Category: Musings of a Copywriter

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Sometimes I think of setting up a small business and nothing attracts me more than becoming a fruit-seller. The foremost reason is the steady supply of fresh fruits for my own consumption every day. When the copywriting gig flops, this is one venture that promises a fruitful outcome to take care of post-retirement needs. Without disclosing my real intention, I chose to grow friendly with a fruit vendor in the local market.

Becoming a regular customer who bought almost every fruit in kilos, I managed to get recognised as one of his top three customers for billings and behaviour. He acknowledged the fact that I never bargained with him so he was generous in giving me more than what he gave to other customers. He cited the unfamiliar names of two other customers and their professions, displaying curiosity about my domicile and my work. I shared my brief details but he was not clear what copywriting and advertising meant. The example he gave of painting the walls and putting up those flex banners from one lamp post to another revealed he was confused. I said he was getting it somewhat right though he still was a bit lost about how I could afford to eat avocados every week just by putting up hoardings. It was useless trying to explain the savings due to non-alcoholic and vegetarian lifestyle were blown up on a fruit-rich diet to avoid consultations with doctors and popping their prescribed pills.  

The fruit seller had placed his cart and occupied a large corner space for many years. The wheels of the wooden cart had not moved an inch for years and they went deep into the earth gradually, small creepers entwined the wheels for a rich green, decorative feel. Since it was close to a public urinal, customers would tend to avoid it. He lit rolls of dhoop batti or incense sticks every hour to keep flies and insects away, to spread fragrance, to beat the pervading stench. Contrary to my assessment, his was the busiest fruit stall, with customers emerging from sedans and SUVs to buy fruits, local and exotic, for premium quality, without pinching their noses, without feeling any pocket-pinch. With bricks cemented unevenly on the ground, and a wooden wobbly stool placed on it, he stood tall on this raised platform to keep an eye on customers and picked up blueberries and persimmons from the upper shelves that required a long hand and extra effort. If you quizzed him about the country of origin of any fruit, he was quick to specify the state or the city it was plucked from. He was aware of the care and temperature his fruits needed to grow well since he had a farmer’s background.

I was a relatively new customer and he introduced me to the exotic fruits on display with a different sales pitch. A lady customer had picked up avocados in my presence and, after she left, the fruit-seller said she managed to save her husband’s life. Seeing me curious, he divulged the complete story of how six months of regular consumption of avocado had reversed the heart disease her husband suffered from. He said the angiogram performed after six months showed arterial blockages were gone. Though it was a true story, I could not believe it completely Maybe the condition did not worsen or there was some improvement. Worrying about my own heart health had already stressed me out so I thought avocado was better than coronary bypass. To keep a healthy heart, it was necessary to drink an avocado smoothie or bite into an avocado toast. I reminded him that the pleasure of exaggeration was irresistible to those who tell fanciful stories and also for the consumers. He asked me to verify online videos if I had doubts regarding the leading role of avocados on heart health. He played it safe with fear – just like clever marketeers do when they make actors wear white robes with a stethoscope in hand and then promote a cooking oil brand as healthy for the heart. However, the bottom-line was clear: I could not bypass the avocado if I wanted to avoid bypass surgery.

As a savvy vendor, he showed me how the old gentleman picking up blueberries had saved his nerves. He was a retired professor with jangled nerves and his shaky hands added credibility to the narrative. He fished out the currency notes from his shirt pocket with an unsteady grip. That he was recovering from a mild stroke was another alert for me. Being engaged in creative overthinking required the brain to function optimally – to keep the cognitive abilities away from decline. Predictably, I became a frequent buyer of blueberries as well, exhausting my budget at times. Not that I noticed much improvement in my neurological performance but it was logical to think that the brain must be fed well since it was never introduced to the wondrous benefits of salmon and walnuts.  

A young lady came and dug her long, painted nails on the skin of the papaya to check its ripeness while another middle-aged lady walked in and sought to know when the hanging bunch of robust bananas in his stall would ripen. She wanted to know the exact time – in the morning or in the evening tomorrow. He said it would ripen by sunset the next day, without batting an eyelid. What made him so confident was unclear to me but I felt he made a wild guess.  He was no astrologer but such silly queries deserved prompt and silly answers. Surely, the lady would not come back to complain in case the fruit did not ripen within the specified time. In case she did so, he could always blame the bad weather for the lapse. When another customer demanded unripe bananas, he showed the same lot and said two days it would take to turn perfect ripe. His flexible truth changed on based in the need of the customer. Another eye-opener of sorts for me!

If a quarrelsome customer came to return a rotten fruit, he took it calmly and gave a fresh one even though he was sure the customer had not purchased it from him in the past seven days. He built a reputation for exchanging damaged fruits and he fed those to stray animals loitering around his cart. This was commendable as it added to his good deeds. Major irritants that tested his patience were queries on size. Customers always held a fruit in hand and asked for either a bigger one or a slightly smaller one but the one they held was not the ideal size for most customers. He was delighted to see me happy with the first watermelon I had picked up from the basket! Many customers, he said, behaved liked this but he had to stay unruffled as these customers were his source of income. Their word of mouth publicity was the most powerful form of advertising for him. Buyers trusted buyers as they were on the same side and the shopkeeper is the one who would always overcharge or sell inferior items. This was the common perception and many sellers followed such tricks and ruined the prospects of the business community. But he was unlike any of those.

One fine morning I was at his fruit stall, and a customer came smoking. He politely asked him to stub it out or finish smoking and then pick up the fruits of his choice. He did not like a smoker blowing out toxic fumes around his incense sticks and polluting the fruits with nicotine smoke. I was amazed he had the courage to say it to a customer and then I found him least affected when the offended customer walked away without buying anything. He did not mind losing such clients. When I argued that he was standing by the roadside and dust was piling up on the fruits, he pointed at the white cloth curtain meant to save his ware heat and dust and showed me the duster he kept handy to clear the dust from settling down on the fruits. Also, he had a sprinkler bottle ready to spray water on the fruits and keep them fresh for longer.

Interacting with him has been an informative exercise as I now know the kind of buyers one has to accost when one starts doing fruit-selling business. If I set it up, I must know how to handle bargaining pitches. I have seen him calculate the total bill and then voluntarily give a discount before the customer demanded it. In most of the cases, they did not argue because he himself chose to lessen the price so that the customer thought he was not being overcharged. That he did the same with me was effective to turn me into his regular client.

Now he calls me up on certain days he gets fresh fruits and offers me the freedom to open the sealed boxes and take the best pieces home, something these online delivery platforms cannot ensure in terms of quality. Surely, it’s a privilege I cannot resist and I do not mind paying him what he seeks for this special, exclusive privilege– be it apples, oranges, grapes or pomegranates or any other seasonal or delicate fruit. He knows my gentle touch on fruits would not cause any damage, rather worked as a blessing. The joy of unboxing the fruit packs in front of the vendor – using his knife – is an immense delight. Along with his compliment that I am a lucky customer who has brought for him more business, more clients, and more prosperity even though I have done nothing to boost his business. His sense of gratitude reflects in his words and reminds me of how much more I need to thank God for the good and all the good people in my life.

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

The doctor is shocked to hear my advice when he prescribes pills and capsules. Accustomed to customisation offers almost everywhere, I am quick to spell out my preference: syrup. As expected, he casts a befuddled look, and takes a while to cool down by closing his eyes, to distract his agitated mind. Here’s a fussy patient sitting right in front of the trained physician, showing the gall to be choosy during a bout of illness, directing the medical practitioner to write what he loves to drink to get cured. Had he not been a member of this noble profession and contractually bound to be courteous, his anger would have compelled him to throw the patient out of his chamber along with his fees.

My fascination for syrups dates back to childhood days. Dr Nandy, a gentle paediatrician, kept the tender organs of a developing kid safe from the side-effects of pellet-size capsules. Whenever my mother took me to him for liver concerns, poor appetite issues, gastric problems or cough and cold complications, he always gave syrups the first chance to cure me. Most of the time, these seemed to suit me well. So much so that I loved to memorise the names and recall them with ease in front of the doctor during the next visit, hoping he would add one of these in the fresh prescription he wrote for me.

Whenever I find these bottles lined up on the shelves inside medical stores even today, I am thrilled beyond measure to discover that these, much like classics, have survived the test of time, despite the arrival of newer brands. My instant query relates to how well these age-old brands are doing in the competitive market, and the chemist does not disappoint by saying most of these record higher sales vis-à-vis several new and heavily promoted brands.

The fear of vitamin deficiency haunts me and this explains my inclination to pop supplements from time to time, with fortnightly breaks thrown in between. Since many of these are sold over the counter, without a valid prescription, I feel it safe to down them without medical recommendations. The first one is the Vitamin B complex syrup that I am fond of – the sweet taste makes me feel tempted to slurp a spoonful twice a day, sticking to the standard dosage limit printed on the label. 

Cough syrups are addictive for some who consume these throughout the year. The sleep-inducing impact slows them down and they tend to relax, not knowing a thing about the harmful effect on their vital organs. As the chemist in the neighbourhood informs me that I should avoid these though the taste is good even if it’s sugar free. I am left with no option but to cough and prove that I need it genuinely and desperately. He offers herbal brands instead, which are costlier but supposedly healthier and safer when consumed in moderation, proving himself to be a true devotee of the bearded yoga instructor who has stretched all possible limits to ramp up the profitability of his medical business empire.  

The pineapple or mixed fruit flavour of the enzyme-boosting appetiser syrup features on top of my list in every season. The pure delight of enjoying the yummy flavour is further enhanced as it makes me crave for more. Instead of two chhole bhatura, I can gobble up four and still find space to add a sweet dish like kheer[1]. When it comes to developing more appetite for a heavy lunch punctuated with burps, trust the syrup to work wonders. In case there is a persistent feeling of heaviness, this is the right time to consume a teaspoonful of antacid syrup to neutralise digestive threats forming alliances inside me. These have retained their charm over the years and I prefer to have a dedicated cabinet for these, just like those who flaunt a wine cabinet to mirror their class.

My last visit to a very senior doctor to find relief from stress and anxiety did not produce results of my choice as he ruled out the possibility of syrups being effective in my case. He wrote down the name of a sleep-inducing drug to relax my jangled nerves. I discontinued the dose after having a few pills that produced some side effects I was not ready to face. I switched to bananas for higher magnesium and preferred darker chocolates to boost up feel-good hormones to battle rejections with a smiling visage.

Being a vegetarian, my mother was deprived of Omega 3 as chia seeds were not a household name yet. She kept having capsules that were specified to be non-vegetarian. Despite knowing the truth, she made no distinction between vegetarian and non-vegetarian stuff when it came to life-saving medicines. When I approached the doctor to know if a syrup for Omega 3 enrichment existed, he suggested a new syrup. I started enjoying the awesome taste as it is cheaper and affordable than walnuts and seeds. To keep nerves strong in a precarious profession like advertising is a priority and the consumption of a syrup for better nerve function is justified. What goes on inside the brain and the damage caused due to creative exhaustion is something undetected until the symptoms of shaky hands begin to disturb. One never knows when one reaches the excess level using supplements to stay healthy.

When the snack break phase started, I switched to protein shakes and protein bars to imitate body builders and gym goers. Always being deficient in terms of protein, I found this to be a good source to regain muscles, to punch mobsters and gangsters with my powerful fist. From a practical angle, this would mean I was strong enough to lift shopping bags and gaze at my brawny biceps without feeling ashamed that they lacked firmness. Guzzling syrupy, sugary protein and energy boosting drinks might not be the healthiest way to stay fit, but it is certainly one of the most effective ways for protein-keen people to build strength and stamina without burning a hole in the pocket. With discount offers raining across online platforms at odd hours, I am always on the lookout for the steal deal to pick up protein-rich drinks. My calf muscles need to remain strong enough to enable my long, winding walks to connect with nature and ideate, to climb three floors without feeling breathless and worn-out.

Whenever I am travelling within the country, I prefer to carry my syrup bottles as I am not sure of getting the same brands elsewhere. I do not forget to consume these during breakfast, post lunch and after dinner. Many doctors I met in my circle have found it funny that I was so obsessed with syrups.

After I discovered from articles that many creative people, not just writers, were fond of syrups and they were legends, my confidence has grown manifold. Even if I cannot compare my output with their body of work, what enters my body does some good work indeed.

The other day, my chemist made an attempt to break my bonding with syrups and suggested that I should consult good doctors for pills because syrups are not right for my age. I did not understand what made him suggest this, but I felt he realised I was old enough to fatten his medical income. These syrups were nominally priced and of no use for his profitability. To sound less hurtful, I said I would add an iron supplement next month but it was a lollipop he was not interested in. Even if he stopped giving discounts on syrups, I was okay with that.

I produced prescriptions which were old, and he refused to sell on the basis of these. I confessed the doctors who wrote these prescriptions were no longer alive. I had to produce a new prescription and so I was forced to approach a young doctor who sat in his shop. I told the doctor I have no health reason to consult him for but I want his permission to keep drinking these syrups. He refused to write down the names but when I came out with a forlorn look and paid the fees, the chemist gave me a hamper of syrups again! Was he trying to make an extra buck forcing me to consult with the doctor on his premises?

[1] Dessert of thickened milk

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Entering the sherbet shop introduced me to an ambience I was not au courant with at all. Not the usual, expectedly flashy interiors greeted my bespectacled eyes. Instead, I was transported to another era, a kangaroo leap of a century in time, to witness heritage stir up breezy nostalgia. With old-fashioned teakwood tables, carved chairs, and antique lamp shades, framed, sepia-tone portraits of legends decorating the distempered walls chipped at various places, it was not difficult to guess that the outlet had retained a robust connection with the hallowed past.

As I walked in with the curiosity of an aficionado exploring an art gallery, there was so much else to engage myself with – apart from the listings on the laminated menu card. Before I sat down and ordered something to gulp down my parched throat, I chose to update myself with a walking tour of the entire sherbet joint. Driven by thirst to find enriching inputs from knowledgeable sources, I finally settled down and asked for assistance from the gentleman who served. He looked eager to share anecdotes about the quaint little shop, tucked away in a small, congested lane, that had managed to retain its client base with support from young students who made it their favourite haunt despite the easy availability of snazzy food kiosks and juice corners proliferating around their college premises. That the present generation – and the several earlier ones – had realised the need to patronise this outlet as a historical and cultural link was truly worthy of appreciation.

I trooped in at different hours of the day, and found that most of the seats were occupied by college and university students who were also lovers searching for a comfortable, affordable space where they could sit for long hours, sip their favourite sherbet, and slow down the passage of time while holding hands and making lifetime commitments. As the straw pipes in the two glasses made empty noises, couples ordered another tall glass of sherbet, of an untried flavour, to keep alive the flow of their discussions and personal plans for some more time without feeling remorseful that they were adversely impacting the commercial profitability of the century-old outlet with their prolonged stay. This sensibility was rare but precious and the sherbet store staff never disturbed such couples who preferred the rear seats, keeping themselves away from public glare. The front benches were readily available for fleeting customers of our kind who walked in casually to enjoy the chilled sherbet and walked out with a vintage experience.

Leading luminaries from diverse streams such as politics, arts, and literature frequented this shop over time. Their portraits on the walls were not only tributes to their contribution but also a part of cherishing the close association with the change-makers. A small conversation with the manager revealed snippets from the past – passed down the generations as heirlooms. Refreshing tales energised customers who felt delighted to be present here. Imagining this century-old world was recreated by the culturally conscious owners, who brushed aside upgradation requests only to preserve as much of the past as possible. The giant ceiling fans circulated not much air. So an air-conditioning system had been installed. But the slowly whirring fans were not dismantled. The wooden deer head wall mount above the door was a silent reminder of how much had not changed despite the lapse of time.

I chose to go with the manager’s recommendation – daab malai sherbet [1]– for a hot summer afternoon. He called it the favourite summer drink of a famous city-based author from the last century. I should have thanked him for offering it to another wannabe writer – even though he would not have been much impressed with this disclosure. At a personal level, the writer inside felt motivated that two authors, from two different centuries, enjoyed the same cooling drink under the same roof. Talking about the merits of the sherbet, it was amazing to taste: authentic and traditional. The flavour was different if not unique and this outlet was proud to offer it to those who valued the past. When I asked him if I could get this drink anywhere else in the city, he was reticent for a while. After poring over its faint possibility, he set me free to explore the city to find something remotely close and comparable to this drink. There was a smirk on his face, which suggested I would fail in my mission to get an equivalent to what I was served here.  

He suggested grapes crush sherbet as another specialty I would relish, and its taste was unique this time, with crushed grapes floating around the fragmented ice cubes to lend an authentic appeal. After consuming these two flavours, the flavours of the past came alive in my mind. I felt really close to the great artists on the wall, feeling the immediate need to write creative stuff. This was working at another level: offering me loads of inspiration and motivation to write. It was more effective and quicker than attending motivational workshops or literature festivals to boost up creative energies and overcome my writer’s block. Tuning into great speeches by life coach experts often failed to resonate with the audience. But my brief visit here seemed to have worked wonders as I was already feeling charged up to go home and write something powerful to move the cold, insensitive generals of warring nations to embrace peace forever.

The rapid flow of ideas made me insecure about losing them on my way home and I regretted not carrying a notebook to jot them down. When I visited the place again, I made it a point to carry my diary and pen and sat for hours to draft a story outline. It was not a matter of shame as I found the serving staff look happy to see my passion, to be added to their new list of great patrons. As our familiarity developed further, they showed me newspaper cuttings mentioning the sherbet outlet – how some journalists kept them alive in the print editions just as the young crowd made their outlet famous on the social media, with hundreds of Instagram reviews and top ratings of the place.  

This was just one outlet that motivated me but I was sure there should be more in the city, not just sherbet shops. I looked for other outlets that were part of the lives of the great artistes. I made it a quest to look for them in order to experience a surge of motivation that always does not come from sitting idle in front of an open window. As I began my search for similar outlets, I came across several of them still operating from modest spaces.

There was a bookstore on the first floor of a ramshackle building where some leading film directors came to buy imported books. Climbing the same stair case evoked feelings of nostalgia. In an era when many bookstores have shut down, this family-owned bookstore had over the generations expanded its list to include vernacular and academic books to stay commercially viable. The wooden shelves and the cash counter manned by a dhoti-clad septuagenarian gentleman keeping a hawk’s eye like a surveillance camera suggested retirement was still far away.  I was informed by the gentleman regarding the operational presence of another stationery store where many freedom fighters came to buy pens and ink. Holding a fountain pen bought from the store located in the next street, hidden behind a paan shop basking in the glory of serving great musicians of the country, I walked home to begin a new story with it.

As I continued with my search for such outlets to stir the pot of motivation, I realised, to identify closely with such landmark establishments, was indeed a powerful way to fill myself with zest and zeitgeist. During my next journey, I came across a sweet shop specialising in a wide variety of sandesh and its owner, standing beside a pedestal clock that was functional since the nineteenth century, spoke of the days of glory, with the intellectuals of the city dropping in the evening to pack boxes of sweets. They continued to keep the freshness of the sandesh alive without any compromise in terms of quality. They are not affected by modern shops making false claims of serving high quality traditional sweets. They proudly say those who value good taste and can differentiate between fake and original are their clients, always ready to pay extra to buy pure and tasty stuff. The melt-in-the-mouth experience of their sweets was heavenly indeed. I made it my preferred shop to buy sweets from to celebrate all successes in life. For festive occasions, there could be other shops, but to celebrate success I chose to bring home sandesh from this shop alone, even if it meant going an extra mile for their delicacy. It has been quite a while since I last went there – because the occasions to celebrate successes have dried up in the recent years, with tragedies and setbacks mounting allied attack since the pandemic. While the sherbet store has helped me regain a lot of confidence in the writing process, I hope the sandesh shop will soon find me at their glass counter, to order packets of sweets to celebrate literary success.  

[1] Coconut cream sherbet

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

After training for several months, I discovered that my driving instructor was not a qualified, certified one. With years of practice, he could easily take beginners for a ride. That he could bring the car to a screeching halt and avert head-on collision was his claim to fame recycled through unverified narratives circulated by his acolytes. Whatever he taught came under the lens of suspicion when I cross-checked with the driving manual and online videos. Nothing seemed to match with the tricks he passed on, making me feel the need to unlearn everything. The final moment of awakening arrived when my cousin laughed at my clumsy gear shifting exercise and raised the obvious question: who taught you driving?

A clutch of rapid-fire queries, based on observations, to assess my fitness to go behind the wheel deflated my confidence. I shared with him the reality of the fake instructor who fleeced gullible folks with his dignified facade. Always dressed in spotless white kurta like sober academicians, he did not come across as a man who negotiated sharp bends at great speed and mastered the art of rash driving. The windshield of his falsehood was smashed by a business rival trying hard to expand his start-up business. The veracity of accusations could not be established but the active involvement of my driving coach in a fraudulent network was further corroborated by some disgruntled former employees. Sadly, it was too late for advanced learners to cancel the admission and enrol elsewhere. 

Excavating facts revealed interesting details. His driving licence – issued decades ago – was obtained after bribing the officials as he did not meet the eligibility criteria. Gathering false certificates of secondary school education and submitting those documents was an offence that never surfaced due to lack of investigation. He drove around the city and the state even though he did not deserve to be granted a valid licence. He cleared the litmus test and silenced those who expected him to make a blunder. He reversed the car with precision and amazing control. It was so spectacular that the senior officer, who had never seen such a move in the real world but only in action films,  felt he surpassed the need for other examinations, thus allowing the bogus instructor to hit the road with legal approval.

Picking up driving skills while working as a helper for a lorry driver was his first big break.  He gained experience and then switched to smaller, lighter vehicles he fondly referred to as toys.  Once he became comfortable, he made it his strength and spent days and nights driving taxis and matadors. Nothing seemed to match the rule book as his learning process was organic. Practical exposure made him an expert and he taught others just the way he taught himself. All those who sought his guidance were granted licences very quickly and this was the key reason why he remained popular over the years.

His contacts were useful as many jobless and illiterate youth trained under him to acquire genuine licences just as he had done long ago. The issue of corruption was immaterial as he appeared to be a messiah who provided the scope to get employment. Even though his modus operandi was shady, nobody accused him of misdoings till recently. Tons of regret that I shelled out a premium amount to learn exclusively from him for an hour every day. His 1:1 tutoring model failed to impart flawless training. I feel ashamed of learning the ropes from an instructor who duped unsuspecting entrants by mentoring them without sticking to the rule book. He formulated his own set of rules and remained confident that accidents would never occur if his guidelines were strictly followed even on dug-up, potholed roads.

Clearing the driving test in front of the transport officer was a big victory for which I remained grateful to the driving school and the dubious instructor, even though I realised the need to learn a lot more to drive safely. He believed in pushing the learner to get rid of fears – like throwing a non-swimmer inside the Olympic-sized pool on the first day. We were encouraged to take risks in our stride and decide how to get past a stray dog or a stranded bovine in the middle of the road without honking incessantly from a long distance and disturbing the peace of the locality. There is no denying the fact that it was more of a trial-and-error method of learning under his tutelage. He expected the learners to observe him and learn. Instead of pointing out individual shortcomings, he sought focus on his style, hoping we would also pick it up like he did from his truck driver boss. Since he managed to get valid licences for all learners enrolled with his school, there was nothing called rejection or loss of fees. Evidently, the amazing clearance statistics never grounded his growth story.  

Whenever I hit the road, I knew I had to face unexpected dangers. Driving through crowded streets and negotiating narrow lanes without scratches on the chassis involved prayers. Every day I had to thank God for keeping me safe. But one day I ran out of luck and rammed the front bumper into a pillar. As it was more than a dent, it had to be replaced. This accident led to a dent of confidence and I became afraid of my irresponsible driving, entrusting my spouse to handle the vehicle. Henceforth, all I did was to take the car out of the garage and park it right outside the house.

The sight of a truck pounds my heart even when I am not driving the car. I feel it is there with the ulterior motive of bumping me off, sent on a special mission by one of my hidden enemies. Such is the residual impact of watching masala potboilers from Bollywood that I suspect something fishy when I see a speeding truck either in front of me or catching up fast from behind. Although my spouse urges me to stay calm, it is the best example of anxiety attack that wrecks my state of mind. She suggests I should face more trucks to overcome this irrational fear but the beastly trucks and containers do not leave me in peace. I hold their domineering presence on the roads to be equally responsible for my failure to ace driving skills. Seeing other people remain composed in front of trucks makes me wonder how fearless they are. The highways are meant for heavy vehicles and it is common to find a fleet of trucks every hour. We often hear and read stories about drunken truck drivers bumping off car passengers. I always share such tragic news with my spouse to make her understand that my fears are genuine, raising concerns regarding the company-fitted air bags that fail to open up when required. 

Recently, she asked me to hire a full-time personal instructor and learn driving once again as she finds it cumbersome to guide me on the roads. But I suspect all drivers have acquired the licence from the same instructor with dubious credentials. The retired gentleman in my neighbourhood has bought a swanky car and he drives around quietly, making my spouse shower compliments on his smooth driving style. Envious, I approached him one evening to know how he mastered driving and from where he learnt. I poured forth my sob story and he suggested I must begin as a fresher. I sought his help in this regard and offered my car for training purpose in case the safety of his vehicle was his worry. But he politely declined. However, to lift my spirits, he conducted a short theory test. My answers did not satisfy him. When I asked him why he refused help, he confessed he was also a student of the same school but he had to learn it all over again from his daughter who lived in another city. If a retired fellow can learn how to drive, there is hope for me.

Even though my licence is valid, I consider myself unfit to drive and keep others safe. The best way to use it is to furnish it as my address proof to get the cooking gas cylinder. I should have learnt driving before marriage like my spouse did. But then, I had no idea I would get any chance to drive. I admire those sunroof sedans in the Western movies where romantic, breezy scenes of long drives are filmed so well. But the ground reality of roads is quite bumpy here. You have to ensure safety of vehicles and lives, which is nothing less than a miracle in a chaotic world where car crashes have become common like fractures.

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Since childhood days, I was offered what I believed to be an adult desk: a solid wood table with impressive dimensions suited for professionals instead of young learners. Introduced early to the grand furniture piece did not generate a sense of superiority until the day my close friend shot an envious look at it, ran his delicate hands on the smooth polished surface and rested his chubby cheeks to feel its naked coldness. Emulating him to derive similar pleasure from the wooden marvel, I realised the cold sensory bliss and fostered a special attachment to this possession, finding time in between the lessons to smother my hands on the table top or rub my thighs against its intricately carved supple legs. The sensuous awakening of entwined legs could be read differently but the innocence of the experience carried nothing except pure bliss.

The bonding with the study table was solid in more ways than one. A constant companion that absorbed my tears faster than any human hand could reach to wipe them off, the desk witnessed almost everything ecstatic and tumultuous that happened in those growing up years. It was the space that saw me pick up new tastes, new habits. From doodling on its surface with the dark pencil to highlight my drawing skills, the table allowed its body to be used as a springboard to catapult my imagination. I was immersed in the act of carving something new and permanent but most of my efforts shamed me, leaving me desperate to replace those with something funky, more in keeping with my inchoate artistic sensibilities.

Years of fiddling registered no marked improvement in my output but the flawless skin of the desk was bruised – and it never completely recovered from those childish, frivolous strokes. Both of us grew up together with scratches and bruises on the body – those on mine disappeared with the power of natural healing while those on the desk remained stark and etched, reminding me of what hell I had made it undergo just to keep myself engaged. Weird, non-existing creatures were brought to life even though I later felt shy to call them my creations or displaying them anywhere. I tried to hide those by spreading a tablecloth but the attractive wood looked marginalised with the desperate cover-up bid. 

Adorning it with a tablecloth embroidered by my mother worried me as the tutors were often served hot and cold drinks on the desk. My academic guides were often retired. With their shaky hands they could spill a lot of liquid that would damage the fine cloth, making her clean it repeatedly and vigorously to restore its sheen. Such accidental brushes could also happen due to my exciting outbursts – while casually picking up or placing something on it. Such a protective measure to safeguard the desk would display the beautiful tablecloth, but it would also spike the probability of damage to it.

When I asked whether she was okay with the lurking fear and nagging anxiety of damage to her embroidered creation, she said she had never indulged in negative thinking. Even if it got damaged, she would not fret or fume but simply replace it with her new work. Her readiness to put in extra effort to create another piece was a sign of confidence suggesting that the creator should always have the faith to create beautiful pieces instead of worrying about safe upkeep. This triggered a different line of thinking. I could be a risk-taker and would expose myself to the dangers of damage to creations instead of worrying about it all the time. Now, I felt mentally at ease and free. It made me enjoy the process of creation and its output to the fullest.

Among other benefits, the desk with the chair enabled me to sit erect and sometimes generated a sense of authority. I felt empowered there with the pen within my grip. It made me feel close to writing classical tales or passing legal judgments. The presence of a pen-stand and the variety of pens with refills ranging from blue to green to red to black, with fountain pens and dot pens co-existing harmoniously, gave the freedom to write with any colour and then to correct with red ink, thus,  combining the power of the learner and the examiner rolled into one. I loved to use red to strike out my verbose sentences like the teachers who used it to point out errors.

Resting my head on the desk amounted to brief lapses into the fantasy world as the mind journeyed to faraway lands. An hour of imagining a world where horses flew like birds and fish hopped on the grass could not rein in the wild impossibilities. The lack of logic provided laughter and immense joy – the world turned upside down was a thing of beauty as it strengthened my ability to make it grotesque. Sometimes I envisaged a cub sitting in front of me even though it was a cat pawing my geometry box. As I remained half-asleep and half-awake on the precious desk, I was navigating two precious but different worlds at the same time – the real and the unreal. The desk facilitated my first flight of imagination and inspired me to repeatedly indulge in that experience, nurturing the storyteller with half-baked ideas that required the firm support of reading to make a solid landing.

The desk witnessed the arrival of story books and allowed a dedicated space for non-academic texts. As the pile of relaxed reading material grew taller than the academic stuff, it was time for the family to express concern. A tough balancing act by pushing up the grades was the easiest way to address their fears, followed by inculcating a sense of responsibility that the syllabus was as important as the reading material for leisure.

The presence of current affairs and film magazines, apart from fables and mythological tales added genres to the desk, with my father stacking up his weeklies on my desk after he had finished reading them.  I loved to spend more time occupying this space. Soon I began to indulge in writing pieces that matured from paragraphs to essays. I had convinced myself if I had to write something interesting and worthwhile I needed adopt a proper, dignified posture to think clearly and then jot down ideas on paper. Imposing this self-discipline was easier with the lure of the wooden desk. I could sit there for long hours at a stretch – the first crucial requirement before one thinks of pursuing writing.

The realisation that the desk was wooden but my writing should not be wooden came my way when I was struggling to produce a lively short piece. I found much scope to improve after the first draft, but I softened the nasty blow on my ego which was beginning to acquire a fearsome form. I showed the piece to my tutor who had his own critical take on a teenager’s struggle to write, signing off with a cryptic good-effort comment that left me craving for clarity. The thoughts were scattered like fluffy cotton balls floating in the air. I wished to acquire better control to put them together. To put it briefly, the desk witnessed the despair and repair and everything else that celebrates the slow churning of a small-time writer. Placing a decent piece in a reputed publication and displaying it on the wooden desk that housed many great works formed a vague dream that translated into reality much later.

The attached drawer was a convenient space to hide personal items such as love letters and adult magazines. Since nobody came here to check the space, it was suitable for stashing pocket money and everything else that required secrecy. Being lockable, I could utilise it with full security and safety. When the tutors or guardians noticed I was maintaining a lockable space, it was a clear sign that the boy was growing up with his pile of secrets. Nobody tried to unearth what I was squirreling away even though they had perhaps imagined the predictable and worst possible things. I did overhear the elders hatch a plan to detach the drawer. They solicited advice from a carpenter, seeking his opinion regarding how to do it without causing any damage to the antique table. His suggestion not to tamper with it was accepted without further argument since there was a high risk of damaging one of its legs. Before they could think of anything else, I chose to remove the lock and offered them full access with the key, showing signs of intelligence that made them feel assured I was not misusing it in any manner. While my idea was to keep the beautiful piece look complete instead of amputated, it was surely an outcome of my attachment to the wooden piece that I believed should remain in my possession so long as I am alive. As two companions engaged in a mission to produce the best creative work, we chose to stay together and work together with the fond hope that this partnership would produce some magical work.

Showing no signs of ageing, the sturdy table still flaunts a youthful look, as if it has been just crafted. The ability to remain fresh over the years should be there in writing as well –the reader should be able to relate to the work even after ages. Even when it is read generations later, it should always stay mint fresh.

With the passage of time, more gadgets had arrived on the desk and demanded space – like the desktop computer. Keeping almost half of it clean and vacant was not a challenge as it was quite long and wide. The tall glass of water or a cup of coffee and a fruit bowl also remain on it without giving a cluttered look. I did not have to make hard choices or compromises – what to keep and what to discard. It allowed me the space to write long-hand and then type it on the keyboard without tumbling other objects.

The finesse of the wooden desk inspired me to strive for perfection. The intricate wood carvings and the perfect finish made me feel the need to attach these qualities to my writing. Getting the structure ready was similar to framing the wooden structure first. Chiselling it further to make the rough edges look smooth made me think of doing the same in terms of writing. When everything gets joined, it looks no less than a wonder: just like joining sentences and then adding paragraphs. The process of carpentry bears strong similarities with the process of writing. The art of beautiful writing and beautiful carving in wood blended in my psyche. Using it to create chiselled work touched a chord.

I have been told the table looks vintage – although it has retained fresh appeal. I have been told to think of replacements. But I have been stubborn on the topic of retaining it – not falling prey to engineered wood and all that new stuff that lacks the indispensable feature of durability. Like solid wood furniture, the writing should also survive the test of time. The desk has subtly groomed me to be strong and resilient like it since childhood days.

Both of us are capable of surviving umpteen rejections and we have shared moments of sadness. The drawer was the place where the rejected pieces were dumped. If any member of the family ever raided the place for something shocking, he would have found several letters from editors, suggesting my temerity to approach them with my pieces that could not be carried for multiple reasons. The creative bug bit me here and then one thing led to another in a chain of events that sucked me into the world of writing. I always felt that the wooden desk was sorrowful and consoled me that these gems of failure would sparkle one day. A silent motivator that did not allow the termites of depression to infest my soul. 

On days when I sat elsewhere to ideate or write, I did not feel in my element.  As if I missed out something valuable and I must return to its fold at the earliest – inspired to create something beautiful like the table. With this soothing thought relaxing the nerves, I felt a surge of confidence – of writing something compelling and long-lasting like the wooden desk and displaying the content right there to match or surpass its excellence.  

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Just like attaining the eligible age to vote or marry, I am convinced that some individuals – awakened souls I mean – acquire the power to bless only after a certain age. Premature greying of hair lends the wrong impression that I have already reached the age to raise my hand to shower blessings like rose petals. Misled by the ageing process showing visible signs, a senior couple came home with their newly-wed son and daughter-in-law, directing them to touch my feet and seek blessings. I withdrew my pedicured feet before they could reach there and patted the padded shoulder of the bridegroom wearing a sherwani instead of placing my hand on his head. It must have appeared odd to the family that I had not shown the willingness to bless the newly-married couple in a proper, traditional manner. My heavy pat was an attempt to boost his morale and brace him up for the challenges ahead or it could be interpreted as a thumping appreciation that he had garlanded the right partner after a long wait since the pandemic.

My life has not been spiritually gifted or divinely blessed, so I do not wish to behave like a saint to transfer goodness or good wishes. Besides, I do not think my soothing words of blessings have any magical power to alter the destiny of an individual. If the guy drinks and drives and rams his car into a truck, my live-long blessings would have no meaning. If the fellow turns into a gambler, my tons of blessings cannot save his wealth.  

When it comes to seeking blessings, I am always ready to receive. I have tried to build a reservoir of blessings over the years but these have not proved to be beneficial in terms of growth. Maybe those who blessed me were also spiritually weak or they did not possess the divine aura to bless. Or perhaps my fate was so overloaded with tragedies that most of those blessings had been utilised to neutralise dark episodes and ensure a smooth, steady life without any highs or lows. The stabilising influence of blessings has been the most convincing and comforting argument I can offer myself, to feel assured that blessings do have an impact if sourced well.

Forget the blessings of ordinary mortals, which come with a doubtful efficacy rate like vaccine shots. Focus on the blessings of the divine alone. My double standards are revealed when I ask other people to stop seeking blessings from me but always look eager to receive blessings from people all around me. The opportunity to seek blessings from mendicants when they receive foodgrains or currency is never lost. I go out of the way in my greed to collect blessings. My key objective behind every act of charity is to receive blessings and raise a buffer stock – fit to use during troubled times.

In the matter of seeking blessings from the Lord, I forget to make a list of what I want. Usually, it is long like a grocery list. I know the others praying are also seeking similar blessings from the Lord. Sometimes I feel I should rein in my greed to receive blessings and request the Lord to distribute my share among the other seekers. But this noble thought perishes soon. The fear of a dull, aching life without divine blessings returns to haunt me. The arrogance of having to survive without his blessings can only invite curse and misfortune.  

There have been several instances where young people have come forward to seek my blessings. I give them a warm hug instead without explaining why I am incapable of giving blessings. A fanboy reader in my neighbourhood made the mistake of considering me a wise, well-read scholar and hoped to get blessed to write better – simply by touching my feet. I stepped back and asked him to write more and face rejections to improve his creative skills instead of pinning high hopes on a direct benefit transfer through his act of submissiveness. 

Even if I proclaim myself as a sinner, those who associate me with goodness will never buy my story. I cannot tell them I do not think I have reached the fag-end of my life when all I can do is sit by the riverside and distribute blessings to the world. I think my life itself is a blessing and I must stay afloat and blessed forever to live it to the fullest.

A situation emerged when I was enraged and felt I must curse the chap with a bleak future as he tested the limits of my patience by challenging my faith in God. I said in anger that he would suffer horribly for offending me though I had been kind and helpful to him. I was confident that my curse would wreak havoc but within a few years he really prospered. Though we did not meet after that incident and I do not intend to bump into him again, I am sure he must be eager to tell me that my curse was nothing more than a fake mumbling of an overheated brain. It made me conclude that even though I had not tested my power to bless, the power to curse had been tested and it misfired. Sometimes I feel like writing a mythological tale based on curses but then I am reminded whether those curses would lack potency and weaken the plot instead.   

Incurring the wrath of saints is never a good idea – a lesson acquired after a memorable encounter with a group of sadhus who came close to getting offended by my tendency to bargain with them. As their kohl-lined eyes grew wider to scare me and the tongue began lashing out invectives to scold me for monetary attachment in this transient world, I loosened my purse strings to bring them back from the verge of spewing fire and converted their harsh words into the nectar of admiration.

I have not cursed too many people, not even those who ditched me, ever since I realised my zero potential to curse effectively. Many people have been offended or snubbed without a valid reason and they have cursed me behind my back – quite effectively in my case at least. Whenever I accost them, they are so cheerful that I forget their tendency to curse.  

Seeking blessings is reduced to a mere formality prevalent all around. There are many opportunists who fake it and come forward to seek blessings just to make you feel superior. The younger relatives who visit me to seek blessings are politely asked to identify the actual elders in the family and bow down before them. A septuagenarian wields more power to bless vis-à-vis a person who is flirting with middle-age. I prefer to seek blessings from elders even today and permanently occupy the slot of a recipient instead of becoming a donor of blessings. 

Having realised that I am not the one empowered to bless or curse a person, I avoid getting into this trap now. No divine light emerges from my palm so I keep my hands clasped in prayer instead of raising it too often to bless like a godman popping up through the panoramic sunroof of his luxurious SUV.  

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

The white cat cuddles up on the furry brown mat right outside the entrance door. After I lock the gate leading to the granite steps, it slips in through the iron grille, assured that this seat will ensure comfortable sleep at night. So long as it makes no noise to disturb me, this arrangement works fine. Sometimes when I wake up early, I forget to peep out through the glass window to check whether it is still there. My sudden opening of the door hits her legs and she quickly vacates the spot, turning back to stare and warn that my inhospitable disruption would draw a bloody scratch.

It is true she would have slept longer if I had not arrived on the scene. The feline is entitled to jump to the conclusion that I am the culprit who did not show a sensitive side by tendering an apology through expression. Making an effort to introspect mirrored how miserable I felt when I was groggy with sleep – head buried under the pillow – especially if a domineering member of the family pulled me out of the cosy comforter and rebuked me for being lethargic. My humble submissions for another fifteen minutes of restful sleep were always rejected like salary hike requests. Drawing this parallel provided the solace that I still had a  functional ability to regenerate the tender side.

To make amends, I woke up late or delayed opening the door, allowing the cat the opportunity to snooze for a longer duration. Any kind of clatter inside the house could disturb her sleep so I took extra precautions to maintain peace in the kitchen. I chided myself for not being courteous enough to offer a bowl of milk to welcome the guest. These were clear indications that my sensitive side was kicking in!  

The decline of the sensitive side usually gets overlooked in the rush to cope with daily commitments. When something awful and unexpected occurs, the journey to explore within and measure the decline begins all of a sudden. One tends to becomes extra vigilant, checks repeatedly the extent of damage and how to recover the lost ground. The natural ability to be sensitive and the efforts to restore it calls for consistent efforts that strengthen bonds with nature and its allies.

The other day I woke up late as I binge-watched a lot. It slipped out of my mind that the pigeons were waiting to be fed. When I reached the garden, most of them had taken flight. There were still a few of them hopping around. As I served foodgrains, there was a scramble to peck at it. They settled down to polish off whatever their eyes could find and then proceeded to spread their wings in the air. After their exit, smaller birds like sparrows descended from the branches of a guava tree to have their fill. The squirrels on the garage roof availed the hollow pipe to come down with alacrity, to search for remnants. I thought I should arrange something for them, probably nuts. It was a mere idea without any urge to act immediately. Some minutes later, I came inside to proceed with other chores but I kept thinking about the pigeons – about the ones who could not wait and those who stayed there.  

The loss of patience was natural as the pigeons knew I was never so late. Instead of wasting time, they flew away to other options to have their fill. I could relate to this practical behaviour as I myself do not like being kept waiting to be served tea or coffee at home or in a café and have often shown the tendency to leave. Somewhere deep inside I relished the thought that those who waited for my arrival were close to me and shared a strong bond that I became aware of through this episode.

The packet of peanuts was torn, and it slipped out of my hands when I tried to fill them in a glass jar. A handful of nuts fell on the tiled floor. I gathered those nuts and opened the kitchen window to offer it to the squirrels still lounging in the garden. Perhaps the universe had communicated my thoughts to them. Within minutes, the squirrels vanished with the booty. Though it is widely believed that the food reaches for whom it is meant, it shows gross insensitivity when food is wasted or thrown away. How can it possibly be acceptable that some human beings are destined to scavenge for food in garbage bins?

Some mornings are special as the sight of a herd of cows grazing on the grass outside the main gate motivates me to offer them greens such as cauliflower and cabbage leaves. Their mastication draws the attention of stray dogs who feel my act of preferential treatment cannot be overlooked.  Their collective barking peaks, reminding me that I must offer them something as well. Serving biscuits is the easiest way to calm them. When I give them something to eat, their anger subsides.

Feeling left out is painful as I can recollect how miserable and low I felt when I was not considered fit for the school cricket team despite being a good player. The stray dogs tamed their resistance and allowed the cows to graze without any confrontation, following them like escorts. The sight of two different species bonding so well became an inspiration, making me wonder how I can emulate this example and make my house an abode for multiple creatures to co-exist and care for each other without any fear of competition.

I am not a regular when it comes to feeding the cows crossing my house. But I have noticed some of them slowing down their pace in front of my gate, anticipating something to be served to them. Now I intend to add breadcrumbs or chapatis or anything they like to eat, making it a regular practice to place something for them. Being quite punctual like pigeons, their arrival signals they have memorised my address and they take a break to stop and chew here. The neighbour has shown the competitive spirit to become sensitive by placing a tumbler full of water for all animals. Cows eat from my home and then proceed to quench their thirst next door. I should celebrate such healthy competition as the neighbour is playing a positive role to find his space in the connected world by becoming useful to other species.  

Recently, I bought a bird feeder and decided to put it up in the garden, with the support of bamboo poles. Before summer sets in, the bird feeder should be installed. A little bit of digging of the soil is required and this tiresome activity slows me down. I made a resolution to hire someone to do the job if it proved too cumbersome for me. Although I am aware it’s getting delayed, I am not making any effort to complete it.

When I finally went to the garden on a Sunday afternoon, I saw dried-up, hardened soil and felt disappointed. Watering plants should be a priority. The petunias made my windows look beautiful, with the purple and white blooms. I was busy clicking photos and sharing them  for likes but I was not ready to accept that these plants needed more attention to bloom better and for longer. I had seen them growing in other places during this season, in other bungalows, boulevards, and other cottages. I needed to be modest in accepting the fact that I had not shown a highly sensitive side when it came to nurturing them with love. If I could dedicate fifteen minutes every day, to water them early in the day, I would have shown better signs of care.

Nowadays, I am happy just watering them – whenever I find the time. There is a palpable loss of my sensitive side as I consider it is sufficient to water plants without thinking too much about fixing a timeline. I need to remember how quickly I reach out for a glass of water whenever I am thirsty. But in case of plants, I have concluded that watering them is enough – delaying it does not generate any smidgen of guilt.

The truth is that plants also need water regularly and performing this task early in the day is better. Before I consume the first glass of water, I must ensure the plants have quenched their thirst. I should stop comparing myself with those who do not water plants. I should not feel I am doing the plants any favour. When the plants grow healthy here, they create a positive environment for the residents to lead happier lives. Instead of taking pride in providing any noble service, I should change my mindset and think that there are hundreds of more ways to strengthen the sensitive side. These are some smalls steps as the awakening grows deeper. Knowing the depth of love knows no end. Similarly, the depth of sensitivity is never fully known. All we can do is keep growing sensitive to make this world a better place for all creatures. 

Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.  

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International