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at the property’s eastern edge. She was carrying the laundry and asked me where my towel was. When I asked her what for, she said, “O nothing. I thought you love splashing in the shallows, and killing imaginary enemies with your imaginary swords while I wash the clothes. I will even beat the dhotis on that big stone and make the water drops fly up in an arc and then come down like rain. And because the sun is shining you will be able to see even a bit of rainbow. I can even pick yellow mandaram flowers for you from the high grove if you like.” I was stunned. How could she possibly have known what had gone on between me and her mother before she was even born? I looked at her hold-back-a-tear-drop eyes. I was no believer in re-incarnation. But now I was not so sure. Two weeks later when I returned to Bangalore, I brought Seetha along. I owed that much to my Smithu. 85

WAITING Dr. Meera Sukumaran The day was dawning, the skies had lightened. The sea wall stretched for miles, a line of gray rocks piled high, broken here and there by steps that lead from the road to the tawny sands below. The stones get unbearably hot in the midday sun, but cool as the day dies away. The Dog curled up in that nook between stair and wall. The wall had lost its pleasant warmth and the sea breeze blowing in with the tide, made him shiver. He stood up, stretched a bit and then turned round and round trying to get comfortable again, when he smelt it. His ears twitched, but he crouched low, shrinking back into the shadows. Footsteps came near, and then he saw the Man, a dark, heavy figure, with a glowing stub between his fingers. An acrid smell, the Dog sneezed. The Man looked down, and smiled. “Well, I was going to quit anyway,” he said and ground the glowing end into the sand. The Dog did not move. The Man sat close to the Dog for a while and then stood up, shook off the sand and walked away, back up those steps. The Man didn’t show up the next day, nor the next, and the next. The Dog missed him, his warm smile, the gravelly voice, the smell of smoke from the glowing stub. Where was he? Then one day, the Man appeared out of nowhere. Again the next day, and the next. They became familiar strangers and would often sit in companionable silence. One day the Man began to talk. He spoke of his work, a woman, a child. The Dog was a good listener. Just as suddenly as they began, the visits stopped abruptly. The Dog felt a vague unease, he was a dog and dogs don’t have names for such feelings. 86

Early one morning, as the bluish-grey cloud crumbs littering the sky were beginning to disappear, the Dog smelt it, that familiar smell, smoky and sweet. Cigarettes and Old Spice, the Man could have told him, but the Dog would not have cared. His joy knew no bounds. He broke their unsaid rule and went up to the Man. The Man put out his hand and scratched behind his ear, and the Dog shuddered in pleasure. His hind leg beat an excited tempo on the sand. The Man sat down. The Dog heard the tinkling of tiny silver bells. The Man tossed them gently from one palm to the other and began to talk. This time he spoke of water and of rivers and the ocean. “I heard her call, I told her to wait and not go in alone. The sun was warm, and I did not mean to fall asleep. A couple of cans of beer, however, did the damage and when I opened my eyes she was gone. There was no sign of her anywhere, but I found her anklet on the river bank. The clasp on this one always used to come undone. Rivers always empty into the ocean, don't they? She must be out here, somewhere, waiting.” They both heard it. The Dog’s ears pricked up. The Man started to run, not up the steps as usual but towards the sea. The Dog followed. The Man did not stop at the water’s edge but ran on towards the beckoning waves. The sun came up slowly over the water dyeing the sky and the sea, an orange red. Then suddenly the Man’s hand appeared above the water, his fingers held high and spread wide. A greeting or a good bye or both? The Dog sat down on the wet sand to wait and a child’s rapturous laugh floated in softly over the sound of the waves. Dr. Meera Sukumaran is a native of Kerala. She graduated from Trivandrum Medical College and then immigrated to USA in the early 1990s. She trained in Pediatrics at the Universally of Illinois, Chicago and then went to Harvard to specialize in children with Neuro Developmental Disabilities. She now 87

works at Stanford and the Santa Clara Valley Medical Center as a pediatrician and specialist in children with disabilities. When not doctoring, Meera can be found cooking, cleaning, and pestering her children. When all that seems overwhelming, she lets off steam by writing. She lives in California with her long-suffering husband and her 2 children. 88

LIFE IN THREADS Dr. Soorya Menon I was in grade four when we first met. On a Monday, Ma’am announced we would be doing embroidery on Friday as part of our craft class. I was preparing for the class. He was clad in pristine white. Little did I know he could do anything I wanted him to. I wanted to embroider bluebells with green leaves. He gave me blue and then there was green. He was sweet enough to even get me brown so I could give context to my art, and I had a beautiful patch of earth where my bluebells grew. I had embroidered a handkerchief. His colours prettied its little corner. It would have been the proudest day for a nine-year-old. But as Luck would have it, she chose to evade me yet another time. I had embroidered all his colours through my steel grey pinafore. As I stood up to walk to show off my pretty bluebells to our teacher, I realised how the frame was woven to it. Embarrassed and ashamed, I tore the handkerchief and broke the pretty wooden frame that held it together. His colours fell into shards and so did my pinafore. But he never said anything. I don't know why he did not just let me know while I was at it, watching me, waiting for me to fail, and then stare at me like a victim as everything lay torn. My mind raced back to that sultry evening when I walked to the novelty store near my home. They had all kinds of knickknacks for artsy folks. I stood in awe, because even though I had been there multiple times with Ma to get stationery, it was only now that the myriad fabrics, embellishments, beads and buttons caught my eye. I looked up to where the store-manager pointed to choose an embroidery frame. Round frames of different sizes and colours hung along a line forming concentric patterns, one 89

inside the other neatly nested. Through them my eyes fell on the shelf behind. Rows and rows of fine threads stacked beautifully in gradient; the darks in the far left bleached to the lightest to the right. As I stared, the concentric circles and colours seemed to transform into some kind of hazy mosaic, much like a galaxy with stars strewn across. And right at the centre I saw a shining white light. I saw him emerge, walking towards me with arms outstretched. I took them without batting an eyelid as he led me into an unknown world, a world I longed to explore. It was a while until I heard Ma call out my name, “Are you sure you want all of those for your embroidery kit?” I exchanged glances with him and nodded. We walked home, Ma busy in her thoughts planning dinner later that night as I held my bag of goodies and walked hand-in-hand with him. So, yes, I was hooked. I was attached, I was crazy about embroidery. I was crazy about him. It did not matter if he played the victim, I wanted to outdo myself and put the embarrassing first attempt behind us. Days passed. I kept meeting him. I saw many more of his colours. He brought out the best in me. Florals, abstract, landscape, edges, tassels, what not. Life began to look like what I later realized was an artist’s studio on Etsy. I made lacy handkerchiefs for Ma, and he would help me make it in the prettiest white. He always understood my priorities. We also worked on frail edges of silk runners, the tough corners of cushion covers, in the heavy fall of breezy curtains, soft bed sheets. I particularly remember those tiny birds in yellow and black sitting on thin twigs with tender shoots that subtly offset the soft white bed sheets with a comforting texture. Pretty much like him, who made life a little less mundane, less routine. I kept all his colours safe—all his personalities safely tucked away in a Danish cookie tin. He loved the fact that it captured the essence of us—we are not what we seem. Six months later, it was my birthday. I turned ten — a milestone birthday. I was too busy helping Ma organise my birthday bash that I had completely forgotten about him. My best friend gifted 90

me a book of poetry. She looked at me and said, “There are more colours here”, she continued, pointing to the book, “than you would ever see anywhere else. Only if you could try and look.” I took her sarcasm to stem from jealousy because I was not spending as much time with her as I was, ever since I met him. Nonetheless, I started reading the book that very evening. It was not the first time I was reading poetry, but the poems in that book were different from anything I had read so far. The opening one was Billy Collins’s On Turning Ten. It took me a couple of reads, in fact, more than a couple, to get my head around it. I realised how far ahead of her age my friend had grown, deprived of her childhood too soon to have been carrying this poem with her much before I even read it until I turned ten. Does age really matter? In anything? Such a misnomer. The next poem was Life Doesn't Frighten Me by Maya Angelou. You get the drift. It was a customised collection for me. She had printed and hand-bound them only for my eyes. The world suddenly became so much vaster, one containing more than all the colours I had seen so far. It felt scary and liberating. He lay there shut in his box for years until my eyes fell on him on a Sunday evening while spring cleaning. It had collected dust. Dainty cobwebs had woven a lattice around it in the deep dark damp corner of the cupboard. The colours were faded, and there was the smell of cotton mixed with years of rust that was strangely intoxicating. But I did not let him into my life again. There was no going back from poetry. There was no going back to painful needle pricks, no going back to blood stains on my pretty dresses, and no going back to tearing apart my pinafores. He had become a trigger for this moment of pleasurable nostalgia that was best enjoyed at that moment, but never to be taken out of it. I knew what I had to do. The 150-year-old round wooden table from grandpa’s home adorned the corner of my foyer. I placed the box on the table; stacked my favourite poetry books near 91

it. And put a vase with long-stemmed flowers atop the tin and grammed it as my cosy corner. No, I did not write about him. I think days and months kept passing again until one fine day he was gone. Simply disappeared. His absence went through me, I suppose. I would not know, or does everything I do ... take the colour of his absence, like how he perhaps made me embroider this story? I wouldn’t know. Dr Soorya Menon is an edtech professional with a passion for writing, doodling and reading. She attempts writing poetry and publishes on instagram under the handle @thoughtverses. Her poems have received commendable mention at the Wingword Poetry Prize 2019 and were selected to be read at the Mathrubhumi International Festival of Letters, 2019. She has a PhD in English Language Education and has been an academic researcher and curriculum specialist with multiple edtech companies and NGOs in India. 92

THE GIRL IN THE TWILIGHT FROCK Joseph Abraham The slow desolate hymn was still reverberating in Aleena’s mind, a song in the voice of tears dropping onto the bottom of her soft heart. Aleena’s mother was a frequent visitor to Chennai where Aleena lived. Each time she returned home, Aleena would get her a bag full of parting gifts before seeing her off at the Chennai Central Railway Station. But this time when even the twilight came in the mourning clothes of the dusk, all she could offer her was a handful of the dear earth wet in tears. On that evening, not just her behaviour but her entire life was off the rails. Death smelled of the incense which was going up the air as smoke like its soul rising up to heaven. The melancholic evening breeze went unwillingly on its rounds quietly announcing the ascent of yet another soul skyward. Her eyes had retained the fading red in the sky in their corners now. On the seventh day, after the special mass in the morning, the small crowd dispersed with nobody talking or looking up. They said goodbye for the short journeys they were to be on in different directions. Some of the old held Aleena’s soft hands in their wrinkled palms, talked to her in affectionate whispers and hugged her ever so softly. Then with eyes moist with tears and lips sealed with sorrow, they too said good-bye to her. Only she and her dad were at the grave now. He was staring at the wavering meek flames of the candles on the grave, with a face which had lost its colour and a mind which had lost itself. A sense of guilt lay buried in his mind. 93

“Dad, shall we go?” Such a simple common word like go sounded like a stab now. He did not say anything or look up. So she held his hand and started walking away like they were her first steps in life. But it was he who was tottering and toddling. She placed his drooping right hand on her shoulder and held him closer with her left hand and walked out of the cemetery. At the gate, he raised his head, looked towards her as if to say something and then looked back for a last sight of an equally sorrowful grave. She too looked back. The candles going out one by one pained both of them. “It is OK dad, it is the wind. No point in lighting them again. They will go out again. Come, let’s go home.” Back at home, the desolate indoors and the thickening quietness made her more and more distressed. Her dad lay on his lonely bed staring at the fan like a compassionate mechanical angel over his head. His flowing lifeless eyes told her that his mind was wandering elsewhere. Bereft of her mom’s loud talk, precise retorts and resounding laughter, even the walls of her house went into mourning. The house was no more the home it used to be. Now that her mother left her, Aleena was less bound to this world than ever. When her dad would leave, she would have only one more wing left to fly about in this world, her own family, her husband and children. She had no siblings. A single wing means no wings at all. Aleena used to pride herself as the one and only child of her parents and enjoy introducing herself so, when she was very young. As she grew older, she found no one of her age to share her sorrows and happiness. Her mother happily obliged to be that one precious friend she needed most in life. They fought; they patched up, fought again and patched up again. 94

“O little one, why are you so sad. You still think of me? No need. I am fine here,” said Aleena's mother, touching her forehead as she lay half asleep with a heavy mind. Aleena opened her eyes without getting up. No one was there. But she was sure it was no dream and that her mother was very much there. The room smelled of her freshness. Her mother, averse to cosmetics, used to smear a little bit of Ponds’ Snow-white cream from a small white casket. For Aleena, her mother was always that mild endearing fragrance when she was out of hearing or out of sight. Aleena sat up on her bed and wiped her tears. She looked around. She browsed through the books and periodicals arranged neatly on the shelf. Each of them had works by her mother, poems, stories and anecdotes. Aleena browsed through a notebook with a blue binding. Her mother had scrawled all over it. They were all notes for poems and stories. Her mother used to say that inspiration came as sparks of lightning. Unless they were jotted down then and there, one would never recall them much as one tried. Some pages had short poems and some had brief notes like letters to somebody but none of them were signed or dated. She imagined them to be her unborn siblings which her mother carried in the wombs of her brain, rather in the wombs of her mind. She looked through them. “Didn’t you tell me once that you had seen me walking in a twilight frock? The next day in a shop, I saw a frock of that colour, the colour of the sky and the earth just after sunset and just before night invades them. I pressed the frock onto my body and looked in the mirror in that little shop. It really suited me. Am I not a bit too old for that now? No chance of wearing anything like that anymore. No point in yearning for such things. What will the public think if I went around in a frock now? Had I been with you in your place, I would have surely meandered in it. But will you ever invite me to your place?” Another page was just pure romance. 95

“As I stood barefoot on the wet sand at the beach, the ripples came tumbling over to deliver your cologne and cigarette smelling kisses surreptitiously on my ankles, giggling and telling me they were from you. The wind from your far off shore takes your sighs to me and keeps me updated on you.” The next three pages were totally illegible. Beyond them there were some of the most painful words Aleena had ever seen. “Pain pecks at my heart like a ravenous vulture. But, I can’t ever afford to sigh or sob. I am all ablaze within. All these days our hearts communicated in loud silence. It pains me more than all that to think how I unfairly kept you at bay all these years. When my heart was wilting and withering in the fiery storms which shook my heart, it was always a blissful relief that you were there to solace me with your kind unseen presence. I feel so guilty to have left you in the tenterhooks of my silence this long. Were there sweet memories for us to cherish and share? Our path of love never ran smooth. It was rather strewn with blood stained prickly thorns. Our feet were red and blue from the callous gravel we walked on. We never knew we were so close till it was time to part. It makes my whole body go numb to think of how you, the better part of me, are no more. You were an inland hot spring which warmed the cold desert in me and it has dried up. The candle flame has flickered and gone forever. This darkness is not darkness but desolation condensed by my sighs and it weighs heavily on me.” Aleena felt the jolt when the memoirs ended abruptly. More was left unsaid, she was sure. Somehow her sorrow now gave way to surprise. Were they notes for another story left unwritten or were they notes on a life unfulfilled, she wondered. Were there in her mom’s mind unsuspected embers buried in the grey ashes of routines and duties? 96

Aleena browsed the rest of the notebook only to find them empty and untouched. Perhaps there was no need for her mother to find solace in such words, hers or the other person’s. Probably, the soul unbound and freed of the vestige of clay would have been fluttering all around her like a butterfly thirsty for nectar. “O, my little one, what have you got on your mind, you are a pensive kitten!” Her mother was right there, emanating the soft smell of snow white cream. She was laughing loudly as she said that. A smile curved over Aleena’s lips and the heaviness in her heart drained out. It was twilight now. The twigs on the tall trees around her were busy waving bye to their life giving daylight to go for a long night’s sleep. Aleena walked towards her dad’s room and peeped in. He was sound asleep. She quietly stole into the courtyard. She looked at the twilight sky clad in red. She spotted two homing birds moving across the sky, a couple. And far above them, sitting high up in the clouds, swinging her legs as if she was on a gondola of silver clouds, she saw a girl in a twilight frock. Rowing the silver boat ever too slowly and smiling to himself was a man with his eyes fixed on the girl. Desperate to see who it was, Aleena kept her eyes on him. A wanton cloud sailed in from nowhere and hid him from her. The girl on the silver boat, however, looked down at her. She had a mischievous smile which was slowly spreading from her lips onto her eyes. From the brink of her yellowish pink cloud, she broke a tiny bit, and dropped it. Aleena closed her eyes in a blissful trance and stretched her cupped hands skyward. When she opened her eyes the cloud had vanished but the birds were far away but still in sight. And in her cupped hands was a feather, yellowish pink in colour. A gust of the evening wind from the horizon quietly passed by, gently caressing her long and wavy hair and left a refreshing fragrance of her mother all around her. Translation: Sreekumar K. 97

Joseph Abraham, is a corporate lawyer, whose writings are widely published in journals from South India. He is a native of of Sulthan Bathery in Kerala. Currently he lives in Maryland, U.S.A.   98

A MORLEYAN INSPIRATION Rose George Honestly, I did not know such a person. Had I taken English literature for my degree, I would have at least learned something about him. Alas! When the Sister insisted that every student studying in that Women's College has to wear a sari, it was my father who told me that learning literature wearing such shackles would not go well and that the fresh air of freedom is essential for pursuing literature. My father added that what I need would come to me if I lived without choking myself in confinement. It looked like it had come true. It was only yesterday that I met him in person. Wandering lonely as a crowd is one of my recently acquired habits. I see people, I hear voices. Some I forget, but some, those that I find useful, I keep in my mind. This was how it went yesterday. I was out roaming. Whom do I run into but the one and only Christopher Morley? Please, please wait. You can ask me who that is later. Let me finish how I handled the situation. “What brings you here?” He frowned at me. “Nothing. I was just...” “None of your tricks. You were there last week too, right?” “Yes, I was, brother.” 99

“And...” “I just roamed around there. Read a few stories and poems I found.” The smell of coffee freshly ground, or rich plum pudding, holly crowned, or onions fried and deeply browned. He began cracking his knuckles. “Aha, Orotha, you are good.” He sang the rest. In his shaky voice. The fragrance of a fumy pipe. The smell of apples, newly ripe, and… Now you continue…\" I raked my memory. \"And Printer's ink on the leaden type.\" In such a suspicious situation, my only hope was that his words might save me. I looked hopefully at him. He was born in Pennsylvania by the end of the nineteenth century, studied at Oxford, took up journalism and became famous as a novelist and in the New York Roseline Cemetery… I repeated a traditional chant the elders had taught me. May the souls of the faithful Departed through the Mercy of God 100

Rest in peace Being a poet, he had easy access to my thoughts. \"What were you mumbling?\" \"I was praying.\" \"Funny.\" We sat on one of the park benches. I was not from that place and did not know the names of the lakes, trees or flowers around us. I did not know the names of the skyscrapers or the flyovers. But I knew the Roseline Cemetery, the massive Cathedral beside it and the tall crucifix nearby. I could see all that from where I was sitting but they did not grab my attention. Nothing mattered more than this wonderful charismatic person I had come across. We sat there till daybreak. \"Orotha\" \"Yes, Brother Morley.\" \"You said you read most of what I had written.\" \"Yes, I did. I even took a screenshot of the poem Milk Man.\" \"Really!\" He moved closer to me. \"Orotha\" \"Yes?\" \"Is your hair curly?\" 101

\"No, I have set it using Aloe Vera gel.\" \"Really? You are a smart girl. I was about to tell you...\" He began in a tremulous voice. \"It was in 1951 that my heart started acting up. Then I realized that this imaginative existence is not worth it. I realized that I should write down something for the others.\" \"Yes, I have heard that.\" \"After I died, it was there in several newspapers.\" \"I read it. I read it out to my kids too.\" \"Could you please repeat some?\" \"Read every day something no one else is reading.\" \"OK.\" \"Think every day something no one else is thinking\" \"And..? Let it come...\" \"Do every day something no one else would be silly enough to do” He coughed. I wanted to ask him whether he needed a mouth freshener. But I did not. I did not want to interrupt the flow. He rubbed his hands together to warm them and pressed them onto his neck. He resumed. \"It is bad for the mind to continually be part of unanimity.\" 102

I nodded in agreement. \"Orotha, did you get what I was saying?\" \"Why are you asking?\" \"I am not a couch potato. Even if I am not well-read or a thinker, what I have to do will be left there for me to do. No time for any new thoughts there.\" \"That is not what I meant.\" \"Then?\" \"When something has come looking for you, don’t say no.\" \"Me?\" I got up. \"Be of help to people.\" I lost my patience. \"Just shoot. What did I do?\" He held my hand and made me sit down again. \"Did Susanna from 8 B call you today?\" \"Yes, she did. She asked me whether I know someone who could stitch a shirt for her eight-month-old baby. For this Onam.\" \"What did you say?\" \"I told her the truth. I told her I don’t know. \" \"What? Is it like you do not know whether you know or you do not even know whether you know you know or do not know.\" I repressed my laughter. \"Orotha, I was not trying to irritate you. Do you remember? 103

You saw her even last week at the balcony raising her baby to show him to his father.\" \"Yes, I saw it. I felt so sad.\" \"Who do you think he is? Interventional pulmonologist. He is good at removing small things that get into the lungs of children and also adults.\" \"Yes, I know he is good at it. He has saved many lives. But such an unassuming fellow, he is.\" \"He does not go home because he has to work in the hospital every day.\" \"True.\" \"Then, it is your turn now.\" \"What? No, I cannot do that. I want to do that. But I do not know how to do that.\" \"Do you know how to stitch two pieces of cloth together?\" \"Yes, that I can, but...\" \"Do you want to?\" \"Yes, I want to.\" \"Then you should begin to.\" \"Wait, do you know how many lives are saved by doctors who sew up hearts and lungs? Just fill that boy’s days with happiness.\" \"Yes...\" \"Let him sit on his dad’s lap in his new shirt this Onam.\" \"Let your unawareness be overcome by the vigilance of your mind.\" Before Christopher Morley vanished as the little wisp of smoke 104

from a blown-out candle, I reached my place. I grabbed my husband’s shirt and looked at it as if seeing it for the first time. Collar Sleeves Buttons Pocket My awe was quickened by the words left behind by an old man who had voyaged to another shore. My mind was embalmed by love and compassion. On cue, my sewing machine took it up without the usual demur. When I finished doing what I had never done before and that too successfully, my mind recalled the chance meeting I had with such a great soul during one of my wild ramblings in alien lands. His voice still reverberated in the recesses of my mind. \"Orotha,\" \"Yes...\" \"We all are for all, meant for all, built for all. That is how it is here. And I am sure that is how it is there too. Let it show.\" I said, Amen P.S. Some stories are not just told, they are woven and stitched together. Honestly, I did not know such a person. Translation: Sreekumar K. Rose George has an avid interest in the issues concerning humanity and environment. She records everyday life in the simplest manner so as to help people see through clutter. Humorous in speech and writing, she describes herself in two phrases: one who got into the wrong bus, and one who found an extra supply of oxygen in writing. She has lived and worked in the Middle East for a decade. Presently she lives in Kochi, Kerala. 105

  THE GOLDEN FLOWER Sulochana Ram Mohan I was immersed in the file before me. A complicated appeal, I could not find any easy solution to settle the dispute between the neighbours claiming the land in between was owned by each. I was becoming worried, it had been a week of reading, taking notes, preparing an answer, but I was not at all satisfied with my work. I needed to make a fresh draft before taking it to my senior officer. So I concentrated, seeking any loopholes I might have passed over. A strong breeze blew in, the glass windows lining the long verandah blew shut one by one, the old hinges groaning as the panes clinked and clanked. Papers flew out from many of the tables, the peon, Gopal, was called for, a commotion grew as to which paper came from which table, the owners grabbing at whatever came their way. The breeze went out subtly, the windows again flew open, one after the other, calm settled over those working in the mid-morning heat. Suddenly a strange fragrance wafted into my nose, a sharp smell, intriguing, invigorating the senses. I looked up in a daze, and there stood before me a young woman, about twenty five years old, dark skinned, slender and lithe. She smiled, a sweet dimple appeared on her left cheek and two front teeth, pointed and a little slanted, became visible. She had long black hair, thickly braided as Tamil women loved to do, and adorned with strings of jasmine. So the source of the fragrance could be this, I thought, relieved in some mysterious way, but surely jasmine did not have so sharp a smell? The peon hurried over to me, “Sir, this is the new appointment, your typist, just reached here from Tamilnadu.” 106

He seemed to be in a hurry to find excuses for her being late on the very first day. She handed over her appointment order and I noted the name, Parimalam. Suits her, I thought, fragrance in name and in nature too. Maybe she would be a good asset to the short staffed office of ours. l gave her a smile of welcome, then asked one of the female staff to get her a seat with a computer in working order, and to give her some idea of the work involved. I then returned to the review of the file. Now I could just scribble down my notes, tomorrow it could be typed out neatly, before being presented to the boss. But the fragrance continued to haunt me, with the strange sharpness that our native jasmine never exuded. Soon Parimalam got used to our rather slow and staid routine. Her English was not of Oxford standard of course, having done her schooling in some obscure village in the outskirts of Tamilnadu, but she was efficient and sensible. Soon she learnt that spellings and meanings could be checked and corrected on the computer itself, and so the letters and notes I dictated were printed out with comparatively few errors. In fact I had more time on my hands because writing down notes and then correcting mistakes and rewriting could be done away with. Effectively dealing with the problematic case, I regained a sense of accomplishment and felt more confident. The only disturbing element was that fragrance I could not exactly identify. Every day the well-oiled thick hair was neatly tied and adorned with garlands of fresh jasmine flowers. The Tamil culture was strictly followed. When she sat beside me taking down dictation, the fragrance seemed to penetrate my senses in a very peculiar way. It is not ordinary jasmine, my sense of smell tried to tell me, over and over, confusing me so that my words faltered many a time. Then Parimalam would look up and smile slightly. The crooked, pointed teeth flashed for a second, giving her countenance a different look, cruel, calculating, devilish? 107

I would deny it all as my fantasies. I had asked for a transfer to this remote area after a prolonged divorce procedure and had kept myself to myself, not wanting to talk about it. Sort of like a hurt puppy licking its wounds and waiting for it to heal, I led a rather lonely life, the office acquaintances being the only exposure to social life. Slowly, I was getting over my sore experiences. But Parimalam, her physical proximity as well as that intoxicating perfume, was arousing sensations long dead. And that enigmatic smile, what exactly did it mean? Was she able, with that innate feminine intuition women had, to discern the changes within me? I took up her bio-data to find out more details, to suppress my wayward yearnings with some useful data. As I had thought she was born in a small village on the Kerala-Tamilnadu border, studied in a local school. She had passed out of the twelfth with a first class. But instead of joining a good college, she did her Bachelor's privately. I was surprised to see that she had chosen Psychology as her main subject. It must have been hard, learning all those long terms in psychology, with not much grasp of English. Surely she could have chosen an easier subject, may be even one that would get her a teaching job easily? Her choices were really rather strange. Reading more, I came to a sudden stop. Unexpected details cropped up. Parimalam had been married. Maybe she chose to study privately after marriage. Her husband had passed away after one year of marriage. Right from that time she had been trying to get a job as his legal heir, in the dying-in- harness scheme. Maybe because her qualifications were not up to the mark, the applications were rejected time and again. But she had persevered, taken computer courses, and learnt stenographic skills. Even so she had been given a low grade job in this remote place, far away from her native state. Here, shortage of staff was always a problem, because all those who 108

came found ways and means to go to better areas, in towns or cities with more amenities, more social life. All these personal details of Parimalam were disturbing me more and more. The fact that we were both single now, with tragic marital histories, the fact that she knew something of psychology, the fact that she was far away from friends and relatives... did she have any plans or dreams regarding a well settled future? Added to it all was that fragrance I could not put my finger on... was she using it on purpose to attract men to her? The way she would bend her head when standing by my side to look into the file on my table, the thick braid falling over and the jasmine garlands tickling my nose... Days passed. Parimalam settled down in the unfamiliar place with no complaints, got on well with the other staff. From my cabin, I could see them talking, laughing, in easy camaraderie. Sometimes faint strains of melodies seeped in. Tamil songs, from old films, Parimalam seemed to know many of them and from what I saw, others were encouraging her to sing more. But even that aspect had a negative impact on me. Parimalam, the pointed teeth, unknown fragrance, knowing look, inviting songs... added together, the picture of a yakshi was forming in my mind. A revengeful female from the other world who could make love ecstatically and then drain the blood of the lover with those Dracula like teeth. I tried to laugh it all away as my weird imagination, deprivation of sex, lack of social interaction. But the disturbance remained. One evening I took up a neighbour’s invitation to have dinner at his house, thinking, all I need is to lessen my solitary meanderings. He opened a bottle of rich whisky and along with the mutton fry his wife had prepared, we had a binge. It was a long time since I had taken a sip, so I was soon in a relaxed, beatific state. All the fantasies and faint irritations seemed to disappear. All was well with my world. 109

Walking back, I looked up at the full moon, thanking the moonlight for guiding me on the ill-lit path. Suddenly I was overpowered by that strange smell. As if Parimalam was beside me, the long thick braid and fragrant flowers bewitching me. I stood still and looked around. The lonely path, the shadows moving noiselessly, the low murmur of leaves in the slight breeze… It was an eerie world, moon lit and deserted. But I saw something that solved part of the puzzle. A golden Champak tree stood by the wayside, a few flowers had dropped down. Taking one in my hand, I breathed in the exotic scent. Yes, the same fragrance from Parimalam's black braid. I remembered seeing in Tamil films how the women, not being able to bathe twice because of scarcity of water, would oil their hair in the evenings, comb thoroughly and plait it putting fragrant flowers inside, so that the smell of sweat within thick hair would be overpowered. Some women would have their mothers or sisters burn perfumed or medicinal herbs in a small pan and use the vapours to cleanse the insides of thick burdensome hair. Another integral feature of the Tamil culture. When husbands returned home, tired and weary, they would be welcomed with the sweet smell of strange flowers. So this must be Parimalam's secret, I thought. Golden Champak flowers hidden inside her braid, covered up with those jasmine garlands. I was relieved I could find a logical explanation for my weird imaginings. I was late getting to office next morning. After the night out, I felt fatigued. Not able to concentrate on work, I decided not to dictate notes. To keep Parimalam occupied, I asked her to sort out the files, arrange it all in alphabetical order, and see if any were incomplete, needing reminders or additional data. Trying to relax, I sat in my cabin pretending to be immersed in work. Soon I was feeling sleepy. I walked to the canteen downstairs and ordered a hot tea. Raman Pillai, who held the same position as me in another department, came to sit beside me. Soon we got talking about the new appointment, Parimalam. Raman Pillai, 110

a native of the place with a much greater grape vine network, had more information regarding the single woman, with an enigmatic and aloof air about her, who had arrived in our midst. I sat open mouthed as I listened to the details flashing about. It seemed there was something peculiar in her horoscope, so none from her village were ready to marry her even though she was better educated than most young women there and attractive too, with that ultra-feminine aura and mysterious smile. But a well-placed Government official who happened to see her in town, came up with a proposal. He did not even demand a dowry. He was quite well off, parents having a lot of landed property, sisters married off into good families, himself with enough degrees, reasonable salary, own house. The marriage was one the villagers celebrated with enthusiasm. But Parimalam's horoscope proved true. Just after the first wedding anniversary, the groom was found dead on a lonely street, with no diagnosed reason for a cardiac arrest. He was not obese, not a smoker or alcohol addicted, no family history of heart problems or diabetes or hypertension even. And not yet thirty years old. Everyone was shocked, especially his family, and naturally the bride's horoscope became the reason for the tragedy. Parimalam had to go back to her native place, seemingly an outcast. No wonder she fought for a good placement, I thought, nobody would want to marry her, a second marriage at that. Raman Pillai, maybe following the way of the gossip mongers, tended to believe in the horoscope myth, but they all seemed to link the negatives in the horoscope to wrongs in the person. As if only bad people could have bad horoscopes. I could not see any logic in that. Nothing pointed to any fault on Parimalam's part, except that for a female she was rather intelligent and educated. Also, she might have more self-confidence than girls with her background and history. Maybe that too was seen as a negativity in women. 111

But I dared not enter into any argument about such matters, knowing very well that any comment from me would be taken as undue interest of a separated male for a single woman. And the grapevines would have a day if it were to get about. Going back to my cabin, fortified by the tea and talk, I did get some work done. Feeling tired again, I debated going home and taking rest after lunch. But it seemed a weakness somehow, not being able to suppress vague misgivings and the unwanted interest I felt in Parimalam's life story. I could see her outside my room, talking and giggling with the others who were moving off to have lunch in the dining room. The long black plait and the drooping jasmine garlands seemed to mock my fascination as it all disappeared around the corner, swaying and sashaying in that tantalizing way. I got up and wandered on to the verandah. The row of glass windows stared blankly at me, closed and withdrawn. No breeze to bang them open, no perfume to waft in and cause havoc. I sat down on an armchair and laid my head back. Relax for a time, I told myself, let them come back after lunch. I woke up with a start when the breeze blew in just as on that day of Parimalam's arrival, the windows opening one by one, then banging shut in reverse order. Opening my eyes, I was bewildered to see that it was getting dark. The whole office was silent, empty, in darkness. A faint twilight was the only relief. Obviously I had slept off the afternoon, the staff had left, maybe laughing at the boss lying snoring and dreaming on the dilapidated arm chair. Feeling foolish and infantile, I got up and stretched. Suddenly the strange perfume filled my nose again. Was Parimalam lurking nearby, trying to get me alone to practise her feminine overtures on? I looked around in perplexity, but the darkness was spreading, I could not see too far, the silence seemed to confirm my aloneness. I walked towards the window, to look out and call the watchman by the gate. The perfume seemed 112

to grow stronger, immersing me in its spreading aura. Then I saw it, two golden flowers on the window sill. Yes, Champak flowers, still adhering to a hair clip. As if pulled out of the black braid in a hurry, to be left beside me. Parimalam would never give up, I felt. I opened the window to throw the flowers into the cluster of trees outside. It was then that I got the second shock of the day. Two silhouettes by the gate. As the dusk had begun to darken, it was difficult to identify the figures. But I felt I could see the white of the strings of jasmine, another white beside, maybe the white of a man's dhoti? But where was the watchman? Why didn't he approach them and send them off the office premises? As if a curtain was drawn down after a performance, the little twilight left was shut off and a dense darkness descended. I stood there, unable to move, to think even. The smell from the flowers still held in my palm was overwhelming. The silence was even more overpowering. I wondered whether the watchman had locked and gone, not knowing one person was still in the building. Maybe I would have to stay here like this till morning when someone came to open the office. If I survived the night, that is. As suddenly as they had gone off, the lights came back. Now, more bulbs were on, one by the gate, another in the yard, and aha, one near the door to my office. Who had put it on now? Was it Parimalam back from her rendezvous by the gate? \"Sir, Sir, are you there?\" I heard the watchman shouting rather anxiously, as if he had been searching everywhere for the missing officer. Maybe he had. Maybe that was why I had not seen him near the gate earlier. When I shouted an answer he was greatly relieved. Saying something about power cuts and the electricity department’s negligence, he guided me out, accompanied me to the gate and saw me off safely. Worn out with all the strange and unusual 113

happenings of the day, I had a hurried bath, heated some soup for dinner and went off to bed determined not to think and worry. The next day was chaotic. As soon as I reached the office, two policemen came to see me, then question the staff. Parimalam was missing. She had not reached the house, where she was staying as a paying guest, the previous night. Many had seen her leave the premises just after five, as she did regularly. No one had come to see her or accompany her home. She had walked, confidently and with her usual speed, to the main street, waited for a bus or auto whatever came first, and then phew, just like that, vanished into thin air. I was again in a dilemma. Should I tell the police that she had been lurking by the gate after all others had left? That there had been someone, most probably a man, with her? But then there would be more questions from them, why I had waited alone in my office after work hours, why I had not gone down to confront those strange people loitering on office premises when all the staff had gone home, why I had not talked to the watchman about it, so on and on. Till in the end I would be a convenient culprit. Not a native, few friends, no relatives to help. A loner. A man alone. On the prowl. So I kept quiet. After all no one could know I had looked out of the window and seen two figures outlined in the twilight. So why ask for trouble? The police kept coming, interrogating everyone, looking for some pointer or other, but there was nothing to find. Parimalam's disappearance remained a mystery. At the behest of my staff, I joined them to visit the place where Parimalam had stayed. A young couple greeted us and showed us her room, which the police had examined thoroughly. They were as confused as we were, Parimalam had no visitors, very few phone calls, nothing secretive or out of the way. She adhered to her routine of office, home, cooking, cleaning, so strictly that the slightest change would have been noticeable. All of us were quite satisfied that nothing untoward had happened in that 114

house. A very normal home, ordinary middleclass people, there could be no hidden agenda there. As we were leaving, I had a sudden impulse to clear a persisting doubt. Turning back and striding to their side, as they stood watching us departing, I asked them where the golden Champak tree stood. They looked at me as if I were talking nonsense, not at all what a senior officer should be asking at such a time. They did not know of any Champak tree in that vicinity. The young man said, rather impatiently, \"Sir, no one plants Champak trees in their home garden. For two reasons. One is that the heady perfume attracts snakes and other reptiles. Whenever the tree flowers, reptiles are seen near it, sometimes they crawl inside too. Another reason is a prevalent myth. If a Champak tree grows taller than the house, the house will have to be pulled down. So people cut off the tree when it reaches a certain height.\" I mumbled something in reply and left in a hurry. All night it kept puzzling me. Where did Parimalam get golden Champak flowers from, every day? Or was it something else that perfumed her braid so sharply? But then what about those two flowers and hair clip I had seen? Had she left it deliberately before disappearing like that? A clue that only I could unravel? But what was I to her? We had never even talked about anything personal. Two days later, talks and presumptions having lessened somewhat I could do some work in peace. But it was difficult, writing down my notes, I had grown used to the easy way of dictating and then correcting the typed out version. I had to stay late to get it done to my satisfaction. Like the other day, dusk had fallen when I reached the gate. But the watchman was present, lights were switched on, no haunting fragrance came after me. I asked the watchman, idly, not expecting any clue or pointer, \"Vasu, is there a golden Champak tree in our yard?\" 115

The reply came promptly, \"Yes Sir, a huge one in the backyard. Surely you must have smelt it? It flowers at this time of the year, at night the backyard is flooded with perfume, as the buds open one by one.\" I was taken aback. I had never smelt it before Parimalam came to the office. Surely it must have begun to flower before that? Again, an impulse overpowered me. I wanted to see the tree, right then. Vasu tried to dissuade me saying it was too dark, slithery things would be about, the backyard was full of rubbish, etc. But I would not go away and wait for daylight. In the end, armed with a giant torch and stout stick, he came with me. The back of the office building was not as well lit as the front. One or two dim bulbs shone a few feet apart, casting more shadows than light. The gate opening into the back yard creaked menacingly as Vasu used some force on it. I peered in. It was, as Vasu had said, cluttered with rubbish, weeds, dry leaves. But several tall trees could be seen, standing sentinel to the sleeping building. Vasu pointed out the Champak tree and ignoring his protests I walked to stand beneath it. Sure, the fragrance was sharpest here. The opening buds could not be seen, screened by clusters of leaves. But as I stayed looking up, I caught sight of the long row of glass windows lining the verandah beside my office room. Another mystery was solved. It was here that I had seen Parimalam with a stranger. Not by the front gate with the watchman's shed beside it. Here, in this dark and isolated backyard. My office room had verandahs on both sides. One that you walked into on climbing the stairs up to the second floor, another one on the opposite side. People seldom went out to the back verandah, maybe because there was no view from there, just this overgrown dirty yard, but I had, in drowsy confusion, entered that unused area. No wonder the staff had not seen me when they left. They must have assumed I had left at noon itself since I was not seen in my cabin. But Parimalam, 116

with her sixth sense had known, had left those flowers there. And Vasu had come to find me too, maybe he had spoken to Parimalam before she disappeared? No, I would not open up that dangerous avenue of investigation. That might lead anywhere. Let the police examine these grounds and find leads. Let them find her also. The Dracula like smile flashed before my eyes, like an unexpected bolt of lightning. I turned back. In equal trepidation Vasu closed the gate and pushed the bolts to. Both of us hurried to the well-lit front yard. As if demons were hunting us down. By the front gate, I paused to thank Vasu and get my car keys out. I felt something scratching me behind my ears. Searching with my free hand, I looked at the irritating thing. A golden Champak flower, just opened, just beginning to waft fragrance lay innocently in my palm. A streak of blood flowed down my neck. Sulochana Ram Mohan is a bilingual writer. There are already six volumes of fiction to her credit in her mother tongue. A film buff, she is also a film critic for the print/ visual media. As a member of the Poetry Chain, Trivandrum Chapter, participated in the Mathrubhumi Lit Fest., reading poems in English. Loves doing translations. Has done a few for Samyukta, an academic journal based on Women's Studies. She lives in Trivandrum, Kerala.   117

FARMLANDS IN THE SKY Mini K. Antony Chottu had nurtured this question in his mind for days. He knew his mother would scold him if he asked her. She had told him many times not to disturb her when she was busy. Much as he thought, Chottu could not find another person to help him clear his doubt. Looking up at the sky and watching the bundles of cotton as they moved across it, he waited for his mother to be less busy. The Village Office nearby had much business that day and a reasonably big part of it spilled over to Athira's rather tiny photostat shop. She was able to enhance her small income by helping people fill up application forms and giving them reliable guidelines to whatever they wanted to do at the Village Office. Chottu found the break he was waiting for and moved over to his mother and wound her shawl around his left arm. This was always his way of catching her attention. She got the hint and asked him, \"OK, what is it this time?\" Chottu felt a little embarrassed. Everyone knew that he liked toying with the questions in his mind more than playing with the toys in his hand. \"Don't you think it's a good idea to build a home in the sky?\" \"Sure,\" said Athira, though she sounded non-committal. \"How will that sir in the village office go up the sky?\" 118

\"What!\" She went blank. \"Yes, that grandpa who was here yesterday was inviting him to go survey the sky he has bought.\" The whole thing became clear to her in an instant. She laughed out loud and Chottu looked around. No one was there to join her in her laughter. As long as it was just his mother laughing at him, it was OK. \"Chottu, you can't survey the sky. No one can. That grandpa was joking. The sky is where gods reside. They won't let anyone go anywhere near their home.\" \"Alive”, she added as an afterthought. \"Was he joking or lying? He told me he was planning to share with me a little bit of his land up in the sky.\" As he uttered the two words ‘sky’ and ‘land’ together, it sort of became clear to him how foolish he was. He wanted to laugh but it did hurt to let go of a dream. Athira too felt a tinge of pain as mothers often do when their young ones get hurt. \"He was joking,\" Athira tried to sound convincing. \"Now, why don’t you go and play? I have some work to finish.\" As Chottu skipped out of the sultry air in that room, the image of a lonely old man rushed into Athira’s mind. Chottu had seen Joseph only the previous day. He knew nothing about him. She usually left Chottu at home with her mother. For two days her mother had not been feeling well aAthira had had to bring him with her to the shop. Athira looked at Chottu playing outside. Apart from him, her mother was her only relative. 119

More memories rushed in. She patted her left leg as if to reassure it that it had no hand in her sorrows. Long back when a young man, looking into her big eyes and running his fingers through her curly hair, proposed to her, she looked the other way and pointed out to him her weak left leg. “Your mind is strong and beautiful. Nothing else matters,” he had said. Six months after having gifted her with Chottu, he had to go away. No idea where he had disappeared. She still waited for him and took her supper late at night. Just in case. Two days ago when she found the funny old man engaged in an interesting conversation with Chottu, she felt very happy. His own grandpa had not waited to see his only grandson. Watching Joseph, the funny old man, chat away with Chottu, Athira felt very happy. Joseph was always dressed to the hilt, well-ironed shirt, clean dhoti, freshly trimmed beard and a neat stylish haircut. He had the look of an intellectual about him. Maybe he was. Nobody could get a clear idea about him when they saw him for the first time. Only those who had dealt with him several times would know that he had lost his mind long back. He had had the biggest jewellery business in the city and had invested heavily in real estate. The new economic policies took away all that. His sons had to struggle hard to bring him back to normal life. His sanity could not be restored completely. So, he went around as a harmless, funny old man. 120

He lived close to the Village Office and when his real estate business had been in full swing, they used to joke about it. They said he could not tell which was which. Even now he frequented the village office though he had no business to be there. Every day he would visit the village office to chat with his friends there and go out just before lunch time mumbling to himself how long he had been going from pillar to post to get just a certificate of possession of his property. Those who were not familiar with him would ask him for details. “O, nothing much,” he would tell them rather casually about his unresolved issues. “I have bought a few acres of land. These people won’t give me a certificate of possession. They say they have to officially go see it and survey it. It is right in front of their eyes. Why can’t they just look up and see it? I told them I am in a hurry to start a farm there.” Then he would lower his voice and whisper to them, “Real estate has fallen headlong, so I am learning new tricks.” At this point, the listeners would get the smell of money and ask him the exact location of his property. He would point at the sky without looking up at it and lower his tone further and reveal a great secret. “Farming is not the answer. I am prospecting for gold in the sky. I will start digging the moment I get my certificate of possession.” Realising the situation, the listener would slowly move away without taking their eyes off the old man. Chottu had stopped playing outside and was looking at her. She affectionately pulled him towards her and cradling his face 121

in her cupped hands looked straight into his eyes. She ran her fingers through his wavy hair with her left hand and said, “Don't you worry. We can ask him when he will be here tomorrow. There might be a way of reaching the sky alive, I am sure.” Holding Chottu close to her heart and looking away from his face, his mother continued as an afterthought, “I am sure.” Over his mother’s shoulder, Chottu too was looking up at the sky. Among the clouds floating there, his mind was searching for his next question. Translation: Sreekumar K. Mini K Antony is a passionate writer who contributes poems and short stories regularly to on-line literary groups and e-magazines. She is also a fashion designer running her own boutique at Thrissur, Kerala.   122

THE SHAPE OF EVERYTHING Praniti Gulyani After all these years, I decide to visit grandma’s country house. Her house is a cottage upon the seashore, a solitary dwelling away from the rest of the world. It was not easy getting here, especially without mother by my side. I lost my mother two months ago, and have attained a lopsided existence, my being partly thrust into the void of her absence. Grandma has portrayed absolute calmness after mother went away. She came to the funeral with glowing chestnut eyes, and a husky voice saying that mother has gone to attain her purpose. I remember screaming at her, pushing her away – and calling her an idiotic, ill-informed old lady. Today, I sit at her windowsill, answering her questions with short, laconic responses. Grandma is known for being a sorceress, a woman with her hands thrust into magic. I twisted my neck to look at the dusty clock. I had exactly twenty six hours more, before I could complete my formality, solemnly shake grandma’s gnarled hands, and take the train back home. Nevertheless, I venture out onto the seashore tonight. The sea is cold and angry. In the midst of its frosty womb, I notice the moon lingering, and as the clouds begin rumbling, the waves seem to be illuminated by a furious, white flame and then they toss the moon around, almost as though they were playing ball. Beneath the soles of my feet, the sand feels like a layer of plastered ice. I have never seen the beach this way, at least never when mother was around. A ripple of fear erupts in my heart, as the roars of the sky seem to come from a point deep within me. The sky is also illuminated with a strange, silvery 123

fire. Behind me, I suddenly hear the door of the cottage open, as grandmother steps out. Her eyes are almond shaped skies, sizzling with streaks of starlight, and her silvery-black hair pours down her shoulders, strangely identical to the sea-waves sprinkled with moonlight. She seems to have transformed into a mystical, celestial being, her veins pulsating with a new, glowing energy. I watch her intently as she comes to stand beside me, her lips pulled into a smile, as she observes my bewildered expression, which was a mixture of confusion and awe. “You look as though you have never seen a storm before!” she says, examining me with raised eyebrows. “Oh, grandma. I have seen many a storm. But, this storm is somewhat different. I can feel it somewhere here... in here,” I say, gesturing towards my heart. As grandma nods in approval, the silvery sparks of starlight in her eyes burn brighter. Truly, this storm was not like any other storm any mortal being could have beheld. The plump raindrops that dropped from the sky were fragrant with the scent of daffodils and cherry blossoms, and the foaming sea waves which reached out and touched my lips, tasted of crisp, salty snowdrops. I felt as though I was caught within a web of seasons, entangled within its many, sticky layers. “And, what if I tell you… grandma interrupted, her voice thick, heavy and obscure. “That the storm you see, is not just any other storm – it is a reflection of the storm within you. Actually, it is the storm inside you, gradually coming out of you, pasting itself on the canvas of the sky.” Her voice seemed to mingle with the roaring thunder, as I looked her at with surprised eyes. “This storm… my dear, is the soul of all seasons, the soul of all hurricanes, of all cyclones, the soul of summer, and the soul of spring, just about anything you can think of. Have you not noticed the times when the sky is a brilliant cobalt, when a subtle colour like blue almost seems blinding? Have you not noticed moments when a rainbow seems so soft – you almost feel as though you can extend a hand and touch it? Have you not noticed moments when the clouds are clad in costumes of crystal whiteness? This is because of its presence…” I stood 124

rooted to the spot, my eyes brimming with fear and wonder. “So, at this point, are we surrounded by a soul?” I ask, as grandma nods. “Yes, my child. We are. And, this soul is listening to every bit of what you are saying, every bit of what I am saying. It can hear the questions wedged into the pauses between your words, and believe me, it will answer them.” A soul… possibly a soul, like mother had become. Ever since mother had left for God’s abode, I had heard people praying for her soul to attain peace, to attain salvation. Is this the same kind of soul? Moments later, grandma tightened her grasp around my wrist, and pulled me against the palm tree. She pressed a finger on her lips, indicating that I should be absolutely quiet. With my back pressed against the bark of the palm tree, I focused all my attention on the storm before me. “It can hear the questions wedged into the pauses between your words and it will answer them.” Grandma’s words echoed within me, as I stood transfixed. The clouds clustered overhead, and the stars seemed to dart here and there, in a million different directions. The storm seemed to take the shape of a concrete seahorse, the lightning posing as a crest of silver light, and it bore a body of clouds. It had a long, slender tail which shifted to and fro, emitting rainbow coloured sparks that lingered in the sky like little fireworks and erupted into streaks of rainbow. It wore a cloak on its shoulders, a cloak that seemed to bleed cold rain, and anklets of multi-coloured stars, that did not produce a pleasant, tinkling sound but produced rumbling thunder instead. It had cold, grey eyes that resembled chips of ice, and when I leaned in to look closer, I realized that its eyes were actually portions of moon split into two. It spun around relentlessly, settling amidst spirals of silvery smoke. My thoughts go back to mother and I wonder if she has been transformed into a seahorse too – or possibly, a slender necked peacock, and I can almost imagine her with a string of stars --- no, not stars, stars were not worthy enough of my mother – a garland of planets would be more suitable. I was brought back to my present as the sea horse reached out and pulled the sky around its tail. It seemed as 125

though the sky was a bandage around his tail, as though it was a bandage around deep wounds. Yet again, my thoughts drifted into the pool of fragrances that lay in the valleys of my heart, fragrances of plums and puddings and honey, fragrances which served as proof of my mother’s existence. My mother would tie up my wounds just this way, lifting a bandage with deliberate drama to make me laugh. I clutched onto grandma’s hand with increased anxiety. “Is this… could this be Ma?’’ I asked, my voice barely a whisper. It all seemed so scarily similar, and this question almost automatically pushed its way up my being to finally land on my lips. It was so similar, it had such an uncanny identical nature. The way the sea horse pulled the sky over his tail just as though it was a bandage, the fragrances, and more than that, the warmth in my heart after all this while. Grandma smiled at me. “Yes, dear. Mother left you, she left me – so that she could become a soul, travel from season to season. Your mother is the blue in the sky, the pink in the twilight, the thunder in the storm. She is the soul of all seasons.” If mother had been by my side, I would have laughed at that thought. Who could have thought that of my sombre mother, who most often roamed the world in a beige tunic and work shoes, The seahorse stumbled through the skies, and stood on the sand before me. It extended its tail, and I stroked it, just as though I would have stroked mother’s hand. The colours rubbed off on my hand, and I inhaled the sweet and sour fragrances of a myriad seasons. The perfect shape of an autumn leaf, the accurate circumference of a raindrop, and the geometry of an evening star… my mother is the shape of everything. My mother is an omnipresent essence; she dwells in the colours and fragrances all around us. Possibly, our loved ones never leave us. They transform into an essence, an abstraction, and take on different shapes. I looked into the seahorse’s moon‑grey eyes, and smiled. “You never left me, Ma’’ I spoke softly, my voice echoing. “You never left me . . .” 126

Praniti Gulyani is a sixteen year old author from Delhi. Her book ‘Sixteen Drops of Ink’ was published by The Impish Lass Publishing House. She has also been published in numerous anthologies by TILPB. Praniti is an international haiku poet too, who has been awarded the second position in the International Mainichi Haiku Contest (Children’s Section) for three consecutive years. She is also serving as the youth editor with the International Organic Haiku Journal – Under the Basho, and aspires to become a full time author when she grows up. 127

RAINBOWS AND RED VELVET Amiya Hisham On February the fourteenth I found what fifteen-minute fame tasted like... a dry red velvet cupcake with cream that was disintegrating. I was driving back from the College of Engineering around five in the evening, just as the traffic began to blare. Against my natural tendency, I kept an eye out for a little bay on the wayside to park my Alto 800, so that I could cross the road to buy specifically that red velvet cake I had craved for so much for the previous night and spent a good fifteen minutes scrolling up and down on my UberEats app to find. The sky was unusually grey with some kind of migratory birds whirling around high up in the sky. I thought I saw a dutiful rainbow fading in too. But it was only my wishful thinking. The rainbow was only in the happy skies of my mind, now that I was thrillingly closer to my long- cherished finger-licking dream, softer to touch than my dreams about them- the cupcakes. I knew it was dead the minute I saw it in its unrefrigerated glass display case, as were all the Irish coffee cups and Rainbow cakes and other cute some-things. But I went ahead and bought two Red Velvet Cupcakes and two Irish coffee cups fully aware of the impending tragedy. I had already given the cupcake many meanings before I bought it and so I had to hold trial. What was the magic that made them so popular they were selling like hotcakes, pardon the pun. I had absolutely no clue about the Red Velvet until my (late) father gave me my first exposure to the luxury by pulling over in front of the hot spot on our return journey after my first day at the School of Architecture. Ever since I became an addict for which my mother believed only my father was to be blamed. I knew the woman who was the 128

entrepreneur behind the cakes and I admired her, having known her as one of my professors from architecture school, a rare cheerful person in this depressing over-connected world. I even nursed a harmless envy for that zest for life that shone pink on her olive skin, that celebratory mood and the fresh garland of little everyday victories around her neck as she seemed to sort of tumble and dance like a tuft of milkweed through life which for everyone else was sickly and diseased, patched and bloated like some brooding flea-bitten beast. Her life was the meadow, and ours like the sick sulking beasts on that meadow that moved this way and that, stubbornly, picking at what their snouts could plough on the ground where their feet was planted. She was as real as she appeared online - a dress-making, daughter-doting, husband-loving, cake-making, family-bound woman – the kind that catches on quickly, that cracks the algorithm and rakes in hearts and likes. But let us get back to the cupcake. It was not a tropical snack – it arrived in the rickety roadside of Sreekariyam through Pinterest and if it delivered, it was the looks. Of course, if she baked them they would have tasted far better I am sure. It would have been warm, fluffy and maybe even tasteful when consumed in the first fifteen minutes of its arrival, photogenic on a nice plate. Her smile and love and passion would have displaced any lack of taste and unknowingly we might have let praise slip through our lips before the second bite. It would all be over so quickly that there would be no discussion about the cupcakes or tropical snacks or Pinterest or anything. It would end in itself. Just like the rainbow which was not. The day I bought the cupcakes I was returning after a long engaging conversation about local histories with a writer‑professor at the College. He was kind enough to engage in the – no, he probably did not realise how time slunk away on the back of the evening sun rays just as I did not, as we talked about the old bungalows of Trivandrum, the tragic state of architectural conservation in the state, the funny incidents 129

where he borrowed original manuscripts without permission, how certain objects of great historical value and public neglect. He invited me home to go over the notes he had made over the years. He was there just like a grey sky which forgot to rain. The cupcake I had bitten into did not taste like anything – my tongue struggled to moisten the impersonal sponge texture‑although it did pick a hint of the red food colour. In a desperate attempt to make sure I stuck my tongue out and an old man staring at me turned his eyes away. It had started to drizzle. Love always took two to disappoint I thought. But that is rash – it could be a deceptive image, ‘bad timing’… those evasive things in between that are no one’s fault. Maybe I was wrong to judge only the Baking Professor’s cakes were the authentic ones. Maybe her bakers around the city made good cakes too. Maybe it was something to do with my bad timing. I was to follow her Instagram page to find exactly when the cakes would be fresh and hot on sale around the city (‘stories’ that expire in twenty‑four hours! Why did I ever uninstall my Instagram! No wonder I missed it). Or maybe it was a flaw in the business. Maybe the cakes were supposed to disappear off the glass display in twenty-four hours like Instagram stories‑yes that would make sense. No one would detect anything if it all happened in the catchy brisk fashion of social media posts. I remembered that rainbows too did that. They courtesy and vanish while you are still clapping. I tapped my head like it was some sieve to knock out the fluff of facts, to find the seeds and stones of my problem- let us pick out one by one, cracking the algorithm of receiving internet fanfare- was that my problem? I remembered some YouTube celebrity graphic design gurus and photographers (there are a million, I mention these because these are the alleys I frequently wander), who amidst their dozens of how-to tutorials, hand out that one 5-minute video on how to crack the algorithm. Once or twice I have clicked them open and almost immediately shut 130

them. It was repelling somehow, and I cannot describe well why. Perhaps it is an old poem by Emily Dickinson plastered to the interior of my forehead that I read in my late teens – I’m nobody! Who are you! Are you nobody, too? Then there’s a pair of us- don’t tell! They’d banish us, you know. How dreary to be somebody! How public, like a frog To tell your name the livelong day To an admiring bog! The profound words of a lady from two centuries ago! What could she have known of the boggy landscapes of today that she should write of them then and that her words should still glisten today, pearly white in this maddening blur? I was also terribly attracted to Cal Newport’s perception of deep work which must have simply been work in another age. He holds that deep work more valuable than the instantaneously gratified, surface-skimming work which is whisking up easily replicable work: cakes, toys, soaps, notebooks, graphics, tee‑shirts, key-chains, black marker doodles celebrating every sneeze, badges, magnets, photos, prints, steel straws, laser‑cut wood pieces, logos, gifs, memes and a hell lot of memes, selfies, endless loops of little dances and funny faces and the same pose struck a thousand times in thousand different places. It is a lot of labour, true. It is also reminiscent of a dry unruly whirlwind of chattering shiny chips and scales, losing lustre every few seconds to be replaced by a new shimmering scale which will be whisked away just as soon. The effect of deep work in comparison to the whirlwind now iridescent and now dull grey is a rainbow, calm, large and rare and classic in quality, produced by the clear light following a thorough shower by pregnant clouds, built up and darkened, made heavy and saturated and unbearable to withstand itself that it must issue 131

large wet drops resultant from the toil. It is the time-consuming, tiring and invigorating, painful and pleasurable, stinging and satisfying job of painting a masterpiece, or writing good fiction or perfecting a dance move, to touch a crescendo, to gather and analyse and make sense of statistical figures, to advocate availing an unyielding circumstance of social injustice. I thought of the boxfuls of handwritten journals of the Writing Professor I met at the college. The weight of fifteen years pounded onto the table as he put them down and pulled out one to show me some hand-drawn plans accompanied by excellent cursive script. Now he too used social media. He wrote in the newspaper and on a personal blog. But the work did not have the frantic rapidly thumping heart of a racing rabbit-you could sense a beat more even and deeper- it assured to live longer. It did not announce itself, it simply appeared as and when it did. Now, this is not the most exquisite work, it was rugged and coarse in many ways but had the enduring quality of a rainbow. The red velvet cupcake, not because it was stale and tasteless that was so much the cause of my problem but that it was the cake I knew about beforehand, that did its rounds as a popular token of success that led to my disappointment. I could not taste the depth I was looking for – the cupcake belonged to the chattering whirlwind. And that was the last I saw of them. Thrown from the car the slushy trail would pick it up, taste it and scatter it further and farther. Its vain and touch-me-not red will lie bleeding all over the matt finish tarmac till an army of ants arrive. It is highly possible that neither the cupcake maker nor his boss, the Baking Professor would care about two leftover cupcakes the store made a profit out of. Probably if they knew about it, they would readily forgive themselves because the red sponge crumbles before human bonds, which are not made from such perishables. The meadow is to run upon and catch whirlwinds and ride them while it lasts, whereas other shaggy beasts plaintively prod at the earth. Occasionally a rainbow appears, if you are lucky to spot it, calmly arched over 132

the horizon, split finely into different colours by the white light of truth not the single colours of emotion. It may not last fifteen minutes, but when it reappears it will not fail to impress. I rolled down the car window and craned my neck to see if the cauliflower flower clouds still floated in the sky. They were and had multiplied covering the entire length of the skyline. More importantly, it took me by surprise to see that my Alto had grown wings on either side. Abruptly it took to flight. Was it trying to make it to the stars like Icarus? The steering wheel got stuck and I had no control over its flight path. It was flying at great speed as if propelled by a jet engine. As it passed the cauliflower clouds, providentially the steering wheel and the foot pedals started to work. Right above I saw a huge entrance portal showing two bronze doors. It had a porch raised on a high podium in the front. Inside, the building featured a central hall flanked by three steps on both sides and several rows of chairs. It appeared magnificent, with wide windows and marbles that reflected light. Several men roamed the hall attired in flowing loose apparels holding Irish coffee cups. Placed on the centre table was a huge tray containing Red Velvet cupcakes. It was as if Curia Julia had travelled through time and landed where it was now. Then I saw the face of one of the men. O my good Lord, how could it be? He was wearing a mask, the Todd Phillips kind of Joker thing. Then I looked at the others. I could not believe my eyes. All of them wore the same kind of Joker masks. Suddenly I felt a chill down my spine. I hit the accelerator only a little bit before taking a turn to the left. I pushed the pedal as hard as I could and the Alto’s purr turned into a roar as it kicked-off its return flight. The unusually wide velvety red of the rainbow in the horizon appeared broken. Going home could wait. I wanted to take a closer look. 133

Amiya Hisham is an architect and writer with interests in language, art and nature. Currently she is gardening her way through life, literally and figuratively. 134