Short Story 2012 Longlist, Rashmi Menon

Muthashi’s Mysorepak

Amini was restless and couldn’t hide her impatience. What was taking her father so long, she irritatingly wondered? Her school had closed for summer and Amini could wait to spend the two long months with her beloved muthashi (grandmother). Amini had been counting days, right from the time the last vacation ended. 

Although she was seven, Amini did not mind leaving her parents and spending the vacation alone with her muthashi. Besides, having her grandmother all to herself, she would be treated with delicacies and all her favourite dishes would be prepared. In short,  Amini could have and do whatever she wanted, away from the watchful and often scolding eyes of her parents and her nosy, hard-to-get-away-from brother. "Absolute bliss," Amini thought.

Muthashi stayed in a town that took four hours to reach in a bus. The initial plan was to drop Amini after two weeks but Amini pestered her father to drop her the same weekend. Her father finally resigned to her tantrums and it was decided that they would take the evening bus. Amini had planted herself next to the window since afternoon. Her father was supposed to come early from office. Her mother hardly came in these trips to the grandmother’s place.

While waiting for her father, Amini guessed the delicacies muthashi would have made for her.  “Mysore pak will definitely be there. She always makes it when I come,” Amini thought happily. Oh, what fun she would have with muthashi. Amini also had planned a list of things that she was going to show muthashi like the new watercolours she bought, her drawings (but of, course), report card that stated she would go to third grade, and her small trophy for coming first in a running race. She had packed them in the bag without amma’s knowledge. She mentally check listed anything that she might have missed. Her thoughts than wandered to what gifts muthashi might have kept for her. Last year, muthashi had surprised her with a kitchen set so beautiful that she saw her friends Tanya and Manjushree wanting it. The sound of the doorbell interrupted her train of thoughts. Running towards the door, she could hear amma asking her to slow down, but she had already opened the door before amma could finish the sentence. It was her father and she squealed with delight. In return, her father gave her a big smile and hugged her. Although Amini loved her mother, she was partial to her father. He would tuck her in the bed and would always play with her.

She missed her father when he was about to leave from muthashi’s house but the sadness only lasted for a few hours for muthashi always had something interesting up her sleeves to occupy Amini’s attention. She went to her bedroom again to check whether everything was ready. She was wearing her shoes, when she heard talking to each other. She could sense that they were arguing. Of late, this had been happening a lot. She went to her brother Vishnu’s crib. He was only three and was busy with his toys. Seeing her all dressed up, Vishnu gave her an enquiring look but Amini kissed his cheeks and told him goodbye. As she was turned, he started wailing and that put a stop to her parent’s argument. Amma came to console him.

It was time to leave. They had to catch the bus at 7. Amini’s father picked up her bag and gave her a backpack to carry. The backpack contained his clothes for the weekend. He planted a kiss on Vishnu’s head and told Amini to come down after saying goodbye to her mother. She kissed and hugged her mother, who told her to be a good girl. As she waved her had to say buy, she saw tears stream down amma’s eyes. She couldn’t understand why amma was crying. After all she had gone to stay with muthashi alone last year too.

Inside the bus, the TV was playing some Hindi movie that Amini could not see from her seat. She wanted to see the movie but acha ordered her to sleep. Besides, the seats were so high that even if she wanted she could not watch the movie and it was no fun listening to the dialogues. For some time Amini watched the shops zip by and eventually sleep crept upon her.

“Ammu kutty! It’s is time to get up.”  Amini opened her eyes and saw old muthashi’s face. “Muthashiiiiiiiii...,” Ammini screamed and gave her a bear hug. Muthashi took her to the bathroom and got her to brush her teeth and wash her face. She then sat at the dining table, awaiting freshly made idli and coconut chutney. Her father was already sipping tea and reading the morning paper. Although amma also made the same breakfast, it tasted a lot tastier in muthashi’s house, she believed. After breakfast, muthashi showed her a tin dabba full of square shaped you want to eat for lunch,” she said. Amini took two mysore paks and greedily munched on them. Her father gave her an angry look but she didn’t care. He was in muthashi’s territory and if he scolded her, muthashi would scold him back. Ha--- The entire dabba was hers to finish, since muthashi couldn’t have any sweets due to diabetes.

Unlike amma, muthashi listens to everything Amini said. Muthashi also told her fascinating stories at night. She would caress Amini’s hair and tell stories about Mahabharata, Ramayana, Vikram-Vaithal and so on. She was awed by muthashi’s stock of stories, which never got exhausted. Sometimes, she would make Muthashi repeat the same stories and even make corrections when muthashi started mixing stories. She knew that muthashi was feeling sleepy but Amini did not mind the goof-ups.  She would caress the loose, soft wrinkled flesh on muthashi’s hand and diligently listen to the stories till they finish. In the afternoons, muthashi would tell her a story while making feeding her rice and sambar, which she would make into small balls and place it in Amini’s small palm. She would then take a snooze and Amini would carry the wooden stool, place it in front of the chest of wooden drawers next to the kitchen and hunt for hidden treasures – a broken pin, a stone studded ring, pen, brass spoon. All these long forgotten junk were her treasure and she cherished them and stored them in a cloth bag, which she hid in her cupboard. Muthashi’s house was like a museum and no matter how many times Amini had seen the old, relic things in her house, it never failed to fascinate her.
As the summer ended, Amini dreaded going back. She told muthashi to tell her parents that she did not want to come and that she would study in a school close to muthashi’s house. But muthashi would just smile and tell her ‘we will see about it’. She had once cried too at the thought of leaving muthashi.

Finally, when her father came to pick her up, he looked tired. Amma and Vishnu had not come with him, even though Amma had told her she would. After getting refreshments for him, muthashi said, “Ammu kutty, why don’t you go out and play. We have something to talk, which you will not understand.”

Amini was curious but she could not disobey muthashi. After an hour when she returned, she saw her bags in the living room. “But we are going tomorrow. Why are the bags kept here now?” she asked her father. “We have to go now Amini. Muthashi will help you get ready,” her father said without looking at her.

 “I don’t want to go. I am not going. Ask muthashi, I told her too. I like it here,” she said adamantly. But she could see that acha was not taking no for an answer. She decided to throw her tantrum but this time, instead of giving in, her father scolded her and told her to get ready quickly. Tears streaked her cheeks, while she looked at muthashi. Muthashi looked equally miserable. Amini hugged her tight and screamed that she was not leaving. But muthashi was steering her towards to bedroom to change. Muthashi told her that she would come and visit her soon but Amini knew it was a lie. As Amini left the house, being pulled by her father, she looked back and saw muthashi standing at the door step, wiping her eyes.

The buzzing of the telephone brought Amini back from the memory lane. She had been waiting for the call. “Hi dad! How long will you take?” she asked. She was nervous but at the same time her heart was filled with joy. She was going to meet muthashi. It had been thirteen years since Amini had met her and she was excited. Amini’s mother had taken custody her and Vishnu. Her mother was not happy with Amini’s decision to meet her grandmother but Amini did not care. She had finished her graduation and was going abroad to pursue further studies and it was her only chance to see muthashi before god know’s when she returned back. As Amini waited for her father near the window impatiently, her mouth salivated at the thought of the mysore paks. But this time, Amini was going to surprise muthashi with the ones she made for her.

Short Story 2012 Longlist, Debojit Dutta

Lac-dye Tale

She is too shy for comfort. At times, I can’t even find a way to start a conversation. At the most she would nod — maybe an inch of smile on her boldest days. Leaning against the door, gripping hard on the ends of her attire she would twist its ends in nervousness. I can notice sweat trickle down her forehead, as she talks. Talk? She mewls in a voice as slender as her being.

“What to cook for dinner?”  She would ask, making me feel like a guest at my own place. At times I would say, “Cook whatever you like,” in a bid to give her the liberty of being, a sense of belonging to these corridors. I still remember the day when we first met; though we never talked about it later inside these four walls. It seems now that we considered it taboo.

I remember sitting in the living room of her house, waiting. Conversation flowed all around me. Chatters, laughter and queries, I was interested in none.  In between they talked about her too. I could fathom when they nudged and laughed more. Amid the noise I could hear the giant wall clock tick in soliloquy, a sound I never before paid attention to. I noticed a minute lizard amble formally around its dial in a self-formulated pattern. Intermittently it moved its back to look at me. And then ignored.
More time passed, I finally enquired. My query was countered with a boisterous laughter, as if I asked why fishes couldn’t fly. Someone said she was busy gussying up. I skipped a beat and then it fluttered. It was an anxiety like never before. I took a sip from the glass kept on the table in front and then put it down silently avoiding further attention. I moved my eyes around out of self consciousness to check if anyone was talking about me or my actions.

A sudden clinking of sea-shells, coupled with that of bangles and anklets. I presumed she was coming. Those were the beats announcing her arrival. “Maybe the curtain is made of shells,” I thought. “It should be,” I assured myself. Among the beats, that of the sea-shells’ attenuated, while the other two continued in sync with her gait. Someone removed the door curtains from her way. I started raising my eyes slowly from her feet. 

She arrived in a combination of red and turquoise endowed benevolently with polka dots. I noticed a large tray of snacks and tea on those supple hands covered with ornamental designs. I gathered gumption to raise my eyes further and get a glimpse of her face, but failed. The same turquoise, red and polka dots covered her head and hid her face. Underneath it I could feel the same anxiety that existed beyond in my heart. Yet she didn’t or couldn’t move it away. Couldn’t shed her bindings. She stood behind the sofa, upright, unlike the leaning stance she uses now. I kept on gazing, the chatters around me dissolved to mist. After, maybe, half an hour they said it was time to leave.

Attendants from both sides stood up, greeted and embraced each other. I too followed, without taking my eyes off as she stood, as still as a mannequin on display. I felt intrigued to know if the lips behind muttered and pouted, if the eye-lids behind twinkled in bliss, fluttered in surprise and bowed down in sorrow. Over the years, I learnt the lips did all but pout and the eyes even in happiness would hide its twinkle.

It’s not that I never saw her before marriage. In fact, the day arrived pretty soon. That day, while the ritual of collecting water by the pond was being performed, I saw her face in water’s turbulence. Even the frills of the surface couldn’t curl her beauty. She was prettier than I had ever imagined. I believe the water agreed too. It played with her reflection. A hint of smile on her face, it showed in her eyes too and I envied the pond even more.

Rituals followed as it does and we vowed never to part. She cat footed into my life with her lac-dyed paws and left imprints never to be wiped away.

Short Story 2012 Longlist, Ankita Banerjee

Frozen Frame

Like the enchanting swirl of spring green, Love too circles around the myth of eternity. The fragrance stays the same but existing connotation connected with the idea changes its course as seasons pass by.

1
It was on an early winter evening when Sneha arrived on her new home in Golf Green with husband Ranjan. Maintaining the tradition of Bagchi family, Sneha was made to agree for an arranged marriage. Despite of her disapproval, the groom selection procedure started when she was still in the second year of her college.

“I don’t want marriage right now. Why can’t I choose what I wish for?” Sneha said in a grouchy tone one day during a heated argument with her mother when she was shown Ranjan’s photograph. It was a postcard sized picture of Ranjan from his graduation night party, Sneha remembered. Dusky texture with clean shaved look, a thin framed eyeglass, a light purple colored tee – the photo had nothing to get her parent’s disapproval. What worked in favor of Ranjan for the Bagchi family was that, he had a University of Glasgow return degree in his profile, a highly paid and respectable job at a multinational firm and an established family business. After a prolonged tussle with her parents when Sneha was finally sent to meet Ranjan, she realized he had nothing which can be termed as ‘incorrect’. His gestures and well measured words – everything was tailored perfectly. The whole time they spent in the restaurant couldn’t be any better to say ‘yes’ to the marriage. He asked about Sneha’s college and her future plans followed by a wholesome narration on his exciting UK days and what plans he was working on to carry forward the family business. On the way of returning home, Sneha realized she would have to tie the knot with this man. It was a bubble of ambiguity she entrapped in where things seemed too perfect to raise disapproval but hell, it was not the drab perfection she wanted.

2
The hardest part was to get used to the smell of South Calcutta. Being born and raised up in the midst of medley of pulled rickshaw and tedious hum of tramline enveloped with a strong and somewhat nauseating smell of old grumpy lanes with leftover rice spattered around the drains for cats and dogs, she realized it would not be easy to adjust with the new sophistication. The noontime was the toughest. Ranjan gone for office and the maid done with the day’s work, Sneha left with not much to do. She would wipe rag over the almost clean book shelf or aimlessly browse through television channels or unnecessarily changes the pillow covers. Sometimes she would spend hours to mix grounded almonds and sandalwood paste after reading carefully the women’s magazine for homemade recipe for face pack. Ranjan would call religiously every day after lunch time to ask whether Sneha had any plan for the evening to go out for shopping or whether she would want to wait for him to come home and go out together instead. He was a dutiful man, everyone would agree. Sneha got a life her cousins were envy of, she knew. But, much to their despair, she would always come up with the colorless routine replies to their curious questions about spicy details.
If her mother asked “Tell me sona, is there anything wrong? Don’t hide from me” with moist eyes, Sneha would sigh and change the topic. A feeling of absolute crumping incompleteness grew inside her through the sleepless nights when her husband sleeps off undisturbed.

3
It was one of those gloomy early monsoon mornings when he arrived at their house. Shamik was a batch mate of Ranjan from his Glasgow days. In the beginning Sneha felt uneasy when Ranjan declared that his friend would stay for a month at their place, sharing the same space with an outsider was not something she was accustomed with. But Ranjan said, “It is only for a month and moreover, you spend the whole day alone, at least Shamik could give you some company” and she agreed.
For first one week Shamik spent almost the entire day in their guest room, coming out only for lunch and dinner and sometimes if woke up early made tea for himself. One day coming out of the kitchen he encountered with Sneha and said “Ummm, Good Morning. Sorry, did I wake you up”? with an inept expression.

“Don’t worry; I woke up because of a bad dream and your friend is still sleeping” she answered with a smile “But why did you bother yourself? I would have made it for you”. “Not a problem, I’m used to do my things on my own anyway” he said “But wait, I made one more cup anyway, so why don’t you just seat here and lets have the morning cups together, okay?”
And that was the first time they shared their moment of silence with the early morning breeze.

4
After two days of nonstop rain that day finally a ray of sunlight beamed through the balcony window and Sneha sat at the dining table, chopping beans for lunch when Shamik hurriedly came out of his room with all dressed up and said “Boudi, I will have lunch outside today”. Sneha looked in surprise and said “But the weather is still not good, where are you going out now”? Shamik sat down on the stool to tie his shoe when he said, “Accha Boudi, are you busy today”? “Why”? Sneha asked clumsily. “No I was just thinking why don’t you go out with me? I have few works to do and a company would do wonder. And in any case, I haven’t seen you going out of the house since I came, so it will be a change for you” he said.
“I don’t know…the weather is not good…”
“Oh, come on…monsoon has its distinctive charm. Forget about the mud and rain, let’s go out”. Sneha still sat uncertain and perhaps reading her mind Shamik said “And don’t worry, I’m calling Ranjan right now. He will never say no”.

Shamik was a travel photographer and came to the city to make a photo series on Calcutta monsoon. The smell of first rain drop on the searing soil always worked as magic for Sneha. On the first season of rain after their marriage she asked Ranjan many times to take her to the ice-cream parlor at Babughat and watch the clouds pouring over the river from glass window. But his weekends were always assigned to the uninterrupted sleeps and occasional relative visits.

 As a child, she used to spend her classes aimlessly watching at the drenched Krishnachura tree and the teeming overcast sky through the window. But with Shamik she experienced a Calcutta, never seen before. For five days they stroll through the waterlogged streets, to the soggy roads of Race Course and drenched Victoria Memorial, to the enthralling Outram Ghat. When Shamik would get busy in clicking the chirpy street kids Sneha would wander across the road humming a half-forgotten tune. Free and serene, with the drizzle of that season, she felt her wings for the first time.

5
That morning started with a heavy downpour. Ranjan had to go to office to attend an urgent meeting. Sneha was busy making lunch when Shamik stormed into the kitchen. “Boudi, I need a favor and you can’t say no” he said in a demanding tone.
“Now what”? Sneha asked in a false fury. “Leave the cooking stunts for sometime no, and come with me. I will shoot a few pictures of yours”.
“Have you gone total mad or what!” Sneha said in a stunned tone.

With an unimaginable amiability he convinced her for the photo shoot. In her bedroom, balcony, on the terrace. He followed her everywhere with his camera. When the first time he stroked her tresses from the forehead, she felt a fireball moving across her body. Shuddered with an overriding fear she asked him to stop shooting. That night lying in the bed she asked for love but Ranjan said he was too tired and slept off.

Ranjan would have never noticed a change in her bindi like Shamik did. He said she has a one of its kind scent in her body that could be felt even after her bath. At an evening on the terrace in front of the setting sun, he kissed her for the first time.
That was the time when her built-in notion of right and wrong evaporated with a snap and all she left with was a blurred ring of desire.

The two weeks they spent in a whirlwind, before Shamik left for Jaipur as a next destination of his India tour. When Ranjan went to call a taxi to airport, he held Sneha close to his chest and planted a Good Bye on her lips.
 “When will you come again”? She asked in a tender tone.
“I will write to you” he said with a smile.

Every day she would frantically open the letter box, but the letter never came. For months she would wander through the rooms to grope for his existence. On lonely afternoons her body felt aroused when she dreamt of Shamik painting raindrops on her bare breasts. But at occasional nights when Ranjan came to her with desire, she couldn’t respond and turned to bitter cold. She felt the ogre of fear crawling to her throat with a silent scream of destruction.

6
It was after Bijoya Dashomi when the first letter came from Shamik. But that was not for her. Sneha was busy in making Payesh in desert for few guests who were about to come for a post Pujo get together when Ranjan called her. “Listen, Shamik sent a letter” he said.

She almost ran to the drawing room and asked, “To you”?
 “Of course! Who else he would”? he said quickly “Anyway, now he has a good news to share. The letter says, Shamik is finally going to marry Zenny this November, can you imagine!”
“Ww…what?”
“Areh he is getting married” Ranjan said
“To whom”? she asked again
“To Zenny! Didn’t he tell you about her?” Ranjan said, “She was also our class mate. They had what like some eight years long relationship. They were living together at Boston and at last decided to get married!”

He continued while Sneha stood motionless, “You won’t believe what a stud Shamik was in our college days. He had this knack for photography since that time and used to nag Zenny with it all the time. None of us imagined they would go so far but see they did!”
“But I’m surprised why didn’t he tell you about this? You guys became a sort of good friends” he murmured to himself.

It was then the door bell rang and the guests arrived. Sneha went back to her desert and stood silently staring at the boiling milk and rice. A ball of anger tried to sprout out from the stomach and she felt like to throw up. Falling in love after a marriage is not socially considered to be a purest bliss, she was aware. But the hymns uttered to the wedding flames of lifelong commitments didn’t prove to be strong enough to have a control on her rush of desire. When she saw the smallness of the man she loved and the blot of infidelity he imprinted on her, the heart was broken with no sign of regret and finally and it was time to gather up the strewn pieces.

 Ranjan asked from the drawing room, “Sneha, everybody is asking about you. How long will it take”?
She stirred the milk carefully and sprinkled pinch of cashew nuts and raisin and said, “Coming…”

Short Story 2012 Longlist, Suchithra Pillai

1.30 pm- Netravati Express

July 20, 2010: I still remember the day, the time, two years ago; which changed everything in my life. It was just another railway station situated in Thrissur, the culturally rich city of God's own country, Kerala. But from that day onwards, it became something more than that to me.

Netravati Express, 6345- from Mumbai to Kerala, that day, the train was on time- 1.05 pm. With chattering passengers, S10 coach was filled with warm talks and stories of those, who were mere strangers till the day before.

Sitting near the window (my ever-favourite seat in the train), I watched the green meadows pass by. As the breeze kissed my cheeks, I remembered him, those talks, and those wonderful moments. With the rattling sound of the engine, I sang one of my favourite songs, “Ek din aap yun humko mil jayenge, maine socha na tha.” But, why was I singing when nothing existed? I was not supposed to think about him. He did not care for me neither did he call me. Doesn't he care about me as I think?
Boarding the train the day before, I was very much excited, with the mere thought of travelling in the train and moreover I wished to see him. The one, who had captured my thoughts and was the cynosure of my mind, since a year. Well, it was not just a usual year of love, it was a year of pure love unexpressed from my side and over expressed from his side. He was trying to fill my space as well, pouring all the love to make it complete, to make it work. I couldn’t do justice from my side. I loved him a lot but still didn’t want to express it fully.

Being tomboyish by nature, it was not fear that made me hesitate. Always living on my own terms, brushing aside other's opinion, I was always a rebel. But in this case, the feeling which tied me was something more than that. It was not lack of love or trust. The hiccups emerged from the mere fact that, I hadn’t seen him till now.

I knew him, his talks, his behaviour but still I hadn’t seen him. This mere thought created a shiver in me. But his faith and belief in the words that, “I want to share my whole life with you and make you my life partner”. It gave the love, the strength it needed. Hearing his voice everyday through the phone and getting mails at regular intervals added oil to the fire of love. But one day, few months back, these very same things gave me the shock of my life.

That day, I can never forget in my life. I got up in the morning at my home in Mumbai, to find no good morning call, no message. I called him back but could just hear the computerised voice saying that the subscriber is not answering. I messaged him but again no reply. Starting my duty for the day as a trainee journalist for a leading newspaper, the quest for finding stories kept me busy till noon. Once I reached the office, the first thing was to check the mails, but unfortunately no reply from him. A small wave of fear engulfed me. Still I stayed calm, telling myself that he might be busy. As I typed the story for the day, my mind wavered in midst of the sea of negative thoughts. The voice, the talk; I needed it badly. It seemed like it was gone, all the feelings I shared till now, was it all a prank? Was he gone? Won’t I hear his voice again? But I knew him, he can’t do this to me or is it that something has happened to him? The thoughts lingered in my mind, as my face turned pale.

This made my colleagues inquire about my health and I had to tell them the matter. After hearing my tension, they smiled and said, ‘This is such a small matter, dear!’ Well, it was for sure a small thing to fear but unknown to them was the fact that the so-called hero of the story was still just a voice to me. 
Keeping it a secret was a decision taken by me as the questions posed would be many. Some would laugh, few would ask whether I am mad to love a person whom I had never seen and many would advice that I am going on a wrong path. There would only be a handful, who might understand me.
But that day, after trying the 25th call, I really got tensed. It was too much for me. I sent him a mail again, sounding a bit rude this time. Leaving office, I did not go home. Loitering in a park, I sat there for more than an hour. Watching the tiny tots play, gave me a bit of peace. It made me think of my mother. With no other way, I slowly walked towards home.

As I was crossing the road, the phone rang ‘Aao na..’. This was the first time in my life that I was so happy to hear it ring. Standing in between the road, I was literally crying. Controlling my tears, I took the phone and it was HIM. His voice had the same tension and love, which made me smile. He forgot to take his phone from home and got held up in an official meeting. I wanted to shout at him but I was more than happy to hear his voice, which mellowed all my tension, my fury.
Thinking of the incident still gives me goose bumps. That day I made him promise that he would call or message me whenever he gets tied up somewhere. But today, it is the same. I am travelling all the way from Mumbai to Kerala for him and its been 12 hours, no call from his side.

I had planned the trip to attend an interview with a publication in Kerala. It was my parent’s wish that I should work in our native place and more than that his presence was the main reason. And yet he didn’t call today. The last time I heard his voice was the day before, at 8 in night, in the midst of a bash with his friends at Bangalore, where he had gone for a two-day official visit from Trivandrum.
It was 1.20 p m and I have left hopes. Somewhere it seemed I was overseeing things or ‘is he not interested in seeing me?’ At 4 pm, I would reach my destination, Kayamkulam. Talking to him was quite impossible at my grandma’s place. Even after knowing this, he seemed least interested.

As the train started again from Thrissur station, I started turning my pages of the novel. After 5 minutes came the shock of my life. I could not believe my eyes; a tall man was standing in front of me and was staring at me. I knew him, I had seen this face somewhere but still he was a stranger. He smiled, came forward and sat next to me. I still could not recover from my shock; this was similar to that face. The face I saw in the mails, the face I saw as a display picture on chat window. Oh! It was him. I couldn’t believe my eyes. How could he land in front of me like this!

He proved me wrong. The guy now sitting next to me made me realise the truth of love, the depth of love, which was much more than what I could imagine. The noise, I heard the day before was not of a usual get-together, but a discussion with his friends on our first meet, to see me as soon as I step into Kerala. It was a superb plan woven by him, executed with the help of his friends. I stood spellbound at the surprise. I had no words in front of his love.

But he just smiled and said, “See, I came to see you first, ‘Aakhir dulha hi toh aake dulhaniya le jata hai na’. “If I had a ring in my hand, I would have made you mine right away”. I could do nothing but smile. Those first few hours when we met, I couldn’t speak a word. I was dumbstruck and enjoyed the glimpse of his true love for the first time.
It’s been four years now and we are happily married, but still I blush, as those wonderful memories rush down my mind.

Short Story 2012 Longlist, Sharmila Sinha

That Rainy Day

Something woke me that morning. A lovely fragrance. Oh! Oh! Rains. It’s raining. The first day of rains since we have come to stay with Nani in her village Chilbil. The huge mud house smelt magnificent as it gradually started to pour. The trees were washed off their dust and sparkled green. I was standing near the window of my room on the first floor and watching the rain slowly gather speed. First it was the pitter patter and then came the water pouring – as if the heavens had let out all its happiness on the land. Never seen anything like this in the city where we live.

Minnie get up. See you’ve never seen something like this. Come here. I shouted excitedly. My little sister jumped out of the bed and rushed to the window rubbing her eyes. Both of us stood near the window and watched everything in awe. We could see the paddy fields swaying as if dancing to the call of the heavens. Dill our dog came barking in the room and joined us. The pouring rain on the hot parched earth had soothed the animals. We could hear the cattle bellowing to herald the rain.     

Both of us went running down the polished spiral wooden stairs barefoot. ‘Mamma can we go out to play in this rain just like we do in the snow.” I yelled.

Mamma nodded and smiled.
Yippe shouted Minni. The Rain was falling with great force and fury on the clay tiles on the roof of the verandah. And streams of water could be seen pouring down. Mamma extended her hand and collected some water in her palm and splashed it on us. All of us laughed.
Oh! Great yelled Minni and rushed out under the open sky. I too followed her. Dill followed. Kali the spotted goat kid came jumping. 

What fun Kali said Minni. A drenched crow came and sat on the swing tied to the Neem tree nearby. Dill ran to catch it. The crow fluttered away noisily.
Dill don’t be naughty. I shouted trying to catch the wet dog by its tail. But Dill barked and ran away. The soaked sparrows sitting on the arms of the neem tree wobbled up and down excitedly. Opening, their wings and chirping and chattering.

Mithoo Nani’s pet parrot screeched in glee. The cage hanging on one of the lower branches of the tree was swinging in the breeze. She was fluttering inside the cage.

She cried out Minni Minni. 

Minni ran and opened the cage. Mithoo craned her neck out but soon retreated inside seeing Dill and Kali charging. I pulled Mithoo out of the cage and made her sit on my shoulder.

Whoff  Whoof barked Dill jumping up on the verandah. Shaking his wet head and spraying water all around. Kali too galloped round and round in the verandah bleating merrily.

Neroo Neroo raining said Mithoo in her gawky and harsh voice.

Everybody seemed to be enjoying the rain. 

I pulled Mamma standing in the verandah under the pouring rains. The three of us joined hands and went round and round playing like we did welcoming the first snowfall each year in our city. The three of us sat on the paved driveway of Nani’s house and could see the waters swirling around.
 Mithoo perched tightly on my shoulder too was enjoying our plays. She chirped Mamma Mamma. 

Lets make some paper boats said Mamma. And went inside to get some newspapers. Sitting on the verandah spreading our legs we made some boats. Now they needed to set sail. They were brought to the bay and set on their journey. The majestic boats sailed and sank like the Titanic. 

Lets go and sit on the swing saying this Minni ran and jumped on the swing. I too jumped and joined her. Mithoo fluttered and held my shirt collar tightly with her claws. We were swinging up up up …. To touch the sky. Rain splashed on my face and  Minnie’s long plait was flying in the strong breeze. This was sheer magic. This was fun. The rains refused to stop. And our spirit soared.

 Now we were feeling cold. Mud splattered and wet we ran inside the house. Mamma who had already changed to her dry clothes helped us with a nice scrub. And then sitting in the kitchen we all had hot chai flavoured with something that I had never tasted before. 

It tastes different I said.
Neeroo this tea has ginger and tulsi. And instead of sugar I have added jaggery. Said Nani extending a plateful of crispy hot pakoras.

Nani look my fingers look like yours said Minni showing her shriveled fingers. Nani smiled.

Nani yesterday you had told me it would rain today. How did you know? I asked

Nani smiled. ‘living in the village has taught us to be with nature. When the sparrows bathe in mud and the horizon has a bronze tainted colour then we know the rains have arrived.

I looked at Nani awestruck. 

Mamma understanding my amazement smiled and said, these are called eco indicators. And believe me they are any day better than the scientific predictions of the coming rains.

This was the bestest day of my life. I didn’t want to go back to my school in a country where they had no rains like this no green pastures, no Kali or Mithoo to play with. So many birds that we see here in this quaint village were only to be found in zoos in the country I live. 

Why can’t Nani come with us. Said Minni. Looking at Mamma.
My eyes welled with tears. Next day I knew we would be leaving –to be with Papa and another year in school.

But now I know for sure that I’ll be returning every summer to be with Nani in her beautiful village.                                      

 

Short Story 2012 Longlist, Hippu Salk Kristle Nathan

A Door Without A Handle

It is Monday. For him, every Monday begins at 4.30 AM. He has to be at his workplace by 6.30AM. The workplace is a forty minutes’ walk from his kholi. His job is to keep a three-storey building neat and clean.

Sunday’s rest has a hangover; it slows his pace. He has to complete his work before Aditi madam comes and switches on her table fan. The sound of the blades will give life to the ambience which seems dead since ages. Almost everyday, among all the sirs and madams, Aditi is the first to occupy her seat. When she enters the room, invariably the clock on the opposite wall shows the hour and minute hands at eight and four― full ten more minutes for the place to hum with people.
He looks at the opposite wall and his hands move faster. He has four more window panes and the exit door at the end to clean.

The door is worth looking at. It has all the smell of a virgin. It is a new door installed the day before. Like a new dress it has stickers all around. But somehow the door seems incomplete to him. On a second look, he realizes the handle of the door is missing. The fitting markings are there. But he wonders why there is no handle. The bigger question is why the earlier door, which was perfectly working, needed to be replaced at the first place. The answer to this question perhaps lies within many similar questions like why the flooring at the ground floor is being redone, why the not-so-old chairs are scrapped, why the lift repairing is taking infinite time. He feels restless. Normalcy prevails as Mohite babu’s usual remark –‘Tumko kya’ – buzzes in his ears.

Nevertheless the door appears elegant. It has smooth spotless transparent glass. There is nothing to clean. He just removed the broken broom lying there. He looks at the opposite wall again. Today he has finished his morning job before time. He proceeds to the canteen for his chai and pav.
On the stairs he meets Aditi Madam. She is her usual self, her eyes smiling as she greets him “Rahim chacha, namaste”.

“Salaam Madam”― that is his usual reply when Aditi greets him. Under these disguising words he actually blesses her ‘sadaa khus reh beti’. Aditi is wearing her favorite pink dress. No, he is not sure about her choices; rather it is his favorite for her. As he walks down to the canteen he thinks if he had a daughter of his son Aman’s age she would have looked like Aditi, be like Aditi. He remembered his financial debt to her - three hundred rupees borrowed two years ago - which he always tried to pay back but had never been able to.

Rahim’s life, in the eighties, was different. He never struggled financially. Of course, he was always in debt as a bachelor. But after Sudha came into his life, with the same income they managed well with some savings. He spent quite a chunk of the saving in purchasing books. His passion was to fill his cupboards with all the good Hindi and Urdu novels. Fictions gave him temporary solace in the hard hitting race for survival. In fact, this reading habit of his, took over his relatively ordinary look to win Sudha’s heart during graduation days. However, his income from tailoring shop, which he ran from home, was not enough for his expensive pursuit of possessing books. Particularly, after putting Aman in a local English medium school, he was left with very little resources to feed on his desire. Yet, whenever he had any extra income, he went to the university street to collect a Munsi Premchand or a Mirza Mohammad. Though he was not entirely happy with his job, given the circumstances, this was the best he could have. He had a dream to set up a school sometime in life for children and teach them language.

Vaibhav serves him tea. Hot. He looks into the hazy horizon beyond the Gulmohar tree in the canteen backyard. He could clearly see the kitchen smoke coming out of the adjoining slum. The smoke that changed his life’s course reappears in front of him. Whole of Bombay was on fire during those riot days. His room was attacked by an unknown mob. He could save Sudha and Aman from physical injury; but not his belongings. The dearest of his treasures, his books, turned into ashes. Like all his Muslim friends he could not flee to his native land, as long back, he was barred from entering the village for his alleged marriage with a Hindu girl. His friend Gangadhar, who worked as a gardener here, came to his rescue. He helped him to get this job; a sweeper’s job. He initially thought his graduation in Hindi literature would come in the way as over-qualification. But the director did not feel the same and was happy to appoint him. He was surprised to find quite a few like him. Some of the gardeners, housekeeping staffs and canteen boys were as qualified as him. Vaibhav is a twelfth pass. 

At the other table there is a roar of laughter. Rajendra Sir is saying it aloud how the early nineties have brought prosperity to many. Not only Rajendra Sir, he has heard several times from many that the entire country has gained from certain government policies in the nineties. But his life has changed in the reverse direction. He lost all his belongings and almost was on streets. Sudha had to clean dishes in the neighbourhood to add to the household income. Since then, Sudha started looking to the floor most of the time rather than looking straight to anybody’s face. Aman had to discontinue his studies and was later put in a Municipal school. Rahim himself has lost faith in the education system. No more does he dream to set up a school. He is yet to touch a novel.

The well deserved breakfast is over. He feels this diet of bread and tea is the best meal he could have – it has protein, vitamins, caffeine and what not – most importantly, he does not feel hungry till it is past two. It is time for him to resume his work. Today he has to clean all the computers – the black and white TV like machines. He feels privileged to do this work rather than clean floors and panes. He understands these machines are very delicate, expensive and immensely useful. Aman has asked for one such machine several months back. He is waiting for institute’s annual second sale. He wipes the screen again. He needs to take care of these machines well as one of these may become his sometime in future. Otherwise too, he enjoys this part of the job. Sometime during early hours, when no security guard is around, he sits at the desk to feel a sense of privilege. Rahim has always been prestige-loving with his set of ego. However, over the last three to four years, since he has been on this job, he has increasingly felt spineless. Rahim, once very talkative, has learnt to become more silent. Nobody here, apart from Gangadhar and his friends, knows his name, let alone his life. Of course, Aditi is an exception.

He is through with all the machines of the room, and about to leave. Oh! He sees some spots on the handle-less exit door. In the meantime Shilpa madam left through the door; another set of spots. Whenever the door is pushed it leaves spots. Different people push it differently at different places. It obliges; but at the cost of its appearance. He feels connected, and thinks this new door deserves a better treatment. He walks fast towards the door, and cleans it back to its spotless status.

Next day, to his disappointment, he finds some fresh spots on the door. He cleans those. In fact everyday, he makes it a point to clean the door to the best of his ability. But over time, the smooth glass develops inerasable spots. At home, before going to sleep, he sometimes thinks about the poor door. He cannot digest the fact that in some days the door is going to look ordinary. Like him. The mere fact that he is a sweeper, troubles him even now. He had felt most uncomfortable when Aman asked him to fill a form mentioning his occupation. He could feel the deep pain of the hangmen, garbage collectors, cobblers and porters – all the people at the lowly ranks. They are all like handle-less doors. They need to lay their backs straight for others to walk on them.
Months pass by…

Today is a special day. He has seen the cobbler on the way smiling. He stands in the corridor, looking towards the bright sunshine. Gangadhar’s friend has cracked a joke and they are all laughing aloud while watering the plants. The office atmosphere is warm and party-like. It is Aditi’s birthday.
Aditi comes running towards him, with a beaming smile. She takes out from her bag two volumes of ‘Jhuhta Sach’― by Yashpal.

“It is my birthday chacha, and I have brought something for you.”
Rahim cannot believe his eyes; he takes the volumes and caresses them as if he has found a lost friend.

“Par beti, it is your day; I should have given you something instead.”
“Chacha, I need only your blessings.”
Somebody calls Aditi from inside; she goes back. The door opens up again with Aditi’s gentle push. It closes. No further spots appear. The once shining door has turned dullish.  It is still without a handle. But it seems to enjoying its status.

Short Story 2012 Longlist, Madhavi Vaidya

The Banyan Tree

The most exciting part of my childhood was spent at my maternal uncle’s huge mansion in Piyali, a small town close to the sunderbans, near Kolkata. I still remember the magnificent nature of that mansion. It was called the Majumdar’s Haveli.

The haveli’s architecture was splendid. Huge stone walls gave it a towering look. Small windows were intricately holed into these walls and they overlooked a vast verandah. The ceilings were very high and were covered by sloping tiled roofs. There were several rooms in the mansion, each having a distinct character to it.

Three of my cousins and me were like a gang of goons in and around the haveli. We almost wrecked the place with our mischief.
Bikash was the naughtiest of all and being the only boy in our group he bullied us girls beyond limits. But the girls Soumi and Tanvi were also clever pranksters and my addition in the gang only encouraged them, especially to get even with Bikash as now the girls were even a stronger majority.

 Most of our afternoons were spent circling the buildings and running carefree in the narrow by-lanes that twisted their way amidst huge buildings made of stone and bricks.
Just adjacent to our haveli near the end of a road, there was a big playground bounded by Mango trees, Tamarinds, Neems and a huge Banyan tree. 

Five years ago my aunt succumbed to an accident leaving behind my cousins and uncle.
Her death was more than fodder to the gossip mongers in the town. Sometimes sudden deaths create quite a stir leaving the family in misery; one that is not caused by the death itself but because of the speculations that some empty minds circulate and also help keep them alive.
People blabbered about how my aunt’s soul would return to haunt the town; after all a mother for the sake of her children can come back even from the dead was their logic.

But uncle was not the one to believe in this futile gossip. He chose to ignore all that was said. He was a practical man and had to think about the future of three motherless kids. Hence he went ahead and hired Chellamma, a care taker for the children who also stayed with the family in the haveli.
 
Chellamma hailed from a nearby village. Her husband had died long ago. Her sons worked in the fields of the village. They were married and taken care of by their wives. Hence with no apparent responsibilities on her shoulders she agreed to stay at the haveli and visited her village only twice a year.  

Chellamma defied the rules of old age with no hints of aching joints or a troubled spine. Looking at her no one could say she was sixty five. Full of enthusiasm and undying energy, she worked the whole day preparing food for the family, sending the children away to school, supervising the other servants of the house, picking up grocery from the market and then again cooking evening meals for the family. 

After returning from our exhaustive afternoon wanderings in the town, Chellamma fed us delicious meals. The taste of her preparations lingered long after I last visited Piyali when I was a kid.

There is always something about childhood.  The memories carry a flavour; a kind of a flavour that never ceases to die. And Chellamma sure added all the spice to that flavour. She not only fed us tasty food but she also weaved and narrated scary ghost stories. 

The nights in Piyali would fall suddenly, engulfing and almost swallowing the bride-like beautiful twilight. The eerie silence would be very discomforting, with the air bringing in the smell of burnt leaves with it sometimes and with the wind echoing inside the huge rooms with high ceilings, one would well be actually able to visualize what a wind dance would be like.

Soumi’s room upstairs, right above the kitchen was the venue for our storytelling sessions. We would sit in her room in a semi- circle around Chellamma. The room was special with a huge king size antique bed that had a capacity to occupy almost four to five grown-ups at a time. A wooden book shelf stood content in the corner, full with books of Mahabharata, Ramayana, English dictionaries and some other story books. 

The window just behind the huge bed was a little odd in its design. It was almost half the size of a door. Three of its four small doors rattled against the window at the slightest breeze. It overlooked the vast playground spread ahead of it with all the trees hemmed on the edges.
After the ritual of oiling our hair, Chellamma would begin narrating stories. Her stories revolved around ghosts, prets and about the wandering souls of those who had met death unalarmed. Her stories were so surreal that in between narrations I sometimes have felt someone’s presence near the door of our room. May be my aunt I thought, just wanting to peep in to mingle with her children for sometime…

One such night she narrated a story of a little girl.
‘The name of the girl was Paakhi’ Chellamma began to narrate.
‘But before I go and tell you what happened with her, mind you this is a true story that happened nearby. In fact, near the banyan tree right there, you see!’ Chellamma smiled pointing out at the banyan tree outside the window.

On a reflex we all stood on our knees on the bed to look at the banyan tree. It looked so huge with all the roots sprawling down from above. It almost appeared like a primeval giant to us.
‘What happened near the banyan tree Chellamma?’ asked Bikash
‘Paakhi was the daughter of one of the farmers who lived beyond those trees, across a small patch of paddy fields. This was some couple of years ago.’ 

Chellamma raised her eyebrows continuing her narration, ‘That night the full moon had just risen above the clouds. The girl had strayed away from her home in to the paddy field near the time of twilight.  She had lost her way and had stopped near the banyan tree holding on to a doll in her hands. She had stopped to watch the monkeys on the banyan tree.’
‘Never go near those trees there,’ Chellamma warned us modulating her voice like a professional storyteller.

 The nocturnal insects and crickets broke into a chorus with rhythmic creaks and pauses amidst pin drop silence of the night while Chellamma sipped water. The leaves of the banyan tree shined like silver in the bright moonlight.
‘So what happened to that girl Chellamma?’ Bikash asked curiously.

‘Strangely enough, she seemed to be attracted to watch the monkey play standing there all by herself.  There were only two monkeys there, a pair of them to be precise. But the sound that was heard that night must have been at least of a dozen of monkeys.’ Chellamma continued.
‘Some say that the two monkeys are evil, they in a way had invited her there for the mean act…’
‘Evil monkeys? Mean act?’ asked Tanvi whose eyeballs were almost popping out of anxiety.
‘What mean act?’ I asked. ‘
‘Oh! Those two monkeys snatched her doll away. But they didn’t stop at that. They pulled out her limbs and they were at her throat when she started screaming’.

Chellamma paused and she went and stood near the window. We followed.
It was past one o‘clock in the night and there wasn’t a hint of sleep on anyone’s eyelids. The breeze from outside was getting wilder. The window doors rattled hard and the moon that looked as if it was pasted on to the sky cast its silver shimmer generously on to the banyan tree and also into our room…

‘Is it a true story?’ I asked to confirm.
‘Yes it is; I told you so. Even today on a full moon night people claim to have seen Paakhi around the banyan tree. She returns for her doll that was taken away by the monkeys’.
We looked at each other in disbelief.
‘And what happened to the monkeys, do they still visit the tree?’ asked Soumi.

‘Just in about a week after Paakhi’s death someone else died near the tree again, the monkeys were at it again for sure, but after that no one really claimed to have seen them on that tree.’
All of a sudden the gate of the haveli opened with a loud screech. We were so scared we rushed and held Chellamma tight.

‘It must be your father returning from his shift. Now go to sleep quickly or else he will send me back to my village for good.’ said Chellamma switching off the lights for us.
That night no one could sleep a wink and we all kept discussing the banyan tree, Paakhi and of course the monkeys.

After a week or so uncle decided to take us for a factory visit, a little study tour packed with loads of fun. After all it was a visit to the confectioneries and chocolate factory where uncle worked.
Uncle instructed our driver Bahadur to pick us up in the afternoon. Bahadur had only arrived in Piyali a week ago looking for a job and uncle had offered him one since he had known Bahadur’s father for a long time before he expired.

Bahadur had shifted to Piyali. His family stayed tucked in the far-away foggy slopes of the Himalayan ranges. Still not well versed with the local language he mostly communicated in broken words and even using sign language at times. Of all the things in this world, the one thing he was most scared of was ghosts. He told us about how he was the only one from his family to be able to see ghosts. A curse it was to him he thought. 

That evening after our exciting factory visit, while we were on our way back Bahadur kept complaining about how the car’s engine was misbehaving. Uncle didn’t pay any heed to his complaints. We drove almost for half an hour and as we approached the playground near our haveli the car screeched to a sudden halt. 

We heard a big thud on the roof of the car and some sort of a nail tapping. Bahadur immediately got down to check the unfamiliar sound but didn’t find anything nearby.
It was almost past eleven in the night and the moon had returned; this time bigger and brighter.
After much struggle with the engine Bahadur asked us to walk down to the house while he chose to repair the car or alternatively look for a mechanic nearby. We quickly matched steps and reached the haveli. Uncle followed soon.

The next morning our car was still at the ground. But Bahadur was nowhere to be seen.  Uncle inquired about him around but no one had a clue about Bahadur.
The whole day was spent looking for him but in vain. We all finally returned home puzzled and worried. Chellamma served us dinner and asked uncle about Bahadur. 

‘No, there’s no clue about his whereabouts.’ said uncle.
After a long pause uncle frowned and continued, ’but the last talk I had with Bahadur was a little weird I remember. Hespoke about something that he saw near the car’. Uncle looked confused.
‘What’? Asked Chellamma
‘He asked me whether monkeys venture out at night here. And after a pause he said he had seen a pair of them swaying on the banyan tree last night.’

The dinner was quickly gulped down that night with no more stories following it. The air had once again brought with it the smell of burnt leaves that spread across our room and the full moon floated amidst the clouds looking down upon the banyan tree.

Short Story 2012 Longlist, Bhavna Bhuta

Untitled

Arun stood outside the gate. It was to open any minute and let him out. Arun had contemplated several times whether to come and claim the man or not. It had been a battle ever since Arun had got a notice. Surprised they traced him as the claimant, Arun had been contemplating this visit for the last two months. Sometimes the Government worked in strange ways, he thought.

He didn’t remember anything about the man. He had sat at the sea shore the previous evening, smoking his cigarette. He tried hard to dig up emotions which would make a decision for him, but was disappointed by his own soul. He didn’t feel anything for the man, not love or hatred.
Currently he was unemployed. The company he had been working for was relocating which was not a good option for Arun. He had made his life here in Mumbai. Starting all over in a new city would have amounted to a lot of work. To claim the man from the Government would mean supporting him as well.
But he did have some curiosity. What would be like to have a real blood relative? It was his curiosity that led him to the gate this morning.
Arun heard the old, erstwhile blue, now a rotten brown gate open, almost crying out of pain.
Arun did not know what to expect. He looked at his reflection in the window of the car he was leaning against. He heard the sound of the big Iron Gate opening. Would there be a lot of people stepping out, would he have to distinguish the man?

Arun saw his hand borrowing a light from the hawaldar. His feet showed themselves first, simple yet clean feet. The wrinkles shone through the leather of the chappals he was wearing. Arun looked up. His build was the same, slightly shorter to Arun. His face was different from what he had imagined. He could see his eyes. He had a beard and thick grey hair.  He was wearing a kurta pyjama. It took a moment for Arun to register the face, which seemed to have aroused some etched-in uneasy feeling. Suddenly he regretted his decision. He wanted to turn back.

Arun could do with another cigarette, he thought. The man stood at the gate watching him. Arun decided to move first. A police constable escorted him with papers in hand. ‘Sign these please’, he said in his contemptuous, condescending voice. Arun signed the papers. He turned to walk towards his car. The man walked behind him carrying his own bag. Arun found his car.
‘Bindan get up’, he said to the man at the driver seat.

Bindan got up with a start. He took the bag off the man’s hand and quickly put it in the boot without saying a word. Arun sat next to the driver deliberately, while the man sat at the back. It was a quiet journey back home until he got a call from his friend Sachin.
‘I’m busy tonight, I’ll join you tomorrow’, Arun said abruptly as he hung up the phone. They reached 21 Shangrila. Bindan opened his door and took the bag out from the boot.   They took the elevator to the third floor. Bindan unlocked the door, putting the bag down. On entering, he guided the man to his room. Arun retreated to his room. ‘Bindan take care of him will you, I am tired. I am going to call it a day’.
Arun shut his room door behind him, latching his door. He could now breathe. Having felt no connection with the man, he decided to give it time. He closed his eyes. Sleep didn’t come to him easily these days, especially since he had stopped working. He contemplated going out and checking on the man but something stopped him.

He turned on the T.V.  A good distraction, he thought. He surfed, nothing seemed interesting. He switched to the news.  A ship had been hijacked. He switched the channels again. The stock market was down. He switched again. A man who had received life imprisonment for murdering his wife had been released today. Arun froze.  H-how on earth!!

He didn’t know whether he should follow the story or switch channels. He tried switching, but came back quickly to it.

‘Mr. Upadhyay was released today after 25 long years. This channel had covered the story 25 years ago. The channel did not get to speak to the man, but here is a recap. Mr. Pramod Upadhyay, a resident of the erstwhile Rose Manor building was a well-to-do business man. His neighbours witnessed screaming coming from next door. Mr. Upadhyay fled the house from the window. The neighbours pushed the door open and found his wife lying in a pool of blood. He was found absconding four days later. He denied the accusation; and after a long trial was found guilty. He had a four year old son then’.

‘We were interestingly able to get an interview with him today. Here is what he had to say….’
Journalist : ‘Sir, how does it feel to be free’.
The man : ‘It feels good’.
His voice was without any emotion.
Journalist : ‘Who is coming to fetch you?’
The man : ‘my son is’.
Journalist : ‘Have you been in touch with him all these years?’
The man : ‘No’.
Journalist : ‘Then how come he is coming to pick you?’
The man : ‘I don’t know. I was informed that he is coming. I don’t know how they found him’.
Journalist :’Sir, with all due respect, any regrets?’
The man : ‘Yes, I made a mistake…and my son suffered because of me’.
He was now whispering.
Journalist : ‘Sir, how will you face him today?’
The man : ‘I don’t know if he will accept me?’
The man looked nervous.
The man : ‘I don’t want to talk about this anymore…I-I am sorry’.
He was now stammering.
The news reader went back to her newsroom.

‘Hopefully he is able to re-build his life’, she said, concluding the news piece.
Arun was shaking. The news channel had told him all that he had wanted to find out his entire life. He could feel his tears drying up, leaving his skin feeling cold. He wanted to bawl like a baby. Even though with all his yoga, and vipasana he had gone beyond blaming this man, today he felt like a child who had questions.

He couldn’t think anymore. He got out of bed, wiping his on-going tears. ‘Why?’, his head was banging now, with the same question repeating again and again.
Arun stepped outside his room, drunk with emotion. ‘Baba…baba Arun, don’t go there’, Bindan tried to stop him. In his state, he didn’t realise he had pushed Bindan away, almost hurting him.
Arun banged on the door. The door didn’t open, he banged harder and harder, till it finally came open by itself.
It was dark, he couldn’t see anything. He needed support, he leaned against the side table, struggling to find the light switch. The light came on. It was Bindan who had turned on the light. The room was empty. The bed had been untouched. 

There was an envelope on the bed. Arun shivered at the thought of opening the envelope. He kept looking at it, as if it were the evil. Bindan picked up the envelope and handed it over to Arun.
With trembling hands, Arun opened the enveloped. There was a letter inside. He opened the letter, wiping his tears.
‘I am sorry beta’.
That’s all. That’s all. That’s all he had to say to me! Bindan tried to hold on to Arun, but Arun couldn’t stand anymore. He wanted to fall to the floor, the only thing that would support him.

Short Story 2012 Longlist, Mayuresh Kanvinde

The Strange Case of Mrs and Mr Gupta

It does not happen every day that a Sub-Inspector of the Mumbai Police faints while on duty. It would be a matter of shame, and it surely was for Sub-Inspector Mohite as he sat on the floor in the bedroom of Mr. Gupta’s Versova apartment, his back against the wall, having just gained consciousness, and not yet decided on his next set of actions.

In front of him, on the blood-drenched bed, lay Mr. Arnav Gupta, dead, a kitchen knife stabbed into his abdomen. The bedroom showed clear signs of a struggle. Not one object in the room was in its place. Bed sheets, pillows, clothes were scattered on the floor; curtain rods were broken as if been pulled down by force; a tall mirror behind a dressing table had a crack right around the place where a person’s face would appear; an expensive lampshade, beaten out of shape, lay in the middle of the floor, pieces of its broken lamp’s glass strewn across the floor; the only chair in the room lay upturned besides the bed. Every aspect of the room hinted towards the presence of another person in the room earlier who seemed to have been involved in a violent struggle with Mr. Gupta.

However, the direction of the stab in Mr. Gupta’s abdomen unmistakably indicated that the wounds were self-inflicted. So much so, that Mohite was convinced to the end of the case being nothing else but suicide. Yet, what puzzled him and led him to remain indecisive was the entire sequence of events that had enfolded during the day — his first day in charge of the Versova Police Station.

It was Monday morning. Sub-Inspector Mohite had just assumed charge of his Police Station, and had finished introductions with his subordinates. He sat proudly in his hard, slightly uncomfortable, wooden chair, thinking of how his hard work and perseverance had helped him to rise quickly up the ranks in his, as yet, successful career. He glanced down at the towering pile of unsolved cases on his desk, which, as per his orders, Head Constable, Jadhav, had made available to him, and was about to resume his long day’s work, when a very worried voice calling for ‘Inspector Sir’ fell on his ears.
He was surprised when he looked up, for the deep, masculine voice strikingly contrasted with its lean, feeble-looking owner standing in front of him. The man stood around 5 feet 6 inches tall, and was completely bald, save for a few strands of hair at the back of his head. The wrinkles on his long forehead vividly brought forth the trouble on his clean-shaven face. But, what seized Mohite’s attention were his extremely thin eyebrows; they seemed to have been plucked! Perhaps those were what gave him his feminine appearance.

The man seated himself hurriedly and introduced himself as Mr. Arnav Gupta. He wanted to file a missing person’s complaint for his wife, whom he had not seen since the previous night. She had apparently vanished from the house in the middle of the night. They had had a fight the previous night, which, according to Mr. Gupta, was not an uncommon occurrence between them nowadays. Later, they had slept in the same room, though not speaking to each other. But, when he had woken up early morning, she was, quite unusually, nowhere to be found in the house. Mohite tried to assure him that it was not an uncommon occurrence either for wives to temporarily leave their house for their parents’ place after a fight with their husbands; and that she would soon return of her own accord. But, Mr. Gupta confirmed that he had already enquired about his wife’s whereabouts, without any success, with his in-laws as well as all their friends and relatives.

Mohite was a bit apprehensive about filing a missing person case so soon. After all, it had not even been a day since the person went missing. But still, to assure Mr. Gupta, he asked Head Constable Jadhav to note all the information that Mr. Gupta had to provide and to file a complaint to that regard. He also asked Mr. Gupta to submit a photograph of his wife for reference.

Jadhav, however, was not content with the ‘wife leaving for her parents’ place after a fight’ scenario. He insisted that he had been in service for many years and knew of several other reasons why a wife could be missing. He, quite light-heartedly, mentioned a case of a well-to-do small-time businessman who had, a couple of years ago, filed a similar missing person’s case for his wife. After months of search, she was found in another city, having run away with her driver, with whom she used to spend most of her day while her husband used to be busy spending sixteen hours a day at work. 

Mohite knew that Jadhav, though playfully, was treading on dangerous grounds, and had already seen what was to come next. He spent the next few minutes calmly observing the entire scene unfold as Mr. Gupta, having completely lost his cool, reprimanded and abused Jadhav for being unprofessional and questioned his authority to speculate on someone else’s wife’s character. He verbally expressed his and his wife’s love for and integrity towards each other, and threatened to go to higher authorities to complain against Jadhav’s supposed atrocities. All this while Jadhav looked on helplessly, half cursing himself for not having restrained his speech on time and landing himself into a pickle, and half hoping that the new Sub-Inspector would interfere to quell the onslaught, and later on, would cast a blind eye on the entire embarrassing episode. Mohite did interfere; but it took a while before he could quiet Mr. Gupta down, initially with apologies, then with assurances and finally, because nothing else was working, with threats of booking him for disturbing the effective functioning of his police station. He, then, did reassure Mr. Gupta of putting in all his efforts to locate his wife, and letting him know as soon as she is found. However, Mohite had already dismissed any further thoughts of the case from his mind; he was pretty sure that Mr. Gupta’s wife would soon be found and without any police intervention.

By afternoon, the Sub-Inspector’s first day at his new police station proved to be extremely taxing, with too many unsolved cases to look into. The missing Mrs. Suman Gupta was the last thing on his mind until the commotion at Head Constable Jadhav’s desk made him lose his concentration. Jadhav was quite vocally arguing with a woman, telling her to go home. A hint of a smile appeared on Mohite’s lips when he heard Jadhav mention to her about Mr. Gupta’s search for her and the complaint he had filed. “I knew it all along”, thought Mohite. But, with what followed in the next couple of minutes, the smile on his face vanished as fast as it had appeared, taking along with it the slightest hint of humour that could have lingered. The lady quite abruptly broke down in front of everyone, saying she did not want to go home and certainly not to her husband. She accused her husband of being overly possessive of her, suspecting her of having extra-marital affairs and often beating her up. Crying, she rolled up the right sleeve of her full-sleeved Punjabi suite, exposing her forearm and holding it out for them to see. Mohite, Jadhav and the few constables on duty winced disgustingly.

Mrs. Gupta’s forearm bore a very severe burn around the wrist area. On close observation, Mohite realized that the burn was actually the engraving of a name seared into her flesh — a name no different than the first name of Mr. Gupta — ‘Arnav’. Mrs. Gupta was telling Jadhav in her feeble voice about the fight she had had with her husband the previous night, which according to her was not an uncommon occurrence nowadays. However, the previous night, Mr. Gupta had crossed all her sufferance limits by burning his name into her forearm, citing the reason that he wanted everyone, with whom she was supposedly having an affair, to know whom she belonged too. After narrating this horrific experience, Mrs. Gupta continued sobbing, but not one policeman in the entire police station, including the new Sub-Inspector Mohite who had saved Jadhav earlier from Mr. Gupta’s fierce attack, knew how to react to this sorrowful cry for help. They all just watched in utter disbelief.
The lady was without any doubt Mrs. Suman Gupta, something Jadhav had already confirmed, and Mohite had reconfirmed, from the photograph that Mr. Gupta had submitted. Mrs. Gupta appeared vaguely familiar to Mohite but he could not recall why. She was fair, had quite a pretty face, was almost as tall as her husband, and despite being a bit too thin, was still quite in shape. Her only imperfection would have been her extremely large forehead; but she more than compensated for it with her long, shining, dark hair, kept neatly braided behind her back. Mohite failed to comprehend why any husband would even argue with, leave aside beating up, such a lovely wife. But then comprehending others’ marital problems was not his job and he let go of further such thoughts. He instructed Jadhav to file a First Information Report on behalf of Mrs. Suman Gupta against her husband, Mr. Arnav Gupta. He also asked a constable on duty to accompany Mrs. Gupta to her home, and return only after ensuring her security. This time, Jadhav, for his own good and Mohite’s grateful relief, did not add to the day’s events by repeating anything similar to his morning feat. Yet, for the second time during the day, Mohite had a hunch that the day would not cease to be eventful.

Mohite’s hunches had never let him down before and they were not going to today. The next disconcerting visitor of the day arrived in the form of a phone call. It was almost nine o’clock in the evening when Mohite, assuming the day to have ended, was packing his things to go home for some rest. Head Constable Jadhav approached his desk with panic on his face. He had just received a distress call from Mrs. Gupta, crying out to him for help against her husband who had resumed her previous night’s ordeal. Mohite instructed Jadhav to resolve the matter himself, and for good, by paying a visit to the Guptas’ residence if needed, along with one of the constables. But, the experienced Jadhav continued to look on helplessly, his eyes hoping that his superior would accompany him. Assuming the matter to be trivial and not needing more than a few minutes’ attention — the dread of a policeman’s words in the minds of common people tends to resolve such petty issues quickly — Mohite relented to accompanying Jadhav and joined him in the patrol vehicle.
Within minutes they were standing outside the front door of the Guptas’ sixth floor apartment in Versova. The nameplate bore the title ‘Mr. and Mrs. Arnav Gupta’. Sounds of yelling and crying from inside the house could be clearly heard outside, the thick wooden front door proving inadequate to obstruct them. Mohite could easily discern the two voices alternately reaching his ear — Mr. Gupta’s deep, masculine voice, shouting and abusing his wife; and Mrs. Gupta’s feeble voice, crying for relief.

Jadhav rang the doorbell once, twice, a long thrice. Neither the door opened nor the fight depicted any signs of ending. Mohite and Jadhav were both growing restless. They were about to ask the neighbours for an alternate house-key, but were stopped short in their actions. A bloodcurdling scream had rung through the night air, rendering every other sound to silence. The fight inside the house had ended. It was Mrs. Gupta who had screamed. Nervous thoughts ran through Mohite’s mind. He kept reminding himself not to panic, but was losing his calm and hoping, against hope, that no lives be lost during the day’s events. Neither he nor Jadhav were prepared for such a drastic turn of events. This was supposed to be a petty issue to be resolved in a matter of minutes. They remained still, not knowing how to act, but knowing they had to soon. They decided to break down the door. Accordingly, the senior of the two, who was allowed to carry a service revolver, drew it out and shot a bullet through the door latch. The door yielded and the policemen entered, the Sub-Inspector in the lead.

There was no one in the living room. Mohite had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach; had they been too late? The room was in total disarray. The fight had apparently been on for too long and been too severe. He spotted the bedroom door ajar and made for it. He was not prepared for what he was about to witness in the next room. Mr. Gupta lay stretched out on the bed, eyes wide open in terror, a kitchen knife stabbed into his abdomen. The blood from his wound had surged on to the bed, dyeing it a dark crimson red. Mohite did not bother to check whether Mr. Gupta was alive. His eyes were screaming he was dead. But, what struck him odd was that there was no sign of Mrs. Gupta, neither in the bedroom nor in the attached bathroom. Meanwhile, Jadhav had checked the balcony and the kitchen without finding any traces of her. Mohite was exasperated. There was little doubt in his mind that the scream he had heard outside had emanated from a female voice — Mrs. Gupta’s. Yet, she was not in the house. And yet, she could not have left the house without using the front door; this was the sixth floor.

Mohite reached out to inspect Mr. Gupta’s dead body; his initial observations of the wound intrigued him to look more closely. His knowledge of forensics was limited, but that did not prevent him from drawing a conclusion; neither did it minimize his bewilderment at his discovery that the wound was self-inflicted; that Mr. Gupta had been stabbed by himself. It was extremely hard to comprehend that a person who was so much bent upon inflicting torture on his wife at one instant could have committed suicide the next instant. There had to be a different explanation. And yet, there was Mr. Gupta lying dead in front of him, having committed the dreadful crime of suicide.

The human mind, when thinking at a wild pace, often conjures up queer intuitions which seem to be totally unreasonable and inconsequential. Still, following such queer thoughts, more than often opens hidden doors which would otherwise have remained closed, though being in plain sight. Likewise, Sub-Inspector Mohite’s mind, too, urged him to look around the room again, to find something that was right in front of him and yet eluding him. He had seen something in the room which troubled him, something that would help solve this case. He let his probing eyes scan the room in every possible direction. A long, rectangular wooden box lying on the dressing table caught his eye. He reached out for it and opened it. It was quite an extensive makeup kit. No wonder Mrs. Gupta looked so beautiful, thought Mohite. He looked around again. Under a pile of clothes that lay strewn near the dressing table, something pitch black, as black as Mrs. Gupta’s dark hair, caught his sight.

He reached out and picked up the black object. It was a wig, with the hair at its end neatly twined into a braid. Mohite’s heart skipped a beat. It took him a full long minute to fully comprehend the true meaning of his finding, and another longer one for the realization to sink in. Now, it was all starting to fall in place; Mr. Gupta’s baldness, Mrs. Gupta’s large forehead and the wig; Mrs. Gupta’s extensive makeup kit, Mr. Gupta’s plucked eyebrows; both husband and wife being thin and of the same height. If only he could set aside his last remaining doubts. His mind strained as the stressfully long day’s events flashed before his eyes for the umpteenth time. He recalled Mrs. Gupta’s visit earlier during the day and of a sudden knew where to look for. His limbs quivered as he rushed towards Mr. Gupta’s body. With trembling hands, he lifted the cold right arm of the dead Mr. Gupta and began to unfold the sleeve of his full-sleeve shirt. He felt his vision grow blurry as his mind registered what it saw. On Mr. Gupta’s right forearm was an engraving he had seen before, burned right into his flesh, spelling out the name “Arnav”.

#
When he regained consciousness, Sub-Inspector Mohite felt a bit ashamed. He had fainted on duty on his very first day right in front of his Head Constable, while in charge of a police station under the jurisdiction of the reputed Mumbai Police. He thirstily gulped down the glass of water which Jadhav had offered him. He soon remembered why he had fainted; he had not been blacked out for more than a few minutes. He tried to put the puzzle pieces together. Mr. and Mrs. Gupta were not two different persons; rather they were merely two different personalities of the same person. Both acknowledged each other’s existence as his/her spouse, and occasionally clashed with each other. This night, amidst one of such clashes, Mr. Arnav Gupta had killed his wife, Mrs. Suman Gupta, with whom he shared not only his house but also his body, thereby causing his own death as well.
A conclusion had been reached; the case had been solved. But a final question still remained in Mohite’s mind, preventing him from taking a decision — how should this case be registered — as a suicide or a murder?

Short Story 2012 Longlist, Unnati Marda

Untitled

Part I
She walked along the busy aisle of the airport, the trolley wheels were gyrating against the polished granite. A few guys glanced at her. She walked steadfastly without looking. She was used to this by now. She had long hair with Medusa-like curls, shocking pink highlights and an athletic frame. She wore shorts and an oversized shirt that read” I kind of don’t like Rock”. Very opinionated and brusque, she wasn’t looking forward to another two hour flight with her head for company.

She’d been through a lot and thinking made her ache. It made all those incidents from the past flash in a reel-like manner. Most of all it created that craving for nicotine in her system. There were fewer and fewer airports where you could smoke a cigarette without being forced to exit security and stand outside on the curb. She clutched her lime green backpack tightly, digging her fingers in its straps. As she moved forward, she paused to pop a nicotine gum and bought a cappuccino from the nearest Barista.

She glanced around at the airport. Travel was something that she did regularly. She now had categories for people found in an airport. That was another one of her favorite things to do, categorizing people. There were the ones that slept their way through cities; the one’s who worked on the way not looking up from their Blackberries and Laptops. Then there were the chatty ones, not hesitant to approach random people.

As soon as the family of four moved from the front she wheeled her stuff towards the counter. A lady with heavily done blue eye make-up fake-smiled for that one second and got back to tapping the keyboard. She hauled her luggage on the conveyor belt and watched the numbers on the screen change. While the lady entered her passenger details and printed her boarding card, Amy looked around bored. She half-heard the guy next to her demand, “I want a window seat, and I would prefer an empty row, if there is one.” Freaking misanthrope, Amy thought. The person behind the counter gave in without protest. It must’ve been a non-rush hour, Amy mused.

She snapped her gum rather loudly than she intended to. The guy next to her sighed exasperatedly. “Whoa, sorry,” she said raising her hands in the air without looking at him. ” It’s not like I shot you to death.” She felt the guy staring at her point-blank. She waited impatiently for the lady to give her boarding pass, clicking her knuckles on the counter-top.

Unable to take it any longer she whipped around to face him. “What. . .” she asked him coldly, “ is your…” The words drowned out and she felt herself struggling to save herself from those same smoldering cold hazel eyes. She didn’t have to look away from them to figure out who he was. She felt her aura instantly connecting to his. Jake, had always been subconsciously trapped in the dark confinements of her mind, and now he’d just broken himself free.

She looked at him intently now, he’d changed minutely. It had been three years since she’d last seen him. His hair was now longer and reached below his collar. He wore a plain white shirt and faded denim. He looked unfazed and unbothered as always. The placid expression on his face frazzled her and drew her towards him. If she took a step further she would’ve been able to smell his Mont Blanc.
“Umm, hi,” she said. The guy nodded his head and walked away with his tickets. Screw it, she thought. He’d always been like that, not caring in the least bit. It was so hard to tell what he felt, it’s like he’d shut himself from the world and was so content with himself. She wouldn’t mind locking herself in with him…wouldn’t need anybody else. Just you and me, baby. Excuse me ma’am, the lady said. Amy grabbed her belongings and stashed them in her backpack. Her darn flight had been delayed and she had three hours until she boarded the aircraft. She mentally tried not to go where Jake went, although she felt connected to him and could locate him instantly amidst the milling crowd if anybody asked her to.

She went inside the book store and browsed through the best-sellers lined on the rack. She reached out to pick up The Host by Vampire Meyer. ” It’s a disappointment, here buy this instead” that familiar voice said. Jake was holding Brisingr, the third installment of the Eragon series. ” Oh thanks, I’ve read this already, she replied breathlessly, taking in the bright grin that he was now flashing at her. She could smell peppermint and freshly mowed grass and felt like somebody had whipped up Amortentia, the love potion from HP6.

Part II
Memories. They crawl unto you and pinch you in places where it hurts. A lot. They seep inside your soul, they make a comeback when you’re the happiest, or saddest or when you’re contemplating and have nothing else to do. They show themselves in the minutest of things, a fallen leaf, a blue car, a random book. ” So, how have you been, he asked snapping her out of her reverie.” Oh great, you know. What about you? Be interested, not interesting. She’d seen too many How to Make an Impression videos to know the basics. “I’ve been the same, he said running his fingers through his rumpled hair. They stood there for what seemed like hours looking at each other, not knowing what to say. Jake broke the silence.

“Look I got to go for my flight right now, but I’ll meet you once I land in Seattle, you’re arriving there 2 hours later right?”
“Yeah.”
“Amy?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve missed you.”

He kissed her on her cheek and left before she could say anything else. She felt like everything around her moved in a whirlwind and it would take ages for what he said to sink in. The way he said it, upfront felt unrealistic.

Two hours later when her flight landed, she texted him asking where he was. There was a lot that needed to be explained. The entire thing felt surreal. The airport was in an extreme state of chaos than usual. The flurry of activity in it made her head spin and she realized she hadn’t had anything since her morning coffee. Suddenly a huge barrage of security officers marched right in; people were reacting in odd ways. She could swear she thought a few of them were crying. The plasma attached on the wall flashed the news of the power failure in the morning flight to Seattle. The plane had crashed while it was landing.

She had waited for three abnormally long years.
She had waited for three unending hours.
And now she had to wait for a lifetime.

Two days later
She reached out for that familiar looking white powder in her pocket, laid it out in three rows on the table and for the fourth time in two days and drowned her despair in dormant delusion until it blackened itself out.

Short Story 2012 Longlist, Shanika Bhowmick

Think Before You Curse

Megha woke up feeling particularly good that morning. It was one of those weekdays when you actually looked forward to the day. She knew she would have a great day at office, a fun outing with friends, a good chat with folks back home, and a relaxed night’s sleep. What could possibly go wrong?

After a fresh shower and a hearty breakfast she still had time to read the newspaper, which was an achievement in itself. She couldn’t help grinning to herself. As she was about to leave her house she heard a crashing sound outside her door. She quickly grabbed her bag and rushed out. That’s when she found out that her morning euphoria was extremely false.

All her flower pots lay broken outside her door. Mud littered the floor. Her precious flowers lay smashed. And then she found the evidence. Evidence of the culprit. Without a doubt she knew who it was. Tiny little muddy footprints led from the site of crime to the house next door.

Boiling with rage she pounded the door bell of her neighbour’s house. Six-year old Chintu opened the door, a wicked grin playing on his face. Just the sight of him made Megha delirious. She grabbed the kid by his t-shirt and dragged him out. She lost all awareness of her surroundings. Without even caring that his parents could be around, she landed a resounding slap on Chintu’s face and continued to do so until the boy started crying.

Jerking herself out of her mad rage she began to shout at him. It was not the first time that Chintu had done something like this. He always managed to create trouble and upset Megha. Either it was soiling all her washed clothes hanging outside, or littering her doorway with sand and pebbles from the road, or just repeatedly banging her door and running away. She had complained several times to his parents who turned a deaf ear to her. Chintu was a darling son who could never have done any wrong to anyone. Megha gradually began to detest him. No amount of explaining cured him. She tried to relax herself by justifying that he was just a kid and kids are mischievous. It wasn’t right for her being an adult to harbour so much hate for a child. But she couldn’t manage to have any sympathy for him. And today’s incident just pushed things a little too far.

She blurted out “I wish you died, little rascal!” at the crying boy standing there and stomped off from. Minutes later, sitting in the taxi she realised what she had just done. She was surprised Chintu’s parents didn’t come out to stop her. She felt a sudden pang of guilt when she thought of how she had hit him. She was personally always against any kind of physical punishment towards children, no matter what the fault. But here she was losing her cool and doing just that. She made a mental note to go and apologise to him when she returned from work and probably cheer him up with a box of chocolates.

After an uneventful day at work she felt a little nervous while going home and facing what she had left behind in the morning. As she approached her building she saw a crowd gathered outside. Feeling curious she ran up to her house. There was an ambulance and also police vans waiting outside. She went closer to get a better view. The first person she noticed was Chintu’s father with a panic stricken expression. As she approached him to ask what had happened, she heard a woman’s wails. Within the next minute she understood what had happened.

Chintu’s badly battered body lay limp on the ground. His mother clutched on to him sobbing. A cold chill ran through Megha. She suddenly felt sick and couldn’t stand there any longer. She receded and stood among the crowd of people surrounding the scene. She could hear people discussing how it had happened. Chintu’s parents had gone out for a few hours in the morning, leaving him behind at home. Being the mischievous boy that he was he had gone up to the terrace to play and somehow fell from there. He died on the spot. Other residents saw this happen and contacted his parents.

 The world just blurred out in front of Megha. Her words “I wish you died, little rascal” felt like a piercing sword to her. The words echoed around her. She somehow felt it was her curse which made little Chintu face this tragedy. Unable to bear it any longer, she slowly walked up to her house, the broken flower pots still lying outside her door.