Category: Stories

Sleeper on the Bench

By Paul Mirabile

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 Maître d’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!”

[1] Head-Waiter.

[2] ‘Starters’.

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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Tags Asia, David Copperfield, David Lodge, Dickens, France, holland, Lawrence, Oscar Wilde, Paul Mirabile, The Rainbow

Stories

The Headstone

Story by Sharaf Shad, translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch

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

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Tags Balochi, Balochistan, Fazal Baloch, Gwadar, Pakistan Academy of Letters, Pakistani Literature, Safara Dambortagen Rahan, Sharaf Shad

Stories

The Wise Words of the Sun

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date October 14, 2025
No Comments on The Wise Words of the Sun

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

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.

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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Tags Anadalokam, Andhra Pradesh, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao, Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation, Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University, Sahitya Akademi award, Telugu

Stories

Sandy Cannot Write

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

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 Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.

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Tags Assam Tribune, Deccan Herald, Devraj Singh Kalsi, Jai-Veeru, Kolkata, The Statesman

Stories

Looking for Evans

By Rashida Murphy

“I’m sorry ma’am, the card has been declined.”

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.”

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.

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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Tags Australia, Manhattan, New York, Perth, Rashida Murphy

Stories

Exorcising Mother

By Fiona Sinclair

In the taxi from the station, Emily hugged her freedom as if it was an expensive handbag. At twenty-nine, she was returning from her first ever weekend away from home.

London had meant an orgy of sightseeing that her old friend Hannah was happy to accommodate. Like a time poor tourist, Emily had galloped through St Pauls, The Tower of London and Westminster Abbey until her friend had begged for a sit down and some food. “These buildings have been here hundreds of years,” she panted, not understanding that Emily’s default setting was playing catch up.

Now Emily trotted up the bungalow’s short driveway, a suitcase in one hand and, in the other, shopping bags ripe with new clothes. ‘No more hand me downs’ she thought with a smile.

It was an exceptionally warm spring that year, as if the weather, too, was in cahoots with her. Inserting the key into the front door, Emily knew from experience that the pokey bungalow trapped extremes of weather. So, with windows and doors shut up for four days, she knew it would be like entering a forge.

But, stepping into the hall, she was struck by an uncanny chill, as if an air conditioner had been switched to its maximum setting and left unchecked for many hours. It did not provide a welcome contrast to the unseasonable spring weather outside. Instead, she began to shiver, the hairs on her arms raised like hackles and a rash of tiny goose pimples spread across her skin.

Emily instinctively pulled on a cardigan and wrapped it around her. She waited for the chill to dial down. It did not. In fact, if anything, it intensified. Her next response was to move into the small kitchen to see if the freezer door had swung open, reasoning that in a place little more than a bedsit, the chill from the freezer might well have filled the place with cold air. But the door was secure. She then went methodically room by room, trying to find some other source for the cold. She found no answers, but the bedrooms, bathroom and sitting room, were all equally as chilled as meat lockers.

This frosty atmosphere did not frighten her. Emily was accustomed to weird and little phased her now. Standing with her hands on her hips in the sitting room she suddenly recognised the atmosphere as the brooding anger that was her late mother’s trademark. Since childhood, she had been familiar with this withdrawal of affection for some minor misdemeanour, anything from ripping her jeans in some Tom boy escapade to playing out with friends, ignoring her parent’s curfew. At these times, her mother’s beautiful features became an ice queen mask as maternal love was switched off, a punishment that stung far more than a slap or being confined to her bedroom.

Now the adult Emily, suspecting that death did not dissolve a person’s worst traits, knew that the house was overwhelmed by her mother’s disapproval of her daughter’s behaviour in the aftermath of her death. From her mum’s perspective, she had betrayed her on many counts. So, this was, Emily suspected, a sort of supernatural sulk.

Decades before, her mother’s life of delicious domesticity was ruptured by dad’s sudden death at 40. Now there were bills to settle, a living to be earned and a daughter to raise. But mum was unable to face the challenges. She was proactive only in seeking a replacement for dad, a knight on a charger who would solve her troubles. However, she soon found that she was considered more mistress material than wife. Her beauty was too showy for a rural backwater and millionaires with money to purchase shiny things were in short supply.

She had begun drinking just to take the edge off her problems, in the days following her husband’s death. Failure to find a new man sent her mother’s moral compass spinning off its course. Liaisons with a series of rogues paid the bills. Sex was anaesthetised by copious amounts of booze then. It also helped to blur the truth of herself in the dressing table mirror.

For Emily, her dad’s death was the death of her childhood. As family and friends peeled off with mother’s plunging reputation, at eleven she was promoted to confidante. By eighteen, when her own life was becoming fecund with opportunity, her mother’s needy ‘You won’t leave me too’ tethered Emily to her and the bungalow. She procured her wine in the morning and put her to bed when it finally overwhelmed her.

Emily did this because she adored her mother. She was absolutely partisan, saw her as a beautiful victim relentlessly kicked by fate. Decades passed in this dreary routine. Mother and daughter’s lives contracted to the parameters of the tiny bungalow. Even the rogues fell away, except one who visited weekly, left money discreetly on the sideboard, claiming he expected nothing in return. However, his eyes constantly alighted on Emily like a fly, suggesting he was, in fact, watching an investment develop.

Then, in her mid-fifties, the knight she had always sought rode in to save mother. Sadly, it was more black than white and arrived in the guise of a tumour. Turning her back on treatment and determined that cancer would not run riot in her body as it done with her husband, she decided that suicide would be the cleanest exit.

The finding of the lump winded Emily. She crawled like an invalid through those early days of diagnosis. All the while mother insisted there would be no discussion and life would default to their version of normal. Emily’s shock was compounded when she understood that her mother expected her to facilitate death. Sick to her stomach, she nevertheless agreed, thereby giving her mother peace of mind. But she secretly offered up desperate prayers that it would not come to it.

The origins of the suicide pact were hazy. Looking back, it was like trying to accurately recall a nightmare. Had her mum suggested it? Or had Emily been unable to contemplate life without her? Either way, mother’s relief was evident. In her addled mind, it was an elegant solution to an ugly problem.

From her contracted perspective Emily could not envisage a future for herself. She was isolated as a heroine in a Victorian novel, having had no contact with her family since she was eleven. In a sense she had grown up supernumerary to her mother who took precedence even in something as basic as clothes. Emily had not had her own new garments since childhood. As she grew into a young woman, mother would rummage in her own chest of drawers to provide underwear, jeans, and tops. Largely because all surplus money must go on alcohol.

Mother had also guessed that the one remaining rogue who kept a seemingly friendly eye on them, in fact had an agenda. Whilst Emily lacked her mother’s beauty she had the asset of youth. Some residual maternal instinct must have kicked in here. She knew that her protection was finite now. The rogue was playing a not so long game for the prize of a vulnerable young woman. In retrospect, Emily thought mother’s advocacy for the suicide pact was a blur of all these factors, with perhaps a jigger of jealousy as well for her daughter’s youth and health.

In the months before the cancer overwhelmed, Emily basked in her mother’s praise, “You are so brave.” Even at 28, she still craved the approval that was dealt out so meagrely. Of course, mother had no idea that it was all bravado, but it helped ameliorate the prospect of the pact and almost made her decision worth it.

But in truth Emily was horrified. It was as if the cancer had invaded both their bodies, decided both their fates. At times she was able to park her terror by bingeing on classic literature and junk food. Other times, at night, she lay awake, horrifying images running riot in her mind, silently screaming, “I don’t want to.” At these times, her love of life fought with love for her mother.

Mum sensed when the cancer was making its final move. Laying claim to her brain, it was gradually stealing her mobility and reducing her voice to a whisper. That day, Emily downed a bottle of wine herself to take the edge off proceedings. Unaccustomed to alcohol, she worked in a haze. The afternoon took on a ‘down the rabbit hole’ unreality. She talked her way through the preparations. This served to focus her mind and subdue fear. But there were still moments when she felt like a prison warder forcing her petrified body towards the noose.

A lack of basic physics saved her. The flex caused the water in the bath to merely ripple like a mini tide. There was an element of dark humour about the botched attempt, but neither laughed. Emily took the failure as an intervention by fate. As she clambered from the bath the truth tumbled from her mouth. “No, I don’t want to.”

In contrast, her mother sobbed at the abortion. Having lost all agency to cancer, she could not now determine her own death. Her daughter, with strength gained from years of practice, now supported mum back to bed.

And then her mum performed the only selfless act of the past twenty years. She instructed Emily to phone her estranged grandmother. As is often the case, the two hit it off. Whilst Emily had never resembled her mother, she now saw her genes were gifted from this woman. They shared the same brown hair and eyes. Their temperament was similar, too. The granddaughter inheriting her indomitable spirit.

Of course, Emily knew there would be a reckoning in the future. At some stage she would have to make peace with the guilt she had stashed away in a corner of her mind; the broken promise of living on after her mother, the disloyalty of accepting her grandmother’s protection, the process of carving out a future for herself. But, at the moment, Emily was distracted by the sheer novelty of living.

And now, suddenly, she began to throw open all the windows and doors. The heat waiting outside burst into the bungalow, seeing off the cold from every corner, melting the ice of her mother’s anger until, standing bathed in sunlight, Emily smiled, knowing that, for now, her mum was routed.

Fiona Sinclair lives in a village in the UK. She is a poet with several collections published by small presses. Fiona has just begun writing short stories especially about subjects that cannot be covered by poetry.

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Tags Fiona Sinclair, London, St Pauls, The Tower of London, U K, Westminister Abbey

Stories

The Fog of Forgotten Gardens

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date September 15, 2025
No Comments on The Fog of Forgotten Gardens

By Erin Jamieson

It’s always the same: rose petals, plucked from our apartment’s community garden.

Gray, misty day. The kind of day that Mom will spend asleep in her bed, curled up like a cat who doesn’t care about anyone or anything else.

Not quite raining. Just threatening rain. That heavy feeling in the sky, that tension that I feel now as I arrange each petal.

There’s a rumble of thunder just as I lay the last petal on Dad’s grave.

But the rain won’t come.

It never does.

I toast two slices of sourdough bread and slather butter on one and peanut butter on the other. I’ve tracked mud into our kitchen, but I don’t have time to worry about that right now. It’s already way later than it should be, and if I’m too late…

I actually don’t know what happens if I’m too late, or what too late even means. Dr. Hansen never really explained that. Probably on purpose.

What Dr. Hansen doesn’t get is that I’m the one taking care of her, not the other way around. Mom is a great actress: last appointment, she even put on makeup and ironed the pants she used to wear to work.

I fill a glass with soy milk and then take out her pills.

One purple one, one blue one. I set them beside the piece of sourdough with butter, then set the soy milk on the plate too. It makes it easier to cram everything on one plate like this. I learned the hard way, when this started. Ended up cleaning shards all over our apartment for the next half hour. And even then, I found some later — by slicing my foot open.

“Mariella?”

I nearly drop the plate I’m carrying. I can count on my hands the number of times she’s been awake this early — usually I just place her breakfast on her dresser. The same dresser they were going to sell in a garage sale before everything went to hell.

I race to Mom’s room– which, with a teeny two-bedroom apartment, it doesn’t take long. When I swing the door open, she’s sitting upright in bed. Her hair is damp, and even though there are still shampoo suds, it makes me feel something I can’t describe.

“Hey, I have breakfast for you.”

She watches me like I’m a stranger, or someone from another life. Her light brown hair is curly from the humidity– the only way we resemble each other. Her once full cheekbones (your Mom could be a model, seriously, Luis used to insist) are sunken. Even though she’s still several inches taller than I will ever be, she feels smaller than I am, her lanky arms and legs covered with not one but two bedspreads.

“It’s sourdough,” I say, and I’m annoyed that my voice shakes. This is my Mom after all. The same person who used to braid my hair before soccer games.

Who made me Jello Jigglers in heart shapes when I was sick on Valentine’s Day. (Valentine’s Day is 100 percent cursed for me, and no one can convince me otherwise. I get sick almost every single year — and now that most people I know are dating, it’s all the more sickening).

“Leave it on the dresser, Mariella.”

“I always do,” I mutter. For a Moment, I have a weird urge to throw off all those bedspreads and blankets. Shake her awake. Don’t you realize you’re supposed to be taking care of me, instead of the other way around? Don’t you even remember how to wash your own hair?

I turn to leave.

She grabs my hand. “Wait.”

I turn to face her, but I can’t look her in the eye. I’m scared of what I’ll see. No, I’m scared of what I won’t see. I’m scared I’ll see that glossy look the day he left us, like there was nothing left of her. Like whoever this was, was just inhabiting her body.

Luis would love that theory — love as in want to investigate it. He’s really into that kind of thing: the idea that we can exist in many ways at once, or live different lives. Even though he’s Catholic.

His parents absolutely love that.

But I’ve never told him. I haven’t talked to him, period, since everything happened.

“Are you going to prom?” she asks.

The question is so unexpected that I don’t speak for a moment. I stare at the dark bed board: this ugly tawny brown I’ve always hated. The apartment walls we’re not allowed to paint, so they’re this insipid beige-grey color that no one wants and no one asked for.

“Prom isn’t for a month,” I say, because it’s the easiest answer.

“Well, you need a dress.”

She studies my clothes: beige cardigan, ripped low rise jeans, both splattered with mud. In my defense, I left my rain boots in the kitchen. After tracking mud all over the tiles.

“I’m probably not going,” I say.

She sinks back in bed. “I need to call our landlord. The sink is leaking again. Could you get me his number?”

The leaking sink from the house we used to rent — before we couldn’t afford it anymore and had to downgrade.

“The sink is fine,” I say.

“Oh? I didn’t know they came.”

I bite my lip. “Hey, did you know you still have shampoo in your hair?”

She reaches to touch her hair. “I should probably take a shower,” she says. “You’re right. Well, you better get ready for school. Don’t want to be late.”

My eyes mist with tears, but I turn my back before she can see. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to be late.”

Erin Jamieson’s writing has been published in over 100 literary magazines, including two Pushcart Prize nominations. She is the author of four poetry chapbooks, including Fairytales (Bottle Cap Press) and a forthcoming poetry collection. Her debut novel (Sky of Ashes, Land of Dreams) was published by Type Eighteen Books. X/Twitter: @erin_simmer.

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Tags Erin Jamieson

Stories

The Anger of a Good Man

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

A wealthy man named Dharmayya hired a carpenter to do the woodwork for his newly constructed house. He handed over the timber required for doors and windows and asked him to begin the work.

The carpenter brought his tools and started working. By the end of the week, the doors and windows were nearly ready. He used nails extensively to join and shape the wooden pieces.

One day, when the carpenter said he ran out of nails, Dharmayya immediately went to the market and bought some more. Showing them to the carpenter, he said, “The price of iron has gone up, so nails are expensive now. Still, I didn’t compromise on quality. Strong nails ensure durability. One shouldn’t hesitate to spend for lasting quality.”

One of the nails overheard these words — a particularly arrogant one — and it swelled with pride. It already had a haughty nature, and now hearing the owner’s praise, it became even more boastful.

Using every opportunity, it began to taunt the wood: “You’re nothing without us! Your strength and durability come only because of us. If you’ve earned any reputation, it’s because of the nails like me!”

But the wood didn’t mind. It calmly replied, “No one can survive alone. If I stand strong today because of you, I’m grateful.”

The nail didn’t like this response. The other nails and tools added, “Don’t say that. In a way, it’s because of you that we have any purpose.”

The arrogant nail was not pleased to hear even the other nails side with the wood. It glared at the wood and muttered, “Just wait. The moment I get a chance to tear through you, I’ll make you cry!”

Two days later, the carpenter happened to pick up that same nail. He placed it on the wood and struck it with a hammer. But the nail refused to go in. Seeing this, the carpenter struck it harder on the head with the hammer. The nail bent sideways. Trying to straighten it, he placed it on a stone and hit it again. This time, the blow landed badly and broke the nail’s head off.

Now useless, the carpenter tossed it into a corner and continued his work with a new nail.

The arrogant nail was shaken by the incident. It had never imagined such an end. Not knowing what to do, it sat there, broken, and wept.

As dusk fell, the carpenter packed up and left, leaving behind the wood, tools, and materials.

Seeing the nail lying sadly in a corner, the saw said, “So, miss high-and-mighty, look what happened to you! You thought the wood’s strength came from you? You mocked the very material that patiently endures our harsh cuts, believing that we are helping it become stronger. You couldn’t recognize its silent strength and goodness.

“When the carpenter hurts the wood while crafting a beautiful home, the wood endures it in silence. We are only tools used temporarily. But the wood is not weak. After being used once, who thinks about nails like you again? You wanted to hurt the wood but ended up ruining yourself. By morning, you’ll be swept away and tossed in the trash. Your life now has no purpose.”

The nail was finally enlightened. “I misunderstood the wood’s kindness as weakness and spoke arrogantly. It’s true — when good people get angry, they leave no trace of those who cross them.”

The truth is, the wood refused to let that nail in — not because it was weak, but to teach a lesson to that arrogant nail. Its resistance came from strength. It proved that the truly strong remain silent and fulfill their purpose without pride.

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Tags Anandalokam, Andhra Pradesh, Naramsetti Umamaheswararao, Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation, Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University, Sahitya Akademo Award, Telugu

Stories

The Storm

By Anandita Dey

The storm outside the room and one inside me were not different. Both were creating havoc. The one outside was wrecking, breaking trees and thatched huts. The other was breaking me into pieces, and I knew, I would never be able to return to my original state.

I lay on an unknown bed, with an unknown person. His left hand held my waist tightly. I could feel his heavy breath on my neck. I could barely move. I wanted to get up and run away from this, into the storm outside, to silence the storm inside me. I looked at the wall clock on the wall in front of me. It was half past five in the morning. I freed myself from the strong grasp of his hand and got up from the bed. I felt dizzy from lack of sleep. I opened the windows, and the heavy rain drenched me in a few minutes. The strong breeze made me shiver.

It’s been a few months now since I’ve been with him. He seems to be a nice person. Sometimes when I pretend to be asleep in the morning, he prepares breakfast for me and leaves it on the bedside table. Sometimes when I don’t prepare dinner, he orders food from outside. He never complains of anything. One day I had high fever. He skipped his work and stayed all day with me, feeding me with food and medicines.

We first met a year ago. My parents arranged a meeting with his family, and they came to our house. He’s the only child of his parents. His father’s a retired police officer and his mother a high school teacher. He’s an entrepreneur. We met a few times after that, all of which were vague meetings. I don’t remember where we met, what were the things we discussed. And after a few months, I was sent to his home. He doesn’t stay with his parents. We live in a small apartment, few kilometers away from my parents’ home. I am now officially his wife and he, my husband. He’s the kind of man every girl desires. He’s good looking, intelligent, caring and everything. But I already had my perfect man in my life.

My perfect man may not be very intelligent, but he knows how to make me smile. He is the most handsome man I have ever seen in my life. He is so charming that anyone would fall for him, but he chose me. He loves me as if I’m the most precious thing he has. And when he touches me, caresses me, kisses me and holds me in his arms, I feel like I’m the most precious thing in this world. He says I’m his muse. He writes poems about me. Some nights, when we lie down together, he recites those poems to me in his enchanting voice.

My train of thoughts stopped when my husband tapped me on my back. He closed the windows and asked me to get ready. He said we were going somewhere. I obediently got ready and prepared breakfast for us. We had our breakfast in silence and left for the ‘somewhere’. As we reach there, the place seemed to be familiar to me. I had been here before, but I could hardly recall. Few moments later we met a lady. She called herself Dr. Sunitha Swamy. She was beautiful with an appealing personality. She asked me a few questions about myself and my hallucinations. I didn’t know what she was talking about. And then she spoke to my husband. She said I had created an imaginary person in my mind who I thought was real and that’s why I was not able to accept my marriage or my husband. She said few medications and therapies could help me get rid of this.

Three months passed since we first visited the hospital. Dr. Sunitha said I was fine after taking medications and therapies. My husband’s no longer an unknown person to me. I never skip preparing breakfasts or dinners for him. His hands no longer feel like a tight grasp. And we make love too. But on days when no one is around, I go back to my man — the man whom I have loved ever since and whose embrace still makes me feel that I’m the most precious thing in the world.

Anandita Dey is a research scholar from Guwahati who enjoys experimenting with words as much as science. A lifelong book lover, she expresses her thoughts through poetry and fiction. Her writings have appeared in newspapers and online platforms, and she dreams of publishing her book someday.

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Tags Anandita Dey, Guwahati

Stories

The Sixth Man

By C. J. Anderson-Wu

Lin Yuan-Kai strode past the basketball courts, flanked by two prison officers, when a basketball suddenly flew toward him, striking his left hip. Though unhurt, the impact startled him. Laughter erupted from the players on the court—it was no accident.

Without hesitation, he picked up the ball and gestured his intent to join them. The officers didn’t interfere. The inmates, momentarily caught off guard, watched as he lined up a shot. He missed, but his confidence and performance impressed them.

For the next seven minutes, they played. Two inmates stepped forward as his teammates for a mano a mano match. Together, they seized victory, defeating their opponents 12 to 8. When the game ended, the officers resumed their duty, escorting Lin Yuan-Kai away, as if nothing had happened.

The sun hung mercilessly overhead, its heat absorbed and magnified by the endless concrete walls stretching in every direction. The prison yard of cracked pavement and sun-bleached barriers offered little relief. The air shimmered above the surface, thick with dust and the scent of stone baking in the heat. A few trees, sparse and struggling, clung to life along the far edge of the yard, their thin, brittle leaves barely moving in the stagnant air. The little tree shades were claimed by the few inmates lucky enough to lean against their trunks, eyes squinted against the glare.

Most others had no such luxury. They paced in the open, sweat slicking their skin. Conversations were short and clipped, words drowned out by the hum of cicadas whining from somewhere beyond the towering perimeter walls. The walls themselves, reinforced with layers of thick concrete, absorbed the heat like a furnace, turning corridors into suffocating tunnels of stifling air.

Two years ago, Lin Yuan-Kai was commissioned by the Archives Bureau to conduct the analysis of political archives and the gaps left behind after multiple rounds of legal document collection. The task was immense, and many researchers had approached it by pinpointing missing records and overlooked events. However, that method lacked structure and rarely led to meaningful conclusions.

Given the limited timeframe, Lin Yuan-Kai devised an approach that combined institutional records, yearbooks, and interdepartmental meeting minutes to identify relevant agencies involved in political documentation. Not every agency maintained comprehensive records, and many yearbooks only covered relatively recent years, which complicated the search. Another method involved a quantitative breakdown of archival cases and items.

With these comparisons and insights gained from studying archives and conducting interviews, Lin Yuan-Kai suspected that there were unfound prison archives that might have been hidden, abandoned, or destroyed. Traditionally, archives had been collected by searching institutional catalogs through keyword and classification code queries. But that process had two major flaws—some documents were not indexed due to oversight, and institutional catalogs were often incomplete or poorly organised. The true scope of political archives lay not only in recorded files but also in the unindexed stacks of storage, filled with materials that had never been officially recognized as archives.

Determining which institutional catalogs to consult was another challenge. For instance, searching for prison records during martial law meant looking beyond the former Garrison Command and into its subordinate and sub-subordinate agencies that had been dismissed after the abolishment of martial law. Despite the obstacles, direct access to storage rooms was the most effective solution. That required perfect timing, coordination, and support from the right people. Fortunately, the Archives Bureau’s careful planning made it possible, allowing as much as possible access to the storage rooms where records had long been buried. Several times, young staff members had initially claimed that certain archives did not exist, only to uncover them once inside.

It was a rare opportunity, shaped by luck and determination, and it offered a glimpse into the missing history hidden in forgotten shelves.

Nevertheless, bureaucracy was a major obstacle of Lin Yuan-Kai’s mission. Authorities were never eager to be scrutinized, in the past as well as at the present. As he arrived at the former Alapawan prison, now a correctional institute, Lin Yuan-Kai felt the old walls, though renovated, still carried the weight of their history. Inside the building, the scent of disinfectant and old settings filled the air as he approached the front desk. A stern clerk barely glanced up from his files when Lin Yuan-Kai introduced himself and explained his purpose, citing his authorization letter from the Archives Bureau. The clerk took his paper, skimmed it for a brief moment, then sighed.

“The records you’re looking for don’t exist.”

Lin Yuan-Kai had anticipated resistance. Bureaucracy had a way of stalling progress, and Alapawan’s past was no exception. He tried to reason with the clerk. “These events happened only fifty years ago. Surely there are still some transcripts or reports? Can I enter your archive room and look for myself?”

Half a century ago, political prisoners in Alapawan attempted to seize weapons and ammunition from the prison guards, hoping to break free and ignite a large-scale revolt across the island—ultimately aiming to establish the Republic of Taiwan. But they failed.

Following the prison break, a Joint Command was formed, consisting of the Garrison Command, an army corps, and the police force, tasked with tracking down the fugitives. Within days, five chief conspirators were captured, and within months, these rebels previously imprisoned for separatism, disrupting social harmony, or sympathizing with communists were sentenced to death. This time, the charges were far graver: instigation of social disorder, treason, and espionage.

This chapter of the insurgence had been thoroughly investigated and studied. Lin Yuan-Kai had pored over nearly all available historical materials, including the official reports on its suppression and subsequent rehabilitation. To him, their plan had always seemed doomed from the start—too few participants, none of whom had ever been trained in combat, armed or unarmed.

Even if many sympathized with their idealism, organizing them into a unified force, let alone securing enough supplies to sustain an uprising, was nearly impossible.

What pressed on Lin Yuan-Kai’s mind, however, was not how they had failed—but what followed. How many more were purged in the aftermath?

Determined, he waited for the clerk’s response.

The man’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’ll need an official request submitted through proper channels. A paper from the Archives Bureau can’t order us to upheaval our archive.”

Upheaval, Lin Yuan-Kai thought, that’s how they saw a search of the archive, it means the documentation must be in very bad condition. “Is there anyone I can speak to in person? Former officers, anyone who might have firsthand knowledge?”

The clerk shrugged.

“What about inmate logs? Medical reports?”

The man hesitated. “Accessing them requires approval from the warden’s office. But the documents don’t include materials from fifty years ago.”

Lin Yuan-Kai saw his chance. “Let me speak to the warden, please.”

After several more rounds of procedural explanations and lingering doubt from the clerk, Lin Yuan-Kai was finally escorted to the warden’s office. Warden Liu, an aging man with years of institutional experience behind him, sat at a desk cluttered with paperwork. His eyes held neither warmth nor hostility, just the weariness of a man accustomed to endless trivial administrative tasks.

“I understand you’re seeking records on the insurgents,” Liu said, leaning back in his chair. “Officially, we have no ties to the former Alapawan prison, and our institute does not comment on past political events.”

Lin Yuan-Kai sat forward. “I’m not here to stir controversy, only to understand what happened. The prisoners’ perspective, the conditions, their treatment during the conflict, those details are crucial to preserving history.”

What he withheld was the conversation with a relative of one of the cellmates. She had approached him upon learning about the Alapawan prison project.

“Dr. Lin, my granduncle disappeared after the prison insurgence, after the sentencing and execution of the five chief conspirators. We never found out why or what happened. There is no governmental paper detailing his release, or his death.”

The young woman, Hsiao Yi-Chun, retrieved a worn photograph: a man in a white shirt, his hair neatly trimmed in a business cut. “This is the only photo we have of our granduncle.”

Lin Yuan-Kai, who had spent years studying the White Terror, had seen countless images of its victims. Each one struck him deeply. In the faded photograph, the man’s dark eyes stared back at him—he was likely around his own age.

What would happen to his own family if he were to vanish?

Carefully, Lin Yuan-Kai wrote down the man’s name, his charge, the year he was sent to Alapawan prison, and snapped a picture of the worn portrait with his smartphone.

After their meeting, Lin Yuan-Kai tried to edit the portrait with his phone—unblurring it, brightening it a little, strengthening the contrast 20%, and testing almost all special effects. But, at last, he saved the original without keeping any edited image. Hsiao Yi-Chun said they were told that her granduncle was the “sixth man”, but no one knew what it meant.

Standing in the warden’s office, Lin Yuan-Kai wondered if there was any clue that could lead him to the “sixth man”. The air was thick with the scent of stale paper and old ink, the kind that lingered on documents left untouched for years.

A single overhead lamp flickered, casting erratic shadows over the cluttered desk, its surface scarred by decades of use. Forgotten files lay in disarray, stacked haphazardly, their edges curling from time and neglect. The blinds were drawn, shutting out daylight, trapping the room in a suffocating stillness.

Officer Liu studied Lin Yuan-Kai for a long moment. Then, instead of responding, he rose from his chair and crossed the room to an old, rusted cabinet. With a quiet click, he unlocked a drawer and pulled out a worn box of folders.

“These are the only personnel notes from that time, kept by a former officer,” Liu said. “Unofficial and very incomplete, but if you want insight, this might be your best chance.”

Lin Yuan-Kai wiped the dust from his sleeves as he leaned over the crate, its brittle edges crumbling under his fingers. The box, long forgotten in the corner of the archive, promised secrets. But so far, it had yielded nothing but empty envelopes, rusted paper clips, and a cracked ceramic cup with faded initials no one could recognize.

Lin Yuan-Kai stood by the desk, flipping through the box’s contents with growing frustration. Bent clips, drawing pins, a hardened eraser, outdated requisition forms, a dust-coated key, each item more useless than the last. But the warden said nothing. He sat slumped in his chair, fingers laced together, watching the archivist with weary indifference. His gaze held neither curiosity nor concern, just the detached patience of a man accustomed to fruitless searches. The dim light caught in the deep lines of his face, revealing decades of service worn into his skin.

Lin Yuan-Kai kept searching, brushing aside brittle folders until his fingers found something different—a single slip of paper, folded with deliberate care. Slowly, he unfolded it, scanning its brief message.

“Documents regarding Deng Tse-Shan must be burned before May, together with this note.”

Obviously, it was a secret order but was not obeyed. The recipient had neither destroyed the note nor, perhaps, the documents it referenced.

Lin Yuan-Kai’s pulse quickened. He scanned the note again, absorbing its implications. If the files had been moved rather than burned, then someone had deemed them worth preserving, just not in the way history had dictated. His grip tightened. He glanced at the warden, searching for any reaction. None came. Silently, Lin Yuan-Kai tucked the paper into his pocket.

Back at the AirBnB, Lin Yuan-Kai let the cold shower wash away both the sweat and the lingering excitement. He reminded himself that he might not find anything beyond the note.

Later, in the shared living room, he settled into a chair, sipping the icy beer he had stored in the fridge earlier.

A westerner with a ponytail walked in. Seeing Lin Yuan-Kai, he asked politely, “Are you Dr. Lin Yuan-Kai?”

“Yes, I am,” Lin Yuan-Kai replied, surprised. How did a foreigner know him?

The man extended his hand. “I’m Dr. Morris. They told me you’re an archive expert.”

Lin Yuan-Kai shook his hand. In this isolated place, any outsider stood out, especially one visiting the prison, the largest institution in the region.

He gestured toward the beer. “Want one?”

They moved to a high table with their beers. Dr. Morris, an American sinologist, studied the inscriptions on headstones to trace the tempo-spatial patterns of migration to Taiwan from different regions of the world.

“They told me there are many headstones that might be of interest, so I came to see for myself,” he said. “I walked around and found graves with inscriptions suggesting that people from diverse backgrounds lived here from the late nineteenth to the early twentieth century. Some came from China, some from Southeast Asia, others from Taiwan’s west coast, and some relocated from the mountains to farm.” Lin Yuan-Kai was amazed that one could re-establish such a history through headstones.

Dr. Morris continued, “I copied down some of the names carved into the stones, at least the ones still legible. Some graves bear only a name, with no other details. Tomorrow, I am going to check out the old village office, hoping some documents have survived. The neighbourhood chief, Mr. Huang, agreed to take me.”

“What is in the village office?”

“They said the office kept tons of unattended documents, and I might find some matching the names on the headstones.”

“Can I go with you?” Lin Yuan-Kai asked, as an archive expert, the prospect of an unknown collection set his pulse racing.

“Of course, that’s what I intend to do.”

Around 7 o’clock next morning, they met in front of the dilapidated village office, and Mr. Huang brought a key to carefully open the door. Lin Yuan-Kai thought it was just a gesture, for the door was so unhinged, anyone could just kick it open.

The archive room was in the deepest side of the building, lying in stillness, untouched and forgotten. As the pale morning rays filtered through its dust-streaked high windows, shadows stretched long across the floor, tracing the outlines of scattered folders and crumbling stacks of paper that had surrendered to time.

Metal filing cabinets, their surfaces pockmarked with rust, stood in rows like sentinels guarding history’s remnants. Some drawers hung open, revealing brittle documents curled at the edges, their ink faded. The air smelled of damp paper and aged furniture, memories soaked into the very walls, lingering long after the last searcher had departed.

A single overhead light flickered weakly, its bulb on the verge of surrender. In the corner, a toppled chair lay beside a desk strewn with yellowed index cards, each inscribed in careful, long-forgotten handwriting. The room exuded a quiet decay—a blend of dust, brittle paper, and the faint musk of fraying linen threads that once bound volumes now crumbling with age. The air carried a musty dampness, heavy from years without ventilation, tinged with the metallic trace of ink that had long since bled into the paper’s grain.

They stood uncertainly, unsure where to begin. Then, a sharp shriek from a bird outside the window cut through the silence, startling them. A single leaf fluttered in through the broken screen and landed atop a half-open drawer. Lin Yuan-Kai took it as a sign, so he would start there.

Dr. Morris unfolded the papers where he had recorded names over the past few days, studying them as he tried to decipher the document arrangement. The records were categorized roughly by the number of strokes in the characters of family names: Wong, with four strokes, was placed first; Wu, with seven, followed after; and Lin, with eight, came next in the sequence.

While Dr. Morris remained buried in the worn-out documents, Lin Yuan-Kai turned his attention to the files of surnames with the most strokes. He examined those for Yen but found little of note, only a handful of records for the name. The files of Tsai were similar.

The documentation was inconsistent; some individuals had more detailed records, including birthplaces, occupations, marriages, and even death dates, while others had nothing beyond a name. Women, in particular, were often documented solely in relation to their husbands—identified, for instance, as Madam Tsai when married, and again only when widowed.

Lin Yuan-Kai thought of Hsiao Yi-Chun’s granduncle as he sifted through the files under the Hsiao surname. Unsurprisingly, he found nothing; the man had disappeared in 1970, while these records dated back only to the late 19th century through the mid-20th century.

Still, experience had taught him that archives always held something—hidden traces, faint echoes of the past, as if the ghosts of those denied closure lingered, guiding his search.

Political prisoners of that era were often in their twenties or thirties. If some had been locals born in the 1930s or 1940s, their names might still be buried in these files.

He retrieved the note he had secretly pocketed the day before—Deng Tse-Shan, the man the authorities had tried to erase.

At first, the documents of the Deng families revealed nothing. But as Lin Yuan-Kai scanned names that might be connected, Dr. Morris unfolded his own notes and pointed to an entry—a name containing Deng and Shan, though the middle character was unrecognisable

“Could they be the same person?”

“Very likely,” Lin Yuan-Kai said, leaning in. “Where did you find this name?”

“In the mass grave. He might be the ‘sixth man.’”

Sixth man. It was the second time Lin Yuan-Kai had heard that phrase.

Dr. Morris explained that, according to Prof. Jiang Ming-Shun, after the five chief conspirators for Taiwan’s independence were arrested and sentenced to death, the national leader Chiang Kai-Shek remained convinced that a sixth man had played a role in the prison break and ordered that he be found at all costs.

No one knew how Chiang had obtained this information, given that he lived and governed from Taipei, far from the prison in Taitung. But his word carried unquestioned authority. His judgment was treated as truth, and his directive was followed without hesitation.

The result was a wave of arrests and executions carried out with little to no evidence, culminating in the mass grave near the prison.

“So, there were more than one ‘sixth man’?”

“Based on what we counted in the mass grave, there were likely eight to twelve. Some mounds might not be graves at all, and others may have disappeared over time, lost to floods or landslides.”

Lin Yuan-Kai took over Dr. Morris’s notes, searching for Hsiao Yi-Chun’s granduncle. One name shared a matching character, but it wasn’t enough to confirm whether it was the same man, or if Hsiao Yi-Chun’s granduncle was among the “sixth man.”

A clearer picture has begun to emerge beyond the well-studied prison insurgence. In addition to the five chief conspirators, eight to twelve other men were accused of being accomplices and executed on the spot—without trial, without due process. The scale of this slaughter exceeded even that of the major trials. Each of these men—who may or may not have been involved in the uprising, who may or may not have supported Taiwanese independence, who may or may not have identified as Chinese or Taiwanese—was killed as the “sixth man”.

To their families, they simply vanished. To history, they became little more than unmarked remains, whose existence were left to be debated as part of Taiwan’s sovereignty decades later.

C. J. ANDERSON-WU (吳介禎) is a Taiwanese writer who has published fiction collections about Taiwan’s military dictatorship (1949–1987), known as White Terror: Impossible to Swallow (2017) and The Surveillance (2021). Her third book Endangered Youth—Taiwan, Hong Kong, Ukraine has been launched in April 2025. Her works have been shortlisted for a number of international literary awards, including the International Human Rights Art Festival and the 2024 Flying Island Poetry Manuscript Competition. She also won the Strands Lit International Flash Fiction Competition, the Invisible City Blurred Genre Literature Competition, and the Wordweavers Literature Contest.

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Tags C.J. Anderson-Wu, Chiang Kai-Shek, China, Chinese, Hong Kong, Southeast Asia, Taipei, Taitung, Taiwan, Taiwanese, The White Terror, Ukraine