Category: Stories

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Stories

A Dark Barbie Doll

By Sunil Sharma

 Her voice was excited.

“Hey, Nina Davuluri has won! The dark-skinned girl has won the Miss America crown for 2014!  Great! Is it not?”

“Wow! If she had been in India, she would have been rejected!”

“How can you say that?” asked my friend who gave me this piece of information on her cell phone.

“Simple. Indians hate dark skin! And the most hated one is a dark girl!”

There was a pause…longer one.

Then: “Yes. You are right.”

I could hear the pain in the voice.

“We are the most hated girls in our society.”  She said and did not wait for my response before hanging up on me suddenly.

Certain facts do not need to be confirmed.

I understand Rima. Both of us know the pain of rejection and taunts. I am called a Kali, a black bitch or a Dark Barbie by my classmates.

How I hate myself for being dark-skinned!

Rima and I form a strange sisterhood. A sisterhood of pain. We often chat in the evenings. Exchange tidbits. We are the discarded ones. Such sessions are a therapy. They are healing.

“My dad hates me!” She shared one night.

“Why?”

“He says I am a dark … and dark girls are not lucky!”

Her voice breaks and she starts sobbing.

I, too, become emotional. In life, we often mirror close friends.

“How will they find a suitable boy for you! Nobody wants to marry a dark girl. He always laments. This is how God has created me. How am I at fault?” asks she, broken.

I have no answer.

Every morning, the mirror screams: Ugly! Ugly!

I hate mirrors! Remarks by the louts, family elders, females. Words as cannon balls, designed to demolish you.

Nobody wants me except an old lady ejected from her son’s family and living off the temple premises. She often smiles kindly at me during my daily visit to the temple and says, “Dear, you are so beautiful! Like my own daughter…”   

On the other hand, fair girls are idolised.             

My cousin, fair, gets all the attention and love. She was gifted Blondie dolls and is affectionately called our White Barbie!

Together, we draw wolf whistles and — “Here comes the ebony and cream-white pair!” exclamations, things that please her and devastate me completely. I now avoid going out with her. Who wants to be jeered at and insulted by the boorish boys?

Rita, my cousin, has all the boys and even men swooning for her delicate skin and hair dyed blonde. On special occasions, she wears blue contact lenses and at parties, men take her to be a Westerner.

“Are you an American?” They invariably ask Rita dressed in a snug black T-shirt and slim jeans, impressed by her American English—-she had worked earlier in a call center where they coached her to use an American accent. She drawls and leaves the desi* audience completely overawed!

“Yeah!”

“Which part?”

“Washington, DC.”

And all the young men — overbearing MBAs, engineers, doctors or businessmen –would get floored by the sight of this sexy foreigner chic and quietly follow her everywhere, eager to win her hand. Her slim figure, fluent English and smiling blue eyes would convert men into permanent slaves ready to climb the Everest or dive from a helicopter into the Bermuda Triangle. Just for her yes! She would enjoy the cult status among the males. Even Uncles — the neighbourhood ageing males called Uncle-ji by the younger ones — would try to detain her with inane conversations, measuring her full figure through their lusty eyes.

“Bastards!” Rita would say disgustedly.

We would be s-o envious! In a room full of admiring Romeos and a stately Rita conversing on Hollywood or Desperate Housewives, other females would be invisible. Only she existed. Males could murder for her!

“What do you do?” asked a dashing man once in another south Delhi party where Rita was an anglicized Indian babe.

“I am a writer.” This time she was truthful. She did write and write well.

“What?” his mouth was about to fall off.

“Why? Can women not be writers?” she asked, eyes fluttering.

The man went limp. “N-o…Y-e-s, ye-s, I mea-n…” he stammered hopelessly under the chandeliers in that big hall, while other waiting suitors smiled.

“You write!” he managed to ask, going red and pink and white at the same time.

“Yes.”

“In Hindi?”

Rita, already headed in the opposite direction, spun around on her red high heels and glared for long and then spat out a loud exclamation, “In Hindi!!!” It sounded like an obscenity hurled at some defenseless figure. The voice echoed in the hall and a hush fell. The guests stopped immediately and stared at the insulted lady who repeated, “In Hindi!!! My Gawd!!!”

The man was killed — almost by the loud sarcasm and dripping hatred.

“Do not folks write in Hindi? Or, in any other language of India?” he blurted, unwilling to give up easily before a hostile audience of the socialites wearing leading western brands of the designer suits and gowns and loudly conversing in English only.

“Let them. I will NEVER write in Hindi or any other vernacular. I WRITE IN ENGLISH,” Rita screamed. “That is the future.”

A female got interested. “A vernacular? Hindi?”

“Yes,” Rita asserted, “For me, English is the language. Others are the vernaculars.”

“Is it?” asked her interrogator, tone mocking now, eyes rolling.

“Yes. English is the center. Rest is periphery. I live and breathe Beautiful English.”

“So, the vernacular is ugly!”

“Yes. It is,” announced Rita. “After sixty-six years of independence, middle-class India reveres English. Is it not beautiful for us then?”

The female smiled and then asked, “Fine. What do you write on? Your basic themes? Concerns?”

“Who are you?”  Rita was haughty memsaab by now; livid, impatient, ready to spar in a room suddenly gone hushed.

“I am a journalist working for a top English daily,” she said, unperturbed. This mollified Rita. She knew the value of the quick media- promotion.

“Oh! S-o n-i-c-e! I write on slums, poverty, rapes, violence, cows in the street, bride burning—Impossible India! Yes, that is my theme. Capturing India, a nation impossible to live,” she said, assuming a neo-colonial tone of complete dejection and implied evangelism.

The fat, bespectacled woman with tousled hair and a cigarette in mouth, smiled and said, “Okay. An area of darkness. Perpetual darkness. An impossible nation. A despotic oriental country refusing to be civilized. Then you can expect at least a Booker and a Hollywood contract soon for your notion of India as a barbaric country of one billion plus people!”

They both laughed.

“Who knows?” said Rita, pleased. “But what I see, I paint. Shouldn’t we give realities through fictions?”

“Only one-sided realities? Pandering to certain preconceived ideas about India in the West?” Asked the journalist, eyes twinkling, tone somber.

“Well, that is what India is basically. Writers give unvarnished versions.” Rita answered calmly.

 “Perhaps India is more than that. It is not about the gutters only.”

Rita smiled more broadly. “Sorry. I see only the gutters, despite its long post-colonial history. It is rotten!”

The journalist smiled. “Expect a Nobel also at the end of your career.”

They both laughed — neither serious about India.

I felt repelled by her outrageousness and stifled in that artificial place! Fakes!

Rita was like that — dominating, self-opinionated, brazen and very calculating. Some six years my senior, she lived in a bungalow maintained by servants. My uncle was a rich exporter of the ethnic wear and other apparel. In their comparison, we were very poor. My father was a lowly government clerk.

Rita had once confessed, “I am obsessed with the West. I was born in India but will not die in India.”

And she proved it—by seducing an American assistant director of a visiting movie crew that had auditioned her, among others, for a role of an Indian bride. During their stay on location, Rita got hired for the role, stole the heart of the restless 42-year-old American and left India after two months as Mrs. John Brown to settle in LA!

A writer, a bit actor and settled domesticity in the USA. Fair skin can be made to do so many things in this divided world.

I felt so discriminated and low!

“You also seduce some firangi* and leave this damn country. Some goras* love dark women.” That was her whispered last advice to me. Afterwards, she completely erased me from her memory!

Often, late evenings, alone in my little room in a congested north Delhi colony, I would pray to whosoever was listening up there for a quick end to my existential pain and 24X7-humiliation. One particular December mid-night, unable to forget the insults of the local thugs, I prayed to Him, voice breaking, “God! Why do you make girls in the first place, then make them ugly and dark and then, send them to India?”

A cold wind blew in from the open fourth-floor apartment and I saw a blurred face in the moon.

“God! Please make me beautiful and wanted! I do not want to die ugly and ordinary. Please, God, turn me into a blue-eyed, fair-complexioned slim maiden. Make my life a modern-day fairy tale. I know you can do this.”

And suddenly there was a blinding light and a clear booming voice that shook the earth—or so it seemed to my fevered mind, “Granted! Your foolish wish!”

I leapt out of my small bed, happy to have talked to Him inaccessible to fasting monks and sages and cried, “Thank God for your mercy!”

There was more rolling thunder and lightning in the vast sky and the baritone saying, “I never wanted to make the world monochromatic. I wanted the world to be colourful and diverse.”

“But we worship only the colour white,” I said, almost pleading.

A roll of thunder and a flash that blinded me and then…primeval silence.

The rest happened fast, almost dream-like, as in a Hollywood movie.

Next morning, on the college campus, a film crew was filming a segment of a reality show. They wanted to audition a couple of faces also. Hundreds of wannabes were milling around the crew. A thrilled Rima said we should go watch the shoot. We went. In the amphitheatre milling with students, a shoot was on. It was impossible to enter the crowded area and there was a near stampede. We timidly decided not to venture into such a risky situation where molestation was a reality. We went in the opposite direction, disappointed but safe and sat down on a bench under a Gulmohar tree. Rima said one of the visiting faculties for the mass media course had brought his TV production house team where he worked as an assistant editor and they were filming mass media students for current campus trends.

“We two could have become a TV star!” 

My tone was sad.

“Who cares for dusky girls these days? Everybody wants a fair-complexioned girl.” Rima was equally pessimistic.

“I care for dusky beauties!”

The booming voice—so God-like—made us turn around and face a bearded unkempt man, pony-tailed, wearing bifocals, dressed in an electric pink T-shirt and cream Bermudas. The man, in his early forties and smoking, almost popped out from nothing—another heavenly sign!

“I am the director hunting for real faces,” said he, puffing and coughing, while a female religiously followed his bulky figure, “Hunting for faces that are Indian. Authentic faces! Dark. Sensitive. Coy. Both of you have the classic Indian face and you,” pointing towards me, “you have that additional smoldering look!”

He peered closely—into my eyes and winked, “Yes. Perfect!”

I, a typical middle-class domesticated mute, blushed.

“Your name, my beauty?” He was openly flirtatious and I secretly enjoyed the adjectives and scarce male attention.

“Priya.” I said and blushed more.

“Wonderful! You are my heroine!”

He winked again and smiled. I went limp: Heroine!

Next day, in the studio, we both auditioned and were signed on for a contract. The director was helpful. “We are planning a show called Desi Divas. We would feature girls from small towns, suburbs and even villages. Our beauty coaches will train them for the final competition. Priya, you stand a good chance to be a winner with your round face and black eyes.” And he winked! I again went limp! We both returned home excited. Late evening, the call from Rima was heart-breaking, “Papa and elder brother have refused permission.”

“Why?” I was incredulous. “These days every parent wants a celeb status for their children and are crazy for money and fame TV or films can provide!”

“They do not see TV or films. They do not want instant stardom for me. Mum was hysterical. It is a sinful world there, she screamed.”

“Then?” I asked.

“I will forget this also as a dream…” and the poor simple girl cried. I, too, cried with her that night.

“Do you not have a voice?” I demanded.

“No. We, Indian girls, never have a voice.” And she cried more…

My short tryst with TV was eventful…a roller-skater ride.

A few days into production, the reality show Desi Divas, underwent a silent transmutation. One afternoon, a cigar-smoking fat man dropped onto the sets and told the team to change the concept.

“For TRPs, we want Desi Divas must look like an average Indian female. That is wheatish, if not very fair.” His tone was final as the financier.

“But s…ir…” the director was almost stammering.

“You want to continue?” asked the bald guy, more of an underworld don than a financier. The director immediately clammed up.

The concept got changed. Now it was blonde all the way to TRPs and bank but in a subtle way.

 In a way I was benefitted indirectly by this change. The major ad sponsor was a Detroit-based MNC (Multi-National Corporation) promoting a special fair-skin facial cream for the Asian countries. Temptingly called Blondie Cream, it promised a magical cream that turned a darkling into a lovely person that is a Blondie. They spotted me on the sets of the Divas and featured me in this costly 30-second prime-time TV commercial. I was shown as ugly and dark, lacking in confidence and after a month’s application of this wonderful concoction, turned into a fair-complexioned Indian girl! I was paid a good amount and the commercial had become a sensational source of revenue.

That commercial announced my arrival on the national scene as a competent actor.

I daily thanked God for this miracle. Of course, my face was airbrushed by the computer professionals in an upscale editing studio of Mumbai.

“These cream-sellers!”  the director had exclaimed. “They are running the whole show!”

“Why not? When we are pumping money into it, why should we not control?” the assistant to the financier asked.

After a long and detailed market research of the emerging middle-class market for beauty products in India — a $ 4.6 billion cosmetic industry growing at the annual rate of 15-20 per cent — it was decided to re-name the show as the Glam Divas of India.

“Every second Indian wants a fair-skinned bride or girlfriend for him. Skin is big business. Skin tones bring big bucks!” said the financier gleefully.

“Right Boss! These days even pampered Indian males have become conscious of their appearance. Even they want fair skin. This is a booming business,” said the assistant. “Going by their pace and ad-reach, very soon, there will be no dark-skinned people left on the face of the planet! Ha ha ha!”

“Good! When the Americans can make us eat Big Macs, then these smart guys can convert us for any other cause that brings dollars for them!” predicted the financier. They laughed uproariously, upsetting the director.

Then the preparations for the Glam Divas began in earnest.  The grueling sessions left no space for any frolicking by the teen middle-class participants from various regions of the country. Every girl was ambitious and confident of winning. During our stay in a big bungalow, we began as friends but ended up as enemies by the end of the show.

The initial weeks were very tough.

A team of stylists and makeover artists worked on us relentlessly. Henna madam was my mentor. A team of bustling professionals worked on the lights, clothes, accessories, make-up and camera angles. They applied foundations, rouge and lipstick to achieve the desired results. By highlighting certain facial features and skin surfaces and shooting at particular angles under certain lighting conditions, by sticking false eyelashes or darkening them further and pouting red-lips, they kept on creating and innovating the perfect image of a sexy desi diva. Human face became their live canvas. A slim diet and severe exercise regimen were strictly enforced by the production house. We did yoga, meditation, aerobics, speech training sessions. It was hectic and completely draining! During our long stay in the rented bungalow on the beach, family visits were few. It was a totally regimented commune of ruthless and competing models being finally groomed as the mercenary fighters for the coveted crown and the big purse it carried…and the ensuing stardom.

“Billions are riding on this show,” said the grim financier one late evening, “The Glam Divas will be telecast across the world. The UK, USA, Canada and Australia with sizable Indian presence are our favorite targets. More than two billion homes is our mantra!”

After weeks of intensive coaching, we were transmuted into the light-skinned, golden-streaked divas ready for the waiting world. When we arrived on the stage, before the shoot, air crackled with suppressed energy and implicit hostility among the ready-to-kill warriors for the crown and celeb status. The demure middle-class females had been transformed into merciless combat machines. As we entered in our fineries and practiced poise, the audience gasped by the dazzling spectacle. All the select members of the critical jury were equally impressed.

“That is wonderful!” financier exclaimed voice hoarse with anticipation. “Nobody wants a darkie on such costly shows. They want blondes. They are all MJ-clones!”

MJ-clones?

I did not know.

“It is the lightning of skin by the famous singer Michael Jackson. We call it in fashion industry MJ-syndrome.” Henna Aunty gave me the gyaan*. “The light-skinned beings are dubbed as his clones. Dark-skinned models prefer that look these days to get noticed.”

“We are successful in making these suburban and small-town teens into fair products. Our brand triumphs!” said the financier loudly and his team laughed dutifully.

The final contest was nail-biting. I was pitted against a chirpy thing from Chandigarh. We fenced with each other and the jury. Questions were rapid and tough.

“Your favourite novel?” somebody asked from the jury.

“The Hunger Games.”

“Why?”

“Life is an arena. Tough gladiators survive.”

“Icon?”

“Miley Cyrus.”

“And twerking?”

A loud laughter followed.

“Why not? It is my body. It is a different type of dance that celebrates the female body.”

An audible gasp and some murmurings and smiles.

“Film?”

“The Twilight Saga.”

“Why?”

“Because it talks of the possibility of a workable romance between a human teenager and a vampire. What girl would not swoon on a lover so unusual? Two different species united by love. It deifies love…love in all its manifestations, human and non-human.”

They were impressed. Secretly, I was thanking Henna madam and Rita, my cousin, for coaching me about popular culture. The final question from the Asia Head of the Blondie Cream proved to be the clincher.

“If reincarnation is a choice, where would you like to be re-born?”

There was a hushed silence. Ticking of clock can be heard. Cameras zoomed in on me. I smiled sweetly and said, “Born an Indian, my soul belongs to the West. Dark-brown outside, white inside. I am a dark Barbie doll with golden locks and skin. A perfect resident of a changing borderless world. A truly globalized resident, cosmopolitan, sensitive to both eastern and western cultures that I am proud enough to straddle. A citizen of both the worlds, developing and developed. I am like a classic harlequin moving about on a post-modern stage.”

A post-modern harlequin!

That clinched it!

The auditorium burst into applause. A standing ovation and I was announced as the Glam Diva of India, “a girl who represents emerging India in her originality, boldness, love for good things and appreciation of the global culture. She is the one who is not afraid of raising inconvenient issues and very calm in answering tough questions from a high-profile panel of international judges. PP or Pretty Priya is in fact a typical Indian girl reincarnated!”

That was true!

They placed the crown. I cried, hugged and thanked everybody and especially God. Confetti fell in a constant stream. Lasers beams added glitter. There were huge crackers and loud music. It was a staged fairy land for the TV-hooked audience!

I became an instant national celebrity and icon—thanks to the hungry media and a great reality show!

Katniss Everdeen has finally won!

A few nights later, woken up by lightning and thunder, I heard the famous rich baritone, “Happy?”

“Yes. Thank you, God.”

“You will soon realize the cost you have to pay for this dabbling in my plan,” He said and disappeared behind a white cloud.

Surprisingly, nobody else heard any voice or lighting and thunder that had totally shaken up the foundations of the neighbourhood and convulsed my bedroom.

Was it an illusion?

Too much of the unreality of Reality TV?

A manufactured high-tech fantasy?

Was I real or unreal? Some poor version of TV or B-grade film?

I could not figure out the right answers.

The answer arrived soon. In a non-glam setting, away from the camera lights and staged pomp of a big TV show.

It was a different show, a public spectacle of a different scale and appeal!

It was Ramleela. The open-air nightly public theatre free for all. The grand show! A costume drama where gods come down on the earth for their believers. A colourful show that is extremely popular in the north of India — kind of folk theatre involving loud music, dry humour and loud acting.

I was forced to watch this on a late evening in October in a village some 250-km away from Delhi.

We were returning from a show in a big vanity van along with an entire team of stylists, make-up men and body-guards hired by the Blondie Cream company for the product promotion in smaller cities and villages in malls and multiplexes that had recently mushroomed in the north Indian urban centers and semi-urban villages. Everywhere I was treated as royalty. Teen girls went berserk at every appearance. It meant good business.

Properly rouged, highlighted and enhanced, with large sunglasses and mandatory pouted lips, a black dress, I felt I was a real princess! There were assistants looking after my needs. And the company was paying good money. Two cars followed my van. As we were returning from a successful promotion, one of the senior personal assistants wanted me to visit his village to meet his grandmother and mother who was staying there for a few days. It was on the way. So, we decided to take a break and meet some village women for unscheduled promotion. The road-show manager liked the idea and so we halted at the village, some 10- km away from the national highway.

 A different world was waiting for us there…

It was a rural India hardly seen on television. Women roamed in half-veils. The eldest woman was the matriarch. Village elders rarely watched television. We were mere city slickers. I was not a gorgeous cover girl but an ordinary, overdressed female in that simple milieu. As the mother and grandmother had both gone for the local Ramleela and we were in a hurry to leave, we decided to trace them in the venue itself. The maternal family of the assistant seemed to be very important in the village and we were shown full courtesy and respect. With the help of a few volunteers, we could trace the grandmother and mother in the second front row. As the grandmother wanted to see Lord Rama, Sita and Laxmana, she asked us to sit for a while and watch the gods play their roles as human beings. Their avatars were sacred for the audience that sat spellbound by the spectacle being conducted on a well-lit vast stage.

The divines were before them in the human forms!

It was a special moment as women bowed at their appearance on the stage. They were very young actors taking their roles seriously. At one point in my life, I, too, was thrilled by the Ram Leela but this time, I found it primitive. Its earlier appeal was completely lost for me. The whole thing looked quizzically loud, garish and overdone. Actors were overly heavily painted, wore fake jewelry and long costumes. The make-up was too obvious for my refined taste. Phony hair-buns, dresses and arrows and aces looked out of sync. Even the dialogues were archaic for modern theatre. But the live audience loved every minute. The music, songs and long exchanges and monologues were hungrily lapped up. Many members could even recite the couplets from the Ramanaya along with the singers sitting at a corner of the stage.

It seemed that these rustics were producing/creating their individual versions of this popular epic by participating in this public event. The audience as the co-producer/creator of a public text held sacred by the Hindus across the centuries!

Even the brief comic interludes provided insightful commentary on the current political India and people laughed out loud at these crude jokes — as they do in the carnivals. Clowns appeared during the short scenery change and regaled the audience with their hilarious takes on corruption, casteism, communalism and other evils plaguing the nation of more than a billion people. Their buffoonery evoked universal mirth from the large public mainly sitting cross-legged on the green grass of the open ground under twinkling stars.

I was there for more than an hour and became restive. During another brief break, an over-done clown appeared and looked at me sitting on a sofa set in the front row — a few feet away, he shouted loudly, “A FREAK! A stiff  FREAK!”

“Where? Who?” asked his fat companion.

“There. Look at that figure. That freakish person.”

“Where?”

The first clown pointed at me. The second looked, confirmed and then shouted over the microphone, “Yes. A freak. Neither black nor brown nor white nor golden! What a freak! A devil in our midst!”

They slapped their hands and heads and laughed uproariously. People started looking at my direction. I stood up angry and hurt. Kids laughed. So did men and women. An old wild woman chased me out of the venue, cursing me loudly.

“You have defiled the show!” she shouted, angrily brandishing her staff, eyes crazed with hatred.

Then many urchins began running after me. I ran for my safety and when finally, I caught up with my driver and settled down in a running car, breathless and scared, I happened to glance at the rear-view mirror.

What I saw in the bumping car shocked me!

A multi-coloured cracked face was staring back at me!

Eerie!

Shocking!

It was like becoming an internal feature/ character part of a surrealistic work…perhaps by Dali!

And then the blackness of a long highway hit us…and a terror of new reality within the enclosed space of a moving car that almost left me nauseated and claustrophobic.

*desi — Local, Indian

*firangi — foreigner

*gora — white

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Sunil Sharma, an academic administrator and author-critic-poet–freelance journalist, is from suburban Mumbai, India. He has published 22 books so far, some solo and some joint, on prose, poetry and criticism. He edits the monthly, bilingual Setu: http://www.setumag.com/p/setu-home.html
For more details of publications, please visit the link below:
http://www.drsunilsharma.blogspot.in/

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

Categories
Stories

Chewing Gum

By Vipin Nair

“Two, two, two,” Uday yelled as they crossed each other in the middle of the pitch.

Nikhil wasn’t so sure about it. The ball hadn’t been timed too well, and the Reds fielder stationed at square leg was almost upon it. Still, Uday was his friend, the better batsman, and the captain of the Blues team. He didn’t want to be ridiculed later for refusing a risky run. He tapped his bat inside the crease and turned.

The folly became apparent to him ten yards into the second run. Uday was still rooted to the crease at the other end, his hand held up to indicate a change of plans.

S-m-a-c-k. The sound of ball knocking over the stumps felt like the crack of a whip on a horse’s behind. After a confident forty-nine, studded with eight glorious hits to the fence, Nikhil Tiwari was out.

Uday made a helpless face as Nikhil passed by. “You should have looked, duffer.”

“You should have shouted, you oaf,” hollered back Nikhil. Tears welled up in his eyes. The skin on his forehead crinkled. His chewing gum lost all its saccharine integuments and tasted for what it was: a strip of rubber that corroded the tongue.

For all practical purposes, a half-century in gully cricket was like a century in other formats of the game. That is to say it was rare to get one. And he had missed it by one run. One run. And that too on his birthday. His stomach churned at the injustice of it all as he walked back to the edge of the playground –- the pavilion, they called it, though it was merely a wooden bench stacked against the community water tank.

As he sank unto the bench, he caught Avani’s gaze upon him. She was watching the boys play from her verandah on the first floor. Had she seen him make a fool of himself just moments ago? A sullen prickle wormed its way up his throat as he considered the possibility. He averted his eyes.

Moments later, a few claps went around the ground as Uday brought up his half-century. Watching him raise the bat in celebration, Nikhil felt a wave of indignation sweep through himself.

The idiot always evoked mixed feelings in him.

Sure, Uday was the closest thing Nikhil had to a best friend, at least as far as Bengaluru was concerned. He had, in fact, readily taken Nikhil under his wings and often looked out for him. But the boy was also exceptionally skilled at driving those around him up the wall. Small, loyal acts of friendship would unfailingly be followed by some selfish, indefensible absurdity. He was incorrigible when it came to that.

For example, he’d always pick Nikhil in his team when it came to playing carrom, even when better players were available. But then he’d proceed to dominate the play in such a way that most of the coins were netted by him alone. Nikhil would simply end up providing assists.

Similarly, Uday would never say no when Nikhil sought him out to fly kites. But he’d insist on helming the string all the time. Cribs would spew forth from his mouth like latex from a lacerated stalk of the jack tree were the firki* ever thrust into his reluctant hands.

He was double-edged at school as well. He’d pick fights with other kids on Nikhil’s behalf for the silliest of reasons. But he also expected to be compensated for this loyalty by way of food. Lots of it, actually. This was a particularly difficult condition to fulfil on the days Mummy packed Nikhil her special three-cheese sandwiches for lunch. But Uday wouldn’t have it any other way.

And today, it had to be said, his Janus-faced tendencies had come to a boil.

It was obvious that Uday had purposely run Nikhil out. Having called for a second run and despite seeing that Nikhil was halfway down the pitch at his beckoning, he had chosen to stay put in his crease. Even the fact that it was Nikhil’s birthday had not prompted any altruism in him. In a similar situation, Nikhil would have gladly sacrificed his wicket for Uday. But such displays of large-heartedness were not for Uday.

Maybe he didn’t want Nikhil to score that half-century. Maybe he wanted to hog the limelight all alone. Maybe, just maybe, it had something to do with Avani observing the game.

Oh, how Nikhil hated Bengaluru! Uday was just one of his many vexations in this darned city.

Things had been so different in Delhi. He had friends there – real friends, and not just the ones he made do with, like was the case over here. He had doting relatives who would fawn over him all day. And he had Daadi, his grandmother, with her reams of stories and never-ending stack of sweet pinnis. His school had been so much nicer. Larger playground, better chemistry lab, that sort of thing. The teachers had been nicer too, more authentic accents and all. Heck, it was even easier to buy an ice cream, what with dozens of vendors hanging around the colony like wasps whizzing over water lilies, unlike here where everything was far from home and difficult to get to. If only Papa hadn’t gotten transferred! If only!

“Are you daydreaming?” The question snapped Nikhil out of the reverie. It was Uday. The match was over, and the leading run-scorer of the day had returned to the pavilion, victorious, bat held aloft.

Nikhil didn’t reply and merely shifted a little to the right to allow him to sit on the bench.

“Then? Are you jealous?” Uday’s eyes were fixed on Avani, who was pacing up and down the long verandah, trying to memorize something that was printed out on the paper in her hand.

“No,” replied Nikhil, mournfully.  “Why should I be?”

“Sorry, yaar(friend). It happens.”

“I know. Never mind.”

“I wish you had gotten your fifty.”

Nikhil glared reflexively at Uday. So the missed opportunity for him to score a half century had crossed the moron’s mind. Roiled and unwilling to prolong the conversation, he sprung to his feet. “See you at the party.”

Walking off, Nikhil distracted himself with happier thoughts such as the new shoes Mummy had bought him. The fit him snugly like a warm glove. He’d always wanted a pair of red sneakers, and now he finally had them. He’d wear them to the party. Avani was going to be there, and he’d like her to notice them.

***

When the doorbell rang, Nikhil was still to change into the new clothes Mummy had bought him on the previous weekend. It was Uday.

“Happy birthday, big fella” said Uday, holding forth a bar of chocolate. “I thought I’ll help with the arrangements. Must be hard to do it all yourself.”

A barely-concealed pall of disdain descended upon Nikhil. A regular-sized Dairy Milk? That’s the birthday gift? Cheapskate. Also, did Uday’s last-minute offer to help with the arrangements mean anything at all? Most of it was done anyway.

The furniture in the hall had been rearranged to open up more space for the guests to move around. The board games and jigsaw puzzles had been brought out into the living room. Mummy had made four different kinds of savouries, baked a banana cake and checked on the status of the order with the caterers. A bucketful of milkshake had been prepared and stowed into the fridge. Papa had even sent an office-boy home to help put up the fairy lights and attend to other handyman jobs. Only the return gifts remained to be placed in the paper bags.

“Thank you for coming, Uday,” said Mummy, as she came in from behind. Upon hearing of Uday’s offer to help with party arrangements, she suggested that they pick out some comics for the smaller kids who might show up.

“Good idea,” exclaimed Uday as soon as she finished talking and trotted off to Nikhil’s bedroom which housed the bookshelf. Left with no option, Nikhil followed suit.

As they pulled out old issues of Asterix, Tintin, Tinkle and Spiderman from the bookshelf, a frayed copy of Ouran High School Host Club caught Nikhil’s eye. It was the only manga series in his collection. Knowing that Avani was an avid manga fan, he quietly slipped it into his stack, careful not to attract Uday’s attention.

The duo had barely finished setting up the comics on the corner table when the doorbell rang again. The evening’s guests had begun showing up.

Over the next hour or so, the rest of the invitees too trickled in, some with their parents, some with their younger siblings, carrying gifts of varying sizes. The cricketers, the Reds as well as the Blues, turned up in full strength. A couple of classmates from school dropped by as well. At some point, Avani walked in, dressed in a checked pinafore dress, with her younger brother for company. Nikhil’s father, the busy corporate honcho that he was, was one of the last ones to arrive.

The evening swung along fairly expected lines, like birthday celebrations of twelve-year-olds tended to.

The parents huddled together with their favourite poisons in two groups, the men in the verandah and the women around the couch, exchanging notes and being silently dismayed by each other’s enfant terribles. The kids spread themselves more democratically around the house and played every newly-discovered game twice over. Some food spilled onto the carpet. A few pieces of the jigsaw puzzle went missing. A bawling infant somewhere wetted his mother’s saree. The milkshake ran out. Eventually, everyone came together and sang Happy Birthday to Nikhil. The cake was cut, photographs were taken and dinner was served to the guests.

At an opportune moment after the cacophony had died down somewhat, finding Avani sitting alone flipping through a magazine, Nikhil approached her.

“Do you like manga?” he asked, holding out the copy he had picked from the bookshelf.

“Oh, I love it,” she replied and pounced on it like a kitten served with slivers of dried fish. Wasting no time, she riffled through the pages, causing Nikhil no little exultation.

“You can keep it,” he said without trying to sound desperately magnanimous, prompting Avani to smile. Her eyes sparkled. “Can I really? Oh, that’d be so cool. Thank you!”

All of a sudden, a sharp voice to their left put paid to the jolliness. “It’s not for kids.”

Both Nikhil and Avani turned their heads in unison to look. It was Uday. He was licking the last driblets of chocolate sauce off the ice cream stick, and staring at them.

“Of course, it is,” retorted Nikhil, his eyebrows bunched together in exasperation. Why, oh why, did this imbecile have to show up!

“Well, my mum says it isn’t.” Uday walked over and flumped down on the futon right besides Avani. “Certainly not for girls.”

“I am just one frigging year younger than you,” sneered Avani. The peeve showed on her face.

“Never mind that.” Adjusting his spectacles, Uday turned to face Nikhil. “You are spoiling her, you know?”

For the second time in the day, Nikhil glared at Uday but to no avail. Unsure of what to say or do next, he just stood there, immobilised and aware that despite the red shoes and the manga series, the bird had been chased away by the scarecrow.

No sooner had the realization dawned on him, Avani kept the manga comic aside and got up. “I guess I’ll go. Bye, Nikhil.”

Nikhil waved weakly as she marched across the room towards her little brother who was still piecing the jigsaw puzzle together in the company of younger kids. A few minutes later, the siblings made their way out of the front door, and Nikhil could only look on, lament written large on his face.

With the clock pushing past ten, other guests began leaving as well. By eleven, nearly everyone had left including Uday, whose cheer seemed to have multiplied since the scuttling of Nikhil’s prospects.

When an exhausted Nikhil slipped into bed that night, all he could think about was the smile Avani threw him right before Uday showed up and poured cold water over everything. It was a dreamy smile, one that pulled at the ripcords of something unexplained within him. It could have meant something, something he didn’t quite understand, had the moment been allowed to extend itself. A sigh escaped him as the moment replayed in his head. He finally drifted off to sleep only a good hour or so later, tired of all the cogitation.

***

At the playground, it was business as usual. The Reds, having won the toss, chose to bat and the Blues spread themselves around the field. Nikhil positioned himself at the boundary. Uday brought himself on to bowl. Avani peeped from between the curtains of her bedroom from time to time.

Unusually for a team that liked to hustle from the word go, the Reds got off to an ennui-inducing start. The openers got out cheaply and the rest of the batsmen simply plodded along. The ball wasn’t hit in Nikhil’s direction for nearly all of the first fifteen minutes, and soon he found himself bored.

Just as he was beginning to stifle a yawn, the persistent cawing between the parked cars to his side caught his ear. The birds had been at it for a while now and seemed to be in no mood to let up. He walked over to check.

There were three, maybe four of them, swooping down from the weather-beaten tamarind tree, along an arc of agony, investigating some kind of disastrous predicament on the ground. In that split-second of distressed flight, there was a clumsy grace that was seldom associated with these birds otherwise. The urgency of the hour seemed to lend them rare agreeableness.

Nikhil watched them from a distance, beguiled.

He hadn’t been required to wrap his head around something like this before. Owls were wise. Peacocks were pretty. Parrots were loquacious. Doves were peaceable. Eagles were sharp and cuckoos, sly. But crows? What were they supposed to be except unlucky, unwelcome, pestilent?

Well, he was beginning to find out.

They first began pecking it with their beaks. The one on the right went at it first, and then the others followed suit. Not too long after that, they began clawing it. It started with a nudge and quickly exacerbated into an amateur avian contact sport. The noise from their incessant cawing gradually rose. One by one, tirelessly, they took turns to goad it astir. They hovered around it, switching directions and swapping positions, flitting their wings about as they infused more vigour into every appeal of theirs.

With every failed moment of persuasion, their desperation grew direr. The cawing transformed into a ceaseless clamour. The pecking turned more furious. At some point, the clawing resulted in the ripping of the hapless creature’s skin and revealed the red flesh beneath. But nothing seemed to help matters. Nothing roused it from its final slumber.

The watchman’s pet mutt came strutted in out of nowhere, and dispersed the winged belligerents. Otherwise timid and respectful of the tiniest of birds, the prospect of a tasty snack seemed to have enkindled in it some latent courage.

The crows flew up to the tamarind tree and looked down at their fallen cousin. The dog pawed the dead bird, and upon ascertaining a satisfactory lack of response, gathered it in its mouth. It then looked at Nikhil for the faintest part of a second, and then trotted off, tail wagging and the prized trophy firmly ensconced in its jaws.

As if on cue, Uday called out to Nikhil. It was his turn to bowl.

On his way into the middle to take the ball, the fog lifted in Nikhil’s mind.

Even a guileless dog, he realized, will feast on a bird that has stopped flying. He had settled for the first hand of friendship extended to him. He was a bird; he belonged to the skies and with other birds. As one grows up, as he was discovering now, the rules of friendship change. One gets to choose one’s friends. And not everyone can be befriended.

Nikhil spat out the chewing gum. Who knew that crows and canines could teach so much?

***

Vipin Nair is a late bloomer on a born-again creative quest. Have survived seven cities, two major earthquakes and a dozen Zumba classes. Occasional marketeer. Compulsive alliterator. Passed out of Mudra Institute of Communication Ahmedabad once although exactly why remains a mystery. His work has been published in The Ken, The Times of India and The India Film Project’s short film anthology.

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

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Stories

The Nefertiti Diamond

By K.N. Ganguly                                        

I live in a small flat in London. I teach in a school here, the students of which are mostly of Asiatic and Caribbean origin. Every morning I leave my flat after breakfast, which I make myself. I dine out and return to my flat around ten every night. I have very few friends but I know quite a few Indians who come to London regularly on business or on holiday.

It was a Sunday morning. I was still lolling in bed, soaking in a mixture of laziness and fresh air, when my telephone rang.

I picked up the receiver sleepily and said, “Hello?”

“Monty, this is Jhun Jhun,” came the reply. “I want to meet you just now.”

I became alert at once. “Jhun Jhun, what is it about?”

“It’s something serious, really serious. I am in deep trouble. I’ll tell you everything when I meet you.”

“Come along, then,” I said. “I’ll be waiting for you.” Jhun Jhun’s real name was Rajesh Jhunjhunwala. He was a diamond merchant. We knew each other from our school days, and we were good friends. He made it a point to look me up when he came to London. Occasionally, we spent weekends together on the seafront. Jhun Jhun owned a small bungalow outside London.

I had just got dressed when a cab stopped outside my flat. Jhun Jhun paid the cabbie, then hurried in, but paused a moment outside the door. As soon as he entered the flat, he locked the door, then peered through the roadside window. His podgy face certainly looked disturbed. I made him sit on a sofa. Then I gave him a cup of tea and asked him to tell me his story.

“Well, it’s a long story. As you know, I’m in the diamond business. It’s a small firm really, and I thought I could do better if I tied up with some other diamond merchants. So, about six months ago, I posted a notice on my website seeking business contacts with other diamond firms. There was hardly any response, but that was only to be expected. The diamond trade is controlled by cartels which fiercely guard themselves against poaching by outsiders. And then, I got a pleasant surprise. Someone who introduced himself as Nobles contacted me. He promised to give me tips about family jewelry held as heirlooms by old and noble families, now impoverished and eager to dispose them off secretly. He also expected similar gestures from me, which I promised to do.

“I didn’t hear from Nobles again till last week. He said he would send me a diamond for valuation. But there was no real hurry. I could keep the diamond with me, a la ‘The Purloined Letter’ by Edgar Allan Poe. He would collect it from me, and of course, there would be a consideration for my services. I had read the story of  ‘The Purloined Letter’ in school. I understood that Nobles wanted me to keep the diamond in an easily accessible place rather than in a safe, so as to hoodwink criminals if they got wind of it.

“That very night around 3 a.m., my doorbell rang. As I opened the door — you know, I stay alone in my house — I saw a man with a moustache wearing a hat and dark glasses. He drew out a small packet from the inside pocket of his coat, gave it to me and vanished. All this happened so fast that I hardly noticed the face of the man or his general appearance.

“Anyway, I locked the door and went to my bedroom. When I opened the packet, I was simply dazzled. I had never seen a diamond of this size. It sparkled from all angles. My immediate assessment of the value of the diamond was between one and one-and-a-half million pounds. However, I left the diamond in a tin box containing buttons, skeins of thread and needles.  Surely no one would look for a priceless diamond in a tin box left on the dressing table. Every day I checked the tin box to assure myself that the diamond was still there. But last night, to my horror, I found the diamond missing.

“My first thought was to call the police, but I immediately checked myself. I didn’t know the antecedents of Nobles. Besides, how could I be sure that it was not a stolen diamond? On the other hand, Nobles was bound to hold me responsible for the loss of the diamond. He might even suspect that I had caused the loss intentionally with the help of my associates.

“So here I am, Monty. I am not even able to think anymore. I have many acquaintances in London, some in high places. But you are the only one to whom I could confide a matter like this.”

I understood the seriousness of the problem but managed to stay calm. Suddenly I remembered my schooldays’ hero. “Eureka!” I shouted. “Come on, let’s go to Sherlock Holmes!”

“Sherlock Holmes? Are you mad, Monty? Holmes will have been dead many years now!”

“How do you know? Vitamins and medicines can rejuvenate and prolong life. Well, he may not be active now, but it is the mind that matters. Let’s find out from the telephone directory.”

I looked up the Telephone Directory and was happy to find in it, Holmes, Sherlock, 21B Baker Street.

“Come, we’ll catch him now”, I said and simply dragged my friend out of the house.

When we arrived at Holmes’ address, we found it was a very old, rather shabby building. We pressed the bell at the entrance door and within a few minutes, the door was opened by an old and wizened woman wearing an apron and a very pleasant smile. “Good morning, gentlemen. Do you want to see Mr. Holmes on some very urgent business? Well, please come in.”

We were ushered into a large sitting room. The floor was covered with an old, worn-out carpet. There were a couple of sofas, several easy chairs and a rocking chair. At one side of the room, there was a marble-topped table with a pipe, an umbrella and a violin on it. There was a grand piano at one end of the room and photographs of Sherlock Holmes covered practically all the walls. I was taken aback. Was it a Sherlock Holmes Memorial and was the old woman merely trying to tease us? Just then, two middle-aged gentlemen entered the room—one, tall and gaunt with clean features, the other a bit swarthy and portly. The tall gentleman said, “I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr. Watson. Those are my grandfather’s memorabilia that you were looking at. Dr. Watson is also the grandson of my grandfather’s friend.” At this stage, Dr. Watson came forward and shook my hand. “I am Anil Watson,”he said.

“Anil or O’niell?” I asked. “Anil is an Indian name.”

“Yes, I am part Indian,” he replied. “You see, my father, also a doctor, married a fellow-student who happened to be an Indian. My mother named me Anil.”

We introduced ourselves. “I am Montu Gangaur, Monty Gang for short. This is Rajesh Jhunjhunwala, better known as Jhun Jhun.”

“Fine. Well, gentlemen, I know you have come to see me on a specific problem of yours. We will get down to business shortly, but before that, I would like to indulge in a game, as was my grandfather’s practice. You may call it a guessing game, but it helps sharpening the intellect. Now, Watson, please take a quick look at Mr. Monty Gang’s face and tell me what impression you get.”

“Well, it’s a round face, evidently his eyes are weak, his thick glasses give that away. He is bald as a pumpkin, it’s likely that baldness runs in his family. Also, he frowns from time to time. That implies impatience. Besides, he likes to hear his own voice more than that of others’. Well, that’s about all.  I hope you haven’t taken any offense, Mr. Gang?”

“Of course not,” I said.

“Excellent, Watson,” said Holmes. “That was a very good exposition. But didn’t you notice that the colour of the skin above his brow is slightly lighter than that of the rest of his face? Then, watch his eyes. Did you notice that when Mr. Gang was looking at the marble-topped table to his left, his head had turned completely to the left. Had his left eye been functioning, he wouldn’t have done that. But his left eye is not completely sightless. Watch him closely, Watson. Well, Mr. Gang, what did you think of my deductions?”

I was startled. “You were simply marvelous, Mr. Holmes. Yes, I was involved in an air-crash, which left burns on my scalp and my left eye is severely damaged but not sightless.”

Holmes now looked at Jhun Jhun, who was sitting quietly, puffing away at his cigar. “Now, Mr. Jhun Jhun, you’re a diamond merchant, aren’t you? And you have close connections with South Africa — Johannesburg, to be precise. Would I be correct in saying that the cigar you are smoking is a gift from your South African principals?”

Jhun Jhun was visibly surprised. “Well, Mr. Holmes, how did you know that I am a diamond merchant, or that this cigar was a gift to me from the diamond merchants of Johannesburg?”

“Quite elementary, Mr. Jhun Jhun. If you smell your cigar smoke, you will find there is a very slight rose scent in it. This unique variety of tobacco was produced by a Spanish planter in Cuba about two hundred years ago by crossbreeding tobacco and rose plants. His African slave killed him in a fit of temper, destroyed his plantation and ran away with a few specimens. Ultimately, he found shelter in Johannesburg and sold the secret plants to a diamond merchant. From then on, this variety of tobacco has been grown by that diamond family and used exclusively for business promotion.”

Jhun Jhun did not know what to say. His first reaction was that Holmes must have learnt of it from some of his friends. Then he realized that was absurd, as no friend of his, not even I, knew about the origin of that cigar. “Well, Mr. Holmes,” he mumbled, “you are a genius.” Holmes puffed his pipe and looked at Watson. Then he smiled and said, “Well, now let us get down to business.” Jhun Jhun repeated what he had said to me. Holmes asked him, “On which day did you get the diamond?”

“Wednesday night or Thursday morning, whatever you choose to say.”

“And it disappeared yesterday, that is on Saturday.” He closed his eyes and puffed away for some time, then dialed on his telephone.

“Inspector Wilson?” Holmes said. “This is Sherlock Holmes. I read in the papers about the theft of Baroness Rothschild’s Nefertiti diamond. I also know that the French diamond thief Charles Dupin came to London a few days ago. Have you thought about the obvious link between the two events?”

The reply from the other side was quite audible. Wilson was saying, “Look here, Holmes, it seems you are as pompous as your so-called famous grandfather. Do you think we are so dim-witted we wouldn’t turn the heat on Dupin? In fact, my men have been tailing him constantly since the disappearance of the Nefertiti diamond. Let me tell you, Holmes, Dupin seems to be a reformed man. He said he had come here as a tourist. We found he basked in the sun in Hyde Park, fed the pigeons at Marble Arch, even watched the Change of Guards at Buckingham Palace. He is a well-read man and can be quite witty. Despite all this, we made a thorough search of his hotel room and even brought him to the Yard for a further personal search. Well Holmes, there was nothing—absolutely nothing—incriminating on him.”

“Look, Wilson, I have no time to argue with you. Right now, I have enough evidence that proves his complicity. He must be on his way to France, but you may yet be able to catch him if you make an all-out effort straightaway. I would also suggest that when you get him, do not leave anything — pen, wrist-watch or cigarette lighter — out of a minute scrutiny. In particular, a cigarette lighter would provide ample scope for hiding a diamond in a special compartment. Well, I leave you to your job now. Don’t forget to inform me when you have retrieved the diamond.” All of us were watching Holmes, who quietly put down the receiver and said, “Gentlemen, we are all very hungry. Let us walk down the Strand and find a good restaurant.”

It was lunchtime. Most of the restaurants were crowded, but we found a quiet corner in a small place. Holmes asked Watson to place the order for all of us. I noticed he was somewhat edgy. And then his cellphone rang. “Holmes? This is Wilson. Thanks for the tip. We were able to catch Dupin just when he was about to leave the hotel. Well, your guess was right. The diamond was concealed in his cigarette lighter. You know, Holmes, he had cupped the lighter and was pretending to light a cigarette. Looked very natural. But I remembered your warning and grabbed the lighter. Indeed, there was a compartment at the lower end of the lighter and inside it lay the diamond.”

After lunch, we exchanged pleasantries and returned to our respective places. Next morning, we again went to meet Holmes to find out whether there was any suspicion on Jhun Jhun. Holmes was very pleasant. He asked us to join him at breakfast and then said that Jhun Jhun was absolutely in the clear, as there was no evidence against him, nor had Dupin mentioned his name. Just then, the doorbell rang, and the old maid went to answer it. She came back shortly, accompanied by a liveried chauffeur. “Baroness Rothschild’s compliments, Sir,” said the man and handed Holmes a small packet. Holmes unwrapped it slowly, and inside was a velvet case containing an exquisite diamond ring for all of us to see.

“Well, well! Wilson is not a bad fellow after all! He must have mentioned my name to the Baroness, instead of taking the credit himself.”

Holmes was standing with the gift. It was clearly time for us to leave. We stood up. “Mr. Holmes, we are grateful to you for all the help and courtesies extended to us. Jhun Jhun is now a relieved man, and as his friend, I also share his relief. I have read so much about the exploits of your legendary grandfather, but I think the grandson’s brilliance is not a bit less.”

Holmes looked a bit embarrassed. “Your compliments flatter me, Mr. Gang. I see you are ready to leave now, but I have a feeling you would like to hear the whole story, as the snatches you have heard so far leave many gaps.” Holmes then led us to the sitting room. “Please sit down, gentlemen”, he said, and then sat down on the rocking chair. He took some time to take out his pipe, fill it carefully with tobacco and light it. “Well, gentlemen, here is the full story. But let me caution you beforehand. In the absence of hard facts, I had to depend equally on conjecture and logic. The whole truth will no doubt come out after the police have finally interrogated Charles Dupin, but I am sure it will not substantially alter my story. Here it is then.”

“As I told you before, the Rothschild clan is spread over several continents and countries. They started about two hundred years ago as bankers but over the last century, they moved into shipping, industry, mining, real estate, etc. and acquired immense wealth. It is said that the Nefertiti diamond also came into the family a little over a hundred years ago. The clan members — at least the majority of them — believe they owe their sharp rise to prosperity to this diamond and therefore look upon it with reverence. Traditionally, Baron Rothschild is regarded as the head of the clan, and therefore is the custodian of the diamond, which is kept in a special vault in Lloyd’s Bank. However, the clan holds an annual banquet in Baron Rothschild’s mansion, which is attended by representatives of all its branches. Evidently, a banquet was held last Saturday. It is customary for the Nefertiti Diamond to be kept in the Rothschild mansion hall for two days, prior to the banquet for viewing by the clan members. The diamond should therefore have been on view from Thursday last week and brought to the mansion from the bank on the previous day, that is, Wednesday. As per Mr. Jhun Jhun’s statement, it was handed to him at around 3 a.m. on Thursday morning. Assuming the diamond was taken out of the bank at about 4 p.m. on Wednesday, the theft should have occurred within the next ten hours or so. But who could have stolen it? Obviously, Dupin could not have had access to the mansion, or known precisely where it was kept. There would also be family members and domestic staff all over the place and a stranger would be easily spotted. No, I don’t think it was Dupin, it must have been an inside job. But the person was Dupin’s accomplice, for he took the diamond to Jhun Jhun’s place as per Dupin’s plan. The insider could be a family member or a domestic help.

“Baron Rothschild’s second son is known to have a dubious reputation. He seems always to be involved in one scandal or the other and his name appears on the gossip columns of the newspapers more than once a month. However, I can’t imagine him as an accomplice of Dupin, because the risk would be too high for him, and also, one or two credit him with some loyalty to the family.

“Then come the domestic staff. Since the diamond would be removed to the hall the next morning, I would presume the Baron would keep it in his personal suite on Wednesday. Normally, only senior staff members like the valet or the senior maid would have access to the Baron’s suite, and I wouldn’t expect any of them to be foolish enough to indulge in such a job and risk their careers and reputation. It is more likely that Dupin’s accomplice joined the staff as a junior member — there would always be a need for an extra man or a substitute, for instance, when the valet wants a day off for temporary relief or they need a replacement. I’m sure Dupin would have found a man, pleasant-looking and well-behaved, with a few forged references. A place in the mansion would not be difficult to find.” Sherlock Holmes stopped for a while to re-light his pipe. I wanted to know a little more about the diamond ritual. “Did you ever attend any of these banquets, Mr. Holmes?” I asked him.

“I’m afraid not, but my grandfather did. And there’s a lovely bit recorded by him about this ritual. Wait, I’ll read it out to you,” Holmes said, and went to one of the bookshelves lining the wall. He pulled out a leather-bound volume and thumbed through the leaves. Then he found the right page and returned to us with the book in his hand. “Now, listen to this –

‘Sherlock was sitting quietly in his rocking chair smoking his pipe, seemingly lost in thought when Watson walked in. “Good morning, Holmes,” he said. “You seem to be in a pensive frame of mind. Did anything go wrong at yesterday’s banquet? Or perhaps the food didn’t agree with you!”

 ‘“Oh, no, no! The arrangements were excellent, the party was exhilarating, and the food was indeed very good. It was really the spectacle of the Nefertiti diamond ritual that moved me. As you know, the annual banquet at the Rothschild mansion is meant for the members of the Rothschild clan. But many distinguished people like writers and artists, eminent in their own field, are invited. I had the good fortune to attend the banquet a few years ago. Before the start of the banquet, the guests were taken to a large hall, at one end of which there was a glass case on a heavy rosewood table fixed to the floor. The glass case had a wooden frame which was screwed to the table. Inside the case lay the famous Nefertiti diamond on a velvet cushion.

‘“When I looked at the diamond, my whole being was filled with awe. It was a brilliant diamond sparkling from all angles. It was something like a brilliant star. Well, the sun is also a star, but when you look at the sun, it not only dazzles you, but also burns your eyes, so to say. But imagine a star shining with as much luster as the sun, but its sparkling rays as soothing as the spouting waters of a fountain. Then, I watched a strange spectacle: a row of clan members passing by the glass case mutely and reverently as if it were some holy object. I don’t know Watson, whether you will believe it. Suddenly it seemed to me that I was standing in front of the glass coffin of the magnificent Queen Nefertiti in ancient Egypt and rows of noblemen were passing by it in deep veneration. You know, Watson, it left in me a feeling of awe. Somehow, I’ve not been able to overcome it. You might say, I’m still in a trance,” he laughed.’

“I hope you will now be able to understand the value of this diamond to the Rothschilds, and the deep shock they must have gone through after its disappearance.”

I said, “Mr. Holmes, I have a complete set of Sherlock Holmes stories which I read and re-read in my childhood and also when I grew up. Strangely, I don’t recall having come across the passage you read out to us just now. I always thought the original Sherlock Holmes was a pragmatist, and that his driving force was logic and reason. But now I know there was also a romantic trait in him. But now, let’s go back to the rest of the diamond case. One thing that intrigues me is how you guessed that Dupin would have kept the diamond concealed in his cigarette lighter.’

“Oh, that’s quite a simple guess, isn’t it! You see, practically everybody carries a pen and a watch. A smoker also carries a cigarette case and a lighter. Normally these are used openly, and one wouldn’t suspect them to be hiding places. A cigarette case is in any case quite inappropriate, because it doesn’t have any place to hide anything. A watch or a pen would be quite inconvenient for hiding a diamond. So, I thought the lighter would be the most likely object. It was only an inference after all, but it clicked. Any more questions, gentlemen?”

I looked at Jhun Jhun. He nodded his head as if to signify he had none. I said to Holmes, “I think our curiosity has been satisfied. No, we have nothing further to ask you. You have given us a lot of your time and your patience is limitless.”

Holmes stood up. “It has been my pleasure,” he said and shook our hands warmly.

When we came out of the house, Jhun Jhun said, “The old man Sherlock Holmes was an amazing man, wasn’t he? I wish we had someone like him in our diamond business. There is such a lot of cheating and forgery in the business and there is none to protect an honest man!”

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Mr. K.N. Ganguly was born in 1924, did his schooling in many of the smaller towns of undivided Bengal, and then Calcutta. He graduated with Honours in History, from Presidency College. He then joined Law college but did not attain the degree as he joined the Calcutta Port Commissioners (today’s Kolkata Port Trust) in 1945. He retired from the Port in 1982, after a long career which witnessed many changes in his city and country. An avid reader, his interests covered many genres, ranging from fiction and crime fiction to biographies, travelogues and political essays. He is not a published writer but has always been fond of writing.

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

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A Soldier’s Story

By Praniti Gulyani

It is difficult for you to write about love. And now, it has become even more difficult for you to read about love as well.

But, it isn’t as though you haven’t written about love before. You have written many a poem about your son’s wide eyes that were nothing short of almond shaped resemblances of the sky, at least for you. You have composed many a prose about the scent of lavender and baby powder that clung to him, and about those instances when you would bury your exhausted face in his rainbow t-shirt, forgetting all the worries of the world. That scent of lavender and baby powder could rid you of all the troubles of the mind, because in that little body – so much of you dwelt.

Today, you writhe and squirm under the heat of the moon, trying to rid your mouth of that bitter, metallic taste. They come to you, and your son does too –- clutching the thin volume of poetry you had published as a college freshman, the colourful post it notes which held split portions of the many Ghazals that you had composed. The verses that she had pulled out of from the back of school registers and grave files are sellotaped to your walls, yet you look at them with blank eyes. Your eyes are lifeless craters, devoid of all traces of life, all traces of emotion, craters that probably exist for the sake of existing. They seem to have no real purpose.

Your wife brings out your letters where you’d written that there could be nothing more poetic than war. You’d compared war to a skillfully written verse with a myriad layers. Yes, at times this verse does tend to attain a slightly lopsided position, but surely that does not determine the lyrical capabilities of the verse. You told her about how a butterfly sat on the top of your trigger, about how some of your mates wrapped their guns in blankets, because they did not want the snow to fill into the trigger. You spoke about the crackle of wine, the sourness of beer, the necessity of alcohol, which could at times become so bitter that it was almost startling.

On those occasional calls, you’d talk about the border, the way you saw a grass blade beneath the electrocuted coils, one half of it there, one half of it here. You spoke about how a flower growing there, let some of its petals drop into your land, and how no one fought over those petals, no one thrust bullet after bullet into the flower, because it dared to let its bullets fall on the other side. You observed too much, you thought too much, but you were tall and strong, so you made for a good soldier.

“Just subtract the unnecessary emotion,” a comrade had once told you. “Add some vengeance, some drive, and some hatred for the other side. Well, not just some hatred. A lot of it. Multiply it by five, even. It would do you a whole lot of good.”

The sin had cast its rusty hues upon the world that day, when the border could no longer restrain hatred, and it spilled over from either end. You stood at attention, proud and tall, and you shot many a bullet. You heard the resounding thud of sudden death – of young death all around you, but you paid no heed. Your heart had adorned itself in a frosty cloak of indifference, and you were proud of it.

Suddenly, you were pushed to the ground, and the barrel of your gun was shoved into your mouth. A boot heel crushed your fingers, as you felt your incisors bump against the cold, hard metal. For the first time in your life, you tasted your own blood. And then, they did what they had to do with you. You don’t remember any of it.

You just remember the stench of burning skin. Possibly, it was burning hair. Or maybe, it was burning clothes. The past and present had merged into each other, and the borders separating these three essential phases of time had melted away into thin vapor, the vapor that lingers behind after explosions. The borders of your soul had melted away.

Today, you sit upon your bed. Your son is prohibited from entering your room, especially after you advanced upon him with your gun a day ago. He had thrown his little arms around your neck, giving you his typical strangling hug, and that sudden tightness of breath was so unbearable, and so scarily familiar to you. You had hurled him to the ground and seized your gun. You had almost pulled the trigger. Your wife timidly tiptoes in with your meals and leaves them on your table. She has tried her best – cooking your favorite meals almost every day, ranging from the pav bhaji and makki ki roti you would fall for. She has stopped saying anything at all. Most often, she clears away untouched plates.

The evening shadows dance upon your wall, as you stare at the cracks that have formed over the week, after you constantly whipped the wall with a golf stick. You pick at your nail, biting it, peeling off the skin till it bleeds. Suddenly, your eyes fall on a diary. You grab it and examine it with confused eyes. A part of you wants to rip the cover apart, and pull out page after page, for destruction is your nature. But you open it – and run a finger along the blank pages, holding the diary to your face.

A tear trickles down your eyes, and moistens the page, which is already dotted with the blood from your injured nail. You watch the tear and the drop of blood merges, slowly and steadily attaining oneness. It is so intriguing to discover togetherness in absolute abstraction They merge on the page with grace and such easiness, crossing all the borders that lay between them. They were so distinct — so different from one another, just like contrasting countries, just like contrasting people. But possibly, borders are always a choice, never an action of necessity.

You don’t hurl the poem away. You don’t rip the diary apart. You don’t stamp upon it with your soldier’s boots. Nor do you jab your trigger into it and threaten to kill it. You revel in the pain of what you’d just created, for one doesn’t always need words and memories to create poetry.

Sometimes, it is just has to happen.


Praniti Gulyani is an aspiring poet from New Delhi. She enjoys debating, theatre and fiction in addition to haikai literature. She believes in voicing her opinions through her stories and poems, and sees literature as the strongest and most beautiful form of protest.

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Thus Spake the Vagabond

The First Tale*: Mother Mary and the Angel

by Dr. Haneef Shareef (Translated from Balochi by Fazal Baloch)

Dr Haneef Shareef

Almost after eleven long years he dreamed again. He saw his last dream when he was thirty-five and now, he was almost an old man at forty-six. Stretched on his bed in the nephrology department, as he shut his eyes, he saw the dream.

Mother Mary and the angel appeared like the fond memories of his bygone days. Dust and haze were gone and the days of thirst and scorching heat were over. Under the cloud covered sky, the two old familiar shadows emerged after a long wait. He recognised them. Even if he wished, he could not forget them. What he gained from his dreams in the last thirty-five years were the two kind faces; Mother Mary and the angel, whom he had since childhood been desperate to meet in every dream. And today, after eleven tedious years, they returned home.

As usual Mother Mary was standing a step ahead of the angel. She was silent. Moonlight had drenched her hair and a long journey towards her destination lingered in her eyes. He had etched her eyes in his heart and mind. Light was pouring forth from Mother Mary’s white robe. She seemed to have been encircled by cotton flowers and wax-moths. The entire ward was enveloped in the scent of camphor. Mother Marry looked at the dialysis machine which was making a gurgling sound. Blood coursing in a tube attached to his arm was passing through the machine and after being purified returning to his body through another tube. The machine was an alternative to his kidneys, enabling him to push his book cart forward.

He wished to go on a pilgrimage to Mecca and there, he would see a dream. The overcast sky; gentle breeze; clad in an Arabic robe, he would lead Mother Mary’s camel along the high mountains and before the end of the dream, ahead of dusk they would cross the desert. And then by the fountains, under the shades of the blessings he would marvel at flowing streams of milk and trees laden with figs and mulberries. Yet he knew, at present, the pilgrimage was beyond his reach as both of his kidneys had given in. He could only drag his life on with the support of the dialysis machine. He knew that once a week, he had to endure the pain and solitude of the dialysis room. He had never thought that he would have the dream during his dialysis session.

He was quite astonished that the angel was still thirty-five. Exactly thirty-five. He looked the same as he appeared thirty-five years ago. As far as he could remember, they both grew up in the same period. Whenever in dreams they ran into another, they mulled over the same plans and played the same games.

They had travelled for thirty-five years and half at the same pace in the course of their life. They shared the same age. Hence, he always used to think that the angel was his twin brother who lived with the Virgin Mary. Sometimes in scorching afternoons he would come out and look for him. He didn’t look like the angel, but he believed that he was blessed with a heavenly age and sent on the Earth. He traced his lineage to angels, created from fire, far superior to these earthly folks. But the fact was otherwise. He spent his whole life in selling books at his book cart.

Kamal always tried to convince him that he was a liar.  He told him that he was destined to sell books at his book cart and to look eagerly at people was his need. In fact, while selling books he had sold himself as well. But he refused to believe.  He had a world of fake dreams around him.

He always argued with Kamal. He never wanted to see him. He never visited his house or walked past his clinic. If someone from his family fell ill, he would take him to the civil hospital and would stand there in the middle of the crowd in the scorching heat but would never seek Kamal’s help. He began to avoid him.

His dreams never left him alone. He never sought Kamal’s help nor yearned for another’s confidence. After losing faith in his own cousin Kamal, he never shared his dreams with anybody anymore. He took refuge in his dreams.

As heaven is not kind forever. At thirty five, while pushing his book cart down home, one evening he felt stabbing pain around his waist. He felt glowing ambers running down his sides. Thus, began the never-ending visits to hospitals. He couldn’t help but finally sought Kamal’s favour. If the nephrologist were not Kamal’s friend, they would have not offered him free dialysis for eleven years.

Death lurked nearer him with every step he took.  He thought that actually he was not one person. Rather his body housed two people. Both got up early in the morning, had their breakfasts and set out for their daily rounds. Gradually he felt heaviness on his shoulders. He told Kamal he felt as if he was carrying a dead body and his shoulders were weighing down by its burden. He also lamented that people around him would never share his burden. Kamal always invited him home and treated him to tea and saw him off at his clinic. People always noticed that he walked with uneasiness. As if he was dragging a funeral pyre on his shoulder. His family witnessed another change in his sleeping posture. He crouched on his bed in such a way that it seemed as if a baby slept beside him and he was afraid that he would roll over him in his sleep. He spent his nights in great agony.

And then came the sleepless nights. Sleep had forgotten the address of his eyes. In those days his relatives too had gradually begun to forget him. Mother Mary and the angel had forgotten him as well. Neither did the Virgin Mary send him a message nor was there any trace of the angel. Afternoons were as hot as fire and nights as cold as ice.

He waited for many months. At times, he deliberately attempted to catch a dream and planned to write a few letters. But there was not any trace of the dream. Again he desired to go for Haj. He bought an earthen piggy bank to start saving money. But he never shared his plan with his family. Eleven years went down the line, the dialysis machine had become an integral part of his life. Whenever Kamal and the nephrologist met, they always brooded over the reason that had kept him alive and determined.

Usually after two years of dialysis, patients caved into death. Rather they sought emancipation in death. But he dragged on to labour the years. The desire for Haj had kept him alive and healthy. He knew that he could not go out of this city. He could not leave Kamal. He knew that on each sacred day his family prayed for someone’s calm death. He felt as if they had been mourning someone for last two years. He didn’t know who was about to breathe his last at home. After all he was to go for Haj. He feared that someone might die like his dream while he would be performing Haj.

He narrated to Mother Mary what he felt during the last eleven years. He was about to address the angel when someone placed his hand on his cold forehead. He opened his eyes and saw the doctor was on the round. He was accompanied by the two-house jobbers, nurses and the registrar. The doctor asked him something, but he couldn’t hear anything. He looked at the doctor who appeared like a seventy-headed monster. A dream that had returned after eleven years was aborted by the doctor and his team. He closed his eyes to recapture the dream. But there was no sign of the dream. It vanished like a road lost in the fog.

Half-heartedly he opened his eyes again. Doctor was still standing by his bed. The ward boy was noting his blood pressure while the nurse was scrawling something on the history sheet. He found Kamal was sitting on the edge of his bed. He wanted to tell him that he had told a lie that he was alone in the world. That he had built a fake world for him. That Mother Mary had left him. That the angel was not his twin brother. That he had forgotten him.

At my home you called me a lunatic. You called me a dream digger. I didn’t say anything. My dreams had abandoned me. I had no witness to my dreams. But today again I received the tidings that I am blessed with an angelic age. I am the only living being from the land of angels. I have mistakenly landed on the earth. I carry fire in my eyes. I can reduce the whole world into ashes. You never believed me. You thought I was out of my senses. But today I announce in front of you that I am far superior to these earthly folks. I am a descendent of angels. You all are dependent on me. I am the architect of this universe. Without me nothing would exist in this world. Neither you, nor the doctor and
nor the dialysis machine. These colours and clouds all owe to me.

Kamal saw he was pointing at the dialysis machine and trying to say something. He assumed that Hussain was lamenting over his delayed visit. Kamal addressed him by his name and told him that he was busy and belatedly learnt that the doctor had called him on the telephone. He tried to convince Hussain through excuses. To him Kamal’s voice was wafting from afar. As if he was speaking beyond a wall amid a tumultuous and bustling crowd. His voice evaporated before reaching his ears. He hardly managed to tell him that he was unable to hear his words. Kamal spoke louder but half-conscious Husain had already drifted off to sleep.

After eleven years, he had seen Mother Mary and the angel back in a dream again. Mother Mary looked as usual, but the angel seemed to have aged. Though he was about forty-six, he had grown old like Hussain. He looked for Kamal in the alleyways of his mind. But to no avail. All doors were locked off and darkness had descended upon the lanes of his mind. Before he could slip into contemplation, the angel moved forward. He was carrying some freshly blossomed jasmine flowers. He placed them on the side table. The fragrance of the fresh jasmine filled the suffocating room and Hussain’s heart with freshness. The angel sat beside him, caressed his hair and wiped the froth off his mouth. He held his hand against his bosom. Hussain opened his eyes and saw Mother Mary was standing at the foot of his bed. She was in tears.

The angel was looking down with downcast eyes. His long tufts hung loose across his neck and wings were at rest. Wax-moths were melting down and cotton flowers had caught fire. But the fragrance of camphor was in full bloom. Dust and haze was thickening. It was the first dream in the last forty six years wherein he craved for the companionship of a man. He called the name of a kind acquaintance but in the shower of jasmine flowers his voice diminished. He found it hard to breathe. But flowers kept showering and his breath stuck in his nostrils.

The dialysis machine was running, and the tick tock of wall clock had gain momentum. The fan was running fast. Amid tumult and clamour nurses and ward boys were in hurry. He saw the doctor’s sombre face for the last time. A thick fog appeared before his eyes. A fog that was no less than a deadly monster. He was abruptly put under the oxygen by the doctor. But his heart had ceased to beat. His eyes had stopped blinking. He was no more.

The doctor looked around with great gloom. Everybody was in a state of grief. The doctor placed his hand on Kamal’s shoulder. He was in tears. His enemy had departed. But he left him in tears. He closed Husain’s eyes and blew out the candles that had been lit for forty-six years. He covered his face with a piece of cloth. This scene made the elderly woman who was the attendant of the boy lying on the bed beside, wail in great grief. The boy too began weeping with her. Kamal, the doctor and the entire staff, everybody was startled. How come the old lady knew Hussain?

She remembered that today before going towards the dialysis machine, Hussain strolled to the old woman and enquired her about the boy’s health. The doctor and Kamal tried to solace her but she was inconsolable.

It was a long time since Kamal had left the room. Neither did he return nor did anyone else come to the hospital. The dead body was lying there and the old woman was sobbing unrelentingly. The dialysis machine was silent. All tubes and pipes had been removed from his body. The wall clock was ticking down. And the fan had scattered the jasmine flowers in the room.

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* The author plans to write a series of stories in the future under ‘Thus Spake the Vagabond’.

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Dr. Haneef Shareef, a trained medical professional, is one of the most cherished contemporary Balochi fiction writers and film directors. So far, he has published two collections of short stories and one novel. His peculiar mode of narration has rendered him a distinguished place among the Balochi fiction writers. He has also directed four Balochi movies.

Fazal Baloch is a Balochi writer and translator. He has translated several Balochi poems and short stories into English. His translations have been featured in Pakistani Literature published by Pakistan Academy of Letters in 2017 and Silence Between the Notes — the first ever anthology of Partition Poetry published by Dhauli Books India in 2018. His upcoming works of translation include Why Does the Moon Look So Beautiful? (Selected Balochi Short Stories by Naguman) and God and the Blind Man (Selected Balochi Short Stories by Minir Ahmed Badini).

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

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Ketchup

By Rakhi Pande

The Lucknow Residency

The month of May in 1984. Schools closed, scorching summer heat and best of all, the trip to Lucknow, where the family of five went every summer vacation, without question. Riha, all of seven years old, was ecstatic to have reached her grandparents’ house after the two-day long train journey. The house appeared to be as large as a palace to her. Much bigger than their two-bedroom house in Bombay.

That, however, paled in comparison to this –- the most perfect of all homes to Riha’s young eyes. The aangan* in the centre –- bigger than their private terrace –- with rooms all around, a green garden patch with the open water tank, dank, green water whose depth could not be fathomed by her and which, through an unerring child’s instinct, she kept at a safe distance. The steep, curving staircase with treacherous and oddly angled steps leading up to the roof which secretly scared her; which she was vaguely aware she took much longer to ascend than her cousins who lived here. But once conquered, you were on a long roof with a view of the neighbourhood – and the room on the roof. (This was the best of all houses!) Surely haunted, but only after dark as per her childish logic.

Many years later, when she visited the same house in her mid-twenties, in what was to be her last visit to it – she saw the house just as it was – crumbling and old, destined to be pulled down and replaced by a taller, sleeker rectangular block, having permanently divided the family over its sale proceeds. The staircase which had intimidated her as a child was just ordinary. Mixed feelings and some regret – perhaps she would have preferred those childhood memories to the reality of this crumbling, derelict version.

But this story is about one of the magical days from all the summers spent in that city and of only one of those many mornings. A morning from a riotous summer for Riha along with her two siblings, and five cousins that lived here in the hauntingly enchanted city of Lucknow of the eighties as viewed from the vinyl covered cycle rickshaw seat. The driver laboured over the pedals in a mesmeric rhythm, navigating impossibly narrow streets, cows, street dogs, people, the occasional cars, tempos and handcarts and the noise that was always a part of the city – the shouts, honking, bleating of goats, mingling with the call of the azaan*.

Riha was a happy, confident and an attractive child and though she would vehemently deny it later; citing ‘middle child’ as her defence; perhaps a little pampered by her aunts and uncles here. She woke early with anticipation for the promised outing – utterly excited that they were having an Enid Blyton style morning ‘picnic’, complete with a wicker basket full of buttered buns, the sweet milk bread which she loved and a rajai* and a bedsheet to spread on the grass. They had to go very early, to avoid the dreaded loo* and the heat, which didn’t bother her, but which was just a convenient excuse for her elder cousins and aunts to not play catch or hide and seek with her during the afternoon.

That morning they were approaching the gates of ‘The Residency’, in quite a grand procession of two cycle rickshaws hired in addition to the spotlessly clean and sparkling white Ambassador belonging to her ‘Advocate’ grandfather. Riha was sure they would be the very first visitors here as she had awoken at an impossibly early hour, so she was surprised to see a few people already there –- walking about with dogs on leashes.

They walked quite far from the entrance, on wide green rolling lawns, way past the museum and dungeon, quite close to another set of ruins –- just walls with no roofs bordering unkempt taller grasses. The bedsheet was rolled out, basket deployed and after a while as it got sunnier and sunnier, without quite knowing how, Riha had soon wandered into the semi-walled ruins to explore the ground for unusual stones and wild flowers, her younger brother Aahan trailing behind her as usual.

She smiled at the other girl she saw there, enchanted by her blonde hair – “Hi! Are you here for a picnic too?” she asked, arrested by the lovely crisp white lacy and ruffled “birthday dress” the other girl wore. Only birthday dresses were so beautiful! Riha looked down at her own blue cotton dress, which she had worn a lot many times.

“You’re so lucky your mother let you wear your party dress!” Riha said. The other girl looked down at her dress and that’s when Riha noticed the ketchup patch all down the front of the lovely white dress. Exactly where she had once stained her dress while eating pakodas* with ketchup when her impish younger brother had jolted her arm. She felt immediately concerned and sorry for her –- she knew her mother would be upset and if her mother was anything like hers, there would have been good chances of receiving a stinging slap for messing up her party dress like this.

“Is that your brother?” the girl asked.

Riha nodded. “My brother is here too.” Riha moved closer but could not spot the other boy –- hoping he could be a playmate for her brother. He must’ve wandered off.

“Who’re you talking to?” said Aahan. Riha rolled her eyes knowing her brother was annoying her as usual.

“How rude, Aahan!” She looked at the girl, sharing the – ‘younger brothers!’ look. “Sorry about him… I’m Riha, what’s your name and why don’t you come and play with us?” she invited, frowning at Aahan.

“I’m Mary. Look,” she pointed across the greens, “My mother is calling us –- I have to go.”

Riha could not quite spot which of the women in the far distance Mary was indicating, but she was not happy at the thought of losing a newfound playmate.

“I’ll walk with you till you find your mother and we could ask her permission to play with us – we are a big group here,” she confidently proclaimed.

“Okay, I’ll ask her, maybe we can meet near the museum after some time,” smiled Mary.

“Okay, bye!” shouted Riha, happily.

Riha looked around for Aahan but he must have run off earlier. As she left the ruins, she saw her aunt halfway there, calling her to come quickly away from the dangerous ruins.

“They’re not dangerous at all!” scoffed Riha.

“Who were you talking to?” her mother asked. “Aahan said you were trying to scare him by pretending to talk to someone.”

Riha plonked herself down on the sun-soaked sheet and glared at Aahan. Why were younger brothers such pests? Describing the encounter, she couldn’t resist remarking how the other girl had been allowed to wear such a nice dress to a park. “But didn’t you say she’d spilled ketchup on it?” retorted her mom.

With the elders finding it too hot, it was time to leave but Riha insisted on stopping by the museum to say goodbye to Mary and dragged the whole family there. After waiting for a while it was clear no one was coming there and Riha was reluctantly made to leave, with promises of one more picnic there for sure. 

Now, years later, sitting on the sagging charpai*, under the bright stars that evening in that old house, the moment triggered a memory of the picnic to the Residency. In her teens she had been quite intrigued by the history of the place and read about the slaughter of the British families including women, children and babies there during the siege of 1857. She remembered quite vividly that evening years ago, cuddling on her grandmother’s roomy lap on the same charpai. 

Naniji* had surprised her by asking for a detailed account of the girl she had met. In Riha’s world, that morning was already firmly in the past. Her grandmother was quite interested in the ketchup stain too. Later, she had noticed the elders having a discussion in whispers and looking at her.

Annoyingly, Aahan was allowed to hover around them or perhaps they hadn’t noticed. He had then galloped up to her and shouted in glee, “See, I told you, you met a ghost! That was not ketchup, it was blood!”

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Glossary:

*Aangan = an inner open courtyard

*Aazan = Islamic call to prayer

*Rajai = block printed comforter/ duvet

*Loo = hot and dry summer wind

*Charpai = traditional Indian woven bed

*Nani – Maternal grandmother, ‘ji’ a respectful suffix

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Rakhi Pande heads the English department at a British curriculum school in Dubai, UAE. She segued into this profession after quitting her erstwhile post as General Manager in the field of brand management in India. Having spent her formative years in Mumbai she has spent a decade in each profession before exploring greener pastures abroad. An avid reader and award-winning educator, while dabbling with blogging and other creative pursuits, she tries to write whenever time permits. Hopefully, there’s a book in her.

www.linkedin.com/in/rakhi-pande-362a387

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Thicker Than Water

By Revathi Ganeshsundaram

From his vantage point just inside the doorway of the international terminal’s arrival area, he observed the children. Full of energy and in high spirits, they were running up and down the waiting section while the grownups chatted. When they neared the coffee shop, however, they halted and looked longingly at the muffins, doughnuts, and other treats that were temptingly displayed behind the glass counter. The boy then whispered something urgently to the little girl, and she obediently ran back to where the four adults stood. Tugging at her mother’s arm, she tried to get her attention, but the women were too engrossed in conversation to pay heed. Besides, such entreaties were routine, and as such were to be routinely ignored!

A helpless glance back at the counter received a glare of such imperative that she turned to one of the men in the group, ostensibly more amenable to requests from her (and therefore, probably the father). He continued to watch with suppressed amusement as the parent was dragged by hand to the shop, where the over-priced sweetmeats were promptly procured with rather too many dollars and an indulgent smile. Duty done, the man sauntered back to his group and was once more lost in conversation.

The children remained near the counter, eyes shining bright with delight as they beamed at each other over the goodies, unwittingly smearing powdered sugar and frosting on chins and cheeks as they feasted. He was rather pleasantly surprised to observe some peaceable and generous sharing of treats too — although, as he told himself in a cynical after-thought, the goodwill might partly have been engendered by a sugar high!

He looked at them more closely. The little girl was chubby and rosy-cheeked, and her hair was neatly done up in two tight braids that were held in shape with predictably bright-pink hair ties. With her beatific smile, she reminded him of a cute angel decoration he had once seen in The Dollar Shop. The boy was taller, probably a few years older, and seemed quiet and serious.

But then, looks could be deceptive, he thought with a rueful smile.

Although the inside of the airport was temperature-controlled, it was winter, and he was glad of the warmth of his jacket. He zipped it up to his throat and began to walk up and down the long and narrow waiting area, momentarily forgetting the children that had so interested him. He had arrived earlier than he had expected to, but it was a Sunday and the roads had been free. The flight had landed on time, and he estimated that passengers would soon be coming out after the usual hour it took to collect baggage and pass through immigration.

A piercing shriek startled him and silenced conversationalists all around. Turning swiftly, he saw the little girl, now in tears, pointing to the boy and sobbing out a complaint to her father, while the culprit scowled and slunk away out of his reach, mightily embarrassed by the scrutiny of everyone in the vicinity. The mother’s attention was also momentarily drawn, and he could hear her call out rather shrilly, “How many times have I told you not to pull your sister’s hair?!”

After the momentary lull, people turned away and picked up where they had left off, and he too resumed his pacing, half-smiling. But his thoughts were far away.

A memory flashed into his mind, painful in its intensity. Of a mother’s sorrow and a father’s anger. Of his own shock and dismay. He had not thought that the smack he gave the child in a moment of fury would cause her to cut her lip such that it bled…

As he paused to turn back, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the tinted glass window and was taken aback by the look of deep remorse on his face.

But then, he remembered other incidents. Of his mother applying cold cream on his chest and a penitent little girl asking if she could help –- the feel of her small fingers and the cool, soothing effect of the emollient as she gently rubbed it on the raw, semi-circular marks that had been made by her small teeth…

And the time she had pushed all the things off his desk in a rage, no doubt infuriated by something he had said or done. Words had quickly turned to blows and screams, leading their normally gentle and soft-spoken father to separate them with speech and look of such potent disappointment as left them more shaken than if they had been penalised through any form of corporal punishment. 

He found himself grinning then, feeling oddly relieved that in those years now seemingly eons away, things had not been one-sided after all! Like warriors, they had drawn each other’s blood…

As he reached the coffee shop now, he saw that people had begun to come down the arrival ramp and he quickened his steps towards it. Passengers were arriving singly, or in twos and threes, pushing trolleys or wheeling suitcases, and everywhere pairs of eyes were looking for familiar faces. He too craned his neck, trying to look beyond the tall and stout man, the old lady and her husband being wheeled out by airport attendants, and the harassed-looking couple with several small children.

There she was now!

She seemed rather tired as evidenced by the dark circles under her eyes appearing more pronounced than usual. But more than that, it was her haunted look that arrested him. With anxious eyes she was scanning the waiting crowd and when she caught sight of him, her face brightened briefly with the smile he had once known so well. Although her hair was flecked with premature grey and slightly tousled from the journey, it seemed to have been cut it in a different, shorter style that was elegant and suited her. She carried herself with a quiet dignity and he thought she still looked beautiful.

His heart swelled with a mixture of warmth and pride, that was yet tinged with pain.

They hugged briefly and she replied satisfactorily to his query about the comfort of the journey. As he took hold of her trolley and turned to lead the way out, they passed the family he had noticed earlier, still in their place a little way away from the arriving crowd. They were probably waiting for a different flight, maybe one that had been delayed.

The adults were watching the arrivals with superficial interest, but he noted that the siblings were now quietly going through a comic book together in apparent camaraderie. He suspected that sooner or later, one of them would again be shrieking in aggravation, but right now, the sight of their small heads bent close to each other as they pored over the pictures, cheered him greatly.

“Oh, so cute…!” he heard her whisper behind him, evidently equally struck by the scene. “Yeah, ha, ha,” he responded, feeling a peace settle on him that he had not experienced for a decade.

As the car sped along the empty roads, they spoke a little, skimming lightly over the surfaces of mostly impersonal topics. Common acquaintances back in India, certain kinds of air travellers, and a movie she had watched on the long journey were mentioned without much enthusiasm, with both concurring readily on the respective idiosyncrasies of the subjects under discussion. (In-flight meals were a slightly more rousing matter — she thought they were awful, he exclaimed in surprise.)

In between, he pointed out key landmarks like the Harbour Bridge and the Opera House, not much else being view-worthy in the growing dark. She seemed listless, and unspoken emotions hung between them like a heavy curtain that he had not the courage, nor she the words, to draw aside.

But finally, she broke the silence. “I didn’t listen to any of you, did not take you into confidence, and ended up making a mess of my life! And yet, here you are now…” Her voice shook, and she could not go on.

He tried to make light of it. “Well, we only read about extreme cases where women commit suicide because they have nowhere to go — we never read about the scores of families that support their girls in their times of need. They would not make news because that is what families are for — that is what they should do. Families are meant to provide unconditional support!” 

She did not reply, yet something seemed to shift in the atmosphere. And then, just like that, there was no longer any curtain hanging oppressively between them.  

“Do you remember…?” he began and launched into one of his amusing anecdotes just like in the old days, and she was surprised to find that she had it in her to laugh again. And the miles flew by.

“We’re almost there now… this is our street,” he said shortly, as they turned right onto a quiet and dark lane.

She sat up straighter and looked out with interest. They were passing shadowy houses with glowing windows, half-hidden behind dark trees that added to the atmosphere of mystery, and she felt a growing excitement as she gazed at them. The scenes had a magical quality that transported her back to childhood, bringing before her mind’s eye the charming illustrations of fairy tales read and re-read in the happy security of her parents’ home. The memory lit a small lamp in her heart that she had thought was beyond re-kindling.

“And here we are!” he said suddenly, slowing before one of the dark house fronts.

As they turned into the driveway, the porch bulb burned bright, and even while the car was rolling to a stop, she saw the front door open and light from the house spill out. Silhouetted in the doorway stood the familiar figure of a woman, pulling her wrap tightly around herself to ward off the chill. It seemed to her as she watched from the car, that the golden rays dancing about her sister-in-law’s head as she waited to welcome her, were just like a star on a Christmas tree.

Then the light in her own heart flared up, flooding her being with a warmth that had nothing to do with the heater in the car. She felt a decade of tension leave her body as the years rolled off her mind and person like a mantle she had just shrugged off.

She turned to look at him as he switched off the engine and slid the gear into park. It struck her then that her brother’s care-worn face now looked relaxed and cheerful, and surprisingly younger, lit as it was by the warm glow from his house and perhaps from deep within as well.

“You’re home now,” he said simply.

And then they beamed at each other, bright-eyed children in a doughnut shop.

Revathi Ganeshsundaram taught in a Business School in South India for several years until she recently decided to take a break to study Counseling Psychology. A self-professed introvert, she is comfortable in the company of family, books, and herself  — not necessarily in the same order. She finds the written word therapeutic and, hence, loves reading and writing fiction, sometimes dabbling a little in poetry. 

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

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Stories

Mr & Mrs Chatterjee

By Amita Ray

       “What is the other side of love?”

         “Hate of course.”

         “No it’s love too.”

          “What makes you say so?”

           “Look at Ma and Baba, it has always been love…. friend or foe, through thick and thin.”

        The daughters of Mr and Mrs Chatterjee were indulging in banter. It was initiated by the elder of the two, Sushmita. The younger one, Supriya, was cool and calculating while the other was sprightly and full of spark. They were the best of friends since their childhood. At times they were mistaken as twins; being of same height, almost the same features, the same likes and dislikes. The difference in their ages was only two years. Nothing could tear them apart. Even when caught at mischief , they would shoulder the blame for each other. A happy family of four, the Chatterjees were known as peace-loving respectable folks in their locality.

But Mr. and Mrs. Chatterjee had their share of arguments and tiffs, probably a bit too many. It was contained and confined within the contending couple and rarely did it spill over to damage the peace of the household. The two daughters when big enough would at times take sides jovially and then it would inevitably climax to hilarious crescendos. The children preferred to be the silent spectators of the daily drama and enjoyed it, knowing very well the happenings during the post-argument phase; the epilogue to the drama. Ma with a grumpy face would resort to stoicism doing all household work with robotic precision. Baba would try his best to evoke a flicker of smile on her lips.

The arguments usually would spark off from trivial things and a day without bickering was unthinkable. The pet sentence of their mother when on the verge of defeat in an argument was, “Oh! What will I do with this person once he retires and stays at home the whole day to pester me?”

The daughters would then look at each other to exchange a meaningful look.  That sentence would mark the end of that episode for the day. Mr. Chatterjee would meekly admit defeat with a faint hint that Mrs. Chatterjee was at a loss for repartees.

Many a time a squabble would erupt from Mr. Chatterjee’s love for jokes. Picking on his wife, even in jest, would enrage her and an altercation would ensue. How the children lamented their mother’s poor sense of humour!

A young boy, Khokon, used to work in their garden tending flowers, turning the soil and planting seasonal flower trees specially during the onset of winter. Khokon was so pampered by their mother that Mr Chatterjee at times would call her Khokoner Ma or Khokon’s mother jokingly. That would infuriate Mrs. Chatterjee marking the beginning of yet another tiff where the children sometimes joined in flippantly pointing out how she had been partial to Khokon among his three children.

It was usually Mrs. Chatterjee who called it quits in meandering long drawn altercations. Then the daughters beheld a unique scene of togetherness and concern; one coaxing the other to eat, reminders of taking medicine or they would simply get engaged in casual talks watching the television together. Strangely enough the television itself was at other times reason enough for their habitual contention. It is often said that true love sans arguments and pleasant quarrels hardly exists. It adds charm to the happy blend of sharing and caring among couples. Mr. and Mrs. Chatterjee’s relationship was an embodiment of this love in its true sense.

The couple had been married for twenty five years, a long enough period to get adjusted to the rhyme and rhythm of each other’s ways and nature, but the propensity for arguments and occasional tiffs persisted. That seemed to uplift their spirit as a hearty interlude. It could be also a sort of cathartic release of boredom as Mrs. Chatterjee being a homemaker stayed indoors busy with domestic chores. Mrs. Chatterjee was petite and simple in her ways. She spent her early years till she married in East Bengal, at present Bangladesh.

 The traumatic phase of Partition and her subsequent migration to the west of the border had taught her ways to overcome hardships. So when she got married to Mr. Chatterjee, a modest employee in government service belonging to a middle class family, she had no problem adjusting herself to the new family.

Then her daughters were born in quick succession. Her father-in-law had lived for a decade after her marriage. Her mother-in-law had passed away long before her marriage. Hence, she shouldered the responsibilities of the family and fulfilled her role in all facets of family life as a wife, daughter-in-law and later as mother admirably.

Her father-in-law was enamoured by her sweet nature and looked upon her as his own daughter. In the early days of conjugal life, when her father-in-law was alive there were lesser verbal frictions with Mr. Chatterjee and even if there were, they would wind up soon enough. The senior Mr. Chatterjee would take side with his daughter in law and the altercation would be soon hushed with a sweeping comment, “My Bouma (daughter-in-law) is Lakshmi of this house. You have no right to demean her.”

After the death of her father-in-law, the once coy bride — now a seasoned housewife –became all the more responsible, looking into every minute details of household affairs. This she did to the extent of becoming a bit nagging and fastidious and it paved the path to greater confrontations; the husband mildly dominating, the wife defiant.

 But all said and done, Mr. and Mrs. Chatterjee were head over heels in love with each other but rarely did they make a blatant show of it. It was evident in small gestures of appreciation and doses of kind words.

“Hold your mother’s hand and be very careful while crossing the road…”

“While boarding the bus with your mother and getting down, hold her hands properly. She has a pain on her knee…”

“Help her to get up on the rickshaw. She is at a loss when she goes out. Be careful with her…”

The above words of caution were uttered by Mr Chatterjee repeatedly and ritualistically each time before the children took their mother out. The younger daughter, the jovial one, would at times mimic her father’s voice and rattle off the overused sentences of caution. The three of them then had a good laugh over it and the father too reluctantly joined it.

 As far as Mr. Chatterjee was concerned, he was more than aware of his responsibility when he took her out, sometimes verging on obsessive overprotectiveness. Not for once would he leave his grip over her hand fearing that she would either get lost or trip over to fall down. In the initial days after marriage, Mrs. Chatterjee would mumble a protest; the spectacle of walking hand in hand on the streets of Calcutta would seem preposterous to her.

She became more conscious about it as years passed when they couldn’t even pass off as a young romantic couple. But the possessive husband would have his way. Mrs. Chatterjee was forced to yield to the demanding gesture of her escort for all it meant was love for her. How could she be so rude? She knew that she didn’t feel confident enough to venture out alone for some strange reason. So whenever she went out of her home, she was in the endearing company of her husband or her daughters and complied with their wishes.

It was a Monday morning. The Chatterjees had to go to a relative’s home in neighbouring Jamshedpur for a wedding. The daughters chose to stay at home as they were busy with preparations for the University examinations. This was the first time the Chatterjees were not travelling as a family outside Kolkata.

The anxious children laid down a set of dos and don’ts for their parents while travelling. Of course one of them was the mandatory holding hands. Howrah station was a crowded place with people almost jostling in and out of its premises all hours of the day. In peak hours, it seemed to be a sea of humanity. People were in a hurry to catch trains from different platforms while those entering the station in down trains headed towards the exit.

Getting down from the taxi at Howrah station, Mr. Chatterjee held his wife firmly and led her into the station. It was afternoon and fortunately the place was not too crowded at that time. Being a railway employee, Mr. Chatterjee had a railway pass. They had ample time at their disposal. Having nothing to do Mr Chatterjee felt the instinctive thirst for a cup of tea. Moreover, it was almost time for the evening cuppa. So both of them headed towards a nearby tea stall; the husband careful enough about his grip over that tender hand. While sipping tea, suddenly a wave of passengers lashed towards them like a tsunami and crowds of people swept from other directions simultaneously.

Many down trains had arrived at the same time in various platforms and all the passengers tried to rush out. There were people negotiating the outgoing rush from the opposite direction too. In the vortex of such chaos Mrs. Chatterjee was pushed and her hand loosened from her husband’s clasp. She was compelled to drift along with the rush of people in a bid to save herself from falling down. It was impossible for her husband to either keep track of her or follow her. Thus she was virtually pushed to the exit point at one go when she sadly realised that she was lost. She could not spot her husband as she was far from the tea stall.

When the mad rush of people abated she looked out for her husband and tried to locate the shop. She was panic stricken and in the process discovered her husband had moved away from the tea stall. Mr. Chatterjee was also looking out for his dear wife frantically ruing that it was his fault. How could the hand which he had kept in his firm grip for twenty five long years slip off! But being a practical man he didn’t waste much time in looking for her. The time for the departure of the train was announced. He immediately got an idea. Why not approach the personnel in the public address system? He knew that his wife wouldn’t leave the station at any cost. But he grew increasingly uneasy and concerned thinking about her wife’s helpless condition, a lady who hadn’t ventured out of her home alone even once in her life.

Soon the public address system blared…  “Here is an announcement. Mrs. Sumedha Chatterjee from Tala Park Kolkata…you are requested to be at the Big Clock of Howrah Station…Your husband is waiting for you there.”

The announcement reached Sumedha Chatterjee’s ears and she beamed with relief. But the problem was that though she had been to Howrah station several times she did not know where the clock was. Ultimately she reached there guided by a young man whom she had approached. Thank God! There was enough time left for the departure of their train.

So overjoyed were they on being united that they did not start off with a round of blame game. But back home while narrating the incident to their daughters it was time to initiate the postponed battle of words. But this time each chose to take the blame on oneself.

Mr. Chatterjee: “It was my fault. I should have held the other hand so that you could be to my left. Then being in your place I could have withstood the impact of the sudden rush of people.”

Mrs. Chatterjee responded: “Oh no! How could you say so! Anyone would have been swept away in that wild rush. It happened because I was unmindful.”

“No dear, how can you claim yourself to be unmindful! That’s the last thing I can say about you.”

“ Last thing you can say about me! How often you have accused me of being unmindful…”

“But you…”

“Yes you…”

Thus Mr. and Mrs. Chatterjee went on in their journey of life; spells of loving words spilled in the guise of tiffs, an oscillation between a war of words and treaty. So is it even now when both in their late eighties sit together at home most of the time cooing such words of love.

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Amita Ray, a former associate professor of English is based in Kolkata. An academic of various interests she is a published translator, short story writer and poet. She has two books of translations to her credit. Her short stories have been published in The Sunday Statesman, Cafe Dissensus, Setu and other online journals. Her poems have been widely published and also feature in  several anthologies.

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

Categories
Stories

Unlocking the Lockdown!

By Sarwar Morshed

                                               

Influential people and poseurs in our country place boards inscribed with professional tags like ‘PRESS’, ‘DOCTOR’, ‘ADVOCATE’ etc. behind the windshields of their cars. They do this with calculated designs in mind. Displaying their real or assumed professional identity, they can avoid unnecessary police interrogation in the street or can enjoy the prerogative of using untrodden and prohibited tracks to avoid traffic jams.

Mr. Nasir was going to the terminal point of the city, the airport. He had only one hour at hand. Within this time it was virtually impossible to sail through the vast ocean of traffic and swarming crowd in Agrabad Commercial Area and Chattogram Export Processing Zone.

He brain-stormed and contemplated. After surveying the cartography of his problem-solving cognitive domains, this pandemic-day Buddha jumped out of his sofa with a loud, near-20K dB sound, “Eureka, Eureka!”

His wife, consumed with ‘I don’t have any faith in my husband’s conjugal fidelity’-attitude, meteor-like appeared before him from the kitchen wielding her lethal weapon, khunti*.

“Which Rekha are you talking about so loudly in this holy times of Ramadan, you shameless old man?”

“It’s not any blossomed beauty or Tinseltown Rekha, my intelligent Home Minister. I said, ‘Eureka’ meaning ‘I’ve got it’. I’m celebrating my solution to the heavyweight problem of going to the airport in time.”

“Thank God, you aren’t philandering then,” with these words, the relieved better-half resumed her full-queenship in the kitchen.

The king prepared a paper-board and bidding adieu to the queen, boarded the car. The driver, confused and skeptical, gave his unsolicited verdict that they would not be able to make it to the airport in time. The de-stressed Mr. Nasir just nonchalantly commanded his driver to place the board behind the windshield a la mode the self-styled VIPs and drive. The driver complied.

At a busy intersection, an arrogant traffic police aggressively approached the car, but a glimpse of the inscription melted his anger and he quickly made way for them. Mr. Nasir’s triumphal march met another opposition within the next five minutes — at Agrabad area, a troop of patrol police halted the car and asked why they were driving during the lockdown.

Mr. Nasir, wearing a grave but gloomy look, drew their attention to the board non-verbally. The enigmatic writing on the board almost froze the cops! With unbelievable haste and apparent respect, they let him go. At the busiest EPZ area, other vehicles, made way for Mr. Nasir’s car as if they had seen a ghost car!

They kept receiving this preferential and reverential treatment at every point and consequently reached the destination much ahead of scheduled time.

Amazed and pleased, the driver asked, “What magic words have you written on the paper, sir?”

“You see, if you have substance inside your head, you can manage even to run on water,”boasted Mr. Nasir gloatingly.

“I can’t disagree with you, sir. But what are the miracle-words?”  the driver impatiently tried to penetrate into the secret success-code of his boss.

Smuggly, the puffed-up Mr. Nasir revealed, “Ex-Covid patient driving a new one home.”

*khunti: A metallic spatula

Sarwar Morshed is a Professor of English at the University of Chittagong, Bangladesh. His works have appeared, among others, in The Bosphorus Review of Books, The Bombay Literary Magazine, City: Journal of South Asian Literature, Star Literature & Reviews, Contemporary Literary Review India, Mahamag and the Ashvamegh. Mr. Morshed’s books have been reviewed at home and abroad – in the Asiatic (IIUM, Malaysia), Transnational Literature (Flinders University, Australia), the Ashvamegh (India), Star Literature & Reviews, Observer Literature, daily sun and Dhaka Courier (Bangladesh).

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

Categories
Stories

The Fort

By Dr (Major) Nalini Janardhanan

“Hi Nandini… you are still with the text books? Don’t you get bored? Why are you always busy with studies? See we are planning a picnic. Do you want to join? ”

Nandini’s concentration was disturbed and she got annoyed. Her friends, Mini and Renu, were looking at her in anticipation. To their dismay she replied, “Sorry, I am not coming, I am left with enormous  amount of studies. Don’t you both remember exams are next week? ”

“We do not want to hear anything.  Today you have to come with us. You will be enthralled to see our picnic location. You know we are going to that ancient Fort on the hilltop.” Mini said.

Nandini’s face brightened with a smile. She always wanted to visit that fort. The old fort on the hill was a historical monument.

Nandini and her friends Mini, Renu, Suma and Rajani were excited when they started their journey uphill along the narrow path towards the fort. The majestic fort was seen standing tall atop the hill. Whenever Nandini  glanced at the fort, an unknown force had seemed to draw her towards it.

“Oh,  what a strenuous climb! We are exhausted and literally gasping for breath. Let us rest for a while, okay? ” Renu  suggested. Nandini and her friends relaxed on the lush green lawn in front of the fort.

There was an eerie silence with just distant cooing of pigeons at the hilltop. Suddenly some of them flew away flapping their wings. Nandini was startled but chose to look past it. Melodious bhajans and chants with ringing of temple bells could be heard from the valley downhill. Sunset was close. The sky was painted in hues of red, crimson and purple. Within minutes dark clouds converged in welcoming the calm night. Nandini could feel a chilling hollowness in the air. There was a bizarre feel to the breeze that grew cooler as they climbed.

“Friends let us get back before it is too dark,” Nandini spoke in a tense voice.

“Look at Nandini, all frightened and sweating. Are there any ghosts here, Nandini? ” Suma teased her with a wink and grin.

“Of course, a spirit will come and take our Nandini away. A spirit of a handsome young man, isn’t it Nandini? ” Others laughed when Rajani said this.

“Stop it! Please! Let us just quickly see the fort and head back at the earliest,” Nandini retorted.

They reached the fort entrance. The main gate was open. The cobble stoned pathway leading to the monument was adorned with trees and bushes on either side.  The heavy antique iron door had an enchanting brass handle with tiny contemporary bells hanging from it.

Nandini felt an uncanny presence around herself. The air had a sweet fragrance of evening primrose flowers, though there were none in the vicinity.

“You know girls? This fort is haunted by the spirit of a Prince! It is believed that he attracts beautiful girls! People reported hearing strange sounds and music from this fort. But nobody has seen the ghost of the Prince. Today is a full moon night. The Prince may just walk in…spooky, no?” Mini whispered.

Nandini felt an unknown presence in the courtyard. And a strange fear was enfolding her in its grips. They entered the fort. The fragrance of sandalwood and roses wafted to Nandini’s nostrils. The atmosphere was serene and silent. For a brief moment, she felt as if a pair of eyes were following her.

“Oh it is nothing… probably a figment of my imagination.” Nandini convinced herself and rushed to catch up with her friends.

She reached the courtyard. The open space appeared radiant under the moonlight. The calmness of the night swept through her being like a newlywed bride creating a romantic ambience.

Moving into the main quarters, Nandini continued feeling the presence of the unknown eyes. She shuddered when a cool breeze embraced her. Next moment she felt the gentle touch of an unknown breath caressing her cheeks like a solace.

“Girls, you know something? The Prince used to sleep here and it is claimed that people can still hear the tunes of Gandharv Veena from a distance on moonlit nights! Isn’t that interesting?”

“I so wish I could meet the Prince,” chuckled Rajani. For a scary moment Nandini felt a chill down her spine. What if I had a spooky encounter tonight?

Nandini was looking at the rich design and architectural details which were discretely lighted with concealed bulbs that lit up the darkness of the rooms as the sun set. They had been installed by the archaeological department that maintained ancient buildings. The other girls went on to explore the rest of old fort.

This time suddenly a feathery touch fondled her and gently held her hand and whispered into her ears, “Nandini, can’t you see me? This is me! Have you forgotten me? ”

“Who was that? Who whispered in my ears?  Girls, it is not funny,” Nandini turned around suddenly but there was nobody around.  “Nandini! You are just being silly now. You are imagining things now,” she reprimanded herself.

There was a primeval majestic Veena at one of the corners. Nandini was fond of musical instruments. She ran her fingers through the rusted strings. A low pitched musical note echoed and she felt a soft kiss on her cheeks. She turned around in shock. The room had ornately carved sculptures of courtesans holding lamps.

Instantaneously the lamps lit up on their own. An unknown, unseen force led her to the featherbed in the centre and she sat there. It was like a fantasy castle… tantalizing music of sitar and veena… fleeting melodies of court music playing in the background. Wind chimes were ringing softly. She was astonished to see a handsome prince lying on the bed decorated with flowers. He was looking at her with anticipation — as if he was waiting for her. She fell for him the very moment she saw him. It was love at first sight!

Lovebirds were cooing at a distance. Romantic melodies enraptured her senses. It was the night of lovers, the night of the union of two souls in love. The prince embraced and kissed her. A symphony of love notes wafted in the air. Nandini closed her eyes. Her mind drowned in the oblivion of romance. She flew like a bird in the sky and then settled down on the branch of a tree with her lover bird.

“Love birds…. see how cute!” Suma exclaimed.

“Ok everyone, come let us go back now. What happened  Nandini? Now you don’t seem to be in hurry. It is getting dark. Let us head back to the hostel.” Her friends called out to her.

“No! Where is my prince? I want to sit here for some more time. I can’t go back without meeting my Prince,” Nandini murmured.

“What is wrong with this girl? Come Nandini. ” They dragged her out of the mysterious quarter.

In a calm, low tone she heard him again, “Nandu, why are you getting upset? We are inseparable darling. I was always with you. I am here for you. We are eternally bound. I waited for you over so many decades. I knew you would come for me. Now that we are together, please don’t think of leaving me and going. I can’t bear the sorrow of our separation ever again. We were made for each other Nandu.”

Those words echoed in her ears while his loving fingers caressing her hair… She could feel him… Her unknown lover.

Nandini was forced to depart from her strange reality. Others dragged her out. They were waiting for her. On her way back, she felt euphoric. She seemed to be lost in a trance. Her face was glowing with love. Her lips had a sweet smile. Her eyes were half closed in ecstasy as unknown lips caressed her like soft flower petals. She felt like a feather floating in the air. She felt her passion simultaneously burn with the flames of a hot fire and cool her soul like dew drops that enveloped her heart and soul.

She could feel the longing and deep affection of her lover. Both of them flew towards the horizon like a pair of golden love birds. Her soul had yearned to merge with his soul. His captivating smile, dazzling personality, mesmerising words and eloquent eyes drew her towards him magically. She could feel the warm breath and heartbeats of her Prince — the heart which was beating for her. There was a haunting eeriness in the evening winds.

She gradually started feeling like a princess. She wished her dream would never end or was it real? She wondered.

When Nandini  finally reached below the hill, she turned around to take a last glance at the fort. The fort seemed to be glowing with a mystifying aura. Amid all that was strange, she could see the silhouette of her Prince waving at her.

A cool breeze grazed her cheeks. A soft voice whispered in her ears again, “I will ever be yours. You are and will always be my princess. ”

The regal fort was looming against the dark blue sky — the fort of unrevealed stories, the fort of unrequited love, the fort with mysterious secrets.

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Dr. (Major) Nalini Janardhanan is a Family Medicine Specialist who served in Indian Army Medical Corps as an Army Medical Officer in the rank of Major. She is a popular  writer of Kerala who got Katha Award and a writer of many medical books for which she got IMA Sahithya Award. She is an All India Radio and Doordarshan approved artist of Ghazals and Bhajans[Light Music].She is felicitated with many awards for her contributions towards society as a doctor,singer, writer ,army officer and for her social service.

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