Letter from the Editor
Dear readers, Who among us can resist a great murder mystery? They always start with ordinary situations, but when things take a bloody turn, we find ourselves unable to put down the book, hanging on the author's every word, and trying to put the pieces together ourselves. And when the mystery is finally solved and all loose ends are neatly tied up, that sense of satisfaction we feel, well, there's nothing quite like it. With murder mysteries being such a universal favorite, the banyan trees chose as its May Theme 'Dial May for mysteryâ€&#x;. As a nudge in the right direction, we also gave our writers this optional setting for their grim tales. "The guests froze and the parlor became eerily quiet. All eyes were fixated on the body lying on the floor. Everyone was thinking the same thing: one of them had to be the killer..." Inside this edition, you'll find creative takes on the classic murder mystery, from humorous pieces to clever detective stories. See if you can crack the case before the big reveal... Happy sleuthing! The Banyan Trees Editorial Team
Contents The game is afoot Anuradha Chandrasekaran The Other son of Ganges Matangi Mawley A Beauty , a Beast, a Murder! Anuradha Chandrasekaran The Gift Tobias Kroll IPL 3 – The Best TV Show of the year Karthik Balasubramanian Johnny X, 29, Dead Ajay Ramachandran The Horseman Tobias Kroll Murder most fowl Arul Sirpy JP The Forgotten Damsel Adithya Srikrishna May for Murder Suchitra Ramachandran Draupadi Manasa Photography Dude where is my coffee Dreamvendor A Dead Hero Raghuram Godavarthi
The Game is Afoot Both cannot be more different and yet in the fiction world, both have gone on to solve world famous puzzles with relative ease. The Rich and famous have sought their advice. Even now fan mails and letters with specific detective problems pour in to 221B Baker Street. We all know Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot, in their own little worlds, as the most loved fictional detectives. However what I endeavour to do today is to paint a comparison, not as to who is better but about how very different both were in
vs
Whilst Hercule Poirot scorned at the very method of what he titled “hunting for clues”, by looking for footprints, fingerprints or anything that the criminal left behind, Sherlock Holmes was described as the human hound in his very first novel. Watson presented him as a detective who could give us information about a man‟s origins simply based on the cigarette he smoked, his profession by following his gait or the way he wore his spectacles etc. While Holmes went all around the place gathering evidence and posing as hundred different people during the process, Poirot sought answers in what
he fondly referred to as “grey cells” ."I just need to sit and think. They are all here in these grey cells", He used to say. While Sherlock Holmes was a man with a precise scientific mind to whom a woman never mattered in essence, Hercule Poirot was the exact opposite in his daintiness and the way he noticed women. He was irked by even minute details like whether a woman had not made up her face. To Holmes almost everything was judged based on pure intellect while Poirot was often moved by emotions. His suspiscions were sometimes based on pure instinct as a reaction to the way people felt
around him. The only time I have ever seen Holmes exhibit any kind of emotion was when Watson was shot while they were keeping watch on a smuggler and the only woman whom he referred to as "the woman" was Irene Adler, the only person to have ever out-witted him on a case. However one very similar characteristic that both had, in my opinion, was the air of superiority that they carried with them whereever they went. Of course in a way they did deserve it for the way their minds worked. But I have often been irked by the way they have treated Hastings and Watson. They were treated as if they were too dumb to understand anything about a
murder at hand. Both Holmes and Poirot had an extremely charming way of extracting information by putting the people they were questioning at ease. And ofcourse both never took credit on any of the cases they helped solve. Do I like one better than the other? difficult‌ very difficult. Purely based on persona I have always found Sherlock Holmes a very interesting and enduring character while Hercule Poirot would have positively got on my nerves. However as far as the stories and the plots concern I would dig both on any given day. - Anuradha Chandrasekaran
The Other
Son of Ganges
1. Ganga, The Mother It all began with water. Even back then, it had begun with water. No, he did not remember it. But he had heard them say so. It all began, with water…
His father went ahead, towards the Ganges, to bid farewell to his wife‟s soul. He did not remember his father taking the water from the Ganges on his hands, and offering prayers to the forefathers. The smell of burning flesh from the Harishchandra Ghat, remained fresh in his memory, as he had felt it, back then. People told him, all about it, later. Ganges was, now- his mother.
He was wet. But so was the dog. But the difference was this. The dog had soon found a shelter in a broken piece of wooden box. But he was still out there. Beneath nothing. He was wet. He was sad- a He grew up there, where people only castaway. A man, whose life ceased to ex- came when their journey through life was about to end- Kashi. The streets of ist for him to live, still, he was wet. Kashi, was his world. The only world that It all began with water… he knew about. Ghats, water, prayers, fire and pyre. This was all he had seen. People His life started at an end. People who were of Kashi, he had later thought, knew witnesses, told him about it- later. On the more about death, than about life. The banks of the Ganges, he lay on his father‟s dusty streets full of Rudraksh and idols of lap. Through the tiny bronze nozzle, the Gods and Goddesses. Flower garlands. clear water from the Ganges, poured her- For the living, dead and also for those self down on his forehead. He did not re- whose existence was not proved, yet. The member it. But he might have sensed it sweet vendors. The kadaai outside their then, that a bond of a lifetime was being stalls where the yellow milk, seasoned formed there, with that water-the Ganges. with saffron and malaai and almonds, His father laid him on the stone grounds boiled forever. The begging Sadhus of the Ghat. Scattered petals from flowers, whose blessings were for sale! the bits of black sesame, here and there, stuck themselves on his tiny body. Soon, He‟d see people, sometimes, all white in he would be washed. Washed with the wa- colour, taking photographs of the ter from Ganges. Wash him of the sins Ganges. Why were they so excited about from his previous birth, which had taken the river? He would wonder! Had they the life of his mother. never seen so much water before? There
was once a white man, who took a picture of him too, standing beside his mother. That was the only picture he had, of him with his mother.
to love him, to pamper and spoil him! That was the moment he decided his first word too. People witnesses to this had told him, later. He jumped into the Ganges, shouting “MAA…” at the top of his voice! He just His father was a teacher. He taught the needed to be with his mother… kids at the local school. Every child of his locality learnt their first word from his fa- People kept coming home for the next ther. But for a long time, he was never able few days after that incident. He rememto say his first word! His father tried and bered this. They called it some „miracle‟ tried. Every doctor and Vaid of Kashi was and that he had „divine‟ gifts! His photoconsulted. But his first word never came graph was published in the local paper. He out for a long time. May be he was think- still had the paper- preserved! His father ing what that word should be. He just was not happy about it. He was of course couldn‟t start his life by saying any words, happy about the first word- but not the could he? His first word should be special. divine part of it. May be… He somehow knew after this incident that, whatever position he might be in, she It all began with water… would be with him. Help him. Love him, It happened one day, when he saw his unconditionally. His mother… Ganga… neighbour‟s son, pampered by his mother. He did not remember what he saw, but at that moment, he felt that he should be - Matangi Mawley with his mother. He too, wanted a mother
(..To be continued., Part 2: “Let me go, Mother…”)
A Beauty , a Beast, a Murder!
“Kill me to-morrow: let me live to- “You were absolutely fabulous honey”, night!”, she wailed. said her husband, in all smiles as he was coming in after having said his “I‟m innocent believe me! I have loved word of thanks to the public. At times no one but you… Alas I‟m helpless! How shall I prove to thee my unwaver- people asked her how she loved a ing faith?” pleaded the lady clutching man who strangled her on the stage his hands, whilst sitting up on her bed. every single day for almost a year now. For one moment, there seemed to be Her reply to most of it was “At home a flicker of hope for her, his features I‟m Emma and he is Steve. We are not seemed to soften. But then the very Othello and Desdemona anymore”. next moment he took his hands to her throat and strangled her until there She wondered why people just did not understand the simple fact that wasn‟t any life left…. they were acting The curtains closed “I have booked tickets for our beach Emma was backstage waiting for her trip to Florida. We are going to have husband. She was as excited as she one fun summer after all this hardhad been when they had put up their work”, said Steve. Her eyebrows furfirst theatrical show together. Ah too rowed a little; she looked at herself in many to count now! And yet here she the mirror. “You look just as you did was, those eyes that had enthralled when I first laid my eyes on you 20 many as Desdemona on stage could years back” said Steve reassuringly. not contain its happiness. This was “You liar!” she said mockingly throwing her hair brush at him. their longest running successful play.
ground. The guards were closing in on him. The crowd was shocked not because there was a murder but more because they had been in the audience watching a murder happen and had done nothing whatsoever “Emily? Haven‟t heard you mention that to prevent it. It gave them goose-bumps to name before Steve”, asked Emma with a even think about what they had just witnessed. tone that had a carefully chosen coldness to it. “But I did not kill her! I did not… I loved “Miss Emily is on the line, Steve” , announced Dawn , his secretary and a lady who has been in love with her screen idol since her teen years
“Yeah. A newcomer from New York. Wants her… She has been my wife for 20 years… why would I kill her in front of a such a big to be your understudy I suppose” crowd and even imagine to get away with “Why would she call you if she wants to it, Officer?”, demanded Steve. All that the be my understudy?”, questioned Emma. Officer said was, “she was alive until your “Jealous? After all these years? Dosent hands went around her throat. And I have sound a bit like you honey. Anyways I will more than a thousand to swear what they make sure she finds someone else from saw in court. I‟m sorry sir; you are going our production house more attractive have to come with me” than this 55 yr old man”, replied Steve laughing it off. He knew very well about his wife‟s temperament and did not want to bother her mind right now with such trivial things, atleast not until all the things he had planned for her went right.
Steve could do nothing. Dawn was standing next to him. She held his hand reassuringly and said that she would call their attorney and do all that she can to take care of things. His eyes and ears somehow did not register anything going on around him. His wife, the woman he had loved al his life Another day same scene was dead. That was the only thing going on Othello is in wild fury, consumed with in his mind. He was not worried about himjealousy, walking over to kill his sleeping self. He was worried for her. wife , consumed by passion, amidst her pleas, he strangles her, until words… why The crowd dispersed silently. The television sets screamed telecasting news about the even breath stopped escaping that murder of this little known actress. Crime mouth. But just one thing did not hap- analysts were discussing about the psypen. She did not wake up once the cur- chology of the killer. tains closed. Dawn turned off her televison. She was A scream, a noise, someone was crying tired. Could Steve have done it? She asked out “She is dead! She really is dead!” herself. “Ofcourse he had done it! I saw him. Could a thousand eyes be wrong?”. Yet havHe froze, he couldn‟t move, he looked as ing known him and loved him for so long though someone had rooted him to the
she couldn‟t come to terms with it. She had arranged for the attorney to fly in the next day. She had made all arrangements possible to help Steve. Yet was she helping a murderer? She couldn‟t help wondering herself.
“No! but we have just received the coroner‟s and the doctor‟s reports. All indicate towards one conclusion. Your wife, sorry sir, your late wife, did not die of Asphyxiation”
“What?”, it was Steve‟s turn to be com“Sir I‟m going to have to let you go” pletely taken aback. said the officer stiffly. “She was poisoned” “Has my attorney come in?” asked Steve, almost nonchalantly, as if noth- Anuradha Chandrasekaran ing mattered.
This murder mystery will be continued. Catch our next issue to find out who the killer is!
The Gift The phial's content was dark and stagnant; the ribbon seemed to choke its neck. A precious-looking card said "Just for you, my love." A coffee maker hissed and snarled in the kitchen corner. He awoke and found himself alone in the bed. A reluctant thunder growled over him as he sat up and let his face sink heavily into his hands. First drops of rain hit the windowsill. The coffee maker spat and snorted sickly, then fell silent. His gift was waiting. It was his birthday. - Tobias Kroll
IPL 3 – The Best TV Show of the year
As I sip a glass of the finest at the local watering hole while celebrating the frantic set of events of this characteristically Indian soap opera that culminated in the triumph of my beloved Super Kings, I cannot help but be amazed at how this league which was primarily started as a means to counter the lesser known Indian Cricket League has grown in such a short time. With its dynamic new approach to the gentlemanâ€&#x;s game and an attractive packaging to make it more appealing to the 21st century cricket fan, this league with just 8 teams competing for the top prize has quickly risen to be the second highest paid sports league in the world. Whatever the critics of this much envied shorter version of this game have to say, no one can deny the sheer entertainment value of the Twenty20 format. The IPL in particular, seems to be getting more entertaining with every year. Let us finally admit it; 3 years after its inception, India has an IPL addiction problem and itâ€&#x;s not just because of the cricket and the super hot cheerleaders. Even his holiness the Dalai Lama was inquisitive enough to show up at a couple of games. This season was replete with massive sixes, nail biting finishes, even more celebrities and comprehensive coverage, but what really stole the show was the off the field politics that a lot of people say they detest but secretly enjoy.
The controversy started from Jan 2010 when no Pakistani players were signed by any of the franchises for the season. After some tasty exchange of words between the two nations, the new season started amidst the usual fanfare. For a while the cricket seemed to prevail over the petty bickering of the obscenely rich people associated with this league and we could all enjoy the game without distractions, but soon controversy reared its head with the now famous tiff between Shashi Tharoor and IPL Chairman Lalit Modi. Under the table dealings have been a common part of Indian business for years and only the most naïve of person in the world would have been surprised at the allegations of massive corruption and tax evasion in the league. The whole controversy that led to the resignation of the Minister of State for External Affairs also led to the suspension of Chairman Modi, arguably the architect of the league. Modi probably only has himself to blame for this situation, it‟s a classic case of snagging an unassuming lizard on the fence and dropping it into your own pants. If Modi can rise from the ashes and continue to lead the league, I probably wouldn‟t have a problem with it as I think he has done a great job so far. But if the charges against him are proved, I don‟t see how he can still continue. But what would be interesting, is to see how the tournament moves forward without him as I think the league has reached a point where it‟s gotten a life of its own and will continue to get better no matter what happens at the top. What the league requires right now is better regulation, oversight and transparency, but hey, the grand old daddy of the IPL, the BCCI has never been a very transparent organization itself. So it would be a little too optimistic to assume that the IPL can turn over a new leaf to become the fair play organization that we want it to be. Hopefully, the inspection of the finances in the league would lead to the removal of some bad blood in the league, something every organization needs to do on a regular basis.
What is sad though is that amidst all the controversies, obscene twittering, word exchanges and income tax raids, the cricket almost took a back seat. Kudos to the players to not let the off field antics get to their heads as every team put up a real show and deserved the massive revenue. The semi finals and finals that were broadcast live for almost the whole world to see on youtube were especially cracking games. I am sure; those of us blessed with access to youtube at work over here in the US probably saw at least a part of the semifinals at work. Even the greatest cricket puritan out there would agree that cricket was really rather good throughout the tournament and to me personally, the best thing about the tournament was the emergence of so many exciting new players. The emergence of new Indian players who rose to the occasion to match the best in the game ball for ball was refreshing for all to see and these new guys should hopefully provide a selection headache for the selection committee at the offices of the BCCI. Every successful national team needs a good buffer stock of players in waiting to keep the national team players on their toes and the financial impetus that these newer players get from playing the league is also immense and would provide these budding prospects with the means to stay focused and motivated enough to bite at the heels of the players on the Indian national team. So if you really think about it, the IPL might go a long way in improving the Indian team roster for the ICC Cricket world cup coming up next year and for years to come in the future. Now that the tournament is over though, I am actually feeling a sense of relief as I ve been glued to the online score pages and watching video highlights dutifully for the last 3 weeks. It also leaves me though with a good feeling about next year with 2 new teams joining the league and a possible shake up of the core of most of the established teams in the league. The political fallout of the league is going to be a good time pass too and I hope the whole thing gets more convoluted and murky for entertainment sake (yeah go ahead and judge me for it.). At the end of it all, I canâ€&#x;t help but have a feeling of guilty satisfaction and a longing for more and as much as you can deny it, I know you feel the same way too. Karthik Balasubramanian
Johnny X, 29, Dead Summer - Starlet, Johnny's Date for the Night When Johnny asked me, I was like ok. I mean, he said he'll hook me up with some producers and when you think Johnny you are like, some serious partying right? But I knew it was a mistake the second I came in. BIG mistake. I was bored out of my mind. Totally. Forget that there was no producer of any sort, even the suite sucked. This loser who owned the place looked like Steve Carell, but was unfunny and had a belly. Anyway, he had asked for a 70s theme and he was like NO, when he saw my That 70s Show costume. Johnny somehow calmed him down. And don't even freakin' get me started me on the no cell phones part. I mean seriously. I don't know how Johnny was friends with him. He was nuts, this guy. Anyway, I got bored with the guys. They only stared at me (and my body), but never spoke more than a few words. You know, I know I was with Johnny, but I am still a woman, guys, you could still engage me. Anyway, I walked up to this brunette who was drinking some red thingy. I thought it was Shiraz, but no, it was pomegranate juice. She was one of those weirdos, who don't do booze and meat. I even had to be careful and say non-alcoholic jokes. Such a total tightass. The guys were far better. I excused myself now and then to go to the ladies, which was a chore as I had to get past the floor where Johnny was going to play his guitar later and god it was dark. Luckily I had a whole bottle of sleeping pills in my handbag and I popped a couple whenever I was in the ladies. That and Long Island Ice Tea fixed me up real good. I was my royal highness. Billy - Hotel Owner, Johnny's Best Bud The sight of old Johnny sprawled on the floor, his beige suit dipped in red at first was laughed at. If you know Johnny, you would have done the same thing. He had already set the evening ablaze with his suit. I understand it was a 70s themed party and all that. And actually there was nothing extraordinary about the suit itself except for the fact that it was cut at some snooty street somewhere in London. But seeing Johnny in a suit was like seeing Gandhi in a Levi's. So naturally the girls who laughed when they saw him at first thought it was some kind of a prank he was pulling. I remember saying in vodka-laced tones, "Time's up, Johnny" and turning the lights to the raised floor on. "That's enough, Johnny, get the hell up." He had gone there some time ago to check on his electric guitar and other instruments. He had said, "Turn off the lights, man, I know my way around my guitar." You
see, he had promised us a performance later on and you know these performers right. Too meticulous to the point of being eccentric. So we left him alone and had even forgotten about that. There was this guy who made us laugh with his Simpsons impressions. So time went by. When I kicked Johnny, there was no visible reaction. The laughs had started to die by now. A tricky silence made its presence too obvious for comfort. With something that resembled a screech than a cool laugh, I bent over him. Yes he definitely had passed out. I kept saying, "Stupid Johnny" over and over not knowing what to do. I mean I was too terrified to do anything. Like check his pulse or do whatever you do in such circumstances. The Simpsons guy, who it turned out was Johnny's unseen bro-in-law and who had been a Boy Scout, pushed me aside and tried to resuscitate Johnny. "He's dead" was all he could offer after a few tries. How a young man, not yet even thirty, who was so alive till half hour ago, was now "dead", none could fathom. The girls screamed, hell, I screamed too. And Dino, the bell boy, did the smart thing of bolting the door so no one could go out. He stood by the door daring anyone to escape. Dino is about like nine foot. I don't know why he didn't take up a job as a bouncer. By this time, everyone had stopped drinking. And though alcohol had dimmed my senses, I could see that Johnny had been killed. Perhaps by one of us. Not me, but one of us. I looked for my cell phone. Dammit. I couldn't find it. Don't panic, think, I said to myself. Think, idiot. It was only Johnny's face that I saw whenever I tried to focus. How even as young as eight, we had wanted to make it big in music and how Johnny went on to do it and how I realized too late that I didn't have what it takes and grit alone could only get you so far. I have envied him his raw gift, I admit, his how-in-God'sname likability by one and all, even his smart investments. I swore vengeance when he stole my girlfriend‌ Al - Johnny's Brother-in-law I was really surprised when my erstwhile brother-in-law, the famous Johnny X, called me up for a party his friend was throwing. It was more than 3 years since I spoke to him last. In fact, I remember it was at Erin's funeral. Johnny didn't even have the decency to say my sister had loved him all through their dysfunctional marriage. Instead, he read from something out of Dylan Thomas and everyone loved it. They almost forgot it was Erin who died. Last week, we met and he showed some emotion. "I know I was bad to Erin, Albert, but I don't want to sustain enmity with you. Family is family, man" I don't
like being called Albert but Johnny never got this. Would I forgive him? I said yes. Would I also consider being an equal partner in his newly formed records company? I said yes, reluctantly. Money isn't everything in life. It cannot bring Erin back, you jackass, I thought. Johnny introduced me to everybody at the party, as if I was a popular talk show host and this was the beginning of the show. "He makes hell of a Simpsons impersonation" he said. I thought Johnny had just passed out when his immature friend Billy almost started crying on seeing his friend on the floor. Erin had told me about his overdose problems. But, though I never liked him, I was shocked to see no sign of life in him. Perhaps that's life.
Esther - Johnny's Agent I was very much against this whole party. I told Johnny so. But as always he patronized me. "Just get on with it, will you?" Billy seemed a nice fellow, but having a party at his hotel? Come on, now. I was not very surprised to see only a handful of people come, though many had RSVP'd yes. It was just Johnny, some bimbo he had picked up, Billy, Al, and myself. Party, huh? You can't expect your mayor or your quarterback to just show up to this. The place was in the midst of seedy strip clubs. But it was not that bad (till Johnny was found lying motionless that is). Billy and Al were both sweet. Johnny was his stage-self: goofy. If only people knew how he was when you actually spend time with him. It is not fun, let me say. You sometimes think, am I that stupid really? And sometimes you just feel like ending everything then and there, you know. But I digress. For some reason the guys didn't much like Summer, the bimbo. She looked odd. She looked as if she had some serious bowel difficulty. I'm serious. She used the restroom quite often. I was laughing at something Billy had said, when I saw Johnny on the floor. Even Summer was laughing. I thought she was just high. After a few minutes, I went and looked at him. His eyes were closed. His suit had smears of vomit and Al said he was dead. "Someone call 911" I said, and then remembered Billy's invite: cell phones were not there in the 1970s; if one is found in your possession, you'll be taken to Guantanamo Bay. His frivolity knew no bounds as our room did not have a telephone either. It was here that the menacing attendant locked the door.
Dino - Hotel Attendant Celebrities are human too. Funny, grumpy, stupid, flawed, smart, and emotional. And so predictable. If there is a god, and I am him, I would eradicate some of these human traits. Because I am not sure how much time it will take for evolution to take care of this. If we can achieve the seventh degree of concentration, the mind-disassociation, then we won't have to worry about anything. Even celebrities and their stupidness. I always say this to people who think they feel foolish: think of Paris Hilton or Kevin Federline, now suddenly there are worse stupids than you, cheer up. In ancient times, Paleolithic peoples practiced a sort of magic wherein they would draw a bison on walls, and cut one or more of its limbs so they could hunt a real bison with ease. If we have the means to do that, how easy our lives will become. I know one can disassociate one's mind if they practice hard, but how great it will be to disassociate someone else's. When this famed guitarist was said to be dead, I was the least concerned. One more in the can. He had thrown up apparently before he died. It looked as though he had been drinking some red wine. Either he was poisoned or strangled or suffered a massive heart attack. I don't suppose he took his own life. I know by looking at a face, whether it is a face of someone who would kill themselves. The other people in the room looked fairly innocuous. Not hurt a fly, so to speak. But hurting and killing are two different things. But most importantly, no more antics from the man. That's a relief.
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Ajay Ramachandran
The Horseman
The stairway resonated with heavy creaking until the assassin reached the attic, where the dust danced silently in the shimmering light. Looking through the round window with its scratched glass, he could oversee the sandy courtyard. He settled down, at his spot underneath the window, took up his rifle and began to wait. The courtyard reflected the sound of the bells that rang in the chapel. A dog crossed the lucid space and got invisible, hiding in the shadow. A little old woman with black braids as thick as her arms stooped slowly through his sight. The horseman did not come. Clouds rolled by as years did, and children were born for whom no raindrop fell. The horses in the stables across the yard grew old and died. And the horseman did not come. Rougher times and milder times took endless turns. MANY YEARS LATER, the horseman came galloping into the courtyard, slid off his horse and, still out of breath, handed the note to the old man who did not know the rain. The note said the horseman would be shot by the assassin lying in ambush behind the attic window. The peones were sent immediately to capture the killer. But they found nothing except a stooped bundle of dried skin that rustled and flaked off like tobacco. The assassin had written in the dust around him: "The horseman never came". The wind blew some leaves across the yard. - Tobias Kroll
03:30 AM
M U R D E R M O S T F O W L
"Screech!" "Squawk!" Two abysmally out of sync sounds broke the silence of the night. A few minutes later, silence reigned once again.
11:03 AM Krithika's Dad opened the door solemnly. His smiling face betrayed a hint of trouble. I stepped into the house, smelling a rat. It was worse. The scene was something straight out of an Agatha Christie novel - an Indian version perhaps. All eyes were fixated on the floor. Most of them, I guess. Krithika was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the hall on the floor. Her hands cradled a lump of what looked like white elephant droppings. She was staring at it. Shreya, the ever good-looking Shreya, stood clutching a pillar clad in a full-sleeved churidhar. Who wears a full sleeved churidhar in this heat, I wondered as I flicked off a drop of sweat that threatened to invade my vision. My best friend and roommate, Venky was standing at the kitchen door. He was looking guilty as hell. He had had a queer past with Krithika (let‟s call her Krits). After graduation, just before he left for the States, he proposed to Krits. It was a cliché, so to speak. All that he got were emotional slaps in the form of "Sorry, I have never thought of you that way" and "Let‟s be friends, ok?" and so forth. It was hilarious to the rest of us. Krits Mom was the only one who seemed to moving anything close enough to be called a muscle. She yelled at the servants to take my luggage and clean up the mess immediately. Weirdly, enough her hollering was punctuated by almost isochronal snores. I traced the source to an easy chair, where an old man in a shawl, presumably Krits‟ Grandpa, was sprawled like a dismantled tepee. He was blissfully oblivious to all. A small mound of broken walnut shells inside a betel pestle sat on his paunch, which swung up and down with each breath. Krits‟ Dad finally spoke, "Anand, (Krits‟ fiancée) had sent a parakeet from Singapore, the day before. Today morning, it was found
strangled to death. That‟s why..." His voice trailed off, with good dramatic effect. AHA! A case for the brilliant, swashbuckling, awesome (insert other good adjectives here) detective Krish! Oh, I am Krish, by the way. And yeah, I did not strangle the parakeet if you readers think I am going to give so big a twist to this rather sober tale.
16:08 PM All of us sat sipping hot coffee around the dining table. There was a marked level of suspense hanging in the air. Everyone was thinking of the same thing. One of them had to be the killer. Who was it? Who did the fowl deed? Actually, nobody was the least bit chafed over who did it. They were just pondering how to pacify Krits who was down in the dumps. I meant - down in the lumps. Contrastingly enough, Shreya was glowing. Or was it just me? My first suspicion was Venky. He was the one who had the biggest motive. His main purpose in coming here for this get-together was to ask Krits once again, to marry him. Her marriage to Anand had been arranged by her parents. Given the level of idealist theories that she used to spew around, we were completely convinced that she did not want to have any say on whom she got married to. Since Venky is my best friend, I decided to properly screw him over. "Venky strangled the parakeet", I stated matter-of-factly. "No he did not. I‟m sure", Krits interjected even more matter-of-factly. "WHA...??!! If there's anyone whom you should be sure, it must be ME! Venky obviously still loves you! He has all the reason to kill the poor lump of elephant droppings!” I blurted out, quite deliberately. "I know and I don‟t care. But he did not." It was said in a quiet, almost coy voice. It took time for the sleuth to register and process that expression. And
when it did, I went berserk. No wonder she knew it was not him, because she was with him last night! Quelling my jubilance, I decided to look at the other possibilities. Shreya could not have done it. She is too beautiful. I sincerely do think, that is a good enough excuse since the only motive could have been jealousy. But Shreya had everything that Krits has and more. All counterpoints to this argument are tripe. I shifted my thoughts to the others in the house. Krits‟ Mom came inside. "You guys, ok?" she asked. "Yes, Aunty", I chorused singly. Dolt. When she left, I started thinking along her lines. "Hey, could it be your Mom? She could have seen you guys last night *TALKING*. She must have tried to pin the deed on Venky so that you would leave him forever. Possible?" "Impossible. They would have noticed.” I was brushed aside by Shreya. End of discussion. I dipped the crackers into the coffee and bit into them. They tasted delicious. They were like Vicodin. Wait a minute: Crackers - walnuts - parakeet, something clicked. "Hey Krits, does your Grandpa use a nut-cracker to break the walnuts? "No. He does it himself." I ran out, Archimedes style albeit with my clothes on. I went straight to Grandpa and lifted his shawl. There were bloodied parakeet feathers all over him. "VỐILA!!” I said in my best French accent. Everybody clapped. I proceeded to give my pithy explanation. "The time when the murder was discovered was around 11:00 AM. If Grandpa is sleeping until now, the only possible reason is that he could not sleep well last night. It is most probably because the blasted parakeet was screeching away. He decided to feed it some walnuts to shut it up. One thing led to another and he had no other go but to do away with the poor bird. He is strong enough too, since he does not use a nutcracker to break his walnuts. It was child‟s play for an old man", I finished with a mini-joke.
And that was that. Nobody wanted to mess with an 80-year old man with the small talk of birds, gifts and long distance relationships.
18:45 PM Soon it was time to leave. We went to the pet store and Venky bought another parakeet for Krithika. She loved it. Then we discussed at length on how to tell her parents about Krits eloping with Venky. I liked to think that Shreya was proud of me. I was driving her back to Chennai. We waved our goodbyes, wishing luck to the couple. I started the car and we were off. As we turned into the highway, I turned to Shreya and smiled at her. She smiled back. "I know you were the one", I said quietly. Her face turned pale. "How..? When..? Did you see it..?" "No. It was the churidhar. You were wearing a full sleeved churidhar because you were scratched when you were trying to strangle the poor bird. You also had a head bath after that to clean all the blood from yourself. That was why you were glowing early morning. Later, I had a chat with the servant. Grandpa's shawl was used to clean the place today morning. That is how the feathers and blood came into the picture." "But why would I do it?" "It was not Kritsâ€&#x; Mom who saw them together last night. It was you. You wanted to force them to tell about themselves to her parents. You succeeded partially; but you could have done better." "Why did you not say all this there?" "And let your plan go to the dogs? I believed in you. More so since, I love you. Iâ€&#x;ve always loved you." I stopped the car and looked at her. She demurely smiled and said, "I know". - Arul Sirpy JP
Photography
Evil Under The Roof Photo by Dharini Sundaram
Femme Fatale Picture by Arjuna Ravikumar to editor
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James Bond was dead The usual suspects were all present. Looking at the number of people and their relevance, it looked more like a memorial service than a crime scene. There was M standing next to the body of Bond, under a form of shock that took nothing away from her restrained face. Q was also present at the scene. He remembered dropping the phone when he heard the news and came over immediately. The Quartermaster couldn't take a step beyond the entrance and stayed close to it dumbstruck. There was one other person in the room who if not for the absurdity of the turn of events would have been conspicuous in the current situation. Ms. Moneypenny sat on a chair beside Q, her hand over her mouth and a slight hint of tear that was waiting to trickle down any moment.
The Forgotten Damsel Adithya ShriKrishna
T
he room was eerily quiet. Not a word
was spoken in the last fifteen minutes. All the eyes were fixated on the body lying on the floor. Not a single soul had an explanation to give to the other. They knew the gravity of the crime, the unbelievable nature of the incident. Everyone stood their ground frozen with shock written all over their faces. They had walked into the room and were either instantly petrified or bumped into the one that was. The body was lying on the floor, a perfectly fit man, about 6 ft tall, scar on his right cheek and short black hair graying at the temples.
The forensics was on their way and until then the people in the room maintained status quo. It was a clear case of poisoning. There was no hint of a struggle, merely an empty glass that had rolled down towards the edge of the carpet as Bond's body lay behind the couch. Bond was immaculately dressed in white shirt and black trousers with only the coat missing indicating that he had just returned home. Possibly from abroad because M had no contact with him in the last three days. That was quite normal considering their history. The most intriguing aspect was the fact that Bond was not involved in any case at that point of time. He had finished an assignment in Central America and returned just about a week ago. Technically, he was on a break. But it was no secret to anyone - M, Q and Monepenny of all people - that Bond had made enemies faster than he'd bed a woman. The forensics arrived and got on with their job. M moved around carefully and going by her body language, it was apparent that she had seldom been to this place. The place was dimly lit and adequately furnished. There was a study with a large table, a lot of books on the shelf and several compartments below the table. Quite unlike Bond, M thought to herself.
Ms.Moneypenny followed her wherever she went and M didn't seem to mind. Not this time. They didn't utter a word to each other though. M walked across and magically produced a bunch of keys from an opening in the wall. Only that it didn’t look like an opening at first. Moneypenny had no idea what she just witnessed but she observed M move around the table and open two of the compartments under the study. The first one she opened was almost overflowing with photographs. Most of them were of naked women, lying on the bed in various poses, quite undoubtedly at the end of a passionate night. Or moment. On the back of the photographs were names handwritten by Bond himself. M and Moneypenny were both able to dissect that. The only two living people who could. M still showed no qualms about Moneypenny joining her in her aimless quest. The one M picked first said Honey Rider. Some more inconsequential photographs in inappropriate positions later Moneypenny found one more significant one. The writing on the back said Pussy Galore. M picked some more and collected pictures of women she was aware about. There were also some of them she had no idea about. Moneypenny picked up pictures of Plenty O'Toole, Octopussy, Solitaire, Stacy Sutton and Tatiana Romanova. M picked up those of Domino, Kissy Suzuki, Judy Havelock and Anya Amasova. M dug further down to find the only picture of a fully clothed woman. The tag said Slyvia Trench which made M wonder why would this picture be included along with the rest.
pect was how neatly this one was arranged. It had three sets of photographs arranged in chronological order. The first set had photographs of Vesper Lynd. Both M and Moneypenny couldn't help a wry smile as they switched from one photograph of Vesper to another, some fully clothed, some semi naked. Another common knowledge among Bond's close associates was his history with Vesper Lynd. M opened the second set. Tracy Bond aka Teresa di Vicenzo was the name written behind these, a lady Bond was married to and one of the few he was emotionally attached to in his lifetime. Once again, there were no surprises there for the two ladies in the room. Moneypenny went for the third set of photographs. She grabbed the one on the top and looked at it. Someone familiar, sitting at an office desk stared back at her. The office was M's and the front desk belonged to Moneypenny. She couldn't believe her eyes. Almost all the photographs were taken at the front desk. Of course that was the least of all mysteries running through Moneypenny's mind at that instant. Several questions, nonsensical or otherwise, came crashing into her. Did Bond love her? Did Bond ever dream of a future with her? Did he really think of her in the same vein as Vesper? Or even Tracy? If not, why would the photographs be in this compartment? Her heart was racing with questions and she was shattered to realize that the answers died with Bond. She came back to her senses as M held her arms and shook, "Moneypenny! Are you alright? I understand this must be hard but the people from the forensics have finished their job. We must get going." And with that she walked out of the room leaving Moneypenny in the same position like nothing significant happened. She then walked to the door and gazed at Bond's dead body.
The widespread belief was that Bond never cared much for his women. It was also common knowledge that M was one of severest critics of this trait. But this moment's discoveries overwhelmed her to an extent that she was ready to revaluate Bond in a new light. A collection of photographs doesn't say much but M Moneypenny thought to herself, with that tear never believed that Bond could have a thing finally trickling down, for posterity. Moneypenny casually gestured to M that there is another compartment waiting "What have I done?" to be discovered. As they both stared into the second compartment the most noticeable as-
May for Murder - Suchitra Ramachandran
The guests froze and the parlor became eerily quiet. “Miss Scarlett and rope.” Only the good Colonel has All eyes were fixated on the body lying on the floor. something to say. The plot thickens! Everyone was thinking the same thing: One of them Colonel Periamma plays next. She taps her little yelhad to be the killer... low figure over the squares till she reaches the liAfter all, it had started in good fun. Six of us had brary too. “Library, rope, Colonel Mustard,” she decided to stay in that house for the night along with says, blaming herself first before pointing accusatory Mr.Black. Of course, the fact that none of us knew fingers. Ah, but I know that it is not her. the others did not deter us. The reasons that we came here are unimportant; but we are here, and there is a Now, it is a mad rush to the library as everyone is body in the parlor. Mr.Black has been murdered in impatient to accuse. But we have to take turns. Next the night. It is one of us who did it. Who could it to me, Prof. Sandy Plum is nowhere near the library; he is near the ball room. But he steps in there, and be? accuses Miss Scarlett, and drops a little rope in the I turn to my left, and there‟s Prof.Sandy Plum with room. Reverend Green and Mrs. Peacock both have his blank poker face. Could it be him? Could he have something to say to that. OK. So, now, I know. done it just after we had finished playing cricket in the morning, when we had to take turns to bathe be- Mrs. White goes to the library. “I did it here with a rope,” she says. Her confession is evidence proof; no fore lunch? He would have been all alone then… one has anything to say! Colonel Periamma takes out Next to me, Miss Shruti G Scarlett was eyeing me three cards from under the game board, and I see my with suspicion. Gulp, I was not exempt either. I am own face stare at me, and the library, and that coil of not the murderer, I am not! I am an old lady with a rope. rather innocent name, Mrs.White. But it is me that “Yay!! I won,” says the murderer, putting her hands she accuses. in the air. “I think the murder was committed by Mrs. White (a flashing look at me), in the conservatory with a We kids plead for another game, but my aunt would knife.” The knife lands thunk, on the little conserva- not let us play at murder until we‟ve had the rendamtory square. Not me! I don‟t even know what a con- tharam food – the second meal of the day. We down soft balls of rice with a boiled pea in the centre of servatory is, much less commit a murder there. ea ch, an d sq uab bl e o ve r who get s Colonel „Periamma‟ Mustard comes to my rescue. the kottai and kadippu of the mango. That was one At least, I think that is what her inscrutable face en- thing we had not murdered back then, our innocodes as she leans in close to Miss Scarlett and whis- cence. pers something to her and shows her a card. Across me, Reverend Adit Green has something to show as (May does not only mean murder to me – figurawell. They conspire among themselves as the rest of tively, the large number of Agatha Christie and us try to figure out who the murderer was, and where Nancy Drews that I downed then. May was the summer, the time of the year when all of us cousins they had killed Mr.Black. would get together under the common roof of one It is quavering Mrs.Peacock‟s turn next. Mrs. Chinky aunt or the other to play and eat and squabble and Peacock noisily scrunches on a piece of ‘thakkali fight and be friends again. We were patrons of venvadaam’ and goes to the kitchen. “Kitchen,” she erable institutions like the Dolls Unity Club and occasionally we acquired special Superhero power to thinks a bit. “Knife and Miss Scarlett.” fight crime. On nights the grown-ups went out, we Ah! But it was not in the kitchen; I know that. I flash played Dark Room. Clue (also known as Cluedo) a card at her, and Reverend Green also has some- was one of our favourite games; the game board itself belonged to my aunt. Her sons played with it, thing to show. So we all know something now! and then we played with it. Now, my cousin who is Reverend Green speaks next from the library. “It was nine has exclusive rights to the board. I grow tired of in the library,” he says, in his thick American drawl, bowling to him sometimes, or even telling stories, but I never grow tired of Clue!)
Sahadeva stuck up for me.
hair. “You have my word and your friend Kanha‟s that no blame will befall you.”
I could hear his voice as he argued with Mother Kunti. “Do what you like with the rest of them, I “Kunti-ma, it is not the words of society I fear. don‟t think it is fair that all of us marry her. I for What use do I have for slanderous words of others when my own heart forbids me against this one, won‟t.” act? I cannot have more than one man in my I sat silently on the doorstep at the back, feeling heart, and…and he chose me.” I looked implorlike an intruder. Bhima was chopping wood, si- ingly at Kanha. lently, with some anger. Yud stood by the door, next to me, stroking his mustache, not talking to Now, enough of that,” said Kunti briskly. She me. Arjuna was inside, sitting silently, while put a hand on my shoulder; the grip was firm. mother, Kanha and Sahadeva were talking in- “Your heart is large enough to hold 5 men, and all the children they give you. You are no more side the house. About me. a child, Draupadi, you are a woman. And Their voices rose and fell as the sun sunk and I women sometimes have to make big decisions put my head between my legs, too tired to care. and live with them.” Yud sat down next to me and opened his mouth once or twice, trying to make polite conversa- Her voice was almost wistful now. I looked at her in surprise as she spoke further. tion. But really, I was too tired. And hungry. At long last, Sahadeva walked out. Yud glared at him. It was not his place to talk. I gave him a small smile. I was not sure what was happening anymore; I just wanted to sleep. Kanha summoned me in. Kunti walked over to me as I walked in and put a hand over my head. I was taller than her; she had to lift her arm to do that. Her touch was affectionate and she smiled. “Come on in, don‟t think we don‟t care about you.” She paused and made me sit on the mat. She sat down next to me. “After all, you are going to be the wife of my sons; your womb is going to carry the progenitors of our race. Yu are our queen, our mother, our goddess. No harm shall come to you, in the name of God.” She looked at Krishna for affirmation. I spoke up. “Kunti-ma, thank you for your kind words. But tell me, how is it possible for me to marry five men?” “Why not? People in the past have done it. I can get you experts on the Vedas to quote exceptional cases when a woman was allowed to wed more than one man. Is it society that you are afraid of? Well, you don‟t need to worry that you would be judged.” She smiled her affectionate smile again and ran her hand through my
“You have no idea, my dear. Of course you don‟t. It is a world of treachery,” she whispered. She held my hands and bored into my eyes. “Do you know they tried to burn us to death? Did you know they tried to drown Bhima? Ever since my husband died, we have had to hide from them. We have survived by sticking together. These boys are strong by themselves, but stronger as a group. If anything should divide them, then my sons die. All of them. And I would die before letting that happen. And Draupadi, daughter, you have both the power to unite them, or divide them. Choose wisely.” Saying that, she smiled her enigmatic smile again, and walked out of the house. It was just Kanha and me in the house now.
Draupadi Episode 6 Manasa
“Kanha…” I started. “Kanha, I can‟t.” He said, “I talked it over with your mother-in-law. And I am inclined to agree with her. It
would be best for you and them to do as she Kanha ate with us before leaving. It was a simsays.” Kanha folded his arm and stared down at ple meal of rice and lentils, but I had never been hungrier or more tired or less inclined to think me. about anything pertaining to myself. Already the “But what do you mean? Wasn‟t it you who said world of my father and brother, the palace of that I was going to marry Arjuna? What is all Panchala, and my childhood seemed so far this with marrying his brothers? How would it away. work? Kanha,” I implored. “Kanha, I might have grown up without a mother, but I know I offered to help wash the dishes when the meal was done, and the twins, who usually did this that she would not allow this to happen.” task, showed me how they did it. It was a little “Draupadi, listen. It‟s not immoral. You have to awkward, for I had nothing to talk to them. Sado this, let me tell you why.” Kanha folded his hadeva was still angry; it showed. It made me leg and sat next to me. “Listen, I know I told glad that somebody was on my side. Nakula, you that Arjuan could win you, and he did. But I though, was unusually silent. As we grabbed the rough coconut coir to wash the last of the grime did not expect this to happen.” off the mud plates, our hands collided. Nakula withdrew his, blushing, as if bitten by a snake. It „Expect what?” was weird. “Draupadi, you are not a child. Kunti saw what I can see too. The rest of them would not be able Kanha was taking leave. I rushed to the door to to see you as Arjuna‟s wife, my dear. Did you bid farewell to him, suddenly aware that the last of the familiar faces was going away. I heard ever realize that you attract them?” him tell Kunti-ma that “he would passs the good news on to Drupada.” What good news? My “What?” wedding? I did not think any more. I said fare“Think about what your mother-in-law said, well and told him to give a certain ring I was wearing to his wife Rukmini. Draupadi. The final choice is yours.” I sat in a corner of the room, my legs drawn up As we came in, I was assailed by a sudden doubt. Where would I sleep in this little oneto my chest, refusing to think. roomed hut, where there were already five men Later that night, before Kanha left, Kunti-ma and their mother? came to ask me about my decision. Too shy to ask, I crawled to a corner of the She was extremely pleased upon hearing my kitchen and sat with my back to the wall. Bhima „yes‟. She called Kanha and her sons over to her was the only one in fairly high spirits. The rest place of worship, a little Tulsi plant at the back of them seemed as shy and awkward as I felt. of the house. She tore off a strip of her already tattered saree, and asked Kanha to hold my hand Then Kunti-ma intervened, and called me to her out. Five other hands were placed on the top of side. She spread out the best mat and blanket mine, and she tied that strip of cloth in a knot they had, and bid me to sleep. Carefully arranging my saree around me and pulling my blanket around our six hands. up to my neck, I lay down, facing the wall. “There will be a formal ceremony later,” she said. “But you have to stay here tonight, and I I was tired after all the events of the day. I could don‟t want you staying here just as Arjuna‟s hear Kunti-ma stretch out next to me, belching bride. Kanha has overseen the proceedings. We and farting frankly. Slowly, one by one, the don‟t need any higher authority.” She smiled boys retired to, blowing out the lamps. I could warmly at Kanha as she undid the symbolic hear the crickets chirp and a cow moo in the far knot. In her eyes, I was married to her five sons. distance, but try as I might, I could not get to I looked at all of them, even Sahadeva, who had sleep. (To be continued ……) been persuaded by his mother to marry me.
I was 9. School had closed early, and He had offered to drop me, on his way home. It was the monsoon, and a cyclone was expected. Already, the first rains had hit the city with a foretaste of the disaster to unfold. The stagnating rainwater was just beginning to lap at one’s ankles. As I waved goodbye to him from the arms of my mother, he smiled, kick-started his scooter and was gone. School was closed for the month that followed, first due to the rains, and then due to the heavy amount of repair needed on some of the buildings. When I finally went back, I was eager to see Him again. They told me he was gone. I ran home crying. Mother and Father came to school the next day, and the principal told them simply that he was dead. They tried to explain that to the 9-year old me. I am 23. I have come back to my hometown now that Father is retired and will not be transferred again. I visit School again. I meet the Principal, then an energetic 40-something, now a weary man waiting for retirement. I tell him I still haven’t forgotten Him. The Principal looks at me with a bemused expression. He asks me in a measured voice if I would like to know about Him. I say, unhesitant, yes. The Principal tells me of the first interview, when He first came to the school. He was all charm and kindness, a benevolent god who brought luck with him to the school. He loved the students, and the other staff loved Him. He was quickly promoted, and he took His responsibilities in stride without ever losing any of that charm or kindness. Five years on, He had become assistant-principal, and was virtually everyone’s Hero. I felt a nostalgic pang of envy – the 9-year old awakes again. The Principal continues - no one seemed to know much about His past, or His present. Like the gods of Hindu fables, He had come to the school at a time of great need. Unlike those gods, no legends were ever written about him, only one short obituary, composed by the Principal himself. His body had been found washed into the courtyard of a house the second day of the cyclone. It was presumed that He had had an accident. Then the Principal paused, looked hard at me, and said “But I thought it was murder.” The Principal was 42. then. So, He must have been about 33-34. He was a champion swimmer, and if anyone could be trusted with rescue missions, it was Him. He had dropped me home, and then, reported back to school for more such trips. He had been sent by the Principal to take two other students home. All the staff had been asked to meet at the school after dropping off students, just to account for everyone All came back, except Him. Then, the search parties were formed. They divided the city into six, one pie slice each for two teachers. That year, the cyclone eventually killed 68 people, and many more were lost.The house His body was found in was in the poorer part of town, and those stricken people had still dutifully called the municipality about His body. The crematorium staff collected His body on the first day possible, which was three days later. The full impact of the cyclone was only known eight days since it had begun,with very few services still active in the city. It was pure luck that the Principal even was called. “I went, and identified Him” the Principal almost whispered now, “and when I looked over him one last time, something caught my eye – it was a broken bit of glass near His ear – and it was jammed in His flesh. His whole body was swollen from water retention, but that piece of glass stuck – Why?” I winced, the mental image made me choke, and I shivered, not sure if I was ready to hear more. “And then?”I heard myself ask.
A Dead Hero
Raghuram Godavarthi
The Principal said he’d asked the morgue attendant about an autopsy. The morgue attendant had looked at him as if he were insane, muttered something about making a mountain out of a molehill and walked away. “Then, I called a police inspector – a neighbor of mine. It was a hard task convincing the morgue officials that it was a suspicious case, but the inspector handled it well. The autopsy confirmed what I feared.” He had been killed, his throat slit, and later left to drift with the rainwater. “The inspector duly filed a first investigation report on my behalf, but the case was never pursued, owing to lack of any leading evidence, and also all the pending rescue work –the concern for those alive or possibly so being greater than that for those already dead.” I stared, unable to believe that they had let it go at that. “But surely, they found some clue, some way of finding out who killed Him?” I said. The Principal looked at me with steady eyes, half-nodded, and then rummaging through his desk drawer, pulled out a threaded folder. He opened it, and flipped the pages, and handed me the folder, with a newspaper article stuck to it. “Perhaps,” he said” this will satisfy your curiosity”. I read the piece, a short one, but very heavy in its import. My eyes went teary as I finished and handed back the folder to the Principal, and crying, I said my good-byes and ran from the room.
<from the City Chronicle, dated July 25th, 1994> Another Hero perishes Last week, Mr. ____, a resident of the Cantonment, wrote to us with this incredible story. He had been travelling home with his family on July 9th, the day the cyclone hit the city. On the way, he saw this man with 2 kids on a scooter struggling to keep the scooter going in the swirling rain. What followed, in his words: “Soon afterward, both the car and the scooter were stuck in the water. Until that point I had not thought of rolling down the car windows, or even started thinking of a scenario where I would need to get out of the car midway. It was only after the car got stuck that I realized how fast the water was rising. Then the car’s battery died, and the electronic windows wouldn’t come down. The doors were jammed too, and I started panicking. My two children were already very afraid, and they started crying. I then heard this man knocking on the passenger window and I saw him gesturing towards the kids he was travelling with. I gestured back to him to try and tell him that the windows were stuck. He understood me, I think, because he waved to me and my children and then disappeared with his children for a moment. Then I saw him knocking on the windshield, and he gestured to me to move into the back seat. When he saw we were covered, he smashed the windshield with his elbows, and managed to free some space to jump into the car. He then pulled my children and me out into the open, and even as he tried to follow, a sudden surge of water pushed him over, and his neck stuck in the narrower part of the glass. The surging water also meant I was pushed away, and I did not look back for a few minutes, and then I saw what had happened. He was stuck, and the water rapidly carried him away. I do not know if he survived, but someday I hope I can thank him for saving our lives. He was a true Hero.
The guests froze and the lounge became eerily quiet. All eyes were fixated on the body lying on the floor. Everyone was thinking the same thing: one of them had to be the killer. Siddarth sat beside Mansi and looked at her wide open eyes. It had lost its magic and the twinkle in her eyes was gone. She was dead and he didn’t want to believe it. Just five minutes ago, they were sharing a joke and she had hit him. In a moment, she collapsed like a dry autumn leaf falling off a tree. She looked frail and drained of love, emotions, and life. She was gone. Just like that.
Dude Where Is My Coffee? Dreamvendor “If it is really something important that I should know about your past, you can tell. Otherwise I wouldn't be interested in it” he assured. Siddarth looked at the broken glass pieces next to him. It must have been the drink. “Who served her the drink?” he asked.
Nobody answered him. The crowd was still perplexed as to what had happened. Half the crowd did not know who she was. Half the crowd who “It would mean a lot to me if you come to the knew her just a while ago did not know why she lounge party. My family and friends would be just died. happy to see you,” he said as he stood at the “You did,” his brother replied after a while. door. It was their second date. He took her on his lap and a stream of blood ran from her mouth. It felt warm, her blood.
Siddarth looked at his brother and his mind “Already? Isn’t it a bit too soon for us to be meeting each other’s family and friends?” she tried to race back in time to recollect what had happened. All his mind could manage was to asked. crawl back slowly and decipher nothing at the Siddarth took a step back and smiled. “I would end of it. understand if you didn’t want to come,” he said.
“Is everything okay?” Siddarth asked as they stepped out the movie hall.
He looked around and his family and friends looked like strangers that moment. He felt out “I get so pissed off when someone asks me that. Everything is fine,” she snapped. of place. It seemed as if Mansi was the only person in this world that he had known and They had not talked much that night. She was he had a brief moment of loneliness. not in her elements, or so he thought. “I want to come to the party,” she said when they met up for coffee two days later. “Thank you,” he said as he stirred his coffee.
“What do you want from me?” she asked breaking the silence.
“There is something I need to tell you about my past,” she said.
“I don’t know yet. Aren’t we trying to understand each other to know where we are heading?” he said.
“Is it going to affect our future?”
“Maybe we do not have a future together.”
She was silent.
“Why would you say that?” She did not answer him. She left that night In
In silence leaving him behind with a million questions. He already saw signs of withdrawal in her.
Siddarth,
I was sent to kill you at this party. I poisoned your drink. But now I have decided Siddarth heard the sirens outside the lounge. Someone must have called 911. His eyes ran to drink it myself, not because I like you. I never did. I just had to act as if I was interall over the floor for some evidence. All he ested in you. I don’t think I can handle this could see was droplets of blood, broken glasses, her drink spilt on the floor and rest- anymore. My boyfriend is out there to kill less feet of others. He spotted her bag in the you, Siddarth. He is here in this party. I corner. He placed her body on the floor genhope he realizes his mistake once I’m tly and waded through the crowd towards dead. Or maybe not. I just have to do this. her bag. Save yourself. “I don’t think I can do this. I must have told you this earlier, but I thought things would be fine between us. The more withdrawal symptoms that I see in you, the more I hurt myself” Siddarth confronted her. “I understand.” That is all she said. “Now what?” “I guess we are done here,” she said. “Is that what you want?” She did not answer him. “I can never decode your silence. Unless you express yourself we are not going anywhere.” There was a tinge of frustration in his tone. “I told my family and friends that you would be there at the party tomorrow,” he continued. “I can still come if you want me to,” she said with a smile sending him mixed signals. He opened her bag and looked inside. The bag was empty and his suspicion grew. He opened the small zipper outside the bag and found a paper inside. It was a note she had left.
Mansi
contributors Stories A Beauty, A Beast, A Murder - Anuradha Chandrasekaran The Other Son Of Ganges—Matangi Mawley Jhonny X 29 Dead — Ajay Ramachandran Muder Most Foul — Sirpy Jayaprakasam Dead Hero—Raghuram Godavarthi
Short Writing The Game is Afoot - Anuradha Chandrasekaran IPL3 - Best show of the year—Karthik Balasubramanian May for Murder—Suchitra Ramachandran
Columns Dude where is my Coffee – Dream vendor Draupadi – Manasa Flash Fiction Gift—- Tobias Kroll
Horseman—Tobias Kroll Photography Evil Under the Roof—Dharini Sundaram Femme Faltale — Arjuna Ravikumar
Cover page design - Anuradha Chandrasekaran Magazine Design Anuradha Chandrasekaran Dhivya Arasappan Nivethitha Kumar Editorial Team Anuradha Chandrasekaran Dhivya Arasappan Nivethitha Kumar Webiste Design Nivethitha Kumar
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