Category: Stories

Categories
Stories

The Crying Man by Marc Rosenberg

Marc Rosenberg

 Around the World in Eighty Days was the first film I saw on a big screen, or at least half-saw, as my parents, sitting in the front seat of our Plymouth, blocked my view. They’d taken us to King Center Twin Drive-in, five-minutes from our house. When you arrived and found the best available viewing spot, you parked your front wheels on the crest of the raised ground. Walking to the concession stand was like surfing a small set of waves. A metal speaker was cradled atop an iron pole next to the car. The speaker was to be attached to the side window glass, half-rolled up. They didn’t always work, and if not, you kept driving until you found one that did. Parallel rows of cars stuffed with people faced the screen, waiting to be entranced. To me, there was a festive glamor about it all. I ignored the screams of inappropriate laughter, smokers walking in front of our view, the honking horns and the loud drunken arguments. I was swept up in a tsunami of wonder. The idea that all these different people came together to forget their ordinary lives and enjoy the same story was spectacular.

*

Films and filmmaking have played a huge part in my life. Brenda Carmichael, a lithe young blonde woman I’d lusted after for a year, broke my heart because I couldn’t see the deeper meaning in 2001: A Space Odyssey. The first time my brother and I bonded was in London after seeing and enjoying Truffaut’s Day for Night. I extended my stay in NYC so I could see Eastwood’s Bird. It enflamed my passion for jazz. I’ve seen hundreds of films, but an experience that comes back to me now, was the first time I saw a movie alone.

I was young, maybe nine or ten, when my mother dropped me off at the cinema. There were matinees on Saturday and my mother had some errands to do in town. I would have preferred to see Jason and the Argonauts but the only screening that fitted the time slot my mother allowed was South Pacific, a musical celebrating war’s happy moments. It was enjoying a second life. Given the choice of going shopping with my mother or seeing South Pacific, I chose the latter. Seeing a movie on my own was the fun part, more than what I saw.

 “When the movie finishes come straight out,” she told me, after she’d bought my ticket. “I’ll be waiting in the car. No wandering around.”

 “Can I get some popcorn or a drink?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

 “You’re just here to see the picture, that’s all. We’re not made of money,” my mother reminded me.

The theater was almost empty, it being an afternoon screening of a movie that had already been out for a couple of years. I chose a seat in the middle, the best seat in the house. Once the lights dimmed, the credits rolled and the movie began, an adult man came and sat next to me. He had a large carton of popcorn. Even with all the empty seats, he wanted to sit next to me. I knew not everybody liked to see movies on their own, or maybe he was after the second-best seat.

He had a friendly smile. “You don’t have any popcorn.”

“Nope, we’re not made of money.”

This made him chuckle. “Would you like to share mine. I bought too much.”

I really didn’t like people talking to me while I was watching a movie, but I didn’t want to be rude either. The smell of his popcorn was melting my resistance. “If you don’t mind,” I told him.

He put the popcorn between us. “Help yourself.” He seemed a bit jittery, looking from the screen then to me. I returned his smile.

 We may have been mid-way through the movie, the popcorn was almost gone, when he put his hand on my thigh. His eyes were on the movie, but his other hand was buried in his pants. I hadn’t noticed him loosening his belt. The man groaned, looked at me and started crying, which didn’t make sense since the actors were singing “Happy Talk”.

“I’m sorry,” he told me, before he got up and walked out. He left his popcorn.

My mother was waiting in our car, and I got in.

“Did you like the movie?” she asked, starting the car’s engine.

“Happy talkin’, talkin’, happy talk, talk about things you like to do…” The lyrics weren’t that hard to remember and there were two hands talking to each other. I was demonstrating when my mother noticed some popcorn on sweater.

“There’re crumbs on your clothes. Did you eat something?” she wanted to know.

“It must have been on the seat,” I told her. I didn’t want to explain something she wouldn’t understand. My mother wouldn’t believe I could make friends so easily.

.

Marc Rosenberg has written seven feature films, producing three. He’s worked with Miles Davis, Daniel Radcliffe and Jeremy Irons.

.

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
Stories

Evergreen

By Sayan Sarkar

For 30 years, Mr. Roy had been a professor of mathematics at a university in Kolkata.

At 65, he had grown tired of the fast-paced and boisterous city life. He never married and had no close relatives in the city. Therefore, he never had any attachments to the city.

A few months before his retirement, he had heard of an old British-era bungalow in a village in the district of Bankura.

Mr. Roy visited the location and immediately fell in love with the place. The two-storeyed bungalow stood near the outskirts of the village, very close to the forest. The other houses in the village were a little further away, and it took around 10 minutes to reach the nearest house on foot. A peepul and a banyan tree flanked the back portion of the bungalow, behind which lay a large pond. The forest began from the other end of the pond. Numerous rows of teak, sal, mahua, and arjun trees stood almost shoulder to shoulder, creating a pleasant view for the human eye.

After inspecting the bungalow and speaking with the owner, Mr. Roy finalised the deal and completed the associated formalities promptly. He decided to employ the existing caretaker as his daily help. The caretaker lived just 15 minutes from the bungalow with his family.

Mr. Roy had already sent some of his belongings to the bungalow before his retirement, and on the 15th of April, he moved permanently to this place with the rest of his items. The date was significant – 15th April was the Bengali New Year, or Poila Baisakh. Mr. Roy had specifically chosen the beginning of the new year to start this new phase in his life.

Upon his arrival on the 15th, he found a small crowd in front of his bungalow. Many of the locals had come to welcome him to their village. He invited all of them into the bungalow and spent a considerable amount of time interacting with them. The crowd thinned around noon until only the caretaker was left. His name was Samir, a man in his mid-40s.

“Samir, please give me something to eat. I am famished,” Mr. Roy said, getting ready for his bath.

“Yes, Dada! I will prepare your lunch within half an hour,” Samir replied, heading towards the kitchen.

After a long and refreshing bath, Mr. Roy got dressed and approached his bedroom window to look outside. He found that the banyan and peepul trees were quite close to his window and obstructed most of the view. Some of the branches almost touched the window as if trying to claw their way into the house. He saw a lot of birds on the trees, chirping and hopping from branch to brancch. As he looked down, he suddenly noticed a young boy of around 10. The little boy was sitting on a branch of the banyan tree and munching on an apple.

“Hey! What are you doing there? You’ll get hurt if you fall!” Mr. Roy shouted with a look of apprehension.

The boy looked up and saw Mr. Roy’s worried face. He smiled from ear to ear in response and jumped down from the branch like a trapeze artist.

“Don’t worry, Kaku[1]! I have a habit of climbing this tree,” he said with a mischievous smile and disappeared around the corner.

Hearing Mr. Roy’s shouts, Samir came up from the kitchen, just in time to see the little boy run away.

“That’s my son, Sukumar! He’s a very mischievous boy, Dada[2]! He runs around the village all day after returning from school. He climbs trees like a monkey. This spot is his favourite. He must climb the banyan tree at least once every day,” Samir confessed.

“I see,” replied Mr. Roy. “But don’t you think these trees are a little too close to the window? This is the only room in the house facing the forest, but I can’t see anything because of these two trees. And here I was thinking of sitting in front of this window and enjoying a view of the forest.”

“Yes, Dada! These trees are quite close to the house. You can even consider them to be a part of the house. It’s said that they are more than a hundred years old!” Samir informed Mr. Roy.

“Hmm. I see!” he remarked.

The next morning, Mr. Roy went out to explore the village after breakfast. He returned around noon, huffing and puffing in the summer heat. After his bath, he called Samir to his bedroom.

“Samir, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” he said, his eyes fixed on the trees outside.
“You see, I’d been thinking about those trees since yesterday. You must admit that the view of the forest beyond the pond is breathtaking. But those damned trees are in the way! I can’t see anything at all! So, I’ve decided to get rid of them.

“Usually, I’m against the felling of trees, but I must make an exception this time. I talked to a woodcutter in the village bazaar today. He agreed to do the job for me. However, he already had some assignments for the next three days, so he’ll be coming on Sunday.”

Samir stood aghast. He couldn’t believe his ears.

“Dada…you wish to cut down the trees? But they’re a part of this house! They’ve been here long before I came to this house. You can simply cut some of the branches to give you a better view. You don’t need to cut down the entire trees!” he said, visibly emotional.

Mr. Roy stared at Samir for a few seconds before giving his reply.

“I’d thought about pruning the trees as well. But that wouldn’t solve the problem. The branches would grow back over time, and I’d have to continue pruning them every now and then. It’s better to just be done with them entirely. Besides, this village has an abundance of trees all around. It won’t cause anyone harm if I cut just two. No, no. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Okay, Dada… As you wish!” Samir turned away dejectedly.

“Samir,” Mr. Roy called him back, his tone much softer than before.

“I know you love the trees, and your son loves them too. I’ll build him a playground where he can enjoy himself.”

Samir nodded slowly and headed down towards the kitchen.

Mr. Roy felt a pang of guilt in his heart, but his desire to enjoy the view from his bedroom far outweighed his feeling of guilt. As he walked towards the window, he found Sukumar playing among the branches of the trees like the day before.

They’ll feel bad now. But time will heal everything eventually, he thought to himself.

*

Samir was a little late arriving the next day.

“What happened? Is everything all right?” enquired Mr. Roy, a little upset as well as worried.

“Sukumar is not well, Dada. He went swimming in the pond yesterday and caught a terrible cold. He’s had a fever since last night and couldn’t sleep a wink. I was finally able to put him to sleep in the morning. I’m sorry for being late,” Samir explained. His face looked worn out.

“Poor boy! If you need medicines, you can come to me, you know. I’ve been practicing homeopathy for quite some time,” Mr. Roy responded.

Samir nodded his head.

“You can go home early today after preparing dinner,” Mr. Roy added after a little pause. “Your son’s health comes first!”

“Thank you, Dada!” Samir said gratefully.

He took his leave around 5 PM, two hours before his usual time.

Mr. Roy read a book until nine o’clock, had his dinner, and then went to sleep.
He kept his bedroom window open for better air circulation. The weather outside was oppressively hot and humid. There was an unnatural stillness in the air, with no hint of a breeze whatsoever.

*

Mr. Roy was woken up by the chirping of the birds outside his window at the crack of dawn. As he gathered his senses and sat up in bed, he received quite a shock – the entire bedroom floor was strewn with dead leaves of peepul and banyan. They had reached as far as the door, which was quite some distance from the open window.

But how’s this possible? There wasn’t the slightest breeze last night! Even if there was a breeze late at night, how have the leaves fallen only on the floor and not on my bed? Mr. Roy thought to himself.

He couldn’t make head or tail of the situation.

The thing that worried him the most was the fact that all the leaves were withered and dead. Not a single fresh leaf was in sight! He collected the leaves and threw them out the window before Samir arrived, not wanting him to know about this incident.

When Samir came to work, he tried to act normally. He learnt that Sukumar was better, but still very weak. His mother was taking care of him that day.

The day passed quite uneventfully. Mr. Roy went out for a stroll through the village and returned before lunch. He took a nap in the afternoon and spent the evening reading. By the time Samir left at eight o’clock, he had finished his dinner and was sitting in front of his bedroom window smoking a cigar. As he gazed outside, the silhouette of the trees was the only thing visible to him.

The night was quite hot, and there was still no sign of a breeze. His mind wandered to the incident of the morning, and he tried in vain to find a logical explanation to satisfy himself. He decided to close the window that night to be on the safe side.

At 10 PM, Mr. Roy locked the window, double-checked it, and went to bed. As he dozed off, he silently hoped everything would be all right the next morning.

*

But alas! He woke up to a similar scene the next morning. Dead leaves were strewn across the floor. That day, he even found some leaves on his bed and his body. He jumped up to the window and found it locked—just as he’d left it the night before. His face turned pale, and he felt a chill run down his spine. As he opened the window, his eyes fell on the two trees staring back at him ominously.

Are the trees sending me a message and warning me against cutting them? But how’s that possible? Am I really supposed to believe that some tree spirits are trying to threaten me? That’s simply absurd!

Mr. Roy tried to strengthen his mind. It was Friday, and the woodcutter would be arriving on Sunday to do his job. He just had to endure two more nights. He decided that he would ask Samir to stay with him for the remaining two nights.

Happy with the resolution, he then proceeded to pick up the leaves and dump them out the window.

When Samir arrived, Mr. Roy learned that his son was much better. Relieved, he asked Samir to stay with him for the next two nights, citing that he wasn’t feeling well and might need assistance at night. Samir agreed and took his leave after lunch to inform his family of his overnight stay.

Mr. Roy took a little nap in the afternoon and read the paper till evening. There was a forecast of a thunderstorm at night—what the locals called Kalbaisakhi, or what is referred to as a Nor’wester.

Samir returned around 6 PM and prepared some tea for both of them. He sat on the floor of his master’s bedroom and sipped tea, chatting with him about various topics.

Mr. Roy felt his confidence returning in the presence of another human being.

After dinner, Samir made his bed on the floor and waited for his master to go to bed. Mr. Roy instructed him to close the window just in case it started raining after they fell asleep.
They conversed a little before eventually drifting off.

Mr. Roy’s sleep was disturbed by a series of shrill noises. As he woke up with a start, he found the room engulfed in pitch-black darkness. He heard the rain pattering against the closed window. A storm was brewing outside. The fan had stopped moving.

There was a power cut.

But all this was quite normal. The only abnormal thing in this atmosphere was the continuous chirping of birds outside his window! It felt as if dozens of birds were pressed against the window, chirping incessantly.

Mr. Roy had never had such an experience before. The avian cacophony created a haunting ambience.

“Samir! Samir! Wake up!” he shouted at the top of his voice.

Samir jolted up in his bed.

“Dada? What’s wrong?” he asked, unable to grasp the situation.

“Birds! Why are so many birds chirping outside my window?” Mr. Roy panicked.

Samir rubbed his eyes in confusion. “Birds? Where? I can’t hear anything!” he said after processing everything around him.

“What do you mean you can’t hear anything? There are dozens of birds chirping outside! Have you gone deaf?!” Mr. Roy responded, his voice shaking with fear.

“Dada, are you alright? I can’t hear any birds at all. The only things I hear are the sound of the rain and the whistling of the wind. Maybe you are mistaking the wind for birds,” Samir tried to explain, visibly confused at the delirium of his master.

“Impossible! That’s not the wind! That’s the sound of birds! I can’t stand it anymore!” Mr. Roy desperately put both hands against his ears.

“It’s those damned trees! They won’t leave me alone!” he shouted like a madman.

“Dada! Calm down, I’m here with you. Nothing will happen.” Samir got up from his bed and approached his master.

But by this time, Mr. Roy had fallen silent. He had fainted.

*

When he finally opened his eyes, it was morning.

“Thank God you’re awake! How do you feel now?” enquired Samir with a worried expression.

“What happened? Did I pass out?” Mr. Roy blurted out, still quite confused.

“Yes, Dada! Last night, you were shouting about hearing birds. You passed out shortly after that episode. I was quite worried. I couldn’t go out to fetch anyone in the storm, so I waited till morning. Should I call a doctor?” Samir asked, still quite concerned.

“No, I’m fine. No need to call a doctor. I must’ve been dreaming. Why don’t you make some tea for both of us?” Mr. Roy replied slowly.

As Samir went to the kitchen, he sat up in his bed. Although he had told Samir that he might have been dreaming of the bird sounds, he knew that he had been wide awake. He had definitely heard the chirping of birds.

It must be the trees! What are they trying to tell me? That dozens of birds will be forced to abandon their nests if I cut them down? What should I do then?

He got out of bed and moved towards the window, deep in thought. As he looked outside, he found Sukumar playing near the peepul tree. How happy he looked!

A smile appeared across Mr. Roy’s face as he watched the child enjoying himself.

“Here’s your tea, Dada,” he heard Samir’s voice behind him.

“Samir, your son is here. He’s playing with the trees again,” Mr. Roy said, taking up his cup and sipping the hot tea.

“Yes, Dada. He missed his friends for the last few days. So, he came here early today to catch up.” Samir laughed.

Mr. Roy’s smile broadened.

“Samir, I’ve decided not to cut the trees,” he said after a moment’s silence. “As you said, they are a part of the house. Your son loves them too. Maybe I’ll get used to this view after all!”

Samir stared at his master, overwhelmed with joy.

“That’s great news, Dada! Sukumar will be very happy to hear that!” he said, wiping away a tear from his eye.

“Very well then, go home and get some rest. Come back in the afternoon. I have some reading to do.” Mr. Roy got up and shook Samir’s hand.

“Okay, Dada!” Samir replied, getting ready to go.

As he went out of the main gate, Sukumar ran to greet him.

“What did he say?” the 10-year-old boy asked anxiously.

“He has decided against cutting the trees,” assured Samir.

The boy’s face lit up. He started dancing around in joy.

Samir put his hand inside his pocket and took out an audio cassette player.

“Here, take it.” He handed it over to his son.

“I never thought your cassette recording of chirping birds from the zoo would be of any use. But it was of great service last night. You should’ve seen Mr. Roy’s face when the recording started playing outside the window. It looked like he’d seen a ghost. It was difficult for me to keep a straight face!” Samir broke off into laughter.

Sukumar quickly joined him.

“What about the dead leaves? You should give me some credit for that! That was my idea!” he declared, looking for his father’s approval.

“Of course! That was a fantastic idea,” Samir replied.

“That’s what sowed the seed of doubt in his mind. Little did he know that I’ve always had spare keys to the rooms in the house. With the keys, it was child’s play to get into his room and spread the leaves at night.”

“We sure fooled him, didn’t we, Dad?” Sukumar beamed.

“Yes, we did, son. Although it’s never good to fool another person, we did it for the greater good. Those trees are a part of the history of this village, and I will never let them be harmed!” Samir spoke, his voice quivering with emotion.

Sukumar squeezed his father’s hand tightly.

“I will protect the trees with you, Dad! I promise!” he replied with tears in his eyes.

.

[1] Uncle

[2] Elder brother – a polite form of address

Sayan Sarkar was born and raised in Kolkata. He is a passionate reader and lifelong learner who spends his leisure time immersed in books and new ideas.

.

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
Stories

A Lump Stuck in the Throat

Nasir Rahim Sohrabi

A Balochi short story by Nasir Rahim Sohrabi translated by Fazal Baloch

The bus had stopped in front of the roadside hotel, but the dust from the road still hung around it. The passengers, before getting off completely, were busy brushing the dust off the from their travel. The fatigue caused by the delipidated road was visible on their faces and in the creases of their clothes. I had been following the bus and was now sitting under the thatched shelter, drinking tea from a small boy’s cup. The sun was at its peak, glaring down like an angry man. The grime from the boy’s hands on the hot teacup had not yet dried when a red ambulance pulled up in front of the hotel. The dirt and dust stuck to it showed clearly that it had travelled a long way. Two men got out, dusted their clothes, and walked straight toward the water to wash their faces and hands.

The hotel waiter watched them closely. Then the back door of the ambulance opened and their third companion stepped out. His shoulders seemed burdened with many years, and he walked forward with heavy steps until he reached the shade of the shelter. He greeted everyone, and sat down leaning against a wooden pillar. A glass of water was placed before him, but he didn’t touch it. His eyes remained fixed on the ambulance, from which dust continued to rise as though it were still on the road.

After a while, the other two men joined him. Their faces were clean now, but the dust still clung to their ears, eyes, and nostrils. They ordered food. To their third companion they said only, “Come, let’s eat.” But he kept looking at the ambulance fixedly. They didn’t ask him again.

The young boy who had been watching him from a distance placed my tea before me and went toward the man. He touched his shoulder and asked,
“Why aren’t you eating?”

The man was startled as if waking from a deep sleep. His gaze shifted from the ambulance to the boy’s face. He looked at him the way someone, seeing the world for the first time after eye surgery.

“I can never eat alone,” he said. “Food never sits well with me unless someone eats with me. Will you sit here with me?”

The boy nodded.

Offering him the first bite, the man said, “I’ve always fed him the first bite. Until I fed him, he wouldn’t eat at all.”

“Who was he?” the boy asked.

The question seemed to trouble him. His teeth tried to chew the morsel while his eyes stayed fixed on the boy’s face. I saw clouds of dust gather in his eyes, and their darkness spread over his face. Pain began to pour like rain. Lakes of grief rose within him. His breath grew heavy. At last, composing himself, he said: “He was my son. But he had taken my father’s place in my life. When he was a child, I fed him. But over time, I became used to eating the bites he offered me. His mother left him and me long ago. She went away with those who were demanding water and electricity along with the young, the old, and the children. I pleaded with her not to go, but she didn’t listen. She left and never returned. At first, people wrote poems about her. But now, people have too much water in their eyes and too much brightness from electricity in their homes. Now they’re concerned only with their own reflection. She once lived in people’s memories, but the world has forgotten her now.”

After a pause, his eyes drifted again toward the ambulance, though the rain inside him didn’t stop.

“He was in a hurry too, just like his mother. He was always in a rush for everything. He would run to school and never delay returning home. He grew up before my eyes. One day he said to me, ‘Now you sit and rest. It’s my turn to look after you. I’ll feed you now.’ I insisted that my turn wasn’t over yet, but he was in a hurry and won the argument. Then he joined Captian Qasim’s boat as helmsman. But he didn’t stay there long. A year later he became a sailor on Ibrahim’s boat. He never hid anything from me, but after joining Ibrahim, I seldom knew when he left for the sea or when he came home. Whenever I asked, he only said, ‘Whenever the boss orders, we’re ready to go.’

This time too he was in a rush. The moment he came home, he said, ‘We’re leaving for the deep sea. We’ll be back in a few days.’ I wanted to stand up and hug him goodbye, but before I could rise, he had already stepped out the door. Then news came that their boat had caught fire. It didn’t sink, but it was badly burnt. Thanks to the boss, they sent us to Karachi by air. But maybe this time it was the order of the Great Boss. Or maybe the son was in a hurry to go to his mother. He didn’t stay in Karachi even for a day.”

The bus horn blared and the passengers hurried toward it. The boy got up too and began to put on his sandals.

“I haven’t even eaten yet,” the man said. “Where are you going?”

“Look, the bus is leaving. I have to hurry,” the boy replied.

The sun had now slipped behind the western mountains. The shelter had emptied. The red ambulance was gone too. But the old man still sat leaning against the wooden pillar, his eyes fixed on the road. The bus sped off, trailing dust behind it.

.

Nasir Rahim Sohrabi lives in Gwadar, Balochistan. He occasionally writes short stories. This story originally appeared in Monthly Balochi, Quetta in year 2000 and translated and published with  permission from the author.

Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies. 

.

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
Stories

How Madhu was ‘Cured’ of Laziness

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

From Public Domain

In the town of Seethanagar lived Ramayya and Seethamma with their son Madhu. Though Madhu was twenty-five years old, he did not work at all. He spent his days lazily, eating well three times a day and sleeping soundly, without caring about anything else. His parents were tired of advising him again and again. Sometimes they scolded him out of anger, but Madhu remained indifferent and idle.

One day, Ramayya and Seethamma decided to teach him a lesson. They said firmly, “We will give you food only if you work. Otherwise, you will not get anything from us.” Not liking this condition, Madhu left home secretly.

He went to a nearby town and decided to beg for a living. Sitting on the temple steps, he planned to live on people’s charity and the offerings of the temple priest. To gain sympathy, he wrapped his left leg with a bandage from foot to knee and smeared it with red color to look like blood. He stretched that leg forward and begged from the devotees, pretending to be injured.

One day, a rich man named Subbayya came out of the temple after worship. Seeing Madhu, he stopped and said, “Why have you wrapped your leg? You are young and healthy. Don’t you feel ashamed to sit and beg instead of working?”

Madhu lied, “Sir, my leg is diseased. It always bleeds, and I have no money to get it treated. That is why I am begging here.” 

Feeling sorry for him, Subbayya said, “Come with me. I will feed you and take you to a doctor.” Madhu followed him, limping and rejoicing secretly that he had found an easy way to live comfortably without work.

That day, Subbayya served him a full meal and asked him to rest. In the evening, he called his family doctor to examine Madhu. The doctor carefully checked Madhu’s leg and realized he was pretending. He told Subbayya that Madhu’s leg was perfectly fine and that his laziness must have made him act this way. 

Subbayya then requested the doctor to teach the lazy boy a serious lesson.

Following Subbayya’s advice, the doctor returned to Madhu and pretended to examine him again. As Subbayya entered the room, the doctor said loudly, “This disease is very strange. It cannot be cured easily.”

Hearing that, Madhu felt happy. He thought he could stay in Subbayya’s house forever without doing any work. 

Then the doctor added, “There is only one solution ….  surgery. If we remove the leg, the disease will be cured completely.” 

Subbayya replied, “If that’s the case, go ahead. Do the operation tomorrow. I will bear all the expenses.” 

The doctor said, “But if we remove his leg, how will he live?” 

Subbayya answered, “Anyway, he is used to begging near the temple. That’s his habit. People who refuse to work for their living can survive like that.” 

The doctor said, “Alright, then tomorrow itself, I’ll remove his leg. Till then, don’t give him any food.” 

Madhu overheard their entire conversation. His heart sank. His deception could cost him much. Out of fear, he could not sleep. After deep thought, he understood that no one feeds a lazy person for free. If he could do some work at home, he would never need to struggle like this. Leaving home was a mistake.

That night itself, he quietly slipped out of the house and ran away. By dawn, he reached his village. He met his parents and said, “My laziness is gone. I promise to obey you. From tomorrow, I will work sincerely as you say.” His parents were overjoyed.

From that day onward, Madhu gave up his idleness and began to enjoy the happiness that comes from honest hard work.

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

.

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 Amazon International

Categories
Stories

Grandmother’s Guests

By Priyanjana Pramanik

My dida, my maternal grandmother, is perpetually dissatisfied. It is better to die young, my mother often says, than to live to ninety and be like her. For as long as I can remember, she has not smiled. Her face has twisted into a permanent grimace at the torments that each passing day on earth brings.

“After a certain age,” she sighs as she sips her morning tea, “living itself becomes a sin.”

When I was younger, these pronouncements would worry me, and I’d consider my mother’s laughter the height of callousness. With time, I’ve changed my tune.

“Have you considered dying?” I ask her conversationally in response. “I can make arrangements.”

She harrumphs at me and tells me that when she does die, I’ll be sorry. I reply that she’ll outlive her daughter, not to mention me. I hear my mother, who has just entered the dining room, mutter that death will be a sweet release.

“What did you say?” Dida demands, cupping an ear in one hand. “I’ve told you not to mumble, Mishti, no one can understand a word you say.”

Mishti vanishes again. Dida, thankfully, has been overcome by a fit of coughing and has already forgotten what we were talking about.

The cough had appeared approximately one week ago, the day after Dida’s ninetieth birthday, and she is sure that is it, her time has come. After tea each morning, she opens the drawer to her bedside table and takes out an aluminium case that houses several dozen strips of medicines. She inspects each one carefully. Then, it is time to call Ujjal.

Ujjal is our neighbour – and a medical doctor besides. Dida likes to catch him before he leaves for the hospital.

“Hello Ujjal?” she bellows into her mobile phone. “No, I feel terrible – this cough will be the end of me. Is it allergic, do you think? Should I take the Levocetirizine and Montelukast combined tablet? No? How about some Paracetamol? No, you’re right, sometimes home remedies are the best, who needs these newfangled medications? You’re right, Ujjal, what a good boy you are. What a blessing it is to have you so close by. If not for you… I have no one, you know. Nobody to take care of me, or care whether I live or die.”

After this conversation, she chews on some dried clove, that tried and tested home remedy, and then takes a nap. Ujjal calls up my mother and pleads with her to hide Dida’s medicine stash – my mother replies wearily that she would if she could.

After her nap, it is time for Dida to call up various relatives and let them know that she is not being taken care of. Their commiserations, stories of their own aches and pains, and reassurances that she if comes to visit, they will keep her in the lap of luxury, has her happily occupied until lunchtime.

“I won’t eat anything,” she announces when she emerges from her room for lunch. “I have no appetite because of this sickness.”

“Ma made goat curry,” I tell her. This is considered. Then – “I suppose I can force myself to have a few bites,” she concedes grudgingly. “Otherwise, I’m just wasting away.”

She eats three helpings with gusto, pausing to point out that the curry could do with a little more salt and two more minutes in the pressure cooker, but is otherwise not too bad. My mother drops a courtesy and is heading back to the kitchen when Dida makes her announcement.

“Mousumi and her husband are coming to visit me this evening,” she says with some satisfaction. “At least my sister’s children love me, even if my own daughter… No, I can’t even say it.”

She remains in good spirits all afternoon, only half-heartedly telling me that I don’t love her. After lunch, she shoos my mother out of the kitchen and does all the dishes. Then, she changes the sheets on her bed. Finally, she changes from her usual nightgown into a white saree with blue border. Now that all the props have been arranged, it is time to set the scene.

Carefully, she arranges herself on the bed and lets out an experimental cough.

“Is there anyone there?” she calls in a weak but carrying voice. “Could someone at least fetch me a glass of water?”

“Coming, Dida,” I call, heading to the kitchen and coming back with a bottle and glass.

She drinks deeply and hands it back to me before another fit of coughing overtakes her.

“I think my temperature is rising,” she says sadly. “This is what will kill me. And no one to switch the fan off, even!”

I turn off the ceiling fan and beat a hasty retreat.

My mother’s cousin Mousumi, or Mou for short, and her husband Somnath ring the doorbell at five p.m. sharp. I let them in and take them to Dida’s room, where the old lady is in bed, as I have left her – but hadn’t I left the lights on? She is silent – she does not move or say a word as we enter the room, and a moment of disquiet steals over me.

At that moment, she tosses her head and moans weakly.

“Oh, Mani!” cries Mou, rushing to her side. “I’m here, Mani. Tell me what I can do for you.”

“Mou, my dear sister’s child,” comes my grandmother’s frail voice in the darkness. “How good of you to come all this way to see your poor old aunt… I fear it may be for the last time.”

She moves to sit up, ignoring her niece’s protests.

“I’ll make you some tea,” she announces in a quavering voice.

“No, no Mani!” Mou says, aghast. “How can you be made to do these things in your condition! Mishti will make you tea, of course. And we’ll have some too, just to keep you company.”

My mother, as always, is amused by the old lady’s antics. As she and I bring in a tea tray loaded with snacks, including fresh samosas from our local sweet shop, we hear Mou earnestly reasoning with Dida.

“You must come stay with us,” Mou Mashi is saying. “We will make sure you’re comfortable – you won’t have to lift a finger.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” replies Dida tremulously. “It would be such an imposition. How could I ask so much of my only niece?”

“No, no, ask anything you want of me! We just moved to a new apartment – it has a brand-new elevator, and a clinic with a doctor available 24/7, and all the comforts you can imagine! And I’ll make all your favourite foods…you look so thin, Mani, it just breaks my heart to look at you.”

“How wonderful that sounds… No one lets me eat anything nice anymore,” Dida says sadly. “It’s all watery dal and plain rice and boiled papayas.”

Mou made appropriately soothing noises.

“I’m here for you, Mani,” she says, holding Dida’s hand. “I’m going to take good care of you.”

The visit is cut short because Mou needs to let her driver off for the night, but she leaves Dida with several more promises of a visit soon-to-be-planned. Before she departs, though, she has some stern words for my mother.

“If you can’t take proper care of a frail old lady,” she fumes. “At least have the decency to put her in a good care home!”

And on that parting note, she and her husband get into their car and drive off.

“Do you think they’ll take Dida away?” I ask my mother after they are out of sight.

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Ma replies. “The old lady would never agree to leave!”

“What’s that?” calls Dida from her room, with her unerring sixth sense for whenever she is the subject of discussion. Her voice has entirely returned to normal.

“Nothing, Dida,” I tell her, going in to switch on the mosquito repellent and administer her eyedrops. “So, when are you going to stay with Auntie Mou?”

“Uff, now I’ll have to visit her for politeness’ sake,” the old lady says, sounding disgruntled. “Isn’t she so tiring? Turned out just like my sister, she has. Won’t let me lift a finger, indeed! She makes me sound completely helpless!”

And on that note, she bites into her third samosa with gusto.

Priyanjana Pramanik is a doctoral student of geography and writer of fiction and popular science articles, splitting their time between Kolkata, India, and Hobart, Australia, and a parent to seven cats.

.

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
Stories

Visions by Fabiana Elisa Martínez

Fabiana Elisa Martínez

“And suddenly, among all those people I didn’t know, I had this strange feeling, this implausible realisation that I was seeing him for the first time. Handsome, confident, articulate in a language I still cannot follow with grace. And I felt this pang inside, you know, as if a naughty elf inside me were swaying my heart with a rope. How can I see my husband for the first time after having been married to him for almost eight years?”

Rosalia remained silent, observing for some speculating seconds the little square of tablet that Rita had brought for their tea.

“Your husband is exactly like this sweet, darling, which, by the way, is delicious. I need the recipe before you leave.”

“Like tablet?” Rita inclined her head to the right in the exact same way her daughter did when she heard anything worth clarification. “My grandmother Cochrane would be very honoured to know you like her Scottish tablet so much. I cannot make anybody eat it at home. Henry says it’s too sweet and Maggie too sticky.”

“Well…,” Rosalia sighed, “for me it’s perfect, and I am sure nobody in this office will say no to this morsel of Heaven. It reminds me of a dulce de leche candy my detestable mother-in-law used to make in Buenos Aires for Christmas. As you can see, even her perfect evilness was imperfect.”

Rita smiled again and rejoiced at the fact that she could come to visit her older friend at the Castelo de San Jorge with the express purpose of selfishly collecting smiles like Maggie used to collect peacock feathers in the garden before she started going to kindergarten. Rosalia’s office was a new environment for their meetings now. A step up on the podium of a friendship that had begun outside the Castelo box office under a narrow eave on a humid stone bench. Rita loved to breathe in the peace of the office, with its austere decor and dark wooden cabinets that had once cherished the delicate porcelain of Portuguese queens and now held Rosalia’s dictionaries alongside maps, brochures, and tourist forms for all those who came to witness the royal luxury of ancient times.

“So, do you mean that this feeling of seeing Henry again for the first time at the bank’s banquet is sweet like my grandmother’s tablet?”

“Not exactly. When I saw those brownish cubes on the plate, I was convinced that it would be difficult for me to bite into them. You know, my weak teeth and all that. But then I bit into one of them, and it melted on my tongue. And I felt this torrent of pleasure bursting in my mouth. I think what happened to you on Saturday is that you saw Henry like random people usually see him. You heard a far echo of the vision you had of him when you fell in love.”

Rita’s inner elf jumped from her heart to her face to make her frown and purse her lips at the same time.

“But sadly,” Rosalia continued, “you already know that what you saw is an act. The source of your confusion and your loneliness. You love a vision in a dream, a beautiful piece of candy in a perfect window shop that gets further and further away as you get closer.”

A soft knock at the door interrupted the old woman’s thought and let Rita take a sip of tea to conceal her disillusionment. Rosalia took the documents that Victor brought, turned to her side desk, and placed one of the pages in her sturdy IBM Selectric. She adjusted the corners of the paper as if she were folding a handkerchief for the ghost of one of the queens that had inhabited the Castelo centuries ago. Rosalia’s eyes were fixed on the rectangular screen of her typewriter as she turned toward Rita and pronounced in perfect French, “Trompe-l’oil…. trompe-l’oil[1] people I call them. What you see is never what you get. The man I married and later divorced, so many decades ago, was like that. Sometimes, out of the blue, I remember how elegant and self-confident he seemed to be, and still, after all this time, that elf you mentioned still plays tricks with my heart and its cords. Do you know the legend of the two Greek painters of ancient times?”

Rita looked up from her cup and raised her left red-haired eyebrow as an invitation.

“There was a competition to declare the most realistic painter in the land. Zeuxis and Parrhasius presented their art. The grapes that Zeuxis had painted were so impossibly real that birds flew into them and crushed their beaks and heads on the purple spheres. They died a cruel death, believing they were tasting the sweetest pulps and the bitterest seeds. Zeuxis, sure of his triumph, asked his opponent where his painting was. Parrhasius walked him in front of the curtain that hid his work. ‘Draw this cloth and you will see it,’ he said humbly. But Zeuxis’ eager hand trampled on the folds of a fake, perfect drapery made of shades, hues, and light. Parrhasius won not only the prize but the admiration of his enemy.”

Rita inclined her head to the left. “I’m sorry for the birds.”

“That’s why I don’t tell this story much. My granddaughter has a phobia of birds that decide to fly stubbornly in the wrong direction. I’m afraid I instilled that in her with this tale.”

Rita picked up a brown crumb from her saucer. “If only I could draw aside the curtain Henry places between himself, Maggie, and me. I’m a good wife. I don’t know what else to do.” Rita dropped the crumb and killed an imminent sob with the tip of her finger.

“You are like the candid birds, my child. You are hurt but strong. Cannot you see?   You’re making sweets with the salt of tears, pure visions of love with the threads of deceit.”

[1] Deceive the eye… deceive the eye

Fabiana Elisa Martínez authored the collections 12 Random Words and Conquered by Fog. Other works of hers have been published in literary publications on five continents.

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
Stories

Steps of Conscience

A Tamil story by S Ramakrishnan, translated by B.Chandramouli

From Public Domain


That town had fewer than a hundred homes. Children playing in the street looked at them curiously when they alighted from the car. Kandasamy called one boy and asked him where Venangulam was. That boy asked him mockingly, “Do you want to do a penance in the Venangulam pond?” and pointed him towards the south.

His wife, their only daughter, and the astrologer who had brought them to perform the penance got out of the car. The astrologer tightened his loose dhoti and said, “This is a powerful pond, Sir; all your ‘dosha[1]’s would wash away.”

Kandasamy nodded and started walking towards the south.

Kandasamy had been suffering for over ten years with a skin disease; he had suffered an unexpected loss in his business. There were problems in his daughter’s in-laws home as well. As if these were not enough, he lost an old lawsuit he had been fighting in court. He felt as though the snake in the Snakes and Ladders game had brought him down. He visited many temples, performed pujas[2] and penances; nothing had worked. Only then did an astrologer tell him about Venangulam and the story of the king of Venangulam himself, who had dipped in that pond to get rid of his doshas. Kandasamy felt a sense of hope and agreed to visit Venangulam.

It was a small village with red tile roofs and somewhat broad streets. However, the people had nearly deserted it; some houses were locked up. When they went to Venangulam, they found it to be dry; the steps were dusty. There were four idols on the four sides of the pond.

Doubtful if that was Venangulam, he asked a person splitting logs nearby, “Is this the pond for penance?” That person nodded yes and continued his work.

Kandasamy stood on the dried-up pond’s steps and waited for his wife and daughter.

He wondered if they had come there not knowing that the pond had dried up; he felt angry thinking, “Didn’t the astrologer inquire about this even?”

The astrologer, Kandasamy’s wife and daughter, came near Venangulam.

The pond was full of torn clothes, dried leaves, and plastic waste. Kandasamy said to the astrologer, “There’s no water in this pond.”

The astrologer said,” It had been dry for several years. You get down, imagine that there is water, and sprinkle water on your head.”

“How can I bathe without water?” asked Kandasamy angrily.

“Can you see the sins you have committed with your eyes? But doesn’t the mind feel them? Similar to that, this pond contains invisible water; if you feel that and have a bath, your sins will wash away. Belief is everything, isn’t it?”

Kandasamy descended the steps of the dry pond. Though the pond appeared to have only ten or twenty steps, as he descended, the steps seemed to keep going down forever. Kandasamy kept on descending the steps alone. He did not know how long he had been descending, but when he looked up, it appeared as though he had descended into an abyss. He had not yet reached the bottom of the pond. The steps still kept descending.

He got confused, thinking, “What kind of magic is this? How did this small pond become so huge?” Various thoughts crowded his mind. He thought of how he had deceived his elder brother when they ran a joint business, and how he had cheated money entrusted to him. All these past sins returned as memories.

How can a person who deceived his own brother not fail in life? Suddenly, his elder brother’s face flashed in his mind. In that minute, the thought that until then, he had been pretending as though he had committed no mistakes bothered him. Kandasamy felt that one’s mistakes become weightless when hidden, but once you start realising them, they feel heavy.

Kandasamy realised he was descending the steps of his conscience.

He felt that to relieve himself of his sin, he must return the money he had cheated from his elder brother to his brother’s family. No sooner had this thought occurred to him than he felt a sudden wetness on his feet. The step beneath him seemed to be underwater. He pretended to bend down and sprinkle the water from the pond onto his head.

When his wife asked him loudly, “What are you thinking, standing on the steps?” he came to his senses.

Thinking, “Have I not gone to the depth of the pond? Was it all in my imagination?” He looked closely at the pond. He saw only dried steps and a pond without water.

He realised that the pond awakened the conscience and made you understand the crimes you have committed. It was indeed a magical pond.

He pretended as though he had had a bath and came out of the pond.

The astrologer said, “Think of something in your mind and throw coins into the pond.”

He took coins from his pocket and threw them into the pond, thinking that he would pay back the amount due to the family of his elder brother.

The idols’ eyes in the pond seemed to smile at him mockingly.

From Public Domain

[1] Sins, bad luck.

[2] Prayers

S. Ramakrishnan is a writer from Tamil Nadu, India. He is a full-time writer who has been active over the last 27 years in diverse areas of Tamil literature like short stories, novels, plays, children’s literature and translations. He has written and published 9 novels, 20 collections of short stories, 3 plays, 21 books for children, 3 books of translation, 24 collections of articles, 10 books on world cinema, 16 books on world literature including seven of his lectures, 3 books on Indian history, 3 on painting and 4 edited volumes including a Reader on his own works. He also has 2 collections of interviews to his credit. He was awarded the Sahitya Akademi Award in 2018 in the Tamil language category for his novel Sanjaaram.

Dr.B. Chandramouli is a retired Physician. He has published several translations. He has translted Jack Londen’s novel, White Fang and Somerset Maugham’s Razor’s edge (2024) to English and various English translations of Tamil fiction and non-fiction.

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 Amazon International

Categories
Stories

After the Gherkin

Deborah Blenkhorn

A Mrs Tadpole Mystery by Deborah Blenkhorn

Parry Lines was an ordinary fellow, so much so that even his friends couldn’t be bothered to find out his actual name and were content to call him “Parallel,” his nickname since childhood.  Regular, indeed nondescript features were surmounted by his trademark bald pate; the most you could say was that occasionally he wore a bright plaid shirt in neon pastels to liven things up a bit.

Ten weeks A.G. (After Gherkin)

Yet his death (by gherkin) caused a butterfly effect that changed the world.  Until the incident with the gherkin, the most notable thing that had ever happened to Parry was when his surprisingly dashing teenaged son had consumed an entire teacup full of gravy during Thanksgiving dinner.  Honoured guests had watched in horror as Parry Jr. (PJ for short), notable for his twinkling hazel eyes and flowing chestnut hair, gulped down the rich, brown fluid–though they should have expected something of the kind when he poured the gravy from the pitcher on the table into the China cup ready at his place setting for after-dinner tea.

Present at that event, and at the gherkin incident as well, was Mrs. Honoria Tadpole, English professor and amateur sleuth.  Her demure, conservative appearance (she always wore a smart, tailored suit–or at least the best the local thrift shop could provide–and had her silver-blonde hair cut in a perky, short bob) and her self-effacing manner and diminutive (if plump) stature belied the sharpest mind north of California. It would fall to her to unravel the complicated mystery that the local paper dubbed “Gherkingate.” 

Interviewed by the features’ editor, as the criminal trial of the alleged murderer dragged on, Mrs. Tadpole was asked the inevitable question of how it had all started. The interview took place in Mrs. Tadpole’s well-appointed parlour, a room replete with Victorian bric-a-brac.  With characteristic hospitality, she poured out a strong brew of  BC Bold to accompany the delicate sandwiches (ham, egg, and cucumber) and homemade oatmeal cookies that were her signature “high tea,” known to local islanders as a four o’clock tradition at the old manse where Mrs. Tadpole rented a small suite.

“Now, Mrs. Catchpole, I understand you were part of the original party that travelled to Moany Bay,” the interviewer began.

“Tadpole,” Mrs. Tadpole corrected.  A veteran instructor of nineteen- and twenty-year-olds, she was used to misspellings and mispronunciations. Marpole, Rumpole, Toadpole: she had heard and seen it all, and could make the necessary correction without even flinching anymore.  She cast her mind back almost three months to a mid-summer weekend off British Columbia’s Sunshine Coast.

She began with an allusion to classic culture: “Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip…”

Sadly, the features’ editor of the Island Gleaner failed to catch the reference to Gilligan’s Island, one of the best sit-coms of the 1960s.  Mrs. Tadpole had been a toddler when the series was first aired, but its popularity throughout her childhood made it a touchstone for, really, almost everything in life, according to her observations.  She knew that some people accorded such a status to the iconic, original Star Trek, but what did Captain Kirk have that “the Skipper” did not?  Not much, thought Mrs. Tadpole.

The premise of Gilligan’s Island was classic: a small number of people, randomly-assorted, stranded on an island together with no real prospect of deliverance.  After all, wasn’t that just the paradigm of human existence?  You didn’t need to be an English proffessor (though Mrs. Tadpole was one, of course) to figure that out. 

That fateful weekend, when the seeds of the gherkin incident was sown, had been rife with undertones of Gilligan’s Isle.

Breathing deeply of the fresh Pacific breeze, the passengers sat out on the deck of the vessel as it hugged the rugged BC coastline. The rushing water behind the Skirmish flumed out into a fan of spray, while the murky depths offshore spat out seals and sealions–even the occasional humpback whale–with random irregularity.  Black bears hid among the rocks and evergreens in the uninhabited areas; cabins dotted the beaches in the populated areas of cottage country.  On the way up the coast, the party of friends and family had composed their own version of the theme song, with each member of the group assigned to a role from the original cast.  Mrs. Tadpole was the Professor, of course.  Never mind that the community college where Mrs. Tadpole worked had opted not to accord academic titles to their teachers, or that the original Professor in the TV series was a man.  (As Mrs. Tadpole had been known to say to her first-year college students, we live in a post-gender, post-glass-ceiling world. And if we don’t, we should).

Aboard the Bayliner, Skirmish, Parry Lines was the Skipper, and his hapless, gravy-drinking son was typecast as the irrepressible Gilligan, full of mischief and ridiculous ideas. Mrs. Tadpole could only hope that her adorable niece, Mary Anne (same name as her Gilligan’s Island counterpart!), was immune to his sauce-swilling charms.

The Millionaire role was assumed by the reclusive entrepreneur Deadhead, Mickey Garcia (if that were in fact his real name), accompanied by his charming wife, Penelope, a voluptuous brunette. Together they had built an empire founded on tribute bands and biopics.  The rumour mill had it that there was trouble in paradise, but no one outside his immediate family had seen Mickey for years, so it was difficult to substantiate the gossip.

The cast was fleshed out (so to speak) with a bona fide movie star, the internet sensation who began as one of the central figures in a YouTube series called Project Man Child (“For the price of a cup of coffee… you can buy this underemployed househusband a cup of coffee!”) and had gone on to a viral barrage of TikToks under the sobriquet of “The Naked Gardener”.  Mrs. Tadpole was relieved (as no doubt were the others) to note that all the passengers aboard the Skirmish, including this one, appeared to be fully clothed. 

At least, all whom she could see wore conventional travelling attire:  Mr Garcia, recovering from surgery and groggy with heavy opiates, was shrouded in a blanket and wearing dark glasses. He slumped a little to the side, and his heavy breathing attested to a well-earned reputation for napping as a pretense in order to ignore his surroundings.

As Mrs Tadpole later told the Gleaner interviewer, the real concern of the trip quickly emerged: not the rapprochement of Mary Anne and Parallel Jr., but the burgeoning, even violent antagonism between Parry Sr. and Penelope Garcia, whom the latter insisted on calling “Cherry” with a suggestive leer while her husband languished in his bunk.  “Is he grateful? Or just dead?” quipped Lines. One night, Penelope went so far as to brandish a knife in Lines’ general direction and had to be restrained by Mrs Tadpole and Mary Anne in tandem.

Although Madame Garcia was the only one to meet his taunts with open animosity, no one was spared the self-proclaimed wit of Parallel Lines.

He had the nerve to call Mrs Tadpole’s beloved niece, whose sunny disposition was outshone only by the sweet, fair face that perched above her perfect figure, “Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary” –nothing could have been further from the truth!  Of course, Mary Anne merely smiled and shrugged it off, as if no insult could penetrate her cheerful exterior … but others were less armour-clad.

The bully referred mercilessly to the Naked Gardener as “Jamie Oliver, the Naked Chef” (whom he slightly resembled) a slur that obviously got under the man’s skin (“I couldn’t boil an egg to save my life!” he protested angrily.  “That’s not my brand at all! He’d better watch his back…”).

Even Mrs. Tadpole (surprisingly resilient after having been bullied through her shy youth as resembling a chubby little toad) came in for her share of abuse, rechristened as “Mrs Toad” after making her one of specialties, toad-in-the-hole, for her shipmates. (Once she discovered that the galley of the Bayliner was stocked with a potato ricer and La Ratte potatoes, there was no holding her back.  A ring of caramelized onions surrounded each serving dish, with two nut-brown sausage-ends sticking out of the centre, for all the world like a couple of froggy eyes.) “No one calls me Toad,” she intoned ominously.

Cruelly and unaccountably, Parallel Lines saved his worst tirade for his own son.  Recalling that terrible moment of youthful folly, that mind-gripping shame that only time could heal, the father saluted the son like a champion hog-caller summoning his prize sow. “Sooooo-Eeeeee! Want some gravy with that?” Alternatively, he would break into song to the tune of ‘Hey, Jude’:

"Au jus,
Just make it fat,
Take some gravy
And make it wetter..."

It was pitiful to see the boy’s response, especially in front of Mary Anne. His pale face was suffused with a ruddy glow beneath his chestnut fringe, and hot, angry tears rose in his sensitive, hazel eyes.

“I’ll kill him,” PJ muttered under his breath.

And now the tranquil Mary Anne, who couldn’t have cared less about any vitriol directed her way, was at last roused to fury in defense of her maligned and helpless friend.  “I’ll do it for you!” she offered.  “By G—!”

Two Hours B.G. (Before Gherkin)

Suffice it to say, no one was all that distressed when Parallel Lines failed to return to the Skirmish after an afternoon in the seaside village of Egmont (pronounced with an “egg” and not an “edge”).

Penelope had steered Mickey off in a collapsable wheelchair they had stowed on the boat; “the millionaire and his wife” were off for lunch al fresco, heading for a picnic table in an accessible, though private, spot.  Roast beef sandwiches and condiments, along with champagne and a couple of plastic flutes, had been assembled into a decorative yet sturdy straw basket which the amazon-like Penelope slung easily over one arm as she manouevred the wheelchair down the forest path.

The movie star had gone in search of Egmont’s famous cream cheese cinnamon buns, hoping to be recognised at the Forest Cafe by someone who would do a double take and exclaim, “Hey!  Wait!  Aren’t you that man child?”

Mrs Tadpole and her niece decided to go for a refreshing swim in the brisk waters of the bay, washing off the grime of shipboard life before stopping at the Village Green Room for a bowl of veggie curry soup and some fresh, hot rolls.

As for PJ, he declared himself too upset to leave the Skirmish, and was hoping to curl up with a graphic novel, a diet soda, and a bag of Doritos, to forget all his cares for a few hours while the rest of the party looked around Egmont Village.

But where was Parallel? It was time to cast off. If they didn’t leave soon, they wouldn’t make it to the Coastal Lodge before dark.  And–not to mention–P. Lines was the skipper!

“I’m perfectly capable of getting us there,” insisted PJ, fortified by his power nap.  “I’ll bet you anything, dad’s holed up at the Drifter Pub, and he’ll crash at the hotel there. I’m sure he’s as tired of us as we are of him.  Let’s just go.  We’ll all have cooled off by tomorrow morning, and I’ll swing back and get him then, bring him up to the Lodge for the rest of the weekend.”

The plan sounded good, and all agreed to it willingly.  Off they set for the rustic cabin someone had dubbed the Coastal Lodge in hopes (quite justified, as it turned out) of charging a tidy sum in AirBnB rates.  Never mind that it featured a remote outhouse and a camp kitchen; the setting was beyond beautiful, and the (now) congenial group looked forward to beach and forest walks, blazing bonfires, and midnight swims.  Mrs Tadpole insisted on taking charge of the outdoor kitchen: she had brought the ingredients for her famous moussaka and looked forward to the challenge of cooking it in a casserole dish on the barbecue.  PJ and Maryanne diced feta, tomatoes, onions and cucumbers for a Greek salad, while the movie star tried in vain to get a cell signal and the millionaires played cribbage by the big bay window in the cabin. 

Parallel Lines could cool his heels at the Drifter until morning, thought PJ and crew.

G.T. (Gherkin Time)

“So,” said Mrs. Tadpole to her interviewer, “Can you guess who did it?”

“Uh,” said the Features editor.  “Nope.”

“I’ll give you a hint: don’t ask who was the perpetrator. Ask who was the victim!”

“Well, that would be Mr. Lines, would it not?”

“Would it?  What if the wheelchair-bound invalid, Mr. Garcia, was really Parallel Lines in disguise?”

“But–”

“He was wrapped in a blanket, wearing dark glasses and a mask, slumped in his chair.  And there was a switcheroo.”

“A what?”

“A switch.  In the forest.”

“Well, I’ll be jiggered. Why haven’t you said anything?”

“Blackmail.”

“You’re blackmailing the unlikely lovers? Parry Lines and Madame G?”

“No, they’ve been blackmailing me.  But it’s time to come out. My trans-formation is at hand!”

“Mrs Tadpole!  What a story for the Gleaner–and for the world!  May I be the first to congratulate you?”

“You may.”        


Deborah Blenkhorn is a poet, essayist, and storyteller living in Canada’s Pacific Northwest.  Her work fuses memoir and imagination, and has been featured in over 40 literary magazines and anthologies in Canada, the United States, Britain, the Netherlands, Germany, Australia, Brazil, India, and Indonesia.

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 Amazon International

Categories
Stories

The Real Enemy

By Naramsetti  Umamaheswara Rao

From Public Domain

Once there lived a farmer named Venkanna in Bhimavaram village.  He had a grown-up son named Somu. But Somu was very lazy. 

One day, Venkanna’s relatives came. They said that they were going on a pilgrimage and invited them along. Venkanna replied, “Our paddy field will be ruined, if we go away for a whole month now. The harvest should be cut and stacked.” 

His relatives persuaded him by saying, “Let your son Somu take care of the work. He will also learn that way. If you both come along, we will see that you face no problems. You won’t get such good company again.” Venkanna agreed after thinking for a while. Overhearing this, Somu promised that he would handle the farm work.  Venkanna and his wife left with their relatives. 

As instructed, Somu went to the fields a couple of times in the beginning. Seeing the paddy, he thought, “The crop is not ripe yet. It needs ten more days.” So, he lazed and postponed the work. Eventually he stopped visiting the field altogether. 

He was reminded twenty days later when his neighbouring farmers enquired why he hadn’t harvested the crop yet. It was already too late by then. He rushed to the field. But he couldn’t find workers immediately. He managed to bring some labourers after five more days. But the crop had become overripe and most of the grains had fallen to the ground.  

Venkanna saw the field when he returned from the pilgrimage. He was heartbroken. “I should never have trusted Somu. I shouldn’t have gone,” he moaned while scolding his son bitterly for his laziness.

Later, when there was a wedding in their family, Venkanna again had to leave. Before going, he told Somu, “There is a crop of groundnuts. Go and check every day. Guard the field so cattle don’t graze on it. There’s still some time before it needs to be harvested, so be careful.” 

Somu remembered his past mistake with the paddy. He wanted to do better this time and called the labourers in advance. He had the groundnut harvested early. He stacked the crop neatly, thinking his father would praise him.

 Venkanna returned later and was shocked. The groundnuts were harvested before the seeds had matured. The grains were soft inside and not ready. Such a crop would fetch no price. Venkanna was distressed again.  He scolded Somu. “I only face losses because of you.  When will you learn?”

Somu replied stubbornly, “Even when I do the work, you’re never satisfied. Then why should I work at all?”   Their argument grew heated. 

At that time, their schoolteacher, Mohan, happened to pass by.  He stepped in hearing the quarrel and asked what had happened. Venkanna explained Somu’s laziness and the losses it caused. 

Then Mohan said, “Your son clearly doesn’t realise how dangerous laziness is. Let me talk to him.” 

He said, turning to Somu, “Laziness is the root cause of failure. A lazy person can never achieve what he wants. The greatest enemy of a man is not someone outside, it is laziness itself.” 

Somu replied honestly, “I want to give up laziness, but I am unable to. What should I do?” 

Mohan smiled and said, “You must practice being active. I’ll give you an example. You’ve raised hens, haven’t you? Have you seen how a mother hen cares for her eggs?” 

“No, I haven’t noticed,” said Somu.

Then Mohan explained, “The mother hen sits patiently on her eggs, waiting for the chick inside to peck its way out. Only when it hears the chick tapping from inside, does the hen carefully break the shell from outside to help it out. If she breaks it too early, the chick, which hasn’t fully formed, will die inside. This is exactly what happened with your groundnut harvest, you were too early.” 

He continued, “But the hen also never delays once the chick is ready. She immediately helps it out or else the chick will die. That was your paddy mistake. You were too late. Do you understand now?” 

Somu nodded realising.“Yes, I see my fault.” 

Mohan concluded, “Just as the hen waits with care and patience, we too must show the same attention in our work. Whatever it is…. Farming or business. Responsibility and timing are important. Then only we will get results. If you are a student, careful planning and sincere effort will always lead to progress.” Somu slowly started working hard and thoughtfully from then on.

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

.

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 Amazon International

Categories
Stories

Pause for the Soul

By Sreenath Nagireddy

Phoenix, 2008

The kettle whistled just as Asha reached for the canister of tea leaves. She turned off the stove, letting the silence settle like the layer of steam on the kitchen tiles. The small two-bedroom apartment smelled faintly of turmeric and Lysol—a combination that reminded her of trying to make something sterile feel like home.

She lived here now—on the third floor of a brick building with cracked mailboxes, faded door numbers, and a neighbour who didn’t say hello. The hallways always smelled vaguely of other people’s dinners, none of them hers.

Asha had been in Arizona for six months. Her husband, Abhinav, came two years earlier on an H1-B visa to work as a systems analyst. They used to talk on the phone every day, sometimes twice. She would sit on her parents’ terrace in Vizag, watching the sky darken over the Bay of Bengal, listening to him describe snow he’d never seen before, traffic patterns, the taste of a burrito. But after she came, the words had started to thin out like overused thread.

Now they sat across from each other during dinner, nodding politely, asking about work. His replies were short — “busy today,” or “nothing special”. He didn’t complain, didn’t shout. But he had stopped asking about her dreams. Somewhere between the visa interviews and the flight and the unpacking, they had become polite strangers sharing a lease.

She poured the tea into two silver cups, added milk, and crushed a cardamom pod between her fingers—her mother’s old habit. Back home in Vizag, her mother would brew tea each evening, calling it her “pause for the soul.” Asha had once dismissed it as drama. But now, standing in this quiet kitchen with its humming refrigerator and fluorescent light, she understood.

She placed a cup near Abhinav’s laptop. He was on the couch, scrolling through code, earphones in. He nodded without looking. She stood a moment longer, watching the steam rise and disappear, then returned to the kitchen window.

Outside, a tree was shedding its leaves. Orange and gold pirouetted to the pavement. She had never seen autumn before this year. The first time she touched a fallen maple leaf, it crumbled like a memory in her hand. Everything here was so temporary, so willing to let go.

Her phone buzzed. It was a message from Maya Aunty, a family friend from Tucson: “Come for lunch Sunday. We’ll make Biryani. Bring Abhinav if he agrees to socialize.”

Asha smiled. Maya Aunty was the closest thing she had to home here—her voice too loud, her saris too bright, but her affection sincere. She had a way of filling rooms that made loneliness impossible, at least for a few hours. Abhinav never liked going. He said those gatherings were a waste of time, full of women gossiping and men complaining about taxes.

Still, Asha replied: “Yes, I’ll come. Maybe Abhinav too. See you then.”

That night, as they sat across from each other over reheated sabzi[1], she asked, “Do you want to come to Maya Aunty’s house Sunday?”

He shook his head, scooping rice. “You go. I have a deadline.”

She had expected that. Still, she had asked. It was important to keep asking, even when you knew the answer.

They ate quietly. The news on TV murmured in the background—something about traffic and an upcoming storm. The weatherman’s voice was cheerful, as if storms were just another entertainment option.

After dinner, he returned to his laptop. She washed the plates slowly, running her fingers over the floral pattern on the china—part of the wedding gift set her mother had packed with such hope. “Start a life with this,” she had said. “You’ll need beauty when you’re far away.”

But some days, Asha felt like everything beautiful was now in another language. The sky here was wider but emptier. The silence is louder.

Sunday

She wore a green georgette saree and a pearl chain. The apartment smelled of her sandalwood perfume, a scent that felt like an argument against disappearing. She kissed Abhinav lightly on the forehead before leaving. He didn’t look up.

Tucson was a long ride on the commuter train. The landscape rolled past—brown, flat, dotted with cactii that looked like they were raising their arms in perpetual surrender. At the station, she sat beside a young woman reading an Agatha Christie novel. Asha wondered if she should start reading again. She used to read in college—Yaddanapudi Sulochana Rani, James Hadley Chase novels that made her mother shake her head in mock disapproval.

At Maya Aunty’s house, the air was warm with ginger, cloves, and nostalgia. Women laughed in the kitchen, the pressure cooker hissed, and the television played an old Telugu song that made Asha’s throat tight.

“You’re glowing!” Maya said, hugging her.

“I’m just tired.”

“You need to eat. And talk. Come, sit with me.”

Over lunch, Maya talked about her daughter in Seattle, about growing desert plants that refused to die, about how this country gave you everything and yet made you feel invisible. “You work, you pay bills, you exist,” she said, “but where do ‘you’ live?”

“Does Abhinav talk to you much?” she asked gently, after a pause.

Asha shook her head. “Not really.”

“Men here, they carry stress like skin. But you must not disappear. You must not become a shadow in your own life.”

That line stayed with her. It echoed in the train on the way home, in the empty apartment that evening.

Two Weeks Later

Asha began taking walks in the evening. She bought a notebook and wrote small things—memories, recipes, dreams she had stopped sharing. The act of writing felt like reclaiming something. She emailed an old professor in Hyderabad about doing a remote literature course.

He responded in all caps: “YES, WRITE AGAIN. SEND ME SOMETHING.”

She didn’t tell Abhinav. Not yet. Not until she found the words that would hold.

One evening, she made adrak chai [2]with extra cardamom. She handed him a cup, as usual.

This time, she didn’t walk away.

“I’ve started writing again,” she said.

He paused, looking up from the screen. “Writing?”

“Just… notes. Short stories. Memories.”

He nodded, sipping the tea. “That’s good.”

Silence.

Then: “The cardamom reminds me of your mother’s tea.”

It was a small sentence. But it cracked open a window.

She smiled. “Yes. She used to say it made the soul pause.”

He looked at her for the first time that evening—really looked, the way he used to during their terrace conversations, before the distance taught them to look away.

“Maybe I need to pause,” he said quietly.

The tea was still hot. Outside, another leaf fell from the tree. But this time, Asha thought, maybe it wasn’t about letting go. Maybe it was about making space for something new.

She didn’t say anything. Just set her hand on the couch between them, palm up.

After a long moment, he put his hand down next to hers. Not quite touching. But close.

[1] Indian style vegetables

[2] Ginger tea

Dr Sreenath Nagireddy is a physician from Phoenix,  Arizona. A versatile writer, he explores genres ranging from humour and adventure to thriller and science fiction. His works have been published in 365tomorrows, Kitaab, Twist and Twain Magazine, among others.”

.

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