Stories

SHORT STORIES

THOUGHTS... & EXPRESSIONS

Selected best works from the inaugural Times of Oman Literary Contest

A literary initiative from Muscat Media Group

Selected best works from the inaugural Times of Oman Literary Contest

A literary initiative from

Muscat Media Group

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A WORD FROM THE CEO

Ahmed Essa Al Zedjali CEO Muscat Media Group

Published by Muscat Media Group P O Box : 770, Postal Code 112 Ruwi, Sultanate of Oman

The book is an authorized publication of selected winning entries of the inaugural Times of Oman Literary Contest. All content in this book is declared original works of the credited authors who also hold their copyrights and MMG holds no responsibility in the event of any contrary claim which may be taken up with the respective author directly.

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On behalf of the MMG team, I wish to convey the heartiest congratulations to all the winners and participants in the inaugural “Times of Oman Literary Contest”.

MMG’s work ethos has always revolved around the empowerment of our readers and we believe that real empowerment comes not just from sharing of knowledge and information but from providing a channel for expression as well. As we move forward into a new digital era where geographical barriers no longer exist for communication of thoughts and ideas, effective expression holds the key. Contests of this nature open the doors of young minds, enabling them to be creative, thoughtful and introspective. The excellent and overwhelming response we have received bears testimony to the abundance of latent literary talent in the region.

We look forward to your continued enthusiasm and participation as the contest evolves in the coming years. I would also like to thank our business partners who have come forward and shared our values and vision in this new endeavour and look forward to their continued association in the future editions.

Best Wishes.

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SPONSOR’S MESSAGE

FOREWORD

A LANDMARK OFFERING

SUPPORTING LOCAL TALENT

Pradeep Govind Head-Literary Contest Committee Muscat Media Group

The Times of Oman Literary Contest is yet another landmark offering from Muscat Media Group, aimed at providing a platform for talented and aspiring writers to express themselves and benchmark their writing skills with the best in the region. The inaugural edition was launched on September 1st 2013 and open for submissions till January 9, 2014. The contest was held in Short Stories, General Essays and Poetry in the age group of 10-15 years and above 15 years. Online participation was also enabled for the contest. Unlike the regular writing contests normally held in the region, this competition was unique in the sense that there was no restriction on the topic. The participants were given a free run for their imagination and over four months to write, refine and submit their work. The evaluation of the submissions was made by an independent panel of highly eminent judges with weightage given to originality, presentation, language, theme and overall impact.

It was heartening to see the fantastic and enthusiastic response to the contest from across the Sultanate. The contest had participation from nationals of various countries encompassing India, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, UK, USA, Ireland, France, Australia, Canada, Nigeria, Venezuela, Philippines, Egypt, Tanzania, Jordan, Iraq, Singapore, China, Scotland and of course the host country.. Oman. Even more interesting was the response to the online participation. The fact that many of the online submissions were made in the hours of the night as late as 2 am is an indication of the seriousness and commitment of the participants. The results were announced in May 2014 and due to the overwhelming requests we have been getting, MMG has decided to bring out the award winning entries in this book for your reading pleasure.

MMG congratulates all the prize winners and the honourable award winners for their achievement in this inaugural edition and also thanks all those who participated and wishes great success in their writing endeavors in the years ahead. We look forward to more participation in the future editions of the contest in the coming years. MMG also wishes to thank the panel of judges for their valuable time and enthusiasm for the project and also our business associates who came forward as our partners in this historic and landmark event in the field of literature, a first of its kind in the region.

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ZUBAIR CORPORATION This initiative is part of our strategy to implement meaningful community-based initiatives throughout Omani society. Achieving good levels of literacy by forming the habit of reading regularly is a lifetime skill for every member of the community. Communicating with the society allows for the study of issues arising from the heart of the community by identifying its needs. The Zubair Corporation endeavors to engage the conscious youth, who are aware of the needs of the community.

Khalid bin Mohammed Al-Zubair, Managing Director of The Zubair Corporation and the head of the Social Advisory Committee

SOHAR ALUMINIUM

We are quite pleased to have been a part of this unique initiative to promote literary talents in Oman. We at Sohar Aluminium believe in empowerment at all levels. Empowerment cannot be attained by the industrial aspect alone, but also by the intellectual growth of its people. The English writer Alfred North Whitehead once said “It is in literature that the concrete outlook Eng. Said Mohamed of humanity receives its expression”. Indeed, through literature Al Masoudi CEO we not only express our perspective of the world with its tangible Sohar Aluminium and abstract notions, but also contribute to the promotion of our culture. Oman has always been a cradle of magnificent literature, and great poets and writers have emerged from this land. Thus it’s only our duty to maintain this literary tradition and be part of the on-going development of our nation.

JINDAL SHADEED

I am indeed very happy that the contest was concluded with great success. I welcome the initiatives taken up by Times of Oman to bring hidden talents of the youth. The opportunity created by the group was harnessed fully by all the contestants. The contest gave ample opportunity to the youth to display their talents in the field of literature. I heartily congratulate the winners of this contest and am very happy to note their deep knowledge levels at this tender age. May The Almighty Allah bless them.

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N A Ansari CEO Jindal Shadeed Iron & Steel

JUDGING PANEL

JUDGING PANEL

SELECTING ONLY THE BEST WORKS Donald Sargent He is a regional teacher, trainer and advisor in the Ministry of Education. His connection with Oman goes back to 1977 when he first came to work in Oman. Of the last 36 years, 19 have been spent in Oman, with breaks to go and work in Poland, China, Russia, the UAE and Saudi Arabia. He was born in Dublin, which accounts for his interest in Anglo-Irish literature. His favourite poet is Ireland’s greatest poet. W.B. Yeats.

He went to the same school as Yeats and one of his prized possessions is a signed book the poet gave his mother.

His primary love is the theatre and as a child acted in many plays at the famous Gate theatre in Dublin. Though an ambition to be a full time actor was never realized, he has kept his interest in the theatre by acting and directing many amateur productions in countries where he worked.

He also helped to produce and act in a series called ‘English and the Arts’ for Polish TV and acted in a series of scenes for teaching English for Chinese TV. Whenever in the UK he makes it a point to attend as many plays as possible and it is his aim to see all the Shakespearean cannon. He tries to read the literature of a wider world including Arabic literature. He makes it a point to try and read the Mann Booker shortlist each year.

Sonia Ambrosio de Nelson She is an assistant professor in department of Mass Communications in Sultan Qaboos University and was previously an assistant professor at Sohar University in the Journalism and Communication Programme since 2008. Born in Brazil, Sonia has a MA and PhD from the National University of Singapore. Before entering the academe Sonia worked as a reporter and completed her journalism career as an international correspondent to the BBC World Service - Brazil Section and other broadcasting and publishing houses. Since entering the academe, Sonia has been active in bridging the gap between the practice and the education of journalism. In Oman, Sonia is involved in community activities; she is also a regular speaker in the areas of communication and journalism in the Sultanate.

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Michele Ni Thoghdha Michele Ni Thoghdha, fondly known as Mish Mish, is the Chief Supervisor for English with MOE, Oman. As a child she had great difficulty in learning how to speak and was greatly helped by her Mum and a speech teacher by the name of Nuala Johnson. She subsequently went on to study to be an English, History, Speech & Drama and Public Speaking teacher. She studied at Trinity College Dublin, Ireland and also at the Guildhall School of Music, Speech & Drama, London, UK. Prior to coming to Oman she worked in the Irish State School system for several years. Subsequently, she worked extensively both as a teacher and teacher trainer with the Refugee Council and The Red Cross prior to coming to Oman in 1989. She has a long relationship with the Times of Oman. She is a committee member of the Times of Oman Readers Club. She loved being involved in the ‘Times of Oman Literary Contest’ as it was an experience that was both very enriching and humbling.

Patricia Groves Patricia Groves is a distinguished Canadian educator who lectured on the Social History of Art & Music, as well as on the Media for 17 years, before assuming high-level executive posts in the Canadian Higher Education system. Resident in Oman since 1997, Dr Groves currently holds the post of Academic Advisor on the University of Oman Project at the Ministry of Higher Education.

She spends her leisure time writing and loves working with Hi as an ‘Art and Culture’ columnist. In addition to reviews of art and cultural events and travel writing, she has published a book on Oman’s forts and castles, called ‘Strongholds of Heritage’, and wrote the text for Mohammed Zubair’s beautiful book, ‘Oman’s Architectural Journey.’

The book she wrote on Omani and Indian painting called ‘Art Across the Ocean’ is forthcoming. She also edited a world cuisine cookbook, as well as editing ‘Memoirs of an Omani Gentleman from Zanzibar’. Dr Patricia is presently a major writer for a new book on the Royal Opera House Muscat.

Jane Jaffer Bickmore Jane Jaffer Bickmore is an author of several books. She is also a professional therapeutic counsellor, a Reiki healer, and chairperson of the charity ‘Let’s Read’. The Let’s Read Committee promotes the love of reading to children in Oman and recently launched Maktabati, Oman’s first mobile library.’ She is a friend of the media in Oman and has been contributing meaningful educative articles, from time to time, in Times of Oman, Hi Weekly, and other publications.

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CONTENTS Short Stories 24 A Single Second Tony O’Connor 28 Echoes of the Past Parvathi Preethan 35 Of Heaven, Hell and Everything Between Supritha Balu 39 Annamma’s Husband Cyril Antony George 45 The Garage Sale Miriam Sciala 52 Mercy Najah Abdulla Al Riyami 58 Blue Book Raazia S Ali 69 The Beginning of the End Haadya Khan 75 The Man on the Canvas V. Viswanathan 83 The Stonecutter Criselda Monice Razo 91 The Tree Ashwin Goroor Vasuki 66 Trolley Boy James Dick 99 Wonderland Anushree Lakshminarayan

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A Single Second Tony O’ Connor (1st Prize winner)

My Father always wore a seatbelt, but he had still died in a car crash. What use was a seatbelt?

0.726…

My head is now approaching the steering wheel, but it is happening too quickly for my eyes to focus properly. My hands are still trying to grip the steering wheel. Holding on desperately for some bizarre reason. The muscles in my leg have begun to contract and my foot has just begun to lift from the accelerator but it’s too slow and too late.

Despite the chaos around me, my mind suddenly seems clear. It must be the adrenalin, or some other miracle chemical in my brain that has given the external world a remarkable slow-motion effect.

Suddenly I am no longer in my car. I am a little boy once more, sitting on my Father’s lap as he drives his old car. It smells of diesel and cigarettes, and I am pretending to steer the steering wheel while my Father is telling me what to look out for. I am laughing, and next to me my little sister is standing up on the passenger seat looking out the window. Also laughing. I can feel the happiness like it’s all around us and I want this moment to last forever.

0.978…

I should have been wearing my seatbelt.

0.645…

My head has now hit the top of the steering wheel. A glancing blow. I feel the sudden change in direction as my head starts moving upwards, but there is no pain. In fact, I feel nothing as dopamine floods the pain receptors in my brain, numbing all sensation. Shielding me from the heart-stoppingly awful reality.

I was driving so fast that I barely even saw the white SUV that suddenly pulled out in front of me. My foot is still on the accelerator, without even having time to begin the short transition towards the brake. The sickening sound of metal on metal is already beginning to ring in my ears as the front of my car begins to disintegrate.

Once again I am suddenly sitting in a different car, but I don’t really recognise it from the inside. I am driving, and my hands a re trembling a little bit. There is a smell in the air of my own sweat. Why am I nervous? We approach two people and their faces trigger a sudden realization of where I am.

0.873…

My body has now left my seat and begun accelerating forward at an alarming speed.

My hands have involuntarily began to grip the steering wheel tighter, which is a natural reaction, but effectively useless. My eyelids have reopened again after blinking upon impact and pupils are beginning to dilate as adrenaline floods my brain – trying to prepare me…

I have just passed my drivers test, and I pull up alongside my mother and sister. They look towards me apprehensively, as they have already had to deal with my anger and frustration at failing my three previous driving tests. I frown at them and shake my head, and their faces drop further. I throw the door open and I can contain my happiness no longer. An enormous smile grows from one side of my face to the other. “I passed” I say to them, and they embrace me. Hugging me tightly. Smiling. “Mabrook, my son” my mother whispers to me.

I never thought this would happen to me. Accidents always happened to other people.

Sure, I was driving too fast and not wearing a seatbelt, like I always do, but I refused to wear a seatbelt out of principle. In fact, I had stopped wearing a seatbelt the day my Father died. It was my silent, stupid way of fighting the fact that death had taken him from me. His funeral was difficult for all of the family and afterwards my Grandfather had explained that life was short, and that we should always make the most of each and every single day. He also made me promise to always wear a seatbelt, and I promised I would – but secretly I vowed not to.

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I have wanted a driver’s license for so long, and now I was finally free to drive anywhere I wanted to go. I could go on adventures. I could drive to Dubai. To Saudi. A new world of adventures were now open to me… but there is a lingering thought of sadness. If only my father was here to see me now.

0.492…

The initial collision between my head and steering wheel has caused my brain to hit the

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inside of my skull, lighting up pain centers which I can see, rather than feel. Like stars in the night’s sky. If that makes any sense. My head is still going upwards, but the force of my body is also driving it forwards, towards the windscreen.

I’m now in a small wooden boat. My grandfather’s boat. We’re about half a mile off the coast. Around Yiti. Pulling in barracudas. There’s a basket of small bait fish, that we attach hooks to, then throw into the ocean. Inevitably about 30 seconds later a writhing barracuda with needle-like teeth is retrieved by my grandad.

The fresh salt air of the sea smells so good. I wish I could bottle it and breathe it all the time. As we bob up and down on the small waves we start talking. I tell him I am worried about getting married. I don’t know how it will be to live with a woman. He starts laughing, telling me that I will learn quickly enough. He has met my wife-to-be and tells me she is an amazing woman and will make a beautiful, generous wife. He was right, as always.

I am still in my home, but time has passed. My beautiful, adorable perfect 5-year-old boy is now sitting on my knee. “Daddy… what was your Daddy like?” Such an intelligent question from a 5-year-old. “He was big and strong. Like me. But even bigger and stronger” I reply.

My son thinks about this for a while. “And where did he go?” I sigh inwardly. How do you explain death to a child? “He returned to Allah, but we will see him in heaven one day”.

Again, my son ponders. “Can we go and see him in heaven now?” I smile broadly at him. “No, we can’t, but it will happen one day, Insha Allah. Until then, you must always remember that life is short, and we must make the most of each and every day”.

0.119…

The glass has completely severed my arteries, causing my heart to begin to falter. My spine is crushed together. There is no way for oxygen to get to my brain. I feel nothing. While there may still be signs of life in me, it is fading fast.

He changes the conversation to me providing him with a grandson, and we fall silent for a moment. I tell him that I still miss my father and he looks away, across to the horizon.

There is a tear in his eye. “He was my son, and I miss him too. He was strong, like you are strong. I believed in him, and I believe in you – and I will be here to act as your Father whenever you need me”.

I am now in a dark corridor, and there is a blindingly bright light at the end of the corridor.

I take a step towards the light. Then another, and another. I begin to run, getting faster and faster and as I approach the light I jump headfirst into it, as if drawn to it by an unseen force. As I fall through the light I feel two strong arms catch me. My Father smiles down at me with tears in his eyes.

Splash! Another barracuda hits the floor of the boat, and my grandfather is smiling as he easily unhooks it.

0.013…

There is nothing left. My body is broken. My brain is shutting down. I have just enough time for one final thought. One last statement before I depart this world. One final echo to encapsulate my life, and all those I leave behind. One last regret…

0.388…

My head has just hit the windscreen. Cracking it. This has caused severe trauma to my brain, and my spine has begun to impact upon itself. Vertebrae colliding violently and nerves severed. These injuries are serious and cannot be reversed. Even if I make it through this, I will never walk again.

0.001…

I should have been wearing my seatbelt.

I am no longer in a car. I am now at home with my wife. After spending 40 nights at her parent’s place, she is finally home with me, and our son. An impossibly tiny baby. So small.

So perfect.

They are both lying in bed, with him asleep on her chest. This is the happiest I have ever been in my entire life, and I feel a tear rolling down the side of my cheek. Then another.

And another. My family. In my home.

After all I have been through in my life it feels like I have been rewarded a hundred times over for my troubles. Everything feels so natural. Everything feels exactly like it is meant to be.

0.227…

The smash. The momentum of my body has now driven my head through the windscreen, causing my skull to crack. The broken glass has cut my face and neck. One individual shard has pierced my eyelid and scratched my cornea. Another, far more deadly shard has gone into my neck, slashing an artery open.

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Echoes of the Past Parvathi Preethan (2nd Prize winner)

lawyer, who lost one major case that ended his career, and messed up his life. He was still in shock, they said and he hardly spoke a word. The young kid, Sarah with tattoos and piercings and God knows what else, who always went about looking as though she had seen a ghost. She had gotten into bad company in college and on one of their wild escapades out on the road; her friend had died in a freak road accident. She still blamed herself, apparently.

So much pain, so much pain. So much madness. She was glad she was finally ready to leave all this behind and go back to her old life, ready to start anew. Or... Was she?

Her love, Graham. Dead. Gone. Leaving her behind, after a heart attack took him away.

Tragic, everybody said. But nobody was really surprised. He had a weak heart and had been on medication for a long time. After 40 years of marriage, anybody would find it hard to cope if they were left alone. Everybody sympathised with her when she had a mental breakdown. Her son Shaun tried his best to console his distraught, near hysterical mother. She seemed in a very bad state. A month passed, then two. Her condition just did not improve. She had nervous breakdowns frequently. Shaun tried his best to help her, but he just didn’t know how. So his last option had been to leave her at the Psychiatric Centre. His mother seemed to welcome the idea; she made no fuss about going and living there. It appeared as though she was almost relieved to leave home.

Meredith sat looking out of the window, clutching a copy of Coelho’s ‘The Witch of Portobello’ in one hand. Her bags had been packed and were now placed neatly on the side of her bed. Finally, she was ready to leave.

Her room felt strangely empty. Even though she had stayed here for almost a year now, she had never bothered to put up any personal touches in the room. Not even a photo on the bedside table. She hadn’t really wanted to, actually. Even in the confused and distraught state her mind had been in at the time, she had firmly decided that her stay here would be temporary. Brief. She would escape as soon as she could.

And yet, the room felt strangely empty, though it had never been full, so to speak. She ran her fingers along the edge of the wooden window-frame and its familiarity somewhat soothed the turbulence within her. She had done this often, sat on the window-seat and looked down at the garden for hours on end, seeing the people down there and feeling sorry for them. Because she knew it was only a matter of time before she left and went home, but they were stuck here, some of them maybe forever, perhaps.

She saw them now, a few whom she had come to know and recognise over the months.

Mrs. Wilson, abandoned at old age by her children and who never recovered from the pain, and sense of bereavement that she felt. Mr. Dartmouth, once a famous and rich

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Yes, she had been relieved.

Meredith and Graham, even after all those years of being married, had still been the perfect couple. The envy of all the neighbours. They had the perfect life, with Shaun, now married and well settled with a family of his own. They had splendid Christmas and Thanks-giving family dinners together.

The perfect life. Meredith gripped the window-frame hard. She had thought that a year in this place would be enough to make her forget everything, to finally let go. But apparently it had not. The events of that one cold August evening still haunted her bitterly.

She was busy making scones for their tea, humming to herself. Graham sat at the kitchen table, a newspaper propped in front of the milk jug. He had been on the same page for almost half an hour, and seemed deep in thought.

“Something really interesting in there?” Meredith asked, sitting down opposite him and setting down the plates.

“What?” He started suddenly and looked up. He seemed really on edge.

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“Oh no, no... nothing. Just....nothing.”

Meredith raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment on it. She started buttering a scone.

Graham stared at her hands for a little while, and then sighed, setting the paper aside. He took a deep breath, as though preparing himself for something, and said a single syllable.

“Mer” Meredith looked up. She was alarmed to see his face. She couldn’t quite place the emotions that were clouding it. And this really scared her.

“What is it? Please, tell me.” She said, gripping his hand across the table.

“Mer, before you hear it, I want you to know that I really love you... And that I never meant, I mean, I hope you will still find it in your heart to forgive to me...” Graham looked down.

He couldn’t bear to meet her eye.

Meredith’s grip on his hand slackened. She knew him too well, and those words he was saying could only mean one thing. But how could he? She thought she knew him, his every thought. She thought he had loved her and she trusted him, blindly. Almost subconsciously, she disengaged her hand from his.

Graham held onto it, fast. He started talking, urgently, with a pleading edge to his voice.

“You must know it was... a mistake. It’s over now. A brief fling. I regret it deeply, Mer...

Please, I’m really sorry. I had to tell you. I couldn’t keep it from you, the guilt was killing me. I hoped you would forgive me. I can’t imagine a life without you in it, after all these years together... And that’s what made me end it. You have every right to be angry, I know.

But please, just say something. Say you forgive me. Just this once.”

Meredith looked down at his hand entwined with hers. The gold ring on his finger, with the letters GM inked onto them. She felt nothing, just numbness. Strangely, her neighbours’ faces seemed to swim in front of her and phrases of their past conversations replayed itself in her head...” You and Graham, after all these years, still so charming together! “....

“We envy you two old love-birds, hahaha...” .... “The perfect life...”.

She jumped out of her seat.

“I need some time alone.” She made to exit the kitchen, but before going she turned and looked at Graham once. He looked shattered, broken and was staring down at his hands.

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Meredith went to their bedroom, didn’t bother to turn on the lights and sat down on their massive double bed. She looked at the side where Graham slept. She imagined him with that unnamed woman, his fingers tracing along the nape of her neck, as he often liked to do, when he and Meredith lay down together. A wave of cold fury washed over her. She had thought that everything was perfect, that THEY were perfect, when all this time...

It wasn’t like that to him. She didn’t want to know anything about this other woman, what her name was, how old she was, anything. What did it matter? The only thing that mattered was that her love hadn’t been enough for Graham. This was the thought that stung her most, that threatened to overwhelm her completely. Their love, which meant everything to her, was just... What? She didn’t know. She didn’t want to think about it.

She had been a fool. A complete fool. She knew she wasn’t thinking clearly, but at that moment, she didn’t care. She went to their dresser and opened the drawer, almost in a trance like state. She saw the medications that the doctor had prescribed for Graham. She felt in the back of the drawer and produced the little unopened red coloured package.

“Use it only when absolutely necessary.” The family physician had warned her when he handed it to her.” It has serious repercussions and can be lethal if taken without cause.

But since Graham’s condition is sometimes too unstable, it’s best if I leave a dose here in case of emergencies.”

She clutched the packet tightly in her hand and went back to the kitchen. Graham wasn’t there. She knew he would have gone out to sit in the porch, his favourite place. He hadn’t drunk his tea yet. She put the kettle back on the stove, and emptied the contents of the little red package into it. Maniacally, she began to search for cups and saucers.

Graham trusted her blindly with his medicines; he never bothered to read the prescriptions himself, and always joking that all those complicated names made his head ache. She angrily brushed away a few hot tears from her eyes. Yes, he blindly trusted her with his medicine.... Just as she had blindly trusted him all those years, never, ever suspecting... Well, she squared her shoulders and emptied the contents of the kettle into a cup; they both would learn that day that blind trust would always be punished... Cruelly.

“Mom... Time to leave!”

Shaun’s happy voice made Meredith snap out of her reverie. She turned from the window to see her son standing in the doorway. He was bending down to pick up her bags when she turned and looked at him. He stopped midway when he saw the look on her face. His animated smile faded.

“Is something wrong?” he enquired, coming and sitting down next to her.

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Meredith stared at her son, without really seeing his face. She seemed to be lost in thought, her eyes fixed on something that only she seemed able to see.

“Mom?!” Shaun snapped his fingers, a tad impatiently.

“Shaun”. Meredith squared herself, and faced him. She was painfully reminded of Graham, of the way he looked when they had had that last conversation, and the way he had said her name then. She had a feeling she looked just like Graham right now. God, would she ever be rid of his ghost? He seemed to haunt her in everything she did.

“There’s something you need to know.”

“Well, can’t it wait until we get back home, Mom? Alice and the kids are waiting for you.

And I know that you have been really looking forward to leave this place. What’s this sudden important thing?” Shaun asked, unable to really sense the conflicting emotions that Meredith was just barely concealing.

“It’s your dad... He had an affair.” Meredith said, slowly and stressing each word quietly.

“What? Dad... an affair? Mom... Is this..?” Shaun looked incredulous and completely at a loss for words.

Meredith started recounting the events of that evening and watched her son’s shocked and pained expression. Bitterly regretting having to burden him with this, and taint his father’s memory, she knew that he had a right to know... everything. She felt guilty for inflicting this on Shaun, after all this time... when they all had finally appeared to have gotten over the grief of Graham’s passing. But still, he did have a right to know, however late it was. And she wasn’t going to omit any part of it. She lowered her eyes then, and told the part with the little red package. Upto to the point where she emptied them into the cups. She looked up at Shaun then.

“Mom... Did you, did you give that cup to Dad? Mom.. please, tell me you didn’t.” His voice broke on the last words.

Meredith didn’t say anything.

“The doctors said it was a heart attack, no unnatural causes were reported.. Mom! Please!

Why aren’t you saying anything? How could you....?” Shaun’s voice was rising with each word and he was becoming incoherent. But Meredith didn’t miss the accusation, and the anger that his last unfinished question carried.

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“I don’t remember if I gave him the cup or not.” She said quietly, after a long silence. She knew how this sounded to him. She almost wished she could take back the words. But she didn’t. She had made her decision.

It was almost as good as a confession. And she realized this from the grief that flickered across his face.

“You don’t remember?” He asked her, tears now filling the corners of his eyes.

“NO! I don’t, Shaun! How many times do I have to tell you?” She asked, adding a note of hysteria to her voice for good measure. She was almost ready to enter the mad world where she had no control over herself, a world that she had been sure she was leaving for good.

Shaun backed away from her. He went towards the door and stood longing out, for a long time. Meredith stared at the back of his head, glad that she didn’t know the thoughts that were going on it and at the same time wishing that she did.

After some time, he turned and came back to her. He looked calm, and composed. He knelt down beside the bed, and took her hands in his. Looking intently at her face, he said, “Mom. I know how much you loved Dad. And even if YOU don’t know if you gave him the cup or not, I do. You couldn’t have. I believe in you. And I want you to remember that. Ok? But I really think you need to stay on here for some time more... to just sort things out.

Right?”

Meredith felt gutted as she heard this. Affection for her son threatened to overwhelm her and almost made her blurt out. But she fought the feeling, and the guilt and clasping his hands hard, whispered, “Thank you”.

Meredith sat looking out of the window, still clutching Coelho in one hand. Her bags had been unpacked and its contents restored to the cupboard. She was staying.

The other patients were still out in the garden, but Meredith no longer felt pity for them.

She didn’t envy them either. Because now, she had what they had. Within these walls, they were free to let their darkest secrets be known and still nobody would judge them.

She felt safe there, shielded from the outside world and its harshness. A haven of comfort.

She knew she had been very selfish. To stay on in this haven of comfort, she had lied and pained Shaun. She remembered very well what she had done with that wretched cup of coffee. She had emptied it into the bin. Shaun had been right, even though she didn’t know if he actually believed what he said to her or had just been trying to comfort her. She loved Graham too much. The moment of insanity came, it passed and it left her shattered. She

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sat on the kitchen stool and let the tears flow. Tears for his infidelity, but more tears for what she had almost done. Much, much more tears.

It was exactly 12 hours later that Graham had his heart-attack. And they had not spoken to each other even once in those entire 12 hours. Meredith had avoided him, as she hadn’t known what to say.

Of Heaven, Hell and Everything Between Supritha Balu (3rd Prize winner)

How she wished now that she could have said one last goodbye! To say that she forgave him, would he forgive her? She had actually thought of killing him! The horror of that idea refused to leave Meredith even now. Especially as she had come to know exactly what a world without him meant to her.

After his death, she had been shattered, but more so because of the guilt. The hysteria, the tears were all because of the guilt. And she hadn’t been able to tell anybody, not even Shaun. She couldn’t bring herself to. People thought she was losing it, turning psychotic.

But what she was actually going through was raw, unadulterated guilt. She agreed to stay in the Psychiatric Centre just to get away from home and all the memories of Graham, and the guilt, of course. It was supposed to be just a temporary refuge.

But she had impulsively decided that she wanted to stay on here, in this haven. She wasn’t ready to leave. But she couldn’t bring herself to ask for a place here. Maybe it was her twisted sense of pride that refused her to do so. She didn’t know. She had staged her little act and she had succeeded. She knew Shaun would tell her to stay on, once he saw the signs of hysteria. But what she hadn’t known was those words he would say that went straight to her heart. But she knew, either way, Shaun would forgive her in the end. He loved her too much not to.

But nevertheless, it was a risk she had been willing to take. As she sat looking out of the window, Meredith was struck with another thought. Had she really just lied to her son that she had killed her husband in order to stay in a mental asylum? Maybe she was mad, after all. And insanely, this thought made her smile.

Certain events seem to occur for the strangest reasons ever known to man, so much so that one can’t help but get astounded at nature’s creations…or rather, marvel at the irregularities of everyday life. A certain such event occurred in my regular daily life; something that changed my destiny forever…

I’m Rosalita D’Angelino and I had always been a happy little girl growing up, so full of sweetness and joy. Even though I lived in the Mexican ‘ghetto’ of Queens, New York City; I somehow seemed to emulate the sunshine-y qualities my native country was known for. Partly because I remembered crossing over the sunkissed Chihuahuan Desert to the States, and also since I wanted to make the most of living in the Land of Opportunity, I molded my consciousness to assume the shape of the dry sandy soil I left behind. Growing up as the fourth and the youngest sister in a family of girls, I never felt the absence of my mother; was the apple of my sisters’ eyes; and was a pampered daddy’s princess.

As a result, I was always protected from the telenovela-type happenings in my neighbourhood. It barely bothered me that my eldest sister wanted to leave the NYU School of Medicine to become a fashion-designer. My first clue was when Isabella ‘Izzy’ had started complaining of her classmates attending lectures in jammies-and-crocs. It barely bothered me that my second sister Maria wanted to dump her attractive albeit two-timing boyfriend; the idea seemed quite reasonable since he had slept with their

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University professor. He had sworn to Maria that he was taking extra classes in order to ace the midterms; the give-away came in the form of Ms. Sullivan’s YSL Parisienne.

It also barely bothered me that my homely third sister Angela had caught the attention of the local Mafioso; he seemed to be coming a rather long way just to enquire about making the perfect short-crust pastry, while everyone in Queens knew that Oliver Crasta was a mean killing machine set to inherit his father’s ‘ import and export’ business. He arrived daily at six in the evening to ‘discuss’ baking tips with Angela; my third sister barely understood Ollie’s leanings since she was too busy giving kitchen advice over Bella Calamidades. Personally, I was daily involved in listening to my dear sisters’ rants over cups of latte that all their problems seemed normalized to me; they were a part of my life and I loved that they were their own quirky selves. My worrying and bothering began when I received what was supposed to be, a gift in the literal and the figurative sense.

It all began two years back on the night of Dia de Muertos when the whole of Queens was dressed-up as ghosts, ghouls and goblins. My job was to help Angela sell homemade Sugar Skulls for five dollars apiece at our local Halloween fair. Well, everyone in the neighbourhood loved Angela and her confectionaries, so the sales went well. It also took me a few minutes to note that most of the big buyers were Ollie’s friends; it helped that both of us were in nurses costumes and that the mafia-kid himself was ogling at my sister from a few yards away. Obviously, no sane person would ever wait at an apple-bobbing queue for over two hours. As for myself I wasn’t able to enjoy the festivities much; I was tired from hollering “ DELICIOUS SUGAR SKULLS! ONLY FIVE DOLLARS!!!” at the top of my voice. All I wanted to do was get into my comfy pajamas and hit the sheets.

Much like a true geek (Izzy was this way in high-school) I went to bed at nine. I must have been sound asleep for several hours, for I have no recollection what-so-ever of when I woke up, except that some maniac seemed to be knocking on our house-door to his wits end. Groggy-eyed, I forced myself up from my warm nesting place and headed down the stairs towards the door. I simply wanted the loud door-banger (his/her knocks had increased in tone and intensity) to stop! Upon wrenching open the door, I stood in stunned silence…

There stood in front of me a witch! Yups, a witch…complete with a pointy hat and a creepy-looking black cat (trust me, I considered myself a cat-person till I saw this one).

She looked terribly old and had a visible hump. I need to explain myself- see, I wasn’t stunned because there stood a witch on my doorstep at God-only-knows what time of the night; it was Dia de Muertos after all (duh!). What surprised me was that the witchlady was holding a rather tiny parcel; it was delicately wrapped in silver paper and blue ribbons. The freaky costume and the mysterious package were worlds apart from each other. I stood staring at the witch in silence for a few minutes, after which I muttered “calavera (sugar treat)?”. What else would an adult costumer want during the Day of the Dead? To my absolute terror she grabbed me by the hand, pulling me close to the face and

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whispered, “This is your destiny my dear. Do not run away from it.”. Her voice to this day still sends me shivers down my back. She put the little silver box into my hands and ran down the street taking her ugly meowing-cat with her. I stood at my door, white in the face and jittery from what had just taken place. Not knowing what to do, I went inside my house closing the door behind me, went up the stairs to my room, placed the box on my dresser and went back to sleep. “It was just a crazy old woman.”, I kept saying to myself. I would have loved for my wishful thinking to be rendered true.

I ended waking up after eleven in the morning; Angela was pestering me to brush my teeth and eat breakfast before it went all cold, while I could hear Maria downstairs screaming over her cellphone (at her then-boyfriend now turned ex, I guess). The strange event of the previous night never flashed into my memory until I had returned from a much welldeserved shower and glanced at my dresser. Making sure that Maria, Angela and paapi were occupied with cooking lasagna downstairs, I sat cross-legged upon my bed, much like a little child gearing up to open her Christmas presents, and finally gently pulled open the blue strings.

The box didn’t house anything that looked dangerous or downright strange; there lay a beautiful silver and pearl-drop pendant on a silver chain, nestled within snowyblue tissue paper. I allowed myself to touch the gift tenderly; upon picking it up and examining further, I noticed that the pendant was shaped in the form of a full-bloomed rose with the pearl suspended from beneath it. Being the vain person I was (and which I still am to date), I slipped the chain on my neck and admired its beauty from the mirror on my dresser. While settled comfortably in my own blissful state I noticed little demarcations upon the snowy-blue tissue paper that had held my necklace (it was gifted to me, so I considered it to be mine). Peering closely at it, I realized that it was a message written in an awfully painful tiny handwriting. Screwing my eyes partially closed in order to read it, I found out that the little note was directly addressed to me: Dear Rosa, his necklace was your abuelita’s. It has been passed down in our family for T generations. We come from a family of gate-keepers, and our main duty is to maintain the harmony between Heaven, Hell, and Earth. Isabella, Maria, Angela, and you are each blessed with special powers to aid you in your mission. Yours is telekinesis. Each D’Angelino woman is given her special ornament on her 18th Dia de Muertos. Paapi and your sisters will explain everything to you.

Take care my little miha, Love, mama.

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Needless to mention, my first instinct was to crush the foolish-looking tissue paper with my hand and hurl it across my room into the wastebasket. However, I managed to stuff it along with the necklace inside my underwear drawer (that’s where I always put all the unwanted stuff ); out of sight, out of mind. Wondering why paapi and my sisters have been quiet for a long time, I decided to wash my hands and proceed downstairs to devour the lasagna; for some unknown reason my gut was feeling ravenous.

Annamma’s Husband Cyril Antony George

My biggest fear lay awaiting me when I ran down into the kitchen — the table was elaborately set for lunchtime; paapi was seated at the center, with Izzy, Maria and Angela flanking his sides; the chair opposite to paapi was kept for me with the whole lasagna upon my side of the table. Everyone was looking at me with curiously interested eyes, as though they were noticing me for the first time. My sisters smiled encouragingly while paapi gestured for me to sit down at my designated area. As I took my seat, I saw the words etched with green peas upon the lasagna, as though they were to get imprinted on my mind: Welcome to the family nuevo GATEKEEPER!

It was a peaceful Sunday morning. The December night dew had kissed every leaf, every flower and every blade of grass of the green land. Red, blue, green, yellow and all the colors of nature danced off the dew drops in the pleasant morning sun. The birds were ecstatic and jumped from branch to branch to sip the cold droplets hanging on the leaves. They sang and danced like a symphony from heaven.

But Annamma and her two daughters could not take time to appreciate the bounty of nature. They were late for Sunday mass and had to hurry along. It was already 7: 50 am.

They only had ten minutes before service started. Annamma was never late to mass and when her daughter pointed out a beautiful parrot, she just nudged her along.

The road snaked out in front of them. The black tarmac was flanked by chest high tea bushes and lay glistening in its wetness. Despite its incline, Annamma and her daughters walked fast. The mountain folks were blessed with strength. The fresh air, water, food and active physical lives all contributed.

Annamma was clad in her Sunday attire. White saree and blouse and rubber flip flops with a rexin bound bible in hand, an electronic watch on one wrist and a yellow bangle of gold on the other. Her daughters were also wearing white but the salwars preferred by the younger generation.

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A cold breeze rolled down the hill slope and drove chill air into their lungs. Annamma felt refreshed. The hills of Malabar could be paradise indeed.

The unwelcome heavy beat of an Enfield Bullet alerted her and she pulled her children to the side of the road. Even the birds protested at the annoying noise and raised their pitch to shriller notes. She could feel unwelcome eyes rolling over her back. She had been an attractive woman in her youth and before her travails.

The Enfield passed her by. Two burly men were sitting on it. She recognized them. One of them had a habit of getting drunk and roaming the dark streets at night. Annamma was certain that it was he who had been knocking on her door in the middle of the night. They felt she would be easy since her husband was not with her anymore.

But she did not detest them for that alone. There was something more painful that. They were one of the reasons that she was alone with her daughters.

The road forked into two. The left led to a white church with a school behind it. The right trailed down to a small hut with a board marked ‘Toddy’. Annamma looked down to see the Enfield parked before the toddy shop. She saw the two men walk into the shop and come out dragging a small thin man behind them. She recognized Matthew, her neighbor.

His toddy visits had increased ever since the ginger crop had failed. The goons had caught hold of his shirt and she could see Matthew shrivel up in despair and they plucked away the little money he had saved for his drink. Annamma looked away in sadness. Crop failures could change a man.

The church bells tolled at 8’o clock. She hurried to the door and sat down on the cold floor clutching her bible. A few eyes tried to catch her attention and she smiled back. Mary was there too, whose husband Matthew was being roughed up at the toddy shop. She noted Mary’s worn saree and cheap plastic bangles. Annamma had been in that position before.

She knew that Mary would be visiting her before noon.

When the offerings bowl was passed around, Annamma quietly pulled out a hundred rupee note from her purse and placed it in the bowl. There was no need to be so discreet about it. Everybody knew everything about everyone in small places. Her hundred rupee note stood out amongst the five and ten rupee offerings made by the rest of the impoverished agricultural community.

Silently, Annamma was thankful that she was no longer solely dependent on her small one acre tea plantation. Agriculture was tough. Labor was scarce, monsoons unpredictable and cheaper tea from other countries made for undependable prices.

She excused herself from the group and went to the school office behind the church. The parish priest who was also the school principal was sitting behind a metal desk. They exchanged pleasantries and Annamma enquired about her children.

“Definitely they are good children and have a good future ahead of them,” the principal assured her.

“Yes,” Annamma nodded her head. “That is what all my sacrifice is about.”

She paid the monthly school fee for her children. Rs 75 for her elder daughter and Rs 60 for her younger one. She left the school office after that.

The principal watched her walk away and admired her bold strides. In a place where everyone was asking for concessions and payment date extensions, Annamma was an exception. She always paid the school fees before the 7th of every month or the first Sunday, as was the case today.

The priest knew Annamma well and the hardships she had to overcome. Three years ago the floods had wiped out the tea crop, she then had to sell of part of her land to repay her debts, mortgage her remaining land, rebuild the land and plant the bushes and repair her finances. At the same time, she had to focus on her children and ensure that they studied well. In fact, her two daughters were the best students in the school. And all of this in the absence of her husband!

“She is a woman of strength,” the priest said aloud as he placed the fees in the drawer and locked it.

Annamma walked to her farm. She glanced at the watch on her wrist and it read 11: 00 am.

Her husband had gifted it to her long ago when he had returned from a visit to the city.

Now his memories lived on in these small things.

After service Annamma spent time greeting the members of the parish. The failure of the ginger crop was the centre of all conversations. Some were optimistic that the next year would see improved prices while others felt it would be better to migrate to the cities to work in the textile mills with assured PF, gratuity and bonuses.

Murugan and his brother, her farm workers were waiting for her when she arrived.

Annamma approved of the four large sacks of tea leaves on the ground. She knew the exact daily output on her small holding. And Murugan and his brother were honest folks.

They had been with her for a long time and did not pilfer farm produce like some of the workers on other farms.

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They stood around making small talk. Murugan was saying that he expected his own daughter to study well like Annamma’s children.

The sound of a Tempo Trax interrupted them. The driver halted the vehicle and slipped on the hand brake. Murugan and his brother promptly picked up the tea sacks and placed it in the back of the Tempo. The driver pulled out a small notebook and made a note and ripped out the page. He handed it to Annamma and told her to collect the payment on the 31st from the leaf agent’s office.

Annamma waited for the Tempo to leave and took a walk around the farm. She pointed out places where the bushes had to be pruned. A couple of places had weeds growing on the pathway and she told Murugan that it was to be cleaned. She observed a few yellow patches on the leaves of a tea bush and got Murugan to spray the insecticide that they kept locked up in their store room.

She looked approvingly at the tea plantation spread out before her. Within another year she would have paid off her debts on the farm. Satisfied, she paid Murugan and his brother their wages for the week.

Murugan showed all his teeth and accepted the money from Annamma. He always liked accepting money from Annamma’s hands. She brought good luck, that is what his wife believed.

“She is what my daughter should be,” Murugan said as Annamma left the place.

“To manage a family and farm without her husband is very tough,” his brother nodded.

“All the women here look up to Annamma.”

“My daughter and wife too,” Murugan laughed. “Annamma gets more respect than me in my house.”

Annamma left for home. Her house was the only one looking neat and whitewashed in the whole row. The rest of them had the bleak look of households on the brink of poverty.

The neighborhood children had already assembled on the verandah. One of them was playing with a rearview mirror that he must have fallen down from a passing car as it negotiated these narrow lanes. They ran inside when she opened the door and switched on the TV. None else had satellite connection. Annamma’s daughters served some sweets that they always kept stocked in the kitchen.

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Annamma started preparing lunch when Mary came in through the kitchen door. She was in tears.

“Those men,” she cried. “They tore Matthew’s shirt and took away his money.”

Annamma nodded, “I saw them.”

“How can they do this? The ginger crop has failed and people don’t have enough on the table. Now these people come chasing us for the dues. How can we pay them now? “ “It will be tough,” Annamma agreed, “till we get a good harvest next year.”

“Matthew has started drinking heavily ever since the crop failed. He is not listening to me anymore.”

Annamma kept chopping the vegetables on the table.

“They have hurt him. I need to take him to the hospital,” she hesitated.

Annamma went to her cupboard and pulled out an inner draw. She opened a small tin box and pulled out a Rs 100/- note from it.

Mary accepted it gratefully. Annamma knew that Mary would repay it as soon as things improved. She was too proud to keep a debt open.

“I don’t know whether to envy you or admire you,” Mary folded the note in her calloused hands. “You are so confident about yourself, you manage everything so well, even without your husband. You are a blessed woman. ” Annamma nodded, “It is God’s grace.”

Mary left for the hospital and Annamma went on to prepare lunch for her family. The neighborhood children went home after favorite programs were done. Annamma and her daughters sat down at their dining table next to the refrigerator. It had four chairs and they occupied the table like a game of musical chairs. Three occupied and one empty.

On top of the refrigerator was a framed photograph of a man in orange overalls standing in the midst of the blue, yellow and green pipes laid across the golden yellow sands of the Middle Eastern deserts.

It had been two years since their accumulated debts had forced him to leave the farm

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and work in a faraway country. He had had no choice. Not with the humiliating and threatening visits of the men on the Enfield. Since then their family had paid off their debts, rebuilt their house and become financially stable….but all at a terrible cost.

The Garage Sale Miriam Sciala

Of not having a husband near her and a father who could speak only once a week over phone to his children.

Suddenly Annamma started crying. Tears rolled out from her eyes in large drops and she did not look bold or confident anymore. She was just another helpless woman at mercy of her circumstances. Helplessly she held on to the table and wept.

Her daughters came over and put their arms around her shoulders. They missed their father too.

Annamma looked at the broken rearview mirror the children had left on the floor. It lay tilted at an odd angle and captured their three images and the photograph of her husband in the background. Suddenly its image and the caution conveyed a positive message to her.

‘Objects in the mirror are closer than what they actually appear.’

Annamma managed to smile and wiped off her tears. She had to remain strong and she would. For her children and the promise of a better tomorrow.

Clutching the advertisement section of the local newspaper, Trish tramped through the streets of Thunder Bay looking for the listed garage sales. She was with her mother, who had suggested this Saturday morning excursion.

“You may find some useful things for your new apartment, things like dishes or those shelves you need, or even that vacuum cleaner you’re looking for. You never know what you’ll find in those sales. And everything’s so cheap, you won’t have to break your budget,” her mother had enthused.

Despite her misgivings, Trish had gone along, partly because she knew that after her wedding, these times shared with her mother would dwindle to two or three times a year, as she and her new husband, Dave, would be moving to Toronto, a whole fifteen-hour straight drive away.

It was early June, the start of the garage-sale season. Trish and her mother had started their excursion at eight o’clock sharp. It had seemed early to Trish, but her mother had insisted.

“Remember, Trish, the early bird gets the worm,” she had chirped.

And she was right, for they were not the only people trailing around the garage sales that

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Saturday morning. There were many others who were already out and about, eagerly fingering the stuff that had been laid out for sale, picking up some items to appraise them before deciding whether to purchase them at a few dollars apiece. But for Trish, it was no shoppers thrill; it was just the demoralizing task of trawling through other people’s junk.

Her smile, becoming ever more strained as the morning rolled by, she merely wore to humour her mother, who would gather up items that she insisted would be useful in Trish and Dave’s small Toronto apartment, and wave them persuasively before Trish’s eyes. All this stuff laid bare the lives of people who were now trying to dump them onto others for a mere pittance. It was all old and worn, everything overused and stained with the patina of ages past. And for Trish, it was unsettling to be offered such an open and intimate look into these strangers’ lives. The tableware her mother would try to pick up for her revealed people’s ages. There were tapestries, tablecloths and doilies to highlight their ethnic background. The books they had read over the years showed the things they had once been interested in. And the dinky travel souvenirs, mostly fabricated in China, the Caribbean holidays they had once enjoyed – all their faded and mostly forgotten dreams rematerializing in stuff they were now too ready to discard. So what did all this say about a five-dollar wedding dress hanging on an old-fashioned hanger at the back of a garage?

Her mother had promised her that it would be the last garage they’d visit that morning, and Trish just wanted to get this one over with. Yet there it hung, a wedding dress with puffy sleeves.

Before she could steer her mother away from that dress hanging so conspicuously in the garage, her mother exclaimed, “Trish, look! There’s a wedding dress for sale! You haven’t found one yet! Why don’t you try it on?”

“Shh, no Mom, it’s okay. It’s not the style I want,” whispered a suddenly mortified Trish.

Though it was true, she had to concede, that there had been nothing but worries involved in finding a suitable wedding dress for herself. The glamorous ones she favoured were too expensive. The ones in her price range, an admittedly limited price range, made her look plain. Hastily she tried to lead her mother away, embarrassed that her mother’s exclamation had attracted the attention of the other people browsing in the garage. And even though she avoided looking around at them, she could feel that they were all scrutinizing her. And then she thought she heard someone say, “Oh look, that young woman’s getting married. I hope she can do better than a second-hand five-dollar wedding dress!” Standing thus exposed amongst the discarded junk in the garage, Trish began to cringe.

“I doubt it, Mom.” “Well you have to admit, the price is more than right. It wouldn’t hurt to just try it on.”

“Mom, no.”

“Go on, Trish, ask the lady. I’m sure she’ll let you use her washroom to try it on.”

“Mom, please! You’re making a scene.”

“Listen to me, Trish,” her mother’s voice broke into an urgent whisper. “The lady’s coming our way. Just ask her if you can try it on. You don’t have to commit to buying it.

Let’s just see what it looks like when you put it on.”

In the washroom, Trish contemplated her reflection before the mirror. The wedding dress was a perfect fit. Oh great, she thought her heart sinking, now Mom’s really going to pressure me to buy it. She rolled her eyes and sighed. She turned and craned her neck to examine the back. And she had to admit, she liked the way the scoop of the neckline revealed the butterfly tattoo that adorned her left shoulder. She twirled to face the mirror once more. Her dyed auburn hair with its modish purple streak running down the right side of her long, floppy fringe set off the antiquity of the dress. Its ivory hue accentuated the porcelain whiteness of her skin tone. Yes, the dress did flatter her. But it was used. Distastefully, she flicked the faded dry-cleaning tag that had remained pinned to it over the decades. I don’t want a second-hand wedding dress, she decided. And then apprehensively, she thought, and I only hope Mom doesn’t try to pressure me into buying it. She resolved to leave the dress in the washroom, round up her mother and quickly slip away, but then she heard a knock on the door. She sighed and slowly opened it.

“What is it, Mom?” “I just wanted to see you in the dress,” said her mother. “Oh, Trish, you look lovely. Turn around, let me see. Very nice. So are you going to buy it?”

“No, Mom. It’s used.”

“Why should that matter? No one’s going to know. Let’s go back to the garage to show the lady what you look like.”

“Look, it won’t hurt to try it on,” her mother was saying. “It’s still a nice dress, even if it is part of a garage sale. And you never know; it might suit you.”

“Mom!” Trish protested. But her mother had already trotted off to the side door that led to the garage. So she followed her, dreading her mother’s forthcoming exhibition of her clad in a second-hand wedding dress in front of the woman selling the dress, and also

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before all the other customers in that garage. She opened the door and peered into the garage. Instinctively, she drew her arms in close to her body. Then she cast down her eyes and stepped in.

“Oh isn’t she beautiful? My little twenty-two-year-old girl who’s getting married,” crowed her mother.

“This dress never made it to the altar, though it did serve in a watery sort of wedding,” said the old woman. It could all reappear so clearly in her mind; it still could feel like it had just happened the week before. She glanced at the two women sitting before her, the inquisitive mother, the discomfited daughter.

She reached over to Trish and gently felt the fabric of the dress.

“Mom!” protested Trish. Upon looking up, she took in about a dozen people, all strangers, all standing behind her mother, and all grinning dreamily at her.

“I so wanted to surprise Daniel with the way I’d look in this dress. Daniel … he was such a gentle man.”

She was all set to dash back to the washroom to change back into her clothes when she saw the owner of the dress approaching her. The woman looked about eighty; her face was deeply lined. Yet she held her back straight, and she moved gracefully. Though her eyes were melancholic, the rest of her face suggested that she frequently wore a smile.

Now, though, she was gazing at Trish with teary eyes, and as she walked up to her, she gently laid her hand on her heart.

Daniel was a crewman on one of the ships that plied the Great Lakes. He spent most of his time on that ship, toiling there for ten months a year, after the ice on the lake thawed in March to when the shipping season ended in January as the ice turned too treacherous for navigation. She met him during an early-December blizzard. By 4 o’clock that afternoon, it was dusky, though there still was just enough daylight to reveal the tumbling dashes of sleet that whizzed through the air. The wind blustered down the street, sweeping her along its way. Icy sleet whipped her face. She braced herself against a particularly violent gust that buffeted her forward, and then she quickened her pace towards home.

The weather had been calm up till then, so after work, she had decided to take a stroll along the port. She liked seeing the ships moored along the harbour, ships that she knew travelled the length and breadth of the Great Lakes. But on his day, with practically no warning, the storm had broken, the wind gathered too much energy too quickly, and the sleet thickened as it fell speedily to the frozen ground. She sensed that she was being followed. She glanced behind and saw that, indeed, she was. The man behind her was walking rapidly, trying to catch up to her. She couldn’t see his face but could nonetheless make out a tall, gangly figure. Inexplicably, though, she felt unafraid, and didn’t even flinch when he finally caught up to her.

“I’m sorry,” said Trish to the woman. “It’s a nice dress, but it’s used and that’s not really what I had in mind for my wedding day. I mean, couldn’t that bring bad luck?”

The old woman shook her head. “That’s okay, my dear, I wouldn’t ever try to force anyone to buy anything. But if it helps any, the dress was never worn other than when I tried it on in the shop where I bought it.”

“But it has a dry-cleaning tag on it.”

“Oh, the dry-cleaning tag. Yes it did need to be dry-cleaned, but not because it had been worn. It happened so long ago. Do as you wish, my dear. I don’t mind either way. It’s had a home at the back of my closet for so many years; I could easily just hang it back there again.”

“Oh, you poor woman! You bought the dress and never even wore it? Whatever happened?” exclaimed Trish’s mother, ignoring the shocked glare Trish cast in her direction.

“Oh, it’s a long story. And I’m sure you don’t have the time to listen to all my ramblings.”

“Oh no! We’d love to know what happened!” Trish’s mother enthused.

They opened up some folding chairs that were leaning against the front of the garage, and Trish seated herself gingerly on one, carefully smoothing out the dress to avoid crinkling it. Her mother sat in another, and they both began to listen to the old woman’s tale.

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“Ma’am,” he cried over the moaning wind. “Excuse me, ma’am. Can I escort you home?

The storm’s bad, and it’s only going to get worse.”

“No thank you,” she shouted back. “I can get back on my own.”

But he continued to walk silently beside her, steadying and supporting her back, cupping her elbow to obstruct her fall when, at particularly hazardous moments, the wind almost knocked them aside. She felt grateful for his solid presence there beside her.

At the front door, he stood uncertainly before her as the snow swirled all around. She saw then that he was a young man, probably around her age. His scruffy two-day-old beard failed to mask his fine, almost delicate features and intelligent grey eyes.

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“Thank you for walking me home. That was very kind,” she said politely.

“You’re welcome,” he said shyly. Self-consciously, he brushed an imaginary lock of hair from his forehead.

“Could, could I see you again? M-maybe we could go to the movies. My name’s Daniel,” he stammered. It was then that she knew that he was the kind of man she wanted to marry.

Just four months later, they began to plan their wedding. He proposed to her in March during the snow melt as he was gearing up for the upcoming shipping season. They both understood that he would be absent from home for most of the year to work on the ship on which he was employed, sailing the Great Lakes and ferrying raw materials and machinery to ports in and around Minnesota, Michigan, Wisconsin, New York, Ohio, Quebec as well as their native Ontario. Their wedding would take place in October, when the falling autumn leaves would be coloured in bright oranges, yellows and reds.

On the morning of the wedding, her home was caught in a bustle. Her parents, siblings, cousins and friends were all there to attend to her needs as they scurried in and out of her bedroom to perform their amateurish roles of hairstylists, makeup artists and marriage advisors. She spent that morning laughing and crying in turn as she bid her childhood goodbye. And outside her room, where she was cocooned for one last time, there was laughter, chatter, doors opening and closing again, people coming in and out – a general busyness that pervaded all the walls of that cheery house. Outside, a tepid sun shone dully on the stunted wet grass in the yard. Its warmth was merely tenuous, yet it was gradually obliterating the memory of the violent storm that had shaken Thunder Bay the night before.

When, finally, she was left alone in the bedroom, she strolled to the mirror and gazed into her own bright blue eyes. She was still clad only in her petticoat, but her makeup was done, her cheeks tinted in a rosy blush, her eyelids shaded in soft lavender eye shadow.

She chuckled and cocked her head. Her blond hair had been styled into a French twist with bouncy ringlets adorning her cheeks. She held her wedding dress against herself, and instantly, the woman in the mirror was transformed into a beautiful young bride laughing happily at her own reflection.

Then the eyes in the mirror turned serious, and the young bride’s head jerked awkwardly backwards. The house had become silent. She turned towards the door and waited until her mother opened it and walked in.

Later, after her mother had padded out of the room, everyone stared at the closed bedroom door. In the silence, they heard the quiet click of the door being locked.

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On the other side of that bedroom door, her wedding dress draped neatly across her lap, sat the bride. Her face had become blotchy, her eyes discoloured by the dampened mascara.

At sundown, hugging her wedding dress to her breast, she solemnly walked to the lake.

She was dry-eyed now, though her cheeks still held the runny marks of her tear-infused makeup. She looked out over the lake. Far out there, sitting on the water, right on the line of the horizon were the misty contours of a ship. The water was calm now, with innocuous ripples reaching towards the centre of that enormous lake where the swirling, stormy waters of the night before had drawn Daniel into its deadly embrace. She kept her gaze on the horizon, on the skeletal ghost of Daniel’s ship. Methodically, she rolled up her wedding dress into a bundle and tied it with the sleeves. She approached the edge of the lake and soaked her feet in the frigid water. Hugging the ball of fabric, she squatted, her eyes focussed on the ship ahead. “Daniel, wait!” she called and lowered the dress into the water.

“I take thee to be my husband,” she recited, and then she cried out his name. A wavelet lapped over the dress, and she let it go, letting it drift out towards the middle of the lake where Daniel would still be waiting.

A week later, her father approached her holding out a sodden wedding dress, his eyes uneasy.

“It washed up at the port. I just happened to come across it,” he said. She silently took the dress and walked away from him.

Her mother had the dress dry-cleaned. “They did such a good job at the drycleaner’s. It’s as good as new,” she announced cheerfully as she hung the dress back in her daughter’s closet.

“You might still need it one day,” she uttered hopefully.

After the old woman had finished telling her tale, Trish gently took her thin, leathery hand. She sighed as she looked down at the wedding dress she was wearing.

“It’s a beautiful dress. I would love to wear it at my wedding,” she said.

As Trish was leaving with the wedding dress hanging over her arm, she hugged the old woman and held her for a long time, crinkling the dress between them.

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Mercy

beneath the table as the pieces of concrete fall from the ceiling. She tells the children in her classroom to do the same. The wooden floorboards are shaking. There is a loud crash as heavy bookshelves fall in the library above them, and the sound of something rolling along its uneven floorboards. The children in the classroom are screaming and crying.

Najah Abdullah Al Riyami

Over two thousand kilometres away, the island of Sri Lanka is quiet, tranquil and peaceful; people feel nothing of the earthquake, they have no warning of the tsunami to follow.

Drops of water fall onto the notebook, causing the blue ink to drool and distort its words.

I gather my belongings quickly and return to my room, deciding to continue indoors. The patter of rain outside sounds like the chirrup of a thousand birds.

Lahiru wakes early, before the dark skies are diluted by the bright morning sunlight, before his wife and child stir, who lie sleeping on a mattress with him in the centre of their small hut. He lies still for a few minutes, listening to the comforting sounds of their steady breathing, and takes care not to wake them up as he leaves, opening the wooden door (that he built himself) softly; lifting it off the ground so that the uneven base doesn’t scrape the splintering panels of the old floorboards. Barefoot, he steps directly onto the powdery sand of the seashore that his house is built upon.

Roaring waves sound the canvas that all other sounds fall upon. It is the canvas that I write this story on. Two crows sat on a poolside table, sharing an abandoned cup of tea, two sugars with milk, please, I ask the waiter. Two squirrels hop around beneath a table to my right, interested in the abandoned plate of fries above it. The sun is almost at its hottest, so the poolside is abandoned. I squint at the empty page on the notebook in front of me, considering what to write, and then I begin:

Quiet is in the air, caressed by the purring’s of a calm ocean rolling gently up the sandy shore, almost touching their home, and always touching his soul. The smell of salt is rich in the ocean’s breeze. His father always told him that it was good for him, and that if he breathed that air and, ate fish and honey, his immune system would be strong and he would live a healthy and happy life.

His father was right.

On the morning of December 26, 2004, ten thousand feet beneath the surface of the earth, the seabed of the Indian Ocean shook and trembled. People along the coasts of Thailand, India, and Sri Lanka felt the ground beneath them shake violently.

He breathes it in and smiles.

A startlingly loud rumble distracts me from my writing, a bright streak of lightening slices across the dark clouds that line the horizon; the storm is getting closer, but for now the sun shines brightly, unfazed; it is the monsoon season and the coasts of Sri Lanka meet these angry skies often. The local newspaper advises people to take shelter as they lost thirteen people to lightening strikes last month, but the sun warms me from a breeze that already complains of the nearing thunderstorm in its chill. I decide I’ve got at least another five minutes before the storm hits, so I write a little more…

This is his life, it is a simple one: If he makes enough money, his family will eat that night.

If he makes any more, he will spend it soon. Living in the moment, he does as his father did and as his son will do. He is not looking for anything, except fish. In the distance he sees the silhouette of a few more fishermen who will be joining him.

In Thailand, a door rattles loudly on its hinges…A teacher drops to the floor and crawls

The sky is a soft purple fading into deep blue, still glittering with the last stars of the night.

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53

Lahiru is a stilt fisherman from the Sri Lankan village of Galle.

Mom returns. We go to the café in the lobby for dinner. I bring my notebook, and continue to write:

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He wades twenty meters into lukewarm waters and climbs onto a stilt that is balanced above mossy coral surrounded by colourful fish. He is already propped onto the stilt, two meters above the water, when the sun begins to shimmer red and gold upon the ocean’s silken surface; the earth slowly rolling into its merciless light. He will sit there for five hours, returning only in the afternoon when the sun’s heat is too strong to sit beneath, and also because lunch is ready at home. But for now, the day has just begun. It is a tiresome job with long hours and little pay. But he is happy.

Food is served; baked salmon with vegetables smothered in Tabasco, Mom and I order the same dish. Outside, the thunderstorm is almost directly above us. Palm trees sway aggressively in wild winds. The raindrops beat angrily at the window. A jagged streak of lightening falls from the clouds unto the frothing waves that crash along the rocky shores of Galle.

Here, the weight on his shoulders is light; he has no worries about a future. To him: everyday is simple and complete: he makes as much as he needs, and wants as much as he has, He lives each day as a means to its end, a question with an answer; a finished sentence.

The sounds of crashing waves and screaming winds are drowned with a loud roar of thunder that makes the cutlery on the table shiver and cause the window around the room shake noisily. Although the lightening is gone from the sky, I can still see the aftermath of its bright flash floating across my eyes as the thunder continues its long roar.

The shores below are studded with trees and makeshift huts and shelters. Waves crash along boulders set against the railway lines. Splashing the red train that slowly trundles by, sounding its loud hoot. Mom tells me of their unsuccessful search for the fruit Durian, that was out of season and therefore impossible to find.

His wife sits with their child in the safest place they know: their home. It is a simple one built by her husband. He used wooden planks to make a single room, a box, propped along the shores of Galle. She is proud of him; he is one of only five hundred stilt fishermen left in that region.

Their village is a quiet one, but it feels busy today, many footsteps splodge noisily across the sands of the usually quiet shores outside their home.

She looks outside the small window: a square cut out of the wooden planks that comprise the walls. She sees a crowd gathering as everyone flocks towards the shores. She walks closer to see past the wall of people blocking her view of the ocean. To her surprise, there is no ocean where it used to be, only a bare seabed exposing coral and flopping fish.

Having lived by the ocean her entire life, she knows to be wary of it. But she is also a

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fishermen’s wife, and through fishermen’s eye’s she sees dinner flopping on the seabed, meters away from her, ready for the taking. She walks cautiously onto the wet sands, gaining confidence as more people join her. The other locals have begun to explore too, and all the wary people gain confidence in seeing others venture out. Some villagers bring their children to play in the small pools of water that now lay scattered across the ocean.

She wants to bring her child too but thinks she should take some fish home for dinner first before the best picks are gone.

The returning wave is a small wall in the distance when she sees it. She stares at it for or a few short seconds, wondering what it could be.

Back in the room, Staring at the now familiar scribbles on my notebook, I struggled to find any more to say, my attention compromised between the flashes of lightening from the window, and the flashes from the TV besides me. I stare frustrated at the notebook of scribbles in front of me. All of them fictional stories leading to unhappy endings. I decide to call it a night, and continue the following morning: A father holds onto the frail wrist of his five-year-old daughter, he is up to his waist in dirty water that is flowing forcefully through their small house.

They were just having breakfast ten minutes ago.

With one arm clinging onto an upturned fridge wedged against the door, the other grips onto the frail wrist of his five-year-old daughter as tightly as he can, but even then he feels her wrist slipping helplessly from his fingers. The rush of water gets louder as a second wave passes through. This one is stronger than the first that swept his wife away while she was feeding their week old baby. It is too strong for him to hold onto the fridge or his daughter: he must choose. He lets go of the fridge to hold onto his daughter as the water quickly sweeps them through the small kitchen. They feel pain as they break through the sliding glass doors that lead to the garden, shattering it. They collide with the brick garden wall that surrounds their garden; feeling more pain as it shatters them on impact.

I stop, unable to find happy endings within the creations of my mind. I needed to meet the people I wanted to write about. They were always smiling yet all I could think to write about were unhappy stories. I catch a tuktuk taxi, the driver’s name is Silva. Awkwardly, I ask Silva if he knows anyone involved in the Tsunami, if he knew anyone affected.

Anyone who had a ‘story’ to tell. I explained I was a student and I needed to write one for an assignment.

He laughs and explains, “everyone was effected,” pointing at the ocean to my right.

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“This is where the water passed through.” The shores are dirty with wrappers, empty bottles, and cigarette butts flattened into the sand. Most of the buildings across the road are new three story buildings; brightly painted sturdy concrete boxes, decorated with thin columns on the front door. Some of the tsunami stricken buildings still remain, most of these only rebuilt on the ground floor, with the walls of their second and top floors standing broken on the roof, like jagged concrete statues staring solemnly at the sea.

“I want to ask about the tsunami” I ask nervously. “and what happened there…”

Everything is close, compact, and busy. An entire family clutch tightly onto each other on a little motorbike on the main roads between two villages. A mother sits on the edge of a bike, two children wedged between her and her husband, holding her youngest in front of her, and the elder in front of them, both do not wear helmets. Silva tells me know they know the police won’t catch them until they reach the more populated town centre.

“A story! “She says, excited. “I have a story” she invites me into their home. Of the three women at the door, one of them is her mother.

A stray copper dog walks along the edge of the road past the buses, tuktuks, bikes and the occasional car. The streets are busy with people walking past, setting up small tables selling coconuts, clothing, or souvenirs, everyone is frail and little, smiling unrestrained at one another with a bounce in their step; trusting. They don’t have much, but they are happy because they recognize that they have enough; shelter, food and most importantly, life. Yes: it is that simple.

“These are the new houses,” Silva says, pointing to pink and yellow buildings that we pass on bumpy dusty dirt tracks: there are no roads in this part of the village here, there never has been.

“They built these after the Tsunami.”

“Who built them?” I ask “Organizations” he says “The Red Cross. Mostly, Japan.” I wonder why Japan.

What happened? I think to myself, that’s a silly thing to say, what happened was a wave.

What happened was a lot.

“I’m looking for a story” I explain, picking the loose thread at the edge of my sleeve.

“Wait,” she commands.

A fan beats coolly from the ceiling.

She returns with laminated newspaper clippings. Showing them to me proudly “My husband’s father,” she explains. “he is a village hero; saved many lives.’ She points to a trophy of a man on the table. “They gave him this to say thank you…

An old sailor sees the sea rocking sideways in strange ways, he gets familiar chills on his back. It reminds him of a past experience in Chile where he felt the waters shake in similar ways. His name is Victor, he survived the Tsunami in Chile, and he recognized the familiar dances of the waves. He told the rest of the village to ‘run to the temple’ that was high in the mountains when he saw the tides pulled back. Almost the entire population of that village were saved.

A fantastic story, I think. Only this one is not fiction. It seems, in the midst of a catastrophe all we notice at first are the fatalities, the casualties. Look closer, and you will see the stories of real heroes emerge to inspire individuals and bring hope to nations. This is life, and us at its mercy.

Three old ladies sitting by the open door of one of the houses wave at us.

They smile with their eyes as I ask, “can I talk to you about the tsunami?”

They look at me with blank faces that still smile.

“English?” I ask, realizing the language barrier between us. I am about to leave when a motherly woman bustles through them. Her two sons follow her, one clutching onto her large dress.

“I speak English”

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Blue Book

Mrs. Flannigan motions me to go into the principal’s office over Jonah’s head, and I do.

Raazia S Ali

Mr. Cahone, the principal, is a short man with a permanently frustrated expression and a habit of getting to the point without preamble.

“Jonah yelled at a teacher in class today,” he says.

“What did he say?” I ask.

“Mr. Lee, the math teacher, had them work in groups today. When he asked Jonah a question, your son shut his ears and screamed ‘you’re out of order!”

“A Few Good Men,” I mumble.

“Excuse me?” the principal squints at me.

Diane I am doing the laundry at 10 a.m. when the phone rings, and right on cue, I jump. I know it’s about my son – who else would it be about? — and I’m praying it’s not too bad.

I pick up the phone, but I’m also simultaneously getting dressed and finding my keys. By the time they tell me that Jonah’s in the principal’s office, I’m already halfway to my son’s school. I’m married to the local college coach; I learnt a long time ago that the impact of a fast ball can be lessened considerably if you reach out to meet it and ease into the catch.

This time I only run one red light, but when I get there Jonah is sitting across from the principal’s secretary, Mrs. Flannigan, talking calmly about different types of fractures.

“The fifth and worst type of fracture is called a comminuted fracture, when the bone is broken in more than one place...” he is saying to the mug on her desk.

For a second I forget why I am here. Seeing Jonah talk, all lit up, is like watching a blend of noctilucent clouds and the Aurora Borealis – so rare you cannot help but catch your breath. I stand there and see my son like I wish everybody else did – the boy who can quote entire pages of medical journals verbatim; my fourteen year old who tells me the total of my shopping cart before we reach the cashier.

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“It’s...from a movie. Since his senses are hyper acute, too much of something... light or sound, for example, can cause a sensory overload. Also, he can’t read social cues like we do. That frustrates him and he doesn’t know what to say – so he borrows other people’s words. It’s called echolalia.” Belatedly, I realize I sounded a little like Jonah. I can’t help it; I’ve given this speech too many times.

“I’ll...talk to him.” I cover up.

I could tell him that I’ve explained this to his teachers in the past, but I don’t. It’s Chemistry 101: if you know that an experiment will result in more harmful by-products than the intended product, you placate yourself with theory until you find an alternative method.

We walk to my car and I turn to Jonah, slouched in the passenger seat.

“Why didn’t you ask Mr. Lee to let you solve the problems on your own instead of giving you a partner? It’s in the Blue Book: If you’re not comfortable with something in class, go up to your teacher and tell them.”

When Jonah was around nine, we took this blue binder and wrote down simple instructions for everything – from Making Friends to Tying Shoelaces. The color blue has calmed him down ever since he was little.

“I did that before,” he says to the glove compartment. “Melinda called me a freak.”

I shake my head. “Unbelievable. I’m so sorry.”

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“Actually, it did happen, which means not only is it believable — hence possible — but also true. And why are you sorry? You didn’t call me a freak.”

It is times like these that I worry even more than usual. I can see how Jonah’s taking everything literally could be mistaken for insolence.

“No, I didn’t,” I tell him. “But I can still be sorry because I love you.” *** The sun has almost gone down, and I am whipping up brownie batter because it is Brownie Tuesday and I know better than to break that tradition. I am just about to switch on the oven when the back door opens with an almighty crash and Jonah thunders in.

Do you know what a whimper sounds like at the top of a fourteen year-old’s voice?

If you’re lucky, you’ll never have to.

I freeze, as if standing still will stop my heart from breaking.

Jonah is worse than I have ever seen him. His fingers are fluttering, his hands flapping so hard that I cannot pin him down. He does not hear me; he does not see me. His whimpers are getting louder now, becoming full-blow screams, and I am thinking that this is the middle of a meltdown, not the beginning; that this is my worst nightmare come to life: not being able to help my son.

People ask me what I do for a living, and I tell them I used to be a chemistry teacher until I became Jonah’s mother instead. But what do you do? they ask. I smile down on the words I don’t say: I fight my son’s battles; I hold my breath and hope we get through the day. I pray that someday I won’t have to. That is what I do. *** Next morning, I tiptoe into Jonah’s room to find him slumped on his bed, snoring lightly.

I stroke his bruised knuckles and look around. His room always gives me the illusion that I’m underwater – walls painted in Turkish Blue accentuated with Zenith Blue; Mariana Blue furniture, and Welkin Blue wall-shelves housing rows upon rows of Smurfs. Every birthday of Jonah’s, we drive until we find a place that sells Smurfs and look for one he doesn’t already have. Last November we drove six hours to a tiny convenience store in the middle of nowhere, where we bought a Brainy Smurf who was, Jonah swore, a millimeter taller than the last one.

A few years ago there was a rumor that Jonah could be ‘cured’ (although I never supported the use of that word), and I wondered what that would be like. After we came back with the Brainy Smurf though, I knew what I wanted – or didn’t want. Jonah was a package deal – his quirks defined him just as much as his hazel eyes did. It was that day that I truly understood what I’d always told my students: look closely at a product you like, and you might be surprised at the reactants that went into its making. ***

I turn around and start hunting frantically in the laundry - and sigh in relief as I spot it.

Muttering assurances I can’t hear, I take the still-wet, baby-blue bed sheet over to Jonah.

There is a lull in the screaming - Jonah’s throat is hoarse - and I take the opportunity to wrap the sheet around him. He is still sobbing, but also clutching the sheet, and so I run to the laundry room to get some more.

Jonah comes downstairs for breakfast.

Three hours later, Jonah is lying on the living room floor, wrapped in a dozen layers of blue clothes, reading from his Blue Book in his flat voice. He is now on the dog-eared page titled ‘Meltdown’. “One – Go to a small, closed space where there are less people, preferably a closet. Two – Find something blue, take it in your hands or wrap it around yourself. Three — breathe deeply...”

I hand him his plate, then look him in the eye when he starts to leave. He is not meeting my eye, but he mutters a thank you to my nose. I smile.

Listening to the blue book of his is like listening to the safety instructions on a plane — you’ve heard them so many times they’re reduced to background noise. I sink into the couch, my arms sore; smelling like wet laundry.

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“Morning,” I hedge.

“Morning,” he echoes to the fridge.

A moment later, I hear a crash.

I sprint to the living room in time to see Jonah cowering against the shelf, the snow ball I have stupidly put on the shelf in shards around him. His eyelids are shut tight, and he is muttering.

“Red...” I hear. “Too much red...blood...danger...”

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I am processing this new development even as I glance around for the Blue Book and try to get him to hold it. The color red? When did this happen? Just last week he was watching a (very bloody) First Aid video on road safety..

“Jonah,” I say. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” I open the Blue Book and start reading. By the time I am on page 35, Jonah is only rocking in his place with his eyes shut.

When he has calmed down, I sit next to him.

“Jonah,” I ask. “What happened yesterday?”

He looks up and - miraculously - into my eyes for a millisecond before he averts his gaze, and that is how I know how much this is bothering him.

“You can’t handle the truth,” he whispers.

that I can go home and figure them out. Between classes I listen to First Aid podcasts.

When I reach home at 3: 25 pm, there is a pair of beige shoes near the door. Inside, Noel’s mother who lives next door, is crying on our couch with my mother sitting beside her. It is very loud and my head hurts so I go upstairs to my room and close my door.

At 5:57 pm my mother comes in my room and sits on my bed.

“Jonah,” she says. “There’s something I have to tell you. Noel’s father was just found in the store two alleys away. He was shot – they’re still looking for whoever did it. He... passed away.”

“Passed what away?” I ask her.

“It means he is dead,” she answers.

I do not say anything to this because it was not a question.

Excerpt from the Blue Book.

“Are you okay?” she asks when I don’t say anything.

Assessing if you’re accepted into a conversation

“Yes, I am okay. I am not dead,” I tell her.

1. Are people looking at a clock, or a watch? They are bored.

2. Making a face may mean they are bored/annoyed.

3. Are they leaning away from you? They may not be interested.

If you are in a group, are they standing in a circle with no space in it for you?

Are you standing behind everyone else? They may not want to talk to you.

“I meant are you sad?” she asks. “He was our neighbor and he died very suddenly.”

Jonah I need rules to make sense of things, because people are always saying what they don’t mean and meaning what they don’t say and just thinking about that makes my head hurt.

Case in point: we are taught to ‘always tell the truth’, (‘Answering people’, Blue Book) but you’re not supposed to tell an ugly person that they’re ugly. (‘Being polite’, Blue Book) Also, at one given moment there are over a hundred truths (the sky is blue, I am a fourteen year old boy...) so how do we know which truths are relevant?

It is 6:00 pm now and dinner is at 6:15 pm, so I ask her if dinner is ready. She looks me in the eye, but because this is my mother I am only a little uncomfortable.

I think about this. “No,” I finally say. “He wasn’t really my friend. He gave me candy when I was twelve. And he fixed Dad’s car in June, but that would make him Dad’s friend, not mine.”

“Give me fifteen minutes,” she says as she leaves, with a sigh. ***

***

It is 2:03 am. I cannot sleep, which is not unusual because of the noises (owls hooting, furniture creaking, crickets outside my window) but I am usually asleep by 2:00 am.

School is the usual — I sit in the front row. This way I can pretend like I am alone, which is slightly less exhausting than hearing and smelling everyone. I also write down everything the teachers say, especially things like “I am at the end of my tether with you people” so

I look at the contusions (bruises), on my knuckles. These are actually a collection of blood outside the blood vessels, caused by damaged capillaries or venules. Bruises change color due to the breakdown of hemoglobin (red-blue), as it turns to biliverdin (green), then to

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bilirubin (yellow) and then finally hemosiderin (golden-brown) before the products clear from the area.

I tiptoe downstairs, open the front door (I oil it regularly) and go round to the back where there is a wooden bench 160 by 50 cm. But someone is sitting on it. After waiting for seven seconds I decide to leave and go back into the house. I do this because I don’t want to make conversation – like asking people ‘How do you do?’ and talking about the weather. (‘Making conversation’, Blue Book) Once in bed I play a game where I name and define sports injuries. Starting with Abrasions; I go on to ACL, then Achilles Tendonitis. By the time I reach Sciatica the sky is starting to lighten. *** The next night I cannot sleep again, so I go out - and there is someone sitting on the bench again! This time I observe from my window until morning. I learn that a) the boy on the bench is Noel and b) he doesn’t do anything, just sits there. This is strange, because of the following arguments.

Argument 1 Premise 1: I sit on the bench at night.

Premise 2: People think I’m weird.

Conclusion: Weird people sit on benches at night. (This is not strictly true, but it can be considered realistic because it has a “human interest and a semblance of the truth” (called suspension of disbelief.))

*** On the third night, I decide to go sit on the bench. It is big enough, and even though I want to be alone, I still want to sit outside. So I go and take a seat (this means I sit down). Noel looks sideways at me, his eyes wide, but he doesn’t say anything. I put in my earplugs and close my eyes. *** I sit with Noel on the bench for sixteen days before I talk to him. He is still not my friend, but he is not a stranger, because a) I have been seeing him every night for sixteen days, b) he saved my iPod from falling and c) sometimes he cries – something you don’t do in front of strangers. (‘Friends vs. Strangers’, Blue Book) “Have you always had chronic insomnia?” I ask him one night.

He looks at me, but then he sees that I am not looking at him, so he looks away while he answers. This is one more reason why I think he might be my friend.

“Always had what?” he asks.

“Constant sleeplessness.” I answer.

“No, I used to sleep like a log,” he says.

“Logs don’t sleep,” I tell him. “They’re inanimate objects.”

Argument 2 Premise 1: Noel gets invited to birthday parties.

Premise 2: People who get invited to birthday parties are not considered weird.

Conclusion: Noel is not a weird person.

He smiles. “It’s a saying.”

Now considering the conclusions of Arguments 1 and 2 as Premises, this is what we get:

“What?” he asks.

Argument 3 Premise 1: Weird people sit on benches at night.

Premise 2: Noel is not a weird person.

Conclusion: Noel does not sit on benches at night.

“You won’t want to hear about Septicemia,” I say. “Blood poisoning.”

But he is sitting on the bench at 3:18 am. Hence it is strange.

“Strange is not always bad.” I tell him.

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“Did you know...?” I begin, but then stop. I have just remembered that the things I love might not be as interesting to everyone else. (‘Making conversation’, Blue Book)

“I want to be a paramedic when I grow up. I love blood,” he pauses. “I guess that sounds strange.”

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“No,” he says. “It’s not.”

watch,” to which your father said “I – I can’t take it off -” and then suddenly there was a loud popping noise and your father fell down with his eyes open. There was so much blood. One of the masked men shouted “What did you do? We weren’t supposed to kill anyone!” and I saw him push another masked man, whose mask came off. And then my head was hurting so much, I left the store and ran home.”

So at 2:34 am, I tell him everything I know about Septicemia. The next night he helps me with my homework, and the night after that I tell him how First Aid actually saves people’s lives.

It is nice to have a friend. *** One month and thirteen days later, we are sitting on the bench when Noel opens his bag and takes out a book. It is Red, and I cannot breathe.

My chest is being compressed. Everything hurts, like in dodge ball where there are things coming from every direction, and my head is thudding like someone is breaking rocks inside. I don’t want to see the Red, and I’m trying not to think about that night, but it is hitting me like a flood: blood everywhere; so much blood — and open eyes, and broken glass, and candy everywhere – I take deep breaths like it says in the Blue Book, and after twelve minutes it is quiet.

Except for Noel, who is talking.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” he is asking. “You okay?”

“Yes,” I say.

He looks at me. “What were you muttering about? You were saying something about ‘candy’ and ‘blood’.”

“I was thinking about the store the night your father died.” I say.

Noel stiffens, and his voice is shaking. “What — what do you mean? You were... there?”

I nod.

He rubs his face and closes his eyes. His cheeks are wet. “Tell me what happened,” he says in a strange voice.

“Are you telling me you saw the man with the gun?” he asks me. “And you – you remember it? His face?”

“Of course I do.” I say. “I always remember things.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he asks.

“You didn’t ask.” I answer.

“But if you would have told the police, they would have arrested him!” he is talking very loudly now.

“They didn’t take anything,” I tell him. “They left the store without stealing anything. And killing your father was an accident.” When someone does something wrong by accident, you don’t tell on them. (‘Making Friends’, Blue Book) “Jonah,” Noel says to me. “An accident is when you do something that is out of your control. He killed my father for his watch. That was not an accident. It was a mistake – for him – because killing people gets you more jail time than stealing things. But even people who do things on purpose and then realize that it was a mistake after they’ve done it deserve to go to jail.”

“I didn’t know that,” I tell him. “It’s not in my Blue Book and it has never happened to me before.”

“Well,” he says. “I guess we need to add a few extra pages to that blue book of yours.

Perhaps ‘Witnessing A Crime’, or ‘Police’. You will come with me to the police station tomorrow, won’t you?”

“Yes,” I say. “I will.”

“I went to the store on Tuesday at 6:00 pm,” I begin. “When I was in the candy aisle a car pulled up screeching and then there was glass breaking and people screaming. I hid near your father’s feet (‘Safety’, Blue Book), which were shaking, and a man said “Give me your

Now I understand why they write ‘jumping with joy’ in books when someone is very happy — because even if you’re not jumping, you’d really, really like to. And that’s not all I learn tonight. I just learnt another ‘rule’- something kids like Noel know and I don’t.

People think that I don’t notice them talking or whispering about me, but I’m not crazy,

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or stupid. What I am is tired of being looked at like a contagious disease. Now if I asked my mother, she would tell me to not be bothered; that I am ‘normal’ but with a few small quirks. But then she’s not the one being penetrated by people’s x-ray stares. And this is what I know, statistically: if I learn all the little rules that other people don’t need, after a while I will become like these people, even if it is only on the outside. And then maybe, just maybe I will start belonging on this planet. By that logic, I made progress today.

The Beginning of the End Haadya Khan

That makes it a pretty good day. I mean night.

The many drops of moisture, falling from the sky landed on the rusty, old tin roof with a loud, thunderous sound, making the little girl sitting inside the rundown old house jump and shiver with fear. Out of the grimy window it was nearly impossible to make out the multiple drops of rain that continued to come down from the dull gray, overcast sky. She shivered as a chilly gust of wind blew into the almost bare room, through one of the many gaps in the battered and blackened old walls. She wrapped the thin, threadbare blanket around her painfully thin shoulders, trying to get as warm as she could in the chilly room.

The wind was biting and she rubbed her cold hands together in a vain attempt to warm them up as she had been attempting all day long. But she sat; as she had been told to, forced to stay. She sat waiting in the cold room in a small, dingy house, her body heat lowering as the arctic winds continued to storm outside. She had been sitting near the once blazing fireplace, since the first light of morning, and yet she could not bring herself to move.

Her glassy eyes scanned the room, looking but not really seeing. The rotting wooden walls swelled in places, and the charred wallpaper hung off limply. The once polished wooden floors lay twisted and engorged making it unstable. The bright red door hung off its hinges, charred and broken; only being held in place against the raging winds by the strategically placed three-legged chair to hold it up. The whole room itself was trashed and blackened; the table was shattered against the wall, leaving a gaping hole only covered by a single bed sheet that did little to prevent the chilly storm winds from entering the room, the chairs

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were scattered all around, in pieces and the once pristine plates were shattered into the fine dust of cheap china and chipping florals. The fireplace was devoid of any actual fire, except for the occasional, flickering spark that jumped in the hope of relighting the damp wood. The entire place was covered in a fine black grime, like the remains of a deadly fire.

But as she gazed around, she didn’t see any of the damage that had been caused by the predatory winds or its preceding fire. She saw a bright, warm room, lit by the crackling fire keeping the cold winter night at bay; the table set for five with the finest of cheap china and spotless cutlery, and the succulent smell of a juicy roast chicken wafting through the air. The vivid crimson door, the colour emphasized by the brilliance of the flames, swung open to reveal her father, a big smile on his face as he looked around at his family. The room was whole and hearty, a perfect moment that would forever be seared into her mind. A perfect moment that had been ruined by the electrical storm, a storm much like the one that was currently blazing outside the door.

Her pale eyes darkened as she once again saw lightening strike the rusty antenna on the old tin roof, and watched the entire room go up in a blaze of blue and white electricity. She rubbed her arms as her hair stood up on end, as if remembering the events of that night.

Her younger sister was struck almost instantaneously in her place by the large window.

She heard the scream that had been running through her head every day since that night and watched as her body lay still on the ground, smoldering and giving the occasional jump with every current of electricity that went through her remains. Her mother’s shrill scream still made her shudder and cover her ears as tears ran down her sunken cheeks, even now. She hugged her arms around herself even tighter, rocking herself in an attempt to calm down.

Lightning flashed again, and she saw her mother go down next to her sister’s limp body, clutching onto it, rocking her small figure, trying to convince herself that there was still something that she could do. She saw the flames jump higher as her brother accidentally knocked over the open tin of gasoline, that had been sitting much too close to the fireplace, in an attempt to get away from the center of the room, away from the body of his youngest sister. She felt her father’s firm hand gripping her wrist and pulling her to her feet. She glanced at his face and gone was the cheery, loving smile, replaced by a grim, serious look, with glassy eyes and a straight set mouth, as he pointedly tried to avoid looking at the body of his youngest and tried to keep himself together for the safety of the rest of his family. It was a look that she had never seen on his face before and it frightened her to wits end.

begin to devour all their possessions, and by extension everything that they knew. She jerked as her father ran forward and handed her off to her brother. He ran to try and get his wife out of the blazing inferno. He tugged at her arm, but she refused to budge, still clutching at the lifeless remains of her youngest daughter. She didn’t understand what was happening. Her brother never carried her around anymore; he said that she was getting too big, her father never looked scared, he was a superhero, and her little sister always answered her mother’s calls, otherwise she know that she would be in big trouble.

She felt her brother shift her in his arms, and heard the hoarse and disjointed cry of her father yelling at them to “Get out”.

The images were flashing through her head at lightning speed now, the gruesome pictures seared into her mind, the heat of the flames still fresh on her skin, even though the icy winds raised goose bumps on her thin arms, she couldn’t feel it. Her mind was somewhere far away, the storm taking her back to that horror that she faced years ago; the horror that she still faced almost every night. A particularly loud bout of thunder brought her back to reality as she took in the charred and crumbling walls, the darkness of the room a stark comparison to the brilliant flames that hungrily devoured it a few years prior. She remembered being afraid of the dark when she was younger. She remembered her parents come running when she used to wake up screaming from a bad nightmare, usually depicting the evil deeds of the Boogeyman. She remembers her mother’s soft, sweet voice singing to her, while her father cradled her in his arms and made her feel safe. She wasn’t afraid of the darkness anymore; it was comforting and familiar, like an old friend. Now she feared the light and everything that came alone with it, including the lightning. The room rattled with the strength of the harsh winds that blew around it. The door rattled with the strength of the gale, and she flashed back to that night.

She remembered her brother running around, looking for an escape from their fiery prison. The windows were shattering with the heat of the flames, and the roast was probably a tad overcooked, sitting in the blazing oven. She had always been warned to stay away from the flames, and she had learnt her lesson one winter as she had accidentally burnt her hand when she had snuck down to see if Santa was coming or not. She felt her brothers heaving breaths and hacking coughs as he continued to look for an escape. She herself was having a hard time inhaling a mouthful of clean air, and her cheeks were turning scarlet from the uncomfortable, blazing heat that permeated the entire house.

The flames licked higher and higher out of the fireplace, devouring the wooden walls, spreading around the room rapidly. She felt herself being picked up in sure, sturdy arms, and with wandering eyes she watched the dancing flames with amazement, the fear on her father’s face momentarily forgotten as she watched the many colours of the flames

She opened her mouth to say something, to ask him what was happening, but instead she inhaled a lungful of lethal smoke. Her expression turned surprised at the strange sensation running down her throat and into her lungs, cutting off her airway and choking her, causing hacking coughs to escape her tiny body in an attempt to expel the foreign substance from her now convulsing form. But all her attempts were in vain as all she managed to do was inhale yet another mouthful of hazardous smoke. She hid her face

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in her elder brother’s chest in an effort to hide away from the offending air that now surrounded them; causing their eyes to burn and water with its toxins and filling their lungs up with the toxic substance. She felt the gangly arms around her tighten at her soft whimper, and she felt his heart beat quicken even further under her ear. Her brother took a deep, resigned breath and turned to face the front door. She heard him softly count down from three and felt him speed up as he raced towards it. He barreled through the once cheery door, shattering the thin wood with his shoulder and racing through it, the impact causing him to fall as soon as he escaped the flames and the wood, both brother and sister greedily inhaling the fresh night air, only slightly tainted by the smoke that still poured out of the house in gallons. Her brother took in a deep breath and sat up, the breath turning white as it left his body, eyes scanning the blazing hell that was their house. He stumbled in an attempt to get to his feet, still feeling light headed from the smoke inhalation.

On the second try he managed to get up, even though he was still quite shaky. He threw a quick “Stay here” her way and raced back into the flames. She tried to tell him to stay, not to leave her alone to watch their happy life go up in an inferno, but by the time she managed to find her voice, he was already gone. Though she still wasn’t sure what was happening, it had begun to dawn on her that it was dangerous. The fact that her family was all still in there meant that they were probably getting burnt like she had that one night too.

Watching the golden fire surround the house, both her eyesight and hearing sharpened once the adrenalin kicked in. Above the roaring of the fires and the protesting of the crumbling house, she could make out the scared screams and cries for help that escaped the burning building. The flames were roaring with rage and she watched as it spit out a flaming ball, landing not far from where she stood with bated breath. She knew that she wouldn’t be able to make it through the entrance, which now looked like a flaming hoop, like something out of a circus act. So for the first time in her life she actually listened to what her elder brother told her to do and she stayed. She waited for what seemed like hours and waited with bated breath and crossed fingers from someone to get out of the fire-spitting house alive.

Even now, years later, she sat, rocking herself, waiting for someone to get back to her, alive. Her prayers must have been answered though, as the house had turned into one big campfire, she saw two figures stumbling out of the abyss, clutching at each other as if their lives depended on it, and their bodies hacking with coughs. As they grew closer, she could make out the slim yet curvy figure of her mother, with her arm draped over the awkward, skinny shoulders of her teenage son. As soon as they had gotten a safe distance away from the house the pair collapsed, heaving deep breaths and harshly coughing, trying to expel the toxin from their lungs.

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She hesitated for a minute before racing towards them, all thoughts of the blazing balls of fire expelled from her mind, and dropping on her knees, ignoring her bare feet and exposed knees. Her brother’s shirt was burnt, the fabric almost slipping off him, and his torso and arms varied in shades of only extremely burnt, and pretty badly burnt. Her mother was another story, her once long and beautiful hair had been burnt almost to her skull on her right side, a few strands still smoldering. Her arms were scratched and there was a deep gash on her forehead, coating her face in blood and disappearing into her hairline. Her clothes had seen better days with burns running down the expanse, and her face was wet with the crude mixture of sweat, blood and tears, her screams cutting through the storm raging outside, the thunder crackling along, as if sympathising and intensifying her pain.

The screams echoed around her head as the wind outside blew through the broken walls of the broken home, causing more tears to leap into her eyes, making her rock faster, muttering to herself, in an attempt to soothe herself, to protect her from the images and enemies flashing through her head, to no avail. She clutched at her head in pain, scratching as if to physically remove the memories from her mind. She went from muttering to herself, going from attempted placation to screaming at herself for her inadequacy, and then back again. She let out a desperate scream that held a ring of insanity, as she was unable to pull herself free from the terrors of the past.

Her mother’s screams had pierced the night sky, her brother attempting to hold down her rebelling form as she strove to break free, paying no mind to his own injuries. As his mother fought him off in a vain attempt to run back to the house to find her youngest daughter and husband, he grabbed her around the waist and held her until her hysterical screams and scratching, claw-like hands eventually morphed into heartbreaking sobs, her cut palms now desperately clutching onto her son’s shirt, as he gathered both his mother and younger sister in his arms.

After what seemed like hours of sitting in the warm embrace of her remaining family, the cold finally hit her, having been soaked through to the bone in the rain. The house still blazed on with fire, and the heavy rain made her mother’s sobs almost inaudible. Almost.

The uproar that the fire had caused had alerted the authorities and they had finally arrived, but they were too late. Their family was already broken, and she was to blame. If only she hadn’t been careless and left the gasoline so close to the fire, just because it was in the way of her game. It was her fault that her brother had knocked into it, and if she had thought about what she was doing, and maybe even tightened the lid on the can then the fire wouldn’t have brought down their house and destroyed their once happy family. She might as well have knocked how the lighter fluid all around by herself, the way that the house had caught fire. She had started the beginning of the end.

As she curled up, shivering in the remainder of what used to be and what could have been, the images rapidly flitted through her head. After all these years, she never forgave herself,

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the image of her younger sister and father’s flames licked bodies still haunted her, even though she hadn’t quite understood the implications at the time. She knew that it had been her fault. Now, sitting in the corner of the room, she remembered all the good memories that she had here, which had quickly been overpowered by that one horrific night.

The Man on the Canvas V. Viswanathan

The hearty laughter of her father, that she would never hear again, the smile on her mother’s face that had been replaced by deep lines and a deep sorrowful look. The constant, cheerful chatter and still clinging baby fat that made up her brother had been substituted for brooding silence and a haggard look that was much too mature for his age. And her younger sister; the girl who would never grow up, would never go to high school, have a first date, the girl who would never experience the joys of life, the girl who was the embodiment of happiness and laughter herself. The girl whose death was on her hands and her conscience; the younger sister who should have lived instead of her, and even though she knew at the back of her back, that her death was not really her fault, she still could not even begin to forgive herself for all the mistakes that she had made. And even though she knew that her remaining family did not blame her for what had happened that night, she could almost taste the bitter resentment when her mother was around. She knew that she wished that her younger daughter had survived the ordeal as opposed to the damaged and guilty party.

She knew the feeling, because she herself wished it too.

If only she had been more careful, if she had listened to her mother when she told her not to play her games so close to dinner time, who told her not to put the gasoline so close to the fire, in fact not touch it at all if she could avoid it, if only she had known the impact of her actions, none of this would have happened. Her mother wouldn’t be worked to the bone trying to provide for all three of them. Her brother hadn’t wanted to help so bad , even without a college degree, that he had gotten into it with the wrong people, which lead to him hiding her back here, the one place they had sworn never to return to. He wouldn’t have told her to stay despite her protests.

She wouldn’t be reliving the worst night of her life. The final image of that night that above all was the worst. The blazing fire ball that the house was spitting out coming right at her, catching her in the face as she ran to the paramedics who were carting out the bodies of her sister and her father, and causing her eyes to burn and bleed, starting up her mother’s screams again and causing her to black out. She wouldn’t have woken up in complete darkness; with the last thing she would ever see being a fiery ball of light. She wouldn’t wake up night after night screaming and crying for help, for someone to do something and save her family from her. She wouldn’t have panic attacks around the tiniest of fire and least of all, she wouldn’t be sitting in the charred remains of her old house hugging herself, and praying for another strike of lightning to come down on the house. They say that lightning never strikes in the same place twice, but she prayed that they were wrong as she sat, and for the second time in her life, she did exactly what her elder brother told her to do, and stayed.

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Over the years, Stella acquired a reputation for her impeccable selections - be it a hairpin that adorned her graceful locks or a mobile phone that she chose to buy after extensive market research. Very rarely, her choice had let her down. Her parents proudly said that this must be a trait ingrained in her, for even as a child, she had selected the best.

As a three year old, when she was taught to brush her own teeth, Stella would insist on the tooth paste being in top class condition. Neither a dent, nor a paint scratch on the tube that housed the paste was allowable. The bristles on the tooth brush should be arrayed perfectly without even one of them deviating from the rest. If they had such distortions, they would meet the ignominy of being condemned to the dustbin by the little child.

When she went to school, her note books had to be new and almost hot-from-the-press condition. Anything less was unacceptable. Generally, students in her class bought text books from the seniors at half-price but for Stella, something of the sort was impossible.

There was an element of an artist in the child which only those initiated in the field of arts could discern. Stella had an eye for detail. She could observe everything very closely and draw a picture on her note book and the pictures would be a perfect replica of whatever she saw.

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Stella completed her degree from one of the best colleges in Chennai city in south India and joined a reputed company in the advertisement industry in its creative team. She was on cloud nine when she got her first month pay slip. She went to an ATM booth to withdraw money from her first salary. It was during this sojourn that she chanced upon Fredrick.

Stella inserted her ATM card in the machine and realised it got stuck. She started panicking as a long queue of people was waiting outside. A tall youth clad in a jeans and tea-shirt, looking very fair and handsome with a six-pack built-up entered the booth, walked up to Stella and asked her, “Miss. Can I help you ? Don’t worry. I can retrieve the card for you.” Stella was perspiring and she could not refuse the help.

The handsome man operated the touch screen, inserted the finger in the plastic card slot and asked Stella, “Madam. Do you still want to withdraw money ? I can do it for you. Tell me your PIN. With the right PIN entry now, the card will eject out.”

Stella’s mind warned her from disclosing the PIN to a stranger. Reading her mind, the man smiled and said, “You are right. Never reveal your PIN to a stranger even if he is a gem of a person like Fredrick. I’ll wait outside and you can operate. If you still have a problem, tell me. I’ll help you out.”

As Fred walked out of the ATM cubicle, Stella entered the PIN. She got her money and the debit card promptly. ‘What a great and timely help by the man!’ she thought. She came out, spotted Fredrick and said, “Thank you Sir. It worked. Great.”

“No need to call me Sir. Call me Fred. “ Stella felt as if some storm had raged in her. She was completely bowled over by the charm of the man and all her energy seemed drained at that point. She had never felt such a feeling before in her life.

Fred finished his transaction and disappeared in the crowd. Stella walked out to a sweet shop, bought a kilogram of sweets and savouries and carried the pack home. She distributed it to her parents who thanked her and wished her all the best. After a cup of tea, Stella started painting on her canvas. It was Fred who occupied her entire mind.

She took her brushes and her strokes freely flowed on the canvas. Her mother was puzzled as it was strange on the part of Stella to seek refuge in her canvas immediately on arrival from outside. Normally, she would sit for at least half an hour watching some music channel on the TV and then she would browse on her computer for another half an hour. But today, everything seemed to have changed.

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She walked into Stella’s room and saw the picture coming up on the canvas. It was a man with a curly hair and cherubic face. “Stella, if I may take the liberty, who is this man who has painted himself into your heart ?”

Stella blushed. “Just a casual acquaintance I encountered on my way. Nothing more mother.” Her mom smiled and left the room.

The next time Stella chanced upon Fred in a branded coffee shop. They both ended up paying for their coffee tokens at the same time. Fred spotted Stella and exclaimed, “Oh !

The beauty strikes me in the form of coffee today. Great. Why don’t you allow me to pay for you today ?”

Stella’s angelic face became red with shyness at the compliment she received from the Romeo who filled her mind ever since she met him. “Go ahead,” she said. They picked up the coffee and sat in a table and chatted for half an hour. They exchanged their mobile numbers. Fred said he was working for a multinational software company and that he would be on frequent tours.

After this encounter, they both had regular telephonic conversations. After each call, Stella seemed more and more drawn towards Fred. There was something unmistakably charming about this man. She got a feeling that she should spend her entire life basking in the warmth of this man. Was this a connection from the previous birth or was it destiny ? Stella could not come to a conclusion on the chemical changes happening in her brain.

It was again after a couple of months that Stella ran into a problem and Fred came to her rescue once again. Her online bank account was hacked and her entire savings worth around 5000 USD stashed away. On realising the disaster, she broke down first but quickly recovered to alert the customer services wing of the bank and then rushed and complained to the bank manager at the nearest branch. They directed her to lodge a complaint with the cyber crime division of the police. With her parents, she went and lodged the same. A week was over and there was no clue. The bank and the police were sending her into a spin and it turned into a wild goose chase. She grew tired and became frustrated with the follow up. She did not share this news with anyone, not even Fred.

But Fred read her mind and asked her over a mobile chat, “Darling. You seem to be highly disturbed for a few days now. Any problem ?”

Stella could not hold back her misfortune any longer. She explained everything. Fred assured her, “Don’t worry Stella. Is this your problem ? You could have told me. How could you hide this from me for a week ? You know, all the formal channels of crime resolution will take a long time. With my software knowledge, I can help you out. I can

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directly discuss with the bank’s back office and see if something can be done. “ “If I get back my money, how happy I will be ! It’s a colossal loss for me and I am unable to get over it.” *** After ten days time, when she logged into net banking with the new user ID and password she received from the bank, she was ecstatic to find that her siphoned off money had been restored to her account. It was sheer miracle ! As she was about to jump in joy, she got a call from Fred. “Hi Stella, Good news for you. I managed to crack your case, sitting with the bank’s IT back office team. They could trace the account to which your money was transferred and reverse it to your account. This doesn’t happen often. Lucky girl, you are !

When shall we celebrate ?”

Stella felt like running to Fred and hugging him. ‘What a great help he has done ! Without his IT skills, this is just impossible,’ she realised. “Fred. I feel like crying. I have no words to thank you. You have done me a great help,” she broke down unable to control her emotions.

“Hey, Honey. Cool. All in the game. We’ll meet tomorrow in the coffee shop. Another news. I may be going away on a long term assignment to Mumbai.”

Stella started panicking. Why should he go away ? She could not even imagine his absence.

Her joy on her getting back the lost money became short–lived. “How long will it take for you to return?” she queried expecting to get a reply like, “Just a couple of days, dear.” But the answer she got was different.

“Eight to nine months Stella. But keep going. I may come in between. “ Stella became crestfallen. “I cannot be without you Fred. I love you so much. “ “I understand Stella. Eight months will go away in a jiffy. After I return, let’s plan to get married. Then, there won’t be such separation.”

Stella met Fred the next day in a restaurant. They had a long chat and did not really know what they talked. Nothing they discussed was significant. Nothing was insignificant either. But when two lovers talk, especially on the eve of a farewell, all of us know that they can keep on talking and let us respect that sentiment without bothering about what they spoke and whether it was historic or trivial. As expected, when they parted, Stella cried like a child. Fred tried to console her but in vain.

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*** A year had rolled away and still Fred did not return. Till a few months back, Stella at least received some emails and phone calls. But slowly, they decreased. Her calls went unanswered. ‘What happened to him ?’ she wondered. ‘Has he taken on board another lover and deserted her ? No way. My choices have never gone wrong, so far’. Stella lost a few kilos weight. Her bangles became loose. The spark in her face was gradually fading.

After a long spell, Stella got a call from Fred. He explained that he was in a very sensitive assignment in his office and that was why he could not contact her. He said he loved her dearly and soon would return to Chennai to meet her ... *** It was a Sunday. Stella was alone in her flat. Her parents had gone outstation to attend a relative’s marriage. Stella was in a pensive mood, reflecting on the blissful days she spent with Fred. Though he was away for a long time, he has promised to return soon.

She went back to her canvas. She took her paint brushes and looked at the picture of Fred, she had drawn after seeing him the first time in her life. She started to touch up the picture and enhance its depth and dimensions, adding every nuance and transferring the data she had stored of Fred in her brain cells onto the canvas. The picture slowly turned into a master piece. Once she finished it, she sat back on the sofa and looked admiringly at her creative piece. For how long she kept staring, she could not say but she could realise that her reverie was disturbed by the chiming of the calling bell. She covered the canvas carrying Fred’s picture with a vinyl sheet and walked to the door to find out as to who rang the bell.

She wanted to peep through the magic eye fixed on the door but on that day, it was fully choked with some fillings done by a bee or a flying insect. Cleaning it, she ran the risk of the insect either getting killed or that it might fly out and harm her. Lest she should disturb the insect, she unbolted the door, upon which a stranger forced it open, entered the house and bolted the door.

“Don’t open your mouth lady. Otherwise I might harm you,” the stranger with rusty looks, a French beard, dark moustache and hair flowing from his head, warned her. He brandished a sharp and glittering knife towards her.

“Who are you and what do you want ?” Stella managed to ask him amidst her shivering.

“Young lady. I am sorry I can not divulge many details now. I am chased by the police for a petty theft I committed. I somehow gave them the slip. But they are after me. I’ll hide in

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your house for an hour two. I’ll tie your hands and mouth so that you don’t alert anyone.

Once I am sure the police have left this area, I’ll move out of your house. Believe me and cooperate with me. Nothing sinister will befall you.”

“I won’t bother you anymore. I am leaving now. The police must be away from this place and even if they spot me, they cannot identify me. I ate the pizza that was kept in the kitchen. You have to prepare something for your lunch. Sorry about that. “

He tied Stella’s hands, put a masking tape on her mouth and secured her to a chair. The stranger was now sure that she would not be a threat to him anymore. He told Stella, “Look. If I ask you any question, just nod your head and answer. Understood ?” Stella nodded in agreement.

He untied the ropes from her body and warned her one last time, “Please, my dear sister, bolt the door. Mind you, never open the door like you did for me. It’s not safe these days.”

“Is there anyone else in this flat with you ?”

“No” Stella indicated with a nod. “Are others expected in this house now –your friends, relatives, parents ?”

One more nod and a no. The stranger heaved a sigh of relief. “That makes my job easier.

A young, charming lady alone in her house,” he quipped. Butterflies started to fly in her stomach. Every day, she read in the newspaper and saw on television horrific stories of women being stalked, molested, raped and dumped like tissue papers. ‘God ! What is this Quixote up to ?’ she wondered. ‘He has tied my hands and I cannot even pick up pepper from the dining table, as a possible deterrent. “ The stranger left Stella in her chair and went inside a bed room. He did not come out for more than an hour. Stella’s heart pounded in fear and anxiety. She thought of myriad ways she should react in case the stranger tried to violate her. The air conditioner in her room delivered an above-par performance, yet she perspired heavily.

After two hours, the stranger came back to her. No, this time, it was somebody else.

‘Where did the first stranger go and when did this second man come in ? It’s a gang perhaps and they are out to rape me.’ Stella wanted to scream but could not.

The word ‘sister’ melted Stella for a moment. She was unsure if what unfolded before her was a dream or a reality. The stranger walked towards the door. As he was about to exit, he spotted the covered canvas in Stella’s room. “Are you an artist by any chance ?” he posed a question.

“Yes. I am,” said Stella. The stranger continued, “In my school days, I also used to draw nicely. Life takes you to different destinations. Hmmmm !” he reflected and sighed. “Can I have a look at the canvas, if there is any picture ?” he turned and walked towards it.

Stella did not fear him anymore. She removed the flexible sheet covering the canvas and there lay exposed her master piece –the painting of her enchanting lover Fredrick !

“My goodness ! This is Fredrick, our old pal ! Do you know him ?” exclaimed the stranger, at which, Stella’s heart broke into two or three or may be, multiple pieces. ‘How come a thief knows my lover ! No way. He must be wrong.’

The stranger explained, “Fred was our associate until, say, four or five years back. We were all specialists in executing petty thefts perfectly. But Fred was different from us.

He was very intelligent. He started specialising in hacking, cyber crimes, ATM thefts, all those hitech thefts you know. So, he left us to make quick, easy and big money. Every now and then, we hear about him. Did you see the TV news yesterday ?”

The new stranger removed the tape on her mouth. “So, you could not recognise me, am I right ?”

Stella held back the tears gushing from her eyes with monumental difficulty. She froze on what she heard. The stranger prattled on. “I asked you a question - Did you see the news ?”

“Who are you and how many of you have come in ?” quizzed Stella angrily.

“No. What was the breaking news ?”

The stranger laughed. “Lady. There is no gang here. Only one person. I have removed my moustache, shaved my beard and trimmed my flowing hair. You have quality implements in your house for doing all these trimming works. Thanks. So, you see, even you could not recognise me.”

“You can’t call it breaking news ! Rather hacking news !” he laughed.

“What a transformation !” Stella exclaimed.

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“A major foreign bank in India has been hacked. We have insider information that it is the handiwork of Fred. But, we can’t share with law enforcement agencies ! How can we – the law breakers do that ? Okay Lady, Take care. It’s getting late for me. I have to leave now; else, I’ll be in trouble.” The stranger walked out of the house.

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Stella bolted the door, came back and slunk in her chair. She had only her body and the soul literally seemed to have taken a detour from her.

She knew that every word of the stranger must be true. She was done in by the exemplary manner in which the stranger conducted himself. Here was a lady, in all her prime and pristine beauty, alone in her house and yet, not a finger of the stranger brushed her. So, what he said of Fred must be one hundred percent true.

The Stonecutter Criselda Monice Razo

Reminiscing of her association with Fred, everything now fell in place for Stella. The first time she met him, he saved her from an ATM fiasco. Probably, he had set the trap to copy the PIN numbers. The next time, it was her bank account. Again, Fred must have hacked it after collecting data from her without her knowledge. Then, to make her trust him, he acted as if he had helped her get back the lost money. ‘Gosh ! What a precipice I would have fallen into.’

She meditated for ten minutes silently and then picked up her mobile. She dialled the police officer. “Sir. I have concrete information about the hacking of the foreign bank account and I want to share with you,” she declared. She would not divulge a word about the stranger –a good Samaritan in her eyes – who saved her life from a disaster.

“Madam. Where are you ? ...Okay, We’ll be in your place very soon. Just a request. Don’t share any information with TV news channels. They will spoil everything, crying from their roof tops and holding everybody guilty except them, “ the police officer did not lose his sense of humour even in that tense moment.

Hours later, images of Stella’s master piece - her painting of Fredrick was flashed across all TV channels and the man on the canvas was announced as India’s most wanted cyber criminal. Stella saw the television channels and smiled wryly. Of her two great skills, her sense of impeccable choices failed her and bruised her badly; but it was her other talent - painting skills, that saved the day for her and her life.

Two days later, Bollywood actor Ameer Khan, a staunch social activist was quick to celebrate Stella’s work. Not to fall behind in applauding, the Home Minister recognised Stella’s efforts that helped the police crack a massive cyber crime and nab the culprits involved in major hackings across the globe. Stella was given a special award in a glittering ceremony in New Delhi. “The award goes to ...Stella” screamed the anchor of the programme. “I request the Honourable President of India to present this award to Stella.”

All he ever knew were stones.

Ashkay Saha grew up grinding stones. With the right tools nothing was invincible against the strength of his arms. He could cut rocks like he could slice an onion with a knife. As a child, he liked to boast of their family’s mythical ability. They have learned the secret to making rocks yield like clay in the warmth of their palms. His mother christened him with a name that meant indestructible, prophecy in her mind that he will grow up to be the last man standing when the cruel winds blow destruction. When he was born, his father whispered into his ear a prayer that his boy find the way to his destiny.

Though it was neither stones nor onions he was getting lost in.

Stella walked to the podium... not in a celebratory mood but in a manner befitting a robot with measured, mechanical steps.

Ashkay secretly wished he knew how to read and write. His lack of literacy made him blind even if he could easily peer into a kaleidoscope of colors with his dark eyes. His father, a stonemason himself was to blame for thrusting hammers instead of books into his seven year old hands. During those days (not that these days are any better) they were so poor he wished they could have eaten the stones they ground. They barely survived with a few hundred takas. The world hurled offense at their family’s honor given that they descended from the very men whose hands built the crown jewels of the Mughal Empire.

As the world marveled at the fruits of their forefathers’ toil, it glowered at the poverty

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that consumed their day to day lives. Growing up, he watched children from his village walk the dirt road to the nearby shack they called school with shambled books pinned underneath their armpits. When his ninth and youngest brother Syed began to learn how to read, write and count, Ashkay had grown out of this desire; his time has passed. He married Smita, a lovely village girl with the most captivating pair of brown eyes.

One day, a man named Sajjad came to the site and asked who among them wanted to earn a monthly wage of 16,000 takas. Ashkay together with his friends, Atif and Bablu stayed after work. Sajjad was a heavily mustached man with a pudgy build and around his almost non-existent neck hung a bright silver chain. He looked like a goat fattened enough for roasting, wealthy and well fed.

His years were spent mostly in agony, but life, in all its cruelty, allowed him some joys once in a while. Smita bore him a son whom he named Kundir. Kundir was Allah’s answer to his fervent prayers. He hoped for in this boy, the mightiest of his seeds. When Ashkay lost all hope that his boyhood dreams would ever come true, he found that Kundir (who was the spitting image of his father) possessed an indomitable spirit and intellect. Unlike his father, Ashkay desired to send off his only son to a road different from his. No, he vowed to never let Kundir toil with hammers and hard earth. He wanted him to learn from books and become a school headmaster. Ashkay wanted to give Kundir a privilege his father witheld from him: his best shot at life.

Sajjad explained that he used to work in an Arab country called Oman and that his company is looking for men who could construct their roads. He himself worked there for ten years and was able to build for himself a decent home. The job to be done was laborious, but the pay was good. They would be given a place to live in, free medical services, free transport to work and a free airplane ride. He explained that this was a winwin situation and an opportunity only idiots would let slip. A sheet of paper was passed around for interested workers. Ashkay told Bablu to write down his name for him.

And so with his few savings, a bag of clothes and some pots for cooking, Ashkay took his wife and son to Savar, a three hour drive from their old village. They enrolled Kundir at a public school while Ashkay worked at construction sites in the nearby Dhaka area. At first he wanted Smita to stay home, but when Kundir turned eight, she became restless and insisted on taking a job at a nearby garments factory. Day in and day out, Smita tirelessly stitched buttons and zippers on denim trousers their company would eventually ship to the other side of the globe. The work at the factory went beyond the humane working hours and condition; the pay was also lousy. During the first few months, Smita returned home every evening with her knuckles calloused and her wrist numb. She would fetch Kundir from their next door neighbor, wash him and prepare dinner.

He would not speak of it to Smita until the day before he left. He sat on the kitchen table and gave his wife their bankbook.

“I took 20,000 takas from Kundir’s savings” He said non-chalantly, patiently waiting for Smita’s response He saw the back of Smita’s torso stiffened, but she continued stirring the beans. In a calm voice she asked, “What would you use the money for?”

“My hands feel like poorly oiled machines, I’m not surpised if I count ten years and they won’t be there anymore, She complained to her husband one night while they were having dinner.

“Tomorrow I leave for Oman, I took up a construction work for Mr. Sajjad’s agency” He replied choosing to unload all that he has concealed from his wife for several weeks in one emotional blow. Smita slowly turned to her husband and leaned against the wooden kitchen counter in silence. The only sound left was that of Kundir’s toy car screeching as his small hands brushed it against the floor.

“You can always quit from that factory”, her husband replied averting his gaze, “I never told you to take that job”.

“Sajjad’s people asked for money, they promised we would earn back everything in a month’s time” He added, his eyes fixated on his dirty toes.

She knew he lied to her. Ashkay would never admit that he needed her help. Though Smita took pity on her husband and didnt want to hurt his feelings, she knew better than to risk his son’s future. It was her job as a mother to ensure Kundir’s place in the world would be met with respect because he was educated. That night as she lay in their cold, hard cot, she shoved aside all her thoughts and went to bed. She would never speak of her hardships to Ashkay ever again.

Smita Begum nodded. She trusted her husband and knew in her heart that his intentions were pure. They both agreed that Kundir’s future would be their priority. She valued obedience to her spouse and so like any loyal wife, she didn’t bother to raise anymore difficult questions. She did ask how long will he be away.

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“I get to go home when my contract finishes in two years” he answered.

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“Kundir would be ten by then” She quipped in a small voice.

The next day, Ashkay boarded a plane bound for Muscat bidding his wife and son a courageous farewell. Kundir was told his father would return in a month. Smita’s eyes watered as she watched her husband go further into the airport until he completely disappeared from her sight. Ashkay’s heart bled inside and felt fear. But the overwhelming emotion was an intense longing for his family even before the plane took off. The man couldn’t care less about his first airplane ride or that airport security whistled harshly at him, reprimanding him like they would a dog. He barely felt anything except the tears that wanted so badly to burst out of his eyes.

It only took him a few minutes to realize that the universe was smaller than he previously thought because this place was not a part of his world until now. When the arid heat blew across his face, his chest tightened. In the middle of summer, the air was dry, hot and suffocating. His throat felt like an empty hollow with two rough walls in torrid friction.

Alongside Ashkay were hundreds of Bengali workers like himself with their suitcases in tow. He borrowed his from Rana’s (his third sister) husband and though it had a gaping hole underneath the trolley, he thanked God for making it withstand the travel. The last thing he wanted was to pick strewn up clothes, underwears and beans because his luggage vomitted his belongings. From the airport, an Omani driver made hissing sounds at their group as if to motion them towards his direction. Since he could barely make sense of Arabic, Ashkay only heard what he thought sounded like “Sajjad” and followed the others into the rusting coaster. The vehicle rattled as it paraded down the smooth concrete roads of Muscat, it’s pavements lined with colorful flowers. He saw the shiniest cars cruising down well-kept expressways. Every twists and turns after each winding roads threw him off his seat and he held into the metal bars of his seat. The buldings were mostly white, reflecting the minimalistic beauty of Islamic architecture. He marveled at the lavish mosques with their exquisite designs and eye-catching lights. Much unlike Dhaka, which was scruffy and cluttered, the parks were immaculately maintained. How Kundir would enjoy running around the manicured lawns while he and Smita spread a blanket and marvel at the attractive mix of evergreens and flowers!

with five other workers. At the height of summer, the conditions were intolerable and their faulty airconditioning unit broke down by the second month of the season. It was extremely chilly in the winter because wooden walls had very poor insulation. Saifudden, a man from Chittagong wanted to live in a tent instead and throw the walls into a fiery furnace to warm their freezing limbs. Their house almost got buried in dust when the next sandstorm ravaged and flooded inside-out when the heavy rains came pouring in.

He lived through cheap vegetables and chappatis because he sent almost every penny he earned to Smita.

But nothing could prepare them for the hard labor at the site. They would work round the clock because they had a deadline to finish. In the past, the projects he had worked on were paced slower. But money flowed and they had no excuse to delay. He began by breaking down concrete roads to expand them, patiently chiseling them until what needed to be cleared was cleared. He filled the roads with concrete, painstakingly covering every crack and nook to smoothen out the highway. His task now was to move heavy concrete slabs to cover the walls of the skyway. Ashkay’s muscles ached terribly as he slept and this time there was no Smita to gently knead his back with her comforting hands. He also coughed heavily because the dust filled up his lungs and irritated them. Twice he suffered from extreme heat exhaustion and found that his blood pressure skyrocketed. His foreman was extremely volatile, erupting in anger at the slightest mistakes. When the engineers came and saw something wrong with the work they had done, they were made to repeat everything, this time at a faster rate.

It was nothing like he had hoped for. He lived in a makeshift house near the site along

Ashkay’s only luxury was phonecards. He would spend a fortune on them even if it meant cutting back on his groceries. He dreamed of one day purchasing a laptop for him and Smita so that they could talk while seeing each other. It was Smita who discouraged him from doing so because it was not their priority. Kundir was doing well in school and liked math very much. Smita relays he has grown an inch taller since Ashkay left. Work at the factory went well for Smita, save for some lay offs every now and then to which alhamdulilah she was spared from. When it was Smita’s turn to ask Ashkay about his work, he was always careful to keep the bad eggs away from her basket. It would always be about his kind foreman, who in truth hurled curses along with his empty pepsi can at him because he misunderstood the instructions written in a note he sent. He told his wife he ate very well yet he starved for days on end because he secretly sent money for his mother’s anti-epileptic medicines. He would tell Kundir make-believe tales of the wonderful places he has been to because he wanted his son to dream enough. On his off days, he would tag along with his friends to the nearby shopping mall. As he watched merry shoppers dangle their paper bags or push their carts overflowing with the goods they purchased, a strange feeling of envy would pierce his heart. Once he wandered into a clothing store with a strange name and as he ran his rough hands along the fabric of the clothes on display, he couldnt help but feel a sense of nostalgia for it may just be one

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Their site was a 45-minute drive from the airport in a place called Barka. Unlike Muscat, it was more industrial albeit with a large number of residential houses lining the interior villages. Sajjad’s newly hired workers would scrap the old grassy roundabout. They needed to expand roads, build a skyway above, an intersection below and connect these together with the Muscat Expressway.

A year later, Ashkay had seen the toughest times of his life.

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of the trousers his wife made with her gouty hands. He asked his friend Ramzan to read the tag because he wanted to know how much it cost. “35 rials”, said Ramzan and Ashkay shivered at the thought that Smita’s monthly wage amounted only to a single pair of trouser that she made (She made hundreds of them for an entire month).

One day Ashkay Saha awoke before the crack of dawn. In his dream, he was walking in the desert and heard birds circling above his head. As he delved further into the wasteland he saw a withered tree with a single leaf left and the crows perched on one of it’s leafless branches. Before he could reach the tree, the earth opened up to swallow him and he fell into a bottomless pit. He bolted up drenched in sweat but immediately shoved his nightmare aside. He called up his wife hoping to speak with her before she went to work.

Smita’s voice was cheerful when they talked on the phone. Kundir has gone to school and she was taking the long walk from their rented house in Hizlapara to her factory in Rana Plaza. A girl named Shima who worked with her on the sixth floor was getting married in a week and she wanted to take Kundir to her wedding party. Ashkay learned that her supervisor sent them home early the day before because of some random building inspection. She expressed her dismay when they were called to resume work today because she was looking forward to rest and clean the house while Kundir was at school.

Nevertheless, she decided to show up for work so as not to waste a day’s wage. Talks of a pay increase was circulating around the factory since the first of the month and all of them were praying that it was true. Ashkay’s prepaid credit was almost gone and so he bid his wife goodbye.

An hour later, Ashkay Saha’s world would never be the same. Rana Plaza would be pancaked to the ground in a freak accident. Their telephone conversation will be the last Ashkay would ever hear from his beloved.

News broke out during lunch about the tragic collapse of Rana Factory. The incident happened in the middle of the morning rush barely an hour after the employees timedin for work. The news of the wreckage would sink the heart of anyone who saw it on television. Rescue teams were scrambling to search for survivors under the thick rubble, but the concrete beams that crushed the poor victims from the inside made it nearly impossible to extricate trapped people, many of whom were women and adolescent children. Footages showed bereaved families holding up pictures of their daughters and mothers hoping they might be found. In the chaos brought by the deadliest garment factory accident in history, Ashkay felt himself stupefied. The people around him thought he was having a stroke because he dropped his tray of food and wouldnt move. He stared blankly at the wall and shunned off anybody who tried to speak with him. He refused to return to the site even though one of his Pashtun foremans was screaming in his ear to get back to work. Eventually when everybody left, he took a deep breath and let out

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a desperate cry (he stalled in his throat for an hour or so). This was the hardest Ashkay Saha, mighty stone cutter ever cried in his whole life. He sank to the ground and howled the name of his wife again and again and again.

The accident claimed the lives of more than a thousand people, including Smita’s best friend Aysha and Shima who would have been married in a few days. A week later, Smita is yet to be found. Her mother and son scoured all the nearby hospitals and clinics but they were unsuccessful in locating her. Kundir believed that his mother might have lost a limb or an arm but not her life. The elderly woman and her grandson slept through heat and rain a few meters from all that was left of Rana Plaza patiently awaiting news about survivors. A few more days dragged on and they decided to look for her in morgues unzipping one body bag after the other but they couldnt find her among the dead either Ashkay drifted further away. He couldn’t come home to be with his son or to look for his wife. Unlike Kundir, he thought of the worst, that Smita might have passed away. He would still go to work but he refused to eat or talk to anybody. He neglected himself not even caring to bathe or brush his teeth. One day he accidentally cut himself with a piece of broken pipe and spent the day working with his unbandaged leg smearing blood over the newly cemented pavement he was working on. His supervisor thought of letting him go and made a mental check to speak with him the next day so that he can be sent home.

That day would never happen.

As soon as he got home from work that evening, a dark cloud loomed over his mind. He locked himself inside his room and snapped the makeshift rope he used for hanging his clothes dry. With the miniscule strength left of his will, he tied the rope in a tight knot and hung his head until the strangulation cut off his breath. His friends would find him dangling from the ceiling, cold and lifeless by midnight When the mighty sun rose above Dhaka’s clear azure sky, Smita Begum opened her tired eyes to the first ray of sunlight she has seen in a very long time. She was unaware of how many days have passed since she got buried alive. But she was certain this was the first time a slight streak of golden beam passed through a tiny crack. A few minutes later she heard indiscriminate voices above her head and with all her strength and consciousness she screamed for help. Her throat felt parched and empty, but she struggled to squeeze out what little voice was left in there. She prayed unceasingly until she saw the face of a man like an angel God sent to pull her out of death’s eager clutch. Her left arm was badly crushed by a wall that had collapsed while she was escaping and it pinned her to the ground. Smita wanted to live so badly that she insisted the rescuers to cut her arm instead so that she could be free. In her hallucinations, she saw Kundir pleading with her to fight for her life.

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It was one of those incredible survival stories, ten days later a woman, amputated was pulled out alive. Smita Begum lived while her husband didnt survive to see this miracle.

As he walked into the afterlife waiting to be reunited with the love of his life, she was on her way back to the land of the living as international media flashed their lights. Ashkay Saha, mighty stonecutter, would have no choice but to wait for her yet another lifetime.

The Tree Ashwin Goroor Vasuki

This is a fictionalized account of the April 2013 Rana Plaza Accident. The characters are not based on real people and may only be coincidental.

The cries of a newborn child rippled through the still air of the oasis. The men outside the mud brick house eagerly awaited news of the child. Slowly the baby’s cries subsided and were replaced by the gentle run of the water of the falaj stream.

Soon enough the well weathered timber door opened and the midwife smiled at the most eager looking man. An even bigger smile creased across the midwife’s face, causing the man to grab a hand-crafted shovel and dig the fertile ground by the side of the door. He worked fast, and the toned muscles of his shoulders and arms worked rhythmically in creating a perfect hole in the ground.

He momentarily stepped into his farm across the falaj and returned with a wisp of a palm, a little stem with a hint of a stalk for a leaf. With his rough hands he carefully planted the young shoot, and gently caressed the fresh earth, pushing it back into the hole to allow the stem to take root. He stepped backed, satisfied with the planting and wiped his hands on the rump of his wazar. A sweat had broken out on his sun-burnt face, and before heartily receiving the congratulations of the other men, he splashed his face and washed his arms with the cool water of the falaj.

The joy was overwhelming. It was his first-born, a son, to whom he could bequeath what was bequeathed to him from generations long past. He glanced at his own tree, a proud

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example of its species, sturdy at the base with a playfulness at the lofty height of its fronds.

To say that Abu Ali was happy was an understatement. He was beside himself, but maintained his composure for the moment he would cradle the little one. He told his companions he would order a feast the next Friday to celebrate the new life.

Presently from within his house a lady handed him some freshly prepared halwa and jug of freshly-brewed kahwa. The men settled on a large reed mat and helped themselves to the celebrations.

Good wishes all said and received, Abu Ali went in for his first look at the boy. The bright eyes reflected the light from the lantern, and as Abu Ali held out his finger, his son grabbed it with both his hands with a vice-like grip. Tears of joy streamed down the man’s face.

After all the years of disappointment he finally had his progeny.

The first few years were full of life in the household. The chickens could not be guaranteed their free range, for a precocious little boy might just startle and run after them. Abu Ali’s donkey was a big favourite. Whenever the father returned, the son would demand, and get his ride around the courtyard.

One day, news came to Abu Ali about a change, of a promise to better the lives of his community, of better care and education, of opportunity and sustenance, of progress and prosperity, of a transformation. Abu Ali was not a man of letters. He worked the soil and it worked him. But as every father, and surely his own father before him, he dreamt of a better future for Ali, a more fulfilling one.

A few years later a school opened, and Abu Ali mounted his son on his donkey and together they strode to the temple of education. The boy enjoyed this formal setting, it was different with neatly ordered chairs and desks, a far cry from the cacophony of the farm, and there were no chickens to chase. Instead there was a gentle, bespectacled man who wrote on an enormous blackened board and lavished his attention on the twenty odd children, steadying their little hands as they came to terms with their very first pencil.

Ali absorbed the teachings like a sponge, and could not wait to run home in the afternoon to impart his learning to his parents. He had asked for a spare notebook from his teacher, and most evenings his soft gentle hands would attempt to coax his father’s large, calloused hands into calligraphy. Ali’s mother was bemused by his attempts at teaching her. She would gently brush aside his yearning to teach, saying that the world was his now, what would an old woman gain by writing, especially when there was dinner waiting to be cooked.

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Abu Ali was also bemused. And his none too serious attempts would result in severe reprimands from his son. Once he even had to stand in a corner till dinner was served.

On the weekends and on holidays, the boy would work the farm with his father. Abu Ali’s wishes were coming true. Not only was his son getting a modern education, he was also actively partaking in his heritage.

The sapling was now slowly but surely taking the form of a robust palm.

The day drew near when Ali’s education at the village would come to an end. The village elders advised Abu Ali that it would be prudent to let the boy go to the bigger towns and get even more education. It would be for the benefit of the village, they said. Other boys were also going off to the town, and collectively when they returned, they would bring the gifts of modernity into the village. It would be an easier life, they said, after all who wouldn’t want their own to lead better lives than them.

Needless to say Ali’s mother was upset. For her, he was her world, her creation that brought joy to her heart, a smile to her lips, a satisfaction that her life was worth living.

And now he was going, beyond the distance that her eyes could see. Abu Ali explained to her that Ali was like a bird. What good would it be to keep a bird in a cage when it ought to spread its wings and fly in the sky, seeing new places, learning new things. Umm Ali was resigned to the development. With some money from their savings they packed off Ali to a distant town for his further education.

The young tree was nearly as high as the compound wall.

The farm fell silent as before. The man worked his farm, while his wife tended to the household. It was now only the holidays when they would see their strapping young man.

He was as cheery as he had always been, but Abu Ali could tell that the boy’s eyes reflected the light of knowledge far greater than he could imagine. It was indeed a good decision to let him go.

Once, on the last day of his holidays, the last he would have in his school, Ali stopped by the young palm and remarked on how tall it had grown. Abu Ali smiled and said that after all, it was Ali’s brother. They had both taken root on this earth the same day. Abu Ali told his son, he had not one, but two children. When Ali was gone, the tree would remind him not to feel lonely. Ali asked his father if he had a brother too. Abu Ali nodded and pointed towards a slightly bent, but still tall palm, its fruits ready for harvest. Our brothers will always be there for us, he told his son.

One day, there was a new sight in the village. The likes of it were seen before, but all had

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passed by the village, never entering it. This one did. It confidently strode through the wellrutted tracks and presently stopped at Abu Ali’s door. A sharp noise startled the old donkey, who started braying incessantly. Abu Ali was enjoying his afternoon nap, and was none too pleased with the commotion. He stumbled out of his cot and on towards the old door.

He saw it, and it had no camels or donkeys in front or behind it. It had four wheels, and help, it had captured his beloved son in its vast chasm. It was a surprise. The sight was soon joined by dozens of young children, each clamouring for a ride in the beast.

Ali opened the door and hugged his proud father. He told his father he was a government officer now, and that this was a vehicle of his office. Abu Ali shouted for Umm Ali to come and see what her son had done. The elders were right after all. The boys were returning to help the village.

The tree was now reaching over the compound.

Over dinner Abu Ali asked his young officer his plans for the village, while Umm Ali was busy thinking about possible worthwhile matches for her son. Ali quietly ate his meal, and said they should talk about it over halwa and kahwa.

Abu Ali was disappointed. More so that the apple of his eye was leaving the very next day.

Ali explained to his parents that he had to take care not only of them or the village, or the town, he owed his duty to the country. His country had invested in him, he was its future, and he had to shepherd it on its chosen path, in every way he could. His life now was bigger than him. Umm Ali asked if she could still choose his bride for him. Her innocent question brokered a laugh between the men.

It was a sleepless night for Abu Ali. To whom would he hand his farm? He had expected Ali to take care over at his age, as he had done with his own father, but times, they were changing. It would not be fair to impose upon Ali the burden of running a farm when he had so much more greater things to do.

produce to their doorstep, with technology that was instantaneous in nature.

It was this technology that roused him from an exceptionally long meeting at the office.

The old tree had fallen.

Ali brought his mother to live with him. He sold off the livestock, and contracted a neighbour to take care of the farm. Umm Ali did not look back as the doors of her world closed for the very last time for her.

In time Ali’s wife bore him children. It was on a Thursday afternoon, on his son’s fifth birthday, while they were celebrating on a beach, that it came to him. A gift for his son.

The next day, he packed the family into the car and drove to his old homestead. They were warmly greeted by their neighbour. Ali took him aside and explained his purpose. The good farmer nodded and momentarily stepped away.

Ali grabbed the nearest shovel and worked a spot next to the old timber door. He saw his tree as he wiped his brow, still tall and still strong.

A lone gust of wind blew by the compound. The tree rustled with pleasure, and Ali stepped forward and embraced its trunk. He had never before held it. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

His neighbour soon appeared with a small shoot. Ali carefully held it in his hands and gently placed it in its prepared bed. His son came to him, and without a word, helped him settle the earth back. Always remember this, Ali told his son, this is your brother. He will always be here no matter how far you go, he will always be here no matter when you come, for both of you have come from the same earth, and to it both of you will return when the day is done. Your roots are the same.

They saw lesser and lesser of him. On his part, he tried as often as he could. He had a telephone line installed at the farm, and taught his mother the order of punching the buttons, being that she could not read the numerals. It was as if by magic that she could hear his voice over a mere wire.

The young tree was now soaring majestically well over the roof of the house.

In time Ali got married, to a girl of his mother’s choice. They lived in the city, with comfortable concrete housing, with convenient supermarkets bringing the world’s

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Trolley Boy

But I don’t want to think about them because the policeman said that I need to calm down and if I think about them I get really angry or cry.

James Dick

In my job I collect the trolleys from around the car park and bring them back to the main supermarket building. Most people take them to the little greenhouse buildings after they’ve used them. I get them into a long, snaky line and return them. The first few times I was really slow but now I’m quite fast. Some people just leave their trolleys next to their cars and then drive off. Mum thinks this is rude and lazy. I don’t really mind. If I have to go round different parts of the car park getting them, it makes the job more interesting. Sometimes Sue tells me that somebody’s rung up to say they’ve seen a trolley somewhere outside the car park. I love it when this happens because I go for a walk to somewhere different and I get to push the trolley back along a strange route. Well, I used to like it when this happened but I suppose I don’t anymore. The reason I’m in the police station now is because of one of those lost trolleys that I had to bring back.

The policeman said that mum would be there in half an hour. Then he went out to get more papers and I started thinking about mum.

Mum was really proud of me when I got the job. We’d been practising what I was going to say in the interview but in the end I forgot all that and just said what was in my head. I didn’t have to lie or anything like that. I liked Betasavers anyway, and I told the interview lady that.

Her name was Mrs. Tomlinson and she was really nice. I said that I’d work really hard and never be late and hardly ever be ill. I had to say ‘hardly ever’ because saying ‘never’ would be a promise that I might not be able to keep. I can’t remember the last time I was ill, apart from when I broke my finger and that’s different, but you never know.

Mrs. Tomlinson (I call her Sue now because she told me I could) said she thought I’d do the job fine and fit in well as part of the Betasavers team, so I started the following Monday morning.

I’ve been doing the job for two years now and I like it, most of the time. I like it because I’m always walking around. I’d hate to have a job where you have to be sitting down all day. I don’t mind the cold weather either, or the rain. It’s the summer evenings when it’s warm that I don’t like because that’s when all the idiot lads come and hang around and give me a hard time, and it’s their fault that I’m sitting here now.

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I’m thinking about the group of lads now. It always happens when they’re all together. I sometimes see them by themselves when I’m walking to work or walking home or with my mum. They don’t look at me when they’re on their own; once, one of them even said, ‘all right’. But when they’re in a group hanging round the car park they’re completely different. I try not to let it bother me when they shout, ‘loser’, or say something nasty about my clothes.

I never understand that – I mean I wear a Betasavers uniform, and uniform basically means ‘smart’ so I don’t know why they laugh. I don’t tell mum about it anymore because she gets really upset.

About a month ago those lads came into Betasavers and started messing about. They had a trolley each even though I knew that none of them was going to buy anything. I could hear them making stupid noises and laughing when I came down from the staff room. They were standing next to an old woman and putting stuff into her trolley when she wasn’t looking.

When she noticed she started shouting, but like a quiet shout, as if she was embarrassed or scared. When the lads saw me they stopped putting things in her trolley and she started to slowly take them out again. One of them pointed at me and shouted, ‘Who let trolley boy inside?’ They all laughed and walked off, leaving their empty trolleys in the aisle. I thought of my mum who always talks about how it’s amazing that some people actually walk thick.

The policeman came back into the room with a woman. She had a nice face like a mum from a cereal advert on TV. She smiled and asked if I could tell her in my own words what had happened. I’d sort of already told the policeman but I don’t think I’d been very clear because I’d been shaking so much. I felt calmer with the woman there and started to explain what happened.

I saw a lad that I used to go to school with, Stephen Simmons. He was one of the ones who’d

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gone to university after leaving school. He was using the self-service express till to buy a sandwich, a drink and a newspaper. I said, ‘all right’, and he said, ‘hi’. We had a little chat and he told me he was at the LSE in London. I wanted to ask him what the LSE was, but he started asking me about what I was doing. He was really friendly but it was a bit weird because he spoke differently than he did at school, a bit posher. When he left he patted my back and said, ‘safe man’.

Wonderland Anushree Lakshminarayan

I went to collect a few trolleys at the top of the car park. As I started to push them back I noticed another one sticking out from behind a bush on the other side of the road. It was in a patch of waste ground full of dog muck and rubbish. I remember thinking what a strange place it was to leave a trolley. Anyway, I hopped over the little wall and started pulling it out.

From where I was standing I could see right down below, to the path that everyone calls ‘the gulley’ that cuts through to Valley Road.

Stephen Simmons was walking down the gulley. I knew it was him even though I could only see the top of his head. He had headphones on and was reading the newspaper he’d just bought. Suddenly, that group of lads came running down the path; it was like they came out of nowhere. When Stephen turned round they were already on him. One of them had something in his hand and he hit Stephen in the face with it. He fell down and two of them grabbed his headphones at the same time. They both pulled and there was a loud crack as the plastic snapped. Another one started kicking Stephen and he was screaming. The others joined in and Stephen curled into a ball to protect himself. Then they were going through his pockets like they were looking for something and I could still hear Stephen but I couldn’t tell what he was saying. I was standing directly above them but I couldn’t move.

It was like I couldn’t even breathe. Then they suddenly got up and I could see they had his phone. They moved a few paces away from where Stephen was still moaning and crying. He started to crawl down the path but one of them saw him and ran up and kicked him in the back. The others burst out laughing and the kicker went back to the rest of the group.

I was looking at Stephen who turned over onto his back. He was still breathing hard and now I could see the blood on his face. Then he saw me. I don’t know how I knew but I could tell he did. I still had hold of the trolley. Stephen had crawled a few metres further down the path but the group of lads was still directly below where I was standing.

Kamini If everybody minded their own business,’ the Duchess said, in a hoarse growl, ‘the world would go around a great deal faster than it does.

My morning, as usual, is greeted by dull nods from all the oldies at the café. Their hollow expressions never change. This is the only Café in town, so I don’t have much of a choice.

I look around, my eyes searching the café for an object of interest, or at least another person below the age of 100! It’s so hard to imagine being just twenty and already being surrounded by these half dead creatures. But then again, the coffee and banana cake is unparalleled. The food is like a work of art. I walk up to the counter and smile brightly.

The woman at the counter, Devanshi, happens to be my partner in the great cause to reduce the average age of the café.

Instead of pulling the trolley from the bush, I pushed. It wasn’t difficult; the weight of the trolley seemed to ease itself through the twigs and leaves. It tipped and then fell. There’d been a loud rustling sound as I’d forced it through the bush, but then nothing. No sound at all until the trolley landed. Then there was a terrible sound. The policewoman started saying something but I couldn’t really hear her. All I could see was the trolley laying on its side on the path, with the Betasavers logo glinting in the sunlight.

She smiles back and says, “Hi, the usual?” I nod cheerfully and she hands me my tray. My favorite table is vacant today and I rush to it. It is next to the window and the golden rays of the morning sun make my skin glitter. The crowd around me is not noteworthy. That’s why I have no friends here.

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“I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night? Let me think: was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the

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same, the next question is ‘Who in the world am I?’ Ah, that’s the great puzzle!”

Sometimes, I feel as though something very vital is missing from my life. Maybe it is the fact that I am 25, beautiful but single. Or the fact my life seems to be a monotonous trail of events. I crave for scandal, excitement and emotion. But all that craving can wait. The sinful slice of banana cake in front of me makes every temptation irrelevant. Just as I am about to sink my teeth into heaven there is a blinding light that hits my eyes.

Am I alright? I ask myself. No I am not alright. I am embarrassed and I feel like a nincompoop but I say sweetly, “Yes, thanks a lot for helping me!”

He flashes a beautiful dimply smile and says, “Your welcome. May I join you?”

May I turn into a millionaire overnight? May I become the most sought after person in the world? May I have gulab jamuns and kheer every day and not put on a single kilogram?

Curiouser and curiouser!”

I try to look composed and say, “Yeah, sure.”

Abnormality is not something rampant in my life. So when it does happen, it is a bit of a shock. I shield my eyes from the light and wait for it to diminish. Someone has entered the room from the terrace doors. The doors face the brightest and sunniest part of the café.

Because of the light all I can see is a silhouette and it almost seems like an excerpt of a novel. The silhouette slowly attains color and form. To my surprise and utter exhilaration I realize that it is a boy. He seems to be around my age. I try to control my expression and say a quick thank for to the Lord Almighty for finally sending some eye candy.

I throw a triumphant look at Devanshi but she doesn’t seem interested. He sets himself at my table, warms his palms on his cup of coffee.

I peer closely as the boy walks up to Devanshi. He has wavy jet black hair, much like my own, which makes his skin look rather white. He is lean and tall and has an impressive gait. He doesn’t seem to be a typical boy sporting long sideburns, and thank god for that.

The most striking feature is his smile. He has the most beautiful pearly white teeth and deep attractive dimples. All in all, I have an Indian Adonis right before my eyes.

“Off with her head!”

“The White Rabbit put on his spectacles. ’Where shall I begin, please your Majesty?’ he asked. ‘Begin at the beginning,” the King said gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop.’”

The boy seems quiet and a little sad. So I decide to break the ice. “Hi, my name is Kamini.”

He smiles again and says, “I am Karthik.”

He sips his coffee as I daintily dig into my cake. I close my eyes in pleasure and savor the sweetness of the banana and the mild spice of cinnamon. He laughs at my expression. I look at him in mock anger, “You have to try it to know!” I say. I dish out a small piece onto this saucer.

I try not to stare as he chats with Devanshi. Jealousy is creeping through me as I feel like she is stealing him from me. He orders a cup of coffee and looks around to find a place to sit. I realize it’s my cue to attract him to me. I stand up and gently push back my chair hoping to make a little noise to attract attention. The chair topples alright, but takes me and my coffee with it. I burn in humiliation as I lie on the floor, over the chair with coffee staining my beautiful dress. Devanshi is by my side in seconds. “Are you alright?” she asks. I can almost feel her gloating. Which man would want a clumsy woman? I mumble something unintelligible and try to get up. I wish I could just bury myself alive as my face turns a bright red.

He looks at it unsurely but then shrugs and pops it into his mouth. He chews it slowly and says, “That’s really good.” He looks a little queasy.

“’I can’t explain myself, I’m afraid, Sir,’ said Alice, ‘because I’m not myself you see.’”

“It would be so nice if something made sense for a change.”

As I try to get back onto my feet without falling over once again, I feel strong arms lift me up. The boy seats me on the chair and asks me, “Are you alright?”

There is a moment of akward silence. Is it just me or are things moving a little fast here.

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“What’s wrong?” I ask. He coughs a bit and then grins sheepishly, “Actually, I hate bananas.”

I laugh aloud and say, “Then why did you eat it?”

He looks at me and says, “Because it made you happy.”

“I’m sorry, “says Karthik, as though reading my mind. “Please don’t mistake me.

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I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Oh no,” says he, “it was exciting!”

“That’s alright.” I say flippantly but my mind is working overtime trying to figure out what he meant. For some strange reason he seems so familiar, yet I know nothing about him.

He leans forward and touches my face and to my utter surprise, his eyes look a little misty.

People behave weirdly when they are in love but can you fall in love in 5 minutes?

The conversation is dead again. Karthik is staring at his coffee cup fidgeting with his fingers. Silence annoys me so I volunteer to bring in some excitement again.

I lean closer, tilt my head and close my eyes waiting for a kiss.

Oh my ears and whiskers, how late it’s getting!

He jerks back as though electrocuted and says, “It is late. I must leave.”

“‘Speak English!’ said the Eaglet.’ I don’t know the meaning of half those long words, and I don’t believe you do either!’”

I look at him with shock and confusion. Did I misread his signals? But he made them so obvious! Did I move too quickly?

“So what do you do Karthik?” I ask.

He looks at my confused face and says, “I am sorry I just remembered that I have to go to meet a friend.”

“I am a software engineer.” he says and immediately seems to regret his words.

“A what?” I ask him looking utterly confused.

“A..um… person who does things with soft… umm… “he struggles to find words.

Softwear- maybe he is into clothing, may be lingerie, that’s why he is so embarrassed.

I decide to put him out of his struggle and say, “Oh softwear! That’s great. Very interesting.”

He looks at me with a look of utter relief and asks, “What do you do?”

I sit up proudly and say, “I am a writer.”

I almost ask if it’s his girlfriend but control my tongue.

He apologizes again and says, “I’d love to meet you again.”

I smile brightly, “Me too! Tomorrow? At the café?”

He nods and then rushes to the door and waves goodbye.

I leave back with the most beautiful thoughts in my head. *** Karthik “I don’t believe there’s an atom of meaning in it.”

He looks rather impressed. “‘Well! I’ve often seen a cat without a grin,’ thought Alice; ‘but a grin without a cat! It’s the most curious thing I ever say in my life!’”

As soon as I realize that he wants to know more, I launch into a detailed explanation of the art of writing, the magic of words, the power of the pen.

After about 10 minutes I realize he hasn’t said a word. He is just staring into my eyes.

“I am sorry if I sounded boring.” I say.

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Every Sunday morning, I wake up with a heavy heart as reality hits me. Unlike most normal human beings, I hate Sundays. I can associate it only with responsibility, pain, regret and remorse. I know, I seem like a dark person but if you had the life I do, you would know. Sometimes I really wonder why I put myself through this much. The problem is that many things in life come without answers. So it’s best not to question them.

After all the daily morning routines, I am ready to hit the road. I pull out my cell phone and call up Devanshi. All she says is, “Yes, cafeteria.” That’s all I need to know.

“Why it’s simply impassible!

Alice: Why, don’t you mean impossible?

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Door: No, I do mean impassible. (chuckles) Nothing’s impossible!”

I reach the solid grey building that I have been to so many times before. People say that you get used to things after a while. I don’t believe that’s true for a lot of things. Even today, I have the funny fluttery feeling at the pit of my stomach. I take a deep breath and enter.

People around have begun recognize me. I nod briefly and most and head to the large Cafeteria. I don’t know what’s in store for me there. I can’t predict what will happen next. I can’t predict if the day will be good or not. What is going to happen is a series of uncertainties.

“I’ve had nothing yet,” Alice replied in an offended tone: “so I can’t take more.” “You mean you can’t take less,” said the Hatter: “it’s very easy to take more than nothing.”

Devanshi greets me with her beautiful smile and for a second all my fears seem to dissolve. She instructs me as to how I am supposed to behave and what I am supposed to say. I listen obediently, nodding my head and understanding.

I take my coffee from her and just as I am about to leave, I hear a loud crash. Devanshi rushes to the spot before me and helps the lady up on her feet. As I take a glimpse of the face, I feel myself shudder. The immense beauty is a little shocking. Every feature so perfect, like a statute chiseled with such great care. I look into Devanshi’s eyes and she realizes that it is her cue to leaving me staring in awe at the person who has caught my attention. I slowly help her onto her feet I notice the serene beauty is replaced by a girlish blush. I wonder what’s on her mind.

‘But I don’t want to go among mad people,’ Alice remarked.

‘Oh, you can’t help that,’ said the Cat: ‘we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.’

‘How do you know I’m mad?’ said Alice.

‘You must be,’ said the Cat, ‘or you wouldn’t have come here.’”

She apologizes and stammers in nervousness and I can’t help but laugh at her endearing behavior. I sit next to her and we begin to chat. She is constantly twirling her curls around her finger and batting her eyelids. I let her dominate the conversation. I want to read her mind.

She chats generally and even offers me her cake. I take a small bite hesitatingly and close my eyes as the horrible sweet taste of banana fills my taste buds. I almost feel like throwing up and this doesn’t escape her sharp eyes. She asks me if I am alright. I confess that I hate banana. I tell her I did it to make her happy. The truth is that I would do anything for her.

“Contrariwise,’ continued Tweedledee, ‘if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s logic.”

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She becomes a little self conscious and I realize my mistake and apologize. She deftly changes the topic and asks me about myself. I sense that she is asking more because she wants to tell me about herself. I tell her that I am a software engineer and as the words escape my lips, I regret it. She looks at me confused and lost. I stutter and stammer and try to offer an explanation but she lets it pass. She tells me that she is a writer. I can see her face glowing with pride as she launches into a full blown explanation of her profession. I tune myself out and take the time to observe her. “’Do you think I’ve gone round the bend?’ asked the Hatter to Alice.

‘I’m afraid so. You’re mad, bonkers, completely off your head. But I’ll tell you a secret. All the best people are.’”

She suddenly realizes how quiet I have become and stops abruptly. She apologizes again for going into a monologue and her face looks so innocent, like that of a child. Despite myself and Devanshi’s instructions, I lean forward and touch her face. The soft skin feels like a petal on my palm. I wish the world would just freeze for a minute and everything would turn into stone just so I could enjoy this moment to the fullest. Memories flood back with the touch; it’s almost like a connection. I wonder if she feels it too.

“Mad Hatter: “Why is a raven like a writing-desk?”

“Have you guessed the riddle yet?” the Hatter said, turning to Alice again.

“No, I give it up,” Alice replied: “What’s the answer?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said the Hatter” As I am lost in the moment I realize with horror that she is leaning forward towards me with her eyes closed and her head tilted to one side. I leap back shock as realization hits me. She is trying to kiss me. She is probably in love with me. My mind turns into a whirlpool of confused thoughts and I know that what I have done is wrong. I realize that things have gone too far and that I should just leave.

But how can I just leave her like this? How can I take advantage of her state to cover up my mistake? It seems wrong but I have no choice. This is the only way out.

“The hurrier I go, the behinder I get.”

I rummage my mind for reasons to leave. I hastily blabber excuses and my heart breaks as I see her face crumple with confusion and sadness. I wish I could hold her close like she held me once and tell her the truth. I wish I could convince her that everything was going to be alright. But I didn’t want to lie. Nothing would ever be alright. Probably she knew that deep down.

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I tried to salvage the situation by promising to meet her again. I see some conviction in her eyes and I take the opportunity to flee.

In consultation with the doctors, Devi and I decided to put Amma in the Rajeshvati Sanatorium. Amma was kept in the best room with the best facilities but Devi was not convinced and she began to volunteer at the Sanatorium during the day.

Outside the Cafeteria, I lean against the wall and let out all my emotions and cry like a baby.

I was instructed to visit Amma only once a week. Every visit was a fresh shock but not once had she acknowledged me to be her son.

“Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?”

“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat. “I don’t much care where--” said Alice.

“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat. “—so long as I get SOMEWHERE,” Alice added as an explanation.

“Oh, you’re sure to do that,” said the Cat, “if you only walk long enough.”

“Take care of the sense, and the sounds will take care of themselves.”

Devanshi rushes out to be with me. She is used to the drill. She holds me close and I cry my heart out.

“She doesn’t even know who I am” I say, sobbing.

Devanshi strokes my hair and says, “You can’t expect her to remember, Karthik. You know what she is going through.”

I shake my head, “How can she forget me, Devi. I am her only son. How can she forget who I am?”

My wife tries to console me but she knows that it won’t help. She knows how close Amma and I were. She knows how much I love Amma and everything we had been through.

“I think she fell in love with me today.” I tell Devi, my head buried in my hands.

“It is not your fault, Karthik. No matter how hard we try, we can’t predict how she is going to react to you. You didn’t lead her on. Don’t blame yourself. To tell you honestly, I haven’t seen her so happy in the longest time. And you know that she won’t remember any of this tomorrow.” says Devi.

I close my eyes and think of my mother and her beautiful translucent skin, glowing even at 72. Her hair has turned wispy and silver but she still carries with her an unmatched aura. I wish I could tell her that I love her too, may be not in the way she is imagining but I love her nevertheless.

As I hide behind the large door in the corridor with Devi and see my mother through the cafeteria door I realize, nothing is as it seems.

(All quotations are taken from Alice and the Wonderland and are used purely to enhance the flow of the story and not with the intention of copying/ plagiarism)

Amma had been more than just a mother. She was my best friend. Even after I married Devi, she stayed with us and the three of us shared the most beautiful relationship. Amma loved Devi like she was her own. Our little family was envied by all and sundry.

Then one day our happiness was shrouded by one word, Alzheimer’s. From that day our lives took a U turn. Everything changed. Family outings and picnics turned into hospital trips. Amma slowly became like a child, completely dependent on us.

Devi and I handled everything for 4 years. Then slowly we realized that Amma no longer recognized us. She believed that she was in her 20s. One night she woke up and saw me sleeping in the adjacent room and called the police, informing them that a rapist had entered her home.

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WINNERS AND HONORARY MENTIONS Short stories

SHORT STORIES

Parvathi Preethan Echoes of the Past (2nd Prize winner)

Supritha Balu

Of Heavens, Hells and Everything In Between

(3rd Prize winner)

Criselda Monice Razo Cyril Antony George The Stonecutter Annamma’s Husband (Honorary Mention) (Honorary Mention)

Miriam Sciala The Garage Sale (Honorary Mention)

Najah Al Riyami Mercy (Honorary Mention)

Anusree Lakshminarayan Wonderland (Honorary Mention)

Ashwin Goroor Vasuki The Tree (Honorary Mention)

Haadya Khan The Beginning of the End (Honorary Mention)

James Dick Trolley Boy (Honorary Mention)

Raazia S. Ali Blue Book (Honorary Mention)

V. Viswanathan The Man on the Canvas (Honorary Mention)

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At the award ceremony – 24 May 2014, Al Falaj Hotel.

Tony O’Connor A Single Second (1st Prize winner)

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POEMS (10-15 YEARS)

SHORT STORIES

172

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WINNERS AND HONORARY MENTIONS

12

GENERAL ESSAYS

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ZUBAIR CORPORATION ADVERT

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