“And suddenly, among all those people I didn’t know, I had this strange feeling, this implausible realisation that I was seeing him for the first time. Handsome, confident, articulate in a language I still cannot follow with grace. And I felt this pang inside, you know, as if a naughty elf inside me were swaying my heart with a rope. How can I see my husband for the first time after having been married to him for almost eight years?”
Rosalia remained silent, observing for some speculating seconds the little square of tablet that Rita had brought for their tea.
“Your husband is exactly like this sweet, darling, which, by the way, is delicious. I need the recipe before you leave.”
“Like tablet?” Rita inclined her head to the right in the exact same way her daughter did when she heard anything worth clarification. “My grandmother Cochrane would be very honoured to know you like her Scottish tablet so much. I cannot make anybody eat it at home. Henry says it’s too sweet and Maggie too sticky.”
“Well…,” Rosalia sighed, “for me it’s perfect, and I am sure nobody in this office will say no to this morsel of Heaven. It reminds me of a dulce de leche candy my detestable mother-in-law used to make in Buenos Aires for Christmas. As you can see, even her perfect evilness was imperfect.”
Rita smiled again and rejoiced at the fact that she could come to visit her older friend at the Castelo de San Jorge with the express purpose of selfishly collecting smiles like Maggie used to collect peacock feathers in the garden before she started going to kindergarten. Rosalia’s office was a new environment for their meetings now. A step up on the podium of a friendship that had begun outside the Castelo box office under a narrow eave on a humid stone bench. Rita loved to breathe in the peace of the office, with its austere decor and dark wooden cabinets that had once cherished the delicate porcelain of Portuguese queens and now held Rosalia’s dictionaries alongside maps, brochures, and tourist forms for all those who came to witness the royal luxury of ancient times.
“So, do you mean that this feeling of seeing Henry again for the first time at the bank’s banquet is sweet like my grandmother’s tablet?”
“Not exactly. When I saw those brownish cubes on the plate, I was convinced that it would be difficult for me to bite into them. You know, my weak teeth and all that. But then I bit into one of them, and it melted on my tongue. And I felt this torrent of pleasure bursting in my mouth. I think what happened to you on Saturday is that you saw Henry like random people usually see him. You heard a far echo of the vision you had of him when you fell in love.”
Rita’s inner elf jumped from her heart to her face to make her frown and purse her lips at the same time.
“But sadly,” Rosalia continued, “you already know that what you saw is an act. The source of your confusion and your loneliness. You love a vision in a dream, a beautiful piece of candy in a perfect window shop that gets further and further away as you get closer.”
A soft knock at the door interrupted the old woman’s thought and let Rita take a sip of tea to conceal her disillusionment. Rosalia took the documents that Victor brought, turned to her side desk, and placed one of the pages in her sturdy IBM Selectric. She adjusted the corners of the paper as if she were folding a handkerchief for the ghost of one of the queens that had inhabited the Castelo centuries ago. Rosalia’s eyes were fixed on the rectangular screen of her typewriter as she turned toward Rita and pronounced in perfect French, “Trompe-l’oil…. trompe-l’oil[1] people I call them. What you see is never what you get. The man I married and later divorced, so many decades ago, was like that. Sometimes, out of the blue, I remember how elegant and self-confident he seemed to be, and still, after all this time, that elf you mentioned still plays tricks with my heart and its cords. Do you know the legend of the two Greek painters of ancient times?”
Rita looked up from her cup and raised her left red-haired eyebrow as an invitation.
“There was a competition to declare the most realistic painter in the land. Zeuxis and Parrhasius presented their art. The grapes that Zeuxis had painted were so impossibly real that birds flew into them and crushed their beaks and heads on the purple spheres. They died a cruel death, believing they were tasting the sweetest pulps and the bitterest seeds. Zeuxis, sure of his triumph, asked his opponent where his painting was. Parrhasius walked him in front of the curtain that hid his work. ‘Draw this cloth and you will see it,’ he said humbly. But Zeuxis’ eager hand trampled on the folds of a fake, perfect drapery made of shades, hues, and light. Parrhasius won not only the prize but the admiration of his enemy.”
Rita inclined her head to the left. “I’m sorry for the birds.”
“That’s why I don’t tell this story much. My granddaughter has a phobia of birds that decide to fly stubbornly in the wrong direction. I’m afraid I instilled that in her with this tale.”
Rita picked up a brown crumb from her saucer. “If only I could draw aside the curtain Henry places between himself, Maggie, and me. I’m a good wife. I don’t know what else to do.” Rita dropped the crumb and killed an imminent sob with the tip of her finger.
“You are like the candid birds, my child. You are hurt but strong. Cannot you see? You’re making sweets with the salt of tears, pure visions of love with the threads of deceit.”
Fabiana Elisa Martínez authored the collections 12 Random Words and Conquered by Fog. Other works of hers have been published in literary publications on five continents.
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A Tamil story by S Ramakrishnan, translated by B.Chandramouli
From Public Domain
That town had fewer than a hundred homes. Children playing in the street looked at them curiously when they alighted from the car. Kandasamy called one boy and asked him where Venangulam was. That boy asked him mockingly, “Do you want to do a penance in the Venangulam pond?” and pointed him towards the south.
His wife, their only daughter, and the astrologer who had brought them to perform the penance got out of the car. The astrologer tightened his loose dhoti and said, “This is a powerful pond, Sir; all your ‘dosha[1]’s would wash away.”
Kandasamy nodded and started walking towards the south.
Kandasamy had been suffering for over ten years with a skin disease; he had suffered an unexpected loss in his business. There were problems in his daughter’s in-laws home as well. As if these were not enough, he lost an old lawsuit he had been fighting in court. He felt as though the snake in the Snakes and Ladders game had brought him down. He visited many temples, performed pujas[2] and penances; nothing had worked. Only then did an astrologer tell him about Venangulam and the story of the king of Venangulam himself, who had dipped in that pond to get rid of his doshas. Kandasamy felt a sense of hope and agreed to visit Venangulam.
It was a small village with red tile roofs and somewhat broad streets. However, the people had nearly deserted it; some houses were locked up. When they went to Venangulam, they found it to be dry; the steps were dusty. There were four idols on the four sides of the pond.
Doubtful if that was Venangulam, he asked a person splitting logs nearby, “Is this the pond for penance?” That person nodded yes and continued his work.
Kandasamy stood on the dried-up pond’s steps and waited for his wife and daughter.
He wondered if they had come there not knowing that the pond had dried up; he felt angry thinking, “Didn’t the astrologer inquire about this even?”
The astrologer, Kandasamy’s wife and daughter, came near Venangulam.
The pond was full of torn clothes, dried leaves, and plastic waste. Kandasamy said to the astrologer, “There’s no water in this pond.”
The astrologer said,” It had been dry for several years. You get down, imagine that there is water, and sprinkle water on your head.”
“How can I bathe without water?” asked Kandasamy angrily.
“Can you see the sins you have committed with your eyes? But doesn’t the mind feel them? Similar to that, this pond contains invisible water; if you feel that and have a bath, your sins will wash away. Belief is everything, isn’t it?”
Kandasamy descended the steps of the dry pond. Though the pond appeared to have only ten or twenty steps, as he descended, the steps seemed to keep going down forever. Kandasamy kept on descending the steps alone. He did not know how long he had been descending, but when he looked up, it appeared as though he had descended into an abyss. He had not yet reached the bottom of the pond. The steps still kept descending.
He got confused, thinking, “What kind of magic is this? How did this small pond become so huge?” Various thoughts crowded his mind. He thought of how he had deceived his elder brother when they ran a joint business, and how he had cheated money entrusted to him. All these past sins returned as memories.
How can a person who deceived his own brother not fail in life? Suddenly, his elder brother’s face flashed in his mind. In that minute, the thought that until then, he had been pretending as though he had committed no mistakes bothered him. Kandasamy felt that one’s mistakes become weightless when hidden, but once you start realising them, they feel heavy.
Kandasamy realised he was descending the steps of his conscience.
He felt that to relieve himself of his sin, he must return the money he had cheated from his elder brother to his brother’s family. No sooner had this thought occurred to him than he felt a sudden wetness on his feet. The step beneath him seemed to be underwater. He pretended to bend down and sprinkle the water from the pond onto his head.
When his wife asked him loudly, “What are you thinking, standing on the steps?” he came to his senses.
Thinking, “Have I not gone to the depth of the pond? Was it all in my imagination?” He looked closely at the pond. He saw only dried steps and a pond without water.
He realised that the pond awakened the conscience and made you understand the crimes you have committed. It was indeed a magical pond.
He pretended as though he had had a bath and came out of the pond.
The astrologer said, “Think of something in your mind and throw coins into the pond.”
He took coins from his pocket and threw them into the pond, thinking that he would pay back the amount due to the family of his elder brother.
The idols’ eyes in the pond seemed to smile at him mockingly.
S. Ramakrishnan is a writer from Tamil Nadu, India. He is a full-time writer who has been active over the last 27 years in diverse areas of Tamil literature like short stories, novels, plays, children’s literature and translations. He has written and published 9 novels, 20 collections of short stories, 3 plays, 21 books for children, 3 books of translation, 24 collections of articles, 10 books on world cinema, 16 books on world literature including seven of his lectures, 3 books on Indian history, 3 on painting and 4 edited volumes including a Reader on his own works. He also has 2 collections of interviews to his credit. He was awarded the Sahitya Akademi Award in 2018 in the Tamil language category for his novel Sanjaaram.
Dr.B. Chandramouli is a retired Physician. He has published several translations. He has translted Jack Londen’s novel, White Fang and Somerset Maugham’s Razor’s edge (2024) to English and various English translations of Tamil fiction and non-fiction.
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Parry Lines was an ordinary fellow, so much so that even his friends couldn’t be bothered to find out his actual name and were content to call him “Parallel,” his nickname since childhood. Regular, indeed nondescript features were surmounted by his trademark bald pate; the most you could say was that occasionally he wore a bright plaid shirt in neon pastels to liven things up a bit.
Ten weeks A.G. (After Gherkin)
Yet his death (by gherkin) caused a butterfly effect that changed the world. Until the incident with the gherkin, the most notable thing that had ever happened to Parry was when his surprisingly dashing teenaged son had consumed an entire teacup full of gravy during Thanksgiving dinner. Honoured guests had watched in horror as Parry Jr. (PJ for short), notable for his twinkling hazel eyes and flowing chestnut hair, gulped down the rich, brown fluid–though they should have expected something of the kind when he poured the gravy from the pitcher on the table into the China cup ready at his place setting for after-dinner tea.
Present at that event, and at the gherkin incident as well, was Mrs. Honoria Tadpole, English professor and amateur sleuth. Her demure, conservative appearance (she always wore a smart, tailored suit–or at least the best the local thrift shop could provide–and had her silver-blonde hair cut in a perky, short bob) and her self-effacing manner and diminutive (if plump) stature belied the sharpest mind north of California. It would fall to her to unravel the complicated mystery that the local paper dubbed “Gherkingate.”
Interviewed by the features’ editor, as the criminal trial of the alleged murderer dragged on, Mrs. Tadpole was asked the inevitable question of how it had all started. The interview took place in Mrs. Tadpole’s well-appointed parlour, a room replete with Victorian bric-a-brac. With characteristic hospitality, she poured out a strong brew of BC Bold to accompany the delicate sandwiches (ham, egg, and cucumber) and homemade oatmeal cookies that were her signature “high tea,” known to local islanders as a four o’clock tradition at the old manse where Mrs. Tadpole rented a small suite.
“Now, Mrs. Catchpole, I understand you were part of the original party that travelled to Moany Bay,” the interviewer began.
“Tadpole,” Mrs. Tadpole corrected. A veteran instructor of nineteen- and twenty-year-olds, she was used to misspellings and mispronunciations. Marpole, Rumpole, Toadpole: she had heard and seen it all, and could make the necessary correction without even flinching anymore. She cast her mind back almost three months to a mid-summer weekend off British Columbia’s Sunshine Coast.
She began with an allusion to classic culture: “Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip…”
Sadly, the features’ editor of the Island Gleaner failed to catch the reference to Gilligan’s Island, one of the best sit-coms of the 1960s. Mrs. Tadpole had been a toddler when the series was first aired, but its popularity throughout her childhood made it a touchstone for, really, almost everything in life, according to her observations. She knew that some people accorded such a status to the iconic, original Star Trek, but what did Captain Kirk have that “the Skipper” did not? Not much, thought Mrs. Tadpole.
The premise of Gilligan’s Island was classic: a small number of people, randomly-assorted, stranded on an island together with no real prospect of deliverance. After all, wasn’t that just the paradigm of human existence? You didn’t need to be an English proffessor (though Mrs. Tadpole was one, of course) to figure that out.
That fateful weekend, when the seeds of the gherkin incident was sown, had been rife with undertones of Gilligan’s Isle.
Breathing deeply of the fresh Pacific breeze, the passengers sat out on the deck of the vessel as it hugged the rugged BC coastline. The rushing water behind the Skirmish flumed out into a fan of spray, while the murky depths offshore spat out seals and sealions–even the occasional humpback whale–with random irregularity. Black bears hid among the rocks and evergreens in the uninhabited areas; cabins dotted the beaches in the populated areas of cottage country. On the way up the coast, the party of friends and family had composed their own version of the theme song, with each member of the group assigned to a role from the original cast. Mrs. Tadpole was the Professor, of course. Never mind that the community college where Mrs. Tadpole worked had opted not to accord academic titles to their teachers, or that the original Professor in the TV series was a man. (As Mrs. Tadpole had been known to say to her first-year college students, we live in a post-gender, post-glass-ceiling world. And if we don’t, we should).
Aboard the Bayliner, Skirmish, Parry Lines was the Skipper, and his hapless, gravy-drinking son was typecast as the irrepressible Gilligan, full of mischief and ridiculous ideas. Mrs. Tadpole could only hope that her adorable niece, Mary Anne (same name as her Gilligan’s Island counterpart!), was immune to his sauce-swilling charms.
The Millionaire role was assumed by the reclusive entrepreneur Deadhead, Mickey Garcia (if that were in fact his real name), accompanied by his charming wife, Penelope, a voluptuous brunette. Together they had built an empire founded on tribute bands and biopics. The rumour mill had it that there was trouble in paradise, but no one outside his immediate family had seen Mickey for years, so it was difficult to substantiate the gossip.
The cast was fleshed out (so to speak) with a bona fide movie star, the internet sensation who began as one of the central figures in a YouTube series called Project Man Child (“For the price of a cup of coffee… you can buy this underemployed househusband a cup of coffee!”) and had gone on to a viral barrage of TikToks under the sobriquet of “The Naked Gardener”. Mrs. Tadpole was relieved (as no doubt were the others) to note that all the passengers aboard the Skirmish, including this one, appeared to be fully clothed.
At least, all whom she could see wore conventional travelling attire: Mr Garcia, recovering from surgery and groggy with heavy opiates, was shrouded in a blanket and wearing dark glasses. He slumped a little to the side, and his heavy breathing attested to a well-earned reputation for napping as a pretense in order to ignore his surroundings.
As Mrs Tadpole later told the Gleaner interviewer, the real concern of the trip quickly emerged: not the rapprochement of Mary Anne and Parallel Jr., but the burgeoning, even violent antagonism between Parry Sr. and Penelope Garcia, whom the latter insisted on calling “Cherry” with a suggestive leer while her husband languished in his bunk. “Is he grateful? Or just dead?” quipped Lines. One night, Penelope went so far as to brandish a knife in Lines’ general direction and had to be restrained by Mrs Tadpole and Mary Anne in tandem.
Although Madame Garcia was the only one to meet his taunts with open animosity, no one was spared the self-proclaimed wit of Parallel Lines.
He had the nerve to call Mrs Tadpole’s beloved niece, whose sunny disposition was outshone only by the sweet, fair face that perched above her perfect figure, “Mistress Mary, Quite Contrary” –nothing could have been further from the truth! Of course, Mary Anne merely smiled and shrugged it off, as if no insult could penetrate her cheerful exterior … but others were less armour-clad.
The bully referred mercilessly to the Naked Gardener as “Jamie Oliver, the Naked Chef” (whom he slightly resembled) a slur that obviously got under the man’s skin (“I couldn’t boil an egg to save my life!” he protested angrily. “That’s not my brand at all! He’d better watch his back…”).
Even Mrs. Tadpole (surprisingly resilient after having been bullied through her shy youth as resembling a chubby little toad) came in for her share of abuse, rechristened as “Mrs Toad” after making her one of specialties, toad-in-the-hole, for her shipmates. (Once she discovered that the galley of the Bayliner was stocked with a potato ricer and La Ratte potatoes, there was no holding her back. A ring of caramelized onions surrounded each serving dish, with two nut-brown sausage-ends sticking out of the centre, for all the world like a couple of froggy eyes.) “No one calls me Toad,” she intoned ominously.
Cruelly and unaccountably, Parallel Lines saved his worst tirade for his own son. Recalling that terrible moment of youthful folly, that mind-gripping shame that only time could heal, the father saluted the son like a champion hog-caller summoning his prize sow. “Sooooo-Eeeeee! Want some gravy with that?” Alternatively, he would break into song to the tune of ‘Hey, Jude’:
"Au jus, Just make it fat, Take some gravy And make it wetter..."
It was pitiful to see the boy’s response, especially in front of Mary Anne. His pale face was suffused with a ruddy glow beneath his chestnut fringe, and hot, angry tears rose in his sensitive, hazel eyes.
“I’ll kill him,” PJ muttered under his breath.
And now the tranquil Mary Anne, who couldn’t have cared less about any vitriol directed her way, was at last roused to fury in defense of her maligned and helpless friend. “I’ll do it for you!” she offered. “By G—!”
Two Hours B.G. (Before Gherkin)
Suffice it to say, no one was all that distressed when Parallel Lines failed to return to the Skirmish after an afternoon in the seaside village of Egmont (pronounced with an “egg” and not an “edge”).
Penelope had steered Mickey off in a collapsable wheelchair they had stowed on the boat; “the millionaire and his wife” were off for lunch al fresco, heading for a picnic table in an accessible, though private, spot. Roast beef sandwiches and condiments, along with champagne and a couple of plastic flutes, had been assembled into a decorative yet sturdy straw basket which the amazon-like Penelope slung easily over one arm as she manouevred the wheelchair down the forest path.
The movie star had gone in search of Egmont’s famous cream cheese cinnamon buns, hoping to be recognised at the Forest Cafe by someone who would do a double take and exclaim, “Hey! Wait! Aren’t you that man child?”
Mrs Tadpole and her niece decided to go for a refreshing swim in the brisk waters of the bay, washing off the grime of shipboard life before stopping at the Village Green Room for a bowl of veggie curry soup and some fresh, hot rolls.
As for PJ, he declared himself too upset to leave the Skirmish, and was hoping to curl up with a graphic novel, a diet soda, and a bag of Doritos, to forget all his cares for a few hours while the rest of the party looked around Egmont Village.
But where was Parallel? It was time to cast off. If they didn’t leave soon, they wouldn’t make it to the Coastal Lodge before dark. And–not to mention–P. Lines was the skipper!
“I’m perfectly capable of getting us there,” insisted PJ, fortified by his power nap. “I’ll bet you anything, dad’s holed up at the Drifter Pub, and he’ll crash at the hotel there. I’m sure he’s as tired of us as we are of him. Let’s just go. We’ll all have cooled off by tomorrow morning, and I’ll swing back and get him then, bring him up to the Lodge for the rest of the weekend.”
The plan sounded good, and all agreed to it willingly. Off they set for the rustic cabin someone had dubbed the Coastal Lodge in hopes (quite justified, as it turned out) of charging a tidy sum in AirBnB rates. Never mind that it featured a remote outhouse and a camp kitchen; the setting was beyond beautiful, and the (now) congenial group looked forward to beach and forest walks, blazing bonfires, and midnight swims. Mrs Tadpole insisted on taking charge of the outdoor kitchen: she had brought the ingredients for her famous moussaka and looked forward to the challenge of cooking it in a casserole dish on the barbecue. PJ and Maryanne diced feta, tomatoes, onions and cucumbers for a Greek salad, while the movie star tried in vain to get a cell signal and the millionaires played cribbage by the big bay window in the cabin.
Parallel Lines could cool his heels at the Drifter until morning, thought PJ and crew.
G.T. (Gherkin Time)
“So,” said Mrs. Tadpole to her interviewer, “Can you guess who did it?”
“Uh,” said the Features editor. “Nope.”
“I’ll give you a hint: don’t ask who was the perpetrator. Ask who was the victim!”
“Well, that would be Mr. Lines, would it not?”
“Would it? What if the wheelchair-bound invalid, Mr. Garcia, was really Parallel Lines in disguise?”
“But–”
“He was wrapped in a blanket, wearing dark glasses and a mask, slumped in his chair. And there was a switcheroo.”
“A what?”
“A switch. In the forest.”
“Well, I’ll be jiggered. Why haven’t you said anything?”
“Blackmail.”
“You’re blackmailing the unlikely lovers? Parry Lines and Madame G?”
“No, they’ve been blackmailing me. But it’s time to come out. My trans-formation is at hand!”
“Mrs Tadpole! What a story for the Gleaner–and for the world! May I be the first to congratulate you?”
“You may.”
Deborah Blenkhorn is a poet, essayist, and storyteller living in Canada’s Pacific Northwest. Her work fuses memoir and imagination, and has been featured in over 40 literary magazines and anthologies in Canada, the United States, Britain, the Netherlands, Germany, Australia, Brazil, India, and Indonesia.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Once there lived a farmer named Venkanna in Bhimavaram village. He had a grown-up son named Somu. But Somu was very lazy.
One day, Venkanna’s relatives came. They said that they were going on a pilgrimage and invited them along. Venkanna replied, “Our paddy field will be ruined, if we go away for a whole month now. The harvest should be cut and stacked.”
His relatives persuaded him by saying, “Let your son Somu take care of the work. He will also learn that way. If you both come along, we will see that you face no problems. You won’t get such good company again.” Venkanna agreed after thinking for a while. Overhearing this, Somu promised that he would handle the farm work. Venkanna and his wife left with their relatives.
As instructed, Somu went to the fields a couple of times in the beginning. Seeing the paddy, he thought, “The crop is not ripe yet. It needs ten more days.” So, he lazed and postponed the work. Eventually he stopped visiting the field altogether.
He was reminded twenty days later when his neighbouring farmers enquired why he hadn’t harvested the crop yet. It was already too late by then. He rushed to the field. But he couldn’t find workers immediately. He managed to bring some labourers after five more days. But the crop had become overripe and most of the grains had fallen to the ground.
Venkanna saw the field when he returned from the pilgrimage. He was heartbroken. “I should never have trusted Somu. I shouldn’t have gone,” he moaned while scolding his son bitterly for his laziness.
Later, when there was a wedding in their family, Venkanna again had to leave. Before going, he told Somu, “There is a crop of groundnuts. Go and check every day. Guard the field so cattle don’t graze on it. There’s still some time before it needs to be harvested, so be careful.”
Somu remembered his past mistake with the paddy. He wanted to do better this time and called the labourers in advance. He had the groundnut harvested early. He stacked the crop neatly, thinking his father would praise him.
Venkanna returned later and was shocked. The groundnuts were harvested before the seeds had matured. The grains were soft inside and not ready. Such a crop would fetch no price. Venkanna was distressed again. He scolded Somu. “I only face losses because of you. When will you learn?”
Somu replied stubbornly, “Even when I do the work, you’re never satisfied. Then why should I work at all?” Their argument grew heated.
At that time, their schoolteacher, Mohan, happened to pass by. He stepped in hearing the quarrel and asked what had happened. Venkanna explained Somu’s laziness and the losses it caused.
Then Mohan said, “Your son clearly doesn’t realise how dangerous laziness is. Let me talk to him.”
He said, turning to Somu, “Laziness is the root cause of failure. A lazy person can never achieve what he wants. The greatest enemy of a man is not someone outside, it is laziness itself.”
Somu replied honestly, “I want to give up laziness, but I am unable to. What should I do?”
Mohan smiled and said, “You must practice being active. I’ll give you an example. You’ve raised hens, haven’t you? Have you seen how a mother hen cares for her eggs?”
“No, I haven’t noticed,” said Somu.
Then Mohan explained, “The mother hen sits patiently on her eggs, waiting for the chick inside to peck its way out. Only when it hears the chick tapping from inside, does the hen carefully break the shell from outside to help it out. If she breaks it too early, the chick, which hasn’t fully formed, will die inside. This is exactly what happened with your groundnut harvest, you were too early.”
He continued, “But the hen also never delays once the chick is ready. She immediately helps it out or else the chick will die. That was your paddy mistake. You were too late. Do you understand now?”
Somu nodded realising.“Yes, I see my fault.”
Mohan concluded, “Just as the hen waits with care and patience, we too must show the same attention in our work. Whatever it is…. Farming or business. Responsibility and timing are important. Then only we will get results. If you are a student, careful planning and sincere effort will always lead to progress.” Somu slowly started working hard and thoughtfully from then on.
Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.
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The kettle whistled just as Asha reached for the canister of tea leaves. She turned off the stove, letting the silence settle like the layer of steam on the kitchen tiles. The small two-bedroom apartment smelled faintly of turmeric and Lysol—a combination that reminded her of trying to make something sterile feel like home.
She lived here now—on the third floor of a brick building with cracked mailboxes, faded door numbers, and a neighbour who didn’t say hello. The hallways always smelled vaguely of other people’s dinners, none of them hers.
Asha had been in Arizona for six months. Her husband, Abhinav, came two years earlier on an H1-B visa to work as a systems analyst. They used to talk on the phone every day, sometimes twice. She would sit on her parents’ terrace in Vizag, watching the sky darken over the Bay of Bengal, listening to him describe snow he’d never seen before, traffic patterns, the taste of a burrito. But after she came, the words had started to thin out like overused thread.
Now they sat across from each other during dinner, nodding politely, asking about work. His replies were short — “busy today,” or “nothing special”. He didn’t complain, didn’t shout. But he had stopped asking about her dreams. Somewhere between the visa interviews and the flight and the unpacking, they had become polite strangers sharing a lease.
She poured the tea into two silver cups, added milk, and crushed a cardamom pod between her fingers—her mother’s old habit. Back home in Vizag, her mother would brew tea each evening, calling it her “pause for the soul.” Asha had once dismissed it as drama. But now, standing in this quiet kitchen with its humming refrigerator and fluorescent light, she understood.
She placed a cup near Abhinav’s laptop. He was on the couch, scrolling through code, earphones in. He nodded without looking. She stood a moment longer, watching the steam rise and disappear, then returned to the kitchen window.
Outside, a tree was shedding its leaves. Orange and gold pirouetted to the pavement. She had never seen autumn before this year. The first time she touched a fallen maple leaf, it crumbled like a memory in her hand. Everything here was so temporary, so willing to let go.
Her phone buzzed. It was a message from Maya Aunty, a family friend from Tucson: “Come for lunch Sunday. We’ll make Biryani. Bring Abhinav if he agrees to socialize.”
Asha smiled. Maya Aunty was the closest thing she had to home here—her voice too loud, her saris too bright, but her affection sincere. She had a way of filling rooms that made loneliness impossible, at least for a few hours. Abhinav never liked going. He said those gatherings were a waste of time, full of women gossiping and men complaining about taxes.
Still, Asha replied: “Yes, I’ll come. Maybe Abhinav too. See you then.”
That night, as they sat across from each other over reheated sabzi[1], she asked, “Do you want to come to Maya Aunty’s house Sunday?”
He shook his head, scooping rice. “You go. I have a deadline.”
She had expected that. Still, she had asked. It was important to keep asking, even when you knew the answer.
They ate quietly. The news on TV murmured in the background—something about traffic and an upcoming storm. The weatherman’s voice was cheerful, as if storms were just another entertainment option.
After dinner, he returned to his laptop. She washed the plates slowly, running her fingers over the floral pattern on the china—part of the wedding gift set her mother had packed with such hope. “Start a life with this,” she had said. “You’ll need beauty when you’re far away.”
But some days, Asha felt like everything beautiful was now in another language. The sky here was wider but emptier. The silence is louder.
Sunday
She wore a green georgette saree and a pearl chain. The apartment smelled of her sandalwood perfume, a scent that felt like an argument against disappearing. She kissed Abhinav lightly on the forehead before leaving. He didn’t look up.
Tucson was a long ride on the commuter train. The landscape rolled past—brown, flat, dotted with cactii that looked like they were raising their arms in perpetual surrender. At the station, she sat beside a young woman reading an Agatha Christie novel. Asha wondered if she should start reading again. She used to read in college—Yaddanapudi Sulochana Rani, James Hadley Chase novels that made her mother shake her head in mock disapproval.
At Maya Aunty’s house, the air was warm with ginger, cloves, and nostalgia. Women laughed in the kitchen, the pressure cooker hissed, and the television played an old Telugu song that made Asha’s throat tight.
“You’re glowing!” Maya said, hugging her.
“I’m just tired.”
“You need to eat. And talk. Come, sit with me.”
Over lunch, Maya talked about her daughter in Seattle, about growing desert plants that refused to die, about how this country gave you everything and yet made you feel invisible. “You work, you pay bills, you exist,” she said, “but where do ‘you’ live?”
“Does Abhinav talk to you much?” she asked gently, after a pause.
Asha shook her head. “Not really.”
“Men here, they carry stress like skin. But you must not disappear. You must not become a shadow in your own life.”
That line stayed with her. It echoed in the train on the way home, in the empty apartment that evening.
Two Weeks Later
Asha began taking walks in the evening. She bought a notebook and wrote small things—memories, recipes, dreams she had stopped sharing. The act of writing felt like reclaiming something. She emailed an old professor in Hyderabad about doing a remote literature course.
He responded in all caps: “YES, WRITE AGAIN. SEND ME SOMETHING.”
She didn’t tell Abhinav. Not yet. Not until she found the words that would hold.
One evening, she made adrak chai[2]with extra cardamom. She handed him a cup, as usual.
This time, she didn’t walk away.
“I’ve started writing again,” she said.
He paused, looking up from the screen. “Writing?”
“Just… notes. Short stories. Memories.”
He nodded, sipping the tea. “That’s good.”
Silence.
Then: “The cardamom reminds me of your mother’s tea.”
It was a small sentence. But it cracked open a window.
She smiled. “Yes. She used to say it made the soul pause.”
He looked at her for the first time that evening—really looked, the way he used to during their terrace conversations, before the distance taught them to look away.
“Maybe I need to pause,” he said quietly.
The tea was still hot. Outside, another leaf fell from the tree. But this time, Asha thought, maybe it wasn’t about letting go. Maybe it was about making space for something new.
She didn’t say anything. Just set her hand on the couch between them, palm up.
After a long moment, he put his hand down next to hers. Not quite touching. But close.
Dr Sreenath Nagireddy is a physician from Phoenix, Arizona. A versatile writer, he explores genres ranging from humour and adventure to thriller and science fiction. His works have been published in 365tomorrows, Kitaab, Twist and Twain Magazine, among others.”
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Out on my usual morning walk. A lovely June morning, the air fresh, cool, the rising sun obscured by a belt of sleepy, moving cloudlets. The sun’s soft, mellow rays dried the dew on the large, leafy trees and blossoming flowers of Holland Park.
As always, I bent my steps towards my favourite bench where, I could sit alone and quiet, near to the ponds, yet far enough not to hear too many voices. The air smelt fragrant that particular morning. I hastened to start on my adventures with Dickens’ David Copperfield as I turned a sharp bend on the path that took me to the bench and the great, sprawling oak tree that homed the myriad rooks and scurrying squirrels. I halted. A seedy-looking man was slowly sitting up on my bench! I had never found someone occupying my bench before. He was scratching an unshaven face and an uncombed head of black, curly hair.
Snapping out of my astonishment, I boldly went up to him. “Sir, have you been sleeping on this bench?”
Hardly looking at me, he softly replied, “In fact I have, my good man. And I will add, I enjoyed a very quiet and relaxed sleep. Not a soul in the park at two in the morning, not even the squeaking of a squirrel.” He said all this with considerable aplomb.
“Well, I’m very happy to hear that. Of course you shall be leaving soon?”
“Not that soon, I’m afraid. When I sleep out, which is almost always, I arrive here in Holland Park at 2pm. and leave at three in the afternoon, sometimes a bit later.”
I bit my lip. “What do you, eye little girls with bad intent?”
“I should think not — that is very uncouth.”
“ Spit out pieces of your broken luck?”
“Hardly. My luck has remained intact, I’m proud to say.”
“Warm your feet in the sun?”
“They keep very warm in this season, even with my shoes off.”
The bench-sleeper took out a cigarette from a torn shirt pocket, lit it, then smeared his shabby clothes with greasy fingers. “Want a smoke?”
“No thank you, I don’t smoke.”
“May I ask you why you have chosen this particular bench to sleep on?” I resumed, as he puffed away, staring blankly into space. “This is my reading bench, sir. It has been for over two years. I come almost every morning to have a good read before breakfasting at the Duck or Grouse across the road.”
“Ah ! The Duck or Grouse, I know it well. The barmaid is an acquaintance of my wife.”
“You have a wife?”
“Yes, and two children. Does that shock you?” Before I could answer he pointed a slender finger at my book: “A rather dreary read in the morning, no? I mean, why not something more droll like David Lodge or Oscar Wilde?”
“I prefer Dickens if you don’t mind,” I responded, taken aback by the man’s impertinence. The impertinent man yawned, took a bright, red apple from his trouser pocket and began munching on it.
“Sorry to have disrupted your morning reading, old chap, but oftentimes in life we are confronted by unforeseen events or encounters contrary to our habits. The question is: Should we disregard the event or investigate the meaning behind it? Why on this particular morning, on this particular bench have you been confronted by someone who has hindered your daily morning ritual? Is it accidental or providential? Please, sit down.” I did unthinkingly sit down and watched him blow blue smoke rings into the still air. I will admit that I was a bit awed by him.
He went on calmly: “Does my appearance really offend you, cause you any discomfiture? Retard your reading of Dickens, who I must say, I have never really taken a liking to?”
“Oh, so now you insult my choice of reading?” I fumed.
“I meant no insult, sir, only a reminder you that there are morning readings, afternoon readings, evening and night readings. And I’m sorry to inform you that Dickens is not a morning reading, especially David Copperfield.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but if you are to remain seated on this, my bench, then you will be subjected to my perusal of David Copperfield; and whether it pleases you or not will not change my habit of doing so.” My bold affirmation seemed not to disturb the blighter’s rings of smoke that sailed lightly up into the broad leaves of the oak tree.
He wrinkled his nose: “Habits are terrible enemies.”
“Are they?”
“Yes, that’s why I oftentimes change a bench … even a park: St James is lovely with its lake. Richmond, Finsbury and Circus Gardens are very pleasant, too … You see, I despise habits, they instil an implacable rigor mortis.”
I ignored him and frowned: “So, you believe I’m a silly, old dolt because I read David Copperfield every morning on the same bench?”
“Of course not,” he responded quickly, tying the laces of his heelless shoes. “I simply wished to make clear to you on this lovely morning that a stranger has sat on ‘your’ bench, and that you have yet to ask him whether he is a beggar or not!”
The bench-sleeper’s remark put so point blank did indeed pique my curiosity, so I took up his defiance: “Are you not a beggar then?”
“Have I asked for money?” was his snappy reply.
“No … not yet, anyway.”
“Nor will I. So what are your deductions?” He peered at me with a mischievous gleam in his eye.
“That you are not begging for money and that you have given me the occasion to snap my habit by engaging in conversation with you.”
“You have expressed it wonderfully!” he exclaimed.
“In that case, why do you sleep out on park benches, when you said that you have a wife and children, and you have no need of money?”
He shook the dew out of his hair. “Is there anything ambiguous or incongruous about that?” he countered.
“I think there is! I have a wife and a home, and at night I sleep in my home, not on park benches.”
“And children?”
I sat back. “No, in fact we have no children.”
He took out another cigarette. “ So?”
“So what?”
“Oh, nothing. My children often visit me in the parks when not at school, and my wife, when she’s not working.”
“I can’t believe all this!” I stuttered.
“Why not ? Have you something against a gesture so innocent, so insignificant than a man who sleeps on park benches, who is visited by his dear family, when, in fact, he could sleep in a lovely, soft bed next to his charming wife? Let us say that park benches have become my second residence.”
I gasped at that last remark mentioned so candidly. I changed the subject: “Tell me then, what do you do until two or three o’clock on this bench? You have no book to read.”
He chuckled. “My book lies outside written pages. My readings are people whom I observe, the flowers that I smell, the singing birds or gambolling squirrels that I hear. The conversations I have with many a good person, like yourself. I do read books — just the other day I found a copy of Lawrence’s The Rainbow in the trash bin. Can you imagine someone throwing away a classic of that sort?”
“Yes, that is a crime. So your days seem to pass by splendidly, a full agenda, if I may say so without irony.”
“You may say exactly that, my good man.” He stretched his limbs, took another cigarette and smoked dreamily, peering into the thick leafy foliage of the oak tree. Songbirds had been accompanying his well-stated sentences for some time now; they seemed to punctuate them, rhythmically. The manner in which he smoked his cigarette mystified me. There was a touch of delicacy, elegance, even refinement in his gestures. His speech, too, prompted me to think that he was no ordinary tramp.
He pointed to the sun: “When did you say you breakfast at the Duck or Grouse?”
“At ten o’clock.”
“Judging by the sun, it must be very close to ten.”
I glanced at my watch. “How right you are!” I said, stunned by the accurate time-telling of this unusual man.
“I’m afraid I have prevented you from reading one sentence of Dickens.”
“No bother ; I have many mornings to do so … unless …”
“Unless you find me lying or seated here every day ? Not to worry; as I said, I change benches and parks quite regularly. But who knows, we may meet again in different circumstances.” And he smiled while his eyes shone a roguishness that confounded me.
“Right!” I returned. “Perhaps we shall meet again.” I stood up to leave.
“Bon appetit,” he called out as I wended my way to the front gate.
Finishing my breakfast, I hurried home eager to share that odd encounter with my wife, at that moment busy with her morning gardening. “You’ll never know how I spent my morning, dear.”
“Reading your book, I suppose, as you always do,” my wife replied tritely without looking up, pulling out the weeds from the borders of coneflowers, forget-me-nots, asters and chrysanthemums below the bay window of our newly bought duplex.
“Not at all,” I responded. “I had a very strange conversation with a man who sleeps on park benches every night, and sits on them until three in the afternoon.”
She stood and eyed me strangely. “Talking to beggars, hey? How much did he wrest from you?”
“He wasn’t a beggar Helen. He simply sleeps and sits on park benches. In fact, he had a refined way of smoking his cigarette. Very well-spoken, too.”
She continued to stare at me without a word. “He even has a wife and children who visit him in the parks.”
“Does he ? Well I’ll be damned if he wasn’t putting you on, Marvin. Do you think I’d visit you in a park, sleeping on a bloody bench?” I smiled weakly. “He’s a smooth talker, that one is. Be careful, he might put ideas in your head, ”she concluded and attended to her peonies and snapdragons.
I felt odd and asked, “How about a restaurant tonight, dear? I’ve had a handsome pay rise, you know. Let’s dine at the Galvin La Chapelle.”
Helen jumped up like a Jack-out- of-the-Box. “Are you mad? I think that beggar or bench-sleeper got the better of you. The Galvin La Chapelle is the most expensive restaurant in London … eighty or ninety quid a menu!”
“Yes, I know. But I really feel like having a wonderful meal. After all, it’s only money…”
My wife went back to her edging and weeding.
So that night, dressed in our best clothes, we stepped under the chapelled vaults of the Galvin La Chapelle in Spitalfields, whose French cuisine and romantic atmosphere knew no rival in London, perhaps even in the whole of England. We were seated at our reserved table for two in the middle of the enormous dining hall, where we could admire the polished marble pillars supporting the stone ceiling, the timbered vaults and the arched windows. We both felt so paltry surrounded by such grandiose mediaeval decor.
“Such a posh restaurant, I’ve never seen such lovely architecture and decoration. And feel this tablecloth, it wasn’t bought at Primark,” Helen remarked blissfully, passing her rough, garden-versed fingers over the silken cloth after having been seated in a red-upholstered chair by a charming young waiter.
“I knew you’d like it, darling.” I beamed, thoroughly delighted at my wife’s first impressions. “You deserve it, haven’t we’ve worked hard: first the duplex then the car?” The Maître d’Hôtel[1] greeted them in French, then with much studied decorum, lay two menus on the table in the middle of which had been placed a vase of intoxicating tuberoses whose fragrance almost caused Helen to faint in ecstasy. Marvin ordered cocktails.
Suddenly his face turned white as a ghost. Helen, snapping out of her ecstatic state, searched the sudden whiteness for a reason: “Marvin … Marvin, are you alright ? Is it the flowers or the prices on the menu that have turned your face into stone ? I told you this place was dear. We’re not at MacDonald’s, you know …”
Marvin struggled to speak: “No … no … it’s not the menu, dear.” He turned to observe the Maître d’Hôtel presently leaning on the counter of the cocktail bar. He was attired in the most striking satin canvas double-breasted tuxedo with a black, silk bow tie whose tips brushed lightly against the red-laced lining of his vest. His tailored trousers grazed daintily a pair of Crockette and Jones shoes, the dearest in London. There he leaned on his right elbow, chatting up the barmaid. With the most refined gesture, he took out a cigarette from a gold-plaited case and lit it.
Marvin gasped: “It’s him! It’s him, Helen!”
“What are you on about?”
“The head-waiter talking to the waitress at the bar…It’s the bench-sleeper in the park. I’m sure of it.”
Helen sat back, a bit ruffled at her husband’s outlandish outbursts. The young waiter brought the hors d’oeuvres[2]: duck liver royal and buffalo milk panna cotta. As soon as the waiter had served them: “Are you daft!” she whispered so as not to be heard by two couples who had just been seated near to them. “Stop this nonsense, Marvin. Control yourself. Don’t forget where we are. How can a tramp on a park bench be the head waiter of the most expensive restaurant in London?”
“But the way he smokes his cigarette…it’s exactly like the beggar’s! And his grey eyes, those glazed, blurry, grey eyes are his. Helen I can’t believe it!”
“Then don’t believe it because it can’t be him. Calm down and eat your duck liver. Look, he’s coming to take down our main dish, which because of your foolishness, we haven’t chosen yet.”
The stately Maître d’Hôtel glided over, pad in hand. Marvin, red as a lobster, buried his face in the menu. Helen scanned hers, marvelling at the names.
“Let me suggest the crab ravioli,” His soft voice sailed in between them. A voice very familiar to Marvin.
“That sounds lovely,” Helen said, staring impatiently at her husband who was hiding his face behind the menu. “With a lot of ricotta cheese, please. I’ll also order a free range aged duck sauce à l’orange. And you darling, what will it be?” she added, barely disguising her anger.
“I shall have the Iberico pork with chimichurri sauce, please,” Marvin ordered, peering over his menu at the head waiter.
“Of course, sir, we serve the finest French cuisine in England ; une cuisine exquisite!”
“How about some wine, dear?” Helen interrupted, peevishly.
The Maître d’Hôtel suggested: “An Aloxe-Corton Latour red wine goes well with pork. As to the crab, why not a carafe of Chardonnay?” Helen and Marvin acquiesced by simply nodding their heads. “If I’m not mistaken, this is your first time here? Perfect. Then permit me to offer you, on the house, our burnt honey custard tart for dessert. It simply melts in your mouth.” The first-comers wreathed in smiles, albeit Marvin’s somewhat withered, nodded again in ostentatious gratitude. The Mâitre d’Hôtel glided off across the stone-paved floor with velvet steps.
Marvin leaned over the table, his nose ruffling the tuberoses. “Helen, I’m telling you it’s him. I’m going over there to settle this mystery once and for all. I know he recognised me, that’s why he offered that dessert to us.”
“Don’t be rude, Marvin. I shan’t be embarrassed because of your ill-behaviour. That beggar has got to your head. Sip your cocktail, why are you ruining such a lovely evening, especially one that will cost you over two hundred quid?” Helen bit her lip.
“But dear, I shan’t embarrass you ; I’ll just casually stroll over to the fellow and hint at David Copperfield. He’ll get the message. He’ll know I’m on to him.”
“What do you mean ‘on to him’ ? He’s not a criminal! Stop this immediately or I’ll leave you eating your two-hundred pound meal alone!” With those stern words that brooked no rebuke, the affair appeared settled …
Marvin, however, was not to be foiled …
He stood up. Gathering courage, he made a bee-line for the cocktail bar where the Maître d’Hôtel was serving himself a drink. Marvin in a low but firm voice said: “Sir, I believe we have met elsewhere.”
Being much taller than Marvin, the Maître d’Hôtel bent over him, drawing closer. He placed a comradely hand on his shoulder : “My good man, how observant you are! My disguise has not fooled you for a moment. But please, look at your lovely wife,” and he sighed. “She’s almost in tears, worrying over your stubbornness to know the truth. The truth? Of what? About a sleeper on a park bench, one who harbours a certain disdain for Dickens in the mornings? If I were to reveal the mystery of our morning’s encounter, would you please return to your table and enjoy the meal with your wife.”
Marvin remained speechless, although he did scoop out a handful of cashew nuts from a porcelain dish on the cocktail bar counter.
“You see,” the head waiter continued philosophically, “here in this restaurant I play the role of a Maîtred’Hôtel. I wear the weeds and mask of social bearing, parade about this remarkable dining room with aristocratic ease. I follow the rigid rules of proper etiquette. Where we met and spoke this morning is my breath of fresh air, my dwelling of unconfined freedom. There I dispose my mask, divest my constraining costume and don the clothes and air of a bird that has flown out of its cage. Here inside, I’m an actor. There, outside, a spectator no longer on stage constrained to act, but react to those whom I observe. And that my good man is the essence of freedom. In the parks, I regain a sense of reality by observing the simplicity of Nature, the grass beneath my feet, the sun, moon and stars above my head. The trees and the songbirds. In the restaurant, albeit it be the finest in England, I merely act, opined as a social asset, as a means to cater to people’s needs for costly pleasures, and of course to my own and those of my family’s, although mine and theirs are far from costly. Look, I shouldn’t be smoking this, but it is the only pleasure, the only soupçon of outside freedom that I can afford myself here.”
Marvin, awed by this avowal, said nothing. The Maître d’Hôtel concluded: “Now hurry back to your charming wife who has been impatiently waiting for your return. I do believe your main course will be promptly served. But let me say this, please do not disclose the reason for my bench-sleeping activities. That will be our little secret, one only between us. Look, your wife appears so upset, why subject her to trivialities? Discretion, my good man. Discretion. Put her at ease and enjoy your meal.” The Maître d’Hôtel causually strolled to a nearby table, smiling.
Marvin shuffled to his table, where indeed Helen was fuming. “Well ! Has he called the ambulance to have you packed off to Bedlam?”
Marvin winced. The irony of her remark cut deep into his emotions. He appeared lost in thought: “No … We had a smashing conversation, in fact. He’s quite a decent chap, well-read on Dickens, too.”
“Good, then let us get on with this wonderful meal. Cheers darling, and thank you, the wine is heavenly and the crab, well, what can I say?” Helen raised her glass: “To us … and Dickens!”
Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Story by Sharaf Shad, translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch
From Public Domain
One afternoon, I had just returned home from the hospital and was waiting for my wife to bring me lunch when I heard the sound of a motorbike stopping outside. Then echoed the sound of hurried footsteps on the porch, followed by someone asking my wife, “Is the doctor home?”
It was Ali’s voice. I recognised it instantly. A moment later, the door swung open, and Ali, short and heavyset, entered the room.
“Doctor, come with me, please. My wife isn’t feeling well; she needs to be examined.”
“I was just about to eat…”
“You can eat there,” he interrupted, grabbing my doctor’s bag and heading out to his motorbike. Since he was my friend, I didn’t argue and silently followed him.
On the way, Ali explained that his wife was in labour. As we arrived, I examined her and, after consulting with the midwife, gave her an injection. I waited in the guest room. A short while later, his wife gave birth. Just then, the door opened, and Ali came in, his face glowing with joy.
“Sir, I’ve been blessed with a son.”
“Congratulations!”
“Thank you.” His voice was sweet with happiness. I wrote a prescription for the patient and sent Ali to the medical store to get the medicines. He dropped me off at home afterward. As we arrived, Ali reached into his pocket, but I stopped his hand with a smile.
“No, doctor, that won’t do,” he insisted.
“Come on, let it go. Just take us on a picnic sometime,” I said.
“Don’t worry about picnics. You will have plenty of them,” Ali said with a laugh, heading out of the room, still beaming with joy.
*
A few years later, one night, Ali was in intense pain and I was woken up in the middle of the night. When I arrived, he was groaning in agony. His son stood by his bedside, looking at him with wide, worried eyes. I comforted him and treated Ali. After a while, he drifted off to sleep. As I stood to leave, Ali’s son asked me with curiosity:
“Doctor, will my father be okay?”
“Yes, don’t worry. He’ll be just fine,” I reassured him, gently patting his cheek before heading out.
The next day, Ali came to see me on his motorbike and paid my consultation fee. His son was with him. I took some of the money and slipped it into the boy’s pocket.
“Are you doing well?” I asked him.
He didn’t reply, but Ali spoke up. “After seeing you treat me last night, he says he wants to be a doctor when he grows up.”
I burst out laughing and looked at the boy, who blushed and hid behind his father. “May God fulfill all his wishes!”
“Ameen,” Ali said, and they both bid me farewell.
*
A few years later, Ali brought his son, Sabzal, to the hospital. The boy wasn’t feeling well; he had fever. Ali looked worried. After examining the boy and before writing down the medicines, I asked him:
“What grade are you in now?”
“Third,” he replied.
“If I write your name here, can you read it?”
“Yes!” he said proudly, puffing out his chest.
I wrote on the prescription: “Dr. Sabzal Baloch” and then added the list of medicines.
Happiness lit up both the father’s and son’s faces. They left, smiling.
One morning, as I was getting ready to head to the hospital, Ali arrived in a hurry.
“Doctor, please come quickly! My son is having trouble breathing.” When I got there, I gave him some medicines, but when his condition didn’t improve, I told Ali: “There aren’t the right facilities here. You need to take your son to the city hospital.”
Ali booked a vehicle and rushed his son to the city. A day or two later, the news came that Ali’s son had passed away in the hospital. Ali returned home empty-handed, and I was deeply saddened. The sudden death of young Sabzal cast a shadow of grief over our small hamlet for a few days. But eventually, the routines of daily life washed away that sorrow, and life moved on as usual.
One day, I saw Ali riding his motorbike somewhere. As soon as he saw me, he stopped. After greeting him, I pointed to an object wrapped in old newspapers resting in his lap.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a headstone, sir,” Ali replied. His once cheerful face turned somber. “It’s for Sabzal’s grave.”
With a sad expression, Ali began unwrapping the newspapers. He turned the headstone towards me, and I read:
Name: Dr. Sabzal Baloch Age: 7 years and 6 months
I looked at Ali. Two silent teardrops rolled down his cheeks and rested on his face.
Sharaf Shad is simultaneously a short story writer, poet, translator, and critic. The richness of narrative is one of the defining features of his short stories. Death and identity crises are recurring themes in his works. A collection of his short stories, titled “Safara Dambortagen Rahan” (Journeying Down the Weary Roads), was published by the Institute of Balochistan, Gwadar, in 2020.
Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated many Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters and in the form of books and anthologies.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Once upon a time, the Rain God and the Wind God had an argument.
“I am greater than you,” said the Rain God.
“No, I am greater,” replied the Wind God.
To decide who was truly greater, they made a deal: “Whoever can trouble the people of Earth more, will be the greatest,” they agreed.
The next day, the Rain God started the round. It started with light showers but soon turned into heavy rain. It rained non-stop for an entire week! Crops were drowned. Farmers cried over their year-long hard work being washed away. Poor people’s small huts were destroyed. Some people died under collapsing walls. Animals were washed away in floods. Birds shivered in the cold. Rivers and lakes overflowed. Roads were flooded.
For seven days, the Sun didn’t shine, and people were very worried.
They prayed to the Rain God, “Please stop the rain!”
Hearing their cries, the Rain God finally stopped.
He proudly asked the Wind God, “Now do you agree I am the greatest?”
The Wind God replied, “Wait till you see my power. Then we’ll talk.”
Suddenly, the Wind God blew with all his strength.
Dust flew everywhere. Nothing was visible.
Roofs of huts flew away. People and animals were picked up and thrown down by the strong wind. Trees broke and fell. Even cattle tied in the yard broke their ropes and ran away. People were terrified. They prayed, “Wind God, please calm down!”
Hearing this, the Wind God smiled and stopped.
He told the Rain God proudly, “Look! People couldn’t handle even one day of my power. If I continued, imagine what would’ve happened.”
The Rain God was about to agree when suddenly they heard a voice: “No, you are both wrong!”
Surprised, they looked around. It was the Sun God speaking from the sky.
The Wind God asked, “Are you saying I’m not the greatest?”
The Sun said, “What’s so great about scaring people? If I shine too bright all day, even I can make people suffer. But that’s not our purpose. We exist to help people, not to trouble them.”
The Rain God said, “We just wanted to know who is greater.”
The Sun replied, “If you want to know that, ask Indra or the sages—not the people. You made people cry and suffer. Is that fair?”
Both gods asked, “Then what should we do?”
The Sun said, “Rain God, bring rain when it’s needed—during the rainy season or when the water level is low. Then people will worship you with love and gratitude. Wind God, blow cool breeze during summer. In winter, be gentle. During rains, guide the clouds to where rain is needed. Then people will respect and pray to you. Look at Mother Earth. She gives and serves without asking anything in return. Be like her. Don’t make people suffer just to prove who is better.”
The Rain God and Wind God nodded.
“You are right, Sun God. We agree. We will never make that mistake again.”
And with that, they left peacefully.
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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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
For the entire month Sandy was upset in her newly set-up office. Swanky, plush glass cabin with mood lighting and a deluxe leather couch to sink in could not prevent the buzz in her head. How to get rid of the creative consultant her husband had hired as a temporary replacement for her creative protégé who went on maternity leave for six months had emerged as her consistent worry.
Despite being the creative controller of S&S, the independent, mid-sized advertising agency positioned to be idea-driven, she could not do much to infuse creativity and rein in the team of acolytes who praised her recycled, AI-inspired work to the skies to keep their jobs safe. With the termite called mediocrity hollowing the agency from inside, client retention emerged as a big challenge. One fine afternoon she was informed by her strategist husband, Snehasish, about the probable loss of key clients and his desperate bid to onboard an overseas major to offset this financial setback.
The scapegoat she found apt for this occasion was none other than Mohit. This was the biggest as well as the brightest idea to hit her after several months of creative drought. With a sudden burst of energy, she lifted herself out of the couch and approached her loyalist manager, Adarsh, waiting for her order. Raising her heels, she looked straight into his sunken brown eyes, and snaked her arms around his neck.
“I want you to do me a small favour, baby,” Sandy poured into his wax-laden ear in her faintly husky voice.
For the man surviving and thriving on her benevolence, saying no was impossible even if his moral compass did not allow. Before she disclosed her plan, Adarsh blinked its confirmed execution.
“By the time I am back from my vacation, do whatever it takes to ensure Mohit is thrown out of my agency.” Sandy ticked him off for the dirty job and landed a dry peck on his beard cheek before stomping out of the agency corridor, rushing down the high-speed elevator, and reaching the parking bay with the remote keys pressed from a distance to unlock her sedan.
Seated behind the steering wheel, she pushed the shades up her forehead and booked herself business class, texted Snehasish about her trip, and rushed home to take a shower and pack her travel bags.
“Bon voyage -” he texted back, regretting he was unlikely to see her off at the airport as he was yet to ink the deal with a beverage client arriving from Dhaka in Kolkata during the weekend.
*
Adarsh was aware of the creative skills Mohit possessed. He had what it takes to be classified as an asset but merit alone does not decide the fate of an employee in any organisation – more so in a flippant, flamboyant profession like advertising and media. Maintaining a low profile, with the hope of getting noticed, was what Mohit believed in, expecting his work to speak volumes. But the unabashed self-promotion by his team mates eclipsed his presence and trivialised his output.
Although Adarsh was much higher up the ladder in terms of designation, the presence of Mohit scared him at times. It was a matter of relief – and perverse delight – for Adarsh to know that Mohit was not in the good books of the agency owner. All he had to do at the earliest was form a core team of account managers and designers and brief them regarding the urgent need to eliminate Mohit.
He cherry-picked Amar and Ragini to lead this mission. Since Ragini had worked closely with Mohit who pricked her ego several times in the past, she was thrilled to be chosen for the special task and recalled the earlier episodes of friction, primarily to justify her moral descent. However, she was slightly disappointed that Sandy Madam did not confide in her despite her frequent visits to her penthouse apartment over the weekends to binge-watch with her and later smoke flavoured hookah in royal style under the star-lit sky before going for a dip in her private pool.
“Trust me, Sir,” Ragini assured Adarsh, picking up her bottle of chilled beer from the table when she noticed the other guys had already polished down their drinks. Quite fond of Ragini, Amar saw this was the perfect opportunity to spend maximum time with her. He seconded her every move and sentence, making it sound like it was a petty gig. Although Ragini did not reciprocate his feelings, she kept their relationship within the realm of friends with benefits, spending time together in pubs and discotheques late at night, when Adarsh returned to his cocoon, to his family fold to play the role of a doting husband. For Amar, keeping the hope of a happy union alive was the ultimate driving force.
“Make sure Mohit faces rejections every day. Get negative feedback from clients for his submissions, set crazy deadlines for him, double his workload, add power-points to his responsibilities, make him redo every piece of crap he writes, and do not hesitate to call him a difficult, outdated person to work with. You have full freedom and my unconditional support but make sure you keep me in the loop,” Adarsh waxed eloquent while tearing the plastic cover of a new pack of imported cigarettes.
He knew Ragini would make it unbearable for Mohit to survive in this toxic environment and he would dash off his resignation within a week. On several occasions in the past, Ragini had rushed to his cabin, spewing venom against Mohit. But he never took any strict action based on her complaints as he was under the false impression that Mohit was the new, emerging favourite poster boy with the agency owners. Sandy’s startling disclosure reversed Adarsh’s inference, making him curious to ferret out what had annoyed her so much in just a month that she wanted him axed in a single deft stroke.
To mount a second line of attack, he briefed Samit, the senior account director, to engage Mohit in client meetings, brainstorming sessions, and critique his past work, to make it seem it was quite frustrating to get approvals for his work. Collective onslaught would demoralise Mohit faster and he would tender his exit note. His past observations encouraged him to believe that Mohit would display immature behaviour under pressure.
“You cannot write proper English, with absolutely no knowledge about the nuances of grammar,” Ragini exploded in the presence of several junior employees one afternoon. Such acerbic comments did not hurt Mohit who gauged that this allied gang of detractors had been activated against him. Being confident of his ideation skills, Mohit had the strength to pulp what others wrote and submitted. He could defend his original work but he thought it was not the wise thing to do at this stage.
Mohit invited Ragini for a serious discussion on the nitty-gritties of grammar usage and explain to her why it was a good and accepted practice to delete articles from headlines. He could share multiple examples of great print ads with missing articles from the headlines. When she found this would embarrass her, she went for a quick huddle in the conference room to discuss deliverables with designers. She emerged when she saw Mohit was nowhere around and rushed straight to Adarsh’s cabin and firmly shut the door behind her, to update and discuss what to do next since their negative approach didn’t seem to work.
Contrary to expectations, Mohit had decided to persist and resist all opposition. With a singular focus, he carried on with his job and took all forms of criticism in his stride, making strong commitments to fix his non-existent flaws at the earliest. That left no room for knee-jerk reaction and it became clear that Mohit was not going to quit even if these guys engaged in verbal spats and fired a fusillade of salvoes.
Lighting up a cigarette flicked from Adarsh’s pack to reduce her stress, Ragini sat on the table and blew out smoke rings, waiting for him to break the silence. Using her other hand, she playfully pulled his handlebar moustache grown as a tribute to a living legend, egging him to crack something new. Unwilling to disclose that he had already deployed another missile called Samit, Adarsh wanted to wait for a couple of days and see how things panned out.
“Mohit is not the kind of guy to swallow insults on a daily basis, I am sure he would go on an unannounced leave and then stringent action against him, just waiting for one day of absence and he is kicked out,” Adarsh revealed, stroking her hair as a sensitive, caring gesture of assurance.
Mohit proved to be a tough nut to crack as the worst humiliations heaped on him went waste. They raised storms that would not capsize his boat. With an accommodative, tolerant mindset, he prepared himself for every challenge. Mohit had realised the band of opponents had teamed up to isolate him in the absence of Sandy Madam. He decided to report this matter to her once she returned from vacation, reposing full faith in her justice system.
*
The news of Mohit’s imminent departure was leaked to the colleagues by none other than Ragini. She could not contain the excitement even though nothing was achieved yet. She went around spreading the false information that her ideas were far better than Mohit’s, and she had to rectify his errors.
“Adarsh Sir is fed up with Mohit and he is looking for a subtle way to dump that jerk,” Ragini told one of her confidantes who happened to like Mohit for his dashing personality.
The rapport between Ragini and Adarsh was an open secret. The way she thrust the birthday cake slice into his mouth just last week was ample visual proof of their flirtatious bond captured on smartphones and shared across profiles.
Mona and Ragini had joined S&S around the same time with the same level of experience. Familiar with her gossip-mongering nature, Mona went and asked Mohit if everything was fine at work. He pretended to be fine but she concluded from his downcast eyes that something wasn’t. After his denial, she could not alert him that his days were numbered in this agency. Nobody here, not even the peon, could survive without the support and approval of Adarsh. What Ragini said regarding Mohit was a forecast – much more accurate and reliable than any weather alert or astrological prediction. The planets could change in Mohit’s favour any time, but the combined brutal attack of Adarsh and Ragini could not prevent his unceremonious exit from S&S.
Almost the entire team was up against Mohit. False allegations were propped up against him – including the grave charge that due to his flawed writing, the agency lost business. No sympathy came his way and Mohit could sense that the campaign to defame him was more successful than any social media campaigns done for the clients.
Strong indicators began to surface. Nobody bothered to greet Mohit inside the office. His presence was overlooked — as if he was an outsider. Nobody asked him to join the group for lunch outside. He was left alone. This intentional boycott began to affect Mohit who felt his presence was not required anymore. Though he had promised to ignore the rival group plotting against him, he was assuaged with the dismissive attitude of his other colleagues who happened to bond well with him earlier. Particularly Vishesh.
Earlier, Adarsh had urged Ragini and Samit to flood him with work, to wear him out. But this approach underwent a complete overhaul: Mohit was made to sit idle for the entire day, with executives approaching other writers, including trainees, to work on the brands he handled earlier. Half of the day he sat gazing out of the window and felt ashamed, and then tried to seek assignments from Ragini. She was blunt in saying it was useless to provide him with briefs when fast turnaround and quick approvals were required.
Mohit was left with no choice but to approach Adarsh for clarity as he knew these scheming tactics wouldnot work without his consent. Guided by instinct, he chose to avoid any escalation in the absence of Sandy Madam. He turned back without knocking on his cabin door. The only helpline to tide over this crisis was to lie low for another week. He made himself comfortable with idleness and focused on watching ads. He was attending office every single day and he was getting paid on time so there was no reason to get rattled. Many people in the office pretended to do a lot of work even though their output was much below par. He saw inferior work getting approved but he kept himself out of it. Unless adverse communication came from the management side, he should enjoy his relaxed stay and keep himself occupied with creative pursuits. He knew everything would get resolved once Sandy Madam came back.
One fine day, the inevitable happened. Mohit was asked by Adarsh to visit his chamber for a quick chat. He entered the room and kept standing. Adarsh put his legs on the teakwood table and began in a mellowed voice, with eyes cast on his tablet screen: “As you can see, there is not much work. Half the day you solve crossword and watch ads. The business scenario is bleak. Two of the clients you handled are leaving us after five years and it is tough for all. I am sorry but the bitter truth has to be told. This is your last month. Snehasish will give you a call shortly and explain it better. The severance package and all that stuff.”
Mohit emerged with a forlorn expression, walking like a ghost without any spirit to live. All his suppressions proved useless. His creative work had gone waste, unrecognised and belittled. More shocking for him was the fact that the top management brass was also skewed in favour of his dismissal. All this while he was thinking it was a gang in the office helmed by Adarsh. When Snehasish called up in the evening, he minced no words and coldly conveyed that his services were no longer required and he would get paid for another month without doing any work. He was assured that the entire process would be smooth, no hiccups, no hurdles.
Reporting for work to get paid and not doing any work was unethical. Mohit thought he should forget the salary bait and quit right away to show he did not care two hoots. That would be a heroic, dignified exit in front of all employees. But then, the domestic realities broke his resolve. He thought how he would disclose the sudden job loss news to his wife. So, he went to Adarsh and requested him to be considerate.
“My spouse is undergoing treatment and if I sit at home now… At least for two months, let me continue. Once she recovers, I will stop coming here. I can show you her medical reports. I can’t take any risk with her health. I am not lying, Sir.”
This was the first request ever made by Mohit to any company honcho – the only favour he sought. He was shown no leniency and advised to get in touch with Snehasish for a reconsideration.
Mohit felt Adarsh must have disbelieved his story and called it a fake narrative to hang on for some more time on sympathetic grounds. When he gave a buzz after office hours, it was dropped. A clear indication he would not get any extension. When the truth he spoke was brushed aside, he saw no point in coming to the office where he had worked for almost a year. He was still not ready to believe that Snehasish was involved in this conspiracy. When did this drastic change happen? What led to this change of heart? He could go on thinking and thinking without finding any answers.
*
That Snehasish was the mastermind that planned his termination was difficult to accept. How could he alone be the architect of his fall from grace? Sandy Madam also came under his scanner even though throughout his working phase there was not a single moment of distrust or dislike between the two. Sandy Madam was sensitive to his needs so Mohit removed all doubts for the time being. She would either go against her husband and reinstate Mohit or she would toe his line like a devoted partner. That was the sole reason why he did not burn bridges yet, with the hope of reconciliation flickering somewhere despite near-unanimity inside the office regarding his expulsion.
Mohit was immersed in worries about how his wife would react to his job loss. He was left with no option but to tell her the truth if she did not guess it on her own. Finding her husband at home during the week days had already raised her suspicions and he could not keep lying. Working from a remote location was no longer an available excuse after the pandemic ended. With divine strength, she remained calm and held his hand in support, assuring him of good times coming their way soon. Tears welled up in his eyes in gratitude to God who had already simplified his tough task by blessing her with maturity.
When Snehasish called him up again, he was specific and abrasive: “Mohit, no point begging for an extension. Don’t crib. Your wife is ill but we are not here to finance her medical bills. We don’t run a bleeding business or conduct any charity. As you know, we lost two accounts you handled and there is no way we can continue this contract.”
Mohit could not believe this was the same employer he knew a year earlier. He had been soft-spoken and polite and now he had shown the colours of a chameleon. He understood he was held responsible for the loss of business. But surprisingly, he did not find any faults with those who mishandled these accounts and the designers who played the fool by offering them the same templates.
When it was a matter of saving himself, Mohit had to speak the truth. Even if that failed to bring any positive outcome, he would at least have the satisfaction of releasing it all.
“Sir, you cannot fully blame me for the business loss. There were other reasons. Account guys took them for granted.”
This made Snehasish furious.
“You are making these wild allegations to save yourself. Why were you silent earlier? Grow up, man. I will still write a recommendation letter for you — good luck finding another employer.”
He did not wait for a formal closure and disconnected without waiting for Mohit’s reaction.
Those who wrote pedestrian stuff were retained was a reality yet to sink in. Mohit realised it was futile to wait for Sandy’s return from London. He had no hope she would go against the majoritarian view and reverse what her husband had decided. After all, Mohit was not worth defending and making a ruckus about within the family. But he did message Sandy Madam about his lay-off. It was seen after two days and she chose not to respond, making him suspect she was an accomplice who knew what was about to unfold.
The way the chain of events had unfolded seemed to hold many more secrets. He was not informed by Adarsh or Snehasish that a new big client was roped in. Why would they share this good news and strengthen his case regarding retention? In fact, he got to know about this from a trade magazine that listed the account movement.
Even though he was given a month’s timeframe, Mohit found it humiliating to continue in that role. Since their guns and knives were already out, there was no point in facing his colleagues who would make fun and keep him idle for the day. When he found he had been evicted from all client groups by Adarsh, he saw it was meaningless to go to office unless he intended to carry a gun and blow up their brains. A pool of blood inside the office, with multiple casualties. Ragini’s blood-soaked tank top, with Adarsh’s lifeless ring-studded hand resting on her bust formed a gory image in his fecund mind. Had he not been married with domestic responsibilities he would have hit the headlines as a cold-blooded killer who massacred almost the entire team in a manic state.
Despite losing his only source of income, with ailing wife at home, no life support around, he could not think of suicide as a solution. The fear of failure in this act and the love for his soulmate made him abandon extreme negativity. Being punished despite doing good work was not easy to digest. The ways of the world were not going to change for Mohit. Expecting kindness from selfish people was his mistake. He would soon be forgotten and replaced within a week, and to sacrifice your precious life for such thankless people would be an act of foolishness.
*
It came as a bolt from the blue when Mona met him outside the office over a cup of coffee at a nearby café. The information she provided was an eye-opener of sorts. Stirring brown sugar in her cup of cappuccino, Mona chose to cross-check certain details before she shared some vital information.
“Did you know you were hired for a temporary period, Mohit?”
“No. Not at all. There was nothing temporary mentioned in the letter.”
“You were a replacement for Jyoti who is joining back next month. She was on maternity leave actually.”
“Who told you this?” Mohit asked, his coffee turning cold.
“It is a known fact. Everybody is excited about her comeback. Sandy and Jyoti are great pals.”
“Could you share more details,” Mohit requested her.
“I don’t know much but it is Jai-Veeru[1] type of bonding. Sandy will shut down her agency if Jyoti decides to leave. I mean, you can guess their mutual fondness. I don’t need to specify more…”
“You are suggesting my time was limited here – but Sandy never disclosed that.”
“Come on, nobody joins for six months. Initially, you are supposed to be here for six months but your quality performance made it tough to get rid of you. You survived more.”
“I never got to smell that,” Mohit mourned the delay, “just the client loss story is offered to me…”
“Client loss does not bother Sandy at least. And don’t think Jyoti is back because she is a powerhouse of talent. Believe me, she is a mediocre writer,” Mona explained, and started sharing her own plans of leaving the agency because of Adarsh who had nothing to do with principles.
“He calls me up on holidays at odd hours and chats endlessly. My family does not like that. He thinks every female employee in advertising smokes and drinks and loves to sit on his lap. I have always maintained a safe distance, unlike Ragini. That’s why she grew so fast while I am stuck without a promotion for two years.”
“Precisely for this reason I think advertising is not moral. But I also feel creative people are supposed to be good human beings. My exposure has convinced me I am wrong. Creative people can be mean and awful just like in any other profession,” Mohit shared his generic assessment about the profession he had now decided to quit forever.
Slightly taken aback to hear that Mohit had decided to switch his career at this advanced stage, Mona felt she was also a contributor to his setback. Experiences of this kind are change makers, but she believed Mohit would continue to keep his relationship with words alive irrespective of what he pursued in life.
“On a lighter note, your unceremonious exit was an ideal occasion to cut the blueberry cheese cake,” Mona disclosed how the agency guys celebrated his departure and showed the photos on her mobile. “Though it was not announced like that, that was the main intent. Ragini and Adarsh danced together and Amar sat in a corner and guzzled beer. And yes, Sandy loved their pics and commented she missed the party.”
“She is returning soon?” Mohit asked for an update.
“Yeah, next Monday she joins office,” Mona informed him, “Do you want to meet her and discuss?”
“Oh, it was all premeditated and planned,” Mohit connected the dots though there were many loose ends he could not put together yet. “Perhaps Ragini could throw light on this matter. Being an insider and confidante. She is your friend, isn’t it?”
“Do you really think so? Don’t be naïve. Adarsh will strangle her. But I have a hunch she is a mere pawn being used by Adarsh. The remote control is elsewhere. Do stay in touch and if I get to know anything big, I will give you a buzz. Pray your wife has a speedy recovery,” Mona concluded the chat and rose up to leave before the grey skies opened up.
To pore over the past and sulk was not a healthy indulgence but for Mohit this was a critical phase of life and such betrayals made him think the world is there to make things worse for him. His personal problems weighed him down. He hated to use the name of the last agency in his resume. He found it was better to call himself unemployed than to mention the name of his last employer. Besides, he was sure Adarsh or Sandy would not have nice things to say.
Mona had specified the reason for his exit was Jyoti. While it was a convincing ground, there was something more than that, something that remained buried within. Adarsh and Mohit had the same queries. But the chances of Adarsh excavating the real truth were higher because he was close to Sandy.
*
When Sandy returned after a grand holiday, she found the entire office decked with marigold flowers to welcome her back. Adarsh had beautified her private cabin with her favourite upholstery and silk curtains. After spending a few minutes with the entire team, she asked Ragini to meet her in the cabin. She walked behind Sandy and followed her footsteps.
Dropping her vanity bag and silk stole on the sofa, Sandy asked her, “So how does it feel to be working without Mohit around? He insulted you a lot.”
Sandy collapsed on the sofa and pulled Ragini to sit beside her.
“It is nice and relaxing, honestly, Ma’am,” Ragini glowed with joy.
“I have some good news for you. Get ready to helm the new account we have won. You have bigger responsibilities and a fat package with perks,” Sandy rewarded her for being a loyalist.
Adarsh joined the two and Ragini got up to leave. Sandy did not stop her, but promised a cool, heady celebration at her apartment soon. She mentioned to Adarsh that Ragini was promoted. Adarsh congratulated her, holding her hand and squeezing it hard, and then opened the door for her like a perfect gentleman. Ragini turned around and asked, “Ma’am, can I make this news public? I mean to my colleagues.”
“Of course, sweetheart, Adarsh will shoot an email by the end of the day,” Sandy assured her and she gently closed the door. They could hear the celebratory outburst outside, with Ragini making the grand announcement and getting a huge round of applause.
“Have we done the right thing from the agency perspective?” Adarsh asked Sandy, sitting beside her, without specifying the context.
“You mean his exit?” Sandy asked though she understood he was referring to that.
“Jyoti is joining soon and that is good for you. But there is a hell lot of pending work and we need sharp writers.”
“Hire one. Released a job ad,” Sandy said casually, “You will get hundreds of applicants and we do not pay very bad either.”
“If it was affordable, why did we need to do this exit drama and now go through the same recruitment process? I mean, you knew very well Mohit was a good writer.”
“Is it that you are not convinced with my reason. You suspect the truth is something else?”
“Yes, I am sure the truth is completely different.”
“Okay, then hear me out. I have not suffered so much like I did in the past one year. Snehasish hired him but I was never comfortable. His presence made me feel low. I sank into depression. This guy getting paid here out of my pocket proves to be a better writer. The hospital client rejects mine and okays his headlines. I handled this client for three years. But now it is such a smooth process between the two of them. What message does it give to my team here? There is a better writer in this office than Sandy. I can’t take it lying down. I want my team to be less qualified than me so I can control and manipulate with ease. Those who know more, they can go elsewhere. If he is so talented, let him go to any MNC agency – what is he doing here? Look, I don’t nurture creative talent here. I set him free. Prove your worth and get the dream job,” Sandy burst forth with all the filth of jealousy.
“I sensed something of this kind, Sandy. I can feel your anger simmering within, with a smiling face covering your real self for so long. This couldn’t go on. And yes, I was going through Mohit’s previous portfolio and he is damn creative. Strong ideator!”
“Since when did we aspire to become a creative boutique agency. We are into billings, right?” Sandy brought him back on track.
“And one more thing, that fellow is a writer who pens stories. I have not written a single book and he flaunts a literary background, which was not my forte. Else, I would have chucked him out on day one. Ragini forwarded the links to his published works. I don’t want novelists here. I asked Snehasish to find a way to eject him when Jyoti decided to rejoin. I was jolted last month when he said he was assisting a big shot in the scripting of a Bollywood film. His presence pricked my self-worth. As the creative boss here, I cannot tolerate a more talented person. Simple as that. Sometimes he behaved like a literary rockstar and sometimes like an auteur. He forgot he was a copy guy first. Other fancy titles are dreams, advertising is the reality.”
“He was pleading his wife was ill and asked to be allowed for two months. This was his last request.”
“Why are you spoiling my good mood, buddy. Give me a can of beer, please,” Sandy demanded with a vexed look and raised her feet on the sofa without removing her stilettoes.
Adarsh rushed out and fetched two chilled cans from his mini fridge.
As she cooled down with the first sip, she said, “Pay him compensation for two months instead of one. Does that lessen your guilt? Where the hell is Snehasish, not yet back from Kolkata?”
“He said the deal is done but he stayed behind for a recce in Eastern India as we wish to set up a new branch there.”
“Big news for me! I think he will do a fab job and then return to give me a lovely surprise. I called him before boarding the flight and he said he was stuck,” Sandy said while taking off her baseball cap, and urging him to be left alone for a while.
Adarsh returned to his cabin and released the funds and mailed Mohit about the severance details. He wished him good luck and also put it on record, “You are a damn good writer. And Sandy cannot write like you. Cheers.”
When Mohit read this mail, he could not understand why Adarsh had a change of opinion but he felt he was also an employee worried about his job. He forgave Adarsh in an instant and realised the politics of compulsion.
*
To kickstart her literary career, Sandy self-published a poetry collection and hired a PR team. She asked her staff to praise her work, to help her become a literary heavyweight. But soon she ran out of luck – when her office was flooded with anonymous letters containing the same message: Sandy cannot write.
The letters addressed to Sandy were brought to the conference table by Ragini who opened these to read fan praise. She was shocked to get Sandy cannot write printed messages in these letters. Unfortunately, Sandy accessed these letters and felt hurt as the pile-up became heavier with each passing day. So deeply affected by the content, Sandy realised she was not an artist. The communication was like a divine confirmation. She began to hallucinate and read the same message everywhere: Sandy cannot write. She took an overdose of sleeping pills to calm her agitated mind. Sometimes she picked up the marker pen and wrote the same message herself on the mirror and began to laugh loudly. The hard outer shell was broken by a single line and her sensitive inner self was revealed to all her employees. She could not take rejection in her stride – the first big quality of pursuing any art form.
Snehasish returned to find Sandy in this pitiable condition. As a precautionary step, he kept her confined to the apartment, with Ragini allowed to visit her sometimes as a caregiver. Sandy did not handle any accounts now. S&S premises was sold and the agency decided to move to a new, quieter address in the hope of receiving no such letters.
One day, Mona called up Mohit and asked him to meet her at the same café in the evening. When they met at the scheduled hour, Mona told him of Sandy’s deteriorating mental health, referring to it as a karmic blow. She mentioned letters carrying Sandy cannot write messages bombarded their office and now they had relocated. He sympathised with her but he was not sure whether he should reveal the name of the prime suspect. Only he knew who was hammering Sandy through those letters.
“I know you guys suspect I am behind this foul play. That is why you came here to find out. Trust me, I am not involved. I have far better things to do than stalk an old lady. Though I think I know who is doing this to Sandy, I do not know why he is up to it. Certainly not for me. The rest is for Snehasish to dig up if he cares for his ailing wife.”
Mohit stood up and prepared to leave the spot. He fished out the termination email print-out from his pocket, asking her to keep the proof and forward it to Snehasish in case it carried any worth. The striking similarity between the letters and the last sentence of the email left Mona in a state of shock. Was Adarsh the real culprit? Or Mohit hiding his revenge story with this unputdownable evidence?
.
[1] Jai-Veeru, 2009 Bollywood film about two friends
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Sharifa panicked briefly, looked around for Rhys, saw him near a row of tiny trains further inside the shop and waved at him to come to her. He didn’t see her, and the skinny boy wearing black nail polish was now waving the card right in her face. She frowned and said, “Sorry. I’ll get my husband.”
The punk whose name tag said Gee, shrugged and swept aside the scarves and tote bags Sharifa had placed on the counter and picked up the book he’d been reading.
“Rhys!” Sharifa tapped him on the arm, and he turned, smiling. “Something’s wrong with this card. Can I have yours?”
Later, bags tucked under the wrought iron table at the café they found around the corner, they sipped their coffees and tried not to grimace.
Rhys took off his windcheater and dropped it on the empty chair beside him. “Americans are coffee drinkers, right? How come this stuff tastes so horrible?”
“Maybe we don’t know where to find the best coffee in town. We should stalk those snappy office goers and see where they get theirs.”
They laughed and Rhys brought up the declined card again. She knew it bothered him even though her ANZ card was still working. She rarely used it because of the $2000 limit. But they’d used it to pay for the watery coffees and the horse carriage ride through Central Park earlier, and she knew there was enough to cover them for a week, if needed.
“Give us a look at that card.” Rhys put his hand over hers.
She sighed and placed it on the table.
“Shari. Love. This isn’t your card.”
“What do you mean? Of course it’s my card. I’ve been using it in Vegas casinos, for crying out loud.”
“Look.”
He was right. The name on the card said Sabiha Evans, not Sharifa Evans, but the signature was hers. Her writing. It didn’t make sense.
Sharifa withdrew her hand from his. “No, before you ask, I haven’t left it lying around, haven’t picked up someone else’s by mistake. You know me, Rhys. Paranoid from way back. I grew up in a country where you assume you’re going to be robbed, so I never take chances. This is seriously weird.”
“I know love.” Rhys’s hand covered hers again and he shook his head. “It’s the name that worries me. And that signature. It’s yours. How can this happen?’ And who’s this woman? Got a sister you haven’t told me about?”
“Yeah right. Also married to someone called Evans.” Sharifa tried not to sound annoyed. “This isn’t my fault.”
“Never said it was.”
They were meeting friends at a waterfront restaurant in New Rochelle, and arrived ahead of time, barely speaking to each other. An early thunderstorm prevented them from walking around the neighbourhood, and now they checked their phones, avoiding eye contact.
“Please …,” started Sharifa, wondering what she was pleading about, and Rhys looked back, nodding.
“I won’t say anything.”
“Thanks. I mean, maybe we can mention it?”
Mark and Andy were strolling towards them, hand in hand, and they both got up and hugged them, waving towards the table they’d booked.
“It is bizarre.” agreed Andy, looking at the card Sharifa had placed between them. “Spooky, almost. Have you gone to the Embassy? I mean, this could be fraud on a grand scale and you’re just at the start of your holiday. You don’t want to be aiding and abetting crime.”
“Andy.” Mark laughed. “Stop scaring them. Yes, it’s weird and we are in New York, but it doesn’t need to be quite so dramatic. Ring the bank and cancel the card. You have others?”
“Yes,” said Rhys. “Mine is fine. It’s Shari’s that’s gone whacko.”
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Andy and Mark insisted on driving them to their tiny hotel room in midtown Manhattan, where they’d spend the rest of the week. Promising to update their friends on The Great Card Saga, they fell asleep almost immediately, Sharifa dreaming of kittens walking on windowsills.
The man from the bank was not helpful. Despite Sharifa repeating her name and date of birth and typing her password on the link that was sent, the outcome was the same. There was no record of her ever having an account with them. Yes, they had Rhys, but not her. No, they couldn’t cancel a card that was never issued to her. Cutting up the card into little strips seemed to be the only option until they returned to Australia.
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A week after they got home, Sharifa stared at the envelope from the bank before ripping it open. Inside, a letter informing her that her replacement card was enclosed and that she should change the password at her nearest branch. A new card, with a blank signature strip, in the name of Sabiha Evans.
Rashida Murphy is a writer living in Perth, Western Australia. She is the author of a novel and a collection of short stories. Her novella titled Old Ghosts is forthcoming next year.
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