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Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Saturday, 10 October 2020
Saturday, 5 September 2020
Short Story 2020 Longlist
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Saturday, 15 August 2020
Chavi Saxena, Short Story 2020, Featured Writer
Return of The Dead
Years
back in a far-off village, there lived Shyam and Mohini. Shyam was a great
sculptor. Mohini was his student. Both had no one in their family or relatives,
so they both stayed together in a small house secluded from the village huts.
Shyam made such lively sculptures that everybody would say that they would come
to life. He put in a great deal of effort and time to prepare each one of his
artwork- sometimes weeks and sometimes months at a stretch.
So far, Shyam had made only five sculptures- An Eagle, A Hunter, A Galloping
Horse, A Devil, And A God. People from near and far off villages came to have a
look at his masterpieces. Shyam never sold any of his sculptures no matter how
much money anyone offered him as he was completely in love with all his
creations and had kept them in a beautiful workshop created especially for this.
He was working on the sculpture of a man these days. It was only half made.
Both Shyam and Mohini were very content with their lives. When Shyam was busy
in his artwork, Mohini took care of the household chores and when he was free,
he taught her the art of sculpting. Shyam preferred to be alone while working
so Mohini never disturbed him and often watched him secretly from outside the
workshop as he carved. She had a great fascination for his talent and wished to
be a sculptor like him some day.
Once
or twice a month, Shyam and Mohini went to the adjoining town to buy various
items of day to day needs, as well as new paints, brushes and clay for
sculpting. One day, they were returning from a similar market trip. They were
so involved in their conversation that they did not notice a speeding tractor
coming down the road. Before they could move to one side, Shyam was run down by
the tractor and the driver being horrified by the accident, fled away with his
vehicle before anyone could catch him. Though Mohini had got a minor injury on
her forehead, Shyam died on the spot. A shriek escaped her mouth as Shyam
breathed his last. No one came to help as the road was a deserted one. Mohini
fell down and fainted.
Mohini knew not how long she stayed there unconscious, but when she came to
being conscious, it was already dark. Hours had passed and Shyam’s dead body
had stiffened. It was impossible for Mohini to move it without someone's help.
She cried and waited for quite some time but no one passed by that road. She
glanced at Shyam's blood smeared face and as the pain of losing a dear one
gripped her, her eyes once again welled up with tears. The way to her village
was still a long way to go and she did not had the heart to leave behind her
mentor's body in such a state for scavengers to feed on. She decided to wait
until morning when someone would come by and she could ask help in cremating
the body. She somehow dragged his body to one side of the road and then leaning
against a tree, Mohini fell asleep.
In
her sleep, Shyam came in her dream and spoke to her in a deep husky voice-
"My dear Mohini! Do not be sad. My death is
just my departure from my body, not from my passion. Please do not organise any
Shanti Paath for me. I will come back to you soon."
Mohini sat up startled, waking from her strange dream. It was already dawn. She
looked around and her eyes paused at Shyam's lifeless face, and strangely this
time, she neither felt pain nor loss. Was it the effect of that dream? She knew
not. Maybe deep down in her heart, she had a belief that her dream of this dawn
was indeed going to be true. She came out of her thoughts as she heard someone
coming along the road. She waved to the passer-by who luckily came to her help.
After cremating Shyam's body with his help, Mohini headed back to her hut.
Days passed in silence. Mohini was living everyday like a lifeless soul. She
idled away her time, lost in her thoughts and did not feel like making any
sculptures after Shyam's death. Her dream kept troubling her all the time.
Their house was secluded from the entire village so she had no friends to talk
to. People who came to admire Shyam's artworks, had no relation to them so when
Shyam died, no one came to know of this. Mohini too, kept mum.
One day, someone from the village happened to pass by her house and seeing her,
he enquired about Shyam and his next venture of art. Mohini wasn't prepared for
this question. Her mind somehow framed a lie and she spoke out- “Shyam is busy
working in his workshop and his new endeavour is the sculpture of a man that he
had just started.”
When the man was gone, Mohini's eyes welled up in the memories of Shyam. Thousands
of moments spent with Shyam flashed before her eyes. Was it the loss of a
dedicated mentor? Or the loss of a partner? What made her heart heavy? She knew
not. She ran and locked herself up in Shyam's workshop and stayed there for
hours. Since then, it became a daily routine for her. She spent most of her
time in the workshop amidst the sculptures. It brought some kind of peace to
her mind and heart. She still had vivid memories of her strange dream of that
fateful night. Shyam's words kept ringing in her ears- "I will come back
home soon." And her heart just asked her "When?" She had no
reply.
Almost a month had passed to Shyam's death now. One morning, as Mohini entered
the workshop, she felt a strange presence in the room. Her heart racing fast,
she glanced around the room with meek investigating eyes. Her eyes passed over
each one of the sculptures that stood in the room- the God, the devil, the
horse, the hunter and as her eyes came to eagle, a frightened shriek escaped
her mouth. The eagle opened and closed its eyes in a slow rhythmic fashion. She
was about to run away, when a voice made her pause.…
"Mohini!
Do not be afraid. It’s me, Shyam. As promised, I have come back."
Mohini listened in shock and turned around. The voice spoke again...
"My soul has come to reside in my beloved workshop. I will dwell in each
of my sculptures day by day."
Mohini,
still afraid, ran away from there. She was troubled with this happening, the
entire day. At night, she pondered over it. Though, Mohini had been waiting for
Shyam's return, ever since that day, yet she had not anticipated it to happen
this way. She gathered some courage and decided to go back to the workshop
again.
Next morning, in the workshop, the hunter opened its eyes and Shyam talked to
Mohini. This time, Mohini's fear faded a little as she listened to his voice.
After initial hesitation, their conversation progressed and Mohini began to
open out her heart to him and cried. She told him how lonely she had been after
his death. Shyam sadly expressed his helplessness over the situation and tried
to cheer her up by promising to come and talk to her every day. He even
proposed to continue his lessons on the art of sculpting to her. Mohini felt
very happy to hear this and nodded her head in affirmation.
Day by day as the horse, the devil and the God sculptures opened their eyes in
the workshop, Shyam and Mohini talked uninhibited as before. Mohini started
spending most of her time in the workshop, having talks with Shyam to her
heart's desire. They started having talks on all sorts of things and shared joy
and sorrow. Gradually. Shyam once again inspired her to make sculptures. He
guided her by his voice as she sat with clay before him. Mohini took interest
and carefully grasped all his lessons. In between their lessons, Shyam and
Mohini talked about their past and shared sweet-sour childhood memories. Mohini
knew not when, but as days passed, she started falling in love with Shyam.
Listening to his words, she felt she had met her long-lost soulmate. Day and
night, she was lost in his thoughts. The image of his face and appearance was
still fresh in her mind and now, very often, she felt upset for losing him in
person forever. Almost two months had passed to his death and thus to their
soul-talks too. How long will she console herself talking to the eagle, the
hunter and the lot? There was no answer.
One
day, as Mohini sat admiring the sculptures in the workshop, a brilliant idea
struck her mind-
"What if I make a sculpture of Shyam? What if I carve out every fine
detail of his face and body in the sculpture to make it look exactly like him?
What if his soul comes to stay in his own sculpture?"
Yes!!
She had found her reason of bliss. She could have his Shyam, open his eyes to
her once again.
That
day, when Shyam opened its eyes through the horse, Mohini took his leave from
him for fifteen days without telling him any reason. She promised to return to
the workshop after a fortnight and took his promise on not trying to pry on her
during this time. Shyam had no idea what she was up to but before he could ask
her anything, she ran away, excited to start her secret venture.
Without
wasting any more time, Mohini took away with her, the half-made statue of a man
that Shyam had started and collecting all the required materials, she set to
work with full dedication. It took her five days to make a life-size rough
model of a man. It was now time to give it the appearance of Shyam- the hair,
the eyes, the smile, the dressing- all of it to resemble Shyam exactly. Every
now and then, she closed her eyes to recollect every minute detail of Shyam's
facial features before shaping the sculpture. She vigorously worked day in and
day out and even sacrificed her sleep. After eleven days of concentrated hard
work, the sculpture was almost ready except for the colours. Mohini stood
admiring Shyam's statue that she had created. She was elated to see that it
looked exactly like him and was so lively that by the look in its eyes, Mohini
could already find herself blushing.
The statue was finally complete with all the colours and touch-ups. On the dawn
of the fifteenth day, Mohini set up the statue in the workshop in line with all
the previous ones and waited eagerly. Shyam's soul always came to the workshop
at the first ray of sunlight and left at sunset. Mohini was very excited to see
him open his eyes through his own earthy form. She kept her gaze intently fixed
on its eyes, awaiting that moment. Hours passed swiftly and as the morning sun
showed up, Mohini watched in disappointment- it was not Shyam's statue but the
sculptured eagle that opened its eyes. After a gap of fifteen days, his soul
had started his dwelling journey from the eagle once again. Now again, she had
to wait for five long days till it was the turn of Shyam's sculpture to come
alive with his soul. Locking the door of the workshop, she ran inside the house
and sat crying. She had missed their conversations during these days and her
feelings for him had grown even stronger. Not a single moment had passed
without his thought in her mind. She felt it strange, but now that she had made
Shyam's own sculpture, she could not bear to talk to the eagle, the devil, the
horse or even the God sculptures. She spent another four days inside the house
and not for even once she went to the workshop.
On the sixth day, her happiness knew no bounds when Shyam's statue indeed
opened its eyes to her. When Shyam enquired her about the reason for her
absence, she didn't utter a word and simply shifting a mirror to face her
creation, she stood silently, waiting for his response. Shyam was dumbstruck at
the striking resemblance of the statue to him. He showered Mohini with many
praises and thanked her for making him proud as her mentor.
He spoke- "Mohini! I'm lucky to have you as my pupil."
Mohini's eyes were twinkling with tears of mixed emotions and she could no
longer hold back her feelings…
She said-"Shyam, not just your pupil..."
She hugged the statue and closing her eyes, she confessed, "Shyam, I love
you!!"
Shyam was dumbstruck on hearing this. Meeting her eyes through the sculpture,
he could actually feel the intensity of her words. Ever since the day he had
returned to the workshop after his death and started his lessons with her, he
had been noticing the slow yet steady change in her behaviour and talks, her
blush and smiles. But he had never thought that all his conversations with
Mohini made her build the castles of love for him. He respected her feelings
yet he could never reciprocate them back. He belonged to the world of dead and
she, to the living world. Moreover, he recalled his initial reason of his
return- and it was the passion for his workshop and sculptures and not for
Mohini. His love was his artworks and not Mohini and so he had come to live
back with his sculptures. He was a connoisseur of art and his dedication for
his art had made him teach Mohini, the art of sculpting. He now felt, guilty
for being the reason for unknowingly invoking such feelings in her heart.
The next few hours passed in Shyam trying to convince Mohini to be a practical
thinker and forget him but no words proved fruitful.
She argued, “I love you Shyam. I know I can never get you back in person, so I
made your statue. Every time you open your eyes through it, I will get my
divine bliss of being by your side."
Few more alternate rounds of convincing each other went on until it was sunset
and thus time for them to bid goodbye. Mohini ran back to the house.
As his soul left the statue, Shyam threw another look at it and now he
understood the absolute power behind its magically perfect creation....It was
the power of love. Ever since his death, it was the first instance, when he
truly wanted to mourn his death. How sadly ironic it was-he had found love
after his death and he could not even reciprocate it, for a love affair with a
dead could only bring pain to the living. He himself was in a dilemma. He never
wanted to leave the workshop due to the love he had for his sculptures and if
he continued to come and reside in them, there was no way Mohini could be
convinced to forget him. It was his statue that was posing a barrier. He
remembered how she had not come to the workshop for five days until his soul
had come in this very statue. Yes, she now wished to hear him through this
statue alone and as long as he opened his eyes through it, her hope and thus
love will remain ignited.
An idea struck him-
"What if I skip this sculpture and continue my soul journey in my own
self-made sculptures once again? ...this time silently, not speaking a word to
Mohini?"...Yes, he would do this.
Next morning, as Shyam returned to his workshop, he was about to open his eyes
through the horse, when he noticed Mohini already seated there. He had to put
his plan into action so he kept horse's eyes closed and heard silently.
Mohini however, sensed his presence and desperately examined all the sculptures
to see which one had come alive. For once she found it strange to see all the
pairs of eyes closed but then she noticed the fluttering eyelids of the horse
sculpture. She was now sure that Shyam was present there and was avoiding her.
She cried
in tears-
"Shyam! I know you are here."
*Silence*
"Shyam! I love you!"
*Silence*
"Shyam! Please talk to me! Please!"
*Silence*
Mohini
repeated her words again and again but got no reply. At last, she gave up and
ran out of the workshop in sobs. She didn't notice a lone tear that ran down
the horse's eye.
Five
days passed but nothing changed. Every day, she would feel the sculptures open
and close their eyes and yet she heard no word from him. Sixth day, she went
with a hope to at least see his statue open its eyes to her but when once
again, the eagle opened its eyes, her anger mixed pain knew no bounds. Her love
driven selfish mind suggested her a destructive yet 'win-win' plan to her- "What
if I break all the sculptures in the workshop except his statue?"
Mohini's
eyes gleamed with victory as this way Shyam would have to reside in this very
statue each day and for all her life she would see him open his eyes to her and
then, perhaps she could gradually have him love her back and have his
companionship forever.
She waited eagerly for sun down and entered the workshop as the last rays of sun
hid behind the clouds. Without another thought, she picked up an iron rod and
began hitting the earthy masterpieces with swift energetic strokes till all but
one were reduced to pieces, scattered all over the workshop floor.
While Mohini rejoiced her victory, up above in the heavens, bound in the chains
of helplessness, Shyam's soul was watching the sad end of his beloved
creations. His sadness turned to pain and then to anger.
Just as Mohini turned to leave, there was a loud thunder in the skies above.
She looked in horror as all the remains of Shyam's sculptures began assembling
back to their forms as if by some magical force. Swift stormy winds blew away
the roof of the workshop. The ‘God’ flew to the sky, guiding the ‘Hunter’ on
the ‘Galloping Horse’, making their journey towards the heaven, its reins being
held by the mighty ‘Eagle’.
The
moment they were lost in the thick black clouds, the ‘Demon’ shattered the
statue of ‘Shyam’, that Mohini had made and with his loud reverberating
laughter, he too disappeared in fumes.
Puneet Chansauria, Short Story 2020 Featured Writer
The Delusional and the Deadly
It was a
gloomy Sunday on which the brothers of my deceased colleague visited the
hostel. They were evacuating the room. A motley band of hostel mates were
helping, and I was one of them.
In
the course of retrieving the articles from one of desk-drawers I found a diary.
And as I flipped through the pages, I realised that it was a personal diary.
You
might say that I am a mean SOB, when I tell you that I decided to keep that
diary. I thought the personal memoirs would be filled with local wisdom that
might help me through my years in the medical college.
If
you thought it was mean then it might comfort you to know that I have suffered
immensely after I went through that diary cover to cover. My suffering was not
inspired by emotion, but by dread.
The
pages that I hereby reproduce recount what transpired in the lives of some
unknown people in some distant place. Yet, after reading their experiences, I
could not help but feel that I know them personally and that’s what troubling
my nights and perplexing my days.
So,
with selfish and cathartic motives, I reproduce the last entry from the diary
of my senior and colleague who died in a train accident a month ago.
Apparently, he fell on the track while running and trying to board the train!
Below
are supposedly his last written words:
Date:
22nd August 2011
The incident that I have decided to commit to paper has violently shook
scepticism out of me, and I can scarcely doubt that whoever reads this
account-- which in fact is only an abridgement of what underwent with me--would
not be forced to revise their belief systems and ideas rooted in rationalism
and nourished by empiricism.
So,
without further ado, I begin the narrative that could not but lie as an outcast
among peer-reviewed papers and theses; the sagas of testable realities.
I
am a student of medicine, for my MS I have opted for Psychiatry. I am doing my
internship at one of the largest and the oldest mental hospital in the country.
Its establishment dates back to the colonial times.
It
was during a normal Tuesday’s after hours when an orderly of the hospital, who
has gotten quite familiar with me, approached me and requested me to meet an
inmate, who he said speaks “Madrasi”.
In the course of my tenure people have come to know that I am a South-Indian
and Madrasi was the colloquialism in
currency among the workers and inmates.
He
said that the inmate draws beautifully and then erases his work. He seldom eats
and is averse to playing cards. I naturally asked him why he wanted me to meet
him and he simply replied that all the inmates are curious to know what he
says. The expressions of the orderly convinced me that this inmate has become
quite an enigma for others.
As
I had a penchant for the odd, I agreed to meet this inmate, who, from now on, I
shall call Mr. K, a 26-year-old schizophrenic. Prior to meeting him, I
requested the warden his case file, which he eagerly handed over to me. He was
one of the youngest patients in the hospital, where the average age of the
inmates must have been somewhere between 37 and 45.
His
case file read like a text-book case of hebephrenic schizophrenia in which the
patient has the tendency to regress to his childhood. Mr. K typically regressed
to his early-adolescence. He would, in the course of his pathological episodes,
talk like a ten-year-old with a penchant for story-telling. I thought I have
found the reason why the other patients find Mr. K amusing.
According
to the file, the inmate raved and ranted for hours on end as if narrating a
story. I concluded that these rantings and ravings are the part of a delusional
construct, little did I know that those utterings held facts that even the most
fantastically bent mind would find hard to conjure up.
I
obtained the permission to meet him the next day. At the first sight, I noticed
his glassy eyes that seemed fitted externally on an expressionless face.
Frankly, his demeanour and outlook disappointed me, not that I was expecting to
meet a Hannibal Lecter, but I find the lad too dull to engage with and I
regretted accepting to meet him. I was soon about to be faced with an avalanche
of terse narrations emanating out of a “convoluted” mind, which upon being
deciphered would bury me under the realisation of the mediocrity of my
knowledge of the human mind.
He
was talking like a ten-year-old, apparently narrating an episode from his
childhood. I was hardly listening intently until the words “he died” hit my ear
drums and Mr. K, from that point on, commanded my attention fully. I was aware
that he might not be able to repeat himself verbatim, owing to his pathology, still
I tried. And he began--
“Vaasu
Anna (brother) was
playing in the courtyard. Kaaki (paternal
uncle’s wife) asked me to get her a glass of water. Vaasu Anna stuck his leg out and made me trip
and the water to spill. I went back to Kaki and told her, she made me sit
beside her and said that she will give me something. She retrieved her old trunk
but the key jammed in the lock. Kaaki
called Vaasu Anna to come and help.
He shouted back, “I am too thirsty to walk just like Kaaki, thirsty all the damn time, I will throw in the village pond.
Let her drink up the whole damn pond dry”, and then chuckled. Vaasu Anna never came and Kaaki and I couldn’t open the trunk that day even after trying for
an hour. Vaasu Anna died that night.”
I
must admit that it embarrasses me to admit that I was taken aback after hearing
the abrupt end of the story that was being narrated by a certified
schizophrenic, whom I was not treating or counselling, yet listening to
intently.
Anyways,
I was conscious enough to make mental notes of the names that appeared in his
story, I exactly don’t know why. But I can justify it by saying that I wanted
to understand the origins of the pathology, as death of close relatives are
potent triggers.
I
was too vain to ask a schizophrenic, who I wasn’t counselling, to elaborate the
end of his story and so I decided to call it a day. I couldn’t believe till
this day that Mr. K held my hand and made me sit back as I was about to stand
up and leave his eyes now as expressive as a Broadway actor, yet that’s what
happened and I sat back again, this time as a captivated audience.
“A
day before Onam, Puva (Father’s
sister)
was looking frantically for the comb which I was playing with and when she came
in the Kaaki’s cabin, I was combing
her hair with it. I used to comb and braid Kaaki’s
hair. You know, Puva sneered, threw
things at Kaaki, hurled abuses and
called her a bald-headed witch, before snatching the comb from my hand and
slapping me. Puva died that year
before Diwali.”
At
that point, I became increasingly convinced that Mr. K’s pathology is making
his subconscious link the death of his family members to Kaaki’s annoyance. This, I though, was typical run of the mill
magical thinking that such patients exhibit.
I
may have reached my banal conclusions about him but Mr. K surely wasn’t done,
he began without even stopping for what could viably be called a pause.
“Kaaki had begun to wet and soil her bed
every night, I cleaned her and her bed. One morning, I was out to buy milk,
when I came back, I saw my sister-in-law berating Kaki. She was saying to her
that she should eat to live, not live to eat and she should be dead and it’s a
curse on the household that she is still alive.” There came a pause and I was
strangely relieved that this one did not end with someone dying. And then it
came like a lightning bolt “Kadambari (I deduced that he was talking about his
sister-in-law) died two days before Kaaki’s
death, she drowned in the village pond.”
Mr
K. finally fell silent, and this time when I stood up, he did not look at me.
Although, I bid him good bye he remained laid back in his chair like a man
relaxed after a cathartic session.
I
couldn’t help but think about the frequency of deaths in the family of Mr. K’s
story. If it were true, it would be the news of the town, let alone the
village. The police must have been involved. In all there were four deaths and
it can be deduced that the deaths happened in quick succession, as the narrator
remained more or less the same age until the culmination of the story.
I
can’t decipher why but next week I met with the Doctor who was originally
handling the case. I requested for the case file. On the condition that, I will
not make any notes. I didn’t want the doctor to get the impression that I have
been keenly attending to the grape vine and operating on my whims. Therefore, I
took great care to explain to the Doctor that I was interested in it for
scholastic reasons as I suspect that his delusions are deeply associated with
the folklore. And I told him that we are from the same geographical regions. He
had no reason to deny me the case history, his treatment regime could not have
been shared and I was hardly interested in it.
The
file was in my hand and I wanted to ascertain through my reading of it what
emotions are exactly triggering his episodic regressions and wherefrom his
delusions emanate. I, up till that point, suspected that he might have invented
the names of the family members and that all of them perhaps existed only in
his imaginations.
I
started with the family history. As it turned out, Mr. K had a brother named
Vaasu and the Kaaki, who was at the centre
of K’s story actually existed. She was the maternal aunt of K’s father and had
bequeathed her property to his nephew in exchange for care and shelter. And lo
and behold, there was a cousin whose wife was named Kadambari.
Now,
I was intrigued. All the characters in his story were real, where was and what
was the delusion then. I was investigating the reality of a delusion; I was
grappling with a paradox.
I
convinced myself that the delusion must be inherent in the instances of the
lives and sequences of the deaths of the members of the family. The file also
mentioned the deaths that had occurred in K’s family between his tenth and
eleventh year. The deaths were explained from K’s perspective only and it said
that they seemed to have not affected him instantaneously, as he continued to
live normally under his father’s care for several years before his symptoms
began to appear.
The
information had instigated an unhealthy curiosity in me and then the next thing
I did would be termed unprofessional by many but I was as if under an
unexplainable influence.
I
contacted my friend who was in state police department of the state from which
I and K come from. I asked him to get me the police reports of the deaths and I
was sure there must be post-mortem reports, as certainly all the deaths except
that of Kaaki’s were unnatural.
My
friend obliged and I got the copies of the report after nearly a month.
Vaasu,
K’s elder brother had died at age fourteen. The cause of his death was
documented as Cerebral Edema caused by water-toxemia, in short, Vaasu had died
of water intoxication. It is an extremely rare cause of death and my medical
training had afforded me the knowledge that water if ingested at a rapid rate
in quantities larger than the kidneys could process and expel, then it causes
electrolytic imbalance and if intervention is not made and the brain cells
start to swell, death follows.
It
was uncanny, Vaasu died of drinking too much water, too fast. I remembered in
K’s story, the words “I can’t come I am too thirsty..." were attributed to
Vaasu.
I
feverishly began to search for the reports of Puva’s death and post-mortem, the cause of the death was GI
obstruction and intestinal rupture. I read the medical history and it struck me
when I read that she was suffering from Trichotillomania, (the
compulsive feeling to pull out one’s hair). The GI obstruction was caused
by the hairs she ate after pulling them out of her head. A shiver ran down my
spine, as I remembered that in K’s story, Puva
had berated Kaaki concerning her
baldness.
I
was shaken to the core and I wished I could find something, somewhere in those
files with which I could refute that weirdo’s narrative and the horrors it
implied.
I
began to read again. The sister-in-law’s death was ruled suicide by drowning.
It was the medical history that challenged my wits. The lady, at age 27, had
developed faecal and bladder incontinence. She had lost voluntary control of
her bowel movements and bladder which made her extremely depressed owing to the
stigmatisation it incurred her. She, in all likelihood, took her own life due
to her illness which is equally, if not more, in young people as water
intoxication and trichotillomania are. And, at this point, I couldn’t help but
look at the corresponding sequence from that, ungodly story of the strangest
hebephrenic I will ever meet in my life who had a distant grandmother with
mystical powers.
My
scepticism made a final attempt and I reasoned to myself that may be the story
was made backwards i.e. the boy invented the sequences of unpleasantness the
victims had with Kaaki afterwards.
But then I thought about the rarity of the conditions and the fictional
acrobatics that kind of story invention would require.
I
couldn’t sleep that night and remained tormented for weeks. I read all I could
about mysticism, psychic powers, telekinesis, curses, psychological anti-placebo
and what not.
I
was failing to restore my faith in the exclusive authority of science over
reality and my cynicism and scepticism were moribund.
Today,
I went to Mr. K once again and this time I tried to induce him to tell me how
he ended up in the asylum. He stared at me without saying a word. I was unable
maintain eye-contact with him, maybe subconsciously, I was guilty about
betraying him by fact-checking his story.
Suddenly
he spoke, will you play chess with me?
It
amazed me that K could really play chess, I still though chess to be one of
those past-times of the sophisticated. I stood amazed for a moment, collected
myself and then agreed. My afterthought was that we might establish enough
rapport for him to divulge his entire story to me. I sent an orderly to get the
chessboard but he came empty handed. We would have to wait for at least two
hours for someone has thrown away the chessmen out of frustration of defeat.
I
explained the scenario to K, “I will make the chessmen with stones,” K replied.
I said to him that it’s better that we take a rain check as I have a train to
catch. K was visibly displeased. Then I stood up and made my way through the
corridor, leaving the mysterious K behind.
I
couldn’t catch the train today, my colleague insisted that we take the bus
together. I have promised myself that I will never speak about this incident to
anyone, not even to my friend whose connections got me those medical and police
files.
And
I will play chess with him some day, I hope they don’t put him on a heavier
dose of chlorpromazine as it would take the chess out of him. But what can we
do?
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