Bhaskaryya Deka's Blog, page 2

Review of the ‘Brutal’

“In pitch darkness, Kunal Chaubey dashed through thick foliage, ignoring branches and twigs clawing into his flesh. Webs of overhanging roots keep getting in his way, lacerating his face like barbed wires. Yet he ran like a mad man. He didn’t know where he was going. He just wanted to get out of this damned forest…”  ‘The Brutal’ starts this way, creating a grotesque image in our minds, and the story progresses on similar lines. It is the story of a respected journalist, who tortured by images of a past project and in search of peace, finds himself in the middle of a straight case that would go horribly wrong, and which would guide him to ignored secrets. A crime thriller in every sense, the twists and turns of the story are well augmented by the background Uday has managed to create, because of which, unlike many thrillers they seem well justified rather than random happenings as witnessed even in the stories of some bestselling authors. His writing too, simple and direct, compliments the story well. However, there are places where it falls apart and leaves us with rather amateurish phrases. Just like there are places in the story, where I thought though the plot seemed good, but rather than showing, it provided us with a direct narration of what has happened. Thus, not eliciting emotions as I suppose the author desired. So, though it impresses with its fluidity and plot, it lacks the compactness and consistency in writing to make it to favourites list.

Rating – 3/5

Author- Uday Satpathy

Publisher: Bloody Good Book

WAR OF WORDS

In the quiet morning, the sun was obscured by the floating clouds in the sky like sheets of doom, through which slight rays of hope penetrated and reached the dark courtyard of their house, illuminating it a little, but leaving much unseen, ignored. The day had just begun, fresh it was, untouched by the soring abrasions of the day, yet Shona could feel the decayed remnants in her heart, which had now spread to her mind like cancer. She sat in her chair in the veranda, collapsed against its back, making an attempt to gather the last vestiges of energy in her and wake up their daughter, but the quietness in the morning only seemed to convey a sense of utter quietness, a sense that it was too early for such an act, invoking her to wait for a few moments, moments, which she realized have culminated to be more than an hour now. Beside her were a couple of chairs, lined for guests, but which stood empty for most mornings and evenings nowadays under the shade of the tin that extended from just below the terrace, slanting a little, supported in the front by four worn out bamboo poles. The sun still floated in the far horizon, coming out a little of the envelope, and whose lines as they hit her in the eyes seemed at once delicate and painful. But in ignorance of the commotion going around her, Shona sat quietly, shielding her sleepy eyes with a hand, watching as a few ducks wadded in the courtyard, picking faeces of creatures with their beaks or sometimes, a few luxurious grains.

Soon, through the shade of her hand, she saw a familiar figure started conjuring in the far distance and it grew larger walking toward her. The walk was slower than it had been when they had first been married and the limp in his right leg, far worse, but the lanky frame of his was still the same, as was his face that had refused to age and shrivel down like their marriage.

A smoke dangled between his fingers as he walked up to the veranda, his shirt too not tucked, rather hanging over one side of his pants like fading leaves dangled from branches, and the sight disgusted her. But Lohit said nothing as he walked past her and into the room, and denied of her anticipation of an imminent fight, Shona was surprised. Had he forgotten that she had to sleep on the sofa because he came late from office, so late that she slept without dinner. But unlike other nights, when a war of words would ensue, dismissing her acquired peace like a teacher dismissing a student, today she said nothing, instead went inside their room to lay down some new clothes for him.

The room was dark, for the windows were closed, obtusely blocking off the only source of light, and lying among the disarrayed things in the dark room, she found one sitting in her bed, dark hands hiding his face. Dark hands and a dark face. Shona walked up to him and realized that drops trickled from a pool of red, from which somehow trickled still more thick ones, and some of them fell on her feet, beseeching for sympathy. Shona stared at them for some time as they formed pools in her skin too, and slid forming shapes she could not recognize.

“What is it?” she asked, the voice angry but still a stint of concern contained in it. “What is it?”

“Mother is ill,” he said. “She had a heart attack.”

***

Their marriage had a happy beginning. It was the beginning of the 1970s, and a time of utter turmoil. There were wars and scars it left behind. A new country was being formed. Indians were killed in it, it said, and still more. But far from these avalanche of changes, in a remote college, Lohit studied.

Coming from a village, a commoner, pertaining in him all the cliché associated with it, his lanky frame carrying his thin face with a moustache, the only thing that stood out in him were his pair of huge, black bordered spectacles, a thing that he gave due credit to for earning a perception of innocence in the eyes of any stranger. Perhaps, as he went along, it was still those spectacles that he gave credit for earning tuitions. Yes, as the morning sun would bath the eastern sky in redness, unlike other boarders lying asleep in their beds, he would be up on his cycle, riding towards the far part of the town to provide tuitions. And on his way, beside the house of Sharma’s he would stop and drink a cup of chai and move on.

The stall had acquired a funny place in his heart, a place for chais and incoherent discussions. The time when he had been first here, two years back, he had sat at the stall and listened to the myriad tales of the chaiwala, whose doubled chinned face would be filled with profound expressions as he would recall all those stories- a story of a student dropping a cigarette in his purdah that had burnt his whole stall, or about the haunted building behind the stall that made him close up early. People had a knack for disappearing in it, he would say. But it was a place he would later remember for something entirely else, a chain of events that would redirect his whole life, a lost book that put him in a house, and sitting in a chair watching a thick pair of lashes, bordered darker than his black bordered spectacles, as they blinked and big eyes it held, deceiving the petite frame it accompanied, a pair of lashes he would grow to love, so that even in the worst of fights, later in their years, those pair would calm him down and remind him of his own hopeless life before they came together.

It was a good story it made, and good deal of coincidences that made it happen. But was it not how it is supposed to be, coincidences making up a story, a story that would otherwise had been dealt in differently, narrated differently, or not narrated at all, but sitting on that rainy Saturday evening in the summer of 71, Lohit found the book, devoid of its owner. And picking it up, he would have taken it home, but some conscience made him return it, for the name reminded him of a beautiful woman sitting in a class, wearing a red salwar, with her hair parted in the middle and falling lightly on her shoulders.

The day after when he had gone to her house, she was not at home, and it was a Sunday, another coincidence, but it was again the spectacles that he worshipped, for a studious man was welcomed everywhere those days and a tuition was fixed.

“Come, come, Lohit ji!” her father said the next day.

The house was a huge one, walled from all the sides. A narrow path formed between two rows of bushes, which led straight to the main building. A maid took his umbrella, as her father led him to their room. It was a small one, but neatly arranged. A few pictures hung on the walls, one of a ghazal singer that his mother too idolized, but there was no one. Her father sighed.

“Maina!” He shouted.

Again.

A girl emerged from another room and stood in front of them, a blue salwar now, yet the dupatta lost. “Maina, be decent,” he shouted at her.

He averted his eyes, while she went to the wardrobe and searched, mumbling something under her breath.

She came back soon. “Namaste!” she folded her hands, the tone full of sarcasm, yet the delicate hands that folded in front of him making him disregard her intentions. She was prettier than he remembered, a perfect curve of lips that flashed red.

“Namaste!” he said.

The rest couldn’t be less known. Glances exchanged between pair of eyes, big eyes meeting his, and the commotion it might have caused inside him, a smile hidden beneath a straight pair of red lips, mischievous hands seeking a hold. And the practical man that her father was, he decided better a marriage be fixed before it brought shame upon their family.

***

A month later, everything had changed. The stranger, the one with a funny face, the one that seemed so distant, began to be wherever she was. The realization hit her much later about what she had consented to. The first week had passed in discovery, finding what was forbidden before, and she had relished in that moment, but as weeks gave away and the pleasure subsided, replaced by a continuation of an utter congruous schedule, the delight changed to accusation.

She could recall precisely what had ensued then, a silence had taken abode in their home, a silence that he carried back with him as he walked back with his limp, and even when Maina was born, the silence never subsided to exist, rather it began to break off the shackles into a war of words. But now as she sat by the table, the room still dark albeit the shady red rays the bulb threw at them, she couldn’t understand, how everything had seemed to matter so less.

And in perturbation did she keep looking at Lohit, bathed in the glow of the light and her watch, how he had changed, the lanky boy to the man with this terrible limp. Was it what all marriage led to, terrible afflictions? The whole day Lohit had sat there in their room, refusing to be calmed or told anything of the world, waiting by the phone for some news of his mother. Left alone, Shona had gathered herself, and helped Maina reach the school bus, who seemed lost at the silence the house had fallen into. And the day had passed in such inactivity that would otherwise have made Lohit restless, but today, it only made him sit back and reflect, while Shona sat there and did some of her own reminission, of lost love, the wooden chairs that she had been gifted in her wedding, worn out now, but taking her back to a time when they used to sit together, looking at the sun disappear in the horizon and the stars come up, when food was forgotten, and thick eyelashes sated his hunger without lighting the chulha. Where those days had gone, she could only wonder.

He was rocking slightly in an armchair, his head at the roof, and a grim expression on his face, but sometimes a threatening twitch would appear at the corner of his lips, however soon he would look about and make sure that Shona had not seen it. A river welled up to his throat, but it was kept controlled, for a time when the need might arrive, for the night was still young, and the ache in his heart was growing. Shona walked up and came and sat near him. She had not changed, and her saree had grown damp in the July sun, but now that he sat like this in the primal form he had been when she had first laid her eyes on him, a lost friend he again seemed to her.

She got up a while later and went to the kitchen. It was going to be a long night she knew, and how Lohit sat in the chair, she wasn’t even sure if he was going to bed that night. She took a saucepan and boiled water for two cups of chai. It was already long past their bed time, the ticking clocks and silence shrouding their house reminded her how everything had changed since the morning, how the silence that had seemed so angry that very morning, had given birth to this, and this newness that sipped into their lives now, only seemed to be growing.

When the water was boiled, she took their cups and into the living room, and switching off the lights sat beside her husband. The dark room didn’t seem much different from what it was before, for still she could see the silhouette of her husband as he lifted his cup and made quiet gulping noises. The cup was laid down soon though, and not much was said. A gust of wind would blow once and then, through the window, and make them chilly as their sweats was driven off by the wind, which seemed to have accumulated with the rising moon.

“What is it?” Shona asked. “She is going to be okay, you know.”

Lohit nodded, watching closely at the shadows that the moon made of the grills in the windows, the length increased terribly giving it a ghastly look, and which flickered at times, making it all the more repulsive.

“I know, but she is so old, and there has been no news since the evening.”

And the silence fell again, like a lid above a graveyard.

“It isn’t supposed to be this way. People dying.” His voice was strained with nostalgia, a weight that seemed too heavy for his voice, which seemed to crack under it. “Gone. Without anyone knowing. What is it that is left? Gone without a trace. Who would know if she is gone? It’s…so….so…”

Shona watched him.

“It’s so depressing.”

“But she might be well? Tomorrow morning, maybe it will all be okay.”

“Okay?” He scoffed a laugh. “What will be? Eventually, everything will be gone. Wiped out. And no one will ever know we once sat by the window, thinking about our mother, thinking how terrible our lives are. How terrible it had all become. You remember the first time I met you?”

She looked down, the memory in her grasp still held tightly to her chest. Was he thinking the same things as she, was he just as regretful of what had come to pass, she could not decide.

“Yes,” she said. “I think of it sometimes.”

“Where has the magic gone?”

They sat there, but soon the tragedy grew in the darkness and became too unbearable. They went out and sat by the porch, looking at the stars. The noises of the morning had long gone, replaced by the stillness that only comes with death. There was no awake creature in the neighbourhood, only some fouls to be ignored, but as if knowing their consternation, Roxie, their pet dog, wigged her tail at them. And overwhelmed by everything, Lohit hugged her as he had once wished, watching her dark lashes flashing the pools of whites beneath it, and in spite of herself, she returned the hug, grazing her hands by his back. Reminission kept coming back to him with much higher vigour.

Finally they parted. It reminded her again of the first time he had gone away on an office trip, and sitting by the window how he had looked back.

“I bet you didn’t expect to see yourself like this after you get married.”

She smiled, but spoke nothing of it. “Would you like another cup of tea?”

A look of disappointment clouded his face, but he nodded. And she got up again and walked to the kitchen. When she came back, she found him sitting in his chair, one more brought for her. The tea was kept, whose perfume permeated the air. He inhaled a deep breath of air.

How many nights like this had passed, he wondered, without them looking at each other’s face, with their backs turned to each other in their beds? There were nights when they didn’t even sleep together, like last night, when silence occupied the house and they settled in their own spaces, untouched and far from each other. But they sat that night, their eyes on each other, and he talked of what wrongs he had done, to which she had nodded forgiveness, but spoke instead of his mother whose illness had compelled them to such a deep reflection.

***

Early next morning, when they were still asleep in each other embraces, a call from the hospital came. Their mother was safe, the voice at the other end blurted out.

“Mother is safe,” Lohit kept repeating inside his head, yet no jubilation broke out of him as he had hoped. Shona stood by him, smiling at the news with a smile that revealed more of a sadness. By that evening, she packed a light bag for him, his shirt that he wore to his office, a couple of other things he might need.

“We will talk when I get back,” he said, smiling at her before leaving at the airport.

She smiled back too.

But as he waved back at her, and walked away with his limp, a remembrance of the night nagged at the back of her mind, making her wish that the illness had stayed a little longer, for the cancer had spread too much into her marriage, and the divorce papers in her bag burnt against her hip. The next time he would be home, she knew, it would be over.

THE HAUNTED STREET OF RAMPUR’

In the streets of Rampur, a man walked in subdued steps with his cloak wrapped tightly around him. Fog hung about in the air, protesting against the arduous attempt of the stars at illuminating his lonesome walk, which seem to occupy each and every corner of the black sky. The old man had his hands inside his tattered cloak to save them from freezing. The whole city was in a lull, except for the mechanized voice that emanated from the railway station a few hundred yards away from him.

When he reached there, he found it to be just as silent, as if coldness had wrapped its arm of gloom around the whole place, engulfing everyone in a tight hug. A few people with shawls over their shoulders waited in platform for trains, while others were asleep comfortably on floors in unknown and unheeded corners of the station, wrapped comfortably in their plastic bags as you and I would be in our blankets in our homes. A man nodded his head as he walked past the enquiry office. He snaked his way past the people lying here and about, keeping away from them as one would from a corpse, till he reached where the platform started. Anxious to meet his son before he died of a cold, he crossed the railway tracks instead of taking the over-bridge. But rather than bliss that the approaching end to a long journey entails, the old man felt sudden dread upon the sight of the long road, light shining off of one side of the undergrowth of the road, as if the other one was too monstrous to reveal.

“Oh, you are going that way then?” a cobbler sitting by the bench asked. The cobbler was a short man, with a face that could have considered kind if not for the frown he wore. Except for him, platform-2 was empty, and having his bag packed of shoe polish and brushes, even he looked ready to leave.

“Yes, is this the way to Samrat Sharma? I am his father,” the old man asked, walking closer to the stranger in hope of company.

“The doctor at the pharmacy?”

“Yes, yes, the doctor at the pharmacy. Could you show me the way?”

“No, my home is the other way. But it is a shame that you would go that way at this time of the night.”

“Why so?”

“Why so?” the cobbler laughed out loud. “Why, your son has made a fool of his old man.”

The man looked at the wide smile spread upon the cobbler’s face. At the distance he saw moonlight playing shyly with the forest. One moment it was bold and bright, and the other, demurely like a newlywed, giving everything a feel that was something beyond natural. Darkness descended again as the smiling moon hid behind the passing clouds. The old man gulped.

“Oh, come on! Your son must have told you all about it.”

He was furious with his son. “But my son didn’t seem much concerned.” The old man sat down beside the cobbler at the bench. “What do I do now? It can’t be true.”

The cobbler burst out laughing again, as a child would when he saw a prank being pulled on another. “Then why does he allow his old father to make the way alone to his house?”

“It is true then. He told me in the passing.”

“I am afraid so, old man. The road is haunted. People have died at that road.”

“I thought it must have been a lore.”

“Oh, I have seen it all. Things I wish I hadn’t seen,” said the cobbler. He looked at the paleness that had crept into the face of the old man. “Once, I saw a woman in white eating the heart of a man half as young as you, and twice as healthy as me.”

“When?”

“Does it matter? Another time, I could swear a friend of mine died of a heart attack in this very forest when he saw that lady. Oh, I really have seen it all.”

“I can’t go that way.”

The young man protested boisterously here, almost let it out as a squeak of delight. ”You will freeze to death if you stay.”

“I could stay the night at your home. I will pay a hundred rupees.”

“Oh no, it would not be fit for the father of a doctor to stay in a home as small as mine. The doctor would be furious, and then what if I fall ill, who will treat me then. Your son is just, but terribly frightening when angry.”

“Two hundred.”

“I wish it could be all about money, my friend.” The cobbler turned back as if ready to leave, but he stayed, a deep frown in his face again. He sighed at the sight of the anxious old man.

“I will tell you what. You give me that hundred and I will escort you to your home.”

The old man nodded eagerly. “And I can stay promise you a stay there for the night.”

“Deal,” the cobbler laughed. “God save me. If it weren’t for an old man like you, I would have been sleeping with my wife right now.”

With that, both of them started strolling toward the thick forest, the cobbler in front, while the old man silently wobbling behind him. Crickets chirruped to break the silence that they were stubborn to maintain. It was dark indeed, except for patches of light that shyly sleeked from the gaps between those tall trees.

“What kind of a fellow you are, my friend? In the station, you were taking the name of Lord in fear, and now you stomp like the bravest in the presence of Satan.”

“Ah, what to do, old man. What’s the point of fear in our hearts? Either we meet her in the road and die, or we don’t see her and live to tell the tale,” the cobbler said, picking up a stick lying the undergrowth. “There is no mid-way once you set upon this road.”

The old man gulped again. The cobbler laughed more.

“And you risked it for a hundred rupees? You are only a fool then.”

The cobbler shook his head sheepishly. “I am telling you I am not afraid to die. Poorer man have died for less.”

“”Ah, bless the stars, who have I ended up with.”

The cobbler laughed.

But he did not answer him anymore, and the silent felt evil again. The road curved ahead of them, revealing a darker self of itself as in the distance the barks of a dog grew prominent.  The old man started his prayers as the depths of the undergrowth increased, as if forming an archway to a mysterious land of the devils.

***

***

“Oh, bless the stars! Bless the stars!” the old man burst forth when a couple of hours later, against his hope of survival, he found the sly road open up to a town. The town was asleep at this hour of the night, but the ungodliness was gone, replaced by an amiable feel that only came with familiarity in the presence of humanity.

The cobbler jumped in delight too. “Ah, you are a lucky old man. It is the first time that someone has arrived safe through that road in a night as sinister as this.”

“Ah, it is safe again. I can see my son,” the old man said as he leapt with joy and hugged the cobbler.

“Let’s walk faster. We don’t want you to freeze.”

The old man, now a lot more relaxed, smiled at this remark of the cobbler. “Ah, wait a bit, the cold doesn’t seem bitter anymore. I will tell you what. It is the young wife of his that must have stopped him to come for me.”

“They set the traps on men, don’t they? The beautiful ones are the worst.”

“Right, right, my friend.”

They walked as they talked, under the shimmering moon, which gave away to a lone morning star when they finally reached the house. His son was in the veranda when they reached, while his daughter-in-law rocking her two month old son in the crib.

“Where have you been, father? I wanted to go but Sonu caught a cold. I had to take him to my clinic,” the doctor came running to him, and touched his feet.

“This gentleman saved me, or else I would have died in that forest.”

The doctor bowed profusely to the cobbler. “Thank you, my friend. Here, here. Take this money. Take this money,” the doctor said finally pulling two crisp five hundred rupees note. “Nothing would suffice the bravery you showed. “

The cobbler refused at first, but accepted upon it as the request was reiterated again and again.

“You are a brave man,” the doctor cried out again as his wife came with a tray of pot when they had settled. “A man died in that very village, someone saw his heart being eaten by a creature whiter than any human could be. And another died of a heart attack when he saw that despicable creature. You are a brave man…”

“But it is strange for a man to live to tell the tale, having seen something as evil as this. But wasn’t it…” but the old man was cut short by the cobbler, who looked confused at him.

“Yes, yes, the most evil creature as ever can be,” the cobbler said, a sweet smile lit up his face again, exuding a rare sense of innocence. “But my good friend, I am late and I would have to get to the train directly to polish shoes. Cobblers don’t earn as much, you know.”

The doctor nodded in sympathy, but said no more. Finally with a long gulp, the cobbler finished what remained of his tea, bowed to each of them in respect, and left quietly toward the forest that people were so afraid of. The family watched him disappear at the bend of the road, wondering about the forest that awaited ahead of him. For days, the old man could not help but think about the man who smiled and said he wasn’t afraid to die. He knew now the cobbler crossed the forest every day, encountering the darkness of it, walking past familiar roads yet an undefined destination, wondering everyday how the path would end, with satisfaction or hunger. Oh, but that was it, the biggest mystery that encircles them all.

THE UNWANTED SHADOW_OFFERS AND REVIEWS

AVAILABLE ONLINE-AMAZON.IN, FLIPKART.

TO BUY- CLICK HERE

Released last year, ‘The Unwanted Shadow’ is��a��dark and suspenseful tale of love, loss, betrayal….and redemption. Here are a list of reviews till date.

A Classic Literary Fiction.

-The Assam Post

‘The Unwanted Shadow’ has all the necessary elements of a thriller, and the author can go a long way ahead with his writing. It is a great book to pick up while travelling, and will definitely be a engrossing read.

-ZEE NEWS, INDIA

The characters and the incidents in the book seem real. An interesting book that hooks the reader to the end! [Read Full Review]

The wonderfully framed plot and the fresh narrating style makes this book a complete page turner.

-Purnendu Chatterjee, blogger

The story has drama, crime, romance and thrill in the right quantities. In short, the book is a good and enjoyable read.

-Natasha Borah Khan, blogger

The too many twists in the plot is just one of the reasons you want to keep turning the pages to find out what happens in��The Unwanted Shadow.

-Ila Garg, author of ‘Life and Promises’

Brilliant Book!��Lucid narration and awesome plot. The simplicity with which this complex story has been dealt with – it’s just amazing!

-Harsh Agarwal, Author of ‘Nazaqat.’

The language which the author has used is simple and maintains a great impact on the reader throughout..

-Sandeep Sharma, Author of “Hey Dad….Meet my Mom’

A quick read with all the essential elements of a good thriller. Leaves the readers in awe��� get ready to expect the unexpected.

�� �� �� �� �� �� �� �� �� �� �� �� �� �� �� �� �� �� �� �� �� �� �� �� -Shubham, blogger

The author also manages you to engage you in the mundane life of a village. Some are heartwarming and comforting even. The writing style is excellent and comes from deep understanding of human nature.

-Harini, reviewer

 

Don’t miss the trailer:

 

For more information, visit: Author’s website

 

THE MOTHER IN HER

The only word that was said about Meenakshi, in the colony of Rashmi Residence, was pretty. But it had always baffled her father, Hari, as to the reason of that assignment. He had never loved her. Furthermore, he never saw any beauty in her. All her face reminded him was the obnoxiousness of his wife���s character in her. He had even tried to cleanse her of it. The year following her birth, he had visited a priest from his village and asked him about the rituals for that, and following his directions, he had dipped her in the holy water of the Ganges on a cold December morning, after which a puja was held. When it didn���t work, he had her head shaved on the recommendation of another Baba. But whatever he did, it only seemed to become more and more prominent in her.(Taken from Coulourbox.com)

���Stupid Bitch!��� he would swear everytime he was reminded what his wife did to him, particularly when he was drunk. ���I see her mother in her,��� he would then add, after which a gulp of rum would follow.

Two days after her birth, all he found on the cot his wife was supposed to sleep, was his empty wallet. She had left nothing behind, except her reputation. But in spite of the seriousness of the crime, Meenakshi had succeeded in superseding it. A pretty girl of sixteen, her soft words and innocent face had gotten her father more jobs than he would ever come to admit. Wherein, after the elopement of his wife, his sahib had called an end to his services, now, he and his daughter were servants in one of the most reputed households in the colony, privileged to bakshis, sometimes more than other servants��� salaries. But unfortunately, her father could never see what was beyond the curtain of mistrust that his wife had left behind. Liable to this, she remained confined to her colony. She was trusted neither with money, nor with anything more than hundred rupees worth.

When her father was not at home, we could hear her screams of frustration- sometimes a wail, and sometimes, inanimate sobbing. But no one dared to interfere. A few times, she even had fights with her father. The next day, we would see her covered to her head with a shawl, but the wounds always found a way of revealing themselves.

But, most of all, we would see her sitting on the terrace of her house, looking at us with a passivity rare in a child as young as her. Sometimes, if her father wasn���t at home, we would go and talk to her, even offer her little treats, which she loved. She often talked to us of her mother then, asked us how she looked, how she talked, how she was. We satisfied her as kindly as we could, and she would retract back idolizing her mother. That was her life.

I think she was eighteen when these screams of frustration turned to something a lot more violent. We were there. All of us knew. The prettiness, the vivacity that used to enfold her while she was working out of the house, dimmed with each passing week, and this was replaced by a much vulnerable self. She was out of the house much lesser than before. Sometimes, she sat with me at the steps in front of the veranda, and as we ate mango chutney that I had prepared, she would tell me of her woes, of the million desires in her heart, of a child who once admired her hair. A few times, she even mentioned a servant boy who had proposed to her, Ramesh his name. She and I laughed about it for days to come, but she liked the attention, I could tell. It became unambiguously apparent when she made the son of her sahib, the one who had just returned from America, fall for her. He was an eligible bachelor. He always wore a white shirt with jeans, and walked around the town in confident steps, attracting glances of admiration that we casted upon anyone who had been to a place that had been dream of every child.

The news soon spread in the community. Wherever we went, the news was discussed- over sabji mandi in the evening, over the gossips we had in front of our houses when the power was cut off. The colony became lively with it. A servant girl would be with a sahib.

���How fortune changes?��� we would often tell each other. In a few of them, I even saw the admiration for the pretty little girl that they had, turn to jealousy. It was startling. And considering the gravity of the situation, it didn���t surprise any of us when we heard shouts from their small hut coming one of those days.

���Have you been in his bed? Have you let him touch you? You have stained my name, like your mother.��� We heard the same words being shouted over and over again that night. We closed our windows after some time, hoping our children would not have to hear the fight. But the noise penetrated our lives. A slap was heard first, then clanking of metals. The next morning when he had left, and we went to her room, we found her lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling, a dried trail of blood down the left corner of her lower lip. We offered her to come to our place, but she said no.

���I have to come back sometime,��� she told us.

She refused to go to work, or even eat. And time went by. She stayed confined to her room. One time, when the son of the master came, her father knelt in front of him and begged him to let her go, to let them be and tell nothing of it to his father. The son was a good man, and had gone as silently as he had come, but peace never resided in that house for many days to come.

Her appearance in public became further rare, and when it happened, it was always in the company of her father. They would walk in the market, their heads bowed. Sometimes, we went and talked to her, but her father would brush off our concerns, telling us that she was all right, that she just needed sometime. Afraid, we never raised the matter of the boy in front of him. Even, when we were in privacy, we seldom initiated the matter of marriage. But Meenakshi, she seemed to have a different view of things. Though she had stopped combing her hair, or had given up any attempt to look agreeable, whenever we talked to her, we could hear her longing to be at her work. She would say, ���I want to see him? Will he come for me?��� We did the best to entertain her whenever she voiced them, telling her that the more he made her wait, the better the meeting will be, and that maybe he was secretly planning a rescue. She smiled whenever we said that, but never followed vocalizing her desires after that. Perhaps, she saw the way our eyes turned to look at others for support on this matter, and then the flickering hope as it faded with our words, and her smile.

But it was the month of November, that same year, when the flickering hope got a life of its own, and blazed brighter than any fire in Rashmi Residence. One evening, his sahib came to his small hut in a bright red car. His son was alongside him. When we saw them go into that little hut, we closed our windows again, anticipating an exchange of words not fit for the ears of our children, yet keeping our ears perked up to have any snippet of it. But nothing.

It was only the next day that we heard about it. Hari ran to the temple at the break of dawn and gave twenty rupees to the woman beggar he always ignored, then sat in front of the temple idol, with his hands folded and tears in his eyes.�� When we went to their house while he was away, Meenakshi had shrieked on our arrival, ���Sahib has agreed to the marriage. Sahib has agreed to the marriage.���

We had first thought she had gone mad because of her house arrest, and we tried to console her. But soon, news came from the other end too, and then it spread like a forest fire. By the evening, every person in Rashmi Residence was aware of the news, ���the son from America is marrying the servant���s daughter.��� In excited tone, people talked of it, a surrealistic touch in their voice, and anger at themselves as to why could it not have been their own daughter? At night, when power got cut off, we talked even of the money she must have been promised upon betrothal. And jealousy brewed. In the days to come, this news was amputated, then analysed and disputed from every corner. Not much was said in the out, but we knew what talks might have gone behind the walls at night. Some hailed her as a gold digger, others a prostitute. However, when she started to walk with the sahibs they work for, it had a way of shutting people up. And eventually, the pretty, tragedy-stricken girl they sympathized with, turned to the one they silently bowed to and spat on the ground she had walked.

But then, more time passed, and this too became as much a part of the residence as Meenakshi herself was. Soon, Hari became busy in preparing for the wedding, in whatever way he can. We heard that sahib wanted a court marriage, and then a family dinner. Only a few in the colony were invited. However, the excitement of preparations for the family dinner soon became palpable in the air. A month after that morning, cars started to pour in- white ambassadors, maruti, and what not. The once barren home of Hari, now stayed filled with people. People brought boxes with them, covered in red cloth and would leave them at his home. Sometimes, a blast of wind would arrive and blow away the cover, only for a moment, but enough for us to witness what it held. One day it was apples and oranges, more than the box can hold. But once, we heard that the box held only gold. Hari was getting richer, it was apparent. After the decision of marriage, he had given up his job at his sahib���s house, and taken up a job at the cash counter at one of the shops that they owned. The pay was not that high, but the respect he now got was much higher, no one could deny that. He dined with the masters now, told the servants what to do, and had even received a bike as a gift, on which he would take his daughter for prayers in the temple every morning. And for some days, it seemed as if Hari���s disdain for his daughter had ended, and peace finally had found abode in their small home.

However, a week before the wedding was to take place, one night the perfect silence was pierced by Hari���s screams-���Thieves! Dacoits!��� Soon, the house was clamoured with people carrying sticks and daggers to rescue the poor man, but all they found was him sitting on his cot. The house was stripped of all the possession that had been kept for the wedding-jewellery, clothes, money, and the bride too. But there was no sign of any struggle, nor any sign of intrusion.

Hari was questioned as to what he had heard when it happened, if he had seen anyone in the night, but he remembered nothing. All he could tell us was that he was asleep, and when he woke up, everything was gone. And soon, the realization struck everyone.

Had she eloped with the master���s son?

The house of the master was soon visited, but the son was asleep, we were told. Sahib was furious when he heard about it. Everyone thought she had run away with the money, that she had no intention of marrying his son. In the morning, Hari was dragged to their home, questioned insistently, barbarically, about his knowledge on this matter. When he wasn���t capable of providing anything, he was thrown in the streets, sworn that his daughter would be killed by nightfall. The news spread in the residence, search parties were sent in the town, a report was filed in the police station, but no one heard any more words of her. No one knew what happened of her, but me.

Remembering something we had once laughed about, I went to the master���s home that evening, and talked to the servants.

���He left a week ago,��� the servants said.

���Are you sure?���

���Yes, everyone knows. He stole a necklace from memsahib.���

I didn���t tell them anything, lest Hari might suffer more. Could it be, I thought. Could she have fled with the servant, Ramesh, when his master from America had proposed to marry her? Could she have been doing this so that she could make up a life with him? It didn���t seem plausible, but the truth was I could not sure about this. Love is a tricky thing, or was it hate towards her father that made her do this?

I went that night to Hari���s home to tell him about what I had found, that maybe she had fled with another man. But he was very drunk. And I when I told him about what I had found, he brushed off my concerns like so many times he had done before.

���I see her mother in her,��� he kept slurring those words.

THE UNWANTED SHADOW!!!

bhaskaryya:

‘The Unwanted Shadow’ Journey So Far

Originally posted on The Author's Blog:

Yes, its a harsh truth that Indian writing is more or less, only focused to a single genre and that is love/romance fiction. In the flood of this ‘lovely’ path, comes a book named ‘THE UNWATED SHADOW’, a thriller based fiction which is written by Bhaskaryya Deka.

The book is published by ‘Half Baked Beans‘ Publishers and is creating huge noise within Indian readership. The book Launch got featured in many newspapers and television shows too.

To know more about the author you can also read his latest Interview Here.

Now Here’s the Blurb Of The Book…

Mohan, a small town boy, is nothing but hopeful when he moves to Delhi to complete his education. After all, this is what he had always planned to do, to take a leap towards his big dreams. And for once he finds his new life to be absolutely lovely, like…

View original 122 more words

REVIEW OF ‘FACELESS’

Depressed by his love life and horrible turn that his professional career has taken, Kabir decides to end his life jumping off the rooftop of his office. But something inexplicable happens, and he ends up discovering that he has superpowers. Foolishly encouraged by his new found abilities, he starts using his power to get even with his boss, win back his colleague Nat’s love, help people. All he wants to be is an admired superhero.

But just when he thinks he has a hang of it, he runs into the Devil- a manic ringleader of kidnappers- who clearly is more than a match for him.

And as he stares at the barrel of the gun that the Devil has pointed at his head, he realizes how terribly inappropriate being a superhero is.

 

 

FACLESS

 

The story is unique, I would give the author that. And some parts of the novel are hilarious and natural. Like the way the protagonist feels when he comes to know that he has superpowers, the way he deals with it in the beginning. The story is a refreshing change, and urges you to complete it  at one go. However, some events and scenes, rather than augmenting the story, seem too dramatic. Superhero stuff is fine, but the most important thing is that the characters should be believable. The author should have dug deep into the characters, and tried to bring out both sides of a person.  He has gone way too far with some characters- like Aadesh (No normal person can be that evil).

The language of the novel is straight-forward and inanimate, but thankfully, it successfully manages to perk up interest in scenes where it should. However, the innuendoes about staring at girls, and scenes depicting Kabir’s yearning towards Nat don’t seem too mature. He should have written those scenes in a candid way.

 

Author: Nizam Ahmed.

Publisher: BecomeShakespeare.com.

ISBN: 9383952008.

Pages: 255.

Rating: 3

 

 

Pre-order of ‘The Unwanted Shadow’

The Unwanted Shadow

The Unwanted Shadow…a tale of love, loss and redemption. It would take you from the beautiful fields of Assam to the dark recesses of Mohan’s conscience. ORDER THE BOOK NOW ON HOMESHOP18

REVIEW OF ‘THE SOUR FACED MOON’

‘The Sour Faced Moon’ is a story oscillating between the families of Imroz Agha Khan, who resents his prosperous Afghan forefathers and his perennial outsider status in his own homeland and Danielle Anderson, who returns to seek refuge in the truth and dreams she had so abruptly fled from twelve years ago.

A story spanning three generations with malleability of rules as people try to break bondage they have created all on their own.

Rohini Lall’s language is simple and descriptive. With an amazing ability to build up a scene to a curiosity-ladded serene point, and end it with an elegant touch, her writing comes with a good flow, which makes the book hard to put down.

The book is studded with many nicely written paras; paras, which are real and brings out the characters rather eloquently.

“Back in the same room, Danielle stood in front of the mirror. Who was it facing her? She wondered. Closing her eyes, she tried to summon up that girl who had stood in front of the mirror to look into her future. Where had she lost herself?”

“Halfway through the stairs, Imroz said, “Baba refused his cataract operation for the sixth time this year.” He paused, stopping to look at her. He laughed and descended two more steps. His laughter had grown in years too, noticed Danielle. It was heavier now, measured too, a little rationed as opposed to his easy candour. He had become more muscular, broader than the boy who had stood waving at her till the car had disappeared around the bend.”

The best thing I like about the book is how deep the author moves with the characters. I loved the level of introspection that her writing contains. The book moves on swiftly, describing more, answering questions, style of writing perfectly augmenting the story.

For me, it was a good read. I may not have liked the story as much, but I sure do like the way she has written it.

 

Author: Rohini Lall.

Publisher: Leadstart Publishing.

Pages:251

ISBN-10: 9383562307

Rating: 3.5/5

 

‘Sample Chapters’ The Unwanted Shadow

FIRST LOOK INTO ‘THE UNWANTED SHADOW’. READ THE SAMPLE CHAPTERS AND TELL US HOW YOU LIKE IT. WAITING FOR YOUR REVIEWS :)

                                                                       PROLOGUE

I remember the first time I sat on a bus, some twenty years back. I had a lot on my mind backthen.Now,I am much older and strangely my mind has shed away all those thoughts that once used tohaunt me.The view isbeautiful as ever. I can see the river bending at a faraway place. It’s been quite a while since I saw something so green. I seem to have forgotten how serene this place can make me feel.

The milestone says Punia is one mile away.We will be there soon.

I have been sitting in this bus for the last couple of hours; the bad road and the diesel smell always makes me nauseous.

The bus stops at the next fuel pump. The driver gets out and walks down to the person at the other end of the booth. Another staff at the boothrefuels the tank as the driver shares a cigarette with his friend. They must be seeing each other a lot whenever the bus passes this way. Making friends on the way!I don’t know why but the idea amuses me.

 

The fuel tank has been filled, but the driver is still talking to his friend as he takes another drag of the smoke. They are delaying, but what do I care. I have got all the time in the worldtoday.

 

After a long wait, the driver throws the cigarette on the ground and starts the engine. People finallyseem to be relieved to get some fresh air through the window. The hot and humid weather can be suffocating for them, but nobody could have felt more suffocatedthan me. I have left a lot of things behind me now, things I thought I wanted but never reallydid. It is funny how things turn out many times in life; till the time you don’t get something you think you cannot live without it but when you finallyhave it, everything seems vague.

 

The bus stops after a while.The bus standis just as I remember it, though everything elsearound has changed. ‘Bhebarghat Bus Stand’,the signboard proudly proclaims.My home is still four miles from here. I will be lucky to get a lift,but I think it would be better if I walk the way. Everything seems to have come out of a dream I kept having for the last two decades. I remember all of it as if a part of some long forgotten memory.

 

It’s a windy day and I am thankful for it. It would have been pretty difficult to walk such a long distance otherwise. I remember cycling through the same road everyday to school, froma time when I was younger. It was a different time really, and a different place, a place no one would be able to find again. As forme,I don’t even know if my family is alive or if they have been killed. I am nervous of what I am about to find out.

 

I now realize it will be very late by the time I reach my house. People here sleep early, or atleast, they did sowhen I was here. I know none of them rememberme; they probably think Iam dead. Well, in a way, I am…

 

 

 

 

                                                           ONE

The twenty-first century started off rough for most of the world. 9/11 and the war that followed still hollow the memories of the generationfrom within. It’s strange how itcontinues to affect us, and deep down we know it always will. When all of this was happening, I was busy running my errands at home. I lived in a small town named Mangaldai, funny name for a place if you ask me. It was untouched by all of it.The newstookdays to reach us and when it did, it didn’t mean anything. Itwas from a different world, and we had our own lives to take care of, ourowncomplications to get through.

My name is Mohan Sharma, height 6’2. I don’t think I am handsome but everything isat theright place on my face; so I guess I am not so ugly either. I was brought up in a conservative way in this remote part of the country. I have three elder sistersandoften heard my grandmother say that my parents wanted a boy all along and in that way, I was a gift. Soon, this became evident in everything they did. I was given an egg in breakfast while my sisters got nothing at all;not even Neetu who was only two years older to me. I was the one who got new booksandtoys. My sisters never complainedthough, despite the fact that they had to do all the household chores also. I think they too had accepted that they could have done nothingabout the whole situation;having beenborn in a place like this didn’t give you the right to question things.

 

To tell you the truth, I didn’t like this arrangement, but still I could never gather enough courage tosay it in front of my mother. From time to time, I would get angry at my parents for treating my sisters like that,a few days would pass and things would go back to whatthey were. Sometimes, I wondered if my parents just loved me because I was a boy and by law was endowed to take care of them.

 

My father was a teacher in the town high school, and with the income from the tuitions he took, we were doing well, better than most of the families in the town.Hisbeing a teacher also meant we had to be regular at school, unlike other children in the neighborhood. My father made it a point that my sisters attended school too, and when they wanted to study more, he agreed, and for that I am thankful to him. My mother clearly and vehemently disagreed with him on this point,but the house rules applied to her too;the man of the house had asserted his decision. So, with a happy heartI watched my sisters go to college everyday and waited for the daywhenmy turn would come, the day when I would head towards my dreams.

 

But as I grew up, whenever I would bring up the topic, I saw tinges of reluctance in myfather’s eyes. Later, I came to know the reason.My father might have been a teacher in school but he was no modern thinker, he thought like the rest of the world. He wanted me to stay back, live with him, teach in the school like he did,and then someday get married so that my wife would serve him. He never expressed these expectations out loud, but I knew this was the future he had thought for me in his mind, because it had been in my mind too when I was younger.

But I knew it couldnever be my life; so contrary to his wishes I got busy inweaving dreams of my own. And it was these dreams that gave me the incentive to study late in the night, till my eyes ached. Education meansa lot of things to people,butfor me it was an escape. With all the work in the house, sometimesthings drove me crazy, but I knew that if ever I could leave this place, education would be my only saviour. And for that, being good in studies wasn’t going to be good enough. I had to be better. I had to be extraordinary.

 

 

 

                                                                TWO

I was eighteenyears oldand had just finished taking my board exams. My days consisted of talking to friends and doing odd jobs to earn some money for my education. The construction site provided me just the opportunity. The pay was less, but it was at least something, and working for my education gave me hope that one day I would indeedbe going to college. I didn’t tell my father any of that. I just told him I had nothing to do; so I workedthere. But I think he did guess why I was working, although he didn’t say anything. By then my elder sister, Priya,already had a job as a teacher in the same school where my father worked.

 

One fine evening, my father was out and mother had asked me to get some groceries from the shop at the nearby chowk. It was a windy evening, and I was leisurely walking back home with thoughtsplaying on my mind, watching a kid runa cycle tyrewith a stick, watching people coming back from theiroffices in their motorcycles. I was planning on what I would do that night when suddenly I heard noises coming from our house. At first I assumed that some relatives had come to our house, but then I heard a wail, and then I heard my father shout. I could notclearly make out what he was saying, but I was able to figure out that he was terribly angry. Who was crying, or who had he been shouting at,I had no idea…

 

Saying a silent prayer under my breath, I walked faster, wondering what hell had befallen our home now. Five minutes later, in the living room I found my father in his chair, breathing heavily and Richa, my second sister, standing beside him.

Neetu still hadn’t returned from her classes, I noticed.

Priya stood beside Richa. It was as silent asit could get, and respecting the mood of the moment I stood at one corner, saying nothing. I had no clue what was happening, but when I looked at Priya and managed to hold her gaze, she shook her head and indicated that she would tell me later. I wondered if father had hit Richa. It was so not him. I mean yes, he did get angry from time to time, but I had never seen him so angry.

Nobody said anything for a while. Finally, after a few minutes of silence, dad shoutedat Richa to go to her room.

Richa obeyed without any protest. Itseemed as if even a light breeze would have gother off her feet. And then slowly Priya got up andwent back to preparing dinner as if nothing had happened, while he sat in the room for some more time. When he realized that he had done what he had to do, he went to the nearby store to have his regular smoke.

Immediately after his departure, I went to talk to Richa but she wouldn’t open the door; so I went to the kitchen to talk to Priya instead. She was busy chopping vegetables when I walked in. I didn’t say anything for the first few minutes, just watched her hands mechanically chop the vegetables. When mom went away, I fired her with my questions.

“What happened? Did she get kicked out of school or something?” She raised her eyes at me. I could see that she was sad and realized that the matter was much more serious than that.

“No, dad saw her with a guy from college. They were kissing. He was really angry today. He even slapped Richa.”

I knew this had happened when I saw Richa’s face this evening, but the shock of hearing it was still there.“Mother didn’t stop him?”

“No,I tried…” She let the sentence hang there, realizing she had already said too much.

“What? Did he hit you too?” She tried to protest, but when I held her gaze, she told me.

“Now, you don’t start fighting with dad again. Okay? He didn’t mean to hit me. He was just angry.” I knew what she was trying to do. The last time dad hit Neetu, I had had a big fight with him. I mean I could go on like nothing’s wrong when he treated them like that, but hitting was something I strongly felt about. This time I said nothing. Priya would like it more if I did nothing, I knew, and after having such a hard day, I owed her that.

“I knocked, but Richa is not opening the door,” I finally said to break the silence.

“She will be okay. She told me about the guy some days back. I should have told her to stop then, it would not have come to this. I don’t know what dad’s going to do now.”

“He already hit her, what more can he do?” I shouted. “And why didn’t she tell me about it?” I asked, remembering I was the only one not to know about this.

“She made me promise not to tell you or Neetu. She was scared dad might know.”

I nodded.

I kept silent after that, while she continued to work with the dough. The plastered walls of the kitchen had been blackened by the smoke emanating from the gas burner below. There was no fan in the room,although father had promised to get it installed soon. The smoke was suffocating in there, but the women had to work here all day long. They didn’t seem to mind. Maybe they were comfortable in the heat just like my father was with his life.It seems impossible to do something when you watch it from a distance, only when you are in it that you come to know.

I looked over at Priya.She was shaping the dough into small spherical balls, sweat dripping off her brows. I would have offered to help her, but I would make more mess than dinner.She gave me a small smile when she saw me looking at her. I returned it the best I could. We both sat in comfortable silence.

“She really loves him.”

“Sorry! What did you say?” I asked.

“She really loves him. I met him once. He is good.” I nodded, but both of us knew it didn’t matter if he was good, father would never agree. Even Richa knew that.

What scared me was if Richa could go on living like nothing had happened, and accept it as her fate? That would be hard, but there was no other option.

The front door opened and both of us craned our neck to look who arrived, expecting neighbors who had heard the fight, or worse…..dad.

To our relief, it was Neetu. She went to keep her bag inside the room,which she, Richa and Priya shared, but found it locked. She knocked for a while but no one answered it. I shouted for her to come to the kitchen.

Priya poured her a cup of tea from the pot. Neetu kept her bag and sat in a chair.  She had noticed how silent the house was. Usually there would be some sort of noise – sometimes neighbors, sometimes mom.

I told her what had conspired in the evening, though I spared her the part where dad hit Priya and Richa. She didn’t say anything when I told her the story. She was probably imagining how it might have happened. Maybe she guessed that dad had hit Richa.

A while later, mom went out for a walk, but not along with dad. In my town, one rarely sees husband and wife taking an evening stroll together. There was no rule against it, but that’s how things were. Men hung out with other men in the neighborhood, while women stayed in the house or went to their neighbor’s house and talked stuff. I guess mom just needed to clear her mind. I didn’t know when dad would be back. Normally, he came back half an hour before dinner.  It was already seven.

And as for Richa, I wondered for how long she wouldn’t be taking dinner. I asked Neetu to come with me and help to get Richa open the door. It was after ten minutes or so that she answered our call.

“Leave me alone for a while,” she said in a cracked voice.

I urged Neetu to say something.

“Let us in! Nobody’s at home except Mohan and Priya Di. Please open up, you are worrying us.” The door opened after a few minutes. As we entered, I could see that her eyes were swollen; she must have been crying the whole time. I couldn’t blame the guy who fell for her though, even with her swollen eyes and red nose she looked beautiful.

We sat in her room, Neetu trying desperately to lift up her mood. Priya couldn’t be there; she had a lot of work to do since mom wasn’t there to help her. I wonder now what it would be like to teach forthe whole day in school and then come back and prepare dinner for the family. I feel guilty sometimes for letting them rot in that piece of hell. But there were few things that could have been done.

Richa’s mood lightened up a little by the time mom came back, but we all knew that when dad would come back, nothing would be normal again.

Father came back an hour later than usual. Dinner was taken by everyone in complete silence. Even Neetu, whose voice wouldusually ring during thedinner,was silent. Father didn’t talk to Richa, and my mother too didn’t, because she was afraid it might offend dad.

Later that night, I heard Richa sniffing in the other room. I heard Priya say something to her, though I couldn’t make out what she was exactly saying. Theirtalking went on for a while, after which they both fell silent. I couldn’t sleep well that night. The thought of what would happen the next day still terrified me. I wanted things to get back to normalat the earliest. And I believed they would, sooner or later, like always. But for me, it was the first time that they didn’t.

 

                                                                    THREE

 

Father was true to his words. Richa’s marriage was fixed the very next week, to a guy none of us had everheardof before. Fathertold us that the guy was from a well-off family, and that he controlled a huge network of shops. That was probably what described a good guy- a good income. The first time he toldus the news, Richa was sitting by the window in the living room. I saw father steal a peek at her, but he didn’t say a word. Richa was staring ahead, poker faced. As for me, I didn’t have any idea what to do. Andabout Richa, I thinkshe had made peace with that decision long ago. She totally knew this was coming.

The next few days weren’t good. No matter how much me and Priya tried to reason with father, it always ended in a fight. It was finally one day that Richa told both of us to put a stop to this. She said she had hadenough; ormaybeshejust wanted everybody to live in peace. I was in no way thinking of giving up, but when she made me promise, I couldn’t refuse.

 

 

In a few days, all of us got busy preparing for the wedding. There was so much to do in such a short span of time. Richa never talked to father, and father was too proud to make an apology. I thought they would beokay, given some time.

Richa spent her time between working in the kitchen and watching us make preparations for the wedding. Nobody would have said anything even if she did nothing, but maybe she just wanted to feel normal again. She would otherwisekeep to herself, except for making some small talk with us at times.

Looking at her, I would have thought she was feeling better,but once in awhile I would hear her weep in the bedroom. I didn’t know if it was because she nevergot to meet the guy, or because she was being forcefully married off. I think she just wasn’t ready to embrace such a huge change in her life at that young age. But I never walked up to her and talked about this, because I did not know whatto say or how to say it either. I could have said everything would be alright, but it would have been a lie. And I wasn’t going to do that. God! Those words felt hollow to my own ears.

It would be fair to say it was this incident that turned my indifference towards the behavior of my father to hatred. The hatred grew as the wedding approached. Fewer words transpired between us and whatever we talked, it was never related to how we felt. It was just a daily routine, talking about stuff in the house, things that needed to be done. It was as if we were separated by a wall and silently I knew that was exactly what it was, and that the wall was never going to fall.

 

 

Things went on well on the day of wedding. I saw little of Richa.I was too busy running around, and she was busy entertaining the guests. I could only imagine how much effort it took to act normal in front of so many people all day long. Had I been in her place, I would have screamed my lungs out.

The bridegroom arrived at midnight, accompanied by dozens of his relatives. The bus stopped a few metersfrom our house. The wedding took place at around threea.m. Richa didn’t talk to father before she got up in the bus, neither were there any tears in her eyes. And I just stood there. I didn’t sayanything, only kissed her forehead. As the sun came up, I watched the bus drive away. It was the last time I ever saw Richa.

 

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