Category: Musings of a Copywriter

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

The Sherwani and Me

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Sherwani
Lehenga
From Public Domain

What you will do with the sherwani? Do you think you will wear it again?  You remember you haven’t tried it once in the past ten years? Why don’t you start wearing it as an overcoat in winters? Have you decided to keep it as a relic or what? Can’t you see it is occupying so much of the wardrobe space? Will the shoulders fit? Why don’t you just donate it now? The barrage of questions left me wondering how to answer with brevity and conviction.

The wedding lehnga with heavy brocade work was also consuming plenty of almirah space. It was also not used once in all these years. But it was not gifted to any needy woman tying the nuptial knot with unfulfilled dreams of wearing a lehnga on her wedding day. It was preserved with care and concern, with naphthalene balls placed in the corners of the almirah to save it from damage. I had never raised these queries but my sherwani emerged as a prime piece of shimmery clothing that attracted her critical attention. I had a nagging feeling that she was planning for its ouster. I had to chalk out an emergency plan for its occasional, if not regular, use to ensure that she lost interest in my royal outfit forever.  

Since I did not attend wedding receptions because I expected to be welcomed and treated like the groom everywhere, I did not get the scope to wear the sherwani. Many friends — esteemed and otherwise — of the groom wore the sherwani. It was considered perfectly stylish. To revive the old tradition, I went to attend a wedding reception in the local area where I was told by some jealous acquaintances that my sherwani appeared odd and outdated. I looked around to scan the truth. I discovered that I was the only prominent guest wearing the nawabi sherwani while the rest of the invitees looked dashing in their ill-fitting formal blazer suits with printed neckties.

I could not manage a makeover at this stage. I chose to stay dressed in the sherwani and gulped the refreshments from various stalls. My mood and attitude and self-confidence got a tremendous boost when the sherwani invited a second look from the decked-up gorgeous aunties who recalled my wearing the same outfit on my wedding day. They seemed to discuss either my poverty or my simplicity, thanks to their good memory. Poor fellow, he has not saved enough to buy a new wedding outfit in these all years. Look, such a simple, down-to-earth guy who does not flash his wealth.

My wife probably overheard their conversation about my professional shortcomings. She came rushing to escort me and proposed we should leave the wedding hall before someone mistook me for a struggling salt-and-pepper haired poet and asked for a sher-o-shairi [1]session in the mehfil[2].  

My wife had no idea my sherwani would be remembered here as a stunning piece. I rejected her proposal to retreat after greeting the newly-wed couple on the stage. I claimed to be a more charming, well-dressed guy so I chose to hang around the place and observe the reactions of the crowd, get more photographs clicked as a doting couple more photogenic than the newly-weds.

She held my arm in front of the cameras and felt elated that my sherwani still garnered attention. It suited me more than any other formal suit. There were many people who were seeing me for the first time and the element of newness gave me a winning edge in their instant appraisal of well-dressed men present at the venue.  

On the way home after dinner, she surprised me with her request, urging me not to wear the antique piece again when I went out with her. Most of her friends had already seen me in this sherwani. Repetition reveals a lot about financial compulsion was her subtle message. I assured her that my sherwani would never become a source of embarrassment.

There were very few occasions I went out alone for parties. Yes, I went to the market for daily errands, to the bank for withdrawals, to the post office for booking speed post articles. I should make it a habit to wear the sherwani like a casual piece of clothing and wear it off fast to get rid of it at the earliest. I chose not to keep it safe from coffee stains or sauce spill-over while eating burgers or noodles.

Besides, what you start wearing something every day, it loses the tag of being fancy and special. It breeds familiarity and ordinariness. At least that is what I used to think then. Dump it in the laundry box for a normal machine wash instead of taking it gently packed in a carton to the gentle drycleaner.   

Along expected lines, I went to a bank for a transaction. The teller was amused to see me dressed in a sherwani on a sunny, sultry day. Are you attending some function today? He was trying to find a justification for the attire. I said I was just trying to feel the vibe of being a nawab even though my pocket made me feel like a pauper every day. The bank staff broke into peals of laughter and declined to clear the cheque because of insufficient balance in the account. I laughed out loud to confirm the truth of my joke.

I came out dejected, rejected, and chose to walk to the nearby chemist store to buy OTC pills for gastric relief. The florist in the corner beckoned me and sold a rose bud for the sherwani. Now you look smart, he said and charged me ten rupees for the unnecessary accessory. I changed my mind and began to walk home instead of visiting the chemist who would refuse me to identify me as a patient in my present avatar.

I told my wife that the sherwani was likely to foment trouble in my rather peaceful life. She argued it was nice to be spotted in a sherwani in the summer. My sherwani would enable me to establish my secular credentials with ease. She asked me to ignore people and their silly reactions even though she herself had not managed to do that yet. When the husband had already mastered the art of ignoring her volley of queries with a deafening silence, I could easily manage to fob off everything criticism that came my way. A revelation of her offended sentiments put me on the mute mode once again.    

One fine morning, I chose to visit the farmer’s market. They looked at me with distrust, perhaps thinking I was a zamindar who came to exploit them again. The sherwani continued to be identified as an aristocratic dress long associated with the wealthy royals so they chose to vent their suppressed anger on me without realising that the prosperous working middle-class had already hijacked this dress and changed the old narrative and perception.  

They increased the rates of fruits and vegetables to deliver a good lesson loaded with revenge for the atrocities perpetrated by the landed class over the centuries. My appearance in a sherwani provided them with a token opportunity to go hammer and tongs. I found myself poorer when I came back and I felt I should have gifted my sherwani to them to pacify their agitated minds. By taking it off in front of them I would have expressed solidarity with their struggle to expose the exploitative rich.

I confessed to her I couldnot remain in peace when I wore the sherwani in a public space. Finally, I decided to gift it to a young associate about to marry since I thought it would be expensive to order a new one. He refused to accept my sherwani and confirmed his choice of a Western suit, which he had already ordered by paying through his credit card. The sherwani was still quite a wearable, elegant dress and many heroes on the big screen wore it when they danced to woo the heroines during marriage functions. But he wanted to wear what his big boss in office wore every day.  

As a writer, I was made of sterner stuff. So, I decided to make a grand statement of style once again. I added a pen apart from a rose to glam up the appeal. I chose to board the bus or local train wearing my sherwani. Fellow passengers gave a weird look along with ample space to sit comfortably. They looked interested to have a conversation with me to know my pursuit. I said I am a writer who was currently visiting various places to gather material for his new work.

They were ready to accept me as a tourist from the other side of the border. One gentleman beside me asked if I wrote in Urdu or Persian. I said I write in plain English and he shot back with a suggestion that I should wear a coat and necktie like an Englishman.

I tried to sound smart by contending that the suit has already been usurped by corporate honchos and the necktie is a definite sign of slavery in modern times. My non-conformist views did not win instant approval from my fellow passengers who wanted to know my destination and my works. I wanted to share everything I could but the conductor in the meantime announced that my stop was nearby. I chose to get up quickly. My sherwani was damaged atlast! This set me free of the burden. I realised the sherwani was helping me understand the other way people tend to think about dress code.  

Making the sherwani a less celebrated wear by using it casually on ordinary days did not lead to any decline in its appeal as the older people still took note of it and reacted to it. Within a few months of regular use, it gathered lots of stains and spots. She assigned the job of making it squeaky clean to the dry cleaner. I was surprised to see her attempt to refurbish it.

Was it proposed to reduce her burden or was it a sure sign of her emotional attachment? My mind was still tumbling in confusion. When he saw the condition, he said he had not seen such a dirty sherwani in all his life. It was like a piece of everyday clothing, catching dust and grime all the time, wondering if I was posted in a mining area.  

I confessed it was indeed my preferred dress as I wore it often, almost like a standard uniform whenever I went for shopping or dining. He advised me to wear it occasionally to protect it and keep it safe in a plastic cover or else it would lose the shine with frequent cleaning attempts. He pointed at the worn collar. I showed no interest as my lacklustre life would not suffer if the sherwani suffered a loss of sheen. At least my better half would get a logical ground to discard it or exchange it for a kitchen utensil piece.

When I finally saw both the fancy dress items, Sherwani and Lehnga, packed and restored and displayed together in the wardrobe smelling fragrant like fresh rose, I was convinced that our marital bond had got a fresh lease of life.  

[1] Poetry recitation session

[2] Party

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 Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

On Consulting a Physician

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

As one grows older, there is a growing concern about failing health even if no major health issues are detected. Anything that causes a minor aggravation calls for a timely consultation to prevent complications later. Driven by the lure of preventive benefits, I chose to visit a general physician for the comforting thought that a medical practitioner was checking my pulse, monitoring my blood pressure and oxygen levels, pricking my finger for sugar spike, and noting the abnormalities on the electronic gadgets under his control. While he carried out the standard procedural check-ups for deviations, I was finding it difficult to trust these devices just like the opposition political parties cannot trust the EVM for accurate polling results. Since the readings confirmed my overall good health, I ruled out the need to worry about the hidden, undetected alarms ticking away like a time bomb in my system.

I cannot keep my mouth shut when I am in the presence of a doctor – I end up sharing minor details that do not add up to anything significant. My talkative disposition irritates the doctor as he is bombarded with piles of information that prevents him from completing a quick diagnosis. He gets mired in the sea of irrelevant information so most of the medical practitioners, including my dentist, prefer specific, short answers instead of long, rambling inputs.

There is a sense of healing in opening up ones heart in front of doctors but, unfortunately, they do not understand this angle. The catharsis of sorts soothes the mind and the patient feels relieved much before popping the prescribed pills. In one such case, I observed the doctor threatened that he would refer me to the couch of a psychiatrist if I was so fond of conversing. It was a brazen attempt to silence my voice inside his chamber and meekly accept the prescription and walk out.

My attempt to praise his handwriting – even though it was a classic example of illegible scrawl – did not bring a smile on the doctor’s face that resembled the dull visage of a chronic depression patient battling negative thoughts. I had noted the model of the car with doctor’s sign parked outside the chamber and admired his choice in terms of mileage and pickup. Whenever a patient tries to cheer up and behave like a normal person, perhaps the doctor feels a sense of creeping discomfort that he is examining someone who looks healthier than him.

Taking off the shirt in front of a male doctor and his assistant feels like performing in a stripper’s club. Usually, I oppose this assault on my dignity but when there is a need to test or inject, I have to expose. I prefer to be properly clothed with protective innerwear since I do not have a gym-trained body to stoke envy in any gender.

The sagging flesh around the waist and the bulging tummy reminds me of the need to land up on the weighing machine that moves rapidly before stabilizing itself to indicate I am overweight by twenty kilos at least. Wearing a smart watch that calculates the heart rate while a doctor feels my pulse seems like a gross distrust of his expertise. While the doctor writes the pulse rate is normal, the smart watch reads it as elevated. Finally, reposing full faith in what the doctor records, I choose to consider the smart watch as a fun object which you use when you feel something throbbing within all of a sudden.

During a recent visit to a general practitioner who had never set up a private clinic practice before his retirement as a doctor in the railways, I finally woke up to his operational modesty inside a non-airconditioned cubicle sliced off from a chemist store and separated by a curtain. That the medical store hoped to sell more medicines based on his prescriptions was obvious.

This doctor was also known to generally avoid antibiotics and write mild, affordable medicines to prevent side-effects on health and monthly budget. His low consultation fees made him affordable for the middle-class patients. Earlier, he was entitled to a fixed monthly income but now he was enjoying the daily inflow of money to buy fuel and fruits. Even though he did not attract more than twenty patients in a day, he was punctual in attending the chamber in the morning and the evening for six days in a week. This availability of a doctor every day in the same location improved his connection with the local people. He was initially recommended by a friend of mine who said he was dependable for common ailments like seasonal cold and cough, gastric problems, and viral fever. I wanted to promote him as my family doctor but the plan was put on hold. My association with him began for a minor complication that did not resolve with self-medication with over-the-counter drugs.   

My visit did not go down well as it appeared I had irritated him by showering fake praises on his line of treatment. He asked me to stick to my problem. I began by clarifying I did not suffer from constipation throughout my life, that the frequent trips to the loo made me think I suffered from irritable bowel syndrome. This was a medical term I had picked up from online medical sites after matching the syndromes. I was under the impression that his irritation peaked with my self-diagnosis and he was going to throw me out of his chamber where I was seated on a wobbly wooden stool. His own hearing was low as he lowered his left ear to bring it closer to my mouth to follow me clearly. I noticed a fancy aid much smaller than an ear-pod tucked behind to amplify his hearing.

My quick clearance update had no effect on him as he broke his silence with a different query related to bloating.  He simplified it by using the word gas though I had already gathered its meaning. I needed time to decide whether I was bloated. He asked for my full name and age and began to write the prescription. I disturbed his thought process by adding another complication related to blood pressure. I told him I also thought that my BP became high when I am stressed or anxious. I clarified my diet was low on salt. I began to explain what I ate every day, the butter intake and caffeine intake, adding unhealthy snack items from my menu.

The patients waiting outside must have heard the loud listing of samosas, chops, and oily chips and imagined my current situation. Caring two hoots for my narrative, he resumed writing the prescription while I played a bit of tabla on my tummy to show him whether it was making any sort of sound that he could identify with a medical condition in case he heard it properly. But it was nothing more than a case of empty vessels sounding much. While the doctor ignored it, this was my playful attempt to stay relaxed in front of him. He wrote three medicines and started to explain in his soft voice how I should take them. It was hard to understand what he said in his low voice and that made me doubt my own hearing capacity. I noticed he did not prescribe any test at this stage. I wondered if he should have sent me for ultrasound. This fear was grounded when he ignored my crazy musical indulgence and signed off the prescription, asking me to report after a month again. I took a detailed look at it, understanding it was mentioned as a confirmed case of fatty liver. I wanted to opt for google pay but he insisted on cash, unwilling to share his scanner in the fear of being scammed. Since I had consumed a lot of his valuable time, he pressed the calling bell to ask for the next patient. 

As I stomped out of the chamber, the chemist grabbed the prescription from my hand. He fished out those prescribed pills from the plastic boxes placed on the lower shelves and calculated the total payable price after a nominal discount. Since it was relatively low, I managed to buy the stock for the entire month. He specified the time for the medication and there were also ‘after-food’ and ‘before-food’ labels on the packets. When I came home and tried to google their composition, I found the doctor had added a psychiatric pill that is common in treating bipolar disorder and schizophrenia. I wanted to grab him by the collar to ask him why he put me on brain-related drugs as it could slow down my creativity and ruin my fledgling business by keeping me asleep most of my time.

The chemist explained that brain-gut health is interlinked and any disturbance in the gut could generate a counter-effect on the brain. Since they could not be discontinued as per my will and required medical guidance in lowering the dosage first, I dumped the entire pack in the dustbin when he refused to give me a refund. I had annoyed this doctor so much that he thought the best way to punish me was to give me a strong mental dose to contain my erratic mood swings and sudden bursts of laughter noted down as the key symptoms of an unsound mind that mirrored emotional upheaval inside.  

Thirty days later I went again but this time I began with a fresh complaint of worms, those small intestinal worms causing embarrassing itching in public spaces after consuming sweets and chocolates. I showed him graphically using my index finger the approximate size of the ultra slim white worms I had seen moving gently in the mound of poop. Such a vivid description made the doctor feel outraged and he stopped my narrative by writing down a pill for use for two consecutive days and then repeating the same dosage after three weeks.

He wrote this medicine on the reverse side of the old prescription and then proceeded to ask me if I had seen any improvement in my previous complication. I said I could not confirm much improvement, but there was no deterioration either. The status quo prevailed and I laughed out loud which offended him again, making him infer once again I was a mentally deranged fellow who needed psychiatric help.

I paid him with a soiled note and spoiled his mood. He said I could safely continue the pills for another month but I need not return since I had no faith on him. I thought I should have confessed I did not consume his mental health pills even for a day. And the ones for fatty liver were herbal supplements that I was willing to donate to the pharmacy. Why did I make him write prescriptions when I had no intention of consuming his pills and capsules?  Was that a practice exercise for him or a test of his competence?

His clients included older adults who felt comfortable discussing their hernia and bladder health. He wanted to test the strength of his diagnosis without relying on medical tests. Although he failed in this objective, he seemed to have made this a habit. He sounded eager to confirm a disease before the report confirmed it. Many other patients were caught in this trap as his diagnosis did not always match with the test reports conducted late after his experimentation had ended in a fiasco.   

Some months later, I went to consult him again since he was easily available without a long wait. I told him about my neck problem due to improper sitting posture and he wrote some herbal pills and asked me to go for an x-ray as it was a clear case of spondylosis. I shared a few symptoms but he said I did not need a collar yet. When the x-ray econfirmed there was a mild lordosis, he looked happy as he had guessed it right after a long time. A clear case of hitting the bull’s eye on the basis of his medical instinct developed over the decades!

He directed me to consult a physiotherapist and undergo sessions of neck movement exercises for long-term relief and suggested ergonomic back support for better cervical alignment. He advised I should cut down on cold items like sherbet and ice cream. I was asked not to carry heavy objects. But I needed to handwash two buckets of clothes every day for my daily exercise and carry large bags of fruits and vegetables every week. He warned me to cross streets carefully and avoid sudden turning of the neck, to reduce strain and contain the symptoms of vertigo in this ailment. But the sudden appearance of beautiful women on the roads made me forget this alert.

I applied almond oil to relax my muscles and made it a habit to take slow turns like a robot. Much of this was not documented but doled out as verbal advice from a senior doctor who seemed to regret his past misdemeanor.

I chose to exit before he could press the bell this time as I heard the voice of a woman patient waiting outside with a bawling baby to seek urgent consultation. I gave a fake smile and stood up to leave, not ready to wait for his reaction. I came out and told the chemist to give me something for stress and he suggested meditation as the best antidote. Chemists love to supply drugs of their choice and they feel good as compounders consulted for free medical advice. 

When I chose to meditate, I could not find peace. But when I wrote a story, I got peace. I liked this trick and wrote many stories following the same process, ready with an eclectic collection worth publishing. The next visit to the doctor’s chamber was decided after the self-test reports for B12 and Vitamin D3 confirmed a minor decline. Trying to appear fit, I climbed the comfy sponge bed after placing the reports on the doctor’s glass-topped desk. He was basking in the winter sun in the balcony. As I called out to him, he stared at me as if wondering if I were playing the fool again.

My frankness peeved the doctor who was convinced after this episode that I was a hypochondriac obsessed with health hazards all the time. Before he could prescribe anything for it, I mentioned whether there was any possibility of memory loss that could worsen into dementia in the middle years. I wanted to know from him if there was an urgent need to undergo a complete body check-up including CT scan and MRI. It was a pleasure to be diagnosed as a serious patient when he quietly wrote down all that I wanted him to write. The best testing lab and diagnostic centre was giving a mega discount for the first time and I wanted to grab this lifetime offer available for two days!

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 Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

A Suitable Business

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

Spending three decades of adult life without consuming a single drop of alcohol should awaken the introspection. What could possibly be wrong with me? I have been surrounded by friends and teachers who drank and danced together. I have enjoyed their spirited company, but I have never been tempted, never felt inclined to sip what made them tipsy. I have been dumped for not providing unconditional love, but I did not pour wine on my wounded heart for emotional relief. Over the years, I have worked well with seniors and juniors who relished whisky, rum, and beer though I never raised a toast or said cheers. Perhaps the underlying fear that I would end up revealing all my dark secrets in an inebriated state puts brakes on my urge to hit the bottle!

A dry creative life appears inevitable in such a pitiable situation and this worry mounts pressure on me. The haunting fear of failure in artistic pursuits seems likely to push me to the edge of addiction where I am left stranded with no other option. However, I find encouragement from liquor-loving authors crafting flowing prose as they credit this strength to their weakness. Thanking the altered state of mind that generates wild, imaginative ideas under the influence of alcohol. That becomes the blissful reality of their fiction. I reserve my right to try this option if natural stimulants fail to deliver effective results.

We are warned not to hold the steering wheel of a car in a drunken state, forget gliding a pen on paper but here the wine-loving authors draw a comparison to study the difference in their writing output. The sample produced after consuming alcohol reads better than the other writing sample produced when they were sober. The takeaway is that such writing automatically tends to be shaky whereas what is produced after gulping liquor stands strong and holds the reader’s fleeting attention. Retention of such a fine balance of readability and creativity is worth appreciating in the literary circles where intoxicating prose garners critical praise. Till now, I had only known writers and poets drinking liquor because of commercial failure or romantic letdowns. Changing times brew new realities as the creativity booster impact of alcohol has now been verbally and vocally established without conducting any clinical findings.    

Forget the class of art-loving people who cheer up with three cheers to everything that gives a high in this dystopian world, carrying them on wobbly legs to a utopian world from where they do not wish to return anytime soon. Discovering alcohol addiction in a devout self-styled ‘saint’ who preaches the combined therapy of spiritual wisdom and divine living to her growing cult of followers was an eye-opener of sorts for me. Posting pictures of her pouring whisky in a glass and sipping it with her married daughter delivered awareness about the duality present in her character. Her followers had never seen her in this avatar. So, any attempt to bring this reality to their knowledge would be dismissed as a malicious move engineered by circulating her doctored image. While to those who are educated and liberal, she would emerge as a strong-willed lady who has broken the gender barrier and loves to celebrate intoxicating life.

In fact, her alcohol-friendly nature is likely to be read as a bold, receptive move to break free of everything that holds them back in multiple guises. She would come across as a transparent source of inspiration to the womenfolk who should give company to their spouse so that he does not wander into local bars or get into fights for his neat peg, or falls into open manholes or wades through overflowing high drains, creating a bad impression for the entire family and causing heartburn for those who feel ashamed that the householder comes home drunk. As a dutiful wife, she would ensure that he gets the company of his soul mate and drinks along with her instead of seeking exploitative friends and female colleagues to drink with and waste hard-earned money. A dignified step of this kind from a pious guide goes a long way to reforming the husband who gradually tones down his addiction and turns it occasional at home.  

Performing this noble task as a wife is no mean achievement as she has partnered with her alcoholic husband to make him give up this habit. While neither of them kicks this habit, she finds it a source of forgetting the sorrow of widowhood as she drinks to mourn losing him forever now. She finds a group of kitty party friends to continue the habit of drinking and trying out new wines to keep her skin glowing.

When I told this to her daughter who was once slightly fond of me, she said she was aware of it since her college days, and it was her family tradition to drink liquor without gender discrimination. She called it a sign of progressive outlook and cited examples to differentiate between addiction and casual drinking, to position themselves as drinkers, not drunkards, calling it my narrow thinking to blend them all without any pride. She said her spiritually awakened mother was a sober drinker of quality wines, and she never entered into any brawl with neighbours or guests, never created mischief or spoke ill against them. Such a robust attempt to defend her mother’s drinking habit gave me a real high and I wished I could encourage some women of my household to seek inspiration.  

My father and my slew of uncles were classified as occasional, seasonal, festival drinkers more active during the winters or weddings. I had the privilege of holding their fancy bottles in my hand during my childhood, just like trophies won in tournaments. I could rattle off the names of popular brands of whisky and create a flutter in my circle of friends who envied my vast knowledge and predicted I would grow up to be a heavy drinker. Their prediction remained unrealised.

My distaste for alcohol stems from close observation of people who ruined their promising careers after hitting the bottle and not all of them were in the creativity business. The loss of their potential contribution made me feel the world would have been richer if they had stayed away from alcohol.  

What usually begins as a flirtation with beer because of low alcohol content and more froth, suddenly graduates one to more toxic stuff that causes organ damage though many alcoholic folks also guzzle black coffee to limit liver damage. Whether they are successful in reversing it or not is inconclusive, but they have a sense of satisfaction that they made genuine efforts to improve their overall health. I still remember one middle-aged uncle who came home drunk to attend the funeral ceremony of my father. Even today I find his liver rallying behind him without turning fatty, supporting him well without complaints or transplant needs though he is almost ninety now and a chronic drinker who has not cut it down to maintain organ health.   

Much younger cousins have kept alive the family tradition by making alcohol an integral part of their lives. They have made it a mission to take the legacy forward and become chronic drinkers who drink gallons. The entire town knows about their drinking parties and many family friends read this as a sign of destruction. But the fact that they are prospering at a faster rate than many of us should end all speculation regarding decay and doom. Not drinking liquor seems to imply in this case that the person has not grown up as a well-balanced professional. One who cannot hold himself after a few pegs does not hold any promise, so this lucrative trade makes me seriously ponder over the scope of becoming a wine merchant myself – or setting up a distillery unit after my romance with distilled words fails to win hearts.

I was recently introduced to a successful entrepreneur from the local belt who has tasted success in such a start-up. He won the respect of a community that refuses to acknowledge creativity as a respectable pursuit. However, it shows love to the ‘respectable’ businessman with shady contacts that deserve to be exposed instead of getting lauded in the community that looks desperate to seek his company. They love to take photographs with him and post them in social media. The religious gatherings are incomplete without his presence and he has to be present to begin any auspicious program, as if he is the lucky fellow and God’s beloved child who can do a great job for the entire community while the truth is that he is poisoning the entire populace. Yet, he wins claps instead of slaps from holy men and politicians offering support and protection.

People rise up from their seats when this wine merchant enters the room. I was lucky (not sure) to be introduced to him and he sought to know what I did for a living. When I said I was a writer, he lost interest in me. Considered useless, I was pushed aside and never smiled at again. My presence, he pretended, was as valuable as my absence. The wine-seller was calling the shots. Even the priest genuflected before his materialistic prowess, showing his readiness to cancel appointments or reschedule them just to ensure he was given top priority — another stark reminder that VIP culture remains dominant in religious spots.

So I decided to join the bandwagon. On a barren parcel of land in a faraway area outside the city, I decided to set up a distillery. This has won hearts. The foundation stone laying ceremony is yet to be performed but the entire area is abuzz with excitement that a new distillery is coming up here. The populace that enjoys booze will come from the nearby areas will come to find out more about the plans of completing this unit and how soon the new liquor will be available in the market. Thay are curious to know if it’s going to be local or foreign liquor. With so much of information and misinformation flying around like dust, the distillery has garnered attention. There are congratulations flowing in – something I did not get in any other profession. They have blessed me to be successful as I make the community proud of doing a great service. Something I never received in my earlier attempts to continue doing a creative job. My exit from it is now certain as I am planning to focus on the new business venture launched in partnership.

If I had been a failure in creative work, I would have hit the bottle. So, I must ensure my safety and not drink my own distillery products to heal my agonies and forget my failures. A failed artist seeking refuge in alcohol is a nightmarish idea for me, so it is better to taste material success by selling alcohol and build a fortune instead of wasting time on words and sentences that do not seem to connect with the masses.

I have to benefit from the wine trade, and I am ready to sacrifice my dreams just to make this a profitable business. After that, if I find the time and energy to write, I would consider indulging. Otherwise, I’ll remain focused on making liquor my flagship business. I am sure more powerful heads will notice the change and give acceptance and blessings to my new business venture. My spirit will be charged in the spirits business as I will become the most admired and deified person because I would generate employment and provide fullness to the parched souls even if it devastates the health and future of many households.     

From Public Domain

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 Wild Winds: The Borderless Anthology of Poems

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

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Hiring a Bodyguard

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

The arrival of royalty cheques should fulfill the dream of royal living. And the finest way to showcase royalty is by purchasing a horse and hiring a personal bodyguard. The rest of the worldly acquisitions are bank financed and hence lack appeal. Before I buy a well-bred horse instead of a swanky car, I need to learn how to ride and lose my weight to reduce the physical burden on the stud. Putting this idea into suspension mode for the time being, my present focus is on hiring a bodyguard first.

It is undeniable that the worldly possessions purchased on bank credit are not a genuine indicator of social status. What works better to reflect wealth and worthiness is the hiring of a personal bodyguard who has to be paid a handsome salary out of monthly income. A gun-toting escort, dressed in black, keeping a hawk’s eye all around, is the ultimate sign of luxury that has scaled up my ambition to pursue material success. Jealous folks and sworn enemies cannot bear the sight of a writer being shadowed all the time, protected every minute while they stay exposed to all kinds of threats.

Before they choose to emulate, they need to tell their families what level of threat exists for real and what is just a figment of their imagination. A similar demand raised by other members of the family makes the proposal difficult to implement. Insurance keeps the family financially afloat and hence the householder fails to get an instant approval for hiring a bodyguard. They do not care if a gangster shoots the earning member as the insurance company keeps the family protected with the insured amount in case of his untimely bump-off on a deserted highway or a crowded throughfare.  

A security guard of any housing society cannot be employed for this purpose as the ideal bodyguard needs to be agile, gym-trained, and a sharpshooter as well. Such a rare combination of talents can emerge only after screening multiple experienced candidates with an interesting portfolio of crisis management.

Other people – my fake friends – ask me whether I have written a controversial book that has provoked a fanatic in any part of the world. Writing about myself, making fun of myself, sharing encounters with birds and animals should not ruffle feathers. The question of hurting sentiments does not arise and the justification to get state-sponsored security does not have a valid ground as there is no perceived threat perception. Writing engaging content in a non-discriminatory voice about nature is most unlikely to offend a tiger or a crocodile, not if I do not tend to ignore some and focus on just a few. For me as a writer, the tiny ones and the giant ones provide equal pleasure in equal measure.

On a recent visit to a builder’s office to search for a studio apartment, I was surprised to find the owner entering the premises flanked by two bouncer bodyguards who stood waiting outside the teak-wood door when he walked into his cabin. I was in a hurry so I wanted a quick word but the bodyguards stopped me and scanned me as if I was a big threat to security. When they suspected I was still not tamed and neutralised, they brandished a gun to scare me, hoping that discipline would follow. I told them that this behaviour offended my sentiments and I no longer wished to buy anything from the boss.

The threat of losing a client should have alarmed them but they did not seem perturbed. Instead, they looked ready to cart me away as an unwanted pesky visitor who looked impatient and troublesome, who managed sneak in beyond the reception desk like an intruder crossing the border. That I was not ready to discuss anything with the manager seemed to annoy them but the flip side suggests these builders need to be seen and observed so that one can form an idea if they are likely to siphon off funds and run away to a foreign land without delivering the promised homes. In such an eventuality, their managers would not be found hanging around the rented office to offer possession of the property that has not developed beyond a skeleton in five years. 

Hearing the noise outside, the builder called them in, and the open door offered him the chance to scan me and feel safe enough to allow me in. The bodyguards were surprised! As the boss was in a good mood, I sought a hefty discount and he seemed to agree with a say-cheese smile. The presence of guns did not scare me. I spoke without fear. The builder perhaps appreciated  my courage to speak boldly in the presence of his weaponised bodyguards. He accepted my suggestions and offered a park-facing property with a waiver of preferential location charges. A little bit of courage helped ease off the incoming installment burden.

In the midst of our smooth conversation, he received some threat call on the landline and the security guys became busy with that. A healthy crossfire of abusive words in three languages followed, leaving me clueless and inconclusive since there was no written waiver in my favour yet. The verbal assurance did not satisfy me, but the bodyguards shooed me away, saying that the builder does not write anything on paper.

Maybe he had fears of his signature getting forged and misused. That he said his was the final word was something nobody could question in this office is what I was told. With these bodyguards as my prime witness to my big savings deal, I finally went to the manager and told him what had happened. He seemed to suggest I had broken the protocol as I was pretty fast in reaching out to the owner for discount. He said the property I had finalised had been booked just a few moments ago and the owner was not yet intimated of the closed deal. I could guess this was his trick as he offered the discounted price for a road-facing property instead of a park-facing one with a view of the swimming pool.  

The brazen display of power in front of an ordinary citizen made me look at security as a new symbol of social status. I knew the builder was paying the salary by selling the homes at a premium price and his middle-class customers were bearing the burden for his safety. The corridor was sanitized. They ensured no obstructions remained as the builder had spent an hour in the office and it was time to move out for his next task. The manager said it was time for the boss to visit the welfare centre for animals. His social service ventures consumed much time. His bodyguards escorted him to the car while I was left stranded there without a solution to my problem.

The job of escorting the boss looked easy but the risk of ensuring his safety was high. With threats looming large, especially kidnapping, the bodyguards seemed to be under constant stress, and they deserved the high salary they were paid. One mistake and they could end up losing their lives and jobs if the boss suffered. While it was a good idea to be escorted, the loss of privacy was also a concern as the bodyguards entered the washroom as well. When the nature’s call cannot be answered alone in peace, the build-up of pressure is evident. In case I chose to hire a bodyguard, a similar situation would be unavoidable.  

While a builder has multiple threats from rivals and gangsters, a writer must record an episode of brutal attack or life threat for offending an individual or a community. Since none of that exists in my case, the justification to hire a bodyguard is missing. Besides, the royalty earnings look inadequate to maintain the salary burden of the bodyguard who might point a gun at the writer in case his salary gets delayed.

Creative people who prefer having a pet have to think twice before hiring bodyguards unless they acquire the tag of being a best-seller. The bodyguard dies in a crossfire while saving the employer, but he gets no gallantry award for that. In most of the cases, they end up running away from the scene of crime, to disappear into a thick jungle or a distant village without claiming salary dues in order to save their precious lives. One needs to pore over this practical aspect before signing up a bodyguard.

In case of a heated argument on any issue of conflict or disagreement, the bodyguard could end up losing calm and blow up my head by pulling the trigger. This would cause irreparable loss to the creative world, although other writers might celebrate this untimely ending in private. Imagine the bodyguard staying alert outside but the glass of poisoned water on the bed-side table leads to death or a family member kills while the writer sleep.

I have given this a second thought and decided to hire one bodyguard for a month just to get the royal experience. A bodyguard employed outside returned home when the bombing in a foreign city began so I offered him a job for a month for his pocket expenses. He accepted my modest offer and started following me. But he looked pretty relaxed during his duty hours. I told him I work as a writer who has many hidden enemies. He was not impacted by my words. There was a wide gap between us. For instance, he was still in the cafe while I was about to cross the main road. I told him these counted as lapses. He still wondered why a person would kill an innocent soul like me. I said you never know fanatics. No logic works when they pump bullets from point-blank range. He was not affected by these grave words.

He ate burgers and pizzas with me and went for shopping trips. He stood outside my writing chamber and felt bored. I opened the garden-facing window one day and he rushed to the front side of the lawn. He advised me not to open the window as a sniper with a laser gun from another building rooftop might target me. His guideline was clear: If you want to write, keep windows shut. Working in an enclosed space made me claustrophobic. I could not write in peace and under surveillance all the time.

I posted his pictures on my social media handles – to boast that I had a bodyguard watching over me. There were weird comments as to why I was wasting resources that should be saved for my retirement. After getting trolled, I defended myself by saying I was gathering experience of this kind to peep into the lives of security personnel, to know what it meant to follow and get followed. But it evoked emojis of laughter. I paid the bodyguard his monthly salary and asked him to deposit the air gun to avoid any potential misuse. 

In this entire exercise I noticed that my image of a bold, fearless writer took a severe blow. I lost scores of followers and readers who concluded I was a scared type of writer who was not worthy of being inspiring.  

 .

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

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Missing the Tail

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

In the evolutionary journey, we have achieved a lot to feel proud of. In the gradual process, we have lost something that could have proved to be an asset. However, there is no human record of regret ever registered to mourn its absence or disappearance. Instead, the actual loss is interpreted as a tangible gain for the entire human race that would have suffered a slowdown if the tail had remained an organic hurdle attached to our lives and bodies. Getting rid of it before we acquired the present shape and structure is, therefore, considered a divine blessing except by some crackpots who indulge in overthinking to find novel ways of making the tail relevant to human lives once again and shift perception in its favour through a robust narrative listing its utility value in a tech-driven world.   

The tail remains alive in our vocabulary as many fellow inhabitants from the animal kingdom continue to sport it with style. Some cricketers are called tail-enders and heads and tails phrase is still relevant when it comes to tossing a coin. The aircraft went into a tailspin and so did the share prices – thus, it’s used in popular parlance. We have plenty of examples in various cultures, communities, and languages where the tail is fondly quoted for wisdom and comic relief but the ideas of strength, flexibility, and relevance are always derived from its appearance and existence in other animals, big or small and meek or beastly, to feed our collective imagination.

The tail would have been cumbersome for people already struggling with time management in the fast-paced world. The extra weight and length would have complicated mobility and added to maintenance costs. While there are multiple benefits of being born without a tail, the presence of the long rope-like appendage would have added the excitement of improvisation and made human beings look more animal-like, although they are already fiercely competitive in displaying beastly behaviour. Since nobody finds the time to focus on the aesthetic appeal and the swag the possession of the tail imparts to an animal, the side of beauty of the furry extension gets completely overlooked and the possibility of its attachment to the human body sounds more like a scary proposition rather than a meaningful addition.  

Thinking of the tail gives handle to wild ideas. Imagine a ramp walk – or a cat walk – with super models of all genders flashing the latest apparel and strutting the stage with a tail sashaying behind to make them resemble flashy fashion icons. It is just the beginning of how the tail would acquire space in the minds of the young generation and the extent they would go to bring it back to their lives – opting for artificial ones to make themselves look different from the rest. Such a trendsetting development would raise further demand for the tail and the universe would receive messages for its re-introduction.

Losing the tail has cut us off from the animal world but we still tend to commit bestial acts by calling ourselves distinctly different in appearance from other tail-bearing animals. We boast of getting rid of the tail that is common to four-legged creatures such as dogs, donkeys, cats, cows, elephants, pigs, horses, tigers, and lions. The loss of the majestic tail, if one looks intently at animals, stokes feelings of envy and deprivation at times. The movement of the tail reveals a lot: when the dog experiences joy, the wagging of the tail is natural, mirroring how the pet feels inside. But a smiling human face, even that of a close friend, hides true feelings and often misleads. Maybe, the tail attached to human beings would become a true indicator of the state of mind, a kind of lie detector that exposes everything that the human face hides.

The wild horse of imagination is galloping fast. Designers would get the chance to explore innovative ideas of how to cover or style up the tail. Had the prized object been foldable or a wrap-around-the-waist type, unique ideas of carrying it like a belt could have been tried out. For menfolk, the tail would be easier to flaunt as a stylish accessory. For women, having managed long, flowing hair reaching below the waist, they are naturally adept at sporting long tails without fuss. Besides, the tail promised to be a safety weapon. With spikes erupting on its surface to shield the female sniffing danger of any kind. The tail could stiffen at the right time and prevent episodes of harassment in public spaces, inside crowded trains and buses, acting as a preferred, reliable tool of self-defence.

The furry tail could open up new businesses, with the introduction of a new range of tail-care products that include shampoo, oil, cream, and moisturizers. The beauty parlours struggling for more revenue would get clients looking for professional tail grooming sessions. Tail colouring products of the herbal kind, tail combs and glittering tail clips would deluge the market. Colouring the tail to match the outfit would become the new craze. If the same colour provided by nature turned dull and boring or lost its sheen, the person would have the freedom to colour it differently again and again.  

With global temperatures rising, the tail could possibly work as a natural coolant for the body, warmer in winter and cooler in summer, allowing adjustable options. Toilet seats and chairs of all kinds would be redesigned to accommodate the new part of the human body. This would perk up trade and business, with the introduction of newly designed furniture items – chairs for offices, schools and college desks, and benches in courts and eateries giving space to the tail. Travelling inside trains, cars, or flying by airplanes would also involve remodelling of seats, thus providing a big fillip to the global industry.  

The tail could assist humans as a sensor to gauge a lot in advance. Maybe the tail would get a vibrational alert of imminent natural disasters and sense earthquakes and tornadoes. If we had a tail, we could also become sensitive and kind to animals. The tail could be short in length or long, depending on the height of the person, and the colour of the tail would be a natural contrast. The tail should ideally be darker if one is fair — giving a pretty fair idea of how black and white can combine at the same time, taking pride in neither and considering colour to be immaterial, subtle or pronounced. Fair-skinned people, both men and women, should get dark tails and vice versa, making this world less unequal, less discriminatory.  

In the age of robots, when human look-alikes are designed, it is time for nature to spring a surprise and the tail could well be a surprise in this regard. Recalibration would be required to align with the new shape of human structure and if the new-borns come to life with this new add-on, it could well be a game-changer of sorts, with the adult world clamouring for similar attachments to match with the evolutionary pace of nature even if it leads to reversal.

The fun element of having a tail cannot be sidelined. It amuses a lot to see animals around swishing it in style. When humans get the tail, they would need to adjust accordingly, and find multiple uses to justify its existence for centuries. The fear of the tail getting caught while closing door would be painful for its owner. Banging of doors would stop forever as people would be more careful about anger control. Any injury might prove serious and a replacement of the tail would not be available like other prosthetics designed by medical experts.

Instead of checking the pulse in the traditional manner, the tail would suffice for medical examination. Test vitamin D, lipid, haemoglobin, glucose levels with a prick on the tail instead of drawing blood like a vampire through the syringe. Body temperature and fever could be checked by placing the thermometer on the tail and the soft touch of the fur could reveal the perfect degree.

As everything is basing itself on face recognition, technology could also develop tail-based tests to study life span, DNA, and bring tail recognition tools to conduct psychological tests for memory, and neuron health to study personality types and disorders in the brain. Already, we have doctors who suggest a strong link between gut health and brain health and so the possibility of tail health and brain health would not be ruled out as future researches could reveal a deeper interconnection.

The tail could become a reliable source of support, making animals feel less threatened and closer to humans. The tail could be a unifying factor in this regard. Besides, holding hands and exchanging warm greetings could get replaced by simply wagging the tail. For romantically-inclined types, the shape and movement of the tail could offer compatibility insights. Tying the tails of the couple could be the equivalent of tying the nuptial knot. Covering up the tail in silk, brocade, polyester, or cotton could make it look fabulous. Matching clothes would render it stylish, engaging fashion icons with refined taste to bring out offbeat variants of couture clothing during festive seasons. Instead of shaking a leg, the new mantra would be all about grooving and shaking the tail.

People with fancy tails would become the new normal, exercising better control over their lives as the tail would carry profound secrets of success in life. The tail would have hidden mysteries revealed to those who would understand and respect the tail. Academics and professors would look smart with their restless tails inside the classrooms.

During free hours, the tail could be used as a handy tool swat flies. Dusting off seats in public spaces with the help of the tail would suffice and attaching heavy luggage to the tail instead of dragging suitcases for hands-free comfort would be another big benefit for the future generations travelling across the globe without the fear of theft lurking in their information-loaded minds. With the tail emerging as a clear favourite with immense utility value for people across gender and class, this tale should engage readers to build a strong defence and show tell-tale signs of how this weird demand should gather further momentum even if the appearance or availability of the tail as part of humans remains a fanciful idea for centuries to come.

From Public Domain

 .

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

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Horoscope or Horrorscope?

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

It is a matter of joy that my existence in this world has been largely successful in proving my birth chart predictions wrong. This has now fossilized into my belief even though my mother held a different viewpoint. Ever since I got to read the prized booklet in my teenage years, I was disturbed about my life as an adult and my life span. I was classified as an early achiever of success scheduled to play a long innings. So, I planned to delay almost everything and become a late bloomer instead. Success earned late lasts longer was the guiding thought. Imagine a young fellow who was destined to get his hands on everything considered worth acquiring. Contrast these projections with his determination to put everything on hold, to express solidarity with millions of others who have to struggle very hard and for too long to finally become an achiever. Being stubborn to refuse what fate has ordained sounds crazy and suicidal but that was the rebellious streak that glowed like a firefly in my head during those days. 

Wherever I found I was supposed to clock a win or hovered close to winning, I chose to withdraw, step back, or slow down to help another person in greater need of it. Such noble sacrifices were not included in my horoscope, but I gave no scope to destiny to remote control my life. After all, it did not include any career option of my choice and so the glowing tales of a ‘successful’ life meant little. While my mother was glad that the birth chart made it sound all good for me, a roller-coaster ride worth envying, she was upset that I was in a challenging mode, holding my will superior to what the astrologers had outlined in those few hand-written pages. I had some vital questions to raise and clarify doubts. When I expressed the desire to meet the astrologer who drafted my future at the time of my birth, she said he had departed from earth, leaving no scope for me to chase him for an explanation or seek a partial rewrite. There was no way I could convince myself that I was supposed to spend my entire life as per his forecast even though he foretold an abundance of material possessions and windfall gains.

Considering the prediction that I was going to be settled abroad around the age of thirty, I chose not to seek my fortune outside the country, believing that only the meritorious students deserve to go abroad for higher studies or only the highly educated get employed there. Nothing could materialise without the passport, so I delayed acquiring it in my early twenties. My singular focus was to ensure that I was academically unfit for the international job market. Although the extended family gave importance to settling abroad, and many relatives of my generation were upskilling themselves and secretly planning for the big break in the foreign lands, my lack of ambition stoked serious concerns as they concluded it quite abnormal that a young fellow does not dream of flying across continents. When they offered real life examples of how some of our relatives had a better, more ‘secure’ life and they were doing exceptionally well in Canada and Australia, I showed no interest in their immigration tales and chose to furnish a divergent viewpoint of domestic success being a greater challenge in an overpopulated job market.  

The holidaying arriviste from New York – an architect of a brilliant career in the field of computers – was eager to know what I was pursuing as we were the branches of the same family tree. When I disclosed that I was into media studies, he was visibly relieved that I would not be seeking any favours like sponsorship, internship, scholarship, or referrals. He was expecting me to praise his global success but my lack of curiosity in his professional breakthroughs made him furious within. His arched eyebrows suggested an element of shock when I mentioned I had zero interest in shifting to a foreign country in search of greener pastures. He read it as my lack of self-confidence to compete globally. He suggested I should mingle with those friends who have a strong urge to move abroad and develop a similar expansive mindset instead of remaining a frog in the well, with those outdated ideas of roots keeping me stuck and decaying my potential. His words failed to stir me or change my outlook, and I maintained that staying local but thinking global was sufficient for me. There have been big achievers who never boarded a ship or a plane, yet they were recognised by the world over for their contributions. 

Many friends were exploring opportunities abroad although they kept it as a closely guarded secret to reduce competition. My steadfast refusal to ape them was as source of disappointment, generating fears that the horoscope must have missed out some crucial details or the exact time of birth was recorded incorrectly – a difference of a minute or two possibly changed the entire calculation grid. That I had managed to raise questions on the accuracy of the birth chart was a big achievement, but my mother started scanning the newspaper classifieds for another experienced astrologer who could accurately read my palm and forehead and find out what the future had in store for me. I was sure that the excessive crisscrossing of lines and their lengths and breaks would confuse any seasoned palmist, making him lose patience to further read between the lines.

When I told my close friends that writing could be practiced from any part of the world, they argued that the opportunities to succeed in writing were non-existent within the country. The Western world offered a better life to mediocre writers as well. When my mother understood that creative pursuits were a priority for me, she tried to find some linkage with the birth chart once again. She did succeed in establishing a connection with writing and the business of iron. After all, books and newspapers began their printing journey with the use of metal in the early stages.

As the years passed by, she was convinced that her son would not move out of the city, forget leaving the country. Applying for a passport when it was well past the ‘right’ time to migrate was explained as a necessary step to ensure a holiday abroad though the vacation never materialised. Aside from some minor errors in calculations, she was unwilling to concede that the horoscope was fundamentally misleading. Just then a work-related opportunity in a neighbouring country arrived my way. When I refused to accept it, she was relieved that though late, the horoscope was right to suggest the professional breakthrough abroad and it was my decision to let it go. No more arguments on the accuracy of the birth chart as she felt quite victorious after a long phase of wait. An international opportunity gone waste gave a high of a different kind. My satisfaction that I was not crossing the border disappointed my mother, but I was happy to stay in my homeland.

That I was supposed to be a businessman according to the birth chart was another prediction that haunted me like a nightmare. I was keen to prove it incorrect. Those were the days when the self-employed or freelance professional tag was not in circulation so there were just two categories for astrologers to focus on. The iron business forecast consumed my energy as I feared I would end up being a scrap dealer instead of a global metal magnet. My confidence remained perpetually low, and the fundamental lack of ambition drove me insane. An overdose of humility and modesty stifled my voice to rise and shine.

When I told her about words being the complete world for me, she was happy the prediction was right. Words and books need paper and printing press, so my business of writing had the iron component in it. As per her assessment, the astrologer won despite my best attempts to prove him wrong. She gave a creative spin to those predictions and find some solid connection with my choices. Being published abroad meant it was going international and writing had metal and mettle associated with it. While I stayed happy with the conclusion that the astrologer was wrong, she stayed happy that the astrologer had predicted everything correct and things were unfolding in accordance with what the birth chart foretold.

Talking about life span, it is better to stay silent. I should not pose a challenge just to prove the astrologer wrong. Though I hated the long life he predicted for me as I wondered what I was supposed to do for so many decades, with each passing year now, I feel there is so much to achieve and the prediction gives solace that there is still enough time to fulfil my pending dreams as the journey began late due to my stubborn approach. Whenever I am doubtful about my future on this earth, I fish out the horoscope and read the short paragraph highlighting my long-life span and heave a sigh of relief.

 .

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

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

‘All Creatures Great and Small’

Narrative and photographs by Devraj Singh Kalsi

My neighbour, leaning against the boundary wall, informed me that the cow stood waiting for me at the entrance gate for more than an hour. While many people feel delighted to keep others waiting, a sense of guilt pervades me in case I am held responsible for delays. Although my friends never waited for more than five minutes for me, here was a new friend from the animal world telling me there are exceptions. I wore an apologetic look when I opened the gate, with the cow stepping back to grant me the space to enter comfortably with the year-end sale shopping bags.

Our regular bovine visitor stood firm on the hind legs of patience and mooed once or twice to draw my attention to the pending chores. A sort of gentle reminder that the feeding exercise should be marked as a priority since I was back home from the marketplace now. My communication skills with human beings are poor, and here I was faced with the bigger challenge of non-verbal communication. I did not know how to make the cow understand I was really sorry – and keen to make amends by serving her some something special. After the long hour of patient wait, the cow deserved a wholesome treat. Haven’t we all heard the popular saying that the fruit of patience is always sweet? Surely, it extends to other creatures belonging to this universe because the same laws of nature govern the lives of birds and animals as well.

When I returned to the gate, the cow looked at what was in my hands. As I served her a plateful of jaggery chunks, she relished the sweet offering instead of the usual serving of potatoes and vegetable peels. Her slow mastication while establishing direct eye contact with me seemed like an act of gratitude. I stood gazing at her to see if she needed a second helping. She chose to sit down and spread positive vibes. Guessing that she needed something else, I went inside to bring wheat flour or cabbage leaves. The offered items did not make the cow restless to stand up and eat, suggesting that she was already full. She focused on better digestion and exercised self-control unlike human beings who eat excessively and then complain of bloating and over-eating.

Her presence was certainly auspicious but the stray dogs stayed away from the heavyweight cow, lurking in the corner and waiting for their daily quota of biscuits for glucose boost-up to chase cyclists and bikers. As the biscuits descended in their direction like manna from heaven, they ran together for their share while the cow looked at them once and then shut her eyes to concentrate on relaxation techniques, occasionally swishing her tail to make flies maintain a healthy distance from her body. When a cawing jet-black crow flew down and perched on her back, scanning the crumbs lying scattered on the ground to pick up its booty, I stood amazed at the precision with which the bird clutched a big chunk in its beak and flew away to the nearest branch. The dogs kept barking to vent their frustration, to mourn the substantial loss of their share. Oblivious to the chaotic goings-on around, the cow maintained her posture and reminded me of how to stay unperturbed despite chaos and confusion happening around us.

The sight of a composed, unruffled cow was inspirational and it encouraged the dogs to come near and pick up the biscuit crumbs, occasionally keeping a sharp eye on the sudden movements of the cow. Just one quick glance at what these dogs were up to assured the cow that there was no imminent danger in sight. The neighbour, who stood watching this entire spectacle, chipped in with an acerbic comment, sarcastically calling me the chosen one to perform the act of service, blessed with the special ability to match the frequency level of other creatures instead of fellow human beings.

Suspecting it was his clever strategy to duck responsibilities, I urged him to generously feed these creatures whenever he found time from his busy schedule. He said no astrologer had advised him to balance his planetary positions by feeding birds and animals. Attaching a selfish motive to the selfless act meant he saw me as a rank opportunist. Perhaps he felt I was doing it for a short span of time and the bonding exercise would conclude in a month. That this was meant to last much longer was way beyond his imagination and my revealing such grand plans would stoke up further jealousy. It was safer to let him read and interpret everything the way he liked while I should focus on what I was doing – without bothering about how my neighbours reacted to my activities. The day was not far when they would scold and shoo away the birds for turning up at my gate for their dietary needs every day.

As I turned back to enter the house, the birds swooped down in search of foodgrains. While the other species were having their share, sparrows and pigeons pecked around for the leftover stuffs. I replenished the stock on the cemented pavement garden – to enable them to locate the grains with ease. The gentle flock did not raise a flutter, allowing me the time and space to serve them with dignity.

After I came back, their chirping turned high-pitched as they gave a joyous, riotous welcome to the squirrels who came down from the rooftop. What I noticed for a change was some squirrels scoured the area for biscuit bites, suggesting a need for variety in their feed. It was not the staple grain diet but perhaps, they yearned for something sweet and tasty. While some birds were still engaged in pecking the grains, a few rebellious ones joined the troop of squirrels.

As I gained new insight into their dietary preferences, I chose to add biscuits to the menu. Their inclination to have grains looked compromised while the biscuit pieces were polished off really fast. That they were now, with each passing day, getting closer to me, feeling less threatened by human presence, flying over my head at times, and settling down near my feet, came as a pleasant surprise. That I was a harmless creature was certified by their fearlessness.

When the milkman came to deliver, he saw me surrounded by sparrows and wondered at their thriving presence in the mobile-driven world threatening their existence. Their playfulness was evident in their hopping around on the bed of grass. Their landing on the window grille to see the blooming, sun-kissed petunias created a photo-worthy scene and he clicked the fluttering birds on his smartphone before they took flight after this sudden intrusion. Maybe he clicked them mid-flight, in motion, snapping a picture worth sharing with friends and posting across social media platforms to celebrate the closeness.

The tall Asoka trees were where these birds built their nests and most of them disappeared into the green branches after this brief episode of invasion of privacy. That these birds did not have to search hard for food was a good thing since most of their daily needs were met inside the compound. Gaining easy access to eatables was ruining their habit of flying for hours. But to search for food for long hours and then return disappointed was also not a good outcome after a day of hard work. Something that demoralises and compromises the spirit of survival against all odds. The Most cute-looking in the backdrop of the photo frame were squirrels who held the biscuits firmly and took small bites. Being unable to carry them, they split the biscuits into tiny pieces and then rushed off with the booty to the garage rooftop where they could eat without any disturbance and also hoard some bits in the hollow pipes and wall cavities for consumption later.   

This day offered a memorable learning lesson – a reminder that I should not leave the house without making provisions for them. I made a new year resolution: not to be casual about feeding  these creatures. They should not be forced to wait for the resident to return home. Taking them for granted would amount to bad human behaviour, in line with how the world treats those who do not wield any kind of power. One never knows when their hunger pangs turn severe and when these animals turn up at the gate for their feed and relief. The refreshments should be laid out like a buffet spread – to pick whatever they like to eat, whenever they like to eat.

A diverse outdoor congregation cannot be complete without a special guest worth mentioning here: a white furry cat frequents the buffet for milk. The bowl was filled with milk. The cat slowly and cautiously emerged from behind the wall, and began to slurp from the container, taking small breaks to see what the other creatures were enjoying in the garden. Then the cat shook her head quite vigorously to signal the return of fresh energy and stretched her limbs. Spreading herself on the rubber doormat, she looks at my face. Her paws rested on her belly and this perfect chill-mode followed a wide yawn and the need for a post-lunch quick nap.

I disappeared from the scene, leaving the cat alone to enjoy some moments of privacy. Usually, the cat is afraid of dogs, but their presence outside the main gate did not impact her much. They barked a few times to assert their power and she meowed at a competitive pitch in response to register her disapproval during sleep time. Instead of choosing to retreat, the cat remained cosy in her space, and the dogs noticed the royal privilege she enjoyed inside the compound. Their mutual enmity took a backseat for the time being as the dogs chose not to waste their energy on the cat once they found an overloaded motor van to chase on the deserted road.

While they have not become best friends yet, their sense of fear and threat has reduced, giving way to tolerance. When I open the door in the morning, I find the dogs waiting outside and the cat resting on the mat on the stairs. They see each other every morning but they do not disturb each other. The same goes with birds. When the cow arrives, the dogs do not run away, just step aside to allow her space. With their growing acceptance I am more turning more sensitive to their needs.

The bowl meant for the cat has to be washed clean every day before the milk is poured. The grains for birds have to be checked for stones and the jaggery for the cow should be ant-free. No casual disposition but extreme care to ensure the best hygiene practices for them even though these creatures seem to be unaware of consuming clean things alone. Even when there is not much leisure time to serve, my conscience does not allow me to be flippant and finish off everything in a hurry. Cut down on screen time to care for them is what the inner voice urges me to do.    

Ever since I chose to have other creatures as my friends, many of my lost friends and colleagues from the past have reconnected with me. Now the time I spend in the company of birds and cats and cows and dogs is claimed by human friends. I do not feel comfortable to invest heavily on my old friends who proved disloyal and seasonal. Finding a delicate balance between animal and human time is the key to keeping people as well as other creatures happy.

When I think of leaving this place, I am tied down by the needs of other creatures. A holiday trip would deprive them of food supplies so I must make arrangements for them, perhaps ask the caretaker to do it for some days. And if I leave this place forever, I must ask the person who comes next to be generous towards these creatures.

With this diversity of my animal family growing, with new members like mongoose and snakes, I am reminded of the need to be kind to all – instead of focusing on their capacity to harm. Let the slithering snake also join in and drink milk kept aside for the cat. I am confident the mixed community will not make it bare its fangs. The poison inside the snake is quite likely to remain saved unless the mongoose comes around for a challenging bloodbath session. Finding snake skin in the garage suggested it was shed recently and the serpent moved out soon after.

Now the provisions are arranged in advance to last for a month but when there are guests like monkeys trooping in once a week, the stockpile of bananas falls short. The grille gate is their acrobatic zone and they stay suspended to showcase their skills and impress. When I offer them something to eat, they come down fast and grab the eatables without a proper handshake.  

Expecting surprises from monkeys is common. As the priest this year was about to perform annual prayer rituals in front of the car, a big monkey came down from the parapet and grabbed the coconut from the plate and cracked it open in front of the bonnet. The priest offered bananas and the monkey walked away quietly like a brave hero strutting the stage with swag. The priest chanted some mantras and stood watching in awe, calling it divine intervention. He said the monkey god had performed the puja successfully and there was not much left for him to do so he rode off on his scooter with mixed feelings. Whenever monkeys visit my humble abode, I am reminded of this incident that has stayed with me. Perched on the branches, they are least bothered by those shouting at them. The ground floor inhabitants do not matter at all. Learning to ignore is vital for survival. With so much to observe about animal behaviour and mannerisms, I realise I am not quite capable of understanding their feelings. The truth that the world has other important, valuable creatures we need to co-exist with becomes a palpable reality.

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

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

The Monitoring Spirit

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

My spouse was chopping vegetables in the open kitchen, preparing for an evening soup. I was in a hurry to have a quick shower in the meantime. Picking up a fresh towel from the clothesline, I rushed to the bathroom. When I tried to open the door, I found it shut. Through a small gap I peeped in just like that. The sound of water gushing forth reached my ears – along with a faintly audible humming strain of a popular Hindi film song. I pushed it hard, then harder, and finally I realised it was bolted. The sound of music and water stopped ringing in my ears. All I heard was a distinct click of the door lock and it opened on its own. Nothing moved. Nobody emerged. Nothing appeared in sight. But the creaking sound of the flush door created an aura of suspense. I stepped inside and looked around carefully like a cop chasing a killer. The exhaust fan was whirring. The ventilator was half-open. The geyser light was glowing. The floor was wet and the shower was still drizzling. Who was having a shower in the bathroom when there were just the two of us inside the apartment at that time?

I alerted my wife about what had just happened and asked her to examine the spot. She confirmed the presence of a ghost lurking inside the bathroom without moving out of her domain, without a trace of seriousness in her voice. I struggled to maintain my balance on the slippery floor and came out quickly in the fear of getting trapped inside the bathroom with an unfamiliar ghost after another sudden click of the door. When I reached the kitchen, I clutched her hand and sought to know why she had not informed me about the scary entity. Now it was her turn to feel alarmed as she gathered that I was not joking with her all this while. The threat was real and right inside our house.

Clutching my shoulder for physical and emotional support, she held the kitchen knife in one hand and showed the willingness to follow me to the bathroom, fully confident of slaying the ghost by launching a full-frontal attack. I calmed her down and offered a glass of water, to help her regain clarity and focus required to understand the paranormal experience I had just been through. With both of us looking disillusioned after an hour of intense discussion regarding the infiltration of an unidentified entity in our private space, we came to the hasty, premature conclusion that we must vacate this haunted residence or else such encounters would multiply and impact our restful sleep and peace of mind.

This was not the time to argue about permanent solutions. At the earliest, we needed to ferret out the truth and the first brave step in this direction was mine.

We tiptoed to the bathroom. I sang the same lilting song to attract the attention of the invisible bathroom singer. Nothing seemed odd, nothing felt out of place. The door was open. The floor was dry. There was nothing scary. The possibility of a singing spirit residing in this house seemed remote. There were no other residents here and there was no case of murder or suicide recorded in the past. We checked online resources for relevant information about spirits and ghosts – along with their bathing schedules. They were most likely to freshen up in the middle of the night – when the world was yet to wake up from deep slumber.

We tried to remember the names of guests who had visited us in the recent past. But jogging the memory revealed no prime suspects. My wife sprang up with a sudden flashback. She remembered her mother talking about spirits being sent through air during her last phone call with her, almost a month ago. So, this could possibly be a despatch case from my in-laws who wanted to scare me before my wedding anniversary with a Halloween gift.

The most likely reason for this sinister move was unknown and my wife did not provide any inputs. We settled down to our chores. She returned to her soup preparation while I sat down to write something. While I was typing out a new chapter, I heard the sound of anklets. My wife had not worn anklets for years. I tried to concentrate again but the sound became clearer. I was distracted by it so that I trudged to the kitchen and asked my wife if her anklets had been stolen or gifted to any person. But she stated it was kept in the bank locker.

The sound of anklets and the singing inside the bathroom suggested these were attributes of the same spirit and it was definitely female. Was the spirit sent to distract me from writing? I chose to study the pattern and within a few days I found that the spirit was indeed distracting me in multiple ways whenever I was writing while it did no harm to my spouse. I was the sole target of the spirit.

One morning I was typing on my computer and there was a tap on my left shoulder. I turned around expecting to see my wife but she was not there. And later I remembered she did not have the habit of tapping to draw my attention. Her shrill call would suffice. I went inside the bedroom and found her asleep. So, who tapped me?

The phone rang and my mother-in-law sprang up on the phone screen. I woke my wife up and gave the buzzing phone to her, asking her to find out what disturbed her mother so early in the morning. What was the bad news she was keen to deliver? What was the bad news she was eager to hear — whether the spirit she sent was doing a fabulous job or not? My wife decided to call up later. This made me anxious.

An hour later, she came to me and reported that her mother was worried about my writing life. She wanted to talk to me. During the entire chat, the old lady was focused on me rather than her daughter. There must be a strong reason for this odd behaviour. Even though there were many generic possibilities to consider, we were not aware of those negative ones yet. Getting to know that I was doing fine and the writing gig was progressing well, frustrated my mother-in-law and the enthusiasm in her thunderous voice waned all of a sudden. “Has he completed the new novel?” was her main query that went without an answer.

My wife was speechless, clueless. She reiterated she had not revealed it to relatives yet and wondered how her mother knew. I had not revealed to my wife that only two chapters were done. Besides, how did her mother get to know I was working on a novel, certainly more specific than manuscript? Oh, it must have been conveyed by the spirit tapping my shoulder – the medium of transfer. It must be a powerful one indeed, hired with the specific motive of receiving updates on my writing career.  

Pensioners spending a hefty amount on purchasing this entity from a black magic expert was not without an ulterior motive. My wife said she had never discussed the details of my upcoming book as she herself did not know much about it. Even I was stunned to know the specific information from her mother.

I could go mad thinking my wife was an accomplice of my in-laws and ruin my mental peace. The spirit knew not just the chapters but also other details of my book. I asked my wife to wait for some days and see the kind of questions her mother raised. My gut feeling was right. When she called up next, she was curious to know about the plot and the characters – the genre of the book. I had advised her to misinform that I was a writing a horror novel. Though my mother-in-law did not know I had no prowess in this genre, I knew she would not be convinced as the spirit would have revealed the actual content. I deleted the working title of the novel from my computer and gave it a different name to hide the truth. The spirit had to be a well-read fiction-lover to offer the details of my ongoing literary exercise.

 My wife read a few online tips on how to control the presence of spirits and shoo them away like a pigeon from the parapet. She lit fragrant candles and burnt incense sticks to cleanse the aura. The smell slowed me down and made me drowsy and less energetic at times even though it was supposed to drive away all forms of negative energy from the surroundings. She placed a peacock feather on my writing desk to attract positive vibes even though it distracted me.

My wife said she would offer protection and companionship whenever I sat down to write but I preferred to write in solitude. Using a fake file name, I kept my content safely hidden as the fear the hovering spirit deleting it weighed heavy on my mind. I used a pen drive to save the document as an option. A week of zero disturbance meant the spirit was gone after completing its assigned task. I felt I could breathe free now. I sought the opinion of my wife and she urged me not to jump to any conclusion. Perhaps the spirit had changed its strategy. There was wisdom in her words I could not disregard.

One fine morning, my father-in-law called me up, which was quite a surprise, and wanted to know authoritatively what I was doing these days. That I was contemplating quitting advertising to pursue full-time writing was never disclosed to any person so it must have been the spirit deployed to read my mind: “Have you written a humorous novel?” How did he know I was writing a comic novel of sorts with some bit of romance thrown in? This shocker confirmed we were still under the surveillance of a paranormal kind. We were being monitored. I needed to know why the entire family was so obsessed with my writing career.  

Was my device hacked or something like that? Was I being tracked? I did not find any suspicious object attached to my computer but the lizard on the bookshelf staring at me whenever I wrote came under suspicion. It was a regular, routine development and its presence made me fearful. It rarely moved out of that space, making me wonder why it remained so still. To observe my pursuits, to see what I was doing? How could a lizard tell them what I was writing? It was crazy. I decided to trap the lizard one day in a basket, and it went flying into the garden through the open window. It fell on the grass and moved swiftly. Reached for the cemented bench in the garden and sat on top of it, possibly planning how to get inside the house once again.

The phone rang as if in reaction to the violent expulsion. My sister-in-law was on the other side, urging me to stop writing romances since I did not have much idea about the shades of love. The grey shades she meant perhaps. For a man who had not been very supportive of her choices, I was expecting opposition in a big way. She accused me of being anti-love, anti-modern and whatever anti she could add, calling me an outdated, traditional, frivolous, backward thinking loony who faked to be liberal in expressing thoughts but was not practicing anything like that in real life.

If writers started following all that they wrote, all the crime and horror writers would then be behind bars. As a reader, she thought she was in step with the present trends. She knew which books were easy to digest whereas I was difficult to read. She said I talked big and wrote fanciful things that held no significance in life. The toxic outburst silenced me and the connection snapped. I told my wife that her sister had called me to warn me about my poor writing skills. But my wife said she was not interested in wasting precious time on her. If she was unruffled, I decided I should emulate her and let it go.

I looked out of the window to look for the lizard on the bench but it was not there. I opened the door and went out to check the garden area. When I came back to my study room after a futile search, I found it was relaxing on the same shelf, in the same perch. Perhaps the opening of the door gave it the chance to slip in. The smart lizard knew the right moves. The lizard looked at the wall, as if regretted staring at me all day. That it was back meant the lizard would do the same stuff again.

I lost interest in the lizard for the time being as hunger, thirst and new ideas developed all together. I took a break and enjoyed a smoothie first. My wife came to tell me that the lizard was definitely the culprit and the spirit was trapped inside the lizard – something I had suspected from the very beginning. She added this was the lizard bathing and singing songs. Maybe the lizard and the spirit were both inside the bathroom and the spirit came out of the body to have a quick shower? And during such special breaks, it wore anklets and satisfied its urge to practice some classical dance form, a long–suppressed desire the spirit could not fulfil in her past life. I found this construct quite imaginative and gripping.

“After the shower, it went back into the lizard’s body. Lizards are cold-blooded you know,” she added. I was getting derailed from writing my novel and trekking along a different territory. If distraction was their goal, then they were successful. At this critical stage my wife revealed a long-buried secret she had forgotten over the years: her family had urged her long ago to make me end my writing career right after marriage, calling it self-indulgence and unprofitable.

I made it clear to her that I couldn’t leave writing. The lizard looked up when I said so with total confidence. As if shocked to hear this declaration hundreds of miles away, my brother-in-law called me after a decade and complained I was not listening to my better half, always arguing with her. The truth was that my decision to continue writing was communicated by the spirit and they were heavily disappointed they could do nothing to make me obey. The entire family had contacted us in less than a month. It was nothing less than a miracle.

Now was my turn to act smart. I laid a condition to trap him – by saying I would contemplate stalling my writing project if he could explain how they got to know the minute details so fast. I wanted the proof of disclosure from them. Excited, he spilled the beans instantly. He said there was a spirit trapped inside a lizard that tells them everything – including what we eat and drink every day. A singing spirit, a bathing spirit, those anklets and every other disturbance created in the house was deliberate. I was furious to be fooled in such a big way.

He further disclosed that the events were preplanned to trap me. The story of a planted spirit to monitor my moves and curtail growth and everything else came as a real shocker. He said that a professional black magic expert was hired to conduct this mean task, and the motive was to block my literary growth and close all doors. The best literary efforts should fail and vanish without a trace.

His response was weird: nothing fair in love and war. I was clueless who was in love and who was at war with me.

I was curious to know how these things worked in the dark world. He said though it was not meant to be revealed, he would do me a favour: the book cover image and title, the author’s name and the publisher’s name would be the basic details required to ruin the fate of the book. I was still clueless and laughed it off. He said the book cover with a devil spirit attached to it was enough. The potential reader who picked up the book would be eager to drop it right there due to the black energy radiating from the cover even if it was white. This sounded scary and it meant the words and thoughts contained inside the book did not matter at all in boosting the sales potential of a book.

I was curious to know why the entire family was desperate to stop me from writing. Then my wife pitched in with another sensation – the disclosure that her grandfather was a writer who divorced his wife after he found success with his first book. That meant they fear I would do something similar?  She said a slow-churn ‘yes’ and it explained why they blocked my journey as a writer: to keep me married.

Isn’t it too much of an injustice? I think the entire family had a lot to explain. They placed the complimentary copy of my debut book inside a grave to bury it forever right after it was born. They conducted devilish rituals, just to ensure it was never resurrected, never found home.   

I shared my grief with my wife and the loss of hope. I felt I couldn’t write successfully.  She came up with a quirky plan that included a condition that I would end the marriage if I did not click as an author. Would this not scare them that failure, instead of success, would deliver the same outcome they feared?

The monitoring spirit went and updated them about our plan before my wife communicated anything to them. The withdrawal of the malevolent spirit meant that the house was safe now and they had caved in to our threat. Now there was no spooky feeling inside, no heaviness or lethargy. I was full of energy to write fast.

Yes, the novel my readers are about to hold in their hands is an outcome of that labour. Assured that the marital bond is safe, my in-laws called up to find out if everything was fine. I told my wife to scare them by saying there’s a new girl in my life, but she should tell her parents it’s one-sided, unreciprocated love. If they send a spirit to find out the truth again, I am sure the truth wouldn’t be different from her version.

When success arrives late in life, then the chances of temptations and distractions are also limited. My wise wife thinks I am well past my age to stray now. And I am of the view that the person who stays with you in your days of struggle – and shares your dreams – surely deserves to be with you in your good times as well. If there is a monitoring spirit sent again, it should go back and report to my in-laws that the bond is strong enough to last forever.

Perhaps they have learnt their lesson in a big way. Perhaps they have not. But now the bathroom door does not get locked from inside. I do not hear the sound of anklets and there is no tapping on my shoulder. However, when I look at the wooden bookshelf, I miss the presence of the lizard. The spirit that deterred has disappeared but the spirit to write remains very much in place.

From Public Domain

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

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

A Fruit Seller in My Life

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

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

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Karmic Backlog

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

Recently I came to know my past. Not the past of this lifetime but the cumulative past of several lives prior to this birth. I have always been curious to know whether I was a human being earlier or whether I was a bird or an animal.

In case I had been a bird, whether I was something cute like a parrot or a peacock. Or a high-flying eagle or vulture? In case I was an animal, whether I was something domestic like a cat or a dog? Did I bite someone to give him rabies and cause his untimely death? Or was I predatory like the ferocious tiger or crocodile in any one of my previous births?

Although I would have loved to hear I was a donkey, a horse or a deer, in this exact order of preference, the clarity that came my way settled all doubts and confirmed I was a human being in all my previous births — a really old soul that did all sorts of wicked things like abusing power and exploiting people for personal aggrandisement. But God had always been kind to send me back as a human being to atone for my sins, which I never did. This is precisely why I have been rendered a victim to pay for all the misdeeds in this lifetime, with no sympathisers to relieve my emotions. Something like a past life regression therapy session sounds quite an exciting idea but once the dirty secrets are exposed and you get to know the huge backlog of cardinal sins blocking your path to divinity, you come to terms with the bitter truth that you are solely responsible for everything that is not right in your present life and nobody else deserves an iota of blame for the current mess.

I was told I should clear the heavy backlog and aim for salvation. Frankly speaking, I have never ventured beyond the stage of salivation and here I was asked to mend my ways and attain salvation. Why should I do that when I find this world so attractive and the Lord so forgiving that He keeps sending me back in one human form after another? I love returning again and again to this world also known as a playground. Despite my overloaded dustbin of sins, I must be doing something really good and impressive that compels God to give me another chance to stage a comeback. Why don’t these card readers focus on that aspect and stop becoming my misfortune tellers?

I am perfectly fine with my emergence as a villain and there is absolutely nothing that I can do to undo the past. I can make the best possible use of the present and set things right. Before that I must know what exactly I did in my last birth at least. I was told I was a commander of an invading army marching in with the sole intent of pillaging. That’s horrible, to say the least. Did I slaughter people with my sword or put them in a gas chamber? The information I could ferret out was limited. But it was still adequate to suggest I was a conqueror of foreign lands and added one territory after territory. It was shameful indeed. I looked up in the mirror to see if I had any facial resemblance to the notorious invaders from the previous centuries. To be honest, I did look like one, but the fact that he did not enter this part of the world made me feel somewhat relieved.

For some weeks, I grew a beard and the resemblance grew further, making some of my friends cast suspicious looks and draw nasty parallels. How do I reveal to them that even if the name they were guessing is not correct, I was indeed an invader on horseback! In the contemporary democratic setup, this sounds horrific but it was a glorious achievement back in those days. The way the empires were built and expanded and controlled. What was right and justified then seems so inhuman a few centuries later. But the brutality of the past just to gain geographical heft cannot be held right. Surely, in the eyes of God I was a sinner even though I did it for growing an empire. I have been dumped in this part of the world where simple, innocent people were tortured. I have been made to suffer endlessly in silence as an act of retribution. To get a taste what I delivered to others. Fair enough.

For a while I was thrilled to hear that I was an invader, a plunderer, a marauder. Imagine the immense power I wielded then, and make a contrast with this moribund life where I do not enjoy any power at all. More powerless than a clerk or a peon, and always at the mercy of corporate bosses whose permissions and approvals have made my life a living hell.

Now I come across people who show me their power – as much as they can, wherever they can. I get threatened, abused and thrashed by powerful people inside their homes, inside the holy places by powerful committees and organisers. I have to take it all lying down and treat this ill-treatment without retaliation as it would lead to further misconduct and multiply my sins.

I need to forget I deserve any form of respect anywhere because I did not respect people in my previous births. I need to forget I have any power or I can gain any kind of power because I am that old, withered soul that will start misbehaving and misusing power if I sniff it again. I have been destined to stay away from all shades of power and authority – and quite rightly so. I have been condemned to spend the entire life facing its misuse. If I crib or complain that the people are not doing things right, I will lose the battle forever. That’s what I have been told and warned. I have to tolerate everything that comes my way and write off the bad debts of the previous lives. Only then I will manage to come back in human form and enjoy this material world once again. The irresistible greed to be granted another chance to enter this beautiful world seems to prevail over me. I find one lifetime of sacrifices is not quite a heavy price to pay for my past misdemeanours.  

As I was still battling with the startling disclosures from the distant, murky past, some prophecies inflicted deeper wounds. I was told I was destined to die at the hands of women, not one but two, one old and one young, both related to the same family. This was also linked to my past life since I had massacred a family and the matriarch of that family was an embittered soul planted in my life by the divine. I was informed she had already entered my life quite effortlessly through an alliance of sorts. Although she is very good at the moment, she will spring a nasty surprise that will devastate me in the coming three years.

The burden of the past was not off my chest and now the astrologer’s prediction has made me nervous. A sure sign of madness if I start seeing my killer in every lady in my life, right from the domestic help to the employer who is also a lady. On my further insistence, two alphabets were revealed. I was asked to be careful about women with names starting with these alphabets: K and V. But there were more than two women with names starting those alphabets. It was all so confusing and devastating.

Hey, wait! Could it also be a woman doctor in the hospital who will packs my departure bags on the operating table? Well, there are thousands of ways of dying a shameful, painful death and I can go on listing hundreds of possible ways and end up damaging my frayed nerves. I should forget it all and prepare myself to meet my end, my nemesis. Just like a woman who brought me into this world, another woman is destined to take me away from this world. No big deal!

Through some dark practices and evil spells, the vengeful lady will take me to the hills and something scary will happen all of a sudden there, resulting in my untimely, unplanned death. It means the lady and her accomplice will play a stellar role, but not a direct role like holding a gun at me or bumping me off near a blind curve or pushing me from a cliff after a selfie shot. Since I played a direct role in the devastation of that family in my last avatar, I should be ready to take the worst direct hit. As per the reported forecast, these women will not turn into cold-blooded killers and they will regret the fatal outcome since they themselves carry no sinister plan of that kind – driven by the singular motive to make me sign some will. The story spirals out of control and takes an unexpected turn. They will be held indirectly responsible for my passing away from this world. As a result, they will not bear a heavy karmic baggage for my death either. Which means God is a clever player who takes no blame and leaves the final judgment on our own deeds and misdeeds.

I am filled with negativity now, and I don’t think I will survive with this last burden. Something will blow up inside my brain so I must stop thinking about the past and the future and simply focus on the present. Isn’t that what great sages and thinkers have been saying all along? But why is it that the past and the future are more attractive than the present? Since I have been assured that I have three more years to perform good deeds, I must concentrate on that. At least a thousand good deeds should save me well in the years ahead – and in the afterlife.

I do not have the complete details of the potential women killers so I should stop worrying and forget their gameplan. Before I could firm up my mind with this template, women relatives proposed the idea of a visit to the hillside. I was shocked my doomsday could be coming earlier than scheduled! Or was it that God is finally trying to be kind and help me know my killers in advance? Those alphabets matched perfectly with the forecast and those two women relatives comprised my inner circle. It was shocking to know these well-behaved, sophisticated ladies would me lead to my death. Should I reveal to them that they will kill me some day? Would they believe me? Were they thinking along  those lines? Would they be surprised to know how I read their minds? Or would they call me mad? I chose to rest this issue and scaled down my interactions with them. Perhaps in the coming years I would do something to offend them. These scorned women will gang up and bump me off. Well, by rejecting their proposed trip, I had already vexed them. They could sense I was avoiding them and they wanted to know the reason for my refusal.

One lady treated me like a son and I could not visualise her being the mastermind. One fine day, the lady arrived and suggested she wanted me to write a book on her failed marriage. Maybe, I should duck this proposal by citing my incompetence to write a book. Being aware of my dabbling in creative pursuits, she claimed to be a regular reader of my morose prose. I thought switching to gifting on happy occasions and festivals would foster bonhomie. I had no idea of what would transpire in the coming years that would enrage her so much. Therefore, the best option was to snap ties and remain aloof. The fear of her seeking umbrage made me reconsider this move. I said I write short pieces and I do not have the potential to write a book at the moment. In the years ahead, if I felt confident about the project, then I would like to give it a shot.

I consulted therapy experts to guide me through this crisis but they seemed clueless in this regard. They had no knowledge to help reduce anxiety and stress in a person who is forewarned of his imminent death. All they could suggest was meditation and it meant connecting with the same divine power that had signed my death note. I chose to spend maximum time doing good deeds – feeding birds and animals featured on the top of my list. Creating a buffer stock of good deeds would make me a deserving candidate for royalty in my next birth. But the downside was I would most probably indulge in exploitation of subordinates and assert my power and resourcefulness – repeating the same cycle once again. Hence it was equally risky to be super good.

Hey come on, commit some mild mischief in this lifetime to become ineligible for rebirth as royalty. Being an ordinary human being wandering in anonymity, despite being a habitual, small-scale sinner, is a far better deal than hogging the limelight as a leading monster without a parallel.

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