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Musings of a Copywriter

The Monitoring Spirit

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

My spouse was chopping vegetables in the open kitchen, preparing for an evening soup. I was in a hurry to have a quick shower in the meantime. Picking up a fresh towel from the clothesline, I rushed to the bathroom. When I tried to open the door, I found it shut. Through a small gap I peeped in just like that. The sound of water gushing forth reached my ears – along with a faintly audible humming strain of a popular Hindi film song. I pushed it hard, then harder, and finally I realised it was bolted. The sound of music and water stopped ringing in my ears. All I heard was a distinct click of the door lock and it opened on its own. Nothing moved. Nobody emerged. Nothing appeared in sight. But the creaking sound of the flush door created an aura of suspense. I stepped inside and looked around carefully like a cop chasing a killer. The exhaust fan was whirring. The ventilator was half-open. The geyser light was glowing. The floor was wet and the shower was still drizzling. Who was having a shower in the bathroom when there were just the two of us inside the apartment at that time?

I alerted my wife about what had just happened and asked her to examine the spot. She confirmed the presence of a ghost lurking inside the bathroom without moving out of her domain, without a trace of seriousness in her voice. I struggled to maintain my balance on the slippery floor and came out quickly in the fear of getting trapped inside the bathroom with an unfamiliar ghost after another sudden click of the door. When I reached the kitchen, I clutched her hand and sought to know why she had not informed me about the scary entity. Now it was her turn to feel alarmed as she gathered that I was not joking with her all this while. The threat was real and right inside our house.

Clutching my shoulder for physical and emotional support, she held the kitchen knife in one hand and showed the willingness to follow me to the bathroom, fully confident of slaying the ghost by launching a full-frontal attack. I calmed her down and offered a glass of water, to help her regain clarity and focus required to understand the paranormal experience I had just been through. With both of us looking disillusioned after an hour of intense discussion regarding the infiltration of an unidentified entity in our private space, we came to the hasty, premature conclusion that we must vacate this haunted residence or else such encounters would multiply and impact our restful sleep and peace of mind.

This was not the time to argue about permanent solutions. At the earliest, we needed to ferret out the truth and the first brave step in this direction was mine.

We tiptoed to the bathroom. I sang the same lilting song to attract the attention of the invisible bathroom singer. Nothing seemed odd, nothing felt out of place. The door was open. The floor was dry. There was nothing scary. The possibility of a singing spirit residing in this house seemed remote. There were no other residents here and there was no case of murder or suicide recorded in the past. We checked online resources for relevant information about spirits and ghosts – along with their bathing schedules. They were most likely to freshen up in the middle of the night – when the world was yet to wake up from deep slumber.

We tried to remember the names of guests who had visited us in the recent past. But jogging the memory revealed no prime suspects. My wife sprang up with a sudden flashback. She remembered her mother talking about spirits being sent through air during her last phone call with her, almost a month ago. So, this could possibly be a despatch case from my in-laws who wanted to scare me before my wedding anniversary with a Halloween gift.

The most likely reason for this sinister move was unknown and my wife did not provide any inputs. We settled down to our chores. She returned to her soup preparation while I sat down to write something. While I was typing out a new chapter, I heard the sound of anklets. My wife had not worn anklets for years. I tried to concentrate again but the sound became clearer. I was distracted by it so that I trudged to the kitchen and asked my wife if her anklets had been stolen or gifted to any person. But she stated it was kept in the bank locker.

The sound of anklets and the singing inside the bathroom suggested these were attributes of the same spirit and it was definitely female. Was the spirit sent to distract me from writing? I chose to study the pattern and within a few days I found that the spirit was indeed distracting me in multiple ways whenever I was writing while it did no harm to my spouse. I was the sole target of the spirit.

One morning I was typing on my computer and there was a tap on my left shoulder. I turned around expecting to see my wife but she was not there. And later I remembered she did not have the habit of tapping to draw my attention. Her shrill call would suffice. I went inside the bedroom and found her asleep. So, who tapped me?

The phone rang and my mother-in-law sprang up on the phone screen. I woke my wife up and gave the buzzing phone to her, asking her to find out what disturbed her mother so early in the morning. What was the bad news she was keen to deliver? What was the bad news she was eager to hear — whether the spirit she sent was doing a fabulous job or not? My wife decided to call up later. This made me anxious.

An hour later, she came to me and reported that her mother was worried about my writing life. She wanted to talk to me. During the entire chat, the old lady was focused on me rather than her daughter. There must be a strong reason for this odd behaviour. Even though there were many generic possibilities to consider, we were not aware of those negative ones yet. Getting to know that I was doing fine and the writing gig was progressing well, frustrated my mother-in-law and the enthusiasm in her thunderous voice waned all of a sudden. “Has he completed the new novel?” was her main query that went without an answer.

My wife was speechless, clueless. She reiterated she had not revealed it to relatives yet and wondered how her mother knew. I had not revealed to my wife that only two chapters were done. Besides, how did her mother get to know I was working on a novel, certainly more specific than manuscript? Oh, it must have been conveyed by the spirit tapping my shoulder – the medium of transfer. It must be a powerful one indeed, hired with the specific motive of receiving updates on my writing career.  

Pensioners spending a hefty amount on purchasing this entity from a black magic expert was not without an ulterior motive. My wife said she had never discussed the details of my upcoming book as she herself did not know much about it. Even I was stunned to know the specific information from her mother.

I could go mad thinking my wife was an accomplice of my in-laws and ruin my mental peace. The spirit knew not just the chapters but also other details of my book. I asked my wife to wait for some days and see the kind of questions her mother raised. My gut feeling was right. When she called up next, she was curious to know about the plot and the characters – the genre of the book. I had advised her to misinform that I was a writing a horror novel. Though my mother-in-law did not know I had no prowess in this genre, I knew she would not be convinced as the spirit would have revealed the actual content. I deleted the working title of the novel from my computer and gave it a different name to hide the truth. The spirit had to be a well-read fiction-lover to offer the details of my ongoing literary exercise.

 My wife read a few online tips on how to control the presence of spirits and shoo them away like a pigeon from the parapet. She lit fragrant candles and burnt incense sticks to cleanse the aura. The smell slowed me down and made me drowsy and less energetic at times even though it was supposed to drive away all forms of negative energy from the surroundings. She placed a peacock feather on my writing desk to attract positive vibes even though it distracted me.

My wife said she would offer protection and companionship whenever I sat down to write but I preferred to write in solitude. Using a fake file name, I kept my content safely hidden as the fear the hovering spirit deleting it weighed heavy on my mind. I used a pen drive to save the document as an option. A week of zero disturbance meant the spirit was gone after completing its assigned task. I felt I could breathe free now. I sought the opinion of my wife and she urged me not to jump to any conclusion. Perhaps the spirit had changed its strategy. There was wisdom in her words I could not disregard.

One fine morning, my father-in-law called me up, which was quite a surprise, and wanted to know authoritatively what I was doing these days. That I was contemplating quitting advertising to pursue full-time writing was never disclosed to any person so it must have been the spirit deployed to read my mind: “Have you written a humorous novel?” How did he know I was writing a comic novel of sorts with some bit of romance thrown in? This shocker confirmed we were still under the surveillance of a paranormal kind. We were being monitored. I needed to know why the entire family was so obsessed with my writing career.  

Was my device hacked or something like that? Was I being tracked? I did not find any suspicious object attached to my computer but the lizard on the bookshelf staring at me whenever I wrote came under suspicion. It was a regular, routine development and its presence made me fearful. It rarely moved out of that space, making me wonder why it remained so still. To observe my pursuits, to see what I was doing? How could a lizard tell them what I was writing? It was crazy. I decided to trap the lizard one day in a basket, and it went flying into the garden through the open window. It fell on the grass and moved swiftly. Reached for the cemented bench in the garden and sat on top of it, possibly planning how to get inside the house once again.

The phone rang as if in reaction to the violent expulsion. My sister-in-law was on the other side, urging me to stop writing romances since I did not have much idea about the shades of love. The grey shades she meant perhaps. For a man who had not been very supportive of her choices, I was expecting opposition in a big way. She accused me of being anti-love, anti-modern and whatever anti she could add, calling me an outdated, traditional, frivolous, backward thinking loony who faked to be liberal in expressing thoughts but was not practicing anything like that in real life.

If writers started following all that they wrote, all the crime and horror writers would then be behind bars. As a reader, she thought she was in step with the present trends. She knew which books were easy to digest whereas I was difficult to read. She said I talked big and wrote fanciful things that held no significance in life. The toxic outburst silenced me and the connection snapped. I told my wife that her sister had called me to warn me about my poor writing skills. But my wife said she was not interested in wasting precious time on her. If she was unruffled, I decided I should emulate her and let it go.

I looked out of the window to look for the lizard on the bench but it was not there. I opened the door and went out to check the garden area. When I came back to my study room after a futile search, I found it was relaxing on the same shelf, in the same perch. Perhaps the opening of the door gave it the chance to slip in. The smart lizard knew the right moves. The lizard looked at the wall, as if regretted staring at me all day. That it was back meant the lizard would do the same stuff again.

I lost interest in the lizard for the time being as hunger, thirst and new ideas developed all together. I took a break and enjoyed a smoothie first. My wife came to tell me that the lizard was definitely the culprit and the spirit was trapped inside the lizard – something I had suspected from the very beginning. She added this was the lizard bathing and singing songs. Maybe the lizard and the spirit were both inside the bathroom and the spirit came out of the body to have a quick shower? And during such special breaks, it wore anklets and satisfied its urge to practice some classical dance form, a long–suppressed desire the spirit could not fulfil in her past life. I found this construct quite imaginative and gripping.

“After the shower, it went back into the lizard’s body. Lizards are cold-blooded you know,” she added. I was getting derailed from writing my novel and trekking along a different territory. If distraction was their goal, then they were successful. At this critical stage my wife revealed a long-buried secret she had forgotten over the years: her family had urged her long ago to make me end my writing career right after marriage, calling it self-indulgence and unprofitable.

I made it clear to her that I couldn’t leave writing. The lizard looked up when I said so with total confidence. As if shocked to hear this declaration hundreds of miles away, my brother-in-law called me after a decade and complained I was not listening to my better half, always arguing with her. The truth was that my decision to continue writing was communicated by the spirit and they were heavily disappointed they could do nothing to make me obey. The entire family had contacted us in less than a month. It was nothing less than a miracle.

Now was my turn to act smart. I laid a condition to trap him – by saying I would contemplate stalling my writing project if he could explain how they got to know the minute details so fast. I wanted the proof of disclosure from them. Excited, he spilled the beans instantly. He said there was a spirit trapped inside a lizard that tells them everything – including what we eat and drink every day. A singing spirit, a bathing spirit, those anklets and every other disturbance created in the house was deliberate. I was furious to be fooled in such a big way.

He further disclosed that the events were preplanned to trap me. The story of a planted spirit to monitor my moves and curtail growth and everything else came as a real shocker. He said that a professional black magic expert was hired to conduct this mean task, and the motive was to block my literary growth and close all doors. The best literary efforts should fail and vanish without a trace.

His response was weird: nothing fair in love and war. I was clueless who was in love and who was at war with me.

I was curious to know how these things worked in the dark world. He said though it was not meant to be revealed, he would do me a favour: the book cover image and title, the author’s name and the publisher’s name would be the basic details required to ruin the fate of the book. I was still clueless and laughed it off. He said the book cover with a devil spirit attached to it was enough. The potential reader who picked up the book would be eager to drop it right there due to the black energy radiating from the cover even if it was white. This sounded scary and it meant the words and thoughts contained inside the book did not matter at all in boosting the sales potential of a book.

I was curious to know why the entire family was desperate to stop me from writing. Then my wife pitched in with another sensation – the disclosure that her grandfather was a writer who divorced his wife after he found success with his first book. That meant they fear I would do something similar?  She said a slow-churn ‘yes’ and it explained why they blocked my journey as a writer: to keep me married.

Isn’t it too much of an injustice? I think the entire family had a lot to explain. They placed the complimentary copy of my debut book inside a grave to bury it forever right after it was born. They conducted devilish rituals, just to ensure it was never resurrected, never found home.   

I shared my grief with my wife and the loss of hope. I felt I couldn’t write successfully.  She came up with a quirky plan that included a condition that I would end the marriage if I did not click as an author. Would this not scare them that failure, instead of success, would deliver the same outcome they feared?

The monitoring spirit went and updated them about our plan before my wife communicated anything to them. The withdrawal of the malevolent spirit meant that the house was safe now and they had caved in to our threat. Now there was no spooky feeling inside, no heaviness or lethargy. I was full of energy to write fast.

Yes, the novel my readers are about to hold in their hands is an outcome of that labour. Assured that the marital bond is safe, my in-laws called up to find out if everything was fine. I told my wife to scare them by saying there’s a new girl in my life, but she should tell her parents it’s one-sided, unreciprocated love. If they send a spirit to find out the truth again, I am sure the truth wouldn’t be different from her version.

When success arrives late in life, then the chances of temptations and distractions are also limited. My wise wife thinks I am well past my age to stray now. And I am of the view that the person who stays with you in your days of struggle – and shares your dreams – surely deserves to be with you in your good times as well. If there is a monitoring spirit sent again, it should go back and report to my in-laws that the bond is strong enough to last forever.

Perhaps they have learnt their lesson in a big way. Perhaps they have not. But now the bathroom door does not get locked from inside. I do not hear the sound of anklets and there is no tapping on my shoulder. However, when I look at the wooden bookshelf, I miss the presence of the lizard. The spirit that deterred has disappeared but the spirit to write remains very much in place.

From Public Domain

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

A Fruit Seller in My Life

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

Sometimes I think of setting up a small business and nothing attracts me more than becoming a fruit-seller. The foremost reason is the steady supply of fresh fruits for my own consumption every day. When the copywriting gig flops, this is one venture that promises a fruitful outcome to take care of post-retirement needs. Without disclosing my real intention, I chose to grow friendly with a fruit vendor in the local market.

Becoming a regular customer who bought almost every fruit in kilos, I managed to get recognised as one of his top three customers for billings and behaviour. He acknowledged the fact that I never bargained with him so he was generous in giving me more than what he gave to other customers. He cited the unfamiliar names of two other customers and their professions, displaying curiosity about my domicile and my work. I shared my brief details but he was not clear what copywriting and advertising meant. The example he gave of painting the walls and putting up those flex banners from one lamp post to another revealed he was confused. I said he was getting it somewhat right though he still was a bit lost about how I could afford to eat avocados every week just by putting up hoardings. It was useless trying to explain the savings due to non-alcoholic and vegetarian lifestyle were blown up on a fruit-rich diet to avoid consultations with doctors and popping their prescribed pills.  

The fruit seller had placed his cart and occupied a large corner space for many years. The wheels of the wooden cart had not moved an inch for years and they went deep into the earth gradually, small creepers entwined the wheels for a rich green, decorative feel. Since it was close to a public urinal, customers would tend to avoid it. He lit rolls of dhoop batti or incense sticks every hour to keep flies and insects away, to spread fragrance, to beat the pervading stench. Contrary to my assessment, his was the busiest fruit stall, with customers emerging from sedans and SUVs to buy fruits, local and exotic, for premium quality, without pinching their noses, without feeling any pocket-pinch. With bricks cemented unevenly on the ground, and a wooden wobbly stool placed on it, he stood tall on this raised platform to keep an eye on customers and picked up blueberries and persimmons from the upper shelves that required a long hand and extra effort. If you quizzed him about the country of origin of any fruit, he was quick to specify the state or the city it was plucked from. He was aware of the care and temperature his fruits needed to grow well since he had a farmer’s background.

I was a relatively new customer and he introduced me to the exotic fruits on display with a different sales pitch. A lady customer had picked up avocados in my presence and, after she left, the fruit-seller said she managed to save her husband’s life. Seeing me curious, he divulged the complete story of how six months of regular consumption of avocado had reversed the heart disease her husband suffered from. He said the angiogram performed after six months showed arterial blockages were gone. Though it was a true story, I could not believe it completely Maybe the condition did not worsen or there was some improvement. Worrying about my own heart health had already stressed me out so I thought avocado was better than coronary bypass. To keep a healthy heart, it was necessary to drink an avocado smoothie or bite into an avocado toast. I reminded him that the pleasure of exaggeration was irresistible to those who tell fanciful stories and also for the consumers. He asked me to verify online videos if I had doubts regarding the leading role of avocados on heart health. He played it safe with fear – just like clever marketeers do when they make actors wear white robes with a stethoscope in hand and then promote a cooking oil brand as healthy for the heart. However, the bottom-line was clear: I could not bypass the avocado if I wanted to avoid bypass surgery.

As a savvy vendor, he showed me how the old gentleman picking up blueberries had saved his nerves. He was a retired professor with jangled nerves and his shaky hands added credibility to the narrative. He fished out the currency notes from his shirt pocket with an unsteady grip. That he was recovering from a mild stroke was another alert for me. Being engaged in creative overthinking required the brain to function optimally – to keep the cognitive abilities away from decline. Predictably, I became a frequent buyer of blueberries as well, exhausting my budget at times. Not that I noticed much improvement in my neurological performance but it was logical to think that the brain must be fed well since it was never introduced to the wondrous benefits of salmon and walnuts.  

A young lady came and dug her long, painted nails on the skin of the papaya to check its ripeness while another middle-aged lady walked in and sought to know when the hanging bunch of robust bananas in his stall would ripen. She wanted to know the exact time – in the morning or in the evening tomorrow. He said it would ripen by sunset the next day, without batting an eyelid. What made him so confident was unclear to me but I felt he made a wild guess.  He was no astrologer but such silly queries deserved prompt and silly answers. Surely, the lady would not come back to complain in case the fruit did not ripen within the specified time. In case she did so, he could always blame the bad weather for the lapse. When another customer demanded unripe bananas, he showed the same lot and said two days it would take to turn perfect ripe. His flexible truth changed on based in the need of the customer. Another eye-opener of sorts for me!

If a quarrelsome customer came to return a rotten fruit, he took it calmly and gave a fresh one even though he was sure the customer had not purchased it from him in the past seven days. He built a reputation for exchanging damaged fruits and he fed those to stray animals loitering around his cart. This was commendable as it added to his good deeds. Major irritants that tested his patience were queries on size. Customers always held a fruit in hand and asked for either a bigger one or a slightly smaller one but the one they held was not the ideal size for most customers. He was delighted to see me happy with the first watermelon I had picked up from the basket! Many customers, he said, behaved liked this but he had to stay unruffled as these customers were his source of income. Their word of mouth publicity was the most powerful form of advertising for him. Buyers trusted buyers as they were on the same side and the shopkeeper is the one who would always overcharge or sell inferior items. This was the common perception and many sellers followed such tricks and ruined the prospects of the business community. But he was unlike any of those.

One fine morning I was at his fruit stall, and a customer came smoking. He politely asked him to stub it out or finish smoking and then pick up the fruits of his choice. He did not like a smoker blowing out toxic fumes around his incense sticks and polluting the fruits with nicotine smoke. I was amazed he had the courage to say it to a customer and then I found him least affected when the offended customer walked away without buying anything. He did not mind losing such clients. When I argued that he was standing by the roadside and dust was piling up on the fruits, he pointed at the white cloth curtain meant to save his ware heat and dust and showed me the duster he kept handy to clear the dust from settling down on the fruits. Also, he had a sprinkler bottle ready to spray water on the fruits and keep them fresh for longer.

Interacting with him has been an informative exercise as I now know the kind of buyers one has to accost when one starts doing fruit-selling business. If I set it up, I must know how to handle bargaining pitches. I have seen him calculate the total bill and then voluntarily give a discount before the customer demanded it. In most of the cases, they did not argue because he himself chose to lessen the price so that the customer thought he was not being overcharged. That he did the same with me was effective to turn me into his regular client.

Now he calls me up on certain days he gets fresh fruits and offers me the freedom to open the sealed boxes and take the best pieces home, something these online delivery platforms cannot ensure in terms of quality. Surely, it’s a privilege I cannot resist and I do not mind paying him what he seeks for this special, exclusive privilege– be it apples, oranges, grapes or pomegranates or any other seasonal or delicate fruit. He knows my gentle touch on fruits would not cause any damage, rather worked as a blessing. The joy of unboxing the fruit packs in front of the vendor – using his knife – is an immense delight. Along with his compliment that I am a lucky customer who has brought for him more business, more clients, and more prosperity even though I have done nothing to boost his business. His sense of gratitude reflects in his words and reminds me of how much more I need to thank God for the good and all the good people in my life.

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Karmic Backlog

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

Recently I came to know my past. Not the past of this lifetime but the cumulative past of several lives prior to this birth. I have always been curious to know whether I was a human being earlier or whether I was a bird or an animal.

In case I had been a bird, whether I was something cute like a parrot or a peacock. Or a high-flying eagle or vulture? In case I was an animal, whether I was something domestic like a cat or a dog? Did I bite someone to give him rabies and cause his untimely death? Or was I predatory like the ferocious tiger or crocodile in any one of my previous births?

Although I would have loved to hear I was a donkey, a horse or a deer, in this exact order of preference, the clarity that came my way settled all doubts and confirmed I was a human being in all my previous births — a really old soul that did all sorts of wicked things like abusing power and exploiting people for personal aggrandisement. But God had always been kind to send me back as a human being to atone for my sins, which I never did. This is precisely why I have been rendered a victim to pay for all the misdeeds in this lifetime, with no sympathisers to relieve my emotions. Something like a past life regression therapy session sounds quite an exciting idea but once the dirty secrets are exposed and you get to know the huge backlog of cardinal sins blocking your path to divinity, you come to terms with the bitter truth that you are solely responsible for everything that is not right in your present life and nobody else deserves an iota of blame for the current mess.

I was told I should clear the heavy backlog and aim for salvation. Frankly speaking, I have never ventured beyond the stage of salivation and here I was asked to mend my ways and attain salvation. Why should I do that when I find this world so attractive and the Lord so forgiving that He keeps sending me back in one human form after another? I love returning again and again to this world also known as a playground. Despite my overloaded dustbin of sins, I must be doing something really good and impressive that compels God to give me another chance to stage a comeback. Why don’t these card readers focus on that aspect and stop becoming my misfortune tellers?

I am perfectly fine with my emergence as a villain and there is absolutely nothing that I can do to undo the past. I can make the best possible use of the present and set things right. Before that I must know what exactly I did in my last birth at least. I was told I was a commander of an invading army marching in with the sole intent of pillaging. That’s horrible, to say the least. Did I slaughter people with my sword or put them in a gas chamber? The information I could ferret out was limited. But it was still adequate to suggest I was a conqueror of foreign lands and added one territory after territory. It was shameful indeed. I looked up in the mirror to see if I had any facial resemblance to the notorious invaders from the previous centuries. To be honest, I did look like one, but the fact that he did not enter this part of the world made me feel somewhat relieved.

For some weeks, I grew a beard and the resemblance grew further, making some of my friends cast suspicious looks and draw nasty parallels. How do I reveal to them that even if the name they were guessing is not correct, I was indeed an invader on horseback! In the contemporary democratic setup, this sounds horrific but it was a glorious achievement back in those days. The way the empires were built and expanded and controlled. What was right and justified then seems so inhuman a few centuries later. But the brutality of the past just to gain geographical heft cannot be held right. Surely, in the eyes of God I was a sinner even though I did it for growing an empire. I have been dumped in this part of the world where simple, innocent people were tortured. I have been made to suffer endlessly in silence as an act of retribution. To get a taste what I delivered to others. Fair enough.

For a while I was thrilled to hear that I was an invader, a plunderer, a marauder. Imagine the immense power I wielded then, and make a contrast with this moribund life where I do not enjoy any power at all. More powerless than a clerk or a peon, and always at the mercy of corporate bosses whose permissions and approvals have made my life a living hell.

Now I come across people who show me their power – as much as they can, wherever they can. I get threatened, abused and thrashed by powerful people inside their homes, inside the holy places by powerful committees and organisers. I have to take it all lying down and treat this ill-treatment without retaliation as it would lead to further misconduct and multiply my sins.

I need to forget I deserve any form of respect anywhere because I did not respect people in my previous births. I need to forget I have any power or I can gain any kind of power because I am that old, withered soul that will start misbehaving and misusing power if I sniff it again. I have been destined to stay away from all shades of power and authority – and quite rightly so. I have been condemned to spend the entire life facing its misuse. If I crib or complain that the people are not doing things right, I will lose the battle forever. That’s what I have been told and warned. I have to tolerate everything that comes my way and write off the bad debts of the previous lives. Only then I will manage to come back in human form and enjoy this material world once again. The irresistible greed to be granted another chance to enter this beautiful world seems to prevail over me. I find one lifetime of sacrifices is not quite a heavy price to pay for my past misdemeanours.  

As I was still battling with the startling disclosures from the distant, murky past, some prophecies inflicted deeper wounds. I was told I was destined to die at the hands of women, not one but two, one old and one young, both related to the same family. This was also linked to my past life since I had massacred a family and the matriarch of that family was an embittered soul planted in my life by the divine. I was informed she had already entered my life quite effortlessly through an alliance of sorts. Although she is very good at the moment, she will spring a nasty surprise that will devastate me in the coming three years.

The burden of the past was not off my chest and now the astrologer’s prediction has made me nervous. A sure sign of madness if I start seeing my killer in every lady in my life, right from the domestic help to the employer who is also a lady. On my further insistence, two alphabets were revealed. I was asked to be careful about women with names starting with these alphabets: K and V. But there were more than two women with names starting those alphabets. It was all so confusing and devastating.

Hey, wait! Could it also be a woman doctor in the hospital who will packs my departure bags on the operating table? Well, there are thousands of ways of dying a shameful, painful death and I can go on listing hundreds of possible ways and end up damaging my frayed nerves. I should forget it all and prepare myself to meet my end, my nemesis. Just like a woman who brought me into this world, another woman is destined to take me away from this world. No big deal!

Through some dark practices and evil spells, the vengeful lady will take me to the hills and something scary will happen all of a sudden there, resulting in my untimely, unplanned death. It means the lady and her accomplice will play a stellar role, but not a direct role like holding a gun at me or bumping me off near a blind curve or pushing me from a cliff after a selfie shot. Since I played a direct role in the devastation of that family in my last avatar, I should be ready to take the worst direct hit. As per the reported forecast, these women will not turn into cold-blooded killers and they will regret the fatal outcome since they themselves carry no sinister plan of that kind – driven by the singular motive to make me sign some will. The story spirals out of control and takes an unexpected turn. They will be held indirectly responsible for my passing away from this world. As a result, they will not bear a heavy karmic baggage for my death either. Which means God is a clever player who takes no blame and leaves the final judgment on our own deeds and misdeeds.

I am filled with negativity now, and I don’t think I will survive with this last burden. Something will blow up inside my brain so I must stop thinking about the past and the future and simply focus on the present. Isn’t that what great sages and thinkers have been saying all along? But why is it that the past and the future are more attractive than the present? Since I have been assured that I have three more years to perform good deeds, I must concentrate on that. At least a thousand good deeds should save me well in the years ahead – and in the afterlife.

I do not have the complete details of the potential women killers so I should stop worrying and forget their gameplan. Before I could firm up my mind with this template, women relatives proposed the idea of a visit to the hillside. I was shocked my doomsday could be coming earlier than scheduled! Or was it that God is finally trying to be kind and help me know my killers in advance? Those alphabets matched perfectly with the forecast and those two women relatives comprised my inner circle. It was shocking to know these well-behaved, sophisticated ladies would me lead to my death. Should I reveal to them that they will kill me some day? Would they believe me? Were they thinking along  those lines? Would they be surprised to know how I read their minds? Or would they call me mad? I chose to rest this issue and scaled down my interactions with them. Perhaps in the coming years I would do something to offend them. These scorned women will gang up and bump me off. Well, by rejecting their proposed trip, I had already vexed them. They could sense I was avoiding them and they wanted to know the reason for my refusal.

One lady treated me like a son and I could not visualise her being the mastermind. One fine day, the lady arrived and suggested she wanted me to write a book on her failed marriage. Maybe, I should duck this proposal by citing my incompetence to write a book. Being aware of my dabbling in creative pursuits, she claimed to be a regular reader of my morose prose. I thought switching to gifting on happy occasions and festivals would foster bonhomie. I had no idea of what would transpire in the coming years that would enrage her so much. Therefore, the best option was to snap ties and remain aloof. The fear of her seeking umbrage made me reconsider this move. I said I write short pieces and I do not have the potential to write a book at the moment. In the years ahead, if I felt confident about the project, then I would like to give it a shot.

I consulted therapy experts to guide me through this crisis but they seemed clueless in this regard. They had no knowledge to help reduce anxiety and stress in a person who is forewarned of his imminent death. All they could suggest was meditation and it meant connecting with the same divine power that had signed my death note. I chose to spend maximum time doing good deeds – feeding birds and animals featured on the top of my list. Creating a buffer stock of good deeds would make me a deserving candidate for royalty in my next birth. But the downside was I would most probably indulge in exploitation of subordinates and assert my power and resourcefulness – repeating the same cycle once again. Hence it was equally risky to be super good.

Hey come on, commit some mild mischief in this lifetime to become ineligible for rebirth as royalty. Being an ordinary human being wandering in anonymity, despite being a habitual, small-scale sinner, is a far better deal than hogging the limelight as a leading monster without a parallel.

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

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Categories
Stories

Sandy Cannot Write

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

For the entire month Sandy was upset in her newly set-up office. Swanky, plush glass cabin with mood lighting and a deluxe leather couch to sink in could not prevent the buzz in her head. How to get rid of the creative consultant her husband had hired as a temporary replacement for her creative protégé who went on maternity leave for six months had emerged as her consistent worry.

Despite being the creative controller of S&S, the independent, mid-sized advertising agency positioned to be idea-driven, she could not do much to infuse creativity and rein in the team of acolytes who praised her recycled, AI-inspired work to the skies to keep their jobs safe. With the termite called mediocrity hollowing the agency from inside, client retention emerged as a big challenge. One fine afternoon she was informed by her strategist husband, Snehasish, about the probable loss of key clients and his desperate bid to onboard an overseas major to offset this financial setback.   

The scapegoat she found apt for this occasion was none other than Mohit. This was the biggest as well as the brightest idea to hit her after several months of creative drought. With a sudden burst of energy, she lifted herself out of the couch and approached her loyalist manager, Adarsh, waiting for her order. Raising her heels, she looked straight into his sunken brown eyes, and snaked her arms around his neck.

“I want you to do me a small favour, baby,” Sandy poured into his wax-laden ear in her faintly husky voice.

For the man surviving and thriving on her benevolence, saying no was impossible even if his moral compass did not allow. Before she disclosed her plan, Adarsh blinked its confirmed execution.

“By the time I am back from my vacation, do whatever it takes to ensure Mohit is thrown out of my agency.” Sandy ticked him off for the dirty job and landed a dry peck on his beard cheek before stomping out of the agency corridor, rushing down the high-speed elevator, and reaching the parking bay with the remote keys pressed from a distance to unlock her sedan.   

Seated behind the steering wheel, she pushed the shades up her forehead and booked herself business class, texted Snehasish about her trip, and rushed home to take a shower and pack her travel bags.

“Bon voyage -” he texted back, regretting he was unlikely to see her off at the airport as he was yet to ink the deal with a beverage client arriving from Dhaka in Kolkata during the weekend.

                                                   *

Adarsh was aware of the creative skills Mohit possessed. He had what it takes to be classified as an asset but merit alone does not decide the fate of an employee in any organisation – more so in a flippant, flamboyant profession like advertising and media. Maintaining a low profile, with the hope of getting noticed, was what Mohit believed in, expecting his work to speak volumes. But the unabashed self-promotion by his team mates eclipsed his presence and trivialised his output.

Although Adarsh was much higher up the ladder in terms of designation, the presence of Mohit scared him at times. It was a matter of relief – and perverse delight – for Adarsh to know that Mohit was not in the good books of the agency owner. All he had to do at the earliest was form a core team of account managers and designers and brief them regarding the urgent need to eliminate Mohit.   

He cherry-picked Amar and Ragini to lead this mission. Since Ragini had worked closely with Mohit who pricked her ego several times in the past, she was thrilled to be chosen for the special task and recalled the earlier episodes of friction, primarily to justify her moral descent. However, she was slightly disappointed that Sandy Madam did not confide in her despite her frequent visits to her penthouse apartment over the weekends to binge-watch with her and later smoke flavoured hookah in royal style under the star-lit sky before going for a dip in her private pool. 

“Trust me, Sir,” Ragini assured Adarsh, picking up her bottle of chilled beer from the table when she noticed the other guys had already polished down their drinks. Quite fond of Ragini, Amar saw this was the perfect opportunity to spend maximum time with her. He seconded her every move and sentence, making it sound like it was a petty gig. Although Ragini did not reciprocate his feelings, she kept their relationship within the realm of friends with benefits, spending time together in pubs and discotheques late at night, when Adarsh returned to his cocoon, to his family fold to play the role of a doting husband. For Amar, keeping the hope of a happy union alive was the ultimate driving force.   

“Make sure Mohit faces rejections every day. Get negative feedback from clients for his submissions, set crazy deadlines for him, double his workload, add power-points to his responsibilities, make him redo every piece of crap he writes, and do not hesitate to call him a difficult, outdated person to work with. You have full freedom and my unconditional support but make sure you keep me in the loop,” Adarsh waxed eloquent while tearing the plastic cover of a new pack of imported cigarettes.

He knew Ragini would make it unbearable for Mohit to survive in this toxic environment and he would dash off his resignation within a week. On several occasions in the past, Ragini had rushed to his cabin, spewing venom against Mohit. But he never took any strict action based on her complaints as he was under the false impression that Mohit was the new, emerging favourite poster boy with the agency owners. Sandy’s startling disclosure reversed Adarsh’s inference, making him curious to ferret out what had annoyed her so much in just a month that she wanted him axed in a single deft stroke.   

To mount a second line of attack, he briefed Samit, the senior account director, to engage Mohit in client meetings, brainstorming sessions, and critique his past work, to make it seem it was quite frustrating to get approvals for his work. Collective onslaught would demoralise Mohit faster and he would tender his exit note. His past observations encouraged him to believe that Mohit would display immature behaviour under pressure.

“You cannot write proper English, with absolutely no knowledge about the nuances of grammar,” Ragini exploded in the presence of several junior employees one afternoon. Such acerbic comments did not hurt Mohit who gauged that this allied gang of detractors had been activated against him. Being confident of his ideation skills, Mohit had the strength to pulp what others wrote and submitted. He could defend his original work but he thought it was not the wise thing to do at this stage.  

Mohit invited Ragini for a serious discussion on the nitty-gritties of grammar usage and explain to her why it was a good and accepted practice to delete articles from headlines. He could share multiple examples of great print ads with missing articles from the headlines. When she found this would embarrass her, she went for a quick huddle in the conference room to discuss deliverables with designers. She emerged when she saw Mohit was nowhere around and rushed straight to Adarsh’s cabin and firmly shut the door behind her, to update and discuss what to do next since their negative approach didn’t seem to work.    

Contrary to expectations, Mohit had decided to persist and resist all opposition. With a singular focus, he carried on with his job and took all forms of criticism in his stride, making strong commitments to fix his non-existent flaws at the earliest. That left no room for knee-jerk reaction and it became clear that Mohit was not going to quit even if these guys engaged in verbal spats and fired a fusillade of salvoes.  

Lighting up a cigarette flicked from Adarsh’s pack to reduce her stress, Ragini sat on the table and blew out smoke rings, waiting for him to break the silence. Using her other hand, she playfully pulled his handlebar moustache grown as a tribute to a living legend, egging him to crack something new. Unwilling to disclose that he had already deployed another missile called Samit, Adarsh wanted to wait for a couple of days and see how things panned out.

“Mohit is not the kind of guy to swallow insults on a daily basis, I am sure he would go on an unannounced leave and then stringent action against him, just waiting for one day of absence and he is kicked out,” Adarsh revealed, stroking her hair as a sensitive, caring gesture of assurance.  

Mohit proved to be a tough nut to crack as the worst humiliations heaped on him went waste. They raised storms that would not capsize his boat. With an accommodative, tolerant mindset, he prepared himself for every challenge. Mohit had realised the band of opponents had teamed up to isolate him in the absence of Sandy Madam. He decided to report this matter to her once she returned from vacation, reposing full faith in her justice system.  

                                                *

The news of Mohit’s imminent departure was leaked to the colleagues by none other than Ragini. She could not contain the excitement even though nothing was achieved yet. She went around spreading the false information that her ideas were far better than Mohit’s, and she had to rectify his errors.

“Adarsh Sir is fed up with Mohit and he is looking for a subtle way to dump that jerk,” Ragini told one of her confidantes who happened to like Mohit for his dashing personality.

The rapport between Ragini and Adarsh was an open secret. The way she thrust the birthday cake slice into his mouth just last week was ample visual proof of their flirtatious bond captured on smartphones and shared across profiles.

Mona and Ragini had joined S&S around the same time with the same level of experience. Familiar with her gossip-mongering nature, Mona went and asked Mohit if everything was fine at work. He pretended to be fine but she concluded from his downcast eyes that something wasn’t. After his denial, she could not alert him that his days were numbered in this agency. Nobody here, not even the peon, could survive without the support and approval of Adarsh. What Ragini said regarding Mohit was a forecast – much more accurate and reliable than any weather alert or astrological prediction. The planets could change in Mohit’s favour any time, but the combined brutal attack of Adarsh and Ragini could not prevent his unceremonious exit from S&S.

Almost the entire team was up against Mohit. False allegations were propped up against him – including the grave charge that due to his flawed writing, the agency lost business. No sympathy came his way and Mohit could sense that the campaign to defame him was more successful than any social media campaigns done for the clients.

Strong indicators began to surface. Nobody bothered to greet Mohit inside the office. His presence was overlooked — as if he was an outsider. Nobody asked him to join the group for lunch outside. He was left alone. This intentional boycott began to affect Mohit who felt his presence was not required anymore. Though he had promised to ignore the rival group plotting against him, he was assuaged with the dismissive attitude of his other colleagues who happened to bond well with him earlier. Particularly Vishesh.

Earlier, Adarsh had urged Ragini and Samit to flood him with work, to wear him out. But this approach underwent a complete overhaul: Mohit was made to sit idle for the entire day, with executives approaching other writers, including trainees, to work on the brands he handled earlier. Half of the day he sat gazing out of the window and felt ashamed, and then tried to seek assignments from Ragini. She was blunt in saying it was useless to provide him with briefs when fast turnaround and quick approvals were required. 

Mohit was left with no choice but to approach Adarsh for clarity as he knew these scheming tactics wouldnot work without his consent. Guided by instinct, he chose to avoid any escalation in the absence of Sandy Madam. He turned back without knocking on his cabin door. The only helpline to tide over this crisis was to lie low for another week. He made himself comfortable with idleness and focused on watching ads. He was attending office every single day and he was getting paid on time so there was no reason to get rattled. Many people in the office pretended to do a lot of work even though their output was much below par. He saw inferior work getting approved but he kept himself out of it. Unless adverse communication came from the management side, he should enjoy his relaxed stay and keep himself occupied with creative pursuits. He knew everything would get resolved once Sandy Madam came back.

One fine day, the inevitable happened. Mohit was asked by Adarsh to visit his chamber for a quick chat. He entered the room and kept standing. Adarsh put his legs on the teakwood table and began in a mellowed voice, with eyes cast on his tablet screen: “As you can see, there is not much work. Half the day you solve crossword and watch ads. The business scenario is bleak. Two of the clients you handled are leaving us after five years and it is tough for all. I am sorry but the bitter truth has to be told. This is your last month. Snehasish will give you a call shortly and explain it better. The severance package and all that stuff.”  

Mohit emerged with a forlorn expression, walking like a ghost without any spirit to live. All his suppressions proved useless. His creative work had gone waste, unrecognised and belittled. More shocking for him was the fact that the top management brass was also skewed in favour of his dismissal. All this while he was thinking it was a gang in the office helmed by Adarsh. When Snehasish called up in the evening, he minced no words and coldly conveyed that his services were no longer required and he would get paid for another month without doing any work. He was assured that the entire process would be smooth, no hiccups, no hurdles.

Reporting for work to get paid and not doing any work was unethical. Mohit thought he should forget the salary bait and quit right away to show he did not care two hoots. That would be a heroic, dignified exit in front of all employees. But then, the domestic realities broke his resolve. He thought how he would disclose the sudden job loss news to his wife. So, he went to Adarsh and requested him to be considerate.

“My spouse is undergoing treatment and if I sit at home now… At least for two months, let me continue. Once she recovers, I will stop coming here. I can show you her medical reports. I can’t take any risk with her health. I am not lying, Sir.”  

This was the first request ever made by Mohit to any company honcho – the only favour he sought. He was shown no leniency and advised to get in touch with Snehasish for a reconsideration.

Mohit felt Adarsh must have disbelieved his story and called it a fake narrative to hang on for some more time on sympathetic grounds. When he gave a buzz after office hours, it was dropped. A clear indication he would not get any extension. When the truth he spoke was brushed aside, he saw no point in coming to the office where he had worked for almost a year. He was still not ready to believe that Snehasish was involved in this conspiracy. When did this drastic change happen? What led to this change of heart? He could go on thinking and thinking without finding any answers.  

*

That Snehasish was the mastermind that planned his termination was difficult to accept. How could he alone be the architect of his fall from grace? Sandy Madam also came under his scanner even though throughout his working phase there was not a single moment of distrust or dislike between the two. Sandy Madam was sensitive to his needs so Mohit removed all doubts for the time being. She would either go against her husband and reinstate Mohit or she would toe his line like a devoted partner. That was the sole reason why he did not burn bridges yet, with the hope of reconciliation flickering somewhere despite near-unanimity inside the office regarding his expulsion.

Mohit was immersed in worries about how his wife would react to his job loss. He was left with no option but to tell her the truth if she did not guess it on her own. Finding her husband at home during the week days had already raised her suspicions and he could not keep lying. Working from a remote location was no longer an available excuse after the pandemic ended. With divine strength, she remained calm and held his hand in support, assuring him of good times coming their way soon. Tears welled up in his eyes in gratitude to God who had already simplified his tough task by blessing her with maturity.

When Snehasish called him up again, he was specific and abrasive: “Mohit, no point begging for an extension. Don’t crib. Your wife is ill but we are not here to finance her medical bills. We don’t run a bleeding business or conduct any charity. As you know, we lost two accounts you handled and there is no way we can continue this contract.”

Mohit could not believe this was the same employer he knew a year earlier. He had been soft-spoken and polite and now he had shown the colours of a chameleon. He understood he was held responsible for the loss of business. But surprisingly, he did not find any faults with those who mishandled these accounts and the designers who played the fool by offering them the same templates.

When it was a matter of saving himself, Mohit had to speak the truth. Even if that failed to bring any positive outcome, he would at least have the satisfaction of releasing it all.

 “Sir, you cannot fully blame me for the business loss. There were other reasons. Account guys took them for granted.”

This made Snehasish furious.

 “You are making these wild allegations to save yourself. Why were you silent earlier? Grow up, man. I will still write a recommendation letter for you — good luck finding another employer.”  

He did not wait for a formal closure and disconnected without waiting for Mohit’s reaction.

Those who wrote pedestrian stuff were retained was a reality yet to sink in. Mohit realised it was futile to wait for Sandy’s return from London. He had no hope she would go against the majoritarian view and reverse what her husband had decided. After all, Mohit was not worth defending and making a ruckus about within the family. But he did message Sandy Madam about his lay-off. It was seen after two days and she chose not to respond, making him suspect she was an accomplice who knew what was about to unfold.  

The way the chain of events had unfolded seemed to hold many more secrets. He was not informed by Adarsh or Snehasish that a new big client was roped in. Why would they share this good news and strengthen his case regarding retention? In fact, he got to know about this from a trade magazine that listed the account movement.

Even though he was given a month’s timeframe, Mohit found it humiliating to continue in that role. Since their guns and knives were already out, there was no point in facing his colleagues who would make fun and keep him idle for the day. When he found he had been evicted from all client groups by Adarsh, he saw it was meaningless to go to office unless he intended to carry a gun and blow up their brains. A pool of blood inside the office, with multiple casualties. Ragini’s blood-soaked tank top, with Adarsh’s lifeless ring-studded hand resting on her bust formed a gory image in his fecund mind. Had he not been married with domestic responsibilities he would have hit the headlines as a cold-blooded killer who massacred almost the entire team in a manic state. 

Despite losing his only source of income, with ailing wife at home, no life support around, he could not think of suicide as a solution. The fear of failure in this act and the love for his soulmate made him abandon extreme negativity. Being punished despite doing good work was not easy to digest. The ways of the world were not going to change for Mohit. Expecting kindness from selfish people was his mistake. He would soon be forgotten and replaced within a week, and to sacrifice your precious life for such thankless people would be an act of foolishness.

                                                        *

It came as a bolt from the blue when Mona met him outside the office over a cup of coffee at a nearby café. The information she provided was an eye-opener of sorts. Stirring brown sugar in her cup of cappuccino, Mona chose to cross-check certain details before she shared some vital information.

“Did you know you were hired for a temporary period, Mohit?”

“No. Not at all. There was nothing temporary mentioned in the letter.”

“You were a replacement for Jyoti who is joining back next month. She was on maternity leave actually.”

“Who told you this?” Mohit asked, his coffee turning cold.

“It is a known fact. Everybody is excited about her comeback. Sandy and Jyoti are great pals.”

“Could you share more details,” Mohit requested her.

“I don’t know much but it is Jai-Veeru[1] type of bonding. Sandy will shut down her agency if Jyoti decides to leave. I mean, you can guess their mutual fondness. I don’t need to specify more…”

“You are suggesting my time was limited here – but Sandy never disclosed that.”

“Come on, nobody joins for six months. Initially, you are supposed to be here for six months but your quality performance made it tough to get rid of you. You survived more.”

“I never got to smell that,” Mohit mourned the delay, “just the client loss story is offered to me…”

“Client loss does not bother Sandy at least. And don’t think Jyoti is back because she is a powerhouse of talent. Believe me, she is a mediocre writer,” Mona explained, and started sharing her own plans of leaving the agency because of Adarsh who had nothing to do with principles.

 “He calls me up on holidays at odd hours and chats endlessly. My family does not like that. He thinks every female employee in advertising smokes and drinks and loves to sit on his lap. I have always maintained a safe distance, unlike Ragini. That’s why she grew so fast while I am stuck without a promotion for two years.”

“Precisely for this reason I think advertising is not moral. But I also feel creative people are supposed to be good human beings. My exposure has convinced me I am wrong. Creative people can be mean and awful just like in any other profession,” Mohit shared his generic assessment about the profession he had now decided to quit forever.

Slightly taken aback to hear that Mohit had decided to switch his career at this advanced stage, Mona felt she was also a contributor to his setback.  Experiences of this kind are change makers, but she believed Mohit would continue to keep his relationship with words alive irrespective of what he pursued in life.

“On a lighter note, your unceremonious exit was an ideal occasion to cut the blueberry cheese cake,” Mona disclosed how the agency guys celebrated his departure and showed the photos on her mobile. “Though it was not announced like that, that was the main intent. Ragini and Adarsh danced together and Amar sat in a corner and guzzled beer. And yes, Sandy loved their pics and commented she missed the party.”

“She is returning soon?” Mohit asked for an update.

“Yeah, next Monday she joins office,” Mona informed him, “Do you want to meet her and discuss?”

“Oh, it was all premeditated and planned,” Mohit connected the dots though there were many loose ends he could not put together yet. “Perhaps Ragini could throw light on this matter. Being an insider and confidante. She is your friend, isn’t it?”

“Do you really think so? Don’t be naïve. Adarsh will strangle her. But I have a hunch she is a mere pawn being used by Adarsh. The remote control is elsewhere. Do stay in touch and if I get to know anything big, I will give you a buzz. Pray your wife has a speedy recovery,” Mona concluded the chat and rose up to leave before the grey skies opened up.

To pore over the past and sulk was not a healthy indulgence but for Mohit this was a critical phase of life and such betrayals made him think the world is there to make things worse for him. His personal problems weighed him down. He hated to use the name of the last agency in his resume. He found it was better to call himself unemployed than to mention the name of his last employer. Besides, he was sure Adarsh or Sandy would not have nice things to say.

Mona had specified the reason for his exit was Jyoti. While it was a convincing ground, there was something more than that, something that remained buried within. Adarsh and Mohit had the same queries. But the chances of Adarsh excavating the real truth were higher because he was close to Sandy.

                                                        *

When Sandy returned after a grand holiday, she found the entire office decked with marigold flowers to welcome her back. Adarsh had beautified her private cabin with her favourite upholstery and silk curtains. After spending a few minutes with the entire team, she asked Ragini to meet her in the cabin. She walked behind Sandy and followed her footsteps.

Dropping her vanity bag and silk stole on the sofa, Sandy asked her, “So how does it feel to be working without Mohit around? He insulted you a lot.”

Sandy collapsed on the sofa and pulled Ragini to sit beside her.

“It is nice and relaxing, honestly, Ma’am,” Ragini glowed with joy.  

“I have some good news for you. Get ready to helm the new account we have won. You have bigger responsibilities and a fat package with perks,” Sandy rewarded her for being a loyalist.

Adarsh joined the two and Ragini got up to leave. Sandy did not stop her, but promised a cool, heady celebration at her apartment soon. She mentioned to Adarsh that Ragini was promoted. Adarsh congratulated her, holding her hand and squeezing it hard, and then opened the door for her like a perfect gentleman. Ragini turned around and asked, “Ma’am, can I make this news public? I mean to my colleagues.”

“Of course, sweetheart, Adarsh will shoot an email by the end of the day,” Sandy assured her and she gently closed the door. They could hear the celebratory outburst outside, with Ragini making the grand announcement and getting a huge round of applause.

“Have we done the right thing from the agency perspective?” Adarsh asked Sandy, sitting beside her, without specifying the context.  

“You mean his exit?” Sandy asked though she understood he was referring to that.

“Jyoti is joining soon and that is good for you. But there is a hell lot of pending work and we need sharp writers.”

“Hire one. Released a job ad,” Sandy said casually, “You will get hundreds of applicants and we do not pay very bad either.”

“If it was affordable, why did we need to do this exit drama and now go through the same recruitment process? I mean, you knew very well Mohit was a good writer.”

“Is it that you are not convinced with my reason. You suspect the truth is something else?”

“Yes, I am sure the truth is completely different.”

“Okay, then hear me out. I have not suffered so much like I did in the past one year. Snehasish hired him but I was never comfortable. His presence made me feel low. I sank into depression. This guy getting paid here out of my pocket proves to be a better writer. The hospital client rejects mine and okays his headlines. I handled this client for three years. But now it is such a smooth process between the two of them. What message does it give to my team here? There is a better writer in this office than Sandy. I can’t take it lying down. I want my team to be less qualified than me so I can control and manipulate with ease. Those who know more, they can go elsewhere. If he is so talented, let him go to any MNC agency – what is he doing here?  Look, I don’t nurture creative talent here. I set him free. Prove your worth and get the dream job,” Sandy burst forth with all the filth of jealousy.

“I sensed something of this kind, Sandy. I can feel your anger simmering within, with a smiling face covering your real self for so long. This couldn’t go on. And yes, I was going through Mohit’s previous portfolio and he is damn creative. Strong ideator!”

“Since when did we aspire to become a creative boutique agency. We are into billings, right?” Sandy brought him back on track.

“And one more thing, that fellow is a writer who pens stories. I have not written a single book and he flaunts a literary background, which was not my forte. Else, I would have chucked him out on day one. Ragini forwarded the links to his published works. I don’t want novelists here. I asked Snehasish to find a way to eject him when Jyoti decided to rejoin. I was jolted last month when he said he was assisting a big shot in the scripting of a Bollywood film. His presence pricked my self-worth. As the creative boss here, I cannot tolerate a more talented person. Simple as that. Sometimes he behaved like a literary rockstar and sometimes like an auteur. He forgot he was a copy guy first. Other fancy titles are dreams, advertising is the reality.”

“He was pleading his wife was ill and asked to be allowed for two months. This was his last request.”

“Why are you spoiling my good mood, buddy. Give me a can of beer, please,” Sandy demanded with a vexed look and raised her feet on the sofa without removing her stilettoes.

Adarsh rushed out and fetched two chilled cans from his mini fridge.

As she cooled down with the first sip, she said, “Pay him compensation for two months instead of one. Does that lessen your guilt? Where the hell is Snehasish, not yet back from Kolkata?”

“He said the deal is done but he stayed behind for a recce in Eastern India as we wish to set up a new branch there.”

“Big news for me! I think he will do a fab job and then return to give me a lovely surprise. I called him before boarding the flight and he said he was stuck,” Sandy said while taking off her baseball cap, and urging him to be left alone for a while.

Adarsh returned to his cabin and released the funds and mailed Mohit about the severance details. He wished him good luck and also put it on record, “You are a damn good writer. And Sandy cannot write like you. Cheers.”  

When Mohit read this mail, he could not understand why Adarsh had a change of opinion but he felt he was also an employee worried about his job. He forgave Adarsh in an instant and realised the politics of compulsion.

                                               *

To kickstart her literary career, Sandy self-published a poetry collection and hired a PR team. She asked her staff to praise her work, to help her become a literary heavyweight. But soon she ran out of luck – when her office was flooded with anonymous letters containing the same message: Sandy cannot write.

The letters addressed to Sandy were brought to the conference table by Ragini who opened these to read fan praise. She was shocked to get Sandy cannot write printed messages in these letters. Unfortunately, Sandy accessed these letters and felt hurt as the pile-up became heavier with each passing day. So deeply affected by the content, Sandy realised she was not an artist. The communication was like a divine confirmation. She began to hallucinate and read the same message everywhere: Sandy cannot write. She took an overdose of sleeping pills to calm her agitated mind. Sometimes she picked up the marker pen and wrote the same message herself on the mirror and began to laugh loudly. The hard outer shell was broken by a single line and her sensitive inner self was revealed to all her employees. She could not take rejection in her stride – the first big quality of pursuing any art form.   

Snehasish returned to find Sandy in this pitiable condition. As a precautionary step, he kept her confined to the apartment, with Ragini allowed to visit her sometimes as a caregiver. Sandy did not handle any accounts now. S&S premises was sold and the agency decided to move to a new, quieter address in the hope of receiving no such letters.  

One day, Mona called up Mohit and asked him to meet her at the same café in the evening. When they met at the scheduled hour, Mona told him of Sandy’s deteriorating mental health, referring to it as a karmic blow. She mentioned letters carrying Sandy cannot write messages bombarded their office and now they had relocated. He sympathised with her but he was not sure whether he should reveal the name of the prime suspect. Only he knew who was hammering Sandy through those letters.

“I know you guys suspect I am behind this foul play. That is why you came here to find out. Trust me, I am not involved. I have far better things to do than stalk an old lady. Though I think I know who is doing this to Sandy, I do not know why he is up to it. Certainly not for me. The rest is for Snehasish to dig up if he cares for his ailing wife.”

Mohit stood up and prepared to leave the spot. He fished out the termination email print-out from his pocket, asking her to keep the proof and forward it to Snehasish in case it carried any worth. The striking similarity between the letters and the last sentence of the email left Mona in a state of shock. Was Adarsh the real culprit? Or Mohit hiding his revenge story with this unputdownable evidence?  

.

[1] Jai-Veeru, 2009 Bollywood film about two friends

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

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Musings of a Copywriter

Demolition Drives… for Awards?

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

Belated realisation that it played a key, though passive, role in the demolition of homes owned by minority communities generated a sense of remorse. So much so that it has now chosen to demolish what was an item of proud display inside its own home. Whether this fall-out is entirely an act of atonement or just a far-sighted move to avoid tons of rubble of its own reputation built over the years is a matter of speculation at this point. So long as the earth-moving juggernaut refuses to explain whether it has also embarked on a search for the meaning of life, quite like Lorenzo[1], the façade of credibility will continue to be bull-dozed by carping critics and authors.

The three alphabets of its brand name, sounding strikingly similar to ABC, facilitate quick, easy recall of its association with acts of destruction deemed legal though held morally incorrect and interpretative[2]. With images of the demolition drives flashing across various media channels, one name that stands readable is that of the behemoth monster employed and operated to execute controversial missions. While there are domestic brands for everything, this foreign giant emerges as the clear favourite in the construction business. Delivering targets with agility and precision is what has portrayed the entity in bad light. The crushing potential has built the negative brand image that cannot be demolished now. Usually, brands are switched when they do not meet the needs, but in this case, its preferred status due to super performance has wrecked its brand image. Ironical, isn’t it?

The intellectual voices remain shrill, signing letters to lampoon the role of the company in destroying homes and building literary careers. These contradictions cannot go together is the common refrain. Is there any sane voice to enlighten writers that the company does not sponsor the destruction of homes and it cannot insert any clause before product sale to prohibit its use in the razing of homes with it? Surely, they know a manufacturer has no control over how its product will be used or misused. On this count, the corporate shenanigan cannot be held responsible.

Literature gives space to all – including criminals and gangsters – to tell stories and many such memoirs gain legitimacy as works of art later. Misled folks, misfits, and all sorts of misleading characters enjoy the freedom to enter the world of books in some form or the other. If an underworld don decides to set up a chain of brick-and-mortar bookstores and launch a publishing house, the reaction of published authors is a predictable boycott. The literary world that boasts of freedom of speech for all is much likely to shrink and apply the moral compass to ensure its ouster even if the intent of the new entrant is reformist. The world of writing should be, ideally speaking, like a place of worship where the identity of a visitor or his background does not matter when he bows before the Lord.

When a large group of authors come together to use the collective power of the pen to dismantle the role of an award sponsor and question its right to distribute such awards, there is not much the corporate player can do to remain engaged in it. The prize tried to promote writers and writing, not just English but other regional languages, and the hefty prize money enabled many winners to earn a decent income from the job of writing. Now the critical authors seem to rejoice that their objections have been powerful enough to make the company do a rethink or at least for the time being stay out of the awards game. One hopes the protesting writers also launch a similar drive against respected awards that have ignoble connections — many of which they have also competed for or served as a jury member. 

The winners and shortlisted authors of this prize will have nice memories of its brief existence, and they will credit it for bringing regional writers to global limelight. There is another side of this story that requires focus. With Indian regional writers also winning the much bigger and more prestigious International Booker prize (two winners in five years), the unique distinction for bringing regional literature to the global platform gets shared unequally between the two prizes. It cannot champion itself as the sole promoter of Indian languages and literature anymore. That the apparently defunct prize was the first one to give a major boost to Indian regional literature is its solid, solitary achievement that should not be brushed aside on account of the recent episodes of misuse of its quality products. 

Whether the discontinuation is permanent or temporary will be clear within a year – in case the company makes a formal announcement regarding its fate. Till then, speculation gathers froth that the award will have a new avatar and broaden its range and reach to align with the expansive mindset of the flagship corporate brand. As a British major, it is already a force to reckon with in developing countries and it would probably not like to disassociate itself from the world of literature forever. But in case it has already decided to give the prize a silent burial, the voices of dissent will also go down the same path. With some more awards calling it the end of their journey, there is a lot of suspense in the story that will unfold over a period of time.

Many governments the world over have committed atrocities but they continue to be associated with prestigious awards. The sheen of respectability for decades seems to carry global acceptance. For new entrants in literature or cinema, a litmus test is always involved. When there is so much flak to face, to pass the test of time, to prove purity in earnings and non-involvement in fraudulent activities, one thing emerges quite clearly: the new awards cannot beat the veteran ones even if they are tainted.

In such a murky, unequal scenario, isn’t it better to demolish all awards? Awards were set up to recognise talent, to make the tough journey easy with encouragement and monetary compensation. But awards have failed in their objective and turned creative people into chronic fame-seekers. Once it goes out of the system forever, writers will realise they have to write well to be read more. If they do not earn handsome royalty, they will have to pursue some other jobs for a living. This hard truth should be crystal clear. There’s no ray of hope that a big award will come their way to take care of their pension needs.

Writing is addictive because those who want to write will write irrespective of whether there is money or agony. Many classics that are read today have never won any award – because there were no awards to contest and win. Many great authors have produced masterpieces but they never had trophies to display as a mantlepiece.  A return to such a perfect world will demolish the false gods of literary stardom.

.

[1] Lorenzo Searches for the Meaning of Life by Upamanyu Chatterjee was given the JCB award in 2024. Funded by a construction company, (Joseph Cyril Bamford from UK),  the award was started in 2018 and closed down in 2025.

[2] News reports from Guardian, in Business and Human Rights Resource Centre

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

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Musings of a Copywriter

Syrupy Woes

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Chole Bhature

The doctor is shocked to hear my advice when he prescribes pills and capsules. Accustomed to customisation offers almost everywhere, I am quick to spell out my preference: syrup. As expected, he casts a befuddled look, and takes a while to cool down by closing his eyes, to distract his agitated mind. Here’s a fussy patient sitting right in front of the trained physician, showing the gall to be choosy during a bout of illness, directing the medical practitioner to write what he loves to drink to get cured. Had he not been a member of this noble profession and contractually bound to be courteous, his anger would have compelled him to throw the patient out of his chamber along with his fees.

My fascination for syrups dates back to childhood days. Dr Nandy, a gentle paediatrician, kept the tender organs of a developing kid safe from the side-effects of pellet-size capsules. Whenever my mother took me to him for liver concerns, poor appetite issues, gastric problems or cough and cold complications, he always gave syrups the first chance to cure me. Most of the time, these seemed to suit me well. So much so that I loved to memorise the names and recall them with ease in front of the doctor during the next visit, hoping he would add one of these in the fresh prescription he wrote for me.

Whenever I find these bottles lined up on the shelves inside medical stores even today, I am thrilled beyond measure to discover that these, much like classics, have survived the test of time, despite the arrival of newer brands. My instant query relates to how well these age-old brands are doing in the competitive market, and the chemist does not disappoint by saying most of these record higher sales vis-à-vis several new and heavily promoted brands.

The fear of vitamin deficiency haunts me and this explains my inclination to pop supplements from time to time, with fortnightly breaks thrown in between. Since many of these are sold over the counter, without a valid prescription, I feel it safe to down them without medical recommendations. The first one is the Vitamin B complex syrup that I am fond of – the sweet taste makes me feel tempted to slurp a spoonful twice a day, sticking to the standard dosage limit printed on the label. 

Cough syrups are addictive for some who consume these throughout the year. The sleep-inducing impact slows them down and they tend to relax, not knowing a thing about the harmful effect on their vital organs. As the chemist in the neighbourhood informs me that I should avoid these though the taste is good even if it’s sugar free. I am left with no option but to cough and prove that I need it genuinely and desperately. He offers herbal brands instead, which are costlier but supposedly healthier and safer when consumed in moderation, proving himself to be a true devotee of the bearded yoga instructor who has stretched all possible limits to ramp up the profitability of his medical business empire.  

The pineapple or mixed fruit flavour of the enzyme-boosting appetiser syrup features on top of my list in every season. The pure delight of enjoying the yummy flavour is further enhanced as it makes me crave for more. Instead of two chhole bhatura, I can gobble up four and still find space to add a sweet dish like kheer[1]. When it comes to developing more appetite for a heavy lunch punctuated with burps, trust the syrup to work wonders. In case there is a persistent feeling of heaviness, this is the right time to consume a teaspoonful of antacid syrup to neutralise digestive threats forming alliances inside me. These have retained their charm over the years and I prefer to have a dedicated cabinet for these, just like those who flaunt a wine cabinet to mirror their class.

My last visit to a very senior doctor to find relief from stress and anxiety did not produce results of my choice as he ruled out the possibility of syrups being effective in my case. He wrote down the name of a sleep-inducing drug to relax my jangled nerves. I discontinued the dose after having a few pills that produced some side effects I was not ready to face. I switched to bananas for higher magnesium and preferred darker chocolates to boost up feel-good hormones to battle rejections with a smiling visage.

Being a vegetarian, my mother was deprived of Omega 3 as chia seeds were not a household name yet. She kept having capsules that were specified to be non-vegetarian. Despite knowing the truth, she made no distinction between vegetarian and non-vegetarian stuff when it came to life-saving medicines. When I approached the doctor to know if a syrup for Omega 3 enrichment existed, he suggested a new syrup. I started enjoying the awesome taste as it is cheaper and affordable than walnuts and seeds. To keep nerves strong in a precarious profession like advertising is a priority and the consumption of a syrup for better nerve function is justified. What goes on inside the brain and the damage caused due to creative exhaustion is something undetected until the symptoms of shaky hands begin to disturb. One never knows when one reaches the excess level using supplements to stay healthy.

When the snack break phase started, I switched to protein shakes and protein bars to imitate body builders and gym goers. Always being deficient in terms of protein, I found this to be a good source to regain muscles, to punch mobsters and gangsters with my powerful fist. From a practical angle, this would mean I was strong enough to lift shopping bags and gaze at my brawny biceps without feeling ashamed that they lacked firmness. Guzzling syrupy, sugary protein and energy boosting drinks might not be the healthiest way to stay fit, but it is certainly one of the most effective ways for protein-keen people to build strength and stamina without burning a hole in the pocket. With discount offers raining across online platforms at odd hours, I am always on the lookout for the steal deal to pick up protein-rich drinks. My calf muscles need to remain strong enough to enable my long, winding walks to connect with nature and ideate, to climb three floors without feeling breathless and worn-out.

Whenever I am travelling within the country, I prefer to carry my syrup bottles as I am not sure of getting the same brands elsewhere. I do not forget to consume these during breakfast, post lunch and after dinner. Many doctors I met in my circle have found it funny that I was so obsessed with syrups.

After I discovered from articles that many creative people, not just writers, were fond of syrups and they were legends, my confidence has grown manifold. Even if I cannot compare my output with their body of work, what enters my body does some good work indeed.

The other day, my chemist made an attempt to break my bonding with syrups and suggested that I should consult good doctors for pills because syrups are not right for my age. I did not understand what made him suggest this, but I felt he realised I was old enough to fatten his medical income. These syrups were nominally priced and of no use for his profitability. To sound less hurtful, I said I would add an iron supplement next month but it was a lollipop he was not interested in. Even if he stopped giving discounts on syrups, I was okay with that.

I produced prescriptions which were old, and he refused to sell on the basis of these. I confessed the doctors who wrote these prescriptions were no longer alive. I had to produce a new prescription and so I was forced to approach a young doctor who sat in his shop. I told the doctor I have no health reason to consult him for but I want his permission to keep drinking these syrups. He refused to write down the names but when I came out with a forlorn look and paid the fees, the chemist gave me a hamper of syrups again! Was he trying to make an extra buck forcing me to consult with the doctor on his premises?

[1] Dessert of thickened milk

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Gastronomy & Inspiration? Sherbets and More…

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

Entering the sherbet shop introduced me to an ambience I was not au courant with at all. Not the usual, expectedly flashy interiors greeted my bespectacled eyes. Instead, I was transported to another era, a kangaroo leap of a century in time, to witness heritage stir up breezy nostalgia. With old-fashioned teakwood tables, carved chairs, and antique lamp shades, framed, sepia-tone portraits of legends decorating the distempered walls chipped at various places, it was not difficult to guess that the outlet had retained a robust connection with the hallowed past.

As I walked in with the curiosity of an aficionado exploring an art gallery, there was so much else to engage myself with – apart from the listings on the laminated menu card. Before I sat down and ordered something to gulp down my parched throat, I chose to update myself with a walking tour of the entire sherbet joint. Driven by thirst to find enriching inputs from knowledgeable sources, I finally settled down and asked for assistance from the gentleman who served. He looked eager to share anecdotes about the quaint little shop, tucked away in a small, congested lane, that had managed to retain its client base with support from young students who made it their favourite haunt despite the easy availability of snazzy food kiosks and juice corners proliferating around their college premises. That the present generation – and the several earlier ones – had realised the need to patronise this outlet as a historical and cultural link was truly worthy of appreciation.

I trooped in at different hours of the day, and found that most of the seats were occupied by college and university students who were also lovers searching for a comfortable, affordable space where they could sit for long hours, sip their favourite sherbet, and slow down the passage of time while holding hands and making lifetime commitments. As the straw pipes in the two glasses made empty noises, couples ordered another tall glass of sherbet, of an untried flavour, to keep alive the flow of their discussions and personal plans for some more time without feeling remorseful that they were adversely impacting the commercial profitability of the century-old outlet with their prolonged stay. This sensibility was rare but precious and the sherbet store staff never disturbed such couples who preferred the rear seats, keeping themselves away from public glare. The front benches were readily available for fleeting customers of our kind who walked in casually to enjoy the chilled sherbet and walked out with a vintage experience.

Leading luminaries from diverse streams such as politics, arts, and literature frequented this shop over time. Their portraits on the walls were not only tributes to their contribution but also a part of cherishing the close association with the change-makers. A small conversation with the manager revealed snippets from the past – passed down the generations as heirlooms. Refreshing tales energised customers who felt delighted to be present here. Imagining this century-old world was recreated by the culturally conscious owners, who brushed aside upgradation requests only to preserve as much of the past as possible. The giant ceiling fans circulated not much air. So an air-conditioning system had been installed. But the slowly whirring fans were not dismantled. The wooden deer head wall mount above the door was a silent reminder of how much had not changed despite the lapse of time.

I chose to go with the manager’s recommendation – daab malai sherbet [1]– for a hot summer afternoon. He called it the favourite summer drink of a famous city-based author from the last century. I should have thanked him for offering it to another wannabe writer – even though he would not have been much impressed with this disclosure. At a personal level, the writer inside felt motivated that two authors, from two different centuries, enjoyed the same cooling drink under the same roof. Talking about the merits of the sherbet, it was amazing to taste: authentic and traditional. The flavour was different if not unique and this outlet was proud to offer it to those who valued the past. When I asked him if I could get this drink anywhere else in the city, he was reticent for a while. After poring over its faint possibility, he set me free to explore the city to find something remotely close and comparable to this drink. There was a smirk on his face, which suggested I would fail in my mission to get an equivalent to what I was served here.  

He suggested grapes crush sherbet as another specialty I would relish, and its taste was unique this time, with crushed grapes floating around the fragmented ice cubes to lend an authentic appeal. After consuming these two flavours, the flavours of the past came alive in my mind. I felt really close to the great artists on the wall, feeling the immediate need to write creative stuff. This was working at another level: offering me loads of inspiration and motivation to write. It was more effective and quicker than attending motivational workshops or literature festivals to boost up creative energies and overcome my writer’s block. Tuning into great speeches by life coach experts often failed to resonate with the audience. But my brief visit here seemed to have worked wonders as I was already feeling charged up to go home and write something powerful to move the cold, insensitive generals of warring nations to embrace peace forever.

The rapid flow of ideas made me insecure about losing them on my way home and I regretted not carrying a notebook to jot them down. When I visited the place again, I made it a point to carry my diary and pen and sat for hours to draft a story outline. It was not a matter of shame as I found the serving staff look happy to see my passion, to be added to their new list of great patrons. As our familiarity developed further, they showed me newspaper cuttings mentioning the sherbet outlet – how some journalists kept them alive in the print editions just as the young crowd made their outlet famous on the social media, with hundreds of Instagram reviews and top ratings of the place.  

This was just one outlet that motivated me but I was sure there should be more in the city, not just sherbet shops. I looked for other outlets that were part of the lives of the great artistes. I made it a quest to look for them in order to experience a surge of motivation that always does not come from sitting idle in front of an open window. As I began my search for similar outlets, I came across several of them still operating from modest spaces.

There was a bookstore on the first floor of a ramshackle building where some leading film directors came to buy imported books. Climbing the same stair case evoked feelings of nostalgia. In an era when many bookstores have shut down, this family-owned bookstore had over the generations expanded its list to include vernacular and academic books to stay commercially viable. The wooden shelves and the cash counter manned by a dhoti-clad septuagenarian gentleman keeping a hawk’s eye like a surveillance camera suggested retirement was still far away.  I was informed by the gentleman regarding the operational presence of another stationery store where many freedom fighters came to buy pens and ink. Holding a fountain pen bought from the store located in the next street, hidden behind a paan shop basking in the glory of serving great musicians of the country, I walked home to begin a new story with it.

As I continued with my search for such outlets to stir the pot of motivation, I realised, to identify closely with such landmark establishments, was indeed a powerful way to fill myself with zest and zeitgeist. During my next journey, I came across a sweet shop specialising in a wide variety of sandesh and its owner, standing beside a pedestal clock that was functional since the nineteenth century, spoke of the days of glory, with the intellectuals of the city dropping in the evening to pack boxes of sweets. They continued to keep the freshness of the sandesh alive without any compromise in terms of quality. They are not affected by modern shops making false claims of serving high quality traditional sweets. They proudly say those who value good taste and can differentiate between fake and original are their clients, always ready to pay extra to buy pure and tasty stuff. The melt-in-the-mouth experience of their sweets was heavenly indeed. I made it my preferred shop to buy sweets from to celebrate all successes in life. For festive occasions, there could be other shops, but to celebrate success I chose to bring home sandesh from this shop alone, even if it meant going an extra mile for their delicacy. It has been quite a while since I last went there – because the occasions to celebrate successes have dried up in the recent years, with tragedies and setbacks mounting allied attack since the pandemic. While the sherbet store has helped me regain a lot of confidence in the writing process, I hope the sandesh shop will soon find me at their glass counter, to order packets of sweets to celebrate literary success.  

[1] Coconut cream sherbet

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

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Excerpt

Letters from a Daughter to Her Father

Title: Thorns in My Quilt: Letters from a Daughter to Her Father

Author: Mohua Chinappa

Publisher: Rupa Publications India

LOSS

4 August 2022

Living Room, Bengaluru

Dear Baba, Today is your shraddho, the puja for your departed soul. Referring to you as a soul seems so distant. Calling you anything but ‘Baba’ seems like two strangers speaking to one another. The purohit is here to do the rituals. The atmosphere is sedate. The room is lit and the flowers in the vases are in full bloom. I am glad we have cousins in the city; otherwise, it would be very lonely for Ma and me. We know very few people who would make the effort to attend a staid function like a shraddho. How does one end a tie so deep with a mere ritual? One can’t. It does feel surreal to watch your photograph with a jasmine garland around the lifeless frame. The sandalwood phonta or tika on your forehead makes you look different. The living room has been cleared. The large antique box has been covered with a white cloth, and your photograph is placed on it in such a way that you are facing the direction that will lead you to the other world. The shraddho among Bengali Hindus is a ceremony that is performed to ensure a passage for the recently deceased to the other world. The rite is both social and religious and is meant to be conducted by the son. But you have no male heir. So I defy tradition and lead the puja.  I follow the rites dutifully and chant the mantras, which don’t mean much to me. You are gone. There is no mantra that can soothe my heart. On the floor is a bed, laid out with a pillow and an umbrella for your onward journey to God-knows-where. I follow the purohit. Neel joins me in the ceremony. I feel so anchored, having him next to me. What a loving child he is. He makes life so much simpler for me. After the puja, we put out a plate of your favourite food so that a crow can come and eat it. Leaving the food in the corner of a lane seems ridiculous, but I have decided not to question any of the rituals, for I don’t want Ma to feel that I didn’t do my best. I leave the plate on the ground. There are bottles strewn around, and the ground is not very clean. I don’t turn back for another look. Your photo has now been removed and stands on my marble corner table. I put out the burning incense sticks and remove the flower garlands. It is still sinking in that I won’t be able to hear your voice ever again, calling out to me, asking me for something or the other. As we sit down to eat, Neel reminds me how you discussed Left politics and he argued with you on capitalism, just to rile you up in jest. You had such a wonderful bond with my child. I smile as I hear Neel mimic you and your quintessential Bengali ways of reacting to situations. Those debates between you both. I loved the way you both called each other Dadu. Baba would say, ‘Dadu, you must read about the world and its magnificent history. The great idea of how civilizations emerged, and how revolutions took place in protest against tyranny and oppression. As you read, you will learn that the world is a beautiful study of humanity and historical events.’ And Neel would say, ‘Na, Dadu, I will only read books that emphasize the profit and loss of capitalist businesses. Whoever cares about art and philosophy?’ Neel knew how you would go red in the face. And you would say, ‘No businessman ever built a nation; it is the thinkers and the dreamers who created a world of equal opportunities.’ This camaraderie you both shared remains the most beautifully preserved and poignantly pure memory of you with your grandson. I remember those days when you constantly waited to hear from Neel, and how the Sundays were marked aside to have your long-awaited conversations with him. You truly were a wonderful grandfather to my son. I feel empty as the furniture in the living room is rearranged to how it was before. Like nothing has happened, and no one is now gone forever. It looks as if you will come back in a minute, ask for a cup of tea and brood with your arms crossed over your chest. I think just being there to watch me do everyday things made you feel calmer. I don’t know. But I hope someday, I will understand the silence between us. Comfortable spells of silence, and some very terrifying ones. Like your death.

Love

Manu

*

5 August 2022

Bengaluru

Dear Baba, The vermilion has been removed now. The parting is stark white the hair oiled tied into a braid of acceptance. The grey mixed with the leftover black strands falling carelessly on her shoulder. I had seen her one lonely noon take a pair of scissors cut off her locks Like Samson and Delilah. She was at war A war with her own existence Her identity has been shaken Her oar is cracking open along with her broken sail. She sets to the seas but the land is far away on the horizon shining like the crystals found on a crown lost in a war lying forlorn for the head of the right king but now Samson is dead the Philistines have left too the palace has been torn down but parts are intact. Her locks sheared from guilt for being alive. Will she find her shore with her broken boat and tattered sail hoping the seas take her in or the fire of her breath is gutted before it becomes wild like a forest fire burning the little birds coloured kites stuck between branches and her capsizing boat too lost in the new world!

Love,

Manu

About the book:

Thorns in My Quilt: Letters from a Daughter to Her Father is a series of letters written by a daughter to her father after he passed away. Unspoken thoughts, unshared memories and unsaid words combine in this searing and poignant account of a relationship filled with joy, but with equal moments of sorrow.

Mohua Chinappa (Manu) loved her Baba, who was as kind as he was cruel, as well-read as he was unworldly, as loved as he was unloved. His dearest Manu recollects her childhood in Shillong, infused with the aroma of vanilla essence that went into the butter cookies he baked. She reminisces about her father holding her little hand while helping her through the undulating, rain-drenched roads. Mohua returns to Delhi, where she spent a part of her growing-up years, and revels in the memory of a government house with a harsingar tree. She writes to him about her broken marriage, recalls how her parents left her side, and how she reinvented herself. The letters are often selfish yet strangely cathartic.

Her father’s kidney failure prompted a daughter to confront the demons within—the loss, the doubts, the emptiness, the guilt of saying things, and the angst of not saying things.

About the author:

Mohua Chinappa is an author, a columnist, a renowned podcaster in India, a TEDx speaker, a former journalist and a corporate communications specialist.

The Mohua Show, a podcast she started in 2020, has close to 2 million downloads. She contributes regularly to various national dailies and magazines, including The Telegraph, Deccan Herald and Outlook. She is regularly invited as a speaker on TEDx and Josh Talks.

Mohua’s other initiative—NARI: The Homemakers Community—provides a platform for homemakers to voice their everyday challenges.

Her book—Nautanki Saala and Other Stories—was awarded the PVLF Best Debut Non-Fiction (in English) Award 2023. She also has two poetry collections to her credit—If Only It Were Spring Every day and Dragonflies of My Dreams.

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

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Driving With Devraj

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

After training for several months, I discovered that my driving instructor was not a qualified, certified one. With years of practice, he could easily take beginners for a ride. That he could bring the car to a screeching halt and avert head-on collision was his claim to fame recycled through unverified narratives circulated by his acolytes. Whatever he taught came under the lens of suspicion when I cross-checked with the driving manual and online videos. Nothing seemed to match with the tricks he passed on, making me feel the need to unlearn everything. The final moment of awakening arrived when my cousin laughed at my clumsy gear shifting exercise and raised the obvious question: who taught you driving?

A clutch of rapid-fire queries, based on observations, to assess my fitness to go behind the wheel deflated my confidence. I shared with him the reality of the fake instructor who fleeced gullible folks with his dignified facade. Always dressed in spotless white kurta like sober academicians, he did not come across as a man who negotiated sharp bends at great speed and mastered the art of rash driving. The windshield of his falsehood was smashed by a business rival trying hard to expand his start-up business. The veracity of accusations could not be established but the active involvement of my driving coach in a fraudulent network was further corroborated by some disgruntled former employees. Sadly, it was too late for advanced learners to cancel the admission and enrol elsewhere. 

Excavating facts revealed interesting details. His driving licence – issued decades ago – was obtained after bribing the officials as he did not meet the eligibility criteria. Gathering false certificates of secondary school education and submitting those documents was an offence that never surfaced due to lack of investigation. He drove around the city and the state even though he did not deserve to be granted a valid licence. He cleared the litmus test and silenced those who expected him to make a blunder. He reversed the car with precision and amazing control. It was so spectacular that the senior officer, who had never seen such a move in the real world but only in action films,  felt he surpassed the need for other examinations, thus allowing the bogus instructor to hit the road with legal approval.

Picking up driving skills while working as a helper for a lorry driver was his first big break.  He gained experience and then switched to smaller, lighter vehicles he fondly referred to as toys.  Once he became comfortable, he made it his strength and spent days and nights driving taxis and matadors. Nothing seemed to match the rule book as his learning process was organic. Practical exposure made him an expert and he taught others just the way he taught himself. All those who sought his guidance were granted licences very quickly and this was the key reason why he remained popular over the years.

His contacts were useful as many jobless and illiterate youth trained under him to acquire genuine licences just as he had done long ago. The issue of corruption was immaterial as he appeared to be a messiah who provided the scope to get employment. Even though his modus operandi was shady, nobody accused him of misdoings till recently. Tons of regret that I shelled out a premium amount to learn exclusively from him for an hour every day. His 1:1 tutoring model failed to impart flawless training. I feel ashamed of learning the ropes from an instructor who duped unsuspecting entrants by mentoring them without sticking to the rule book. He formulated his own set of rules and remained confident that accidents would never occur if his guidelines were strictly followed even on dug-up, potholed roads.

Clearing the driving test in front of the transport officer was a big victory for which I remained grateful to the driving school and the dubious instructor, even though I realised the need to learn a lot more to drive safely. He believed in pushing the learner to get rid of fears – like throwing a non-swimmer inside the Olympic-sized pool on the first day. We were encouraged to take risks in our stride and decide how to get past a stray dog or a stranded bovine in the middle of the road without honking incessantly from a long distance and disturbing the peace of the locality. There is no denying the fact that it was more of a trial-and-error method of learning under his tutelage. He expected the learners to observe him and learn. Instead of pointing out individual shortcomings, he sought focus on his style, hoping we would also pick it up like he did from his truck driver boss. Since he managed to get valid licences for all learners enrolled with his school, there was nothing called rejection or loss of fees. Evidently, the amazing clearance statistics never grounded his growth story.  

Whenever I hit the road, I knew I had to face unexpected dangers. Driving through crowded streets and negotiating narrow lanes without scratches on the chassis involved prayers. Every day I had to thank God for keeping me safe. But one day I ran out of luck and rammed the front bumper into a pillar. As it was more than a dent, it had to be replaced. This accident led to a dent of confidence and I became afraid of my irresponsible driving, entrusting my spouse to handle the vehicle. Henceforth, all I did was to take the car out of the garage and park it right outside the house.

The sight of a truck pounds my heart even when I am not driving the car. I feel it is there with the ulterior motive of bumping me off, sent on a special mission by one of my hidden enemies. Such is the residual impact of watching masala potboilers from Bollywood that I suspect something fishy when I see a speeding truck either in front of me or catching up fast from behind. Although my spouse urges me to stay calm, it is the best example of anxiety attack that wrecks my state of mind. She suggests I should face more trucks to overcome this irrational fear but the beastly trucks and containers do not leave me in peace. I hold their domineering presence on the roads to be equally responsible for my failure to ace driving skills. Seeing other people remain composed in front of trucks makes me wonder how fearless they are. The highways are meant for heavy vehicles and it is common to find a fleet of trucks every hour. We often hear and read stories about drunken truck drivers bumping off car passengers. I always share such tragic news with my spouse to make her understand that my fears are genuine, raising concerns regarding the company-fitted air bags that fail to open up when required. 

Recently, she asked me to hire a full-time personal instructor and learn driving once again as she finds it cumbersome to guide me on the roads. But I suspect all drivers have acquired the licence from the same instructor with dubious credentials. The retired gentleman in my neighbourhood has bought a swanky car and he drives around quietly, making my spouse shower compliments on his smooth driving style. Envious, I approached him one evening to know how he mastered driving and from where he learnt. I poured forth my sob story and he suggested I must begin as a fresher. I sought his help in this regard and offered my car for training purpose in case the safety of his vehicle was his worry. But he politely declined. However, to lift my spirits, he conducted a short theory test. My answers did not satisfy him. When I asked him why he refused help, he confessed he was also a student of the same school but he had to learn it all over again from his daughter who lived in another city. If a retired fellow can learn how to drive, there is hope for me.

Even though my licence is valid, I consider myself unfit to drive and keep others safe. The best way to use it is to furnish it as my address proof to get the cooking gas cylinder. I should have learnt driving before marriage like my spouse did. But then, I had no idea I would get any chance to drive. I admire those sunroof sedans in the Western movies where romantic, breezy scenes of long drives are filmed so well. But the ground reality of roads is quite bumpy here. You have to ensure safety of vehicles and lives, which is nothing less than a miracle in a chaotic world where car crashes have become common like fractures.

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

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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

My Writing Desk

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

From Public Domain

Since childhood days, I was offered what I believed to be an adult desk: a solid wood table with impressive dimensions suited for professionals instead of young learners. Introduced early to the grand furniture piece did not generate a sense of superiority until the day my close friend shot an envious look at it, ran his delicate hands on the smooth polished surface and rested his chubby cheeks to feel its naked coldness. Emulating him to derive similar pleasure from the wooden marvel, I realised the cold sensory bliss and fostered a special attachment to this possession, finding time in between the lessons to smother my hands on the table top or rub my thighs against its intricately carved supple legs. The sensuous awakening of entwined legs could be read differently but the innocence of the experience carried nothing except pure bliss.

The bonding with the study table was solid in more ways than one. A constant companion that absorbed my tears faster than any human hand could reach to wipe them off, the desk witnessed almost everything ecstatic and tumultuous that happened in those growing up years. It was the space that saw me pick up new tastes, new habits. From doodling on its surface with the dark pencil to highlight my drawing skills, the table allowed its body to be used as a springboard to catapult my imagination. I was immersed in the act of carving something new and permanent but most of my efforts shamed me, leaving me desperate to replace those with something funky, more in keeping with my inchoate artistic sensibilities.

Years of fiddling registered no marked improvement in my output but the flawless skin of the desk was bruised – and it never completely recovered from those childish, frivolous strokes. Both of us grew up together with scratches and bruises on the body – those on mine disappeared with the power of natural healing while those on the desk remained stark and etched, reminding me of what hell I had made it undergo just to keep myself engaged. Weird, non-existing creatures were brought to life even though I later felt shy to call them my creations or displaying them anywhere. I tried to hide those by spreading a tablecloth but the attractive wood looked marginalised with the desperate cover-up bid. 

Adorning it with a tablecloth embroidered by my mother worried me as the tutors were often served hot and cold drinks on the desk. My academic guides were often retired. With their shaky hands they could spill a lot of liquid that would damage the fine cloth, making her clean it repeatedly and vigorously to restore its sheen. Such accidental brushes could also happen due to my exciting outbursts – while casually picking up or placing something on it. Such a protective measure to safeguard the desk would display the beautiful tablecloth, but it would also spike the probability of damage to it.

When I asked whether she was okay with the lurking fear and nagging anxiety of damage to her embroidered creation, she said she had never indulged in negative thinking. Even if it got damaged, she would not fret or fume but simply replace it with her new work. Her readiness to put in extra effort to create another piece was a sign of confidence suggesting that the creator should always have the faith to create beautiful pieces instead of worrying about safe upkeep. This triggered a different line of thinking. I could be a risk-taker and would expose myself to the dangers of damage to creations instead of worrying about it all the time. Now, I felt mentally at ease and free. It made me enjoy the process of creation and its output to the fullest.

Among other benefits, the desk with the chair enabled me to sit erect and sometimes generated a sense of authority. I felt empowered there with the pen within my grip. It made me feel close to writing classical tales or passing legal judgments. The presence of a pen-stand and the variety of pens with refills ranging from blue to green to red to black, with fountain pens and dot pens co-existing harmoniously, gave the freedom to write with any colour and then to correct with red ink, thus,  combining the power of the learner and the examiner rolled into one. I loved to use red to strike out my verbose sentences like the teachers who used it to point out errors.

Resting my head on the desk amounted to brief lapses into the fantasy world as the mind journeyed to faraway lands. An hour of imagining a world where horses flew like birds and fish hopped on the grass could not rein in the wild impossibilities. The lack of logic provided laughter and immense joy – the world turned upside down was a thing of beauty as it strengthened my ability to make it grotesque. Sometimes I envisaged a cub sitting in front of me even though it was a cat pawing my geometry box. As I remained half-asleep and half-awake on the precious desk, I was navigating two precious but different worlds at the same time – the real and the unreal. The desk facilitated my first flight of imagination and inspired me to repeatedly indulge in that experience, nurturing the storyteller with half-baked ideas that required the firm support of reading to make a solid landing.

The desk witnessed the arrival of story books and allowed a dedicated space for non-academic texts. As the pile of relaxed reading material grew taller than the academic stuff, it was time for the family to express concern. A tough balancing act by pushing up the grades was the easiest way to address their fears, followed by inculcating a sense of responsibility that the syllabus was as important as the reading material for leisure.

The presence of current affairs and film magazines, apart from fables and mythological tales added genres to the desk, with my father stacking up his weeklies on my desk after he had finished reading them.  I loved to spend more time occupying this space. Soon I began to indulge in writing pieces that matured from paragraphs to essays. I had convinced myself if I had to write something interesting and worthwhile I needed adopt a proper, dignified posture to think clearly and then jot down ideas on paper. Imposing this self-discipline was easier with the lure of the wooden desk. I could sit there for long hours at a stretch – the first crucial requirement before one thinks of pursuing writing.

The realisation that the desk was wooden but my writing should not be wooden came my way when I was struggling to produce a lively short piece. I found much scope to improve after the first draft, but I softened the nasty blow on my ego which was beginning to acquire a fearsome form. I showed the piece to my tutor who had his own critical take on a teenager’s struggle to write, signing off with a cryptic good-effort comment that left me craving for clarity. The thoughts were scattered like fluffy cotton balls floating in the air. I wished to acquire better control to put them together. To put it briefly, the desk witnessed the despair and repair and everything else that celebrates the slow churning of a small-time writer. Placing a decent piece in a reputed publication and displaying it on the wooden desk that housed many great works formed a vague dream that translated into reality much later.

The attached drawer was a convenient space to hide personal items such as love letters and adult magazines. Since nobody came here to check the space, it was suitable for stashing pocket money and everything else that required secrecy. Being lockable, I could utilise it with full security and safety. When the tutors or guardians noticed I was maintaining a lockable space, it was a clear sign that the boy was growing up with his pile of secrets. Nobody tried to unearth what I was squirreling away even though they had perhaps imagined the predictable and worst possible things. I did overhear the elders hatch a plan to detach the drawer. They solicited advice from a carpenter, seeking his opinion regarding how to do it without causing any damage to the antique table. His suggestion not to tamper with it was accepted without further argument since there was a high risk of damaging one of its legs. Before they could think of anything else, I chose to remove the lock and offered them full access with the key, showing signs of intelligence that made them feel assured I was not misusing it in any manner. While my idea was to keep the beautiful piece look complete instead of amputated, it was surely an outcome of my attachment to the wooden piece that I believed should remain in my possession so long as I am alive. As two companions engaged in a mission to produce the best creative work, we chose to stay together and work together with the fond hope that this partnership would produce some magical work.

Showing no signs of ageing, the sturdy table still flaunts a youthful look, as if it has been just crafted. The ability to remain fresh over the years should be there in writing as well –the reader should be able to relate to the work even after ages. Even when it is read generations later, it should always stay mint fresh.

With the passage of time, more gadgets had arrived on the desk and demanded space – like the desktop computer. Keeping almost half of it clean and vacant was not a challenge as it was quite long and wide. The tall glass of water or a cup of coffee and a fruit bowl also remain on it without giving a cluttered look. I did not have to make hard choices or compromises – what to keep and what to discard. It allowed me the space to write long-hand and then type it on the keyboard without tumbling other objects.

The finesse of the wooden desk inspired me to strive for perfection. The intricate wood carvings and the perfect finish made me feel the need to attach these qualities to my writing. Getting the structure ready was similar to framing the wooden structure first. Chiselling it further to make the rough edges look smooth made me think of doing the same in terms of writing. When everything gets joined, it looks no less than a wonder: just like joining sentences and then adding paragraphs. The process of carpentry bears strong similarities with the process of writing. The art of beautiful writing and beautiful carving in wood blended in my psyche. Using it to create chiselled work touched a chord.

I have been told the table looks vintage – although it has retained fresh appeal. I have been told to think of replacements. But I have been stubborn on the topic of retaining it – not falling prey to engineered wood and all that new stuff that lacks the indispensable feature of durability. Like solid wood furniture, the writing should also survive the test of time. The desk has subtly groomed me to be strong and resilient like it since childhood days.

Both of us are capable of surviving umpteen rejections and we have shared moments of sadness. The drawer was the place where the rejected pieces were dumped. If any member of the family ever raided the place for something shocking, he would have found several letters from editors, suggesting my temerity to approach them with my pieces that could not be carried for multiple reasons. The creative bug bit me here and then one thing led to another in a chain of events that sucked me into the world of writing. I always felt that the wooden desk was sorrowful and consoled me that these gems of failure would sparkle one day. A silent motivator that did not allow the termites of depression to infest my soul. 

On days when I sat elsewhere to ideate or write, I did not feel in my element.  As if I missed out something valuable and I must return to its fold at the earliest – inspired to create something beautiful like the table. With this soothing thought relaxing the nerves, I felt a surge of confidence – of writing something compelling and long-lasting like the wooden desk and displaying the content right there to match or surpass its excellence.  

From Public Domain

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


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

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Kindle Amazon International