Showing posts with label short story 2014 shortlist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story 2014 shortlist. Show all posts
Wednesday, 15 October 2014
Monday, 15 September 2014
Short Story 2014 Shortlist, Shravya Gunipudi
If Only
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.
Short Story 2014 Shortlist, Proma Bhattacharjee
Through Her Eyes
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...
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.
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.
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.’
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.
“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.
He did not move.
Thank you, son.
I die a beautiful vampire.
I die beautiful.
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.
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.
Thank you, son.
I die a beautiful vampire.
I die beautiful.
Short Story 2014 First Prize, Amit Shankar Saha
Candy
Already in this short beginning a good number of contradictions have cropped up, so I must forewarn the reader that there are more to follow. This story is of contradictions. Full of it. Or, for some it might appear just straight forward. The reader has to make his / her choice. And no longer will I ask you to make your choice - you have to do so of your own volition. Reader, you are free to do so whenever the need arises. Whenever there is a contradiction -whenever there is a choice to make.
But I can already see the reader getting perplexed and wanting to know that if the child, no no no no, the boy is the narrator then what I was doing there when the boy was standing there. I was waiting to see just what the boy was waiting to see. And it is the boy who is the real narrator. But since he is hardly ten years old and has a very weak vocabulary, I vocabularise (permit my neologism) what we see through his eyes. No, no, don’t contradict that he is a mannequin of sorts. He is the only narrator of this story. No, contradictions about that.
So, now to start the story. But the story has already started for the boy has already seen her showering the flowers while I was busy explaining contradictions. Now don’t read ‘showering the flowers’ as ‘flowering the showers’ and imagine any erotic scene. I appeal to you not to imagine your own inane contradictory images. Whatever inanity will follow will come solely through my pen. Your imagination should come to my muse’s den and not to any other god-forsaken lair. Anyway the boy is not peeping into a bathroom but into a garden. As for him being a voyeur or not, is up to you to choose as the story progresses. So she was watering the plants in her garden. As flowers were all around her. And she manoeuvred to water the plants in the last row; the pollen grains yellowed the stretched salwar on her bum. She kept on watering the plants unaware of both, her yellowed bum and that peeping Tom whom since the beginning we have named by a common noun and called just ‘the boy’.
After she finished her work she washed her hands and feet with the little water that remained in the water-can and then went in, can in hand. But the can returned back to the garden; hurled out, bang, crash, hurt. It hurt our little narrator on the right knee and he limped back home. He might have hurt his left knee. I can’t remember clearly. But he limped back home.
Yes the boy has a home. He is not one of those aloof narrator about whom you won’t know anything even after reading the whole story. He is the neighbour of the woman who bathed the flowers and the flowers in turn painted her bum. Or, that is to say he is the only child of her neighbours. We elders always assert our superiority on the youngsters by calling them ‘child’ but for that we are not going to rename or nickname ‘the boy’ as ‘the child’. That would be too childish. So the son of her neighbours might have got a good scolding from his father or mother for hurting his left or right knee. But we won’t care for that because not even the boy cared for it. He will remain with his limp till the very end of this story. By this you must have guessed that the time span of this story is not months or years but just a few days. Maximum two weeks, a fortnight. Not more than that. And we are going to skip a lot of unhappening days along with their details. Neither I have any patience to write a long story and I hope nor do you have the patience to read it. Or, you might have the patience. But I don’t.
We find the boy a couple of days later standing just where we found him standing a couple of days ago. She was again watering the flowers. Unlike the limp of the boy, the injury (remember the can) on the left or right side of her forehead has healed. Or it might not have healed. Nobody asked her about it. Her husband came out and walked out.
Her husband was a Christian by faith and a teacher by profession in the school where our narrator, the boy, studied. She was a Hindu girl but they were in love. So they married and she changed her religion. She found no difficulty in changing from Hinduism to Christianity but she found it absolutely impossible to change from salwar to skirt. The dozens of skirts that her husband bought for her lay unused and she always wore the few salwars she had from her unmarried days. What one gets used to, like habits, die hard. It should not be surprising that had Adam and Eve instead of covering bottoms in shame for their sin had covered their faces then just to maintain status quo generations after generations and civilizations after civilizations would have devised ingenious undergarments for our faces and we would have been wearing them now. And we would have felt utterly embarrassed to pull the under wear from our faces in front of anybody except our mates. Or not even in front of our mates. So she always wore salwars with yellow bottoms. And her husband hated that, though he had fallen in love with a salwar-clad girl only.
The boy watched her finish her work and go in, can in hand.
This time the water can did not come out again as her husband was not
at home. The boy stealthily entered the garden, up the couple of steps,
on the verandah, and started peering through the slight-parted curtain
on the left or right side of the door. He saw her cleaning a mirror
and swinging her yellow bottom, rightleftrightleft, until she caught
the boy’s eye in the mirror and turned around suddenly. Seeing the
unexpected turn of event as well as the woman, he became frozen and just
could not move his legs. He felt as if his limp was cured but his legs
were paralysed. She came towards him, smiled and as she opened her
mouth to say something, he suddenly found enough strength to move his
legs and he ran away. Nononono. How can he run? He has a limp. So he
limped away. And just out of the garden he collided with a candy-wallah
called Holiday Singh. He used to sell ‘bombai mithai’.
And now for the first time we are going to have an exception to the rule. What we have professed at the beginning as a rule will now have an exception. The boy instead of reacting will now act in our story but for a minute time, hardly a minute. He will have a conversation with this newly arrived figure called Holiday Singh, the candy-wallah.
“Eh munda! Why are you running from your house like this?”
“My house. Yes. Oh! Running.”
“Have you got hurt?”
“Oh! Uh! Ya. No. No.”
“Ooo, you are limping. Let me take you to your mother.”
“Oh! No. I’ll go.”
“Oye, where to? Go home. And don’t tell that the candy-wallah Holiday Singh hurt you. You bumped into me, not I. Take this boy.”
The boy took the small piece of candy and again entered the garden from where he had limped out a few moments ago. No women with yellow bums were waiting for him there. After the candy-wallah Holiday Singh was gone he again slipped out of the garden. He vowed never to peep through the door again. The windows were okay. They were outside the garden. He went home, candy in hand. Whether he ate the candy or threw it away I don’t know but for the next three / four days he did not go to school due to severe tooth ache. But I found out that every month he used to have tooth ache. But that is another matter.
Three or four days he stayed at home and all those days he spent watching her; through her windows of course, doing household work. What attracted the boy towards that woman? What made him so inquisitive? These are just matters of conjecture and I leave it to the reader to do the necessary. But he was attracted to her. Whether he saw her as his mother or sister or girlfriend or daughter or anything else can best be answered by persons who study child’s psyche. But, for us, he is not a child, he is a boy.
And this boy was a clever boy.
He knew that he was on a secret mission and like we don’t spell out SECRET over things secret, he never slipped out of his house stealthily. He just limped out casually. Though we also know that he is on a secret mission, we don’t know what the mission is, since we see everything through his flesh and blood eyes and not through his mind’s eye. And we also know that only mind’s eye has no chiasmata and that is what that makes everyone see things the right way. But alas! We don’t have access to the boy’s mind’s eye. Or we might have access just if we notice the boy’s actions and thoughts. Oh! Oh! The boy hardly acts (only reacts) and seldom thinks.
And now for the first time we are going to have an exception to the rule. What we have professed at the beginning as a rule will now have an exception. The boy instead of reacting will now act in our story but for a minute time, hardly a minute. He will have a conversation with this newly arrived figure called Holiday Singh, the candy-wallah.
“Eh munda! Why are you running from your house like this?”
“My house. Yes. Oh! Running.”
“Have you got hurt?”
“Oh! Uh! Ya. No. No.”
“Ooo, you are limping. Let me take you to your mother.”
“Oh! No. I’ll go.”
“Oye, where to? Go home. And don’t tell that the candy-wallah Holiday Singh hurt you. You bumped into me, not I. Take this boy.”
The boy took the small piece of candy and again entered the garden from where he had limped out a few moments ago. No women with yellow bums were waiting for him there. After the candy-wallah Holiday Singh was gone he again slipped out of the garden. He vowed never to peep through the door again. The windows were okay. They were outside the garden. He went home, candy in hand. Whether he ate the candy or threw it away I don’t know but for the next three / four days he did not go to school due to severe tooth ache. But I found out that every month he used to have tooth ache. But that is another matter.
Three or four days he stayed at home and all those days he spent watching her; through her windows of course, doing household work. What attracted the boy towards that woman? What made him so inquisitive? These are just matters of conjecture and I leave it to the reader to do the necessary. But he was attracted to her. Whether he saw her as his mother or sister or girlfriend or daughter or anything else can best be answered by persons who study child’s psyche. But, for us, he is not a child, he is a boy.
And this boy was a clever boy.
He knew that he was on a secret mission and like we don’t spell out SECRET over things secret, he never slipped out of his house stealthily. He just limped out casually. Though we also know that he is on a secret mission, we don’t know what the mission is, since we see everything through his flesh and blood eyes and not through his mind’s eye. And we also know that only mind’s eye has no chiasmata and that is what that makes everyone see things the right way. But alas! We don’t have access to the boy’s mind’s eye. Or we might have access just if we notice the boy’s actions and thoughts. Oh! Oh! The boy hardly acts (only reacts) and seldom thinks.
Enough about the boy. Back to our story. Yes, on one of those
three or four days, in the afternoon, when shadows have again
lengthened considerably, he saw something that needs to be written.
Mind it; it is not just to entertain you but the story demands it. And I
hope that you’ll have realised the coming tragedy, cheek-by-jowl of
this tongue-in-cheek comedy. So that one day the boy peeped through the
bedroom window and saw the husband and wife sitting nude on the bed
amidst the scene they have created. And no doubt the argument centred on
the things that they have shed from the bodies, that is clothes or
more specifically salwars and skirts. It seemed that in their arguments
they would not do the very thing for which they have unclad
themselves. But I find some readers raising their eyebrows. I also
realise that it is very difficult to stop oneself when one is charged
up on the bed. So for those ‘some readers’ with raised eyebrows I give
an alternative: They finished their usual business, which the boy was
most unfortunate to watch, and then started their argument. Or the boy
might have come a little later, may be when they are mid way or towards
the end of their argument. Whatever the boy heard I have written on a
separate sheet of paper and have no intention to include in this story.
Hanh! What the boy saw I will write. Towards the end there were a few
slaps - obviously from the husband to the wife. Even if I want to
contradict it and write ‘vice-versa’ beside, I can’t. You know why. And
then there was that bonfire.
Fuelled by kerosene, the fire began to devour salwars after salwars. All yellow-bottomed salwars. Getting scorched and then bursting into flames. Her husband burnt all her salwars. You know we Indians are champions in burning clothes. Don’t you remember those swadeshi and boycott days? Those bonfires were really huge compared to this one. Anyway, so after the bonfire was lit the two nude persons, one with a look of triumph on his face managed themselves within their undergarments. And the wife, to sabotage her husband’s triumph, declared adamantly, “Either I’ll wear salwars or just lingerie but never those clothes.”
It was just about this time, before any contradictions rose about the woman’s declaration, our narrator, the little boy, became aware of someone coming down that narrow lane. He at once steadied himself and started doing one of the two things that is wonted to do in the space we leave between two buildings. Obviously he wasn’t taking a short cut way like the other man but was just peeing on the wall below the window. But the man either by seeing the designs that the forced spurts of urine made on the wall or the smoke coming out of the window got curious and started approaching the boy. The little boy, getting alarmed, turned around towards the man and started shaking his little penis vigorously to scatter little droplets that adhered to its tip. The man, also getting alarmed, scampered out of the lane without getting his self profaned. Thus the boy was saved. Or in fact the husband and wife were saved.
And I am also saved from elaborating on yet another character of this story.
And now a little elaboration on a character of this story. The husband. We know he was a teacher but we should also know that there was a prospect of him becoming the principal of the school within a few days. On the twenty-first he has to make a speech in the chapel in front of the dignitaries, and there and then his future will be decided. He might be promoted and made the principal. He was already in preparation of the speech, rehearsing it at home, polishing his oratorical skills and hoping to stay clear of scandals.
So we see the time is now ripe enough for the scandal. We, that is the boy and I, position ourselves at the backside of the garden so that we remain hidden from any roving eye. And then she comes out shorn of her salwar as well as shame, can in hand. She started watering the plants and slowly, like a solenoid increasing its magnetisation, more and more eyes began to turn towards her. Eyes from a coven of witches, eyes from a parliament of owls, eyes from all, gradually, gradually. Eyes from everyone who were present there, from footpaths to balconies. Some eyes stayed on her, some eyes shrunk from her. She with only her loins covered, like that person called Greatsoul Gandhi who also had seen bonfires of clothes, kept on with her work. Or she had covered herself a little more than Gandhi for she wore a short kurta too. But she kept on watering the plants in front of staring eyes, who were trying to guess which of the seven deadly sins she was committing. And then the ululations began and continued until Holiday Singh entered the scene.
“Are’ sister. What shamelessness! At least care for the embarrassment your boy will feel.”
Effrontery or not, I don’t know, but she went in, can in hand, hearing the remark. I think she went in just because she realise that underage kids were getting uncensored entertainment, which wasn’t their privilege.
It was only after the streets had started clearing out that her husband returned and remained quite unaware of the scandal that his wife had just given birth. So he made himself busy with his speech while there were many other people who made themselves busy by discussing the beauty of his wife. As for me, I found her beautiful beyond compare, that is to say she was really ugly. But like beauty, ugliness too lies in the eyes of the beholder and I guess my eyes are really ugly. Anyway, you’ll also won’t like to read a story having an ugly heroine. Days passed and every evening a crowd used to gather near his house. And all those evenings he used to stay out either to let the scandal grow or due to some important business. Whispers began to grow. Now here, now there. It was only very near to the office of the dignitaries who were deliberating on his promotion that he overheard a whisper and came to know about the scandal. That day he returned home earlier than usual and saw what we have been seeing for some days.
Fuelled by kerosene, the fire began to devour salwars after salwars. All yellow-bottomed salwars. Getting scorched and then bursting into flames. Her husband burnt all her salwars. You know we Indians are champions in burning clothes. Don’t you remember those swadeshi and boycott days? Those bonfires were really huge compared to this one. Anyway, so after the bonfire was lit the two nude persons, one with a look of triumph on his face managed themselves within their undergarments. And the wife, to sabotage her husband’s triumph, declared adamantly, “Either I’ll wear salwars or just lingerie but never those clothes.”
It was just about this time, before any contradictions rose about the woman’s declaration, our narrator, the little boy, became aware of someone coming down that narrow lane. He at once steadied himself and started doing one of the two things that is wonted to do in the space we leave between two buildings. Obviously he wasn’t taking a short cut way like the other man but was just peeing on the wall below the window. But the man either by seeing the designs that the forced spurts of urine made on the wall or the smoke coming out of the window got curious and started approaching the boy. The little boy, getting alarmed, turned around towards the man and started shaking his little penis vigorously to scatter little droplets that adhered to its tip. The man, also getting alarmed, scampered out of the lane without getting his self profaned. Thus the boy was saved. Or in fact the husband and wife were saved.
And I am also saved from elaborating on yet another character of this story.
And now a little elaboration on a character of this story. The husband. We know he was a teacher but we should also know that there was a prospect of him becoming the principal of the school within a few days. On the twenty-first he has to make a speech in the chapel in front of the dignitaries, and there and then his future will be decided. He might be promoted and made the principal. He was already in preparation of the speech, rehearsing it at home, polishing his oratorical skills and hoping to stay clear of scandals.
So we see the time is now ripe enough for the scandal. We, that is the boy and I, position ourselves at the backside of the garden so that we remain hidden from any roving eye. And then she comes out shorn of her salwar as well as shame, can in hand. She started watering the plants and slowly, like a solenoid increasing its magnetisation, more and more eyes began to turn towards her. Eyes from a coven of witches, eyes from a parliament of owls, eyes from all, gradually, gradually. Eyes from everyone who were present there, from footpaths to balconies. Some eyes stayed on her, some eyes shrunk from her. She with only her loins covered, like that person called Greatsoul Gandhi who also had seen bonfires of clothes, kept on with her work. Or she had covered herself a little more than Gandhi for she wore a short kurta too. But she kept on watering the plants in front of staring eyes, who were trying to guess which of the seven deadly sins she was committing. And then the ululations began and continued until Holiday Singh entered the scene.
“Are’ sister. What shamelessness! At least care for the embarrassment your boy will feel.”
Effrontery or not, I don’t know, but she went in, can in hand, hearing the remark. I think she went in just because she realise that underage kids were getting uncensored entertainment, which wasn’t their privilege.
It was only after the streets had started clearing out that her husband returned and remained quite unaware of the scandal that his wife had just given birth. So he made himself busy with his speech while there were many other people who made themselves busy by discussing the beauty of his wife. As for me, I found her beautiful beyond compare, that is to say she was really ugly. But like beauty, ugliness too lies in the eyes of the beholder and I guess my eyes are really ugly. Anyway, you’ll also won’t like to read a story having an ugly heroine. Days passed and every evening a crowd used to gather near his house. And all those evenings he used to stay out either to let the scandal grow or due to some important business. Whispers began to grow. Now here, now there. It was only very near to the office of the dignitaries who were deliberating on his promotion that he overheard a whisper and came to know about the scandal. That day he returned home earlier than usual and saw what we have been seeing for some days.
It was beyond his imagination.
I had read somewhere that imagination is the memory of things that did not happen. I believe it. For often what does happen we can never imagine and no memory can relate it to anything past. He was aghast. He was used to and happy seeing his wife cavorting about with the household work inside the house in her undergarments. But he never imagined her boldness or shamelessness. I prefer ‘boldness’. She was really bold. I am in her favour, though the reader might object that favouritism might mar the realistic elements of the story. But I believe in what Oscar Wilde once said that the more personally biased an interpretation is the truer it becomes. Again the eyebrow-raising reader might ask, “What truth is doing in fiction?” I am not going to answer that question.
So where we were?
Hmm. Her husband was furious, infuriated, angry, piqued, agitated. He needed to do something. Something drastic. He won’t let all this speech practice go useless. He must do something. Something drastic was destined to happen.
Another bonfire was lit.
Morning. The charred remains were rescued by the police by breaking open the door. Why no scorched clothes were found? We all know why. Suicide. Hmm. Her husband was informed. That very evening he had gone out of station for a couple of days. Alibi! Mentally deranged, they said. Schizophrenia of sorts. Suicide, no doubt. Not even a question was raised on the man’s innocence. Many were interrogated by the police. Even Holiday Singh was interrogated but not the boy. Days passed by. Many came to console the husband. The wave of compassion even washed the dignitaries who were to hear his speech the next day, the twenty-first of June, the longest day of the year.
Nobody was much surprised by this drastic incident. Or were they surprised? Might be. But one thing is certain that our narrator, who has a limp, the boy, was baffled. It was only he who knew a lot. I mean apart from you and me now. He thought it was a murder. Or at least a suicide in desperation. Oh! Sorry. We have already said that the boy seldom thinks. So let me rephrase the sentence a little. The boy did not think it to be a suicide. Or at least a suicide without desperation. He was just awe-struck. How can her husband be both at home and at that other place! The boy began to imagine aloud that the two places were in two separate time zones so at one time he could be present at two places. But what about the closed door? It was all due to some manipulation of dimensions, especially the fourth dimension. He quickly realised that like on the cinema screen everything loses one of its dimensions, there was certainly some dimensional aberration in that woman’s death.
Wait. For those who are thinking how such a small boy’s mind hold such big, big things; we must realise that we are getting into his mind for the first time and that too just because he is imagining aloud. He might be a precocious child from the beginning. But for those who are still sticking to your point, you can skip the portions you want to.
So the boy was taxing his mind. It should not be surprising if I say that he was in a fit. He limped back home and saw the reflection of the clock on the mirror in front of him. He saw the clock hands. He saw time going backwards. He brought down his sight below the line of the mirror and saw the just-now-scrubbed shiny floor mirroring the ceiling. He looked down at the floor and felt as if he will fall in the mirror, down to the ceiling. And he fell down on the floor and became unconsciousness. In the evening the boy was sitting on the steps outside his house. And Holiday Singh was passing by.
You must have lost all your patience by now and asked why a minor character called Holiday Singh, a candy-wallah, always comes from and is given so much of importance. It will be made clear in no time for he is instrumental for our climax. So Holiday Singh, seeing the boy, whose mother he thought has recently died, sitting on the steps of what he thought to be somebody else’s house, came to him and said, “Poor boy. Have some candies. Why are you sitting here? What has happened has happened. You should not waste your time wailing and crying. You are a brave boy. Get up and smile. And you should not stay out long. The world is not good. Let’s go home.”
And now for the first time, in keeping with the rule, the boy will act. So long he was just nodding and shaking his head and now he blurted out rather rudely, “This is my house and that woman was not my mother.”
“Why do you say so?” retorted the candy-wallah.
“Because it is the truth,” he confessed.
And slowly the boy revealed to Holiday Singh everything. He let him see everything through his mind’s eye. Holiday Singh heard everything in details. And all those time, god knows from where two flies came and got into my ears. I had a terrible time getting them out. I absolutely could not hear anything. And when at last I got them out, the boy had finished telling what I had intended to hear. The conversation had almost ended for after that the candy-wallah Holiday Singh gave the boy an idea and a candy and went away.
The idea worked. But I think that the candy worked for even though the boy ate the candy in front of me, the next morning he went to school without any toothache. A little more should be said about this man, the only one to have a genuine name in this story, before we something about the candy he gave to the boy. Or it might not have been his genuine name; just a nom de guerre. Never anyone saw him ever anywhere since the boy last met him. I think he is sort of sorcerer. Remember his clairvoyance. Every time he addressed the boy he addressed him as “boy”. How did he come to know that he will be called “the boy” in this story? It might be just coincidence. Anyway the candy was also mysterious. It had a mysterious shape; it had mysterious inscriptions on it. It was just a sweet, sugary lump of mystery. And it was eatable. An eatable talisman.
And now the idea. The next day, the morning of June the twenty-first, the boy went to school earlier than usual and detained his teacher, the husband, for half an hour just before he was to make his speech and discussed with him, how and why Brutus betrayed Caesar. The boy stood in front of him and heard his explanations and as he finished answering one question, he had another question ready to shoot. And the teacher, in his happiness, obliged the boy. So it was almost time for his speech when he excused himself for he was fed up of saying “Brutus, Brutus”.
I had read somewhere that imagination is the memory of things that did not happen. I believe it. For often what does happen we can never imagine and no memory can relate it to anything past. He was aghast. He was used to and happy seeing his wife cavorting about with the household work inside the house in her undergarments. But he never imagined her boldness or shamelessness. I prefer ‘boldness’. She was really bold. I am in her favour, though the reader might object that favouritism might mar the realistic elements of the story. But I believe in what Oscar Wilde once said that the more personally biased an interpretation is the truer it becomes. Again the eyebrow-raising reader might ask, “What truth is doing in fiction?” I am not going to answer that question.
So where we were?
Hmm. Her husband was furious, infuriated, angry, piqued, agitated. He needed to do something. Something drastic. He won’t let all this speech practice go useless. He must do something. Something drastic was destined to happen.
Another bonfire was lit.
Morning. The charred remains were rescued by the police by breaking open the door. Why no scorched clothes were found? We all know why. Suicide. Hmm. Her husband was informed. That very evening he had gone out of station for a couple of days. Alibi! Mentally deranged, they said. Schizophrenia of sorts. Suicide, no doubt. Not even a question was raised on the man’s innocence. Many were interrogated by the police. Even Holiday Singh was interrogated but not the boy. Days passed by. Many came to console the husband. The wave of compassion even washed the dignitaries who were to hear his speech the next day, the twenty-first of June, the longest day of the year.
Nobody was much surprised by this drastic incident. Or were they surprised? Might be. But one thing is certain that our narrator, who has a limp, the boy, was baffled. It was only he who knew a lot. I mean apart from you and me now. He thought it was a murder. Or at least a suicide in desperation. Oh! Sorry. We have already said that the boy seldom thinks. So let me rephrase the sentence a little. The boy did not think it to be a suicide. Or at least a suicide without desperation. He was just awe-struck. How can her husband be both at home and at that other place! The boy began to imagine aloud that the two places were in two separate time zones so at one time he could be present at two places. But what about the closed door? It was all due to some manipulation of dimensions, especially the fourth dimension. He quickly realised that like on the cinema screen everything loses one of its dimensions, there was certainly some dimensional aberration in that woman’s death.
Wait. For those who are thinking how such a small boy’s mind hold such big, big things; we must realise that we are getting into his mind for the first time and that too just because he is imagining aloud. He might be a precocious child from the beginning. But for those who are still sticking to your point, you can skip the portions you want to.
So the boy was taxing his mind. It should not be surprising if I say that he was in a fit. He limped back home and saw the reflection of the clock on the mirror in front of him. He saw the clock hands. He saw time going backwards. He brought down his sight below the line of the mirror and saw the just-now-scrubbed shiny floor mirroring the ceiling. He looked down at the floor and felt as if he will fall in the mirror, down to the ceiling. And he fell down on the floor and became unconsciousness. In the evening the boy was sitting on the steps outside his house. And Holiday Singh was passing by.
You must have lost all your patience by now and asked why a minor character called Holiday Singh, a candy-wallah, always comes from and is given so much of importance. It will be made clear in no time for he is instrumental for our climax. So Holiday Singh, seeing the boy, whose mother he thought has recently died, sitting on the steps of what he thought to be somebody else’s house, came to him and said, “Poor boy. Have some candies. Why are you sitting here? What has happened has happened. You should not waste your time wailing and crying. You are a brave boy. Get up and smile. And you should not stay out long. The world is not good. Let’s go home.”
And now for the first time, in keeping with the rule, the boy will act. So long he was just nodding and shaking his head and now he blurted out rather rudely, “This is my house and that woman was not my mother.”
“Why do you say so?” retorted the candy-wallah.
“Because it is the truth,” he confessed.
And slowly the boy revealed to Holiday Singh everything. He let him see everything through his mind’s eye. Holiday Singh heard everything in details. And all those time, god knows from where two flies came and got into my ears. I had a terrible time getting them out. I absolutely could not hear anything. And when at last I got them out, the boy had finished telling what I had intended to hear. The conversation had almost ended for after that the candy-wallah Holiday Singh gave the boy an idea and a candy and went away.
The idea worked. But I think that the candy worked for even though the boy ate the candy in front of me, the next morning he went to school without any toothache. A little more should be said about this man, the only one to have a genuine name in this story, before we something about the candy he gave to the boy. Or it might not have been his genuine name; just a nom de guerre. Never anyone saw him ever anywhere since the boy last met him. I think he is sort of sorcerer. Remember his clairvoyance. Every time he addressed the boy he addressed him as “boy”. How did he come to know that he will be called “the boy” in this story? It might be just coincidence. Anyway the candy was also mysterious. It had a mysterious shape; it had mysterious inscriptions on it. It was just a sweet, sugary lump of mystery. And it was eatable. An eatable talisman.
And now the idea. The next day, the morning of June the twenty-first, the boy went to school earlier than usual and detained his teacher, the husband, for half an hour just before he was to make his speech and discussed with him, how and why Brutus betrayed Caesar. The boy stood in front of him and heard his explanations and as he finished answering one question, he had another question ready to shoot. And the teacher, in his happiness, obliged the boy. So it was almost time for his speech when he excused himself for he was fed up of saying “Brutus, Brutus”.
And now he went to make his speech. The boy sauntered limply and sat in the last pew of the chapel. He had a triumphant smile on his face. The speech started. He had a deep, oratorial voice. He gave a good beginning and then suddenly, due to slip-of-tongue or otherwise, he mentioned “Brutus betrayed Jesus” instead of “Judas betrayed Jesus.” Nobody realised the mistake. Or someone may have noticed. But the major part of his speech was on Judas’s betrayal of Jesus, and the same mistake began to crop up again and again. And now gradually the audience surely began to notice. Every Judas was changed to Brutus making the people uncomfortable. People began to fidget. Dignitaries began to frown. But the orator kept on making the same mistake again and again. Two minutes passed. Five minutes passed. He kept on with his Brutus, Brutus, Brutus, Brutus. It was almost at the head of ten minutes, when each and every member of the audience was finding the speech unbearable, that his eyes met the eyes of one of the dignitaries. And there he saw his El Dorado pulled down to ruins in the earthquake of his mistake.
Whatever Frankincense, Myrrh and Gold he had hoped to receive as gifts seemed now out of his reach. Dumbstruck and thunderstruck at the same time, he began to stare at the faces of every member of the audience until he saw the triumphant smile at the last pew. Very slowly his being began to dissolve in thin air. He slowly started diffusing into space. Silence was everywhere and everyone watched. He began to lose all his dimensions. He was now just as the pictures in old newspapers, full of thousands of dots. Gradually he began to disappear. And now, and now, like a whiff of smoke he vanished. He was no more. No more to be seen. He became dimensionless.
Something stirred in the last row of seats in the chapel. Everyone turned to look. The boy stood up with a triumphant smile and limped out of the chapel. Ruminating on the candy he had eaten yesterday. And since then ennui descended on anyone who looked at the boy, ruminating on a candy that he had eaten years ago.
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