Faculty Advisor’s LetterDr. Vikram Kapur

Editors’ NoteGokulnath Govindan &Saumya Bhatt

Contributors

Bios

Bob Ka JobToshan Majumdar

The Helpless BystanderSiddharth Srinivasan

The Happily-Ever-After PackageAvantika Panda

High On EmotionsB. Deewang

LegacyMaunica Kolla

StumpedSaketh RVK

A Question A DayS Anirudh Vishal Yadav

Lights In The SeaSaketh RVK

In-BetweenKirthana S

The BubbleMaunica Kolla

The Abdicated FatherKaran Rajan

Detective MaussSaumya Bhatt

Dr. Vikram Kapur

It is the moment of inspiration that gives any creative work its X-factor. That eureka moment, however,is arrived at after much deliberation. To paraphrase Thomas Edison: Creative writing is 1 percentinspiration and 99 percent perspiration.All the students contributing to this issue of The Freewheeler have worked tirelessly to marry the creativewith the critical. Each story that appears in these pages has gone through several incarnations beforemaking it to the printed page. The final incarnation is as much a result of deep thought as a spurt ofinspiration. The stories, themselves, show a wide variety of styles and concerns. There are stories thatare sombre in nature, stories that crackle with laughter, stories that investigate deep emotional states,and stories that create suspense. The stories also deal with a multiplicity of issues—sport, madness,murder, love, a troubled family, destitution, giving birth, and being in a troubled nation.Writers are not the only heroes at The Freewheeler. Like the two issues that preceded it, the stories inthis third issue of The Freewheeler have been painstakingly worked on by editors and copy editors in abid to make them as good as they can possibly be. They have been enhanced by the efforts of illustratorsand presented attractively on the page through the toil of designers. The Freewheeler is a result of theircollaborative efforts.Finally, I would like to thank my colleagues at the Department of English who have been behind thisendeavour from the start. The former Director of the School of Humanities and Social Sciences, DrShubhashis Gangopadhyay, gave The Freewheeler his blessing when it was conceived two years ago andnever wavered in his support. The current Director, Dr Ajay Dandekar, has been just as forthcoming forwhich I am grateful. Without his support, this magazine would not have been possible.

In popular perception, the creative and the criticalstand poles apart. The creative is all about the heart. Itembodies passion in all its wild spontaneity andinhabits the world of fancy. Its prime catalyst isinspiration. The critical, on the other hand, emanatesfrom the head. It is about logic and reasoning; aproduct of much thought and deliberation. Toparaphrase Kipling: Oh, Creative is Creative, and Criticalis Critical, and never the twain shall meet.That is the first misconception that anyone teachingcreative writing has to surmount. Even more so in Indiawhere the discipline is still in its infancy and peoplebelieve that writers are not made; they simply happen.The realization is yet to set in that the writing of prose,poetry and drama is deliberate rather thanspontaneous, and anything that is deliberate has toemploy critical thought. That is not to say thatinspiration is not important.

Gokulnath Govindan & Saumya Bhatt

Before saying anything else, we both have no doubts or qualms about the fact that we are proud to edit this edition of The Freewheeler. This edition is special in many ways but it is unique in also being the first of its kind to have two editors who have such distinctive styles and attitudes. While one of them is excited about publishing her own story, the other knows nothing of this excitement.As individuals, it not only helped us gain a taste of editing despite the initial hiccups, it also taught us about what it means to work together in a team. Either ways we both want to do the best we can. Now that we both have praised ourselves, we must warn any successor of ours that this is no easy job. It seems and feels like it could be a day’s job but it in fact is time-consuming. In order to make the job slightly easier, stories were divided and both of us had to deal with a different set of work. While Gokul read stories on Cricket, greed, emotional drugs and what not Saumya dealt with stories having reunion, Friendship, madness and much more. We have to say that reading and editing these stories, coming from so many different people, was altogether a very new experience. They grabbed us immediately as we felt great joy in working with them. All our work would be in vain without the support of the design team and the illustrators. The design team comprising of Aninya Gangal and Soumya Rampal were always ready to help us with designing the layout and were very patient while we kept demanding for changes frequently. The sketches which complete this edition were done by Sai Swaroop and Aishwarya Reddy and we must say that it was a great experience working with such talented people. We would also like to thank all the writers and Keerthana, who proofread them all. Finally, we are extremely grateful to Dr. VikramKapur for giving us this opportunity and constantly guiding us throughout the process. We hope that you all enjoy reading this.

Editing TeamGokulnath GovindanSaumya Bhatt

ProofreaderKeerthana

ArtistsAishwarya ReddySai Swaroop

Design TeamAninya GangalSoumya Rampal

WritersToshan MajumdarSiddharth SrinivasanAvantika PandaB. DeewangMaunica KollaSaketh RVKS Anirudh Vishal YadavKirthana SKaran RajanSaumya Bhatt

Is an editor but wants to be a writer because it is the only way you can be immortal and

lazy.

An ardent canine lover and writer, she enjoys

going on road trips and is a selfishily

amateurish chef!Lovestaking long walks in

the night,gazing at the moon aiming to write

brilliant poetry.P.S.- Don't eye her!

She is in a committed relationship with her

sleep!

Co-Editor

Co-Editor

A 21 year old with a teenage heart, type-A

hoarder of rubberbands, pens

and clothes tags and a love for colours that translates into a very

expensive makeup fetish.

Illustrator

Soumya Rampal has yet to meet a cupcake or a cat that doesn't like her. She is the

illegitimate love-child of Intelligence andCreativity, and now

neither parent admits to having had her.

Contributing to entropy since 1996.

Design Editor

Sub-EditorWriter She believes that

when life gives you lemons, you should construct a crude electrochemical

battery.

Proofreader

Recovering chocolate addict.In search of sanity and sleep.

Currently pursuing BSc. Mathematics

with an emphasis on illustrating and

Bathroom singing.Plans to roam around the world with her ukulele, George.

Also a firm believer of spreading smiles like

they're herpes.

Design Editor

Unpunctual Faujibeta,conspiracy

theorist and internet pirate, scrounges for

enjoyable stories through articles,

books, movies, serials, comics like a raccoon through trash cans. Majoring in CSE, sits

blank faced in classes expecting the

meaning of his life to strike him like a death

in GoT.

He lives by one rule -Life is a joke, laugh at it. But then fine day

he was asked to write a funny bio, it was

then he realized that not all jokes are funny.

Writer

Writer

A bad sense of humour and non stop

monologue define Saketh's company.

The first words out of his mouth? "Let the

games begin!"

Writer

Studies mechanical engineering but never

fell in love with machines, wrote two lines of fiction and fell

for writing.

Writer

Writer

Sub-EditorWriter

I live in an exaggerated version of life in which music and books are personified.

I seek pleasure in the smallest of things in

life. I took up engineering to create a base for myself.But

my heart lies in expressing myself

through writing and music.

Writer

Writer

Writer

Writer

Sub-EditorWriter

Writer

Toshan Majumdar16.’

‘Sector 16? I'm going to Noida citycentre. I have a Biye Badi there. Myniece Shamoli's marriage is on the25th.’

Amlan, furthering the conversationasks, ‘First time in Delhi?’ to whichthe mild mannered person responds,‘Yes. Amar naam Buddhadeb OnkarBiswas. Kintoo people call me BOB!’With the progression of theconversation Biswas then startslamenting on his unforeseen situationwhich forces him to miss Kolkata'sDurga Pujo for Shamoli's weddingarrangements. Biswas says, ‘Dada!How come it is so quiet in Delhi?Right now in Kolkata, you would hearonly the sounds of dhakis and get thesmell of Shiuli phool!’Suddenly all those memories comeback to Amlan. Memories of crazy,colourful nights spent pandal hoppingwith college buddies. Ekdalia,Maddox Square, Shingi Park, theyexperienced it all. Walking throughthe overflowing crowd all dressed indesigner kurtas, covertly staring atattractively attired girls, clickingphotos of diversely themed mandaps,idols and talking loudly over theprevailing sounds of the dhakis andRabindra sangeet. However thebiggest draw was always the food. Itwas as important as the pushpanjalion ashtami or wearing new clotheseach day. The food stalls beside themandap at Maddox Square would belined by serpentine queues hungeringfor the exotic jhalmuris, eggroll,phuchkas or maach bajha withKashondi sauce.

After satisfying their adda inducedhunger, they would hang around the

nearby mandaps to kill time beforethe crowning moment of the night.The Tridhara mandap alwaysorganized a sound and light showwhich would draw suchuncontrollable crowds year after yearthat Amlan and his buddies wouldhave to wait until 2:00 after midnightto watch it. Then the pujo fervorwould finally end at the Ganga bankswhere the idols of Maa Durga wouldbe brought for immersion andculminate with the cries of ‘AASCHEBOCHOR ABE HOBE!’Amlan is jolted back to the present bythe overfamiliar feminine voiceannouncing, ‘Aglaa station NoidaSector 16 hai. Darwaza baye tarafkhulenge. Kripya darwaze se hat karkhade ho jaye’.In a maddened rush, he picks up his

briefcase and rushes towards thenearest exit after bidding him, ‘AaschiBOB! Enjoy the Biye!’ Afternavigating through the officegoerscrowd, Amlan takes the escalator andhis eyes fall on his briefcase.

Suddenly all those memories come back to Amlan. Memories of crazy,

colourful nights spent pandalhopping with college buddies.

Ekdalia, Maddox Square, ShingiPark, they experienced it all.

Walking through the overflowing crowd all dressed in designer kurtas,

covertly staring at attractively attired girls, clicking photos of

diversely themed mandaps, idols and talking loudly over the

prevailing sounds of the dhakis and Rabindra sangeet.

Amlan Roy hurriedly descends intothe Rajiv Chowk metro station, anarena of chaos in the stifling summerheat of Delhi filled with peoplescurrying like ants, and amidst blaringarrival and departure announcementshe makes his way to the platform.It is already 8:30 and he cannotf a c e h i s m e r c u r i a l bo s s w i t hany stupid reasons. As he standsbehind the yellow line, straininghis neck to have a glimpse of the

train, a waft of cheap cologne assailshis nostrils. He picks up his briefcasejust as the train doors slide open. Theunruly crowd slams into him like awhiplash, he hears somebody exclaimhis thoughts in his own vernacular,

‘Ore baba!’ Before his sensescan track the source, he finds himselfin the train, pushed in with thecrowd's momentum. The doors closeand everybody realigns like moleculesin a solid. The train picks up speed.

After three stations, the train goesthrough a tunnel during which Amlanparks himself next to the object of hisspeculation. He curiously observesthe short, spectacled middle agedman sitting beside him reading theAnanda Bazaar Patrika and instantlyrecognizes the familiar smell ofcologne realizing that this must behim. He notices his worn out officesandals, well oiled hair, starched butclearly not ironed shirt and abriefcase similar to his looking exactlylike those typical Bengali clerks hewould have found walking downManiktala Crossing, hurrying to boarda mini bus. He stands out in starkcontrast to the typical Delhi crowd. Ina friendly voice, Amlan greets,‘Bangali?’ to which he responds, ‘Yes!Yes! Apnioo!’ ‘ Ami Amlan. I'm goingto HFCC headquarters in Noida sector

He instantly realises his dreadfulmistake on seeing the initials 'B.O.B.'.He turns round, grips the rails andruns up the escalator two steps at atime while passing annoyedpassengers. Panting, he reaches theplatform only to witness the nexttrain cruising in, unloading itspassengers. He rushes in shudderingat the thought of his boss beratinghim for his lack of punctuality andirresponsible behavior. He glances athis steel gray Timex wondering whythe seconds are ticking by so slowly.He finally gets down at Noida CityCentre, scanning the platform for hisfriend from Kolkata. He then rushesoutside the station and spots Biswasat a nearby Airtel mobile shop.Relieved, he shouts ‘BOB!’ to catch

his attention. Like a student caughtcopying, Bob surreptitiously takes asideways glance, his face showingfleeting fear. Seeing Amlan, heheaves a sigh of relief and breaks intoa nervous smile. ‘Ki holo Dada?’ heinquires, to which Amlan explains theaccidental switch of their bags. Bothshare a moment of anxiety averted asthey go their own ways after bidinggoodbye. Wiping the sweat off hisforehead, Amlan goes towards theplatform edge to see his trainapproaching, when he suddenly feelsa deliberate push unbalancing him.Heads strain to follow the trail ofblood. Some of them scream inhorror; an old lady faints and the traincomes to an abrupt halt but it isalready too late. The crowd slowly

snowballs as it becomes evident thata mishap had occurred. As the crowdleans forward to get a clear picture, ashort spectacled middle-aged manundaunted by all the commotionpicks up his briefcase, turns aroundand starts walking. His face is calm ashe mumbles, ‘Bidhai, Amlan Dada’.He breathes normally again knowingthat no one was privy to the contentsof his suitcase, save himself. A briefsense of remorse floods his being onlyto be cut short by the vibration of hisNokia 1100. His demeanor changesto focus on the voice of instructions:‘Nomoskar, BOB! Tomar target holo:HFCC company er CEO Mr. Rajiv Miland’!

Siddharth SrinivasanSorrow contorted her sallow face, andthe hands that carried the little brownboy were shaking uncontrollably. Hereyes were sunken, and her cheekswere stained with tears, whichcontinued to trickle down her face.Her sari hung about her looselydraped, and her shoulders seemed toslump, as she trudged toward me.The little child in her arms could nothave been more than three years old,his small eyes closed, and his bonycheek resting contently on hismother’s shoulder. It was evidentthat he shared none of his anguishedmother’s worries, as he rested there,oblivious and content in her arms.Entering the sanctuary of my shade,she stood meekly beneath my archingleafy boughs- a pitiful, haggard figure,apparently under unbearable strain.

As she reached me, she stood quietlywith the child at the foot of my vasttrunk. Her shuffling feet and shiftyeyes spoke of deep apprehension, asher quivering, nervous hands, roughand coarse from hard labour, gentlylifted the blissfully drooling child fromher shoulder, and placed him on thecold cobblestone. She bent over,sobbing quietly into the pallu of herred sari, gazing at the cherub’s facewith passionate longing, almost as ifshe was allowing herself a deniedpleasure as she drank in every featureshe could of her child. When shestood up again, an indifferenthardness had set upon her face; herteeth were clenched and the bones inher cheek were protruding in silentdetermination. As she turned awayfrom her child, only her eyes showedany sign of her terrible loss,besides the slight jerk in hergait as she walked away.

The poor child at my roots would

wake up in a few hours an orphan,alone in this world, facing anuncertain and hazy future. The boywould have to, at this young age,work for a living, would have toprovide for himself, and would haveto face the harshness of reality. I canstill recall with painful clarity thosewintry nights when, as a little saplingon the sidewalk, I brazenly withstoodthe howling wind piercing me like athousand needles, threatening to ripme from the ground. I empathizedwith this little fellow, but, being amango tree spirit, I could not reachout to him- I tried to move my boughsdown to lift him up- to caress andcradle him, but they remained rigidand immobile, refusing to comply andhelp out the orphaned child. I tried invain to give the sleeping boy moreshade, but my leaves left me helpless,letting dazzling sunlight scorch thepoor child’s face. I could do nothingbut hope that the boy would manageand overcome the overwhelmingodds. For three days, I watched himintently as he played with the pebbleson the road, satiating his hunger withthe temple prasaad. I felt responsiblefor his fate, which I found myselfunable to mould, except to providehim with fruit and shade from time totime.

He was thin and quite tall for his age,his face dark and sunburned, withbright black, dancing eyes set in awell-chiselled face, which he seemedto get from his mother. His feet werebare, blackened by the grime of theroad. He seemed to believe that hismother would come back for him,often calling out to her in his shrillvoice, in between sobs and howls,fear and confusion mingling in hisdesperate voice.

Four days into the boy’s life alone, Isaw the old man from the littlenewspaper shop next to my housewalk up to him. He was bent double,wore thick, nearly opaque spectaclesand an old walking stick supported hisgnarled, senile frame. He totteredabout the place in a dhoti and a whitekurta, peering fiercely out frombeneath his bushy, white eyebrows.As he shuffled towards the boy, I felta wave of anxiety, for the old manwas irritable and foul-mouthed, andwas avoided by the local folk, whofeared his dangerous temper. As hereached the foot of my mango tree, Iprayed that my boy had done nowrong to incur the uncouth devil’swrath.

She bent over, sobbing quietly into the pallu of her red sari, gazing at the cherub’s face with passionate longing,

almost as if she was allowing herself a denied pleasure as

she drank in every feature she could of her child.

into a tight line, parted slightly and hiseyes seemed to be lost in woefulreminiscence, as he appeared torecollect traumatic experiences of abitter past. For a blurry moment ofsuspense, I thought that I hadmisheard the old man’s next words,as I reeled in sheer disbelief. ‘Aao…kuch khaao na, beta…’ the old manhad said, his face kinder and gentlerthan I had ever seen it, as his lipsturned upwards into a smile that hisface had long-forgotten. As theywalked towards the shop, I heard theold man ask softly, ‘Naam kya hai,beta?’ The boy looked trustingly up athim, and said, ‘Suraj…’ As they

turned into the shop, I was glad thatthe boy had finally found a friend.Near my roots, the whirling windswept another young sapling off theground, ripping its feebly protestingroots from the soil, whirling the dyingplant through the air. While I wishedthe best for Suraj, I doubted if hecould overcome the trying, tortuousroad ahead, for he was, after all, astreet boy, deemed to live a hard,rugged life. I looked at the boythrough the shop window, willing himto be strong enough to stand on hisown feet and face the difficult timesahead.

He approached the boy, surveyinghim keenly, his long white hairhanging droopily over his wrinkledface. ‘What are you doing here, heh?Mummy-papa kahan hai?’ hegrowled, his voice as gruff and hostileas usual. The boy unhesitatinglyreplied innocently, ‘Mummy gayi…’he squeaked. The old man merelyscowled in reply, and barked, ‘Salle,bloody parents just abandon theirchildren here to suffer on the streets,chutiye.’ As I watched withtrepidation, the creased, weather-beaten face seemed to relax, and theold man’s demeanour seemed tosoften- his thin lips, usually drawn

Avantika PandaIt’s wrong what they’ve written aboutus. I don’t have a cruel bone in mybody, and neither does my sister.Just because the masses typicallyprefer the stereotypical slim,gorgeous, leggy blonde with thesaucer sized brown eyes and thatsugar coated voice, they cast peoplelike my sister and me aside and labelus bitter and ugly. They’ve said wewere jealous of her and called us vilenames. Believe me, there’s nothing tobe jealous about. She’s the evil oneand the ugly one, at least on theinside.Hell upon those Grimm brothers forportraying the story from such anunkind perspective in the first place.But I guess it doesn’t matter becauseI’m going to set you straight rightnow. Her real name is Ellen. Shecame into our lives sixteen years agoin the form of a precocious two yearold when our mother married herfather Frank. I don’t know what mumsaw in her father. We thought he wasa pompous man right from the start.But I suppose mum was lonely afterour no-good dad ran off with theQueen’s lady-in-waiting. I guess itwas hard trying to raise us on herown, struggling with bills, trying toprovide my sister and me with theright schooling and social credentialsto make it in the world. Up until shemarried Frank, she could never affordthe designer dresses we needed; andshe didn’t have the connections toget us invitations to the exclusiveballs where we would be seen andnoticed.From the moment Ellen became partof our family, things started to gowrong. Tiny, sweet little Ella as herdaddy called her, was the focus of allattention. She made sure of that. To

say she was naughty would be anunderstatement. Even at an earlyage, she knew exactly how to pin theblame on us for just about everymisdemeanor.Once when she was about five, shesmeared Frank’s moustache wax allover the floor in the bathroomcausing him to slip and break his arm.She told our mother that she’d seenus using it on our ringlets. Yes,moustache wax is great for holdingcurl, but we’d only sneak a tiny bitevery now and then. To be punishedfor something we didn’t do wasforeign to us at the time, but it was acircumstance we would find ourselvesin many times in the years to come.

So I guess the stories are right aboutone thing. We hated her.

Sister tried to tell mother what Ellawas really like, but it was futile. Hercharm had even enveloped our ownmother. Ella would curl up atmother’s feet and gaze into her eyes.

'Oh, dear stepmother,' she woulddrool. 'How cruel of fate to depriveme of my own mother whose sweetface fades from my memory each day;but how kind of fate to replace thatface with yours… I am trulyfortunate.‘By the time she was 15, she could dono wrong in either Frank’s eyes or ourmother’s. The older she grew, theprettier she became. And the prettiershe became, the more control shehad over everyone. Mother stoppedgoing to her previous great lengths toprovide us with the best clothes.Instead she would pick on us'You girls really should try to lose alittle weight. Ella is so slim. How do

you expect to marry a prince if youboth look like hogs?’Or, 'Your hair looks most crinkly thesedays. You should spend more timebrushing it, as Ella does.‘We couldn’t believe how things hadchanged – but sadly we could donothing about our situation.

The annual Queen’s gala ball wasforthcoming. The most splendid starstudded event of the year. Anevening of gaiety, dancing, fine foodand wine… and most importantly, lotsof eligible courtiers ripe for thepicking, the most eligible of whichwas the Queen’s handsome son,Prince Charming. The news was outon the news blogs and the royalwebsite.

‘Hello, dear. I hope I’m in the right place. I’m your

fairy godmother–from The Goodwill

Godmothers.'

Both Sister and I dreamed of just onedance with him. Sister and I waitedanxiously each day for our invitationsas we looked forward to themagnificent event. Then they arrived.Sister collected the mail and there,dusted with gold, bearing our nameswere three invitations – includingElla’s! Our worst fears were realized.Sister’s immediate thought was totoss Ella’s invitation into the fire. Butas I pointed out, this would justarouse suspicion and all fingers wouldpoint at us.'No, I’m afraid we’ll have to accept it.We don’t stand a chance, dear sister.Once Prince Charming sets eyes onher pretty little face, he’ll be smitten,I’m sure.‘'Hey, I have an idea,' offered Sister.'We could have her kidnapped.‘I was shocked at Sister’s suggestion,

she being so gentle of nature.

Then she added, 'at least until the ballis over, and we’d make sure shewasn’t harmed; intentionally anyway.‘I must admit, it wasn’t an entirelyoutrageous idea, but valuing my roleas the sensible, intelligent one I couldonly offer weak words ofencouragement.

‘No, dear sister. The only thing wecan do is trust in ourselves. We haveclass and style. We will be radiant,captivating and we will truly outshineher.‘

The next two weeks passed in a flurryof excitement. There were dressfittings, shoe fittings, hair styleappointments and much protocol tolearn. Sister and I practiced ourcurtsies, and perfected the art ofusing a fan. We polished our speechand buffed our manners until we

were gleaming examples of perfectetiquette. As always, we left Ella toher own devices. We neither offeredour help, nor commented on anyaspect of her own preparations.On the morning of the big day ourdresses arrived. I took the delivery ofthree magnificent ball gowns; jewelencrusted, shimmering works of art,they had cost a small fortune and wecouldn’t wait to put them on. Theywere quite heavy, and as I carriedthem upstairs to the dressing rooms, Itripped on the top step andaccidentally caught my heel on theskirt of Ella’s dress. I fell forward andthe dress tore from waist to hem.

'Oh dear God in heaven!' I cried.'Sister, come quickly – I’ve rippedElla’s dress.‘Sister ran to my aid, her face a pastywhite.

She clapped a trembling hand overher mouth.'You are SO dead!‘'Thank you for mentioning theobvious, dear sister, but what are weto do? Everyone will think I did thison purpose.‘

My sister could offer no comfort, onlyto say I should tell the truth.

'They’ll understand,' she said. 'It wasan accident. They know you wouldn’tdo something like that on purpose.Come on, the sooner we get this overwith the better.‘

Then I remembered why I havealways been portrayed as thesensible, intelligent one.

'No, I have a better idea, dear sister.Get me the yellow pages.‘

Sister ran to the parlour and cameback with a hulking edition of theMagical Kingdom, Zone Three YellowPages.

I thumbed furiously through it until Icame to the Disaster Relief sectionand found what I was looking for:Fairy Godmothers. There were some20 listed, all with varying credentials.Some promised Rags to Riches relief,some specialized in SpeciesAlteration, both temporary andpermanent, and others did across-the-board wish granting. I picked onewith her own advertising banner: TheGoodwill Godmothers. I phoned thenumber and spoke to a kindly, olderwoman, explaining my plight.

'Yes dearie, I can help. We actuallyspecialize in ball packages, verypopular this time of year. Not cheapyou understand, but the priceincludes the dress, shoes, hair andmakeup plus luxury Limo transfers toand from the event. Conditionsapply.‘

'Oh, do come over right away!‘

I bundled the torn dress into a bag,shoved it under my bed, and hung ourgowns in the closet, just as Ellaappeared in my bedroom doorway.

'Have the gowns arrived yet?' shesneered.'Er, no, not yet. Ella, I just wanted tosay how pleased I am that we’re allgoing to the ball. I know it’s your firstevent of this grandeur and I knowyou’ll have a wonderful time. In fact,sister and I have arranged a specialsurprise for you.‘

Ella curled her top lip and scowled.'What for? I have no doubt thatyou’ve been scheming madly tosabotage this event for me in someway; however, with or without your'surprise' I will be the belle of the ball.Furthermore, when the prince setseyes upon my beauty and mystunning gown, he will becomebesotted and ask for my hand inmarriage.‘

She turned to leave, but not beforespinning around to pitch one finalinsult. 'We all know that the prince isgoing to set his heart on me; maybe Icould find you two somebody in thecourt whose lives are as miserable asyours are.‘ With that, she giggled andstormed off to her room.

Sister sat on my bed and burst intotears.'Don’t let her get to you,’ I said.'She’s a nasty little brat and we allknow that what goes around comesaround.‘'I just wish it wouldn’t take so long incoming!' she sobbed.'Come, come now. Don’t cry. Youreyes will be puffy and you won’t lookyour best.‘

I comforted her as best I could andjust as I managed to help her out of

her misery, there was a cacophonousscuffling inside my wardrobe. I threwopen the door to reveal a tiny, butplump elderly lady. Her silver hairwas pulled back in a tight knot andher cherry colored cheeks glowed as awide smile beamed from her face.

'Hello, dear. I hope I’m in the rightplace. I’m your fairy godmother–from The Goodwill Godmothers.‘

Sister and I helped her from the closetand closed the bedroom door.She immediately noticed Sister’s redeyes.

'My my dear, why so sad?’

The concern in her voice brought on afresh flood of tears, and I had nochoice but to explain the whole storyto the fairy godmother. I foundmyself pouring my heart out aboutElla’s nasty demeanor, her crueltytoward Sister and me, her evil pranksand her selfish acts.The fairy godmother listened andnodded sympathetically.

'Well my dears, we never advocateviolence when it comes to grantingwishes, but as it happens, I can helpwith a swift kick to a certain spoiltbutt. But for now, let’s get this showon the road. I need a couple of rats, apumpkin, and that torn dress and afew other bits and pieces.‘

When we had assembled the items,we were asked to find Ella.

I tapped on her bedroom door andwas greeted with an irritated, 'Getlost, I’m putting on my makeup.‘

'Ella, your gown has arrived, and oursurprise is ready. It’s in the kitchen.Do come.‘

'You’d better not make me late.'

Ella presented herself in the kitchenwrapped in a thick, fluffy kimono.

'Well? What’s this surprise and who’sthe gnome?' She looked a littlestartled when she noticed FairyGodmother – both sister and Iimmediately noticed a look ofsuspicion in her eyes.‘Why? I’m your fairy godmother.‘

'And just what do you think you cangive me that I don’t already have?‘'I’m here, at the request of your kindsisters, to make your first gala ball anunforgettable event.‘

With that, she waved her wand. Ella’skimono turned into the mostmagnificent spectacle of a ball gownwe had ever seen. A whirlwind ofshimmering pink satin and lace,encrusted with tiny pearl buttons.Much more splendid than the one Ihad torn. She tapped the pumpkinand the cage containing the two rats.With a puff of smoke, theydisappeared, only to reappear as afabulous sleek gold limo withchauffeurs parked in the frontdriveway. Ella was speechless – butjust for a moment. She looked downat her dress and the gorgeous glassslippers adorning her tiny feet. Herface exploded into a bright beamingsmile. 'This is SO COOL!‘

Then just as quickly, the smiledisappeared and she turned to glareat me.

'Okay, what’s the catch? Why allthis… for me? Not that I don’tdeserve it of course, but ordinarily,you wouldn’t take the time to throw acowpat at me. Explain. 'FairyGodmother stepped in.

Why Ella, you’re doubting us. Yoursisters are pure of heart, and this istheir gift to you because they loveyou as their own flesh and blood. Butyou’re correct. There is indeed acatch. When your sisters purchasedthe gala ball package, I neglected toexplain about the conditions

'pertaining to the time clause in thispackage.‘

'Time clause? What’s that all about?‘'Quite simply my dear, it means thatyou must leave the ball by the strokeof midnight.‘

Ella’s face contorted into a frown.'Midnight? Are you kidding? Thingswill just be starting to rock atmidnight. No one leaves a gala ball atmidnight. No way.‘

Fairy Godmother smiled. 'Sorryhoney, but if you don’t leave at thestroke of midnight, your splendidoutfit and your limo will turn backinto their previous form, right whereyou stand.‘'So… so you mean this getup is only aloaner?' spluttered Ella. 'What a royalrip off! I KNEW you two were out toget me,' she screamed, pointing amanicured finger at sister and me.'Look, forget it. I just want myoriginal dress, and I’ll take a taxi tothe ball. No conditions.‘'Sorry, lovely. What’s done cannot beundone – till midnight. ‘

The fairy godmother glanced at herwatch.'Oh my, I must fly. I have a frog toturn into a prince… and a crisis at agingerbread cottage. A fairygodmother’s work is never done.Now you all be sure to have a greattime.‘

And in a puff of smoke, shedisappeared. Sister and I exchangedglances.

'Well, we’d best get dressed. See youlater, Ella‘And we left her standing in thekitchen.The ball was truly an outstandingevent. Sister and I had a marveloustime- the best ever. We didn’t get todance with the prince but somethingmuch more wonderful happened. Itwas on that enchanted night that wemet our present husbands. Not asour step sister had intimated, but two

handsome brothers – both noblemen,tall of stature and kind of heart.

'A break at last!' as sister so succinctlyput it.

And Ella? Well as history reports it,she did indeed dance with the prince,but only once. She spent much of theevening sitting down, rubbing herfeet which were badly blistered fromthe glass shoes. She did leave the ballat midnight, losing one of those glassslippers when she tumbled down thecastle stairs. And yes the prince wentto extraordinary lengths to find itsowner. Not because he wanted toreturn it, but because HE wanted theother one and her beautiful dress aswell! The Queen’s one and only sonmade a special announcement thatnight. He chose the gala ball as his'coming out of the closet' party.

I am so glad we didn’t take the'happily ever after' option on that ballpackage.

B. DeewangI let the windows of my car down.The whipping cold, dry wind hittingmy face was almost refreshing. It hadbeen a long day, and I was finallydriving home after hours ofpaperwork and coffee consumption.It was getting dark but I could seethat the city was still very much alive.Yorkbay was a city that had neverfully immersed itself into thetechnological revolution that the pastdecade had brought; it always hadone foot in the past. The city still sawhuman interaction and the hustlebustle in the market area. Silentlycursing the traffic, I drove slowly,allowing myself to day dream aboutmy warm, soft and inviting bed. But Iwas harshly brought back to reality:my phone was ringing.‘Hello,’ I grunted.‘Detective, this is Officer Nawela.There has been a death on the 25th,near Zenith House.’‘Son, I’m heading back from a longday. You better be real sure that thisis a murder.’‘Um, the M.E. just ruled it as a suicide,but I’ve seen similar bodies in thepast couple of weeks. If you couldjust come and take a look, I’ve alreadycalled your partner.’‘Oh, have you now? That was nice ofyou,’ I replied, sarcastically, parkingmy car on one side of the road, ‘I’llhave to call the Sergeant and notifyhim.’‘I’ve done that too.’‘My, aren’t you resourceful. I’ll bethere in a short while.’

I turned my car around to make myway back into the city, and was at thescene in a record fifteen minutes. Mypartner, Science Officer TenaspaLamir, was already there. She wasone of the smartest people on theforce and I was lucky that she was my

partner. Lamir was one of theinfamous Geeklings: a group ofcivilians who were inducted into thepolice department without goingthrough proper training at theacademy because of their stellaracademic performances in areas thatthe Department was interested in.Though assigned a desk job, the fewwho were eventually cleared for fieldduty either couldn’t tolerate thepressure or just lost their livesbecause of sheer incompetence. Theremaining left soon after, except for aselect few, one of them being Lamir.A stubborn and focused woman, shetook what may have been the mostobvious decision for the rest of us:she joined the academy. And nowafter 10 years here she was one ofthe finest detectives on the force.‘So, what do we have here?’ I asked,as I slowly walked past an ornate gateof a palatial house into a gardenwhich to any sane mind woulddefinitely be called a park. I turnedmy gaze to look at the dead body, acrumpled heap, in front of me. Islowly bent down to inspect it.‘Well, we have a jumper here!Something I, personally, would call asuicide. But Officer Nawela here ispretty damn adamant that this is amurder,’ replied Lamir, and thenturned towards Nawela, ‘I hope youare not planning to use this situationto speed your promotion toDetective, Officer.’ I smiled to myself;Lamir wasn’t one to mince her words.‘Cut him some slack now,’ I toldLamir, before addressing Nawela, ‘Tellme, Officer. What’s on your mind?’‘Well, this is Mrs. Esco Jones, a widowin her 60s who lives by herself.During our canvas, we didn’t comeacross any eye witnesses. We werecontacted by the neighbour whonoticed the absence of the apparently

chirpy Mrs. Jones. The point ofinterest is that I have seen two otherbodies like hers; I was the firstresponder on one, and the second Isaw at the M.E.’s. First, they lookseverely dehydrated and weak, andthere is also something about theirexpressions that just doesn’t sit rightwith me. Why don’t you guys justlook into this once?’ he replied, a littledefensively.‘Is that all you’ve got? Those aresome really weak and vagueobservations, Officer. I can’t believethat the Sergeant signed off on this.’ Iturned my attention to the body.Needless to say, she wasn’t in thebest shape. I could see that she hadbroken quite a few bones, whichcould be just because of the fall. But,there was something about this thatjust didn’t sit right with me. ‘Well, Idon’t think we’ll find anything newhere. Let’s send this to the M.E.Lamir, head to the precinct. We’ll st

The M.E. had never called us this fast. Either he had finally

got his lazy ass to work on time or he had really found

something.

art by going through the files of these3 people. Let’s see what we can findout.’

The 52nd precinct was just round thecorner; a building that was as grim asthe morning that was slowly creepingup, even sunlight couldn’t brightenthe building. I hoped the oppositewould be true for our day.We were greeted by anexpressionless Sergeant near ourdesks, ‘I guess you guys arewondering why such a seemingly dullcase was handed to you?'‘The thought may have crossed ourminds. So why was it, sir?’ Lamirasked.‘That’s because one of the three deadguys was a Geekling.’ He turnedtowards Lamir, ‘You’ll rememberHarry Snow. Well, the higher-upswant this business sorted, fast.’My eyes never left Lamir while we satdown, she clearly looked disturbed.She shook her head violently, as iftrying to brush away whatever shewas feeling. Knowing her, I knewasking how she was feeling would beredundant. I pulled up Snow’s file.Harry Snow had become abusinessman. There was nothing inhis file that stood out. The secondvictim was a woman named Iris Park,a teacher. There was nothing out ofthe ordinary in her file, and neither inMrs. Jone’s file.I sighed heavily, unable to make anyheadway. My blank brain welcomedthe ringing phone. Lamir picked it up,‘This is Lamir. Uh huh… I see… Verywell then,’ she put the phone downand looked at me with slightpuzzlement on her face. ‘That wasDr. Death, he wants us downstairs.’Her puzzlement must be mirrored onmy face. The M.E. had never called usthis fast. Either he had finally got hislazy ass to work on time or he hadreally found something.We entered the morgue. Dr. Dellirios,called Dr. Death upstairs greeted uswith a toothy smile. It was only after Ihad gotten over the state of his wildhair that I noticed that he was puttinghis gloved hand forward. On his handwas a small chip covered in bloodand, what looked like, brain matter.

‘One’s company, two’s a crowd, andthree’s a party!’ chirped the derangeddoctor.‘You know that makes no sense,right?’ Lamir said pointedly.Dr. Death ignored her, ‘Your victimshad a slight burn which made me diginto their brain.’ It scared me howdelightful he sounded. ‘I found thesechips on all three of your victims. Irecognise it- it is a memory chip;something which is manufacturedsolely by Dream Logic Solutions. Ithink this is worth a look. ’I looked at him intently, ‘Is it weird forsomeone to have that tech in theirhead?’‘No. Not particularly.’‘Why does everyone want to be adetective today?’ Lamir said,annoyed, holding her head.

‘Calm down. Let’s give him a chance.Tell me, what does it do?’ I askedLamir.‘Well, I’m just vaguely familiar withthe concept, but I’ll try my best. Thechip is a memory recorder, itautomatically tags a memory happy,sad or something based on the partsof the brain it stimulates. One canthen access that memory anytime,consciously or unconsciously. Thistech has done wonders for peoplewho are clinically depressed, havesleep disorders et cetera, et cetera.’‘Wow. I thank you for that science-yexplanation,’ Lamir replied mockingly,taking a small bow.‘I think this place, Dream LogicSolutions, if I’m not wrong, deserves avisit from our side.’

The very next day, we drove our carinto the parking space of the fanciestbuildings I had ever seen in my life.Walking through the lobby of theplace, I started thinking that maybe Ihad made a mistake: I should’vebecome a businessman instead ofbecoming a cop.We were greeted and directed to aconference room by a really prettywoman. ‘Mr. Thanos and Dr. Grimalwill be here presently. Please makeyourselves comfortable,’ she said witha broad smile, before leaving.The door soon opened, and a smartlydressed middle-aged man walked in.His hair seemed to be whitening alittle on the sides and a proud beardcovered half his face while the rest ofit was covered by huge glasses.He smiled at us, ‘Hi, I am Dr. Grimaland I’m the chief researcher here.Mr. Thanos will be here any minute,but from what I’ve been told you’remore interested in our tech. I thinkI’ll be able to answer most of yourquestions.’‘Thanks a lot, doctor. We’re justfollowing up on a case which leftthree dead… and on whom we foundyour tech. It’s just routinequestioning. So, what can you tell usabout your tech?’‘Well, as a matter of fact, I can tellyou a lot,’ said Grimal smiling slightly.‘The chip’s inserted in that part of thebrain that controls emotions, andthrough a programme that I designed,the chip can recognise the centresthat light up when someone is in agood mood, and stimulate themwhen needed, thus, making thepatient feel positive at his lowestpoint. It also records those momentswhen those regions light up, andwhile the patient is asleep it runs aslightly edited simulation of thosememories so that the patient haspleasant dreams. The Dreamery iswhat we call that simulation.’‘Wow! That is really interesting,doctor. We also wanted to ask youabout your whereabouts during thesepast few weeks. Um… last Saturday,around 3:30 AM, on the 26th of lastmonth at 9:30PM, and also on the 2nd

at 2:00PM. We’re just eliminatingsuspects as of now.’

‘I’m actually retired now. So, I justcome around the labs couple of daysa month, but spend a majority of mytime at home. That is where I was,home.’The door opened behind us again,and I found myself facing a giant of aman, who I assumed was the CEO,Gravé Thanos. He had a well-builtframe, his gelled hair pulled all theway back. He looked like theBoogeyman, which was ironicconsidering the company’s aim.‘Hello, I assume you know who I am.My only question is what kind of anaffair would bring the city’s finest tous?’ he asked in a really smooth voice.I had trouble figuring out if he wasbeing rude, sarcastic or just direct.‘We were just here on a case. Threedead bodies have turned up: a HarrySnow, an Iris Park and an Esco Jones.And the only thing they had incommon were your implants.’‘Firstly, I have never heard thosenames in my life, and I’m sure neitherhas the good doctor. Secondly,detectives, we’re trying to do somegood here. I’m sure the doctor herehas explained our technology to you.If you need anything else, I would beexpecting a subpoena. Thank you forvisiting us.’‘Well, if you have nothing else for us,we’ll get going then. Don’t, uh, leavetown.’I was just about to exit the roomwhen Lamir turned, ‘Just one lastthing, gentlemen. Your tech, does ithave any side effects?’‘Oh, well no, Detective. Apart fromsmall headaches there are no lastingside effects. And even for thoseheadaches, the patients have beenprovided with medication,’ repliedDoctor Grimal. ‘Now, if you’ll excuseme, I have some work to get back to.’As soon as the doctor exited theconference room, Lamir turned toThanos, ‘Well, Mr. Thanos, do youhave anything to add? I know howresearchers are; they would neveradmit a flaw in something they haveworked so hard for.’He frowned, oh so slightly, his thinlips not giving much expression away,‘Look here, detectives. I want no

trouble. I’m running a successfulbusiness here, and we can’t affordbad press.’‘Do you have anything else to add?’ Ipressed.Giving in, he said, ‘Well, yes. There isone small issue, something which isvery theoretical. If someone else isable to tap into the frequency of TheDreamery while it is active, the hijackwill turn it dark, that is, in theory, thepatient will experience night terrors,and other such nightmarish things.’‘Before we leave, one small thing.Were you aware of Harry Snow’sconnection to the policedepartment?’‘I happen to hear his name for thefirst time today! So no, I did not.’‘Thank you Mr. Thanos, that’ll be all.We’ll be in touch.’

As we walked towards the parking lot,I glanced towards Lamir, ‘Well, I thinkthat went well- we have informationon the tech, Harry’s past with thedepartment isn’t a factor, and I thinkwe have our first suspect.’‘Yeah, this Thanos is a dodgycharacter. The doctor was a little oddtoo. And, yes, I’m fine. I didn’t missyour thing on Harry.’‘Well, then, we have our jobs cut outfor us.’

For a case that didn’t have any solidmotive, connection, background andeven an extensive suspect list, wewere exactly where we expectedourselves to be: nowhere. We hadn’tmade any headway in nearly twoweeks now. I spent most of the timethinking on what we might havemissed; we had interviewed thefamily, close friends, colleagues,personnel at Dream Logic Solutions,double checked the alibis of anyonerelated to the case. Either our luckhad run dry, or there wasn’t any caseafter all.I had just got out of the shower on awarm Sunday afternoon when I got acall from Lamir, ‘Thanos is dead.Suicide. Before you even botherasking, yes, chip in the head.’‘We need to go over the files again,this time more thoroughly.’

I was at the precinct at the earliestjust to see that Lamir was alreadythere going through the files again.‘Dream Logic Solutions sent over theirfiles. The company wants answers asmuch as we do. But I have crosschecked everything, and I still seem tobe drawing a blank.’‘Let me take a look,’ I offered as I tooka stack of files off her desk. I spreadwhatever we had on all the fourvictims on the floor and then I let myeyes dart across all of them.‘Wait! I think I found something,’exclaimed Lamir from behind hercomputer. ‘We know all of thesewere registered patients with DreamLogic Solutions, but they were alsopatients of Doctor Grimal yearsbefore the company had evenstarted.’I went through the files in front ofme, ‘I believe you’re right. Ah, herewe go, yes! They were all part of TheDreamery programme during its Betaphase.’‘I think we have enough for a searchwarrant for the doctor’s house.

Within 12 hours we had the warrantin our hands, and we were heading tothe doctor’s house. We knocked onthe door, but it seemed like no onewas at home, so Lamir knocked itdown. We headed forward, slightlycrouched, with our guns raised. ‘Ithink we have something!’ Lamiryelled from down the hall.We found him in a small room in theback, his head falling limply over thesofa, he was dead. He seemed to bewearing what could only be called ahelmet, which was connected to hiscomputer.‘I called it in.’ said Lamir putting herphone down, while looking grimly atthe doctor’s lifeless body. ‘I think Ican take a guess what happened. Ithink he died of an overdose. I guesshe was an addict, someone who usedto get off on emotions. Since all thevictims were his patients before heset up his company, he would’ve beenable to access their Dreamery withoutraising any alarms. Emotions can giveyou a really good kick. I think thevictims were quite literally living a

nightmare. They must not have beenvery aware of their surroundingswhen they fell to their death.’I shut down the computer. ‘Well, Iguess high on emotions is not a figureof speech anymore,’ I said, whileglancing over Lamir grimly. She justnodded stiffly.

Maunica Kolla'Hello, Shyam?' Mr.Khurana enquiredover the phone.‘Yes, saabji? Baba is away. How can Ihelp you?' replied Shyam Rog, son ofbutler Babu Rog.'Come upstairs. Urgently.' Mr.Khurana hung up.Shyam Rog walked out of the kitchenand reached the elevator to presstwo. This residence was like no otherhouse in the small city of Guwahati. Itwas a crimson coloured five storiedbuilding with glass windows. Theexterior of the building had carvingsof flowers and leaf petals coated withsilver paint. It was surrounded bylush green lawns and fountains. ‘Thehouse looked like a lotus in a greenmossy pond.’It can't be a lotus.The elevator stopped, he walked onthe maroon velvet carpet thatstretched across the hallway. Cluttersof crystals in the shape of a rose wereembedded into the chandeliers thatwere placed equidistantly. Mr.Khurana's ancestral photos hung onthe wall like grapes in a vineyard. Hepaused at a painting of a man in aroyal blue turban with a long face halfcovered with facial hair. This man'smoustache was almost sticking out ofthe painting. Jet black eyebrowsbelow which lay matching eyeballsthat glimmered. He wore an olivegreen kurta draped with a baldric thatheld the sword. Shyam wasawestruck by this photo and couldnot look away.'Finally!' Mr Khurana sprung up fromthe brown leather sofa.'Yes, saabji?' Shyam replied.'I heard that you act; how good anactor are you?''I am very passionate about acting. Ihave been auditioning and I-''Okay okay,' Mr. Khurana interrupted,'I have a job for you to do.‘'Oh, what is it, saabji?' he replied,

with enthusiasm in his voice.'I have a son.' Mr. Khurana tried tofind the right words to describe thestory. 'Veer Singh Khurana; he left usfifteen years ago.Interestingly, he must be of your agenow- thirty two. He was a rebelliouschild but was loved by hisgrandfather. Papaji is in his deathbedand has a last wish which must befulfilled.'Unable to connect the dots, Shyamasked, 'Saabji?''Look, you are an actor. You spend allyour life pretending to be someoneelse.''I still do not know what you expectout of me,' Shyam said.'You have to meet Papaji, as Veer,'Mr. Khurana said.'Saabji, your father would find outright away. He would know his ownblood.''No, no.' Mr. Khurana tried toconvince Shyam. 'Papaji has weakeyesight and fifteen years ago hisgrandson's voice was of a young boy.He would not suspect at all.''But saabji, deceiving your father is asin. Where is your son? If you don’tmind telling me,' Shyam replied.'That is not of your concern,' Mr.Khurana replied in a firm tone, 'youwill be given a large sum of money forthis job.'Shyam's eyes lit up at the mention ofmoney. His weekend job at Mr.Khurana's residence was notsufficient for his family to pay all thebills. A little more money wouldnever hurt. He left the living room ina cobweb of confusion. On one handthe money dragged him like a magnetwhile on the other hand hisconscience did not blend well with hisdecision. The idea of bluffing an oldman did not go down well with him.

Shyam stood in front of the mirror inabsolute disbelief. He had beengiven a set of clothes that looked veryexpensive. His shirt was made of twillfabric that complimented the graycoat which was softer than silk.Never had he felt so comfortable inany attire.He was on the fifth floor and couldn’thelp but notice the security guardsstanding in the hallway in blueuniforms. The living room was filledwith teak sofa sets and tables coveredwith pink embroidered cloth alongwith flower pots and newspaperskept on them. He filled his lungs witha deep breath and slowly exhaled,hoping it would calm his nerves. Hewalked to the ten feet long woodendoor and held the handle. His handswere sweaty and left a damp imprinton it. He pushed the handle with allhis strength trying to balance on hisweak legs and entered the room.'Babaji,' he cleared his throat.The old man was draped in an off-white bed sheet. His saggy skin hungloosely on his protruding bones. His

The man with jet black eyes and moustache looked like he

walked right out of the painting. He knew who it was

right away.

sunken cheeks, hollow eyes andquivering lips made him look weak.Shyam watched the senile manstruggle to sit upright on the bed. Hesaw him reach for the spectacles thatwere placed on the side table. Shyamquickly raced to him and offeredsome help. Shyam handed Babaji hisspectacles. Babaji wore thespectacles and as his vision cleared,his lips curled into a beautiful smile.'Veer? Is that you, beta?' he asked ina trembling voice.Babaji's eyes brimmed with tears.The old man gathered all his strengthand stretched his arms out to pullShyam closer to him. Shyam feltBabaji's tears on his left shoulder.Shyam drifted into a sea of emotionsas he watched the old man melt rightin front of him. He saw Babaji's facecriss-crossed with wrinkles and grayfacial hair. Shyam remembered thosejet black eyes from the painting whichhe saw beneath all those tears. Theman with a sword draped in baldricwith immense power broke down infront of him. He could not believe thefact that they were the same men.

'Did you forget your Babaji?''I never stopped thinking of you,Babaji. I missed you so much inMumbai.''I heard your father has taken you outof the family will. That man has aheart of stone; he will never forgiveor forget. But I know you, beta, youhave learnt your lessons.''I regret everything.' Shyamremained discreet.'I know you have a lot of debts, beta,'Babaji coughed, 'I am glad youapproached me for help.' Shyam didnot know what that meant, so hesettled for a nod.'Everyone deserves a second chance,so do you,' he looked away fromShyam and pointed to a white desk inthe corner of the room, 'There is anenvelope on that table, it has a bankaccount number which now only youhave access to. I have left somemoney that would help you pay debtsand start over again. You can startyour business, marry the woman ofyour dreams and settle down. Pleasecontinue my legacy beta. That is all I

can wish for.''You said you knew I am in debt?'Shyam could not help but ask.'Veer beta, you wrote that clearly inmost of your letters. Over the years,that was the only communicationchannel we had. ''Oh yeah, the letters! I have keptthem all, Babaji,' Shyam hesitated butimprovised anyway.'Those letters from you kept me aliveand strong. I read them over andover again- your adventures weregreat entertainment for me.'Shyam managed to only smile back.'You wrote in your letters that youwould come in the evening, but I amglad you came early.'Shyam clearly lost track of events andcould not come up with any suitablereply.'Why are you so quiet, beta? Do youwant to have some lunch? I did notknow you would show up this early, Icould have arranged for some of yourfavourite dishes.''Babaji, it is alright. I am not hungry.''So, Veer, you wrote about your newwork in your letters. Tell me about

the progress?''It is going fine. I think you shouldrest, Babaji and not stress so much.Also I cannot stay here for too long.Papa will not like my presence,'Shyam tried his best to dodge anyfurther questions.'It is very unfortunate that you haveto leave. I am so glad you came anddo not forget the envelope. Visit memore often, beta. I do not know howmuch time I have left.'Shyam's voice choked up 'Ye-s, I willcome regularly. Please allow me toleave now.'Shyam left Babaji with the envelopein his hand. His emotions weretangled. He knew his conscience wascorrect which gave him pangs of guilt.

He noticed a man who walked out ofthe elevator. The stranger wore aburgundy suit. He was six feet talland had a long face. Shyam couldfind a strong resemblance to the manin the painting. The man with jetblack eyes and moustache looked likehe walked right out of the painting.He knew who it was right away.

'Who are you?' Shyam asked the man.'I am here to meet my Babaji ' he toldShyamShyam's thoughts were in turmoil.His grip on the envelope grew tighter.He imagined all the things he could dowith that kind of money. He could flyoff to another country with his father,they could open a restaurant and hecould work on his acting career. Hewould have plenty of money to buy ahouse of his own. Like Babaji said,marry and settle. He had built a trainof dreams already. He was not readyto let it go.'Get out of here. No one wants to seeyour face!' Shyam exclaimed.'Who the hell are you?' The strangerpushed Shyam. Shyam fell on thefloor and hit the wall.'How dare you?' Shyam pulled himselfup and wiped the blood that drippedfrom his forehead. He could barelystand but he pushed himself justenough to get a grip on the stranger'scollar.On hearing the commotion, a coupleof men in blue uniforms walked in.They noticed Shyam bleeding and

helped him out.'Take this man away from here! He ishere to trouble Babaji,' Shyamshouted.'Nonsense! I am here to meet him!'the man screamed back.'Guards!' Shyam exclaimed.On hearing Shyam, the guardsgrabbed the stranger's hands.'I want to meet my grandfather. I amVeer!' he shouted. The guardsignored his words. His voicedisappeared into the blue as he wasdragged out of the living room.

Saketh RVK

'Exactly like Das sir had taught us,' Ithought with a smile as I paused thevideo. This was Krishna’s debutmatch in Indian colours three yearsago. I remember sitting in the standsand screaming my lungs out at everyball he touched. A fantastic debutthat was. Scoring a vital 56, taking ablinder at extra cover, effecting a run-out and declared Man of the Match:the stuff of childhood dreams. Myentry into the international stagehappened three years after that. Sixmonths ago I was given my blue cap,number 256. No, this wasn’t themovies. Forget announcing our entrytogether; Krishna wasn’t even in theteam that day. I played a typicalNikhil innings, buckled down andmade 28. I then dropped a catch offthe captain’s bowling and thebatsman went on to win the matchfor the opposition. It was notsurprising. Nice guys finish secondand I knew I wasn’t going to be thenext Sachin Tendulkar. Six matcheslater I still wasn’t the celebrity mybest friend was, but I had earned thedressing room’s respect. Krishnameanwhile, was throwing it away.Mid-way through our second Ranjiseason, we were playing HimachalPradesh at Dharamshala. The team to

play against Zimbabwe was to beannounced and Krishna’s name wasdoing the rounds. He’d had a stellarfirst season and had caught the eye ofthe selectors as a future prospect.This season he already had twohundreds and three fifties to hisname.'Do you realise no one from Andhrahas made it big in the internationalscene? Sriram barely played 10 ODIsbefore being forgotten.''Krishna, there is always a first time.And the team hasn’t been announcedyet. You need to focus on today’sinnings. You are the last recognizedbatsman left.''I know, I know. Just saying.'He couldn’t keep it together that dayand returned to the pavilion within anhour. At the end of the day’s play,the news came in. My childhoodfriend had made the cut. The matchall but forgotten, the team celebratedlate into the night and the smilecouldn’t be wiped off our faces. Thiswas the best day of his life and I washappier than I had ever been.'I’m so happy, Nikhil. But I wish wewere picked together. You rememberhow we used to fantasise aboutmaking our debuts together andleading the team to victory?'

'Of course I do. It’s OK. At least oneof us has made it. I will follow yousoon, swashbuckler. Now it’s time tosleep.''Ye dostiiii…''Shut up, Krishna.''Goodnight brother.'Three matches into the series, Krishnamade his debut. And what betterplace for it than the Eden Gardens,literally and metaphorically. Thewhole gang had flown in, and as heblazed his way to his half-century, Dassir remarked, 'This boy is a genius. I

always knew he had it in him to begreat. He was my best student ever.'Guiltily I have to admit, I took thatstatement with a pinch of salt.Krishna was indeed poetry that day,flawless and fearless. He had becomea star over-night and the world sat upto take notice. I called him up lateafter dinner and he was more excitedthan ever.'Hey, Mama! What’s up?''Great innings, ra. You werespectacular. Das sir is pleased aspunch. I’m guessing Aunty and Uncleare on top of the world!''Oh yeah, they are. First time in mylife that your favourite Unclecomplimented me without anycriticism. Achievement unlocked!' helaughed loud. 'I could see everyonewas there. Good thing this isn’t amovie, or we would have been sopoor that you would have had towatch me in the LG showroom nearDiamond Park.' He was laughinglouder.'Krishna Srinivas, are you drunk?''No bro! I’m just high on happiness!

He bends down and touches the ground in reverence. I

hadn’t seen him do that for a more than a year now. We bump fists as he passes me and mutters, 'Let’s do this.'

Back foot moving back and across,with the body weight transferred ontoit. High backlift, bat coming downfrom the top Hitting the ball with thefull face of the bat in front of the bodyand most importantly, the roll of thewrists. Crack Sweet timing, and theball races to the ropes. Leaning in withthe front shoulder, bending the frontknee, quick batswing; keeping thehead over the ball, back foot raisedup to the toes , accelerate the batand follow through. Slick shot, andthe ball reaches the ropes again.

This is the best feeling in my life. Ilove you too! Goodnight.’By the end of the series, Krishna wasa national celebrity. He was labeledthe 'Find of the Series' by the captainhimself and the superlatives werepouring in. He carried this form intothe next series. He scored his firstand then his second internationaltons and the nation was going crazyover him. While we were still tryingto let so much action sink in, Unclewas already worried. 'This successshould not get to his head. Famespoils kids faster than anything else,’he said.A hectic schedule followed. Krishnatraveled with the team to England,West Indies, South Africa andAustralia. He was living the dream wehad made during our Math classes atschool. While everyone elsestruggled against the short ball hehad no qualms about playing it. Hewould see it early get in position andget on top of it quickly. Timing itperfectly and finding the gap withprecision, he was a bowler’snightmare. Krishna was also anexpert in playing the on-drive. Withperfect footwork, leaning overslightly, bringing down his bat quickly,he would flash it beyond the reach ofmid-on to score four runs almostevery time he played it. He was anatural stroke-maker and lovedaccumulating runs. But frequently, hewould get out playing unnecessaryshots. Even more frequently, I wouldcatch him on the phone not verysober. On the last leg of the tour hedropped catches and seemed veryslow on the field. Meanwhile, I wasquietly collecting runs in the domesticcircuit and moving up the ladder.

Two years after his debut Krishna hadgrown overweight and there wererumours that he had missed a fewpractice sessions. The coachapparently was very upset. He wasgiven a break and he returned home.Four days later we were slated to playagainst Himachal again and Iapproached him, asking him to play.'Picha light ra. There is no pointplaying this match. It is not even

Mumbai or Karnataka. There is nochance I will play this one,’ he saidtapping away on his latest phone.'OK. How is life, Krishna'? I asked,awkwardly trying to makeconversation.'Smooth, my boy. As neat as it canget. Hot, isn’t she?’ he asked,showing me a face which somehowseemed familiar.'Yeah, she is. Gotta go now, practicetime.''Have fun bro, have fun. By the way, Ican see you still sport the old schoolcrew cut. Long curly hair is the in-thing, dost.’I nodded and smiled as I left forpractice.

About a month later, Krishna was inthe news again. He had allegedlyfought with 'The Prince' of thedressing room, the vice-captain of theteam. And as Uncle said, 'Out of allthe things, over a girl?’ The two had

reportedly got into a fight aftergetting drunk in a nightclub. Theboard expressed its displeasure andpromised to look into the incident.Things got worse when he abused areporter on camera. He did it againwith not one but a series of fans.Krishna’s image was taking a beating.He was going through a lean patchand his reputation as a 'Spice Boy'was getting more and moreprominent. His stubbornness aboutnot discussing these matters was nothelping matters in his home. Uncleand he were back to their cold warstate.With so much going on, I had silentlymade my way into the team; benchwarmed for an entire series and mademy debut as replacement for aninjured player. Krishna was nursing acalf muscle injury and our filmypartnership never happened. A fewmoments though remainedmemorable. The spinners were

were troubling us a lot. I had spentsome time in the middle and wasn’tnervous anymore. Their best spinnercame up to bowl. With a short run uphe delivered a “wrong’un”. He hadunderestimated me though. I read it,waited on the back-foot and withsmooth hands played a late cut, justpast first slip. The bowler wasstunned at my audacity and thecrowd went berserk. Another waswhen we were fielding. I wasstanding at mid-off and the batsmanplayed a straight drive, well placedbut badly timed. I gave chase andsoon realized it was getting out ofreach. Instinct took over. I launchedmyself on the air and took a fulllength dive, risking the possibility ofgetting injured. I reached the ball justin time to pull it back and stop theboundary. I had only saved one runbut six of my team-mates came up topat me on the back. I couldn’t stopsmiling for a full five minutes.It was a quiet start, with none of thefestivities that came with Krishna’sentry. But it was a rough phase andwe were in an awkward situation, so Ihad no complaints. By the time wewere in the team together, I wasthree matches old. The dream wasfinally coming true. Yet, it wasseemingly Krishna’s last chance toredeem his career. It had been ayear, and numerous matches since hehad seemed in good touch. I didn’teven remember the last time he hadgone past 20. He was also the “badboy” of Indian cricket.He was picked for the first match. Iwas watching from the dressingroom. He played a few good strokesand lashed at one wide outside off.Took a thick edge and flew to secondslip. He was back in the pavilionabout fifty runs earlier than the teamneeded him to score.Understandably, Krishna was droppedfrom the playing eleven for the nextmatch.Ironically, I was his replacement.Even worse, I played perfect partnerfor the vice-captain’s stroke-filledinnings and saw the match through.The captain heaped praise on me atthe post-match conference. Afterdinner that night, I ran into Krishna

right outside my room.

'You bastard! You seem hell bent onspoiling my career. Ever since you’vecome into the team you have beenkissing the skip’s ass haven’t you!’ Hewas reeking of alcohol. He lookedfatter than I’d ever seen him before,while I had grown lean and fit.'Krishna, there is nothing of that sort.You know I wouldn’t do that.Especially to you.’'Shut up! I know everything. Traitor!I thought you were my friend. Andnow when I need you the most, youhave switched sides.'Something clicked and I flew into arage. I grabbed his collar, 'If that iswhat you think, fine! Go screwyourself. But remember, if there wasone guy holding out his neck to backyou, it was me. Not anymore,’ Islammed the door on his face. I couldhear him abusing me as I softly criedinto my pillow.We lost one and then won the othermatch to tie the series 2-2. I was ingood form and was probably the firstname on the team sheet. Tragedystruck on the morning of the finalmatch. Our regular No.5 was injuredand Krishna was the only replacementwe had. The captain and the chiefselector called him aside and toldhim, 'Krishna, this is a very importantmatch for the team and for you.There is no way we are going to lose aseries to Pakistan at home. And thereare too many talented youngsterswaiting to grab their chance. Do well,and you will be a hero. Fail us andthat will probably be the end of yourcareer.’After the team meeting, Krishna cameup to me and apologised half-heartedly. He seemed in good spiritsduring warm-up and looked good togo.'Nikhil, it’s time.' Sameer’s voiceinterrupts my train of thought. It wasindeed time.We are set to bat first and I walk inafter the fall of the first wicket. Twomore wickets fall within the next fiveovers and we are in deep trouble.Krishna is the new batsman in. As wewait, he walks down the steps andpauses near the boundary. He bends

down and touches the ground inreverence. I hadn’t seen him do thatfor a more than an year now. Webump fists as he passes me andmutters, 'Let’s do this.' He is clearlynervous but survives the last ball ofthe over. I see through another.The next over will be bowled bySaeed Kaneria, an off-spinner goingthrough a purple patch. As Krishnaand I meet midway between thepitch, I say, 'Be careful. He is gettingsome good bounce and turn.''Chill ra. I have played this guy toomany times.'Krishna leaves the first two balls ofthe over. Uncharacteristic, but theright thing to do. When I’m at theother end of the pitch, I see things inslow motion. Like I do now.Third ball. Flat delivery pitches

outside off and moves in quick.Krishna leans forward, front kneebent, back foot raised up to the toes,brings down the bat quickly. No gapbetween bat and pad, closes the face.Perfect defensive shot. Another flatball, outside off, does not turn at all.Tries a late cut, and misses the edgeby a whisker. Bowler takes a lot oftime. Glides in, loops the ball high. Atempting sight for anyone holding abat. The batsman dances down thetrack but not to the pitch of the ball.Tries hitting it straight over thebowler’s head. As the ball pitches, Ican sense disaster. It doesn’t turn,misses the bat and goes straight intothe keeper’s gloves. He whips thebails off in a flash. It’s over.

S Anirudh Vishal Yadav‘Go faster, Sharath! Or let me handlethe wheels!’ I barked.‘Calm down, Viraj. It’s just an auctionand it is going to stay,’ Sharathreplied.If only he could understand mydesperation.I was assigned to take up a project inHyderabad. I had come to this cityafter ten years. Sharath, my onlyremaining friend from my Hyderabaddays was there to pick me up at theairport. It was when he said that thefurniture of our school, St. Patrick’s,was being auctioned, that my frecklesshot up.At that moment I could feel all theflashes of memory rush back to me atonce, as if everything had occurredjust a moment ago. There was asudden streamline of thoughts inmy usually precarious mind. At thatmoment I felt I could erase the regretand despair of ten long years. I felt Icould find the answer about theperson who had brought immensehappiness into my life, only to leaveme a thousand times worse off, whenI was separated from her. There is apossibility that I could find the tableamong the furniture. There is apossibility that I could know what thequestion was.The year was 2004. I was in 9thstandard. I was known as the shy guyof the class – never used to talk togirls, never made eye contactwhenever any teacher talked to me,and my hands and legs used totremble whenever I was made toanswer a question in the class. Thencame the person who would have abig impact on my metamorphosis.‘Class, we have a new studentamongst us. Sameera, pleaseintroduce yourself to your newfriends,’ Pushpalata ma’am said.‘Hello, guys! I’m Sameera. I’ve come

from Delhi. My father works in theAir Force, so we are forced to shiftplaces on a constant basis. I hope I’llhave some good times with you guyshere.’ Confidence was oozing fromher. I was in awe of her right fromthat moment. Then she was told tosit next to me (Pushpalata ma’amknowing that I am a shy guy musthave thought that her convivialnature would rub onto me).She had curly tresses flowing downher shoulders and back. Her shinyblack eyes seemed to have a voice oftheir own, intimidating me and luringme at the same time. When shesmiled, the glow in them captivatedme. I was caught staring at themwhen she looked at me, and I turnedaway.‘Hey! I’m Sameera. I’m pleased tomeet you.’‘Umm… He-llo… I’m Viraj,’ I stuttered.After a few overwhelming anduncomfortable days, I came tounderstand that she was aningenuously whimsical person. Sheloved to talk and I was as reticent asanyone can be. She couldn’t stand mysilence for long, and thought aboutsomething which would get meengaged and help me open myself up.I felt that what happened on one ofthe following days was one suchwhim of hers.‘Listen, Viraj! Let’s play a game. It’scalled ‘a question a day’. Everymorning one of us will scribble aquestion under the desk. The otherperson will read the question at theend of the day and write down a replynext to it. We’ll switch roles everyday. REMEMBER! The other personis only allowed to read the questionat the end of the day. It is against therules to read it anytime in between, ’she said.‘Alright!’ I replied.

This game kick-started mytransformation. I started to conversewith her, something I believed wasimpossible till that point. I seamlesslybecame comfortable with her. Andthrough this game, she too learnedmore about me. It was turning out tobe a special bond. I could see herinfluence on me. My friends startedteasing me, saying ‘the baby hasgrown into a boy’. It was hearteningto hear Pushpalata ma’am say that Ihad become more confident and hadbegun participating in the classactivities with vigour, at a parentteacher meeting.The days passed by quickly and oneday both of us received someunpleasant news. Sameera’s fatherhad been posted to Itanagar. She hadto leave in a month’s time. This waswhen I began to think about myfeelings towards her. The sands oftime had flowed down so quickly thatwe hadn’t realised how fond we hadgrown of each other. Call it teenageinfatuation or innocence, give itwhatever name you want, I thought Ihad developed a “crush” on her.

We sat down on one of the chairs and I explained my

situation on that day to her. I then realised that it was a desperate situation for her

too! She too had been waiting for answers since 2004. And the search for the table was

what united us again that day.

It was two days before she eventuallyhad to leave. We were the last onesin the class and she had just scribbledher answer under the desk. We weretalking about how things were goingto be like after she left. In of the spurof the moment, I held her arm andbrought her close to me. We bothknew there was something in thatmoment. Her cheeks turned redas a rose and she put her face down.Suddenly the realisation kicked in andI dropped her arm. But she still heldit in the air.There are times when, however sureone may be about something, andhowever obvious it may seem, onecannot muster enough courage toconvey it. And I felt the same then. Icould not tell her that I had a crush onher. It was a sort of a tacitunderstanding between us, that ourfeelings were mutual.On the next day, i.e., the day beforeshe had to leave, she appearedexcited all throughout afterscribbling her question on the desk. Iwas waiting impatiently for the endof the day in anticipation, although Iknew most certainly what thequestion would be.Later during the lunch break, papahad come to pick me up. With eyesfilled with tears, he informed me thatgrandpa had passed away back inChennai and that we had to leaveimmediately. Time had stopped forme. I could not process what I hadjust been told. Everything else wasforgotten.Grandma was so attached to herhome in Chennai that she wasadamant that she wouldn’t leave theplace. She believed moving awaywould signify parting away with allthe memories of grandpa. Papa,considering her health and happiness,decided we shift to Chennai. After afew days, when I began to be normalagain, I flinched upon the suddenrealisation that I could never go backto school to see that all importantquestion that Sameera had written.There was no way to contact her asshe would have moved to Itanagar.This very thought pulled my heartdown into a deep abyss, to come out

of which it took me an eternity. Asdays turned into years, Sameera hadslowly become a distant memory.This chance meeting with Sharathbrought back all of those memories,and also the hope to find out that onequestion which I thought eluded meforever.‘Viraj! We have reached the place,’said Sharath.There were hundreds of tables but Icouldn’t find that particular table.Ten years is a long time for a scribblemark or even a table for that matterto last. All the while I knew thiswould be the outcome but my heartdidn’t listen to me. I didn’t want tolive with the feeling that I did not tryone last time.I was dejected. All the hope that wasbuilt in me over the last few minutesevaporated into thin air. Thememories had rushed back to mewith such precision that they wouldbe vivid in my mind for a long time,only to haunt me again. It was goingto be another painful process toforget Sameera.

I was walking back along with Sharathwhen I felt an arm on my shoulder. Iturned to look around. It was afamiliar looking woman with longtresses and… the same old eyeswhose glow captivated me ten yearsago!‘Where in the world did you run awaythat day?’ Sameera cried, and weembracedWe sat down on one of the chairs andI explained my situation on that dayto her. I then realised that it was adesperate situation for her too! Shetoo had been waiting for answerssince 2004. And the search for thetable was what united us again thatday.In the midst of our conversation Iasked her, ‘So what was the lastquestion you had scribbled under thedesk?’She blushed, and replied, ‘Do you loveme?’‘Yes! Back then, and even now!’ Isaid.

Saketh RVKHe smelt it before he saw it- the saltybreeze bringing with it the occasionalwaft of dried fish. As he rounded thecorner he couldn’t help but gape atthe vast blue expanse of water ahead.He cycled along the footpath andparked his bicycle near the ‘Victory atSea’ memorial. The people of Vizagloved their beach road at night. Theymade each night look like a carnival.Under-dressed and over-dressedpeople of all ages thronged the road.If it was a Sunday, then taking apeaceful stroll along the footpathwould be impossible. But today wasWednesday and there were relativelyfewer people. Nikhil crossed the roadand sat on the low wall separating thesand from the road. He looked acrossthe sea at the tiny ships on thehorizon, waiting to dock in theharbor. ‘Does this represent life?’ Hethought. Happiness was like thoseships- far away and tiny with the bluerepresenting everything else. Helooked around. That’s when heregistered the din. The noise of thecars, of people talking loudly and ofhawkers advertising their wares. Hesaw his favourite Jal Muri auntysitting a few meters away. But no, hewasn’t going to greet her today. Hismind raced back half an hour in time.He was at home and his parents wereat it again. Fighting. Arguing.“Discussing”, as they would put it, thistime about him. The 17-year-oldwanted to pursue engineering. Butwhere would he go? He wasn’t thebrightest student. No college wouldadmit him unless they shelled out ahuge amount of money.‘I told you then to get him to writethe entrance test for the privateuniversity here. But you wouldn’tlisten, would you? When has myopinion ever counted here,’ his Momshouted.

‘No way! He would have written itand the good-for-nothing commercialbuggers would have gladly acceptedhim. And like his sister he would havestayed home and learnt nothing ofthe world. I made a mistake once, Iwon’t do it again.’ His father was onedge, ready to burst. Nikhil’s biggestfear, for as long as he couldremember, was that the fightsbetween his parents would getphysical. So far they hadn’t, for whichhe was thankful. Lately though, theshouting matches were getting moreintense.‘Don’t try to make excuses now,’ hisfather continued. ‘You couldn’t stayhome for two years and get thisuseless son of mine to study properly.He has no sense of responsibility,goes around with girls and uselessfriends. He calls himself a basket-baller but has achieved nothing in thesport. What did you teach him? Ishould have been the wife instead!’The argument escalated quickly andpretty badly. Nikhil had to leave.A green balloon slowly floating pasthim brought him back to the present.He quickly caught it and lookedaround for the owner. A five-year-oldwas running towards him with heranxious father in tow. Nikhil forced asmile and handed the balloon back.He turned back to the sea.The frothand the waves crashing into the rockshad always fascinated him. Today itdidn’t seem so exciting. His thoughtsreturned to his parents’ argument.‘Yeah! You should have been thewife,’ his mother’s voice sounded. ‘Iwould have seen how well you wouldhave brought up the kids. And alsohow calmly you would have acceptedmy coming home late.’‘I worked long hours and came homelate so that I could support my family.I sacrificed so much happiness to

keep you happy. What would I havedone by coming home early anyway,except have you cribbing overeverything?’‘Cribbing? I challenge you to showme a more supportive andunderstanding wife than me. I evenput aside my aspirations of workingjust because you didn’t like it! That’sit! I’m done here. After all the painand sacrifices I do, you say I haven’tsupported you? I want a divorce!’‘Sure, you can have one. I’m not thatexcited about staying with youeither!’ That was it. When Nikhil’sfather said something, he meant it.His parents’ marriage would soon beover.It was as if he had fallen into thedeepest trench of sorrow. Everythingwas unraveling at home and then thenews that he hadn’t made the districtbasketball team.Behind him, the sun was setting andeveryone near the water was walkingback. Here especially, there werenever too many people. The reasonwhy he loved this place. Life, Nikhil

All the hours spent on the court, all the sweat was now in vain. The pain he

had gone through, the classes he had missed was all for nothing. Basketball was his first love. The sound of

the ball bouncing around, of the swish of the net, the

roars from the crowd, the feel of the ball in his hand,

gave him a high.

mused, wasn’t rosy. It was extremelysad. He jumped off the wall and ontothe sand. Took off his shoes andstarted walking towards theseemingly black water, feeling thegrainy and sticky sand beneath hisbare feet. He couldn’t get into thebasketball team; couldn’t fulfill hisdream.He had now reached the water’sedge. He could feel the water lappingagainst his feet, tickling him. Theconversation with the selector rang inhis ears. ‘No, son, you can’t be on theteam. Not this time.’‘But sir, what is wrong? I’m quick,agile and my game sense is muchbetter than most of the boys you’vepicked!’‘You are not good enough.’‘Good enough how? What moreshould I do? What else should Iimprove upon?’The selector ran his eyes his slender,lanky frame. ‘Umm… You should betaller. Great basketball players aremuch taller than you.’All the hours spent on the court, allthe sweat was now in vain. The painhe had gone through, the classes hehad missed were all for nothing.Basketball was his first love. Thesound of the ball bouncing around, ofthe swish of the net, the roars fromthe crowd, the feel of the ball in hishand gave him a high. The very firsttime he scored a buzzer beater andput his team into the finals of theinter-school tournament was thehappiest moment of his life. Neverhad he felt so much emotion, somuch joy. But now it was all over. Hewould no longer be eligible for theunder- 17 category and getting intothe Under-20’s team was almostimpossible. His basketball career ineffect, was over.It was high tide. The water wasalready at his calves, drenching thejeans he had decided not to roll up.His family was splitting. All thosenightmares about sharing his timebetween Mom and Dad, theawkwardness, the questions thatwould be asked were now comingtrue. And Rohan. His best friend for5 years was leaving for Kolkata in a

week. Rohan had always been theideal guy-good in academics-concerned, well-behaved, from ahappy family, and most importantly,liked by everyone. Interestingly andironically, Rohan was everythingNikhil wasn’t. Yet, they got alongquickly and were now the thickest offriends. He was clear about what hewanted and earned what he wanted.The only thing Nikhil was better atwas basketball. Rohan would try asmuch as he could, yet not be as goodas his friend in that sport. Thesethings though, didn’t ever affect theirbond. Now Rohan was leaving.Life isn’t a bed of roses. It is a bed ofthorns with rose petals garnished in,thought Nikhil.The waves were now reaching wellabove his knees and standing stillrequired great effort.If Rohan was here, he would havesaid, ‘How ironic yet aptly poetic thatafter all the times spent and decisionsmade here the ultimateenlightenment was that the water bemade the final home.’ He couldn’t

help smiling. The Hyderabadi wasone crazy guy. He could feel the saltin the air sting his nostrils. He hadthought about this moment countlesstimes- about this act, this decision. Somany times he had stared at theSwiss knife in his hands, at thepavement from the 10th floorapartment. But never before had hefelt as strongly as he was feeling now.He was still stuck in limbo betweenyes and no with the formerdominating.Out of nowhere, he felt a hand on hiss shoulder. He didn’t have to look.The disgusting sound of munchingpeanuts was ringing in his ears.‘The water’s cold, isn’t it?’ It wasRohan.‘It’s dark. Very dark. Like sadness.

And death.’‘Really? I was looking at yourfavourite sight though. The shipsstanding still with their yellow lights,subtly grabbing your attention awayfrom the waves and making you wantto reach them. Like happiness? Isn’tthat what you said to me six months

ago?’Nikhil turned to look at his closestfriend. He seemed calm, unperturbedby how dangerously deep into thewater they had waded.‘Peanuts?’ Rohan offered.‘The water is too cold. We should begoing back.’They backtracked to the edge of thewater and let their feet be washed.They stood there, arms on eachother’s shoulders gazing across thesea, at the yellow lights on thehorizon, bobbing ever so slightly, atthe most beautiful sight ever.‘I just realized, bro, this is why wecome here. To let the lights drownthe sea.’

Kirthana SI opened my eyes and saw a limitlessstretch of blue sky above me.The sun beat down on the parchedground with searing heat. Erifort citywas unusually quiet that day. Therewas no sign of any traffic bustling. Iwondered how long I had been lyinghere. Surrounding me wereshattered pieces of glass with darkred blots of blood over them. Theblood patches got predominanttowards a car that had crashed into abakery shop around the corner of thestreet. The black SUV was an exactreplica of my car, but only with itsbonnet smashed terribly, doorsdangling out, windows cracked and astrangely familiar Iron Man sticker atthe back, just like the one my son hadpasted on ours. That’s when it struckme - it was my car which had crashed.I immediately checked myself for anywounds or injuries. But everythingseemed fine. ‘Phew, not a scratch,’ Isaid, feeling relieved and surprised atthe same time.Amidst all the mayhem, I hadcompletely forgotten the purpose ofmy visit to the bakery. It was myson’s birthday. I knew that Lukewould be really disappointed if Ididn’t show up with the cake, but itwas better than not showing up at all.So I had hurried home.As I briskly walked across the lanetowards the 22nd street, like everyother weekday, I noticed thateveryone was in a rush. The speedingcars, the hurtling people, even thehuge wooden clock at town squareticked faster that day. It appeared asif someone had hit a fast forwardbutton. Just then, I saw a short,stout, darkly dressed man with afunny brown hat, approachingstraight towards me. But before Icould step aside or move, the guysimply walked right through my body.

‘Hey, hey you!’ I shouted. The manignored me and walked on as if hedidn't even hear it. I looked aroundto see if anyone had seen what hadjust happened, but no one seemed tobother, and then again, in that verymoment, another man, tall and wellbuilt, in a light grey suit walkedstraight through me. I wascompletely dumbstruck; all kinds ofcrazy things started popping up in myhead.‘Did that just happen? That guy justwalked through me. What the heck ishappening out here? Oh, Good Lord!!Now it makes sense- the car crash,the blood stains… Damn it!!! Am Idead?’I arrived home panting, hoping that itwas all just a stupid dream and itwould end soon. The front door wasleft open. I hobbled in to meet myson, but there was no sign of Luke,Clair or anyone there. Just then Inoticed that the lights were flickering.I waited for it to stop. But it didn’t.The day was turning weirder by everysecond. But I tried my best to keep itall together.‘Clair, Honey? Are you upstairs? …Luke?? Hello,’ I said out loud. Therewas no reply. Where was everyone?The party could not be over so soon?I looked around and found thebirthday decorations all intact. Therewere blue balloons floatingeverywhere, glitter spread over thecarpet, and the whole house waswrapped in a tangy, fruity smell. Ahuge chocolate cake lay on the tableuncut, beside a tarnished knife. Mydarling wife might have ordered it atthe very last moment to make sureLuke stayed happy that day. Clairalways has everything under control.She has this crazy obsession witheverything being perfect, whether it isdeciding which schools the kids would

attend, which doctors they would visitor which restaurant they would eatin, and not just that, even theholidays were spot on- be itthanksgiving, Halloween or Christmas.It then struck me that Luke was justfive years old. There were so manyfather-son fun stuff I had plannedahead of time- teaching him to ride abike, building a tree house in thebackyard, watching him play footballand what not.Tears trickled down my eyes. Thethought that I would have to livewithout my family crushed me. Ahuge wave of reality finally hit me. Irealised my entire life had turned intoa dream that couldn’t ever befulfilled.Brimming with confusion and stress Iwalked across the dark hallwaytowards the basin and splashed ahandful of water into my face. Irepeated this a few times but not adrop of it could be felt. The watersimply poured through my fingers. Ilooked up into the mirror, trembling.Startled at the vision, I stepped back.

…in that very moment, another man, tall and well

built, in a light grey suit walked straight through me. I was completely dumbstruck,

all kinds of crazy things started popping up in my

head.

I couldn’t see my own reflection. All Icould see was a dark shadowy figurestaring back at me. This was insane.All the hope and courage which I washolding on to was gone just like that.It felt as if I would melt into theground any moment now.I stormed out of the place notknowing what to do and kept runningblindly. On the way I randomlypassed through a number of things-people, walls, gates and it didn’tbother me anymore. All I wantedwere answers. But the question waswho would answer them.It was past midnight. I had lost all mysanity by then. With almost no hopeleft, I just kept wandering. Thestreets were quiet and empty. Acrossthe lane I noticed that the lightsdisplaying Café Sunrise were flickeringcontinuously. This was pretty strangesince the café usually closed by 10pm. That’s when I saw an old, grey-haired man in a crisp blue-and whiteshirt and an immaculate tie, flashing awide smile at me. Wishing forcertainty, I stared back at him for awhile, and so did he. I was shockedbecause till then nobody could touch,see or hear me. With greatexpectations, I approached the manimmediately.Before I could say anything, the manspoke: ‘Hello, Phil. Where do youkeep disappearing to? It’s hard tokeep track of you. Come with me,there are things you need to know.’‘Oh, holy crap, how do you know myname? Are you God? Are you here totake me away? Am I dead? Can Iplease meet my family one lasttime!?’‘Calm down, young lad. I am John,just another spirit like you. It hasbeen a long time since I have metsomeone of our kind though. You arenot dead, but you have beendetached from your body. If you findit before it dies you can regain yourcomplete self and go back to livingyour life. But son, the time domain iscomparatively slower in our realmthan the human world. So hurry upbefore it’s too late.’‘Why are you then still a spirit? Didn’tyou find your body?’

‘My body is permanentlyunconscious- in an irreversible stateof coma. This is my life now. I watchover my darling kids from this side.And I am thankful to this realm for it.But you still have a chance. Getgoing, young lad.’I started running as fast as I could.The only hospital near the bakery wasPrinceton Memorial. I was certainthat I would find my body there.The lights of the operation theatrewere still on. I saw Clair sitting on abench waiting impatiently, tightlyholding on to Luke’s little hand andpraying every second.With not much time in hand, I bargedthrough the door. There I saw mypale, lifeless body lying open on theoperation table surrounded by abunch of white doctors with blood

dripping from their gloves. ‘Charge to300. Let’s go, let’s go. Clear.’ I heardthe doctor’s stern voice. The roomwas in a state of crisis. The lifelessbody jerked up at the surge ofelectricity, trying to revive its heart.This was the second call. The ECGshowed a straight line depicting nosign of pulse. I wondered whether itwas too late. Then I heard one ofthem say. ‘That’s it fellows. The lastand final call. Let’s pray we get apulse this time. Charge to 500. Okay,set. Clear.’ At that very instant Ijumped on into my body. I felt asudden tremor and gasped asthe electricity ripped through me. Isimply closed my eyes and picturedClair, Luke and me together.

Maunika KollaOn a Thursday afternoon the sunblazed sharply and the sky wore thelightest shades of blue. As we drove, Igazed out of the window to see sometender coconut vendors with headswrapped in wet towels. Their skinwas oiled with sweat which shonedue the sharp sun rays. Sri Lanka wasthe first place where I had seencoconuts in shades of tangerine. Likeevery day we stopped for a quickdrink. The vendor smiled at us anduttered something in Sinhalese. Myfather flaunted his linguistic skills ashe replied. His training in theSinhalese language was handy in thiscountry. The vendor held the sickle inthe air and effortlessly chopped thetop chunk of the coconut. Hebrushed off some whiskers andplaced a straw in the hole. My fatherheld his hand out of the window andpassed the coconut. As I sipped, thesweet liquid lingered in my mouth,which forced my eyes shut. It wassimply exotic.While en route to our home, stringsof trees passed on both sides of theroad. The journey from school was avast stretch of greenery. Lush greentrees hovered from all directions. Aswe entered the city we would see thetrees being replaced by buildings.'Riya, how was your day?' my fatherasked, while he kept his eyes on theroad.'Fine, as usual.''It is almost the weekend, do youhave any plans, Riya?' my motherasked, as she placed her hand overmy shoulder.'Oh yeah. Moe is hosting her sweetsixteen party this Saturday. We haveto buy her a gift as well.''Moe? Moe Yamazaki? Oh thatJapanese girl. That's great!' shecontinued, 'but you will finish all thehomework first!'

'Maa!' I uttered, and frowned out ofirritation.'Don't worry, Geeta, she will do it,'father said in my defence. We passedthrough the streets which weremonitored by the army. Men in greenuniforms were scattered all over theplace. There were red barricades inthe middle of the road. We paused atseveral checkpoints; like always myfather quickly prompted the armymen to look at the 'Indian HighCommission' sticker. The barricadesdrifted away and we smoothly movedforward.This country was beset by a civil war.The Tamil minority had formed arebel group namely the LTTE(Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam).The war prevailed mostly in thenorthern parts of the country. Thetown Jaffna was affected adversely.So far, we were immune to the war.Everyone in the city including us leada normal life. Colombo was wellshielded and away from chaos. Aprotective layer floated about ourheads at all time. It was like we livedinside a bubble.We reached Welwetta, an areamajorly occupied by Sri LankanTamils. My mother's face lightenedup at the sight of the Ganesh temple.'Riya, let dad park,' she said while sheopened the car door, 'we will go tothe temple.''Maa, why?' I whined.She sprung from her seat to drag meout of the car. I sighed withsubmission to my mother's orders.We picked up all the necessary poojaitems for the prayers and crossed theroad, making our way to the footpath.On our way, two army menapproached. They looked at mymother and whispered into eachother's ears.'Where are you going?' one of them

asked rudely.'Temple,' I answered.'What is in that bag? Show it to us!'the other one asked in raucous voice.'Nothing, we came to buy.''Can't trust you Tamilians. Give thatbag. There could be bombs.' Hesnatched the bag out of my mother'shand.'Sir, we are not-' even before mymother could complete the sentence,their laughs roared in our ears.'Oh, you Tamilians. Haha!'My mother pulled out her purse andshowed them her ID-card.'Indian... High... Commission...’ One ofthem read the words out loud. Theirlaughs faded and faces turned red.'Sorry, ma'am.' They handed over thebag and walked away silently.My mother's skin complexion wasswarthy. She wore the saree in the'Tamilian' way with flowers in herhair. Any local Sri Lankan wouldremark her as a Sri Lankan Tamil.These men spoke harshly with all localTamil residents. It was visible that thewar had permeated the conscience of

I wondered what could happen next and grew anxious thinking of my

parents. What if a blast took their lives? What if I never

make it home? What if we all die?

people. The two communitiesloathed each other at every level. Mymother and I felt humiliated, at thesame time we understood the gravityof the situation. So neither of us everspoke about this incident or shared itwith Dad.It was almost evening when wereturned home. We saw Mary, ourhousemaid sitting at the staircasewith tearful eyes.'Mary? What happened?' My motherinquired.'Ma'am..., ' she stuttered, 'D-I-S-A-S-T-E-R.''What kind of disaster?' My fatherasked.'Oh baba! My house no more!' shespoke in her broken English, 'pieces!Small pieces!''How did that happen?' I asked withmy raised eyebrow.'Bomb! Big Blast!' her eyes widened,'it went BOOOOM!''Your children? Husband?' my fatherasked in shaky voice.'Safe! I was at work,' she sobbed,'children at school, husband toowork!''Thank god,' I said with relief.My father quickly picked up the

television remote and pressed abutton for the news channel. Oureyes were treated to gruesomeimages and video clips. There wassmoke, fire and burning trees in thebackground. The firefighters pumpedout water to burn out the fire. Thebuildings were smeared with blacksmoke and had broken windows; thestreets were strewn with deadbodies, some shredded and brokenbody parts. Fragments of fabric andhuman flesh were litteredeverywhere. The paramedics workedwith injured people and carried theminto the ambulance. Some workerscleared the debris from the blast. Thereporter learned about a woman wholost her entire family. A man, still in astate of shock described his narrowescape. Another woman cried to thereporter. She was unable to identifyher husband out of the dead bodieslying around.'This blast was in Kollupitya,' myfather explained, 'just threekilometers away.''Dad, it was the LTTE?' I asked.'Yes, the Sri Lankan army had foughthard in Jaffna last week,' my fatherrecalled, 'they were successful in

destroying their tanks. Big loss forthe LTTE.‘'Oh, revenge! Now they target theinnocent people,' my mother added.We offered Mary and her family tostay with us. She refused politelysaying that they had already madesome arrangements. We finally wentto our beds. That night I swirledbeneath the blanket out ofdiscomfort. I was drenched in sweateven with the air conditioner on. Mystomach churned and I felt myintestines tangle inside my body.Images from the blast, and Mary'stears reappeared in a loop.After a difficult night, the nextmorning our school bus came to pickme up. As I entered, I saw two mendressed in grey uniform sitting next tothe driver. I recognized them fromone of those Indian Embassy parties.The High Commissioner was alwaysaccompanied by these men.I noticed the bulge on the left side oftheir waist. It was from the guns theycarried. This civil war spread like adisease and now it has finally reachedthe nucleus of the cell. People did allthey could to stay safe inside this socalled 'bubble'.

Karan Rajan‘Aaaaarrrrrggghhhh!’ yelled Kavya.She was seated in the back of the car.Although, the car’s manufacturershad taken sufficient care to provide abackseat that could somehowaccommodate three persons, SushmaAunty had bluntly refused to let thethird person– Kavya’s mother, in. Sowhen Kavya suddenly confrontedlabour pains, all we had were theSharmas. Mr. Sharma, an elderlyman, well past his retirement age,was controlling the wheel, and wasfinding it extremely difficult to meetthe demands of the two shoutingwomen– one in labour, and the otherin pain upon observing her husband’sinefficient efforts to steer the car at aspeed that matched the intensity ofthe situation.‘Make it quick, Sharmaji!’ bawledSushma Aunty.The needle in the speedometer wasstuck at 40.‘Uffho! I could have asked Kavya torun to the hospital instead of askingthis man to drive the car for us;’murmered Sushma Aunty, loudenough to make everybody sitting inthe car familiar with her thoughts.‘Don’t worry, Jai Beta, everything isgoing to be alright,’ Mr. Sharma saidto me, ignoring his wife’sdisparagement.Unable to get any words out of mymouth, I stretched my lips in reply.‘Aarrgh’ cried, Kavya.‘Don’t worry, Kavya, we are nearlythere,’ whispered Sushma Aunty, andscowled at Mr. Sharma.‘Sharmaji, I don’t think you care aboutKavya that much,’ declared SushmaAunty.Sharmaji kept his focus on the road.He spoke not even once. This madeSushmaAunty even more furious.‘You talk to this man, and he doesn’t

even reply. I think I was out of mymind when I decided to marry him.’Sushma Aunty spent the next 10minutes alternating betweencomforting Kavya and berating Mr.Sharma. The fruits of Sushma Aunty’sstriving were now evident, as thespeedometer matched Sharmaji’sage. I wondered for a moment howhard Sharmaji’s life would be athome, but quickly steered myattention towards Kavya. She kepther eyes closed, but kept murmuringperiodic ‘aaahs’ and ‘ooohs.’ Shelooked beautiful, even though shewas masquerading as a humanelephant.‘Can’t you drive properly, Sharmaji?’shouted Sushma Aunty. The car hadencountered a pot-hole, which gaveme a few anxious seconds andSushma Aunty a reason to screamsome more at Sharmaji.Sharmaji surprisingly got us to thehospital within the covenant time. Irushed to open Kavya’s door. Theefforts I had to put to get her out ofthe car were, to say the least,enormous. We were told by Sharmajithat Genesis Nursing Home was oneof the best hospitals in Delhi, but theoutward appearance of the hospitalstated otherwise. The hospital wasestablished in 1985, and althoughonly five years old, looked as if thebuilding had stood there for acentury. The floors looked as if theywere not mopped from the past tenyears; the dustbins were overflowingwith garbage. The walls looked as ifthey had never been painted. Thelackadaisical employees of thehospital did very little to rectify thesituation.Sushma Aunty and I held one ofKavya’s hands and advanced at a pacethat would make even the mostanaemic tortoise seem swift. Sharmaji

lagged about two three steps behindus, maybe to avoid theembarrassment from SushmaAuntie’s scolding at a public place. Afrail looking nurse observed us at adistance and was ready with awheelchair.‘Sir, let madam sit in chair;’ said thefragile nurse.I quickly placed Kavya in thewheelchair.‘You do the paper work, I’ll takemadam,’ said the nurse.The nurse had to push the chairforward, and with Kavya mounted onthe wheelchair, it was for her a trickysituation. The combined weight ofKavya and the wheelchair, refused toco-operate with the nurse. To acertain extent, I felt guilty for themutilation of Kavya’s body.As if a mortal enemy, my fingersrefused to stay close to the pen; ithad become impossible to make afirm grip of the pen. Sharmaji,sensing my inability to hold my

Her eyes were shut and she kept murmuring periodic

‘Aaaah’s and Ooooh’s.’ She looked beautiful, even though

she was masquerading as a human elephant.

composure, as well as the pen,involuntarily seized the pen from me.‘Don’t worry, I’ll handle it,’ saidSharmaji, and promptly startedscribbling on the form fretfully.Sharmaji had known us long enoughto answer the questions of the form.Although Sharmaji had no reason tobe anxious, he looked just as nervousas me.‘Mr. Jaaaaaaaaaiiii!!!!’ screamedAisha, Kavya’s sister, from behind me.I wondered why she had so elongateda relatively short word.‘Hi Aisha,’ I said. Trying to the verybest of my acting abilities I tried tohide my disgust for her.‘Boy or a girl? What do you think?’she asked.‘Hijra,’ I answered, in a deliberateattempt to stop all the futurequestions.‘Sir, madam is in room number 9.’The nurse, along with a ward boy, hadmanaged the Herculean task ofgetting Kavya to room number 9.I rushed to the stated room. Kavyalay on a bed that was not sumptuous,but looked reasonably comfortable.The pink bed sheet matched thewalls. Beside the bed stood a ricketychair, on whose face Sushma auntie’sbuttocks were parked. The room’swindow looked at the parking lot,every square inch of which wasoccupied. The attached lavatorypresented an instant opportunity tounload my bladder, if not theemotional strain. The doctor, afterthe initial check-up had conveyed thatthe delivery was due within an houror two. The needle of the clockmoved at a leisurely pace and simplyrefused to rotate speedily. Time, thatday, appeared to be at a stand-still.Having nothing to do for the moment,I came out of the room.‘Worried, Jai?’ asked Aisha.‘No, just the obvious tautness,’ Ireplied.‘You haven’t eaten anything since themorning. Help yourself to somerefreshments.’Aisha pointed towards a sack whichwas inflated with food items.I shook my head: food certainly didnot make it to my priority list.I reverted back to the room after my

saunter. Room number 9 was nowoccupied by two elderly women, eachseated as sentinels guarding bothflanks of Kavya’s body.I grinned at Kavya’s mother– my vocalcord still on strike.She was too absorbed in her daughterto make note of my greetings.‘Would you like something to drink?’asked Sushma Aunty to the ladysitting on the opposite side of thebed, on observing the drought andsubsequent cracks on Kavya’smother’s lips.She looked once towards her left,then to her right, as a reply to SushmaAunty’s offerings.Kavya, with her swollen body, lookedstrikingly similar to her mother. Ithink her good looks might have comefrom her dead father. Anyways,watching her mother crammed mybrain with memories of my own

mother. She had always loathed myassociation with Kavya. My parentshad warned me that they woulddisown me as a son if I married Kavya.They had kept their word till date.‘Puussshh!’ The doctor applied moreenergy in saying push, than Kavya hadapplied to get the baby out. Threequarters of an hour had passed, andthe situation had gotten worse. Allthat I had witnessed was synchronousscreaming of a couple of women.I was told that “pushing” was as

difficult as propelling a football out ofthe nostril, and my vision at themoment didn’t betray what I hadbeen told.‘Operation is inevitable,’ the dejecteddoctor conveyed.‘Do whatever you can,’ was myspontaneous response.The bulb above the operation theatreradiated dull red rays for six hours.

‘It’s out’ said the same nurse after theoperation- the news failing to exciteher.‘I am a Dad,’ I whispered to myself,three times. Then I reiterated thesame statement ten times out loud,simultaneously sprinting back andforth the entire length of the corridor.I thought of somersaulting, but thegranite floorings and my illmaintained body put my aspirationsto an abrupt end.My eyes for the first time in my adultlife had become wet. I had becomecompletely numb. Emotionsrepudiated to distinguish themselves.My stomach bore a palpableheaviness. The usual rhythmic

Nobody moved an inch. There wasjust dead silence.‘What??’ I asked, but nobody cared toreply.Kavya lay on the bed, and besides her,the crying baby.I grasped the baby between my palmsand held it at a height, which scaredeverybody.I don’t know why I held the baby atprecisely that height, as if fate wantedto reveal something, and then thefollowing words involuntarily cameout of my mouth.‘WHAT THE FUCK?! A EUNACH?’

contraction and expansion of myheart, inside which now resided thenewborn, was multiplied to a scale often.‘Go have a look,’ someone said.Drawn to my own thoughts I failed torecognize who it was.The door was partially opened and Ipeeped through the door. SushmaAunty’s corpulent figure blocked theview of anything that was presentinside the room. As my patiencevanished, I plunged inside the room.Kavya’s mother and Sushma Auntykept staring their feet. Nobody hadany expression on their face. I couldsee the contours of Kavya’s tears onher cheeks. Nobody said anything.

Saumya BhattHe was ready to leave. I ran to theroof to watch him go. My bare feet hitthe wooden stairs just like thedrumsticks hit the drums. My stepskept disappearing one after the otheras the moonlight from the windowsalongside couldn’t make its way allthe way to the top. Now, I could seethe broad green pastures lit up withthose orange-yellow lights along thestreets and in the street right in frontof me I saw a car with a man inside,wearing a white coat. I smiled as thecar went out of sight. I turned backand stretched my arms as wide as Icould. I felt like dancing on the roof’sedge. So, I climbed up! But wait, I amnot supposed to do this! . This makesme awfully sick! I want to throwmyself off the roof! Then the suddenemanating of borborygums from mystomach dispersed my thoughts. I tip-toed my way down…... nobody shouldhear me. “Let your stomach decidewhen to eat, your mind just tests youat times!” these words echoed in myears. I paused and then could notremember when he had said this.Were they even for me? My stomachrumbled again and the taste of what Ihad thrown up few hours back stillremained in my mouth.

It is time to go down and get somegrub for this rumbling creature. Ireached the end of the staircase andsaw the mirror which was hanging atthe closet door. I saw my goldengown covered with abstract patternsof red everywhere-some dark andsome light. I was delighted for amoment and then to enhance thefeeling, my eyes caught the sight ofthe staircase which had a trail of redfollowing me. It never announces itsarrival. I cannot lick my finger, put itup and say- “Madness is in the air!” Itdoesn’t go away even if you beg, cry

or bleed to please it. It just strips youoff everything and anything. Bravewomen fight till the end, don’t they?Just like the brave men who have togo away, leaving their families,leaving everything like nothing everexisted. I was fighting too, in here. Inthis known yet unknown place whichwas now eating me up and wherevery inch has a glimpse of him. Thedarkness here had a light of its own,sometimes just letting me go andsometimes ensnaring me in itspathetic blows.It is Sunday tomorrow and I hadpromised Sophie to return her book. Ibetter look for it and Mr. Jones,Sophie’s neighbour has invited meover dinner, I shall look for a prettydress before Ted comes back andstops me from my preparation andputs me to rest. Oh! I cannot wait fortomorrow! I love it when the sunkisses my skin. The birds sing and kidsplay in the park. I find honking thebest and want to tell the honkers,“Wait till I get a car!” Well! I got towork hard for it, do extra time in theoffice, and bear nasty Beth. She ismean. I don’t like her. I don’t like theother people in the office too. Theystare at me as if I am some animal!What if the doctor comes and seesme every day? I think they are justjealous of me, jealous of myrich husband who pays the doctorextra to come and see me every day.How does it matter to them, we don’tlive together, so what? He still lovesme!

I cannot stop my tears . What am Idoing? Again? These useless drops ofwater! It’s been long eating anddrinking salt! What happened to thesweetness we shared? Where did itgo? Where did he go? “huh huh huh”To the times he lied about me

breaking things in the house… I amnot stupid! I know what I do..! I havereasons for all which he will neverbelieve or rather say I shouldunderstand him. But what about thetime when he called me up afterthree long months and I picked up thephone with my hands shivering, notknowing what to say, with longstreams of hot tears flowing down tomy cheeks and then to my tightenedthroat, burning it. He said, “Honey, Iam good!” I kept mum, and the wordsdissolved like sugar in my mouth andthis solution tasted bitter and thisbitterness still stays. “I love you” wasall what I wanted to say. I sat next tothe phone for the rest of the day butit had decided not to ring again foranother two months and this time hewas coming home…. after eightmonths! It was our first marriageanniversary! I knew that he would bethere, standing right in front of metomorrow and I’ll kiss away all thedistance! The night was long…longenough for me to sleep severaltimes…wake up many times

It never announces its arrival. I cannot lick my finger, put it

up and say- ‘Madness is in the air!’ It doesn’t go

away even if you beg, cry or bleed to please it. It just strips

you off everything and anything.

and smile a million times. Half of thenext day, I spent standing at thewindow, telling myself to wait a bitlonger and smile a bit broader. Thephone rang again but this time myheart sank low…I could sensesomething not so right in it. I picked itup, it was his voice, he said,“Marcella, I am halfway through but Ineed to report in an emergency fall-inright now, I am very sorry, willcomeback as soon as I can…..saysomething Marcella…..Marcella!”Now was it wrong for me to throwthe phone out of the window and gocrazy? Was it wrong for me to thenend up in the hospital, NO! It wasn’tand when I asked him why he didthat, he said, “There is no to reasonwhy, there is but to do and die.” Thiswas the spirit of the army but thenwhy does he had quit his job? Is itbecause I found out about Beth andhim? Or did he hate me so much forseparating them that he doesn’t evenwant to see me anymore. Hisoccasional visits did not do anygood….and then I stopped expectinghim and whenever I broke somethingor maybe it was not me who broke ithe sent me to the doctor andgradually the doctor replaced him! Itwas the doctor who used to pay morevisits……and he still does…everyday!

I walked towards the basin to washthe vegetables. I could not bear therumbling anymore. The water in thesink became red…..long red rivers inthe broken desert! My hand…sliced somercilessly..! Bam! The door to theroof banged! What was that?Someone has got into the house!OMG! I can’t let this happen….saveme…I have to save myself….savemyself…save! He must be in theroof….NO! I left the roof door open!There is a bang on the door again! Irushed up the stairs….blood drainedfoot-steps….broken glass and aknife…a sharp one! Now who leavesthat behind for a detective ? It’s timefor me to get in the form now!Detective Marcella! 15 years ofexperience….what this little rat will doto you and your house! Gearup…gotta get this one alone! Hah!Wait up you little rat! I’m gonna get

hugs me. The man falls down stillholding my hand and as he falls I lookat his army outfit, his badge in whichwas inscribed OFFICER FREDDYMAUSS!

you…how dare you get into myhouse!! How dare you!! He made mywork easy….so close to what I washere for! I got the blood stained knifeand went to the roof. Just a few starsabove the head and beneath were alldarkness trying to engulf me again. Iceased all movement but the bloodwas still dripping! I waited for a signalbut there was none. I planned to godownstairs again with the knife still inmy hands. I took careful steps tryingto keep the air stagnant. It was allpart of the training I had received!Then there was a loud thud on thefront door breaking the silence. Themuscles of my foot jammed, mywhole body jammed… I could notpush myself forward but with theincreasing intensity of the thud mycourage increased! Oh! Now you gotthe front door haa….Lemme getchathere! You can’t go away like that!Agent Marcella gonna get you! Noone can get into my house like this!It’s my house! My house! No more ofFreddy’s!

Wait up….you can’t get away likethat! What if he has a shot gun or abigger knife….you gotta be carefulagent Marcella Mauss! I open thedoor and find nobody there…I lookaround and suddenly a man jumps infront of me and hugs me. I panic andstab the man in his neck while he stills

All our words are but crumbs that fall down from the feast of the mind.

- Khalil Gibran

The Department of English