Category: Stories

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Stories

Disappearance

Story by Bitan Chakraborty, translated from Bengali by Kiriti Sengupta

Bitan Chakraborty. Photo Courtesy: Kiriti Sengupta

The black smoke rises in a straight line. It will fade into the air as it reaches a certain altitude in the sky. The wind feels still today, causing a grey layer to form. Not long ago, Lali experienced recurrent bouts of excruciating pain, but now it refuses to subside. She tries to relax, her spine loosely resting against the wall of the leather factory. Lali shrinks again as her little baby stretches its limbs inside her womb. In the distance, her husband, Fatik, is tending to their domestic belongings in the dilapidated house. He is vigilant, working hard to safeguard their utility items. He won’t let anyone take away their hard-earned household goods. Fatik does not know what will be put into the fire. A few government-appointed people collect the crushed bamboo walls from the ghetto and add them to the flames. The more they burn, the more smoke rises. At a safe distance, a curious crowd observes the unfolding events.

Fatik packs goods in small quantities and takes them to Lali, who is resting under the shade. He quips, “I could have packed up sooner if I had someone to help. You’re in pain, huh? Hold on for a bit; we will board the train shortly.”

“Hey scoundrels, that’s mine. Keep it there, I’m telling you! Otherwise, I’ll put y’all in that fire.” Fatik rushes to their ruined house. It’s not a house anymore! An empty stretch reveals the impressions of bricks laid down for years. Fatik’s shanty looks the same — a square piece of land with torn plastic sheets and scattered, fragmented earthen roof tiles.

Lali continues to endure pain. Fatik appears exhausted; he is busy organising goods. There’s no point in disturbing him further with another complaint of discomfort. Lali remains silent and attempts to sketch the new place they will inhabit for the next few months or possibly years. No one will be a stranger there; they cannot afford the luxury of exploring exotic living. Fatik once told her, “Shashthida has affirmed that we can come back here once the air cools down.”

It’s easy to earn a living in the city, but finding a job is difficult in the countryside, where opportunities are scarce. Once the flyover is built, Fatik plans to return and set up a small eatery for the evenings. In a tone filled with love and care, Fatik tells Lali, “No one can resist the mutton curry you cook. All visitors will become regular customers at our shop.” Lali adds a touch of sass to her response, “I won’t. I’d rather teach you the recipe. You can then cook and feed them.” Gazing at the ceiling with wide eyes, Fatik remains lying in bed.

Lali does not believe in Fatik’s words that they will be able to come back here again. A few minutes ago, Hema came to see her, “My bad luck; I won’t get a chance to see your child. But you never know if I will meet you again somewhere else.”

“Won’t you come back here?” Lali asks.

“They will not allow us here again,” Hema replies. “The officials informed us that they were planning to build a marketplace below the flyover after its construction.”

Mum’s the word when Lali relays the news to Fatik. He murmurs, “But then Shashthida[1] has assured…”

“You can pursue a small shop in the proposed market,” Lali advises.

“I can’t say; they might ask for a cash lump sum as advance payment.” Fatik appears worried.

The pain shoots once again. Lali flings her legs aimlessly. The dusty floor reflects her movements. She remains silent. On the other side, Fatik gets into trouble with Dulu and his family. Dulu’s mother seems to have taken Lali’s rice pot. Lali raises her voice, “The pot is mine!” Unfortunately, her words go unheard.

2

Fatik knocks Lali with his bag, “Come on, the Hasnabad local is at platform eight. Walk along the straight direction.”

Lali has heard of the Sealdah railway station, but she has never been there. It is a large station with several platforms, numerous trains, and huge crowds. Passengers jostle against one another. With great caution, Fatik quickly walks across the platform to board the train and get into a compartment by any means necessary. There are likely a few travelling ticket examiners around, but during this time, they usually don’t enter the coach. Lali is unable to keep pace with Fatik and remains far behind him, but she compensates for the distance by tightly gripping one side of the gamcha[2] draped around his neck. Fatik collides with the commuters approaching from the other end, and a few passengers express their annoyance with a word or two of irritation. Fatik does not respond at all. Lali pulls her saree to cover her breast. She has no control over the saree girded around her head, which has now slipped onto her back.

The train will start in ten minutes. All coaches are full; not a single seat is vacant. Fatik quickly decides on a favourable compartment and boards the train with his wife. Lali cannot stand any longer, so she sits on the floor beside the door, her hands resting on her belly. Fatik arranges their bags around Lali. An elderly gentleman asks, “Where will you get off?”

“Barasat,” Fatik answers.

“What the hell are you doing here? Get inside the coach. Have you lost your mind or what? How can a sensible man board the train in such conditions?”

Fatik turns to his wife and whispers, “There aren’t any vacant seats. Do you still want to go inside?”

Lali refuses to move. The spasm has taken over her body and mind. She cannot stand up. She wants to stretch her legs to give her baby more space. However, the situation does not allow for that privilege. With each passing minute, more passengers crowd the coach, and the draft is cut off. In a dry voice, Lali calls out to her husband, “I cannot breathe. I need some air.”

“Wait a moment. The crowd should thin out after we pass two stations,” Fatik says.

As soon as the train departs, more than a handful of late passengers hurriedly board the coach. They will travel a long distance and want to get inside. The bags and goods piled around Lali create an obstacle to their movement. One of them raises his voice, “Is this a place to sit?” Another man from the crowd yells at Lali, “Stand up, I said!” Someone empathetically informs, “Try to understand; she is carrying.”

“Oh! This is horrible. Hey brother, you aren’t pregnant, are you? Better you stand up. More passengers will enter the coach at Bidhan Nagar and Dum Dum. They will smash you to death.”

Fatik gets anxious and follows the instructions. Lali shrinks in fear, feeling breathless. In her womb, she carries their only child, who waits to see the world — as if the baby complains, “I cannot stay in this small dark space anymore, Ma!” The passengers become frightened as Lali lets out a low moan of pain.

“Are you okay?”

Fatik bends toward Lali as much as possible to ask, “I’m sure it’s terrible to bear any longer.”

“No air; it’s suffocating!” Lali sounds fragile.

“It won’t be long; I’ll take you to the hospital as soon as we reach there. Shashthida has shared the address.”

Lali’s facial muscles contort in extreme agony. Fatik isn’t sure whether she has heard him. Intoxicated, Fatik had seen her suffer from pain before; during those times, he did not feel her distress. Lali wept profusely. Fatik never intended to hurt her but lost control as he downed liquor. The very next day, Fatik committed to his wife, saying, “I won’t trouble you anymore. All I want is a son!”

With a hint of dejection in her eyes, Lali poked, “Right! So, he can run a liquor shop you longed for.”

“Shut up! I’ll make him a real gentleman,” Fatik readily addressed her concern.

3

Several travellers board the train as soon as it stops at the next stations. Lali, who somehow remains seated on the floor, gets pressed painfully against the legs. She feels worse than ever. Fatik seems restless and cautiously peeks out from behind the crowd to read the station names. At times, he turns to look at the goods around him. A few passengers become irritated, saying, “What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you stand still?”

“Be careful, dada! Take care of your pocket. You never know…Dasbabu lost three hundred bucks yesterday only.” Someone from the crowd airs the words of caution.

Fatik understands the meaning of such lines. He does not utter a word, for he knows if he begins an argument, they will forcibly push him out of the coach at the next station and beat him like hell. He requests the passenger beside him, “Dada, please let me know as we reach Barasat.”

“We are currently at Cantonment. Please be patient; it will take another thirty minutes or so to reach Barasat.”

4

Lali wants to scream. She feels thirsty. Amid the numerous legs visible to her, she cannot identify Fatik’s. Even when Lali looks up to see the faces, she is unable to locate her husband. The child in her womb revolts; it will not tolerate the torture to which the mother is subjected. The baby twirls, rapidly changing positions. Lali realises that her child is responding to the world — specifically, the passengers in the coach. The tiny tot wishes to emerge from confinement to greet them. Lali is afraid — will they treat the child as lovingly as their family?

Fatik bends down and says, “We will get off at the next station. Several others will disembark. I’ll first grab the bags, and then I’ll help you off the coach. Be careful.”

Lali gathers her courage and prepares for the exit. She moves her palm over her belly, saying, “A little more waiting, Baba[3]!”

The train halts at Barasat. Passengers disembark from the train like a vigorous flow of water. Fatik feels puzzled as the bags scatter. A few passengers are still getting off. Meanwhile, many commuters waiting to board the train begin to enter. Ignoring the chaos, Lali tries to stand but fails. Fatik quickly gathers their bags and helps them to ensure a swift exit. The passengers ready to disembark push him out of the coach. Fatik cannot withstand the force and is shoved away from the train. The coach has room for more passengers and fills up quickly. Lali crouches toward the gate and cries, “Help! I’ll get off; stop the train.” People leaning out of the coach warn her.

No one can hear Lali. Fatik rushes to the coach to grip the gate’s rod, but he fails every time he stretches his hand to grasp it. A guy leaning out of the coach holds it in such a way that Fatik cannot access the rod. He refuses to give up and keeps running alongside the train. The thick crowd challenges his swift movement. Amid several passengers inside the coach, Fatik sees his wife’s hands and the two pairs of bangles she wears. He reaches the far end of the platform.

Fatik breathes rapidly. He is exhausted and sweating profusely. He shivers while keeping his head lowered. A drop of sweat rolls down his forehead and falls onto the tip of his nose. Fatik can see the passengers hanging out of the coach, trying their best to get inside. Amid their relentless efforts, Lali’s hands disappear.

[1] Dada/Da: In Bengali, the elder/older brother is calledDada(Dain short).Dada or Daissuffixed to the first or last name when addressing an acquaintance, relative, or stranger during a conversation. Bengalis also suffix Babu to a name (first or last) to show respect.

[2] A traditional, thin cotton cloth (generally, a handloom product) of varyinglengths used in Bengali households to dry the body after bathing or wiping sweat. It is also used in several Hindu rituals.

[3] Baba is father. But parents often use this word affectionately to address their sons.

(Translated from the original Bengali by Kiriti Sengupta. First published in the EKL Review in December 2021)

Bitan Chakraborty is essentially a storyteller. He has authored seven books of fiction and prose, translated two collections of poems, and edited a volume of essays. Bitan has received much critical acclaim in India and overseas. Bougainvillea and Other Stories, The Mark, Redundant and The Blight and Seven Short Stories are four full-length collections of his fiction that have been translated into English. He is considered one of the flag-bearers of Indian poetry in English, being the founder of Hawakal Publishers. When Bitan isn’t writing or editing, he is photographing around Rishikesh, Varanasi, Santiniketan, among other places. He has successfully participated in the 3-day-long Master Class on Photography led by the legendary Raghu Rai. Chakraborty lives in New Delhi with Jahan, a pet Beagle. More at
www.bitanchakraborty.com.

Kiriti Sengupta has had his poetry featured in various publications, including The Common, The Florida Review Online, Headway Quarterly, The Lake, Amethyst Review, Dreich, Otoliths, Outlook, and Madras Courier. He has authored fourteen books of poetry and prose, published two translation volumes, and edited nine anthologies. Sengupta serves as the chief editor of Ethos Literary Journal and leads the English division at Hawakal Publishers Private Limited, one of the top independent presses established by Bitan Chakraborty. He resides in New Delhi. Further information is available at www.kiritisengupta.com.

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Categories
Stories

The Mischief

By Mitra Samal

“If you don’t put it to good use, you will not be allowed to use it at all.”  My grandpa said in a stern voice, waving the magnifying glass on top of my eight-year-old head.

I had misused it twice in the past week and had already received a scolding from my grandma. To reprimand me and prevent any further mishaps, my grandpa decided to place it in the most unreachable top corner of the tall cupboard, where my height, even with the help of any furniture, would sadly not land me.

Apparently, my maternal grandpa, an eminent scientist in Odisha, wanted his firstborn granddaughter (me) to become a renowned physics teacher someday, while his grandson, my elder cousin, would become an engineer. After taking the liberty of deciding our careers—much to our discontent, as I wanted to be a lady police officer, influenced by my childhood soap Udaan[1], and my cousin dreamed of becoming a bus conductor (though I’m not sure of the source of his inspiration)— grandpa decided to teach us physics.

Of all the things he demonstrated in his lab, the one that made the strongest impression on me was how the lens of a magnifying glass, when focused on something, can set it on fire. My cousin, however, remained docile and completely uninterested in either the lens or the fire. He would roll the round Marie Gold biscuits on the floor, imagining them to be the tires of a bus, a bus for which he dreamed of being the conductor someday. My curiosity led me to do bizarre experiments with the lens. As long as I smouldered unused items, it went unnoticed, but eventually, I landed myself in trouble.

Mischief was my domain, not Tipu Bhai’s. Though my cousin was named Tipu, like the valiant Tipu Sultan, he would always retreat like a wet cat. His usual line was, “Do whatever you want, but don’t pull me into this, Nitu!”

Once, I asked him, “Tipu bhai, why do you want to be a bus conductor and not a driver?”

He simply said, “Driving is too much work. I don’t think I can drive such a huge bus. It looks like a gigantic beast. I would rather be a bus conductor.”

I knew bhai was that starry-eyed kid who loved watching the bus conductor almost falling out of the door, the wind playing in his hair, and his whistle piercing the air with a shrill sound. That must have seemed thrilling enough to spark bhai’s otherwise sorry imagination.

My grandma didn’t have many stringent parenting rules. Although she occasionally hollered at me when I was being naughty, most of the time, she pampered us with delectable food and gifts. I remember her sparing coins for us to buy chocolates.

Bhai and I would walk to the nearest market and buy lollipops in our favourite colours. People often asked if we were siblings, and I would reply, “We are cousins.” Sometimes, they would smile or say, “You both look so alike,” before resuming their stroll toward the stalls.

Bhai was too shy to even look at them, so I was usually the one to answer their curious questions when they saw two kids wandering around the market late in the afternoon.

*

We spent our school summer vacations at our grandparents’ house in Cuttack, about a fifty-minute bus ride from Bhubaneswar, where we lived with our parents. My grandpa’s house in Cuttack had a courtyard full of mango trees. That afternoon, my grandma and Malati, our seventeen-year-old maid, were busy collecting mangoes from the trees, most of them raw, to make mango pickles and chutney. The garden was covered with dried mango leaves, and my grandma had asked Malati to sweep them all to the far end and set them on fire.

I had two raw mangoes and a magnifying glass in the pockets of my overalls as I followed my grandma and Malati everywhere.

“Wait here, Nitu, while Malati climbs the tree to get more mangoes,” Grandma said, pointing toward the garden’s boundary wall before walking away.

Tipu bhai was fast asleep inside the house, and Grandpa was away at one of his meetings. I watched from a distance as Malati cautiously climbed one branch after another, tossing mangoes down for my grandma to collect. After a few minutes, I got bored standing in one place, watching Malati and Grandma work as a team while I stood feeling abandoned. I noticed a pile of dried leaves beside me and remembered the magnifying glass in my pocket—if I focused it just right, I could set anything on fire. So, I focused the blazing afternoon sun’s rays onto the leaves.

To this day, my grandma insists there wasn’t any kerosene on the leaves, while I still try to convince her that Malati must have spilled some, intending to sweep them to the other corner later. The leaves caught fire, and the flames quickly rose toward the branches of the tree, spreading fast. My grandma let out a scream and ran toward me, while Malati rushed in and together, they pulled me away from the fire. One of the burning branches fell onto the roof of the hut beside our house, setting it ablaze. The hut belonged to a woman named Foola, meaning flower, and it was her kirana[2] store.

Amidst the chaos, we didn’t realise that Grandpa had just arrived. Foola rushed out of the store in panic, and Grandpa quickly ran into the house to call the fire brigade. The fire brigade arrived ten minutes later and began pouring water on the Kirana store. By then, some neighbours, along with Malati, had already thrown buckets of water on the fire. The roof suffered some damage, but the store itself wasn’t affected much, thanks to the timely intervention. All the while, I stood there helplessly, engulfed by guilt.

In the evening, my grandma sat me down and asked if I knew how the fire had started. Her formidable figure loomed over my tiny one, her hands clasped behind her back, the serious green light from her eyes meeting my brown glaze.

“I didn’t do anything, nothing at all!” I blurted out but then grandma is an expert in studying body language and hearing the unspoken words.

“Look I know you had something to do about it. A fire doesn’t start out of the blue. Better confess it and I will not give you any harsh punishment.” Grandma said with her brows raised.

“It must have been completely accidental. I don’t remember much about how. I think there was kerosene in it.”

“There wasn’t any kerosene. I am positive.” This argument about the oil, as I mentioned, never really ended. I did my best to stay defensive without revealing any details.

Then, my grandma brought her right hand in front of my face, holding the magnifying glass. “I found this in your overalls. Any explanations about it? I may not be well educated but I had seen your grandpa demonstrating what it can do.”

That was it—I was caught red-handed. I knew any further argument would only spark more anger and trouble, so I bowed my head and kept my eyes on my toes. Suddenly, the idea of stealing my grandma’s nail polish and painting my toes red crossed my mind, but I quickly brushed it off.

My grandma pointed her index finger at me and said, “No lollipops for a week.”

“That’s too long!” I complained almost teary eyed.

“You argue more, I extend more. Your brother can have them though.”

I felt like Mowgli in The Jungle Book when he was abducted by the monkeys. However, Grandma paid no heed to my misery.

*

Foola came the next morning and stood on the veranda, sobbing. I could hear her telling my grandparents that although the fire brigade had extinguished the fire, the water had seeped into the sacks of rice and pulses, ruining almost a quarter of her grains.

“Babu, please pay for the damage. I am a widow, there is no one to look after me, with all this ruin I will be at a huge loss.” Foola said to my grandpa.

Grandpa knew that the fire had started in our courtyard, though he hadn’t bothered to find out the intricacies involved, and Grandma hadn’t cared to explain. She thought that barring me from eating lollipops for a while would be enough to teach me a lesson. I had felt guilty, then angry, and now I felt very sorry for Foola.

“How much do you think would be enough for managing the damage?” My grandpa asked Foola.

“I won’t quote more, Babu. I swear to God a hundred or two hundred rupees should be enough.” Foola answered with tears rolling down her cheeks.

My grandpa must have known that Foola was being honest. He exchanged a glance with my grandma, and she nodded in approval. I then saw him hand her two hundred-rupee notes. Grandma encouraged her to come again if she needed further help and the matter was somewhat settled.

Four days had passed without lollipops, and there were three more to go. I was craving them—their sweet and tangy taste, the scent that used to fill my nostrils. They always looked like my favourite coloured bulbs, capable of switching my mood to the happiest level every time I licked them. Furthermore, Bhai had committed the heinous crime of eating my favourite cola-flavoured lollipop the day before.

The guilt and desolation that had entangled me slowly began to be replaced by a sense of rage. I waited for my grandma to go to the bathroom, then reached under the mattress on her bed, where she kept the almirah keys. They were still there—two of them, one for the main door and the other for the locker inside.

Beside her jewellery box lay my magnifying glass. Her favourite green saree, the one she wore to the evening pujas, hung neatly on a hanger. When you’re a child and consumed by anger, reason hardly stands a chance. Without thinking, I focused the lens of the magnifying glass on the saree until it burned a hole through the fabric.

That was how, within a single week, I made two miserable mistakes. When Grandma found out, all hell broke loose in the house, followed by Grandpa reprimanding me.

*

When the anger and rage subsided, realisation dawned on me—guilt, more guilt, and an overwhelming sense of remorse, though I still occasionally craved lollipops. Grandma didn’t pamper me, and grandpa buried himself in his books, not once inviting me to his physics lab. Bhai was busy staring at every bus that passed by the house, lost in daydreams. Malati kept herself occupied with household chores and rarely engaged in outdoor activities. The mango trees had started bearing more fruit, some of them beginning to ripen. The sun was less scorching, though a hot loo blew occasionally, and a couple more weeks had passed. Soon, summer vacation would be over, and my father’d take me back home. He wouldn’t really be proud of my behaviour.

One afternoon it was hotter than usual. The sun blazed like a fiery orb, unleashing an army of relentless heat waves upon us. The air was thick with swirling dust. The garden hand pump and the water faucets in the house spewed only hot water. I sat on an armchair on the porch, with a mildly gloomy face, unperturbed by the heat.

Just then, a middle-aged woman in a saree, with a cloth bag slung over her shoulder, arrived at the gate. She looked fragile, as if the sun had drained all her energy. In a weak voice, she called out to me, “Girl, fetch me a glass of water, please.”

I rushed to open the gate and led her in by the arm. After making sure she was seated comfortably in the shade, I gave her the hand fan I wasn’t using and went inside to get some water.

“Grandma, come along. There is a woman at the door,” I said as I headed out with a jug full of water.

The woman gulped down the water, relaxed a bit, and wiped the sweat from her brow with the end of her saree. I sat close, fanning her, and asked, “Are you okay now?”

“I am, girl, I am. You saved my life!” The woman said with her hand on her chest.

“Do you want more water?” Grandma had just come out of the door.

“No sister. I am okay now. Have to get going.” The woman said, and with her hand patting my head, added, “She saved my life.”

She opened her cloth bag and gave my grandma a handful of ripe guavas. When my grandma offered to pay her, she gently refused, insisting they were a gift. She had traveled from a nearby village and often came to Cuttack to sell fruits and vegetables in the market. That afternoon, the ruthless sun had nearly exhausted her as she made her way to the bus stand. Desperate for some shade and water, she had somehow managed to reach our house.

After she left, grandma told me that good deeds bring blessings.

“You were very kind today,” she said with a smile. It had been a long time since she had given me such a radiant smile.

“And when you do wrong, Satan hovers nearby and doesn’t give you many chances to rectify your mistakes. This time, you did good. I will ask your grandpa to give you the magnifying glass back.”

She then handed me a few coins. “You can have lollipops tomorrow, but make sure to share some with Bhai.”

That was the last time grandma had been so strict, and I never got into such mischief again. After all, who would want to risk getting caught by Satan!

From Public Domain

[1] Flight, a 2014 soap on child labour

[2] Convenience or grocery store

Mitra Samal is a writer and IT Consultant with a passion for both Literature and Technology. Her works including poems, stories, essays, and reviews have been published in The Hooghly Review, Muse India, Borderless Journal, Madras Courier, The Chakkar, and Kitaab among others. She is also an avid reader and a Toastmaster. 

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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Stories

Lending a hand

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

From Public Domain

All the students of Seethanagaram High School stood in the playground for the morning prayer. The headmaster, along with the other teachers, was also present.

After the prayer, the headmaster addressed the students: “A new academic year began yesterday. Many new students will be joining us today. We will start lessons from tomorrow. For today, let’s spend the day playing games. Are you all ready?”

The mention of games excited the children. They enthusiastically replied, “Yes, Sir!”

“Alright! From where you are standing, try to reach the other end of the playground by hopping on one leg,” the headmaster instructed.

The students replied, “We can’t do that, Sir.”

“Don’t say that. You shouldn’t give up without trying. All of you, give it a shot,” he encouraged.

Some students stepped forward and tried to hop on one leg. A few managed to go a little distance before falling, while others gave up after a short while. The headmaster praised their efforts and asked them to return.

Next, the headmaster said, “Now, close your eyes and walk to the end of the playground.”

Just like before, the students shook their heads and said, “We can’t do that, Sir.”

“Don’t worry. We will be right behind you. No one should open their eyes or cheat,” the headmaster assured them.

Trusting his words, the students attempted the task. They walked slowly, but it was very difficult to walk with their eyes closed. They didn’t know what lay ahead—there could be stones or pits. They took each step with great fear. About three-quarters of the students gave up halfway, saying it was impossible. A few, with great difficulty, made it to the end of the playground. The headmaster praised their efforts and asked all the students to gather in the assembly hall.

Once all the teachers arrived in the assembly hall, the headmaster selected twenty students and paired them up to face each other. He tore some chits and wrote on them. Placing the chits in some of the students’ hands, he instructed them to convey the words in the torn scrap of paper to their partners using gestures. The students tried as instructed.

When asked if they understood what their partners were trying to convey, everyone said they did not.

Ravi, who had just started the tenth grade and was known for his courage, watched these games and asked, “Why did you have us do these activities, Sir? Do these games have anything to do with our studies? Walking on one leg, walking with eyes closed, and conveying messages through gestures were all very difficult. We struggled a lot, and some even fell. Why did you make us do this?”

The headmaster responded, “Ravi mentioned that walking on one leg, walking with eyes closed, and communicating through gestures were difficult. Do the rest of you agree?”

All the students nodded in agreement.

The headmaster then said, “You’re right. I agree with you. These tasks were indeed difficult. But due to the disabilities given to them by God, some people with physical impairments, like blindness or deafness, have to live their entire lives like this. Can we agree that their lives are more challenging than ours?”

The students remained silent, unable to answer. When the headmaster repeated the question, Ravi replied, “How would we know, Sir?”

“Didn’t you just experience what it feels like to be lame, blind, or deaf while playing those games? That should have given you some understanding. That’s why I asked,” the headmaster explained to Ravi, who nodded in agreement.

“Another question for all of you. If someone is in trouble, what should we do as fellow human beings?” the headmaster asked.

“We should help them,” the students replied.

“Good job! That’s the right answer,” the headmaster praised them, and the students responded loudly, “That’s right, Sir!”

The headmaster then asked, “We shouldn’t make fun of people like that, right?”

“No, Sir,” the students replied in unison.

At that moment, the headmaster called an attendant and had three students brought before the assembly.One student walked with the help of a stick. Another was visually impaired, and the third student’s disability was not visible but had a hearing impairment.

The headmaster showed these three students to the others and said, “These students joined our school yesterday. Two of their disabilities are visible, and the third has a hearing problem. They are already suffering from these disabilities. We should show compassion and offer our help to them. I have seen with my own eyes some students mocking and making them cry. That’s why I made you experience how difficult life is for those with such impairments through these games. These three students need your support and assistance. Not just these three, but anyone with disabilities, wherever they may be, should be helped. We should give them the assurance that we are here for them and give them moral support.”

The students responded loudly, “Yes Sir!”

At that moment, three students stood up and walked to the front of the assembly.

They said, “Sir, we were the ones who mocked them yesterday. We behaved wrongly because we didn’t understand their difficulties. Please forgive us.”

The headmaster advised them to help those in need and behave well in the future, and then he dismissed all the students to their classrooms.

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

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Why I Stopped Patronising that Cheese Maker’s Shop…

By Zoé Mahfouz

Yes, Elise, I’m talking about you. Ever since you got all those positive Google reviews, you changed. You made the cheese prices go up faster than Cynthia Erivo in Defying Gravity. Seventy euros per kilogram for a Beaufort? I might as well buy the cow itself for that price. You tried to sell us the salmon eaten by “the Queen of Denmark” as if we were attending a Bridgerton ball, right after your pathetic attempt at lumbering us with your farmer’s friend’s uncooked bread and your wild garlic cheese that ended up in the compost for the worms to enjoy.

You pretend that hygiene is your number one priority, yet you let your employees lick their fingers before packing up the cheeses right in front of the customers, just like foetuses do in their mothers’ wombs. You might as well let them lap milk off the floor, like Nicole Kidman does in Babygirl; at least that would be edgy. But let’s face it, you could never. Your lack of reasoning and problem-solving skills could be explained by the smoked cheese currently replacing your cerebral cortex.

You got your feelings hurt when my mother told you we also bought cheese at Laurent Dubois’s shop, a cheese master who won Best Craftsman of France, yet you align your prices with his, even though you’re a nobody with a growth on her forehead and a little cheese shop in one of France’s poorest suburbs. And don’t give me that talk about gentrification already. You and I both know the only reason you planted your shop here is that you couldn’t afford to be in Paris itself…which would also explain why you hired your 70-year-old mom to work with you in the back of the shop, instead of paying her a proper countryside retreat like a decent human being; unless, of course, you find a way to milk her too.

But sure, keep making us pay for it by selling us expired goat’s milk cheese, because we deserve to be poisoned with food for your bad life choices. “But we have loads of bills to pay!” And we don’t? Your cheese store stinks so much that if Lily-Rose Depp decided to hide from Nosferatu there, she’d still be alive.

But hey, don’t lose hope! Maybe you could throw your cheeses in the River Seine to spread a bit more E. coli for the open water swimmers at the next Paris Olympics?

From Public Domain

Zoé Mahfouz is an award-winning actress, screenwriter and content creator. Her own writings have been featured in 20+ literary magazines and best-of anthologies across the globe. Her short screenplays and TV pilots have been recognised in Film Festivals worldwide.

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Eyes of Inti

By Swati Basu Das

This happened far, far away from the home of the Incas; in a kingdom where Sindbad was born…

When the afternoon sun rays briskly melted into the sea and the sandy beach bathed in its glittering waves, a boy in his teens, sporting a mullet haircut, lounged in one of the decorative corners of an elite semi-outdoor eatery. He sat, busy scratching his legs with one hand and handling his phone with the other. The itchiness disturbed him. He failed to repel a menacing minuscule creature that lurked under the table. He spoke less. His eyes glued to the screen. The scowl he wore on his forehead highlighted his teenage disposition. His sombreness confirmed his teenage manifestations.

His family sat in awe to appraise the affluent ambience of the Peruvian-themed restaurant by the shore of the Arabian Sea.  An enormous vintage carved wood chandelier hung from the ceiling. It sprinkled dust of subtle golden light on the faces ogling up to adore it. Bonsai trees, creepers, elaborate Inca statues, and artefacts artfully contributed to the extravaganza. The crisp December draft made the semi-outdoor setting perfect for an exotic lunch. “Cheer up young man! The December heat has lulled the desert heat, what makes you frown?” a middle aged man, presumably his father interrupted his attention a little more.

“Welcome to the paradise!” A swanky waiter attended the guests in his customary white shirt, black pants and black waistcoat. He stood coated with a half-bistro apron around his waist and a pleasant smile. His generous hands served inviting prawn crackers and tempting avocado guacamole. “I would like to have Eyes of Inti[1],” the boy ordered a drink with a quick smile. “Great choice!” he hurried in and returned with the beverage. “Should you prefer sitting indoors? I must ask you this because some guests complained of mosquitoes two days back. Mosquitoes get nasty on you. It shouldn’t spoil your experience with us.” His teeth shone like pearls as he grinned.

 “Oh, they still didn’t trouble us. We prefer sticking to this table. It’s lovely out here,” the boisterous voice of the man answered. 

While methodically placed the cutlery on the table, the waiter continued. “No one fancies an attack from the monsters with their dangling moustache at lunchtime. They hum until they get tired of singing. When you become heedless, they sit on your bare skin to suck your blood with their straw-like weapon. Did you ever crush them between your palms to witness the lifeline in your palm raise a toast to your success with a daub of blood?” he chuckled at the boy and graciously served a glass of mocktail infusion with a smouldering orange hue popping out. “Eyes of Inti for you. It tastes like the nectar of immortality. While you enjoy the Peruvian meal, Inti shall keep a watch on those little devils.”

The banter amused him. Moving away from his phone, he began scrolling through the menu. “One Pargo a la Trufa and Inca’s Rage for me, please,” The red snapper ceviche with loads of truffle made his stomach growl for food. “So, these devils with dangling moustaches and trenchant weapons own free passes to Paradise? Or, perhaps Inti was too distracted. The wrath of Inti’s nemesis — I mean the mosquitoes – waned Inca’s rage?” the boy smiled.

“Ahh! I’m not quite sure,” the waiter chortled with a bland look. A simper smile lingered on the boy’s face.

Inti. From Public Domain

[1] Ancient Inca sun god

Swati Basu Das is a journalist based in Oman. Her columns and features on culture, and travel are published in newspapers and magazines. She relishes music, escapades, coffee and John Keats. 

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In the Realm of Childhood

By Paul Mirabile

From Public Domain

1970s, Scotland

The three youngsters: Rachel, fourteen, her fifteen year old brother, Victor, both born in Edinburgh but raised in Moffat, Scotland, and Kenneth, sixteen, born in Moffat, were inseparable. After school or on week-ends they would explore all the surrounding forests and burr-filled heathers around their town. Victor, good at maps, chartered every trail twisting through, over and around the wooded hollows and hillsides of rowan, hazel, holly and hawthorn sloping up or down the cloven banks of the Annan River. Kenneth and Rachel, excellent artists, sketched all the cawing rooks, starlings and wild owls they espied perched in trees; all the weird insects they avoided crushing during their jaunts. Victor, also a fine artist, drew stags, wild boar, snakes and turtles which he observed at the foot of leafless trees or upon snow-packed hill-tops. They were quite an adventurous trio to say the least, unafraid of steep gorges or the trackless stretches of marshy woodlands.

Our tale opens on a warm spring day; a tale of artistic ardour, ingenious artifice, and especially childhood passions …

The entrance of the cave lay hidden behind a tangle of thorny bramble, thistle and snapdragons. Rachel was the first to discover it when from its mouth a swarm of swallows suddenly darted out, frightened no doubt by her approaching footsteps. Rachel advanced slowly, pushing aside thorny, arching thickets. She halted wide-eyed, staring at a narrow passage that slipped gently downwards deep into darkness.

“Kenneth … Victor, quick I’ve fund[1] a cave!” the excited girl cried, craning forward at its threshold. The boys, sleepy-eyed because they had been up with the larks, trudged towards the resounding shouts of their fellow explorer. They broke through the bramble and bush, joining Rachel at the mouth of the cave.

“Don’t go in,” warned Kenneth. “We have no torches and it may be a bear’s den.” Rachel, who had stepped into the passage, shuddered.

“Stop scaring her,” Victor snapped. “Da[2] said that a bear hasn’t been seen in this area since the 1920s.”

Kenneth raised his chin haughtily: “Perhaps … still, we need light to explore it.”

“Listen, tomorrow we’ll come back with torches, pokes[3], bits[4] and paper to make a map of it,”  Rachel suggested sagely. 

“A map of what?” asked her brother, poking his head into the cavernous umbers.

“Of our cave, laddie, what do you think? It may be full of treasure?”

“Gold … diamonds … rubies …?” asked Kenneth with sarcasm, giggling under his breath.

“Aye! Aladdin’s cavern,” echoed Victor quite seriously. “Let’s get back and make all the preparations.” The three jubilant explorers did exactly that after having zig-zagged through the patches of fabled forest and heather fields that girted their town.

They spent that evening readying their equipment: sandwiches stuffed into knapsacks, boots, torches, pocket-knives, pencils, paper and rope, if needed. Nothing was to be said about the cave to their parents. It was their secret, and their secret alone …

It was in the wee hours of a Saturday morning after a speedy breakfast that they penetrated the mouth of the cave, heedful of anything alive, wary of anything dead. Not once did they have to stoop. Training their torches on the walls, the youngsters at first walked down a long, narrow gallery whose walls glistened smooth like obsidian, yet brittle to the touch. Then the gallery suddenly widened into a huge chamber.

“It’s like a kirk[5],” whispered Kennth, almost with reverence.  

“How do you mean?” whispered Victor in turn.

“Well … look, we’re standing in the nave, and there, further back is the apse.”

Victor stared in awe. The chamber indeed bulged out in colossal dimensions; it did have a church-like configuration.

“Here … Here!” Rachel gesticulated in a hushed voice as if not to disturb anything … or anyone ! “It’s a well.” She stepped back. Victor and Kennth rushed over, stopping at the edge of a huge opening in the rocky floor. Kenneth picked up a pebble and tossed it down. Down and down and down it floated: soundlessly …

The children stared at one another somewhat put off. They walked cautiously back into the ‘kirk’ chamber.

Rachel stopped, scanning the walls: “I have an idea, laddies.” She paused to create a suspenseful sensation, a whimsical smile highlighting her bright, round eyes. “Why don’t we decorate the walls of the cave with animals … or hunters just like the cavemen artists did in their caves ? I’m first in my class in art and so is Kenneth. Victor, too, paints marvellously well.” The two boys eyed her curiously.

“But why would we want to do that?” Kenneth enquired superciliously, although intrigued by Rachel’s idea, for indeed Kenneth had proven himself the best artist at their school.

Rachel trained her torch on the walls then argued: “First, to practice our painting, right ? Then … then … to play a joke on everyone in town about their origins.” Rachel’s eyes glowed with mischievousness.

“What do you mean play a joke on everyone in town?” It was now Victor who sized up his sister suspiciously.

“We could tell everyone that we ‘fund‘ cave paintings and have our pictures in the dailies.” Rachel was absolutely radiate with rapture.

Kenneth laughed. Victor appeared to warm to the idea, albeit prudently. He paced the cavern floor, scanning the smooth, dry walls. He spun on his heels and faced an adamant Kenneth, who scrutinized both with a cool aloofness: “Aye! What a bloody good idea! It’ll be our project, a real artistic project; and who gives a damn if people are fooled or not. Don’t you see Kenneth, it’ll be a brilliant chance to paint what we want to paint.”

Kenneth passed his hand carefully along the cave walls, his finger-tips tracing imaginary designs. He chuckled: “Brilliant idea, Rachel,” he admitted. “Aye, a stroke of inspiration! We can ground and sift our own pigments with the forest and riverside plants and minerals just like the cavemen did. The rock isn’t granite, look, it just chips away when you scratch it. First we’ll engrave the pictures then paint them. It’ll fill the cave with a magical lustre, a true primitive or prehistoric aura.”

“We could steam vegetables and use the juice to paint,” added Victor, growing more inflamed.

“We could even mix the paintings with hot wax for a more aged effect,” Rachel suggested.

“Nae! That’s how the Greeks painted. That technique is called encaustic. We want a caveman’s artistic technique and touch,” Kenneth checked her.

“But won’t we be going against the law?” Victor asked in a subdued tone.

“Don’t be a dafty, of course not!” Rachel reprimanded him. “It’s our cave. We fund it, didn’t we ? We’re only decorating it.”

“Aye. But to play a trick on adults,” he continued lamely.

“A little trick won’t have us tossed into gaol, laddie,” reminded Kenneth. “It’s a swell idea, and we can really explore our painting techniques and colour schemes.”

And so in the depths of that cave, unknown to the rest of the world, the youngsters’ project, or should I say, scheme, had been sealed.

Hence, the cave became their point of reference, their realm of eternal childhood, more intimate than either school or home, their retreat of borderless imagination. Day after day on those barren walls within the dry darkness of their grotto-world, their imagination, so fertile because bubbling over with youthful turbulence, brought to life animal figures, first hewn with small chisels then painted with fingers (especially thumbs), or with sticks, brushed over with clumps of grass. No paint-brush was ever used. Their painting techniques remained those of prehistoric cave-artists.

Kenneth, well versed in rock painting from his school art classes and own research, chose the designs and advised Victor and Rachel how to apply the pigments. Each chose a section of the cavern to exercise his or her talents: Victor began to draw several cattle heads in the kirk with umbers that he ground and sifted from clay, boiled acorns, with their cups, and boiled mushrooms. It conferred to his cattle grey, tawny tones; tones that seemed to afford a glow of warmth to the cold walls.

Kenneth took charge of the western nave of the kirk, animating its walls with a big black cow, two galloping horses and two bison, all in charcoal black with a fringe of madder pigment. The plant had been gathered at the Annan riverside, then ground and sifted into a deep, crimson red.

As to Rachel, she applied her talent on the eastern nave wall with a two-metre long frieze of deer heads. Rachel also took charge of making a small fire to boil the plants and vegetables, whose steamed-juice transformed the plants or vegetables into liquid pigments. She poured the liquid into small glass containers and let them sit for one night before application.

“We’re like the cavemen who discovered fire,” Rachel said cheerfully as she steamed the plants and vegetables she had gleaned either from the forest or ‘borrowed’ from her mother’s kitchen.

“Not so, lassie. It was light that discovered fire, the cavemen merely rendered it physical,” corrected Kenneth smugly.  Rachel shrugged her shoulders …

With his customary pedantry, Kenneth advised: “Don’t forget mates, painting doesn’t reproduce what is visible, but restores or renders what no one has ever seen.”

Rachel and Victor ignored him, chuckling to themselves.

They worked diligently in rhythm with the stillness of the cave, their imaginations soaring to the height and breadth of their lithic horizon. For they were careful not to surpass those limits, not to crowd the walls with too many figures. The roaming animals needed space to breathe and the young artists provided them with that vital space: horses trot … cows graze … deer gambol. Kenneth, after having examined a hunter armed with a bow in a book of cave paintings, added this figure to his zoological repertoire. The hunter had let fly an arrow and followed its flight towards something unknown. Kenneth had his arrow fly towards one of his elks. The posture of the hunter having released his arrow from a taunt bow was crudely traced then coloured in rusty ochre. It would be the only human representation of the grotto paintings.

All the paintings had been previously drawn on a flat surface of paper by Victor. Rachel arranged the positions of their depictions and the boys made mental notes of them before undertaking the actual wall representation. Kenneth had reminded Rachel and Victor that the intention of the artist was not to copy what they see but to express it, and that their undertaking should not seek a tawdry or fantastic effect, but a simple one, for simplicity is essential to true art. If they really hoped to convince the townsfolk of the millennial authenticity of their pictures, then this artistic canon had to be respected scrupulously.

Gradually the cave walls burst out into a magical menagerie: Victor’s two-horned aurochs, painted in umber came to life and Rachel’s deer-head frieze boldly gambolled out of the rock in striking shades of madder red. Rachel, applying a prehistoric technique, blew the madder pigment on to the wall through a straw, then smeared it roughly with her thumb or a feather. 

The volume of their art thickened with vegetal and mineral glints as the volume of the walls, too, thickened with a phantasmagoria creatures depicted in a style they thought of as from stone ages.

Sometimes, the youngsters would dance and sing round the fire, recite poetry, or even compose a few verses of their own in joyful wantonness. “Our cave is the setting of an unfolding story, laddies,” Rachel giggled.

This pictural setting was indeed the fruit of their childhood imagination … and talent.

The day finally arrived when the cave-artists put the final touches to their masterpiece, an œuvre of considerable talent, even genius, given the lack of adult counsel and absence of light in the cave. For they had laboured as the prehistoric artist had laboured: by torch light (theirs, of course, electric!), and from the flames of their little fire’s chiaroscuro dancing upon the walls.

This being said, to divulge the discovery of the cave and its pictural contents would be a bit dodgy. They chose to wait several weeks to reflect on how they would announce their discovery. Kenneth, meanwhile, every now and then tossed dust on the pictures to harden and ‘age’ them. They lost their glint but the umbers seemed to strike the eye more prominently. They left nothing in the cave that would jeopardise their scheme. The ashes of their fire were swept into the well or used to tinge some of the figures in a rough, taupe grey.

Finally, on a clammy late Saturday morning, Rachel and Victor stormed into their parents’ home out of breath :

“Maw! Da! Come quick,” exclaimed Rachel red in the face. “We fund a cave.”

“Aye, a real deep cave full of animal pictures,” seconded Victor, sweating from the brow, either from exhaustion or fear. “You have to come to see for yourselves,” he insisted. “The cave’s not far off, near the riverside.”

Their mother and father, not very eager to tear themselves away from their armchair reading, nevertheless let their panting children drag them to the mouth of the cave. Once there, they all entered, the parents a bit warily. Victor, at the head of the expedition, led them down into the cave, scanning the walls with his torchlight which exposed several paintings. His father, unversed in cave-paintings, had, however, studied art at university in Edinburgh. The paintings intrigued him. His wife stood dumbfounded before such a vast array of art work.

“What striking pictures!” she exclaimed, staring wide-eyed in admiration as her husband illumined one section of the wall after another. Bedazzled by such parental compliments, Rachel felt an ardent urge to thank them. She checked herself. Victor remained quiet.

“Aye!” uttered their father reflectively. “This is certainly not a chambered cairn tomb. I’ll contact specialists immediately. Meanwhile, you two (indicating his children) get the school authorities to photograph the cave and the paintings. Even if they’re not authentic, they do make for a good story in the local papers until the police find the culprits who contrived this whole thing.”

“What do you mean not authentic?” asked Victor timorously.

“Well, you know, there have been art counterfeiters over the ages, but it takes time before the experts uncover their ingenious device.”

“What happens to them?” Rachel dared ask, eyeing Victor sullenly.

“They’re tossed into gaol where they rightly belong!” concluded their father, puckering his lips. Rachel winced at the word gaol …

When their parents had returned home, Rachel and Victor made a bee-line for Kenneth’s house, where they informed him of their parents’ reaction, especially the tossing into gaol.

Kenneth chuckled out of the corner of his mouth: “Keech[6] ! Minors aren’t thrown into gaol, goonies[7]. Nae, you know what they say: ‘Fools look to tomorrow. Wise men use tonight.’” Neither Rachel nor her brother really understood that point, but it did have a pleasant ring to their ears.

The following weeks were hectic ones for the youngsters both at home and at school. Pupils bombarded them with questions whilst at home the telephone never stopped ringing. All the thorny bramble, thistle and snapdragons had been cut away from the mouth of the cave allowing photographers to take pictures and journalists to examine the figures for themselves. Soon travellers from afar reached the cave to feast their eyes on these wonderful works of prehistoric art.  During that feverish time no one dreamed that they had been drawn by our three adventurers …

Secretly the adventurers were delighted. And for good reason: they had their pictures taken in front of the cave by professional photographers, and had been interviewed not only by local reporters, but reporters sent from Edinburgh, Glasglow and even London. Experts had been contacted, seven to be exact, two of whom from London.

Kenneth brooded over the outcome. He sensed that the arrival of the experts bode ill-tidings. He knew they wouldn’t go to gaol, but, would they query of the age of the pigments however primitive their mixtures, their application and original whereabouts? Would they suspect foul play simply because, besides carved stone balls, prehistoric art work had never been discovered in Scotland? These men had very technical means to detect the precise date of pigments and their wall application …

All seven arrived together. Together they entered the cave brandishing large, powerful torches and miners’ helmets. Huge crowds had gathered for the occasion: photographers, journalists and even local writers swarmed throughout the surrounding hilly forests. Kenneth sat on a rock, his chin cupped in his hands. He felt miserable. Victor, wringing his hands frantically, paced back and forth near the riverside until his footfalls had traced a path. Rachel bit the ends of her hair nervously, casting furtive glances towards the thickening crowd. Dozens of people had been congratulating them on their find all morning.

“Would they congratulate us as much if they learned we were the artists?” snickered Victor sarcastically.

“Aye, I wonder,” Rachel responded drily.

“Bloody hell, why make things worse!” Kenneth snorted stiffly, staring at the backs of the crowd in front of the cave. “The whole thing was zany[8] to begin with. Those professors will be on to us, I’m sure.” All the three bowed their heads resigned to their fate in silent expectation.

The seven filed out of the cave with wry smiles difficult to decipher. A strange composition indeed: severe or cryptic … sharp or ironic … gruff or awe-inspired! No one appeared to be able to interpret those ambivalent smiles, especially our three young artists, who had by then stomped up the humpy hillside towards the murmuring crowd. Everyone present eyed the children in nervous anticipation as if they held the key to unlock those facial mysteries. Alas none had …

The experts pushed through the crowd and reached the standing children. One of them with a pointy beard and a sweet smile asked them very politely to lead them to the home of their parents where they would like to speak to them in private. Kenneth’s father ran up and immediately agreed to offer his home for their conference. Besides, it was the closest. He led the way through the fabled forest and over the heather fields. Arriving at the door, the pointy bearded expert informed Kenneth’s father that their conference was be held without parental intrusion. Had the father any choice ? Apparently not, for the front door of his humble home was shut quietly in his astonished face …

Now whatever took place behind the shut door of that humble home the ever-present narrator is, alas, at a loss to relate. For hours and hours and hours seemed to pass, and having reached the number of words permitted in this tale, it behoves him to abandon his readers to imagine the outcome … or the verdict themselves …   

From Public Domain

[1]        ‘found’ in the Scots tongue.

[2]        ‘Father’ in the Scots tongue.

[3]        ‘bag or pouch’ in the Scots tongue.

[4]        ‘Boots’ in the Scots tongue.

[5]        ‘Church’ in the Scots tongue.

[6]        ‘Rubbish’ in the Scots tongue.

[7]        ‘Idiots’ in the Scots tongue.

[8]        ‘Crazy’ in the Scots tongue.

Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.

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‘Solitude is a Kind of Freedom…’

By Munaj Gul Baloch

From Public Domain

Mehr’s fingers shivered as she turned the pages of Patrick Hamilton’s Slaves of Solitude. The words in the pages distorted together, but her mind was elsewhere, stuck in a maze of solitude.

Five years and seven months of isolation had made her life dazed with unrelenting queries. Mehr frequently grilled herself… how could she bring her past back? That would be impossible, but it had been beautiful and sad too. She had lost her companion, Nohan, to cancer that night more than five years ago. Nohan, from Mehr’s school cohort, had been her soulmate. During the recess at school, he often says to Mehr, “You are as fine-looking as the moon,” looking at Mehr’s brown eyes with a pure smile on his lips. She never praised but had deeply admired him.

The consciousness of Nohan and Mehr were akin. They loved gentle breeze, striking mountains, the elegant water of Nihing River, and the scenario of Jaalbaar. Most of their debates were grounded on the veneration of Balochistan’s beauty. Mehr had always aired her life’s grievances to Nohan and found relief in being with him. Since the day Nohan had departed from the world, she was in the room – alone.

Her room, once an asylum for her companions, now turned into a prison. The gentle breeze, the echoes of mountains, and the rain created a forlorn opus, adding her depression. Each drop of rain haunted her and reminded her of bygone days. Memories of her past unsettled and haunted her even in her most blessed hours. Her eyes, once perky, now seemed grey, weighed down by the tears she had shed in the isolated room with the pages of the book.

A voice whispered to her, “Take my hand, or you will go astray here—in the world of solitude.” Mehr’s heart pranced a beat. She spun around, however, there was no one there. She remained astound. Past mid night, the voice persisted again, “Look, there is a yellow river beside your room, flowing with blood and sorrows.” The words dripped torment. All of a sudden, Mehr’s gaze drifted towards the window, and for a moment, she saw nothing around. It was so dark, she found a yellowish glow, and after some seconds, the yellowish glow died out.

It was still raining outside. The voice continued to haunt her. Mehr felt like she was drowning in a sea of despair. Afterwards, something budged. The night turned into another day. She picked up another book, One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, which was kept in her personal collection. But nothing changed.  She still felt a sense of nervousness.

Mehr’s heart swelled with sensation as she approached the word solitude in the pages of the book. She smiled, and felt a weight lift off her shoulders. For the first time in years, she felt a sense of belonging. Though, the solitude, the memories, and the voices – they had all been a manifestation of her own fears and doubts. She smiled and knew that she still had a long way to go – perhaps an unknown destination. The phrase “Solitude is a kind of freedom” would continue to roll on her mind. She found solace in solitude– a feeling she could own. She lived by the line that said, “In solitude, the mind gains strength and learns to lean upon itself.”

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Munaj Gul is a lawyer based in Turbat, Balochistan. He tweets @MunajGul

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The Appropriate Punishments

By Naramsetti Umamaheswararao

From Public Domain

In a small forest next to Ramapuram, there lived a crow and a monkey who were friends. They would help each other when needed, but they were mischievous by nature and often looked for opportunities to harass others. Over time, they befriended a cunning jackal, and the three would team up to trouble travelers passing through.

The residents of Ramapuram and nearby villages had to cross this small forest to reach the town. Whenever a traveler passed through the forest with a bag in hand, the monkey would jump from the tree and snatch the bag, hoping to find food inside. It would climb up a tree, rummage through the contents, and if there was anything edible, it would keep it, tossing the rest to the ground. The monkey would then mock the traveler, showing its teeth and laughing at their distress. Once the traveler left, the monkey would share the food with its friends.

The crow, on the other hand, would swoop down and peck at the travelers’ heads with its beak or legs, causing them to flinch. If anyone rested under a tree, the crow would defecate on them and then hide in the branches, laughing at their misery.

The jackal was skilled at imitating the roar of a tiger. It would hide behind a tree and roar like a tiger, scaring the travelers who would then run away in fear, much to the jackal’s delight.

One day, a farmer named Rama from the neighbouring village of Shantipuram was passing through the forest. He was on his way to buy jewelry for his daughter’s wedding, carrying money in his bag. The monkey, mistaking the bag for food, leaped in front of Rama and snatched the bag, quickly climbing a tree. “Oh no, my bag!” cried Rama as he ran after the monkey. But the monkey, sitting on a branch, began searching through the bag. Finding nothing to eat, it became angry and tore the money into pieces, throwing them down.

Seeing this, Rama was filled with both sadness and anger. He spotted a dry branch on the ground and thought of using it to threaten the monkey. But before he could act, the crow swooped down and pecked him on the head. Meanwhile, the jackal, hiding behind a tree, roared like a tiger. Terrified, Rama ran away from the forest.

When he reached his village, Rama told the villagers what had happened. The villagers felt sorry for him and promised to help with his daughter’s wedding expenses.

A young man in the village suggested, “I know a sorcerer. Let’s tell him about this and put an end to these troubles.” So they took Rama to the sorcerer.

After hearing the story, the sorcerer said, “I will secretly observe what’s happening in the forest and punish the culprits.” He kept his promise and observed the mischief of the crow, monkey, and jackal for a few days to understand their behavior completely. Then, he devised a plan and set out for the forest.

When the monkey saw the sorcerer coming with a bag in hand, it followed its usual habit and jumped down to snatch the bag. But the moment its hand touched the bag, it stuck to it. No matter how hard the monkey tried, it couldn’t free itself. The sorcerer had applied strong glue to the bag beforehand, knowing this would happen. The monkey screeched in fear.

Hearing the monkey’s cries, the crow flew down intending to peck the sorcerer. But the sorcerer quickly threw a net over the crow, trapping it.

Meanwhile, the jackal, watching the humiliation of its friends from a distance, tried to roar like a tiger again. It went behind a tree to hide, but the sorcerer’s disciple, who had been waiting there, threw another net over the jackal, capturing it.

Realising that the sorcerer was not an ordinary traveler, the animals pleaded, “Oh, please forgive us. We won’t trouble anyone anymore.”

The sorcerer laughed and asked, “When you were troubling the travelers, where was your sense of right and wrong? Now that you’re in trouble, you suddenly confess and promise to end your mischief? How can you chnge so quickly?”

They replied, “We never expected someone like you would come. Please let us go. We promise to live without bothering anyone.”

The sorcerer, however, was unmoved. “There’s no question of letting you go. I will hand you over to the zoo so that travelers passing through this forest won’t be troubled anymore.”

The animals pleaded once again, “We’ve learned our lesson. Please let us go.”

Even the sorcerer’s disciple requested, “Please forgive them and let them go.”

But the sorcerer responded, “Don’t show mercy on these creatures. The monkey tore up Ramayya’s money. I’ll release the crow, and if it ever causes trouble again, I’ll capture it and starve it to death in a cage. I’ll train the monkey to perform tricks and take it with us for shows. As for the jackal, I’ll hand it over to the zoo.”

And the sorcerer did exactly as he said. He disciplined the three of them and put an end to their mischief. From that day on, travelers passing through the forest were no longer troubled by the crow, monkey, or jackal.

From Public Domain

Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.

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Categories
Stories

Vasiliki and Nico Go Fishing

By Paul Mirabile

From Public Domain

It was Easter holiday. Nico had ten days off from school. His grandfather, Vasiliki, had promised his grandson to take him out on a fishing expedition for a few days on the island of Pontikos to the south-east of Hydra. It was a tiny island hardly inhabited by man where wildlife roamed freely. Vasiliki had been there several times with his father. They always stayed in a cave which lay hidden in a small creek, unknown to all, save of course, themselves …

So one April morning, the sky more or less clear and the sea calm, Vasiliki weighed anchor and they set out in his motorised sailing dinghy. Making sure the motor was not in gear he pulled the pull-starter to ignite it. An instant later he choked it.

“Why did you choke the motor, grandpa?” Nico enquired, eating sardines with a slab of goat cheese and bread.

“Have to warm her up a bit, my boy. The fuel needs a few seconds to fill her.” Vasiliki again tugged at the pull-starter and away they glided, humming slowly away from the make-shift pier, Nico now hauling in the tie-ropes. Vasiliki took firm hold of the throttle, steering the boat out of the coastal waters.

“Shouldn’t we hoist the jibe, grandpa?”

“Not today. There isn’t much wind and Pontikos is far off. Thanks to my new motor, we’ll get there quicker … Tonight we’ll be eating shrimp,” he shouted over the pleasant humming of his new motor. “ And tomorrow morning we’ll fish for sea bream. Prawns and shrimp rise to the surface of the water at night and sea bream during the day.”

“Why is that, grandpa?” Nico sat sleepily on coils of rope at the bow wiping off the pieces of bread that had fallen on his anorak. He enjoyed the smell of the sea, that briny, seaweed smell. The air had a sweet taste to it that he could not identify, perhaps oleander or fuchsia.

His grandfather scratched his silvery beard: “I really don’t know why. Fish are like us humans. They have different reactions to different circumstances.” Nico, although not quite satisfied with this response had not the heart to pursue the subject.

“The sky was red last night,” continued Vasiliki, gently manoeuvring the throttle, steering the sail-less dinghy further out away from the dangerous rocky shores of Hydra. “You know what they say: ‘Red at night, sailor take delight; red in the morning, sailor take warning.’ No storm will be on us this morning.”

“Why do they say that, grandpa?” asked the inquisitive Nico.

Vasiliki observed the clouds moving in behind Hydra: “I really don’t know, Nico. It’s just one of rhymes that fishermen and sailors have repeated for centuries.” Vasiliki sniffed the air: “The weather will be clear only for us up till tonight, Nico. Who knows, we just may see a rainbow.”

“Only for us, grandpa?”

Vasiliki smiled: “Well, we’re the only ones out on the sea this morning, right?”

Nico nodded. Indeed their vessel was the only one seen on the whole wide horizon. The boy looked up — white puffy clouds plodded across the blue like camels over desert sands.

The motor raced them out into an Aegean smooth as silk. Gentle wavelets slapped the sides of the dinghy. The plodding caravan continued it’s heavenly voyage, the sun peeping over and to the sides of their creamy white humps. Nico gasped, he was witnessing an amazing spectacle of Creation! The early morning breeze stung his cheeks a crimson red. It was his first time out on a fishing expedition with his grandfather. How excited he was. He shot a glance behind him: a few dark clouds rose above the bleak cliffs of Hydra.

“The northern winds, grandpa,” he informed the steering Vasiliki, his voice a bit shaky. “They’ll be on us.”

“No bother, my boy, we’re out-racing them thanks to our new motor. That’s why I didn’t hoist the jibe, you see. Don’t forget : ‘red at night is sailor’s delight !’ Anyway, we’ll be at Pontikos in a few hours, long before those nasty black clouds chase or swallow those lovely white puffy ones.”

“Like the sea monsters that swallow boats and their crew, grandpa?”

Vasiliki offered no reply.

Three hours later, Vasiliki slackened speed by gradually easing up on the motor until he pressed the choke button on the throttle. He then took up the oars and began rowing strenuously, the muscles of his arms and shoulders contracting to the rhythmic movements of the current.

“Why have you cut the motor, grandpa?”

“Cause we’re entering the creek where our cave is. We have to be very careful to avoid snags. The strong current will also help us through the creek and push us right to the mouth of the cave. I know these waters well, my boy. You see, I’m not even rowing, it’s the current that’s doing all the work. Just look at this creek, Nico. It’s magic to the eye.”

Vasiliki gazed dreamily at their surroundings. He had indeed pulled up the oars and now let the current eddy them through sprays of seaweed toward the sandy beachhead. With the rising mist, the towering cliffs of Pontikos loomed eerily before them, encircling the indented crescent creek, although paths could be discerned on the pebbly strand, widening and snaking amidst the huge fissures and cavities of the cliffs. Tiny maritime parasols clung precariously off the jagged crags. The ruddy colours of the late afternoon bathed the whole scene in a marvellous fairy-tale aura. Nico sat mesmerised before the slightly rolling reflexions of the craggy palisades in the turquoise waters of the creek, over which his grandfather was now rowing prudently to avoid any collisions with the flat rocks that surged up here and there on the foamy wavelets. He envisioned himself on a page of A Thousand and One Nights, or on one in Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island which he had just finished reading …

“There she is, Nico … the mouth of our cave. That’ll be our home for a few days.”

Suddenly Nico cried out: “Grandpa! Look, a seal on the rock, I heard her cry … There she is!”

Nico stood up at the bow to get a better look. “It’s a fat seal with tiny white eyes.” The seal squealed in delight and dived into the cool, clear waters. “What a beautiful seal, grandpa!” added an overjoyed Nico.

“She sure is, Nico. Now let’s do the same. We have to jump into the water to haul the boat on to the beachhead. Take off your sandals and roll up your trousers.”

“I’d love to dive like that fat seal,” Nico called out as he hauled away. “I’d be able to catch so many prawns and sea breams and …”

“Get a hold of the rope and tie it to a few of the trailing vines that criss-cross the beach,” broke in Vasiliki, rubbing his calloused hands. Then he dropped anchor. “Get our bags out of the dinghy, but leave the fishing gear inside.”

Nico gathered up their bed-rolls, firewood and spittle, carrying them into the cave. Meanwhile his grandfather busily cleared and smoothed the floor of the cave to make it comfortable to lie on and build a fire. “I hope she comes up again,” Nico said, listening to his echo.

“Who?” 

“The seal, grandpa.”

“She’ll come up. My father and I always saw her come up and dive back down.”

“Can seals live that long?” Vasiliki glanced at his curious grandson.

“Well, I’m not sure she’s the same one. It may be her baby.” After that rather enigmatic reply, Vasiliki vanished into the deepest shades of the cave in search of prawns caught in the many shallow pools of water. Nico sat on the strand watching their boat dance suavely upon the wavelets that lapped the shore like ripples of laughter. The sun was setting over Hydra. The seagulls were laughing and the cormorants crying, both now on the wing, rising from the darkening waters, lifting their wet wings, flapping them madly. Suddenly the seal jumped up again on to the flat rock with a joyous squeal. The foamy waves brushed against the flat rock, soundlessly. She dived back into them. A call from the cave! Vasiliki had netted dozens of small prawns and was now scooping them out of the pools.

“Nico, get the big pot from the boat. We’ll be having boiled prawns with goat cheese, olives and bread tonight.” Vasiliki appeared stirred by the idea.

No sooner said than done! Whilst Nico searched for the big pot, Vasiliki dug a small hole, filled it with dry wood bits and made a fire. They used bottled water to boil and drink since no drinking water was found on Pontikos. 

Nico and his grandfather ate a hearty meal that first night. Tired from their voyage, they spread out their bed-rolls and lay down in the silence of the dim, fire-lit cave. Nico used his anorak for a pillow. He observed the last plumes of smoke rising to the rocky ceiling where there, they fanned out, the wisps tracing weird configurations: shapes of birds perched upon gigantic cliffs, deep-sea fish and reptilic creatures all moving slowly … very slowly. Nico rubbed his exhausted eyes, the phantasmagoria gradually vanished into the black rock. The fire lowered, then died out …

Streams of orange rays broke into their dreamless sleep. Vasiliki awoke first: “Nico, go out and find some brush and underwood for our fire. Be careful on the paths between the boulders, there may be scorpions or snakes.”

Nico rolled out of his bed-roll, splashed his face with a bit of briny-scented seawater, then throwing a sack over his shoulder which he retrieved from the dinghy, set out in search of firewood. The agile boy had not been at it for long when he stopped dead in his tracks. On the strand lay a seagull shaking her orange legs, pecked at the reddening morning sky with her horny beak. He approached the bird carefully. She opened her eyes as if pleading for help. Vasiliki soon joined his grandson.

“What’s wrong with the bird?”

“She’s dying, grandpa.” Nico lamented. “Look, she can’t fly when she spreads her wings.” Vasiliki shook his head sadly and turned to leave.

“We got to get to the boat, my boy, the fishing will be good today.”

Nico cradled the seagull’s head in his hands then poured some seawater onto her beak. She shook her head violently, closed her eyes and lay still. The boy dug a hole in the warming sands, placed the dead bird gently in it then covered her with sand and pebbles. He erected a little mound on the burial spot. The gloom-filled boy retraced his steps to join his grandfather at the boat, his bag full of wood bits and dry brush.

“What’s wrong, Nico?” asked Vasiliki as they pushed the dinghy into the still waters.

“The seagull’s dead, grandpa. I buried her.”

Vasiliki eyes shone with warmth. “Seagulls die, my boy,” he mulled, waist deep in the creek. “Like us, we die too.”

Vasiliki took up the oars and rowed out towards the open sea. Pulling them in, he let the dinghy float gently on her own whilst he prepared the fishing lines.

“We’re not too far out, grandpa?” observed Nico, fixing his line with a plummet and baiting his hook with worms and not with pieces of fish as the fishermen of Hydra would always do much to the dislike of his grandfather.

“No … Have to keep that coastline in sight,” reminded Vasiliki. “These waters can change in a blink of an eye.”

Nico fixed his line and sent it spinning through the rod out into the choppy waters. He sat on the coil of ropes sniffing the pleasant morning breeze. The air smelt of flowers. He scanned the watery horizon where he felt overwhelmed by a strange sensation of encountering a primordial world when primitive men hunted, fished, built fires in caves … sang dirges to the dead. Would he chant a dirge for the dead seagull that night in the warmth of their cave fire?

Hours passed. Both stared dreamily into the sea as they held their rods steady, a sea so creamy, so milk-like. Now and then a slight turbulence, perhaps a whirlpool, tossed the dinghy from side to side.

“Do you see any mackerel?” Vasiliki asked, peering over the surface of the sea.

“I’m not sure if they’re mackerel or scad fish, grandpa,” answered the boy, tugging lightly at his rod.

“Well, the mackerel chase the scad, so you know that the mackerel are behind them.”

Nico nodded.

“Tell me about the seagull, Nico.”

Nico peered at this grandfather’s aging face, leathery from the wind and sun, at his deep, gimlet set eyes. “Which one, grandpa? The one I just buried or Dimitri’s?”

“Dimitri’s?” 

“Yes, remember Dimitri, he was one of my classmates … He had a seagull for a pet.”

“A seagull for a pet? That’s strange. Tell me about her.”

“She was a different kind of seagull. A domesticated seagull. She would fly up on to a rock whenever Dimitri and his father were out fishing. From that rock, she would observe them with her beady eyes. Then she would dive straight down to the boat but she never perched on Dimitri’s father’s side of it, only on Dimitri’s side. His father was a grouchy old man and the seagull never cared for him. Dimitri would throw her fishbones, picarels and other bait. His father would get angry, saying that bait was for fishing and not for that blasted bird ! Dimitri never listened to his father. He would just wave a hand and keep feeding his companion. They were an inseparable pair, you know. When Dimitri died of the flu the seagull flew off and was never seen again … »

“Where did she fly off to?” enquired Vasiliki, intrigued by this tale.

“Perhaps she flew to China, grandpa … Like the Nefeli[1] …”

“To China?” Vasiliki eyed his grandson thoughtfully.

“Yes, grandpa. Or to somewhere unknown, or at least not known to us.” Vasiliki bowed his head. They shook their rods : nothing yet …

The sun was high in the sky now. It warmed their bones and skin. Nico threw off his anorak. How beautifully the sunbeams bounced off the blue waters. They shimmered like the scales of a fish just caught on the line. From time to time, the gulls and the cormorants that glid over their heads swooped down and skimmed the surface of the white foam in search of scud or other schools of fish that were presently leaping at the surface. The birds certainly had more luck than our two fishermen. Plunging downwards, fluttering their huge wings, their graceful dives and surges hypnotised Nico. Meanwhile in the fathoms of the deep, millions of sea-creatures pursued millions others. The microscopic fish were swallowed up by the bigger fish, and in turn were swallowed up by even bigger fish! The whole lot of them were then completely disappeared in one enormous suction into the hollow vortex of the great whale. A great battle indeed was underway both in the inflamed sky and in the broiling sea. Nico felt enfolded in this chaotic struggle for life. Would he, too, be swallowed up along with his grandfather?

Nico shot a questioning glance at Vasiliki who suddenly broke the silence with cries of joy: “Ah ! Nico, here … a fish … two or three fishes!” Vasiliki, all agog, triumphantly displayed three flapping fish in his straw-weaved basket, their gills quivering silver in the intense sunlight. Nico, too, quite unexpectedly got lucky. Not only had he reeled in a mackerel, but also a big, white fleshy sea bream. He had at first lost his plummet, no doubt badly tied. But when Vasiliki showed him how to fix it properly the fish came to him as if the bait were a magnet.

“We’ll be having a hot-pot tonight, my boy,” rejoiced Vasiliki. “We’ll cook some vegetables with our catch. What do you think?”

Nico smiled. He thought it an excellent idea …That night when they had cleaned the fish, Vasiliki boiled them with an assortment of vegetables brought over from Hydra, especially egg-plant, red-pepper and tomato.

“How was the meal, Nico?” asked his grandfather when they had finished eating.

Nico, who had been listening to the moaning wind, turned to him: “Delicious, grandpa. But you know, I thought of the dead seagull all day when fishing. She should have been diving and catching fish with the others.” He paused a moment. “Grandpa, what did you think of my story?”

“What story?”

“About Dimitri’s pet seagull.”

“A good story, my boy. A beautiful story. A very beautiful one.” Vasiliki puckered his lips. “Why do you keep thinking about the seagull you buried ? Do you want to give her a name, like your boat that sailed to China?” Nico stared at his grandfather rather perplexed.

“No grandpa, I have no name for her. She’s gone far away … like the Nefeli … to another land …”

“We’ll build another boat together,” Vasiliki promised. “A bigger boat. The biggest of them all. But the seagull,” he hesitated. “The seagull has flown off to a land where we can never see her again. I’m sure it’s a beautiful land, like where the Nefeli is now on her way.”

“Wouldn’t you like to see that land, grandpa?”

“Well … not right now, my boy. Right now I’d like to close my eyes and sleep. Tomorrow we’ll be on the sea the whole day again. They’re biting out there.”

And that is exactly what the old man did …

The last embers of their fire cast undulating shadows on the walls of the cave. Vasiliki was sound alseep, snoring lightly. Nico strolled to the beachhead. The moon had risen, girt by a rosy halo. Darkened seagulls glided in and out of the misty moonbeams. They danced an eerie dance. Nico perceived Hydra’s beacon far, far off at the south-west tip of the island. A steamer passed over the sleepy waters heading for Hydra, her lights burning bright against the umber orb of the horizon. Nico thought of the Nefeli on her long voyage to China. Slicing unmanned, captainless over unchartered seas, like Dimitri’s pet seagull on the wing, perhaps she too flying towards unknown lands now that her master had long since departed. The seagull he had buried could also be flying off to some mysterious place, a paradise for seagulls where she could fly and fly and fly without a thought of ever diving for fish or of escaping the hunter’s gun. A peaceful place…

Nico’s grandfather told him that tomorrow night they would be eating mussels with lemon juice; a real regale his grandfather had beamed. With bread and olives, too. Olives always go so well with mussels, he said. Nico smiled. Why they always go so well together his grandfather never offered a reason. But Nico believed him. Nico believed everything that his grandpa told him, even about the monsters of the sea that swallow boats and their crews. Perhaps the Nefeli had been swallowed up by one of those monsters.

Nico stared at the shadowy moon. A slight wind began to groan. The dinghy tossed gently, the scraping of the pebbly strand under her bow prompted a rather strange rhythm like a saw sawing wood.

Nico strolled back into the dark cave. The fire had gone completely out. Nothing could be seen, only heard: his grandfather’s snoring, the seagulls screaming, the wavelets lapping, the dinghy scraping … He loved his grandfather. Yes, they would build a great, majestic boat, sturdier than the Nefeli — an unsinkable boat, one that would voyage all around the world like Magellan’s galleon. He would name the boat Mytho … Yes, that would be a fitting name for such a beautiful boat.

Nico stared at his unseen snoring grandfather. He would have liked to ask him why olives and mussels go so well together. And his grandfather would have probably answered: “Well my boy, it’s just a feeling I can’t really explain. But believe me, they do go well together.”

And Nico would have believed him. Would have accepted that answer as a perfectly acceptable answer …

Nico slipped into his bed-roll and immediately into a deep, deep sleep. He dreamed of seagulls on the wing, boats navigating on the high seas, underwater monsters with long, leathery tentacles chased by the great whale and caves full of gold and diamonds and other precious stones whose names Nico had not as yet learned but would surely ask his grandfather their names when he awoke.

[1] Read the story by clicking on this link.

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Paul Mirabile is a retired professor of philology now living in France. He has published mostly academic works centred on philology, history, pedagogy and religion. He has also published stories of his travels throughout Asia, where he spent thirty years.

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

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Categories
Stories

The Wise One

By Snigdha Agrawal

“Dadu[1]…stop crying! Can’t you see her smile? She must be happy. That’s what you always say, right? Smile equals happy,” said nine-year-old Aanondo, tugging at his grandfather’s hand. His big brown eyes searched Dadu’s tear-filled ones, confused but earnest.

Dadu sniffled and tried to compose himself, wiping his glasses with trembling fingers. “Aanondo baba, it’s not that simple. Your Dida[2]…she’s gone. Forever. I’ll never hear her voice again, never see her smile, never feel her warmth.”

“But Dadu,” Aanondo tilted his head, his brows knitting together, “you told me people we love never really leave us. You said they stay in our hearts. So, is Dida in your heart now?”

Dadu sighed, his chest tightening. Sometimes this little boy sounded like he’d lived a hundred years. “Yes, baba[3], she’s in my heart,” Dadu admitted softly. “But it’s hard. It hurts knowing I can’t talk to her or hold her hand anymore.”

Aanondo climbed onto the bed and settled beside him, placing his small hand on Dadu’s weathered one. “Maybe Dida can still hear you. If you talk to her, she’ll know what you’re feeling. That’s what you told me to do when I miss Ma or Baba[4] when they are out of home, for long, during work trips, remember?”

Dadu gave a weak smile. “Yes, but it’s different. Your Dida was my best friend, my partner. We spent over fifty years together. Fifty years! How do I go on without her?”

Aanondo’s eyes widened. “Fifty years? Whoa! That’s almost as old as the dinosaurs you said weren’t real dinosaurs in the movies!”

Dadu chuckled despite his grief. “Well, not quite, but yes, it’s a long time.”

Aanondo’s face turned serious again. “You always said Dida was your sunshine. Doesn’t the sun come up every day, even when there are clouds? Maybe Dida is still your sunshine—you just need to look harder to find her.”

Dadu stared at the boy, his heart aching and marvelling at the same time. “You think so?”

Aanondo nodded vigorously. “See that picture of her?” He pointed to a framed photo of Dida, her smile as vibrant as a summer morning. “That smile isn’t gone. And you said she loved the garden, right? Maybe when the flowers bloom, that’s her smiling at you. Or when there’s a rainbow, that’s her telling you, ‘I’m here, old man!’”

Dadu laughed—a warm, real laugh. “Old man, huh? Sounds like something she’d say!”

Aanondo beamed, encouraged. “And in me, Dadu! You said I have her mischief in my eyes, her smile, and her kindness in my heart. So, if she’s in me, then she’s not gone, right?”

Dadu’s throat tightened as he pulled Aanondo into a hug. “You’re absolutely right, baba. She’s in you, in me, in everything she touched. I just need to remember that.”

Aanondo leaned back, giving his grandfather a stern look. “So, no more crying, okay? Or not too much. Dida would want you to smile. And I’m here to help. I’ll even smile extra if it helps you see her in me. Deal? Dida had told me to look after you after she’s gone.  I’m doing just that.”

Dadu nodded, his voice steadier now. “Deal. You’re a smart boy, Aanondo. Too smart for me sometimes.” Aanondo grinned. Then he puffed out his chest, his tone growing protective. “From now on, I’m in charge of keeping you happy. No frowning allowed. If you’re sad, just tell me, and I’ll fix it, okay?”

Dadu chuckled and kissed Aanondo’s forehead. “Okay, my little protector. We’ll be happy for her.”

“Good,” Aanondo declared, patting Dadu’s hand. “Now, let’s get some tea. Dida always said tea fixes everything!”

Dadu stood, feeling lighter than he had all day. “You’re right, baba. Let’s make some tea—and maybe sneak a biscuit too.”

Aanondo grinned mischievously. “Or two. Dida wouldn’t mind.”

And as they walked hand in hand, Dadu felt the warmth of Aanondo’s tiny grip anchoring him to a love that wasn’t gone, just transformed.

From Public Domain

[1] Grandfather

[2] Grandmother

[3] Used as a term of endearment, technically father

[4] Father

Snigdha Agrawal (nee Banerjee) is an author of four books and a regular contributor to anthologies and e-magazines published in India and overseas.  A septuagenarian, she writes in all genres of poetry, prose, short stories and travelogues.

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

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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