Stories

There Is Life Hidden In All The Stories We Read... The Pain and Happiness Being The Contributing Factors With The Explosion Of A Million Feelings....

SOME DAY

KRISHNA J NAIR

All the memories remain scattered; and I wish they would disappear rather than join to become the perfect puzzle. We were the odd piece, and now only I remain, staring at what could’ve been, if we two had joined. The impression of his head on my shoulder remains, as he moves away from my sight.

Few years of spontaneous and blissful reactions would be the perfect explanation of what existed in the face of humanity. Endless talks, priceless moments and piercing smiles. The tattoo of these remains still in my heart, as scarred as it is. The scar through which he escaped from my little sense of imaginations.

His old shirt still smell of detergent and perfume, with a speck of hair gel. It is wrinkled and covered in dirt. But the perfumes holds me like marijuana.

It was the first day of the tour; our little world tour. Backpacks and cameras hung on us, as our hands held onto each other. We feared the world, of course, for we didn’t know what awaited us. Us, just two wanderers, capturing the faces of humanity and beading it with words of mankind.

And now, I stand on the midway, staring at a Polaroid photo of ours. And the memories fade from the film, as you move away from me.

A moment of betrayal, that’s all it took. A sweet betrayal, to be precise. To surprise me with a red velvet cake with vanilla icing. You knew as I munched into it, my teeth would come across something hard, and I would poke around the cake. Then my hands would pop out with a ring, and you would say “Yes, I’ll marry you, but will you do the same?” and would laugh. Both our eyes would be filled with tears, and we would embrace each other as the three letters you craved to hear the whole evening spilled out of my mouth : Yes.

And my fingers would tremble, etching down a story of our journey, from a rickshaw, to horseback and furthermore. With the ups and downs, the essence and the defects.

Us, two flawed humans, joining to be even more flawed, so flawed, eventually we’d be flawless.

And then, I saw you again on the other side of the window; your chest, where I rested my head that morning, now covered in something that looked so close to the  batter of red velvet. And my fingers tremble again to the pace of the heartbeat. And as my heart quickens, yours stop. ‘One flaw down,’ I hear someone say.

Maybe it was my inner conscience speaking to me; or it was the maddening thought of being left alone after years of yes and elevations. Now images flash by my eyes, all the horse rides and the short walks under the lamp of the street where we captured the soul of the city hidden under the arms of monsters.

I see you move away from me, the Polaroid fading, and my eyes closing. But the memories remain close to my heart. And I know one thing for sure; we’ll meet again in some world, some day.

NINE MONTHS OF SECRETS

KRISHNA J NAIR

There’s a cold war between us, a silent struggle on who will go first. Will we ever meet again? It’s been only nine months, but it seems like a millennium.

It seems as though it was just yesterday we met. When did we meet really? I can’t remember much. We communicate in a language of our own. All around is red darkness; and some days we hear the sound of a man singing. He also goes by the name “Papa”.

“What do you think will be out there?!” she asks me, all excited. She is few minutes younger than me. I also heard Papa say I am a boy. I wonder what this is like.

“A mysterious world...” I tell her with a booming voice, and I notice her eyes spark up. “Papa will be a nice guy, and the woman in whom we are now in is also going to be nice. I think her name is ‘Mama’.”

“Such a sweet name!” she says with a glee. “I wish I could go first...”

“I called dibs! You can’t just take over,” I giggle. Sometimes, I wonder what is out there. Will she and I ever meet again? Will the people out there call us names? Is it a scary world?

I listen to the news too, about the killings and fights. I don’t know what they mean... but one day I heard Papa cry. He was sad, and he whispered to Mama to keep us safe. We haven’t heard from him in a long time; but the last time he was here, he touched the wall and kissed it. We were happy too! I thought it was funny, about how we are separated by a wall.

“I bet there is going to be a candy town out there,” she says as she kicks on the wall. Mama slightly touches her belly; we can feel it too. She kicks again.

“Stop doing that! It might hurt Mama!” I yell at her. Our language is so fun. 

“It’s so squishy!” she laughs. I wonder how Mama and Papa are going to put up with her. I sometimes wonder if she’ll be safe out there, which was also the reason why I told her I would go out first. I want to make sure everything is perfect for my princess. And that she’ll be loved by all. She is beautiful. 

The walls are colliding... I hear Mama scream to. I wonder where is Papa; did he leave us? Is he fighting and killing? I need to learn those words as soon as I get out there. The walls are coming closer. She is getting more scared. I hug her tightly. “Be strong princess! I’ll make everything out there just perfect for you. You just stay here for a while, okay?” 

She looks at me with watery eyes; I can tell she is scared of being alone in such a small room. “You will survive,” I tell her with a reassuring smile. “See you on the other side!” she says out loud as I leave. 

The walls are getting more closer, and I feel like being strangled. I kick the walls as I go, so my princess wouldn't be hurt. I hear Mama scream loud and some guy say “push.” I hope that is Papa. 

Everything around is white, and my eyes hurt. I feel as though I am going to burst; so I yell out loud. They all clap and smile, and I wonder why they are happy in my misery. They take me away from my princess, and I keep on screaming. “Take her to me!” I yell at them, but they just keep on laughing, pampering me with a towel. I kick one of them, and she just laughs. It is a weird world. I loved being in the red wall room. 

I see my sister emerge, and she is crying too. Finally, my princess and I reunite. Everyone around us is happy, and they keep playing with us. We feel like film stars, and it is the best.

In An Unjust World

Krishna J Nair

That day, I saw him answer to the judge’s question.

It was my fault. I taught him to be bold and to react, to dream and to think. That day, the lessons failed me. And I, his master, failed him.

His eyes dawn upon me, helplessly. He is not native to this country. His ancestors ruled us years ago; and I began to rule him ten years ago. Better yet, I became his friend. He was fifteen, and I was twenty five. I taught him pickup lines when he taught me cool stuffs. We became each others’ master.

He first walked to my room with a camera bag and a hard disk. “View my photos and give me a chance.” He didn’t even have a beard back then/ His eyes glowed reading my name on the plaque that stood on my desk. “Farooq Shah.” Beneath each picture, his name was embedded, “Stanley Schiffer.” His view of sunset became my personal favourite, and I decided to be the wind beneath his wings.

We travelled the world with cameras and lenses, we saw the world in a perspective others couldn’t see. We became the dream catchers of the nature, each caught up on the ink imprinted in a photo paper. While we spent our life trying to bead the stories of each city, we forgot to dream. In those moments we found our will to leave; the firework to beat the darkest shadow. People of Palastine smiled for us, the saints of Shanghai opened their eyes for the lens, and the Llamas of Himalaya became the new trend.

Llamas of Himalaya. It was the day we set foot to India/ My home country, and his ancestor’s favourite nightmare. We deciphered the cave painting while we walked with lamp torches. We taught them about the state of being fearless; my first big mistake.

We went to the west and saw the deserts. We ran to the east to escape the heat, and ended up craving for Pani Puris. We stayed at the centre for a while, which was my second mistake.

“I’ll bring us some food. Why don’t you get some rest?” Stanley asked, tying up his shoelace.

“I have to send the photos to the studio. Oh, and no more pani puris. I can’t get addicted to them,” I told him with a laugh.

“Yes boss,” he replied with a smile.

Then I saw him, stranded on the street with a woman lying on his feet. He had dropped the food packets on seeing her. His trembling fingers stalked my number, and I ran for him. Shaking, sweating... he stood like a clueless child.

“Did you do this?” I asked him, looking at the woman lying down like a piece of flesh. Her face smeared with dirt and blood, her eyes empty of wishes. I noticed his jacket lying on her bare body.

“No!” he yelled. “We need to take her to the hospital.” I agreed with him.

No vehicle stopped for us. All men and women looked at us, some yelling words in Hindi. We didn’t understand them, for my second language wasn’t my national language, but my own mother tongue. Someone mentioned a hospital two kilometres away. And so we walked, holding her blood drenched legs with our hands. Soon, the cops came, and then the media. I heard one say that we are the rapists. Moments later, I broke a finger and the journalist walked out with a bloody nose.

I overheard a senior officer mention the name of the person behind the unjust act, a name so famous it shouldn’t be heard in the court. Stanley and I stood, clueless and hopeless. In my arm, a voice recorder rested.

“Did you see the person behind this?” The judge asked. I mentioned the name, and the whole court simmered down to silence. “Is there any evidence?” Judge asked again, and I presented before him, the voice recorder. He listened to them silently with earphones. “Not enough evidence,” the judge concluded. “Detain these men for a week and release them to their state of origin. Court is adjourned.”

I heard a woman wail and a man faint. They say he is a heart patient and the girl’s father. Stanley and I stood both helpless, like the cold body of the girl.

OPEN ARMS

Krishna J Nair

It was seventeen years ago when I saw my father sit helplessly in front of the steering wheel. I must’ve been five, and he a man of wealth and happy life. The thought of that day hits me hard now. When I asked him why he was crying, that day he told me I was too young to understand. His hands slipped away from my tiny arms, and I never knew why. 

I always hear people tell me I observe everything with the eye of a hawk. Is that why a scene that took place that long ago registered my mind with such perfection? My old man is sitting next to me, sipping his coffee and watching a lonely bird build a nest. They both had the same sense of emotions in their eyes, as though they felt a connection. 

“Dad,” I tried to capture his attention from bird watching. “What happened to you seventeen years ago?”

He looked at me, and in my eyes he saw a ghost. His expression said otherwise. 

“Hmm...’ He mumbled. “Why do you ask, Kenny?”

“I remember when you sat on the driver’s seat crying, and that just popped into my mind today.”

“Do you remember where we were?” he asked. I said I remembered a hospital sigh. “You remember a bit too much Kenny, your mother did too.”

My mother. I haven’t seen her for a long time, and all I knew about her was very little, and I’d never asked what happened. 

“You were five years old, weren’t you?” he asked, and I nodded. “That day, I lost something that was precious to me and to you; your mother.” He sat silent for a moment, giving me some time to register the thought. 

“What happened?” I asked, curious again.

“She took the wrong medicine, her heart rate dropped, and she bid us a farewell, only we were late to the party before she parted.”

“So you broke down and told me that I was too young to understand anything,” I replied. 

“No, that wasn’t it. I didn’t shed a drop of tear. Not even a teardrop from heaven. I stood still, I looked petrified; and she, your mother, had the most peaceful smile. I didn’t cry because I knew she wouldn’t want that. 

“Then what happened?” 

“The doctors were too concerned about my reaction that they sent me to a therapist. I asked you to wait in the lobby of the hospital with a nurse.” 

I had a souvenir from that day, a doctor’s mask they kept in a box at the end of the reception. 

“I was hard to break, harder than a diamond. The doctor began his session, and his words were: ‘you will never see her again, Issac.’ I remained calm, and he continued: ‘no more slow dance under the fireworks, no more long drives with your son...’ I stopped him right there and asked him what he wanted. He wanted my reaction, and so I gave him mine: ‘The brain works for seven minutes after death. All the synapses finally go to sleep, and that’s when the person sees the things they want to see at last. I’m sure she had seen me smiling with my son when he was born, and that is enough for me. If she had lived to see my death, she would’ve been a mess with no one to comfort her but our son, and he would’ve been a mess too. Now? I can live peacefully knowing that the woman who loved me more than anyone did, will never have to bear the pain of my funeral. That is fine by me, that is all I need to know for me to keep my emotions together.’ I shook his arms and left the room. But his words were alcohol. It took me some time to register what he said, and that broke me down and I cried.” 

My dad smiled. He got up and left the chair, all while moving an inch closer to the window where the bird had began to build a nest. The bird and my father shared something, he and I knew it well. 

After all the rise and fall in his life, he raised a son who wished to conquer the world, and he set me a world to conquer with nothing but love. I was made of the better half of my mother and my father; and I, a son, gained the courage to face anything with head held up high. He lived a world without a love he craved for. He lived after all odds. He lived, and so will I.

WHEN THE LUCKY RED SEED TELL STORIES
[Malayalam: Manjadikuru Kadha Parayumbol]

Krishna J Nair

How long has it been? Five years or more? Even the roads have changed, and I have got taller and tanned. Yet, the turning to an infamous junction didn’t change. It has always been a sight to see the green of the tree spread above the road giving a shade. Only the trickiest of the rays made their way through and to the windshield. On the way, I saw the house where I spent most of my vacations in, fighting with cousins, playing with whatever that could be found and being the hero of the house.

The wings of the hero were sometimes held down for good by an old man who was the head of the house. His sound still hung around in the air. Only his throne was empty. The children were running around, handing the card telling his departure. The youngest one clung onto his father, pulling his hair and taking money out of his pocket. Most of the faces were unfamiliar, though their welcoming smiles were persisting.

The ones with the receding hairline stood in one corner, whereas the ones with white strands of hair sat on a side. The children’s voice grew louder. As I sat with my mother, my other half, and some other relatives, the time started to slow down.

“Imagine what Kochachan would do if he was here,” my mother’s cousin duly noted. 

“He would probably yell at them and ask them to go inside,” my mother said with a laugh, remembering the old times. Turning to us, she began. “What you see here is nothing. When we were young, everyone would come here during the vacation. There were like twenty of us, running around making noises, sitting by the lake and throwing stones and commenting everyone as they went on. We were famous back then. Whenever he saw us sitting by the lake, he would run to us and yell, ‘Get back home you little pests!’ That voice itself scared us, though we would sneak back after some time. And grandpa used to drink his tea in a huge cup. We twenty would stand in a row, waiting to see who he would pick to give the leftover tea. Then at night, we all slept on a huge blanket, making noises to scare the ones that were afraid of the ghosts.”

“But the most memorable time where when grandpa died,” he added. “I still remember the sight of him being carried to the house. We all were young back then and most of us had no idea. Everyone else was laughing, while we ran around picking the lucky red seeds and playing with clay. We would fight to give drinks to the guests, though we always snuck a cup or two and had it for ourselves. Now all there is just these four little ones,” he said, pointing at his nephews.

All I could remember was the time when a grandfather of mine passed away in Cochin. There were six or seven of us children, and we ran around in that house, having no idea of what was going on. But none of us sat by the lake or ran around making such big mess and sound. Compared to them, we were professional ninjas.

Thinking about the long lost childhood, I leaned back on the chair, thinking about the time in Cochin. Stories went on about uncle’s experience in dealing with the prisoners, for he worked in the Jail department.

Time filed by soon enough. The needle of the clock chased to time, not knowing it was its controller. One became two, and two became three. 

“Shouldn’t we be going now?” I asked, noticing the weight on my eyelids. One of my teachers always used to say with her sweetest voice, “Are swings being built on your eye-lids, for they are weighing down?”

On the way out, standing by the field, I noticed the lucky red seeds scattered around. Picking them up, I knew they too had some stories to tell. Wrapping them up in a tissue paper, I forced it down on my pocket, so that I could decode whatever they had to tell. Waving good bye to everyone, I waited for a day to come back, to get to know more stories about the forgotten childhood and the lucky red seeds.

Until Then

Krishna J Nair

“Should you leave today?” Anwesha asked, looking at her drink.

“I have to,” Mallik replied. “You know I have to.”

“How much time have we got?” She asked, refusing to meet his eyes. 

“Twenty minutes, till the taxi comes,” he answered, pushing the drink down his throat. “Before today, how long has it been since we have even said a hello, Ann?”

“Three years,” she smiled. “Three long years. But I don’t blame you. We had to part ways, didn’t we?”

“That question itself makes me feel guilty. But I had to go. I had a job waiting for me on the clock, that’s why I never said a goodbye. I had to go.”

“Like today,” she replied casually. “And I waited, for days and months for you to call. A single message could’ve saved me. I was willing to wait for you; but you didn’t.”

“Should we part ways like this today?” he asked, looking at her. The light of the bar lamp made her even more beautiful. 

“Well, it’s better than the last time,” she said, finally meeting his gaze. Grey and cold, like a stone. “Let’s change the subject.”

“How is your husband?” he asked. 

“Rich, and on tour all the time. But this time, I have a gift for him. A divorce notice.” 

“You have to do what is right,” he stopped trying to find the right word. 

“Remember the time we painted the walls of the stadium with our modern art? God we were wild,” she spoke up, changing the topic. 

“I went to see it the other day. It’s still there,” he said, thinking of the good old days. “And the time when we bunked classes to go for a movie.”

“Each and every release. It was important to see the first show on the first day.”

“And the time when Jay and the team and we went that forest in the outskirts...” he stopped abruptly. He remember, how his friend called out for him, being forced down on the river by the forces of nature. 

“Could anyone forget that?” 

Mallik noticed his taxi pull over. 

“Call me when you get there,” Anwesha told him, ordering another drink. 

“I will. Isn’t it too early for a beer?”

“It’s never too early. Goodbye Mallik.”

He waved his hands as he pulled away from her hands. The drink had started to taste different for her. A bit salty perhaps. Every time she saw his stone cold eyes, she got petrified. Jay had the same eyes too. Jay, the man who held her when Mallik left her under the mistletoe. Jay, her loving only brother. 

“Madam, are you okay?” The bartender asked the woman in grey hair. 

“I’m fine,” Anwesha replied. “Why do you ask?”

“You were talking to yourself minutes ago, and now...”

“Get back to your business,” she said with a bittersweet smile. 

Staring at the drink, she started to conversation with Mallik; the man she let go off her hands twenty eight years ago.

Wooden Logs Floating in the River

Fehmida Zakker

The day dawned as usual. The rooster cried, light broke out in the sky, and birds called out cheerfully. Just another day, it would seem. But for me it is just not yet another day. It is the day when I will meet the folks who may become the most important people in my life. But first, I have to pass the big test. They would have anyway done their homework on me—how many siblings do I have, how many brothers, how many sisters (the fewer the better), the kind of house I live in, whether any of my immediate relatives have served jail and more importantly whether my father is in the danger of being bankrupt. I must have met the basic parameters on the test scale, otherwise, they wouldn’t be coming here. Now they will see my house, my family’s hospitality index, our culinary expertise, whether we follow the Quran and the hadith*, and oh yes, also whether I can talk and walk. 

My aunts arrived in the morning. There is laughter all around. However, the air is charged, as if a high tension wire is lying somewhere in the vicinity of the house, throbbing, spitting out bits of energy in intermittent bursts, a danger that is unseen yet tangible.  

I am sad that my favourite brother Azeem is not here today.  I haven’t seen him for a year now, after he took off to Kuwait, in a huff, I must add. That makes two of my favourite persons absent, Azeem and Sakina. I like the sound of their names together. But my parents don’t.

***

The kitchen is bustling with activity. The aromas of cardamom and cloves intermingle with those of vanilla and chocolate. I can even now visualise the table as it will be after a few hours, teetering under the weight of food filled to the brim in Pyrex and Arcopal dishes. I hope the legs of the table are strong enough. I imagine it giving away and almost giggle. That would be a disaster; umma* would certainly collapse along with it.

My mother is transformed today. Gone is the super charged woman who can at once make biryani, a pudding and fry fish even while making sure that her daughters- in-law were busy, either sweeping the yard or mopping the floor or at the very least grating coconuts. Beads of sweat glisten and run along the grooves lining her brow, an unusual sight. Her headscarf lies at the base of her neck, like a ruffle. She doesn’t pull it back to her head as she usually does. Like I said, she is not herself today. Definitely, she is very different from the woman who went ‘bride shopping’ for her two sons not so long ago.  

I remember accompanying her to see girls for my two elder brothers. She and my aunts had giggled and laughed like school girls on an excursion. The minute the car stopped at the gates of the house we were inspecting – sorry visiting, they pulled themselves up. They became serious women, draped in flowing burqas, hunting for a suitable girl for their boy employed in the Middle East. Homes and occupants were studied in depth― housekeeping skills, the state of the bathrooms, how sincerely did they try to make their guests eat, how many items were on the table, were there a good blend of sweet and savoury dishes. By an unspoken agreement, one of them casually stepped out through the kitchen door to look for traces of outdoor caterers while another went around the house to check the condition of the rooms. The visits were repeated until they found the perfect girl—who covered her hair and prayed six times a day—even the non-obligatory predawn prayer--living in air conditioned homes with wood panelled walls and manicured gardens.

It was fun the first couple of times. Then the novelty wore off. Besides, I just couldn’t bear the hopeful looks of the mothers, their attempts to talk sweetly to me — did they really think that the younger sister of the boy would be able to sway matters if a vote came up? Also I had my own selfish reason for not going. I found these times perfect for going off on expeditions with my best friend Sakina.

***

From baby hood, Sakina and I were inseparable. We were born a day apart, she the last of four daughters and me, the much awaited daughter after three boys. There was just one thing Sakina had which I didn’t, a catamaran. It belonged to her father who took it out to catch fish to supplement his income from the small provision store he ran.  Sometimes we cut school and crept back to Sakina’s house. We took out the catamaran and went to the small island in the middle of the river flowing by her house. The whispers of the trees rolled above us as we exchanged thoughts and dreams. But she did not share one dream with me. Someday I hope to ask her why she did not take me into confidence.  

We often talked about the wooden logs in the river that came down from the mountains—did they resent being cut off from their perches in the mountains? How did they feel about floating down the stream to factories, prepped and then moulded into alien shapes? Did they relish starting life afresh as inanimate objects in a place far away from their homes?  Sakina said man was cruel to cut down so many trees for his benefit—she argued about how other lives were being destroyed—birds and insects, plants that took their sustenance off the trees. Even though I agreed with her, just for argument sake I would tell her that she was being too sentimental, that we had to live with the times. Anyway, what was the point in trying to resist society? I didn’t want her to get hurt, but when she is really sad now, I’m unable to do anything.

***

Umma used to depend on Sakina’s mother for everything. I called her Cheriaama, meaning mother’s younger sister. Cheriaama helped umma in the kitchen besides keeping track of the produce from the myriad trees on our land. When visitors dropped in unexpectedly, or when a gusty wind toppled a tree, cheriamma was the one who took charge. Today, there is a vacuum in the kitchen without her. I hope this is a temporary situation. As much as I’m umma’s daughter, I’m cheriaama’s too. After all, she was the one who was always there ready with a hot meal and a willing ear when I returned from school with Sakina, while umma was away on ‘bride-seeing’ expeditions and attending religious lectures. 

A year ago, after his final exams, Azeem brought his best friend home. Sakina and I found it exciting when we caught the friend stealing glances at me. One evening as I was waiting for Sakina under the blueberry tree in our backyard, my brother’s friend came to speak to me. He told me he liked me and that he wanted to marry me. Before I could collect my wits and say something, I saw Azeem coming from behind the small clump of banana trees bordering our land. I was puzzled to see him coming from the fringes of our grounds because, beyond the cluster of trees was Sakina’s house and beyond it was the slow-moving river that came down from the mountains. I turned and walked away, my steps keeping pace with the rapid beat of my heart. Too many things were happening together.   

Azeem told me the next day, after his friend left for his hometown, “It seems he really likes you, I’ve told him to send the proposal through the proper channel. Do you have anything to say?”

What could I say? It was all so romantic, I smiled and covered my face, just like the way heroines do in old Hindi movies. Come to think of it, he was quite good looking and was going to be an engineer just like my brother Azeem, the first graduate engineer in my family.

Now the formal process was in progress. The boy’s people were coming to see me, to decide whether I was good enough for their son. But Azeem is not here with me. Neither is Sakina.

When I think back, I wish I had asked Azeem why he had been coming from Sakina’s house that day. I could have helped him present the situation to our parents. Azeem should not have shouted out his wishes at the dinner table just like that. True, umma’s nagging was getting a bit too much. So what if alliances were coming from all sides for him, from families based in Dubai and Saudi Arabia, even one from the US. It was his life and he had the right to choose.

***

It’s evening now. I’m standing in the room that will eventually become mine at the time of my marriage as is the custom in my matrilineal community. My friends in school say this is a good system for girls. I agreed with them that girls’ not having to move out of their homes after marriage was good.  Actually it is a win-win system for all—girls get to live in their maternal homes and the guys get to live as uncrowned kings with their own mini kingdoms for the rest of their lives.

My room is the biggest in the house as is the custom. Remember, whoever will become my husband should be given the best we can afford. So my room comes attached with a dressing room beside a bathroom the size of our dining room. In fact almost three-fourth of the top floor is reserved for me. Of course, my room is nothing compared to my brothers’ rooms in their wives houses, especially the second one. Even though uppa* too works in the Gulf now, he is just an employee in a store. He does not own a chain of supermarkets nor does he have a couple of luxury hotels under him.    

Since we are on the first floor, I can see Sakina’s house clearly from here. A single storied squat tiled building. The dim lights from the house cut a feeble path through the silhouette of trees. The windows facing my house are those from the rooms belonging to her elder sisters. There is a light flickering in one of them. I think it is the one married to the party worker; maybe there was no meeting in the party office today, no hartal* or bandh* to plan for the next day. The other window is dark, probably the sister has gone out with her husband in his autorickshaw. The voltage in our area is nothing great. The voltage enhancer gifted to us by Imran, my eldest brother, makes it worse for the others in the vicinity. I wonder if Sakina is sitting in her room on the other side of her house, watching the gently moving waters of the river. It is especially beautiful at this time of the day, the rays of the sun playing with the water as it flows through the path defined for it by mother nature.

Imran’s wife, that is, my elder sister-in-law helped me wear my saree today. It is mauve with gold borders with embroidered paisleys studded with stones and sequins. The colour suits me, I look fairer than ever. This saree was actually gifted to my sister-in-law by her father on her birthday. When she brought it to show it us a week ago, umma immediately told her it would make her look even darker than she was. Then she told her, “Give it to Sheeba, I was anyway thinking of buying an expensive saree for the bride-seeing ceremony. This is perfect for the occasion, what do you think?” After a pause, umma added her brows puckered in consternation, “I mean, if that is ok with you of course.”

I don’t know if I imagined it, but I felt my sister-in-law’s shoulders droop a little. Then she smiled and gave it to me, “Why should I mind? Of course, it will suit Sheeba better. She’ll look like a princess.”

There is a knock on the door now and I open it. It’s umma. Along with her are Rayan’s wife and her mother. Both are carrying jewellery boxes. They place the boxes on the bed and opened them one by one.  I almost gasp aloud at the array of stone studded necklaces, earrings and bangles spread out before me.  I try each one and finally we decide on the amethyst and zircon one since it goes well with the design and colour of the saree I’m wearing. 

“Sit on the sofa,” I tell my sister-in-law. Rayan’s wife cannot stand for a long time, it makes her leg ache and her limp becomes more pronounced then. They make a good pair, Rayan and her, light complexioned with golden brown hair. I think it is a wonder that we even got an alliance from them. Her father is a mini sheikh in his own right.

I can hear car doors slamming now and I walk to the window. I am alone in the room, everyone has gone downstairs to welcome the guests. My brothers have come driving the biggest cars in their wives garages. I can see uppa’s white Maruti wedged between a black Skoda and a silver CRV.  The car our guests have come in is a Corolla, but to tell the truth I expected an Audi at the very least.

A fat woman gets down from the car, no doubt about it – she is The Mother. She is covered in the standard black burqa, voluminous and flowing. She has a kind face, visible because it is uncovered. A young girl steps out now, covered from top to bottom, the whites of her eyes are twin pinpoints breaking the wash of black. I’m relieved to see a flash of colour from the other side of the car. It is another young woman. She is wearing a light blue salwar kameez matched with identically coloured hijab* and dupatta. A man, maybe an uncle, is also with them.

It will take some time for them to come up and see me. First will be the inspection, our house is under scrutiny this time round. I again wish that Sakina were here with me. I know Azeem is stubborn, he normally gets what he wants. I hope everything will be resolved soon. I want Sakina by my side on the most important day of my life. My day will be incomplete without her.  

Imran comes up and whispers, “They’ll be coming up now, be ready. Keep your eyes down and don’t talk unless they ask you something.” Then he soundlessly disappears to avoid an unexpected encounter with the women folk.  

Then they are suddenly in the room. The next fifteen minutes pass in a blur. The Mother speaks very little. Same is the case with the fully covered lady. She has now lifted her face cover. Her face is white, and her black eyes, framed by thick bushy eyebrows, looks like it would pop out any moment. All the talking is done by the other girl; inane topics about the weather, the water problem, the load shedding. They ask me very little and I’m relieved. After the initial glance, no one even looks at me. But when they take leave, The Mother runs her eyes from the mauve scarf on my head  to the pointed tip of my golden sandals.

After the car leaves, all flop down. I tear off the saree and the heavy necklace. I have to take a shower. A clawing heat spreads all over my body, I need to cool down. As I’m coming down I hear uppa telling umma that the uncle who accompanied them has promised to give their reply soon.  

True to their promise, they do not make us wait long. The next morning the uncle is at our doorstep. Along with him is another family friend known to both families. I hide behind the staircase to hear the verdict.

“They feel that the boy is not old enough to get married, they want him to study a bit more. He has a vast business to take care of, he is still too young to be married. Please don’t mistake us...” Uppa seems incapable of speech but he somehow mutters the right words, “Yes, of course. I understand.”

After the uncle leaves, Umma runs out, her head uncovered, eyes wide open, forehead pinched, “What did he say?” she whispers. Uppa gives an imperceptible nod and looks away.

The family friend averts his eyes and looks towards the backwaters where logs of wood are slowly drifting on their way from the forest to the mill.

On Air

Krishna J Nair

Packing up the bags, her eyes constantly glanced at the clock, making sure she wasn't late. The traffic was like the politics. Unstable, unpredictable and always lagging. Her phone charge showed her a 100%, making a smile wrap around her lips.

"Have you taken your passport and ticket," her mother asked for the hundredth time.

"Yes ma, I've got them," she said as she locked the bag.

"You sure it is your passport?"

Slowly losing her temper, she pulled out her hand bag and took out a small black book. "See," Sunita Nair Dhwani. I think I am Dhwani. What do you think ma?" 

"That's you," her mother laughed. "I don't want you to get lost or confused when you are in that airport."

"Ma!" She cried out. "I am 23. Not 3. And this is not my first time really, so quit bothering me." Her eyes darted to the clock again. "Few more minutes left."

"Why don't you leave now?" Sunita asked. "You dont want to get stuck in the traffic."

"I wont get stuck in the traffic. I'll go in few minutes."

"Sweetheart, you cant trust anything here. The road is madness. So why not leave now rather than be a victim?"

"If you want me to leave, fine, I'll go," she said, rolling her suitcase to the verandah.

"It's not that..." Sunita began. 

"It is definitley what it is. You want me out of your hair!" Dhwani yelled out. Without saying a goodbye, she walked to the taxi stand.

"It's a good thing you are early madam," the driver said. "There will be a parade now soon by the NCC kids. You would have missed your flight."

"But there was nothing in the newspaper," she replied. "Where is the fun in letting everything know," he answered back with a wink. 

"This is flight B737-900ER and we are ready to take off," the captain announced. Enjoying the view outside the window, she rested her head on the headrest, listening to old malayalam songs her mother suggested before. She took out her phone and messaged her mother that she would soon be in air. 

As the flight took off, she felt her body heavy for a while. 'Laws of motion,' she told herself with a giggle. The city appeared smaller to her and soon, the great Travancore was just a small dot. 

"Angels come from the clouds," her mother had told her when she was seven. like any innocent child, she believed her. Every night, she would look up at the grey clouds in the black sky with white spots. Shades of black, her father would tell her. Now, being on air for not the first or the fifth time, she still looked out the window, looking for the angels. 

"Veg or non-veg mam?" The air hostess broke her moment with her past. 

"Non-veg," she replied as she pulled down the tray. 

The packet had raw rice and chicken that looked funny. She missed her ma's home made pulav and butter chicken. In that moment, she fell homesick. Her eyes fell on a mother feeding her child, and then she realised how hard it was for her mother to raise her, especially with all the travelling. If only I could call her... she wondered. 

"Have a nice day," the hostess told her as she stepped out of the plane. Her sim wouldn't work here, she knew for sure. Hell, it didn’t work properly even in her country. Checking out with her baggage, she ran for the telephone booth. 

"Hello?" Her mother's eager voice roared in the speaker. 

"I love you ma," Dhwani said with a smile. And then, the pennies kept on falling into the phonebox.

“NOT JUST PUPPY LOVE…”

Aishwarya.k

If love was the result of having caught a glimpse of another’s loneliness, then I had been in love with Manu since we were both ten years old. Those memories, still fresh like the ‘morning dew’ bring me both pain and joy. Pain for what she was going through at such an young age and joy for the good old days that brought us together.

I still remember that morning. It was a bright Sunday in Bangalore and the residential area was quiet as usual. Perhaps the ‘IT worms’ were all still in bed trying to conquer the sleepless, overtime nights of the past week. Unlike them I was already dressed ready to play the entire Sunday off. Being a ten year old is undoubtedly a blessing, as you don’t know that in a few years time, your Sundays will also turn out to be sleepy days.

Just as I was playing all alone in the streets with my favourite football, a car managed to screech to halt just before puncturing my football. I was angry for what could have happened, but curiosity dominated my anger as I saw a lorry loaded with suffocating furniture and household just behind the car. ‘It must be the new family who are about to occupy the neighbouring house’, I thought. My guess was right, I found out later. By the time, I came back from my house after informing my mom about the new arrivals, the family had already gone in.

It was two days since their arrival and I seldom got a glimpse of anyone from that house. However the third day I was fortunate. I got out of my house dressed in my school uniform and there she was, standing at the gate, blinking with her sharp eyes as if she was lost. At first I hesitated, but then on seeing the look on her face, I approached her slowly. Just then I realized that she was wearing the same uniform. I asked her, “Are you in my school?” she nodded after a second’s thought. “Are you waiting for someone?” This time she shook her head. Then I asked if she would like to accompany me to school. She took her bag and nodded, as if she was waiting for me to ask it.

That was all the one side conversation I had with her on the first day. She was in my class and to my glee, she sat next to me. However only after a week she started talking to me and only me. Months rolled off and Manu was irregular with her homework. The teacher was indifferent , but it had no effect of improvement on her. Shewas full of thoughts most of the time. I know it’s weird for a ten year old kid being thoughtful all the time. And I couldn’t bear to watch her with that invisible pain latched on to her always. That evening we were in the streets playing and I approached her with the question that was hammering my head. “What’s wrong with you? I don’t like you being sad always as if you have a huge family responsibility thrust upon you. I want you to be happy forever and if you ever feel like spilling it out to me, whatever is bothering you, my ears are all open”. I finished angrily.

She started sobbing which I didn’t expect. Girls are peculiar; you’ll never know what will happen next when you are with one. I don’t want to make the painful part of the memory elaborate, so it’s just the crux. The relationship between her mom and dad was not very good and they often had misunderstandings and fights. Both of them were not happy with her being a girl. And so they never acted like she existed. Now they were planning for a divorce and neither of them was ready to take her.

She was a lonely, little, neglected kid from the very day she was born. I always had a fascination towards her and the fact that she considered me as her only friend, companion, well wisher and spilled out her sufferings, made me feel more caring and affectionate to her. I wanted to take good care of her for the rest of my life. I never knew then that it was ‘love’. 

Later I told everything to my mom and dad and they helped me with her future. I had an aunt who was childless and craving for one. Both of manu’s parents were very much happy to get rid of her and the process went on smooth when my aunt offered to adopt her as her own. 

From then on, manu had a happy life and we are relatives, and going to be much more than just relatives. We are about to get married in a week’s time and I thought of recording my first and last love for manu. So, yes……………. If love was the result of having caught a glimpse of another’s loneliness, then I had loved manu since we were both ten years old. 

FINDING HOPE

Krishna J Nair

I walked through the heavy downpour, trying to figure out which one was tear and which one was the rain drop. The Railway Station seemed so calm to me that I knew my mind was off the hook. Clutching the red diary that had all the articles and stories I wrote and the rejection letters I got for each one, I walked on the railway tracks, waiting for the light to shine up on me and take the light off my eyes.

I felt numb for a moment, thinking about the exquisite life I had. I had everything I wanted, except for the choice to choose my future. Writers were considered ‘non-artistic’ persons whereas an engineer or doctor was considered as Gods. Indian society has gotten screwed up because of the poisonous thoughts inside their brain. Then again, all people see are soap operas that show family fights and cuss words. I felt the rain drops falling on me, touching me as it shattered on the ground, her eternal love.

Suddenly, I felt something on my shoulder. I glanced at it and I saw a wrinkly pale arm, probably of an old lady. I turned back and saw a woman, darkness under her eyes due to lack of sleep and hands that once yielded for love and care. From her looks, I understood that she was homeless and had gone through a lot of pain in her life. She noticed the soggy diary in my hand.

“Tell me my dear child,” her calm soothing voice spoke out. “What makes your life so saddening that you have come to end your life in this extreme way?”

I opened my mouth to speak out, but only air went out. I was wonderstruck and I didn’t know why. I let my eyes speak out the words and held out my book to her.

“Why don’t we go to the platform and read this there?” she said with a smile. I followed her to the platform and made myself comfortable on a rusty chair. She gently took the book from me and tried to read the words that were inscribed in it. From her looks, I knew she was having a hard time and I didn’t want her to have a hard time reading my works. I watched her eyes dance around the sentences, trying to make sense and finding out the points.

She gently closed the book and placed it back in my arms. “Dear,” she said. “I know what you are going through because I am a writer myself. Well, at least I used to be. I wrote truth and nothing else and people hated it. I was criticised by the society and held guilty for my works. I was pressurised to write lies and I didn’t wish to do so. So I quit my job, packed my stuffs and decided to become homeless, for I knew, homeless people had some purity and truth in their mind rather than the ones who criticise the homeless. One day, you will become a writer, and by then, the world will be a better place. Your time is yet to come my child. And when it does, if you face what I faced, quit it, write independently and be whoever you want to be. We raised ourselves, not the society. So don’t let others judge and dominate you. Good day dear.” Saying these, she gave me a tight hug and for that moment, hope struck me like a lightning. I believed what she said for she was wiser than me.

I let hope clung on to my mind and made myself walk home. The rain stopped and the drops that fell met their love and embraced them. Time, like wind, never stopped ticking. I opened the door to my room and found some letters on the table. I opened them with my wet hands and let my eyes wander through the words, picking up the good ones. Hope. It wasn’t a rejection letter like others, it was an exact opposite. If that woman had not come to the station to save herself from the downpour, she wouldn’t have met me and saved my life and I would’ve been nothing else but a soul that would wander the world like others, who never got a chance to fight.

A Season of Premature Twilights

Fehmida Zakeer

March 17

Tomorrow is my last exam. Chemistry.  It is one of my favourite subjects the others being Physics and Biology. Shahina told me she could not answer some questions in the Physics paper. I attempted all the questions and I think I got them right. Does that mean I’m looking at a possible hundred percent in Physics?  I think so, but I haven’t told this to anyone. I’m hoping though.

Yesterday when I went to the school to collect the railway ticket for my journey home, I met Usman Ustad. He told me, “Zeenat, I hope you did well in your exams. Your baapa had big dreams for his girls.”

I reassured him, “I have done my best, Ustad.”

He shook his head and smiled, “In sha allah, you’ll do well.”

Ever since I passed my tenth exam with eighty percent marks, Usman Ustad had repeatedly told me to put in my best. He even said that I could be one of the toppers.  I knew he was just saying that to make me work hard. What chance do I have? Thousands of students all over the state—the brilliant and the not so brilliant—attending special coaching classes, sitting up at night with hot cocoa and snacks, preparing for the exams diligently, in their attempt to secure a place in the top colleges of the country. Me, I just want to clear my high school with good marks—enough to earn me a scholarship to a local college. That is all I hope for while I sit with my books beneath a gap-toothed roof that creaks and groans in the wind.  

I want to put in my best, but if I spend too much time studying, the warden will arrive and tell me, “What, are you going to be the next Collector of our district? Go and help in the kitchen like the other girls...the rules are the same for everyone.”  

But, enough about all that.

This year the monsoon has been especially heavy. Showers through the night that continued thereafter, curtaining the sun, greying out the landscape—a season of premature twilight and thunder filled darkness—a moisture filled cocoon of tumultuous growth. It seems as though the plants around our building are multiplying overnight. The path to the door remains undefined in spite of our footfalls—covered by a green skin, woven with the tapering leaves of creeping vines—a breeding ground for the insect world.  We covered the broken glasses on windowpanes with cardboard torn off from our notebooks fearing an invasion of snakes and scorpions.

Then there was the roof, pyramid shaped, covered with ancient tiles, resting on a rotting wooden frame. A month ago, the rain finally found its way to our rooms, slipping past broken tiles, trickling in through the sagging ceiling. The trickle inevitably turned into a torrent and the management decided to shift the girls to the storerooms at the back.  Some of the girls thought we would be moved the boys building. It was newly built and had unoccupied rooms. But of course, that was wishful thinking. In our orphanage where boys and girls do not even share classrooms, there was no way the management was going to house us in the same building.

Forty girls packed inside two rooms. To the mosquitoes buzzing at night, our sleeping bodies might as well be one giant creature with several arms spread out over the floor. Not that it matters to them, they just want our blood.

March 18

My last day of school.

The dark interiors of the office annexe seemed unusually drenched in a wash of white today. Our school had visitors. Four, no five cars, black and long, were parked all around the building. Like crows clustered around a carcass.

“I wonder if the visitors will give the orphanage some petro-dollars to repair our building,” Shahina said.  

I said, “Let’s hope the girl’s hostel will have priority over the office building and the boys’ hostel. I don’t want to send my sister here if they don’t repair the building.”

After the exam, Shahina and I went around the school. Of course, we avoided meeting Altaf Ustad or any of his friends. They would only say something like, ‘Go home and get married. By next year this time, you will have babies in your arms.’  

Thankfully, Altaf Ustad took religious studies only for the boys. We had Usman Ustad for the course. He often quoted the prophet’s words to underscore the importance of education, “Seek knowledge, even if you have to go to China.”

Someone from my class once asked him, “Why did the prophet mention China by name?”

 “Maybe because at the time of the prophet, when travelling was fraught with risks, crossing the deserts and going to China was a formidable journey. So the prophet (may peace be upon him) was exhorting us to acquire learning at all costs, even if means undertaking a long and difficult journey.”

Once Altaf Ustad came as a substitute to our class. He remarked with his lips curled like a lizard’s tail, “I don’t know why the school has a higher secondary section for girls at all. After all what are you going to do with knowing about trigonometry and periodic tables,” his eyes darted around the class, “but biology I can understand...”

Shahina saw the anger in my eyes and bade me with her eyes to look away. But I got up anyway and asked him about the prophet’s saying about going to China to seek knowledge, “Our prophet placed much importance in gaining knowledge.”

The salt and pepper hairs on his long beard quivering, Altaf Ustad brought his squat form towards my desk and told me, “my child, that hadith⁴ has no validity, it is a weak hadith. We cannot consider it authentic.”

“How is the authenticity of hadith determined—if it does not serve to oppress...”

Altaf Ustad shouted, his eyes closed, “Enough. Think before you speak girl—this is what happens when we educate girls, their tongues become too long.”

Shahina pinched my arm and put a finger to her lips. I sat down with a frown. Later she said, “If you argue with him, we’ll get thrown out of this place. Remember he is a board member.”

March 19

It’s been six years since baapa went away leaving behind umma⁵ and four daughters. The twins were just babies then. Umma put my sister and me in the orphanage inspite of opposition from our relatives.

“They’ll find fault with whatever I decide anyway. At least this way, your education is taken care of,” she explained to me on our journey to the orphanage that first time.  

I knew it also took away her worries about feeding two mouths. After all how much could she earn by selling vegetables. I wish I could help her somehow.

The rhythm of the train makes me sleepy as always. But the minute I close my eyes, a whisper echoes in my mind, why did all those visitors come to our classroom yesterday?

When I put this question to Shahina, she said, “Maybe the principal wanted to show them the condition of the classrooms or maybe he wanted to show them that their funds will be put to good use.”

I wanted to believe her, but I still had questions. ‘If that were the case, why did Altaf Ustad ask all of us to look up from our papers?  Why did that tall man look at me and smile? Why did Altaf Ustad repeatedly look in my direction after talking to that man, his lips curled more than usual, his beady eyes darting all over me?’

March 25

My life is taking a turn I never expected.

Altaf Ustad and the principal came home today—with a marriage proposal. Remember those guests. It appears they were bride shopping. And I was the chosen one!

They took turns in telling us.

“They’ll give money and jewellery.”

“You don’t have to bear any expenses.”

Umma looked at me. Then she said, “Let me ask my relatives. I cannot take a decision immediately.”

Altaf Ustad said, “What is there to think about? This is a good alliance. Your daughter will live like a queen.”

“These are people from the holy land, what is there to think about?”The principal echoed.

March 30

Our relatives are excited. They say I should think about how this can change the lives of my family. Suddenly we seem to have so many well-wishers; I did not know I belonged to such a big clan. 

April 5

Even though umma is smiling, her brows are pinched. My sisters are smiling though. They are too young to realise what is happening.  

The wedding is day after tomorrow. I’m not at all comfortable.  

April 15

After the nikah, we drove straight to the resort by the backwaters, surrounded by swaying coconut trees, overlooking canoes bobbing in between silvery ripples. I spent the first night with my husband here.   

The next night his cousin came into the room escorted by my husband. After some time my husband left. I thought he would return soon. I was wrong. The night after that, he brought his friend. Alone in a locked room during daytime, a different husband each night.  

There is no escape route from this nest of rooms overlooking the postcard view.  

April 22

They dropped me home last night.  In the afternoon, I got a call from my ‘husband.’ He said three words over phone and nothing more. I’m free again. Just like that.

My mother fainted. We called the nurse aunty from next door.

April 24

Umma and I went to the orphanage to talk to the principal.  He told umma, “Your daughter is very headstrong, she must have done something to make them angry, otherwise why should this have happened?”

When I tried to tell him what happened, he said, “These people have given a big donation to the school and this in addition to the money and jewellery they gave you...”

Umma said, “They took back the jewellery...”

The principal said in a low voice, “So that is what this is all about—money—you want more money—ungrateful people.”

I got up from my chair and asked umma to do the same.

We are going to the child welfare committee tomorrow.

April 30

I’m famous. Television people and journalists arrive at my house every day. I wear a burkha now, the black garb a shield against the flurry of words swirling around me. Every day I learn more about myself from the newspapers and television.

“The girl has a history of telling lies.”

“Her mother sent her away to the orphanage to reform her.”

“They demanded more money.”

May 2

The exam results came out today. Usman Ustad called early in the morning.  

“Zeenat, you have secured full marks in Physics and 97% in  Chemistry and Biology. This is a first for our school. We are so proud of you, you have topped the district.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Ustad contined, “The principal wants to meet you.”

“What does he want from me now, Ustad?”

He hesitated, “He doesn’t want bad press...”

“He should have thought of that earlier, Ustad.”

“My child, decide what’s best for you.”

May 3

The news is even bigger now.

“Divorced high school student is district topper.”

There is a press conference at the collectorate. The district Collector wants to felicitate me.

 May 4

There were many people at the conference— the Collector, lawyers, television and print journalists, the police, ordinary men and women.

There were many proclamations, “We will apprehend the orphanage management and the foreign nationals responsible for this terrible crime against this girl.”

“We demand compensation for the girl.”

“We cannot allow the exploitation of our girls by foreigners.”

The voices filled the air, indignant, angry. My ears shifted frequencies drowning out the cacophony. I heard the bark of dogs, the tuneful wail of a cuckoo, the raucous laughter of crows along with the whirr of fans and clicks of cameras.

Finally, it was all over. I walked home with umma carrying a floral garland and a bouquet.

[This story was first published in The Out Of Print Magazine]

Fehmida Zakeer has been published in journals and anthologies such as Out of Print Magazine, Asian Cha, Rose and Thorn Journal, The Bangalore Review, and elsewhere. A story of hers was placed first in the Himal South-Asian short story competition 2013 and another was chosen by the National Library Board of Singapore for the 2013 edition of their annual READ! Singapore anthology. She was twice on the honorable mentions list of the Binnacle Ultra short competition. Her articles have come out in various Indian and International publications including Azizah, Herbs for Health, and Good Housekeeping.

DEAR DIARY

Krishna J Nair

It is said that when one dies, their precious memories flashes just before their eyes. Then my death would take about an hour, for the memories longing in my head to come out in front of my cold body is more. Then, one day, I saw them. It was not me that was dying. I can see him on the ventilator, struggling between existence and after life. His face, full of scars and blood. I used to tell him all the time his face was flawless. He would punch me in my arm and say “I got your genes mommy!” Will he ever say that to me again? My precious child?

I always knew my genes were flawed. Rage, rage. Rage flew in my veins, not blood. My thoughts, built on rage, a thirst to fight against injustice. My son, have my flawed genes taken you to where you are now?

It was as though yesterday your little arm wrapped around my little finger, not letting go. I have cut my nails that day just for you. Until then, I used to bite them off. I didn’t want my unhygienic lifestyle to take away your precious life. I changed my routine for you; waking up at noon was just a memory from that day onward. Your cry for my love became my alarm; your little laughs became my fuel for the next day. Your giggles and your actions became my favourite sitcom. And now, you are lying here on that bed reeking of medicines. Is this a horror movie for me? Or are you just trying to scare me, my beloved?

Remember the time you introduced me to the coolest band ever? You danced to the beat while I stayed on the corner, figuring out the lyrics. Your favourite band. And for that birthday I got you their posters. I wanted to get you tickets for their live show, but beloved, my card was running low for I spent them to run our little family. Our little happy outrageous family. Remember Daddy? The man with stubbed beard and three piece suit? He used to play with you every evening, running behind you with a little soccer ball, trying to introduce you to his field of work. You kicked the ball so high, it broke the kitchen window and knocked down our dinner. You and daddy laughed so hard that my anger flew away in that second. Now here we are, years later, holding hands as though we have just met, praying for your survival.

I remember your first swim. We were in that little resort down your favourite beach. We had seen the sunrise that day! How old were you? Seven? You wore that t-shirt with Mr.Bean’s teddy on it. You loved that t-shirt; you even pointed it whenever the show came on. You forced me down to the beach that day while Daddy went to his business meet. And when we came back, he was by the poolside, with a swimsuit ready for you. You jumped in with daddy, and he helped you swim. Daddy changed your hairstyle that day, remember? You wore your hair that way for years to school, until I cut it off. You were mad at me for a week, but it grew out to be even cooler. Your hair looks like how it was before I cut it off now. Beloved, wake up and see for yourself. I am not lying.

I remember the time you broke down when that girl you loved so much said ‘yes’ to some other guy. You locked yourself up, while I peeked in through the window. You didn’t see me that day, but I stayed by the window all night long, waiting for you to stop crying. You eventually fell asleep. I walked in silently, kissed your forehead and scuffled your hair. Your face was still wet, and I was mad, not at you, but at that girl, for leaving such a perfect boy. My son. You secretly went out at night to the places where you and she talked, and I followed you silently to make sure you were fine. You never knew that, did you? Daddy came along with me sometime, and he cried with me sometimes. We love you son. You are perfect to us. Wake up now.

Do I see a dip in your heart rate? Why am I hearing loud noises from the machine? Why is your face turning blue son?! Are you giving up on us? Remember the day when we all went to the park and threw the ball! Remember the time we drove away, just us two, when Daddy went for his work! Remember the day we flew to Paris and tasted wine though it was illegal! Wake up son!

Why did they beat you up?! My precious boy, what did you do? We know you are innocent, but do we worry for what you have done? Everyone says it isn’t your fault. It was theirs, the monsters that beat you up for trying to save a girl. A girl of your same age; a girl you never knew. I knew my flawed genes were dangerous. I should have cut them off. Did I bring this wretched fate to you? Am I your murderer? Son, I am breaking down. Come, hold me.

I see doctors running in to see you. They are looking at their watch and mouthing words to each other. One nurse is holding your hand. Is everything okay son? Son, are you listening to my thoughts?

I see the doctor coming out now. They are saying they have done everything, but they couldn’t succeed. I see the nurse that held your hand now look at me with pity. Should I slap her? My outrageous genes, stop eating me up! My son is gone. And he has taken a part of me with him. And now I know that he is listening to my thoughts. Son, I love you. Son, Goodnight and God bless.

The Suicidal Reader 

Gayathri Jayakumar

Pain!!! My innards screech for the sake of my powerless and lifeless vocal cords… They haven’t lived for a while. If the theories of evolution ring right, then probably I might evolve, like once the reptiles did; and my sound shall sink into abeyance. In that soulful silence my starving soul shall burningly eat into my last living cell for a knot of existence. And after that miniscule nanopart also wane away into exhaustion and in desperation send out to the already half-dead brain a parting, feeble signal of farewell; my heart shall stop beating and brain shall black out. The question is, will you leave my body, Soul? Or will you manage to cling on an hour longer waiting to imprint this death, all those reeling images from my past that my brain has been endlessly playing out in my inward eye since hunger began to ruthlessly claw fiercely onto my intestines, gashing them open for death? All those images from my happy-sad past? 

I remember my Professor, with a twinkle in his eyes and in elation of phrasing an aesthetically artistic, grammatically accurate, philosophical line, springing up with a finger pointing upwards in a gesture of brilliant genius hitting upon him, and in a way, a gesture of warning, stating, “Life is not a bed of roses; it is a conflation of both sobs and smiles”. He used to emphasize “sobs and smiles” slowly, rightly rounding the ‘o’ and stretching the ‘mile’, in a slow motion flipping his two fingers in the air to and forth to imprint the duality of life into our Bachelor heads, awaiting at the shores of the Ocean of Literature to plunge in. Who knew that the life in literature was this expressively phantasmal and excruciatingly liberating!

Continuously raped by the imaginations of the corrugated and varied intelligence of many literary geniuses, my poor brain would plod painfully, yet, unhurriedly into sleep at my reading table. Languorous days of supine plenitude; the profit of an undergraduate life! Delightfully large volumes for my eyes to feast upon and mind to intimately, intricately entangle upon! Pleasingly, I’d slip into a chosen world, carefully crafted by someone’s mind, to explore its abysses and alleyways and lay the light of sight upon their sacred darkness and baneful past. I went exploring people and lands. My soul, happy to meet the disembodied spirits trapped in the curves and folds and cliffs and drops and loops on the printed pages went dearly embracing those created and cloned souls, promising each to visit often. How their eyes took on a blank, white, lifeless haze, as my rejuvenating gaze left the page and passed on to the next to bring it alive! Specters formed and faded in my eyes, and my soul met and bid farewell to many, with each new book. Was it all of a sudden? Or a gradually fed, growing desire? I wanted to be one of those trapped souls, encased in the words and animated in thoughts and to be alive when someone read me. How extraordinarily magnificent and spiritually rapturous to be brought back to life in thoughts of another; given life by the elixirous sight! 

But, will my soul transcend and come alive to meet the soul of the reader, to recount my curious case in the flashing second it reads the page? Or will my soul flee the moment the last of those interwoven delicately fragile, yet, unbreakably robust line of life snaps it free from my body?

Unsure, yet experimental, I starve myself out on these pages, eating nothing but words and writing nothing but life. And as I’ve mentioned, that last impulse my last living cell will send to my brain, it shall shudder my writing hand to a halt and either my soul, eager to fulfill the dream and intense desire it gave my heart and brain, will conduct into my falling pen, dissolving into its ink and transgress into the last drop of ink on the paper, ‘the last full stop’; and through it transmute into yet another soul enshrined in paper and words waiting to be cloned each time the story comes into print to meet the soul of each of its reader. Perhaps, another reader might, just before slipping into sleep, spit a curse at me for penning my soul into paper in such unabated lengthy sentences. Who knows!

Or, dear Reader, if my soul, in a mockery of my obsolete lunacy, flee off without transmigrating into my words; trust me it will be in the Elysian fields in search of those expired, yet, evergreen writers, smacking each and yelling at them, “Your stupid idea of living through literature didn’t work with me!” 

LETTER

Sarita Mohan

“Hey look , there is a letter for two.” “What?” “Yeah, one letter for two addressees.” “Whom?” “That is the biggest surprise. Number 23 and 35.” Everyone looked around confused. “Do you mean the new ones? Why would someone write to them? Who sent it?” “It says Sarojam. That’s all. Nothing more.” “Anyway we can not give it to them without checking. Open it up.”

Kattumoola

12/03/2013

May God not curse You,

This is my first time to write a letter. I have thought about it a hundred times. Either to write or not. But I could not resist myself. I don’t have much to write. I don’t know too. But I have some questions for you two. Not just for you, for all alike to you. I came to know about you two from television. From then onwards these questions were arising in my mind. 

I am not sure if you will get this or not. First I thought of visiting you. Then I changed my mind. At least I know to write. Thanks to one of my customers. No need to get confused. I am a notorious prostitute in my small town. I have many customers. One of them was from your prison. He gave me your numbers in there to write to you. Number 23 and 35. He told me that there are only numbers. No names. 

Now, my questions. Both of you are accused of the same crime. Rape and Murder. The only difference is in the victims. My question to you two is, why the hell you did such a cold blooded crime, when there are people like me? We are not doing it for any mental or physical happiness. We are doing it just for a living. But we could give all you wanted. We could make you feel the same as u felt when you two.... Then why? Why?

Four years old little child and Sixty Five years old lady. How could you do this to them? What you two got? I am really scared about people like you wandering out there. Just for some minutes pleasure, you are doing the most nasty things that mankind ever heard of. 

This letter is not only for you two. For all those who did this, who may do this... Please stop torturing innocent people. There are many like me. Come to us. Please. Leave them. Stop killing their body and soul. Stop. Hoping for a good decision from all of your kind. 

Sarojam.

The Greeting Card

Nada Rajan

A greeting card for my birthday! I was surprised. Who would send me one? I opened the cover and a name I have always tried to forget emerged at the bottom. 

All these years passed, I had been waiting for at least a nod from him. But the lack of response made me feel helpless and I tried to move on, but now this card, it has turned my life topsy-turvy once again, just like I felt when we had first met. 

It was my first day at college. The new atmosphere was all the more exciting and baffling at the same time. I wasn’t sure of my chances at winning friends; for i was never good at it. 

As i reached the corridor, a group of seniors welcomed me. They asked me to perform a variety of entertainment programmes. Some wanted me to sing, to make tea, etc... and one asked whether i could ride a bike, i said no and then, i saw him coming. They asked me whether i had the guts to ride with him and take a tour of the college. I didn’t want to, but they said they would end the ragging process there and I agreed. 

The ride was a major turning point for me. It might have been my age, but the ride still plays live in my heart and mind. He left me by the corridor, said goodbye and I went to my class. 

Slowly, he became a strong presence in my life. Its true i never ever talked to him during my first year at college. But we both knew, we were in each other’s mind. The second year of my college, i tried to get his phone number and address through a common friend and sent him greeting cards for his birthday. But, still he never responded. 

At the end of my second year, he chose a different college for further studies and we never met after that. I badly wanted to call him but his reaction frightened me. May be after all he preferred to keep a distance between us. That must have been the reason of not responding to my greeting cards, even. 

For my higher studies I went out of town and came to my house only on vacations. And it is during one of those vacations, now, that has received a greeting card from him. There was a letter too. It read: 

Hi, 

Not sure what and how to write after all these years. Not one day passed when i have not regretted for not talking to you. I should have at least responded once. I know that’s the real reason you too kept away from me. 

Now i realise it was a mistake. I really would like to meet and make up for those days i have wasted by not creating everlasting memories. Can we meet this weekend? If it is a yes, please come to the cafe near the University library on Sunday at 4. 

Thank you for your time and expecting more time from you,

Yours and wanting to ever remain so, 

-

.................................. 

I was kind of shocked to read it, need not say that, I know- but still, how could he just ask to meet like that after all these years, and how did he get my address? 

Then i remembered, my mother had said somebody from the college Alumni had called up for the address. It must have been him. 

Anyway, leave that. I was confused whether i should go or not. Then my sister, she snatched the card asking, “Hey what are you doing! Daydreaming with a card. Who sent you a card?” 

I snatched it back and shouted she had no business to know that. I went to my room and shut the door. My heart was pounding. “Should I go?” 

There were three more days for Sunday to reach. Maybe, my heart would answer it , but then Sunday morning came earlier than i expected, or rather wanted it. A part of me was excited to meet him after all these years, and yet, a part of me was too reluctant to meet him. 

Anyway now i am in the cafe waiting for him, just like the way i would sit in my class with my eyes on the corridor where he would come anytime along with his friends and peep through his glasses at me, as if no one noticed it, it was like a secret meeting for us, I gasped. 

My heart now pounds so strong; I can hardly hear the music playing in the cafe. I kept watching the door, waiting and waiting to see him. May be the excitement was too much that i didn’t notice him coming along and then there he was sitting across my table smiling and smiling. 

I couldn’t believe myself. May be a pinch would do, to make me realize this is not a dream. Rather, this is what i would call a dream come true. 

It might appear silly to those who read this, but one who has gone through this tiresome process of waiting to be with someone will understand. Isn’t it so?

Fragmented

Nada Rajan

As I watched the bright faces around me, I wondered at our decision, or should I say my decision…, I was not still sure of what to do, not what I was going to do.

The gynaecology ward was filled with pregnant women, their relatives, their anxious and joyful voices, only mine and his face seemed to reflect a neutral expression, whether we were excited or in panic, we weren’t sure at all.

The time I had to wait seemed to kill me , it was like I couldn’t breathe, nor feel anything, I just wanted life to end, both for me and the baby inside my venomous body.

The moment we realised that life has taken shape inside me we were shocked, we never thought that the medicine that I had to take for my depression would in-turn affect my periods as well, our calculation went topsy-turvy and the result was this, we had to see a doctor.

As you might think this is not a regular check-up visit, as we were not yet married and in and not in a position to do so, we had to think of taking care of this life inside me, so, what everyone refers to as a part of themselves, I am here to remove that part and emerge myself as a perfect person devoid of any particular character deficiency in front of the so called society.

While waiting for the doctor to call out my name, I tried to think of a number of possible choices I probably had, maybe I could decide to go on like,I saw in some movies. Or maybe we could just tell our parents, we could run away. I could find myself laughing at these impossible logics I tried to stick on to, just for the sake of not having a guilt consciousness throughout my entire life 

But nothing practical turned up, how ironical isn’t it? Being practical now meant giving up a life; someone had sent me an image on FB. ‘An abortion never gets you anywhere; you just become the mother of a dead baby.’

God!! Will I survive? Or like in the movies will I die of bleeding, how will I survive to look at the face of another child, ever in my life ….

There he was calling me, our number was being called, we entered the cabin, he asked me tell fake names to register at the hospital, after all what’s in a name right? Here I was being torn apart and I did not care if I had a name at all.

The doctor did not ask anything at all, he said as I was selected for a course abroad I could not afford to have the baby now and she just prescribed a medicine, she just asked to insert the medicine inside my body and that’s all I had to do.

What did she mean by ‘that’s all’? That’s all left for me to do or that s where my life will come to an end, I am still not sure.

We returned, he left me at my place and asked to call after I had done it. “it?”, what did he mean by ‘it?’ for him it was a casual ‘it’? And I could not ‘it’ by myself; this ‘it’ in fact meant a murder to me. I was going to kill my own child, my baby was not to be referred to as ‘it’.

But seeing my parents, I could not bring myself to confess what I had done, I entered my room, I just couldn’t stand. The whole world was reeling before my eyes – I lied down and cried, called him, he asked me to do it as early as possible; I wanted to scream out loudly. I went to the bathroom and took the medicines, tears welled my eyes and I wanted to die along with my child. I slowly inserted the medicine and came back to my room and lied on my cot, slowly sedation took over and I dropped to sleep.

Somewhere by midnight I woke up, I could feel my body giving way for my baby to be perished. I felt my body weakening and cried and cried and cried, the bleeding lasted about twelve days. I did not even try to come out of my room, I just prayed, if only I could die bleeding so, along with my baby.

But it didn’t happen, I am still left here and every month when I get my period it is the same feeling which rushes to my mind, the feeling of being a murderer and that too, of my own baby.

After the incident he came to see me, but I couldn’t be a part of his life, because a part of mine, the most vital part was missing, I had killed it, I could never be me, not anymore.

As I write this, the leftover part of myself is awaiting a reunion with my baby and I am not sure whether you will see me hereafter, for I am off to be whole with my soul and be perfect before the eyes of eternity...

THE DARK SIDE

Krishna Pradeep

He could hear the sound of the wind howling. The rattling of the leaves tickled him, leaving him smiling without any apparent reason. The howling grew louder and he knew what awaited him; the rain. The summer has passed, everyone was awaiting the winter. But he wanted the droplets of heaven to touch his face and slither down his skin. With a thunder, the raining started. 

The howling died soon enough. Droplets slithered down his 

smooth hair and his dark skin. Inside his eyes, everyone could see a light. But for him, all he saw was darkness. Standing by a road side tea shop, he rested his chin and hand on his walking stick, sitting down on one of the benches, letting the smooth nature embrace him. 

He could hear the sound of the tea hitting the bottom of the 

silver mug, the sound of paper against the snack taking in all the oil, the chewing of the tobacco leaves in the mouth of the ones that waited for the tea to arrive. He enjoyed the strange noise of everything and it suited well for his scene: darkness. 

Something wet nestled on his leg. The cold at the end of the body made him realise that it was a dog’s nose, and for a dog to wander around the rain would be a stray dog. The dog pawed on his legs and his footwear for some time, and then rested against his legs and the wooden cane. 

The rain stopped, the howling never came back, and the shops closed down. The dog left him a few moments later in search of food. Sitting on a bench beside the highway, he could hear loud music from the heavy vehicles carrying goods and families on vacation. For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting in more darkness. Taking in a large breath, he waited for the patterns in the darkness to arrive. Soon, between his closed eyes, he saw the patterns dance in front of him, changing every now and then, and never coming back. 

The swoosh of a car woke him up, leaving him alone to ponder in the darkness, thinking how he came here. He felt like it has been forever, although he had been there only for a few years. The grey in his hair spread like a forest fire, and his jaw line tightened day after day. His wrinkled pale hands rested on the cane with his chin. The world was developing every day, and for him, each day meant one step closer to the crossroad of hell and heaven. It would all be in the hands of the one behind The Chair, he believed. 

Beside the highway resided his small beautiful house few years ago, the one with a white fence, yellow and red flowers, and a small wooden cabin with climbers climbing upon the roof, making it look like a haywire. Then, out of the blue, the development began. He signed the papers for his new home, and moved out the day when the machines came in a brought down his haven to ashes. Then, the masters behind the treacherous game never came for him with the money they owed him. Widowed old blind man with rusted up books and an ‘arakka petti.’ That’s how the masters had branded him before they left in their luxurious ride. Each day after that, he sat on the wooden chair of the tea shop, waiting for them to come for him, for one of the masters was his son. 

The howling began again and the dog came back to nestle against his warm leg. The howling grew louder and he knew what awaited him the next. One, two, five... the droplets falling on his face increased, so did the speed of the wipers on the car. He wrapped the towel into a cover, so that he could dry himself up later. Under the night sky where the moon hid behind the monstrous clouds, he rested on his cane, hidden under an unfair world.

Why I, Why Here, Why Now

Krishna Pradeep

Have you ever wondered why you were born in this world? Have you ever been so impatient to find the answer that you finally gave up and went on to set life goals? Maybe there is an explanation after all. 

Why I – Why was I born? Why couldn’t it be someone else? Why am I born to my parent? Why couldn’t it be someone else?

Why Here – Why was I born here? Why wasn’t I born in America or Somalia? Why wasn’t I born as a human and not as a bird? Why here, in this solar system, in this universe. Is there another version of me in the parallel universe that is asking the same question or has found the answers to these questions?

Why Now - Why was I born at this period of time? Why wasn’t I born during the Stone Age or the ice age? Will I be born again in the future where the world is awaiting for its last generation?

I spent that entire night looking for the answer. I didn’t dare touch the internet as I knew I would just end up searching for movie names. Sir also told us that these are the questions we have to ask ourselves every day until we find an answer. And I think I have found an explanation which I am satisfied with. 

Maybe we all are born in this period, the twenty first century where mankind is ruled by technology, to serve a purpose. If Steven Hawking had born in the Stone Age or ice age, would he have contributed to physics as he has done and is doing now? We all are born to do something meaningful, something that has a purpose, and something that has an effect on someone else. The place where we are living is the place that will be affected by our actions. The time period in which we live will be affected by our actions. In short, whatever we do, it is all affected by the world. We all are born to serve a purpose. For some, that purpose has passed, for some that purpose is yet to come. All we have to do is stay, find the purpose and do it perfectly. So every day, ask the three Ws. Why I, Why here, Why now. 

This is just merely my opinion and my answer. You too can think about this and can find an explanation. 

Morpheus

Ameet Anand Unnithan

It was once again the night of the new moons; the darkness lay seduced by the cool glow of the silvery orbs that floated in the skies above. She could see the distant celestials sparkle too, as they pierced through the twirling strays of wispy hoary clouds. The lake, upon its sheeny iris portrayed the nocturne to perfection, with only the occasional ripples to betray its reflected devotion.

They sat by the edge of the lake, she could feel it’s cool waters rise to caress her skin, while the breeze played with the scent of some distant blossom, a faint balmy fragrance, which she knew somehow to be that of the moons-bloom. It was said to be the most beautiful of flowers, one that only blossomed on such nights, when the moons were lusciously full and in their faint entrancing pull, the moons-bloom would bestow its dreamy essence upon the world. She had never seen the moons-bloom, yet in the most intimate of details; its scent was all she had hoped for, almost what she had always wanted it to be, as though its fragrance was fashioned uncannily by the definition of her imagination. 

She leaned onto his arm, sensing the warmth that throbbed beneath the fabric of his dress, she liked the way his body pulsed, she loved every contour, every line and curve of his body, in fact she loved everything about him. He was an embodiment of all her desires, her most profound needs and wants, as though it was her soul itself that willed him into existence out of her sheer passion and desire. They were together for many years now, yet she could not remember how long it had been or the very beginning of their lives, it was as though he had always been there in one way or the other. Things had been perfect, they were always so with her. The world would whisper that she was very lucky, blessed; often she felt that the universe sensed what she wanted and conferred it upon her without any reserve. She had also wanted this night, by the lake, with the very same milieu, the mild chill air, both moons in their wholeness, this bewitching moment adorned in all its glory and detail, everything just as she had wished for.

Her eye-lids, slowly being subdued by the overwhelming peace and happiness of a life almost unreal, lingering a moment ever more in droop, before they languidly unfurled again to revel in further assurances of the beauty of the world around her. She did not know for how long she had slipped into a sweet sleep, resting tranquilly upon his arm, yet she was brought to the vague shores of awareness, by what was at first feeble pangs of anxiety, faint echoes of restlessness, which slowly built itself into a blaze of sadness and an undefined sense of urgency. She could see her perfect world slowly drench in blood, the cold black lake turn into an unmistakeable shade of thick crimson, reeking with the stench of burnt and decaying bodies, she could hear screams, distant at first, but steadily closing in on her, and they were screams of pain, of agony, screams of a soul that pleaded liberation, and then; then she saw the girl, or at least the remnant of a what might have once been a girl, its face turned downward pressed to the ground, a bare body it was without limbs, mutilated and ravaged in the most horrific manner. She wondered what plague or evil design, even of the most malicious mind, could implement such cruelty upon a being. As she watched, it tried to slither upon the bloody ground, twisting and turning what remained of it smouldering flesh, and suddenly as though in realisation of the futility of its efforts, it stopped, and let out another blood curdling shriek. As the unearthly echo died down, few moments passed in stillness, and just when she thought that it had finally succumbed and given in to all its grievous injuries and pain, there was a faint movement, almost an involuntary spasm, she thought it to be the twitch of a broken body at first, but then slowly as though burdened with an immense effort that hinted an attempt toward a conscious action, it raised its head ever slowly, bringing up its face towards her.

She looked at the rising face and was frightened beyond measure, for she beheld the most inhuman face she had even seen and yet what shocked her even more was that somehow it resembled her in some bizarre manner. Even though its eyes had no irises, just meaningless and haunting whiteness, the flesh of its face were torn at places and revealed ivory bones beneath, portions of its skin wrinkled and burnt, hanging loosely upon its ghastly face, it looked straight at her, and suddenly as though from somewhere deep within that dying body, out of the force of its sheer will, arose a croak, a faint rasping dry sound, “remembahhh” it said, and as though that word had culminated what was left of the life within, the body burst into blue flames. Yet, through the engulfing fire, she could make out that horrifying face twist into what might have been some form of a smile, the most gruesome one she had ever seen. 

Startled and shocked, she awoke from her frightening vision; her fingers tightening instinctively around his arms as she frantically took in the surroundings. The night remained unchanged, both the moons still glowing serenely in the heavens; she felt her body relax a bit, assured by his presence and the beautiful setting around her. She turned her gaze upon him; he still sat peering intently far away into the depths of the night.

“Is this real”, she asked him, her tender words rippling through the stillness of the night, moments passed in stillness, and upon no response from him, she persisted “are we in a dream?”

As she opened her mouth to persist, he slowly turned towards her, “A dream?” he asked, his voice, deep in its resonance, “No” he said, with an air of finality.

His deep eyes set upon her face in all its intensity, she looked into his eyes. There were worlds within those eyes, millions of colours twirling and flowing within them, she felt herself drawn into them. His eyes understood, his eyes knew. She felt a warmth spread throughout her body and as his eyes bore deep into her, she was again stark and unadorned, her desires burning deep in the flames of his eyes. She could sense it building, the pressure, the subtle yet pleasing pain, her passion unbridled, she felt her mind moan in some unknown frenzied rapture, and from somewhere deep within her, from the core of her being, she felt a vibration taking birth. It rose through her, carved, toned and given shape through her possessed throat, finally escaping through her lips.

“No” she murmured as though one profoundly spell bound, “This is not a dream” she said, as if reaffirming what he had said.

Her eyes too, now sparkling with the twirling dance of million colours, lost in some distant sight, as once again she gently leaned absent-mindedly on his arm and gazed upon at her perfect world, wondering how lucky she was.

He looked at her, a mass of blackened flesh by his side, one among the many that littered the battle field, an innocent girl burned into nothingness. She was beyond saving when he found her, but he had promised her that it wouldn’t hurt, after all she did smile one last time before she went.

Sighing deeply, he turned again toward the night, his eyes, glazed with sadness and pity; as he looked intently into the darkness, murmuring to himself, “There is just too much pain.”, and lost within that thought, in his deep voice he began chanting...

Untainted by the touch of grief,

To her soul, I bestowed bliss, a while,

Before we parted, a moment’s relief,

A life to live, in one last smile,

Upon wings, of a darkening eve,

Of illusions, of chimeras, a drape,

Twined in her yearnings, I weave,

An escape within a final dreamscape...

CONNECTION LOST

Krishna Pradeep

[Krishna is a 11th std student from Trivandrum]

As she turned her steering wheel along the curvature, listening to nothing but the whisper of the wind and the roar of the engine, she couldn’t help but feel comfortable. She had been a bit annoyed at Tom when she discovered that there was no signal in the address. But now, she sat on the driving seat, feeling the nature, being thankful to him for he was the one who suggested taking the road less travelled. 

“For how long have you been working here?” he asked, annoyed by the silence. 

“Few years,” she replied. “I came here as an intern, but for my brains, the internship was too low. So they promoted me.”

“You don’t sound too happy about it,” he noted the tone of her voice. 

“To be honest, I hate this profession. Always did. I wanted to be a free-thinker, a writer and a traveller. This profession doesn’t leave room for any of this. And the only travelling opportunity I get is for conferences,” she replied with a touch of disappointment in her voice. 

“Your Indian accent is starting to grow on me,” he said with a laugh. “Then why did you go for this?” 

“Family’s peer pressure. They believe only in engineering and medicine, and before I knew, I was trapped.” 

“I love mine,” he started. “My profession I mean. Besides, I’m your intern. Does that mean I’m trapped too?”

“Not really,” she laughed. “But you’ll be stuck with a lot of paperwork.”

“Dr. Maya Banerjee,” he stated. “Such a nice name with an evil personality.” 

They both grinned as they rode to the hospital. Maya tried to recall when she had such a normal life the last time. Pushing the thought, she began. “Cardio is fun. You get to work with a lot of prototypes and instruments. If you’re lucky enough, you’ll get to do a transplant soon.”

“We can do one now!” he yelled with excitement. “I have almost all the materials in my bag, except a heart and a victim. The authorities insist that the interns carry supplies all the time in case of an emergency. Kind of annoying though, carrying all this weight.”

“They’re being practical, that’s all,” she said. 

As the wind played around Tom’s hair, a speck of dust made its way to his eye, making him dart his vision. When his vision cleared, his eyes fell upon a cloud of smoke not too far away. “Is it just me or is something going on there?” he asked Maya, pointing at the scene. 

“There must be some accident,” she answered as she increased the vehicle’s speed. “Try to reach 911.”

“But there is no signal,” he hesitated, raising the phone for bars. 

“Wait here, I’ll check the scene; and page Dr. Warner,” she said as she pulled over. 

Getting out of the driver’s seat, she saw two cars crumbled to pieces with a stream of blood pouring out of the one which wasn’t smoking. She caught the sight of a hand trying to move the metal pieces to get out. Without her knowing, Tom snuck out, reaching for the supplies. 

“Are you okay in there sir?” she asked, peeking through the rumble. Her eyes to a man who was stuck in the driver’s seat. His scarred face resembled to that of a treacherous man, but his voice signalled her that he was not a dangerous creature. 

“I could use a little help,” he said, coughing up more blood. 

“Is there anyone else inside the vehicle?” 

“Just me,” he said after a loud scream. “My leg, it hurts!” 

“We’ll get you out of there sir. I’m Dr. Maya Banarjee and I have Dr. Tom Sanders with me calling for help. Meanwhile, please try to not panic. What’s your name?” 

“Easy for you to say, I am the one stuck here in this hell hole!” he yelled out. “The name is Aaron Stone. Please don’t change that to ‘The Late Aaron Stone’.” 

“Well sir you have a great sense of humour,” Maya replied, trying to calm the scene. “Are you able to get out?” 

“I would’ve if I was able to,” he said after a moment of struggle with the metals. 

“Sanders!” she yelled out. “Can you get any bars?” 

“No, the tower is too far,” he replied. “I paged Dr. Warner, but so far there is no reply.” 

“Not that bar! Iron bar, I need to get this man out before he bleed himself to heaven,” she said, pressing his chest with gauze to stop him from bleeding. 

“That’s a nice thing for you to say, I mean, me going to heaven and all,” the man said, managing a smile. Tom searched the trunk and came up with an iron rod and a bag full of supplies. 

“Hold the rod to the door and push it out,” Maya ordered as she applied more gauze. With a swift motion, Aaron Stone was able to move a little bit. “Good, now move to some other place and try to get some help.” 

“You are Indian, aren’t you,” Aaron asked trying to push himself out of the pile. 

“I thought you got that from my name, but yeah, I’m Indian,” she said, trying to stop the bleeding. 

“An Indian saving an American, well let this be a beginning, and I mean, in a good way,” he said with a laugh, which resulted in more blood pouring out. 

“You are having a pleural effusion,” Maya blurted out, looking through the supplies. 

“Is it as scary as it sounds?” he asked, trying to wipe the blood away from his face. 

“I need to insert a tube inside your chest to get some fluid out so that you won’t die. But the problem is I have a chest tube here but if I insert it in, I should be able to close you up too, which I can’t do here in the unsterile condition. So...” As she went on, more blood came out from his mouth, making him feel one step closer to heaven. “Chest tube it is,” she told herself. 

She rummaged through the supplies and found a small knife, which would help her make the incision. She held onto the gauze and the tube. Without thinking for a second, calling up all the textbooks she used to learn from, she made a small incision and inserted the tube, letting the fluid spread out onto the road less travelled. With the fluid came out his harsh loud voice in a bellow, feeling the pain he never ever had in his entire life of adventure. 

“911 will be here soon!” Tom yelled out as he ran towards the scene of life and death. “Wow, did you just insert a chest tube into a man on the road?” 

“It was necessary,” she replied, wiping the sweat off her brow. “ETA?” 

“Three minutes,” he replied, checking his watch again. “Is he going to be okay?” 

“He will, if they get here soon enough,” she replied. Three minutes of long silence awaited them, and in that moment she was happy that she was able to save a man’s life. In that moment, she lost the sense of having regret for taking up the job she had now. She held onto the man’s hand, feeling his pulse every now and then. His eyes closed down, and she knew the end was near, when out of the blue the silence was broken down by a loud siren. 

“There they are!” Tom yelled out. He ran to the ambulance to help them with the gurney. Maya stared at her blood stained hands for a moment, and moved closer to Aaron. 

“We’ll take it from here,” the EMT informed her, taking him over. As the ambulance moved away with the siren again, she leaned on her car and let it all sink in. 

“Told you that supplies would come in handy,” Tom said with a smile. “The coffee in your car must have gone cold. Shall we hit a cafe?” 

Hearing the siren come to an end, she nodded with a smile, holding onto the knife she used to cut open a man’s chest to save his life. “You’re lucky that you’re off the hook from all the paperwork this month.” 

“Maybe I should travel more often with you,” he winked. 

“These things don’t happen every day,” she replied with a smile that showed her sense of relief. “But if you stick around, I could show you more crazy stuffs.” 

“Crazier than this?” he chuckled. “I guess I’ll be holding onto your tail, Dr. Banarjee.” 

“The way of you calling my name is also growing into me Tom.” 

***

She sat in the Starbucks cafe, sipping her coffee and staring out of the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her blue silk scarf. It was a medal for her, to save a man from death. Although now she realised that she hadn’t looked for the man in the other vehicle. The EMT confirmed his time of death, but she still felt a pang of guilt for not trying. 

“The man in the other car was already dead,” Tom stated, reading her mind. “I checked when you went near Aaron.” 

“Well, may his soul Rest In Peace. And I should say, we should take the road less travelled more often,” she replied, taking a sip from her cup of joe. 

“And you were mad at me for not finding radio signals,” he managed a laugh. “So, you were saying about literature?” 

“Literature... that is still in my heart,” she said. “Who knows, maybe I’ll write a memoir one day, and this day sure will be in it.” 

“Looking forward for that,” he replied, raising his glass. “To more blissful days.” 

“To more blissful days,” she said after him, having a toast. As they exchanged their stories, their pagers beeped, drawing them back to reality. “Time to save more lives,” she said, looking at the blood stained knife.