Ranjit Kulkarni's Blog, page 24

Screams at Night: Short Story

The strange thing about my new neighbourhood is that the screaming happens every day. Or more precisely, every night.

It starts just before midnight and goes on way past it. Sometimes it goes on for two hours or more. With every passing minute, the screams just keep getting louder. They start with a loud scream on the first beating. Then there are numerous shrill screams of ongoing struggle. Sometimes I hear more than one voice. Some squeaking voices join the screaming sometimes, I think. After a while, the screaming subsides. The night is silent again.

For a few days after I moved here, I tolerated them. I thought maybe they will go away. But they kept getting worse.

The loud beating that accompanies the screams wrenches my heart and wakes me up every night. On some days, I feel as if it is a girl’s voice screaming, but I can never be sure. Maybe it’s a woman. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s a crying dog or some other animal. It changes every night in shrillness, so it’s tough to make a guess.

The screams are a bit distant. So it’s tough to be fully sure. I think it is in some building a few metres away from my apartment. I have not been able to spot where exactly the screams come from. But the ears don’t miss them when they happen. Every single night.

On another day last week, I felt I heard the voice of both a grown woman and a girl scream together. The man was grunting followed by their screams. I felt like stepping out and stopping it at once.

They were screaming so loudly that some other neighbours also switched on the lights. The screams stopped after that. That was because the grunting and the beating stopped, perhaps when he saw the light in our apartment from a distance, wherever he was.

It was a good tactic to stop the screams, a ploy that seemed to have worked. For a few nights, whenever the screaming started, one of us switched on the lights and then it stopped.

But this worked only for a few days, or nights. The lights could only stay on for a few minutes. It was way past midnight after all. Everyone in a decent apartment needs a good night’s sleep at that time. So the lights have to go off at some point. The screams would stop when the lights were switched on but would start again after the lights went off.

It was getting unbearable. This started becoming regular. It followed a pattern.

The voices kept getting shrill. Initially the screams were loud. They were accompanied by heavy beating. Then they got muffled. Perhaps they got tired of screaming after a while. Or exhausted, they had dropped off to sleep. Or maybe someone muffled their mouths. Or maybe they died?

No, that can’t be. I don’t think anyone died from the beating every night. It is unlikely. One can’t kill every night. I hoped so at least. Otherwise, whoever did it must be a monster. I shivered at that possibility as it entered my thoughts. I felt strongly that I should do something about this.

The screams subsided after 2 AM in general. Or if one of my neighbours switched on their lights for half an hour after midnight, sometimes the screams went on till 2.30 AM.

This was getting routine. After about fifteen days, I lost my patience. I thought it was better to do something about this screaming. I can’t take this lying down. Maybe I should gather some neighbours and together we can make a police complaint. We can’t tolerate so much beating and screaming every night.

On my walk the next morning, I met a neighbour.

“This beating and screaming that happens in our neighbourhood at night? Do you hear it every night?” I asked him.

“Screaming and beating?” he initially sounded surprised and raised his eyebrows. I wondered, for a moment, if I was the only one who heard it. I pointed to the direction from which I heard the screams. Then he realised what I was talking about.

“Oh that? Yes. Of course. It’s been going on for more than a year now. You recently shifted here?” he asked.

“Yes, I moved here two weeks back, I live in B wing. How can we tolerate so much beating and screaming in our neighbourhood? That too, at night? Why don’t we make a police complaint?” I insisted.

“Oh, yeah, it’s tough to sleep, especially for the flats in your wing. That building is closer from that side,” he informed me. Then with a sigh of resignation and despair, he continued.

“We have tried everything , I mean, including going to the police. The police also know. They can’t do much,” he said.

“The police can’t do much? With so much screaming and beating? Why?” I persisted, losing my patience.

The neighbour looked down and about. Then he moved a bit closer to me and whispered.

“What can they do? It’s run by a local goon. It was a mistake to allow such people in a decent neighbourhood like ours. But we can’t do much. The local politician is in his pocket. He has got all the permissions, and everyone covered,” he said.

“Permissions? One day when someone dies, we don’t want to regret,” I put my best foot forward, with my eyebrows raised to my forehead, unable to take it anymore.

He gave me a sly smile and patted me on my shoulder, as he continued on his morning walk.

“But what can we do? People in our apartment want fresh meat in the morning,” he said. “This butchery, I tell you, is a weird business.”

***

This story was first published by Kathmandu Tribune, Nepal’s National Online English Daily pressing forward to contribute significantly towards English Journalism in Nepal, in their May 22nd issue. You can read it here.

Bangalore Lit Fest: Notes

I attended the Bangalore Literature Festival on 3rd December 2022. It was more out of curiosity about what Lit Fests are about than anything else. A writer friend pinged me about 5-6 days before it happened, till when I had vaguely heard about it and had no idea that it was happening on the weekend of 3-4 Dec. I had never attended Bangalore Lit Fest (BLF as it is called) or any other Lit Fest before this, either after I took up writing three years back, or in my days as a corporate manager before that. Earlier this year (in January) when another friend had asked me if I was going to the Jaipur Lit Fest (JLF), I had seriously evaluated going, but did not feel motivated enough after it turned part online, part offline due to the Omicron wave of Covid. So, long story short, this was my first Lit Fest experience. So how was it? Here goes.

Well, I didn’t know what to expect in a Lit Fest apart from seeing a lot of celebrities (writers, publishers, and generally famous people from the industry) talk about writing, reading and the ilk. So, to that extent, that is what I got. There were four or five ‘tracks’ so to speak that went about in parallel in the surroundings of the Lalit Ashok Hotel. Plus, there was the Atta Galata bookstore in a hall inside where you could buy books by authors featured in the Lit Fest. Each of those tracks, at any point in time, had someone on stage talking (typically an interviewer and an interviewee at least, and in some cases panels of interviewers and interviewees, too) and a large number of people listening to them. I had to choose which track to attend at any point in time and rush from one to the other, based on it.

My choices initially were based on who was speaking (or interviewing) and what the talk was about. But as the day progressed, many of the talks started seeming equally interesting or uninteresting. Hence, practical considerations like when was lunch, where the heat of the sun was the least (yes, it was a hot afternoon in Bangalore!), where the crowds gathered (or in some cases weren’t too much) and where I could stay put or get out easily started becoming important. Most of the track locations were close by, so logistically it wasn’t hard, plus the sessions had overlap, so in the afternoon, I found myself attending one session for a while, and then sneaking out for another. Therefore, in a sense, I could get the best of all worlds. Overall, I attended quite a lot of sessions. Which are the ones I remember?

Well, to start with, the one I missed. When I reached in the morning, the first session by Geetanjali Shree (Ret Samadhi) was just getting over, and one by Mallika Sarabhai on experiments with living was on. I skipped it and went to a session by David Davidar who spoke about publishing. There were quite a few aspiring writers and students in the crowd with questions, and I must say he answered them with patience. Another session I remember was by a writer Damodar Mauzo, who I had never heard of, being interviewed by Vivek Shanbhag, (the writer of Ghachar Ghochar which I had read and loved). Mauzo, who I realized is a Jnanpith Award Winner, was a 78-year-old man, who had been writing mostly short stories in Konkani for almost fifty years. He spoke passionately about how he got inspiration from characters he met in real life in his village in Goa. It was interesting, and I ended up buying two of his collections – one of which I have now finished reading.

I also attended a session by Cyrus Mistry who had written books about the Parsi community. His completely nonchalant, almost uninterested manner of talking about his writing while the interviewer was trying to promote it was intriguing. I ended up buying one of his books about a Parsi corpse bearer. That is the point of the Lit Fest, I guess – to introduce and promote books and authors, and spur readers to buy. It is not a bad objective. If you are a book lover, you might just discover a book or author you don’t know and might like.

Everyone talked about books except a few real celebrities like VVS Laxman and Barkha Dutt, who ended up speaking about themselves and their persona and opinions. I guess that’s how it goes – people want to listen about famous people and their lives and opinions, and their writing is secondary – many times, the book sells due to the celebrity and not the writing, which is done by someone else. That is the case with non-fiction. Whereas the not so famous (but actual) writers talked about their books and writing, because people don’t want to listen about them and their lives that much but more about their writing. That is the case with fiction.

One amazing session in the afternoon was one in which a not so famous writer but highly accomplished and knowledgeable person spoke. It was by Trilochan Sastry the writer of a book “Essentials of Hinduism” and a professor and dean at IIM Bangalore. He held everyone spellbound with his wisdom and knowledge, demonstrated with a rare dispassion, and at the end, in the spirit of his topic, declared that all royalties from his book go to charity.

After that, I attended a session by Ramachandra Guha who was at the other end as far as passion and eloquence goes. His speech in the evening about the research he had performed over more than a decade for his two-volume biography on Gandhi was full of anecdotes and jokes, many of which were on the left, liberal side of the political spectrum, but perfectly executed to hold the audience in awe.

Well, the left, liberal aspect was on display almost throughout the Lit Fest, but then if it is not here, where will it be? I tried not to read too much into it, but in some sessions, the anti-state rhetoric took centerstage rather than the literature and I found myself searching for the literature amongst those few shades of activism. Be that as it may, I just left it at that, and focused on the sessions which were about books, writers and writing.

There were a couple of sessions by Pico Iyer on travel writing, but I am not a reader of that type of writing (yet!) so didn’t quite resonate with it. There was also a session by Vikram Chandra and Anita Nair on crime writing, which had a lot of crowds, but I found it going above my head. That made me realize that if I didn’t enjoy a crowded session by such accomplished travel and crime writers, it basically meant that there are different types of readers and there are different types of writers, and everyone doesn’t have to like everything.

There was also a session by teachers of creative writing for students who aspired to make a career in writing late in the evening. Unfortunately, a lot of students (and their parents) had left by then.

So, overall, what did I think about the Bangalore Lit Fest?

Well, for a start, for the experience that comes once a year or even lesser, it was a decent one. Just for quelling the curiosity of what Lit Fests are about, the visit to BLF 22 was worth it. Beyond that, it really depends on who you are and what you are looking for.

For readers, if you find your favorite author and would like to meet him or her in person, take a selfie or an autographed book – avenues that aren’t available in general – a Lit Fest is perfect. Authors are there basically for that – to build and meet their reader base and promote their books. For publishers, it is basically a promotional event for their published authors. Some say, they also hunt for new talent, but I am not sure if that is true. For aspiring young writers and students who want a publishing contract, it is said this is a networking opportunity. But like so many conferences I have attended (in Tech and IT, in my corporate innings!), I am not sure one really gets publishing contracts at Lit Fests, the same way you generally don’t get customers at tech fairs. You may get a few business cards and leads, but just like that, expecting more from a Lit Fest, is perhaps, a bit immature.

And then there are a lot of people who don’t fit into any of these categories. These include the reading public, the literature society circle (of all types and ages!), the famous-for-being-famous people, the media, the hangouts and even people who don’t have any particular agenda and are there generally to have fun. For them, it is a decent day out.

I might attend a few more in the future as and when they happen, but I think they will be based more on convenience, specific interest for a session than for the general experience or curiosity which got quelled at BLF 22. I would still say that attending or being part of a Lit Fest, even for a day, is a good opportunity for those who have a specific agenda. In the absence of that, it is still a good way to spend a day amongst bibliophiles, writers and anyone who likes or has anything to do with books, reading and writing.

Just like it was for me. Overall, it was a day decently spent.

Thinking About Writing

Thinking about writing is not writing. Planning to write is not writing. Going through your writing is not writing. Editing your writing is not writing. Compiling your writing into a book is not writing. Making notes about writing is not writing. Even making an outline about what to write next is not writing. And reading about writing is surely not writing.

For the past few months, I have been doing all of this, except actually writing. I hope this phase doesn’t continue for a long time, though it has already been a few months. It has been long enough for it to have kind of become a habit. It is not something that I like.

What else does a writer do but to write, every day? Most people have this vague idea that writers write when they get a flash of inspiration or the muse arrives, and lo and behold, then they write, and the rest of the time, they do something else. Well, in reality, that is not how stories or books happen. The only way creation of writing happens is when you sit and write, word by word, paragraph by paragraph, irrespective of inspiration or the muse coming. And if you do that long enough, they usually do come.

For a writer, there is nothing else to do but to sit and write. Well, not really. There is always something else to do. Just that there is nothing else useful to do for a writer other than actual writing.

So in the past few months I have spent doing many such ‘something else’s’ which a lot of people find useful but, for a writer, they are, if not a waste, at the very least a loss of time. I have been doing some projects from my past life of data and consulting. (Thankfully, it still interests me a bit, and there are clients who are still interested!) And I have spent time in reading, quite a lot. And in compiling some of the stories I wrote earlier this year into books. That’s how you saw three books getting released this year, including the latest Bend in the Road. But believe me, most of the writing of these books was done over six months before they were released. And in watching some television serials looking for some characters and for some stories and for some inspiration (none of which I have found yet!). And in travelling which I always enjoy because there is always something to see and do in this big, wide world and it always inspires (This time it was Bhutan!). And in getting interviewed by my alma mater where there was intrigue about a computer engineer alumnus turning writer (which was a pleasant surprise!).

So I did all these things which weren’t uninteresting. Quite interesting they were, honestly. But they were everything except actually writing.

And now after a long time, I have written this small article which is, basically, writing about writing. Which is still not writing, in my view. So I hope I get back to real writing – the stories again. One day at a time. One word at a time. One story at a time. One book at a time.

Untied: Short Story

It was dark all around when he opened his eyes.

He was tied to a big boulder that was four times his size in the corner of a dark, dingy room. His hands were tied behind him in iron chains. His legs were bound by ropes and tied to the rock. He was unable to move even an inch. The room was misty, cold and had a pungent, stale smell that he remembered. He didn’t know where he was.

At the corner of the room, he saw the tinge of a dim red light. From that light, she emerged. He saw her coming and knew that she was the reason for his predicament. She was the reason for his miserable locked up condition. She was the one who had bound him and chained him up.

“It is you, again!” he remarked, resigned to his situation.

“Yes, it’s me, who else, my dear?” she said with a villainous grin.

“Why are you doing this to me?” he howled.

She walked towards him making a tic-toc sound of her high heels. It was deafening in the silence.

She came closer to him and stood next to him. She looked beautiful in her red dress. She was the ultimate seductress. She held his face in her two fingers and lifted it up, so that he could see her in all her beauty. So often in the past had he held her close like that. But that was in the past.

Today he turned his face away. He did not want to see her eye to eye. But she pulled his chin back.

“Why? Why are you doing this to me?” he yelled again, at the top of his voice.

She lifted her finger and put it on her pouting lips. “Lower, lower.. SShhhh.. Don’t shout,” she said.

“How can you ask such a question? Don’t you know?” she asked, anger and hatred on her face.

“What harm have I brought to you? I just want to end this. Please leave me alone,” he pleaded.

“How can I leave you alone? I love you more than you ever did. And now I love you even more,” she said, moving her slick fingers through his hair and on to his lips. “I thirst for your love, for the touch of your hands, your lips. How can you end this?” she said.

“No.., No…., No,” he shouted. “Just leave me alone, please, I pray of you,” he folded his tied hands.

She held his face in her hands and squeezed his cheeks.

“How can I leave you alone, my dear?” she asked. “We go back a long way,” she said.

“Yes, that’s true, but times have changed now,” he implored. “I have a wife, a son, a family. They love me and I have to take care of them,” he reminded her.

She threw her arms up all of a sudden and stood up in anger. She slapped him in a surge of anger.

“Family, my foot. Wife, my foot. We have loved each other from much earlier. Much before any of them came into your life,” she shouted. “And now you want to leave me? Traitor!!!” she yelled.

He now looked at her eye to eye. He could see the blood in her eyes. She was bent on taking her vengeance. She wanted her revenge and she wanted it now. She was determined to get back at him.

A wave of fear passed through his spine. His lips quivered with trepidation.

“For long, I tried… both…But it is not ..umm.. possible anymore. I have to .. err.. choose. I have no.. I don’t have.. umm.. any option,” he cried out aloud.

He looked around for a way out. He wanted to run away. But his legs were tied. His body was bound. There seemed to be no door to this dark room. Where will he run and how? There was no way he could escape. She laughed aloud looking at his predicament.

“Desperate to run away from me, eh?” she asked him with a sly smile.

“I have tried so many times. But you don’t let me go. Why don’t you leave me?” he begged again.

She came closer to him. She went behind the stone and came back in front of him from the other side. She circled around him twice in silence. Wherever he turned his head, he saw her.

“You loved me so much,” she said, softening her voice. “All you wanted was me. Before anyone else. Those were the good, old times. And now, you want to run away,” she added with a touch of lament. He saw a ray of hope. He saw a thaw, a crack. Maybe her rage was slackening a bit, he thought.

“I have no choice. I have a family. I love them and they love me,” he said again, hoping for some sympathy. But it only lit the smouldering embers of her wrath again.

“Enough…,” she yelled. “Enough of this family nonsense,” she cried. “It is not for your family that you want to run away from me.. It is for yourself. You can’t stand me anymore,” she said.

He hung his head in shame. He stared at his feet and then glared at her slender legs. Then he closed his eyes. He didn’t want to go down that road again.

“Please, Please. Untie me. Leave me alone,” he made a final, desperate cry.

He saw her walking towards him. She had a knife in her hand. She came closer to him with knife in hand. He tried to move, sensing danger to his life.

“No, don’t kill me.. No,” he shouted. “I want to live, please spare me,” he shouted.

She came closer towards him.

“I will not kill you,” she said. “But I will not let you live too,” she said with cold vengeance in her voice. He started shivering in fear. She moved even closer to his face.

“I will untie you, but not without a parting gift,” she said, and put the knife on his neck. 

He shouted at the top of his voice.

“No.. No.. Help. I want to live. I want to live. Don’t kill me,” he howled with eyes closed, and suddenly he realised that his hands were untied. His legs were free. The room was filled with white light. He wondered if he had lost his life and reached heaven. “No..!!” he shouted.

“What happened?” he heard a familiar voice and found himself wobbling. It was his wife shaking him. He opened his eyes in shock. He woke up in cold sweat.

“Did you see a dream?” she asked, feeling his hot, sweating forehead. He looked around rubbing his dreary eyes, confused.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“You are at home,” his wife answered.

He saw the clock on the table. It was 4.30 am. Next to the clock was his medical report. He was not sure how long he had to live after being diagnosed last evening of cirrhosis.

In the corner below his bed, the bottle sat emptily smiling in peace with her revenge taken. But tomorrow is another day.

***

This story was first published in Kathmandu Tribune. You may also read it here.

Beginning Action

“Action generally begins when you have to, not when you want to,” Jigneshbhai said sipping his coffee. “It starts when you must, not when you should.”

Swami and I thought that we were more determined than that. Swami for one was sure that he was and, therefore, didn’t agree with Jigneshbhai at first, as usual.

“Not really,” he said. “Unless we want to and think we should do something, how can we do anything?”

Jigneshbhai had a smile on his face.

“But we already know what we want to or should do. But we still don’t, isn’t it?” he asked with his usual twinkle in his eye.

Swami and I looked at each other. Yes, we know but still don’t. But something was amiss. We can’t be that bad, Swami and I thought.

“Don’t we set resolutions based on what we want to do rather than what we have to do? And then set them again, next year after we don’t do it?” Jigneshbhai pondered looking into his coffee cup.

This was too uncomfortable a reality for us to face. Swami and I picked up our coffee. We didn’t want to, but we had to. It was a good diversion. To escape Jigneshbhai holding this mirror in front of us, we had to find something. He continued bringing the mirror closer, though.

“Want to do is not much of a driver. It is dreamy. Have to do is real. It is much visceral,” he said. “It is a must do. It puts us into action. That’s when something happens,” he added.

“Who doesn’t want to save more and invest better? Who doesn’t want good health by doing exercise regularly? But do you always have to? We act only when we have to,” Jigneshbhai kept on tightening the screw.

Swami and I looked somewhere else. We felt that the coffee was much more comfortable. We ordered another cup.

We looked at each other. The dawn of realisation that Jigneshbhai was, perhaps, right again arose in Swami’s eyes.

“Everyone knows what they want to or should do. Wanting isn’t enough to act,” Swami said. But then a question sprung in his head. “But then, what provides the spur for action?” he asked.

Jigneshbhai had a smile on his face.

“The same reason that you ordered another coffee,” he said.

“What?” Swami and I asked in unison. “Why do you think we ordered the coffee?” we probed.

“Because of discomfort. Coffee was a potential alternative to the discomfort of my questions,” he remarked.

“When that discomfort happened, you didn’t just want to get out of it. You had to. And the alternative of coffee presented itself,” he added.

Swami and I looked at each other. What do we say, each of us thought. How does our friend Jigneshbhai manage to show us the light every time, we wondered within. We resolved to act on what we wanted to or should do, going forward, instead of waiting for the have to point. But I wasn’t confident that history wouldn’t repeat itself. Jigneshbhai was right, perhaps, that action begins only when we have to. Swami and I pondered over it for a while.

That’s when I saw the wealthy old man who was on the adjoining table all the time walk up to us. He left us with more food for thought which we didn’t want to hear but had to.

“We act not when we see the light. We act when we feel the heat,” he declared, as he walked away.

***

New Book: A Bend in the Road

My latest book, ‘A Bend in the Road: Stories Inspired by a Road Trip’ is now available!

Inspired by experiences on a Road Trip, A Bend in the Road is a thought-provoking, amusing and often surprising set of stories that will take you on a journey across India with a set of real characters and their somewhat imaginary stories. For lovers of short intriguing stories, this is a trip not to be missed!

Check it out on Amazon now!

These are some of the twenty stories included in this book.

•In the island of Majuli, is everyone what they seem to be or are there any stories lurking behind? Find out in The Mask

•When a young Tibetan boy is anointed to be a Rinpoche, does his life become easier or tougher? Read about it in The Monk Who Wasn’t

•Find out what happens when a former heir to a pre-independence era princely state cannot quite come to terms with his new reality in The Lost Kingdom

•How does the life of a man born on the floating lake of Loktak in the middle of a war turn out to be? Read about what drives such a man in Staying Afloat

•What happens to a Tribal Dancer who tires of being treated like a foreigner in his own country, and to A Soldier on the Border who meets a civilian from his village?

•What is intriguing about The Missing Delivery or The Warrior Spirit?

•Go back to the future in Light Up the Future and the past in A Bend in the Road

Check it out if you find it interesting. Let me know how you find it too!

Time to Move On: Short Story

At Hariharan’s marriage this time, his dead first wife was the proverbial elephant in the room.

Isn’t that what you call someone or something that no one talks about, but everyone is thinking of? Everyone in attendance sensed Sumangala by her absence. She was still on everyone’s lips. And if not, she was on everyone’s minds. Most of all, her old father’s.

It was inevitable. It had been less than a year since she had passed away. The memories hadn’t faded. Her father had not even yet fully come to terms with it.

How could he? Memories of that accident still haunted him. Losing his daughter out of the blue in the prime of her youth wasn’t easy. Why my daughter? He had cried his heart out in anguish and in pain for almost a month after she left.

Yet after that, he had repeatedly told his mind that there was no other way but to reconcile with it. Perhaps, it was God who had willed that Sumangala leave this world without warning, he consoled his broken heart. He often questioned if it was God’s will that she leave behind a daughter of five years who didn’t quite understand where her mother had gone.

It perplexed him that another woman was going to take Sumangala’s place in the lives of Hariharan and his daughter. But everyone told him it was inevitable. It was time to move on. He had resigned himself to it. In fact, to start with, he himself had felt it was the right thing to do.

After all, Hariharan’s entire life and that of his daughter lay ahead of them. It was impossible, and perhaps unfair too, to expect them to live it all alone, they said. Time will do what it will, you have to do what you can, they advised him.

Even as he stared at the blazing fire at the marriage altar that the priests fed with ghee, he felt the heat burn within himself. He felt his heart palpitate faster, and a few drops of sweat fell from his brow. He took a deep breath and felt his shirt and trouser pockets. He checked that the bag he was carrying had everything he needed for the marriage rituals.

The colours of the garlands waiting to adorn the bride and the groom reminded him of Sumangala’s pink cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes when he had handed her over in marriage to Hariharan. The incense sticks and the meandering sweetness of their fragrance filled his mind with memories of his own daughter’s bridal deck. But that was ten years back.

“It’s time,” the priest called out Sumangala’s father. “Ask the bride to come.”

He didn’t move, still staring at the marriage arrangements. Everyone looked at him, but he didn’t realise it.

“Aren’t you the bride’s father?” the priest raised his voice. “Please get the bride,” he repeated his order. It shook Sumangala’s father out of his trance.

“Yes sir, I will get her,” he mumbled and started walking.

He went in teary eyed to get the bride.

While he walked to her chamber, his mind went back again to his own daughter’s marriage. He had walked this path before. He had done the ritual considered to be a father’s duty with all his heart the first time ten years back with Sumangala’s hand in his hand. He was going to do that again today.

He had graciously agreed to do the ritual of kanyadaan again in the wedding today.

“So what if the poor girl doesn’t have parents? I might as well do it,” he had told Hariharan when he had told him about his chosen bride a few months back.

It was for the second time that Sumangala’s father was doing this ritual with Hariharan as the groom. Perhaps, it was his destiny, he told himself.

When he saw the bride, he hurriedly wiped his eyes. He decided to hold back his tears.

Everyone said it was time to put the past behind. Everyone had told him that it was time to move forward. Everyone said this was the right thing to do. For the sake of his granddaughter. For the sake of his son in law. And for the sake of the new bride.

He told himself the same thing. “Time to move on,” he murmured as he entered the bridal chamber.

He walked towards her and got the bride outside, all decked up. He slowly guided her to her place in the wedding ritual. The priest started chanting the mantras with redoubled enthusiasm on seeing the bride.

“Shubha Mangal Savdhan,” the mantras started.

Sumangala’s father wiped his tears again. They weren’t stopping however hard he tried. His granddaughter stood next to him holding his hand. The missing hand in her other hand was that of his daughter Sumangala. He could feel her presence there.

But this time he sensed that she thanked him for setting things right. She knew he was doing the right thing. He knew it too. He wondered if his granddaughter would ever understand it. He knew she wouldn’t.

For once his mind wavered. Was he doing the right thing? it asked him. He focused his mind back on the wedding rituals. He told his mind this was the right thing to do.

But his mind went back to his conversations with Hariharan over the past year.

It was almost a year back, a few weeks after Sumangala had passed away that, on someone’s suggestion, he had touched upon the topic of remarriage with Hariharan.

“No Papa. I am not marrying again. It’s Sumangala only for me. I cannot live with anyone else,” Hariharan had protested vociferously.

“But Hari, Sumangala has gone. God has taken her away from you, from me, from us, from her innocent daughter. How can you be stubborn with God?” he had tried to pacify Hariharan.

“But how could He? Doesn’t He have the slightest sympathy? Why her? Why this way?” Hariharan had cried in his arms. He had stolen a glance at Sumangala’s smiling picture on the wall from the corner of his eye.

The emotion of grief was still too fresh, Sumangala’s father gathered. But it had to be mended soon before it solidified, some relatives told him. He had to find a way through the cracks before there was no place for anyone else to enter, they tried to convince him. Sumangala’s father felt that, perhaps, they were right.

“He definitely has other plans for you. He will send someone else. You have to trust God’s will,” he reassured Hariharan.

“If that is God’s will, so be it. But don’t force someone else down my throat.” Hariharan, always a decent son in law, had politely pleaded.

“I am not forcing someone down your throat. You choose. But choose you must. Please do it fast. Think of your daughter. She needs a mother. Don’t let time pass lest she remember her childhood trauma.”

There was a pause. Hariharan had stared into the blank future ahead of him then.

“Let me think about it,” he had said and walked away. Sumangala’s father was pleased then thinking that there opened a gap within the cracks. But he hadn’t missed the sly smile on the face of Hariharan as his right lip curled. He had wondered why.

From that day to today was some journey in which Sumangala’s father had covered a lot of ground and also uncovered some. But there was some satisfaction he felt, if he may call it so, that it was all going to end today, after all.

For good or bad, his daughter’s soul would rest in peace, he felt. Hari would get a new life. God took care of everyone, he felt within himself. He felt his trouser pocket again. He was nervous. He hoped everything went off well.

It was a small ceremony with close family and friends. They had called less than twenty people. To that, he had agreed with Hariharan. No one makes a big fuss about remarriage, Hariharan had said. But for the bride? For her, wasn’t it the first time? Sumangala’s father had asked.

“I will convince her. She should be OK. She doesn’t have many relatives anyway. Her parents died in an accident a few years back,” Hariharan told him.

The mantras got over. The muhurtham was almost there. The priests checked their watches and started the final lap of chanting in full gusto. The tempo filled everyone’s minds with anticipation. Everyone stood up for the moment to arrive.

In two minutes, the drums and the Shehnai started. Hariharan put the garland in his bride’s neck. The bride put the garland in Hariharan’s neck.

In the midst of the clapping noise, Sumangala’s father wiped the tears from his eyes again. He wasn’t sure whether they were tears of joy or sorrow. Time will tell, he felt. His granddaughter jumped and danced to the tune of the drums. A fresh beginning had been made.

And in all the commotion, Hariharan and his bride exchanged furtive glances. Both of them had a mild smile on their faces. They couldn’t express their glee enough though. The real celebration would have to wait. For a few months, perhaps. Or for even longer? they wondered.

But for now, they felt that the job was done. This was the final step in the dream that had taken birth in their bosoms over a year and a half back.

What else does one do when your old beloved, your childhood sweetheart you had taken for dead springs back into your life? From that moment itself eighteen months back, there was no doubt in both their minds about what was needed. They had always shared a perfect wavelength, an uncommon bond. They had always been a made for each other couple.

It was a job well done. No one suspected anything. So what if they had to wait this long for this? They now looked forward to a lifetime of togetherness. Without Sumangala.

It was time to celebrate. Their smiles couldn’t be hidden anymore. Both of them had ear to ear grins on their faces now.

No one missed it, least of all, Sumangala’s father. And that was the last straw he needed. It confirmed something he had always suspected. His blood boiled. He knew the time had come.

He pulled the revolver out of his trouser pocket and fired four shots first. Two shots each. And then, one more. He could see Sumangala smile in heaven.

***

This story was first published in the Indian Periodical. You may also read it here.

Doing Nothing

The biggest challenge after I left my corporate career a couple of years back has been to do nothing when there is nothing to do. These challenges have cropped up often, of late.

Not that when I was in a job, I had a lot to do all the time. A lot of days even then I had nothing to do. I didn’t tell anyone though. Everyone seemed busy on their laptops. I didn’t stay with nothing to do for long. Back then, it was almost a matter of urgency to get up and do something. It was also easier to get out of doing nothing when in the job. All it took was a meeting or two.

But now, things are different. There is no one watching. I don’t need to appear busy. There is no compulsion for me to do something when there is nothing to do. There are no meetings to do with anyone. No one calls me nor do I call anyone for any meeting. Doing nothing is not an abnormal situation anymore. I have started getting comfortable with it.

It may sound like another way of saying I like leisure but writing allows such luxuries. For a while you write something, almost on a routine, and then, for a while, you do nothing.

The challenge is to really do nothing when you have nothing to do. In that way, when you have something to do, you do it well.

I think this may be true of a lot of fields outside business, related to art and perhaps even sport. Activity all the time is not necessarily better there. The trick is to learn how to handle inactivity.

All of humanity’s problems stem from man’s inability to sit quietly in a room alone. When Blaise Pascal said that, he may have meant that doing nothing is often a fairly good skill.

I hope you get the picture. I don’t mean the kind of doing nothing that busy people do when they decide to go on an expensive retreat to cut off from the world. I mean the kind of doing nothing that, well, is really doing nothing because you have nothing to do. I realised it is simple but not easy.

I specifically mention it because I met a friend from the busy category a few days back.

He was a busy executive with lots of work, lots of meetings and lots of responsibilities. As it turned out, he was a close friend too. I met him and he asked me what I do all day.

I said – well, most of my mornings and some of the afternoons, I write. And rest of the time, I do nothing. Maybe I read, if I feel like it.

He was surprised. But to my surprise, he felt like he had to do something about doing nothing. He said he needed more time doing nothing, as he was always busy. I said, well, I don’t have that problem. I don’t have to search for time to do nothing, it just is there.

I don’t know what activity started in his head after that. What he did after that surprised me even more, and that’s why I wrote this article, when I had nothing else to do.

He opened his calendar on the phone and set up a meeting inviting his staff for it, every Friday afternoon from three pm to five pm. The title of the meeting was ‘doing nothing.’

***

Wake Up Alarm: Short Story

At 6.04 am, the alarm went off.

“Mummy,” he howled from under the blanket. There was no response. He pulled the blanket doubly over his face so that the sound of the alarm doesn’t disturb him. It kept ringing.

“Mummy…. Mummy,” he yelled again at the top of his voice after a minute. He turned over to the other side. He wrapped the pillow over his ears. He kicked his legs in despair. The alarm continued.

“Why isn’t she switching off the alarm? Why does she do this to me every morning?” he complained within his mind. “Mummy,” he shouted again. But the alarm continued.

Finally he pushed the blanket aside.

With his eyes still closed, he stretched his hand and reached his mobile phone on his desk to switch off the alarm. It was pitch dark and cold. The humming of the fan exaggerated the silence. He stretched to the other side and tried to switch on the light of his room. But the switch wasn’t there.

He sat up on his bed and rubbed his eyes sleepily with his hand. He saw the silhouette of his roommate sleeping in his bed opposite him. He realised where he was.

A wave of despair enveloped him. A tear fell on his cheek. He wiped it and thought of calling her.

“She must be sleeping,” he thought and got up from his bed. He walked a couple of steps and switched on the tube light.

“Or maybe she is having tea,” he revisited his thought in a flicker of doubt checking the time. He sat lazily on his bed wondering whether he should go back to sleep. Sleep wasn’t a reliable friend, it evaded him. He scratched his back in laziness and stretched his hands.

“Maybe I will call later, it is just the first day today,” he told himself.

Then he got up and went straight to his hostel bathroom to freshen up.

**

Meanwhile, at 6.04 am, the alarm went off at home too.

Mummy was already up, eyes wide awake on her bed. She didn’t need the alarm. She switched it off in a second. She cast off her blanket to the side. She saw her husband still sleeping.

She tiptoed along the corridor to her son’s room adjacent to theirs. There was pin drop silence. It was pitch dark. The fan was off. The door was open. There was no one in the room.

She rubbed her eyes drearily. The blanket was neatly folded. The pillow was in its place. No wrinkles were seen on the mattress. Her mind went back to this time every day for the past fifteen years.

“He must be yelling my name on hearing the alarm and disturbing everyone else,” she thought. “Maybe I should call him and wake him up,” she felt.

But she put off that thought. She walked to the kitchen and put some water in a vessel to boil for her cup of tea. “I hope he switches the alarm off and gets up,” she revisited the alarm, worried.

Finally she decided that she should call him. She got her phone but stopped short of dialling his number.

“Maybe later, it is just the first day in the hostel today for him,” she told herself.

“If he has switched off the alarm, he must be in the bathroom just now,” she reconciled.

She put tea and milk in the boiling water and had her morning cup. Then she walked again to the empty room. A tear fell on her cheek. She wiped it and decided to call him after a few minutes.

“After my tea,” she told herself. “He will be out of the bathroom by then,” she guessed. She knew.

**

At 6.45 am, as he stepped out of the bathroom, all freshened up, his phone rang. It was Mummy.

“Good morning, Mummy,” he said with a wide grin, seeing her on the video call.

“Good morning, dear,” she said, with a smile, seeing him awake. “You are awake?”

He took a deep breath and replied, “Yes, of course. I was up in a jiffy, due to your alarm.”

“Very good,” she replied. She knew this can’t be entirely true.

“I knew you would wake up on your own,” she said. “Did you sleep well?” she asked him.

He stared at his new bed, mattress, and blanket. His roommate was still snoring.

“Yes, mummy, it’s a nice room. No problem at all,” he replied in a haughty tone. “And you?”

“Very good,” she said. “Yes, I slept like a log too. No morning alarms to wake me up now! It’s such a relief,” she added with a fake smile and a twinkle in her eye.

“Ahhh…,” he said. He knew she was lying.

“Did you switch the alarm off yourself?” she asked.

“Right away. After two rings. Who else will switch it off then?” he asked, with a hint of irritation.

“Yes, of course, good. Who else, isn’t it?” she replied, with a sigh.

There was a momentary silence in which both of them just watched each other.

“Is it cold there?” she asked.

“A little bit. It must be hot at home?” he said.

“Yes…, somewhat,” she said.

After a few moments, she asked, “Umm… so how are you feeling..? made any new friends?”

“It’s been just one day since I have been here, Mom,” he said.

“Yeah, true. You will adjust. Don’t worry,” she said.

“I have to go Mummy,” he then said. “To have breakfast. And after that, to college.”

“Ok dear,” she said. “Wear good clothes. And make sure you wash your socks,” she added.

“Yeah, Mommy. I got to get ready now,” he said.

“Yes, dear. Have a good day and take care of yourself. Hope everything else is fine.”

“Yes, Mom, everything else is fine,” he said and disconnected.

He went to his cupboard in his hostel room and stared blankly at his clothes, shedding a silent tear.

She went to his room at home and stared blankly at his bed, but not so silently.

It was 7.04 am.

The alarm went off again at both home and hostel. “Aaah, the backup alarm,” both of them thought. Just in case both of them kept sleeping and missed the earlier one. Both of them picked up their mobiles and switched the alarm off.

It was time to wake up.

***

This story was first published in Grey Thoughts Writers’ Club. You may read it here.

Bloody Justice: Flash Fiction

She told them that she started bleeding due to him. They told her she shouldn’t have been there at that time of the night. She was a young woman. From a good family. She should have known better. She had a life ahead of her. She should have been careful.

She told them that she had missed the last bus. They asked her why and how. She said she wept under his wretched piercing look. She stuttered and quivered under his stale breath mixed with alcohol. They asked her if she knew him and how did he come there.

She told them she found herself helpless, alone. She said she turned weak in her stomach. They asked her what else did she expect. She told them her heart fell out of her chest, then and there. None of them held it. Her life was getting out of her, she said. They only listened.

She said, she felt closer to dying than living. They said that she was a young girl from a good family. What was she doing there when she had a life ahead of her? Why did she wait till she was bleeding? What did she do about it, they asked.

She then told them it was not only she who bled, but he too bled. They sat up and listened.

She had found her escape. His blood turned out to be a clutch of straw for a drowning woman. She said there was no other option. She showed them the weapon she had used.

They had found him in a red pool, bludgeoned, skull cracked open. They asked her that if she could do that, how was she weak? They said she was responsible for his blood, as he was for hers.

She said yes, she was. But only because he was. They didn’t ask anything else.

The question then was this. Whose blood was more precious? They kept arguing.

She had given up. She was ready for anything. But then the judges agreed with her. The judges gave their verdict. Bloody justice. She never felt more alive.

***

This short story, classified as a piece of flash fiction (<1000 words) was first published in Grey Thoughts Writers Club in January 2022. You can read it here.