Defeat

Abdul Bhai had been around 11 when Thapa Dai first saw him. That was the year when an exodus of Bangladeshis had arrived in Kathmandu, fleeing the atrocities of the Liberation War

Abdul Bhai had never had a drink his entire life. ‘It is Haraam to do so,’ his father had told him many years before. And although considerable time had passed, and the colour in his memory had gradually faded, Abdul Bhai still clearly remembered the mangrove tree under which his father had spoken those words to him.

Oh, how he sometimes wished he could be perched up on that branch once again, and relive his days of innocence. He recalls all those times he and his friends got together to swim in the Buriganga River and fish silver carp by its banks. But things have changed drastically now. As he watches outside from his warren-like eatery, millions of people walk mundanely by every day; the sounds of their footsteps drowned invariably by the honking horns and the usual traffic in Putalisadak. And though he has kept his promise of not taking a sip, it is not unusual to see him with a bottle. He often pours drinks for his customers.

“Bengali!  Help me out here. Bring me something to eat. Haven’t had anything but WaiWai for the past three days. “

The reflective animation in Abdul Bhai’s face broke off the instant Thapa Dai, one of his regular customers, stormed inside. He was a middle-aged man of around fifty-five, with thick whiskers and a receding hairline. He wore an old flannel shirt and had on a pair of dark sunglasses that completely hid his eyes. Taking his muffler off, he collapsed into his favourite chair, at table number three, and yelled, “Fucche! Bring me a quarter of Royal Stag and a plate of Sekwua. Also a glass of mutton Haddi soup”.

The stolen cucumbers

The caste-system is still alive and flourishing in certain regions of the Indian subcontinent. Hindu sects that live by its norms exist in pockets—large and small—all around the region. The Hindus claim that Brahma, God of Creation, created all men unequal. While some sects are believed to have emerged from Brahma’s mouth, others are said to have been expelled from his feet. Those who were created from his mouth are Brahmins, they believe, and those whose creation centred on his hands are Kshyatriyas. Sects that issued forth from his thighs were the Vaisya and those whose origins are believed to have been in his feet were relegated to the caste of Sudra, ‘untouchables’ who face discrimination in all aspects of their lives.

If you are a Brahmin, it is given that you do not let Sudras and Vaisyas enter your home despite the fact that your village life is seamlessly interwoven. The fabric of village society is created by inter-related threads—blacksmiths who make the essential tools for agriculture and play music during marriages and festivities, tailors who wear the very clothes in which you dress. As a Brahmin myself, I sometimes wonder what all those who’re deemed untouchable in my village would do, if they were plucked out of the Hindu society I live in, and then trained in foreign countries. At least one of my fellow villagers would make it as fashion designers I think, but that is only just a dream. The reality lies in poverty and illiteracy, in discrimination and untouchability.

As the dawn flaunted its hues of red over the horizon, the village housewives started waking up. One by one, the women opened their eyes to the crowing of roosters. Their daily chores had begun. At first, they opened the windows, inviting refreshing air into their aged homes. After a while, still sleepy-eyed, they opened their doors. Next, the village women emptied their clay water pots—which still held water from the day before—into a bucket for the cows to drink. They only wanted the freshest water and food for themselves. And their Gods and demigods would never accept stale offerings.

Fate

It was the fall of 1659 when Savonlinna relived the exhilaration of having one of her greatest sons return to her. Savonlinna was a township some fifty-odd miles away from the capital of the province Mikkeli. Unlike what had been the  norm several times before then, Marko Kaarlonen’s footsteps were accompanied by another person’s this time around. Savonlinna had never before felt this ‘new’ person’s on its surface.

Marko himself relived the moments he had spent there, in Savonlinna—as a playful child, a thoughtful teenager, and later, a poetic man. His turf, his land, was anything but spectacular. Maybe it was due to the fact that his desire to return to Savonlinna had been fulfilled that he did not let himself find his muse in the comely and entrancing landscape he’d yearned so long for.  

He immediately shaped his thoughts and moulded them into words; he was born to do this. He was a poet. He’d penned: Olet minun majakka Pelastuksen, Olen teidän tähtien

He was Finnish, and that was Finnish soil he where he lay, carving his words to precision. He was groping for perfection. His words, in English, coincided with: You are my beacon of Salvation, I am your starlight. 

Succumbing to Mother Nature and the weariness that had accompanied him throughout the journey, he closed his eyes. He started on an inward journey to utopia in search of the forbidden fruit he called satisfaction.

•••

She, Marko’s companion, was from Seinäjoki of Vaasa province. From what she’d said while introducing herself, her name was Eleanor. She was called Lady Eleanor in her land, she had said.

She had been searching for Marko who had left as soon as they’d arrived and unloaded their belongings. He’d told her he’d be at Lake Kohtalo.

Eleanor delighted in observing the faces of all those who knew Marko when she inquired if they had seen him. She delighted in the way wrinkles waned and smiles crossed the faces of those people.

Death

Light shone through to the alley Krishna was walking on as he pulled his hood lower to hide more of his face. It wouldn’t do to be spotted by one of his fans—not now while he was already running a little behind his schedule to reach the library. He couldn’t allow his fans to slow him down. People would say that he could turn his fans down, or ignore them altogether but his fans were one of his soft spots. And why wouldn’t they be? They were one of the only people who had acknowledged him for him and his literary works, not because he was the son of a rich businessman. His fans hadn’t been the ones who had tried to force him, unsuccessfully, into taking over the business from his father. No, that wasn’t them; that was his father’s foolish subordinates who’d thought that fresh blood would be good for the company. But enough of these thoughts, he told himself, they would only slow him down, and it wouldn’t do to keep the children from the orphanage waiting. So he decided not to dwell any further on his past and continued walking quickly to the orphanage.

The children there greeted him with smiles and asked for him to begin his story. But before he began, he asked the children whether they wanted to ask any questions about him or his work, since he wrote books for both children and adults. One of the older children immediately raised his hand up.

“Yes?” Krishna asked the boy.

“Mr Krishna, most of your works depict many deaths, whether due to murder, natural ageing or accidents. Can I ask the reason for that, please?”

Ah, the magic word, Krishna thought. How could he refuse a polite kid like that?

“If you wish for the answer, you shall have it, of course. I depict reality as it is. People die everyday, and of course, sometime in your life, you are bound to lose relatives and loved ones.” Now, he wanted to stop himself from continuing his answer but somehow, emotions that he had suppressed after his best friend’s death leaked out. “When somebody dies and that somebody is your loved one, at first you don’t want to believe that you have just lost someone close to you. You want to believe that this is just a bad joke. When the funeral procession continues and you eventually reach the crematorium, you want to believe that everybody else is just playing a prank on you, a prank that everybody but you are in on. You expect that your loved one would just jump out of the neatly arranged pile of wood and straw, and begin laughing and say that your face looks funny. You wait for your loved one to do that, but it never happens. Then you begin to cling to the fact that your loved one is alive, even though your own eyes see that your loved one has been buried. You then start to believe that sometime during the procession, your loved one swapped bodies with a life-sized doll and so, will be waiting after the funeral to laugh his head off at the way you looked during the whole procession.”

The photographer

I have never seen a camera as big as the one he has in his hands in these seventy five years of my life. He is young, well-built and smiles continually as he clicks away at his big camera; its lens pointed towards me. I have never seen such a wonderful young man in my life, apart from you. What’s with age? He proved that I am more beautiful than these young chuckling girls by taking hundreds of pictures of me. Something amazing happened while he pointed the “straight” camera lens right at my face—it reminded me of our unification.

It’s you whom I saw in this young man. Who knows I might still be awaiting your arrival. I have waited fifty years already. I have never put on white clothes because no one has bought your dead body to me. “Dead,” thinking of this makes me suicidal. But again the hope of your arrival has kept me alive till today—till the age of seventy-five. It’s you whom I saw in this young man. Is it that you died and were born in the form of this man? Is it that—in the form of this man—you came to meet me? Or is it that you married some other woman and this is your son? No!! No!! These things can never be possible—I console myself.

“Aama please smile,” the photographer says.

“Please stay in the same position,” he demands.

“Don’t go away, please wait Aama,” he stops me as I try to turn away.

I smile from ear to ear. I am shy; I hide my face with the edge of my bright red dhoti. I move my head. What is this young man doing? Why is he taking pictures of me? Why does he like me so much? Why does he ignore these young girls and come after me? Am I that beautiful even now? Why would I not be beautiful… my ears are decked with gold earrings that have lightened my face all these years. What about the gold necklace from my marriage? Does this young man not see that I am a married woman? A line of sindoor parts my head—proving that I am married to someone else—I belong to someone else. What will he do with my pictures? Will he hang these pictures on his walls and look at me day and night? But why? Am I more beautiful than these young girls? Is he fascinated by me, like I with him? Can I be compared to these young girls now when I am a 75 years old? Well I was young, some fifty years ago. But now, each year my skin loosens, my face is shrinking and my cheeks are no longer seen. I am wrinkled and you take my pictures? My bosom has loosened, so have my things… But you take my pictures? What do you feel about me while taking these pictures? Oh lord! I see him in you. I love him and I have been waiting for him all these years. And for the first time in fifty years, I got to see him; in you, dear young photographer.

An island of look-alikes

It was just a dream after all, just a dream. But why was it so vividly clear and so tantalisingly real? And besides, it had started to recur recently—twice already in a week. He made up his mind to ask his Uncle Hari about it. It was Uncle Hari he had gone to when he had first felt he was in love. A girl had joined his class and very soon gained the reputation of being intelligent and smart. She had recently moved with her family to the city from a nearby hill station. He had asked Uncle Hari if he thought love was selfish because he only remembered the girl and longed to be with her when he felt low and lonely like when his mother scolded him or when he failed his tests, but he never missed the girl when he was happy like when he was celebrating his birthday with his family or when he was riding the new bicycle that grandfather had gifted him. Uncle Hari had explained to him quite patiently the characteristics of love; also telling him how to differentiate love, affection and infatuation from one another. Anyway the girl had moved out of town a couple of years later, and he no longer remembered her.

He had not talked to Uncle Hari for a while now. On February 13, 1996, the Communist Party of Nepal (Maoist) began a movement with an aim to overthrow monarchy and establish a federal system of government in the country. After being unemployed for fairly long span of time, Uncle Hari had joined the Maoist movement in 1998. Grandfather had been furious over his decision. “As if we could not feed him; he had to join those bloody goons!” he had said. Grandfather never approved of the Maoists and their ideologies but Saraswati auntie had been really supportive of her husband’s decision. “He is fighting for his country”, she had said. “At least he is not sitting at home and complaining about the country’s problems. These Maoists are good people. They have principles and they have plans for our country. These Kings and political parties have done no good to our country since the Ranas. Do you know how much power is vested in the King of Nepal? The Royal family can do just about anything and they won’t be questioned in the court”, she would say and grandfather would simply grumble something vague in return. Grandma never took part in the discussion. She just sat in the corner and kept crying with grandfather trying in vain to silence her. Uncle Hari would return once in a while; at times in a few weeks and sometimes in a few months. Every time he came back, he would bring something for everyone. While grandfather refused to accept anything bought with “blood money”, Saraswati auntie would happily accept the gifts of new sarees and jewellery. 

Less is more

When I was a kid, my mother used to tell me a story. It was about a boy who dips his hand in a jar full of candies. He takes out one, then another and suddenly he wants more. He tries to get a fistful of candies only to realise that his hand is now stuck in the jar; all because he wanted more. ‘More’, my mother told me was a dangerous thing to want, to crave. But that didn’t stop me from wanting more—more of the story, more ice-cream, more marks in exams, more love. And now, as I lay back in my deathbed, all I want is more time; more days and some more nights.

I had never thought that I’d die young. I’m barely 30 (I’m 22, if you must know) and I am dying!

“You have six months left now,” my doctor told me one fine day. It’s hard to believe that until before that day, everything had been normal; my life had been a long one. And now, I’ll never get to see myself turning 50 and complaining about my grey hair and fussing about my favourite daisy pot which my grandchildren would crash into pieces. But these were not the things that got me thinking after my death announcement was made. I worried about my mother. What was I going to tell her? How on earth could a daughter speak words of unimaginable brutality and bitterness to her mother?

“I’m going to die, mum.” I have always hated those epic teary-eyed dramas with their impossibly lengthy dialogues.

“Me too,” my mother had said without so much as a look into my eyes. “With all this work to do, I might as well die right now.” The way she had said it, she might as well have been talking about the weather.

Up the donkey trail

Even from beneath that enclosed darkness, I could hear the steady roar of the Marsyangdi

A noisy brook is flowing ‘silently’—silently because of its carefree winding across uncharted territories, humming the rhythm of its unending music and unperturbed by the eager footsteps of the occasional listeners—trekkers—trailing its path high above in tiny, winding trails...

“It’s not a brook. It’s the river, Marsyangdi.” My friend insisted. He was leaning over to my bed to reach for the petroleum jelly tube and must have caught a glimpse of the damn word.

“I know” I said. “But ‘brook’ sounds better.” I wasn’t feeling like giving an explanation. But I did it, anyway.

“Besides, I am not a damn reporter or something.” I murmured.  I never do that, when I am writing.

The truth is I have this grand illusion that I am supposed to write some big stuff in my life. But another big truth is I can’t write shit. I have written about a dozen ‘novels’, but the thing is they never seem to move beyond the ‘epilogue’ stage. If you want to know, I think a novel shouldn’t have an ‘epilogue’ printed out in big fat words, sticking right at the nose of its readers. I feel like people do that if they don’t know what they are writing about; or to show off as the big shot writers they supposedly are. I am exactly that kind of writer. I know that.

My ‘writing spirit’ had been killed anyway, so I closed the damn diary and chucked it beneath my pillow. I do that all the time. Chuck my diary beneath my pillow I mean, right when I feel like I am in the zone or something.  

“What were you writing, anyway?” He asked, chucking the jelly tube at me. 

“The Two Trekkers,” I replied, and caught the tube midair. I am good at catching things. At least, I like to think I am. Mostly, it reminds me of what a horrible catcher I used to be when I played cricket as a kid. I was a decent batsman though and a fast bowler as well; at least until I broke my damn shoulder blade during a crazy spell.

Time to say good bye

The sky was unambiguously clear and the sun was on its full swing but inside him a thunder storm was cutting its own umbilical cord. A squeaking melody leaked from his rocking chair matching it’s to and fro motion. The back and forth movement resembled his swing between existence and burial. A low priced cigarette hung between his wrinkled lips and the smoke was forming a rainless cloud. He gazed outside the window towards the happy faces and blurted, “Sons of bitches.”

It was his seventy-first birthday but there were neither gifts nor guests. And he certainly had ordered no pineapple cake. He received birthday kisses only from his whiskey and cigarettes. Anyone could interpret his eyes; he was starving for a companion but nobody served him the dish of empathy. He was hiding his anguish from the happy faces but all his fabrication washed away each time he dripped in reality.

“Grandpa why don’t you send your children to buy your groceries?” a young girl at the vegetable shop suggested.

“I know your kind,” his thunder storm erupted, “You think you will always be this happy happy young girl?”

“But grandpa…”

“I ain’t your freaking grandpa. Just pack the rotten potatoes and give me my change.”

 The girl’s face turned sour as the lemons in her basket. But in no time, she was attending to another customer. “Do you want carrots madam? It’s just forty rupees per kilo—totally fresh.”

The word ‘fresh’ bit his ear drums; he moved away from the shop. “Who does she think she is? I have plucked Cinderellas far younger and enhanced than her when I was young.” He tried to dissolve in the thick crowd of Asan market but the happy faces kept scanning him.

He returned home worn out. After a short nap he began slicing the potatoes. He didn’t wash them before slicing and it was intentional. He just dipped them in a bowl of fuzzy water for half of half a second and unleashed them on a greasy frying pan. He slowly chewed them one by one. Some of it got stuck in his fake front teeth but most made it through. His hands were too feeble to wash the dishes in cold water so he just left them unattended. And why did he have no hot water? Because his electricity was cut off last month as he could not pay the pending bills. It did not affect him that much; well, nothing really does. It was not like he owned a television or a radio so... (You know).

Canvas

She wasn’t Rushdie’s Sufia nor Marquez’s Remedios; neither did she have the Monalisa smile, but she was just right for Miraan. She was a girl in white sitting on a piano in a white room with white curtains swaying in the wind. The only thing coloured were her red lips. But most captivating was the attention with which she was focused on playing the piano as if nothing else in the world existed for her. He sighed with exhaustion and satisfaction; at times he managed to impress himself.

He called his manager, only friend and his best critic, Maya, at her office.

“Hey,” came the voice from the other end.

“I finished a painting today, thought you’d like to see it.”

“Yeah, I’d love to. I’ll drop by your place on my way home.”

“I’m going to call it The Lady at the Piano”, Miraan said handing her a drink while she stared blankly at the painting. “You like it?”

“I don’t know… It has captured me... Her expression is just so right she seems not to be in this world. I think it’s going to haunt me for days.”

“You can stop there. I’m not very used to good comments.”

“You’ve got to get used to them now because for this one, you are definitely going to receive loads of them. It’s beautiful.”

“It must be, if you say so.”

“I need to talk to you about something other than this painting,” he said dropping ice cubes in their second drink. “I want to paint a series of paintings on a pregnant woman. I have already thought about two of the settings and am thinking about the third, but for this one I’ll need a model.”

“A model? For what? You did not need a model for this one. As a matter of fact, you’ve never needed any model.”

Waking moments

Your voice woke me up. I’ve heard your voice before but that was a lifetime ago. It was soft and comforting, a beacon of guiding light in the eternal darkness of my soul. After your soothing voice had come your warm hand that reached out and grabbed mine. The memory of it all grips me as I lay wide awake picturing you by my side with your outstretched arm holding my hand. We both gaze at the blue sky with minds racing in every direction. We were happy, deep down. Sure we worried about everything and the world seemed to lie solely on our shoulders but we had happiness. We held it tightly, scared it would slip away. You remember right? You said you would rather never wake up than leave the comfort of that room. Anyway I’m sure you remember those things just as well as I do. Smile Oh boy!!! There’s nothing to worry about in the end. The body is nothing but a complex evolutionary machine made up of nature’s building blocks. Those fears and clever ideas you cling to so hard are nothing but electrons. It’s all ridiculously simple. But it still scares me when I find myself talking to you like this you know. I guess you want to hear all this. As long as it helps you I’ll do it. After all, I owe you that much.

I have a lot of questions to ask you but I know you don’t want to answer them. Plus, I’m not sure the answers would do me any good. I’m just worried about everything as usual. I suppose it is fear again. It flows through my body like a deluge, striking down pillars and shaking firm foundations upon which I have set my entire self. It isn’t fair that I hate what you have become. It isn’t fair that all we have are fragments of memories that were once part of something so much bigger. I guess it was all held together by the hope we invested in our future. Yes, I’d love to hold your hand. Sorry I’m being so negative. It’s hard being positive when all I have are pieces of the life I once wanted. Electrons and atoms, you’re right. Sigh, helping you is harder than I thought it would be. There’s always something going wrong but if that’s true, there’s always something going right as well. Just have to notice it as it passes by. Can’t stare at the floor and say there’s nothing but dirt.

Why did you wake me up? I guess I was the strong one once upon a time right? Unbent seemingly held upright by a magical force that you might be able to discover as well? Sigh. You must have been disappointed with the research but if you are here it means you still think there’s something to be found within this shell. I hope you manage to find whatever you’re looking for. As for myself, I simply hope the next time I hear your voice I won’t be so startled and scared. You always had a beautiful voice. I remember longing for the soft whispers. I catch myself still hoping they could echo softly in the room. It’s been so long but I guess I’m stuck in the past you provided me. Maybe I just can’t go backwards and enjoy life after having tasted the joys of your company. We always seemed bored with each other but that’s really what I want back… Someone, who will sit through storms with me, quietly comforting me and not demanding anything in return. Completely aware that I wouldn’t forget the favour and one day the favor would come back around, quietly and dignifiedly.

I’m not sure I’ll ever have that unwritten contract with someone again. Sigh. The void inside my soul has just grown a little bit.

A whirlpool of small things

I have always envied the butterfly…

They might look withered, weak and profoundly dumb, but these tiny twinkles which are nothing but fairies in hiding. They are the luckiest of all creatures!

You ask why? Simply because they live three lives—one of a butterfly, another of the moth and the last: a transformation from the caterpillar. Again the carousal of life continues in its circling motion, flanked by more transformations and more joy.

And here we stand, cursing a life which gives you nothing but one life to live and experience it all! Love, hate, deprivation; emotions which may cause a wretched effects; and an encyclopedia of memories that always stand as best sellers forcing you to cherish everything—the bad and the moderate, the worst and the best of memories you may have accidentally or intentionally stumbled upon.

We all commit grave mistakes and there are no indicators of how deep those grave mistakes might be. But still our human mind functions quite mysteriously, as in the blink of an eye, we tend to repeat these mistakes all over again! Call it our egoistic drive that needs to prove every wrong happening right; but however far sighted we might claim ourselves to be, we will always realise at some drunken point of time that we have been eslaved by the influence of a dominant head which is ruled by no other then the Julius Ceasar of our body—our EGO!

Our favorite question, “Why do we make such fools out of ourselves??” This statement is also backed by our sane acknowledgment that we know how foolish we all can be (all the time)! I have, on countless occasions, cursed this person who broke my heart and I am still trying to heal it. Every single day I write about this person and try to figure out at least two flaws in that person in order to self-satisfy my heavenly ego which influences my mind as a bully clock, by constantly reminding me how stupid I had been in trusting this person!

Moti is growing her belly

Prologue

It was cool, lightless evening. As I was returning to my room on my motorbike, the headlight focused on a tall, young boy on the left pavement of the Babarmahal-Anamnagar way. The boy walked in haste with long paces. His little long-feathered bag was swinging on the left shoulder through his thigh. My eyes easily identified the boy with whom I walked together for four years during school days. I geared-down my bike and halted. “Hey!” I said. Fearfully, he stood and looked at me for seconds. He didn’t recognize me as a helmet hid my head.

“Can you please take off your helmet?” he requested. 

“You’ve changed!” he said, surprised.

“Oye…! Make call your room mate. We will spend tonight together. No excuse. Nothing. Come, just sit back.”

He could not ignore my command and sat behind me. I bought some drinks and snacks. I unlocked the door, took off my helmet, replaced my jeans with a half pant and moved to the kitchen. In a period of about half an hour I prepared the meat. I brought water and a bottle of red whisky. We sat down on the carpet and cheered up.

The first peck went well and so did the second one. By the third peck the whisky started making his eyes smaller, cheeks red and voice intoxicated or inebriated. I think I also did look like him.

“Oe! Talai lagyo? (Are you drunk)” I asked.

“Nope dude!, I am cool, but I think you are drunk. Look, Look you are swinging. Hahahaha…”

My phone beeped.

“Oe! Your darling SMSing,” he said.

Of course, I got an SMS from my girlfriend of two years. I sent a reply.

“Hey! What about your Moti? How is it going on? Good na?” I asked.

“Moti soti ….Bhad mein gaye” “I broke up with her” “I fucked her up”. He said moving his right hands up. His head was not in his control.

“What did she do? What’s wrong with her”, “Why did you break up with her” “Does she love another boy?” I asked shocked. It was  10:00pm.

“Nothing like that”, “Come on! Listen to me, I will tell you everything tonight. You will get everything”. He said seriously.

*******

Samir starts his story:

Living in the moment

I walked along the small wooden bridge that weaved its way through a thicket of trees. The lamps that bordered the outside lit everything just enough so I could see where I was going. The sun had just gone down and the sky was as clear as ever. I hadn’t bothered to bring a notebook or anything. I didn’t feel like writing. All I really wanted to do was relax. The sky was so clear and the stars seemed so big that when I’d looked out my window after dinner, I’d been tempted into going to the beach for a while. I walked for a few minutes before the trees around me began to disappear and the wood under my feet gradually turned into sand. The sounds of the ocean began to make themselves apparent, and before I knew it the trees were gone. Nothing but the open sea lay in front of me. The stars filled the sky from horizon to horizon, and a small crescent moon was randomly placed in the middle of it all.

I slipped off my sandals and felt the cool sand on the bottoms of my feet. It was quiet and peaceful; not a soul around. Only the sounds of the crashing waves could be heard and the stars seemed about three times as bright as they were back home. When I went closer to the water I could smell the dampness in the air. It was refreshing. It wasn’t a feeling I was accustomed to. Once in sight of the tide I walked along the shoreline, just taking in the natural beauty of it all. The night seemed so calm. I continued to walk slowly along the beach, just out of reach of the growing tide, and I periodically looked up into the sky. Everything above me made me feel so small, so insignificant. After a few minutes along the shore I went up the beach a little ways to look for a place to sit down. It was then when I spotted someone sitting in the distance. I could only see what looked like the dark outline of a young woman. I couldn’t see anything more, but I had a feeling I knew who it was. 

I approached her. There wasn’t enough light to see her face clearly, but I could imagine her dark eyes and brown hair when she turned her head towards me. My heart began to beat a little harder. 

“I was hoping I’d see you here,” she said as I approached.  

“You did?” I responded.

“Yeah... this seemed too beautiful an opportunity for you to pass up. So I figured you’d come,” her voice was really soft, almost a whisper. I set down my sandals and sat on the sand next to her. I crossed my legs at my ankles and leaned back onto my elbows, just as she was seated. “If I can’t be inspired by a night like this, then I probably don’t have any hope,”’ I said.

“Still searching for that inspiration, huh?”

“Yeah . . . I am. And the only thing I’ve found that helps is talking to you.”

Those three words

The tremulous sky had its call as it roared its way out of nowhere into the entangled myths of life and death, bringing with it the obscure realities of a trembling heart and a petrified soul. The stage could not have been set better, for there was a hint of hysteria in the minds of two characters who till the day before, used to be considered worlds apart.  The dog and the pony show had now turned into a live 12 rounder. The naïve feeling of superposition that remained in Romeo’s mind was veiled by what was to come in a few minutes. It was the real test of his agility, his mental composure and audacity for which he was famed.

For a moment he thought that he was on his way to hell in a hand cart, but his desire to speak out, to talk about the years of injustice that he had faced in high school impelled him. He could simply not resist. That was it; it had to be it. It was in the winter of 2011 that I had conceived of an idea which, in my eyes, was neither a drama nor a sonnet. To me, it was a curious half-way between these two archaic forms of imagination.

That day I had felt between the stools. I had very different emotions. My nervous system was switching between potassium and sodium so I didn’t realise the events that took place in the background. I was sympathetically attached to this Romeo who was lost behind the interlacing boughs in the pine forest in his motivation to open up his feelings. This attachment between me and this Romeo, identical to me, was little more than absurd to the outsiders (they used to think that my heart and soul are of the same being). But to me and to my clenched fist-shaped organ they— at least for that couple of minutes—were different. The Romeo in me had to vanish if I wanted any chance of taking out those magical words. In course of this transition, I was knocked down many a times. The punches pounced upon me like flashes of lightning on a skyscraper far above the town. But it was God who gave me the strength to stand up against this Romeo .I was finally ready.

God was the director, and the script felt like that of a bodice ripper. The second character of the story arrived at the scene. She had been collecting dust for some time, but my inner instincts were not easily tortured. Sticking to the basics I decided to make intriguing and bold moves. Ever since the day had begun with the sun gleaming against the newly installed solar panels, I knew I would be the first one to do it. I knew that I had to do a lot that day, but of all the things, my desire to tell her the truth was the most important. With this thing in my mind I started moving towards the classroom as a fish-market crowd gathered around me to see the tale of their life time. I realised that I had to take things calmly and coolly for I was entering a new chapter of life. I knew that the second week of February was the right occasion to start a new life (I had heard tales of valentines and of the fourteenth of February). Then I sensed something, like a swallow sensing thunder in the air. It was a mixture of the sullen superposition of something unknown. As she moved into the classroom with her friends who were unrecognisable in the mist of supernatural cavities, I got my cue.

A kid in the candy store

Anna loved going to that place; she would go there every day. Day after day, when coming back from her school, she would take that slightly long route to her home just to make sure that she would be able to go there. That was what she would do every day—she would walk in; her eyes wide open, and look around as if she were seeing all of it for the first time. Those colours would perplex her, hold her attention and entice her into believing that the world within those walls—the world that existed inside that place was a different world; perhaps a much better world.

If anyone asked her, “What colour is the store?”, she would reply saying, “Every colour.” Every colour because the store did have every colour—the jelly beans, the lollypops, the candy bars—from browns to whites, from reds to pinks, from yellows to oranges, from greens to blacks to blues. The tore sure did have every colour.

Anna would let all those colours weave a world only for her. The store smelled of so much of cocoa-butter, of vanilla, of berries; above all, it smelled of happiness to her and perhaps to others as well—the children who ran like crazy inside the store wanting to devour all of it, the parents who loved seeing their smiling children (and probably liked munching on a few delights themselves), the love-smitten teenagers who thought chocolates made the perfect gift, everyone perhaps!

In the midst it all, Anna could not feel the presence of all those other kids and their parents as they went about tasting the candies, putting handfuls of them in the little trolleys that seemed to have come out of a fantasy land.  She could not feel the presence of the helpers in the store or even the plump, old shopkeeper who sat behind the counter measuring ounces of chocolates and wrapping each purchase neatly into snow-white paper bags that read ‘The Candy Store’. She was a kid who lost herself every single day in the charms of the candy store. There, looking with wide eyes at shelf after shelf of candies and chocolate bars (of which she knew she could never have enough), she could feel emotions tug at her—on the one hand, she was a happy child in the store; (after all, what kid would not be happy in a candy store) and on the other, she was afraid of all that was before her.

Light and after light

The four walls of a small room meant a world to my little sister, who barely knew the outside world. The narrow room, which belonged to her, had nothing special apart from a life size picture of Gautama Buddha hanged along the east wall. The room had just one window but no ventilation. She slept on her cot in the middle of the room with the picture lying inches above her head and a few dolls lying on the floor, which she seldom played with or even held in her hands.

Small, round faced, with a sharp nose and a pair of blue eyes, Kiyo, my little sister, from the first day of her birth—a year after my grandfather’s demise—had spent most of her time sleeping. Not because she did not want to get up but because she couldn’t. She was sick most days—she was born with a heart disease and according to the doctor, would not survive to see her second birthday.

My parents spent most of their time crying over my sister’s fate; so did my Christian turned grandmother.  Kiyo was my parents’ only daughter. She was born on Christmas eve and was thus naturally extra special to my grandmother.  Every evening our family had a joint prayer to Jesus and our religious messiah Buddha in hopes of a miracle.

It took her eighteen long months to speak her first word. Because she had shown no signs that she would ever speak at all, that day was very special for my family and I. It was an unusual July Saturday. There had been a heavy downpour in the morning, which was followed by a scorching hot afternoon. My parents were away and my grandmother had gone to the Church. I was feeding Kiyo her afternoon Cerelac when she took hold of my finger with her hand. It was then that she had spoken her first word “Da”—I had been overjoyed to hear that word. Surprisingly, I was confused and could not react in the manner I would have imagined I would react in such a situation—my eyes would fill with tears of joy. I would take her in my arms and respond to her stammering. Then she would smile the most beautiful smile one could ever behold.

Under the willow tree

There were two children under the willow tree. The girl had soft brown curls and a chubby face. The boy was slightly taller with dark hair and cute dimples. “I’ll be a princess when I grow up,” she announced. “I am going to become a soldier,” he declared. “But soldiers go to war and die,” the girl said tearfully. “No, silly! I’ll always come back to you,” he smiled, “I promise.”

The willow tree remained the same. But the children had grown up. “You’ve got beautiful voice,” she commented, opening the lunchbox.  “Yeah?” he ruffled his hair trying not to sound too pleased, “And you’re the best cook in the world!” “Thanks,” she blushed, “So, any new songs yet?” 

“I am working on one. Want to hear it?” he asked through a mouthful. “Sure,” she grinned.

“It’s too dangerous. Please, please, don’t go!” She pleaded with the beautiful boy before her. “There’s a war going on and you know that I’ve always wanted to be a soldier. I must go,” he tried to make her understand, gazing deep into her tortured doe eyes.

“My brother’s still here. He hasn’t gone,” She argued feebly. “He would have been the first one to join the army if he didn’t limp,” he countered.

“But what if you never come back?” she whispered. “I will. I promise. Remember, my dad was a soldier too. And he always came back,” he reassured her.

“You’ll write to me?” she murmured, defeated. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and smiled, “Only if you promise to write back.”

She rested her head on his chest and let her tears fall, “I do.” Days were followed by nights and weeks stretched into months. Seasons changed and life went on. Their emotions flowed freely in the hundreds of papers that traveled across the seas.

His words felt the tremors of explosions. They smelt of gunpowder and dust. They ached with the yearnings for a beloved’s kiss and a homey embrace. They bled, sweated and struggled. They screamed in pain for every fallen warrior, friend and foe. Death, apparently, had ceased to be poetic. They prayed desperately for the colour white. Her words were like balm to his ravaged soul. She was his oasis, his guardian angel. She spread sunshine and warmth into his dark, desolate world. He lived to read her letters. He needed them like air and water. They gave him the strength and reason to love, hope and survive.

Tale of a re-cycled self

Anna walked past the meadows where hope swayed. She followed the stream where life took its course, and stood beneath the tree where dreams were sold. But somehow, she could never make sense out of any of it. To her, everything was like the paintings she created—black blobs of paint over the white canvas. Colours could never make sense to her, and she stood there, seeing what nobody else saw—shades of black and white. The swaying hopes were black, the river through which life took its course seemed to her to be flowing black liquid, and the leaves in the tree beneath which dreams were sold were all black. The wind that whispered in her ears talked of dark tales and the world was exactly like her canvas—with blobs of black paint everywhere. Oh! She could never tell the difference—it was like an ancient ache that she lived with, she had perhaps never gotten used to it; just that with time, she had grown numb.

Her ‘re-cycled self’ she called herself—her present self that is. She believed that over the years, piece by piece, she had let go of herself; day after day—in the form of the beliefs she had stopped believing in, in the form of the hopes that couldn’t keep her company, in the form of the dreams that had swiftly flown out of the window, until none remained.  And somewhere, in a place called ‘away’, the bits that she put away with every passing day were put together to form a new and re-cycled self of her being. The re-cycled self looked like her, sounded like her but to her it felt different—so different that when her face showed in the mirror she saw a face of a stranger staring at her, a face that poked fun at her, a face that jeered at her for letting go of her dreams, her hopes, her beliefs. Oh! She could never be sure of what all she had missed or if she had really missed as much as she thought she had—she could never tell.

“Why can’t you ever think positive?” asked the people around her. She would look at them and think, “What difference would that make? What difference would anything make? After all in the end, it’s about nothing. Like the answers that evade me, I can live on without answering this question.” She somehow

never got what the positives and negatives in life meant after all. There were the wrongs that she was accused of, the wrongs that she was blamed for, the wrongs that were strewn all around her and there were the rights that she was never credited for, the rights that never came her way, the rights that didn’t keep her company—she wasn’t sure if they made up the positives and negatives—these very rights and wrongs...

Oh! In midst of it all, she couldn’t help a few things and it was amazing how life did what it did— it just moved on. When she stood beneath the tree where dreams were sold, she could see the passers-by glance at her and then go about their own business and she could feel their thoughts—the thoughts that questioned— “Isn’t she the girl who let go of it all? And what is she doing beneath that tree?”

Requiem for a con

It was one of those ads in the newspaper you wouldn’t have noticed unless you were actually looking for it; which was exactly what Radha was doing. At 28, she was living life and scared as hell at the moment. The ad was simple. It was asking readers if any of them were witnesses to a hit and run accident that occurred the day before. And Radha happened to be a witness. The only one, if her careful scanning of the area had been accurate. There was a phone number at the bottom of the ad. Radha wanted to scream and run, but her moral being—a personification of justice, willed her to call the number and report the crime. But fear, being a primal instinct deeply rooted in the subconsciousness of any creature, savagely attacked her mind. So, after several Alprazolam tablets, she shakily picked up the phone and dialed the number, her strength returning to her by the second. 

 “Hello... Hello... I, er, was calling regarding the newspaper ad you printed in the Kalikasthan Times”   “Oh”
The voice at the other end was gruff...intimidating... yet almost pleading. Radha slowly started regaining her confidence in herself. It was either the voice or the Alprazolam. She started seeing things clearer and her financial alter-ego started kicking in.

 “I saw the accident your ad was referring to”
 “Finally…at least there was one eyewitness. Could you tell me the details?”
 “Whats in it for me?”
 There was a pause at the other end. 
“Excuse me?”
“Whats in it for me? The victim’s grieving family will want to know all the details. They might even sue the perpetrators and get rich. All because of what i saw. Heck, I can even identify the driver and his accomplice. People will get rich. And me? I’ll still be stuck in a dead-end job with barely enough money to pay the rent. So, what’s in it for me?”
“I am presuming you want money?”

The case of Mr. John Doe

Sergeant John was in high spirits. “Can’t believe mom wanted me to become a grocer like dad!” he thought with a smug smile. His last twenty years in the police force had been quite rewarding. True, he had had a lot of transfers to his credit but they had only been pleasant opportunities to expand his horizons. So, here he was, in yet another new town, in search of the novel experiences that had eluded him so far. And tonight was his first day on duty.

“Ready, John?” asked his fellow sergeant George.

“Yes, mate!” John grinned. “I am dying to get started!”

“Well, good luck!” the other cop laughed.

The weather was beautiful. The ink blue sky was lit up with countless stars and a bright moon. John began patrolling, alert as ever, right on the dot. Apart from the occasional screeching of owls and the unmelodic chirping of crickets, there wasn’t a sound to be heard in the quiet hours of darkness. After midnight, satisfied that everything was fully under control, John finally decided to take a short break. So, he entered the nearby post and made some coffee. Just as he was settling down, he spotted somebody lurking in the darkness.

John hollered, “Hello! Who are you? Why are you out so late?” The other fellow stopped dead on his tracks and turned around slowly. Their eyes met for a second. The man looked elderly and drained—like a common beggar except for his eyes. They looked extraordinarily sad, as if full of ancient grief.

“I am the new officer in charge here. Do you want something?” asked John.

The other fellow just shook his head and moved on silently. “What’s your name?” John asked. No answer. “The poor chap seems crazy,” he thought. “Can I call you John Doe? My name is John too, Sergeant John Davies,” he said.

The stone skipper

He is holding the fishing rod perched on a stone enveloped with moss and thus slippery. I am watching him from behind resting on my back, my right hand as the pillow for my head on a large round stone, not slippery. When I at times strike the small stones which I have collected, against the rock on which I am laying with my other hand, he turns his head towards me, puts his index finger perpendicular to his shut lips and indicates that I stop making noise. I don’t want to avert fish from being pierced to his hook but I still can’t help bothering him. I don’t doubt his fishing skills, but today it is taking longer than usual for his bait to lure the fish to a gill-puncturing death. Maybe fish have gotten smarter or more probably they’re rare these days. “Leave it! No luck today. Fishing tomorrow?’’ I ask him. He doesn’t reply but gives me a broad ear-to-ear smile. I dodn’t know why but I return it with a half smile.

Three days ago I had arrived at this village, my own; I would like to call it that. At its threshold bar-peepal trees had greeted me waving their uncountable leaves as if they had recognised me. On the way to the village through the farmlands, I had seen two human bodies silhouetted against the sun. I could never ‘not recognize’ him. The smaller of the two bodies came walking towards me. When she sensed my presence, her perkiness vanished and her eyes were fixed onto her toes. She had a pitcher in her hand and was most likely going to fetch water from the nearby stream. “Hello, little girl! May I know your name?” I asked her when she was passing by me. But she wouldn’t answer. Rather, she accelerated her pace. I waited for her to return but she didn’t.  She was his daughter; she wouldn’t be so ‘not-clever’. She had taken the other path.  

I hide myself beside a mound of soil. I had taken a handful of wet soil, fashioned it into a tight round ball and was poised for an assault. I hit him with it from behind. It was not a surprise for me that I missed the target. No sooner had I turned about to give it another try, my buttocks got a nice strike. ‘Soil-balls’, this was what we used to call those cannon balls of ours. I turned back with a squeezed, contorted face. I’m sure it must then have had more wrinkles than those which prowl like snakes all over his face. He had his signature smile on his face then. He never misses. “What did you think, that I wouldn’t notice you?”’ he said as he gently tapped me with his stick and then hugged me. His bare chest smelt of sweat and I could feel his heart or lung or whatever it is that makes noise inside beat. He was just a year older than me but he had developed wrinkles and looked much older than his age. “You’ve grown old,” I said. “That I have; what can I do about it?”’ he said. “Let it be. You don’t know how much I’m happy to see you here. You’re a very big man now, aren’t you?” he said enunciating the words ‘very big’ in long, pronounced manner. I am a lot taller than him, but not a “big man”.