Category Archives: Short Stories/Instances

Drought.

“The courtesy calls stopped coming. The tragedy was forgotten and the world moved on. The eye balls drifted to other sections of the news and so happened with the media, or it was the other way around, or both happened simultaneously, we never understood. But one thing I knew for sure was that we were history all over again. The crisis stampeded in and out of our lives with every passing monsoon, the rain fed crops that we harboured rose and fell on to the very ground which we prayed, for fertility and for bumper harvest.

Prayers, prayers for impending prosperity, prayers to atleast make it out alive; I started having my reservations about it, about all of it and the futility it was all becoming into. My conversations with the village priest hadn’t helped either, we seemed to end up arguing without a tangible solution in place; how could we, faith still remained afloat, awry from my understanding. The pyres, meanwhile, had grown in number since the successive droughts; the flames that glowed in dark reminded us time and again about our own insecurities, our own probable fate but the beautiful faces of my children pulled me out from the viciousness of losing hope. How could I? Despite the white fly, the untenable heat, and the dying rivers, the hope of a future for my children, however wane it was becoming, just couldn’t let me give up. I just couldn’t.

However, the plough felt heavier the next day, the day after I saw my friend burnt to ashes, as the mind wandered far away into a never ending abyss while I passed by another pyre with crying children and a weeping widow, and all I could utter was Earth & Water…Earth & Water, before I reached my land and began, just like any other day, just like nothing had happened.”

#FarmerCrisis
#RealityFiction

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Aftermath.

A warm gritty evening on an unusually cold day, where the fishermen rolled their boats into an eventful sea while the couples on the sidewalk sweated more from the heat than their intimacy; the sky was marooned with an appearing moon and the disappearing sun, peppered in bits and pieces by the ocean breeze which buffered in and out like the internet before 3G. It was an awkward time for a vacation but you got to take it when it’s up on offer, especially when you are a cop and holidays are hard to come by.

It had been a rough couple of weeks since the massacre in Maria’h and not a day had passed since then that I hadn’t woken up in sweats with pictures of blood brooding over from every inch of the subconscious frame. The shrieking children, the screaming survivors and the crying families of the deceased, the multiple bombings had left none untouched. I stood in midst of this chaos, unable to do anything when everything I valued was being burned to ground; ashes and only ashes was what I could see. While from the far corner to my right, I kept hearing a familiar cry, of a woman who I was once in love with. I could see her face, it appeared visibly shaken as she carried a dying person on her lap, may be waiting to hear his final words, maybe waiting for him to peacefully depart as there was nothing left to say then. I ran towards her with all my might but with every step I took, the distance between us only grew but somehow I was able to make it. Yet the moment I touched her on her shoulder, I woke up all of a sudden in angst. I woke up, as I saw myself there on her lap, with tears running along my cheeks.

Three days had passed, since we had arrived in Goa but it was only today that we finally decided to visit the beach. The crowd somehow made me anxious, more or less paranoid, of another possible strike. A small cracker in the neighborhood sent shivers down my spine, the hustling and screaming tourists on the beach were obviously a big no-no for me. But I finally budged and submitted to my two beautiful kids and my loving wife of ten years, Shalini. They took me to a relatively less populated beach of the Goan county where I comforted myself on the recliner, watching my wife and kids playing from a distance. There was a sense of calmness that presided; it gripped me off guard and left me to savor the moment without the paranoia that I was succumbing into, for the very first time since the days of bombing. In their noise, I somehow found my silence all over again, and for a moment at least I wasn’t burdened by my past. It felt good, finally.

#Peace

Varanasi

“There was this man who I remember seeing couple of years ago, a peculiar individual in his own right. He was draped in a saffron dhoti with number of beads around his neck which in turn was shielded with his really longish grey beard. His hair was unkempt so was his walk, absent minded it felt. But his eyes had an altogether new story on offer.  Despite the wrinkles sagging over his cheeks, his sunken eyes had remained full of life as if they had never aged. There was a sense of excitement in his voice as he narrated the tales from mythology related to the Dashashwamedh Ghat on the banks of River Ganga, the place where we had been for the past two hours. Our itinerary had a long list of places to cover, but we seemed to remain here transfixed.

The early morning sunrise, the moderating winter breeze and his nonchalant manner of storytelling became the perfect foil for the day. It was Tara’s idea to start our trip from Varanasi which I was hell opposed to, atleast initially. I had my reasons; it isn’t a normal occurrence for a couple to reunite after thirteen years of divorce and to start that journey together from a place of pilgrimage was something which I had my inhibitions about. After all no one wants to be reminded of their receding hairline and greyish hair, atleast I didn’t. Tara on the other hand had remained elegant and beautiful; her greying hair seemed to have complimented her much more. I am not denying that I may have been biased in my description about her, why wouldn’t I be? But she did, indeed, look graceful as always.

We were seated along the banks, facing the river, while the old man stood to our left as he narrated the story from Mahabharata. He continued in a deep tone, “King Shantanu…” while we sat hand in hand with a smile on our face. I realized only then how much I missed her. More than the place it was her all along who made all the difference, who made the world a little more bearable for me to survive. She placed her head over my shoulder as we kept hearing the old man’s endless stories with a child-like curiosity in our eyes.

A year later, the saffron cladded man was present with us again, this time hearing our Ramayana with a graceful smile while wishing us a successful marriage, which I really hoped to be this time around. He, although, remained a peculiar man with those youthful eyes and a frailing body but we, however, remember him often when we narrate our story of getting back together where he remains a graceful influence who rekindled our common love for stories, all over again.”

#Tara&Ryan
Picture Courtesy: Getty Images

Sea

“Sea. I had heard a lot of stories, a few from my parents and a few by my friends but I as such never witnessed the spectacle, the grace of the deep blue sea. However, events of the past few nights had left us with no option but the sea. It took us over six hours maneuvering through the forests to reach the coast. We had been extra careful to avoid the trigger happy guards, after all it was my dad who was leading the escape. There were over fifty of us moving together, some were carrying steel boxes on their head while a few brought along their cattle, but the most astonishing was the woman cladded in red. Her clothes were tattered at the edges while her skin bore many visible bruises, however she as such carried nothing with her but I somehow felt that she carried more baggage than anyone else in the entire group. She bore a dead pan expression, and spoke to none apart from my mother. I often wondered what they spoke but never dared to ask Ammi.

The night was shining with its full flare and the hushing sound of the waves began to rise as we reached our planned destination, an abandoned stretch of the mighty Bay of Bengal. The sea looked beautiful, way better than the stories. The waves blended with the moonlight as they rose high in the sky before crashing into the rocks on the way side. The excitement caught be by surprise as I began to pace ahead of the rest, rushing towards the coastline, finally feeling the sea breeze for the very first time. I called out my mom, describing her the beauty that I was becoming a part of but all I could see was desperation in her eyes. The boat that was to ferry us hadn’t arrived, the food that we carried wasn’t left anymore, and the beloved roof that we built and lived for centuries wasn’t ours anymore. All that was left was the sea. I hoped in silence that unlike the land they won’t divide us from the sea, I just hoped they wouldn’t.”

#refugee

Seasons

“People usually fixate on how Delhi has only two seasons, the pinching heat of summer and the scathing cold of winter. Their premise is neither completely wrong nor completely right but for a person like me who loves the very onset of winter, there exists four. The two additions are very short in nature; they tend to disappear before we could realize their surreal existence. It was in March of ’96 when I made my first addition.

I was born and brought up in Delhi but the transition between winter and summer remained unacknowledged until then. It wasn’t a blink and a miss phenomenon; it took its own sweet time to mature while providing the time for us to adapt. But I only noticed it when I fell in love with Priya.

I and Priya had been studying in the same college and were from the same department but we had never really spoken with one another until our penultimate year in college. Project Work as it had been labelled back then was the glue which started it all for us. We were grouped together, with a deadline which spanned throughout the winter holidays while ending with a strict date of submission on 5th of March. I do remember the date, why wouldn’t I? You always remember the day for which you have prepared helter-skelter for; mind you, I wasn’t talking about the submission.

Despite having ample time to complete the project, we spent our winter holidays cozying up in our blankets while playing the occasional hand cricket with our siblings. It was in January when we felt the first buzz; it was a silent roar from the other groups who were tottering around the city to collect fodder for our respective projects. The progress of Jaykar’s group spread like wild fire, catching all of us unprepared. It was on one such day in January that I had received a call on my neighbour’s landline, the only telephone in our entire three storied building. Sunitha Aunty knocked at our door, informing us that there was a girl named Priya on the call.

We met the following evening near our college. It was a group of four, out of which three had turned up. I don’t remember my exact words but I do know that she smiled. It was the first time when I noticed how beautiful her eyes were; they were special, atleast to me. She came up with an idea to work at her father’s garage as the cold had made it unbearable to work outside. We kept sipping her home made coffee day after the other for the entire month which she occasionally bragged being the best in the world. “You should try coffee in Chennai; it’s an out of the world experience” she often used to say. While we continued pouring in our efforts for an early completion, atleast Sakshi was eager to. She had her sister’s wedding in February and therefore wanted the project to end as soon as possible. May be that was the reason why she seemed to agree on everything; she never pointed or raised any doubts even if the work was outlandish in nature.

But whatsoever the fruits of our hard work remained unrealized as we were in month of February and the project was not even half way through. Sakshi had ditched us for the wedding while Aman remained as usual irregular. That’s the time when I and Priya actually bonded. The winter had slowly started to recede while we began to venture outside her father’s garage through our long strolls in the nearby park. The conversations were always deep between us but it became longer with those walks. The sun began to set late, the days became longer, while I & Priya found more time to be together. The transition was gradual but unlike the climate, I noticed it at the very first instant.

It was on the 5th of March that I had decided to tell her what I felt. I spent more time in front of the mirror than behind the books in preparing for the viva, and once we were done submitting, I asked her to accompany me to the college cafeteria where I finally professed my feelings which she gracefully reciprocated with her cheerful nod of acceptance. It wasn’t a kind of jubilation that I had felt back then but it was a sense of assurance that I had found. An assurance, that she felt the same as I had always felt for her, an assurance that felt like bliss for the very first time.

But seasons change. So did us. It was in month of October’00 when I acknowledged the second and the final addition in my season list, autumn. It was a sudden phenomenon, and it began when our four year old relationship ended abruptly.”

#Tara&RyanSeries

Travelling

“I have this habit of scrolling through my Facebook wall on a regular basis, I am pretty sure I could find many like me. I halt at all the travel pics that come by, showing the diverse range of places people are travelling all across the globe. It’s fascinating to be honest especially for a guy like me, who has been in constant company with the city Delhi for over four years now.

Apart from my daily hassles to achieve my much needed break from joblessness and achieving that distant dream, I travel. My next statement might be at odds with my previous one, bear with me and continue; apologies in advance. The maximum I have traveled in recent times would be the 45 minute metro ride which I nowadays do often. I know it’s silly to call that a travel but I find that journey interesting and worthwhile to be called so. Before moving further I have to introduce another thing that I love doing, I observe. When I travel with people all around, I find my stories to observe from.
Every person has their own beautifully crystallised universe. Like the young couple leaning on the wall have that passion in their eyes which blurs everything that stands around them. The old lady seated with her son has her eyes stuck at the gate while clutching on to her son’s arm as she rests. And how could I forget that mystery girl who kept smiling as she looked at me, she was beautiful to be honest but she disappeared in the crowd at the metro station. I mean there are so many stories all around that it makes me feel like I am actually travelling. Isn’t travelling about meeting new faces, making new stories? Though I do admit it’s also about remembering the old ones while looking at the sunset from a deserted beach. Crushes alert!

The point I wanted to convey is that you travel when you meet new people, when they share their experiences while you narrate them one from your own. Writing helps here, it helped me. I spoke to many writers from different parts of the country, different parts of the world, as well as different age groups while even going ahead & collaborating with a few. Certain things aren’t different though, be it Lisbon or Delhi. The emotion remains the same, I have realised, while experiences could totally differ. It wouldn’t be strange now if I told you that traveling in time was possible. It happened with me when I befriended writers who were way older than me. Their experiences were something which I could never relate to but I listened, because I felt somewhere that I might be in that position one day. I thought I might prepare in advance.

You might be thinking that I am trying to justify my limitations, you are not wrong if you think so. In my defence though, I would say that I did travel solo one time, but I didn’t get that kick which I thought would happen. May be it was because of the ache my hand suffered due to the selfies I tried to click, or because there were no faces that I met which could have made that trip memorable. It’s always been people for me, it always will be; after all we are social animals, aren’t we? So when I halt at the travel pics, I smile. I do wish I was there to experience that but I am nevertheless happy because I am moving too.”

#TravelingDiary

The Missing Son

The ball crashed into Mrs. Jadhav’s house, shattering the window glass into pieces. It was stuck with immense power by Sunil, a thirteen year old kid from the neighbouring colony. He was touted to be the next cricketing sensation from the neighbourhood which had seen over ten representations in the Indian cricket team in past five decades. His father, Raghav, a former Mumbai Ranji team member, was a close friend of Daksh, Mrs. Jadhav’s only son. Sunil rang the bell twice before Sunitha answered. She placed the ball in his hand with a gentle smile on her face. “Next time, hit it towards Mrs. Dsouza’s house. She was laughing when you broke mine. It’s time for payback!”

“Dadi, I am sorry.” Sunil replied.

“It’s okay, kiddo. Smash as many glasses as you want but do get yourself selected for the Indian team.”

He nodded, as he handed over an envelope which was lying on the floor of her main door and rushed back towards his friends. Mrs. Jadhav placed the envelope on her study table as she continued to broom away the broken pieces. It took over 15 minutes for her to finally get her hands over the envelope. Her frailing health wasn’t helping either but it was of no match when compared to the grievous pain she had felt since Daksh ran away from home.

He was only thirteen then, he had an argument previous night where his parents wanted him to concentrate on studies than cricket. But like most of the kids from the neighbourhood, even he dreamed to wear the blue jersey. The banter wasn’t new; it had been going on for over a year then, his falling grades and poor performances in local cricket tournaments weren’t supporting his case either. That night, the argument got more louder and finally ended when Mr. Jadhav slapped Daksh and asked him to do exactly what he says. The next morning, when Sunitha entered her son’s room, she found only a letter to settle for. The cricket kit bag, a few crisp notes from Mr. Jadhav’s purse and, most importantly, her son Daksh were missing. All that was left was that letter; a letter which asked his parents not to look for him with a promise that he will return only when he makes it into the Indian Cricket Team. It’s been over twenty five years now, Daksh never came back.

She collected her reading glasses, and opened the peculiar looking blue envelope. And what happened next, was something which Sunitha had expected time and again to happen but remained unrealised until today. It was a letter from him, he was coming home finally.

Part1 Ends.
Picture Courtesy: Tom Shaw/Getty Images.