Selected stories on the link below.
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| Short Fiction |
Showing posts with label Prose 500 2021 Longlist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Prose 500 2021 Longlist. Show all posts
Sunday, 30 May 2021
Enakshi B, Featured Writer, Prose 500 2021
Seeking My El-Dorado
Good girls go to heaven and bad girls go everywhere!
So why did Ms. Goody Two shoes, yours truly, end up in Pattaya instead of heaven? Well, ISIS! the terror organisation with their particularly violent ideology had managed to change the course of MY life.
I had just been issued a Jordanian visa for a blissful vacation by the Jordanian Embassy but the year was 2016 and month February when a Jordanian pilot was beheaded by ISIS and the country was tottering on the brink of a war or so it seemed.
I had to replace Jordan with a country I could visit for leisure in less than 24 hours! My employer had sanctioned exactly six days of leave for a holiday starting the next day. And if I missed availing the leaves now, there was going to be no next time for a full year.
Without doing any travel homework, we were two girls who landed at an inappropriate Thailand city determined to find our Utopia. A guy friend of mine left a sniggering social media comment on my Pattaya check-in update.
"Pattaya is a Utopia for boys, not for you two," mocked his comment at my captioned photograph of Pattaya which read ‘Found my Utopia’.
Spurred by his jeer, I was determined to live it up in this Thai city which looked quite interesting. My friend and I threaded our way through the psychedelic streets dotted with pole dancers, lap dancers, lady boys and much more which our eyes were trying to get used to. Soon, my friend and I realised we were the only girls walking on a particular street unless you count the women with unsmiling eyes and smiling mouths who were calling out to the men. Oh-oh, we had walked deep into a world built around the lust of men.
Awkwardness gave way to curiosity when I spied a book on the lap of a woman as she sat waiting at her parlour entrance. I could tell a bookworm when I saw one. My friend muttered under her breath saying, "That woman was probably just playing the hot-nerd fantasy for customers that night or reading Fifty Shades of Grey!
I gave my friend a scathing look and approached this intriguing woman. My friend lost no time in striking a selfie pose next to her.
Looking at us, she smiled and said, "India?"
I asked, "How did you know?" She pointed to the intricate mehndi patterns etched on my hands, the dried henna leaves had tattooed my hands with a deep fury. A dead giveaway of my nationality. I asked, "Your favourite country? Which one?"
She was silent.
I tried again, "The one you would want to visit again & again?"
As though by asking this question, I was trying to hand her an escape flight to a better life.
She nodded her head and said, "Memories. I visit again and again. My favourite place."
My wanderlust soul realised what I was missing.
Jyotsna Jha, Featured Writer, Prose 500 2021
In the Wrong Story
After a long wait, a woman about her age, carrying a wailing baby in her arms came into the drawing room to greet her. She was in a sari and she was beautiful in a traditional Indian way. She must be his sister. Sachin often mentioned the baby fondly.
‘I’m sorry, but Sachin is away on a patient call. Can you wait for him?’ she asked.
So he was already seeing patients. She was impressed.
I could wait forever for him, she thought as she nodded her head.
The baby’s cry grew louder. 'Aaccha baba,’ the woman said tenderly in mock irritation as she opened her blouse to draw the baby to her breast.
Erin was embarrassed by this intimate scene and spoke hurriedly to hide it. ‘It’s wonderful that Sachin has started seeing patients even before completing his degree.’
The woman looked up surprised, ‘Sachin is a practicing doctor since the last three years, ever since he finished his MD.’ ‘He also teaches at the NIMS hospital,’ she added with pride.
The baby lost his mother’s nipple. The woman guided its mouth to her breast again.
‘It’s surprising that an English woman would see a doctor in India without checking his credentials.’ She laughed but her face had a frown.
After a long silence Erin’s voice came out as a low moan, ‘You must be Anusha, his sister!’
The woman looked up with a start. A look of alarm crossed her face. ‘No, I am his wife.’
She was looking very carefully at Erin’s face. She gave a nervous laugh before starting again, ‘So Sachin has been talking to you about his family. Actually, he did mention you once while talking to me on the phone. You see, I was with my parents for three months for the birth of my baby. You had a skin problem of some kind, he said-- but you look fine now...'
Erin slumped into her sofa.
The baby was now crying loudly again, making his mother increasingly restless. ‘I think he needs his bottle. Just give me two minutes,’ she said gathering herself.
Erin did not lose a single minute. She hurried down the staircase, and walked furiously down the narrow road. Scenes played themselves out in her mind like a motion picture; the boat rides in the river, their long conversations; Sachin kissing her on the sofa and then leading her to his bedroom; the bus ride to Canning; images of their visit to the Sundarbans danced around her- blinding light, dark twisted trees, and surprisingly, the solitary black-tailed Godwit perched on the tree, majestic in its isolation.
As she crossed one narrow alley only to enter another, the lights suddenly went out.
‘The damn power cut again,’ she cried out ferociously to have a grip on her racing heartbeat. The road was plunged into darkness and she could hear strange voices all around her, but she knew she had to find her way home.
Sakshi Bhatnagar, Featured Writer, Prose 500 2021
The Coercived Abscondment
"Palaash and Irfaan, come, the breakfast is ready. Today, I have made poori bhaaji."
Palaash and Irfan were childhood buddies. While Palaash stayed with his mother, Irfaan was an orphan. That was the reason, Irfaan had always called Palaash’s mother as Ammi Jaan. As Palaash and Irfaan were relishing the breakfast, news of the riots in their beautiful Kashmir echoed in the room.
Irritably Palaash turned off the radio but his mother was worried.
Soon the rioting crowd reached them. Cracking window glasses, firelights, people’s screams filled the entire village. On the cold freezing night, people were dragged out of their homes. Palaash and his mother too weren’t spared.
The morning sun didn’t do any good either. There were deplorable bodies of people. Palaash, dragged himself to locate his mother only to find her recklessly succumbing to the injuries. Unable to bear the trauma of his mother’s sudden demise, he lost his consciousness.
Palaash found himself in posh hospital on regaining consciousness. By his side, he saw elderly couple sitting whose eyes were glowing on seeing him fine.
"How are you feeling beta?" The soft voice reminded him of his mother and he started crying.
"Don’t cry beta. All of us lost everything on that fateful night. We found you wounded and unconscious and brought you here. We both will take care of you."
Ten Years Later,
Palaash , now a successful police officer, was getting ready to go on a mission, to Kashmir. "Palaash, are you sure you are going there?" His mom sounded worried.
"Don’t worry Ma, I will take care of myself."
Not just a mission, he had his own reasons to go. This time Irfaan has to answer my questions, thought he.
He stopped near a posh hotel.
Excuse me, I wish to speak to your owner. Palaash ordered the receptionist showing his identity card. And within moments, both Irfaan and Palaash were face to face.
Irfaan was speechless. He almost didn’t recognise Palaash. His eyes lowered his gaze with shame.
"Palaash, please let me explain."
"Explain what!"
"About how you were sneaked behind the wall and let those criminals kill my mother whom you lovingly called Ammi Jaan."
Irfaan couldn’t take it anymore.
He started telling his side of story…
The moment the crowd approached the village, I came running to save you and Ammi Jaan. But as I reached there, the situation had already worsened. While I couldn’t save Ammi Jaan, my next thought was to save you. I requested a couple who had just lost their son, and his family to save you and they helped you all escape.
I haven’t slept peacefully since that night. Those nightmares still scare me. You only saw me sneaking before being unconscious, but I had sent those people to help you.
Please forgive me my friend, this world is already full of hatred. Let’s just try and spread love.
Finally the barrier of religion between the friends was lifted only with true and pure friendship to remain.
Anish Sarkar, Featured Writer, Prose 500 2021
All
"Mother!!” the voice screamed. It's been two months now. But everything seemed so perfect only a couple of days back. Who knows, time really flies. Heavy footsteps appeared on the staircase, and followed by a thud, the door swung open. "What is it darling?" She sounded so weary, sweating profusely. “Tell me, what is it?" Words faded into heavy panting. It was late afternoon. Sun's just about to set. The room was filled with a red glow. The dust greeted the sunlight like an old friend. “Please ma,will you shut the door? I have something to say to you." The silence was resounding, "What is it son? Is it your head? Is it aching again?" "No ma, it's fine, really, plea--" "Just lie down..."
She disappeared and came back with a piece of cloth, which appeared to be very old, and ripped in places. Water was dripping from it. She hastily put it down on his forehead. “There son, feeling better?" The room was quite small, only a pair of window, a shabby little bed in the middle and a crudely distinct wardrobe, most of it was decaying slowly. But there was only one thing which was gleaming even in the dying effulgence. A very old piece of photograph. An elderly looking man was smiling widely, placing his hand on the shoulder of a young boy with surprisingly bright eyes, accompanied by a woman. Her face was calm with a soft twinkle at the edge of her lip. “Yes ma, a lot better. Now come and sit beside me."
The boy was seventeen years old. His father had passed away a year ago. After that they had to move to a lot smaller house, since they couldn't afford the previous building, the rent was too damn high. She sat beside him and caressed his head. Her hand was cold. She whispered into his ears, “What is it my boy?"
"What were you doing?" "I was cooking your favorite dish." He grinned weakly. Warm touch of her hand had already numbed his sensation, his head was not aching anymore. He felt sleep slowly creeping through his vein. "Look ma. I don't think I can make it."
The cancer was already in stage four when he was first diagnosed. The doctors did what they could, but the illness had already spread throughout his whole body. "Ma, do you remember, every day after returning from my school, how I made you play football with me. You hated that game-- after I broke my arm... And how you used to sing me lullaby every night before putting me into bed. How you used to hug me tightly in your arms after I woke up screaming from my nightmare I used to have."
The forlorn humming of a dove broke the silence. The blues were slowly turning into black.. "Ma, do you remember the little vacations we used to take, you, me and papa? We would go somewhere nice and quiet. You and me, we would chortle at every little joke dad used to make. And you never forgot to cook our lunches. We would play games and laugh. I still remember that one night, my annual result was out and I had failed in English. I was up all night, sitting alone in the corner, crying. I was a mess, and dad wouldn't talk to me. He was still angry. It was you ma, only you made me sleep that night. You were always there for me..." She couldn't hold back, tears were flooding down her eyes. Her vision was blurring out." And remember you used to buy me chocolates and ice cream every time I was sad. How you kissed my cheeks and adored me." "Hush now darling. I will always be there for you..." "Ma! No don't turn away now-- Look into my eyes. Please, when I'm gone-- I need you to be strong, okay? Promise me you will be strong, promise me..."
She held his hand tightly, “I promise..." The light had died out, the sun was no more... The room's now dark. The pressure cooker whistled for the fourth time. Her eyes were still dewy... An obnoxious smell furnished the room. That old piece of photograph, it was still shining, The elderly looking man was now smiling wider than ever. She whispered one more time, “I will be strong..."
Canta Dadlaney, Featured Writer, Prose 500 2021
Silhouettes for Solace
Dusk had long vanished into the darkened night. The pandemic had had an unsettling effect on everyone. ‘Work from home’ had become the norm but there were some who were still commuting to isolated offices.
Through the shadows cast outside and the quietude of his own home, the extremely bright lights of a house in a building, not too far away caught his eye. He stared as if to get a closer look but saw no one. The lights were too bright and yet looked appealing.
Suddenly, he saw a female silhouette walk into the balcony and settle on a chair. Within minutes, a male silhouette stood beside her. A-ha! Finally! Dark figurines set against flood lights.
Even as his mind tried to figure what they could be discussing; the balcony was empty again but the lights continued to shine. It was late and he fell asleep.
The evening lights drew his attention to the house and he noticed the windows were shut. “Hmm, working couple, perhaps! Wonder if they work in the same organization or” …
He continued with his work and decided to check later, not understanding, his curiosity. At precisely the same time as the previous night, he stared outside again, peeping cautiously through his window, not wanting to be noticed. “That’s them”! He exclaimed as if he had discovered a new law of physics. The male silhouette always seemed to stand next to the female silhouette while she sat on the chair. “Are they sharing their work-place experiences or the status of the pandemic? Looks like they have been married in the recent past”. Even as his very imaginative mind took to a range of conclusions, he realized the couple had retired into their living room but the lights were left on for long, sometimes way beyond midnight.
Was the pandemic doing things to him? Making him peer into the lives of complete strangers, that too, from afar? Something was surely wrong but he couldn’t put a finger to it. The lights seemed to lend some solace to a situation that had enveloped the entire planet.
Days turned to weeks as did his observation of the silhouettes. Just before hitting the sack every night, one last peep, to see the bright lights and the two silhouettes made him smile. For some reason, he had connected with them. It was unique perhaps, different or was it because it was at a distance?
The summer heat and the prolonged days made him dismiss the habit, probably because, well, it seemed stupid.
It was twenty hundred hours and as he stepped inside his home, he first thought of viewing the beacon in the dark. To his surprise, the place was dark.
This continued for a week. “Have they gone on a holiday. In the midst of this pandemic, impossible!”. He laughed at his silly thought.
Another week, a hot Sunday afternoon. He peeped through the window. He saw a family of six standing, in the balcony!
Canta Dadlaney
Preetha Vasan, First Prize, Prose 500 2021
The Memory
Ram Sahai hates queues. They are restless, sticky and smelly. Exactly like this one. He shudders despite the heat. His sweat drenches his orange turban and his white kurta-shirt.
Sahai hates queues for other reasons. They bring back memories: convoys of trucks and lines of people, with bundles atop their heads, dragging hungry, wailing children as they waited to cross the border into the safety of Amritsar. Provided you were lucky to reach the other side alive, before the Muslim mobs got you.
His hands are wet like the time he had stood, waiting for their truck, in the other queue on the evening of the 16th of August, 1947.
Little Sahai held on to his father’s hands tightly. A cloud of red dust announced the arrival of the last of the convoys. There would not be another for a week. Anxieties and fears of being left behind filled the air like a contagion. People pushed from all sides.
Baba’s hands, Sahai remembers, were wet with sweat like his are now. It has turned the map- he grips in his clenched fist-into a round ball of wet paper. He knows it thoroughly, yet he opens his fist to see the drawings one last time. The domes are a criss-cross line of cracking earth. Sahai grimaces to himself .He feels the sledge hammer in his khadi-cotton satchel.
Sledge hammers can break skulls; domes of mud and chalk are nothing under its impact.
His blood rushes to his head and he wishes the speeches and the sloganeering would cease and let them do what they are really here to do.
Hadn’t they been told the trucks were safer? The trains were the real danger, weren’t they?
But there are no safety zones during times of uncertainties.
The truck driver and the soldier, spotting the rushing Muslim mob, had fled. As if on cue, everyone- father, mother, and the neighbours from their village- attempted to jump out of the truck.People lumped together like cattle were not faster than a mob – burdened as it was with hammers and axes-raging for the fleeing refugees’ blood. Everyone he knew was pretty soon an unidentifiable mass of flesh. Bar Sahai-the little shrivelled up boy of three, whom a father had tossed under the tarpaulin atop the driver’s seat of the truck.
Anytime now!
The young man bearing the saffron flag has broken the police cordon. This is the signal. Within minutes they will storm the ancient structure and level it. After all they have read, like Sahai , the architect’s map; they know the domes’ weakest points.
Sahai’s legs are pillars of salt.
Because a woman clad in a black burqua found him, lost and speechless, hours later, next to the bleeding truck. She took him home, fed him and sent him to safety across the border.
Sahai drops the hammer.
The queues transform to their purpose: a vindictive mob. Sahai breaks his, turns, flees from the ancient monument whose domes crumble.
Manish Ranjan, Prose 500 2021 Longlist
Dance of Life
He sat there, basking in the afternoon Sun, with his back to the brick wall. Bowed down, his bald head reflected the sunshine. He looked up when I moved in closer to touch his feet.
Pranaam Nana, I greeted him. He did not reply. I looked for a sign of recognition in his eyes. I did not find any.
It’s Vishal, I said, trying harder. He nodded this time.
How are you, the question popped out of my lips. What a wasted question it was? His lips wavered, attempting to reply.
Just counting the days, he shifted in his seat then pointed up. Waiting for the final call.
I smiled awkwardly while he rummaged in his pocket. Out came a small diary. He ruffled through its pages before stopping at one. He showed it to me; a number hastily scribbled alongside a name. Next, he handed me his feature phone. Obviously, he wanted me to dial a number. I did. It was a short call. He barely said anything.
Isn't it Wednesday, he asked me after the call ended.
No, Nana. I shook my head. It's Sunday.
Ooh. He looked confused.
I sat with him for some time while guests came and went. I hardly knew anyone. But they seemed to know me. Some commented on how closely I resembled my mother and others how I did not.
At some point of time, I got a call from work. I walked a little away to take it. Few minutes into the call, I noticed him trying to stand up. Disconnecting the call, I rushed to him.
Do you want to go downstairs, I asked. He nodded. I grasped his waist then took his left arm and placed it on my shoulder. Slowly and steadily, we made our way down the stairs.
His room was dark. And a smell lingered of what could be stale pee. I turned the lights on. In the dim glow of an incandescent lamp, I could make out a bed in one corner with a mosquito net hanging over it. I walked him to the bed. There, he sat comfortably.
You're Vishal, right? He was smiling now. I was quite surprised. I nodded in affirmation.
You're his son, right? He uttered my father's name. I nodded again.
We talked a little. And then some. After that, he crawled inside the canopy of the mosquito net.
Enjoy the wedding, he said.
Stepping out of the room, I heard the sound of drums and saw my niece running up to me.
Mama, let's dance. The dhol-baaja has arrived.
I stepped outside the house to a throng of people. My niece dragged me to the centre and urged me to dance.
I did not know how to dance.
Still, I danced.
Because I could.
While I could.
Divvisha Bharti, Prose 500 2021 Longlist
Vanished
Had Chhotu known that it's going to vanish soon, he would have taken utmost care to save it all. A little six year old boy started collecting the shells from the beach while he accompanied his father to the beach to sell coconut water. Rolling on the sand, picking one, jumping onto the other, digging the sand, Chhotu kept on doing this for about ten minutes. He collected twelve shells of different shapes and sizes when his father called him, “ Chhotu come fast, come fast”.
He left the collected shells and ran towards his father. His father introduced him to the group of travellers who had come to the beach to relax and rejuvenate. He asked him to show some of his dance moves and entertain them. “Chhotu, zara dance karke toh dikha”.
Soon the travellers went back and Chhotu realised that he had left his shells. He rushed to get them but before he could reach and grab them, a long wave washed them away. He came disappointed to his father and told him what happened.
His father encouraged him to go again and look for other shells. He started his search again but this time because he was disheartened, he found one beautiful shell but left it there and went to sit with his father.
Few minutes later, he saw a little girl pick that shell and take it along with her. He kept looking at her till the sight faded.
Gloomily he kept sitting with his father in the shop and staring at the sea. His father came and asked him to pick up the cloth beside the stacks of coconut. The moment he held the side of the cloth & overturned it, he saw four very beautiful shiny blue colored shells.
His father said “Chhotu come here, bring them here”. He did what his father asked him to do. His father gave him a very valuable lesson for life. He said “ We only realise the worth of something when it’s gone. What is important is to take care of everything every time. We don’t when we are going to part ways with it. Whether we are destined to have it or not. So, it is very much important that you take care, appreciate and be grateful for things that you get in life, cherish them and value them”.
Chhotu or Dr. Damodaran, closed the book, adjusted his specs and addressed the huge gathering of MNC on their annual day.
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