engulfed me. Still I stayed calm, telling myself that he might be busy. As I typed the story for the day, my mind wavered in midst of the sea of negative thoughts. The voice, the talk; I needed it badly. It seemed like it was gone, all the feelings I shared till now, was it all a prank? Was he gone? Won’t I hear his voice again? But I knew him, he can’t do this to me or is it that something has happened to him? The thoughts lingered in my mind, as my face turned pale.
This made my colleagues inquire about my health and I had to tell them the matter. After hearing my tension, they smiled and said, ‘This is such a small matter, dear!’ Well, it was for sure a small thing to fear but unknown to them was the fact that the so-called hero of the story was still just a voice to me.
Keeping it a secret was a decision taken by me as the questions posed would be many. Some would laugh, few would ask whether I am mad to love a person whom I had never seen and many would advice that I am going on a wrong path. There would only be a handful, who might understand me.
But that day, after trying the 25th call, I really got tensed. It was too much for me. I sent him a mail again, sounding a bit rude this time. Leaving office, I did not go home. Loitering in a park, I sat there for more than an hour. Watching the tiny tots play, gave me a bit of peace. It made me think of my mother. With no other way, I slowly walked towards home.
As I was crossing the road, the phone rang ‘Aao na..’. This was the first time in my life that I was so happy to hear it ring. Standing in between the road, I was literally crying. Controlling my tears, I took the phone and it was HIM. His voice had the same tension and love, which made me smile. He forgot to take his phone from home and got held up in an official meeting. I wanted to shout at him but I was more than happy to hear his voice, which mellowed all my tension, my fury.
Thinking of the incident still gives me goose bumps. That day I made him promise that he would call or message me whenever he gets tied up somewhere. But today, it is the same. I am travelling all the way from Mumbai to Kerala for him and its been 12 hours, no call from his side.
I had planned the trip to attend an interview with a publication in Kerala. It was my parent’s wish that I should work in our native place and more than that his presence was the main reason. And yet he didn’t call today. The last time I heard his voice was the day before, at 8 in night, in the midst of a bash with his friends at Bangalore, where he had gone for a two-day official visit from Trivandrum.
It was 1.20 p m and I have left hopes. Somewhere it seemed I was overseeing things or ‘is he not interested in seeing me?’ At 4 pm, I would reach my destination, Kayamkulam. Talking to him was quite impossible at my grandma’s place. Even after knowing this, he seemed least interested.
As the train started again from Thrissur station, I started turning my pages of the novel. After 5 minutes came the shock of my life. I could not believe my eyes; a tall man was standing in front of me and was staring at me. I knew him, I had seen this face somewhere but still he was a stranger. He smiled, came forward and sat next to me. I still could not recover from my shock; this was similar to that face. The face I saw in the mails, the face I saw as a display picture on chat window. Oh! It was him. I couldn’t believe my eyes. How could he land in front of me like this!
He proved me wrong. The guy now sitting next to me made me realise the truth of love, the depth of love, which was much more than what I could imagine. The noise, I heard the day before was not of a usual get-together, but a discussion with his friends on our first meet, to see me as soon as I step into Kerala. It was a superb plan woven by him, executed with the help of his friends. I stood spellbound at the surprise. I had no words in front of his love.
But he just smiled and said, “See, I came to see you first, ‘Aakhir dulha hi toh aake dulhaniya le jata hai na’. “If I had a ring in my hand, I would have made you mine right away”. I could do nothing but smile. Those first few hours when we met, I couldn’t speak a word. I was dumbstruck and enjoyed the glimpse of his true love for the first time.
It’s been four years now and we are happily married, but still I blush, as those wonderful memories rush down my mind.
July 20, 2010: I still remember the day, the time, two years ago; which changed everything in my life. It was just another railway station situated in Thrissur, the culturally rich city of God's own country, Kerala. But from that day onwards, it became something more than that to me.
Netravati Express, 6345- from Mumbai to Kerala, that day, the train was on time- 1.05 pm. With chattering passengers, S10 coach was filled with warm talks and stories of those, who were mere strangers till the day before.
Sitting near the window (my ever-favourite seat in the train), I watched the green meadows pass by. As the breeze kissed my cheeks, I remembered him, those talks, and those wonderful moments. With the rattling sound of the engine, I sang one of my favourite songs, “Ek din aap yun humko mil jayenge, maine socha na tha.” But, why was I singing when nothing existed? I was not supposed to think about him. He did not care for me neither did he call me. Doesn't he care about me as I think?
Boarding the train the day before, I was very much excited, with the mere thought of travelling in the train and moreover I wished to see him. The one, who had captured my thoughts and was the cynosure of my mind, since a year. Well, it was not just a usual year of love, it was a year of pure love unexpressed from my side and over expressed from his side. He was trying to fill my space as well, pouring all the love to make it complete, to make it work. I couldn’t do justice from my side. I loved him a lot but still didn’t want to express it fully.
Being tomboyish by nature, it was not fear that made me hesitate. Always living on my own terms, brushing aside other's opinion, I was always a rebel. But in this case, the feeling which tied me was something more than that. It was not lack of love or trust. The hiccups emerged from the mere fact that, I hadn’t seen him till now.
I knew him, his talks, his behaviour but still I hadn’t seen him. This mere thought created a shiver in me. But his faith and belief in the words that, “I want to share my whole life with you and make you my life partner”. It gave the love, the strength it needed. Hearing his voice everyday through the phone and getting mails at regular intervals added oil to the fire of love. But one day, few months back, these very same things gave me the shock of my life.
That day, I can never forget in my life. I got up in the morning at my home in Mumbai, to find no good morning call, no message. I called him back but could just hear the computerised voice saying that the subscriber is not answering. I messaged him but again no reply. Starting my duty for the day as a trainee journalist for a leading newspaper, the quest for finding stories kept me busy till noon. Once I reached the office, the first thing was to check the mails, but unfortunately no reply from him. A small wave of fear engulfed me. Still I stayed calm, telling myself that he might be busy. As I typed the story for the day, my mind wavered in midst of the sea of negative thoughts. The voice, the talk; I needed it badly. It seemed like it was gone, all the feelings I shared till now, was it all a prank? Was he gone? Won’t I hear his voice again? But I knew him, he can’t do this to me or is it that something has happened to him? The thoughts lingered in my mind, as my face turned pale.
This made my colleagues inquire about my health and I had to tell them the matter. After hearing my tension, they smiled and said, ‘This is such a small matter, dear!’ Well, it was for sure a small thing to fear but unknown to them was the fact that the so-called hero of the story was still just a voice to me.
Keeping it a secret was a decision taken by me as the questions posed would be many. Some would laugh, few would ask whether I am mad to love a person whom I had never seen and many would advice that I am going on a wrong path. There would only be a handful, who might understand me.
But that day, after trying the 25th call, I really got tensed. It was too much for me. I sent him a mail again, sounding a bit rude this time. Leaving office, I did not go home. Loitering in a park, I sat there for more than an hour. Watching the tiny tots play, gave me a bit of peace. It made me think of my mother. With no other way, I slowly walked towards home.
As I was crossing the road, the phone rang ‘Aao na..’. This was the first time in my life that I was so happy to hear it ring. Standing in between the road, I was literally crying. Controlling my tears, I took the phone and it was HIM. His voice had the same tension and love, which made me smile. He forgot to take his phone from home and got held up in an official meeting. I wanted to shout at him but I was more than happy to hear his voice, which mellowed all my tension, my fury.
Thinking of the incident still gives me goose bumps. That day I made him promise that he would call or message me whenever he gets tied up somewhere. But today, it is the same. I am travelling all the way from Mumbai to Kerala for him and its been 12 hours, no call from his side.
I had planned the trip to attend an interview with a publication in Kerala. It was my parent’s wish that I should work in our native place and more than that his presence was the main reason. And yet he didn’t call today. The last time I heard his voice was the day before, at 8 in night, in the midst of a bash with his friends at Bangalore, where he had gone for a two-day official visit from Trivandrum.
It was 1.20 p m and I have left hopes. Somewhere it seemed I was overseeing things or ‘is he not interested in seeing me?’ At 4 pm, I would reach my destination, Kayamkulam. Talking to him was quite impossible at my grandma’s place. Even after knowing this, he seemed least interested.
As the train started again from Thrissur station, I started turning my pages of the novel. After 5 minutes came the shock of my life. I could not believe my eyes; a tall man was standing in front of me and was staring at me. I knew him, I had seen this face somewhere but still he was a stranger. He smiled, came forward and sat next to me. I still could not recover from my shock; this was similar to that face. The face I saw in the mails, the face I saw as a display picture on chat window. Oh! It was him. I couldn’t believe my eyes. How could he land in front of me like this!
He proved me wrong. The guy now sitting next to me made me realise the truth of love, the depth of love, which was much more than what I could imagine. The noise, I heard the day before was not of a usual get-together, but a discussion with his friends on our first meet, to see me as soon as I step into Kerala. It was a superb plan woven by him, executed with the help of his friends. I stood spellbound at the surprise. I had no words in front of his love.
But he just smiled and said, “See, I came to see you first, ‘Aakhir dulha hi toh aake dulhaniya le jata hai na’. “If I had a ring in my hand, I would have made you mine right away”. I could do nothing but smile. Those first few hours when we met, I couldn’t speak a word. I was dumbstruck and enjoyed the glimpse of his true love for the first time.
It’s been four years now and we are happily married, but still I blush, as those wonderful memories rush down my mind.
Short Story 2012 Longlist, Sharmila Sinha
That Rainy Day
Something woke me that morning. A lovely fragrance. Oh! Oh! Rains. It’s raining. The first day of rains since we have come to stay with Nani in her village Chilbil. The huge mud house smelt magnificent as it gradually started to pour. The trees were washed off their dust and sparkled green. I was standing near the window of my room on the first floor and watching the rain slowly gather speed. First it was the pitter patter and then came the water pouring – as if the heavens had let out all its happiness on the land. Never seen anything like this in the city where we live.
Minnie get up. See you’ve never
seen something like this. Come here. I shouted excitedly. My little
sister jumped out of the bed and rushed to the window rubbing her eyes.
Both of us stood near the window and watched everything in awe. We
could see the paddy fields swaying as if dancing to the call of the
heavens. Dill our dog came barking in the room and joined us. The
pouring rain on the hot parched earth had soothed the animals. We could
hear the cattle bellowing to herald the rain.
Both of us went running down the
polished spiral wooden stairs barefoot. ‘Mamma can we go out to play
in this rain just like we do in the snow.” I yelled.
Mamma nodded and smiled.
Yippe shouted Minni. The Rain was falling with great force and fury on the clay tiles on the roof of the verandah. And streams of water could be seen pouring down. Mamma extended her hand and collected some water in her palm and splashed it on us. All of us laughed.
Oh! Great yelled Minni and rushed out under the open sky. I too followed her. Dill followed. Kali the spotted goat kid came jumping.
Yippe shouted Minni. The Rain was falling with great force and fury on the clay tiles on the roof of the verandah. And streams of water could be seen pouring down. Mamma extended her hand and collected some water in her palm and splashed it on us. All of us laughed.
Oh! Great yelled Minni and rushed out under the open sky. I too followed her. Dill followed. Kali the spotted goat kid came jumping.
What fun Kali said Minni. A
drenched crow came and sat on the swing tied to the Neem tree nearby.
Dill ran to catch it. The crow fluttered away noisily.
Dill don’t be naughty. I shouted trying to catch the wet dog by its tail. But Dill barked and ran away. The soaked sparrows sitting on the arms of the neem tree wobbled up and down excitedly. Opening, their wings and chirping and chattering.
Dill don’t be naughty. I shouted trying to catch the wet dog by its tail. But Dill barked and ran away. The soaked sparrows sitting on the arms of the neem tree wobbled up and down excitedly. Opening, their wings and chirping and chattering.
Mithoo Nani’s pet parrot
screeched in glee. The cage hanging on one of the lower branches of the
tree was swinging in the breeze. She was fluttering inside the cage.
She cried out Minni Minni.
Minni ran and opened the cage.
Mithoo craned her neck out but soon retreated inside seeing Dill and
Kali charging. I pulled Mithoo out of the cage and made her sit on my
shoulder.
Whoff Whoof barked Dill
jumping up on the verandah. Shaking his wet head and spraying water all
around. Kali too galloped round and round in the verandah bleating
merrily.
Neroo Neroo raining said Mithoo in her gawky and harsh voice.
Everybody seemed to be enjoying the rain.
I pulled Mamma standing in the verandah under the pouring rains. The three of us joined hands and went round and round playing like we did welcoming the first snowfall each year in our city. The three of us sat on the paved driveway of Nani’s house and could see the waters swirling around.
Mithoo perched tightly on my shoulder too was enjoying our plays. She chirped Mamma Mamma.
Lets make some paper boats said
Mamma. And went inside to get some newspapers. Sitting on the verandah
spreading our legs we made some boats. Now they needed to set sail.
They were brought to the bay and set on their journey. The majestic
boats sailed and sank like the Titanic.
Lets go and sit on the swing
saying this Minni ran and jumped on the swing. I too jumped and joined
her. Mithoo fluttered and held my shirt collar tightly with her claws.
We were swinging up up up …. To touch the sky. Rain splashed on my face
and Minnie’s long plait was flying in the strong breeze. This was
sheer magic. This was fun. The rains refused to stop. And our spirit
soared.
Now we were feeling cold. Mud splattered and wet we ran inside the house. Mamma who had already changed to her dry clothes helped us with a nice scrub. And then sitting in the kitchen we all had hot chai flavoured with something that I had never tasted before.
Now we were feeling cold. Mud splattered and wet we ran inside the house. Mamma who had already changed to her dry clothes helped us with a nice scrub. And then sitting in the kitchen we all had hot chai flavoured with something that I had never tasted before.
It tastes different I said.
Neeroo this tea has ginger and tulsi. And instead of sugar I have added jaggery. Said Nani extending a plateful of crispy hot pakoras.
Neeroo this tea has ginger and tulsi. And instead of sugar I have added jaggery. Said Nani extending a plateful of crispy hot pakoras.
Nani look my fingers look like yours said Minni showing her shriveled fingers. Nani smiled.
Nani yesterday you had told me it would rain today. How did you know? I asked
Nani smiled. ‘living in the
village has taught us to be with nature. When the sparrows bathe in mud
and the horizon has a bronze tainted colour then we know the rains
have arrived.
I looked at Nani awestruck.
Mamma understanding my amazement smiled and said, these are called eco indicators. And believe me they are any day better than the scientific predictions of the coming rains.
This was the bestest day of my
life. I didn’t want to go back to my school in a country where they had
no rains like this no green pastures, no Kali or Mithoo to play with.
So many birds that we see here in this quaint village were only to be
found in zoos in the country I live.
Why can’t Nani come with us. Said Minni. Looking at Mamma.
My eyes welled with tears. Next day I knew we would be leaving –to be with Papa and another year in school.
Short Story 2012 Longlist, Hippu Salk Kristle Nathan
A Door Without A Handle
It is Monday. For him, every Monday begins at 4.30 AM. He has to be at his workplace by 6.30AM. The workplace is a forty minutes’ walk from his kholi. His job is to keep a three-storey building neat and clean.
Sunday’s rest has a hangover; it slows his pace. He has to complete his work before Aditi madam comes and switches on her table fan. The sound of the blades will give life to the ambience which seems dead since ages. Almost everyday, among all the sirs and madams, Aditi is the first to occupy her seat. When she enters the room, invariably the clock on the opposite wall shows the hour and minute hands at eight and four― full ten more minutes for the place to hum with people.
He looks at the opposite wall and his hands move faster. He has four more window panes and the exit door at the end to clean.
The door is worth looking at. It has all the smell of a virgin. It is a new door installed the day before. Like a new dress it has stickers all around. But somehow the door seems incomplete to him. On a second look, he realizes the handle of the door is missing. The fitting markings are there. But he wonders why there is no handle. The bigger question is why the earlier door, which was perfectly working, needed to be replaced at the first place. The answer to this question perhaps lies within many similar questions like why the flooring at the ground floor is being redone, why the not-so-old chairs are scrapped, why the lift repairing is taking infinite time. He feels restless. Normalcy prevails as Mohite babu’s usual remark –‘Tumko kya’ – buzzes in his ears.
Nevertheless the door appears elegant. It has smooth spotless transparent glass. There is nothing to clean. He just removed the broken broom lying there. He looks at the opposite wall again. Today he has finished his morning job before time. He proceeds to the canteen for his chai and pav.
On the stairs he meets Aditi Madam. She is her usual self, her eyes smiling as she greets him “Rahim chacha, namaste”.
“Salaam Madam”― that is his usual reply when Aditi greets him. Under these disguising words he actually blesses her ‘sadaa khus reh beti’. Aditi is wearing her favorite pink dress. No, he is not sure about her choices; rather it is his favorite for her. As he walks down to the canteen he thinks if he had a daughter of his son Aman’s age she would have looked like Aditi, be like Aditi. He remembered his financial debt to her - three hundred rupees borrowed two years ago - which he always tried to pay back but had never been able to.
Rahim’s life, in the eighties, was different. He never struggled financially. Of course, he was always in debt as a bachelor. But after Sudha came into his life, with the same income they managed well with some savings. He spent quite a chunk of the saving in purchasing books. His passion was to fill his cupboards with all the good Hindi and Urdu novels. Fictions gave him temporary solace in the hard hitting race for survival. In fact, this reading habit of his, took over his relatively ordinary look to win Sudha’s heart during graduation days. However, his income from tailoring shop, which he ran from home, was not enough for his expensive pursuit of possessing books. Particularly, after putting Aman in a local English medium school, he was left with very little resources to feed on his desire. Yet, whenever he had any extra income, he went to the university street to collect a Munsi Premchand or a Mirza Mohammad. Though he was not entirely happy with his job, given the circumstances, this was the best he could have. He had a dream to set up a school sometime in life for children and teach them language.
Vaibhav serves him tea. Hot. He looks into the hazy horizon beyond the Gulmohar tree in the canteen backyard. He could clearly see the kitchen smoke coming out of the adjoining slum. The smoke that changed his life’s course reappears in front of him. Whole of Bombay was on fire during those riot days. His room was attacked by an unknown mob. He could save Sudha and Aman from physical injury; but not his belongings. The dearest of his treasures, his books, turned into ashes. Like all his Muslim friends he could not flee to his native land, as long back, he was barred from entering the village for his alleged marriage with a Hindu girl. His friend Gangadhar, who worked as a gardener here, came to his rescue. He helped him to get this job; a sweeper’s job. He initially thought his graduation in Hindi literature would come in the way as over-qualification. But the director did not feel the same and was happy to appoint him. He was surprised to find quite a few like him. Some of the gardeners, housekeeping staffs and canteen boys were as qualified as him. Vaibhav is a twelfth pass.
At the other table there is a roar of laughter. Rajendra Sir is saying it aloud how the early nineties have brought prosperity to many. Not only Rajendra Sir, he has heard several times from many that the entire country has gained from certain government policies in the nineties. But his life has changed in the reverse direction. He lost all his belongings and almost was on streets. Sudha had to clean dishes in the neighbourhood to add to the household income. Since then, Sudha started looking to the floor most of the time rather than looking straight to anybody’s face. Aman had to discontinue his studies and was later put in a Municipal school. Rahim himself has lost faith in the education system. No more does he dream to set up a school. He is yet to touch a novel.
The well deserved breakfast is over. He feels this diet of bread and tea is the best meal he could have – it has protein, vitamins, caffeine and what not – most importantly, he does not feel hungry till it is past two. It is time for him to resume his work. Today he has to clean all the computers – the black and white TV like machines. He feels privileged to do this work rather than clean floors and panes. He understands these machines are very delicate, expensive and immensely useful. Aman has asked for one such machine several months back. He is waiting for institute’s annual second sale. He wipes the screen again. He needs to take care of these machines well as one of these may become his sometime in future. Otherwise too, he enjoys this part of the job. Sometime during early hours, when no security guard is around, he sits at the desk to feel a sense of privilege. Rahim has always been prestige-loving with his set of ego. However, over the last three to four years, since he has been on this job, he has increasingly felt spineless. Rahim, once very talkative, has learnt to become more silent. Nobody here, apart from Gangadhar and his friends, knows his name, let alone his life. Of course, Aditi is an exception.
He is through with all the machines of the room, and about to leave. Oh! He sees some spots on the handle-less exit door. In the meantime Shilpa madam left through the door; another set of spots. Whenever the door is pushed it leaves spots. Different people push it differently at different places. It obliges; but at the cost of its appearance. He feels connected, and thinks this new door deserves a better treatment. He walks fast towards the door, and cleans it back to its spotless status.
Next day, to his disappointment, he finds some fresh spots on the door. He cleans those. In fact everyday, he makes it a point to clean the door to the best of his ability. But over time, the smooth glass develops inerasable spots. At home, before going to sleep, he sometimes thinks about the poor door. He cannot digest the fact that in some days the door is going to look ordinary. Like him. The mere fact that he is a sweeper, troubles him even now. He had felt most uncomfortable when Aman asked him to fill a form mentioning his occupation. He could feel the deep pain of the hangmen, garbage collectors, cobblers and porters – all the people at the lowly ranks. They are all like handle-less doors. They need to lay their backs straight for others to walk on them.
Months pass by…
Today is a special day. He has seen the cobbler on the way smiling. He stands in the corridor, looking towards the bright sunshine. Gangadhar’s friend has cracked a joke and they are all laughing aloud while watering the plants. The office atmosphere is warm and party-like. It is Aditi’s birthday.
Aditi comes running towards him, with a beaming smile. She takes out from her bag two volumes of ‘Jhuhta Sach’― by Yashpal.
“It is my birthday chacha, and I have brought something for you.”
Rahim cannot believe his eyes; he takes the volumes and caresses them as if he has found a lost friend.
“Par beti, it is your day; I should have given you something instead.”
“Chacha, I need only your blessings.”
Somebody calls Aditi from inside; she goes back. The door opens up again with Aditi’s gentle push. It closes. No further spots appear. The once shining door has turned dullish. It is still without a handle. But it seems to enjoying its status.
It is Monday. For him, every Monday begins at 4.30 AM. He has to be at his workplace by 6.30AM. The workplace is a forty minutes’ walk from his kholi. His job is to keep a three-storey building neat and clean.
Sunday’s rest has a hangover; it slows his pace. He has to complete his work before Aditi madam comes and switches on her table fan. The sound of the blades will give life to the ambience which seems dead since ages. Almost everyday, among all the sirs and madams, Aditi is the first to occupy her seat. When she enters the room, invariably the clock on the opposite wall shows the hour and minute hands at eight and four― full ten more minutes for the place to hum with people.
He looks at the opposite wall and his hands move faster. He has four more window panes and the exit door at the end to clean.
The door is worth looking at. It has all the smell of a virgin. It is a new door installed the day before. Like a new dress it has stickers all around. But somehow the door seems incomplete to him. On a second look, he realizes the handle of the door is missing. The fitting markings are there. But he wonders why there is no handle. The bigger question is why the earlier door, which was perfectly working, needed to be replaced at the first place. The answer to this question perhaps lies within many similar questions like why the flooring at the ground floor is being redone, why the not-so-old chairs are scrapped, why the lift repairing is taking infinite time. He feels restless. Normalcy prevails as Mohite babu’s usual remark –‘Tumko kya’ – buzzes in his ears.
Nevertheless the door appears elegant. It has smooth spotless transparent glass. There is nothing to clean. He just removed the broken broom lying there. He looks at the opposite wall again. Today he has finished his morning job before time. He proceeds to the canteen for his chai and pav.
On the stairs he meets Aditi Madam. She is her usual self, her eyes smiling as she greets him “Rahim chacha, namaste”.
“Salaam Madam”― that is his usual reply when Aditi greets him. Under these disguising words he actually blesses her ‘sadaa khus reh beti’. Aditi is wearing her favorite pink dress. No, he is not sure about her choices; rather it is his favorite for her. As he walks down to the canteen he thinks if he had a daughter of his son Aman’s age she would have looked like Aditi, be like Aditi. He remembered his financial debt to her - three hundred rupees borrowed two years ago - which he always tried to pay back but had never been able to.
Rahim’s life, in the eighties, was different. He never struggled financially. Of course, he was always in debt as a bachelor. But after Sudha came into his life, with the same income they managed well with some savings. He spent quite a chunk of the saving in purchasing books. His passion was to fill his cupboards with all the good Hindi and Urdu novels. Fictions gave him temporary solace in the hard hitting race for survival. In fact, this reading habit of his, took over his relatively ordinary look to win Sudha’s heart during graduation days. However, his income from tailoring shop, which he ran from home, was not enough for his expensive pursuit of possessing books. Particularly, after putting Aman in a local English medium school, he was left with very little resources to feed on his desire. Yet, whenever he had any extra income, he went to the university street to collect a Munsi Premchand or a Mirza Mohammad. Though he was not entirely happy with his job, given the circumstances, this was the best he could have. He had a dream to set up a school sometime in life for children and teach them language.
Vaibhav serves him tea. Hot. He looks into the hazy horizon beyond the Gulmohar tree in the canteen backyard. He could clearly see the kitchen smoke coming out of the adjoining slum. The smoke that changed his life’s course reappears in front of him. Whole of Bombay was on fire during those riot days. His room was attacked by an unknown mob. He could save Sudha and Aman from physical injury; but not his belongings. The dearest of his treasures, his books, turned into ashes. Like all his Muslim friends he could not flee to his native land, as long back, he was barred from entering the village for his alleged marriage with a Hindu girl. His friend Gangadhar, who worked as a gardener here, came to his rescue. He helped him to get this job; a sweeper’s job. He initially thought his graduation in Hindi literature would come in the way as over-qualification. But the director did not feel the same and was happy to appoint him. He was surprised to find quite a few like him. Some of the gardeners, housekeeping staffs and canteen boys were as qualified as him. Vaibhav is a twelfth pass.
At the other table there is a roar of laughter. Rajendra Sir is saying it aloud how the early nineties have brought prosperity to many. Not only Rajendra Sir, he has heard several times from many that the entire country has gained from certain government policies in the nineties. But his life has changed in the reverse direction. He lost all his belongings and almost was on streets. Sudha had to clean dishes in the neighbourhood to add to the household income. Since then, Sudha started looking to the floor most of the time rather than looking straight to anybody’s face. Aman had to discontinue his studies and was later put in a Municipal school. Rahim himself has lost faith in the education system. No more does he dream to set up a school. He is yet to touch a novel.
The well deserved breakfast is over. He feels this diet of bread and tea is the best meal he could have – it has protein, vitamins, caffeine and what not – most importantly, he does not feel hungry till it is past two. It is time for him to resume his work. Today he has to clean all the computers – the black and white TV like machines. He feels privileged to do this work rather than clean floors and panes. He understands these machines are very delicate, expensive and immensely useful. Aman has asked for one such machine several months back. He is waiting for institute’s annual second sale. He wipes the screen again. He needs to take care of these machines well as one of these may become his sometime in future. Otherwise too, he enjoys this part of the job. Sometime during early hours, when no security guard is around, he sits at the desk to feel a sense of privilege. Rahim has always been prestige-loving with his set of ego. However, over the last three to four years, since he has been on this job, he has increasingly felt spineless. Rahim, once very talkative, has learnt to become more silent. Nobody here, apart from Gangadhar and his friends, knows his name, let alone his life. Of course, Aditi is an exception.
He is through with all the machines of the room, and about to leave. Oh! He sees some spots on the handle-less exit door. In the meantime Shilpa madam left through the door; another set of spots. Whenever the door is pushed it leaves spots. Different people push it differently at different places. It obliges; but at the cost of its appearance. He feels connected, and thinks this new door deserves a better treatment. He walks fast towards the door, and cleans it back to its spotless status.
Next day, to his disappointment, he finds some fresh spots on the door. He cleans those. In fact everyday, he makes it a point to clean the door to the best of his ability. But over time, the smooth glass develops inerasable spots. At home, before going to sleep, he sometimes thinks about the poor door. He cannot digest the fact that in some days the door is going to look ordinary. Like him. The mere fact that he is a sweeper, troubles him even now. He had felt most uncomfortable when Aman asked him to fill a form mentioning his occupation. He could feel the deep pain of the hangmen, garbage collectors, cobblers and porters – all the people at the lowly ranks. They are all like handle-less doors. They need to lay their backs straight for others to walk on them.
Months pass by…
Today is a special day. He has seen the cobbler on the way smiling. He stands in the corridor, looking towards the bright sunshine. Gangadhar’s friend has cracked a joke and they are all laughing aloud while watering the plants. The office atmosphere is warm and party-like. It is Aditi’s birthday.
Aditi comes running towards him, with a beaming smile. She takes out from her bag two volumes of ‘Jhuhta Sach’― by Yashpal.
“It is my birthday chacha, and I have brought something for you.”
Rahim cannot believe his eyes; he takes the volumes and caresses them as if he has found a lost friend.
“Par beti, it is your day; I should have given you something instead.”
“Chacha, I need only your blessings.”
Somebody calls Aditi from inside; she goes back. The door opens up again with Aditi’s gentle push. It closes. No further spots appear. The once shining door has turned dullish. It is still without a handle. But it seems to enjoying its status.
Short Story 2012 Longlist, Madhavi Vaidya
The Banyan Tree
The most exciting part of my childhood was spent at my maternal uncle’s huge mansion in Piyali, a small town close to the sunderbans, near Kolkata. I still remember the magnificent nature of that mansion. It was called the Majumdar’s Haveli.
The haveli’s architecture was splendid. Huge stone walls gave it a towering look. Small windows were intricately holed into these walls and they overlooked a vast verandah. The ceilings were very high and were covered by sloping tiled roofs. There were several rooms in the mansion, each having a distinct character to it.
Three of my cousins and me were like a gang of goons in and around the haveli. We almost wrecked the place with our mischief.
Bikash was the naughtiest of all and being the only boy in our group he bullied us girls beyond limits. But the girls Soumi and Tanvi were also clever pranksters and my addition in the gang only encouraged them, especially to get even with Bikash as now the girls were even a stronger majority.
Most of our afternoons were spent circling the buildings and running carefree in the narrow by-lanes that twisted their way amidst huge buildings made of stone and bricks.
Just adjacent to our haveli near the end of a road, there was a big playground bounded by Mango trees, Tamarinds, Neems and a huge Banyan tree.
Five years ago my aunt succumbed to an accident leaving behind my cousins and uncle.
Her death was more than fodder to the gossip mongers in the town. Sometimes sudden deaths create quite a stir leaving the family in misery; one that is not caused by the death itself but because of the speculations that some empty minds circulate and also help keep them alive.
People blabbered about how my aunt’s soul would return to haunt the town; after all a mother for the sake of her children can come back even from the dead was their logic.
But uncle was not the one to believe in this futile gossip. He chose to ignore all that was said. He was a practical man and had to think about the future of three motherless kids. Hence he went ahead and hired Chellamma, a care taker for the children who also stayed with the family in the haveli.
Chellamma hailed from a nearby village. Her husband had died long ago. Her sons worked in the fields of the village. They were married and taken care of by their wives. Hence with no apparent responsibilities on her shoulders she agreed to stay at the haveli and visited her village only twice a year.
Chellamma defied the rules of old age with no hints of aching joints or a troubled spine. Looking at her no one could say she was sixty five. Full of enthusiasm and undying energy, she worked the whole day preparing food for the family, sending the children away to school, supervising the other servants of the house, picking up grocery from the market and then again cooking evening meals for the family.
After returning from our exhaustive afternoon wanderings in the town, Chellamma fed us delicious meals. The taste of her preparations lingered long after I last visited Piyali when I was a kid.
There is always something about childhood. The memories carry a flavour; a kind of a flavour that never ceases to die. And Chellamma sure added all the spice to that flavour. She not only fed us tasty food but she also weaved and narrated scary ghost stories.
The nights in Piyali would fall suddenly, engulfing and almost swallowing the bride-like beautiful twilight. The eerie silence would be very discomforting, with the air bringing in the smell of burnt leaves with it sometimes and with the wind echoing inside the huge rooms with high ceilings, one would well be actually able to visualize what a wind dance would be like.
Soumi’s room upstairs, right above the kitchen was the venue for our storytelling sessions. We would sit in her room in a semi- circle around Chellamma. The room was special with a huge king size antique bed that had a capacity to occupy almost four to five grown-ups at a time. A wooden book shelf stood content in the corner, full with books of Mahabharata, Ramayana, English dictionaries and some other story books.
The window just behind the huge bed was a little odd in its design. It was almost half the size of a door. Three of its four small doors rattled against the window at the slightest breeze. It overlooked the vast playground spread ahead of it with all the trees hemmed on the edges.
After the ritual of oiling our hair, Chellamma would begin narrating stories. Her stories revolved around ghosts, prets and about the wandering souls of those who had met death unalarmed. Her stories were so surreal that in between narrations I sometimes have felt someone’s presence near the door of our room. May be my aunt I thought, just wanting to peep in to mingle with her children for sometime…
One such night she narrated a story of a little girl.
‘The name of the girl was Paakhi’ Chellamma began to narrate.
‘But before I go and tell you what happened with her, mind you this is a true story that happened nearby. In fact, near the banyan tree right there, you see!’ Chellamma smiled pointing out at the banyan tree outside the window.
On a reflex we all stood on our knees on the bed to look at the banyan tree. It looked so huge with all the roots sprawling down from above. It almost appeared like a primeval giant to us.
‘What happened near the banyan tree Chellamma?’ asked Bikash
‘Paakhi was the daughter of one of the farmers who lived beyond those trees, across a small patch of paddy fields. This was some couple of years ago.’
Chellamma raised her eyebrows continuing her narration, ‘That night the full moon had just risen above the clouds. The girl had strayed away from her home in to the paddy field near the time of twilight. She had lost her way and had stopped near the banyan tree holding on to a doll in her hands. She had stopped to watch the monkeys on the banyan tree.’
‘Never go near those trees there,’ Chellamma warned us modulating her voice like a professional storyteller.
The nocturnal insects and crickets broke into a chorus with rhythmic creaks and pauses amidst pin drop silence of the night while Chellamma sipped water. The leaves of the banyan tree shined like silver in the bright moonlight.
‘So what happened to that girl Chellamma?’ Bikash asked curiously.
‘Strangely enough, she seemed to be attracted to watch the monkey play standing there all by herself. There were only two monkeys there, a pair of them to be precise. But the sound that was heard that night must have been at least of a dozen of monkeys.’ Chellamma continued.
‘Some say that the two monkeys are evil, they in a way had invited her there for the mean act…’
‘Evil monkeys? Mean act?’ asked Tanvi whose eyeballs were almost popping out of anxiety.
‘What mean act?’ I asked. ‘
‘Oh! Those two monkeys snatched her doll away. But they didn’t stop at that. They pulled out her limbs and they were at her throat when she started screaming’.
Chellamma paused and she went and stood near the window. We followed.
It was past one o‘clock in the night and there wasn’t a hint of sleep on anyone’s eyelids. The breeze from outside was getting wilder. The window doors rattled hard and the moon that looked as if it was pasted on to the sky cast its silver shimmer generously on to the banyan tree and also into our room…
‘Is it a true story?’ I asked to confirm.
‘Yes it is; I told you so. Even today on a full moon night people claim to have seen Paakhi around the banyan tree. She returns for her doll that was taken away by the monkeys’.
We looked at each other in disbelief.
‘And what happened to the monkeys, do they still visit the tree?’ asked Soumi.
‘Just in about a week after Paakhi’s death someone else died near the tree again, the monkeys were at it again for sure, but after that no one really claimed to have seen them on that tree.’
All of a sudden the gate of the haveli opened with a loud screech. We were so scared we rushed and held Chellamma tight.
‘It must be your father returning from his shift. Now go to sleep quickly or else he will send me back to my village for good.’ said Chellamma switching off the lights for us.
That night no one could sleep a wink and we all kept discussing the banyan tree, Paakhi and of course the monkeys.
After a week or so uncle decided to take us for a factory visit, a little study tour packed with loads of fun. After all it was a visit to the confectioneries and chocolate factory where uncle worked.
Uncle instructed our driver Bahadur to pick us up in the afternoon. Bahadur had only arrived in Piyali a week ago looking for a job and uncle had offered him one since he had known Bahadur’s father for a long time before he expired.
Bahadur had shifted to Piyali. His family stayed tucked in the far-away foggy slopes of the Himalayan ranges. Still not well versed with the local language he mostly communicated in broken words and even using sign language at times. Of all the things in this world, the one thing he was most scared of was ghosts. He told us about how he was the only one from his family to be able to see ghosts. A curse it was to him he thought.
That evening after our exciting factory visit, while we were on our way back Bahadur kept complaining about how the car’s engine was misbehaving. Uncle didn’t pay any heed to his complaints. We drove almost for half an hour and as we approached the playground near our haveli the car screeched to a sudden halt.
We heard a big thud on the roof of the car and some sort of a nail tapping. Bahadur immediately got down to check the unfamiliar sound but didn’t find anything nearby.
It was almost past eleven in the night and the moon had returned; this time bigger and brighter.
After much struggle with the engine Bahadur asked us to walk down to the house while he chose to repair the car or alternatively look for a mechanic nearby. We quickly matched steps and reached the haveli. Uncle followed soon.
The next morning our car was still at the ground. But Bahadur was nowhere to be seen. Uncle inquired about him around but no one had a clue about Bahadur.
The whole day was spent looking for him but in vain. We all finally returned home puzzled and worried. Chellamma served us dinner and asked uncle about Bahadur.
‘No, there’s no clue about his whereabouts.’ said uncle.
After a long pause uncle frowned and continued, ’but the last talk I had with Bahadur was a little weird I remember. Hespoke about something that he saw near the car’. Uncle looked confused.
‘What’? Asked Chellamma
‘He asked me whether monkeys venture out at night here. And after a pause he said he had seen a pair of them swaying on the banyan tree last night.’
The dinner was quickly gulped down that night with no more stories following it. The air had once again brought with it the smell of burnt leaves that spread across our room and the full moon floated amidst the clouds looking down upon the banyan tree.
The most exciting part of my childhood was spent at my maternal uncle’s huge mansion in Piyali, a small town close to the sunderbans, near Kolkata. I still remember the magnificent nature of that mansion. It was called the Majumdar’s Haveli.
The haveli’s architecture was splendid. Huge stone walls gave it a towering look. Small windows were intricately holed into these walls and they overlooked a vast verandah. The ceilings were very high and were covered by sloping tiled roofs. There were several rooms in the mansion, each having a distinct character to it.
Three of my cousins and me were like a gang of goons in and around the haveli. We almost wrecked the place with our mischief.
Bikash was the naughtiest of all and being the only boy in our group he bullied us girls beyond limits. But the girls Soumi and Tanvi were also clever pranksters and my addition in the gang only encouraged them, especially to get even with Bikash as now the girls were even a stronger majority.
Most of our afternoons were spent circling the buildings and running carefree in the narrow by-lanes that twisted their way amidst huge buildings made of stone and bricks.
Just adjacent to our haveli near the end of a road, there was a big playground bounded by Mango trees, Tamarinds, Neems and a huge Banyan tree.
Five years ago my aunt succumbed to an accident leaving behind my cousins and uncle.
Her death was more than fodder to the gossip mongers in the town. Sometimes sudden deaths create quite a stir leaving the family in misery; one that is not caused by the death itself but because of the speculations that some empty minds circulate and also help keep them alive.
People blabbered about how my aunt’s soul would return to haunt the town; after all a mother for the sake of her children can come back even from the dead was their logic.
But uncle was not the one to believe in this futile gossip. He chose to ignore all that was said. He was a practical man and had to think about the future of three motherless kids. Hence he went ahead and hired Chellamma, a care taker for the children who also stayed with the family in the haveli.
Chellamma hailed from a nearby village. Her husband had died long ago. Her sons worked in the fields of the village. They were married and taken care of by their wives. Hence with no apparent responsibilities on her shoulders she agreed to stay at the haveli and visited her village only twice a year.
Chellamma defied the rules of old age with no hints of aching joints or a troubled spine. Looking at her no one could say she was sixty five. Full of enthusiasm and undying energy, she worked the whole day preparing food for the family, sending the children away to school, supervising the other servants of the house, picking up grocery from the market and then again cooking evening meals for the family.
After returning from our exhaustive afternoon wanderings in the town, Chellamma fed us delicious meals. The taste of her preparations lingered long after I last visited Piyali when I was a kid.
There is always something about childhood. The memories carry a flavour; a kind of a flavour that never ceases to die. And Chellamma sure added all the spice to that flavour. She not only fed us tasty food but she also weaved and narrated scary ghost stories.
The nights in Piyali would fall suddenly, engulfing and almost swallowing the bride-like beautiful twilight. The eerie silence would be very discomforting, with the air bringing in the smell of burnt leaves with it sometimes and with the wind echoing inside the huge rooms with high ceilings, one would well be actually able to visualize what a wind dance would be like.
Soumi’s room upstairs, right above the kitchen was the venue for our storytelling sessions. We would sit in her room in a semi- circle around Chellamma. The room was special with a huge king size antique bed that had a capacity to occupy almost four to five grown-ups at a time. A wooden book shelf stood content in the corner, full with books of Mahabharata, Ramayana, English dictionaries and some other story books.
The window just behind the huge bed was a little odd in its design. It was almost half the size of a door. Three of its four small doors rattled against the window at the slightest breeze. It overlooked the vast playground spread ahead of it with all the trees hemmed on the edges.
After the ritual of oiling our hair, Chellamma would begin narrating stories. Her stories revolved around ghosts, prets and about the wandering souls of those who had met death unalarmed. Her stories were so surreal that in between narrations I sometimes have felt someone’s presence near the door of our room. May be my aunt I thought, just wanting to peep in to mingle with her children for sometime…
One such night she narrated a story of a little girl.
‘The name of the girl was Paakhi’ Chellamma began to narrate.
‘But before I go and tell you what happened with her, mind you this is a true story that happened nearby. In fact, near the banyan tree right there, you see!’ Chellamma smiled pointing out at the banyan tree outside the window.
On a reflex we all stood on our knees on the bed to look at the banyan tree. It looked so huge with all the roots sprawling down from above. It almost appeared like a primeval giant to us.
‘What happened near the banyan tree Chellamma?’ asked Bikash
‘Paakhi was the daughter of one of the farmers who lived beyond those trees, across a small patch of paddy fields. This was some couple of years ago.’
Chellamma raised her eyebrows continuing her narration, ‘That night the full moon had just risen above the clouds. The girl had strayed away from her home in to the paddy field near the time of twilight. She had lost her way and had stopped near the banyan tree holding on to a doll in her hands. She had stopped to watch the monkeys on the banyan tree.’
‘Never go near those trees there,’ Chellamma warned us modulating her voice like a professional storyteller.
The nocturnal insects and crickets broke into a chorus with rhythmic creaks and pauses amidst pin drop silence of the night while Chellamma sipped water. The leaves of the banyan tree shined like silver in the bright moonlight.
‘So what happened to that girl Chellamma?’ Bikash asked curiously.
‘Strangely enough, she seemed to be attracted to watch the monkey play standing there all by herself. There were only two monkeys there, a pair of them to be precise. But the sound that was heard that night must have been at least of a dozen of monkeys.’ Chellamma continued.
‘Some say that the two monkeys are evil, they in a way had invited her there for the mean act…’
‘Evil monkeys? Mean act?’ asked Tanvi whose eyeballs were almost popping out of anxiety.
‘What mean act?’ I asked. ‘
‘Oh! Those two monkeys snatched her doll away. But they didn’t stop at that. They pulled out her limbs and they were at her throat when she started screaming’.
Chellamma paused and she went and stood near the window. We followed.
It was past one o‘clock in the night and there wasn’t a hint of sleep on anyone’s eyelids. The breeze from outside was getting wilder. The window doors rattled hard and the moon that looked as if it was pasted on to the sky cast its silver shimmer generously on to the banyan tree and also into our room…
‘Is it a true story?’ I asked to confirm.
‘Yes it is; I told you so. Even today on a full moon night people claim to have seen Paakhi around the banyan tree. She returns for her doll that was taken away by the monkeys’.
We looked at each other in disbelief.
‘And what happened to the monkeys, do they still visit the tree?’ asked Soumi.
‘Just in about a week after Paakhi’s death someone else died near the tree again, the monkeys were at it again for sure, but after that no one really claimed to have seen them on that tree.’
All of a sudden the gate of the haveli opened with a loud screech. We were so scared we rushed and held Chellamma tight.
‘It must be your father returning from his shift. Now go to sleep quickly or else he will send me back to my village for good.’ said Chellamma switching off the lights for us.
That night no one could sleep a wink and we all kept discussing the banyan tree, Paakhi and of course the monkeys.
After a week or so uncle decided to take us for a factory visit, a little study tour packed with loads of fun. After all it was a visit to the confectioneries and chocolate factory where uncle worked.
Uncle instructed our driver Bahadur to pick us up in the afternoon. Bahadur had only arrived in Piyali a week ago looking for a job and uncle had offered him one since he had known Bahadur’s father for a long time before he expired.
Bahadur had shifted to Piyali. His family stayed tucked in the far-away foggy slopes of the Himalayan ranges. Still not well versed with the local language he mostly communicated in broken words and even using sign language at times. Of all the things in this world, the one thing he was most scared of was ghosts. He told us about how he was the only one from his family to be able to see ghosts. A curse it was to him he thought.
That evening after our exciting factory visit, while we were on our way back Bahadur kept complaining about how the car’s engine was misbehaving. Uncle didn’t pay any heed to his complaints. We drove almost for half an hour and as we approached the playground near our haveli the car screeched to a sudden halt.
We heard a big thud on the roof of the car and some sort of a nail tapping. Bahadur immediately got down to check the unfamiliar sound but didn’t find anything nearby.
It was almost past eleven in the night and the moon had returned; this time bigger and brighter.
After much struggle with the engine Bahadur asked us to walk down to the house while he chose to repair the car or alternatively look for a mechanic nearby. We quickly matched steps and reached the haveli. Uncle followed soon.
The next morning our car was still at the ground. But Bahadur was nowhere to be seen. Uncle inquired about him around but no one had a clue about Bahadur.
The whole day was spent looking for him but in vain. We all finally returned home puzzled and worried. Chellamma served us dinner and asked uncle about Bahadur.
‘No, there’s no clue about his whereabouts.’ said uncle.
After a long pause uncle frowned and continued, ’but the last talk I had with Bahadur was a little weird I remember. Hespoke about something that he saw near the car’. Uncle looked confused.
‘What’? Asked Chellamma
‘He asked me whether monkeys venture out at night here. And after a pause he said he had seen a pair of them swaying on the banyan tree last night.’
The dinner was quickly gulped down that night with no more stories following it. The air had once again brought with it the smell of burnt leaves that spread across our room and the full moon floated amidst the clouds looking down upon the banyan tree.
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