Showing posts with label Short Story 2017 Shortlist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short Story 2017 Shortlist. Show all posts
Sunday, 15 October 2017
Friday, 15 September 2017
Short Story 2017 Shortlist Sravani Singampalli
The Fear That Never Got Erased
It was a rainy day. The winds were tempestuous. I was sitting at the veranda with my cup of hot coffee. I was enjoying the cool weather and kept on staring at the rain and the swaying trees. All of a sudden I caught a glimpse of a moving light around a big mango tree. I started wondering what it could have been. My grandma was sitting beside me so, I told her about what I saw. She was startled at my words, came closer and asked me to repeat what I just said. In an articulate manner I repeated “I saw a moving light around a mango tree.”
She hugged me tightly and took me inside without saying a single word. This made me even more curious and I wanted to know the reason behind this sudden quirky reaction of my grandma. We were having our supper but I still continued to think about the moving light I saw around that big mango tree. After the supper I immediately went to my grandma’s room and asked her the reason behind her strange reaction. I mean it was just a moving light, that’s it! Nothing else. My grandma said that it wasn’t something so obvious and murmured into my ears that it was a very strange pisachi (a devil) with light on top of its head. Well, it actually sounded too funny and unrealistic to be believed. I burst out laughing and made light of my grandma. My grandma lost her temper and started shouting at me “what do you know about this pisachi, it took away my beloved son.” I saw tears rolling down her red cheeks. I hugged her and wiped off her tears. I apologised and asked her to narrate the story of that devil to me.
My grandma started off by describing the special traits of that devil. She said that it appeared in many different forms. It used to roam around in disguise. She said that during night time it used to disguise as an animal with light on top of its head and lived on the trees. People in the village could actually know its presence because of this wavering light. It sounded very interesting. She told me that there were many rumours in our village about this strange devil.
People used to say that it never attacked anybody directly and said that it used to visit everybody’s houses for help only on the days it used to rain heavily. If the owner of the house allowed her inside then the very next day the owner would die, my grandma said in a low tone. Then she told me that she heard many incidents about people dying because of this evil spirit. Even I did not believe in these rumours until the day my eldest son became a prey, my grandma said in grief. She became very emotional so I consoled her. After a long pause, she continued with her story. She said that the weather was very harsh and it rained very heavily the day before my uncle died. Around 11 o’ clock somebody knocked at the door and it was my uncle who opened the door. My grandma said that she was also standing beside him.
A young lady with an innocent face in a red sari fully drenched by the rain was standing near the door way, my grandma said. She started pleading us for allowing her to stay in the house for just a night as it rained heavily and said that her own house was very far away so; it would be difficult for her to reach her house in such a harsh weather. “I shouted a very big No!” my grandma exclaimed. My son didn’t listen to me and convinced me to allow her stay as she was a lady. I knew that she was that awful pisachi who killed so many people. I decided not to sleep that day, she said. I tried controlling my drowsiness but somehow my eyes closed. When we woke up in the morning, she had already vanished without saying a word. Your uncle as usual went for his work and came home in the afternoon for lunch, my grandma continued. After his lunch, he decided to take a nap and by 5 o’ clock he was found dead on his bed. I broke down into tears and couldn’t believe that my son had died. My grandma couldn’t control her emotions anymore and her sobbing woke up everybody in our house. My parents scolded me for disturbing her and started consoling my grandma. My conscience wasn’t allowing me to believe this story. So, the very next day I went to my grandma and convinced her that uncle’s death just could have been a coincidence. I also gave many evidences but she refused to believe my words and my way of analyzing things.
Not only my grandma but many people in my village still believe that their relatives died because of this ‘devil’. I am a modern- day girl so my conscience never allows me to believe these things but after listening to my grandma’s story even I fear looking at the trees and the moving light during night time. There are many kinds of fears in our society and the entire world which would never get erased like the fear of ghosts, demons, behemoths and other evil spirits. They will continue for years to centuries.
It was a rainy day. The winds were tempestuous. I was sitting at the veranda with my cup of hot coffee. I was enjoying the cool weather and kept on staring at the rain and the swaying trees. All of a sudden I caught a glimpse of a moving light around a big mango tree. I started wondering what it could have been. My grandma was sitting beside me so, I told her about what I saw. She was startled at my words, came closer and asked me to repeat what I just said. In an articulate manner I repeated “I saw a moving light around a mango tree.”
She hugged me tightly and took me inside without saying a single word. This made me even more curious and I wanted to know the reason behind this sudden quirky reaction of my grandma. We were having our supper but I still continued to think about the moving light I saw around that big mango tree. After the supper I immediately went to my grandma’s room and asked her the reason behind her strange reaction. I mean it was just a moving light, that’s it! Nothing else. My grandma said that it wasn’t something so obvious and murmured into my ears that it was a very strange pisachi (a devil) with light on top of its head. Well, it actually sounded too funny and unrealistic to be believed. I burst out laughing and made light of my grandma. My grandma lost her temper and started shouting at me “what do you know about this pisachi, it took away my beloved son.” I saw tears rolling down her red cheeks. I hugged her and wiped off her tears. I apologised and asked her to narrate the story of that devil to me.
My grandma started off by describing the special traits of that devil. She said that it appeared in many different forms. It used to roam around in disguise. She said that during night time it used to disguise as an animal with light on top of its head and lived on the trees. People in the village could actually know its presence because of this wavering light. It sounded very interesting. She told me that there were many rumours in our village about this strange devil.
People used to say that it never attacked anybody directly and said that it used to visit everybody’s houses for help only on the days it used to rain heavily. If the owner of the house allowed her inside then the very next day the owner would die, my grandma said in a low tone. Then she told me that she heard many incidents about people dying because of this evil spirit. Even I did not believe in these rumours until the day my eldest son became a prey, my grandma said in grief. She became very emotional so I consoled her. After a long pause, she continued with her story. She said that the weather was very harsh and it rained very heavily the day before my uncle died. Around 11 o’ clock somebody knocked at the door and it was my uncle who opened the door. My grandma said that she was also standing beside him.
A young lady with an innocent face in a red sari fully drenched by the rain was standing near the door way, my grandma said. She started pleading us for allowing her to stay in the house for just a night as it rained heavily and said that her own house was very far away so; it would be difficult for her to reach her house in such a harsh weather. “I shouted a very big No!” my grandma exclaimed. My son didn’t listen to me and convinced me to allow her stay as she was a lady. I knew that she was that awful pisachi who killed so many people. I decided not to sleep that day, she said. I tried controlling my drowsiness but somehow my eyes closed. When we woke up in the morning, she had already vanished without saying a word. Your uncle as usual went for his work and came home in the afternoon for lunch, my grandma continued. After his lunch, he decided to take a nap and by 5 o’ clock he was found dead on his bed. I broke down into tears and couldn’t believe that my son had died. My grandma couldn’t control her emotions anymore and her sobbing woke up everybody in our house. My parents scolded me for disturbing her and started consoling my grandma. My conscience wasn’t allowing me to believe this story. So, the very next day I went to my grandma and convinced her that uncle’s death just could have been a coincidence. I also gave many evidences but she refused to believe my words and my way of analyzing things.
Not only my grandma but many people in my village still believe that their relatives died because of this ‘devil’. I am a modern- day girl so my conscience never allows me to believe these things but after listening to my grandma’s story even I fear looking at the trees and the moving light during night time. There are many kinds of fears in our society and the entire world which would never get erased like the fear of ghosts, demons, behemoths and other evil spirits. They will continue for years to centuries.
Short Story 2017 Shortlist Riddhi Doshi
Don’t Go Away
(inspired from a real-life story)
(inspired from a real-life story)
They have been by each other’s side for a good eight months
now. Eating, sleeping and playing together, impossible to separate. Little Laksmi, 7, and Ayan, 6, have grown extremely fond of
each other. Ayan says that he will marry Lakshmi when he grows up, to
which Lakshmi nods enthusiastically.
They became friends after Ayan shared half his biscuit with Lakshmi when she first walked into the hospital ward and since the duo shared their tiffins, pencils, erasers, colours and lots of laughter.
Even at their weakest, post a chemotherapy, the duo sticks together, nursing each other’s wrists, sore from the multiple needles and syringes. Hidden under the bedsheets, they talk in hushed tones about stars, moons and a land full of chocolates where they’ll go hand in hand when they grow up. But more than often the conversation is interrupted by the overwhelming medicines, though what it can’t do is to tear the children apart physically. They are often found sleeping in each other’s arms.
On good days they manage to create quite a ruckus in the overcrowded children’s hospital of Mumbai. Ayan loves to jump from one bed to another and Lakshmi applauds him on his every step like he is some Olympics star.
Surprisingly though, the nursing staff isn’t too hard on them. Lakshmi and Aryan’s bond has managed to bring smiles to the faces of even the most seasoned doctors, who have mastered the art of breaking the news of the horrible disease to the shocked, wailing parents with a straight face. They seemed to numbed their senses while mastering the art of inserting needles into the soft skins of toddlers, which is later sealed by a small piece of wood to avoid children from scratching and further damaging their skins.
But Ayan and Lakshmi seemd to have coped with the pain quite well, thanks to each other’s company. That’s what the head nurse of the hospital believes. In her 25-year career she has never seen such happy kids happy in the cancer ward.
Lakshmi was born in Mumbai to a carpenter father Mahesh and homemaker mother Bhairavi. Originally from Joanpur, Uttarpradesh, Mahesh decided to move to Mumbai soon after marriage to seek better earning opportunities. He has since been living in two rooms at Javerbai slum along with his two older children, wife, three brothers, their wives and children. Aryan is the only son of taxi driver Dilip and homemaker Asha. They live in B2 chawl and unlike Lakshmi he never had to wear run-down clothes or share his food, books or toys with other kids.
In fact, just before Aryan had to discontinue school and was brought to the hospital his father bought him a ChhotaBheem bag and a water bottle. He’s quite possessive about his belongings, but happily shares them with Lakshmi.
Both Ayan and Lakshmi were diagnosed around the same time. At the very onset their parents were told that they would be in a hospital for a longer duration. But these little munchkins weren’t complaining, As long as they had each other, they didn’t care.
On the other hand their parents were trying hard to arrange for funds for the kids’ advance treatment. Dilip was now working double shifts. As a driver in the morning and as a watchman at night. He so far had managed to earn Rs 50,000, Rs 1,50,000 short. Despite of cutting down on ration and sleep, he was struggling to accumulate the required amount. Asha too managed to cut corners. She slept in the hospital corridors instead of renting out a room near the hospital like many parents did.
Lakshmi’s father Mahesh hadn’t done all that well either. His work at the housing complex in Navi Mumbai stopped due to the new Real Estate Regulation Act and his contractor refused to let him work at any other site, which he wasn’t in-charge of. If Mahesh did so, he would lose his house provided by the contractor.
The going was tough and people say that sometimes the shared sorrow bring people together. But that wasn’t true for the two set of parents, especially the mothers. Asha and Bhairavi never really spoke to each other except this once after a particularly bad chemo session that made the kids exceptionally week.
Asha took a surprised Bhairavi by her shoulders and accused her of falsely claiming poverty to become eligible for medical funds from an NGO for Lakshmi’s treatment. The baffled Bhairavi was at loss of words. But Asha was uncontrollable. She was now hurling abuses at Bhairavi, her hands shivering and tears rolling down her cheeks.
“So many people visit you at the hospital and bring toys and goodies for your child. Why don’t you ask them for money? Please let other people in real need use the funds,” said Asha.
“Why don’t you withdraw your application for the funds and let those with more survival chances live,” replied Bhairavi.
Asha broke down, collapsed on the floor and wailed. But nobody came forward to console her. They all just gulped, looked away and let her cry. Lakshmi got the funds as she had 90% survival chances. Aryan didn’t as he had clearly scored below 35% in the highly competitive, survival-of-the-fittest test in a mega city like Mumbai. A few hours later Lakshmi was taken away for chemotherapy, for the very first time without Aryan. She stopped midway, half ran half walked to Aryan, cupped her hands around his ear and whispered. “I’ll be back soon. Wait for me here. Don’t go away.”
They became friends after Ayan shared half his biscuit with Lakshmi when she first walked into the hospital ward and since the duo shared their tiffins, pencils, erasers, colours and lots of laughter.
Even at their weakest, post a chemotherapy, the duo sticks together, nursing each other’s wrists, sore from the multiple needles and syringes. Hidden under the bedsheets, they talk in hushed tones about stars, moons and a land full of chocolates where they’ll go hand in hand when they grow up. But more than often the conversation is interrupted by the overwhelming medicines, though what it can’t do is to tear the children apart physically. They are often found sleeping in each other’s arms.
On good days they manage to create quite a ruckus in the overcrowded children’s hospital of Mumbai. Ayan loves to jump from one bed to another and Lakshmi applauds him on his every step like he is some Olympics star.
Surprisingly though, the nursing staff isn’t too hard on them. Lakshmi and Aryan’s bond has managed to bring smiles to the faces of even the most seasoned doctors, who have mastered the art of breaking the news of the horrible disease to the shocked, wailing parents with a straight face. They seemed to numbed their senses while mastering the art of inserting needles into the soft skins of toddlers, which is later sealed by a small piece of wood to avoid children from scratching and further damaging their skins.
But Ayan and Lakshmi seemd to have coped with the pain quite well, thanks to each other’s company. That’s what the head nurse of the hospital believes. In her 25-year career she has never seen such happy kids happy in the cancer ward.
Lakshmi was born in Mumbai to a carpenter father Mahesh and homemaker mother Bhairavi. Originally from Joanpur, Uttarpradesh, Mahesh decided to move to Mumbai soon after marriage to seek better earning opportunities. He has since been living in two rooms at Javerbai slum along with his two older children, wife, three brothers, their wives and children. Aryan is the only son of taxi driver Dilip and homemaker Asha. They live in B2 chawl and unlike Lakshmi he never had to wear run-down clothes or share his food, books or toys with other kids.
In fact, just before Aryan had to discontinue school and was brought to the hospital his father bought him a ChhotaBheem bag and a water bottle. He’s quite possessive about his belongings, but happily shares them with Lakshmi.
Both Ayan and Lakshmi were diagnosed around the same time. At the very onset their parents were told that they would be in a hospital for a longer duration. But these little munchkins weren’t complaining, As long as they had each other, they didn’t care.
On the other hand their parents were trying hard to arrange for funds for the kids’ advance treatment. Dilip was now working double shifts. As a driver in the morning and as a watchman at night. He so far had managed to earn Rs 50,000, Rs 1,50,000 short. Despite of cutting down on ration and sleep, he was struggling to accumulate the required amount. Asha too managed to cut corners. She slept in the hospital corridors instead of renting out a room near the hospital like many parents did.
Lakshmi’s father Mahesh hadn’t done all that well either. His work at the housing complex in Navi Mumbai stopped due to the new Real Estate Regulation Act and his contractor refused to let him work at any other site, which he wasn’t in-charge of. If Mahesh did so, he would lose his house provided by the contractor.
The going was tough and people say that sometimes the shared sorrow bring people together. But that wasn’t true for the two set of parents, especially the mothers. Asha and Bhairavi never really spoke to each other except this once after a particularly bad chemo session that made the kids exceptionally week.
Asha took a surprised Bhairavi by her shoulders and accused her of falsely claiming poverty to become eligible for medical funds from an NGO for Lakshmi’s treatment. The baffled Bhairavi was at loss of words. But Asha was uncontrollable. She was now hurling abuses at Bhairavi, her hands shivering and tears rolling down her cheeks.
“So many people visit you at the hospital and bring toys and goodies for your child. Why don’t you ask them for money? Please let other people in real need use the funds,” said Asha.
“Why don’t you withdraw your application for the funds and let those with more survival chances live,” replied Bhairavi.
Asha broke down, collapsed on the floor and wailed. But nobody came forward to console her. They all just gulped, looked away and let her cry. Lakshmi got the funds as she had 90% survival chances. Aryan didn’t as he had clearly scored below 35% in the highly competitive, survival-of-the-fittest test in a mega city like Mumbai. A few hours later Lakshmi was taken away for chemotherapy, for the very first time without Aryan. She stopped midway, half ran half walked to Aryan, cupped her hands around his ear and whispered. “I’ll be back soon. Wait for me here. Don’t go away.”
Short Story 2017 Secondprize Ranju Dodum
Brother’s Death
It seemed like any other Sunday- most of us were in church, singing hymns in praise of the Lord. The Christian missionaries from Nagaland and Mizoram had arrived at our village in Arunachal Pradesh a few years ago and told us about how our souls were lost and we had to let the one true God into our hearts for a place in heaven. Deliverance aside, they brought with them medicines and textbooks. Back then the state was still a union territory and was called the North East Frontier Agency. My father was one of the first in the village to take to the new faith. In a few short years, most of the villagers had converted as well, save for the few older folks who clung on to the old gods and spirits. Takar's father was one of them.
Despite his best efforts, Takar was unable to convince his father to convert. 'What good will I be as a father and husband if I can't even hold on to my faith,’ he had told Takar, soon after he was baptised.
Takar was a regular at church, attending Sunday service even during the harvest season. On the rare occasion that he missed a service it was only if he fell ill, which was an even rarer occasion. He was a strong, stout man in his twenties. His height allowed him to camouflage himself well in the dense forest where he often hunted. With time, he had gained a reputation of being the best hunter in our six-village radius. While he often worried for his father's ‘soul’, he was a jovial man and was the life of the village feasts.
Today at church however, he appeared uneasy. Takar usually sang the loudest but today he sat at the corner silent as the church filled with the sound of 'To God Be Glory'.
For a week after returning from a hunt, Takar had not seemed his usual self. His skin had become pale and his eyes wore a look of distant fear. His mother told some of her friends that Takar was having nightmares for the past few nights- shivering, shaking, sweating. The first night they woke him up when they heard him moaning. He had fever but was fine once the sun rose. The next night, the same.
Takar had gone hunting a week before with Marto and Doni. They were gone the entire day and returned late into the night empty-handed. Doni later told us that all along the way Takar kept cursing his misfortune, blaming his friends for the failed hunt.
‘You two were too loud’, he told them.
It was the first time he was returning home from an unsuccessful hunt since the day he ventured into the forest with his father as a little boy for the first time many moons ago.
How would he live this down? Surely the villagers will mock him, he thought. While it was understood that not every hunt will be successful, for Takar game failure was new territory. As they neared the village Takar thought he heard the rustling of leaves in the bushes some distance away.
‘Did you hear that?’ Takar said.
‘Hear what?’
‘Over there in the bushes behind the trees.’
‘You are hearing things,’ Doni told him and suggested they head back.
It was getting dark and it wasn’t safe to be out this late. Takar was unmoved and mockingly told his friends to return home while he went and got something for the village to eat before trailing off into the darkness.
Almost three hours had passed since Marto and Doni reached their homes dejected but Takar had not yet returned. His mother was now worried and went over to their homes to find out what had happened. He’ll be back, they said trying to reassure her.
When he finally did return, Takar was a sweaty mess. His clothes had gathered weed and soil from the forest and his feet were covered in mud. But it was the look in his eyes that disturbed his mother the most. Far from the gleeful joy that his eyes usually wore, they looked as though something inside him had died. His mother yelled at him for being so late and told him she had worried herself to death.
‘Sorry aane, I thought I had found something. I didn’t want to come home empty-handed.’
His mother said something to the tune of warning him to never do such a thing that he didn’t quite catch and told her he was tired and wanted to sleep.
‘What about your dinner?’
‘Not tonight.’
As he went to his room, he caught a glance of his father looking at him, eyebrows frowning. Takar and his father were close a long time ago. As the only son, he provided his father with some male companionship in a house full of women. Over the last year though, the two of them had grown distant as he began spending more time with the Ao pastor from Nagaland who preached at the village church. As his interest in the King James’ Bible increased, his interest in listening to his father talk about how in the old days men and wyius, the spirits, fought each other began to wane. Instead he tried to get his father to convert.
‘But you will not get salvation if you continue to believe in the spirits, abo,’ he told him time and again. And each time he got the same answer: I only believe that which I know.
On the third night when he awoke from another nightmare, Takar found his father sitting beside him.
‘It was a Patey, wasn’t it?’
Takar was taken aback but said nothing. ‘How did he know?’ he wondered.
That day in the forest, that rustling in the bushes was indeed a Tiger. Takar had followed the sound for a while and shot his arrow straight into what he thought was a large stag. It had become dark and he could not see what he had thrust his arrow into until he got closer. When he saw that it was no stag, he froze.
He was a good shot and only the tail end of the arrow stuck out of the creature’s heart. It lay there unable to move, breathing heavily, grunting.
Like many of the tribes in the Northeast of India, us Nyishis too believe that man and Tiger are brothers and therefore killing one for game is a sin. Although he had converted to the new faith, the old tales and legends still played in Takar’s mind. He knew that the animal would be dead within an hour and any attempts to save it would be futile. So, he took another arrow, pulled the string of his bow as far back as it would, aimed for its head and sent it deep into its skull.
Once home, he found himself unable to tell anyone about what had happened because he knew he would be forced to perform a series of elaborate rituals to please the spirits. How could he go back to the old ways after having convinced half the village to convert? And so he held his silence.
That day after church I walked up to him and asked how he was. He mumbled something that I could not quite catch before walking away. Over the next few weeks, Takar began to grow reclusive. He stopped coming to church and his eyes grew even more distant. Even when his eyes looked into someone else’s, he wasn’t seeing anything. I went to meet him once, just to check on him. His mother was growing weary watching her son lose himself in himself while his father sat by the hearth every day losing hope each night.
Sitting in his room a few days later, eyes fixed at the forest in the hills beyond the village, Takar seemed to be aware of his surroundings for the first time in a long time.
‘I must go. I understand it now’, he told me.
‘Go where?’
‘To be with my brother.’
I didn’t quite know what to make of what he said and asked his mother if she knew what Takar was talking about.
‘I don’t know what happened that day in the forest.’
‘Patey,’ his father said fixing the fire.
That was the last anyone saw of him.
It seemed like any other Sunday- most of us were in church, singing hymns in praise of the Lord. The Christian missionaries from Nagaland and Mizoram had arrived at our village in Arunachal Pradesh a few years ago and told us about how our souls were lost and we had to let the one true God into our hearts for a place in heaven. Deliverance aside, they brought with them medicines and textbooks. Back then the state was still a union territory and was called the North East Frontier Agency. My father was one of the first in the village to take to the new faith. In a few short years, most of the villagers had converted as well, save for the few older folks who clung on to the old gods and spirits. Takar's father was one of them.
Despite his best efforts, Takar was unable to convince his father to convert. 'What good will I be as a father and husband if I can't even hold on to my faith,’ he had told Takar, soon after he was baptised.
Takar was a regular at church, attending Sunday service even during the harvest season. On the rare occasion that he missed a service it was only if he fell ill, which was an even rarer occasion. He was a strong, stout man in his twenties. His height allowed him to camouflage himself well in the dense forest where he often hunted. With time, he had gained a reputation of being the best hunter in our six-village radius. While he often worried for his father's ‘soul’, he was a jovial man and was the life of the village feasts.
Today at church however, he appeared uneasy. Takar usually sang the loudest but today he sat at the corner silent as the church filled with the sound of 'To God Be Glory'.
For a week after returning from a hunt, Takar had not seemed his usual self. His skin had become pale and his eyes wore a look of distant fear. His mother told some of her friends that Takar was having nightmares for the past few nights- shivering, shaking, sweating. The first night they woke him up when they heard him moaning. He had fever but was fine once the sun rose. The next night, the same.
Takar had gone hunting a week before with Marto and Doni. They were gone the entire day and returned late into the night empty-handed. Doni later told us that all along the way Takar kept cursing his misfortune, blaming his friends for the failed hunt.
‘You two were too loud’, he told them.
It was the first time he was returning home from an unsuccessful hunt since the day he ventured into the forest with his father as a little boy for the first time many moons ago.
How would he live this down? Surely the villagers will mock him, he thought. While it was understood that not every hunt will be successful, for Takar game failure was new territory. As they neared the village Takar thought he heard the rustling of leaves in the bushes some distance away.
‘Did you hear that?’ Takar said.
‘Hear what?’
‘Over there in the bushes behind the trees.’
‘You are hearing things,’ Doni told him and suggested they head back.
It was getting dark and it wasn’t safe to be out this late. Takar was unmoved and mockingly told his friends to return home while he went and got something for the village to eat before trailing off into the darkness.
Almost three hours had passed since Marto and Doni reached their homes dejected but Takar had not yet returned. His mother was now worried and went over to their homes to find out what had happened. He’ll be back, they said trying to reassure her.
When he finally did return, Takar was a sweaty mess. His clothes had gathered weed and soil from the forest and his feet were covered in mud. But it was the look in his eyes that disturbed his mother the most. Far from the gleeful joy that his eyes usually wore, they looked as though something inside him had died. His mother yelled at him for being so late and told him she had worried herself to death.
‘Sorry aane, I thought I had found something. I didn’t want to come home empty-handed.’
His mother said something to the tune of warning him to never do such a thing that he didn’t quite catch and told her he was tired and wanted to sleep.
‘What about your dinner?’
‘Not tonight.’
As he went to his room, he caught a glance of his father looking at him, eyebrows frowning. Takar and his father were close a long time ago. As the only son, he provided his father with some male companionship in a house full of women. Over the last year though, the two of them had grown distant as he began spending more time with the Ao pastor from Nagaland who preached at the village church. As his interest in the King James’ Bible increased, his interest in listening to his father talk about how in the old days men and wyius, the spirits, fought each other began to wane. Instead he tried to get his father to convert.
‘But you will not get salvation if you continue to believe in the spirits, abo,’ he told him time and again. And each time he got the same answer: I only believe that which I know.
On the third night when he awoke from another nightmare, Takar found his father sitting beside him.
‘It was a Patey, wasn’t it?’
Takar was taken aback but said nothing. ‘How did he know?’ he wondered.
That day in the forest, that rustling in the bushes was indeed a Tiger. Takar had followed the sound for a while and shot his arrow straight into what he thought was a large stag. It had become dark and he could not see what he had thrust his arrow into until he got closer. When he saw that it was no stag, he froze.
He was a good shot and only the tail end of the arrow stuck out of the creature’s heart. It lay there unable to move, breathing heavily, grunting.
Like many of the tribes in the Northeast of India, us Nyishis too believe that man and Tiger are brothers and therefore killing one for game is a sin. Although he had converted to the new faith, the old tales and legends still played in Takar’s mind. He knew that the animal would be dead within an hour and any attempts to save it would be futile. So, he took another arrow, pulled the string of his bow as far back as it would, aimed for its head and sent it deep into its skull.
Once home, he found himself unable to tell anyone about what had happened because he knew he would be forced to perform a series of elaborate rituals to please the spirits. How could he go back to the old ways after having convinced half the village to convert? And so he held his silence.
That day after church I walked up to him and asked how he was. He mumbled something that I could not quite catch before walking away. Over the next few weeks, Takar began to grow reclusive. He stopped coming to church and his eyes grew even more distant. Even when his eyes looked into someone else’s, he wasn’t seeing anything. I went to meet him once, just to check on him. His mother was growing weary watching her son lose himself in himself while his father sat by the hearth every day losing hope each night.
Sitting in his room a few days later, eyes fixed at the forest in the hills beyond the village, Takar seemed to be aware of his surroundings for the first time in a long time.
‘I must go. I understand it now’, he told me.
‘Go where?’
‘To be with my brother.’
I didn’t quite know what to make of what he said and asked his mother if she knew what Takar was talking about.
‘I don’t know what happened that day in the forest.’
‘Patey,’ his father said fixing the fire.
That was the last anyone saw of him.
Short Story 2017 Featured Rajshree Trivedi
At The Street Gate…
Anything can really happen here!
Here, amidst the sounds of the distant drums, cymbals, tambourines and shehnais, the human choral chants fill the air with a mystical fizz heralding processions – not taken out with a specific cause or a case but often for the spells of cursory solidarities that the dwellers of this small city would rinse themselves off as soon as they were dispersed. And for sure, the street dogs and cats; the cows and donkeys let loose by their masters would also revel along with the human medley dipped in euphoric frenzies!
Here, the children – the fully grown lads as well as the tardy ones- rush in excitement to catch the first glimpse of a news breaking event!
Here, the young, unmarried girls meet their beaus while on their way to the temple, the grocer, the grinding mill or the only Lovely Ladies Tailor in the area - the only possible pretexts for which they could step out of the house!
Here, the small and not-so-big traders buoy up a makeshift rendezvous for dealing in an impromptu wholesale transaction of coal, kerosene, clothes, scrap, vegetables or sand or bricks!
Here, the right turn corner becomes a gossip point for women sharing the weal and woes of their existences, intertwined within the fringes of joint or extended families!
Here, males- the young, middle-aged, grey-haired and for that matter, the bald ones, too– hang out being sure- if you want to just pass your time for a while- that some or the other from your pol would be dangling around there!
Here, a temporary brawl burps up and subsides within a minute!
Here, the ‘good for nothings’ conduct a high level discussion on the ways of tumbling the present governing ministry!
This is our street gate- the most happening place in our small city.
The city that has more black smoke than the blackness of the moonless nights. The newspapers call it at times- ‘the Manchester of India’.
Dhim Dhim Dhimak Dhim! Dhum Dhum Dhumak Dhum! Here comes the sound of the beating drums.
Kooooooo! Koooooooo! Here blows the conch heralding the arrival of a procession!
And lo! Each and every one - the ever inquisitives, the dawdlers, the dandies, the most stoic, the ‘good for nothings’ as well as the downright ‘no-nonsense-ones’- rushes to the street gate. The ones in slippers, the ones without them.
***
There was an uncontrollable excitement in the air that day! The dull, quiet morning of Shree Ramji’s Street tore into pieces with a burst of drumbeats that were first heard followed by the sounds of clanging metallic discs. It was advancing at a snail’s pace . As the sound of the drums and conches became louder, children raced, the youngies ran and the old ones toddled – all towards the street gate.
Bhagat Kaka was always the first to catch the glimpse of the jamboree albeit, he would go there limping and lurching, with his walking- stick dangling on his elbow, his dhoti unfurling and shouting at the racing ones.
“Hey….Stop! Give me a hand….…,,,,,,O Naniya….You donkey ... Wait! Oh God! Look at the world made by you… how has it changed! No one really cares nowadays for the old.”
“O Kaka…Why don’t you sit at home…? Rushing at this age to view the processions- be it a marriage, taaziya, rathyatra or the sound of a political tom tom, you want all the fun. Bhagat Kaka, why don’t you learn to folds your legs and sit quietly in a corner. Eh Gotia! Look there, how constantly he stares; without a blink, at the poster of this new film Julie. Look there! At this age, the oldie -sans teeth, sans hair….. Never does he miss an opportunity to gaze at the women passing by…"
“Aiey! Aiey! Gotia and you…..yes…..you, Nania. hold your tongues, you wretched ones! I heard it all…..that you murmured. Do you think I am totally deaf? At eighty, I can hear well, I can see well and…….you rascals, I know what you all are busy doing these days…. During the hot, scorching afternoons….Both of you and that Munio…. all three of you….haven’t you been writing messages on those paper planes and darting them off…… where…..eh? At the three young daughters of that widow Bachudi….Shame upon you! At your age, at sixteen I was married. I am going to tell Bachudi about your tricks…..and then, see the show…… ”
“No….no. Kaka, will you please…..I mean, we mean. Does it really suit you to worry about all these things at this age….? Shouldn’t you be engrossed in your puja-paath and not keeping an eye on what we, the youngies are doing. Kaka, now don’t crib like a crow. Come with us, let me hold your hand now.”
“Hmmm! That suits you better, Naniya! Hold this stick, too! And one more thing- your Kaki has asked me to get her a bunch of fenugreek leaves from Kaanniya, the green grocer at the street gate. Take this one rupee coin. Go and do that errand for me …. Run along before the procession arrives…..”
“Kaka, Kakaaaa--- Why me? Do I have to get it? Err……”
“Hmm..…Ok. So you don’t want to go…….”
“Na..na..na. Kaka, when did I refuse…..? I agreed to do that, didn’t I?. Aiey Gotia, hold my bat…..I’ll be back in a moment.”
The procession was now only a hundred feet away.
The sound of the musical instruments and the chants were now growing louder, losing its clarity, evolving itself into a cacophonous furore. The road that separated the Lakhia’s pol and Shree Ramji’s Street was quite narrow making it almost difficult to distinguish the crowd of the onlookers and that of the procession. An unfathomable excitement was catching up in the air, with the onlookers metamorphosing into a sea of the euphoric waves dragged by the tom toms. Only after the procession would march further from the vicinity of the street gate, that the wondrous human assemblage would restore their senses and turn around to go back to their homes.
The hanging wooden balconies that protruded from the old buildings on both the sides of the roads were fully crowded. People stretched their necks to capture the sight of the movement down on the road. Shops, big and small flanking on both the sides of the road patiently stalled their business proceedings with the shopkeepers allowing the crowd to perch upon the raised platforms on the other side of the temporarily structured glass or wooden counters.
By now Bhagat Kaka had settled himself on an otla outside Raja’s shop. Pressing his knuckles hard, he moved his impatient eyes around the balconies, the otlas and across the road, registering the presence of each one. Quickly did he work out a list of names not present, who were generally seen hanging around the street gate almost all along the day.
“Aiey Gotia, why didn’t you call me…. where’s Naniyo? How much did I miss? I was in the last room, studying for tomorrow’s exams……I heard this hullabaloo….Why didn’t you call me? Eh…can you see her anywhere? I mean that Ghatudi……Oh, Kaka you are also here…..Ram! Ram! Bhagat Kaka!” Munno aka Munio came rushing in, panting heavily for he had missed quite a lot of fun because of his bossy mother locking him for studies into a room on the third floor of his old house.
“I called you, Munia. Your mother shouted at me and drove me away. Ghatudi was here with her two sisters….She’s in a green frock. They were walking towards the Lovely Tailors….err…..towards Sarangpur Chakla. Let Naniya return, we will then follow them.”
“But where is he ….? Why has he yet not ……” Munno’s words were left incomplete as Naniyo appeared from the crowd.
“Eh Gotia,, who’s going to leave me back home? You, sons of ……. I’ll see you all. I saw Bachudi right there. I am going to tell her that all three of you have been following her daughters…..”
“Arre Kaka, what makes you worry so much? You know very well we are always there to help you, aren’t we?. Look there, Naniyio is back! He’ll drop you back home. No tension! See, he’s also got this bunch of leaves that Kaki had asked for.”
“Yes, Kaka. Don’t worry….Can we go now? We’ll soon be back. This is Naniyo promising, gentleman’s promise. Please wait here on Raja’s otla till we return. ” Naniyo handed over the bunch to Kaka and winked at Munno.
“Huh! Come soon…..your aunt will be waiting for me for the lunch.”
Bhagat Kaka saw the three boys disappearing in the crowd.
Two young men in white, with long black beards and hair, held the two sides of a banner with the name of the religious sect written on it. In bold, big fonts, it flashed the words ‘PEACE MARCH’ on it. They were followed by drummers and fifers who seemed to be oblivious of anything or anybody around barring the existence of their instruments and themselves. A group of saffron-clad sadhus with beads of rudraksh tied in a string around their necks had their bodies covered with ashes. They walked with tridents in their hands, chanting verses that were almost inaudible. They were followed by a herd of cows walking slowly in well defined rows and columns, with their heads dangling down. Loaded with brass bells around their necks, they were saddled with mauve, silk garments palisaded with gold and yellow lace. How much were they tempted by the sight of the mounts of the cabbage peels that lay dumped aside by the vegetable vendors! Yet, they neither skipped the row nor swerved from the regulated route of the procession. Behind them walked a platoon of sadhvis clad in yellow saris playing the single-stringed harps. A squadron of sanyasis wearing white clothes marched after them in neat rows holding orange, triangular flags and blowing conches in air. Then followed the young Kar Sevaks who were distributing sugar lumps and groundnuts to the onlookers. At the end of the procession was a large group of volunteers in white pyjamas and jhabhaas with saffron scarves tied in a knot around their necks distributing pamphlets to people around inviting them to join an upcoming religious festival. Towards the end, the procession left a trailing line of a few marchers who followed the profession with a lethargic disinterestedness.
The crowd started dispersing slowly.
The boys had not yet returned.
Bhagat Kaka became restless. His old, ravaging eyes now became more impatient. These three boys- Naniyo, Gotio and Munno- had always brought pleasures and pains for him. He shared with them a strange relationship- “Is it friendship or just an endearing neighbourhood; a seeming grand child-parent knot or a human bond? I don’t know what. Haven’t their humble background made them grow up faster than their age yet, how full of mischiefs are the trio! A few months back, how they tied a firecracker at one of the loose ends of my dhoti! Why? Just because I didn’t allow them to play cricket that afternoon. How the three boys are unfailingly found loitering at the pol entrance during evenings, chatting and teasing the passers by! How they play pranks upon Ravji Patel and cobble around themselves to tease him as late as till last Sunday! Every evening Ravji passes by the pol entrance and stops to talk to me in his low, squeaky voice. As soon as he would leave, he three boys made the sounds of a mewing cat. Last Sunday, it was only Munno present there and somehow, he missed out seeing Ravji passing by . As usual, Ravji came in his signature starched white sadra and pyjama holding the newspaper in his hand. He read out the headlines to me, chatted with me for a while and left. When he did not hear any mewing sounds from the boys, he turned back to Munno and said, “Where are your cats today? Aren’t they meowing tonight? Is everything fine?” Saying that he quietly walked ahead, leaving Munno absolutely dumbfounded and placid, as pale as a ghost and soon bursting into a riot of laughter.
Raja’s tap on the shoulder broke Kaka’s chain of thoughts. It was almost 11.30 am. Raja had been stuck in the traffic. “The customers will soon start pouring in and I haven’t yet, opened the shop,” Raja fumbled for the keys in his pocket.
His customers mainly comprised of women who gossiped, shared and discussed almost about everything related to their dull lives. By now Raja could very well predict who would discuss what with whom. His daily visitors like Bhagat Kaka, Ravji Kaka and others spent a fixed time at his shop and gossiped with the fleeting women. He liked his shop being thronged around by the passers by outside his otla.
“Ram Ram, Kaka.” He was surprised to see Kaka alone there. The procession had long back moved away from the street gate. The crowd had already dispersed.
“Ram Ram, Raja. Those three, Munno, Gotio and Naniyo promised me that they’ll soon be back to take me home. But they are…..”
“Arre, Kaka, I saw them going towards Kapdiwad. Perhaps, they were following the procession on its way to Halimni Khadki…..Shall I lead you…….? ”
Raja’s last words almost went unheard.
Bhagat Kaka recalled the event that had taken place before a year. It was the eve of Makar Sankranti. The whole city had thronged itself inside the walled areas of Manek Chowk and Kalupur. People were madly shopping for the essentials for the next day-kites, thread reels, lanterns, gum tapes, dark glasses, caps and whatnot. The thread reels of thousand, five thousand and ten thousand metres were being handed over to the artisans skilled in the job of colouring and coating the strings with glass particles. “How the three boys had taken the responsibility of taking me along with them to Kalupur! We had just passed by Halimni Khadki and the trio stopped at ‘Lucky Omlette Centre’ pestering me to shell out money for the hot fried omelettes. ‘Oh you half-witted ones! What if your mothers come to know that you all are eating eggs and I, this eighty year old man is sponsoring the feast? Hari! Hari! Hari!. Not only they, your Kaushalya Kaki will also eat me raw for polluting the young boys………. Hesitatingly of course, I spent money that night. The kind of pleasure I saw on their innocent faces while relishing the taste of those steamy, spicy omelettes on that cold, wintry January night was something that I would not bargain for Lord Kuber’s wealth in this world…..”
“Kaka, Kaka, where are you lost? They must have gone back home by now. Come, let me take you…..”
“ No. I shall go only with them. They’ve always kept their promise. I am sure they will soon ……...” Before he could finish the sentence, their conversation was disrupted by the blowing sirens of the speeding police vans announcing that an indefinite curfew was being imposed in the area and that people were required to remain indoors. In no time, the shutters of the shops came down, offices closed and the roads evacuated. Within a quarter of an hour, a terrible silence prevailed in the air with all sorts of rumours spreading like a wild fire about the fresh violence that had broken out in the inside areas of the walls of the city. The residents were left lurking under the dubious spell of an unidentified fear.
***
It has been more than a month now. The city is returning back to the state of normalcy. Under Section 144, of the National Penal Code, the police department has imposed a ban on holding unlawful meetings, gatherings or processions in the sensitive areas of the old walled city.
The seven o’clock siren customarily blows for the workers to wind up for the day at the New Cotton Spinning and Weaving Mills outside the Sarangpur Gate. It is time for Ravji Kaka to pass by the pol entrance on his way to the temple. He stops to read out a few lines to Bhagat Kaka from the newspaper, this time not the headlines but the ones on the third page in the column “City News Digest.” It says: “The death toll in the city following the communal riots that broke out after the attacks on a religious procession last month has reached to fifty. Most of the injured victims have now been discharged from the city hospital. The state government yesterday released the compensation amount of Rs. One Lac to each household of the bereaved families and Rs. Twenty Five Thousand each to the injured victims. In a statement issued by the Police Commissioner, the law and order in the city is absolutely under control.”
No chats, no discussions, no mewings, no arguments now follow Ravji Kaka’s news lines. His hearkener’s silence breaks into a crazy passer-by’s song :
O, bird of the blue skies!
Why don’t you return?
How perturbed I am
In your absence!
We played together, we roamed,
We swayed together on a boat
Till you were dragged by a strong wave!
I have been waiting for you till date.
There’s no news from your end.
Glossary :
Chakla- market-place.
Dhoti- an Indian garment for males
Kaka/ kaki -Uncle/ aunty
Otla- a raised platform at the entrance of a house
Pol- a housing cluster in Ahmedabad and many other small towns of Gujarat in India
Puja-paath- rituals performed as a part of daily prayers to god
Pyjamas and jhabhbhas – A Gujarati pair of lower and upper garment, respectively
Rudraksha- the seed or berry sacred to Lord Shiva
Sadhus / sadhvis/sanyasins- saints and nuns.
Sadra- a short upper garment with short sleeves worn by the Gujaratis.
Taaziya and rathyatra- - religious processions
Anything can really happen here!
Here, amidst the sounds of the distant drums, cymbals, tambourines and shehnais, the human choral chants fill the air with a mystical fizz heralding processions – not taken out with a specific cause or a case but often for the spells of cursory solidarities that the dwellers of this small city would rinse themselves off as soon as they were dispersed. And for sure, the street dogs and cats; the cows and donkeys let loose by their masters would also revel along with the human medley dipped in euphoric frenzies!
Here, the children – the fully grown lads as well as the tardy ones- rush in excitement to catch the first glimpse of a news breaking event!
Here, the young, unmarried girls meet their beaus while on their way to the temple, the grocer, the grinding mill or the only Lovely Ladies Tailor in the area - the only possible pretexts for which they could step out of the house!
Here, the small and not-so-big traders buoy up a makeshift rendezvous for dealing in an impromptu wholesale transaction of coal, kerosene, clothes, scrap, vegetables or sand or bricks!
Here, the right turn corner becomes a gossip point for women sharing the weal and woes of their existences, intertwined within the fringes of joint or extended families!
Here, males- the young, middle-aged, grey-haired and for that matter, the bald ones, too– hang out being sure- if you want to just pass your time for a while- that some or the other from your pol would be dangling around there!
Here, a temporary brawl burps up and subsides within a minute!
Here, the ‘good for nothings’ conduct a high level discussion on the ways of tumbling the present governing ministry!
This is our street gate- the most happening place in our small city.
The city that has more black smoke than the blackness of the moonless nights. The newspapers call it at times- ‘the Manchester of India’.
Dhim Dhim Dhimak Dhim! Dhum Dhum Dhumak Dhum! Here comes the sound of the beating drums.
Kooooooo! Koooooooo! Here blows the conch heralding the arrival of a procession!
And lo! Each and every one - the ever inquisitives, the dawdlers, the dandies, the most stoic, the ‘good for nothings’ as well as the downright ‘no-nonsense-ones’- rushes to the street gate. The ones in slippers, the ones without them.
***
There was an uncontrollable excitement in the air that day! The dull, quiet morning of Shree Ramji’s Street tore into pieces with a burst of drumbeats that were first heard followed by the sounds of clanging metallic discs. It was advancing at a snail’s pace . As the sound of the drums and conches became louder, children raced, the youngies ran and the old ones toddled – all towards the street gate.
Bhagat Kaka was always the first to catch the glimpse of the jamboree albeit, he would go there limping and lurching, with his walking- stick dangling on his elbow, his dhoti unfurling and shouting at the racing ones.
“Hey….Stop! Give me a hand….…,,,,,,O Naniya….You donkey ... Wait! Oh God! Look at the world made by you… how has it changed! No one really cares nowadays for the old.”
“O Kaka…Why don’t you sit at home…? Rushing at this age to view the processions- be it a marriage, taaziya, rathyatra or the sound of a political tom tom, you want all the fun. Bhagat Kaka, why don’t you learn to folds your legs and sit quietly in a corner. Eh Gotia! Look there, how constantly he stares; without a blink, at the poster of this new film Julie. Look there! At this age, the oldie -sans teeth, sans hair….. Never does he miss an opportunity to gaze at the women passing by…"
“Aiey! Aiey! Gotia and you…..yes…..you, Nania. hold your tongues, you wretched ones! I heard it all…..that you murmured. Do you think I am totally deaf? At eighty, I can hear well, I can see well and…….you rascals, I know what you all are busy doing these days…. During the hot, scorching afternoons….Both of you and that Munio…. all three of you….haven’t you been writing messages on those paper planes and darting them off…… where…..eh? At the three young daughters of that widow Bachudi….Shame upon you! At your age, at sixteen I was married. I am going to tell Bachudi about your tricks…..and then, see the show…… ”
“No….no. Kaka, will you please…..I mean, we mean. Does it really suit you to worry about all these things at this age….? Shouldn’t you be engrossed in your puja-paath and not keeping an eye on what we, the youngies are doing. Kaka, now don’t crib like a crow. Come with us, let me hold your hand now.”
“Hmmm! That suits you better, Naniya! Hold this stick, too! And one more thing- your Kaki has asked me to get her a bunch of fenugreek leaves from Kaanniya, the green grocer at the street gate. Take this one rupee coin. Go and do that errand for me …. Run along before the procession arrives…..”
“Kaka, Kakaaaa--- Why me? Do I have to get it? Err……”
“Hmm..…Ok. So you don’t want to go…….”
“Na..na..na. Kaka, when did I refuse…..? I agreed to do that, didn’t I?. Aiey Gotia, hold my bat…..I’ll be back in a moment.”
The procession was now only a hundred feet away.
The sound of the musical instruments and the chants were now growing louder, losing its clarity, evolving itself into a cacophonous furore. The road that separated the Lakhia’s pol and Shree Ramji’s Street was quite narrow making it almost difficult to distinguish the crowd of the onlookers and that of the procession. An unfathomable excitement was catching up in the air, with the onlookers metamorphosing into a sea of the euphoric waves dragged by the tom toms. Only after the procession would march further from the vicinity of the street gate, that the wondrous human assemblage would restore their senses and turn around to go back to their homes.
The hanging wooden balconies that protruded from the old buildings on both the sides of the roads were fully crowded. People stretched their necks to capture the sight of the movement down on the road. Shops, big and small flanking on both the sides of the road patiently stalled their business proceedings with the shopkeepers allowing the crowd to perch upon the raised platforms on the other side of the temporarily structured glass or wooden counters.
By now Bhagat Kaka had settled himself on an otla outside Raja’s shop. Pressing his knuckles hard, he moved his impatient eyes around the balconies, the otlas and across the road, registering the presence of each one. Quickly did he work out a list of names not present, who were generally seen hanging around the street gate almost all along the day.
“Aiey Gotia, why didn’t you call me…. where’s Naniyo? How much did I miss? I was in the last room, studying for tomorrow’s exams……I heard this hullabaloo….Why didn’t you call me? Eh…can you see her anywhere? I mean that Ghatudi……Oh, Kaka you are also here…..Ram! Ram! Bhagat Kaka!” Munno aka Munio came rushing in, panting heavily for he had missed quite a lot of fun because of his bossy mother locking him for studies into a room on the third floor of his old house.
“I called you, Munia. Your mother shouted at me and drove me away. Ghatudi was here with her two sisters….She’s in a green frock. They were walking towards the Lovely Tailors….err…..towards Sarangpur Chakla. Let Naniya return, we will then follow them.”
“But where is he ….? Why has he yet not ……” Munno’s words were left incomplete as Naniyo appeared from the crowd.
“Eh Gotia,, who’s going to leave me back home? You, sons of ……. I’ll see you all. I saw Bachudi right there. I am going to tell her that all three of you have been following her daughters…..”
“Arre Kaka, what makes you worry so much? You know very well we are always there to help you, aren’t we?. Look there, Naniyio is back! He’ll drop you back home. No tension! See, he’s also got this bunch of leaves that Kaki had asked for.”
“Yes, Kaka. Don’t worry….Can we go now? We’ll soon be back. This is Naniyo promising, gentleman’s promise. Please wait here on Raja’s otla till we return. ” Naniyo handed over the bunch to Kaka and winked at Munno.
“Huh! Come soon…..your aunt will be waiting for me for the lunch.”
Bhagat Kaka saw the three boys disappearing in the crowd.
Two young men in white, with long black beards and hair, held the two sides of a banner with the name of the religious sect written on it. In bold, big fonts, it flashed the words ‘PEACE MARCH’ on it. They were followed by drummers and fifers who seemed to be oblivious of anything or anybody around barring the existence of their instruments and themselves. A group of saffron-clad sadhus with beads of rudraksh tied in a string around their necks had their bodies covered with ashes. They walked with tridents in their hands, chanting verses that were almost inaudible. They were followed by a herd of cows walking slowly in well defined rows and columns, with their heads dangling down. Loaded with brass bells around their necks, they were saddled with mauve, silk garments palisaded with gold and yellow lace. How much were they tempted by the sight of the mounts of the cabbage peels that lay dumped aside by the vegetable vendors! Yet, they neither skipped the row nor swerved from the regulated route of the procession. Behind them walked a platoon of sadhvis clad in yellow saris playing the single-stringed harps. A squadron of sanyasis wearing white clothes marched after them in neat rows holding orange, triangular flags and blowing conches in air. Then followed the young Kar Sevaks who were distributing sugar lumps and groundnuts to the onlookers. At the end of the procession was a large group of volunteers in white pyjamas and jhabhaas with saffron scarves tied in a knot around their necks distributing pamphlets to people around inviting them to join an upcoming religious festival. Towards the end, the procession left a trailing line of a few marchers who followed the profession with a lethargic disinterestedness.
The crowd started dispersing slowly.
The boys had not yet returned.
Bhagat Kaka became restless. His old, ravaging eyes now became more impatient. These three boys- Naniyo, Gotio and Munno- had always brought pleasures and pains for him. He shared with them a strange relationship- “Is it friendship or just an endearing neighbourhood; a seeming grand child-parent knot or a human bond? I don’t know what. Haven’t their humble background made them grow up faster than their age yet, how full of mischiefs are the trio! A few months back, how they tied a firecracker at one of the loose ends of my dhoti! Why? Just because I didn’t allow them to play cricket that afternoon. How the three boys are unfailingly found loitering at the pol entrance during evenings, chatting and teasing the passers by! How they play pranks upon Ravji Patel and cobble around themselves to tease him as late as till last Sunday! Every evening Ravji passes by the pol entrance and stops to talk to me in his low, squeaky voice. As soon as he would leave, he three boys made the sounds of a mewing cat. Last Sunday, it was only Munno present there and somehow, he missed out seeing Ravji passing by . As usual, Ravji came in his signature starched white sadra and pyjama holding the newspaper in his hand. He read out the headlines to me, chatted with me for a while and left. When he did not hear any mewing sounds from the boys, he turned back to Munno and said, “Where are your cats today? Aren’t they meowing tonight? Is everything fine?” Saying that he quietly walked ahead, leaving Munno absolutely dumbfounded and placid, as pale as a ghost and soon bursting into a riot of laughter.
Raja’s tap on the shoulder broke Kaka’s chain of thoughts. It was almost 11.30 am. Raja had been stuck in the traffic. “The customers will soon start pouring in and I haven’t yet, opened the shop,” Raja fumbled for the keys in his pocket.
His customers mainly comprised of women who gossiped, shared and discussed almost about everything related to their dull lives. By now Raja could very well predict who would discuss what with whom. His daily visitors like Bhagat Kaka, Ravji Kaka and others spent a fixed time at his shop and gossiped with the fleeting women. He liked his shop being thronged around by the passers by outside his otla.
“Ram Ram, Kaka.” He was surprised to see Kaka alone there. The procession had long back moved away from the street gate. The crowd had already dispersed.
“Ram Ram, Raja. Those three, Munno, Gotio and Naniyo promised me that they’ll soon be back to take me home. But they are…..”
“Arre, Kaka, I saw them going towards Kapdiwad. Perhaps, they were following the procession on its way to Halimni Khadki…..Shall I lead you…….? ”
Raja’s last words almost went unheard.
Bhagat Kaka recalled the event that had taken place before a year. It was the eve of Makar Sankranti. The whole city had thronged itself inside the walled areas of Manek Chowk and Kalupur. People were madly shopping for the essentials for the next day-kites, thread reels, lanterns, gum tapes, dark glasses, caps and whatnot. The thread reels of thousand, five thousand and ten thousand metres were being handed over to the artisans skilled in the job of colouring and coating the strings with glass particles. “How the three boys had taken the responsibility of taking me along with them to Kalupur! We had just passed by Halimni Khadki and the trio stopped at ‘Lucky Omlette Centre’ pestering me to shell out money for the hot fried omelettes. ‘Oh you half-witted ones! What if your mothers come to know that you all are eating eggs and I, this eighty year old man is sponsoring the feast? Hari! Hari! Hari!. Not only they, your Kaushalya Kaki will also eat me raw for polluting the young boys………. Hesitatingly of course, I spent money that night. The kind of pleasure I saw on their innocent faces while relishing the taste of those steamy, spicy omelettes on that cold, wintry January night was something that I would not bargain for Lord Kuber’s wealth in this world…..”
“Kaka, Kaka, where are you lost? They must have gone back home by now. Come, let me take you…..”
“ No. I shall go only with them. They’ve always kept their promise. I am sure they will soon ……...” Before he could finish the sentence, their conversation was disrupted by the blowing sirens of the speeding police vans announcing that an indefinite curfew was being imposed in the area and that people were required to remain indoors. In no time, the shutters of the shops came down, offices closed and the roads evacuated. Within a quarter of an hour, a terrible silence prevailed in the air with all sorts of rumours spreading like a wild fire about the fresh violence that had broken out in the inside areas of the walls of the city. The residents were left lurking under the dubious spell of an unidentified fear.
***
It has been more than a month now. The city is returning back to the state of normalcy. Under Section 144, of the National Penal Code, the police department has imposed a ban on holding unlawful meetings, gatherings or processions in the sensitive areas of the old walled city.
The seven o’clock siren customarily blows for the workers to wind up for the day at the New Cotton Spinning and Weaving Mills outside the Sarangpur Gate. It is time for Ravji Kaka to pass by the pol entrance on his way to the temple. He stops to read out a few lines to Bhagat Kaka from the newspaper, this time not the headlines but the ones on the third page in the column “City News Digest.” It says: “The death toll in the city following the communal riots that broke out after the attacks on a religious procession last month has reached to fifty. Most of the injured victims have now been discharged from the city hospital. The state government yesterday released the compensation amount of Rs. One Lac to each household of the bereaved families and Rs. Twenty Five Thousand each to the injured victims. In a statement issued by the Police Commissioner, the law and order in the city is absolutely under control.”
No chats, no discussions, no mewings, no arguments now follow Ravji Kaka’s news lines. His hearkener’s silence breaks into a crazy passer-by’s song :
O, bird of the blue skies!
Why don’t you return?
How perturbed I am
In your absence!
We played together, we roamed,
We swayed together on a boat
Till you were dragged by a strong wave!
I have been waiting for you till date.
There’s no news from your end.
Glossary :
Chakla- market-place.
Dhoti- an Indian garment for males
Kaka/ kaki -Uncle/ aunty
Otla- a raised platform at the entrance of a house
Pol- a housing cluster in Ahmedabad and many other small towns of Gujarat in India
Puja-paath- rituals performed as a part of daily prayers to god
Pyjamas and jhabhbhas – A Gujarati pair of lower and upper garment, respectively
Rudraksha- the seed or berry sacred to Lord Shiva
Sadhus / sadhvis/sanyasins- saints and nuns.
Sadra- a short upper garment with short sleeves worn by the Gujaratis.
Taaziya and rathyatra- - religious processions
Short Story 2017 Featured Raghvendra Singh Rana
The Raven’s Experiment
A Foreword:
During the time I’ve spent on this earthen globe, I have witnessed the birth and the death of a race within a century’s time; seen the catastrophe nature has cast upon its species—but nature had yet to impress me.
She created a new species to destroy—something scholars of old liked to call, “Homo sapiens”; which I find quite ironic considering it means, “wise man.” From what I’ve seen, most of them are not very wise.
If I had to explain the human race in one word, it would be—“fickle.” My first thoughts of them were that they were all imprudent and knew nothing of the world around them—but I was genuinely surprised to find that they thrived off of their own mistakes and grew into something somewhat worth my while.
As time passed, those humans became boring. With transient centuries, the grip on man seemed to slip from nature’s grasp. They grew ever wiser. They conformed to the mold I had set for them—a species that grows so wise and powerful that they forget their own mortality.
It was 4:43 PM on a Sunday, on a train ride to a small, German town by the name of Elterlein. A young man with a shock of shoulder-length, curly, red hair sat back in his seat with a book in hand, an exasperated sigh passing between his thin, pale lips. The train ride had been harsh. An hour after the train had left the station just the night before, a snow storm threatened to blow the train onto its side. As soon as they had arrived at the next station, they were forced to stop for the night—or at least until the storm passed. A four-hour train ride turned into a twenty-four hour excursion.
The red-haired man—Riktor Cramm was his name—opened his book to the marked page and began where he had left off before he was so rudely interrupted. Why were there so many annoying children on the train? Fortunately, there was only about a half an hour left before they reached their destination.
He closed his book again and turned his gaze to the window. He was visiting his family to get away from school, yet he insisted upon bringing one of his text books. Riktor sighed and rested his chin on his palm. Dark gray and white streaks passed by him in a blur. The trees opened up to reveal a wide, snowy field, marked by neither animal nor man. In the distance, a city gleamed in the watery, afternoon light. Riktor noticed that the graveyard had been placed awfully close to the train tracks. He watched a group of people, clad in black, slowly disperse from around a rectangular hole in the frozen earth, their faces almost as dead and gray as the headstones around them. Above the hole perched a black crow, but as it grew nearer, it appeared larger and more human in shape. Riktor squinted at it, but as soon as it grew close enough to be seen clearly, it was whisked away behind the train. He turned in his seat to see it again. With a flutter, the black crow lifted itself from the graveyard and flapped out of view. With an irritated grunt, he returned to his book.
Riktor was a college student studying to become an Ophthalmologist. It was his final term before graduation. He decided to spend the last few days of Advent with his hometown family and friends, just in time to celebrate Heilgir Abend on the twenty-fourth of December. It had been two years since he had last seen his family—not that he missed them much.
The clacking of the train wheels against the rails squealed and slowed. Riktor glanced out the window to see the ever-familiar bridge stretch over an ever-familiar river and reach onward toward an ever-familiar, drowsy town. The train slid to a smooth halt, followed by a blast of steam. Riktor waited for another passenger to get up and leave before him, but seeing no one move from their seats, he stood, gathered his things, and bustled toward the doors.
A blast of biting, icy wind greeted him as he stepped out onto the platform. He wrinkled his nose and pulled his scarf higher around his neck and face. How he hated the cold. He would rather be back at the college sipping a nice cup of coffee and reading. But he was told by a professor to go home this year.
Riktor set off across the bridge at a brisk pace. Icicles glistened on the bottom of the railing. The snow beneath his feet had been trampled and dirtied by the many people walking on the bridge before him.
Elterlein had always been a quiet town. The buildings were small, blockish, and gray, with dark windows and sagging roofs. Snow blanketed the dismal streets. It gave the dreary city an abandoned appearance—not that it ever looked full and lively. The people of Elterlein preferred the warmth and comfort of their own homes. The holiday season was about the only season where citizens actually crawled from their cozy robes and blankets to go to church and spread holiday cheer. Riktor, on the other hand, was more like a scrooge. The cheeriness made him ill.
He sulked down alleyways and narrow, cobbled roads toward the home he had lived in since before he was born. It was a tiny place, but the fire within was warm and the food was warmer. Riktor stepped up to the faded, red door, rapped his knuckled hand against the chipping wood, and waited. His sister, Aili, answered the door.
“Riktor! Oh, what a pleasant surprise!” Her rosy cheeks blossomed with a wide, happy smile. She turned her head with a flick of bouncy, pale curls and leaned back into the house. “Mother! Riktor has come for the holidays!” Aili stepped out of the way to allow her brother inside.
Riktor gave a curt nod and hit the snow from his boots, then stepped in and began to take them off. The house hadn’t changed much since he last visited. The same, stained rug led from the entryway to the living room. The same sagging, brownish sofa sat against the far wall facing the window, which had an excellent view of the muddy streets and their neighbor’s lovely garden. The kitchen sat just behind the wall separating it from the living room. Straight across from the entryway was the dining area. The only thing that had changed about that was the position of the table. Instead of the short side facing the door, it had been turned around. It was partially set with the family’s fine china. A flight of wooden steps to Riktor’s left moved up and into the dark, dusty space that used to be his and his older brother’s room. Now it was used for storage, though that’s where Riktor would probably have to stay if he wanted to spend the night. His sister’s room was being occupied by her and her new husband.
As soon as Riktor had his shoes off and his coat hanging, Aili sprung back into her usual hyperness. “Would you like me to take your scarf, Riktor? It’s quite warm in here and it’d be a shame if you suffered from heatstroke right before dinner. I can put your bags upstairs.” She attempted to take them. Riktor moved them from her reach with a sharp scowl. She withdrew slightly, but it wasn’t long before her plump face brightened again. “All right, well, supper will be ready shortly. If you want to go upstairs, I’ve cleaned out your room a bit, but it’s still really crowded from all of father’s old—.”
Riktor raised a hand to Aili’s mouth, placing his slender, pale fingertips against her warm, pink lips.
She frowned and attempted to speak again. Riktor shushed her sharply. Once he was sure that she would not interrupt him, he said, “I’ll be staying at Pich’s tonight.”
Aili’s brow crunched down onto her hardening blue eyes. “Amsel Pich’s?”
“Precisely.” Riktor brushed nonexistent dust from his vest, his lips pursed and proper. His sister opened her wide mouth to speak again. She was going to warn him about Amsel—it was important too.
“Dinner is ready!” Came a soft, sing-song voice from the kitchen. Aili seemed to forget whatever snappish thing she was about to say and hurried toward the table. Riktor’s arrival had distracted her from setting out the silverware.
“Riktor, my sweet boy!” A thin, middle-aged woman with long, dirty-blond hair and piercing green eyes rushed toward him with a hot dish of casserole in one hand. She leaned up and pecked him on both cheeks, ignoring his grimace, and set the dish down so that she could embrace her son.
Riktor was hesitant to return the affectionate gesture. “Mother, I am not a child.”
The woman tsked. “Perhaps not, but you will always be my child.” She patted his bony cheek with a warm hand and delivered her casserole to the table. Riktor deposited his bags by the door and followed awkwardly. He seated himself at the far end of the table nearest to the kitchen. Everyone settled into their seats. Riktor glanced at the chair to his right, where his older brother usually sat, then threw a questioning look at Aili.
“He said he couldn’t make it this year,” she replied.
Riktor wished he had used the same excuse. The house settled into a tense silence as everyone piled their dishes with food. Riktor, having always been a picky eater, took a spoonful of casserole and a pile of mashed potatoes. He kept them far away from one another on his plate.
His mother watched him pick at his meal with a pained expression. “How are your studies coming along, Riktor?” She lifted a bite of casserole to her lips.
Riktor hummed and grunted, lifting his shoulders in a sloppy shrug. He chewed his food at an agonizing pace before swallowing, taking a long drink of water, and sitting back. “Quite well. I’m at the top of my class.” His chest swelled.
Aili’s husband, a large, broad man with a bushy mustache and a shirt that seemed all too tight for his bulbous muscles, coughed loudly to hide his chuckle. His porous face turned a hearty shade of red. “Really, now?”
Riktor’s look was sour. He dabbed his thin lips and then folded the napkin. “Yes.” He turned back toward his mother. “I cannot stay for long, mother. I have an exam upon my return and I’d like to have a week or two to study. Surely, you understand.” Their supper dragged on in silence. Riktor helped with the dishes when the time came, hugged his family for the final time that day, and headed out with his bag in hand and his overcoat draped over his arm.
It was nightfall when he stepped out into the street. The door closed behind him, bathing him in an eerie silence. Riktor slipped into his coat and set off down the road, comforted only by the crunch of the snow beneath his feet and the huff of his breath pluming around him. It felt as though he had only stayed at his mother’s for an hour, yet the whole town seemed to be fast asleep.
He ran a nervous hand through his hair, jerking his fingers through whenever he met a tangle. His eyes darted toward every little shadow that threatened to grab him. Surely Amsel’s was around here somewhere—what if he took a wrong street?
Riktor stopped.
The cold, dry air pressed in around him, smothering him in its inky blackness. He shuddered. A cold breeze reached down behind his scarf and tickled the back of his neck. There was some kind of presence around him, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. The same, icy breeze reached the nape of his neck again, this time followed by the scrape of something cold, hard, and wet. His limbs wouldn’t budge. Each breath came in painful, labored pants. Riktor’s gaze flickered upon the window to his left. The glass was warped and dark, but he could just make out the large, hunched shape of a tattered cloak, seemingly floating upon the still, winter wind. The being had its hidden face pressed against him, its teeth grazing his spine.
Riktor turned and leapt back with a sharp wail, stumbling into the snow and cowering beneath his arms. He was prepared for the worst.
Silence.
Riktor moved his arms. The streets were empty and cold, undisturbed by Riktor’s outburst. He stood and gathered his things, then hastily continued in the direction of his friend’s home. Although he tried his hardest to forget about what he saw, he couldn’t help but wonder. Surely that was a spirit—that was Death itself, I swear of it! He shook his head. Perhaps it was just my mother’s cooking, he thought. Or maybe it’s just the darkness. Yes, yes; I’ve always had issues with the dark, especially here. He wasn’t doing a very good job at convincing himself. The image of that black figure stuck in his mind like paste.
Riktor scrambled up the front steps of Amsel’s flat. He didn’t even have to knock before the door swung open and the grim, pale face of Amsel Pich appeared inches from his own. Riktor wailed, “Amsel! You won’t believe what I just saw.”
Amsel’s expression did not change. He remained where he was in the doorway.
Riktor nervously fumbled with his hair. He had expected Amsel to let him in. “Amsel,” he stammered. “Might I come in?”
Amsel stepped out of the way. Riktor gratefully paced into the warm apartment, shivering off any remaining cold and shedding his black overcoat. He hung it up on the coat rack beside the door and began to take off his boots. He heard the door close behind him. When Amsel made to walk past him, Riktor grabbed his arm, earning a jerk and a hiss of annoyance.
“A-Amsel,” Riktor said. “Are you all right? You seem—.”
“I was not expecting your company.”
Riktor blinked. “I suppose I should have given you a fair warning. My apologies. I’ll only be staying for a day or two, so there’s no need to be—Amsel! Where are you going?” He marched after his childhood companion. Why was he acting so strange? Riktor caught him by the shoulder and turned him around. “I saw Death!” Riktor exclaimed. “Will you please be a chap and calm my aching nerves?” He began to tug at his hair again.
Amsel watched the curly, red strands fall from Riktor’s fingertips. His gaze darted to meet his companion’s. “You’re mad,” he stated.
“Mad! You think I’m mad?!”
“You’re mad,” Amsel repeated. His dead, gray eyes flickered upon the slumped, yellowing sofa sitting in his dining area. “I expect you’ll be gone by tomorrow morning.” It wasn’t a question.
Riktor ceased his pulling. “Tomorrow morning? Why, that’s the final day of Advent. You can’t expect me to leave right then.” He watched Amsel scoot his bags out of the doorway with his foot. The friend Riktor had so dearly adored as a child was now a shadow of a man, with a gaunt, pale face, a bony frame, and hair as oily and black as a raven’s wing.
“Tomorrow morning,” Amsel snapped. Something sinister flickered behind his dead gaze. Oh, how he loathed Riktor. He hated his handsome features; his silky, red hair; his tall, slim figure. He hated his nose, his ears—especially his eyes; those gorgeous green eyes. They reminded Amsel of the jade necklace his mother used to wear—the round one with a sharp, oculus-like design in the center. To Amsel, having emerald eyes and auburn hair was a rarity saved for crowned heads. He sulked into his room and closed the door. If only he could have what Riktor had—even if for a mere moment.
Riktor settled onto the sofa and pulled a throw over himself, grumbling with discomfort and inaudibly complaining about Amsel’s hospitality. “He’s always been like that though, hasn’t he?” he asked himself. “I could’ve sworn he was so much nicer as a child.” He closed his eyes, recalling a day long ago.
It was spring. Riktor had just turned ten years old and had received a small, little paddle boat from his grandparents as a gift. Wanting to show Amsel, he rushed to his house with the little boat in tow, dragging it through the light powder of snow that blanketed the cobblestone. Amsel, amazed and envious of the gift, craved to try it out. Riktor was hesitant to share it, but he found himself racing down the streets after his friend, laughing and giggling along the way.
They tested it in the river. The water was slow and icy, so Amsel thought it was the best place to try it. Riktor gladly agreed.
The rest of the memory was somewhat hard for him recall. He remembered something sharp hitting the back of his head and plunging into the icy depths, only for Amsel to drag him out moments later. The boy had told him that the ore somehow bounced out of the water and hit him in the head! When he fell in, Amsel dove in after him and dragged him to shore. Unfortunately, the boat had been lost downstream.
Riktor had fallen asleep. He never thought much of that memory—nor most of the other memories he shared with Amsel, all of which involved Riktor getting hurt in some way.
His night was dreamless and dark. He woke early the next morning to a sharp pain in his chest. He shot up, panting and sweaty, gripping the area directly over his heart. When his fingers came away, they were coated with something slick and wet. It was too dim to tell what it was for sure. Riktor scrambled for a light, but when he found one, the substance on his hand was gone and he was in the same condition he was the night before.
The same, eerie feeling from the night before washed over him—as if something was watching him. A shudder ran down his spine. Riktor paused. He did not feel the usual bounce of red curls. He did not hear the typical swish of auburn around him. He did not see the customary shades of ginger in the corners of his vision. Riktor lifted a hesitant hand to his scalp—and found a thick layer of stubble.
A wild shriek tore from his throat. Riktor vaulted off of the couch and scurried to the bathroom. It had to be a hallucination. Surely his senses were failing him. He flipped on the light and leaned far over the sink. A pale, gaunt face stared back at him, but it was not his own.
Black, oily hair fell into dead, gray eyes. White skin was pulled taught over jutting features. The face before him twisted to the side, cracking and jolting as it turned to look at him upside-down. A wicked sneer mutated its features. The reek of death oozed from its gullet. Riktor gripped the mirror with a screech and tore it off of the wall. The creatures within the mirror squealed with him before Riktor threw it down and slammed his bare foot against its surface. It shattered.
A hundred of Riktor’s blood-drained face reflected back at him from the floor.
“It’ll grow back,” said a soft, lulling voice.
Riktor’s gaze shifted, as did the hundred pairs on the floor. Amsel was standing in the bathroom doorway, tangling and tying clumps of soft, auburn hair into his own mop of greasy black. In his other hand he clenched the blades of a tarnished pair of shears—so tightly that a thin line of blood ran between the creases of his palm and dripped onto the mirror shards that littered the tile.
“A-Amsel?” Riktor gulped and stepped back against the sink.
Amsel lumbered forward. A murky spark ignited within his eyes. “It’ll grow back!” He screamed, in a voice which was not his own. He slammed the shears into the wall, lodging them deep within the chipping plaster. While he struggled to wrench them out, Riktor darted past him and out the door. He didn’t even grab his boots. He could hear Amsel wailing behind him; hear his labored pants and the whistle of the shears clutched tightly in his palm.
Riktor screamed for someone to help him. He stopped and grasped at scarves and coats, moving from person to person. It only gave Amsel a chance to catch up. Why was no one helping him? He tore for the train tracks, blinded by fear and—!
Something sharp slammed into the back of his head. Riktor’s vision swam and he groaned, scrambling to find his balance—and then Amsel was on top of him, gouging at his face and throat with those nasty shears. Riktor howled and thrashed. The shears plunged downward. Pain exploded from his left eye and into his skull. He felt Amsel fall off of him, screaming and wailing.
Riktor was up again, tripping and sprawling in the snow, his vision tipping and swaying—dimming and darkening. The dead, gray sky now had a crimson veil—as crimson as his beloved hair. He felt the sharp coldness of snowy wood beneath his feet. He had made it to the bridge and was dashing madly toward the tracks.
The wind’s screech mixed with the roaring river beneath his feet. Riktor slapped his hands to his ears, his mouth agape in his final attempts to silence nature’s scream. The sound of a train’s whistle drowned out the slap of Amsel’s footsteps right behind him.
Riktor stumbled out onto the tracks, his head swiveling in the train’s direction. He would be saved from this awful place; he could go back to the college and continue his studies. He fell to his knees, his arms open wide. The train’s light bathed him and he closed his eyes. Then he was on the train again, lulled by the cry of the whistle and the churn of the wheels clacking against the tracks. Lulled into a false sense of hope.
The cold and inky darkness of Death embraced him.
An Afterword:
During the time I’ve spent in this rotten palace of man, I have heard the rattle of a last breath leave a fellow’s throat; seen the final fight a human gives before their soul leaves their physical being. If I had to explain the human race in one word, it would be—“fascinating.” My final thoughts of them are that they are all too pretentious and think they know everything of the world around them. After the spell I’ve wasted here, they were not as worth my time as I had originally thought.
With the passage of time, nature will come to take hold of man once again. As they grow into their title of “wise man”, they will continue to forget the lengths of their lives and give in to their own selfish desires. Humans can say that they do not fear death, but that does nothing to lengthen their mortality.
I always claim them in the end.
A Foreword:
During the time I’ve spent on this earthen globe, I have witnessed the birth and the death of a race within a century’s time; seen the catastrophe nature has cast upon its species—but nature had yet to impress me.
She created a new species to destroy—something scholars of old liked to call, “Homo sapiens”; which I find quite ironic considering it means, “wise man.” From what I’ve seen, most of them are not very wise.
If I had to explain the human race in one word, it would be—“fickle.” My first thoughts of them were that they were all imprudent and knew nothing of the world around them—but I was genuinely surprised to find that they thrived off of their own mistakes and grew into something somewhat worth my while.
As time passed, those humans became boring. With transient centuries, the grip on man seemed to slip from nature’s grasp. They grew ever wiser. They conformed to the mold I had set for them—a species that grows so wise and powerful that they forget their own mortality.
It was 4:43 PM on a Sunday, on a train ride to a small, German town by the name of Elterlein. A young man with a shock of shoulder-length, curly, red hair sat back in his seat with a book in hand, an exasperated sigh passing between his thin, pale lips. The train ride had been harsh. An hour after the train had left the station just the night before, a snow storm threatened to blow the train onto its side. As soon as they had arrived at the next station, they were forced to stop for the night—or at least until the storm passed. A four-hour train ride turned into a twenty-four hour excursion.
The red-haired man—Riktor Cramm was his name—opened his book to the marked page and began where he had left off before he was so rudely interrupted. Why were there so many annoying children on the train? Fortunately, there was only about a half an hour left before they reached their destination.
He closed his book again and turned his gaze to the window. He was visiting his family to get away from school, yet he insisted upon bringing one of his text books. Riktor sighed and rested his chin on his palm. Dark gray and white streaks passed by him in a blur. The trees opened up to reveal a wide, snowy field, marked by neither animal nor man. In the distance, a city gleamed in the watery, afternoon light. Riktor noticed that the graveyard had been placed awfully close to the train tracks. He watched a group of people, clad in black, slowly disperse from around a rectangular hole in the frozen earth, their faces almost as dead and gray as the headstones around them. Above the hole perched a black crow, but as it grew nearer, it appeared larger and more human in shape. Riktor squinted at it, but as soon as it grew close enough to be seen clearly, it was whisked away behind the train. He turned in his seat to see it again. With a flutter, the black crow lifted itself from the graveyard and flapped out of view. With an irritated grunt, he returned to his book.
Riktor was a college student studying to become an Ophthalmologist. It was his final term before graduation. He decided to spend the last few days of Advent with his hometown family and friends, just in time to celebrate Heilgir Abend on the twenty-fourth of December. It had been two years since he had last seen his family—not that he missed them much.
The clacking of the train wheels against the rails squealed and slowed. Riktor glanced out the window to see the ever-familiar bridge stretch over an ever-familiar river and reach onward toward an ever-familiar, drowsy town. The train slid to a smooth halt, followed by a blast of steam. Riktor waited for another passenger to get up and leave before him, but seeing no one move from their seats, he stood, gathered his things, and bustled toward the doors.
A blast of biting, icy wind greeted him as he stepped out onto the platform. He wrinkled his nose and pulled his scarf higher around his neck and face. How he hated the cold. He would rather be back at the college sipping a nice cup of coffee and reading. But he was told by a professor to go home this year.
Riktor set off across the bridge at a brisk pace. Icicles glistened on the bottom of the railing. The snow beneath his feet had been trampled and dirtied by the many people walking on the bridge before him.
Elterlein had always been a quiet town. The buildings were small, blockish, and gray, with dark windows and sagging roofs. Snow blanketed the dismal streets. It gave the dreary city an abandoned appearance—not that it ever looked full and lively. The people of Elterlein preferred the warmth and comfort of their own homes. The holiday season was about the only season where citizens actually crawled from their cozy robes and blankets to go to church and spread holiday cheer. Riktor, on the other hand, was more like a scrooge. The cheeriness made him ill.
He sulked down alleyways and narrow, cobbled roads toward the home he had lived in since before he was born. It was a tiny place, but the fire within was warm and the food was warmer. Riktor stepped up to the faded, red door, rapped his knuckled hand against the chipping wood, and waited. His sister, Aili, answered the door.
“Riktor! Oh, what a pleasant surprise!” Her rosy cheeks blossomed with a wide, happy smile. She turned her head with a flick of bouncy, pale curls and leaned back into the house. “Mother! Riktor has come for the holidays!” Aili stepped out of the way to allow her brother inside.
Riktor gave a curt nod and hit the snow from his boots, then stepped in and began to take them off. The house hadn’t changed much since he last visited. The same, stained rug led from the entryway to the living room. The same sagging, brownish sofa sat against the far wall facing the window, which had an excellent view of the muddy streets and their neighbor’s lovely garden. The kitchen sat just behind the wall separating it from the living room. Straight across from the entryway was the dining area. The only thing that had changed about that was the position of the table. Instead of the short side facing the door, it had been turned around. It was partially set with the family’s fine china. A flight of wooden steps to Riktor’s left moved up and into the dark, dusty space that used to be his and his older brother’s room. Now it was used for storage, though that’s where Riktor would probably have to stay if he wanted to spend the night. His sister’s room was being occupied by her and her new husband.
As soon as Riktor had his shoes off and his coat hanging, Aili sprung back into her usual hyperness. “Would you like me to take your scarf, Riktor? It’s quite warm in here and it’d be a shame if you suffered from heatstroke right before dinner. I can put your bags upstairs.” She attempted to take them. Riktor moved them from her reach with a sharp scowl. She withdrew slightly, but it wasn’t long before her plump face brightened again. “All right, well, supper will be ready shortly. If you want to go upstairs, I’ve cleaned out your room a bit, but it’s still really crowded from all of father’s old—.”
Riktor raised a hand to Aili’s mouth, placing his slender, pale fingertips against her warm, pink lips.
She frowned and attempted to speak again. Riktor shushed her sharply. Once he was sure that she would not interrupt him, he said, “I’ll be staying at Pich’s tonight.”
Aili’s brow crunched down onto her hardening blue eyes. “Amsel Pich’s?”
“Precisely.” Riktor brushed nonexistent dust from his vest, his lips pursed and proper. His sister opened her wide mouth to speak again. She was going to warn him about Amsel—it was important too.
“Dinner is ready!” Came a soft, sing-song voice from the kitchen. Aili seemed to forget whatever snappish thing she was about to say and hurried toward the table. Riktor’s arrival had distracted her from setting out the silverware.
“Riktor, my sweet boy!” A thin, middle-aged woman with long, dirty-blond hair and piercing green eyes rushed toward him with a hot dish of casserole in one hand. She leaned up and pecked him on both cheeks, ignoring his grimace, and set the dish down so that she could embrace her son.
Riktor was hesitant to return the affectionate gesture. “Mother, I am not a child.”
The woman tsked. “Perhaps not, but you will always be my child.” She patted his bony cheek with a warm hand and delivered her casserole to the table. Riktor deposited his bags by the door and followed awkwardly. He seated himself at the far end of the table nearest to the kitchen. Everyone settled into their seats. Riktor glanced at the chair to his right, where his older brother usually sat, then threw a questioning look at Aili.
“He said he couldn’t make it this year,” she replied.
Riktor wished he had used the same excuse. The house settled into a tense silence as everyone piled their dishes with food. Riktor, having always been a picky eater, took a spoonful of casserole and a pile of mashed potatoes. He kept them far away from one another on his plate.
His mother watched him pick at his meal with a pained expression. “How are your studies coming along, Riktor?” She lifted a bite of casserole to her lips.
Riktor hummed and grunted, lifting his shoulders in a sloppy shrug. He chewed his food at an agonizing pace before swallowing, taking a long drink of water, and sitting back. “Quite well. I’m at the top of my class.” His chest swelled.
Aili’s husband, a large, broad man with a bushy mustache and a shirt that seemed all too tight for his bulbous muscles, coughed loudly to hide his chuckle. His porous face turned a hearty shade of red. “Really, now?”
Riktor’s look was sour. He dabbed his thin lips and then folded the napkin. “Yes.” He turned back toward his mother. “I cannot stay for long, mother. I have an exam upon my return and I’d like to have a week or two to study. Surely, you understand.” Their supper dragged on in silence. Riktor helped with the dishes when the time came, hugged his family for the final time that day, and headed out with his bag in hand and his overcoat draped over his arm.
It was nightfall when he stepped out into the street. The door closed behind him, bathing him in an eerie silence. Riktor slipped into his coat and set off down the road, comforted only by the crunch of the snow beneath his feet and the huff of his breath pluming around him. It felt as though he had only stayed at his mother’s for an hour, yet the whole town seemed to be fast asleep.
He ran a nervous hand through his hair, jerking his fingers through whenever he met a tangle. His eyes darted toward every little shadow that threatened to grab him. Surely Amsel’s was around here somewhere—what if he took a wrong street?
Riktor stopped.
The cold, dry air pressed in around him, smothering him in its inky blackness. He shuddered. A cold breeze reached down behind his scarf and tickled the back of his neck. There was some kind of presence around him, but he couldn’t pinpoint what it was. The same, icy breeze reached the nape of his neck again, this time followed by the scrape of something cold, hard, and wet. His limbs wouldn’t budge. Each breath came in painful, labored pants. Riktor’s gaze flickered upon the window to his left. The glass was warped and dark, but he could just make out the large, hunched shape of a tattered cloak, seemingly floating upon the still, winter wind. The being had its hidden face pressed against him, its teeth grazing his spine.
Riktor turned and leapt back with a sharp wail, stumbling into the snow and cowering beneath his arms. He was prepared for the worst.
Silence.
Riktor moved his arms. The streets were empty and cold, undisturbed by Riktor’s outburst. He stood and gathered his things, then hastily continued in the direction of his friend’s home. Although he tried his hardest to forget about what he saw, he couldn’t help but wonder. Surely that was a spirit—that was Death itself, I swear of it! He shook his head. Perhaps it was just my mother’s cooking, he thought. Or maybe it’s just the darkness. Yes, yes; I’ve always had issues with the dark, especially here. He wasn’t doing a very good job at convincing himself. The image of that black figure stuck in his mind like paste.
Riktor scrambled up the front steps of Amsel’s flat. He didn’t even have to knock before the door swung open and the grim, pale face of Amsel Pich appeared inches from his own. Riktor wailed, “Amsel! You won’t believe what I just saw.”
Amsel’s expression did not change. He remained where he was in the doorway.
Riktor nervously fumbled with his hair. He had expected Amsel to let him in. “Amsel,” he stammered. “Might I come in?”
Amsel stepped out of the way. Riktor gratefully paced into the warm apartment, shivering off any remaining cold and shedding his black overcoat. He hung it up on the coat rack beside the door and began to take off his boots. He heard the door close behind him. When Amsel made to walk past him, Riktor grabbed his arm, earning a jerk and a hiss of annoyance.
“A-Amsel,” Riktor said. “Are you all right? You seem—.”
“I was not expecting your company.”
Riktor blinked. “I suppose I should have given you a fair warning. My apologies. I’ll only be staying for a day or two, so there’s no need to be—Amsel! Where are you going?” He marched after his childhood companion. Why was he acting so strange? Riktor caught him by the shoulder and turned him around. “I saw Death!” Riktor exclaimed. “Will you please be a chap and calm my aching nerves?” He began to tug at his hair again.
Amsel watched the curly, red strands fall from Riktor’s fingertips. His gaze darted to meet his companion’s. “You’re mad,” he stated.
“Mad! You think I’m mad?!”
“You’re mad,” Amsel repeated. His dead, gray eyes flickered upon the slumped, yellowing sofa sitting in his dining area. “I expect you’ll be gone by tomorrow morning.” It wasn’t a question.
Riktor ceased his pulling. “Tomorrow morning? Why, that’s the final day of Advent. You can’t expect me to leave right then.” He watched Amsel scoot his bags out of the doorway with his foot. The friend Riktor had so dearly adored as a child was now a shadow of a man, with a gaunt, pale face, a bony frame, and hair as oily and black as a raven’s wing.
“Tomorrow morning,” Amsel snapped. Something sinister flickered behind his dead gaze. Oh, how he loathed Riktor. He hated his handsome features; his silky, red hair; his tall, slim figure. He hated his nose, his ears—especially his eyes; those gorgeous green eyes. They reminded Amsel of the jade necklace his mother used to wear—the round one with a sharp, oculus-like design in the center. To Amsel, having emerald eyes and auburn hair was a rarity saved for crowned heads. He sulked into his room and closed the door. If only he could have what Riktor had—even if for a mere moment.
Riktor settled onto the sofa and pulled a throw over himself, grumbling with discomfort and inaudibly complaining about Amsel’s hospitality. “He’s always been like that though, hasn’t he?” he asked himself. “I could’ve sworn he was so much nicer as a child.” He closed his eyes, recalling a day long ago.
It was spring. Riktor had just turned ten years old and had received a small, little paddle boat from his grandparents as a gift. Wanting to show Amsel, he rushed to his house with the little boat in tow, dragging it through the light powder of snow that blanketed the cobblestone. Amsel, amazed and envious of the gift, craved to try it out. Riktor was hesitant to share it, but he found himself racing down the streets after his friend, laughing and giggling along the way.
They tested it in the river. The water was slow and icy, so Amsel thought it was the best place to try it. Riktor gladly agreed.
The rest of the memory was somewhat hard for him recall. He remembered something sharp hitting the back of his head and plunging into the icy depths, only for Amsel to drag him out moments later. The boy had told him that the ore somehow bounced out of the water and hit him in the head! When he fell in, Amsel dove in after him and dragged him to shore. Unfortunately, the boat had been lost downstream.
Riktor had fallen asleep. He never thought much of that memory—nor most of the other memories he shared with Amsel, all of which involved Riktor getting hurt in some way.
His night was dreamless and dark. He woke early the next morning to a sharp pain in his chest. He shot up, panting and sweaty, gripping the area directly over his heart. When his fingers came away, they were coated with something slick and wet. It was too dim to tell what it was for sure. Riktor scrambled for a light, but when he found one, the substance on his hand was gone and he was in the same condition he was the night before.
The same, eerie feeling from the night before washed over him—as if something was watching him. A shudder ran down his spine. Riktor paused. He did not feel the usual bounce of red curls. He did not hear the typical swish of auburn around him. He did not see the customary shades of ginger in the corners of his vision. Riktor lifted a hesitant hand to his scalp—and found a thick layer of stubble.
A wild shriek tore from his throat. Riktor vaulted off of the couch and scurried to the bathroom. It had to be a hallucination. Surely his senses were failing him. He flipped on the light and leaned far over the sink. A pale, gaunt face stared back at him, but it was not his own.
Black, oily hair fell into dead, gray eyes. White skin was pulled taught over jutting features. The face before him twisted to the side, cracking and jolting as it turned to look at him upside-down. A wicked sneer mutated its features. The reek of death oozed from its gullet. Riktor gripped the mirror with a screech and tore it off of the wall. The creatures within the mirror squealed with him before Riktor threw it down and slammed his bare foot against its surface. It shattered.
A hundred of Riktor’s blood-drained face reflected back at him from the floor.
“It’ll grow back,” said a soft, lulling voice.
Riktor’s gaze shifted, as did the hundred pairs on the floor. Amsel was standing in the bathroom doorway, tangling and tying clumps of soft, auburn hair into his own mop of greasy black. In his other hand he clenched the blades of a tarnished pair of shears—so tightly that a thin line of blood ran between the creases of his palm and dripped onto the mirror shards that littered the tile.
“A-Amsel?” Riktor gulped and stepped back against the sink.
Amsel lumbered forward. A murky spark ignited within his eyes. “It’ll grow back!” He screamed, in a voice which was not his own. He slammed the shears into the wall, lodging them deep within the chipping plaster. While he struggled to wrench them out, Riktor darted past him and out the door. He didn’t even grab his boots. He could hear Amsel wailing behind him; hear his labored pants and the whistle of the shears clutched tightly in his palm.
Riktor screamed for someone to help him. He stopped and grasped at scarves and coats, moving from person to person. It only gave Amsel a chance to catch up. Why was no one helping him? He tore for the train tracks, blinded by fear and—!
Something sharp slammed into the back of his head. Riktor’s vision swam and he groaned, scrambling to find his balance—and then Amsel was on top of him, gouging at his face and throat with those nasty shears. Riktor howled and thrashed. The shears plunged downward. Pain exploded from his left eye and into his skull. He felt Amsel fall off of him, screaming and wailing.
Riktor was up again, tripping and sprawling in the snow, his vision tipping and swaying—dimming and darkening. The dead, gray sky now had a crimson veil—as crimson as his beloved hair. He felt the sharp coldness of snowy wood beneath his feet. He had made it to the bridge and was dashing madly toward the tracks.
The wind’s screech mixed with the roaring river beneath his feet. Riktor slapped his hands to his ears, his mouth agape in his final attempts to silence nature’s scream. The sound of a train’s whistle drowned out the slap of Amsel’s footsteps right behind him.
Riktor stumbled out onto the tracks, his head swiveling in the train’s direction. He would be saved from this awful place; he could go back to the college and continue his studies. He fell to his knees, his arms open wide. The train’s light bathed him and he closed his eyes. Then he was on the train again, lulled by the cry of the whistle and the churn of the wheels clacking against the tracks. Lulled into a false sense of hope.
The cold and inky darkness of Death embraced him.
An Afterword:
During the time I’ve spent in this rotten palace of man, I have heard the rattle of a last breath leave a fellow’s throat; seen the final fight a human gives before their soul leaves their physical being. If I had to explain the human race in one word, it would be—“fascinating.” My final thoughts of them are that they are all too pretentious and think they know everything of the world around them. After the spell I’ve wasted here, they were not as worth my time as I had originally thought.
With the passage of time, nature will come to take hold of man once again. As they grow into their title of “wise man”, they will continue to forget the lengths of their lives and give in to their own selfish desires. Humans can say that they do not fear death, but that does nothing to lengthen their mortality.
I always claim them in the end.
Short Story 2017 Shortlist Preiksha Jain
Game Called Life
“I do not want to go to that mental hospital! You understand that?! I am not going to listen to any of the bullshit! Who the fuck do you think you are? Mom and Dad did not give you any right to put me through the hell! Just fucking leave me and get the fuck away from my room!” Shraddha shouted in anger while trying to get out his brother’s grip.
“Shraddha, please! For goodness’s sake, I am not sending you to any mental asylum or something! I am your brother and I know I have the right to think for your betterment!” Pulkit cried out in exasperation but letting her go. His eyes could no longer hold any emotion back as few stray tears escaped and rolled down his cheek while his eyes suggested the fear he had been carrying in his heart for years now.
“Listen, my baby sister, please, try and understand. I am absolutely fine with what you see and feel, beta. I am not saying what you can do is wrong. But beta, you need to have a complete knowledge about it all. You need to understand what goes on with you. Do not get me wrong, please… I respect everything you say, beta, but I cannot let you ignore your occult ability. And Prof. Ram is going to teach you the best about it all. Think of it as your Hogwarts letter! You have always wanted to learn magic, be a witch, go to Hogwarts! Please… consider it once.” Pulkit’s tone soothed her sister’s anxiety and she seemingly relaxed but gave him a hint that he left her alone. He did after she curled up in a ball in her recliner.
Pulkit got inside his room and buried his head in his hands. He missed his parents. And it was Shraddha who had had a vision about their death due to car crash. Despite that they could not save them. Shraddha hated having visions because all she had seen so far had been either destructive or scary. But it all had proven to be true. She used to fantasise about receiving a letter from Hogwarts school ever since she read the Harry Potter series. Little did she know that she too had been a part of the mystical world barely known to the ordinary human race. She was special but she had self doubts since she had never predicted anything good about something or someone.
Prachi had been ringing the doorbell of Pulkit’s bungalow for a whole minute now and no-one had bothered to open the gate. She then irritated of such an attitude, took out her own set of keys of the bungalow and invited herself in. Prachi had known the siblings since her childhood and Pulkit and Prachi used to go to the same school, the college and then went to the same post graduation programme. As if the fates needed both of them to stay in each others lives till they died, both began their business in a partnership. They opened a hotel named HOTEL HAVEN IN WOODS 5 years back which soon flourished and boomed into 22 outlets across the country. They worked from Monday to Friday and on weekends, stayed at their hotel in a different city. This way they ensured their hotels were running well and the tourists enjoyed their stay.
“Where the hell have you been?” Prachi fumed in anger at Pulkit who was sulking in his own misery.
“Shraddha. She again had a vision today. I made a mistake of making a proposition to her.” Pulkit laid it all out before his best friend of all times, Prachi.
“I will talk to her, Pukli. Where is she?” Prachi set her laptop bag on the mahogany counter while stomping out of his room. Pulkit’s bungalow was a beautiful place to live in; ladened with all the necessary luxuries and beautiful paintings hung on every wall; luscious couches and bean bags in almost every corner of the hall; the kitchen was a true paradise of food where you could find every eatable possible. Prachi passed by the kitchen inhaling the delicious smell of Rajma Chawal that made her stomach churn in hunger and growl more than loudly.
“Shraddha? Hey? Come?” Prachi called out while looking around for any sign of Shraddha.
“If you too have come for the same lecture Bhai gave me. Please, Prachi, don’t. I’m seriously tired of it!” Shraddha said calmly, possibly ready to kick both the best friends’ asses.
“You guys are bent upon sending me to that bloody mental asylum! I am not fucking crazy! You get that?! I am not CRAZY!” Shraddha raised her voice to the point anyone could get scared. Prachi stood there with her composure now in its place and her demeanour now ready to retort something very sarcastic.
“Nobody said you are crazy. And nobody said that you are going to mental asylum. All your brother wants is that you have the complete knowledge of how you can control your visions and how you can actually make something out of it. Shraddha, think for a second. You think only you lost your parents? Have you ever looked at your brother? Have you ever tried to ask him how devastated he feels after all this? And not even once does anyone blame YOU for anything here, Shrads. Try to get in his shoes only once so you realise how important it is for you to learn all about it.” Prachi intoned. Shraddha looked at her with shock evident in her eyes.
The next day, they left for The School Of Special Education. Shraddha had been quiet that morning and even during tee drive. Thinking that being a successful architect at the age of 25, she would have to got to a school where she was going to learn about her own dreams and visions, it maddened her to the point she grew all silent. Prachi glanced at her and smiled at her. Shraddha could not return the smile despite wanting to. She went back to her quiet state after a few moments. Pulkit and Prachi shared a light conversation about their hotel outlet in Chennai on their way to the school. It was Sunday and a 2 hour drive from Pulkit’s bungalow to that school and the weather was pleasant with gentle puff of breeze.
“Hello, Prof. Ram. I am Pulkit Mehra. I had called you yesterday about my sister. Shraddha it is.” Pulkit addressed an old man with round shaped glasses donned up in a cream silk kurta pyjama and his head covered with hair adorned with shining silvery grey. One look at the man could set your being in a sense of stormy calmness and your mind would begin racing with the thoughts not in the least bit familiar to you. Prachi momentarily lost her sense of speech as various images of her having been happy with a girl flashed across her eyes. Prachi was gay. Everyone had known this fact. But she did not recall having settled with a girl in her life ever since she began living with Pulkit’s family after her own parents’ death. But the images held both women in traditional robes. Prachi’s breathing grew shallower as she held onto Pulkit’s arm for support. Prof. Ram said nothing but looked with no expression in his eyes at Prachi’s varying emotions that were traveling in her eyes. As though he realised that there was someone else other Shraddha in that house who belonged to that school. He immediately averted his gaze from Prachi and shifted it onto Shraddha who was already in a different trance.
“So, Shraddha, tell me about your weirdest dream.” He urged Shraddha to talk.
“The weirdest… I do not know. I think plotting a murder against someone who is already dead, is the weirdest.” Shraddha spoke up with an air of indifference.
“He is not dead. He is still there, looking for you, ready for you to strike first.” Prof. Ram said in such a quiet manner that Shraddha failed to enunciate her shock.
~~~~~~~
Shraddha was no longer somber about staying in a school where people could see things beyond an average person’s imagination. She was actually excited about being in the company of people who were as normal as she was. Someone could create sparks through his hands, someone would teleport, someone had millions scars on her body but she could conceal them in the blink of an eye. People who were beyond the race of normal humans, had made Shraddha believe in her and now she actually looked forward to learn what she could do. So far, all she had learnt was that her dreams were not a creation of his subconscious mind but her unfulfilled purposes from her last birth. She still had not figured whom she was seeing in her visions. The inhabitant of those dreams was an elderly man whom she had never seen in her life before. But she did not feel strange either. It felt as thought s he had known that person all her life but she was not able to put a finger on who that man really was, how she was related to him or why she dreamt of murdering him.
Prof. Ram had been the only senior most teacher in that school whose assumptions till now had worked to their best and proven to be true. Shraddha’s disposition to understand things more vividly and increased manifolds but she, after every lesson, was left confused and possibly looking for more answers. Her questions were still unanswered and she was striving to know it all. Meanwhile, she had made a friend. If anyone looked at her friend for the first time, he would have seriously been frightened by his looks or fainted because of the eccentricity he carried around him.
Prachi and Pulkit visited Shraddha this Sunday and they were both relieved and scared for she had found a friend but the friend did not hold the appearance of an average human being. He was something less than a centaur and more than a human. He had this weird mane around his head which people could mistake for his hair but it wasn’t his hair. His bottom had a small bump which Prachi had assumed to be an appendage. His feet did not have 5 phalanges but only two steely looking heavy 2 toes which could pass a horse’s. His hands did have a human like appearance though. Prachi, thankfully, did not faint or get scared of Agastya, but her head began to buzz when he approached them with Shraddha.
Prachi did not understand how she was feeling. But the impact Agastya had on Prachi was not something she was used to or even cognisant of. When he came right in front of her, his pupils dilated with a strange bearing. He regarded Prachi with an expression so indecipherable that even he seemed befuddled upon seeing Prachi before him. Shraddha was looking at both of them and she grew a bit uneasy not out of jealousy or any stupid emotion, rather her mind began playing games before her eyes again as it flashed images which were identical to the scene before her. The only difference being Prachi in ethnic wear and not in jeans and shirt and the person before her was a human and not a creature like Agastya.
The tension and confusion halted when Pulkit cleared his throat.
“What is wrong? Why is everyone quiet?” He said as his fingers typed something on his phone screen.
Prachi shifted from her right leg to the left one and gazed both Shraddha and Agastya long and hard while Pulkit drifted back into his phone as he got another call. The discernment that Agastya’s stare now allowed to express itself made both Prachi and Shraddha quite apprehensive.
Agastya took all three of them to a nearby restaurant for food. Pulkit had been busy on phone as the managers of his Hotel in Chandigarh were facing some problems regarding maintenance and food supplies. It was altogether Pulkit’s department and interior decor, lawn maintenance and supplies and marketing were under Prachi. Apart from all this, Finance and money matters were handled by both of them and their most trusted Chartered Accountant, Satish Malhotra.
Prachi could not concentrate on her food despite she had ordered her favourite dish. Her mind was elsewhere and Shraddha could tell why and where. Agastya was relishing his butter chicken with utmost pleasure as though he had been eating it for the first time. Prachi being vegetarian could never understand why all the three people sitting with her, loved chicken dishes.
“Prachi, where are you originally from? You do not look like you were born here.” Agastya’s deep voice brought her back into the reality and she jumped slightly in her seat. Shraddha’s gaze fell upon her for answers. She had known Prachi since she was still in her diapers and Prachi was in grade 2 with her brother. All three of them used play together and practically live in the same room.
“I am basically from Punjab. And yes, I was obviously not born here. I came to Jaipur when I was 4 years old. My parents had come here in 1991. When I was in class 5, they died of a car crash. Since then, my kith and kin are Pulkit, Shraddha and their parents.” Prachi said reminiscing.
“And you never thought of getting married with Pulkit?” Agastya’s tone held genuine surprise but his eyes seemed as though they were known to this fact about Prachi.
“Eww! Haha! No way! I do not like boys, Agastya. I am not straight.” Prachi said laughingly.
Agastya smiled a knowing smile and both the girls could not help but find it mysterious.
After lunch, Prachi pulled Shraddha aside out of Pulkit and Agastya’s hearing range.
“What the hell is going on?” Prachi was utterly confused.
“I don’t know myself, Prachi… I don’t know what just happened there! I do not know what had happened to me when he came near you. I-I began having weird images before my eyes ad my mind went blank and all I could see was your, my and his face. And trust me Prachi, none of it has ever happened before!” Shraddha’s puzzlement made Prachi question a few occurrences which she had ignored calling it destiny but now things were getting a clear picture.
The day her parents had died, something had happened she could have never forgotten not only because of her parents dying right in front of her eyes but also, that day, she had been saved by a strange creature who had dragged her out of the car runes. Prachi recalled having mourned relentlessly over her late parents when she had seen the same creature standing under a tree during her parents’ funeral. She could not make out of the creature was a human being or a horse, but it did have a face, human like features and also, human body. When she first saw Agastya, she was all but reminded of the same creature she had witnessed around 25 years ago. But Prachi being grievous about her parents, she soon shook that person out of her mind. Another piece of puzzle in her mind resurfaced and it was when Prachi was playing basketball with Shraddha in their private court, they both had felt a sudden jerk in their bellies at the same time, with the same force. The next day they found a strange looking puppet on the court’s ground whose hands were folded in tights fists as though ready to punch someone. Prachi remembered that she and Shraddha had thought it wise to trash the scary looking puppet instead of bringing it home to examine it. The day came and went. Amidst all this, Pulkit never got to know about these things. He had only found out about Shraddha’s visions when he had bagged an honorary certificate and a trophy at his college convocation. It was when Shraddha had fainted in her own room because of the intensity of the dream. Prachi and Pulkit had both taken her to the hospital but the doctors had given an assurance of her well-being. Shraddha did feel fine after that which was strange for Prachi. She urged her to talk about what she had seen and Shraddha narrated about having dreamt about Prachi and a centaur bringing back the dead. The dead were Shraddha and Pulkit’s parents who had passed away right after Shraddha’s graduation. She had had a vision about her dead parents talking with her about that one person who was going to come in her life. There were challenges ahead of both Shraddha and Prachi and there was no way with how they were going to tackle them, or at least, face them.
Agastya was nearing both the girls with Pulkit who seemed a bit de-stressed now. He was laughing at something Agastya was telling him. Agastya did seem anomalous but his behaviour was congenial. Prachi did not get negative vibes from him but he could make her feel mentally bare. As though, Agastya knew all the dark and deep secrets buried within, Prachi could not help but considering him as her confidante. Things she had seen or felt were known only to Shraddha and the centaur who had saved her from dying. She then recalled Shraddha’s weirdest dream, the strangest of all the visions she had ever seen. Pulling her arm, Prachi again excused herself from both the boys.
“Hey, who is this person you dreamt of murdering? Can you recall his face? Can you tell me how he looked like in your dream or may be, draw his sketch?” Prachi contained an urgency in her voice and saw that the colour of Shraddha’s face had gone pale. She took out a pen and a paper and drew the sketch of the man in 15 minutes.
Prachi could not believe her own eyes when she saw the person’s sketch before her.
Th news of Prachi’s father’s younger brother’s death came 5 years after her own parents’ death. He had tried with all his might to keep her with himself after his brother’s death. His motives became clearer to the then 8 years old Prachi when she caught him naked and touching a little girl who could be roughly 4 years old, very ruthlessly on the places she was taught to covered, her age around 22 years ago. She was appalled by the sight before her. The girl kept crying and begging for Rajneesh to stop but he did not and slammed her hard on the bed. When she saw the face of the girl, she was horrid. It was Shraddha. Prachi could not resist kicking the door to his room hard with her foot. Sudden noise made her uncle jump off of his bed dropping the little girl fall whose face had gone colourless because of pain and crying. Prachi did not think twice before pulling a bat from her behind with which she was going out to play, and stomped it right on her uncle’s head who both because of the alcohol’e effect and the hard blow on his head fainted right then and there. Prachi and Shraddha ran away from the house and hid themselves in Shraddha’s room.
Prachi came out of the chained box of thoughts as she saw Shraddha looking at her with a stare filled with fright and rage.
“Shraddha… Prof. Ram said he is still alive…”
Shraddha was right on the verge of breaking down when Prachi saw Agastya coming their way. Prachi was still not catching what the drift behind his familiarity was but she was more than ever drawn toward her own past whenever she saw him. Prachi decided to talk with him straight away. She did not know what was going on and the only person to answer all her questions was standing right in front of her.
“What is this uncanniness, Agastya? Do you know me?” Was that you the night of my parents’ death?” Prachi was breathless and she was in dire need of all some information about herself.
“No. It was my father.” looking over at Shraddha with a look that suggested pure affection. Prachi noticed it.
“You like her or something?” She asked.
“I love her. She is an amazing person! The most accepting person I have ever met.” the way Agastya said things about her did not seem to Prachi he was IN LOVE with her.
“Oh, I forgot to mention she is a lesbian.” Agastya winked at Prachi. Prachi was stunned. The expression her eyes held was priceless and Agastya laughed heartily.
“Wh-What are you saying? No! It cannot be… I have known her all my life, and-”
“Never once did she tell you she is in love with you? God, Prachi! You claim to be so smart, and not even once did you look into her eyes filled with love for you?! And then you call yourselves best friends!” Agastya was mocking her.
Prachi had completely lost the track of what had been happening and now her mind dissolved into the thoughts of her being with a girl. She thought hard, forced her mind for one, single image. It did. She saw herself with a girl in white kurta and in her arms. As soon as she pulled away from the embrace, Shraddha’s face appeared and as though in shock she opened her eyes. Shraddha came closer to Prachi who was in angst. She shook her shoulders gently asking if she was okay.
“What happened to you? Are you okay? Did you see something?” Shraddha’s concerned voice insisted Prachi to look right into her eyes and…
“Wh-Why are you looking at me like that?” Shraddha whispered with her face dangerously close to Prachi’s.
“Because I had been stupid to have not noticed your love for me, all my life…” Prachi muttered, drowning in brown pools of Shraddha’s eyes whose face was now crimson red just like her lips which had parted on their own accord. This time, Prachi wasted no time in claiming those beautiful lips. Just as both their eyes closed and lips met, the thunder in the sky marked its arrival. Pulkit stood there transfixed with no movement in his body except that his jaw had dropped to the ground. Agastya came beside him to shut his mouth to prevent any fly to enter.
The day could not go any more eventful and Pulkit now began to look his sister and best friend’s way with a slant admiration and appreciation.
~~~~~~
The next day, Agastya was concentrating hard on something. He had a paper in his hand that looked like something official and confidential. Prachi went up to him and sat there quietly.
“Oh hey, Ms. Lover girl! How was the night, huh?” He smirked at her knowing that now the girlfriends spent the night together without Pulkit’s knowledge.
“Never you mind that. Agastya, I and Shrads need to know something. It is about her vision of a man-” Prachi was cut mid-sentence by Agastya.
“Who tried to rape Shraddha. I know. He is alive. Just like my father saved you, he saved that bastard too. He could only make escape people from their possible death but he could never know how bad or good a person was.” Agastya’s attention was solely on Prachi and she was listening to him intently.
“Rajneesh, after being cured, ran away from my father’s cottage and I was 7 years old then. I had a hunch that the man who had left our house was not a nice man. I was young and childish and still a kid, but I was not stupid. He had left his shirt in our cottage. I touched it and a strange sense of nausea had filled me. I was so disgusted by what I had had a vision of. I could not understand what was occurring before my eyes and I fainted. My father brought me into his chamber of medicines. He induced something in me and I had woken up. I kept having a dream of that man with a little girl for years. It all made sense when I first met Shrads in this school. The moment I shook hand with hers, I felt that hidden blow of air on my face again and everything related to it came to me. It was me who understood that she loved you. She confirmed it when I had asked her a couple days later. Prachi, that bastard is still alive. He needs to be killed because he is still out there, keeping an eye on both of you. All the times you both have encountered something dangerous was not inhuman. It was him. All this while. He was the one to fail the brakes of your father’s car that night, he had abducted your new born brother and sold him off to someone and let your parents grieve on their son’s ‘death’ which was not even a truth. He was the one to try and kill Pulkit when he had met with an accident during his college days. He has been watching you and Shraddha, Prachi. It’s only a matter of time, he will confront you. I know it, I can sense it very well. And trust me, Prachi, this doesn’t feel good.”
Prachi’s mouth went dry. It was way too much of information than she had expected to know. Prachi took all day to sink it in. Shraddha approached her with concern evident in her eyes.
“Prachi? What is wrong? Why do you look like you are going to kill someone?” Shraddha asked.
“Not just me, Shrads, WE are going to kill him. Our culprit. He is alive, Shraddha. Prof. Ram had exhorted that he is waiting for you to strike first. I suppose, the time has come we think about it.” Prachi looked right into her beloved’s eyes.
“How are we going to do it?” Shraddha wasted no time in getting into the serious mode she carried while working on a project.
“The question is what He will do. But we are going to do this before next Sunday.” Prachi said while going through some papers.
“What are these?” Shraddha mumbled grabbing the papers from Prachi’s hands.
Shraddha read it for a whole minute and understanding what it was, she looked at Prachi with blank eyes. Prachi gave her a shy smile and then winked at her.
“We have to get it done before next Sunday.” Shraddha gave Prachi her verdict.
Prachi laughed at her response and wrapped her in her arms.
The next day, Agastya approached Prachi and Shraddha who were on the brink of making out with each other. Clearing his throat, he smirked at both the girls who broke apart in shock. Prachi lashed out on her while Shraddha mock glare at her best friend to which Agastya responded by flicking on her forehead, earning himself a hard smack on his chest. Prachi’s shocked outburst pacified and Agastya began speaking in a low tone.
“Rajneesh is here, guys, on the grounds of the school. I can smell his scent. I was getting hints of him being here. But I wanted to confirm it. So I went for a walk last night and saw a man standing outside the hall. He cannot recognise me but I had figured out his familiarity and his reasons became evident.” Agastya stopped for breath while Prachi and Shraddha exchanged a determined glance at each other. Then, as though something clicked Prachi’s mind, she tuned towards Shraddha.
“Shrads, can you recount your dream?” Prachi’s eyes appeared vigilant.
Shraddha shut her eyes tight as the images of Rajneesh began prevailing in her mind.
“You cannot do anything, you bastard! You escaped death once, but not this time. I have been imagining this day since years and finally you are here. I can’t back out now. And nor can you.” Shraddha’s gaze grew intense with both anger and determination.
“Oh really? YOU will kill me? HAHA! What will you do? Use your pencils or knives? Huh?”
“Let me tell you something, that is exactly what I am going to do.” Shraddha said. Laughing, he threw his head back.
Shraddha, enraged at the cackle of his laughter, lunged forward with her knife and a carpenters square. Rajneesh did not feel anything until his chest began to bleed. His whimpers turned into groggy moans. Before a minute passed, he fell on his knees with his face covered in sweat. Shraddha smirked mirthlessly kneeling right before him.
“Propoxyphene.”
The next Sunday came faster than they all had expected. Agastya was planning for a departure gift for both Prachi and Shraddha. They were going abroad. Prachi had wanted to keep it a secret but Shraddha had snatched the papers of the details of their sojourn. Agastya had been loyal and faithful to them at the time when Prachi had arranged for the drug PROPOXYPHENE. Rajneesh had contacted Agastya to know both the women’s whereabouts, threatening him to kill his old father. Agastya’s conscience did waver at the mention of his father and he had been ready to give in to Rajneesh’s demands when he learnt that he had already held his father for ransom. The only thing that bastard had demanded in return was Shraddha. Agastya had grown weaker at the knowledge of his fragile father but something in him made his determination to save both the women strong and he contacted Prachi as soon as he ran away from that virulence. Prachi had kept the drug arranged for with the help of her friend who worked in forensic laboratory. The rest was history. Things had transpired the same way Shraddha’s dream replayed. Everything had fallen in its place and Shraddha and Prachi had no danger from anyone now. Pulkit was dating a girl from Bangalore and Agastya had left the school for good. Their lives were fulfilled. Except just one thing. Prachi was all set to find her long lost brother. A new game had begun.
“I do not want to go to that mental hospital! You understand that?! I am not going to listen to any of the bullshit! Who the fuck do you think you are? Mom and Dad did not give you any right to put me through the hell! Just fucking leave me and get the fuck away from my room!” Shraddha shouted in anger while trying to get out his brother’s grip.
“Shraddha, please! For goodness’s sake, I am not sending you to any mental asylum or something! I am your brother and I know I have the right to think for your betterment!” Pulkit cried out in exasperation but letting her go. His eyes could no longer hold any emotion back as few stray tears escaped and rolled down his cheek while his eyes suggested the fear he had been carrying in his heart for years now.
“Listen, my baby sister, please, try and understand. I am absolutely fine with what you see and feel, beta. I am not saying what you can do is wrong. But beta, you need to have a complete knowledge about it all. You need to understand what goes on with you. Do not get me wrong, please… I respect everything you say, beta, but I cannot let you ignore your occult ability. And Prof. Ram is going to teach you the best about it all. Think of it as your Hogwarts letter! You have always wanted to learn magic, be a witch, go to Hogwarts! Please… consider it once.” Pulkit’s tone soothed her sister’s anxiety and she seemingly relaxed but gave him a hint that he left her alone. He did after she curled up in a ball in her recliner.
Pulkit got inside his room and buried his head in his hands. He missed his parents. And it was Shraddha who had had a vision about their death due to car crash. Despite that they could not save them. Shraddha hated having visions because all she had seen so far had been either destructive or scary. But it all had proven to be true. She used to fantasise about receiving a letter from Hogwarts school ever since she read the Harry Potter series. Little did she know that she too had been a part of the mystical world barely known to the ordinary human race. She was special but she had self doubts since she had never predicted anything good about something or someone.
Prachi had been ringing the doorbell of Pulkit’s bungalow for a whole minute now and no-one had bothered to open the gate. She then irritated of such an attitude, took out her own set of keys of the bungalow and invited herself in. Prachi had known the siblings since her childhood and Pulkit and Prachi used to go to the same school, the college and then went to the same post graduation programme. As if the fates needed both of them to stay in each others lives till they died, both began their business in a partnership. They opened a hotel named HOTEL HAVEN IN WOODS 5 years back which soon flourished and boomed into 22 outlets across the country. They worked from Monday to Friday and on weekends, stayed at their hotel in a different city. This way they ensured their hotels were running well and the tourists enjoyed their stay.
“Where the hell have you been?” Prachi fumed in anger at Pulkit who was sulking in his own misery.
“Shraddha. She again had a vision today. I made a mistake of making a proposition to her.” Pulkit laid it all out before his best friend of all times, Prachi.
“I will talk to her, Pukli. Where is she?” Prachi set her laptop bag on the mahogany counter while stomping out of his room. Pulkit’s bungalow was a beautiful place to live in; ladened with all the necessary luxuries and beautiful paintings hung on every wall; luscious couches and bean bags in almost every corner of the hall; the kitchen was a true paradise of food where you could find every eatable possible. Prachi passed by the kitchen inhaling the delicious smell of Rajma Chawal that made her stomach churn in hunger and growl more than loudly.
“Shraddha? Hey? Come?” Prachi called out while looking around for any sign of Shraddha.
“If you too have come for the same lecture Bhai gave me. Please, Prachi, don’t. I’m seriously tired of it!” Shraddha said calmly, possibly ready to kick both the best friends’ asses.
“You guys are bent upon sending me to that bloody mental asylum! I am not fucking crazy! You get that?! I am not CRAZY!” Shraddha raised her voice to the point anyone could get scared. Prachi stood there with her composure now in its place and her demeanour now ready to retort something very sarcastic.
“Nobody said you are crazy. And nobody said that you are going to mental asylum. All your brother wants is that you have the complete knowledge of how you can control your visions and how you can actually make something out of it. Shraddha, think for a second. You think only you lost your parents? Have you ever looked at your brother? Have you ever tried to ask him how devastated he feels after all this? And not even once does anyone blame YOU for anything here, Shrads. Try to get in his shoes only once so you realise how important it is for you to learn all about it.” Prachi intoned. Shraddha looked at her with shock evident in her eyes.
The next day, they left for The School Of Special Education. Shraddha had been quiet that morning and even during tee drive. Thinking that being a successful architect at the age of 25, she would have to got to a school where she was going to learn about her own dreams and visions, it maddened her to the point she grew all silent. Prachi glanced at her and smiled at her. Shraddha could not return the smile despite wanting to. She went back to her quiet state after a few moments. Pulkit and Prachi shared a light conversation about their hotel outlet in Chennai on their way to the school. It was Sunday and a 2 hour drive from Pulkit’s bungalow to that school and the weather was pleasant with gentle puff of breeze.
“Hello, Prof. Ram. I am Pulkit Mehra. I had called you yesterday about my sister. Shraddha it is.” Pulkit addressed an old man with round shaped glasses donned up in a cream silk kurta pyjama and his head covered with hair adorned with shining silvery grey. One look at the man could set your being in a sense of stormy calmness and your mind would begin racing with the thoughts not in the least bit familiar to you. Prachi momentarily lost her sense of speech as various images of her having been happy with a girl flashed across her eyes. Prachi was gay. Everyone had known this fact. But she did not recall having settled with a girl in her life ever since she began living with Pulkit’s family after her own parents’ death. But the images held both women in traditional robes. Prachi’s breathing grew shallower as she held onto Pulkit’s arm for support. Prof. Ram said nothing but looked with no expression in his eyes at Prachi’s varying emotions that were traveling in her eyes. As though he realised that there was someone else other Shraddha in that house who belonged to that school. He immediately averted his gaze from Prachi and shifted it onto Shraddha who was already in a different trance.
“So, Shraddha, tell me about your weirdest dream.” He urged Shraddha to talk.
“The weirdest… I do not know. I think plotting a murder against someone who is already dead, is the weirdest.” Shraddha spoke up with an air of indifference.
“He is not dead. He is still there, looking for you, ready for you to strike first.” Prof. Ram said in such a quiet manner that Shraddha failed to enunciate her shock.
~~~~~~~
Shraddha was no longer somber about staying in a school where people could see things beyond an average person’s imagination. She was actually excited about being in the company of people who were as normal as she was. Someone could create sparks through his hands, someone would teleport, someone had millions scars on her body but she could conceal them in the blink of an eye. People who were beyond the race of normal humans, had made Shraddha believe in her and now she actually looked forward to learn what she could do. So far, all she had learnt was that her dreams were not a creation of his subconscious mind but her unfulfilled purposes from her last birth. She still had not figured whom she was seeing in her visions. The inhabitant of those dreams was an elderly man whom she had never seen in her life before. But she did not feel strange either. It felt as thought s he had known that person all her life but she was not able to put a finger on who that man really was, how she was related to him or why she dreamt of murdering him.
Prof. Ram had been the only senior most teacher in that school whose assumptions till now had worked to their best and proven to be true. Shraddha’s disposition to understand things more vividly and increased manifolds but she, after every lesson, was left confused and possibly looking for more answers. Her questions were still unanswered and she was striving to know it all. Meanwhile, she had made a friend. If anyone looked at her friend for the first time, he would have seriously been frightened by his looks or fainted because of the eccentricity he carried around him.
Prachi and Pulkit visited Shraddha this Sunday and they were both relieved and scared for she had found a friend but the friend did not hold the appearance of an average human being. He was something less than a centaur and more than a human. He had this weird mane around his head which people could mistake for his hair but it wasn’t his hair. His bottom had a small bump which Prachi had assumed to be an appendage. His feet did not have 5 phalanges but only two steely looking heavy 2 toes which could pass a horse’s. His hands did have a human like appearance though. Prachi, thankfully, did not faint or get scared of Agastya, but her head began to buzz when he approached them with Shraddha.
Prachi did not understand how she was feeling. But the impact Agastya had on Prachi was not something she was used to or even cognisant of. When he came right in front of her, his pupils dilated with a strange bearing. He regarded Prachi with an expression so indecipherable that even he seemed befuddled upon seeing Prachi before him. Shraddha was looking at both of them and she grew a bit uneasy not out of jealousy or any stupid emotion, rather her mind began playing games before her eyes again as it flashed images which were identical to the scene before her. The only difference being Prachi in ethnic wear and not in jeans and shirt and the person before her was a human and not a creature like Agastya.
The tension and confusion halted when Pulkit cleared his throat.
“What is wrong? Why is everyone quiet?” He said as his fingers typed something on his phone screen.
Prachi shifted from her right leg to the left one and gazed both Shraddha and Agastya long and hard while Pulkit drifted back into his phone as he got another call. The discernment that Agastya’s stare now allowed to express itself made both Prachi and Shraddha quite apprehensive.
Agastya took all three of them to a nearby restaurant for food. Pulkit had been busy on phone as the managers of his Hotel in Chandigarh were facing some problems regarding maintenance and food supplies. It was altogether Pulkit’s department and interior decor, lawn maintenance and supplies and marketing were under Prachi. Apart from all this, Finance and money matters were handled by both of them and their most trusted Chartered Accountant, Satish Malhotra.
Prachi could not concentrate on her food despite she had ordered her favourite dish. Her mind was elsewhere and Shraddha could tell why and where. Agastya was relishing his butter chicken with utmost pleasure as though he had been eating it for the first time. Prachi being vegetarian could never understand why all the three people sitting with her, loved chicken dishes.
“Prachi, where are you originally from? You do not look like you were born here.” Agastya’s deep voice brought her back into the reality and she jumped slightly in her seat. Shraddha’s gaze fell upon her for answers. She had known Prachi since she was still in her diapers and Prachi was in grade 2 with her brother. All three of them used play together and practically live in the same room.
“I am basically from Punjab. And yes, I was obviously not born here. I came to Jaipur when I was 4 years old. My parents had come here in 1991. When I was in class 5, they died of a car crash. Since then, my kith and kin are Pulkit, Shraddha and their parents.” Prachi said reminiscing.
“And you never thought of getting married with Pulkit?” Agastya’s tone held genuine surprise but his eyes seemed as though they were known to this fact about Prachi.
“Eww! Haha! No way! I do not like boys, Agastya. I am not straight.” Prachi said laughingly.
Agastya smiled a knowing smile and both the girls could not help but find it mysterious.
After lunch, Prachi pulled Shraddha aside out of Pulkit and Agastya’s hearing range.
“What the hell is going on?” Prachi was utterly confused.
“I don’t know myself, Prachi… I don’t know what just happened there! I do not know what had happened to me when he came near you. I-I began having weird images before my eyes ad my mind went blank and all I could see was your, my and his face. And trust me Prachi, none of it has ever happened before!” Shraddha’s puzzlement made Prachi question a few occurrences which she had ignored calling it destiny but now things were getting a clear picture.
The day her parents had died, something had happened she could have never forgotten not only because of her parents dying right in front of her eyes but also, that day, she had been saved by a strange creature who had dragged her out of the car runes. Prachi recalled having mourned relentlessly over her late parents when she had seen the same creature standing under a tree during her parents’ funeral. She could not make out of the creature was a human being or a horse, but it did have a face, human like features and also, human body. When she first saw Agastya, she was all but reminded of the same creature she had witnessed around 25 years ago. But Prachi being grievous about her parents, she soon shook that person out of her mind. Another piece of puzzle in her mind resurfaced and it was when Prachi was playing basketball with Shraddha in their private court, they both had felt a sudden jerk in their bellies at the same time, with the same force. The next day they found a strange looking puppet on the court’s ground whose hands were folded in tights fists as though ready to punch someone. Prachi remembered that she and Shraddha had thought it wise to trash the scary looking puppet instead of bringing it home to examine it. The day came and went. Amidst all this, Pulkit never got to know about these things. He had only found out about Shraddha’s visions when he had bagged an honorary certificate and a trophy at his college convocation. It was when Shraddha had fainted in her own room because of the intensity of the dream. Prachi and Pulkit had both taken her to the hospital but the doctors had given an assurance of her well-being. Shraddha did feel fine after that which was strange for Prachi. She urged her to talk about what she had seen and Shraddha narrated about having dreamt about Prachi and a centaur bringing back the dead. The dead were Shraddha and Pulkit’s parents who had passed away right after Shraddha’s graduation. She had had a vision about her dead parents talking with her about that one person who was going to come in her life. There were challenges ahead of both Shraddha and Prachi and there was no way with how they were going to tackle them, or at least, face them.
Agastya was nearing both the girls with Pulkit who seemed a bit de-stressed now. He was laughing at something Agastya was telling him. Agastya did seem anomalous but his behaviour was congenial. Prachi did not get negative vibes from him but he could make her feel mentally bare. As though, Agastya knew all the dark and deep secrets buried within, Prachi could not help but considering him as her confidante. Things she had seen or felt were known only to Shraddha and the centaur who had saved her from dying. She then recalled Shraddha’s weirdest dream, the strangest of all the visions she had ever seen. Pulling her arm, Prachi again excused herself from both the boys.
“Hey, who is this person you dreamt of murdering? Can you recall his face? Can you tell me how he looked like in your dream or may be, draw his sketch?” Prachi contained an urgency in her voice and saw that the colour of Shraddha’s face had gone pale. She took out a pen and a paper and drew the sketch of the man in 15 minutes.
Prachi could not believe her own eyes when she saw the person’s sketch before her.
Th news of Prachi’s father’s younger brother’s death came 5 years after her own parents’ death. He had tried with all his might to keep her with himself after his brother’s death. His motives became clearer to the then 8 years old Prachi when she caught him naked and touching a little girl who could be roughly 4 years old, very ruthlessly on the places she was taught to covered, her age around 22 years ago. She was appalled by the sight before her. The girl kept crying and begging for Rajneesh to stop but he did not and slammed her hard on the bed. When she saw the face of the girl, she was horrid. It was Shraddha. Prachi could not resist kicking the door to his room hard with her foot. Sudden noise made her uncle jump off of his bed dropping the little girl fall whose face had gone colourless because of pain and crying. Prachi did not think twice before pulling a bat from her behind with which she was going out to play, and stomped it right on her uncle’s head who both because of the alcohol’e effect and the hard blow on his head fainted right then and there. Prachi and Shraddha ran away from the house and hid themselves in Shraddha’s room.
Prachi came out of the chained box of thoughts as she saw Shraddha looking at her with a stare filled with fright and rage.
“Shraddha… Prof. Ram said he is still alive…”
Shraddha was right on the verge of breaking down when Prachi saw Agastya coming their way. Prachi was still not catching what the drift behind his familiarity was but she was more than ever drawn toward her own past whenever she saw him. Prachi decided to talk with him straight away. She did not know what was going on and the only person to answer all her questions was standing right in front of her.
“What is this uncanniness, Agastya? Do you know me?” Was that you the night of my parents’ death?” Prachi was breathless and she was in dire need of all some information about herself.
“No. It was my father.” looking over at Shraddha with a look that suggested pure affection. Prachi noticed it.
“You like her or something?” She asked.
“I love her. She is an amazing person! The most accepting person I have ever met.” the way Agastya said things about her did not seem to Prachi he was IN LOVE with her.
“Oh, I forgot to mention she is a lesbian.” Agastya winked at Prachi. Prachi was stunned. The expression her eyes held was priceless and Agastya laughed heartily.
“Wh-What are you saying? No! It cannot be… I have known her all my life, and-”
“Never once did she tell you she is in love with you? God, Prachi! You claim to be so smart, and not even once did you look into her eyes filled with love for you?! And then you call yourselves best friends!” Agastya was mocking her.
Prachi had completely lost the track of what had been happening and now her mind dissolved into the thoughts of her being with a girl. She thought hard, forced her mind for one, single image. It did. She saw herself with a girl in white kurta and in her arms. As soon as she pulled away from the embrace, Shraddha’s face appeared and as though in shock she opened her eyes. Shraddha came closer to Prachi who was in angst. She shook her shoulders gently asking if she was okay.
“What happened to you? Are you okay? Did you see something?” Shraddha’s concerned voice insisted Prachi to look right into her eyes and…
“Wh-Why are you looking at me like that?” Shraddha whispered with her face dangerously close to Prachi’s.
“Because I had been stupid to have not noticed your love for me, all my life…” Prachi muttered, drowning in brown pools of Shraddha’s eyes whose face was now crimson red just like her lips which had parted on their own accord. This time, Prachi wasted no time in claiming those beautiful lips. Just as both their eyes closed and lips met, the thunder in the sky marked its arrival. Pulkit stood there transfixed with no movement in his body except that his jaw had dropped to the ground. Agastya came beside him to shut his mouth to prevent any fly to enter.
The day could not go any more eventful and Pulkit now began to look his sister and best friend’s way with a slant admiration and appreciation.
~~~~~~
The next day, Agastya was concentrating hard on something. He had a paper in his hand that looked like something official and confidential. Prachi went up to him and sat there quietly.
“Oh hey, Ms. Lover girl! How was the night, huh?” He smirked at her knowing that now the girlfriends spent the night together without Pulkit’s knowledge.
“Never you mind that. Agastya, I and Shrads need to know something. It is about her vision of a man-” Prachi was cut mid-sentence by Agastya.
“Who tried to rape Shraddha. I know. He is alive. Just like my father saved you, he saved that bastard too. He could only make escape people from their possible death but he could never know how bad or good a person was.” Agastya’s attention was solely on Prachi and she was listening to him intently.
“Rajneesh, after being cured, ran away from my father’s cottage and I was 7 years old then. I had a hunch that the man who had left our house was not a nice man. I was young and childish and still a kid, but I was not stupid. He had left his shirt in our cottage. I touched it and a strange sense of nausea had filled me. I was so disgusted by what I had had a vision of. I could not understand what was occurring before my eyes and I fainted. My father brought me into his chamber of medicines. He induced something in me and I had woken up. I kept having a dream of that man with a little girl for years. It all made sense when I first met Shrads in this school. The moment I shook hand with hers, I felt that hidden blow of air on my face again and everything related to it came to me. It was me who understood that she loved you. She confirmed it when I had asked her a couple days later. Prachi, that bastard is still alive. He needs to be killed because he is still out there, keeping an eye on both of you. All the times you both have encountered something dangerous was not inhuman. It was him. All this while. He was the one to fail the brakes of your father’s car that night, he had abducted your new born brother and sold him off to someone and let your parents grieve on their son’s ‘death’ which was not even a truth. He was the one to try and kill Pulkit when he had met with an accident during his college days. He has been watching you and Shraddha, Prachi. It’s only a matter of time, he will confront you. I know it, I can sense it very well. And trust me, Prachi, this doesn’t feel good.”
Prachi’s mouth went dry. It was way too much of information than she had expected to know. Prachi took all day to sink it in. Shraddha approached her with concern evident in her eyes.
“Prachi? What is wrong? Why do you look like you are going to kill someone?” Shraddha asked.
“Not just me, Shrads, WE are going to kill him. Our culprit. He is alive, Shraddha. Prof. Ram had exhorted that he is waiting for you to strike first. I suppose, the time has come we think about it.” Prachi looked right into her beloved’s eyes.
“How are we going to do it?” Shraddha wasted no time in getting into the serious mode she carried while working on a project.
“The question is what He will do. But we are going to do this before next Sunday.” Prachi said while going through some papers.
“What are these?” Shraddha mumbled grabbing the papers from Prachi’s hands.
Shraddha read it for a whole minute and understanding what it was, she looked at Prachi with blank eyes. Prachi gave her a shy smile and then winked at her.
“We have to get it done before next Sunday.” Shraddha gave Prachi her verdict.
Prachi laughed at her response and wrapped her in her arms.
The next day, Agastya approached Prachi and Shraddha who were on the brink of making out with each other. Clearing his throat, he smirked at both the girls who broke apart in shock. Prachi lashed out on her while Shraddha mock glare at her best friend to which Agastya responded by flicking on her forehead, earning himself a hard smack on his chest. Prachi’s shocked outburst pacified and Agastya began speaking in a low tone.
“Rajneesh is here, guys, on the grounds of the school. I can smell his scent. I was getting hints of him being here. But I wanted to confirm it. So I went for a walk last night and saw a man standing outside the hall. He cannot recognise me but I had figured out his familiarity and his reasons became evident.” Agastya stopped for breath while Prachi and Shraddha exchanged a determined glance at each other. Then, as though something clicked Prachi’s mind, she tuned towards Shraddha.
“Shrads, can you recount your dream?” Prachi’s eyes appeared vigilant.
Shraddha shut her eyes tight as the images of Rajneesh began prevailing in her mind.
“You cannot do anything, you bastard! You escaped death once, but not this time. I have been imagining this day since years and finally you are here. I can’t back out now. And nor can you.” Shraddha’s gaze grew intense with both anger and determination.
“Oh really? YOU will kill me? HAHA! What will you do? Use your pencils or knives? Huh?”
“Let me tell you something, that is exactly what I am going to do.” Shraddha said. Laughing, he threw his head back.
Shraddha, enraged at the cackle of his laughter, lunged forward with her knife and a carpenters square. Rajneesh did not feel anything until his chest began to bleed. His whimpers turned into groggy moans. Before a minute passed, he fell on his knees with his face covered in sweat. Shraddha smirked mirthlessly kneeling right before him.
“Propoxyphene.”
The next Sunday came faster than they all had expected. Agastya was planning for a departure gift for both Prachi and Shraddha. They were going abroad. Prachi had wanted to keep it a secret but Shraddha had snatched the papers of the details of their sojourn. Agastya had been loyal and faithful to them at the time when Prachi had arranged for the drug PROPOXYPHENE. Rajneesh had contacted Agastya to know both the women’s whereabouts, threatening him to kill his old father. Agastya’s conscience did waver at the mention of his father and he had been ready to give in to Rajneesh’s demands when he learnt that he had already held his father for ransom. The only thing that bastard had demanded in return was Shraddha. Agastya had grown weaker at the knowledge of his fragile father but something in him made his determination to save both the women strong and he contacted Prachi as soon as he ran away from that virulence. Prachi had kept the drug arranged for with the help of her friend who worked in forensic laboratory. The rest was history. Things had transpired the same way Shraddha’s dream replayed. Everything had fallen in its place and Shraddha and Prachi had no danger from anyone now. Pulkit was dating a girl from Bangalore and Agastya had left the school for good. Their lives were fulfilled. Except just one thing. Prachi was all set to find her long lost brother. A new game had begun.
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