Bitter Almonds_v10_opc1_29.01.2021_18.32_single page copy

WHERE MAGIC HAS GONE

THE CARROM BOARD Shrikant Rao He didn’t hear the dull knock at the door as the striker shattered the circle of black and white rounds from the centre of the carrom board. Two white coins had sailed into the pockets at adjacent ends. His face previously taut with concentration now broke into a smile. Vispi Irani, pleased at the successful opening shot, pumped his right fist into the air, a clenched hand then proceeding to slap an imaginary high five into nowhere. Then rising from his position at the table he headed for the refrigerator at the far end of the room. He badly wanted a drink. Dipping his head into the smoky grey fridge he extracted a 500 ml bottle of Duke’s lemonade from its position behind the door and swallowed deeply. He poured some of the beverage into a glass, then crossing into the hall looked at the grandfather clock to his left. It was 11.30 pm. “Dikra it is late and you must go to bed early,” he muttered to himself. It was a habit the pensioner had picked up from years of imitating his dear departed mother Shireen who was a stickler for punctuality. Her sixteenth death anniversary was due next week and he reminded himself that he had to visit the Dadiseth Agiary nearby to offer prayers and sandalwood. Vispi’s eyes went moist as they darted across the living room which housed the family memorabilia. Photographs of near and dear ones encased in silver frames rested on the mantelpiece in front of him. His late father Aspandiar Irani, the proud and 136

handsome var raja in a white flowing jâmâ-pichhori standing beside his pretty gara clad bride; his paternal uncle Soli, the best airline pilot and bike mechanic in the world – it was rumoured the man could identify the problem of any fatfatti by just listening to the sound of the engine; his favourite cousin Kaikushroo, who like his father Byramji wanted to be a rail locomotive driver, but sadly died after being run over on the rail tracks while trying to capture a falling paper kite; then there was Persis Edulkaka, his beautiful maternal aunt who shacked up with a Morroccan singer while studying at the Sorbonne in Paris, and got promptly ‘disowned’ by the family. And there was his son Zubin, along with the family dog Cyrus…all of them gone, now consigned to strands of occasionally surfacing painful memory. Vispi shook his head vigorously as if to evict the sadness of the past he had stored in his heart, but succeeding very little. He took another sip of the lemonade and eyed the board in front of him with renewed concentration, his spectacles hanging delicately on the tip of a beak-like nose – a tribute to his Sassanian forebears. Vispi was now positioned on the opposite end which had lain vacant. He extended his hand across the yellow wooden square illuminated by a naked bulb and plucked the striker from the middle for the next shot, his eyes narrowed, reflecting his determination to do better than what he had done earlier. The game had been going on since evening and he was now beginning to feel bleary eyed. The previous shot in the game had been his very own. The next one, he decided, his finger straining against the striker, was for his darling wife, Siloo. It was the Queen this time that sailed into a pocket to the right of where he had earlier sat. Vispi’s eyes again lit up with joy. He turned his gaze to the corner of the room and blew a kiss at the figure hunched in a wheel chair. The woman’s mouth twitched slightly. He thought it was a hint of a lopsided smile. He had 137

just about puckered his lips into a fond ‘O’ when the carrom board came crashing down from its place on the table. A startled Vispi dropped the glass of lemonade he was carrying and the contents began to trickle away like a stream towards the living room rug. The carrom men lay scattered on various corners of the floor. And his spectacles had fallen off. How did this happen, he began to wonder as he surveyed the room, even foolishly looking up at the chandelier as if the culprit could be hidden there. In the dead centre of the hall, on the Persian rug, lay the offender – a half broken piece of construction brick. He stared at it unsure if he was seeing things right, and the red chunk seemed to look him back in the face with a deadpan neutrality which seemed to say ‘It is not me’. That’s when he heard the banging at the door – loud, incessant. And then in one corner of the room which housed an ancient cupboard containing Parsee iconography – mini porcelain figurines of winged angels – he thought he heard some stirring. It was as if the objects, guardian sentinels one usually saw adorning fire temples, had come to life, and had begun to slowly move within the glass case. And then within a blink of an eye they had trailed off into the confined air like smoke arising from agarbatti sticks. His nose could pick up a burning smell. Vispi rubbed his eyes in disbelief. This has been happening off and on for some time now and he had begun to wonder if he was imagining things. But now, he was also frightened. Was Shireen Mansion, the building where he lived, on fire? He rushed to the balcony and peered across the wall surrounding the building. On the street 20 feet below, next to the cigarette shop to the right, he saw a person standing with his face turned upwards. From his flat on the first floor vision was slightly obscured without the benefit of his glasses. But Vispi could detect through the 138

blur what appeared to be a blood coloured streak running like a deep gash on the man’s forehead. An ugly scar seemed to run across the man’s left cheek. Ae khudai not again! It was that local gangster Potya Surve who had been convicted of several crimes including robberies and murders. When had he returned from jail? *** Vispi retreated into his room in panic. He recovered the specs from the floor and then moving to a window by the side parted the curtains to see if he had guessed the person’s identity correctly. The man’s face was not visible now. He had moved into the shadow cast by a bus stop. But a Rampuri knife glinted evilly in his hand under the streetlight below. *** Six years earlier. “Bawaajee your people are the gentlemen type. Why do you want khitkit with these criminals? You must settle all your problems peacefully with them,” the constable on duty at the Colaba Police Station had helpfully suggested, scratching a small island of grey hair in front of his head with dirty fingernails. Flakes of white dandruff landed on the Complaint Register, some of it settling on Vispi’s hand and on the Tata Titan watch Siloo had gifted him for his fiftieth birthday. On any another occasion Vispi would have good naturedly prescribed a good shampoo for Havaldar Tukaram Ingale’s scalp problems, but he had more important domestic concerns to worry about, and was feeling extremely irritated. “Arrey baba are you saying I must give up the home where my family has lived for 80 years to gangsters? Why should I? They are the people who are unnecessarily creating problems,” he snapped as he dusted off the white specks from his body. He would have to bathe again at home, Vispi thought, clearly annoyed. 139

He was getting increasingly impatient. He had left Siloo all alone in bed at home and it was time for him to get back to feed her lunch. The cop, though appearing to be a friendly sort, was somehow reluctant to register a complaint, and had spent talking to someone or the other on the phone or pretending to be busy peering into the khaki coloured registers with complaints neatly written down in the local Marathi language. Vispi had now spent half an hour in the police station in vain trying to convince the policeman to lodge a complaint against the goons hired by a builder. The builder had threatened him of dire consequences if his family did not vacate their flat in the building to make way for a proposed mixed development. *** The threats first took the form of telephone messages peppered with abuses in Hindi and the local lingo; they then moved to stones being hurled at windows, door littered with garbage, rotten eggs and excrement, power lines being tampered with and then direct verbal abuse with the hints of imminent physical attacks. It had all started one Sunday morning when a local youngster, vermillion paste adorning his forehead, had suddenly materialised outside the Irani’s residence. No sooner had Vispi flung the door open than he was hit by the stench of country liquor. A man with long unkempt curly hair, blood shot eyes and lips stained with paan juice stood before him holding in his hand what appeared to be a paper of some kind. In the background he could hear the rat a tat of drums competing with a loudspeaker blaring a popular Bollywood song ‘Jhumma chumma de de’. Vispi recognised the youngster as Potya who often manned the newspaper kiosk at the traffic junction near Strand Cinema. 140

He knew instinctively that trouble was in store. “Rs 5001…that’s your contribution for Ganpati,” said the man impatiently pushing a receipt into Vispi’s hand. In the past Vispi had offered Rs 101 during festivals mainly out of respect and affection for the Hindu elephant god Ganesh, widely regarded by many as a remover of obstacles, but also to ensure peace with a few local organisers who often bullied people to contribute money for the upkeep of the pandals during the 10 day long festivities. He was also aware that such monies received were largely unaccounted for and sometimes even expended on gambling and booze. The demand for Rs 5001 completely shocked him. The stench of cheap liquor only confirmed that the man before him was just a rogue out to make money in the name of God and religion. “I have already paid up. Someone had earlier come for the collection,” Vispi mumbled awkwardly hoping that his lie could help fend the man off. But the intruder had stuck his ground refusing to budge unless Rs 5001 was handed over to him. Vispi with his reed like frame had tried to slam the door shut on the man’s face but the wily visitor had already planted his foot in the gap. When Vispi had protested at the exorbitant demand the man had become violent. A knife was plunged into a sofa set. The youngster next picked up a Ming vase in the room and hurled it out of the balcony. Vispi had watched with horror as the objet d’art his uncle Soli had brought from China broke into smithereens on the pavement outside. Surve plucked back the knife from the sofa and letting loose a volley of paan juice on it eyed the rest of the room. The carrom board sitting on a side table, with a game seemingly in progress, came in the line of his evil gaze. The antique rosewood board with a knotless frame, which had been with the Irani family 141

for well over 60 years, was about to become the next victim of aggression, when someone on the stairs called out to the youngster. That was a signal perhaps for him to temporarily suspend hostilities. The drunken marauder walked to the board, picked up the striker lying idle and released it with a force which was at once brutal and contemptuous. The ivory white coloured round missed the coin men and the Queen, hit the opposite wall with an ugly thud, then ricocheting back, sank like a helpless fish into a net. “I will be back tomorrow,” promised the extortionist with a savage snarl, shaking his finger menacingly at Vispi, and banging the front door shut so violently that the noise reverberated through the wooden innards of the building for a long time. Deep in the shadows of the living room the malevolence left a wheel chair bound woman curled into a ball of frozen fear. *** It was as if time had come to a standstill. For fourteen years now his wife Siloo – once tall, lovely and so full of life – had remained in the wheel chair paralysed in the limbs, devoid of speech. It had happened with a phone call one rainy Saturday evening. Vispi, a chartered accountant, was away at work at his office in Marine Lines. He was expected home any moment and Siloo had prepared his favourite patra ni macchi for dinner after which the family had plans to see a rerun of that super hit movie Saturday Night Fever at New Excelsior Cinema. Sundays largely revolved around the carrom board. Both husband and wife were champions at the game. 142

It was as much love for the game as for each other that had brought them together as man and wife. When they won the Bombay Carrom Championship for the eighth time in a row the Afternoon Despatch & Courier had dubbed them ‘The Carrom Couple’ and ‘Team Irani’. Even their wedding invitation was designed to look like a carrom board with the image of the winged Farvahar, that ancient symbol of Zoroastrianism, printed on the top. Siloo was in the living room offering beauty tips to her cousin Naju Udwadia when the phone rang. It was their neighbour, the High Court advocate Piloo Sherdiwala saying that he had bad news for the family, and urging them to be brave. The Fire Brigade had apparently recovered the body of an 8 year old boy who had slipped into the choppy sea while walking on the parapet near the Radio Club. A dog accompanying the boy had ostensibly jumped into the waters to rescue him but had been washed away. Sherdiwala, who happened to be on a walk in the immediate vicinity, had come forward to identify the body as being that of Zubin. He had recalled sadly how in the previous month the Iranis had conducted the sacred Navjote ceremony of the son where he was invested with the sudre and the kusti. It was sad, he had pointed out that the tragedy could happen after the family had offered prayers in honour of the 33 Yazatas or angels so that God’s blessings would be invoked on him. The news of the son’s death had so devastated Siloo that the telephone froze in her hands. Naju had rushed forward to prevent her host from falling down and hurting herself, but she had already collapsed to the floor like a wet rag. When Vispi arrived home he saw Siloo curled up foetus-like on the four poster bed, a crumbled human heap; her eyes staring vacantly into a space that never was or would ever be. *** It was very clearly emotional shock which had contributed to Siloo’s state of paralysis. It was as if she had willed herself into 143

a state of physical and mental atrophy. Doctors, not very sure what name to give to her condition, however, safely declared that she had lost motor abilities in the hands and below the hips. *** She could though make some head movements, twist her mouth to the side to indicate hunger or any other body urgency. There were occasions when he imagined seeing her out of the corner of his eye attempting to rise to her feet. For the present however a sad looking wheelchair had become the seat of a strong woman who once proudly rode horses. Vispi sighed when he recalled how she could lift a carrom board over her shoulder like Hercules carrying the Atlas. She derived her physical toughness from Firoze Panthaki, her body builder father who also owned a gymnasium. Then there was brother Framroze who loved to hang out his boxing gloves from the balcony of their home in Dadar Parsee Colony to ward off community boys from venturing near the kid sister. Siloo had also trained with horses at the Poonawala stud farm. Occasionally at family meetings following her marriage to Vispi, there were acidic references of carrom coming in the way of a great career as jockey. But Siloo had never regretted her choice of the carrom board over the race course. To achieve a neat balance she continued giving riding lessons which kept her physically agile even as she dug deep into carrom, a largely mental game, which both she and husband Vispi loved intensely. He missed her cackle of laughter, which many failed suitors had often nastily said reminded them of the neighing of a horse. And he felt a twinge of sadness at happy memories of their constant arguments whether it was the girl’s side or the boy’s side that had first thrown the rice at their wedding. He would constantly remember her joking on their marriage day that breaking an egg on the head of the groom would bring luck to 144

the family she went into. And during the nuptials night she had actually ended up cracking one on Vispi’s head, a delightful prelude to the boisterous lovemaking that followed. They were assuredly a very happy couple. Though she very clearly had the upper hand of the two, Vispi remembered Siloo was always ready to renounce any perceived victory in favour of her husband. She cared for him so deeply that she was loath to accept any criticism of her husband’s family. Not even from her own parents who she now regarded as outsiders. Though Firoze Panthaki would have liked her to have wedded someone above their station he felt secretly very pleased at his daughter’s loyalty to the family she had married into. “Only a strong man’s daughter can have such strength of character,” the nonagenarian would tell his wife Tehmina in private conversations, pride showing on his face. For his part Vispi stayed faithful to all the vows he had made to his wife. Marriage to him was sacred. Not even in his dreams did he entertain the idea of having another woman in his life although a few community elders did try slyly to encourage relationships, set him up with ‘ladies of good character’, in the guise of doing a noble deed. And his conduct had won the admiration of the community. He had decided like the Hindu warrior god Rama he would strictly stay a ‘one woman man’. It had been so for fourteen years now. For Siloo he had become nurse, doctor, physiotherapist, masseur, hair stylist, pedicurist, musician, mother, son, husband, cleaner, friend and companion all rolled into one. Vispi was there cooking breakfast, lunch and dinner and anything in between for her, feeding her with semi solid versions of her favourite food, combing her hair, gently bathing and massaging her, dressing her up, carrying her gently in his arms to the toilet and back, ensuring that the woman he loved received medicines on time. 145

He would even speak out her lines from their old conversations; play out her favourite songs, strum the guitar, read stories of authors she liked, compliment her on her still attractive looks, celebrate her birthdays with her favourite pastry from the Taj Cake Shop… And when he was at the carrom board, which was most of the time, Vispi even became his wife playing out Siloo’s portion of the game. The carrom board never left him. Oddly enough that gave him the illusion and comfort of Siloo’s company at the game table which he always desired. After retiring for the night he would lie in bed having imaginary chats about the game for long. Vispi remembered telling an office friend that the two sided conversations made him feel the couple was still playing carrom to bursts of wah wah from the sidelines. *** But before sleep came he would feel the ache of loneliness which he would often explain in carrom terminology. “When the striker is silenced the Queen, so real a while ago, becomes a blurry red mirage. You then begin to bleed from the stabs of real light, and die cowering.” But as long there was life to be lived, he had the satisfaction of having his dear wife near him. When he held Siloo close in his arms, gently caressing her hair and gazing deep into her eyes, he could sense the stirring of an untapped subterranean pool of happiness. Vispi wanted to do everything to make it possible for them. Siloo’s smile would always be his high. He wondered how long he would have to wait to see that. 146

A newspaper report of successful treatment of paraplegics had made him hopeful. He had obtained an appointment with the doctor who was visiting Bombay Hospital at Marine Lines the following morning. He had arranged for a cousin to be at home to take care of Siloo in his absence. His attention turned to the prayer space in the side room. The oil lamp cast a bright halo around the picture of the Prophet Zarathushtra. Outside, on the road he could hear the thump of drums heralding the arrival of the first Ganesha in the area. From his balcony he could see the elephant headed god wearing an India cricket cap and holding up bat, ball and stumps in his various arms. He couldn’t help but smile at the profound message at the bottom of the tableau: “I am the game and the umpire. All that the players need to do is display Faith, Correctness and Perseverance.” Fate had dealt them a cruel blow through the loss of their son Zubin. That couldn’t be reversed, but God would always be there on the side of good, lending a helping hand, he thought. Vispi could now hear clanging of bells from a church in the distance. From the direction of the old cupboard housing the figurines he could see wisps of smoke, the nose picking up the smell of incense. And through the blur he could see movement. It was like magic. He didn’t know why but suddenly he had begun to feel unusually elated. *** It was noon by the time Vispi by finished presenting Siloo’s medical reports at the hospital. Before going to see the consultant he had visited the Parsee fire temple near Flora Fountain to offer prayers and to drink 147

water from the holy well. By the time he landed at the Bombay Hospital Medical Centre he was completely at peace. He did not like hospitals because they reminded him of mortality but he had never felt as relaxed before like when he was ushered into the cabin. The expert took a long time to examine the documents. There was a twinkle in Dr Ian Jones’ eye when he returned the papers to Vispi. He suggested a detailed examination of the patient for the following day. “There are cases where such debilitating conditions have been caused due to intense emotional shock and where a dramatic reversal to the original condition has occurred through sudden external stimuli,” he had explained. Vispi muttered his thanks to the doctor. He felt energetic enough to walk 15 floors down to the entrance. To the right of the stairs he suddenly paused holding his hand closer to his chest in a gesture of reverence to an idol of Saibaba. He felt light and decided to continue walking to his home. At best it would take him about 20 minutes at a steady pace via the Western Railway offices, Eros Cinema, the Cross Maidan, Bombay University, Regal Cinema and past the Electric House. The road was blocked with traffic on account of the idols of Ganpati which were being carried for installation at various corners of the island city. Strangely enough for the first time in his life he didn’t seem too worried about his wife. “God will take care of Siloo. He is there for all,” he had persuaded himself in the morning during his prayers. It was in this happy mood that he had begun his trudge toward Colaba. *** Shireen Chambers was an 80 plus year old building which stood on the right side of the road beyond Sassoon Dock. Built in the 1930s the two storeyed edifice contained 8 flats which originally 148

housed Parsee families. The structure, despite its age, was well maintained as only Parsee owned properties can be. *** The descendants of most of the original residents had migrated to countries like Canada and Australia and had let out their houses to tenants belonging to other communities, mostly pensioners. With 60,000 sq ft of developable area, that too in a prime locality like Colaba, Shireen Chambers with its mostly aged residents was considered easy game for the underworld. It didn’t take long for the local builder to put gangsters like Potya Surve on the job of evicting vulnerable folks through sheer terror. The 28 year old history sheeter was alleged to have been responsible for 8 murders including the public torching of a shopkeeper, the stabbing of a college student, the kidnapping and killing of the son of an industrialist, multiple cases of violence like arson and torture, and involvement in prostitution and drug rackets. Four of the residents of Shireen Chambers had vacated their residence after Surve threatened to chop one finger for each day of delay. When the local police linked the gangster with evidence of the murder of the industrialist’s son he was put behind bars. Now out of jail after five years, the goon was back in business. With three of the residents on the first floor vacating the ancient structure, builder Karim Seth had given Surve a deadline to finally evict the Iranis, the only survivors. It was one o'clock when he began climbing the wooden stairs leading to the Irani household. These bloody Bawajees, why do they need such big houses, and why do they make their staircases so dark, he wondered as he stumbled against a loose floorboard. On the first floor landing he paused to avert the sunlight streaming into his face through a long vertical crack in the Irani’s door. Potya kicked the door, then slightly ajar, wide open. 149

In front of him, in the centre of the hall he could see a carrom board with two ladies positioned at opposite ends. The one sitting in a chair with her back towards him turned in shock at the intrusion to reveal her companion ensconced in a wheel chair at the opposite end. “Who are you and what do you want,” asked the first woman in Parsee styled Marathi from her position at the table, slowly rising to her feet in a feeble attempt to prevent the gangster from rushing in, but only ending up crashing into the wall by the side. *** She began bleeding from a crack in the head. The criminal next placed a sheet of paper on a side table and contemptuously eyeing the woman in the wheel chair spat out, “Sign this document and vacate the flat in one hour or I will throw you both out along with everything in this house.” When he did not elicit any reaction from the woman in the wheel chair, Potya proceeded to drive a sharp dagger in the centre of the carrom board drawing a gasp of horror from the just struck lady. The coin men had been flung far and wide across the room. Potya wagged a finger and moving towards Siloo barked, ‘One hour is all I give.’ He then turned to walk out of the house. *** Vispi was barely 25 meters from Shireen Mansion when he heard the commotion on the road. A small crowd of people had gathered at the entrance and were looking up toward his flat. “Ae khudai hope everything is all right,” he muttered to himself as he sprinted across the wooden stairs to reach his flat. 150

No sooner had he crossed the first banister than he saw the door wide open and bright light streaming out. He then saw the dark outline of the thug who had made their life miserable. Now fearing that the worst could have befallen Siloo he rushed forward towards his flat only to be stopped dead in his tracks by a miraculous sight. Framed within the doorway, just behind the gangster, he saw his wife carrying the carrom board above her shoulder. The very next instant the rosewood board had come crashing down with a thud on the gangster’s head. And he could hear his wife letting out a piercing scream, “You bloody gadheda I will kill you if you ever mess with our carrom board.” The gangster lay on the stairs unconscious. By this time the police, as is their wont in Hindi films, had arrived on the scene to make the necessary arrest. For the first time in many years, Vispi allowed himself a smile. The magic of the protector angels in the corner cupboard was real. *** Before long the couple were hugging each other and dissolving into tears of joy. Their 14 year old exile in the darkness of silence had ended. They had maintained their winning streak. And the carrom board called life beckoned. Shrikant Rao is a Mumbai based editor-writer-analyst with a great deal of experience in international journalism. A chronicler of the India Growth Story, his focus is on the construction and infrastructure sector, tech trends and industrial Best Practices. An avid traveler, Rao’s love for nature and animals – he believes he is a dog masquerading as a human – finds reflection in his photography. 151

TRIPLE MAGIC Shubha Sagar Three days, seeming like three lifetimes with three dream fulfillments in three consecutive days at one stroke. If this was not “Triple Magic” then what else was it? Little did I know that a dream that I had nurtured for about four and a half decades would turn out to be the most exhilarating part of the journey of my life. It is the memory of this prized part of my life’s journey that I share with my readers. Day One At the gate of my alma mater, I stood in reverence, staring at the aesthetically designed brick structure that had withstood the test of time as a testimony to thousands of women being shaped in its womb and stepping out into the world, carrying a part of its rich and varied heritage along with them. I walked past the pathway that leads to the main building. As I stepped on to the familiar stone corridor, I experienced an incredible feeling. The sound of my footsteps struck the walls and pillars of the building that had appeared an infinite number of times in my dreams. I heard the ‘booming echoes’ of my footsteps along with that of my ‘loud heartbeats’. I was petrified that people around me would hear its hammering and wonder where the booming sounds were coming from. As if these thoughts and sensations were not overpowering enough, words from my favourite poem flashed across the floors I was walking through. 152

“From the time we are born to the time we grow old, We love to dream and wait for our dreams to unfold. Occupying a major part of our sleep and waking states, Dreams do have the superpower to open and seal our fates.” As if in a reflex, I hugged myself, just as I had done years back on the same premises on a cold and wintry morning…I dragged my feet, as heavy as lead by then, to reach the audio‑visual room I was told to proceed to, only to realise that it was the former music room, the same room where I had learned to appreciate music as a schoolgirl. I gaped at its aura in a startling stupor at first…then I rubbed my eyes a couple of times. Every bone and muscle in my body screamed silently and told me that I had been waiting for this moment all these years. I don’t know how I mustered the courage and strength to go through the proceedings of the ‘book launch’ that followed. As I held the book ‘created by my classmates’, facing a large audience most of who had travelled long distances only to attend the event, I was startled to spot Sister Elizabeth, my music teacher standing in the corner. She stood there wearing her most alluring smile. She also gestured at me to come near. She turned her head giving me the special look as she had done during the school days, I could read her lips saying her oft-repeated words: “You have a beautiful smile.” Though our words remained unsaid, our broad smiles said it all. When the school anthem was being sung, I noticed that the modern ambience of the audio-visual room suddenly acquired its original look from decades ago. I could see Sister Elizabeth sitting on the stage playing the piano just as she had done a long time ago. Her fingers moved over the keyboard swiftly and deftly. The whole room was filled with music like the good old days and I could feel the tug at my heartstrings. The walls of the room seemed to hum the songs I had learned in that very room...’Jingle bells...jingle bells....’, ‘Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer’, ‘Do...re...me fa...so... la...t’...the sounds of music intoxicating my senses. 153

I went through the formalities of the book launch as if in a daze, flitting in between the past and the present. Amidst animated conversations, hugs and handshakes, holding the delightful book in our hands, savouring the cake, saying cheese while the ‘once-in-a-lifetime-moments’ were captured in the camera memory. Though time seemed to stand still, it was soon time to bid adieu both to my alma mater and to the mystical evening. I turned to glance back one last time at my alma mater and several images flashed before my eyes...running across the playground...performing a solo dance on the stage...struggling with a class assignment...withdrawing my hand as it hurt terribly due to the punishment received for not completing the homework...doing needlework with finesse acquired from the nuns who took pride in sewing as much as in training us in the craft of creating splendour on fabrics, with threads in myriad hues, and a lot many images that were resurrected from the past. The evening soon turned into night as the blues turned into shades of crimson that were swept with shades of grey and black. Sleep eluded me. I floated in between the moments from my school days and the present, without being able to differentiate between the real and the unreal. Day Two The beautiful dawn that followed came with the promise of much more mystical charm, nostalgia and drama to be experienced, perhaps due to the magical effect of the air laden with the freshly evaporated holy water from the Ganges. The drive to the ghats of the Sangam in Allahabad in a private bus was full of excitement and animated conversations of my classmates centred around our unforgettable childhood memories. The fact that many of us were visiting the place after several decades and that too during the famous Kumbh Mela, made it even more stirring. 154

The whole city appeared to have been transformed. Huge signboards with words like ‘Divya Kumbh’, ‘Welcome to Prayagraj’ greeted us everywhere. We soon reached the VIP tents, a unique blend of old world ‘atithi devo bhava’ charm blending with the modern-day hospitality. The volunteers briefed us about how we will be taken by boats for the holy dip. We started walking towards the riverbank, as excited and energetic as schoolgirls. As soon as the boat started, my heart started pounding louder and faster than that of the engine of the motorboat. My eyes welled up with tears of joy. Here I was, in the city where I had spent 12 years of my childhood after years of yearning to come back to. I could never have imagined that after four and a half decades I would visit the place along with so many of my classmates, most of whom I have not met since our school years. I glanced at the water gushing out of the rear end of the boat like a shimmering silver stream. As I watched the glistening waves and dipped my hands into the water, the stream divided itself into two halves, longitudinally. One half of the river made me witness the beautiful ride with seagulls hovering around our boat, with my classmates simply refusing to behave like the oldsters they were, some singing, some giggling, some enjoying the entire experience in silence, most of them simply letting their hair down. The other half was that of a blast from the past, I could see myself as a child of eight, travelling in a rowing boat along with my family, my parents and my siblings, all of us alternately dipping our hands in the holy water and folding our hands in reverence, even flinging coins into the river. As our motorboat zipped past the rowing boat that was moving ahead silently, I caught a glimpse of myself as a child, looking in awe at the never-seen-before water machine with strange people enveloped in a riot of colours. 155

At one point the ‘child from the past’ and the ‘woman from the present’, looked directly into each other’s eyes, for a split second, one looking at its future and the other at its past. Soon we reached the spot that was specially created during the Kumbh Mela, for the pilgrims and visitors to take a dip. Amidst a furore and frenzy, we got down from the boats and prepared for the dip in the temporarily created changing rooms. One by one, we all prepared to take a dip. Soon it was my turn, I held my nose with my right hand, raised my left arm and took a dip submerging my head in the holy water, gasping for breath. As soon as I raised myself to come out of the water for another dip, I came face to face with my childhood image. The next three dips were taken by us in unison with both of us glued to a vision of each other, each time we came face to face. I rushed towards the changing room in a state of utter confusion, to get into a dry set of clothes I was shrouded in a feeling of déjà vu. After changing, I glanced all-around looking for my childhood image, but could not find her. It was time to make the return journey back to the VIP tent, so we got into the motorboat. Just as I had given up hope to catching sight of ‘her’ and was almost near the riverbank, I spotted the rowboat again, I saw not only my childhood image but also my parents and siblings, they all were holding on to the wooden platform next to their boat (created those days; a contrast to the floating stations found today). All of them were holding hands and taking a dip together As our boat sped past, they looked towards me and waved at me. I felt a lump in my throat as a wave of nostalgia engulfed me. Day Three The dawn of the third day brought in its wake a lot more excitement because the same evening we had to board the train 156

that would take us back to our respective destinations. This made us realise how little time was left for us to enjoy the holy city! The plan for the day was that each one would spend a few hours on her own, shopping, visiting relatives or simply exploring the city. Later during the day, we would gather at a common meeting point to go visit a couple of local friends. I was excited as I had plans to visit the colony where I had spent my entire childhood. I was accompanied by two of my friends. We booked a cab to the place a few kilometres away from our hotel. During the half an hour drive, my gaze was fixed on the road and roadside as I wanted to absorb all that had changed and that which had remained unchanged during all the years that I had been away. As I entered the Colony gate, I was swept by waves of nostalgia. I asked the cab driver to take me to all the landmark areas from the ‘map of childhood memories’ embedded in my mind. First was the kindergarten school where I had completed my pre-primary education...I went inside the building which was nearly the same as the memory etched in my mind except for the ‘dilapidated look’. I felt like a five-year-old as I sat on one of the benches, my ears and my soul were immersed in the musical sounds of alphabets, phonics and rhymes transporting me to an era of innocent charm. Next was the training centre where my dad had worked as an instructor, as I stepped into the centre, now wearing a modern and polished look, I just saw myself as a ten-year-old entering my dad’s cabin, gingerly holding my report card in my hand, I could visualise his colleagues peering into the report card as my dad held it, appreciating my result and congratulating him for my good scores, just as if it had happened yesterday. Then I visited the residential area where I had lived for twelve long years, I approached the house where I had lived, extending 157

my hand to break the henna leaves from the hedge near it, that had miraculously survived despite the modernisation and transformation. I opened my palms to see the crimson hues leaving tell-tale marks of crushed henna leaves on them, just as I had done several times during my childhood, it was sheer nostalgia. The most exciting part of the tour was the visit to the clubhouse, the swimming pool and the amphitheatre, where I had spent the most exciting moments of my childhood. I went inside the clubhouse and was greeted with the familiar announcements during Tambola...‘two fat ladies, 88’, ‘men go naughty at 4 not forty’, and ‘the full house goes to Shubha’, and my favourite, ‘bogie, bogie, bogie...’. As I walked toward the swimming pool, I could see myself emerging from the changing room in my ‘hand-stitched bathing costume’ and standing nervously atop the highest point on the jumping board and my dad’s voice urging me to take the plunge, “Come on Shubha, you can do it, come on....” The amphitheatre also brought back memories of the many dance performances and action songs that I had been part of, during the cultural events held in our colony. I was particularly reminded of a show, ‘Brides of India’ that I had been part of during my teens, where many of us were dressed as brides representing different states across India. I was dressed as a Punjabi bride, I remember entering the stage, blushing and a bit nervous but posing confidently as the audience cheered loudly. And of course, my childhood image accompanied me to every spot in the colony that I visited that day, sitting next to me on the bench in the classroom, waving from the garden of the house I had lived in, standing on the diving board ready to jump into the water along with me, giggling in a corner of the clubhouse, sitting next to me, watching a movie and performance in the amphitheatre. Each time I clicked a photo to recapture one of my childhood memorials, I would find her cheering me on or waving at me, springing surprises at me from every nook and corner of the colony. 158

On my way back I almost pinched myself to check if it was real or just another dream. After reuniting with the rest of the girl gang, we spent the last few precious hours visiting a few local friends, gorging on homemade delicacies and steaming cups of tea, exchanging gifts, catching up with each other and finally reaching the railway station to board the train. Needless to say, I enjoyed all those moments spent in the city that I had dreamt of visiting again and again, for the last four decades. As I settled down in the train, I reminisced about the last three days that had swept past like a dream sequence. I looked out of the glass window and was greeted by the night sky adorned with glittering stars. The train puffed and pounded and set off on its course taking us back to where we came from. Just as I was about to close my eyes, I caught sight of my childhood image right outside the window. We gazed into each other’s eyes exchanging a thousand unsaid words. I very much wanted to take her along, but she had disappeared without bothering to say good-bye. Shubha Sagar is an educator, counsellor, poet, Tarot Reader and healer currently living in Bangalore. She loves penning down her thoughts especially in form of verse. She has published two solo books, “Heartfelt Poems” and “Soul Stirring Stories, women with extraordinary spirit.” She has contributed to more than 3 dozen anthologies. She has edited 10 books for the The Impish Lass Publishing House. A life-long learner, she believes in drawing inspiration from all around her.   159

ECSTASY Ratnadip Acharya It is never too late to give up your prejudices. - Henry David Thoreau It was a rare bird and every time I reached very high in the sky I met her. This afternoon I would not have seen her had she not chirped seeing me. I responded at once, dangling my colourful tail merrily. I knew that she liked me because I was also a rare being like her. Very few kites could ever dream of being at the height where I could easily reach. All I needed was a little wind in my favour and some discrete pulling and releasing of the string tied to the middle of my spine. Soon the bird flew away. It never failed to surprise me how these birds flew up in the sky without flapping their wings. Many a time, I watched them hovering far above me without any visible movement of their wings. Probably once you reach very high you need not have to do much, I reckoned and then looked down at the other kites far below me, staring at me enviously, knowing well that I would always remain far above them. In fact, all the kites were staring at me not only enviously but also fearfully. None of them ever tried to come near me. Flying far away from me, they would secretly curse me, call me a killer, abuse me while I would receive all their accusations, and swear words as compliments. At times, just to scare them off, I made a quick dart to one of them. It was enough to frighten them away with their tail between their legs. Their staying away from me out of fear made me laugh uproariously and only the wind that always 160

blew could hear my hearty laughter. The wind, however, wasted no time to let other kites know that I was laughing at their cowardice. The rest of the kites in the sky glared at me with impotent rage, knowing very well that there was no way they could harm me. So soon they all came to understand that they were left with no choice but to accept me as the undisputed king of this small patch of the sky, up above a small village, where every afternoon hundreds of multihued kites danced and whispered in each other’s ear. Do not be under the impression that there was no animosity between the other kites. There was an intense fight amongst themselves, only to prove to one another who was superior to the others but I never cared much about it. I was always far above them and could cut anyone’s neck in no time if ever I wanted to. Little did people know about the fight amongst the kites up in the sky. This afternoon I was enjoying myself floating high in the sky when, all of a sudden, a ray of sharp sunlight fell on my eyes. It invariably irritated me immensely. I looked up. The sky was cloudless and serene. From up there, the sun was kissing all of us with a soft glow. Now I looked down at the other kites, wondering as to how any kite could dare throw a shaft of sunlight on me. I searched for the kite that had ventured into performing this courageous act. It took me no time to identify the kite which had dared to do such an audacious exploit. It was a new kite, usually happy for no reason, dancing merrily as the gentle wind blew. It was made of some bright opaque cellophane paper and was reflecting a dart of light once the sunlight fell on it. Though it was far below me, just with a quick glance at it I could make out that it was more beautiful than I was. A pang of jealousy consumed me at once. I gazed at it for a long moment while I watched it capering and frolicking in its own way. I had never seen this kite before. Probably it was the first time the 161

newcomer was getting the joy of flying in the sky, I thought with a condescending smile over my lips. Slowly I inched my way towards the adventurist and once it was close enough, I strangled it. The string that was tied to my spine had a coating of special quality glass-powder, endowing it with a razor-sharp edge. Once my string entwined with the string of the new kite, determined to snap it, I saw the kite getting stifled with uneasiness. This is the punishment you deserve for your foolhardiness. “Don’t you know that none of the kites even dare to reflect a shaft of light on me?” I whispered as my string gave a smart pull. It was enough to cut the string tied to the other kite. The kite, dancing just a minute ago, was now gasping. Helpless and rudderless it started to move about, driven by the whim and wish of the wind. Once it was alongside me, I gave it a mocking smile. It cast me a feeble look as if telling me, “You have cut me off before I could start enjoying the beauty of the sky and the world. Tell me what crime did I commit?” With the help of a gush of the wind I looked the other way not paying heed to the young kite’s words. Now I looked at the other kites. They all seemed to be terrified by my quick execution. They knew that I was ruthless and the best kite among the lot. I was made of a strong paper and my spine was no ordinary stick. I was slim and endowed with a slick body that made it possible for me to fly higher. And the string attached to my spine was also of rare quality. It was highly durable and its strength accentuated by the glass-powder coating on it. No other kite around was made of a material of so superior a quality. So you can easily understand I had every reason to be proud of what I was. I had every reason not to let any other kites around to flirt with me. And if any of them unknowingly ever dared to reach my proximity you know very well that the string attached to me did not think twice before cutting its string. 162

Though I was the undisputed king I urge you not to be under the impression that the rest of the kites were vulnerable and innocuous. No doubt they were all weaker than me but it did not forbid them from vying with each other. Every time any of them saw a beautiful kite dancing within its reach, it wasted no time to entangle its string with the string of the other. All the strings were coated with glass powder and such a duel invariably ended only when one of the kites got snapped from its string. The victorious kite would caper for a few minutes to celebrate its triumph. As I saw those kites often rejoicing in their petty success, I passed a mocking smile at them, just to remind them that I could destroy their existence any time I wished to. My smile was enough to shrink them at once. It filled me with immense pride and reminded me that all the kites in the sky around me were scared of me. The afternoon dragged on and as the evening approached, most of the kites were tired of flying. Slowly they started sailing down to their source, the other end of the string. It was a cylindrical piece of a hollow metal body and around it, the string rolled. The kite runners, who held the hollow piece of the metal body, would start rolling the strings to bring down their kites every evening. All kites treated whoever owned them with utmost respect. Little did our owners know about the jealousy and sense of competition that prevailed among us. Every afternoon for a long period of time they enjoyed flying the kites high in the sky. Probably it offered them a vicarious joy of flying, I often thought. Yet we were all scared that someday our owners might take a fancy to some new kites and start flying those, throwing the old kites away. Even the mere thought of being deprived of sailing across the sky filled us all with fear. It was beyond me to express the joy of floating in the air, up in the sky. Now I experienced a pull in my spine and knew that my owner wanted me to end my languid voyage for the day. I, however, unlike the other kites, was not in the least tired. I turned my 163

head at the setting sun and bowed in respect for the wonderful day it had gifted me and started sailing down. My master was second to none when it came to the art of flying a kite and soon I reached down in his safe custody. That night while my master was sleeping peacefully and the silence around was occasionally punctuated by the buzz of the crickets, I was in a state of congenial peace. Slowly my mind drifted into a state of pleasant silence while, all of a sudden, I heard a drone of derisive laughter. I cocked my ear at the sound of the laughter and then it occurred to me that someone was talking to me in a hushed voice, “Oh, stupid kite,” said the voice, “why are you so proud of yourself? Don’t you know that what you consider as your doing is actually mine? Without me can you imagine cutting the string of another kite? Oh foolish kite, don’t be so proud of yourself. Remember without my help you cannot even fly in the sky.” Speechless and dumbfounded I stared at the string, tied to my spine, which spoke with me for the first time. Slowly its words sank into me, making me feel shamefaced and invalid in a way. Yes, what the string has said was true. I asked myself, how I could cut the strings of the other kites all by myself? Suddenly I heard another voice, lower than that of the previous one, snapping at the string almost accusingly. “Don’t think that had I not covered you so menacingly, you could ever cut the strings of other kites. Without my safe coating around you, you are nothing but another ordinary vulnerable string. Without my layer around you, you are just like a toothless tiger.” It was the glass-powder coating around the string who voiced its thought almost derisively. No sooner had the glass-powder coating finished than began a verbal altercation between the string and its glass-powder coating. Suddenly I realized that I was completely ineffectual and worthless without them and that my understanding so far 164

that I was destined to lord it over the other kites was nothing but my empty and hollow pride. Now the argument between the string and the glass-powder coating reached a higher pitch. It occurred to me that they completely ignored my existence. It was extremely mortifying. Once their squabble came to a halt it was late at night and exhausted and tired, we three sank into the oblivion of sleep. That night I had a weird dream. I saw myself floating in the sky far up above all other kites on a shiny afternoon. When I looked down I found that they were all gazing at me in awe, amazement, and fear. That afternoon my glance was more penetrating than ever before and soon it dawned on me that though all the kites were scared of my ferocity, actually, they were all laughing at my hollow pride for they knew that without the string and its glass-powder I was just like any one of them. Never had I felt so low and insignificant in life. At one moment I felt that all the kites were jeering at me ruthlessly, determined to shatter my pride. It gave me such an excruciating pain that I wished I would cease to exist. Luckily enough, my sleep ended at once. But this dream snapped me out of my air of superiority and the desire to infuse fear into the minds of the other kites. For the rest of the night, I could not sleep a wink. The next day I was like a dry leaf, lifeless, desire-less and will-less, just lying on the ground without any purpose. In the afternoon when my master was taking me to the field, where he used to sit and fly me to the sky, I could distinctly hear the string and the glass-powder coating poking fun at my miserable plight. This afternoon, again I reached the same height in the sky but I did not experience any elation or a sense of satisfaction within me. Probably my apathy to float high in the sky was felt by my master for this afternoon he was not enjoying the flying session. Slowly he started to roll the string around the cylindrical metal-body that he was holding to bring me down. Little did he or I know of the devious ploy, woven by the other 165

kites as they had witnessed me in a downhearted mood for the first time. No sooner was I within the reach of other kites than two kites pounced upon me from two sides and tangled my string into knots that could not be easily unravelled. Seeing me low-spirited this afternoon they were determined to take revenge on me. It was horrifying. It was the first time fear struck my mind for deep down I knew that I would not emerge a winner in this fight. They both pulled my string from both sides. Even though my string was generously glass-powder coated, the simultaneous and premeditated attack from two kites was too much for me and soon my string caved into their constant pull, releasing me free to fly in the sky. Fear of getting lost caught me at once, dissolving all my egos, arrogance, and sense of self-importance into nothingness. Out of fear, I closed my eyes at once but it could not stop me from hearing the mocking laughter of so many kites. A strong wind kept a tight rein on me and made me move away according to its whim and caprice. My eyes remained closed and I opened them only when darkness fell and all the kites disappeared from the sky. For the first time, I saw the sky at night. There was a clear darkness and a thin slice of the moon with its attendant star had risen in the frosty sky. The lightly textured air that was blowing was cold and pleasant. Slowly I realized that the entire sky was full of stars, twinkling, and whispering. Its beauty was so majestic that I forgot I had been separated from my source. Gazing at the stars and the tranquil moon, feeling a sense of oneness with them, I failed to remember if hitherto I had such a deep experience in my life. In fact, whatever joy I had derived so far from all the memorable moments and events of my life appeared so insignificant compared to the ecstatic mood that seized me now. I kept floating, mouth agape, gazing at the starlit fathomless sky. Never before had such a sense of undiluted peace descended 166

upon me. It seemed to me as though now I was on a timeless infinite journey. Silently I laughed as I remembered how scared I and the other kites were of letting go from the string that was tied to us and brought us down to the owners every evening. How much we yearned to go down to our owners every evening. At this rare moment of my life, all I wanted to tell my fellow- kites was that at least for once be free, get yourself separated from all the strings tied to you, and float aimlessly. That you would witness so much beauty, peace, and serenity nature was brimming with. But soon I realized, with a little tinge of regret, that now I had reached so high up in the sky that they would never hear my voice. My sense of bliss was so overwhelming that soon I drifted into a pleasant slumber. I got up only when a pencil of sunlight fell on my eyes through a narrow gap in the leaves above me. I was lying under a tree. For a long moment, I could not comprehend where I was and then I remembered my dreamlike journey last night. A pang of pain hit me like a blow as I felt that I had reached the earth again. Probably again I would be the part of the kites-flying- game every afternoon, I thought with a shudder. I looked up at the sky, almost prayerfully, earnestly entreating to the sky to take me up there, to keep me in its vast bosom forever, and to suffuse my poor soul with the colour of its different moods and shades. I experienced a deep thirst within me to be lost forever in the limitless expanse of the sky. No more was I scared to be lost for I knew that losing my identity was in a way to be one with the entire universe. I did not know who really heard my prayer for after some time an urchin lifted me off the ground. He was very happy to find me and soon took me to a small roadside shed. Soon I understood I was in a new village, far off from the land so far I had belonged to. He tended me with utmost care and tied a new string to my spine. As the new string came in contact with me I was shocked to feel that it was without any glass-powder coating. 167

Probably the little boy does not know that he must smear a thin film of glass powder around his kite string to save it from other kites’ vicious attack, thought I, though now I was really not scared of getting snapped and lost in the infinite sky again. But that afternoon more surprises were in store for me. I was again allowed to fly in the sky where already many more kites were playing. Once I reached near them it occurred to me that there was no fear or mutual competition between the kites here. Nobody here was aware of glass-powder coated strings to attack other kites. A strange kind of exuberance prevailed among all the kites. There was no sense of competition or conflict between the kites but there was a feeling of contentment. All the kites in the sky were here to celebrate, to dance and not to prove their superiority over anyone else. A deep calmness was within the wind and all the kites here appeared to be parts of the same entity; that was bliss and festivity. How different this place is from the village I was before, I wondered and sincerely wished I could tell the kites of the other village how beautiful it was to rejoice together with a sense of mutual respect, peace and harmony. In the evening, my present master, the little youngster, took me to his abode. As it was a roadside shed, at night I could easily view the starlit sky from there. Gazing at it for a long moment I silently prayed to be lost in the sky again, for now I knew for certain that there could not be a better realm of happiness than to be one with the universe. Ratnadip Acharya is the author of three successful novels. His fourth novel is slated to release in January, 2021. He is also a columnist in The Speaking Tree in The Times of India. He has contributed many write-ups in different collections of Chicken Soup for the Soul. He lives in Mumbai and may be contacted at [email protected], or on www.ratnadipacharya.com or on www.instagram.com/ratnadipacharya. 168

HOUSE NUMBER 1313 Samrudhi Dash In the half-light of a morning that seemed to have bled its colours in some sort of silent mourning, a red sedan made its way through the unusually silent, leaf-strewn avenue. Against a sky bereft of the rays of the golden halo, a few yellow clouds patched haphazardly against the peeling blue, House Number 1313 stood tall behind the line of birch trees. Between the silence and the distant sound of a speeding vehicle, someone was whispering to the clouds. For a moment it looked as though 1313 had arched towards the birches for some conversation. The red sedan stopped in front of the rusty old gates of the mansion. A young couple and a little girl of about five stepped out. A light wind started blowing and the iron hinges creaked as the huge arched gates swung open, acknowledging the arrival of the new residents. An old man dressed in a khaki kurta and dhoti came running from behind. \"Namaste, Doctor Sahab. Namaste Madamji. I am Rajgopal, the caretaker of the house. Please come inside. Bade Sahab had called to say you would be moving in today. So, I have done all the cleaning and other arrangements\", he said panting. \"Thank you Rajgopal. Please take Sneha and Misha inside while I park the car\", Dr. Mehta smiled, introducing his wife and daughter to Rajgopal. \"Okay, Doctor Sahab. Madamji, Babyji, please come with me\", Rajgopal seemed keen on getting inside the house as soon as possible. It was as though the wind was egging him on to leave the garden and front porch. 169

As they entered, Sneha Mehta remarked, \"Wow, what a beautiful house. And there's so much space around. We could have a nice garden and a swing for Misha too. Mr. Singh was quite right in asking us to move in, though initially, I was somewhat reluctant to live in the outskirts of the city\". Little Misha piped in, \"Mommy, I too want my own garden patch. I want to grow flowers and vegetables there\". Mrs. Mehta laughed and ruffled the little one's brown tresses, \"Of course sweetie pie, you can have your own patch\". “And look at those rose bushes below the window. They look so beautiful and the flowers are huge. What a lovely colour of crimson!” Mrs. Mehta exclaimed in delight. “Rajgopal, did you by any chance know my fondness for roses? Is that why you planted them here? They seem to be of a different breed altogether.” Ms. Mehta smiled at Rajgopal, who forced an uncomfortable return-smile on his wrinkled face, Soon Dr. Mehta joined them in the lobby, where Rajgopal quickly lit the fireplace and the room was filled with warmth. As they started talking with Rajgopal about the luggage that would be coming in later, Misha ran upstairs to explore their new home. Though Rajgopal sincerely answered all their queries and assured them that he was always available, his cottage being just behind the mansion's boundary wall, Mrs. Mehta couldn’t help but notice his evident discomfort in the house - something akin to fear hovered behind his yellowing eyes that glanced around furtively every now and then. But soon the Mehtas got busy settling in the new house. Dr. Mehta was a well-known surgeon who worked at a multi-speciality hospital in the city and Mrs. Mehta was a homemaker, though she had earlier been a piano teacher. Their belongings arrived over the weekend and Mrs. Mehta had her prized piano placed in the room adjacent to the lobby, 170

facing the bay window that overlooked the garden. Soon the interiors were decorated with plush carpets and floral linen curtains, embroidered sheets, exotic candles and vases and fine bone china. The barren land in the compound was planted with the choicest of flowers - Dahlias, Chrysanthemums, Lilies, Bougainvilleans - and little Misha got her own patch where Mrs. Mehta helped her plant small shrubs and sow some pumpkin seeds. During the day, Dr. Mehta would drive to the hospital and Mrs. Mehta would be busy cooking, decorating the house with more finery and playing the piano for an hour in the afternoon. Since Misha's winter vacations were going on, she would walk in the garden, smell the flowers, and play in the swing. She loved exploring the old mansion with its many rooms and cupboards. There was just one room attached to the terrace which Mrs. Mehta had still not investigated, hence Misha was forbidden to go there. One afternoon, while she was busy playing in the garden, her pink ball rolled away into the rose bushes. She tried calling out to her Mom, but on getting no response, went ahead to retrieve the ball by herself. The ball had not gone far too deep into the shrubs. So, she kneeled and stretched out her hand to get it. But just when her little fingers were about to touch the ball, a gust of wind blew from nowhere, and the rose bushes bent forward, covering the ball. Misha withdrew her hands lest the thorns prick her fingers. The moment she took her hand back, the breeze stopped just as suddenly as it had stated blowing. So, the little one bent down again for her ball. Again, when her hand was almost reaching the ball, the wind came, the rose bushes bent forward, and she had to withdraw her hand quickly. After several attempts, she thought of looking for a stick with which she could get the ball out. She went upstairs and started looking around. But the house had been so thoroughly cleaned by Mrs. Mehta that there was nothing of the sort she could find. Exasperated, she sat down on the floor of one of the empty rooms. 171

Suddenly she heard someone calling out her name. It didn't sound like her Mom though. She looked around curiously - the voice seemed to be coming from the rooftop. She followed the voice and stopped outside of the room on the terrace where she was forbidden to go. Standing outside the door, she hesitated but the voice seemed all the more pleading. So she pushed open the door and stepped in. It was a small room, with a big window, a study table and chair and a cupboard. But there was no one inside. Meanwhile, the voice had faded into a distant echo. Misha looked around with curiosity. There were a few books, a note pad and pen and a pair of broken spectacles on the study table - nothing much to hold the interest of a five-year-old. Just as she turned to leave, the lone cupboard in the room creaked and one of its doors opened slightly, as though an invisible hand had tugged at its handle. Curious, Misha walked towards the cupboard and opened it. It was empty but for a wooden box on the middle shelf. She lifted the latch and opened the box. Inside, she found a beautiful doll, almost life-like, with brown curls, and big blue eyes, dressed in a purple frock and white stockings. Misha happily clasped the doll in her hands and carried it to her room, thinking this was a surprise present from Mommy and Daddy. Back in her room, she got busy playing with the doll, combing her curls, and adorning them with a little trinket. \"I will call you Titli. And we will be best friends forever,\" Misha promised the doll who seemed to be listening to all that she said. Then she remembered the ball that had rolled behind the rose bushes. She looked out of the window and realized it was already evening. \"Titli, I'll show you my pink ball tomorrow. I lost it while playing in the garden today but hopefully Daddy will be able to get it back for me tomorrow morning. And then we can play,\" she told her new friend. Suddenly, the doll slipped from her hands and landed on the floor. 172

\"Oh, I'm so sorry Titli\", Misha quickly bent down to pick up her new toy and right there, just a few steps away from where the doll had fallen, lay the pink ball. Misha screamed in evident delight, \"Look Titli, the ball is back. I think Mommy must have got it for me. Now we can play.\" The doll's face curved into a smile. And Misha spontaneously smiled back. This was precisely when it all began. ***** Misha was delighted to discover that she had a talking doll, but since the doll spoke with her only when she was alone, she didn't tell her parents about it. Instead, she would spend hours cooped up inside her play tent with the doll, refusing to come out and have lunch or dinner with Mommy and Daddy. Mrs. Mehta was quite perturbed by Misha's behaviour which had changed drastically over the last few days. She tried discussing this with her husband, but these days Dr. Mehta returned very late from the hospital and would retire to bed soon after dinner. Soon weekends went by like a reverie - Misha in her room, deep in conversation with her doll, Mrs. Mehta playing the piano for the plants that apparently talked back to her, or so it seemed to her, and Dr. Mehta bottling down a peg on the peg of whiskey, least bothered about what went on around him. It seemed as though the house was controlling the inhabitants with a will of its own, though they themselves were unaware of it. Whenever the fireplace was lit, the birches began creaking and the wind howling, so now the fireplace was no longer lit. Misha gradually discarded all her toys and Mrs. Mehta spent a major part of the day playing the piano for the plants. Dr. Mehta sometimes stayed overnight at the hospital and on the days when he was home, they mostly had heated ready meals for dinner - he by the television in his study, Mrs. Mehta in her bedroom and Misha with her doll. Strangely enough, there was hardly any conversation between the three of them, even during the weekends. 173

One morning, while leaving for work, Dr. Mehta discovered his wife talking with the rose bushes as she watered them. Surprised, he asked her, \"Sneha, are you humming music or saying something to the flowers?\" Mrs. Mehta answered without looking up, \"Shh, Rajeev. The flowers are telling me what notes I must play today. Otherwise, things will go wrong.\" Taken aback by this strange response, Dr. Mehta took his wife by her shoulders and gently turned her to face him. \"Sneha, are you out of your mind? How can the flowers talk and how can things go wrong if you don't play some particular music? You are not making any sense dear.\" But Mrs. Mehta looked terrified, \"Rajeev, please don't speak like that. They will get angry and punish us. Do you remember that day when you were stuck at the hospital for some major surgery and Misha was so sick? It was only when I played the funeral march for the flowers that her fever came down. None of the medicines worked, but it was music and plants that helped. And the other day when the curtains had caught fire by themselves and you were trying to douse the flames that only grew bigger by the minute, I had to play Eminem for the roses and only then could you put out the fire. You don't know, but these flowers control everything around the house.\" As much as Dr. Mehta wanted to reason with his wife, he saw a strange frozen look in her eyes, as though she was in some sort of a trance. All through their conversation, she hadn't blinked even once. Meanwhile, he was also getting late for work. While driving to the hospital, Mr. Mehta thought about asking Rajgopal more about the house. Now that he thought over the matter, he remembered that Mr. Singh had seemed a bit too keen that they move into the mansion immediately. And he had charged them less than half the market price for the place. Also, he had seen people in the market murmur and walk away the 174

moment he told them where he lived. All of a sudden questions were pouring into his mind - questions that seemed to have no logic and no answer either. But he knew there was something amiss here and decided to find out. That evening he returned early from the hospital and called Rajgopal to the house. The man seemed reluctant to answer many questions. \"Rajgopal, why does everyone in the market turn away when I tell them we live here? Is there some rumour going around about the mansion?\" Rajgopal shifted his feet in evident discomfort, \"Doctor Sahab, people will say anything. There's nothing wrong with the house. I had been staying in the spare room outside when Bade Sahab and his family were here. It was only after they moved to the U.S. that I shifted to the cottage behind. Such a big house and just one man... I didn't like being alone here. But there's nothing wrong with the house, Doctor Sahab. It's a good house. It's a good house, Doctor Sahab.\" The last two sentences seemed to have been uttered in a deliberately loud and clear voice, as though the house was overhearing their conversation. Then Dr. Mehta asked Rajgopal to cut down the rose bushes overlooking the room where his wife played the piano. At this, Rajgopal turned to look at him in horror. \"What is it now, Rajgopal? Can't you do one small thing?\", Dr. Mehta was clearly irked. \"But Doctor Sahab, Madam loves those flowers. And those roses have been growing there for decades. They bloom all the time and are so beautiful. Please, Doctor Sahab, let them be. Everyone will stay happily and peacefully,\" Rajgopal replied in a meek voice. \"Rajgopal I'm not seeking any advice from you. Just burn those bushes and do away with the flowers, will you?\", Dr. Mehta hollered back. 175

Scared, Rajgopal mumbled in agreement and retreated. With trembling hands, Rajgopal set fire to the rose bushes, muttering the Hanuman Chalisha under his breath. When Mrs. Mehta saw the roses gone, she became hysterical, convinced that some great misfortune was sure to befall her family. \"Rajeev, you shouldn't have done this. The consequences will be terrible, I'm telling you\", she kept on repeating. Mrs. Mehta was not herself that evening. Soon she developed a high fever and the hysteria turned worse. Dr. Mehta had to put her in bed administering tranquilisers. Meanwhile, Misha too was upset. She refused to come out of her play tent or have dinner. Her doll had stopped talking with her all of a sudden, and Misha had no idea what she had done to offend Titli. The next morning, Dr. Mehta left early for the hospital, having received an urgent call regarding an emergency. As he drove past the iron gates of the building, he heard a distant giggle, almost a mocking kind of laughter. He looked around but the streets were empty. Dismissing the incident as a figment of his imagination, he drove off, oblivious to the fact that the rose bushes that had been burned down last evening had sprung up again, thriving with bunches of red roses, sanguine - just as fresh as oozing blood. Mrs. Mehta was back at her piano, smiling and playing to the flowers. And Misha's doll, Titli, had started talking to her again. But the happenings that evening were to change several lives forever, in ways no one had ever imagined even in their wildest dreams. ***** Dr. Mehta drove back from the hospital and dusk was falling fast. While driving through one of the deserted roads that linked the city to the countryside, the headlights of his red 176

sedan began flickering. It was difficult to see in the dark and Dr. Mehta drove straight into a thorny hedge of bushes and shrubs. He heard the tires deflate. Grumbling, he looked for a flashlight stored in the car and after switching it on, he was shocked by the sight that awaited him. The car's front viewer and the glass on both the front doors had been covered by huge blood-red roses, the size of pumpkins, that seemed to be inching closer and closer, cracking the glass. They looked like the very same rose bushes that he had burned down last evening - only much taller, bigger and menacing. The same mocking laughter that he had heard in the morning started echoing in his ears. In a flash of momentary realization, Dr. Mehta understood that his wife had been telling the truth, no matter how ridiculous it had sounded back then. \"What do you want?\", he whispered, realizing that the bushes were here for revenge. They were slowly but surely crushing the car and Dr. Mehta to death. \"I am sorry if I offended you, but I didn't mean to. Please don't harm me or my family. We will leave the house and go away. Please.\", he prayed frantically, closing his eyes as one of the flowers succeeded in cracking the glass and pushing its massive petals inside. ***** Back home, Misha was talking with her doll, Titli. The doll asked her, \"Don't you want a sister of your own?\" \"I have always told Mom, but she never listens to me\", Misha complained. Titli smiled, \"Then come with me and together we will stay happily ever after. Just us.\" Misha was confused, \"Come with you? Where?\" \"Where I live\", Titli pointed her hand at the rose bushes that were visible from Misha's balcony. 177

\"But you live here, with me. How can you be there?\" \"No, I stay there. Come, take my hand and we'll stay together, forever\", Titli urged, in a most pleading voice. ***** Hearing Dr. Mehta's words, the rose bushes retreated, whispering, \"Follow us. Follow the trail. Set her free. Set her free\". Though Dr. Mehta had no idea what was happening, nor was he able to comprehend anything, he impulsively did what he was told. The bushes bled a thin trail of the brightest crimson and he followed the trail. The headlights had started working again. The trail made its way through the streets with a sense of determined purpose and soon Dr. Mehta had reached the gates of House Number 1313. ***** Misha took Titli's hand and marched out of her room, downstairs, then out into the open. The roses in the garden swayed ecstatically to the funeral march Sneha Mehta was playing, the notes growing stronger and louder by the minute, almost ready to reach a crescendo. Misha opened the main door of the house and stepped out, holding Titli's hand. ***** Dr. Mehta jumped out of the car and ran towards the rose bushes where the crimson trail had vanished. The funeral march echoing from his wife’s piano told him he had very little time left. In the distance, he saw Misha walking with transfixed glassy eyes towards the rose bushes. She was all alone. 178

He shouted out at her to stop but she didn't seem to hear him. Spotting a shovel lying nearby, Dr. Mehta ran towards the bushes and started digging into the ground. In the darkness, there was little he could see, except for the faint halo that surrounded Misha as she steadily continued to approach the patch. She looked as if she was in some sort of trance and didn't know her father was present there. Panting, Dr. Mehta kept digging until he heard the sound of the shovel hitting metal. He cleared the dug-up area as quickly as he could. The funeral march had reached its crescendo and Misha was only a couple of steps away from the pit. Gasping for breath, Dr. Mehta frantically switched on the flashlight and opened the iron box. Inside, wrapped in a fading white cloth was the skeleton of a small baby. \"I promise to set you free. Please don't hurt my family\", he uttered the first words that came to his mind. The spell was broken. Misha stopped in her tracks, just two steps away from the pit and looked around, wondering what she was doing there. The funeral march too stopped, and Ms. Mehta ran outside calling out loudly, \"Misha, Misha, where are you?\" \"Mummy\", Misha ran into her mother's arms and buried her head in the folds of her gown. Mrs. Mehta picked up Misha and walked towards her husband. ***** Rajgopal was called and questioned. He confessed that Mr. Singh had an unmarried daughter who had conceived an illegitimate child - a girl - who was stillborn. And because Mr. Singh had kept the matter secret, afraid of being shamed by all 179

who knew him, when the child was born dead, they had buried her in the garden. The rose bushes had grown there and no matter how many times they were cut, they always grew back. A few days after the incident, his daughter had committed suicide, hanging herself in her study- the room on the terrace. Soon after that, Mr. Singh and his family left for the U.S., never to return again. And Rajgopal shifted to the cottage behind the mansion. He would come occasionally to check the house, but the rose bushes kept thriving on their own. They never needed watering. Rajgopal further confessed that earlier another family had taken this mansion, but they left within a few months, shortly after their little daughter disappeared mysteriously. She was last seen playing near the rose bushes. ***** The next day, a priest was called in and the child's remains were buried in the backyard after conducting the necessary funeral prayers. Misha had no memory of Titli ever being there, so no one ever came to know about her talking doll. Dr. Mehta was immensely, relieved that his family had been spared. Even though he had shunned superstition all his life, these events had left him with questions that he knew would never have any logical answers. But then again, some things were beyond science and Dr. Mehta decided to settle on that. All that mattered was that his family was safe. As the three of them stood there, holding hands, a light breeze started blowing and Dr. Mehta could hear a distinct \"thank you\" as though the wind was whispering to him. He looked at the gates of the mansion and saw a pair of tiny little footprints disappear just outside the premises. The breeze stopped just as abruptly as it had started to blow. Finally, the baby's soul had been put to rest. Or so Dr. Mehta hoped. 180

Samrudhi Dash, who writes under the pseudonym \"Inara\" has authored five poetry collections and three novels till date. An author, poet and editor, winner of the \"Nissim International Poetry Prize, 2019\", she has completed her Masters in English literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU), New Delhi. She currently lives in the same metropolis.   181

FRIDAYS BY THE WOODS Dr. Dipima Buragohain She was climbing up the stairs slowly to her room while talking over the phone with a colleague about the upcoming conference on multiculturalism. In between her giggles about a funny incident the previous day she did notice someone, a relatively tall figure, standing at the top of the stairs. When she put the phone down, there was a man standing and looking at her with a gentle smile. Was he old or young? It was hard to say - he had a curious young-old look. He must be the guy everyone talked about lately. She smiled back and they exchanged greetings of a wonderful morning. It was a Friday, no class schedules for the colleagues. That is why she could meet this recently re-joined colleague of hers after weeks. “I have heard so much about you Professor. Almost everyone here knows you and told me how things were great when you used to be here long ago.” She tried to be calm while controlling her overwhelming feelings at seeing this much- talked-about person for real. Everybody talked about him, how he initiated a lot of changes for the department as a Chair years ago. Everyone speaks of him with high regard. He must be an old man, strict and reserved that was the impression she had got from her colleagues. “Oh, please call me Azmi”, he responded politely with a gentle smile. That voice sounded gorgeous, she thought. They exchanged a brief conversation about the upcoming conference, the new academic session that they are going to team-teach a new subject in. He sounded a very eloquent and erudite person to her, something that everyone had told her about him. She 182

ended the short introductory session by promising to meet him for lunch later that day at his request. He indeed was a kind, generous and profoundly intellectual man with the knowledge and ability to speak on almost anything under the sun. They discussed quite a lot over lunch – Shakespeare, Chekhov, Browning, governments, economy, poetry, art and what not. She was the most delighted soul to have met him in a place new to her, in a country new to her. He was someone she could feel a connection with, to share her words with and in the most comfortable way ever. He was a scholar with a literature background and loved art, theatre, music and all the things she loved to do and discuss. So, the bonding became quick and interesting that took shape of their endless conversations on arts and aesthetics from then on. “I googled you”, he told her. Azmi was aware of her limited literary work published here and there. But he said he liked her style of writing simple things in the simpler yet special way. “You will have to teach me how to write poems if I may request”, he said politely with that smile she was familiar with by now. Since it was a Friday afternoon with less work in the office, they planned to work on a little writing exercise. Azmi drove her through the nearby village to stop near a quiet stretch of the road. It was a rather long green patch of uneven trees that danced rhythmically to the breeze. There was no other music but that of those uneven trees. There was a plain meadow followed by a thick green blanket of woods leading to somewhere unknown. It looked like a small window to a magical fairyland, something she would only visualise while reading about kings and queens, demons and witches. “This is my favourite spot”, Azmi spoke softly, “Whenever I want to be with myself, I visit this spot. I want to know what 183

is beyond the woods. It intrigues me to know what kind of a world awaits me at the other end.” She could trust those words. The woods indeed intrigued her curiosity. She could feel the mystical air the woods entwined in. “Please tell me how to begin with my first poem”, his words startled her bringing back to him. “Oh, we just need a prompt. Let us start with the woods.” That was the first time she visited that spot before frequenting there so many times with or without Azmi. The academic session began. The new course was developed by the team including her and Azmi. She wanted to add a lot of innovation to the teaching materials and assignments through technological inclusion, and the team liked her suggestions. There were short film screenings and discussions, book reviews at cafes with students, and all sorts of fun learning usually Engineering undergraduates are not used to doing in an ordinary language class. Azmi was the happiest to use the coursework, and he could not thank her enough for those ideas. “I am learning a lot from you, my teacher!” He told her many a time. Azmi was such a humble soul. Of course, she learned more from him as their literary discussions continued over breakfast, lunch and other official gatherings. And what a storyteller he was! His descriptions were more like stories she used to hear from her grandmother. There were stories mostly from his school days and memories from his ancestral village. His weird encounter with a cobra coiling up and looking straight into his eyes when he ran away from home to the paddy field to escape his father’s rage over a low score sheet in Grade Four. Or the politics of his royal lineage from the maternal grandmother that saw his distant cousins grow from rags to riches while casting him away like garbage. But the most interesting ones were always about his ‘other identity’ 184