1) The document is an excerpt from a magazine that describes the friendship between the narrator and their friend Vartika. 2) During a trip on a train, Vartika is abducted after a group of thieves rob other passengers. Despite efforts to find her, she is later found dead. 3) Devastated by the loss of her friend, the narrator decides to honor Vartika's memory by organizing an exhibition of her paintings, as art was very important to Vartika.

2. website www.estrademagazine.com
Ahmedabad, Gujarat.

3. FEATURING
Silence
Kirthi Jayakumar
11
Write for Yourself
Sapna Rangaswamy
25
“liber veritatis :The World
of Charles Dickens”
Dr. Indira Nithyanandam
29
Yellow Submarine
Anupa Mehta
39
An Enemy Can Be A Friend
Nikshep Grampurohit
63
29 63
CONTENTS

4. Chinese Products
Anubhav Singh
Slice of Life
Vandana Gupta
HOME- As I see it now…
Deepali Yadav
FICTION/NON-FICTION 01
INTRODUCING
ESTRADE
RECOMMENDS
Our Experts pick the books you
should read this season !
CONTENTS
Echoes of the Silence
Bhumi Shah
It was one of those rainy days
Sagar Shah
The Incomplete Syllable
Amal Gupta
Silence
Kirthi Jayakumar
Love’s Not Lost
Swati Chopra
To Be or Not To Be
Malini Subramanian
Sliced Life-Excerpts from a Lady’s
Diary
Gaurang Dave
The Holy Cow
Yamuna Harisingh
Down the memory lane
Sharmila Maitra
Echoes & Reverberation
Anindya Kundu
Dialogues with Naina
Karan Shah
Prayer to the Unknown God
Deepak Chandar
The Story Less Told
Smriti Tripathi
Differently Abled
Ratna Rao
Tomorrow
Ashay Abbhi
45
Aalok Joshi
Kosha Dholakia
Paridhi Khandhar
Kaninik Baradi
Siddhesh Kabe

5. YOUNG
WRITERS 60
Escape To Nature
Ronak Patel
Odyssey of Life
Ashita Patel
When You Least Expect
Hitanshu Sachania
One Night Stand
Krupa Gandhi
The Brick Wall
Purna Parikh
Shades of Grey
Prasanta Mehtani
Darkness
Deepa Mistry
Justice in Hell
Paridhi Khandhar
Slice of Life
Nidhi Mahesh
Triology
Shailesh Parekh
A Pale Tale
Mikhail Daniel
POETRY 55
CONTENTS
76
66
BOOKSHELF 69
EVENTS 75

6. body and need to identify the same. As
soon as he heard it, his knees became
weak, his hands were shivering and eyes
turned red with the tears. He rushed to
police station to do indeed a gruesome and
difficult task. He was more frightened
when it was identified right. He sobbed out
and nothing could stop his loud cry. When
asked, Vartika's body was found dead in
the prostitute street. Nothing was more
shocking for us than this. Our hearts
shattered. Everyone had questions but no
onehadanswers.
This was a sad day. I walked discreetly
into the dimly lit chamber of the vintage
church, with my eyes turned red and
brimmed with tears, vision blurred. I felt
filled with awe. As I looked up at the
massive expansion of the floor and the
ceiling painted with the mixture of vibrant
colors, I noticed the space seemed to be
sobbing out with gratitude for finally being
packed with such a huge amount of people.
An abandoned old church, rarely visited,
simply being thankful for a crowd, within
its vintage stonewalls and the painted
ceiling. Those colors reminded me of
Vartika all the more. I wished I would have
stopped her from making the phone call, I
wished I would have stopped her from
running madly behind that lady to get her
back, I wished. I began walking down
towards the center of the church, enduring
every step with the utmost pain running
through my veins. However antiquarian
and beautiful the interior of this church
was, the atmosphere in it was a mixture of
tragic rage and gloominess of heart
blended together creating an invisible dark
shadow on the crowd gathered. My slow
motion steps were like a drunken woman,
failing to stand steadily at feeling choked
by woe from head to toe. Distraught faces,
beauty and shines had been consumed with
nosigns ofcontent.
Right in front of altar, the top open
there it was in front of me- the body of
Vartika- who was and would never be
again a happy, young and beautiful
woman. Making my way cautiously
towards it, I saw her closed eyes rested
already, ashen face that was nearly yellow
and her lips forming up a fake smile. There
was nothing left, no life- just stillness
behind her fake smile, which only made
theimagemoresurreal.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and shifted
breasts and six vaginas drowning in a deep
well of shame for cribbing. That did not
help her to smile and she sipped coffee
with her rose pink curvy lips. I teased her,
“Vartika- if you don't smile this time, I will
mix toilet cleaner in your coffee and take
the revenge,” She laughed holding her
stomach.
All of a sudden, with the vibrant
rustling noise of the train, few dastardly
people rushed towards that group of ladies.
They were the burglars, trying to commit
lees majesty by snatching their expensive
jewelries and clutches. Those crooks, with
the absurd thievishness, abused few of
them. The weapons in their hands made us
scared for a time being yet at the same
time, with her wittiness Vartika dialed to
police and handed over phone to me. I
figured out that must have been the most
helpless moment for her as she was unable
to speak since her birth; perhaps my soul
shed tears realizing this fact.
Acknowledging this one of those bandits
snatched her phone. They took enough
money, jewelry, cards etc with them in the
blink of an eye and rushed towards train.
One lady (trying to be a super woman or
really worried about her expensive
amenities which were just stolen) sprinted
but it was too late. I could not realize when
Vartikatoohadrunbehindthatlady.
I was not able to believe for the
moment. She was not with me. I kept on
shouting, yelling for help. Nobody came. I
fell apart with no sense of what to do! My
adrenalin was pumping and heart was
pounding. I was terrified. I immediately
dialed to her mother and police and
informed about the “Abduction” and
imploredthepolicetocomequickly.
With the pettiness, days and nights
passed and when there was no answer, the
officers stopped making efforts that
appeared to be the end of their
involvement. Her family lived miserable
life after wards. Rising Sun brought
shining rays in the home but they always
made them prayed to get her back. Their
hopeful eyes and all prayers were
unanswered. There was hardly any place,
where we did not try to find her. Endless
thoughts and sleepless nights were so
much of the routine for all of us. I felt like I
have lost my wings. Few days later,
Vartika's father got a call from police
station that the police have found a dead-
twas darkoutside.Irestedmyarms
onthebroadstonewindow silland
leaned into the misty air, which was
chilly and sharp with wood-smoke. I
could not silent the juncture of memories
and desires floating in my heart. Train of
thoughtssprintedinmymind.
Vartika and I, knowingly unknown to
each other became fast friends at the prom
and eventually best of friends. Shopping,
Café Outings, kicking out benders and
brunches became the part of our fun later
in the free time. She inherited an artist in
her. Yes, she was born with a painter in
her. I guess, painting was keeping her
alive holding a mighty brush of life. She
could depict things like almost real-
bringing every shade, every line, every
tint of the various moods of life- its pains
and pleasures, smell, music, rhythm,
charm and ambience which encircle the
real object. She knew to freeze moments
forever by holding a brush in her little
hands. She used to paint her world with
the brush while I did it with pen.
Gradually she became the motivational
ink to my pen and so I, the color of her
paintings. It seemed, nothing could break
the bonding of our friendship where even
the silence was understood. I used to
admire her paintings, which deliberately
echoed various phases of life, and she did
not stop appraising my write-ups
displaying it to her all friends with full of
joy. She was as charming as a Hollywood
actress. Her silence was a language I
learntbystayingwithher.
It was Wednesday- wet with the
dampness of early June rains. After
grabbing some not-so-tasty food of our
college canteen, we made our way to the
railway station to catch up train to home.
That evening I urged to walk through the
way. There was something unusual about
the wind blowing silently caressing my
hair and as if it whispered something
unsaid to my ears. For a moment my heart
sank, I tried to listen what it said but I
could not. I diverted my mind to her and
we made our way to the station. There
were six ladies on the station- vaguely,
loudly and inadequately cribbing about
each other or some others' lives. I was in
no mood to let Vartika enjoy her silence.
Pointed out them, I smirked atVartika and
forgave myself for the wicked thought of
imagining those fiends with twelve
1 Estrade Literary Magazine

7. Indeed, Friendship is more about giving
than it takes. They thanked me for being
her companion even though when she
was not there. They thanked me for my
kindness to her and her family.Yet for me,
it was a promise that I gave her to live her
dream, to let her live and let her spirit soar
overmountains,hills,riversandoceans.
Driving back home across the bridge
and with the drizzle whole day, my mind
was wet and damp. I stopped car.The mist
on the river moved around like a silken
Thai scarf, dancing sensually and drifting
in a slow curve. I rolled down the
window. Pearls of droplets hug my lashes
and moistened my lips, without me
my head slightly to her mother who was
draining every drop of water of her body
through her eyes. She whispered, “She
was my daughter- not a whore, she did not
deserve this cruel death” and started
sobbing out. Those words stating her
agony filled sadness in my every vein
through ears. I know nothing would have
helped her to assure. I felt nauseated and
stillnessinsidehauntedme.
Our friendship was an unusual bond.
Even though she wasn't with me, I could
recall every moment spent with her.
Vartika was not with me. As soon as I
realized I had the most valuable things of
Vartika with me- her paintings; I looked at
the sky and gave her a hearty chuckle
assuring her wings are with me, how
could I not let them fly? I decided to give
her a tribute. I knew nothing could have
replaced the grief, but I wanted to feel her
presencethroughherpaintings.
Her paintings had their own language
and vocabulary. It expressed love,
friendship, personal sacrifice, honor etc.
Her paintings and her life had an
awesome mystery. She could not speak
but her paintings did. They were
mesmerizing to many. I organized an
exhibition of her painting at one of her
favorite art gallery. We always used to
visit it and I remember how she used to
love them. It was not just about paintings.
I wanted her feelings expressed on canvas
to be published and rewards. Visitors
showed their unbound love and kindness
by appreciating paintings and being so
sensible to understand the emotions, race,
and colors behind her paintings.
Admiring words brought smile on her
mother's face. That lifted my spirit.
licking them. Smile was just at the corner,
I sensed. Curving the lips, I thanked God,
for the caress of his blessings. I closed my
eyes and with the supreme sense of
satisfaction, I gave tribute to my dear
friend, a companion and a soul sister.
Caressing my cheeks, the taintlessness of
drizzling air reverberated, whined and
tears of despair rolled down from my
eyes, creating collage of snafu memories
ofthepast.
Vartika could not speak her entire life,
but her paintings spoke and echoed in her
silence. Memories of the moments spent
with her, soaked me to the core and left
mewashed out,yetso fulfilled.
twas oneofthoserainydays and
Abhishekhadjustwoken up.Hewas
feeling very sleepy and he just kept
wondering if it was raining laziness. The
drops of water colliding with the steel
roof outside were creating such a loud
sound as if they desperately wanted to
make their presence felt. He realized that
he was feeling a bit heavy in his head.
“Damn Whiskey!” he thought and went
straight to the kitchen. On his way, he saw
empty rooms and was reminded of the
fact that both of his friends had gone to
theirplaces.
He slowly took out the pot from the
shelf and started preparing tea. He took
out tea, spice, milk and sugar and put
them into the pot one by one. Abhishek
found that even he was getting steamed
up with the tea. His brain was functioning
I
exactly like an engine having trouble with
ignition. He tried to recall what had
happened last night and all he could recall
was a picture of a pretty girl. There she
was, with thick lips, a bit sleek and not
always smiling.And she was not afraid of
looking straight into his eyes.There was a
sense of pride in the way she was
standing.Aakriti.
How he could forget that name?Anita
introduced him to her much after they had
exchanged a few stares. After the formal
introduction, they kept on talking on
topics ranging from her purse of Versace
to their favourite authors. Their reading
tastes were completely different, so they
didn't find much to talk about it.Abhishek
had just taken out his remote keys from
his pocket when Aakriti stopped him.
“Why not take a walk?” she said.
Abhishek knew by then that it was not
going to take much time. He had got
whiskey inhisheadandhewas ready.
He wanted to talk about his favourite
poems and poets but he was afraid that
she might get bored with his recitation
and he might lose a chance of getting her.
So heremainedsilent.
But her neck… Oh my... that was pure
magic … and her body, he didn't expect it
to be that responsive… everything about
her was in a sense very truthful. She
seemed to know what she was doing. Oh,
that was completely different from all
other nights. Was it because she loved
him?Wasitbecausehelovedher?
He could not decide… well, was it
love? He didn't know… He had not asked
himself such a question. He never wanted
to, but he did that today… Was it love?
2Estrade Literary Magazine

8. He thought. He started thinking whether
to send a message to her or not and he
ended up deciding he would. He typed:
“Loveyou…”
That was it. That was all what he had
to say. He tried to gather more words. But
he just couldn't. He sent the message and
while awaiting a reply, he put the cushion
behind his back and just sat in the bed
relaxing. He couldn't comprehend, why,
for no reason he was feeling very low. He
tried to think about Aakriti, the lovely
night he had with her and the peace he felt
while sleeping in her arms after
everything was over. But that only added
to the grief . Just unconsciously, he laid
the cushion horizontally on the bed and
fell completely over the bed. He
desperately wanted an escape from this
despair.Hewas sureitwouldbreakhim.
When he woke up it was 2 p.m. The
rain had stopped. He had slept for 2 hours
and that was not bad at all. He got up from
his bed and checked his cellphone. There
were no calls, no messages. He was
shocked. But he gathered himself in a few
seconds and disappointedly accepted the
Perhaps it was. She was so different
from all other girls. The way she
scratched her nails on his back… the
way she fussed with the hair on the back
of his neck… the way she responded to
histouchinghererectnipples…
Everything was different and so
much of joy… and her neck was so
gracious, so erect, so artistic. That
perfectly sculpted neck came to his
mind and made him believe… it had to
be love. Only love could make someone
get involved in something so intensely.
Only love could make everything so
beautiful…andofcourse,so joyous…
But where was she now? When did
she leave? He calledAnita while having
sips of tea. “Oh, I knew that. You both
had disappeared from the party” “I
won't ask where were you.” “You didn't
even ask for her number ,what kind of
fool are you ?” was all that he had to
listen to. He had to literally gulp the tea
forAnita was not easy and obviously not
interestingtolistento.
He called her but she did not receive
his call. 'That's ok. She must be busy.'
fact. She just did what he had done to so
many other girls. But accepting the fact
did not seem to be easy. Something hurt
him very badly inside. He could not
understand why when he was feeling love
for someone for the first time ,it had to
rush towards anendso fast?
“But wait, was it love or was it just a
baby born to loud music and 6 strong
pegs?” a question arose from a huge
crowd of thoughts. He couldn't answer it.
He supposed itwas notlove.He wantedto
tell himself it was not love or else she
would also have had the slightest feel of
it. And she didn't even receive his call.
Canyouimaginethat?
Abhishek could not help himself. He
found himself in such an embarrassing
and baffling situation that he wanted to
jump out of the window and kill whoever
met him in the way. He could do only one
of the two things and right now he could
do neither of them. He was embarrassed,
bewildered, angry, confused and what
not. And all that came out in form of two
words :“Damnwhiskey!”
ritingisanart.
Towriteaperfectparagraph,
one needs to delve into the
intricacies of various different forms of
disciplines. The discipline of drawing –
sketching perfect characters onto the
piece of paper, each of equal height,
equal weight, each made with equal
amount of love and care as though it is a
wet new -born just out of the womb of
your fountain pen: a testimony that you
made love with writing. Then comes the
discipline of letting your children sit
together in the most perfect manner –
the discipline of choosing the
appropriate word for the appropriate
situation and forming sentences. Then
comesthe choice of expression – the
discipline wherein you have to derive
the ways to let the world know about
your love with your Children. You
cannot be over reactive, and you cannot
under-express yourself.You just have to
be appropriate and perfect. From some
writers' point of view a good pen gives
them an urge to write some wonderful
phrases orevenasimplisticprose.
William Penn Store is once such
place where the fantasies of aspiring
writersgetwings.
Sujoy Bhattacharya raised his hands
W
slowly and kept them at the glass
showcase that had the last remaining
piece of Sheaffer in it. He was breathing
heavily – out of excitement, the vapours
from his breath condensed on the glass
pane and his own breath shrouded pen
inside the case. For once his mind was
free. He had forgotten all those problems
that he had left outside the William Penn
Storeas soon as he came in to have a look
at The One that he had fallen in love with:
His Schaeffer. At this moment, nothing
else mattered. His fingers trembled, as he
moved them across the traceable outline
of pen from the outside of case, as if he
was going to give a gentle stroke on the
forehead, of the sleeping girl whom he
loved from his childhood, butwas afraid
that his touch may awaken her. A mixed
emotion of deep love and desire to
achieve surged inside him. The only
barrier in front of him was the amount of
moneyinhispocket.
He needed Rs.15,000 to purchase that
pen and he only had Rs.150 on him. One
percent! He calculated and smiled at the
irony that his love and desire had led him
to. Suddenly there was some more
mathematics that was to be done. If in a
month, he was able to save Rs.200,then in
five months, he could saveRs.1000.
Which meant, that he would need six
years and three months to save this
amount. Throughout the time, when the
calculations were going on in his mind, he
had ignored the sales person standing
right behind him. The sales person, in the
meanwhile, saw the admirer vying for the
pen. He had noticed Sujoy's evidently
unstable economic condition from his
clothesand wanted to talk toSujoy out of
sympathy, but he was nothing but a mere
sales person. His job was to look at the
admiration in people's eyes for the pens in
the store and give it wings, so that the
customer may be flying in the world of
fantasies and achievement, before
fleshing out money to purchase
somethingthattheyadmired.
“Do you wish to try a Sheaffer sir?
This pen is unique in style and quality.
The inlaid nib is the trademark of
Sheaffer.” He explained, pointing
towards the exquisite, shining diamond
shaped nib that began a millimeter ahead
of the tongue and continued to the pen
covering a part of it. “It is made of 14
carat gold”, he continued. “Do you want
try it? I'll show you if you wish.”, and he
quickly moved to take out a sample piece
from the drawer without even taking
Sujoy's consentinthisregard.
3 Estrade Literary Magazine

9. weakness of will-power.” He read the last
sentence of his prose loudly and
concluded that he had fallen in love with
hisown writing,onceagain.
He knew that it was not an ordinary
day today. It was his birthday. And
moreover as per his plans, he had decided
to courier the synopsis and the
manuscript of his work to the publishing
house. Although he knew that he was
three stories short of the accepted general
protocol of ten stories, yet he decided to
give it a try. He had nothing to lose after
all. The rejection would only make him
work on a couple of more stories and the
improvementsofthepreviousones.
Sujoy was not a graduate from a
premier institute, just a Bachelor of Arts,
from the Bangalore University.And as he
had foreseen, it would be really very
tough to get a job in a city that eats, drinks
and sleeps Software. He came to
Bangalore with his second uncle who
worked in an MNC. In the beginning, the
city and the culture amazed Sujoy, but
nearly six months after he joined the
university, his uncle married and moved
off to the US for 'some years at least' in his
uncle's words. So finally, Sujoy was alone
in this unforgiving city, studying and
staying in a hostel. He used to take
tuitions and earn some Rs.4000- Rs.5000
per month.But getting this amount was
not an easy task for him.Taking two hours
of tuitions per day, wherein he would
tutor six students daily. As he was
graduating in arts, he avoided
Mathematics and Science. History
remained his favourite. He remembered
all the dates by heart. Such was his
capacity to remember dates, that he could
have written a book on world history with
the chapters in chronological order. This
was the value of our past, he often
thought, Rs.5000 … per month … he
wondered how much would a month of
his life be valued at. He got no answer,
evenfromhisown conscience.
From the Rs.5000 that he
saved,Rs.2000 a month was to be given at
h o m e w h e n e v e r h e w e n t t o
Calcutta.Rs.2500 went in food, which
comprised of Idli, Dosa, Bisibelle Bath,
Khara Bath and other similar food items
for breakfast, lunch and evening meal. He
was not accustomed to the typical South-
Indian food. Only he knew how
d e s p e r a t e l y h e l o n g e d f o r
Maccher,Jholchawal andfish curry with
rice.
Sujoy hardly travelled anywhere. But
yet, the bare necessary and minimum
travels and basic necessities cost him
nearly Rs.350 every month. He never
used an auto for his travels but travelled
mostly on foot or in the public buses. He
knew that autos were costly and would
charge a minimum of Rs.20- Rs.30 for a
distance as small as 1 to 1.5 km. Why
should I pay nearly 5-10 times the price,
He moved to the showcase in the
center of the store,took out a black
colored pen kept for trial purpose, and
handed it over toSujoy. Sujoy looked
timidly and gratefully at the sales-person,
as if he had given him the assurance that
the touch of his love will not awaken her.
As if he was allowed to have one gentle
kiss on her cheek and no-one would
object. He gradually moved towards the
center of the store to the Sales-person
took the pen from him. He looked at the
piece of paper kept on the glass top and
started writing. At first he briskly
scribbled a short irregular line at on the
paper and lifted the pen – he felt the first
touch of her. He admired the nib again for
a couple of seconds and signed at the
blank part of the paper – the gentle stroke
on her forehead to remove the hair that
covered her face. Perhaps, one day I'll be
able enough to sign on important
documents using this pen. He looked at
the nib again and wrote a line from
TwelfthNight.
'If music be the food of love, play
on…' – the kiss on her cheek – andjust
wished that this music should play on
forever and ever. But all the good feelings
in this world are perhaps short-lived. He
was interrupted by Harish – the sales-
person – just as he made the third dot of
theellipsis.
“Do you want to try any other pen sir?
We have Lami, Waterman, Mont Blanc
too,ifyouwouldprefer.”
Six Years! Sujoy stopped for a
moment and thought. It seemed like a
lifetime. Hesitant, he told Harish, “I think
I'llbuythispenlater.”
“It's your wish sir, but this is the last
piece. These fountain pens sell like hot
cakes. In this time of pilot pens and ball
point pens, there are people who still
prefer writing with a fountain pen. And
Sheaffer… is a definitely a connoisseur's
choice!”
“Yes, Thanks… for making me feel
special…”Sujoy mumbled to himself and
continued in a slightly subdued tone and a
higher volume, “I think I'll buy it later.”
His volume lowered, as he continued the
sentence and moved towards the door of
the store “And I promise that I won't have
towaitforsixyears.”
Harish, who had heard Sujoy
mumble, had nothing but a feeling of
sympathy towards his customer clad in an
ordinary white shirt, ordinary blue jeans,
and ordinary black shoes and with an
ordinary fountain pen – which looked like
aRs.30Hero –inhispocket.
Sujoy gasped and admired the
sentence written by him the seventh time
in the last thirty minutes. What a beauty
have I created! He thought. “Admiration
knows no bounds and beauty has no
boundaries. The primary reason for
falling in love remains the combined
effect of admiration of beauty and the
when I can travel the same distance in
Rs.3- Rs.4? His total savings ranged from
ahundredtohundredandfiftyrupees.
Sujoy glanced on the wall-clock
which displayed 6:55 a.m. As though out
of a trance,he suddenly stood up and went
to have a bath. After 10 minutes and he
came out and the routine of applying hair-
oil, combing hair, applying the cream on
his face, dressing up and tying shoelaces
took another five minutes.At 7:10 a.m. he
was ready and had to go to the temple as a
part of his daily routine. This was
something he never missed. The peal of
bells made him calm and he would forget
all the worries about savings and other
problems that he had in his life. The next
thing to be done after returning from the
temple was to call his home.After having
a word with his parents he was to go to a
cyber cafe and take out his collection of
stories from his e-mail account, do a
quick review and take a printout of the
entire work.Synopsis and the manuscript
combined spanned across nearly 140
pages.
Getting printouts of 140 pages – a
rough estimate of manuscript and
synopsis meant Rs.700. And then came
one page for cover, spiral binding, courier
to the publishers. A grand total of more
than Rs.1100. Arranging so much money
was a problem. He had already evaluated
all the options of credit from various
sources. The options were available but,
his conscience would never allow him to
borrow, even from his friends. He had
thought over and over again, strained his
mind and came to a conclusion that there
was only one last resort – the savings that
he used to do for his parents. Last time he
had been to Calcutta was nearly seven
months back. This meant he still had at
least twelve thousand rupees in his
account. Another question came to his
mind. Will this be the correct thing to do –
ethically?
On pondering upon the prospects, he
knew that there were only two people in
this world who can help him out from this
situation. First, his mother and then his
father. The last remaining burden that he
had on his mind was of the guilt that
would well in his mind for the reason that
he will be withdrawing the money that he
had saved for his parents,for his own
personal expenditures. He tried to think
over it again and again. Was this a reason
to feel guilty? After all it was the money
that he had earned himself; there is
nothing to feel guilty about if you take a
part of it to meet your own reasons. But
the other part of his mind was from a
different school of thought. Sujoy, now,
was feeling that it was wrong to take the
money that he had saved for his parents. It
will begin with Rs.1100this time and if
this continues to happen, it may go on to
saving nothing for those who had made
him able enough to earn and save. He was
4Estrade Literary Magazine

10. Artwork by Shaina Shah

11. now. This incident was just another
negligiblepartof'everything'.
Silenceforanotherfew seconds.
“Thanks Ma, where is baba?” he
enquired about his father, with his voice
calmandcomposednow.
“Beta, he has gone to purchase milk,
bread and butter at ShyamalDa's shop.”
Shesaid.
“I see, he gets a complementary
packet of gutka with every purchase
there.” he retorted and both of them heard
laughterfromtheotherendofthephone.
*
Sujoy was still standing near the
phone booth, when he became oblivious
of the traffic flowing past him. The
blowing of horns, the people laughing,
the children in the buses, the ladies and
gentlemen walking past him bore no
significance. He stood still as a statue,
unmoved. No one told him to make way,
no one wanted to enter the phone booth,
and no one said a single word as though
he was not existent. Sujoy on the other
hands was thinking of Calcutta and
flowing back in time with the tune of the
famous song on Doordarshanwhen he
was achild:Milesurmeratumhara…
Heretrospected.
He had pictured the famous artists and
singers on the black and white television
as his mother asked him to run to
ShyamalDa's shop for a daily chore. He
imagined himself walking on the wet
streets of Calcutta and avoiding the heavy
traffic consisting of the yellow taxis and
some occasional trams that passed. There
were a lot of passers-by too, some on foot,
some old scooters mostly Bajaj Chetak or
Bajaj Priya, there were practically no
personal cars in that road due to the sheer
chaos and pathetic condition. He
imagined himself squeeze past the
scantily populated fruit and vegetable
vendors to the corner of the road near the
crossing where there were two shops:
ShyamalDa's General Stores and
GopiDa's Medical Store. He remembered
himself running back to his home with a
free packet of gutka, tobacco, for his
father from ShyamalDa and an orange
candy for himself. He imagined himself
reach his home to find the breakfast
almost ready in the kitchen as his father
sipped on a cup of tea in the veranda with
a Bengali newspaper on the table and the
stray brown kitten lying down quietly
below his bamboo chair. He smiled when
he recollected that he used to run to his
father's chair in the veranda from the
kitchen, hand him the free gift and poke
the kitten, which would shrug and run
about the place. He used to follow the
kitten just to pick it up and hold it close to
hischest.
The sound of the truck's horn startled
him and he realised that he had been
standing near the phone booth staring in
one particular direction. He recollected
notabletodecide.
He called his parents. His mother
receivedthecall.
“Hello Ma?Ma aami Sujoy. How are
you?”he began cheerfully trying not to let
hisconcernbeevident.
“Happy Birthday Sujoy. May God
give you a very long life.” His mother was
delighted and the tone of her voice
signified that there was a certain amount
oflonginginhermind,tomeetherson.
“ThanksMa.How areyou?”
“Everything is fine Sujoy. Did you go
tothetemplethismorning?”
Since the start of the conversation
with his mother Sujoy was still unable to
decide whether to ask his mother or not
about the money that he needed. Usually,
he never remained silent or got distracted
when talking to his parents, but at this
question of his mother, he remained silent
for a while, as though lost in thoughts
about something. His mother noticed this
and figured out that there wasperhaps
aconflict going on in the mind of Sujoy
when he replied after a few seconds of
silence“YesMa,Idid.”
“Sujoy beta, is something troubling
you?”hismotherasked.
Therewas apauseagain.
There was no time to decide now. He
had to answer this question. If he replied
in the negative, he may not have the
burden off his conscience. Therefore, he
closed his eyes, took a deep breath and
made a decision instantly. She was his
mother,hecouldaskher.
“You can tell me Sujoy, I am your
Ma!” his mother continued as soon as she
heardherson's sighonthereceiver.
“Ma, I need some money. Nearly
Rs.1200. I don't have that much savings
with me. I wanted to ask you if I can take
the money from the savings that I do for
you every month.” He began to sound
worried and started to explain the
situation “Actually, I am working on a
book…”when hismotherinterrupted.
“Sujoy, you need not explain the
reason beta”. Her tone was assuring. That
of a mother when her child comes home
scared after failing a class test due to ill
health, and her mother assures her that
everything is going to be fine and this
failure would not make her love her child
any less. She continued“It must be some
genuine requirement that you are asking
me for it. Moreover, we have already told
you that you need not save that money
every month for us. Our new businessis
doing well and we earn more than what
we used to earn 6 months back. Take the
money that you need son. After all, it is
the money that you have earned. And
even then if you need an assurance, just
know that we trust you and are proud of
you.Now,isitfine?”
Sujoy was smiling and thankful. He
still did not know how to thank his mother
for everything she had done for him till
that he had to go to the bank to get the
money, then to the cyber café for the print
outs, then go to the stationery shop for the
spiral binding and then finally, to the
courieroffice.
The Bank opened after an hour during
which, he took the liberty of going to
North Indian restaurant and relishing a
couple delicious samosas with tea. He
moved to the bank as soon as it was 9:30
a.m. and stood in the Cash Withdrawal
queue. Rs. 2000, he filled in the
withdrawal form after deciding that he
will keep the remaining cash for his
monthly expenses and waited for the
cashiertocometohisdesk.
The general air in the bank became
talkative and there were people thronging
the various counters at their turns and also
out of their turns. There was a sudden
quarrel among the people standing in the
deposit queue. This happened because a
gentleman appeared from somewhere
near the deposit queue and said, that he
was in a hurry and therefore wanted the
liberty to be the first one to deposit
money.The elderly gentleman in the front
allowed him, but the young man standing
in the 5th place started to shout and claim,
that he was not a fool to wait all this time
while someone else deposited money
before him under the pretext of being in a
hurry. Seeing this there was a heated
argument between the people of the
Deposit Queue. The Cashier on that
counter saw them quarrelling, smirked to
himself and closed the counter with a sign
'Closed' and said to all the people
standing there, “Come back when you are
done fighting, I'll have a tea in the
meantime.”
Sujoy smiled at them and saw that the
cashier at the Withdrawal Queue had
comeand began working.When it was his
turn, he gave the withdrawal slip to the
Cashier M. Shrivenkata Swami, who
gave the withdrawal slip a keen look and
typed some numbers on the keyboard in
front of him.Asmall conversation ensued
betweenthecashierandSujoy.
“SujoyBhattacharya?”
“YesSir”
“Well, you are withdrawing money
for the first time in the last 7 months, isn't
it?” and he began to validate the signature
on the slip against what was registered in
theaccount.
“YesSir”
“Don't you have an ATM Card?” He
openedthecashdrawer.
“No Sir”.
“Why didn't you apply for it?” he
sounded surprised as he took out two
notes of Rs.500 and ten notes of Rs.100.
He lookedatSujoyandpaused.
Sujoy hesitated for a while, and
thought, yes I could have applied at least.
He continued to say “I never thought I'll
withdrawanysooner oralesseramount.”
“But still, what is the harm?” and the
6Estrade Literary Magazine

12. He had started drawing a line from 'C' went
to 'O', to 'M', to 'P' and to 'L' thinking
carefully about the various possible options
after each connection. He continued to draw
the line after 'L' to 'E' to 'T' and finally
stopped at 'E'. He read, and
smiled.
Complete!
“Here is your printout!” said the
CyberCaféowner andstartledSujoy.
Sujoy held it in his hands, flipped
across them once more, paid money to
cybercaféownerandleft.
*
It had been four months since he had
sent the manuscript to the two publishers
and had heard nothing from them. He was
not sure whether they would publish it or
not, and whether he was good enough to
be published or not. There were various
factors which made him think that he will
not be published. Firstly, he was new.
Second, his was only a collection of
stories and he was not sure about the
'what's in it for me' aspect from a reader's
perspective.And the last barriers were the
publishers themselves to whom he sent
the manuscript. How will they make the
profit from it?And if there is no profit for
them, then why would they publish his
book?
But even after so many speculations
that went in his mind he had not lost hope.
He knew that someday he will be free of
all the worries, especially about the
money that needs to be saved every
month.The foundations of his belief were
not based on some arbitrary thought that
may have emerged after watching a
movie at his friend's place or from a
motivational book. This foundation was
built upon his belief and upon his self-
dependence. He believed that all the
possible learning in this world are made
of two major components: One that is
learned through books and the other that
one learns with time – the experience. It is
with a perfect combination of the two that
when applied to life, makes one excel in
it. He knew that he was a hardworking
person and when he finds a job, he will
definitely excel and there will be no
stopping thereafter. However sceptical he
may have been at times, but there was not
a time when he was not optimistic about
his life and future. Even at the time when
he saw the Sheaffer in the William Penn
store, he had calculated the waiting time
before he gets the pen, to be six years. But
yet, he was determined that one day –
even if it was six years later – he would go
back to the William Penn store to buy that
cashier counted the money – after
pressing his fingers on the wet foam that
was kept on his desk – in a quick smooth
action gave it to Sujoy. He took out the
rubber stamp, and banged it on the
withdrawal slip, signed it and kept it
underapaperweight.
As Sujoy left the counter the cashier
told him “Take the ATM Application
form from Counter 3, fill it up and
deposit in the bank. You will have your
ATM Card delivered in two weeks.”
After finishing he did not give time to
Sujoytosaythanksandshouted“Next!”
Ten minutes later Sujoy was at the
Cyber Café downloading the zipped
manuscript from his mailbox. He
recollected how he had taken out time
from his schedule on weekdays or
weekends to come to cyber cafes for an
hour to type the stories and upload it on
his mail. He had enquired about the rates
of the printout and gave the print
command from his computer. The
printer creaked and made some strange
sounds. Gradually it started printing the
manuscript and with the sound of the
printing, Sujoy was carried back in time
again–tohisKolkata.
He imagined how his mother never
cried and his father was always happy.
Even when it was the worst day of his
life according to him, his mother had not
cried and his father smiled. The worst
day, he thought again. His father's salary
was something he was not aware of, but
from the condition of his house, it
seemed that his father earned less. On
the worst day, he had seen his mother
stay hungry and sleep without dinner,
his father too had remained hungry. On
the worst day of his life, he had eaten the
remaining rice with some potato curry.
On that worst day, he was too young to
be told the problems that his parents
faced but he was old enough to figure it
out. He knew from the conversations
that his parents had when they presumed
him to be asleep, that the business his
father had setup some years ago was not
flourishing and they were heavily under
debt. ShyamalDa had lent his father
some money a year ago but now it had to
be returned. To make sure that his father
paid back the debt, his mother sold her
gold chain, but since that did not get
enough money, she had to sell a couple
of gold bangles too which, she had got
as a gift on her marriage. When the debt
was paid back, his parents were happy
as though nothing had happened and
their life was very normal. When he had
grown up, he figured out that they were
not rich and in fact did not have enough
money to be classified even as middle
class, in his own perspective, forget
rich; and he had always wondered
whether his parents never discussed
problems in front of Sujoy to keep him
awayfromthefinancialissues.
Sheaffer.
Another positive attribute that he
possessed was what he referred to as the
'life-fetching-attribute' in him that he had
inherited from his parents. This was
something that he had often discussed
with a couple of his friends at the
university. He had told them how his
parents never used to be upset during the
worst of times. How his mother never
used to crave for sarees even when she
went to a saree sale and the only reason
would be that she had enough of them. It
was surprising how she would always be
content with the insufficient means to
sustain her family. The happiest moments
were the times when his father would
return in the evening with a couple of
Bengali sweets and share it with the
family. Later he would tell them that he
had practically no sale that day. His
mother would smile and hold his father's
right hand in both her hands tightly and
say “Do not worry! Things will be fine.”
Sujoy distinctly remembered how on
most of the days, his mother and father
used to sit on either side of him at the bed-
time and sing a couple of songs to him and
to each other before going to sleep.He
would often think 'Can anyone say now
that we are poor and in desperate need of
money?'
A cold breeze blew across the face of
Sujoy and he smiled when he noticed how
some cold, small droplets of water had
splattered randomly across his nose, eyes,
cheeks, neck and his shirt.He opened his
eyes to see a blurred image with
horizontal shades of green brown and
grey. The sound of the moving train
awakened him to the flowing smooth
blissful reality of cold wind, overcast
skies and the slight drizzle. He looked
inside to see both the fellow passengers
observing him. He adjusted himself on
his place and wiped his face and arms
with his handkerchief. He looked out
again and through that blurred watery
painting of the moving landscape, he saw
a faint image of his future. A future when
he is settled, happy, content and definitely
rich. It was not out of the blue that he
imagined this. For the past some days he
felt that he is presently going through a
7 Estrade Literary Magazine

13. managed to pass with a second division. It
was at this moment that he turned his gaze
towards his veranda and saw Sujoy who
emerged from the gallery chasing the cat,
into the veranda and suddenly stopped
near the tea-table kept there as soon as he
saw his father. After the realization that
he was actually facing his father sunk in
his mind – which took a couple of seconds
– Sujoy ran down to the road touched his
father's feet and gave him a hug. The cat
in the meantime, seized the opportunity to
hideundertheteatable.
It was a moment of disbelief for
Sujoy's father. It was as if by some divine
intervention his son had appeared out of
nowhere and hugged him. His pleasure
was evident on his face which had an
unstoppable smile because of the abrupt
immortalpleasure–His son.
Sujoy was there in his parental home
for a period of twenty days beginning
from the day he came. And for twenty
days, he forgot all about Bangalore, all
about his studies, all about his tuition
classes and all about the manuscript that
he had sent to the publishers. He just felt
that he was one who had to take care of his
home, his parents and himself. So as a
part of the daily routine, he would get up
at the same time as his mother; five thirty
in the morning. For the next three hours as
a routine his mother would keep on
asking him not to help her – thinking that
her son came home after a year and yet he
is not resting – after each and every task
that he helped her with.Whenever she got
up to sweep the floors, he would assist her
in taking a broom and sweeping half the
home himself. Whenever she kept some
dirty clothes in the bathroom to wash, he
would go there and begin washing the
clothes even before she could make it. He
would also go to the market on a regular
basis to buy groceries, fish, milk or any
other daily need item that he knew was
needed. All these he did in the morning
and had a nice chat with ShyamalDa on a
regular basis who still gave him a small
pouch of beaten tobacco for his father.
After all this, he would go his father's
shop and help him there. The noon time
was the time to help his mother to cook
lunch. Since he was not used to cooking,
the maximum help he did was to help her
in chopping some vegetables or to stir the
curry.
Even after his parents asked him
multiple times to take some rest and go
around and see Kolkata and meet some
old friends, but he never listened to them.
He would insist on helping them
throughout this time and only once – just
two days before his return – did he go out
to meet his school friend. The visit to his
friendwas asmalloneconsistingof ahug,
a long chat in a restaurant over lunch,
some retrospection of the school days,
some information gathering about his
friends and their whereabouts, a stroll in
phase where his life is at an inflexion
point, turning towards the better. Where
the troubles and problems in life have
reduced dramatically and one knows
that he now has the way of defeating
them completely. Once and for all!At a
point of time where you have sufficient
means to just fulfil all your necessities
to the minimal extent and you can
foresee that the means are going to
increase. A point where you know that
within some days the resources will
improve and some years after that, your
way of living will turn into something
calledalifestyle.
He saw a couple of chimneys at a
distance with thick white smoke coming
out of them. Four hours more, he
thought and he will be at his home with
hisparents.
Nearly six hours later he was lying
on the cloth laid down on the cold
floorin the verandawith his mother
sitting next to him and stroking his
forehead. His father was at the shop and
would come home anytime now. He had
not gone to the shop to meet him yet as
he wanted to see the happily surprised
look on his face when he returned a
coupleofhours later.
His mother went to the kitchen to
bring some sweets for him that she had
prepared that week and in the meantime,
Sujoy observed his home and what he
saw brought some smiles of
contentment on his face.The floor of the
aangan was no more the irregular
surface of the broken bricks and cement.
It was now a properly plastered mosaic
floor and the old rusted taps had been
replaced by the new ones. The floor of
the verandas surrounding the aangan
was renewed with the same mosaic. The
pillars in the veranda were re-plastered.
The open shelves in the veranda now
had wooden panels fitted over them.
The living room was also renewed to
some extent and it had a new coat of
paint on the walls. 'I was not wrong after
all', he thought, 'things are improving'.
He closed his eyes took a deep breath
and said thank you to an Unperceived
Existence.
At 7:00 p.m. Sujoy was playing and
running around chasing the pet cat when
his mother heard his father's voice from
outside. He was talking in Bengali to the
neighbour about how he was planning to
expand his business in the light of recent
bit of prosperity they had received.
Moreover, he said that Sujoy was also
doing a part-time job in Bangalore and
earning his own money. At last he
mentioned that he felt proud of his son –
from whom all the family troubles were
deliberately hidden so that he may not
be worried about earning at an early age
– who had taken up responsibilities and
was managing his time so well that even
after taking part-time tuitions, he
the old market, a visit to the old book store
where they used to buy their school
books, a visit to the pen store and enquiry
whether the owner had a Sheaffer, some
nostalgia about the school, and the good-
bye.All this ended in nearly six hours and
hewas backathishomeagain.
Sujoy washed his face and sat with his
diary and his pen in the living room. His
parents were standing in the kitchen and
talking something. He was sitting silently
with a fresh page of his diary opened and
he stared scribbling as the conversation
between his parents –who were unaware
ofhispresence–felluponhisears.
“For the last two weeks, I really had a
lot of chance to rest. Sujoy helps me with
most of the things at home.” said his
mother. Sujoy in the meanwhile had
started to write random letters on the
pagesspreadoutirregularly.
“It feels so good isn't it, everyone in
the colony is worried in some or the other
way in relation to their children.
Ghoshbabu's son fought with him and left
him because he had no money to support
the family. Dibankar's son is still studying
to be an engineer and he is a spendthrift to
some extent. Even though he is not as
worried as Ghoshbabu, but still
sometimes he feels that his son will spend
all that he has saved for the marriage of
his children. You remember Mrs. Sharma
from U.P.? Her elder son went to England
and settled there, the younger also wants
to go to his elder brother as there is a lot of
money to earn. Her primary concern
remains the return of her children back to
India. She wonders how her life would be
without her children. On the contrary,
look at us, even though we do not know
what future has in store for Sujoy, yet
there is something that tells us that we'll
always be happy. Isn't our son a gem?” his
father said. Sujoy, during this time, had
scribbled a lot of letters on the page and
had started to join them with lines such
that each line completes a word with the
letters it has connected. As his father had
begun speaking, he had started drawing a
line from 'C' went to 'O', to 'M', to 'P' and
to 'L'thinking carefully about the various
possibleoptionsaftereachconnection.
“Don't you feel” his mother asked “it
may be that Sujoy thinks that we need his
help and there is a bit of pity in his mind
that causes him to help us now? Even
though I completely doubt it, but yet, a
fear always lingers in my mind.” Sujoy
wondered how to complete this word
which monosyllable to combine so that
this word can be completed – and perhaps
with a meaning. A foundation! Various
o p t i o n s c a m e t o h i s m i n d ,
Complementary, Comply, Compliance,
ComplicateandComplacentandso on.
“No no dear,” his father retorted, “he
is our son.You and I know him better than
your inhibitions. He is doing this because
he loves us and because he is more
9 Estrade Literary Magazine

15. on a long road towards a destination.
There is no way to go back.You only have
to move ahead. Day by Day.Hour by
hour.Minute by minute. There may be
places on this road where you may want
to stay forever. There may be places, you
may just want to run away from. Another
aspect of this road to your destiny is that it
takes you ahead in twists and turns and
moreover,itisneverasmoothride.
Sujoy was on one such turn of his life.
Whenever he turned to look back, he
always saw the rough broken road and the
journey of his struggles. He looked at the
times when the circumstances were so
difficult – when any other person would
have given up – but yet he decided to face
them. He looked back at the times when
he just wanted to run away from it. He
looked back at all those times when he did
not succumb to circumstances and
decided to pass just that one day. He
looked back at all those times when he
had decided to walk instead of take the
bus, when he had decided to spend the
entire day on the barest minimum means,
when he had saved the money for his
family even though he had needed it
badly.
After so much pondering he now felt
as if he was standing naked, stripped of all
the clothes, in the middle of the road of
life on a cold morning facing east after
travelling a long, long journey. On
foot.He imagined that his feet bled and
the dust chafed against the bruises near
his ankle. He was able to see the red sky
marking the horizon millions of miles
ahead of him. He was able to hear the
chirping of the birds getting louder and
amidst the chirping of the birds he heard a
gurgling sound of water. He saw the road
in front of him turning into the cool
flowing water, inviting him to take dip.
He was not able to control, he let himself
go and slid smoothly below the water's
responsible than I was in his age” Sujoy
found the word. He continued to draw the
line after 'L' to 'E' to 'T' and finally
stopped at 'E'. Complete! He read, and
smiled.
It was twenty minutes past the dinner
and the three of the family were sitting on
the bed. His father was singing after a
very long time that day. Sujoy noticed
that his voice and singing improved
whenever his mother smiled. He had just
finished a song, when Sujoymoved to the
other room where his bag was kept. He
came with an envelope back to the
bedroom and handed it over to his mother.
There was nothing written on it, but still,
his mother somehow knew about the
contents in it. She handed it over to his
father, who also knew about the contents
butopenedtheenvelopetohavealook.
“It is only eighteen thousand, papa. I
took out two thousand rupees five months
ago.”saidSujoy.
“Sujoybeta, we really don't need this
money. Keep it with you for your
expenses.”
“But Papa_” Sujoy had not even
completedwhenhisfatherinterrupted.
“Beta, I am not going to take it now. It
was because of you only that we managed
all this. With all the money that you sent
in the last couple of years we have been
able to improve everything. Our business
has improved as you can see. I have paid
back all the debts and our condition is
such that we will not need any loans
now.” His tone was assuring and
moreover Sujoy had never refused what
his parents had asked for. Sujoy took the
envelopeback.
He moved out of the room again to
keep the envelope back when his mother
said to his father “Can we ever be
happier?”
At every day of life and at every stage
it is possible to imagine yourself walking
surface. He started sinking down and did
not need to breathe. He saw all those
memories of tough times emerge from
every part of his body and float up to the
water's surface only to be absorbed and
pulled away by an unknown force. He
took a deep breath. The water had no
effect on him. He looked down and saw
another source of light. He smiled and let
his body be free and sink deeper and
deeper only to let himself be decimated
and be a part of that unknown source of
light.
It was a rather hot afternoon when
someone knocked on his door and he
woke up from his dream. He closed his
diary that was lying on his bed when he
had dozed off, rubbed his eyes and headed
towards the door. He opened the door to
find the courier delivery boy standing. He
received the letter and read it. The smile
on his face was more prominent than the
water in his eyes when he read that his
proposal had been accepted. The
publishers had agreed to publish his book
and he was to travel to Delhi to the given
address within the next two weeks for the
formalitiesandsigningthecontract.
Harish the sales man had forgotten
Sujoy after their first meeting. For
Harish,Sujoy was just another customer.
Sujoy on the other hand entered the
William Penn store and reached out to the
Sheaffer section directly without even
bothering to ask Harish about the various
options he had. His heartbeat was fast
because he finally had the opportunity to
own something he had wanted so badly.
'Six years I had thought, and see, it has
just been a little more than two years',
thought Sujoy. He was inspecting the
glass case meant for Sheaffer collection,
when he noticed something and called
Harish.
“I remember there was a Sheaffer kept
here. I don't know the name but it had this
characteristic golden nib in a diamond
shape …”,Sujoy was yet to complete
whenHarishinterrupted.
“Oh you must be referring to the
Legacy Collection sir. That has been sold
out.”
Sujoy stood silently for a while and
then turned to the other options and he
found a beautiful black Waterman for
himself. He tried to fall in love with this
new pen and asked for a spare piece of
paper. He wrote the same lines that he had
written “If music be the food of love, play
on…” and smiled. This was not bad after
all! Even this looks good in my hand.
Even this is a beauty. He asked Harish to
take out a new pen and moved towards the
billingcounter.
“That would be nine thousand nine
hundred and forty nine rupees sir.
Including taxes” said the gentleman at the
cash counter. Sujoy looked surprised for a
while with the price and after giving it a
thoughtheasked,“Doyouacceptcards?”
Sujoy stood silently for a while and
then turned to the other options and he
found a beautiful black Waterman for
himself. He tried to fall
in love with this new pen and asked
for a spare piece of paper. He wrote the
same lines that he had written
and smiled. This was
not bad after all! Even this looks
good in my hands.
“If music be the food of
love, play on…”
10Estrade Literary Magazine

16. She didn't have anything to say. There were
just questions, so many of them. She mulled over
them, as they brimmed over in her mind. The
steady thrum of the car running filled the spaces
between them. Her mind wandered, marvelling
atthetimelypoignancyofsilence.
Have you ever been in the eye of a silent storm,
shewantedtoaskhim.
Right at the heart of a silent envelope, of a
deafeninglyloudsilence?
Have you heard the pearly little drops that come
together to make silence, she wanted to know of
him.
Have you touched the fabric of silence, woven
intricately and tightly by the threads of
quietness? Have you ever let silence dance
aroundyou,itsfootfallsosoftthatitissoloud?
She wanted to ask him if it felt strange, this
silence between them. She wanted to ask him if
he had any more words to offer as he always had,
at one long lost time in the past. Did it occur to
himthatthiswouldhappenbetweenthem?
Onesmallmistakeonhispart.
Did he know that they were a pile of rocks, and
he had knocked one of the most important ones
rightatthebottom?
* * *
The silence sat bitterly on the tip of his tongue.
They were the people that shared everything -
stories, dreams, pain, hopes... thoughts, ideas,
jokes,laughter.
Butnotsilence.
Never,silence.
They were two people to the world, but onePhotograph by Shaunak Vyas

17. Kirthi Jayakumar
in Public International Law and Human
Rights. She has diversified into Research
and Writing in Public International Law,
Arbitration and Human Rights, besides
Freelance Journalism. Working as a UN
Volunteer, specializing in Human Rights
issues inAfrica, India and CentralAsia and
the Middle East, Kirthi has worked
extensively with grass root organizations
that focus on women's rights, and also run a
journal, academy and consultancy that
focuses on International Law, called A38.
Kirthi is also the founder of the Red
Elephant Foundation, an organisation that
works for the empowerment of women.
Kirthi's much talked about debut book,
'Stories of Hope' released recently has
receivednationalrecognition.
is a Lawyer, specialised
contiguous land. What did it matter, what did it matter? How
did anything change if a word of apology was uttered? Did
she love him any less, now that he had faltered? Did she abhor
him to the point of letting him go, now that he had erred?
Could she forget this one mistake and remember every one of
the memories that the two of them had built together, or could
she forget those many memories while this mistake loomed
so large before her? An image floated in her mind, a time
when she was young.Asheet of paper with answers scribbled
on it. Red marks in periodic synchrony marked and appraised
the answers, and a laudatory comment appreciated her
success. But it told her nothing of how those answers had
come to be. Those pencilled words held a sacred whisper in
them, a secret that only she knew. Of answers scribbled under
person at the end of it all. They were one heart, one soul, one
life. Until his one mistake. He tried to say something – but the
unshakeable mist of silence hung in the air with a sense of
unabashed abandon. There is something unnerving about
silence: it creeps into spaces and sits smugly, no matter what
discomfort it brings. It rings loudly when you don't want it to.
It answers questions when nothing can, or even should be
said. It mocks, derisively, pokes a stake in any heart, leaving
indiscriminate wounds. Silence can let a crime unfold.
Silence can let empires crumble, the best laid plans to fall flat,
the worst mistakes remain unnoticed, covered up, even.
Silence, sometimes, is a way out for a coward. And he chose
it.
* * *
movepastthis,ormovepasthim?Couldshe?
All at once, the silence had slipped into a peaceful one. They
heard each other. She walked to the sand, her mind one with
the sea as it lapped on the shore. He followed quietly. She let
the waves trace circles on her feet, feeling like she was
movingandyetnot,allthesame.
He knelt down, one knee burrowing into the sand. The water
made patches on his rolled up trousers. He held out a ring in
hishand.
"Willyoumarryme,again?"
Shecried,andcriedandcried.
Hehadhisanswer.
* * *
become one with the ocean. He didn't tell her that regret and
guilt washed over him, engulfing him with a silence that left
him alone with Repentance. He didn't tell her that he thought
of a million ways to punish himself: but stopped short simply
because each was a greater punishment for her than for him.
He didn't tell her that he even contemplated leaving - but that
would have been too light on his conscience, the perfect
getaway. He did not tell her that he wrote so many letters in
the hope of telling her the truth, letters that gnawed at his
insides and tore his heart apart as letters etched in inked
permanencethecrimehe'dcommitted.Instead,hekeptquiet.
* * *
She watched as he drove past houses, colourless blurs flew by
at breakneck speed. Each house bled into the next. One big
a shoe, of little scrolls of paper up
her sleeve. It looked perfect on the
surface, this sheet. But the tectonic
platesunderithadmoved.
* * *
Take a sheet of paper. And a bunch
of crayons. Make bands with each
colour on the paper, like a waxy
rainbow. Or squiggly bands, not
necessarily the straight ones. Use
any colour you like, except black.
When you're done drawing the
bands, take the black crayon and
colour over everything. Wash the
entire sheet in black - like the
slippery darkness that coats the
world when night comes. And then,
take an old nib, and etch into the
blackness. Flecks of the colour will
peel off, like layers of pain. Little
shrapnel of black and wax and
colour will ebb away, leaving your
labour of love to shine through for
you to see. That was what He was to
her. His true love for her would
shine always. He would never let
her down - and never, ever, with this
mistakeagain.
* * *
She didn't realise where he had
brought her until she got out. And
then it hit her, the full import of
what they were, what they had
become, and how. She stepped out
of the car. How easily things had
changed... how suddenly. Was there
any point to them at all? Was there
anything left to say? Her heart hurt,
the pain spilling into her mind in
waves.Was this what they had come
to, after what they were? Should she
She was still up, that night, a month
ago. She had finished filing her
nails, arranging the closets and
cleaning up the little gaps between
thefurniture.Thriceover.
He'd told her he'd be late - and that
sheshouldsleep.
But she still waited - not for
anything else but because she
wanted to, and he meant something
big to her. That was why, when he
would come in three hours later, she
wouldn't ask him what detained
him. That was why, when he would
carelessly toss his shirt that smelled
of another woman, she wouldn't ask
him where he was. That was why,
when she would watch his back
turned to her, she wouldn't reach out
toaskhimwhy.
And that was why, a whole month
later, she would find herself
jammed against her better judgment
in a car with him, the ugly truth
sitting inconveniently between
them,knockingtheirelbows.
* * *
He drove quietly. A palpable force
drove them apart as much as it kept
them together. He'd erred, one little
slip. Just once. He didn't think of the
other, ever now - except when he
cringed at what he had done. He had
no excuse - it wasn't planned, it
wasn't deliberate.Acocktail dress, a
few drinks, conversation that went
nowhere and a window. It just
happened.And when it did, he spent
hours in regret. He didn't tell her
that he drove all the way to the sea-
side to cry, letting his salty tears
12Estrade Literary Magazine

18. oxygen tank that helps him breathe easy.
It kills me to watch someone spend his
life like that. Whatever little is left of it.
But what surprises me is the woman by
his side. His partner. His life partner. His
love. And how she's able to dig deep
within to pull out some miraculous
courage to watch him this way, every
singleday.
That night at the hospital the only
thoughts that ran in my head were - Why
would you do that to someone? Why
would you want someone to live on
machines? Why would his family do that
to him? I would never want to live my last
days like that. I would expect my family
to just let me go.And I made a mental note
to mention it to them. It was not worth
living like that. Not only is it heart-
rending to watch someone suffering like
this, but also extremely agonizing for the
person who is going through it. It was not
worthitevenforday.
But when I put myself in his families'
shoes, I realized how difficult it is to let
go. You want to hold on to every minute
you have with that person. What ensued
during the next four days made me
changemymind.
Mrs. Sarin, who may just be a couple
of years younger thanhim,is a short petite
woman, wears her hair in the latest
fashion and dresses in bright clothes.All
this is an absolute contrast to her
appearance.Frail.
On day 1, I did not interact with
Mrs.Sarin or 'Aunty' as I had begun to call
her then. When I got to the hospital she
was asleep and the next morning we
exchanged pleasantries. Just as I was
about to leave, I saw her standing next to
his bed, stroking his hair and repeating
the three words that would give her hope,
"Open youreyes."
I wanted to talk to her but, I left
thinking it may be impolite to intrude. But
the truth was that I didn't have the courage
to walk up to her and even if I did, I just
wouldn'tknowhattosay.
The words were ringing in my head on
my way to work. All she wanted was for
him to see her. To ensure him that she is
right there, by him. Just thinking about
the pain she was going through made me
numb. How difficult was it for her, to see
someone she has spent more than 40 years
with slip away like that, right in front of
hereyes.
I went around doing my work as I
would on any other day, but Mrs and Mr.
Sarin were on my mind. I was hoping that
he would still be there when I return to the
hospitaladaylater.
And he was there, sitting in a wheel chair,
hiseyesstillshut.Ismiled.
"Hello aunty. I hope uncle is better
hisisastoryaboutlove. Icango
asfarastosay,truelove.
Notmanyofus believethatit
exists anymore. We have given love,
numerous synonyms today -attachment,
care, dependency, best friend,
roommate, often even 'butterflies'etc.
But I saw it. During an unfortunate time
and probably, when I neede it the most.
And it has reinstated my faith in the
word.
I am sure everyone reading this has
been in love and experienced in the true
sense of the word. Love is not only
between two people of the opposite sex.
It is a feeling that parents experience
when they hold their child in their arms
for the first time to an emotion that
overwhelms you when you see your dog
wag his tail, every time you return
home. It's a bond between siblings. It is
thatundyingloveforthefamily.
I am no expert on love, but do you
ever question any of the above
relations? Do you have doubts when it
comes to them? We stand by them and
love them no matter what. Your sibling
can say the harshest things to you but
you will still be there. A child may
disrespect and say hurtful things, but
parents will go nowhere. They will be
standing right there. These relations are
out of a box, I like to call “unconditional
love.” But why does all this change
when we find the person we want to
spend the rest of our lives with?
Supposedly, our soul-mates. Why do
we question that feeling over something
nasty been said over a fight or just a
mistakes made by either.We are ready to
storm out. Forget everything that once
meant the world to us. Leave behind
everything. We lose faith in love just as
fast as quick sand pulls you in. It's over.
Sometimes it seems so easy to say this,
not because we've tried too hard but
because we've given up trying. And it is
in times like these that you need to see
something so magical that you believe
in everything once again. I was
fortunatethatIdid.
A month ago I spent a few nights at
the hospital,as someone from my family
was admitted there. It was a twin share
room and this story is about the other
manintheroom.
"He used to be so handsome. He still is.
For me,"saidhiswife.
As I stand by his bed side, watching
his wife talk to him, I see a man who is
above 75 years old, tall with deep set
eyes and a seamed face. Dressed in
faded white and blue checks clothes
provided by the hospital. He sleeps in an
air bed so that he does not suffer from
bed sores. He can't move. There is an
13 Estrade Literary Magazine
today," Iasked.
"I wish he would just open his eyes," she
choked.
Till now I did not have the courage to
ask her what was wrong with him. Why
was he in the hospital. Lying there,
motionless.
While I was lying in the bed next to
my family member, talking to him and
watching T.V, I could hear aunty
continuously calling out to Mr.Sarin.This
went on for at least 30 minutes and all she
said was, “Look at me. Open your eyes.
Youknow Iamrighthere.”
Then voice eventually died down and the
lightswentoff.
As it got late into the night, the nurse
came by to feed Mr.Sarin, with the help of
a food pipe. His eyes still shut.
Mrs.Sarinwas sleeping.
A few hours passed and I was still
awake. So I decided to step out of the
room and read in the lobby. Just as I was
walking by, I glanced at Mr.Sarin. I was
thrilled.
"Aunty, wake up. His eyes are open.
Aunty," Ithink,Ishriekedinexcitement
She literally jumped out of her bed and
kissedhisforehead.
He was staring at the ceiling. His grey
eyesseemedso lifeless.
"Look at me baby. Look at me please,"
she said and took his hand in hers. "Please
lookatme,"shepleaded.
It had been over a week since he had
openedhiseyes.
" I love you. I love you so much. Please
lookatme,"shecried.
He eventuallydidandshehuggedhim.
At this moment, I felt my senses
weaken. I lost control of my emotions. I
experienced love. I had never felt
something so intense. I wanted to just run
to them and join in. But I knew this
moment was not mine to share. It was
theirs.
I am sure he wanted to reciprocate. If
it's true that people in this state can hear
and understand everything you say, then
he did. I saw tears roll down from the
corner of his eyes. They spoke a million
words.Theysaideverythinghecouldnot.
Before I could even understand what was
happening I had turned into a bawling
baby. I moved away only to come back
after 20 mins or so and still found Mrs.
Sarinstandingthere.
She was shivering. “It is a good sign,
right?” she was hoping for an assurance. I
nodded.
He had shut his eyes but Mrs. Sarin
held on to him. Tight. I think this was her
only way of telling him, she is there, right
by him and giving him hope to carry on, to
fight. Assuring him she loves him. Hope.
Sometimesaboonandsometimesa
T
Continued to Page 38...

19. 14Estrade Literary Magazine
andcancer.In121malesand97females,
HN: Too much Green Tea results in
the accumulation of antioxidants which
inmicehasshown adepletionof…
Not knowing what to do with my
stock of Green Tea, I powdered it and put
it to alternative and hopefully harmless
uses - used it as a face pack with milk;
rinsed my hair; used some to add colour to
the kolams ( the ants did not eat it, by the
way); recommended it madly to my maid
who had no clue what it was and thought I
was reallymad.
HN: Dangers of Coconut Oil. Regular
consumption increases cholesterol and
chances of heart attacks shoot up by X %.
Studies on 739 people over a span of 8
years...
Makes no sense. People in Kerala are
immersed in coconut oil and seem to be
healthier and slimmer than the rest of the
country. May be I'll plan my moves after
approachingtheRTI.....
This is getting very tiring, really. May
be I should try something for my looks.
When Hemamalini can age so
gorgeously, with half her name why can't
I aspire for a fraction of that, given the
poor basicingredients?
AD : ' First time in India. The
complete Hair Care for gorgeous black
tresses …’
Rapunzel might have gone for this in
her old age and at ground level.As for me,
I'm desperately trying to hold on to the
vanishing canopy on my scalp – can't
afford to take a risk, even if it is from the
Amazonjungle.
AD : ' Fairness in just 7 days. Every
headwillturn‘
They don't say in which direction. I
am ashamed to admit it … I did buy a tube
of this 7day miracle. Following the
instructions, I applied it on my face and
spindly neck. My face stared back at me –
themirror.Culturally,we Indians donot
merelyborrowed thistitlefrom
Shakespeare to add some class.
No hysterical Hamlet, should he
materialize in front of me now, will
deflect my commitment to my present
project – EternalYouth .I am just thinking
with my pen (keys) and the caption is no
infringement on any third party
copyright. Sounds like an insurance
claim!
My preoccupation with my 70 odd
years and the few remaining ones ahead is
about my good health and good looks –
whether I should be influenced or not by
all the Health News and Beauty ads. My
acute concern is about not falling ill or
becoming a zombie till D-day. In other
words, a hope of dropping dead
beautifully. No trouble to anybody, right?
May be I could utter some 'last famous
words' before hitting the ground . . . like,
“just get my body out of your way and get
on with your life”. Does it have a tone of
martyrdom? No time to edit anything
anyways. Now you understand my fatal
a t t r a c t i o n t o a l l t h e m e d i a
recommendations to be at least in a pale
pinkofhealthandbeauty.
Media!Thelureoftheads!!
Health News (HN): Studies in
Austria and the USA have shown that
Turmeric prevents and reverses
Alzheimers...
I forget my BP pill. My mind screams
ALZHEIMERS! And then, till the next
medical bulletin, my daily menu is
jaundiced almost to a lethal degree.To put
itpoetically:
' Fromdawntodusk
InyellowIbask'
HN: New studies in the UK have
shown that taking too much Turmeric
affectsthespleenandcauses...
At once, I delete turmeric totally and stare
atanalarminglyanaemicmenu.
HN: GreenTeapreventsheartattacks
encourage people much. But your own
face discouraging you is quite another
matter. Anyways, I looked. Oh! Part of
my shoulders.. back.. and front which
shows above my blouse.. okay. More
cream. How about hands and feet? And
that band of bare waist when I wear a sari?
How much of the waist? Before eating?
After eating? .. The cream tube was soon
squeezed lifeless. No doubt I saved some
cream because I don't wear 'plunging'
blouses. But still, one measly tube is sadly
inadequate. They have to market the
cream in 1 liter tetrapacks which I cannot
afford unless I give up coffee and food
andclothingingeneral.
ANDTHEN, it happened.ATVshow.
An old actress, once famous and
beautiful, was being interviewed. The
spirit of the actress was fantastic but her
face was ghastly. Dyed black hair, heavy
make-up and grotesque jewelry portrayed
a pathetic clutching of youth long gone.
Shaken and shocked back to sanity, I ran
to the mirror like Cinderella's stepmother.
My comfortingly ordinary face, sparse
but adequate silvery hair and glasses. I
just had cataract surgery done in one eye
and that gives me a choice of image
options. Winking my bad eye, I see my
face clearly defined in all its wrinkled
glory. Winking my now-new eye,I see 2
faces ( both mine, of course) in the middle
of a haze – would like to believe its an
EtherealAura.Ahhh.
'Wherethemindiswithfear
And theheadhaslostitshair
MediaisBhagawadGitha
Promises ofeternalyouth
Meaninglessmanicuredmodels
Sanitypushedtoextinction
Panicofageandexit
Makes theclearstreamofreason
Totallyloseitsway'
(apologiesandpronamstoShri.Tagore)
I
orgeous dayitis.Sunshine is
visibleafteralmostaweekof
continuous rain and this morning
has brought a silver lining in my life. So
much, that for the first time I thought of
converting my feelings into words and
subsequently it led to the inauguration of
this diary. Last night,Adheer called up on
G
the phone of our land lady. It has been a
week since he has disappeared suddenly,
leaving me all alone with our two month
old baby inside me. In these two years, he
had not left me alone even for a single
night and now this. But he has promised
ofcominghometodayevening…
“Adheer, please don't do this to me. I
will stay with you anywhere in
whatsoever conditions. Just take me
along with you. I haven't seen your face
for more than three months. Please
Adheer, try and understand my situation.
At least have some mercy for your baby
who hasn't even seen the light of day.” I
spoke all this breathlessly when Adheer

20. all alone with only Vishesh with me, I
always hoped about non occurrence of
any indecent incident. But destiny had
some different plans. Yesterday, past
midnight, suddenly someone smacked
our door heavily. I got up, half asleep and
opened the door a little reluctantly. Very
next moment, I was pushed firmly on the
floor. Before I could react ,my night-
gown was torn apart and I was clutched
by an unknown guy. Suddenly, someone
pulled that guy back and freed me. The
guy was a drunkard staying in our
neighborhood. Lots of drama happened
after that, but if Shaukatbhai, our next
door neighbor, would not have rescued
me then I would have definitely taken
some unwarranted steps to defend
myself. As he is a Muslim, I was always
afraid of Shaukatbhai, but when time
came he only became my saviour. This
incident taught me two very important
lessons – 1. I am still unable to understand
people 2. Humanity sees no religion. My
8 year old boy, shocked with the way his
mother was treated ,kept shivering and
crying in a corner until I hugged him
tightly. This is a cruel society for a single
woman,forasinglemother…
Life started today with one of the
finest news of recent times. Finally, I am
starting my own beauty parlour. Place
rented. Staff hired. Opening ceremony is
next week. No more home-to-home
roaming. To celebrate the success, I
bought a 1 litre ice-cream pack for
Vishesh and me. He loves Kaaju draksh
ice cream When I reached home Vishesh
was not there. I looked all around for
more than an hour but didn't find him.
Almost 4 hours later, he came home and it
was 10:00 pm. He didn't answer me even
after I confronted him continuously for
15 minutes. This made me very angry and
I thrashed him severely. Finally, he
admitted that he had gone for a movie
with his friends. I go out for work every
day keeping Vishesh alone at home. But
today's incident demanded my utmost
attention. He has already entered his teens
and this is the age which can make or
break his future. Thanks to mid May
mercury rising, the chilled Kaaju draksh
ice-cream had become a sizzling dry-fruit
milk shake. But, we relished it together
beforesleeping…
All days are not the same. Never ever
in my wildest dream, had I thought that
Vishesh can behave like this. Arguments
went flying between us when I started
inquiring in depth about the Rs. 2,000
which was missing from my purse. I was
sure he had taken it ,but he was not ready
to accept. I lost my temper and
slapped him twice. The moment I raised
my hand for the third time, he pushed me
hard and I fell down. He was about to hit
me but I don't know what stopped him and
he rushed out of the house. I agree, I
should not have raised my hand on a 18
year old boy but he is my son and
it is my duty to keep him away
from wrong doings. However, it was
his reaction which was shocking. If given
a choice, I would have deleted today from
mylife…
Saanjh came home today evening.
Very well brought up and good-natured
girl she looked. Vishesh and Saanjh knew
each other since last three years. Though
they are yet to propose to each other, I
have started visualizing Saanjh as my
daughter-in-law. They make a cute
couple. If she really likes Vishesh, I will
convince him anyhow but there is a long
way to go for that as Vishesh has just
entered his adulthood. These thoughts of
my son 's marriage will surely not let me
sleeptonight…
As soon as I opened my eyes today
morning, I dialled Vishesh's number to
wish him. He promised to come home for
dinner tonight along with Saanjh. It has
been 2 years since they got separated
from me. Just one year into marriage and
they felt the need of personal space.
Saanjh could have handled the situation
in a much better manner but she didn't
attempt to. On the contrary, she was more
anxious to part ways with me. My whole
day went in preparing Vishesh's favourite
dishes.After all it is his 25th birthday.The
clock kept ticking, I kept waiting and the
date changed. I felt like calling and
questioning Saanjh about the reasons for
her selfish behavior.At the last moment, I
pulled myself back on realizing that she is
expecting and should not be given any
stress during this period. Based on the
first impression of this girl, I never
imagined she would snatch my boy away
from me. Still I have not learnt to
understandpeople…
Last night, I dreamt of Adheer.
So unusual, as it has been three decades
since we have crossed paths. Last thing a
woman should do in her life is to fall for a
wrong man. However, I am yet to figure
out whether the man I had fallen for was
right or wrong. In my dreams, whenever
he came back after deserting me, I always
cried and cursed him for leaving me
suddenly. Not even once, did I ask him the
reason for his sudden disappearance. I
never bothered to know whether he was in
trouble or was safe. I never thought that
the step taken by him could have been
born out of helplessness and always
believed that it was an intentional action.
But again, this does not suggest that I am
guilty as such behavior of mine was
born out of my helplessness. With this
thought, I have reached the last page of
this diary and also, no more feelings are
left to be converted into words. After so
many years, I still feel that the solace of
my life is inAdheer's arms.Although it
didn't happen, I am attached to him by
default ,till his last breath which
neithercanhedenynorcanhechange…
called up today morning, hoping that he
might come back. Survival is tough for a
pregnant lady living all alone in a rented
house. However, my land-lady not only
waived off the rent understanding my
situation but is also treating me the way
a pregnant lady should be treated. It
feels good to know that there are still
few people with sympathy for others.
The days pass by, getting colder and the
D-day isinchingcloser…
Daddyji is coming today to take me
home as I had no other option but to call
him. My mother told that I would not be
allowed to live with them once the baby
would be two years old. Sometimes, it is
strange the way your blood relations
behave with you. My mother is more
concerned about relatives and society
rather than her own daughter. But then, I
also didn't think about them when I left
home suddenly. Who should I blame?
Adheer? Myself? Destiny? I guess the
prime culprit is that moment in which I
agreed to run away with Adheer and
caged myself in this 'love marriage'.
That too at the age of 18! Such episodes,
give you a lifetime of lessons. As things
stand today, within one month I will be
givingbirthtoanew life.Amidstallthis,
I am still clueless on Adheer's
whereabouts…
Vishesh's 2nd birthday is
approaching fast. So quickly has he
grown up and learning so many things.
Maybe it applies to all children but for
me. Witnessing his cute antics are the
most amazing moments of my life. It
keeps me going and makes my life
worth living. The day to evacuate the
house is also close enough. Since the
last few days, I have already started
searching the newspapers for female
Paying Guest accommodation. Daddyji
has promised to give some money on
which we would be able to survive
without work for at least a year. He has
also made a promise to not inform this
about the money part to my mother. I
called our old land-lady to ask if I can
stay there for a few days but no one
responded on that number. By calling
her, somewhere deep inside, I wished to
know if there was any call or message
fromAdheer…
Time flies. It has been more than
1000 days since I left home and started
facing this world with courage as my
only companion. My business of home-
to-home beauty parlour service is
growing fairly. Within a fortnight, I
would be returning back the amount
given by Daddyji. Loneliness can easily
kill anyone. But, for me, one look at
Vishesh's face and bundles of energy
automatically gets injected into me.
Going to bed early today as tomorrow is
Vishesh's firstdayatschool…
What happens when your worst
nightmare comes true? Ask me. Living
15 Estrade Literary Magazine

21. 16Estrade Literary Magazine
watchedthebloodspilllastnight.
Ithappenedveryfast,butthemoon
was out and it shone merrily on the
darksideofthecave.
There was so much commotion, in
seconds, people spilled out of their
homes, lighting lanterns and carrying
sticks.
Ram Gowda, started yelling and
shouting. Promising to kill in revenge,
swearing to bring the local cops down on
the narrow caves. Threatening all the
bystanderstobringforththeculprit.
I quietly slipped back into my house as
the crowd eventually began to drift into
fractions.
They would be those who would join
Gowda's calls for justice and others who
wouldsayGowda deservedit.
After all, he constantly boasted of his
wonderfulcow.
“Shewas so beautiful”
“Soholy”
“Shebroughtgoodfortunetothefamily”
“Shegavethebestmilk”
“Just look at my strong sons and beautiful
daughters,ItisallGauri's blessings”
And now,therewas nocow left.
I wondered why it had been done,
though knowing the criminal and the
crime,themotivestillwas unknown.
I thought of it all night till sleep took
over. And even then I know that I had
dreamed only of Gowda and his cow,
Gauri.
I thought I had figured it out, but like a
dream,mydiscoveriesmeltedaway.
As I cooked and cleaned and dressed
and fed, I kept an eye out on the
commotionuptheroad.
There were groups coming and going.
Noises andyellingthatroseandfell.
Finally through it all, I heard a car
horn. It was a very unusual sound for the
lanesinwhichIlived.
Leaning against the doorway, I
watched Arjun touch his parents' feet
before loading his bags in the auto
rickshaw.
Where is he going? I asked one of the
women who was passing by to fetch
water.
With all the ill luck on the family,
they've agreed he doesn't need to stay and
look after the family work. Laxman will
manage both his and Arjun's work while
Arjun is being sent to Bangalore for
furtherstudies.
The auto pulled away and slowly
disappearedthroughthelanes.
I still didn't know how Arjun killing
the cow had led to him escaping his
family.
But it had.As the sun caught his eyes,
theyglistenedlikeGauri's .
I

22. time even though she missed her family.
Her real nightmare began at the age of ten
when she was spotted by a 'Sethji'and
raped, while 'Mohini Bai' counted the
handsome earning that Rama had
providedtothebrothel.
As time went on, the pain and anger
was washed down with tears and Rama,
grew empty on the inside and succumbed
to the situation and her fate. However,
Rama would always tell herself, that this
was just a 'phase', more for the hope of
better days and even more to give her
strength for her present days. At 20yrs.
Rama was the most sort after sex worker
and amongst her numerous clients was,
Murli. Murli was a driver by profession,
her loyal customer and above all, Rama's
secret lover.After six months of planning
and help from Rama's co-workers, the
two finally succeeded in eloping from the
clutches of 'Mohini Bai' and 'Kalighat'.At
the time of her wedding, Rama was
chocked up with emotions that she
believed to be dead. Life had cut her yet
anotherslice,thistimeahappyone.
But fate wasn't done with her yet. Few
years later, Murli died in a road accident
leaving Rama to fend for herself and their
3yrs. old daughter. She struggled to find
work and ways to feed her daughter and
often slept empty stomach herself. This is
when she reminded herself once again
that this was just a 'phase', just another
sour 'slice of life'. It was during this time
that Murli's friend, Govind, adviced
Rama to go and talk to Mr. Lal. Lal was
Murli and Govind's boss who would rent
out vehicles to drivers from trucks to cars
to rickshaws. He paid his drivers a
percentage of the earnings everyday to
his drivers and would often help them in
difficulttimes.
Lal took pity on Rama and gave her
cleaning jobs, which fed her and her
daughter. One day while on her lunch-
break she saw one of the driving
instructors teaching his student. She
rushed to Lal's office and made the most
unexpected request, she wanted to learn
to drive. Lal was initially a bit reluctant
but then realized that if she learned well
she would be able to earn a higher income
and save money for her daughter. Lal
assigned Govind to teach Rama how to
drive a van. To his surprise, Rama turned
out to be a very quick learner and he soon
assigned her, her first transport
assignment.Rama felt that the hole that
had been punched in her heart after
Murli's deathwas now startingtofillup.
Days became years and years became
decades, Rama's daughter had now
finished college.As for Rama, she is now
an impeccable driver and the senior most
driving instructor at Mr. Lal's company.
Today as she stands on the threshold of
her house, she is waiting for her daughter
to return home from her first job
interview. Standing there she thinks that
life however it is, is beautiful and worth
giving a chance- One just has to have
hope and know that with every slice, life
will change and one day it will get better
and beautiful. From the far corner of her
eyes she can see her daughter running
towards her frantically waving her
obvious 'appointment letter' and breathes
a sigh of relief. She hugs her tightly and
then glances quickly at her watch, it is
time for her training sessions, it is now
timeforhertoteach'asliceoflife'.
I
ntheold,desertedplaceofKolkata
named'KacchaPara'wherethe
wallsaretaintedandhouses/huts
were last painted during emergency, a
discussion is going on at a chopal. A
discussion, regarding the 'Delhi Gang
rape, December 2012'. A group of men
thinking over what is the country going
towards, attitude of men and women
and the rights of women in the country.
Suddenly, the door of an old widowed
hut opens and a lady comes out to spit
out her paan. The old woman named
'Rama', who had been hearing about the
incident for quite sometime now,
overheard their conversation. “May
God be with that girl and her family and
give them strength through this rough
patch”,sheprayed.
Standing there on the threshold of
her house, she was pulled out of her
present existence to the terrible
memories of her past. Little Rama was
six years of age playing in front of her
hut when 'Mohini Bai' lured her with
sweets. It didn't take the terrified Rama
long to realize that she had been
abducted. What took long was to realize
that 'Mohini Bai' was the leader of a
small group involved in human
trafficking.And when she did, she knew
that the happy 'slice of her life' was over.
The little Rama that had been abducted
from her village and sold to the brothel
of 'Kalighat' did not remain 'young' for a
very long time. When Rama turned
7yrs. she began her training for 'Baiji'
where she spent hours memorizing
dance routines, eating and watching the
older 'Baijis' dance. A full tummy and
pretty clothes did not seem too bad at the
Gottimetoponder,
hearthefadingsounds…
Theechoesandreverberation,
Breakmysilence;
And Ifindthewill,
Tofightannihilation!
‘mglad,
thatithappenedthisway…
Sometimesyouneedgetlost,
tofindtheway.
I'mglad,
Icompletelybrokedown…
------
3:00 AM. Beep BeepBeepBeep. My
cell phone alarm starts to ring. I wake up
with a start! It takes me a minute to sort
out my mind. Yes. Today is the day! Not
much time left. Amrita said she'd be here
by 9.30am. Have to clean my apartment
I
17 Estrade Literary Magazine

23. Priya had to submit and present her
internship project to the jury at NID to get
her post-graduate diploma. I started
meeting her at coffee shops there after. I
was an amateur musician other than
being a professional UI designer. I told
her that I could help her to record a
narrative soundtrack with sound effects
for her final year project presentation.
But the few times we met, we discussed
everything but WORK! Being from the
same city, similar culture and taste, we
got along extremely well. We eventually
decided to get to work for which, we
needed a quiet room for sound recording.
And I graciously offered my place. After
living in a deplorable PG for more than a
year, I had moved into a 3 BHK in a gated
apartment complex, close to my office.
Although I shared the apartment with two
other colleagues and a couch surfer, I had
myprivatespace,myroom.
before that! I brush my teeth quickly,
have a glass of water and turn on the
vacuum cleaner. The loud 'vroom' noise
shuts off all distractions; and I recall one
eveningsevenmonthsago…
It was 7pm at the horse riding
grounds near Yelahanka, Bangalore. Ear
blasting music flowed from gigantic
speakers all around. It was the Bacardi
NH7 Weekend music festival. I was with
my closest friends and recent crush from
my design school. IDC, IIT Mumbai,
Amrita. She was truly beautiful! I noticed
that she'd been keeping distance from me
ever since she got the hint that I was
romantically interested in her. We were
standing next to each other in from of our
favorite stage- The Dewarists. My
favorite band from Delhi, 'Advaita' was
performing. I have always been a fan of
theirsoulfulfusion.
On Amrita's other side stood Priya,
her roommate who I was meeting for the
first time. Unlike Amrita, Priya was very
down- to- earth. Like me, Priya was a
Bengali from Kolkata where as Amrita
was a Konkani of Goanese origin. As the
night slowly progressed, the crowd
became larger. Conveniently, I got closer
and closer to Amrita but was afraid to
touch her. She was too etherel! Priya soon
left to get herself a drink from the bar
adjoining the stage. I kept fantasizing
hugging and kissing Amrita. But in
reality, she was 10cm away from me and I
was too afraid and probably needed a
drink!
I switch off the vacuum cleaner. My 1
BHK apartment looks spotless now! I am
having my house warming party tonight,
which I had planned around Amrita's
schedule. Today was the only day in the
entire month that she was free to come! I
wonder how many men she dates! I open
my small fridge to check on the food I had
cooked last night, Mom's tomato chutney
reciepe and Kheer. I'm glad I got the time
to cook despite the late working hours on
Friday. But something else catches my
eye. It is the unopened pack of 'Kinder
Joy' chocolate that Priya had left at my
place. Till date I never had the heart to
open and eat it! That was one day I will
neverforget…
After the NH7 concert Amrita had
started avoiding me again. She wanted to
date other men and I was the lowest in her
priority list. Strangely, a few days after
the NH7 concert, Priya got my number off
Amrita and called me to meet her. She
needed help with her final year project
presentation. Priya was a Graphic
Design student from NID, Ahmedabad.
She was in Bangalore for her 6-month
internship cum final year project at
Adobe, where Amrita worked. She had
known Amrita from before and decided to
stay with her in a posh PG in
Koramangala where men were not
allowed.Hence,Ihadneverbeenthere.
support. I just sat next to her gazing or
more like admiring her dusky
complexion, long straight hair and
generous curves. It's not that I wasn't
used to her company but suddenly I felt a
new sensation, more like a tinge of lust. It
was natural but was it too soon? Lost in
her thoughts and admiration, I just kept
gazing at her and lost track of time.
Snapping out of my thoughts I realized
that it was evening already. Recording
was done and it was time for her to leave.
An entire day in her company had passed
like a brief moment and that day,
accidently, she'd left behind her 'Kinder
Joy',ironic!
In the weeks that followed she was
ready to leave Bangalore. I had moved
out or in other words, was thrown out of
my apartment and got a 1 BHK. Somehow
though, there were no reasons left for us
to meet up alone again. I counted and
realized that I had only met Priya six
times. First at the NH7 concert, three
times at the coffee shop, once at my
apartment and the last time when I was
thrown out of it. But in these few meetings,
she had stolen my heart and completely
swept me off my feet. I did meet her one
last time again, a day before her flight to
Delhi, with her Adobe colleagues and
Amrita.
Dammit! I had completely forgot
about Amrita this whole time! I still found
her attractive. Priya was earthy, but
Amrita was down right gorgeous. Always
was. We had an elaborate lunch, caught a
movie and went by my new apartment so
Priya could see it. She liked the place and
the area and was glad I'd finally moved
out!
I shut the fridge. It had been four
months since Priya had left. In a sheer
state of stupidity, I asked her out over an
email to which she kindly replied that she
had no such feelings for me. I should've
known! But something still hurt deep
within and I fell into depression
coinciding with acute case of jaundice
and a two month bed rest. My parents
came to look after me for a month while I
took off work. This was when I started
writing poems to pass my time; 'Echoes
and Reverberation' was one of the poems
I penned then. About a month ago, Priya
and Amrita had met at a conference in
Goa. I had sent a book, 'The graphic
design of Satyajit Ray' for Priya through
Amrita. Priya was surprised but loved the
bookandsentagiftbackwithAmrita.
Today,the house warming party was
just an excuse to meet her. She had been
avoiding me since she found out that I had
asked Priya out. Today, Amrita would
come and I would get to meet my
gorgeous crush since college again. I wait
eagerly for her arrival; I wait eagerly to
see the gift that Priya has sent through her.
I wonder what it is, would Amrita just
arrivealready!
“Smile is
infectious” she
said, ‘Never stop
smiling no matter
what.
You will
always find
happiness in that
understood, my
cutie pie”
The smile
you see on the face
of people is
because of you and
you made them
smile.
Priya did not know this area of
Bangalore so I offered to pick her up from
near her place. As it was the first time a
girl was visiting my apartment, it was
natural if not absolutely necessary, that I
cleaned my room and bathroom till the
floor and tiles glistened! Priya was
running a little late so we decided to get
some lunch before heading to my place.
As we walked into my building,the
gatekeeper gave us a scowl and I
wondered what dirty thoughts he had
running inhismind!
The afternoon passed in a daze. Priya
started recording her voice using
software on her laptop. She didn't
actually need much help except for moral
18Estrade Literary Magazine

24. eyMike,theusual”Ihuff
asIenterthecoffeeshop
atthecornerofthestreet,
drenched wet. Daniel Powter was
playing on the radio crooning, “You had
a bad day”. It makes perfect sense after
thehorribledayatwork.
“Comingup!”shouts outMike
I settle down in the chair that I have
been going to every single day for the
last three years. This place has become a
second home, the home that I actually
love going to. I pick up the newspaper
and start reading though I have gone
through every single piece of news in
there, out of pure habit I just go through
it once again. By the time I had finished
reading the headliner, Mike had brought
me my coffee. He smiles but knows it’s
better not to say anything. He has been
in the coffee shop forever, at least ever
since I started going there and he knows
exactlywhatwillcheermeup.
“She`llbehere”
Those three words brought out the
first smile of the day for me. I smiled
backandhequietlyleft.
I loved this coffee place. It had a
very old school look to it. A nice,cozy
café, with a small assortment of coffee,
bagels and sandwiches; exactly what I
was looking for. There was a little
fireplace, which always was lit up, a
bookshelf and French windows on two
of the four walls, staring out at the tall
skyscrapers surrounding it. The day I
spotted it while walking home, I knew
this is the place I will take her out for the
firsttime.
There is a sense of calmness that
takes over when I stare out of those
windows, looking at the people running
around. The array of expressions and
moods of hundreds of people just
passing by drowns me out. Today, it`s
pouring down hard which makes the
whole motion picture of the window
evenbetterthaneveryotherday.
But, there is always a face that I keep
looking out for in that picture. As if I'm
looking at a crowd of scowling faces
dressed n black in white and I am
looking for Naina, the dash of color in
thatpicture.
Naina has never been on time. Since
the day I got her to this place, she fell in
love with it and made it a rule, one of her
million others, to be at this café every
single day after work. But even though
we come down from the very same
building and office, she has to make me
wait.
I nod my head and let out a tired
smile and sip on my coffee. And there
she was, struggling to hold twenty small
“H
little things in her tiny hands as she
struggled to hold her umbrella. That is the
color I was talking about. It just
completed my picture from the window.
The scowling face was, replaced by a big
smile as I see her make her way across the
lastwalkway.
“Mike, this rain sucks!” she shouts
out loud as she enters the café. Mike just
smiles at her and takes her umbrella and
other stuff from her hands as she shakes
off droplets of water from her shoulders
and hand. She looked beautiful as always
with her huge smile as she found me
staring at her and smiling. Her short hair
dripping with water and the dress hanging
effortlessly on her delicate shoulders just
drowned every single thing around me, as
I looked at her taking in the image. I have
been with her for over three years but till
date she still makes me speechless. I feel
stupidbutIdon'tmindthat
“What are you staring at? Poor Mike
has to help me out but you cant move your
lazy ass up there...” she says as she sits
“I don't know why Naina, and I don't
care…“
“Why not! How can you not care!
People are the same as you are.Today you
were amongst them, pissed and walking
around angry when someone would have
noticed the same. Someone would have
smiled at you and you smiled back. Have
you ever wondered why did the other
person smileatyou??”
I actually had never wondered about
that. Why do people smile and say hey as
you pass by. They don't even know you
but they still do. That's something I do too
when I'm in a good mood but I never
wonderedwhy Idoso.
“No”
“Well, because they are happy and
they want to see you and the people
around them smile and make you happy
too… They want to see the smile like I do
rightnow”
I hadn't realized but I had stopped
smiling as I thought why people smiled at
me as I pass by. I looked at her again as
she looked out of the window and was
waving at a small kid outside, who was
waving back and smiling. She turned to
meandaskedmetodothesame.
I turned around to wave at the small
kidwho was infitsoflaughterbynow
“Smile is infectious” she said, “Never
stop smiling no matter what. The smile
you see on the face of people is because of
you and you made them smile. You will
always find happiness in that…
understood,mycutiepie”
I nodded as I still waved at that kid,
laughingwithhim.
“Now, Remember to go to Rahul`s place
fordinner”
I was still waving at the kid when I
heard “ Remember to go to Rahul`s place
fordinner”twice
I turned around to find my phone
ringing to an alert I had set in the morning
when Rahul called me. I did what I was
the most afraid of. I looked up to Naina`s
chair.
There was no one waving at the small
kid but me, there was no other coffee…
There was no Naina. I held my cup as I
sipped on it quietly when Mike walked up
tomeandsaid
“She is still here… she is still in your
heart”
I nodded back at him as a gesture that I
appreciated his concern. A tear rolled
down my eye as I took the last sip of my
coffee and heard a voice in my head.
Naina`svoice
“Remembertosmilesweetheart”
I stood up with welled up eyes and a
smile on my face, ready to go to Rahul`s
placealone.
down on the chair in front of me. Mike
followedherwithhercupofcoffee.
I don't utter a word as I still couldn`t
take my eyes off her. She waited for a sec
and then she smiled as she flicks my head
tobreakmefrommytrance.
“You are crazy, I hope you realize
that… anyways we have to go to Rahul`s
placetonightso webetterhurry uphere”
“Why are we going there, I`m in no
mood”
“Its his anniversary, why do I have to
take care of everything… wake up “ she
smiles at me. She picks up her cup of
coffee and sips it as she stares out of the
samewindow Istaredouttofindher.
“Why are people here always angry
and pissed” She says. She hated not
seeing smiles on faces. “I mean why
aren't they happy… they have everything
theyneedtobehappy”
“Smile is infectious”
she said, ‘Never stop
smiling no matter
what. The smile you
see on the face of
people is because of
you and you made
them smile.
19 Estrade Literary Magazine

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ESTRADE PUBLISHERS - 68, Premanjali Society, Bodakdev, Ahmedabad 380015ESTRADE PUBLISHERS - 68, Premanjali Society, Bodakdev, Ahmedabad 380015ESTRADE PUBLISHERS - 68, Premanjali Society, Bodakdev, Ahmedabad 380015ESTRADE PUBLISHERS - 68, Premanjali Society, Bodakdev, Ahmedabad 380015
1st February 2014SUBMISSION DEADLINE :

26. The Writer's Club at the British Library, Ahmedabad, India, founded Estrade in October 2012. The quarterly literary magazine aims at
providing a platform for young and budding writers whilst showcasing their work with some of India's finest writers. We publish
literary articles, short fiction, nonfiction and poetry. We host several events and book clubs throughout the year to encourage reading
and writing in young adults.
Estrade accepts submissions all year around, kindly note the deadline for submissions of the 'upcoming issue' on
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through our website www.estrademagazine.com/submissions.
All submissions must be original, previously unpublished and in English. We do accept versions of previously published work
occasionally, the decision for which will lie solely with the Editorial Board. Multiple submissions must be sent as separate entries.
All submissions to Estrade will be forwarded to the editorial board for consideration and editing. Estrade does accept simultaneous
submissions, which may be considered for any issue of the magazine. Please do us the courtesy of informing us promptly in the event
that the work is accepted for publication elsewhere. Only previously unpublished works will be considered for publication.
Should your work be accepted we would do our best to respond within three weeks, however, in some cases this period may be longer.
We do ask that you please wait until you hear back from us before submitting new work for consideration. Manuscripts must not be
previously published or submitted for publication elsewhere while, being reviewed by the editors at Estrade.
Submissions of all the articles must be in Word format including the 'Title', 'Category: (Fiction/ Non-Fiction/ Poetry/ Young Writers)'
and 'Name/ Pen Name of the writer'. Along with the submitted work we ask that the young writers (under 18yrs.) also include their age
and a photograph for publishing along with their work. Please not that writers under 18yrs. must provide their parent/guardians
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resolution of your image must be 300 dpi. Images containing watermarks or credit tags will not be accepted. Kindly refrain from
submitting more than 5 images, as we are less likely to view bulk submissions.
© Copyright for all published material in this issue of Estrade is held by the authors, illustrators and photographers, unless specifically
stated otherwise. They may use their own material elsewhere after publication in Estrade without the permission of Estrade/
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A. Please refer to Home Page of www.estrademagazine.com for the publication date of the upcoming issue. If your work is selected
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27. lady or her daughter and was
slumbering and already half dead to the
world. The bus started picking more
people and the seats were completely
occupied with people trying to squeeze in
as much as possible. Eventually the lady
had to place her daughter on her lap and
free up the seat for an elderly woman who
proved her presence by moaning at every
bump the bus took. Her face appeared like
a wrinkled blanket upon an age old frame
and she had a permanent stoop. I locked
eyes with her for a brief moment and her
eye balls seemed sunk in misery and her
retina looked extremely dry. I wondered
if she had any more tears left in her. I
turned away ,not able to withhold her
daunted look anymore. I could no longer
be comfortable and felt as if my sleep was
swept away.
The daughter of the lady was around
five to six years of age and she looked
beautiful. She looked like a perfect fresh
rose in full bloom. I did not look into her
eyes. I was simply whiling away time.
The baby girl let out a shrewd uncanny
noise and the lady tried to silence her. I
ignored the girl and thought she was
playing pranks with her mother. She did it
yet again and then I realized that the
daughter is a mentally challenged child
with no oratory skills. I had my heart in
my mouth and for the first time I looked
her in her eye. I tried to level with her but
her eyes were wandering everywhere.
There was no steady look even for a brief
second. I wondered what her thoughts
would be. I silently turned myself away
and started to look at the distant
mountains but could not hold myself.
Tears started trickling down my cheeks
and I never had such heaviness in my
heart before. I ensured that nobody
noticed me and closed my eyes and
pretended to sleep.The girl let out another
shrewd shrill sound and was immediately
silenced by her mother. She was like a
beautiful wild flower. I did not want to
embarrass the mother by looking at the
child. The girl placed her hand on my
hand and started playfully tapping my
fingers. Her touch tore me to pieces. I
could have put my hand on fire but could
notbearthepainofhermeretouch.
The mother was sitting just next to me and
was looking at me as if begging to bestow
blessings upon her daughter. I was scared.
I did not know how to respond. I turned
my face away pretending to ignore both
the baby and the mother. I was screaming
inside, asking God to grant me one wish. I
wish I had the power to cure the baby. I
justhadthisonewish.Allelsedidnot
ettingawayfromthemundane,
tryingourbestnottospruce
around and being our raw selves
have always been a distant dream for
many of us given the kind of society,
people, commitments and problems that
we voluntarily surround ourselves with.
At times I am surrounded by people, yet
alone and many a times I am in no man's
land but hardly alone. I decided to embark
on a journey to a village by an ocean. The
co-ordinates, the latitudes, longitudes and
the specifics of the location are not so
greatlyimportant.
Being a man from India with long
strands of hair ,an equally long beard that
hides half my face and saffron clad
clothing easily qualifies as a saint in the
eyes of my fellow Indians. While I know
that I am very far from sainthood, I
neither make claims or qualms about it.
Honestly, I don't care what people think.
Some look at me with utmost reverence
while some with disdain and contempt. I
am used to this and so I literally do not
bother.
My changes both inward and outward
have brought mixed feelings for my wife
too and she is not trained to hide her
emotions. I have trained myself now not
to hide my emotions. What comes
involuntarily for her is a trained act for
me. My wife sometimes loses her cool,
claiming that she has had enough and I
have sometimes spent sleepless nights
when she threatens me that she would cut
my hair and shave my beard when I am
fast asleep. I let her nanny me around and
she truly enjoys that. Do I put up with her?
No! I like the way she is. It is just that she
has still not come to terms with my new
lookandmyapproachtowards life.
So, I boarded a bus and there were
some beautiful songs playing in the tape
recorder. The bus was half empty and I
had a complete three seater all to myself. I
was basking in the rhythm and music that
was playing in the background when the
bus stopped to pick someone enroute. A
lady completely covered in a black veil
from head to toe boarded the bus with her
daughter. She looked around and without
hesitation decided to share the seat with
me. The bus commenced its journey
forward and it was around 7:00 am and
through the window, I could visibly see
the crack of dawn. The sun was slowly
coming out of nowhere and started
spreading warmth .It was trying to
swallow up the dew and the thick cold air
started to lighten up ,breathing became
easyandpainless.
Ididnotpaymuchattentiontothe
matter to me. My family and my own kids
were not even in my thoughts. I prayed to
the unseen and unknown God. I cried and
asked for the girl to be cured. I did not
want anything at all. Not my dreams. Not
my wishes. Not even my own salvation. I
would have traded my life for this one
wish. I would have agreed to be bound to
hell till eternity. I understood reality. I
understood that I am a mere mortal and
can only just pray. I opened my palms and
this girl placed her chin down, her right
cheeks completely buried in my hand. I
felt that the whole world rested on me.
She closed her eyes for what appeared to
be a long and painful moment. I felt her
surrender in every cell of her body. But
surrender to what? How could I know? I
knew not what life holds for her. I knew
not if she will ever be cured. I felt as if an
angel touched my soul and made her
imprint forever. I would die any given day
forherwellness.
One moment, I felt an overwhelming
pain engulfing me beyond the scope of
my emotional capability and the other, I
felt as if all that was spurious and not
essential was draining out, spurting and
gushing, withholding the essence of my
true self. Hours passed by and the bus
would have halted a long time back. The
driver woke me up and told me that all
the passengers had left and that it was
time for me to get down as the bus had
reached the destination. I opened my eyes
and had absolutely nothing to worry
about. The lady and her daughter would
have got down without disturbing my
sleep. I did not cry anymore. I just prayed
and surrendered to God and told myself
that any day, I would be ready to bear the
cross for the girl and souls alike. It was
not a demand, not even wishful thinking.
Just a humble prayer. A serene calmness
and a void bliss took over. My guilt and
painjustwitheredaway.
G
22Estrade Literary Magazine
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28. home where he could carve out a place of
hisown.
It was nearly dark now and the sun
had retired for the day. It had forgotten to
bid adieu to the old man, just like
everyone else who even bothered to get
acquainted with him. He got out of the
water and put his shirt on. The water
drops clung onto his shirt, resisting to let
go as long as they could. He ran his hand
across his jet black hair, marveling at how
little things had changed around the
beach. He felt happy today, a genuine
happiness that filled his body with a new
fervor. He walked on. The beach did not
seem to end today just like there was no
end to freedom. Somewhere in the
horizon, he could see two individuals.
Intrigued, he walked towards them. He
knew them and they knew him. He
smiled.
1988
Neo is a 36 year old lad with a clean-
shaven look, bright eyes, and a forehead
slightly large. He has jet black hair, is 6ft
2inch tall and has a look that speaks of
purpose. He is not known as a person who
likes talking much. He lives alone in 31B,
Gystic Street since the past year or so, and
the neighbors have barely ever
exchanged any pleasantries with him.
They always saw him with no smile and
usually a little frown on his face and
footsteps pacing quick, but reasonably
large steps. He probably didn't have any
friends as he never brought anyone over.
And probably, he didn't want to make any
because they remember how he refused to
accept the pie Mrs. Anderson made for
him, or Mr. Brown's offer to do the lawn
for him. Neo, probably wanted to remain
alone.Theneighbourscouldknow less..
1962
Neo lives with his parents in 21 A,
West Street. He is a 10 year old kid with a
chubby look, bright eyes, and a forehead
slightly large. He has jet black hair which
is always messed up. He is a lovely child
who is probably the neighbourhood's pet.
The bright child is known for throwing
questions which people have no sure
answer for. "Why do you always take the
name of God when you don't see him
curing your leg." once he asked Mrs.
George. And when Mr. Black was
sweating doing the lawn, he asked; "Why
do you do the lawn when the grass has to
grow again?"
Neo, is full of life and will make quite
a cheerful and charming lad, the
neighboursremark.
Sometimebetween 1962and 1988
It is a brightday, theclouds havemade
way for the nascent sunrays to come and
playwithNeo.
“Get up, Neo” How soothing this voice
t's been52years,52longyears.He
walkedintunewiththewaves
crashing on the shore. Even the sand
shrugged away from him as it slipped
past his feet. His shirt seemed to have a
mind of its own as it fluttered in a
wayward fashion. In the distance, some
trees rustled in consonance with the
wind. He wondered whether they really
meant it or just went along with the flow.
Was it possible for freedom to be
completely void of boundaries and
definition? Or is freedom that one subtle
string of enigma through which every
organism is intricately bound to one
another?
He had been walking for quite some
time now. There were not many people
loitering around the beach at this time of
the day. It had an unnatural sense of
calm that beckoned him closer. Either
way, he thought, he was the last person
who could be termed as normal.
Somewhere, in the horizon, a faint trail
of smoke drifted lazily up into the
orange sky. A ship was moving in an
easterly direction, towards the pier
perhaps. He suddenly felt the urge to
soak his feet in the cool clear water for a
while. Time was of no value anymore or
maybe it had stopped completely,
without telling him why. Either way, he
did not feel the urge to jump back into
the neon world just yet.Abusy life does
not allow luxuries such as this. Now he
was finally here, soaking in this
alternate reality. He took off his shirt
and let the water caress his chest. A
shiver ran down his spine. It was a good
feeling, a new one. He tried to laugh but
he was not young anymore and could
manage only a despairing grin. There
was him and there was his life - two
separate entities forcefully brought
together to fight for a lost cause. It was
like two gladiators fighting against each
other, knowing fully well that they were
both going to meet the same end in the
sameheartlessmanner.
Thoughts poured in and out like a
torrential river uncertain of its own
course of action. The gentle ripple of the
water lulled him into a dreamy state. It
was a day such as this, in the autumn of
1972. He remembered his sister playing
in the sand and his mother shouting after
her. She had never really let them feel
the absence of a father in their lives. She
was such a strong-hearted woman. His
sister, too, was just like their mother.
How he adored them. If only he knew
that that was the last memory he would
have of them, he would have probably
let them know how much he loved them.
The water felt nice now. He had longed
for some peace such as this; like a quaint
sounded.
“Yeah!Inaboutaminute.”Neogrumped.
“It's about time, Neo. We have to go.
Now, don't you do this to me again! You
promisedme.”Thevoicewas stillsoft.
“Okay Matilda, look I'm up. Okay? Will
bedownstairs infive.Tellmomtoo!”
“That's good. I'm going to tell her. Be
quick, okay!” The excited voice faded as
Matildarushed towards thestairs.
Matilda, Neo's sister is a girl of grace
and kindness and is in her teens. She is a
soft-spoken, favorite-of-the-family kid.
Her Mother, Mrs. Flinch is the sole earner
of the family, a woman of wisdom and
bearer of worldly matters of the family.
The family plans to go by the beach today.
Mrs. Flinch's job at the drycleaner's rarely
ever gives her the time to take the family
out. Today is one of the few days when
there is ample time. Today is also the last
time the family would go to the beach
together to see the soothing calmness
beforethecomingofthefinalstorm.
After returning from the beach, they
see a short, black man with a pot belly
sitting outside their cottage. The man
upon seeing Mrs. Flinch requests a word
in private. Mrs. Flinch nods and directs
the kids to go inside. Mrs. Flinch appears
in the home after 15 minutes with a red,
swollen face that speaks of tears. Neo
makes several attempts to ask his mother
about what made her look so devastated
but she would only talk about the supper
instead.Neo wouldknow soon..
It's 10 in the morning. Matilda would
be in school. Mother also did not come to
wake Neo up for college. This never
happened, where is she? Neo goes
downstairs to check and calls for his
mother. All he gets is the breakfast in a
tiffin and a note which says she's gone to
Ryan's house and would return soon.
Ryan was Neo's classmate in school. He
has the personality of a stinking rich
person. His trousers are always too low
and reveals his hipline and his brows are
always high in arrogance. His wallet is
loaded with cash and his arms are loaded
with a new girl each day. Ryan's father
was the owner of three drycleaning
outlets in the city and rumour had it that
he had acquired a huge sum of money
throughunrevealedmeans.
It's 11 in the night. There is no sign of
either Matilda or mother. First it seemed
to Neo that mother took Matilda with her
to someplace but if that had been the case,
mother surely would have returned by
now. Each passing second is increasing
Neo's anxiousness by bits. He thought of
going to Ryan's several times but dropped
the plan as he had promised mother he
would never visit that place. Not after
what happened between Ryan and him in
I
23 Estrade Literary Magazine

29. “I heard about..you know. I've come to
tellyousomething.”
“Ya,tell.”
“Neo, my father was there.” “He first
kidnapped your sister and held her as
hostage. Then he called your mother. He
killedthemboth,Neo.Bothinago.”
“What? What are you talking about?
Who?Why?Whatdidtheydo?”
“Ryan's father. He killed your mother
because she knew about it. And she
refusedtobeapartofit.”
“What?Tellmeeverythingclearly.”
“Ryan's father smuggles drugs to the
affluent class to be sent abroad.They send
their clothes for dry cleaning which are
sent to them 'loaded' by the workers at the
dry cleaning. Your mother also did this,
first unknowingly but then she knew.
After that she refused to be a part and
talked to my father about it. He told her to
keep quiet as there is no harm because she
was doing it unintentionally. But guess
she was disgusted of this, she talked to
Ryan's father about it and wanted to leave
the job. He called her that day to talk
about it. She said she wanted to leave the
job. Said she cannot be a part of it. He
resented and tried to keep her in. He said
she had signed the contract that she knew
about it and then he threatened her. Said
he had Matilda. Mrs. Flinch still did not
want to be a part. She begged for Matilda
and swore she wouldn't let the word out.
But he killed them. Killed them both,
Neo.Iamso sorry.“
Neo was quiet for a moment. Suddenly,
hespoke;
“What contract.? You talked of one
contract.”
“Wha..Ya..Yes! She signed one, like my
father did. It said they'd not disclose the
thingaboutsmugglingthedrugs.”
“In their house. He does not keep it in the
office, that is sure. Father handles the
documents.”
“ I have to get that. I will get that. That
shouldhelp..”
High School. Whenever Neo thinks of
Ryan, a small part of his brain starts
playing this little video where Ryan had
beaten Neo and called his mother names
after falsely accusing him of stealing
Ryan's Armani watch, only to be found
later in Ryan's bag. Neo did not protest in
return as it would have cost mother her
job. He would never do a thing to bring
mother down. He already thought of ways
to support her. A phone call interrupted
thewaveofthoughtsinNeo's head.
“Hello, is this Mrs. Flinch's house?” came
ahurriedvoice.
“Yes”
“She and her daughter are dead. Come
and pick the bodies from under the
bridge.” With these words the phone call
ended. Suddenly the world came to a halt.
Did he hear it right? His mother? And
little Matilda, the only people he had in
thisworld.Aretheydead?DEAD?
Neo hurried to the bridge and as told
found the bodies underneath. It is raining.
The streetlight reflected through the
water droplets hitting the road, created
the effect of fireworks. Or is it the world
crying over Neo's loss and the light
scattering in pain? Neo did not bother.As
he ran towards the loving body of his
mother and sister, he saw a vehicle turn
by. He ran towards it but could not see
who was inside. However, he saw the car
number. AS XX 9999. The same number
as Ryan's father's car. He knew why was it
here.
3 days have passed since the fateful
evening. Neo has no clue what he is going
to do anymore. Deeply submerged in
thoughts, he hears the doorbell ring. He
lets it ring for a minute or so. It was as if
his limbs were paralyzed. He gets up to
see the door, Ron is there. Ron's father,
like Neo's mother works at Ryan's father's
dry-cleaning. He is Neo's best friend
sincechildhood.
“HiNeo”
“Hello”
“Butwhatwillyoudo?”
“I will get the documents, produce them
in the court of justice and that would
reveal the culprit, and maybe then the
police will start the investigation they're
so reluctantabout.”
Neo is in the West Jail. He has been
imprisoned for 4 ½ years, for trespassing
and burglarizing the house of an affluent
Businessman of the town and beating up
his son. The poor boy then needed 40
stitches in his scalp, face and neck after
being hit with a wine bottle, gouged with
a set of keys and beaten with a rock. The
neighbours say Neo turned thief in
desperate need of money. This serves him
right.Theneighboursareright..
It has been less than two months after
Neo was released. The morning
newspaperread:
“Neo, 36, was sentenced to 4 1/2
years in prison this week for robbery of a
midtowndrycleaners.
He walked into Regal $2.25
Cleaners, 3955 E. Speedway, on Aug. 26,
1988, and ordered an employee and
customer to the ground at gunpoint before
stealing money from the register and an
open safe, according to court documents.
On the way out, Neo stomped twice on the
customer's head.
He fled in a car driven by Ron, but
werecaughtafewmilesfrom thescene.
The robbery took place less than two
months after Neo finished serving 4 1/2
years in prison for beating Ron, son of the
owner of the same dry-cleaning who
caught Neo burglarizing his home. The
student needed 40 stitches in his scalp,
face and neck after being hit with a wine
bottle, gouged with a set of keys and
beatenwitharock.”
The neighbours say Neo was burning
blind, trying to harm the people who
helped his mother when she was in dire
need of money and a job. The neighbors
stillhavenoclue..
24Estrade Literary Magazine

30. Sapna Rangaswamy, is a classical
dancer and she writes on Indian
Classical Dance. She wrote her first
book titled '46+14=06, A Story of a
Genius with her son Ravikiran. She
named her publishing company
Maitreya after Maitreyi Devi, the late
Bengali writer. Sapna takes care of the
marketing and distribution of the
books and has built strong ties with
institutes like the National Institute of
Design and organisations like Sri
Aurobindo Society. Her second book
titled 'The Dance Company' has hit
thebookshops recently.

31. What disturbed him and what made him
happy, I could never know in about two
years of my married life. But one thing
was sure, my mother in law was behind
his changing moods most of the time. But
still I was very happy. He showered love
and took care of my needs at least most of
thetimes.
My mom in law took all this mental
pressure on me with a vengeance. For her,
all this was happening as my stars were
not good for her son. Day and night, she
made my life miserable. Whatever I did
was wrong. If I spoke to his friends, I was
flirting, if I was in the balcony ,I was
lookingatmen.
My life became an ordeal.Taking care
of Sudhir, going to the office and
managing my parents in law, doing the
shopping for essentials, paying for bills
andwhatnot.TillthenI hadneverstepped
into a bank , nor did I ever pay a bill. I had
no idea how to fill up a form in spite of
being an educated person. I was secure
and completely dependent on Sudhir.
Now it was a role reversal. He was a child
completely dependent on me. I prayed to
God every day to give my family and me
strength to endure all this and send few
smilesonceinawhile.
Sudhir
Staring at nothing particular from my
bed has become the only routine of my
life. God made me inactive for ever, how
nice it would be if my brain also stops
thinking? What is this life? Useless, I can
do nothing but watch helplessly. My wife
has started working overtime to take care
of the growing medical expenses. She has
to work at home, at office and again the
purchasing, paying bills etc. Oh God!
Why not just make me die? The turmoil
will be over once and for all. Today is
Holi, even this has to be told by someone
orIcannotcometoknow.
I heard some one laughing aloud and
my wife joining in. I could recognize the
voice so well. It's none other than my dear
friend Sridhar. He has time at last for me.
But even now he is chatting with my wife
instead of coming to me.What could have
he said that my wife is laughing aloud?
Pangs of jealousy filled my heart. Before
my dirty mind could think any further
Sridhar came and sat before me. My
heart filled with strange emotions when
he said that he was promoted and getting a
huge raise. This would have been mine,
only if I was normal. Luck...bad luck.
Instead of congratulating him, I
tormented myself with thousands of
thoughts which increased my hearts
burning. He chatted this and that but I
kept quiet and seeing no response from
me he went away. I called Shilpi, Shilpi..
Shilpi…she took about five minutes to
hilpi
It's Holitoday..Holi…..lastyear
this time ,we: Sudhir and I were out
with friends playing gleefully, throwing
colours, enjoying, unaware of the
impending doom which was awaiting us.
Think of it, it's like a dream, almost
magical, as if it never happened, we were
never that happy. The multi hues of Holi,
like the different shades of life, bright and
dull,justlikemylife.
Standing in the balcony of my home,
I could see the people rejoicing with
colours, I feel like shouting at them to
stop having fun, to stop enjoying before
my home but will they understand my
pain? Talking of pain, it does not bring
tears to my eyes as it did earlier. Just a
feeling of numbness: vacant and empty.
“Shilpi… oh Shilpi where are you?” The
shrilling and piercing voice of my mother
in law almost awakened me from my state
of mind. “Why do you stand in the
balcony and keep staring at people? You
have no work or what? Day dreaming?
Do I have to do all the work? Can't you be
more responsible and give a glass of
water to me?” She went on and on, till my
husband calledmefromhisbed.
Sudhir, my husband, almost a
vegetable now, wanted me to turn him to
the other side. Seeing him in that
condition still spreads shivers down my
spine. The President of a company, now
company less at the mercy of people
around him. Who could imagine that God
will give such a twist to our fairy tale
life? My heart breaks everytime I look at
him. The eyes which were mischievous ,
full of love for me only have pain and
helplessness. The strong arms that
embraced me and caressed me were
nothing but mere sticks lying beside him,
lifeless. The look in his eyes makes me
want to kill myself, so that I no longer
have to endure it. It's almost a year... Yes
almost 365 days, 52 weeks and endless
minutes before God stopped smiling at
me.Afine Sunday morning… we all were
relaxed having our late breakfast as was
the norm of any Sunday and planning
where to go in the evening. Suddenly
Sudhir complained of pain in his lower
back and layed down... and kept lying
down till date. Doctors tried their best,
gave their own medical jargon, for them it
was an interesting case and for us it
remainedaquestion.Whyus?
He lost his job, lost his friends and lost
his zeal to live any longer. I lost my dear
lovable husband to this disease. Life goes
on, they say, very true, but is this life
worth living ? It's not that Sudhir was the
best husband in the world. He showered
love whenever in mood otherwise he
would shout and not talk to me for days.
come and my mind went awry.At last she
came and gave a glass of juice to me
smiling. Her smile irritated me more and I
threw the glass away. Tears started rolling
from her eyes but they could not melt me
any more. She was happy, walking,
moving where as I was on the bed. She
cannot understand my plight. Will she be
with me all the time? If she walks away,
who will take care of me? Her beauty and
patience tortured me more. How could
she always be smiling when I am in such a
pain?
Shilpi
Sridhar again threw the juice glass at
me today.What's my fault? I am doing my
best, balancing home, a profession and
outside work. I try and keep my patience.
All the love he has showered on me these
years, it's my time to give it back with
interest. I know he becomes frustrated
because of his medical condition. I have
seen he gets more irritated when his
friends come to visit him. But what can I
do? I just welcome them as they are
helping us out, come to our place to chat
and relax Sudhir. What is happening to
him? Oh! God! Please make him as
before, loving and caring. At my parents
place, I was the most pampered child,
apple of every ones' eyes. I never even
fetched a glass of water. After marriage, I
changed myself. I adjusted to my mother
in law’s tantrums, my husband's wishes
and fancies.At least he cared for me even
though at times his anger was difficult to
bear. He would take me out, shower all
the care.And I happily endured his anger.
Now, since last year I am handling
everything all alone. I never complain,
keep smiling so that he can be happy
looking at me. I never ever share the
problems I face at home and outside. His
anger is growing day by day. Just
yesterday he threw the book which he was
reading on me as I did not come early
from office, today the glass. This is
driving me crazy. God give me patience
to handle all this with a smile. My friends
ask me to leave him and get remarried. Re
marriage and me? No way. I love Sudhir
a lot and will never leave him. I can go
through anything to make him happy, to
nurse him.
Sudhir
What does she think of herself? If she
is taking care of me it is her duty. It does
not mean she can stay out in the name of
work. Don't I know what happens in
offices? She is late again. I could hear my
mom shouting at her. Good for her. My
mom was always right. The lady has to be
kept in her place. I showered so much of
love on her. She could not even give me a
child. Now, it's not possible. If I had a
child, he could have taken care of me in
S
26Estrade Literary Magazine

32. else did I ask from life? I could not stop
smiling. Let the world think I have gone
crazy...crazywithhappiness.
Sudhir
I am so happy today. Shilpi told me
she is expecting. This is the best moment
of my life. I am well again. I can enjoy all
the pleasures of life. I can party again,
drink and be merry. No need to be at the
mercy of my wife. Ok, I am not so mean to
forget what she has done for me. She is
also giving me what I yearned for all these
years. This news made me forgive all her
lapses. That smile that tormented me,
looked so good to me today. Even my
mom is happy thinking of the grand child.
He will be the apple of our house. My
mom and I will pamper him like anything.
God you are great! You take with one
hand and replenish with another. Life…
it'sso beautifulagain.
Shilpi
I am in the hospital. A beautiful fairy
is in my arms. She is looking divine, so
cute. Thank God for blessing me with a
beautiful and healthy baby. Nothing can
surpass this feeling of motherhood. But
where are Sudhir and my mom in law?
They seem to be taking ages to come and
take the baby in their arms. May be they
have gone to inform all and bring sweets.
How happy Sudhir would be to see this
beautiful nymph! My mom in law may be
a little upset with the girl child, but I am
sure she can not be upset for a long time
seeing such a beautiful baby. I have even
thought of a name...Sapna… Dream. Yes
my old age. He could have taken my
name ahead. Now what, nothing , just
nothing, loneliness and my thoughts.
She entered the room again, smiling as if
I have not heard my mom's shouts and
her sobbing. Her smile drives me crazy,
reminds me of my helplessness. Why
does she smile? Doesn't she get tired?
She came close to me and tried to caress
me. I just shook her hand off me.
Startled, she looked at me with lot of
pain in her eyes. No, Shilpi this won't do
now, I know you are the cause of my
ailments. My mom told me that your
horoscope does not match mine. Your
parents must have changed it before
marriage. That's exactly why I have all
these problems. Changing her clothes,
she told me tomorrow she is going to
take me to a new doctor from Mumbai.
Let me see what a doctor could do when
shaniisinmyhome.
Shilpi
This is the happiest moment of my
life. My husband can walk again. He is
back with a bang. I feel like dancing. Oh
God! Thanks a lot for this miracle. The
doctor from Mumbai could cure him
atlast. My heart knows no bounds.
Today we are throwing a party to all our
well wishers as he rejoined his job after
a long time. The way he took me in his
embrace made me forget all the pains
and misgivings of the last few years. I
feel it was a dream, a bad dream. My
mother in law also in her happiness
forgot torturing me for a while. What
sheisourdreamSudhir's andmine.
It's almost two hours and still I am all
alone in the room. Where is my husband?
He was with me when I went into the
labour room. I am getting a little worried
now. I called the nurse and asked if she
had seen my folks. She looked at me
strangely and said that they went off
immediately after they heard that I had
delivered a baby girl. Hearing this ,my
world shattered. What is this? Is this just
abaddreamorreality?
I called Sudhir from the nurse's
mobile. He picked up the phone and when
he realized that it was me at the other end ,
shouted abuses and said he had nothing to
do with a woman who delivers a girl. I
pleaded with him but he banged the
phone. What to do now? If he sees the
baby, he will forget all the hatred for a girl
child. But who can make a man see reason
, one who is illiterate despite being an
engineer. I am the new century woman. I
cannot crawl and beg my husband to take
me back. When I could take care of him,
hold a job and handle the whole problem
so well, why can I not take care of my
lovely child on my own? I wiped off my
tears and with a smile looked at my
Sapna..my daughter and thought I did not
need Sudhir to take care of me or my
daughter. Just then a thought flashed in
my mind. Was Sudhir differently abled a
year back when he was bedridden or is
he differentlyablednow ???
hefirsttimehesaw her,hiseyes
hadlitup.Hewas irritatedat
havingleftlatefromofficebutas
he crossed her, he forgot his irritation.
He slowed down his bike and stared at
her in amazement for the longest period
of time. She wasn't exactly beautiful in
the conventional sense but there was
something very different about her.
Standing next to the signpost, the
mirror-work on her sari shimmered in
the myriad lights of the road. The
purple colour of her blouse enhanced
her dark complexion. Her kohl-rimmed
eyes danced with pure innocence,
looking at every car or bike or
pedestrian hopefully. Those five
seconds had given him more joy than
two years with his girlfriend, now ex-
girlfriend. But she was completely
oblivious to his gaze, his sudden upright
movement on the bike and his existence.
Shewas busy lookingforsomeoneelse.
As soon as he passed her, he
accelerated hard to catch her attention
with the sound of his engine, his eyes
T flitting from the road to her in the rear-
view mirror. She finally glanced in his
direction but all she could see was the tail
light of his bike. He contemplated going
back on that road again but considering
the peak hour traffic, he decided against
it. Having stopped at the signal, he kept
revisiting that moment in which he saw
her face, made up but natural, her features
prominent and her demeanour casual. He
had seen prettier women but this one was
different. Like God had made her with
that secret spice every chef has for a dish.
It wasn't easy for him to concentrate on
the road after that but with the hope of
stealing another glance the next day, he
rushed home to lie down with his most
excitingmemoryoftheday.
The next day he wasn't late out of
compulsion but out of choice. He had
spent the entire night and day thinking
about her, waiting for the clock to strike
eight so that he could run for those five
seconds of stolen pleasure. He rode fast,
cutting through the traffic but as soon as
he reached the bend along the wall of the
consulate, his heart and his bike switched
speeds. His heart beat was now as fast as
his bike was slow. The contrast sent a
sudden rush of adrenaline as he neared the
sign-post.
She was standing there, in all her
illuminated beauty, without a worry in the
world, scanning the passers-by with her
piercing gaze, waiting for the one. The
moment his eyes fell on her, he calmed.
He kept looking at her continuously,
riding with just an idea of the distance
between him and the vehicle in front of
him. But he did not care if he got hit, at
least he'd die looking at the one he had
now falleninlovewith.
Was itlove?
Yes,screamedhisheart.
But,her?
Yes,yes.
Youknowwhatshedoes,right?
I love her for what she does. No other
woman can ever be like this if she didn't
dothat.
He was very close to her but yet to
cross her. He was lost in a million
27 Estrade Literary Magazine

33. her still looking at him with those
beautiful,hopefuleyes.
Much against himself and to his
consternation, he found himself shaking
his head sideways, refusing the
invitation, even as he smiled at her. He
fled from there at full speed with the
stupid smile stuck on his face. He felt like
a teenager who had just been smiled at by
the hottest girl in the school. He revisited
the whole scene several times that night
and waited for the evening, restlessly
thoughts in those moments, his mind
going numb with questions and a
thousand answers all shouting the word
yes, when he suddenly jerked out of it and
saw light reflecting from somewhere. To
his amazement, he saw her eyes staring
back at him, her lips curled in a faint
smile. Time froze for him in that instant.
He could not function. His brain had
stopped working and the heart was back
at150beatsperminute.
A wailing horn brought him back to
shortest span of time. As he reached the
place, he found no trace of her. Instead,
there was another girl standing there,
waiting for someone to take her. He was
upset, saddened by her absence but it had
now crossed his limit. He stopped his bike
and decided to talk to this other girl.
Fortunately, she spoke in English and he
paid for her for an hour and they left
together.
He took her to a coffee shop where he
asked her about her friend. She hesitated.
His insistence annoyed her but a wad of
currency notes soothed her down. She
told him that her friend had been locked
up by their boss because she wanted to get
out of this. She refused to answer when he
asked where her friend was. After about
thirty minutes of negotiation, a large sum
of money and promises made in the name
of his Gods and ancestors to keep her out
of this, she finally told him where he
could find her. He dropped her at the pick-
uppointandleft.
It was in one of the oldest pockets of
the city. It was once the centre of business
and a place that housed the rich but had
over the years deteriorated to a street
lined with a number of cheap hotels that
shamelessly announced their businesses
with the rate cards on neon banners. He
was wary of the cops at first but after
seeing the PCR van at the mouth of the
street, he knew that the police wouldn't be
a problem here.At some distance he saw a
crowd gathered in front of a dilapidated
building.This was one of thehotelswhich
looked like a guest house, with doors to
small rooms that opened to a common
balcony.
He could hear murmurs in a foreign
language but could not understand
anything. Curiosity got the better of him
and he decided to stay there, all the while
trying to figure out where she could be.
He saw a couple of cops coming down the
narrow staircase followed by four people
holding a stretcher with a body on it. The
mirror-work on her sari shimmered,
reflecting the innumerable lights of the
bazaar, her pale dark face now in contrast
withherpurplesari.
He stoodtherefrozen.
The crowd had thinned but he could
not get himself to move. This was where
shehadlivedanddied.
A solitary tear trickled down his
cheek onto the ground, his final ode to his
Goddess atthealtaroflove.
He left late from office. Having
worked through the day, he was satisfied.
As he approached the bend along the wall
of the consulate, he saw her standing
there.
She wore a sequinned black top that
accentuated her fair colour. She caught
him looking at hers and smiled at him. He
returned the smile and kept riding,
lookingatherintherear-viewmirror.
Tomorrow,hethought.
reality and he realised that he was smiling
back at her. But he had already crossed
her by now and the traffic behind him did
not help. This was too much for him to
handle. He stopped a few meters ahead of
her and constantly kept looking in the
mirror to see if she was coming towards
him. Meantime, his brain had started
working again and was back to the
questions. Should I talk to her? But
what'll I say? I don't even know the
language. Bloody language barrier.
But,she smiled. Yes, she did but I can't just
walk up to her and say hello. There are
people around. He started his bike and
left again, in the hope of that one day
when he'd muster up the courage to talk to
her. Tomorrow, he thought smiling to
himself.
The third day he was a little more
confident.As he slowed down, he saw her
wearing a red sari, talking to her friends.
He looked at her, hopeful of a second
smile but this time he got more than that.
She smiled broadly and nodded at him.
Time froze right there for him. He could
not understand what just happened. He
wasn't even sure if she had actually
invited him. He thought it was a figment
of his imagination but he could clearly see
spending the day in office, lost in her
thoughts.Tomorrow,hemuttered.
The next day, not really sure what
would happen, he left office at the exact
minute and reached the sign-post. But she
wasn't there. A couple of girls fiddled
with their hair, conversing absently while
scanning anyone who was scanning them.
But not her. He was disappointed but
thought she must have already taken her
ride for the night. He continued riding in
thehopeforabettertomorrow.
When he reached the same place the
next day, he did not see her again. This
worried him a little. What if something
had happened to her? He forced these
thoughts out of his mind but could not
understand why she would not come two
days in a row.Yes, she could have already
gone with someone but the chances of
that happening for two days
consecutively were a little slim. But there
was little he could do. Irritated, he
reached home and waited for another 24
hours topass.
Tomorrow,hedeliberated.
His fixation for her had rendered him
useless through the day in office. The
clock struck eight and he left to see the
woman he had grown to love in the
Photograph by Shaunak Vyas
28Estrade Literary Magazine

34. Dr.IndiraNityanandam,retired on 30th
October as Principal, Smt. S.R.Mehta
Arts College Ahmedabad. With almost 4
decades of teaching experience, she
speaks 6 languages and believes in
'building bridges' between the states of
India by translating the literature of
each state into other Indian Languages.
Her areas of interest include IWE, ELT,
Women's Studies and Comparative
Literature. Having travelled
extensively, she writes and publishes
articles and presents papers at National
andInternationalConferences
uringhisown lifetime,
Dickensreceivedtheattention
ofcritics:Taineobserved
that in Dickens, “it is visionary
imagination which forges the phantoms
of the madman and creates the
personages of the artist” while Bagehot
comments that Dickens describes
London “ like a special correspondent
for posterity” and that “his genius is
e s s e n t i a l l y i r r e g u l a r a n d
unsymmetrical” and G.H.Lewes
dismissed him with the barb that his
characters were “caricatures and
distortions of human nature”
concluding with a scathing comment
that Mr. Micawber reminds one of “the
frog whose brains have been taken out
for physiological purposes, and whose
actions henceforth want the distinctive
peculiarity of organic action, that of
fluctuating spontaneity”. And yet, at his
death in 1870 Dickens was
unquestionably the monarch of
Victorian literature. In the mid-
twentieth century, Dyson comments: “If
life means anything that is penetrating
in observation, unquenched in
sympathy, angered by cruelty,
courageous in protests, zestful in
creation, unflagging in energy, gaily
outward looking, yet seeing to the heart
of man and society--- then Dickens is
life”. W.J. Harvey is of the opinion that
the writings of Dickens, “express our
sense that real life blends the casual and
the causal, that things are connected and
contingent, patterned and random, that
we are both free and determined”. The
world that he creates seems to be a
“labyrinth of the conditional” where
“what seems to us a straight path is
nothing but a series of crossroads”. The
critic Humphrey House was to
categorically state that Dickens “made
out of Victorian England a complete
world, with a life and vigour and idiom
of its own, quite unlike any other world
there has been”.Dickens has been
compared to the greatest Russian
novelists and found wanting, he has
been criticized for not writing like his
contemporaries – Thackeray and
Meredith and George Eliot. As
Chesterton puts it: “Many critics fail to
see that there is foam in the deep
seas”.On the other hand, Quiller-Couch
probably gives Dickens a panegyric: “If
it come to the mere wonder-work of
genius--- the creation of men and
women, on a page of paper, who are
actually more real to us than our daily
acquaintances, as companionable in a
crowd as even our best selected friends,
as individual as the most eccentric we
know, yet as universal as humanity itself,
I do not see what English writer we can
choose to put second to Shakespeare save
Charles Dickens”. Dickens was the most
popular novelist of his time, and remains
one of the best known and most read of
English authors. His works have never
gone out of print, and have been adapted
continually for the screen since the
invention of cinema, with at least 200
motion pictures and TV adaptations
based on Dickens's works documented.
Many of his works were adapted for the
stage during his own lifetime and as early
as 1913, a silent film of The Pickwick
Papers was made. And now, having just
celebrated the second centenary of this
great Victorian, we are once again
inundated with writings both laudatory
and condemnatory. With a body of work
as large and as enduring as that of
Dickens, taste and opinion will continue
to differ. Each generation will have its
own favourites and possibly make its own
discoveries. To attempt to write about
Charles Dickens, to describe his creative
ability or his descriptive powers, to
analyse his characters or gauge the social
realities of his times that he wished to
present, to make a distinction between his
social and moral criticism, to delve into
the depths of his use of language and his
portrayal of his life-experiences is indeed
aHerculeantask.
Born in 1812 at Landport, Charles
Dickens was a sickly child and quite
incapable of active exertion. In spite of an
irregular education, he was a precocious
child and had an imaginative mind. With
the family's fortunes gradually
deteriorating, Dickens was sent to work at
a blacking warehouse at the young age of
12. The dejection that he felt at this
experience was to find an echo in the
portrayal of his characters and themes in
his novels later.At the same time, he kept
these so confidential that later in life he
did not confide even to his wife about it.
However most biographers of Dickens
contend that the circumstances of his
boyhood, the poverty, the struggle for a
livelihood, the association with all and
sundry in the lower and middle classes
had effects upon his mind which lasted to
the end. In fact, some even go to the
extent of suggesting that his lot in the
early days of his life gave him exactly the
preparation that was required for
accomplishing his literary greatness. The
argument is that he was apprenticed, from
the outset, to that hard existence of the
poorest and the lowliest which he was to
depict later with an appeal for sympathy.
Beginning with a sketch published in
1833, he continued to write sketches
under the pseudonym Boz in magazines
a n d j o u r n a l s . Wr i t i n g a b o u t
commonplace people and things,
Dickens shows his genuine literary merit
even at this early age. These Sketches
have survived and have to be
remembered as a rare instance where the
earliest writing of an author shows the
knowledge of his real strength.
Beginning with the Pickwick Papers,
there came a host of novels appearing
simultaneously serially in different
periodicals. This could be the main
reason why his novels have been attacked
for having no organic unity and being full
of detachable episodes and characters or
as Walter Allen says: His novels are
“often like shapeless bags into which all
manners of different objects, of varying
shapes and sizes, have been ruthlessly
D
29 Estrade Literary Magazine

35. construct. He will remember there should
be a plot, and will plunge back for a
paragraph or two… very often he leaves a
great many threads loose till the last
chapter… the main strands are knotted
roughly together… his novels ever
remained topsyturvily (sic) plotted”. In
some of his novels, the characters hold
centre-stage with story being of minimal
significance as in The Pickwick Papers.
The eccentric characters helped define
the term Dickensian: caricatured in
physiology, speech, temperament, and
crammed”. This first foray into fiction
writing came when a publishing house
wanted him to furnish letterpress for
illustrations which were already in hand
and which followed a fashion already
established. His job was to rival and, if
possible, improve upon a very popular
brand of fiction. In spite of his turbulent
personal life and the resultant scandals,
Dickens rose to the top of both the literary
and social scale by the time of his death in
1870.
Victorian England has often been
described as the Age of Compromise: the
rationalistic and scientific on the one
hand and the renascence of idealism on
the other. The literary transition of this
age can be seen in the dying embers of
Romanticism, though not yet dead, and
writers now turning in ever-increasing
numbers to other sources of inspiration.
From the rule of emotions and dreams,
there is a shift towards the need of an
order born of reason. In this era, art seems
to gradually become a part of a coherent
social whole. The Age can also be
credited with being the first age in which
the middle classes and to some extent
even the lower have access to culture.
Never before have writers of
comparatively humble birth been so
numerous. With more than a dozen
novels, a number of short stories and
other writing to Dickens's credit, it is
impossible to deal with all of them. This
paper attempts to look at only some of the
major facets of the work of Dickens.
References are made only to some of his
works so that every reader can appreciate
Dickens as a novelist. This limited
reference is not meant to suggest that the
other works are less important. It is hoped
that this article would inspire the reader to
readmoreoftheworks ofDickens.
In keeping with the traditional
'aspects' of the novel as a literary form,
one can approach the novels of Dickens
with the first three (story, people and plot)
as delineated by E.M. Forster in his
Aspects of the Novel. To me, story has to
be linked to the plot as both of them are
inextricably related. The story has been
called the backbone of the novel and
within the scope of these one has to
include the concept of theme. Often, there
is a great deal of hair-splitting in
delineating the scope of these terms. To
accept the definition of both as given by
Forster makes the connection
immediately obvious. To him, story is “a
narrative of events arranged in their time
sequence” while plot is “also a narrative
of events, the emphasis falling on
causality”. As events happen to people,
characters are equally important. As
Dickens wrote his novels as serials,
naturally the events tend to become
episodic, characters permeate these
events and the plots get weaker.As David
Cecil points out: “Dickens cannot
Dickens focuses once again on social
evils—the debtors' prison in particular.
The popularity of some characters that
Dickens created is best proved in the
reception that greeted the ship when it
docked at the American harbor carrying
the latest serial instalment: “Is little
Nellie dead?” (Most of the periodicals
were eagerly awaited in the United States
particularly because of the serialization
of the novels of Dickens.)Great
Expectations is written in the first person
but we can see two points of view—one is
Taine observed that in
Dickens, "it is visionary
imagination which forges the phantoms
of the madman and creates the
personages of the artist" while Bagehot
comments that Dickens describes
London
and that "his genius is essentially
irregulated unsymmetrical" and G.H.Lewes
dismissed him with the barb that his
characters were
"like a special correspondent
for posterity"
"caricatures and
distortions of human nature”.
that of Pip who lives through the novel,
the other belongs to Pip who narrates it. It
is set among the marshes of Kent and in
London in the early to mid-1800s. From
the outset, the reader is 'treated' by the
terrifying encounter between Pip, the
protagonist, and the escaped convict,
Abel Magwitch. Great Expectations is a
graphic book, full of extreme imagery,
poverty, prison ships, 'the hulks,' barriers
and chains, and fights to the death. It
therefore combines intrigue and
unexpected twists of autobiographical
detail in different tones. Regardless of its
narrative technique, the novel reflects the
events of the time, Dickens' concerns, and
the relationship between society and
man.Bleak House was built up from
newspaper reports. By using multiple
narratives, Dickens is able to present an
England which one may wish to deny. As
Dickens wrote to Forster, “mere forms
and conventionalities usurp, in English
art, as in English government and social
relations, the place of living force and
truth”, and it is this that Bleak House tries
to repudiate. Martin Chuzzlewit, a
favourite of Dickens but the least popular
of his novels, deals with the theme of
selfishness. It is remembered more for its
satirical treatment of the United States
even name. The book contains some of
the author's best-known characters, Mr.
Pickwick foremost among them, and lent
another expression to English parlance,
Pickwickian, to describe ironic
deprecation fondly addressed to friends.
In A Tale of Two Cities, it is with the
backdrop of the French Revolution that
characters like Madame Defarge and
Lucy Manette, Charles Darnay and
Sydney Carton and Dr.Manette draw life.
Here the story and characters seem to
occupy centre-stage in equal measure.An
early example of the social novel,Oliver
Twist calls the public's attention to
various contemporary evils, including
child labour, the recruitment of children
as criminals, and the presence of street
children. Dickens mocks the hypocrisies
of his time by surrounding the novel's
serious themes with sarcasm and dark
humour. At the same time, it is peopled
with a number of unforgettable
characters. The novel may have been
inspired by the story of Robert Blincoe,
an orphan whose account of hardships as
a child labourer in a cotton mill was
widely read in the 1830s. It is likely that
Dickens's own early youth as a child
labourer contributed to the story's
development. Again, in Little Dorrit
30Estrade Literary Magazine

37. poverty continues to be a shameful reality
to this day!He wrote to his friend Wilkie
Collins in 1858, that everything that
happens "shews beyond mistake that you
can't shut out the world -- that you are in it
to be of it -- that you get yourself into a
false position the moment you try to sever
yourself from it -- and that you must
mingle with it, and make the best of it, and
make the best of yourself into the
bargain”. He treats the lower middle
classes in a frank way. He is never a
superior detached observer but one on
their level with a sympathy that is always
obvious. There is an instinctive fraternity,
probably an obvious reflection of his
early experiences. Though the hardships
of his early life had been left behind, he
could never forget them.That humiliating
phase of his childhood has become a
determining factor of his personality and
continues to affect his writings. And this
is best revealed in the most-read and
much- acclaimed The Personal History of
David Copperfield—indeed the most
personal and autobiographical of all his
novels. Dickens' biographer has
attempted to trace the genesis of this
novel from an abandoned fragment of
Dickens' autobiography where he
confesses, “I do not write resentfully or
angrily, for I know that all these things
have worked together to make me what I
am”. Dickens has called this novel 'his
favourite child' which has succeeded in
fulfilling his deep-felt desire 'to become
his own father'.The first number of David
Copperfield was published in May, 1849
and the last in November,1850. However,
this novel is being analysed here as the
best example of his portrayal and
criticism of Victorian society rather than
merely as an autobiographical piece of
writing. Barbara Hardy calls it “a
bildungsroman or novel of education”.
David is presented as a lovable character
and for its two villains--Seth Pecksniff
and Jonas Chuzzlewit. (It is not possible
to mention all his novels, but an attempt
has been made to provide a glimpse into
therangeandvarietyofthenovels.)
The novels are filled with a great
stream of people and this has led to the
criticism that his novels are overcrowded.
Some contend that they are not characters
but caricatures. I would however say that
his characters are fantastic creations of a
fertile mind. They are dearly loved and
most readers have favourites. As S.D.
Neil puts it, “Dickens' approach to
character was that of the actor , not that of
the philosopher or the psychologist. He
observed from the outside, he built up
character boldly and swiftly, catching the
salient features…. And this resulted in
something unforgettably vivid”. Like in
Chaucer, we see 'God's plenty' in the
novels of Dickens. We have innocent
little children like Pip and Joe and Nell,
some a 'social victim' like Oliver and
David.We have villains like Heep and
Fagin, Pecksniff and Chuzzlewit. We
have tenderly drawn characters like Dora
and Sydney Carton. The normal does not
interest him as much as the abnormal, and
it these characters who linger on in our
memory long after we have finished
readingthenovel.
Another important facet of the novels
is the co-existence of humour and pathos.
We 'smile through our tears”. Humour is
the soul of his work and without his
humour, Dickens's novels may be
remembered merely as social criticism.
S.D. Neil says, “Perhaps Dickens's major
contribution to literature, that which
gives him rank among the giants, was his
discovery of new sources of humour.”
His humour is born out of oddities of
character as in the case of Mr. Toots in
Dombey and Son, Mr. Pumblechook in
Great Expectations, Mr. Micawber in
David Copperfield etc..He also achieves
humour through situations as well as
through satire. In his adept ability to
combine humour with pathos Dickens
could easily be compared to Charles
Lamb. Pathos and humour together help
the novelist to weave a rich tapestry.
Macaulay and Ruskin are supposed to
have been moved to tears at the plight of
Florence Dombey and Little Nell
respectively.
Dickens was a social critic and never
attempted to hide the fact. He has been
called a novelist of the masses and a critic
of the governing class. The experiences
of his early life, the prison for debtors, the
abominable conditions in which the poor
lived, the inhuman work-place where
child-labour was always condoned, the
tyrannical atmosphere of schools, the
grimy warehouses, the over-crowded
living spaces of London—all these and
more are evident in most of his novels.
Warehouses may be a thing of the past but
the form of Mr. Murdstonewith his
attempts to terrorize the little David is
described: “He beat me as he would have
beaten me to death. Above all the noise
we made … I heard my mother crying
out…. Then…I was lying, fevered and
hot, and torn, and sore, and raging in my
puny way, upon the floor”. Often, one
sees a strong sense of the irremediable in
Dickens' images of society. In the
description of the cruelty meted out to
children at school, we realize that two
kinds of crime form two themes in
Dickens: the crime against the child and
the calculated social crime. As Dorothy
Van Ghent writes: “They are formally
analogous, their form being the treatment
of persons as things; but, on the usual
principle of inherence that obtains here,
they are also inherent in each other,
whether the private will is to be
considered as depraves by the operation
of a public institution, or the institution as
a bold concert of private depravities. The
correspondence of the two is constantly
suggested”.It is not criticism of one
school in particular but of schools in
general. It seems evident that many
schools were either poor or simply not
willing to raise money for better pieces of
furniture and rooms, and thus the
environment in which children should be
educated could never rise to the occasion
to make concentrated and productive
work possible. The only wealthy person
is probably Mr.Creakle and by this
portrayal Dickens may have been
commenting about the evils of capitalism.
In Dickens's opinion, the capitalist
system infiltrated everything : not only
factories or workhouses, but also the
educational system. And so the hidden
comparison of Salem House to a
capitalist-led enterprise is a very
important part of his criticism.The first
meeting with Mr.Creakle makes this
obvious. Mr. Creakle exhorts the boys:
“Now, boys, this is a new half. Take care
what you're about, in this new half. Come
fresh up to the lessons, I advise you, for I
come fresh up to the punishment. I won't
flinch. It will be of no use your rubbing
yourselves; you won't rub the marks out
that I shall give you. Now get to work,
every boy!”Students seem to be at the
receiving end of a perverted kind of
disciplining. Taunted and bullied by the
teachers and the students, there seems to
be hardly any redeeming feature during
this period, except for the hope of abiding
friendships.It is not people alone who are
criticized because the first criticism that
is raised, is the criticism of the
schoolrooms themselves. In the novel
they are described as a “… desolate place
… (where) scraps of old copybooks and
exercises, litter the floor.” And that
“There is a strange unwholesome smell
upon the room, like mildewed corduroys,
sweet apples wanting air, and rotten
and as we wander through the locale of
each of his experiences we inhabit the
Victorian society of which Dickens is
strongly critical. Characters like Mr.
Murdstone and Uriah Heep do affect us
by their cruelty and cunningness, with
something insensate and incredible about
them, but the reader is certainly more
struck by the underlying inequalities and
deprivations that the common /average
man had to undergo, was subjected to.
The school atmosphere of Oliver Twist is
more sensitively portrayed but the
inhuman approach to children is clearly
evidentallthroughthisnovel.
The boy David remembers every
brutal syllable in every brutal sentence,
just as Dickens seemed to remember till
his dying day. Squalor and depravity are
more obvious in The Old Curiosity Shop,
while hatred, cupidity and crime prevail
in Dombey and Son. The attitude of
callousness towards children by adults in
32Estrade Literary Magazine

38. instead he wanted to write a 'picturesque
story', packed with sensational events.As
he had read Carlyle's French Revolution,
he hoped to be able to tell the story in such
a way that it would convey the
tremendous effect it had on him. G. K.
Chesterton is of the opinion that “Dickens
could understand the Revolution for he
was simple and not subtle. He understood
that plain rage against plain political
injustice; he understood again that
vindictiveness and that obvious brutality
which followed…”.Probably, the
beginning of the novel does hold the
attention of the reader as none of his other
novels do: “It was the best of times, it
was the worst of times; it was the age of
wisdom, it was the age of belief; it was the
epoch of incredulity, it was the age of
light, it was the season of darkness; it was
the Spring of Hope, it was the Winter of
Despair; we had everything…..”.A
powerful story grips us and the characters
come alive. Though some critics have
linked the 'badness' of the book to
Dickens's own domestic problems which
were certainly acute at that time, the book
does has enjoyed popularity to a great
extent. The social upheavals in the life of
common people rather than the
philosophy behind the French Revolution
are graphically described. John Forster
observes, “There is no piece of fiction
known to me, in which the domestic life
of a few simple private people is in such a
manner knitted and interwoven with the
outbreak of a terrible public event, that
the one seems but part of the other”. The
last words of Sydney Carton as he goes to
the guillotine in place of Charles Darnay
are a perfect example of the pathos that
Dickens is able to so subtly convey. He
says, “It is a far, far better thing that I do,
than I have ever done; it is a far, far better
rest that I go to, than I have ever known”.
London and Paris, Dover and Calais, the
Defarges and the Evremondes, Darnay
and Carton—the binaries exist all
through the novel. Violence pervades the
novel,withnemesisbeingoffered.
Charles Dickens (1812—1870)
continues to be the most-read Victorian
novelist. Popular as school text-books
(albeit in abridged or 'retold' versions),
the stories and the characters of Dickens
are well-known. I would conclude with
the old dictum that the novels of Dickens
fall into the category of those that should
be “chewed and digested” and never
merely'tasted'or'swallowed'.
References:
Baker, EarnestA. The History of the English Novel
(Vol.7)NewYork :BarnesandNoble,1936.
Bloom Harold. Ed. Charles Dickens's David
Copperfield New Delhi:VivaBooks, 2007.
Forster John The Life of Charles Dickens Ed.
J.W.T.LeyLondon:1928.
Ford, George H. and Lauriat Lane Ed. The Dickens
CriticsNewYork :Ithaca,1961.
Hardy, Barbara. The Moral Art of Dickens.
London:Oxford UniversityPress, 1970.
House, Humphry. The Dickens World. London
:1941
Lucas, John. The Melancholy Man ; A Study of
Dickens'sNovelsLondon:Metheun&Co., 1970.
Price, Martin Ed. Dickens : ACollection of Critical
Essays New Delhi:Prentice-Hallof India,1980
Ward, Adolphous William. Dickens London
:Macmillan,1924.
books.” and that “There could not well
be more ink splashed about it … ”. And
the punishments and embarrassments
under the name of discipline were
t o t a l l y u n a c c e p t a b l e t o
Dickens.However, most poor children
could ill-afford even this education.
With the fast pace of industrialization
and with parents not earning enough
money to make both ends meet, it was
common for poor parents to send their
young children to work. The issue of
child-labour is dealt with at length when
Mr.Murdstone decides that David does
not need any further education and
sends him to work at Murdstone and
Grinby. Young David says: “How can I
so easily be thrown away at such an
age.” This is an unambiguous statement
against child labour and explains how
useless and senseless it is to send young
children to work, a mere waste of human
beings. David describes his place of
employment as a “crazy old house …
abutting with water … and … mud, and
… overrun with rats”. Class distinctions
too find a place and the chasm that
divides the two is most obvious in the
relationship between Emily and
Steerforth. Dickens firmly believed that
"Virtue shows quite as well in rags and
patches as she does in purple and fine
linen" and condemned strongly the
social stratification of Victorian
England. Throughout the novel,
Dickens addresses several important
social issues of his time: the problem of
prostitution in nineteenth-century
London, lack of professional
opportunities for women in Victorian
England, need for humane treatment for
the insane, the injustice of debtors'
prison, and indictments against the
rigidly conventional, purse-proud
nineteenth-century English middle
class. But as A.W. Ward says, “Nothing
will ever destroy the popularity of a
work of which it can truly be said that,
while offering to his muse a gift not less
beautiful than precious, its author put
intoithislife'sblood”.
From the social to the historical,
Dickens could move with ease.
Regeneration may be considered the
underlying theme of A Tale of Two
Cities. Barnaby Rudge was his first
historical novel but certainly less
popular. Dickens called A Tale of Two
Cities“a story of incident” in which the
characters could/would express
themselves through the story rather than
in dialogue. Carlyle was supposed to
have sent him two cartloads of reading
material when Dickens asked for some
background material on the French
Revolution. This is his only novel that
Dickens has called a tale, though he did
toy with the idea of Buried Alive as the
title for this novel. Dickens never
intended to produce a historical study;
33 Estrade Literary Magazine

40. “Hello Dad, I'm fine. Any reason for
calling, I am kind of busy right now” I
said.
“Not really son. I just called to ask you
whether you are tired of that boring job
yet”
“Dad I don't want that old argument
again. I have told you before that I don't
want to join Politics” “But Why not?” He
asked “There's power, fame and money
allhandedtoyouonasilverplatter.”
I replied ”I am a decent human being. I
wanttostaythatway”.
“Nonsense” my father replied “But if you
come to your senses, call me” He hung up
the phone. In case you had not noticed my
father was a politician, a successful one
too if you went by the size of his bank
account.Iwantednothingtodowithhim.
I sat wondering what to do. This was
big. I knew only one person apart from
my father who had high level government
contacts and could help me get this
information to the appropriate
authorities. I looked at the clock, 4 PM.
My boss worked weekends, so he would
still be in the office. I took my floater keys
and debated on whether or not to take the
dynamite and guns with me. I decided
against it. It could be somewhat
problematic to explain to a traffic cop
why exactly I had so many explosives in
my backpack. I got out of my house and
enteredmyfloater,insertedthekeys.
“Welcome Jay. Where would you like to
go today?”TheAI of my floater, Ed asked
me.
“Theoffice,Edandbequickaboutit.“
“It will be difficult” myAI answered “My
servers are telling me that the traffic today
isthreetimesnormal.”
“Whatever get me there quick”. Thank
god we had floaters. In history class, I had
read about the vehicles our ancestors used
to comute, those pesky sputtering
pollution producing machines they called
cars. Floaters were much better; they
floated two feet off the road and ran by
electrical and solar energy. The numbers
of accidents nowadays were practically
zero as the AI's were programmed to
follow traffic rules. Well most of them
anyway. Some had been reprogrammed
to add new features by certain handsome
and talented engineers who shall remain
unnamed. We reached the office in an
hour. I work in the National Citizen
Database Center as a software Developer.
I got out of my floater and entered the
glass building. I avoided the security
entrance and got in through the side door.
My boss Mr. Mehta was a nice enough
man. He was in his late thirties and was
very easy going. He let us do our jobs the
way we wanted to. I took the elevator to
the fifth floor. I knocked on the door and
entered. My boss was busy on his laptop.
He looked up, saw me and his face broke
outintoasmile.
“Jay, I don't think I have ever seen you in
the office on weekends” he said in his
largeboomingvoice.
“I need to talk to you boss” There must
have been something in my voice that
made him look up at me, his manner
concerned and said “Is everything
alright?”
“No and I need to talk to you, alone “I
purposefully looked towards his personal
robotJaimestandinginacorner.
“Oh come on Jay, it's just a robot” but he
relented and ordered Jaime to go out of
theroom.
When the robot moved out of the
room something about the way it looked
at me made me feel like it knew. I
controlled my fear. “So what's the matter
Jay? You look scared.” Mr. Mehta asked
me.
“I look scared because I am scared” I
then explained what had happened.When
I had finished he sat there looking
pensive.
He began “This is something big. I
know a few people in DRDO (Defence
Research Development Organisation).
Let me make a few calls.” While he made
thecalls,Ijustsattheredeepinthought.
Mehta spoke up “I got you a meeting
at DRDO Head office at 6'o clock. Get
going.” He got up from his desk and stood
in front of me. He gave me a hug and said
“You are doing the right thing Jay. I am
proud ofyou.”
I was surprised, but the man meant
well so I thanked him and exited the
room. DRDO headquarters were almost
outside of the city. I needed to get going if
Iwantedtoreachontime.
As soon as I entered the parking lot, I
saw a blur and something like a truck hit
me and lifted me off my feet. I flew ten
feet through the air and hit a brick wall. I
saw stars and just lay there. I tried to
gather myself up but the pain was too
great.After some time I was able to sit up
by taking support of the wall. I saw Mehta
sir's robot Jaime walking towards me. He
stopped three feet away from me. The
front part of his stomach slid away into a
side panel and out came a Desert eagle,
the most dangerous pistol in the world.
He cockedthegunandaimeditatme.
He was not going to miss from that
range and I was sure that I was going to
die. He pulled back his index finger, but at
that exact moment my floater hit him,
smashing him into a wall. the gates of the
floater opened up and out came the voice
ofEd
“Quick get into the floater”. At the
same time I heard the sound of metal
yGod hadfailedme,My faith
was shaken.Ihadnevereven
dreamt that Google would not
haveananswer foranengineer.
“Damn it, how in the world am I
going to shut down this damn robot “ I
muttered. The said robot was making a
warning noise which sounded
suspiciously like a Kustin Keiber song.
The dawn of the twenty-second century
had brought to us the ultimate product.
The Chinese scientists had created the
perfect robot. The robots had replaced
our computer and laptops. They were
like our secretaries and caretakers
combined. They could also do double
integrations in a jiffy as I had found out
in college. The robots looked like
humans too. At the time of their release
the Chinese had told the world that they
look like humans so that they could fit in
with us. That was obviously a load of
crap, there were far too many perverts
out there for that to be true. No matter
how good the robots were, presently I
had half a mind to bomb the whole lot of
them, for the simple reason that my
personal robot Summer had gone
berserk two hours ago. It had suddenly
started producing an annoying warning
claxon.
“I have had enough” I muttered, my
patience at an end. I shut down the
machine in a rather primitive manner,
breaking it open with a bat. The head of
the robot rolled off giving my eardrums
some much needed relief. A couple of
seconds later the warning siren
restarted, this time coming from the
decapacitated body of the robot.
“You've got to be kidding me. “ I put my
hand through the neck of the robot; I tore
out the wires and connections. I pulled
out something through his neck and
nearly fainted when I saw the dynamite
sticks taped together with a timer. I
threw them away and took cover
beneath my desk. When nothing got
blasted or caught fire, I came out from
my bomb shelter and examined the
makeshift bomb. When I completely
opened up the robot I found not just
dynamite but neatly stacked in gun
ammo and a load of war equipment. If I
had gone toting around that many
weapons I would have probably looked
likeArnold only you know minus the six
packs.
Suddenly my phone started ringing.
The display showed my Dad's number. I
debated on whether to take his call or
not. I ended up taking it. He was my
father after all, but I did disable the 3-D
hologram.
“Hello Jay, How are you” my father's
greetingwas coldaswas hispersonality.
M
35 Estrade Literary Magazine

41. throw it away but something caught my
eye. I read it. On it was written in tiny
preciseletters.
Meet me in Fresh Mart at Dwarka
Sector-5in1hour.
I reached the Fresh Mart, parked my
floater and got out. I was careful, looking
around for suspicious characters. I
entered the mart, bought a chocolate and
ateit.Iwas reallyhungry.
I suppose near death experiences tend
to make you hungry. I would have never
picked Fresh Mart for a clandestine
meeting. After exactly an hour I saw her
in the hygiene products department. I
wentuptoherandasked
“Youwantedtomeetme?”
“Yes because I know what is happening
and I know what will happen if we don't
dosomething.”
“Whatwillhappen?”
“The world as you know it will end. The
Chinese will rule the world. If you want to
know more follow me.” She said and then
walkedout.
I stood there with my mouth open. I
hastened to follow her. I caught her just
outsidethebuilding.
“What do you mean, the Chinese will
rule.”Iaskedher
“Are you an Idiot? Did you not see
why these robots have guns and
explosives” She forced herself to calm
down and said “Let's walk. These robots
are the Chinese attack. They are
positioned to infiltrate our governments
and leak sensitive data and to replace
importantpersonnel's.”
I was shocked. If it was true it was
huge, bigger than World War 2 and
everybody knew what a clusterfuck it
was. Itriedtoreason
“Look it can't be true. I could not be the
firstpersontobreakopenarobot.”
“Ya the CIA practically tore up the first
few robots shipped to the US. They did
not find anything. The robots were
programmed to acquire weapons when
they needed to, but in India nobody
checks them hence you and your
situation. We suspect that America has
already been compromised. It is like a
shadow wargoingon”
“Why don’t you put it on the internet, so
that everybody knows about it.” I asked
her.
“We can't. You have seen what one of
those robots can do. What if the Chinese
order the robots to move on the general
populace, it would be a slaughter, No it is
bettertofightfromtheshadows.”
While walking we had passed into
sector 16. We stopped near an abandoned
building. She knocked three times on the
heavy steel door. A digital display came
up from a side panel and proceeded to
verify her identity through an optical
scan.We were granted entry. It was a huge
warehouse.Itappearedempty.
“Whatisthisplace”Iaskedher.
popping. I somehow, despite my recent
head banging, got into the floater. Ed
quickly shut down the doors and zoomed
away.
Ed started speaking “I saw that robot
shooting at you and it triggered the
emergency subroutines in my memory.”
Thank god for that or the forensics would
have been scraping pieces of me off the
pavement.
“Ed,takemetoDRDO Headquarters.”
“I would but there seems to be a problem”
Edreplied.“What?”Iasked.
“Look for yourself” With that Ed brought
a view of the rear camera onto the front
screen.
The robot was all right now. It did not
look like it had been hit by a floater and it
was keepingpacewithit.Gulp.
“Ed, Manual override now” I almost
shouted.
“Done Boss” Ed replied and the front
dashboard slid away to reveal a multi
buttonsteeringwheel.
“You want to race Jaime, Let's race.” I
pushed on the auto accelerate button and
revved the engine. Nobody has ever
accused me of being a good driver. They
all use one word, Rash. I showed the robot
why. I weaved, turned and drifted and left
theroboteatingdust.
“Take that Robo boy” I reached the
DRDO Head office ten minutes late. I did
not appear professional. In fact, I looked
like ten miles of bad road. My clothes
were torn in various places. My hair was
dishevelled, and I had pains in places I did
notknow existed.
I went to the front desk. The
receptionist thought of calling in the
security but I showed her my I-Card and
told her about my appointment. She
directed me to a conference room. Six
people were sitting in the room, five men,
onewoman.
“Youarelate”saidoneofthem.
“I was attacked by a terminator” I
deadpanned. None of them laughed.
Maybetheyweren'tArnoldfans.
I went to the front of the desk and told
them all that had happened to me in the
last four hours. When I finished they all
burstoutlaughing.
“You really expect us to believe that. You
arecrazy”Oneofthemsaid.
“I am not lying” I said through gritted
teeth.Ihatebeinglaughedat.
“Stop wasting our time, boy we are not
playing games here. Get out before we
callsecurity.”
The lady got up. She was beautiful
with long flowing brown hair and a
tanned complexion. She gave me a paper
and said “The phone number of a good
psychiatristIknow”
I collected my things and walked out
from there.There was only so much insult
I could take. As I was getting into my
floater, I saw that the paper the lady had
given me was still with me. I was about to
“A safe haven for people like us” She
continued “Come on people we have a
guest.”Sheshoutedintothegloom.
A lot of people just popped up out of
nowhere. There were easily more than 20
or30peoplethere.
“There is somebody here who wants to
meetyouverybadly.”Shesaid.
“WhowouldIknow here”Ireplied.
A person detached himself from the
crowd and started walking towards us. I
couldn't make him out as his face was in
the shadows but he looked vaguely
familiar. When he came into my view I
found myself looking into the face of
Jaime, Mehta Sir's Robot. All the blood
drained out of my face as a horrible
realization crept over me. I looked to the
womanandsaid
“You are not really human. Are you” I
asked her. She smiled as she clubbed me
overtheheadandsaid
“Not really sweety” They were the last
words IheardbeforeIblackedout
When I came to my senses I was
bound to a chair and various robots were
sticking wires and needles into various
parts of my anatomy. I was in a hopeless
situation. I was surrounded by over thirty
robots all of whom were faster than me,
stronger than me and more rested than
me. I sought out the woman who had
broughtmethere.
“Why choose me?” I asked her. She
looked at me and said “Because of your
Father, he is a renowned politician and
through him we can reach the Prime
Minster and convert him to a valuable
asset.”
Son of a bitch, I sometimes hate my
dad but he is my dad and knowing that
somebody was trying to harm him
through me angered me. “You are never
going to succeed. Just open my hands and
I will crack your batteries, corrupt your
systems and put a virus in your hard
drive”
Jaime spoke “Can I kill him already, his
jokesareso awful.”
“Not until the profiling gets done. How
much longer?” She asked a robot who
was working onme.
“Just the eyeball extraction remaining”
therobotreplied.Eyeballextractionugh.
“Well that can be done after he is dead”
She took out a Magnum 45 and prepared
to shoot me. Oh fuck, I was going to die
aloneinabuildingfullofrobots.
“Rule to the Chinese” She said and
thumbedbackthehammer.
“Not in this millennium” said a big
booming sound. All the robots turned
towards the source of the sound. The lady
robot turned her gun towards him so fast
that it was mostly just a blur, but Mehta sir
didnotwasteanytime,hepushed abutton
on a remote in his hand and there was a
sudden build-up of pressure, an
experience like being pushed in from all
sides, a sudden disorienting popping and
36Estrade Literary Magazine

42. a mild electric shock. When I took
bearing of my surroundings, I saw that
all the robots had frozen in the same
position they had been a moment
before. Hurray I was saved. Mehta sir
cametome,cutmybonds andfreedme.
“Whatjusthappened”Iaskedhim.
“Electromagnetic Pulse (EMP) Bomb.
The only thing that works against these
robots, But it's not permanent.” I saw
many officials dressed like secret
service agents moving in the
backgrounddismantlingtherobots.
“How did you know, where I was? Not
thatIamcomplainingorsomething.”
“It's my job boy. I am a RAW Agent. I
planted a transmitter in your pocket while
I hugged you. We knew that these people
were interested in you so we were ready
forsomethinglikethistohappen.”
“So you saved the day, Congratulations
Sir” I gathered up my things and began
movingoutofthebuilding.
“Whereareyougoing”heaskedme.
My lipscurledupintoasmile.
“I am going to join Politics and bomb
Chinaintonothing.”
and my health is deteriorating. They have
chosen to ignore me in this mad world of
money, power and fame. I am stressed
andpolluted.”
Like a good friend, I coaxed her
answer and assured, “ Not to worry- it's a
circle of life and soon you too would be
nurtured the same way as me. I foresee a
change with many people by the small
things they do, knowingly or
unknowingly, for others on a daily basis.
You too, would be fed generous amount
of goodness and positivity, spiritualism
andsanctity.”
As passive audience, our new co-
passengers could not control and
responded to our conversation. “I am Mr.
Extrinsic and my friend here is Ms.
Intrinsic. We couldn't help overhearing
your conversation, and share the same
opinion. I also get showcased more often
than Ms. Intrinsic. It's a world of right
packaging and perfect presentation.
Blissfully, Ms. Intrinsic is a balancer who
constantly suggests that I am on my highs
butdonotbesurprised.”
Now Ms. Intrinsic intervenes and
enters the discussion, “everything has to
evolve. Things are always in a state of
flux. Nothing is constant. The only
constant thing is Change. I too tend to be
ignored and get less attention- people
dress-up well, flash branded clothes but
wearraggedinnerwear.”
The four of us soon realized that we
had reached our destination. We all
moved in different direction from there
on, pursuing our roles in this journey of
Life. There’s a very common saying that
life is never black or white, but all grey. It
is a mixture of good and bad… but that is
Life… And it’s our responsibility to see
that we’re attempting to strike a balance
between our inner self and the outer
world. This is our Own life and our
responsibility!
hetrainjerksasitcomestoahalt.
It's theDelhiCantonment
Railway Station. My friend and I
are already on-bard. At this station, few
more passengers are likely to board the
train.
It is platform No. 1., a small station
with a transit time of only 15 minutes.
Cries of the vendors engaged our
attention with snacks sellers, sweetmeat
sellers, newspaper boys, etc. swarming
the place.As the station bell clanged, the
people who had till then been squatting
resignedly on the platform, began
bustling about. The carriage jolted
forward and the train began to move
slowly out of the station, rolling past the
'Delhi Cantonment' board. Twp people,
nearly the same age as us, scrambled
onto our coach and acquired the
oppositeseats.
Now let me introduce my friend and
myself. Although it can be said that our
attributes are different, it is together that
we balance and form life. I am Mr. Skin
and my friend is Ms. Soul. We are but
two sides of the same coin, but more
often than not, striking a balance
between us can be rather difficult. In this
journey of life with each other, we're
usually surprised when people try to
choose between which one should be
given more importance, when the most
importantthingistokeepus balanced.
Turning to Ms. Soul, I said, “I
always plume about myself as I am
pampered by humans a great deal in
Salons, Spas, fitness centers; especially
by women. I get my constant supply of
lotions, moisturizers and superior
coating- creams. A recent fad though;
men also joining the bandwagon could
beaddedtotheaforesaidlines.”
Surprisingly, she started sobbing
and cried in distraught, “People really
do not care about my well-being. I am
constantly deprived of food of thought
curse. IT gives you strength to carry on ill
the end, but when it breaks, so does
everything around us, shattering life
itself.
As I was walking away from his bed
Mrs.Sarin said, "He was perfectly fine till
2 months back. There was no problem at
all," she wiped her face as tears rolled
down.
I sat down besides her. We were two
strangers who knew nothing about each
other, but somehow I felt connected
throughthisincident.
"His eyes are his best feature. Did you see
that? His eyes are grey in color and really
intense,"shewelledup.
From where I was standing I saw dull and
lifelesseyes.
"We went out for dinner 2 months back. It
was lovely. Just us. He even drove that
night. He was perfectly healthy. The next
morning he complained of a headache
and before I could do anything about it he
got a brain hemorrhage," she continued to
weep.
I tried to fight back the tears but I could
not.
"He has spent the last one and a half
month in the I.C.U. Just lying still.
Living on machines. I wish he would
look at me. I am sure he will be ok soon. I
am going to fight till I can and for how
much I love him, I know I will fight till
mylastbreath,"shesaid.
After spending some time with her, I
got the lights and went to bed. Wide
awake. Feeling emotions I never had.
This was a moment in my life I can say
that taught me the true meaning of the
word love. I have had my share of love
being expressed to me. But this was
surreal.
It was time for us to leave. It had been
5 days. She was still there, by him. She
seemed weaker compared to the first day
I saw her, yet stronger. Broken down yet
his pillar of strength. She knew she was
grappling in the dark with very little to
holdonto,butshecontinued.
Thisislove.
Today people are ready to walk away
from one another over a stupid fight or a
disagreement. We have no patience. We
are too busy working, to solve our own
issues and choose to leave than to work on
it. We are too independent and believe we
can survive on our own. We can't. We
needlove.
Looking at this couple, holding onto
every moment they have with each other,
myfaithisreinstated.
Don't take life for granted. Live, love,
laughandbelieve!
Continued from Page 14...
T
37 Estrade Literary Magazine

44. particularly the boroughs of London. Their families are
likely to have entered England via Africa. They would all be
tax-paying professionals, now settled in the United Kingdom.
The research will result in a traveling photo-exhibit
accompanied by extensive text captions and a sound piece that
willrecordthepatoisofimmigrantvoices.”
Through her attempt to record stories of migration,
movement, struggle and success, Nynika also hoped to capture
the deep, unspoken sense of loss that is an intense part of the
lives of many migrants. As part of her research bid to various
funding bodies, Nynika stated: “Much of this deep, soul-
stirring loss may stem from the simple fact of living in a land
that appears to be far away from the internalized idea of
home.” Though sometimes, she mused, it could just be a result
of being unable to hold up a sense of self, as in the curious case
ofAmalAmin.
Gazing at the unknown man's photograph – he had a shy
smile and was dressed in old slacks and a sweatshirt – she'd
come up with the idea of making a video film on a transatlantic
journey. Amin had mailed it to her after their second phone
conversation saying it was taken on a boat in Seattle when he'd
journeyed there to meet his brother. Nynika though the film
would tell the story of a community through one man's journey
across three continents: from Harrow in the United Kingdom
toVirsad in Gujarat, India, via Malawi inAfrica. It seemed like
a romantic, transcontinental journey that would definitely
captivatethefunders, shethought.
The background information for Nynika's research bid
revealed that many among the Gujaratis who have been in the
UK the longest, are from East Africa, mainly Kenya, Malawi,
Tanzania and Uganda. Those from Uganda arrived after
Amin's forced exodus. “Most of the East African nations are
largely former British Colonies too and gained independence
this century, making the links between the countries vibrant.
Those who arrived in the UK in the 60s and 70s are largely
traditional business people, now culturally and commercially
well integrated. A large percentage has its own businesses.
Popularindustriesinclude
ynikaVorawenttoSt.Xavier's collegeinBombayin
the1980s. Her bestbuddy,awiry youngParsi,Raoul
Marfatia, often dyed his soft curly hair a deep purple.
They were both an idealistic 20. She loved him because of his
passion for social justice. Raoul, who had a yen for things like
nation building, was always on the ball with the latest bit of
news.
Once, chucking a piece of white chalk sharply onto the
courtyard floor, he'd exclaimed: “… Researchers are akin to
booty hunters. They don't actually care what eventually
happens to the subject of their limited time-span attention.”
Raoul's ire had been aroused that day by a report in a daily,
which described how two well-funded, foreign researchers
had been conducting studies using high dosage contraception
pills on villagers in a poverty stricken little hamlet in Bihar.
Not only had the state government taken no action against
them, but it had actually sent a team of government medicos to
“surveytheeffects”alongsidethegroup of“foreigndoctors”!
Years later, Nynika, now a comely 35 but forced to wear
thick black rimmed reading glasses, recalled Raoul's acerbic
observation made so many years ago, when she chanced upon
a man called Amal Amin, who lived in Harrow in North West
London during the course of research for a project on the lives
ofGujaratimigrants.
AmalAmin's details were given to Nynika by a coordinator
in a department of the UK government which looks into the
welfare of South Asian migrants. Tentative email exchanges
and a longish phone conversation withAmalAmin led Nynika
to believe that her proposed project had tremendous scope, and
would eventually yield serious insights. It seemed to be a
project that could find favor with international funding
agencies.
Armed with an idea that was bolstered by preliminary
research, Nynika conceived her project, evocatively titled
Loss, as a three-fold documentation about the lives of six,
middle-aged Gujarati Indian immigrants. She wrote:
“Articulate and educated, the subjects would, typically, be
residing in predominantly Gujarati populated areas,
N
39 Estrade Literary Magazine

45. Anupa Mehta is an arts consultant, arts manager, a widely published writer and columnist. Her published works include: INDIA 20 -
Conversations with Indian ContemporaryArtists, (MAPIN) and The Waiting Room (Penguin). She is the director of THE LOFT at Lower
ParelinMumbai,andArts ReverieinAhmedabad.Sheoffers artsconsultancyviaANUPAMEHTAArts &Advisory.

46. accounting, running a shop (e.g. Sonis
stuck to their jewelry trade), dentistry
etc.
“The link with Africa is still quite
strong and annual gatherings of
migrants from regions like Dar-as-
salaam are attended by hundreds of
people. People of my parent's
generation think back on their days in
Africa and (in the distant past) India
very fondly. Most are likely to still have
relatives or links to their city of birth and
make trips there from time to time.
Often Swahili words are encompassed
into regular household Gujarati, and
accents are a colorful mix of Indian
Gujarati peppered with British terms
andSwahili.”
In Nynika's shrewd Gujarati mind,
this project was also likely to throw up
material for a book of short stories that
she hoped to write one day. Stories that
would be bitter sweet, pungent and tart,
much like the flavor and scent of
Gujarati pickles such as gor keri,
chundo, amba haldar and khatti keri
that she'd grown up relishing in her Ba's
homeinRajkot.
Explaining the nuances of the
project to a potential funder over a
telephonic interview, she'd said, “The
objective of my project, Loss is to map
immigrant experience and record
intimate stories of grief, particularly
within the Gujarati communities of
Leicester, Birmingham, Manchester
and the burrows of North-West London,
such as Brent and Harrow, which are
predominantly populated by pockets of
first and second generation Gujaratis,
many of whom have made their way
into the UK from Gujarat via East
Africa.”
On the strength of a first research
grant which was sanctioned soon after
b y a n a g e n c y c a l l e d
InTerDiFFerences, Nynika undertook
a trip to the United Kingdom to establish
contact with the six individuals on her
list, and meet up with the photographer
and the video artist who would be
collaborating with her. She had opted to
work with a young English
photographer, Elizabeth Key who had a
zany sense of humor and a yen for
extremelyquirkyportraiture.
Amal Amin, the first among
Nynika's listof casestudies,wrotetoher
to say that he was not going to be in the
country on the dates when she was
meant to be in London.All she had with
her were some print-outs of emails from
him and his postal address. For the
others, she had fixed appointments. Liz
and she planned to drive out to
Birmingham, Leicester and the suburbs
of Manchester to meet the other five
individuals who could become potential
casestudies.
Reading through a stack of Amal
personally don't blame her for anything.
She's a good person with a kind heart,
hasn't got a mean streak in her body, so I
can't really fault her for anything. She did
the best she knew how. Even though I'd
known her for a long time, I never thought
I'd marry her. She and I were on different
wave-lengths. My grandfather arranged
the wedding and I found out 10 days prior
that this is taking place. I freaked but out
ofrespectfor my grandparents,I justwent
through the motions. Over time things
deteriorated and we went our separate
ways.
When Renu was born, I was
soooooooo happy. I took bottles of
champagne into the offices in LA and
work came to a stand-still. I was on the
tenth cloud. I was so happy that day. The
thought of losing her on the other hand,
killed me... slowly! Went into a massive
suicidal trip... I didn't care, nothing
mattered. It took me two/three years to get
over the pain. Now when I go shopping or
to the park and see parents and children
together, I crumble up inside. I have a
psychologist and a psychiatrist who
overview my progress. I follow a holistic
approach. Alongside the medication,
exercises, breathing exercises, yoga,
kriyas, walking. Try to eat well, though
that's not always easy. Yes, I did fall in
love once after we separated. I was doing
a job in Victoria Falls designing a
shopping complex. During the 3 year
construction project, I used to meet this
Indian girl quite a bit. Never a date as
such, more like seeing her around as the
town is very small and with only 5 Indian
families living there, it's hard not to bump
into them! It was purely platonic, but the
parents got a wind of it and got her
hitched to somebody else. Reason: I was
the wrong caste! So, that took the life out
of me, and I've drifted through time since
then. So, haven't met anybody really in
thesepastfewyears.
So,sleeptight,girl.
AA
Transcribing his emails into a document
on her note-pad, Nynika had filed this
partofhislifestoryas:
AMALAMIN
MALE
ARCHITECT & MALE NURSE,
DREAMER
LIVES & WORKS IN HARROW,
NORTHWESTLONDON
Mr. Amal Amin's grandfather left
India in 1890. He was a silk merchant. His
father made his way to Africa in the
1930s, while his mother's family was
already based in Southern Rhodesia.
They had an arranged marriage. He was
born in Zambia, as in those days Gujarati
girls went to their maternal homes to
deliver their babies. The three siblings
grew up in Zimbabwe. So, they aren't
typically from “East Africa”. Still he is
from a family of Gujaratis who made their
Amin's emails on the flight out to
London, as the airplane cruised through
skies, newly washed by dawn's gold and
old rose hues, she couldn't help thinking
that her subject's communiqués were
surprisingly eloquent, despite their
rushedcolloquialtone.
Inoneofhisemailshe'dwritten:
“Once upon a time, not east nor west,
but in the savanna plains in deepest
Africa in the middle of summer, mum
travelled to Southern Rhodesia to give
birth to her eldest....me! I was born on the
21st of October, the eldest of two brothers
and one sister. Mum's family lived in
Southern Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) and
we were brought up and raised in
Northern Rhodesia (now Zambia). We
grew up on a 13 acre farm. Never did like
the town. Wrote 13 O levels and ended up
receiving a place to study medicine at the
University of Zambia. Of course I had no
inclination to study medicine; my heart
was set to study architecture! So, since the
course was not being offered locally, I
came to London. I had to do 3 A-levels to
enter the place. I studied at a highly
recognized school of architecture. It was
the best place I could have ever been in. I
stayed there for 10 years before they spat
me out. A lot was going on with me at the
time. After graduation, I followed the sun
and moved to LA, California and stayed
there 3 years till I got home sick for
London!
So I came back and worked here for a
while. My health deteriorated and my
brothers shipped me back home to
Zambia. After getting better, I moved to
Zimbabwe and set up a practice there
after briefly working for a local company.
I enjoyed working out there... I was in top
form, with projects of all kinds and sizes
coming through. I worked till day break,
but then, I enjoyed it so much! But there
was one thing that was missing in all that
passion... my daughter Renu, who now
lives with my estranged wife.... I died
every day. Nothing could replace what I
felt, the hurt, the guilt, the memories...
therewas nobodyIcouldrelateto.
5yrs ago I took all the workers from
the construction site home and gave them
everything that was there and, when the
house was empty, I came to London in the
hope of finding her. It's been hard to
connect with her over the years, but we
finally connected in September this year
when just Renu and I flew to Prague for a
few days...her choice of city. It's a
beautiful city and we had a fabulous time.
She now calls me every Saturday
afternoon...and moves me to tears...
thought I'd really lost her! That's why I
guess now, I believe that nothing is really
important. I live for today and do the
thingsthatmakeme happy.
I'm not really sure how or why my wife
and I broke up... Guess we just fell apart
and drifted in different directions. I
41 Estrade Literary Magazine

47. way intoUK viaAfrica.
Mr.Amin came to London in 1974-75
for his O levels, followed by his
University education. He recalls that,
“…there was the apparent racism, yes,
but what he missed the most was the
sunlight, and the open spaces of
Zimbabwe.” He first lived in Finchley in
North London, but soon moved: there
seemed to be safety in the numbers of
Wembley, Southall and Harrow. This was
around the time of the crisis in Uganda
when there was a huge influx of Asians
intotheUK.
Though he studied in the UK, he
hasn't been able to call it home. Post his
education, he went back toAfrica. He has
a large house in Zimbabwe where he lived
for many years with his wife, Deepa and
his daughter Renu. He had an arranged
marriage. His wife's father and his
grandfather are friends. He wasn't keen
on the marriage but couldn't argue with
his family. The marriage didn't last. After
his wife left him, and he couldn't get
access to his daughter, he shut up the
house and the business and came back to
London.
In Harrow, Mr. Amin lives in a rented
house. He hasn't built anything for
himself, even though he is a qualified
architect. In Africa, he has built hospitals
and schools and is currently building a
cinema house in Malawi. But in the UK
he does residential and civil work.All his
clients are Indians. All the suppliers and
serviceproviderstooareIndians.
Apart from his architectural practice,
he puts in time at a mental health facility
in London. He tries not to take up too
much work as he needs time for other
pursuits like photography, painting and
drawing, and, “to listen to the Beatles.”
He says his needs are limited. He
manages to save about 200 pounds a
month and his rent is 1000 pounds, so he
gets by. Socially, he knows a lot of people
in Harrow, including many white people.
He often invites them over for a meal as
he,likemanyIndians,hatestoeatalone.”
As old rose mellowed into weak
yellow rays over a sea of white clouds,
Nynikatookupanothere-mail:
“In Africa, we never ate till Dad came
home. The table was always full of food
and faces all around it. Here, you never
know who your real friends are. Actually,
I call people over as I can't bear to be
alone. I need people around. I like
cooking. When we were young, my sister
and I would choose the ingredients and
spread them out for the evening meal –
food, as you may know, is an integral part
oflife,particularlyforIndianfamilies.
I'm okay, really. Well, yes, I'm on some
medication. I take Lithium tablets to
prevent myself from going the loony tunes
way. I have bi-polar disorder – the truth is
that for many years we never knew why I
acted so funny from time to time. But now
It was only when she received an e-mail
from him one day in which he said:
that it hit her that an
unknown man was getting attached
to her, just the way people do during
transference in psycho-analysis, or
in virtual relationships.
“Nyn, I really like talking to you.
I missed writing to you from Africa.
Spent 70 rand to get a go at the net and
write to you, but the letter
disappeared...”
Going through the last of her first
subject's emails, as a bored blonde
stewardess served microwave slick
sausages and rubbery eggs on dinky grey
plastic trays, Nynika realized that the man
was clearly depressed. He had written
thingslike:
“The truth is that in England, on some
days, I have to find a reason just to pull
myself out of bed… Lost.... In an endless
sky Where the clouds are hung for the
poet's eye There you'll find me Lost....
Between two shores -Johnathan
Livingstone Seagull. Did you ever read
that? You are right.... there is a lot of
emotion that needs to pour out...... you
read well between the lines... You have
seen this wall that I hide behind....and
yes, damage does come in many forms.
Too sensitive for this world, my father
keepstellingme.
Wish I'd grown up in India with
you..... I know, it's a weird thought, but
through you there seems to be a
resurgence of Indian blood flowing
through my veins. Promise me
something.... one day you'll teach me how
to speak proper Gujarati! Honestly,
there's nothing wrong with me. But well,
okay, I wear a hearing aid….I had to get it
two years ago - I was at a construction
site where they were cutting tiles and I
didn't protect my ears. So a big boom
happened and my eardrum went whoosh.
I call it my stereophonic sound! It's a
bummer as far as listening to music goes.
I love the Beatles… Yellow Submarine is
my favorite. Guess you know what that
one's about….such few people get what
theBeatleswerereallyabout…
By the time Nynika had finished
reading through the sheaf, the sun was up
and the whisky laden timbre of the pilot's
I know. There's nothing actually wrong
withme, youknow.”
“But sometimes I just get really low,
particularly in winter. I miss the African
sun and the Indian sun which I love.
Really miss it. Coming to India is always
like a home-coming. We went to this
wedding in the village of Virsad – my
brother-in-law's nephew was getting
married, and there were so many rites,
so much colour and noise and warmth!
People everywhere….I loved it. I feel at
homeinmy villageinVirsad inGujrat.”
On hernote-padshetyped:
Mr. Amin states that he is on
prescription medications related to bi-
polar disorder. He is also affected by
SAD or seasonal affective disease. He
believes though that there is nothing the
matter with him. Like many of his ilk, he
feels a sense of unbelonging. Which is
different from “not belonging” – an idea
linked with the idea of “home.” Mr.
Amin too feels the inexplicable sense of
loss that many migrant Indians appear to
feel when they return home to a home-
land which they left nearly three
decades ago. The fracture and the
rupture emerge from the fact that they
find it all to be different from the
imagined home-land, re-visited each
night on the strength of memories and
groceryshop flavors.
In one of his emails Amal Amin had
told Nynika that she listened well. She'd
replied: “It's part of my job as a
researcher to get my subject to speak.
People like talking, people like sharing
the most intimate details of their lives to
people like me.” Nynika didn't think it
necessary to tell him that as a writer she
is also interested in listening in to what
peopledon'tstate.Or leaveunsaid.
42Estrade Literary Magazine

48. voice was making an announcement for
people to fasten their seat belts, as the
plane was descending into London
Heathrow.
It was the summer of 2007. The fair
city of London, home to the Queen, the
descendant of Queens of many colonies,
was charming as ever, despite the sharp
nippy air. Nynika had two days to
herself before she was to meet Liz and
Mann. As she drove through
Kensington Park in a black cab taking in
the last of the season's cherry blossoms
– they were pale, fragile and elegant,
swaying ethereally above ordered paths,
despite a bone chilling breeze - she
mulledontheinexplicableideaofloss.
She found herself asking: 'What
constitutes loss? How does one try and
measure split second rupture? How do
you put your finger on a nano-fraction
of damage, which has the potential to
change the course of someone's life
forever?'
The soft pink boughs around her
brought to mind an evocation of
tenderness: that fragile and awkward
emotion qualified as a gentle kind of
love for want of another definition.
Nynika's sojourn in the United
Kingdom was fruitful from the
perspective of research. But it was also
devastating in many ways. Both Liz and
she were struck by the enormity of
people's pain, as the sense of deep
unbreachable loss that their `subjects'
had carried within themselves for years
and years, tumbled out during the
course of their questioning. Nynika was
particularly consumed by the stories
that people gave her, even though much
of what bubbled up in homes that wore
the dual scent of heavy curry powder
and light citronella air-freshener, was
nostalgic and filled with yearning for a
past that now exists only in the
relentlessonslaughtofmemory.
Whether it was Harshad Shah, a
government employee who lost his wife
to cancer and had to bring up a young
daughter single-handedly, or Azeem
Salauddin, who came to Birmingham
shell struck by the attack of Idi Amin's
troops with just 10 pounds in his pocket,
each story contained in it a moment of
sudden, sharp fracture that had altered
the course of the individual's life
significantly.
It struck Nynika then that loss,
despite its ability to bring about sudden,
swift devastation also possesses an
inherent redemption: it endows its
recipient with a life purpose. Sometimes
one lives through the rest of one's life on
the strength of that which has been lost
to time and the vagaries of life. In some
instances, loss becomes a raison d etre, a
living, breathing phenomenon that
travels alongside, hand in glove, till the
dayitsbeneficiaryceasesbreathing.
Returning home to India, quite
overcome by the pain that she had
inadvertently unearthed, Nynika put
aside the project for a bit.And not just for
the fact that Liz and she did not have the
second leg of funding as yet. Amal Amin
continued to write to her. She responded
sporadically. It was only when she
received an e-mail from him one day in
which he said: “Nyn, I really like talking
to you. I missed writing to you from
Africa. Spent 70 rand to get a go at the net
and write to you, but the letter
disappeared...” that it hit her that an
unknown man was getting attached to her,
just the way people do during
transference in psycho-analysis, or in
virtualrelationships.
Deciding to be more circumspect,
Nynika ceased responding to his e-mails,
which became increasingly persistent.
Finally, one day he rang her to say that he
was coming to India, and would she go
with him to Virsad, his village in Gujarat.
Tempted by the thought of a chance to
capture the background color of his
community and see his ancestral
property, Nynika put aside better sense
and agreed to fly to Ahmedabad, where
she too had a family home. They were to
drivetoVirsadthenextday.
Amal Amin showed up at her parent's
old house on the appointed dot of 12pm
on a blustery September day. They
exchanged perfunctory pleasantries, as
he shyly proffered a box of chocolates
wrapped in a bright pink paper imprinted
with candy floss colored hearts. Nynika's
own heart sank as she sensed the elation
in his. But the researcher in her prevailed.
Quickly she whisked him out into his
waiting car – an old ambassador with no
air-conditioning – to give him a glimpse
of the architectural wonders of
Ahmedabad, including the three
buildings by Le Corbusier and the Indian
Institute of Management designed by
LouisKahn.
At one point, Amal Amin indicated
that he urgently had to use the toilet.
Trying not to stare at his transparent
hearing aid, she directed the driver
towards her aunt's home saying that he
would enjoy seeing the large temple in
her stately home, given Gujarati
Vaishnavs are so devoted to their seva of
lord Krishna in his many avataars. By the
time, they reached Nynika's aunt's
bungalow in an older part of the city,
AmalAmin was desperate, and he almost
ran to the toilet much to her aunt's
bewilderment. Nynika, quite adept at
handling awkward situations distracted
her aunt with a piece of family gossip.
After a while Amal Amin came back to
the verandah overlooking a pretty garden
where Nynika and her aunt were seated
on an ornate jhoola. The front of Amal
Amin's jeans was wet. Both women
glanced away politely, urging him to have
acupoftea.
The rest of the day flew. Nynika tried
not to think of the odor rising from her
companion's jeans and the sad revelation
of his incontinence. Time passed quickly
as she took him to a bookshop and a small
Gujarati restaurant for lunch. Towards
evening, Nynika told him that she was
feeling unwell, and would not be able to
accompany him to Virsad. Hiding his
disappointment admirably, he patted her
head and said: “Never mind, there'll be
manysuch occasionsinourlife-time.”
Overcome by a wave of repulsion,
Nynika quickly stepped out of the car and
bade him a final farewell. Watching the
grey ambassador ferry away her subject –
he had actually clambered on to the back
seat and turned to wave at her from the
rear glass, the way children do – she felt
herself shuddering, saying to herself: “Oh
God, how wrong could he have got it...but
thank God I managed to extricate myself
from the visit to his ancestral home where
his extended family members would
certainlyhavegotitentirelywrong!”
About six weeks later, Amal Amin
wrote to Nynika to ask if he could file for
her green card. It was his way of asking
her to marry him. It's an e-mail that
Nynika chose not to answer. Thereafter,
he never wrote to her again. Nynika can
only hope that he took the blow squarely
and managed not to look at the one-sided
interludeasafreshwaveofloss.
As it turned out, Liz received a mail
from Amal Amin's brother, Anil, whom
Nynika and Liz had met briefly in Harrow
one evening over a cup of coffee on that
research trip. Anil, who had told Liz that
he trusted her as her finger nails were
clean – Liz and Nynika had completely
freaked out afterwards – had written to
inform Liz that his brother, Amal had
been committed to a home for mentally
disturbed individuals two months after he
returnedfromIndia.
The family was unable to fathom
what had triggered the fresh breakdown.
Anil, who had a spare key toAmalAmin's
flat and who went across upon receiving
no response to phone calls, wrote that he
found Amal in bed, thin and unwashed.
He had been staring blankly at the ceiling
lyingonaheapofurinesodden sheets.
This year, Liz and she have been
thinking of making a fresh bid for funding
to take forward their initial research. A
part of her, the sensitive concerned side of
her nature, thinks that they should just put
away the files and notes and forget about
the project. Another part of her believes
that they should go ahead. After all, a
research project must be seen through
whatever the cost, also for the credibility
of the researchers. As for subjects getting
attached to their researchers, it's all part of
anoccupationalhazard,shetoldherself.
43 Estrade Literary Magazine

49. HOME- As I see it now…
clearing the entrance examination and
studying for specialization would easily
consume eleven years of my life. “Eleven
precious years! I shall be too old to marry
by then”, was how my mind reacted to it.
A sixteen year old thinking about her
marriage prospects may seem weird to
you, but it wasn't so for me. Never had I
been to a theatre with friends to watch a
movie in the 21 summers of my life. The
only answer I got in return for any extra-
curricular request was- “Do it after you're
married”, “What's the point in doing this?
etc. “What's the point in living life?”, I'd
ask myself. My father would tell about his
journey at times, elucidating how he rose
above village dust and went on to become
a professor at the university, from being
the son of a farmer. He would narrate his
struggles as a kid away from home to
pursue quality education, his survival on
two sets of formal clothes, and giving up
his promising job at the intelligence
services to pursue something he loved.
He has always been my ideal, a person I
truly look up to. But somewhere I felt that
he was unable to connect with how I feel.
By the end of another four years of
following the same schedule of shuttling
between college and home, I got
accustomed to living a life within the four
wallsofhome.
The day my parents left Ahemedabad
after settling me in this new place, I cried
asking them desperately to take me home
along with them. My father ignored my
naiveness, and stayed stern on my staying
back here to build a career. The past five
months that I have spend in this city,
account for a lot of things I never did
before. My parents are a lot more liberal
now, just for the sake of helping me adjust
and blend in to relish the new
environment. The joy of eating at Mc
Donald's, Subway etc. for the first time,
going to the movies etc. does provide a
fair share of happiness. People don't
believe me when I tell them such stuff.
But strange as it seems, I miss home
badly, and value “Ghar Ka Khanaa” more
thanevernow.
The bonds of familynever seem to fail
you. The fact that my family, howsoever
distant they may be, always loves and
misses me, is what keeps me going in this
strange world out here. I often recollect a
poem that my grand-father used to
recount about the four young ones of a
bird, who flew in four different
directions. At the end of the day, they all
came back to the nest and admitted that
thereisnoplacelike-home.
ixmonthsbeforecollegeended,I
landedupajobinthisdistantcity
namedAhmedabad.Ask meabout
my life before I came here, and I shall tell
you there isn't really much. I seemed a
misfit amongst the crowd of my age,
because my lifestyle was quite
contradictory to that of a normal Indian
teenager leading a city life. I studied in an
all-girls convent school for 14 years and
used to crave going out on my own. Back
then, hanging out with friends, attending
parties, the freedom to go where I want to,
and do what I wish to, was my idea of a
beautifullife.
Since the age of ten, I would tell
everyone that I'll be a doctor when I grow
up. I loved science, and hated
mathematics, so there wasn't much
choice left. My father is a professor of
mathematics and contrary to people's
belief, I suck at math.All those big, bulky
books with content I could never relate
with scared me off as a child. I never was
good at numbers. Guess, some traits in
life cannot be transported along with
DNA strands. When time came to make a
decision and choose a stream for further
studies; my dear father disapproved of
my choosing biology. How vividly I
remember the way he explained that,
S
Deepali Yadav
44Estrade Literary Magazine

50. with stiff hips. And as class progresses, I
start feeling like I don’t exactly have a
choice with regard to keeping my hips
fromswaying.
Apparently,Ican't.
Inside me, something sinks. I will never
beUmraoJaan.Ever.
Deciding I am not made for Kathak, I
find myself flippantly you tubing belly
dancing videos later that night, certain
that at least this form must insist on and
rejoice in hips that sway. This curious act
of rebellion sends magical ripples across
time and space. Just like an unexpected
love, it changes the future I thought I was
goingtohave.
If someone made a ticker of my
thoughts while I watched Rachel Brice
sway to drumbeats, it would probably
readlikethisonaloop-
I MUST LEARN TO DANCE LIKE
THIS! I MUST LEARN TO DANCE
LIKETHIS!!
And on and on it goes. I am dazzled and
enthralled.
Nottomentionvery,veryseduced.
This is what falling in love is. It takes
a glimpse. Then, some breathlessness.
An unexpected star burst of possibility.
And then, a lovely period of focussed
obsession that borders on stalking. I
become intensely curious about Rachel
Brice, Carolena Nerricio and all things
about belly dance. I spend weeks reading
essays on the origins of belly dancing
written by women with hip scarves, and
women with PhDs. I watch youtube
interviews of belly dancers and turn to
jelly and longing. I go through the blogs
of dancers, simpering excitedly to myself
as I realise women all over the world are
similarly falling in mushy, gushy love
with the art form. I read DIY articles on
how to make my own hip scarf. I am
riding on and surrendering to a wave of
secret, bubbling gleefulness at having
found this. The dance seems to take me
back to a world of bonfires, earth goddess
cults, harem princesses, carefree gypsies
and glitter. There is something so sacred
and mystical about some performances,
that I'm reminded of the whirling
dervishes.
My friends chuckle out loud when I
whisper my obsession to them, but they
hoot for me anyway. My parents raise
eyebrows, but don't say much. I catch my
mother making "haw" faces when she
sees me practicing my moves in front of
the mirror. My father seems to register
onlythebellydancing.
tisimportanttofallinlove.Withthe
little-bigthings.Withreminders,of
inspirationandsplashes ofbeauty.
When you live in a grubby world, where
some part of your heart will always wait
for God, it helps infinitely to fall in love
with the smallest of treasures you find in
itspockets, justso thewaitingiseasy.
I have fallen in love over and over
again - with the husky voice of a certain
singer, when she sings of love, the
murmuring hush of the wind rushing
through the leaves, the warm scent of a
baking chocolate cake, the startling
blueness of the twilight sky, and people
who liveonlyonpages.
It is heartening to find a scrap of
poetry so personal, that it could be a
tattoo on the arm of your life, to find a
song that is a signpost to a better place,
to find things, experiences, textures,
tastes, colors, sounds, rhythms that are
like secret doors, port keys to different
realms of being. To discover things
which allure and enlighten you, and
move you into other secret worlds.
When there are whole worlds ripe and
crisp with exquisiteness, waiting for
you to fall in love with them -it is
madness to have love affairs with just
people. For the sake of one's own sanity
and joy, it is not simply important but
necessary to fall in love with
uncomplicated and consistent sources
of joy- as a respite from and as opposed
to those creatures who amble through
the days of your life on two fickle feet
withthudding,crazyhearts.
This is the surprising tale of one such
loveaffair.
"Ta dhin dhin dha, ta dhin dhin dha, dha
tintinta,tadhindhinta."
The room is filled with the peppery
ringing of anklets. My Kathak teacher
intently gazes at me and a slight frown
crosses herface.Istopdancing.
"Ah, Arpita, now I know what you're
doingwrong."
Ilookup,eagertobeenlightened.
"You are moving your hips too much. In
kathak, we do not move our hips. Now
remember-your hipsmustNOTsway."
I feel utterly, depressingly betrayed.
How come nobody told me this before?
Why? What kind of dance forbids one
frommovingtheirhips?
Apparently,Kathak.
I don't care how lovely the shivery
tinkling of my ghungroos sound. I don't
care how exquisite it feels to move my
arms from one pose to another. I don't,
To be honest, I am a little embarrassed
about feeling so passionate about
something that raises eyebrows and
comes with a tinge of sleazy associations.
I imagine my parents in the living room or
at a cocktail party with their shiny shoed
friendsandwellbredEnglishaccents.
"Ah, Mrs. Bohra, my daughter is having
her Arangetram this Sunday. You must
come watch her perform. Bring Arpita
along; she's very fond of dancing herself,
isn'tshe?"
"Oh, yes."
"So, what dance form has she been
learning?Kathakisn'tit?"
"No, notanymore.Bellydancing."
I can imagine the conversation
faltering here for some reason. Probably
because lurid media snapshots of semi
clad and sweaty women gyrating
suggestively are flashing across Mr. S's
mind before he can politely mutter "How
very interesting…" before deciding to
stare at his shoes. I can imagine my
mother smiling tightly, at the pause in
conversation and shuffling on to make
less scandalous chit chat with someone
else.
But like the profoundly besotted and
shamelessly seduced, I don't really care.
Belly dancing was originally a dance that
originated from women, by women, for
women, performed in harems on sultry
nights to appreciate women (and later
men too, I assume :)) . That is why there is
such coquettish gleefulness in the
dancing. It feels more like a naughty
celebration of femininity rather than a
vigorous attempt to titillate or arouse lust.
Although I am sure it has assumed such
forms, having been appropriated by a
patriarchal, capitalist society to be
reclaimed over time, by tribes of urban
women dancing earnestly for themselves.
But instinctively, I know that the core of
this dance is not rooted in seduction of
another, but in the unsullied expression of
yourown sensuality.
When I begin to practice my moves,
there is a primal purity to the movements
that I feel. I find myself tongue tied,
wordless to explain why I am
overwhelmed by how happy this dance
makes me inside. For me, this dance is all
about flirting, with yourself, with beauty,
butnotmen.
And when something so pure moves
through you, it is impossible to feel
vulgar.
I am all set to attend Meher Malik's
Decemberworkshop inbellydancing,but
I
45 Estrade Literary Magazine

51. wedding, ladies sangeet and hang up,
chagrined and irritated at the fact that
such exotic fevers have to strike me in
places like Gujarat where there is little
hope of indulging them. So, I stop calling,
forawhile.
In March, The Learning Societies
Conference I am attending introduces me
toAnita Roy.Afamily therapist and belly
dancer. I spend some warm spring
evenings, along with other women
learning to sway like a lady from her. But
it all ends too soon, and I'm back to my
room and its mirrors, with the YouTube
ladies.
Slowly, serendipity yawns and
sashays into my life. I find an ad in the
paper for a belly dance batch. And a flyer
pinned up on the notice board outside my
favoritebookstoreannouncesclasses.
And suddenly, I can feel happiness
bubbling in my veins again. This time
around, a woman answers the phone.And
shetellsmethatclassesstartnextweek.
" So, Arpita, have you learned how to
bellydancebefore?"
Ten minutes into my first class and
my teacher'salreadyasking methis!!This
must mean something. I begin to grin to
myself.
THAT is when I know I belong to the
tribe.
There is none of that initial, stiff,
getting to know you awkwardness
between my body and the movements of
this dance. This dance feels so easy that I
almost feel guilty that I don't even have to
tryso hardthewayIdidwithballet,jazz,
or kathak to be correct. I don't have to
remember exactly how to place my arms,
or postures. I don't have to try so hard to
remember the steps. My body seems to
have done it's homework in a past
lifetime. Sometimes this feels less like
learning, and more like an instinctual
remembering. I know it in my bones, then
for real and for sure. I was not born for
Kathak,Jazz,BalletorBharatNatyam.
My bodywas madetosway justlikethis.
As I walk home, I contemplate how
I'm going to make it to class twice a week.
The commute will take 3 hours by bus, 2
by car. My Ballet and Jazz classes were
always across the road. Kathak was a ten
minute drive away. But I didn't feel this
kindofshiveryloveforanyofthem.
When you fall in love like this, there is
no question of how. The answers to the
why makes the how irrelevant. I simply
know I'll make my way to class. There is
no way I would rather spend my evenings
not learning to belly dance. To get carried
away and quote Robert Kincaid from The
BridgesofMadison County-
*In a universe of ambiguity, this kind
of certainty comes only once, and never
again, no matter how many lifetimes you
live.*
And if I can feel the stirrings of that
certainty for something, even if it's the
way a dance makes me feel, I'd like to
believe that it is still worthy of pursuit and
even, devotion. No matter how long it
lasts or how quickly it fades. The point is
to not let the whirlwind of certainty pass
byme,butthroughme.
fate sticks out a toe and trips me up at the
last minute. A little miffed, I resign
myself to the grace of the lithe women
instructors on YouTube, who are so
kindly teaching earnest women all over
theinternettosway likeShakira.
It is January, and I'm walking down a
street in Paharganj in soft orange winter
sun. I gaze ahead and my breath is caught
in my throat. Wire branches festooned
with sequined and glittering hip scarves
of all colours twinkle ahead of me. I am
breathless by the time I reach the shop.
For Rs.150, I carry off a gorgeous scarlet
hip scarf with golden sequins. Every time
I catch sight of the scarlet scarf in the
folds of my bag, a big lovey dovey grin
helplessly forms on my face. I actually
feelexcited.
My ghungroos never made me feel like
this.February trailsby andI amrestless as
theladyfromBellyDanceBoulevard.
IwantaREALteacher.
I start muttering at that thing called
the universe and start demanding
teachers. I call up and inquire about
classes. In Ahmedabad, sleepy voiced
men in dance studios pick up my calls and
say their belly dancing batches are not
happening because few women join
them. One man even asks me why I want
to learn. Before I wonder what kind of
question is that, I wonder what he expects
me to say. Things about mid life crisis,
straying partners, or bar dancing? Or the
simple unlikely truth- I'm just a woman
who's insanely obsessed with it? I
chastelymumblesomethingabouta
46Estrade Literary Magazine
Photograph by Nilesh Acharekar

52. savours the moment and stops by for
another whiff. A light breeze makes a
sound. Leaves start falling. She catches
one in mid-air and looks at it. For a brief
moment,sheallowsherselftosmile.
Itisabeautifulday.
Eight months earlier, the phone rang
in the middle of the night. She couldn't
believe what the quivering voice on the
other side was trying to tell her. He had
been hit by a bus. She ran to the scene of
the accident, his face in her eyes every
second. Suddenly, she couldn't remember
what they were arguing about earlier. It
was trivial.Arguments are usually trivial.
And fights are stupid. But right now, he
was somewhere far away, bleeding to
deathonaconcreteroad.Notstupidatall.
She knows it before the Doctor comes
out of the emergency room. They had a
special connection. Like two souls who
knew each other ages ago in a faraway
place neither of us had a name for. And
she felt him go. The Doctor hangs his
head low. She wonders why they do that.
Why can't they stare people in the eyes
and give them the bad news? After all,
they did try their best.After all, things that
are meant to happen usually do. The
driver of the bus stayed back all the time.
He walks over to her and apologises
earnestly. Her first impulse is to beat the
tar out of him. Then she looks into his
face. The face of a minimum wage
worker, someone who has to drive across
roads without streetlights so that he can
keep his family fed. Someone who has a
family waiting home for him, to give
them a good life and ensure that
tomorrow is better than today. Isn't that
whatlifeisallaboutanyway?
The apartment doesn't feel the same
without him. He never slept in the bed.
Therealwaysused tobeapillowanda
hehearsaclickfromtheother
sidebutholdsontothereceiver
for two hours and thirty three
minutes.
There is no engaged tone. Then she
wipes the tears from her eyes. It takes
every ounce of strength she has not to
cry.
Itdoesn'twork.
She falls to the floor, sobbing. She
wants to stop, but she can't. “Let it out.
Let it all out”, her father would have
said. And then they flow, smudging the
kohl, the foundations and the lipstick. It
doesn't stop there. Her face is a
grotesque parody in red, white and
black. If the walls see her, they turn
away. For one's grief is a very private
thing. Perhaps, our tears are the only
things we can call our own. Tinged with
the fervour of desire, desperation and
reconciliation, she lets them roll down,
not stopping to wipe them this time. She
falls into a relatively peaceful slumber.
It is the first time she has slept
peacefullyinweeks.
The next day, when she has
composed herself, she goes to the
church. The only place where she can
suffer in silence, she thinks. When no
one is looking at her, she takes a handful
of coins from her purse and lays them
down near the altar. In a small voice that
no one else can hear, she whispers,
“ThankYou,Lord!”
Today, she feels different, as if a
heavy burden has been lifted from her
shoulders. A burden she's never felt
before, until it was gone. She walks out
into the sun, takes a walk in the park and
feeds the pigeons. Stopping near a
flower, she inhales deeply, allowing the
molecules to linger in her lungs awhile
beforelettingthemoutagain.She
blanket on the floor. She used to shout at
him, and sometimes he used to pick it up
after he was done. Most times, however,
she grumbled and did it after he left. Just
for sanity's sake, she throws the pillow
and blanket where he used to. She even
throws a few dirty socks and shirt around,
for good measure. But it still isn't the
same. The first puff she takes almost kills
her…or she thinks it does, which isn't
much different anyway. After finishing a
few,thehousesmellssomewhatsimilar.
“Each cigarette takes off five minutes of
your life.You know that, right? Why can't
you stop this filthy, disgusting habit of
yours? It's just one way of showing that
youdon'tcareformeanymore”.
“Well, of course each cigarette takes off
five minutes of my life. It takes me at least
five minutes to smoke one. Finishing one
earlier is a crime. It isn't much of a life,
butit'sallIhave”.
She would hug him, melting into his
embrace, savouring the nicotine addled
kiss. Her embrace ends into empty air.
The world doesn't seem the same without
him.
A week after the funeral, one of their
friends comes over to visit one day. He's
neverbeenoneforlongsentences.
“IsthereanythingIcandotohelp?”
She doesn't answer. Just moves her
head slightly. She feels glad that he chose
to visit. In a way, she hopes he hadn't. He
is a reminder of better days. Good times.
When five young men used to sit on the
college steps long after college hours had
ended, catching the breeze. This was
when life seemed to be another story – an
eventuality, not a necessity. One fine
evening, long ago, they had started a
pretty stupid discussion on the justice
system.
“The one call they allow you after you get
S
31 Estrade Literary Magazine47 Estrade Literary Magazine

53. The insurance policy comes through.
With no one else in his life, she gets
everything. Again, it isn't much. Then
again, he didn't believe in saving. He
neverbelievedintomorrow.
“Look. There, that corner. If tomorrow
sits there, sulking like a stubborn child,
and refuses to get up. You show it a toy, it
doesn't come. You show it a lolly, it
doesn't come.You bow before it, it doesn't
come. What do you do then? What are
youleftwith?”
“What?”
“Today, this moment, something no one
canevertakefromyou,No matterwhat”.
“….somewhat?”
She jumps back to the present. She
looks at the insurance agent and says,
“I'msorry,couldyourepeatthat,please?”
“I said, all the formalities are done,
ma'am. Is there anything else I can help
you with? You look distressed
somewhat”.
“No,everything'sokay.It's allright”.
She leaves the office before the man
can utter another word. She has had
enough sympathy, and enough of
sympathy. It is the first time she has been
out of the house after he was gone. She
explores the city. But every block
reminds her of him. Every menu of every
cafeteria they visited together stares at
her, screaming out the name of his
favourite dish. Every book he liked stands
out at the bookstore. Everything he did
and every place. And then, she feels the
eyes of the world on her. Every street
seems claustrophobic, every space
confining and exasperating. It feels like
vertigo.
She barely makes it back home. The
pain wouldn't go. Now that she wants it
to,desperately.
She has lost track of time. Eating and
drinking are mechanical processes. If she
could feel, she would feel like a Robot.
She is at the end of her rope now. Death
would be a mercy. Maybe they would be
together. Maybe happy endings are only
in stories. Maybe she would come down
as rain. She looks at the knife, and at her
wrist. It would be quick. Suddenly, the
phone rings. She doesn't know why, but
sheliftsitanyway.
“Hello?”
“Hey,it'sme.Ifinallyfound aphone”.
Herjawdrops.
“You can't believe how hard it has been
for me to find one here. I wish they would
have maintained services better. It must
beallthelongdistancecalls”.
She suppresses the urge to sob. Tears
rolldown.
“Anyway, it's been a great trip. And you
won't believe who I ran into over here.
You remember Pog, our old dog, do you?
The one who was hit and run by a car?
They have a hit and run section here. You
won't believe how full it is. Seems like
everybody's in an awful hurry to get
somewhere”.
Shestrugglestofindthewords.
“I don't know where. Eventually,
everybody ends up around here. But Pog,
he gets to go to the yard, green meadows
and endless piles of bones. Mountains of
doggy food, no one around to yell, shoo,
or complain. The old dog is happy too.
Happierthanwe've everseenhim”.
Thewords stickinhermouth.
“I saw our old caretaker as well, the one
who suffered a coronary. She was in
another queue. I couldn't speak to her. I
justwaved.Itwas rush hour”.
Theydon'tcomeout.
“Anyway, it's beautiful here. There are
many versions. You get to choose one.
There's the house in the woods, the
mountain monastery, the urban jungle,
the fantasy kingdom…there's even talk of
a techno punk scenario they're going to
introducesoon”.
Shelistens.
“I've been looking for you for a while.
When everybody was looking up while
on the escalator, I was looking down.
And then everybody was looking at me,
quite not able to understand what exactly
Iwas lookingat”.
Sheholdsthereceivertighter.
“You need to let go of the pain. And live.
There's lot more to come. You meet a
handsome man. He takes care of you.You
have good, healthy children. You grow
old, watch them grow old, marry, have
grandchildren, much more handsome
thanme”.
Sheisafraidthatthecallmightgetcut.
“You need to know that you're the best
thing that ever happened to me. I can see
all our times together from here, the best
of times and the worst of times. They
wereallgood,becauseyouwerethere”.
She again tries to say something, but to no
avail.
“Tomorrow is going to be a beautiful day,
sunnier, breezier and calmer. I've loved
all the days we had together, and I can still
say tomorrow will be better. You'll be
there,won't you?”
Shenods.
“Don't try to get here sooner, because if
you do, you won't get here. The boss of
this place doesn't like anyone not
adhering to his plans. You understand,
don'tyou?”
Shenods again.
“Good. It isn't your time yet. But
whenever you get here, however you do,
I'll still be waiting. Even if it takes an
eternity,Iwon't giveup”.
Shewipesatear.
“Hey, I've got to go now. My time's up.
You get only one free call here. And I
don't have any coins. Besides, there's a
terribly lengthy queue here. We will meet
soon, but…”
Shestrainstohearhisfinalwords…
“Iwish youwerehere”
arrested is supposed to be to your
lawyer”, he said. She still remembers
everyword hesaidinherpresence,ever.
“Well, what if the call doesn't connect?
What if the lawyer's busy? Can't the guy
just call someone else? Say, call his
wife?”
“And say what? I'm gonna be late for
home, honey. Like, maybe a few years
late”,someoneelsewouldbreakin.
“No, I'm totally serious. You get only one
call. You have to make it count”, he
replied.
“What about when you bite the big one?
Do you get to make one call?” Someone
asked. She is at a loss to remember who
now.
“Well, I'm pretty sure you would get one
call. How long the pulse would be, what
standard rates would apply, how do you
get your little telephone book beyond the
pearlygates,Ihavenoclue”,hereplied.
“Ohh? What good would that be? It's not
as if someone's going to come there and
spring you out. Hey, maybe you could call
someone and tell them about how it is up
there? Maybe then we would know better
aboutwhattoexpect?”Sheasked.
“Tell you what, deal! As soon as I get
there, I'll locate a phone, ask for my one
free call and make sure someone gets all
theinformationfirsthand”.
“Whowouldyoucall?”Sheasked.
He smiled.As if there was any doubt who
hewouldcall.
“…meacall?”
Sheisjoltedbacktothepresent.
“I'm sorry. I lost you for a moment. What
wereyousaying?”
“I'm saying, you must feel lonely at times.
I can come over with the rest of the gang.
We haven't exactly kept in touch with
each other, all of us, but we will be there.
Any time you need us. Why don't you
givemeacall?”
“Sure,Iwill”.Shesays halfheartedly.
Both of them look at each other, their eyes
meeting.
“Now listen, I know he was the best thing
that ever happened to you. But
sometimes, some things can't be helped.
Look at the time you spent together as a
gift. A gift no one can take from you.
There were happy days. I know some
times must have been bad, but the happy
times more than made up for them, right?
Theyareyours…forever”.
“It wasn't enough. We…we were
supposed to get married in December. My
bridal gown was ready. The things I had
planned….Nancy was going to be my
bridesmaid…Paul was to be his best man.
He was supposed to be nervous, not me.
S o m u c h t o d o , s o l i t t l e
time…and…and…”
Hervoicetrailsoff.Thetearscomeagain.
“I'll call you if I need you, but now I think
you should leave”, she says, through the
sobs.
Hewishes hehadn'tcome.
48Estrade Literary Magazine

54. T
hemassiveshockwave,followed
byadeafeningbangpenetrated
through her and almost knocked
her off her feet. She grappled the table
corner to gain some form of stability and
held tight till the world stopped
spinning. Ears now ringing with silence,
dread building exponentially in her gut,
she pushed the door open and stepped
out, surveying the scene when a student
ofherstumbledoutfromthecorner.
“Aryan? ARYAN!” She called after
him. He halted, his skin paler than usual.
“Aryan,whathappened?”
“It's… Miss. It's. Cafeteria.
Explosion. Bomb.” The words tumbled
out of his mouth as he made a mad dash
towards the exit. She winced, as if hit by
his words.Her eyes fell on the broken
clock on the ground. 10:00 a.m. Oh dear
god Krish. Krishna would be at the
cafeteria at this time. Panic welled up
inside her but she firmly pushed it down.
Fished out the phone and hit the speed
dial. The number you're trying to call
isn't available. Please try again later.
And again. The number you're trying to
call isn't available. Please try again later.
The marmoreal floor felt cold beneath
her bare feet as she dashed towards the
door, all the while keeping a reassuring
hand on her stomach and rubbing
soothing circles on it. Her gait was
rather uncoordinated owing to the slight
soreness, a testament to the night before.
“I look pudgy”. “No you don't.
Aphrodite. You look like Aphrodite
herself”. He'd make me giggle and then
proceed to prove his point. The distance
between her office and the cafeteria
seemed to stretch for miles; her
department – Forensic Medicine - was
the farthest from the main campus; and
her breathing became more and more
erratic as she increased her pace. The
corridors were quite empty for some
reason. She had expected a tide of
students fleeing in the opposite
direction; she'd expected panic and pain
and paramedics working methodically
on the scene by now. Where is
everyone?
She pushed the hallway door open
and her knees almost gave away. Of
course there wasn't anyone running
about. There was no one left to run
about. The door she pushed open was
quite a distance away from the canteen.
And yet, the scene that met her eyes was
one of utter devastation. She ignored the
rubble, bricks, melted lockers, charred
body parts and pushed on. The cheery
blue café door was an odd shade of black
now and smoldering slightly. Gingerly,
she pushed it open. And balked. The
thick layer of smoke engulfed her, her
eyes stinging from the carbon monoxide
andsulphur.
Blindly feeling her way to where their
usual table would be, please god don't let
him be here, please let him be safe, she
looked around, pleading to her gods not to
find the familiar blue kurta in the rubble.
Eyes trained to detect poisons dissected
the room for him, finding enough surplus
information to break her heart already;a
bright red pencil skirt and a leather
handbag. Anya, a first-year. The black
guitar with what she was fairly sure was a
Hallow mark. The new exchange student;
a part of her was already resigned to the
inevitable. He was a creature of habit.
And coffee. She moved some of the debri
around, now on all fours, resolutely
ignoring the burning pain in her
extremities. A dash of midnight blue
caught her eye and she faltered. No no no
please!Bile rose up her throat as she
crawled towards it, wincing as some of
the wayward shrapnel pierced her knees.
Trembling, she turned him over.Asudden
high pitched wail made her wince. Who's
screaming! She looked around to discern
the source but the same dead room
greeted her. I'm trying to concentrate.
Shut the fuck up! She gathered the
charred corpse in her lap, running her
fingers through the singed hair. The
screaming continued, as if someone was
bawling their eyes out. Please be quiet!
You'll wake him up! It subsided to tiny
sobs. Thank you. Carefully placing the
body back on the ground, she stood up,
wiping some of the water from her face
and sighed. Goddamned allergy's acting
up. She closed her eyes, this time, for a
while longer and sighed again; her class
had gotten there late. No matter. She
should start quickly.Harrumphing, she
turned around and addressed the dead
room,
“What do we know about the corpse we
havehere?”
“36, Male. Fairly nourished.
Identified by,” Here she crouched, tapped
at the unburnt knee,” a birthmark of the
shape of the London underground. Just
like Albus Dumbledore. Black eyes,
Black hair.” Curls. Impossibly soft
Sherockian curls. “Height's 71 inches.”
Five inches over me. Cocky bastard.
Always hid stuff at high places, out of my
reach. “Weighs 73 kilograms.” Still thin
as a stick.Damn those extra five inches!
“Now let's take a note of the clothing.”
Her hands tugged at the remains of his
clothes. “Blue kurta. Blood stained and
scorched, with multiple tears. ” My
favourite. Slightly tight and transparent.
Hid his shirts to make him wear this.
“Black pants. Also scorched and stained.
Covered in soot.” She peeled them off
with some difficulty. Someone had
misplaced the bloody forceps again.
“Blue underwear. Briefs. Torn on the left
side. Fine cotton briefs. Bought them
online. A couple of innocent clicks later,
went crazy. That's what he said. Went
barking mad and bought everything from
silk boxers in jeweled tones to…He'd
been mortified at some of them.” Sliding
it down and folding them carefully.
“Uncircumcised.” Slightly above
average.
“Well developed and well nourished.
Multiple blast injuries with lacerations on
face and scalp with possible fractures of
facial bones and calvarium, from the
position of the body.” Her voice hitched
slightly. Oh god. Oh my god. Stop,
please stop. She cleared her throat again.
“Multiple penetrating injuries of the
anterior thorax.” Stop talking, stop
talking for god's sake.“Flash burns to the
right thigh and face. Gaping laceration to
the left abdomen.” STOP THIS NOW!
“The left testicle is absent.” She wiped
herface.
“Notice that rigor mortis has set in
early, as is typical with blast victims. Can
anyone tell me why?” She paused and
looked around, her fingers caressing the
burnt cheek. “No one? That's
disappointing. I'll give you a day to
think.” She picked up a charred slab,
about the size of a large block and placed
it underneath him, causing his arms and
neck to fall backward. “The body block.
Allows easy incision.Anya, scalpel.” She
picked a jagged piece lying beside the red
skirt. “High carbon steel.” Positioned it at
his neck, at the right mastoid process, her
hand steady from years of practice.
DON'T DO THIS! STOP! Blinking
rapidly to get rid of the blurriness, what's
wrong with me!She placed the first cut,
NO,NO, NO! STOP! , concentrating on
getting the perfect Y incision. “Minimal
bleeding, owing to lack of cardiac
functionality.” HIS HEART'S STOPPED
BEATING. DON'TYOU GET IT? GOD.
HE'S. HE'S DEAD. GONE. STOPTHIS!
Her voice cracked. “I know it can be
unsettling, but there's no need to freak
out.” The screams stopped.“Okay. Where
were we?” She paused. “Ah yes. To open
the chest cavity, we require shears. Notice
the multiple fractures to sternum and
ribs.” Fuck. No. Please don't. Picked up a
jagged piece of metal and started sawing
through the bones. You heartless
bitch“We start at the lateral side, to allow
the sternum and the ribs to be lifted off as
one chest plate.” She turned to a side,
clutching her stomach, retching, “Excuse
me,” and looked around apologetically.
Removing the chest plate entirely and
keeping it aside. “We'll start with the
49 Estrade Literary Magazine

56. www.estrademagazine.com
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Digital Version

57. organ removal now. Again, different
methods.” Her hand reached out for his
left lung. “It's easily accessible by cutting
the bronc-”Pleasepleasepleasedon't. For
god's sake.STOP!
They found her hunched up against
him. His heart in her hands. Completely
catatonic.
“Ma'am. Are you okay? Ma'am?” They
came closer. “GOOD LORD! GET HER
AWAYFROMTHEBODY.”
She looked at their blurred silhouettes
and booming voices, her eyes blank as
they pried her away from him. The
medics were now in frenzy, most of them
giving her looks of utter revulsion, some,
of pity. She allowed them to steer her
away from him. Without uttering a single
word in protest. Just held on. And
clutchedhishearttighter.
ithaquickstepandaheavy
heart,Tanyascurrieddown a
darkened corridor on all fours.
This is not what she had envisaged.
Immense dread knotted her intestines
together as she heard the distant footfall
of the panther, prowling, searching,
thirsting for her life. She couldn't fathom
how it had come down to this, how could
animal instincts take over the mind? It
seemed surreal, how fast a decade had
passed. She remembered it as clearly as if
it was just yesterday that she had met
Aaron for the first time. The memories
came flooding back, having the effect of
chillipowder onanopenwound:
"Are you by any chance related to Dr.
Subroto Ghosh?", Aaron had asked the
intriguing school-new-comer named
Tanya Ghosh. On getting to know that Dr.
Ghosh was, as a matter of fact, Tanya's
"father", he had inadvertently begun
taking a shine to her, not that he wasn't
already mesmerized by her earth
shattering good looks. In a matter of
months, her demeanor had commanded
his trust and he had divulged his mutated
half homo -sapien and half panthera -
pardus self to her. A midnight blue
panther, created by a chain of
experiments, wasn't so much a perfect
prototype and a mould to create more
mutant soldiers of his kind as he was
genetic soup. Tanya had known better.
She knew her calling then and leapt into
action the moment she realized who
Aaron was. The next few things Aaron
could fathom were Tanya's lips, a
teardrop from her eye and certain hours
later, waking up in an unknown room
where Tanya had explained to him why he
found himself in this predicament.
Tanya's "father" had created Aaron as
well as Tanya, both as lab experiments.
But where Aaron was meant to be a
soldier, Tanya had explained, that she
was just a breeding vat. She was made to
want him, so as to create super soldiers.
Aaron's genetic code had a lot of noise,
which made him incapable of conceiving
with anybody other then Tanya, in whose
DNA, the detrimental genes were deemed
recessive hence eliminating their
perpetuation in the following species.
Aaron had seemed impervious to
explanations of "for the greater good"
W
and Tanya had handed him a gun. "Kill
me", she'd said. "Kill me, or make a child
with me. Kill me, and you will die too.
Make a child and we will live together.
Like a normal family. And the world will
change.Fortheworse."
He was taking deep breaths, buying
time, and she was counting heartbeats.
He waited a whole minute before he
mustered up the vocal chords enough to
manage a whisper, "We are back at the
facility aren't we? Back where it all
began? It only seems fit. It all ends where
it begun." Tanya's breath hitched at the
word "ends" but she didn't hear the click
of the trigger. Her gaze burning into his,
her voice was acrimonious as she replied
"Why do you see this as an ending and not
a fresh, new start? Isn't that what you've
always wanted? To reach a place where
you can be yourself without any electric
strings attached? Being free with
someone who comprehends, not out of
contemplation, but out of experience?"
She dropped her glance to the silver
brace around his thigh in melancholy.
Maybe it was her slackening of body
language or maybe it was the sorrow in
what she had just said, he couldn't put his
finger on it. But he felt a sudden violence
surge through his veins and he blasted,
"You damned fool! You think that the
facility, the people out there are just going
to let us go on our own after we have given
them the best of us? Don't you think they
will be threatened by the prospect of us
making an army of our own and rising up
against them? Don't you think they'll go
through all the measures they can to
eliminate the possibility of an army
power thats greater than theirs? And how
can you be okay when you say that the
world will change for the worse in
exchange of the lives of two lab
experiments?”
He was twitching. The depravity of
her ideas was making his insides weep;
was there no humanity left? Then he
heard her sultry sound: "Did you ever
think that we're the only ones who can
change that? The facility is not getting rid
of us at least until they have a sincere
army they can experiment on. Let's say we
devise a plan in the meantime, but for now
we need to get out of here and there is only
one way I see it happening. Killing
ourselves won't kill the idea in their
minds. Maybe in a decade's time or
maybe two, but they will come up with the
same genetic formula as yours and it'll be
goingbacktothedrawingboard."
Aaron knew she was right. Maybe it
was the logic in her words or the
aphrodisiac in her voice, he could never
be too sure, but in that moment, he let his
animalparttakeover.
She had stopped running but it was
more at the loss of hope than it was at the
loss of breath. She knew the routes and
corridors of the facility like the back of
her own hand by now, but how long was
she going to evade the inevitable? The
facility had fallen, just twelve hours ago.
It was an insurmountable exhilaration
that she had felt, on finally achieving the
feat after ten arduous years of scheming.
How could she have known that it was, in
fact, the façade of the facility that had
kept her alive? The most dangerous is the
beast who chooses to have a mind of its
own. She'd been on the run for the past ten
hours, hunted by the ferocious beast and
now, as the last shred of hope and strength
evaporated, she collapsed as she entered
into a stark bright room, long and
fluorescent, the laboratory where she was
born. Where she and Aaron both were
born. "And here, shall it all culminate",
she said to herself. The panther entered
the opposite end of the lab, blocking the
escape route. It strolled leisurely towards
Tanya, relishing it's prey and giving her
plenty of time to recapitulate with
remorse what was the chief glimpse of her
life:
The quintuplets were a year old and
big enough to make a seven foot tall,
heavy built guard with a machine gun
look askance as they passed by.
Especially when they were in a pack.
There were four males and the fifth one,
fiercest of all, was a female named Felis.
Each had the brains of a human and the
instincts of a panther. They were past
their age that required parenting. Aaron
and Tanya were situated at their quarters
inside the facility, when Aaron came up to
Tanya with a concerned expression.
"We've been training the Five for over a
year now. All my training were strictly
supervised as I dealt with their carnivore
part. But you were nursing their human
52Estrade Literary Magazine

58. part, and you had requested privacy
which was easily granted considering
that the human forms couldn't prove to
beathreat."
"That is correct", said Tanya her
toneimplyingtheinterrogative:So?
"You've been hinting me throughout
the year that the plan is falling into
place and the Five are taking up much
faster than the best of humans. I think
it'sabouttimewegetthedicerolling."
"Already?" Tanya's eyes went wide
but Aaron could sense a hint of
melodrama in their glint. "I think you
mightwanttogiveitanotherweek."
Aaron was on an edge. "Tanya, it's
about time the facility realized that our
usefulness has run its course. It won't be
long before they start seeing us as a
potentialthreatthanas autility."
Tanya mocked exasperation, "They
are fearful of love. They are afraid that
you and I would want to lead a normal
life and want to start a family of our
own.Butwhatifwedon'twantto?"
Aaron shook his head. "Regardless.
We need to take the Five away from here,
and destroy the facility. Nip the idea of
an omnipotent army in the bud. Isn't that
what the original plan was? Haven't you
trained our children for it all this
while?”
Tanya's nostrils flared. She never
thought of them as her children. "I like the
idea of omnipotence. Especially when it's
allminetorelish."
Aaron didn't miss the semantic "mine"
instead of "ours". Five feline figures
suddenly appeared, looming behind her,
facing Aaron. A miasma of trepidation
clutched at Aaron's throat. Tanya
continued, "Oh, I have trained their
human part alright, the most potent part
of the mankind. The mind. They are to do
as i command. I have bigger plans for
myself, Aaron, bigger an army to create,
bigger than just to live happily ever after.
And the facility seeing us together as a
potential threat just stymies my
aspirations. I'm really sorry it has to end
this way for you, but you at sixteen have
lived and seen more than people twice
your agedo."
Aaron was astonished at the fact that
he wasn't surprised at Tanya's sudden
change of colors. It almost felt like a part
of him had known this all along. He willed
all his fear to evaporate even as the Five
prowled closer. He had been their
teacher, and he could easily outmaneuvre
them if he wished. But to unleash his
Midnight Blue at his own children, and
killing them, perhaps! He couldn't let the
transition take place, and hence had to
keep stress at bay. He tried to distract
himself, "And say, Miss Ghosh, how do
you intend to procreate an army once I'm
just a carcass?" His tone was bland,
givingnothingaway.
Tanya laughed out loud, almost as if
indicating that the senselessness of that
question had led Aaron to dig his own
grave. The Five were encircling him by
now and every passing moment was
filling them with an increased thirst for a
kill. "Look around you Aaron! You are
surrounded by the five most exquisite of
hybrids, four of which happen to be
males. Did you forget that I'm just a
breedingvat?"
Aaron's eyes widened to a point where
his eyelids disappeared, and in that
instant, Tanya was bored of giving further
explanations. She turned to leave the
room and never looking back, "Felis", she
said, in a hushed undertone, that sounded
like an ultrasonic boom to his heart - the
depraved voice uttering the name of his
daughter, whose claws were the last thing
Aaronfeltonhisskin.
A decade later, a twenty-six year old
Tanya sat crouched and pallid in the lab.
The Four were ready to mate. Felis
pouncedonTanyaandshredhertopieces.
I
stoodatthetopoftheradiotower,
thewindblowingthroughmyhair.
Thecitywas stretchedoutbelow
me, almost like a map. I was waiting for
the call from my co-workers, that would
tell me when the sky was clear to run the
test. On my back, was what could be
called the greatest innovation in
aeronautics since, the wright airplane.
Their machine, was made of balsa wood
and silk, while mine was made of carbon
titanium alloys and graphene fabric.
Their machine, was powered by a
simple bicycle pedal powering a
propellor, mine had a series of systems
that generated and stored power from
sunlight. Their’s, could only fly for a
minute and mine, could soar the skies
for weeks.
We called it the Black Papillion.And
what a butterfly it was. It emerged from
its small cocoon and expanded to a
wingspan one and a half times that of the
average person's height. It flapped it’s
wings to generate lift, so silently and
with such grace, that one would wonder
if it was really a machine. It was our
masterpiece.
We didn't know how well it would fly
though. We ran every simulation we
could think of. We considered every
eventuality. But still, there remains the
chance that we made a mistake. That we
had not considered something. And so I
was asked to keep a parachute with me.
Like it would help. From this altitude, a
parachute was as likely to kill me as save
me. And so, I had started to prepare
myself. Prepare myself for the fall, for
impact,fordeath.
It had been hard to accept the idea
psychologically, for a very long time.
That fear, may have saved my life, when I
delayed the testing of a flawed prototype,
because of that fear. But that didn't matter
now. I was no longer afraid. Because she
was dead. The girl I loved. My partner in
this project.The only person who had
supported me in the start.The person who
was supposed to be up here with me, as
wemadehistory.
She died the day I made the
breakthrough. I remember rushing to the
phone. I wanted to hear her laugh at how
simple the solution had been. I wanted to
feel her heart pound with excitement, as
she realised that we had made personal
flight possible. And instead, I received a
call stating that her flight had crashed.
That I would never fly with her. That the
one thing, that meant more to me than my
projectwas gone.
A few words crackled into the
headphone. They we ready. I steadied my
legs, and took a deep breath. And then I
jumped. The gentle breeze suddenly
turned to a roar. I opened the papillon. I
began backing out of the fall, the roar now
once again a whisper. The wings began
flapping, a slight variation on Da vinci's
original designs. And soon I was flying.
The design worked. My project was
complete. “The final realm has been
conquered.” I said. I could hear their
jubilation in the headphones. My work
was truly done. I waited for them to
confirm the altitude and flight duration.
The world shall now know me. And even
if they don't know me they shall know my
inventions. And so, I unbuckled the
Papillon.
The fall stretched out in front of me. I
pulled the cord on what was supposed to
be my parachute. Instead what came out
was thousands of little mechanical
creatures. Miniature prototypes of
different designs. Most of them flew up to
the Papillon which was still soaring
through the air, a little faster without the
weight. Some descended down with me,
swirling around me in a giant ring. One
sat on my neck. And stabbed my throat
with a little needle. The darkness
53 Estrade Literary Magazine
THE END

59. evenbullets,sevendead.Trisha
counted,didshemissanyone?
When she entered this room, eight
people were alive, but only seven dead.
Who was she missing? She bent down on
thedeadbodiesandlookedatthefaces.
None of them were familiar.” Damn!”
she exclaimed,” all seven bullets wasted
on nobody”. She got up, straightened her
hairandtuckedhergunbackintheholder.
She climbed up the stairs of the dance
bar. Three girls were sitting scared in the
corner of the bar hiding from the
shootout.
“Oh, get a life,” she told the girls, “Here
takethis.”
She pushed the spare gun towards one
girl, “Lead a better life,” she suggested
andwalkedoutofthebar.
Anyone who saw Trisha for the first
time would mistake her for an underwear
supermodel. Long straight hair with
beautifully done eyelashes. Manicured
hands and legs. With a perfect hourglass
figure that would put many actresses to
shame, no one would believe that she
packed a solid .55 magnum pistol
underneath the dress she wore everyday.
Trisha Das was a gun for hire, a
sharpshooter with a itch to kill. She was
available for hire to anyone who could
afford her services, which were very
premium.
As she walked on the warm streets of
Mumbai, her iPhone buzzed to life,
'Beauty appointment in 30 mins,' it
informed. “ 30 mins, damn,” she
exclaimed. Today was the appointment to
get her hair some keratin treatment, she
was looking forward to this treatment
ever since she had heard about it. But now
with one person missing in her kill, she
willhavetomissherappointment.
“Oh well”, she shrugged, not if she
finds him in next 30 mins. The man she
was looking for was called Janardhan on
the streets. A small time hustler wanted
for many robberies and few unreported
rapes. Janardhan was also the leader of a
local illegal moral police called 'The
Moral army'.Asmall outfit which wanted
to get into big politics and ended up
disruptingpartiesthatranovermidnight.
Her phone buzzed to life again, this
time it flashed an 'Unknown Number
Calling' on the screen. She adjusted her
hairandputthephonetoherears.
“What have I ever done to you?” the voice
onthephonewas scared.
“That depends on who you are,” she said
coldly.
S
“You know who I am,” Janardhan's voice
was now more clear, “You just killed
manyofmymensincemorning.”
“Oh that,” she said, “I have no personal
grudge against you Janardhan, I simply
love to kill few people like you once in a
week.”
“Listen bitch, go away, go away from
here if you know what is good for you,”
Janardhan said, “You don't know the
trouble you are in. Go settle with some
man and make him happy by making
babiesforhim.”
“Thanks for the suggestion, why are you
running scared from a woman? C'mon
dude,faceme,”sheprovoked.
There was a pause and a click on the
phone. Trisha was familiar with the click
she heard. Her years of training made her
an expert in the sound. It was the sound of
loading a sniper. With the agility of an
animal she moved from her location as a
bullet breezed past her long hair. She
traced the origin of the bullet and fixed
hergazeinthedirection.
“Peek a boo,” she spoke on the phone,
“Readyornot,hereIcome.”
Hiding inside the old abandoned
building Janardhan was looking at her
from the cross hair of his sniper. This new
weapon was a gift from a big political
party that kept his organization funded.
Trisha was fast for a human, she escaped
hisbullet
His phone buzzed and he turned to
look at the screen, it was Trisha. So this
lady wants to play, he thought pulling out
his phone. She had to die, he thought,
women should not wield the gun, they
should cook and clean, leave the mess to
men.
He looked out from the cross hairs but
she had vanished from the street. “Where
didshego?”heaskedoutloud.
“Here,” whispered Trisha standing
behind him. One bang pierced his right
leg.
“So where were we? Yes,” Trisha started,
“I have no problem with you but people
like you try to force your crooked
ideology on others. I hate that,” another
bangpiercedhisleftlegandhecollapsed.
“What is your problem with me?” asked
Janardhan, “I have a political career to
maintain.”
She turned around, “I have no
problem with you,” she said rubbing her
eyes, “No seriously, you are a fool. But
people like you have increased in
numbers in this country, its about them
that you will die. Cheer up, you are going
down foragoodcause.”
“Live and let live,” pleaded Janardhan
beggingformercy.
“You know, a few days back you and your
boys raped a girl. She was pleading the
same thing to you, didn't she? You
announced in the Times that the girl
deserved it, because she was...” Trisha
took a deep breath, “... walking with her
boyfriendatnight?”
Trisha pulled out the camera on her
iPhone and adjusted it to record
Janardhan.
“Smile,” Trisha said, “You are on
camera.”
“Her family hired you? I can give you
money,lotsmore,please.”
“No, her family no,” Trisha said, “I just
read that in the Times. I was bored today,
thoughtI'lltakeawalk.”
“Please...,” Janardhan was losing
blood and energy at the same time. Trisha
stepped out of the house for some time.
Janardhan took this opportunity to
struggle free of his bond, they were very
tightly bound. His leg was paining a lot,
he would never let a girl kill him. Girls are
nothing he thought, as he struggled free of
his bonds. Finally the rope was loose a bit
andhenow startedpullingoutofit.
Bang, one more bullet pierced his
calf, “See, still struggling?” Trisha
stepped inside carrying a bottle, “I was
actually considering letting you go but
thisisadealbreaker.”
She poured the bottle over him,
“Whatisthis,isthispetrol?”
“Yes, very costly nowadays, I hope you
don't mind, I pulled this out of your car,
you won't need it now anyways,” Trisha
said.
“Now then,” Trisha looked at the camera,
“Start respecting women, or I am coming
foryou.”
She pulled her cigarette lighter and set
Janardhan on fire. Janardhan was
screaming loudly in the chair, the ropes
had burned and now he struggled on the
floor.
Picking up her iPhone she glanced at
the video, “Damn, I can see the wrinkle
onmyfaceinthisvideo.No retakes,tsk.”
She looked behind, Janardhan had
stopped struggling. This message was
enoughforscaringmanypeople.
She checked her iPhone to find her
parlour appointment was 12 minutes
away. She hurried off to meet her
beautician leaving the burnt body of
Janardhantorotintheisolatedhouse.
engulfed me before I hit the ground. I can
see her next to me right now. I'm not sure
if I'm still alive or if I have died. All I
know is that all there is the darkness.
Quietandweightless.Perfection.
54Estrade Literary Magazine

60. Yes,foreverthoseexamsareover
Butalongthatholidaystooareover.
So let's work, keeping next exams our
goalmain.
For time once gone will never return
again.
Ah! Examsareover,
Ah! Holidaysareover.
For onceandforever,
For onceandforever...h!Examsareover,
For onceandforever.
Joy shallsettleinmyheart,
And Iwillneverletitdepart.
Peaceshallfillmymind,
So noplacewillsorrow find.
Ah! Examsareover,
For onceandforever.
Iwilllikeafreebirdfly,
And then,shallIforgethow tocry.
Up shallIclimbthetalltowers,
And roamingardenofbeautifulflowers.
Ah! Examsareover,
For onceandforever.
So tuneful that sweet bird's chirp in the
morrow,
And all that makes me free from any
heavysorrow.
Golden sun peeping from the horizon fills
thesky pink,
Which tempts my little mind of it's
creatortothink.
Ah! Examsareover,
For onceandforever.
Wherethecuckoossing,thereshallIsing,
And feeling of contentment to me shall I
bring.
Where the peacocks dance, there shall I
dance,
And, to nature's majestic beauty I shall
takeaglance.
Ah! Examsareover,
For onceandforever.
In the sky, when my eyes behold a
rainbow,
My soulstartstoglidelikeaflamingo.
Butterfliesso beautifulwhenIsee,
Vividcoloursofjoyitbringstome.
Ah! Examsareover,
For onceandforever.
The beauty of ending day in twilight is too
glorious,
For it brings an end to the day's work,
whichislaborious.
Iwonderhow thestarsglowatnight,
And how themoonshinesso bright.
undone
We'rethesubtlest(cutely),
We'retheone.
A
thousandmileswewalkedalone,
Athousandtearswecriedalone,
Butasinglesmileweshared
along
Makestherendezvousamillionlifelong.
Joys livedmakethetoneso strong,
Thouheartknows thesweets insong
Momentscherished,withasoulundone
We'rethesubtlest(cutely),
We'retheone.
Life comes into phases, with trysts &
adieu,
Wefinishtheone&gearupforanew.
Thegoalsaccomplishedwe easilyforget,
Theodyssey giftsus memoriestocosset.
Thetimesweshoutedwithalacrity,
Timesweshatteredwithtears,
ThetimeswebolsteredasFamily,
&thesuccesscelebratedwithCheers.
And when a phase finishes, when it
comestodeparting,
We get nostalgic for the moments we
wereenlivening.
Ah! This one ends here, this one is
finished.
Now it's time for a new phase, a new
beginning.
Departinghurtsalotnothingcanheal,
But moments we treasured along no one
cansteal.
Alone we started but we finished
together.
Fellow-travellers of odyssey become our
'Heart-Carriers'.
The Moments cherished, with a soul
A
t's saidthatgoodthingscomeby
unpronounced
Everywant'n' everyneedshall
have somedaytoheed
What he says is dilemmas in your head
needtobepounced
Thisdaywouldcomewhen youleast
expectit
That one thing you'd like to let go from
yourlife
Is the one that hurts you deep down in
yourheart
That leaves you with a soul being slashed
byaknife
Things fall apart when you least expect a
strife
Walked upon are the paths favoured the
most
Untrodden routes are preferred the least
Someday on arrays of veiled paths all are
lost
Sudden turns in life are when you expect
themtheleast
Is it just the unknown that plays this game
ofsurprises?
The likes of you, with whom you share
theworld;aretheyfree?
The conscious and the mind, your very
own;don'ttheysurprise?
He says "I'm here when you least expect
me"
I
55 Estrade Literary Magazine

61. Fromperfection
Thatmyhair
Hidesmycheekscar
ThatIamawitheringBlossom
Thatmybodyiscrumpled
Thatmyscentisnofresher
ThatIhavenothingtoofferhim
Nothingcouldstandhisaffection
Futilewas myeverycontemplation
His lovetraversedthrough
Thecelluliteunderneathmyskin
Whenheexploredmebitbybit
Thenightwentsilent
Theairblewinand
Outthewindow
Withsuchdelight
ThatIcouldhearoursouls
Talkingandspiritspulsating
Itwas mytimetobeloved
Ihadwaitedforthissinceeternity
Tounderstandthiscosmos
Tobeacceptedwithimperfections
Maybejustonce
Iwantedtoreach
Thebrimofsatisfaction
Icelebratedlike
Ihadneverbefore
As hefeltmybareskingently
Idelvedintohisgush ofemotion
ighttimesmyheartbroken
Iflovehappensagain
Itwouldjustbeatoken
ThereIgowithmy
Concealedimperfection
Tosipashotofvodka
Atthenewdestination
My hairopen
Smellingcarnation
Tomeetsomebody
Wasn'tmyintention
Asiphere,asipthere
My mouthwas filledwith
Asubtletemptation
MagicofvodkaImustsay
My veinsandthe
Kohlofmyeyes
Awarmsensation
Therehewas
Sippingaglassofmalt
His handtappingthetable
Withaslow motion
Softcurlsfallingonhisshoulders
Couldn'thelpbutadmire
Himwithaffection
Monsieur,wouldyoumind
My attention?Iasked
He smiled,histeeth
Sparklingwhite,andsaid,
“Idon'tmindyour invitation”
Talkedmeandhim
Aboutthemoonandthesun
Thenightseemedtohave
Someinclination
Offwewenttohishouse
He playedRoyOrbison
And IdancedlikeaPrettyWoman
Laughedhetohiscontentment
And ledmeto
My confessions
Heheardmewith
DivertedAttention
As hecaressedmyhair
And smelledthecarnation
Hedimmedthelights
And playedsomeaudioofpassion
Wasthismymomentofhesitation?
Imovedtowardshimtotell
Thathewas madlymistaken
But,heclosedmyeyes
And Ifelthisbreath
On mynape
His hands claspedmywaist
As ifhewouldneverletmego
Iwantedtotellhim
Yes,Iwantedto
ThatIamfaraway
Our bodiesstruckaharmonious
Chordofmotion
Whenweenteredinto
Eachothersworld,
Itwas asenseof
Suchemancipation
Whilewe liedentwined
Together,tounravel
Our tomorrow's sun
Morningsetinandthesmell
Of espresso wokemeup,
Tofindhimoffforwork
Voila!Therewas achit
Underthecoffeemug
WhichIreadwith
Suchadmiration...
“Yesterdaynightwas
Lovelyandlotoffun,
Whydon'tyoucome?
Tomyofficetoday,
Wherewe will
Havealittlediscussion,
Alittleniphereand
Alittletuckthere
Iwillmakeyou
Embraceperfection,
Offwillgoyour hesitation,
Whenyouwillbeworked
Upon byaplasticsurgeon"
E
56Estrade Literary Magazine
Photograph by Rutvij Desai

62. Did not stay with him because of the
mightybrick-wall.
He promised that he would tear the brick-
walldown,
All the suppressed emotions started
gettingfound.
Thecompassionandjoycouldhealhim
onceandforall,
His cure was found by breaking the
mightybrick-wall.
For all those strong-hearted, feelings
make'thamanrich,
Tis what our ornamental emotions yearn
toteach.
If you seem dead enough yet alive to walk
tall,
Surround yourself by building a mighty
brick-wall.
orallthosestone-hearted,
feelings make'th men weak,
Tissaidthathumanemotions
rendersurvivalbleak,
If you need be rational and unaffected
byitall,
Surround yourself by building a mighty
brick-wall.
Once upon a time, there lived a good
littleboy,
Troubled when bullies broke his
favouritetoy,
Parents hit and scolded him for not
studyingwell,
His love was lost before he found the
words totell.
Growing up, found some bricks lying on
theground,
Those bricks were invisible to those
who walkedaround.
He understood that to be rational and
unaffectedbyall,
Must surround himself building a
mightybrickwall.
The wall cut off his emotions, ended his
compassion,
Made him a body without happiness,
loveandpassion.
The past feelings of sorrow, he just
couldn'trecall,
The grief was simply shut down by the
mightybrick-wall.
He did some terrible deeds, without
feelinganypain,
Romance with his beloved was never
thesame.
'A money-making machine' is what
peopletendtocall:
A person who is sealed by the mighty
brick-wall.
One day he fell sick, the death-bed
seemedquitenear,
Praying with folded hands, shed a
lonesometear,
Requested god to let him live beyond
thenightfall,
He pleaded for survival amidst the
mightybrickwall.
God smiled and said to him that he was
alreadydead,
So what's the difference if he is taken
justnow instead?
The humanity of a person: nature's
greatestgiftofall,
thesame,
you are always under a scanner and it
can'tberefrained.
Just as the inalienable shades of grey will
bepartofyour entirelifeframe.
F
henlife'sallblackandwhite,
therightandthewrong path
Are clear and evident decisions
areeasyandquick,
asprioritiesareapparentandprudent.
When all is not black and white with
streaksofgrey
makingtheirway,causingalldisarray.
thereisnoclarityoffthoughtprofound.
Decisionsarehastyastimesareracy.
Use your intuitions and arrive at
conclusions
don't waste time later analyzing,
assessing andevaluating
As lifeismeanttobechallenging.
Move on further so as to assimilate and
faceallshadesofgrey.
Enjoy this journey of life where there is
nodefiniteandstructured
decorumtofollowleadorguide.
Sometimes you find a unique path for
otherstotreadon.
You become famous and jubilant just for
your rightchoice.
At other times you may just be part of a
hugeherdthatthinksalike'
Your inputs may be appreciated, but
nothinggreattowinyouacclaim.
Many times your decisions may backfire
earning you a lot of flak from people
known andunknown.
All effort seems vain as there is an influx
of negative thoughts jarring across and
causingdeepdismay.
Now is the time to take a deep breath and
relaxandrefrainfrompeopleinane,
Situationsmaychangebutpeopleremain
W
arknessshadowed onher,
Worldwas fallingasleep,
Buthereyeshadnosleep,
Redandwideopen;
Theycome,
Theygo,
Theypay,
Theyleaveafewpennies,
Helplessshewas,
Traded herself for the lust of those
outside,
Thevoracityinhiseyes,
Pushed himonher,
Ignoringherpain,
Satisfiedhislust,
Leftthemoneyonherbedside,
And walkedoutoftheroom,
Out of the place where the sun refuses to
shine,
Shegazedattheemptystreetahead,
And with empty thoughts, drifted to
sleep.
D
oomuchonthefactthatlife's
unfair,
Letus notdwell.
'Cause, of the jubilant façade yet inner
despair
Theactionsdotell.
Somewhere along the beaches of Port
Blair,
AJudas marriesaJezebel.
Everyheartacheyouhadbettersavour
Insteadofatawdrysnivel,
And attribute every experience to a life's
flavour-
Learninhavoc,torevel.
'Cause sometimes life's unfair in our
favour,
Withnootherjusticeinhell.
T
57 Estrade Literary Magazine

64. P
ickinguparesonatingpause
Inourfreewheelingconversation
Ilookedintoyoureyes
Thatdidnotreflectyour words.
Yoursipofcoffee
Kissing myears
Ifeltit,almostreal.
And then,
Thewords consummatewith
Opinions, views,statements
Traversing everything and
anything
Floatedaroundagain.
Our conversationwas on-
Betweentwopeople,
who hadso muchtotalk
andso littletoshare!
Youreyesremainedmute
Mineremainedquiet,
Whilewetalked,forhours.
Finally,aswebidadieu
Withasilentsmile
Our eyesmetandtheytalked
For amoment,abriefmoment
Thatwas blinkedaway
With words of courteous
goodbyes.
Oh! How words killconversations!
vening:
Attheendoftheday,awinter
evening
slowlyunfoldsitsgreywings,
spreading its shadows all across the blue
sky
andwithinthisheartofmine.
FrommyFrenchwindow
admiringthegorgeousBakultrees
and rocking on the waves of my
thoughts
indifferentIwas -
tothelampscomingonallaround,
like myriad eyes prying open my
privacy-
tothebirdsnotchirpinganymore,
returningtothenests,
E
T
hebreezeso
dead,andstars
so cold,
Ataleso wrong; aseventsunfold,
Iamafoolandso Iamtold,
Languishinghere,inthiswretchedcold.
Idreamofyou,wegrewso old,
Insofthands,myheartyoustillhold,
Youbymyside,so proud andso bold,
Suchalovelysight,'twas tobehold!
Youknow youweremychoicestgold,
My worldforyou,Inow havesold,
Iwish ourtale,adifferentfairyhadmold,
What’s left of me now, but a life in
blindfold?
Crushed dreams too late to mend, a tale so
pale,'tisbestuntold!
E
pilogue:
Attheendoftheshow ofthenight,
intheauditoriumoftheearth,
thelightsofthesun slowlycomeon.
Amidst anticipation, expectations and
promises,
theorchestraoflifeplays,
thetunesofanew day.
Likeapieceofpaperpunchedandfiled,
onemoreday
isneatlytuckedawayinthetrunkoftime.
foldingtheirwings
andsettlinginthewarmthforthenight.
Today my desires and dreams are
dormant
underthequiltofcontentment
maybetoawaketomorrow
atthetouchofthenew sun
lumber:
TonightIfloatonthetranquilwaters
with stars above pulsating without a
pause
keeping pace with the throbbing heart
within.
Piercing the reverie with the claws not so
sharp,
puppiesofthepeepingpast
aregreetedwithaglance,
detachedbutbemused.
Clawingandgnawingpersistently,
shatteringthecurtainofreverie,
theytumbleonthevacantstageofmind.
Howling and growling, grunting and
barking,
pullingdown eachother,
forattention,theyviewithoneanother.
Intheeyesofoneglitter
theimagesofyouthfulabundance,
thesoftcoatofanother
bringbackthetouchofthemother.
Heretumblesoneinthelap
like the now grown up little ones in their
infancy!
Aparadeofplaces,framesoffaces-
fragmented,fractionalbutfascinating,
shrines ofmemories,
consignedtoabyss ofoblivion,
now comingalive,crispandclear,
likenotesdigitallymastered.
Pacifiedbytheboneofattention,
theyallhuddleandcuddle
andvanishinthemistofslumber.
leep:
On thiscoldwinternight
fromunderthecoverofslumber
slowlyIslideintoembraceofsleep-
notsound anddeep-
butinterruptedbyadrizzleofdreams,
showered from the sky of cloudy
subconscious.
A fine muslin drape of make-believe
fluttering,
nudgingthemindnow awake,now not,
carving a lattice - a blend of trickery and
truth.
Placesandfaces,known andimagined,
eventsandincidents-
from the inexhaustible treasure of
memory,
fromtheineffablewealthoffantasy,
likelinesandformswithcolours
createacollage,fleetingandfancy,
thatfloatsontheplacidoceanofsleep.
Likefoamflirtingwiththewaves
caressing the deep crevasses of the
conscious
the float fades in the peace, leaving no
trace.
S
S
59 Estrade Literary Magazine
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65. andwilltrytocheeryouup.”
“Myson whatisyour name?”
“My name is Robert. My name was made
by joining the second name of my mother
and the first name of my father- Sandra
RobinsonandRupertDavis”
With that I remembered my mother.
Looking at the clock I freaked, it was half
past six and I still wasn't home from
school. I told Uncle Ben that my mother
would be furious and I hurried out of the
house. When I was half way across the
garden, I stopped and turned back to wave
a goodbye. When I turned back I saw him
lying unconscious on the ground. I rushed
towards him, kneeled down and called
out to Uncle Mike from the coffee shop
near the house. He put his fingers in front
of Uncle Ben's nose and then checked his
pulse. He hugged me tight and told me
that he was no more, I broke into tears. I
realized what I should be doing. I rushed
home and hugged my mother very tightly
and to my surprise she didn't scold me.
Maybe she had come to know that I was
feeling very bad about something. She
asked me what had happened and I told
her all about Uncle Ben. Father called the
priest and asked him to bring some men to
Uncle Ben's house. All of us went there
and after a long prayer we buried him
right next to Aunt Carla. There were a lot
of people from our locality. Everyone felt
badatUncleBen's death.
Supposedly he was waiting for someone
like me to take up his place. Yes, and I am
trying my best. I gift Aunt Carla and
Uncle Ben's graves different flowers
every day and also take care of their house
and their cherished garden. Now I know
he would be happier to be withAunt Carla
inheaven.
here?” I stormed him with questions –
“why don't you talk to anyone?, Don't you
feel alone?, Why only on this day in the
whole year do you not sit on the rocking
chair in the garden.” But he said nothing.
He started walking and went and sat on an
arm chair and I sat on a chair right in front
of him. We had a moment of silence.
While he was looking straight into my
eyes, I was trying not to look at him
directly so I was looking around the house
at the staircase on one side and the kitchen
ontheotherside.
Finallyhespoke up:
“It was on November, 17 exactly 27
years ago.My wife was sitting on that
chair as usual and I was cooking inside.
Suddenly, she called out my name. I was
quite old even then and it took me some
time to come out. I was shocked to see her
in that state…her eyes were wide open
and her face looked so pale as if someone
had sucked the life out of her. I went
nearer, checked and realized that she had
left for heavenly abode. I buried her in my
backyard and since then, I always go
there in the morning and start my day
being by her side. She loved flowers and
so every day I gift her grave a different
flower.”
“Arethoseherpicturesuncle?”
“Yes, wasn't she beautiful? After her
death I never felt like going out of the
house away from her. Carla loved
whateverIcookedforher.”
“Don't you feel lonely here, I mean, in this
hugehouse?”
“At times my loneliness is filled up with
her presence but yes, I have always loved
children inspite of having none of my
own.”
“Have you sketched and painted these
picturesofAuntCarla?”
“Yes, Yes. She had a lot of patience and I
lovedtodraw hersketches.”
“Will you teach me how to paint and
sketch?”
“Yessureyoucancomeoveranytime.”
“People have such wrong notions about
you.Youaresuch anicemanuncle…”
“UncleBen”
“Yes, yes. Uncle Ben. I will tell my
friends about you. We will all come here
I
t was theonlyhouseonthatstreet
andinsideitlivedanoldmanwith
greyhairandawrinkledface.
People talked about him but no one
showed enough concern to go and speak
tohim.
None of the parents allowed their
children to even wander around that
house. He always sat on a rocking chair
that lay in his garden. Each day when I
returned from school, I used to peek into
his house. Sitting on his rocking chair he
always looked at the door, as if he knew
that I would be coming. He always gave
me an inviting look that seemed to say,
“Please come and talk to me…” but, I
always had a mixed feeling of being
scared and curious at the same time to get
toknow theoldman.
There was a coffee shop quite near his
house. Uncle Mike, the owner of the
coffee shop, had once told me that the old
man didn't sit on his chair on a particular
date every year. On that day he just came
out once to water the plants in his garden
and went back in. I eagerly waited for that
day as it was soon going to be November,
17. I kept thinking of what I would ask
him, I had dreams of our conversation
every night. I had decided that on that day
Iwouldgoandtalktotheman.
Finally the day came and he wasn't on
his chair. I didn't see him, neither while
going to school nor while coming back
from there. So, I gathered all the courage
that I could garner and entered the main
entrance. There was a huge garden; it had
many flowers of different kinds and
colours and also a few trees dotted far and
wide. The grass was perfectly trimmed
and cut. Then I saw that behind some big
leaves of a banana plant there was a gate.
It was big and was open. I pushed the door
further and it made a screeching noise that
echoed in the big, empty house. I entered
the house and could see a lot of paintings,
sketches and pictures of a woman on the
walls. The woman in the pictures was
very beautiful. While I was looking at
those pictures suddenly a hand tapped my
shoulder. I instantly turned around and to
my relief it was no one else but the old
man. He asked me, “What are you doing
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60Estrade Literary Magazine

66. from the table startled Nishika from
her thoughts. And even as she thought
about the noise, a long whine of a dog, out
inthestreets,
pierced through the silent night. The
terrifying images of the book, and now
the eerie sounds scared Nishika further.
She quickly wrapped her blanket around
her body and face. The chant of 'Om
NamahShivay'was now onherlips.
A little while later, the noise came
again, and Nishika, who had slightly
loosened her hold on the blanket, now
clutched it all the more tightly. But the
third time, curiosity overtook her fear.
She slowly uncovered her face and turned
towards the table. Something was
glowing brightly on the table. This scared
Nishika again. Pulling the blanket back
over her face, she wondered what the
glow was. She wondered if she might be
hallucinating it all. So, to confirm if it was
just an illusion, she again uncovered her
face and turned around. But the glow was
as bright as ever. And then, there was the
noiseagain.
A prêt was now in her bedroom,
Nishika thought. She felt too frightened
to scream and, though a coward, Nishika
loved her parents and did not wish to
disturb them so late at night. The glow
was emitted by a glowing prêt and
Nishika was beginning to get sure of that!
The noise came again and she could see
the glow flicker slightly. The game hadn't
been used for years, and it had, indeed,
been lying open once beneath a peepal
tree. That's when this glowing prêt must
have entered my game, thought Nishika.
Her legs trembled as the glow flickered
again. Her mouth went dry. The dog's
whine came again, and Nishika felt that it
was tryingtocalltheprêtoutside.
“Shoo!” she said, waving her hand
towards the table. Mustering up some
courage, she stood up and walked
towards her window. She thought the prêt
might leave if she opened the window
nets. Maybe it just wanted to join that
dog, she thought. “Shoo!” she called
again. It took all her courage and love for
her parents to get up and move towards
the window. Her hands trembled as she
touched the net, but, at the same moment,
there was a loud 'thud' and the glow
disappeared. “Aaarrgghh!!” yelled
Nishika, now no longer bothered about
wakingherparents.
“What happened, Nishika?” her mom
came running in, switching on the lights
in her room. And then, looking at the
table, she too screamed, a loud, piercing
scream, and Nishika, hearing her mother
confirmtheexistenceoftheprêt,
screamed once again and finally
Nishika's father came into the room.
“What is it, you both? Seen a bhoot or
what?”heasked.Thenhetoosaw it.
Amouse was running across the table.
“Are you screaming because of that little
friend?” he asked, pointing to the rat and
smiling. Nishika's mother nodded, while
Nishika shook her head. “What are you
screaming about then?” Nishika's parents
looked at her. “P…p…prêt! It isn't a
mouse, it's a prêt!” she said. Fear gripped
her now. It was a transforming prêt! Her
parents stared at her. “A prêt? Whatever
are you talking about?” her parents stared
at her. They knew her to be too sleepy to
think of stories late at night. Then
whatevernonsense was shetalkingof?
After her mother had managed to
calm her down slightly, Nishika
explained about the glowing prêt and the
whining dog. Her mother went over to the
game and opened it. “No!” yelled
Nishika, and hid behind the door. “The
prêt might come out!” “Oh dear! Nishika!
Why, this is just a glowing chemistry
game! No prêt to jump at you!” laughed
her mother. She showed her daughter the
game, which had some chemical powder,
intended to glow.The name printed on the
game too was Glowing Chemistry. “No
more ghost stories for our little coward!”
winkedherfather.
N
thriller,
made it all the more difficult. She knew
that if she made the mistake of leaving
the book halfway through, she was
going to have nightmares about the
story. So, it was best she completed it
beforesleeping.
Now, as she went to bed, the story
still sent shivers down her spine. She
wasn't sure if she would be able to fall
asleep at all. Her mind, instead of
feeling drowsy, felt very active as she
laid thinking about the book. The story
was about two young girls who had
gone out to collect berries, late at night,
near a cemetery. The spirits in the
cemetery had been up and talking.
These spirits were dark and crept up like
shadows behind the girls. They had
plannedto killthe girls but thegirls were
savedbythesunrise.
In most ghost stories, the ghosts are
usually white and transparent. They are
hardly scary, and even less so after
watching Casper, the Friendly Ghost.
While we are young, we tend to fear the
word 'ghosts' itself but as we grow the
white ghosts do not seem so scary.After
a certain age, it is the unknown we fear.
And these dark ghosts, lurking in the
shadows, sent up horrifying, spooky
images in the young girl's mind. The
features of these ghosts, were hidden by
theirdarkhoods.
The night was now completely dark,
and Nishika was unable to see anything.
The windows were open but it was a
new moon night and there was no
moonlight to keep her company. She lay
wide-awake listening to the clock, as the
night ticked on. She turned and twisted
but sleep had deserted her. The night,
except for the ticking clock, was silent.
Her mind, now in a very imaginative
state, kept churning up horrible sights
and thoughts. She tried to think about
something more pleasant, in the hopes
that the frightening images in her mind
wouldbereplacedbysomethingbetter.
Behind Nishika's bed was a table
with all her games lying on it. It was
Diwali time, so the ritual cleaning was
going on and the games had been taken
outofthecupboard.Suddenly,anoise
isikahad
beenuplate
that night to
finish the novel she
had been reading. It
was ever so difficult
for her to put down a
b o o k w i t h o u t
completing it and
thisone,beinga
ountains–abeautifulthingto
climb!!
wonderfultoexplore!!
Gazing at the wonderful world from the
topofamountain,
Abeautifulvalley–beamingwithlife.
Enjoying a holiday tour through the
mountains!!!
Footprintsseenofawildanimal,
Green grass growing and beautiful
creaturesmovingaround
Amidstfootprintsofawildanimal,
Shoutatthetopofyour voice…
And an echo comes back from the other
sideofthemountain.
Enjoy the sight of a lake or river from the
topofamountain…
Havegreatfunwhileclimbingit.
Enjoythebeautyofnature'screation!!!
M
61 Estrade Literary Magazine

67. vantagepointatopthehill.
Rain lashed the golden corn in torrents,
dark clouds rumbled over the land casting
shadows like ink stains on paper and the
wind sliced through the vast expanse of
grass. Devon looked out at the orchard,
where lightning flashed down the length
of one of the trees, and the whiff of burnt
fruit wafted over. Devon looked down,
and noticed a little chrysanthemum
blossom waving about happily,
unaffected and undaunted by the
battering rain, the howling wind or by the
murderous lightning. Looking at that
blossom, Devon felt strangely warm and
fuzzy inside, and decided that rain wasn't
so bad, in fact, nothing was so bad if only
youdidn'tletitgetonyournerves.
The new day bought with it the smell of
fresh grass, an enchanting rainbow, and a
new outlook for Devon. He decided not to
think only about grass now, but other
things in life which he had yet to discover.
He trotted around the field again,
chewing some grass. He came across a
pair of goats being led into a small
wooden shed. They were quite plump and
looked quite happy going into the shed.
Mysteriously, only sounds of bleating
came out from the shed, no goats. He
silently walked over to the shed, and
peered in through a hole in a knot in the
wood. What he saw inside made him go
stone cold all over. Horrified at the
gruesome scene inside he dropped to the
ground,unconscious.
What he saw, was the inside of the
slaughterhouse. The walls were
discoloured by the blood, and the interior
consisted of a granite slab, an iron blade,
and hooks mounted on the ceiling and
hanging from theme were the two goats
thatwereledintotheshed earlier.
* * *
When he woke up, he was still cold all
over, and was shivering. He felt he
needed some time to get over this shock.
His hooves made indentations in the grass
a s h e c l o m p e d o v e r t o t h e
chrysanthemum blossom he had seen the
other day. He found another goat there,
but no chrysanthemum. He suddenly felt
horribly hollow inside, and walked over
to a tree and curled up at the base of the
trunk. The warm bark helped to slow his
frantic heart, while his mind was
furiously working to figure out the world.
He mulled over the fleeting nature of
happiness, the sudden shock of sorrow,
and how to stay positive and survive in
this messed up world. He then looked
back at the couple of days, how he had
never thought about anything except
grass, and now how with knowledge
about the world, came more problems,
morecomplications,andmoresorrows.
After Devon felt he was able to stand up,
he finally opened his eyes and tried to get
up. As he was trotting over to the fence, a
rope slipped over his head, and he was
pulledovertotheshed.
Lifesureisfleeting.
ate some of it.Then he was thinking about
grass again.Aboringlifeisthatofagoat!
An idea bubbled up in the night. It fizzed
around in the damp cold before it found
refuge in the warmth of a mind, albeit one
that smelled strongly of grass. It rattled
around inside, unable to find a place free
from grass. Unable to find a free active
section, it settled down in a largely
dormant section. This idea was a very
dangerousone,itwas called"Life".
Devon felt different the following
morning. He couldn't quite put his hoof
on it but attributed it to the excessive
thinking he did yesterday. So thinking, he
quietly lay down in the shade, chewing on
some grass. When he woke up, it was
raining, the sun was on its way down, and
so was his mood. Devon wasn't
particularly fond of rain, it got his coat all
tangled up. However, he suddenly trotted
out into the rain, and started roaming
around the field. He had never been to the
boundary fence but felt he ought to go
there now. Slipping, sliding, and getting
covered in mud, he finally reached the
fence. He gazed out at the plains, from his
T
hereisnot
muchthatgoes
on in a goat's
mind. Whatever does
go on, is largely about
grass. Devon too was
thinking about grass.
After a lot of careful
thinking and painful
decision making, he
62Estrade Literary Magazine

68. Ram was an average student. He did not
have rich parents and did not work
hard.He missed most of the homework
and lagged behind in studies.He would be
dressed shabbily and was always short of
school stationery. He did not get fancy
dishes in his lunch box and hardly had any
friends. All his friends teased and bullied
him.Gautam was the star of the class and
got the attention of all the teachers.
Everyone wanted to be Gautam's friend.
Ram did not like many subjects that he
was made to study but he liked
geography. His geography teacher Mrs.
Tina liked Ram a lot and encouraged him
to study. Gautam did not like being
missed out on Mrs. Tina's attention. He
wanted to teach Ram a lesson. Ram was
alwaysscaredofGautam.
One day Gautam challenged Ram to a
quizonHistory.Ramlostthequizbadly.
After this he became determined to teach
Gautam a lesson. Ram made up his mind
to work really hard. The confidence gave
him the courage and he started interacting
betterwithotherchildren.
Eight years later… Ram completed his
degree in Geology and went on to get a
Masters degree to become a geologist.
Even though he did not have much
success is his early years but he did not
give up. One day as usual while he was
digging in the ruins. Ram noticed a
yellow and black coloured stone. Ram
was startled to see this. He had not seen
anything so beautiful. He discovered that
it absorbed all harmful gases. Now Ram
became famous and all he ever thought of
since then was how much Gautam helped
him.
amisafamous
geologist.He
hasdiscover-
ed a unique material,
which is now used to
build buildings. He
was very good in his
field.But this was not
thecasealways.
Itwas aniceday.
Ram had P.E(Physical Education)
class.All the kids were out playing in the
field. His history teacher Mr. Agarwal
was observing him.You might think
sitting in class is much worse than
missing P.E but you couldn't be more
wrong.Ram's P.E teacher used to make
everyone do 50 push-ups, 25chin-ups and
so on. All kids wished P.E. class would
get missed due to rain or some other
reason.
63 Estrade Literary Magazine

70. themojrisweregood,realgood.
The coffee at the food court began
working on my mind. A few sips and the
idea dawned upon me, “Why should that
craftsman at my village get only Rs 225
for a pair that in the town fetched a
thousandrupees?”
Shibi must have thought I had gone
bonkers when I told her, “I would
organise the craftspeople at Shamlaji and
nearbyvillages.”
“What? Wake up, buddy. We are in
Ahmedabad,”Shibisaid.
I was awake and ideas were rushing to
my mind from all over. Success of co-
operative milk dairy driven to perfection
by Verghese Kurien and association of
self-employed craftswomen by Ela Bhatt
were all before me. The menu board
hanging at the coffee shop appeared to me
like a powerpoint presentation, flashing
the faces of Kurien, the humble cobbler at
Shamlaji, Bhatt and the cobbler's
assistantattheshop....
Before we left the coffee shop, the
first draft of the business model was ready
inmymind.
The quality of the mojris would be the
same that the customers would get
anywhere. With the help of Shibi, I would
give the cobblers the latest designs which
they would implement. Since a lot of
cobblers and other craftsmen would be
working together, we would procure raw
material in bulk at a cheaper price. I
would take care of the transportation of
the products. I was confident I could
introduce the best quality mojris in the
market at a price that will make them sell
likethehotcoffeeIhadjusthad.
The next day Shibi and I went to
Shamlaji. I went to the same shop. The
shoe-maker recognised me. I don't know
how, but he knew all about our family. I
asked Sharman, as he was called, about
the process of shoe-making. I came to
know that he commanded respect in his
community and he could help me a lot in
myventure.
“Son, these leather shoes take some
time to be made. Men first process
leather. They cut it into pieces and then
stitch them to make the mojris. The
women folk decorate them as needed,”
Sharmansaid.
“Wow, women, are partners in the
process?” Iasked.
Henodded.
I wanted to know about the socio-
economic conditions of the shoe-making
community. Sharman was more than
forthcoming. Even after such hard work
they did not earn enough and because of
thistheycouldnoteducatetheirchildren,
hetoldme.
“Even if the kids are sent to the village
school they learn nothing as the teachers
are not regular. They would neither study
nor work and help their families
financially,”Sharmansaid.
On healthcare, he said that they go to
the government centres but do not get
proper medication. As the sun set, he told
me how caste system was practised
subtly; how poor infrastructure,
corruption, poverty, lack of education and
ignorance of their rights and government
policies hampered development in rural
India.
We returned home wiser. I felt
Sharman had almost stitched my business
model to perfection. He assured me, “If
cobblers are given designs and paid a
little more, they would produce quality
footwear.”
Next day I shared this idea with
Shibi's teacher. He said that the idea could
be a hit if the footwear are presented as if
they are of best quality, best price, easy to
maintain, nice to wear and look good.
“You need to have Rs 100,000 in your
pocket for marketing alone,” the good
professor said.
To get more ideas on how to go about
my business I talked to my friend's
mother who runs a big boutique. She was
willing to give us a corner in her boutique
on the condition that I would need to give
her stocks of traditional shoes from
across the country. I still had very little
knowledge of the varieties in traditional
footwear and even fusion footwear. Shibi
was there for help. Just out of the college,
she too wanted to do something
challenging. She could not only help me
in procuring all kinds of traditional shoes,
but also come up with designer footwear
whichhasgoodmarket.
“Shamlaji craftspeople are
enterprising, but these trendy designs
may overwhelm them. Let us organise a
skill development workshop for them to
ensure steady supply of quality
footwear,”Shibisaid.
I calculated the cost of the workshop,
rental I needed to pay for a corner in aunt's
boutique, cost of reworking the interiors,
procuring raw material for the artisans,
timely payment to keep them motivated,
marketing and sundry expenses. It came
to a whopping two million rupees. So,
when the chairperson of Mahatma
Gandhi trust signed the cheque, I knew it
was mymoment.
Soon, work began at the boutique.
Aunt encouraged us to do a quality job.
Her intention was to protect the
reputationofherboutique,butithelped
I
field work I had done for close to three
months, the research and the
preparation for the presentation to the
board had paid off. I could now start my,
or should I say our, enterprise. I came
out of the chair's room satisfied and told
myself, “Jay, this is your moment. Grab
it for your own and for the community's
good.”
The idea of my enterprise was to
organise artisans in my native village to
make traditional, hand-made trendy
footwear, brand them and sell them in
the city so that the craftspeople got a
highervaluefortheirskills.
About three months ago my uncle
took me to our native village Shamlaji
where he had to settle a land issue. We
wanted to lease out our land. Our work
got over earlier than expected and we
had about two hours before the next bus
totakeus backtothetown.
“Letus seethevillage,”Itoldmyuncle.
He did not buy into the idea, tired as
he was after the day-long running
around. I set out while he sat at the tea
stall near the bus stand.About 300 yards
into the village , I saw a small, nameless
shoe shop. The footwear on display
were beautiful and dirt cheap. I picked
upapairformymother.
I never thought one day I would be
marketing them. I must admit, the idea
of the venture came after my cousin
took me out for a treat. Shibi had just
graduated from the Institute of Design
and had promised to treat me at the mall
near our house. After some snacks, we
were window-shopping when she
exclaimed, “How beautiful they are!
Lookatthefinish.”
Shibi was pointing to a pair of brown
leather mojris (traditional shoes) on
display. The pair was similar to the one I
had seen in the nameless shop at
Shamlaji.
She liked its design, colour and
finishing and wanted to buy it until she
saw the price tag. Rs 999, it proclaimed.
More than four times what I had paid
for the pair at Shamlaji. The price took
me aback. The design and finishing had
suddenly turned unattractive for Shibi.
Butbothofus knewinourhearts,that
knew thiswas
mymoment.The
chairpersonof
Mahatma Gandhi
Charitable Trust
signed the cheque
for two million
rupees which I
needed for my small
enterprise.Allthe
65 Estrade Literary Magazine

71. us haveanattractivecorner.
I ensured craftspeople got training
and raw material, Shibi ensured they got
designs, Sharman worked hard to
organise artisans in and around Shamlaji.
Theproductionlinehadgotgoing.
Collective effort paid off. Footwear
were selling like hot coffee, just as I had
thought while sipping on one about eight
monthsbackinthesamemall.
I would invite craftspeople now and
then to our “showroom” so that they
become aware of the true value of their
fineworkmanship.
April15,2013.Itwas ayearsincethe
couldaffordproperhealthcarenow.
Sharman and a few others were
planning to renovate their houses and buy
apieceofagricultureland.
“It's all because of this young boy. It is
your momentJay,”Sharmansaid.
I closed my eyes for a moment to
thank all those who had helped me in the
enterprise. Was it my moment? Or was it
the moment of the co-operative spirit?
And it was then that I got the name for our
outlet:
“Giantleap:Shoes forchange”.
crafts co-operative was set up. The
occasion called for celebration. It was in
the fitness of the things that the real
workers would visit the showroom. Also
invited were all those who had made the
enterprise a reality: Shibi's and my
teachers, friends, their parents and of
course ours, too. I was basking in the
praises showered on me. I thought it was
my moment until Sharman and other
craftspeople began telling their tales...
how their income had gone up and their
children no longer worked any more, how
their ability to spend on their children's
educationhadgoneupandhow they
As I'vetocleanthedishes
Can'tevenreadabook
As I'vetofeedthefishes.
Insuchtimeofgloom
Imissmymother
Excepther,who ismine?
Does anyonebother?
Istillrememberthenight
Thesounds aren'tlesser
My motherwas killed
And Iwas takenawaybyaslavetrader
Windydays,stormynights
IcrytillIshatter
And Iimaginemymomsaying;
“LittleCharlie,whatisthematter?’
“Youknow Iamwithyou
Allday,allnight
Inspirit,ifnotinflesh
Whateverbeyourplight.
Lookaroundyou
I'm thefishesyoufeed
Theflowers youadmire,
Thedoughyouknead.
weeping,
Dusting
Are my chores
in aday
While children of my
age,
Enjoyandplay.
Icannotgotoamovie
S
Gaze at the sky
I'm the shining star
Smiling at you
You know, I `m not far.'
Is her melodious voice
a reminder to us?
Tostopchildlabour
Toputanendtothiscurse?
I'llwaitinthemorning
And atnightwiththe moon
Withthousandslikeme
Hoping forlibertysoon.
66Estrade Literary Magazine

72. He attempted to shift, the hut's roof away,
hehadtotry-
And when he couldn't, all he could do was
giveasmile-wry.
The water turned cold and the wooden
rooftopservedasablanket,
As the twain contemplated amidst the
nature'sracket.
The trapped men tried to wriggle
themselvesfree,
But in vain- the violent tempest forced
themunderthedebris.
“When will the light come? Will it
come?”
He cried, looking above. “I need some,
some…”
The downpour increased, the firmament
continuedtoweep,
The horizon grew bleary, as the traveller's
eyesflappedclosedwithsleep.
As thedarkcloudsobscuredtheearth,
Nature's furytookoutallthemirth.
There was no hope, no joy, only despair
andafrown,
But the Lord above didn't refuse to look
down.
Natureandtheroguecloudspersistedin
theirfight,
And the battle lasted all on this uneventful
night.
Soon, dewglistened,andthesun arrived,
Providing the warmth, which was
previouslydeprived.
There were no clouds; nature was still
strivingtocope,
After a marvellous war, the dawn's tender
raysbroughtouthope.
The golden ball gleamed enigmatically,
spreadingitsradiantrays,
The world was smiling again with
happinessandgrace.
The traveller awoke slowly, emerged
fromtherubbletosee-
The trees humming tunefully and the
winddancingwithglee.
Every dark night brings out a new dawn, a
newdream,
Thus another lesson learnt in life's
flowingstream…
In all of nature's skirmishes, in all of
stormynight'sstateforlorn,
There is always hope, a dream waiting to
bloominthemorn!
hadtoputasidehiscourse,
For, the thunderclouds were coming
down withfullforce.
The path grew slippery and the scene
turnedwetandglum,
The explorer knew he had to take
asylum.
He needed no gold, no luxury, no wine,
nofancybed,
As he eyed helplessly at the humble,
crumblingshed.
With the shack's generous farmer, he
found food andshelter-
While the others, ran in the rain helter-
skelter.
The wanderer, with relief, wiped off
fromhisfacethecoldsweat,
He could spend the night in the shanty
withoutregret.
The skies roared but he, was protected
bythecabin'swalls,
'I'm safe,' he thought to himself but his
assumptionwas provenfalse.
The lightning bellowed shrilly, almost
sendingshivers,
While the rains poured torrentially like
they, at once, could fill up a thousand
rivers.
The windows fluttered, the door
creaked,
The ground turned damp and the old bed
tweaked.
A mighty branch fell forcefully on the
weakroof,
And thus the small hut came tumbling
down uponthemwithapoof!
The wayfarer felt the cold splash on his
face.
The farmer and he tried to move out or at
leastmakespace.
small,little
fleecethen
agreat big
cloud,
W i t h i n a f e w
minutes, the sky was
boomingaloud!
Alonelytraveller
A
67 Estrade Literary Magazine

73. Federer, Pete Sampras, Martina and the
naughty Bjorn Boris. We all played in the
clear blue waters of the river and the
nearby sea into which the river flowed
into had a lot of fin together ... er, I mean
funtogether.
It was when I had gone with my friends
and family to our graduation party in the
deep sea when we saw a huge oil tanker
ship tilt on its side, which caused it to leak
oil - and within no time there was an
enormous oil spill.We found it difficult to
breathe - and very quickly everyone one I
loved and cared about were gone, died or
left to fend for themselves - I barely
managed to swim away.Though many
years have passed, that day was so scary
thatIamunabletoeraseitfrommy
amafishnamed
Novak Djokovic
livinginthe
waters of the very
c a l m r i v e r t h e
Mississippi. I had a
lot of friends in my
school and many
cousins at home -
Andy Murray,Roger
I
memory and still have nightmares and
wakeupincoldsweat.
I couldn't bear it. Why did teachers tell us
that Man is the greatest? Why is Man so
great when they don't care about sea life,
nature or the Earth from which they get
good lives and have families? They rarely
lose their own ones - but what about us?
We lose our loved ones every single
second. Millions of fish, octopuses and
sea horses are ruthlessly caught and eaten
by Man every day - and there were so
many times I and my friends had a narrow
escape from their fishing trawlers that
roamed the seas. We don't have special
technology like them; we can't have a
right to freedom or roam around without
thefearofthosedreadfulnets.
We also found millions of tons of urban
garbage being dumped into the sea by
Man - it really saddened me that to keep
their cities clean, they were polluting our
seas, causing enormous, long term
damage to the marine life. It was really
horrifying - and being a fish, I prayed to
my own gods to either mend Man's ways
or enable us fish to live in one place where
nopredatorcancomeandeatus.
hereonce
livedagirl,
who triedto
fit,
Intoaworldwhichdidn'tlikeherabit,
She wore the latest fashion trying to be
cool,
Butendedupbeingbrandedafool.
Shestartedskippinghermeals,
Tofitintoreallyskinnyjeans,
Hergradesdippedgoingdown,
Herfacehadaperpetualfrown.
She followed the popular group day and
night,
With her existing friends she got into a
fight,
Daybydaysheslowlylostherface,
Byrunninginthe'Ms. Perfect'race.
Withherparentsshegotintoafight,
Whentheysaidherclothesweretootight,
Atlastwithgreatpain,
Shejudgedherselfasabig'fail'.
T Itwas thenthatsheunderstood,
Thatsheshouldn'tcarewhatpeoplethink,
68Estrade Literary Magazine
However, gradually I am finding a very
small change in Man's ways - they have
started realizing that due to unchecked
fishing and chemical and industrial
pollution of the river and sea waters,
certain species of fish have become
extinct and some others like my friend
Big Mac, the blue whale are on the verge
of becoming extinct. This has led to
realization that they need to care - about
their environment, about their planet and
about other living beings that coexist with
Man and make their own existence
possible. They are a type of race which is
the most foolish one - first they do
something terribly wrong and then start to
care about it when they know from inside
that it is wrong and harmful to their own
species.
So after so many years of pain and hard
work to create awareness among Man,
things have started to change. But I think
it will take many more generations to
spread this realization and complete the
work. I have tried and have also told my
children to carry it on but I can now relax
havingdonemyduty.
Whatwas mostimportantofall,
Wasthatshewas happyfromwithin.
Photograph by Archit Saraf

74. Special Agent Pendergast arrives at
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most significant and popular event with
more than 750 photographs and an
informative text by renowned film
historian and Hollywood insider Robert
Osborne.
85 Years of the Oscar includes such
recent updates as plans for the Academy
Museum of Motion Pictures, the
establishment of the Governors Awards
ceremony, the expansion of the Best
Picture category, and the introduction of
electronicvotingfortheAwards.
The ceremonies are detailed, decade
by decade, with a complete listing of the
nominees and winners in every category
and a special section of Academy Award
recordholders.
Xandra Vardan thought life would be
simpler when she accepted the goblin
crown and became their queen, but life
has only become more complicated.
Everyone -- vampires, werewolves and
humans -- wants the goblins on their side,
becausewhoeverhasthegoblins--wins.
The brilliant conclusion to the
steampunk trilogy, Long Live the Queen
is a spellbinding, mind twisting, and
rather macabre tale. While the book is
capable of standing on it's own, readers
are recommended to start from the first
book in the series. The conclusion a lot of
questions are answered, issues are
resolved and the dust settles in ways we
aren't likely to expect it to. As a
steampunk story, the vocabulary is rather
specific, but people familiar to the genre
shall have little trouble with in. In any
case a glossary included in the book is
morethanhelpfulenough.
Filled with hope, faith, belief,
heartache and skepticism, The First
Phone Call from Heaven is a spiritual
journey without being preachy. Sweet
without being saccharine. It is a story that
blends history, love and belief
seamlessly, a journey from the invention
of telephone to a skeptic's quest for truth.
And it raises an important question at the
end. Should truth triumph even at the
costoffaith?
The First Phone Call from Heaven by
Mitch Albom tells the story of a small
town of Coldwater (Michigan) whose
residents start receiving phone calls from
their dearly departed. Is it an elaborate
hoax? Or a miracle? There are all kinds of
people there – altruistic to opportunist
and while most of them are overjoyed to
hear from their loved ones, Sully
Harding, a disgraced pilot and a grief
stricken father vows to solve the mystery,
even as his son clutches his toy phone,
awaitingacallfromhisdeadmother.
serious trouble with the law. His
sudden appearance coincides with the
first attack of a murderous arsonist who--
with brutal precision--begins burning
down multimillion-dollar mansions with
the families locked inside. After
springing Corrie from jail, Pendergast
learns she made a discovery while
examining the bones of several miners
who were killed 150 years earlier by a
rogue grizzly bear. Her finding is so
astonishing that it, even more than the
arsonist, threatens the resort's very
existence.
White fire fills it's pages with
entertaining characters and a few
individuals from the days of yore. With
Corrie Swanson leading the charge and
immersing herself in skeletal remains and
mining caves and mountain passes, this
novel piles on roadblocks and adventures
in equal measure, and then douses the
remainsincansofkerosene.
69 Estrade Literary Magazine

75. DI Kathy Kolla of Scotland Yard is
called in as a matter of course by the local
Paddington police when a woman turns
up dead in what appears to be an accident.
On her houseboat, Vicky Hawks is found
by one of her neighbors having
apparently succumbed to carbon
monoxide poisoning due to improper
ventilation of the narrow boat's heating
system. But while the cause of death
seems apparent and there's no reason for
Kolla to think otherwise, something
aboutthisdeathstillbothersher.
A police procedural from Barry
Maitland, the book has a rather unusual
setting, a great plot, and truly wonderful
writing. The book takes us through the
canals and waterways of the Thames. At
the core of the book there's an interesting
proposal, taking the reader into the
possibilities of high-tech surveillance and
the brave new world of criminal
intelligenceandcontrol.
Anne Perry's A Christmas Hope is a
story of Claudine Burroughs, a woman
who finds her life of privilege with a cold
ambitious husband she despises
suffocating. At a particularly dull
Christmas party, she is a witness to an
assault on a prostitute who has been
smuggled into the party. The blame lands
on a charming poet she's recently
befriended and thus begins Claudine's
journeyoffindingtherealkillers
A Christmas Hope is set in Victorian
London, highlighting the harsher aspects
of the festive season. Her own sense of
justicewon't letherdothesensiblething
and go along with the herd, making her
confront some of the painful realities of
her life and marriage. Perry's
understanding of the norms of Victorian
culture, the constraints on women in that
era, makes A Christmas Hope a very
accurate piece of historical fiction.
Although there is a hint of romance in this
story, it is kept behind closed doors and
drapes, never crossing the conventions of
the era. A beautiful read, and appropriate
as Christmas is approaching in our own
timeperiod.
Charles Finch'sAn Old Betrayal is the
seventh in his Charles Lenox Mysteries.
Charles Lenox' life is full, with wonderful
wife, infant daughter and a seat in
Parliament. Inspite of this, he agrees to
meet with a former colleague's client. But
it's the murder of a country squire that
returns Lenox to his former profession of
investigation, at least part time. He finds
this to be much more than a simple
murder. It might be the case that could
breakthenation.
Each book in the series is a lesson in
Victorian England, and lovers of
hisrotical fiction will love the little facts
seamlessly woven in the narrative. His
details on the period, both in appearance
and in conveying the spoken, and
unspoken, rules of society are exacting.
The main characters are strong, noble
individuals, and Lenox especially comes
acrossasaperfectgentleman.
70Estrade Literary Magazine

76. The F-it List by Julie Halpern
explores the friendship between two
girls – Alex and Becca - from Alex's
perspective, a friendship strained by
betrayal but strengthened by cancer.
Karsten Knight's Afterglow is the
third and the last installment in the
WildeFire series and it follows teenage
volcano goddess Ashline Wilde as she
tries to stop her trickster ex-boyfriend
Colt Halliday from executing his
devious schemes. It picks up mere 24
hours after the last book, and Ash must
save her sisters – Eve and Rose - from
her ex, who is hell bent on merging them
together to create a single powerful,
almostinvinciblegoddess, Pele.
Afterglow has the same format as
the other two books and there are
flashbacks from Pele and Colt
throughout. The narrative is filled with
nonstop action and snide one-liners.
Although the snarkiness might feel too
much at times, it doesn't deter the reader
from enjoying the book. Not as good as
Embers and Echoes (Wildefire #2) but a
satisfying conclusion nonetheless to the
fierytrilogy.
Jessica Shirvington's Empower is the
fifth and final installment in The Violet
Eden Chapters, following the life of
Violet, a Grigori (half angel half human)
whose life was turned upside down when
she found that out. Violet has left her
home and soul mate behind, and is now
living in London as a rogue, when
someone unexpected knocks her door,
someone who she thought she had left
behind,withgravenews.
Shirvington's narration tugs at the
heartstrings, especially Violet's dilemma
about Lincoln and Phoenix. There could
have been more about some of the
characters, Phoenix especially, but
Empower does serve as a satisfying end to
the series. There were a lot of
speculations about how the love triangle
would resolve, but it does, and there is no
room for disgruntlement. Even Violet
denying herself true love makes sense.
Alex, struggling through her father's
death in a tragic accident learns about her
best friend Becca's infidelity with her
boyfriend, and things get tense between
them. She soon finds Becca has cancer
and decides to set differences aside and
helps her through the terrible effects of
the disease, helping her shave her head
andfulfillingherbucketlist–theF-itlist.
The book has distinct sexual
overtones and crude humor that might be
uncomfortable for some. Alex's voice is
fresh, sassy, with the right amount of
sensitivity. The list eventually helps Alex
get out of very dark corners of her life.
The characters are shaped up nicely, the
narration is quirky, peppered with pop
culture references, mentions of fandoms
and most importantly, cancer is shown as
somethingthatcanbefoughtagainst. Hild by Nicola Griffith is a fictional
account of St. Hilda of Whitby, daughter
of the nephew of Edwin of Northumbria,
from her point of view.Ayoung woman at
the heart of violence, evolved from a
child carrying the weight of destiny since
birth, aided by powerful curiosity and an
uncanny brilliance along with the gift to
simply observe, Hild establishes herself
as a seer to the king. Her abilities enable
her to rise to the position of the King's
Fist,atgreatemotionalcost.
Seventh century Britain is not often
visited by historical fiction authors and
Griffith describes the everyday lives,
especially of women, landscapes and
politics of Anglo Saxon England in great
detail. The narrative is lush and vivid,
albeit slow plot-wise. Little is known
about St. Hilda's life before her baptism,
giving sufficient canvas to Griffith to
flesh out her character brilliantly. Women
had very distinctive roles back then and
Hild rises above it all to be immortalized
as one of the pioneers of Christianity in
England.
Quite probably the best book in the entire
series.
71 Estrade Literary Magazine
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77. Bookshelf
From before birth to the last breath we
draw, from consciousness to sexual
attraction, fighting infection to the
beating of our hearts, electricity is
essentialtoeverythingwethinkanddo.
In The Spark of Life , award-winning
physiologist FrancesAshcroft reveals the
secrets of ion channels, which produce
theelectricalsignalsinourcells.
If you want to increase your
understanding of Alzheimer's,
Parkinson's and dozens of other diseases,
of how our various senses or memory
works, how we feel pleasure and pain,
how poisons or drugs work on our bodies,
then we must study how basic electrical
processes functioninourbodies.
The brain, the legs, the heart, the liver,
the kidney ….name any organ in the
human body and electricity is somehow
involvedinitshealthanddisease.
Can someone really die of fright?
How do cocaine, LSD and morphine
work? Why do chilli peppers taste hot?
Ashcroft explains all this and more with
wit and clarity. Anyone who has ever
wondered about what make us human
willfindthisbookarevelation.
Joe Penhall poignantly explores the
gulf between childhood and adulthood
andasks disturbingquestionsaboutthe
lure of spiritual release in increasingly
difficulttimes.
In this book, a small boy is driving his
mother to distraction – waking at night,
hearing phantom noises and fixating on
his absent father. He thinks he sees his
absentee father on the stairs. He begins to
wonder whether his Dad might be dead
and that he has encountered his ghost. In
fact, his father is back after a long absence
and is really in the house , hiding in the
loft.
After attending an innocuous
motivational course involving esoteric
philosophy, Douglas mysteriously
abandons his wife and son to 'live in a
specific, preordained way according to
the tenets of a spiritual leader'. The cult
Douglas has embraced involves eating
hard boiled eggs, drinking a bucketful of
salted water and throwing it up again,
mind control, drastic dental surgery
without anaesthetic, sexual abstinence
and passing on property to the
organization. Is it a legitimate religious
organizationorapredatorycult?
Just why has his father come home
again is only gradually revealed. But
there is no doubt that the drama taps into
one of the neurotic curiosities of our age,
in which people who have abandoned
conventional faiths seem peculiarly
vulnerable to manipulative charlations.
The lad finds his loyalties cruelly torn
between his mother and father . How can
a small child be expected to understand
adult thinking at its most complex and
selfdestructive?
Joanna Kavenna's novel is narrated
by a woman who is not even graced with a
name but becomes a companion cum
prisonerofCassandraWhite,awidowed
survivalist, the main character of this
novel. The narrator answers Cassandra's
advertisement- which explains a widow's
need of help with a 'sprawling property' in
an 'idyllic setting'. No stipend but no
expenses – food included, bills paid, hard
work required.
The narrator had a comfortable
suburban life with her husband, a boring
job and a beautiful home. The only
unpredictable thing about it was her
fertility – she had several unsuccessful
IVF attempts. It was after the narrator's
husband left her for a younger woman
that she answered the advertisement and
motored down to Cassandra White and
theLakeDistrict.
At Cassandra's self sufficient farm,
she is berated, and worked into the
ground .She has nowhere to go and so
labours in the farm from morning to dusk,
without any of the comforts of modern
day living, she curses Cassandra but
works toallherfuriouspersonalagendas.
What follows happens so fast that the
reader is taken off guard. Cassandra
hatches a plan of defiant criminality and
resolves to move scores of poor and
elderly people with nowhere to go into
empty, swankily appointed second homes
of the wealthy. The narrator finds herself
a part of Cassandra's crazy utopian
scheme to reclaim the valley for the
locals.
This is a dark satire, a modern
morality tale of stealing from the rich to
give to the poor. Beneath the amusing
surface, this novel is serious. One is faced
with the gulf between the 'haves' and
'have nots,' the pointlessness of
worshipping wealth and the peculiar
liberation of physical labour, the
moments when the narrator barely knows
herself because, almost against her will,
she is being sustained by natural beauty –
life'sfreepleasures.
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72Estrade Literary Magazine

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80. All workshops will be conducted at the British Library and open to all members and non-members. The seats for workshops
will be limited to 20 participants/workshop. Due to high demand and limited seating of the workshops, participants are
requestedtoregisterasearlyaspossible.For registrationskindlycontactMs.Huta Ravalon huta.raval@in.britishcouncil.org
ReadingTechniquesWorkshop
Ms.Tulsi Parekh, is a psychologist and Senior Editor for Estrade. She believes that reading is an art
that is best developed in childhood. A book is not just about reading what's written in it, it is about
understanding, learning, applying the knowledge and a lot more. She will be touching on topics
from how to pick a book you will enjoy to character analysis. For those who say they don't enjoy
reading,thisworkshop willsurelychangethat!
Age Group: 12- Date: 19th January 2014 Time: 11am Fees: 60016 Yrs. -2pm
PublicSpeakingWorkshop
12to16Yrs. ,Sunday T -2pm
Ms. Prachi Trivedi, a psychologist trained in child develo-pment and Editor in Chief for Estrade
will be conducting the workshop on enhancing Public Speaking skills in children.The main focuses
of the workshop will be etiquettes, preparing and delivering speeches in public. The workshop will
be a blend of theory and activities to keep the participants engaged. So all participants, be ready to
talkinfrontofanaudience!
AgeGroup: Date:16thFebruary ime:11 Fees:600
Short StoryCompetition
Take part in Estrade's Short story writing Competition and grab a chance to get your story and name
published in the upcoming issue of Estrade. All stories must be original and previously
unpublished.Thewinners/runner-ups willalsoreceiveacertificate.
Age Group: Under Deadline: 1st February Theme: Open
Word Limit: >1500 words
18 Yrs.
75 Estrade Literary Magazine

81. Word. Sound. Power
From a single utterance, to the pronunciation of a name and the declaration of an idea, the voice is a
tool through which we assert our presence in the world. The use of the voice as a means of protest
and as a metaphorfor self-representationis centralto this exhibition.By bringingtogethera rangeof
artists working across different creative disciplines, including audio documentary, video,
performance, text and sound this exhibition takes a moment to listen to the harmony, and
dissonance,of voicesrising.
Theexhibitioniscuratedby: Loren-HansiMomodu &Andi-AsmitaRangariandtheartistsare
Lawrence Abu Hamdan, Caroline Bervgall, Amar Kanwar, Nikolaj Bendix Skyum Larsen,Anjali
Monteiro & KP Jayasankar, Pallavi Paul and Mithu Sen.
For furtherdetailspleasevisit
Date:15thJanuary -8thFebruary Venue:KhojInternationalArtists’ Association,NewDelhi
http://www.khojworkshop.org/
TheChennai StorytellingFestival(CSF).
Each evening, numerous storytellers would tell various types of stories, including personal-
experience stories, historical stories, and folk tales. These stories might feature themes such as:
recovering from traumas; learning, maturing, and growing; nurturing relationships; resolving and
managingconflicts;andcomingtobetterunderstandoneself,others,andtheuniverse.
The "Visiting Co-Host" of CSF 2014 is Susan Perrow from Australia, author of Healing Stories for
Challenging Behaviour (2008), and Therapeutic Storytelling: 101 Healing Stories for Children
(2012).Forfurtherinformationkindlymail
FestivalSchedule:SixWorkshop Sessions Date:7th-9th Feb.
Venue:GoetheInstitute(RutlandGate5thSt,Nungambakkam, Chennai, 04428331314)
info@storytellinginstitute.org
BangaloreWritersWorkshop
The 8-week workshop will hone your skills as a writer. This is an intensive, fun, horizon-widening
ride that will cover narrative styles, editing techniques, appreciating literary genres, and the critical
analysis of published work. Did we mention that you will be writing and reading a lot too?Aheck of
a lot, but we promise it will push you and change you for the better. You will be required to share
your own writing and give constructive criticism to other writers in the workshop. Whether you are
startingout,orarealittlemoreseasoned,thiscoursewillsteeryouintherightdirection.
Forfurtherdetailsandregistrationskindlyvisit
Date:21stFeb2014to11thApril2014
Venue: Bangalore Writers Workshop, 777 D, 100 Feet Road, HAL IIndStage, Indira Nagar,
Bangalore-560038
www.bangalorewriters.com
CreepyHouse:Reading Challenge2013
Conceptualised by the Reading Agency in the UK, and in collaboration with the Arts Council
England, BBC and the British Council, the Reading Challenge is one of the biggest annual reading
promotion for five to 13-year-olds. Every year the challenge has a different theme and this year it's
Creepy House, illustrated by award-winning British writer and illustrator Chris Riddell. The
challenge inspires creativity, drawing children into libraries, encouraging them to read for enjoyment
and participate in exciting workshops. For registration please send an email to
AgeGroup: 5 Date:16thNov-31stDec2013 Venue:
namrata.sandhu@britishcouncil.org
to13Yrs. BritishCouncil,Chandigadh
76Estrade Literary Magazine

82. The Hindu LitForLife
The Hindu Lit for Life is back, this time in January & February 2014. It began in 2010 as a curtain
raiser to commemorate the 20th anniversary of The Hindu's Literary Review. The Hindu Literary
Prize (now The Hindu Prize for Best Fiction) was also instituted that year.
The Chennai edition will spread over January 11, 12 and 13 at Sir Mutha Venkatasubbarao Hall,
LadyAndalSchool,HarringtonRoad,Chetpet.ThefestwillmovetoDelhiforaday-longevent.
Date:February 8,2014
Venue:SiriFortAuditoriumII, SiriFortAuditoriumComplex,August KrantiMarg, Chennai.
JaipurLiteratureFestival
Considered to be Asia's leading literature event celebrating national and international writers, the
Festival encompasses a range of activities including film, music and theatre. It has already hosted
some of the best-known national and international writers including Gurcharan Das, Javed Akhtar,
and Christopher Lloyd. In 2014, Amish Tripathi, Jhumpa Lahiri, Jerry Pinto, Mary Kom, Partha and
Rana Mitter, Cheryl Strayed, Mary Beard, and Samantha Shannon among many others are expected
to attend.The Directors of the Jaipur Literature Festivals areWilliam Dalrymple and Namita Gokhale
andthefestivalisproducedbySanjoyK. RoyandSheuliSethiofTeamworkArts.
Date:17thJanuary -21stJanuary 2014
Venue:DiggiHouse,SawaiRamSingh Road,Jaipur –302004,Rajasthan (India)
Lucknow LiteraryFestival
The first ever Lucknow Literary Festival is an endeavour of the LUCKNOW Society,
which is a non profit organisation dedicated to the cause of promoting & conserving the
Culture, Tehzeeb & Heritage of Shaher-e Lucknow. The festival is being started at the
capital of Uttar Pradesh to promote the literary genius of Uttar Pradesh & Lucknow in
particular ! It is an effort to bring forth the lutf of languages – Hindi, Urdu, Awadhi&
English on a common platform. The event plays host to documentary screenings, book
launches, talks and workshops. The event further boosts the magnetic pull of the city’s
richarchitecturalheritagethroughphotoexhibition.
Date:1stFeb&2nd Feb,2014(Saturday &Sunday)
Venue:ScientificConventionCenter,KingGeorge MedicalUniversityChowk, Lucknow,
UttarPradesh, INDIA-226003
ApeejayKolkataLiteraryFestival2014
The first major literary initiative of the year -Apeejay Kolkata Literary Festival 2014 presents its fifth
edition from 8-13 January 2014, with signature events celebrating literature, arts and ideas at the
magnificentheritagesitesofCalcutta,andtheiconicOxford Bookstore.
This annual international literary festival brings together a plethora of prize winning authors, debut
writers, award winning filmmakers, literary prize winners, politicians, journalists, poets,
photographersandartistsinwhatistermedasawinterofrichdebate,entertainmentandinspiration.
Date:Tuesday,January 8,2013-09:00toSunday,January 13,2013-21:00
77 Estrade Literary Magazine

83. Estrade
Ahmedabad
AhmedabadAhmedabad
29th December, Sunday 23rd Febuary, Sunday
26th January, Sunday
‘Fiction’ ‘Fantasy/Sci-Fi’ ‘Classics’
78Estrade Literary Magazine

84. Published by :