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Stories

The Blue Binder

By Jonathan B. Ferrini

From Public Domain

Victor grew up inside a trailer park with dilapidated trailers packed together like tuna in a rusty old can. His grandmother’s trailer smelled of cleaning supplies; the scent she brought home from cleaning offices overnight. She raised Victor alone after his mother abandoned him for a life as a hippie drifting from commune to commune.

She knew he was different: not able to speak, withdrawn, unable to tie his shoes, write his name, never learning personal hygiene and unable to feed himself. Schools labeled him “retarded” and wouldn’t enroll him.

In the corner of the trailer sat a dying black-and-white television with bent rabbit ears. Victor sat cross-legged inches from the television screen, mesmerized by flickering images while the picture rolled and the sound hissed. His grandmother couldn’t afford a sitter to supervise him while she worked. Victor didn’t require supervision because the television and a transistor radio kept him engaged inside a world, he felt safe.  

The components of a broken transistor radio were Victor’s playmates: a ferrite rod antenna wrapped in copper; a small oval loudspeaker; and the tuning capacitor. Other friends included the compact circuit board, cylindrical transistors, and striped resistors.

He spread the radio components across the floor. His grandmother gave him a wooden puzzle set of familiar geometric patterns. Victor preferred triangles because they had a base and stood upright like he was signaling the need for steadiness.

Victor built faces with the components of the radio; two round capacitors became eyes; a curved wire became a mouth sometimes bent upward, flat, or dipped into a quiet sadness; the loudspeaker formed the body; the ferrite rod antenna became a spine; and copper coils became hair. He placed a small transistor perched on top like a hat, tilted just enough to suggest the figure was attempting to say “hello” with a tip of its hat. Victor used components the way other children handled crayons.

His grandmother described his component constructions to his pediatrician, “He always places a mouth on the triangles.”

The pediatrician suggested,“I believe these triangles are Victor’s only way of communicating his feelings. Children like Victor require around the clock care and will never amount to anything more than grown toddlers. As he grows into manhood and you become frail, there is no alternative but to have Victor committed to a state hospital where retarded children are cared for and live out their lives.”

*

The intake office at the Junction State Hospital smelled of antiseptic and urine. The intake social worker, Joanie Greenstreet, watched Victor closely as he rocked in his chair, eyes drifting toward the ceiling.

“This is the worst part of my job. It’s best you slip out of the room with no goodbye, so Victor isn’t aware.”

Victor’s grandmother left her grandson forever.

*

Junction State Hospital was built in 1940 on state land inside the countryside, out of sight, and out of mind where the paved road with sidewalks and streetlights gave way to a narrow dirt road leading past the locked rusting gates of the hospital resembling a haunted mansion.

The hospital was for children who did not speak; rocked incessantly; banged their heads against walls; screamed at sounds no one else could hear; and couldn’t feed or bathe themselves. They were children with autism before autism had a proper name; Down Syndrome; Cerebral Palsy; learning disabilities, and genetic conditions doctors didn’t understand.

Their care required around the clock attention, which was beyond the financial resources for most families. The parents were convinced by medical providers “long-term placement”; “specialized supervision”; and “they’ll be safer” were the only alternative.

Fathers hurriedly carried suitcases inside and left quickly while mothers cried openly and others didn’t cry, having lost the ability. Many parents never came inside choosing to hand their child off to an attendant from the car like dropping a package marked “No Return Address” into a mailbox.

As the children matured inside Junction, they roamed the narrow hallways, heard keys, and came accustomed to the smell of disinfectants, faeces, and urine. They quickly learned which staff were gentle and which were not.

When they died without family, there was nowhere for them to go except for an undignified cemetery on the hospital grounds.

*

Victor was placed in a ward with boys suffering from mild to severe disabilities. Some were cunning and feigned friendship, sitting next to Victor on the edge of his bed only to touch the portable television he brought with him which he hid under the bed. His radio components were confiscated, thrown away as “choking hazards” which eliminated the safe and kind world which might shield Victor from for the horrors of the ward.  He erupted into violent fits requiring sedation and restraints at times. Victor refused group activities and meals if it meant leaving the TV behind.

*

Joanie Greenstreet was a young post-doc psychologist who tried to help Victor adjust but couldn’t reach him. She offered to keep the television safe inside her office, but Victor wouldn’t allow it to be taken from him.

The hospital’s chief psychiatrist was determined to permanently medicate Victor and subdue him into submission, but Joanie pleaded for more time to reach Victor explaining,

“I see something special inside Victor, Doctor Spencer. I need more time to reach him.”

“You supervise a large ward of boys demanding your attention and making Victor a ‘pet project’ isn’t fair to the others, but I’ll give you a limited amount of time.”

*

Doctor Spencer’s words dusted up Joanie’s memories of a failed marriage to a man whose family tree spawned several babies with “Down Syndrome” and, when she became pregnant with his baby as an undergraduate, he demanded she receive Amniocentesis testing.

The results came back showing the genetic markers for a baby with Down Syndrome. “You’ll have an abortion, dear, and we’ll try again.”

“I’ve been reading babies born with Down Syndrome can lead productive lives, dear.”

“I won’t stand for you delivering a freak of nature. Choose an immediate abortion or a divorce!”

Joanie’s decision to acquiesce to the abortion created a fracture in the marriage which led to divorce. She finished college earning a bachelor’s and master’s degree in social work determined to assist families and those afflicted with developmental disabilities.

*

Joanie motivated Victor to attend group meals by permitting him to bring along his TV.  She collected broken transistor radios from sympathetic staff members which permitted Victor to return to a familiar, safe place within his mind, inside the privacy of her office. Victor trusted Joanie.

*

After months of their meal routine, Joanie was optimistic Victor could avoid permanent sedation when he agreed to leave behind the television underneath his bed when going to meals. One evening after dinner, Joanie escorted Victor to his ward.  The television was on top of his bed and the knobs and rabbit ears were broken off accompanied by a perverse chorus of laughter and giggling from the boys inside the ward.

Victor screamed while rocking back and forth managing to break free from Joanies embrace. Three staff members subdued him with plans to administer a mind-numbing sedative. Joanie wrestled the syringe from the attendant. She held Victor tightly until he settled down.

Joanie tucked Victor into bed and sat beside him all evening. She recalled a small shop inside town, “Nakamura’s TV & Radio Repair”

*

Joanie obtained a day pass to have Victor accompany her to the repair shop. They carried the broken television inside the shop smelling of dust and warm metal cluttered with old TV sets and radios.

Kenji Nakamura was an old man with a pocket protector loaded with pens, pencils, and tiny screwdrivers. He flipped the television around, removed the back, and stared inside.

“It’s all vacuum tubes.  Even if I could find the parts, the cost of repair is more than buying a refurbished set. For ten dollars, I’ll sell you a reconditioned set including a remote control.”

Kenji held Victor’s hand, guiding his forefinger to the blue button pressing the remote. The television jumped to life with a crystal-clear screen. Victor was mesmerized by the ability to command the television.

“You’re holding a magic wand.”

Kenji leaned into Joanie and whispered, “Why don’t you buy it for the kid and take it with you?”

“I have a plan in mind which might be breakthrough therapy for Victor.”

*

Victor collected pop bottles from every trash can and sometimes absconding with half-filled soda pop bottles he found on desks. Staff members collected bottles from home and placed them inside a collection drum within Joanie’s office. Victor’s daily collection showed a work ethic with a goal in mind which impressed Joanie and Doctor Spencer.

*

After months of collecting bottles, Victor placed a soda pop bottle inside the collection drum. He pointed to a ten-dollar bill Joanie taped to the bottle collection drum reminding him of the monetary goal.

“You’ve collected five hundred bottles according to my tally. Let me hold your forefinger to the calculator. Let’s press five, zero, zero. What is the price paid for each bottle, Victor?”

Victor practiced tracing the number two and cent sign for weeks and traced the number and cent symbol with his finger in the air.

“Let’s press the letter ‘X’ which will multiply ‘500’ by two cents.”

Joanie held Victor’s forefinger to the calculator’s equal sign. “10.00” glowed in red. He ran to the ten-dollar bill taped to the collection drum, tore it off, and proudly handed it to Joanie. Victor tugged on Mrs. Greenstreet’s arm as a non-verbal signal to immediately leave for Kenji’s shop to purchase the television set.

*

Kenji proudly handed Victor the television.

“Why are packing boxes strewn about?”

“I’m retiring because transistors have put me out of business.”

He handed Victor a tattered and faded blue three-ring binder.

“These are my notes including everything I learned in the Army Signal Corps and repairing TV’s and radios for twenty years. I want you to have it.”

Victor opened it carefully as if understanding it contained magic. The pages were filled with precise pencil drawings including circuits, pathways, and transistors including handwritten notes. Victor studied the first diagram, and his breathing changed, catching Kenji’s attention.

Victor’s finger lifted and hovered above the paper before touching, following and tracing the circuits pathway. His finger shifted slightly and to a different point and found a shorter path and tapped it once. Victor looked towards Kenji as if speaking in a non-verbal communique only the two would understand. Kenji felt something stir in his gut.

Victor placed his finger in the air sketching an invisible correction knowing he mastered an improvement to the diagram. Kenji wrote on the page what Victor was inscribing in the air with his finger pencil.

“Is this what you see?”

Victor traced the path with his finger on Kenji’s diagram. He tapped it once. Kenji understood Victor was not reading the circuits like a map but inventing shortcuts for the pathways allowing the signal to flow quickly and flawlessly.

“Victor knows the signal’s destination and devised a better way for it to arrive. I hit a wall with my intellect, but Victor doesn’t see a wall. He intuitively devises pathways over, under, and around my wall. Permit him to study the binder, Joanie.”

“You believe he understands it?”

“I believe he understands what it wants to become.”

Joanie carefully turned the pages finding detailed handwritten drawings of electronic circuitry including images of tiny boxes with legs resembling metal insects.

“What are these images, Kenji?”

“Tiny transistors replacing vacuum tubes and the future of electronics.”

“Are you certain you want to part with your life’s study?”

“I’m not parting but handing the baton off to a new generation who will usher electronics into the future.”

*

Joanie set up a desk, lamp, and chair inside her office for Victor to study. Joanie watched as Victor sketched transistors and circuits. Kenji’s binder began to fill with pages of original study intuitively devised as if constructing the triangular figures he adorned with radio components. Kenji organised his study as if he were providing Victor with a light to follow discovering new pathways Victor would provide to the signal.   

Victor watched television with the binder open on his lap. The screen glowed, and so did the pages of the tattered blue binder. Nobody except Victor knew there were two signals inside; a signal guiding him through the world as it was, and the other signal showing him what the future of the world could become.

Joanie invited Doctor Spencer to review the blue binder with her. He turned each page with fascination.

“A TV repairman and Victor put this together?”

“The original work was a gift from Kenji Nakamura to Victor, but the newest pages are Victor’s original scholarship.”

“I developed a rudimentary knowledge of electronics by reading Popular Electronics as a young man. The original scholarship resembles a ‘paint by numbers’ directional guide for Victor to follow. Victor owns this?”

“Yes.”

“Small computer companies are sprouting up which will change the world. They’ll want a peek at this work but, before they do, I want to consult with a patent attorney.”

*

Victor and Joanie sat as the attorney explained the importance of protecting the blue binder with patent applications. Victor was distracted mimicking the finger gestures of a secretary striking the keys of a typewriter.

“I’ve prepared a retainer agreement but given Victor’s diminished mental acuity, he’ll require a guardian’s signature.”

“Doctor Spencer will sign.”

“I’m also preparing a trust for the benefit of Victor.”

“Why is that necessary?”

“Stand by and find out, Joanie.”

*

Vigorous attempts to locate Kenji led to an obituary about his burial at Arlington National Cemetery.

Negotiations for purchasing the blue binder followed quickly after filing the patent applications with the potential sale price reaching into the millions of dollars.

“If Victor will agree to sell the blue binder, he can build a home suitable for his special needs with round the clock care and retain a sizable estate for himself.”

“You must make Victor understand the value of his intellectual property or in time, others may improve upon Victor’s innovations, and the blue binder will become worthless.

*

Money meant nothing to Victor because his world didn’t comprehend what it could buy, control, or influence. Victor refused to look at renditions of new homes because the small bed inside the ward with his black and white remote-controlled television was home.

Joanie never attempted to influence Victor to sell the blue binder. She made gentle suggestions as though placing electronic components on a workbench and trusting his hands to assemble them. She hit a nerve when she mentioned,

“…kindness is its own reward like a gift from Kenji to you of the blue binder allowing you to carry on his study.”

Victor understood Joanie that meant the signal’s pathway design was finally completed. Kenji provided him with a compass to follow along transistor trail, and Victor understood currents moving through copper also move through people. He knew currents went where it was guided, and money was a current. Victor found the inspiration to provide others with the happiness he found inside a smiling electronic triangle built with components.

*

Doctor Spencer retired from Junction State Hospital and devoted his retirement years to pioneering the burgeoning field of neuroscience. Doctor Spencer made a visit to Victor before leaving the hospital forever. He came upon Victor sitting with Joanie as he designed improved pathways inside the blue binder.

“I’ve spent my medical career learning how signals move through the brain and become interrupted requiring people to live inside Junction State Hospital. Big electronic boxes called ‘computers’ are helping us to understand why pathways become distorted and the signals are lost inside the brain. Your blue binder can help us build smarter computers and show us how to repair twisted pathways and confused signals.”

Victor turned his attention back into the pages of the binder not noticing Doctor Spencer and Joanie had left the ward. Doctor Spencer left behind a framed photograph of himself, Victor, and Joanie, taken not long after Victor arrived at the hospital. The photo was a reminder of the first day he didn’t feel alone but happy like the smiling triangle wearing a hat.

*

Joanie returned to her office from morning rounds to find the blue binder on her chair with a smiling component triangle inscribed with a letter, “I”. Doctor Spencer explained the notation was an engineering abbreviation for the term “sustained current”.

*

Joanie retired but Victor remained enjoying quiet happiness watching his television illuminating darkness. The framed photograph of Joanie, Dr. Spencer, and himself was hung near his bed. On his nightstand, a vacuum tube gifted to him by Kenji remained reminding Victor that it once provided the glow behind a television screen creating light, but now, he felt like he gifted the same glow creating light to others made possible by the advances within neuroscience leaping from the pages of the blue binder.

*

Institutions like Junction State Hospital were replaced with group homes providing home-like environments and patients transferred elsewhere. Victor didn’t moan the loss of familiar people because he lived within the circuitry of his mind where the signals resembling Joanie’s quiet voice and Kenji’s patient hands remained.

Victor was the last to be buried within the hospital cemetery. Junction State Hospital was replaced by a new state college.  The neuroscience institute created a scholarship for underprivileged students studying electrical engineering named, The Blue Binder Scholarship.

Although the hospital was forgotten, Victor remained broadcasting a signal comprised of memories including love passing like currents between human beings.

                Victor Kline
                  1958–2014
He could not live in the world as it was,
so he quietly helped build the one that came next.

Jonathan Ferrini is the author of nearly one hundred short stories and poems. He is the host and writer of the weekly “The Razor’s Ink Podcast” where he discusses movies, television, and music. A partial collection of Jonathan’s short stories has been published within Hearts Without Sleeves Twenty-Three Stories (available at Amazon). Jonathan received his MFA in motion picture and television at UCLA. He resides in San Diego, California.

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Categories
Stories

Shooting Dida

Story by Kallol Lahiri: Translation from Bengali by V. Ramaswamy

Kallol Lahiri

Kallol Lahiri teaches cinema, makes documentary films, writes screenplays for films, television and OTT series, and writes blogs of various flavours in between. He is the author of four novels, Gora Naxal (2017), Indubala Bhater Hotel (2020), 1990, A Love Story (2022) and Ghumiye Porar Aage (2024), and a memoir, Babar Yashica Camera (2021). He was awarded the Sadhana Sen Memorial prize in 2021 for the novels Gora Naxal and Indubala Bhater Hotel  by the magazine Bhumodhyosagor.

In memory of all the forgotten nameless actors and actresses of the world

If one woke up very early in the morning, the city looked different through this window. It seemed as if the city was encircled by three whole mountains. But actually, that wasn’t the case. Pray tell me, where would three mountains appear from in the middle of this city? Is this Darjeeling or Kalimpong! After all, these are all mountains of garbage. The garbage of the entire city has been brought here to create mountains. It has been given a mouthful of a name too, “Dhapa”. Sarala smiled inwardly. What did the word dhapa mean? Was it dhappa (meaning, bluff)? Perhaps Notu Babu would have said that had he been around.

“Can’t you see the torn clouds at the crest of the mountain?”

“O Notu Babu, that’s garbage.”

“So what if it’s garbage! Doesn’t it take on the appearance of a mountain and bluff us! Hey … play a tune in Behag on the flute … let me hear that.”

The flute would have sounded, together with the harmonium and tabla. Sarla would have advanced with small steps towards the middle of the stage. The light from the spotlight would have fallen on her. Afar, concealed by the wings, was Bani Babu, the prompter notebook in hand. And in that enchanting atmosphere, Sarla Debi gazes at the audience and begins singing.

Just that much. If she remembered any more, her mind would go awry. She would feel like just sitting and remembering all the tales from way back when. The morning would then be ruined. Wasn’t there a lot of work to be done! She had soaked two saris last night. And a bedsheet. The mosquito net was dirty too. All those had to be washed when it was time for water at the standpipe. She had to clean the house and then bathe. After that, all she had to do was boil a bit of rice and dal on the stove, and then she was done.

There had been plenty of days when Sarala had eaten only muri[1]both times. In this old age, she no longer felt like cooking just for herself. Nonetheless, if Notu Babu had been around, he would have gone to the market. He would surely have brought back tender pui spinach, pumpkin, fresh potatoes and the head of a carp fish. And said, “Here you are, why don’t you make some chyanchra[2] today, Sarala …” Or he would have gone to the market close to noon and brought back whatever fatty viscera of fish he got, and said, “Cook this, make a fish oil chochchori[3] with ground chillies.”

Sarala used to apply attar[4] on her body after her bath. Nizamuddin, the attarwala[5], used to bring it for her. All those days were of a different kind. Coloured in the hues of a rainbow. As spectacular as the backdrop in a theatre. No one would believe it if they heard about it now. There were so many nights when Notu Babu did not return home. He read out page after page of a new play to Sarala. He did rehearsals. He was really keen that Sarala had a baby boy on her lap. He would carry on with this theatre. The intoxication. The madness. But what would his paternity be? Would society accept a dancing woman’s son? O Notu Babu, will your wife accept the child? Your family? The theatre world of the babus and bhadraloks[6]? You yourself would accept him, won’t you, O Notu Babu? Notu Babu had emptied the bottle of whisky and returned home before dawn without answering Sarala’s query. He needed to sleep till noon. Or else he wouldn’t get any play ideas in his head. It couldn’t be taken to the stage quickly. The audience wouldn’t cram the hall.

There was a routine of offering puja in Dakshineshwar on the day a new play was being staged. Sarala used to go to Sri Ramakrishna’s room and seek his blessing, “Let it go well, thakur[7], I’ll give you an offering of hot jilipis[8].” And so, all those plays did well very quickly. There wasn’t even space for a sesame seed in the packed hall. There was repeated applause. People used to scream out, “Encore! Encore!” And then one had to act out a scene once again. Or sing a song. Sarala enjoyed it. People learnt from theatre. Notu Babu believed that. He reminded people of Sri Ramakrishna at every moment. Everyone held their folded hands at their foreheads in obeisance. On the day of the New Year, and on the day of Rathayatra[9], there was always a puja[10]in the drama group’s premises. It was a small group, but so what? All the etiquette and civility of a large group were always in place. Notu Babu saw to that. Sarala used to visit Kashipur on the day of the Kalpataru festival. She prayed inwardly that Sri Ramakrishna came alive and stood before her. That he placed his hand on her head, blessed her, and said, “May you attain enlightenment.”

But where did that happen? Had she been able to shed the veil of illusion? Or this body? She was still standing somehow on her weak legs, a lump of flesh and blood. So then was everything not finished as yet? Did that mean something else was left? What exactly was that? Sarala had not been able to figure that out. When she was about to carry the bucket with the soaked linen to the standpipe on her wobbly legs, she stopped with a start. The morning sunlight that had fallen on the dilapidated wall with exposed bricks beside the main door looked exactly as if someone had cast a theatre light there. Sarala took small steps and went and stood in that light. She shut her eyes. The sound of the third and final bell came wafting from somewhere.

The play, Binodini, the Dancing Girl, was being performed one time. That role had been a longtime dream of Sarala! Binod Babu, the emperor of theatre, had overwhelmed everyone in the role of Sri Ramakrishna. He had been brought after having been paid a hefty advance. The drama group had to pay him a huge fee. Sarala herself had given up the twenty-gram gold necklace that she had received as a prize from the mistress of the Dutta household of Syankrapara. But that play went down really well. The crowd that had come simply to see the play had overflowed beyond the hall and the road and gone all the way to the five-point intersection. Notu Babu used to say in jest, “You seem to have surpassed even the matinee idol, Sarala, my dear!” After rehearsing all night long, when she went to the ghat[11] at dawn and dunked her head in Ma Ganga, she felt refreshed in mind and body. Her wavy hair went down to her waist then. The skin on her body was the colour of gold. Everywhere men ogled at her, as if they were about to pounce on and devour her. After all, they had devoured Binodini. Hadn’t they? Men devoured her. The theatre devoured her. And what about Sarala?

*

A huge crowd at the water-tap today. Apparently, there had been no water at night. And so, the children, the pots and pans, and men and women all seemed to have flung modesty to the winds and exposed themselvesin front of the water-tap. Sarala did not want to go there. There had been none of all this trouble when she lived on a platform on the ghat by the Ganga. There was an open, gaping sky there. And Ma Ganga was with her. Yes, it was a bit difficult during the rainy season and in winter, but what could one do about that?

Sarala had enlisted herself in the ranks of all those folks in this city who did not have a roof over their heads, who lacked a permanent address, who had no one to call their own, let alone a son! It occurred to the actress who had once stood in front of the footlights on stage that the arrangements were complete for the antarjali (the ritualistic act on the bank of the Ganga of immersing the lower part of a dying person’s body)! She spread out her old copy of Kashiram Das’s Mahabharata everyday and recited the verses. After all, that too was an acquirement from way back when Notu Babu himself had schooled her. He has said, “Hey you, what on earth have you learnt of acting if you haven’t read the Mahabharata?” His finger moved from one word to the next. Sarala would sway from side to side to the auspicious cadence –

Offer puja to the Lord of the Universe
With the lotus from the grove where the maiden was born
Her name was formerly Lakshmi Haripriya
She took birth and arrived after a sage’s curse
Because of which the Sindhu was churned
But it can be reversed if Lakshmi finds Narayan.

But Sarala had never attained Narayan, ever. She had never ever been able to hold on to the one she desired. Meanwhile, a dark shadow seemed to fall on the visage of the professional theatre halls and they began to close down. The Five Pandavas could not be staged after the opening show. People slandered it saying the female body had been exposed. They vandalised the theatre. The government declared that it was a perversion of culture.

Notu Babu seemed to have been battered and crushed. The scion of such a distinguished family was humiliated. Evil was spewed against him. He contracted a deadly disease. But could he give up theater even after all that? Not at all. His final wish had been to play the monk Nimai. He had promptly written the script too. At the very centre was Vishnupriya. Could Nimai have become a renunciant without her? This magnificent woman had given up the lotus of the age, something she had been urged to hold on to firmly by everyone. Hadn’t she lamented? Suppressed tears? You have to cast all these aspects like pearls on the stage, Sarala! Only then will your Vishnupriya come alive.  Notu Babu had called her close and said to her. “Will you make me a paan[12] with that rose water of yours? Put some wet supari[13] in it. And some Surabhi zarda[14].”

Sarala used to lay out the paans, folded into small quids. Notu Babu would fill up a silver box with them to eat later. He used to stuff a paan in his mouth and then sit with his eyes shut on an easy-chair. His colourful Kashmiri shawl used to droop down on the floor. It was as if Sarala could see it all hazily even today. That’s why she kept talking covertly, behind the scenes, inwardly, all her life, with that man alone. She badly wanted Notu Babu to at least see this play about the one whom society had deliberately abused. Made dishonourable. Let that same society come and sit in front of the monk Nimai now. Let them realise what theatre was. But that was not to be. Notu Babu suddenly fell off the rickshaw one day on his way to the rehearsal. He never rose again after suffering that fall. How the big and hefty man seemed to have shrunk and become one with the bed!

The rehearsals came to an end. As did the theatre. What a tug of war there was regarding money. The house rent was due. Money was owed at the grocer’s shop. Keshto Chatterjee ran a theatre in the commercial district in Dalhousie Square. He came often to their troupe. He had told Sarala quite a few times in the past to come and act there. She had beauty, glamour, and fame. They would pay her well. ‘What’s the harm in being intimate with educated babus?’ Sarala paid no heed.

When she stood on stage, the entire hall broke into applause. When the audience liked the dialogue, they screamed, “Encore! Encore!” Some people placed bouquets of flowers near her feet at the end of the show. They threw paper planes of love letters at her. Those who dared, came up to her and said they would give her the life of a queen. But Sarala shut the door on all their faces and loved the theatre alone — the theatre in which Notu Babu alone was the presiding deity. How on earth could that very same Sarala go to Dalhousie Square and rent herself out!

But she had to go, much later. When she was completely broken in body and mind. She had applied make-up and acted in a theatre which was a hobby of some babus. She had wanted to share her innermost thoughts with Notu Babu. But the people of his household did not let Sarala enter. She had to return from the main door that bore a lion motif. She had rushed to the cremation ground as soon as she heard about his death. All she saw there was the pyre burning afar.

*

There came a time when the dramas in Dalhousie Square too vanished. Her youth vanished. Her beauty too. Nor were there any more people who wanted to have fun with her body of flesh and blood. When the house she lived in was going to be demolished for redevelopment, Sarala had gone to the ghat on the bank of the Ganga one night. She stood there clutching the Kashiram Das’s Mahabharata to her bosom. She had wondered, had anyone else ever rendered Draupadi more naked than this? “Did you ever get such a large stage anywhere, Notu Babu!” This platform beside the Ganga. Under an ancient banyan. Next to such a big crematorium, with an electric furnace. If Sarala died that night, who would care a whit?

But Sarala didn’t die. She wanted to act again one final time. After dunking herself in Ma Ganga, she had sat on the platform in the ghat and spread Kashiram Das’s Mahabharata in front of her. Those who had come to bathe in the river in the morning saw an ancient lady opening a tattered book and reciting something tunefully. None of them were competent to say whether that was the Mahabharata, or the Ramayana. Some of them were hurrying to work. Some others had come to earn merit by immersing themselves in the river.

As noon approached and her throat grew parched, Sarala had noticed that there was a collection of loose change in front of her. Considering it to be the grace of Ma Ganga, she had knocked her knuckle to her forehead in obeisance and tied the coins in a corner of her anchal[15]. She had bought an earthen basin with the money. Rice. Some fuelwood from the shop in the crematorium that sold the items for the purificatory rites. A bit of ghee. Sarala had fetched and laid two bricks on the bank of the Ganga and prepared the sacred hobishyi,[16] or rice semi-cooked with ghee. She had rolled the rice into large spherical lumps and she had inwardly declared to Ma Ganga, “I performed the funerary rites of my earlier life, Ma. Grant me a new life.”

Her eyes had glistened. She had then gobbled the lumps of rice to feed her belly that had starved for several days. In truth, she was born anew that day. With a new identity too.

So many people used to come to hear Kashiram Das’s Mahabharata! They sat around Sarala in the light of dawn. It was as if she was seated on a large stage, sometimes enacting the Sage Vyasa, sometimes Arjuna, sometimes Bheema, sometimes Draupadi, or sometimes the truthful king Yudhishtra. What an assemblage of simultaneous roles! “If only you saw your matinee idol, Notu Babu, wouldn’t you have been inwardly happy?” Sarala muttered to herself. Yet, it seemed she could not have such happiness for very long. That was the destiny that the Almighty had written on her brow when she was a tiny infant in the delivery chamber.

*

The number of people at the riverbank suddenly waned. Apparently, an epidemic had spread all over the world. And everyone was dying of that disease. The government had prohibited anyone from leaving their house. Don’t go to work. So, then what would people eat! So many hundreds of corpses wrapped in plastic sheets had arrived at the crematorium. The furnaces had burst into flame. But Sarala had cheated death even after all that! It seemed that Yama, the Lord of Death, had developed a distaste for her!

And then something happened during this time. Phuleshwari, the woman who swept the riverbank with her broom, who Sarala used to call to drink tea, and whose tales of joy and woe she listened to, the one whose husband Dumureshwar drove a hearse – one day Phuleshwari simply refused to listen to Sarala’s protests and took her along to a basti[17] beside Dhapa. To their neighbourhood. “Stay here, Ma. There’s an epidemic outside.” Sarala had remained there ever since. But she was not one to be a burden on anyone. After all, she had worked to feed herself from an early age!

Every time she wanted to return to the bank of the Ganga, Phuleshwari, Dumureshwar, their child Bundi, and quite a few city street sweepers had blocked her way. After all, it was they who were her family now. A son-in-law of one of them was a driver for film shooting crews. He took along groups of people from the basti. Apparently, all of them acted. They got a meal and two-hundred rupees in return. One day Sarala too got into the crowded vehicle. Hoping to get work. To feed her belly. And out of the love of acting from way back when.

*

An old woman was frequently spotted in the film studios locality, either behind some major artist, or in a crowd, or sometimes in a procession. Her hair was the colour of jute yarn. A kindly face. Of slender build. Her sun-scorched skin had a copper hue. This old lady didn’t seem to get annoyed at anything at all.

The fussiness over particulars that was prevalent among those who came to swell crowds was completely lacking in the old woman. She could beautifully execute whatever she was told. Most astonishing of all, she could memorise and rattle off any bit of dialogue. She was completely unfazed by the camera. Gradually her circle of acquaintances in the film studios locality began to grow. She got more and more work. And Sarala Debi, who had stood on stage in front of the footlights way back when, kept on performing. Although she never spoke to anyone about her memories of the past. Because she herself had performed her funerary rites, hadn’t she!

“What can I tell you, Notu Babu, you’ll laugh if you hear it. These people do a scene so many times, and the camera is placed in so many angles. And each time, one has to do exactly what one did before. Look back, smile, speak, everything has to be exactly the same. Like our encores. I really like it, you know. So many people, so many lights, so many stories. And do you know what I like most of all, Notu Babu? When all the lights in the set come on, one after another. The Director Babu shouts out, ‘Action!’ We rush and stand in front of the camera. At once, I can clearly see a stage. The black heads of the audience. And far away, very far away, you are sitting in the last row. Watching me act. Do you know what they call me, Notu Babu? No, no, not your Sarala. She died a long time back, didn’t she! I am now “Shooting Dida[18]” in the film studios locality!”

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V. Ramaswamy is a literary and nonfiction translator of voices from the margins. His translation of the novel, The Struggle, by Showkat Ali, was published in 2025.

[1] Puffed rice

[2] Fish with mixed vegetables

[3] A mixed vegetable preparation

[4] Flower concentrate, normally rose

[5] insert

[6] gentlemen

[7] Lord or God: In this case the guru, Sri Ramkrishna (1836-1886)

[8] Sweets

[9] An Odiya festival

[10] Prayer

[11] Riverside jetty

[12] Betel leaf

[13] Betel nut

[14] Fragrant tobacco

[15] Loose end of a saree

[16] An essential part of Hindu funeral rites

[17] Slum

[18] Maternal Grandmother

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Homecoming

By Oindrila Ghosal

“Did you grow up in a haunted house, Daddy?”

He smiled, ruffling his son’s capped head. He knew that the lenses children were born with eventually writhed and crumbled to dust with age. That had been the fate of his pair. Though when and how, he didn’t remember anymore. If only Moji[1] was still around, he thought, she would have spread out the detailed list in front of him.

Instead, he replied, “Ghosts and the living do not stay together.”

“Like dirty and clean laundry?”

He nodded.

“But I think you had not seen the ghosts growing up. They didn’t want you to see them.”

“I don’t think I ever told you a bedtime story about growing up with ghosts around me.”

He chuckled. He reminded himself of his son’s skill in repeating stories that he had heard a few nights ago, refracted through his lenses. But wasn’t that common for kids?

He had learnt the art of storytelling from Moji, who each night would cradle his tiny head on her lap and tell him stories she had grown up hearing while embroidering shawls by the lamp. He narrated the same stories to Fabienne, Kashyap’s mother, years later during their freezing nights in Fairbanks. Perhaps Kashyap had picked up the trait then, for when he grew a little older, he not only insisted on completing the stories his father began but also firmly believed that his parents continued telling stories with changed climaxes, in their bedroom. In those nights of exchanging stories, little by little, Fabienne was shrinking her plot points until, after one such invigorating session, she was nowhere to be seen.

“It’s just that you don’t remember anymore, Daddy,” complained Kashyap, tightening his clasp around his father’s gloved hand.

“You and your stories,” he scoffed, lifting his five-year-old son into his arms.

Their white breaths – his deep and his son’s short – swirled into each other’s before disappearing in the crystal air. He gripped the rotting capping rail of the fence with the other hand.

As a child, the fence had scared him with its enormity. Sometimes he crouched behind it, fixing an eye to a hole in the wood, when he returned home late from fishing rainbow trout in the river or playing cricket in the chinar groves. Now its height reached only an inch above his waist.

“Are we going to get inside, Daddy?” Kashyap’s exasperation reddened his ears, like Moji twisting them in the hideout behind the fence.

The cold stroked his ears. He did not lift a finger to scratch the inflammation. He simply stared at the home of his ancestors, what reminded of it further hidden under the snow. Moss on the walls. Grimy. Rickety. Unwashed soot. Unfixed windows. Battered porch. Clogged chimney. The skeleton of a juniper at the back.

Something tugged at the little hairs in his nose. Something burnt his eyes. Maybe a fly ash of yesteryears.

“Daddy?” Kashyap lightly kicked his ribs.

He clicked his tongue and continued staring at the ensemble of wood and brick through the strings of delicate snowflakes showering on the house, showering on them.

“Daddy,” he said with the softness of the snowflakes.

“Yes, Kay.”

“Do you want to hear a story?”

“Go on,” his voice, frozen in a trance, answered.

“The story starts with a family heading to the house of the fairies. A boy of my age. A father of your age. A mother…no, not a mother.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know any story with a mother in it.”

He added after some time, hesitantly, “Do you know stories of mother, Daddy?”

“Umm hmm.”

“Do you know stories of your mother?”

Even with the eddying of meditation in his blood, he curled his lips in a smile—before his neurons could conjure the scene of Fabienne’s terror-stricken face, begging him to keep his history, his story, from their son.

“What story do you want to hear?”

“Her story.”

“My mother, my Moji, came many years ago to this house as a young bride. This was the house where my Mole[2] was born. He had lived his entire life in the valley. Moji was from the Silver Mountains – up there. She had never seen the valley until the wedding. He had never been to the mountains before.”

“And then?”

“That’s the end of the story.” He lied. His promise to Fabienne lurked at the end of his tongue.

“You’re a terrible storyteller, Daddy.”

He laughed. “How would you have told the story, then?”

“I would not have kept my audience in the dark. What does Moji look like? Does she have my hazel eyes? Or your red cheeks? Does she have wrinkles now? Is her nose really tiny?”

His moji’s humming—a soft rustle—of ‘door ballaai tsajiyo[3]’ streaming in from the susurrating faraway wind dispersed his son’s shrill words haywire in the current. Before his eyes, on the thickening snow, feeble, disconcerted images pulsed. Moji’s green irises. The raisin mole on her lips. Her ears chained to pairs of elongated dejhoor[4]. The emerald on her nose. The scarlet scarf fastened around her head.

When his son’s swollen fingers, behind fleece gloves, tucked at his beard, he blinked his eyes, but the water-painted figments remained. He was unaware for how long he had been gaping at the glowing and dimming on the unruly, stark white snow.

“Are there any photographs of her inside?” his son’s voice reached him as if from across the mountains.

He paused. He plucked his reddening eyes from the snow to the dark porch. Was still moji, red and peeling from the burns, crouching? The orange flames rising from somewhere in the house were deafening her mute cries and devouring the bricks and wood. The embers and their smoke had already charred the chords in her throat. He had stopped right at the fence. The black orbit, where her mouth had been, was still muttering, asking him to flee.

He shouldn’t have left to run her errands, he cursed. Either he and moji would have burrowed their way out under the fire or, hand in hand, said their last prayers amidst the flames licking their cheeks. But moji had been under the weather for a few weeks, and mole had disappeared into thin air the previous full moon. His coworkers at the post office or the baton-wielding patrolling policemen across the streets and the lakes were equally clueless about the whereabouts of his shoestring after he had left for home, sliding the pen into his pocket.

He closed his eyes and opened them again. Only moji-shaped soot remained at the porch. The blackened sepulchre blended in with the twilight setting.

He gasped. His spine shuddered. His son in his tightened grip shuddered too.

“Can we go back, daddy?”

“What?” He had not heard him.

Kashyap repeated.

“Sure. Fifteen steps and we shall be indoors.”

“Let’s go home, daddy.”

He turned to his son’s crumpled face in his arms. He whispered, “Open doors remind me of mommy.”

Apology handheld dread in his son’s eyes. He had so far mirrored his father’s whine about visiting the home of his childhood as they sat in an aircraft from the other side of the globe and drove through the sea of paperwork and up the mountains. But the open door shattered him. It vividly brought back the evenings he relentlessly tired himself with the stories mommy had told him and invented newer ones when they exhausted in boring him enough. The same words, the same scenes flowed. Had mommy’s letters ever arrived by mail, as in a chapter taught at school, his stories would have charted new ground too. They would have been of a different composition. He believed daddy would understand.

His eyes didn’t utter a word. He tucked Kashyap closer to his warm chest and wrapped him in his arms. As he trod away, Kashyap dug his chin into his daddy’s square shoulder. Somewhere around the backyard of the house, red-smeared white petals of a tulip were unfurling under the snow. Had the ghosts from daddy’s childhood planted the seeds?

[1] Mother in Kashmiri

[2] Father in Kashmiri

[3] A lullaby sung by Kashmiri mothers to ward off evil: Literally, “let evils stay far…”

[4] Long chained earrings worn by married Kashmiri women

Oindrila Ghosal is an emerging author and also a doctoral student at Tata Memorial Centre – Advanced Centre for Treatment, Research and Education in Cancer, Navi Mumbai. So far, her short stories, “The Harlot’s Veena”, “The Asylum” and “The Jungle Within Me” have been published in Kitaab.

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Stale Flatbread by Sangeetha G

Chapati or Indian Flatbread. From Public Domain

After shivering for some time in the winter morning, she mustered courage to pour cold water all over her body.  She finished her bath quickly and was out within minutes. Sitting in front of the dressing table she filled the parting-line of her hair with vermillion, moving her hands softly not to make the red and white bangles jingle. She was not supposed to wake up the man who was lying asleep on the bed. The man who was a stranger till the previous day had become the most important person in her life — her husband. She looked at her sleeping husband and smiled coyly. She thought that she had fallen in love with him. In some of the Bollywood films she had watched, the heroines had smiled the same way when they were in love. 

Before stepping out of her room, she adjusted the tip of her saree over the head so as to cover the face fully. A woman is not supposed to show her face to her in-laws and the people around. They would only see her bangled hands and her feet. Rest of her body, including her face, would always stay hidden in the complex wraps of the saree. 

She walked towards the kitchen with butterflies in her stomach. It was her first day in the house and she had to prove herself to be a traditional daughter-in-law, worthy enough to belong to the house. For years, her mother kept on reminding her that her most important task in life was to become a dutiful daughter-in-law in her husband’s household. 

Her aunt had brought the marriage proposal as the groom’s party was known to her. “The groom’s parents are not as greedy as many others in our community. They won’t keep pestering with demands apart from the dowry given at the time of wedding. They have agreed to take her in with a small dowry and haven’t demanded a car. Even the groom does not smoke or drink. Your daughter is the luckiest girl in the community.” The virtues of the groom and his parents lay in things they did not do and not in what they did. 

In the kitchen, the mother-in-law was waiting for her. “This is your world now. I have asked the maidservant to stop coming from today onwards. Now that you are here, she is not needed,” she said. She did not acknowledge how good a deal that was — a maidservant who comes with a dowry and works for free lifelong.  

“You can make flat bread for noon with vegetables and cooked lentils. Now that it is your first day, we are waiting to enjoy a sweetmeat made by you. If you have any doubt, you can ask me. I will be there in my room,” her mother-in-law said. 

Her head covered by the anchal[1] moved in a nod. “How kind is my mother-in-law! She did not talk to me rudely,” she heaved a sigh of relief. 

For the next couple of hours, she moved within the kitchen, searching for spices and utensils, kneading the flour, cooking the flatbreads and cutting vegetables. She kept the food ready on the table and informed her mother-in-law. Her husband and father-in-law ate the food without any comments and the father-in-law left a 100 rupee note on the table for her as per the custom of doling out a tip for the first food she cooked. He never had given away that big tip in any restaurant.

After they finished their meal, her mother-in-law ate hers. While she was doing the dishes, mother-in-law told her: “We do not waste food. We are quite strict about it. Whatever food is left from the previous meal, I keep aside in the refrigerator for the maid. She used to happily take them home. But she is not coming now.”

“Don’t worry mom. I will eat them,” she told her mother-in-law, who then retired to her room. She looked at the refrigerator. It was a relic from the century when refrigerators were invented. It was a matter of debate whether the paint or the rust owned the exterior more. The interior was the cheapest mode of having a glimpse of Himalayas as the icicles hung from the roof and glaciers had formed in the corners. The refrigerator had the unique quality of turning any food item into the most unpalatable substance.    

She looked into the casserole. There were a few flatbreads left, which were sufficient for her. But as per the instructions, she had to finish those in the refrigerator. She took out the flatbreads from the previous day. They were hard and tasteless like dry wood and when she heated them, they became harder and she could barely chew them. The curries kept in the refrigerator did not even remotely taste like them.

The next day, she made fewer flatbreads. Her father-in-law opened the casserole, looked in and stood up and left for his room without uttering anything. An anxious mother-in-law opened the casserole and hurried towards her in the kitchen. “Did you make fewer flatbreads today?” she asked.

She was horrified to see her mother-in-law looking anxious. “Yes, I had a few old flatbreads in the refrigerator. So I made less,” she stammered. 

“What did you do? Your father-in-law wants to see the casserole full of flatbreads. Else, he would sulk and leave without eating,” she said. “Quickly make a few more. I will pacify him and bring him back to the table,” mother-in-law said. 

She hurriedly made the extra flatbreads and filled up the casserole. Like the previous day, she ate the old ones and kept the fresh flatbreads in the refrigerator for the next day.  

Her days were fully engaged in cooking, washing and cleaning. She was happy that nobody had complaints about her. 

At night, she applied kohl in her eyes and adjusted the vermillion and looked at herself in the mirror. She wanted to look her best when her husband would see her without the veil. She wanted him to feel lucky to have got her as his wife and expected a few nice words in return for the day-long work. 

As soon as he entered the room, he closed the door behind him and switched off the light. After a few days, she realised that he was not interested in seeing her face. In that house, she moved about cooking, cleaning and washing clothes, without a face. They did not see her hands either. Chopping vegetables and scrubbing vessels were turning them rough and dark and the red and white bangles had lost their sheen.

They did not notice her feet nor her saree. She was nourishing them, providing them clean clothes to wear, keeping their toilets clean and tidying up their rooms. She was everywhere. But, like the air they breathed, she was invisible to them. She stopped applying kohl in her eyes and adorning herself. After some time, she became quite disinterested in seeing herself in the mirror. 

She started falling sick quite often. Most days she would have stomach aches, sometimes the belly would bloat up and then at times she would throw up. Most days she did not want to eat. The plate of hard, dry flatbread and stale curries were nauseating. But she would force the food down her throat so as to not throw them in the bin. Dark circles had formed around her eyes and her skin was looking pale and lifeless. Nobody knew anything about what was happening to her until one day she collapsed on the floor. 

They took her to the hospital and the doctor asked her husband about her food. “She eats what we eat,” he said. Unsatisfied by that reply, he turned to her and asked: “what do you eat? You seem to be having stomach problems for quite some time.”

“I usually eat stale flatbreads and curries from the previous day,” she said. 

“Her stomach is terribly upset. Give her something fresh to eat before taking the medicines,” doctor ordered.

Her husband bought fresh flatbread and lentils. The aroma of the lavishly buttered flatbread and spiced lentils filled the room. She broke a tiny piece of flatbread, dipped it in the lentil curry and chewed it. But the body did not accept that unfamiliar food. It threw up all that went inside.

[1] Free end of the sari

Sangeetha G is a journalist in India. Her flash fiction and short stories have appeared in Orange Blossom Review, Decolonial Passage, Sky Island Journal, Down in the Dirt, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Kitaab International, Borderless Journal and Indian Review. Her stories have won the Himalayan Writing Retreat Flash Fiction contest and the Strands International Flash Fiction contest. Her debut novel, Drop of the Last Cloud, was published in May 2023.

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When Silence Learned to Speak

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

Charan was three years old. His mother and father both had jobs. Every morning they woke up early, hurried through all the household work, and rushed to their offices. Because of this, they hardly had any time to spend with Charan.

They would make him sit in front of the television. A maid was hired to take care of him. After finishing the household chores, she too would sit in front of the TV. Charan spent the whole day watching the programs on television along with her.

The colours on the TV kept changing. Scenes changed. Cartoon characters jumped around. Strange sounds filled the room. But not a single character on the screen ever asked Charan, “How are you?” The maid was happy just watching the TV and hardly paid attention to him.

Because of this, Charan could not open his mouth and speak. Even though he was three years old, his world stopped at gestures. It had not reached the stage of words.

One day Charan’s grandmother and grandfather came from their village. They were surprised to see that the house was filled only with the sound of the television. Charan smiled when he saw them, but he did not greet them.

With the help of the maid, they managed their work. It was already dark when their daughter and son-in-law returned home from work. As soon as they arrived, the grandparents asked about their grandson.

“He still hasn’t started speaking. That’s why he just smiles,” their daughter said.

Grandfather felt a sharp pain in his heart. How could a three-year-old child still not speak? he wondered. Right then he made a decision in his mind: “The television in this house must stop. Instead, we must spend time with our grandson.”

Grandfather began to think about how to help Charan start speaking. Soon he came up with a few ideas, and from the very next day he started putting them into action.

Every morning he took Charan to the garden. There he showed him the birds, squirrels, ants, flowers, leaves, and branches, and told him their names.

When a tiny ant was walking by, Grandfather said, “Look, Charan! This little ant is carrying a piece of laddu for her baby. Another ant is carrying a piece of jaggery. Call them and ask them to stop. Say, ‘Ant, please stop!’”

When a squirrel climbed a tree, he said slowly and clearly, moving his lips so Charan could see, “Look at the squirrel… see how fast it climbs the tree! Call it. Say ‘Squ-ir-rel… squirrel… stop!’”

Then he pointed to a parrot sitting on another tree branch and said,

“Look, Charan. Its colour is green. It blends with the leaves of the tree. And see its beak—it’s bright red!”

Charan watched the ants, the squirrel, and the parrot with great interest. For the first time, he tried to stop an ant and made a sound, “Aa… aa…”

Another time a crow was cawing. Grandfather explained, “Look, that’s a crow. See how black it is. Listen… it says ‘Caw… caw…’”

Sometimes he made Charan stand in front of a mirror. “Look, how handsome you are in the mirror! Where is Charan’s nose? Here is Grandfather’s nose. Where is your nose?”

Charan would touch his nose and laugh.

“Say it… no-se…” Grandfather would say slowly, moving his lips clearly.

Watching these movements, Charan slowly began to imitate them.

Grandmother also thought of a clever idea. She would purposely stay in the kitchen and give Charan a small task.

“Oh dear! I forgot to give Grandfather his medicine box. Can you take this to him and say, ‘Take it’ with your mouth?”

Charan carried the box to Grandfather. As he handed it over, and with Grandfather encouraging him, he said his first word: “Ta…k…” (Take it).

Days passed like this.

One evening it began to rain. Charan stood near the window watching the drops fall outside. Until then he had only seen rain on television. Now the cool breeze and the smell of wet earth felt new and exciting.

Standing beside him, Grandmother said, “Charan… it’s raining!”

Then she began to sing a playful rain song, acting it out with her hands.

Holding Grandmother’s hand, Charan pointed to the falling raindrops outside and tried to sing along, saying softly and unclearly, “Rain… rain… come…!”

A few more days passed. One day, Charan clearly called out, “Grandma!”

The moment they heard that word, everyone’s eyes in the house filled with joy. Charan’s parents finally understood something important: compared to the artificial sounds from the television, the first word from a child’s mouth is far sweeter.

Grandfather said thoughtfully, “Children who grow up in a joint family don’t need to be taught how to speak. Words come to them naturally. That’s because everyone around them becomes like a teacher, talking and chatting with them. Mobile phones and televisions may give information, but they cannot teach conversation. That is why Charan started speaking late. Now do you understand where the real problem was? From now on, we must raise Charan without such mistakes and make sure he grows well.”

Charan’s mother realised that Grandfather’s words were true.

From then on, Charan’s parents never left him alone at home. Either his paternal grandparents or maternal grandparents would stay with him while they went to work.

And slowly, Charan forgot about the television.

With his new words, he began to talk, laugh, and fill the house with happiness.

From Public Domain

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.

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The Wedding

By Sohana Manzoor

From Public Domain

Ishrat looked at the girl staring at her from the computer screen. Smooth and silky dark hair framed a face with wide eyes and lips that curved into a tender smile. According to her bio-data, Raihana Mimi finished her Bachelor’s from Stony Brook three years earlier. Then she did a Master’s in Social Work from UMASS Boston before going back to Bangladesh. Ishrat wondered why the girl liked Asif. At first glance, Asif seemed like an ordinary young man, even if pursuing a PhD in Computer Science. He was not handsome and he carried himself like a bear with a perpetual frown on his forehead. So why this lovely girl took a liking to Asif seemed a mystery to Ishrat. She hoped it wouldn’t end like the affair two years ago. It had broken Asif’s heart, and until very recently he would not hear of marriage.

“She’s very pretty,” Ishrat finally said. “But marriage is a life-long commitment, Asif. Do not marry for the wrong reasons. Do you love her?”

Asif looked at the somber face gazing upon him and smiled sadly. “Love? I thought I was in love the last time I went home. You know the rest.” Both of them went silent reminiscing about the unprecedented series of events that occurred about two years ago when Asif had gone back to Bangladesh to marry the girl he had been planning to wed for years. He came back alone a month later as the girl’s family had refused to allow their youngest daughter to marry him, and his sweetheart accepted the decision made by her family without protest.

Ishrat still remembered the bleak look on Asif’s face when he had asked her after returning from home, “What’s wrong with being fatherless, Apa[1]? And is an American passport essential for marriage? Tania’s uncle told me to get a US passport and then ask for their daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Ishrat couldn’t tell him that the marriage mart in Dhaka was a fish market. Most people with assets in the capital city would turn up their noses at someone like Asif whose father had died leaving his children still struggling to make a place for themselves. Instead, she had said, “It’s better that this match didn’t work out, Asif. Obviously, the girl didn’t care enough to stand up for you. I’m sure that you have a better person waiting for you in the future.”

“I told you Apa, she got married last year, didn’t I?” asked Asif.

“Who? Tania? Yes, you did. But Asif, I hope you are not planning to get married just because you want to show off that you’ve got a better wife,” said Ishrat with a frown. “Raihana is surely prettier than Tania and more accomplished. But just that would be a wrong reason for getting married.”

Asif shook his head. “That’s not why I want to marry Mimi. I’ve been talking to her for a few months now. She seems. . . how to put it. . . very mature, level-headed and practical. Has a lot of good sense,” he paused and then added, “something Tania never had.”

Ishrat asked again, “So, how does your family take it? I thought your mother had somebody in mind?

“That was years ago,” Asif said. To him, Kakon was just a next-door girl, the daughter of her mother’s best friend. It was a plan hatched by the mothers. He and Kakon never discussed this. There was never an occasion. “My sisters have already paid Mimi’s family a visit. And Mimi’s eldest brother and one of her sisters went to my elder sister’s house to meet my mother. Anju Apa is complaining even though Laiju is quite taken in.”

Ishrat nodded, “What does Laiju say?” Laiju was Asif’s younger sister, and not sentimental like Anjuman.

Asif smiled. “She says that Mimi seems friendly and sensible. Even though Anju Apa pulled a long face in front of everybody, she didn’t take offense. When Laiju apologised on her behalf to Mimi she said that she didn’t mind. People say a lot of things during such negotiations. It’s not wise to hold on to them.”

Ishrat nodded approvingly. “That sounds like uncommonly good sense to me. Marriage is a complex business though. Since you two like each other, you must keep a level head.”

*

Hamida Khatun looked helpless as her eldest daughter ranted about her brother’s marriage. “You’ll see that it will come to no good. That girl’s family is way better off than ours. Two of her sisters are settled in the US. And you still want him to marry her?”

“And how do you propose that I stop it, Anju?” asked Hamida. “You heard him. He is determined to have her.”

“I still don’t understand what was wrong with Kakon,” grumbled Anjuman. Kakon was their neighbour from their hometown in Khulna. They had known her since childhood. Kakon’s mother, Nahar, and Hamida once made plans to get their children married. But Asif was always busy with other things and once he went off to Dhak to study at BUET[2], he changed altogether. He fell in love with a girl named Tania who practically abandoned him at the altar. After that Hamida had tried to incline him toward Kakon once more. But Asif did not budge. At one point he told his mother, “If you nag like this, I will marry an American girl and never return home.” That sealed her mouth as Asif knew it would.

Hamida heaved a sigh and said, “Look, daughter, I don’t have a choice in this. If he can’t marry this girl, I’m afraid he will marry an American Christian girl. Do you want that?” Anju looked up at her mother, horrified. “You must be mad! What will our relatives say? American! And Christian too!”

“What do I care about our relatives?” asked an irritated Hamida. “Their tongues have been wagging since your father died. I just want my son to marry well and be happy.”

Anjuman grimaced. She was sure that this rich girl will only bring trouble for their family.

At this point, Laiju entered the room with a bundle of shopping bags in hand. She was buoyed up by the upcoming wedding of her only brother. Many of their close relatives had already arrived in Dhaka. She and her mother were staying in Rampura where Anjuman lived with her husband and two children.

Laiju looked at her elder sister keenly and said, “I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal. I like Mimi Bhabi already. She is not like those typically snobbish rich girls. On the contrary, she seems very nice and sensible.” She paused and then added, “The kind of scene you made at their house! ‘I know our brother will be taken away from us after his marriage’—That was poor taste, Apa. I would have been mad if I was in her place.”

Anju shuffled uneasily and Hamida nodded gravely. “Yes, that was really bad.”

Laiju was about to say something more when they heard a commotion outside. Several voices were shouting, and one gruff voice most of all.

“I need to talk to Bhabi[3]. Where is she? This is insufferable and totally unacceptable. . .”

“Oh no, that’s Chhoto Chacha[4]!” groaned Laiju. As soon as she uttered the name, a dark burly man entered the room.

Without preamble he said, “Did you buy a saree for my wife? The eldest son of our family is getting married—where is the saree for his Chhoto Chachi?”

“We got sarees for everyone,” said Laiju. “And of course, Chhoto Chachi has got one too.”

“You call that a saree?” sneered their uncle. “That’s a gamchha[5]! If my brother was alive…”

“Unfortunately, he is not,” Laiju interrupted. “And his son is still a student. If you don’t like the saree we got for your wife, go and buy one yourself. Do you ever get anything for her?”

“You have such a foul mouth! No respect for elders at all!” growled Chhoto Chacha. He turned to his sister-in-law and bellowed, “I won’t come to the wedding, Bhabi. And I won’t allow my family to attend either.” He stormed out of the room. They heard him slam the front door shut.

Hamida Khatun heaved another sigh. “When will Asif come? I can’t take all this any longer. My poor boy! Nobody to give him peace of mind.”

Anjuman dried her eyes and said, “I won’t give you any more trouble. I, too, will keep away from the ceremony. . .” she stopped as her mother’s eyes started gleaming ominously. Laiju said, “For once, Apa, please act your age. How long will you behave like a 15-year-old?”

“What did I say?” asked a nervous Anjuman.

“You will act like a proper, respectable elder sister,” said Hamida quietly. “If I hear you babbling like a fool, I will leave your house. Just because we’re staying in your flat, don’t assume that you can do and say whatever you want. If necessary, I will rent a place and conduct the marriage ceremony from there. Understood?”

Anjuman eyed her mother with a newly found apprehension. Laiju gaped at her mother too. Then recovering herself she said half-laughing, “O dear! I didn’t know you could talk like that! You should take on that tone more often, Amma[6]. Chhoto Chacha will never dare to say anything again.”

*

“I still don’t understand why she has chosen that guy,” Gulshan Ara grumbled. “He looks more like an ape than a human being.”

Her fourth daughter Moni shook her head. “Ma, you’ve said that at least ten times.”

“So?” asked Gulshan Ara. “Your headstrong little sister doesn’t pay heed to anything I say. She has her heart set on that ape.” She stopped and lowered her voice. “You and I are the only two with good sense. Even Muhib and Moin are taken in.”

“I’m more worried about his family,” said Moni. “Remember how the elder sister spoke?”

“I can’t understand why you’re so worried about the family,” said a third voice. Moin had entered the room silently like a cat. “Mimi will be living abroad with her husband. She may have to visit Khulna only once or twice in her lifetime. Honestly, how much trouble can her in-laws cause?”

In the next room of the plush apartment in Dhanmondi, the subject of their conversation was busy wrapping up the gifts for her wedding. She had already brought several sarees for herself. She meant to save at least some money for Asif. She understood that he was still a graduate student and could not be expected to spend a fortune on his bride. He also had nobody to support him with expenses. She insisted that there should be only one ceremony and the expenses should be borne by her family. She used to be indifferent when her family members rejected one suitor after another. But something about Asif made her stand up for him and maneuver her siblings, especially her brothers and eldest sister, into accepting him as a prospective candidate. Asif also went out of his way and visited her two elder sisters in New York. Whatever initial reservations they had about his appearance vanished after meeting him face to face. Both spoke approvingly of him, and Mimi’s parents also gave in reluctantly.

When her sister Moni had asked her what she liked so much about Asif, Mimi avoided a direct answer and asked, “What’s wrong with him? He is a good guy, pursuing higher studies. That’s what you wanted too.” She paused, then added, “Okay, so he is not very handsome. But Mishu Apu’s husband was. Did that help?” Mishu was her second sister who had died a few years ago. Her husband was the most handsome and obnoxious man imaginable. Mishu’s untimely death had cast a perpetual gloom on their family.

Moni wrung her hands, “No, but…”

“If you people continue like this, I may never get married, you know,” Mimi had said, half-teasingly. “I’ll be thirty in November.”

Mimi counted the boxes and eyed the suitcase carefully. These were mostly things for her in-laws. They still had not got anything for Asif who was arriving in Dhaka that very afternoon. The two of them had planned to do the shopping for their wedding clothes themselves. Asif’s mother already had the jewelry. Apparently, she had them made three years ago, which proved to be an excellent decision.

Asif’s elder sister Anjuman and Mimi’s mother had been raising a hue and cry over every little thing. Anjuman took it to her head that her brother’s wife should have her nose pierced, and Asif should give her a diamond studded nose-pin. Mimi let Asif handle that. Both of them had discussed the situation and decided to largely ignore their comments and avoid unreasonable suggestions without being directly offensive. Asif seemed to rely a lot on her judgment, which Mimi appreciated.

She remembered when her eldest brother’s wife had shown her Asif’s Facebook page. “He’s so funny, Mimi. Just take a look! Says he has all A’s in everything except in his love life. There he has an F!” Mimi had smiled, but somehow it didn’t appear funny to her. She still thought Asif shouldn’t have put such personal information on Facebook, but it pulled a string at her heart. She knew exactly how it felt to get an F in love. She wondered where Dipak was, and if he was still looking for a pretty face with a ton of money. Mimi’s family was very affluent and that turned out to be his main reason for pursuing her. Dipak was gone from her life forever, and Mimi had no intention of bringing him back.

Once upon a time she held Dipak dear, but now she shuddered to think what might have happened if they had been married. He was making advances on three girls at the same time, and Mimi was one of them. The incident taught Mimi a number of things. She promised herself that she would only marry someone she could trust and would look beyond physical appearance. She may never have love, but she would also never feel humiliated or pitied.

*

When Asif and Mimi finally met in person, it was the most unromantic situation possible. His flight was delayed, and he arrived three hours late. After assuring his nervous mother, a pouting elder sister, and an over-enthusiastic younger one, he reached his future in-laws’ house around 9 p.m. along with two uncles and a cousin. He looked tired and harassed, in a crumpled purple shirt and khaki pants. Mimi’s parents were a bit awkward, but her brothers were very cordial as they had heard glowing reports about Asif from their sisters in New York.

While the others were talking, Mimi observed her intended husband surreptitiously. She almost smiled at his attire—he was so unpretentious. Obviously, he was more worried about keeping his engagement than his appearance. She noticed that he also looked at her once in a while, and realized with a jolt that he wished, just as she did, to talk to her, to be away from this crowd, just to be by themselves. Mimi was surprised at her own reaction—she had known this man for only a few months, and yet she longed to be with him. She tried to concentrate on the conversation and heard that they were discussing her Kabin. Asif was saying, “Whatever you decide is fine with me. I won’t be able to pay it right away, though, as I am still pursuing higher studies.”

Her eldest brother Muhib said, “Of course, we understand as much. Will 10 lakhs be too much for you?”

At this point, her mother spoke up. “I won’t allow my daughter’s Kabin[7] to be less than fifteen.”

“Fifteen!” someone in Asif’s party gasped. “Fifteen lakhs is too much! Even ten is a lot.”

Everyone in the room shifted uncomfortably while Gulshan Ara sat straight and glared at Asif with animosity. Mimi was about to pinch her brother Moin when Asif said in a quiet voice, “Whatever you say, I will accept. It’s your daughter we are discussing, after all.”

Even Mimi gaped at Asif. As everybody in the room started talking once again, Mimi realised that Asif’s move was the best possible strategy. Gulshan Ara would not complain any more. And Asif was not in serious trouble because he did not have to pay the amount right away. She didn’t know how Asif’s family would take it, though. She promised herself that she would always try to make things easier for him. He didn’t have any idea how rich her family was. He wanted to marry her.

*

The wedding reception was held at a posh restaurant in Dhanmondi. Asif sat on the stage and watched his bride smile and greet the guests who approached them. She was as beautiful as a fairy, thought Asif. Wise and kind too.

Then Asif saw his Chhoto Chacha approaching the stage and he said a swift prayer so that nothing disastrous happened. His uncle addressed Mimi, “The others are saying that the food is good. But I felt it was aida.” He looked triumphantly at Asif, as if saying, “You can’t fool me!” Mimi also looked at Asif, not knowing what aida meant. Asif hastily said, “That was kachchi biriyani, Chacha. It is the standard food for weddings in Dhaka. But we will have a reception in Khulna too. You can have your menu there with your favourite fish.” Chhoto Chacha nodded, looking pleased. “You have a pretty wife,” he said approvingly, “much prettier than your mother ever was.” He walked away. Asif heaved a sigh of relief.

Kachchi Biriyani. From Public Domain

Mimi whispered, “What’s aida?”

“I’ll explain later,” mumbled an embarrassed Asif. How could he say that aida meant food that has been half-eaten by somebody else? Basically, it suggested that the guests had not been properly treated.

Then came Asif’s friends. They were all laughing and joking. Asif was quite popular among his friends, and they seemed happy about Asif’s marriage and his choice of bride. Mimi had very few friends present—understandable, since she did her bachelor’s in the US. Someone mentioned that they had attended Tania’s wedding the previous year whose husband was a bald man in his forties and held an American passport.

A heavily bejeweled, fat lady appeared before them, and Mimi introduced her to Asif. “This is my Chhoto Mami. Mama[8] couldn’t come as he is in Singapore right now.”

Asif smiled and greeted her. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” the lady said with a broad smile like a crocodile. “You are not very handsome, are you? But then, Rahat was very handsome, and it didn’t help us at all.” She sighed, then added, “Hopefully, you’ll take good care of Mimi.”

Mimi made a face as she walked away. “Sorry about that.”

“Who is Rahat?” asked a puzzled Asif.

“My ex-brother-in-law,” replied Mimi briefly. “I’ll tell you later.”

“You and I both seem to have a fine lot of relatives,” observed Asif. Mimi smiled. “It seems so, doesn’t it?” They smiled at each other, and Asif knew that they would be working as a team. Their relatives wouldn’t be able to make a rift like they did in his parents’ case. He thoughts turned to Tania probably for one last time, and he wished he had never met her. Then he realised that it did not really matter. She was already a distant memory. Asif started to comprehend what Ishrat had meant by marriage being a life-long commitment.

Mimi sat contentedly. She liked her husband, she thought. Fair enough. He was sometimes a little rash, but good-natured. He had also shown himself to be sensitive to her needs. She remembered the scuffle over her wedding saree. They got it from Mansha. It was quite expensive and Mimi did not want to buy it even though she liked it very much. Asif, however, insisted that at least the main wedding saree should be costly, so that everybody was content.

*

Anjuman sat in one corner, still resentful at the turn of events. She looked at her children on stage with their uncle, nodding and smiling at their new aunt. Anjuman wondered how nobody could see what she saw—her only brother slowly moving away from them. She remembered what Laiju had said a few days ago: “He is not the same guy who left Bangladesh 4 years ago. He has changed. He has been leading a different life, his friends and peers are of a different sort. His world has changed, Apa. He couldn’t be happy with someone like Kakon. Don’t you see?”

No, Anjuman did not see. All she saw was a rich and beautiful girl taking her only brother away from them. Her resentment rose higher. She had tried to derail her own husband—to move him away from the influence of his nagging mother. But she had failed. The old woman had died only recently, and her husband still cried like a baby over the loss. And here was this girl, a mere chit of a girl, accomplishing what she could not in nine years. “If only it was Kakon!” thought Anjuman wistfully, their brother would have always been theirs. She did not see why he would be unhappy. What was the duty of a wife? To cook, bear children and maintain the house. Their mother did all this, she herself was doing the same; what more could Asif want? And in spite of all her good looks, what could Mimi give him that Kakon could not? Did he have to sell himself to money?

Somewhere at the back of her mind, Anjuman felt cheated. She felt that her brother got something she never even dreamt of. She saw the light of a different life on Laiju’s face, or even on their mother’s, a light she could not share. She thought of the flat in Rampura where she had so far lived with her husband and children. The 1200 square feet she had been so proud of owning suddenly seemed to have diminished into nothing. Owning a flat in Dhaka did not seem so great anymore as she wondered what kind of a house Asif and his wife would have in the US.

Hamida Khatun noticed the tear-stained face of her elder daughter from a distance and heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank God she realises that they are happy, and she is praying for them,” she thought, and smiled with misty eyes. Her thoughts then flew to the future where she saw herself surrounded by grandchildren. She did not see even the flicker of any dark shadow on the bright stage where her son gazed lovingly at his bride.

[1] Elder sister

[2] Bangladesh University of Engineering and Technology

[3] Sister-in-law

[4] Younger uncle

[5] Thin, coarse, absorbent cotton towel

[6] Mother

[7] Marriage registration fees determined by the dowry

[8] Mami is wife to mother’s brother referred to as Mama

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Sohana Manzoor is a writer and academic from Bangladesh, with a PhD in English from Southern Illinois University Carbondale. Her works have appeared in Bellingham Review, Eclectica, Litro, Singapore Unbound, Borderless Journal, and elsewhere. She was the Literary Editor of The Daily Star from 2018- 22. Currently, she is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at UBC, Vancouver.

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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

Two Black Dresses

By Jonathon B Ferrini

From Public Domain

Every day at three o’clock, as the afternoon sun fought through the dusty windows and escaped the obstruction caused by the high school down the street, a teenage girl would slip quietly into a boutique. She never spoke, never bought anything, just wandered to the same rack and lingered over a particular black dress.  Minerva watched her, recognising the weight of grief in the girl’s eyes she knew too well.

The girl would lift the simple black satin dress off the rack and wrap it around her as if embracing somebody very special.

After a few moments with the dress, the girl returned it to the rack and quickly left the store without a word spoken with tears streaming down her face.

*

Minerva used her late husband’s life insurance money to buy a little boutique she’d admired for years. The shop sold consignment women’s clothing and served as a sanctuary for Minerva to pour her sorrow into something tangible, to help women and girls find joy in clothing and accessories. The shop was a fragile haven built from a life including love, loss, and longing. Every shelf, every dress, every faded photograph tucked behind the register was a thread in the tapestry of her survival, but a lump found during a breast self-examination ignited anxiety which weighed heavily upon her.

Each morning, Minerva opened the shop, she was certain the lump was a “call” to “fold her hand” as the world felt like it was determined to break her.

*

One afternoon, as the bell tinkled above the door announcing a customer, Minerva looked up from her ledger. The girl was there again; her gaze fixed on the black dress. This time, she hesitated, then approached the counter, clutching the black dress including a second, almost identical dress but in a different size.

“Could I try these on?”

“Of course, dear.

“The fitting rooms behind me.”

A few minutes later, the girl emerged, the black satin dress draping heavy over her small frame. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, then turned to Minerva, uncertainty clouding her face.

“How does it look?”

Minerva stepped closer.

“May I ask, why this one?

“It doesn’t seem to fit you properly.

“I believe the black cotton dress will fit you perfectly.”

The girl hesitated, her fingers twisting the hem of the satin dress.

“My friend and I… we wanted to dress up and go to the prom together. She was killed in a hit-and-run accident. I can’t stop thinking about her. This black satin dress… it’s the only thing she tried on here. It’s all I have left of her.”

Minerva’s heart clenched. She spoke as if embracing the girl, her voice soft.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Loss is a heavy thing to carry.”

The girl’s eyes shimmered with tears.

“I just… I wanted to feel close to her again. I thought maybe, if I wore the black satin dress, I could remember what it felt like to laugh with her.”

Minerva nodded, her own memories surfacing including her daughter’s laughter, a husband’s steady presence, and the ache of their absence.

“I can only imagine the emotional trauma you’re suffering, but please, allow me to share my sorrow with you, and together, we might lessen our heartache and move forward, stronger. I lost both my daughter and husband. Once, my world included a loving husband, Paul. He was a hard as nails career Marine whose stern exterior hid a heart that beat for his family. Marrying Paul provided me an opportunity to escape the role of only daughter to dysfunctional parents rooted inside a small town offering no prospects for self-fulfillment or escape.

“Marriage to Paul included a patchwork of military bases and hurried goodbyes, of late-night phone calls and the constant ache of uncertainty whether he’d be called to war. I learned to be strong; to pack up our life at a moment’s notice, but I also learned to find beauty even inside environments built for war. I found work inside clothing stores wherever we landed because I was drawn to the way fabric could transform a person, and how a simple dress could make a woman feel alive, special, or different even for one occasion.

“I apologise for tearing, but you remind me of our daughter, Emily, the light of my life. Emily’s spirit was wild and restless, her laughter echoing through the cramped military apartments and purring inside my heart. Emily drifted away to somewhere unknown inside her mind as if being pulled by currents I couldn’t fight including Paul’s ’tough love’ and frequent physical admonishments also inflicted upon me. 

“The phone call came on a cold November morning: Emily was gone, lost to a Fentanyl overdose on a bed inside a stranger’s home. The grief rolled over me like a tidal wave, relentless and suffocating. Paul tried to be strong, but the loss hollowed him out like no weapons he’d ever known. 

“Less than a year later, his heart stopped forever, leaving me with nothing but memories and the silence of an empty house we purchased after Paul retired. Some days, the memories are all that keep me going.”

The girl looked up, surprised.

“Does it ever get easier?”

“Not easier, but you learn to live with the pain of loss. I’ve learned kindness helps stitch the pieces back together.”

The girl glanced at the price tag, her face disappointed.

“I can’t afford both dresses.”

“You don’t have to. These are my gift for you.”

“But… why?”

“Because I know what it’s like to need something to hold onto. Giving is the only way I can heal.”

Tears spilled down the girl’s cheeks.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,”

Minerva carefully folded the dresses and placed them inside a gift box including a pink ribbon adorned with small hearts around the box. 

“Promise me you’ll remember the good times and let yourself laugh again, when you’re ready.”

The girl nodded, clutching the box to her chest.

“I will.

Thank you.”

Minerva watched the girl slowly leave the shop and turn towards her before exiting. She mouthed the words,

“I love you.”

The girl left and the slight spring in her step signaled to Minerva signs of hope flickering in the ashes of her sorrow, and although Minerva didn’t get her name, she instinctively knew it was a brief encounter with her beloved Emily which gave her the final contact she desperately needed.

*

The doctor diagnosed Minerva with metastatic breast cancer. Minerva remembered staring at the ceiling in the doctor’s office, feeling as if her body was telling her the fight against grief was soon to be completed and she could join Emily and Paul in the afterlife.

The hardest blow came when the doctor informed her,

“The treatments will include a double mastectomy surgery, chemo, and radiation. If you want a chance of beating the cancer, it will require your complete devotion to rest and recovery. You won’t be able to keep up with the demands of operating the business.”

*

The words echoed in her mind as she stared at the racks of dresses, the sunlight struggling to pour through the fabrics mirroring the tears behind the black veil Minerva wore at two funerals and today, a struggle for her own life. Closing the shop felt like losing another piece of herself.

She lingered by the window, watching the sun dip below the horizon. She thought of her daughter, husband, all the moments lost, and the memories that remained. In giving the girl those two black dresses, Minerva was reminded that even in the depths of loss, kindness could stitch together the torn fabric of a broken heart. She had hoped to hear the familiar chime above the door open one final time and reveal the lovely girl. Minerva knew she was off chasing her own life which would reveal twists and turns. Minerva prayed the girl would be guided by kindness and knowing loss and misery is universal.

Recalling the happiness in the girl’s face carrying both dresses helped Minerva find the resolve to survive. She turned the sign on the door to “Closed,” knowing she would never open it again. But as Minerva locked up, she felt, for the first time in a long while, that she was not alone and would confront her illness head on with a newfound resolve to live.

From Public Domain

Jonathan B. Ferrini is the published author of over seventy fiction stories and poems. A partial collection of his short stories may be found in Within Hearts Without Sleeves. Twenty-Three Stories at Amazon. Jonathan also writes and produces a weekly podcast about film, television, and movies named, “The Razor’s Ink Podcast with Jonathan Ferrini.” Jonathan received his MFA in motion picture and television production from UCLA. He resides in San Diego.

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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

Whispers of Frost

By Gowher Bhat

Christmas Bazaar in Kashmir. From Public Domain

The holiday market buzzed with life, bathed in the golden glow of string lights that twisted like ribbons between the stalls. Vendors hawked hot cider, the air thick with the scent of cinnamon and cloves. Children, bundled in puffy coats, raced around, their fingers clutching candy canes, their laughter mingling with the low hum of holiday songs. The warmth of the season wrapped the world in a festive embrace.

Shafi clutched her coffee tightly, the warmth of the cup unable to quell the cold gnawing at her insides. The heat of the liquid contrasted sharply with the chill that had settled deep within her…. a coldness that not even the bright lights or holiday cheer could dispel. She scanned the lively scene, but her focus was elsewhere, far from the twinkling stalls and cheerful music.

“You’re too quiet again,” Amir said, nudging her elbow gently. “You okay?”

Shafi tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Just thinking.”

Amir frowned. “It’s Christmas. You’re supposed to feel warm and fuzzy, not… whatever this is. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “It just feels… off.”

Amir gave a small laugh. “Paranoia. Classic Shafi.”

But Shafi couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on her chest. The world felt too loud and too quiet at the same time. The joy around her seemed distant, muffled by a creeping unease. She wanted to feel the warmth of the season, to laugh and enjoy the festivities like everyone else, but all she could think about was the shadow of her past, looming just out of reach.

As they walked toward her apartment, the streets emptied, and the festive energy of the market gave way to the solitude of falling snow. The sky had turned a deep shade of indigo, and the streetlights cast long shadows across the quiet pavement. The snow, falling gently at first, began to collect, blanketing the city in soft, white layers. Each flake seemed to carry its own quiet story, falling in silence but adding to the growing weight of the world.

When they reached her door, Shafi stopped dead in her tracks.

“Wait,” she whispered.

Amir followed her gaze, his expression shifting from concern to confusion. The door to her apartment was slightly ajar. Her heart skipped a beat.

“Stay back,” he said firmly. “We don’t know what’s inside.”

Shafi grabbed his arm, urgency flashing in her eyes. “No. I’m going in.”

They stepped inside together. The apartment was eerily quiet. The usual hum of the fridge, the faint rustling of curtains in the breeze, was absent. Everything seemed untouched—except for a single set of dusty footprints leading from the door to the table.

Amir moved cautiously toward the table, his eyes scanning the room for danger. On the table lay a folded piece of paper. It seemed ordinary, yet in the context of the silence and the unusual circumstances, it felt like a warning.

“Shafi,” he said softly. “You need to see this.”

Her name was scrawled on the front in jagged handwriting, the ink slightly smeared. The paper felt heavy in her hands as she took it, her fingers trembling.

“Shafi,” Amir read aloud, his voice steady but concerned. “The snow may bury, but the truth always thaws. You can’t hide forever.”

Shafi staggered back as though the words themselves had struck her, each letter cutting deep. A cold shiver ran down her spine. The past rushed at her with the force of an avalanche.

“What does it mean?” Amir asked, his voice tense.

Shafi didn’t respond. Her mind raced, the weight of her past crashing down like a flood. The words weren’t just a threat—they were a reminder of the life she had tried to leave behind, of the man she had betrayed, and the secrets she had buried.

“Shafi,” Amir said gently, insistent. “Talk to me. Who sent this?”

She clenched her fists, struggling to speak. The truth felt like a lump in her throat, burning to get out, but fear kept her silent. She had buried this secret for so long, hoping it would stay hidden. Now, it was all coming to the surface.

“It’s not that simple,” she whispered, trembling.

“Make it simple,” Amir said softly, kneeling beside her. “Please.”

She looked at him, eyes glistening with unshed tears. She had carried this burden alone for years, but now, in Amir’s unwavering presence, the walls she had built began to crumble.

“There was a man,” she began, voice breaking. “Rafiq. Years ago, I…” She paused, breath hitching. “I betrayed him.”

Amir’s brow furrowed. “Betrayed how?”

“I lied,” she admitted, voice heavy with guilt. “I framed him for something he didn’t do. It was him or me, and I chose myself.”

Amir stared silently. His quiet presence asked no questions; he simply waited.

“Why?” he asked softly.

“Because I was scared,” she whispered. “I thought it was the only way out. It worked—he went to prison, and I walked free. But now he’s out, and I think he’s come for me.”

Silence hung between them, suffocating. Shafi could barely breathe, the weight of her confession pressing down.

Finally, Amir spoke. “And this note… it’s from him?”

Shafi nodded, throat tight. “It has to be.”

Amir knelt, taking her hands gently. His touch grounded her. “Listen. Whatever you did, whatever he’s planning, we’ll handle it. Together.”

Tears streamed down her face. “You don’t understand. He has every right to hate me. I ruined his life.”

“And hiding will only make it worse,” Amir said firmly. “You need to face this. We need to face this.”

Shafi looked into his eyes, searching for doubt, for hesitation, and found none. Only resolve. Only support.

“What if he wants revenge?” she asked, barely audible.

“Then we’ll stop him. But first, we need to talk to him. No more running, Shafi.”

She nodded slowly. For the first time in years, the weight of her guilt began to lift not because the past had changed, but because she wasn’t facing it alone.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the world in quiet beauty. Inside the apartment, something new took root: hope.

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Gowher Bhat writes fiction and non-fiction. He’s a a columnist, freelance journalist, and educator from Kashmir. His writing explores memory, place, and the quiet weight of the things we carry, delving into themes of longing, belonging, silence, and expression. A senior columnist for several local newspapers across the Kashmir Valley, he is also an avid reader and book reviewer. He believes that books and writing can capture the subtleties of human experience.

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

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Categories
Stories

Flying Away

By Terry Sanville

 “It’s pancreatic cancer.”

“Are you sure, Dr. Marcum?”

“We’ll need to do more tests to determine what stage it’s in, but … yes, we’re sure.”

Megan sat motionless, her eyes fixed on the framed photograph of a colorful hot air balloon hanging on the office wall behind the oncologist. She wished it were her who clutched the balloon’s basket rail and drifted away toward the far hills and the sea beyond. But her husband’s grip on her left hand had tightened so much that it crushed her fingers and destroyed her ability to escape.

“I know this is a hard thing to be told,” Dr. Marcum said. “But we can fight this and, with luck, you can beat it.”

Megan managed a weak smile. “I’ve never been very lucky … except maybe marrying Ted and having Kaylee.”

“Maybe we can change your luck.”

“How much … how much time do I have?”

“That’ll depend on the severity of your disease and how it responds to treatment. If it’s localised, with surgery to remove part or all of the pancreas, the one-year survival rate is over 70%.”

“And if it has spread?”

“Well … that’s not good … 10% or less.”

The silence built. Megan let out a deep breath and continued to stare at the balloon photograph.

Ted cleared his throat. “So … so what’s next, doctor?”

“We’ll do PET and CT scans to get a good picture of what’s going on, check the liver and lymph nodes to see if the cancer has spread, do blood tests, and biopsy the tissue. Hopefully, we’ve caught it early; more testing will tell us. But … but you should know that most patients don’t report problems until the cancer has metastasized, which limits treatment options.”

Megan sighed. “Great, more tests and poking around just to narrow down how soon I will die.”

“We’ll do everything we can,” Dr. Marcum said.

“Thank you for that,” Ted whispered.

Afterward, the couple sat without speaking in their Subaru, the early September heat baking them slowly. Finally, Ted started the car and they drove home, taking the long way that skirted the coastline, the Pacific’s green waves breaking hard against the rocky shore.

“So what should I tell Kaylee?” Megan asked.

Ted chuckled. “She’s thirteen going on twenty-five. I think she can handle the truth.”

Megan sighed. “Yeah, she puts on a good act. But she’s still a little girl.”

“If you want, I can talk with her,” Ted offered.

“No, no. I’ll do it. She’s going to know that something’s wrong, especially if they recommend surgery. And then there’s the chemo and maybe even radiation.”

Ted ran his hands through his thinning hair and shivered. “I think we should wait until we know what we’re up against. After the tests we can tell Kaylee the whole truth.”

“Okay. But we can’t wait too long.”

*

The afternoon sun burned golden on the surface of the creek, just above the weir with its steelhead fish ladder. In the distance, the onslaught of Pacific breakers kept up a steady rumble. Megan and Kaylee sat on a bench shaded by a huge oak, taking a Saturday afternoon together, a break from schoolwork for the over-achieving girl, and a secret break from cancer for her mother.

Megan had grown thinner with dark circles under her eyes, testing finished and her first round of chemo scheduled for the following week. She stared at the three elegant male mallards that glided across the creek’s mirrored surface, chasing a lone female.

“I’ve something to tell you, Kaylee. But I don’t want to scare you.”

The girl turned to face her mother. “I think I already know.”

Megan’s eyes widened. “What do you know?”

“I found the test results of your scans and biopsy. You left them on the dining room table last week. I can read, you know. What I didn’t understand, I Googled.”

The two stared at each other. Kaylee’s lips trembled and tears filled her eyes.

“I’m sorry you had to find out that way. We were going to tell you but I wanted to make sure we had all the facts.”

“It’s not good, is it Mom?”

Megan sighed, admiring and at the same time resenting her daughter’s directness. “No, it’s not good.”

Kaylee came into her arms and they sat together in the warm shade, weeping silently. Megan remembered how, when Kaylee was a baby, she would strap her to her front and carry her everywhere, enjoying the warmth and pressure of the child’s body against her own.

“So what happens now?” Kaylee asked.

“Chemotherapy.”

“No … no surgery?”

“You know about surgery?”

Finally, they separated.

Kaylee frowned. “Yeah, people have a better chance of … of surviving it they remove the …”

Megan laid a hand on Kaylee’s arm. “It’s too late for surgery. The cancer has spread. The chemo might slow it down … but not stop it.”

“It’ll make you sick, right?”

“Yes … and I’ll probably lose my hair.” Megan grinned.

Kaylee seemed to ignore her mother’s last comment. She crossed her arms and rocked back and forth. “So … so you’re going to die?”

Damn, there’s that directness, probably gets it from me … and she seems angry, resentful. “Yes, Kaylee, I’m going to die.”

The words seemed to float out across the water into the dappled sunlight. The female mallard madly flapped her wings and flew upstream and out of sight, leaving the drakes alone and probably frustrated.

“But … but you can help me and your father. You will probably grow up faster than normal … and I’m sorry for that.”

“Mom, I’m 13 and I’ve already grown, you know.”

“Yes, yes, I can see that.” Megan chuckled and clutched Kaylee to her.

“I’ll help, Mom. Just tell me what you want.”

“Well for one thing, I want you to study hard in school, make friends, and don’t become some crazy teenager like I was.”

“Sure, Mom.” Kaylee rolled her eyes, paused, and then managed a quiet smile.

*

Their dust-covered SUV bounced along the farm road toward the line of sycamores, oaks, and willows that bordered the creek. Megan winced with every bounce of the car but kept smiling. Over the past six weeks she and Kaylee had developed a bond stronger than before cancer. It took her daughter that long to shed her anger and sadness and come to accept her mother’s condition, well, almost.

 “Mom, just what the heck were you thinking with that wig?” Kaylee reached over and tugged on a long curl of blonde hair. “Are you trying to look like Dove Cameron?”

“Who the heck is Dove Cameron?”

“Come on, Mom. Don’t you know anything?”

“Evidently not. I was actually going for Dolly Parton. Always wanted to try being a blonde with big hair. But your father likes … liked my dark hair.”

“My turn. Who the heck is Dolly Parton? Is she that old lady singer?”

“Yes, I suppose she is. But she still looks great.”

Megan pulled the car onto the road’s fringe and parked. A patch of waist-high fennel bordered a drainage ditch.

She turned toward Kaylee. “I think this is a good spot to check. Didn’t you say that the swallowtails like to lay their eggs on fennel plants?”

“Yeah, this place looks cool.”

“Let’s see if we can find some of their eggs, or better yet, the caterpillars.”

Kaylee grinned. “Sounds good. I’ll get the jars and the clippers.”

The two scrambled from the car, both eager to do something that had nothing to do with cancer.

Kaylee moved quickly through the fennel, checking each plant. “I found some, I found some,” she called.

Megan joined her and they stared at two plants where green caterpillars, with black, orange and light blue markings vigorously munched away on leaves, stalks, and fronds. The duo had struck butterfly gold.

Kaylee unscrewed the tops of two quart-sized Mason jars. Megan carefully harvested parts of the fennel plants that held four caterpillars, placed them in the jars and closed the lids that were perforated with holes to let in air.

“That was quick,” Megan said, breathing in deeply, the black licorice smell of the fennel strong in the afternoon heat.

“Yeah. We could take more. But four should be enough for my science project. Miss Jasperson doesn’t want us to disturb nature any more than we have to.”

Kaylee had come to her mother complaining about having no idea for what to do for her eighth-grade project. With coaching from Megan, Kaylee had chosen the raising of butterflies because, “The swallowtails are so beautiful and I won’t have to kill anything to complete it.”

Megan had nodded, feeling that enough death had stared down their family and that maybe studying butterflies could bring them some joy.

“You know, Mom, my friend Tiffany has a butterfly tattooed on her shoulder. It looks really cool.”

Megan scowled. “Did her parents let her do that? Don’t you even think about doing such a thing. Tattoos are forever and you don’t want to mess up your body so early, then regret it.”

“Like you did with that Chinese symbol on your butt.”

Megan chuckled. “Yes, just like that. Time and body changes can be cruel to tattoos.” For a moment she thought that it might be fun to get her own butterfly tattoo, to carry that experience with her daughter to the grave, and maybe beyond.

Before they left, Kaylee took multiple photographs of the fennel plants, some with swallowtail eggs, some with caterpillars. As a freelance graphic artist, Megan had agreed to help prepare display boards and a slide show for her daughter’s class presentation, with close-up photos of all stages of anise swallowtail development.

Returning home, Kaylee set the Mason jars on her partially-shaded bedroom windowsill. The caterpillars proved to be voracious and every few days mother and daughter harvested more fennel for the fattening wigglies to eat. Finally, the caterpillars formed hard chrysalises and began the internal change process of becoming butterflies. Megan felt like she too should curl up and form a shell around herself, pray for change that would allow her to fly, to leave this life as something beautiful.

*

Within a couple of days, all four of the caterpillars had pupated, forming camouflaged green and brown chrysalises.

“How long before they emerge as butterflies?” Megan asked Kaylee.

“I’m not sure … I think just a few days. And some might not make it.”

“That would be sad … to go to all that trouble and never live to fly.”

“Yeah. We just have to keep watch and hope.”

The mother and daughter went quiet and Megan knew that her daughter was preparing herself for a poor outcome. So was Megan.

After about ten days, Megan grabbed Kaylee the minute she returned home from school and hauled her to her bedroom. The two stared at the butterfly jars, grinning. Three yellow and black swallowtails had emerged from their chrysalises and slowly beat their wings to dry them.

“Come on. Grab your cell phone for photos,” Megan said. “We need to release them.”

They returned to the fennel patch and carefully removed the new butterflies from their jars. The insects worked their wings slowly in the Indian summer sunlight before taking off and flitting toward the trees.

“What happens now?” Megan asked.

“They will search for a mate and the females will then lay eggs on the fennel plants. Then everything starts over.”

“You’ve read all about the mating part?”

Kaylee grinned. “Oh yeah. Some male butterflies go through quite a courtship dance, and the actual mating act can last for hours.”

“Sounds something like humans, although I’m not sure about that ‘lasting hours’ part.”

“Mom!”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to embarrass you. So, how long do swallowtails live after mating?”

“Maybe a couple of weeks.”

Megan sucked in a deep breath and turned away from her daughter.

“You okay, Mom?”

“Yes … yes,” she said and dabbed at her eyes. “I’m just glad I’ve had thirteen years with you and more with your father.”

“So am I.”

The duo returned to the car. “So what should we do with the last chrysalis?” Megan asked.

“We’ll keep it. A butterfly could come out in a few days.”

“Oh I hope so, honey. I love to see them flying away.”

*

Days passed, and then weeks. Megan started a second round of chemo that weakened her even further. She spent her time sitting on the front porch trying to read, but mostly just staring at the hills that surrounded the town, hills that turned magically from gold to green after the first autumn rain.

Every day, while Kaylee was at school Megan checked the butterfly jar. Nothing changed and she had the sinking feeling that it never would. Finally, she and Kaylee decided to get rid of the chrysalis to avoid the daily reminder of its fate. After Kaylee left for school, Megan grabbed the jar and shuffled onto the front porch, heading for the car. But she couldn’t think of killing or ditching it, at least not then, the idea was too painful. She opened Keylee’s old toy box, slid the jar inside, and closed the lid, out of sight and hopefully out of her dreams.

The late fall and winter rains settled in, a cheerless time for Megan, with Keylee away at school and Ted at work. She tried contacting her commercial art clients to see if they had any jobs that might distract her from the pain and dark thoughts of the future. But the economy seemed to be stagnant and many of her clients were doing their own artwork using a variety of software tools.

The second round of chemo ended, leaving Megan mostly bedridden. Dr. Marcum didn’t recommend radiation. Ted had hired a home healthcare worker to help Megan take her medications, and to do light housework and provide transportation. Kaylee spent her after-school time doing the same. Winter came and went, the air warmed, the hills glowed greenly, almost like those in photographs of Ireland. The apple tree in their front yard started leafing out. Confined to bed or a wheelchair, Megan spent most of the day watching TV or sitting on the front porch and gazing at nothing in particular.

One afternoon, as she meditated, knowing her passing was near, Kaylee climbed the porch steps and sat on the bench next to her.

“How are you, Mom? You look … lost in some kind of dream.”

“I’m good. I’m good. Just glad to have time with you and your father.”

Kaylee gazed at the surrounding hills then down at the dust-covered toy box resting next to Megan.

“Mom, why’s this old thing still here? I haven’t played with toys since I was little.”

“It wasn’t that long ago,” Megan cracked.

“Hey, I’m fourteen and I was six of seven then.”

“You’re right, that’s half your lifetime ago.”

Kaylee bent down to open the box. At that moment Megan remembered the discarded Mason jar and its unborn butterfly.

But Kaylee was too quick and had the box open and let out a squeal. “What’s this?”

The girl reached down and retrieved the butterfly jar. Inside it, a beautiful black and yellow anise swallowtail beat its wings slowly, trying to dry them before flight.

Megan sat forward in her wheelchair and stared, wide-eyed. “I … I put it there last October, couldn’t bring myself to kill it or just throw it away.”

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t. I can’t believe it lasted that long. Come on, let’s get the healthcare worker to drive us to the fennel patch and let it go.”

When they returned from their last butterfly release, Megan lay smiling in her room, gazing at the walls where Ted and Kaylee had pasted a cluster of swallowtails, cut from prints of digital photos taken for her daughter’s science project.

Kaylee entered and sat on the edge of the bed, excited. “I did some Internet research,” she began. “It seems that a change in light or maybe temperature can make some butterfly pupa go into hibernation, sort of like bears do in winter.”

“Really?”

“I think that’s what happened. It got cold or the light went away when you put the jar in the toy box … and it went to sleep.”

Megan sighed. “We were just lucky that we opened the box when we did.”

“I know, I know.” I’m going to tell my science teacher what happened. It’s so weird and really cool that they can hang out that long in their little shells.”

That evening, Megan lay in her hospital bed next to a snoring and exhausted Ted on his portable rollaway. She thought that her own hibernation of sorts was ending, that it was time to fly. The healthcare worker had given her a full dose of morphine to dull the sharp pain in her abdomen and back. In the dim glow of the nightlight, she stared at the swallowtails on the walls. They seemed to flutter and move in some sort of dance. She felt like she was one of them, having dried her wings, ready for the next stage as the royal purple night closed softly in.

*

“When were you going to tell me about those tattoos?” Erick asked, propping himself up in bed.

“Oh, during our honeymoon,” Kaylee said and laughed. “But neither of us could wait for that. Do you like them?”

“A whole flutter of butterflies across your beautiful shoulders … what’s not to like?”

“My mom got me interested in swallowtails when I was a young girl, got me interested in entomology and how strange and magical the lives of insects can be. And now, here I am with a PhD in Ent and teaching at the university, down the hall from you.”

“And here you are with me.”

“My mom would be happy.”

Swallow Tail Butterfly. From Public Domain


Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing stories, essays, and novels. His stories have been published by more than 480 different journals, magazines, and anthologies including Folio, Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist – who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.

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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

Ameya’s Victory

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

Ameya was studying in the eighth grade. She was not only good at games but also a topper in her studies. However, she had one weakness — she had a squint in her eyes. Two girls in her class, Swapna and Sarasa, used to tease her every day by calling her names like “Squinty Beauty” and “Twisted Eyes”.

One day, during the lunch break, Ameya was eating her food. Swapna came near her and said loudly, “You have squint eyes, right? When you eat, does the food go into your mouth or into your ears?” Everyone laughed at her. Feeling deeply hurt and ashamed, Ameya stopped eating, went to the washroom, and cried.

From that day onwards, she started coming to school wearing dark glasses. Whenever she removed her glasses, she covered her eyes with her hand while talking.

Seeing this, Swapna mocked her again and asked, “Did you get an operation for your squint? Is that why you are wearing dark glasses?” Ameya did not reply and simply turned her face away.

After a few days, the school organised an exhibition. All the students prepared colorful charts. Ameya also prepared a wonderful presentation on Environmental Protection.

The District Collector came to visit the exhibition. Just as he reached Ameya’s desk, Swapna deliberately pushed her from behind. Ameya lost her balance and almost fell down. Her charts got slightly damaged.

Seeing this, Swapna whispered mockingly, “Look, the squinty beauty is about to fall. She can’t see properly, you know.” The Collector heard this. He immediately helped Ameya stand up and carefully looked at her charts.

Praising her work, he said, “You have prepared this very well. Why are you speaking so fearfully? Why are you covering your eyes with your hand?”

With tears in her eyes, Ameya said, “Sir, I have a squint. Everyone makes fun of me and calls me bad names.”

The Collector then spoke to the children standing there: “Children! In nature, no two flowers are the same. A tree may be bent, but the shade it gives is cool and comforting. Ameya’s intelligence and her concern for the environment are truly great. Making fun of someone’s physical weakness only shows poor character. Calling others by insulting names does not make you great. It makes you guilty of hurting someone’s heart.”

First published in 1902

Turning towards Ameya, he said gently: “Your intelligence is your strength. A squint is only a small physical condition. Don’t feel sad about it. Have you heard of Helen Keller? She was not only blind but also deaf and unable to speak. Still, her extraordinary qualities made her an inspiration to the world. She learned to read and write using Braille, mastered many languages, and became the first deaf-blind woman to earn a university degree. Through books like The Story of My Life, she shared her thoughts with the world. She fought for the rights of the disabled, women’s rights, and social justice. People with disabilities should take her as an inspiration. Never hide your beautiful eyes for anyone.”

Inspired by the Collector’s words, the school principal immediately introduced a new rule:

“Anyone who calls others by insulting names will face strict action.”

After this incident, Swapna and Sarasa realised their mistake. They went to Ameya and said, “Please forgive us. We now understand that knowledge and values are more important than appearance.”

Ameya smiled freely at last. From then on, no one in that school teased anyone by calling bad names. Everyone lived together like one happy family.

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.

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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