Short Story 2014 Winners & Featured Writers

First Prize
Amit Shankar Saha

Second Prize
Arka Datta

Third Prize
Mohit Rao

Featured Writers
Amar Agarwala
Sheila Kumar
Vandana Jena 

Shortlist
Longlist

Short Story 2014 Shortlist

Winners & Featured Writers                             Longlist 

Alcatraz De	Shravya Gunipudi	Arka Datta
Sheila Kumar	Naman Sharma	Ummul Fazal Fatima Khan
Vandana Jena	Mohit Rao	Amit Shankar Saha
Madhumita Gupta	Debasish Mishra	Proma Bhatacharjee
Aniesha Brahma	Parul Jauhari	Amar Agarwala
Sayujya Sankar

Short Story 2014 Shortlist, Shravya Gunipudi

If Only

She stood in the corner of the street, away from cold stares and heartless whispers as she shuddered under the raging thunder. The noise of pointless pencil heels and the dazzle of temporarily luxurious jewellery distracted her, almost for a second, till she remembered her own blistered toes and torn clothes and looked away, knowing she would always be so very close to the immaterial materialistic part of human life and yet be so far away.
No matter how much she tried to reach out, to delicately brush her fingers across all the lavishness she desperately longed for but could never have, she was unable to get close enough. Her past kept clouding her own judgement and her clarity of purpose.

“Stay away from the rich people,” Her mother warned, wagging her finger at her. “They’re the one you need to be watchful of. And don’t go anywhere close to the other people of our kind on our streets. They’ll manipulate us and steal our change.” 

She had nodded, taking in all the words of advice her mother tried to give her, yet not understanding what she was supposed to do out on the streets. If she wasn’t supposed to interact with the rich people and if people of her own kind were to be stayed away from, then who was she supposed to go to? Was it the middle class, the content souls of the Indian Society? Would they pardon her or show her some mercy? Perhaps they were what the true definition of a common man really was. Perhaps they were the ones who would show her the way.
She watched as her mother coughed out blood. 

With tears in her eyes, she let her mother embrace her one last time.
She still remembered how the strong arms around her had suddenly gone limp and fallen to the floor. She remembered the shattering of her mother’s glass bangles and the piercing noise they made as they broke into a million pieces. The blood on her mother’s wrists would forever stay in her memory, that she was sure of.
Now, she only had one choice and that was to take up her mother’s profession.
Strange how her mother’s last words were of caution. If only they’d been words of love. She’d have been much happier. But love in her family was rarer than money.

I watched from a distance, sitting in the comfort of my car, how the expressions on her child-like face remained intact, not deceiving the depth of her emotions. Looking back now, I wish I did something back then. Anything. But I didn’t. That is why this story is here today to be told, about how we often miss the most important moments in life, moments that are meant to help others. That day will remain etched in my memory forever.

At the tender age of five, she watched her father beat her mother up and throw her to the corner of the room. She’d been terrified, then, almost scared senseless Once or twice she’d thought of getting up to defend her mother but realized with great helplessness that her strength would be of no match to the beast she hated to call her father. The tears in her mother’s eyes had been a symbol of women all over the country to that young child, mainly because those were the same tears in the exact crouched position that she’d see in her neighbour's eyes, her aunt’s eyes and possibly in all the eyes of the women she knew. That, she felt, was the greatest degradation. To have the ability to cry was a gift, one that no one cherished the value of, but to no be able to control that gift, that turned into a curse. 
 
Five years later, at twice her age, she now stood and watched as her community hurriedly buried her mother in the soil without any proper rites or rituals because they didn’t really deserve any. Because, a decent death only came to those who had the money. That was another strange thing, that money, a piece of paper that had no importance once the breath of a human being ceased to exist, had the power to decide the comfort of his soul’s rest.

The lightning flashed across the sky, playing hide-and-seek with the world as it winked in a flash of a second, depriving the people of clarity. It reminded her of the sadistic jingle of coins that came from purses branded with money that could have instead been used to feed children like her and the crisp sharpness of notes that had the face of a man she would never be able to learn about. A man who fought for the country without an inkling of the state it now was in with the alarming rates of malnutrition and poverty that affected the people, more so the innocent children who did not know the horrors of their lives.
A man who died a little too soon before he could see how much transformation lit up the lives of the rich and buried the hearts of the poor.
A man who would not expect nor want the cruelty that was stepping on children struggling to afford even one meal a day, let alone three.

Men to her were the ultimate enemies. Her very first example of a man was her own father. She didn’t know if he qualified as a ‘man’. She didn’t think testosterone would suffice. This was so much more than that. What happened to being a loving son, a wonderful husband and an amazing father? Her own dad wasn’t even one of these things and of the three women in his life, his mother, his wife and his daughter, two were already in the grave and the only one left wished she could be.
She remembered the riches, the happiness that money had brought them back when they were all together. Back when her mother was still tolerant of the abuses because of the marble kitchen and the closed washrooms that came with it. Because of the money that she could use to wipe away the blood that ran down the corner of her lips every time her father decided that her face was perfect to practice tennis with his rough hands. At that point of time, she wondered if money really had that kind of power, if it was enough to let someone else empower your senses.
Now, she realised, yes. Yes, it was. 

I watched as she stood, trying to take shelter from the harsh rain drops that would pierce her delicate skin, wrought from the exposure of the terrible mixture of pollution and human hatred. But as it actually began to pour, people seemed to finally see her, or so she thought, till they rushed towards the iron ledge she managed to hold on to for herself. As they pushed her out of the tiny space of comfort she would get for weeks to come, she looked up at the pairs of eyes that refused to see beyond the obvious.

She walked away in the rain, shivering as the water got through the numerous tears in her clothes and found their way towards her hauntingly obvious ribs and the inward curve of her abdomen while, in a painful contrast, most other kids her age were healthy from eating off plates instead of garbage cans.

Immediately after her father had left her, she watched as her whole life turned upside down, not because of the lack of a man in their lives but because of all the things he took away from them including the ground under their feet. From feeling the warmth of her slippers and sleeping in the cosiness of her bed, she’d come to get used to the rough gravel beneath her feet and the cold floor damaging her protruding bones from the skin that was unable to cover her body.

His leaving had led to a disaster. It was the reason she had to beg on the streets today.
She didn’t want him back, no, that wasn’t what she wished for. But if only her life had some respite, some end to the darkness of the tunnel she called life. 
 
As an inward shudder escaped her and she heard her stomach growl from hunger, she felt herself go dizzy till she gave in to her boiling skin and the pain in her bones, falling to the floor in a dead faint. People walked by aimlessly, some crossing her limp body but none thinking about stopping to help. It was hardly minutes before I got off the car and rushed by her side but by then it was too late.
Her battered heart had given up on her.

I pressed my heart to her chest, ignoring the fact that my suit was now soiled from the dirt and the muck of her body.
“No!” I shouted, drenched in the rain. “Please God, no!”
But it was over. God won.
If only I had helped her earlier.
If only I had been there when she needed me.
If only I had been a good father.
If only.

ShortStory 2014, Featured Writer, Sheila Kumar

Love In The Park

Diya found love in the park down the road from her house. Admittedly, she was very impressionable, the type who looked for love in the most probable and improbable places. She believed in God, the inimitable power of Sunidhi Chauhan’s voice and days of wine and roses, though actually she didn’t like wine too much. This last fact dismayed her a bit; she had read that the city’s cognoscenti all drank wine and she so badly wanted to be one of them, a minor cognoscente at least.

In actual fact, Diya  was the original sucker the ad men dreamed of, the metaphorical pin-up girl of copywriters who laboured over witty/profound/arresting/romantic prose to sell instant dhokla packets and  bracelets of zirconium stones set in plated silver. Diya would buy the dhokla and the bracelet. She tried every new lipstick she saw featured in glossy ads, she wore frilled skirts all of the last season despite it doing nothing for her small and round frame. Now she was saving for a small Prada  clutch which she had seen and immediately lost her heart to, and refused to listen to Maya, her BFF, who told her in some exasperation: ``But Diya, you only carry large handbags. You always carry your whole world in your handbag.`` What did Maya know about her secret desire to be an It girl? Diya’s neighbour, the Mirchandani girl, was apparently one of Bangalore’s It girls. Miss Mirchandani carried a blue-and-red Prada clutch, Diya had seen the label. And Diya was an aspirational girl with aspirational dreams. Carrying an It handbag would be a good start.

Well, anyway, there she was, walking round and round, and then doing some more rounds of the paved walking path that hedged the manicured lawn of the Defence Colony park. The park was a thing of beauty, trees forming a symmetrical border, beds of seasonal flowers that bloomed and faded and bloomed again, all year round. There were stone benches scattered about, invariably occupied by tacky lovers in tacky clothes, making plans for a dreary future. At least, that is what Diya thought every time her eyes fell on girls in mustard-coloured, ill-fitting salwar suits cozying up to the most shifty-eyed, greasy-haired Lotharios ever.

The park was the creation of the resident eccentric, old Mrs. Chinappa. Well, Mrs. Chinappa wasn’t that old, but her quaint manner of enunciation and denunciation, her wardrobe of gray  cotton saris that matched the thick strands of gray that she tied back in a painfully tight  chignon, made her look older than she was. Mrs. Chinappa was justifiably  proud of the park, her park; she had galvanized the preternaturally moribund  Society into action on the empty plot, she’d raised funds, she’d called General Somanna to lay the foundation stone, she’d interviewed a hundred maalis and set them to work. Now she felt the compulsive need to inform the people that they enjoyed the fruits of her labour. And indeed, who could blame her?

For a while, Mrs. Chinappa  even kept the keys to the lock of the park gates till outraged Society members protested. Deprived of the title of Keykeeper, now she policed the park aggressively, vociferously, relentlessly. No dogs, no beggars, no- children- on- the- lawns, no- picking- of- flowers, no prams, no cycles, no transistors…the list went on and on.

Diya had become a regular at the park, ever since her friend Sonia’s doctor brother-in-law had said the panacea for all weight and health problems lay in doing eight rounds in the park. Any park, that is. But Diya being Diya,  she first ran off to the nearest sports store and stocked up on a set --- three, actually---  of the garments most suitable for a soon- to –be- It girl to walk in.  Her walking shoes matched her outfits, she had invested in four pairs, and that was not counting her many pairs of coloured Keds and her leopard-print Converse sneakers. A few months down the line, she saw a couple of girls walking with the spiffiest of iPod attachments and of course, Diya got that, too. Last week, she’d e-mailed her brother in Los Angeles to get her purple fluorescent hair bands to hold her lush hair in place.

``Mad or what?`` Deepak had mailed back. He was an idiot, an unfashionable geek but he did have a soft spot for her and he would get her the hair bands. If he understood just what it was she wanted, that is. And then her gang of girls could and would exclaim over the bands for days. Happy days lay ahead for Diya.
There were gangs galore walking in the park. Gangs of elderly men, strangely enough mostly Malayali, all seemingly denouncing the shenanigans of the PM, the CM and the MM. A (mildly) curious Diya had walked just behind them and well within earshot, till she had unlocked that last code: MM stood for Mad Missus. One lot consisted of five thin balding men who all insisted on crowding together, literally sitting in half- assed fashion on a bench that could hold only three people. Every time one of them gestured wildly to emphasise how he could easily set the inflation rate or something right, someone would slip off the end of the bench. This sight afforded Diya no little amusement. Our Diya was easily pleased.

The gang of elderly women was a kitty party of waddlers, almost all of them Punjabi, waddling along at snail’s pace, discussing the iniquities of their evil daughters- in- law, the bad behaviour of their grandchildren (``what do you expect, with a mother like her?``) and the impossibility of finding  good saag in the south. This lot had no time for Mrs. Saxena with her stiffly lacquered hair framing a wrinkled face, her Ritu Kumar crepe salwars and clumsy whiter- than- white sneakers; Mrs. Saxena walked alone, walked slowly and said her prayers in a semi-audible hiss that put the other old women off. Mrs. Saxena was their walking intimation of mortality.

The middle- aged gang, they walked at a brisker pace, the cheeks of their well- padded buttocks moving up and down, up and down, like spherical pistons. This lot was largely  local and frequently made very obviously denigrating comments on the north Indians all about them,  which comments then cracked them all up. This happened on every round, so it was a mirthful walk in the park for them. They were not serious walkers, though, every two rounds or so, they would all go sit on available benches and swap recipes. Strangely, Diya noticed, the recipes were almost all north Indian dishes. Well, whatever.

Diya- Sonia- Maya were the young lot. The Giggly Gang, they called themselves. Everything was grist for their giggle mill. They laughed about the other gangs. They chattered like so many garrulous magpies, often earning angry glares from a passing Mrs Chinappa…maybe they were breaking the no-chattering-in-the-park rule. They chortled over the doings and sayings of their common circle of friends. They chuckled over the last Sajid Khan debacle. They jeered at Aishwarya Rai, cocked a snook at Katrina Kaif, loathed Salman Khan and were absolutely fida over SRK.

In fact, when Diya first laid eyes on the man who was soon to become the object of her affection, (she refused to call it lust, even to herself) she immediately recalled Shah Rukh Khan telling some magazine that he had first fallen in love with Gauri’s behind. ``It was a pert rear,`` he had said. Diya’s interest, in turn, was caught by the taut muscled rear of the man walking in front of her, one evening in the park. The man was lean, so his rear was lean, too, lean and loping. There was the suggestion of power, sexy power in that rear.

The rest of the (rear-view) picture was just as pleasing. He was always well dressed, in slim-cut track pants and tee shirts that fit subtly, though not skin-tight like how Hrithik Roshan’s tees fit that seriously ripped actor. This man was a classy dresser, no bling, no outfits that shouted; what’s more, this was a serious walker. He walked with purpose, his steps swift and graceful. Why, he was a gazelle in motion, Diya thought dreamily to herself. She had watched a National Geographic (or was it Discovery, Diya could barely tell the difference) programme on gazelles the day she’d gone to pick Sonia up for that candlelight march (it was for a good cause though what exactly the cause was had now slipped Diya’s mind) and Sonia had taken ages to get ready and had kept Diya waiting.
The gazelle-man sported a serious watch on a leather strap; it was seriously expensive, Diya knew that much because she knew her Jaeger Le-Coultre from her Piaget, even though she wasn’t sure how both those words were pronounced. Some evenings, he’d walk in shorts (not too short, though) and she’d do the eight rounds or so like she was floating. His thigh muscles, shapely calves, the indentation behind his knees all gave her thrill after thrill.

This was about the time she  realised the fates were conspiring against her; she was always behind the man, walking fast- faster- faster still but just not able to catch up with him. The immediate future looked bleak. Was she going to forever trail, desolately if swiftly and purposefully, behind this man, always admiring his rear view, never able to catch a glimpse of his face, his biceps, his sure-to-be flat stomach, his definite-to-be manly chest? It didn’t help that he was not a park regular; when he did walk in the park, it was always on some erratic timeline. Some days he would be walking just as dusk fell, other evenings, he’d be walking in the gloaming. A few times, he did come up silently, thrillingly, behind Diya and overtake her but it was always dark and she couldn’t make out his features. One couldn’t really blame her antipathy to cruel fate.

Of course, Diya could always park herself on a bench and wait for the man to pass by. Dear reader, don’t mistake Diya for a fool; she did just that, not once but twice. And both times, the man came walking towards her thrilling-with-anticipation self… and coolly walked out the park gates that stood a few feet before Diya’s bench.  

Diya just couldn’t bring herself to tell her gang about the man. You may recall they were The Gigglers and Diya couldn’t bear for him to become the subject of their unbridled merriment. He was her delicious secret. Besides, she was a practical girl, our Diya, and needed to see his face before fully committing her heart. But all said and done, she had already lost that  fickle heart to the man’s behind. All it needed was one glimpse of his broad shoulders --- seen from the back, of course --- moving under his white (or deep green or navy or moss green, as the case may be) T-shirt and Diya would immediately be suffused with excitement.

Then one bright sunlit evening, Diya was walking flush with the gates of the park, it was her fourth round, and the man walked in. ``My god, he is gorgeous, `` she thought on the frill of a thrill. He was youngish. Dark hair sprang luxuriously away from a defined brow. He was lean, he had a flat stomach, defined biceps and a chest that could only be described as manly. He had piercing eyes set below well- defined eyebrows, a slim and straight nose (Diya was a nose woman, men with bulbous noses put her off) and a lovely mouth. The mouth reminded her of Farhan Akhtar’s; it was not too wide, not too small and it had a sexy lift to it. Their eyes met and she forgot to breathe. Then he looked away and the connection broke; as always, he loped ahead, a picture of grace with his long-limbed gait.

This was love, Diya wrote that night in her diary. (Yes, she kept a diary). She saw the future and it held many walks on the leaf- strewn stone pathway of the verdant park, much low- voiced intimate conversation, occasional trills of laughter issuing from her, melding with his deeper throaty chuckles. After which, they would graduate to holding hands. At this point, the angry glare of Mrs. Chinappa  intruded and tore a  rip in Divya’s roseate haze. She couldn’t quite remember but she was sure no- holding- hands- in- the- park was one of Mrs. C’s rules.

Well, anyway, what started in the park could and would be taken to coffee bars, restaurants, resto- lounges and who knew where else. Diya shivered in delight at the prospect. She could almost feel his touch on her. His fingers would not be soft, they would be firm, lightly callused. His kisses would not be wet or slobbery. She would be rendered a dizzy blonde by the time he’d lift his mouth from hers. Well, not a dizzy blonde but maybe a dizzy brunette, Diya’s au courant hair colour was Iced Brunette. ``Baby, baby,`` he would murmur to her in the throes of passion, during their hot and heavy (but never sweaty) sessions.

She had never ever been turned on by any man in this fashion. This, then, was really love.
Her friends started to comment on her devotion to her walking regime. ``Lose more weight and you’ll be a sukhdi,`` Sonia warned, forgetting to giggle for once. Luckily for Diya,  the gang was not too serious about walking in the park, (or walking anywhere, for that matter)  now that they had sussed it out and seen its total lack of potential. Most evenings took them to malls, multiplexes and suchlike. Meanwhile, Diya walked. She walked behind the man most times, almost burning a passionate hole between his shoulder blades. The rare times she walked in front of him, she tried her level best to walk like she’d seen Malaika Arora walk in some film or the other, pert bottom bouncing, thighs going shlick-shlick in the softest suggestive whisper, hair bouncing,  lush and well- conditioned, literally cascading down her  back. She wasn’t too sure about her bottom or her thighs but she was sure her hair was something he could feast his eyes on. Something he was probably feasting his eyes on.

Of course, dear reader, there was a serpent in this Eden (no, it was not Mrs Chinappa) and she made her appearance soon. She was one smooth snake, with a lissom figure, glossy curls balanced artfully atop her head and skewered to her shapely skull with what looked like a cocktail stick. What was more unfair, she dressed in a positively madcap fashion, nothing It girl about this one. Her track suit bottoms were lurid yellow or red, her tees never matched. But Diya saw the woman’s breasts bouncing in those tees and understood.

Because the man saw those bouncing breasts, too. And while Diya could not see any undue fascination on his part, he did seem quite taken. One thing, though, they seemed to be old friends. They talked in low tones as they walked, fast- faster- faster still, side by side, an occasional laugh escaping both of them. The woman tossed her curly head flirtatiously at him, and he grinned in appreciation. Once when Diya drew abreast, she heard them talk of socks. She didn’t actually catch anything of their low-voiced conversation but she did catch the word `socks.` Two words actually: smelly socks. Were they married? To each other? Otherwise, why would they be talking about smelly socks of all things? Divya’s mystification deepened. This unhappy state of affairs continued for more than two months. It was indeed the winter of Diya’s discontent.

In (mild) desperation, Diya turned to her friend Maya. Maya had a guru who she said performed  (discreet) black magic on Maya’s enemies. Right now, Maya was considering naming and shaming her mother- in- law as an enemy and leaving that  hapless woman’s fate in the guru’s capable hands. Diya was tempted. Very tempted. The snake in the park could perhaps break a leg, break it badly and in compound fashion, so that she’d never walk again. No, Diya hastily if silently amended, of course she would walk again, but not in this park. This park would always hold bad memories for the woman. (Diya was not a malicious or seriously evil person, dear reader. She was just a self-centred individual. Very self-centred.)

However, when push came to shove, Diya did not go to Maya’s guruji. The woman did not break a leg. She just slithered away, she did not appear in the park again. Maybe she had emigrated abroad, Diya thought on a wave of relief. If they had indeed been married, the man did not seem to miss or grieve for the woman, at all. In fact, Diya noticed a new josh to his step.

And now, every time their eyes met, he’d smile. At Diya. ``Be still, dil,`` she’d tell her beating heart and smile back. She took to practicing different smiles: the slow seductive one, the million-rupee one, the flashbulb, the enigmatic one, the subtle come-hither one. And she expended all those smiles on the man, and he seemed most appreciative. 

Diya knew she was on the fast track when she noticed the man slowing his pace down whenever she was in the vicinity. When they drew abreast, he’d smile a greeting and walk alongside her. For a bit,  but even that was significant. Okay, things were moving now.

The man made the first move, just like men should in Diya’s book. It was an autumn evening, the air was spiked with a sharp chill. The trees were swaying like a gale was stirring things up amidst them. The golden rods glowed a bright orange. The mahua tree in the park suffused the air with a heady sweetness. The man spoke. ``You,`` he told Diya. ``You are amazing. I’ve watched you walk all your weight away. What willpower! We should enter the Walkathon, what do you say?"
Or at least, that’s what Diya imagined he was saying. Tragically, Diya’s English just wasn’t up to an answer, any kind of answer.

Short Story 2014 Longlist, Sayujya Sankar

An Incomplete Building
 

When she had first spotted the cordoned-off zone of the construction site, Vishakha had tentatively stepped across the rubble and squatted behind the parapet-wall trying to snatch a moment to herself. She sat amidst the stone and mud, taking in the smells, the sound of the evening traffic and watching the chaos in front of her. It had been empty, with the earth up-turned. The empty mess seemed to soothe her nerves. She closed her eyes and allowed the tears to flow.

She had been sitting there for quite some time, her tears dried up against her cheeks, when she heard a noise. By now, the sun was a glowering red. She looked up and saw a slender-framed, but well-built man stubbing a beedi , walking questioningly towards her. He wore a dark, earth-stained pant and a towel was tied in a turban around his head.

“Who let you in? You can’t enter this zone,” he snapped in Tamil, sounding annoyed. He had taken out another beedi and searched his pant pockets for a matchbox. Not finding one, he cursed. Vishakha flicked out her lighter and held up the flame to him. His eyes registered surprise, but unquestioningly, he accepted her light. Noticing the flicker of astonishment her face broke into a sudden grin as she lit a cigarette for herself as well.

“You work here?” she responded with a question. He nodded taking a deep drag, as though he was letting all the tension in the world out in a puff of smoke.
“What is coming up? An apartment?” Another nod.
“How long have you worked here?” she asked, not really knowing why she was pursuing a one-sided conversation.

“Construction? Five years,” he responded.
“Before that?” now she was just curious.
“Finished twelfth.” Before she could respond, however, he stubbed his beedi and continued, still in Tamil, “It’s late. You cannot be here!”
She was annoyed but decided to leave.

The next evening, just to see whether the construction was starting anytime soon, Vishakha went to the site again. But before entering, she heard a bunch of men shouting to each other and the various sounds of construction-sites- the pounding hammer, spade against mud and the stacking of bricks- filled her ear. She was about to leave, when she heard a voice behind her.
“Why do you keep coming here?” he asked.

“It’s on my way back home. And, plus, it’s a nice place to smoke before heading back!” she quipped. “Unga paer enna?” What’s your name? she asked the construction-worker.
“Mani. Neenga?” You? he seemed to put on an impudent air as he asked her.
“Vishakha,” she answered.
“What do you do?” he asked as she took out a pack of Flakes and offered one to him. He shook his head, taking out his beedi, quickly looking to see if he’d be missed at the site.
“I teach. College.” He looked surprised at what she had told. “What? I can’t be teaching?”

He looked sheepish, “No. It’s just… I thought that you might be studying.” She grinned.
“What do you teach?” he asked, curious.
“Physics.” Looking once again at the other workers, he nodded a goodbye to her and went in. Vishakha heard the others yell at him: Mani, you’re always late! Pick up that shovel and start digging.
 
He was not too old, she realised- probably in his mid-twenties. A lot of the other men seemed much older, wrinkles creasing their faces and hands, their beards peppered with shades of grey. There were women, too, the pallu of their saris tucked into their waists, carrying loads of earth on their heads. She watched them as she slowly consumed her cigarette, vaguely enjoying the sounds before leaving. Ever since, whenever she walked by, if he was around they would wave a cordial hello to each other as she passed by, Mani taking a breather in the midst of his work.

A month later, she walked back from work with tears in her eyes again. She felt the weight of the world against her shoulders- a tight, constricting pain against her heart. She wanted to collapse, to give in but she willed herself to walk. One. Foot. In. Front. Of. The. Other. It isn’t that difficult, she whispered to herself. She hugged her bag to her chest, lost in her world of grief when his voice snapped her out of it.

“Ka! Why are you crying? What happened?” Mani called from the parapet-wall. She turned towards the voice, quickly wiping the tears from her eyes.
“Akka? I look like your elder sister?” she responded, pushing her worries to the back of her head. He grinned, offering her a beedi. She took it, grateful for the distraction.
“What? You never work, or what?”
“Illa, ka. Break-time,” he said. Then, quietly, he handed out a lunch box to her. She raised her eyebrows, but opened it. The sweet smells of halwa wafted from it.
“What’s the occasion?” she asked.
“A girl has been born to me,” he said.

“Oh!” Vishakha smiled softly, “I didn’t know you were married! What’s your child’s name?”
“We’ve not named her,” he looked elated. He was still in his dirty, black pants the towel resting next to him. He was wearing a yellowish-white stained, unbuttoned shirt. The wind was whipping up the leaves at Vishakha’s feet.
“And your wife? What’s her name?”
“Kamatchi.”
Vishakha smiled, “I’ll remember,” she said as she waved to him wanting to leave.
“You should come some day and see them!” Mani called out after her and she shouted back, “Definitely!”

The part of a sari that trails over the shoulder

A type of sweet
Kamatchi was a young woman of twenty. She sat at home with her daughter cradled in her arms. She was in a nightie , squatting on the single-cot that was placed at the corner of the room, with her back against the wall. Vishakha took in her surroundings as she squatted beside the mother and child, Mani hovering in the background. The house they stayed in was a shack- something of a makeshift home. There was no current and the stifling stillness of the day was oppressive. Vishakha could smell the fish in the pot on the stove at the other end of the room. Kamatchi was a rather shy woman, Vishakha noticed, but her eyes were extremely expressive. Euphoria played in the blackness of her pupils. Her long, plaited hair reached her waist.

Her daughter was a tiny bundle. The child’s round face was small, her lips bright and gurgling, her eyes were closed, and her tiny wrists were closed into a tight fist, her thumb tucked safely between her other fingers and her palm. Her naming day was to happen the next week, and her parents were excited. She had asked them what they were planning on naming her. Thenmozhi, they said unanimously.
The mother and daughter were being cared for by almost all their neighbours who kept visiting her. A bunch of them would bring food, or sweets or they would come to ask if Kamatchi needed help. Kamatchi’s mother, who had come down to help her with her child for a few days, had just stepped out to meet a neighbour.
Vishakha had bought her favourite kaju kathli and some mangoes to give to the happy couple. They accepted it and almost immediately, Mani brought the sweets and fruits on a plate for everybody to eat. She sat with the family of three, playing with the little girl, and chatting with Mani and Kamatchi about their lives, their little joys and their hardships.

Kamatchi had also worked at construction sites, she found out. That was how Mani had met her. Their relationship had been very sober. Kamatchi had five siblings, all younger than her, and her parents had wanted her to earn for them as well. Mani had offered to provide some of their income for the support of Kamatchi’s family. Mani’s parents died in a fatal bus accident, which forced him to find a job after his schooling, and he got into his father’s profession. Mani was a fighter, Vishakha realised. He would never give up hope and he never held a grudge against destiny.
That afternoon, she ate with them- rice with fish curry and pickle. When she left, she felt an absurd sense of satisfaction with life. That evening, she caught the bus back to her house. Standing outside her building, she looked at the window that was her room. She sighed before entering.

Her walls were a stark colour of plainness, with almost no picture to remind her of her past. A Beatles poster hung in the hall, near a tall lamp-shade. Her kitchen comprised of necessities stacked neatly in a row, compartmentalised into boxes. Her bedroom had a mattress lying on the floor. There was a shelf in the hall with all her books, and the open rack in her room contained her meagre set of clothes.
Vishakha went to her room, started up some music, and then got around to preparing her dinner. Having set the rice and eggs to cook, and the sambar to simmer, she grabbed a book and a small photograph wafted to the floor. She stared at the two faces of a lady and a girl plastered to the floor and she froze. And time froze. And the world around her stopped like a heart-beat.

She was twenty, living with her parents and having a hard time. They did not like the fact that she had so many male friends in her life. They did not like that she would come back beyond eight at night. They didn’t like her choice of clothes, her sense of make-up, the constant phone calls she would receive… She was finding it hard to explain to them that this was her life and that she felt out of place in theirs.

A night-gown

A sweet made of cashews

A type of South Indian stew cooked with vegetables and spices

She got to know Rithek during her post-graduation. They became very close friends and remained so for a long time. They had met a year after their courses had gotten over during their graduation. Vishakha had started her doctorate degree while Rithek had begun a graphics company. They had gotten together over drinks. She had never thought of Rithek as a person she could love- never a person she saw spending the rest of her life with. Yet, in a moment of passion there was a spark of comfort. He was a friend who taught her how it felt to be subsumed in, to be consumed by, and to explore the dark, deep pools of passion… somebody who would probably leave the next morning, whom she would not see again for months on end.
She stood in front of the mirror in her college, her eyes a little blood-shot from having cried briefly in the loo. She was afraid, terrified. She was only twenty-three, she thought dully. She thought of what it would mean to abort her child. And an image of a little head being chopped off, brutally murdered flashed across her eyes. She wondered whether she had the courage to kill it. But even worse, she wondered whether she had the courage to keep it.

She had decided to tell her parents about the man who changed her life completely. Gathering all her courage, she told them that she wanted her child; that she was four months pregnant; that she couldn’t possibly destroy the foetus that bloomed inside her. The quarrel that ensued was a never-ending one. Her father refused to see her again. He would leave before she got up and would come only well into the night. Her mother seemed to her to be a stone wall- emotionless, devoid of care or love or even empathy. She could no longer tolerate the silence. She left. She found herself a single-bedroom apartment in a not-so-prominent locality. When she settled there, having found herself a content-writing job that paid her rent, two months after having broken the news to her parents, she gathered up the nerve to call the father. Rithek picked up her call and the initial enthusiasm in his voice drained as he heard her story. She had never expected him to take responsibility, but she was daft enough not to have realised that it would ruin her friendship. In her eighth month of pregnancy, the father called to say he was getting engaged; that he didn’t want to hear from her again. It suited her well, really. She didn’t need anybody in her life. And yet, she was to be yoked to an infant for the rest of eternity.

Little Rakhi was a year old, and had nobody in her life to play with except her completely anti-social mother. She would listen to her mother’s stories with awe and the moment her lips stopped moving, Rakhi would begin to bawl. Frazzled and exhausted by it all, Vishakha was the happiest, most content human on earth. She shifted her work timings from eight until noon, working the rest of the time from her house. She got so accustomed to multi-tasking, she would only half-focus on the content writing, constantly expecting a cry or a strange silence that could only mean bad news. Coffee was the only source that allowed her to become un-grumpy at one a.m. when Rakhi demanded her love and attention. 
 
Vishakha picked up the photo and smiled, softly shoving it back amongst the books. She went back to her work, trying hard not to remember and trying even harder not to forget.
Vishakha had started weekend visits to Kamatchi and Mani’s house which soon became a part of a routine. She would bring some food over to their place and she would play with their kid. They would play music on her phone and she got to know a lot of the other workers. She found out that their housing was a makeshift one, and that they would leave this place to another one when their construction contract was completed. She couldn’t imagine being constantly on the move like that. She loved the place she had called home, and Mani and Kamatchi’s story made her re-think her concept of home.

Thenmozhi was a vibrant kid. She gurgled with laughter, and when she cried it was enough to bring the skies falling down. She would always grip her mother’s forefinger with all her might, swirling her feet in the air, as her anklets jingled loudly. The months passed and Thenmozhi learnt to flip onto her belly, and push herself across the floor. A few months after her kid was born, Kamatchi went back to the construction site for part-time wages, leaving her daughter with her mother. Vishakha offered to help, but the couple would not hear of it.

Thenmozhi was more than a year old now. Vishakha had thought back to Rakhi’s first birthday. Her shabby apartment had contained nothing; no one except the two of them. Squatting in a corner of the house, holding her child in her arms, she wept miserably for the lack of company her daughter had grown accustomed to. She wept that she couldn’t even provide her a decent birthday. She wept that she had to do it alone, and she wondered if she could manage. Then, gritting her teeth, she got up and decided to make it a memorable day. She had taken her on a stroller to the park nearby. She had tidied up the house for her (just so that Rakhi could mess it up again) and she had snapped pictures with her camera so that she could remember that day as a loving day, as a day of happiness. She had resolved that she would not allow herself the solace of wallowing in her loneliness anymore.
It was the time of semester examinations. The rains had arrived. The roads were flooded, and she had to stride through thigh-deep water in order to reach her house from the bus stop. She had stopped walking by, because of the hassle of the rain water. Her raincoat was barely sufficient. The first paper was over- quantum mechanics. She had just received a bundle of papers to correct. She sat with the television switched on- NDTV news. The words wafted over her head as the papers in front of her filled with red ink. There seemed to have been a commotion on screen. She looked up. There were police, ambulances, workers- everybody screaming, yelling, shouting. A building she had known almost intimately had come crashing down. Thoughts raced through her mind, vying for attention.

It couldn’t have been this afternoon. I would’ve noticed.
Was Mani there? Kamachi? Were they alright?
Should I go there and see?
Should I wait? Find out what they are reporting before heading there?
I should call. Call him.
Switched off. Maybe he didn’t go.
HOW could it just crash? I should go check!
 
Then she saw him. He was being shifted onto a makeshift stretcher. An oxygen mask was being placed on his face. It didn’t seem as though he was breathing at all. His body was partially mangled. His left hand seemed to have been pulverised…

She couldn’t watch anymore. She switched off the television.
She had to do something. She couldn’t sit at home. Alone.
She went to the site. Found out which hospital they had taken the victims to. Victims. What a terrible word! She remembered having read somewhere- the word ‘victim’ was originally Latin. It meant an animal or person sacrificed for the supernatural powers… the gods. Who were these people being sacrificed for? Who god?

The hospital was in utter chaos. She couldn’t find him. She realised she didn’t know his full name. She searched throughout the ward where the patients from the building collapse were brought. He wasn’t there. She thought of Kamachi. She hoped that the wife at least had escaped, though she knew that Kamachi would have also gone to work that day.

She vaguely recollected something that Mani had said. They were going to get their salary that week. He had wanted to get new clothes for Thaenmozhi. With a surge of guilt she thought of the one year old child, not knowing what had happened to her father. She didn’t know what else to do, and so she went back, vowing to herself that she would visit the family the next day after college.

What greeted her eyes was despair. There were families awaiting the news of their loved ones- families whose oppari pierced her like a dagger through her heart. She reached the shack that had been Mani’s and she saw his mother-in-law holding a tiny bundle across her chest and weeping.
She barely understood what she was saying. Wage day, she said. They had been eager to get the money. Clothes, food, special dinner. Then the rains began. They had stood under the concrete ceiling that had come up. Sudden collapse. Both of them… She had promised to visit again, but the lady had stared at her blankly. A week later, after the exams had gotten over and the semester holidays had begun, she went back to Mani’s house, but there was nothing there. The houses had been cleared away. The people had been moved, somebody told her. A new project had come up across town and they had to leave this settlement. They didn’t know where the project was.

She would never know what had happened to them, she realised. An incomplete story. A week later, college had reopened. She had caught the morning bus and had dozed off between stops. On her return, she passed the construction site, now razed to the ground. No workers. The place looked bare. Lifeless. A flash of an image in her mind’s eye. Desperately, pointlessly she tried Mani’s number again. Still switched off. She watched the barren land, as though hoping to glean some information from it. She sat there all evening, smoking cigarettes.

When it was finally dark, she went back home and opened an album with stories of her child. Stories that had stopped. Another half narrative. Incomplete.

A loud wailing that is associated primarily with death

Short Story 2014 Shortlist, Proma Bhattacharjee

Through Her Eyes

Black or beige??
Shit.
For the life of him Arjun could never decide which jacket went best with which shirt.
He tried to mix and match a few more, but each new ensemble made him look more hideous than the one before.

Maybe it’s the shirt, maybe it’s the light or maybe it’s just him.
Divorce proceedings does take its toll on a man, he thought acidly. Wasn’t divorce supposed to affect both partners equally? Doesn’t seem like it though. The last time he had seen Shraddha at the court, she was glowing. The ridiculous haircut suited her, he thought grudgingly. She had not spoken to him; then again he was used to her silences.

For the last 18 months his married life was a scene from a silent movie. No fights, no laughter, no conversations. His apartment was a tomb; his three years of marriage, a rotting corpse.
But what the hell, it was time to move on, to be back in the game.
 He was Arjun Sanyal. With those dreamy eyes and dimpled smile, he had forever been on women’s most wanted list; at least he was before he met his assumed ex better half anyway.
Today at 32, he was the Assistant Manager at a renowned MNC, single and ready to mingle. The fairer sex will come hunting in packs, he thought acerbically.

He did a few more permutations and combinations with his shirts and jackets, then gave up the whole institution altogether. He changed out of his cool grey shirt and chose a pristine white Calvin Klein T-shirt, a pair of well worn blue jeans. And he was ready for the kill.

As Arjun stepped out of his apartment, his phone started vibrating.
“Hello?”
“Hey buddy, you ready?” His colleague and friend Siddharth’s voiced boomed from the other end.
“Yeah, just about.” Arjun assured his friend.
“Don’t be late; you don’t wanna keep a hot woman waiting. You never know, you might get lucky tonight.”  Siddharth chuckled as he signed off.
Arjun smiled and shook his head as he slipped his phone back into his pockets. Siddharth was the walking talking affirmation of the saying “Men only want one thing”.
Then again Rakshanda was seriously hot and any man would be thrilled to get lucky with her. And he was no different, maybe not tonight though.

Starting the engine of his Honda City, he thought about the first time he had made love to Shraddha, her lustrous black hair spread over his pillow framing her beautiful face, her eyes pools of love and desire, her lips swollen with his kisses... He felt a knot in his stomach; he would never see her that way again.

Shaking off the bitter thought he pulled into the main road. She had wanted the divorce, not him. So eager was she to get away from him that she did not even demand a penny as alimony. Who knows, she had probably found a super rich boyfriend or something he thought darkly.
The pub where he was supposed to meet Rakshanda was only a few minutes’ drive. Soon Arjun was pulling into the parking lot. There were already a few cars around, though it was relatively early for the pub to swing into its full colour, which usually happened past 10. Now it was only 9, but Rakshanda had insisted early.

Kaanch was the newest pub in the city catering to the hip, wealthy crowd. It had a dance floor, a huge bar serving vast choice of drinks from all over the world, a stage that boasted fashion shows, unconventional bands and occasional karaoke but the hottest attraction of Kaanch was the hookah bar. Wildly expensive and wildly crowded, Kaanch’s hookah bar seemed to have a perpetual queue. But what really distinguished this pub from the rest was the psychedelic aura that permeated not only in every brick and mortar of the pub but also manifested itself in the crowd.Every person who had crossed the threshold of Kaanch had given themselves up to undiluted hedonism. Hence it went without saying; Kaanch did not entertain below 18 customers.

Arjun made his way through the crowd towards the bar, his favourite place since the last year. He looked around for Rakshanda, but she was nowhere to be seen. Girls!! What on earth gave them the right to be late all the time? Well Shraddha was different, she had never kept him waiting, he thought mechanically.
 His phone buzzed again.

‘Running late. Might not make it .R.’
At least Rakshanda had the decency to send a sms.
Arjun ordered a straight scotch and looked around the pub. The place had really started to fill up; the crowd at the hookah bar was growing bigger by the second. The cosy sofas around the corner were filled with couples rolling in each other’s arms, drowned in liquor.
This was precisely the sort of place Shraddha loathed.
There is a difference between being modern and being shameless. 
 
But this is the kind of place Arjun had frequented during his MBA days. He loved the fag, he loved the booze, and he loved the women. And oddly enough this was the kind of place he had met Shraddha for the first time. He still remembered spotting her across the room, solitary figure among a group of nameless faceless girls, looking distinctly uncomfortable and totally out of place. It was not as if she was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Truth be told, he had already more than his fair share of women but there was something different about this girl. Something that made him want her immediately, not only in his bed but also in his life. He had gone up and spoken to her. She had come with a group of friends to live this experience and was hating every moment of it. The charmer that he was, it did not take him long to coax her number out of her. They had gone on their first date the very next day and before the week was over, they had readily fallen for each other.
Shraddha had filled the vacuum in Arjun’s life that he never realized he even had. Four years they had dated before tying the knot. Shraddha was not only his wife; she was his lover, his best friend. She was his person.

He was not even sure when their fairytale world had started crashing. One year after his wedding he received a great offer from a renowned company; the only catch was that, he had to shift to a new city. Without hesitation Shraddha had given up her job of a graphic designer in Kolkata, because she did not want to have a long distance relationship with her husband.
I’ll find a new job .Nobody stays jobless in Mumbai. She had joked.
“Your drink, sir,” the bartender’s crisp voice brought him back to the present.
Arjun gratefully accepted the drink and took a swig. When the hell did the pub become so crowded!!
 He checked his mobile, 9:30.
First date after seven years and your date is a no show. Just perfect.
“Waiter, a repeat.” At least he could drink himself to death.
Another habit that Shraddha abhorred, and something of late he was gaining expertise at. He had lost track of how many cigarettes he smoked during the day or how many pegs he downed after work. Yeah, he was becoming a pathetic loser. Work was the only thing keeping him sane.
“Move your sorry ass over will ya??”
What the hell. Arjun was sure he had heard her wrong.
“EXCUSE ME??”
“Unless you are Brad Pitt or the pub owner, I suggest you scoot over and let other people sit. This sofa is a public property.” This was definitely not Rakshanda.
The three glasses of scotch and the psychedelic atmosphere had already gotten to him. Feeling little unsteady he shifted slightly to his right, not knowing how to shoo away this lean figure in black.
Time to finish his drink and head off, but guzzling scotch quickly was simple as gulping acid.
“What’s the hurry pretty boy? Got a train to catch?” the husky voice was getting on Arjun’s nerves.
Arjun contemplated leaving the drink behind but decided against it. Couldn’t he manage to put up with one annoying female for a few minutes?
He checked his mobile again for messages and seeing none he signalled the waiter for the check.
“Date stood you up?” the voice probed again.
“Have you heard of a little thing called mind your own business?” Where the hell was the waiter?
“ Ooo touchy are we? Here is a girl hitting on a guy and he tells her to mind her own business. Talk about weird.”
“A word of advice, when you plan on hitting on a guy, don’t start off by referring to his sorry ass. Never works” Arjun shot back.
“Either that, or I am losing my touch, marriage does that to you” the husky voice turned hoarse for a nano second.
For the first time Arjun turned his head and looked her squarely in the face. It was hard to make out her features in the dance of light and shadows but she did not look unattractive, rather there was something oddly familiar about her.
Against his better judgement Arjun asked her cautiously “You married?”
“Nah not anymore. Why? You into married women or something?” she asked lightly.
“Not anymore.” Arjun said simply.
She was quiet for some time. 
“Wanna buy me a drink?”
Arjun hesitated for a second then ordered her vodka and another scotch for himself. The waiter who had so mysteriously disappeared minutes ago was all over the place now.
 “So how does it feel to be damaged goods?” She asked suddenly.
“Damaged?? hardly.” Arjun snorted. “Her loss you know. I was the best goddamn husband.” He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice.
I can’t live like this anymore Arjun.
Live like what?
She never told him.
“So she left you huh!! Shame! You are a really pretty fella.”  She was studying him over the rim of the glass.
Suddenly his irritation was back. What was he doing here pouring his personal life out to a complete stranger?
“My husband was a handsome man too you know. But I left him.” Arjun was not sure if she was talking to him, or to herself.
It was none of his business. Why can’t she go and yap somewhere else?
“Why?”
“Because... I could not live like that anymore.”
The air outside was deliciously cool. How long has it been since he had actually stood in the open air at night simply enjoying the night, the stars, the sliver of moon, the breeze...
Miss husky voice was still throwing up near the curb.
He regretted the thousandth time for bringing her outside.
“If you are claustrophobic, why go into a pub at all?” Arjun asked the girl who seemed to have emptied all the contents of her stomach and was now looking pale like a ghost.
“It’s the alcohol..I... I have low tolerance” She told him feebly.
“Help me out here, you have low alcohol tolerance yet you had about three large pegs back there....” Arjun could not bite back his amusement.
The glare she shot him should have incinerated him right on the spot if the adage “looks could kill” was to be taken literally.
“Be the sarcastic jackass you want to be. That’s what you guys are good at anyway”. She told him acidly.
“Back off your temper train honey, you don’t even know me. And if you have forgotten, I was the one who brought you out here when you started hyperventilating.” Arjun told her calmly.
It looked like she was about to argue again but she just leaned back against the lamppost and closed her eyes.
Lighting up a cigarette he studied the girl covertly. She was rather thin and pale. The dark circles below her eyes made her face look gaunt. Her hair was frizzy and rough. Arjun again had the strange feeling of déjà vu. He was sure he had never met her before, but the sense of familiarity was more powerful than ever.
“Where do you live?” He asked her softly.
She opened her eyes and studied him for sometime, a crooked smile dancing on her lips.
“What did you have in mind pretty boy?” Arjun did not miss the insinuation in her question.
“The name is Arjun and you can think all you want, but I just wanted to drop you home. Leaving a sick girl alone in a place like this is not something I want to go home with.”
She was silent awhile.
“Colaba. It’s an hour’s drive from here. Still feeling philanthropic?”
“Wait here, I will bring the car.”
Ten minutes later Arjun was pulling into the main road with Miss husky voice by his side.
Mumbai at night was not really different from that of day. Traffic was heavy 24/7 in this city. But today for some reason it was lighter.
He drove silently for 10 minutes; the girl was quiet for once.
 “I miss this you know.”
Arjun sighed. Why did she always have to say the weirdest things?
“Miss what?”
“The long drives, in the starry starry nights.” Her voice sounded far away.
 “Hate to rain on your parade, but this is the first time I am driving you, in a starry starry night.” Arjun told her flippantly.
She was again silent for some time.

“Every weekend we used to go out, just the two of us. No work, no responsibilities, just us. We would go to all the out of the way places. Try new things. It was beautiful. Then suddenly he did not have time anymore”
We haven’t gone anywhere since the last seven-eight months Arjun. You need a break, I need a break. Please just try to make it this time.
“Maybe he had too much work. It’s not easy to go backpacking with pending work.” Arjun was not sure who he was trying to reason with.
“Yeah, I know. That’s what he said. I understood you know. But don’t you think it should be relatively easy to come home to your wife on weekends?”
Arjun I understand you have a big project going on but I hardly get to see you nowadays. You come home late at nights, leave early. At least have lunch at home on Sundays.

“So you think your husband enjoyed spending less time with his wife. You know what, you women think we do it on purpose but that’s not it. Sometimes we have no choice.”
“So you think you men have no choice when they choose their boss’s dinner party over their wives’ birthday?”
I thought we could spend some time together, at least today...

Maybe sometimes you just have no choice. And why do you think your husband was working his ass off? He wanted to give you all the happiness in the world.”
Arjun was not even sure when his voice had rose an octave, when he had started sweating profusely, when he had started feeling all sick inside.

“What kind of happiness? The one called family; Husband, children. Or the kind that you buy for money?? ” her mirthless laughter was filled with derision.
I don’t want your money Arjun. I just want a divorce.
Arjun suddenly hit the brakes and the car running at 80 km/hrs skidded to a jerking halt. The insides of the car had become unbearably hot and he felt asphyxiated beyond reason. Opening the car door Arjun almost tumbled out on the empty road. All the emotions he had bottled up in his heart came gushing out.

 All the hurt he had repressed when he had seen tears in her eyes, not realizing that he was the only one who could wipe it; the pain he had felt when she told him she wanted divorce; the thousand deaths he had died when she had walked away from his life.
 Trembling uncontrollably, he sobbed over and over again,
“I am sorry, I am so sorry.”

He could not live like this either, he could not live without her. He did not want to live without her.
Arjun was not sure how long he had sat in that road. A gentle pressure on his shoulder made him look into the dark sad eyes of the girl who had just told him his own story.
“I see there is some place you need to be. You better get there.” She smiled and started walking.
Arjun looked at the retreating figure and suddenly remembered something.
“Hey!!! You never told me your name.”
The girl turned around briefly and smiled again.
“Shraddha.”  And she vanished into the darkness.

Arjun did not believe in the supernatural, he did not believe in divine intervention. Maybe this was just a coincidence. Or maybe he just witnessed the story called life. Maybe the world had thousands of Arjuns and Shraddhas. Some loved and lived, some loved and lost. Some told each other their feelings some did not. Some were forgiven, some eternally cursed. Some got the chance to make things right, some did not. But he did and he will.
He looked up at the star studded sky again and remembered the song he and his Shraddha used to sing.

Starry, starry night
Paint your palette blue and grey...
Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
...How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they'll listen now.

ShortStory 2014 Shortlist, Parul Jauhari

A Minute

2245 hrs: He was sitting with his friends. They sat and joked about the new professor of pediatric surgery. Turns out he looked like a rough and tough retired army colonel, but he carried a baby pink cell-phone. It was hilarious! They kept trying to keep a straight face in the lecture hall today too, but every time they saw the professor’s cell-phone, they had to bite their lips to avoid smirking. And now, after a couple of beers, the smirk had given way to vulgar guffaws as they howled away.

2246 hrs: She sat at the desk. It was about time she cleared her cupboard. Especially the bottom-most shelf! It had been years that she’d even seen what was inside. Every time she opened her cupboard, a mere look at it bothered her. But the bundles of paper piling out looked threatening, and she always managed to look away. Well, not today! A clear cupboard is a sign of a clear mind, and God knows she needs that!

2300 hrs: His laughter became a little forced as he glanced at the clock surreptitiously. My God, his friends did turn into complete jackasses after two pints! The joke had finished being funny about ten minutes ago. Now it was only the alcohol causing the laughter, and he wasn’t so inebriated. He pretended to look at his wristwatch and lied, “Chalo, I am going to my room now. Need to do some work for the pharma lecture tomorrow.” 

“Look at Mr. Punter here! Abbey, sit back and relax man. What will you do studying so much of pharma?”, said Jackass Number 1.
“Arre, let him go.  He wants to top the batch and become a professor. Then he can carry a cute little baby pink cell-phone too!”, said Jackass Number 2.
He gave them a grin. It was moments like these when he wondered how on earth he came to be friends with these gregarious apes. Well, they were brilliant chaps when sober. When sober… that was the problem- they hardly ever were. Shaking his head slowly, he left for his room.

2301 hrs: “Aaaahchooo!” She knew she should have cleared the shelf earlier. Not only was the dust suffocating her, her insides squirmed at the thought of all the creatures that had made her untidy shelf a home. Already, two small spiders had been found and thrown into the dustbin, and now as she put her hand in, she just hoped no rat babies lay within its grasp.
The rats had decided to bless her with their absence, and so finally, the last book came out safely. She looked at the mess of school books, diaries and papers that lay on the bed now and at once repented the fact that she took up the challenge.
“Never put off until tomorrow, what you can do the day after tomorrow”, she quoted to herself; smiling as she remembered Mark Twain’s famous quote on procrastination.

2315 hrs: He felt a sense of peace and solitude as he closed the door of his hostel room behind him. How he loved the silence of the room at the end of each day! Ironically, he had chosen to stay in a hostel to avoid the eerie silence at home. Silence which gave his mind enough space to remember things he never wanted to even think about. And yet, by the end of each day, he grew tired of the constant chattering between friends. The fun seemed more forced, the laughter became more feigned and his friends seemed more like strangers who would never know what he truly was.
At the end of the day, he yearned for the very thing he had run away from.
‘You can run away from the darkness, but your shadow will always follow you.’

2316 hrs: Tired of sifting through notes, she now turned to the diaries. As she picked up the big red one kept in the corner of the bed, a class photo fell down. Her high school class photograph. She shuddered as she looked at herself in the photograph. How horrid she’d looked! Two of her could now fit into that old school blazer! She remembered how much she hated that school for the very same reason. It is difficult enough to go into high school as a ‘new kid’. It is pure hell to go through it being obscenely fat and unfashionable! Even though a high-schooler is mature enough, she vaguely remembered having fantasies of bombing the place or at least hoping for a localized earthquake strong enough to demolish the place.
 
“Even now I wouldn’t mind using a death ray on some of my ‘classmates’”, she thought laughingly.
And then she saw an impish face in the photograph… It was Him. She smiled as she remembered every incident about Him as if it were just yesterday. That first day in class when she entered a noisy class full of strangers. Either people stared, or they were too preoccupied, as she chose an empty seat to sit on. Only one person came forward. It was Him.
“Hi!” he said.
“Hi, I’m Aditi”.
“I’m Prachit.”
“Did you say Rachit?” she asked doubtfully.
“No, PRACHIT!” he shouted over the din, still bearing his impish grin.

2330 hrs:  His cellphone glowed in the dark. An sms. “Oye, want to go to the Parantha Point?” He stared blankly at the message. He should probably go. Being with friends is better than lying here alone. But something inside him squirmed at the thought of going outside and sitting there with friends, kidding around and laughing. Because that’s what he would eventually do. Even in the most depressed of moods, he joked. Especially in the most depressed of moods, he joked. It was like a protective armor, to hide from people what he was really like. He hated that habit of his. He sometimes wanted to tear off that armor, to tear off that grin from his face, but it had become what he was. An armor. And he was trapped underneath it.

He remembered reading somewhere that even if you think you have a chance to smile for one more time,  that is a reason for you to live. And he believed in it. And so, even if everyday seemed to be a struggle, he fought for survival. And yet, he felt so tired. So… isolated. He was surrounded by friends, but he still yearned for that one person who would understand him. That one person who would bother to look underneath the armor. His problems had no solution. But maybe that one person could make it seem alright to have those problems.
He’d waited for 26 years. That person never came. And now, he just wanted to be at peace. He wanted to go home… and yet, he didn’t know where home was.

2331 hrs:  He turned out to be the most popular boy in high school. But unlike most ‘popular’ students, he was actually popular for being a good guy. As high school slowly turned into a ‘hell of ragging’, he was the only one who helped. If notes had to be borrowed, he was the first to offer his. If a teacher was being rude, his quiet joke from behind her bench would make her smile again. In fact, he actually saved her from so many awkward and embarrassing situations. The impish grin never left his face, whether he was helping you out, or pulling a girl’s hair. He pulled her hair too. She pretended to get angry, but secretly, it felt nice to be treated a part of the class. Even now, he hadn’t lost his habit. He kept posting silly statuses on facebook, but whenever she posted a sad one, he’d message to find out the reason.  
 
He was her first crush. The reason she started taking care of how her hair looked. Whether a clip looked better, or a rubber-band. The thought of such a silly thing made her laugh even now!
She had always wanted to tell him how much she liked him. But he was so popular. Always surrounded by friends. Always fooling around. After high school ended, she thought of meeting him again, but she wanted to be perfect for him. So the meeting was always put off for a time when she ‘lost just 2 more kgs’. Then he became a doctor, so she put off the meeting for just one more year till she ‘became something’.
But one day, she had promised herself, she’d tell him how much she cared for him.
As she looked into the photograph and saw his laughing face, she decided…
That day was today.

2357 hrs: He tossed and turned restlessly in his bed…
 It just wasn’t worth it. All the struggle. All the haunting silence. All the loneliness.
He sat up in his bed, and saw the small ampoule on his desk.
Everybody says taking your own life is sin. But ironically, no one cares when you are alive.
“And no one will care when I’m dead.”
He filled the drug into a syringe. A lethal amount, lethal enough to kill him painlessly in ten seconds…

2358 hrs: She reached out for her cellphone. Smiling, she typed into it quickly,
“Hi. Do you want to meet up tomorrow? There’s something I want to tell you.”
2359 hrs: And he injected the drug into his vein.
0000 hrs: And she pressed SEND.

ShortStory 2014 Shortlist, Naman Sharma

THE BEAUTIFUL VAMPIRE

Is this what I look like?
Vladimir asked the question in the gentlest of tones, the softest he could manage.
He remained unchanged, as the sketch artist in front of him crumbled under his crashing feelings. Vladimir noted each line as it creased or relaxed, every facial muscle, every nerve that twitched. The elated young drawer gleaming a moment ago, beaming with ecstasy, having completed a portrait before his peers and competition, suddenly found himself broken and dejected.
A question like this meant the drawing was not appreciated.

A question like this meant no tip.
A question like this was routine.

Vladimir did not expect a response, but he did hope for one.  For once he hoped, he wished, he almost prayed…
But nothing came.

The artist just stood there holding his sketch book in one hand, a pencil in the other; his eyes staring into his drawing, his focus nowhere near it. It was a look both of them were accustomed to.
The boy’s lips were murmuring, or perhaps trying to murmur something out: thinking of the best way to say it. The dry lips of the young man worked at angles, perhaps trying to hide an expression, maybe trying to shield a smile, perhaps attempting to frame a response.

Vladimir’s blankness gave way to a smile, a faint curve on his lips. He took the sketch book from the boy’s hand, tore off the sheet with his drawing on it. 
Holding the translucent paper to the skies, he looked up to the sun, cracking out from behind the clouds, rising up from the horizon, crawling up on the nose of his sketch.
The sketch was nothing impressive: the shading was abrupt, the line flow was uneven, the strokes were messy; but somehow the result was… impressive, intriguing. The amateur had produced a sketch coherent with Vladimir’s vision.

A big currency note went into the boy’s shirt pocket as Vladimir turned around and started walking away. The boy hesitated, as he pulled out the note, stuttering out something. But Vladimir did not bother to hear that the amount was too much or that the boy had no change to give back. He had started walking back to the city, away from the shore, tightly gripping the drawing.
 His smile had grown into a grin.

Vladimir entered his room in his usual unhurried manner; noticing every click as he turned the key, every twitch of the gears as he opened the door ajar, every spick of dust particle floating in the air tyndall-ing under the seeping sunlight through a tiny opening in the wall across the door.
All the walls were covered with paintings, drawings, sketches. Black and white attempts of a face, shaded outlines of a man, grim colours painted into a dull solitary figure.  

He walked up to the tiny opening in the wall across; a small rectangular remain of the window underneath. The gleaming sunrays hit his face hard, burning his cheek.


The burning skin did not deter him, the smell of flesh crisping did not trouble, as he ripped of all the sketches covering the window. The charcoal sketch from the market, the soot painting from a previous decade, the wood inscribed frame etched in a different era. They were all redundant now.
His face burning, the heat transferred through his veins and travelled down to the body. Vladimir did not care.
He flicked off some tape from a discarded sketch and pasted his newest acquisition, the morning sketch, at the centre of the window.

The boy stared at the big man walking away.
His face felt warm, whether under the rising sunlight or through emotion, he was not sure.
He glanced to the sketch book in his hand, the remains of the improperly torn page fluttering in the mild breeze.
The boy had learnt another invaluable lesson this morning. His mum was right, get up early and witness amazing things.

He had eased on the wrinkling forehead, erasing out majority of the creases on Vladimir’s face. The nose which was too big and seated, had to be trimmed and diminished appropriately. The receding hair line was brought up just enough to give the impression of maturity and not old age. He had held his pen delicately as he held on the protruding ears and trimmed their span. As he had swept his pencil for the beard, he had reduced the stress just enough to provide a proper shadow of darkness, not a dense black cloud. The lips had been normal, he was not good at drawing them anyway.
He had made the beast a gentleman.
He had made Vladimir beautiful.

He was just another imager, who gave someone a false sense of his prettiness through measured artistry.
He gave the old ugly man a reason to go back home elated.

Seated in front of the window, Vladimir stared at his face, in the sketch. The sun had invaded the morning sky and was burning wildly. His face’s skin was brunt, his neck was rotting, as the flames slowly flowed through the light downward. The glaring stream of light pierced his face like a demon’s sword spitting venom, as it corrupted his unholy body.
The blood he had stolen, robbed, bought, raped, murdered for, spilled down to the floor; red-ing the torn off sketches and paintings lying under his feet.
His face burnt off, Vladimir thought he was smiling, at least he tried with what he thought were the remains of his facial muscles, as the fire consumed him entirely.

 

He did not move.
Thank you, son.
I die a beautiful vampire.
I die beautiful.

Short Story 2014 Shortlist, Madhumita Gupta

The Performance

She viewed herself as critically as ever and found her make-up flawless. Not even the eyes, trained to detect the tiniest imperfections, the eyes who would be there this evening, would be able to find anything amiss.

It had, after all, taken her years to master the art.
She then chose her outfit for the day with deliberate care – a black chiffon sari with Swaroski crystals, guaranteed to catch and reflect all the lights and hopefully deflect any penetrating eyes from her face.

Not that she wasn’t equal to any number of stares, but the sari would help. Definitely. She chose the solitaire dangler, Kumar’s latest offering, as her only ornament for the same reason. Just the size would make them gasp. She would be performing after a long gap, after all, and could do with all the help her accessories could provide.

Having dressed immaculately, true to her ‘style-icon’ status, she glanced at the clock - a few more minutes to kill. Should she risk a quick shot, just to help calm her frayed nerves? But Aparajita, Jita to friends, decided against it, she needed her wits around and a drink might cloud her mind.  Vimala, her trusted aide ever since childhood,  had come to check on her, found everything ok and slipped out.

She could hear the cars now and high-pitched laughter. She smiled to herself, how well she knew these peals of false laughter now- and wondered what had brought on this one - mirth or malice? She rather thought it would be the latter.
*

All the eyes turned to her and the cameras started flashing madly the moment she appeared on the top of the graceful staircase leading to the glittering hall below – her stage, all set for the unscripted drama.

She felt a surge of adrenaline. Any vestige of stage - fear she had expected, evaporated. Her lines came out natural, she extemporized with confidence. Her well- rehearsed soliloquy about the accident, recovery and her husband’s round-the-clock loving vigilance all these months, had many an eye misty. Ably supported by the ensemble cast of her husband, ma-in-law, sis-in-law and brother, she knew she had been an unequivocal success. But the last act, the climactic sequence still remained.
Later, she mingled with the guests, the veritable who’s who of the showbiz - the most successful of directors, among them Varun Bareth, the National awardee, in his trade-mark blue jeans and a checked shirt; the writer duo Amjad- Zayed, in their sparkling white kurta-pyjama; the shimmering starlets flocking and chirping like so many colorful birds, fawning around Kumar, as sickeningly usual as ever and the reigning queen, Sreelata watching everything from her perch on the bar-stool.
And then there was everybody who was anybody in the media, watching her every move like hawks. The most prominent and the most ruthless among them - Devina, ‘of Star-World’, was smiling beatifically, her claws sheathed at present, but Jita knew she would be the first one to pounce at the slightest lapse on her part.

This was the moment she should make the most of.
Nodding, smiling and waving gaily Aparajita made her way towards Sree, knowing very well that many eyes were following her intently.
“A coke, please,” she settled on the stool next to Sree and smiled at her.
“All recovered, I see,” Sree commented dryly.
“Your wishes, his care,” she said, noticing from the corner of her eye that Kumar had managed to disentangle himself from the simpering females and was walking towards them, only a slight something in his eyes giving his tension away.
Both the ladies, both equally good actresses, smiled up as he reached them. He put his arms around Jita’s shoulders, ever the loving husband and Jita reached out to hold Sree’s hand. As they’d all known it was the perfect photo-op which none of the photographers present, would miss unless he wanted to be kicked out of his job.

 Almost blinded by the flashes, Jita leaned over and whispered to Sree, “Just a few more minutes of this, then we needn’t see each-other ever again in our lives.”
Devina ambled over, the untouched glass in her hands, “What a pretty sight!” she drawled, “I take it there was no truth in the rumors, then?”
The two ladies smiled at each-other, “What do you think?” Jita asked, “you guys should be in fiction rather than reporting, no?”
Devina took the barb sportingly, “One has to live! So these rumors don’t disturb you?”
“Ummhmm…no, not any more, I know Kumar too well”
“And Sree how do you feel about Kumar?”

“I respect him tremendously as a senior and honestly, these stories about Kumar ji and myself were nauseating, to say the least. I was so honored when he chose me for his last movie….. don’t mind, Devina, you guys almost managed to spoil it…”

“And for the records, Devina, it was I who suggested Sree’s name, she’s the brightest star of the day and suited the role to the T,” added Aparajita with a challenging glitter in her eyes.
“How utterly sweet!” and with that Devina moved away, apparently satisfied.

“Happy?” Aparajita asked archly later in her chilly bedroom, “your reputation is intact now – the blameless family –man Kumar!” her solitaires clattered angrily on the glass- topped dressing table.
“You didn’t do it for me, you did it for your father, ok?” Kumar stopped in the process of shaking his tie loose.
“Yes, the one who was foolish enough to invest his life’s savings on his son-in-law’s magnum opus, thinking that would buy his daughter’s happiness!” Jita shot back moving towards her queen -sized bed, “yes, I value his life much more than your ‘image’. Our break-up would’ve broken his old-fashioned heart. But all the same, the next time you lay a finger on me, Kumar….I go straight to the police and…..”
“Are you, my dear, threatening me?” Kumar said silkily.

“Not really….just letting you know how things are…. Mr. Ved Prakash, my lawyer, if you remember, has this….”
 Aparajita, from her brief career as an actress, knew the importance of well - placed pause.
She continued, “…. letter in duplicate, one of which goes to the court and the second one straight to the media, namely, Devina, if anything happens to me, is that clear?”
“And” she continued, “I’ve put in every little thing which so far I’ve helped you hide from media in it…”
“Don’t be silly! Why would I do anything? I… I really love you, you know,” Kumar muttered, going red. Aparajita had successfully taken the wind off his sails.
“Right,” Aparjita switched off the lights. Kumar knew he had been dismissed. Head hanging low, he left, closing the door softly.
*
A lifetime of pretences, Aparajita lay thinking. She hadn’t known she’d have to continue acting even after leaving films - hiding her bruises as well as her heart, camouflaging his flings with warm smiles, calling them the media’s flights of fancy, putting up appearances as the most contented and happiest wife in Bollywood ……….all the time. The price of being a trophy wife!
Only at this time of the night, in the solitude of her room could she remove the mask and sink in an exhausted, dreamless sleep. Recovering for the next day’s performance.
A pity there were no Oscars for these flawless performances every day.