tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66425453776980422982024-03-06T06:22:26.656+04:00Wordweavers Wordweavers is a print magazine that publishes poetry and short fiction annually.Questhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02283087305270718193noreply@blogger.comBlogger1544125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-38245142084842226292023-12-25T16:58:00.003+04:002023-12-25T17:19:44.544+04:00Wordweavers 2023 Contest Results<p> </p><table border="1" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700; width: 690px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;" width="203"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Poetry</span></span></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="247"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Short Story<br /></span></span></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="218"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Short Fiction</span></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;">First Prize</td><td style="text-align: center;">First Prize</td><td style="text-align: center;">First Prize</td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/poetry-2023-first-prize-john-detroit.html">John Detroit</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/short-story-2023-first-prize-srabani-bhattacharya.html" style="color: #ff00cb;">Srabani Bhattacharya</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/short-fiction-2023-first-prize-ndaba-sibanda.html" style="color: #ff00cb;">Ndaba Sibanda</a></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span>Second Prize</span></td><td style="text-align: center;">Second Prize</td><td style="text-align: center;"><span>Second Prize</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/poetry-2023-second-prize-cj-anderson-wu.html">CJ Anderson-Wu</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/short-story-2023-second-prize-urmi-chakravorty.html" style="color: #ff00cb;">Urmi Chakravorty</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/short-fiction-2023-second-prize-shalini-singh.html" style="color: #ff00cb;">Shalini Singh</a></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;">Third Prize</td><td style="text-align: center;"><span>Third Prize</span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span>Third Prize</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/poetry-2023-third-prize-nivedita-rao.html">Nivedita Rao</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/short-story-2023-third-prize-preetha-vasan.html" style="color: #ff00cb;">Preetha Vasan</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/short-fiction-2023-third-prize-ananya.html" style="color: #ff00cb;">Ananya Varadarajan</a></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span>Featured Writers</span></td><td style="text-align: center;">Featured Writers</td><td style="text-align: center;"><span>Featured Writers</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/poetry-2023-winners-featured-writers.html">Featured Writers</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/short-story-2023-winners-featured-writers.html.html">Featured Writers</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/short-fiction-2023-winners-featured-writers.html">Featured Writers</a></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/poetry-2023-shortlist.html">Shortlist</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/short-story-2023-shortlist.html">Shortlist</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/short-fiction-2023-shortlist.html">Shortlist</a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span><span style="color: white;">.</span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist.html">Longlist</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist.html">Longlist</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist.html">Longlist</a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700;"> </p>Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-68331681875981091662023-12-25T16:57:00.001+04:002023-12-25T16:59:12.312+04:00Poetry 2023, First Prize, John Detroit<span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: medium;"><b>Stops in a Winged Bracket</b></span><br />(After visiting Borno)<br /><br /><br />Like a camel of solace I arrive in this city <br /> to find that space is the beginning of everything here...<br /><br />There are more grasses than people <br /> and a person found is a treasure sought,<br /><br />At nights grasses come alive <br /> and a moving grass is not the wind in question,<br /><br />To be here is to always observe the shadow<br /> and absence requires flight..<br /><br />In this city a person found is a treasure sought,<br /> and space, is the beginning of everything...Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-9820836849409689492023-12-25T16:54:00.000+04:002023-12-25T16:54:07.507+04:00Poetry 2023, Second Prize, CJ Anderson-WuYour Body Is Your Elegy<br /><br /><br />Last winter, our troops withdrew in a great haste <br /><br />without time to serve you a decent burial<br /><br />This summer, we marched back <br /><br />without finding the cross <br /><br />we hurriedly erected for you<br /><br /><br />After the snow melted<br /><br />you began to dissolve <br /><br />in the warmer wind blown from the south<br /><br />in the chirping of birds returning<br /><br />and during the convalescing soil's awakening<br /><br /><br />You exist within the stipa grass<br /><br />among the mallow flowers<br /><br />and amidst the spruce saplings<br /><br />Embracing the revitalized forests<br /><br /><br />You manifest as the gradually expanding streams<br /><br />meandering across the healing earth<br /><br />unfurling and growing<br /><br /><br />You are the glistening reflections of<br /><br />rippling water<br /><br />subliming in the air<br /><br />we breathe in<br /><br /><br />As we continue to march forward <br /><br />ready for our counteroffensive, you<br /><br />transmute into mist, moistening our parched lips that<br /><br />whisper a hymn<br /><br /><br />Your memorable elegyWordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-65264048981649775182023-12-25T16:32:00.001+04:002023-12-25T17:14:48.185+04:00Poetry 2023 Third Prize, Nivedita Rao<div><b><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: medium;">Moon</span></b></div><div><br /></div>/For Mah Laqa Bai Chanda/<div><br /><br />At the foot of the Moula Hills,<br /><br />The poetess reposes<br /><br />Her quill swirls<br /><br />When the moonlight<br /><br />drapes her Zenana</div><div><br /><br /><br />She is not a warrior<br /><br />She is not a courtesan<br /><br /><br />Smitten by the<br /><br />shape-shifting moon,<br /><br />When she lets her words unfurl<br /><br />Even the moon swoons</div>Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-23298861495975880882023-12-20T21:39:00.010+04:002023-12-25T17:00:30.905+04:00Short Fiction 2023 Winners & Featured Writers<p> Link</p><table border="1" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700; width: 690px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;" width="117"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist.html">Poetry</a><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="141"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist.html">Short Story</a><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="109"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist.html">Short Fiction</a></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="134"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/wordweavers-2023-contest-results.html">Contest Results</a></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="1" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700; width: 690px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;" width="203"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="247"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="218"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;">First Prize</td><td style="text-align: center;">Second Prize</td><td style="text-align: center;">Third Prize</td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/short-fiction-2023-first-prize-ndaba-sibanda.html">Ndaba Sibanda</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/short-fiction-2023-second-prize-shalini-singh.html">Shalini Singh</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/short-fiction-2023-third-prize-ananya.html">Ananya Varadarajan</a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;">Featured Writers</td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">B<br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist-urmi.html">Urmi Chakravorty</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">T</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">S</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">E</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">D</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">J</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>. </p>Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-71022787537837369872023-12-20T21:39:00.000+04:002023-12-20T22:05:37.478+04:00Short Story 2023 Winners & Featured Writers<p> Link</p><table border="1" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700; width: 690px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;" width="117"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist.html">Poetry</a><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="141"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist.html">Short Story</a><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="109"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist.html">Short Fiction</a></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="134"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/wordweavers-2023-contest-results.html">Contest Results</a></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="1" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700; width: 690px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;" width="201"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="237"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="212"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: medium;">First Prize</span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: medium;">Second Prize</span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: medium;">Third Prize</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/short-story-2023-first-prize-srabani-bhattacharya.html">Srabani Bhattacharya</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/short-story-2023-second-prize-urmi-chakravorty.html">Urmi Chakravorty</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/short-story-2023-third-prize-preetha-vasan.html">Preetha Vasan</a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #4c1130;">Featured Writers</span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-tarun.html">Tarun Chakraborty</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-sreelekha.html">Sreelekha Chatterjee</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-kalpana.html">Kalpana M Naghnoor</a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-nirmala.html">Nirmala Kasinathan</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-sherene-david.html">Sherene David</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-arko-datta.html">Arko Datta</a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">N</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700;"><span style="color: white;"> </span></p>Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-60851872386315643192023-12-20T21:36:00.002+04:002023-12-20T22:05:19.075+04:00Short Fiction 2023 First Prize, Ndaba Sibanda<p> <span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-weight: 700; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The Headman’s Oxymoronic And Dramatic Monologue </span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-a340d5f9-7fff-f03a-7e0c-f95868a28116" style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700;"><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">It’s not </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">old news</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> that Methuseli lived remotely close to two neighbors whose unneighborliness was amusing. The two were biologically related in a distant fashion. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Then their wives were </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">found missing</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> on their farms, not that they had decided to go to another planet and become resident aliens, but because they had to dig up a well in an almost exactly waterless river. Their faces wore </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">clear confusion</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> since portable water seemed to be nowhere to be found or simply elusive. Legend has it that dryness danced down the river the moment the villagers chased away a mermaid.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Certainly, it could be that they spent futile fourteen hours there, and their </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">overbearingly modest</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> and </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">understanding</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> men would not understand it a bit! Methuseli was not only one of the villagers there but also was a humble headman who </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">climbed down</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> a step or two and availed and offered his services to the community members with poise and pride.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“People should learn to live in harmony in this village. The </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">only choice</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> the two of you have is to either leave our village or to live in peace. Is this </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">clearly understood</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">?” An eloquent and earsplitting silence descended on the scene. Indeed, both the Moyos and Dlomos screamed silent squeals.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Both accused the headman of cruel kindness, and both were </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">openly deceptive</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> because they did not wear sad smiles and did not tell him that he was exhibiting </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">caring cruelty</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">. “Your silent screams mean that you’re either living dead or are loyally opposed to my intervention and jurisdiction. I mean , l know that I'm not mean. Either way, the difference is the same, just get a life and be extinct if you’re not going to listen to me, the chief’s envoy!”</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Both families wondered whether they were icy hotheads and wise morons seeking to find the meaning of life in an island surrounded and punctuated with a sea of meaninglessness. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">They pondered whether they were merely clever fools whose life was nothing but a web of confusions, convolutions and conflicts, an array of oxymorons, ironies and paradoxes. Where were life’s formulas, manuals, templates, trajectories and prescriptions? Were they not like learner drivers bearing the letter L when it came to living and making sense of life, its highs and lows, turns and twists, sweetnesses and aches, moods and melodies, temperatures and temptations, grins and frowns, days and nights, strolls and riddles, rights and wrongs?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">What makes one glad doesn’t necessarily make the other person contented. What heals one patient doesn’t essentially cure the next person. Right? What angers one soul sometimes pleases the other. What is one’s preferred plate is another guzzler’s spurned pollution. What is one’s success story is another person’s fiasco or mediocrity. Even words like development and democracy mean different things to different people. One man’s issue is another’s no- issue. Such is life. A bulky ball and breath of colours, creeds, complexities, contradictions, controversies, consensuses and corrections. Feats, flaws and failings. Different people have different perspectives and perceptions. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Certainly, life is a gift to be cherished, cared-for and celebrated. It is a celebration of stars, the days, the moments and the opportunities. An embracing of love, friendships, families, funniness, foolishness, the beauty of the breeze, the marveling of the moon, the sun and the vastness and uniqueness of the sky. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Of seeking peace of mind, stability and compromises even in the face of silent screams, right wrongs, virtuous liabilities, uninvited urgings, dressed transparencies, unstable sanities, static flows of impossible solutions, easy riddles, blissful elegies, painless pains, bright nights, dark days and genuine imitations. It is a bold stride in spite of repellant pulls and unruly, noisy serenity. Life is a legacy. A mysterious, matchless march towards nobility and exceptionality. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">It turned out to be a turning point for the two families whose nights had </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">working vacations</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">, whose bodies had restless, sleepless calm by virtues of being locked in frequent friendly battles of tossing live snakes and truthful lies at one another, that day was a dawn and an end, they swore a silent, stern and sane vow to live life awfully good the way they knew how. Life had to be lived, relearned and relished. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">“You are no longer the </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">original copies</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> of children. Yet your actions indicate that you’re </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">growing smaller and shorter</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> like</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">burning candles. At least,</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">burning candles give out light. You don't!</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> Irresponsible responsibility or unbecoming behavior won’t be tolerated here. We don’t allow </span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">adult children</span><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style", serif; font-size: 14pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> to live in this village. Kids, yes. Hope your deafness has heard, for it has to heed”. The headman concluded. </span></p></span>Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-63837552546144285452023-12-20T21:33:00.021+04:002023-12-20T22:21:42.897+04:00Short Fiction 2023 Third Prize, Ananya Varadarajan<span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: medium;">The Stars That Are Yet Alive</span><div><br />Cat hair makes her sneeze. So we skirt around each other. He laughs at us, at me especially. The idea that I could be a cat is very amusing to him. My paws are rough, my tail short and my fur non-existent. Why does she sneeze then? Oops, sorry, it's pollen allergies that she's got. <br /><br /><br />He wants to lie under the night sky and fall asleep watching the stars. This I find laughable. It is ridiculous how he finds dead celestial bodies calming. She joins him sometimes. They spend hours together trying to find Ursa Major. They have never been successful. Yet, they look happy as they drift into a peaceful slumber, not bothered by the futility of their efforts.<br /><br />What about me?<br />I sharpen my claws(or nails rather) on a large, flat stone and set off on a quest.<br /><br />To find the stars that are yet alive.</div>Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-29713983522358514742023-12-20T21:33:00.018+04:002023-12-20T22:10:46.163+04:00Short Fiction 2023 Second Prize, Shalini Singh<p> <span style="background-color: white; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; text-align: center; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Perigee Apogee</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-4f600566-7fff-8fac-68f7-4ac4459dd4b3" style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Year 2027</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">A quick calendar in a slow year flips in. I have been marking calendars and filing dates with an abruption that is persevering on the desires rather than accomplishing those desires. I have seen shapes before but never a colored shape. A blue. Dot. A blue dot. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The point of the orbit closest to Earth is called </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">perigee</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">, while the point farthest from Earth is known as </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">apogee</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">. Failing and flailing. Round and round. Criss crossed. A blue. Dot. A blue dot. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">The distance between these points affects satellite operations, data collection, and orbital maintenance. I am stuck somewhere in between and have been here since that blue dot surfaced in the endless dark. Failing and flailing. Round and round. Criss crossed.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I am stuck. But I am aware. A blue. Dot. A blue dot. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Aware of how I am no more when I orbit. I am trying to get closer to the blue dot but failing. It is as if I am circling. Failing and circling. Failing and flailing. Round and round. Criss-crossed. Back to where I began. Back to zero. A big fat zero that cracks my ego open, and the orbit becomes a heated pan, my yolk spread on the tiles, my dead dog licking the yellow off the floor, as my spirit sticks in. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.295; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I flip in. Failing and flailing. Round and round. Criss crossed. A blue. Dot. A blue dot.</span></p></span>Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-25594175163496104542023-12-20T21:33:00.012+04:002023-12-20T21:34:18.205+04:00Short Story 2023 Third Prize, Preetha Vasan<p>The “Famous Five”</p><br />Tenzin loves summer holiday projects. Last summer we solved mysteries because Tenzin insisted that we were the Famous Five (though we are only four). So we went around investigating everything: the suspicious gardener who always disappears at ten a.m. sharp, the new folks in our block (Tenzin was sure they were terrorists), and the mysterious yellow van parked in the by-lane behind. It all turned out to be completely ordinary after all. And we got into plenty of trouble with our neighbours for not minding our own business like “good children”.<br /><br />Tenzin, Zarine, Jenna and I are double-buddies. We go to the same school- Kasturibai Memorial and live in the West Block of the apartment complex- Royal Residency whose other three wings, are rather boringly, and quite predictably, called: North, South, and East Blocks. Sometimes we wish they were named like the blocks where, insufferable Joe, our classmate, lives. Because his Zeus Heights’ blocks are named after the Greek Gods. That should be like living in Camp Half- Blood everyday of your life.<br /><br />Royal Residency overlooks the biggest playground in the city. Nehru Park is more a public park, though we at Royal Residency have claimed it as our own Wankhede stadium. Joe says Zeus Heights’ private playground is way bigger. We still think ours is the biggest. And in our self-proclaimed Wankhade Stadium a zillion cricket matches go on in different parts of the field at the same time. Some of our teams are so good we even attract a few spectators.<br /><br />“Just idlers,” Tenzin dismissed my proud claims, pulling his goofy cowlick over his shiny forehead.<br /><br />Since June this year our involvement in these matches has not been as active as we’d have preferred it to be, thanks to school and parents.<br /><br />Jenna’s mother’s, “No Nehru Park in sixth grade” has not, thankfully, come true. Our parents have concluded that all work and no play make us not dull; definitely cranky.<br /><br />So here we are on the first Saturday since school re-opened.<br /><br />I have my cordless microphone and speaker, my advance birthday gift from Appa. He calls me “Royal Residency’s Harsha Bhogle”. Tenzin says the title suits me perfectly.<br /><br />I perch myself at the correct distance.<br /><br /><br />I begin “It is a bright, sunny day here at Nehru Park.”<br /><br /><br />A stupid opening line; all days at Nehru Park are bright and sunny. Except when it pours. Then it becomes Nehru Lake.<br /><br />“In today’s opening match West Block’s master blaster Jenna faces North Block’s deadly in swinger. The little lady is dancing down the wicket like the mighty Tendulkar and …”<br /><br />Jenna is out.<br /><br />“First cherry. And gone”<br /><br />She glares at me as she walks up “It’s a tennis ball dumbo! More like first mango!”<br /><br />Nobody else likes to be a commentator. So I pretend to be Ravi Shastri, Harsha, Bhogle and Sunil Gavaskar . It gets a bit annoying. For the others.<br /><br /><br />Tenzin sprints up “Dude, I think you should cool down!”<br /><br />Genuine talent is never appreciated. I resume as Bhogle, “At the end of the first innings West Block’s score reads forty-four for three. After a short drink break Northern Block is ready to take on the mighty onslaught of Zarine Haneefa”.<br /><br />One of the openers glares at me and pulls Zarine for a six. More burst of energy continues. Not for long.<br /><br />“North Wing players are not so confident after the loss of both their openers”, I smirk .<br /><br />The match is really heating up now.<br /><br />“Zarine Haneefa is on a hat trick” I holler into the microphone, causing a match between South Block and East Block to come to a halt.<br /><br />Despite Zarine’s feat we lose the match. After that it is too hot to continue. We laze around licking our golas, its pink water soaking our sweaty t-shirts. Jenna immediately brings up the topic of our weeklong heated investigation: The Mystery of Muthu.<br /><br />Schools always reopen on Mondays; ours decided not to be the exception. So, after we had dragged ourselves to the first of many dull Mondays and agreed to meet at our secret spot for lunch, Tenzin and Zarine headed towards their sections. The first thing Jenna and I saw when we got to ours was the new boy surrounded by our class bullies.<br /><br />“Why does he stink like that?” Mira held her nose.<br /><br />Neeta, who does everything Mira does, did the same. She looked at him with disgust “He is dark, isn’t he?”<br /><br />“He is an I.A.S officer” Joe declared.<br /><br />Everyone looked at him, puzzled.<br /><br />“Invisible after Sunset, Stupids”<br /><br />Mira, Neeta and others don’t like to be called stupid; they laughed anyway.<br /><br />Jenna and I moved closer.<br /><br />“Oh, hello losers! Now with darkie here you all can really be the Famous Five”, Sameer’s grin was positively malicious, “Where’s chinky-chink, the china man?”<br /><br />“Tenzin’s Tibetan” Jenna growled “not Chinese!”<br /><br /><br />“Okay the refugee, then” Joe smacked the table. “Perfect. The Famous Five: the darkie, the refugee, the nerd, the burqua and the …”<br /><br />I didn’t let him finish. I pushed him down and landed on top of him.<br /><br /><br />“Fight! Fight!”<br /><br /><br />The advent of Shilpa ma’am brought the brawl to a rapid conclusion. She said that we escaped detention, it being the first day and all<br /><br />By the end of the day, we had found two things about the new boy: his name was Muthu; he did not talk. At all.<br /><br />By the end of the week, we have found more things.<br /><br /><br /><br />Zarine flips open her notepad. She had got it when we were trying to be the Famous Five.<br /><br />“Good detectives always make notes”, she had said.<br /><br />She reads out her week’s entries,<br /><br />“What we know about Muthu:<br /><br />Can talk<br /><br /><br />English, not good. Maybe that’s why he does not talk much (our theory)<br /><br /><br />Sleeps a lot<br /><br /><br />Disappears during lunch break<br /><br /><br />Doesn’t complete his homework.<br /><br /><br />Has never been pulled up for that.”<br /><br /><br />“Maybe we should spy on him during lunch break. Find out where he goes.” Tenzin suggests and offers to do it on Monday.<br /><br />We all agree. This will give us our first break through in our new mystery.<br /><br /><br />On Monday evening Tenzin is bursting with hunger and news. The skipped lunch, on account of following Muthu all over the campus, disappears in enormous mouthfuls.<br /><br />“He eats nothing,” Tenzin sputters almost choking on his roti –subzi. “He lives off the water from the cooler the entire day.”<br /><br />“Why?” I ask.<br /><br /><br />“Because he is poor” Jenna has stopped in her tracks.<br /><br /><br />Zarine grabs Jenna’s shoulders “That’s why they are not pulling him up.”<br /><br />I wish Jenna and Zarine will stop talking in their usual code language.<br /><br />I’m glad Tenzin is equally puzzled.<br /><br /><br />“Like the way they don’t pull up Tenzin” Jenna’s eyes do their I-figured- out-wide-as- discs -thing.<br /><br />“Because he is a refugee”. Zarine pipes up<br /><br />“Hey” Tenzin stops eating.<br /><br />“Jenna, Zarine can you please explain” I practically shout.<br /><br />“Don’t you get it?” Jenna looks at me with disbelief.<br /><br />“No” I yelp.<br /><br /><br />“That’s why you should pay attention in class” Zarine winks.<br /><br /><br />“Though we’re yet to get to Civics.” Jenna explains, shrugging her shoulder, “You know how painfully slow Mosambi is. We should have got to the chapter on fundamental rights last week. She has just started the Aryan Civilization.”<br /><br />That’s unfair .Moushumi ma’am is patient; makes sure all of us “understand”. Jenna reads all her text books in the holidays and gets restless in class. I’m still figuring out what the hue and cry was all about as regards the Harappans .<br /><br />I’m still clueless about what Muthu has got to do with Civics and Moushumi ma’am.<br /><br />“Civics. Chapter 1, page 18, second paragraph” Jenna says this before Zarine can open her mouth.<br /><br />Jenna can be such a show off sometime.<br /><br />As we reach our block she whispers in my ears “Go check Education Act 2009” and dashes up the<br /><br />stairs.<br /><br /><br />When I get home, I don’t bother changing. I flip the pages of the Social Science textbook to get to the Civics part.<br /><br />I swear softly; I can’t remember the page number. I read the entire chapter; almost fall asleep, when I spot the Act in the yellow “Did you Know?” box.<br /><br />It’s all a lot of blah about fundamental rights. I still can’t reckon what it has to do with solving the mystery surrounding Muthu. Google is no use. Only Zarine and Jenna can figure out all those big words. I decide to wait for Appa.<br /><br />Sundays are Appa’s rest days. He puts a “Closed” sign outside the kitchen like the one he puts outside his clinic. We order pizza; discuss school. On all the other days, between housework and his clinic, I don’t like to disturb Appa. Today is an exception.<br /><br />Yesterday when I told him about Muthu he was not at all puzzled. Till I came to the part about him going scot-free even with incomplete schoolwork. Then Appa’s eyebrows jumped.<br /><br />Appa comes home at ten. He doesn’t like it that I’m still awake; he ruffles my hair and raises his eyebrows, “Test or project?”<br /><br />“Appa, what is the Right to Education Act?”<br /><br /><br />He brings his curd rice to the dining table. Usually he polishes it off in the kitchen in rapid mouthfuls like Tenzin, the spy.<br /><br />He goes on for five minutes like our Social Studies textbook about how the act ensures compulsory education for every child.<br /><br />I cut him off, “What does it have to do with Muthu?”<br /><br />“The new boy?”<br /><br />“Yes, and how is he like Tenzin?”<br /><br />“Tenzin?”<br /><br />I sum up Jenna and Zarine’s grand revelations. Appa’s face clears up. He smiles.<br /><br />By the time I get the big picture, it’s almost eleven.My head is swimming; there’s also something warm and happy filling me up. Suddenly I feel a great pride for my school. Look how they were the first school to admit a Tibetan refugee in the entire city.<br /><br />They are doing the same for Muthu, helping, in Appa’s words “the underprivileged boy get quality education”. For free.<br /><br />That’s so cool for Muthu.<br /><br /><br />It still did not solve his other problem.Food.<br /><br /><br />“Maybe we can share our lunch with him” I ponder over my breakfast .<br /><br />Appa stops scraping the dosa pan, “If he wants to.”<br /><br />Why wouldn’t he want to? I almost ask. Then I get it. It’s exactly like the times we forget to charge my batteries.<br /><br />For all the tedium of the term our friendship with Muthu grows at a terrific pace, this despite Joe and gang’s frequent “Hola Famous losers!”<br /><br />Even though he lets us help with homework and stuff, Muthu still does not eat with us. I explain Appa’s point of view to the others<br /><br />“That’s different” Zarine argues “This is a matter of nutrition. Lack of carbs and proteins makes one sleepy”<br /><br />Zarine sounds exactly like her mother, who, forever thinks I look malnourished.<br /><br /><br />“If we tell him it will help him stay awake in class, he might share our food.” Tenzin is excited.<br /><br />Muthu bursts out laughing at our sleep theory.<br /><br /><br />He explains, in broken sentences, going hungry is no big deal for him.<br /><br />“I have problem”, he frowns. “No money.”<br /><br />“We don’t get pocket money either” I blurt out.<br /><br />Jenna scowls darkly at me.<br /><br />Muthu guffaws.<br /><br /><br />That’s when he reveals the impossible wall, we almost think we cannot scale.<br /><br /><br />He is very poor. Before he came to school, he used to do several odd jobs to help his parents: paper delivery in the morning, masonry through the day, cleaner in a restaurant in the evening. Now with school he can’t help his family. His sisters are very young; his mother has to stay at home to look after them. Earlier Muthu would take care of them between his several jobs and mother could work in a few houses.<br /><br />“Now only newspaper delivery and table cleaning. No sleep at night. So sleep in class”<br /><br /><br />“But that’s child labour” Zarine protests.<br /><br /><br />Muthu wipes his forehead on his shirt sleeve, “School good. Money bad. Better to leave school”<br /><br />“No, no you can’t leave” we all object at the same time.<br /><br /><br />Muthu smiles and walks away leaving us with our full and bursting dabbas. Except none of us are hungry anymore.<br /><br />“Guys we got to do something” I protest. “Maybe we can collect money from our homes…”<br /><br />Tenzin cuts me short “Dude he won’t even share our food.”<br /><br /><br />For an entire week we brainstorm. We only come up with no brainers.<br /><br /><br />By Saturday I feel so wretched I go to Nehru Park without my speaker and microphone.<br /><br />Mr.Khan , our neighbor who runs an NGO, is distributing some fliers. He sticks one i n my hand, “Arre beta please come. It is to help a sick kid”<br /><br />The flier says “A Fundraiser …”<br /><br /><br />Suddenly it hits me. I know how we can help Muthu. I’m so excited I can’t wait to get to the others.<br /><br />Jenna brings me to a sudden halt, “Hey, you are going to hurt yourself”.<br /><br />I grin at them from ear to ear.<br /><br />“What’s so funny dude?” Tenzin asks.<br /><br /><br />Slowly and steadily I explain my idea. Everyone’s eyes grow wider and wider. Yet none of us can beat Jenna’s. They are like flying saucers when I finish.<br /><br /><br />II<br /><br /><br /><br />The following Sunday we decided to pitch it to Appa.<br /><br /><br />“It could work” he smiled at us.<br /><br />The pizza turned into mulch in my mouth. Could?<br /><br />“A plan of this scale “he said beaming at me “requires a lot of ground work.”<br /><br />“Like what uncle?” Zarine pulled out her notepad<br /><br />“For starters you have to meet the M.L.A to get permission to use Nehru Park, which, could be easily arranged through Khan Saab who always has his fundraisers there.”<br /><br />Zarine’s pencil zipped. No wonder she finishes her classwork faster than the time I take to finish my pepperoni pizza.<br /><br />“As it involves Muthu we also need your school’s consent.<br /><br />Of course, Royal Residency is the core. You must explain the whole thing to the residents.”<br /><br />Since that Sunday, Appa has helped us quite a bit.<br /><br />The local M.L.A kept muttering, “Badiya. Bahuth Badiya”.<br /><br /><br />Then Mrs Kiran, our principal, shook our hands for being such “fine children”.<br /><br /><br />Now all we have to do is convince the residents who are wandering around the party hall as if it’s yet another kitty party.<br /><br />The four of us look at each other nervously. The hall is slowly getting scarily crowded.<br /><br />Zarine and Tenzin have put together a power point presentation. I wish Jenna, the smooth talker, would do the talking, but she shook her head “It’s your idea.”<br /><br />The first slide reads “Royal Residency Quadrangular Series: A Fundraiser”<br /><br />Everyone grows quiet. I start nervously, “Muthu is our classmate, our friend.”<br /><br />As I go on the nervousness slips away; the excitement takes over,<br /><br />“Our series is like any other cricket tournament. Only here the teams will be from our complex.”<br /><br />A buzz breaks out. I go on,<br /><br /><br />“At the end of the round robins, based on the points table we play two semifinals” Tenzin’s slide is an ICC World Cup points table.<br /><br />I sigh and continue “Team 1 and 4 will play the first semi-final and teams 2 and 3, the second”<br /><br />A huge round of applause follows my last statement, “Teams who qualify will face each other in the finals.”<br /><br />Yikes! I have left out the most important part. I get it all out in a rush, “Spectators will be charged just ten rupees per ticket. This money will go into a bank account the school will create in Muthu’s name.”<br /><br />That way Muthu can come to school and not worry about his family.<br /><br /><br />Once the Q& A session turns into a back –patting one, help comes from the most unexpected quarters.<br /><br />Mr. Bose runs a printing press. He will take care of the tickets.<br /><br /><br />Mr. Khan’s NGO will sponsor the trophy. In fact, the whole event!<br /><br />Only Muthu requires convincing. Tenzin has an idea<br /><br />The captains decide to play only five players per team. We are only so many. Teams with inadequate numbers bring in ‘guest’ players.<br /><br />That’s how Muthu becomes West Block’s “thirteenth” man.<br /><br />After Mr. Khan & co take over, all we have to do is focus on the training and I hope to watch a few matches to brush up my commentator-skills.<br /><br />But there will be , Mr Khan tells us, real T.V. commentators, I lose my only role. There’s still lot of stuff to do: distributing fliers at school, ( Joe and gang promptly tear them up); ensuring teams get their right jerseys and keeping the score card with Tenzin on the day of the tournament .<br /><br />III<br /><br />Which is today!<br /><br />Nehru Park is packed.<br /><br />“We are sold out” Mrs Kiran announces to us in the stands.<br /><br />The crowd roars as the captains walk in.<br /><br />The first round robin begins. Our T- 10 idea has been cut down to 5 overs per team.<br /><br />“Ten overs are too exhausting” one of the captains had explained.<br /><br />By afternoon the points table looks something like this.<span id="docs-internal-guid-87d282db-7fff-fee5-cada-ea633b465acd"><br /><br /><div align="left" dir="ltr" style="margin-left: -0.25pt;"><table style="border-collapse: collapse; border: none;"><colgroup><col width="104"></col><col width="2"></col><col width="102"></col><col width="4"></col><col width="100"></col><col width="2"></col><col width="92"></col><col width="2"></col><col width="102"></col><col width="1"></col><col width="103"></col></colgroup><tbody><tr style="height: 27.55pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.5pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Teams</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.25pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Played</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.55pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Lost</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Won</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Tied</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Points</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 27.55pt;"><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.5pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">North</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.25pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">3</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.55pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">0</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">3</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">0</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">6</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 27.55pt;"><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.5pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">South</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.25pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">3</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.55pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">1</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">2</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">0</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">4</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 27.55pt;"><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.5pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">East</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.25pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">3</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.55pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">2</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">1</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">0</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">2</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 27.55pt;"><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.5pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">West</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.25pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">3</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.55pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">3</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">0</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">0</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">0</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table></div></span><br />“Things looking dismal for the West Wing” I mutter to myself.<br /><br />“They will tear us apart in the semis” Tenzin clenches his fist.<br /><br />But in the first semi- finals Jenna hits five consecutive sixers and Zarine rips through North Block’s middle order. Suddenly , just like that, we are in the finals.<br /><br />“Early celebrations in the West Wing green room” I declare staring at Jenna and Zarine hugging each other as if they have just been handed over the trophy.<br /><br />Tenzin shakes his head “Never celebrate till it’s over”<br /><br />When the Final commences sharply at 4:30, things begin to go wrong.<br /><br /><br />North Wing wins the toss and decides to field. Not good for us. The ball is keeping too low.<br /><br />Jenna goes for a duck. West Wing still manages to put up a 40/5.<br /><br />Tenzin’s “Zarine will do it” is more a prayerful statement than a vote of confidence.<br /><br />In the second innings Zarine, crashes into the boundary fence and tears a ligament. She hobbles out of the field.<br /><br /><br />We are one bowler short. We are one player short. Tenzin and I stare at each other in absolute horror.<br /><br /><br />Muthu, the thirteenth man, runs into the field. The team gets into a huddle. The captain tosses the ball to Jenna.<br /><br /><br />We heave a sigh of relief.<br /><br /><br />Jenna ‘s jersey reads “10”; her bowling action is a clumsy rendition of the little master.<br /><br />“And he hits her straight through midwicket for a smashing four” I cannot help myself<br /><br />Tenzin glares at me “Seriously dude?”<br /><br /><br />By the third over North Block is cruising to victory, even though they have lost two wickets. Muthu ‘s brilliant run out from Mid-on brings their run accumulation to a temporary halt. After that they continue their brilliant performance and win, with an over to spare.<br /><br />When our MLA gives away the trophy to the North Block, Tenzin almost cries.<br /><br /><br />“I also request you sir,” says the announcer “ to hand over this cheque ,worth ten lakhs, to Muthu.”<br /><br />A deafening noise follows this announcement.<br /><br /><br />“And now for the special awards”, he continues. “Can Tenzin, Zarine, Jenna and Geetha come forward to receive the Champions Award for their extraordinary service to society.”<br /><br />My friends huddle behind me.<br /><br />I move the gears on my joy stick.<br /><br />Like I said, it is always good to charge your batteries. My wheelchair moves, better than a Lamborghini, towards the dias.Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-31880447572534480662023-12-20T21:33:00.005+04:002023-12-20T21:33:00.127+04:00Short Story 2023 Second Prize, Urmi Chakravorty<p> Bullseye!</p><br /><br /><i>Dreamers are losers... Darn! I hate dreams. Quit dreaming. Act fast, act hard, and victory is yours!</i><br /><br />The immaculate handwriting stares back at you from the crumpled piece of paper. A quarter of a sheet hurriedly torn out from a notebook. Its blank spaces still smell of the lunch box you placed in your daughter’s school satchel every day. Its frayed edges, curling inwards, twisting, still seem to bear the touch of her dainty fingers. Fingers that were so different from your own, rendered rough and calloused with all your archery practice. Her fingers that curved delicately around the pen and wrote in a cursive you were so proud of.<br /><br />“Selma, you should consider joining the calligraphy classes after school,” you often nudged her. Though in your heart, you knew too well that she had also planned to take up archery and excel in it like you did, once she finished high school. You often caught her miming a bullseye shot, all by herself, in front of the mirror. And you would chuckle to yourself.<br /><br />What is it they say about the apple falling not far from the tree?!<br /><br />Selma, all of fourteen, would roll her eyes — warm doe eyes glazed with just the right hint of chestnut, smiling at you from a bronzed face. The quintessential example of ‘beauty with brains’ – a perceived rarity amongst the coloured populace but always acknowledged and admired by the fair-skinned majority of your town. The same doe eyes that stared at you a year later – gaping, unseeing, unblinking. You had knelt down briefly to check if she had, indeed, been fatally hit by an enemy bullet or she had simply collapsed by the impact of the sudden shelling. The steady carmine trickle oozing out and forming a small pool around her neck, confirmed your worst fears. You held her palms tight, as if trying to breathe life into them.<br /><br />A short, sharp whistle blew, urging you all to keep together and keep moving.<br /><br />“Keep moving fast, Miss! You stay put here and you miss the bus…the ceasefire isn’t gonna last the whole day!” The gruff voice of the escorting sergeant rudely invaded the last few moments you had with her.<br /><br />Ceasefire, indeed!<br /><br />The sudden brr..rr..tt..tt of enemy bullets ricocheting through the air, and the erratic rat-tat-tat of automatic rifles seemed to smirk at the travesty of the word! With leaden feet, you hobbled along the dark, rugged path that promised a getaway from this macabre spectacle of war. On alien shores, far away from your homeland. A land rich in diversity and inclusivity, a sanctuary for all your happy and sad moments, and countless memories of your life so far.<br /><br />You grabbed Selma’s satchel and plodded along with the other evacuees, tears blinding your sight. A scream rose in your throat but no sound emerged. You were surprised at your own resilience – not a murmur of protest, nor any cry of grief. Only a deafening silence that became an integral part of your new, altered persona. Dry-eyed, stone-hearted, tight-lipped.<br /><br />*****<br /><br />You keep reading Selma’s hand-written words over and over again, like a woman possessed.<br /><br />She was right – dreams mean nothing. Action is the actual and only way out.<br /><br />Sitting on the uncomfortable cot in the makeshift refugee camp, you look around. At a quick estimate, you find about three hundred people housed in tents, hurriedly set up in a playground in a small town bordering your own. Geographically, it is a separate country, and hence, safe. Politically, it is an ally which has agreed to accommodate war-affected citizens like you.<br /><br />Displacement and isolation have a quirky impact on human beings, you surmise. Men, women and children of all ages - dazed, displaced, distressed, like you - all grappling with a sense of hiraeth. Each trying to navigate through the labyrinth of newness and uncertainty in their own way. While initially you all were apprehensive and suspicious of one another, with each passing day you notice a thaw in these frigid vibes. You now seek solace and succour in each other’s company, share feelings of nostalgia and anger, and collectively pray for peace. You do hear of stray conflicts among the camp-dwellers but they get resolved within a day or two.<br /><br />The conditions here are not too bad for a refugee camp, you admit, thanks to a mounting global concern for your countrymen. You have a roof over your head, your own bed, and three decent meals to eat. Volunteers, para-medical personnel and the media routinely check on you. And yet, you’re seized by recurrent bouts of despair, guilt, grief, and most of all, anger. A crippling anger for not being able to save your daughter, your universe, your raison d’etre. For being a mere spectator in your early married years as your husband kept cheating with impunity and finally walked out on you for another woman. For helplessly watching your neighbourhood being razed to rubble, with columns of choking, ominous smoke billowing out of almost everywhere – the fallout of a mindless, unprovoked war.<br /><br />Funny how war is considered a divisive force. It’s actually the most compelling factor binding people together in a common thread of loss, death and devastation. Much more powerful and unifying than peace itself!<br /><br />You smile at your own dystopian thought. Such thoughts seem to have found a permanent shelter in your heart these days. But you don’t complain – you’re grateful that you’re still capable of humour, even if it has a dark, wry flavour.<br /><br />********<br /><br />It’s been six months since you came here. By now, you’ve interacted with most of the camp inmates. You often find yourself observing a young girl at the far end of your enclosure. Blessed with spotless ebony skin, sculpted features, and dense curly tresses, she’s poised on the cusp of adulthood. A casual conversation reveals her predicament. She is a war orphan, with her entire home and family wiped out in an unannounced shelling on their neighbourhood. She was visiting her suburban friends and hence, spared. However, instead of agonising over her fate, you’re pleasantly surprised to find her maintain a sunny disposition most of the time. Chatting up people of all ages, frolicking with children in the makeshift play area, rocking infants to sleep while their tired moms took a catnap, lending a sympathetic ear to hoary women recounting their happy past – she seems to do it all so effortlessly that you cannot help but admire her affability. And patience. You often wonder at the secret behind her sang froid. Her devastating reality makes your own grief seem a tad less burdensome. You enjoy talking to her and sharing memories of happy times. Her radiant smile injects a trickle of lightness into your woebegone veins. You realise with some surprise that your benumbed heart has started beating after a long hiatus, and this time, it is throbbing for Zahra, the young girl.<br /><br />Of late, you’ve noticed a man sneaking into the tent at odd hours, often when the other inmates are resting. A beefy man with an outdoorsy tan, a thick unruly mop and constantly shifting eyes, he talks intently and furtively with Zahra. They have long conversations, peeking over their heads, as if to remain out of everyone’s earshot. Especially yours, the lone waking member in the tent. Sometimes you see them leave together and walk to the far end of the ground, engrossed in a deep dialogue. The man seems to explain things at length, his demeanour reeking of coercion rather than persuasion. Zahra looks uncertain at times, hopeful at others. Your maternal instincts kick in, you’re tempted to find out more. There’s something here that raises the red flags but you’re unable to put your finger on it. You decide to ask Zahra herself.<br /><br />“He's Alex, an experienced job agent, trying to help out the refugees here and elsewhere. He has a slew of influential contacts, especially in the American states. They have helped change the lives of many educated, unemployed war survivors in the past few months. He’s offered me a lucrative job in the US hospitality sector,” she tells you, hope lighting up her charming eyes.<br /><br />“But Zahra, how’s that even possible? There are bound to be visa and immigration issues. Besides, recession has hit the job market globally. How come he’s able to land jobs so easily? That too, for godforsaken displaced people like us, with not even a permanent address or any plausible recommendation?!” The anxiety and disbelief in your voice reach a treble. “Please don’t trust this man blindly, Zahra…there’s something iffy here.”<br /><br />“I’m sorry but no, I’m not gonna waste my life languishing here anymore in this rat hole. I’ve already suffered enough. I’m done with grieving and mourning. Now, I want to l breathe free…lead a regular life. I’m leaving with him tomorrow night and that’s final!” The desperation and urgency in Zahra’s voice slice through your heart.<br /><br />“Did you speak to any of his contacts yourself? And have you informed the officer here about your plan?” Your rhetorical question is met with a small, bitter smirk.<br /><br />“No, I haven’t. And you also please don’t. I want to leave as quietly as possible. He’ll bring his vehicle around midnight and park it outside the ground. No drama, no fuss, just an easy exit. And a step closer to my new, happy life. I hope you’ll cooperate,” Zahra looks at you pointedly, a childish eagerness shining through her hazel orbs.<br /><br />You nod and fall quiet but your mind is on an overdrive. You recall all those incidents of human trafficking plaguing war-afflicted regions that reach your ears, albeit in hush-hush tones.<br /><br />Here’s this beautiful young girl with no one to guide her, lured by dollar dreams - such an easy prey for these vultures in human guise! Will she become the latest addition to their statistics? And she seems so completely convinced and enamoured by Alex’s rhetoric!<br /><br />Darkness descends and yet, you’re not able to sleep.<br /><br />This is sheer foolhardiness! I have to stop Zahra from doing this. But how?! How do I even begin to explain the pitfalls that lie ahead of her? She’s not ready to listen to any reasoning. And tomorrow is just a few hours away…<br /><br />You keep tossing and turning and finally drift off into a fitful sleep, punctuated by nightmares of the swarthy Alex bombing your home and taking Selma away by force.<br /><br />******<br /><br />It’s D-Day and you are up with the lark. You go about your daily chores like a robot. A mishmash of distant sights and voices eddies inside your brain. After Selma, you never thought you would need to worry about anybody else. You had painstakingly coated every fibre of your being with a cold stoicism. You were certain your synapses had turned impassive with too much grief and enduring. And now belying all your beliefs, you work yourself into a tizzy, exploring all avenues, trying to devise an escape route for Zahra from what you consider a joy ride to disaster.<br /><br />Your options are limited. If you report Alex to the camp authorities, the odds are stacked high against you. You do not have proof, and Zahra will certainly not testify. Besides, Alex would get cautioned and probably target some other gullible child in one of the many refugee camps dotting the country. You need to do something yourself. You are reminded of the words Selma believed in – it is purposeful action that matters and not a dream that keeps you lying in limbo!<br /><br />The day comes to an end, thankfully faster than you had anticipated. The entire camp is swathed in a blissful slumber. Lying on the cot, you train your eyes to see in the dark - no sound, no movement. Satisfied, you rise ever so gently, taking care not to awaken anybody. Least of all, Zahra. You literally crawl out of the tent and make a dash for the wall circumscribing the perimeter of the playground. Through the dark haze of the moonless night, you try to locate the spot where the wall has crumbled partially, leaving a reasonably large breach amidst the bricks. It is through this breach that Alex usually sneaked in, Zahra had once mentioned, as the main entrance points are carefully manned.<br /><br />This gaping hole, is this a casual oversight or a deliberate slip-up? How come it’s remained unnoticed till now? And is it sheer coincidence that this spot lies beyond the range of the dull yellow light burning wearily from the nearest lamp post?<br /><br />A flurry of thoughts and doubts criss-crosses your mind. The answers continue to elude you.<br /><br />You bend down and your fingers grope on the ground till they find what they are looking for. You clutch them tight inside your fist. You silently walk a few metres back and blend in with the shadows. The pervading silence is occasionally broken by the whirr of a patrolling motorbike on the road outside. A church bell ding-dongs at a distance, indicating midnight. A few minutes pass – liquid beads of apprehension gather on your forehead. You start wondering if this was, at all, a good idea. If you should have taken recourse to a police complaint. And right then, your alert ears pick up the low rumble of a largish four-wheeler, carefully coming to a stop right outside the boundary. Within minutes, Alex ambles in through the wide chasm. You crouch low against the obscure wall, your fists clenching and taking aim. It’s now or never, you remind yourself. Then, as he starts walking towards your tent with a practised swag, your balled up fist swings into action.<br /><br />Thud…thud!<br /><br />You hold your breath as you see Alex suddenly getting hit on the temple by a couple of jagged pebbles. From the shadows you watch as he lets out a loud, anguished cry and stops dead in his tracks. Clutching his forehead, he teeters for a few seconds before slumping on the ground, right in front of your eyes! Bullseye, you congratulate yourself! So many days without practice but you still haven’t lost your mojo, you realise with a grateful smile.<br /><br />Alex keeps wiping his forehead with a dirty handkerchief. There’s some blood, you presume. Alerted by his cry, you notice a few people running up to him, both guards and camp dwellers. Words like ‘ambulance’…’arrest him’…’not from the camp’…’looks shady’ float into your ears. Seizing this opportunity, you emerge from the dark and merge unobtrusively with the crowd milling around Alex. You heave a sigh of relief as he is taken away by the burly guards. In the melee, you catch a glimpse of Zahra, looking both bewildered and deeply disappointed, at this quirk of destiny. You feel gutted for having destroyed her dream, her lone ticket to freedom. But there was no choice, you console yourself, as you watch Zahra walk back to the tent, crestfallen.<br /><br />The commotion gradually dies down. You squat on the ground and watch as the inmates retire to their respective tents. Selma is gone, but Zahra is here - safe and alive. Tears spill out of your parched eyes, unbridled, after a prolonged drought, redeeming you of your self-imposed emotional exile. You secretly thank the puckered paper containing Selma’s credo, for breathing life into your moribund senses.<br /><br />Dreams, indeed, mean nothing, Selma…it’s only action that matters. And I did act this time, my dear girl!<br /><br />Novalunosis had always been your favourite de-stress activity. But today you do it with a purpose. You blow a loving kiss heavenward, trying to locate your beloved girl, your shining pole star, among the million twinkling specks dotting the infinite expanse above.<br /><br />You prepare yourself to spend one more night in deracination. To wait, and to pray, that you go back home as a free, proud citizen, at least once within this lifetime. And pick up the threads of your fragmented existence, one stitch at a time. The very thought fills your unhoused, unsettled, self with an overwhelming moment of yugen.<br /><br />You inhale deeply.<br /><br />Bullseye, indeed!Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-81347572137834359672023-12-20T21:33:00.001+04:002023-12-20T21:33:00.127+04:00Short Story 2023 First Prize, Srabani Bhattacharya<p> <b style="font-size: large;">Green Mango More</b></p><br /><br />The cry of “<i>bhalo, bhalo shaag</i>” rang out in the <i>para </i>(housing complex), silent as the tomb only seconds ago. A flight of pigeons followed the vegetable peddler’s assertive voice. The lean scruffy man dragged his cart slowly behind him, his shoulders and back strained forward, his body leaning sharply like a slanted arrow. A leather strap, attached to a spoke of the cart, hung on his shoulder which he pulled for eleven kilometres every other day from his village to transport his nomadic farm’s produce to the doorsteps of the middle-class housewives.<br /><br />The vegetable peddlar’s specialisation used to be tender coconuts only a few months back. His cry, only recently, changed from “<i>bhalo, bhalo daab</i>” to “<i>bhalo, bhalo shaag</i>”. Shorod’s, for that is what he calls himself, repertoire grew from solely coconuts to lemons to all sorts of leaves humanly edible. The circumstances demanded it. The <i>bajars</i> had shut down. It was only these peddlers, who staggered their way to the homes of these mournful families, who were our rescuers.<br /><br />“What does he eat all day, aunty? All the shops are closed!” Raya asked me.<br /><br />As we weighed turnips and gourds huddled before his cart, I would have to patiently interpret to Raya, “He is quoting thirty for the mangoes,” while Shorod would hold up three fingers with a toothy grin and Raya would smile without a cue as she always did. Being a Manipuri girl with almost no Bengali words in her, Raya communicated with Shorod through vigorous gestures. She laughed and laughed at his useless attempts at marketing his wares. She waved at him looking down from the second-floor window like a child waving at a friendly old man who gives her sweets from time to time. She mimicked his words animatedly in broken Bangla: “<i>bhalo, bhalo saag</i>”, without comprehension and laughed, “he is so funny, aunty!” The only word whose meaning they both knew was “<i>rukiye</i>”, and she used it often, holding up her palm to indicate to him to wait. And she would hobble up the three flights of stairs to scavenge for coins and more smiles to pay him with. It was like observing a baby playing an interspecies game with a dog.<br /><br />“You are right, Raya. It is indeed concerning,” I told her. In all her smiles, Shorod never heard her concerns.<br /><br />A few days later, that signature call rang through the neighbourhood again. Many heads peeked out of their confined windows to inspect the spread Shorod had to offer to the womenfolk. Like always, he failed to disappoint and with his sardonic genial voice, he assured everyone how <i>bhalo</i> all the vegetables are. Everything was <i>bhalo</i>: The carrots that were prematurely grown because of the shortage of stocks, the blackened cauliflowers that were too small, the sick-looking lady’s fingers and most of all, the saag that could use some freshening.<br /><br />I questioned the <i>bhalo</i>-ness of his worn-out cabbages to which he smiled and repeated, “<i>Bhalo</i>, <i>bhalo</i> <i>kopi</i>. Buy it and you’ll see for yourself.” He insisted on heaping three extra green mangoes in Raya’s laughing hands, loading extra green chillies into my bag and barred us from paying by stretching out his palms and tilting his head guiltily.<br /><br />That evening, I heard Shorod’s name thrice as Raya talked animatedly to her husband in a language I did not speak. She laughed about it later to me, “I told Tenzen off for playing computer games all day. How active Shorod is. He works so hard, aunty”.<br /><br /><br />The next day I asked him, “You come all the way here to sell vegetables. Isn’t the walk very long? It’s so hot even in this weather. How do you manage, Shorod?”<br /><br />He made a non-committal gesture and said, “My body has aches, <i>boudi</i>,” as if that answered my question.<br /><br />But I wouldn’t let it go, “Do you take medicines?”<br />“Medicines?” he repeated as if I had spoken in Raya’s tongue.<br />“For your aches,” I clarified.<br />“I need to drink every day”, he said. “To dull the pain.”<br /><br />I took some time to understand this and before I could reply, he said, “But liquor shops are all closed now, <i>boudi</i>.”<br /><br />“What do you do then?”<br />“I drink taal juice.”<br />“Palm juice?” I repeated as if he had spoken in Raya’s tongue.<br /><br /><br />∞<br /><br /><br />One day, Raya came up with the fair prospect of inviting Shorod for lunch.<br /><br />“It is my birthday on Friday!” she said.<br /><br />Much flourish was made by two women earnest to feed a man who lived on palm toddy. He accepted the invite with a toothy grin. Friday morning saw Raya rushing in and out of the tiny kitchen, puffing and heaving from the hot glare of the flames that flickered wildly in the gusty loo. Raya firmly refused my assistance on account of my ill health. So I sat on the roof with my plants and papers inhaling the aroma of basmati rice and salivating at the hiss of the ghee sizzling on the pan.<br /><br />Shorod arrived looking humble and embarrassed to enter the house without a prospect of business. He seemed excited about a meal. Sitting him down in the hall on a square mat, we filled bowls and bowls of food items to encircle the large plate laden with a generous amount of white pulao. A bead of perspiration dropped down Shorod’s forehead. Raya, armed with pots and ladles, waited beyond the touchlines, ready to refill the bowls as they emptied, smiling widely as ever.<br /><br />As more bowls appeared before him, Shorod gingerly broke some rice with his fingers and scattered them on the plate. He picked up the gravy bowl and put it back down. Self-conscious of two people scrutinising his movements, he picked up another bowl quickly and dumped the contents on the rice, mixed it and ate a little. Raya immediately set about refilling the emptied bowl.<br /><br />After scattering a few more grains of rice, he gave up. He stood and apologetically took his leave. Raya’s enquiries, translated by me, receive vague answers of “I am not used to–too much–” He refused the offers to pack the leftovers for home.<br /><br />The next time he pulled his cart in to see us, he ceremoniously insisted on giving us extra mangoes and convincing us how fresh the coconuts were. This time, Raya equally insisted on paying the extra coins which he simply rejected.<br /><br />∞<br /><br /><br />A connoisseur of all things sour, Raya would insist that I partake in her teeth-chattering raw mango pickle. I would get called to the roof every other day and handed over a plate of slender slices of the mangoes mixed with ajwain, mustard oil and black salt.<br /><br />When my ailment prevented me for a few days from indulging, she insisted on making Shorod a victim of her sourness. Shorod scooped up the pieces Raya offered him with a smile and told her, “I make it for my kids, didi”. Nodding vigorously to his acceptance, she gave him some more.<br /><br />Raya began to experiment. She produced mango jelly next, a sweet-spicy jam that shocked the taste buds before melting into an assorted blend of tastes. Shorod took only a dollop but his face broke into a wide smile, “Have you been making all this with my mangoes, didi?” he said with the kind of pride you feel when your child perfectly parrots the complete number tables. Next, Raya tried aam panna, a drink that summers in Calcutta cannot do without. He praised it as much as he praised his coconuts’ water. I joined in with enthusiasm encouraged by the success Raya has had.<br /><br />One day, I dared, “I’ve made sour daal. Sour daal is good in these summer days, to beat the heat.” Shorod consented to a bowl of white rice mixed with daal soured with boiled green mangoes.<br /><br />“Some water, boudi?” That’s all he asked, slurping the watery meal with gusto in the cool shade of the staircase where he tucked his blue striped lungi between his knees and squatted comfortably.<br /><br />We continued trying different combinations, dishes we thought could be suitable for his palette. I added mango chutney, and rasam to Raya’s curry, mango murabba and more, hoping that they would somewhat fill his stomach up to sustain his daily prescription of palm toddy.<br /><br /><br />∞<br /><br /><br />As April’s last heat rays gave way to the even hotter beams of May, Shorod’s signature call could no longer be heard. Neither of us realised for a few days. He wasn’t a regular peddler in our locality because of the heavy restrictions put in place. Other peddlers with more diverse stocks got their turns to make our lives easier still despite the situation. When five full days passed without his amicable call and when my preparation of raw mango rice had begun to smell funny, Raya said, “Won’t Shorod come anymore, aunty?”<br /><br />We were sampling Raya’s newest batch of mango jelly while she listed off the successive recipes she had in mind. Not one of them without a dab of sour mango in it. “Next would be mango salad!” she announced. “Then, maybe something sweeter.”<br /><br />Eventually, our obsession with green mangoes wilted. I stopped running searches of different combinations of “green mango recipes” on YouTube and Raya stopped calling me every afternoon to taste her recent concoctions. She, like I, stopped buying the hopeful raw mangoes altogether and as the heat worsened, the mangoes grew yellower and the leaves lost their green to the aggrieved anticipation of rain.<br /><br />∞<br /><br />Late in April, I went out of the house after what seemed like a decade with a bunch of blood test reports and medical prescriptions. On Teghoria’s broad main road, looking out of place outside the tiny lanes he usually inhabited, I found Shorod pulling his cart haplessly along. A red cloth was tied to his forehead for some respite against the scorching sun shining red down on his head. He grabbed the end of the head-cloth to dab his neck and shoulders every few seconds. His voice seemed to have evaporated in the heat for I heard no call of “<i>bhalo, bhalo shaag</i>”.<br /><br />“Shorod!” I called. He turned around but could not recognise me for a second. “It’s been a long time since I saw you in the <i>para</i>.”<br /><br />He grinned toothily and proceeded to convince me to buy vegetables off him. Having no bags with me, I protested but he produced some bags of his own and stuffed a cabbage here and some sweet potatoes there. He also added quite a few green mangoes, “For <i>didi</i>,” he said.<br /><br />“How come you don’t come home anymore?” I asked again.<br /><br />“The policemen stands guard at the mouth of the lanes,” he said. “They said only three peddlers will be allowed in. Others cannot get through. It is because of the virus, you see? Less men the better. That’s what they said.”<br /><br />“But can’t you take turns every day?”<br />“Three carts. They told me to go back,” his tone echoed the finality of the police’s prohibition.<br />“Why don’t you find a different locality, Shorod?”<br /><br />“All the localities already have other peddlers. Your <i>para</i> was my haunt, <i>boudi</i>. But now, I am in the streets. There are no people in the streets anymore. Look at how empty it is. There are only these policemen around, and they ask me to go away.”<br /><br />“You don’t get any business then?” He looked away and shook his head. “Yet, you walk here every day?”<br /><br />“What else would I do, <i>boudi</i>?”<br /><br />∞<br /><br /><br />Raya proposed that we go to Teghoria the next day with some food for Shorod.<br /><br />“The police won’t let us go out, Raya. Unless it is an emergency.”<br /><br />“You can take some of your reports with you, no aunty?”<br /><br />We went. Laden tiffin boxes hung heavy along with plenty of shopping bags, and we also carried some test reports for good measure. They did not stop us once we stated our purpose but warned, “The VIP road is a red zone, mark you. Do your business fast and go home.”<br /><br />The lanes were deserted like they looked on the early morning walks I used to take, a lifetime ago. Not a person in sight. I thought of a dead city, where no living beings survived the virus. Doors and windows were shut, shops were barred, shutters were pulled. Riderless cycles and bikes were parked here and there. Cars looked like they had not been driven in a long while. All were weathered by the dusty heat of the unforgiving Calcutta summer. Even the birds and dogs had gone to seek shelter to escape the hot wind blowing in microbes and fatigue. Advertisements hung aimlessly at the shop’s entrances. “Unisex Salon & Spa” they broadcasted hopefully, “Full body massage and hair spa for the season starting from only Rs. 500/-”. The lack of noise troubled me more than it did the day before.<br /><br />The main road had been forsaken by all things living. We walked up and down the once-bustling motorway. Ghosts of horns and conductors’ harried yammer prowled the corners of the abandoned tea shop. I decided to walk all the way to the test centre, which was a large pathology lab and clinic that could still boast of human activity. A policewoman clad in tight gloves and an N95 mask stopped us.<br /><br />“The VIP road is a red zone,” she parroted.<br /><br />“Have you seen a vegetable peddler?” I asked. “He has been frequenting this area for the last few days.”<br /><br />“All hawkers have been sent away. There was a virus case in the lab yesterday. Didn’t you hear? A patient died. The clinic had to be closed down. No one is allowed further. Where do you women live? You best get home before the sanitisation team arrives.”<br /><br />We took the food and the test reports back home.<br /><br /><br />∞<br /><br /><br />Quite a few moons had passed since we last saw Shorod and his cart in our lane. Our lives went on. Shankar supplied the vegetables now. They were as fresh and green, if not more. In addition, he also offered milk, pulses, the occasional biscuits and neemkis made at home by his own wife. “I have applied for a special pass to sell fish too, <i>boudi</i>”, He told me brandishing a battered mobile phone. “Take my number. If there is any special food you want, just phone me. I will arrange. Even Alphonso mangoes, I will get for you.”<br /><br />Later in the day, someone banged on the latch of the front gate. House-callers had become an extinct species since the lockdown began. Frowning, I rushed to the window and looked down. Shorod stood there in his blue lungi and red headband. His white vest was wet with sweat. He carried a brown sack over his shoulder.<br /><br />Sitting on the marble floor holding an empty glass, he said, “I am going to go back my village with my family, <i>boudi</i>.”<br /><br />“Where is your village, Shorod?”<br />“Midnapur,” he said.<br />“How will you go?”<br /><br />“They said there are trains for us. But, there is not a bus on the road. We will walk to Sealdah station and wait for the train. But they told me, I have to register for the train to get a ticket.”<br /><br />“I hear so.”<br />“But we always buy tickets at the station, <i>boudi</i>.”<br /><br />“There are too many people who want to take the train, Shorod. If you don’t register early, you won’t get a ticket.”<br /><br />“That’s what they said too, boudi. That’s why I came to you. I don’t have a phone or anything. They said we have to register on a computer.”<br /><br />I called Raya down. She knew better about phones and computers. She greeted him with her easy smile and asked him many questions that I translated. She asked me to tell him that she could not find any registration links on the state government website.<br /><br />“I hear people are going to the police station to register, Shorod. The policemen are helping them with the application.”<br /><br />“Is that so?” He did not lose hope.<br />“What will you do if there is no space on the train, Shorod?” I asked, apprehensive.<br /><br />He paused. “We will walk the rail line, boudi”, he said decidedly. “We have to go home. I have no money. My mother is there in the village. I cannot send her money. She will have nothing to eat.”<br /><br />I gave him the directions of the local police station, some food to take with him (he did not protest this time), empty bottles that he expressed the need for, a bottle of Volini and all the analgesic tablets from my medicine cabinet, and money that he turned down.<br /><br />Before gathering up the items and taking his leave, Shorod’s hands disappeared inside his brown sack. When he pulled them out, his arms were full. “They have become yellowish,” he stuck his tongue out. “But no matter. Some salt, some chili, some mustard oil and the taste will last you through the whole year’s wait for new mango buds to come on the trees,” he grinned at Raya. “The last of the green mangoes, <i>didi</i>.”Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-82820320658119664352023-12-20T09:39:00.030+04:002023-12-25T17:24:03.041+04:00Poetry 2023 Winners & Featured Writers<p> Link</p><table border="1" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700; width: 690px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;" width="117"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist.html">Poetry</a><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="141"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist.html">Short Story</a><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="109"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist.html">Short Fiction</a></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="134"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/wordweavers-2023-contest-results.html">Contest Results</a></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="1" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700; width: 690px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;" width="203"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="247"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="218"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;">First Prize</td><td style="text-align: center;">Second Prize</td><td style="text-align: center;">Third Prize</td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/poetry-2023-first-prize-john-detroit.html">John Detroit</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/poetry-2023-second-prize-cj-anderson-wu.html">C J Anderson-Wu</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/12/poetry-2023-third-prize-nivedita-rao.html">Nivedita Rao</a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;">Featured Writers</td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-ayushi-rajput.html">Ayushi Rajput</a> </td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-preetha-vasan.html">Dr Preetha Vasan</a> </td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-karl-clancy.html">Karl Clancy</a> </span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-debdip-maitra.html">Debdip Maitra</a> </td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-srabani.html">Srabani Bhattacharya</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-nivedita-rao.html">Nivedita Rao</a> </span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-jyotsna-jha.html">Jyotsna Jha</a> </td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-ndaba-sibanda.html">Ndaba Sibanda</a> </td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-bindu-saxena.html">Bindu Saxena</a> </td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-indrani-saha.html">Indrani Saha</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-swapna-sanchita.html">Swapna Sanchita</a> </td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700;"> </p>Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-3264649700711936802023-12-10T21:09:00.000+04:002023-12-10T21:52:11.739+04:00Short Fiction 2023 Shortlist<p>Link</p><table border="1" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700; width: 690px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;" width="117"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist.html">Poetry</a><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="141"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist.html">Short Story</a><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="109"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist.html">Short Fiction</a></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="134"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/wordweavers-2023-contest-results.html">Contest Results</a></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="1" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700; width: 690px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;" width="203"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="247"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="218"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist-ananya.html">Ananya Varadarajan</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist-preetha.html">Preetha Vasan</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist-urmi.html">Urmi Chakravorty</a></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist-ndaba.html">Ndaba Sibanda</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist-sakshi.html">Sakshi Bhatnagar</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist-shalini.html">Shalini Singh</a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">B<br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">T</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">S</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">E</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">D</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">J</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p>. </p>Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-6578898786188664872023-12-10T21:03:00.001+04:002023-12-10T21:40:44.066+04:00Short Story 2023 Shortlist<p> Link</p><table border="1" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700; width: 690px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;" width="117"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist.html">Poetry</a><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="141"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist.html">Short Story</a><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="109"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist.html">Short Fiction</a></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="134"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/wordweavers-2023-contest-results.html">Contest Results</a></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="1" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700; width: 690px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;" width="203"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="247"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="218"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-sherene-david.html">Sherene David</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-sreelekha.html">Sreelekha Chatterjee</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-srabani.html">Srabani Bhattacharya</a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/blog-post.html">Preetha Vasan</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-kalpana.html">Kalpana M Naghnoor</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-nirmala.html">Nirmala Kasinathan</a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-urmi.html">Urmi Chakravorty</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-adyasha.html">Dr. Adyasha Acharya</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-arko-datta.html">Arko Datta</a></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-tarun.html">Tarun Chakraborty</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">N</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700;"><span style="color: white;"> </span></p>Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-75708206743619020132023-12-10T20:56:00.002+04:002023-12-21T00:12:27.855+04:00Poetry 2023 Shortlist<p> Link</p><table border="1" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700; width: 690px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;" width="117"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist.html">Poetry</a><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="141"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist.html">Short Story</a><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="109"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist.html">Short Fiction</a></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="134"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/wordweavers-2023-contest-results.html">Contest Results</a></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="1" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700; width: 690px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;" width="203"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="247"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="218"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-swapna-sanchita.html">Swapna Sanchita</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-srabani.html">Srabani Bhattacharya</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-harshita-srivastava.html">Harshita Srivastava</a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-divya-chaudhari.html">Divya Chaudhari</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-debdip-maitra.html">Debdip Maitra</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-ndaba-sibanda.html">Ndaba Sibanda</a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-bindu-saxena.html">Bindu Saxena</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-ayushi-rajput.html">Ayushi Rajput</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-sreelekha.html">Sreelekha Chatterjee</a></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-meetu-mishra.html">Meetu Mishra</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-preetha-vasan.html">Dr Preetha Vasan</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-karl-clancy.html">Karl Clancy</a></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-kamala-belagur.html">Kamala Belagur</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-archana-bahadur.html">Archana Bahadur Zutshi</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-nivedita-rao.html">Nivedita Rao</a></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-jyotsna-jha.html">Jyotsna Jha</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-cjanderson-wu.html">C J Anderson-Wu</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-john-detroit.html">John Detroit</a></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist-indrani-saha.html">Indrani Saha</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700;"> </p>Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-87693681079783868682023-10-25T18:30:00.041+04:002023-12-10T21:43:25.050+04:00Short Fiction 2023 Longlist<p> Link</p><table border="1" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700; width: 690px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;" width="117"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist.html">Poetry</a><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="141"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist.html">Short Story</a><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="109"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist.html">Short Fiction</a></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="134"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/wordweavers-2023-contest-results.html">Contest Results</a></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="1" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700; width: 690px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;" width="203"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="247"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="218"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 15.456px;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist-ananya.html">Ananya Varadarajan</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist-preetha.html">Preetha Vasan</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 15.456px;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist-urmi.html">Urmi Chakravorty</a></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 15.456px;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist-ndaba.html">Ndaba Sibanda</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 15.456px;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist-sakshi.html">Sakshi Bhatnagar</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist-shalini.html">Shalini Singh</a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist-kamala.html">Kamala Belagur</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">B<br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">T</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">S</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">E</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">D</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">J</span></td></tr></tbody></table>.Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-2908321609517749512023-10-25T18:30:00.040+04:002023-12-08T09:28:28.534+04:00Short Story 2023 Longlist<p> Link</p><table border="1" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700; width: 690px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;" width="117"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/poetry-2023-longlist.html">Poetry</a><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="141"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist.html">Short Story</a><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="109"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-fiction-2023-longlist.html">Short Fiction</a></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="134"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/wordweavers-2023-contest-results.html">Contest Results</a></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="1" style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700; width: 690px;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;" width="203"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="247"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;" width="218"><span style="color: #4c1130;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 15.456px;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-archana.html">Archana Bahadur Zutshi</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-sreelekha.html">Sreelekha Chatterjee</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-srabani.html">Srabani Bhattacharya</a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/blog-post.html">Preetha Vasan</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 15.456px;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-kalpana.html">Kalpana M Naghnoor</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-nirmala.html">Nirmala Kasinathan</a></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 15.456px;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-sakshi.html">Sakshi Bhatnagar</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 15.456px;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-adyasha.html">Dr. Adyasha Acharya</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 15.456px;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-arko-datta.html">Arko Datta</a></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 15.456px;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-ananya.html">Ananya Varadarajan</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 15.456px;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-tarun.html">Tarun Chakraborty</a></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 15.456px;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-sherene-david.html">Sherene David</a></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.wordweavers.in/2023/10/short-story-2023-longlist-urmi.html">Urmi Chakravorty</a></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">.</span></td></tr><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;"><br /></span></td><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: white;">N</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.456px; font-weight: 700;"><span style="color: white;"> </span></p>Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-68731809865229186152023-10-25T18:00:00.357+04:002023-12-20T22:16:49.766+04:00Short Fiction 2023 Featured Writer, Urmi Chakravorty<p><span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: medium;"> <span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-weight: 700; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Neighbourly Tales</span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-c532f8f8-7fff-8c9a-b73d-9f5818695d11"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.8; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">It had been a dull day, with Ms Reid’s passing. Angela Reid was my silver-haired neighbour and friend, who baked the crunchiest tarts. This morning, she lost her ongoing battle with a malignant liver. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.8; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">A sexagenarian spinster, Ms Reid had once quipped during a quiet Thanksgiving dinner she hosted, “Noel, there’s an old photo album kept in the mahogany chiffonier in there,” pointing to her bedroom, “which, I want, interred with me in the coffin, when the time comes. Can I count on you to do it? Can’t risk it falling into the wrong hands,” she added with a chuckle. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.8; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">My curiosity was piqued; I had often wondered why she never discussed her family, why her living room had eclectic knick-knacks but no photographs. However, I was struck by the earnestness underlying her candour and spontaneously gave her my word. Now the time had come to honour it. While her brightly</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">painted house was bequeathed to her nephews, I retrieved the album for Ms Reid’s funeral, the following day.</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.8; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I settled down on my plush couch with the fat, leather-bound album. Its dog-eared, matte pages and translucent sheets spoke of decline. As the couch drew me into its warmth, I gently leafed through the pages. Endearing snippets of Ms Reid’s childhood and youth came alive before my eyes. The same twinkling eyes, the dark tresses, the thousand-watt smile lighting up her chiselled face - Angela Reid was decidedly a stunner in her prime! After some more cursory browsing, I paused to examine what appeared to be a romantic click. And froze! Entwined in a happy embrace were Angela and a man I knew as my departed father! Followed by another image…and then, scores of them. On the beach, amidst the hills, in a countryside villa – a picture-perfect couple ensconced in a secure, passionate bond. I screwed up my eyes to take a closer look…my heart racing, my fingers clammy, till it became difficult to turn the wafer-thin separators. It was Daddy. Period.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.8; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I flung the album away. Mom’s words buzzed in my ears:</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.8; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Honey, Daddy was a brave man…he went down with the ship.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.8; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Daddy can’t come, Sonny…he is with God, in a beautiful place.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.8; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Don’t cry, Noel, I’m going to meet your Daddy, do pray for us.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.8; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Mom never wanted me to know the ugly truth — she portrayed him as a loving father and dutiful sailor who died in a shipwreck. And Angela could never make public her clandestine relationship with a married man. The irony of it all!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.8; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">My mind was a whirlwind of emotions — anger, betrayal, grief — impulsively I decided to reveal all to Angela’s family. I had nothing more to lose. I could, at least, avenge my mother’s abandonment.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.8; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">And then I remembered Mom and her infinite grace…would this make her happy? In her snag-ridden life, she had remained compassionate, humane, poised – would I choose to upend that?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.8; margin-bottom: 8pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I picked up the album and carefully encased it, preparing myself to face the funeral with equanimity.</span></p><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></div></span>Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-81011726412357710132023-10-25T18:00:00.355+04:002023-12-20T21:43:44.227+04:00Short Story 2023 Featured Writer, Arko DattaThe Runaways<br /><br /><br />It all started the day her family moved into the old house across from ours. I was fifteen, and she was seventeen. The year was 1932. The place: a long-forgotten town in a country destined to be torn apart by a madman. But that was still a year away. It was only April 10th, 1932. I saw her helping her sister with the boxes filled with memories of the place they were coming from. And that was it for me. Everything changed.<br /><br />In that era, even the young Jewish boys and girls didn't just talk to each other. There was a particular, socially accepted way of doing things. But she had black hair and blue eyes- spellbinding, even from my window across the street. I soon discovered that social acceptance was a suggestion that loses its hold over young boys with throbbing hearts. On the afternoon of April 15th, I found myself standing in front of her as she was sitting on the patio, busy with the task of avoiding me completely.<br /><br />'What can I do for you?' she asked, uninterested in my answer.<br /><br />'Do you act?' I found myself asking. There was a new kind of braveness that I had felt at that moment.<br /><br />'Act?' she looked up at me with her blue eyes fixed on my boring ones. I lost words again. 'Acting?' she repeated herself.<br /><br />'The kids, my friends are planning to put on a show next month. A play of sorts. Everyone will be there. Would you like to act in it?' I impressed myself.<br /><br />'What is it about?' she had asked. A fair question, one would say.<br /><br />'I will tell you only if you are working on it. It's a surprise for the people,' I replied. I was on fire.<br /><br /><br />She promised to ask for permission from her parents and let me know the next day. There suddenly appeared tiny curves in the corner of her eyes, a kind that I had never seen before. As if she was smiling with her eyes. I returned home with a smile, like the boring ones we see everywhere. That evening I told my friend about it. 'What play?' he asked, quite clueless about what was happening.<br /><br /><br />'Exactly,' I murmured. 'There's no play.'<br /><br />'Huh?' he threw his arms in frustration.<br /><br />'Okay, there is a play, but there isn't any yet,' I tried to explain. It didn't help. So, I told him the truth: there was no play, but there was a girl who had blue eyes and black hair, and she could smile with her eyes and ignore me completely, at the same time making me feel like the most important person in the world just by looking at me. And there had to be a play or at least a few rehearsals for a never-to-be-performed play just so I could be around her.<br /><br /><br />And that's how it was for the next few weeks. We planned a play, assigned roles, and included more of our friends, none of whom knew what a farce it all was. But I didn't care. Hannah- that was her name- was there, playing The Queen of the Earth. She really was. Soon, the pretended rehearsals had started to take shape and colors. It caught my father's eyes one afternoon as Hannah and I were practicing our lines in the yard. He asked me about it that night, and it became a real thing. A month later, we performed the play that was never meant to be. The parents of the actors and the elderly neighbors were there. We got ourselves some claps. It earned me a friendship with The Queen of the Earth. Then it turned into an undeclared, silent love story. We knew who we were together. On my birthday, my friends were invited to my home for lunch. We all sat in the garden afterward, where she touched her lips on mine for a tiny moment. Our love was declared. Words weren't used. It lasted for a few more months: wonderful months, full of blue eyes and laughs and a fifteen-year-old's tortured heart for a seventeen-year-old. Then everything changed again, and nothing was ever meant to be the same again.<br /><br /><br />The year 1933 came, and all hell broke loose. The "ethnic cleansing" was made operational. It later came to be known as The Holocaust. We had no idea at that moment how it all was meant to turn out to be. But we were suddenly the target of blind hate. Lucky for us, my father was a mathematician who knew too much about numbers and state secrets. The Americans wanted him. We found refuge in their land. The same can't be said about Hannah's family and the millions of families just like hers. It wasn't fair. Then again, life never was. I was fifteen, she was seventeen, and I was sure I would never see her again. Before fleeing the country in the middle of the night, I went to meet her one last time. Their house was all out of people. They had left without saying goodbye.<br /><br /><br />Fast forward three decades: I had become a recently divorced, forty-five-year-old professor who had just moved back with his parents by then. Life wasn't treating me well. In fact, I was perhaps going through the toughest period of my life- running away from Nazis included. But, as it often happens, things changed. I still remember that day perfectly: the morning after the first snow of that year. It was one of those mornings; I woke up and suddenly decided to take charge of my life. It had been a few years since I was toying with the idea of writing a book, as literature professors often do in their mid-forties. So, that cold morning, I finally decided to do something about it and went to the local library. It turned out to be the best decision I will ever take in my life.<br /><br /><br />It was an extensive library with books covering fiction and nonfiction and newspaper archives. I hadn't yet decided whether to write a novel or a memoir, but I had an idea about what I would write about: Escaping the Holocaust, easy call!<br /><br /><br />I went to the desk clerk and asked him to show me everything they had on the holocaust. He instructed me to go to a particular room and wait for a librarian to help me. I went to the room filled with books, but no people. I was shuffling through their pages when the librarian entered the room. Now, there are two kinds of people in this world. There are the ones who come into a room and are just there. But, there are also people who, when they enter a room, bring in their strides everyone and everywhere they have ever been. The librarian matched the second kind: a tall, thin woman with the confidence of someone who has already won in life.<br /><br /><br />'What can I do for you?' she asked me, and at that moment, the entire world came crashing down on my heart. She had black hair and blue eyes. I had heard that question before, coming from that same small mouth, with those same eyes staring right into mine. I had no idea if I was dreaming or imagining things, but I was absolutely sure that it was her; it was The Queen of the Earth. Right there, I felt something I hadn't felt in probably three decades. My heart throbbed like a fifteen-year-old boy's when he sees a seventeen-year-old girl with black hair and blue eyes.<br /><br /><br />I saw her lips moving for several minutes but couldn't hear anything. I wasn't there in the library anymore. I was fifteen again- standing before her for the first time. With great struggle, I gathered myself and asked, 'Are you her? Are you Hannah?'<br /><br /><br />I noticed a hint of recognition in her eyes before it was replaced by panic and then nothing. 'You are mistaken, sir,' she said. 'I am the librarian. You were looking for some books!'<br /><br /><br />And then, for the next hour, she helped me pick books that I would need to work on my book. But I didn't need any books at that moment. What I needed was to know that it was her. I was so sure. Even if I could ignore those blue eyes based on the fact that many others had them, I couldn't ignore how I was feeling. I hadn't felt anything similar since I had first seen Hannah all those years ago, not even when I was married. I had felt a longing, a certain belief that I was meant to be with the woman standing before me, talking about books. But I couldn't say anything to her. She either hadn't recognized me, or she didn't want to for some reason. So, I kept my mouth closed and discussed books with her that day and the following days. I kept going back to that library, each time to find books that weren't even real. It took me twice every week for two months' worth of visiting her before mustering the courage to finally hand her my card. 'I don't know why you are pretending to not know me, but I know who you are. No amount of denial will convince me that you aren't The Queen of the Earth. You are Hannah, and you need to stop lying to me,' I declared and then waited for her answer.<br /><br /><br />She fell silent momentarily and then said with a firm voice, 'I have already told you that I don't know you, and I will much appreciate it if you don't ever return.' Then she returned to the office, clenching my card in her palm. It was her!<br /><br /><br />I waited for a phone call or telegram from her for weeks, then the weeks turned into months, and the months turned to seasons. Meanwhile, I made some changes to my life. To start with, I stopped feeling sorry for myself. Instead, I moved out of my parents' place and rented a small apartment. Then I began to work on my book. The following winter, I held in my hand a completed manuscript. I was a professor at a prestigious college, I had seen the first days of the Holocaust, and my father had worked for two governments in one of the most volatile eras of human history. These three things may sound like separate phenomena, but they can become the most powerful selling points for a writer. My book had become an overnight sensation. And then, two years after I had last seen her, Hannah came back into my life.<br /><br /><br />It was one wintry early morning in December. I was still trying to comfortably fit under the blanket when the phone rang. 'Hello, this is Hannah,' she said as soon as I picked up the phone. 'I hoped you might have changed your telephone number by now,' she added.<br /><br /><br />I took some time before answering. 'I didn't because I hoped that you may call me one day,' I lied...sort of. Then I asked her if she would like to meet me for lunch, but she turned me down immediately. 'Let's meet for coffee first,' she had suggested. So I took what I could get.<br /><br /><br />I dressed in the best of what I had and went to see her. I saw her from outside the cafe's window. She was sitting there, playing with a piece of napkin. Whoever says that men reaching fifty can't fall in love like they used to doesn't know either about aging or love. The first sight of her took me back to my youth, the time when I was hopelessly in love with her and when she was the only thing in the universe that mattered. Her black hair and blue eyes had caught gray, but she appeared to me like she always had: the world's most beautiful and important person.<br /><br /><br />We had our coffee in silence and then pondered over two small pieces of cake, perhaps trying to find words in them for each other. She was the first to break the quiet. 'Forgive me for the last time...I wasn't ready,' she confessed. 'You don't know what I have been through. Still today, every night, I have to fight the demons of my mind to sleep. The memories are still there, like all that had happened yesterday. I still feel the pain, and my days are spent trying to forget everything that had happened in Germany. And then I saw you, and it made me remember the time when things were okay, and life was good. And it had made things worse. See, for a long, I didn't even remember that there was even life before it all broke apart. Then you found me, and you recognized me. It was like my past had come back to haunt me, but not like it does to me in my dreams. It was as if the past had embodied you and came back to snatch away whatever I had rebuilt.'<br /><br /><br />Each and every word she said made sense to me. I didn't yet know what had happened to her there, but I understood it was much worse than what had happened to me. I still, after all these years, have nightmares about the past. And she had lived them. So I understood how difficult it must have been. 'What changed your mind?' I asked her finally.<br /><br /><br />She smiled and took out a copy of my book. I smiled back shyly. 'I noticed you have spent a lot of words for me,' she smiled broader. 'But that's not the only thing that has changed my mind. Look at this,' she opened a particular page from my book and pointed to a line: You Carry with You Everything You are Running from. I remembered writing it.<br /><br /><br />'This one got me,' she said softly. 'My monsters aren't under my bed, behind the dark alley behind my apartment, or in you. They are in my head.'<br /><br />I nodded and waited for her to talk again.<br /><br />'And reading about how life used to be before 1933 and how we were happy, reminded me how much I have loved you. It reminded me how happy I was that you were safe. But I missed you. For all those years I spent waiting to die anytime, I had thought about you and how we were together. I used to remind myself about our first kiss to remember how love felt like, how there was a time when I was cared for and adored. It kept me going for a long time. But, you know, one can withstand so much hatred before forgetting everything that used to be good, the life that was gentle to me. I was happy once because of my family, and my friends, and you, my lover. But those things didn't last. What did was a series of years that offered me nothing but pain and loss. You left...I don't blame you...but the truth is that you weren't there when there was so much darkness,' she said with great difficulty. I saw a single drop of a tear rolling down her cheeks. I offered her a napkin.<br /><br /><br />'Are you ready to tell me about those years?' I asked and held her hand.<br /><br />'Yes, that's why I am here. It's time. It has been too long to live with those memories alone. But take me somewhere else first,' she smiled sadly.<br /><br /><br />We came back to my apartment. I made her tea and talked about general things for hours. Then the last of the sun's rays faded away, and I made dinner for us. After supper, she finally opened up to me, and I discovered what suffering really means. Her story broke my heart into a million pieces, and I hated myself for leaving her behind in that hell. The day my father had planned to leave for America with us was when Hannah and her family had started to run. They went to a faraway town and moved in with one of her uncles. But they were caught by the Nazi soldiers and taken to a camp. Her father was allowed to work as a manager in a factory, and she, with her mother and sister, were forced to work in the camp. They lived with thousands and thousands of others, most of whom were either shot or beaten to death soon for no reason.<br /><br />Hannah and her family were just waiting for their time. One afternoon, when they were working in construction inside the camp, an old chunk of a wall fell on her sister's hand, shattering it. An injured worker was no help to the Nazis, and they had never let anyone unnecessarily live. So, a soldier came and shot her in the head. Seeing this, her mother screamed and tried to attack the man. She was shot immediately too. Hannah had tried to hold back her screams and tears and continued working. But he had come for her next. She was numbly waiting for her death, accepting it completely. The soldier didn't like that she wasn't scared to be shot, so he didn't kill her. Instead, he threw Hannah on the ground and kicked her until she was unconscious. <br /><br /><br />That evening, when Hannah's father returned from the factory, he went straight to bed and didn't talk to anyone for days. Then, a few weeks later, he told Hannah that the factory owner had managed permission for her to work in his house. For the years that followed, they were free from the camp during the daytimes. But one morning, a year later, a Nazi commander killed Hannah's father while testing a new rifle. She had gone to work that morning without a sense of what was happening. She was in a painful trance. In the afternoon, the factory owner informed her that he had managed to make a deal with a few officials and that she was allowed to stay with him as his cook. He was a good man. She never went back to the camp ever again.<br /><br /><br />Then the war started, and the Nazis were gone one day. The factory owner sold everything he had and left for America with Hannah and another girl he had saved. But he had become really ill by then, and the girls had to spend the next twenty years caring for the man who had once saved them from death or maybe even worse. Then the other girl married some rich guy and left, never to come back. Hannah stayed with her savior until the day he died peacefully in his sleep. Hannah had become utterly alone in the world after his death. He then slowly started to build sort of a life for herself. She had taken night classes and became a librarian, leading her to the day when I reappeared in her life. Life is too funny that way, but it all worked out too intricately to be a coincidence. That's what we realized once she was done telling her story. It was morning again by then. We left for work, and that evening, when we returned, we both returned to my apartment. We never talked about it. She just moved in with me after spending one day with me. It was as if the last three and a half decades had never happened. I wasn't one to complain either.<br /><br /><br />We got married three years later. We didn't need to, but we wanted to. She was my first and only true love. Hopefully, I was her's too. I just wanted to make her my wife, and she seemed to like the idea. So, we got married- me at fifty and she at fifty-two. We adopted two beautiful kids and made a life for ourselves. And, for twenty years, we didn't talk about the past. Then, last week, we decided to visit Germany on our twentieth anniversary. It was time. We are at the end of our life, and we decided to face the darkest part of it, look it right into its eyes, and own it.<br /><br /><br />We visited all the places dedicated to the memories of the victims of the Holocaust. Then, we decided to end the tour in the town where we had first met. We couldn't recognize it. It was completely rebuilt after the war had destroyed it. But some of the old streets were still there, including where we had our houses. There was a huge park built on our abandoned plot. We stood there and watched happy-looking children playing there. Suddenly it all vanished, and in its place emerged our childhood homes. A seventeen-year-old girl was pretending to read a book. A fifteen-year-old boy walked up to her and lost all his words. She looked up at him. She had black hair and blue eyes. He had the courage to talk to her. Nothing had changed.<br />Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-65444512807506193142023-10-25T18:00:00.353+04:002023-12-20T21:42:17.271+04:00Short Story 2023 Featured Writer, Sherene DavidThe Wish<br /><br /><br />It was hot. But then again it was always hot here. And here every day was the same for Patrick; he would wake up fully drenched in sweat, though he only wore his white sleeveless undershirt to bed and had the fan on all night. He would then proceed to his routine, toilet, teeth and tea; in that same order. The routine had worked for him for the past sixty years or so, and he found no reason to change it now. <br /><br />Tea in hand he would sit on his front porch some fifty or so steps from his fence and gate and wait, phone in hand, for his children to call, they lived in the city and phoned Patrick to unsuccessfully reason with him into coming back to live with them. He liked that his family wanted him back and that he wasn’t an old reject shunned away; he had come out of his own will five years ago and intended to stay here until he died. It wasn’t his will to do so; he loved the city and had sworn to never return, but here he was, passing day after day, and liking this nearly abandoned town more as time passed. <br /><br />Sipping his tea, he waved to the passersby who would shout out to greet him. Patty Uncle, for that was what the people here called him, was a local celebrity; they all knew him and he knew all of them; for what made him famous, was that he had come back. As far as people knew of this place, anyone who left here would never return and Patrick who had in his youth and prime left for the big city had come back after nearly four decades. And that too without his family. This strange reappearance of Patrick, now an old greying man made him the talk of the town, but he had only one thing to say, he wanted to die where he was born. So there he was, on his front porch ready to start this day too.<br /><br />He received his call and graciously declined his son for the umpteenth time; No, he was not going to go back, and also no, he would not want them to come visit him for the weekend. He knew that they did not like it here and that meant that if they did come over, all his energy would be spent rejecting their pleas all day long. He had better things to do, much pressing matters to attend to. He was a busy man, even in his sixties and even in here where time seemed to stay still. <br /><br /><br />Call done, he got up from his chair and went inside his house, Rego Mansion, the house where he grew up. It was an old bungalow, with a slanted roof that extended over the front porch where Patrick had placed his easy chair primarily used for his morning tea and call. The roof tiles were probably red at one point of time but now they had a brown and greyish color. The house sat in the middle of Patrick’s ancestral land, he had inherited it from his father, and now it would go to his children after he was gone. The land was filled with trees and plants; two coconut trees by the front gate forming a natural arc and rose bushes by the side along the pathway leading to the house. Patrick walked out all dressed and locked his door. With a few kicks he got his old white moped started and was on his way.<br /><br /><br />****<br /><br /><br />Five years ago, he had received a call from his father, so Patrick packed his bag and took the bus and came back to his hometown. He, like his sons had tirelessly and fruitlessly tried to convince his old man to leave the town and live with him and his family, but Martin had refused every single time. Patrick had had no idea why this town was so important for his father; he had even felt great pangs of guilt when he had left the old man to his fate so many years ago; the oddly visits now and then barely stood for anything, but Martin was an adamant old man and so was Patrick. <br /><br /><br />But then suddenly he received news that his father was dying and so Patrick was going to say goodbye, to not only his father, but also to the wretched town. There wasn’t even proper cable television there let alone a cinema. Even though entertainment was one of this place’s weaknesses, to Patrick, there were worse things in this hellhole town than not having a movie to watch. Patrick had been seething in his hatred for the town and was more than ready to finish his bond with everything there. He would sell off the land and if that took too long he would leave it to its fate; an abandoned piece of land was not an uncommon sight in the town. <br /><br />Patrick made the last few days of old Martin as comfortable as he could, picking up his father’s chores and doing them as directed by the old man himself. Patrick even tended to the garden on his dad’s insistence. Martin had died soon after, but Patrick had stayed on, first it was for a few days, then months and suddenly all his distaste for the town had vanished, he was, just like Old Martin, unbelievably adamant and had decided to stay on, continue the work that his father was doing all these years, his children had tried effortlessly to take him back with them and had finally given up and gone back to the city. <br /><br /><br />Five years since his father’s death, Patrick had taken up ownership of Rego Mansion, tended to his garden and was now the town’s beloved Patty Uncle. Though the townsfolk could not quite understand his presence, they nevertheless appreciated his being there. He would amuse them with stories of the big city; of restaurants and parks and many more things, however he would always end his stories with the same line, “But that compares to nothing when you’ve got the sea breeze and the fresh fish!” and for the people of the town this line meant that their little town was not so bad, after all Patty Uncle, the big city man preferred this place too. <br /><br /><br />****<br /><br /><br />On his moped, Patrick drove to the beach, and having parked his bike strode down for his walk by the waters. Waving again to his townsfolk he slipped into his thoughts strolling inattentively along the shore as the waves washed upon his feet. He thought about his father, and his father’s revelation about the town and the house, his decision to move back ‘home’ to carry on his father’s legacy and whether he would pass onto his children this secret that he had so dearly held onto for the past five years. Would he be willing that one of his young children would come back to a town that wasn’t theirs and carry on his work? They had their whole lives ahead of them and what Patrick would want them to do would be selfish. He had taken up the role after he had hit his fifties and that was thanks to Martin’s long years. Whatever his decision was he had to be quick with it, he was an old man and unlike old Martin was not going to make it to 93. <br /><br /><br />Lost in these thoughts, he was completely unaware and a bit taken by surprise when he felt someone next to him; a quick jerk of the neck eased his startle and he spoke rather loudly and a little in panic, <br /><br />“Why don’t you creep quieter next time Mel!” <br /><br />“Sorry Patty... That really was not my intention, you know that-” said Mel trailing off. <br /><br />“Mel, I know that, but my reflex doesn’t though, neither does my heart, man, announce yourself next time! From afar, maybe a ‘here comes Mel!’ Or ‘Mel approaching’ or anything” finished Patrick. <br /><br />“I did old man,” retorted Mel, “Several times actually, yelled out your name but you kept on and I thought you were having a stroke!” then gasped taking a long breath, for a startled Patrick had given Mel a fright as well. <br /><br />“What is it Mel?” asked Patrick shortly, “I’m not having a stroke and you clearly didn’t run down the beach to resuscitate me, so tell me!” <br /><br />“Easy Patty,” said Mel, <br /><br />“Delnaz told me your kid came into town, the girl, and I said to Del that I’d look for you to tell you that.” <br /><br />Patrick’s heart skipped a beat, “Jo’s here!” <br /><br />“Yes, Patty! Jo’s here!” said Mel, mocking Patrick, <br /><br />“Why is your head a little off today, man? Maybe you are having that stroke.” <br /><br />“Oh, okay genius, why couldn’t you lead with the news that Jo is here-- and who told Del?” <br /><br />“Del says she saw her drive in through town, swears it was Jo and that she was headed to Rego Mansion”<br /><br />“I have to go then Mel, thanks,” and saying so turned around and walked as fast as he could, from behind Mel yelled, “See you in the evening then”. But Patrick was out of his earshot and his brisk walking had turned into a slow jog. <br /><br /><br />Melvin John was Old Martin’s caretaker, when Martin let him and that wasn’t very often. Now he ran a small roadside all-purpose store with Delnaz, his wife. For Patrick, Mel was his closest and only friend in the town and the two, along with a couple more, would play rummy every other night. It was a distraction that Patty was thankful to have. <br /><br />Back on his moped, Patrick rode as fast as he could, <br /><br />"Why is she here?’ He spoke aloud to himself, this was not like a phone call that he could simply add to his routine. Jo being here could derail things.<br /><br />He had made it clear that he did not want them to come. But Jo wouldn’t listen, just like he didn’t and just like his father didn’t, theirs was a family of stubborn people, it was a generational thing. And why hadn’t Bobby told him anything about Jo coming over when he spoke this morning. The siblings had ganged up on him and Jo even more resolute than her brother had definitely overpowered and bullied him into silence thought Patrick. Bobby, he could handle but Jo.<br /><br />As he neared the house, he saw her from afar, she was there on his porch, slumped on his chair, her hair was tied in a huge bun that stood right on her head, it added a few inches to her height, Mouth open, she was looking into her phone all the while looking up now and then, waiting for him. Then when she spotted him, she waved, Patrick gathered his courage stopped his bike and got down. He wouldn’t let her break him!<br /><br />Jo was Patrick’s baby girl; she was his firstborn and his favorite. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her and Jo who knew this was a clever and cunning manipulator. For the last five years however his steel reserve had lowered Jo’s confidence of breaking him. She would drive over, try to convince him and leave disheartened; but this time she came prepared. Patrick noted the big suitcase by her side as he walked in through the coconut arch. Her face had a sly smile on it. <br /><br />“I’m leaving when you’re leaving.” She said, “And don’t you worry, I quit my job”<br /><br /><br />****<br /><br />Several uninteresting days had passed, since her arrival. On the day she arrived Patty had tried unsuccessfully to send her back, she too had reasoned with him into going back, both conversations had hit a dead end. The next day onward, Patty would wait for her to start the ‘leaving’ conversation but she had surprised him, she would go on with the days just as he did and when he would try talking her out of the house she would only say, “Let’s leave together”. <br /><br />Jo caused no disruption to his daily routine, yet she was always there, living out his decision with him, making every moment that passed harder for him. What was Jo doing with her life, spending it with him in an old family home in a nearly abandoned town? The stubbornness had to stop somewhere, maybe it was time to change their inherent pattern of stubbornness, maybe it was time to leave with her, forget what Old Martin had asked of him or at least tell her why he had decided to stay.<br /><br />****<br /><br /><br />“Your grandfather called it ‘Mrijick’” said Patty. <br /><br />The both of them sat on the porch on a brisk hot morning, Jo was quietly sipping her tea when he spoke; she lifted her head but kept quiet, he continued, <br /><br />“When I came here to care for him during his last days, he would insist on working in the garden, caring for the house and I begrudgingly took over for him, I would do everything he wanted done while he stood by the side and inspected the quality of work, he’d say, “Oh look! you haven’t tended to that rose bush yet, or what about having that leaky pipe fixed?” or something like that.”<br /><br />Patrick spoke slowly, considering each word before it left his mouth, “He wanted the house in order. As it had always been, and he was dying, so I complied, even if unhappily!”<br /><br />He was sure Jo would think him crazy if he blurted it all out. He had thought Old Martin was crazy after all. But he wasn’t telling her to convince her. He was telling her so that they could both move on. She, to her dazzling career and life in the city, and him here, in Old Martin’s ‘Rego House’. <div><br /></div><div>He fell silent for a while, looked at Jo, who was listening attentively, so he continued, “In my head I wondered what he would say if I told him I was going to leave the house abandoned after he was gone, but I stayed quiet, I could not, because he had cared for this house as if it were his own limb, and when he was living out his last days, I didn’t want to break his heart by telling him I would leave soon after and abandon his precious house. One day, right on this porch, he said he called it ‘Mrijick’, because that is what his father called it. The Mrijick, he said was the spirit of the house, I asked him what that meant, was the house alive? I believed him to be groggy or hallucinating, but he was lucid, as clear as he had ever been. To his last day, Jo, Old Martin was the man he had always been. That very stubbornness, that very gait. If he weren’t so exasperating, you’d actually find him funny too!<br /><br />But let me continue, Old Martin said, “No, Patty, the house is not alive, but she holds the spirit.” <br /><br />I could hardly believe him. All those years he had spent alone in this house, away from family, children, grandchildren was because he was caring for a ‘spirit’, he might as well have said he was raising unicorns.”<br /><br />Jo listened without a peep, Patty breathed heavy then looked inside the house, then looked back at her, <br />“What does the spirit do?” I asked him, seething on the inside as I thought of his wasted life, “It protects” he replied, “You wouldn’t believe me Patty, but it is true. I’ve seen it, it roams the house.”<br /><br /> By this, I had had enough, I wasn’t going to encourage his whims anymore. But he continued, “My father, told me of the Mrijick a few days before he died, and so I was left the caretaker of the spirit. The house is where it was born and it could not leave the house, if the house was left without a master, if this spirit was left without a caretaker, then it would moan and howl and lament its abandonment.” <br /><br />I spoke back to him curtly, “So, Pappa, you are the caretaker of a magical, celestial pet, and if you leave then it will cry.” He raged in anger at me, “It has been in our family for centuries, it protects our heritage and our lives and you call it a pet!”<br /><br /> I snorted my disbelief at him. He was not going to convince me of whatever this madness was. But he was on the path to convert me; so he continued, “Patty, when we die, the Mrijick absorbs our spirit and we live within it, and in caring for it, we care for our ancestors, our family, your mother... And when we abandon it, we leave behind all these people, and that will cast us in darkness. The wails of such a pure spirit will surely curse us.” <br /><br />Pappa died that evening. And the thought remained in my head, soon after all of you came and we had the funeral, I decided to stay behind a few more days and close up Rego mansion for good, but each day that I stayed there, Pappa’s words would echo relentlessly in my head, I found myself caring for the house, tending the garden, watering the rose bushes just as he had before me. <br /><br />It wasn’t that I was caring for some spirit Jo, I have been here five years and I haven’t seen anything in the house, no supernatural pure spirit roaming about, but I feel the need to care for the house, because that was why he called me back from the city, because he believed in this life that he led. And I felt I needed to respect his life. He had let me go to the city knowing too well that he would be the last caretaker of the mansion and even in that fear, he let me live my life, the way I wanted to.<br /><br />Being the stubborn man that he was, I was certain that the news of his death would be given to me by Mel but when he called and asked me to be there with him, I knew how important it was to him that I knew of his reasons and why he had stayed back. So I did too.”<br /><br />Several minutes of silence passed. Neither of them said anything. But Jo realised something, Patty wasn’t going to leave. He had bound himself to the dying words of his father. Then Patty spoke again,<br />“I didn’t know what I would do with this story of my father Jo. Was I going to pass it to you or Bobby so that one day you may have to leave your happy comfortable lives to come take my place when I was gone or let this fairytale end with me? But I know this, that when I am truly gone you can decide on your own, just as I did. But for now you have to live your life where your life is.”<br /><br />“I’ll leave tomorrow.” Jo spoke softly, “But I will be visiting you often. Whatever it is that you are fulfilling, you don’t have to do it as a lonely old man, like big pappa.” <br /><br />Patty laughed, he liked that his children liked him, because for most of his life, he had resented his old man. Then he went inside came back dressed in his outerwear, <br /><br />“Ready for the beach?” he asked as he walked to his moped. “Sure” replied Jo, “let me put on my shoes.”<br /><br />She walked through the living space and as she entered her room, there it was. At first she did not know what she was looking at. Her eyes seemed hazy and her vision disturbed. Perhaps it was some sort of smoke that was passing through, and then it became clearer, the iridescent, and subtly smoking ball was staring right at her. In it she almost thought she saw her mother in the opaqueness of the smoke, Jo stood frozen at the sight. The ‘thing’ slowly approached her and as it came nearer to her it vanished.<br /><br />Was it a hallucination? Had she imagined it all since she somehow wanted to believe in the story she had just heard? Was it real? Composing herself, she walked back out and sat on the moped, still trying to understand. Maybe it was like what happens when you watch a horror movie, you have a few frights here and there until you slowly forget about the movie. Jo decided she was going to keep what she had seen to herself. No reason to tell her father that she had seen the spirit that he hadn’t for five years. She wasn’t certain how he would react and she wasn’t sure of what she had seen anyway.<br /><br />Patrick’s moped slowly moved maneuvering the potholes efficiently. As they neared the beach, Jo asked, “Do you think mom is part of the Mrijick too?” <br /><br />“Well,” said Patty, “that’s as good a guess as any, and if she is, then better in the Mrijick than anywhere else.” <br /></div>Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-45676189913902997052023-10-25T18:00:00.352+04:002023-12-20T21:41:07.916+04:00Short Story 2023 Featured Writer, Kalpana Naghnoor<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>The Fade Aways</b></span><br /><br />Jiggly chards of raspberry jelly have always wowed me. Especially with vanilla ice cream and a mountain snow head of whipped cream. At twenty-seven, I still held on to vivid visions. I collected the takeaway from Corner House, among other things, from the car and took the elevator to the second floor. I used my key to unlock the apartment. It was dark; my husband and in-laws were out attending a wedding, which I chose to skip, and was returning from my parents’. Now three months into marriage, I kept my stuff there. I was like a squirrel. Scurrying back and forth bringing what I needed and taking some back, to store away in my cupboards, in my bedroom, which was still mine to hold and keep. Then return with a treat for me.<br /><br />My arms were laden, so I didn’t bother reaching for the light switch. Besides there was enough light streaming in from the streetlamps through the windows, the curtains left undrawn. I weaved my way through the living room and was about to enter my bedroom, when I was yanked around, ‘You must die!’ his hands grabbed my neck. I let go the things to free my hands, to wrench his, away from my throat. I was terrified, he looked crazy! Like in a trance. ‘I want to kill you, because your aura is vile!’ The man is six feet two inches tall, thin, with muscle power. I’m five feet six inches but petrified! I was becoming breathless. His palms were constricting my air passage, but my heart was thumping hard like it was defying his tightening hold. Even so, I was losing the battle, he was far too strong, I was drowning in darkness, the death hold firm. The light bulbs flashed. The brightness absorbed my predicament, shock swelled the room, and I heard my father-in-law command, ‘Gaurav! Stop that!’<br /><br />I heard scuffling as I collapsed to the floor coughing and taking deep breaths. Still shaking I pulled myself up. I saw my tormentor Gaurav; he was pushed away from me. He was now reclined on the single seater in the living room heaving from the struggle. Yet, Gaurav continued to prophesy pointing a finger at me. ‘She is evil, and she carries the devil inside her.’ I don’t ever remember being so numb, in fear, in revulsion, and in disappointment. That was the end of the road for me.<br /><br />‘Shut up!’ My husband, Anish yelled at his brother having pushed him down. <br /><br />‘Are you okay?’ He looked concerned. I nodded, at that point angry with him as well, the revulsion I felt for Gaurav was permeating toward them all. They were related, that churned my stomach and that they were family filled me with dread. I saw an askance smile linger on my mother-in-law Vimala’s face, she likes me tortured. Now was her moment. She was happy to see me like a petrified sparrow in a fearful hold. I have heard her goad Gaurav against me, and the pothead loves his mother. Together they eat heaps of poha every morning, mounds of rice with dal every afternoon, and stacks of chapati in the night. They don’t care if Anish, or Mr. Vishnu Rao, which would be my father-in-law, had any to eat at all. Me, she viciously starved. But they, kept to their ritualistic routine. It was repetitive like a rusty production line of a neglected factory, grinding on laboriously. The preparation noises, sickening. The onerous blitz of the blender, claggy clang of vessels, repetitive smells of food, the drag of chairs at the dining table. They kept to it every day, mothering and smothering each other. They lived an inward life, seeking nothing more in a day, than that routine, that it was nauseating. Except for the odd wedding that Mr. Vishnu Rao insisted Vimala attend. But Gaurav abstained, he was too much into yoga for social interactions a clairvoyant he claimed himself to be. The truth was, he was a wastrel. <br /><br />Gaurav was still in that fallen, reclined position. Unable to lift himself. He was drunk from the foul of his breath, stoned from the glaze in his eyes. The cylindrical knot atop his head looked wooded and unwashed, like an exclamation of faith. ‘She is evil, carrying an evil child and I destroyed it.’<br /><br />I wasn’t pregnant, what was Gaurav talking about? Four pairs of eyes trained on me. ‘What?’ I asked them. ‘You believe that? I’m not even pregnant. You know that, right?’ I asked Anish. He nodded but came toward me and urged me to sit down. I was puzzled and followed his gaze to my jeans and there I had bled! My jeans were blacker at the crotch and below, it wasn’t the stain of jelly! The moment I saw the blood raw and wet, I began to feel the contraction, a spasm seared through me. I took in deep breaths and let the pain pass. I picked up my car keys walked out and took the elevator to the basement and drove to the gynaecologist a family friend, Dr. Sita Batia. She took me in and did an immediate dilation and curettage (D&C). In a container she had the embryonic pieces of what would have been my child. The nursing home must dispose such things in a particular way, as mandated by the health department, not with the usual medical waste. I was eyeing the container in the operation theatre when I came around. ‘Don’t see it,’ the doctor cautioned. <br /><br />‘Want to,’ I begged. The doctor hesitated, but she knew I needed closure, she nodded. The nurse brought the bowl to me. In it was a tiny piece of flesh, hardly a spoonful, and it looked mucosal. I could make nothing of it, except that it looked pinkish, white in parts. The rest of it looked like menstrual blood clots. I cried holding the bowl close to my heart. The doctor let me grieve and vent. The nursing staff took the bowl away and shifted me to a room in the ward of the nursing home. ‘Lalitha and Sundar are here,’ the doctor said and left.<br /><br />Harrowed, I looked at my parents, giving them a weak smile. ‘Tara why didn’t you come to us?’ Mom looked hurt. Tears streamed from her eyes. ‘We could’ve been with you…’ Mom stopped crying and looked mortified. ‘What are those marks around your neck?’ <br /><br />‘Lalitha,’ Father consoled, but tears tipped from his eyes as well. Right now, they both felt helpless, and so they hugged me. We cried together. They stayed with me the night and took me home to their place the following morning. The doctor had a very serious conversation with them before she let me go. It seemed like they were going to wait it out. Wait what out I was not sure. I was relieved to be home, at parents’ and Anish too seemed to prefer it that way, he said so on the phone and he would come by later after work.<br /><br />‘Here,’ Mom brought me a bowl of jelly, cream, and ice cream. ‘Why did you not tell us?’<br /><br />‘Tell you what?’ I looked at Mom, she looked perplexed by my question.<br /><br />‘That you were pregnant.’ <br /><br />‘I didn’t know at all! That mad Gaurav said I must die. And the next thing, he was choking me. I was in shock and struggling. The trauma may have aborted the baby. Until then I did not know!’<br /><br />‘Gaurav! That son of a bitch!’ Mom looked away. She went to stare out of the window, the Gulmohar was in bloom. It seemed like Mom saw more red than there were blossoms. ‘Leave him!’ she said from where she stood, referring to Anish. I nodded watching the jelly melt like my womb had the previous night.<div><br /><br />***<br /><br />For some reason Anish did not come home as promised. Perhaps he and his father may have been worried over the consequences that may await them. They may have lawyered-up before they came. Or they may have spent that time with Gaurav and warned him never to repeat what he had done. All those ‘mays’ meant they were worried that Gaurav had done enough harm for police intervention. Vimala was a stupid woman. The gravity of the situation will not have hit her, she would have gloated. It will have been her moment of pleasure to see how vulnerable the entire family was. That her bidding was strong. Her son Gaurav could reduce anything she wanted destroyed to nothing! <br /><br />That’s the thing, I did not know why she wanted to destroy me, or what I had with Anish as a wife. If she heard me laugh the previous night, she’d punish me the next morning. Insinuating I had sex with her son far too often, like I was a wanton wench demanding of him too much. I felt ashamed and she tortured me for that. She starved me every day until nightfall, until Anish came home. My first and last meal of the day was dinner, I was allowed water. Anish knew but did nothing about it. ‘Should I fight with my mother?’ Was his counter.<br /><br />‘No certainly not!’ I would withdraw but never mentioned it to my parents, I knew it would break their heart. I prayed as time went by things will begin to ease. I never imagined such things would happen to me or any women in the twenty-first century! So, earlier when I got back to work after a month of marriage, I was jubilant. I could eat! I would stop at the patisserie Lavonne and pick my treats and be on my way. I and Ridhima, my childhood friend, we started a boutique together, Ridhara Weaves, it’s been two years since. Ours is export-oriented, desi bridal wear for US clients, some sales happened here in the city too. I loved my business, it was engrossing, and it came without tension, except for the deadlines.<br /><br />After that horrific incident I stayed at parents’ and returned to work a week later. Perhaps it was the engaging aspect of my work that kept me calm, I’m not sure. Despite this extreme hatred from his mother and brother, I found it in me to love Anish. But my mind would often stray to the fact that Gaurav had tried to kill me. He had killed the child in my womb. My love for Anish was somewhat fading. <br /><br />‘It won’t happen again! I promise!’ Anish was very emphatic, apologetic, earnest, and regretful. This was a month and two weeks after the incident when he and his father had the courage to come and visit me. Mr. Vishnu Rao said nothing. His head hung in shame. He offered no apology, he made no promises, he let his son, Anish do the talking to convince me, and my concerned father who needed those reassurances. Also, to my resilient mother, whose expression said, I’m waiting for a slip up. She did not serve tea or coffee, with biscuits as she normally did. Instead, she spread the photos of the strangulation marks on my neck on the accent table. She had, had the snapshots enlarged, it looked awful even to me. She was pumped up like a dragon to breathe fire and burn the Raos to ashes. <br /><br />I’m not sure what it was, the incident which aborted my baby, or that Mom’s anxieties grew because of it. Or Mom was ill. She had said nothing to us. But she died four months later, refusing in those months to let me return to my in-laws’. Anish would come and stay the weekends, with us. Mr. Vishnu Rao too agreed to the arrangement. He was to give us one of his properties which will fall vacant soon from tenancy. He had already gifted it to Anish. <br /><br />The marks on my neck disappeared, but the D&C interfered with the cycle of my menarche, the stains appeared at will. Dr. Batia began treating me for it, there was some improvement, but it did not completely resolve. She ran multiple tests and yet nothing was the matter with me, and yet the spotting happened. ‘Now is not the time to dwell on that. Get on with your work and this will settle.’ The doctor promised. Like she said in six months the spotting stopped.<br /><br />It was four months since, mother passed, and eight months since I returned home. Father was alone and I felt I should stay with him a while. Besides the apartment which Mr. Rao had gifted Anish was yet occupied. The tenants had requested a year’s extension and that did not seem so bad under the circumstances. So, there was another eight months before I would move out of my parents’. Sure, my mom had died, but was still alive to me in so many ways so, parents’.<br /><br />Father surprised me, he recovered from mother’s death rather well. He immersed himself in work, he was the CEO of Impact Solutions, the job came with a fat pay and fantastic perks. He kept a watchful eye on me, caring as a father would.<br /><br />‘You have three weeks,’ he flapped the printed sheets at me. Then he showed the itinerary. London, Paris, and Rome, starting at the capitals to various places in these countries. It probably was what I needed. Anish was a little surprised that he was not invited, to join.<br /><br />‘I get only one plus,’ Father explained.<br /><br />‘You could come if you want, I can get the agent to book for you, I will pay.’<br /><br />Anish shook his head, he was weary. Dichotomy ruled his life. He was a married man with no wife to go home to. His mother held him ferociously to her bosom, from which he recoiled. His father chose solitude, so Anish had no mentor.<br /><br />***<br /><br />London freed my mind and my pang-filled constricted air passages. One night after the tours as we walked back from a restaurant where we had, had dinner. A woman passed us by, her heels clicking the pavement briskly. She was on the phone, ‘Love was working late…’ She held a six pack, ‘Love will be in, in five, I’m round the corner, felt like beer. Are the children asleep?’ From the brief conversation I overheard; I drew a conclusion. That their marriage was honest and enabling. Perhaps I was correct, perhaps not. But I liked what I had heard and that’s what I wanted, too. The revolting image of Vimala my mother-in-law flashed, she starved me so I would leave or die or what? What kind of twisted logic and meddling was that? I knew Anish knew. His silence was killing me.<br /><br />Holidaying in England and France brought me back to near normal, it took my mind of many things, but in Italy I was cured. Its history absorbed me. It was exhilarating, the grandiose of the buildings, the Colosseum an amphitheatre of yore, the sheer magnificence! Of what was, what could be, and what is. What is, was recession in Italy. Still life goes on. There were no innuendos, meanness, except when flying back from Rome. There was one unpleasant incident of racism, but I was not going to let that affect me or my newness. Yes, I was a new person ambushed but remodelled in the way I thought, now shiny and resilient. I wanted to keep that going, I had made up my mind.<br /><br />***<br /><br />The moment we landed in India, that buoyancy was lost to the mundane. Father got back to work that very morning. I was home, at parents’, feeling lost again, I needed to find me back! I was a new burnished person, and this was no time to get lacklustre! I grabbed the gifts I got for Ridhima, headed to Ridhara Weaves. Ridhima was happy and surprised to see me. She loved the local perfume I had picked for her in Paris, the accessories from London, a leather sling bag from Florence. She was more thrilled seeing me aglow. <br /><br />‘Let’s be happy!’ she said as a directive for the both of us. She has had her fair share of trials, a cheating husband who was happy to consent to a divorce. She hoped to see me married and happy to seek enjoyment in the child I may have and play the auntie role. She had it all worked out. A child did not seem likely now. So, a nought.<br /><br />Thankfully for us, our business was going well. We had three bridal outfits within the month to deliver but I was beginning to feel unwell. Ridhima was worried, but she ploughed on, while I took some impossible days off. I knew what it was, but mortification overtook me rather than happiness, will I lose this one too? Will this baby too be pronounced evil? Anish visiting me in the weekends had returned me to the old fears I tried ridding myself of. Now what?<br /><br />‘Now what?’ Ridhima demanded on a day I returned to work, ‘What does that question even mean?’<br /><br />‘What am I to do? I’m afraid. What if that pothead does something to me again?’ I was anxious. <br /><br />‘Is that a fear any woman should have? Our parents didn’t raise us to be abused by others!’ Her dramatic views peaked in a tirade. ‘Come on Tara, we’ve seen each other every single day since we’ve started the business. We’ve known each other since we were kids. You know how much shit I’ve been through too in my marriage. Look around, it’s not happening to us alone. Claim your life, you can’t be weak, it’s a bloody choice! Make one!’<br /><br />That was true, but nobody tried to kill her or nearly so. Make a choice! There was a buzz in my head in the days that followed, and a knot in my stomach that forced me to stay glum.<br /><br />***</div><div><br /></div><div>Ria is one year old now. Busy with so many things, her attention span short and shuffling. She demands one activity after another. Sometimes wanting creative stories, then a quick switch to toys, she feels thrilled that she can walk more steadily. She was finding herself, as I was. Our business picked up, now we were getting five orders of bridal wear a month, which was huge. We were falling into a routine. Two women with bad marriages, we were making dreamy wedding dresses, cynicism was setting in for me. I tried to set that aside. But a dark blotch like cancer was spreading itself. Memories of that day would not fade away it remained vivid in my mind. Two years later when Ria was three years old, I had turned a ghost. I looked gaunt and felt automated, and my only point of survival was Ria.<br /><br />***</div><div>It was a Saturday afternoon and I had returned from work. Ria was with nanny and once she saw me, she usually would come running to me. But today she was enthralled. Sitting on a pile of linen which we give to the Dhobi every Saturday, and he would return them washed and ironed the following week. <br /><br />This afternoon, he asked her, ‘What my name?’ <br /><br />‘Narasimha!’ she said, like it was the name of a fearful creature.<br /><br />‘Correct!’ His deep-set eyes, and a few teeth flashed in happiness. He was old, thin, and bent. From the time he began coming to my parents’ every week to collect the clothes, I have wondered how long this collaboration would last. But it has outlived my doubts in the last twenty years. He is the same with those many teeth, crumpled, is the imagery that comes to my mind, even if he returned perfectly ironed sheets. <br /><br />‘What meaning my name?’<br /><br />‘Half man, half lion,’ Ria kibbitzed, enthused by the Dhobi’s indulgence.<br /><br />‘I living in a wall. Scratch and come out.’<br /><br />‘Which wall? This one?’ In awe Ria pointed to one in the living room.<br /><br />‘No,’ he shook his head. I living in special wall when bad man come, I scratch, come out and tear him, kill him.’<br /><br />Ria recoiled, but she laughed happily that she knew a person who could vanquish the evil.<br /><br />‘Show me how?’ she asked. <br /><br />The Dhobi did his act, Ria squealed, clapped, and jumped off the mound of linen, which he was now free to bundle-up. <br /><br />This became their weekly routine. Ria sitting atop the linen and the Dhobi would have to amuse her. First with asking his name, and then show how he would scratch the wall, and come out to catch the bad guys. Ria then would place probable situations before him, and he would enact the solutions to those. Then eventually she would step down and the dhobi would bundle up and leave. It seemed they were happy with the routine. The nanny began serving tea and biscuits to Narasimha and the sessions got longer. His eager performance and Ria’s interest in them, it became nanny’s Saturday fun time too.<br /><br />I would hear crazy stories like once he was summoned out of the wall and asked to deliver a letter. He had to carry a flaming torch, made from a long wooden stick and a cloth doused in kerosene. Using this torch, he had run through the dark of the forest. There a medic with magical powers crossed his path. An altercation happened between them, and Narasimha was frozen into a statue by the medic. Narasimha laughed slapping his thigh, ‘A wall of curse, can I not scratch and come out?’<br /><br />Ria threw her head back and laughed. Thus grew their friendship and Ria was writing fantasy fiction at the age of four, simple two liners. The old dhobi came and went, he was getting slower but his narration stunning and energetic. Here was a dhobi taking relief from these stories, much as these thrilled Ria. I could see that the tea and biscuits were nourishing him with vigour for storytelling. It got me thinking. If I wanted to get rid of that black scar growing within me like cancer. Then I too needed to do something for someone else, to get a little relief or heal.<br /><br />***<br /><br />The bridal wear, our niche product was doing very well. Fauzia is another friend we collaborate with. She lives in the US, she became our travelling seamstress, it is she who will advertise for us and net our customers through social media, and customer reviews. She advertises with desi magazines in the US with her contact details. Prospective brides and their families will email Fauzia with their requirements. She will travel to their city, take the measurements, and send it to us with a sketch. We use a clothes design software. We feed in all the minute details. The software will create the 3D images, we will email those images for approval. Once they approve, we begin with a fifty percent, advance payment. We send the merchandise to them once its ready, and Fauzia will take care of any small alterations. So, business wise we were sorted, emotionally we were not. But Ridhima was the strongest of us, she indulged Ria when she needed diversion. But a lacuna filled me. I was sad all the time, I could not shake off the feeling. This has been ever since my marriage, since Gaurav almost killed me, and since the divorce. The burnished me from the holidays was now corroded. My only happiness was Ria. Anish hardly ever comes to see her perhaps twice a year, and even when he does, he isn’t comfortable around her.<br /><br />‘Why does daddy not live with us?’<br /><br />She has more questions. I handle them as best as I can, comfort her with answers I believe to be correct for her emotional quotient. Ria nods like she understands. But a few days later her questions will ensnare me again, taking me down that dark hole. I needed relief. I kept searching for it wherever I went. <br /><br />***<br /><br />Ridhima and I were at the wholesalers, ordering our requirements. We buy expensive materials and in large quantities. The vendors pander to us keeping the other customers waiting until we finish our purchase, because we are returning customers. But when they do the billing, it is done the traditional way; handwritten bills with the help of calculators, it takes a while. In that twenty odd minutes, I usually look around at more material, marking some for a different style for another time. While I was doing that, one day, a group of women entered the shop. I noticed they were all wearing black or white hijabs, looking ballooned and ungainly. They had to gather the folds to seat themselves. They started sifting through materials to buy some. The sequences at the sleeve borders were catching the material shown to them. The shopkeeper was farouche losing patience. Stating this always happens when such women come, they spoil his ware. I studied their hijabs, yes, they did not elicit any reverence. It was hindering them in many ways. At Harrods in London, the women in Hijabs looked stylish. Helping these women would I find relief? A quote from Mahatma Gandhi came to mind, ‘The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.’<br /><br />***<br /><br />‘Hijabs! Where on earth do you get such ideas from?’ Ridhima asked laughing. <br /><br />‘We can do a few and see how it goes, whoever is making them is doing a lousy job. Come on these women need to feel good wearing what they must and want to.’<br /><br />‘Design only one, Hijabs are not in our portfolio!’ Ridhima was emphatic. ‘We’ll put it up on the mannequin and set it at the window. Let’s see.’ Ridhima was amused she chomped on the samosa she so loved and drowned it with tea from Chai Point. <br /><br />It was amazing how the one Hijab sold in less than thirty minutes after we displayed it on the mannequin. <br /><br />‘Wow! That sold without any promotional effort!’ Ridhima was surprised.<br /><br />‘It’s the power of observation!’ I was in the mood to gloat. ‘We have the need of the hour!’<br /><br />‘I’ll give it to you, Ms. cliche!’, Ridhima laughed, knowing my zone, and thinking we may have hit upon something.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Ria got her Saturday noon show with our Dhobi Narasimha, who used his name to conjure many fantastical stories. I began doing the same with Hijabs. I did not border on fantastical, but fancy looking ones within the set boundaries. Lending them a look which did not say they were mere hijabs. We made them to look like textured long coats, soft but which held shape. We made sure it streamlined the figure yet covered the body, in modesty. The veils were detachable. We sequenced them in places that would not catch other material. We made elegant Hijabs, and I could see women who wore them were gaining confidence. They could walk into a store not looking like they were shrouded by tradition, instead evolved in it. <br /><br />I was also drawing from Narasimha’s imagined demons and devils. It translated for me into real life situational hazards. He narrated a demon had spun a girl with long-long tresses on to a windmill. Narasimha had to run up the stairs and tie a rope around his waist. He slung from a window, to catch and save the girl from the blades. So, we made hijabs that were functional, they could be safely worn while riding the two-wheeler, not catching the wheel spokes. The veils had 180-degree visibility. Even so why a windmill? I wondered.<br /><br />***<br /><br />‘Once I wash clothes for king, Raja Govindarajalu.’ Dhobi said.<br /><br />‘Govindarajalu.’ Ria repeated making sure she had the name right.<br /><br />‘Yes! Raja Govindarajalu, order beautiful sari for his queen. The queen wore sari when Raja touring city, listening to people problems. Suddenly the clouds come, and rain. The queen’s sari wet, and colour disappear! Mantri quickly taking king and queen into house near and bring fresh clothes from palace. Raja Govindarajalu very angry. He order Mantri to bring merchant who sold Raja sari. The next day, merchant was drag to king Darbar. The merchant saying, he duped by man who make sari.’<br /><br />‘Bring sari maker to me, Raja Govindarajalu demand!’ Narasimha narrated, pounding an imaginary sceptre to the floor.<br /><br />I could see Ria’s head jerk back in reaction and her eyes grow round with curiosity.<br /><br />‘I cannot Raja, the man die. Say merchant.’<br /><br />‘How?’ Ria asked. <br /><br />‘Yes,’ nodded Narasimha. ‘The Raja did not think it truth. He ask whole kingdom, the peoples say that sari maker die. The Raja sad, Rani sad. Who can make sari proper? He ask. The Mantri say Dhobi Narasimha he live in wall, I will call him and ask. They call me, I scratch the wall went to Raja. I take the sari and pray. Goddess Saraswati come and give me one colour. She tell, wash sari properly, then mix colour in water. Dip sari and it become beautiful. I bend down touch goddess feet, I look up, goddess gone.<br /><br />‘Vanished?’ Ria asked.<br /><br />‘Yes, that word,’ he said, ‘Vanish.’<br /><br />I smiled thinking how much they were teaching each other in the process of these Saturday afternoon conversations. Narasimha’s English had vastly improved, even if he had prided himself proficient before.<br /><br />‘After vanish,’ I did what goddess say. I wash sari three times, take water in bucket, add colour and water look red. I put sari inside bucket and take out, sari colour is gold. Gems on sari ruby, diamond. Queen happy, king happy, I happy.’<br /><br />Ria smiled climbing down from the mound of linen and Narasimha rose slowly. He tied the linen into a bundle and carried it over his shoulder and onto his cycle. He began pushing the cycle up the road. These incidents leave me with a pang, I’m not sure why. I have always liked Dhobi, more now as a storyteller, he was my daughter’s playmate, come Saturday. His role was morphing as an inspirer for Ria. She saw him as a strong brilliant entity, I saw him as a frail human being, making ends meet. I began compensating him in many ways circumspectly. But a sadness remained with me, like a child who fears, a parent may die one day. I was like that, clinging on to Narasimha he looked so old and delicate, I hoped he wouldn’t die anytime soon. Not because Ria’s fantastical story time would end or I would not have a Dhobi, none of that. Narasimha was the story himself, I wanted more chapters of him as did Ria. It was him we were relating to as was nanny, she was now packing him some dinner to take home.<br /><br />***<br /><br />‘Why are we adding stones to the Hijabs?’ Ridhima asked and I narrated the sari story to her, and she laughed. But the baubles made a difference and the Hijabs sold quicker. It seemed to attract a certain crowd, who were making a style statement. <br /><br />‘What, are we going to take designing advice from a dhobi now?’ Ridhima asked amused.<br /><br />‘He does the washing for many. I think they caution him. Instruct him on how to take care of the material. Explain why that cloth or dress is precious, or about the zardozi work on it. So, subconsciously he probably knows what people look for in clothes. It comes out in his narration.’<br /><br />‘My dhobi makes my clothes fade.’ Ridhima said.<br /><br />‘Mine too, why do you think I give only linen now.’ <br /><br />‘He’s old na?’ Ridhima asked.<br /><br />‘He’s looked old to me from the day I first saw him many years ago. But he still comes to collect clothes, he cannot ride the cycle anymore he pushes it. Thankfully, the dhobi-ghat is not far from my parents’, but he likes to plough on, not the type who wants sympathy.’<br /><br />***************************************************************************<br /><br />The following Saturday Narasimha did not come. ‘Mommy why has Dhobi not come?’<br /><br />‘Not sure sweetie,’ I looked toward the road. <br /><br />‘What about the linens he took?’ Nanny asked. <br /><br />‘That’s not important.’ I said, and felt choked, and she looked confused. Ria skipped off to play with her princess set. At least one of us was strong. Two Saturdays passed, and the dread I had been nursing was growing itself mammoth.<br /><br />Narasimha returned the fourth Saturday, ‘Fever, cold,’ he said. I heaved with relief. Nanny made him ginger tea and he had it with hot toast. Then with a nasal twang began another narration, while Ria sat on the mound of linen. Her reactions had grown from being surprised to expected plots, yet the animated storytelling excited her.<br /><br />I was relieved he was back. I went into my room to collect money from the cupboard. To hand him the monthly because that’s how he wanted to be paid. A stack of clothes loosely piled, came down on me. The very stack Dhobi Narasimha had once faded with heavy bleach. I had put them away, to be used as glad rags on lazy days. A pair of black jeans too had fallen over my head. The colour now was slate and worn in places. I smiled because these were in vogue now, boho in style. I slipped into them. It was a little lose, which was perfect. I pulled on a pink T, grabbed the cash, paid Narasimha, and went for a walk down my lane. Like a thunderbolt it hit me! These were the very same jeans! The reason I had stored them away. Dammit! The realisation hook-punched me. The flashes came on hard, Gaurav, his death hold, my baby in a steel bowl, my parents traumatised and one dead. Memories don’t just tail off, they come back so vivid! I was hyperventilating. Calm down! I told myself, taking quick steps, then running. Who was not without sufferance? I deliberated. My father, Ridhima, Narasimha old and fragile with stories to amuse Ria. I was now panting, I stopped, to draw in air. I was bent with exhaustion, I looked at the jeans I was wearing, those very jeans! The pair from that fateful day. Yet, I’m safe. I tell myself. I straighten up, spent yet calm. I realise, more than clothes it’s how you wear your emotions. There are no fade aways.</div>Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-86223811924845301842023-10-25T18:00:00.351+04:002023-12-20T21:39:02.530+04:00Short Story 2023 Featured Writer, Sreelekha Chatterjee<span style="color: #4c1130; font-size: medium;">Away From Home<br /></span><br /><br />I asked my wife, Malati, to walk faster, as we pushed wearily forward on the dimly-lit, paved road, with houses on either side of it. <br /><br />“The gate of this particular locality closes by eight in the evening.” I alerted her with crowding apprehension, stroking my beard, while keeping a watchful eye on the road, as the fear of getting caught lingered on my mind. <br /><br />We were heading towards our new home. Malati and my two children—my ten-year-old son, Sonu and my seven-year-old daughter, Monu—had been experiencing the daily dose of abuses showered by my friend’s wife during our two-month stay at their shanty near a posh colony in South Delhi. Stricken by economic crisis, it was challenging for my friend and his family to make both ends meet, and on top of that we had added to his misery by coming over to his place after our house in the nearby village was ravaged and washed away in the July flood.<br /><br />The charm of the capital city no longer appealed to us, as being harried and emaciated, the only thing that we craved for was a roof above our head, a warm bed to sleep and a hot meal of <i>dal–chawal</i> to satisfy our appetite.<br /><br />As we took a turn towards the left, we reached a little road-side ruin, which I at once recognised to be the old house where I had intended to take refuge, escaping the dread and tumult of the world that had been a part of our existence for so long. Drained of future visions and driven by the incomprehensible fate, I felt my thirty-year-old self drawn into the labyrinth of new adventures that lay in store for us.<br /><br />I motioned Malati and the children to stop. Nothing was visible in the faintly-lit streetlight of the side lane. A large Neem tree at one end of the pavement was blocking the light coming from the main road. <br /><br />The two-storeyed, antiquated structure had an unkempt garden surrounded by a two-feet wall and a front gate, sagging on its hinges, bound by chains, from which hung a large lock. I beckoned my family to move towards the wall which was partly wrecked.<br /><br />“Now, we will have to climb the wall in order to go inside.” I told them, who kept staring at me, wide-eyed. “What did you think? We were going to stay in a palace. This abandoned house is the best place for us to stay.” I continued, folding the sleeves of my kurta, exposing my thin, hairy earth-brown hands, and the black veins bulged out upon them.<br /><br />Malati raised her eyebrows, attempted to say something, but I signalled her to keep quiet as I was afraid that somebody would hear us. She was in her late-twenties, a thin frame with black hair always tied in a bun, a pinch of vermillion adorned the parting of her hair. Her round face had a pointed chin—expressive eyes were almond-shaped with dark eyelashes, nose was short and turned up at the end. She had an average height and generally wore a sari with her <i>pallu</i> (edge of her sari) fastened onto her waist. <br /><br />I recalled the day when I first discovered this place, on one of my trips down this lane, riding a bicycle borrowed from my friend. Soon after coming to the city, I had commenced the work of a <i>kabaadi</i> (junk collector), my own business. I would go around posh areas, from house to house and place to place calling out ‘Kabaadi’ and people would give me old newspapers; plastic and glass bottles; tin cans; metal; broken, worn-out, not-in-use small furniture, utensils, instruments, TV, washing machine, etc.; in lieu of a small sum of money. I sold them in a shop near the ghetto and earned a decent amount of around 100–200 rupees on a daily basis. But I always missed my days as a farmer—although a landless one, working on someone else’s agricultural plot—in my native village.<br /><br />The dilapidated house stood at one corner of the road, meeting a dead-end. It was a two-storeyed, pale-white building, with a dark, greenish-black moss-covered look, the weeds had exposed roots creeping here and there. The wooden, dark-brown doors and windows were mostly disfigured. The garden in front of the house was no less than a garbage bin that strangely, didn’t have any unpleasant, foul smell. There were one or two mango trees and the weeds underneath had grown unattended almost covering the entire ground floor of the building. The main gate was securely fastened with chains and a big lock along with a half-effaced notice board fixed on it. Being an illiterate, I couldn’t read what was written on it. <br /><br />On another occasion, I came across a middle-aged security guard with dark, horse-shoe moustache, with whom I could successfully initiate a conversation. He was wearing a navy blue uniform with a design of a plough upside down along with abbreviations—that I couldn’t read, probably indicating the name of the agency that hired him—embossed on his shirt near his heart, while he was on duty on the road, doing his usual rounds. I had asked him about what was being conveyed through the notice boards—illegible to me— fixed onto the gate. <br /><br />“It says: ‘Trespassers would be prosecuted.’ And something about High Court, you won’t understand. It’s a disputed property, you see.” He said, taking pride in knowing little bit of English, smearing the tobacco on one hand and then putting it inside his mouth with the other one. He continued speaking and I found myself paying attention to the man’s garrulousness.<br /><br />“Whose property is it?” I had asked, leading back to the topic of the house. <br /><br /> “Who knows, <i>bhaiyya</i> (brother)? I have been posted here for the past five years and haven’t seen anyone come over to see the house.” He said in a nonchalant manner, before walking away.<br /><br />I heard that legal cases regarding disputed properties remained pending for a long time in the courts. It took ages to get such type of cases resolved. Being the ones devastated by life, all we longed for was a shelter, a place where we would be staying in peace and solitude. The house was the perfect place for us to stay without any stress and anxiety, away from the prying eyes, at least I thought so at that point, overlooking the irony of fate implicit in those circumstances. <br /><br />We crossed the wall and landed inside on a pile of garbage scattered all over the garden. The pile of rubbish consisted of empty packages of boxes, corks of bottles, remnants of half-eaten food, and plastic packets of household waste and leftover food that people had suddenly felt lazy and conveniently trashed outside, in the garden area of the building, contributing to the dirty heap. Something gluey got stuck to our clothes and shoes. My already-stained, yellowing shirt and pants, covered with dust and filth, got torn as I set my foot on some of the prickly bushes that had grown around wildly. I smiled faintly on observing the grim faces of my family members. <br /><br />“Don’t worry, it would be difficult at the beginning but gradually we will get used to it.” I said, jumping up a little, as if I had come up with a joyous idea, but my words weren’t received with enthusiasm.<br /><br />Exhausted, gathering my wretched self together, I walked ahead of them, as the way led, getting past the wild weeds, tall grasses, brambles, gnarled branches of trees overlapping one another, forming a luxurious, almost-impenetrable cover along with the layers of garbage, inhibiting my movement, indicating that the house had been disused and no living soul had treaded on that path for a very long time. After crossing the litter and the tall grass and bushes, we toiled up to the crumbling doorsteps. The weather-beaten, locked front door, with a cracked fanlight, was half broken towards the lower end. We decided to proceed through the wide hole in the door. We knelt down and crawled inside on our fours. The moment we stepped inside, a faint musty odor grabbed my attention—malign smell of molds as well as death and decay. I switched on the torch which I had received a few days ago from someone who had sold the piece considering it to be unworthy of use. The button of the torch had become loose and a lot of effort was needed to maneuver the on-and-off button. In the torch light, we could see that the small room with high ceiling had old-fashioned, battered furniture—a bed without any mattress, chairs, tables made up of wood, their bottoms had become worn-out and mouldy with age. The people who had abandoned the house didn’t take the furniture along with them, I presumed. The blue paint, on the damp wall harbouring fungal growth, had chipped off at places, exposing the once-white coating of plaster that had developed a yellowish tinge. As we walked further inside through the years of deposited dust and cobwebs, we found ourselves facing a dark, narrow passage which connected to three or four rooms that were locked. At the furthest end was a washroom that was left open. Though there was no water supply, one could use it. While moving around the locality I had noticed a tap in the adjoining building on the right. Early morning, car cleaners used to walk in there and collect water in their buckets to get the cars washed in the nearby houses. I could pretend to be a car cleaner and manage to acquire at least a bucket full of water every morning. On the left, a building was getting erected and it would be hard to get water from there, as they themselves lacked enough of it to carry out the construction work and thus, arranged for barrels of water from elsewhere. <br /><br />At the end of the dingy corridor was a door which probably opened to the back side of the house. The gloomy, uncanny look of it was enough to trigger horror to a superstitious mind. We decided to venture there during daytime and returned to the first room stacked with furniture. I lighted two candles which stood on a side table while we made the room habitable. We had brought a few bedcovers that we could purchase from the market that emerged every Friday near the ghetto, where goods were sold at cheap, affordable prices. Malati cleaned the room with a broom and made the bed by placing the bedcover that we had brought along with us. <br /><br />“Let’s be careful while moving in and out of the house, so that nobody sees us.” I cautioned them, as I wished to go unnoticed. “If anybody catches you, tell them that you are a rag picker and have come here in search of that.” I added quietly, looking into their eyes one after the other for a swift appraisement of their thoughts.<br /><br />“We have found a home at last.” I told Malati. My words brightened her face and she smiled for the first time since we entered the house. She nodded in affirmation, placed her head on my shoulder, while my heart did somersaults and my mind soared high above the rooftops.<br /><br /> The first night in the house was an undisturbed one. Though it was the month of September, the intermingling of seasons brought remnants of summer’s heat which continued to burgeon, as we kept sweltering in the sultry weather. Another reason was that the rooms were stuffy without being opened and cleaned for a long time. It appeared to be unhealthy due to the dampness and odour of the decaying house, evoking a feeling of repulsion as we felt a little qualmish. The lone window in the room, where we settled, entertained the breeze inside but to a varying degree. Fatigued and hungry to the core, we ravenously devoured the food—chappatis (Indian flatbread) and pickle—that we had brought along with us. Malati asked me if she could our food somewhere. The inside passage was determined to be an ideal place to cook food on a kerosene stove. I endeavoured to open the backdoor of the passage but found it seemingly locked, probably it had become jammed. Malati and I reposed on the bed, while the children slept on the floor where we had placed a cane mat and covered it with a bedcover for the purpose.<br /><br />The next morning, I woke up early. I sneaked out the front door and stood outside, observing the pale, cold light of the early morning suffusing across the grey-white of the sky. I took out a beedi (a mini cigar filled with tobacco flakes) and lit it with a matchstick. Though unable to assuage my underlying grief of a lost home, I felt a calm within me that breathed in somewhat peaceful atmosphere of the serene morning, trying to palliate the throngs of an unfulfilled need, the profound sating of an endless pursuit to find a place called home that we came across over there. Gentle, imperceptible winds blew like one mellifluous current, while the sunrays—slowly evolving from the brume—danced through the trees and made their way into the compound, deliberate in an attempt to efface the memory of our habitual loss, a delightful obliteration. <br /><br />I puffed up the smoke when suddenly something fell in the front garden with a thud. On noticing carefully, I saw that it was a black plastic bag full of waste. The bag fell on the wildly-grown vegetation, adding to the already existing pile of trash. A portion of the bag got torn and inedible portions like peels of vegetables, the outer rind of a water melon peeked through it. I looked around with curiosity to figure out who had thrown the trash, though it was unlikely that someone who discarded household waste in that manner would wait there to be detected after doing the act. As I looked around I found a good-looking lady in a night gown, probably in her early twenties, peeping from the second-floor balcony of the adjoining house. She continued looking at me with her cheek resting on her hand placed on the railing of her balcony. She was as surprised to see me as I was to find someone living in a posh colony to chuck their kitchen waste in that manner.<br /><br />I realised that it wasn’t good for me to get spotted in that manner. As I was about to go inside, the guard whom I had once asked about the signboard outside the gate was ambling down the lane and happened to see me. <br /><br />“O Ravi bhaiyya. What are you doing here?” He asked, as a smile flitted across his face.<br /><br />I felt nervous on realising that my desire to live inconspicuously wasn’t met and that my newly-found happiness seemed to be short-lived. Beads of sweat occupied my forehead. Pangs of sufferings of my homeless past and the destitution of my previous experience suddenly surfaced in a flash before my eyes, increasing my heart beat. With brisk steps, I came near the gate, crossed the wall and alighted on the road outside the house. Before he could say anything further, I quickly knelt down and wrapped my arms around his legs. <br /><br />“Please allow me to stay here. I have nowhere to go.” I kept on saying while holding onto his feet.<br /><br />“Arrey… leave me. You can stay as long as you wish, but you never know when the actual owners of the house would land up and drive you out.” He said while pulling me up from the ground, looking straight into my eyes. “Even if they don’t come, how will you deal with the others?” He resumed after a brief pause, his countenance grim as if he was about to reveal something unpleasant.<br /><br />“Others?” I asked in astonishment, with an outstretched hand, almost screaming in despair.<br /><br />“Yes, those who belong to the other world. I have heard that someone who lived here, a young guy, had committed suicide. You must have heard about a middle-aged housewife was murdered by her husband right here, in this very house? At night, their ghosts haunt this building. People have heard peculiar, unexplained noises; seen blinking lights and faces at the windows. It’s a creepy house, otherwise why will someone leave such a place worth crores of rupees. I am giving you good advice. You better leave this place or else you will also face similar consequences that those people who lived here have faced all these years. The ghosts had strangled and murdered some of them and others had left this place to land up in mental asylums.” He ended his monologue and looked at me sternly. “After all, it’s for you to decide. I would advise you not to stay here.”<br /><br />“Don’t stay here!” These were his parting words before he sauntered away down the road. <br /><br />I watched him go, as I stood bewildered for a moment, knowing not what to do in the present circumstance. After all I didn’t have any place to go. A man could fight with another man, but how could a human being fight against the intangible being?<br /><br />My mind fluttered, wandered away from the old, derelict building to the lost home of the past. The place where a pot would be boiling on the <i>chullah</i> (mud stove) at one corner of the house, suggesting a warm, comfortable meal for the day. The home in my native village where a day like this was bathed in the luminance of the bright sunrays. Our windows let in soft, cool breeze that blew around us in a gentle swirl. While we watched our children play in the front yard, the green fields in the distance swayed merrily. Any challenge that adversity threw at us were soothed by listening to the sweet tunes of the singing birds. <div><br /></div><div>Were those days really gone forever? Were we confined to a lifetime of servitude and poverty? <br /><br />As Malati was firmly ensconced in our new home, I decided not to tell her anything that the guard had informed me. I looked up to see whether the young lady in the adjacent building was still stationed on her balcony. It was comforting to see that she was no longer there. I silently retreated to the room. <br /><br />Throughout the day, I arranged for an abandoned, old kerosene stove from the shop where I used to sell junk items, and other necessary ones such as utensils required to prepare food. I had earned a little extra money the previous day with which I purchased vegetables and rice. Malati cooked food in the passage. Little daily routines that placed a fresh impetus worthy of our cause to settle down in that house. The smoke from the cooking didn’t get proper outlet to escape, as we were unable to open the door at the end of the passage. We had our dinner and went off to sleep a bit early. I had received an old tabletop clock during one of my usual rounds amassing scrap in the city. It used to work properly except that at times it would stop involuntarily and demanded a hard knock to start functioning once again. The clock had arrived at nine when we all went to bed. I noticed that Malati was fast asleep as soon as she hit the bed. The kids kept talking among themselves—one was narrating a fairy tale to the other—for a while before they fell into deep slumber. I wondered how innocent the kids were, unaware of the chasm between rich and poor. Despite everything they could still imagine a life was full of abundance. <br /><br />I was unable to sleep, as my mind kept wavering around the thought that we had been victorious in finding a shelter for ourselves, fighting with the oddities and shaping our lives for the better. I tossed and turned in the bed for quite some time assailed by the vague reflection of helplessness and loss that prevailed, perhaps forever, to give a memorable account of its boundless freedom to trouble my soul. Soon my mind drifted in the solitude of worries multiplying endlessly, born out of the desire of letting down my guard, to relax my vigilance on one hand, and developing a fatalistic attitude, experienced by people like me beset by daunting, uncontrollable factors influencing the course of their lives, on the other. Appearing to have caught sight of a fortunate life, in my mind I summoned the delusionary figure of it. Immersed in those happy contemplations, I didn’t know when I had fallen asleep. <br /><br />I was awakened by a loud noise somewhere from the rear side of the house. The outside world had subsided to silence and darkness by then. A glow of the street light found its way up to our room through the hazy window pane. The dense vegetation outside was indistinctly lit up by an orangish-yellow glare. I descended from the bed and checked the time. It was only ten. I wondered where the sound had come from but couldn’t muster the courage to do a further check. Considering it to be a figment of my imagination, I decided to go back to sleep when I heard irregular footsteps, as if someone was walking upstairs. Frozen with fear, I could feel beads of perspiration crawl down my cheeks. I was reduced to the cataleptic state, my eyes fixed on the ceiling. My breath almost stopped and my teeth grated against each other as I heard soft footfalls. I looked around and found Malati and the kids were still fast asleep. I tried to cry out, to awaken Malati, but my voice died in my throat. <br /><br />I remembered all the stories that I had heard from the guard. It was believed that the ghosts manifested themselves only to one person at a time. It was unlikely that two people witnessed their presence at the same time. A sense of loneliness washed over me. I felt helpless, all alone in the presence of the inexplicable being. After a while when my nerves soothed a bit, I took my torch along with me and ventured towards the hallway. The torch shined brightly as I moved from the room to the passage. On entering, I tripped on something, I lost my grip on the torch and it slipped onto the floor. The light went out. I crouched down, tried to pick it up but couldn’t find it in the dark. Overtaken by horror and convinced of the inutility of putting in any additional effort, I withheld the search. Fear loomed over my mind as I looked around, trembling to the core. Suddenly I observed something moving around the corner. A pale, yellow light was coming from the lone window pane at one side of the hallway. In that light I could a dark object on the floor, which turned around all of a swiftly. It had glowing eyes—a startled look in them. They were watching me intently as I stood there, numb, paralysed, held in its gaze, till the sinister entity let out a ‘meow’. I felt relieved on seeing it jump out of the small opening of the shattered glass window that I had failed to notice earlier. But then I recalled having heard ghost stories where the spirits had taken the form of cats.<br /><br />I went back to my bed, feeling more disturbed and uneasy. I couldn’t sleep that night. The following morning I felt relieved when the gleam of the first rays of the sunlight filtered in through the cobwebbed window panes. I sprinted up and crept outside through the broken door to reach the front yard. As a morning ritual, I saw the neighbours dumping fresh garbage onto the garden. I wondered what could be done to get rid of the feeling that I had sensed the previous night. <br /><br />Throughout the day I was busy with my occupation of accumulating discarded objects. In the evening, Malati cooked the food for us. We had an early dinner like the previous evening and went to bed without having anything else to do. <br /><br />“We could watch television.” My son Sonu said.<br /><br />“Don’t worry, we’ll have one soon.” My daughter Monu joined. “Then we can remain awake till long hours like the city-bred children.” She continued.<br /><br />At my friend’s place in the shanty, they had a TV set. We all used to watch television after having dinner. They didn’t have much money but had still managed to afford a TV with a dish antenna.<br /><br />I didn’t know for how long I was asleep when suddenly I was woken up by a loud noise like that of the previous night. I could hear the footsteps upstairs, a vague feeling of people passing to and fro. I heard strange sounds, as if a group of men spoke in whispers, yet they were far more distinct than the previous night, which could be possible only if there were nocturnal visitors from the other world, as we were the sole inhabitants of the deserted house. Almost in hysterics from terror, I decided to talk to Malati. I woke her up and narrated the entire episode as it had the previous night as well as what I had been sensing presently. <br /><br />She listened intently, despite her eyelids drooping with sleep, her hair tousled, and then said, “I can hear a strange sound too. Why don’t you go upstairs and see? Don’t be afraid. Nothing will happen.” She took out the torch from under the bed that I had left somewhere in the passage the previous night. “The passage door is jammed. You would need to go to the back side via the garden.” She continued. <br /><br />Amid the fear of the unseen visitant, Malati’s words had hurt my male ego. Assuming outwardly a calm appearance, I tried hard to put on a brave face. <br /><br />I rushed hurriedly towards the door, and glanced at Malati’s indistinct face before leaving. She nodded her head in a gesture of reassurance. I used the door and reached the front yard. The stretch beside the house that led to the back was a narrow one with tall grass, dense shrubs and bushes. Unnerved, I flashed the blurry torchlight on the unwholesome vegetation, and walked cautiously through the foul-smelling, slippery garbage. <br /><br />On reaching the back yard, I spotted a rickety old, iron staircase that arose from the ground level to the terrace. I carefully managed to ascend the stairs, one step at a time. From below, I could see a strange light coming from the first floor of the building. Struggling with the stairs, at last I managed to reach the first floor of the building, sweating profusely. The door seemed to be closed. I pushed it open to find a group of six people sitting cross-legged on the floor, in a circle, and having food. As the door was open, a candle placed at the centre, from which faint light was coming, flickered in the breeze. I was shocked to the core at this unexpected encounter.<br /><br />For some time we stared at one another. <br /><br />“Who are you?” We asked almost simultaneously.<br /><br />“We have been living in this house for the past six months,” one of them said.<br /><br />“I have come along with my family only a couple of days ago.” I answered, as I mopped the sweat, which had accumulated on my brow, on the back of my left palm and released it onto the floor with a jerk.<br /><br />“We work during the day and only come here at night to sleep. Getting a decent place to live in the city is very expensive. We are daily wage labourers who have come to the city for work, and have nowhere to stay.”<br /><br />I realised that there were people like us who were staying in the same house.<br /><br />I returned to my room and told Malati about them. Feeling assured that we could stay amicably in the building along with our neighbours and that nobody would ever come to evict us, I slept peacefully for the rest of the night. <br /><br />The following morning I woke up to the thundering noise of earth being dug up in the front garden, and scores of people shouting and vehicles moving about in the neighbourhood. I quickly came out, and to my surprise, I found around seven to eight labourers, with yellow metal head gears, breaking the front wall covering the garden area, and a huge truck was parked outside. <br /><br />On asking, they said, voices roaring with excitement, “The plan to construct a new building has been sanctioned. We are starting the work right from today.”<br /><br />I wondered how the disputed property got its resolution within a short span of time.<br /><br />The day had begun to take on the hues of a morning that was bright for some, replete with its lively colours, but definitely pale, unassuming for us, as by some incomprehensible means we had been tricked, devastated by our fate that had brought back the loss of another harbour, feeling empty and lifeless inside, while the hope of finding a shelter loitered like a forgotten dream. <br /></div>Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-51300831159697150052023-10-25T18:00:00.350+04:002023-12-20T21:36:45.569+04:00Short Story 2023 Longlist, Preetha VasanThe “Famous Five”<br /><br /><br />Tenzin loves summer holiday projects. Last summer we solved mysteries because Tenzin insisted that we were the Famous Five (though we are only four). So we went around investigating everything: the suspicious gardener who always disappears at ten a.m. sharp, the new folks in our block (Tenzin was sure they were terrorists), and the mysterious yellow van parked in the by-lane behind. It all turned out to be completely ordinary after all. And we got into plenty of trouble with our neighbours for not minding our own business like “good children”.<br /><br />Tenzin, Zarine, Jenna and I are double-buddies. We go to the same school- Kasturibai Memorial and live in the West Block of the apartment complex- Royal Residency whose other three wings, are rather boringly, and quite predictably, called: North, South, and East Blocks. Sometimes we wish they were named like the blocks where, insufferable Joe, our classmate, lives. Because his Zeus Heights’ blocks are named after the Greek Gods. That should be like living in Camp Half- Blood everyday of your life.<br /><br /> Royal Residency overlooks the biggest playground in the city. Nehru Park is more a public park, though we at Royal Residency have claimed it as our own Wankhede stadium. Joe says Zeus Heights’ private playground is way bigger. We still think ours is the biggest. And in our self-proclaimed Wankhade Stadium a zillion cricket matches go on in different parts of the field at the same time. Some of our teams are so good we even attract a few spectators.<br /><br />“Just idlers” Tenzin dismissed my proud claims, pulling his goofy cowlick over his shiny forehead.<br /><br />Since June this year our involvement in these matches has not been as active as we’d have preferred it to be, thanks to school and parents.<br /><br />Jenna’s mother’s, “No Nehru Park in sixth grade” has not, thankfully, come true. Our parents have concluded that all work and no play make us not dull; definitely cranky.<br /><br />So here we are on the first Saturday since school re-opened.<br /><br />I have my cordless microphone and speaker, my advance birthday gift from Appa. He calls me “Royal Residency’s Harsha Bhogle”. Tenzin says the title suits me perfectly.<br /><br />I perch myself at the correct distance.<br /><br /><br />I begin “It is a bright, sunny day here at Nehru Park.”<br /><br /><br />A stupid opening line; all days at Nehru Park are bright and sunny. Except when it pours. Then it becomes Nehru Lake.<br /><br />“In today’s opening match West Block’s master blaster Jenna faces North Block’s deadly in swinger. The little lady is dancing down the wicket like the mighty Tendulkar and …”<br /><br /> Jenna is out.<br /><br />“First cherry. And gone”<br /><br /> She glares at me as she walks up “It’s a tennis ball dumbo! More like first mango!”<br /><br /> Nobody else likes to be a commentator. So I pretend to be Ravi Shastri, Harsha, Bhogle and Sunil Gavaskar . It gets a bit annoying. For the others.<br /><br /><br />Tenzin sprints up “Dude, I think you should cool down!”<br /><br /> Genuine talent is never appreciated. I resume as Bhogle, “At the end of the first innings West Block’s score reads forty-four for three. After a short drink break Northern Block is ready to take on the mighty onslaught of Zarine Haneefa”.<br /><br />One of the openers glares at me and pulls Zarine for a six. More burst of energy continues. Not for long.<br /><br />“North Wing players are not so confident after the loss of both their openers”, I smirk .<br /><br />The match is really heating up now.<br /><br />“Zarine Haneefa is on a hat trick” I holler into the microphone, causing a match between South Block and East Block to come to a halt.<br /><br />Despite Zarine’s feat we lose the match. After that it is too hot to continue. We laze around licking our golas, its pink water soaking our sweaty t-shirts. Jenna immediately brings up the topic of our weeklong heated investigation: The Mystery of Muthu.<br /><br />Schools always reopen on Mondays; ours decided not to be the exception. So, after we had dragged ourselves to the first of many dull Mondays and agreed to meet at our secret spot for lunch, Tenzin and Zarine headed towards their sections. The first thing Jenna and I saw when we got to ours was the new boy surrounded by our class bullies. <br /><br />“Why does he stink like that?” Mira held her nose.<br /><br /> Neeta, who does everything Mira does, did the same. She looked at him with disgust “He is dark, isn’t he?”<br /><br />“He is an I.A.S officer” Joe declared. <br /><br />Everyone looked at him, puzzled.<br /><br /> “Invisible after Sunset, Stupids”<br /><br />Mira, Neeta and others don’t like to be called stupid; they laughed anyway. <br /><br />Jenna and I moved closer.<br /><br />“Oh, hello losers! Now with darkie here you all can really be the Famous Five”, Sameer’s grin was positively malicious, “Where’s chinky-chink, the china man?”<br /><br />“Tenzin’s Tibetan” Jenna growled “not Chinese!”<br /><br /><br />“Okay the refugee, then” Joe smacked the table. “Perfect. The Famous Five: the darkie, the refugee, the nerd, the burqua and the …”<br /><br />I didn’t let him finish. I pushed him down and landed on top of him.<br /><br /><br />“Fight! Fight!”<br /><br /><br />The advent of Shilpa ma’am brought the brawl to a rapid conclusion. She said that we escaped detention, it being the first day and all<br /><br />By the end of the day, we had found two things about the new boy: his name was Muthu; he did not talk. At all.<br /><br /> By the end of the week, we have found more things.<br /><br /> <br /><br />Zarine flips open her notepad. She had got it when we were trying to be the Famous Five.<br /><br />“Good detectives always make notes”, she had said.<br /><br />She reads out her week’s entries, <br /><br />“What we know about Muthu:<br /><br />Can talk<br /><br /><br />English, not good. Maybe that’s why he does not talk much (our theory)<br /><br /><br />Sleeps a lot<br /><br /><br />Disappears during lunch break<br /><br /><br />Doesn’t complete his homework.<br /><br /><br />Has never been pulled up for that.”<br /><br /><br />“Maybe we should spy on him during lunch break. Find out where he goes.” Tenzin suggests and offers to do it on Monday.<br /><br />We all agree. This will give us our first break through in our new mystery. <br /><br /><br />On Monday evening Tenzin is bursting with hunger and news. The skipped lunch, on account of following Muthu all over the campus, disappears in enormous mouthfuls.<br /><br />“He eats nothing,” Tenzin sputters almost choking on his roti –subzi. “He lives off the water from the cooler the entire day.”<br /><br />“Why?” I ask.<br /><br /><br />“Because he is poor” Jenna has stopped in her tracks.<br /><br /><br />Zarine grabs Jenna’s shoulders “That’s why they are not pulling him up.” <br /><br />I wish Jenna and Zarine will stop talking in their usual code language.<br /><br />I’m glad Tenzin is equally puzzled.<br /><br /><br />“Like the way they don’t pull up Tenzin” Jenna’s eyes do their I-figured- out-wide-as- discs -thing.<br /><br />“Because he is a refugee”. Zarine pipes up <br /><br />“Hey” Tenzin stops eating.<br /><br />“Jenna, Zarine can you please explain” I practically shout.<br /><br /> “Don’t you get it?” Jenna looks at me with disbelief.<br /><br />“No” I yelp.<br /><br /><br />“That’s why you should pay attention in class” Zarine winks.<br /><br /><br />“Though we’re yet to get to Civics.” Jenna explains, shrugging her shoulder, “You know how painfully slow Mosambi is. We should have got to the chapter on fundamental rights last week. She has just started the Aryan Civilization.”<br /><br />That’s unfair .Moushumi ma’am is patient; makes sure all of us “understand”. Jenna reads all her text books in the holidays and gets restless in class. I’m still figuring out what the hue and cry was all about as regards the Harappans .<br /><br /> I’m still clueless about what Muthu has got to do with Civics and Moushumi ma’am.<br /><br />“Civics. Chapter 1, page 18, second paragraph” Jenna says this before Zarine can open her mouth.<br /><br />Jenna can be such a show off sometime. <br /><br />As we reach our block she whispers in my ears “Go check Education Act 2009” and dashes up the <br /><br />stairs.<br /><br /><br />When I get home, I don’t bother changing. I flip the pages of the Social Science textbook to get to the Civics part.<br /><br />I swear softly; I can’t remember the page number. I read the entire chapter; almost fall asleep, when I spot the Act in the yellow “Did you Know?” box.<br /><br />It’s all a lot of blah about fundamental rights. I still can’t reckon what it has to do with solving the mystery surrounding Muthu. Google is no use. Only Zarine and Jenna can figure out all those big words. I decide to wait for Appa.<br /><br />Sundays are Appa’s rest days. He puts a “Closed” sign outside the kitchen like the one he puts outside his clinic. We order pizza; discuss school. On all the other days, between housework and his clinic, I don’t like to disturb Appa. Today is an exception.<br /><br />Yesterday when I told him about Muthu he was not at all puzzled. Till I came to the part about him going scot-free even with incomplete schoolwork. Then Appa’s eyebrows jumped.<br /><br />Appa comes home at ten. He doesn’t like it that I’m still awake; he ruffles my hair and raises his eyebrows, “Test or project?”<br /><br />“Appa, what is the Right to Education Act?”<br /><br /><br />He brings his curd rice to the dining table. Usually he polishes it off in the kitchen in rapid mouthfuls like Tenzin, the spy.<br /><br />He goes on for five minutes like our Social Studies textbook about how the act ensures compulsory education for every child.<br /><br />I cut him off, “What does it have to do with Muthu?” <br /><br />“The new boy?”<br /><br />“Yes, and how is he like Tenzin?” <br /><br />“Tenzin?”<br /><br />I sum up Jenna and Zarine’s grand revelations. Appa’s face clears up. He smiles.<br /><br />By the time I get the big picture, it’s almost eleven.My head is swimming; there’s also something warm and happy filling me up. Suddenly I feel a great pride for my school. Look how they were the first school to admit a Tibetan refugee in the entire city. <br /><br />They are doing the same for Muthu, helping, in Appa’s words “the underprivileged boy get quality education”. For free.<br /><br />That’s so cool for Muthu.<br /><br /><br />It still did not solve his other problem.Food.<br /><br /><br />“Maybe we can share our lunch with him” I ponder over my breakfast .<br /><br />Appa stops scraping the dosa pan, “If he wants to.”<br /><br />Why wouldn’t he want to? I almost ask. Then I get it. It’s exactly like the times we forget to charge my batteries.<br /><br />For all the tedium of the term our friendship with Muthu grows at a terrific pace, this despite Joe and gang’s frequent “Hola Famous losers!”<br /><br />Even though he lets us help with homework and stuff, Muthu still does not eat with us. I explain Appa’s point of view to the others<br /><br />“That’s different” Zarine argues “This is a matter of nutrition. Lack of carbs and proteins makes one sleepy”<br /><br />Zarine sounds exactly like her mother, who, forever thinks I look malnourished.<br /><br /><br />“If we tell him it will help him stay awake in class, he might share our food.” Tenzin is excited.<br /><br />Muthu bursts out laughing at our sleep theory.<br /><br /><br />He explains, in broken sentences, going hungry is no big deal for him. <br /><br />“I have problem”, he frowns. “No money.”<br /><br />“We don’t get pocket money either” I blurt out. <br /><br />Jenna scowls darkly at me.<br /><br />Muthu guffaws.<br /><br /><br />That’s when he reveals the impossible wall, we almost think we cannot scale.<br /><br /><br />He is very poor. Before he came to school, he used to do several odd jobs to help his parents: paper delivery in the morning, masonry through the day, cleaner in a restaurant in the evening. Now with school he can’t help his family. His sisters are very young; his mother has to stay at home to look after them. Earlier Muthu would take care of them between his several jobs and mother could work in a few houses.<br /><br />“Now only newspaper delivery and table cleaning. No sleep at night. So sleep in class”<br /><br /><br />“But that’s child labour” Zarine protests.<br /><br /><br />Muthu wipes his forehead on his shirt sleeve, “School good. Money bad. Better to leave school”<br /><br />“No, no you can’t leave” we all object at the same time.<br /><br /><br />Muthu smiles and walks away leaving us with our full and bursting dabbas. Except none of us are hungry anymore.<br /><br />“Guys we got to do something” I protest. “Maybe we can collect money from our homes…”<br /><br />Tenzin cuts me short “Dude he won’t even share our food.”<br /><br /><br />For an entire week we brainstorm. We only come up with no brainers.<br /><br /><br />By Saturday I feel so wretched I go to Nehru Park without my speaker and microphone.<br /><br />Mr.Khan , our neighbor who runs an NGO, is distributing some fliers. He sticks one i n my hand, “Arre beta please come. It is to help a sick kid”<br /><br />The flier says “A Fundraiser …”<br /><br /><br />Suddenly it hits me. I know how we can help Muthu. I’m so excited I can’t wait to get to the others.<br /><br />Jenna brings me to a sudden halt, “Hey, you are going to hurt yourself”.<br /><br /> I grin at them from ear to ear.<br /><br />“What’s so funny dude?” Tenzin asks.<br /><br /><br />Slowly and steadily I explain my idea. Everyone’s eyes grow wider and wider. Yet none of us can beat Jenna’s. They are like flying saucers when I finish.<br /><br /><br /> II<br /><br /> <br /><br />The following Sunday we decided to pitch it to Appa. <br /><br /><br />“It could work” he smiled at us.<br /><br />The pizza turned into mulch in my mouth. Could?<br /><br />“A plan of this scale “he said beaming at me “requires a lot of ground work.” <br /><br />“Like what uncle?” Zarine pulled out her notepad<br /><br />“For starters you have to meet the M.L.A to get permission to use Nehru Park, which, could be easily arranged through Khan Saab who always has his fundraisers there.”<br /><br />Zarine’s pencil zipped. No wonder she finishes her classwork faster than the time I take to finish my pepperoni pizza.<br /><br />“As it involves Muthu we also need your school’s consent.<br /><br />Of course, Royal Residency is the core. You must explain the whole thing to the residents.”<br /><br />Since that Sunday, Appa has helped us quite a bit.<br /><br />The local M.L.A kept muttering, “Badiya. Bahuth Badiya”.<br /><br /><br />Then Mrs Kiran, our principal, shook our hands for being such “fine children”.<br /><br /><br />Now all we have to do is convince the residents who are wandering around the party hall as if it’s yet another kitty party.<br /><br />The four of us look at each other nervously. The hall is slowly getting scarily crowded.<br /><br />Zarine and Tenzin have put together a power point presentation. I wish Jenna, the smooth talker, would do the talking, but she shook her head “It’s your idea.”<br /><br />The first slide reads “Royal Residency Quadrangular Series: A Fundraiser” <br /><br />Everyone grows quiet. I start nervously, “Muthu is our classmate, our friend.” <br /><br />As I go on the nervousness slips away; the excitement takes over,<br /><br />“Our series is like any other cricket tournament. Only here the teams will be from our complex.”<br /><br />A buzz breaks out. I go on,<br /><br /><br />“At the end of the round robins, based on the points table we play two semifinals” Tenzin’s slide is an ICC World Cup points table.<br /><br />I sigh and continue “Team 1 and 4 will play the first semi-final and teams 2 and 3, the second”<br /><br />A huge round of applause follows my last statement, “Teams who qualify will face each other in the finals.” <br /><br />Yikes! I have left out the most important part. I get it all out in a rush, “Spectators will be charged just ten rupees per ticket. This money will go into a bank account the school will create in Muthu’s name.”<br /><br />That way Muthu can come to school and not worry about his family.<br /><br /><br />Once the Q& A session turns into a back –patting one, help comes from the most unexpected quarters.<br /><br />Mr. Bose runs a printing press. He will take care of the tickets.<br /><br /><br />Mr. Khan’s NGO will sponsor the trophy. In fact, the whole event! <br /><br />Only Muthu requires convincing. Tenzin has an idea<br /><br />The captains decide to play only five players per team. We are only so many. Teams with inadequate numbers bring in ‘guest’ players.<br /><br />That’s how Muthu becomes West Block’s “thirteenth” man.<br /><br />After Mr. Khan & co take over, all we have to do is focus on the training and I hope to watch a few matches to brush up my commentator-skills.<br /><br />But there will be , Mr Khan tells us, real T.V. commentators, I lose my only role. There’s still lot of stuff to do: distributing fliers at school, ( Joe and gang promptly tear them up); ensuring teams get their right jerseys and keeping the score card with Tenzin on the day of the tournament .<br /><br /> III<br /><br />Which is today!<br /><br />Nehru Park is packed. <br /><br />“We are sold out” Mrs Kiran announces to us in the stands.<br /><br /> The crowd roars as the captains walk in. <br /><br />The first round robin begins. Our T- 10 idea has been cut down to 5 overs per team. <br /><br />“Ten overs are too exhausting” one of the captains had explained.<br /><br />By afternoon the points table looks something like this.<span id="docs-internal-guid-87d282db-7fff-fee5-cada-ea633b465acd"><br /><br /><div align="left" dir="ltr" style="margin-left: -0.25pt;"><table style="border-collapse: collapse; border: none;"><colgroup><col width="104"></col><col width="2"></col><col width="102"></col><col width="4"></col><col width="100"></col><col width="2"></col><col width="92"></col><col width="2"></col><col width="102"></col><col width="1"></col><col width="103"></col></colgroup><tbody><tr style="height: 27.55pt;"><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.5pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Teams</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.25pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Played</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.55pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Lost</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Won</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Tied</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">Points</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 27.55pt;"><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.5pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">North</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.25pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">3</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.55pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">0</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">3</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">0</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">6</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 27.55pt;"><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.5pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">South</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.25pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">3</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.55pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">1</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">2</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">0</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">4</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 27.55pt;"><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.5pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">East</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.25pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">3</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.55pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">2</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">1</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">0</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">2</span></p></td></tr><tr style="height: 27.55pt;"><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.5pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">West</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.25pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">3</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.55pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">3</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">0</span></p></td><td colspan="2" style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">0</span></p></td><td style="border-bottom: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); border-left: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-right: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-style: solid; border-top: solid #000000 0.5pt; border-width: 0.5pt; overflow-wrap: break-word; overflow: hidden; vertical-align: top;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.365; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 5.35pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">0</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table></div></span><br />“Things looking dismal for the West Wing” I mutter to myself.<br /><br />“They will tear us apart in the semis” Tenzin clenches his fist.<br /><br />But in the first semi- finals Jenna hits five consecutive sixers and Zarine rips through North Block’s middle order. Suddenly , just like that, we are in the finals.<br /><br />“Early celebrations in the West Wing green room” I declare staring at Jenna and Zarine hugging each other as if they have just been handed over the trophy.<br /><br />Tenzin shakes his head “Never celebrate till it’s over”<br /><br />When the Final commences sharply at 4:30, things begin to go wrong.<br /><br /><br />North Wing wins the toss and decides to field. Not good for us. The ball is keeping too low.<br /><br />Jenna goes for a duck. West Wing still manages to put up a 40/5.<br /><br />Tenzin’s “Zarine will do it” is more a prayerful statement than a vote of confidence.<br /><br />In the second innings Zarine, crashes into the boundary fence and tears a ligament. She hobbles out of the field.<br /><br /><br />We are one bowler short. We are one player short. Tenzin and I stare at each other in absolute horror.<br /><br /><br />Muthu, the thirteenth man, runs into the field. The team gets into a huddle. The captain tosses the ball to Jenna.<br /><br /><br />We heave a sigh of relief.<br /><br /><br />Jenna ‘s jersey reads “10”; her bowling action is a clumsy rendition of the little master.<br /><br /> “And he hits her straight through midwicket for a smashing four” I cannot help myself<br /><br />Tenzin glares at me “Seriously dude?”<br /><br /><br />By the third over North Block is cruising to victory, even though they have lost two wickets. Muthu ‘s brilliant run out from Mid-on brings their run accumulation to a temporary halt. After that they continue their brilliant performance and win, with an over to spare.<br /><br />When our MLA gives away the trophy to the North Block, Tenzin almost cries.<br /><br /><br />“I also request you sir,” says the announcer “ to hand over this cheque ,worth ten lakhs, to Muthu.”<br /><br />A deafening noise follows this announcement.<br /><br /><br />“And now for the special awards”, he continues. “Can Tenzin, Zarine, Jenna and Geetha come forward to receive the Champions Award for their extraordinary service to society.”<br /><br />My friends huddle behind me.<br /><br /><br />I move the gears on my joy stick. <br /><br /><br />Like I said, it is always good to charge your batteries. My wheelchair moves, better than a Lamborghini, towards the dais.<br />Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6642545377698042298.post-47203566636266806042023-10-25T18:00:00.349+04:002023-12-20T21:30:07.656+04:00Short Story 2023 Longlist, Urmi ChakravortyBullseye!<br /><br /><br /><i>Dreamers are losers... Darn! I hate dreams. Quit dreaming. Act fast, act hard, and victory is yours!</i><br /><br />The immaculate handwriting stares back at you from the crumpled piece of paper. A quarter of a sheet hurriedly torn out from a notebook. Its blank spaces still smell of the lunch box you placed in your daughter’s school satchel every day. Its frayed edges, curling inwards, twisting, still seem to bear the touch of her dainty fingers. Fingers that were so different from your own, rendered rough and calloused with all your archery practice. Her fingers that curved delicately around the pen and wrote in a cursive you were so proud of. <br /><br />“Selma, you should consider joining the calligraphy classes after school,” you often nudged her. Though in your heart, you knew too well that she had also planned to take up archery and excel in it like you did, once she finished high school. You often caught her miming a bullseye shot, all by herself, in front of the mirror. And you would chuckle to yourself.<br /><br />What is it they say about the apple falling not far from the tree?! <br /><br />Selma, all of fourteen, would roll her eyes — warm doe eyes glazed with just the right hint of chestnut, smiling at you from a bronzed face. The quintessential example of ‘beauty with brains’ – a perceived rarity amongst the coloured populace but always acknowledged and admired by the fair-skinned majority of your town. The same doe eyes that stared at you a year later – gaping, unseeing, unblinking. You had knelt down briefly to check if she had, indeed, been fatally hit by an enemy bullet or she had simply collapsed by the impact of the sudden shelling. The steady carmine trickle oozing out and forming a small pool around her neck, confirmed your worst fears. You held her palms tight, as if trying to breathe life into them. <br /><br />A short, sharp whistle blew, urging you all to keep together and keep moving. <br /><br />“Keep moving fast, Miss! You stay put here and you miss the bus…the ceasefire isn’t gonna last the whole day!” The gruff voice of the escorting sergeant rudely invaded the last few moments you had with her.<br /><br />Ceasefire, indeed!<br /><br />The sudden brr..rr..tt..tt of enemy bullets ricocheting through the air, and the erratic rat-tat-tat of automatic rifles seemed to smirk at the travesty of the word! With leaden feet, you hobbled along the dark, rugged path that promised a getaway from this macabre spectacle of war. On alien shores, far away from your homeland. A land rich in diversity and inclusivity, a sanctuary for all your happy and sad moments, and countless memories of your life so far.<br /><br />You grabbed Selma’s satchel and plodded along with the other evacuees, tears blinding your sight. A scream rose in your throat but no sound emerged. You were surprised at your own resilience – not a murmur of protest, nor any cry of grief. Only a deafening silence that became an integral part of your new, altered persona. Dry-eyed, stone-hearted, tight-lipped. <br /><br />*****<br /><br />You keep reading Selma’s hand-written words over and over again, like a woman possessed. <br /><br />She was right – dreams mean nothing. Action is the actual and only way out. <br /><br />Sitting on the uncomfortable cot in the makeshift refugee camp, you look around. At a quick estimate, you find about three hundred people housed in tents, hurriedly set up in a playground in a small town bordering your own. Geographically, it is a separate country, and hence, safe. Politically, it is an ally which has agreed to accommodate war-affected citizens like you. <br /><br />Displacement and isolation have a quirky impact on human beings, you surmise. Men, women and children of all ages - dazed, displaced, distressed, like you - all grappling with a sense of hiraeth. Each trying to navigate through the labyrinth of newness and uncertainty in their own way. While initially you all were apprehensive and suspicious of one another, with each passing day you notice a thaw in these frigid vibes. You now seek solace and succour in each other’s company, share feelings of nostalgia and anger, and collectively pray for peace. You do hear of stray conflicts among the camp-dwellers but they get resolved within a day or two.<br /><br />The conditions here are not too bad for a refugee camp, you admit, thanks to a mounting global concern for your countrymen. You have a roof over your head, your own bed, and three decent meals to eat. Volunteers, para-medical personnel and the media routinely check on you. And yet, you’re seized by recurrent bouts of despair, guilt, grief, and most of all, anger. A crippling anger for not being able to save your daughter, your universe, your raison d’etre. For being a mere spectator in your early married years as your husband kept cheating with impunity and finally walked out on you for another woman. For helplessly watching your neighbourhood being razed to rubble, with columns of choking, ominous smoke billowing out of almost everywhere – the fallout of a mindless, unprovoked war. <br /><br />Funny how war is considered a divisive force. It’s actually the most compelling factor binding people together in a common thread of loss, death and devastation. Much more powerful and unifying than peace itself! <br /><br />You smile at your own dystopian thought. Such thoughts seem to have found a permanent shelter in your heart these days. But you don’t complain – you’re grateful that you’re still capable of humour, even if it has a dark, wry flavour.<br /><br />********<br /><br />It’s been six months since you came here. By now, you’ve interacted with most of the camp inmates. You often find yourself observing a young girl at the far end of your enclosure. Blessed with spotless ebony skin, sculpted features, and dense curly tresses, she’s poised on the cusp of adulthood. A casual conversation reveals her predicament. She is a war orphan, with her entire home and family wiped out in an unannounced shelling on their neighbourhood. She was visiting her suburban friends and hence, spared. However, instead of agonising over her fate, you’re pleasantly surprised to find her maintain a sunny disposition most of the time. Chatting up people of all ages, frolicking with children in the makeshift play area, rocking infants to sleep while their tired moms took a catnap, lending a sympathetic ear to hoary women recounting their happy past – she seems to do it all so effortlessly that you cannot help but admire her affability. And patience. You often wonder at the secret behind her sang froid. Her devastating reality makes your own grief seem a tad less burdensome. You enjoy talking to her and sharing memories of happy times. Her radiant smile injects a trickle of lightness into your woebegone veins. You realise with some surprise that your benumbed heart has started beating after a long hiatus, and this time, it is throbbing for Zahra, the young girl. <br /><br />Of late, you’ve noticed a man sneaking into the tent at odd hours, often when the other inmates are resting. A beefy man with an outdoorsy tan, a thick unruly mop and constantly shifting eyes, he talks intently and furtively with Zahra. They have long conversations, peeking over their heads, as if to remain out of everyone’s earshot. Especially yours, the lone waking member in the tent. Sometimes you see them leave together and walk to the far end of the ground, engrossed in a deep dialogue. The man seems to explain things at length, his demeanour reeking of coercion rather than persuasion. Zahra looks uncertain at times, hopeful at others. Your maternal instincts kick in, you’re tempted to find out more. There’s something here that raises the red flags but you’re unable to put your finger on it. You decide to ask Zahra herself. <br /><br />“He's Alex, an experienced job agent, trying to help out the refugees here and elsewhere. He has a slew of influential contacts, especially in the American states. They have helped change the lives of many educated, unemployed war survivors in the past few months. He’s offered me a lucrative job in the US hospitality sector,” she tells you, hope lighting up her charming eyes. <br /><br />“But Zahra, how’s that even possible? There are bound to be visa and immigration issues. Besides, recession has hit the job market globally. How come he’s able to land jobs so easily? That too, for godforsaken displaced people like us, with not even a permanent address or any plausible recommendation?!” The anxiety and disbelief in your voice reach a treble. “Please don’t trust this man blindly, Zahra…there’s something iffy here.”<br /><br />“I’m sorry but no, I’m not gonna waste my life languishing here anymore in this rat hole. I’ve already suffered enough. I’m done with grieving and mourning. Now, I want to l breathe free…lead a regular life. I’m leaving with him tomorrow night and that’s final!” The desperation and urgency in Zahra’s voice slice through your heart. <br /><br />“Did you speak to any of his contacts yourself? And have you informed the officer here about your plan?” Your rhetorical question is met with a small, bitter smirk.<br /><br />“No, I haven’t. And you also please don’t. I want to leave as quietly as possible. He’ll bring his vehicle around midnight and park it outside the ground. No drama, no fuss, just an easy exit. And a step closer to my new, happy life. I hope you’ll cooperate,” Zahra looks at you pointedly, a childish eagerness shining through her hazel orbs.<br /><br />You nod and fall quiet but your mind is on an overdrive. You recall all those incidents of human trafficking plaguing war-afflicted regions that reach your ears, albeit in hush-hush tones.<br /><br />Here’s this beautiful young girl with no one to guide her, lured by dollar dreams - such an easy prey for these vultures in human guise! Will she become the latest addition to their statistics? And she seems so completely convinced and enamoured by Alex’s rhetoric!<br /><br />Darkness descends and yet, you’re not able to sleep.<br /><br />This is sheer foolhardiness! I have to stop Zahra from doing this. But how?! How do I even begin to explain the pitfalls that lie ahead of her? She’s not ready to listen to any reasoning. And tomorrow is just a few hours away…<br /><br />You keep tossing and turning and finally drift off into a fitful sleep, punctuated by nightmares of the swarthy Alex bombing your home and taking Selma away by force.<br /><br />******<br /><br />It’s D-Day and you are up with the lark. You go about your daily chores like a robot. A mishmash of distant sights and voices eddies inside your brain. After Selma, you never thought you would need to worry about anybody else. You had painstakingly coated every fibre of your being with a cold stoicism. You were certain your synapses had turned impassive with too much grief and enduring. And now belying all your beliefs, you work yourself into a tizzy, exploring all avenues, trying to devise an escape route for Zahra from what you consider a joy ride to disaster.<br /><br />Your options are limited. If you report Alex to the camp authorities, the odds are stacked high against you. You do not have proof, and Zahra will certainly not testify. Besides, Alex would get cautioned and probably target some other gullible child in one of the many refugee camps dotting the country. You need to do something yourself. You are reminded of the words Selma believed in – it is purposeful action that matters and not a dream that keeps you lying in limbo!<br /><br />The day comes to an end, thankfully faster than you had anticipated. The entire camp is swathed in a blissful slumber. Lying on the cot, you train your eyes to see in the dark - no sound, no movement. Satisfied, you rise ever so gently, taking care not to awaken anybody. Least of all, Zahra. You literally crawl out of the tent and make a dash for the wall circumscribing the perimeter of the playground. Through the dark haze of the moonless night, you try to locate the spot where the wall has crumbled partially, leaving a reasonably large breach amidst the bricks. It is through this breach that Alex usually sneaked in, Zahra had once mentioned, as the main entrance points are carefully manned. <br /><br />This gaping hole, is this a casual oversight or a deliberate slip-up? How come it’s remained unnoticed till now? And is it sheer coincidence that this spot lies beyond the range of the dull yellow light burning wearily from the nearest lamp post?<br /><br />A flurry of thoughts and doubts criss-crosses your mind. The answers continue to elude you.<br /><br />You bend down and your fingers grope on the ground till they find what they are looking for. You clutch them tight inside your fist. You silently walk a few metres back and blend in with the shadows. The pervading silence is occasionally broken by the whirr of a patrolling motorbike on the road outside. A church bell ding-dongs at a distance, indicating midnight. A few minutes pass – liquid beads of apprehension gather on your forehead. You start wondering if this was, at all, a good idea. If you should have taken recourse to a police complaint. And right then, your alert ears pick up the low rumble of a largish four-wheeler, carefully coming to a stop right outside the boundary. Within minutes, Alex ambles in through the wide chasm. You crouch low against the obscure wall, your fists clenching and taking aim. It’s now or never, you remind yourself. Then, as he starts walking towards your tent with a practised swag, your balled up fist swings into action. <br /><br />Thud…thud!<br /><br />You hold your breath as you see Alex suddenly getting hit on the temple by a couple of jagged pebbles. From the shadows you watch as he lets out a loud, anguished cry and stops dead in his tracks. Clutching his forehead, he teeters for a few seconds before slumping on the ground, right in front of your eyes! Bullseye, you congratulate yourself! So many days without practice but you still haven’t lost your mojo, you realise with a grateful smile.<br /><br />Alex keeps wiping his forehead with a dirty handkerchief. There’s some blood, you presume. Alerted by his cry, you notice a few people running up to him, both guards and camp dwellers. Words like ‘ambulance’…’arrest him’…’not from the camp’…’looks shady’ float into your ears. Seizing this opportunity, you emerge from the dark and merge unobtrusively with the crowd milling around Alex. You heave a sigh of relief as he is taken away by the burly guards. In the melee, you catch a glimpse of Zahra, looking both bewildered and deeply disappointed, at this quirk of destiny. You feel gutted for having destroyed her dream, her lone ticket to freedom. But there was no choice, you console yourself, as you watch Zahra walk back to the tent, crestfallen. <br /><br />The commotion gradually dies down. You squat on the ground and watch as the inmates retire to their respective tents. Selma is gone, but Zahra is here - safe and alive. Tears spill out of your parched eyes, unbridled, after a prolonged drought, redeeming you of your self-imposed emotional exile. You secretly thank the puckered paper containing Selma’s credo, for breathing life into your moribund senses. <br /><br />Dreams, indeed, mean nothing, Selma…it’s only action that matters. And I did act this time, my dear girl!<br /><br />Novalunosis had always been your favourite de-stress activity. But today you do it with a purpose. You blow a loving kiss heavenward, trying to locate your beloved girl, your shining pole star, among the million twinkling specks dotting the infinite expanse above. <br /><br />You prepare yourself to spend one more night in deracination. To wait, and to pray, that you go back home as a free, proud citizen, at least once within this lifetime. And pick up the threads of your fragmented existence, one stitch at a time. The very thought fills your unhoused, unsettled, self with an overwhelming moment of yugen. <br /><br />You inhale deeply. <br /><br />Bullseye, indeed! <br />Wordweavershttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03914123480662145653noreply@blogger.com0