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Slices from Life Stories

Adoption

By Jeanie Kortum

He begins speaking the moment he enters the room.  “I had to crawl under the bed and call 911 when my daddy was hitting my mommy,” Jeremy announces.  Skin as brown as California hills in summer, a quick bright smile despite what he has just announced.

He examines us.  “I’ve been waiting for a mommy and a daddy for a long time,” he confides.  “I told my social worker I wanted parents who would love me, I wanted to be read to at night and I wanted a teddy bear and the nightlight.” Jeremy lays out a row of miniature toy cups.  “Would you like a cup of coffee?” he asks.  We nod and he pretends to pour coffee. 

We walked out of that office that first day unable to talk, arrowheads of love sent straight into our hearts. 

Adopting a child from social services is a debilitating process.  Months and months of looking at pictures of children in a small office.  At first I yearned for each and every face, but by page fifty or so, sitting in that stifling room, I became hard.  I was a consumer of the very worst kind, a consumer of kids. 

Then one day we turned the page and there he was.  “That’s the one!” my husband and I said almost at the same time. 

This was our second marriage.  Mike had three kids and I had one.  Our children were grown and we had room in our lives and hearts to raise one more. 

In the weeks to come, waiting for him to move in, I showed Jeremy’s picture—big smile, wearing a little dinosaur T-shirt—to everyone I met until the paper became crumpled and creased at the edges.  I practiced saying the word “son” over and over again; the word filled my mouth with sweet music.  As though absorbing his story would make him more mine, I read the reports from social services over and over again.  Addiction, domestic abuse, now seven years old, he had lived in six different homes in the past ten years.  The trio of his brother and sister and him twice given back from permanent homes until a bold judge decided to separate the kids and place them in individual homes for adoption. 

I made a room for him with a brave cowboy motif.  A lampshade with bucking broncos, a rodeo quilt, a clothes hanger that said the word cowboy and yes, a nightlight. 

He called me mommy immediately.  At first it was so easy, my days filled with joy, the love I felt bright, uncomplicated and complete.  We watched insects crawl across grass blades, played in the pool, walked the dogs, told stories to each other about the shapes of clouds, moments so perfect I did not want to be doing anything else.  His face bloomed a full bouquet of smiles.  I told long romantic tales that softened up the edges of his story.  “Look at your feet,” I told him.  “Maybe they came from your grandfather, a farmer walking through hot brown soil.”

Our bodies opened towards each other.  He came easily into my lap.  We did three-people hugs.  “It’s dark in here,” he would say in a muffled voice and we laughed happily, knowing what he was really saying was that it was safe in our arms.  Every day he unfurled a little bit more. 

“I am your son from another mommy,” he said to me one day, and I found myself blinking back tears.  He reached for my hand with that easy and nonchalant assumption of safety and protection every child should have.  “You chose the right guy.”

One afternoon Mike and I had gone for a walk on the short walk with the dogs when far off in the distance we heard him calling.  “Mommy, mommy,” a lost boy sound on the wind.  As fast as I could I ran back to him, wrapped my arms around him.  “I’ll never leave you,” I whispered.  “I am your forever mommy.”

But it wasn’t always easy.  When you adopt a child you do not have the long ropes of familiarity to climb back into time, to comfort and explain.  You will not recognize the face of your husband in an expression that crosses your child’s face, will not see your grandfather in his hands.  And if that child has been hurt, you don’t start at zero, you often start at minus one, undoing rather than doing.  It is the elemental clay of human nature – sometimes what you find will frighten you, sometimes it will inspire.

We learned quickly that trouble wrestled deep in the biological bedrock of this little boy’s soul.  There was a black hole at the center of him and every morning we woke to the very real assignment of trying to fill that hole. 

He had fits and we never knew when one would detonate.  We could hear his thoughts through his physicality, would know just by the sound of his steps on the stairs or the lilt of his voice whether it was going to be a good or bad day.  He would kick the walls, sometimes tear at his skin with his fingers.  When we went hiking he would suddenly stop on the trail in front of me and when I would bump into him he would fall apart.  He had arrived finally to his forever home and yet he tried to break it. 

We hung tough, however, and I was happy.  It was like creating a sculpture from raw elements, polishing up the good in this little boy, hoping that a heart fully loaded could reach back and heal his previous wounds.

It was at the end of middle school that Jeremy began to complain more, blame more, see the dark side of everything.  The only brown boy in the all-white classroom, he had never done well socially.  No one came to play in the swimming pool, a few listless birthdays now and then but no best friend. 

I tried to dismiss it.  Who could blame him? How could I presume to know what it was like to walk down the street as a Latino male? All around him were smug youngsters plumped with entitlement, multiple gadgets in their bedrooms, soccer camps, private tutors, $40 haircuts.  No one had lived his life so delineated into a sharp before and after, no one had lived those years of fierce wanting, dragged his particular bag of sorrow behind them. 

But as the months went by, Jeremy began to close himself off from us.  Loneliness laminated his surfaces, made him unreachable.  Though we tried hard to excavate his sorrow and talk it through, he refused.  A corrosive teasing entered our dynamic, a hard taunting jeer in his voice that held pieces of flint, igniting sparks of incendiary opinions and behaviors calculated to alarm.

He was one of the best things that had ever come into my life, and yet I was losing him. 

The one constant in all these years was Jeremy’s affinity for religion.  Though different from my beliefs—more connected to the large madrone tree near our house then to any kind of building—I’ve always encouraged his love of God: I thought it gave him another kind of home, a spiritual breathe he could lean against and calm his anger.  My husband, an emigrant from Ireland, had returned to the Catholic church after many years away, attending a small agrarian church with a maverick priest where he was allowed to ask questions. 

We found a small high school that was a bit religious, but with a sweet culture where spiritual safety mattered more than the colour of one’s skin.  It seemed perfect.  We did due diligence, everyone said it was a good school and apolitical.

From the very first week Jeremy loved it.  Its tidiness seemed to comfort him, some origin of biological sin to be monitored with the rules and severity of Christian cause-and-effect thinking.  And at first we didn’t mind too much.  If we could get him through these difficult teenage years, the rest of the sloppy, restless world would wait for him.  He was nicer around the house.  We began to have mighty conversations about existence and religion, and at first the conversations were fair and thoughtful. 

It was slight at first, a few comments he repeated from school, a teacher who publicly supported Trump in the classroom.  When I called the school to complain about the spillage of politics mixed with religion, they were noncommittal. 

Slowly but purposefully, the school turned our son against us. 

Feeding his need for identity, Jeremy began to wear a huge cross around his neck.  He filled notebooks with drawings of Jesus hanging from the cross dripping blood.  He branded himself with a huge tattoo drawn in felt pen down one arm, enormous box letters that proclaimed John 41. 

I did not expect a son with a Burning Man sense of anarchy, but I certainly did not expect this angry soldier of Christ.  For the first time he belonged more to his religion than to us.  When he told us we would burn in hell because we had not accepted Jesus as the son of God, I called the school.  Does it have to be so grim, I asked? Imagine a boy who had waited seven years for a forever family, only to be told that he would be alone again in eternity.

I became known as a parent they needed to pray for.

Jeremy became increasingly provocative.  He used current events to define himself.  Maybe Trump was right and we should build that wall.  Though his father had come from Nicaragua, though he had been rescued by a safety net of social-service programs, Jeremy thought we should cut money for children. 

He supported a new president who lived out his own oppositional temper tantrums in soundbites…I was grieving the fate of our country, now in the hands of those whose views on just about everything went directly against mine.  And now they had my son.   

The war on our house escalated.  We started to talk about getting him out of that school, but he refused and we thought we might do more damage by ripping him away from the one place where he was happy.  We took him to a family therapist but he refused to go back.  Though I knew intellectually he was hurting others because he was so hurt himself I did not discipline myself. 

As the months went by, the sweet boy I had known hardened in a furnace of rage.  No more three-people hugs; he retreated to a room I was too disheartened to ask him to clean, a midden of old food and dirty clothes emanating the odor of despair. 

My friends tried to normalize what we were experiencing.  “It’s just teenage rebellion,” they said.  “Let the world teach him.  It’s not personal.” But I sensed somehow it was deeper than this. 

Though I knew it wasn’t good parenting I retreated, protecting myself from attacks.  I closed off my face, smiled a little less often, learned to weaponize my silence.  Grieving the little boy who was no longer, frightened of the man he was becoming, I fell into loss and fear.  Trump’s America had entered our home, a sinister cynicism, a license to attack, even to hate.  I felt selfish, severe, angry, small, berated myself for being so out-of-control, for not having the courage to change our dynamic. 

What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I learn to love this man he was becoming? Was I only looking for the me inside of him, towards the places where we were the same?

My husband, recognizing that I was disintegrating, and worried as well about the effect the many battles were having on Jeremy, stepped in and became the primary contact.  I tried to follow Mike’s lead.  I learned how to duck and weave, not take everything on, develop a small chorus of noncommittal listening grunts.  But as we drifted into our separate silences, terrible awkward dinners where no one spoke, the not-so-neutral accord and careful politeness began to seem as cruel as the raging world war used to be. 

*

                                                                         

It is now a year later.  We decided to pull Jeremy out of the school and enrolled him in a place of wide green lawns, an organic garden, a social-justice teacher who encourages discord, and a mission statement of diversity.  In solidarity with other high schools, students walked out to protest guns.  A transgender student was elected homecoming queen. 

It is been a difficult transition for Jeremy, jarring, but he is doing well.  A’s and B’s.  He has made friends, signed up for model UN.  He has returned to sketching, and his intricate details of hands no longer hold crosses.  He still goes to church every Sunday but is more generous around other people’s beliefs.  He even allowed me to hug him in Macy’s when I took him shopping.

Can we pass Jeremy into the years beyond us intact, healthy, maybe even happy?  Will he live in the bright light of possibility and hope or will he sculpt his life from wounds, define himself from loss.  College, marriage, jobs, his own children…maybe the last few years of war were just a brief furrow in the arc of his life, all those years of challenging just his way of testing us, another form of stopping in the middle of the trail so that I would bump into him and he can fall apart. 

Last night, after dinner, I went out on our deck, watched the mountains grow soft with twilight.  Our dog padded out with a clatter of nails.  Frogs began to croak, the leaves in the old madrone rattled, stars appear in the night sky.  A light comes on in Jeremy’s bedroom.  He has a math test tomorrow and he is studying. 

“Mommy, mommy,” I still hear on the wind. 

I take a deep breath.  “He’ll be all right,” I think to myself for the first time in years.

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Jeanie Kortum is an author, journalist, and humanitarian. She has written two novels Ghost Vision which is based on her experience in Greenland and Stones which is about Female Genital Mutilation.

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Stories

Magnum Opus

By Ahsan Rajib Ananda

The Scream by Munch.
Courtesy: Creative Commons

Rony was all by himself, waiting for an airplane to pass overhead as he twiddled the knob of his DSLR* camera. He was sitting on a stool in his balcony. The railings were about waist-high, and one could have easily toppled over. He aspired to be a photographer of extreme proportions, but he believed his magnum opus had yet to be captured. He took pride in his work because it was only photographers who could keep a moment in time infinitely suspended. They stopped not only a tide on an ocean but the very fabric of time from wilting. He just needed to capture one great moment.

None of his photographs had ever been selected for any exhibitions but he was somewhat well known in the community for he was very sociable. He did manage to get a fair number of paid jobs, but not of the artistic kind. He usually got gigs for taking landscape and architectural photography, a lot of them for calendars. Whenever he talked about getting his photos into an exhibition, the curators somehow brushed the topic off.

Even though he made a generous sum of money every month, he was quite jealous of the younger photographer from his university. This person left his studies because he could not afford it, but somehow, he became very well-known. His work was often displayed at the best exhibitions across Asia. He rose to be regarded as a young talent. Everyone seemed to be talking about him. Rony craved that kind of attention, but he was not a peacock, flaunting his talents from a distance, and concealing them in front of others, to establish a fake sense of humility. Zaid was like that, pretended to be humble, but he was one of the most arrogant men. He flaunted and lured people to himself, and then masqueraded as if they flocked of their own accord. 

Rony recalled an event that he would never forget. He was taking photographs near a train station that night. He noticed a man in a black shirt inconspicuously dragging a dog down the rail tracks. Upon closer inspection, he noticed the dog was battered, and almost dying. He stealthily moved towards the injured dog. The man in the black shirt quickly turned on hearing his footsteps and indicated that he needed help. Rony could not see the man’s face clearly as it was too dark and the man wore a hat with a wide brim, but he drew close to pick up the dog. As soon as he touched it, he heard some clicks. The man had taken some photos of Rony reaching out to the dog. Rony also noticed there was a machete on the ground beside him. The man laughed out loud and said in a strange, muffled voice, “Haha, the dog butcher of Kamalapur!” as he stared at the photo in the camera’s viewfinder.

Rony got up and tried to attack the man with bare fists, but he stopped in his tracks when he heard a train approach. He did not even get the time to get the dog off the tracks. The two men saved their own lives, as the blood of the dog splattered all over them. Rony heard a few more clicks as he stared dumbfounded at the train that passed by. He felt enraged and helpless. It was late but he noticed a few people, staring at them. The man beside him had disappeared too. He later discovered the man’s identity when “The Dog Butcher of Kamalapur” was exhibited. The photo showed Rony’s back, so his own identity remained a secret.

But with time, Rony did become better known. He met Zaid more often, mainly at big exhibitions across town. Their encounter from that night etched Zaid’s smug and proud face into his memory, and he had always hated the sight of him every time they met. For Zaid, on the other hand, Rony was almost non-existent. Zaid did not reveal the identity of the so-called butcher, and neither did Rony, for obvious reasons. Rony did not know what to do about Zaid, he simply silently abhorred that man.

He still did not know why Zaid’s was so cruel to the dog. Obviously, he had not wanted to save him. Perhaps, he wanted to take a photo, but Rony’s presence had interfered. As usual he turned it to his advantage. Rony often wanted to ask him, but he hated him, and he was scared that he would harm him more, not actively, but perhaps do something that would cause Rony to harm himself. Rony looked down on himself partly for the unreasonable fear he experienced.  

Rony detested Zaid’s shrewd characteristics, and his drive to rise to the top. Zaid was not a talented photographer, and he lacked the pristine technic that Rony possessed, yet he could speak with his photography.

Rony could not give up, he decided.  He needed to shoot the greatest photo he had ever taken. He had decided to rise above notions of morality like Zaid because if it meant he could win against Zaid, it would be worth it. However, Rony could not bring himself to shame or hurt to another person or even an animal. If guilt and shame were to come at a certain time in his life, it should not be of an act harming others. An artist must make sacrifices to achieve greatness, and he knew what he could do. He needed to get over his fear as only the ones with the courage to make sacrifices achieve greatness.

So, Rony turned on the timer of his camera and turned the lens towards his face, holding the camera as far as he could with his two hands. He presses the shutter button. 

When the timer started ticking, 10, 9, 8…, Rony jumped off the balcony. He would have captured a moment perhaps no artist could ever have done. That would be his magnum opus — an expression that could only be captured within a brief frame of time. His fame would be posthumous; a man like Zaid would never be able to top this. This would be the greatest photo of the year.

Falling was not easy and uniform, and Rony realised his mistake as his camera fell from his grasp. It was exactly that moment that he experienced extreme fear for the first time in his life. Even more fearful than death was the sight he had under his eyes, a man with a camera taking continuous shots of his fall. 

Zaid had again won that year, he has captured an expression no photographer ever achieved before; he calls it, “A Portrait of Terror”. He said the photo embodies the terror of facing death, and he hoped it would make people to think twice before committing suicide. Zaid planned a series of anti-suicide campaigns, which were later acknowledged internationally as a humanitarian. 

The photograph is still known as Zaid’s magnum opus. Even though Rony failed to create a masterpiece himself, he had become one.

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*D-SLR: Single-lens reflex (adjective): Denoting or relating to a reflex camera in which the lens that forms the image on the film also provides the image in the viewfinder

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Ahsan Rajib Ananda is a music teacher and composer from Dhaka, who writes poetry and fiction as a hobby. He completed his Masters from University of Liberal Arts, Bangladesh with a focus on Creative Writing.

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Stories

Flash Fiction: Ice Storm

By Niles Reddick

Local weatherman Aiden Hargett certainly wasn’t the best weatherman we’d seen through the years, but he looked professional, except he wore the same blue suit with shortened pant legs (we’d seen him in the grocery store). He also seemed to have a nervous energy that may have been an attempt to mask his lack of knowledge of meteorology. On television, he darted from one screen to another, which looked fancier from a living room recliner, but if one visited the studio (I’d gone there on a senior’s tour), one became aware of old cameras on rollers, a movable fake wall that held big screen televisions, and cheap office furniture that was out of range of the camera. If the camera had done a close-up, viewers would have noted makeup covering teenage craters, sweat beds on the brows waiting to drop like the first signs of a rainstorm, and teeth that needed the invisible braces advertised on the commercial right after his weather report.

When Aiden said storms from the West were closing in, temperatures were dropping, or the “S” word might be a possibility, people emptied shelves of dark and light kidney beans for chili, every loaf of bread, except seeded rye, and all sizes of milk jugs in the cooler.  In fact, we had come to suspect the grocery store chain might be paying for ads in exchange for mentioning snow in the forecast; typical business quid pro quo was alive in towns as much as it was in Washington. Insurance companies also bought ads since wrecks increased in anticipation of bad weather.  We’d noticed community members defined their lives by weather: “Mama broke her hip back in 94 during that tornado” or “We were shut in so long in that ice storm back in ’06 that might have got wife pregnant even while taking birth control”. The best one we overheard was one woman tell another by the dog food: “My first wreck was on the bypass in the snow of ’86 when I closed my eyes, let Jesus take the wheel, and skidded half a mile into a ditch.” My wife had told me later once we were in the frozen section that “Jesus probably did take the wheel and kept her alive because he didn’t want her.”

When Aiden played down the National Weather Service’s predictions of an impending ice storm on his report and talked about a little sleet mixed with snow, the grocery stores were emptied of stale stock and insurance claims rose, but when the temperature dropped rapidly below freezing, and the thunder and lightening came, we could hear the ice hitting the roof, the sidewalk, and patio furniture. We read the signs of an ice storm, so we filled the tubs with water, made sure we moved firewood into the garage, and brought out extra blankets from cedar chests. Though our neighborhood was in the suburbs and had underground utilities, we could lose power if the lines outside the neighborhood came down.

The next morning, we could see our breath in our house, cooked a pot of coffee on my Coleman propane stove, and listened to limbs encased in ice break. A blanket of white covered everything, and it was Rockwell beautiful until a golf cart slipped and slid into a mailbox and a SUV in four-wheel drive jumped a curve and hit a fence. We stayed in and made do for three days until the temperature rose above freezing, the electricity came back on, and we could call our grown children and let them know we were fine. They insisted on life alert buttons and a Tracfone, but we’d survived COVID and an ice storm, were too old to get pregnant, weren’t stupid enough to get out and drive, and were in relatively good health. Of course, we knew our luck would one day run out.

We can always tell people we had the best cup of coffee in the ice storm of 2021, but when we watched the weather again on the nightly news, Aiden Hargett was gone. We heard there had been so many complaints about his having played down the ice storm that he’d been fired. A month later, we saw him selling cars when we had the Prius serviced. He was wearing the same blue suit, his pants just above his shoes, what we used to call floods back in school, and I thought that was fitting since he’d been a weatherman.

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Niles Reddick is the author of a novel, two collections, and a novella. His work has been featured in nineteen anthologies, across twenty-one countries, and in over four hundred publications including The Saturday Evening Post, PIF, BlazeVox, New Reader Magazine, Citron Review, and The Boston Literary Magazine. Website: http://nilesreddick.com/

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Stories

Flash Fiction: Peregrine

By Brindley Hallam Dennis

Margaret rather embarrassedly explained what Perry was short for, and she went on to explain what it meant, which, of course, a writer should know anyway!

I thought of calling him Odysseus, she said, but people would have called him Oddy, and that would be insulting.

Perry was black all over save for a white bib on his chest, and he had only one eye. Perry was a cat. He’d been re-homed with Margaret. Rescued, she called it. He’d been a feral cat. Nobody’s pet. He’d been living free. He’d lived in woodland, slept under a nearby shed, fed at a back-door saucer left out, until he was caught. The missing eye, luckily, had healed naturally, or at least, the socket had.

Perry had been neutered. He’d been chipped. He’d been well fed to bring him back up to health. He was a chunky cat, with a portly dignity and, despite the lack of a patch, a piratical tilt of the head. He ruled Margaret’s garden with a paw of steel. When he progressed through the flower beds or across the lawn, he was preceded by a fanfare of bird calls: Look sharp! Look sharp! Here comes the king.

She had him years but never as a chattel. Cats are never possession, but at best, guests, VIP ones at that. He deigned to stay and let her feed him. He tolerated her letting him in and letting him out, on demand, of course. Once or twice a year, usually in the spring, he’d take a trip away, simply vanish for a day or three. No warning. No explanations on his return. After a hearty breakfast he’d depart. There might be one sly backward glance before he went, but nothing more. Then, one morning he’d wander back, expecting food, cool as you like, meowing at the door, sauntering into the hall, looking to left and right to make sure everything was as it should be. Cats like to maintain their standards and expect the staff to be ready at any time of day or night to receive them.

At first, of course, Margaret worried about him going like that. She imagined the worst. She checked the local roads and verges. She called his name, both the shortened and the full versions, across the neighbouring fields. She searched the hedgerows. She lived amid farmland, down a gravelled lane, almost overgrown and with a strip of woodland across the tarmac road at the lane end. The nearest not quite village was more than a mile away.

Traffic was intermittent. It was nobody’s through-route. Farm vehicles were huge and thundered through taking up the whole width of the road, but at least you could hear them coming. Private cars came too fast, especially round the bends, and didn’t make much noise, unless they were boy-racers.

Eventually she learned to trust his luck and waited for his return, hoping for the best. I used to worry, she said, but now I know he’ll be back in a day or two.

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But then, one spring, two days turned into three and three into four, and four into five, and into many, many more. He was gone for good. She walked the fields again. She walked the roads. She even went through the strip of woodland, following its winding ribbon of path. She called his name. She left out food. Birds and mice, perhaps squirrels and badgers, even rats, came to eat it, but there was no sign of Perry.

He’d not been well for weeks. He’d been off his food. She’d taken him to the vet, crouched and bad-tempered in his travelling cage, claws out and hissing while they examined him wrapped in a towel for safety’s sake. He been prescribed a tonic, tablets that he wouldn’t swallow, even mashed into his food. Nothing had been diagnosed, and it was hard to know his age, what with that history. I’m sure, she said, he’s gone to find somewhere to die.

Two years passed.

Then one day, at the far end of the lane, she saw a black cat with a bib of white. She called out Perry’s name. It stopped. It turned. It sat down and looked at her. She took a pace towards it, and it was gone.

Next morning, from the corner of her plot, she saw for sure, the same cat stalk the hedgerow on the far side of the farmer’s field, and called again. Again, it stopped and turned, and looked. Could it recall its name?

Next morning earlier than dawn she heard him. It was Perry meowing on the back doorstep. She rose from bed, threw on some clothes, and went down. But he was already moving off, padding up the garden path. He must have heard the door. He stopped. He turned his head, then turned away and trotted on.

And then she thought that perhaps he was living as he used to live before; roaming the fields, foraging the hedgerows and the lane, hunting the woodland strip; taking mice and voles and shrews, perhaps even birds, knowing the back-door saucers for miles around. Circling like a stone on a string the place where he was saved, but nobody’s chattel, nobody’s pet, free again.     

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Brindley Hallam Dennis lives on the edge of England where he writes occasional plays, poetry, and essays. His writing has been published and performed. He blogs at www.Bhdandme.wordpress.com 

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Lockdown Stories

The Arangetram or the Debut

By Sheefa V. Mathews

Pavithra skipped into the apartment wearing a mask of blue denim. Everything about her was quick and she seemed to be float on a restless bubble of energy. 

“Amma! The dress rehearsal went very well! I can’t wait for tomorrow.”

Savitri looked at her daughter and could not help but feel a surge of maternal pride. Pavithra had worked so hard. During the lockdown she had continued working on Zoom with her teacher all for the arangetram which was to be the next evening. They had been through a trying two months of lockdown due to the pandemic, but restrictions had eased a month ago and she had resumed classes with social distancing. It was two weeks since all restrictions had been eased, and she had booked a big hall near their home. The tailor had made the beautiful peacock blue and orange costume with shimmering gold borders. All the jewelry had been bought and decorations and food had been arranged. What had seemed impossible two months ago was suddenly possible.

“How many of your friends are returning home with us for dinner?” asked Savitri smiling at her daughter preening in her golden nose ring studded with deep red stones. “Pavi you look ridiculous wearing a nath with your jeans!”

“Only five, Amma,” said Pavithra giggling happily as she removed the nath. “The others have not got permission. With school going at breakneck speed their parents are not happy to send them, but they will all come to the hall.”

“Now go shower and change. I’ve made your favourite roti for dinner.”

“Ma, you are the best!” said Pavithra as she rushed to her room to shower. 

Savitri heard her husband come into the sitting room and sit ponderously on the armchair. The next minute the television came on and the news reader was updating everyone on the latest about the nation.  Pavithra fresh from her shower dressed in light blue pajamas came and perched on the arm of the chair telling him about her day. Vishwanathan partly listened but most of his attention was on the news.

“We interrupt the news bulletin to bring a special announcement from Delhi,” said the news reader. The Prime minister came on the screen and said that as they had seen an unprecedented spike in the number of cases, lockdown has again been instituted barring only essential services.

The moment seemed frozen in time as the reporter took over and droned on reading a list of essential services.  A heartrending sob escaped Pavithra, and she rushed blindly to her room, eyes thick with tears. She lay face down on the bed and hot, angry tears flowed down her cheeks.

“It’s not fair,” she sobbed. “I’ve worked so hard! Just one more day just to do my arangetram that’s all I want. I hate this world!” Her mother and father sat beside her trying to calm her, make her feel better.

“Come and eat your dinner you will feel better,” said her Amma.

“Amma, Apu, I need to be alone. I don’t want dinner. Just leave me alone. I’m okay now,” said Pavithra. “Please I need some space. Take that with you please,” she added, pointing to the shimmering peacock blue outfit.

All her friends tried calling but they were met with mechanical recording that the device had been switched off.

In the morning Pavithra came in for breakfast looking pale and a little shamefaced. She hugged her parents and talked a bit too cheerfully and loudly, but she was not fooling anyone. The doorbell rang and the mother went out to find a large packet of fresh jasmine garlands and some roses that had been delivered as arranged by the milkman. She had forgotten to cancel the flowers for Pavithra’s hair. She quickly wrapped them up and took them to the kitchen. She would cut it up and send it to the neighbours after Pavithra went to her room. The fragrance of jasmine hung guiltily in the air around her as she bustled into the kitchen.

The crisp ghee masala dosas were her favourite and Pavithra pretended to enjoy them as she knew that it was her Amma’s way of consoling her. It took all of her courage and strength to swallow down the second. “I’ve got to catch up on some project work,” she said and slipped into her room.

Savithri’s phone rang, and it was Angela, Pavithra’s best friend and neighbor.

“How is Pavi aunty? She won’t pick up her phone!”

“Give her time Angela. She is trying to be good about it, but the poor thing is devastated. Infact the flowers for her hair came just now and I have moved the package to the balcony as the fragrance will surely make her weep again”

“Okay auntie! Take care! Will try calling her again after lunch.”

When Pavithra came in for lunch she seemed better.  She brushed aside her Appu’s question with “I’m a big girl Appu. I got this!”

Her father knew that he could say no more on the subject. His heart was breaking seeing his daughter’s disappointment and pain, but he was also immensely proud that she knew how to pick her battles and accept hurdles and setbacks in her stride. He was dreading 6pm which was the auspicious time they had fixed for her arangetram. He wanted to discuss it with Savitri, but her phone had been ringing nonstop from the morning – all their relatives and well-wishers wanted to know how Pavi was.

While he was dozing in his favourite chair Savitri was busy with her phone. At 4pm, she went to her daughter’s room and knocked on the door. “It’s Amma,” she called out on hearing no response.

“Please leave me alone Amma, I’m alright — just need to be alone.”

“Open the door Pavi I want to ask you something.”

Pavithra opened the door. She looked miserable and was bravely holding back her tears. Savithri felt a rush of love for her brave child.

“Pavi put on the costume and flowers and dance for Appa and me. We will hold your arangetram at the auspicious time.”

“Amma our little apartment has no room, and I will be bumping into things. “

“With the curfew there will be no one in the quadrangle stage of our building. You can dance there and Appa and I will watch you.”

“What about the music? I don’t have all of it recorded.”

“Your teacher has agreed to send it all. She will bless you through Zoom and sing the first half herself.”

Pavi’s eyes started gleaming. Yes, it could be done even if it was just her parents watching. With a smile her mother started braiding her hair carefully attaching the piece that would make the braid reach her hips. Row upon row of jasmine flowers interspersed with a few roses were carefully attached to her hair. Then the golden ornaments were fixed at regular intervals. Her hair was ready.

“Love you Amma,” said Pavi as her mother started lining her eyes with black eye liner. After the make-up, she got into her beautiful costume and leant down to tie her ghunghoroos. The time was 5.45 pm. She bent down and touched the feet of her mother and father seeking their blessing. Vishwanathan could not hold back the tears of pride and joy as he looked at his beautiful, brave girl.

From the lift they walked to the quadrangle. Savi set up the cordless speakers and the laptop. Dot on six Pavi’s teacher came on the screen. Pavi received her guru’s blessing with her head bowed low.

Tha, they, thith, they…  her teacher called out the opening notes and Pavi started moving her feet in the dark quadrangle. Suddenly a strobe of white light hit her hand, then another lit her face, yet another followed her feet. All around the residents stood in their balconies and at their windows aiming their bright, white phone torches at the dancing girl.

Pavi danced as she had never danced before. Her mother turned up the volume of the speakers and every pose was received with cheers and claps. When she finished Pavi bowed to her teacher, then her parents and finally did a twirling bow to all the people who were her audience. Plomp something hit her cheek. It was a rose, a zinnia landed near her feet, a Cadbury chocolate hit her ear, it was raining flowers and chocolates. “Love you all,” screamed Pavi as she blew kisses in all directions and collected her gifts. She had her arangetram and it was more special than she ever thought it would be.

Appu, Amma and Pavi walked silently back home, arms laden with gifts only to find many more gifts of food left at their doorstep. It is love that makes everything special said wise little Pavi as she hugged her parents.

Courtesy: Creative Commons

Glossary

Amma – mother   

Arangetram – First debut public performance for Bharatnatyam dancers.

Roti — flatbread

Apa/Appu – father

Dosas – South Indian salty pancake with stuffing

Ghungroos – Bells

Guru — teacher

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Sheefa V. Mathews is a professor of English Literature and enjoys writing. She is currently working on her first novel. 

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

Categories
Stories

The Crystal Ball

By Saeed Ibrahim

Rohit’s interest in star signs went back to his school days. His teacher, Professor Godbole, apart from being a Maths teacher, was also an amateur astrologer. It was from him that Rohit had learnt about the alignment and movement of the planets and their effect on a person’s life and character. Later on, with the pressures of his engineering studies and his subsequent employment as a software engineer, Rohit did not have the time to pursue a serious study of the subject. However, his faith in astrological predictions had remained.

Rohit was convinced that astrology provided an effective guide to steering one through life and planning one’s future. He regularly followed the “What the Stars Foretell” column in the newspaper, and it was the first thing he looked at each week in the Sunday magazine section. Not that Rohit’s current situation in life needed any particular guidance or reassurance. No dark clouds appeared to darken his horizon. For a twenty-six-year-old, he was on a fairly good wicket and not doing too badly by most standards. His job was paying him well and living with his parents, he had few overheads. He liked his work and was popular amongst a small group of friends.

Each Sunday, he joined his buddies for a game of badminton at a sports centre near his home. The four of them would take turns to book a court in advance and after sweating it out on the court, they would get together for a round of beer followed by a game of carom in the games room. On one of these Sunday mornings, Rohit and his friends had gathered together as usual in the clubhouse after their badminton game. His friends often pulled Rohit’s leg about his penchant for astrology.

“Hey Rohit, have you checked your weekly forecast today? You can’t afford to miss this one!” teased his friend Prakash.

Rohit had to take his elderly father for a morning blood test and for the first time in months, he had not had a chance to see the weekly horoscope column in the newspaper. Prakash pulled out the Sunday paper from his backpack and, clearing his throat, he read out aloud the prediction for Rohit according to his birth sign:

“You may be required to take some tough decisions at work. Some of you may be walking on thin ice.” Prakash paused for effect and looked up at Rohit. A look of consternation appeared to cloud Rohit’s face. He leaned forward to listen more attentively to what his friend was saying. Prakash seemed to be enjoying the effect his words had had on Rohit. “Hold on folks – there’s more to come!” he announced, as he continued to read from the newspaper:

 “Avoid getting involved in any unnecessary conversations at work. There are hidden enemies who may be conspiring against you. The health of a parent may cause concern.”

Rohit hastily grabbed the newspaper from Prakash, wanting to verify for himself what Prakash had announced. His face turned pale as he read the ominous prediction.

“Is everything alright, Rohit?” Sameer asked with concern.

Rohit did not answer. He looked troubled and disturbed by what he had just read.

Prakash, guilty at having upset his friend, offered:

“Relax, Bro. Don’t take it to heart. We know how utterly unreliable these forecasts can be.”

“You shouldn’t be taking this seriously. These words are not targeted at you. If anything, they could be applicable to a thousand others,” Akbar tried to reassure Rohit.

But Rohit appeared distracted and preoccupied. He felt the need to be by himself and excused himself saying:

“Sorry guys I have to leave you. I have to check on my Dad. He has not been keeping too well.”

On reaching home, Rohit went up directly to his room, pensive and a bit shaken. He would not have given serious thought to the enigmatic warning in the week’s forecast had it not been for the fact that it seemed to strike home with accuracy. At his software firm things had not been terribly favourable of late. The economic slowdown had had its impact on the IT industry as well. Many of the smaller firms had been badly hit and there had been job cuts and retrenchments. Had the recession caught up with his company as well?

What tough decisions were in store for him at work and what was the meaning of the words “walking on thin ice?” Was his job at risk? Was he likely to be fired on account of downsizing as some of his friends in the industry had been?

The second part of the forecast was equally confusing and worrying. Who were the hidden enemies mentioned and was there a plot being hatched against him? Henceforth he would have to be on his guard all the time. And of course, as far as the health of a parent was concerned, it had hit the nail on the head. His father had been quite unwell recently and this had been a source of worry for both him and his mother.

With these disconcerting thoughts plaguing his mind, Rohit left for the office the following day. He had decided that he would try to be extra diligent in his work so as not to give rise to any complaints from his boss. Also, keeping in mind the warning from the horoscope, he would go about his activities keeping his ear to the ground, alert to any suspicious behavior around him.

Later that day, in the office corridor he saw a group of his co-workers huddled together in conversation and talking in whispers. As he passed by, he noticed that they had stopped talking. Was there some conspiracy afoot and was this the group of hidden enemies that he had been cautioned against? Maybe it was just his imagination. He dismissed the thought and went ahead towards his workstation. But the following day in the lunchroom, his doubts were confirmed when he saw the same group of colleagues sitting together at a table and looking meaningfully towards him. When they realised that he had noticed them, they quickly lowered their gaze and looked away in another direction.  Rohit was now convinced that the group was plotting against him. But what was he to do? For the moment he had no proof to support his doubts. Maybe it was best that he bide his time until he came upon some concrete evidence.

However, his peace of mind had been destroyed and his sleep that night was troubled and disturbed. Try as he would, he could not get the words of the forecast out of his mind. The following Sunday he avoided meeting his friends and remained brooding at home. With uncertainty and self-doubt plaguing him, he needed some sort of reassurance that these forebodings would not come to pass and jeopardise his career in any way.  He thought of consulting his astrologer friend, his former Math teacher, Mr. Godbole, but found, to his dismay, that his old mentor had passed away only a few months ago.

He had almost given up in despair, when on going through the classifieds, his eye was caught by the following ad:

“Worried about your future? Get your fortune told and find out what destiny holds for you. Contact psychic reader Madame Aishwarya”.

There was a phone number given beside the name and Rohit hurriedly noted it down before returning the newspaper to its usual place in the living room. His parents normally took a nap after the family’s Sunday lunch and Rohit decided to use this opportunity to make the call. He nervously dialed the number and with a beating heart he waited for the phone to be connected.

On the fifth ring, the phone was picked up and a tired, gravelly voice at the other end announced:

“Yes, who is this?”

“Good afternoon, Ma’am. Is this a good time to talk to you?” Rohit asked tentatively.

“Well, not exactly.  But go ahead. Tell me who you are and why you are calling”

This is not going to be easy, Rohit thought to himself, as he braced himself and stammered back:

“I am Rohit and …I… err… saw your ad in the paper today, and… err… I was wondering if I could have a consultation with you this evening.”

“Is this for yourself? If that is the case, you can come today at 6 pm. Call this number and ask for directions. I charge Rs. 1,000 for a fifteen-minute consultation.” A number was called out and the call was ended abruptly.

Rohit just about managed to jot down the given number. He felt a bit unsettled by the strangeness of his telephonic interaction and the mystery that seemed to surround Madame Aishwarya. Why hadn’t she explained the address herself and what was this other number he had been asked to call? He was in two minds about whether to pursue the matter and make the follow up call or just forget about the whole thing. He finally decided that having come this far, he may as well continue. He picked up the phone and dialed the given number.

“Royal Lodge, good afternoon,” a male receptionist’s voice answered.

Rohit was taken aback. He thought maybe he had dialed the wrong number. He had half expected to be put through to Madame Aishwarya’s secretary. But… Royal Lodge???  The mystery seemed to deepen.

“Royal Lodge, good afternoon,” the voice repeated.

“I was given this number by Madame Aishwarya,” blurted out Rohit. “I have an appointment with her at 6 pm this evening.”

“Yes Sir. Madame Aishwarya is a long-staying guest at our lodge. Would you like me to explain the address to you?”

The Royal Lodge, as it turned out, was a modest-looking guesthouse located in the centre of the city, close to the railway station and the main bus terminal. It was one of several reasonably priced lodgings opposite the city’s transport hub that catered mainly to budget conscious travelers, itinerant traders and salesmen and young employees entering the job market.

Rohit arrived early and was told to wait as Madame Aishwarya would only see him at the appointed time of 6 pm. Striking up a conversation with the receptionist, Rohit learnt that Madame Aishwarya was a clairvoyant who had once been sought after by princes and prime ministers alike for her amazing psychic powers and her ability to foretell the future. She had fallen upon hard times and was practically abandoned by her high-flying clientele. She now lived as a long-staying guest at the Royal Lodge. She slept for most of the day, saw clients by appointment in the evenings, and did a weekly horoscope column for a daily newspaper.

When it was time, Rohit was led up a narrow staircase and ushered to a guest room on the second floor. His discreet knock received a brief “Come in” in the same raspy voice. Rohit entered a small, darkened room lit by a single blue electric bulb that suffused the interior with an eerie half-light. One wall of the room was hung with a single, large portrait of a long-haired god man with a sandalwood garland adorning the frame. A strong aroma of incense pervaded the entire room and added to the other-worldly aura of the small, confined space. In the middle of the room was a rectangular table and hunched over it was the figure of a rather large woman in her mid-sixties, dressed in a black, ankle length kaftan and a spotted blue head scarf worn over a striking, though heavily made-up face, which could have once been described as handsome. Apart from a heavy, beaded necklace and large earrings, Madame Aishwarya wore no other jewelry.

“Take a seat, young man. You are allowed a consultation of fifteen minutes with three questions that you would like answered.”

In the centre of the table was a quartz crystal ball, of a size somewhere between a cricket ball and a football. The crystal ball was mounted on a small metallic stand and next to it was a lighted candle whose flame illuminated a number of tiny crack-like imperfections on the crystal, throwing up sparkling rainbow type images. Rohit sat transfixed, totally mesmerized by the sight in front of him. The lady now closed her eyes in concentration and after a few minutes she re-opened them, placed her hands over the orb and gazed intently into its depths.

Rohit had come with the idea that he would unburden himself of all that had been troubling his mind, but totally awed by the lady’s persona and the fascinating object that she held between her hands, he appeared to have lost his tongue. Forgetting about the three questions, Rohit, with some difficulty, managed to get across in a few words his concerns relating to his workplace and his fears about losing his job.

“Dark shadows are hovering over you at your place of work. Evil forces are at play to thwart you in your career. I hear whispers and see an open pit lying in front of you.” intoned Madame Aishwarya as if in a trance.  

Rohit gripped his chair and broke into a cold sweat.

“But fear not, young man. You will ward off your enemies if you wear a moonstone close to your skin. The moonstone is your birth stone, is it not? It will keep the evil forces away and draw only good vibrations towards you. Health-wise, don’t be afraid of sickness in your family. If a person you are close to is ill, he will soon be healthy again. Romance and marriage are in the air for you. Your parents will arrange your marriage and it will be a perfect match. I see several children.”

With these words, she rose from her seat, blew out the candle and covered the crystal ball with a square of cloth, indicating by her actions that the consultation was over.

“You may place the fees on the table here. I think you know your way out,” she informed Rohit in a tone suggesting that he was dismissed.

Rohit was speechless and stunned by the clairvoyant’s words. He put the money down on the table and stumbled out of the room confused and bewildered. He had expected some comforting words of reassurance, but the lady’s sinister words had only served to re-enforce his misgivings. His father was already well on the road to recovery and his health was no longer a matter of concern. As for marriage, it was the last thing on his mind right now.

Dejected and disillusioned, he trudged to the office the following morning. He had not got over his dark and depressing frame of mind and he found it difficult to concentrate on his work. Mid-morning, he was summoned to the manager’s office. This was what he had feared all along. It was only a matter of time before the death knell would sound, and this was it.  Today he was going to be given the dreaded pink slip.

On entering the manager’s office, he was surprised to see that he was not alone. There was his immediate supervisor, the manager, and the CEO of the company, all of them seated in a row. He would have preferred to be given the bad news by just his supervisor, instead of being humiliated in front of the entire senior management team.

“Good morning, Rohit. Do take a seat,” the CEO called out in a cheery voice. Why did he have to sound so cheerful? If only he knew how nervous it made him to have to face all three of them together.

Rohit barely managed to return his greeting and with a weak smile, he sat down in the chair in front of the manager’s large desk.

“Your supervisor and manager have been telling me…” the CEO began to speak, and Rohit swallowed hard and lowered his head, waiting for the axe to fall.

“They have been telling me how happy they have been with your work and the additional responsibilities that you have undertaken. It has also been a year since you have joined the company. It is now time for you to get a promotion and an increase in your emoluments. Congratulations, Rohit! You have been made a team leader and you will henceforth report directly to your manager.”

Rohit could hardly believe his ears. The three stood up to shake hands with him, and the manager informed him that the human resource department would give him his new terms of appointment sometime later in the day. Rohit struggled to his feet, mumbled his thanks to the trio and left the room in a daze. It took several minutes for reality to sink in and before he could breathe a sigh of relief. When finally, the impact of what he had just been told dawned on him, a cry of joy escaped his lips as he pumped his fist in triumph. With a spring to his step, he returned to his desk, barely holding back the temptation to immediately call his family and friends to announce the good news to them.  

With renewed self-confidence and a restored belief in himself, Rohit returned home that evening with the realisation that his fears and misgivings had after all been totally irrational and unfounded. So much for crystal balls and astrological predictions!

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Saeed Ibrahim is the author of “Twin Tales from Kutcch,” a family saga set in Colonial India. Saeed was educated at St. Mary’s High School and St. Xavier’s College in Mumbai, and later, at the University of the Sorbonne in Paris. His short stories and book reviews have earlier been published in the Bengaluru Review. 

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

Categories
Stories

Mr Dutta’s Dream

By Atreyo Chowdhury

Mr Dutta’s dream of travelling around the world died with him. He was seventy-seven; an old lonely soul, who until the very end, never gave up his desire to see the world. 

Like any other day, that morning too, Mr Dutta sat on the balcony with a cup of steaming tea placed within his reach as he witnessed the sky turn bronze. His fading eyes stared fixed at an apartment building across the street. He wasn’t looking at anything in particular; his mind was already engaged.

The images swam in his head.

The Egyptian Pyramids—the mighty structures that housed the tombs of the great Pharaohs stood amidst an undulated sea of golden sand under a clear blue sky. A caravan moved leisurely with the wind breathing against them, bringing with it their presence; the faint tinkle of camel bells in an infinite ocean of silence. Mr Dutta closed his eyes. He inhaled the parched air and smiled.

His mind stretched next to a summer evening in Paris, the sun dipping, the sky turning scarlet-blue. He was in a café at the edge of a narrow cobblestoned lane, where a young couple stood kissing, a musician played the accordion, a group of girls giggled past, and a man walked his dog.

“Bonjour, Monsieur, Merci, Au revoir,” Mr Dutta said aloud, taking his time, articulating each syllable in the best manner he could. This was all the French he knew.

A silly chuckle left his mouth, and he reached forward. His hands trembled as he held the teacup. He sipped the milky-brown liquid with a long slurp and closed his eyes once again. He was now in the land of the rising sun, walking barefoot along a trail flanked by delicate pink cherry blossom trees.

Mr Dutta’s dream was born on a mushy summer evening sixty-seven years ago. He was at his friend’s place, hunched over a photo-album, looking agog at the photographs from across the globe. Every single picture captured his imagination, and in his mind, he began replacing his friend’s father—a stout, balding man having a pencil moustache with a tall, handsome young man, which he had no doubt he would grow to be.

His friend’s father, Uncle Jodu was in the merchant navy. Listening to him speak about his journeys, and watching him bounce about the room like a clockwork toy fetching little souvenirs; a key chain from London, a bottle of Vodka from Russia, a purple hand-fan from Japan, set Mr Dutta’s heart pounding furiously. He felt a flutter in his guts and knew in that precise moment that he had no other option than to join the merchant navy and sail as far as the seas stretched.

Since that evening, all Mr Dutta could do was daydream. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t study or even speak. He was lost in a world of his own; travelling places, tasting exotic dishes, speaking new languages, making friends… Every day, he sat by his window, reading travelogues and maps, scribbling itineraries in a little red notebook, which, when he slept, found its place tucked safely under his pillow.

After finishing school, Mr Dutta went to college, still with his little red notebook in his pocket, and with the photos of that photo-album riveted into his memory. But he hadn’t planned against the misfortunes of life. His father’s business, which was small but sturdy until then, plummeted, and in the process, his father’s health faded too. With his father’s death, after a year of doctors and medicines, Mr Dutta had no other option but to drop out of college.

For months, he wandered through the city with letters of recommendation and found a position in a bank as a clerk. Years tumbled by, and one afternoon, while he sat at his desk chewing the excess of his fingernails, he remembered the little red notebook that had been gathering dust in his drawer all these years. The photographs flashed in front of his eyes like the spring sun, and he jumped from his seat, took out his little red notebook, and went to the branch manager’s cabin, to quit. The branch manager blinked at him curiously. Mr Dutta took a deep breath, and the moment he was about to utter the words, the phone rang. It was for him.

His mother was taken ill, and she had expressed her desire to see her son for the last time. Mr Dutta hurried to attend to his ailing mother, unaware of the consequences. The old lady, breathing heavy, took hold of his hand and whispered into his ear her death-wish. In a week, Mr Dutta was married—with his mother totally recovered, alive, with a mischievous grin.

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Mr Dutta had known his wife since their childhood. Their families were close, and as a kid, Mr Dutta had always heard them reiterate how perfect they were for each other. So married life didn’t offer many surprises, apart from the fact that his responsibilities mounted and that he could barely save any money or time for his unfulfilled dream.      

A year later, his wife gave birth to a son, and Mr Dutta holding that tiny creature in his arms felt immense joy. But deep within, he was confounded by fear. He struggled from that moment on, juggling his role as a father and simultaneously maintaining his identity as a wanderer. It was exasperating to be rooted and possess a soul that wanted to expand limitlessly. He woke up often in the middle of the night, weeping; thinking of abandoning everything and running away. But something held him back.

As Mr Dutta’s son showed promise academically, he wanted his son to go abroad for higher studies. He revisited his dreams once again and expressed a desire to accompany his son. But the expenses were too high; he had already taken a loan to support his son’s expenditures, besides he couldn’t dream of going without his beloved wife. The day his son left for the USA, Mr Dutta pressed his forehead against the glass window at the airport watching the flight take-off; consoling himself that at least a part of him was off to see the world.

The year Mr Dutta retired, his son completed his education, returned to Calcutta, found a suitable girl, married, and announced his decision to settle in the USA. Mr Dutta had been awaiting the news secretly and knew it was only a matter of time before his son would ask them to join him.

He waited.

Each evening, as the old couple sat on the balcony expecting their son’s telephone call, Mr Dutta would fetch his little red notebook. He would announce his plans of travelling across the Americas—from Alaska to Argentina—with a must-do list:

  1. Watch the sunset at The Grand Canyon
  2. Gamble in a Las Vegas Casino
  3. Take a boat ride along the Amazon (catch a glimpse of an anaconda)
  4. Walk barefoot over the salt flats of Salar de Uyuni.
  5. Experience the lost world of the Incas
  6. Visit the Galápagos Islands…

His wife would listen, smile assuredly, but make no comments.

One evening, as Mr Dutta extended his plans further south to Antarctica, his wife suffered a stroke. She died a few days later.      

At her cremation, his son hugged him and said that it would take another year before he could come and stay with them. He appointed an attendant for the old man and left. Days turned into months, and months turned into years. Mr Dutta’s vision was fading now, and in his knees, gout had set in.

The telephone rang as Mr Dutta finished his evening tea and an extensive tour of the central African rainforest. The attendant received the call and handed it over. Tears trickled down as he listened to his son. He couldn’t speak; so unbound was his joy. Finally, he was going across the Atlantic.

The sun had now set, and Mr Dutta sat still.

In the distance, a figure was appearing out of the mist. Mr Dutta strained his eyes to discern the outlines of it—the Statue of Liberty. He grinned. A flock of seagulls circled overhead, and the waves crashed against the ferry. A crimson sun was dawning against a greyish-orange sky…

Atreyo Chowdhury was trained to be a mechanical engineer and has a postgraduate degree from IIT Guwahati. Besides writing, he shares an equal passion for music and travelling. He can be found at https://atreyochowdhury.wordpress.com/

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

Categories
Stories

If at all

By Shobha Nandavar

The purple Jacaranda flower perched on his snout did not arouse the familiar playful instinct. A friendly woof from his Doberman buddy was greeted with little cheer. It was straight third day Mani was looking for his lost master in vain at the open-air crematorium.

Abhay, a blue-eyed college going lad was my parent. He was living with his mother in an upscale Sadashivanagar apartment in Bangalore. Two years ago, he adopted me, a sprightly, cute, brown little Mani, as they called me. His mother a lady of few words, in her fifties was a  good – natured home maker. Amma was fearful of dogs though. After much cajoling, Abhay was permitted to bring me home. I was allotted a separate room, and was allowed only into Abhay’s room. Amma remained aloof and was not happy about the non-vegetarian dog feeds brought for me, as she was a vegan.

My ears could hear Abhay’s KTM bike from quite a distance when he returned home from college. I would hide behind the door and pounce on Abhay and lick him, unable to control my excitement, at his arrival. I liked his soft hand caressing my forehead. I would close my eyes and daydream on his lap.

Fast forward one year, Abhay landed a plum job, was seeing his highschool sweetheart Anju. Amma liked Anju as she was a fine blend of the traditional and modern. Anju looked adorable to my doggy eyes too. The moment she entered the house, it was as if a thousand diyas (lamps) were lit. The house became a home filled with much joy and warmth. She would ask for me if I was not around. The invite was enough for me to catapult into her arms and cuddle up to the exotic fragrance of Miss Dior.

I always looked forward to Sundays when Abhay and Anju took me out for long walks. The Naagasampige flower was Anju’s favourite. Abhay would pluck and tuck it into her long hair. It was very enticing for me to prance around Anju and prey on the undulating, heavily scented Naagasampige in her hair. But I remembered Abhay admonishing me in the past, when I tried to hang on to Anju’s long plait which tantalizingly oscillated like a pendulum while she walked.

  • Tabebuia
  • Naagasampige
  • Gulmohar
Courtesy: Creative Commons

The stroll under the canopy of pink Tabebuia and the scarlet Gulmohar looked surreal and culminated in  a stop at the Baskin Robbins for ice creams. I was fed with ‘strawberry jelly paradise’ by my pet parents against a backdrop of Alan Walker’s ‘End of time’ number. Time stands still….

And then there was Vishu, the new year. They were in two minds about celebrating Vishu. The Covid forecast for the upcoming months for Bangalore was grim. Nonetheless they decided to go ahead with the celebrations as a small family affair. Four of Abhay’s friends, Anju and an aunt with family were invited for the calebrations.

 Although they lived in Bangalore for long and even spoke the local language Kannada, the culture and traditions of Kerala, their ancestral state were followed. Their home was a melting pot, the true spirit of contemporary India. Vishu was the time when the sun enterd the tropic of cancer. Mythology tells us the festival commemorates the day when Krishna killed Narakasura, the demon. The  ‘Vishu Kani’ , an auspicious bowl which has to be the object that needs to be seen first on waking up to herald a good year, was placed by Amma the night before, after all the guests and Abhay went to bed. A shallow bell metal vessel was filled with rice, fruits. The photo of Krishna was adorned with flowers. The arrangement was replete with auspicious articles like mirrors, combs, gold coins, new dresses, betel leaves.

  • Vishu Kani
  • Vishu Sadhya
  • Nilavilakku
Courtesy: Creative Commons

Waking up at 3 AM, they walked blindfolded to the prayer room and saw the kani first for a propitious new year. All of them received kaineettam, the first gift of the year given to the children. Nilavilakku, the bronze oil lamp dispelled the darkness and gave a golden yellow tinge to the ambience and everything around took on a divine hue. A couple of devotional songs by Anju added to the ethereal quotient of the unearthly hour. The day unfurled with pooja and was followed by the sumptuous Vishu Sadhya for lunch. Suddenly I could smell millions of particles twirling around and they were precariously moving around in the hall and entangling all the guests, while they were busy with the various board games. None of them were masked; all caution had been abandoned. I tried to warn them by bawling in a different manner to catch their attention. Alas, they mistook it for hunger and started feeding me!  I could sense something amiss, but the group unmindful of this, happily had more fun and frolic and rounded off the day with masala tea and pakodas or fried fritters.

Three days later, Amma developed fever and cough. Abhay attributed it to the evening showers. Nevertheless I could sense imminent danger. I had never entered Amma’s room before. Today I felt a strong urge to get into her room and inform her of the dark shadow looming large and I howled. A petrified Amma shooed me away and tried to thrash me for misbehaving. I was duty-bound to inform them that I could smell something ominous, the same smell which emanated from a neighbour who was ushered into an ambulance and never made it!

Early next morning Amma fell unconscious in the washroom. Abhay panicked, picked her up, carried her in his arms like a baby and rushed to the hospital in his car. The telephone rang unabatedly, if at all I could pick up the receiver and reciprocate! Hours dragged on and I trudged across the empty house. It was dusk; I was hungry and decided to feed on the milk packet left at the door by the milkman.

I was never left alone this long ever since my arrival into this house as a pup. I meandered into the grilled balcony. The neon street lights shone bright on the deserted road below. Overnight the garden city had been transformed into a graveyard. Ambulance sirens ruled the roost. Roads wore a solemn look.

My heart skipped a beat, when I saw Abhay’s black Scorpio in the driveway. He dashed in and left the main door ajar and slumped into the sofa sobbing. He was oblivious of my presence or whimpers. He made hasty calls to Anju, his voice quivering. I could not make head or tail of things. I stood at the doorway awaiting Amma.

I could smell the same, strange, noxious smell, time and again, the COVID smell in human parlance. It was unmistakable. Abhay soon slipped into a deep slumber. I had to alert my hero. I paced up and down the room, I licked his childlike face and tried to open his eyes, but of no avail. Abhay was getting breathless, flinging his limbs violently; he was making a desperate attempt to breathe. The Covid stink was getting stronger and more and more dangerous. My pet parent became livid and limp.  I wailed, yowled and yelped. My leader was sinking and something sinister was on cards.

A vigilant good Samaritan walked in and took charge of the situation. An ambulance was summoned. Anju hastily arrived, her heart pounding. The medical crew examined Abhay and declared him dead! It was a bolt from the blue. The life saving ambulance sped away to make way for the hearse..

Anju was shocked beyond words. She swooned. She woke up and walked around as if in a trance. She looked aghast, lost and turned into a stone. Tears flowed incessantly.

I was not allowed into the hearse. I ran after it until my legs gave way, possibly a kilometre or so.

If at all, I could speak…

If at all, my master had heeded my advice….

If at all, humans had acknowledged my olfactory prowess, which was easily fifty times theirs..

Here I lie down on the green grass, which smells sweet no more.

The moonlit night without Abhay and Anju in tow, has lost meaning. I fall asleep, subdued, to the distant lullaby of “Diamond Heart” by Alan Walker….         

Courtesy: Creative Commons

Shobha Nandavar is a Neurologist and Stroke Physician based in Bangalore. She writes during her leisure hours. She has about 40 publications in medical journals. She has contributed articles to Deccan Herald, Live Wire and Indus Women Writing.

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

Categories
Stories

First Lady

A short story by Rituparna Khan about Dr. Kadambini Ganguly, the one of the first practising lady doctors of British India and South East Asia.

“New Eden Hospital for Women and Children, Calcutta,” an engraving, 1882

It was 1894, Eden Hospital, Kolkata. A young, married woman was brought to the hospital by her husband and mother-in-law. They were in a state of confusion and plight. The young woman was smarting with acute abdominal pain. The lady doctor present in the emergency department was asked to look into the matter by the Hospital Super.

“What! A lady doctor? Is she a doctor or just a mid-wife?” exclaimed the arrogant husband of the poor, suffering wife. “So many doctors have checked my wife and tried to diagnose the cause of her pain and bulging abdomen. They couldn’t understand how to operate the tumour. They all failed. Now, what will this woman do? Does she have a proper degree?” He almost created a scene at the reception.

The poor wife lay quietly on a bench, suffering in patience.

Disturbed by the din and bustle a lady came out. Attired in an impeccable, sober get up she tried to understand the reason for such a cacophony in the hospital corridor. In a while, she came to know that she was the reason of that humdrum and confusion. Hardly paying any attention to the arrogant husband, she asked the attendants to take the woman inside a cabin to examine her thoroughly. After proper examination she was certain that the woman was pregnant. Though there were some complications, it was far from a case of a tumour.

She came out of the cabin to share the good news of motherhood of the arrogant husband’s wife.

“Chatterjee Babu, you might have doubts on my medical abilities and degrees, but the fact is, your wife is not suffering from any tumor. She is going to be the mother of your child. Though there is some complication in her pregnancy, it can be sorted with proper treatment and regular checkup.” explained the lady doctor with her usual self composure.

The mother-in-law was elated to get the news. After so many years, her beloved bouma (daughter-in-law) would be giving an heir to the family. The husband was befuddled, yet happy to gather the news.

“Take her home now. I shall visit her every alternate day for check up, if you really believe that a so-called mid-wife like me can be any good to your pregnant wife Chatterjee Babu,” she spoke with composed and authoritative demeanor.

The embarrassed husband fell short of words to apologise for his misbehaviour. He was inquisitive about the identity of that lady doctor. However, he felt it would belittle him to ask her for her name openly.

The lady could read his mind from his inquisitive eyes. She invited him to her chamber to remove his doubts. The she began another story:

“A girl was born in 1861 in Chandsi, in Bengal’s Barisal district (now in Bangladesh). A born protagonist in a family of five siblings and guided by a very stern and orthodox mother, she was the apple of her father’s eye. A few years after she was born, the family shifted to Bhagalpur district of Bihar and settled there. Her childhood was strongly influenced by the Bengal Renaissance and her father, Braja Kishore Basu, was a renowned champion of the Brahmo Samaj. He was the headmaster of the local school and a dedicated soul to female emancipation. He was also the co-founder of Bhagalpur Mahila Samiti in 1863, the first of its kind of women’s organisation in India.

A steadfast, straight forward, fearless girl from the early days of her life, she was always at the forefront of all social services in her village for which most of the time she received brickbats rather than bouquets. But that couldn’t curb her indomitable spirit. Much to the society’s annoyance, her mother’s dismay and much to her father’s ardent belief in her, this little girl wanted to be a doctor, the first female doctor who could serve people, especially, women.”

After delivering this short yet mesmerizing monologue, she paused. She asked the husband to follow her to the cabin to see his wife. Happy, yet befuddled, the man followed the stately lady.

Chatterjee Babu was relieved to find the real reason for his wife’s ailment. He comforted his shy wife and asked her to rely on the doctor’s advice.

“Madam, please continue with the story,” he pleaded.

“Yes, I shall, and I wanted to share this other half of the story with both you and your wife. So, I asked you to come here. Please sit there on the chair.” She instructed.

Again, she began: “The little girl reached adolescence. She was more determined than ever to go for higher studies to become a doctor and serve her nation. All were against her rebellious ideals except her father, who supported her.

“It was 1875. The village and its vicinity were badly infected by cholera. This young girl along with her brothers went from door to door providing required aid to the poor, hapless patients. That was not all since more challenges awaited her.

“One fine morning her cousin, Braja Babu’s niece, was dropped off in her uncle’s home because she was suffering from cholera. Her orthodox in-laws were not ready to keep her in their house. Braja Babu’s family members, including the mother of the ailing girl were not prepared to accept her entry into their house. The poor girl was given refuge in the shabby cow shed. She was left to die in grief. This young girl couldn’t bear the plight of her cousin sister. She asked the family members to call a doctor for her treatment. In those days getting treated by a Saheb (British) doctor was a sin. It was considered to be more glorious to die than get touched, examined and treated by a male British doctor.

“With no other options left, the younger cousin hatched a daring plan. She went to the British doctor at the local dispensary and asked him to visit her cousin in disguise of a female mid-wife. She also requested the doctor not to touch her sick cousin. She requested guidance to help him examine her cousin. She wanted to be his hands effectively. The doctor was stunned at the courage and self-confidence exhibited by the young teen. Half-heartedly, he went to the patient. The girl examined her cousin exactly in the way the doctor instructed. To his utter surprise, the girl could successfully diagnose that her cousin was not infected with cholera. She was just pregnant. Later, the family members came to know the truth. Though they were angry to start with. As a result of her father’s intervention and the doctor’s certification about bravery and wisdom of the young girl, she was spared. In a few months her cousin gave birth to a healthy baby girl.

“That was also a story of a true diagnosis of a pregnant woman. After eighteen years, this is also a story of diagnosis of pregnancy of another woman. In both the situations, the examiner who could make the proper diagnosis was and is this lady, sitting in front of you, a lady doctors at this hospital. That day also no one wanted to believe in her, a young teenager from a village. Today also the scenario has not changed much. Why should you believe that an Indian lady may be competent enough to be a successful doctor! But you believe it or not Chatterjee Babu, the fact is that I am a lady doctor with proper degrees and am interested to treat your wife if you allow me to do so.”

Ashamed of his earlier arrogant presumptions, the man apologised. He was certain that his wife was in safe hands under the treatment of this lady. Happily, he came out of the chamber with his wife.

At the next instance he exclaimed to his wife, “Oho Monorama, I forgot to ask her name. Who is she?” With these words he turned towards her chamber again.

Dr. Kadambini Ganguly, FRCS, LRCP, England: the board at the entrance of the chamber blinded his eyes with utter befuddlement.

“How stupid of me! She is Dr. Kadambini Ganguly, the first practising lady doctor of India and South East Asia. How could I be so blind, arrogant and prejudiced? Who could be the best option for my Monorama and our family than this magnanimous human being and a great doctor? Oh God! I have no face to stand in front of her and beg an apology. You please forgive me.”

Ref:

  1. https://www.indiatoday.in/education-today/gk-current-affairs/story/kadambini-ganguli-india-s-first-female-doctor-who-made-calcutta-medical-college-start-admitting-women-1570858-2019-07-18
  2. https://www.thebetterindia.com/113789/kadambini-ganguly-one-of-indias-first-women-graduates-doctors/

Rituparna Khan is a creative writer. “Tales told and Untold” is her collection of short stories. “Melting Thoughts” is her collection of poetry. By profession she is a geographer.

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

Categories
Stories

Neembu Ka Achaar or Maa’s Lemon Pickle

Flash Fiction by Suyasha Singh

 I loved Maa’s lemon pickle. The blazing temperatures of Delhi and inedible hostel mess food, both made me long for that lip smacking sweet-sour delight. When we were little, Adi and I would tip-toe towards the kitchen in the afternoon as Maa took an occasional nap and scoop a spoon or two from the glass jar. Placing it back in the exact position without a chink was the hard part, where my little brother’s agile-as-a-cat skills came in handy. And by chance if they didn’t, I was already far, far away from the crime scene.

The thought of our childhood shenanigans made me smile.

When her call came in the evening I whined about the nightmarish aloo in the dinner, the only dish no one could go wrong with, even the ones who leap two feet away while launching the vegetables into bubbling hot oil. She patiently listened with intermittent consolation as I continued my grumblings about how she would never understand the torture I was going through. And how I wished I had her lemon pickle with me to make it all bearable. When I got off the phone, I realized Maa was awfully silent throughout.

Semester exams ended and I arrived home. I didn’t even enter the gate when Maa took my bag and asked if I had eaten on the journey. Of course I had. But the sight of Maa-made thali evaporated any residual food in my belly. I washed my hands and changed clothes in a hurry. Along with soft steamy roti and curry, there was one other condiment on the plate. I drooled. After the dinner was done papa and I went for a walk. And I came to know why she sounded different on the call that day — Naani had passed away. Nobody told me, my exams were still going on at that time. She thought it was better not to tell. I pushed back a sob in my throat. As I entered through the door I observed Maa, her eyes seemed puffy. I slept koala-hugging Maa that night.

Later Adi told me the story behind the heavenly condiment that magically landed on my plate. Maa had picked the freshest and ripest of the lemons for the pickle almost one month before. Washed and dried them when the sun was at its brightest in the day. Sat beside it on a dari like a watchman and glared the crows and monkeys away.

She had prepared the garam masala and kept it ready beforehand. Nothing in the market smells or tastes authentic, Maa lived by this belief. In the month’s ration she had specifically added more of daalchini and laung. The day sun-dried lemons were cut into smaller pieces and smeared with black pepper, garam masala, chili powder and a little sugar; papa went to office with previous night’s curry in the tiffin dabba. She kept the huge glass jar filled with the pickle to bathe in the sunlight covering it with one of papa’s old unusable cotton handkerchiefs. Maa said, it was because lemons were breathing, you couldn’t just suffocate them with a plastic lid.

Some of the days she would dash leaving her puja in the middle to make sure sun had not given way to an overcast sky. It was extremely important to shelter pickles from the moisture. Other days a faint thud would wake her up from her nap and the jar would be cradled inside. The pickle had softened just to the right extent with the sweet-sour flavour permeating through the delicate membranes of the lemons. Black pepper created the perfect zing and the garam masala added that burst of flavours in every dab. It also kept the stomach well during the hot, dry summer days, Maa believed. The lemon pickle was ready just in time for me to return.

I was glad I had the whole of the summer vacations to stay with her. I could not even imagine what she might be going through. She had the habit of calling Naani around noon every day, now Maa and I spent that time sharing our stories with each other. I felt sad but it seemed inconsequential against the grief of a daughter.    

After I had licked the whole of the pickle jar dry, one night while we sat with our cups of milk in front of the cooler which seemed of no use in such humidity, I asked Maa to tell me the exact recipe, without overlooking even a tiny detail. She smiled and took out from the drawer which was stuffed with various recipe cuttings from Grihshobha and hand-written final versions of sweets and curries, a tattered moth-eaten pale yellow diary. She opened a page, carefully caressing in the process every leaf with her gaze, the title said ‘Neembu ka Achaar’ and she narrated it to me step by step.                                                           

 As Naani had done thirty years ago… 

The day I packed the bag for my return, she handed me a plastic tiffin, wrapped and double-knotted in a plastic bag. This time, I securely placed it along with my belongings without the flurry of complaints of how it would leak and spoil. It was not just a lemon pickle that I was taking with me — it was boundless love of mothers, warmth packed in time capsules of food, an affection passed down that swept me in its folds…it was magic that transcended everything…

A plate of Lemon Pickle. Courtesy: Creative Commons

 Glossary                                                                                                  

Aloo (as they appear on the mess notice board): Potatoes

Thali: a large round platter

Roti: chappatis

Naani: maternal grandmother

Dari: a cotton carpet/ mat

Garam masala: a mixture of ground spices such as cumin, coriander, cinnamon (daalchini), clove (laung) etc.

Puja: prayer

Grihshobha: a biweekly magazine for women

Neembu ka Achaar: Lemon pickle

Suyasha Singh spent her formative years in Bareilly, Uttar Pradesh, before moving to New Delhi. She is a graduate from Miranda House, Delhi University and is currently pursuing her Master’s from Jawaharlal Nehru University. Her short fiction has been published in The Bombay Review. 

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