Category: Musings of a Copywriter

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

During long-distance train travel, I stay anxious about my fellow passengers in the neighbouring seats. Like any other optimist, I am hopeful of finding beautiful, exciting people to make the hours fly like minutes, to ensure I do not have to pull the curtains and switch on the reading lamp. When the attraction of the window seat offering a panoramic view of the green world fades after a few hours, having engaging people occupying the opposite seats to converse with on a wide range of issues ranging from politics to films is a boon. The presence of yawning bores makes it soporific as their loud, unending phone conversations detailing domestic drudgery start getting on the nerves after a while. Unfortunately, most of my train journeys have nothing refreshing to offer. So, the sight of a young smart lady walking in with her ticket to locate the seat was a huge visual relief. But the joy was short-lived when an elderly lady with a bawling baby in her arms followed her.

Understandably, they were related and perhaps shared a mother-daughter relationship. The young lady understood they were allotted the upper berths. She requested a swap. But the greed of the window seat prevailed. I declined the switch. This bland refusal left her shocked. The elderly lady also did not pitch in with her personalised appeal as she understood that if I could say no to a beautiful young lady, my response would remain the same in her case.

Before they could climb up, a gentleman wearing a hat walked in and seeing their predicament, offered his lower berth to the young lady. Delighted that the young lady would be seated opposite, I took it as some kind of relief but sadly the young lady climbed up while the elderly lady with the child sat in front and started changing diapers. The beautiful lady and the hatted gentleman went up. The gentleman spread himself above my seat while the lady occupied the upper berth on the opposite side. I thought this would provide some opportunity to catch a glimpse of the beauty, but she was so grateful that she enjoyed conversing with the hatted gentleman regarding her difficult journey to the national capital for medical treatment. The gentleman continued to guide her even though she did not seem interested in his advice.

He showed his sensitive side by asking the railway staff to control the air-conditioning temperature as it was quite chilling at night. He made it appear he was doing it for the small child and the lady out of concern even though they had not asked for it. The elderly lady thanked him by saying her arthritic knees needed this relief. As the AC turned warmer with his intervention, the women were assured they were in the presence of a genuinely caring person whereas I was a villain who declined to help women in need and now stayed wide awake to overhear their conversation. When the young lady found my furtive glances too hot to handle, she pulled half the curtain to block my sight. Perhaps this was well-deserved for being from her perspective, uncaring.  

During the night, the hat belonging to the gentleman toppled onto my berth and awakened me. I sat up and threw it near the corner gently, hoping not to disturb his snores. In the wee hours of the morning, the hat fell again but this time his legs also dangled in front of me. Perhaps, he was getting up from his berth to probably visit the loo. He suddenly jumped down and took the hat from me, with a barely audible thank-you, and searched for his slippers underneath the seat. When he returned to the cabin, he picked up his phone and gave a wake-up call to his family and reminded them that his parcel would arrive via courier that morning, much before he reached home. They would have to receive it in his absence.

When the railway catering staff came for taking breakfast orders, the hatted gentleman was accorded great respect. They seemed to be familiar with him. During their conversation, it emerged he was a former parliamentarian who still travelled quite frequently by the same train to the national capital. When the elderly lady on the opposite sought to know his name, he revealed his full identity. I searched online. The first page gave the image of the gentleman wearing a hat, with a short biodata revealing his long, illustrious political journey spread over the decades doing social service. In a way switching the berth for the lady showcased his sensitive side and also hinted at the comfort and ease with which he could switched sides during his political innings. Had the lady and her family been a resident of his constituency, he would have definitely got their votes.

He got a grand salute for the tip he gave to the staff member after breakfast, and it reminded him of how common such genuflection had been during his heydays. I felt I should have started a conversation with him to know the state of politics today, but since he appeared to relive the past glory, it did not appear he had any connection with the present dispensation. It was not likely he was positive of a grand comeback, as he remained wedded to the glorious past, with his worn-out hat representing the outdated courteousness and etiquette long associated with the past. When the elderly lady thanked him profusely for his kindness, he folded his hands like an astute politician does in front of the public during election time and stayed modest about his generosity with a smile spread wide on his puckered face.

When it was time to disembark, he sat on one side of my berth and shuffled his dossiers, and called up an associate, asking him to fix an appointment in the second half of the day. That a former member of the House slept on my upper berth was a privilege indeed. Now I could boast about it and for that, I needed to have a selfie with him or his autograph at least.  I was sceptical since he knew I had declined to help the women he might refuse to entertain my request. My hesitation prevailed as I could not countenance a rejection in front of the ladies. So, I resisted my urge for an introduction.

When he stood up clutching his files and dragged the wheeled trolley with the other hand, I maintained a safe distance from him, scared of dashing my luggage against his legs. I was expecting there would be a few acolytes waiting with marigold garlands to receive him at the station, but I was surprised to see there was not a single person waiting for the former leader. He was a lone man pulling his burden and finding his way among the crowd. He kept walking the length of the platform with his hat almost toppling in the wind, firmly holding his set of files and the trolley with the other hand.

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

Although I do not think I have the potential to write a controversial book that ends up hurting or offending the sentiments of readers or non-readers in any part of the world, the recent episode of a violent attack on an internationally acclaimed author has brought about a fundamental change. Now, I spend more time pondering over novel attacks and how to protect myself and my vital organs from fundamentalists and other hardliners stepping across the line to seek revenge and make the ground beneath my feet disappear. I do not dismiss the possibility of being attacked or hounded by a crazy fellow who does not like the colour of my skin or my hair or the aquiline shape of my nose or simply finds the entire set of features not aligned with his sensibilities. As a small-time writer who cannot afford a full-time, fully armed bodyguard shadowing me wherever I go, I must find other cost-effective ways to keep my creative head safe from bullets and pellets. 

Whenever I go out for a walk during the day, I should wear a helmet even if pedestrians find it weird. I do not need to explain to them the hazardous profession I am part of, riskier even than that of a mining engineer. There are many themes and plots for stories and novels brewing in the cerebral pot, so I cannot risk a fatal hit. A broken leg can assure me of recovery, but a cracked-up skull will end my writing career before it could take flight. Some years ago, I remember being hit on my head by a super charged cricket ball that came at top speed. Just after this episode, my writing speed has suffered, and I suspect the neurological wiring suffered some irreversible damage.  

As a precautionary move, I should also put an end to my flirtatious tendencies since the possibility of being attacked by a jealous lover haunts me these days. Attending marriage ceremonies, getting close to the bride, and wasting no time to put my hands around her slender waist for a joint photograph by edging out her obese husband from the frame is a risky act indeed. As waiters keep moving around with trays loaded with forks and knives, the offended husband could pick up a sharp one and jab one at me while hurling the most abusive words I fear to use for wily characters in my prose. Having identified this area of darkness, I should throw more light on my behavioural pattern and avoid building a huge female fan following that activates life-threatening impulses in men. 

As a writer, my attempt should be to hammer harsh truths. But the sight of labourers and carpenters working with hammers and other heavy tools induces fear of another kind. Whenever I find myself close to such working class people, I feel an unexplained fear that the bitter truths have stopped flowing from my pen, and this has not gone down well with them. One of them running after me with a hammer to silence my voice, generates a fear that compels me to think of the need to get closer to the realities of life instead of being an escapist. I fail to convince them that the need to offer relief is far greater than reminding them of the depressing truths all the time.

Humour in my writing could also be the potential reason for disaster to strike me. This entertaining streak possibly offends some people who do not like a writer to be an entertainer but an eye opener. Cordoning myself from such a mindset is not easy. In the park, in the subway or in the market, such offended folks keep lurking and stalking. The scissors and blades at the barber’s shop generate a rising sense of fear as the most unlikely source of danger often shocks and silences you. The truth behind losing an eye[1] is an eye-opener in many ways and makes a lily-livered writer like me extra cautious when it relates to scribbling thoughts and ideas on the page. 

Signing book copies and then being surrounded by a guy holding a knife near the throat is a scary possibility that has made me stay away from book launches forever. Losing the scope to interact with readers to build new bonds comes with the high risk of losing my bond with life. I do not know the reason why such a thing should happen to me, but the dire consequences of such a deadly attack compels me to stay away from the limelight and keep writing in anonymity. 

My voracious appetite for humour could also provoke a person to serve me a lethal delight. The food delivery app guy who presses the doorbell and offers me a food packet with poisoned foodstuffs comes prepared to seek revenge for my attempt at making fun of food in my writing, calling it a violent act of mastication. As I imagine retribution, I should stop my writing contribution or funnel my sentiments through a different outlet. Survival of writers has always been challenging, but now it goes beyond the financial domain and includes his right to life.  

More bubbles up my mind. An acid attack or any such violent attack truncates the life of a writer. Though the writer kills characters the way he likes, he does not know his end. Sitting in a café could bring on his sudden end as a biker enters and fires at point-blank range and leaves behind a note of apology.

My crime of poking fun and being satirical might trigger the dangerous sentiment. The offended fellow for whom life is no fun finds such humour unacceptable. And the writer must meet his end for making fun of his situation, for not focusing on serious issues, for the unlisted crime of offering light reads of little or no worth or value to readers who seek literary merit in words. Not being an ideal writer could be the reason for my premature end, with dollops of humour dying along with me. 

[1] Salman Rushdie lost an eye in 2022: https://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-68739586#

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

Getting the opportunity to interact with witches in real life is a bigger privilege than meeting celebrities from the world of fashion and entertainment. The paranormal world remains full of mysteries to unravel and the element of human interest in spooky affairs never dips.

I must say I have known and heard a lot about their cauldron – pot, potions, and potency – ever since the school days when I read Shakespearean plays. From Macbeth came the supreme knowledge that fair is foul, and foul is fair as they hover through the fog and filthy air. While there remains the possibility of classifying them as good or evil, my template was I would prefer not to label them without having a first-hand encounter.

Their culinary delights are unsavoury for most of us as the menu list, as mentioned in Macbeth, includes blood, carcass and animal parts considered unfit for human consumption in the civilised society. While these items are possibly sources of good nutrition for them, we feel like puking whenever there is a mention of these being cooked.

Frankly speaking, I did not have a whit of an idea that witches would make such a swift entry and grand entry into my life that would leave me rattled and throw me into a dizzy state of disarray. Like a gentle knock on the door announces the likelihood of a visitor, they should have first tried the sleep, dream route instead of barging into the dilapidated house to lay siege and hold me hostage.

I confess not being a casual or avid reader of eerie, ghostly tales. I do not have the voracious appetite to watch horror flicks even if they are the sophisticated types without blood dripping through the corner of the mouth like saliva or through the eyes like tears. So, this rules out of the possibility of my sending across any signal or invitation to visit my abode.

That the evil forces were living with me was brought to my notice by a tarot-reading relative during her visit this winter. Probably, they had tagged along with her, but she specified that the spirit was a single, permanent resident living in my home for several years. It was surprising that I had never had any alarming encounter in the past during the phase of co-existence. I asked her particular questions about eviction but she refused to answer them except clarifying that the spirit was living in the rear portion of the house. Since I do not often venture to that side, probably I missed bumping into the evil power that had turned benevolent inside the house, influenced by my benevolent company that must have reformed her even if she had arrived with malicious intent.

My probing mind concluded that the spooky, invisible witch’s visit must be an act of mischief by the relative who lived in a matchbox-size apartment while I have an old, dilapidated but sprawling house with branches sprouting from parapets. To draw my attention to the possibility of the residence being a haunted one, she appeared to have concocted a weird potpourri to seek retribution of sorts. That she enjoyed the stay and only at the time of departure chose to reveal the big secret made me suspect that it was something to be taken with a pinch of salt. The presence of evil spirits was confirmed by the senior lady guest who also added a twist by saying this could be the handiwork of an envious neighbour who performed some black magic and despatched a witch to my place to cause harm. Almost immediately I was ready with a roster of queries that seemed to put her in a fix. The wide-open spaces were dubbed as haunted, but no clue was provided so I suspected she wanted to scare me and make me join her by living in a flat next to her complex and this was an effective strategy to attain that goal.

Since this information had been registered in my brain, the fear of a sudden encounter with the spirit of the witch inside the house has unnerved me and compelled me to sleep with lights on. The slightest sound woke me up with a jolt. I had no idea how the witch sneaked in, through which open or closed door or window or ventilator. I had no idea how the witch found me a suitable resident without focusing on my bad habits. Assuming for a moment that there was indeed a vampire shaking my empire, with a special fixation for sucking blood, I decided to buy a one litre of lamb’s blood from the nearby butcher’s shop and keep it in a bowl in a desolate corner where the witch could quench her thirst without any disturbance. I decided to wear proper clothes at home all the time so that my attire never appeared offensive or inviting to the resident witch for a seductive encounter. I had no idea about her age but I visualised her to be an eternal, graceful beauty with an effervescent smile.

Coming back to facts, the bowl of blood remained in place even after a week. It meant that the witch preferred other drinks. When I checked my refrigerator, I found juice cans missing and a rose sherbet bottle almost empty. This confirmed there was indeed a witch who enjoyed the stuff in the fridge and never complained or agitated because the diet was healthy and nutritious even though completely vegetarian, non-alcoholic, and milk-based.

Still not fully convinced that my haemoglobin was not gobbled up by a goblin during my sleep hours using a straw pipe penetrated through the nostrils or ears, I decided to undergo a blood test to confirm the level had not plummeted to an anemic level. To remain on the safer side, I asked the doctor to pump more blood in my body through transfusion and clear my confusion. He had a hearty laugh when he heard the reason. I invited him to my place to have an experience of sorts, which he declined with a grin. His scientific temperament did not revolt, and he did not prescribe anything for my safety but suggested I use this material to write more fanciful stories.   

Perhaps he spread this news to other retired folks in the locality, who visited his clinic for regular check-ups. They landed up at my entrance gate with curiosity and suggested a fresh coat of lime wash on the building to ward off evil spirits as it looked haunted to them. The logic that freshly painted homes do not attract witches was anything but convincing.  

In terms of palpable changes, my urge to write was at an all-time high as I felt I could finish off a novel within a fortnight. My writing picked up pace and clarity and I began to think the witch was probably a literary heavyweight trying to express her ideas through my pen. This comforting thought buoyed me and I felt assured that it was sending cosmic powers to support my fledgling writing career.  Perhaps the witch had a failed literary past and did not want another aspirant to hit the nadir.

The witch had improved my craft as my writing began to be livelier. I wanted to entertain more through incredible stories. I must share the credit for this transformation with the appealing witch working secretly in my favour and acknowledge the contribution in the foreword of my next novel. 

Waking up in the middle of the night after hearing weird noises sent a shiver down the spine – as if the spirit was dining in the hall, with the sound of cutlery and mastication. When the pastry or ice-cream tub went missing from the fridge, I did not remember if I had polished it off but suspected the witch had a sweet tooth. Despite all negativity evil powers bring in wherever they go, this one ushered in a splash of positive vibes. During the prayer session, I could hear some other person mumbling. The act of worship liberates and cleanses spirits as well and brings more goodness to their invisible lives. I do not worry much now as I find the witch to have a cordial rapport with me – more generous than what wily relatives have with me.

Several months had passed and the earlier fear has subsided a lot, replaced by a strange friendly feeling towards the witch even though I have not seen her. I look around for signs of any spooky activity to add spice to life, but I find none. Empty beer cans lying scattered in the backyard do not belong to the witch but the bachelors living in the next apartment, who throw these including cigarette and contraceptive packs in my compound.

To bring this matter to a close and ensure my sanity, I was advised to consult a magician with rich occult experience. Driven by the urge to see how he managed to unfold the truth and the strategy he chalked out to exterminate the spirit from my premises, I opted for a budget-friendly professional wearing black robes.

He came and sniffed and some stray dogs standing on the boundary wall started barking loudly. He silenced them all with a finger on the lips like a school headmaster. The obedient dogs surprised me with their submissive behaviour though he was a stranger in the locality. He explained that dogs and cats have innate powers to feel the presence of spirits around if a magician can generate those in canine creatures though I had only read about sniffer dogs trained to track gangsters and detect hidden explosives.

He picked up some ash mixed with talcum powder from the staircase and suggested the spirit was living there. He walked ahead of me while I followed him with a torch and stick. When he reached the landing area and the loft beside it, he stopped in his tracks as he said there was a struggle and heckling going on which I could not witness with my naked eyes. He was being stopped to climb further so he opened his tool box and read out some mumbo jumbo and gave a stern warning in English that surprised me. He explained to me the witch was not of Indian origin but someone from abroad who came in search of her sailor lover from the Orient, travelling thousands of miles and finally found the right address.

I said I was no sailor. But the professional occultist said the previous owner of the house from whom I had purchased this old, haunted house at a cheap price was her lover. Since his family died here, the witch from Scotland also chose to follow the Indian tradition of true love and united with her lover here. He said she was communicating with him in the house and their love affair was still ongoing.

So where did I fit in here? And what was I supposed to do? Was there any risk of her falling in love with me? These questions rushed to my mind, but instead of answering me, he asked her when she would leave this house and she grumbled and replied she would never leave this place. I told the magician to remind her that true love is never fulfilled, never fully reciprocated but the witch was in no mood to listen to his command. I said the backlog of love stories, failed and unrequited, was heavy in India and there was no hope of quick clearance for some more centuries at least.  

The occult practitioner said the witch would definitely leave the house if I was ready to pay extra for some special rituals.  When he quoted the premium price, I felt the pinch in the pocket. As the witch had not caused any harm to me, I gave in to her continuing in the house and I retrieved a framed photograph of her sailor lover from the storeroom and placed it on the staircase wall for emotional comfort. The occult expert tried to scare me by saying she might change her mind or accidentally bite you out of love, and the oozing blood from my arterial nerve in the neck could suspend blood supply to my brain and cause sudden death. I said I was confident she would not prove to be a treacherous lover, unlike the ones today and remain loyal to the dead sailor lover smiling in the portrait.  

Sometimes, books in the library could be found open those days. Most of them were British classics. I was proud of an avid reader of classic literature residing in the house of another writer who was yet to finish reading those books. Her literary thirst was quenched in the house full of books and that is why there was no sucking up of blood. Maybe, she was a writer herself and she wrote novels, poems, and stories. So I asked the magician to disclose her name during the session. I was ready to continue the live-in relationship with a bewitching witch even though I had not seen her. I asked the magician to give me an idea of how she looked and he said she was nothing less than a film heroine in terms of complexion and looks.

Now, I am living in a different city and the haunted house remains locked. I strongly believe the witch still remains there. But while I am crafting this tale, I hear a flush in the pan and the digestive biscuits have gone missing from the glass jar along with the bottle of mixed pickle, making me suspect the witch has joined me here or my hyperactive brain is conjuring up images to feed a nutritious diet to my imagination. Or perhaps, I want to derive consolation by thinking that I have finally succeeded in driving a wedge between those lovers and made her fall madly in love with me now!

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

Although I have always believed that God keeps his plans hidden and reveals them only at the right time, a recent episode where someone conveyed through a reliable source that my end was close, has not shaken but awakened me to a new realisation — the obvious truth that life is indeed momentary and nothing more than a dream. However, the breach of the confidentiality clause and the choice of an inappropriate messenger made me seek an audience with God for further clarity. Just like question papers get leaked, perhaps some divinely gifted human beings also have access to exclusive, insider information from none other than God. 

Before the prediction of my passing away could bloom into a reality, the man who turned it simpler than making a weather forecast had to attend the funeral of his sister-in-law. He was unprepared for the funeral. Focused on me and obsessed with my premature exit, he could not employ his special powers to correctly identify the first person in the queue, awaiting despatch. I wondered in case he had got this spot on, his reputation as a misfortune-teller would have received a tremendous boost, just like pollsters get a huge appreciation if their survey comes closest to the result.  

His grand plans to throw a lavish party to celebrate my popping-off remain in suspension until a sudden cardiac arrest or an accident terminates my worldly journey, enriching his life and giving him more solace than what my soul deserves. Although he goes around building the image of being a blessed soul, his predictions have a slimmer chance of coming true than the revival of a moribund political party. 

Conquering the fear of death has been attempted to be made easy with divine prayers over the years, but the potential of fear to enter through locked rooms has never been questioned. This forewarning made me expedite my plans to complete my next novel without wasting a single day as the projection was for the hasty, untimely expiration of my lease of life. Before death came knocking, I decided to knock once more with my manuscript at the glass doors of publishers and hope the letters of rejection arrive before I say goodbye. 

Not a keen devotee who spends quality time in divine remembrance, I thought I should seek clarity from the remitter. Had God really chosen an emissary to convey his secret about my untimely demise? In my prayers, I urged him to grant an audience and respond to my query in brief if he did not like to talk much about it. Hence it was a big surprise when God not only appeared in my dream to address my grievances but also allowed me the opportunity to seal a profitable deal.  

 I was direct, sharp, and swift in my approach. I asked him the truth about death being imminent in my case. Seeking confirmation of what floated in the air, I raised the question of shady characters getting cherry-picked to spell doom. Cutting me short, he said I had accumulated a lot of bad karma in life, and I could not escape the punishment for it. 

I remembered I had ditched many true lovers in the past and their curses were pending. He expressed worry that I was not leading my life according to his plan. He disclosed one example in this regard – I was supposed to die due to alcohol excess, but I had not shown the urge to drink even one peg. He had expected me to guzzle alcohol to destroy my health like several writers had done earlier. 

God said, He never changed his plans to rewrite destiny, but my recent set of good deeds was a big surprise even though I was not supposed to perform such impossible tasks. Hence, it was a foregone conclusion that I would last longer than expected, as the battery life was charged up and still in good working condition. Despite my earlier backlog of bad karma, my current inclusion of good deeds in the basket had earned me brownie points. I asked him if he could specify the date or year, but he said it was decades. The plural meant another twenty years at least. This gave me the confidence to challenge the man who made a wrong prediction and scare him by saying I knew when he was supposed to say adieu after a conversation with God even though I had no idea about it. 

Since God was in a jovial mood, I decided to try the art of negotiation. Making a quick list of the priorities, I kept quiet as he was supposed to know what was going on in my mind. To offer clarity, I chose to specify but he looked quite unfazed to hear the sober litany of demands. He construed it as materialistic – just another example of greed for worldly possessions. I said when everything in this world is temporary –and he would take it back after my death – then he should not hesitate to give it to me for a temporary period. 

As I writer, I felt I should have added the blessing to churn out best-sellers like many other writers. I often wonder what makes potboilers possible. He understood I was nowhere close to being a great writer so the best option to avail was the opportunity to become a successful novelist. I made it categorically clear that great writers get memorials and tributes whereas I was interested in a mansion and royalty cheques with a loyal reader base so long as I wrote.  

After mentioning this desire, I thought God would perhaps vanish from the scene, like a genie. I told him that I was aware that people talk about failure as the pillar of success. I told him many such pillars were ready, so he should proceed to build the roof of success. He liked my sense of humour and urged me to make good use of it as humour alone would unlock many doors for me. It was a clear indication that I should focus on writing comedies. 

My dream was about to reach its end as it was past daybreak. The sunlight was filtering in through the window. Everything in this conversation was delightful including the prediction of my end due to alcohol. When heartbreak and other setbacks did not convert me into an alcoholic, I wondered what kind of intense tragedy could compel me to hit the bottle. As I began to imagine possibilities, I thought maybe while returning from a blockbuster film party, some drunken fellow would ram his car into mine on the highway or my tipsy driver would lose control and hit the lamppost, leading to my death due to an accident caused by alcohol and drunken driving!

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

In the public park near my residence, a motley group of kids and teenagers gather after dusk to learn karate from a trainer who does not generate the impression of being an agile practitioner of the art of self-defence. He barely makes a move as he struggles to raise a leg or strike an aggressive pose in his demo lesson. Although his body seems to have lost visible signs of fitness, his body of experience helps him grow his client base. He depends on his stentorian voice to cast a grand impression and throw his weight around as the most experienced trainer in the town.  

In the presence of guardians, mostly mothers, the instructor tries his best to sound confident and look smart, ready to provide feedback regarding the progress of young learners who grasp the moves and go home to try it out on their tired fathers unwilling to sponsor a weekend treat or buy them a fancy gift. Cowed down with threats of jabbing their delicate organs with trained fingers during sleep, they cave into submission. This is the most evident sign of triumph cheered by mothers, making one wonder if the ulterior motive to train in this martial art form is to teach stubborn dads a befitting lesson. 

The lure of acquiring a black belt does not make kids eager to learn karate but the assurance that they can defend themselves in case of a kidnapping attempt or sexual assault acts as a trigger for them to indulge in the practice sessions. Only a few kids, mainly girls, look genuinely interested in learning the skill whereas the rest of them perform under compulsion, to find inclusion in their peer group and amplify the status of their mothers who post pictures of karate-learning kids on their social media handles. Even though they do not expect them to become famous like Bruce Lee, they need the satisfaction of providing their kids the best opportunity to hone their defence skills. Nobody bothers to ask kids whether they asked for this opportunity. Just because they keep fighting at home, it is not right to infer that they are going to be big fighters. 

The trainer appears to be a good conversationalist as he takes small breaks to narrate anecdotes of his martial arts journey over the decades and infuses humour in his tales of dare-devilry to justify the steep fee he charges for his tutelage. Holding open-air classes three days a week, the instructor regales them with heart-warming, humorous tales that bring out the chronicler in him, fetching instant praise from the mixed crowd and free advice to compile them in the form of a book. Story-telling acumen ramps up his popularity as a karate teacher in the locality as he rides a heavy motorbike despite a problematic knee after surviving a life-threatening accident. Sympathy drips for him when he explains how he risked his life to save the life of a stray dog one night. 

Many women admirers predict a better future for him as a successful writer without knowing the long, harrowing struggle behind it. He spends more time in the park and allows kids to practice a lot without interference while he engages in discussion with mothers who appear sympathetic to his sacrifices and dedication. When some of his students excel in the district-level championships, the credit goes to him for being an excellent mentor. 

Almost a similar scene pans out in the housing society where the builder has constructed an indoor swimming pool as the chief attraction to sell the apartments. Considered a good exercise and a necessity to stay safe from drowning, parents and kids line up to learn to swim every evening. With mothers tagging along, kids in swimwear brace up to master new strokes. Men sit and dangle their legs by the poolside, sometimes taking a half dip as if bathing in a holy river, holding the rod for support. It gives a feeling of consolation that they use their time for exercise and also to showcase their responsibility towards young ones by teaching them swimming. 

Talking about popular hobbies, the craze to attend a music school remains all-time high as there are multiple options to take up singing as a career. Kids learn Sa-Re-Ga-Ma[1] along with ABCD these days. When they trudge to the music academy to learn how to sing or dance, it reminds me of what I had been through during my childhood days. The shrill-voiced music teacher was so scary that I could not play the harmonium in her presence. Hitting the right notes always became a challenge. After a few months, she gave her verdict that my voice was good, but my singing was bad. The day I broke the reeds of her favourite harmonium, her patience also broke. She imposed a fine to compensate for the damaged instrument and asked me to leave. 

Some years later, I got a chance to sing in front of my class on Teachers’ Day. The few lines I sang were liked but they added it was too fast paced, as if I was in a hurry to complete the song. I couldn’t say I tried to be peppy, but the truth is that in the presence of a teacher, you are reminded of alerts like quick or hurry. The lack of stillness and relaxation was palpable in the voice to suggest the singer was rushing through the singing exercise.

My maiden performance in front of the audience was lauded, and I was encouraged to practice more to get the chance to sing on Parents’ Day. Imagine singing a ghazal by Ghulam Ali or Mehndi Hasan[2] in front of a thousand people, and not being able to do justice to it. I chickened out as the pressure took a toll on my confidence to deliver. Even though some teachers encouraged me to take it up, I stayed out of it as the words of my music teacher kept haunting me. My tryst with singing began and ended with a film song from a Bollywood flick, Saagar[3]. Sometimes the wrong guide derails your interest. You develop a fear of the subject based on expert assessment by a person who is no expert of the subject. A fast paced ghazal performance would have been a hilarious idea as would be a new take on the ghazal format. It would have also become the iconic highlight and a major embarrassment in front of purists who would abhor the idea of a pop ghazal as a deliberate attempt to mar its purity. 

There is a new visitor – a guitarist – who comes to the park with his son. He sits on a bench and practices Western numbers while his son goes playing with friends. Park joggers stop in their tracks and listen to his soulful singing. Recently, a senior uncle assured him of an audience during the cultural program in the festive season and he agreed to sing Bengali numbers before a few hundred people without charging a penny. It was a dream come true for an upcoming musician and he thanked the committee members. 

The son started dancing right away, feeling happy for his father who was struggling to get a chance all these years. Most of the kids in school perform in front of their parents but it is a surprise when fathers perform on stage in front of their children. The joy parents get by encouraging kids to pursue a hobby is sometimes guided by their residual desire to see their kids learn what they couldn’t during their prime years. When kids see their parents fulfill their dreams, they also feel happy that they are not forced to realise the unfulfilled aspirations of their parents. While it is good to give kids the chance to pursue a hobby, it should be of their choice and not thrust upon them as a compulsion just because some kids in the locality or peer group are doing it. A hobby cannot become a passion if one is not obsessed with it. 

[1] Indian notes for music

[2] Well known Indian singers

[3] Translates as Ocean, a 1985 Bollywood film

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 the idiomatic expression – hit the bottle – slipped into my word cabinet, I have woken up to the reality that certain words draw stunned silence from people when we falter in the usage because of misinterpretation or their striking closeness to other words or phrases. With my shaky command of the language, I visualised the violent act of hitting the bottle with a bare hand. But the brush with a newspaper article carrying the same headline made me sense its phrasal tipsy turn, prompting me to consult the dictionary.

My attraction for bottles had always been there — except that I do not recall much about the feeding bottle. I suspect I have never been in a dry state of mind since my childhood. There is a natural bonding with bottles from a tender age — irrespective of the labels attached. The glass cabinet displayed bottles with slender shapes and fancy English names like Old Monk or Old Tavern, which expanded the vocabulary of a young learner. I remember asking my father the meaning of the words when I first saw him unboxing these. As the liquid with a golden tinge rapidly flowed into designer-cut glasses and hit the bed of ice cubes, I was brimming over with a strong urge to hold the aesthetic bottle and clink glasses with him and his friends before they struggled to hold themselves after gulping a few pegs.

I do not have pictures capturing those moments of unadulterated joy holding such bottles in my hand. There was just one photograph showing me busy with a bottle of Waterbury’s Compound. Before it gets mistaken as another fancy English name for a heady drink, let me clarify its status as an immunity booster offering relief from cough and common cold. Without a faint idea of its medicinal value, the red label of the bottle attracted me a lot. It was clear from this indulgence that, during my adult years, I would have an intense association with bottles of all shades and trades.

As I grew up, the bottles soon became conspicuous by their absence. The usual places of stocking them wore a deserted look, and perfume bottles replaced them. The small imported bottles continued to allure me for their sleek design, colour and looks. But I missed the earlier appeal of wine bottles. Perhaps, my parents grew aware of the possibility of my tasting liquor in their absence or smuggling the bottles out of the house for my friends. The steady disappearance of the cocktail cabinet made me fond of standing in front of wine shops in the neighbourhood – to admire the variety of bottles on the shelves. The fear of being seen by a familiar face dampened my enthusiasm as it would earn me the tag of a teenage drinker. Nobody would believe I was eyeing them with an artistic bent of mind. I would never be able to scotch the rumour that I was damaging the reputation of the family by queuing up in front of wine shops if some archrivist or detractor got the chance to tarnish my image with the liberty of distorting the reality by taking me to the wine counter, with outstretched hands for a pint.

The sight of newspaper advertisements flashing liquor was another source of vicarious excitement. The bottle was the real hero and not the couple in the advertisement. For me, the satisfaction of drinking cannot surpass the joy and thrill of admiring the art of wine bottles. Drinking fine wine has an aristocratic and classy appeal, but the art of looking at fine wine bottles drew me closer to advertising while in school. The catchy lines written next to the visual always made me think of penning similar lines that would intoxicate readers. When I fumbled and stumbled into advertising with the desire to view fresh images of wine bottles and craft copies, the ban on liquor ads dashed my hopes, leaving me high and dry. Not a single line for a surrogate soda or mineral water ads from any liquor brands to date is how the reality stands pegged. 

There was a keen urge to hold a bottle and drink from it, but it was limited to aerated drinks. I indulged in heavy drinking of the soft variant until the intestinal walls revolted against the toxic overflow. When it was time to repair the damage, I preferred to go for syrup bottles instead of pills and capsules. Flaunting a shelf of syrup bottles of various shapes with varied tastes helped alleviate my suffering. During a bout of cough, cold, or allergy, I demanded syrup. If there was a need to boost vitamin levels, I chose syrup. Whenever the liver or any other dysfunctional organ needed care or relief, I would request the doctor, as much as possible, to provide me with the scope to drink syrup, preferably with a fruity taste. Sometimes, the kind doctor added a syrup bottle to the prescription to address flatulence when I disclosed my regular preference for oil-rich, deep-fried intake. Having syrup made me feel less sick. It was more of an energy drink that gave a feeling of stamina and wellness.

Though nothing in life generates the feeling of purity like a bottle of fresh, toned milk – the only bottle that reminds me of my childhood compulsion to gulp down its contents as it arrived from the nearby booth. Spotting the flavoured milk bottles in shopping malls generates a similar scary feeling even today. But I see health-conscious young people drinking chocolate and strawberry-flavoured milkshakes, holding a cigarette in the other hand to balance tradition and modernity as opposed to those days when something needed to be added to the milk to ensure children did not complain.

With the arrival of non-alcoholic beverage bottles made of dark coloured glass, bearing close resemblance to beer bottles, the style factor has gathered fizz. Aping young folks standing outside large-format stores, leaning against decorative lamp posts, with a bottle in hand, I also went in for a similar drink that would charge me like a bull, ready to attack the sight of anything red. A taxi driver waving his red cleaning cloth – perhaps to suggest the breakdown of his vehicle or alert pedestrians to any danger like potholes on the road – was not worth reacting to in anger. Holding the empty bottle in search of an empty bin, I walked up to his yellow cab briskly, and asked him politely, “Sealdah chaloge¹?” Before I could get his reply, a stray dog came rushing my way, making me run and jump the railing for safety.

.

1. “Will you go the Sealdah?” Sealdah is a neighbourhood in Kolkata ↩︎

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

Uncomfortable with my political views aired unexpectedly inside his salon, the savvy barber, swinging in his fifties, swung into rapid action by making a flower bloom on my head. A cadre of fierce loyalty, he chose to operate without showing a hostile reaction. His hands got together for an act of mischief, with the party symbol taking shape in the back of my head. His fiendish attempt to groom me as a party worker fetched partial success as he fumbled to get his floral designing right. The final shape he managed to accord was such that it was impossible to identify the flower, with several political outfits with floral symbols competing for political aggrandisement in the local town. The remote resemblance still made me think why I couldn’t gauge what he was up to, why I let this happen after surrendering my head in good faith to him while rambling on the rumble and tumble of politics. In hindsight, I should derive consolation from the fact that the rabid supporter, with scissors in hand, could have shown a much worse violent streak and I was lucky to have escaped unhurt. 

Earlier, when I roamed around freely, nobody dared to call me a party worker. But now my teashop friends would be keen to excavate details of my allegiance, which party I swore allegiance to. It was better to let confusion prevail or else I would be stereotyped as a political aspirant though the truth remains that nobody in our family or dynasty has ever contested, leave aside won any election for generations.   

During my next hop to the salon, I had queries lined up for the barber, but he was busy with his loyal customers. A few people waiting around stared at my face and head with the designed cut. Finally, when I had the chance to ask the barber why he had experimented with a design on my head, he sounded evasive and denied having any such nasty intention. He defended his innocent act by blaming me for being unsteady and shaky. When I tried to make him recall the details and his intent, he started a sudden conversation with another customer to deflect attention, asking him what to do with his goatee. When I sounded hell-bent on seeking an explanation, he cleared it was not a party symbol he intended. He fished out his camera phone, zoomed in, clicked my head and warned me to stay away from his shop or else he would be compelled to post the picture of my head on social media channels tagging local heavyweight politicians, though that was the last thing on his mind. 

Becoming an object of ridicule was unacceptable so I chose to disappear from his shop without further discussion. A fanatic supporter could stir any controversy to gain mileage. It was safer to forget the entire episode as the worst nightmare of my life. I had no intention to air political views with a haircut which announced to all kinds of people a political opinion towards which I was indifferent. My best friend also warned me of the ramifications and urged me to go bald right away, to avoid escalation of political conflict. Perhaps it was genuine advice to save me. The next day, I stepped into a branded unisex salon for a neat, nifty job of turning my head into a cleared space. He quoted a hefty price for tonsuring my head, but it was much less than what I would have to cough up in case I was caught in the political crossfire.  

Identity matters are crucial both in terms of flaunting and hiding – depending on which community one belongs to. Since both parties were active in the area, I had the fear of being roughed up by the cadre of either party and asked to clarify which party I belonged to. Since I am apolitical by choice — evident from my reluctance to vote for any political dispensation — the safest option would be to cover my head with a cap or hat to avoid any question about why I went for a bald look or what a tonsured head signified in the heat of elections. There would be discomfiting scenes when the neighbours started throwing the odd question. Maybe someone would find the look quirky enough and post it on a social media platform as a classic case of a fence-sitter or a rank opportunist would give it the final shape after seeing who wins, which flower blooms – the turncoat types waiting to lap up the right opportunity. In my case, the housemaid was the first to notice the change and sympathised: “Your bouncy hair is all gone, a terrible experiment that raises concerns.”    

The new avatar was the outcome of my quick visit to the reputed hair stylist who egged me to avail of tattoo and beard trimming services though I was well past my prime to sport any of these. Business targets compelled him to pitch these services to all kinds of customers and persuade them. Despite a handlebar moustache as a fearsome icon, I caved into the suggestion, and he then proceeded to snip it. After doodling a small rosebud on the nape right below the collar, he suggested I should remove dark circles from under my eyes using their special serum. I agreed reluctantly to buy a golden facial grooming session to improve the overall look.

The entire package pinched my pocket, but the makeover did give a facelift to my personality and erased the fears of becoming a victim of a political bash-up. I took a selfie and posted it as a profile photo but the response to my glow was unusually slow and the makeover got fewer likes than earlier for some strange reason. The brazen attempt to look younger and dapper, and being fairly successful at having gained the look,  was perhaps the reason that stoked jealousy in my peers. The tattoo of a rosebud was a romantic add-on when I should have ideally gone in for something like a lizard or snake as my venomous tongue unleashing spite was notorious all around. Even a cult icon would have suited my age, but not these teeny-bopper love symbols though these were safer than party symbols.

When the elections were over, none of the floral symbols won, but a newly formed party swept the polls. I was relieved I was rendered safe and went to the barber to see how he sulked now. I was surprised to see he had switched loyalty. The new party colours were spread all over the salon with posters. As I was about to take potshots, the barber did admit belatedly he had intended to draw a party symbol on my head the last time but could not do it perfectly well. His new party had a very simple symbol, and it was easy to draw for any novice. The intended threat was enough to make me beat a hasty retreat as my tonsured head had already raised an abundant harvest of salt and pepper hair within a couple of months.  

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