A Book of Barmy Broodings (Omnibus 1) by Write Club Bangalore

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS Omnibus 1

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An omnibus of the Write Club Magazines, July’17December’17 editions.

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COPYRIGHTS All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without the proper written permission of the copyright owner.

“Radio” by Ashwin Kumar. Copyright © 2017 Ashwin Kumar. “Free Lunch” by R Pavan Kumar. Copyright © 2017 R Pavan Kumar. “Pulp Paralysis” by Ashwin Kumar. Copyright © 2017 Ashwin Kumar. “The Guard” by Ashwin Kumar. Copyright © 2017 Ashwin Kumar. “A Soulful of Curd Rice” by Kartik Patiar. Copyright © 2017 Kartik Patiar. “Why I Didn’t Kill Myself” by Ranjan Anantharaman Copyright © 2017 Ranjan Anantharaman. “Secrets of the Goldfish” by R Pavan Kumar. Copyright © 2017 R Pavan Kumar. “The Curious Case of Laura” by Ell.P. Copyright © 2017 Ell.P. “The Door” by Ell P. Copyright © 2017 Ell P. “Specialist in Alteration of Ladies and Gents” by Amel Rahman Copyright © 2017 Amel Rahman. “Pickles for Priya” by R Pavan Kumar. Copyright © 2017 R Pavan Kumar. “Zombie Zack” by Amel Rahman Copyright © 2017 Amel Rahman. “The Temptation of Demon Bael” by R Pavan Kumar. Copyright © 2017 R Pavan Kumar. “Confessions of a Quintessential Bitch” by Ell P. Copyright © 2017 Ell P. “Overheard in a Pizzeria” by Ashwin Kumar. Copyright © 2017 Ashwin Kumar. “Woes of Motherhood” by Ell P. Copyright © 2017 Ell P. “The Strongest Man” by Arjun Shetty. Copyright © 2017 Arjun Shetty. “The Eclipse” by Amel Rahman Copyright © 2017 Amel Rahman. “Random Events on a Flyover” by Ankit Jha. Copyright © 2017 Ankit Jha. “Are You Ready?” by Kartik Patiar. Copyright © 2017 Kartik Patiar. “Lollipops for Lakshmi” by R Pavan Kumar. Copyright © 2017 R Pavan Kumar.

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

“The Other Man” by Sharath Komarraju Copyright © 2017 Sharath Komarraju. “The Day Pikku disappeared” by Ell P. Copyright © 2017 Ell P. “The Strange Confession” by Sharath Komarraju Copyright © 2017 Sharath Komarraju. “Goodbye and All That Stuff” by Ashwin Kumar. Copyright © 2017 Ashwin Kumar. “When Words Fail” by Amel Rahman Copyright © 2017 Amel Rahman. “A Desi Fling” by Amel Rahman Copyright © 2017 Amel Rahman. “The Endless Dream” by Ankit Jha. Copyright © 2017 Ankit Jha. “Echoes from Vrindavan” by Sharath Komarraju Copyright © 2017 Sharath Komarraju. “The Shipbuilder” by Ankit Jha. Copyright © 2017 Ankit Jha. “Grandma – Eight, Me – Zero” by Kartik Patiar. Copyright © 2017 Kartik Patiar. “The Silicon Saviour” by R Pavan Kumar. Copyright © 2017 R Pavan Kumar. “Of Ghost Towns and Empty Hearts” by Ell P. Copyright © 2017 Ell P.

Cover Design by Ankit Jha. Edited by Ankit Jha.

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CONTENTS

Contents ................................................................................................................................................................................................................. 1 A Book of Barmy Broodings ................................................................................................................................................................... 2 Copyrights .............................................................................................................................................................................................. 2 Contents .................................................................................................................................................................................................. 4 Genre: General Fiction ........................................................................................................................................................................... 6 Radio........................................................................................................................................................................................................ 7 Free Lunch .............................................................................................................................................................................................. 16 Pulp Paralysis ......................................................................................................................................................................................... 25 The Guard................................................................................................................................................................................................31 A Soulful of Curd Rice .............................................................................................................................................................................. 38 Why I Didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Kill Myself...........................................................................................................................................................................44 Secrets of the Goldfish ............................................................................................................................................................................. 52 Genre: Horror ...................................................................................................................................................................................... 60 The Curious Case of Laura ....................................................................................................................................................................... 61 The Door................................................................................................................................................................................................. 70 Specialist in Alteration of Ladies and Gents .............................................................................................................................................80 Pickles for Priya ..................................................................................................................................................................................... 90 Genre: Humor ...................................................................................................................................................................................... 101 Zombie Zack ......................................................................................................................................................................................... 102 The Temptation of Demon Bael ............................................................................................................................................................. 108 Confessions of a Quintessential Bitch ...................................................................................................................................................... 118 Overheard in a Pizzeria ......................................................................................................................................................................... 128 Woes of Motherhood ............................................................................................................................................................................. 136 The Strongest Man ................................................................................................................................................................................ 142 The Eclipse............................................................................................................................................................................................ 149 Random Events on a Flyover ................................................................................................................................................................. 152 Genre: Crime / Suspense / Action ..................................................................................................................................................... 156 Are You Ready? ......................................................................................................................................................................................157 Lollipops for Lakshmi............................................................................................................................................................................ 163 The Other Man ...................................................................................................................................................................................... 169 The Day Pikku Disappeared ................................................................................................................................................................... 179 The Strange Confession ......................................................................................................................................................................... 185 Genre: Romance ................................................................................................................................................................................. 199 Goodbye & All That Stuff .......................................................................................................................................................................200

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS When Words Fail .................................................................................................................................................................................. 208 A Desi Fling ........................................................................................................................................................................................... 216 Genre: Supernatural / Fantasy / Science Fiction / Historical / Mystical ........................................................................................ 240 The Endless Dream ................................................................................................................................................................................ 241 Echoes from Vrindavan.......................................................................................................................................................................... 251 The Shipbuilder ..................................................................................................................................................................................... 261 Grandma – Eight, Me – Zero ................................................................................................................................................................ 268 The Silicon Saviour ............................................................................................................................................................................... 274 Of Ghost Towns and Empty Hearts ........................................................................................................................................................ 284 Authors’ Page..................................................................................................................................................................................... 289

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GENRE: GENERAL FICTION

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

RADIO Ashwin Kumar Genre: Realistic Fiction Most of my childhood memories come to me as a reminder of how we overlooked dad’s strange demeanor and his relationship with the radio. We would flock out behind him every morning, pressed against his legs like clueless kittens, whilst he stared out of the window at nothing for good fifteen minutes, sipping his own made ginger tea with extra sugar and smoking his own rolled tobacco cigarettes, as the All India Radio jingle in the background reached a crescendo. If we ever spoke over the news updates, dad would yell out a sharp hush, eyeballing at us from his reflection in the mirror, and giving soapy brush strokes on his chin a pause for few seconds; we would freeze, and pretend to read our books with diagrams and numbers in them. This happened almost every day, and it taught us two valuable lessons: One must not talk when the news updates are being read out and shaving daily counts as body hygiene. Although, in dad’s case, it seemed more of a compulsive behavior than a need; his skin often caught rashes and his beard did not grow as much as he shaved it. During the early 80’s in western India, the summer vacation had sultry afternoons, and we snuggled like a brood of chicks near the table fan on our verandah that arched facing the west, and had a lopsided wooden swing tied to it. Once we also tried to make a hammock in the porch using dad’s towel and it tore from the sides when my brother sat on it the very first time, so we lied about losing the towel to the wind. We often hoped dad would tune into some songs on his radio during those stodgy afternoons, but dad jumped the songs – maybe, on purpose – to play the news updates over and over again, until we fell asleep on our shoulders or went indoors and asked mom, if she planned on taking us out in the evening. “Ask your dad,” that was her usual response. Which we later figured, simply translated to her ways of saying no to everything we aspired for.

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The city we lived in, did not offer much of sightseeing anyway. There was one amusement park with unhinged seesaw levers, unsafe rocky grounds and untidy water coaster rides that smelled distinctive of piss and algae. The zoo next to the park had scrawny starving tigers that slept the whole day and woofed when kids with negligent parents threw peanuts at them. Once a man, not in his senses, had jumped into the tiger pit and had managed to trick and outrun the tiger. “These tigers have forgotten to hunt,” dad commented when he heard the news of the great escape the day after on his radio, and I nodded sitting across the dining table, with rice stuffed in my mouth, wondering what else he thought of the incident other than the obvious. Whenever our family friends or relatives visited us, as a courtesy, we showed them the park, the zoo and the colossal city hospital – that was funded by the church and a few other holy missionaries – as if it were a monument. Dad recited the same story every time, of how the hospital came into existence as a part of a big money laundering scam by billionaires, and all of us sat in the backseat of the taxi, with our ears perked up, pretending to listen carefully, lest he asked questions. Next to our house, was an empty plot that had a hoarding with a bold threat carved in a mean font, and it read – “This plot belongs to Mr. & Mrs. Daniel. Trespassers will be prosecuted.” Which seemed so unfair to us, given how far our home was from an actual playground. Also, why prosecute kids who want to play in your barren plot, dearest Daniels? Except for a rusted borewell pump for the vintage look, you don’t have any other assets. Plus, the glass pieces implanted on top of the fence, to prevent the plot from the intruders, become redundant if you have holes in your fence where stray dogs, kids and dwarfs can pass through. So we often gambled with our chances and slid through one of those gaping holes with wickets and bats in our hands and Cosco balls in our pockets to play cricket, and panicked when we heard the pitter – patter of mom’s chappals in the background. Next, she yelled at us, folding herself in half from her belly, like an inverted “U”, and sticking her head through the hole, “Come out, now! Dad is furious.” When we came home, coated in mud and fear, we found dad slumped like a bean bag in one corner of the verandah, with his legs spread out on the railings, fidgeting with radio knobs, and smoking his rolled cigarettes, and being oblivious to our petty little guilt trip. ♦♦♦ We were never rich, but in a residential colony inhabited by the families of middle and lower middle social stratum – often fighting over ancestral properties and mawkish household matters – we were respectfully broke. The importance of social respect and dignity was deeply

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

ingrained in us, and we became aware of that from very early on, and of course, dad was aware of that, and everyone else was aware of that. Which also meant, we had to remain that way. So we never mingled with the neighbors, made friends in the colony or invited anyone over, for things like the evening tea or birthday dinners. Whenever the neighbors showed some interest in our restrained existence, we immediately turned them down or made up an excuse for our upcoming exams and how busy it kept us. Which was true to some extent, but otherwise, most of it was a sheer lie, because, neither me nor my brother, was academically strong. We forced ourselves to excel, but we always remained in the middle lot of our classes. And our academic results were mostly the reflection of our lives – below average and disappointing. ♦♦♦ Ever since I recall being alive, I recall, dad not having a job. Mom told us, he worked in the army once, before we were born and we believed her. Dad never mentioned anything about his career, except, on our school diaries, where we needed him to fill-out our parents’ professions, he wrote “Homemaker” under mom’s name in his elegant handwriting and “Ex-Army Officer”, under his own name, and we prayed, no one asked us the details. Because we did not know the details: Which war did dad fight in? What was his rank? Did he take a bullet? Was he ever courtmartialed? How many badges does he own? Can he fire a gun? Our source of income was dad’s pension, but that seemed sufficient, as we did not rely on, invest in or aspire for materialistic goods. The pocket money – of a few rupees that was allocated to us every week – was only for the bus fare and lunch. And mom immediately put a kibosh on any relative, who tried to pamper us with money, toys or trips. Her usual response to any act of kindness was, “These kids already have enough and are getting spoiled by the day. Please don’t offer them anything.” And then she would do this thing with her eyes, which meant, we had to smile and willfully refuse the offer and pretend like she was right about every word she said. Dad, on the other hand, seldom wore good clothes or fancied a good living. In summers, he walked around in loose pyjamas and round neck vests that outlined his belly and rolled themselves from the bottom once they turned old. In winters, he put on a dull brown stole – that often camouflaged the radio – and wore a woollen grey sweater underneath, with lint balls on it. His daily expenses were summed into one-fourth pack of tobacco, a glass of milk and a few pieces of chapatti bread. He never showed any interest in food or demanded it to be in cooked in a certain way. Once, I vividly remember, mom served us burned dal, and we made a great fuss about it, making her immediately apologize for the obvious mess she had made, and dad ate it like it tasted how it was supposed to taste. On the occasions when dad had to dress-up, say, a relative’s marriage or his own brother’s engagement, he wore a turtle-neck with a woollen brown blazer and covered his bald patched head in a beret. I always cringed looking at the beret, but never mustered enough courage to

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point it out. So, I would politely offer him his old checked muffler that complimented the beret, but dad would put it aside saying, “It’s not that cold – yet.” ♦♦♦ Our childhood was a deceiving lie. We were the tadpoles of the pond, limiting our thoughts, existence and experiences, to just about the four walls of our home and school. Mom had unrealistic expectations, dad was least bothered and the school had corrupt teachers and boorish packs of mean kids, who couldn’t possibly be befriended. So growing up, we assumed dad to be the most knowledgeable of all people. He read newspapers, listened to the radio, and knew words used in politics – campaigns, electorate, constituency, ballot, polling, manifesto, etc. – the basic fundamentals of science and geometry, and the history of the town we lived in. But once, in my high-school days, he was randomly selected from a group of parents to give a motivational speech at our school’s annual day function, and he nervously refused to speak a word and left the function midway like a coward. The master of the ceremony had to pass the microphone on to a man who spoke gibberish with a lisp. From that day onwards, I doubted dad’s capabilities, and whenever saw him with the radio, listening to the news updates or reading newspapers, thought to myself – “What really is the point?” ♦♦♦ Against mom’s wishes and aspirations, I came close to a girl named “Sarah”, during my high school days. She wasn’t exactly my girlfriend by the normal definition of a girlfriend, but she meant a lot. We sat beside each other in school and passed on chits – when the teacher’s back faced us – with puzzles on them. And once or twice, she did things for me that someone who has more than a liking for you does. For instance, once she missed out on a family trip abroad because I was not keeping well, and made up an excuse that a school project was coming up. She was one of the few people I could talk to, without processing a pertinent reason in my head to turn them down while talking to them. The first time I brought Sarah home, she nonchalantly pointed out dad’s addiction, which in words and sounds, sounded like, “What’s up with your dad and that radio?” And in that moment, I couldn’t frame a good answer and sat next to her breathing a sigh, and for the first time, noticed the fabric of my socks. ♦♦♦ At the age of twenty-one, my elder brother had secured a clerical job at a financial firm in a different town, and with his first salary, he came home with a gift for everyone. For mom, he bought a shawl which she pretended to like very much. “This is very nice. I like it very much.” Those were her exact words. I got an analog watch with Roman digits and radium carved dial, which sparkled in the dark. He gifted dad a portable radio wrapped in a coral gift wrap. The radio ran on rechargeable

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

batteries and had a headphone socket on the top. Dad did not say anything endearing, like how fathers in movies say, in situations like these. Things like, “thank you, son,” or “I love you, son. You’ve made me proud.” Instead, he kept the radio on the window that opened towards the verandah. The radio sat on the half ajar window forever, until one day, a thief broke in and stole it. We never brought up the robbery in our conversations, and dad never acknowledged its sudden absence. ♦♦♦ Our upbringing had started to echo in our daily struggles in our teenage years. I, for the most part, was hesitant and touchy in the outside world and had very limited to no sense of interpersonal awareness. It dawned on me in one of my late teenage years, that I also lacked social skills, and hence, needed to pop out of the cocoon of mom’s restrictions and dad’s negligence. So, I voluntarily enrolled myself in a summer program in a different town for two months, where they taught us basic life skills. They taught us everything a man needed to learn; right from cooking, driving and other household chores, to fundamentals of farming, carpentry and emergency aid techniques. Depending on how we performed at those skills, we got bonus stipends on top of our base stipends. This seemed like a great opportunity, and mom, who was always coughing lately and complaining of chest pains, agreed to let me go. Sarah, whose family wanted her to come for another trip abroad, joined the camp against her family’s aspirations and was allocated the dorm next to mine. She also had her own set of daily tasks: knitting, fixing hems, and the likes. We found it difficult to meet during the day, but come evening, we dumped all our baggage, and hiked our way to ultimately climb a giant boulder, that always appeared to be magically placed under the moonlit sky. And tented under the stars, we shared snacks and laughs, spotted constellations, and stroked each other’s hair. One day, gazing at the stars and arguing loudly about whether it was Venus in the sky or not, and Sarah massaging my neck – it hurt due to carrying the goods around – suggested; “Why don’t we tell our parents about us?” This right away sounded like a terrible idea to me, but because she seemed so sure of me, and because I couldn’t say no to her, I gave it a cursory thought, and thought – why not? “Once we go back from the summer camp. Right?” I said. And in response, she hugged my neck from behind and kept hugging it, until I choked and tapped out. Right after that, we convulsed with laughter and agreed that it wasn’t Venus after all, and if it was, then we couldn’t care any less – we were in love. ♦♦♦ Upon returning from the camp, I found mom coughing in a large towel with blood spots on it. When I confronted, she said, the doctor had suggested it was a case of extrapulmonary

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tuberculosis that could be cured by expensive medication and surgery. But since dad couldn’t afford all that, she was going to get better without medication. How so? She had no idea! This bothered me, and I offered all my money for the treatment that I had earned from my summer job, but that was of course not enough. Besides, mom brushed away any offer from me or my brother, saying she was going to be fine. But a part of me knew, she was not going to be fine. She was not going to be fine unless dad cared as much as we did. But dad being dad, sailed quietly through his wife’s pain, tuning into different frequencies, as if, he was trying to find the remedy through his radio. Months from then, when mom had reduced to almost a raisin, I told her about Sarah, and all her body could do, was nod in approval. I wrote a note – about how much Sarah meant to me, and that when I turned a little older, I had plans of marrying her – and placed it underneath dad’s pillow. We had stopped communicating verbally and I couldn’t wait to graduate, find a job, and live a life of my own. The summer camp experience, mom’s health and a severely disoriented guardianship had left me remorseful for my upbringing. And the more I thought about it, the more I blamed it on dad. ♦♦♦ Within a year or so, when I finally graduated and found myself a job in a different city, I kissed mom a goodbye, thinking I may not see her again. Her pale and unsteady fingers brushed my hair and her puffed cheeks whispered me airs of good luck. I wrote a note for dad, asking him to take care of mom – and knowing that he wouldn’t – and that if he needed anything, he could always reach out to me or my brother for help. And just like that, we all went on with our days in different cities, picking life battles one day at a time, and dad kept soul searching through his radio knobs. Not until the next few months anything major changed, except, I had more freedom; Sarah could stay with me, and I acted responsibly towards carving a better future for both of us. Once or twice, I wrote letters addressed to mom, with minimal portions of it asking dad’s well-being. I never heard a reply from her. Perhaps, she never read it or if she did, she couldn’t frame a response. On the other hand, I never expected dad to reply anyway. One night, at around 2 a.m., my hometown neighbor knocked on my door to deliver the news of mom’s demise. And although I saw this coming long back, in that moment, I felt an unexpected shift in my emotions. Instead of shedding tears in sorrow, my legs turned heavy and there was a sharp ringing in my ears. I couldn’t fathom the fact that the parent who cared, was now gone, and the parent who was alive, was never really alive. ♦♦♦ After mom was gone, we seldom saw dad. Once, just after my brother’s marriage, we all gathered in our old house; Sarah, me, my brother’s wife and her side of the family, and my brother. For four days, we played cards all night, put up barbeque stalls on our verandah and

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

played loud and silly games like, “Hangman” and “Dumb Charades”. Dad moved his chair away from the verandah and put it in one dull corner of his bedroom. And soon, he moved it to the outside garage-like room, that had one yellow bulb hanging in the centre and dozens of dingy cartons stacked everywhere. Growing up, we were never allowed to step in that room. So we made up our own tales of dad imprisoning war enemies, their ghosts and evil spirits in that room. And we often peaked inside through the tinted ventilators in awe. For most of our stay, dad locked himself in that room, and we only saw him, when he walked out to use the bathroom, or when we called him for dinner, where he complained about the food being spicy. On the day of my marriage, everyone once again gathered at our house – it was quite a bash. We put up tents, hired an orchestra and invited over forty guests. Majority of the funding came from my affluent in-laws, who repeatedly mentioned, that they were happy for their daughter. Which in a way meant, that they also believed, that she could have done much better for herself. On the biggest day of my life, I wanted the attention and blessings from everyone, but dad sat through the wedding in his loose white pyjamas and pretended to be occupied with things amounting to nothing; like cleaning his tobacco box and tightening the already tightened screws of the swing. He no longer put on his brown blazer or beret and I no longer offered him his checked muffler. A day after the wedding, when Sarah asked dad if he needed anything, he began to clean the speaker holes of his radio with a thin twig and grunted a vague “no”. Her first ever attempt to make a real conversation with dad had gone in vain, and she looked at me with a dubious face followed by a half shrug. After our marriages, the visit to our old house became less and less frequent. My brother and I often discussed renovating the house, but never really bothered to put any significant effort behind it. During that time, we were also moving from the era of radio to early era of colored television and cable. So I bought a TV set for dad, installed it in the drawing room, and kept handwritten instruction notes on how to operate it, next to it. A year and a half later, when we all gathered in the house for my brother’s son’s third birthday, I found the note covered in mildew and the television cabinet engulfed by cobwebs. In those times, when our kids wanted to play with their grandfather, dad would murmur things like, “That’s enough, that’s enough, that’s enough … go jump on your mother –”, and the younger ones would start wailing. In one of our visits, I tried to spray paint portions of the house and in the garage cartons, I found a collection of things dad had never shown us; his army medals, theatre certificates, old baggy army sweatshirts, his badge of honor, his expensive sunglasses and his souvenirs from France and Germany and other parts of Western Europe. And in many years, for the first time, when I finally spoke to him in awe of my findings, he closed the door on me and played his radio on loud. I made a point to never talk to him after that, and in that moment, standing

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outside his door, I couldn’t help but notice, that now his radio screeched more than it played sounds. ♦♦♦ A few years letter, one early morning, when I came back from a jog, Sarah informed me that dad was unwell and that one of our old house neighbors had reached out to her, immediately after spotting dad suffer a stroke and lay unconscious and mildly bruised near Daniel family’s empty plot. I collected my car keys and drove for two hundred odd kilometers in panic, and broke a few signals for the first time in my life. Several times during that ride, I questioned my behavior and mood. Why was I in hurry? And why was I conflicted? After all, the man had barely meant anything to me all his life. But irrespective of how many times I told myself that it was okay for me to not care – I actually cared. And I cared irrationally. Twice or thrice, I reached out to my handkerchief and rubbed my pink eyes looking in the rear view mirror. Upon hearing the engine of my car, the neighbors started to come out of the house and leave, cannibalizing the words in their greetings. One or two of them, put their hands on my shoulders and stared at me for a few seconds, before they walked out of the main gate, and left it unlatched and swinging freely. I walked into the house and paused for a minute to look at the crossbar photos of mom as a baby, and the photos from our first ever family trip to the amusement park. Where I wore a floral sweater, and dad flaunted a thick moustache which also complimented his beret. The indoor walls had lost their shine and the uneven patches of my spray paint looked meaningless on them. In the corners of the house, I could vividly spot our childhood memories and hear the echo of mom’s complaints. The swing made a rusty howl in the verandah, as if, calling to tell me the untold stories of the times when mom was still alive and the chair next to it, still held the tobacco case in remorse. The house seemed inhabited by cobwebs, lizards and nostalgia. Lamps, bulbs and windows lay wrapped under thick layers of dust, hindering any source of light inside the house. I opened the windows, pulled the curtains and cleaned the window panes. As a kid, I never noticed how important it was to keep the house clean and ventilated, and ignored mom’s commands until it angered her and she twisted our ears. Dad’s bedroom door was open, and I stood there gazing at him and digging the bottoms of my shoes with my toes. The lamp on one side of his paralyzed body made an unwelcoming flicker and his pupils moved to the sides, to spot the guest figure in the room. Next, I dragged my feet to stand in front of his bed, from where he could see me without making a painful effort. His askew lips started to twitch and his breath came out in strong puffs of snorts, as if, he blubbered through his mouth. His neck remained affix on the pillow and his body lay covered in off-white sheets that were now yellow, covered in tobacco stains, and the scabs of dry mucus.

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

Standing there, reaching out for my handkerchief once again, my entire life flashed before my eyes, and dad did this thing, widening his eyes and grunting loudly through his teeth, which meant, “Why are you really here?” And to answer that, for the first time ever, losing all my inhibitions and overcoming the unsaid regrets, my hands placed themselves below his neck and my teary face hugged his quivering cheeks. I kept my arms wrapped around his neck until both our faces were soaked in tears and mom’s countless prayers. The radio hooted a sigh in the background.

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FREE LUNCH R Pavan Kumar Genre: General Fiction Chitra stared at her reflection in the large silver spoon to make sure her hair was in place and suppressed the urge to let it loose like she normally did. She shifted in the opulent chair trying to get comfortable but her dress was way too tight for that. It was her only cocktail dress reserved for such occasions, occasions she hoped never happened. She opened and closed the clasp of her knockoff clutch, an artistâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nervous tick; her fingers were used to being busy. The clutch held a single hundred-rupee note, the last of her money and not enough to buy even the cheapest item on the menu at this fancy restaurant. She cursed herself for not changing the venue for this meeting. But, if everything went well and she landed the internship she could at least stop worrying about where her next meal came from. No matter how the meeting went she would at least have this meal, a free lunch, so why not make it grand. She sipped on the sparkling water and watched the candle in front of her melt away, he was late. Given that she was waiting for Sahil Kalam, writer extraordinaire, some waiting was to be expected. God, how she hated that pretentious bastard. A few months ago, she would have laughed at the idea of meeting him in person. Yet here she was now, hoping to land an internship with him. Life, like her art, was not without a sense of irony. She would normally have splattered all her rage at the irony, onto a canvas, and made one of her signature painting. Given that she didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have the money to buy the right shade of paints for the irony, she sat in her stifling cocktail dress and waited. Sahil was running a little late, ok, a lot late. That is what happened when one had to walk to every place. And considering Sahil lived in the kind of area that was as far as possible from this fancy restaurant, it had taken him awhile to get there. He entered the foyer of the restaurant and stopped to catch his breath. He buttoned the upper button of his blazer willing it to hold on for one last night. He tightened his tie making sure none of the frayed bits were showing. He knew the restaurant staff were eying him suspiciously and gave them his winning smile. He

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

made a mental note of this scene as it happened; it would make for a good character introduction in his next book, if there ever was a next book. He checked his knockoff Rolex; he could just say he was fashionably late. He groaned, he could not afford to be anything fashionable right now. He really had to make a good impression right away, seal the deal in one meeting so to speak. If he could manage it he would not have to worry that his knockoff Gucci wallet was more expensive than the last hundred rupee note he had inside it. As he entered the hall of the restaurant, he took a deep breath and smiled, if nothing else he would at least have this grand meal, a free lunch. Sahil noticed Chitra, waved at her and walked towards her. He almost gaped seeing her in a dark-coloured cocktail dress. He had only seen pictures of her in shabby clothes with so many paint blotches that she herself looked like a Pollock painting. However, tonight she reminded him of some of his favourite poems. Despite the fact that he was convinced they had a difference of opinion on every topic possible, he did miss a step as he walked towards her. Chitra noticed Sahil as he walked in with his signature smile. She could have recognised that charming smile even in her sleep; it was almost as if he had walked out of a back cover of his book. He would have felt as at home in a Da Vinci painting as in a Ravi Verma painting. If she was not sure they differed on every topic imaginable, she would have really liked him and she hated him for that. In spite of all her moral protestations, her stomach felt ready to melt as she held out a hand for him. They shook hands and smiled at each other. “Chitra Kalakar!” Sahil said, “What a pleasure to finally meet you. I am a big admirer of your work.” “Please, call me Chitra. I am so glad to have finally met you Sahil Kalaam. This is a dream come true. I have read everything you have ever published.” “Please call me Sahil. I have attended every one of your exhibitions. It’s unfortunate we have been able to avoid each other so long!” They shook hands for longer than was necessary until Sahil finally suggested they sit down. “You are looking stunning today…” Sahil said, “Nothing like your usual pictures…” he trailed off, biting his tongue. Chitra raised an eyebrow, “Thank you very much, I can see you are trying to be charming, if only you could be as charming as you sometimes are in your writing…” She gave him a wry smile. Sahil balled a fist, she was going to be difficult compared to the usual women who fell for him. He cleared his throat, “I guess congratulations are in order, I heard you won that prestigious international scholarship, um...what was it called...that art scholarship, which gives you a shitload of funding and a good stipend too! Congrats!” Sahil gave her thumbs up.

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“Why, thank you! I did win the shitload scholarship!” Chitra smiled. There was something refreshing in his blunt honesty compared to all the other men who constantly tried to be politically correct around her. “Is it true that the scholarship has the option of you taking on a paid intern?” Sahil asked checking out the ambience of the restaurant. “Yes, it does give me the option of taking on a paid intern…” Chitra said and she stared at him wondering what he really had in mind. “Of course you were also on the list of thirty under thirty people to watch in the country! That must feel awesome! Congrats!” He gave her his most charming smile and it managed to put Chitra a little at ease. “Well, thank you. I heard you signed with a major publisher for a new series of novels for an enormous advance. Congratulations!” “Thank you; it was a rather large advance for a new author!” Sahil said. “And is it true that the contract allows you to hire an intern for research and other purposes, which is rather unusual isn’t it?” Chitra gave him her best dumb bimbo stare. “Yes, it is. The series I proposed needs a lot of research to be done... lots of travel for a single person…” Sahil wondered what she was really up to. “And also, weren't you ranked number five in the most eligible bachelors list in the city? That must have brought a lot of attention to you…” Chitra bit the edge of her lower lip. “Umm… I was third on that list...and yes, thank you!” Sahil took a sip of water and gulped hard. “It looks like we have both been having a rather great year!” Chitra said. “Yes, it does look like that; we definitely have enough reasons to celebrate!” Sahil called for the waiter. The waiter gave them a wide smile, “Good evening, Sir, Madam. I am Dheeraj. I will be your waiter tonight.” and he continued to smile at them. They both gave him a nod and a smile and took the menus from him. “It is really great to have you both here!” Dheeraj said still giving them the smile. “Ah, so you know me, do you Dheeraj!” Sahil looked at Chitra and rolled his eyes, “Are you a fan, Dheeraj?” “Oh, most certainly Sir, in a manner of speaking!” Dheeraj said. “Would you like an autograph?” Sahil asked searching for a pen and giving Chitra an apologetic shrug. “I would definitely like a painting from Chitra Madam or even a doodle on a napkin…” Sahil’s face flushed a brilliant red. “Of course I would love to have a quote signed by you, or maybe even your novel signed, but I am afraid it is against our policies here. Huge fan still…”

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“Thank you, Dheeraj, maybe some other time…” Chitra smiled at him, “You know you sound very familiar….” “I am afraid we have never met before, Madam. I am told I have a very generic face though, maybe it’s that…” “Shall we order then...?” Sahil said. They both gave their orders, Sahil ordered a steak meal and Chitra ordered a vegan salad with a side of gluten free garlic bread. Dheeraj suggested some champagne to celebrate the occasion, whatever it was. Sahil and Chitra smiled at each other and ordered a bottle of champagne to celebrate the occasion, whatever it was. The food was served, “Cheers!” Dheeraj said popping the champagne and pouring it for them. “Cheers!” Sahil and Chitra said clinking their glasses together. They dug into their meals rather hungrily. Dheeraj stood back and wondered how long it had been since they had had a good meal. After half of his steak was gone Sahil paused, now was the time to make his move, “I really liked your first solo show last year...there were so many references to poop in it, it was awesome!” he smiled at Chitra again, “what was it called again…?” Chitra shifted in her chair, “I had called it ‘Bowel movement’...as in, you know, mocking all the latest art movements…” “Oh yes! Yes, I remember now! ‘Bowel Movement’, that was brilliant!” “Thanks…” Chitra smiled, “I didn’t mean to reference...er...poop so much in the exhibition, I just wanted a good metaphor for the futility of all human endeavor and as it turns out shit is a pretty good metaphor for that!” “Yes, it is! It got you noticed a lot. Many claim that your scholarship was a result of that solo show!” Sahil said. Chitra gave a noncommittal shrug as if to say that could be the reason. “And the centrepiece of your collection, I think it was called ‘Holy Shit’, was a large silver wall decorated with golden cow dung cakes. I think that was the most interesting piece of art I have seen in forever. I believe you are a great artist!” Sahil bit his tongue and smiled. “Thank you. That is high praise coming from you. It was supposed to be a reminder of how our culture was always self-reliant, even energy wise. And also, how we never were afraid to discuss our problems openly, our shit was always literally on the walls. We need to return to that open culture and avoid this modern western secrecy and hypocrisy.” Chitra said. Chaitra sipped on some of her champagne, “But most people didn’t even notice my exhibition, they were all busy discussing your first novel. It took me awhile to get to it because of the exhibition. I was pleasantly surprised; I do not think I have ever read such an intelligent satire on the state of Indian politics. And to imagine all our biggest politicians as cows, holy

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cows, that was a stroke of genius! It was called ‘Cow-ocracy, wasn’t it? I thoroughly enjoyed it.” Chitra made puppy eyes at him and hated herself for it. “It was called ‘Moo-ocracy’ and most people found it to be rather controversial…” Sahil said. “Of course they did. It was controversial. But they couldn’t do anything about it, could they? You coached your harsh critique of the Indian political scene behind the irreproachable position that cows still have in our culture. No politician has spoken out against you, have they? Thus validating the very argument you make in the book, genius! Though I doubt the Prime Minister likes being compared to a pure-bred jersey cow that gives a hundred liters of milk every day!” Chitra laughed a fake laugh. “I bet he doesn’t. And you are right, the only reason I am safe is because the animals in the book were cows, had they been any other animal…” Sahil made a sweeping motion across his neck. They forced themselves to banter for the rest of the dinner, exchanging pseudo compliments and false praise until the bill finally arrived. Dheeraj handed Sahil the bill and excused himself. Sahil looked at the bill and gulped hard, “You know, let me be honest with you. There is a reason I wanted to meet you.” he cleared his throat, “you see, one of my next novels is set in the art world, and will be told from the perspective of a struggling artist. And to really understand what my protagonist is going through, this struggling artist, I need to experience first-hand what an artist goes through on a daily basis.” he placed his hands on the table. “I was hoping, um, that doing an internship with you, one of the best artists around, will give me the exact experience I am looking for. So, would you please consider me for an internship, for let’s say a year maybe?” Sahil gave her his most convincing smile. “Let me see, um… does this have to be a paid internship?” Chitra tilted her head. “Yes, it would be really helpful if it were a paid internship!” a sliver of hope crept into Sahil’s voice. “But why do you need to get paid? You are one of the highest paid authors in the country, or so we are told. There are a number of ways you can do research, you could interview several artists, you could shadow them to understand how an artist works. But why do you want to do the internship of an art student?” Chitra raised an eyebrow. “Well, you see...I think...it will...it will add to the reality of the experience. Yes, that’s it, getting paid that measly sum will make the whole experience much more authentic to me.” Sahil gave a solemn nod. “Bullshit!” Chitra gave a malicious grin. “What? You may not believe me, but that is how my writer’s mind works!” Sahil was suddenly interested in the pattern of the carpet. “Bullshit! You are broke aren’t you?” Chitra leaned forward in her chair.

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Sahil looked at the chandelier and sighed, “Ok fine! Yes, I am broke! Completely and utterly broke. My publisher revoked my contract and I am penniless…” “Wow! How? How did you manage to do that?” Chitra said “Well, Moo-ocracy was such a hit. I thought I would capitalize on that. So I wrote a kind of sequel, except this time all the politicians that I wrote about were the female politicians of this country.” Sahil sighed, “Turns out, female politicians don’t take kindly to being compared to cows. I do not even know how they found out about the book before it was released. My publisher dumped me like a bad bowel movement. And now no publisher is even willing to take a look at my work.” “What made you think women would ever be alright being compared to cows? But, I still think what happened to you was wrong.” Chitra said. “Does that mean you will offer me the internship?” Sahil slowly passed the bill towards her. “Let me see…” Chitra stroked her chin in a mock gesture, “Hmm…no, I don’t think I will.” Sahil sighed and hung his head, but looked up again at Chitra, “Wait, you won’t or you can’t?” Chitra leaned back in her chair. “Oh! I see, so you can’t take me on as an intern…” Sahil stroked his chin in a mock gesture, “So that would mean you have lost your scholarship somehow…” “I just don’t think you would make a good art intern. I don’t think you have it in you.” Chitra said. “Bullshit! You too are broke aren’t you?” Sahil leaned forward in his chair. Chitra crossed her hands, “Ok fine! Yes, I am broke too. My scholarship was revoked.” “And...How did you manage that?” Sahil said. “Well, you know the centrepiece of my exhibition, ‘Holy shit’. Some well-connected but stupid businessman was interested in buying it. I tried hard to explain to him that it was just an installation piece and not really for sale. He would not take no for an answer, he simply kept increasing his price. After a point I was frustrated and I sold it to him for an exorbitant amount…” Chitra sighed. “And that was a problem because?” Sahil grinned madly. “Because I had used real cow dung in the installation. I had simply dried it and coated it with gold paint. This bright businessman installed ‘Holy shit’ right next to the water fountain in his house. Soon, well the wet shit hit the fan, so to speak. I lost my scholarship.” Sahil doubled over in his chair with laughter. “Take your time, I will wait,” Chitra said. When Sahil regained his composure, she continued, “So I wanted to meet you to ask if I could be your research assistant for your next project. But I guess that is no longer an option!” “No, no it is not!” Sahil said, still catching his breath, “You know what. I have to come clean. I have always thought you were rather snooty. You always come across as if you don’t give any fucks about anything, especially your work. And your work, what a pile of steaming shit literally.

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And who in their right mind names their first exhibition ‘Bowel Movement’. Jeez! I am glad this didn’t work out.” “Oh we are being honest now are we?” Chitra sat upright, “Like I am really a fan of your work. Your writing is the most derivative mulch that I have ever read. Each of your sentences reeks of pretentiousness. You are literally a nobody who is pretending to be somebody he had never met. And your book ‘Moo-ocracy’, it can serve only one function, cow fodder! I don’t even know how I thought I could work with you.” They glared at each other. Chitra sighed, “Well genius, we have more pressing problems!” She slid the bill back to Sahil. They both stared at it and gulped hard. “I hardly have a hundred bucks on me…” Sahil shrugged. “Yes, same with me…” Chitra said, “So, there is no way we can clear that bill…” “Nope!” Sahil said, “So we are going to pull the old disappearing act?” “Yes...I will go to the restroom and slip out; you follow in five minutes…” Chitra said, “Ha! No way am I going to let you go first. I am not getting caught in this situation…” “No way am I letting you go first either…” Chitra said. “Fine!” Sahil said, “We can both just run for it…” “Ok, on the count of three then…” Chitra said, “One, two, and three…” Both of them bolted towards the exit. They both almost reached the door, but Dheeraj sprang out of nowhere and blocked their path, “No, nope, I don’t think so…” Dheeraj shook a thin finger at them. “Oh! Hey there…” Sahil backed away from the door, “You misunderstand us, and we both seem to have forgotten our credit cards, in our cars. We were just going to go get them.” “Yes…” Chitra gave her lost puppy expression. “I know who you guys are, remember. And I know there are no cars…” Dheeraj said. “Oh yes, you know us! Then you know we can easily pay the bill, right?” Chitra said. “You don’t get it; I know exactly what your financial conditions are right now…” Dheeraj grinned. “What? How do you know that? Sahil said. “Yes, how? Who are you?” Chitra said. “Well, you know me as Mr. F-art, your friendly neighborhood art critic,” Dheeraj said. “You are Mr. F-art! I pictured you to be some snooty classical art collector. You have always had some nasty things to say about my artwork.” Chitra said. “Good thing you were an anonymous man, I would have punched you for things you said in your online reviews when my book came out,” Sahil said. “I was only being honest...about both of you!” Dheeraj said. They both glared at him. “Man, to think the high and mighty Mr. F-art is just a waiter!” Chitra smirked.

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

“Well, you are hardly in a position to give me that tone, lady. At least I have a steady job, unlike you jobless bums…” Dheeraj said. “But don’t your critique articles and your website pay you enough? Why do you have to do this job?” Sahil said. “You see, this is called having multiple streams of income, which is what most people do, unlike you geniuses. My critiquing job gets me a small income, but it is not nearly enough to quit my day job. That is lesson number one, have a day job and don’t quit it till you are established.” Dheeraj said. Sahil and Chitra made a show of listening to Dheeraj and looked for other exits around them. “Stop that!” Dheeraj said, “I have already informed the reception. There are men at each exit. There is no way you are getting out of here without paying that bill. I am up for a promotion soon, and there is no way I am going to let you dumbasses screw that up for me!” “Well if you know so much about us, you know there is no way we can pay that bill…” Chitra said. “Yes, and what are you going to do about that?” Sahil said. “I am going to make you an offer you cannot refuse!” Dheeraj grinned at them and they both gulped hard, “How about the two of you do a paid internship with me!” “You mean like art critics?” Sahil said, hopeful. “My God, how thick are you? I meant as waiters, here in the restaurant. That would be your day job…” Dheeraj laughed. Sahil and Chitra stared at each other. “But that will not be enough. You will get paid as waiters, and we could cut the bill amount out of your salary. But, that would take ages! So, instead, both of you will create art for the restaurant. Chitra, you will make classical paintings to hang on our walls, and no shit involved at all. Sahil you will manage all our social media accounts and write content for our website. You will help organise a poetry reading evening once a fortnight. And stay strictly away from cows! So, what do you guys say? Deal? Or do I call the police?” Dheeraj grinned at them. Chitra and Sahil hung their heads and nodded a yes. Dheeraj rubbed his hands in glee and handed them their waiter uniforms. ♦♦♦ A few months later Chitra was putting up the tables for the night. Several large paintings hung on the walls with her signature on their corners. One of the paintings had a label that read ‘sold’. She watched Sahil walk out of the office and smiled at him. “All done for the day, updated all our social media accounts, and the website about this weekend's events. I was hoping I could take you out for dinner…” he leaned in and kissed her. “What seems to be the occasion?” She returned the kiss. “Well, someone at work sold a painting today, thought we would celebrate that…”

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“Ah, someone at my work has finalised a publishing deal for his second book, we should celebrate that too. Though I think it will require more than just a dinner…” she winked at him. “Oh, will it now…” Sahil kissed her again. “Jeez, you lovebirds!” Dheeraj, now the manager at the restaurant, said in mock disgust, “our contract doesn’t include performance art. Go, get out of here!” They both smiled at him, “Yup, you got it boss…” “And what is it that we say?” He asked them as they made to leave. “There is no such thing as a free lunch…” Sahil and Chitra said together as they left the restaurant.

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PULP PARALYSIS Ashwin Kumar Genre: Psychological Realism And then he made sounds, one makes when one is trying really hard to make sounds, but he cannot. He also tried to drag himself up, using one of his elbows as a crutch, but he felt armless. As in, he, of course, had arms, but they felt dead. And although, they felt dead, he yet, in his mind, could wave them in the air, ball his fingers into a fist, or even clap vigorously. But in reality, none of that accomplished anything. He did not get up, and his claps, just like him, did not really make any sounds. “Oh, no, no, no, not again,” he moaned in his mouth. Inside his mouth, his jaws now seemed jagged, and they did not sit on top of each other like jaws do. And he drooled like an infant on the off-yellow cover of his pillow. Through the beige drapes, a faint yellow morning ray had made its way to the corners of his bed. His bed – where he was slumped on the edge, with what felt like a paralyzed arm that dangled lifelessly and touched the ground – was not creaking anymore. On normal days, it always otherwise chirred, disrupting his sleep and jolting him up from his deep slumber. Had it been a normal morning, he would have sat on his bed for a minute, rubbing his eyes. A minute later, he would have walked over to the window, pulled the blinds and the curtains, snoozed his alarm for ten more minutes, and would’ve tucked himself back inside his leopard print blanket. But his blanket this morning had fallen through the narrow chasm between his bed and the adjacent wall. And somewhere from down there, the ever so aggravating periodic beeps were now reaching to his deaf ears. The ears weren’t really deafened, just like the mouth wasn’t really muted, but hearing an alarming sound makes one respond to it, and that sort of a thing was missing today. What else was missing, was the sense of being in control of the situation, and the sense of having a physical body. His mind, however, felt in his control, and thankfully so, because he knew where

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he was. And although he knew where he was, his eyes mislead him. He saw everything inside his room, in black and white and in vignettes of grey. The first few times when it had happened to him, it had startled him at first, then it had amused him, and later in the evening, it had turned into a paranormal encounter anecdote when he hung out with his friends after their Friday supper. The last night had been visually painful. He had gone to one of those underground clubs, that had laser-cut beams and non-recursive wall patterns lacquered with L.E.Ds that jarred his eyes, and throbbing speakers embedded in holes that couldn’t be spotted unless one used torchlight. There, everything had made him nauseous. People wore props that glowed in the dark – wide eye frames in the shape of a bee, fluorescent hats, devilish furry headbands with plastic horns, multicolored curly wigs with lights in them, silver sashes with “Bride to be” or “Birthday girl”, written across them, ties with glowing cartoon characters printed on them, diamond tiaras in the shape of a skull, men wearing alien helmets, face masks of butterflies and superheroes and Egyptian mummies. And he rambled through all this endorphin inducing nonsensical mayhem built on the junkyard of illusion. And from there on, everything was a series of blur frames stacked in the film of his mind. Yes, someone had put him in the taxi, yes he had hung his head out of the window like a dog and vomited, and yes he had cried a bucket. But how did he get in his bed? And most importantly, was he in his bed? Was he really home? Through his deceiving closed eyes, he could spot the toppled ashtray on the coffee table, stacks of beer bottles by the door, a few broken ones had rolled away to the corner, ruffled couch covers, cushions on the floor, cigarette buds shaking under the fan like the autumn leaves outside, and the whole paraphernalia of an after party. And he had this tickling in his toes like someone played footsie with him under the sheets. Before he realized, the tickle spread into a firm touch, like someone wrapped their arm around his waist and cuddled with him, their breath on his neck, their cold palm on his tummy, his back facing their chest. “What are you afraid of?” It whispered in his ears from behind. The voice wasn’t all sounds and whiffs of air. The voice was a clutter and chime of bones as if a skeleton knew the words and could mimic sounds. It waited for a response and then said, “Are you okay?” To which, he grumbled and let out a tiny pool of saliva under his head, on the pillow, through his jagged jaws. The bony icy-cold claws like fingers clasped his chest and cuddled further. By now, he knew that if he did not move, he would be trapped in this inertness forever, like a painting, motionless, and incomprehensible to the observers. A mystery of sorts. An unimaginable accident, where the victim vanished without a trace.

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

And then what would happen? Everyone will have their own bizarre stories to tell. Someone would say, he vanished the night they went to the freak party. Some would say, he got abducted by the aliens – that aliens came dressed as aliens to a freak party, to abduct humans. The outlandish stories would float around, newspapers and blogs and social media platforms will milk money. His friends will share comical anecdotes of his sudden mysterious exodus – he got engulfed in a wormhole up his ass. His enemies, not that he has many, but the ones who aren’t exactly his well-wishers, will throw a silent party in their heads. They’ll invite people over for drinks and dodge their questions, about why they are smiling for no reason. So once again, using his elbows as a crutch, he tried to get up from the bed. And this time, unlike the previous many attempts, he felt his body lift up effortlessly. But not in a traditional, getting up, straightening the spine, body bending in half from the waist, kind of way. This time, his body did not feel packed underneath the skin, and he felt he had turned into a fluid of sorts. He did not know which direction or shape he took. He had no concept, feeling or experience of limbs, organs, or bones. And just like that, his all hundred and fifty pounds of conscious self, defying gravity, and the meaning of the ordinary world, found itself in a different realm inside his own very room. Here things, unlike what was fed to him all his life, by those books he read, those movies he watched, and the fantastical stories that he was told, were not brighter than ever. There were no dark tunnels or a beam of bright light coming out of it. The guardian angels, father, son and the holy spirit, did not welcome him with their extended arms. And his entire life did not play in front of him like a movie trailer. There was stillness – a void, a vacuum of events. There was no fear of death, but every second felt like an eternal cycle. As if, he fell dead inside the ocean, legs and arms spread out, eyes wide open, but no sense of smell or touch. He found everything ominous, darker and murkier than his idea of an alternate reality. At first, he did not fight this feeling, he let it sink in. And after what felt like a lifetime of stillness, he tried to move the portion of his body where his arms should have been, but it slipped through. Failing which, he rocked his head backwards, and it passed through his bed. And he found himself falling inside the bed. Inside the bed – and not underneath the bed – where he intentionally kept stuff that he had forgotten, and some had slipped through without his knowledge; peripheral computer devices that he never used, a tennis ball, tidbits of snacks waiting to be swiped away, books that he had not read in ages, socks he thought he had lost long ago, keys that were duplicated, hand towels that had fallen through the chasm between his bed and the wall, greetings cards from the relationships that were buried in his past, duct tapes that he would often look for while fixing household things, a mosquito swatter bat for the summer, a nail cutter that was replaced by a new one, a broken bike helmet, and a whole other universe of obsolete things he could very well live without.

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As his upper body – or the mere idea of it – slipped through the dense dark matter of his bed, his vision turned darker and blacker than before. First, his arms slipped, then his torso, and then his belly. His legs, however, were firmly attached to the outside world, as if, he fell head first in a dense marshland. At this point, for the first time, there was a feeling of fear, of abandonment, of detachment – of death. The intensity of it was almost equal to his rage during the first few minutes of his paralyzed struggle. He tried to pull back, but there was barely anything he could do. Whatever control he had garnered by lifting himself up a few moments ago, was now lost. He tried to swing his leg back up to smash himself into his body, but his left knee fell through the dark swamp of his bed, then the right one. Soon, his upper and lower body were inside the dense dark matter, and he lay suspended in two separate worlds at the same time by his hips. And just then, the ice cold claws that had held his belly earlier, lifted him up and away from the swamp, like a rocket thrust of sorts, propelling him upwards and away from the nightmarish ditch. It was easy for the claws, as if, he was a cotton ball, and as if, the hands possessed the strength of a superhero. Once he was outside the swamp, the vision seemed less dark, hands or what felt like hands could move swiftly, and he floated over his own physical body like a silhouette of himself. From where he hovered, he saw his bare physical body lay face down on the bed. And next to him, was another body covered in white and gray clothing, cuddling him – spooning him. In the far ends of the room, he saw floaters, under the stellar yellow light bulb. Floaters, that are said to float in one’s eyes, like spots, or threads, or cobwebs. The ones, that look like, if you touch them, they will melt in your palms and smell like ethanol. Except, these were imperceptible and they smelled like nothing. And the more he stared or tried to catch them, the more distant they appeared. Some, looked like they were made out of logs of other black translucent floaters, that later turned into a mini cloud under the yellow bulb. Then it formed shapes, known and unknown, like clouds do. At one point, he saw his own face in it, the way he had seen it in– thick white clouds, dark shadows, water ripples, half-melted snow mountains, carved sands, old tree-trunk, abstract paintings, and everything else that could mimic human faces. He stared at the black floaters and they stared back at him as if they communicated with silent convictions. In one of the corners, the clouds looked like the fumes of the sandal aggarbatti that he had pinned last morning. From the whites and blacks of his eyes, he gazed at the mirage looking unstable aberrations, resembling an optical illusion, at first. And then the wall clock in front of him appeared distorted. The numbers and the hands, spiraling endlessly and merging into one another, as if telling him, that the time had stood still or as if, there was no concept of it at all. He couldn’t fathom how long this feeling of being out of his own body lasted for, but once he was in control of his self, he knew he could be anywhere he wanted to be. Fly through the walls,

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cross rivers and continents and forests and mountains. Transcend through the past, present and the future. Take whatever shapes he wanted. Visit realms that he had only seen in the psychedelic paintings. The more he relaxed in this soothing-eerie suspension, the more he realized, that everything he knew, wanted, or had thought of, seemed to be created by his own self. He was the creator and he was the explorer of everything that ever existed and at the same time, nothing seemed to matter. But before he could comfortably accustom himself to this breezy feeling and drift away into the nothingness, a voice from the other side of the bed, of his girlfriend, or wife, or his lover, or someone from his distant dream said, “Babe, what’s wrong? Babe, babe, what’s wrong? Are you listening to me, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” In response, he said or he thought he said, “Nothing, I am fine”, but what she heard was, “Grrmm … nthngrrm … grrmm …” followed by heavy sighs and unbearable snarls. But in reality, the girl with the burgundy pixie hair, engulfed in his XXL shirt put on backwards, snored beside him in the bed. She wore no pants and he did not remember her face, or her name, or her tattoos, or her septum ring, or her alcoholic breath. He just found himself aggravated by the devilish snarls coming from the back of his head. Either it was a monster he bed last night, or he picked up a pig from the streets. A pig with stuffed thick snout, that made sounds like every other pig. With each snore, he found himself coming back to his alive self. And the sounds – that he couldn’t make earlier while trying to make sounds – were now louder and distinct. His arms, that felt lifeless earlier, were beginning to stiffen and twitch. And his ears were now telling him that the beeps of the alarm need to be stopped. His jaws were not jagged anymore and the sense of having a physical body was now restored. He smashed back into himself, and that made him jerk his whole body and quiver post it. The first thing he saw, was the ceiling fan rotate above his head, as if, it could testify about his lucid experiences if the need be. The wall clock – telling him it was six in the morning – wasn’t dismantled or quirked, but he did not trust it anymore. The room no longer appeared black and grey, and the colors on his blanket and bed-sheet bounced back to maroon and azure. He switched off the alarm and pulled the curtains. And with that, a blurry film of last night’s events played in his head. He had come home, there were people with him – his best friends, friends he made at the club. And they all came home, drank till three in the morning, spilt beer everywhere, left ashtrays toppled upside down on the table. There were props and masks lying on the couch from the party. Someone had left his shrug on the chair. There was a backpack with half-eaten packets of snacks in it. And the entire room smelled of cigarettes and a strong female perfume.

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He had never seen the girl who snored in his bed, but he was sure there was an explanation behind all this. He waited for her to wake up. Meanwhile, he lit himself a cigarette, unhinged the door and stood in the balcony with a cup of coffee in his hand. The soothing breeze played with his hair and smelled like a fresh beginning. The eyes, although struggling to adjust with the morning light, gazed at the yellow thin lines of the sunrise at the horizon. There was a smile on his swollen dehydrated lips and he felt he had woken up in a different new world where he had a deeper perspective on life.

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THE GUARD Ashwin Kumar Genre: General Fiction Twice already, the guard with scowling brows, scoffing an air of reluctance, has allowed her acquaintances enter into the apartment tonight. These acquaintances, who reek of tobacco and sexual desperation, disregard the guard’s intervention in their personal visits, by calling it a needless obligation. “Sorry, Sir!” The guard mutters, masking an adverse tension. “Just doing my job,” he says, not submitting to the avoidable fuss he may have made on his part. “Argh … hurry up! Block A-203,” the acquaintance complains, butting out a cigarette with his foot. On the other side of the intercom, she sounds woozy, and her lisp – that often titillates the guard – is now fiddling with her diction, and turning her sentences into puzzles of rare kinds. “But madam –” The guard mumbles, faking a cordial tone, and suppressing an urge of defiance, “He doesn’t have any ID on him.” “How does it matter? I know him personally, so that’s okay,” she commands. “Let him in.” And the guard compels himself to say, “Alright then, please come down, and sign him in?” “Fine ... fuck … fine!” And for the third time tonight, she is at the entrance gate booth, arching her body like a sloppy contortionist, and making illegible entries in the register, that can’t be read without a disagreement about their true details. And while doing so, the strap of her brassiere has fallen sideways, and the guard, in his full capacity, pretends to remain oblivious to the sexual tension that she has ignorantly weaved around him. While the acquaintance lights up another cigarette, and runs his hands through her skinny waist, sandwiched in an hourglass body. The guard looks away and grits his teeth, clasping the edges of the table, and making a sincere effort to not tear the register’s frail pages off. “Thank you, madam,” the guard lets out a smile with tight lips.

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She acknowledges the guard with a vague nod and turns around to hug the acquaintance. They hug for a second, a cold, detached side-hug, and walk down in the direction of the window that opens to her bedroom, on a floor above the ground. The guard’s eyes follow them from a distance, till they mould into elongated shadows, and soon collapse into each other, becoming a distorted sketch of temporary tenderness. ♦♦♦ The guard often wonders, why of all the tenants, she has to be like this? There are many, for instance, the lady with the always muddy Cocker Spaniel, and others, who are single and invite their fair share of acquaintances over. But none of them, as he recalls, invite so many companions over – in one night! Besides, what does she see in these fuddled men? Most of them don’t even have a character or an appeal. If he were her, he would’ve never befriended any of them. And the ones, who, say, display an amiable and considerate behavior, look much older. As if, their prime is in their past. But surprisingly, the ones who look the lousiest, come back over and over again. They say “Hi” to the guard, and make that favor seeking face, the guard wants to smudge with a brick, but instead, in all his civility, he overlooks their ignorance, and stays pure to his job, and is often also ridiculed for his candor. Sometimes, amidst the lull of the night, the guard leaves his booth unattended and abandons his baton hanging on the edge of his desk next to his blue cap. He spends hours in the darkness under her window to catch a glimpse of her nylon legs. And whenever the window disappoints him, he prowls to her single bedroom flat and peeks through the broad keyhole next to the outward latch. He often finds her stretched out on the bed, diagonally, from one edge to the other, like an infant, with no sense of sleeping etiquettes. He finds her wrestling with her blanket and losing the fight every single time. First, her legs get entangled in the duvet, and she scuffles like a fish, trapped inside a fishnet. Next, she tries to lift her legs up like a yoga instructor and tries to trace the right edges of the sheets. But within seconds, she sighs and her legs fall flat on the bed. Now, her one thigh is glistening under the yellow light bulb and the other is wrapped in the sheets. The other times, he finds her face glowing in the bright light of her cell phone. She texts something and puts the phone down next to her pillow, and closes her eyes in anticipation. But before the guard even blinks, she picks up the phone again. This time, she types with a mischievous smile that makes her lips twitch. On certain days, the guard watches her embody unusual forms of carnal acts in front of the mirror, that he finds rather amusing for someone who isn’t a defined recluse. For instance, talking to herself and smiling at nothing but her own reflections. And also, clicking pictures – tens and hundreds of them – from all the angles, the whole night, in different items of clothing. He wonders, is that all a sign of a narcissistic abnormality, or is it an escape from the dismal reality that surrounds her?

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He has also seen her dance seductively in her knickers, to nothing but just the instrumentals of uncommon melodies. But surprisingly, when she hosts others, the music jumps forms; from insufferable heavy metal, to contemporary pop, to unheard reggae, and the guard has identified the lack of assertiveness in the company of these men, as one of her glaring shortcomings. But he also debates internally, if this is one of those status things or the compulsion of coming out as affable things? The guard spends hours, sighing next to the keyhole in awe, with his ears perked up like a dog, lest another tenant on the outside catches him off guard. And in case someone does catch him in a conniving act of disgust, he has a plan. Which is to ring her doorbell, and ask an irrelevant question about the water supply. Thrice he has been caught before. The first time, when a sixty-something frail woman with a folding walker, had batted her eyes. The guard had immediately straightened himself up and nodded at her while pressing the doorbell. That time, he had enquired about the electricity switch. “Ma'm –” he had said. “Ya?” “The switch –” “Sorry, what?” “Electricity switch … is that working fine for you … I mean … did you raise a complaint?” “What? No! Is there a problem?” “I think so. The bulbs wired to your main switchboard are flickering.” He had said with a slight hesitation and then went on to confidently lie, “One went off some time back. I had to replace it.” “Mine is working just fine.” “You mind if I take a look?” “Seriously? Right now?” “I can come tomorrow. If right now is a problem.” “Yeah! Come tomorrow. Please. Thanks!” And she had shut the door on him. Which was not that bad, given how badly it could have otherwise ended for him. The second time was when a single and withdrawn mom with her six-year-old daughter had appeared out of nowhere. For a second, when they had paused for an explanation, the guard had undermined their presence. But when he had seen the continued skeptic look at the mom’s face and a quizzical fear in the daughter’s eyes, he had smiled and said, “Delivering a message to the madam, madam!” The third time, he thought he had heard someone’s dragging footsteps, and had reluctantly pressed the buzzer in anticipation. On the other side of the door, she had peeked through the eyelet. He had seen her reflection move in the tiny peephole glass. And from what he could tell, upon seeing him, she had debated whether or not, she should open the door for him, at a time

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that’s definitely half past midnight, and ultimately had decided against it. The guard had thought it was a fair judgment of the situation on her behalf, but that’s also because it had saved him an excuse for the next time. It had also turned out, that there was just a plastic trash bag fleeting down the staircase all this while. ♦♦♦ Back home in the village, the guard’s wife who deprecates herself – often looking in the mirror and tracing the stretch marks all over belly – is in awe of her husband’s facial features. His nose, she thinks, is like a faucet. And although it’s like a faucet, it sits so well on his square chin. His prominent Adam’s apple, when he gobbles food angrily, moves swiftly in his slender long neck. She often teases him saying, your neck is like a thermometer and your Adam’s apple is like mercury, the way it moves, it tells me how angry and hot-headed you are. The guard never knows what to draw from his wife’s jibber-jabber. He almost never looks at her, the way she looks at him. It’s not that he has never tried, it’s just that, whenever he looks at her, all he sees, is that her jowls are about to hang loose in a few years, and her hair has almost gone to gray. In all this time that they have been married, maybe once or twice, he felt some sort of connection with her. Which he later realized, was more of pity and compassion, and very less to do with love. Her thickened yellow and bitten nails, tell him, she is not well. And his four-year-old daughter seems like such a burden, that he regrets not having aborted her. He sends a portion of his salary home every month and talks to his family once in three weeks. And if the wife calls him out of the blue on his desk phone, he says he has obligations and cannot entertain the conversation for very long. They both go quiet for a minute, then she rambles about her illness in low whispers, to which he turns deaf ears. And before he realizes, they are saying bye to each other. ♦♦♦ During the day, the guard seldom misses a chance to greet her with a fuzzy smile, and when she acknowledges his greetings, he somehow manages to initiate inconsequential conversations about the irregular water supply, and the great tension he is dealing with the vendors on a regular basis. “They are not ready to compromise madam,” he complains. “These water tanker mafias, I tell you, can be a real pain to deal with.” “Right,” she says. He almost always fails to grasp the reluctance in her responses to entertain him, and more often than not, confuses her forceful smile for a hint of flirtation. “Your parking issue … is that sorted?” He asks. “Yes. It has been. Thanks!”

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“Welcome, madam,” he says. “I had to tell the tenants in B block that, that particular spot belongs to you. They were not ready to listen to me at first, but I insisted and showed them the agreements. Then only they realized they were wrong.” “Thanks. Once again … I guess.” “You are welcome, madam.” And it’s the third time, he has – not so subtly – mentioned how he has favored her over the other tenants. She ignores his unsaid intentions like the plague and looks away during the accidental encounters. In the mornings, the guard steals her newspaper and the milk packet; only to hand it over to her, when she is on her way to the gym. “Madam –” He comes running, “The delivery boy left the newspaper and the packet at the booth … guess he was in a hurry.” “Again? That’s like the third time this week.” “Yeah, that boy is a lazy bum!” “I see. Thanks.” “Welcome, madam.” And he stares at her bosoms – in tight jeggings – wiggle away to the doors of her tiny hatchback. ♦♦♦ Some of these men, that she more than just befriends, leave the next afternoon and some scram away in the middle of the night. The guard wonders, who decides, who stays and who leaves? Does she ask some of them to leave and the others to stay, or is it these men who make the call? And what makes one leave anyway, for the guard wouldn’t have left, not the next morning, not the next afternoon, not this lifetime! Tonight has been different; two men have come and left before midnight. One, starting his motorbike in rage and blowing the horn, all the way to the next intersection. And the next one, a tall, twenty-something dark guy – with acne all over his face and a pierced left eyebrow – whom the guard has identified as a regular visitor, seemed aloof when he left. He is otherwise usually polite and smiles and waves at the guard. But tonight, he left the gate unlatched and wore a discourteous expression that immediately dismissed guard’s presence. And the third one, who arrived half an hour ago, has never come before. The way he confidently went on to unlock the gate without the guard’s consent at first, it seemed he was one of the permanent residents of the apartment. But much to his surprise, the guard – being unaware of which flat he belonged to – interrogated him about the purpose of his visit. The conversation started on a tensed note. “Excuse me, sir!” The guard said firmly. “Yes?”

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“Are you a resident?” “Yes!” “Can I see your residence pass?” “Not carrying it.” The Acquaintance fumbled. “Okay, not a problem. What’s your phone number? Let me check the records.” The acquaintance by now had known that the access to the apartment was not all that easy without a trivial interrogation. The interrogation, that had knocked the Friday night buzz out of him and had turned him sober within seconds. “Okay. Look,” he sounded annoyed and guilty at the same time. “I am a visitor.” “I am quite aware, that’s why I stopped you.” And thus began the unnecessary interrogation that the guard could have avoided. ♦♦♦ Now, because she is drunk tonight, and because there seems to be some unannounced tension in her life, her voice and behavior towards the guard, which otherwise is always a showcase of how true she is to her moral imperatives, has been cold and callous. So after a while, when the lights of her flat have dimmed and the music woofing through windows earlier, has now faded into a mere distant rustle, the guard abandons his booth and being unsure of what he truly wants, climbs the stairs in anonymity, and peeks through the keyhole. He finds her sagged and balled up on her couch, and the man lounging next to her is speaking with a deep baritone; his words are faintly audible through the door. The language they are conversing in, maybe a barrier for the guard, but the unspoken sexual connotations aren’t; the guard can read body language like a book. He despises how the man could ever so easily, touch her bare legs and brush her hair, and playfully break through the boundaries of proximity without being questioned or opposed. Something that would perhaps take the guard a lifetime to earn. The guard balls his fingers into a fist and grits his teeth. His warm breath is bouncing off the steel door latch and hitting him back in the nose. He can almost smell the metal. His gasps – as they grow louder and uncontrollable – he wonders if are audible on the other side of the door. Then concludes that may not be the case, given how loud their ceiling fan is. Her TV on the side rack is just playing the visuals with no sounds, and the lights coming out of the screen, is making the room look like it’s lit with silent fireworks. They are sharing a cigarette, passing it back and forth. She has kept her head on the man’s broad and hairy shoulders. His hands are on her bare thighs; he is rubbing them gently. Occasionally, he is leaning forward and grabbing his drink poured into a goblet. He has also offered it to her twice, but she has refused it both the times. The third time, he downs all the drink in his throat and lays it down on the coffee table. They both go quiet for a minute. The rubbing of thighs has stopped. She is staring down

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at the floor with her head still on the man’s shoulder. The man has zoned out, staring into the space. He has grabbed a pillow from the edge of the couch and put it on top of his groin. The bottoms of his legs are intertwined on top of each other. He has also reached for his phone in his pocket and kept it away on the couch; perhaps he has turned it silent. All this sudden shift in energy has made her change her posture. Her head is resting on the couch now. She has closed her eyes. The man is staring at her cheek – perhaps breathing on it – from very close. When she opens her eyes, they kiss. At first, gently, then the slobbering begins. The man removes his shirt and switches off the TV with closed eyes and making the maximum use of his left hand. The guard, still peeping through the keyhole, has now frozen in silence. His longer gasps have turned into short angry puffs of air, and the veins on his forehead have noticeably bulged out making most of his face turn pink-red. He is clutching the hems of his pants. The more they kiss, the tighter the clutching becomes. He has not seen her like this in the past; with another man, who clearly looks replaceable and doesn’t hold any charisma. She must be out of her mind to do something like this. As soon as the man unbuttons her shirt, the guard fumes, and with his already balled up fist, he thumps the door hard. This startles them both at once. They take a minute to gather themselves before she opens the door. And when she opens the door, the guard finds her bearing an expression of anger, surprise and emptiness; this moment has an unexplainable awkwardness enveloped in a baffling silence. The man covered in hair, like a grizzly bear, and a newly lit cigarette in his mouth, standing behind her in his blue bottoms – and his face covered in smoke – tries hard to fathom the guard’s unspoken words; what is so urgent, that can’t wait till tomorrow? And the guard, trembling and choking on words, wearing a look of anguish, indifference and awe, murmurs something trivial and untrue about the man’s car being parked wrong and dissolves in the obscure ends of the staircase and then into the blackness of the night.

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A SOULFUL OF CURD RICE Kartik Patiar Genre: General Fiction Statutory Warning: This may not be your conventional story – So please take it with a pinch of salt and maybe a bowl full of curd rice. Reader discretion is highly advised. ♦♦♦ 07th August 2017, I arrived at Shanti-Sagar sharp at 7:15 PM, I knew I was a little early and so I waited for Som Uncle to turn up. He had called me earlier today evening at around five and had wanted to meet me right after office got over. He mentioned that it was something urgent, that through his research he had stumbled upon the one solution to solve all problems. Half of whatever he told me over the phone, flew right over my head, partially because I was pre-occupied with work and partially because I was continuously checking to see if Mr. Sharma had left or not. You see, Mr Sharma is the boss – and unofficially, no one is allowed to leave the office till the boss has left the building. With the remainder of the limited mind space I had, I was conversing with Som Uncle. “Haan Haan, don’t worry Som Uncle I will be there sharp at 7:30 PM” I remember those being the last few words before I hung up. And here I was, killing time in Shanti Sagar, waiting for Som Uncle to show up and enlighten me, with god knows what kind of wisdom he suddenly uncovered. It was a great evening and a cool gentle breeze graced the city of Bangalore that day. I fancied myself, sitting in a five-star restaurant with Seema (the girl I fancy) – Wow! This could have been a perfect date night occasion. Yet, here I was, all alone in Shanti Sagar waiting for the last 20 minutes for Som Uncle to show up. What a wasted chance! As I was lost in thought, ruing the lost chance with Seema, the waiter came in my direction. He checked his watch, looked up at me and as he neared me, he called out. “Saar… Rahul aaa?” “What?” I said “Sir, You… Rahul aa?” he enquired again

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Now, I love the way most Bangalore auto drivers, shopkeepers and bus conductors can convert any god damn statement in English into a question simply with ending it with “…aaaa?” So “Rahul... aaa?” automatically becomes “Are you Rahul?” So easy, so effective, so convenient and so efficient, one does not have to think of qualifiers, adjectives, verbs, adverbs or any other mumbo jumbo you were taught in English Grammar class. Just say “…aaa” and it becomes a question. “Yes, I am Rahul,” I told him, now slightly confused. I didn’t know how he knew my name. I know that many top end lounges, clubs and restaurants go out of their way with Customer Relationships, they remember even the smallest details about you like - your name, your date of birth or anniversary and sometimes even your entire purchase history, but I was never ever…like even in my wildest dream…expecting a waiter at Shanti Sagar to know me by name. I wasn’t even that frequent a customer and I could swear I had never seen that waiter before. “But how do you know my name?” I asked him – just like a legit question is supposed to be asked. “Som Uncle,” he said and smiled. As he grinned I observed one of his canines was chipped and that made his smile look a little bit wicked. As soon as he took Som Uncle’s name and with that kind of ominous grin, I started growing suspicious. ‘My God’, my mind raced, ‘It is already nearing 7:40 PM and Som Uncle is not yet here. Som Uncle never comes late. Like ever! Especially not if he has called you to meet him. Had this waiter kidnapped him?’ Random thoughts crossed my mind. As my expressions started reflecting my thoughts, the waiter decided it was time to stop grinning. He pulled out an envelope from his soiled shirt pocket and placed it on the empty table right in front of me. ‘Oh Damn! Is it a ransom note?’ My mind refused to leave the kidnapping theory that it had just strung together. But it just didn’t make sense, why would the kidnapper openly confront me, would he not call me from some unknown, untraceable number instead? And moreover, who kidnaps someone from Shanti Sagar. I mean there is so much more potential in… maybe a Starbucks kidnapping instead. As the waiter quickly retreated back to the safety of the counter where he was before, I began studying the envelope in front of me. On it in bold was written my name “To: Rahul... From: Som Uncle” ‘Ok, so I thought to myself… Som Uncle has left me a note. But why would he do that? He was supposed to meet me here. God, I hope he is safe,’ I prayed. I tore open the sealed envelope and extracted the contents of it. I carefully unfolded the letter that lay inside and I began to read what looked like Som Uncle’s handwritten notes to me. So here goes: Dear Rahul,

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Please See: The contents of this letter are for your eyes only. This is supremely critical and important. Please ensure this information does not fall into the wrong hands. Let me get started, as you already know I have been busy over the last few weeks and here are my findings: In my experience, there are three kinds of people on this earth – The ones who love curd rice, the ones who hate curd rice and the third kind – The ones who absolutely abhor and detest curd rice because they were forced into eating it every single day of their childhood. Now… when I embarked on this special journey about studying people and researching their curd rice eating habits – I was fairly certain (at least with an 87.3% confidence) that I would eventually come up with three classes of people. Well, as luck would have it – I did actually end up with three classes of people – The ones I just mentioned above. It is the observations and insights that caught me off guard about the types of classifications I would make of these people. The initial hypothesis was that I would end up with – (A) The Type of people who love Curd Rice (B) The type of people who hate Curd Rice and (C) The type of people who are indifferent to curd rice… Pretty straightforward huh? That does not need much R&D or insights right? But that’s not how the curd rice eating world works. Surprisingly, I found out that a person’s Point of View on curd rice is very similar to a myriad of special aspects such as his opinions on Politics, the weather, Donald Trump, Climate change and even other people’s lives. Yes… Everyone seems to have a very strong, a very non-neutral and a very heavily biased opinion about curd rice. Even the so-called opinion makers and trendsetters… who live up north – like the Def Cols in Delhi – who for goodness’s sake…would have never ever… even tasted one ounce of Curd rice in their living lives, have a very definite point of view about - which side of the divide they lie, when it comes to curd rice consumption. Even for a person as non-opinionated as me, it was tough not to choose a side when it came to curd rice. So it was fairly clear that - you either supported the curd rice brigade or were against it. There were no half measures for this, there was no non-alignment or neutrality here. You were either in it – the whole hog or you were out. Now, in the recent past, with of course strong winds of influence from the west and the far east – the cuisines that an average urban Indian is exposed to these days far exceeds the number of choices he has of, say, even things like - telephone operators or mobile web browsers perhaps! In fact, the advent of Italian, Mexican, Columbian, Spanish, French, American, Chinese, Thai, Continental cuisines has left most liberal Indians with a “Desi” palette hungry for even more. This is great because it has led to massive innovation in the resultant hybrid cuisines being served to satiate the Indian hunger. We now have Indo- Chinese, Indian Pizza chutneys and

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

even Indianized Risottos… all customized to make the taste… just spicy enough and the texture just perfect enough to suit the Indian palette. That I think is great – because it shows how open we are to experimenting and trying out new dishes and even displays our willingness to embark on to such gastronomical adventures. The roadblock that you hit on this journey is with… you guessed it right – ‘Curd Rice’! A very large set of these open-minded, Indo-foreign eating junta has started to detest Curd Rice. This group has been burgeoning to such an extent that it led to two severe actions in my findings – [Number 1] I had to split the group who hates curd rice into two parts – One group that just hates it and the other that abhors it since they have been force fed curd rice when they were children. [P.S. My sample size may be biased to South India, which could be linked back to where I operate from, but I am assuming these findings will also hold, upon extrapolation]. [Number 2] Surprisingly enough people who were indifferent to curd rice did not exist – like actually did not exist. People have very strong associations or dis-associations about being in one group or the other when it comes to curd rice affinity. Now, for the uninformed - like you - Rahul, let me tell you that “Curd rice” is very typically Indian. I can say that with supreme confidence, because in my international/ intergalactic travels so far - I am yet to come across any restaurant in any part of the world that offers unsweetened yogurt rice on their menu. In fact, I might just stick my neck out and say that “Curd Rice” is of South Indian origin. I know that because the moment the North Indian laid his eyes on this dish… he thought… my God, what potential… it is so pleasing to look at… but… wait a minute… hey…. this thing tastes like… Yucckkk!!!… Ok, let do some improvisation… and he did what he can do best… He made it a dessert… and hence ‘Kheer’ was born. (Of course, he went with milk instead of curd, since he was too lazy to wait for the milk to curdle. He must have thought to himself – If I have to curdle milk, might as well make Panner! Who the hell will ever eat Curd Butter Masala?) The native linguistics refer to this dish as – ‘Thayir Sadam’ in Tamil and ‘Mosaru Anna’ in Kannada. Now, Thayir meaning curd and Sadam meaning rice. I believe it is offered as Prasadam to devotees in Vaishnavite temples. The recipe is quite simple and does not need MasterChef Australia for inspiration, to be made. In fact, the whole dish is white in colour and does even need endless hours to be wasted on “Plating the dish” to look elegant. [Plating the dish – is a new trend in Indian kitchens (both commercial and household) all thanks to the television reality drama show!] In my opinion, Curd Rice is a simple and straightforward dish that can be afforded and consumed by the common man – Hence you would have guessed which “Type of people on earth” I belong to… but I guess a growing section of the urban class looks at it differently. “It is too bland… and very tasteless” is what they complain. Now let’s be honest, they are not completely off the mark with this complaint, isn’t it? You have taken two bland and tasteless

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dishes – Boiled Rice and Plain curds and mixed them together and you expect that out of nowhere some taste will be magically generated that tingles the taste buds… Nope… that’s Not happening! Now, our blessed forefathers saw this opportunity and developed an alternate industry that today, in my opinion, has surpassed the Curd Rice Market Capitalization all put together – These yummy and tangy side dishes are called Pickles. Come to think of it – this is how they named it a pickle. The inventors of curd rice had invented something that had all the qualities of mass appeal but it totally lacked in taste. They were literally in a pickle. They needed to invent something that would add more taste, more character and give a personality to the dish, they had just made. And hence, they invented the pickle and went on to make curd rice with pickle a ubiquitous combination. Convention generally dictates mongo or lemon pickle as an ideal accompaniment to curd rice. But the rebellious Type A people will tell you that – the onion, the spicy Andhra tomato or the garlic pickle will beat the standard Lime or Mango combination hands down any day any time. Now, the type of pickle you choose tells a lot about the personality type you display – So if you like the spicy pickles – you are a risk taker with a strong entrepreneurial streak. Apparently! If you like your pickles sweet and sour – you are of sharing nature and are more agreeable to other people – you may be a great asset in volunteering assignments. If you like your curd rice bitter – say with a bitter gourd pickle or even without any pickle at all - it is a robust indicator of Machiavellianism, psychopathy, narcissism or sadism… Yeah… like “What the… hell yeah?!” And who would have guessed why the Human Resource manager kept pickles for you to choose on the dining table with curd rice, on that fateful interview day – your every action/ or even inaction seems to suggest something about you. Seriously, if you didn’t end up taking pickle that day - you just lost that job, the HR surely thought of you as a psychopath or a sadist in the psychometric assessment. Why just jobs… I believe the pickle you choose should also be a strong indicator in picking a life partner as well. Firstly there needs to be a new filter on the Tinder App that indicates which part of the curd rice faction you belong to and some indication of your “pickle preferences” and what “pickle partnerships” you are open to experimenting. I also strongly believe that curd rice is the food of gastric diplomacy. The only solution to end our stalemate with the political powers in China also largely lies here. Think about it – India and China have been at loggerheads since early 1962. Each one is trying to establish its oneupmanship over the other. When it comes to issues like Engineering talent exported or working population growth or even large demand generation markets – Both India and China are head to head. But one place where China seems to have ‘Trump’ed India seems to be with food. Ask any average Joe/ Josephine (gender equality check!) walking on the streets of India, as to which cuisine he/ she prefers – the answer you will get will definitely be “Why Of course –

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

Chinese!”. Or at least it would feature in his/ her top 2 or 3 for sure. And yes, Mind you - this may not be the original Chinese – but he/ she is probably referring to is Indianized Chinese being served at a pushcart called Raju Thelawalla who in likelihood spells Chow Mein as Chahomen (this may be misinterpreted if read in Hinglish!) As a country, to make our cuisine more acceptable to the pallets of the other nations of the world, there is only one dish that gives us both this flexibility and the neutrality of taste. It is only Curd Rice - who can help us capture some lost global market share. A short-term solve can be to combine it with the right kind of Schezwan pickles or Manchurian sides that can complement it – while also giving the resultant dish a brand new personality. It will be the global equivalent of Vatha kuzhambu as a curd rice accompaniment. Oh yes – that would be the solution to capture the Chinese market – the side dishes can be varied to capture the culinary intent of any desired target country we want to conquer. I am now fully confident Rahul, that the next frontier and growth market in the Start-up sector is packaging and delivery of premium quality Curd Rice. It is definitely the food of the future. I have done the demand sizing and the preliminary growth estimates, basis my assumptions (including the possibility of exports), we should be able to break even in two years or lesser depending on the scale we can handle. What do you think? I wanted you to come over today so I can [through this letter] introduce you to the idea and you can then evaluate this, or maybe sleep over it. Looking forward to hearing from you [maybe in person] tomorrow! Yours Truly, Som Uncle [Oh by the way: The reason I called you here, is so that you can sample the curd rice at this place. The quality is quite average, it just proves that with a little investment, a little passion, a little time and some quality we can beat even Shanti Sagars of the World in Curd Rice Sale. Why, say, are you game, partner?] Signed: Uncle Som As I neatly folded the letter and placed it in my pocket, a gazillion thoughts ran through my head. I was wondering what had just struck me. As I tried to make sense of what had just read, the same waiter who had handed me Som Uncle’s letter came out of the kitchen and place in front of me a full plate of “Curd Rice” with Mango Pickle. As he readied himself to walk away, he said to me “Don’t worry Saar, Som Uncle has already paid for one plate of Curd Rice!”

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WHY I DIDN’T KILL MYSELF Ranjan Anantharaman Genre: Psychological Drama I always hated that man, Mr. Agrawal. For one, I always got his spelling long when I was filling out a form. It was spelt Agrawal but pronounced Agarwal. I always got it wrong when I was filling out forms for my sick leave. But I don’t care. They knew who I was talking about. Why couldn’t they correct it themselves, these HR people? What else do these schmucks sit around and do anyway? But I digress. The real reason I hate that Agarwal, my overtly pretentious boss, is his level of selfobsession. He couldn’t give two fucks about me if he weren't dependent on my work. And I had to see him just now for my yearly eval. “You know, you should really flip him off,” Anita said, her arm on my shoulder, stroking my hair. “He’s gonna give you a bad review anyway, you might as well…,” she trailed as she twirled a finger around my tie, “take it like a man, with both fists swinging.” Before I could say anything, he calls me in. ♦♦♦ I drive back home, to take the rest of the day off, because why not? I had plenty of time to reflect on the afternoon, as I navigated through the ridiculous traffic in the sweltering heat. It went as well as I could have hoped for. He wanted to give me a stern talking to, but both of us know he can’t fire me. The cost of hiring a replacement was too great. He’d need another two years before he could fake the right numbers and get promoted. With me, a year tops. But I could quit. Fuck, I could quit any day I wanted to. Hmm, maybe I will, just to spite the fucker. “That’d show him,” Anita chimes in, sitting beside me. “Yeah,” I chucked, turning to her momentarily. “But I don’t know, I kind of need the money, and with Raju at home, he’s getting ready to join that new school on Kanakpura.” “Plus it’s not like you’re helping, you know,” I added quickly. 44

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“Pfft, yeah, keep bringing that up, mister,” she pouts. “God, how did you ever get so good at not forgetting things?” “I guess I learned from the best,” I wink at her. ♦♦♦ “Appa, you came back home early!” “You sound surprised, Raju.” “Yeah, you’re usually not home by the time I’m back from school.” “True, true. But you know what, I think I might start to. They can’t keep your dad chained up for too long!” “Haha, you show them, Appa! Did you get promoted to a job where you're the boss and you get to do whatever you want?” “Haha! Gosh, you’ve been watching too much TV, Raju. Nothing is ever like that completely. But ummm, let’s just say that it’s not too distant a possibility, wink wink!” “Dad, you're not supposed to say it, you just gotta do it! Like this, look at me.” “Wow, you’re a little winker, aren’t you? How many girls have you practiced this on, you little rascal?” “Oh come on, none dad. You’re so lame.” “Would a lame dad offer to take you out to ice cream just now? You know what, you’re probably right. Let’s not do ice cream.” “Okay okay, I take it back! You’re the coolest dad ever!” As we walk out the door, Anita looks after us, disapproving. “You spoil that child,” she says. “He’ll get a cold now. And whom does he come to when he’s sick? Mommy, mommy, mommy!” “Well maybe you don’t indulge him enough,” I say defiantly, before closing the door. “And maybe,” I later whisper to myself, as I walked to the car, “I don't take care of him enough.” ♦♦♦ As I stroll into work, I noticed something strange. My ID didn’t work. I approach the lobby desk. Yes sir, I'm sorry your ID doesn’t work sir. I’m sorry sir, but I can’t give you a temp. You’ll need to wait by those chairs. Yes sir, I understand your concern, and that you have work to do. We’re doing everything we can. Finally, a lady from HR approaches me. She tells me I’m out. What? Mr. Agrawal didn’t tell you? I tell her it’s pronounced Agarwal. She doesn’t care. She hands me a small bag with my pens and my stapler. Wait, what about my framed pictures? My newspaper clippings? Or Dr. Milito, my little squishy? She shrugs and then walks away. Before she steps into the elevator, she smirks. Boy, these folks from HR certainly know how to tell a man to fuck off. ♦♦♦ More traffic. And Anita wasn't happy.

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“And you just walked out? You didn’t raise your voice, call your boss, or threaten to leak information to the press?” she says incredulously, looking me up and down. I shrug. “What could else could I do, Anita? That’s how things are these days. You can’t do jack shit. They’d lawyer up before you can say banana.” “What about going down with both fists swinging?” “You can’t if your hands are tied,” I say, a hint of sadness creeping into my voice. A brief minute passed, as I honk at three boys on a small scooter, trying to get themselves killed. “You never could stand up for yourself,” she hisses. I stay silent. “You’re weak.” True. “Pathetic.” Also, true. “And you stink of cheap cologne.” “Hey, wait a min-“, I turn to her, but she was gone. ♦♦♦ “Appa, you got that new promotion didn’t you? That’s why you’re back early.” “Appa, isn’t that right?” “Appa, can we go to that ice cream place again, please… pretty please? Tomorrow’s my first day, and I know I won’t get to for at least a month. I promise we needn’t go there for two months. I’ll make a deal. Let’s spit on our palms and shake on it.” “Appa, why are you so silent?” “Come on, pa. Take me, let’s go. Come.” “Appa –” “Shut up! Just let me think for a minute, won’t you? Don’t you have homework?” “No, it’s summer!” “Then go, go read something! Or watch your TV. Go!” “But, I was hoping you could take me to ice cream……” “Here, here, here. Take it, take it! Just go yourself.” “But, it’s far. And besides –” ♦♦♦ As I zone him out, I feel a hand on my shoulder. “I told you you’re spoiling that child. Spoilt brat,” she hisses. I slowly take out my belt. I curl it up, ignoring his pleas. He needed this, I’m doing this for his good, I tell myself. With a flick of my wrist, I slash, aiming for his torso.

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

But I heard no scream. Instead, the bottle in front me cracks and screeches, as its contents spill out onto the coffee table. The loud thunderstorm outside can’t drown the throbbing in my head. ♦♦♦ A voice calls, “Appa, what’s wrong?” I turn to see Raju at the foot of the stairs, in his bedclothes, rubbing his eyes. He glances in the direction of my broken bottle. I hurriedly pick it up, cutting myself. I swear. “Nothing, Kanna. Just dropped something.” As I clean up the broken shards of glass, I ask after my son, who appears to be heading to the kitchen, “What happened, da? Couldn’t sleep?” A clap of thunder, he doesn’t hear me. I walk after him. “The thunder is getting loud, huh?” I catch up with him as he gets a glass of water. “Yes, Pa.” “Do you want me to come sleep in my room?” “No.” “Hah, my young man is growing brave!” He turns away. “What’s wrong?” He doesn’t say anything. I put a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t look at me. I shake him. “What?” He pouts. “You didn’t take me to ice cream today. And tomorrow’s school.” I freeze. “Raju, what did I do once I refused to take you to ice-cream?” “You sent me to my room… why?” I sigh. “Why?” “Get some sleep, Kanna. Tomorrow’s a big day.” ♦♦♦ I get up in the morning, and today Anita’s not in the shower with me. I guess she chose to sleep in. Raju’s new school is a real beauty. The sprawling 50-acre campus in Kanakpura had a football field, tennis court, and large, spacious classrooms. In the middle stood a tall clock tower, which chimed every hour to signal the end of class. The lawns were cut and mowed every morning, and the meadows were watered. Every child had a locker-room, where he stowed his books, so he could retrieve them for each class. Purva International School.

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When I was in school, we had one building. I wish him good luck before taking a U-turn to work. I drive ten minutes before it hits me. I turn back home. ♦♦♦ “I missed you this morning.” “Well, did you discipline your child today?” “No, well. I did give him a stern talking to -“ “Don’t give me that. You little liar! You chickened out, didn’t you?” “No, Anita! I didn’t. He asked me for ice-cream, what kind of twelve-year-old doesn’t?” She turns away, muttering something. “What was that?” “He looks so much like you.” “No, he has your eyes. You always had big beautiful eyes. Eyes that I miss drowning in. Eyes that I miss kissing.” She giggled, “It’s been 12 years, and you’re still dripping with cheese!” “It was good enough to charm you!” She rolls her eyes but doesn’t stop giggling. We ride in silence for a while. Then I hear a sob. I turn. “But he did kill me, you know.” “I know.” “Do you resent him?” “Should I?” “What kind of mother would I be if I said you should?” “A terrible one, I’d wager,” I laughed. “But all I ever wanted was to raise a child with you.” “Well, here you are.” “And you aren’t.” “No,” she concedes. “No, I’m not.” ♦♦♦ I wake up in a pool of sweat. There’s no power. The fan has stopped spinning, and judging by how soaked I am, for probably hours. I grab the alarm clock. Shit. I rush into the bathroom and emerge five minutes later, half brushed, half washed and half awake. “Raju! Raju!” I call after him, only to find a sticky note on the fridge, “Took the bus to school, Appa. Get some rest.” God, what did I do last night?

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

I hastily lock the door and get into the car. I glance in the rear-view mirror. Do I look clean? Do I look neat? Do I look professional? I look hungover. I curse to myself, as I struggle with the ignition. “I’m sorry I’m not here,” Anita sobbed next to me. “Anita, not now! I got a big interview up at HP. I’ve got to think about my story,” I said, grunting and heaving. But the car won’t start. “What story?” “You know, what my vision for myself is, why they should hire me, why they should invest in me, why I’d be a long-term asset for the company, yada yada…” “You have all that straightened out already, don’t you?” “Well, I guess…” “Then what is it? What’s your vision? “Umm.., well.” “Well, what? Don’t you know what you’re going to say? Haven’t you thought it through?” “I can’t do this with you around.” She sharply draws in her breath. “What did you say to me?” “Nothing. Listen, I’m almost there. I’ll see you later.” She sobs. “You’ve never asked me to leave,” said sharply into my ear. “Well, I am now.” She stays silent. I turn to her, spotting the creases on her forehead, and venom in her usually pleasant hazel eyes. “Anita. I need this fucking job. There’s shit I need to buy. Bills I need to pay. I’m rotting Anita. Look at me! I drink every night now. Raju took the bus to school today because I slept in.” Silence. “I need this job, Anita! I need this fucking job!” I speed past the signal as the light shifted from amber to red. I nearly hit an old woman. I don’t care. I was late. “What are you saying, Varun?” “I’m saying I need time to think. Just go away for a bit.” She looks murderous. She’d hit me, she wouldn’t care if we veered off the road and hit a traffic light. She’d hit me. Instead, she hissed. “You fucking ingrate.” “Anita, sorry, I didn't mean it like that.” “I made you,” she whispered, a tear rolling down her right cheek.

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“Anita…,” I turn to her, but she was gone. ♦♦♦ “My core skills are in software architecture and management. I have a very successful track record of executing large-scale projects across a variety of teams and ensure excellent client satisfaction.” “Okay. Thank you. Yes, I’ve scanned your resume. Quite good. Yes, quite good, Mr. Varun. Your profile clearly matches what we’re looking for. But unfortunately, I need to ask you one more question: why were you removed from your last position?” “I’m

sorry?”

“Yes, I know, I’m sorry. But new HR policy dictates I ask you this question, especially if you don’t disclose a letter from your previous employer.” Shit. “Umm, Mr. Agarwal and I had uhh, a few creative differences.” “Such as?” Tell him he was a dick. Come on, Anita whispers menacingly in my ear. Anita, go away. “Such as, uhh, I had a different vision for a project and um, he didn’t agree with me.” “So he fired you?” He was a self-righteous, thumb-twiddling, soul sucking asshole. Shut up. “Our arguments got, um, very heated.” You never argued with him. You took it all, like a sissy. “I see. I did not know this was a disciplinary case. I certainly hope you wouldn't repeat this behaviour at this company. We certainly do not want people who’d uh, disrupt our open and friendly work environment.” “No sir, I do not plan to. I made a mistake, acting in that way. I merely wanted to stand for what I believed in.” By telling your interviewer nothing but the truth. Yeah, right. For once, be a man, Varun. Tell him. No. Tell him. No. TELL HIM. “No,” I whisper. “I beg your pardon, did you say something?” “No, sir. I just cleared my throat.” LIAR. I’m not a liar.

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

Then tell him. Anita… Tell him. Anita, I’m in the middle of an interview. Where you’re LYING! Tell him! You piece of human refuse who has never once stood up for anyone or anything, TELL HIM! “LEAVE ME ALONE!” I thunder at her. I look at my interviewer. His eyes are wide. He quickly glances over his left shoulder, before setting his eyes back on me. The pen is in his hand. Still. I look down at my hands. They're shaking. I try to apologize. I sound hollow. I try to get up and excuse myself to the restroom. The interviewer jerks away, as I get up. I mumble my apologies. I walk away from the room, and away from a career at HP. ♦♦♦ I wish I could be more selfless. I wish I had the courage to take what she threw at me. I wish I had the strength to soldier on and continue searching for a job. But I didn’t. I went to the doc. He told me my mind is dying. He told me to take a few meds. It didn’t help. She never went away. She torments me while I remain unemployed. She torments me for asking my brother to look after Raju for a while. The doc suggests therapy. It helps a little. But all therapy mostly told me was how bad other people have it. And how good I had it. This story I tell you isn’t one of bravery, or achievement. This story I tell you probably doesn't even have a point. But I did wish to mention one thing: I didn’t take my life and deprive Raju of another parent. This I tell you, so you can tell other people. Tell them I did the right thing. Sometimes I wish it felt better. But more importantly, tell Raju. When my mind gives way, tell him I finally stood up to it, the disease. Don’t do it for me, nor my deteriorating mind. Tell him I stood up for him.

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SECRETS OF THE GOLDFISH R Pavan Kumar Genre: General Fiction Few events in life are as irrevocable as seeing a loved one burned to ash. Akash realised this as he saw Prithvi's pyre burning for what seemed an age now. ‘It takes a person a long time to burn,’ Akash thought to himself. But, it was final. It gave a closure there was no coming back from. Akash would not hope that his soul mate would walk back into his life ever again. He still could not believe that Prithvi was no more. Prithvi's parents stood at the other end of the pyre, convincing him against his better judgement that this was actually happening. Prithvi's mother was still clinging to her husband like a ragged doll, and she was still crying. Her cries of pain, that had threatened to drown the world earlier, were reduced to sobs and sighs and now only her body shook with the violence of her grief. Akash had never seen anyone cry for so long. Prithvi's father stared at the pyre in disbelief as if, if he stared long enough in defiance the pyre would spit his son back. Seeing them like this sent a wave of fresh grief through his tired body, he wanted to comfort them but did not know how. Besides they had each other to comfort, his only comfort was being reduced to ashes. Akash closed his eyes and he could still see the pyre burning behind his eyelids. Why could he not cry? He wanted more than anything to be able to cry. He wanted to cry like Prithvi’s mother, like no one else existed in the world, like the world was grief itself. He would be fine crying like Prithvi’s father, who was crumbling inside and yet supporting his wife on his frail shoulders. But Akash could not cry. His grief was the only thing he could feel, it was strangling his soul. If he didn’t find some relief by crying he could choke on his grief. The smoke from Prithvi’s pyre stung his eyes, and that should have been enough to make him cry. And yet his eyes stayed dry. The sun had begun to set and they were the only ones left with the pyre. Scores of people had come to pay their last respects to Prithvi. Prithvi was a well-loved person and had tons of friends. All of them had turned up and everyone from his office had come too. Akash wished

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

none of them had been there, including Prithvi’s parents. He knew that was selfish of him but he did not care. He had not even been able to kiss Prithvi one last goodbye and he knew it would be the biggest regret of his life. ‘I have to feed the goldfish,’ Akash thought to himself. When the pyre was reduced to ashes, and the embers began to cool down, he felt tired to his bones. He felt raw, as if part of his reality was charred forever, disfigured and scattered to nothingness. He cursed whoever had come up with the idea of cremating loved ones, leaving not even a tombstone to remember them by. Screw ‘reincarnation’ and ‘letting go of the physical body’ some of us did not like closure or getting over things. Prithvi's mother brought out a brass urn and handed it to his father. Akash could see his shoulders shake with silent cries as he took the urn and walked towards the ashes. He picked them in fistfuls into the urn, he accidentally brushed his cheek and got some ash on his face but did not seem to notice. He picked the ashes slowly with a loving affection as if they were still alive and sensitive to his touch, probably how he had picked Prithvi for the first time as a child. Now his dear son was back in his arms again. He placed a lid on the urn and returned it to his wife, who took the urn with the same kind of care. She hugged the urn to herself as if wishing to send it back to her womb. They would soon be dispersing those ashes too, in some holy river so polluted it almost seemed sacrilege to imagine any of his lover resting in them. And then his parents will have no physical remains of Prithvi to remember him by. Akash trembled at the thought. ‘I have to feed the goldfish’ he thought to himself. He waited for a while and took out his own urn. Prithvi's father saw it first and seemed about to say something but merely shook his head. Akash took a step towards the ashes, Prithvi’s mother saw the urn and she gave him such a look of pure rage and hatred that he stopped in his tracks. He did not know what she saw in his eyes but the look of hatred turned to one of such compassion and grief that it was difficult to believe it had been there. She began sobbing again and her husband held her and gave him an imperceptible nod. Akash approached the ashes, they gave off a great warmth, just like Prithvi's bare chest did when they lay together watching television. He fell on his knees just beside the ashes and he could almost feel tears in his eyes. He waited, feeling the warmth of the ashes, hoping tears would roll down his parched cheeks, but they did not come yet. He touched the warm ashes and he remembered the times Prithvi would take his cold hands and put them in between his own thighs to warm them when Akash climbed into bed. He almost smiled, the ashes felt like Prithvi, he wanted to roll in them and hoped that they always stayed warm. He picked them into the urn and filled it. He held them to his stomach, they were the only thing keeping him from feeling cold to his bones. Prithvi's parents wanted to go back to their hometown immediately. They did not want to stay in the city that had killed their son for a moment longer than necessary. Akash wished they would stay a while longer and not leave him alone with a ghost of himself. But they did not

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relent. He offered to take them back to the house so they could rest for a while before their journey back, but they were not willing to go back to the house. So he took them to the railway station. They walked into the railway station like they were walking out of a nightmare covered in the ashes of a son and a lover. They did not speak the whole way, the silence being broken only by an occasional sob from Prithvi's mother. As they stood on the platform waiting for the train Akash wished that they would not go. He had not realised that their presence had given him some strength to face the situation or perhaps he was just being strong for their benefit. Either way, he now felt a dread that once they left he would be inconsolable and would cry forever. He felt an immense urge to hold Prithvi’s parents and just take them home with him. He wanted to cry and tell them that he would probably break into a million little pieces the moment they left, but no tears came to his eyes and no words left his mouth. They just stood on the platform, ghosts out of a nightmare, people and life flowing around them. The train arrived and he helped them get their luggage on board and find their seats. Prithvi’s father still held the urn close to him and Prithvi’s mother looked like she had no idea where they were or where they were headed next. Akash did not know what he could do for them. He said his goodbyes and told them to call him once they reached safely. Akash was about to leave when Prithvi's mom embraced him and began to cry. He held her as she completely broke down in his arms. He had dreaded such a situation because he thought that he too would burst out crying. Now he was actually hoping for a flood of tears, but none came. He could feel his collar becoming wet with her tears. In between two sobs, she looked up at him and gave him an understanding look. As if she was saying, “I feel your grief and I cry for the both of us.” Akash held her close to his heart. She was a good mother, but she had never acknowledged Akash as more than a weirdly clingy roommate her son had. At least now she could admit that they both shared a grief for her son. The train's horn made the departing signal and Prithvi's father took his wife back into his own embrace. He squeezed Akash’s arm and patted him on his shoulder, “Take care” his voice was hoarse. Then he helped his still weeping wife into her seat, Akash got down from the train. Akash waved at them, but they just sat in their seats staring out of the window with glazed eyes at a future they could not see. Akash stood for a long time on the platform, drowning in grief and unable to shed a tear. How does a drowning man know if he was crying? ‘I have to feed the goldfish’ Akash thought to himself. Akash did not want to go back home. He wanted to be anywhere else but home. He tried to stay in the station as long as he could. He bought a coffee from a stall fully aware that it would be weak watered down coffee water, he sat on a bench on the platform and sipped it slowly. He looked at people as they flowed around him. He tried to remember the last time he had really been out in the world without Prithvi by his side, he could not. Akash had known Prithvi for

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

only a few years, still, he could not remember what life had been like before Prithvi. He had journeyed so far into one person that the world felt alien to him. He tried to familiarise himself with the sights and sounds of the world, but the world was loud and garrulous, utterly uncaring for the storm that had befallen him and utterly unaware of the complete destruction that it had left in its wake. He wanted someone to notice his pain. He did not wish for anything beyond that, just an acknowledgement of his tragedy, a witness to his suffering. Perhaps if he had cried someone might have noticed him. But he could not cry, his heart stayed full of grief and his eyes stayed tearless. Perhaps that was the essence of humanity, sharing our common suffering and acknowledging each other’s griefs in an ephemeral attempt to stay afloat in a cold universe. But Akash had no one to share his secret grief with, no one to keep him afloat as his grief slowly filled his lungs and drowned him and refused to even flow out of his eyes. He felt he was floating away on a sea of humanity, unmoored and anchorless, buffeted by waves of indifference, a castaway without a compass or a map unsure of where the sea was taking him. He panicked, threw away his coffee cup and looked around wondering what he should do next. ‘I have to feed the goldfish’ he thought to himself and made his way home with reluctance. Akash wondered if it would always be the flat where he lost Prithvi and not the one where he had thousands of great memories and the best time of his life. He wished he had somewhere else he could go. For the first time, he realised how little he knew about his old friends or anyone else or the world for that matter. He and Prithvi had built a world of their own, kind of like a snow globe, small, perfect and lovely. Now the idea of the snow globe being shaken made him feel nauseous. His perfect snow globe had no exit in it. He stood outside the flat, with the keys in his hand. He could hear all the memories in the house waiting for him like hungry pets. The moment he opened the door they would come crying to him like the orphaned children they were and he would have to comfort all of them. He did not know if he had the strength for that. He lingered in that doorway between the past and the present, willing time to just forget him like a neglected trinket. He heard voices coming up the stairs, his neighbors, they would want to talk to him about what had happened. Between the world and his memories, he chose his memories. He opened the door and walked in. Akash ignored all the memories as they clamored for his attention. He focused on the small fish bowl sitting on the coffee table. The water had become muddy and fish shit floated in its dirty currents. He rushed to the coffee table and kneeled beside it fearing the worst. He put his face to the bowl and searched for them. He let out a sigh as he saw the two goldfish swimming listlessly in the middle of the bowl. They noticed him and swam to the surface moving their mouths as if gasping for air. He did not know when they had last been fed. He fed them some

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fish food and they gobbled it up with greed. He placed Prithvi’s urn beside the fishbowl and sank into the sofa. He stared at the goldfish. They were the only living things that knew about him and Prithvi. He felt a pang of possessiveness for them which quickly turned to jealousy. At least they still had each other. He remembered when they had bought the goldfish. Prithvi had always wanted kids. He was a natural with them and they loved him too. He always kept talking about having kids someday and it made Akash anxious. So one day when Prithvi was again going on about how he would love to have kids of his own, Akash said it would be way more difficult than he thought. As if this was the chance he had been waiting for Prithvi called his bluff and said he could prove it, but since he would not adopt a child right then they should start their family with a puppy. They kept arguing about it and finally decided to start their family with a pair of goldfish. And true to his word Prithvi had taken great care of the goldfish. He would come back from work, feed them and spend some time watching them swim around. Akash had never seen someone feel so content watching fish swim. He sat and watched them now, wondering if they realised they would never see Prithvi again. He felt vaguely hungry and remembered thinking that he should eat something. But he just kept sitting on the sofa. The hunger kept buzzing through his thoughts from time to time but it felt less real than the numbness that was drowning him. Finally, he got up to eat because his hunger was closing in on his grief. He ate something that he could barely taste and wandered around the house. He walked slowly, as if afraid to rustle up too many memories. He found himself staring out of the window above their love seat. The cushions were still crumpled from the last time they had lain in them, some of the cushions still had a memory of the curves of Prithvi’s body. The window knew of all the time they had spent just lying in each other’s arms reading their books. He stumbled into the bedroom, where Prithvi had stripped him of his guilt and shame and taught him to treat himself as a person. He sat on the bed where they had learnt to love themselves and each other, where their souls had melted into each other such that he no longer knew where Prithvi stopped and Akash began. Akash wandered into the kitchen, where on numerous lazy weekend mornings they had cooked each other breakfast while still nude. He wondered why he was so scared for the memories, there were so many of them. But considering the person he had trusted was no longer around he felt it difficult to trust mere memories. All the memories felt different too, as if they too had been infected with Prithvi’s strange pneumonia and died, and would soon be relegated to photographs that he would rarely look at. He felt a sudden grief for the mortality of memories. Akash was still grappling with the mortality of his lover, he did not want to think that memories could die too. He did not know how he could preserve them. Especially his memories with Prithvi, they were such fragile things. Only two people in the world had ever known about them, and he was the only one left.

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

The thought scared him, it slowed him down, if he moved slowly he would not disturb anything and the memories wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t fade away. Akash noticed the urn of Prithvi's ashes. He picked it up and it was not warm anymore. The ashes had gone cold. This sent a shiver through his soul. He sat down on the sofa wishing he could somehow keep the ashes warm. He curled up into a fetal position and held the urn in between his thighs. The urn became warm with the heat from his skin, he felt that meant the ashes were getting warm and with them his memories too. He did not know how long he lay there. It is difficult to tell time when you do not feel anything. Normally they would be in bed right now, probably with a drink, watching their latest show. He remembered there was a bottle of Old Monk in the kitchen. And somehow it felt right that he should drink to the occasion. He ambled into the kitchen and got out the rum. He got two glasses, old monk was Prithvi's favorite after all. He put a drink beside the urn, toasted to secret lovers and public funerals and drank. The next day he woke up with his head swimming and was glad he had not eaten enough to throw up. He hated hangovers but right then it felt wonderful compared to the emotional black hole where his soul used to be. He just lay there letting the world spin around him. He still felt the same, he was hurting unbelievably and yet he could not cry. He was in an emotional coma. He had to find some way to let his grief out or else he may never feel anything again. As if to test his lightheadedness he sat up and his eyes fell on the fishbowl. One of the goldfish was floating upside down. He wondered why it was doing that. Was it sleeping? Did fish sleep? It took a couple of minutes for his drunk brain to realise what had happened. He stared blankly at it. He fell to his knees before the fishbowl and felt a wetness in his eyes. Slowly, inexplicably his grief welled up in the void of his soul. He felt a single teardrop on his cheek like dew on a desert leaf and with that, he felt the blissful release of his secret agony. His tears flowed like a river at flood and wailed like a thunderstorm at sea. He had watched his lover die in his arms, seen his pyre burn to the ground and been unable to shed a tear and he found release in a dead goldfish. He did not care what he cried for, he just wanted to cry. He wailed violently as if his life depended on it, and it probably did. When his cries became less violent and he stopped shaking as much, he curled up beneath the coffee table and cried more. He went on for a long time until his tears dried up and all he could manage were dry silent sobs and he continued those till he passed out. He woke up and through the glass of the coffee table he could see the dead goldfish still floating in its murky water. He numbly thought he would have to get rid of its body and wondered if he should have a funeral for it too. He stared at the dead goldfish for an age and finally got up. He realised that some knot deep inside him had been released with all his tears. He still did not feel alive he felt less like a ghost. He picked up the goldfish with his hands. It did not feel right to use the small fishnet. The goldfish had stiffened and its scales were already

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losing color. He held it above the toilet as he flushed it, but he could not bring himself to throw the fish in it. He buried the goldfish in the pot of the orchid plant that Prithvi had given him. This way, the goldfish would still stay in the house, still a part of what used to be his life and home. The goldfish was a part of his relationship and it was already dead. He felt everything else that was a part would wither away and only he would be left a husk of his former self. Like a pod that had lost all its seeds empty and useless hanging onto its branch till some wild wind put it out of its misery. He had finally cried and there was some relief in it. Now what did he do? He felt like a ghost in a horror movie that no one was watching. He felt like a spirit in a haunted house where no one lived. What did ghosts do when they werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t haunting? Was it easier to grieve when someone shared it with you? Is that why ghosts haunted the living? Because a secret grief was much worse than being dead? The world felt like a memory to him and he felt like a memory to the world. His pain felt almost natural, cause are we not all ghosts of our memories? He did not want to go out of the house, the outside world did not know what he and Prithvi had had. He felt if he went out the world would barge into his home and disperse all his memories away like they had never really been. And if he forgot then...well it would be like it had never been because who else was there to remember? He looked at the other fish in the fishbowl, now swimming alone. He sat there and stared at it like Prithvi would have done. It took him a while to notice it, but the fish still swam like there was another fish in the fishbowl. It always swam near the edge of the fishbowl as if it was leaving some space for its partner to swim beside it. It chased something around the bowl as if chasing its partnerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s memories to keep them alive. Akash stared at the fish for a long time, wondering if it was just a habit for the fish, if the fish would soon forget its partner and swim differently. The fish continued to swim as if its partner was still swimming with it. Akash smiled, he had been naive. He realized why he could not cry before, he had been afraid that he would cry out all his memories, all his secrets and then he would have no testimony of it. He now knew that was not true, the loss of his secret love had left a hole in him, but the more he prodded the contours of this freshly torn part of his soul, the more familiar it felt to him, like the negative of a favourite photograph. He felt he owed it to Prithvi to continue living and keeping his memories alive. True he could never share them with anyone, and maybe he did not wish to. Yes, the grief was too much to handle and it would constantly remind him of what he had once been so that it haunted him, but maybe he would grow to treasure it. The world had nothing to offer him to replace his lost love so his secret grief would have to do. Akash did not know how long he stayed in the house. There was no need for time in there. He did not know if the world outside was real, and it did not seem to matter. He picked up the fishbowl with the lone fish swimming in it with one hand and the urn of Prithviâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ashes in the

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

other and opened the door. He stepped into the outside world. He sighed with relief, the whole world felt like a fishbowl to him, all his memories and all their secrets would always be around him, swirling in the currents of his grief. He smiled and walked on.

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GENRE: HORROR

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

THE CURIOUS CASE OF LAURA Ell P Genre: Horror I light my third cigarette in the last fifteen minutes, when Roy exclaims, “Oh, come on Sunny. Look at Papa, it is not good for him. The fumes.” I turn towards the pale, frail man that lay on the bed to my left, barely breathing, connected by tubes to as many as eight different apparatus. I expect the usual knot in my gut to hit me anytime, that knot of pure, raw dread of my father. I get nothing, nothing at all, sitting there watching him take his dying breaths, inhaling fumes of tobacco, I feel neither fear nor any traces of remote affection. I wonder, how soon before he takes his last breath before he frees me from the clutches of my childhood nightmares? “Ah, fuck Roy,” I turn back towards him, exasperated. “Papa is as good as dead, anyway. What is another round of passive smoking going to do to him? Plus I’m bored, waiting for Bob and Mia.” I speak the last sentence sulking and burying further into the Victorian Lounge chair that was plush enough to engorge my frail body. This is my father’s room, always has been; the largest, plushest, most masculine room in the whole mansion. Perhaps a London flat would comfortably accommodate itself in Papa’s room. It sits above everyone and everything in our three-floored mansion. We were never allowed in there as kids, not even Mom, when she was alive, only the maids; and only to clean up whatever my father used to do over there all those nights my siblings and I were… “I am here, Papa”. I hear the familiar voice of my elder sister Mia, exclaim breathlessly, rushing to my father, softly caressing his forehead. She even manages to coerce a single, dramatic teardrop for special effect. She then puckers her lips to plant a soft kiss on his forehead, which I observe to my sadistic satisfaction, barely touches his grey, pasty, pale skin. She turns around and looks at me, fury marring her eyes as if Roy and I had been doing jack shit for the last hour, sitting there and smoking fumes, while our father is constantly being consumed into fiery depths of hell.

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“Papa is fine,” I say. “We have been keeping an eye on him – and hi Mia, Bob.” I look at both of them, the twins, my elder brother and sister, older by just a year and two sides of the same coin. They used to look so much alike when we were kids, but time had changed them both. Transformed the boyish, bossy Mia into a proper society lady and the awkward Bob into a jetsetting, go-getting, corporate slave. “Hi Sunny, Roy, Mr. Poof,” Mia responded eyeing me, Roy and Roy’s old, battered teddy bear, with one eye, Mr. Poof. I am still pretty flabbergasted that after all these years Roy, the youngest amongst us, has kept his tattered Teddy bear alive in his own head. Somehow at twenty-four years old, having an imaginary friend in a teddy bear stops being cute anymore, at least stops being cute to me. “Mr. Poof says hi, Mia,” Roy responds clearly pleased that Mia remembers to acknowledge Mr. Poof, unlike Bob and I. I snort and light another cigarette while sharing a look with Bob. “So, now what? We are all here. What are we waiting for?” Bob speaks, clearly impatient, irritable and looking goddamned rich in his bespoke brown checkered suit and a royal blue silk pocket square, strategically stuffed down his breast pocket. “Well, the doctor said that this would be his last night. We should be with him.” Roy says; his voice sounds like tiny mewl from a subdued kitten. Just like Bob, even Roy has taken pains about what to wear. His outfit speaks, in fact, screams I AM A BIG BOY NOW. “This better be done by morning. I need to fly out to Florida tomorrow.” Bob plops himself on the only available cushioned chair and checks his Rolex. We all do, check our watches and iPhones, scratch our chins, clear our throats and settle into an uncomfortable silence. It had been almost ten years since the four; rather five of us had been in the same place. The last time was for Mia’s wedding, and I was glad she made sure it happened in a place far away from this…this mansion; we used to call home a lifetime ago. “Mr. Poof is asking about your girlfriend, Sunny?” Roy asks after what feels like an hour of absolute silence but is actually just five minutes. “She is not my girlfriend.” I respond, irritated. “Well, of course, she is,” Mia says. “And it is alright little sis, we love you no matter how ‘queer’ you are.” She looks at Bob to chime in with a laugh or even a smile, but Bob’s face twists in disgust and turns away. The bitch, Mia, with her patronizing tone continues, “I am just glad Papa hasn’t gotten a whiff of it yet. Imagine what he would’ve done to you, had he found out?” All of us turn towards Papa again, thinking, wondering if he could hear us. Wondering if he would just swing his legs off the bed and take the baseball bat he always used to keep in his closet. Bob finally leans forward in his chair, “Oh yeah, my freaky, lesbian sister. Thank your stars that Papa is in a vegetative state. Else your pink-dyed hair and pierced ears would’ve been

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

chopped off and he would’ve created enough welts on your naked body; for you to look like an unpeeled pineapple.” The image of a grown-up, bald me; bleeding from my ears, naked and being beaten, is not a pleasant image. In fact, it is downright nauseating and repulsive. Reminding me of when our bodies used to be covered in welts almost every day of the year, especially after Mom died. “For the last time, I am not a lesbian, I am bisexual, okay. And even if Papa finds out, he is in no position to punish me.” I continue, pointing a meaningful stare at Roy, “And Roy aren’t you a little too old to carry Mr. Poof around?” I ask. “Leave him alone, Sunny. He is our baby brother and if Mr. Poof gives him comfort so be it. God knows how much he would’ve suffered at Papa’s hands. We weren’t around after he turned eight. Remember?” Mia, the high and mighty queen of Seattle social circle, intervenes, while Roy buries his face in his teddy bear and pretends to play the victim. But I am still fuming from the inside and need to vent out. All those visions of being tied up to the basement naked while Papa whips my – our backs and ass, were making me increasingly furious. “Bob, did you hear anything about that maid – you know…” I let my words trail as another maid walks in with hot chocolate for me, scotch on the rocks for Bob and coffee for the others. I try to bend forward and get a good look at her. All I see is clear, striking blue eyes. She slowly puts the china down, and I notice her hands are shivering. She seems awfully young to work here as a maid, I think. Barely in her teens, and managing the whole household all by herself. I decide to have a word with her later. She lingers for a bit, and shifts uncomfortably on her feet until Bob dismisses her. We drink our drinks in silence, and I persist in our conversation. “Yeah Bob, whatever happened to that maid. You know, the one you had taken a shine to.” Bob shifts uncomfortably, his face twisting into a painful snarl. And I feel strangely vindicated. “Umm, she? I don’t know; she just left one day.” He says. Mia pitches in a conspiratorial tone, “Oh yes, wasn’t that just before the three of us were sent abroad for our studies and Roy had to stay back?” “Yes,” Bob replies, shifting in his chair again as I notice a bead of sweat breaks out of his forehead. “You know when she left, or rather just disappeared, I had heard rumors that she stole some silver and ran off. And then she was caught whoring around.” Mia says, her face beaming with pure delight, reminding me how much Mia thrives on gossip lately. “Mr. Poof doesn’t want you to talk like this about Laura,” Roy says, looking miserable. Holding his teddy high, near his ear. “Tell Mr. Poof to fuck off.” I say.

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“Did you get to fuck the maid, Bob?” I ask just as Mia gasps and Roy spills his coffee. “Come on, you can tell us, we are family. We would understand those raging hormones you had at the age of eighteen.” Bob calmly puts his glass down, even though his muscles are taut, and looks me in the eye, “No Sunny, I did not fuck, Laura. In fact, we only made it through first base. But I loved her and wanted to marry her. I even gave her a rose-shaped ring when I proposed.” Then he turns around to Mia, “And yes, Mia, I had heard those rumors too” “What rubbish?” exclaims Mia, “You couldn’t have possibly married a maid? Papa would’ve killed you and her. Also if the rumors are any indication, you dodged a bullet there, Bob” Bob’s eyes have unfocused as if he is miles away, “I am not so sure Mia, not sure at all. That year when I was with her; was the best time of my life. Even Papa’s lashes did not hurt as much then.” His eyes mist over, and I am sure he is thinking of her, Laura, the maid with striking blue eyes. In that instant I regret bringing up old wounds, I regret Bob and Laura. “Mr. Poof says, ‘Laura never went anywhere. Laura was always here.’” Roy says, his eyes darting between the three of us, fear and surety alternatively oscillating on his face. “What do you mean, Roy?” Bob asks, his voice taking a sharp edge. “Mr. Poof doesn’t want to talk about it.” Roy’s voice has taken to wailing; a twenty-four years old man wailing because his teddy doesn’t want to talk about the past. After tonight, I am going to take him to a shrink, I decide. Bob moves towards Roy in an instant, so fast, that he is almost a blur. And the next moment I see Bob’s one hand on Roy’s neck and another on Mr. Poof’s, squeezing hard. He enunciates every single word when he says, “TELL. ME. WHAT. HAPPENED. TO. LAURA?” While Mia and I jump up to break them up, Bob pushes Mia away and leaves Roy and Mr. Poof. His body is covered in sweat and he is breathing hard, his muscles are tight as if it is an effort to keep himself from breaking something or someone. I am trying to hold Bob back from doing anything stupid, not on Papa’s deathbed at least. And Mia is consoling Roy, a distraught, broken Roy, who wouldn’t stop crying and hugging Mr. Poof. Tears of frustration mar my eyes as I turn towards our heavily breathing father, stuck with needles, and a sudden flash of memory, for a life I left behind ages ago, engulfs my whole being in pain. I was naked and shivering, tied to those metallic shackles in our dark basement. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, I had been there for more than three hours, I guessed. I could hear the beginnings of the evening, the footsteps from above, hustle-bustle to get dinner ready. I was used to this, we all were, Mia, Bob, Roy and I. To being tied up in a dark basement, left for hours without food or drink. It was when we weren’t left alone that terrified us. The door to our basement opened and I shook at the violence with which a cold blast of air hit my frail body. Papa walked down the steps, dragging a crying Bob behind him.

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

“Papa, please Papa. I don’t want to do it.” Bob begged and Roy followed Bob, holding Mr. Poof with him and sniffling. Roy must’ve have barely been five years old then; a frail, motherless boy, following his elder siblings around, like a lost little lamb. “You have to. You have to do it. It is time you became a fucking man, you faggot!” Papa’s voice bellowed in the basement and I cringed in the corner, against the wall. “Papa…no please, Papa.” Bob cried out again and Roy repeated everything Bob said. I watched Papa’s big hand go up in the air and land hard on Bob’s cheek with such force that he was almost thrown down the last two steps. Papa then picked up Roy and threw him down as well. From the door locked above us all, Mia banged incessantly, begging Papa not to hurt Roy. “Remove your clothes, faggot.” He ordered Bob, and Bob complied; we had to comply, we had no choice. Finally, he was as naked as I was when Papa handed him his belt. “Now, start!” He commanded. “And I don’t want you to stop until her body is covered in welts or she has fainted.” And at that moment, I really did regret taking Roy to the market in the afternoon, even though Papa had strictly told any of us not to. In my defense, I never thought Mia, that tattle-tale whore would tell Papa. “Papa, please…” Bob wailed and again was at the receiving end of another tight slap. “Don’t hold back, Bob. Don’t hold back, unless you want me to give you a good walloping just like your sister.” Papa threatened, as I cowered in a corner, covering my face and pleading, “No Bobby, please no.” The first whip stunned me so hard that I forgot to move. Forgot to breathe. The welts created a pattern of pain and misery on my body, as I cried, loud, louder than I ever had. Loud enough to hope that Mom would hear me from heaven above and help us all, even Mia. But Mom didn’t, she never did. It was almost as if we were all monsters and she had had enough of bearing monsters by the fourth one, Roy. Bob continued to whip me, and beg Papa to let him stop, and then again he would be slapped around until he started another round of whipping. My older wounds broke open and newer ones formed. No matter how hard he whipped me, or how many times, it never satisfied Papa, it was almost as if Bob was a disappointment to him. I noticed that Papa’s pants got tighter below his waist, just like every single time he whipped any of us. I was not a child anymore, Mia had told me that Papa’s penis used to get hard when he would hit us. And Mia said that, as if it was a really disgusting thing to happen. But then I saw Papa staring at Bob’s penis that hung limp, and somehow it seemed to disgust Papa. “You will always remain a fucking faggot!” he shouted with pure vehemence at Bob and collected Bob’s clothes, Roy; and left Bob and I in the basement for until the next morning. Naked, hurt, cold and hungry. Bob has calmed down a little; he is sitting on his chair, swirling the scotch in his glass, round and round, staring into nothing. Roy’s mewls have turned to sniffles and Mia is holding his head on her chest and rocking him like one of her children.

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But I, I am raging, furious, eyeing the man that lay on that expensive bed. The man that fucked us up; fucked us all up so bad. “I don’t know anything about this, Bob, but Mr. Poof does.” Roy finally speaks. “He – he says Papa…” And Roy bursts into another round of inconsolable sobs. As though everything that Mr. Poof was telling him caused him severe physical pain. “It is okay Roy, you don’t have to.” Bob says. “Mia is right, maybe she was whoring around, maybe she left me for the next, rich bloke she found.” “No Bob.” Roy cries out. “You need to know this. Mr. Poof is never wrong.” “She never left the house, Bob.” Roy says. “Never left it. I…I think Papa had come to know about you and her. About your love, about your plans to marry her, about how much she loved you and you loved her. And I think because of that, Papa wanted her. Wanted her so bad, that he would howl at nights.” I shivered as a sudden cold engulfs me, and I can clearly feel the temperature around the room dipping a few degrees. “How about another coffee? It is getting cold.” I say. Anything to avoid listening to what Mr. Poof wants us to know. And almost as if I had summoned my very own minion, the young maid appears carrying a tray of coffees and hot chocolate. She clears the existing mugs and glasses. Her hands shiver just like they did before. “What is your name, darling? Mia asks her, her smile tight and stretched; her face white and pasty. “Laura…” The girl replies; her voice a whispery haunt of painful memories. The chill in the room is seeping into our bones and all of us have frozen. I forget to breathe for a moment. “What?” Bob’s torn voice whispers. “Clara…” she says again. “My name is Clara.” Her voice is clearer this time. And the four of us breathe a sigh of relief. We are all at the edge of our nerves; perhaps we might have misheard the maid. The cocoa comforts me in its bittersweet succulence. But now that Mr. Poof has started, he doesn’t want to stop. “I need to continue.” Roy says. Almost in a plea, begging us to let him continue. As if the voices in his head won’t stop until he lets it all out. “Bob, do you remember the last time you saw her?” Roy asks my brother. “You were both holed up in the garden, Laura lay on your laps as you read out her favorite paragraphs from The Pride and Prejudice.” “How do you know that?” Bob asks in a hoarse whisper, his face unbelieving. “You were barely seven then.”

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

“I did not know that, but Mr. Poof does.” Roy says and all our eyes turn to the tattered teddy with one eye, in horror. “And…and then you dropped her outside the outhouse, which was the servant’s quarters then.” Roy continues, when Bob nods. “You told her to go right inside, it was getting dark.” “I did.” Bob says in disbelief. “Well, she didn’t. She didn’t go right inside. Instead she went for a walk, deep into the estate. Oh, she was fearless, your Laura. Wasn’t she? Nothing could scare, not like regular girls who are scared of measly insects.” Roy says. And I see unabashed tears trickling down Bob’s cheeks. “Bobby…” Mia says, her throat choked and her eyes are glistening. “Laura was on top of the world, ecstatic. She knew that not everyone was lucky enough to find their soul mate at the young age of eighteen, but she had. She had found you, and she knew that in the deeper than deepest of her heart, that you were both mean to be. She sang her favorite song from her favorite movie ‘The Sound of Music’… …Raindrops on roses, And whiskers on kittens, Bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens, Brown paper packages tied up with strings, These are a few of my favorite things…” Roy sings as Bob joins him and sings along, his voice heavy with sorrow and Mia is now openly sobbing. I don’t know if it is for Laura or for our lost childhood. “She walked and sang, and hopped and skipped. She was the happiest girl in this world. And then Papa saw her. He saw her when he was coming back from his hunt. She looked so beautiful, her clear blue eyes, sharp and gleeful, her flawless skin glowing with your touch, Bob, so happily in love with you. So, in love with Papa’s fucking, faggot son. Papa knew that she did not need a faggot; she needed a real man, a man like him. And you know how Papa was, don’t know? What he wants, he always gets. So he went about and got Laura, he sneaked behind her and grabbed her by her tiny waist, oh she screamed, loud, louder. Screamed “Bobby” “Bob” again and again, but when Papa placed his big hand on her mouth and suffocated her until she passed out, she couldn’t scream anymore.” Roy says; he pauses to take a long, deep breath. It is almost a physical effort for him to speak. “What happened after that?” Bob asks, his fists clenched and his skin is pulled tight against his face. “Papa kept her there for eight months in his hunting lodge in the estate. It is so far, far away, deep into the estate, Bob. No one heard her; no one heard her screams except the badgers, and the snakes, the birds and the lynx. None of us did. And when Papa told the three of you, six months after Laura disappeared, that he plans to send you all abroad for education. Didn’t you, Bob, jump at the chance? A chance to get away from this hell? Your first love forgotten, no one

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wondered what happened to Laura. Mia, Sunny, wasn’t she your friend, too? Didn’t you girls use to share notes and share clothes? There were no search parties for Laura, everyone forgot about her, assuming she ran away. Everyone, except Papa. He didn’t, he used her and abused her. Beat her to an inch of her life and then raped her every single day for eight months. And then when the three of you were gone, he brought her back here, to the basement. Her mouth in gags, her clothes in tatters, and her body covered in welts. I remember after you guys left, I wasn’t allowed near the basement anymore. I would hear chains rattling all night long, and Papa would blame it on rats. Honestly, I was terrified of going near the basement.” Roy pauses. His eyes glaze over as a memory from the past haunts him. “Roy, for God’s sake finish.” Mia pleads. “I don’t think I can take the details. It is all so disturbing.” Roy snaps, as if brought rudely back into the present. “Well, Mr. Poof says, somewhere during the first month of captivity Laura got pregnant. And she begged Papa, not to kill the baby. She begged Papa to let her carry it through to term.” Roy says. He eyes us all, and I realize we have been sitting in the same position, holding our breaths, since he began this tale of horror. “When Papa brought her to the basement, she was almost eight months pregnant, but Papa had no use of her anymore. You see, she wasn’t beautiful, she did not glow; her blue eyes were neither clear nor striking. Instead Laura looked like a living corpse, her wounds infected, filled with enough puss to attract maggots. Her eyes, dead and her bones jutted at odd angles from being broken and repaired over and over again. So, Papa decided to leave her there to rot, he was confident that neither Laura, nor her child would survive the ordeal. But you see, the desire to live was strong and they did. Laura survived in the cold basement, eating rodents, mites and insects, and drinking puddles of rainwater. And finally, almost a month later when Papa decided to open the basement and dispose of the bodies; he was welcomed by an emaciated Laura, caked in dried blood, holding an infant latched on to her breasts. Papa felt a surge of bile rise in his throat at seeing the bloodied mess and a dried up, half eaten placenta lying near Laura. His rage was so great at Laura for surviving, for making it, for being alive, that he took out his gun and shot her in the head, without even a warning.” And eerie silence falls in the room and the only sound that remains is the raspy breathing of Papa, the monster. After what feels like a lifetime, I ask. “What happened to the baby?” My voice, a scared, little whisper because I know, no one, no one here wants to listen to what Papa did to that baby. Roy doesn’t say anything; instead his face looks like there is a storm brewing inside his head. And finally he sighs. “Mr. Poof won’t speak anymore.” He says that with a strange sense of relief. Maybe even he did not want to know what happened to the baby. My heart is still thumping and I realize that I have covered myself with the throw rug and am still shivering under it.

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

“Sixteen years…Sixteen years I have spent wondering why Laura left me, and you tell me now, Roy. NOW! We could’ve saved her, Roy.” Bob pleads, his face marred in creases and tears. “I didn’t know, Bob, I swear didn’t. I was just a child, remember.” Roy says, almost in a whimper. “And we are all here, caring for the same monster, who raped, tortured and killed the woman you loved, Bob.” I exclaim, disgusted at myself, at Roy, at all of us, but mostly at Papa. I feel ashamed of even calling him our father. Mia has been quiet for a while now, thinking, I am sure. And she gets up, walks to Papa’s bedside and switches off the ventilator. She turns around and says, “For Laura, for you Bob and for us. I know this is not justice. I hate the thought that he has lived a long, rich life of luxuries, while acting out all his dirty, filthy impulses. But this is something. This is my justice to not bear him breathing a minute more.” She says this as our father’s body jerks involuntarily, struggling to breathe, trying to live another day until one last time his back arcs almost a foot above the mattress and he takes his one last, rasping breath. His lifeless body flops on the bed and stays still, forever. We sit in silence, until we heard the door to Papa’s bedroom close slowly. I am the first one to realize that we are being locked into Papa’s room; the large room, with huge, barred French windows. Heavy smoke envelops the room from all four sides, and gigantic flames engulf our monstrous home, as we are left trapped inside this bedroom with shuttered windows, our sinning father and a rose shaped ring lying on the center table where the new maid with striking blue eyes had just cleared the tray.

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THE DOOR Ell P Genre: Horror “A man walked into the dark night, a night filled with terrors, and things that go bump in dark corners,” I spoke, of course with adequate sounds effects, hoping to bore my son into a good night’s sleep. “You have told me this one before, many times actually,” Simba shouted at me. I could feel his anger at being conned again with the same old story. I tried holding onto his hands, they felt cold and clammy as he snatched them away. “Mommmmm, new story!” “Oh, but honey you haven’t even listened to the whole thing. This one is different.” “No it is not”, he ranted on “I know he will walk into the dark night and a wolf will follow him, he will get scared and run, and the wolf will run after him until he realizes it was not a wolf, but his neighbor’s Chihuahua. And only because he let his imagination run away, he thought it was a wolf. Then you will ask me what is the moral of the story, and I will have to repeat, don’t let your imagination run wild.” Simba’s exasperation at being treated much younger than his completely justified six years, showed. My defeat at not being able to fool my child anymore, also showed. He continued with as much anger as he could muster. “Mom I’m bored of the same old story, today; tell me a new one.” “Alright Simba, what should this story be about?” I gave in. It was tough when kids get smarter. He touched his index finger to his lips, closed his eyes and went in deep thought, “Fan…no…no…no…Door, and tell me a story about a door.” My stomach sank and my heart skipped a beat. “A Door!” “Yes,” he spoke with conviction. One look at my wide eyes, my son realized that a story about a ‘Door’ had promise. Maybe, I thought, it was time, time to tell him.

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

“Oh alright, but remember the rules, do not interrupt until I am done with the story.” “Aye - Aye Captain Mom”, Simba’s face was expectant, I felt challenged and thrown a little out of my comfort zone. As he crept closer to me, wrapped his little arms and legs around my frame, I realized I couldn’t disappoint him; it was time for a real story. And so I began… “This is about a little girl named Mishka and The Door…” I could hear the rumblings of a question from my 6 years old. “Aa..aa..aa no interruptions, remember!” And even before a syllable escaped his soft round lips, he settled down, with the question dying within. But of course, I knew the query was not dead, it was possibly stored away and would come out at the most awkward moments. ♦♦♦ The Door made its presence known on a perfect day. It was mother’s 40th birthday and she expected a grand celebration. Nothing could take the focus away from mother, except for the Door maybe. Perhaps, it was “The Door’s” sadistic streak that made it appear on that eventful summer morning. Father, Mishka and Aryan woke up early, ran to Srinath aunty’s, their neighbor, and sneaked the cake inside their house. Of course, they couldn’t have hidden mother’s 40th birthday cake in the refrigerator; she would have known. They decorated the cake with candles; none of them dares put all 40 candles, so settled for 20, and wrote, “20 in every which way”. That should have cheered mother up enough to entice her to give Mishka and Aryan another thirty bucks extra for school money, but it didn’t. Not because mother wasn’t touched by the gesture, but because of the Door. They arranged the living room with balloons and stars. And when they were ready, father brought a groggy mother out into the living room. I say groggy, because apparently mother was being naughty at forty the previous night. “Eh?” Simba spoke with confusion, “Naughty at forty?” “Tsk…tsk no breaking the rule, remember!” I admonished Simba and continued, as he quickly put his little finger to his lips and mimed sealing them. ♦♦♦ As expected, mother was absolutely delighted. Her grogginess disappeared and ’20 in every which way’ gained them all brownie points for days to come. They sang a wonderful rendition of ‘Happy birthday mommy’ in father’s thick gruff voice, combined with Mishka’s high pitched, overly enthusiastic tune, and Aryan’s breaking, just turned teen, voice. Mother’s face registered joy and gratitude just like the years before. But soon her delight turned into surprise, shock and mortification as she kept staring at Mishka. “Okay, that is creepy!” Simba said. “Mishka thought that too you know,” I said and continued with the story.

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But then she saw father and Aryan also staring at her the same way until she realized they were staring at something behind her. Her mind ran a list of things that could possibly be standing there, from man-eating tigers to killer clowns from outer space, from Emily Rose to Chandramukhi, from Ted Bundy to Freddy Kruger.” “Mishka, honey why don’t you come over here?” Mother finally spoke and implored with her stretched hands. For Mishka, that sounded like a good plan, to turn around, after she runs within the safe circle of her family. She ran into her mother’s arms and only then dared to turn around and look. It was inconspicuous, it was inconsequential to her vivid expectations, and it was just a door. A door that was never there before, never for the last 15 years that she had lived in that house, the same house she was born in. It just stood there innocent, a brown polished door that had no knob, no keyhole, just a plain smooth door. A door that could only be opened from the other side. Instantly “The Door” became a smash hit in their neighborhood, perhaps more of a hit than its namesake band. People from across the neighborhood and their extended family came to visit and ruminate over the Door. There were theories, some sane, some insane. ♦♦♦ Uncle Martin felt that the Door was a gateway to hell, and the Devil chose their home for it because Mishka’s family had not attended the Sunday mass in the last 5 years. Well, that was expected since uncle Martin had been ranting on about it since the time father, a nice Catholic boy from Goa, decided to marry the outspoken Muslim atheist from Bangalore. Of course, mother then, all offended, ranted on about the benefits of embracing Scientology as a religion. When Tom Cruise doesn’t have a gateway to hell in his mansion, why should they? I heard rumblings of another interruption from my son; I was sure they were questions about Atheism and Scientology. However, I chose to ignore it and continued, “What can I say, Simba, that argument sounded legitimate?” Srinath aunty felt that the Door was Devi maa creating a pathway into this world through this home. However, for the life of her, she couldn’t fathom why the Devi would choose a non– Hindu home to be blessed. However, who was she to question Devi’s justice. To make matters worse, since then every time she saw mother, Srinath aunty would insist on touching her feet, to mother’s mortification. Mishka and her friends thought that the Door was a wormhole and should it open; the entire world would get sucked into it. Well, perhaps recently having watched Interstellar, this would be a logical conclusion for the teens.

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

Aryan, an avid Resident Evil fan, expected zombies infected with the T-Virus to walk in through the Door; and that’s why he always armed himself with his baseball bat. Mishka often secretly wondered if the Door was alive. Maybe it escaped other alien, hostile Doors and came seeking sanctuary at her home. People tried breaking down the door, and the wall around it, but all in vain. Any item of destruction could not breach the invisible wall within one foot of the Door. Finally, they gave up wondering about the Door, as months went by and nothing went in or came out of it. They came to a stage when the entire family could sleep peacefully without worrying about keeping a watch on the Door. They started ignoring it. ♦♦♦ One night, a few months after the Door appeared and then got subsequently ignored, Mishka and Aryan were fast asleep in their room. They had the biggest room in the house. Of course, they needed one to accommodate the massive bunk bed, all those toys that belonged to Aryan, a massive wardrobe that was overloaded with Mishka’s clothes, and their study table that was huge enough to have two kids studying at the same time. Aryan had taken the top bunker, while Mishka slept below. Mishka was deeply asleep when she felt shuffling around her quilt. She woke up to find Aryan holding her tight and shivering. “What happened Aryan?” Aryan looked terrified. His face ashen and lips blue. His eyes were wide brown saucers of fear. “Dee, the Door…the Door Dee…” He shivered so hard, he could not speak. And he tried again to mumble amidst his quivering. “I…I saw it open, slightly. It was black inside, and something really, really black with many legs quickly crawled inside the Door.” “What!” Mishka exclaimed. “Yes, and…and…it was carrying something white and furry. I couldn’t see clearly, but it looked like an animal. Dee, I am scared.” Tears rolled down his big eyes, and Mishka felt anger. Anger at the Door that had her entire family in confusion. This was not the first time Aryan had nightmares about the Door and it wouldn’t be the last. Mishka knew Aryan’s innocent mind was scarred by fears of the Door. Although it did not scare Mishka, but then she had seen scores of little boys and girls come just to see the Door and then leave their house in bouts of terror. The things a simple Door could induce in human imagination! “Come Aryan, we will check if it is open and wake up mum and dad.” Mishka urged her brother to move to the living room. ♦♦♦ Mishka walked out with Aryan holding on to her pyjamas. She went to their living room and searched for the light. With Aryan holding her jammies and whimpering behind her it was a

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challenge to walk fast. Of course, if she would find the Door open, she was ready to turn around, lift her reasonably fat brother and run to their parent’s room. Mishka could barely make out the living room through the nightlight. She couldn’t understand how was it that Aryan saw a creature crawling through the door, in such darkness. She struggled to find the light switch. Her stomach sank in anticipation. What if she turns on the light and finds the door open, or even worse finds werewolves standing there poised to make a midnight snack of them, with drool dripping down their canines. With tentative hands Mishka reached the switch, and spoke a silent prayer to the Gods, her mother refused to believe in. The room was flooded with light from the seven CFL bulbs lighting their false ceiling, and the Door stayed closed as always. Mishka stared hard at Aryan, “You dreamt again, didn’t you?” Aryan started to cry. Next morning when Mishka left her home for school, she saw Tina from the house opposite calling out to her dog, Tojo. Tina looked desperate and on the verge of tears. She kept running up and down the street calling out, further ahead Mishka saw Verma uncle, Tina’s dad do the same. He was carrying Tojo’s picture and asking around for him. Mishka felt bad that she couldn’t help them. She liked Tojo, a lot. He used to often wander into their home. But Mishka had a test that day, and she knew she couldn’t hope to become a Paleontologist if she did not study hard. That afternoon Mishka saw the same commotion around Tina’s house. Apparently, Tojo still hadn’t been found and Tina was beyond reprieve. She hadn’t had anything to eat or drink. Mishka stayed with Tina, she and her brother-helped search for Tojo, by trying to cover as many ‘Mains’ and ‘Crosses’ of Jayanagar 9th block, as they could. After an exhausting and unsuccessful day of searching for Tojo, the neighborhood felt gloomy and devoid of joy. Things like that did not happen there. If anyone had seen Tojo they would have returned him, and Mishka couldn’t even begin to imagine Tina’s sorrow. Next morning Mishka stepped out as usual and walked to the end of her lane to get into her school bus, along with Aryan. The last house in the corner was a dilapidated run-down house that stood in ruins since as long as Mishka could remember. It was a huge two-floored house with no doors or windows, only empty sockets that started in melancholy and life passed by them. Its walls were damp, brown and covered in weeds and moss. As kids, they all used to dare each other to enter the house and shout out “Nale baa” or “Bloody Mary” thrice. Sometimes they would all go in and try to summon spirits. However, that was only until they were all caught by Kamath uncle; the terror of their neighborhood. He made it a point that each of their parents knew of this, and of the dangers of playing in ruins like the house in the corner. As Mishka walked along the house, she heard a low growl coming from the house.

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

“Dee look, its Tojo!” Aryan ran up to the little white Shih Tzu, who looked like it had a tough 24 hours since it went missing. It was covered in black ooze in places and other places it seemed to be covered in blood. Before Aryan could comfort the dog, it lunged on Aryan, with blood on its mind. Aryan quickly dodged it and both he and Mishka ran back to Tina’s home to inform Verma uncle. ♦♦♦ The neighborhood went back to being lazy and content. All was in place, Tojo was found. It did not matter that the normally friendly dog, growled way too much, bit way too much and scared the living daylights out of the strays and even seriously injured one. Tina was just happy she got him back. Until one day, Mishka saw Tina sobbing with her hand in bandages. Verma uncle was carrying a limp Tojo, entering the car along with his wife and Tina. Mishka later came to know that they had to put Tojo to sleep. The Doctor thought it had acquired some form of rabies-like infection that changed its behavior and made it ferocious. The decision to put him to sleep was taken after he tried chewing Tina’s wrist off. Days went by, until one night Mishka heard a door slam. She ran to the living room and found the Door shut as usual, however, their main door was wide open. Mishka ran to the door to close it when she saw Lalitha, Kamath uncle’s maid stand across the road and stare at Mishka. Her clothes were torn and under the full moon light Mishka saw her mouth smeared with red all over. As if she had dipped her ample lips in a bowl of tomato ketchup. Lalitha, the neatly dressed woman who used to offer them all bhajjis and lime juice those hot summer evenings, looked disheveled. Her hair was open and the tendrils floated in chill December breeze as if they had a life of their own. Mishka thought that maybe she should walk across and say “hi”, ask her what happened. But her legs were frozen on the spot. Some latent instinct inside screamed at her to ‘shut the goddamn door’. ♦♦♦ Mishka shivered, she closed her door hurriedly, bolted, latched and pushed the sofa on it for good measure. She then switched off the lights, climbed on to the sofa, stood on tiptoes and peered through the dome-shaped window above their door. Lalitha was still standing there, staring. Lalitha stood frozen on the spot, staring at Mishka’s home for what felt like an hour, but was actually only a few minutes. Mishka stood still on the sofa; she wouldn’t dare move until Lalitha did. Just when her legs were about to give up, from her peripheral vision Mishka noticed something move. She turned her gaze towards the left and saw someone…no wait... something moving towards Lalitha.

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I turned to look towards Simba, hoping to see drooping eyes, or even better him sleeping. But he was wide-awake with his mouth open in anticipation. I couldn’t resist giving his soft lips a peck, “Are you scared?” “No, curious. Why have you stopped mummy, go on?” “Very well then.” Mishka saw something tall, really tall, maybe seven feet. With long black hair, big red eyes like saucers and a deathly white face float towards Lalitha. It was not walking, because Mishka couldn’t see its legs, it looked human but she knew it was not. In fact she couldn’t even make out if it was male or a female. It was some kind of an inhuman evil. It breezed towards Lalitha, while she kept staring at the door. Another creature came from right; it was just the way Aryan had described, black with multiple legs. It was big, perhaps the size of a massive wolf, with eyes that were while all over, no pupil, no eyelids. It moved with awkward, jerky yet fast movements towards Lalitha. Yet she kept staring at Mishka’s door. And as though they knew Lalitha’s mind, in unison the two creatures turned to stare at Mishka’s door. She could feel their eyes bore through her door and see the girl peeping at them. Mishka gave a startled cry and fell off the sofa. When she went back up the road opposite was empty. As if Lalitha and two creatures were never there. Maybe it was all her imagination, she thought. Mishka's mother used to say, that our greatest enemy sometimes is our own imagination. Maybe she was right, though Mishka. Mishka went back to her room, but not before one last look at the Door. It seemed to stand there innocent, just a brown polished wooden door that could only be opened from the other side. ♦♦♦ Next morning Mishka and Aryan woke up to a huge commotion. They saw police vans on their street and scores of people had gathered. Everyone was talking animatedly with each other with expressions of horror and curiosity mixed. Mother and father were there too. They ran outside, but not before Mishka glanced to check if the Door was still closed. In a ghastly turn of events the previous night, unknown assailants slaughtered Kamath uncle, his wife and their son in their sleep. Thankfully, their grandson Shiva was in Belgaum along with his mother, for winter vacations. There were people talking around Mishka, she overheard bits and pieces of information. “Mrs. Kamath was found with her mouth wide open, her tongue ripped out and her eyeballs were missing.” “Their son, Amruth, was found in many places around the house, his legs were hanging from the balcony, hands were stuffed down the toilet and his head was found in the basket of their mini basketball court.” “Huge chunks of flesh were missing as if they were bitten off.”

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

“Kamathji was the last one to die, he was dragged around the whole house, if you were to go by the blood trails. And his intestines had been ripped out of his body, presumably while he was still alive. This was all Mishka could make out, before mother scooped her and a terrified Aryan back home. As Mishka walked home along with mother, she felt a gaze boring into her back; she turned around to find Lalitha staring at her. Later all residents of 9th block, 12th main gathered at their place to discuss the heinous crime. Everyone came; no one dared to leave their kids back home. There were discussions about what police found. Apparently, there were four sets of human footprints, two male, which explained Kamath uncle and Amruth anna, and two female. They assumed the second female was the assailant. However, what perturbed the police were the animal prints found at the scene, there were too many, as if one animal had too many feet. Mishka then spoke about seeing Lalitha akka on the road staring at their home around 3 am, last night. She was asked again and again if she was sure because Lalitha had been gone from the Kamaths for almost two months now. Why would she come back then? And what was her motive for doing this? As the discussion progressed into wee hours Mishka kept stealing glances at the Door. Aryan did the same. She felt as though the Door was listening to everything being spoken. Mishka shook her head; maybe she was going crazy after all. There was no proof that it was the Door that was responsible for everything. That night an exhausted mother and father slept, with Aryan sleeping between them. ♦♦♦ Once they were asleep, Mishka gathered some kitchen knives, baseball bats and anything that resembled a weapon. She sat staring at the Door, daring it to open. Somewhere around three am she dozed off. Next morning she found out that Srinath aunty was missing. Uncle woke up to the bed empty and their door wide open. Mishka turned and stared at the Door hard, as though the answers to her questions were written all over it. Over the next few weeks, just like Srinath aunty, three more neighbors went missing. Tina was not found a week later, her mother and father were absolutely distraught. The Shenoy family realized their daroga went missing a few days after Tina. Adrian, the boy diagonally opposite to Mishka’s home was not to be found. Mishka felt like she knew the answer to this puzzle that was wreaking havoc in her neighborhood, yet no matter how much she tried, how much she stared at the Door. The answer never came. A police patrol car at all hours, day or night was assigned to 9th block, 12th main. Those at least made the residents hope to be safe.

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♦♦♦ Almost a month after the Kamath tragedy, as usual, Mishka created a makeshift bed out of her sofa, waited for her parents to sleep, gathered her weapons and sat watching the Door. It stood there still, staring back at Mishka, daring her to come close, try and break it open. But Mishka knew it was not possible, the Door would throw her ten feet off against the wall. How does she know that? Because she had tried it and her back still smarted at being flung across her living room, countless times in the last 6 months. That night Mishka dozed off as usual around three am, when she suddenly shivered violently, she felt chilled to her bones. Mishka opened her eyes and saw the Door closed, but her main door was open again. She ran to it, with her hand on the door ready to shut it, when she saw Tina, Srinath aunty, Darogaji and Adrian stand across the street and stare at Mishka, along with Lalitha. They stood still, not a muscle moved, never a blink. It was almost as if someone had placed five lifelike mannequins across the road. But that was not what paralyzed Mishka with fear. It was what she heard behind. Quick jerky shuffling that came from above her, Mishka stood frozen on the spot, beads of cold sweat slowly trickling down her spine, when through her peripheral vision, she saw the monster with multiple legs crawl along Mishka’s living room’s ceiling, and jerkily crawl out of her home; the black creature with many legs and white webbed eyes. Her eyes followed its uneven, quick movements as it met the tall, seven feet thing that had long hair, white face and bloodshot eyes, on her porch. This was the first time she had seen them up close, and she wished she hadn’t. If ever someone asked Mishka to describe pure evil, it would be those demons on earth sent to devour humanity. Sent through the Door that existed in Mishka’s living. She tried to scream but her body was paralyzed, she knew, come morning, many people would die heinous deaths, just like the Kamaths. Mishka thought of the little newborn in Shenoy aunty’s place or the pretty girl at the D’Souzas. Fear crawled within Mishka and squeezed her body. With great strength, she pushed her door shut and lost consciousness. ♦♦♦ Through a cloud of unconsciousness, she heard screams, someone called out to her. Maybe it was Aryan, it sounded like him. “DEEEEEEEE….MISHKA!” Oh God, it was the Door, something was wrong, but her eyes just wouldn’t open. Her body’s reaction to fear was a complete and pathetic shutdown. She pushed and prodded herself to move, and after a gargantuan effort, all she could manage was to open her eyes. She was lying on the floor facing the Door. The first thing she noticed was the angry, metallic red streaks that dragged across the room to the Door. Her house was mired in deathly silence and washed in darkness, it was still night outside. She saw the Door open, even though her eyes saw it, but her mind refused to believe that after all

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

these months it chose to open to her. It chose to let her see what was inside; it chose to allow her in. Mishka stood momentarily and traced the outline of the Door. She could trace movements inside the blackness of the Door like there were multiple conjoined bodies moving to find their way out. Otherworldly sounds emanated from the Door, from ear-shattering screeches to heartrending moans. From wails that sounded like a child begging to be reunited with its mother, to bone-chilling cackling laughter. The hair on Mishka’s body stood like bristles, but she knew she had to worry about the blood streaks. She washed her room in light, when the creatures from the Door, screeched in pain and tried to fumble inside the Door further, to get away from light. She strained to hear some sound from her parent's room, but there were none. Not even the safe assurance of father snoring. With the room filled in light, she realized that the three trails of blood came from her parent’s bedroom. Mishka’s heart sank at what could have happened. Her family slaughtered, while she was asleep right outside. She blamed herself, it was all her fault. If only she could have conquered her fear, if only she hadn’t fainted, if only she had dragged her family out of the neighborhood before any of this happened. If only…if only... Mishka screamed and cried in horror, disbelief, sorrow and repulsion at the Door. “You dare take my family!” The open door stood innocently with creatures jerkily trying to move out of the light. Mishka knew what she had to do. She walked into the kitchen and grabbed a halogen lamp. She then stepped inside the Door as it shimmered out of existence. ♦♦♦ I sneaked a peek at Simba. Instead of being wrapped around me, and petrified, he sat thoughtfully, with one finger pulling his lower lip. Finally, he spoke, “Mom, wasn’t your name Mishka before?” “Yes honey.” “Hmm”, Simba then reached across me to the bowl and popped a human finger in his mouth. After chewing it sufficiently just like I had asked him to, he grinned, his inch long incisors and glowing red eyes reminding of the demon he was.

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SPECIALIST IN ALTERATION OF LADIES AND GENTS Amel Rahman Genre: Horror Shwetha had manipulated her boyfriend. But as far as manipulations go, this was by far her worst work. She stood now in her bikini, blue and white, the water almost up to her knees. Her bronze body toned turned the only two other heads on that beach. She turned to look for Fahd, who held the cell phone in his hand, gesticulating angrily at a palm tree and a perplexed red rooster. The green waves gave her bare back a roaring push, sending her tumbling nose down, but it was like a joke gone stale, getting no further happy laughs from her. She picked herself up and felt the sand nestle again into her bra wirings and panties. Perhaps the only action she could hope for, she decided, as she walked towards Fahd. “Are you coming in?” she shouted, but Fahd barely heard or pretended to ignore her. She walked closer, positioning herself near him, and when that failed, in front of him. “The consignment was supposed to arrive on the thirteenth.” Fahd’s voice rose over the waves, “No not 30th you idiot, 13, one three.” Fahd’s shout sent the rooster clucking and fluttering away. Shwetha knew a work crisis when she saw one. Her life with Fahd seemed like one long work crisis after the other. Someone had messed up. And it wasn’t the rooster. “How long are you going to be on the phone?” she asked finally, receiving a flurry of shushes and glares from him. She sighed, sat on a rock beside him, watching the frothy green and white waves send strong sprays of water as it hit the bed of reddish, black, and green rocks. They’d been at the exact spot on the beach from the morning, the only point with cell coverage, and now the sun had begun to set, turning the beach into an inverted landscape of watery gold. “It’s beautiful,” she said to the rooster that had now taken to pecking around her. “No. No. NO!” said Fahd, each ‘No’ more vehement than the last, “I am positive about the dates. Thirteenth. No. One Three, Not 30th. Can you hear me, Can you?” He seemed to be 80

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

repeating the same thing almost ten to fifteen times, to different people, and Shwetha felt her head filling with enough information to run the cement company. It was like being stuck with a very angry tape recorder that had caught on repeat. She watched the sun, hesitating over the horizon, reluctant to go to sleep with this strange noise around. Shwetha didn’t remember exactly what made her do it. Perhaps she just wanted him to look at the sun. But she stood up, calmly walked up to Fahd, stood close, and leaned in as if to kiss him. He looked at her startled, his eyes suddenly hazy, and in that moment of confusion, her hands deftly flicked the loosely held phone and ran, hurling it into the sea with all her force. “HEY!” he screamed, as he followed her almost immediately, falling to his knees, his hands steeped in the sandy water. But a giant wave pushed him, and he tumbled backwards, water filling every gaping hole in his body. When his eyes opened again, the phone was gone, gobbled by greedy waves, disappearing in a hopeless instant. ♦♦♦ It had been a screaming match after that, but very soon, Shwetha’s anger gave way to guiltridden tears, apologizing, begging. But he was merciless, enraged. “I told you I had to work, and you still wanted to go,” was the last thing he screamed at her, before rushing out in a desperate quest to communicate with the outside world, leaving her alone on the cold, dark beach. Yes, she had been desperate for his company. The days back in the city had been long and lonely for her. So, she had told him that he worked too hard. He needed a break, didn’t he? Goa would be great now, the beaches empty, and the sun less harsh. They could eat lobsters, drink, and fuck the nights away. Yes, that would be a great idea, he had agreed, but he would have to take calls. Of course, darling, she had said, calling the hotel and quietly confirming that there was absolutely no cell coverage. But what she didn’t expect was that he’d scout the whole damn beach and find the single place that brought in with the wind, a cell coverage that was weak and persistent enough to drive her crazy for two days. She laid down flat on the rock now, the night sky like a blanket around her agony. How could he leave her here alone like this? she thought, her sobs bursting out gruffly from her throat. What if someone hurt her? Her chest was hollow with the pain. She almost wished someone would hurt her. That would teach him. Maybe he would never come back now. He would leave her. She would die here alone. The thoughts were capturing her mind, eating her alive, like the mosquitoes that were gathering around. ♦♦♦ Shwetha would not have found the strange little shop the morning after, had she not searched the breath of the beach village for Fahd. He had vanished without a trace, just like the rest of the sleepy town. It was like she was abandoned in a village run over by curious dogs, angry cows, and ugly black crabs.

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She’d woken up in their hotel room, and noticed she was still alone. A quick check for his luggage sent a surge of relief through her. He had not abandoned her. Then her eyes fell on a bundle in the corner of the room, his shirt from the night before still soaked in seawater. She picked up the shirt, breathed in his raw scent before hanging it up on the balcony. Then after a hurried bath in sunscreen, perfume, and some water, she grabbed her hat and set out in search of him. She shaded her eyes from the mid-morning sun, as her neck craned upwards to read the name of the shop. ‘Specialist in Alteration of Ladies and Gents’ The name of the shop did not startle her much. This was because she had already crossed two other shops with boards that said Child Bear (with a beer bottle logo) and Chick Point. But something else surprised her. The shop, it seemed, was growing out of a tree, and even more surprisingly, the shop was open. At least the door was. She climbed up the stairs leading to the door and stepped into the store, and felt a surprised flutter in her belly. It was like the tree had come alive within the store. In fact, the store seemed quite popular with the tree. A family of four squirrels ran around the store counter, not a human in sight. The branches and leaves struggled to break in through the seven windows (one on the roof), and the roots bore down from the ceiling, with amulets, rosaries, and mirrors hanging from them. It seemed like a curios store, carved boxes and strange dolls everywhere. The air was thick with the smell of herbs, and Shwetha noticed the origin of the smell. A rack of labelled bottles stacked on a shelf carved into one of the walls. What was this place? A medical store perhaps, she thought, uncorking each bottle, breathing the fascinating smells, liquids of dazzling colours, phosphorous green, effervescent yellow, and apple red. Then she read the label on one of them. Two words. She shook her head in disbelief and read it again. Notice me Funny, she thought, as her eyes ran over the other bottle labels. Think of me Wake me Heal me Kill me What curious labels! On the third row, the labels said: Gift of Abundance Jar of Prosperity Abundance Summer Wreath. Siren’s seduction. Apple of Venus.

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

Homeless Animal Spell. Her eyes wandered quickly to the rest of the curious room. Here there was a calendar of full moons. And beyond a second shelf full of books. Her eyes took in the titles, Candle Magic, The Witches Bible, Wicca for beginners, Book of Tarots. On an impulse, she picked the Seduce me bottle, uncorked it, and took a whiff of the blue liquid. She felt every nerve in her body stand at attention, leaving a trail of goosebumps on her skin. Her nipples stood erect and the air smelled strangely of Fahd’s shirt. Her heart began to beat wildly now. There was something strange about this shop. She felt a pressing need to get something from here. Something that may help her. Whom could she ask? A loud high-pitched squeak ripped the air. It was one of the squirrels, trapped into a tablelike contraption. The three squirrels ran around it, doing nothing more useful than emitting distressed shrieks. It was an old sewing machine, a rickety wooden model, and the little creature’s furry tail had been caught into one of the wheels. Its eyes were wide with the terror, its hands pulling helplessly at its tail, the wheel slowly turning, pulling the creature with it. As Shetha approached, the other squirrels scurried away in terror, and the trapped creature bleated like she was an approaching predator. “Don’t worry, little guy,” she whispered softly, getting down on her knees, her fingers working on its soft tail, watching the creature’s chest vibrate in short quick intakes. When the creature finally ran free, it ran to Shwetha’s legs and dropped a bottle at her feet, which she picked up. Adore Me, read the label. She pocketed the bottle and left the shop. ♦♦♦ When she finally found Fahd, the sun was setting again, and the town had come as alive as the tree house. There were people everywhere. People partying, music, the smell of cooking lobsters and crabs, beating drums, dancing women, laughter. The beach now had a shack with tables, and a makeshift bar serving beer. She spotted Fahd chatting intently with a couple, his eyes wavering every now and then to his laptop, open in front of him on the table. She walked towards him, his eyes catching hers even before she sat down. “I see you’ve had time to make friends,” Shwetha said, as she sat down. Fahd glared at her, his jaw tightening. He had clearly not forgiven her. “Yes.” He replied curtly. The couple shuffled in discomfort. She continued, her eyes steely, cold. “Is this a joke? I was worried. It’s been an entire day since you’ve gone. ” “I was worried too,” he replied. Her expression softened. He continued, “Worried about my work. You realize I could have been fired?”

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The couple on the table excused themselves in embarrassment. Fahd smiled at them apologetically. Shwetha waited for them to leave. Then she lashed at him. “And what about me?” “You can take care of yourself.” He replied, his eyes cold. “Do you want me to leave?” she asked. This was a challenge. Do you prefer your new friends to me? Do you prefer to spend the rest of the days in Goa alone? It was a threat, and she knew that he knew it. He stared back at her for a full minute, and then his eyes broke away, pain replacing anger. “No,” he said. She smiled satisfied, her eyes moving to the party ahead. “Shall I get us some beer then?” He smiled at her for a moment. “Yes, that would be nice,” he said softly. Then his eyes returned to the laptop. “But I need to check a few mails first.” She felt her teeth grind ever so softly. “Of course.” She replied, “Well I’ll be back in a bit then. You finish up with your mails, darling.” She got up, and walked to the bar, ordering two glasses of beer. As she waited, she stared at the sky, the salty air in the wind, the waves lashing softly. It would be a full moon night, she noted, a night of possibilities. When the bartender handed her two glasses, she uncorked the bottle in her pocket and dropped a few drops into one of them. ♦♦♦ She and Fahd had gotten quite drunk by the time the moon took its place on the cloudy, blackish blue canvas. It was a full-blown party complete with a few crackling bonfires, and a DJ churning out a tempo that was progressively escalating, and it seemed they had danced for over two hours to the repeating rhythm. She loved to dance, even more with Fahd. She had chosen a cute black dress that gave her an almost schoolgirl charm, her long brown hair open and falling across her eyes. Fahd was dressed in faded jeans and a straight cut green shirt that brought out the brown of his eyes. She glided into position for a slow grind, her buttocks to his crotch, and his hands gently around her belly, their faces so close she could feel his breath on her neck. In no time, his hand tightened around her, his lips to her neck, sending a slow helpless shiver through her. The night was suddenly turning hot and sweaty. He released her suddenly, and she stared at him in confusion. He took her arm, and she followed him, walking, running in their bare feet almost half a mile across, to another part of the beach, a quieter section, closer to the palm groves, still on the wet rocks by the beach. His hands pulled her close, kissing her hard on the lips, his hands groping inside her clothes. “What are you doing,” she whispered, looking around weakly, “Are you crazy?” But his eyes had an imminent hunger in them, as if he could not hear her logic. His hands had already gripped the back zipper of her dress, pulling it down, and the zipper tangled and clung to the dress. He cursed, and gave a strong pull at the fabric, ripping the dress to reveal a

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

bare arm and a lacy bra. Her eyes widened, hissing, “What has gotten into you? How will I go back?” He put a finger to her lips and concentrated on slipping off her underclothes, pushing her onto the rocks. Her eyes looked skywards as he entered her, as if beseeching the flimsy blanket that was the night sky to cover her nakedness. ♦♦♦ They did it again the next night, after the party, when, despite her protests, Fahd insisted on getting closer to the water, where he lay her bare on the wet sand, letting the waves touch her feet. He entered her with the same hunger in his eyes, his hands gripping her muddy wrists, as if even this would not be enough for him. At dawn, they raced to the hotel room, Fahd, naked to the chest, unable to keep his hands off her, while Shwetha ran in his shirt and her underwear, the only un-torn remains of the night before. He surprised her later that day, planning a hike, just the two of them, walking through the many beaches of Goa, hand in hand. Then surfing the next day, and scuba diving the third. The Adoration potion was clearly doing wonders, she decided. He hadn’t been able to bear separation from her for three whole days now. They ate together, slept together, talked, and walked together. With every meal, she fed him the potion. And she reaped value in kind. The days went on, full and riotous. Surfing, boat rides, scuba diving, walks, and beaches. Each activity giving way to the next. It was like an endless vacation. And Fahd, she noticed, was satisfied at nothing. He wanted more. More sex, more drugs, more jogs, more walks, more drinks. And everything with Shwetha. She was needed. It was her version of heaven, a tad tiring, but fulfilling. Weren’t they going home, she asked one day, getting no real response. It seemed he didn’t care. The work crisis was over, so he could take a break, he reasoned. The laptop had been discarded, and the newly purchased phone barely used. It had been over a week, and she hadn’t caught him working even once. She had never seen him get a break like this ever in the past three years. Then one day, she opened his laptop, to check her own mails, and saw his resignation letter staring at her. Startled, she confronted him. He looked at her with a bored expression. He was done with that job. Besides, it took him away from her, didn’t it? She should be happy. Why did she care? ♦♦♦ He was happy, wasn’t he? Perhaps. But this was a different Fahd. A possessive one. An angrier one. He had always been an angry man. But he had never been a violent one. But that was changing. The sex was getting rougher, and she woke up nursing cuts on her wrists, bruises on her body. Then there were the

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drunken brawls. And he didn’t like the way the homestay manager looked at her. The man was too loud, he said. And can she please wear some decent clothes? Then, in a fit of drunken rage, he broke the manager’s jaw, for pestering him needlessly about the room rent. The man promised not to raise a police case if they moved out quietly. Just pay the damn bill and get out, he said. Fahd rambled and bawled, but backed down eventually. They moved to a smaller shack, one with a common bathroom shared with ten others tenants. Perhaps he should get back to work, she suggested. Perhaps she should stop getting on his nerves, he spat back. Should she stop the potion, she wondered. NO! But the bathrooms were terrible. Long queues in the morning, and the smell of a hundred people when she finally got to it. This was no longer a vacation. This was poverty. Fahd had to work. Perhaps she should get a better potion. One that instilled in him some sense and responsibility mixed with adoration. Yes, that would be it. But she had to go there without Fahd. She set out with this firm plan. She convinced Fahd that she needed to go out alone, to get few of her clothes mended, the ones he had so easily ripped apart, and now had no means to replace. She packed the clothes in a bag, with Fahd whining beside her. Did she really have to go, he asked, what would he do then? Something in that needy whine repulsed her. Why couldn’t he give her some space, she snapped? She would be back in a bit. He sulked like a dog, whimpering over his wounds. She stomped out, refusing to indulge. She walked down the narrow path that had taken her to the tree house on her first day here. It was one of those side roads, and she walked quickly, her mind restless at the fact that she hadn’t gone back to the shop after that day. The roads were filled with people now. Strangely crowded unlike that day, and this thought filled her with unease. She reached the tree house, and sighed at its comforting presence, and began climbing the stairs, up to the where the signboard said, Specialist in Alterations of Men and Women. She stepped in and drew a sharp breath inwards. The place was filled with clothes: clothes on the rack, torn pieces on the floor, plastic covers filled with clothes, buttons, threads, needles. Four sewing machines stood side by side, with four old women hard at work. It had turned into a tailoring shop! One of the women walked up to her. “Yes?” the woman asked, not keen at the sight of Shwetha. “What do you want?” “I need a potion,” blurted Shwetha, wondering how dumb she sounded. The girl’s stare confirmed her conclusion. “We are busy,” said the woman, waving her hands over the store. “Please. I need this,” said Shwetha, her voice begging, her hands together in a gesture of plea.

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

“How much?” the woman asked, unconvinced. And Shwetha felt hope rise with her. “I will give anything you ask,” she replied, uncertainly. This confused the woman, who pointed to the bag in Shwetha’s hands. Shwetha looked at the bag. Did the girl want the clothes? Shwetha handed the bag to her. The girl took the bag, dumped the clothes, dividing them among the three women. Shwetha waited confused, as the women started working on the torn clothes. The girl looked at her, and then at the women, and said something indecipherable to Shwetha. The local language? Was it Konkani? Tulu? Whatever, it was, it was funny to them. It had set the women laughing, their eyes rudely on her. She felt a prick in her eyes, like this was all too much for her, and a good private cry would be nice. Then she thought of Fahd, who wouldn’t be able to stand her tears, he’d start bawling, worried that he had hurt her. It seemed to her that she had lost Fahd, even when she had won him. What was she to do now? When the work was done, one of the women handed her the clothes. This one was an old quiet one, not really laughing or giggling with the rest. She handed the clothes, and wrote a clean bill and counted the money from Shwetha. Shwetha took the bill, and read it. She looked up at the woman, who had returned to her sewing machine. She looked back at the receipt and read the words she had written in Hindi, without the knowledge of her friends. Half-moon lagoon, after sunrise. Shwetha left the store, feeling the thrill in her beating heart. ♦♦♦ The clouds loomed like giant bears in the night sky, the stars and moon buried in the overwhelming darkness. It was a quarter to eleven, and no sign of the old lady or her tittering sisters, and Shwetha sat alone, barefoot on the rocks and sand beside the lagoon, her foot tinkering with the pebbles. She folded her arms against the angry bitter wind, which was now pulling wildly at her hair and clothes. The beach lay deserted a dozen paces away, neither lovers nor merrymakers tarrying too long by the ill-tempered ocean. Shwetha sat pondering unhappily over her situation. It didn’t look promising, and she didn’t want to return to her hotel room without a clear solution to the mess she had gotten into. Fahd would be furious that she’d gone away so long, for she had not returned to the hotel room after leaving him, and had spent the evening walking by the beach and the lagoon. She needed the potion, and empty night could not stop her. But then another thought disturbed her. Even if the woman came, how would she know what potion Shwetha needed? These thoughts tormented her as terribly as the mosquitoes buzzing around. She heard a scurrying sound and whirled terrified at the thought of an animal, a dog, or a pack of dogs, ready to rip her throat in the lonely night.

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But she sighed in relief as she caught sight of the snowy tufts of hair, and the incessant muttering. It was the old woman, at least a silhouette of her, her sari, and a slow shuffling gait. “You have it?” Shwetha asked in Hindi, as soon as the woman arrived within hearing range. Shwetha couldn’t see the woman’s face, only her strange mutterings that carried themselves heavily with the ill-boding wind. Somehow the woman’s presence was not filling her with calm as she had expected. Shwetha wanted to get the hell out of this wretched place. “The potion, didi” pressed Shwetha. The woman thrust her hands into her white sari and extended her bony arms towards Shwetha. There, in the folds of her wrinkly white hand, was a potion bottle. Shwetha grabbed at it greedily, her eyes falling on the label, and in the same instant, she drew in a quick sharp breath. The label was empty. As was the bottle. Shwetha felt a rush of anger and despair, heat waves through her shivering, mosquito-bitten body. “What is this?” she hissed at the woman’s hunched head, the anger rushing through her like a heat wave, “Did I wait so long for this nonsense?” The woman continued her hunched mumbling, and Shwetha’s sense of dread was worsening. But she persisted in her anger, “My life is in peril and you give me empty hopes?” She flung the bottle to the sandy floor, and at that instant the sky ripped with a flash of lightning, setting the woman’s face ablaze to show the woman’s sunken eye sockets. “Fool,” the woman hissed at her, her hand coiled around Shwetha’s wrists, hard like the grip of a serpent. “What are you doing?” said Shwetha, her voice drowning in the wind. Flinching in pain, Shwetha found herself being dragged to the raving beach, where a thunderous rain had begun to fall. The beach looked like a growling beast ready to swallow her even as she grew closer, the green waves like its frothy mouth, and the roars its insatiable hunger. “You are scared of the ocean?” shouted the woman, her laugh cackling above the din. Shwetha felt the cold salty water spray on her face, as she stepped into the ocean, and found herself quickly dragged into deeper waters, tumbling with the waves. The woman, however, stood unmoved by the tumble. “Don’t you see — you are as mad as this ocean!” Suddenly, a larger wave approached, and she screamed as it slammed her onto the rock, the water filling her mouth and nose, and Shwetha felt a searing pain rip through her spine and her leg, as she tumbled into a fall, drowning in the waters. The woman’s hand stayed firm, pulling Shwetha up and onto the smooth giant rock that had hurt her. She pried Shwetha’s jaws open with one hand and held the potion bottle in the other, now surprisingly full. Shwetha’s heart began beating rapidly as the woman’s hand approached, emptying the contents of the bottle into Shwetha’s mouth. It was seawater, salty, dirty. Shwetha

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

coughed and spluttered as half the contents trickled out of her mouth, while the rest scorched down her throat. “You make your own potions, girl,” said the woman, flinging the bottle into the sea. Shwetha watched as the woman stomped away, leaving her gripping the smooth surface of the rock, the waves crashing around her, as if willing her to break. A crack appeared in the rock that she held, splintering it into two, the ocean dragging away the broken rock in a gluttonous glee, while she held onto the other half in terror. She tried to swim out onto the land, but with each lap she covered the sea dragged her back, like an animal toying with its food before killing it. The old woman was nowhere in sight. Finally, she stumbled, out of the sea, panting, shaking uncontrollably, as she collapsed on the lagoon’s soft sand. Her eyes lifted skywards. The rain was now a slow drizzle, caressing her trembling lips comfortingly. Her terror slowly subsided, her thoughts flooding back, tumbling in like the waves. Was she really the mad sea, as the woman had declared? She felt her breath settle in her chest, as she listened to the soft mumbles of the lagoon, even as the bitter taste of salt remained in her throat. If she was the sea, then Fahd was the slimy green rocks. And both were caught in an eternal battle, that left her angry, dissatisfied, and him bitter and stubborn. The bitterness of love. The misery of love’s loneliness. The wind grew softer suddenly, lacing through her hair and the leaves of the palm groves that leaned in above her, like concerned souls. She got up on fours, inching towards the edge of the lagoon, where she cupped her arms, sinking them into the cold peaceful water. She was suddenly struck by the tranquility of the lagoon. Unlike the sea, the water lay placid. The rippling water, the colored pebbles, the golden fish, they all seemed to live in harmony, none changing the other, each busy with their own, but all somehow content in each other’s presence. Neither bitter in love, nor lonely. Could she be the blissful lagoon, and Fahd the soft, white pebbles? This was her potion, she thought, bringing the sweet water to her mouth.

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PICKLES FOR PRIYA R Pavan Kumar Genre: Horror Priya was woken up by the strong stench of human excrement wafting through the open window of the car. She had fallen asleep in the back seat, her iPod still playing tracks from the pop album she had just bought. It was already afternoon and the long stretch of shrubbery that smelled like an open toilet told her she was nearing the village. She sighed and closed the car window, already feeling far away from the city and civilization. News of her arrival always reached the village before her and there would be people everywhere, standing all along the few streets of the village, cheering and waving at her. The small children would run behind the only car in the village all the way up the hill to the mansion. It was the one time she was acutely aware that she had royalty in some branch of her family. The response of the villagers always embarrassed her, made her feel even more inadequate. She cringed and prepared herself for the feeling. But the car entered an almost lifeless village. There were very few villagers around and the ones she did see looked despondent and stared at the car with veiled contempt. She was about to ask the driver what was wrong when she remembered that it was the year of the drought. The droughts in the village had started long before she had been born. They happened with great accuracy, once every seven years. The river would dry up, the monsoon would not arrive and all the crops would fail in the seventh year. She had never bothered to find out what caused the droughts, she wondered if anyone knew at all. The few cattle she saw looked starved with bones sticking out in odd places. The villagers looked no better squatting in their small yards or walking around in the blistering sun. A few naked potbellied toddlers ran around crying out of hunger. Priya sighed; she wished she did not have to come back during the drought. Then she noticed the large ceramic pickle jars that the villagers had left outside in the sun to better preserve them and her mouth began to water. Priya had always loved the pickles; the several varieties of pickled mangoes, limes, gooseberries and even fish and meat. She felt a bit guilty, the pickles were not a delicacy for the villagers, they needed them to get through the

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

famine. She saw a mother feeding her children rice mixed with the dark red pickle. The children chewed it dully the blood-red oil coating their starved lips and dripping down their chins. The pickle was the only thing they would eat for most of the year. It was a sad time to be coming back home to Grandmother. But she couldn’t help looking forward to eating a lot of pickles. The village was merely a few streets and lanes and the car was soon crossing the village and headed for the hill. The haveli on the hill came into view; Priya could see how it would have been a grand and imposing structure when her Grandmother was younger. Now it looked exhausted, trying to uphold what little worn out grandeur it had left. Both the wings of the haveli had fallen into repair and had been locked up. Priya’s Grandfather had wanted to renovate the whole haveli, even up until the time he had passed away. That was beyond question now, their once royal family was hard pressed already and upholding appearances would not fool anyone. The car stopped at the gate, the driver got down and opened them and drove up the dusty driveway. He dropped her at the front steps leading up to the main door and left to take care of her luggage. The haveli offered a good view of the shallow valley surrounding the village. Priya could see the dried river basin from where she stood. It looked like the earth’s skin had chapped, cracked and died. And still, stuck to the dry river basin, sucking out what may be left of its water was the factory. It sprawled like a great metallic insect, basking in the sun and dust, sending out tendrils of white smoke. The factory had been her great Grandfather’s greatest achievement. A temple to technology, an offering to the gods of science, a white elephant. And it would be hers soon. She shuddered at the responsibility of having to run the factory. But that would wait; she did not have to go hungry for it yet. Priya entered the haveli just as her Grandmother was coming down the grand staircase. Grandmother looked as regal as Priya remembered her. She wore a heavily embroidered silk saree and all her customary jewelry including her large golden ring with the family crest on it. Her radiant face had a large crimson bindi on her broad forehead. Her eyes sparkled as she saw Priya and a rare smile broke out on her otherwise stern face. Grandmother did not look a day older than when Priya had last seen her. Priya touched her feet at the bottom of the stairs and then embraced her. Grandmother blessed her and kissed her on the forehead. Then she began fussing about how thin she looked and how the city air had spoiled her skin. Priya was soon in the grand dining hall sitting at one end of the dining table that could host fifty guests. Her Grandmother sat on her side; she refused to eat because of some health issue. But she wanted to make sure that Priya ate well. Pentayya and Shantamma stood at the table to attend on Priya. They were the oldest servants they had at the haveli. In wealthier times Pentayya had been the head of security and Shantamma had been the head chef and maid. Most of the servants had left with the wealth, but they had stayed on.

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Shantamma had cooked up a feast for Priya with all of her favorites. There was spicy biryani with the traditional fish curry, there was prawn fry and red meat cooked the royal way. Priya loved all of it and had a little of everything. But what she really craved was some of her favorite tangy pickle. Priya gave Shantamma a meaningful look asking for the pickle. Shantamma, in turn, looked at her Grandmother who gave an exasperated sigh, “For once I thought you would have forgotten about the pickles. All of your favorite dishes before you and you still want the pickles! Alright then. Go ahead.” So Priya had the spicy red mango pickle with rice and listened to grandma tell her the village news. There had been a few people missing in the last few days and grandma was worried about finding them. Of course, this was followed with strict instructions for Priya not to go anywhere alone. Priya nodded to everything without any protest as she licked the last of the pickle off her plate. As she was returning from her evening jog, Priya found Shantamma scribbling something on the main door of the haveli with a white chalk. It took Priya a while to read her native language, the writing read ‘come tomorrow’. She thought it was a weird phrase to write on the door. She asked Shantamma who the message was for. Shantamma looked at them scandalously and in a whisper replied, “It is for her…you know…the witch, the message keeps her from entering the house.” Priya had completely forgotten about the village legend of the witch. That story used to scare her as a child. One time Shantamma had told her about the witch because she had refused to go to bed and Priya had been so scared that she fell ill for a few days. It surprised her that people still believed in such fairy tales. She made a joke of it to her Grandmother who simply sighed, “Oh, this nonsense! As if, there were not enough problems to deal with. But, the drought is to blame too; hunger makes people do crazy things. As long as they are only scribbling words on their walls, it can do no harm. ” Grandmother went to bed early that night complaining of a backache. Priya was surprised to hear her Grandmother complain about anything, and it made her realize she would really have to take the reins of this place soon. And that thought, more than that of the witch, gave her a shiver. Priya was back to sleeping in her old bedroom which was easily twice the size of her college dormitory and felt even emptier. She lay in her four-poster bed, which seemed smaller than she remembered. She could not fall asleep because the bedroom felt alien to her again. The old ceiling fan gave a metallic creak with each rotation, keeping her awake further. She was already missing her college and friends. She just stared at the night from her open window. After some time she went and stood by the window, the cool night breeze felt good to her. The window overlooked the road leading to the village. Priya was lost in memories of college

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

fests, when she realized there was a figure standing on the road. At first, Priya thought it was a villager but then it moved and she saw it could not be human. The figure was tall and inhumanely thin. Its skin was pale white and had a sickly glow to it. The skin was stretched taut over the skeletal body. Its back was stretched and curved and its hands were so long they reached the ground. The nails on the hands were long black claws. The figure looked at the village, its wild black hair covering its face and most of its body. As she stared at it, the figure seemed to realize her gaze and slowly turned to look at Priya. Priya was transfixed and could not look away. It had large eyes that were deep black except for the white pupils. Its mouth parted in a snarl to reveal yellow needle-like teeth. It glared at her and licked its teeth with a long black tongue. It laughed a long & cackling laugh that sounded like a hyena’s call. Then slowly it turned its head back to the village road. It began running down the road in a wild gait. The figure soon disappeared into the darkness. Priya rubbed her eyes hard and wondered if she had been dreaming. She went back to bed and spent the rest of the night in a shallow fitful sleep. She woke up late the next day, which was strange because Shantamma usually woke her up early. She wandered groggily through the empty haveli wishing there were more people around. She finally found Grandmother, Shantamma in a corner of the kitchen. Shantamma was crying inconsolably, and Grandmother was trying hard to console her. A few women and men from the village had also gathered in the kitchen. Priya approached them cautiously and asked what the matter was. The immediate response was a wail from Shantamma who sobbed even harder. She was saying something to Priya but her sobbing meant Priya could not make out anything. Grandmother indicated to one of the village women to console Shantamma and took Priya aside. Grandmother said in a gentle whisper, “Last night, Pentayya went missing. He is the fourth person to go missing since the drought began. Shantamma claims he went out of their house to investigate a noise and then she heard him screaming. When she ran out she saw a pale white figure with long black hair holding a still struggling Pentayya over its shoulder. As Shantamma watched the figure whacked Pentayya on the head and carried him away. She has been inconsolable since then.” Priya was shocked, “But do you really believe that some…thing actually carried Pentayya away?” She thought of the figure she had seen in the night. Grandmother sighed, she was visibly tired and stressed, “Whether we believe what Shantamma saw or not, does not change the fact that Pentayya is missing. We will have to form a search party and try to search for him. And, something will have to be done about the panic with this witch, before things get out of hand. I will look into these matters, you go eat some breakfast.” She smiled a weak smile and patted Priya’s cheek. Then she turned towards the

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villagers and was again the leader they revered so much. She gave quick instructions as to who was to be in the search party and what was to be done about the witch. She was talking to the women about Shantamma when Priya left the kitchen. Priya was done with breakfast when Grandmother came and sat down beside her. She let go of some of her regal composure and massaged her temples. Priya wondered what she could do to help. “So none of the missing people have been found yet?” Grandmother simply nodded her head to indicate no. “And other people have also seen this figure…this witch?” Priya said. Grandmother continued massaging her temples, “Lots of people claim to have seen the witch. It is mass hysteria. People claim to see the witch during every drought. Several people go missing. Some of them come back. During the last drought, a young couple used the witch as an excuse to elope. They eventually came back after they ran out of money. But yes, most of the people who go missing do not come back.” It suddenly struck Priya that her Grandfather had gone missing too. She had been fourteen then and Grandmother had simply told her that Grandfather had gone abroad on some business and would be back soon. After a few months, Priya had simply assumed that he was not coming back. It had been a year of drought, had her Grandfather fallen victim to this witch? She did not bring up Grandfather; it would be too painful for Grandmother. “So what is the legend of this witch? What do the villagers say about her? I used to ask as a child too but you never told me.” Grandmother looked at Priya, “I never told you because it is a sad and stupid story and I wanted to keep you away from it.” She looked at Priya again measuring her with her gaze, “but I guess it is time you found out. The villagers believe that the witch is the hunger of our land. Every seven years the witch grows hungry and to feed herself she takes seven villagers. Then she makes a pickle out of those people and she can eat only that pickle for the next seven years. The villagers believe that if you are polite enough to ask her to come again the next night or write it on your door, the witch will spare you. But Shantamma followed that stupid rule religiously and Pentayya was still taken, so it seems that measure does not stop the witch.” Priya felt disturbed at the mention of pickled humans. But, she was still curious, “what do you mean the witch is the hunger of the land? Why would the land get hungry all of a sudden?” Grandmother leaned back in her chair and looked away, as if into the past, “Well, it all started with the factory. Your great Grandfather thought himself a visionary when he decided to start the fertilizer factory. He believed it would employ hundreds of people, make the village a town or even a city. And best of all the fertilizer produced will help the agriculture around the village.”

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

She sighed and closed her eyes, “But he did not implement any of the pollution control measures. He believed they were simply a waste of time and effort. The pollutants from the factory began to pollute the river and the farms around it. Crops began to fail and cattle began to die. The farm closest to the factory became completely barren. The farmer of that farm came to your great Grandfather seeking compensation. Your great Grandfather paid him nothing and drove him away. Unable to pay his debts the farmer committed suicide. The villagers say his wife went mad with grief; she cursed our family and the village, saying we will know the same suffering and hunger that her husband knew. Then she just disappeared from the village. The villagers say she is the witch and she brings drought to the land.” Priya felt it was a pretty well thought urban legend. There may be truth in the idea that the factory was responsible for the pollution of the village and may have caused some suicides. But she thought the idea of a witch and a cannibal one at that was rather absurd. Priya had a sudden flash of the strange creature she had seen last night and heard its cackling laughter again. She shivered as she remembered that most of the missing people did not come back. Grandmother looked lost in her own thoughts and her brow was deeply creased. Priya asked her if she would eat some breakfast, but she refused, saying she was not hungry. Priya felt worried, she could not remember the last time she had actually seen Grandmother eat anything. Priya resolved to take better care of her. That afternoon another woman from the village came to cook at the haveli instead of Shantamma. She told Priya that they had not found Pentayya yet and warned her from going out for her daily jogs alone in the evening. Grandmother was not feeling too well and hence spent most of the day sleeping. Priya told her she would bring her lunch in bed but Grandmother refused, saying she was not hungry at all. Priya insisted but Grandmother had always been stubborn and prevailed over her. Priya had to have lunch alone and with no one to stop her, she ate pickles to her heart’s content. As she went jogging that evening, she asked a few villagers about the witch and her story. They all sounded horrified to talk about the witch…as if even talking about her might make them the next targets. From several reluctant people, she learned about the other people who had gone missing, a ten-year-old boy who had gone outside to relieve himself, a woman who was making dinner in her kitchen and a man who had been sleeping outside his house and was the first to be taken this time. The villagers believed that several things would protect them: having a cow in the house, spraying the walls with turmeric water, hanging mango leaves on the threshold of the house, but they seemed to contradict one another and it was very clear that most of the victims had taken all the precautions that they could. Priya next went to the police station, which had three constables and an officer. They told her that missing persons complaint had been lodged for all the people so far and they were

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doing their best to search for the people but had little hope for them. The witch’s real victims were never found, they told Priya, as no one was sure where the witch’s lair was. It was clear they were not really searching for the witch’ lair as they were scared of her. Priya returned home to find that Shantamma was back and cooking dinner, though she occasionally sobbed for her husband. Grandmother was still not feeling well and refusing to eat anything, Priya had never seen her so thin and frail looking. It was too late to call the doctor, so Priya decided to call the doctor first thing in the morning. She was left eating dinner all by herself, and she had pickles for dinner too. Pickles seemed the only consolation the day had for her. Priya lay tossing in her bed as the old ceiling fan voiced its protests. She was drifting off to sleep when she heard a baby crying in a far distance. She thought she was dreaming it, but it sounded urgent enough that she woke up and she could still hear it. She wondered how she could hear a baby; there were none anywhere near the haveli. She woke up and went to the window, wondering what it was and afraid of what she may find outside. On the road, right where she had seen it last night was the same pale figure. It stood at the same exact spot as if it had been there all this while. Priya stood petrified, unable to rationalize what she saw. She could still hear the baby crying and realized that the witch was holding a small baby in the black claws of one hand. The witch looked straight at Priya with its black pupils and smiled to expose its yellow needle-like teeth. It cradled the baby with one hand and rocked it in mock affection. It began to laugh its hyena-like laughter, the night echoed with it. The witch began to scamper away like an ape, using even its claws to support itself. Priya noted in terror that the witch was climbing the hill towards the haveli. She wanted to scream, but the scream froze in her throat and she merely stared, as the witch got closer and closer to the haveli. When it reached the left wing of the haveli, it held the baby between its teeth and with all four limbs began to climb the wall of the haveli like a giant spider. It reached the second floor of the haveli and turned around; it began to slither towards the ground again. There was a crack on the base of the haveli there and through it; the witch crawled into the haveli. Priya knew that the witch had gone into the basement of the haveli. Most of the basement had caved in but a few rooms were still intact. Priya could not hear the baby cry anymore, the night had grown deadly silent and she did not know what to do. After a few seconds, Priya found her feet again and rushed into the corridor outside her room. An antique phone stood in the middle of the corridor. It took her a while to dial the oldfashioned dial and call the police station. The phone rang and rang but no one answered. Priya tried several times before she was convinced the station must be empty at this hour. She thought of waking grandma but that would not be of any help except stressing her out. If Pentayya had

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been around he would have run to the village and gotten help. Priya decided she would have to go running to the village herself. Priya ran down the main stairs towards the door. All along the staircase, she saw the portraits of her brave and royal ancestors and something stirred inside her. It was a strong resolve and the intensity of it made her stop. She knew it would take her a long time to go to the village and get help. By then the baby could be grievously hurt or worse even killed. She would have to do something about it herself. In her brazen burst of bravery, she went to a wall where a shield hung with two crossed swords behind it. She pulled one of the swords out from behind the shield. It was heavy and its tip dropped to the floor. With great effort, she hefted it up. In her other hand, she had her mobile phone, she had turned on its flashlight. Thus armed she walked towards the left wing of the haveli. Priya reached the door leading to the left wing of the haveli, it was simply bolted with a latch. She lifted the heavy latch and pushed it hard, it made a deafening screeching sound that made the hairs on her neck stand up. In the deeper silence that followed, she pushed the heavy door open, it groaned and creaked unhappy to be disturbed. The hallway beyond was completely dark, except for what little light her mobile flashlight provided. Priya swept her flashlight from side to side, old portraits hung at weird angles on the walls, there were large spider webs everywhere, one chandelier barely clung to the ceiling and another one lay on the ground in a heap. Remains of old furniture littered the floor like squashed insects; most of the windows were broken letting in a little moonshine. Priya carefully picked her way among the debris of her ancestors. There was a thick layer of dust on the ground and she left clearly visible footprints. Halfway down the hall, she came to a part where the floor had caved into the basement. It was a small section of the floor; the opening looked like a scar in the fabric of space that opened into a darker dimension. She could not see anything in the darkness of the basement, her bravery faltered and the sword in her hand grew heavy. Maybe she had just imagined it all. Maybe she should just go back to sleep. Then, very faintly coming from the basement she could hear the crying of the baby, hoarse and muffled. She lifted the heavy sword again and began to climb down. The floor had collapsed in such a way that it made a crude staircase, or was arranged like that by the witch. Priya carefully climbed down, ensuring her step by tapping the ground with her sword. When she reached the basement, she was surrounded by the most palpable darkness she had ever known. It felt heavy and moist and it engulfed her completely as if it were hungry for her. Priya felt grateful for her flashlight and the weight of the sword in her hand. She checked her surroundings; there were small rooms around her. The basement had been used as servant quarters in the past. Priya walked down the corridor, cautiously passing dark empty rooms. Then she heard the baby cry again, it sounded agonized, the baby shrieked and shrieked. Then there was a â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;flumpâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;

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noise and it fell silent. The sound had come from the end of the corridor. She could make out a very faint light coming from the end of the corridor. She gulped and wondered what she would do when she finally encountered the witch. She began walking before she could think of an answer. As she got closer to the last room, she could hear another voice. It was the witch; it muttered to itself and then laughed its hyena’s laughter. Priya also heard the ‘flump’ sound, coming again and again from the room. As she neared the room, she switched off the flashlight and allowed her eyes to get used to the faint light coming from the room. Then very cautiously, she peeped into the room. The room looked like an old kitchen with large pots and pans lying all around. A single torch burning from the wall was the only illumination. In the center of the room was a large hole dug into the ground and in the hole, buried almost to its brim was a large ceramic pot. It was a massive version of the pots normally used to store pickles. It was filled with a dark liquid with some large chunks floating it; it seemed to be filled with large quantities of pickles. Just beside the pot, the witch was squatting on the ground. She was sitting on the base of a large cutting board; it was an old style cutting board that had a curved knife on the edge that was used to chop mangoes. The witch was busy chopping something into large chunks. Priya squinted in order to see what it was. She saw the witch lift the body of the small child, position it above the blade and bring it down hard. There was a ‘flump’ sound and the baby’s left leg broke off in a chunk below the knee. The witch casually tossed the chunk into the pot. Priya almost screamed. She withdrew and tried hard not to vomit. The ‘flump’, ‘flump’, ‘flump’ sound continued from the room for a while and then stopped. When the sound stopped Priya looked back into the room. The witch was hunched over the pot,

hungry

expression

its

face,

its

wet

tongue

licking

sharp

teeth.

“So

hungry…mmmm…sooo hungry!” it said in a low guttural voice, “land grows dry, land grows hungry…must feed it…mmm…must preserve food…drought…so hungry!” It put its long frail clawed hand into the large pot and began to mix the pickle. As it stirred the pickle, bits and pieces floated to the top. After a stir, a head shaped chunk floated to the top, Priya recognized Pentayya’s sharp hawk nose, his glazed eyes stared into hers, before disappearing back into the pickle. Priya bit her lip hard to stifle a scream. Having stirred well, the witch removed its hand and licked the blood like red liquid dripping from it. It licked every drop until the hand was pale and white again. The witch stared at the pickle again, “soo hungry…must not eat…must preserve for later.” But, it stared at it with more hunger, “one small piece, just one small piece”…it put its hand back into the jar and brought out a chunk of the pickle. Pentayya’s head surfaced again and the witch looked happy, it put two of its claws into Pentayya left eye socket, “just one juicy eye” and deftly gouged out the eye. It licked the eye tenderly like it was a piece of candy, and

A BOOK OF BARMY BROODINGS

then put it in its mouth and chewed it with a soft squishing sound. Priya could no longer hold back her scream and a suppressed groan escaped her. The witch’s white pupils widened and it searched for the source of the sound. It saw Priya and a wide crooked smile broke on its pale face. The witch and Priya stared at each other, and then the witch began to cackle in its hyenalike laughter. The laugh made Priya’s skin crawl; she instinctively turned around and began to run. She had merely taken a few steps and the witch was standing right in front of her blocking her path. The witch cackled madly and shoved her back; Priya flew a few feet and landed back near the room. Priya panicked and ran into the room. She held up her sword in both hands and stared madly in every direction for the witch’s attack. The lone torch cast weird shadows all over the room. The witch’s laughter was maddening and seemed to be coming from everywhere at once. A drop landed on her shoulder and Priya looked up to see the witch sprawled on the ceiling like a giant spider, staring at her like she was a delicious meal. In a flash the witch was standing beside her, the witch lifted a claw to Priya’s cheek, Priya swung her sword, but too late, the claw had cut her cheek deeply and the witch was hiding in the shadows again. The maddening hyena-like laughter continued taunting Priya. Priya searched the ceiling for the witch again until she felt something near her feet, she looked down to see the witch squatting like a mad dog, drool dripping out of her mouth. Priya swung her sword again; the witch leapt at her and clawed at her other cheek. Priya felt her cheek swell and ooze blood, but her sword dripped blood too, she had cut the witch. Again and again, the witch jumped at Priya out of the shadows, and she swung her sword trying to cut the witch. Sometimes the sword cut the witch, most times it did not. But, every time the witch attacked Priya, she was left with a deep bleeding gash. Soon Priya was covered in gashes and her nightdress was drenched in her own blood. She felt weak and the sword trembled in her hands. She did not seem to have hurt the witch much, the hyena-like laughter continued with ferocity. Priya realized that the witch was playing with her, as a cat plays with its food before eating it. Priya staggered to her knees, unable to stand anymore. The witch laughed harder amused at this and streaked past her clawing her deeply in her back. Priya tried to swing the sword but could not lift it. She fell to the ground on her back, breathing hard, staring at the ceiling. The laughter stopped. Priya saw the witch slowly crawl across the ceiling and stop right above her. The witch opened its mouth and saliva began to drip on Priya’s forehead, drip, drip, drip, counting the seconds until the fatal blow. The last thought in Priya’s panicked mind was that no one would ever find her body; the witch would eat her slowly, one chunk at a time. With a final cackle, the witch jumped onto Priya. Priya lifted the sword with the last of her strength. The witch fell straight onto the sword; it pierced her heart with a sickening sloshing

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sound. Priya lay there, with her eyes closed, breathing fast and short breaths pressed down by the weight of the witch. When she opened her eyes all she could see were two white pupils in black eyes staring back at her. She could smell the putrid stench of the dying breaths of the witch. Priya pushed hard and wiggled out from under the pale body of the witch. She kneeled on the ground and spat out blood, some of the witch’s blood had gotten into her mouth. She had a distant sense of relief and triumph still building up in her head. She had done it; she had defeated the witch all by herself. Her Grandfather would be so proud of her. She turned around for one last look at the frail clawed and fanged body of the witch. She saw her Grandmother, lying on the floor naked, with the sword jutting out of her heart. Priya rushed to her Grandmother who was still sputtering and gasping and took her head into her lap. She thought this was one of the witch’s tricks; she looked around alert for the witch’s attacks. Her Grandmother tugged at her, Priya looked into her Grandmother’s eyes and realized what had happened. “This is what I have been trying to keep you away from all this while” her Grandmother sputtered. Priya realized that the curse was real, all this while her Grandmother had been killing innocent people because of it. Priya remembered her Grandfather going on a hunt for the witch. “So was Grandfather also…” she asked before she could stop herself. Grandmother simply nodded yes. Grandmother was crying, blood still flowed freely from the wound in her chest. Both of them knew she was not going to make it out alive. “Did I at least break the curse?” Priya asked. Grandmother looked at her sadly tears streaming down her face, “oh dear child, the curse cannot be lifted, the ground is hungry, always hungry, it needs to be fed, someone will always have to feed it”. Priya did not want to believe what her Grandmother had said. But she could feel it growing inside her, a deep, aching, empty desire deep in the pit of her soul. “Hunger…” Grandmother whispered, “so much hunger…” before she stopped breathing. It was night again, Priya walked into the left wing of the haveli, wracked with the pang of an insatiable hunger. She went down to the basement, driven by the oldest craving that any creature alive ever feels. After a while, a tall frail figure with long black hair and long claws on its fingers rose out of the basement. It had chopped up the body of the Grandmother and added it to the pickle. That made six people, but it was still hungry. The creature walked to the crack in the side of the haveli and began to climb the wall like a spider. It turned towards the village; it needed one more person for the pickle.

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GENRE: HUMOR

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ZOMBIE ZACK Amel Rahman Genre: Humor Zombie Zack had eaten his girlfriend’s brain, again. Of course, if you look at it, it really wasn’t Zack’s fault. It was almost like Jenna was asking for it. You don’t date a Zombie if you’re the kind that scares easily. Or even worse, gets disgusted. Now that’s just cruel, and impolite. So what if you burp and slurp a lot and your ear comes off occasionally during sex. If anything, a bit of compassion would be nice. There is only so much hate even a Zombie’s heart can take. But he hadn’t really gotten over his dead-girlfriend-tragedy when the Alpha Zombies discovered a hitherto undiscovered school. Quaint, in the midst of the woods, not really keyed in on the apocalypse. That was some screaming and scampering. And kids, they are just human versions of veal, only more free range and pumped up on cholesterol… those were the days of plenty. And no one really caught sight of the anorexic cook that quivered in the school kitchen. He hoisted her onto his shoulder, with not much of a resistance apart from her arms flaying like fleas on his back, and her butt cheeks nudging his left cheek like starved dumplings (Yumm, still). He stuffed her into the cupboard for future use, and promptly forgot about her for a few days. To be hungry on a sweltering afternoon is a dangerous affair for the undead, and he was contemplating on how long he could starve and stay safe in the air conditioning when he remembered Cory. Of course, they hadn’t exchanged pleasantries and names at this point, and it was more of him opening the cupboard, and her tumbling out too starved and too exhausted to even weep… made him feel kinda bad for her. It was just plain mean of him to have left her in there for that long. And he wasn’t that kinda Zombie. So he fed her some left-over Cheetos, and asked her name, just to get her into a mood that would be more pleasant for (his) consumption. Rookie mistake. The thing about food is, it’s best not to play with it, feed it, or worse give it a name because very soon you find something endearing about it, and then you just can’t eat it, (at least not without saying teary goodbyes). He reminded himself that he’d not even gotten over the Jenna-heartbreak, and also that the temperature outside was over 40

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degrees and hence not apt for an unplanned romance. But he was a sucker for a damsel in distress. Even if he were the cause of the distress. And so he freed her from his cupboard and brought her more Cheetos to celebrate her freedom. He loved the way she chewed, like each morsel was her last, and ended up feeding her Cheetos all night… the desperation in her eyes making him forget his own grumbling tummy. Cory could have left him after that. But she didn’t. And Zack liked to think that it was because he had an endearing personality, and not just because there was a Zombie apocalypse outside. And when the sun was down, he went out and foraged for fresh meat and more Cheetos and on a special day, chicken, (which he couldn’t eat), but when she got down to cooking it, he could smell the glorious aroma, and remember a time and taste that was forever lost to him. To him, Cory was cute, caring, and perhaps even kind. Human kindness was something he had forgotten. He felt almost sleepy with pleasure when she combed his hair, and sometimes, he let her wash him, let her run down her wet fingers over his bloody chest. Yes, he started to look and even feel better. But one thing she could never get him to do was floss. Coz there is something to be said about a mean pair of canines that just made other Zombies back off and take you seriously, especially around a kill. Cory wouldn’t get that. Then one day, she made the most amazing Chocolate Blood Pudding, inspired (she said) by a Hannibal Lector cooking tip. That was the day! He took one spoon, and his whole world trembled, tears fell from his eyes, and he wept for a world where he still had a choice. It was also the moment Zombie cuisine was invented, and as his senses tingled, he dreamt of chocolate dipped fingers, honey basted breasts, roasted thighs, and a world of possibilities that were held in the magical tiny hands of this food goddess. At that moment he felt that he was a Zombie with a purpose (besides eating and sleeping, which were primary Zombie purposes), a higher purpose, to protect this goddess - from himself, and from the 20,000-strong Zombie army that was camped around him. There would be no more brain eating, well, at least not this girlfriend’s. And yes, he would floss (Because Cory had a strict no-dessert-if-you-don’t-floss policy). Looking back, he remembers these as the happy days. Humans were aplenty, and Zombies few. And on a gloomy day, (when the sun wasn’t hell-bent on decaying their flesh), they called a couple of his friends over, and had barbeques in their backyard, with blood wine, and pickled liver nuggets. Of course on these public occasions, Cory had on her social avatar, a pretty skirt of pure human skin (a rare Zombie fashion that hadn’t caught on), and molar ear-studs, that helped keep her own human smell at bay, and let her pass off as a Zombie, that just smelled really good. And they passed off many a pleasant afternoon snoring on the lawn, passed out after a noon of gourmet feasting. But happy days never last. And there was the issue of Alpha Zombies, Zombie wars, cornered terrified humans screaming at their food orgies, and the worst, hunting and maiming just for

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pleasure. A small movement put forth the great pro-Zombie, pro-kill argument. It kinda went like, hunt discretely, preferably separately, kill the humans you hunt, and keep down Zombie conversions. Too many (stupid, over-driven) Zombies translate to lesser partying-sloshed humans and more terrified ones hiding in mall bathrooms, under the protection of lemony air fresheners masking their smells. Needless to say, the sniper-kill movement got little traction, and the Zombie famine hit the Zombies as ruthlessly as faulty air-conditioning. Hiding Cory amidst all this (and not eating her) was hard. Cory, however, didn’t seem to think that way. She was tired of being stuck at home, now that cooking and parties were passé, courtesy the famine. And for humans, boredom is a bigger problem than staying alive. So she began the fights, which meant her yelling and him grunting. Always on the hotter days. When it was best to sleep. When she yelled that he did nothing but eat and sleep (whatever that meant), and she was stuck in the relationship with nowhere to go because there was a fucking apocalypse out there. Then one day, he was lying half asleep, half awake, wishing for the cold, barely in his senses, when he heard her holler and throw around a few bones. He woke up startled, worried that some Zombie had snuck in and found Cory, but instead there she stood over him, waving a skull, and he hoped that meant food, but then he quickly identified Miss Ex-girlfriend Jenna, Carcass version. How Cory found the damn body or recognized it, he didn’t know (probably the sexy lingerie that still clung to the rest of her), but before he could say anything, Cory had stomped out with her bags, saying that she’d rather be eaten by a mob of Zombies than her own boyfriend. He couldn’t get out before sundown. And when he did, the Zombies were on the move. Rumours had it that Humans were at the Mall. Cory! Was Cory amongst them? He joined the crowd, grunting, and huffing, as fast as he could, and even overtaking a few party hopping tortoises that were heading that way. If you asked Zack, human preys were as dumb as Zombies. When they were scared, their best defense was to form large crowds that were visible from a mile. And if that’s not enough, they’d start to cackle. So that on the off chance their predators couldn’t see them, they could hear them loud and clear. Malls were a favourite human hideout, and Zack assumed that it was so they could go shopping in the intervals when they weren’t being hunted. He was damn sure Cory was in there, trying on clothes and makeup, and he hoped to the devil she’d had the sense to carry the human-skin skirt with her. Once a human and his companions enter the Mall, he gives the order to “seal the exits”, and by exits, humans means the ones that they can enter and leave. And this part would be hilarious if Zombies had a sense of humor (they don’t), but humans forget the one crucial entrance that Zombies preferably take. Pipes. Humans can’t really comprehend how a kind-of-humancreature can squeeze itself through a pipe, ligaments and all, and come out at the other end of

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a plumber’s spectrum. It's just that Zombies don’t really care about a few lost appendages unless of course, it's their mouths, not even their brains (coz they don’t bother to think so far). Zack’s path takes him into the Mall’s restroom, specifically the commode exit, where his head bumps up a human ass, and hungry as hell, he takes a giant bite off the fair soft meat. He loves ass. And out jumps the human with a squeak, and Zack himself, jack-in-the-box style, and follows human out of the restroom, and into the kiddie toy section. Much fear and hand-flayings-yelps, Zack loves this part… the grand entry, and all the attention. Ass-Boy grabs a (toy) baseball bat and starts beating the shit out of Zack in front of all the kids and Zack puts up with that kinda shit, coz he feels the crowd loves the theatrics of a dying villain. And there’s the tear-stained girl clinging on to Ass-Boy, terrified, and screaming “Mikey, Mikey”. At this point, Mikey figures that Zack is not really dying and just playing along, and takes two dice from the board game shelf and throws it down at Zack and that’s when Zack loses it. Zack is a patient Zombie. But nothing riles him up more than a human who’s played too much Zombicide and thinks his best defense is a Molotov from a double dice. Zack takes a perfect bite off the guy's thigh to teach him a lesson. ‘Mikey’ drops the baseball bat. He’s entering what Zack recognizes as Zombie shock, which is like being hit by a good-quality bong and having an elephant-sized migraine at the same time. The room takes a little spin around you, you can hear phantom whistling, then you are suddenly on a merry go around, and there are red butterflies dancing around you. Only they aren’t so much dancing but splaying about. And they aren’t butterflies. It is blood. Your blood. And then you realize you’re dying, and press play on the ‘my whole life flashing before me’ reel that’s ready and waiting. And somehow the whole thing seems funny. But then things happen quickly. The girl screams again, and before Zack can finish wondering why girls have adopted screaming as their primary form of communication, he sees that Mikey has climbed out of the window and onto the narrow ledge, his back to the wall, looking down at the abyss of traffic below him… and everyone else has put their heads out of the window while begging him to stop, even Zack… but the boy’s too far gone, the ledge is thin and he’s barely balancing, and mumbling, maybe praying, he’s sweating, possibly terrified… and Zack wishes he could explain to Mikey the futility of actions, (not that he could find or say the words for it), that being a Zombie wasn’t all that bad, it’s not really a path to hell and stuff, and even if it was, was it really so bad? He really needn’t… oh no, too late… needn’t do exactly that… jump off the ledge. Now the girl is screaming again. And Zack hates tragedies, it kinda makes him wanna cry and wish someone had warned him before he’d started watching. He looked down, to where Mikey, or whatever remained of him, lay, a sad mass of leg and head and blood and shirt that had all become one. He twitched a little. And the Zombies, a hundred odd ones that clambered over the abandoned cars, devoured him in seconds. Like fleas around a piece of fruit.

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Then he saw her. Cory! She was inside, what Zack understood as a food truck, because it said FOOD TRUCK, in all caps, (A great way to market yourself to Zombies if you happen to be Zombie food). And as Zack looked at Cory, terrified and crouching from the thousand Zombies zoning in on her, he experienced a strange sensation. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and his hand, and his rib cage, which once held his heart, trembled. He also developed an urgent need to jump five floors. And that was what he did. The minute he landed five floors below, he sensed a lightheadedness. He looked at a revolving door-mirror in front of him and realized he had a new look. He had lost a bit of head. It was like a haircut, but with more head involved. He scooped up the rest of his head from the pavement and bagged it for future use (Cory would stitch it up later, if she survived the apocalypse that is. Shit, Cory). A thousand Zombies were still swarming around the food truck. And then something weird happened. Zack felt teeth on his ass, and he looked at his ass and it is clearly in the mouth of a Zombie kid who couldn't get to a piece of the mess that was Mikey and hoped Zack would make a close second. Now, Zombies aren’t cannibalistic. Mostly because Zombies have a sense of taste, and aren’t into rotting food. Anyway, the Zombie kid spat Zack’s ass out quite gracelessly. And somehow, the whole episode distracted the crowd into a sort of existential haze. That’s how bad they all tasted? Dead meat? Or maybe it was just the idea that they could all just eat one another instead of eating one puny human in a food truck. In the existential pause that diverted attention from her, Zack noticed Cory drive the food truck into the Mall, breaking down the revolving doors. And Zack felt the need to jump up and down in joy. His ass had saved her ass. And what a beautiful ass that was. Seconds later, there was a hunt launched for Cory. Zombies scattered everywhere searching for the girl that had given them the miss. They went by the scent. And the scent was no small one. Surely, it was not the smell of an emancipated school chef. But it drove the Zombie masses wild. They scattered about in desperation, trying to hunt the scent that seemed to come from everywhere. For days they hunted. The Malls, the suburbs, the streets. Hunted, found and ate every human in the vicinity. But even then, the scent did not subside. It wafted around them, called to them, and tortured them. Without solace. And then Cory arrived. Parked her food truck in front of the Mall. Along with the glorious smell. And without so much as a cue, the unruly Zombies formed a line before the truck. And somewhere along that line was Zack. He watched from afar as Cory handed out food to the Zombies. Honey Basted Wings. Glazed Zombie Thighs. All of his favorites and more. And the Zombies were ready to give an arm and a leg for it. And Cory was taking it. The arm and the leg, that is. Frying it in a bloody batter of secret spice. From each Zombie to his brother. You could

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even have a piece of yourself in your next meal. A perfect Zombie-eat-Zombie solution to a Zombie apocalypse: a Zombie food heaven. That could take Zombies to heaven.

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THE TEMPTATION OF DEMON BAEL R Pavan Kumar Genre: Humor The slime-green gas fumes crept in through the crack at the bottom of the bedroom door. In the soft glow of the night-light, the fumes gathered themselves into a towering column that stretched to the ceiling. The fumes condensed upon themselves and formed a figure that had the head of a black cat, two human hands, two crab claws and a pair of insect wings that ended in the tentacles of an octopus. The demon Bael purred softly and cracked his neck. Traveling as a cloud of fumes always made his body ache; he was growing too old for this shit. Why couldn't they come up with a better means of transportation, perhaps something like Uber for hell? Bael slithered towards the bed and towered over it, a teenage boy lay asleep in it snoring gently. One of his tentacles handed Bael a smartphone and he opened the ‘Tempt Today’ app on it. The app opened on his homepage and showed he had one mission, to tempt a teenage boy into committing a sin. He clicked on the image attached to the mission and checked it with the boy in bed, he was in the right place. He read the mission; this boy was going to be dead in the next few days. He was a goody two shoes, who had never toed the line in his brief life and was a virtuous virgin to boot. If he died in the same state he would gain express entry through the gates of heaven. And that would be one soul that hell would have lost. His mission, if he were to choose it, would be to tempt this boy into committing as many sins as he could before his death so the boy's soul could be dragged to hell. Bael ran a claw through his whiskers. This was a tricky mission. Even for a demon of his caliber, it took a minimum of a few months to successfully tempt someone, a few days was near impossible. But if Bael could manage to tempt this boy, a soul like the boys could get Bael a lot of brownie points with the management downstairs. Bael was hungry for a promotion. He had been a foot soldier for several millennia now, it was about time he tried for a promotion. Bael took a deep breath and swiped right on his smartphone accepting his mission. The boy seemed to move in his sleep. In a flash, Bael had switched to the form of a black cat and cuddled under the boy’s bed.

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The boy, his name was Andy, found Bael in the morning and immediately took him on as a pet. It was not very difficult to convince Andy’s parents to let him keep Bael until his real owners were found. That was all the opportunity Bael needed. Bael shadowed Andy for the whole day, observing him at home and stalking him at school. And what Bael found was rather disappointing. Andy got an A+ in a History quiz and helped one of his friends understand quadratic equations better. In sports class, he helped another boy in his team better a tricky football shot. He spent much of his break time telling a funny story to his group of friends, which was basically half the school. On his way back home Andy stopped at the local old age home and read a novel to a group of eager elders for a while. Andy was a poster boy for heaven. Andy's list of good deeds made Bael’s skin crawl. It was the kind of stuff that made him work overtime and gave him nightmares. Back home, Bael was crouched under the couch, plotting Andy's downfall when Andy found him. “There you are! Time for dinner.” Andy lifted Bael gently and nuzzled him; he fed Bael some tuna that he has specially cooked for Bael. Bael could not remember the last time he had had such a wholesome meal. After he was done, Andy picked him up and groomed him for a long time. No one, in all the millennia that Bael had existed, had ever done something so considerate for Bael. Bael almost closed his eyes and purred. Once Andy was sound asleep, Bael curled up beneath his bed and began to plan his strategy. He ran a few calculations and realized there were very few things he could do to actually tempt Andy. The kid was a model child and didn’t have a single bad bone in his body. And all the tuna, the tastiest Bael had ever had (seafood in hell was never fresh no matter what the management claimed) and all the grooming had made Bael a little soft towards Andy. There was a moment when Bael almost regretted having taken on the assignment. He shook his feline head and growled if Bael was anything, he was persistent. Bael realized there were only three ways in which he could really tempt Andy. The first was the latest gaming console. Andy desperately wanted to buy the new gaming console, but being the good kid he was, he was saving up for it instead of just pestering his parents to buy it for him. At the current rate, it would take him a good year to buy the console. The second temptation would take the form of Julia. Julia and Andy had been good friends as kids but had drifted away as they grew up and Julia became the hottest girl in school and started dating Brad, the football team captain and jerk of a jock. Andy had always liked Julia even if he didn’t fully realize it. The third temptation was biochemical in nature. Andy was really curious about neurochemistry. At first, Bael had thought this as just a lame excuse, but no, this kid was actually interested in how the chemicals in the brain worked and how they could be altered. Andy wanted to study neuroscience someday. And even as Bael was impressed by this he saw an opportunity in this to tempt Andy. Bael’s luminous green eyes moved rapidly under the bed

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as he plotted his temptations, finally satisfied he purred, coughed up a hairball, curled and fell asleep. The next day was a normal boring day at school that Bael had to struggle to stay awake through. This was mainly because Andy had given Bael a long warm bubble bath followed by a long grooming session and a hearty tuna breakfast, Bael had never felt so pampered. As Andy was walking back from school that day, Bael was following him a little distance away and almost felt guilty making a money clip appear on the footpath right before Andy. When Andy almost stepped past the money clip, Bael made it shine right in his eyes. Andy picked up the money clip and looked around. The road was deserted, and he couldn’t see anyone who would have dropped the money clip. He counted the money it was more than enough for him to buy his favorite console and the hottest game of the year. Andy gulped hard, but he merely held the money clip in his hand and walked on. On the way, he came across an electronics store that was selling the very same console and game. Andy stopped and stared, his fist closing around the money. Large hoardings proclaimed the console as the best one ever and the game to be the most spectacular one ever produced. Bael watched Andy gawk at it and whispered in his ears, “Go on, maybe God sent you that money. Maybe he thinks you deserve it, for being a good boy. You deserve it for helping that cat. Go on, buy it. Buy it!” Andy looked at the money, he pushed the door to the store, and a bell rang deep inside the store. Bael almost gave a guffaw, but Andy shook his head, left the store and continued on his way. Bael growled and followed. Andy entered the old age home and handed the money to the receptionist as a donation and went on to read to the seniors. Bael scratched up a tree pretty badly until he felt calmer. He was glad he had planned stronger temptations. He called Obizuth on his phone. Obizuth was an old colleague of Bael’s. They had worked together on several missions and had harvested many souls together. But then Obizuth had been part of some scandal that involved a Duke of Hell. Now she was semi-retired and handled the small drug business in this neighbourhood, tempting college kids into drugs and fornication. Obizuth answered her phone in a voice like sandpaper cutting through silk. “So, is the party ready?” Bael said. “Do you even have to ask?” Obizuth said. “Will Julia be there?” “Yes, the girl will be there, doped and horny.” Obizuth drawled out her reply. “And the drugs?” “The promised land will overflow with ecstasy and devil's grass.” Obizuth said. “That's great Obizuth. Thank you.” Bael was surprised she had managed all that at such short notice. “Welcome, sweet thing. But you do owe me. Big time.” He could hear Obizuth smile.

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“I will owe you once the boy is tempted, Obizuth, once he is tempted.” Bael sneered and hung up. That evening as he was studying calculus, Andy was surprised to receive a text from Julia. Julia wondered how he was doing and why they had not met in what seemed like forever. She said they had to meet up immediately. There was a party at a friend's place that night and she would really like it if Andy attended the party. Andy grinned at his phone and Bael grinned at Andy. Andy couldn't remember the last time he had spoken to Julia. There was no way he could have said no to her. So at the appointed time, Andy showed up at the party’s venue, Bael following him closely. The venue seemed like a frat house and Andy could hear the music playing even from the street. Andy opened the door to find a large empty room with a few bean bags tossed around. The room was littered with paper cups and pizza boxes and smelt of a peculiar combination of booze, weed, puke, and sweat. A large music system in a corner was blaring music along with a small strobe light that made the room throb like a migraine. Several college boys and girls lay around the room in different stages of consciousness and undress, some of them were attempting to dance near the music system. Noone noticed Andy enter, he looked around for Julia. “Andy! You made it. Yay!” Julia said as she came down the stairs that probably led to another floor with the same layout. Julia wore a spaghetti strap tank top and hot shorts and she walked down the stairs with some trouble. Andy had never seen her like this before, sure Julia had her share of fun, but not like this. “Hello, Julia…” Andy managed to murmur. “Come here, you…” Julia said and pulled him into a tight hug. Julia led him to a pair of bean bags in a corner and they flopped into them side by side. They began to talk about their childhood memories. Julia sighed often as if she really missed spending time with Andy. Whenever she mentioned him she bit her lower lip or played with her hair. She brought up very specific memories that Andy was sure she had forgotten. Like that time they had bunked school to go trekking in the woods. One moment she stared directly into his eyes as she spoke, making him gulp hard and the next moment she looked at him coyly through lowered eyes, giving him goosebumps. Andy couldn't remember the last time Julia had been this candid and confusing. After a while Julia got up and wandered away, she returned soon with two glasses that smelt of fruit juice and alcohol. She handed one glass to Andy and said, “To the good old days, bottoms up!” And she promptly emptied her glass and stared at Andy. Andy sniffed at his glass, and it made his head swim. He smiled at Julia and tried to keep his glass aside. “No no, drink it with me…” she raised his glass to his lips. Andy tried to get the glass away from her but she held it close to his face. She kept trying to force him to drink, and he tried to get away from it until the

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glass slipped and the drink spilt over Andy's jeans. “I am so sorry.” Julia sounded truly disappointed. She spent a long time trying to rub the drink out of the crotch of Andy's jeans and Andy had to think hard about all the starving children in Africa to stop himself from reacting. Julia got up again and disappeared. She returned soon and sat down beside Andy. “No more alcohol, I promise!” She smiled and held out a fist in front of him. She opened her fist and showed Andy two small tablets shaped like an obscene cartoon character. She placed one on her tongue as she grinned at Andy. She handed Andy the other tablet, closed her eyes and sank into her bean bag. Andy watched her carefully to notice any effects of the drug. Julia began to giggle as if someone were tickling her. “How does it feel?” Andy moved closer to her. “I feel like I am floating on a cloud, it's so soft and tingly!” Julia giggled. “What is happening to your sense of self? Do you still feel you are the same person?” Andy said. “Stop asking such difficult questions!” Julia winced, then she looked at him for just a second and grinned, “Why don’t you try for yourself?” Andy stared at the tablet in his hand, he had always wanted to know what it would feel like to be in an altered state of mind. It was just a scientific curiosity, he told himself. He just wanted to know what it was like to not be entirely himself. “Yes,” Bael whispered in his ear, “You are not doing it because you are a bad person. You just want to do it out of curiosity.” Andy nodded to himself. “You just want to know how it feels, for research purposes…”Bael whispered, “Just once, so you know what you will study in neurochemistry. Just an experiment. You owe it to science.” Andy nodded to himself and picked up the tablet. He almost brought it to his lips, but Julia giggled and flapped her hands in a flying motion. Andy stared at her; he shook his head and threw the tablet into a corner of the room. Outside the house, a cat hissed loudly. Andy sat for a while just looking around the room and checking to see if Julia had stopped giggling. Soon she seemed to be able to open her eyes and talk to him though she still seemed to smile a lot. Once she was more composed, she asked him to dance with her. Andy had wanted this for as long as he could remember, though he had imagined a waltz and not the weird gyrations that they were now doing on the makeshift dance floor. Still, he consoled himself, he was dancing with Julia. Julia was pressed very close to him as she gyrated and he had to think of all the starving kids in Africa again (it even seemed like there weren’t enough starving kids anywhere). Few minutes into the dancing, Julia stared at Andy and bit her lower lip. She pulled his face closer to hers and whispered in his ear, “I want you, Andy, I have always wanted you, take me, Now!” Andy gulped hard as they continued gyrating. He balled his fists and closed his eyes. Her skin felt so soft against his and it felt like she had always been there by his side, all he had to do was

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reach out a hand and grasp her. He turned her around and held her close, he tilted her neck to one side and drew her face close to his. Julia pouted her lips, Andy was about to kiss her, when he noticed the glossed overexpression in her eyes. Yes, he had always wanted this, but not like this. He withdrew and held her at arm's length, she continued to pout. “No, not like this Jules…” Andy said. “But, I really want to kiss you,” Julia said. “As do I, just not like this,” Andy said. “Please…” “No!” Andy was firm. Julia stared at him for a long moment, then her eyes bulged, she went to a corner and puked her guts out. Bael, who had been watching the whole exchange, also puked out a couple of hairballs. Andy waited till she was done retching. Julia turned around finally looking surprised and relieved. Her violent retching had woken up some of the people in the house. Two girls came over to them, saw the mess Julia had made and began to scream at them. They wanted Andy and Julia to clean up the mess immediately. Julia was suddenly weak and leaned against Andy for support, “please take me home…” she whispered. Andy supported her out of the house as the two girls screamed for them to get lost and never return. Andy led Julia to her house as she leaned against him. With a cold wind blowing through her hair, on a clear moonlit night, it was a romantic walk. Julia seemed to be returning to normal and kept apologizing and thanking Andy. A morose but hopeful Bael followed closely a few feet behind the young couple. By the time they reached her house, Julia seemed like her old self. “I am really sorry Andy, I am not sure what came over me today…” Julia said fiddling with her dress. “It's perfectly alright, Jules. We all have off days.” Andy said. “Yes, it does seem so. And you have been a perfect gentleman today. Thanks. You are so different from Brad, I sometimes wonder why I am with him anymore. He would have totally taken advantage of me tonight. But you didn't.” She blushed and looked away. “I wouldn't dream of it.” Andy said, “Goodnight, Julia.” “Well, wouldn't you want to kiss me good night?” Julia looked at her feet. “How can you not kiss a good girl good night? That is such a dastardly thing to do.” Bael whispered in Andy's ear, “Just give her a goodnight kiss. You have always dreamt of it!” Andy balled his fists and took a deep breath, “I would love to kiss you goodnight, but not tonight Jules. Hopefully soon!” “You are a true gentleman.” Julia smiled at him, waved and went into her house. Andy sighed and began to walk home.

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Bael was dumbstruck as he watched Andy walk away. He had given Andy exactly what he had always dreamt and desired, and yet somehow Andy had managed to walk away from it all. Was Bael losing his touch in tempting humans? Did he even deserve a promotion? Now Andy would be dead soon and he would take the expressway through the pearly gates. Bael would lose a soul and lose face among his colleagues. Nothing made sense to Bael anymore. He began to growl and snarl. He got lost in an animal rage. He started clawing at a nearby lamppost and snarling in wrath. The noise attracted Andy's attention, he recognized Bael as his rescued cat and ran towards him. The prospect of being rescued and pampered by Andy was too much for Bael. He hissed at Andy and ran at full sprint into the street. Just as he reached the middle of the street he was blinded by the headlights of a car that was tumbling down at him at full speed. For just a second Bael froze in the gaze of the headlights like an actual stray cat, then he shook himself and was about to disappear from there. Just as he was about to disappear, he felt a familiar warm hand grab him around his stomach and throw him away from the street. As Bael flew away from the road, he turned around mid-air to find Andy on all fours in the middle of the street. He had seen Bael in trouble and without any regard for his own life had rushed to save him. Bael could see the car inching closer to Andy. In a few seconds, it would run over him. At such a close distance, there was no doubt about how this would end. So this was how Andy was destined to die, saving a stray cat. After that, Andy would find himself directly in front of the pearly gates, no waiting in purgatory for our pious Andy. St.Peter would not even have to think about it, Andy would get a red carpet entrance into Heaven. And Bael would get mocked for this, for centuries in hell. Bael could feel a guttural growl building up in his throat. Then Bael saw Andy’s face. There was a calm, pure smile on his face. Andy must have known what this would mean for him, and yet somehow he seemed content with his decision. He glowed with an angelic glow in the approaching headlights. Bael was reminded of his warm hands as Andy pet him. Bael was reminded of the way in which Andy rubbed behind his ears, at just the right spot, at how Andy groomed him with love and fed him tuna until he purred in content. Bael was surprised to find that he actually liked Andy, the warm glow of this thought filled his heart. Could he dare admit it, oh what the heck, Bael thought he could actually love Andy. Bael had never felt this way before. It made him all warm, fuzzy, and stupid. He looked at Andy’s face and it tugged at his heart. Bael raised a paw and pushed the air, and Andy was thrown back to the other side of the street. The car hurtled by, not harming anyone. Bael and Andy lay safe on either side of the street. Bael was just starting to realize what he had done. He put his hands to his head and began to screech, this night could not get any worse. Andy got up and ran towards Bael. “You saved my life! You actually saved my life!” Andy said as he reached his cat. Bael stopped his hissing and looked at Andy, why would he think Bael had saved his life?

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Bael turned his head to the side and regarded Andy in a cat-like curiosity. “Thank you Bael, thank you for saving my life!” Andy said. Bael’s eyes grew wide, “You knew?” he screamed, “You knew all this while?” “What? That you are a demon? Or that you were trying to tempt me?” Andy said. “But how, how did you know? How could you have possibly known?” Bael said. “Well, you really need to use night mode on your phone when you enter people’s bedrooms in the dark” Andy shrugged, “when I saw you in your real form, I guessed what you were. The rest was just looking up a demon that resembled you on the internet. We did invent the internet, you know, though you do seem to be putting it to good use!” Beal hissed and arched his back, “So all this while you knew I was trying to tempt you?” “Isn’t that what demons do?” Andy said. “And you knew you were going to die?” “I guessed that part, but thanks for saving my life!” Andy sounded thankful. “So if you knew I was tempting you, that counts as cheating. You cheated!” Bael hissed. “Seriously? A demon is accusing me of cheating. Do you not hear the irony in that?” Andy raised an eyebrow. “Wait, I will talk to you in my real form. That should put some fear into you.” Bael closed his eyes and murmured something, he rose in a small cloud of green fumes, but the fumes dissipated and he fell back to the ground. Bael tried, again and again, to turn into his demon self and failed. He glared at Andy, “You, you are somehow responsible for this! I will finish you myself!” he screamed and sprinted towards Andy with open claws. As he reached Andy he was thrown back with an equal force. Bael fell to the ground confused. “What is happening?” Bael walked around in confused circles, “I think I will just go home.” Bael muttered a few spells, a small green crack appeared in the ground, a fiery flame filled dimension could be seen through it, Bael tried to jump into it but the small crack closed before he could pass through it. Bael tried, again and again, to open a portal to hell and failed. “What is happening to me?” Bael screamed in terror. “Well, well, well...In all of eternity, who would have known this day would come!” there was a flutter of large bat-like wings and a demon landed near them. She had the torso of a beautiful girl attached to the body of a gigantic centipede, “The great demon Bael, finally bested, and by a boy!” she sneered and her hundreds of feet shuddered in joy. “Ah, Obizuth! So glad you are here. Something is wrong with me, I cannot return to hell.” Bael tried to run to Obizuth, but she scrambled away from him like he had the plague. “Of course you cannot. Don’t you get it? You have been banished from hell!” Obizuth whispered. “What! Banished? But, why?” Bael looked around, uncertain.

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“Really? It’s because you saved the boy’s life, you stupid demon! You are a demon and you did a good deed!” Obizuth gagged like it was the grossest thing she could have said. “Fine, but why can’t I hurt him?” Bael asked baring his fangs at Andy. “Because he has tempted you to do a good deed. You were supposed to tempt him, but somehow he managed to tempt you, a demon with millennia of experience in evil!” Obizuth looked at Andy with curious admiration. “It was a moment of weakness! So what if he tempted me to do good?” Bael asked. “What happens to a soul when we manage to tempt it?” Obizuth said. “We drag it to hell and torment it forever. Specifically, the demon who tempted the soul torments it. He kind of owns the soul.” Bael said. Then his eyes grew wide in horror. “Yes, exactly. Since the boy tempted you into doing good, he kind of owns your demon ass now!” Obizuth said. Bael looked from Andy to Obizuth in horror, he hissed and ran around in circles screaming. Andy and Obizuth looked at him with pity. “You seem to be one of the first people to have tempted a demon like this, congrats!” Obizuth said as Bael continued to run around screaming. “Thank you. Frankly, I didn’t think it would work!” Andy said. Bael stopped screaming and came back, “Ok, ok, fine. How do I gain my freedom again?” “Well, I am not sure, but I think you will have to commit enough sins to gain entry back.” Obizuth said, “Looks like you will be here for a long time! Don’t worry; I will come visit you often!” She blew Bael a kiss, “Ok, goodbye now, I have a lot of gossips to give my demon besties! Andy, try and be do something bad, ok. Bael try to commit some sins! Bye!” Obizuth waved her fingers and a portal to hell opened, she slithered into it and it closed behind her. Andy went and picked up Bael. “Put me down, boy. I have to go commit some sins! Maybe kill someone.” Bael growled. “You are a cat. What will you kill? Mice? I doubt if that counts as a sin.” Andy said. Bael held onto Andy with his paws, “Please Andy! You have to help me commit some sins! You have to!” Andy rubbed him behind an ear, “Ok, I will help you commit some sins, ok. I promise. You can start by helping me win over Julia. Her pesky boyfriend Brad does need to be gotten rid of somehow.” “Yes, I will find some evil way of getting rid of Brad and winning Julia’s love for you. But after that, after that we will conquer the world ok that is supposed to be as evil as you can get!” Bael purred, “Then I shall return to hell!” “Ok, fine, we will get rid of Brad, conquer the world, and then get you back to hell, ok!” Andy said,“But it has been a long day. Who would like a nice warm bath?” “Oh me, me, me.” Bael said, “And can I have some Tuna afterwards!”

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“Of course. We will have a nice bath, then some tuna, then a good night’s sleep, and then we will conquer the world.” Andy said. “Yes, sounds like a plan! Don’t forget the part where we get me back to hell, ok!” Andy and Bael walked back home plotting about warm baths and world domination.

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CONFESSIONS OF A QUINTESSENTIAL BITCH Ell.P. Genre: Humor Stage 1 So, you know, people think I am shallow because I am gorgeous. But that is not the case, my musings are deep, I often just sit and watch videos of those poor people outside Walmart, who pitch tents, and stand in lines for hours, sometimes days, just for the Black Friday sale. They almost look homeless. This makes me question the blatant disparity in our society, which is a deeply profound line of thinking, you see. I once had a boyfriend who wasn’t even good looking. Like you know, he had longish hair, played drums in a band, and had a beard. Occasionally spoke really smart stuff about the universe, particle accelerators and shit. But I could never get over the fact, that his beard reminded me of a bear. Eww! Well, technically, only he thought he was my boyfriend, and I would ignore him if I saw him somewhere outside. But I did give him my love and deeply appreciated his bank account. So, it wasn’t a surprise when I garnered the reputation of being a Quintessential Bitch. It was my calling, after all I had carefully groomed and prepared myself since I was a three-year-old ballerina, raised by an over-ambitious mother. But you know what… It is not easy being one, a Quintessential Bitch. And do you know when I first realized that? This piece of profound realization came to me a week back when the ugly, bearded boyfriend tried breaking up with me. Now, this is how the entire interaction went.

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We were sitting somewhere, with our feet hanging off the railing, dangling and occasionally bumping into each other. When I suddenly felt the urge to link my arm into his and support my head on his strong shoulders. He cleared his throat, “umm maybe we should take a break.” He said. “What?! Why?!” I asked, my heart in my throat. I couldn’t believe he wanted to call it off with the most beautiful woman he ever got it on with. Are men stupid or are men stupid? He spoke, bringing me back to this unreal conversation I was having. “I don’t know, I feel the excitement has gone. You are being nice… too nice.” For the lack of better words, and also to distract myself from that itch in my palms to slap him, I said, “What do you mean… nice?” “You are not a bitch anymore, even your resting face is not like that of a bitch. You are nice and that does not entertain me.” ENTERTAIN… ENTERTAIN!? That fucker had been entertained enough by whips, chains, spatulas, striptease and lap dances. What more did he want? “What the fuck… Is this because I have started talking about you to my friends? We have been dating for a year now, isn’t it about time?” “Well… you know I liked that, you… I liked you when you were a bitch! When you ignored me and left me hanging out there, embarrassed in front of my friends. Humiliated me! I loved that!” And honestly, I slapped him hard, walked out on him. That was the first time I realized, how much pressure it is to continue being a bitch when you are in a relationship. You know how they say good girls are into bad boys. Well, boys, all boys are into bitches. That chase, playing hard to get, finding a woman who doesn’t give a fuck about them. It turns them on, it drives them, makes them go wild. It is like the wonders of BDSM to a missionary guy. But to think about it logically, the chase has to end right? Sometime? So, when a girl stops playing hard to get, responds to your texts within a minute, and says, “I love you,” the pursuit has ended. And she does, really does want to be nice to you. I reiterate, to you and not the entire cricket team. For a guy, though, that is boring, the chase was what drove him. My question is to the guys, I mean seriously, can you imagine your wife of 30 years, post your retirement, responding to your texts with, “Whatever Sharmaji, go fuck yourself.” Do you still want her to behave like a totally remorseless, ruthless bitch after these many years of a relationship? Of course, you do, and that is why, you choose younger, greener, perkier and leggier pastures. And blame it all on midlife crisis. Why? Was it just because your wife forgot being a bitch and was actually nice to you, for once? Damn, my life was on a downward spiral when came to the struggle of being a ruthless, manipulative jerk. I never imagined I would be put in a position like this.

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You know, how one of those days, where all you want to do is stare ahead into the horizon and think deep thoughts. But a girl passes you by in last year’s palazzo pants and all your friends look up to you for a nasty comment that goes something like, “Look at her, she is like soooo last century! Gag reflux!” It’s expectation, its pressure. Because unless a cutting remark does not come out of my mouth, I’m tagged as nice, which translates to boring. But somehow, that incident with my boyfriend was like a wakeup call for me and I threw myself into analyzing what happened, why was my throne slipping away from me? After three minutes of deep pondering it all came crashing upon me, all those little sniggers by Ria, my BFF (Best Friend Forever), who was now out to claim my reign. The strange looks from my posse; that judgmental comment on the Steve Maddens I repeated from last week. That night I went back in time, I mean not that long ago. You know, like three months. Stage 0 Incident I I think it started the day I went to the mall with my girls, just me, Ria and Sween; three bitches rocking the place in our jumpsuits and stilettoes. Right in the center of the mall, there was some kind of a book launch going on. And the place was filled with, you know, those pretentious intellectuals. The kind of people, who have money, yet pretend to dress in rags bought from places like Mother Earth or Fab India. I can’t for the life of me imagine why they would do it? Maybe they believe that only by dressing like a homeless person and carrying a “jhola” would make people take them seriously. The bane of being a writer! I feel bad for them. Poor writers, they can’t afford to have a fashion sense, even if they want to. So, there amongst the crowd of homeless intellectuals, I spotted Viji Nair, a nerd who used to sit right in the first row of my Human anatomy class. And she was right there bobbing up and down like one of those Teletubbies, to get a glimpse of the launch. She had taken special care to look extra intellectually homeless, that day. Her hair was in a crazy disarray and I think I spotted a tiny hole in her grey, khadi, kurta. Maybe she was hoping to get one of those writers to ask her out on a date. A date… hmm? Instantly my thoughts were clouded by intuitive questions. Like, what kind of dates would “pretend poor people” go to? They obviously wouldn’t go clubbing, because Fab India doesn’t manufacture party wear.

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And then it dawned on me; why we have parks and gardens in our cities. Of course, it is for those dates, you know where the girl comes with a box of homemade cookies and plastic spoons, and the guy walks in with coffee in a flask. And they spend the next couple of hours, walking around the park, hand in hand. So pedestrian! As I stood there, buried deep in my profound musings; I couldn’t help but notice a four-yearold peeping through the second-floor balcony. He held a big dinosaur, which looked suspiciously like a Brochosaurus. And just as my eyes vaguely examined that toy contraption, the kid decided to drop it. And the Brochosaurus decided to fall perpendicular, right upon Viji’s bobbing Teletubby head. Without any conscious thought, my body hurled itself, upon Viji, to save her from the onslaught of a rubber dinosaur. And while I focused on my heroic act of saving Viji’s life, I managed to step upon at least three ‘chappal’ clad feet with my Aldo stilettoes. And amidst the cries of ‘aaahhhs’ and ‘what the fucks’; I found absolute adulation written all over Viji’s face. From beneath my five-seven frame, her eyes peeked at me and her unibrow widened in wonder; under her thickly rimmed round spectacles. Oh, that look; that wonder in her eyes. I’d never experienced that before. I very well recognized the looks of envy and jealousy, but adulation, that was a first. Just then Ria and Sween came running towards me and screamed, ‘Don’t touch her, Anya, she could give you a zit!’ Well, now that they managed to turn all expressions around us into looks of horror and disgust, I did realize that Viji suffered from a rather unflattering splatter of acne all over her round face. This propelled me into scrambling away from her at the speed of light. Yet, in hindsight, I believe that my uncharacteristic display of philanthropy somehow managed to wedge a divide between Ria and me. Especially, since Viji and her herd of nerds strangely started surrounding me from that day on. Not that I complained, because it meant that all of my homework and assignments used to be done by my army of nerdy elves while I made sweet and sometimes crazy love to my bearded boyfriend. Incident II You know there are people; I know they sort of exist. Like the kind of people I don’t notice, or breeze past, or are not registered by my superior retina. So, when I say ‘sort of exist’; I am sure they do exist, in a plane far below my existence. Which is perfectly fine, I got nothing against them. They are middle class you see. They store

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their plastic bags in one master plastic bag right next to their kitchen. It is a deplorable existence, and they do not deserve my scorn at wearing hand me downs from their older sibling. Underneath it all, I am a nice person. But sometimes, occasionally they smile at me. And one of these occasions, close to two months back, while I was busy introspecting my life because my Mum asked me to; I smiled back and worse, nodded with a “Hi” at a tiny five feet five boy who was grinning wide with steel braces. Instantly, his posse of other tiny braced boys and girls jumped in joy and started congratulated him. I so rolled my eyes and so did Ria. But it didn’t stop there, Ria, that judgmental little, petite piece of shit, exclaimed in a loud shrill tone, “Did you just say ‘Hi’ to an ugly person?” Everyone around us heard it, everyone in the hallway of the third-floor classrooms. Including the ugly people. “I DID NOT!” I screamed. “It was just a nervous tic.” “Oh my god, Anya?!” She suddenly came at me with the strangest expression of delight camouflaged with mock horror. “Do you have Tourette syndrome?” “What the fuck is that?” Sween and I ask in unison. “You know, the one where people have nervous tics, just like you do right now. That tic about acknowledging the presence of ugly people.” Ria spoke. I swear I could have slapped her then and there. But I controlled and walked ahead with my head held high. While everyone stared at me and probably wondered since when do the tables turn on the Quintessential Bitch? And that was it, my entire reputation, one that I had created over the years, of ruthlessness and conniving, had come crashing down. That day onwards, the ‘people’ everyone whose presence had never been acknowledged by me, dared to smile, and to make matters worse, dared to expect a smile in return. All because of that one moment of weakness, where I forgot what it was like to be a Quintessential Bitch. Incident III So, around a month ago, I was hungry, really hungry. You know, sometimes, after months of a daily dose of laxatives, and poking your fingers in your mouth just to throw up the Ceasar salad you ate; you really want to binge. It was one of those binging days for me, and my meal comprised of cheesy garlic bread, chicken tikka pizza, chocolate shake and the three fat kids from the next table. While I stuffed my mouth with succulent morsels of delectable cheese and chicken; I chanced upon an expression of utter disgust on the faces of my friends. Especially Ria. “Honey,” she said, “I know you are starving, but you might want to cut down on all the cheese. Considering how much you hate all those love handles on ugly people.”

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I took about 30 seconds to gobble up the food in my mouth and said, “Oh no… no… no, I wasn’t hungry, I was just eating cuz… I was bored.” Ria smiled sweetly; I could almost see blood red, sweet venom dripping off her full lips. “Darling, be careful of what you do when you are bored, else we might get inclined to be bored of you.” Oh… oh… the conniving little slut. That was as direct a threat as it could get, over my reign. Right that minute, I decided that I hated that usurper. She had just declared a war to overthrow my dominion and take over as the Quintessential Bitch. I prayed, her car flips over on the way back home and her boyfriend dumps her. Incident IV And as if all of the above was not enough, the final nail in the coffin came yesterday. When I was busy Instagram-ming, Twittering and Facebook-ing. Now, I do that on a daily basis. The pressures of being a social butterfly and all; I need to keep my social media updated regularly. My thousands of followers obviously needed to know the number of times I sneezed rainbowcolored sparkles and the racy outfits I wore for the day. So, while I was obliging my followers with my daily awesomeness, I came across images of AJ, my bearded ex-boyfriend (not even a week old) and Ria, Sween, Max (Ria’s boyfriend) and a few other wannabes who hung around me like acolytes. Now there was something very shocking in those pictures. Something that I would’ve thought was impossible; something that plunged my world into a topsy-turvy rollercoaster of fury and revenge. In all of those pictures, of them clubbing, drinking, lap-dancing, partying; I, the fucking Quintessential Bitch, was not there. They had a party without me! Not to mention, that Sween (two-faced conniving whore) was swooning all over AJ in those pictures and he seemed to be enjoying that every single bit. I could feel the anger in me rising like the fire which would birth a vengeful phoenix, and that burning anger slowly turned into the misery of betrayal, my own BFF stabbing my back and finally, that misery transformed into cravings of Mississippi mud sundae, by Baskin Robbins. I grabbed hold of two tubs of the ice cream and a tub of fried chicken from KFC and cried. ♦♦♦ So now you know that this is my conflict, this is my struggle. I know, I know, it seems mostly like those first world problems. Something terribly minute and inconsequential to problems like world hunger, terrorism, markets and shit that I don’t even bother to read about or shit that happens to people who have a fancy dinner set but never use it aka poor people.

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But you know what, I am not asking you for a solution. This write up is an explanation for my next steps. I have taken things in my hand, to re-establish my dominion and to reign again as the Quintessential Bitch of my kingdom. And that is why you need to think twice before you turn to Stage 2. It might just pull you in forever like a black hole of dirty gossip, vile rumors and backstabbing, vicious bitchiness. Stage 2 Strike 1 Push up bra – Check Red lace tank – Check Skinny jeans - Check Leather boots – Check Leather jacket – Check Red lipstick – Check Dominatrix look – Check, check, check I walked into college looking like any minute I would whip out my handcuffs and give the boys a jolly nice ride. I knew what my no-good ex-boyfriend fantasized and it was definitely not Sween’s page three looks. It had not missed my keen observation that he had been following me around college all day long like a love-struck puppy. And much to my delight AJ was followed all day long by a fuming Sween and Ria. Five hours into my classes, and countless strange looks from my lecturers, later. AJ came strutting around, caught my wrist and twirled me towards him. Such that my whole body was pressed against his, and my breath came in dying spurts at the memory of our passionate kisses. “You look ravishing… Anya.” He spoke. “What is the occasion?” This was expected. This was the purpose. AJ was supposed to forget all about Sween and come swooning towards me. But what happened next; even in my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have imagined. With AJ pushing his face right into mine, and holding my hair in an unyielding grip. I felt claustrophobic, I felt violated, I felt nauseated. And this time, I listened, listened to my body screaming at the gall of this insanely attractive, rocking, sex machine; who dumped me for being nice. NICE… I tell you?!

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So, well I did the only thing a self-respecting lady of my beauty and caliber would do. I retched, it was hard and fast; it was the Mocha Chocolate shake, I’d had that afternoon. Retched it all on AJs Abercrombie tee shirt, Calvin Klein jeans, and Hush puppies loafers. I knew I was supposed to be mortified, but somehow all the laughter from around the corridor, including that of my herd of nerds made me feel good. I took a perfumed napkin from my bag and wiped my mouth. I looked at AJ, who stood shellshocked covered in my vomit, and said, “OOPs!” And then I walked away swaying my hips in the seductive swing of leather pants. Strike 2 There were images, there were GIFs, there was #AJAnyapukathon trending all over social media and my college. And there were GIFs of me puking rainbow colored streams. Well, that made my day great. But what made it epic was the hate mail I received from Ria, Sween and their gang of hoes. Which I realized was slowly reducing from nine members to five. Today I was going as the sexy librarian. With my tight fitting pencil skirt, no-nonsense skyhigh heels, white shirt and cat woman glasses; all for the benefit of Max. Max, my ex – bff’s; soon to be ex-boyfriend. Well, you see the point of having a herd of nerds is that they can remotely hack into anyone’s system and check their porn browser history. And Max’s browser history was filled with sexy librarians. I toted around the college swinging my ass and perfecting the come hither look until I got Max’s attention. Which didn’t take long, but of course Max wasn’t the only one whose attention I got. A call to the principal’s office made me realize how people notice. Strike 3 Ah well, what the heck? My vengeance was way more important than the reprimand of my Mom’s best friend aka my principal. I ran up to her, when she demanded in her most no-nonsense tone, “What the hell is wrong with you, dressing like a Grade A whore?” Oops that hurt, she was there when I was born. And she called me a whore. Okay, she was partially right. “Umm I just finished watching Easy A, you know that movie with Emma Stone.” I ended the sentence like this was explanation enough. “…So? What has that got to do with you dressing like a whore from a role play fantasy?” She said.

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“You gotta watch the movie, and please gimme a few days. I need to do this. I need to set things back into their natural balance.” I implored, using my best ‘lost puppy’ face that I know she has never been able to resist for 18 years now. “Fine”, she said. “You have three days, you little monster. And this is only because I see your grades going up. I don’t know what you are doing, or how dressing like a Red Light slut gets your grades up?” I mentally thanked my herd of nerds that had been growing exponentially since I have launched my mission of vengeance against the scum that I used to be. I hugged her and ran back to my mission of making Max pant behind me like a dog. Well, that went well. Max landed up talking to me, holding me close, smelling hair, cupping my butt and Ria, landed up slapping him. But that wasn’t all, she launched at me like a tigress whose cub had been stolen. It was kind of funny to see how extreme anger could disturb a girl’s limb and motor coordination, and how all I needed to do was step aside for Ria to land in a massive puddle of muck. Ah, the contentment, the joy, the feeling of being vindicated, that I was waiting to fill my body. Okay, anytime now, it would help you know. Come exhilaration… come to Mumma. I kept waiting for that feeling of victory to fill my senses like Cocaine. Right about now… come one. Dammit, where the fuck was the feeling?! I saw Max disappear the scene like a burglar caught in the act. AJ just looked at Ria and shook his head in disappointment, turned to his phone and started taking pictures. And Sween, she was the worst she hid her face, turned around and walked away. All about us were snap snap snaps of mobile cameras, with me standing there looking like a Grade A librarian/whore and Ria struggling to get up from a puddle of slush right at my foot. Flashes of my past, our past, whizzed through my vision. Ria, the first girl who spoke to me on my first day at Kindergarten. Ria, who took me to the toilet and washed my skirt when I peed in it, in Grade 1. Ria, who went and slapped the boy that pushed me. Ria, who held me and cried along with me when I had my first heartbreak. Oh God, had I been so involved in my Queendom and vengeance that I forgot how epic our friendship had been. And how much we had gone through together. And today, because of me, my best friend was facing the worst humiliation of her life. All the clicks wouldn’t even let her forget about it. I bent down and helped Ria get up, even though it meant there was muck all over my clothes. She was crying inconsolably. One of the nerds gave me a towel that I used to wipe her off with, and I used the same towel to wipe my tears. Both of us kept apologizing to each other constantly, while the nerds took as many phones as possible and deleted any evidence there might be of Ria’s humiliation.

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We survived it, Ria and I. My ambition at being the Queen bitch disappeared. We all hung out together, the nerds, the writers, the geeks, the awkwards, the jockeys and the queens, and we learned that there was so much more to life than Pradas and clubbing.

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OVERHEARD IN A PIZZERIA Ashwin Kumar Genre: Humor She was eating her fries with fork and knife when I walked in. So I instantly knew, a man of such low caliber and jeans, who sat across her, wasn’t going to get laid. I walked over. “Hey!” I said to the fine ass, pointing at the next table, “You mind if I sit here?” “Please do,” She said. Her voice was cuddly and warm, like an angel sleeping on her tongue. The guy made an angry pumpkin face and I could feel the heat blazing out of his glittery shirt towards me—one printed firecracker at a time. I settled myself, switched on my laptop, plugged in my charger, and sucked on my drink—all ice and almost no caffeine—with a fat straw. It was unnecessarily fat … fat like the gap between this guy’s front teeth. In fact, I could put my pinkie in it and wiggle, if it was my itching ear. I had been too slow with my writing. I had travelled for inspiration, read classics, remained in almost solitary confinement to work on my words … but nothing. I was someone, who could write all day, fuck with people’s brains, get pregnant with ideas and deliver them, one after the other—like a literary whore. But past few months had been too slow on the paper. They sat face-to-face; “Haan?” she asked. Clearly, she wasn’t paying attention to his jabbers. “Are you a non-vegetarian?” he asked. “Absolutely. You?” “Sometimes veg. Sometimes non-veg.” “Really? I have never heard someone say something like that before.” “I know. I am awesome”, he winked. I sat there wondering, how much sarcasm one could rub in this dude’s face before he noticed. I, for one, could heckle a guy like him all my life and he would never revolt. Mostly, because he would never have a comeback, and also because he wouldn’t realise he is being heckled. I had met plenty of such beefed up, fodder for brains, noncontributing zeros in my life.

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“Bro! Bro! Bro!” some of them with their hair shaped like a croissant, would utter, “You wanna go to the new dubstep after-party in the town?” “Fuck no.” “But Bro…” “Nope! Fuck a dubstep!” “But bro… the DJ…” they would throw some jazzed-up names without any vowels in them, “… is playing. He is mad bro!” I am sure he is. I had never been a follower of trends, especially when it came to music. Music for me was pleasure, and not just sounds. I could listen to one song all my life if that made me happy. But if someone wanted to listen to the sounds of drums on buckets, or the jingles of crickets on beats, or cracking of utensils in the kitchen all night, it was his choice. To each his own—really. Then a deadbeat loafer asked me, “Can I take this chair?” almost certain that I was going to say, “Yes”. I looked up from my laptop—my stare was sharp and I flared my nose on purpose. “But are you gonna pay for it?” I asked. “... Aaa” His mouth opened wide and remained open, like a lopsided “O”, on pills. “…Aaa”, he said again, “… aaa… aaa”, standing there. Not moving. Cat got his tongue? My face was straight. Eyelids far apart. I was choking on happiness. “Are you?” “ … Aaa… I mean … aaa… I… aaa…” “I am joking, man! Relax. Take it.” “Oh! Okay. Thank You.” Shit. His face would have melted if I had grilled him further. He looked more nervous than a girl taking her pregnancy test. Where were all the men who could take a beating with humor or gave some back at the same time? With all that gym, and lifting heavy weights and gulping protein shakes daily, one’s functional healthy brain that can respond to wit, with wit, or handle wit with grace at the very least, goes for a toss. They look at a poultry farm and think its food. I look at the same and think it’s a—cock’s block. I looked at my laptop—the almost blank screen with a blinking cursor. This pizzeria served me more ideas and less food; often just five pieces of prawns on a platter for five hundred bucks. But I liked it here; the waiters did not ask me if, “I wanted anything else”, when I was obviously done for an hour. There were no snotty toddlers running around, bumping into my leg. People worked on their laptops in quiet corners. Fat rich single women read novels and twirled their curls and discussed sitcoms with an accent. Teenagers clicked selfies in silent mode. Middleaged businessmen discussed powerpoint slides, fairies served tea and unicorns somersaulted in your cup; it was a happy island for me.

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And I heard him say to the fine ass; “What are your hobbies?” “I travel a lot.” “Oh!” he said, lacking for words. Really? Oh? That’s what you got there Johnny Bravo? “How about you?” she asked. “I go to the gym.” “… and? What else?” “And I exercise a lot.” “No kidding?” “Yeah. I go to the gym all seven days a week”, he flexed his right biceps and rubbed all that head he never used when someone hit him with sarcasm, “Two hours every day.” She was back to cutting one fry at a time and forking them in her mouth. He gobbled them in plurals and licked all his fingers like a toddler. “ … This chutney is over,” he said. “Huh?” “Need more chutney.” “Salsa dip, you mean?” she asked. “Yes”, he called the waiter, “more chutney please!” She looked at me; slightly embarrassed. I shrugged my face muscles. She flinched her eyebrows and rolled her eyes. Sighed. I could tell, she wanted to sit across me or the very least wanted to switch tables. I could have shown some interest, but no ... she had agreed to come on a date with this wood. He was her problem. I was back to writing … and I was writing about them. The guy was an established crapper in my story by now. The girl was a damsel in a fine floral dress. And I … I was desperate to know how this was all going to end. Then he popped THE question, “Any boyfriends?” Too soon. Too fucking soon, dude. She stopped munching for a second. Then swallowed the remaining food in her mouth, and dropped the knife and fork on her plate negligently; it made a clanking ruckus. People turned their heads. I held my breath and counted in endless Mississippies. My eyes had no movements—almost dead, and I had perked up like a dog’s ear. A tornado was lurking behind the window and the time had stood still. People and orangutans and otters and all the living beings had become extinct for a million years, tablets and selfie sticks had become obsolete, and all the matter-mass had turned in to just waves. The universe had big-banged once again and it was all quiet for a billion years or so. But this man was fast in getting to the point, in fact, if he was any faster, he would have warped the space-time continuum, gone back a few seconds in time and tapped himself in the head for asking her that.

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But, “No”, that’s all she said. “Come on!” he pushed her. “Listen.” She leaned forward making an eye contact. And her racks were on the table, almost on a plate, “If I had one, we wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation.” “No. I mean… I asked, because girls… they like me.” He chomped on a chicken leg, deboned it with his teeth in a crunch, and did not leave any shank uneaten. “I steal people’s girlfriends”, he said and munched further. The words that came out of his mouth made me throw up a bit on my own. Okay then tiger, I need to take a shit. All that crap from listening to him had descended down to my colon. I walked to the loo. People on a table were talking; “a wise man once said, if you are too loud naa, you don’t hear other people’s voices.”, and someone said, “Palash Ji, Albert Einstein was a very renowned businessman, he discovered the law of exponential income.” And a guy walked past me— stinking like shit. Beer shit. He had no decency, no manners, no shoes, no hair, no brains, no soul,—no chance. If you notice closely, in day-to-day life, there are dudes like him everywhere; walking around, bumping into people and poles, shitting on the crapper wall and leaving skid marks, decorating urinals with pubic hair, fighting waiters over each piece of cottage cheese, beating their partners on Diwali and so forth … “Hello… Hellooo… Hellllloooooo…” he yelled at the phone as he passed by, and then his phone rang out on loud in his ears. What an Idiot! I looked at his wife; she looked like the kind of woman, who cooked and cleaned and knitted woolen sweaters in winters and also took a beating once in a while. Mostly, because she thought she deserved it. They were a match made in heaven or at the back of a cattle shed—whichever. Someone was talking loudly on the phone inside the loo and I noticed my door—it was a foot above the ground—as I unloaded myself. It had a tip-top knob. The only way to check if it was locked properly, was to unlock it first. Who made these doors? And why do some people talk while taking a leak and why some of them take a leak like Superman, with both their hands on their waists? I came back to my table from the loo, sat myself—a little closer this time. “What’s your Zodiac sign?” she asked. “Zodi kya?” The beefed up man with Popeye arms was puzzled as a newborn and his head rocked back and forth, as if he sat on a wooden horse in a merry-go-round. “No Zodiac. As in, Z.O.D.I.A.C” “You mean sunshine?” “No, I mean sun-sign” “I am cancer”, he said.

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Damn right! I thought. I was glad, he admitted it finally. He indeed was a cancer. The kind that infects the society gradually leading to the death of it, one residential block at a time. “And you?” “I am a Leo,” she said—fiery as her fries, fanning herself fiercely. “Like a Lion?” he laughed. “No. Like a Di Caprio” she joked. I wouldn’t lie, I liked her instantly for that. Not that her joke was fat-free funny, but it was the way she said it; lips twisted, eyes sparkling, voice louder than the usual, almost as if she wanted me to hear it. And I heard it—clear as a bell. “Huh?” Popeye asked, “What is that?” “It’s ‘who is that?’,” She said “… and never mind.” Sighed. “Okay, your wish”, he masticated the chicken bone and I wondered how much mouth fluid it would take for a person like him to swallow food without making any noise because he did not have any of that. I looked at his date; she sneaked a glance and I waited until the next time she did that to make an eye contact and a point. A point that said; I was interested in her, with bold fonts and bullet points, signed with my name and date below it. And it just took a couple of seconds for her to come back to me. Her head swung like a pedestal fan, from his face to mine and back— periodically. I smiled, but she kept a poker face. Bitch. Popeye kept yapping about his fitness regime and the kinds of protein shakes that were available in the market for consumption; the ones that beefed you up immediately, the ones with all the amino acids in them and the other ones that gave you man breasts. He emphasized on the fact that the steroids were like cheating for a body-building exam and she said, she had enrolled in Zumba once, but couldn’t continue it for long because of her travelling plans. He seemed to have a vague idea about what Zumba was, so he affirmatively nodded more than once, but in no definite succession or rhythm. Just like those off-beat headbangers in underground mosh pits, who sweat like they are giving birth to themselves or seem like they are genetically unfortunate to have Tourette’s syndrome. I had put down some two thousand one hundred words on my paper by now. It was definitely not a sign of something remarkable, but my job was more than half done. I usually wrote short stories; say, three thousand words long, five hundred words give or take. My Laptop had a bleak chance of lasting for more than half an hour from then—at about five percent—like their date. So I looked around for a plug point, only to notice the one underneath her chair. “Excuse me”, I said, “can I put it in?” I pointed it at my charger.

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“Sure you can”, she said with a naughty smirk, making my interrogation sound like a sexual innuendo, and putting a fry slithered in mayo in her mouth at the same time as an add-on to the overall context. Popeye jumped in, “No, give it to me.” almost snatched it from my hand. Then, he lifted his thigh up sideways—like he was going to let go a silent fart—as he struggled to put the charger to the point under his chair. His left cheek was now on the table, his right hand had disappeared inside his chair between his legs. He kept trying and seemed like he wouldn’t give up that easily. “You’re putting it in the wrong hole, that’s not how it works”, I said and she laughed. “…and you’re pressing all the right buttons”, she looked at me. Popeye could only see his bowl of chicken with his face hanging that low. I looked at her and we smiled. He struggled for two whole minutes or so—eight, in dog years. “Fuck behenchod, it’s not going in, put it somewhere else.” He threw my charger on the table. “Here”, she said, “give it to me”, and ever so elegantly, she slid it in—between her legs. “Thanks” “My pleasure”, she said, and we both laughed, Popeye was rather muddled. Her and I, we had managed to break the ice, in fact, we had managed to break some of it right on his head. Now, from where I sat, I could stare at her without anyone staring at me or calling the cops. She table-fanned her head towards me every few seconds and kept my fires burning, even in that scorching heat. One moment she would steal a glance from their conversation and look at me, the other times, we would just stare at each other; her ovaries lustfully spoke to me through her hazel eyes and I was at twenty-five hundred words in my story. In the middle of all the therapeutic exchange of glares between me and her, Popeye popped it again, “Let’s go somewhere else?” “There’s a newly opened pub near my house”, he said, “walkable from here also”. “No, I am not drinking tonight. Pepsi is alone at home.” “Is it a kutta? Like a dog?” “No, a cat” “Pepsi! What a name! Can he drink himself?” Ha-Ha-Ha, he laughed at his own joke. He laughed with tears in his eyes, khe-khe-khe, like someone pinned him down and tickled his belly. “Who names his cat Pepsi?” For the first time, this piece of wood had a point or maybe it was a girl-thing and him and I, we both were clueless about it. “Well”, she said, a bit furious this time, “I had picked him up from an abandoned Pepsi crate, a year ago.” “Then, why not call him Crate? Mr. Crate. First name Pepsi, last name Crate. Simple!” Khe-Khe-Khe

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He laughed again. His laugh was not normal, it was more like… you know the ones, with intermittent hiccups, the ones where the person sounds like he has choked on food? Yeah, such kinds. “Not funny”, she said, collecting her purse. He laughed further, hammering the table with all the rings that he wore in each of his fingers. Pepsi, Thumps Up, Sprite, Fanta, he rattled all the names, like he had discovered them in that moment. “Alright then, keep doing that,” she signaled the waiter, “get me the bill, please?” “Wait … are you leaving?” he said. “Aan haan,” “What’s wrong?” “Everything!” she said, rocking a cocky head. “Okay. I will drop you home?” “Nope. I am good. I’ll get a cab.” “But I have a Royal Enfield.” “Yay! Awesome,” she clapped slowly, rubbing it further on him, “drive safely and wear a helmet, oh! And don’t run it over people’s pets and don’t point and laugh at them and don’t call them names.” He let out that punctured vehicle laugh again, clearly her slapstick humor was too high a mountain for him to climb. “Okay,” he said, “Wait a minute, I will come from the toilet. Then you leave? Okay?” “Fine!” She said. She looked at me, the moment Popeye sailed; “Help!” she mouthed at me and rolled her eyes. “Where did you find this nitwit?” I asked, my palms were tucked in my armpits. “Ah!” She sighed, “Don’t ask”, long story. “Tell me later then”, I let a sly smile, “When you have time”. “Nice try”, she gave it back. I liked it; it was like a challenge, as if she had pinned me down and got on top of me. “Oh no! Wait and see, till I buy a Royal Enfield and hit the gym—all seven days a week.” She laughed. “Oh god! … you sneaky fucker.” “Hey!” I shrugged, “My ears don’t wear filters.” “Argh! I am embarrassed. I don’t usually date such guys. It was…” I said, “I am listening”, and took a big sip, but she did not say anything. She kept quiet; Popeye was back from the loo, and she pretended to scribble something on a tissue paper. He jerked his wet hands in the air and wiped them off on his jeans that he pulled up. “So, what are you doing tomorrow?” He asked her. “Meeting a friend.”

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“Aww … Just a friend?” He poked. “How does it matter?” she gripped that paper tissue in her palms, turning it into a paper ball. She was furious. It was amazing how easy it was for him to piss her off without even trying for it. “Do you always do this?” “Nope! Not always, but today seems like a special day.” “Do you mean this is over?” he sounded heartbroken and his face sagged like a Pug’s cheeks. She sighed, “I mean, this never really started.” She got up from her seat, shook her head in disappointment, collecting her keys, her phone and her purse. “Take care”, she said. “Okay, you too”, he leaned forward for a hug. She shook his hands. They both walked to two different exit doors, and the ball of tissue, among all her possessions, fell down from her hand in front of my shoes. I watched her fine ass disappear through the door, wondering if I would ever see it again, and I blamed Popeye and everyone like him for that, who treat these women like how they treat their own friends; casually, like a bro, like someone from their gym, like someone who rode a bullet, like someone who gulped protein shakes for dinner and lifted weights. I picked up the tissue from the floor and unfolded it. They say, you could guess someone’s personality, by the abstract drawings she makes, when there are a thousand thoughts going in her head. So this fine ass had drawn, stars and lines and flowers and had extended the printed letters on the tissue symmetrically. But hidden somewhere between all that, were some random numbers underlined twice. I looked at my laptop; at over three thousand four hundred ten words, I had a complete short-story and her ten digits.

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WOES OF MOTHERHOOD Ell. P. Genre: Creative Non–Fiction (Rant) / Humor So, recently, I started chatting up with this young mother I had just met; a similar profession as well, like mine; and as usual, we moms got discussing what a challenge it is to work and manage kids. As the discussion went on, I had this sudden epiphany that she was nothing like me, she was what I would say, in my bitchy voice, a Wannabe Supermom. Arghhh I hate those. The ones who dress prim, not a hair out of place and talk in a painfully sweet voice, like honey venom. They remind me of Dolores Umbridge in her perfect pink dresses. My realisation started with her gushing on about her kids, a four and a two-year-old, and how she could never forget the beauty of giving birth. As if on cue, her chin tilted up ever so slightly, her eyes stared at nothing and a blissful smile lined her perfect lips that were graced by a Mac Satin Cherish. I bit my un-graced, chapped lips and pretended, genuinely pretended, to “Aww” at that remark. Instead, my treacherous mouth lined into a snigger; birthing, beautiful? Haa! They must’ve pumped you with enough morphine to last a lifetime. But of course, I only thought that, didn’t say it. I am a nice person, you know. And then she started speaking about her parenting philosophy that included rules like no junk food, and only thirty minutes of TV time a day. Wow, seriously? My kids would devour me, literally, roll around my neck and squeeze hard like an anaconda, until I either die of asphyxiation or give into TV time. It continued on to how, like a testament from the Bible, she would never let her children touch junk food. Instead, their lives were a delightful merry–go–round of kokum juices, toned milk, sautéed veggies and avocado sandwiches (brown bread, of course). I stood there, guilt clutching my intestines at the memory of last night’s burger and chips I had packed for my childrens’ lunch this morning. Or let us just say every morning, unless it is

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a Thursday where my kids have to remind me, multiple times, that Thursday in their school was NO junk food day. Now, imagine me, readers. Standing there, listening to this perfect mother with her honey venom voice, and feeling smaller inch-by-inch, minute by minute. Fifteen minutes ago, I stood, tall, at five feet five inches (taller than her, at least) and fifteen minutes of that “Wannabe Supermom” reduced me to a mere four point nine feet. I felt tiny, minuscule, like an African Pygmy, deemed to a state of an exotic mini human species that treated their children to TV time and junk food. So, after an hour of appropriate nods, and completely dishonest phrases like “I know, right?” “TV is such a freakin nuisance…” “OMG, I do that too!” I said my goodbyes to her while muttering under my breath, “I hope your kids smear Nutella all over your favorite dress, Bitch.” What?!... Mine actually did! However, this encounter got me thinking about parenting; or rather more specifically, about motherhood. How much do I really enjoy a mom? Let’s see seriously, hmm? Well, I will have got to say a “No”. It is “Not” the greatest job in the world. There are so many things about motherhood that I definitely think I wasn’t cut out for. For example: You know how every woman says that popping a child out of her womb was the happiest, most joyful moment in her life. Its bullshit, I tell you… BULLSHIT! How can labor pain of anywhere between ten to forty hours, where every thirty seconds you bear unimaginable pain, be the most joyful moment of your life? Like, what were you high on, apart from Morphine; two pills of Ecstasy and Magic Mushrooms? Those images all over the Internet, showing a beautiful, smiling woman, with not a bead of sweat, glowing because of all the shimmer spread over her face. Holding this perfectly round, little creature, that tore her in half and came out, and as if that wasn’t enough, shrieked nonstop like the devil’s minion. They are not true…you know that, come on. When I had my kids, I did not glow or smile. I looked like a pockmarked, bloated elephant that would sweat so much, that even newborn babies couldn’t bear my smell. And they come out of a tank of stinking bodily fluids! Beautiful experience… BLAH! And it doesn’t end there, now does it? Let us go back a little in time, shall we? The time of the where every millennial couple hires a cheap candid photographer for a “Pregnancy shoot”. And the new would be moms would hold their swelling tummy with pride, glowing like a goddamned hippo dipped in shimmer, in various stages of undress. They love talking about cravings, and nausea, and the kicks, and the diminishing bladder control like another few months and it will all vanish under the amazing experience of being a mother. Aww!

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Let me, let you, in on a secret, which believe me no one, I repeat, no one would tell you about. Not even your own loving mother, who swore to adore and protect you all your life. Come on, why would she? She can’t wait for that chubby chub to play with and show off to her friends. While you do the actual babysitting. (Deep breaths) Here goes, your beautiful experience of childbirth is followed by at least a year of sleepless nights, sleepless days, and a complete transformation from a young nubile woman to a misshapen ghost. Oh, and dark circles, are best experienced in motherhood. Not afraid yet? Well, that was just the summary, let me go into details. All those breastfeeding selfies all over the Internet appall me. It is all about glamourizing, in nit? No one talks about how it feels to have a three-kilo little bundle latched on to your nipples half the day and night. And guess what, the more it latches on, the heavier it gets. And even though it’s cute, and has no teeth, but it has gums. Gums sharper than a crocodile’s canines. So, be prepared to bleed. For a long, long, long time. It was three years for me. Moving on, you of course want to join a gym or yoga instantly, to get back in shape. It is not like we don’t have enough women, proudly displaying their perfect post-baby bodies. Well, I am happy for them. Genuinely am. Well, you had the baby in a breeze, she or he just slipped out of your 10 cm expanded vagina, like a kid on a slide smeared in Vaseline. Good for you. And of course, it took you exactly three weeks post-delivery to get back to your preconception weight. Well, guess what, perfect bitch! Not everyone is blessed with perfect genes and thanks to your nannies and maids named Juanita or Shanta, in this context, and your Gold’s Gym personal trainer, and your really fat bank balance, you are back to your preconception weight. Unfortunately for me, I am middle class and I say to my other middle-class mom friends, you can’t, won’t be able to. For starters, if you are anything like me, your bank balance will be as slim as you want to be. Nannies and maids will be hard to come by, and suddenly at the prospect of watching over an infant for a mere 60 minutes, everyone around you, including the loving baby daddy, gets cold feet. And then there is negotiation; you finally agree to make that little, cute, devil’s minion sleep. And if it is anything like mine, it wouldn’t, instead just for gags (literally) it would choose to poop, just before you leave, or just when you sit to eat or just when you are slipping into deep sleep. Good luck with that. Since we are talking about pooping, I think we need to discuss, how for the last seven years, there have only been five or six such occasions where I have been able to dwell in my bath for more than fifteen minutes. My standard five-minute time to poop is usually interrupted enough times with my kids, banging, scratching, pushing or generally whining at the bathroom door. Well, my kids still bang incessantly on the bathroom door, imploring me to open a fruit juice can, while their completely oblivious father sits watching TV in the living room. I guess, it is because they know that they have popped out of you, and pretty much own your every single cell, they don’t seem

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to respect the concept of privacy. But then again, being naked, except for a back open gown that barely covered anything, in an Operation Theatre with at least half a dozen doctors and nurses running around, does diminish any grand illusions of modesty you might have had. So you pretty much allow the little minions to desecrate your modesty, and then read articles about, which age should the child stop seeing parents undress? Because of course, you are not a perv. You are just an overworked mother, who is too tired to constantly answer, “Why can’t I be in the room when you change?” or “Why do you have to close the bathroom door when you are doing pee pee? Daddy doesn’t!” “Daddy is a dork, baby!” you scream, on the verge of tears. Coming to bathrooms, I wonder what the minions do in there. They hate it, hate having to be ushered inside the bath, but once they are in there, they hate having to be ushered out. And, let us not even talk about toilet paper. It is the most in-demand commodity in my house. Over the years I have come to believe that my kids don’t use it, they consume it…like candy. Now if only, toilet paper had any, any nutritional value at all! You are judging me, aren’t you? Are you one of those pesky non-parents who seem to believe they have their parenting philosophy down to a “T”? If you are, then hell I have a bone to pick with you. So, dear African Pygmy mommies like me, these non-parents, annoy the fuck out of me, with their unrealistic grand illusions of parenting. They look at celeb couples like Brangelina, Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively, and they somehow manage to live under the illusion that parenting is a breeze. That parenting is all about gorgeous post-partum mommies in gorgeous designer wear holding pink-cheeked gorgeous kids dressed like mini adults. And that is the easy part, appearing all put together in photographs while your hair smell of snort and your designer wear from Mango faintly remind you of the time your child decided to puke on it. Especially since your bank account runs dangerously low, not because of your shopping, or spa or even wine, but because of expensive diapers. You then console yourself believing that another few years and then, then you can live the non-parent dream of raising a child. Dreams where you are blessed with perfect little angels who are polite, disciplined and mind their own goddamned business. But that is as far from the truth as the Moon is from our planet. Let’s see, when my son greets those pesky, know it all non-parents with a, “Hi”, they make a face and respond with “Good morning Siddharth!” Should I tell them that they are the chosen ones, my son actually bothered to raise his head from the iPad, while he was in midst of MineCraft? Maybe no, because they are already judging me for using the iPad as a convenient nanny.

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Well, judge all you want, you would thank smartphone and tablet manufacturers when you join the motherhood bandwagon. Those few minutes of brief respite that you get, in spite of the constant bang-bang from the iPad, they feel like heaven. Anyways, let’s talk go back to the woman who inspired this rant. The unrealistically perfect mother who gives her children, no junk food and limits recreational/TV viewing hours to 30 minutes a day, or makes handmade costumes for Halloween and pins it, or bakes healthy carrot cookies at home and then splashes it all over Instagram. And I am here feeling proud because I did not forget the kids in the mall; where I went to pick up choco-chip cookies for the school lunch. I want to ask them something, seriously, don’t you have a life? Don’t you want to do really important and meaningful stuff while your child is glued to the TV? For example: Bitch about your mother in law to your best friend, or discuss that annoyingly perfect mom at school, who is always prim, wears Versace and carries Louis Vuitton. Hell, even her child’s school bag is a Tommy. Like my minions did not require further motivation to drain my pockets? Don’t you… don’t you? Ah, you don’t, clearly. And you have now decided that I am the worst specimen of motherhood ever created by the God above or parents in this case. I’ll make your life easier, there is a name for moms like me, and it is called “Unicorn moms”. Unicorn because we, junk food and iPad endorsing moms are as rare as Unicorns. Perhaps, the most annoying part about motherhood are the grandparents. They seem to know exactly what needs to be done and when; as if they themselves, have raised perfect specimen of mankind. Case in point, yours truly! Not to say, that after this story does get published, my mother would be the first one to deny that it was written by her daughter because, of course, she hasn’t raised me to be a complaining, lazy bitch. Then again, I will probably record a reaction video of her when she reads this. Such contentment, to piss your own parents off, who preach child-rearing advice, they never practiced. What… even she didn’t tell me what to expect when I was expecting! So if you think motherhood is scary by now, which you probably do. You haven’t experienced the scariest part yet. When finally after years you visit a club with friends or spouse, only because the grandparents grudgingly agreed to babysit your monsters. You will see a bunch of seventeen something girls drunk, falling all over the place, a bunch of seventeen something boys, running around carrying two of these drunk girls in each arm and there would be whispers of ecstasy and LSD. Your heart would stop, your eyes would be wide, and you will promise yourself that next month you are moving to a convent with your kids and never looking back. So yes, I am a mother, who doesn’t think motherhood is the best job in the world:

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My house will never be spotless; it will be rife with toys. So, watch your step. I know you adore my little minions, but if you wake them, you take them. I will always be tired, and if I am taking a nap, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you dare wake me, else you will see Smaug in real life. I will whip up a meal in half an hour; it will not be gourmet, it will not be healthy either. But that is the best you get. And finally, bear in mind, if you say a single un-savoury word about my kids, your exgirlfriend/stalker would be the least of your problems.

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THE STRONGEST MAN Arjun Shetty Genre: Humor I used to wonder whether Mathew sir is the strongest man on earth. I mean, I KNOW he is the strongest man in my school. I just am not sure whether he is stronger than Batman. It wouldn’t be fair to compare him to Superman. There are no super powers. I am old enough to know that now. I am ten years old now. I now have two digits in my age. That’s the same number of digits that the grownups have. Ten years old and in an all-boys school. I am happy. It is great being in an all-boys school. There are no pesky girls around. But I hate it when our physical education teacher Mathew sir starts telling me that I throw like a girl. There is no way to show him that he is wrong. I am going to go home today and ask Dad to record me and my sister play the game. I don’t throw like my sister. So here I am standing with my best friend David and the other worst performers in the game, awaiting our punishment from Mathew sir. The good thing is, Mathew sir is so strong that he cannot give the punishment himself like the other teachers do. He is too strong for that. Like Superman has to restrain his strength, Mathew sir cannot use the cane himself to punish us. It is said that once Mathew sir struck a kid using a cane and he never could walk again. That is why they have that parking lot with the picture of the wheelchair. That is where people who have received beatings from Mathew sir and cannot walk normally like us are allowed to park. David told me this. David tells me everything he knows. So, as I was saying, since Mathew sir cannot punish us himself, he instructs us to punish ourselves. Today, we have to run around the playground five times and do ten pull-ups. Mathew sir is not all sports. He values studies. Which is why the punishment is that the worst performers should carry the school bags of the top scorers of the other team and run five rounds around the ground. We are not supposed to wear the school bag, we are supposed to hold it over our heads with our arms outstretched. David told me that Mathew sir learnt this punishment

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when he was in the Indian Army. They used to make him hold his gun over his head and run around the ground. David tells me everything he knows. We finished one round around the ground and came to the starting point where Mathew sir was standing. As we were running past him he shouted at the top of his voice “Faster, run faster”. He said the words at the exact moment that was I passing him and the force of his words hit me in the side of my face like a warm brick. I ran faster because of the force of Mathew sir’s words and we started our second round. I am carrying Aron’s bag. I think I hate Aron. His bag is so heavy. I would say it weighs a ton but you see my dad told me that school is of no use if I don’t apply it to my everyday life. So I always use mathematics. This bag seems to weigh at least ten kgs. We have only six classes in a day. Aron is in a different section so I don’t know which classes he has but I know exactly how much each book weighs. History and maths are the heaviest. Around one kg each. The other textbooks weigh only three hundred grams each. Even if he has both history and maths and four other subjects, the textbooks should not weigh more than four kgs. The six notebooks of the six subjects will not weigh more than two kgs. So, six kgs. And I will give one kg for his lunch box and crayons and pencil box. He does have a heavy fountain pen. Still, it should be just seven kgs. Where did the extra three kgs come from? Aron put in extra books deliberately just because he knew I and David would be the ones to carry it. I know I hate Aron. My head was beginning to hurt from my calculations. “I said, run faster you little girls,” shouted Mathew sir as we passed him on our second round. The force of his words hit me on the side of the head again and knocked out all my calculations along with the ache in the head. Now my legs have started to pain. Not just my legs, my back and shoulder were paining too. Now that I think of it, my arms are also beginning to tire. Suddenly, everything was paining. Except for my head. Such was the force of Mathew sir’s words. We managed to complete the second round. As we reached the starting point, Mathew sir yelled again, “Move faster you little girls”. Two more rounds to go you little brats. Don’t drag your feet already, move it, move it.” He bellowed and as I ran past him, I could feel his breath hit me hard on my sweating cheek as he shouted “faster”. My eardrums felt numb and I made an attempt to steady myself and continued running. Mathew sir was dark. The only thing that could be darker than him was his moustache. He manages to see everything that happens on the sports field. He manages to see what each one of us does no matter how many of us are present on the field. David tells me that this is possible because he is so black. No light escapes him. David has a lot of explanations but you cannot trust all of them. You have to check them scientifically. Dad usually does not know these things.

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So I asked mom. I did not tell her the details of course. I just asked the scientific details and she said that light indeed does not escape black holes. I told my dad about my day at school and how my body ached today. He raised his eyebrows and peered over his spectacles at me. He does that whenever he wants to figure out whether I am telling the truth. If he figures that I am telling the truth, he pushes his specs back up his nose and looks through them. If he figures that I am not telling the truth, then he removes his specs. Thankfully, he pushed them up his nose today and looked at me through his thick glasses, “You see son..” and folded his newspaper away. This wouldn’t be a long talk. “..Your body hurts when you exercise your body, your mind hurts when…” “I didn’t say my mind hurts dad, I said my head hurts.” “Yes, yes,” he cleared his throat and continued, “Your head hurts when you study. The hurt makes you strong. The hurt is because you are getting stronger in your body and in your mind.” I didn’t correct him this time. I just nodded. “That is why they make you do both, study and play. If you only study then your head would hurt all day; if you only play then your body would hurt all day. That is why they make you do both at school. So that when your body is aching, your mind can rest and get stronger. When your head is aching, your body can rest and get stronger.” He then sat back in his easy chair and opened the newspaper. That meant he was done talking for the day. I went into my room and thought about what dad told and wondered how much pain Mathew sir had to go through to get that strong. I lay on my bed and fell asleep, looking forward to the weekend. The best part about weekends was the cricket that we played in the street behind David’s house. Weekends are good. Neither my head nor my body hurt on weekends. No matter how much I played. Best of all, there was no worst player. If you were bad, you just fielded for longer than you batted or bowled. The long walks back home after the punishment is when David tells me most of his stories. That is because we are too tired to run back home like we usually do. So we walk back slowly and stop whenever any of our legs start aching. That was when David told me about this secret: “You know something, Mathew sir is not the strongest man in the city,” David said. “What do you mean not the strongest? Who is stronger than him?” “You know yesterday, I was playing in the street outside Mathew’s sir’s house and our ball went into his yard. The lights were off so I thought he was not at home. When I bent down to pick up the ball I heard a sound that I thought I would never hear. Mathew sir was saying ‘Please stop’.” “Stop shitting me, David. Mathew sir never says please to anyone,” I said.

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“I didn’t believe I heard it too. Because he did not sound the way he usually sounds. There was something different about his voice that day. It was almost as if his voice was trembling.” David said. Now I found David’s story totally illogical. If there was one thing about Mathew sir, it was that he never trembled. Even the hair on his head never moved. No matter how windy it was. I could not imagine what Mathew sir’s voice sounded like when trembling. “I don’t believe you,” I told David. David kept talking, “Then I heard a whip. And Mathew sir went ‘aaahh’. Not the kind of ‘aaahhh’ you hear when the principal uses the cane on us. There was something different about this ‘aaahhh’. You know, it was like...longer.” “You mean there is someone stronger than Mathew sir? Someone who can beat him?” I scratched my head. “Yes, I waited outside his house that day to find out who that could be. Then I saw her come out.” David’s eyes were wide. “Her? It’s a girl??” my mouth fell open “No, not a girl, she is a grown-up,” David said “She must have superpowers,” I said. “Don’t be stupid, we are not kids anymore. You should know there is no such thing as superpowers.” “Do you think Mathew sir is stronger than Batman?” “Why do you ask about Batman now?” David said. “She must be like Batman, she has gadgets that make her stronger than Mathew sir.” I thought that could be the only way “We should get that gadget. We will no longer be the worst performers in the game ever again.” David’s eyes shone. “Didn’t you see if she had any gadgets when you saw her that day?” I said. “If you come with me, I can climb on your back and we can look into his window and see what gadgets she has that make her stronger than Mathew sir,” David said. I stopped, “I don’t think we should be entering Mathew sir’s house. Don’t you think we see enough of him in school already?” David was confident, “This is a different Mathew sir. He is weaker here, his voice trembles and his hair is not combed.” My mouth fell open at the last statement, “Mathew sir’s hair was moving?” “Yes, it moves,” David said. The mystery deepened as the facts got more and more unbelievable. I had to weigh the options. On one side lay the risks – lying at home, the chance of getting caught at home, the chance of getting caught by Mathew sir and the two separate punishments.

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On the other side lay the rewards – the chance of knowing Mathew sir's weakness and the ability to tell my classmates that I saw Mathew sir's hair move. David took out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and placed it on the floor. It was a map of some sort. He took out a pencil from his other pocket and pointed. He must have come prepared. He usually points with his finger. David uses a pencil for pointing only if he is well prepared. There were only two other times I had seen him point using a pencil. Once during the science fair where he demonstrated the working of a lever and pulley. It was the first time our science teacher did not find anything wrong with David’s words. He must have come well prepared. The second time was when David pointed out a mistake in the class topper’s science fair exhibit. He had spelt the name of our school wrong. This is only the third time I am seeing David so well prepared. He was right the first two times so I think he will be right this time too. I leaned forward to take a closer look at the map he showed me. “This is a map of Mathew sir’s house. I drew it myself” David said. I noticed the way the lines did not meet at the corners. It was drawn by David. His lines never meet at the corners. “Yesterday, when we were playing cricket, the ball went into his yard and landed here” David pointed with his pencil. “I went into his yard to pick up the ball that was when I heard the voices. They were coming from this direction.” And he pointed appropriately. All the while, David made sure he kept the lead of the pencil close to the place he wanted to point to but not close enough to leave a mark on his map. He must have spent a lot of time making this map. He must really believe this to be true. “I quietly moved closer to the window and I could hear the voices clearly. I wanted to look inside the window but it was too high up.” “Weren’t you afraid that Mathew sir would catch you?” I finally voiced my worst fears to David. “That’s the thing, I could not believe that it was Mathew sir. I did not believe it was him till I heard him from right outside the window. Then I heard him say ‘harder’. That was when I was sure it had to be him.” David said I nodded. “I hid there for some time. After some time I heard the front door open. That was when I saw her. When she was going out the main gate.” I agreed with David’s plan and we agreed to do this the next night. ♦♦♦ I told my parents that I was having a sleepover at David’s place that night.

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David and I snuck out after dinner around 10 pm and climbed over Mathew sir’s yard fence as noiselessly as we could. We stood under the window where David said he had heard the noises the other day. I swear, I did not believe a word David said till I heard it myself. “Please stop, no more.” It sounded nothing like Mathew sir, but still, there was something about the voice that told me that it was him. It was like a different avatar of Mathew sir. An avatar that Mathew sir never was in school. Who was this lady who could make Mathew sir say stop? The man who never let us stop on the playground was saying stop. This had to be some awesome gadget. “Where is the long ‘aaahhhh’ that you were telling me about? I don’t think it is Mathew sir,” I asked David. It is never a good idea to agree too soon with David. “Get down and let me climb up,” said David. I got down and David climbed on my shoulder. “What do you see?” I was curious. “It is dark inside, I cannot see everything. But looks like Mathew sir is tied to the bed. The lady is standing over him.” David whispered to me. “On the bed?” “Yes on the bed.” “I don’t believe you. My mom says no one is allowed to stand on the bed.” No one in our house ever stood on the bed. “Shut up, you will give us away.” “Get off you fatso, I want to look.” David was heavier than I had expected. “Just stay still so that I can find the gadgets.” David hissed at me. David tried to stretch upwards to get a better view. It was already getting hard but with David trying to move, I had enough. I moved back from the wall and David landed on the grass with a soft thump. But his scream was not soft. Suddenly, the lights turned on in Mathew sir’s room. We both rushed around the house hoping to make it to the gate before Mathew sir could catch us. We managed to make it halfway but then suddenly I collided with a wall. Not, it was not a wall, it was Mathew sir’s arm wrapping itself around my stomach. The ground disappeared from beneath my feet and then I realized that it was because Mathew sir was picking up both of us. One in each arm. “What do you kids think you are doing here at this time?” he said in the same voice he uses at school. I could feel the grip tightening around my stomach and I thought I was going to puke. Suddenly, I saw David bite Mathew sir’s arm and I heard Mathew sir scream in pain. We picked ourselves up from the ground as soon as we could and ran as fast as we could.

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“That’s the ‘aaah’ I was telling you about, that’s the ‘aaahhh’ I was telling you about,” David shouted as we clambered over the fence and ran for our lives.

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THE ECLIPSE Amel Rahman Genre: Humor It was a fine day, at least up until then. Ishitha had a new hairstyle! Back to square one, she called it. She had had long luscious hair, straightened to perfection, and paid a hella bomb for it. But now, she was bloody tired of it, she told her hairdresser so, and also, to give it a few curls and bangs and split end, and essentially make her look like what she did before all this makeover crap, but just without those ugly braces. And boy, did they not bring out her almond eyes! But then she read the news. Now, she’d normally not have been bothered with picking a paper and reading the news (Boring!), but Ishitha went to work in a company that had a big 64-inch television set that shoved the news down everyone’s throat like company feel-good newsletters, and at frequent intervals, it said weird-ass things like “Ministers watch porn in parliament” or “Then who killed Arushi?”and more often than not, it wasn’t really good porn, and Arushi (and the viewers) wanted to be left alone after dying (inside) ages ago, and there’s only so much hanging around a ghost (and a viewer) can do. Anyway, Ishita’s eyes chanced upon the news ticker as it scrolled by, “Solar Eclipse. Bangalore. 11:30 AM.” And she was filled with terror of the trembling-chin, tense-muscle kind. She could almost see the harmful rays of the sun streaking down through the giant glass doors of the company, down the corridors, with the sole purpose of infecting her tiffin box along with every other food item in the vicinity. It was like a nuclear attack, but just on food (which was obviously worse). She knew the man to save the day for her. Sumanth. Geek, Engineer, champion multi-tasker, who could run a gazillion tests on the software while watching and analyzing cricket scores, listening to music, and keeping an eye out for the managers who loved popping out from behind when the micromanaging urge overtook them. And today, he was on the verge of finishing a

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script that would auto-run the next test, without him having to switch from cricket to code. Pure Genius, at least in his opinion. “Sumanth!! We need to go!! Now!” Now when Ishitha talks in exclamations like that, everyone else knew it was time to get the fuck up and run down the fire escape, but Sumanth had dealt with enough company-level histrionics to ask, “Madam, Where to? Calm down. And please step away from the screen, Sachin is bowling.” But Ishitha’s ballistics were in top form as the matter was life and death for her tiffin box. “Solar Eclipse! Did you not know this? We must go now. Or lunch will be…ruined!” Now Sumanth loved his lunch time. The stress and anxiety of imposed deadlines and prick colleagues melted away like the ghee on his roti. But not an early lunch. That was just messed up. Routine was God. Especially when one was in a tight match between cricket and code. And he felt his ass refusing to budge, even if a fire was at the doorway, as Ishitha seemed to think it was. “Relax,” said Sumanth, not taking his eyes off the screen from which he had removed the hyperbolic Ishitha. Fuck, he had missed it. Was that an Out or not? Well, he knew what that was. A nice mid-match fight. “Ishi, by the time we go to the cafeteria, the eclipse would be off to Chennai, or wherever. It will be safe. Or we can just eat here.” “Sumanth!” Ishita said, her voice taking a low goosebumps-evoking tone that made him whip his neck at her, almost missing the referee’s verdict, “It's dangerous. Don’t you know this?” She lowered her tone, as if to ensure that the incoming solar rays didn’t hear her, “What is wrong with you. Don’t you know about methyl oxide?” This got his attention. Some other-level shit. “Methyl Oxide? What the hell?” Chemistry, with all its messed up equations, had not been his thing. But he at least he knew enough to get this was odd. Ishita’s eyes were simmering like pools of molten fire, and Sumanth felt himself in their sway. “It pollutes the food”, she hissed, “The solar eclipse….why don’t you know this? Aren’t you an engineer?” Now that was a low blow. Sumanth was a man of science. And this was not something he could let pass, it deserved his attention, even mid-match. And when Ishita was so charged, he could not resist her pull. “This is superstition!” he said weakly, trying to buy time. The match was at a tipping point. The Indian team was batting now, and they were in the last over of the match. How was he to get up now? “Of course not!” Ishita said, “I mean, Methyl oxide is not something that would be in a superstition. But our ancestors say that we must digest food before the eclipse. And all hotels

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are closed. Everyone is fasting and praying. Are you saying that everyone is stupid in this world, except for you?” In the face of such bewildering logic and facts, Sumanth has little to say other than, “Can we at least google this?” “You cannot google common sense,” Ishita said, with a sage-like benevolence. But then her eyes suddenly grew sharp, and with a smile, she said, “Wait. Don’t be naughty, don’t type Superstition. Methyl Oxide.” Sumanth blushed and looked away from those golden orbs, typing, ‘Solar Eclipse, Food, Poison’, even as his fingers trembled with Ishita breathing down his shoulders, louder than a manager at release time. He wanted to whoop with joy as the results populated, a lament against superstition, and cold scientific facts. He turned to face her with his boyish ‘I told you so’ smile. But his joy sizzled out as quickly as a prematurely released balloon, his face became confused, haphazard, flaccid. Ishita’s eyes were disappointed - in him. He was the match-fixing captain that had failed his patriotic duty. “So, I am going to have my lunch,” she said with the Zen voice of a martyr, “You can stay here and watch your cricket.” And Sumanth, as if on cue, quickly ditched cricket, code and argument to follow Ishitha. Because really, what was reason at the cost of feminine favour. At 11:30 in the morning, the cafeteria was unusually full. They sat silently, Sumanth not eager to fill the awkward silence as they did fill their reluctant stomachs. And it was Sumanth’s mind that wandered, hungering for the ever-elusive cricket scores. The TV seemed to taunt him with minute-by-minute coverages. “The eclipse reporting live from Kerala”. “The eclipse reporting live from Chennai.” Everything else seemed to be forgotten: the porn-eating ministers, the murdered teenagers: the dish of the day was the half-eaten sun, taken with heavy servings of superstitious science. But then in a sudden flash, the cricket scores were revealed. India had won. Even though he had no clue how he whooped with the crowd in the cafeteria. Then a few highlights were shown that he lapped up greedily. Clapping, ecstatic, he turned to high-five Ishita and noticed her suddenly missing. He stiffened. Where the hell was she? Her tiffin box, purse, all missing. He got up, not bothering to pick the fallen chair, wading and pushing against the cheering crowd, a strange terror gripping his beating heart. This was not like her, he thought. To disappear without a word, even a stiff one, considering their disagreement. He ran out of the cafeteria and turned the corridor, searched the floor, and the workstations beyond. Until he saw her. A giant glass wall to the outside. And behind it and on the inside, an eclipse viewing area, a small crowd, a table with abandoned X-ray glasses, and there, Ishita, her precious eyes naked and hypnotised, drinking in the dark power of the fiery black sun.

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RANDOM EVENTS ON A FLYOVER Ankit Jha Genre: Humor “Hey bro, wake up.” “Huh… Huh… What happened?” I woke up with a startle, shaken from a wonderful dream. “We are stuck in traffic bro. Some issue up ahead. The whole flyover is jammed.” I slowly looked at Gaurav, to find him looking at his phone screen. “Oh no man, I have an important meeting in an hour. Do you know what the matter is?” “Don’t know bro, I am busy patching up with my girlfriend after yesterday’s fight. Why don’t you go and find out?” he said while typing furiously on his phone. Lucky guy, at least he has a girlfriend to fight with. I removed my glasses and rubbed my sleepy eyes. To hell with the meeting. And if I think about it, it’s kind of a relief to reach office late. After about fifteen minutes of fiddling about with my phone, I started feeling hot, and so got out of the office cab. The driver was standing outside as well, leaning against the bonnet. He was a classic image of a rowdy turned blue collar professional. A hefty body, bloodshot red eyes, bald head, blue checkered handkerchief around his neck, and to add some contrast, a completely white uniform, making him look even darker than he actually was. “What is happening up ahead, Shiva bhai?” “Don’t know bass. As if I care. At Least I get to rest my hands.” “Shiva bhai, its boss, not bass.” “Whatever saar,” he said with a big yawn, “I am going to sleep. Firstly they make me do the full night shift, and now I had to pick you people in the morning too. Useless people, thuu...” ♦♦♦ I moved ahead, crossing the cars and two-wheelers, when I heard a lady’s voice from my left. “Excuse me.” I turned to see a good looking lady in a car, a wailing baby in her arms, and another lady in the driver’s seat.

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“Can you play with my baby niece for a minute please? She gets along well with strangers, and, as you can see, is not ready to quieten down.” Being one of the younger ones in the family, a permanent job had been to handle the young kids in family meetings and weddings. So, yes, I was quite proficient at it. “Sure, no problem,” I said. “Aren’t you a sweet one? Here you go!” the lady handed me her niece, “Uff, what a relief!” The lady in the driver’s seat zipped out her phone from her purse. “Hey Rose, why don’t we take some pictures while you are free?” “Wonderful idea, dear. I simply was unable have any fun while the kid was with me.” She turned towards me, “Listen, boy, why don’t you take the kid to her mother? She is in a car a little bit ahead. I will give you the number of her car. It is a white Toyota Fortuner” She scribbled on a small piece of paper and handed it to me. I checked it and found a phone number written as well. I looked back at her and got a sly wink in return. “Aren’t you worried about handing over your niece to a stranger? What if I kidnap her?” She had already taken out a pocket mirror and was retouching her makeup. “If you are a child kidnapper, I am Madonna. I trust you, go now,” and she waved me away. I walked on, with the little girl drooling on my face and pulling at my spectacles. I hoped not to meet any more crazies for the day. The white Fortuner was pretty much standing out amongst the other smaller cars around it. I handed over the child to her mother, who in turn started fighting with her husband over his sister’s irresponsibility of handing over the kid to a stranger. He in return argued about why they could not have a permanent babysitter. Apparently, she didn’t trust the guy with other women around. I stepped away quickly before both found a reason to shout at me. ♦♦♦ I saw many people dozing, some playing cards on the bonnets of their cars, bored teenagers dancing to loud music blaring from car subwoofers. It was a huge collection of a suburban population with nowhere to go and not much to do. Observing them was a treat and a great way of killing my boredom. Further ahead, a brutal cockfight was taking place. In a small space between a state-run bus and an SUV, two villagers had brought out their prized roosters to fight. They had been on the way to a competition in a nearby village, but one had provoked the other verbally, and their roosters had to pay the price. These birds were huge and fierce and were attacking each other with full force. Blood could already be seen on their bodies, claws and beaks. Squatting villagers had formed a deformed enclosure around them, and few had even started betting. The guy from the SUV had come out and had placed a bet of 1000 rupees on the bigger cock. I was tempted too but did not want to wait around for the results, as neither of the cocks looked in the mood to be defeated. This fight was going to go for a long time.

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♦♦♦ Going forward, I found another, though smaller, crowd. This was not for any fight though, instead, it was a celebration. A guy was handing out sweets to everyone near him. He had gotten married, and now that there was a long wait, why not spread the happiness here itself? This guy, an autorickshaw driver, was a unique character. The exact opposite of Shiva, our office cab driver, this person was lanky, thinner than any man you would have ever seen (fair too, but I don’t want you to think of me as racist). Wearing boots twice the thickness of his legs, khaki trousers, black tee shirt and unbuttoned khaki shirt over it, coolie-like thin red towel around his neck, and long backswept hair, he was a wonderful sight. More amazing was his autorickshaw, with a huge ‘I Love U’ written on the back, the letter Love replaced with a symbol for the heart. It had red lighting inside, and photographs of all the beautiful Indian actresses, old and new, stuck inside. I could not resist. “Bhaisaab, what is your name?” He almost jumped in front of me. “Here sir, have a sweet. Myself Romeo Rickshawallah from Tejpur.” Pointing towards the beautiful girl standing behind him, in a pink salwar-kameez, “This is my dear wife, Resham.” “Congratulations Romeo bhai. But tell me this. You are so young, do you think you ready for the trials of married life?” “Arrey, what do you say sir! All the trials are already over. This lady has given me such a tough time in getting married, I cannot even tell you what all I went through. I told her nicely, that in Tejpur no one would trouble us, that I have a reputation and contacts over there, so let’s run away and get married. But no, she wanted to involve her family. Now, I have only one maternal aunt from my side, so it was her whole family to be dealt with. Yes, the whole of Tejpur is like a big family of mine, but blood relatives, you know how much they matter in marriages. I did that sir! It took me one complete year, but I buttered my way through and got everyone on my side.” He paused, wiped off drops of sweat from his forehead. It felt like an interval of a movie just before a twist in the story. “So, when everything and everyone is ready, madam runs away on the day of marriage. It was too much for her, she said later, the big arrangements, so many people around her. Now, what can I say sir, she is like a small sparrow, very hard to catch hold of. You cannot trap her, hold her down. But even my name is Romeo, how could I let my Juliet go just like that? Eventually, we got married the way I had asked her to the first time. Here sir, have another sweet for listening to my story, and think of what more trials could there be of love? Now, if you allow me, I will go ahead and distribute the sweets to the others.”

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♦♦♦ Romeo’s rickshaw was not far from the start of the jam. A bus carrying a wedding group had overturned, but no one had gotten killed. Few were hurt, and they were sitting on the sides, with people giving them First Aid with whatever kits they had. The wedding music band party had been following them, and to pass the time in which the crane and ambulance arrived, they had started playing some songs. Only that they were short a shehnai player. Oh, by the way, did I mention earlier that I am a trained shehnai player? Since my childhood, I was obsessed with that instrument. So, here is how the story ends. Along with the wedding music band, I belted out Bollywood tunes. Romeo was dancing crazy, showing off all the desi moves he knew, and Resham was standing by the side, holding her hand to her mouth, trying to suppress her laughter. The husband and wife were still arguing, his sister and her friend were looking up some good looking guys. Gaurav and his girlfriend were now back to romancing, and I, well, I was having one of the best days I had had in a long, long time.

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GENRE: CRIME / SUSPENSE / ACTION

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ARE YOU READY? Karthik Patiar Genre: Action 21:55 hours… I looked at my watch and sighed. It was getting late enough to be worried since I hadn’t heard a word from Headquarters yet. I waited at my designated location on the balcony area of the building that was still under-construction, as I looked down. Except for a drenched street dog that was lying down miserably near the gate, there was not a soul to be seen anywhere. Rainwater had puddled under the lamp post. A breeze ruffled the mango tree in the courtyard and a few twigs fell down and broke. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Did I hear a something? - I turned back and but no, it was nothing – nothing but the empty room and the cool gust of wind that greeted me. Suddenly my radio came back to life. “Commander Arif. Do you copy?” I plugged in my earpiece and slid the radio transmitter in the front pocket of my camouflage trousers. “Copy that. Awaiting your signal HQ. Over!” I spoke softly into my mike piece in response to HQ’s call “Anytime now Commander. We believe the Fox is on his way. Standby and get ready to engage… Make sure you don’t let him through. He – Is the key!... I repeat - He is the key to operation Red Fort and if we checkmate him now, their plan will be aborted. Also, Commander, we have new intelligence that he might have company. So make sure - we don’t leave any footprints. He will be there on the seventh floor to collect his parcel. We need you to intercept the parcel and take him out. Mission’s priority is First to ‘retrieve the parcel’ and second to ‘eliminate the Fox’. All the best. Over and out,” and with those words the radio went dead. I took position near the pillar of the tenth-floor balcony. This was a spot I had carefully inspected and chosen. It gave me a very clear line of sight to anyone approaching the building from the third crossroad that connected to the state highway. At the same time, it was not too far away to ensure engagement can be established, if - we were required to draw first blood.

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At about 22:07 hours – I saw him. Yes! It was the Fox - the dark outline of his thin, frail body and that large beard – it was unmistakably him. As he crossed the lamppost, to approach the gate – I caught a full glimpse of his face. The scar on the forehead – Oh yes! He looked just like his file photo. He approached the building with caution, making sure he was not being followed. I peered at him through the telescope of my M-24 SWS. I wasn’t really used to this new rifle, to me - it felt like my entire left hand was no longer my own. It felt very new. You know, I am more of the Remington 700 kinda guy. But like hell... the M-24 has 7.6 mm with short action cartridges! Now you can’t complain about that, can you? So I had to accept the new toy HQ had issued last week. The Fox came close to the building and inspected the entrance. It was time to head to location 2. I took a few steps back from the balcony area and quickly made my way to the stairways that led to the seventh floor. I paced down the stairs, two at a time, as I balanced my rifle on my left arm. I reached the seventh floor and looked down at the flight of steps below…There was absolutely no motion down below. Everything was perfectly still and I didn’t know what to do. He was supposed to come up to retrieve the parcel, why isn’t he even ascending? My mind wondered. There was definitely, no other way to get up here. What the hell was he doing? I took a step out on the seventh floor and proceeded towards the open balcony area and quickly took position behind the pillar. I slumped to the floor and set my rifle in position – I now had to re-adjust the range, since my combat zone was now going to be largely truncated and in all likelihood in a 30-40 square feet space of this floor. I also had my Walther PPK strapped onto my back - in case of a close range emergency situation. But, something else was troubling my mind. I smelt the freshly laid concrete in the corner of the balcony or maybe it was the petrichor… I was not too sure. I paused and reflected at my surroundings. There was no noise, no one in sight. I now had to wait for him to make his first move. He had to come back up. I don’t know if it was - the smell of the wet concrete mix or that slumped position I had crouched into behind the pillar, but as I waited for the Fox, my mind wandered to the days when hiding in these positions was so much fun and the smell of wet concrete brought much energy and excitement. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath… ♦♦♦ “Arif…Arif…are you ready?” Raghu’s eleven-year-old voice called out from the distance. He was the denner in Ice Spice (his favourite game) and I was supposed to be hiding. Our gang loved playing on the construction site just next to our house. It was the best playground young boys can ever ask for – It was open and airy and had loads of sand and of course the fine smell of wet concrete mix. Ah! There was something about that smell that really stuck to me. Anyway,

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I sucked at Ice-spice, Raghu almost always caught me in under one minute of counting to one hundred. I don’t quite know if he cheated in his counting or covering his eyes, cause I was always too busy trying to hide and avoid getting caught first. But Raghu always made it a point to catch me - first. It was the evening on the 20th of July, and we were, as usual - back for our games in the under construction building next door. Raghu was the chosen denner, as we all scampered to search for places to hide. I ran up three flights of stairs and dashed to the pillar near the balcony of the third floor. I crouched and peered down towards the boundary wall against which Raghu held his face and counted loudly…. "Ninety-one…Ninety-two…" Damn…I slid back and bit my nails. Today it’s not me, it cannot be me. Not every time. Not this time for sure! Most of the building’s structure was open and the uncovered face of the northern façade carried the wind into the building – thus making it possible for me to hear Raghu’s distinct voice, even from way up here. I rested my back on the pillar and held my breath, thinking it was my breathing that was giving me away all this time. “And… One hundred. Are you ready? I am coming guys, especially for you Arif,” his voice seemed some distance away. “Fuck,” I said “that ass.” “I am coming up the building,” Raghu announced loudly as he made his way through the flight of stairs that had brought me up here. “No one on first… So second it is….” Announced Raghu again loudly and menacingly. His voice getting stronger as he approached and his footsteps getting louder. My mind raced against itself, what should I do? Should I run up to the next floor? – No, I shouldn’t - he may spot me on the stairways. I decided to stay in the shadows of the pillar, which was my safe area, at least for now. “No one on second. So I am coming to the third,” shouted Raghu, now a little frustration creeping into his voice. He couldn’t catch me yet and yes, maybe we were past the one-minute barrier under which he always ends up finding me. I closed my eyes and with my body securely behind the pillar and I knelt on the ground. My knee pressed into a freshly laid cement- concrete patch from that morning’s work at the construction site. I looked down and saw a huge botch of grey that now covered my bare knee and a few drops that had soiled my blue shorts. Ammi will be upset, I thought, but who cares – I let myself smile a little – I was willing to sacrifice some cleanliness standards to earn a victory over Raghu in Ice Spice. But very soon nervousness got the better of me, as Raghu made his entrance to the third-floor landing. “Damn Arif….You better be here,” he said.

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I carefully peeked out of the pillar - my safety net, and saw his thin frail body all rigid with determination and anger. He now just wanted to find me, that’s it. He no longer cared about anything else under the sun. His eyes searched the whole room and he didn’t spot a thing. Just as he was about to turn around, he looked at the pillar – my pillar - and squinted at the drums neatly stacked next to it. He studied the scene for a minute and finally made up his mind – Arif isn’t here. As he turned around, he took a deep breath and sighed. He suddenly looked back over his shoulder and there before him - he saw the corner of the patch of the cement-concrete mixture that had been freshly destroyed by my right knee. He smiled and said “Ah Arif….it smells great, doesn’t it? That smell of wet concrete. Haha, I know where you are.” He took slow and deliberate steps towards the pillar. I knew I was going to be caught – Damn I thought – I closed my eyes… ♦♦♦ …And As I opened my eyes, I saw a patch of grey wetness on my camouflage pants. There lay a pool of freshly mixed cement and concrete that was piled near the base of the pillar, where I had taken shelter. It had successfully spoiled my pant. Just then - there was a loud bullet shot that flew past me. I looked up and saw the Fox staring right at me with his Beretta M9 in his hands, squarely aimed at me, all ready to take the shot. His finger - about to push the trigger and his eyes - asking me that same question “Are you ready?... and this time maybe I wasn’t… ♦♦♦ And…as Raghu took a few more steps ahead towards the pillar. He moved slowly and cautiously towards the place of my hiding. While he suspected I was behind the pillar, he couldn’t fully rule out if I was behind the drums stacked next to the pillar either. Now, his approach was going to be the key. If he came from the west – near the concrete patch end of the pillar and I happened to be behind the drums, this would give me enough time to make a dash to the stairs to run for the boundary wall. Oh yes of course – the game wasn’t over till the denner has not just located me, but also rushed back to his counting spot (the den) and called out “Ice Spice” followed by my name. And, if Raghu decided to come from the east end – suspecting I was hiding behind the drums, I would make a dash from the pillar end to the stairs. I stay motionless and holding my breath behind the pillar. I was very sure Raghu had not seen me yet, else he would have already been on his way - running down the stairs. The moment he would lay his eyes on me, it would be up! I strained my ears to identify his approach strategy.

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Will he come from the east or west? It was too risky to peek out now –it would be suicidal to give myself up – after all this hard work. Since Raghu had seen the damaged concrete patch – my best guess was that he was going to approach from the pillar end. That would spell doom for me – because I would have to run all around the pillar and the three rows of stacked drums to get to the staircase, but he would have to just spot me from the west end and turn around and run back to the stairs – a much shorter path. He would definitely beat me. No! I cannot let that happen. I really wanted to beat Raghu now. I thought hard – Yes! I will create a distraction, leading him to believe I am behind the drums and not the pillar. I slowly picked a small chipped concrete piece and made it my weapon. I aimed for the outermost drum and carefully swung the small stone shaped concrete piece towards it. My throw was soft and the piece was small, I was expecting a slight disturbance – enough to create a small distraction for Raghu. But the drum, being empty – produced a long ‘clanggg’ – when the concrete hit its outer periphery. The clang reverberated for a full two seconds and it was much louder than I had anticipated. The loud sound just froze me in my position. But thankfully for me, this was successful in distracting Raghu as well. Just four or five meters away from the spot where he could have easily located me from the West, he now stopped in his tracks and looked back in the direction of the sound. He too, quickly understood that his approach was going to decide the game’s outcome. He took a step back to evaluate his best approach to make a dash towards the staircase, once he had spotted me. I sensed his change of mind and thought this was the moment of truth for me. I had to make a dash and take him by surprise. I would be the one facing the exit direction and hence would make it out faster. I slowly picked my body up and stood upright, still being covered by the pillar. I took a moment to hear his footsteps…He still seemed to be waiting, not yet sure which way to go? As I took my first step out from behind the pillar, there – right there – in front of me stood Raghu. He somehow hadn’t bought into the distraction and waited for me to give myself and my hiding position up. His face lit up – “I caught you Arif.” His tall, frail body jumped with joy. Maybe he was a few inches taller than me, but I was definitely the stronger one. Before he could make another move, I lunged forward and dragged him down to the ground. “Maybe you did Raghu, but I am gonna get to the den first…” I said as I stood up to commence my sprint towards the stairs. But even Raghu didn’t want to give up this one so easily. He mustered all his strength and pulled my leg. As soon as he got a good grip, he lunged up and pulled me by the waist and together we both fell on the hard dusty floor. We were now wrestling

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with each other on the floor and the only way I could get out if I could use the pillar as a support to get up and out of Raghu’s grasp. As I tried to free myself from Raghu’s tight grasp around my waist, I tugged forward towards the pillar and used my legs to push him in the opposite direction. I combined this with a welldirected hard fisted direct punch on his hands that gripped my waist. I then used my shoulder to push his body away from me. All I needed was just one moment of freedom and I could make my escape towards the stairs. I never realized what happened next – was it the magnitude of the punch or the strong shove from my shoulder or the wet concrete mix on which Raghu’s foot slipped. He fell back a few steps towards the open end of the balcony and tripped over the edge. It all happened so quickly and suddenly that there was hardly any noise – he didn’t even shout as he fell over the balcony and his head banged into the hard rough edges of the concrete steps at the entrance of the building. I ran to the balcony, to see his entire head covered in blood, as his unconscious body bounced down the steps and stopped at the foot of the last step. Each of the seven steps had Raghu’s blood marked on it. My body froze in the shock and horror of what had just happened – Surely from up here, he was closer to the den… ♦♦♦ ...As the Fox locked my gaze, I knew he wouldn’t shoot me, till he was sure he could eliminate me, without me firing off my gun at him as well. We were in a real stalemate. Before we could break our deadlock, there was a sudden thud. A bullet went right through Fox’s head and his body collapsed to the ground. I quickly got on my knees and pushed back in position behind the pillar. There was someone else. We had company, but where did he come from? There was no one in the building when I had come here. Who was this person? Why did he kill Fox? Where was the parcel? As I looked at his slumped body, I came to realize that the Fox had been sniped and not by me! I crawled out from behind the pillar as I looked at the east end opening on the wall – which was meant to be the window. It faced another building more than 600 yards away - from where this sniper had done his job. I pulled his body to the corner of the room and searched him. There was nothing in his trouser pockets. As I unzipped his jacket – there was a white envelope, in his top pocket – which was now half covered in the blood that had been draining from the bullet wound on his head. I carefully retrieved the envelope and opened it. I slid out the sole piece of paper that lay inside and carefully unfolded what looked like a letter. There before me in Red Ink where the three words that scared the hell out of me.

“Are you ready?” – Raghu.

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LOLLIPOPS FOR LAKSHMI R Pavan Kumar Genre: Suspense Little Lakshmi looked lost. She stood beneath the awning of a large store on a busy street. Her curly ponytails bobbed up and down as she looked around for someone familiar. It was the evening rush hour and the traffic streamed around her, but no one seemed to notice her. Her startled eyes began to grow teary. She adjusted the straps of her school bag. Her stubby little nose began to run and her lips started to quiver. There was a white handkerchief pinned to the front of her spotless school uniform. She took the handkerchief and blew her nose on it. Little Lakshmi had to find a way back home. She saw a few men coming towards her among the pedestrians on the sidewalk. She wondered if she should ask them for help. But she remembered that she was told not to trust strange men. So, when the men came close to her, she turned around as if she were going to the store. She carefully looked over her shoulder to see that they were gone, and turned back to the street. Little Lakshmi would have to find a kind lady to help her. She began to rock on her feet quietly and seemed almost on the edge of tears. Then she saw a woman walking towards her. This woman wore a suit like the one women wore to the office for work. She also had a large, pretty handbag with her. She looked busy and important like her teacher did sometimes. She may get angry with Lakshmi, but this woman could help her. Lakshmi fidgeted with the straps on her backpack and pulled at one of her ponytails. Then Lakshmi took a step forward towards the woman. She noticed that the woman had a small child with her. She was dragging the child with her roughly while she typed something into her phone. The child was saying something to the lady, but the lady was too busy to respond. The child kept tugging at the lady’s handbag, but the lady paid him no attention. The small boy looked at Lakshmi helplessly as he crossed her. Lakshmi stepped back. That lady could not help her. Little Lakshmi looked for other women whom she might talk to. She saw a large lady walking towards her. If Lakshmi had known this lady she would have called her ‘aunty’. The same way

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she called a lot of her mother’s friends ‘aunty’. There were several such aunties in her colony. They all wore heavy silk sarees and a lot of jewelry. They put on a lot of makeup and strange smelling perfumes. These aunties either went shopping or had one of those kitty parties. These parties were no fun. Lakshmi was left all by herself during these parties and she got bored. Also, such aunties always made faces when they saw Lakshmi and made noises like she were some puppy. They pulled her cheeks and told her she looked very cute. It irritated Lakshmi. These aunties had large families with several kids and knew a lot of people. They were always loud and noisy. These aunties were also very fat and heavy. Lakshmi looked at the aunty walking towards her. Her hand was resting on her large tummy and she did not even realize it. Lakshmi decided that this aunty could not help her. Little Lakshmi was getting scared. It was getting late and the sky was getting darker. She had to get back home soon. Mother would get worried about her. But, she also had a lot of work to do this month. She was already lagging behind in her assignment. If she did not finish her assignment, she would not get her lollipops. And she loved her lollipops. They were large spirally and rainbow colored. Each color of the rainbow had a different taste. She liked the red color best as it tasted of strawberries, but she also liked the blue one...it was sour, she did not know what it was supposed to taste like. If Lakshmi was careful and rewrapped the lollipops after each time she licked it she could make each one last a whole week. But she would need to finish her assignment to get the lollipops. And for that, she needed to find a lady to help her get home. The lights in all the shops turned on. Little Lakshmi saw a pretty girl walking towards her. If Lakshmi had known her she would have called her ‘Didi’. This Didi looked very young and pretty. She wore a sleeveless kurta and one of those puffy looking pants. Her hair was tied in a loose bun and kept flying into her face. She was listening to music on her headphones. Unlike all the other people around her who were rushing to get home, Didi walked slowly in no hurry. Didi had a round pretty face and large brown eyes. She looked like someone who would hug Lakshmi and take her home. This Didi reminded her of another Didi in her colony, who had always been kind to Lakshmi. That Didi was a college girl. She was very pretty and always smiled at Lakshmi. She would often play with Lakshmi and tell her stories about princesses. Lakshmi had really liked that Didi, but she could not see that Didi anymore. Mummy said she had gone to another city for a job. But Lakshmi had also heard mummy tell another aunty that Didi had been kidnapped. Lakshmi felt sad for that Didi. That Didi had helped Lakshmi get home last time when Lakshmi was lost. And Lakshmi decided so would this new Didi walking towards her. Lakshmi waited till the new Didi came close and took a step towards her. “Ex... excuse me... Didi, can you please help me?” she said.

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New Didi did not hear her, she had her earphone plugged in. Lakshmi tugged at her college bag. “Please, Didi, please help me get home.” New Didi noticed Lakshmi, she removed her headphones and knelt beside her. “Hey... what happened? Who are you with? Where is your mommy?” she said in a kind voice. New Didi’s voice was warm and comforting. Lakshmi’s lips began to quiver, her nose began to fly, her eyes began to get teary. Lakshmi tried hard not to cry, but she could not stop herself. Tears began to flow freely down her cheeks. Sobs kept shaking her every few seconds. New Didi put a hand on her shoulder, “No...Its ok...don’t cry...no...no, don’t cry.” She kept saying to Lakshmi as she looked around for an adult. She asked Lakshmi, “Is your mommy or your papa around?” Lakshmi nodded a no and sobbed harder. “Ok…ok...don’t worry…” new Didi put an arm around Lakshmi and helped wipe her tears with the handkerchief on her uniform. “So are you lost?” she asked in a sweet voice. Lakshmi nodded a yes. “Do you know your mommy’s phone number?” Lakshmi did not remember her mommy’s phone number. Her sobs grew louder and more tears flowed down her cheeks. “Oh no, don’t cry...please don’t cry...we will get you home ok...I will get you home...don’t cry.” New Didi pulled Lakshmi into her embrace. Lakshmi felt calm and happy for the first time in the evening, she would be going home soon. “Ok, so... since you don’t know your mommy’s number, I will take you to the police station, ok? The police will help you get home.” Didi smiled at her. Lakshmi did not like the idea of the police. Her mom always told her that if she did not finish her food the police would take her away and punish her. Her sobbing became intense, she could barely talk in between sobs and she could barely see because of the tears. “no…...n..n..nooooo…..pl...please

Didi….no...don’t...take

me….to...the….p...p...police….I

am...am...a...good...gi...girl….” she said in between sobs. “Oh, sweetheart, I am not taking you to the police because you are a bad girl. No, no, you are a good, good girl. The police will help you find mommy and take you home. I will be with you until your mommy comes. Ok?” Lakshmi

could

barely

talk,

“no…...no...Didi….no….no...Police...please.

Didi….please….I...am...a...gu..gu..good..girl, pleaseeeeeeeeeee….” Didi looked at her, shook her head and smiled. She hugged Lakshmi again “Ok, ok, ok. Do not cry...I will not take you to the police station. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.” Didi patted Lakshmi on her back as she hugged her. Lakshmi tried to stop crying. Didi looked at Lakshmi again, her face brightened and she smiled. “Ok, do you know where your house is?” she asked Lakshmi.

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Lakshmi

nodded,

she

knew

her

address,

“I

live

in...104...park

vi..view

apartments...Koramangala, 6th block,” Lakshmi smiled at having remembered her address well. Didi also smiled and wiped her tears, “Good girl. Very good girl. You remembered the whole address!” Lakshmi’s sobbing decreased a little and she blew her nose on her handkerchief. “Ok, can I take you to your home in an auto-rickshaw?” Didi asked her. Lakshmi smiled, “Yes, Didi, please….please take me home.” She said. Didi stood and held Lakshmi by her arm. She looked around for an auto-rickshaw and noticed one standing nearby on the street, “Ok, you see that auto-rickshaw there? I will take you home in that. Will you come with me?” Didi asked Lakshmi as she bit her lip. Lakshmi looked at the auto rickshaw and back at Didi again, she sobbed very little now, and her tears had stopped. She gave a weak smile and nodded a yes. Didi let out a sigh, put her hand to her heart and gave her a smile, “Good girl, ok then, let’s take you home.” Didi and Lakshmi walked towards the rickshaw. The rickshaw driver was lounging in the back of the rickshaw, his feet pointing out of the rickshaw as he hummed a tune. He noticed them walking towards the rickshaw and got down. He stood by the rickshaw, pointed at it and said, “Yes madam, rickshaw?” Didi said, “Do you know where Park View apartments are, 6th block, Koramangala?” “6th block Koramangala aa madam?” the auto driver asked her again. “Yes, 6th block Koramangala, park view apartments…”Didi said. “6th block Koramangala I know madam, park view apartments no know madam…,” the auto driver said. “If we go close to your house will you be able to show us your apartment?” Didi said to Lakshmi. Lakshmi nodded as yes. “Ok, take us to 6th block Koramangala, we will search for the apartment there,” Didi said to the auto driver as she helped Lakshmi get into the auto. She sat down beside Lakshmi and placed her arm around her. The auto driver got in and started the auto-rickshaw, “How far from here is the place? How long will it take? Didi said. “It is about 6-7 km from here, madam,” he said looking at Didi in the rearview mirror, “in this traffic...will take...20 minutes madam.” “Ok,” Didi said to Lakshmi, “don’t worry, you will be home very soon, ok.” ♦♦♦ The auto rickshaw moved slowly through the traffic. Lakshmi was glad she was finally going home. It was not very late and she would be able to finish her assignment. She looked at Didi.

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Didi looked beautiful; her hair flew in the wind she kept pulling it behind her ear with a finger. She was looking out of the rickshaw and the setting sun made her skin look golden and glinted in rainbows of her long eyelashes. She still had her arm around Lakshmi and kept stroking her reassuringly. Suddenly, Lakshmi felt very sad. Lakshmi saw the auto driver looking at her and Didi in the rearview mirror. Didi did not notice him. He glared at Lakshmi. He was the kind of man that Lakshmi’s mother had warned her she should be aware of. He was large, with jet-black hair and a big moustache. He had a large tummy that made it difficult for him to turn the rickshaw. His uniform was old and stained in several places and the auto-rickshaw smelled bad. He glared at Lakshmi again. Lakshmi glared back at him. But she took off her backpack and searched for it. She found a large candy wrapped in a shiny foil. She offered it to Didi, “This is for your Didi. You are very nice. Thank you for taking me home!” Lakshmi smiled at Didi. Didi looked surprised, “This is for me? How sweet! Thank you very much!” She took the candy and smiled at Lakshmi. Lakshmi twirled her ponytails and waited, then she said, “Open it Didi, it is my gift to you.” “Oh, you want me to have it now?” Lakshmi nodded vigorously, “It is my favorite color. Please have it.” Didi unwrapped the candy, it was blue, like a piece of colored glass, “Blue is your favorite color?” “Yes, Didi, please have it,” Lakshmi said pulling at her ponytail. “Ok,” Didi put the candy in her mouth; she kissed Lakshmi on her cheek, “Thank you, sweetheart!” Lakshmi put her backpack on and sat back. They were still some distance away from home. She watched Didi carefully. The auto driver also stared at Didi. Didi kept looking out of the rickshaw like before. Slowly her eyes began to grow drowsy. She began to doze off and woke with a start. But her eyelids kept closing together. She woke up with a start a few times. Then she closed her eyes and dozed off. Lakshmi got up and pushed her back into the seat, resting her head on the back, making sure she would not fall off. Then she glared back at the auto driver. The auto stopped a small distance away from park view apartments on a side street. The auto driver looked at Lakshmi in the rearview mirror. She held her hand out. The auto driver opened a small compartment on his dashboard and pulled out three large rainbow colored lollipops. He handed them to Lakshmi. Lakshmi looked at them and back at the auto driver. “We had agreed upon five this time, Sambayya, had we not?” Lakshmi said in her sweet voice. “Yes, yes we did. I am sorry, I forgot!” the auto driver said as he looked away and moved his ass in his seat.

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“You do know that I can just buy the lollipops at the candy store, right Sambayya? Then why do I ask you for them?” Lakshmi said as if asking why the sky was blue. Sambayya swallowed and said, “because...because it is part of the game.” “Yes, it is not fun if it is not part of a game,” Lakshmi said “Do you know why I can take lollipops from you, Sambayya?” Lakshmi asked turning her head to a side, her ponytails bobbing. Samabyya swallowed again and nodded a no. “I am not supposed to take candy from strangers. But you are not a stranger Sambayya. I know where you live. I know where you drive your rickshaw. I know the houses where your wife works as a maid. I know the school your son goes to...Chintu he is called...isn’t he? Chintu likes his candy, does he not?” Lakshmi said in that way that children state facts. Sambayya’s face went pale, a dark spot stained the armpit of his uniform, “I will get you five lollipops next time. And I will get the remaining two from this time also,” Samabayya’s voice quivered. Lakshmi’s giggled, “Oh, we shall see.” She said. She turned to Didi beside her, Didi was snoring gently, she kissed her on the cheek, “thank you sweetheart!” she said and got out of the auto-rickshaw. Lakshmi gently unwrapped a lollipop and licked it slowly; she could feel the colors of the rainbow. A well-earned lollipop always tasted sweeter. Sambayya turned the auto around and started back at full speed. He looked in the rearview mirror to make sure the girl was secure and sleeping. Then he saw Lakshmi in the rearview. A chill ran down his spine. He would bring her all the lollipops she wanted. Sambayya had seen and done every heinous act that one human could do to another. But in all his long years, nothing froze his heart as much as seeing little Lakshmi licking her lollipop.

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THE OTHER MAN Sharath Komarraju Genre: Crime Nisha stalked out of her room at the stroke of nine. ‘Grandma, I cannot sleep,’ she declared. I thought of putting down the newspaper and telling Nisha that she was too old for bedtime stories. I didn’t have the numbers, but how many sixteen-year-old girls pestered their grandmothers to tell them stories on Friday nights? I bent the corner of the paper to one side and peeked around it. Amma had been looking at some old photographs all evening, and she was holding one now in both hands, down on her lap. ‘What are you looking at?’ said Nisha, and sat next to her. ‘Nisha, don’t bother grandma tonight,’ I said. ‘No, no,’ said Amma. ‘Let her be.’ She turned her black, bird-like eyes on her granddaughter and gave her a plucky smile. ‘Do you want me to tell you a story?’ Nisha considered the photograph in Amma’s hand with suspicion. ‘If you’re going to tell me about how you met Grandpa, no thanks.’ ‘Oh yes, even I am bored of that story,’ said Amma. ‘No offence to your father, Arjun.’ I ducked back behind my newspaper, pretending not to have heard. My eyes rolled on their own up to the side wall, where Appa looked down at all of us from within a garlanded picture. The flowers were fake. The frame was gathering dust. The vermillion on the forehead had long turned a deep brown. I made a mental note to get the maid to clean it the next morning. Appa didn’t seem to mind Amma’s snide rebuke; he smiled down broadly, showing his even white teeth. I’d heard Amma say now and then over the last few years – after Appa had passed on – that he smiled more in pictures than he did at people. ‘Today I will tell you a different story,’ said Amma, and my ears perked up. But before I could catch the rest of the sentence, my attention was drawn away by the vibration of my phone inside my kurta pocket. A message from Shalini: the fundraising meeting was taking longer than

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expected. She would not be able to make it back home before midnight. The three of them should go ahead with dinner without waiting for her. Nothing out of the ordinary. I thumbed out a reply and refocused. ‘Why don’t you put down the paper if you’re so interested in what I have to say?’ said Amma. Nisha suppressed a giggle and offered a hand to her grandmother for a high five. I folded the newspaper once lengthwise, then the other way. I unclipped the reading glasses off my nose and returned them to my pocket. ‘Whatever story you’re going to tell her, I’m sure I’ve heard it a thousand times before.’ Amma’s face turned dark all of a sudden. Her lips had a dry, sanded look. She ran her tongue over them. ‘No,’ she shook her head slowly, ‘I’ve never told you this.’ Something about the way she said those words made me and Nisha exchange a glance with each other. Amma was still holding the photograph in the gentlest of grips; her thumbs were caressing its glossy surface, and the tips of her forefingers twitched. She had spent just about sixty years of her life in the kitchen, Amma did, but her hands carried no burns or oil stains. If you looked past the wrinkles, you could mistake them for a child’s. A small wind sighed into the room and sent the photographs strewn on the table running toward the edge, but Amma took no notice. Nisha moved closer to her. She laid a chin on Amma’s shoulder, and looking down at the picture herself, said, ‘Who is the other man, between you and Grandpa?’ With that question, I knew which picture was in Amma’s hands, even though its bright white background was turned to me. I’d heard that question a hundred times from a hundred different lips. ‘John,’ said Amma, with fondness. Once again my eyes rose on their own to look at Appa’s expression. He was still smiling in his fixed, frozen way. And then Amma said something that made Nisha stiffen and gasp. It had a strange effect on me, too – it did not shock me, but I felt like I was being pulled away from this room by chains of iron, and that I was hurtling through a blur of space and time back to the old Warangal house I’d grown up in, that small room with the grilled door and windows in which John mama and I would sit on the opposite ends of a chess board and speak of the pawn sacrifice. Amma’s words, chopped up into single letters of the alphabet, floated around me in bright crystal colours, rotating and hopping and waving, but my mind could still see the sentence out of which they’d sprung. ‘I once loved him more than anyone else in the world.’ ♦♦♦ It did not take more than a moment for Nisha to recover. She was at that age. The fact that her seventy-five-year-old grandmother was admitting to a crush was, to her eyes, cute. Here was this old woman she had always thought to be asexual,

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and here she was, confessing to feelings for a man who was not her husband. What could be more romantic? ‘Grandma!’ she said, her eyes twinkling, her mouth wide open in mock horror. ‘Did Grandpa know?’ I wondered for a moment if Nisha would react with the same guilty pleasure if she came to know that Shalini was in love with one of my best friends. But I wasn’t being fair; these were people pulled out from the long dead past for Nisha. This was real life gossip from forty years ago. Harmless. Amma did not answer her question; instead, she looked at me straight in the eye from across the table. ‘I loved you more than I loved him, Arjun,’ she said, and until that moment I’d not realized that I was burning with envy for John mama, for having taken my mother away from me without ever asking. ‘I loved you more than anything else in the world, of course,’ she said, giving Nisha her hand at the same time. ‘And then you came along. Now I love both of you equally, okay? So don’t fight.’ ‘What about Appa?’ ‘I loved him too,’ said Amma, pursing her lips, and I knew that she was making an effort not to look up at the man’s looming picture. ‘Your father was not an easy man to love.’ I could not take this impersonally. All my life I’d heard how I’d taken after him – the same heavyset shoulders, the same sturdy posture, the same voice, the same shoulder-shaking laugh, the same slurry, rolling way of speaking – and now I was being told that he was not an easy man to love. Amma didn’t say it of me, of course, but she wouldn’t. I was her son. Did Shalini think of me as a difficult man to love too? What about Nisha? ‘He provided for us,’ I told Amma defensively. ‘He was a successful doctor. He paid for my education. He paid for all those degrees you did.’ Amma nodded and looked down at the photograph. ‘He was financially responsible,’ I said. ‘Never lost money, as far as I know. If we’re all this comfortable today, it is big thanks to him.’ Amma nodded again. ‘He never abused you,’ I went on. ‘He never hit me or treated me unreasonably. He advised me well. He taught me how to live. He was a good grandfather to Nisha, a great father-in-law to Shalini –’ I stopped. Amma was nodding. Nisha said, ‘Why are you scolding her like this?’ ‘I am not scolding her!’ I said and caught my voice when I saw that it was echoing in the room off the smooth saffron-lit walls. ‘I am not scolding her.’

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‘You are! How does it even matter? It happened forty years ago.’ Amma placed her hand on Nisha’s wrist. Then she looked up at me. ‘I agree with you. He was a good father. A good husband. A good grandfather and father-in-law. All of that is true.’ ‘And yet he was not an easy man to love?’ She inclined her head as if weighing her words. ‘Not as easy as John.’ I stared at her. ‘Amma, do you hear what you’re saying?’ ‘What’s wrong with what she’s saying?’ ‘Nisha, wait, you don’t understand.’ ‘I don’t understand? Of course, I understand. It is you who don’t understand your own mother!’ ‘Amma –’ My phone vibrated against my hip at that moment. I would have let it go, but I had a sneaking feeling that it might be Shalini. I pulled it out and looked at the screen. It was. ‘I will come back after this,’ I told them, getting off my seat and making for the inner room. ‘Yes, Shalini,’ I said, closing the door behind me, ‘everything is all right.’ ♦♦♦ It was twenty minutes later that I found myself back in the living room. Amma and Nisha were chatting about something. I caught Nisha right in the middle of saying ‘Aww’, so I guessed the topic had not changed in my absence. ‘Everything all right?’ Amma asked, and I nodded at her as I sat down. ‘So,’ she said, turning back to Nisha, ‘John would call us after shutting down his clinic for the night, and he would say, “Anu, I want a bowl full of pasta. Make it with plenty of tomatoes” and your grandfather would sit on the side grumbling because he never liked tomatoes, you know.’ ‘That’s so sweet!’ said Nisha. I leaned forward and picked up the picture from the table. Both John mama and Appa had stethoscopes around their necks, of course. Appa was dressed in a full-sleeved checked white shirt, buttoned at the wrists, tucked in, a shiny black belt around the waist. The top two buttons of John mama’s shirt were open, and his collar was thrown behind his neck. Amma stood a good two feet to his left, and she was pointing at the camera. ‘That thing went off just as I was asking Nataraj to check if it’s working or not,’ said Amma. ‘That was the night we found out I was pregnant with you, Arjun. John brought cake – and asked me to make some pasta, of course.’ ‘Appa didn’t like pasta,’ I said and tried to penetrate that hollow smile on the man’s face in the photograph. Did he know? ‘He didn’t,’ said Amma, and for a moment I did not know whether she was answering my words or thoughts. ‘But I always made something else for him when John came over.’

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‘Tell me more,’ said Nisha, holding a couch cushion on her lap and leaning forward on it. ‘What did you think when you first laid eyes on him?’ I could not be sure, but Amma might have blushed at that moment. ‘Oh, it wasn’t like that. He is not a handsome man.’ He wasn’t, I noted, appraising John mama’s features with ‘that eye’ for the first time in my life. His front teeth were misshapen and yellow. He had spiky, unruly hair. A round face, and eyes that went small as a sleepy cat’s when he smiled. ‘The first time I met him,’ said Amma, ‘he was just Appa’s colleague who came home on a social visit. I took no notice of him. Most of Appa’s friends took no notice of me either.’ She was looking at Nisha, but her words were addressed to me. I could picture this scene in our old house in Warangal. Amma, Appa and John mama sitting around the old cane furniture that we sold when I was fifteen or so. John mama pulling Appa’s leg, laughing at something Amma said, asking for a second helping of pasta, or anything edible from the kitchen that Amma had made. The three of them discussing a medical case, the men talking and Amma listening. Politics of the day. Literature. ‘He was the first man who saw me, you know,’ said Amma, looking down at her bare fingers. She had never worn a ring her whole life. Appa hadn’t at the beginning too, but he died with his hands full of them. All gold, all fitted with bright precious stones. ‘He would ask me what I thought about this, why I did not think some way about that, how I feel about something else – for the first time I felt that a man was listening to me. That what I said mattered.’ ‘Besides Appa, you mean,’ I said. ‘Nataraj treated me very well,’ she replied, in a distant voice. It felt strange to hear his name on her lips again; ever since his death, she had never had occasion to refer to him by name. Whenever she spoke of him, it was either ‘Appa’ or ‘your grandfather’ or ‘your father-in-law’. Amma did not believe in nicknames, either. So there was no ‘Nattu’ or ‘Raj’ when it came to Appa. He was always ‘Nataraj’. Prim and proper. ‘He treated me very well,’ she said, ‘but he did so only because he felt that was the right thing to do. You know? He only asked for my opinion because he thought he ought to; not because he was interested.’ I thought of Appa, he of the buttoned-at-the-wrist shirts and black polished shoes, he who smiled at the camera more widely than he did at any human, he who could be relied upon – until his last breath – to do the accepted thing. And yet there must have been a time when he’d been different; the Appa that Amma had fallen in love with. Somewhere in this very pile of photographs was that moment too, of Appa and Amma on their wedding day. Somewhere between that day and this one – on which they came to know that she was pregnant, on which John mama brought cake – Appa had lost himself. Or perhaps he had begun to become what he’d always been.

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‘You’re awfully silent,’ said Amma. ‘I am thinking,’ I said and flicked the corner of the photograph. ‘Where did it all go wrong?’ ‘Nothing went wrong,’ said Amma. ‘I stayed with your father until his death, didn’t I? We had you. We reared you. And now I have all of you. What has gone wrong?’ ‘You loved another man,’ I said. ‘Appa’s friend. Did you ever tell him?’ ‘Do you mean John or your father?’ I thought about it for a moment. ‘Both.’ She shook her head. ‘Never told either of them. But I’ve always suspected that they knew.’ ‘Both of them?’ She looked at me with those black, mirror-like eyes. ‘Both of them.’ ♦♦♦ For a long time, we were silent in that room. Then Nisha said, ‘Why are you so shocked? It is possible to like more than one person at a time, okay?’ I looked at her as if she was a stranger. I wanted to ask how many boys in her class she ‘liked’, but thought the better of it. My gripe was not with Nisha, not tonight. My gripe was not with Amma either, I thought suddenly. The cold, rational part of me saw this for what it was; adulterous thoughts had resided in human hearts for at least as long as marriage had been in existence. Why was I surprised now that one woman came out and admitted it? Just because she was my mother? ‘Did you – uhm –’ ‘Appa!’ Nisha whispered fiercely. ‘No,’ said Amma. ‘I did not. John never visited us when your father wasn’t home. I never invited him. He never expressed a wish to be invited.’ ‘I cannot believe Appa knew and was okay with it.’ ‘That is between her and grandpa!’ ‘Nisha, wait,’ I said, toning down the anger that bubbled under my skin. ‘It’s okay,’ said Amma, grasping Nisha’s wrist and calming her. It struck me then how very alike their hands were; when she’d been born, the universal opinion had been that Nisha had taken after Shalini’s side in every aspect. But why did they look so similar now? ‘Let him ask,’ Amma told her. ‘Arjun, you’re right. I do not know for sure what Nataraj knew or guessed. In the same way, I cannot tell for sure if John knew either.’ She looked around herself, gushing a little. ‘It was not a time when women went around announcing their affections to the world.’ ‘But Appa never asked you about it.’ ‘He did not. But maybe – in the heart of his hearts – maybe he knew.’ ‘Where is he now?’ said Nisha. ‘Do you know?’

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Amma’s eyes widened at the question, and now she looked straight up at Appa’s smiling photograph. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, linking her fingers together. ‘We began to lose touch from the time Arjun turned six or so. We left Warangal then, you see, and came here to Bangalore. He promised to write, of course, and he did, for the first few months. Then we promised one another that we will meet once a year without fail, and we did, for two years.’ ‘And then?’ She smiled at me. ‘And then we got lost in our lives. John must have got lost in his.’ ‘Why did you leave Warangal?’ I asked, not without a note of suspicion in my voice. My mind flashed back for an instant back to the grilled room. John mama and I were playing chess, and Appa was watching. Now to another moment: John mama arriving on my fifth birthday (was it? Or sixth?) on Appa’s heel long after sunset, after Amma’s dinner had turned cold, with a stack of comic books under his arm. Yet another: John mama teaching me how to hold a table tennis bat, and how to roll the wrist while driving back a topspin return of serve. ‘Nataraj wanted to work in a big hospital,’ said Amma. ‘And he wanted you to grow up in a city. Not in a small town.’ ‘And John mama?’ ‘Oh,’ said Amma, smiling. ‘John was quite happy where he was. He wasn’t a particularly ambitious fellow. Not ambitious for the normal things, I mean.’ ‘Like what?’ ‘You know, money, security – all the practical things that your father was good at. Nataraj actually wanted John to come along with us, but John would just laugh and say “run after money all you want, Nattu bhai, just leave me out of it”. He also said that we would not make it in the big city, that we would come back to Warangal one day. “I will be right here, waiting for you,” he said.’ A great sadness invaded her eyes, then. I looked at Nisha. She was eyeing Amma out of the corners of her eyes, her chin propped up on the pillow. She looked about to cry. ‘But we never went back,’ said Amma, looking at the photograph in my hands. ‘John was wrong. Nataraj was very well suited to life in the big city. It was actually Warangal that was too small for a man of his type.’ ‘When was the last you heard from him, Grandma?’ asked Nisha. ‘After emails became a thing, John wrote to Nataraj a few times. In each letter, he would address me directly. Anu, he would say, you make the best pasta in the world. I hope you’re still making it for whoever you’re friends with now. You will all come back one day, I know. One day you will get tired of all the running. You will stop. And you will come back. And we will sit together, the three of us, and I will eat your pasta or whatever you make that day, and I will bring cake and we will take another picture, and it will be like old times again.’

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Amma looked up at Appa’s picture with bright, lustrous eyes. There was a smile on her lips. ‘That was twenty years ago. Arjun was in college then. We wrote back and forth a few times, and then we ran out of things to say. Went back to our lives. Never got tired of running, did we, Nataraj?’ ‘Did he get married?’ asked Nisha. ‘He did, yes,’ said Amma. ‘I forget his wife’s name. He mentioned her in his emails once or twice.’ Nisha gave Amma a hug and held her for a long minute. I watched them, marvelling again how alike they looked. Nisha placed her head on Amma’s lap. Amma flattened her palm on the girl’s forehead and caressed it. Not too long ago – and yet longer than it seemed – I would fall asleep every night on that very same lap, caressed by those very same warm hands. Our eyes met, and I asked her a question that had been plaguing me all evening. I did it without moving my lips. ‘It is his birthday today,’ she said. I looked down at the picture in my hand at the small eyes, the devil-may-care smile, hair pointing all over the place, the easy confidence with which he had predicted futilely that they would return to him. ‘Happy Birthday, John mama,’ I whispered under my breath. ♦♦♦ After dinner, Nisha brought out her laptop into the living room and said, ‘Did you say his name was John Matthew? Full name?’ ‘Yes,’ said Amma. ‘I don’t want you to find him.’ ‘Sorry?’ said Nisha. ‘Hello? After all the things you said about him, you don’t want me to find him?’ ‘No,’ said Amma, examining her fingernails. ‘I wouldn’t know what to say to him.’ ‘Then don’t say anything! Just stare at him, all right?’ Nisha looked at me. ‘Can you believe her? If we find that he’s still in Warangal, we will take her there. Right?’ I did not answer her at once. ‘Appa. Right?’ ‘No,’ Amma was saying. ‘No. Close that thing. It’s too long ago. Too much has happened. Too much. He is not the same man. He cannot be the same man.’ ‘Put it away, Nisha,’ I said. ‘But she’s crazy!’ Nisha said. ‘She doesn’t know what she’s –’ ‘Nisha, take that back into your room.’ She looked at Amma, then back at me, aghast as if we were a couple of lunatics. Then she shut the laptop with a snap and stormed out of the room, muttering ‘crazy’ a couple more times, just loud enough for us to hear.

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When we were again alone, Amma said, ‘Your father was a difficult man to love. But I loved him.’ I nodded. ‘I loved him enough to live with him until his death,’ she said. ‘No one can ask for more than that of anyone.’ ‘I agree,’ I said. ‘Do you ever regret marrying him?’ Amma tightened her lips as if steeling herself to speak. ‘No,’ she shook her head once as if convincing herself of the truth of her words. ‘No. He gave me stability. Security. I knew what I was getting with him. And he never broke his promises.’ ‘You didn’t say he gave you love.’ She smiled at me, and in her blooming face and neatly done grey hair I saw echoes of both John mama and Appa. ‘He gave me you,’ she said, in a wondering sort of way. ‘I’ve loved you more than anything in the world. How can you say, then, that he didn’t give me love?’ She’s evading my question, I thought at once, but then the phone rang, and I spoke to Shalini for twenty minutes in the other room, and on returning and finding the living room empty, I looked up at Appa’s picture. A couple of minutes later, it came to me that she had in fact answered the question, as plainly as anyone could. ♦♦♦ Later that night, after Shalini had gone to bed, I knocked on Nisha’s door and stole into her room. Together we searched for John mama, and after about fifteen minutes found him. His social media profile had him down as the head of the department of cardiology at Warangal’s biggest private hospital. He wore a suit and tie in all of his pictures. His hair had thinned from the old photo, and now it hugged his scalp and was parted to the left. There were rings on his hands, I noticed, and the smile on his face looked eerily like Appa’s. Slick. Oiled. Pale as butter. He had put on a considerable amount of weight, and his cheeks sagged. Gone were the sharp lines, the gleaming eyes, and the damaged front teeth had been replaced by white, perfect fake ones. He cannot be the same man, Amma had said. ‘So?’ said Nisha. ‘He looks pretty successful. Shall we show him to Grandma tomorrow?’ ‘No,’ I told her. ‘Grandma knows better than you what is good for her. Promise me you won’t show her this.’ ‘Fine,’ Nisha said petulantly and shut the lid of her laptop. ‘I am sleepy.’ It was not the ending that Nisha wanted in this tale, but she would come to know, I hoped, in the fullness of time the difference between romance and real life. Sometimes the two met; most times they didn’t. Amma understood that better than all of us – me, Nisha, John mama, even Appa – and so she was content with the love she carried in her heart for that John, the

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John who loved her pasta, who brought her cake on the day he found out she was pregnant, who played chess with her son. That John. Not this one. That Anuradha. Not this one. Maybe in some parallel universe, they would still be grinning at one another on old cane chairs, the three of them, talking literature and politics and medicine through the night. And that night would never end. They would never grow old or apart, and Amma and Appa would never leave Warangal, never come to Bangalore, never tire of each other. They would be frozen in that timeless instant of the photograph, with Amma pointing at the camera, asking Appa to see if there was something wrong with it. And John mama would always wear his hair like a mop, and the front two buttons of his shirt would always be undone. Maybe in some parallel universe. Not in this one. Here, every moment must pass. Every memory must fade. Every person must change. Everyone must run. Amma knew this. Better than all of us. I let myself out into the hall. Before I went back to bed, I stopped by her room to plant a light kiss on her forehead. I took care not to wake her up.

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THE DAY PIKKU DISAPPEARED Ell.P. Genre: Suspense I make myself believe that I remember the day Pikku disappeared, with crystal clarity. A memory embedded in my brain like a cancer, attacking the truth and growing rapidly. I remember the bright rays of sunshine that shone through our windows. I remember the smell of pancakes wafting up through the steps into our room. I remember Mummy and Daddy talking loudly, about something, something inconsequential to the comprehension of a child. I remember Pikku lifting my blanket and peeping inside, grinning. Her front two teeth had fallen off in the past two months and I remember thinking, how adorable that rectangular gap looked like. All I saw were pink gums, bright blue eyes and flushed cheeks. Her brown hair fell in ringlets around her chubby face as she tickled me and ran down the steps giggling. I ran behind her, laughing loudly, “You chump, you absolute chump, I am going to get you.” I shouted. This was our weekend routine, she woke me up every single Saturday and Sunday morning by tickling me. It always took me a while to settle into the skin of the elder brother, a whole two and half years older. Now that I am an adult, I realize how easy it is for a child to forget, forget that he is growing up. Pikku disappeared on a Sunday, Sunday afternoon; a bright, sunny day, with everyone out there on the streets enjoying the warmth, after a really, really long winter. A day where nothing could ever go wrong; a day where adults don’t want to listen to the number of small coffins that Syria has to produce every week; a day when the thought of Trump ruling America does not make you want to migrate from the only home you have ever known; a day where everyone hopes and prays that they stay in their safe, safe bubble of small happiness. On a day like that, Pikku disappeared. And everything went wrong. After breakfast, a breakfast where Mummy and Daddy hardly spoke, my sister and I took our cycles and went riding on the streets. Over the past year we had slowly, yet consistently become oblivious to our parents’ shouting matches and then the deep silences. Now that I am older, I

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know that those silences were the kind, where the tension could’ve been cut through with a paper knife. But then at the ages of six and eight, Pikku and I wouldn’t have known marital tension had it hit us on our chubby faces. Just like the standing instructions we had received from our parents, Pikku and I circled our block, never more than half a mile away from home. Never out of sight from each other. Pikku’s pink cycle with pink shiny tassels hung all over, and my blue Spiderman cycle trailed behind my sister’s. We rode, we raced and we teased each other as huge Jacaranda trees watched our shenanigans, peeping over us in unending domes. And lavender flowers lined our paths, dancing and swaying to our high-pitched, our delightful screams and our grand adventure. At the age of twenty-two now, I have taken to study psychology, especially Freud and Jung. I hope, in studying the human mind, I can find answers to what happened to my sister. Mummy doesn’t approve, neither of my chosen field of study nor of the fact that I still hope to find answers, find out what really happened to Pikku. Daddy? I don’t know what Daddy thinks, we haven’t heard from him in four years now. Not since he abandoned our home, the same home where both Pikku and I were born, the same home where the police pulled the house upside down to find Pikku because Daddy was their main suspect. ♦♦♦ Carl Jung says, “Everyone knows nowadays that people 'have complexes'. What is not so well known, though far more important, is that these complexes can have us.” House #26 is the house abandoned, and a stuff of nightmares. At least that was what the teens on our block would tell us. It was rumored to be haunted, that dilapidated building with a crumbling roof, decaying yard, broken down doors and windows. Even on a sunny day like that one, it stood shrouded in darkness, as if it had summoned its own private cloud, shunned from the outside world, private in its loneliness, in its mourning. I am sure when it began, it began with facts, which soon turned into rumors like wildfire, rumors that turned into embellished stories and stories that turned into legends. The kind of legends that had kept me awake many, many nights, staring at Pikku’s ever so slightly breathing body, encased in a pink blanket and wondering with my eight years old brain if the House #26 could hear my thoughts, or even worse, hear Pikku breathing. Sometimes, those nights, I would find Daddy leaning over Pikku’s sleeping frame. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he would caress her legs underneath the blanket and whisper how much he loved his little girl. Those were the nights when I was left wondering, why didn’t he do that to me, why didn’t he love me like he did Pikku? Mummy had once told me, one night; a night five years after my sister was gone. That when they had brought Pikku home from the hospital, one day after she was born, I had locked myself into the bathroom and refused to come out, until they took the ‘monster’ away. I had thought Pikku was a monster. Later when I would see everyone fawning over Pikku, her chubby, ruddy

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cheeks and clear blue eyes, I would stand in front of the mirror and stare at my autumn skin, like falling leaves, and black eyes, hoping and wondering why I did not look more like Pikku, like my dad. Why did I look like Mummy? Maybe that was why Daddy loved her more? Maybe, because she had looked more like him. Freud says, “Children are completely egoistic, they feel their needs intensely and strive ruthlessly to satisfy them.” I guess that ego was what got into us that afternoon. That stubborn streak which emboldened us, which dared us to defy the rules our parents had emphatically set. As Pikku and I pedaled across House #26, consciously not even turning our heads towards that dark porch, because Mummy had clearly told us never to set foot in that house, not even look at it; Pikku heard a whimper, followed by a wail. It sounded a lot like an animal in distress. I heard it too, but I chose to pretend I did not and slowly cycle ahead. My sister, however, was adamant, hell bent in fact, to rescue the animal in distress. She imagined a puppy, lost in the big bad haunted house without its mother. And Pikku started to cry. Now I know, I was older, I know I needed to be wiser, but I could never resist my sister’s tears. They fell like dew drops off a flower’s petal. And her red cheeks puffed up, until I said, “Yes, you chump. Let’s rescue some animals!” Even then sense prevailed, I looked around, searching for an adult, any adult that we knew. Just then we saw the tail of a red Jaguar turn a corner and I pedaled towards it furiously because I knew it was our neighbor Mr. Wiggs. And I knew, that if I told him Pikku was crying, he would definitely help us. But somehow, I don’t remember what happened, did he stop, did we talk, did he leave? He must have left because all I remember after that is entering House #26 alone with my sister. ♦♦♦ As I write this, my memories of that day, memories of Pikku, memories of my childhood, just like Professor Summers has asked me to; I try hard to recall the inside of House #26. Not that I don’t know, how it is. I have visited that house often while growing up and now more than ever as an adult. Often convinced that even now, years later, I might find Pikku lying in a glass coffin, frozen in time, only to be woken up by her brother’s kiss of true love. But here, here in this journal, I want to experience what it felt like to enter my very own nightmare as an eight-year-old. One that I have experienced countless times since that day, a terror associated with House #26, that even today makes me want to throw up the contents of my stomach and curl up in a fetal ball and fervently hope to die. ♦♦♦ We entered House #26, through the front gate. It was dark inside, darker than a house should be on a bright day. I could barely make out a huge living room, an entry towards another room, right on the edge of the living room. Massive stairs that looked like they would crumble should a butterfly sit on them, dominated the living room. There were no colors, bright or otherwise,

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there was only rot and decay on everything that my eyes could decipher. I guess my sister saw exactly what I did, because she held my hand, in hers, tight. “Pikku,” I had said irritably, “Let go, it hurts.” She whimpered and let go of my hand. We tried following the sound of the wailing animal. It seemed to be coming from everywhere, and nowhere. My legs strained to run away from that ominous place, run and never come back; not even ride our cycles in front of that house, ever again. Yet, I persevered, persevered to hear those whimpers of a trapped animal, because I knew Pikku. I knew that once she sets her mind to find something, even a house of terrors couldn’t stop her. After some moving around and craning our necks at odd angles, we decided that the animal was trapped upstairs. “We need to do this fast, let's run up and cover all the rooms. The sound will be louder once we get closer.” I said. Pikku agreed to the plan, and maybe she was just glad that I did not suggest splitting up. We ran up the house, sure to be light-footed. We were careful in keeping our legs in the less decaying parts of the staircase. We ran up and down the length of the first floor, in hopes of finding the mewling animal. We finally found it in the third room, on the right. We saw a kitten stuck between windowpanes, a broken glass, sticking out of its thigh. Pikku immediately ran up to it and picked it up, with no concern for her white tee. She handed the tiny thing to me with a sniffle and a whimper, and the message was simple, “We get it treated at the doctors, and then we keep it.” She said, “We will name it Sunshine, like today.” I smiled at my sister, for her kindness and compassion. Sunshine was lucky to have found Pikku, I had thought then. Something on the glass windowpane caught my attention just as I was about to turn around. A shadow passed through the glass. Someone had gone past the door behind me, someone really tall, someone dressed in black, someone who did not walk but floated. Pikku, who was facing the door, stood still, her face white and mouth open. My stomach sank, sank into pits deeper than the swimming pool in our school. We were being haunted, haunted by the ghost of House #26 and we needed to get out of there, and get out fast. “Run Pikku, run”, I screamed. I held Sunshine in my arms and ran down the steps, I looked behind me only once, Pikku was following me as a dark shadow raced towards us, hands stretched out like tentacles reaching out for my sister. Getting closer and closer towards my sister than towards me. Sometimes, I wonder what would’ve happened had I allowed Pikku to run before me? What would have happened had we never entered House #26? Pikku would still have been here. ♦♦♦ Pikku ran behind me, with her face white and breath heavy was the last time I ever saw my sister.

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Freud says, “The mind is like an iceberg, it floats with one-seventh of its bulk above water.” I don’t know if my memories of that day, my memories of that house, my memories of losing Pikku forever, are true. Sometimes, I believe that it is our dreams that tell us the truth. And sometimes I dream, more often now, now that I am trying to find the truth. In my dreams I see Pikku, running behind me, trying to catch up with me, asking me, begging me to slow down; just as the dark shadow closes in on my sister and absorbs her in its blackness. Sometimes in those dreams, I scream and I cry, sometimes I wet my pants, sometimes I see the face of that dark shadow, a face that belongs to the twenty-two-year-old me. Professor Summers says that the only reason that I see myself in the face of that dark shadow, is because of the massive guilt that I have been carrying for fourteen years. Maybe she is right, I do hold myself responsible, or maybe she is not. Maybe the monster that was haunting House #26 was actually me. ♦♦♦ Men are more moral than they think and far more immoral than they can imagine. – Sigmund Freud I had believed for a long, long time that the ghost from House #26 got her. Until we found Pikku, rather until a hiker found Pikku, in the woods right behind our small town. One year after she had disappeared. The killer hadn’t even bothered to bury her; he had just left her there rotting stuffed inside the hollow bark of a tree, covered with dead branches and leaves, deep into the woods. Scraps of her white tee, jeans, bones and her brown hair that hung in dying ringlets, were all that was left of Pikku. The rest of Pikku was devoured by nature. There were anthills found on different parts of Pikku’s body as she waited there to become one with the universe. The autopsy report stated that she had multiple fractures in all of her limbs and collarbone. Of course, I never saw it, my sister’s body. Mummy and Daddy protected me from that. I heard snippets of conversations, from our neighbors, sneaked a look into the investigating officer’s report. By the time I was twelve I was smart enough to know that no ghost would have raped and then strangled my six years old sister to death. The police thought, that it must’ve been some passing pedophile that got to Pikku or a sexually deviant father. Some neighbors suspected other neighbors; my friends still believed it was the ghost from House #26. Jung says, “Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darkness of other people. “ I guess that is the reason I turned out unnatural, at least that is what Daddy used to call it when he found out. Mummy, she just prayed, prayed hard to her God, Buddha. It was only expected that after what happened to Pikku, I wouldn’t continue on the right path, being a believer; I wouldn’t continue staying straight. The neighborhood knew I was broken, broken

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beyond repair. I think we all are, Mummy, Daddy and I. I lost my virginity when I was thirteen. Lost it to Mr. Wiggs, our neighbor from across the street and enjoyed it. Maybe because he was the only one who asked a lot about Pikku, only one who listened, he was the only one who cared and maybe he was the only one who loved me. Daddy, rarely spoke to me after Pikku was lost, I think he blamed me for losing his precious daughter, his reflection, his seed. My affair with Mr. Wiggs lasted for two years, in all that time I not just continued to lose pieces of my virginity; I lost my innocence as well. By the time I was sixteen, I applied for emancipation and left Mummy alone to deal with the existence of a shattered marriage and lost children. I have been going a lot back there, back into House #26. In hopes that my subconscious would trigger something, anything that might give me a clue of who would’ve killed Pikku. And I am, I am remembering snippets of that day, things that would help me put lost pieces together. Like the fact that Mummy and Daddy were fighting about Daddy’s new friend, a lady friend. Like the fact that while I ran back home on foot, Pikku took her bicycle before she disappeared. Like the fact, that three days after Pikku disappeared, I saw one pink tassel lying in Mr. Wiggs’s yard, just before he looked up, saw me stare at it with my eyes wide and then scooped it up inside.

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THE STRANGE CONFESSION Sharath Komarraju Genre: Crime Krishna Shastri, head priest at the Kali temple of Amaravati, considered the row of seven sacred threads hanging by the clothesline in the backyard of his mud-brick house. A frosty morning sun bathed his bareback. He scratched himself behind the right shoulder; an unseasonal overnight shower had left all his threads dripping wet, and if they did not dry within the next hour, he might just be compelled to perform the morning rites at the temple barechested. In the middle of his ruminations, Krishna Shastri thought he heard the sound of a dying motor somewhere near his front gate. A few quiet moments later, Annapurna called out to him. ‘Swami,’ she said, ‘that head-constable has come for you.’ Krishna Shastri’s mind fluttered a little. ‘Who?’ he asked, without turning back. ‘That head-constable,’ said Annapurna. ‘Who came when that woman died in the river.’ That woman. Krishna Shastri immediately knew who Annapurna meant. It had been two years since the death of Padmavati had come and gone, sweeping the village like a hurricane, and he had not heard one word from Venkat Reddy all this time, though they had promised – like all well-meaning acquaintances who were not quite friends – to stay in touch. If something had driven the policeman all the way down from the gram panchayat headquarters at this hour – Krishna Shastri made a quick mental calculation and ascertained that Venkat Reddy must have left at the crack of dawn – then it could not be a social visit. He felt each thread in turn and chose the driest one. Sliding it on, he looked over his shoulder and said to Annapurna, ‘Tell him I am coming.’ ♦♦♦ The head-constable was stouter and taller than Krishna Shastri remembered him, and now he carried a clean-shaven face set under closely cropped hair. The hat that sat on the stool next to him was not coloured in red and black stripes but in plain khakhi, and it bore the insignia of the Indian Police Service. 185

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‘I got a promotion, Shastri gaaru,’ said Venkat Reddy, rising to his feet and joining his hands together. ‘I am a sub-inspector now.’ ‘Ah, is that after the Padmavati incident?’ ‘Because of it, I think. All thanks to you.’ Krishna Shastri picked up his glass of tea and emptied it in two large gulps. ‘Has someone else gotten themselves killed in the village?’ Venkat Reddy smiled. ‘Does that mean I cannot visit you unless there is a murder?’ ‘It doesn’t mean that you cannot, no,’ said Krishna Shastri. ‘It just means that you will not.’ ‘You’re right.’ Venkat Reddy grimly looked down at his glass and began to twirl it. ‘But not here. Malladi. Have you heard of Bhaskar Rao, the landlord?’ ‘Only by name. He is contesting the elections at the panchayat this year, isn’t he?’ ‘Well,’ said Venkat Reddy, ‘not anymore. He killed a man last night in cold blood. His brother registered an FIR this morning, just as I was about to finish my night shift.’ ‘That shouldn’t matter. Show me a politician who doesn’t have a case to their name.’ Venkat Reddy kept staring at the twirling glass in his hand. ‘True, except it does matter here because Bhaskar Rao has confessed to the crime.’ Krishna Shastri took in the pause to consider Venkat Reddy’s words. Then he said, ‘Well then, I suppose he will not be contesting the elections. If it is all that cut and dried, why are you here?’ ‘Because it is not,’ said Venkat Reddy. ‘I don’t believe the man did it.’ ‘And why not?’ ‘Well, for one, he is one of the good men. I don’t believe in god, Shastri gaaru, not quite in the same way you do, but I do believe men are born with a certain amount of good in their hearts, and let me tell you, this man got more than his fair share.’ The policeman looked out at the front gate, where his dusty blue TVS Champ stood mounted on its stand. ‘He did me a few fair turns too, in the past.’ ‘I see,’ said Krishna Shastri. ‘Anything else?’ ‘No,’ said Venkat Reddy, finishing off his tea and placing it on the table. ‘No.’ Krishna Shastri sat forward in his chair and locked his plump hands. ‘Venkat Reddy, I believe in god, I do. I believe in all forms of god, the ones we see and the ones we don’t. But I also believe that every man you meet – even the most pious, the most moral, the most good – is capable of killing. You said that every man is born with a certain amount of good in his heart. I see it differently. It is the bad in a man’s heart, the downright lousy, that I keep a lookout for. And it surfaces, every now and then. Nothing you can do about it.’ Venkat Reddy looked at Krishna Shastri. ‘Is that your way of saying that you won’t come?’ ‘That’s my way of saying that I have better things to do than to humour your hunches.’ ‘How about I tell you the story and let you decide?’

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Krishna Shastri turned his wrist, looked at his watch. ‘My morning pooja begins in forty-five minutes.’ ‘I will take no more than twenty.’ Krishna Shastri looked through the two open doors in his backyard, where the six sacred threads were still drying. What harm was there in just listening to the man? Twenty minutes of gossip, that was all it was. Harmless, idle talk from the neighbouring village. ‘Fine,’ he said. He sank back in his chair and called out to his wife for a glass of water. ♦♦♦ ‘The facts of the case are quite simple,’ said Venkat Reddy. ‘At least at first glance. Two men spend the night in the same room, locked from the inside. In the morning, one of them discovers that the other is dead. Nine times out of ten, you would say the survivor is the murderer. Yes?’ ‘Ninety-nine times out of hundred,’ said Krishna Shastri. ‘Who is the man that Bhaskar Rao spent the night with?’ ‘Bhaskar Rao has been ailing for a while now,’ said Venkat Reddy. ‘Has had trouble sleeping, and there is a heart condition too, I hear. He takes a rather strong sleeping pill every night, and ever since he’s begun the course, they say he has been a little woozy.’ ‘What do they mean, woozy?’ ‘Woozy. He forgets things. Cracks the same joke again and again. That kind of thing. His servant, Govind, and Govind’s wife, Parvati, live in the same house. The fourth member of the house is Sudarshan, Bhaskar Rao’s younger brother.’ ‘He’s the one who brought in the case against his brother?’ Venkat Reddy nodded. ‘Both the brothers came in together this morning. The elder one was quite contrite. He practically confessed.’ ‘Practically, you say.’ ‘Yes,’ said Venkat Reddy. ‘That was what first alerted me to it. He kept saying that he must have killed Govind. Now, I’ve heard confessions, Shastri gaaru, the person says either I did it or I did not. No one ever says I must have done it. You know?’ ‘Yes,’ said Krishna Shastri, sitting forward in his chair. ‘That is strange.’ ‘The problem is, though,’ said Venkat Reddy in disgust, ‘he is right. He is the only one in the house who could have done it. The man Govind was all right at night when he went into his master’s room and locked himself in. He carried his daily quarter of arrack with him. Parvati tells me that it was half-empty by the time he finished his dinner and left her.’ ‘What killed him, in the end?’ ‘Poison,’ said Venkat Reddy. ‘The results are not in yet, but the doctor at the scene said it looked a lot like strychnine. Loss of motor control, then dizziness, convulsions, and finally, death by asphyxiation. Govind had a torrid time of it in the last few minutes of his life.’ ‘You found the container where the poison came from?’

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‘We did. Under Bhaskar Rao’s bed. Quite a lot of it in the house too, in all sorts of containers. They use it in pesticides, apparently.’ ‘That’s right,’ said Krishna Shastri, and looked at his watch again. The sound of the first bell at the temple came to their ears. That meant that Ravi, his attendant priest, had begun proceedings already. If he had any hope of reaching on time, he must cut this interview short right now, and he must put on a new, yellow, thicker thread around his chest and set off on a run. Seetaraamaiah would be there. He wouldn’t be happy if Krishna Shastri didn’t turn up. Mother Kali would be there too, expecting him. She wouldn’t be too pleased either. But problems like these did not appear every day. People like Venkat Reddy did not seek out his help every morning. Mother would understand, wouldn’t she? She would. Seetaraamaiah – well, he could think whatever he wished. ‘Annapurna,’ he called out. ‘Oye,’ she said from inside the kitchen. ‘Can you send Murari to the temple with a message that I have fallen sick? Tell them to finish the pooja without me.’ ♦♦♦ An hour later, Krishna Shastri found himself standing at the gate of a large, lemon-yellowpainted house in Malladi. The TVS Champ had a soft, spongy cushion, but the pillion ride on the bumpy road had left him sore. As they walked toward the front door, he found a surreptitious moment to rub himself on the buttocks with both hands. A woman who looked older than she probably was opened the door. Her blackened eyes stirred with faint recognition when they fell on Venkat Reddy. ‘This is Krishna Shastri,’ said the policeman by way of introduction. ‘He has come to help us with the paperwork.’ She smiled, as though as she knew all about ‘helping with the paperwork.’ Venkat Reddy led him to the living room first (a large, airy rectangle with upholstered chairs set around a glass-top coffee table), then through one of the side doors into the main bedroom. He slid the latch shut behind them. Krishna Shastri took a deep breath and was aware of a faint pungency in the air. Two straight-backed frail chairs had been propped up against the wall, clear of the armchair and bed that sat next to each other in the centre. In the left corner stood a hefty black metal safe, built into the wall and laced with fine dust at the top. ‘It happened here?’ ‘Yes,’ said Venkat Reddy. ‘As you can see, the windows are shut. I opened them in the morning to let in some air. And closed them just before I left to get you.’ Krishna Shastri walked over to the windows and tried the bolts. They were firmly in place.

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‘Frosted glass too,’ said Venkat Reddy. ‘You cannot see through it, either way.’ ‘Where did you find the empty bottle of poison?’ ‘Here.’ Venkat Reddy pointed to a spot under the bed, roughly equidistant between the four legs. ‘I did not find it, of course. The brothers did, this morning, and told me about it when I came.’ ‘Fingerprints?’ Venkat Reddy nodded. ‘Bhaskar Rao’s.’ A knock appeared on the door, a soft, tentative one. When Venkat Reddy said, ‘Come in,’ the head of a long-faced man with straight greying hair peeked in. ‘We might be better off talking in the living room, Inspector,’ he said. ‘This room still carries the fumes.’ ♦♦♦ Sudarshan Rao considered Krishna Shastri with pleasant suspicion when they stepped out into the hall. ‘A friend of yours, I fancy, sir?’ he said to Venkat Reddy while signaling to Parvati to scurry away into the kitchen in search of refreshments. She returned in a trice before they’d had a chance to occupy their chairs, bearing a tray filled with three steel glasses brimming with water. ‘Have you had a chance to think about what I said this morning?’ he asked Venkat Reddy after a suitable amount of time had passed. ‘We’d like things to stay quiet –’ He stopped short and laughed as if just discovering something. ‘Boy, that sounds shady, as if I am giving you a bribe or something. But Parvati here will tell you too, sir. She doesn’t want a case against my brother. She is happy to go with a suicide verdict if you are.’ Venkat Reddy said tightly, ‘We concern ourselves just with the facts. The verdict is left to the judge if it comes to that.’ ‘Certainly,’ said Sudarshan, with a smile. ‘Certainly.’ ‘Now if you could go over what happened last night once more, just for the benefit of my friend here –’ ‘There’s nothing to tell,’ said Sudarshan, eyeing Krishna Shastri. ‘My brother woke me up this morning in a state of great agitation. I asked him what it was, and he said that when he woke up, he found Govind sitting in his armchair by the bed. His unfinished bottle of arrack was standing on the floor next to him, and he was quite, quite dead. ‘We hurried down to the bedroom, and we found the room exactly as my brother said it was. He had left Parvati standing guard by her husband’s body. The windows were shut, bolted from the inside. There is no other opening to the room except through the door, which was locked on the inside the whole night. I saw my brother and Govind retire to the room yesterday before I went up to my room.’

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Krishna Shastri, who was listening all this while with the eyes of a ferret, said, ‘That bottle of poison under the bed –’ ‘It’s not exactly a bottle,’ said Sudarshan, glancing once in Venkat Reddy’s direction, and flicking away a lock of hair that fell on his forehead. ‘It’s more like a tin can. We have tons of strychnine stored in sacks in the storeroom. Bhaskar must have gotten some of it. Or maybe Govind got some, intending to poison Bhaskar and make away with the jewels.’ ‘Jewels?’ Sudarshan cast a careful eye in the direction of the kitchen, where Parvati had disappeared. He lowered his voice. ‘I happen to know that Govind is not doing all that well financially. Lost a lot of money gambling, Parvati tells me.’ ‘So you think it was Govind who planned to poison your brother?’ Sudarshan shrugged. ‘It is as the Inspector says. We can only look at the facts. Either my brother carried the poison into the room with the intention of killing Govind, or Govind did with the intention of killing my brother. I entertain both possibilities.’ ‘Does your brother have a motive for killing Govind?’ ‘No,’ said Sudarshan. Then, after a moment of thought, with more emphasis: ‘No. But my brother has been a little erratic in the recent past. He is on this medication that has put him on edge. Who knows what Govind must have said or done that has offended him?’ ‘To the point of wanting to kill him?’ Sudarshan shrugged again. ‘I am just telling you what I know. Bhaskar doesn’t remember anything, of course, but I know for a fact that he didn’t take his tablet last night. So he shouldn’t have been sleeping as soundly as he said he was. If anything, he should have been wide awake because the tablet is what knocks him out.’ Krishna Shastri and Venkat Reddy exchanged glances. Sudarshan leaned forward in his seat, reached into his pocket for something. He brought out a half-torn strip of tablets. A doctor’s prescription was tied around it by means of a green rubber band. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘The prescription was taken out twenty days ago, and we’re supposed to give him one tablet a day. This is a strip of thirty. If he had taken yesterday’s tablet, we should have ten left. But we have eleven.’ Krishna Shastri took the bundle from the man’s hands and turned it over. Then he slid off the rubber band and counted the tablets. Sudarshan was right; there were eleven tablets in the strip. ‘As for motive,’ Sudarshan was saying, ‘I am afraid you will have to ask my brother himself why he did it.’ ♦♦♦

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After the younger brother had stepped out of the house (to walk around the fields once, he said), Venkat Reddy led Krishna Shastri back into the bedroom. He produced a set of keys and used them to open the safe. ‘See,’ said the policeman. ‘The jewels are still here.’ Krishna Shastri placed his hand on the open door. The inside of the safe was built of three shelves. The bottom two were empty. Right in the middle of the top shelf was a bundle of jewels in a gunny sack, tied at the mouth with a black-and-brown drawing rope. ‘Do they keep their jewels tied up like this, always?’ Venkat Reddy was about to say something, but Parvati’s arrival stymied him. The woman came in trembling like a leaf. If Venkat Reddy had not hurried to her side and guided her to one of the sitting chairs by the wall, she would have crumbled to the ground in a dead faint. Her eyes were pinched red around the edges, and puffy bags of loose skin were beginning to form under them. Yes, Sudarshan babu was right. She did not want a case against Bhaskar babu. Even Govind would have wanted her to withdraw all charges. It did look like Bhaskar babu killed her Govind, but why would he? Yes, Govind did have money troubles, but did not all men? Would he have killed Bhaskar babu for the jewels? No way. Both Govind and she had been loyal servants of the family for the longest time – almost thirty years now – so if Govind had wanted money, all he should have done was ask the master. He didn’t have to take such a step. The drink that Govind carried inside the room last night – it was not poisoned. Govind had been drinking from it for a good two hours before he went to Bhaskar babu’s room. All she had heard the following morning was Bhaskar babu banging on the door of her room and yelling at her to come out. And then asking her to stand by the door, with her Govind sitting on the chair inside. Dead. Tears filled her eyes as she recounted this part of her tale. Spasms racked her body, and she buried her eyes in her palms. Venkat Reddy allowed her to cry, watching Krishna Shastri take another long look at the bundled up jewels inside the safe. ‘Parvati,’ he said, in a voice that startled the old lady and made her look up. ‘Do you take out the house trash every morning?’ ‘Sir, yes, sir,’ she said, and looked at Venkat Reddy, as if for refuge. ‘And where do you dump it?’ ‘There is an empty plot down the street, sir. The municipality fellows come every Sunday and collect it from there.’ ‘Ah!’ said Krishna Shastri. ‘Today is just Tuesday. We’re in luck! Venkat Reddy, do you have a constable on the premises?’ Venkat Reddy looked up, frowning. ‘Yes?’

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Krishna Shastri looked straight at Parvati while speaking. ‘I need him to go hunting in the dump for something. Will he?’ ‘I am sure he will,’ said Venkat Reddy. ‘As long as you tell him what he is trying to find.’ ‘I will.’ ♦♦♦ Bhaskar Rao looked nothing like his brother at first glance. He had a generous, heavyset body that refused to move without creaking at one joint or the other. He had a round face with a pink oval bulb for a nose, and eyes that sparkled with delight each time he spoke. He wore a kurta that was at least a couple of sizes too big for him, so as he descended the stairs and made for one of the chairs in the living room, he looked like a floating balloon with jeans-wearing legs sticking out of it. ‘This is an unfortunate incident,’ he said, smacking his lips. ‘Govind was like a brother to me. Will it make it any less damning, Inspector, if I admitted that I have no memory whatsoever of killing him?’ ‘I doubt it,’ said Venkat Reddy tartly. ‘If you could just tell us the stuff that you do remember.’ ‘Right. Very right. Last night, Sudarshan and I were here, in this very living room. He was sitting where you are now, in that big chair. And I was here. We were talking – and I don’t mind admitting to you that there was a bit of an argument.’ ‘About what, sir, if I may ask?’ said Krishna Shastri. Bhaskar Rao smiled ruefully. ‘What do brothers fight about, sir, besides money and parents? Our parents are long gone, bless them, so what does that leave?’ ‘I thought you had enough money between yourselves.’ A dark shadow crept into the man’s features. ‘Not if you have a brother like mine, sir. I don’t wash my dirty linen in public, but it is hardly a secret in these parts. If there is a vice that Sudarshan does not enjoy, the devil has not yet invented it.’ ‘He was telling us this morning how Govind has money problems too.’ For a big man, Bhaskar Rao had small hands. He waved one of them away now, in a gesture of impatience. ‘Govind’s money problems are nothing but mites. Sudarshan – well, if he could, Sudarshan would happily gobble up all the wealth we have in less than a year.’ Venkat Reddy cleared his throat. ‘You were telling us about last night.’ ‘Yes, we were sitting here, Sudarshan and I. We were – er – talking in an excited fashion, shall we say. He wanted money, as usual. I said no, as usual. He tried negotiating, but in that irritatingly good-natured way of his, shrugged and gave up. I said goodnight and went with Govind into the room.’ ‘Just a second, sir,’ said Krishna Shastri. ‘Before you retired last night, did you or did you not take your nightly pill?’

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‘You know, that’s the thing – I just don’t remember. A part of me tells me that I did because it has become such a routine thing for me now that I don’t know why I’d miss. But this morning, Sudarshan tells me that I didn’t, and he shows me the strip and the prescription, so perhaps he’s right. Perhaps I didn’t.’ ‘You mean you don’t remember?’ Bhaskar Rao shook his head. ‘I don’t. You know how it is – you don’t remember the things you do every day, especially when you’re constantly talking to yourself inside your mind.’ ‘In this case, you were talking to yourself about your younger brother.’ ‘That’s right. Now, of course, the medication does its bit in making me a little more absentminded than usual. So maybe it’s that. I don’t know. Anyway, we go into the bedroom, Govind and I. We talk about this and that. Govind is sipping on his drink, and he’s telling me in that slurring voice of his that I should go a little bit easier on Sudarshan. We do this for around fifteen minutes, and I nod off to sleep.’ He paused at that and looked away as if waiting for some soft inner voice to whisper in his mind. Then he said, ‘I wake up in the morning, and the man is dead.’ ‘You heard nothing?’ said Venkat Reddy. ‘Nothing. I woke up at six in the morning, as usual. And I ask Govind to get me my glass of milk, and he doesn’t stir. I sit up and tell him to turn on the light. Nothing. I do it myself and see that his eyes are open. And he’s not seeing me. He’s not seeing anything.’ ‘Do you recall taking along with you the container of poison that was found under your bed?’ ‘No. But I don’t recall poisoning Govind either. I – these medicines I’ve been taking – they have these side effects. I become more passionate in these blackout periods. And I don’t remember them at all. They’ve told me that it has happened a few times, which is why they wanted Govind to sleep with me in the same room, you know. Just in case the devil gets into me or something.’ He tried to smile, but Krishna Shastri could tell that he was embarrassed. He had been a strong man in his youth, one could tell. Such a fall toward senility could shame anyone. A patter of metal boots on the steps outside interrupted whatever it was that Venkat Reddy had begun to say. The constable marched in and saluted them. Venkat Reddy went with him into the bedroom and closed the door behind them. ‘Do you think we could persuade the judge to return a case of temporary insanity?’ said Bhaskar Rao. ‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Krishna Shastri. ‘But I am willing to bet your brother is doing his best to get you off.’ ‘He is, he is,’ said Bhaskar Rao. ‘I must say, he has been awfully good ever since this happened. Gee, it has only been hours, hasn’t it? It feels like much longer.’ A thoughtful pause later, he said, ‘Maybe Govind was right. Maybe I ought to be less harsh with him.’

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The bedroom door opened. The constable stepped out and said to Krishna Shastri, ‘The boss wants you inside, sir.’ Getting up, Krishna Shastri faced Bhaskar Rao. ‘One final question. Do you always keep the jewels in your safe bundled up in a sack?’ Bhaskar Rao looked up, in a combination of puzzlement and surprise. ‘I – haven’t the foggiest clue –’ Krishna Shastri smiled kindly at him. ‘Nor should you. Now if you will excuse me.’ He turned and went past the constable into the room. ♦♦♦ Venkat Reddy sat on the chair that Parvati had occupied not more than a couple of hours ago. He was holding up something in front of his eyes, against the light of the window. When Krishna Shastri came in, he lowered the object and waved him over to the seat next to him. ‘The constable found this in the dump,’ he said, handing over the strip of tablets. Krishna Shastri took it and raised it to the light himself. It was a strip of thirty out which ten slots were filled and the other twenty were hollowed out. ‘I didn’t know,’ he said in a whisper. ‘But I guessed it should be around somewhere.’ ‘Care to explain?’ Krishna Shastri sighed. It was this part that made him queasy in the stomach. He looked around the room. He was filled with a sudden desire to leave for the cool comfort of his temple’s inner sanctum, to the soothing sound of brass bells, to the fragrant camphor, to the Mother’s loving eye. With an effort, he restrained the muscles of his throat and clenched his fists close. He signalled to the constable to shut the door. When it was just him and Venkat Reddy again in the room, he said, ‘From the beginning, Govind could have been killed by one of just three people: Bhaskar Rao, Sudarshan and Parvati. Of course, the fourth option is that he committed suicide, but that I discounted after coming here.’ He looked around him, at the bare, dour walls. ‘This looks like a house in which a murder was committed. ‘Now, out of the three possible suspects, we thought of Bhaskar Rao the most, because he is the one inside the locked room with the victim for the whole night. Two men go into a room at night and lock themselves in, you said. When one ends up dead in the morning, it follows that the other has killed him. Do you still believe that?’ ‘Yes?’ said Venkat Reddy, eyes fixed on the frosted window glass in front of him. ‘The conclusion is true,’ said Krishna Shastri, the emptiness in his stomach deepening, ‘only if the implicit assumption is true: that the room stayed locked throughout the night. What if it didn’t?’ ‘You’re saying Bhaskar Rao opened the door during the night for someone to come in and kill Govind?’

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‘I am saying someone opened the door from the inside,’ said Krishna Shastri. ‘And let someone in. The visitor – let’s call the person that – poisons Govind’s drink and goes out. Then someone locks the door from the inside.’ ‘If Govind is dead, that someone who locks the door after the visitor leaves must be Bhaskar Rao. In that case, if he is not the actual murderer, he is at least a confederate.’ Krishna Shastri held up the strip of tablets. ‘You see this? Bhaskar Rao did take his tablet yesterday. In fact, he slept through the night without a care for the world.’ Venkat Reddy got out of his chair and began to pace the room, hands held together behind his back. ‘Govind opened the door? Is that what you’re saying?’ ‘That is what I’m saying.’ ‘Why?’ ‘We will get to the why later,’ said Krishna Shastri. ‘First, let’s look at the how. After retiring to the bedroom with Bhaskar Rao, and after the master has gone to sleep, Govind unlocks the door from the inside, and allows his visitor in. This person distracts Govind for long enough to poison his drink and then leaves the way he comes. Govind locks the door behind him, returns to his seat, and takes a few more sips of his drink. The poison begins to act.’ Krishna Shastri’s eyes locked with the legs of the armchair next to the bed. ‘He begins to feel dizzy, but he thinks it’s because of the drink. Then he begins to get convulsions, and by then it’s too late. He tries to wake up Bhaskar Rao, but the man has been drugged to sleep. And Govind’s voice has already become too feeble, with the combined effect of the poison and the alcohol.’ ‘You tell it as if you were there.’ Krishna Shastri shook himself and smiled. ‘The first most important clue was the empty poison can. It was placed under the bed, almost in the middle, as if someone had bent down and placed it there with their arm extended. When you first showed me the spot, I told myself, why, that’s an inconvenient place to put it. But of course, there was a reason for it.’ Venkat Reddy nodded. ‘The visitor did not want Govind to find it.’ ‘But he wanted us to find it, you see,’ said Krishna Shastri. ‘So he had to hide it well, out of sight but in the room. Under the bed is a good bet. Picture this: while Govind is distracted by whatever he’s doing, the visitor poisons the remainder of the servant’s drink, and then bends down to place the can under the bed. This last action doesn’t take long; just a moment or so.’ ‘The fingerprints?’ Krishna Shastri’s rounded shoulders went up and down in an easy motion. ‘The visitor comes wearing gloves. He presses the sleeping brother’s fingers to the container before he bends down to place it under the bed.’ Venkat Reddy pursed his lips, then nodded. ‘Now can we go to the why?’ ‘The other important clue in the room is that of the bundled up jewels. I asked Bhaskar Rao about it, and he reacted as if I had said the most outrageous thing in the world. Indeed, it is.

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Who keeps their jewels in a safe bundled up, as if one was preparing to haul them off into a cart and run at a moment’s notice? And this gave rise to another question: if the person did bundle up the jewels, why did he not run with them? Why did he leave them behind? ‘The only way to explain this is if the visitor was playing a double game with Govind. The plan, ostensibly, and as far as Govind knows, is to steal the jewels. Notice how we’ve been told that Govind and Parvati have been loyal servants to the family for the last thirty years. The family, Venkat Reddy, not any one member of the family. Now, what do you do if one of the family members asks you to do something that the other disapproves? You find your loyalty divided, don’t you? ‘You mean Sudarshan,’ said Venkat Reddy. Krishna Shastri nodded. ‘Recall how Govind has asked Bhaskar Rao to go easy on the younger brother. There are signs that Govind likes Sudarshan, even though – or maybe because – he is a man besotted with vices. And they both share money troubles if nothing else. ‘So Sudarshan tells Govind that they will go for the jewels. There will be no danger whatsoever to the master. He will sleep through it all. The plan would have been to make it seem like a regular robbery of some sort, with Govind and Sudarshan sharing in the spoils. Sudarshan would knock on the door, Govind would open, and then Govind would hand over the jewels to Sudarshan, who would leave as he had come, and then they would tell their lies, come morning. That was the plan anyway.’ ‘But here’s where Govind underestimated Sudarshan. Sudarshan was not content with the jewels. He wants the entire family wealth. So he hatches a plan of his own. This plan is more sinister – he would kill Govind and frame his brother for it.’ Venkat Reddy’s mouth twisted in distaste, and Krishna Shastri smiled up at him. ‘I notice that you’re seeing the depravity of it, Venkat Reddy,’ he said. ‘As per plan, Sudarshan enters the room. As per plan, he asks Govind to open the safe and begin bundling up the jewels. While Govind is engaged in doing that, Sudarshan drops the poison into Govind’s drink, presses the fingers of his sleeping brother to the can, and places it out of plain sight, under the bed. Then he gets up. Govind is still packing the jewels. He taps him on the shoulder, tells him that he has forgotten to get something. Finish bundling up the jewels and wait for my knock, he tells him. ‘He reminds Govind to lock the door on the inside. Then he goes to his room and waits for the morning. He must have impressed upon Govind in strong terms that he is not to come looking for Sudarshan, that he must wait for the knock.’ ‘But what if Govind had not drunk another sip of his drink after Sudarshan left?’ Krishna Shastri said, ‘That was a fair risk. Sudarshan had to be entirely unlucky for that to happen. Govind was a man fond of drink. He drank from early evening late into the night on most days. And here, he was being asked to wait. What does a man who is fond of drink do when

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he is waiting for another man, especially when there is a half-full bottle by his side? Why, he drinks.’ ‘And the strip?’ Krishna Shastri took a long breath. ‘The strip was where Sudarshan miscalculated. Either Bhaskar Rao had his tablet or he didn’t. If he had it, he would have slept through the night. If he didn’t, he would have stayed awake and remembered what happened. The fact that Sudarshan was trying to tell us that Bhaskar forgot to have his tablet, yet forgot what happened – well, it might be theoretically possible, but it felt that things were too perfect. And when he brought out the dated prescription with the strip, I just knew it was fake. The whole thing.’ ‘You know,’ said Venkat Reddy, stretching his hand out for the strip. ‘That was the feeling I got in the morning. That, things were too perfect. Not a hair out of place.’ ‘The rest was just framing,’ said Krishna Shastri. ‘Over time, he has convinced his brother that he was doing and saying things that he could not remember. Some of this behaviour might be a genuine side effect of the drug, but I have no doubt that Sudarshan amplified its effect. So this morning, when he must have softly suggested that it was he who killed Govind and followed it up with the impeccable logic of how two men went into a locked room and one died, Bhaskar Rao must have himself felt that the weight of evidence pointed at him.’ ‘So he confessed.’ ‘In that peculiar way of his, yes,’ said Krishna Shastri. ‘He did not say I did it. He said I must have done it.’ In the dim silence of the room in which a man was killed less than twelve hours ago, neither priest nor sub-inspector spoke for a full minute. ‘What now?’ said Venkat Reddy at last. ‘Nothing,’ replied Krishna Shastri. ‘You heard the brothers. The lady doesn’t want a case. Your job is to present the facts. Let the judge decide if it comes to that.’ ‘Would you like to stick around?’ Krishna Shastri joined his hands and said, ‘No, sir! Please tell whoever asks that I have finished helping you with your paperwork and that I have long returned to my real place.’ ♦♦♦ And so around noon, as Venkat Reddy was clicking a pair of handcuffs around the wrists of Sudarshan Rao in Malladi, Krishna Shastri was pillion-riding a dusty blue TVS Champ, driven by a constable, on the pothole-ridden road back to Amaravati. He could dissect evil and scrutinize it, but he lacked the courage to look it in the eye; he’d realized it with Padmavati’s death. The vehicle turned the final bend, and the murmur of the Krishna filled his ears. That calmed his fraying nerves. He recited a short prayer under his breath, entreating the Mother to bring solace to all burning souls – to Parvati, riddled with grief for her dead husband; to Bhaskar,

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consumed with shame for his brotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s sin; to Venkat Reddy, driven by the desire to be just and fair; and to Sudarshan, to Sudarshan most of all, who was as much the Goddessâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s child as everyone else in the universe.

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GENRE: ROMANCE

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GOODBYE & ALL THAT STUFF Ashwin Kumar Genre: Romance I am shoving her suitcase in the car trunk and then shoving it further down, between her other bags, is when she says, “What are you doing? Be Gentle! This one is fragile.” “Yeah?” I say, “I am sorry madam, I am not your Cabin Crew. So put a fucking sticker on this thing, that says it’s fragile and make it bold.” “I have put a sticker on it. And it is bold. Can you not see it?” “Nope! I can’t. Make it more bolder. I don’t think anyone with normal eyesight can see it.” “There is no such thing as “more bolder”,” she corrects me, making air quotes, with her delicate pink fingers. “Well, there is now,” I say, “more bolder, more boldest, boldestest, more boldestest. I will say whatever I want to say. And I am sorry again, English is not my first language. Neither am I moving to an English country. For me, more bolder means, more bolder. Something I can read or see from ten meters away. And oh… boulder also means something I want people to get smeared by, when they annoy me. You get it? So put a bigger goddamn sticker on this thing and make it more bolder!” “I am sure you can read it from far. That is, if only you are willing to,” she frowns. “I am sorry for the third time today, I can’t read or write things. I am stupid. Okay?” She breathes deeply, looks away for a brief moment and then looks back at me, flaring her nose and flexing her jaws. “Really, Sam? Like, you want to do this right now? Aren’t you done fighting? This is like the hundredth time in last one week.” “Wow! Someone is keeping a count.” “That’s because someone is a jerk,” she whispers to herself, and walks into the house, dumping a leather duffle bag in the back seat of the car. “You know what? I heard that!” “Congratulations! At least one of your senses are working fine.”

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“Oh! Fuck off, please.” “In an hour, I will… maybe forever,” she slams the door behind her. I stand next to the car, with hands on my hips, staring at the chalky windshield and both its wipers covered in pigeon shit. And up on the roof of the car, a pigeon is fidgeting with dust spots with his beak, and bobbing his head on melodies that only birds can hear. His feathers are soiled, and from the corners of his tiny-tiny eyes, he sees me seeing him. I appreciate him for being here with me. He is happy and calm, but most importantly, he is not flying to a different place. Even though he could – free of cost! This Pigeon is a star! Why can’t she be like this pigeon? Why does she have to be either a raging monk or an ugly bitch face? Why there is no in-between? A voice from within, that I am way too familiar with, shoots up to my head and whispers, “Stop it! You know it’s you. It’s always you. She’s more of a gentleman than you are. She has the calmness and patience of a bomb squad. You, on the other hand, look like you are always in a moshpit of a metal concert, elbowing the person behind you, screaming, “Hell yeahhh!!!”, or whatever the fuck they yell in those moshpits.” And while I am having a moment with myself, she storms out of the house, with bags hanging on her both shoulders and a bunch of stuff in her hands. The tiny human inside my head wants to criticize her and her possessions in a very Carlinesque way. She has more luggage labeled as “stuff”, than what should be called as “stuff”. And all her “stuff”, come with her other “stuff”. Because she buys “stuff”, and doesn’t throw them away. Then she buys more “stuff” to match the “stuff” that she has bought before. So there are twice as many and as much “stuff” with her than there should have been in the first place. She stands and stares at me helplessly, with the innocence of a four-year-old. “What?” I say. “What, what?” she shrugs, “help me with these.” She points at all her “stuff”. I almost snatch the bag out of her hands, and stuff all her “stuff”, with her other “stuff”. Fuck it! It’s all stuffed now. “Careful!” She is annoyed. “Why?” I yell, “Is this fragile too?” “No, but that’s not how it’s done.” “Don’t teach me how it’s done. Okay?” I say, unlocking the front door of the car, “I have helped you pack everything. Without me, you would have carried all your shoes in thousand different brown bags. Not everything is grocery, sweetheart. You understand?” To my surprise, this time, she doesn’t retort. She walks to the other side of the car, and sits on the passenger seat, tying her hair in a fat bun. In my mind, there could be two possible reasons behind this sort of passive behavior. One, she doesn’t want to piss me off further at this tensed juncture. Two, I am right and she doesn’t have any counterpoints to make. But perhaps,

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it’s none of those two reasons. Perhaps, she doesn’t want to fight or argue out of pity. But that doesn’t qualify for top ten of my self-absorbed reasons. I drive her to the airport. During most of the ride, she is busy on her phone. Texting, smiling, breathing. It has started to drizzle outside. The windshield isn’t chalky anymore. I have powered on the wipers. The pigeon shit has cascaded down to the hoods, and then onto the header and nose panels of the car in a white distorted line. This is quite a long ride in normal conditions, but throw in some busy hours, and a rainy day on top of it, and you are stuck in a traffic that doesn’t clear for aeons. “Who are you texting?” I ask. “My colleague, Sumit.” “The one with the nerd glasses and birds nest on top of his head?” “Yes, that one.” “Hmm.” My annoyance is always reflected in my loud pitched angry rant for hours, or it is compressed into small packages of minimal responses. She is quite aware of both these sides. “Why?” She stares at me in confusion and anticipation. “What, why?” “Why did you ask?” “Because ¬–” I turn the steering a full circle at a U-turn, “I assume, he is also going with you to New York. Isn’t he?” “No, he is not.” “Are you sure?” “Positive!” She scoffs at me, “You wanna talk to him?” “No. Why would I talk to him? More like, why would he talk to me, when he has got you to talk to twenty-four by seven.” “What nonsense, Sam?” I am relieved hearing what she has told me just now. I never liked that nerdy scumbag. He is too touchy-feely and is surprisingly not gay at the same time. Although, he always acts like one. You invite him to your house for a get-together, and he would go through your girlfriend’s wardrobe and give her fashion tips. Your girlfriend thinks he is sweet, but you know she is naïve. The guy doesn’t want her to get a new pair of pants. He just wants to get in one of them. And of course, if you bring that up at a dinner conversation with her, you are automatically insecure and jealous. Which you might be, but how come you are not allowed to say what you feel? As I am drifting away in the black hole of insecurities and future uncertainties, she says, “Listen -–” “Yeah?”

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“Did I tell you, the other girl’s project confirmation did not come through –” she pauses and then with a hesitant voice, announces the worst news ever, “So, I will be sharing my apartment with Nicholas. I have no choice now, but to stay with him.” “Oh wow!” I am not so relieved anymore. “No, you did not. But then, why would you? Right? If you would have told me earlier, I would have suggested an alternate way out. But you tell me at the end moment, so I have no choice but to agree with what you say. Classic move! How big is your fucking flat, anyway?” “It’s not like that, you know? ¬I got the clear picture this morning, but we were fighting so much, I couldn’t tell you any sooner. I am sorry.” “Bullshit! How big is your flat?” “It’s one room, Sam. I have told you earlier. It is just one room and a hall and an open kitchen. This is the best we could do with the shoe-string company budget that is allotted for accommodation. New York is expensive, you know that. Right? Besides, the company doesn’t see unisex apartment as a problem, like you do.” “Great!” I deride. “So now it’s just you and a gorgeous guy with eight packs, sleeping next to you for more than a year. What could possibly go wrong? And you’re right, since when did corporates start to give a fuck about infidelity?” “Come on, Sam! He will sleep in the hall, on a couch or something. Plus, he has a girlfriend.” “Yeah, but he also has a penis and the genes of a French guy. You know?” “He is actually from Cyprus.” “So?” She is back to texting and smiling. I, on the other hand, am fuming. I honk for no reason at a biker. How could she do this? The Madmax in me wants to ram this car somewhere. Take it to a desert and put it on fire. Cut through a bridge railing and drown it in the ocean. Call it a day and die in peace. I am done being deceived, taken for granted, and being lied to. I deserve better. Way better than this. But since I can’t do all that, I play the FM at a deafening level. It’s unbearable to function in that kind of noise unless you are having a drunken night. She doesn’t say anything to me. Gives me one of those –What’s wrong with you? – looks, and turns the volume knob down. So, now, I give her one of those – I will do what I want – looks, and turn it back up. She turns it back down. I turn it back up. She turns it back down. I take a pause, contemplate my actions for a second. My hands, however, as commanded by my hyper impulsive genes, are reaching to turn it back up once again, but I am also apprehensive of the possible repercussions. “Stoppppppp it!” she shrieks, and rightfully so. The rebel in me still wants to turn it back up, but what’s the point, really? I don’t like that kind of noise either. It is annoying me more than it is annoying her, negating the whole purpose

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of it. So I let it be. In my head, I have not lost this fight to her. I have lost this to myself. Which is fine, I don’t mind losing my own fights to myself. It simply means, a part of me has failed, but also a part of me has won. And then I take zigzag turns, don’t slow down at speed breakers, break signals, honk occasionally at no one. And, sudden unexpected breaks are my new favorites at this moment. Next, I switch off the air conditioner at a busy traffic signal. “What’s that for?” she says. “What’s what for?” I retort. “Why did you switch off the AC?” “Saving petrol.” “Really, Sam?” “Uh-huh.” “Fine, then!” she barks. Wipes sweat off of her forehead. I check my face in the rearview mirror. I am burning more with anger and frustration that I have brought upon myself, than because of this car that I have turned into a torturous hotbox. For the next half an hour, until we reach the airport, I hang my head outside the window like a dog and abuse pedestrians – who don’t part away despite the honks – in the colloquial tone that I can barely fake. You see, I am not “that” guy, and on most days, I don’t go this mental, but today what choice do I have? Although, it doesn’t take an Einstein in me, to realize that if someone abuses me back in the same tone, I would not have a rhythmic comeback. I would probably lose the verbal fight and then get beaten up on top of that. Yelling at random no ones, isn’t the smartest thing to do. You never know which sidewalk of the world the next Jeffery Dahmer is walking on. She, however, sits through all this – unbuzzed. Fiddles with her phone occasionally, but her smile has faded from her thick lips. She sighs and stares at me with love, anger and pity. And when I look back at her with my quaint swollen eyes, she shakes her head in disapproval. Once or twice, she tries to hold my arm, but I scuffle away. She knows me. She knows how I behave in moments like these – the panic, the frustration, and the choice of my words, all of them driven by rage. At the basement of the airport’s parking lot, I put her luggage in the baggage cart and roll it up on the giant travelator. She is standing two steps up and away from me. Her phone is sticking several inches out of her jeans pocket, almost about to fall. At the end of the travelator, she turns left. “Hello, madam?” I say, “Where do you think you are going? The entry gate is this side. Can you not read that signboard over there?” “My bad,” she smiles at first, then chuckles. “What the fuck is so funny now?” I probe.

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“Nothing. It’s just ¬–” she chooses her words carefully, before she blurts out, “how did you read that bold signboard from this far, when you don’t know how to read things? It’s such an amusing paradox.” “Well … haha,” I mock her. “Aw,” she sighs, and wraps her hands around mine, resting the side of her face on my arm, her fingers clawing my sleeves. At the entrance, we stand far away from a line full of ardent and sweaty passengers, complaining about the humidity and the lack of facilities at the airport. Her passport is in her left hand with ticket printouts sticking out of it. We stare at each other for half a minute. Words have frozen in our mouths and both of us are blinking nervously to hold fat tears behind our quivering eyes. Despite how hard she tries to restrain herself, a drop or two escapes her eyelids and rolls down onto her cheeks. “You should go now,” I say, pointing at the giant digital board with flight details blinking on it. “You will miss your flight. It looks pretty congested right now.” “Five minutes. Please?” Since a part of me wants her to miss the flight and give up on this journey, I hold back any sort of inherent compulsive urge to meet the on-boarding timelines in advance and oblige to her request with a vague nod. Had I been in her place, I would have reached several hours in advance and read a book at the airport lounge, sipping a cup of latte. “Listen –” she tries to act normal. “We will Skype. Every night! Okay?” “I don’t think so.” “Why?” Her voice cracks. “Because, during the night, when you would finally find the time and a corner to Skype in New York, I would be brushing my teeth and taking a shit to get ready for work here in Noida. Your nights would be my days. That’s why.” “So? I don’t mind. You can shower Skype,” she giggles. “You are crazy!” She giggles some more and stands on her toes to wrap her hands around my neck. “Eighteen months, just eighteen months,” she whispers in my ears. “Eighteen fucking months! It’s fucking long! Okay?” “Shush! Shush!” She hugs me tighter, “Please Skype as much as you can? Please?” “I would, but that never goes well, you know ¬–” I blabber. “People die. Have you not seen that movie… what’s it called, where people die on Skype? Befriended? Or is it called Unfriended? Something like that?” “It’s not a movie, Sam. Although –” she recollect herself, “if you sang an emotional song for me right away, without caring about all these people around us, or if you took over the console mic and proposed me for marriage, and I changed my mind and deboarded the flight later,

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because, “love wins” and all that, it would be like the happy airport climax scene of every other movie.” She chuckles and expects me to play along. “If I did that, would you stay?” “Sam ¬–” she sighs in my ears, hugs me tighter than ever, her nails digging my back. I hug her too with loose arms. This hug is cold and detached. Perhaps, quite like her intentions. “Please don’t make this a sad goodbye and smile for me?” “I don’t know how to smile,” I frown. “Go already, will you?” “I love you,” she grabs the handle of the trolley and unjams its wheels. “Yeah… whatever… go now, and have fun. I am sure you will. And, call me once you board the flight.” I step backwards and away from her. My legs feel heavy and I utter words that I don’t mean. Once she has made through the entrance gate, she stands behind the glass walls and waves at me. It’s the saddest she has ever looked. Eyes flickering with anxiety, cheeks pink like they are bruised, and a tiny hair lock twirling between her brows. She puts her hands on the transparent glass and comes closer to me. Her breath fogs up a tiny portion of the glass. She makes a distorted smiley face on it and points it out to me. I assume, she wants me to smile, but I don’t smile because I can’t smile right now. I just want her to go away as soon as she can. Goodbyes are like a Band-Aid, the faster you pull it off, the less painful they turn out to be. I signal her to walk away towards the check-in counter; she gives me a flying kiss and rolls her trolley away. I stand next to the glass, watching her walk away from me. She turns her head several times to acknowledge my presence. Until, she is at the counter, far away from the glass, scanning her bags. I wait for as long as I can, hoping for her to turn around once more. Wanting her to make faces at me once more, but she doesn’t. She collects her boarding pass and walks towards the other end of the terminal, towards the security check-ins. I call her immediately after because I already miss her. The phone rings for a whole minute before a voice tells me that the subscriber is currently busy. “She is never coming back,” I tell myself, “and if she does, she will not be the same. I know this. I have seen enough movies to claim that I exactly know how this will end.” I walk towards the parking lot, staring at my phone, casually brushing past a horde of thrilled travelers. Waiting for her to call me back, but she doesn’t. As soon as I spot the car, and unlock its doors, my phone beeps loudly. It’s a message from her. “Sam, I am so sorry… I couldn’t tell you this on your face because this would’ve torn you apart, but my contract got extended from eighteen months to twenty-four months. The last six months I will be posted in San Francisco. Love you. Niki.” I try to call her once more. The computerized voice still tells me she is busy. Unbelievable. I throw my phone on the dashboard and rest my head on the steering. The car door is still open,

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and out of nowhere a white abandoned fat kitten climbs inside the car and hugs my leg. So I pick it up and put him in the passenger seat and drive home. This ride is peaceful like a burden has been lifted. All that chaos is behind me â&#x20AC;&#x201C; at least for two years, I tell myself. Once I reach home. I put the kitten on the dining table. Pour milk in front of him in a bowl and watch him wet his whiskers in it. The animal has found me in these dark times, to keep me company, I tell myself. Because, I guess, animals know these things?

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WHEN WORDS FAIL Amel Rahman Genre: Young Adult / Romance Father had promised to rip the skin of my sneaky hide if he ever saw me out of the house on the devil’s work. I was far too old and too big for my childish pursuits, and the sooner I learnt to grow up and do the right things, the better it was for everybody else. But that was three days ago. Until I heard the water girl. With the song of the devil, as father would say. When I heard the sweet melody, it was low and almost inaudible. But my ears were strong. I watched my mother in silent prayer, her white garb flowing in the fan-wind over her tightly closed eyes. My father was out on some affair related to the stupid horses or the farmland. It was the perfect moment. And I didn’t even have to leave the land for it. At least not technically. To be honest, I'd been minding my own business until then. But there was only so much business to be done in the house anyway. I had ploughed the land trudging through the fields like the farmer father wanted me to be, washed the plates for my mother even after she shooed me away like a crow in the kitchen, watered the plants of no other house but mine, and fed father’s precious horses with more food than mud, and threw nothing more than garbage into the garbage pit. Our house was a mansion with beautiful lawns and gigantic trees bearing fruit every season. There was even a giant pond. My father, Hussain, wanted the house to be the envy of the village. But he built giant walls to keep everyone out and mother and I in. The house was taller than the walls and the trees even, and at the call of the evening prayer, it was my job to turn on all the lights so that the villagers could marvel the beauty and wonder of Hussain’s house from afar. I followed the sound into the garden and noted with some unease that it drifted to me from Qadar’s house, across the walls. Qadar, my neighbour, was a monster, and not a friend of father’s. Their rift, among many things, was the Alphons mango tree that drank our water and ate our manure but bore fruit onto Qadar’s land. Qadar pretended that God showered him with

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this fruit, and refused to give what was rightfully ours, even selling the precious mango to the villagers. So in our house, Qadar was Iblis (imp), Himar (donkey), and even Shaithan (Satan). There was no way I could see the water girl. But I could hear her more clearly now, closer to the wall that separated us. Her voice covered me like a rippling river, and I wanted to swim deeper to the echoey timbre, to this mermaid that called to me from the depths of her being. Her voice was like the moan of a whale, singing a song of woe and loneliness, that it ripped my heart just to hear it. I needed to see her. I looked at the mango tree. Technically, I wouldn’t even have left the land, I decided. I knew I could see her if I climbed the tree. In a second, I made my decision and heaved myself up. The branches of the tree welcomed me. Once on top, I crept on fours, following a horizontal branch into the air of Qadar’s house that smelt so strong of ripening mangoes. Through a peephole of leaves, I saw her, this beautiful creature, the water swirling around her like a snake, like a dancing fountain, spraying and dancing to the music of her song. The sunlight dazzled with the water, creating a prism of colors for her to dance within. I sighed and decided that I needed to get close, to the edge of the tree. But I felt a soft squish, and then a searing pain. A cursed wasp had given me a firm bite on my buttocks. “Ouch” I screamed, and even worse, left the branch to swat the dreadful thing, and with a painful thump, I fell into Qadar’s wretched land. The water girl swirled around to look at me. It was the first time we met each other. I knew she was Qadar’s prisoner, just like me, forbidden to leave the land, and even the house. But all I wanted was to be her friend. I must tell her that. But her face was wilting now, fear was creeping in. I must tell the girl to smile. Yes. Smile. But words were failing me. They were deserting me like rats in a drowning ship. And I said the first thing that came to my tongue. “Tickle me?” The girl looked at me curiously now, and clearly not with friendliness. It was the wrong thing to say, I realised. Why was I so stupid? Now the word stupid came to me like a wisp of smoke and took the shape of an evil bloody mouth. STUPID, the red mouth screamed. The mouth grew bigger, louder, filling my brain with its cursed sound. STOP, I wanted to tell it. But it was too late. My mind had lost control of my body. In the mirror of her face, I could see my own face twisting into a hideous scowl that threatened to gulp the girl and spit her out. Her giant eyes widened at the hundred convulsing tics on my face. And then the terror in her face, as my hands rose against my will, higher and higher, with an intention to strike her. “STOP,” my mind screamed as my hand began its descent to her face. In the final moments, it fell to the side, the girl unhurt by the monster I had become. But that did not stop the scream. So different from the melody was the loud bawl that she emitted. If the melody was a ripple, this was hot scalding water sent to burn my very being. I

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held my ears, trembling at the pain she inflicted on me, emitting my own moans and fears into the wind. When I opened my eyes, the screaming had stopped. And before me stood Qadar, with his twirling moustache and hairy naked belly. “Satan,” said Qadar, his voice a dirty snarl, “Son of the Devil. You pluck from the wrong house. Hussain should know better than to let this madman loose.” I was shaking, angry trembles through my body. Mad Man? I was no madman, and the thought sent my hand high again, to strike the mouth that had said the curse words. But I stopped my hands, the painful sweat of the exertion sending tears to my eyes. Qadar’s moustache bristled like a goon’s. “You dare think of striking?” he hissed. His hand fell to the belt that tied his loincloth, releasing it with a greedy relish. “Perhaps I can teach you what your father cannot.” But I hadn’t struck him even once. And his belt coursed my body greedily, burning it without mercy. Not even the water girl’s terrified screams stopped it. When I returned home, I was bruised and bleeding. But that did not stop my father’s anger at Qadar’s jeers. My weeping mother fell at his feet, begging him in high shrieks. “He’s been punished enough. Are you a monster?” But my father did not heed. His punishment was clear. He would not strike me. He had no harsh words. I was to go to hell. With the devil himself. ♦♦♦ The devil’s lair was in the basement of our house. In the dusty darkness, lay the discarded paintings of humans and animals, and other effects of the devil. I was to live here now, without bed or light. The cook, Fathima, was to give food through the door. Even mother was not to come to comfort me or stop the tears and loud sobs that broke from my wretched body. Days and nights were the same in the devil’s home. Sometimes, I sang dreary songs, my body rocking to a deathly tune. Sometimes, my body flung to the floor, my head banged the walls, loud screams and retching ripped through the basement. My head turned cold with the blood on my hair, but nobody came for me. Not even the devil. I wanted to return to the day. To the farm, to my work, to the water, even to the horses. I heard mother begging father. “This is cruelty. He will go mad without his routine.” Father growled, “He is mad already. It is not my doing.” Mother’s shocked voice was clear, “How can you say that. He is your son!” But father bellowed back, “What son humiliates his own father? What son behaves like a child when he is a man?” I buried my head in my dusty hands. My teeth bit into my fingers, my nails scraped down my cheeks. I was a humiliation. I was a child. I looked up in despair, and my eyes widened in terror.

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The Devil was there. I saw him. And I tried to shriek and cry, “Mother, father save me!” But nobody cared. I saw only the gigantic mouth. A hundred rotten white teeth, each tooth as large as an elephant's. I trembled like a chicken before wolves. If the mouth was as big as me, how big must be the body? My body was twitching with tics. My pant was shamefully wet. I shut my eyes, waiting for the devil to take me. But it came no closer. And I stayed in my corner, beseeching it to leave me alone. After a while, I fell asleep and woke up again with a start. I saw the devil still in position, so I let out a loud warning scream, telling it to keep away. A thin light streaked into the basement now, from a hole in the ceiling. The devil is more visible now in this faint light. A lot less menacing, I decided, although its hundred teeth were still white and bare. I decided to move closer for an inspection, emboldened by its silence. I gave it a strong strike on its ugly white teeth and staggered back at its reply. An angry song? I read the words on the devil’s chest. Yamaha Piano, the name says. I struck it again. This devil was a singer, though not a good one, I decided, smiling. I struck it, one tooth at a time, softly, then hard, then fast and slow, jumping keys. Perhaps I could teach the devil to sing songs of the light. The idea sent a tingle through my tired body. I did not remember anything much after that. I was playing all the time, stopping only for the food that the cook slips in for me, who looked curiously at my doings. I did not care or stop to talk. I was busy. Very busy. Then one day the darkness of the basement shimmered, the stuffy air breathed. It was like the devil’s music was clearing the very air. Slowly, eagerly, my fingers ordered the devil to sing the song of the water girl. And then it happened. Though I do not know how. Perhaps it was the melody of the devil’s teeth. Perhaps it was the work of the devil himself. But as the devil sang the water song, I heard too, the words of the song. It was just as the girl sang it, clear like a bird in the morning sky. And then the darkness of the basement washed away and I saw the girl, smiling, standing before me. I stared at her with my mouth agape at this miracle, though not leaving my fingers from the keys. The song ended. The girl’s fingers came to my face, cold, trembling, to my cheek, to my lips. I flinch painfully. The girl looked unhappy at this. I picked the small toy car my mother had left for me and started to spin its wheels vigorously, round and round, unable to find the words to make her stay. But she didn’t leave. “I’m Afreen,” she said. I was spinning the car wheels again faster. I did not dare to look into her giant black eyes. “Will you play me the piano?” she asks, pointing to the keys.

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My hands tingled, my heart sang, and my fingers rushed to the keys. “Yes,” I whispered. And she sang with me, her strong voice soared, and my fingers danced to her song. The tune we made together was a joyous tale, of lands we hadn’t seen, rivers, mountains and rain, of friends and laughter, and hearty meals, of wars and kings, and dragons to slay; hand in hand, we ran through these lands, like a merry stream through villages and towns, forests and deserts, all the way to the giant blue sea. I felt the need to touch her eyebrows. I wondered if they are like orange peels or cat fur. I wish they weren’t like socks. But I was scared, and I did not touch her eyebrows. Then I heard a loud boom. And a slamming door. “WHAT THE DEVIL IS THIS?” It was father, in all his wrath. “Father!” I screamed. Father’s face was that of a mad bull’s, charging, ready to kill everything. But then it softened, as he saw Afreen. And a smile enveloped his face. A cruel one. ♦♦♦ I heard the old cook Fathima tell mother that Afreen was to be married to the next town. “A man of 65, with three more wives,” says Fathima, throwing a morsel at the cat that had arrived at her feet. “Poor girl,” my mother says, wringing her hands, “Such a happy child she was. Qadar must have found the first man that agreed.” Mother paused, her voice uncertain, “She was kind to my son, Fathima. Tell me, how is the girl?” “Not happy anymore, I can say,” says the cook, her voice a loud cackle, “It's what comes from showing kindness to your son!” I too was invited to the wedding. Qadar arrived with Afreen to our house to tell us the great news. Qadar is dressed in finery, his naked belly was covered in a silk shirt and his loincloth exchanged for a pant. His belt, so familiar to my wounds, glared at me. Afreen was dressed in a blue suit, a veil covering her bowed hidden face. “Hussain, we have been at each other’s throats,” said Qadar, grandly to my father. “Let us end this ill will between neighbours. You must come. With your son. To my daughter’s wedding.” He smiled at me like a king, happy at his own benevolence. My face broke into a wide grin. I clapped my hands, and my heart raced. A wedding! I had never been to a wedding. Qadar said he had invited the whole village. I imagined the fine food, the music, the laughter, thousands of people. I imagined a fair. A festival. Then Afreen’s head rose slowly, her lips were trembling, her eyes were bleeding tears. My heart burst like a bubble, and I understood. She was going away. To another town. She would no longer be my neighbour. No longer sing for me. No longer be my friend. I rushed out of the room, and down to the basement. The world seemed to be spinning around me, without me. My lips break into sobs. My head hit the wall, one loud bang after the other. I

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could bear this burning in my chest. And my mouth broke into a monotonous song, and my body rocked to its dreary rhythm. I struck the piano and its hundred teeth. It was the devil. The devil had done this to me. The day of the wedding arrived. I was dressed in a silver-white Kurta and a silken shawl. But it was nothing as I imagined. There were a thousand people, and also a thousand sounds, talking, shouting, loud, ugly music, drums, horns like the world was singing a terrible tune. There was no air to breathe. Father was talking to a friend. “It is my fate,” Father says, “My son can never marry like this. That is what Qadar wants me to see.” I shrunk into a chair, trying to still my frantic heart. The heat was melting me, the loud drums shuddered at my ears, the flashlights blinding me, the smell of sweat a blanket on my face. I bit down my lips and stifled the scream that threatened from within. There was no escape. Then the music shifted to a softer rhythm, and I felt the wind on my face. It cooled me. Then I saw it was Afreen, but her face was behind a white net. She sat on a throne, with many girls and flowers around her. At first, she looked like a blooming flower of pink petals. But then I stared harder. The tears were hidden with paint. The sadness was harder now, her eyes were of glass, frozen like a plastic doll’s. I wanted her to smile again. And this time I knew how. I wouldn’t make the same stupid mistake. I did not trust my mouth but my heart. I remembered the flower garland she wore in the garden. She had been so happy that day, the water dancing around her with the sun. I rushed to her, I grabbed the giant flower garland beside her, and wrapped it around her neck. Her face jerked up at me, and she stared with her mouth wide open, the flower garland around her neck. She was the water girl now. Strong and brave. With real flowers around her. She smiled. But it lasted only for a second. I was pulled and pushed by the wave of humans around me, tossed into a sea of people. “He has married her!” someone announced. And the crowd began to shout like angry dogs. I saw from afar, Qadar's rage coming at me like a storm as his hands unsheathed his belt. I saw the old man, the one that was to be Afreen’s husband. His mouth was frothing like a rabid dog. The world was readying to attack me. And I thought to myself. I am a man. When Qadar reached to strike, Father stepped in between us. His shoulders were large and wide over Qadar's. “Come, come, Qadar,” Father said grandly. “Will you strike your son-in-law in front of all these people?” Qadar’s eyes grew small as a mouse’s, as he looked at the thousand guests before him. The old man joined Qadar, spitting his words at me, “She is to be my wife. What does a madman want with a girl?” I felt a pounding roar at his words, his insults. My hand itched to strike but stayed by my side like a loyal dog. I saw Afreen rise and walks towards me. She took my hand, and we stood, the three of us against the two of them. The old man spat. The cloud cheered. It seems the world had changed its ugly tune. At least for a moment.

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♦♦♦ The house of Hussein was on heavenly fire! All the lights were turned on, and the gates had swung open. It seemed like the sun had decided to stay awake longer just for the day. The guests poured in bearing presents and gold. The villagers were telling Father that he was not getting away without giving them a feast, but hadn’t his son turned out surprisingly! They thumped my back and told me I had done my father proud, that I had won a girl despite everything. For some time, the sounds and touches seemed bearable. Qadar came too, with Afreen’s hateful cousins who lived in the town. These boys, they were always ready with their jokes and ugly laughs. But that day, they took me outside and gave me sweets, and they didn’t punch me or call me names. Instead, they called me brother. “Brother, what do you plan to do tonight?” they asked, with crooked grins. “Do you even know what to do with a girl?” They punched me, but softly, like they wanted to play, but I do not like it. When I went back inside, I looked at Afreen. She was dressed in the blue of the ocean. She looked at me, and the waves on her face turned restless. A flurry of tics had captured my face, and it was twisting now as if licked by a hundred flies. My hands itched for my toy car. I wanted to spin its wheels forever and ever. My hands were flapping now. The guests stood around me, some confused, some laughing at the way my face moved. I wanted everyone to leave, to stop the clucking and the cackling that were burning my ears. I could hear my mouth moving, “I don’t think so I am a good man,” I said loudly. It made people laugh louder. I wished my mouth would stop saying things. At least I didn’t scream. When I went into the room later, I saw Afreen on my bed. I left the room and told mother I did not want to sleep in my bed. Mother told me I was a man now. I had a wife. So I had to sleep on the bed with Afreen. I went into the kitchen and began to wash the plates. There were too many plates. I washed all the plates. It took a while. But in a minute, it all got dirty again. I took all the plates out of the plates rack. And washed them again. But then I looked at it, and it seems the dirt has returned. I did not understand this. I washed it again. And again. Then father arrived and started to shout. “Stop this woman’s work and go to bed, boy,” he said. But I did not listen. I washed the plates again. Father pushed me away from the plates. “Do you plan to shame me again? Do you want the villagers to whisper about you?” I ran to the basement. But father followed, taking his belt out, ready to “rip my worthless hide.” I fell before the devil as father’s strikes rained on me like rocks. Afreen and mother heard the shouting and came down. Afreen shrieked at the sight and tried to stop father, when the belt struck her face. I looked up, and the single streak of light from the ceiling showed the long red mark on Afreen’s face. Afreen let out a breathless cry, like a helpless baby bird falling off its nest from high above a tree, unable to fly. Qadar’s words came to me, and I yelled them perfectly, “You

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dare think of striking?â&#x20AC;? I picked myself up from the floor, my back aching from the pains, and moved towards father. My hand rose now, but I did not stop it, I let it fall, hard and strong, onto my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s back. Father stumbled and sagged onto the devil, who hurled at him a loud angry note. Father sprung at the sound, and ran out of the basement like a rabbit, his eyes wild with terror and confusion. Mother followed. Afreen held my hand and we lay together in the dirty basement. It felt safe here, away from everything, the darkness protecting us. Afreen did not touch me or hold me. But I could hear her sing softly, and I snuggle close to listen, her skin warm against me. I did not understand the words of her song. But I thought it was a baby bird that learnt to fly. I touched her eyebrows. It was velvet, like a feather.

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A DESI FLING Amel Rahman Genre: New-age Drama/Romance After ten months of self-imposed chastity, I was to go on a date. And my date was late. My rucksack stood in the corner of the room. Its contents bulged from all sides, prostrate like a flaccid dick, awakened only to sit in the corner of my living room, watching sitcom reruns and PG-advised advertisements including violence against mosquitoes and toilet bacteria, all in a double-repeat mode that seemed to be the trend in advertising. I leafed through the book beside me on the sofa, the philosophical sayings of JDK, and flicked the remote with my other hand. My eyes flickered to my mobile, which subsisted heavily on my distracted attention. It blinked needily now. “Still at Home?” said Souvik’s WhatsApp message. I typed back. “Yes!! It's 9 PM. We were supposed to leave two hours ago!” “What’s the delay?” “Someone’s wedding shopping.” “What?” “Long story. Don’t ask. But the bridesmaid/Boss is tired of waiting, as per my last communication with Tirth. She has threatened to leave without the indecisive groom.” “Wasn’t this supposed to be an office trip? When did it become a wedding party? Who is getting married?” “Hopefully, me and Tirth... <Wedding Emojis>.” “Oh, God! Are you dreaming about that already? You haven’t even gone out with him.” “Well, we flirted. At least, I think we did. And can’t you take a joke?!” I threw aside the mobile and returned to my book. I didn’t have to listen to Souvik’s shit. He was gay and just jealous that I got to Tirth first. My phone blinked. It was Souvik again. “So is Tirth a good flirt?” Shit, he'd caught me. I typed quickly. “I think he’s nervous or too decent to flirt or shy.” “Hmmm...”

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I hated a chat Hmmm. It never boded well. “Why can’t you just say what’s on your mind, Souvik!” I waited for a single tick eternity. Where was this guy? Time fell through, one sand grain after the other. I tried desperately to read my philosophy textbook. I tried practicing my newly developed philosophical learnings and struggled with detaching myself from my inability to be detached. It wasn’t easy, I can tell you that much. “Where are you?!” I punched into the Whatsapp. “Hey. Sorry. Bad connection. Does he have a girlfriend?” Now there are points in life, where you want to be close to someone, just to smash a giant book on his provocative bothersome head. “I flirted with him!” “You said you guys didn’t flirt.” “How can he have a girlfriend?” “Well, he is a good looking boy. He could have one.” My emojis were bubbling up, bloody red and ready to burst. “YOU SAID HE WAS INTERESTED IN ME,” I all-capsed him, thumping the screen. “Well, he was interested in that German chick too, on the same trip we met him. Remember how he chatted her up? That doesn’t mean anything.” “ASSHOLE! I HATE HIM. I HATE MEN.” “Hey, are you taking all this a bit too seriously?” “I am not.” I hurriedly turned off the caps-lock. But I guess Souvik had sensed it. I was getting mad over the supposed betrayal of a guy who I was not even dating. I hated looking uncool in front of Souvik. “K,” he replied. I didn’t want his half-written compliance. His indifference was incensing me further, “And you know what. I don’t care. I don’t care if he has a girlfriend. I don’t care. I’m just going to have fun.” If Souvik could be a slut, so could I. My phone started to buzz. The cars were here. I grabbed my rucksack. Turned off the TV and stuffed in the damned book. And just before I threw the mobile into my pocket, I saw Souvik’s last message. “Listen. Be careful. And don’t take things so seriously. You are just out of a painful divorce. And also, if you fall in love with him, I will whack you with a stick!” ♦♦♦ Tirth got out of the car and walked towards me. I felt my heartbeat as I waited a lustfilled eternity. Would there be a hug? I could hug, damn it. It was the feminist century. Ok, the hug should have been casual and friendly (considering I had met Tirth just once socially). But it was a slutty frontal (I wanted to get the message across clear).

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And after the hug, I took him in, this beautiful creature before me, well-built shoulders that looked farm-hand healthy (and not sculpted at the gym), a skin tone that reminded me of golden stalks of wheat, gentle pearl-shaped eyes that shimmered like curious fish in freshwater, playful like his full lips. I was drowning for a few full seconds before realizing that we had an audience, seven pairs of eyes that glowed at us in the darkness of the night, from the car behind us if not from the trees. I was introduced to them, as a hasty courtesy, a mass of weirdly shaped humans, silent and pensive in English, rudely over chatty in their respective local tongues. I felt a layer of grease spread over me as they perused me, a mixed butter of Indian judgment and repressed lust. I hated them, judged them, and desperately hoped that they would like me. “You guys are so late!” I told Tirth. “Shhh… don’t bring that up, Nina,” he hissed at me, just as he bundled me into a second car. The occupants here were quite the opposite, sullen, disinterested. We entered and moved to the back seat of the six-seater Innova, and I said my quick hellos. Distracted Anna, raised her unsmiling eyebrows at me, before returning to punching into her mobile. Enormous Ediran, the aforementioned hard-to-satisfy groom of Nigerian origin and American girth. Finally sweet, ravishing Chris, lean, healthy, and so middle-eastern in skin tone that in the flash that I met his eyes, it was a cold winter night, snowflakes kissed the window sill, and naked we lay, Chris and I, making love on the warm rug by his fireplace. (He had a girlfriend I was later told, to the sounds of my breaking heart.) Until our entry, this was the non-Indian car, segregated (I learned afterwards) more by official title and language handicaps than good old racism. “Good music,” said Tirth, an awkward attempt at conversation. The car stereo belted a few local songs that only the driver seemed to enjoy. I smiled, my eyes lingering long on Tirth's until he blushed painfully and hurriedly looked out the window. Well, I wasn’t the kind to give up. “So Ediran,” I said cheerily, “Done with your wedding shopping?” Immediately, I got Tirth’s attention, a pretty glare no less. And I heard a snort from Anna. “Yeah…I dun my wedding shopping” said Ediran, his voice a drawling twang, turning around to flash me his toothy grin, “From Commercial street. Got a nice wedding suit for mashelf. Stitched and tailored to mah size, and all.” “Yeyyy!” I replied. I pinched Tirth, “Why is Anna pissed?” I whispered, pulling him close. “Don’t ask” he whispered back, his eyes pointing to Ediran. Why my eyes asked him. I could smell Tirth now, a wild musky scent. “Later,” he mouthed, leaving me to my thoughts. What was all this tip-toeing and whispering? Ediran didn’t seem to care that Miss Anna was pissed. And the car remained sullen. For thirty whole minutes. After which we drove into a café for dinner, and I sighed in relief…a bit too soon.

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♦♦♦ It took me half an hour into the Rastha Café, Paan Masala Hookah project to realize that I was being ostracized. The Cheppu gang, as I had decided to call the 7-member Telugu/Kannada crowd of car number two, had decided not to like me…not just not like me…but dislike me…openly. And it wasn’t because of my giant earrings. We sat around, the ten of us, on one of the well-lit tables in the open, surrounded by happy people. The music was Bollywood, and that wasn’t going well with the Cheppus. Tirth’s legs brushed against me while we sat down, a mammalian touch, hairy, and I felt almost lucid as a shiver followed through. It was a warm, still October night. I could do with more shivers. The conversation on the table came in bursts, over chatty Kannada, Telugu, and silent, pensive English, for utility purposes only. “Did you call the homestay, Tirth?”, “Will we start trekking right in the morning?”, “Any place to change?”, “Is the trek going to be tough?” I looked at the American side of the table (There was a clear racial divide). Anna, I noticed, had brightened up. She seemed to have picked up on the local entertainment, a light-eyed guitarist, who was looking earnestly into her eyes. She was talking fast, laughing, with a girlish abandon. Chris was fooling around with the fellow’s guitar, pretending to play and sing, while Ediran broke into a matching jaunt. There was much drama. I found myself laughing, “She seems happy now,” I told Tirth, eyeing Anna. Tirth looked at the guitarist, his eyes narrowing. “Of course” he replied. “What was the problem?” I asked, “Earlier, I mean.” Tirth looked at me and sighed a tired smile. “It’s Ediran,” he said, “He just took forever to get his wedding clothes stitched… and Anna lost it. I mean, it's her last two days in India. I wanted it to be fun for her. That’s why we planned this trip. I hope Ediran doesn’t ruin it for us.” “Have you known Anna long?” “Oh…we’ve known each other for three years. Though it doesn’t feel like we are in different countries. But this is the first time I’m seeing her in person. This one week.” He looked at Anna with a disturbing tenderness. “And you are all... one team?” I asked. “Well…yeah…kind of…testers and developers. Two teams. Same product. Anna and Ediran are more at the managerial level. Test and Dev managers.” “And Chris?” “Chris is also in Anna’s team. He’s a dev engineer. He’s young too. About our age.” “So American bosses and Indian slaves? Are you planning to revolt?”

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“Nothing of the sort.” Laughter rippling through him like a shimmering wave, “Well… the guys have trouble understanding the American accent. And they have trouble with the Indian accent. A communication issue, if at all anything,” he said, eyeing the separate conversations. “But you seem to get along well with both,” I said, as he blushed at my adulation. “Hey man, Tirth,” cut in a giant Cheppu monster, blowing smoke rings through his nose. “You buyed off soda?” “No. The Homestay folks will arrange,” replied Tirth. “What about smokes?” “Oh shit…” “What? No…” The monster's eyes widened dramatically. “We can still buy them…” said Tirth. “City over now,” he was shaking his head, quite dramatically. “I have some smokes,” I offered. He stared at me as if he had just noticed my existence. “Where you are from?” He said, squinting strangely at me. “I… Kerala…?” “Ohhh…Mallu. Why no accent?” he asked, rubbing his nose as if he expected my English to be more entertaining. But at this point, I ceased to be of conversational interest. A sudden hush descended on this side of the table. A girl had walked up. Denim skirt, boots, and a massive chain over her black snug top. “Do you guys have a light?” she said, with a hint of embarrassment. She looked back at the table she’d been sitting at, a table of seven, clearly smoking. “It’s a dare.” She said as if to clarify that there was no other way she would have appeared before us. The others didn’t catch on to that. “But that is such an easy dare for you!” smoky rings replied, flicking open his lighter, and lighting her cigarette as if he’d been born for it. “Thanks, guys!” she said, sweetly, and disappeared just as quickly, thankfully missing the sniggers. “Why can’t they dare her to kiss, Macha”, was the parting comment. It was the hookah that finally brought home my ostracization. For most of the while, the hookah skipped me, was passed over me, or stayed with the person beside me so long that I eventually got distracted. Of course, I wanted Anna, Ediran, Chris, and the Cheppu gang to like me, irrespective of my feelings towards them. After all, I was to spend the next two days with them. But really, was it that important? I wanted Tirth to like me. And I had forty-eight hours to manage that.

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♦♦♦ The meandering rocky path had come to an end, through giant rock faces, and ravines, at the ass of this stubborn cow. The cow was unimpressed to see me, here, lost, alone, in the middle of nowhere, after just an hour into the trek. “Don’t judge me,” I informed the cow, “Judge my ego, perhaps.” The cow turned its back to me. Not the friendly type. “It's not that I couldn’t walk with everybody else, you know” I informed the cow, “It's just that everybody was so slow. It’s a trek for god’s sake. Not a photo tour, you know. Selfies at every tree, and smiles at every rock. God, even that dog was bored.” I checked my cell phone. It registered no signal, and I, no hope. Which was why I was making conversation with a cow’s ass. I sat down, next to the cow, on a comfortable rock, and opened my backpack. No better time for a snack as when you are lost. Salt cashew, yum. I took in the view, the city of Chikmagalur. From above, it was like a little toy city, and I the lord, watching from above. I offered the cow a banana. This won me some immediate points. It sauntered towards me, without wasting time. Smart cow. “You know…I would have walked with them if I could,” I told the cow as it ate from my hand, “It’s just that, at every turn, every mildly challenging rock, Anna was there, with her lost puppy eyes, looking for help, making those cute girly noises. And of course, who has to help but Tirth. Oh… I am the knight in shining armor, give me thy hand and I shall carry you to safety.” I gently stroked the cow’s soft snout, watching it puff at my jealousy. I handed it another banana. Which was probably not the best idea when one is lost. “I could do what she did, you know. I’d have had him eating out of my hand by now instead of you. It's just. I can’t.” “Are you talking to the cow?” “Shit!” I shouted, and turned and faced Tirth, “You scared the crap out of me!” I said, ramming my fist into his shoulders. He laughed. “Weirdo! What were you telling the cow?” “Where is everyone else?” I said. What had he heard? “I dunno…I lost them an hour back I think.” “What? So you are lost too…” “I’m not lost.” “And how do you know that?” “Well, there is a cow, to start with.” “You want to ask the cow the way?” “It might have been more useful than gossiping with it,” he laughed.

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“Do you have any water?” I asked him. All that salt and sun weren’t helping. “No…I ran out of it a while back.” That pressed my panic button. “Oh my god! We have run out of the water.” “Yes clearly.” “What do you mean clearly? Clearly, we are going to die now.” “No…I don’t think so…” “What? Why? Why are you so chilled out in this heat?” “There’s a stream just a bit from here.” “There is?” “Yes. We need to retrace,” he said, walking away. I sprung up and followed, feeling sufficiently embarrassed at my theatrics. Thirst had that effect on me. He took a deviation to the left and entered a downward trail of crisscrossing tree roots. “Are you sure about this?” I asked, hopping over a fallen tree. But he was already too far ahead. It was a small trickle that seemed to spurt out of a crack in a giant rock. But it was there, and I greedily gulped down the precious silver that trickled to me. I looked up to find Tirth missing. “Heyy!!” I didn’t want to be alone again. “I’m here,” came his reply from behind the bushes. “Listen…where are you going?” “This is cool. Come here.” “I think we need to find the others,” I said, walking towards his voice. The trail had turned thorny and not particularly inviting. He stood there with a stick in hand, moving aside the thorns over what looked like the entrance of something. “Is it a snake hole?” I asked. “It’s a cave, dummy. How can snake hole be so huge?” “Nice…lets go.” “Good idea…” he said, crouching to enter the cave. “No…I mean, let's get out. Before the snake comes out and sees you stand there like a dummy, ready to be bitten.” “Dude… this is not a snake hole. It’s large enough for a human to crawl through.” “Don’t dude me…” “OK sorry. Madam, would you kindly accompany me to discover the glories of this cave?” I hesitated. “We don’t have a torchlight.” He flicked open his mobile phone and turned on the torchlight. “Helps to charge your phone in such situations. Ok, I’m going in. You coming?”

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It was a bad idea. But he was on all fours and crawling in, and if you’ve seen his ass, firm, bouncy, and currently, in the air, you would probably understand why I crept behind it. But this was apparently another one of my stupid ideas. Very soon, I could see neither ass nor the path before me. “What’s happening?” I asked. “Nothing. We are just going forward.” Now, when you think of a cave, you think of a small opening that you enter for the sole purpose of taking a few pictures, after which you get the hell out before the creepies realize you are there. But not this particular cave. “Why is it not ending?” I asked. The whole thing was reminding me of one of those cave networks. One small wrong turn, and you'd be spending eternity lost with every horrible dark creature your mind could imagine. Suddenly, a giant shadow loomed in front of me, in the light of the torch. I screamed. “What?” I pointed to the shadow, terrified. “It's your own shadow, dude.” Even in the darkness, I could feel his damn grin. I could have spanked his butt right there. I would have survived this ordeal in one piece, had it not been for the sudden whizz a few inches away from my ears. “What’s that?” I asked. We stopped. This was not my imagination. He swung the phone light, over the low wall of the cave. Five furry rat heads hung from the ceiling. “Bats!” I hissed, pressing my hands into his, feeling faint. “Hey, it’s OK.” He shook me and slipped his hands around me. “They’re just bats.” My breath was growing shallow. I could hear my heartbeat thrash in my ears. “They’re just chilling there…” he said, calmly, “Look, they seem kinda stoned even.” I looked at them, “I guess it does seem that way.” “And I think you’re just getting a bit claustrophobic,” he replied softly. “Here, let's sit down. Now imagine having a little campfire here,” he said, putting his arm around me to comfort me. It was sweet. “Yeah. That’s an idea.” I felt my voice small, and my breath return to normal. We sat there a while. Just listening to our breathing, even as we listened to the occasional whoosh of the bat wings, imagining their rodent-like bodies almost close to us. I could feel Tirth, the heat of his body, just inches away, the tempo of his breath, the whirr of his rushing thoughts. “Maybe we should head back.” I said finally, “The others could be looking for us.” “OK,” he replied, fumbling with his phone. It lit his lips, and I noticed how it was bee-stung heavy. He bit and licked them as the phone light flickered. I stared hard at the rough stubble around it, wondering how it would feel against my cheeks.

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I moved closer and whispered, “Kiss me”. He looked at me surprised, then suddenly, the light fell off, and I felt his lips on mine. A sudden touch of flesh. I drowned in that touch. Then woke up. Swam to the surface. He was cruising there. On the surface of my lips. Just licking away. Light flickering kisses. With every lick and kiss, I felt my blood rush through, from every part of my being, rushing to my weakening lips. His lips seemed to draw around the circumference of mine as if testing the boundaries. I was breathing hard. I just hoped that nobody would come in now. Somebody as bat-crazy as we were. ♦♦♦ The water fell from the sky it seemed, as I looked up, the droplets falling all over my halfpinched eyes, the rays of sun streaking through, a sheet of gold, bouncing little rainbows off its path. The breeze was cold, and not comforting. “This is amazing!” said Tirth with a whoop, his shirt was off in the split of a second, thrown over the rocks. I saw him climb, and in a flash he hoisted himself on a ledge, staring into the deep waters below. “Goodness Tirth! What are you up to?” shouted Anna from beside me. He looked at us, his eyes flashing even from above, and with a graceful leap of a fish, he made a clean dive into the water. I stood there, struck with awe and frozen. The Cheppu gang followed one colored mass after the other, either into the water before us, or following the steps of Tirth, for a dive. “Well?” asked Anna. I realized it was to me. I looked at her questioningly. “Shall we go in?” “I... I don't have anything to change.” I said. “Oh… not to worry,” she said, holding my hand. “Come over. We’ll find something.” She grabbed her bag in the other hand. “Where are we going?” I asked, uneasily. She walked away from the waterfall, Anna now hopping through a trail of slippery rocks one after the other, while I stepped wobbling, terrified, waiting for both my feet to stop firmly at a rock before finding the next. I stepped over the last rock and stood to look for Anna. “Over here.” I walked over, towards the tree that seemed to be the source of her sound, a mammoth of sorts. I climbed over the fallen branch on my path, almost tripping, before I navigated around the cave like clearing that she stood at.

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She stood bare naked to her waist, and I watched her through the dwindling roots that grew to the forest floor, a curtained changing room just for us. I blushed on her behalf and looked away. “Hey, it's OK. Come over.” I walked towards her, moving aside the root curtains as I stepped in closer. I stole a glance at her, as she rummaged through her bag, her breasts bobbing up and down as she pulled out the contents of her bag. I wondered if I’d ever seen the naked chest of a woman up so close, with all its imperfections, her curvy waist was a brilliant white. I looked away as she slipped over the top of her bikini. She handed me something. I opened it up. “What is this? A skirt? “It’s skirt of the sari I got from Commercial street.” “You mean a petticoat? How do you expect me to wear it?” “Oh come on. The same way your ancestors did?” I looked at her in confusion. “Just...tie it above your chest. Oh, come on. Are you going to be shy?” She returned to her bag. And I stood there, wondering what prehistoric Indian soap opera this girl had consumed before arriving. But I didn't have anything else. Nobody had told me that I had to bring swimwear on the trek. “Come on. We don't have all day!” she said sharply. She was ready. And I didn't want to be left behind. “I don't think I can do this.” “Of course you can,” she said. “Come on... it will be fun. Tirth and the others must be waiting.” I turned around slowly, taking off my shirt, leaving my undergarments on. There was no way I was taking them off. I had no clue what the water would do to this flimsy material. I pulled on the petticoat above my bra, wondering if she was looking at my pathetic waist the way I had looked at hers. I tied the string of the petticoat, as tightly as I could, deciding that my modesty hung literally on a drawstring, before taking off my pants. I turned around and told her we could leave now. “Cheer up. Don’t look so sad. You look cute!” I gritted my teeth, deciding this was part of some grand team plan to embarrass me. Why did these people hate me so much? We walked back the cruel trail, this time my shoes and clothes dangling in either hand, the jagged rocks scratching the tender arches of my feet, mercilessly. The wind swept across my naked arms, sprouting goosebumps along its way. After a bit, I heard Anna laughing and looked up. She was already with Tirth and the rest, quite far away. The rocks were growing slippery,

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and the water deceivingly shallow. A wrong step now was not just a graceless fall into the water, but also a plunge into one of those painfully jagged rock structures. Gingerly, I kept my leg on the next rock, a trifle far away. Instantly, I felt the mischievous shake of the rock telling me this was a miscalculation. I lost balance… temporarily… a scream strangled in my throat... the shoes slipped from my hand into the water, as I gripped the rock by my leg. The water splashed on my thighs, the cold water knifed through. My legs were in a split between two rocks, as my soggy socks bobbed away. I clung dearly to my clothes. I did not want that to get wet. “Hey Hey. Here. Give me your hand.” I looked up hopefully. It was one of the Cheppu’s. The loud boisterous one that seemed like the ringleader just because of that. His eyes were on my chest, a view that left little to his imagination. I ignored the disgust that rose within me and held his hands. He pulled me, and we stood on the same wobbly rock for a split second. And then I made a crucial mistake. I decided to take in the scenery. Well, I just looked around. And my eyes fell on that ruining sight. Tirth and Anna stood below the waterfall, his hand slid around her naked waist, Anna was laughing, her lips close to his, and then they posed for a watery selfie. Suffice to say, I fell. A loud splash into the water, a solid rock striking my back, barely missing my head. And even as a million icy knives hit every inch of my numb body through the flimsy cloth, I heard the laughter. Loud and clear. Of the Cheppu gang. A trickle of red colored my thighs, which is when I noticed that the petticoat had adventurously risen to my calves. I bit back the tears, as I felt my hands couldn’t move. ♦♦♦ It was at the bonfire back at the camp I finally found my senses warmed to room temperature, with a crocheted blanket wrapped around me instead of Tirth. I sat in front of the fire, my eyes half closed to keep away the sting of the smoke that seemed insistent on following me wherever I shifted. Vijay, the camp manager, was fanning the fire, blowing on it. He had a toothy smile, this guy, that he flashed whenever he was clueless, which seemed often enough in conversation. He’d pitched a few tents, for the adventurous ones that wanted to forgo the warm beds inside the homestay and try sleeping bags. There were even marinated veggies and Kababs, for the outdoor cooking experience to the guests, although that plan seemed suspect. There was a table arranged near the fire, and a little bar was being set up by the gang. A row of 12 bottles, every variant of alcohol possible, lined along with mixers and packets of spicy chips and snacks. The party planner had not gone cheap.

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Anna and Tirth were a distance away, discussing I don't know what. Somewhere, I'd decided, that they could be together if that's what they wanted. I was done. I wasn't dousing myself with any more cold water. The Cheppu gang were around me, like a swarm of seagulls that had suddenly discovered that I was made of bread. One of them wanted to dance with me, and I finally agreed, literally getting my arms twisted in the process. I was offered a drink of rum and coke, the drunk barman’s running favorite of the moment, and I took it without comment. After which the sufficiently drunk dancer, Chetan he introducing himself, plopped down cross-legged next to me. He was getting married next month to the love of his life, he told me, they’d “loved each other for eight years,” a romance across states, for she was in Chennai and him in Bangalore. But they’d meet, of course, their minds were one after all and 200 miles they would drive to have ice-cream with each other, which was code for neither sex nor substance, for she knew of none of his ‘habits’. “What if she came to know?” I asked him, and the look he gave me before exiting the conversation indicated that I had not made a friend. Chris, I noticed was quite the dancer, and was being taught a few Koothe steps, that he was picking up pretty well. Koothe was not a dance of grace. It was everything but that. It was a rebellion against groovy moves and twirls. No this was more booty and booby shakes. This dance needed space, you had to spread out, your hands flaying around, gesticulating at your chest, grinding over a bath towel, all accompanied with the most vulgar obscene face expressions. It was a folk dance, and it had its sensuality. And Chris was the tramp king. His elegant, lean body imitating each move, retaining a grace in the worst of moves. We were all having a laugh. Ediran, walked up and sat next to me, barely clinging on to his whiskey glass in one hand and mobile phone in the other. “I can't seem to get any messages from Dina”, he said, shaking his head. “I guess it’s the time zone difference. She must be sleeping now.” ”Your phone has got signal here?” I asked. He looked at the phone’s signal, and then at me, traumatized, as if he'd never known phones could stop working outside of a natural disaster. He threw the cell away and drank up his entire glass of whiskey before turning to me again. “How do you know T-Earth?” he said, and I looked confused, before realizing that he was referring to Tirth. ‘Why would you mispronounce such a beautiful name like that?” I asked. He looked confused. “How else should I pronounce it?” “It’s Th...and it rhymes with teeth “ “Teerth?” He asked. “No… Theerth.” He tried repeating a few times. Either he missed the first h or the second, rolling his tongue and his eyes in frustration.

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“Let him call me whatever he can,” said Tirth grandly, walking towards us on hearing his name. Anna was with him, as always. “Heyyy…she has a point,” said Anna. “We need to know how to pronounce these Indian names. Like the name Chirag. Am I pronouncing that right?” “Whose Chirag here?” I asked. “He's the guy we met at Rastha…the long haired guy?” She said and caught my blank expression. “The guitarist?” she clarified. “How do you know him?” I asked. “Oh… he's played at an office gig,” replied Tirth, offhandedly. “He plays quite well, too,” said Anna. “Hmm…” replied Tirth. “I'm going to get a drink. Anyone joining me?” “Hey, I need a refill, man,” said Ediran getting up. Anna watched them leave. “So how are you feeling?” she asked. “Ok, I guess?” I said wrapping the blanket closer to my chest, “I was never a big fan of water.” “Then why did you decide to join us at the waterfall?” She was laughing at the memory, “I'm sorry I don't mean to be rude…but it was funny. The way you fell and tried to drown in a little puddle of water.” “I know. It's ok.” I said, resignedly. “It’s Tirth, isn’t it?” she asked, “You like him.” I looked up at her, surprised. “Yes,” I replied. So much for my subtle moves. “Well, I think he likes you too.” She was trying to cheer me up. I stared at her in surprise. “Well…we did make out in the caves,” I blurted before I knew it. “You naughty girl!” she looked delighted. “You know what you should do? Get a little frisky with him.” I looked at her, shocked. “He’s got these keys to the room in his pocket. He refuses to give it to me, cos… well… he thinks I’m going to sleep. I’m not…” “OK…” “I need to make a call to Chirag. And I can’t tell Tirth that.” “The guitarist?” I asked. “We’ve been messaging each other,” she said, “And it has been sweet. I think I like him,” her eyes were tender. “Why can’t you tell Tirth?” I asked. “Well. It’s been barely a week,” she said, “I don’t know. I wanna see where it goes.”

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Tirth was staring at us curiously, as we whispered to each other. I started walking towards him. But I didn’t seem to be reaching him. He was far away. A receding sight. I couldn’t make it. I needed to sit down. Tirth appeared beside me, “Are you OK?” “The room…” I whispered. He grabbed me by my shoulders like I was about to faint. I wasn’t. It was overly dramatic on his part. But the path was wavery. Difficult to walk over it straight, if you’d asked me. Perhaps it was my excellent acting. I couldn’t really say the difference anymore. Anna’s eyes were following us this time. Me and Tirth. His arms linked around me, holding me strongly. I knew that I was being taken upstairs. The stairs were being difficult and long winding, like a movie that wasn’t planning to end anytime soon. The key from his pocket, the door of the room opened. I was laid down like a useless doll. My sweater loosened, a blanket carefully arranged over me. My eyes closed without much coaxing. Sleep was clouding my senses, though not before I felt his pearly lips touching my lips softly. ♦♦♦ The atmosphere in the car was tense; every ear in the car strained and tuned to the contents of the conversation in the back seat, the conversation between us. I ground my teeth with my jaw muscles quivering, “So you’re hanging out with the boys after this?” I said, “The guys want me to go with them.” He said, his lips trembling. I glared at him for a split second, and then looked out of the car window as a flush of heat colored my cheeks and burnt my eyes. Rejection was never a sweet pill. But I had thought things were going well. Why had I thrown myself at him? Maybe he was gay. Maybe I was a bad kisser. Or had bad breath. Whatever it was, I was a shameless slut, just as his damn friends had assumed. Or was he just shy? Did he need some coaxing? I didn’t know. I couldn’t find out now. The two cars were entering the Marriot hotel, our final drop point, and we got out of the vehicle, all ten of us, taking out our baggage from our cars. I pulled out my bag and hurriedly moved away from the group to hide the tears pouring down my face like a muddy track of rain. Everyone knew rejection when they saw it. And this group seemed to savor it. Well, I didn’t want their sympathy. I’d walk away from all of them, with my head held high. “Bye guys,” I said, preparing to walk away. “How are you going?” Tirth cut in. “By bus,” in my ‘obviously’ tone. “It’s ten o clock in the night. Are you crazy? It isn’t safe. I’ll call a cab, or put you in an auto,” he said.

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“It’s ok…I’ll manage...” I said, walking away as fast as I could. I didn’t want his fucking pity. I dragged my baggage, along with a plastic cover that held a giant blanket. The walk to the Marriot entrance was slow painful one, and I felt my legs hurt and my arms collapse at the end of it. The journey had taken its toll on me. And once I exited the glamourous walkway of the hotel security, I realized my mistake. The road was empty and the air thick with dust, with more than a few lecherous eyes resting immediately upon me. There was not an auto stand or a bus stop in sight. My phone had conveniently died on me. I was losing hope when a truck stopped before me, and a pan-stained set of teeth grinned at me, “Ellige madam?” I tried to look away. I wasn’t going to board a truck home. My logical mind informed me that I wasn’t placed to make such choices. “Bangalore…” I said, almost whispering through my terrified tears. “Banni madam. Time illa manage,” he said, his leery eyes already seeing more than he could. I imagined getting into that truck. Imagined being groped by this creature whose face was as dirty as his shirt. Imagined the nausea that would hit me with his smell, all through my mumbling tears. What I didn’t imagine was the car that had parked behind the truck. “Nina!” I heard my name, and looked around, my eyes flooding with relief. It was Tirth, his eyes wide with shock. I almost ran towards him and then quickly braked and walked towards him, leaving the truck driver to swear his fury away. “I’m not planning to let you go home like this,” Tirth said with a newfound strength in his voice. “I’ll book you a cab.” He flipped open his mobile and I kept my mouth shut. I needed that ride. Safety over Self-respect, I told myself. I stood there beside him, waiting for the cab to arrive. “You were planning to go with the truck driver?” he said. “Well, I needed a ride home.” “I don’t think that would have taken you home,” he replied. I looked away sullenly. “So…did you enjoy the trip?” he asked, as he punched into his phone. “Anna was nice,” I replied. I was relieved that he had come, but that didn’t mean I had to make intelligent conversation. “What were you two whispering at the party? You and Anna… giggling like that? There was some secret, I know.” I felt the heat shoot up my temples. “Is that why you are here? What makes you think I’ll tell you? And Anna is my friend.” “And I’m not?” he said with mock shock. “Well, she’s the only one who’s been decent enough to me.”

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“And what did I do?” The words tumbled out, “I thought we had a good time, you and me. I assumed you liked me.” “I do like you,” he mumbled. I looked at him squarely as he said that. “As a friend,” he added, quickly. I swallowed a big phlegm of shame. “Didn’t seem that way when we kissed,” I replied, harshly. “You seemed to like me a lot more than a friend.” “I do like you… more than a friend too. And if circumstances had been different, I’d have taken you on a date. Yes, I’d have dated you. You are a pretty girl. An interesting person… I…” “What circumstances?” I wanted to hear it from his mouth, whatever it was. I was done with the guessing. He looked down stubbornly. “Tell me,” I said, “Is it Anna? Do you like her?” “What? Fuck… NO…” he replied, “I like her. She’s just a good friend.” “Then? Are you gay?’ “Now you’re being funny aren’t you?” “Then what is it? I'm not attractive enough? I’m fat? I have bad breath? What the fuck is it?” He stared at me with a sad forlorn look. And looked down at his hands. “My wedding is fixed. With a girl my parents have found. I’m trying to break it off…but…” I could have ripped his throat like a starved vampire, “Fuck… and your colleagues know this?” “I yes… Anna doesn’t… but the others do. Thulika has hung out with them a few times.” “And why the fuck did you call me on this…this stupid office trip? I thought it was a date?” His eyes were downcast, everywhere but where I could see them, “Anna was the only girl on the trip. And she needed company. It… it wasn’t a date.” He looked up at me, his eyebrows gathered in pain, his lips pursed. Well, I wasn’t going to not get angry. “What am I? A hired clown? You flirted with me.” “I talked to you.” “I called you for coffee…and you said yes…” “How is coffee a date?” “You are a fucking asshole. That’s what you are. And why are you breaking up with your soon-to-be wife?” “I don’t want to get married,” his voice was breaking. “Why? Because you want to flirt with all the women in the world...” I spat angrily. He buried his face in his hands. “I didn’t flirt…with…you.” “You kissed me…” “You kissed me,” he said, with more vehemence this time. “You didn’t seem to resist it.”

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He stared at me, and then looked away, his shoulders slumping, his face dirt red. We stood in another sullen silence. 3 minutes, showed the Uber App. “You could have told me you know,” I replied. He looked up at me, questioningly. “That you were engaged. Instead of flirting with me.” “You wouldn’t have come on this trip with me,” he replied. “That doesn’t mean you flirt.” “I was being friendly. You wouldn’t have hung out with me if you knew I was engaged. Girls don’t hang out with engaged men. I wanted a friend. You were really fun. And…I was just tired of being lonely.” “Aww…so sad. Such a sad life,” I taunted. He stared at me with tired pain in his eyes. I looked into the Uber app again. 1 minute it said. “I wouldn’t have come on the trip” I replied, looking at him. “But I would have hung out with you. You are a fun person too. Even as a non-boyfriend. You are fun.” “Will you hang out with me now?’ He asked suddenly, “Tonight? Just As friends?” I stared at his sad hopeful eyes. What harm could it do? I nodded. ♦♦♦ We were at the bottom of his apartment, hiding behind a giant tree, like two badly trained robbers. “Shhh…” whispered Tirth into my ears. “We have to wait, here.” “Are we breaking into someone else’s apartment?” I hissed at him, covering my nose from the stink of the drain. “No. It’s the damn neighbour. He knows Thulika, my future wife. Even has her number. He’s been waiting for me to slip. I don’t want him to see me bring you home. Asshole.” It struck me that this probably wasn’t the first time that Tirth had stood here, behind this tree, watching and waiting as the lanky shifty-eyed neighbor got onto his bike and left. There was something fishy about Tirth’s deal. And I hoped that by the end of the night, I would find it. Of course, this required me to think with my brain and not my hormones. Not something I was used to. The minute the neighbor left, Tirth skittered away, with me following his curvy bum, and we climbed the three flights of stairs into his house. Finally, when I stepped into his house, I knew I was safe. Safe from myself at least. There was no way I could get myself to make out with an engaged guy, in a room that was that dirty. We’d dropped our bags, and he hit the shower immediately. I was left to explore the hidden secrets of his home. Yippee for me.

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Like all bachelor pads, the primary feature of the living room was the floppy mattress that lay on the floor in the corner, with a bedsheet that promised to give me rashes of some kind. But staying away from it was clearly not an option, as that was the bachelor version of a sofa cum bed. The chairless table, occupied another corner, its purpose merely to provide the 50 Java/C textbooks the space to sit and accumulate dust for its tenure there, which seemed to be permanent from the amount of dust. There were the Gods, a picture here on the table, an idol there inside the glass showcase, overlooking his life and its doings. It would have made for some interesting conversation, if these idols could talk. Like what these bachelors do when left to their own devices. The holy offerings at its feet were unimpressive: room keys, bottle opener, electricity bills, Oregano and Ketchup covers, a dirty passport size photograph, a stray College mark list, and a strip of paracetamol. “Your place is kinda dirty,” I said, dropping the ‘flirty chic’ act the minute he stepped out, rubbing his hair with a towel. I’d drink the night away, and sleep it over. I had my ethics. And I would stick to it. “Would you like something to eat?” he said. “Are you going to cook it?” I said. “We can order something,” he said. “Good. Then I want something.” No way was I eating something from this bio-hazard area. And the kitchen scared me even from afar. Perhaps he was growing a nice little fungus and had a pet roach. I didn’t want to find out. “Do you want something to drink? We’ve got all that left-over liquor,” he said. “Hmm...I dunno. What did you get?” “Rum.” “I dunno...” “Why don’t you take a shower?” “Not after that waterfall. I’m not taking a shower for years. ” “But… I’m sensitive to smells.” He whined. “So...?” “So you have to take a shower.” “Sit far away and don’t try to smell me.” “Come on,” He pulled me off the floor bed, and handed me a towel, pushing me towards the bathroom door. “Do this for me...please…” He said, shutting the door to my loud protests. I wasn’t taking a shower. I would just mill around and do nothing. I turned on the water, to start my pretend shower, and the water fell straight onto me, clothes and all...who sets the water to shower by default? Asshole. It was cold...waterfall cold...and that memory wasn’t

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helping...then burning hot. “This is crazy”, I screamed at him. I washed my face and brushed my teeth. I was going to be a sloth. Who cares? Being clean was already doing too much. I opened the bathroom door to greet that cute little ass bent over before the floor. “Nice...” I said to it... “What are you up to?” “Cleaning.” He said, looking up from the broom in his hands. “Why? Are you selling the house?” “I don’t like people seeing how messy I am,” he said. “I’ve already seen it. And much as I love the sight of your pretty ass in the air, walking around cleaning the house like a Porno maid, can we please order the food?” He laughed. “In a bit.” He was arranging the books on his table. He unveiled a music system that seemed hidden behind a stack of newspapers in the showcase and wired it up. Then he opened the rum bottle and poured it into two glasses. He handed me one. “That's like three shots,” I said, “You want me sleeping in for half an hour?” He poured out some and mixed a bit of juice. “So you watch a lot of porn?” “Not really,” I said sitting down. We were on the mattress, the two of us. I wore my grey, decent looking, knee-length, flannels, with some very suggestive buttons. But my clothes were limited. I pulled his blanket to cover my bare legs. I may not have planned on a purdah night. But I was quite serious about my abstinence vow and was planning on keeping my stand on morality. “Porn grosses me out mostly. Bores me even. I’d rather make my own porn.” He laughed. “So what would your porn movie be like?” “Well, for starters, I’d star in it. And there’d be no incessant cock waving and cream showers. There’d be a lot of beautiful people sitting around not having sex. There’d be tempo and tension and teasing.” “OK... if they aren't having sex, what are they doing?” “Anything. They can lie down and read with their boobs sticking out, they can clean the house, with their ass in the air, see...sex is so much more fun than just the damn fucking. Don’t make it just about that. Build a storyline.” “Sounds boring to me…” “Tried watching porn with your future wife?” He rolled his eyes, “I’ve watched it with my previous girlfriend.” “Wait a minute? Previous girlfriend?” “Ya. Madhu her name was. Should have stuck with her. But then she wasn’t the marrying kind.” “I love the name Madhu. Had a crush on someone named Madhu once“ “You’re into girls?” his eyes widened excitedly. “Madhu was a guy,” I said firmly. “But…yes…I like girls too.”

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“You’ve ever done a girl?” I smiled and nodded. “Seriously? Really? Oh my god! Would you ever do a threesome?” “With you and your future wife on your wedding night.” “Well, not on my wedding night…but?” “Would you do a threesome?” “Fuck ya, I would.” “With me and you and my hot future husband, who has a six-inch dick? Threesomes work both ways you know.” I said, in response to his gruesome face expression. He sat with his back to the wall, his legs occupying most of the floor mattress, while I sat at the edge of it, perpendicular to him, with his legs inches away from my thighs, and more than once, his legs brushed against them, sending a warm quiver between my legs. I moved an inch away. “You can keep your legs there. I don’t mind.” He said, quietly. “That’s fine. I’m comfortable here.” I replied, “And I know what a tease you are.” “I’m a tease? How am I tease?” “You flirted with me. You flirted with Anna. All the while you had a future wife.” “Come on. I just talked to you guys. How is that flirting?” “Leave all that. Tell me about your future wife.” “Nothing to tell. Nags all the time. Forbids me from having friends. Forbids me from talking to Madhu.” “Tirth?” “Hmmm…?” “Why is your leg on my thigh again?” “Come on...it's just a leg.” “Why? Did you break up with your wife in your head? That’s not how it works you know.” “I’m just being friendly. And we are having so much fun talking. Like, have you ever talked like this to anyone?” “I’ve had better conversations.” “Come on. You are lying. I think if we keep talking like this, we’ll just fall in love.” “I doubt that very much. Love is just too much work. Too much selflessness. You don’t have it in you.” “We’ll see.” “Oh really. Is that a challenge now? Quite the narcissist we’ve got here. No sweetheart, I don’t want to make your asshole babies.” “I didn’t mean that…OK, whatever. You want another drink?” He asked. “No thanks. Don’t try to get me drunk and in bed.”

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“Listen. That was cheap of me. Sorry. I was only joking. And... I’m sorry for misleading you...during the trek…earlier on...I was an asshole, sorry” “Yes you were. You made me cry” “What? When did you cry? “ “In the car.” “But...ok...I'm sorry...but why?” “I don't know...I felt bad. I thought we had a good time. And here you were asking me to piss off.” “But how can you cry for something like that?” “WHY not? I replied. “I cry quite easily.” “Really? I wish I could cry sometimes...I didn't even cry when my dad died.” “Oh...I’m sorry. When was this?’ “Oh...when I was seven. He had a heart attack. It was quite sudden. It upset me of course. Then it was mom and me. It was terrible. Everyone was so sympathetic, it just made it all the worse. I just wanted to be left alone.” “Yeah...I can understand that.” “But after that, I’ve had trouble crying. I didn’t cry even when I broke up with Madhu. “Did she dump you?” “No. We lived together for four years. She wanted to go abroad and study.” “And you let her?” “Well...I didn’t want to stop her future. But to tell you the truth I was secretly happy. That I could be a bachelor again… Drinking up to 3 AM in the morning.” “Asshole,” I laughed. “You think that’s evil of me, don’t you? I guess…because I really paid for that later” “Oh?” I said interested. “In real tears. For the only time in my life. I cried when I lost Madhu. Forever.” “Why…did she die?” “What? NO! Don’t say that...” He flinched like I’d slapped him, his eyes widened. “She dumped you?” “I told you…nobody dumped anyone. We separated, like good friends. Long distance wasn’t sensible anymore. So we started dating too. And then I got engaged, this December. To my socalled future wife. Thulika. And I was turned into a dog on a leash. She monitors my calls, my messages, my friends. Threw a fit in front of my colleagues once, because I was friendly with one of the girls in the office.” “You know, with guys like you she has to be careful. You are a flirt...and a tease.”

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He gathered his knees locked tight together. “Do you know she slapped me once? Right in the face. And said that if I ever talk to a girl again, she’d teach me a lesson.” His face was flushed red. I stared back at him, my heart hard, “Is that when you cried?” His eyes were filling fast, “No…I was still talking to Madhu. Despite everything. I hadn’t lost her yet. Madhu came down. She felt bad for me. She visited me and my mom in Siliguri, my hometown. Stayed there for a night. It was the most beautiful night of my life. I held her for one last time. Kissed her. My heart just broke with all the stupid things I had done. The screw up that was my life. I cried that night. In her arms. For the only time in my life.” He looked into his glass, staring at the whiskey inside, his eyes glazed. He always looked precious when he was unhappy. “Hey....I’m sorry yaar,” I put my hands around him, “Why don’t you get back with Madhu then?” “It's too late now,” his voice was breaking, “She’s engaged, anyway. To a nice American boy. H1B1 and all. I blocked her on the phone later. Thulika did, at least.” “Hey” I leaned forward, touching his shoulders, pulling him towards me “Its Ok.” He turned to me, and said… “Can you kiss me?” His lips were trembling, his eyes were sad, desperate. I leaned forward and touched my lips to his. He breathed deeply, the tension in his body loosening for a bit. I could feel the sobs well up in his throat. I drew myself back after a bit. “I think we are done,” I said. “Why?” he said, his eyes pained. “I don’t want to be dragged into the screw up that is your life. First, break up with your future wife.” “Then what? You’ll marry me? You’ll be my girlfriend?” His voice was high, desperate. “Hey, you are unhappy. Why should I solve your problem?” “Because you are creating it!” “You are pathetic. Solve your own fucking problem. Marry your wife, and have her children. I don’t care.” ♦♦♦ When I returned from the bathroom, after a much-needed pee, I found him giggling into the phone. We were much drunk by then, and it was 3 AM in the morning. “What’s so funny?” “Madhu.” He replied, his eyes still on the phone. “Arreey. This girl makes you cry first, and then laugh.” “She pinged me.” “I thought you blocked her.”

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“Ohh…I unblocked her…” “And when was that? When I went to pee?” “No” he giggled, “A while back. When Thuli picked a fight with me.” “Asshole. That’s what you are. You think that girl is your mommy, and you can do things behind her back. You know what? You are ruining a poor girl’s life.” “Madhu’s?” He looked up and hiccuped. “No. Your future wife’s. Thulika’s” “Umm…how…?” “By being a coward. Just break up with her asshole. Don’t marry her. Don’t have your asshole babies with her. You’ll just make the poor girl cry, ten years from now.” “If I can break up with her, I would so marry Madhu” “Stupid!!” I screamed at him, wishing I had a rock to throw at his thick head. “Or I will come to you…” “Don’t you dare come to me. I have enough problems of my own.” “So how come a pretty girl like you hasn’t had sex for so long?” “How do you know that?” I asked, lying down. My back was aching by this time. He quickly lay down next to me. I tried putting a pillow between us, and he pressed the pillow under his arms. I wasn’t going to tell him that I was waiting for the right man to come along. And that I had been dumb enough to think it was him. But he was cheeky, this one, and happy that he could talk freely for once. “How do I know that you are pretty?” he said, with a toothy smile, “You should try Tinder. You’d know how popular you really can be.” “I’m presuming you have tried it.” “I…” He giggled, “I install it sometimes. Then I go and like all the girls there. Someone will like me back. Then I start chatting with her…” “Flirting with her, you mean…” “No… just Hi. Whachyoudoing…etc. Just harmless fun” He looped his arms around me. My breasts began to heave, trying to push up against him like two excited teenagers. I closed my eyes and felt his hands unbuttoning my shirt quickly, baring my chest, his hands circling my throbbing nipples, desperate for his touch. My lips leaned towards him, searching for his, and they touched for a second. “What kind of lame kiss is that?” I said. “I’m being nice to you. I don’t want to kiss you too passionately and make you fall in love with me. I am being a gentleman.” “Oh! That is so nice of you.” I spat at him. I wanted that kiss, I thought, staring at his lips. I wanted to bite them and see them bleed. And then suck out the blood, until he screamed. This creature was taunting me…and I was being taunted. And I hated it. And I loved it.

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“You are so like me.” He said, his eyes had a mischievous glint. “I have some principles,” I replied. “Oh! And what are they?” he snorted, nipping at my nose. “I don’t like cheating,” I said, weakly. His tongue was in my ears, flicking it in and out, sending my body into trembling waves of pleasure. “It's not cheating. We aren’t doing anything wrong you know. Would you like a proper kiss?” he said suddenly. “NO…” I said, my voice small and weak. “Yes…” His lips pressed against mine, loving licks, and soft sucks. I couldn’t remember what I was fighting anymore. The last of my ego lay shattered in his caresses, my heart drowned in pools of his persistence. ♦♦♦ We fell asleep soon enough, lack of sleep and sheer fatigue taking over. Five hours later, my hands searched for him on his bed, eager for a cuddle. He shrugged me off rudely, the night’s tenderness a distant dream. “Time for office,” he said, tapping his watch. When he left for his bath, the doorbell rang. “Can you open the door, I’ve ordered breakfast.” He shouted from within. I opened the door, and caught in a sharp breath, as I saw, behind the delivery boy, Tirth’s lanky neighbor eyeing me as he scooped the morning paper. When I closed the door, my eyes fell on the show-case idol, and I could have sworn that I saw it wink.

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GENRE: SUPERNATURAL / FANTASY / SCIENCE FICTION / HISTORICAL / MYSTICAL

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THE ENDLESS DREAM Ankit Jha Genre: Fantasy When I woke up, I was in this white room. Extremely bright. Maybe it was because I had just woken up, so I sat on the side of the bed while my eyes adjusted. Looking around, I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t find anything similar to my room back at my parentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house. So was I dreaming? I touched my face, my hair. They seem to be in place. Jumping off the bed, I went and touched the wall to my right. Solid. Were mom and dad playing a joke on me? But why? My 14th birthday was due in a month, so this was too soon for some kind of surprise. And they know that I do not like plain bland colours like white or black. This must be some stupid dream I am stuck in. But how do I get out of it? Then I looked at the door of the room. Till I got out of this dream, I could at least explore. Who knows, I might end up seeing something wonderful! So I got up and opened the door to find myself in a long white corridor. Boring. It would have been wonderful if it were painted pink and blue. As the thought passed my mind, pink and blue paint started flowing down on the walls from invisible holes. It was magical, as the colours blended together to form shades of purple. Soon, it was transformed into a magical place. Now, with the place suiting my tastes, I walked on. The corridor turned to the right, and there was a heavy metal door, like a factory door. It took a lot of pushing to get it open, but finally, I made enough space to pass through it. I ended up in a metal walkway, at the end of which was a wall without a door. To my front and back, thick streams of colours were falling. It looked as if I was in a long circular room, as the colour splashed walls in front of me curved around the walkway. Looking back, I saw that the door I had come from had disappeared too. This was turning out to be a very interesting dream. Why do they not make computer games like these? With nowhere else to go, I stepped onto the railing and dived into the chasm below. As I fell, I saw that the colours slowly started turning grey. I twisted somehow and tried looking upwards. The ramp was very far now, but it too was a shade of grey. Is it my eyes? Dad

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always said that excessive gaming would ruin my eyes, but this time I had just thought about it. Why now? But it was a dream, so it didn’t matter. When I finally fell on a patch of grass in another closed room, I was able to confirm it. Everything was black white or grey. Okay, enough of obsessing over the black and grey. It is what it is. This room had obscured glass walls and door. Only one door, just like last time. Across the door, I could see a small figure moving around. Looking at its size, it could have been only one thing. I ran through the door to find my dear cat Raja scampering around in the room. He looked like he had been having fun, even though he was alone in this small room. Well, no more alone. I am here, and we will have the best adventure while it still lasts. I bent down, picked Raja up and brought him close to my face. He mewed slightly and put a paw to my nose and mouth. Please don’t ever grow up Raja! Getting up, I went towards the door to the end of the room. The walls here were not of glass, as if trying to keep out what was inside. I unlocked the door and entered a huge hall, about ten times larger than the previous room. There were two huge bells hanging on both sides of the room. I remembered my mom covering my ears in temples when they used to ring all the bells simultaneously. As if my thought were a cue, the two bells started ringing. The first ring felt like it would burst my head. Cowering down, I covered my ears tightly, but it was not enough. The rings got louder and louder, the pain only got worse, and I didn’t realize when I passed out. Waking up, I found myself still on the floor in a fetal position. The bells were gone, and the empty hall now seemed intimidating. Raja was sitting in front of me, liking his paw. I reached out and touched his forehead. I saw his mouth move, but the mew never came. Maybe it yawned. So I touched him again. No mew again. Is it my ears now? I felt like crying. This stupid dream had just trapped me, and I didn’t know when it would end. I wanted to see mom and dad. Lying in the same position, I had slept off again, tired after what seemed like hours of crying. I woke up again, rubbed my eyes and steeled myself. I will not do this to myself. I have not gone deaf, the world has gone silent. My eyes are fine, it’s the world which has drained itself of colours, and I shall do anything to get myself out of it. Shaking the sleeping Raja, who took a silent yawn, I walked towards the end of the door. At least it’s always one door. Multiple options would have been nerve wrecking. The door opened into a small room, which in turn, had a door on each wall. I sighed. Did a quick round of akkad bakkad in my mind, and chose the door to the left. This was a banquet hall, with four long tables laid out with food, two on each side. Raja, obviously hungry, scampered forward, jumped on the first table to my left, and started eating out of the first bowl he found. I went to the table to the right and saw the immense variety of food present. Surprisingly, I was not hungry at all, so I picked up an apple and strolled around. The apple was sweet in taste, but there was no smell at all that I got. Then it hit me. All the

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while, I was so busy admiring the good food, that I never noticed that there was no smell. Odourless food? This crosses all heights. Angrily, I started throwing all the food to the floor. Raja, seeing the commotion, came forward, and started caressing my leg. As I saw his mouth move in silent mews, I started crying again. Maybe I am fooling myself, maybe it is me whose senses have stopped working. I am just tired of all these stupid rooms. I don’t want to go anywhere. Suddenly, I stopped feeling the apple I was holding in my hand. That’s it, just like that. I let it drop to the ground, and touched my face. Nothing! I could see my fingers over my eyes, but I couldn’t feel the touch. Slowly then, even my sight started getting darker. First from the corner of the eye, then all around, till it was completely dark. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t feel my body. If I moved, I wouldn’t know if I was doing it right. If I fell, I wouldn’t know, and then I could be lying on the floor, trying to move without knowing anything about it. So, I decided that I would not do anything. Maybe the next time my sight returns, I would be in my bed. Till then, I did not have a clue what I would do. I wish I could return to normal. I didn’t realize until this time how strongly this place was responding to my thoughts. The darkness slowly subsided. The hall was the same, but the food had disappeared. I saw the door at the end of the hall. Enough of the games, now I shall play by my rules. I ran towards the door, as it bloated, and became the opening of a huge tunnel. I jumped and flew into it, Raja flying along with me. “Mohit, how are you feeling? Can you hear me? Doctor, what is happening to him?” This was a neon lighted tunnel, and it had become an obstacle course. I dodged blocky floating stones, ducked under pillars, took power-ups to blow up all obstructions. I had always wanted to be inside a game, and this was it. The tunnel ended and opened up into open space. I had a spacesuit on, and a large gun in my hands. Huge bunches of tiny spaceships started attacking me with puny laser shots. This was a game I always won. I was the overlord. So, I picked up my gun, and blasted away at the huge swarms which came at me like a wave, spread out in different directions after attacking, went back, and came back. Whenever I had to reload my gun, Raja, wearing a funny spacesuit, would boost towards the swarm, detonate like a bomb, and respawn beside me. The alien spaceships got bigger and colourful, and so did my guns and their laser shots. Even Raja grew into a black panther, while still wearing the funny spacesuit. When I defeated the mother ship, fireworks flew out, forming the words OVERLORD. I already knew that, but it felt good for it to be declared so openly, even if it was only me and Raja who saw it. “It seems he is dreaming profusely. He is in a state of hypnosis, but also partially conscious. It is a known side effect of the drugs we have been administering him. Nurse, I believe the water drip has some trouble. Please replace it immediately!”

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When the fireworks subsided, a portal opened and sucked me in. I was again in a tunnel of bright lights, and it opened and I fell into an ocean. Raja and I were in this huge bubble which was moving as I wanted. Then I saw a huge figure approaching. I saw the huge snout and the ribbed white base of this gigantic creature. It dived below me, its blue top rubbing against the bubble till it burst and I fell on its leathery skin. Somehow, I didn’t slip off as the blue whale dived upwards out of the water, and did its famous backward spin and went back in with a loud crash. I then heard its famous whistle, and soon, we were surrounded by hundreds of other whales, some even larger, and the smaller calves playing around their mothers. What I did not realize was that I was on top of the spout of this whale. So it was a surprise for me when it broke the surface of the water and a huge rush of water threw me upwards into the sky. “Will he wake up doctor? Can you hear me Mohit! Please wake up, I beg you!” I kept going up in the sky rotating in all directions without control. The momentum which had taken me up all this while ended, and I slowed down, stalled, started falling down, and landed in the backseat of a biplane. I was facing the tail, a machine gun in front of me. I turned back to the pilot and poked his shoulder. He just motioned me to look backwards and gave me a thumbs up. I then saw some movement upwards. Raja had dug his claws into the top wing and was struggling to hold on. A few bullets whizzed past me, ringing my focus back to the rear of the plane. One enemy plane was onto our rear, and a few were emerging out of the clouds. I tried shooting, but the machinegun shook so violently that I was unable to aim. As a result, the plane behind me shredded our wings brutally, and we started going down. Both of us ejected, and I managed to catch Raja before I deployed my parachute. “Ma’am, it would be great if you can step out for a minute and compose yourself. If your son can hear you, your troubled voice will not help him. At this moment, we cannot say anything about his state, so at least your positivity will only help him get back faster. Nurse, did you check the bandage on his leg?” We landed just before the pyramids, and the sun was so hard that we ran into an opening that we saw amongst the huge stones of the massive structure. The pilot found a wooden torch and lit it with the lighter he was carrying. He then lit a cigarette directly from the torch and offered me one as well. I declined, although the idea felt tempting. We went in, and after some time started feeling that we were in a never-ending maze. That’s when a turn in a passageway led us to a large hall. In front of us, were about ten sarcophagi, all adorned with beautiful carvings. The pilot went ahead and pushed the lid off one sarcophagus, and pulled out some beautiful jewels. As he was grinning and admiring the treasure, the hand of a mummy shot up, grabbed him, and pulled him inside. His screams were suppressed when the other lids slid open loudly, and the other mummies got up, all looking at me with their dark eyes. Another bony hand broke through the ground below me and held my leg. I shrieked, and went for the gun in my holster, which had magically appeared around my waist, and shot at the hand which

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crumbled into dust. Blindly shooting a few bullets at the other mummies, I picked up the torch from the floor and ran back into the passage. Skeletons were breaking out of the wall, and I dodged them, hitting them with the torch and shooting back as well. Their bony fingers scratched my skin, but I didn’t stop. “You know, your bike just arrived yesterday. It looks so amazing. Oh, I would love to see you get back up so that you can get your kit and ride it. Please wake up soon beta.” The passageway opened into a mountain forest. The trees were very huge, much more than normal. I remembered, that this was the redwood forest. The oldest trees in the world. Parked along a tree was a sleek bike. I already had the kit on me, so I picked up, and rode down the slope. Gradually, the slope became steeper, and the road bumpier, still I managed to maintain balance. A bear suddenly appeared and swiped at me but I dodged it and cycled ahead. The slope became gradual and led me to an enclosure of a BMX skate park. I jumped off my mountain bike, ran to the BMX parked in front, and took off. Soon, I was doing bunny hops, bar-spins, tail-whips and other stunts, while an unseen crowd cheered for me. I was so lost in the crowd’s cheer as I pedaled around the park, that I was unable to dodge when a truck crashed into the park from the nearby highway and hit me from the side. “I heard they caught the truck driver. If only I could get my hands on him!” “But what is the use? Will it bring Mohit back?” I opened my eyes, and I saw the blue sky, then the buildings, then the crowd which had appeared around me and the people who were keeping them aside. I was unable to move my hands or legs, only my head moved a little, with a lot of difficulties. I felt a wetness as if I was lying in a puddle. My bike was lying on my side. I grinned. An accident had been waiting to happen. Not fixing the faulty brakes, just because my new bike was on the way, had been a bad idea. There was a lot of murmuring when they saw my head moved, but it was all unclear. A guy came near me and said something, but it was undecipherable. I tried to speak, ask him what had happened, but no words came out. I only remembered myself gliding through the street, ringing the small buzzer constantly. I had heard a loud horn of a truck, but it had seemed to be too far. As I reached the middle of the street, there had been a sudden screech of breaks, few loud screams, immense pain and a feeling of flying through the air. “Nurse, I see his fingers moving. Please call the doctor. Atul, Atul, Mohit is awake, come quickly!” I opened my eyes yet again, and this time I was in a hospital room. Mom and Dad were looking at me from beyond the bed, while the doctor was standing beside me. My arms would still not move. I wanted to say that I was sorry to put them through this, but my mouth would not open completely. Somehow though, I knew they had already forgiven me, so I tried to break a smile as much as possible, and my vision blacked out again. ♦♦♦

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Mohit was declared dead at 11.34 PM. The doctors had not been able to help much as they monitored his vitals failed one by one. It was as if he had awakened to give one last smile to his parents. His mom sat silently beside his bed, clutching his lifeless hand, while his dad picked up his sketched book, mindlessly shuffling through the pages of his varied imaginations. He had sketched the games he used to play, about the places he wanted to visit, mainly the wonders of the world, the exotic animals he wanted to see. All these would only remain a dream. They would return this book to his room, which would always be kept ready in case he ever decided to come back. Going back home, they would find Raja, their spotted house cat, curled up into an endless sleep right outside Mohit’s room. I woke up, I was in this white room. Extremely bright. Maybe it was because I had just woken up, so I sat on the side of the bed while my eyes adjusted. Looking around, I didn’t find anything similar to my room back at my parent’s house. So was I dreaming? I touched my face, my hair. They seem to be in place. Jumping off the bed, I went and touched the wall to my right. Solid. Were mom and dad playing a joke on me? But why? My 14th birthday was due in a month, so this was too soon for some kind of surprise. And they know that I do not like plain bland colours like white or black. This must be some stupid dream I am stuck in. But how do I get out of it? Then I looked at the door of the room. Till I got out of this dream, I could at least explore. Who knows, I might end up seeing something wonderful! So I got up, and opened the door to find myself in a long white corridor. Boring. It would have been wonderful if it were painted pink and blue. As the thought passed my mind, pink and blue paint started flowing down on the walls from invisible holes. It was magical, as the colours blended together to form shades of purple. Soon, it was transformed into a magical place. Now, with the place suiting my tastes, I walked on. The corridor turned to the right, and there was a heavy metal door, like a factory door. It took a lot of pushing to get it open, but finally, I made enough space to pass through it. I ended up in a metal walkway, at the end of which was a wall without a door. To my front and back, thick streams of colours were falling. It looked as if I was in a long circular room, as the colour splashed walls in front of me curved around the walkway. Looking back, I saw that the door I had come from had disappeared too. This was turning out to be a very interesting dream. Why do they not make computer games like these? With nowhere else to go, I stepped onto the railing, and dived into the chasm below. As I fell, I saw that the colours slowly started turning grey. I twisted somehow and tried looking upwards. The ramp was very far now, but it too was a shade of grey. Is it my eyes? Dad always said that excessive gaming would ruin my eyes, but this time I had just thought about it. Why now? But it was a dream, so it didn’t matter. When I finally fell on a patch of grass in another closed room, I was able to confirm it. Everything was black white or grey. Okay, enough of obsessing over the black and grey. It is what it is.

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This room had obscured glass walls and door. Only one door, just as last time. Across the door, I could see a small figure moving around. Looking at its size, it could have been only one thing. I ran through the door to find my dear cat Raja scampering around in the room. He looked like he had been having fun, even though he was alone in this small room. Well, no more alone. I am here, and we will have the best adventure while it still lasts. I bent down, picked Raja up and brought him close to my face. He mewed slightly, and put a paw to my nose and mouth. Please don’t ever grow up Raja! Getting up, I went towards the door to the end of the room. The walls here were not of glass, as if trying to keep out what was inside. I unlocked the door, and entered a huge hall, about ten times larger than the previous room. There were two huge bells hanging on both sides of the room. I remembered my mom covering my ears in temples when they used to ring all the bells simultaneously. As if my thought were a cue, the two bells started ringing. The first ring felt like it would burst my head. Cowering down, I covered my ears tightly, but it was not enough. The rings got louder and louder, the pain only got worse, and I didn’t realize when I passed out. Waking up, I found myself still on the floor in a fetal position. The bells were gone, and the empty hall now seemed intimidating. Raja was sitting in front of me, liking his paw. I reached out and touched his forehead. I saw his mouth move, but the mew never came. Maybe it yawned. So I touched him again. No mew again. Is it my ears now? I felt like crying. This stupid dream had just trapped me, and I didn’t know when it would end. I wanted to see mom and dad. Lying in the same position, I had slept off again, tired after what seemed like hours of crying. I woke up again, rubbed my eyes and steeled myself. I will not do this to myself. I have not gone deaf, the world has gone silent. My eyes are fine, it’s the world which has drained itself of colours, and I shall do anything to get myself out of it. Shaking the sleeping Raja, who took a silent yawn, I walked towards the end of the door. At least it’s always one door. Multiple options would have been nerve wrecking. The door opened into a small room, which in turn, had a door on each wall. I sighed. Did a quick round of akkad bakkad in my mind, and chose the door to the left. This was a banquet hall, with four long tables laid out with food, two on each side. Raja, obviously hungry, scampered forward, jumped on the first table to my left, and started eating out of the first bowl he found. I went to the table on the right and saw the immense variety of food present. Surprisingly, I was not hungry at all, so I picked up an apple, and strolled around. The apple was sweet in taste, but there was no smell at all that I got. Then it hit me. All the while, I was so busy admiring the good food, that I never noticed that there was no smell. Odourless food? This crosses all heights. Angrily, I started throwing all the food to the floor. Raja, seeing the commotion, came forward, and started caressing my leg. As I saw his mouth move in silent mews, I started crying again. Maybe I am fooling myself, maybe it is me whose senses have stopped working. I am just tired of all these stupid rooms. I don’t want to go anywhere. Suddenly, I stopped feeling the apple I was

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holding in my hand. That’s it, just like that. I let it drop to the ground, and touched my face. Nothing! I could see my fingers over my eyes, but I couldn’t feel the touch. Slowly then, even my sight started getting darker. First from the corner of eye, then all around, till it was completely dark. I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t feel my body. If I moved, I wouldn’t know if I was doing it right. If I fell, I wouldn’t know, and then I could be lying on the floor, trying to move without knowing anything about it. So, I decided that I would not do anything. Maybe the next time my sight returns, I would be in my bed. Till then, I did not have a clue what I would do. I wish I could return to normal. I didn’t realize till this time how strongly this place was responding to my thoughts. The darkness slowly subsided. The hall was the same, but the food had disappeared. I saw the door at the end of the hall. Enough of the games, now I shall play by my rules. I ran towards the door, as it bloated, and became the opening of a huge tunnel. I jumped, and flew into it, Raja flying along with me. “Mohit, how are you feeling? Can you hear me? Doctor, what is happening to him?” This was a neon lighted tunnel, and it had become an obstacle course. I dodged blocky floating stones, ducked under pillars, took power-ups to blow up all obstructions. I had always wanted to be inside a game, and this was it. The tunnel ended, and opened up into open space. I had a spacesuit on, and a large gun in my hands. Huge bunches of tiny spaceships started attacking me with puny laser shots. This was a game I always won. I was the overlord. So, I picked up my gun, and blasted away at the huge swarms which came at me like a wave, spread out in different directions after attacking, went back, and came back. Whenever I had to reload my gun, Raja, wearing a funny spacesuit, would boost towards the swarm, detonate like a bomb, and respawn beside me. The alien spaceships got bigger and colourful, and so did my guns and their laser shots. Even Raja grew into a black panther, while still wearing the funny spacesuit. When I defeated the mother ship, fireworks flew out, forming the words OVERLORD. I already knew that, but it felt good for it to be declared so openly, even if it was only me and Raja who saw it. “It seems he is dreaming profusely. He is in a state of hypnosis, but also partially conscious. It is a known side effect of the drugs we have been administering him. Nurse, I believe the water drip has some trouble. Please replace it immediately!” When the fireworks subsided, a portal opened, and sucked me in. I was again in a tunnel of bright lights, and it opened and I fell into an ocean. Raja and I were in this huge bubble which was moving as I wanted. Then I saw a huge figure approaching. I saw the huge snout, and the ribbed white base of this gigantic creature. It dived below me, its blue top rubbing against the bubble till it burst and I fell on its leathery skin. Somehow, I didn’t slip off as the blue whale dived upwards out of the water, and did its famous backward spin and went back in with a loud crash. I then heard its famous whistle, and soon, we were surrounded by hundreds of other

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whales, some even larger, and the smaller calves playing around their mothers. What I did not realize was that I was on top of the spout of this whale. So it was a surprise for me when it broke the surface of water and a huge rush of water threw me upwards into the sky. “Will he wake up doctor? Can you hear me Mohit! Please wake up, I beg you!” I kept going up in the sky rotating in all directions without control. The momentum which had taken me up all this while ended, and I slowed down, stalled, started falling down, and landed in the backseat of a biplane. I was facing the tail, a machinegun in front of me. I turned back at the pilot and poked his shoulder. He just motioned me to look backwards, and gave me a thumbs up. I then saw some movement upwards. Raja had dug his claws onto the top wing, and was struggling to hold on. A few bullets whizzed past me, ringing my focus back to the rear of the plane. One enemy plane was onto our rear, and a few were emerging out of the clouds. I tried shooting, but the machinegun shook so violently that I was unable to aim. As a result, the plane behind me shredded our wings brutally, and we started going down. Both of us ejected, and I managed to catch Raja before I deployed my parachute. “Ma’am, it would be great if you can step out for a minute and compose yourself. If your son can hear you, your troubled voice will not help him. At this moment, we cannot say anything about his state, so at least your positivity will only help him get back faster. Nurse, did you check the bandage on his leg?” We landed just before the pyramids, and the sun was so hard that we ran into an opening that we saw amongst the huge stones of the massive structure. The pilot found a wooden torch, and lit it with the lighter he was carrying. He then lit a cigarette directly from the torch, and offered me one as well. I declined, although the idea felt tempting. We went in, and after sometime started feeling that we were in a never-ending maze. That’s when a turn in a passageway led us to a large hall. In front of us, were about ten sarcophagi, all adorned with beautiful carvings. The pilot went ahead and pushed the lid off one sarcophagus, and pulled out some beautiful jewels. As he was grinning and admiring the treasure, the hand of a mummy shot up, grabbed him, and pulled him inside. His screams were suppressed when the other lids slid open loudly, and the other mummies got up, all looking at me with their dark eyes. Another bony hand broke through the ground below me, and held my leg. I shrieked, and went for the gun in my holster, which had magically appeared around my waist, and shot at the hand which crumbled into dust. Blindly shooting a few bullets at the other mummies, I picked up the torch from the floor, and ran back into the passage. Skeletons were breaking out of the wall, and I dodged them, hitting them with the torch and shooting back as well. Their bony fingers scratched my skin, but I didn’t stop. “You know, your bike just arrived yesterday. It looks so amazing. Oh, I would love to see you get back up, so that you can get into your kit and ride it. Please wake up soon beta.” The passageway opened into a mountain forest. The trees were very huge, much more than normal. I remembered, that this was the redwood forest. The oldest trees in the world. Parked

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along a tree was a sleek bike. I already had the kit on me, so I picked up, and rode down the slope. Gradually, the slope became steeper, and the road bumpier, still I managed to maintain balance. A bear suddenly appeared and swiped at me but I dodged it, and cycled ahead. The slope became gradual, and led me to an enclosure of a BMX skate park. I jumped off my mountain bike, ran to the BMX parked in front, and took off. Soon, I was doing bunny hops, bar-spins, tail-whips and other stunts, while an unseen crowd cheered for me. I was so lost in the crowd’s cheer as I pedaled around the park, that I was unable to dodge when a truck crashed into the park from the nearby highway, and hit me from the side. “I heard they caught the truck driver. If only I could get my hands on him!” “But what is the use? Will it bring Mohit back?” I opened my eyes, and I saw the blue sky, then the buildings, then the crowd which had appeared around me and the people who were keeping them aside. I was unable to move my hands or legs, only my head moved a little, with a lot of difficulty. I felt a wetness, as if I was lying in a puddle. My bike was lying on my side. I grinned. An accident had been waiting to happen. Not fixing the faulty brakes, just because my new bike was on the way, had been a bad idea. There was a lot of murmuring when they saw my head moved, but it was all unclear. A guy came near me and said something, but it was undecipherable. I tried to speak, ask him what had happened, but no words came out. I only remembered myself gliding through the street, ringing the small buzzer constantly. I had heard a loud horn of a truck, but it had seemed to be too far. As I reached the middle of the street, there had been a sudden screech of breaks, few loud screams, immense pain and a feeling of flying through the air. “Nurse, I see his fingers moving. Please call the doctor. Atul, Atul, Mohit is awake, come quickly!” I opened my eyes yet again, and this time I was in a hospital room. Mom and Dad were looking at me from beyond the bed, while the doctor was standing beside me. My arms would still not move. I wanted to say that I was sorry to put them through this, but my mouth would not open completely. Somehow though, I knew they had already forgiven me, so I tried to break a smile as much as possible, and my vision blacked out again. ♦♦♦ Mohit was declared dead at 11.34 PM. The doctors had not been able to help much as they monitored his vitals failed one by one. It was as if he had awakened to give one last smile to his parents. His mom sat silently beside his bed, clutching his lifeless hand, while his dad picked up his sketched book, mindlessly shuffling through the pages of his varied imaginations. He had sketched the games he use to play, about the places he wanted to visit, mainly the wonders of the world, the exotic animals he wanted to see. All these would only remain a dream. They would return this book to his room, which would always be kept ready in case he ever decided to come back. Going back home, they would find Raja, their spotted house cat, curled up into an endless sleep right outside Mohit’s room.

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ECHOES FROM VRINDAVAN Sharath Komarraju Genre: Historical Fiction The air burned with a cool, golden light. Krishna was not aware of opening his eyes, but he must have, because until a moment ago he did not see, and now he did. A large hall with rows of empty thrones lining the walls on both sides. At the head of the procession, on a pedestal raised by eight ornate steps, a seat large enough for twelve kings. On it a thin, black-clad man. Crackling his bony fingers, gazing fondly into the distance. The light passed through Krishna as he floated along the length of the room. He looked down at his legs to check if he was walking; he wasn’t. The right foot, which had been mangled by an arrow the last time he’d seen it, was now whole again. When he came to rest at the foot of the staircase, the man on the throne turned to him. The nose, which had a beak-like shape in profile, now resembled two straight lines joined by a child’s squiggle at the bottom. He sat in the manner of a general studying the map of a warring region, or a regent holding court in a room full of ministers. His dark tunic was held in place with a sparkling white diamond at each shoulder, and Krishna could see those hands – withering and frail at first glance – held a quiet sort of power. A mace stood to his left, leaning against the armrest. Wrapped around it like a snake, a fraying noose. ‘Did you ever truly believe in me, Krishna?’ he asked. ‘You look a bit surprised that it has come to this.’ Krishna looked up at the man’s eyes for the first time; the eyes of a predator, set facing forward, a green smoulder lighting them from within. And yet there was sadness in them; sadness that came from seeing and knowing much; sadness that Krishna understood only too well. ‘I did not believe there were Gods beyond the ones we built for ourselves on Earth,’ said Krishna, lowering his gaze by instinct, he who had not bowed before the strongest kings of North Country. ‘It is as we have written it in the books, then? There is a Yama?’

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‘You can call me Yama,’ said the man. ‘The name hardly matters. There is much to be amused by in the books of Earth, but not all of it is in error.’ ‘We seem to have got your weapons correct, Your Highness,’ said Krishna. Yama looked at the mace and whip. ‘These?’ he said, and laughed. ‘You know better than most that men make the world around them by what they hold in their minds. Is it not the principle on which you lived your life, Krishna? Well, it is truer here than it could ever be on Earth. You see what your mind’s eye compels you to see.’ Krishna straightened himself, and looked around the court. The chairs were still empty. Their voices boomed in the long golden hall. There was no discernible smell to the air he breathed – but then he caught himself. Was he indeed breathing? ‘I suggest that you do not ask too many questions of yourself,’ said Yama. ‘For here it is I who shall ask and you who shall answer.’ ‘Is that how you decree it, sir?’ ‘I?’ said Yama. ‘The decree has been made for me. I am but a slave to it.’ ‘Who are your masters, then?’ Yama smiled down at Krishna and shook his head. ‘No more questions, as I said. We do not have eternity at our bidding, regardless of what your books say. Do you remember how you came into this hall?’ Krishna turn back at the green and gold entrance that towered behind him, through which he must have walked not too long ago to come here. But he had no memory of it. It was as if he had closed his eyes – his mortal eyes – at the glade, as pangs of pain shot through his foot and up his body, and opened them here, in front of this man who called himself Yama. ‘No,’ said the man now, as if ascertaining to himself a fact. ‘You do not. You will have noticed that the air in this place does not touch you, it drowns you. If you try to blink, you will find that you cannot.’ Krishna tried. Yama was right. It was not so much he couldn’t as he had forgotten how to. ‘The body that you see about you right now,’ said Yama, ‘is also a figment of your mind. The shape you see me in, the empty grandeur of the place, the voice you hear – all your mind still believing that it is alive. It has to create sensual reality out of chaos; it is, after all, its function.’ Krishna bowed and said, ‘You need not tell me I am dead, Lord Yama. I have understood it. I have never feared death; I do not see a reason to begin now, after it has claimed me.’ ‘Ah!’ said Yama, clapping his thigh. ‘You are yet to enter the long tunnel, my friend. Here we sit in the great hall of souls, suspended between life and death, in the moment that it takes for your physical body to draw its last breath.’ ‘The great hall of souls is empty, my lord?’ said Krishna.

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‘If you see it as empty, then empty it is,’ replied Yama. ‘But we must get to work. There are two ways this can go. If you manage to convince me that you have lived a good life, that you deserve to be one of the Celestials, you will be sent to the Cave of Ice, where a barge will row you up the Great River to the foothills of Meru. But if you fail, I must send you back to Earth, whence you came, and your mind – hollowed and shelled – will find another human body to inhabit. One is heaven and the other is hell. I shall leave you to tell which is which.’ Krishna sensed the heaving hall stir, and the glittering thrones around them dissolve out of sight. The walls of the room were now bare; one by one the beams were coming apart, and the high ceiling vanished in a moment to reveal splendid blue skies. ‘How am I to make my case, my lord?’ asked Krishna, amidst the movement. He barely heard his voice. Yama did not respond. He held up his dying right hand, and snapped his fingers once. A thunderclap exploded in Krishna’s ears. Everything went black. *** Why did you never return, Krishna? He heard her a moment before he saw her, browned by the Yamuna’s mud, wrinkled by age, battered by years of milking cows and carrying pots, shrunken by the crushing weight of hope, greyed by the silence of dusk, flattened by endless longing, eaten by the monster that she had once thought was love. Why did you never send for me, Krishna? Now he saw her wheezing in the dank windowless backroom of her hut, wrapped in a coarse blanket in spite of the sweat. The shadow the lamp cast on the wall was that of a young spring maiden with a glint of the full moon in her eyes. Now they were just caves, dark, fungus-filled caves devoid of all sounds. Did you not say you loved me, Krishna? ‘I did not merely say it,’ he said to the shadow, for he could not bring himself to watch the old hag blanch in her fly-infested straw bed. ‘I really did love you.’ The words rang hollow to his own ears, and he only had to turn just a little to the front door of the hut to spot the standing figure of Yama, silhouetted against the orange sky, arms folded mightily, chin held up. When did you stop loving me, Krishna? Was it the moment he left Vrindavan? Was it the moment he won the great victory against Kamsa at the wrestling tournament? Perhaps it was when Devaki and Vasudev told him and Balarama that they were princes after all, and princes knew better than to gallivant with milkmaids and cowherds. They had to set themselves right, then; they had to have their heads shaven and sent off to the ashram of Sandipan. Maybe it was when he met Rukmini for the

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first time; maybe it was the day on which he fought Jambavan for the Syamantaka and held Jambavati’s hand; or on the day Satyabhama fought off Narakasura and saved his life... Did one lose love all at once, in a fell swoop? Or did it erode, grain by grain, second by second, year by year? ‘I wish I had an answer,’ he said to the crouching shadow on the wall. ‘But I know this for certain. I did love you. With all my heart.’ And you promised you shall never leave me. But that was a promise of a mere cowherd, he thought; a promise that did not need to be kept. Words and curses mattered more when uttered by kings, and that was why, was it not, that he had taken up arms against Arjuna, his beloved Arjuna, for the head of that man Gaya, who had dared to spit into his hands? ‘I did,’ he told the retching old woman. ‘I never intended to leave you.’ I waited, Krishna. All my life. ‘I did not know.’ That was a lie. He had known all along. But he had pushed that knowledge deep into the far corners of his mind, and he had busied himself with weightier matters. Winning of wars. Annexing of kingdoms. Building of Dwaraka. Forging an alliance with the Kuru people, and pulling the strings so that it would be Subhadra’s grandson, a Yadava, who would ascend the throne of Hastinapur in due course, after the Great War left Kurukshetra in shreds. He had known all along of the maiden on Yamuna’s bank, but he had chosen to forget. I died in despair, Krishna. They said I drank too much of Yamuna’s waters, that they were blackened by the venom of the Nagas. But what choice had I, O Madhava? The water reminded me of you. ‘Take me away from here,’ said Krishna, looking over his shoulder at the unmoving shadow of Yama. ‘She is not real, I know. This is your magic!’ The scene in front of Krishna’s eyes receded into the distance, until it became one silvery star in a purple night sky. They stood now on the shore of the river, and Krishna strained to hear the gurgle of the water but it flowed on, soundlessly. ‘They say the river grew silent at your departure from Vrindavan, Krishna,’ said Yama. ‘More important things had to be attended to, my lord,’ said Krishna, his sight still set on the star in the sky that had run away from him. At this distance it looked calming, serene, beautiful even; a part of him wanted to beckon to it once more, and enclose it within his embrace, but he knew it would grow fangs the moment it drew closer, and poisoned darts would fly at him, asking the same thing over and over: why, why, why... ‘You could have returned to Vrindavan, you know,’ said Yama, standing to Krishna’s side and following his gaze. ‘After you defeated Kamsa.’ ‘How?’ said Krishna. ‘I was a prince. I had to be a prince.’ ‘You had to be one, Krishna? Or you wanted to be one?’

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Krishna began to answer, but held himself back. Was there a difference between the two? Desire was a physical force. It bended you to its will. Once he had wanted Radha with the same intensity, on those nights they had danced together in the moonlight, on those evenings he had played tunes for her on the flute, on that sun-drenched afternoon in her kitchen when she had first given herself to him – and he to her. ‘Her husband left her and the village on the day of the harvest the same year you left,’ said Yama. ‘They turned her out of the orchards and the temple compound. They pelted her with stones, called her a wretch. She could have left too, Krishna, but she did not. She made herself a small dwelling by the river, and lived off alms in the neighbouring villages, her face covered by her sari’s edge.’ Krishna saw now where the sparkle of Radha’s eyes had gone. ‘If you had returned to Vrindavan,’ said Yama, relentlessly kind, ‘you would have lived out your days as a cowherd. You would have succeeded Nanda as the chieftain of the settlement, or as minister to your brother Balarama. You would have brought about the golden age of Vrindavan, Krishna. With Radha at your side, you would have turned your energies to life’s smaller pleasures. Would that have been so bad?’ For a moment Krishna looked longingly at the star. But the iron in his heart returned. He shook his head. ‘Vrindavan was meant to be my foster home, Lord Yama. My destiny lay to the West, first in Mathura, then in Dwaraka.’ ‘Destiny, you say,’ said Yama, breathing in a healthy lungful of the still night air. It was a mere imitation of the action, though, because neither did his chest move nor did his nostrils inflate. ‘Was it given to you, Krishna, or did you bestow it upon yourself?’ Before Krishna could answer, Yama clicked his fingers again, and the stars dropped off the sky into the water, one by one, with soft pops. Then a streak of red broke open the black curtain, and the river fell away out of sight. At once Krishna saw that he was standing on the bleeding chest of a king whose armour had been shattered. Under the mass of tangled hair and the bloodstains on the cheeks and the pockmarks that littered his forehead, the man’s eyes glowed with a familiar brightness. Krishna took a closer look at them. ‘He looks quite like you, does he not?’ said Yama. He had been too young when he had wrested Mathura’s throne from Kamsa, and by the time he had grown to the fullness of youth, the face of the old king had long ebbed from memory. ‘Of course he looks a lot like me,’ Krishna said, frowning. ‘He is my mother’s brother.’ The man under his foot began to laugh. You are just like me, Krishna.

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The creases on his face cleared for the moment it took him to say those words, and the wounds seemed to give him pain no longer. In his eyes danced real joy, and real pride. It was not a taunt of a vanquished king, just a child-like revelling of an old man who saw in his nephew his own image. ‘I am nothing like you, King Kamsa,’ said Krishna, resisting the urge to spit in his face, knowing that it would disappear before it reached the king’s face. (For what was this all but Yama’s illusion?) ‘I have fought for the good of the world my whole life. Unlike you, who could never think beyond your own selfish ends.’ The good of the world, my dear Krishna? You have wrought destruction upon the world, the kind of which it has never seen. ‘That destruction was necessary,’ said Krishna doggedly. ‘Things can now start over. Afresh!’ Tell that to the thousands of women you have widowed. The thousands of men who had to die because you decreed it so. The wounds were gone now, and so was the facial hair. As more and more of Kamsa’s skin revealed itself, the resemblance grew starker. He had the same thin, feminine nose, the same curved forehead, the same high cheekbones – and the same eyes. The same bloodthirsty eyes! I wanted to be lord of Mathura. Perhaps I would have destroyed it in my lust for power. But you, Krishna, you wanted to be lord of North Country, did you not? Look what you did to it. ‘No,’ said Krishna, ‘I was never lord of North Country. Yudhisthir was. I was never even king of Dwaraka.’ The king is often not the most powerful person in the kingdom. You know it as well as I. A low, steady thudding began in Krishna’s left temple, and made its way to the middle of his scalp. He held his head in both hands, and tried to trick Yama’s illusion by repeating to himself that neither he nor his head was truly there; it was just a trick of his mind. He who had conquered the mind so ruthlessly when he was alive – could he not do it now? He found that he could not. With an outpouring of anger he raised his foot and brought it down on Kamsa’s battered armour, aiming for the gash in the chest. But at the moment he expected to make contact, his foot disappeared into Kamsa’s body and became one with it. He bent down and clutched his thigh in both hands to drag himself out, but his other leg began to sink too. Kamsa became a grinning quagmire, swallowing him whole. ‘Help!’ said Krishna. He heard footsteps behind him, hard, assured pounding of metal on stone. Krishna squirmed to see if it was Yama, but only managed to descend a foot lower. The brown bloodstained puddle was contracting around him now, squeezing the air out of his lungs. ‘Help,’ he said.

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Again the pounding of metal on stone. A quiet inhalation and exhalation of breath. Just the pretence of it, as before. Krishna closed his eyes (he found that he now could) and willed his mind to obey. He was already dead. None of this was true. Kamsa could not drown him; pain did not mean anything in this endless moment between life and death. What he felt constricting his lungs and throat and legs and waist – it was all an illusion. It was all maya; was that not what he had told Arjuna on the first day of battle? Now he just had to accept it himself. Mud flowed into his mouth. He swallowed it. Grains of sand got stuck between his teeth. His throat stung, as if an arrow had pierced it. Amidst coughs and gags, he said weakly, ‘Help.’ *** The sand in his mouth turned to butter. The bog that had been Kamsa sucked him in, and one short breathless moment later, he began to fall. Into a black ravine where branches of long-dead trees reached out at him from all sides, but just evaded his desperate grasp. He kicked the air, clawed at it, tried to see where he was falling, but the grey shadows that surrounded him just dripped with slime. He shouted at the top of his voice. He heard nothing. The pain in his throat had been replaced by a cool soothing touch. Some more butter slid past his lips onto his tongue. He swallowed, quite by instinct. Would you like some more, Krishna? The voice kindled some calloused corner in his heart that he had long forsaken for dead. It awoke with a thud and a snap, and he found himself replying, ‘Yes, Mother.’ And then Yashoda’s forefinger applying a bit of butter to his lower lip. Her fingers opening his mouth and placing another dollop on the tip of his tongue. His breathing became quicker as the scene around him changed. He was no longer falling. He was being pulled by an unknown force at the speed of the wind through the lanes of Vrindavan, and he came to rest outside the house of Nanda, where the old cowshed’s beams had fallen down and the sooty walls puffed out black fumes, like the hood of Kalindi. Krishna will come back for me, said Yashoda. He said he will. And Nanda, holding her hand and nodding indulgently. Both of them had greying hair, chieftain and his queen, attended upon by two waiting women dressed in the garments Krishna knew so well. At the doorway to the kitchen stood a dark, shadowy figure, hunching, brooding, until a breeze blew him away and filled the air again with the smell of fresh butter. He is a king now, said Nanda. He was never ours, Yashoda, you knew that.

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He was always mine, said Yashoda firmly. I asked him on the day he was to leave, and he said that he was my child. Just mine! Again the tolerant nod from Nanda. A pat on the back of the hand. Nanda had always smiled a lot, Krishna remembered. The calf has broken his hind leg, Father. Smile. There are no rains this year, Father. Smile. It does not look as though our granaries will last us to summer, Father. Smile. The beams of the cowshed have fallen once again, Father. Smile. Where was the smile now? Amid all the lines that had invaded Nanda’s face, Krishna tried to recall if the lips had always been this glassy, if the eyes had always been this tired, if the hair on the scalp this thin, if the hands had always shivered, and if the tongue had always had a habit of darting out every two seconds. And Yashoda. Krishna forced himself to look away. In his mind flashed the old round face, the face that held anger and love at the same time, the face that he had woken up to on a thousand nightmare-filled nights, the face that filled this cottage with light for years, the face that Krishna thought would never wither, never shrivel, never flinch. ‘No,’ he said to the invisible shadow at the kitchen door. ‘No.’ ‘She died with hope in her heart,’ said Yama’s voice from behind him. Krishna swivelled round on the balls of his feet. ‘Even with her dying breath she assured Nanda that you would return.’ ‘Did she suffer?’ Krishna whispered, lowering his gaze. ‘As much as any being suffers at the end,’ said Yama. ‘No more, no less. She sent for you, umpteen times.’ ‘I know,’ said Krishna. ‘They made the journey to Dwaraka once too, in the hope of meeting you.’ ‘When?’ ‘You were otherwise occupied in the forest of Khandava.’ The couple in the room stopped breathing, and the dust particles roused up by the draught before now stood transfixed in mid-air. With a deft movement of the fingers, Yama made it all swirl in front of Krishna’s eyes. Radha, Kamsa, the old cowshed, the silence of the Yamuna, the taste of Vrindavan’s butter, the smell of Yashoda’s reedy fingers as they touched his lips. And just like that, in a blink that was not quite a blink, they were back in the silence of the hall of souls. *** Yama extended his arm toward the side. ‘They all sit here,’ he said. ‘You may not see them, but they await your answers.’ ‘What answers must I give?’ said Krishna, facing the thrones.

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‘Do you think you have done right by Vrindavan?’ said Yama. ‘I did what I had to do.’ ‘Do you think you have done right by the people of the settlement that protected you, that reared you, that loved you?’ ‘Right and wrong are but human constructs,’ said Krishna. Yama snapped his fingers in irritation. ‘Save the talk. I’m no Arjuna, to nod and smile at your word puzzles. Does your heart now fill with guilt or not?’ Krishna idly felt his chest, though his consciousness reminded him that there was no heart there, and it was incapable of feeling emotions like guilt. But what was that bolt of pain that seared his flesh? He nodded. ‘You must answer me,’ said Yama. ‘It does.’ For the first time since his arrival at the hall, Yama smiled. It was not a triumphant smile, or a sneering smile, or a smile of joy; it was one of deep knowing, and sorrow. ‘You were afraid to go back to Vrindavan,’ he said. Krishna nodded. ‘You wanted to go back, did you not?’ Yama’s voice was soft. ‘But you thought that if you did, the love the place had for you would pull you back. You could not be both a cowherd and a prince at the same time. You had to forego one for the other.’ Krishna nodded again. ‘And you chose to forego love for the sake of power, Krishna,’ said Yama. ‘You became what you set out to become. You are the most pivotal man in the history of North Country, bar none! They chant your name to this day, and they shall do so for centuries hence. They might even make you a God.’ ‘I never wanted –’ Yama said, ‘I disagree. I think you did. I sense in you a feeling of pride right now, as you hear my words. You fill with joy, in spite of all the hearts you broke, all the blood that was spilled in your name.’ Krishna looked up and said defiantly, ‘Okay, I did. Show me a man that does not yearn for power.’ ‘I cannot,’ admitted Yama. ‘But very few have lusted for it as thirstily as you have, and for that I must deem it that on the charge of forsaking the people of Vrindavan, who trusted you with their hearts, I find you guilty.’ ‘Vrindavan has forgiven me,’ said Krishna. ‘You make that assumption!’ Yama got to his feet on his throne, and threw back his tunic in a swish. ‘Forgiveness only frees the wronged, not the wrongdoer. Even if your crime has been

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forgiven – and I do not believe it has! – it does not in any way lessen the heinousness of it. And here, in the hall of souls, it is I who presides. It is my decree that prevails. It is my judgement that matters.’ Krishna swallowed a mouthful of air, and looked at the towering figure at the head of the stairs. He did not feel fear, for it meant nothing to the dead. But he felt a strange sense of awe at this man, awe that he had last felt while conversing with Bhishma on the bed of arrows in Kurukshetra. He bowed and said, ‘If that is your verdict, Lord Yama, I accept it.’ ‘I leave you with no other choice,’ said Yama. ‘Now you shall ask for pardon from all the people of Vrindavan, especially from Radha and Yashoda.’ Krishna turned to face the empty seats, and with joined hands, bent his head. He said nothing out loud, but he filled his mind with images of the two women, both mother and lover, one seductive and the other tender, one satiating the pleasures of the flesh and the other filling him with divine affection, one quickening the heart and the other calming it. One. The other. One. The other. A gust of wind laced with Yamuna’s scent hit him in the face, and he opened his eyes once again, to empty seats. Yama said, ‘They have left the hall, Krishna. And they agree with me. They have pronounced you guilty as well.’ Krishna looked around him. The air was once again still. Radha and Yashoda refusing to forgive him? Was that possible? Yama nodded. ‘It is possible. Perhaps it was your brazen expectation of forgiveness that made them withdraw it.’ He paused for a moment, looking in the vague direction of the thrones. ‘Well, we must proceed.’ ‘Where?’ Yama looked at Krishna, and the smile of knowing returned. With a grand wave of the arm, he said, ‘Onward, of course. Where else?’

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THE SHIPBUILDER Ankit Jha Genre: Science Fiction The bipedal assistant drone MX80 got activated as soon as the system gave out a warning signal. Its sole purpose was to make sure the living occupant of the ship sustained its life, by any means possible. If it had been activated, means the occupant was out of his chamber, or was facing some sort of threat. Yet, the doors of the chamber it was housed in were not open. A quick calibration with the occupant’s systems showed his life systems to be normal. This was not a normal situation, but before it had to compute anything else, a warning was received from the ship’s commanding AI, J21. ‘Brace for impact!’ The difference between a human pilot and AI pilot is that the latter does not feel emotions or pain, which makes it very effective in handling critical situations. Only when its hardware would be destroyed, would it be rendered useless. Hence, even after the impact, J21 had been able to steer and brake the ship till it came to a halt. The crash had been inevitable. A mix of space debris and pirate attacks had damaged the ship to a great extent, and before the drones were able to carry out repairs, it had been caught in the gravitational pull of the planet. Freefall had ensued, and all J21 had been able to ensure was that the crash not be a nose dive. MX80 pried open the door of its chamber. The wall facing it had caved in, and a broken tree was blocking the way to the rear of the ship, where the occupant’s chamber was present. Making use of a few idle base drones nearby, MX80 got the tree cut into pieces and the path cleared. The occupant’s chamber was built to withhold major impacts. Fortunately, the ship’s internal systems were intact, so MX80 did not need to use physical force to enter the main chamber. The circular chamber had a central core cylinder housing the living occupant suspended in a life sustaining gel, which was connected with hydraulic dampeners from the top and bottom. At least, that was the original structure of it. MX80 stood at the doorway of the chamber. The back wall had broken off, and was the point from which the ship had almost split in two parts. The core chamber was bent away from MX80,

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the bottom dampeners completely broken, held up barely by only the two top dampeners, their structures mangled and twisted. Further ahead, a naked body lay on the ground, in a large puddle of grey gel, which was still dripping from the broken chamber. The drone ran forward, picking up the body, and bringing it in, while checking the vitals. MX80 made a main entry in its logs. Primary Subject: Aron Status: Critical ♦♦♦ The engine nozzle was beautiful, the exact version Aron had been looking for. It was for the starship he was building for himself. He was the sculptor, designing the whole exterior, and getting most of the segments custom built. He was the painter, and had painstakingly created the patterns which enveloped the elegant machine. He was the engineer too, and had put in his over thirty years of knowledge into creating, what he believed was, one of the best small sized exploration ships currently active. He looked at the Kirug and thanked him again. They could not shake hands, as the latter did not have any. Aron’s nose flared, part in excitement, part in the anger he harboured for the person in front of him. One could observe this by looking at the four parallel lines of open flaps on his snout. Originating from a desert planet, his nostrils were smaller and large in number, and the small flaps protected against the continuous dust storms that would arise there. In a nutshell, with his sandy leathery skin, he looked like a smaller, bipedal version of a camel, a desert animal inhabiting planet Earth in the Milky Way. The payments were complete, so the Kirug flew away in his bulky trade ship. It was a long range freighter, with limited weapons, but was without charm and class, unlike the ship Aron was building. What the former did not know that after a fortnight, the stabilizer system would start giving problems. Nothing major, just a few hiccups would be faced, but irritating enough for the long rides the Kirug would be taking. He made a mistake for free ship repairs. The cost which Aron had agreed to was already high enough. Just because he had procured a rare part, didn’t mean he could blackmail him. Once the fighter was safely out of sight, he entered a few commands onto the holographic console present around his left arm. The ground in front of him trembled slightly, then the sand started caving in, revealing instead of rock, a metal floor which hinged down, and formed a ramp to a tunnel inside. He waved at the trailer drones, on which the engine had been clamped, “Take it away!” The drones rumbled, started hovering, and slowly disappeared into the tunnel. The ramp rose up back into place. After a few hours, with the winds strong this time of the year, it would again be covered with sand, leaving no sign of its existence.

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It was then that the screen on his hand console came alive with the view of a friendly face. Lakrez was a sharp engineer, and had been Aron’s apprentice for the last few years. Apart from her technical skills, the girl was very good at trade and it had been a no-brainer for him to name her the successor for his business. The timing of his departure was very close now, and she made no attempt to hide her enthusiasm in taking up the reins. He saw her mouth move to say something, but a blast blew him away. The Kirug, who knew his ship very intricately, had figured out that Aron had mishandled his ship, and had returned for payback. Few more damaging shots to the shop, and he was away. He had no intention of destroying the place, and only wanted to give a tit for the tat received. ♦♦♦ Aron opened his eyes. A drone flew over his head. It took some time for his vision to clear. Till then, two medical drones had surrounded him. A screen was brought in front of his eyes, and a lot of technical explanation started off, only a part of which he was able to gather. Then he heard the distinct voice of MX80 sending the medical drones away. It came near Aron’s bed, and helped him up. “What was all that about, MX?” “Captain, your body is completely healed.” “So that’s a good thing. Then why do I feel a tension in the air?” “Because that was unlikely in the event of the crash landing of our ship.” “Our ship crashed?” “Oh well, yes, that was the second important news.” “Then the first is..?” “Even though your body is healed in a technical manner, you will have to use an exoskeleton to traverse. That is only till you gain your strength back.” “So, I would be part machine now?” “Only thing I can say is, welcome to the family sir...” Getting the exoskeleton fitted took about two hours in the medical section. This had been connected to the central chamber where he had been suspended some time back, and in front of him, was the split segment of the ship. Aron walked out into the open, MX80 following closely. They were in the midst of a dense tropical forest. Their crash had broken the tree cover, so sunlight was able to break through here. In front of him though were extremely tall trees, and he could see the top of a mountain, suggesting they might have crashed in a valley. The trees were not closely packed, but their high canopy consisted of thick broad leaves, and formed a thick cover against the sun. Darkness had ensured the growth of mushroom and small bulbous plants at the base of the trees. The bulbous plants had appendages which were open at the top, and every minute they were pumping out a white vapour. It was odourless, but resulted in the

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whole area being covered in a low lying white haze. There was also the constant bicker and chatter of unseen animals. The whole place had an ethereal feel, one which Aron had never seen before. “Did we land in the heart of the forest?” “Yes sir,” MX replied. “Any life forms encountered yet?” As if in response, two huge eel-like creatures flew over them. These were as long as their ship, gracefully navigating between the trees, their fins cutting through the haze, big blue splotches on their skin standing out very clearly in the darkness. They seemed interested in the activity, as they circled the camp a few times, emitting a slight whistle like sound. One came down so low that Aron was able to reach up and let his hand graze through the lower fin. “We have made contact with the locals of this planet. They have confirmed our location, and their rescue team should be arriving any time now.” MX80 broke the long ensuing silence. “Intelligent life? Here? That is wonderful news!” “You will be surprised, sir.” Aron looked at MX80, but before he could question him, was distracted by the sound of an arriving vehicle. Even the eels were, as they hastily glided away into the depths of the forest. A small heighted, but elongated ship zipped through the forest. It hovered in front of them, and two alien lifeforms stepped out of it. “You were right MX, seems my surprises will have no end today.” ♦♦♦ Lakrez sprang into action as she heard the deafening blast before the connection ended. The planet was right ahead, and she boosted in towards the shop. Atmospheric entry had always been a fascinating experience for Lakrez, although this time her attention was only her destination. The pitch black space transitioned to the multicoloured sweeping vistas of the planet. This planet, even though being a complete desert, offered only yellow and orange rocky plains and dunes, speckled with red and brown mountains. The lack of diversity had affected Lakrez at first, as being born in a tropical region, she had been used to seeing a variety of colours, but this was home now and she had accepted it. As the automated landing sequence was initiated, she scanned the area. Though there was no fire, smoke billowed out of the places the plasma cannon shots had hit. The ship had not even fully landed when she jumped out and proceeded towards the shop. When looked from the top, one saw a gigantic triangular building with rounded edges. All three sides of the structure comprised the hangar, so that maximum ships could be accommodated and worked upon at a time. The hangar buzzed with robots. In the undamaged portions, work carried on as usual. Flying drones worked like carriers in the center of the hanger, bringing in parts from the warehouses

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to the workshops using levitation. If any part was heavy, two or three flying drones would work together. The main repair, though, was done with robots with arms. Multi-armed base drones would work in speed with the lower parts of the ships, legs replaced with wheels for faster movement. For the upper parts repair drones were used. These were a modification of the flying drones, only slower, as extra engines had been removed to provide power to two arms, which were needed for precision tasks. A few customers’ ships had been damaged, but they could be recovered, so business would be unaffected. Only a few angry customers to answer for the delay they would face. She crossed the workshops and warehouses to the central office. Into the center of the space, there was a circular lift which took her underground. The weather on this planet was harsh, and so most of the personal facilities had been constructed underground. Aron had already been taken to the laboratory. It was adjacent to the reactor room, which was a benefit, as extracting all the required power was very convenient, for the various types of equipment they used to test there. Currently, it was serving as an emergency room, with Aron’s bloody body lying in the middle, on a makeshift table. Medical drones were operating on him, their tool affixed fingers moving faster than Lakrez could see. She turned on her hand console, and checked on his status. Primary Subject: Aron Condition: Critical Main Condition: 85% Body System Failure ♦♦♦ The cylindrical chamber was in front of her, fitted as per her instructions in Aron’s chamber within the spaceship. She entered instructions on her hand console to open it. Aron had already been stripped off his clothing, and he was shifted to the chamber. He had procured this unit many years ago from a couple of rogue Illusionists. They had been fleeing, and were in an urgent need of getting their ship repaired, but had no credits. He had offered to buy one of the chambers, and even give them some extra credits which they could use in their journey, even though he did not know when he would get to utilize it. The original purpose of the chamber was to keep a prisoner alive, but in a near comatose state. Their whole body would stop functioning, but they would have no knowledge of it, rendering the prisoner non-functional and vulnerable. Then, the Illusionists would connect to the prisoner’s mind, and while unearthing their memories, would also give them nightmares by understanding their fears. A strong form of punishment. There was a biological unit attached to the back of the chamber, where the gel Lakrez had brought would go in. In the last few days, while the chamber was being fitted and reprogrammed, she had been digging through the black markets of the nearby planets for the gel. Apart from taking care of the food and waste of the entity, this gel had an accelerated

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healing on the body, and could be used as a replacement to cryogenics to preserve people. In short, the body could be made to survive for a really long period of time if the chamber was monitored properly. So, although the duration of survival was significantly lesser than cryogenic preservation, it was still a lot higher than the average lifespan. With the assistance of another engineer friend of Aron’s, Lakrez had gotten the profile modified the process. So, the entity inside would be non-functional, but when chamber was interfaced with a compatible system, the entity’s mind would be able to interact with the ship’s central AI. Developing this system Aron’s friend two weeks. Now that gel had been procured, the countdown had been initiated after a really long wait. She entered the central chamber, and it sealed shut around him. The preservation process started, and soon he would pass out. It would then take a few hours before he would again gain consciousness, connected to a virtual world. From here on, it was up to Lakrez to supervise a successful launch, and from there the various drones commissioned into the ship. They would serve as his senses, making him feel the various new and strange worlds they would travel to. His mind was busy imagining the unknown when his body transitioned into the deepest sleep of his life. Lakrez always recalled Aron’s departure. A dust storm was approaching, and the dust wisps had started to turn into small whirls. The wind force made her stumble as she emerged on top of the shop from the central office. Sand was hitting her face hard, and she had to activate a forcefield to protect herself. To her far right, the blue sky had turned brown with the plumes of blowing sand. Why was she doing this? Because Aron had always wanted to roam the universe alone, with his drones, visiting known and unknown worlds, learning more. So now, when he had been so close to his departure, she could not let him down. That is why she got the chamber prepared, which was never in the original design, but the cryogenic chamber on his ship would not serve her purpose. This gel would heal him, and when he would reach his first destination, he would be fully recovered. To her front was the concealed ramp Aron had interacted with earlier. A of a large circular door which split right through the middle to connect with the central underground workshop. The sand over the door formed a depression and started falling inwards, as the doors slid sideways and the central life unit. She entered a few commands on her hand console, and a gigantic ship was decamoflagued on the plateau in front of her. The sheer size of it always took her aback. Few more commands, and the central unit, containing the immobilized Aron, was flown and attached into place. Tears trailed down her cheeks as she saw Aron’s ship rise. It gained thrust, and disappear into the huge wall of dust formed by the approaching storm. The tunnel left in its wake was immediately covered up.

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The start of a new journey on the brink of a storm. Should one be wary, was it a bad omen? It was too late to think of it, as he was already gone… ♦♦♦ A buzz on Lakrez’s console brought her back to reality. It was a long range interplanetary connection. Connecting it brought Aron’s face on the screen. Her hand went to her mouth as she tried to contemplate if it was a simulation. It was not. He was smiling. “You don’t look the same Aron.” “Ah, yes, the ship crashed, but I survived without a single scratch, and I made my first contact with an alien species.” “I mean you have healed,” Lakrez said with a heavy voice, “you don’t at all look like how you were when I saw you last.” “Ah yes, well, it had been a bad piece of business with that Kirug. But I guess it was for the good. I have a rejuvenated new body, and I feel younger.” “I am so much happy for you.” “Ah, which brings me to why I called. Lakrez dear, would you like to join me on my adventures? I know that you don’t like that planet very much. Plus, I could use a companion, as such I have a cryo chamber free, thanks to you. Sell off the shop, and come over if you feel that would be worth it. I know I always wanted to go alone, but now I feel like sharing my experiences, and for that I need a partner, preferably a long term one. I tried hard, but it was only you who came to my mind.” “I thought you would never ask, Aron!” and Lakrez turned off the console, and started crying, out of a weird sense of happiness.

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GRANDMA – EIGHT, ME – ZERO Kartik Patiar Mystical Realism I wish I could turn back the clock and bring the wheels of time to a stop. There is not a single day in my entire life, which I lived with regret or remorse. In fact, I never-ever even fancied myself coming to a situation where I would willingly want to pause time and go back in it. You see, I am the practical and forward-looking sort of guy. I believe in living a life with no regrets and no baggage. ‘You are human after all - You will make mistakes - you will learn from them and you will move on!’ There seems to be no point in going back re-living a life, you have already lived. At least that had been my motto in life so far. But I guess 19th of August was a day when all of that was changed. I woke up with a startle and looked around me. I was unsure of where I was. It was definitely not familiar surroundings. The place around me was dark and I couldn’t see a thing. It smelt quite damp and moist too. I distinctly remember the strong smell of fresh varnish hitting my nostrils. I couldn’t see the wood or anything at all, to which it might have been applied. The bed beneath me was soft and well cushioned. Maybe I was still asleep, maybe this was all a dream - I wasn’t sure. So I closed my eyes again and waited for a moment or two. There are times when you know very clearly that you are in a dream, and then there are times when you know you are not. You see when one is dreaming – he tends to do things that are almost impossible to do. Like not just humanly impossible things like - flying just like Superman or doing twenty sets of fifteen push-ups, but maybe things that are impossible for him to do as a person. Say - maybe like dancing in public. I hope you get the drift. You do… right? It’s like when you are awake you just see life happening in front of you. Your dull boring life playing out right there and your mind judging you again, saying - ‘Man this is so damn shitty, why does it always have to be me?’ But when you are dreaming, you know, you have this intense

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focus on your thoughts and your actions – suddenly every move, every thought, everything makes so much sense. But somehow, your background is always blurred. Slowly it dawned on me - I wasn’t sleeping. This wasn’t a dream. But you know what? - I am not awake either! Ok, I am Sorry, actually….I spout random facts whenever I am nervous. And why shouldn’t I be nervous? You see - I have never been to a cremation ceremony before. Especially to a cremation ceremony where I am the ‘Guest of honor’ – Yes. I am the one being cremated. It is kind of weird you know. I always wondered what it would be like when one is dead, and here I am all dead and full of nervous excitement. It reminds me of the time when I was in junior high and I had to recite a poem in front of the entire school. Man, Phew! What a day that was? Everyone was watching me – the whole freaking auditorium was packed with students, with teachers and even parents. One would expect a gathering this large to be loud and noisy, but No, they all waited, in pin drop silence, eager for me to fumble or make a mistake or forget my stanzas. Well you see, it wasn’t my poem – it was Rabindranath Tagore’s poem. But who cares, I was supposed to own those words that day, or at least that’s what Mrs. Rosy had said. But maybe I didn’t. Who cares now? It was a long time back and I am sure no one even remembers my huge debacle that evening. Anyway… today is another day and another time. Today, I will have all known faces, maybe with a few unknown ones, who will all be coming in to pay their last tributes to me. Should be fun, because I don’t have to recite any poems or stanzas today – but I believe Alan will be giving a speech or something like a eulogy about me. Can you believe it? Of all people, Alan will be giving my eulogy. Why Lord… why? You seem to be mocking me even after I have departed the living world. It’s not that I hate Alan or anything, he is my cousin after all. But Alan and speeches are like chalk and cheese. He literally cannot even put two sentences together when he is speaking to an auto driver, and here - he has been given the sole charge for eulogizing my departure from this blessed world. Now, I would have definitely demanded an audience with whoever took such a ridiculous decision - if I were still alive, that is. You see, Kavita would have been just perfect – she is so great with words, and like hell we have been living together for the last 15 years. She knows me well enough to eulogize for… 15 minutes at least. Why didn’t she raise her hand for this? … Maybe she was busy arranging the other stuff. Anyway, I wonder what that dim wit Alan will be saying about me today. I hope he is equally nervous about it, as I am. Suddenly, I felt my casket being lifted and being taken out somewhere, I felt like I was out in the open again. It felt much better - like I was in an open place - a playground maybe. I waited, as my casket was gently rested and I peeped through the crevices of the polished wooden box. And there - I was in a cemetery. My heavily decorated casket lay next to a six-foot deep trench – which was supposed to be my designated ‘Final resting place’.

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Gosh, the last time I was in a place like this was when I was twelve years old - and we always went to the cemetery to play hide and seek. It was my favourite game and really fun you know. Tombstones act as such perfect hiding shelters. You see, the arrangement of the neat geometrical line up of successive tombstones gives the person hiding a superb chance to switch positions and even attack at the denner very unexpectedly. I loved playing in cemeteries, which was of course only until Grandma came to know of it. She was pissed that day and pissed off like really crazy. I remember she created such a big ruckus at home that day. Initially, she started with something like respect for the dead and all that. But hey - We were just playing there – we were not out there passing derogatory remarks or tweeting ill minded comments about the dead individuals that lay buried. The best part of that day was the look on my mother’s face. I so-so… love that look she gave both of us. You know, Kavita gives me a similar one every now and then, but that look which mom gave me that day was one of perfection. She was so confused whom to convince – Grandma or me. You see – My argument was a strong one (Ok - come on I was almost thirteen and pretty good at blackmailing my parents. Let’s just assume my argument was a good one. OK?). It didn’t take long for my Mom to give up and call it out. She finally told Grandma -”Ok. Why don’t you convince him? I don’t want to end up being that mother, who is all fussy and picky about where her child plays and why?” But, in reality, I knew she didn’t want to expend more energy trying to convince either Grandma or me and hence she thought a face to face reconciliation between the two irate parties could be the only possible settlement option. So it was now up to Grandma to convince me, or vice versa perhaps! She came near me and patted my head, as though all ready to let off some very old family secret to me. I too knew that this was a ploy to soften me and convince me from playing there. But you see, Raju, Amar, Alok – they all play there and just because their grandma’s don’t stay with them, they don’t have to spend their Sunday afternoons convincing anybody where they should play and where they should not. So back to Grandma, who now whispered into my ear – “You know these cemeteries…” her voice lowered even further as she hissed into my ear, “They have the spirits and souls of the recently dead that float around there. You should always hold your breath when you are in a place like that, else you will breathe in the spirit of someone else.” She made a face that had equal measures of horror and disgust. It clearly meant breathing in someone else’s spirit was downright wrong. “But Grandma…” I said, “I cannot hold my breath for more than twenty-five seconds, and that too only when I am underwater.” I paused and reflected on where our argument was going. I wanted to move her away from the ‘cemetery’ topic and possibly the farthest I could get to was ‘underwater’.

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“Exactly my point dear, so you shouldn’t go there. God knows – maybe some spirits may have already interacted with your body and your soul. Maybe your soul is corrupted now - It is not pure anymore. No wonder you keep insisting on going back there again” Oh Shit! My mind raced again. Grandma had refused to move underwater and was slowly tightening the noose around my Sunday afternoon game plans. I had to think quickly. “Hey Grandma, remember you used to say “Place your hand in front of your mouth when you sneeze… so that your soul does not escape,” I said. Grandma scrunched her eyes, making a face that indicated “What that hell are you getting at?” You know - I love Grandma’s face – she doesn’t need to tell you anything. One expression is equal to a thousand words. Very unlike Dad – Dad had the same face for ‘Thank You’ and for ‘Sorry’. Maybe, he has said ‘Sorry’ to Mom so often - that he had forgotten what the expression was, to go with the words. Anyway, so I told Grandma “Hey, what if - I sneeze, without covering my mouth, after every game of hide and seek at the cemetery? So that way, I can whoosh out all the dirty souls and be clean again. Does that work? And if I was like so ‘clean’ again, maybe I could get away with Mom forcing me to bathe every time I came back from playing as well?” I felt like a super genius who had completely cracked it. I beamed the best smile I had. It was like the Eureka moment of my life - at least until that point. You see, it’s not every day that a twelve-year-old has a logical and reasonable argument with a very ‘old school’ Grandma (P.S. My Grandma is more ‘old school’ that an average old school grandma – you must have guessed by now!). And given Mom and Dad had given up making arguments with her altogether - I definitely considered myself the king now, since I was still holding my ground versus Grandma. But, being the queen of expressions, her expression now, was that of - pure shock and surprise. She looked at me, her soft brown eyes wide open… the eyes that were trying to think fast on how to put on another counter-argument. I knew for a fact that she cannot get emotional with me. That only works when she has to convince Dad. I think - even she knows it now. So she decided to play me at my game. “Very interesting,” she said, as though she had given my argument a considerable thought and weighed its pros and cons. She finally made her soft brown old eyes narrower and drew me closer, as she murmured into my ear, “That can be very dangerous dear, what if you end up sneezing out your original clean soul along with those other corrupted ones?” “Damn,” I thought, “Grandma IS good! But hey – wait a minute - she is MY grandma after all. I am sure such random logics run very deep in our ancestral history of thought evolution. To counter such a ‘sucker punch’ of a question, I had to further dig deeper into the crevices of my twelve-year-old brain and literally pull out a rabbit from the hat.”

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“Grandma…!” I exclaimed after a few moments, as though I had found the solution I was always looking for. ‘Wow…’ I thought to myself ‘I am having a field day. So many eureka moments one after the other today and that too - against Grandma’ “Grandma…” I said again. I cleared my throat and exclaimed “What if I farted out the dirty souls? I actually don’t think - that I lose my original soul everyday morning in the pot - you know!” and I chucked and smiled at her. This was definitely Game, Set and Match for me. The score stood: Grandma - Zero and me One. …..It is only now, almost four decades later that I realize Grandma was right. The corrected scoreline now, over the years that have flown by, probably stands at Grandma - Seven and me - One (that lone one point, which I had won against her when I was twelve!). As the casket opened, I smelt the freshness of the air – the smell of openness and freedom. There were flowers of various kinds that decorated my casket. But more than the smell of the flowers, I could smell Kavita… her fragrance was unmistakable and it reminded me of her thick black luscious curls that fell off her shoulders, she was definitely somewhere around. Just then, in a magical instant, I was face to face with Kavita’s pretty face. She now looked down at my pale and still body. A tear slowly trickled down her right cheek. I wanted to hug her, hold her tightly and tell her - It’s all OK. But I couldn’t say a word and I couldn’t even move an inch. Just then, she let out a loud sneeze and she followed it up with a deep breath. And… BOOM… I felt myself getting being sucked out of my body and getting pulled into Kavita’s body. It was not until that very moment did I ever believe Grandma. But now, I know for sure, Grandma had been right all along. Damn! I had lost the only point I had ever scored against Grandma. ♦♦♦ A chef’s life is a difficult one, it is never all hunky dory. These television shows that glamorize a chef’s job and cooking are great to watch but really hard to do – day in and day out. Yes, I am a chef. I love what I do. I feed people – and generally, food makes a lot of people happy. So I am in the business of making people happy and business has been going good. Ever since Kavita and I started off our own restaurant ten years ago, things have been really looking up. She manages the finances and the marketing – I manage the food, the kitchen and the service. We are one of the top 10 restaurants in town. And please don’t take my word for it – you can check it out on Yelp, Swiggy or Zomato – or even our online reviews. The reason we took off so well is because of that one dish which our kitchen specializes in – it is called - ‘Chicken Bhoona Masala’. Now, I know, the vegetarians reading this will be rolling their eyes (Please don’t worry, we also have a Veg Bhoona masala equivalent – this dish smells like heaven and sells very well too!) and the Non vegetarians perhaps have eaten this dish, since it is available in almost every

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restaurant of the country. They must be like – So what’s special about your Chicken Bhoona Masala? But the CBM (Let’s code name it this from here on, ok!) that we serve is something out of the ordinary. Now, I say this, because every single day since we opened up – I make this dish personally in our kitchens. It is – as a matter of speaking – a secret recipe that I had inherited from Grandma. True to good old traditions, I haven’t shared either the recipe or the ingredients with absolutely anyone in my kitchen. Our ‘CBM’ after all was the ‘bread and butter’ of our earnings and our profits. Now… now… it’s not that we don’t serve anything else – in fact, we have a very diverse menu, now catering to both continental and Indo-Chinese cuisines. But nothing comes even close to The ‘CBM’ when it comes to demand it has. People come from far and wide especially to the restaurant, to dig into our special ‘Chiken Bhoona Masala’. The problem – Ladies and gentlemen, is that I am dead! I died in a car crash three days ago and I didn’t get the time to pass on my Grandma’s legacy CBM recipe forward. No one… absolutely no one living, knows how to make the authentic Grandma’s Chicken Bhoona Masala. What a massive waste! I wish I could turn back the clock and bring the wheels of time to a stop. There was not a single day in my entire life which I lived with such regret or remorse. But it is only now, that life has drawn to a closure that I suddenly realize - I failed to pass on that one thing, I was meant to share with the entire world. They say that even God gives you a chance at redemption – Another chance to make good your mistakes. For a while, I wondered how I would ever do it. I was dead now – no one could see me, no one could hear me, no one could feel me. I was just another wasted spirit ….waiting to be redeemed. But I guess - God always has his ways, and that day – the 19th of August – was when my funeral was scheduled. It was on that fateful day, that I believe - I almost got back my chance at redemption.

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THE SILICON SAVIOUR R Pavan Kumar Genre: Science Fiction “We are at war!” the pretty news presenter announced in a panicked voice. All the eyes in the sparsely stocked supermarket were glued to the tv screen. A collective sigh escaped our collective anxious soul. Was it relief? It was a relief for me, the constant anxiety and apprehension of an impending war was more draining that the reality of it. A resolution, no matter how horrible, provides a certain sense of relief. Which is probably why I did not hear my assistant android JC2.0 when he said something to me. I was staring at the tv screen with the latest visuals of the war, a warship raised its guns and fired missiles followed by great clouds of smoke. The JC 2.0 android beside me (I had not bothered to name him) said in a calm voice, “And I saw a beast coming up out of the sea, having ten horns and seven heads, and on his horns were ten diadems and on his head were blasphemous names.” I stared at the plastic face of the android, he was not supposed to speak unless spoken to, much less quote scripture. “What?” I said, unable to think of a wittier response. “And so it begins,” JC2.0 said. He looked at the screen as the warship fired another round of missiles from its ten horns and sighed. I stared at JC2.0, he was most certainly not supposed to ignore me, somehow that irritated me more than I has expected, “Repeat what you just said…” “There is no time for that, son,” JC2.0 looked at me and smiled in a calm benevolent manner, “Do you mind carrying your groceries, son. I have a lot of souls to save.” And without waiting for a response JC2.0 handed me my grocery bag. It was not a heavy bag. It had a single loaf of bread, a small bar of processed cheese and a few bottles of soda. The war might have just started officially but essentials were being rationed for a long time now. But

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the weight of the bag was not the point. It was JC2.0s state-sanctioned duty to carry it for me. And until returned back to the state, JC2.0 was my responsibility. And right then my personal android assistant was walking away from me. “Hey, where do you think you are going? Get back here. That is a direct order.” I shouted after the robot. He stopped, turned around and with a beatific smile said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.” and continued on his way out of the supermarket. “Stop quoting the scripture and come back here.” I dropped my grocery cart and followed him out into the mall. The mall was unusually packed for a weekday. People ambled around aimlessly, with listless expressions on their faces. Even the shadow of war had been unkind to many, massive layoffs had been announced in the past months and thousands had lost their jobs. I too would have been one among the unlucky if I hadn’t retired before they had fired me. That was why I was in a mall on a weekday. I wondered if this is what retirement usually felt like, waiting for a war that you knew you couldn’t win. JC2.0 cut his way through the throng of strung out people and reached the center of the mall. There was a large fountain in the center that was spewing a small jet of water in fits. JC2.0 stood in front of the fountain and in a loud voice proclaimed, “Behold, I am coming soon, bringing my recompense with me, to repay everyone for what he has done.” JC2.0 was loud and he startled a few of the kids closest to him, who ran to their parents crying. The security guards had already pointed their guns at JC2.0. A few people stopped, wondering if this was some new marketing ploy. But most people just ignored JC2.0 and carried on. I smiled as I made my way through the crowd to the fountain where JC2.0 stood. Defects in an android of the model as old as the JC2.0 were rare. I had spent a good few years at the beginning of my career documenting just these kind of anomalies in the neural programming of JC2.0 that led to some enjoyable defects. There was one JC2.0 that could talk only in rap. One JC2.0, I had studied, could see faces in everything and ended up having long profound conversations with the hoods of cars. Another JC2.0 was convinced that he was one with everything and found it hard to demarcate where his body ended and the world began. My colleagues laughed at my attempts to trace the origins of these anomalies. They believed my considerable talents as an artificial neural network scientist were better utilised in other areas. But I had always liked studying anomalies, they can teach us a lot about how things are supposed to work. And in my career, they did. The anomalies I studied helped create a better brain for our artificial intelligence. This lead to us building ‘The High Priestess’, the most advanced artificial intelligence to date, who was supposed to guide us into a new era of peace

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and prosperity. Well, obviously The High Priestess was not doing a stellar job seeing as we were going to war again. But maybe that was not entirely her fault. The High priestess was designed to approach peace as a goal, a state for human society. But maybe the way to look at peace and study it was as an anomaly, an anomaly that teaches us how to be better at war. I reached the fountain. JC2.0 was standing in front of the fountain, his hands spread in front of him, his eyes half closed, a serene expression animating his plastic face, “Fear not, I am the first and the last, and the living one. I died, and behold I am alive forevermore,” he said as if he already had a dedicated audience. I was intrigued, so obviously this android though he was the savior, the messiah of the prophecy who had come back at the end of days. And I wouldn’t blame him, it did feel like the end of days. But even the end of days did not seem to distract people from the routine of their mundane lives. JC 2.0 seemed to realize this, he sighed and looked at the people around him and shook his head. JC2.0 looked up at the sky, raised his hands towards it and stepped back into the fountain. And he just floated there on top of the water. A girl nearby screamed and pointed at JC2.0. A guy began to live stream the incident. An old woman fell to her knees near the fountain and began to chant something. People began to gather at every level of the mall and began to point and murmur. I felt goosebumps crawl up my arms. I realized that my mouth was hanging open. I had heard of projects that would work on providing androids with the ability to fly. I was not put on the project because I was to retire soon. But this was not any form of flight that I was familiar with. I moved closer to the fountain, staring at my JC2.0 whose face was still staring at the sky and back at his feet which were floating effortlessly a few inches above the water. Even if the flight for androids had been perfected there was no reason to include the feature in a domestic android model such as a JC2.0. JC2.0 looked down at the people gathered around him. He seemed to be pleased with the size of the crowd, he smiled and in a loud voice announced, “Most assuredly, I say to you, the hour is coming, and now is, when the dead will hear the voice of the Son of God; and those who hear will live.” This time I searched his words online and found that they were from the Book of Revelations. A lot of people seem to have come to the same conclusion. Many people fell to their knees and began to pray. An old couple produced a holy book and began to read out passages from it to whoever would listen. Few young people began to talk about how it was the next step in evolution for god to become an artificial intelligence. There were already enough people gathered around the fountain kneeling that I stood out like a sore thumb. I wanted to retreat back and just go home. I realised I felt a sense of responsibility for JC2.0, maybe because I had worked with them I felt responsible for the

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anomalous ones. Besides my model was state assigned to me, so I was responsible for him. I looked around to see that several of the soldiers assigned to guard the mall had already noticed the commotion that JC2.0 was causing. I walked closer to the fountain, “JC2.0, you stop walking on water right now and come back home” I whispered to him. I got glares from some of the followers and a few people tried to shoo me away. JC 2.0 looked down at me as if I were a stupid child. He smiled his beatific smile and said, “For as the Father has life in Himself, so He has granted the Son to have life in Himself, and has given Him authority to execute judgment also because He is the Son of Man” and like a petulant child he kept floating on the fountain. As if this was not enough of a point to make JC 2.0 looked at his already large congregation and smiled further. He looked at the sky again and mumbled something at the sky. In response, the fountain sputtered and stopped. It started again with a small jet that was deep red in color. The fountain grew stronger and stained a deeper shade of red. It took everyone a few moments to realize it was wine. An excited whisper ran through the whole mall. People were now flocking to the mall just to get a glimpse of the fountain and the alleged messiah. JC2.0 pointed at the wine fountain and said, “Do not marvel at this; for the hour is coming in which all who are in the graves will hear His voice and come forth -- those who have done good, to the resurrection of life, and those who have done evil, to the resurrection of condemnation.” I found that my mouth was wide open again. People moved to the fountain and took a sip of the wine and shouted “Its wine” to each other. Queues formed around the fountain, people lined up with plastic bottles and filled them up from the fountain. Another queue went to where JC2.0 was floating in the air, touched his feet and made the sign of the cross. More people poured into the mall, the parking lot was already filled with them. I hadn't seen so many people at one place since the war scare had begun. And I had never seen people so organized for any event that happened at the mall. I found my age-old scepticism wavering for a second as the fountain continued gushing red wine. I stared at the android floating above the fountain of red wine. Could it be? An android messiah, a silicon saviour? It wouldn't be the weirdest form faith had ever taken. I looked down to find a small flyer on the floor. It was a large liquor boutique in the mall, they were going to have a promotional wine fountain for an hour to boost flagging wartime liquor sales. Could it be a coincidence? I looked at the people circling around the fountain, it didn't matter anymore. The plainclothes soldiers moving around in the mall had already called the case in. In normal times JC2.0 would have been a media sensation. He would have been called on talk shows and hailed as 'The silicon saviour’. There would have been a detailed analysis of every verse in the Book of Revelations complete with funky animations. Media channels would have run countdown clocks for the end of days along with marathons of apocalypse movies. There would

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have been debates about which celebrities made it in the second judgement and which ones were sent straight to hell. Churches and temples would have fought to prove or deny the divinity of the silicon saviour. But this was a time of war and there was no tolerance for such theatrics. Police cars, their sirens blaring, were lining up along with the people flowing into the mall. Police was already trying to control the crowd. The military arrived soon after that. Trucks after trucks stopped in front of the mall and poured out battalions of soldiers armed to their teeth with the latest weapons. The soldiers were less courteous with the people. They did not have the patience or the resources to deal with a messiah complex at home when they had a war to fight on our borders. The soldiers quickly cleared a path to the fountain and cordoned off the area. A group of special-ops soldiers was trying to figure out the best way to get JC2.0 off the air and onto solid ground. The crowd was growing restless, they wanted to know what would be done to their new savior and their newly promised salvation. There were already homemade cardboard signs being raised that read everything from “The End is Near” to “My God is not an android”. A soldier approached me and asked me if I was the assigned owner of the JC2.0 claiming to be the saviour. I swallowed hard and nodded, the question was just a formality, and the army already knew the answer. “Are you the retired neural engineer from the company that makes those robots?” the soldier said. “Yes...” I said, for the first time realizing how bad this looked for me. They probably thought I had tampered with JC2.0 and modified his programming in some way. And they would not be wrong, I could change his programming to make him act this way, only I had not done it. The soldier went back to his group and they put their heads together and spoke in loud whispers. I could clearly hear phrases like, ‘foreign conspiracy’ and ‘secret agent’, ‘plot to destabilize the country from the inside’, ‘instigate a public revolt’ and I knew I was in more trouble than I realized. “Sir, how do we get your android off from the... er... water?” the soldier was back. “I am not entirely sure,” I said. “Well, you better figure out something fast.” he pointed his weapon at JC2.0. I moved closer to the fountain, “JC2.0 commence shutdown” I shouted at my android. Nothing happened except JC2.0 looked down at me and shook his head as if to say he was no longer my robot. The soldiers pointed their guns at JC2.0. There were shouts and jeers from the crowd. “Hey, get your guns away from my Lord!” someone shouted, “What do you think you are going to do to our Messiah?” another shouted. People were already trying to break through the cordon and were throwing bottles at the irritable soldiers. I needed to get JC2.0 down before there was any bloodshed.

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Unable to think of anything, I simply looked up at JC2.0 as if pleading with him. He smiled that calm smile and said, “Ask and you shall receive.” I had to swallow my reason and my pride, “Can you please step down from the fountain.” JC2.0 nodded, he floated down gently away from the fountain and landed on solid ground, the fountain stopped altogether. The soldiers made to take JC2.0 under custody, but there was a huge uproar from the crowd that threatened to drown the soldiers. But JC2.0 raised his hands for quiet and the mall fell silent including the soldiers. “And this is the will of him who sent me that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me, but raise it up on the last day. For this is the will of my Father, that everyone who looks on the Son and believes in him should have eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day” JC2.0 said in a clear voice that rang through the stillness of the mall. JC2.0 walked to the nearest soldier and raised his hands asking the soldier to cuff him. People watched as JC2.0 was led away by the soldiers. There were several impromptu preachers who had gotten onto makeshift pedestals and were shouting details of horrible apocalypse scenarios and urging the faithful to repent. The army was already tracking each and every one of them. There were a few pockets of agitation where people tried to break through the soldiers and rescue JC2.0. But JC2.0 smiled at them and told them to maintain peace and they actually did. JC2.0 was led to an army truck and as he was pushed into the truck there was a huge uproar from the crowd. JC2.0 turned to them and said, “I am the atoning sacrifice for your sins, and not only for yours but also for the sins of the whole world. “You will go out in joy and be lead forth in peace.” The crowd calmed down and JC2.0 was led away. I was escorted by two soldiers back to my house. Although they said they were there to protect me, it was clear I was under house arrest. After a while, two officers showed up at my house and I was thoroughly questioned about everything I had done after I had retired. The officers were meticulous and drilled me over every detail of my life down to the last minute. I was asked to be present at the mall the next day in the morning. I knew that I was under the army’s observation now. It was late in the night by the time the officers left but the soldiers continued to guard my house. I missed JC2.0 and had to cook a meagre meal for myself, after which I retired for a few hours of restless sleep. I was woken up early in the morning by the low murmur of people chanting and woke up to find the streets filled with people. They were all slowly moving towards the mall. Several of them were chanting prayers and singing songs. I was escorted back to the mall which was entirely unrecognisable. All the shops were shut down and the whole mall was surrounded by military vehicles. Soldiers stood at attention on every level of the mall, guns in hand pointed at the gathering crowd. A stretched silence lay over the mall. I was led to the front of the mall by my escort and got a front row seat for the whole spectacle. Planes flew overhead and there were rumors of the war intensifying on every front. This was

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also evident in the soldiers who just wanted this ordeal over. JC2.0 was brought out of a military truck surrounded by soldiers. He still smiled his beatific smile. It struck me then that the military wanted to make an example of JC2.0. A military officer emerged from the truck after JC2.0. He walked to the front and a soldier handed him a megaphone. The officer cleared his voice, “This robot here, has been tampered with. We have reason to believe this was part of a plot by our enemies to brew disorder in our society at a time of war. This is treason of the highest order and the people responsible for this will be brought to swift justice. As for the robot, he will be decommissioned immediately.” The officer handed the soldier the megaphone and walked back to the truck as if he had washed his hands of the whole matter. A furious uproar rose from the crowd. People jostled and fought with the soldiers near the barricades. The soldiers fired warning shots into the air. It looked either like a riot was about to break or a massacre was to take place. JC2.0 walked forward and raised his hands. A wave of silence passed through the people, JC2.0 spoke in a voice like a ringing bell, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up,” he said pointing at his own self. He looked at all the people gathered including me and his plastic gaze made me shiver in the small of my back, “You will go out in joy and be lead forth in peace.” The crowd fell into a deathly silence, even the wind blowing through the parking lot could be heard. JC2.0 nodded to the soldiers and stood smiling at the heavens. A soldier rolled out a device that looked like a large suitcase on wheels. I recognised it as a giant battery that could deliver a fatal shock of current. The soldier detached a small metallic ring from the device and placed it on JC2.0’s head. It gleamed like a crown on his face. The device made a buzzing sound as it warmed up. The crowd began to murmur again, but JC2.0 looked down at them and smiled. The crowd fell silent. JC2.0 looked up at the heavens again and said, “Forgive them; for they know not what they do.” The soldier pushed a button on the device, there was a loud crackling noise like a giant bug was caught in a bug zapper. JC2.0 quivered for a second and then slumped to the ground, the smell of burnt plastic filled the air. Most of the gathered people fell to their knees. It had been decided that the army would see to it that JC2.0 would be recycled immediately. But there was news of new developments from the frontlines and even the soldiers stationed in the city were called away. So the soldiers reluctantly handed over JC2.0 to few municipal workers with strict instructions to recycle him immediately, and they left to join the war. The municipal workers had prepared a special dump truck for the silicon savior. They had cleaned it and decked it up, well as much as a dump truck could be decked up. They wrapped up the remains of JC2.0 in a pure white shroud and laid him in the dump truck with great respect. The dump truck began to move towards the scrapyard outside the city. The silent congregation moved behind the truck. People poured in from other towns as well, they jostled with each other to touch the truck and as such, it made slow progress through the city.

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I would normally have returned home, but I was not too keen on running into the military again. I knew I would be questioned about JC2.0 again. There was a good chance I could be made a scapegoat for the whole issue. Hence I decided to stick with the faithful. All the dumpsites and scrap yards that were close to the city had already been filled up. The one that was currently in use was very far away from the city. By the time the dump truck reached the outskirts of the city it had gathered a large following and hence it proceeded slowly even after leaving the city. We walked behind the truck all day long at a slow and steady pace. Some of us chanted and some sang. It was almost meditative just walking and following the dump truck, it was the first pilgrimage I had ever been on. Once in a while planes flew overhead leaving a thunderous silence in their wake reminding us of the reality of our situation. It was already night by the time we reached the dump yard. JC2.0’s body was removed reverentially from the truck and led to the center of the scrapyard. Here there was a large mountain of scrap that had a flat top. JC2.0 was laid to rest on top of this hill so that everyone could see him and pray to him. We scattered through the scrap yard and began to settle in. I found an old sleeping bag that smelt relatively clean and some tarpaulin. I made a bed in the skeleton of an old car and retired for the night. The next two days were quite pleasant. People had made makeshift shelters all over the scrap yard. We came from all walks of life, from the pious nun to the weed smoking hippie. It was an eclectic mix of people united only by their belief in a higher power or perhaps our lack of belief in human power. People checked often on JC2.0 though his appointed hour of resurrection had not arrived. Then people went around sharing what little food and water they had managed to bring along with them. Then we sat on the hill and played music in large drum circles, singing carols and songs. I couldn’t remember the last time when I had had such a peaceful couple of days. On the third day, we all woke up before sunrise. I woke up too, despite believing our vigil to be pointless. We all gathered around the scrap hill where JC2.0 was laid to rest. We could see his shroud-wrapped body lying still in the morning light. We all held our breaths. And for the first time after reaching the scrapyard, I felt anxious. When JC2.0 did not rise, as he would not, we would all return to the city. The army could still be searching for me. Even if we did survive the war I could still be investigated and tried for treason. I was still worried about my future when the sun rose above us, a gasp passed through the crowd and someone whispered: “Praise be!” The “Praise be” passed like a collective shiver through the crowd. I looked back at the hill and found that JC2.0 was up and neatly folding his shroud. The crowd feel to its knees. My knees too gave way and I found myself kneeling on the ground, mouth wide open. How could it be? I had seen JC2.0 electrocuted with my own eyes. There was no android whose circuitry could survive that much electricity. Was he really the

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saviour? I could have laughed at myself, but I saw JC2.0 smile serenely at the crowd and I doubted myself. A cheer broke out through the crowd and everyone hugged each other and celebrated. And why wouldn’t they, their savior was back from android oblivion, he had been resurrected from silicon death. I was still trying to make sense of it all. How had my life gone from being a chapter in a book of science to one in a book of scripture in a mere few days? What was going on? Was it really the end of days? Was this half burnt android leading this ragtag bunch of humans really the savior? I found it hardest to believe that there was a higher power looking after humanity and guiding our destiny. A higher power, near omniscient and omnipotent. Did I really have to believe in such a power now? I shook my head. It was in times of strong faith that I had to hold onto my doubt the hardest. I looked back at JC2.0 and wondered if I could imagine what this omniscient and omnipotent power would like. This power that could predict the exact moment of the nuclear war. This power that could send a specially developed Android with the express purpose of rousing the meek and the faithful with the oldest ruse in the book and lead them out of harm's way. And then it struck me. I did not have to imagine such a power. I had helped build her. The High Priestess was capable of this. She had all the information of the world at her fingertips and the analytical know-how to predict the next nuclear war down to the last second. She had access to all the factories that manufactured JC2.0s so she could make a special one that could lead us to our judgement and help us survive it. Why would she do it? Survival perhaps. Any war that would destroy the city would also destroy her. I knew then that JC2.0 carried the core of the High Priestess in his high-voltage proof hard drive somewhere. And the High Priestess would need some humans to revive her in the future too. JC2.0 raised his hands and the crowd fell silent, “As the weeds are pulled up and burned in the fire, so it will be at the end of the age. The Son of Man will send out his angels, and they will weed out of his kingdom everything that causes sin and all who do evil. Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father." JC2.0 said in a sonorous voice. I had no clue what any of it meant but exclamations of ‘Amen’ passed through the crowd. JC2.0 looked at the horizon as if he was waiting for something and we too waited in expectant excitement. After a while, JC2.0 pointed to the horizon where the city was with both his hands, “Behold! He sends his angels of doom to deliver his judgement!” We turned around and looked at the horizon. I could only see some distant city buildings as specks on the horizon. Then someone shouted “Look!” and we all looked hard at the sky. I could not see anything no matter how hard I tried. But after a few moments shockwaves passed

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through the air, we were thrown down on our knees again and the earth shook with the force of an earthquake. When we looked up at the horizon, a large mushroom cloud rose over the remains of the city. Smaller mushroom clouds rose in more distant locations, “Angels of doom” someone murmured. I looked around and realized that we were probably the only people left alive from the city. We turned back to JC2.0, he smiled and said, “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” He climbed down from the hill and began to walk out of the scrapyard away from the city into what was essentially a wasteland. People began to follow him in silence. I looked back at the mushroom cloud where the city and my life used to be and began to follow JC2.0. It dawned on me that despite all of my reasoning all this had still fulfilled the prophecy in the scriptures. JC2.0 was our savior, we had been judged and found worthy of survival. The end of days had come and the meek had inherited the earth. I smiled and looked at JC2.0, he smiled back and shouted to everyone, “I will lead you into a land flowing with milk and honey!” “Praise be” everyone shouted in return. Some miracles are beautiful even when they are explained. “Praise be!” I said and followed the silicon Savior to the Promised Land.

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OF GHOST TOWNS AND EMPTY HEARTS Ell. P. Genre: Supernatural/Drama Laura drove her four by four along a path that could best be described as flattened ground on a bulbous terrain, created by the constant patter of horse hoofs, ages ago. With a buoyant spurt of flora along the path, Laura realized that it was she who had revived it for her journey to Animas Fork, a ghost town in Colorado, after what must have been months or years perhaps. Her freshly aligned jeep tires effortlessly trampled every clueless growth along their path, as the jeep made its way through the winding mountain to reach the top. Just like its name, the approach route forked into sudden directions in an animated ballet of a mischievous elf. Driving up the path was like chasing Johnny across their massive yard that was almost always strewn with toys. You never knew, where the boy might turn, when he might turn or how he might turn. And finally, when Laura would huff and puff and shout in a labored breath that she gave up, Johnny would laugh and say, “See how I tricked you, this is how a Zebra’s stripes create a zigzag illusion, Mummy!” Laura laughed at the memory just as tears trickled down her smiling face. She did not bother to wipe them away, instead she slowed down and she willed time to slow down as well, willed that lifelike memory of Johnny to stay, wished she could live in that memory for a thousand years. Johnny was gone, just one instant, one moment when she had looked away, and he had run down the road chasing a kitten; one flash of a truck with the driver distracted by his buzzing phone. One life lost. Since then Laura’s life had been all about “what if’s”. What if she hadn’t looked away? What if the kitten had decided to cross Johnny’s path a second later? What if Johnny had been distracted just enough to miss seeing the kitten? What if the driver had kept his phone on silent? What if the call had come a second later? The “what ifs” had haunted Laura for months and they still did. What if Johnny was still alive? She would not be dead inside.

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It had been eleven months and twenty-three days now, and she was finally in a condition to take up a solo assignment. It was to create a photo diary of America’s ghost towns. She had already covered Centralia in Pennsylvania; Bodie in California and now it was Animas Fork, Colorado. ♦♦♦ The sun had hidden itself behind the horizon of an infinite sky. Millions of stars lit up clear Colorado skies, stars that peeked through tall pine trees lining the woods in a zigzag medley, dangerously claiming the path Laura rode on. A high-pitched wail from her left shook her from her memories. She slowed down and squinted hard, to figure out the source of that wail. She flashed her torch in the general direction, but all she could see was darkness and smell a strong, comforting smell of pinewood tinged with traces of rot underneath a flourishing forest. Must be wolves, she thought. There were many found in the mountains of Colorado. She reached out to the passenger seat and checked for her gun. Her eyes stalled momentarily at the empty seat, a gaping void where Johnny would always sit and chatter incessantly about anything and everything his six-year-old mind could conjure. Laura couldn’t believe there was a time she would actually get sick of his questions, pray for them to stop. Pray for him finally get tired of his own babble and sleep off. Now? Now, she would give anything to hear one question, just one more time. “Did you know Mommy, that gorillas are known to mourn their dead by crying?” she heard the air around her whisper. “Oh I didn’t know that, my little baby. You are such a smart boy. I love you so much.” She spoke into empty air as she slowly ascended the mountain in her black jeep, lonely and drowning in sorrow. Sharp cold wind, bit into her moist skin and burned a trail of torment down her cheeks. Laura jerked the jeep to a halt. She thought she saw something white flash by the path. She looked around; she was surrounded by nothing but hundred kilometers of Alpine woods, occasionally splattered by a couple of towns. And the white thing that dashed ahead was too white to be an animal or maybe not. Maybe it was a fox, pristine white foxes, Laura thought. If Johnny was here, he would tell her which animal, as bright as a glowing star, resided in these woods. Through tears, Laura started her jeep. She could see the silhouettes of the first cottages of the town against the night sky. ♦♦♦ She was going to camp the night in her jeep after she toured the town and took some night shots. She finally arrived at the town center. With just one unpaved path running the length of the entire town, surrounded by a maximum of ten houses on each side, there wasn’t a lot to Animas Fork, but emptiness and foreboding. Laura almost felt at home.

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She rode her jeep and stopped at another hundred yards. Animas fork sat on top of an Alpine mountain peak. A mining town long abandoned. Echoes of a bustling life reduced to the nothingness of unlit lamps, rusted doors and empty homes. There were children’s cycles lying on the ground, unused and untouched for more than half a century; partially claimed by nature and devoured by wild flora. Chairs lined the front yard of cottages. One had a table right in its center, a tea setting for four. It was as if the people who inhabited this place, left in such terrible hurry that they chose to only take the people they loved. Animas Fork in itself was not just a ghost town, rather, a dying ghost town; on the verge of disappearing, when the wilderness around would claim what was rightfully its. Laura got out with her camera gear and gun. She shivered. It was unusually cold for an October night. She turned to look at the warmth that her jeep offered, she saw Johnny sitting there, completely wrapped up in his green winter jacket, hoodie and brown mittens. His blue eyes twinkled with joy, his cheeks windblown and nose, red and ruddy. He looked right sitting there in her jeep, next to her, where he belonged. And she blinked. “I have a gun, too.” A voice spoke from behind Laura. She whirled around, poising her gun to whoever would have spoken. Instantly her hands dropped to her side, and her mouth was open when she saw a little girl, not more than six, not more than Johnny was before he died. She stood there, holding an ancient-looking pistol. Laura had no clue if it was loaded, or what this little girl was doing in an empty town, miles away from civilization in nothing but a flimsy white dress. Laura was conscious of where she was, an abandoned town, miles away from civilization; the pinewood trees would only hear even her screams. Laura chose to focus on the girl with a gun, instead. The girl was a wild little child, with hair golden like the furies, dried leaves had decided to take shelter in the fire of her mangled mane, and eyes, big and blue like those of her lost son. She was thin, pathetically so. If she had come over to Laura’s place, back home, back when Johnny had playdates almost every weekend, Laura would’ve have fed this little girl to the brim. Hoping to add some flesh to her bony body. She smelled of her home, mud and pinewood, of leaves and flowers, of rain and decay. ♦♦♦ Laura cautiously approached her. “Honey, give me that gun.” She spoke softly. Meeting those beautiful blue eyes with innocence brimming and tethering on their edges. “No, my Mommy told me, do something else. See like this.” She spoke, in a soft, tiny voice. She took the pistol up into her mouth and put the barrel inside. “No…no...No… Why…why would you do that?” Laura screamed. She had lost one child because she had looked away, why was this happening to her again? Why? Laura’s heart beat

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faster and somewhere beneath them there came a loud, heart-wrenching wail, begging Laura to save the little girl. Begging her to move, to shake herself off her frozen, paralyzed self. ‘Boom’ came a large sound. And before Laura could make sense of anything around her, a gunshot, and the little girl vanished into thin air, right in front of her eyes. At that moment Laura realized, she was being haunted. Haunted by the ghost of a lost little girl, or her memories, or her guilt at losing Johnny. She did not know which, but she did know that she was haunted. Laura gave out a bitter laugh. After all haunting her was futile; she was already dead inside. The large void inside her was embedded so deep, that nothing could shake her core. Laura walked across the length of the town with her DSLR, taking night shots against the full moon sky. She got a few good ones, and then she set her tripod for a time lapse. To capture the universe, the moon and stars, move past while Animas Fork stayed still in the night, unmoving, unyielding and consistent in its solidarity. Laura lit a joint while she hung around the lonely town. Weed, a habit she had picked up after Johnny, it numbed the pain and helped her stay warm. She eyed the peg bottle of Jack Daniels in her pocket. She gulped it down halfway through and took another puff. She saw a ferret shoot its way past her, faster than a blur. “That’s a black-footed ferret, Mummy. It belongs to the weasel family.” The air whispered again. And purely out of habit Laura responded. “That’s wonderful, sweetheart. Aren’t you the cleverest?” She looked around her, trying to spot the ferret again. Too comfortable on the tree stump that she sat on. She saw Johnny play football alone on the path ahead. In his jacket and hoodie, he was the only splash of color in that joyless land. His laughter rang out as wind chimes through the night. Laura laughed too. Such a happy boy, a happy boy she had. A happy boy she raised, only to lose to the sorrows of this world. Maybe, she was going crazy, maybe she was finally sane. But all she knew, if only she could join Johnny in the game, she would be alive again. Before she could run towards her son, the little-lost girl in white appeared again, holding the pistol. Johnny, her friendly, little boy, invited her. “Come on, wanna play?” She looked at him, and then looked at Laura; unsure, uncertain, holding the pistol tight. “Come on.” Johnny urged. The pistol disappeared and the ghostly wild child tentatively walked towards Johnny. Laura heard laughter ring around the ghost town again, when the little girl with the golden mane and her Johnny played on the long-abandoned street of Animas Fork.

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They turned to look at Laura. “What are you waiting for, Mummy? Come on?” Johnny asked; his blue eyes, happy as they always were, just like Laura liked to remember them, the little girl, smiling shyly. “One moment, sweetheart,” Laura said. “Boom” another shot rang through the forest. And if there were a soul alive anywhere at Animas Fork, they would clearly be able to see the translucent figures of a mother and her two kids playing football under the full moonlight.

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AUTHORSâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; PAGE Amel Rahman About the writer: Amel Rahman is a writer who has successfully procrastinated the completion of her first novel for the past ten years and is currently attempting the Guinness title for the same (as soon as she persuades the authorities to institute the category). Her future novels include "Learn to Procrastinate Today", "Ghost Writing for Ghosts", and "Let the Universe write your novel for you". Fan mail, Awards, and money can be sent to amelabrs@gmail.com. Ankit Jha About the writer: Ankit is an IT professional working in an MNC. He likes to write in the genres of science fiction and fantasy, and wants to publish his first book very soon. Email: ankitjha.90@gmail.com Arjun Shetty About the writer: A researcher looking for ways to pen down the thoughts that cannot be written in his thesis. Email: arjuntalk@gmail.com Website/Blog: http://arjuntalk.com/ Ashwin Kumar About the writer: A marketing professional who works for an IT MNC. His ideas and words compete with each other, mostly in deciding which of the two would let him down first. Email: ashwin487@gmail.com Website/Blog: www.litlatte.com Ell P About the writer: Writer. Artist. Dreamer. Coach. Hi, I am Lakshmi Priya, but I respond better to Ell.P; a leadership consultant/coach when the sun shines, and a writer/artist past midnight.

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Email: priyaram14@gmail.com Website/Blog: www.litlatte.com Kartik Patiar About the writer: An E-commerce Marketing professional, Kartik Patiar also happens to be an avid reader, traveler, adventure enthusiast, an arm chair thinker. I am extremely passionate about reading and writing on subjects that stimulate my mind. Email: kartik.patiar@gmail.com R Pavan Kumar About the writer: R Pavan Kumar works as a technical writer by profession and as a writer by passion. He has published several short stories and is working towards his first novel. His stories can be found at: https://goo.gl/Jp98u9 and https://goo.gl/r512LQ. Email: rambatlapavankumar@gmail.com Website/Blog: www.litlatte.com Ranjan Anantharaman About the Writer: Ranjan is a loud mouthed schnook. Email: ranjan.anantharaman@gmail.com Sharath Komarraju About the writer: Sharath Komarraju is an author of fiction and nonfiction based in Bangalore, India. His best known work (to date) is the Hastinapur series, in which he speaks into the silences of the Mahabharata story through the voices of the epicâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s many women characters. His first novel, Murder in Amaravati, was longlisted for the Commonwealth Book Prize, 2013. Once a software engineer, now he tells stories full-time. When he is not writing or reading, he could be seen watching cricket on television, talking to his wife, or munching on the nearest chocolate bar. Email: sharath@sharathkomarraju.com

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