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Excerpt

A Perpetual Struggle

Title: Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage, and Resilience

Author: Bhaskar Parichha

Publisher: Pen In Books

Chapter 10

 A Perpetual Struggle

“Humans and nature can never be friends! Nature will never hesitate to starve you in the drought, drown you in the rain, burn you in the sun, and kill you with an earthquake, a hurricane or a disease; and as such, nature should always be seen as an enemy not a friend.”
― Mouloud Benzadi

 Cyclones exert a significant influence on the economy and agricultural sector of Odisha, leading to considerable disruptions and enduring challenges for the region. Agriculture serves as a fundamental component of Odisha’s economy, accounting for approximately 26% of the Gross State Domestic Product (GSDP) and providing employment for around 85% of the rural populace. The occurrence of cyclones frequently results in severe crop damage, exemplified by the 1999 Super Cyclone, which led to the loss of nearly 2 million tons of rice and devastated approximately 18.43 lakh hectares of farmland. More recent cyclones, such as Fani in 2019, inflicted damage on about 60% of the paddy crop and had a detrimental effect on vegetable production.

The fishing industry, crucial for the livelihoods of local communities, also suffers significant setbacks due to cyclonic events. Damage to fishing infrastructure and interruptions in fishing operations result in decreased catch and income for fishermen, thereby intensifying the economic difficulties faced by coastal populations.

Cyclones inflict extensive damage on infrastructure, including roads, electricity, and housing. This destruction not only affects immediate livelihoods but also obstructs long-term economic recovery. For instance, Cyclone Amphan in 2020 caused widespread infrastructural damage, impacting millions of consumers and resulting in prolonged power outages.

Job Loss

The devastation wrought by cyclones leads to job losses, particularly affecting daily wage laborers and roadside vendors, who are often the most susceptible to economic disruptions. The reduction in employment opportunities further exacerbates poverty levels in a state that is already economically disadvantaged.

Research indicates that cyclones adversely affect local economic growth, with studies revealing a significant decline in the growth rate in the years following such events. For instance, after the catastrophic cyclones of 2013 and 2014, the growth rate plummeted to 1.8% in 2014-15, a stark decrease from 9.3% in the preceding year.

Cyclones result in flooding, soil salinization, and erosion, which significantly undermine agricultural productivity. Coastal areas, where a majority of agricultural activities are concentrated, are especially susceptible to these effects, resulting in diminished crop yields and heightened food insecurity. Farmers are compelled to adjust to the evolving climate and the rising occurrence of cyclones. This adaptation may involve altering planting schedules, implementing multiple cropping strategies, and enhancing irrigation systems to alleviate the impact of cyclones on their livelihoods. The financial challenges associated with recovering from cyclone-related damage can be daunting for farmers, many of whom do not possess sufficient insurance coverage. This economic pressure can perpetuate cycles of poverty and obstruct agricultural advancement in the region.

Ongoing Struggle

The ongoing struggle of the people in Odisha against the backdrop of cyclones is a complex interplay of psychological trauma, economic hardship, and the need for improved disaster management. While strides have been made in preparedness and response, the experiences of survivors underscore the necessity for continued support and infrastructure development to mitigate the impacts of future cyclones.

Resilience to cyclones involves implementing a range of strategies to minimize the impact of these natural disasters on communities and infrastructure. This can include building stronger and more resilient infrastructure, such as storm-resistant buildings and flood barriers, as well as developing early warning systems and evacuation plans. Investing in disaster preparedness and response training for communities can help them cope better with the aftermath of a cyclone. By taking proactive measures to increase resilience to cyclones, communities can reduce the loss of life and property damage caused by these powerful storms.

Incorporating nature-based solutions such as mangrove restoration and coastal vegetation can help absorb the impact of cyclones and reduce erosion. Building codes and regulations can also be updated to ensure that new construction is more resilient to extreme weather events.

 Promoting community engagement and participation in resilience-building efforts can help foster a sense of ownership and responsibility among residents. This can include educating communities on how to prepare for cyclones, providing resources for emergency supplies, and establishing communication networks to disseminate information during a crisis.

Resilience to cyclones requires a multi-faceted approach that involves collaboration between government agencies, non-profit organizations, businesses, and local communities. By working together to implement these strategies, we can better protect vulnerable populations and infrastructure from the devastating impacts of cyclones.

Livelihood Loss

The economic impact of cyclones is profound highlighting the broader economic devastation faced by many in the fishing and agricultural sectors. Initial estimates indicated that thousands of fishing boats were lost, and agricultural land became salt-encrusted, rendering it unusable for years. This dual loss of livelihood and resources has compounded the stress for displaced communities.

Survivors of Cyclone Fani, which struck Odisha in May 2019, have faced severe mental health issues, including stress disorders and depression. Many individuals expressed feelings of despair and anxiety about their future, struggling to cope with the trauma of the cyclone’s destruction. Mental health experts have emphasized the need for immediate interventions to address these issues, as the fear of future cyclones continues to haunt the affected communities.

Mental health professionals have been mobilized to assess the psychological impact of the cyclone. A study conducted a month after Cyclone Fani found that approximately 42.9% of participants exhibited probable PTSD, while 36.7% experienced severe anxiety and 16.5% showed moderately severe depression. Additionally, suicidal thoughts increased by 14% among the affected population. These findings underscore the urgent need for targeted mental health interventions.

Efforts are being made to enhance community-based mental health support. This includes training local volunteers to identify individuals in need of psychological assistance and providing them with referral support. Such grassroots initiatives are crucial for ensuring that mental health care reaches those who may not have access to formal healthcare services.

Despite these interventions, challenges remain. Many survivors continue to experience sleep deprivation and anxiety due to the trauma of the cyclone and the ongoing fear of future disasters. The presence of mosquitoes in temporary shelters has further exacerbated sleep issues, highlighting the need for improved living conditions during recovery.

Moreover, the long-term psychological effects of such disasters necessitate sustained mental health support beyond the immediate aftermath. Historical data from the 1999 supercyclone indicates that without adequate post-disaster psychological support, issues like PTSD can persist for years.

Government’s Role

Cyclones in Odisha lead to devastating impacts on local communities, including loss of life, destruction of homes, and significant economic losses. The recurrent nature of these disasters has resulted in long-term challenges, such as food insecurity and displacement among vulnerable populations. The state government has been working on improving cyclone preparedness and response mechanisms to mitigate these impacts.

Early warning systems play a crucial role in reducing the impact of cyclones on the East Coast of India. These systems involve the use of advanced meteorological technology to track and predict the path and intensity of cyclones, allowing for timely evacuation and preparation. Additionally, coastal defense infrastructure such as seawalls, breakwaters, and mangrove restoration projects can help mitigate the impact of storm surges and erosion caused by cyclones.

Initiatives to prepare and build resilience within the community are also essential in reducing the impact of cyclones. This includes educating the public about cyclone preparedness, conducting drills and simulations, and providing access to emergency supplies and shelters. Building resilient infrastructure, such as cyclone-resistant housing and public buildings, can also help minimize the damage caused by cyclones.

Despite these measures, the East Coast of India remains vulnerable to the devastating impact of cyclones. Continuous research into cyclone behavior, climate change adaptation strategies, and the development of innovative technologies are crucial in improving the effectiveness of measures to reduce disaster risk. Strategic planning at the national and local levels is also necessary to ensure that resources are allocated effectively and that policies are in place to address the long-term impacts of cyclones.

Climate Change

In recent years, there has been a noticeable increase in the frequency and intensity of cyclones in the region. This trend is believed to be linked to climate change, which is causing rising sea levels and warmer ocean temperatures. These changes create more favorable conditions for cyclones to form and intensify, posing a significant threat to the people of Odisha.

Climate change has a profound effect on Odisha’s disaster preparedness plans in a variety of ways. The increasing temperatures and sea levels are contributing to more frequent and severe disasters such as cyclones, floods, droughts, and heat waves. This necessitates more robust and frequent evacuation drills, shelter maintenance, and emergency response planning. The prevalence of water and vector-borne diseases like malaria and dengue fever is worsened by climate change. Consequently, the health sector must incorporate climate change considerations into health policies, enhance disease management, and implement measures to mitigate the impact of heat waves.

Changes in monsoon patterns and more frequent cyclones result in widespread food and nutrition insecurity. Disaster preparedness efforts should prioritize ensuring access to nutritious food and promoting sustainable agricultural practices. The rise in sea levels due to climate change and the increased intensity of storms pose a threat to coastal infrastructure, including cyclone shelters and evacuation routes. Regular maintenance and improvement of these structures are essential to minimize the impact of climate change.

Raising awareness about climate change and being prepared require ongoing community involvement and capacity building. This involves training volunteers, promoting safe migration practices, and increasing media coverage of climate change issues. Climate change can negatively impact economic growth and exacerbate poverty. Disaster preparedness strategies need to address these economic risks by encouraging sustainable industries, renewable energy, and climate-resilient infrastructure.

Given the changing impacts of climate change, Odisha’s disaster preparedness strategies must evolve to ensure effective response and mitigation measures. This requires ongoing investment in disaster preparedness and response measures, as well as efforts to address the underlying causes of climate change. By taking proactive steps to mitigate the impact of cyclones and adapt to changing climatic conditions, Odisha can better protect its coastal region and ensure the safety and well. Financial investment in measures to reduce disaster risk and adapt to climate change is essential for the East Coast of India. This includes funding for the development and maintenance of early warning systems, the construction of resilient infrastructure, and community preparedness initiatives.

Investment in research and development of new technologies and strategies for cyclone mitigation is crucial in building a more resilient and adaptive East Coast community.

As climate change continues to influence weather patterns, the frequency and intensity of cyclones in this region may increase, further highlighting the need for effective disaster management strategies and resilient infrastructure to protect the vulnerable populations of Odisha. In the face of a cyclone, communities must come together to prepare and respond to the impending disaster. Early warning systems and evacuation plans can help to minimize the impact of a cyclone, saving lives and reducing property damage. In the aftermath of a cyclone, communities must work together to rebuild and recover, showing resilience in the face of adversity.

Political Accountability

The impact of cyclones on political dynamics in Odisha has been significant, particularly following the devastating 1999 Super Cyclone. This event not only caused immense human suffering but also reshaped the political landscape and public sentiment towards various parties. The destruction prompted widespread criticism of the government, particularly regarding its preparedness and response to the disaster. Many survivors expressed dissatisfaction with the lack of support and infrastructure improvements in the years following the cyclone, leading to a sense of betrayal among the electorate.

In the years following the cyclone, political parties in Odisha, especially Biju Janata Dal and its leader Naveen Patnaik have faced scrutiny over their handling of disaster relief and infrastructure development. Although the BJD asserts that significant advancements have been made in the reconstruction initiatives, numerous inhabitants of regions impacted by the cyclone have indicated persistent challenges, including insufficient compensation and a shortage of cyclone shelters. This dissatisfaction has affected electoral choices in later elections, as those who survived the disaster frequently perceive a lack of attention from political figures who pledged assistance but did not fulfill their commitments. The political narrative in Odisha has continued to evolve, especially in light of more recent cyclones like Fani and Phailin. The BJD had maintained a significant foothold in the state, leveraging its disaster management initiatives as part of its campaign strategy. Opposition parties have capitalized on public grievances, framing their campaigns around issues of local pride and accountability in disaster management.

NGO’s Role

Non-Governmental Organizations (NGOs) play a crucial role in disaster mitigation and recovery efforts in Odisha. NGOs sensitize local communities about disaster risks and preparedness measures through awareness campaigns, mock drills, and training programs. They build the capacity of communities, especially vulnerable groups like women, children, the elderly, and the disabled, to cope with and recover from disasters. NGOs collaborate with the government in preparing disaster management plans at the district and state levels.

During disasters, NGOs are involved in rescue operations, providing temporary shelters, organizing health camps and setting up communication facilities.  They work closely with the government in relief distribution, ensuring equitable access to food, water, sanitation, and other essential supplies for affected populations. NGOs focus on protecting vulnerable groups and providing special care for pregnant women, lactating mothers, children, elderly, and disabled persons during emergencies.

In the recovery phase, NGOs support the rebuilding of damaged houses and public infrastructure and restoring the livelihoods of affected communities. They promote the use of disaster-resilient construction techniques and make rehabilitation efforts disability-friendly.  NGOs help in reviving local economies by providing livelihood support, forming self-help groups, and establishing market linkages.

NGOs coordinate their efforts with the government through dedicated coordination cells at the state and district levels. They advocate for inclusive and equitable disaster management policies that address the needs of marginalized sections of society. NGOs also collaborate with the private sector through CSR initiatives and public-private partnerships in disaster management.

The Government of Odisha recognizes the critical role of NGOs in building community resilience. The state has involved NGOs in its disaster management framework, leveraging their grassroots presence, flexibility, and innovative approaches to complement government efforts in protecting lives and livelihoods from disasters.

Media Coverage

The historical context of cyclones in Odisha is characterized by significant events, particularly during the late 20th and early 21st centuries. The Super Cyclone of 1999 stands out as one of the most devastating. This disaster prompted substantial reforms in the state’s disaster management approach, leading to the establishment of the “Odisha model” for disaster preparedness.

The evolution of media coverage regarding cyclones in Odisha has been notable, especially in the aftermath of catastrophic occurrences like the Super Cyclone. Reports increasingly focus on the state’s preparedness initiatives, including early warning systems and community-managed cyclone shelters, which have played a crucial role in significantly lowering casualties in recent cyclones compared to earlier incidents.

The relationship between media coverage, public awareness, and government preparedness has been instrumental in shaping Odisha’s response to cyclones. The proactive strategies adopted by the state, along with community engagement, have established a framework for disaster management that reflects a transition from reactive to proactive measures in addressing climate-related challenges.

Public Perception

In the wake of the 1999 disaster, the Odisha government launched a “Zero Casualty” initiative aimed at reducing fatalities in future cyclones. This strategic shift is evident in media narratives, which increasingly highlight the state’s proactive efforts, such as the implementation of early warning systems and community-based disaster preparedness programs. During Cyclone Fani in 2019, for instance, media coverage underscored the successful evacuation of more than 1.2 million people, illustrating the effectiveness of the state’s preparedness strategies and garnering international recognition for its response efforts.

Media narratives have progressively included discussions regarding climate change and its effects on the frequency and severity of cyclones. Reports indicate that climate change is expected to intensify the challenges encountered by Odisha, with predictions of more powerful cyclones in the future. This evolution signifies an increasing recognition of the wider environmental factors associated with cyclonic events and has led to demands for more effective climate adaptation measures.

The public’s perception of cyclones in Odisha has significantly transformed over the years, shaped by a blend of historical experiences, governmental actions, and improvements in disaster management practices.

Changing Paradigm

Odisha encounters several significant obstacles in upholding its high standard of disaster preparedness. Despite the establishment of extensive cyclone shelters and evacuation routes, the state’s power, communication, and transportation infrastructure are still at risk. Disruptions of these systems can lead to widespread consequences during disasters. The continuous challenge lies in investing in underground power lines and disaster-resilient infrastructure. A considerable portion of coastal housing in Odisha remains vulnerable to cyclone damage. The transition of at-risk families from straw huts to disaster-resilient homes is an area that demands sustained attention and investment.

The success of Odisha’s disaster preparedness efforts heavily relies on the mobilization of local communities and volunteers. Ensuring the maintenance of this level of preparedness and response capability along the state’s extensive coastline poses an ongoing challenge that necessitates consistent training and drills. With the escalating frequency and intensity of cyclones due to climate change, Odisha must consistently enhance its early warning systems, evacuation strategies, and disaster management approaches to proactively address evolving threats.

Despite the significant progress made by Odisha, disaster preparedness is a continuous process that demands unwavering commitment, innovation, and allocation of resources to tackle emerging challenges effectively. Sustaining the state’s prominent position in global leadership in this domain remains a persistent priority.

Odisha’s disaster management paradigm has evolved from a relief-centric model to a comprehensive, proactive, and integrated framework that emphasizes risk reduction, community participation, and efficient response mechanisms.

About the Book

Cyclones in Odisha presents an in-depth exploration of the complex dynamics surrounding the storms that have impacted the coastal region of Odisha. It delivers a thorough examination of their frequency, the catastrophic effects they inflict, and the remarkable resilience exhibited by the communities in the aftermath. The book investigates the underlying factors that contribute to these extreme weather phenomena, analyzing the geographical and meteorological conditions that render the area vulnerable to such formidable storms. The book explores the devastating power of cyclones and their profound impact on the state, carefully chronicling the extensive destruction caused. It also highlights the remarkable resilience of the communities affected, showcasing their determination to rebuild and thrive in the face of adversity. The roles of governmental bodies, non-governmental organizations, and various stakeholders in facilitating recovery and reconstruction efforts are also examined. The text assesses the effectiveness of disaster management strategies and initiatives, shedding light on both successes and shortcomings in addressing the needs of the affected communities. By scrutinizing the diverse approaches employed, it offers critical insights into how the impacts of future cyclones can be mitigated and managed more effectively. This groundbreaking book is the first of its kind to explore the entirety of severe weather events, serving as an invaluable resource that offers a thorough overview while equipping readers with crucial insights for future preparedness.

About the Author

Bhaskar Parichha (1957) is a senior journalist and author of six books, including ‘Unbiased: Writings on India’; ‘No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha’; Madhubabu: The Global Indian’; and ‘Biju Patnaik: A Biography’. He has also edited three anthologies of essays entitled ‘Naveen @ 25: Perspectives’; ‘Bhubaneswar @ 75: Perspectives’ and ‘Essential Odisha: Portrait of a State’. He is a bilingual writer and lives in Bhubaneswar.

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Excerpt

Ramblings of a Bandra Boy

Title: Ramblings of a Bandra Boy

Author: Joy Bimal Roy

(Excerpted from Ramblings of a Bandra Boy by Ratnottama Sengupta)

Joy Bimal Roy looks back at the many 21 Januarys, his birthday, that have dotted 70 calendars

On 6th February 1950 Baba and Nabendu Kaku arrived together in Bombay to work on Bombay Talkies’ Maa. I wasn’t born then, so I can only wonder if either of them, or their illustrious fellow travellers Hrishikesh Mukherjee and Asit Sen even imagined what a life changing experience that journey would be for each of them and, ultimately, for Indian Cinema.

This small but immensely talented and visionary team — Baba as director, Nabendu Kaku as screenplay writer and Hrishi Kaku as editor — created some of the best loved and most remembered classics of the golden ’50s and early ’60s: Do Bigha Zamin, Devdas, Madhumati, Sujata and Bandini.

When I was born on 21st January 1955, this team was already well established and feted in Bombay film industry. Co-incidentally (or perhaps not, because is there any such thing as coincidence?) six days after my birth, a daughter Ratnottama — Uttama to me — was born to Nabendu Kaku and Kanak Kakima in the same, Mandakini Nursing Home in Bandra. Uttama and I instinctively formed a bond which continues till today and seems to strengthen over the years. For me this became the link between our two families.

*

Some silly astrologer told my parents that they should not celebrate my first seven birthdays — else, ill-luck would befall me. So I grew up going to birthday parties of other children and wondering why I never had one.

That could explain why to date I hate my birthdays. It is a day of introspection and soul searching, assessing the past year of my life for gains and losses. No wonder I am more depressed than usual by the end of the day.

All that changed on my 40th birthday thanks to Sriram, my college classmate, and my sister, Aparajita, who was in Mumbai from Kolkata at that time. Together they conspired to have a small celebration at home. Sriram, ever generous, brought the champagne and glasses as well because he was not sure we had any.

Paradoxically it was possibly the worst time in our lives. We had lost the eviction suit our landlords had filed against us in the Small Causes Court, and had been given four months to vacate the premises, of which two months were already up. My birthday was on 21st January and three weeks after that, on 14th February, we were supposed to vacate our home of 46 years — unless we got a Writ Petition admitted in the High Court.

Plonk in the middle of this mess, the thought of celebrating my birthday had not even crossed my mind. But when Sriram entered holding the champagne bottle aloft like a trophy, along with his petite and demure wife Enakshi, and my classmates Divyakant and Ajay, their love and concern were so palpable that suddenly my spirit soared and I felt free as a bird. If I was blessed to have friends like them, Life couldn’t be so bad after all. 

It’s not that I celebrated every year after that but I was no longer traumatized on my birthdays.

*

The first birthday we celebrated after moving into our cottage was my 50th birthday. It doubled as a housewarming party, so it was a riotous affair. Everyone got high thanks to the ministrations of a bartender called Greenville and danced to blaring music like whirling dervishes. Our neighbours complained and the cops turned up. 

Not bad for someone who started out in life with no birthday celebrations at all, eh?

*

When my 60th birthday dawned I was not feeling particularly celebratory. But my sister was coming down, this time from Hyderabad, my niece from Dubai and my nephew from England, and I didn’t want to disappoint them.

Our home at that time was overrun with cats and the garden was a mess, so I looked for a more welcoming venue. The only place I could think of was Kekee Manzil, home to our old family friend Kekoo Gandhy, founder of Chemould, India’s first commercial Art Gallery — and his daughters Rashna, Behroz and Shireen. I asked hesitantly but they agreed enthusiastically and I will always be grateful for that.

Kekee Manzil is an elegant and gracious villa, a heritage structure overlooking the Arabian Sea at Bandstand. At one point of time the Gandhy family also owned the adjacent property which once went by the name of Ville Vienna and housed Baba’s mentor Nitin Bose — and now is famous as Mannat, owned by Shah Rukh Khan.

The venue was the hero on that evening filled with friends, food and fun, not me. Because I was feeling singularly ill at ease about my appearance.

I hadn’t had the time or the bandwidth to figure out what to wear for this milestone birthday, so I had to settle for the only new kurta I had. Unfortunately it looked like tent on me. To make matters worse I had burgeoned to 95 kilos, so I felt like a beached whale.

I made a mental resolution. I HAD to lose weight that year. But as they say, the way to hell is paved with good intentions. So my resolution remained just that — until months had gone by…

*

But before the year dovetailed into my 61st birthday, by sheer synchronicity I stumbled into the right dietician for me — and in eight months I lost 16 kg. Cereno, a trendy batch mate, told me about Zara and gave me a style tip for my hair. He said I would look much better if I had a very short haircut, like a crew cut. I didn’t like the idea of a crew cut but I realised I needed a makeover to go with my new clothes.

At the end of it all my reflection in the mirror was unrecognisable. A strange bald man looked back at me. My sister shrieked when she saw me but she was mollified by the favourable reaction of Cereno and other classmates.

The coup de grace was when a poker-faced Cereno borrowed my phone, fiddled with it, and handed it back to me saying he had put my profile on a dating app. “Just wait for five minutes,” he said, “and you’ll get your first hit.” Sure enough, after five minutes my phone went beep!

So in my 60th year I reinvented myself. Better late than never?

About the Book

Ramblings of a Bandra Boy is a compilation of Joy Bimal Roy’s posts on social media between 2017 and 2020. These slices of life “served without any extra seasoning or fancy garnish” as he puts it, have been described by Rachel Dwyer, professor of Indian Cultures and Cinema at SOAS, London, as jottings in kheror khata, the traditional cloth bound notebook that Satyajit Ray — and his father Sukumar Ray before him — used to pen down thoughts and visuals that are world’s treasure. It covers life in the glitzy Bandra where most of the Bollywood crowd resides… giving glimpses of real life of the giants peopling the cinema screens. 

About the Author

Joy Bimal Roy is the son of legendary Indian filmmaker, Bimal Roy, and one of India’s pioneer woman photographers, Manobina Roy. He started his filmmaking stint as an assistant director to Shyam Benegal.

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Read the author’s interview by clickling on this link

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL. 

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The Stopped Clock

Title: Contemporary Urdu Stories from Kolkata

Authors: Sayeed Premi, Firoz Abid, Anis Rafi Siddique Alam, Mahmoud Yasien, Shahira Masroor Anisun Nabi, Reyaz Danish

Translated by Shams Afif Siddiqi, edited by Shams Afif Siddiqi and Fuzail Asar Siddiqi

Publisher: Niyogi Books

The Stopped Clock

By Siddique Alam

The hands of the clock had stopped permanently at 13 past two and two seconds. Sitting on the bench under the shed, I am trying to understand the oval dial of the clock, the Roman letters of which had become dimmed and its edges covered with spider webs. I wonder when the clock might have stopped. I am 35 years old. Is there apparently any difference between us? Just like the clock, I have also stopped for a while because there was no announcement about the arrival of my train, its departure time being four hours ago.

I am trying to survey the place with wide open eyes. It is a usual day and an ordinary station that we are accustomed to see.

I have bid farewell to the city of my birth. I am leaving the city like a failure. But it seems after relinquishing me, the city, with a feeling of guilt, now wants to take me back. Its first step in this direction is to delay my train for an indefinite amount of time.

Despite being in the midst of a city, a station is free from its clutches. I am enjoying that freedom with a one-way ticket in my pocket. A bit of patience, I tell myself, and I would be far away. Nobody can stop me, neither by erecting obstacles in the way of the railway tracks nor by stopping the hands of the clock. Maybe I am a loser, but the journey of my life is yet to end. I am only 35 years old. I have to go far away from this place. The most important thing is that I am satisfied that the address I am carrying in my pocket is not my last destination.

It is a temporary waiting place that can help me make a new beginning. After all man is born free. The sun does not select a particular spot to shine, nor is every wave that dashes against the shore the last one, losing which the boatman would have to wait all his life for another wave.

An old coolie, wringing khaini[1] in the palms of his hands, passes by me. He is clad in a white banian and dhoti, his red flannel shirt thrown on his left shoulder.

‘Since when has the clock stopped?’ My question stops him in his stride. He turns around, his tired, thoughtful eyes staring at me. A sense of shame overpowers me. He may be an illiterate coolie, not a station employee who is answerable for such a question. ‘I am sorry,’ I quickly add, ‘I should not have put the question to you. I take back my words.’

‘Why sir?’ he stands by the side of the bench, and looks at me with a sense of intimacy. ‘People will be asking questions about a stopped clock, isn’t it? They cannot to be blamed. The story of the stopped clock is well known but only the signal man Gocharan Ray has the right to tell its tale. He had spent all his life showing green and red flags to trains and has retired today.’

‘Who has replaced him?’ my question betrays my foolishness. My imprudence had always entangled me in thoughtless acts.

‘Why don’t you ask the station master?’ The coolie moves away. ‘It’s a question that requires an answer; otherwise, you will regret it all your life.’

I was not ready for such an unexpected turn of events. I thought that my relationship with the city had been cut off forever. What do I make of a station that has ignored me, as if the ticket in my pocket is of no worth? Once again, I look at the dial of the clock hanging from the shed. It had stopped at 13 past two and two seconds. What might have happened when it stopped? Did an accident take place at the station? Had any incident of murder taken place? Was it at the time of the departure or arrival of an important leader? An attack by Naxalites? Or was the place the site of a communal incident?

The coolie returned again. This time he was wearing his shirt. ‘Unless you hear the story,’ he says, ‘your train will not arrive. This is the rule here. It may take weeks, months, or even years and you have to move from one platform to another with your suitcase. Once, a passenger alighted here to board another train. He faced a similar dilemma. He asked the same question about the clock but I do not know what happened and why he refused to listen to the story. Do you know what happened to him?’

‘How can I?’ I replied impatiently. ‘The city hardly gave me any time so that I could listen to stories.’

‘You are becoming irritated unnecessarily, Sir,’ he said. ‘I want to tell you about the man. The fact is nobody knows much about him. Some say he went to the city and did not return. Others say he took another train that never reached its destination. Some may even tell you that a prostitute took him to her house by the railway tracks where he developed leprosy and is slowly dying there. There is also no dearth of people who say he is still moving, suitcase in hand, amidst platforms, difficult to spot in the teeming crowd of passengers.’

‘You mean to say he can be anyone, even me?’

‘Did I say that, sir?’ He was on the verge of leaving. ‘It seems you have tasted bitter gourd.’

I was staring at the departing coolie’s back. The constant use of the flannel shirt had not only exposed its fibres, it had also thinned the material exposing the bones of the man’s neck. I have no hesitation in saying that I did not believe him. Since the time when suitcases developed wheels, the number of coolies has dwindled in stations. The last nail was the introduction of the backpack. Either passengers drag their suitcases on wheels, or carry luggage in their backpacks, leaving the coolies with little work. So, this may be their way of passing time.

About the Book

Dealing with love and loss, dreams and reality, as well as history and violence, this is a collection of best 19 short stories that encompasses the whole gamut of human experience, seen through the eyes of current Urdu writers from Kolkata.

Stories from Kolkata are often assumed to be about bhadralok culture and the Bengali way of life. But Kolkata is a city with amultiplicity of stories to share. Contemporary Urdu Short Stories from Kolkata highlights the diversity of recent Urdu short stories fromthe city. In one of these stories, a writer trying to escape the city wants to find the reason why the railway clock has stopped working, in another, a new friendship sours as soon as it blossoms, while some other stories show how the complexity of human relationships is explored. There is an experiment in abstraction, and legend and reality are brought together when three sleepers of an earlier civilization wake up in the modern world.

About the Editor and Translator

Shams Afif Siddiqi, former Associate Professor of English (WBES), author, short story writer, and literary critic, was born in 1955 in Kolkata. He taught in government colleges of West Bengal for 35 years and was a faculty member at MDI, Murshidabad. Khushwant Singh selected his short story for publication in The Telegraph in the 1980s. His publications include The Language of Love and other Stories (2001), a critical look at Graham Greene’s novels, Graham Greene: The Serious Entertainer (2008), and an annotated edition of G.B. Shaw’s Arms and the Man (2009).

Fuzail Asar Siddiqi is currently a PhD candidate at CES, JNU, New Delhi, researching on the modernist Urdu short story, in general, and short stories of Naiyer Masud in particular. The founder/editor-in-chief of an academic editorial services company, he has been an Assistant Professor of English at Gargi College, New Delhi.

[1] Khaini: Tobacco

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Excerpt

The Life of an Elephant

Title: The Life of an Elephant

Author: S.Eardley-Wilmot

Publisher: Talking Cub

CHAPTER I

The Arrival of the Herd

The summit of the hill was crowned with a grove of lofty trees. They had stood thus for centuries, opposing their columned strength against wind and storms, against the onslaught of tropical rainfall, even in spite of earth tremors that made them shiver with apprehension. Their crowns were interlaced, so that they must stand or fall together; it was an effective alliance against the forces of nature, which no single tree could hope to withstand.

Within the grove, where the buttressed trunks rose suddenly from the soft earth, stood an ancient shrine, a hermit’s cell with rough stone walls, and a little temple in whose dim recesses might be seen vaguely some symbol of a demon or god, unknown perhaps to the outside world, but appealing to the hearts of the jungle folk, who, suffering patiently as the animals suffer, like them also blindly sought relief. That rugged track, which led from the hill-top into the depth of the forest below, had been marked out by the feet of the notaries of the shrine, who each, as he left after supplication, cast a stone on the slowly growing mounds at the entrance to the grove.

From the hill-top the forest spread on all sides as far as the eye could reach, and it lost itself in the distant horizon where the purple outline of the hills faded into the azure of the evening sky. There was wave upon wave of hills covered with trees, so that the earth lay hidden, and down in the valleys one saw nothing but the crowns of trees forming an impenetrable carpet of foliage; only along the ridges the light filtered in vertical streaks through the closed-up ranks of tree trunks. If there were villages they were hidden in masses of trees; the forest engulfed them and reigned supreme in this lonely corner of the earth.

The sun sank, and the brilliant light of day was followed by the soft illumination of the stars. The forest became dim and indefinite amid an intense and motionless silence. There was no sound of wind, or of animal life; the dew had not begun to drip from the foliage, and each leaf was still as if arrested in its task. Yet there was no sense of fear or oppression: rather the atmosphere was charged with the vitality of countless millions of plants rejoicing in their growth, struggling against the competition of their neighbours, and seizing every chance which offered to reach towards the life-giving light.

At such a time there came upon any human being dwelling in the forest, first, a conviction of nature’s absolute indifference to his proceedings, and next, the peace conferred by personal irresponsibility, to which, if a man succumbs, he joins the vast army of hermits, religious mendicants, and other parasites; while, if he resists, he is left to work out a strenuous existence in conflict with the wild beasts and against the pressure of overwhelming vegetation.

As night drew on, the cooler air became charged with moisture and wrapped itself in mist. The leaves of the forest trees were weighted with the dampness they exuded; it no longer passed away in invisible vapour, but trickled earthwards in heavy splashes, like the sullen sound of mindless rain. From hundreds of miles of forest came the sound of dripping water in a ceaseless murmur, which increased the weirdness of the scene, and even served to make any other sound more distinct. Thus it was that a movement became audible in the distance, at first so slight as to be indistinguishable; it was as if foliage was being quietly brushed aside, as if the dew-laden grass was being crushed by a gentle yet irresistible force. Standing on the summit pf the hill, one looked down on a pass between the mountains, a curved saddle that invited to an easier passage from valley to valley. Over this low pass the waves of mist eddied to and fro, just as if each valley in turn filled with cloud and overflowed into the next.

From the depths below a herd of elephants were ascending the pass in single file and in silence. The leader, an old female, first appeared in sight, walking quickly along the narrow trail. Her trunk hung limply from her broad forehead, touching the earth lightly alternately to right and to left, and with instant precision the fore-foot was placed on the spot which had been tested, and the oval print of the hind-foot immediately overlapped the rounder track. She passed through the eddies of fog, which at times seemed to swallow her up, at others allowed but the glistening outline of her back to become visible; or again hid all but the ponderous legs which moved with regularity through the dim air.

Following, came others who seemed careless of danger through confidence in their leader. Each set foot in the trail of its predecessor, so that soon there was but one track sunk deep in the soft earth, as if some old-time mammoth of enormous size had passed that way. Females, young calves, youthful tuskers, all passed in succession, each rising into sight and disappearing over the narrow pass, plunged into obscurity on the further side. There was silence in the ranks, for the animals were on the march, intent on changing their quarters ere dawn should break. They might have been so travelling for hours, and might continue their resistless way for many more ere they halted thirty or forty miles from their starting point.

Some hours later there was promise of daylight in the sky. The mist now lay thicker over the forest, it had sunk into impenetrable strata which rested heavily on the land. Above its sharp upper line the tops of hills stood out like islands in a sea of white; along the ridges the crowns of trees appeared as if floating in the waves, their stems were hidden in the fog. Again a movement was heard, and from below a single elephant approached, carelessly following in the trail of the herd.

About the Book

In the wild jungles of India, a tusker is born. Maula Bux—as he is later named—grows up loved and adored amongst his herd, learning all that a young calf must to become a majestic elephant. However, an unfortunate encounter with humans leads to his capture and he is sold. His mahout, Kareem, instantly takes a liking towards the tusker and considers him almost to be a brother. Maula Bux is courageous, agile and magnificent, and he and Kareem have many adventures together—from hauling timber deep in the forest to adrenaline-charged tiger chases. At his advancing age, Maula Bux is even appointed to carry an Indian Prince in procession!

Having spent much of his life in the jungles of India and Burma (now Myanmar) S. Eardley-Wilmot was a keen observer of wildlife and spoke out about the necessity to conserve India’s wild spaces and the mighty beings in them. The Life of an Elephant is a must-read for young and older readers alike—for it is not just an insightful story of one of nature’s noblest beings but also an important text about conservation, empathy, and the treatment of animals.

About the Author

S. Eardley-Wilmot (1852–1929) was a British civil servant, forestry officer and conservationist who worked primarily in India and Burma (now Myanmar) and served as Inspector-General of Forests. He joined the Indian Forest Service in 1873 and was appointed to the old North-West Provinces and Oudh region of colonial India. In recognition of his conservation-lead method and unorthodox approach to forestry in India and Burma, Eardley- Wilmot became a Knight Commander of Order of the Indian Empire in 1911.

Eardley-Wilmot’s published books include—Forest Life and Sports in India (1910), Leaves from Indian Forests (1930), and The Life of a Tiger and The Life of an Elephant (1933).

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A Walking History of the Himalayan Landscape

Title: Human Nature: A Walking History of the Himalayan Landscape

Author: Thomas Bell

Publisher: Penguin Random House

On the plane from Kathmandu I could see the thunderheads building over the eastern hills, after a month of drought. At the bus park, when I claimed my place in the front of the jeep, the soldier who’d already taken his said, ‘This is going to be awkward.’ He spent the first part of the journey asleep on my shoulder.

The road climbed through the clouds and tea gardens of Ilam. The neat little tea hedges were whorled around the round hills like the ridges on a fingerprint. The air was opaque with condensation, like every time I’ve been there. I was once told that this continually cloudy weather—‘the sun never shines, it’s so depressing!’—accounts for the fact that Ilam has the highest suicide rate in the country. But a woman from here, whom I met in Kathmandu, said, ‘No, it’s because the kids’ parents won’t let them be with whom they want to be; they’re lovesick, then their exams come, they come under even greater pressure, feeling their whole lives are at stake, and they drink poison or jump in a river.’

The music in the jeep was loud, and there wasn’t much conversation until we began descending into Phidim in declining light. Beyond the steamed-up glass we saw a blur of rain, cloud and forest, the lights of the town below, and white flashes of lightning. ‘Mother!’ squealed the young woman in the back, and the passengers began talking about deaths by lightning. In his home district they’re quite common, Rajendra said. ‘The victims are burnt black-black!’ The jeep dropped people off at various places, lastly me and Rajendra at a hotel. He carried most of the bags and fishing rods upstairs.

That evening in the hotel restaurant I was joined by an engineer, who was living there while he worked on a hydropower project. It was stormy outside. We drank whisky and talked about fishing, which he was interested in, and about walking routes. After we’d been talking for a while, and it seemed I knew enough to get around, he asked why I needed a guide, referring to Rajendra, who he’d seen carrying the rods upstairs.

‘I need someone to help me with my stuff,’ I said.

I was planning to walk down the Tamar River, do some fishing, and make our way back through the hills to Kathmandu in two or three weeks. ‘Start your walk from the village of Majhitar,’ the engineer said. ‘It’s on your way, and the fishing will be good where a stream flows into the Tamar.’

—

In the morning a car from the engineer’s project took me and Rajendra and dropped us a few kilometres away, which was as far as the road stretched then. The map I had was only ten years old, but very out of date, because in a short time the hills have filled with roads. The footpath leading from Phidim towards the Tamar was in the process of becoming the Mid-Hill Highway, a major project that will coil over ridge after ridge across the whole country. We began tramping along the unfinished surface towards Majhitar.

Except for last night’s squalls, the weather had been dry throughout the hills. Forest fires were in the news. Here, the villagers were ploughing in preparation for more rain, whereupon they’d plant maize. Where the immense red slopes were too steep to farm they were thinly forested with sal trees, which had shed their leaves to endure the arid spring. The braided streams of the Tamar came into view beneath us. After last night the water was a dirty, concrete grey. The road descended to Majhitar.

The name of this village means that members of the fishermen’s caste—Majhi—are living on a flat piece of alluvial land called a tar. The first people we reached were rethatching their house ahead of the monsoon. Their nets were hanging in the rafters. Rajendra stopped to talk, and they fried some minnows for us. ‘There are fish in this river as big as ourselves,’ the Majhis said, ‘but there’s no chance of catching them in this black water.’ They showed us the thick lines and 2-inch hooks they use, baited with minnows, to catch the big ones. ‘Fish eat fish?’ Rajendra asked.

For the rest of the day we crossed the slopes high above the black waters of the Tamar. We climbed steeply through a burnt forest, the path levelled out among fragrant pines, then we walked all afternoon in grinding sunshine, through leafless jungle with little to drink. The brightness, heat and thirst, last night’s whisky, the weight of my bag, and the awkward load of fishing rods swinging around my body made the world contract. By the end of the day I’d withdrawn into determination only to reach the village where we’d stay. When we got there the villagers asked us, for some reason, ‘Are you from the land registry department?’ They were also Majhis.

Archaeologists have speculated that fishing villages were the first permanent settlements, because even before agriculture they had a source of food in one place. It seems plausible that a similar principle is relevant here. This village, which only consisted of half a dozen stone huts, was built on a naturally formed terrace about 20 yards above the river. Each hut was a single windowless room, with a wall-less sleeping platform above it under a pitched thatch roof. Drunks were asleep on steps and benches at the end of the afternoon. We put our stuff down and were shown which house would take us. Rajendra and I asked them to prepare daal and rice for us, but they said they had no daal.

‘Vegetables then?’ They had no vegetables.

‘Can I have a cup of tea?’ There was no tea.

‘Then give me a cigarette.’ There were no cigarettes. They rolled the tobacco they grew in strips of fibre from their maize cobs.

About the Book

n Human Nature, Thomas Bell embarks on four walks through the Himalaya, each in a different season, to explore the interplay between the land and the people who call it home. This evocative history entwines travelogue with folklore, literature, art and anthropology, offering a nuanced portrait of life over the centuries in one of the world’s most enigmatic regions.

Bell’s decades of living in Nepal give him an unusual perspective that bridges the gap between insider and outsider. The stories told to him touch on themes from religion to ecology and political economy, and from pre-history to the present day. He also deftly examines the impact of British imperialism and the growing external pressures on the environment.

Accompanied by striking photographs, Human Nature is a magnificently written account that spans big ideas and real lives. Erudite, intimate and evocative, this is essential reading for anyone seeking to understand the relationship between communities and their environment.

About the Author

Thomas Bell was born in the north of England. After university, he moved to Nepal to cover the civil war there for the Daily Telegraph, The Economist and other publications. He was the Southeast Asia correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, before returning to Kathmandu where he was a political officer for the United Nations during the peace process. His earlier book, Kathmandu, is a history of Nepal’s capital.

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The Naipauls of Nepaul Street 

Title: The Naipauls of Nepaul Street 

Author: Savi Naipaul Akal

Publisher: Speaking Tiger Books

CHAPTER ONE

Cunupia, Chaguanas, Chandernagore, Caroni . . .

My father seemed destined to be surrounded by women. At first there were four aunts, a sister and four female cousins. There was a mother too, but no father he could or would recall.

Seepersad Naipaul was born on 14th April 1906 in the settlement of Cunupia in rural Trinidad. On his birth certificate, his name is ‘Supersad’. The name and occupation of the ‘informant’ (normally the husband or father) is given as Nyepal. He is identified as a labourer. His mother’s name is Poolkareah, with no occupation cited for her. Most likely she was wife as well as mother – occupations daunting enough.

Nyepal, our Pa’s father, was not intended to be a labourer. An only child, he had come from India with his devoted mother, an indentured servant. In other words, she came under an agreement that would oblige her to work on the land, mainly in the sugar-cane fields. Why did she and so many others leave India in this way? Perhaps she had committed some indiscretion, or was running away from a bad marriage. After her term of indenture expired, she had the choice of going back to India or staying in Trinidad. She decided to stay, along with her son. Devoted to him, and a proud Brahmin, she sought to have him trained as a pundit. (In Hinduism, only Brahmins can perform the most sacred rites.) To that end, he travelled to Diego Martin, the large valley immediately west of our capital, Port of Spain, to sit at the feet of a venerable pundit. Being a pundit meant having knowledge and understanding of the sacred texts and rituals, and thus the ability to read and write Sanskrit and Hindi. Whether Nyepal ever practised as a pundit we never knew, but he apparently sold goods and supplies used in pujas, or sacred rites.

His mother also found him a wife. On the ship coming from India there were two brothers from Patna. They, too, were Brahmins. One of them had six daughters and one son. Pa’s mother chose one of the girls, Poolkareah, as her son’s bride. The wedding took place, and Nyepal and Poolkareah went on to have three children of their own: Prasad, Prabaran and Seepersad (or Supersad).

When Seepersad was two, his father Nyepal died. Did he drown? There is a vague story of a diver who drowned. Nyepal’s mother was distraught after the death of her one and only precious son, whom she had nurtured and cared for during those challenging and difficult years. Inconsolable, she drifted into her own world and became something of a recluse and an eccentric. She appears never to have remarried or formed a new alliance with another man. Curiously, my own mother Droapatie remembered this woman well. Tiny in size and very fair of complexion, she wore nothing but white clothing after her son’s death (white being the Hindu colour of mourning). She lived in or around Chaguanas, where young Droapatie would have seen her, and sometimes came into the town. Other children would sometimes jeer at her as she walked about waving a wand in front of her to protect her from unclean shadows, from people of lower caste. She spoke to no one, did her business, and then disappeared until her next visit. Droapatie would never have imagined that one day she would marry this strange woman’s grandson, Seepersad. But the caste was always right.

Death was not a subject my father liked to dwell on. Several years after his father’s passing, his mother died of an unspecified illness. Unlike his father’s death, Seepersad was evidently old enough to feel this second loss keenly. In the early nineteen-forties he wrote a five-page letter in an old ledger book to the doctor who had not saved his mother. The doctor was late in responding to their call for help, my father wrote in anger; he had not seemed to care about Poolkareah’s crisis; evidently, in his selfishness and arrogance, he was not suited to his profession. The gist of the letter was that his mother had died because she was a poor woman and therefore unimportant to the self-important Dr. Ramesar.

Perhaps the letter was never transcribed, never posted. The written word may have expiated Pa’s anger and supplanted his sense of primal loss. Could my grandmother have been saved? Her five sisters, his aunts, lived on and on despite their emphysema and other medical issues. They took a long time to ‘pop off’, he would say.

Soon after his father’s death, a half-brother was born. He was called Hari, or Hari Chacha to us children. Pa’s mother, Poolkareah, a widow with three children, would have been a burden on the closest relatives. Another liaison would have been encouraged. In my own family, all these details were rather vague. For example, it took us many years to learn that Hari Chacha was Pa’s half-brother.

The older Indian people were tight-lipped about the family’s history. They never spoke about my paternal grandfather, Nyepal, and Hari’s father never had a name. Hari’s son George carried the title or surname Persad. This seemed to fit, as Pa’s elder brother, Prasad, carried the surname Rampersad. Pa, however, eventually called himself Naipaul. He was the only one in his family who carried that name. Even the name Naipaul seems irregular. In its exact form, it does not appear to be previously used in India, or among Indians in Trinidad. In all of his early purchased books, he wrote his name as Naipal: Seepersad Naipal. The change to Naipaul took place, apparently, in the early forties, after he began work at the Trinidad Guardian, our leading newspaper. On Pa’s first driver’s licence, dated 22nd August 1928, his name is given as Bholah Supersad (not Seepersad), and his residence as Tunapuna. However, on its renewal on 24th January 1944, his name is Seepersad Naipaul (of Luis Street, Port of Spain).

About the Book

This is a moving story of a Trinidadian-Indian family’s beginnings, growth and its inevitable dispersal. Savi Naipaul Akal’s memoir pays tribute to extraordinary parents: Her father Seepersad Naipaul, virtual orphan in a dirtpoor rural Indian family, one generation away from indentured migration, who through self-education became a remarkable journalist and writer. And her mother Dropatie, who displayed remarkable diplomatic skills in sustaining a relationship with the large, prosperous and inward-looking Capildeo clan, of which she was the seventh daughter, whilst loyally supporting her husband’s insistence on independence and engagement with Trinidadian life. After Seepersad’s tragically early death, Dropatie held the family together, so that all seven children achieved university education.

It is an account of family loyalty, sacrifice, and sometimes tensions; pride in the writing achievements of her brothers Vidia and Shiva, and sorrow over estrangements and Shiva’s premature death. The memoir also gives a sharply observed picture of cultural change in Trinidad from colony to independent nation, of being Indian in a Creole society, and of the role of education in migrant families.

Elegant and lucid, written with a distinctively personal voice, the book is further enhanced by the generous quantity of family photographs that say so much about these people and the times they lived through.

About the Author

Savitri (Savi) Naipaul Akal, the fifth child of Seepersad and Dropatie Naipaul, sister of V.S. and Shiva Naipaul, was educated in Port of Spain, Trinidad and Edinburgh, Scotland. She was a school teacher, teaching geography and sociology, and retired as vice-principal in 1980. After retirement, she ran a boutique for several years. She lives with her husband in Trinidad.

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Growl at the Moon by Rhys Hughes

Title: Growl at the Moon, a Weird Western

Author: Rhys Hughes

Publisher: Telos Publishing Ltd

1.

She rode to the crest of the hillock and looked down. The other rider was a pale shadow on the trail below and in the moonlight his shadow was even paler than he was. That was because of the mica in the rocks which gleamed, glittered and shone and turned the landscape into something ethereal and strange. With a low snarl, she spurred her horse forwards.

She zigzagged down the slope and still the other rider didn’t hear her. Was he engrossed in his private thoughts? That must be the answer. Her Winchester was cradled in her arms and her low snarl turned into a stealthy laugh. Her prey seemed oddly incautious, but this was to her advantage. At the base of the slope, she spurred her mount to a fast canter.

The other rider finally became aware that something was behind him. As he turned in his saddle, she raised the rifle and aimed at his face. She slowed in order to be sure of hitting him square.

“Hey, what’s this?” he cried in astonishment.

His head, which was that of a giant rabbit, bobbed up and down, his nose twitched and his long ears undulated.

“Howdy, pard,” she said, and then she added, “I guess you think I’m just a bandit, some unwashed desperado who wants your money. But that’s not true at all. My name is Jalamity Kane and I’m hunting all the men who are part animal. I know what it means that you’re a man-rabbit, it means that you studied with a shaman, one of the Mojave wizards.”

“Well, yes I did,” answered the other rider.

“I make the same speech every time I find one of you people. When I was younger and full of hope and desire, I also sought out a shaman to study with. I found one. Seven years in a subterranean cavern, putting myself through horrid exercises, expanding my mind! But it didn’t work, I didn’t acquire the power. I failed and my soul became bitter. It’s not nice to be bitter and that’s especially true when I look upon your sweet little visage. Gonna blow a hole right through it. Say your final prayers, bunny boy!”

The other rider raised a paw to remonstrate with her but it was too late. Her finger squeezed the trigger and the canyon echoed with the shot. He slumped in the saddle and his horse bolted. He didn’t fall off but remained in place, his feet held by the stirrups. Jalamity watched him vanish into the crystalline darkness. She said to herself, “I’ll destroy all of you. I have no interest in money. I have no interest in anything, only in slaying every cat-man, owl-man, worm-man and cougar-man in the land. You’ll see!”

It was her mission in life. A cruel and futile mission, but a mission all the same, and a gal’s gotta have a mission.

2.

Jalamity was in position to ambush her next victim. She squatted in the shallow pit she had dug. The dry plain extended all around here, as flat as a tune played on a badly-maintained piano in a rotten old saloon somewhere in the worst kind of decayed ghost town where the railroad was supposed to come but didn’t. She had constructed her own cover because there was no natural cover available in the geography of the bland landscape.

The rider was a puff of dust at the limits of her vision. It was early evening and he was evidently trying to cover as many miles as possible before night fell and she chuckled at the malevolent thought that he was hurrying to his doom, a circumstance he would soon be aware of. The Winchester was firm in his grasp and she chewed a stick of licorice root.

This wasn’t European licorice or Glycyrrhiza glabra which also grew in a few places in a few states, having been brought over by settlers, but the harsher Glycyrrhiza lepidota that the Zuni people had liked to chomp as a medicine. Not that Jalamity needed a cure for anything. She just liked to chew on something at the end of a day and she hated tobacco.

She waited patiently as the cloud of beige dust that was the rider expanded in size and took on more of a familiar shape. His horse was tiring a little and his pace was slowing. As he approached, she saw that he wore a hood. All of these fools liked to cover their telltale faces!

She stood up straight, rising out of the pit like a snake about to strike, and strike she would, by which we mean attack and not cease working because of dissatisfaction with pay. She cared nothing for wealth. No ordinary bandit, this Jalamity, half woman and half man, the product of seven years’ meditation that hadn’t worked out the way she’d wanted.

“Hey, what’s this?” he cried in astonishment.

His head, which was that of a giant squirrel, bobbed up and down, his nose twitched and his jaws chattered.

“Howdy, pard,” she said, and then she added, “I guess you think I’m just a bandit, some unwashed desperado who wants your money. But that’s not true at all. My name is Jalamity Kane and I’m hunting all the men who are part animal. I know what it means that you’re a man-squirrel, it means that you studied with a shaman, one of the Mojave wizards.”

It was the same speech, or nearly the same speech as before. It was a short speech but one she had made dozens of times. Very few people ever got to hear it more than once, apart from herself.

An occasional victim escaped her, but it was such a rare event that in terms of statistics it counted for nothing at all.

Jalamity was now reaching the end of the speech. “Gonna blow a hole right through ya. Say goodbye, squirrel boy!”

The other rider raised a paw to remonstrate with her but it was too late. Her finger squeezed the trigger and the plains absorbed the sound of the shot. First he slumped in the saddle and then he fell off. His horse didn’t bolt but remained where it was, looking confused. One day, Jalamity knew, she would meet a man who was half horse. What would the horse he rode on do then? Would he regard Jamality as an enemy of all horses and try to kick her? She had no idea. It was a riddle that only the future could solve.

Most horses didn’t care about their riders but that one might be different. It was better to wait to find out the answer for sure. Speculation was a waste of her time. She climbed out of the pit, moved to the side, leaned over and reached out with her hands and jerked her wrists.

An unseen blanket came up in her fingers. Her horse was beneath it, lying on its side, and now it got clumsily to its hooves. She had covered it with a sheet and covered the sheet with sand and gravel and grit so that it resembled only the smallest of humps in the almost featureless plain. There had been nowhere else to hide it. She could have dug a pit, as she had for herself, but that would have been very hard work. Alternatively, she could have covered herself with a sheet too, but that would have restricted her visibility. Everything had worked out for the best. The squirrel-man was dead.

And now she had his horse as well. She could maybe use his horse as some part of a trap for her next victim. Killing these beasts was her mission in life. A cruel and futile mission, as we already have been told, but yes, a mission all the same, and a gal’s gotta have a mission.

About the Book

Bill Bones was a normal human being until he studied under a Mojave Shaman and was transformed into a man-dog called The Growl. Now, driven by a keen sense of justice, The Growl is on the hunt for the villains who killed his boss, newspaperman Ridley Smart … and he’ll stop at nothing!

Crossing the deserts and forests of the American continent, The Growl searches for the men he must kill. Along the way he meets more beast-men, more magicians, the avenger Jalamity Kane who is seeking to rid the world of the beast menace, and other dangerous characters, from the artificial to the wild, from the robotic to the demonic.

In the deft hands of Rhys Hughes, this inventive tale becomes a masterpiece of twists and turns … exploring and questioning our definitions of humanity, discovering the very meaning of what life and reality might be.

About the Author

Rhys Hughes is a writer of Fantastika and Speculative Fiction.

His earliest surviving short story dates from 1989, and since that time he has embarked on an ambitious project of writing a story cycle consisting of exactly 1000 linked tales. Recently, he decided to give this cycle the overall name of PANDORA’S BLUFF. The reference is to the box of troubles in the old myth. Each tale is a trouble, but hope can be found within them all.

His favourite fiction writers are Italo Calvino, Stanislaw Lem, Boris Vian, Flann O’Brien, Alasdair Gray and Donald Barthelme, all of whom have a well-developed sense of irony and a powerful imagination. He particularly enjoys literature that combines humour with seriousness, and that fuses the emotional with the intellectual, the profound with the light-hearted, the spontaneous with the precise.

His first book was published in 1995 and sold slowly but it seemed to strike a chord with some people. His subsequent books sold more strongly as my reputation gradually increased. He is regarded as a “cult author” by some and though pleased with that description, he obviously wants to reach out to a wider audience!

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Bandits and a Cursed River in Chambal Valley

Title: Did I Really Do All This: Memoirs of a Gentleman Cop Who Dared to be Different

Author: Vijay Raman

Publisher: Rupa Publications

Bandits and a Cursed River

When I began my career in the dacoit-infested region of the Chambal Valley in Madhya Pradesh (MP), I faced different kinds of issues.

I was first posted in Dabra where there are dacoits. In such places certain people come to you offering information that will be useful to us. These are our mukhbir, informers. Some come for the pittance of money that is sanctioned to us as anti-dacoity funds for meeting emergency expenses. But most come with an ulterior motive: they want a kill. ‘We will give you information that you need and will find very hard to get without me. But you have to kill the man,’ they would say.

As ASP Dabra I had 10 police stations under me. One was at Pandokhar, a village between Jhansi and Gwalior, on the (Uttar Pradesh) UP–MP border. A very pleasant-looking chap from there would come to me, always smiling, always making conversation, inquiring about my health, telling me whatever was happening in the village. When I asked for information, he would say, ‘Saheb, sab theek hai, it’s all good, Saheb!’

I would ask if there was any news of the dacoits, and he’d say ‘No Saheb, there is no movement.’

One day he said, ‘Aaj shaam ko jayenge Saheb. We’ll go this evening.’

It was December 1978. I distinctly remember the day: India was playing Pakistan in the Asian Games hockey finals in Bangkok.

One of the problems in that area, particularly for a young newcomer, is this: Whom do you trust? Is the informer trustworthy? Is the subordinate you share the information with trustworthy? I realized that ultimately it had to be your call, based on some homework, your own observations, and your intuition.

One dictum I always followed was to stick to the informer’s plan as much as possible. Anything else would make him suspicious. So I asked him what we should do. He said that this was Devi Singh’s gang, of seven or eight people. They were going from MP to UP to conduct a burglary since it was a full moon night. They would go on bicycles—yes, the dacoits those days went around on bicycles!—and he would be with them. When we arrived at the ambush area, he would ring his bicycle bell and that would be the signal for us to spring into action. All we had to do was surround them, fire two shots into the air, and they would be ours: an easily doable plan which otherwise might be most difficult to execute!

Bidding a mildly regretful goodbye to the hockey commentary on the radio I got into my vehicle and left for Pandokhar, about 60 km from Dabra. I shared my information with the sub-inspectors and inspector in the police station there. Soon the word spread, and from their reaction I could see that this was a very dangerous gang of dacoits. There was consensus that these fellows deserved the ultimate punishment.

We walked to the location, a distance of about 10 km, and took our positions before dark. There was no way I would find out the results of the hockey match there! Sure enough, a group of cyclists arrived. Someone rang a bell. That was our signal, and we surrounded them. And that’s when some of the constables recognized him. ‘Arre! Yeh toh Devi Singh hai! And there’s a big price on his head!’

Dying Declaration

Now the drama begins for a young police officer fresh out of the academy that trains to say no third degree, no this, no that. And with just one year of service, I was still carrying the commitment to uphold the law, protect human rights, behave as the Constitution expects me to. But was it possible when facing a rebellious group of subordinates who want a kill? Before my eyes, some of them were getting ready for violence. When some senior constables and sub-inspectors pacified them they protested, ‘Why should we let them go? They are crooks, they deserve to be killed.’ We tried to convince them that we must arrest them, take them back to the police station, and let the matter be resolved in a courtroom. But that would never work, they argued, because they would bribe the authorities and get away. So they must be killed now!

After a lot of persuasion they relented. They requisitioned a bullock cart from the village, put me in it, tied the hands of the dacoits together, and tied the rope to the bullock cart so that they could not escape. And all along the way they expressed their rage by thrashing Devi Singh, a bald-headed fellow, on the head with his own chappals!

*

My mind was in turmoil. Was I doing the right thing? And why was there so much anger against him from the lower constabulary? I was on the verge of being manhandled by my constables for my stand. Luckily there were sub-inspectors who could restrain them. Was this the sense of discipline we had in the police?

Back in the police station, I phoned my senior officer, a very fine Superintendent of Police (SP) from whom I learnt many practical aspects of policing. It was nearly midnight, so I started by excusing myself for calling at that hour, but I was speaking from Pandokhar and had just returned from an encounter. He must have wondered whether this kid from the south even knew the meaning of ‘encounter’. He disconnected with instructions to see him in the morning.

I had done exactly what my informer had asked me to do—and I had arrested seven members of a gang. We had fired only two rounds of ammunition.

We sent out the required messages to all the police stations in the district, informing them that Devi Singh was in our custody, giving information about the location, number of people arrested, and other details of the encounter. And we were astonished at the large number of requests from all around asking for them to be handed over for trial.

*

The next morning I reported to my headquarters in Gwalior, met my SP, and discussed with him my thoughts and feelings about the encounter. When I told him that we must control the level of indiscipline we have in the force, the seasoned officer counselled me, ‘These are things we have to take in our stride. In the course of time you will also learn how to go about it!’

I was feeling quite pleased with myself for the excellent work done but my SP was more than a little amused. ‘Raman, you fired only two rounds! How can you have an encounter with a dacoit when the police fire only two rounds? I’m sure even the dacoits would have fired more than that. You were just very lucky that you did not get massacred. Firing two rounds is not an encounter Raman! Go and take his dying declaration, and let’s close this matter.’

I was familiar with the belief that a person on the verge of death will not lie. Therefore greater credibility is given to such a statement. Little did I know that soon this episode would come back to haunt me.

The Price of Being Idealistic

Every day we would receive the daily situation report (DSR). It mandates that events such as blind murder, unidentified dead bodies, and other serious offences must be supervised by either the SP or the ASP.

One day I received a report of the discovery of an unidentified dead body. Somehow the name of the place, which fell under the police station of Pandokhar, rang a bell, and I found myself rushing towards it with a growing sense of dread. It was about 100 km from Gwalior and by the time I got there the body, though badly mauled and with limbs dismembered, had been identified. Beside it sat a woman clutching two children tightly to herself and wailing loudly.

It was a terrible feeling to know that this was my fault. I was responsible for the death of this informer. I was the person responsible for all those who were killed by Devi Singh after his release, until he was terminated by my junior, SP Asha Gopal. It always remained on my conscience that my actions, though purely to uphold human rights and protect human life, had led to so much violence and misery.

These thoughts often disturb sensitive police officers, making them face a dilemma that nobody else can help them solve. For myself, I had resolved that following the law was not just my duty but also my dharma, righteousness. However, even in my life there would occur situations when, in the heat of the moment, it might become necessary to take decisions not in keeping with strictly legal procedures. But this would NEVER be for personal gain, and only, ONLY for the greater good.

*

People of my generation who grew up in India would have read about the dacoits and what they did. Some might have a sense of the terrain in which the Chambal dacoits lived. But today’s youngsters, especially those unfamiliar with the place and time, would not understand what it was like, or the obstacles and dangers that were involved, in policing back then.

Chambal is a large area with a peculiar topography of dunes and ravines not seen anywhere else in India. These were formed by the force of water cutting through the land. For an outsider, the area was difficult to navigate. There are settlements and villages even in the midst of the ravines, and it was impossible to know whether they were already there when the ravine formed or whether the ravine grew around them. To get from one place to another was extremely difficult for anyone unfamiliar with the area. You could get hopelessly lost, as in a maze. However, once you began to understand the geometrical pattern of the ravines, it became easier to know where to enter. Over time, the surroundings became familiar.

Other than the terrain, the people of this region were also unique. Their culture developed almost in isolation, and while they had a lot in common with people of the neighbouring areas, some of their attributes were distinctive.

They had a strong sense of justice. One that was different from what we were used to. When I studied Law, what fascinated me was understanding the causes that had given rise to a law. One of the sources of a law is the customs of the people. When a custom is predominant, the wisdom of the legislature will formulate the custom into a law that can be implemented. And some of the customs in this region are what have shaped the indigenous laws here.

Thus, people here were deeply conscious of caste; not just in terms of untouchability but also as a pecking order. While Brahmins were at the top, there were various subgroups—Sharmas and Mishras, among others—and these had their own hierarchy. This applied to how they spoke and were spoken to, or where they stood or sat in a public gathering. Indeed every social interaction was strictly dictated by caste, marriage being the most carefully monitored.

Lower castes were also kept firmly in their place. Any breach of these age-old rules was taken extremely seriously and was bound to have consequences, sometimes fatal. If a person felt aggrieved or insulted, they would hit back. But there were exceptions and unexpected alliances emerged. Notorious dacoit Maan Singh, a legend in his lifetime with a temple to his name, was from a higher caste but his gang had many dacoits from lower castes.

Secondly, women were held in the highest esteem and no misbehaviour against a woman was condoned. It may seem strange to hear that a region famous for its law-breaking dacoits could have been so particular about the safety of and respect for women, but it was so. The women were, of course, expected to behave with all propriety in order to deserve this veneration.

Next, the people in this region were very, very possessive about their land. This may well be true of everybody everywhere. But the intensity of this feeling, and the response to any infringement in this, was extreme. Any transgression would immediately be punished, and not with a simple imprisonment, because this was not a minor offence but a serious one that deserved death. And it was the same when the modesty of a woman was outraged.

Linked to all this was the prestige derived from the ownership of a licensed weapon. Whether a 12-bore gun or a weapon of any calibre, displaying it was as much a source of prestige as a row of ribbons and medals might have been to someone from the forces, or a car brand for a city dweller of today.

With this uncompromising, cast-iron value system, life was sometimes quite difficult. Let me tell you about a case that took place during my time in that area. One evening, two brothers returned home after working all day in their fields. They sat in front of their home, smoking hookahs, relaxing, waiting to be served dinner.

One brother said, ‘I’ve been wondering whether I should also buy an animal, maybe a cow or a buffalo.’

‘Oh really?’ the other replied. “And where do you plan to tie it?’

‘Right here,’ said the first brother.

‘Really?’ the second responded. ‘But this is my land! You can’t tie your cow here!’

The first brother jumped up and walked indignantly into the house. He brought out a short wooden post and a hammer, with which he hammered the post into the ground. This was the kind of post used to wind rope around and tie cattle to. With this, the first brother had established his right to tie his cow right there.

Furious, the second brother too jumped up and strode into the house. He went in, brought out his weapon, and simply shot his brother down. Such was the value of land.

In short, legality and morality have their own geographical boundaries!

*

Another incident took place some years later. By then I had some credibility with the local people.

A Dalit boy from Umri village got married. The marriage party had gone to the bride’s village and, after the wedding rituals, were bringing her home in a procession with musicians playing and people dancing. On the way they passed some Thakur homes. Some young men who sat smoking on the veranda watched with contempt and passed snide remarks. As the boy ceremoniously walked with his new bride into the house, a lewd comment was heard by all: ‘These chamars sure know how to pick their beauties!’

Loud, mocking guffaws rang out.

I should mention here that the use of the caste name ‘chamar’, with the intent to insult or humiliate is an offence today, punishable under the provisions of the Scheduled Castes and Scheduled Tribes (Prevention of Atrocities) Act, 1989.

The ceremony of welcoming the bride into her new home continued with all its formality. But as soon as it was over, the groom picked up his gun, loaded it, and walked to the house where the spoilt Thakur brats still sat smoking. Taking aim, he shot and killed the boy who had made the mocking remark. In cold blood, in broad daylight. And in doing this, he was simply following the law dictated by the customs followed in this place.

For us it was a different situation altogether. The Thakurs were up in arms, the Dalit boy was absconding, and the entire chamar community had lined up, ready for a bloodbath. We had to prevent it! I spent a very tense 34 days searching for the boy in the maze-like ravines and meeting the leaders of both the communities to placate them. I was unable to sleep, constantly alert, constantly watching for any sudden movement on either side. Ultimately the boy surrendered and was sentenced.

This was the consequence of a ‘simple’ insulting comment. There is an entire framework that prescribes what the punishment should be, and in a case like this, it is different from our existing laws. Who can we blame? The people with a tradition of a certain law, or the police and the judiciary, with their own fixed sense of justice and punishment?

*

People ascribe the nature of the people and their customs to the water of the Chambal River. And having lived there I can speak for the water. It was so pure and wholesome that food got digested easily. The pulses and grains grown in the region were of the best quality. The soil was very productive, and I believe the per-acre yield was comparable to Punjab. This milieu formed the background of our police system.

Now, don’t forget that our police system was also manned mostly by people of the same area, with the same mentality and the same sense of revenge. It was a caste-based way of life. Such incidents were absolutely ‘normal’. Yet, as I soon found out, there was a great respect for authority. I was a South Indian officer without much knowledge of the place, hardly even able to speak their language. There was a lot of curiosity on both sides, but there was also respect.

Revenge on the Dead

A month or two later we received information about an encounter by a local DSP, about 30 km away from Bhind, on the bank of Sindh River. Seven dacoits were killed; no names were given; it was not one of the regular gangs.

I went to the site. As the SP, whenever I travelled I had a driver, a gunman, and sometimes also my PA. In case I remembered, or noticed, something my PA would record it. We arrived at the spot. The police were standing there. There were dead bodies on the ground. We stood a little away from them, discussing how it had happened, who did what, and had the dacoits been recognized.

Suddenly there was a burst of fire from an automatic weapon. All of us took position in a reflex action arising from our training. We looked up, to see someone standing with his rifle over the dead body of one of the dacoits. He had emptied all the bullets in his gun into the corpse!

The DSP and inspector chorused, ‘Sir! He is your gunman.’

I realized that this was my replacement gunman; my regular gunman was on leave.

Now this was my responsibility to go and disarm him!

I walked up to him. He was standing there, stunned at what he had done. As I came closer, he dropped his weapon and fell at my feet, sobbing. Lifting him up I asked, ‘What happened? Why did you do that?’

‘Sir, it is this fellow…’ he said, and a frenzy of abusive words started pouring out of him. Words that my men would never ordinarily use in front of me. ‘This is the guy who raped my sister!’

The point is, even after the man was dead, the atrocity he committed was not forgotten. Revenge must be taken, even on a dead body.

(Sourced and edited by Ratnottama Sengupta with permission from the family of the late author.)

 About the Book

When he heard Mr Patel say, ‘These medals are to be earned, not to be purchased,’ Vijay was secretly filled with the determination to earn his own medal.

In the course of time, Vijay Raman not only earned the President’s Police Medal for Gallantry, but also went on to create history in each of his postings all over India. 

He was a simple and straightforward cop, one who was extraordinarily courageous. His untimely demise in 2023 was preceded by many near-death situations—described in this book—which he was miraculously lucky to survive. 

This is a real-life hero’s first-hand account of Paan Singh Tomar and his dacoit gang being decimated in a 14-hour dusk-to-dawn encounter; the surrenders of Daku Malkan Singh and Phoolan Devi; leading from the front and putting an end to the notorious terrorist Ghazi Baba; investigating the infamous Vyapam scam; dealing with the horror of the gas tragedy in Bhopal; guarding the life of four Indian prime ministers as one of the handpicked officers of the Special Protection Group; and beating the Guinness World Record for circumnavigating the globe. 

The chronicles of Vijay Raman form a book of adventure, of remarkable events—giving readers precious insights into the making of a legend. As he reviewed the book’s final chapters, he asked his wife Veena incredulously, ‘Did I Really Do All This?’

About the Author

Vijay Raman, an IPS1 officer of the Madhya Pradesh cadre, was a legendary figure in Indian policing, celebrated for spearheading the elimination of dacoit Paan Singh Tomar and his gang in Chambal, and later leading the operations that liquidated the dreaded terrorist Ghazi Baba.

Growing up in Kerala and later a gold medallist in law at M.S. University Vadodara, his career achievements were spread across India. He also broke the Guinness World Record for circumnavigating the globe! 

Vijay Raman’s bravery, intellect and striving for adventure were always secondary to his integrity; he was committed to upholding the law in even the most complex situations. He passed away in 2023.

Click here to read more about the book and the writer.

  1. Indian Police Service ↩︎

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Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Excerpt

Let’s Be Best Friends Forever

Title: Let’s Be Best Friends Forever: Beautiful Stories of Friendship

Publisher: Talking Cub, Speaking Tiger Books

From ‘The Tunnel of Friendship’ by Ruskin Bond

I had already started writing my first book. It was called Nine Months, but had nothing to do with a pregnancy; it referred merely to the length of the school term, the beginning of March to the end of November, and it detailed my friendships and escapades at school and lampooned a few of our teachers. I had filled three slim exercise books with this premature literary project, and I allowed Azhar to go through them. He was my first reader and critic. ‘They’re very interesting. But you’ll get into trouble if someone finds them,’ was his verdict.

We returned to Shimla, having won our matches against Sanawar, and were school heroes for a couple of days. And then my housemaster discovered my literary opus and took it away and read it. I was given six of the best with a Malacca cane, and my manuscript was torn up. Azhar knew better than to say ‘I told you so’ when I showed him the purple welts on my bottom. Instead, he repeated the more outrageous bits he remembered from the notebooks and laughed, till I began to laugh too.

‘Will you go away when the British leave India?’ Azhar asked me one day.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘My stepfather is Indian. My mother’s family have lived here for generations.’

‘Everyone is saying they’re going to divide the country. I think I’ll have to go away.’

‘Oh, it won’t happen,’ I said glibly. ‘How can they cut up such a big country?’

‘Gandhi will stop them,’ he said.

But even as we dismissed the possibility, Jinnah, Nehru and Mountbatten and all those who mattered were preparing their instruments for major surgery.

Before their decision had any effect on our life, we found a little freedom of our own—in an underground tunnel that we discovered in a corner of the school grounds. It was really part of an old, disused drainage system, and when Azhar and I began exploring it, we had no idea just how far it extended. After crawling along on our bellies for some twenty feet, we found ourselves in complete darkness. It was a bit frightening, but moving backwards would have been quite impossible, so we continued writhing forward, until we saw a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. Dusty, a little bruised and very scruffy, we emerged at last on to a grassy knoll, a little way outside the school boundary. We’d found a way to escape school!

The tunnel became our beautiful secret. We would sit and chat in it, or crawl through it just for the thrill of stealing out of the school to walk in the wilderness. Or to lie on the grass, our heads touching, reading comics or watching the kites and eagles wheeling in the sky. In those quiet moments, I became aware of the beauty and solace of nature more keenly than I had been till then: the scent of pine needles, the soothing calls of the Himalayan bulbuls, the feel of grass on bare feet, and the low music of the cicadas.

World War II had just come to an end, the United Nations held out the promise of a world living in peace and harmony, and India, an equal partner with Britain, would be among the great nations…

But soon we learnt that Bengal and Punjab provinces, with their large Muslim populations, were to be bisected. Everyone was in a hurry: Jinnah and company were in a hurry to get a country of their own; Nehru, Patel and others were in a hurry to run a free, if truncated, India; and Britain was in a hurry to get out. Riots flared up across northern India.

At school, the common room radio and the occasional newspaper kept us abreast of events. But in our tunnel Azhar and I felt immune from all that was happening, worlds away from all the pillage, murder and revenge. Outside the tunnel, there was fresh untrodden grass, sprinkled with clover and daisies, the only sounds the hammering of a woodpecker, and the distant insistent call of the Himalayan barbet. Who could touch us there?

‘And when all wars are done,’ I said, ‘a butterfly will still be beautiful.’

‘Did you read that somewhere?’ Azhar asked.

‘No, it just came into my head.’

‘It’s good. Already you’re a writer.’

Though it felt good to hear him say that, I made light of it. ‘No, I want to play hockey for India or football for Arsenal. Only winning teams!’

‘You’ll lose sometimes, you know, even if you get into those teams,’ said wise old Azhar. ‘You can’t win forever. Better to be a writer.’

One morning after chapel, the headmaster announced that the Muslim boys—those who had their homes in what was now Pakistan—would have to be evacuated. They would be sent to their homes across the border with an armed convoy.

It was time for Azhar to leave, along with some fifty other boys from Lahore, Rawalpindi and Peshawar. The rest of us—Hindus, Christians, Buddhists, Sikhs and Parsis—helped them load their luggage into the waiting British Army trucks that would take them to Lahore. A couple of boys broke down and wept, including our departing school captain, a Pathan who had been known for his unemotional demeanour. Azhar waved to me and I waved back. We had vowed to meet again some day. We both kept our composure.

The headmaster announced a couple of days later that all the boys had reached Pakistan and were safe. On the morning of 15 August 1947, we were marched up to town to witness the Indian flag being raised for the first time. Shimla was still the summer capital of India, so it was quite an event. It was raining that morning. We were in our raincoats and gumboots, while a sea of umbrellas covered the Mall.

(Extracted from Let’s Be Best Friends Forever: Beautiful Stories of Friendship, with an introduction by Jerry Pinto. Published by Talking Cub, the children’s imprint of Speaking Tiger Books.)

ABOUT THE BOOK

 An Afghan trader and a young Bengali girl form a touching connection that transcends cultural barriers in Rabindranath Tagore’s classic story ‘The Kabuliwala’. Jo March and Laurie from Little Women meet at a dull party and become companions for life. L. Frank Baum’s timeless characters Dorothy and Toto adventure around Oz forging magical bonds of friendship.

The brave queen of Jhansi and her ally Jhalkaribai come together to fight for freedom and dignity; Jesse Owens narrates an inspiring tale of sportsmanship and solidarity from his Olympic days; and twelve-year-old Kamala and her friends, Edward, Amir and Amma, endure the Partition riots together in Bulbul Sharma’s heart-warming story.

In these pages you will also meet Nimmi and her best pal, Kabir, whose school misadventures include spirited debates; Sunny, whose love for books leads to a new friendship on a trip to Darjeeling; Cyril and Neil, who face life’s challenges with inventive word games, and Siya, who discovers that true friends can come in the most unexpected forms—even as a cherished doll.

Animal lovers will delight in the escapades of Gillu, the charming squirrel, Harold, the handsome hornbill, Rikki-tikki-tavi, the loyal mongoose, Hira and Moti, the powerful oxen, and Bagheera, the brave panther who looks after the young boy Mowgli.

With stories from beloved and popular authors—Ruskin Bond, Rudyard Kipling, Mahadevi Varma, Jerry Pinto, Shabnam Minwalla, and many more—Let’s Be Best Friends Forever is an enchanting collection that celebrates the universal power and beauty of friendship.

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Excerpt

From Ukraine to America: A Refugee’s Narrative

Title: Camel from Kyzylkum

Author: Lara Gelya

Publisher: Life Journeys Books

In Italy – Now and Then

The first time I visited Rome was in early 1990. I was on a mission to find a better life after escaping the Iron Curtain of the Soviet Union. As punishment for my escape, my USSR citizenship was revoked, leaving me stateless, with the status of ‘Refugee of the World.’ I traveled light across continents, with just two suitcases filled with family photos, a few books, spoons, and small pots. I had almost no money in my pocket, but Rome and Italy were still a wonderful discovery and a source of immense cultural enrichment for me in 1990.

During that time, I visited Rome and its historical landmarks such as Vatican City, the Colosseum, the Roman Forum, and the Trevi Fountain, to name a few. I also had the most important interview of my life in Rome, at the American Embassy, where I received the green light to go to the USA!

In May of 2024, during our Mediterranean odyssey, we spent some time in Rome. It was a deeply nostalgic and memorable experience for me! Revisiting Rome after so many years brought back a flood of memories and allowed me to see familiar places with new eyes.

I would like to share with you a chapter about my life in Italy in 1990, from my memoir Camel from Kyzylkum:

Italy

My first impression of Italy was that it was quite dirty and noisy. After I got used to the spotless cleanliness of streets and places in Austria, it disappointed me to see trash on the streets and in public places, along with graffiti. For the first time, I saw homeless people sleeping on rags on the marble floor of the subway in Rome. I also noticed how Italians get pretty animated when they talk, compared to very restrained Austrian people. But with time, my opinion about Italy changed—I fell in love with the country, and I grew to love the warmth of Italian people. I came to love Italian bread. The Italian language was like music to my ears, and I even learned how to speak some basics.

For the first two weeks in Italy, we were stationed at the bungalow summer camp south of Rome. It was January, and even during the day it was pleasantly warm outside, but at night it was cold. These bungalow houses did not have heat and were not equipped for the wintertime. I remember I was sleeping in my warmest clothes and even covered myself with a mattress from a spare bed in my bungalow. Nevertheless, I got very sick with a cold, so sick that I thought I would not survive it. During the day I walked to the seafront and sat there for long hours—the warm Mediterranean sun and fresh, salty sea air helped me to slowly recover.

After two weeks in the bungalow summer camp, we were told that we needed to rent apartments for ourselves in the nearby city of Torvaianica, a city south of Rome that was founded in the 1940s and is best known for its beaches. It has a population of about 12,700 inhabitants and extends for about eight kilometers along central Lazio’s coast. The refugee organization, HIAS, gave us money to cover rent and food. I do not remember the exact amount it was per person, but it was just enough for us not to be on the street dying from hunger. Later on, when I was already in the United States and working, I was required to reimburse HIAS for what they’d spent on me. I paid it back gradually, a small amount each month.

There were plenty of apartments available for rent in January. Many of them were at the seaside. Refugees from the Soviet Union usually shared one apartment—a two-room apartment for two families, a three-room apartment for three families. I was alone and in no way could I afford to pay for a room on my own. Someone from the group introduced me to a young fellow who was traveling alone, too. His actual name completely escapes my memory at present, but I’ll call him “Misha.”

Misha was in his early twenties. He was very smart and even knew English. For the first time in his life, he was separated from his parents whom he had left behind in the Soviet Union. Misha and I rented a room in the two-room apartment on the first floor of a building at the seaside. We could sit on the balcony and look at the beach and the Mediterranean Sea in front of us. The enormous wardrobe that was in the room divided our room into two halves to give each of us some privacy. Misha was absolutely unprepared for everyday life. He did not know how to manage the little money we had, how to do grocery shopping, or how to cook food. I felt sorry for him and suggested that he contribute some amount of money for food and I would shop and cook for both of us. Misha was happy to do that.

When I went for an interview for the first time at the American Embassy in Rome, I was asked a lot about places I had worked in the Kyzylkum Desert. They had a detailed map of Uzbekistan on the table and asked me about Zarafshan, Navoi, Uchkuduk. I was surprised; I thought they already knew more than I did.

After the first interview, I had to wait for the second one, a very important interview, after which a decision would be made on whether to allow my entrance to the United States. Many families were denied the entrance visa to the United States without being given any specific reason or explanation. These people had stayed in Italy for six months, for a year, or even longer. They found some jobs to support themselves and their families. Some of them decided to stay in Italy for good. It was an unsettling time.

Every day at 6:00 p.m., all Soviet refugees who stayed in Torvaianica gathered together at the central square of the city. There were a lot of us, and while I do not know the exact number, I remember how the square was filled with a Russian-speaking crowd, to the amazement of the local population of Italians. We were waiting for the messenger, usually a man who would stand in the middle of the crowd and read the list of people who had gotten permission to go to America. Even though I had not yet had a second interview in the American Embassy, these daily meetings were the biggest entertainment of the day and a learning experience—people mingled together, told stories, shared news, and made friends.

Misha always found me in the crowd after the announcing part was over and asked, “What’s for dinner tonight?” It seemed that he was always hungry. Even though I did not want to go home yet, I felt an obligation to serve him dinner. I thought he was acting like a little baby and since I was not his mother, it was bothering me. There was only one time when I sent Misha to the store to get something for me while I was cooking. He returned with an ice cream cake, our money for two weeks of our food ration gone. We divided the cake among all of the people who lived in both rooms of the apartment. This was the last straw for me. I canceled our contract and let Misha be on his own. Our living arrangements in the apartment remained the same, but I did not cook for him anymore. Meanwhile, we got a new tenant in our room. Another woman, approximately my age, joined us. Three of us shared the room up to the time of my departure.

The distance between Torvaianica and Rome was about 40 kilometers (25 miles), and there was bus transportation. I used the bus a few times. The ride was about 50 to 60 minutes. I did not go often, because the bus was usually packed with people and reminded me very much of the buses in the Soviet Union. Also, traveling by bus costs money I could not spare. Very soon I learned I could get to Rome by hitchhiking—every car driven by an Italian man would stop when they saw a young, pretty woman hitchhiking on the road. Several times I even hitchhiked with Misha. When the car stopped, I told the driver that he was my brother. I must say that most of the time Italians were very reckless drivers, and I felt uncomfortable in the car quite often.

I loved my outings to Rome. I enjoyed exploring the beautiful city where every stone has a history. Once or twice a month, all museums in Rome were free and I took advantage of this. Visiting the Colosseum, St. Peter’s Basilica, the museums of the Vatican, including the Sistine Chapel and the Trevi Fountain, to name a few, all became unforgettable experiences and cultural enrichment for me.

On the days when I was not traveling to Rome, I was discovering Torvaianica. Some items and events from my time there will be engraved in my memory forever.

For instance, there was a shoe and leather accessories store across from our apartment. In the Soviet Union, Italian shoes and leather accessories always were part of every woman’s desirable outfit, but they were difficult to get. In the store across the street was everything I could only dream about: elegant leather shoes, hand purses, belts. I visited the store quite often—not to buy, just to look. The store seemed to me big and exceptional. Years later, in 2001, Sparky and I traveled to Italy and visited Torvaianica. We found the beachfront apartment where I lived at the beginning of 1990 and a shoe store across the road. To my amusement, all at once, I saw an ordinary little store where I calmly browsed —it did not give me the excitement that it had in 1990. Perception is everything, and I was a very different person by 2001.

The main drag of Torvaianica with its famous Italian bakeries, restaurants, and shopping sprawled along the Mediterranean coast. On the snuggly, warm Italian evenings of January and February, I liked to stroll the street, window shopping and people watching. Italian people did not like to hold back their emotions—they laughed, they talked loudly, helping themselves with gestures, and I loved the music of the Italian language. I always stopped at the window of one particular bakery to examine all of the wonderful baked goods on display, though I could not afford to buy any. One of these baked goods was filled with a mix of rich semolina and ricotta cheese, and was a shell-shaped pastry called Sfogliatelle; Zeppole was another pastry consisting of a deep-fried dough ball dusted with powdered sugar and sometimes filled with various sweets; there was also biscotti, Venetian cookies, and hot chocolate cake—I could not take my eyes off of these beautiful culinary arts. One evening, the owner of the store, a middle-aged Italian man wearing a white chef’s coat and hat, with a lush body, dark mustache, and kind, laughing eyes, came out carrying a plate with a few biscotti and Venetian cookies and offered it to me to taste. Bewildered by his offer and the fact that he, probably, had been watching me evening after evening in front of his window, I did not have the strength to refuse his marvelous-looking, tasty Italian pastries.

Finally, the day came when I received a letter from the American Embassy in Rome with the invitation for the second and most important interview of my life. As I struggled with the English language then, I clearly understood the date and time of my interview, but I completely missed the location. Besides, I was pretty sure that there was only one location for the American Embassy in Rome and I knew where it was. But I was wrong.

The interview was scheduled for 12:00 p.m. I wanted to be collected and prepared. To eliminate any possibility of being late, I arrived at the American Embassy in Rome at 11:00 a.m. It was a sunny, beautiful, spring-like day; I lost myself for a short time (while waiting) on the fascinating streets of Rome. The sidewalk cafes were full of business people enjoying their lunch hours. I was thinking, “Is there going to be a time in my life when I, like them, can sit leisurely at a sidewalk cafe and have lunch? And feel myself as confident, relaxed, and happy as these people?” I wanted to believe that this time would eventually come in my life.

At about 11:45 a.m., I returned to the American Embassy expecting to soon be called by the guard. There was a good crowd of people waiting, like me, to be called. One by one they went inside until only I was left waiting. It was after 12:00 p.m. I got anxious—I began to wonder why I was not being called. I showed my paper to the guard. He explained to me (mostly by gestures and with some Italian phrases) that my interview was in a completely different location on the other side of the city. I was shocked. First, I had no money to get a taxi. Second, I thought my life was doomed. With this realization, I stood on the curb of the street in the center of Rome and sobbed bitterly. Tears rolled down my face.

Well, the Italian people did not easily tolerate this scene. Soon enough, a taxi stopped by me. The driver got out of the cab and asked me what had happened. Continuing to cry, I showed him my paper invitation for the interview and tried to explain to him that I had come to the wrong location. He looked at the paper and then at me and started vigorously gesticulating, pushing me inside his cab. Even inside the taxi, I could not stop crying. The driver turned around to me shouting some equivalent of “Shut up” in Italian. I became quiet. I realized he was going to drive me to the address where I needed to be. While he was driving, I feverishly thought about how I would pay for my ride as I had very little money in my pocket. But I was wearing a gorgeous silver ring with a gemstone on the ring finger of my left hand. The ring was handmade with an intricate Gothic design and a big, beautiful, pink, tourmaline stone—it was my favorite ring! I bought it during my vacation in Latvia, a country on the Baltic Sea—Latvia was a part of the Soviet Union from 1940 to 1991. I immediately decided to pay for my ride with the ring.

We arrived at the address of the second location of the American Embassy. I paid for the ride with the ring. The grounds of the Embassy were surrounded by a high fence and the gates were closed. I was not sure how I could get inside. However, the gates opened for an incoming cab and I just sneaked through the gates and ran towards the main building. I entered a room full of people waiting to be called for their interviews. My face was red, mascara smeared across my face, and my hair was messed up. Immediately, I heard my name being called. I walked into a smaller room where two men asked me questions. Then one man with reddish hair said to me how he had grown up in Buffalo, New York. He asked me if I knew how severe the winter could be in Buffalo. I said, “Probably not worse than in Siberia.” They both laughed. With this, my interview was over. From that point, I would have to wait for the Messenger at the Torvaianica square to call my name and give me an official paper with “Yes” or “No” written on it.

After two weeks or so, the Messenger at the 6:00 p.m. gathering at the Torvaianica square called my name. I was not nervous; for some reason, I was sure that it would be “Yes”. I calmly opened the envelope—there were dates for my flight from Rome to New York City. It was exciting news for me, and in anticipation of big changes in my life, I started to prepare myself for the trip.

About the Book

Camel from Kyzylkum is an award-winning memoir that chronicles the remarkable journey of immigrating from the Soviet Union during the late twentieth century. It delves into themes of hope, struggle, family, and loss, offering a profound exploration of the human spirit’s yearning for freedom and self-determination. Through the author’s compelling narrative, readers gain a deep insight into life within the Soviet Union and the immense sacrifices and risks individuals undertake in pursuit of a better life.

The memoir traces a gripping path from Ukraine to the Kyzylkum Desert in Uzbekistan, and onward through Austria, Italy, and finally America. Along this journey, the author navigates personal truths and aspirations, illustrating the resilience and determination required to forge a new path in unfamiliar lands.

Camel from Kyzylkum is not just a memoir; it’s a transformative narrative that opens doors to unfamiliar worlds, encouraging readers to broaden their perspectives and empathize with the challenges and triumphs of others. It stands as a testament to the enduring human spirit and the universal quest for identity and belonging.

About the Author

Born and schooled in Ukraine, Lara Gelya spent the next two decades in the Kyzylkum Desert of the Republic of Uzbekistan, working at geological sites and expeditions of the Mining Industry. At that time Ukraine and Uzbekistan were parts of one country — the Soviet Union.

In 1989 Lara left the Soviet Union, lived in Austria and Italy before she, at last, found her way to the United States in 1990. Starting her life from ground zero again, and trying on so many hats, she was able to make a lengthy professional career that led to her eventual retirement on the shores of sunny Florida.

Now, enjoying her retirement, Lara fills her days with enriching activities like writing, creating videos and pictures, reading, gardening, cooking, traveling, and immersing herself in nature or entertainment. Her diverse interests and active lifestyle after retirement show a deep appreciation for life’s pleasures and a continuing curiosity about the world around her.

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