Desicritics Category: Culture: Original Fiction

Fiction: Black

Harish C — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 11:06:21 EDT

Shyama was his name. It literally meant black, and so was he.

Born of wealthy vaishya traders who have been entrenched in their business of precious silks and diamonds since the time of King Raghu, His dad Rakhtahasa was a boisterous man who, legend has it, rode along with King Dasharatha in many of his wars. The king, and certainly lady luck, had heaped fortunes upon him. Only one worry nagged at his soul, of his son Shyama.

Shyama was black and not the fiery and subtle shade of a cloud like their Prince who was in exile ( as told by the bards who always referred to him as dark as a cloud) but literally black as an asura. In a society that measured virtue a lot by the appearance of the person, that meant that he was generally an outcast. Alienated, even though a eleven year old.

Just because he was black.

On that day of Ashadha, he was at the stables, grooming Markasha, his dad's favorite stallion. The horse was his only companion and his adoloescent mind often wondered why black was so prized in a horse while he was shunned for the same. Ah, the quirks of grown-ups!

Shunned would be harsh as the people around him, the dasis, the stable hands and usual coterie of clerks and servants could hardly be disrespectful the young master. At least not in an obvious way. But on and off, an ill placed snigger and snatches of conversation reminded him of his color.

"by Indra! is it true Durasta missed him while he was on his way to light the lamps?"
"our master, shines like lord Surya in the month of Phalguna but look at his son..."
"looks...a..Asura"

They called him an Asura or a demon. That's what irked him the most. More than the fact that his dad never used to act least bit bothered even though he was sure to be tuned to the sea of rumors. Not even during that ghastly episode during the Madira orgy where a rival trader openly questioned his mother's chastity. Rage had boiled inside Shyama but he was an unwelcome visitor feasting on savories from under the table. He was amazed at the self restraint shown by his father.

All because he was black.

He was tired of all this and he sought means to end it all. He had heard about the ill effects of Kartaraasa, the medicine for colic-ridden horses and which was kept in the apothecary's room.

A sudden roar like the ones never heard before interrupted his reverie. He was aware that it was coming from the main street of Ayodhya, which his house overlooked. He left his grooming tools in the stables and ran into the house. There was a generous amount of chaos inside the house and all along, a feverishbluster.

People were running to the front door or to any of the balconies over looking the streets as it seemed to be the cynosure of all activity.

"he's back"
"oh my lord, he has returned to be with us"
"...ruler of all.."
"Ravana is dead?"
"even Vanaras..."
"14 years...so long"

he could not make any sense of anything and he made his way to the main balcony. Surprisingly, it was crowded too, with an array of dasis waiting with thalis laden with flower petals and lamps. He tried in vain to push through the line blocking his view but settled for an audio commentary.

Soon, there was a hush among the crowd. More than a general sense of quiet, Shyama could feel the anticipation building in everyone around him and the air was heavy with it.

A loud collective cheer broke it like a thunder clap and shouts thronged the air.

"Jai ShriRam! Jai Jai ShriRam"

The dasis were showering flowers on the street and there were cries from the older ones in the balcony.

"It has been 14 years, oh god, I thought he would never come back", cried old Duvarya. One of the younger ones interjected,"but, he...he is so...I mean...------"

Shyama, who did not hear the uttered word, wondered what she could find incongruous in the prince.

"be careful about what you speak of, you young imbecile. he is the lord, reincarnate of the Lord Vishnu, heir to the Suryavamsha and true King of Ayodhya. You dare say that about him? So is our young master, isn't he?"

It was evident that they hadn't seen him yet. Else they would not be speaking about him. Still, he wondered what he had in common with the prince that drew that interjection from the dasis.

Curiosity welled up inside him as he resolutely pushed away at the line and finally got a glimpse of the road.

There were throngs of ministers, soldiers, generals, vassals, courtiers and noble men along with the Regent-King Bharata standing in front of the small party of three. The crowd all around them was chanting Rama's name and as in his balcony, all around the street, flower petals were being showered upon him. All the houses were lit up with millions of oil lamps and the whole seen shimmered like an unreal vision of Swarga.

All for Rama, the prince who came back.

Rama, who was as black as him.

He never thought about the Apothecary's room ever.

Fiction: Inconsiderate Indians

Deepti Lamba — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 04:29:12 EDT

She huffily threw her keys down on the table and sat down.

"I've had it with these people! I was about to park and this dumb-ass pulled in and took the spot. I had to drive the entire block to find parking. Can you believe it?!"

Sonali smiled at her friend and handed her a chilled glass of Kingfisher " Hello to you too. Have a sip."

Arundhati took a small sip and made a face. She wasn't much of a beer drinker.

"There are times I really hate Indians! They are so inconsiderate." She said loudly and people sitting around them looked at her but she didn't care and she continued her harangue.

"They pee, shit in public, throw trash any where and every where, they are so corrupt, they are so- "

"Yeah, I know- inconsiderate. Why don't you look at the menu and see what you want to eat? I am famished!" Sonali handed the menu to her friend.

Arundhati looked at the Menu and continued to speak " Crass, uncouth Indians!! I think I will have a Garden omelet. And some Fresh Lime soda without sugar."

Sonali tried to catch the waiter's eye.

"Where is that man? Killing a chicken?"

Arundhati laughed at her friend's half hearted attempt at a joke. She was already in a good mood and had forgotten the entire parking episode.

At the nearby table Suresh had a hard time controlling his temper. The two uppity women had pissed him off with their bitching.

"Crass? Uncouth Indians? Whats wrong with those women?" He hissed to his companion who was busy wolfing down his biryani.

"Huh?" the biryani guy looked up at his friend who flicked his head towards the girls who were sitting on the adjacent table.

"Didn't you hear that woman bitch about India?" he hissed and gave the girls a dirty look which went unnoticed.

"Why? What did they say?" the biryani guy broke the chicken bone and sucked the marrow and eyed the cutlet his friend had yet not eaten. Was Suresh going to eat that cutlet? He was still hungry despite finishing his plate of biryani.

“Some guy grabbed her parking space and she blamed all of us for the shit she faced. I mean, we Indians do our bit. We are considerate and polite. We are the happiest people in the world and very hard working. Why do rich people like her always sell our country short? Inconsiderate she said!! I say – she is inconsiderate!!”

With that he took a bite of his cutlet and got angrier. The biryani guy sat back to watch the fireworks.

Suresh looked around for the waiter and snapped his fingers to get attention

“Waiter!! Waiter!!” he shouted and the girls on the nearby table gave him a sweeping look and went back to their conversation.

The waiter hurried over to Suresh’s table

“Sir?” he mumbled. He was bone tired. He needed the money and was on his second shift.

“Why is my cutlet cold? Whats wrong with you people? What kind of service is this?” Suresh picked up his plate and shoved it against the waiter’s belly.

The waiter automatically grabbed the plate; he opened his mouth to speak but closed it. He needed the job.

The biryani guy knew the cutlet had gone cold because Suresh had been too busy eyeballing the women but decided to keep his peace.

“Get me a new cutlet and make it quick. And don’t you add it to the bill. You hear me? Or else I will talk to the owner about you. I know him very well. Go get me my food.”

Suresh lit a cigarette and took a long drag and leaned against his chair.

Arundhati coughed. Suresh had blown right on her face.

“Jeez! Dude! Be a little more considerate! You blew right on my face.” Arundhati spoke in between her coughing.

“It’s a smoking zone. “ Suresh replied haughtily

Arundhati glared “Don’t you know that you aren’t supposed to blow into peoples’ faces? That is the first rule of smoking!”

Suresh gave her a dirty look and took another drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke in the air.

“Rude fellow!” Arundhati said loudly and turned her back to him before he could reply.

The waiter came back with the omelet and Fresh lime soda and placed it before Arudhati.

She noticed how tired he looked.

“Been a long day?” She asked

The waiter nodded and was about to move off when Suresh snapped at him

“Well? Where is my food? I swear!! I will never return to this place again!”

As he went on brow beating the waiter Arundhati rolled her eyes and muttered to Sonali “Bloody Inconsiderate Indian!!”

Fiction: A Returned Indian

Kiran Dhanwada — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 02:19:02 EDT

It was a beautiful evening. The sun was setting behind dark clouds, streaks of orange light glistened across a glorious bluish-orange sky and the wind blowing from the sea into Rakesh’s and Priya’s face. Birds were getting back to their nests in their typical V-formations and people were getting back from work in a hurry.

Rakesh and Priya were sitting at one feet distance from each other on the sea shore, distantly gazing into the beautiful sky, the sound of waves making up for the silence between them.

Rakesh had returned from the US after three years. He had completed his Engineering successfully at one of the premier colleges in Mumbai, and proceeded to do what most of the Indians did - study M.S at one of the universities in the US. After working for a year after his M.S, he decided to return to India for a holiday.

Priya had waited three years for this day.

Rakesh landed at Chatrapati Shivaji International Airport at Mumbai on August 16th, 2008. Priya eagerly awaited his arrival at the airport with bated breath. They both went a long way back in the past. They had played together in the same lawn, shared most of the toys and as they grew older, spent a lot of time at the beach discussing life. When Rakesh left to the US, Priya felt that she had lost an important limb from her body. Rakesh never left Priya alone - he called almost once in three days, if not daily.

She was obviously very excited by his arrival.

They both drove back in Priya’s car to their favorite spot - the Worli beach. Both of them liked this beach since childhood - the rugged rocks, the sharp terrain against which strong waves hit with panache - it gave them a sense of power and calm at the same time.

As they sat in silence for a long time, Priya realised it was getting darker by the minute and decided to do what she had planned all along. She looked at Rakesh, with tears in her eyes, with an overwhelming sense of having her life-support back. She opened her purse, and said

‘Happy Rakshabandhan Rakesh bhaiyya‘ and tied the rakhi to his hand.

They both hugged each other and proceed to their home in Worli.

Fiction: Dreading Ugly Girls

Chaitanya S — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 13:22:46 EDT

The sun beat down harshly, immediately distorting the contour of my expression. With crinkled eyelids I stared blankly at the buildings below as a whiff of smoke escaped my tanned pursed lips. I paced around slowly. The brain was ticking and the lungs were puffing. The terrace of my office building was an ideal place for my “brainstorming breaks”. Creative ideas blended with a dash of black coffee and a hint of smoke made a magic potion. The potion on which I believed my modeling agency thrived on. Minutes would turn to hours at times; thinking of the next fashion show or the next magazine shoot. Faces of fashion photographers, choreographers, designers, stylists and models would emerge through the smoke and spin in my head like a jackpot machine. The risks and benefits of every combination would be calculated in my head. Suddenly there would be a glimpse of light in my clouded mind and I’d run down to break the plan of action to my team.

My mind was focused on a print shoot for a ladies denim commercial for the Middle East. I had already zeroed in on the photographer. The only bone of contention was which young ladies to select. They had to look beautiful, nothing else, simply gorgeous. Tall, slim, good features, nice long hair and fair. The industry demanded fair girls for print shoots. Dusky girls with average features were useless for this. They were good enough for the ramp if they were tall and slim enough. But even they were taken grudgingly. I was an integral part of a shallow world. But that shallow world paid for the comfortable lifestyle which I led. Changing the world or people’s perception wasn’t my concern. My mind shifted to the numerous aspiring models that came to me for work. I didn’t give two hoots to their “talents”. If they did not fit the “conventional” look, I offered them tea; chit chatted, took their photographs and assured them that someone from my office would get in touch soon. I didn’t have the heart to say, “You are no good. Your looks will never work. Please go back home and do something else.” The pictures were immediately confined to the welcoming bosom of my trash can.I still wasn’t part of the shallow world though. After every such meeting, I needed a fag to get over the uneasiness. It was the hope in those eyes. The hope and trust which would haunt me. The hope and trust which I strangled, the moment the pictures touched the bin.Then slowly I turned cold. I assimilated myself in that world. My job was to sell dreams. I started living in a dream myself. My smile became my mask. I became a parody of myself. I started disliking people who were not good looking. I felt they were coming to office and wasting my time. The same time which I could dedicate to “deserving” people. At times I made it a point to tell them that. Mostly I did it in a politically correct manner. Sometimes I was blunt. But I didn’t care. I had a business to run and salaries to pay.Gradually the sight of bad features, bad hair, bad dressing started making me uneasy. My soul turned shallow, then dry and finally I could feel it die. I know it died because I felt empty. It lay buried somewhere in the four walls of my agency. I never quite realized the subtle transition of my soul into arrogance. The only thing that remained of my previous self was my “carton of 20”. The hopeful eyes still haunted me though. But I knew a drag was all it took to cloud those thoughts away.Outside the office, I was myself again. Maybe that’s why I always liked going to the terrace to think. The fresh sea breeze felt liberating. It allowed me to think in peace without being disturbed. My soul felt alive again. It was the only place where I could be at ease with my “oral companion”.

A trickle of sweat ran down my neck and made me wince. Another drag before I shifted base to the cooler confines under the parapet on which the water tank rested. It was when I moved there that I realized that I was not alone on the terrace that evening.

My soot stained lips broke into a genuine smile on seeing her pudgy dusky features. However, the hint of coldness in my heart screamed, “For that skin tone, at least use a hint of bronzer to liven it up”. Her hair was tied neatly in a tight pony tail, a far cry from the cute step cuts which were in vogue. Her simple denims and tee did not make any attempt to hide her ample frame. In my office, a girl looking like that would have been spurned. I disliked bulky people. I just felt they were too lazy to exercise. “I hate people who abused their bodies”, I would tell my near and dear ones even as an extra layer of soot collected over my lungs. “How many times have I said no wearing sneakers on flared denims”, my heart wailed. She was a stark contrast to the girls who visited my agency and those who worked there. But that day she did not flash her pearly whites on seeing me.She worked in the office next doors. We would often meet in the corridor or elevator and exchange pleasantries. Then we started having brief conversations since the car park where I kept my car and her bus stop were in the same direction. She was a well read girl and we would discuss books for that brief period. She was sharp with her words and fluent in Hindi and English. She could think on the spot and had a ready wit. I called her a walking talking lexicon. These qualities helped her become an accomplished telemarketer. At the end of every month, she would proudly tell me that she had over achieved her targets. I always appreciated and related more to self made people.

She never quite knew why her boss never sent her out for client calls. Such marketing offered higher financial rewards and better networking opportunities to further ones career. She definitely had the capabilities of pulling it off. I expressed my curiosity to her boss once when I bumped into him in the elevator. He smirked and patted my shoulder. “We sell high end perfumes, son. I don’t want to scare my clients. He gave a chuckle. You know what she looks like! And her dressing, she needs some tips from your staff!” We had reached the landing to our office as he completed his sentence. My soul always disappeared on that floor. I smirked and chuckled harder than him. I was amused by my own stupidity.

I walked up to her. My grin was genuine and my mind was clear of the modeling world. “Hey. And how are we doing today? Good girls shouldn’t be sitting in “shady” places all by themselves”. I ruffled her hair playfully and sat down on the cement flooring next to her. She gave me a blank look; her eyes were of a crimson hue. She’d always been cheerful whenever I’d met her. This was something I wasn’t used to.

She sniffled and looked me in the eye. “Got another drag?” I crossed my eyebrows. I wasn’t expecting that. “Yeah I do. I didn’t know you smoke. I don’t think you should.” She eased my companion out of my fingers and took a deep puff. Her eyes burned with a sanguine radiance as the smoke hissed out of her lips over my face. Then she coughed and tears ran down her dark cheeks. Immediately taking the stub out of her hand, I extinguished it on the floor. I put my arm round her comfortingly and smiled lightly. “Don’t worry. I’m here for you. Let those tears flow and it’ll make you feel better.” My shoulder got wet as tears flowed on it. I sat still, not knowing how to react. I needed to think. To think I needed a quick drag.

I stroked her hair comfortingly while my brain raced. “Maybe she’s had a fight with her boyfriend”, I said to myself. Immediately a voice from within smirked, “Do you really think she will have a boyfriend. I mean look at her. I wouldn’t date her if she was the last woman on this planet”. “Love is blind”, I countered. “Of course it is. Else ugly people would never be loved.” I quickly pulled out a cigarette and popped it between my lips. With slightly shaking hands, I flicked open my Zippo and readily inhaled the soothing draft of air. It had a magical effect and squabble within me ceased immediately.

She moved her face off my shoulder. I gazed into her pink orbs and smiled lightly. I could see pain, hurt, confusion and embarrassment all rolled in one look. I handed her my cigarette. That was the only cure which I could vouch for and the only one which was at hand. “Thanks”, she muttered coldly before closing her eyes and taking a drag. A tear rolled down the side of her eye as I lit a cigarette for myself.

Weeping girls made me panic. Most of the girls I knew could open a faucet within themselves at the drop of a hat. They could use those tears as a weapon to attack you or as a shield to defend their actions. Either way men had no chance of fighting back. Reasoning was always futile; I had learnt the hard way.

I glanced at her. The nicotine in her blood stream seemed to have a calming effect on her. Balancing the cigarette in my lips I pulled out my handkerchief and handed it to her. I took her hand gently in mine and took a drag before speaking in a low voice, “Hey, thank God you don’t wear any makeup, these tear stains would have definitely ruined your pretty face”.

“Pretty ! Pretty ! You think this face is pretty !”, she exploded. She hadn’t released the smoke before screaming and her words were drowned in a bought of heavy coughing. She jerked her hand out of mine and gave me a hard look. “You bloody well know I’m not pretty. And it’s no secret either. I’m ugly, goddamit and you would be the first person to notice that”. My eyes widened and I took a couple of quick fags to calm down. What she said wasn’t completely untrue. It wasn’t what she said that shocked me, but the way in which she said it.

“Who the hell told you that? Of course you are pretty”, I spoke calmly. “You’ve got a wonderful personality and you are a good person and it shows on your face……In your body language. Trust me, I’m your friend.” I smiled lightly as I watch her aggression subsiding.

“Then why the fuck do guys reject me for marriage on the basis of my looks?” she mutter meekly. For that I had no answer. I did not even know her family was out looking for prospective suitors. Marriage was an alien concept to me and it hardly ever crossed my mind.

“Every time I meet someone, the reply the very next day is the same. NO. My parents are too embarrassed to tell me, but I’m not stupid. I understand. My parents drop subtle hints, asking me to lose weight. I can do it for health reasons, but why should I change myself for someone else?” Tears started bulging under her eyes again and I quickly gestured towards the handkerchief.

“I’ve never even had a boyfriend. I know it’s my looks. But how can I help it if I was born this way? I have dreams too; I want to have a family. I want to have kids. But everywhere I go, I get a look and I know what it means. Guys want fair, slim girls. Why is dark considered ugly in this country?”

I listened quietly. I had never imagined girls could face such problems. Why an independent and intelligent young lady being reduced to tears because of a frivolous thing like marriage was beyond me. But again it was a question of priorities. She wanted a family and kids of her own, and I respected her priorities.

“I wanted some good photographs, remember? I’d come to you and you said you’d get back to me regarding that. You never did. I wanted them for a marriage website and I’d heard you bragging about making people look prettier than they were”. I cringed. I remembered that meeting and how I had reacted. I always felt shooting someone ugly was an insult to my skill and my camera. I was an artist and I chose whom I wanted to shoot. Despite being avarice, I’d rather give a monetary loan to somebody than shoot pictures of a person with average looks. “You know how busy I’ve been”, I muttered timidly.

I managed a smile and took her hand again. “Forget the photographs for now. You don’t need all that. You are an amazing girl and that’s what’s important. You don’t look ugly. You’ve got lovely features; you just need to smile and show off your pearly white teeth to accentuate them. And there is nothing that a nice haircut can’t fix. We just need to change your dressing slightly and you’ll be physically all ready to have guys drooling when you walk. And don’t feel as if I’m changing you, you’ll still be yourself. I’m just suggesting some minor tweaks. And don’t feel you are doing it for a stranger; just think you are doing it for me”.

“Once that is taken care of, you’ve got everything a guy would want in a girl. You are intelligent. You can talk on varied subjects. And have I told you I love your sense of humor? You are the only one who makes me laugh so much after a long day at work. And your poems are some of the best which I’ve heard in ages. And you have a way with words which is very flattering. I love the way you speak sweetly over the phone with your clients”. She had tossed the cigarette aside and was gazing at me and listening intently as I spoke about her. I highlighted all her positives and it took a while since she really was talented. I mentioned how good she was around people and how she made everyone comfortable in her presence. We continued to talk for almost an hour after that. She smiled and finally she was laughing again.

I glanced at my watch. I had a client to meet in office downstairs and even she had been away from her desk for a while. As the sun started setting in the sea across our building, the sky was filled with a crimson hue. It was the same hue which was visible in her eyes an hour ago. As the day was coming closer to its conclusion, so was our conversation. We got up and took the stairs down to our office floor. I was repeating all her qualities to drive them in her brain and boost her confidence. She was smiling and she seemed to be in high spirits again. I could see the joy in her eyes, something which I hadn’t seen for ages. I tossed the cigarette aside. I could feel good without it.

Just one more flight of stairs down and we would have reached our destination. Words were flowing consistently through my lips. “So anyone who says no to you isn’t worth your time because you are precious. And you know….Any guy who marries you will be the luckiest guy in this whole world….And…” “She grabbed my hand and turned me to face her. Her hope filled gaze was locked in mine. She spoke in a low expectant voice, “Will you marry me?”

My soul always disappeared on that floor. I turned cold. My job was to sell dreams. It was the hope in those eyes. The hope and trust which would haunt me forever. “No”, I said coldly.

The hopeful eyes still haunt me. Even a drag isn't enough now to cloud those thoughts away.

Fiction: Unfinished

Temple Stark — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 06:40:49 EDT

"Wait!" I screamed after her. "Your hat!"

She ignored me, which was to be expected. We hadn't talked, not really anyway, in more than 10 years. I scooped up her black hat. The mesh veil fluttered beneath my fingers ...

I'd come back to my hometown to visit my family. They had rejected me, tearfully, yes, but they had indeed said goodbye to me, my lifestyle and, seemingly my past. Given no choice, I had done the same and lived, happily but under a persistent shadow.

My parents had died two years ago, my brother and sister last year. I had only found out a couple of months ago in a conversation with an old teacher.

Deeply wounded, I blamed everyone who had blamed me - for something I couldn't control. Speciously my anger re-ignited at the dead.

There, here again now, was pain on top of pain and I thought I would never return. But holiday weekend plans had fallen apart and I found myself booking a flight and taking off toward the blues.

Such a small town, there were only three graveyards. Having slept overnight in a quiet motel along Main Street, having been slightly afraid to go to any restaurants, not knowing how her life had been shaped by tongues in her absence or who she might meet, she stayed inside, ordering pizza and watching ghastly TV while feeling equally horrible.

The veil in her hand showed that someone close to Theresa had died and it hurt not to be able to hold her as I had before.

The veil in her hand, the material now rubbed between my fingers, was so soft, as Theresa had been and would always be.

The veil in her hand, I suddenly pulled close to my breast and without warning drenched it in streaming tears.

Just a few minutes ago I had visited my family's graves, all four, all rigidly upright, with cold words facing me.

I had not cried, which hurt. I had placed four sets of wide-open irises down. Precisely, neatly.

The group of people in black drew me. I'd been just out of earshot. Feeling it would replace the funerals that I had missed I drew closer, trying to stay near to my family but drawn to the sights and sounds of the other.

The wind made me draw even closer, perhaps more than I intended and I listened to the words of remembrance, remorse and respect. I wished they echoed for my family but there was only regret. Regret that the rift that had forced me away had never been repaired.

But I had lived.

As the whispers of the last words faded away and sobs and sniffles walked away I approached the gravesite, perhaps to expect that I might know the dead. And the name was there, Mildred Overton, etched whitely, newly into stone.

Michael Overton, who had died in a war I had lived through but not known; her husband's name was weathered and smoothed by the passing years.

And, still shocked that someone I had indeed known well, was dead before me I looked up and saw Theresa. No one had been near when I walked up so boldly, yet something brought her to me, as it had 17 years before.

I recognized her instantly, heightened by her mother's name on the gravestone I'm sure, but she also looked so much the same and walked in the same graceful way. I think she approached me as a stranger to wonder who was mourning for her mother who hadn't been there just minutes before.

I think Theresa had wanted a quiet moment alone, with a mother who always understood, who had always been by her side, fighting the battles that I knew must have come to the both of them, mother and daughter.

I wasn't wearing a black dress. Instead, my dress was the blue shade of a dusk just after the last rays of sunlight had disappeared. At least that was what crossed my mind when I bought it.

I couldn't say anything as she approached, not that I even thought to. I did quickly think back a decade ago, when I had said too much.

She came closer but as I again looked up to face her, Theresa stopped. She looked so much the same, including the horrified and scared look on her face I had seen that last time. Though she started to say my name she instead turned sharply and walked rapidly away.

My breath went out of my body. I blinked away the sudden blur in my vision and that's when I saw the hat, lying there.

Theresa must have let it, unthinkingly, slip from her grasp in her urge to get away. With that thought of the past and present in my head, I bent to pick up her hat, calling at the same time, perhaps more loudly than I thought at the time, desperate to explain and to listen. But Theresa, too, never looked back as she disappeared.

_________________
NOTE: This was written in 25 minutes, an extension of a 10-minute writing exercise to continue on after the first two lines ending in "fluttered beneath my fingers ..." There's actually even more I can easily see doing to expand this story even more. And fix the first person / third person confusion throughout

Fiction: Dismal Reveries

Diya S. — Wed, 9 Jul 2008 08:41:10 EDT

The beautiful golden retriever’s coat almost gleamed in the sunlight. He seemed to be in immense hurry as he tugged hard at his collar, but some how his master seemed least concerned. She was tired of her shoots and had no intention to be punctual. she was also tired of people screaming her name all the time. ‘Katrina Kaif’ might have become a brand name- but she just didn’t care. All she craved for was some peace and serenity.

As she walked on, she became lost in her reveries. She though of all the things she had- the cars, the money, the beautiful clothes- she had it all. And yet she felt that she had been a happier person seven years earlier. During those days her feet might have adorned Hawaii chappals instead of Gucci and yet she longed for those care free times. Also, she missed her mom and dad so much. Her dad might have been a humble clerk, but the compassion contained within his heart simply surpassed anyone she had met till date; except of course her darling mom. She might not have had been a great cook- she still remembered those half burned chapattis- but she was a great mom and even a greater human being. They had not been too well off but they led a happy and contended life. But she obviously yearned for more. Like all other misled youth, she also believed that luxury could buy happiness. She so wanted an A/C and looked on at the almost ancient table fan with contempt. And it was due to all these expensive wishes that she had decided to become a model and eventually an actress. Five to six years down the line, she had achieved her goals and all the goodies that came with it. And like all busy actresses, she too had no time for anything else except her work. And soon she saw less and less of her parents- the two people she cared most in the world about. She still remembered those mid shoot calls of her mom, which she had to unceremoniously reject. She tried her best to keep in touch with them, but in spite of her efforts, it became more and more difficult to do so.

Then one fateful day, they were gone- two wonderful human beings effaced from the face of the earth due to someone's reckless driving. When the news of their accident reached her, she was shaken beyond wits and it took her almost two years to recover from her grief and guilt of being away from her parents during their last days. Even their thoughts made her cry till date.

Suddenly she stopped, to shake off all the unpleasant emotions that had taken over her for a moment. She then checked her watch and realized that it was almost past eleven and decided to return home to get ready for her shoot.

As she entered her apartment, she was greeted by a fruit basket, which invariably made her smile. She knew that it was send to her by her gym instructor, who was always advising her to eat healthy. As she nibbled at a papaya and got ready for her shower, her thoughts trailed towards her upcoming movie. It was a typical masala mirch film - the type she was weary of. The movies she really wanted to do seemed so out of her reach. There had been a documentary she had seen recently, which was about young Muslim boys and how even in their tender age, they were made to parade around in AK-47, in the name of jihad. That documentary had chilled her heart and she really wanted to make a movie on the topic. But when she presented her ideas to a famous producer, who also happened to be the director of the movie she was enacting in, he had been too busy to even consider the idea. He had more important things to think about, like the song which was supposed to be shot at the locales of France, and for which they were to leave soon on his private jet, which happened to be a Boeing 747. Anyways, she already knew that there was no producer who would take her seriously- to them she was just an air headed actress who also happened to be famous.

She checked on the time once again and decided it was time to buck up. So she chucked away all her unwanted thoughts and got ready for her refreshing shower.

Original Fiction : Daddy

Deepti Lamba — Fri, 4 Jul 2008 15:03:48 EDT

“Daddy” She tried to get his attention.

“Hmmmm?” He did not turn to look at his daughter who knelt down on the grass along with him.

“Daddy?” She reached over and touched his bent waist.

He sighed and stopped pulling the weeds. Brushed his hands against his jean clad thighs and turned to look at his daughter.

“What is it, Kelly?” Tendrils of her hair waved gently in the Mid Western wind. It had been a cool day and the winds had yet to pick up pace. A bird sang above their heads on the maple tree. Her song was sweet and it caused much melancholy in his heart.

He reached over and tucked the hair behind his daughter’s ear. A smudge of dirt marred the perfect skin of her ear. He looked at it and remembered his wife kissing Kelly’s ears when she was barely a few minutes old.

“Daddy?” she gently held his hand. Her eight year old hand was engulfed in his strong grasp. She missed her mother.

“Daddy?”

He smiled at her whimsically “What is it pumpkin?”

She bit her lip and tried to hold the tears back from her eyes. She didn’t want to hurt him. But she had to ask him.

“Daddy, is Ma really in heaven?”

He closed his eyes and bowed his head. His gentle Melissa was gone forever. He tried to be patient with their daughter just as Melissa had taught him to be.

Put the anger and grief on the back burner. She would have said. He could actually hear her say the words in his mind.

How he missed her sweet warmth.

He looked at his daughter and tried to smile.

“Yes, sweetie she is in heaven.”

“But daddy!” She chewed her lip just like her mother used to do when she was under tremendous stress; the same gentle chewing of the lip between the upper and lower teeth when the biopsy reports said she’d live less than six months. His brave Melissa was gone leaving behind a grieving husband and a confused daughter.

He shook his head and went back to weeding the earth with renewed vigor.

Tears fell from his eyes, tears he didn’t want his daughter to see.

She sat back on her haunches and watched a little ladybird crawl up her arm.

The beautiful black spots on its red shell reminded her of the times she had gone ladybird hunting with her mother in the fields, she remembered the times when they had sat together and eaten berries freshly plucked and slept under the same maple tree.

Her chest tightened and she could breathe. She was swept up in a maelstrom of grief but couldn’t reach out to her father. He no longer smiled; he couldn’t look at her in the eye. Grandma told her to give him time. He will come around she had said as she hugged her little body against her ample bosom till she couldn’t breathe.

Grandma hugged her too tightly nowadays but her father couldn’t bring himself to touch her.

“Daddy!” She tried again, a little more hesitant this time. Had she done something wrong?

He brushed a hand across his eyes. Jesus, he didn’t know how to comfort his daughter.

Throwing the weeds aside he decided to take a breather and talk to the only precious thing he was left with.

“Tell me honey.”

“Daddy if mama is in heaven why are we here?” She blurted out. Apprehension made her shiver. She had finally asked her father the question that had been plaguing her for a while.

“Here? Because this is your mother’s grave.” He told her trying to keep the impatience out of his voice.

The harshness of his tone made tears spill from her eyes. He cursed himself; she was so fragile.

She brushed her tears away just like he had a few minutes ago. So much pain, how were they to deal with it?

He tried again

“Honey, I come here because it makes me feel close to your mom.”
She crawled up to him and snuggled in his lap. She was again a five year old wanting comfort from her father. He hugged her close to his chest while his heart broke.

“But daddy it saddens me to come here. I miss mama even more.”

He rocked her silently and watched the sun go down. So many memories lay under the maple tree. The leaves of the tree whispered gently along with the breeze. The sky turned molten giving the few fluffy clouds a silvery- gold sheen.

The lights in the farm came on. Melissa’s mother must have made lasagna. She was trying to fill in a gap she never could but bless her heart she was a rock of Gibraltar he and his daughter had leaned on. She had held the family together.

He buried his face in his daughter’s hair and drew in the clean fragrance. His mother in law had given Kelly a bath. He had been neglecting his daughter. His grief had made him selfish. He hadn’t been there to comfort Melissa’s mother either.

He gathered his daughter up firmly in his arms and tried to speak in a lighter tone “Tell you what we will talk to your mom during Grace before dinner what do you say?”

“Will mommy hear us Daddy?” She looked up at the gaunt face of her father.

He gave her a reassuring smile

“Sure she will honey.”

She laid her head against his shoulder and he walked towards the porch of the farm house where Melissa’s mother waited for them.

Fiction: Looking For Answers

Anuradha Goyal — Thu, 3 Jul 2008 00:27:52 EDT

Everyone called her Aarti Aunty. She stood tall, with an elegant posture. Like a true Punjabi, she had the milky white complexion and a flawless skin even at the age of 60. And this was complemented by the features that could have well helped her to be a part of the fashion or glamor industry. But what was more important than all this was her ever smiling face, with which she brought life to any gathering and a sunshine cheer wherever she went. She had the ability to cook for any number of people at the mere mention of the food. She took care of everyone around her like her own children.

In no time, she became the emotional anchor for everyone around her. People would call her to discuss their day to day problems, their marriages, their kids, their relationships, their work stress, their plans, their disappointments and their joys. She would patiently listen to everyone and she could effortlessly empathize with everyone she listened to. She was the perfect listener and everyone felt lighter in their hearts after they had her ears.

She loved good food. More often than not she would cook your favorite dish and pamper you. If you give her the bland continental food, she would add her own tadka to it and with a twinkle in her eyes ask ‘is is not more eatable now?’ She loved going to movies. Any new movie in town and she had to watch it as soon as possible. You could see sheer joy on her face while watching movies. She enjoyed even the silliest of the movies just like a teenager or a college student.

She was too good to be true, but she was there, right there in front of your eyes smiling at you, listening to you and making you feel being taken care of. In this time and day when no one seems to care for anyone, she was like a God sent angel who was like a stereotypical warm and caring mother and a fun loving friend rolled into one. She symbolized life, she lived it completely and made life look worth living not only for herself but for everyone around her.

No one knew anything about her past, where did she come from and where has she lived all these years before popping up this town one day put of the blue. She had such an influence on anyone who came in touch with her that no one ever thought of her past. Everyone was just too happy to have her around.

She was a cancer patient with one of her breasts visibly removed. She made frequent trips to the hospital, but she never complained or cribbed about it. She would go to the hospital and get her chemotherapy done. She would also take any alternate therapies that others suggested, whether it helped her or not, but again always with a smiling face. Her room had a few books on nature cure for cancer. Though she never mentioned her cancer to anyone, people whom she shared the house with knew about it. She managed her monstrous disease with amazing courage and kept it camouflaged under her calm exterior.

She used to follow the most renowned guru in town and had lived in his ashram for sometime, and that is how everyone came in touch with her and started knowing her. I came across her through the people she shared the house with. Friendly person that she was, she became friendly with me too. And I discovered Arti Aunty.

A few months later, she was invited by a co-devotee to visit her in Singapore. This was a lady who spoke to Arti Aunty for at least two hours everyday, who left the setting up of her house in India to Aunty and when everything was done wanted Aunty to come and spend time with her. Though she insisted she wanted Aunty to come and relax but probably she wanted to use her shoulder to unload her emotional traumas.

Aunty left for Singapore in January and never came back to the city. When she did not return weeks after her scheduled date of return, it became a case of concern. Her mobile phone was constantly not reachable. Calls to Singapore revealed that she had left from there on the scheduled date. Where was she, is what was on everyone’s mind? Then came the news that she has a family in Chennai and as she was not feeling well, and needed to undergo some major surgeries, she has decided to stay back with her family for a while.

Then, came a lady who had almost lived with Arti Aunty in last few months and she said she has news to break. And I held my breath with my imagination going everywhere as to what the bad news is going to be. I was silently praying for the news not to be too bad. And as she started speaking, I was in total shock and I could not believe a word of what she said. Her words kept ringing in my ears but my heart refused to believe every single sound that I had heard in last few minutes. How was it possible? How can she do that? Can there be an element of truth in what I just heard? Am I awake or am I dreaming? Slowly my feelings settled down and my rationale started juggling itself. Should I believe the lady I just heard? Are there any data points that tally with what she just said? Who should I call and try to validate what I just heard? Reluctantly, I called up the person who had introduced me to Aunty and she said whatever I have heard is true, and there is enough evidence to prove it. It goes without saying that I was hoping not to hear these words.

For next few days I was upset and started doubting everyone around. I could not speak about what I heard about Aunty to anyone. I was not sure if what I heard is true or not as Aunty was not around to give her version of truth. As the luck would have it, I also had to travel to Singapore for few weeks and obviously had questions for someone who was the last person to have spent time with Aunty. I call up this lady with lot of anxiety and inquisitiveness and asked her the same question. She also confirmed whatever was earlier told to me. I was keen to meet her but when she figured out that my intention is only to find out the truth about Aunty, she avoided me. She was a party to whatever happened to Aunty and her guilt smiled through her voice. Her words and her tone did not complement each other.

Aunty had been blamed for stealing and running away with a lot of money, jewelry and valuables. All the people who were common between me and Aunty believed and confirmed it.

Aunty never came back and is not there to explain herself. Is it plain and simple to blame her as she is not there? Was Aunty charming her way through all of us to act one fine day? Is she the victim or is she the one who victimized whole lot of people?

All that bothers me today is that I want to know the answer. I want to know given all the behaviors and circumstances, who did what and who reacted how. I wish to find an answer some day if and when I meet Aunty somewhere sometime. It is like watching a long serial and then missing the final episode where all the masks go down and you finally know the truth.

Fiction: Malady of the Emotional Refugees

Ms. Anona — Tue, 3 Jun 2008 14:58:08 EDT

So she walked.

The road was not meant for pedestrians, only automobiles, and lots of them. She had always been labeled a non-conformist, a rebel; just for being, just for standing independently. She felt exposed and incredibly alone as she crossed the rows and rows of solid white lines that had just ushered through cars and trucks with enough force to crush her on impact.

She thought about her frail body and marveled at how when walking, just like exercising, her brain released endorphins causing the mind to release pain. Muscles, in essence, held together thoughts of their own, and when worked, their memories were jogged.
********

So she walked.

He had told her to leave. It had happened before, a big argument, sudden eruptions, followed by drastic actions.

It was a beautiful sunny day during the madness of May. The garden was in bloom; windows finally cracked, letting in fresh air and cool lake breezes. As she turned back, the house she had felt so locked inside all year seemed almost close to perfection like she was already on pasture's greener side.

She left with nothing but a sweatshirt, empty pockets she filled with broken glass found on the sediment. She clenched it tight as the sidewalk ran out of concrete and turned to grass barely trampled. The inhabitants of the ornate multi-acre estates drove past her silently and without a passing glance. It occurred to her gracefully that if this were just a usual stroll down the block with a few key items of clothing removed, there would surely be an amigo or other bright-eyed cretin waiting to take her for a ride, offering his hand in a friendly advance towards supplying his energy for the muscles contracting in his pants. The thought made her want to spat, but her mouth was too dry. All her flowing juices were used up. This caged animal was set free, but left to die on the side of the road, life's collateral.
********

So she walked.

Her best friend was married today. It started off in a grandiose manner. She looked stunning as an honorable maid should. She only allowed herself a few moments of self-pity, once during the vows, and again when she saw them dance, their eyes lit steady on the other. She should be marrying him, or someone like him, she thought.

A multitude of fruity drinks where offered from every which way. Before she knew, she was drunk. The bride and groom were never the type to retreat to their habitat when a celebration was in store. It was late Saturday night and the town's only nightclub was playing Shania Twain's I Feel Like a Woman, which sounded even twangier than it should.

She wanted to go home, but her best friend nagged her. She didn't know if they would let her in, being a few months short of twenty-one and when they turned her away, the rest of her party had already gone inside. One of the newest radio hits came on, one her best friend loved, and she knew no one would look for her as they rushed to the floor.

Walking home didn't seem like a bad idea, until she got to the edge of town. Cars seemed to have minimized the true scale of the familiar terrain and made the trek seem almost formidable. Speed limits increased and the shoulder disappeared and dipped into a ditch on both sides. She had little option but to descend and let the tall reeds engulf her. The heels of her shoes sank into the softened earth and the blades of grass cut at her ankles. Her dress became soiled, but she didn't much worry. No one ever wore those bulky bridesmaid dresses a second time.

A small stream trickled under her feet. She had driven past the spot more times than she could count, but the flowing water that led to a small tributary had eluded her.

Just then a truck stopped up ahead and was sent in reverse. The driver opened the passenger window and asked if she needed a ride. She obliged. She had never seen him before and was thankful.

"I thought you were swimming down there." he said with a mischievous grin.
She smirked and led him without haste the short path to her home. It was a small town, the type of place where everyone knew everyone else, and everyone else's business. As she jumped from the pick-up, she assured herself that her hometown wasn't the sort of place where bad things happened. Nothing really went unnoticed.

She ran upstairs to her room. The sun was shining and as she looked out the window towards town, the stream she had stepped in couldn't be seen.
*******

So she walked.

It was just over a year ago she could not walk at all. Chemotherapy left her motionless. Long since divorced and never remarried, her boys now had a family of their own in separate cities. They did as much as they could in dire circumstances and somehow she made it through. She felt and looked great with only the front of her shirt draping more loosely around her.

Today she was walking, but not just any walk, the Breast Cancer Awareness Walk. It was invigorating, even though she walked alone due to her friend's last minute withdrawal. She let her mind wander and looked at the stunning architecture of the city. The younger girls were all nice, but wore shirts that read catch phrases like, "Save the Boobies". It was nice that they cared at all, but a lot of them just didn't get it and weren't really empathetic towards a real sufferer.

She had been walking a while before she realized she was lost. The girl in the pink shirt she had been following had turned onto a residential street, which surely couldn't have been the way. The only signs of life were some rap music blaring from a nearby complex, followed by an even louder woman cussing at a diminutive feature. Furthermore, the rain clouds that had been chasing them since yesterday picked that precise moment to let down their bounties.

She sat down on a rock, feeling lost and abandoned. For the first time since being in the throngs of her sickness, she felt like crying. But she had a reason then, and now she felt she had none. It felt even more pathetic to her to be sad and depressed without a valid excuse.

Out of no where, a young girl appeared, dressed all in white. She was spinning, twirling emphatically in the street.

"Excuse me." The old woman yelled after her. "Excuse me!" she yelled even louder, but the whirling dervish did not stop. Instead, she turned a corner and promptly disappeared. What could be seen, however, were the pink shirts of her cohorts a few blocks further along. She was not too far off course after all. She ran to meet the others, none of whom had missed her. Everyone was drenched and she gladly joined in on their laughter and ability to make the best of it.

She looked up. A silver lining appeared around the dispersing cloud formation. She looked back and saw nothing but dark alleys. Like a schoolgirl, she gave a big grin and ran off.

The Un-ensconced Women

Harish C — Fri, 30 May 2008 15:40:57 EDT

"Ah, women. They make the highs higher and the lows more frequent…” Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

It's an odd sensation, watching your feelings slowly change over time, seeing your strong positions erode as events batter down on them. My conversation with one of my aunts recently made me think on something that’s been nibbling at my mind.

She was the one who initiated me into the wonderful world of Malayalam literature populated with authors who seduces the reader into a world where they play around by shifting your preconceived ideas and notions.

One of the best works I had ever read was Randamoozham by MT Vasudevan Nair. It showed the Mahabharata or some events from it from the eyes of Bheema. The title literally translates as “The Second Turn” and it explores the events from the angst ridden view point of Bhima who has to wait for the second turn always. Be it for the love of his parents, conjugation with Draupadi or to partake his meal. He is sometimes literally reduced to a pawn in the hands of wily politicians like Krishna, Vidura and Shakuni.

Ah…I diverted and dwelled into what might be a separate post. So we ended up on the topic of Draupadi, who was forced to divide everything between her five husbands and slowly to the topic of strong women in literature, mythology, history, politics or even art.

What appeared as a lurking shadow at that moment at the back of my mind slowly crystallized into a solid realization: “where have all the strong women in literature gone?”

Where are the Scarlett O Haras, Cleopatras, Anna Kareninas, Draupadis et al? Is it because that there are no more devotees to put them in their pedestal? The strong feminine evolved and was envisaged by equally fervent admirers, mainly male. Tolstoy, Shakespeare, Vyasa…

Why don’t men project women in that light anymore? Why have women in print and media diminished in size or being constantly chipped at?

I believe that it has got to do nothing with women being any lesser. The problem is that men have shrunk-withered by complexity - and men are so busy trying to grow up with women that they no longer have time to sing their paens.