Tag: Deccan Herald

Categories
Musings of a Copywriter

Berth of a Politician

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

During long-distance train travel, I stay anxious about my fellow passengers in the neighbouring seats. Like any other optimist, I am hopeful of finding beautiful, exciting people to make the hours fly like minutes, to ensure I do not have to pull the curtains and switch on the reading lamp. When the attraction of the window seat offering a panoramic view of the green world fades after a few hours, having engaging people occupying the opposite seats to converse with on a wide range of issues ranging from politics to films is a boon. The presence of yawning bores makes it soporific as their loud, unending phone conversations detailing domestic drudgery start getting on the nerves after a while. Unfortunately, most of my train journeys have nothing refreshing to offer. So, the sight of a young smart lady walking in with her ticket to locate the seat was a huge visual relief. But the joy was short-lived when an elderly lady with a bawling baby in her arms followed her.

Understandably, they were related and perhaps shared a mother-daughter relationship. The young lady understood they were allotted the upper berths. She requested a swap. But the greed of the window seat prevailed. I declined the switch. This bland refusal left her shocked. The elderly lady also did not pitch in with her personalised appeal as she understood that if I could say no to a beautiful young lady, my response would remain the same in her case.

Before they could climb up, a gentleman wearing a hat walked in and seeing their predicament, offered his lower berth to the young lady. Delighted that the young lady would be seated opposite, I took it as some kind of relief but sadly the young lady climbed up while the elderly lady with the child sat in front and started changing diapers. The beautiful lady and the hatted gentleman went up. The gentleman spread himself above my seat while the lady occupied the upper berth on the opposite side. I thought this would provide some opportunity to catch a glimpse of the beauty, but she was so grateful that she enjoyed conversing with the hatted gentleman regarding her difficult journey to the national capital for medical treatment. The gentleman continued to guide her even though she did not seem interested in his advice.

He showed his sensitive side by asking the railway staff to control the air-conditioning temperature as it was quite chilling at night. He made it appear he was doing it for the small child and the lady out of concern even though they had not asked for it. The elderly lady thanked him by saying her arthritic knees needed this relief. As the AC turned warmer with his intervention, the women were assured they were in the presence of a genuinely caring person whereas I was a villain who declined to help women in need and now stayed wide awake to overhear their conversation. When the young lady found my furtive glances too hot to handle, she pulled half the curtain to block my sight. Perhaps this was well-deserved for being from her perspective, uncaring.  

During the night, the hat belonging to the gentleman toppled onto my berth and awakened me. I sat up and threw it near the corner gently, hoping not to disturb his snores. In the wee hours of the morning, the hat fell again but this time his legs also dangled in front of me. Perhaps, he was getting up from his berth to probably visit the loo. He suddenly jumped down and took the hat from me, with a barely audible thank-you, and searched for his slippers underneath the seat. When he returned to the cabin, he picked up his phone and gave a wake-up call to his family and reminded them that his parcel would arrive via courier that morning, much before he reached home. They would have to receive it in his absence.

When the railway catering staff came for taking breakfast orders, the hatted gentleman was accorded great respect. They seemed to be familiar with him. During their conversation, it emerged he was a former parliamentarian who still travelled quite frequently by the same train to the national capital. When the elderly lady on the opposite sought to know his name, he revealed his full identity. I searched online. The first page gave the image of the gentleman wearing a hat, with a short biodata revealing his long, illustrious political journey spread over the decades doing social service. In a way switching the berth for the lady showcased his sensitive side and also hinted at the comfort and ease with which he could switched sides during his political innings. Had the lady and her family been a resident of his constituency, he would have definitely got their votes.

He got a grand salute for the tip he gave to the staff member after breakfast, and it reminded him of how common such genuflection had been during his heydays. I felt I should have started a conversation with him to know the state of politics today, but since he appeared to relive the past glory, it did not appear he had any connection with the present dispensation. It was not likely he was positive of a grand comeback, as he remained wedded to the glorious past, with his worn-out hat representing the outdated courteousness and etiquette long associated with the past. When the elderly lady thanked him profusely for his kindness, he folded his hands like an astute politician does in front of the public during election time and stayed modest about his generosity with a smile spread wide on his puckered face.

When it was time to disembark, he sat on one side of my berth and shuffled his dossiers, and called up an associate, asking him to fix an appointment in the second half of the day. That a former member of the House slept on my upper berth was a privilege indeed. Now I could boast about it and for that, I needed to have a selfie with him or his autograph at least.  I was sceptical since he knew I had declined to help the women he might refuse to entertain my request. My hesitation prevailed as I could not countenance a rejection in front of the ladies. So, I resisted my urge for an introduction.

When he stood up clutching his files and dragged the wheeled trolley with the other hand, I maintained a safe distance from him, scared of dashing my luggage against his legs. I was expecting there would be a few acolytes waiting with marigold garlands to receive him at the station, but I was surprised to see there was not a single person waiting for the former leader. He was a lone man pulling his burden and finding his way among the crowd. He kept walking the length of the platform with his hat almost toppling in the wind, firmly holding his set of files and the trolley with the other hand.

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

‘Is this a Dagger I see…?’

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Although I do not think I have the potential to write a controversial book that ends up hurting or offending the sentiments of readers or non-readers in any part of the world, the recent episode of a violent attack on an internationally acclaimed author has brought about a fundamental change. Now, I spend more time pondering over novel attacks and how to protect myself and my vital organs from fundamentalists and other hardliners stepping across the line to seek revenge and make the ground beneath my feet disappear. I do not dismiss the possibility of being attacked or hounded by a crazy fellow who does not like the colour of my skin or my hair or the aquiline shape of my nose or simply finds the entire set of features not aligned with his sensibilities. As a small-time writer who cannot afford a full-time, fully armed bodyguard shadowing me wherever I go, I must find other cost-effective ways to keep my creative head safe from bullets and pellets. 

Whenever I go out for a walk during the day, I should wear a helmet even if pedestrians find it weird. I do not need to explain to them the hazardous profession I am part of, riskier even than that of a mining engineer. There are many themes and plots for stories and novels brewing in the cerebral pot, so I cannot risk a fatal hit. A broken leg can assure me of recovery, but a cracked-up skull will end my writing career before it could take flight. Some years ago, I remember being hit on my head by a super charged cricket ball that came at top speed. Just after this episode, my writing speed has suffered, and I suspect the neurological wiring suffered some irreversible damage.  

As a precautionary move, I should also put an end to my flirtatious tendencies since the possibility of being attacked by a jealous lover haunts me these days. Attending marriage ceremonies, getting close to the bride, and wasting no time to put my hands around her slender waist for a joint photograph by edging out her obese husband from the frame is a risky act indeed. As waiters keep moving around with trays loaded with forks and knives, the offended husband could pick up a sharp one and jab one at me while hurling the most abusive words I fear to use for wily characters in my prose. Having identified this area of darkness, I should throw more light on my behavioural pattern and avoid building a huge female fan following that activates life-threatening impulses in men. 

As a writer, my attempt should be to hammer harsh truths. But the sight of labourers and carpenters working with hammers and other heavy tools induces fear of another kind. Whenever I find myself close to such working class people, I feel an unexplained fear that the bitter truths have stopped flowing from my pen, and this has not gone down well with them. One of them running after me with a hammer to silence my voice, generates a fear that compels me to think of the need to get closer to the realities of life instead of being an escapist. I fail to convince them that the need to offer relief is far greater than reminding them of the depressing truths all the time.

Humour in my writing could also be the potential reason for disaster to strike me. This entertaining streak possibly offends some people who do not like a writer to be an entertainer but an eye opener. Cordoning myself from such a mindset is not easy. In the park, in the subway or in the market, such offended folks keep lurking and stalking. The scissors and blades at the barber’s shop generate a rising sense of fear as the most unlikely source of danger often shocks and silences you. The truth behind losing an eye[1] is an eye-opener in many ways and makes a lily-livered writer like me extra cautious when it relates to scribbling thoughts and ideas on the page. 

Signing book copies and then being surrounded by a guy holding a knife near the throat is a scary possibility that has made me stay away from book launches forever. Losing the scope to interact with readers to build new bonds comes with the high risk of losing my bond with life. I do not know the reason why such a thing should happen to me, but the dire consequences of such a deadly attack compels me to stay away from the limelight and keep writing in anonymity. 

My voracious appetite for humour could also provoke a person to serve me a lethal delight. The food delivery app guy who presses the doorbell and offers me a food packet with poisoned foodstuffs comes prepared to seek revenge for my attempt at making fun of food in my writing, calling it a violent act of mastication. As I imagine retribution, I should stop my writing contribution or funnel my sentiments through a different outlet. Survival of writers has always been challenging, but now it goes beyond the financial domain and includes his right to life.  

More bubbles up my mind. An acid attack or any such violent attack truncates the life of a writer. Though the writer kills characters the way he likes, he does not know his end. Sitting in a café could bring on his sudden end as a biker enters and fires at point-blank range and leaves behind a note of apology.

My crime of poking fun and being satirical might trigger the dangerous sentiment. The offended fellow for whom life is no fun finds such humour unacceptable. And the writer must meet his end for making fun of his situation, for not focusing on serious issues, for the unlisted crime of offering light reads of little or no worth or value to readers who seek literary merit in words. Not being an ideal writer could be the reason for my premature end, with dollops of humour dying along with me. 

[1] Salman Rushdie lost an eye in 2022: https://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-68739586#

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
Stories

The Buyback

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Ten years after selling the ancestral house, Anoop returned to his roots – to the small town he was eager to leave, to grow big and flourish where a plethora of opportunities lived. Finding a new building constructed on what was once his inherited land, he stood outside the entrance in awe, pulled out a postcard-size photograph from his shirt pocket, and tried to match the similarities between the past and the present. 

Gazing intently to observe the elements that stood firm despite the ravages of time and circumstances, the heavy iron-gate that guarded the grand entrance to the bungalow was the solitary link to his forgotten past. With a fresh coat of paint of a different shade, it looked ready to embrace visitors with the same warmth that it exuded earlier. As he pushed it gently to enter the premises, the creaking noise that used to irritate him was music to his ears now, capable of bringing a wistful smile to his face that conveyed a lot about his changed mindset.

Trudging along the cobbled path leading to the porch, Anoop decided to thank Girish, the present owner of the property, for showing the rare spirit of preservation. There were several similarities adding up, carving the image of a liberal owner who did not exercise the freedom to overhaul everything for a complete makeover. The jackfruit tree close to the boundary wall and the alcove with the tulsi plant stood green and abundant as it did in the past, offering ample evidence that he maintained a fine balance between legacy and modernity. 

Anoop was sequencing the thoughts he would share as soon as he was welcomed in. A dilemma prevailed over whether he should take time to unfold his actual purpose or quickly get to the agenda that had ferried him here. The tension was palpable as he pressed the doorbell with the arrogance of a feudal landlord who was still not ready to wake up and accept the new reality. 

His roller-coaster journey was a classic example of the story of an unexpected downfall, followed by a meteoric rise in no time. He felt it was his responsibility to erase the era of his decline because the lost ground was recovered. He made it a mission to acquire everything he had lost during the lean phase. With confidence in divine support, he knew a miracle was waiting to happen, to turn the tide in his favour and bestow upon him the status of ownership of this property once again. 

Not quite confident of an enthusiastic welcome, Anoop had come alone to strike a deal that did not carry the support or consent of his family though they shadowed him wherever he went. This would be the first occasion he would get full credit from his wife and son if he achieved success in what appeared to be a challenging task: buying back the house he had sold. 

The question that remained unanswered was whether Girish would agree to sell. Anoop was aware that such a proposal had rarely been made and was unlikely to be accepted. Even though the odds were high, Anoop was prepared to make it lucrative. As a businessman, he believed deals are sealed only when they are attractive and the greed for more money envelopes the wisest. 

Guests and visitors turning up without a prior appointment were fobbed off. The big bang of his arrival was met with a louder response as the afternoon siesta was disturbed. A mumbling, grumbling Girish opened the teakwood door and recognised Anoop standing at the threshold with folded hands. His expression of annoyance changed to a warm, receptive tenor, inviting him in with a quick shower of queries related to the absence of his family. Anoop was accorded the deferential treatment he deserved as a former owner of the property.

“Seems my arrival at an odd hour has impacted your rest,” Anoop apologised after making himself comfortable on the leather sofa.  

“Not at all, brother, I was about to go out for a stroll in the garden before having my evening tea. Now I will have your company,” Girish sounded courteous as he sat opposite Anoop who looked around to admire the aesthetic beauty of the interiors and could not resist asking him whether his spouse had done it all. 

“She is an artist, and whatever you see here is her choice or creation,” Girish attributed the pervasive beauty to his beautiful wife Amla who was waiting to be introduced with a glowing compliment. She emerged from the bedroom in her casual dress and flip-flops, flashing a radiant smile, and reached out to Anoop for a warm handshake. Anoop stood up to greet her while Girish sat cross-legged and kept his fingers crossed while watching their handshake that stretched unduly long. The connection was instant as Amla had a preference for well-dressed men wearing good perfume. His body language suggested he was far superior to the host in every possible way including mannerisms. 

Amla sat on the other side of the couch where Girish spread himself, adjusting her curls and waiting for Anoop to throw a question at her. Before he could ask for anything, Girish ordered Amla to bring tea and snacks for the guest. 

Anoop seized the moment with an offer that compelled Amla to remain seated. Employing sharp, concise language to outline his decent proposal, Anoop opened his briefcase and took out the cheque book. The couple, unable to guess what he was up to, looked at each other with curiosity that was settled once Anoop offered Girish a blank cheque and clarified, “Actually, I am here to buy this property. At the price you quote.”  

Having dropped a bombshell, Anoop waited for some time to see how they reacted. He put on his dark shades to prevent them from reading his mind, reposing full faith in the power of money to deliver the best deal in his favour. The swiftness of the episode was making it difficult for Girish to internalize it. But the reality of a blank cheque was nothing less than winning a lottery. It was a tough contest between the greed of ownership and the greed of wealth – the seller had to resist the temptation of growing richer and the buyer had to get the property at any cost. Anoop did not want to engage local heavyweights to apply pressure tactics on Girish, to compel him to sell. He chose to come to the suburban town to ink the deal with the most lucrative offer Girish could ever get during his lifetime. 

“Other than the price factor, there are aspects you must realise. For example, my willingness matters first. What made you think I was going to sell it in the first place? Did I buy this property from you with the condition of selling it to you after a decade? Even if you shell out the highest price, I will not sell it,” Girish made his decision categorically clear and looked eager to show him the exit door. 

Unwilling to lose the opportunity, Anoop tried to soften his stance with an emotional pitch, citing a bright future in the autumn years. “Stop being a fool. I am paying you as much as you want. Do you have any idea of how much this property means? I did not spend the money to buy in Mumbai or Dubai. This piece of land is of greater value to me. You can take the amount you want and buy a fancy penthouse in any posh project. Wake up and grab it,” Anoop rallied forth like an aggressive dealer. 

“I am well-settled here. My wife and kids are happy. Why should I sell it? Just because you are paying an exorbitant amount? Or simply because you need it now? It appears your memories buried here have become more important after you turned rich. If you did not have excess wealth, I’m sure you would not have bothered to come here again,” Girish went ahead with much greater conviction and candour. 

The abundance of wealth made Anoop keen to get back in touch with his past. Girish was accurate in his analysis and chose to defend his right to refuse the lucrative offer.  

“Let me be honest since you have put it right. I am here because the house, more than a century old, belonged to an illustrious family that had migrated from the Punjab during the British Raj and built an empire. Four generations lived here. Eleven members died here. Fourteen were born here. I am the last survivor with two kids with the burden to preserve the heritage. Something I cannot explain, and you cannot understand. You cannot rationalise a blank cheque for this property that was sold for peanuts to you because the circumstances were different then. You gained because of my misfortune, and you paid much below the market price but I am offering you many times more than the current market price. It is not just another piece of land for me,” Anoop put it bluntly, to make his position clear. 

Girish was a first-generation entrepreneur introduced to wealth in recent years. He rose from a middle-class family background and slogged hard to garner success. He was pricked by what Anoop said to make his accomplishments look tame.  

“You have come unannounced and thrown a blank cheque, with no regard for the thing called consent. This is undemocratic even if you offer the best price, thinking I will not have the choose to refuse because you offer the highest price possible. Remember, you were in debt when you sold this property. You accuse me of paying less than the market price but it was the highest price you got. Exploiting people in trouble is nothing new. We all do it to build our fortune. Before you add another word related to the memory of your ancestors here, just think that my kids are growing up and creating memories for themselves. Tell me, are the memories of the dead more important than the memories of those alive? No compulsion prevails in my life as my circumstances are skewed in my favour. Forget the idea of buyback. Scout for something else. You are possessed by the idea of fixing the past. But this property is not up for grabs,” Girish gave his final two cents.

The conversation was losing mutual respect, with a distinct possibility of unilateral withdrawal. Girish was not sure how long he would be able to essay the role of a good host despite being insulted and lured by the guest who had the singular agenda of securing possession of the property. Amla had been a patient listener throughout the exchange, without interrupting the flow with her opinion. Before Girish asked Anoop to leave the house, Amla chose to engage with Anoop without her husband’s consent. 

Sensing this as a god-gifted opportunity, Anoop took interest in her words. Unlike Girish, she wowed the offer and was glad to get it. Showing her hand to stop Girish from interfering at this point, Amla silenced him and took center stage. “I am his better half, and I must think better. He has grown attached to this house in just a decade and you are naturally attached to this property as you have spent almost your entire life. You have a valid argument in this regard. This is our first property as we lived on rent earlier. But I do not mind selling it since your offer is fabulous. So, let’s do like this. You can issue two cheques – in the name of the husband, and in the name of the wife. You can split the amount equally – 25 crores[1] for each.”

Anoop could not believe this deal would click with her intervention. He did not have to try coercion or anything like that. Amla co-operated and took complete charge while the argumentative Girish was now a meek lamb, unable to utter a word against her decision.  

Anoop wrote the cheques as he was asked to write by Amla. Girish was still unable to comprehend why she accepted the deal with Anoop. He knew Anoop was paying far more than the market price and Amla facilitated it without his consent. Girish had every right to ask her why she did so, but the aspect of marital turbulence weighed heavy on his mind.

“So, you got the property quite unexpectedly. It is a small price for something precious like the Kohinoor. Girish wouldn’t have agreed to sell. It is profit and gains for both parties. We should celebrate it,” Amla proposed, with absolute disregard for her husband who could not recover from the shock of his wife’s unilateral decision. He regretted making his wife the co-owner of the property. 

It would take a month to complete the formalities of transfer and the ownership would return to Anoop. He was eagerly looking forward to the day when he would become its legal owner once again. He had no changes in mind except the installation of the marble statues of his father and mother. He felt this would be the best honour as he thought the only child would make the lineage proud, thanks to the solid principles inculcated during his childhood years. To safeguard the future of the property from his own son, Anoop created a trust to maintain the ancestral property and deprived his son of the right to inherit it. Besides, the price he had paid for its buyback would never become the market price, even in the next hundred years.   

The entire town got to know about the buyback, and how Anoop had returned to strike a deal. Usually, the old gives way to the new but this was an odd case where the new paved the way for the return of the old. The revival of the past caught the imagination of the young and the old. He wanted to be ready with a convincing narrative for those who were interested to hear the story of his turnaround although there would be some skeptics who would never buy the idea of a vision that propelled him to rebuild his life.

The burden of guilt was off his chest and Anoop thanked Amla for making it possible. Trapped in a loveless marriage, she wanted to look at the world with new hope through a firmly supportive financial window. Her reaching out to Anoop helped her fund her dream venture and begin life anew while he got back the property without facing a struggle. The divorce from Girish would happen without a long-drawn legal battle as she would not have to claim alimony from him. Amla realised this was the best opportunity and encashed it. 

In her subsequent exchanges with Anoop, Amla mentioned she had moved to the West to pursue her dreams at forty. Anoop gave full credit for this buyback to Amla who wanted wealth and freedom at the same time. At times Anoop felt bad for Girish who lost his house and wife around the same time, but Amla assured him that Girish was not the kind of person worth shedding tears for as he had hurt many people in his life without a tinge of remorse.

.

[1] Rs 250,000,000 – Crore is an Indian unit for ten million

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

Witches and Crafts: A Spook’s Tale

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Getting the opportunity to interact with witches in real life is a bigger privilege than meeting celebrities from the world of fashion and entertainment. The paranormal world remains full of mysteries to unravel and the element of human interest in spooky affairs never dips.

I must say I have known and heard a lot about their cauldron – pot, potions, and potency – ever since the school days when I read Shakespearean plays. From Macbeth came the supreme knowledge that fair is foul, and foul is fair as they hover through the fog and filthy air. While there remains the possibility of classifying them as good or evil, my template was I would prefer not to label them without having a first-hand encounter.

Their culinary delights are unsavoury for most of us as the menu list, as mentioned in Macbeth, includes blood, carcass and animal parts considered unfit for human consumption in the civilised society. While these items are possibly sources of good nutrition for them, we feel like puking whenever there is a mention of these being cooked.

Frankly speaking, I did not have a whit of an idea that witches would make such a swift entry and grand entry into my life that would leave me rattled and throw me into a dizzy state of disarray. Like a gentle knock on the door announces the likelihood of a visitor, they should have first tried the sleep, dream route instead of barging into the dilapidated house to lay siege and hold me hostage.

I confess not being a casual or avid reader of eerie, ghostly tales. I do not have the voracious appetite to watch horror flicks even if they are the sophisticated types without blood dripping through the corner of the mouth like saliva or through the eyes like tears. So, this rules out of the possibility of my sending across any signal or invitation to visit my abode.

That the evil forces were living with me was brought to my notice by a tarot-reading relative during her visit this winter. Probably, they had tagged along with her, but she specified that the spirit was a single, permanent resident living in my home for several years. It was surprising that I had never had any alarming encounter in the past during the phase of co-existence. I asked her particular questions about eviction but she refused to answer them except clarifying that the spirit was living in the rear portion of the house. Since I do not often venture to that side, probably I missed bumping into the evil power that had turned benevolent inside the house, influenced by my benevolent company that must have reformed her even if she had arrived with malicious intent.

My probing mind concluded that the spooky, invisible witch’s visit must be an act of mischief by the relative who lived in a matchbox-size apartment while I have an old, dilapidated but sprawling house with branches sprouting from parapets. To draw my attention to the possibility of the residence being a haunted one, she appeared to have concocted a weird potpourri to seek retribution of sorts. That she enjoyed the stay and only at the time of departure chose to reveal the big secret made me suspect that it was something to be taken with a pinch of salt. The presence of evil spirits was confirmed by the senior lady guest who also added a twist by saying this could be the handiwork of an envious neighbour who performed some black magic and despatched a witch to my place to cause harm. Almost immediately I was ready with a roster of queries that seemed to put her in a fix. The wide-open spaces were dubbed as haunted, but no clue was provided so I suspected she wanted to scare me and make me join her by living in a flat next to her complex and this was an effective strategy to attain that goal.

Since this information had been registered in my brain, the fear of a sudden encounter with the spirit of the witch inside the house has unnerved me and compelled me to sleep with lights on. The slightest sound woke me up with a jolt. I had no idea how the witch sneaked in, through which open or closed door or window or ventilator. I had no idea how the witch found me a suitable resident without focusing on my bad habits. Assuming for a moment that there was indeed a vampire shaking my empire, with a special fixation for sucking blood, I decided to buy a one litre of lamb’s blood from the nearby butcher’s shop and keep it in a bowl in a desolate corner where the witch could quench her thirst without any disturbance. I decided to wear proper clothes at home all the time so that my attire never appeared offensive or inviting to the resident witch for a seductive encounter. I had no idea about her age but I visualised her to be an eternal, graceful beauty with an effervescent smile.

Coming back to facts, the bowl of blood remained in place even after a week. It meant that the witch preferred other drinks. When I checked my refrigerator, I found juice cans missing and a rose sherbet bottle almost empty. This confirmed there was indeed a witch who enjoyed the stuff in the fridge and never complained or agitated because the diet was healthy and nutritious even though completely vegetarian, non-alcoholic, and milk-based.

Still not fully convinced that my haemoglobin was not gobbled up by a goblin during my sleep hours using a straw pipe penetrated through the nostrils or ears, I decided to undergo a blood test to confirm the level had not plummeted to an anemic level. To remain on the safer side, I asked the doctor to pump more blood in my body through transfusion and clear my confusion. He had a hearty laugh when he heard the reason. I invited him to my place to have an experience of sorts, which he declined with a grin. His scientific temperament did not revolt, and he did not prescribe anything for my safety but suggested I use this material to write more fanciful stories.   

Perhaps he spread this news to other retired folks in the locality, who visited his clinic for regular check-ups. They landed up at my entrance gate with curiosity and suggested a fresh coat of lime wash on the building to ward off evil spirits as it looked haunted to them. The logic that freshly painted homes do not attract witches was anything but convincing.  

In terms of palpable changes, my urge to write was at an all-time high as I felt I could finish off a novel within a fortnight. My writing picked up pace and clarity and I began to think the witch was probably a literary heavyweight trying to express her ideas through my pen. This comforting thought buoyed me and I felt assured that it was sending cosmic powers to support my fledgling writing career.  Perhaps the witch had a failed literary past and did not want another aspirant to hit the nadir.

The witch had improved my craft as my writing began to be livelier. I wanted to entertain more through incredible stories. I must share the credit for this transformation with the appealing witch working secretly in my favour and acknowledge the contribution in the foreword of my next novel. 

Waking up in the middle of the night after hearing weird noises sent a shiver down the spine – as if the spirit was dining in the hall, with the sound of cutlery and mastication. When the pastry or ice-cream tub went missing from the fridge, I did not remember if I had polished it off but suspected the witch had a sweet tooth. Despite all negativity evil powers bring in wherever they go, this one ushered in a splash of positive vibes. During the prayer session, I could hear some other person mumbling. The act of worship liberates and cleanses spirits as well and brings more goodness to their invisible lives. I do not worry much now as I find the witch to have a cordial rapport with me – more generous than what wily relatives have with me.

Several months had passed and the earlier fear has subsided a lot, replaced by a strange friendly feeling towards the witch even though I have not seen her. I look around for signs of any spooky activity to add spice to life, but I find none. Empty beer cans lying scattered in the backyard do not belong to the witch but the bachelors living in the next apartment, who throw these including cigarette and contraceptive packs in my compound.

To bring this matter to a close and ensure my sanity, I was advised to consult a magician with rich occult experience. Driven by the urge to see how he managed to unfold the truth and the strategy he chalked out to exterminate the spirit from my premises, I opted for a budget-friendly professional wearing black robes.

He came and sniffed and some stray dogs standing on the boundary wall started barking loudly. He silenced them all with a finger on the lips like a school headmaster. The obedient dogs surprised me with their submissive behaviour though he was a stranger in the locality. He explained that dogs and cats have innate powers to feel the presence of spirits around if a magician can generate those in canine creatures though I had only read about sniffer dogs trained to track gangsters and detect hidden explosives.

He picked up some ash mixed with talcum powder from the staircase and suggested the spirit was living there. He walked ahead of me while I followed him with a torch and stick. When he reached the landing area and the loft beside it, he stopped in his tracks as he said there was a struggle and heckling going on which I could not witness with my naked eyes. He was being stopped to climb further so he opened his tool box and read out some mumbo jumbo and gave a stern warning in English that surprised me. He explained to me the witch was not of Indian origin but someone from abroad who came in search of her sailor lover from the Orient, travelling thousands of miles and finally found the right address.

I said I was no sailor. But the professional occultist said the previous owner of the house from whom I had purchased this old, haunted house at a cheap price was her lover. Since his family died here, the witch from Scotland also chose to follow the Indian tradition of true love and united with her lover here. He said she was communicating with him in the house and their love affair was still ongoing.

So where did I fit in here? And what was I supposed to do? Was there any risk of her falling in love with me? These questions rushed to my mind, but instead of answering me, he asked her when she would leave this house and she grumbled and replied she would never leave this place. I told the magician to remind her that true love is never fulfilled, never fully reciprocated but the witch was in no mood to listen to his command. I said the backlog of love stories, failed and unrequited, was heavy in India and there was no hope of quick clearance for some more centuries at least.  

The occult practitioner said the witch would definitely leave the house if I was ready to pay extra for some special rituals.  When he quoted the premium price, I felt the pinch in the pocket. As the witch had not caused any harm to me, I gave in to her continuing in the house and I retrieved a framed photograph of her sailor lover from the storeroom and placed it on the staircase wall for emotional comfort. The occult expert tried to scare me by saying she might change her mind or accidentally bite you out of love, and the oozing blood from my arterial nerve in the neck could suspend blood supply to my brain and cause sudden death. I said I was confident she would not prove to be a treacherous lover, unlike the ones today and remain loyal to the dead sailor lover smiling in the portrait.  

Sometimes, books in the library could be found open those days. Most of them were British classics. I was proud of an avid reader of classic literature residing in the house of another writer who was yet to finish reading those books. Her literary thirst was quenched in the house full of books and that is why there was no sucking up of blood. Maybe, she was a writer herself and she wrote novels, poems, and stories. So I asked the magician to disclose her name during the session. I was ready to continue the live-in relationship with a bewitching witch even though I had not seen her. I asked the magician to give me an idea of how she looked and he said she was nothing less than a film heroine in terms of complexion and looks.

Now, I am living in a different city and the haunted house remains locked. I strongly believe the witch still remains there. But while I am crafting this tale, I hear a flush in the pan and the digestive biscuits have gone missing from the glass jar along with the bottle of mixed pickle, making me suspect the witch has joined me here or my hyperactive brain is conjuring up images to feed a nutritious diet to my imagination. Or perhaps, I want to derive consolation by thinking that I have finally succeeded in driving a wedge between those lovers and made her fall madly in love with me now!

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 Conversation with God

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Although I have always believed that God keeps his plans hidden and reveals them only at the right time, a recent episode where someone conveyed through a reliable source that my end was close, has not shaken but awakened me to a new realisation — the obvious truth that life is indeed momentary and nothing more than a dream. However, the breach of the confidentiality clause and the choice of an inappropriate messenger made me seek an audience with God for further clarity. Just like question papers get leaked, perhaps some divinely gifted human beings also have access to exclusive, insider information from none other than God. 

Before the prediction of my passing away could bloom into a reality, the man who turned it simpler than making a weather forecast had to attend the funeral of his sister-in-law. He was unprepared for the funeral. Focused on me and obsessed with my premature exit, he could not employ his special powers to correctly identify the first person in the queue, awaiting despatch. I wondered in case he had got this spot on, his reputation as a misfortune-teller would have received a tremendous boost, just like pollsters get a huge appreciation if their survey comes closest to the result.  

His grand plans to throw a lavish party to celebrate my popping-off remain in suspension until a sudden cardiac arrest or an accident terminates my worldly journey, enriching his life and giving him more solace than what my soul deserves. Although he goes around building the image of being a blessed soul, his predictions have a slimmer chance of coming true than the revival of a moribund political party. 

Conquering the fear of death has been attempted to be made easy with divine prayers over the years, but the potential of fear to enter through locked rooms has never been questioned. This forewarning made me expedite my plans to complete my next novel without wasting a single day as the projection was for the hasty, untimely expiration of my lease of life. Before death came knocking, I decided to knock once more with my manuscript at the glass doors of publishers and hope the letters of rejection arrive before I say goodbye. 

Not a keen devotee who spends quality time in divine remembrance, I thought I should seek clarity from the remitter. Had God really chosen an emissary to convey his secret about my untimely demise? In my prayers, I urged him to grant an audience and respond to my query in brief if he did not like to talk much about it. Hence it was a big surprise when God not only appeared in my dream to address my grievances but also allowed me the opportunity to seal a profitable deal.  

 I was direct, sharp, and swift in my approach. I asked him the truth about death being imminent in my case. Seeking confirmation of what floated in the air, I raised the question of shady characters getting cherry-picked to spell doom. Cutting me short, he said I had accumulated a lot of bad karma in life, and I could not escape the punishment for it. 

I remembered I had ditched many true lovers in the past and their curses were pending. He expressed worry that I was not leading my life according to his plan. He disclosed one example in this regard – I was supposed to die due to alcohol excess, but I had not shown the urge to drink even one peg. He had expected me to guzzle alcohol to destroy my health like several writers had done earlier. 

God said, He never changed his plans to rewrite destiny, but my recent set of good deeds was a big surprise even though I was not supposed to perform such impossible tasks. Hence, it was a foregone conclusion that I would last longer than expected, as the battery life was charged up and still in good working condition. Despite my earlier backlog of bad karma, my current inclusion of good deeds in the basket had earned me brownie points. I asked him if he could specify the date or year, but he said it was decades. The plural meant another twenty years at least. This gave me the confidence to challenge the man who made a wrong prediction and scare him by saying I knew when he was supposed to say adieu after a conversation with God even though I had no idea about it. 

Since God was in a jovial mood, I decided to try the art of negotiation. Making a quick list of the priorities, I kept quiet as he was supposed to know what was going on in my mind. To offer clarity, I chose to specify but he looked quite unfazed to hear the sober litany of demands. He construed it as materialistic – just another example of greed for worldly possessions. I said when everything in this world is temporary –and he would take it back after my death – then he should not hesitate to give it to me for a temporary period. 

As I writer, I felt I should have added the blessing to churn out best-sellers like many other writers. I often wonder what makes potboilers possible. He understood I was nowhere close to being a great writer so the best option to avail was the opportunity to become a successful novelist. I made it categorically clear that great writers get memorials and tributes whereas I was interested in a mansion and royalty cheques with a loyal reader base so long as I wrote.  

After mentioning this desire, I thought God would perhaps vanish from the scene, like a genie. I told him that I was aware that people talk about failure as the pillar of success. I told him many such pillars were ready, so he should proceed to build the roof of success. He liked my sense of humour and urged me to make good use of it as humour alone would unlock many doors for me. It was a clear indication that I should focus on writing comedies. 

My dream was about to reach its end as it was past daybreak. The sunlight was filtering in through the window. Everything in this conversation was delightful including the prediction of my end due to alcohol. When heartbreak and other setbacks did not convert me into an alcoholic, I wondered what kind of intense tragedy could compel me to hit the bottle. As I began to imagine possibilities, I thought maybe while returning from a blockbuster film party, some drunken fellow would ram his car into mine on the highway or my tipsy driver would lose control and hit the lamppost, leading to my death due to an accident caused by alcohol and drunken driving!

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
Stories

The Temple-going Snake

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Every morning, around 9 a.m., the brown snake emerged from its cosy pit, slithered across the lush green grass, and found its way out of the bungalow through the lower rungs of the iron-grille door. Every evening, before sunset, around 6 p.m., the snake took the same path to return to its pit.

Adarsh followed the same routine without knowing that the resident snake was a keen follower of his schedule. One day, while taking the car out of the garage, he noticed the snake as it was moving out of the gate. He took his car out of the gate and looked around to trace the snake. But it was impossible to locate where it had gone. 

While driving his car, Adarsh was worried that the snake would bite several people, regretting that he should have made some more efforts to find out where it had vanished. When he reached his office and took the elevator, he shed his skin and transformed into a toxic agency head smitten by the urge to lord over the subordinates. Despite the heavy workload, he could not clear his mind as the snake kept his slithering into his thoughts. He decided to find out whether it was just a one-off incident or whether the presence of the snake in his compound signified the growth of enemies and unrecognised threats. 

Being curious to know more about the snake, he was ready to leave the house around the same time. The snake was also punctual and gave Adarsh had another encounter. This time, he was ready with the motorbike as he was prepared to follow the snake more closely and avoid getting stuck in a traffic jam. 

As the snake slipped out of the premises and took the main road, Adarsh geared up his bike and tracked the snake moving at its leisurely pace. When he came close to the canal bridge, he saw the snake crossing it along with pedestrians, keeping to the concrete edge. So many people were walking but they were unaware of the snake taking the same route.

When he crossed the bridge, he looked around for a while, unable to see where it had slipped. Then he stood near the milk booth and asked the shopkeeper whether he had seen a snake. Before he could get any response, Adarsh spotted the snake moving up the stairs of the temple across the road. His curiosity doubled up now and he parked his bike right in front of the milk booth and rushed to the temple. 

It had been several years since he had entered a temple. The pursuit of a snake had brought him close to the divine abode. He was eager to know why the snake frequented the temple – almost taking it up as an assignment to get to the bottom of the mystery. He hastened up the stairs to ensure he did not lose sight of the snake. For a few minutes, he pondered whether it was right for him to enter the temple atall as he was a man who, he felt, due to his profession had become poisonous, negative, and toxic. He wondered whether it was befitting for an evil guy to enter the pure, sublime space. Drawing solace from the fact that if a snake could enter the temple despite carrying venom in its body, he could also do the same without harbouring any guilt as the sac of poison resided in his mind.

Instead of folding his hands for prayer, he rang the bell and looked around for the snake. Considering it prudent to alert the priest, he said, “Pandit ji, I saw one long snake entering the temple so I came inside to inform you of the danger.”

“Oh! A snake has brought you here, Shriman[1],” the priest sprinkled holy water on his bald head and offered him flowers. He cupped those flowers in his palms, went ahead to bow down before the deity and offered the floral obeisance. Although he felt awkward doing this exercise, he did not know that this would bring him closer to the snake relaxing inside the sanctum area. Scared to find himself so close to the snake for the first time in his entire life, he gave a loud cry and made a quick attempt to rush out of its reach.

The priest was observing his nervous reaction. When he came out and stood in front of him, he was able to gather his composure. 

“So, you finally met the snake you came looking for after a long search?” the priest poked him.

Adarsh did not know how to respond to this question. This question raised many other questions. But he touched the feet of the priest and sought his blessings. This act of surrender made the priest answer the most probable questions in his mind. 

 “You wanted to know what the poisonous snake was here for. Before I answer that for you, can you answer what you do the whole day? Hiss, sting, bite, bare fangs, to get work done or worse perhaps…” 

Adarsh was silent for a while. His silence confirmed that the guess was correct. His job profile listed such toxic activities daily and there was nothing noble to mention with a glint of pride. It appeared that the priest was reading his dark mind and focusing on what had died within him over the years. He felt like running away to escape this examination. It would be equivalent to running away from the truth. His curiosity made him look for the snake, but the priest said it was the wish of the Lord that he came after a snake because the Lord wanted him to reform. Such a hard-hitting interpretation of a simple act of curiosity was as unacceptable to Adarsh as the will of God. 

The priest continued despite Adarsh showing no interest, hoping that this information would make him rethink. “You wanted to save people from a poisonous snake and you wanted to know where it goes. You are not a bad human being at all, only driven by circumstances and environment to commit sins. Look at this truth now. The snake sits inside the whole day and when the temple doors close, it goes to the place where it comes from, without disturbing a single person along the way, without biting a single person despite carrying so much poison. Take it as an inspiring lesson that though there is poison in the mind, one can still keep it under control and ensure no harm is caused to fellow human beings. Perhaps the snake is in good company and has reformed its nature. Read it from this angle. You should also come to the temple every day and spend time here. The Lord will be happy to see you. He gives more blessings to those who are most unlikely to come.” 

Without answering the priest, without promising anything to the priest, Adarsh turned around with folded hands and retraced his steps. While coming down the stairs, he remembered his recent misdeeds. He went home and dwelled on the priest’s words in his mind. The next evening, he left his office early and visited the temple. He met the priest, and the snake. There were many devotees singing bhajans and taking prasad. He sat alone in a corner for some time. The ambience seemed to have a transformative impact on him. For an hour, he discovered a new self – shed his old skin and found himself in a happy frame. 

Inside the office, Adarsh was a reformed person as he became polite and respectful. His juniors and peers were surprised to find a new boss in just a week. Adarsh continued with his daily trips to the temple and he was close to achieving a month of decent behaviour at the workplace. He followed the path shown by the snake and felt lighter inside. However, he did not know whether he could retain this new avatar without divine intervention daily, fearing he would return to his previous self if he stopped visiting the temple. He imitated the habit of the temple-going snake. 

After a few months, he asked the priest some hard-hitting questions during one such visit: “I did nothing wrong since I started coming here. But how long does it take to change one’s nature? I am a practical-minded person, and today, despite coming to the temple, I ended up sacking an employee I did not like to work with, on a very flimsy ground. I knew I was doing it wrong, but I could not stop myself from doing it. The evil had returned to me. I don’t want to nurture guilt, but I think I have failed the test I don’t know why the stupid snake keeps coming here. It should go and bite people, enjoy its toxic life, and keep sending people to hell instead of trying to change its basic character. I’m sure we all are not here to do good. Being good is so boring.”

Without waiting for the priest to answer, he stepped out of the temple premises. As he was coming down the stairs, he received a phone call from his office, and he was shocked to hear the urgent message. He slipped and fell, rolled down the stairs, landing in the hospital bed where he was declared to have suffered a severe spinal injury. Being wheelchair-bound, he sat in the blooming garden and observed the snake slithering out of the lush green cover to visit the temple, envying its luck every day. A poisonous life had turned pious whereas a life supposed to be pious had turned poisonous. The steps of the temple Adarsh was eager to climb down now became the steps he was eager to climb up once he got back on his feet again.  

[1] Mister

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

Hobbies of Choice

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

In the public park near my residence, a motley group of kids and teenagers gather after dusk to learn karate from a trainer who does not generate the impression of being an agile practitioner of the art of self-defence. He barely makes a move as he struggles to raise a leg or strike an aggressive pose in his demo lesson. Although his body seems to have lost visible signs of fitness, his body of experience helps him grow his client base. He depends on his stentorian voice to cast a grand impression and throw his weight around as the most experienced trainer in the town.  

In the presence of guardians, mostly mothers, the instructor tries his best to sound confident and look smart, ready to provide feedback regarding the progress of young learners who grasp the moves and go home to try it out on their tired fathers unwilling to sponsor a weekend treat or buy them a fancy gift. Cowed down with threats of jabbing their delicate organs with trained fingers during sleep, they cave into submission. This is the most evident sign of triumph cheered by mothers, making one wonder if the ulterior motive to train in this martial art form is to teach stubborn dads a befitting lesson. 

The lure of acquiring a black belt does not make kids eager to learn karate but the assurance that they can defend themselves in case of a kidnapping attempt or sexual assault acts as a trigger for them to indulge in the practice sessions. Only a few kids, mainly girls, look genuinely interested in learning the skill whereas the rest of them perform under compulsion, to find inclusion in their peer group and amplify the status of their mothers who post pictures of karate-learning kids on their social media handles. Even though they do not expect them to become famous like Bruce Lee, they need the satisfaction of providing their kids the best opportunity to hone their defence skills. Nobody bothers to ask kids whether they asked for this opportunity. Just because they keep fighting at home, it is not right to infer that they are going to be big fighters. 

The trainer appears to be a good conversationalist as he takes small breaks to narrate anecdotes of his martial arts journey over the decades and infuses humour in his tales of dare-devilry to justify the steep fee he charges for his tutelage. Holding open-air classes three days a week, the instructor regales them with heart-warming, humorous tales that bring out the chronicler in him, fetching instant praise from the mixed crowd and free advice to compile them in the form of a book. Story-telling acumen ramps up his popularity as a karate teacher in the locality as he rides a heavy motorbike despite a problematic knee after surviving a life-threatening accident. Sympathy drips for him when he explains how he risked his life to save the life of a stray dog one night. 

Many women admirers predict a better future for him as a successful writer without knowing the long, harrowing struggle behind it. He spends more time in the park and allows kids to practice a lot without interference while he engages in discussion with mothers who appear sympathetic to his sacrifices and dedication. When some of his students excel in the district-level championships, the credit goes to him for being an excellent mentor. 

Almost a similar scene pans out in the housing society where the builder has constructed an indoor swimming pool as the chief attraction to sell the apartments. Considered a good exercise and a necessity to stay safe from drowning, parents and kids line up to learn to swim every evening. With mothers tagging along, kids in swimwear brace up to master new strokes. Men sit and dangle their legs by the poolside, sometimes taking a half dip as if bathing in a holy river, holding the rod for support. It gives a feeling of consolation that they use their time for exercise and also to showcase their responsibility towards young ones by teaching them swimming. 

Talking about popular hobbies, the craze to attend a music school remains all-time high as there are multiple options to take up singing as a career. Kids learn Sa-Re-Ga-Ma[1] along with ABCD these days. When they trudge to the music academy to learn how to sing or dance, it reminds me of what I had been through during my childhood days. The shrill-voiced music teacher was so scary that I could not play the harmonium in her presence. Hitting the right notes always became a challenge. After a few months, she gave her verdict that my voice was good, but my singing was bad. The day I broke the reeds of her favourite harmonium, her patience also broke. She imposed a fine to compensate for the damaged instrument and asked me to leave. 

Some years later, I got a chance to sing in front of my class on Teachers’ Day. The few lines I sang were liked but they added it was too fast paced, as if I was in a hurry to complete the song. I couldn’t say I tried to be peppy, but the truth is that in the presence of a teacher, you are reminded of alerts like quick or hurry. The lack of stillness and relaxation was palpable in the voice to suggest the singer was rushing through the singing exercise.

My maiden performance in front of the audience was lauded, and I was encouraged to practice more to get the chance to sing on Parents’ Day. Imagine singing a ghazal by Ghulam Ali or Mehndi Hasan[2] in front of a thousand people, and not being able to do justice to it. I chickened out as the pressure took a toll on my confidence to deliver. Even though some teachers encouraged me to take it up, I stayed out of it as the words of my music teacher kept haunting me. My tryst with singing began and ended with a film song from a Bollywood flick, Saagar[3]. Sometimes the wrong guide derails your interest. You develop a fear of the subject based on expert assessment by a person who is no expert of the subject. A fast paced ghazal performance would have been a hilarious idea as would be a new take on the ghazal format. It would have also become the iconic highlight and a major embarrassment in front of purists who would abhor the idea of a pop ghazal as a deliberate attempt to mar its purity. 

There is a new visitor – a guitarist – who comes to the park with his son. He sits on a bench and practices Western numbers while his son goes playing with friends. Park joggers stop in their tracks and listen to his soulful singing. Recently, a senior uncle assured him of an audience during the cultural program in the festive season and he agreed to sing Bengali numbers before a few hundred people without charging a penny. It was a dream come true for an upcoming musician and he thanked the committee members. 

The son started dancing right away, feeling happy for his father who was struggling to get a chance all these years. Most of the kids in school perform in front of their parents but it is a surprise when fathers perform on stage in front of their children. The joy parents get by encouraging kids to pursue a hobby is sometimes guided by their residual desire to see their kids learn what they couldn’t during their prime years. When kids see their parents fulfill their dreams, they also feel happy that they are not forced to realise the unfulfilled aspirations of their parents. While it is good to give kids the chance to pursue a hobby, it should be of their choice and not thrust upon them as a compulsion just because some kids in the locality or peer group are doing it. A hobby cannot become a passion if one is not obsessed with it. 

[1] Indian notes for music

[2] Well known Indian singers

[3] Translates as Ocean, a 1985 Bollywood film

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

Taking Stock…Finally

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Reading stories of investors with the foresight to invest in the right kind of stocks that created wealth for them is truly motivational as it showcases their bravery. Without much technical data to support their decision-making decades ago, it is rather difficult to believe the sound fundamental homework they conducted before tossing their hard-earned money into the choppy seas of equity markets.

The sight of a charging bull on the road is certainly a fearful sight, but the bullish run on the bourses warms the cockles of the heart when you read your money has fetched four-fold, multi-bagger returns in just a few months and you wish to plough back the profits and stake the capital on another dark horse that only you know can pull off a major rally that takes all financial experts for a ride. You really wish God to whisper the name of the stock that can make you a billionaire and save you from the struggles and uncertainties of a writer’s life.

Not all writers churn out best-sellers to get hefty paychecks from publishers and there aren’t too many maharanis or dowagers left to sponsor an indulgent lifestyle in exchange of literary companionship.

Stock market, despite all the risks, offers a window of opportunity for writers to build a retirement corpus. There needs to be a smart sense of investing to get a rocking portfolio that draws envy from experts who wonder how this non-financial wizard operates. If profit is indeed imagination, writers are also entitled to imagine it in abundance.

Optimism and positive outlook is important as the stock market is similar to life in many ways. You have to be patient and stay invested for long term as those who saw their wealth perish during the recession of 2008 without suffering a heart attack were able to bounce back with double their earnings in just a decade. This is the most recent story of stock market success that is read out as a template to every investor who thinks it is the place to gamble away all you are left with.

The story of recovery is supported by facts and the financial experts give credible example of a modest investment of how a few thousands has given over fifty times in certain stocks and this makes you determined to try your luck when the EMI[1] lifestyle fails to leave behind much for you. Driven by the greed to grow wealth manifold, middle-class families now talk of mutual funds, IPOs, and shares. Homemakers and students also invest some amount in blue-chip shares to fund their lifestyle needs. With the share market giving handsome returns consistently, hopes are high that 2024 will repeat the successful rally seen in the previous year.

With elections lined up, the aspect of volatility is a concern. With nations going to war like having a tournament, nobody knows how this year is going to pan out. But the strong fundamentals of the economy and a robust banking system fuel hopes that even if it is a slower than expected, it would still be a good year for the stock market indices. The fear of another recession does not intimidate the small investor or the big player as diversification mitigates the risks involved. He continues to park his funds in the leading sectors promising double-digit returns.

For a salaried middle-class householder, the stock market makes it easy to meet the growing demands of his family without stress. Greed is no longer a bad word and a better option than trying out foul means to fund big dreams. This paradigm shift in the mindset is the biggest achievement in a decade.

Now you hear parents proudly declare they have bought blue chip shares of the best companies and leading banks to ensure higher education and marriage of their kids. With stocks entering the life of the new generation, the older generation is also forced to do a rethink. The liberalised economy with a huge market size is not going to make the banks fail. With retail banking turning out to be more attractive than corporate banking, with housing and car loans growing, it is most unlikely they will crash. The instances of recent bail-out by the government further cements the faith of investors.

Buy business class tickets with stock market gains and go for a holiday trip abroad. Relish the experience of five-star exotic dining with family and friends. Everything is possible if you scoop up a big chunk of profit by selling your shares. You do not mind spending it as the windfall gain came sparkling just like your Diwali bonus to sponsor your fancy outings. The ‘live for the day’ mantra makes people free from guilt as they know they have not wasted their hard-earned money but sponsored the treat with the profit earned from the stock market. Some divine force collaborates and delivers lucrative returns to make life a roller-coaster ride for you!

When it comes buying consumer durables, a similar mindset prevails. The stock option is the best way to bring home a smart LED or a side-by-side refrigerator by utilising the profit from the shares to avoid the pocket pinch. Meeting the rising aspirations, ranging from branded apparel to gadgets and luxury watches to durables, in the times of inflationary market trends without banking on a salary hike is quite within the realm of possibility.

Exercising prudence and displaying the tendency to create wealth for the long term, even if the shares do not deliver positive returns in the short term, there is always the scope to deny you have put it in the wrong basket and keep boasting that the fundamentals are strong and your research analysis says the chosen stock would soar twenty times after a decade of staying investing to deliver windfall gains. It is most comforting to forget the investment and continue with the journey to buy profitable stocks instead of mourning over the lost opportunity. Such is the philosophy of life that matches with the snakes and ladders kind of movement of stock indices. One has to move ahead in life and look forward to better times instead of mulling over the wrong choices and decisions made in the past.

When you see your driver or the housemaid trading in shares and offering you tips regarding the best picks for the day, it is time to realise you are a late entrant in a market that has already broken the class barriers with commendable success.

[1] Equated Monthly Instalment

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

Visiting Cards & Me…

By Devraj Singh Kalsi

Engaging with technicians from diverse domains is followed by one common experience. Be it a mason, electrician, plumber, carpenter, driver, or wall painting expert, they have all surprised me with their compulsive habit of presenting their visiting cards embossed with fancy titles and a glossy, designer look to hook potential clients even though most of them get the spellings wrong while providing the address and contact information. 

They wait patiently for some minutes in the hope that I will also reciprocate by fishing out one from my wallet. I pretend to search for one in my pockets before saying I am not carrying one, though the truth is I have rarely, except once years ago, thought of getting it printed to furnish my insignificant professional credentials that can be summed up in a word or two, making the card wear an unintended minimalist look, a wasteful expenditure without any purpose. 

The album of visiting cards collected from various professionals and business contacts in the past never engendered the hope of deriving any tangible benefit from investing in this communication tool for self-promotion. Now I end up tossing it away as soon as I receive one. I prefer to avoid accepting them under the pretext of contributing to a paperless, eco-friendly world, without sounding impolite to refuse a crucial piece of one’s identity in times when the search for it has become rather intense.  

Printing a visiting card with scant details of identity and achievement can neither look impressive nor impress any recipient. With no scope of finding clients from the world outside my window, the entire exercise would prove futile. The tailor around the corner will never launch a campaign to promote his outlet and the grocer will not blink in favour of advertising, even if there is a real threat from the online stores delivering faster than he can. If I decide to make it elaborate, I would still have to explain my job profile. Terms like ghostwriting cannot be self-explanatory to the common man who might think I am either writing for ghosts or about ghosts or perhaps a newbie ghost indulging in writing to seek revenge or salvation.

Smitten by the competitive bug, I did once seriously ponder over making one with AD MAN written in bold. I dropped the idea as this would shed no light on my specific role, making others slot me as a flex banner supplier who also paints walls and plasters the walls of the city with film and clinic posters. It would have necessitated the disclosure of my exact role in the realm of advertising to present a clear picture of the work I did. As it appeared a cumbersome process, it was wiser to refrain from flexing the creative muscle to score brownie points from an audience most unlikely to recognise the ordinariness of this trivial pursuit deemed as art. 

Skipping the tag of copywriting meant resorting to the identity of a writer, which did not go beyond the confines of a hobby. Many consider themselves writers but they do not call themselves writers as they have better designations to flaunt for social esteem. Employing nothing but the word writer means there is nothing else in the name of my pursuit to survive, as most people refuse to wake up to the possibility of writing becoming a full-time engagement that pays your bills. 

The uncontrollable urge to possess a visiting card made me pay a visit to the local printer who wanted the full content of the card. I insisted on highlighting the phrase writer-cum-copywriter, much like the sofa-cum-bed expression that made him understand the duality with ease. He was honest to say he had never made a card for this category of people even though he knew there existed many people from this background. It was a fresh task for him and he introduced the idea of using stars to highlight the celebrity angle even though there was nothing starry in it. I showed him some samples to accustom him with neatness and he copied the same pattern and font and offered me a pack of one hundred pieces without any printing error. 

I was excited to share my professional identity with the world around. I wanted to give it to the people I had received it from. I located several such folks, eager to gauge the reaction of the recipients. A few dropped it casually in their pocket without trying to read it while some cast a fleeting glance before putting it aside. Some struggled to read and make sense and then gave it up without asking for clarity or its relevance. A select few responded with astonishment to know writers also brandish visiting cards. It was a consolation that none of the recipients dropped it on the pavement even though I am sure some would have trashed it at home or fed it to their pets as a chewing exercise.

Within a month I had finished half the pack and the range of reactions stopped being any different. That’s when I decided to hoard the rest for better use later – for some high-profile people. When I did come across some such folks, I did not gather the courage to share it with them. As a result, the cards sat on my writing desk, only to remind me of what I had wanted – and failed – to achieve. 

I had shared it with spice dealer turned promoter and he tested me by asking me to write a tagline for his housing project that was not selling fast enough, without any promise of making it a payable freelance assignment. Out of respect for the gentleman, I wrote some catchy lines and he accepted them for his dream project with a cold thank-you, with the hope that his venture would be sold out soon. I never sought any input regarding the sales figure but the fact that he made it the brand tagline meant it was effective for the growth of his real estate business.   It has been quite a few years since this episode and the cards still languish with me. I am no longer excited to reciprocate by offering mine when florists, gardeners, drivers, stall vendors, gas cleaners, and milkmen offer me their visiting cards. I am not saddled with the burden of furnishing mine to assert and boost my identity that is less than relevant to the vast majority of people engaged in more profitable pursuits. I seek solace from the fact that going cardless is the next big thing in the AI-powered world that has marginalised the prestige and glamour of copywriting today.

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
Excerpt

The Ocean is Her Title

Book Title: The Ocean is Her Title

Author: Manjima Misra

Publisher: Book Street Publications

The world ball dance was held on 25th December. It was the last time that Jay and Poulomi had agreed to meet each other with the tag of being lovers. The ballroom was majestic with a long winding staircase – the magnificent staircase was adorned with Christmas Mistletoe plants. Jay could not help but stare at Poulomi in her maroon ballroom dress and with her maroon lipstick making her lips seem more protruded than ever.

The song ‘Maroon’ by Taylor Swift was playing in the background.

The ballroom ceiling was full of sparkling chandeliers which glimmered with golden light. The golden rays of the daytime sunshine lit up the ballroom with a soft glow, as they passed through the crystal clear huge glass windows. Each of the windows had maroon curtains which were shifted to the side to let the daylight in.

As the day approached late evening, the curtains were closed and the ballroom still had the soft golden glow – this time it was because of candlelight lamps.

In this glorious ballroom, Agatha was playing the instrumental version of the song ‘Maroon’ on piano with the grandeur of royalty, for the piano was gifted by the Princess of England, Agatha could not feel more proud of her musical skills.

For a while, Agatha kept looking at Poulomi and Jay now and then. Poulomi’s maroon dress had golden belt and golden buttons, and Poulomi was wearing a necklace studded with golden star shaped diamond-like stones. She was carrying a golden purse with her and as she walked down the staircase, she seemed like the very Queen of England.

In the middle of the dance with Jay, Poulomi excused herself and went to Agatha. She exchanged a few words with Agatha and when she returned to the dance floor, Jay was nowhere to be found. Jay had disappeared.

Agatha came running and said, “Poulomi, you must confront Jay. This act of disappearance is no way justified”.

“Agatha, is Jay a real person? Or is he a hallucination of mine?” asked Poulomi, being well aware of her own mental health condition. And Poulomi ran towards the veranda and gazed at the maroon night sky glittering with silver stars.

Agatha followed her and said, “Well, at least, the sky and the stars are for real.”

About the Book:

The novella, titled The Ocean is Her Title, is an exploration of a fractured existence of the central character Poulomi “struggling through a welter of feelings, incapacities, and anxieties to shore up her beleaguered existential coherence”. In the words of Mark P Lynn, noted journalist at Doordarshan, “the novella is rich in self discovery monologue and dialogue and moves from literature to the philosophical realm and back. The internal monologue takes the form of a conversation with real characters who are fictionalized from the author’s love for Harry Potter, Taylor Swift, Wonder Woman, and the heartfelt support structure provided by a father who tends to a child with bipolar disorder.” In the words of renowned journalist and author Jitendra Dixit, “The Ocean Is Her Title, the readers are invited to embark on an emotionally charged novella that weaves together the dreams and struggles of a young Delhi girl, Poulomi, whose life takes an unexpected turn when she is abducted and transported to a place she could never have imagined – the Ocean Hospital. This novella, authored by Manjima Misra, is a poignant exploration of identity, resilience, and the complexities of modern womanhood.”

About the Author:

Manjima Misra is a writer based in Delhi. She has written three published books previously which are titled Indian Feminine Fury, Unapologetically Mad, and The Ocean is Her Title. Her opinion articles have been published in The Indian Express, The Quint, Outlook India, Deccan Herald, Newslaundry, and Firstpost. She has previously worked as a writer with the Education Desk at The Indian Express and as an educator with Teach For India.

 She has a Master’s degree in English literature from the University of Delhi and a Postgraduate Certificate in Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages (TESOL) from the University of St Andrews, Scotland.

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 Amazon International