Shevlin Sebastian's Blog, page 14

An evening in Lagos - a short story

Pic: Boko Haram soldiers

By Shevlin Sebastian 

It is a pleasant evening. On the pavement, children are walking, holding their mother’s hands. A gentle breeze is blowing. Birds are chirping in the trees. There is a white wall on one side. A Toyota Corolla comes slowly from the opposite direction. Two bearded men are sitting in front. They are in their late twenties. The non-driver is smoking a cigarette. What the pedestrians do not know is they have a bomb in the back seat. The detonator is on the floor in front. 

Behind the wall is the US Consulate in Lagos, Nairobi. The Stars and Stripes flag is proudly flying in front of the building. 

These men belong to the Boko Haram Islamic militant organisation. They are going to stop the car in front of the gate, detonate the bomb, and kill as many security guards and visitors as possible. These men are planning to give up their lives. Of course, they will attempt to ram through the barricade and head as close to the building as possible.

Will it work?

They are not sure. 

They want to do a high impact bomb blast. This will guarantee worldwide press coverage. They also wanted to embarrass the Nigerian Army, which has killed many of their members. 

As the men watched a few mothers go with their children in the opposite direction, one of them thought, ‘This is your lucky day.’ 

Boko Haram had killed over three lakh children in various terrorist incidents. 

Suddenly, there is a sound like a cracker bursting. The car stops. The men get out to check. 

It is a flat tyre.

Now there is no question of ramming the barricade. Both did not know how to change the tyre. They are not car mechanics, but suicide bombers. One of them called their handler and informed him of the situation. The handler shouted, “You fool! Abort the mission. One of you can take the luggage and return to the base. The other can wait while we send a mechanic.”  

Thus, nobody died. 

Up in the heavens, God gives a small smile. 

But He knows the evil forces will not give up. One day, a bomb will burst. But at least, it is not today. 

There is peace in Lagos.

Swimmer Loraine Verghese accused coaches and swimming officials of sexual harassment. This was in 1992

By Shevlin Sebasian 

Women wrestlers have recently levelled sexual harassment allegations against Brij Bhushan Sharan, the Wrestling Federation of India President. When I read the news, I felt a sense of déjà vu.

In December, 1992, I travelled from Kolkata to Bangalore. The plan was to do a profile of retiring champion swimmer Loraine Verghese for Sportsworld magazine

During the course of the interview, the conversation veered into a different direction. Loraine alleged that she and the other swimmers faced sexual harassment. The perpetrators: coaches and other officials.

It was the first time ever in India that a sportsperson was alleging sexual harassment. In a sense, unwittingly, I got one of the biggest scoops in Indian sports journalism.

Loraine decided to speak out, since her career was coming to an end. She wanted to study to become a doctor.

Since I tended to do long stories, I began recording my conversations from a very early stage of my career. Thus, this conversation with Loraine was also recorded. Picture of the cassette is also shown.

When the interview was published, it created a furore.

Politicians raised the issue in Parliament. They brandished copies of the magazine. There was talk of setting up an inquiry committee. But at that time, and even now, politicians ran all the sporting associations. So, the matter died down. They did not want to shoot themselves in the foot.

If you want to go to the subject directly, separate images of that section is there. Look for a sub-heading titled, ‘On the sexual harassment that she has faced’.

The article appeared in the issue dated December 16, 1992.

When time runs out (reflections on death)

Pics: Russian leader Joseph Stalin; Sri Yukteswar Giri (left) with Swami Paramahansa Yogananda; outer space

By Shevlin Sebastian

As you get older, it seems like every month there is news about somebody passing away. Almost all of them are relatives, many of them a generation or two above me. In earlier times, people attended funerals. But now that everybody is busy, you can come in before the burial, pay respects, offer condolences to the family and leave. A stream of relatives and friends arrive at the house as early as 6.30 a.m.

Usually, the person is placed in a mobile mortuary in the living room. Did the deceased ever imagine that he would be lying there? (for ease of writing, using one gender).

It was a room where he may have greeted many visitors. He may have exchanged small talk and fed them tea and snacks. Laughter might have erupted now and then. But now, he lay still and unmoving, in a horizontal position, his eyes closed. People came and stood near him in silence and stared at him 

Later, they spoke to family members who recounted the last few days before the person passed away. People listened sympathetically. Many of them have had similar experiences: of their parents passing away, or elder siblings and relatives.

What thoughts go through people’s minds when they stare at a dead body?

Mostly, you recall the person when he was alive. The last time you met him. What type of person was he?

“There was always a smile on his face,” said one onlooker after glancing at a body and strolling away to talk to a friend. “That is so rare. People look so glum and tense these days.”

And these are common responses which one hears at many funerals:

“Oh, I met him a week ago. Who would have thought he would pass away so quickly?”

“Nobody told me he was gravely ill. The family did not inform anybody.”

“He looks ravaged.”

“Looks the same.”

“He has lost weight. Poor fellow.”

“Don’t mind me saying this. He was a bit of an asshole. A person who only cared about money. He sold his soul. Now what’s he going to do with all that cash? Take it with him?”

This last sentence was said with a smirk.

In my experience, very few dead people have any expression on their faces. It is rare to see someone with a smile. You always get the impression that they are looking at something that has transfixed them a couple of moments before they died. They are no longer aware of their family members or their life on earth.

When you looked at a dead body, it reminded you of your mortality. You say to yourself, ‘If I died at the age this person died, I only have 10, 15, or 25 years left.’ 

That can leave you depressed. Time is running out. The number of years has decreased. In middle age, I am now on the downward slope to oblivion.

Once when I was viewing a dead body, a thought arose in me.

How many breaths does a man take before he takes his last breath?

According to Google, if you live till 80, you will take 672,768,000 breaths.

A person may experience lakhs of thoughts in his lifetime. So, what was the last thought the person had before he died? Was it something random, like, ‘Today is such a hot day.’ or ‘I can’t bear this pain.’ Or was it an angry thought: ‘I hate myself.’

Russian leader Joseph Stalin passed away on March 5, 1953, at 74, following a stroke. His daughter Svetlana Alliluyeva wrote about the moments before his death: 

“The death agony was horrible. He choked to death as we watched. At what seemed the very last moment, he opened his eyes and cast a glance over at everyone in the room. It was a terrible glance, insane or angry, and full of the fear of death. 

“His suffering came because God grants a peaceful death only to the just.”

A transition to the other world can be difficult. Too many people suffer before they can pass. A director of a palliative care home told me that in 30 years, he had seen only five percent who passed away easily. The rest had to suffer. So when I hear news that somebody has passed away suddenly, I always say to myself, ‘God has been kind.’ 

And what happens on the other side?

The other day, I read an extract from ‘Autobiography of a Yogi’ by Swami Paramahansa Yogananda. In it, he talks about his just-deceased guru Sri Yukteswar Giri.

Sri Yukteswar appeared in flesh-and-blood form in a Mumbai hotel bedroom on the afternoon of June 19, 1936.

Sri Yukteshwar explained to his disciple about life on the other side.

“Prophets are sent on earth to help men work out their physical karma, so God has directed me to serve on an astral planet as a saviour.

“It is called ‘Hiranyaloka’ or Illumined Astral Planet. There, I am aiding advanced beings to rid themselves of astral karma and thus attain liberation from astral rebirths.”

So, what do you think of this? Some of you may be sceptical, but I like to keep an open mind. The more open it is, the more you can absorb messages from all sources.

Nobody can say with certainty what happens on the other side. All we can be sure of is that there is some sort of energy there. Bernard Harris, the first African-American to go into space, said, while on a visit to Kochi, “In space, everything is perfect. The planets, the solar system and the galaxies – all this did not happen by accident. There has to be some higher power which orchestrated all this. My faith in God deepened.”

Many of us will encounter this higher power only after we die. It is only the most revered saints and seers who get a glimpse of it while they are alive.

Perhaps, our one way of paying respect to this energy is to stay positive all the time. I feel that makes the energy happy. This may also increase our chances of dying with a smile on our face.

The life of a hit man -- a short story

By Shevlin Sebastian

It was a sleepy Sunday afternoon. The television sets in the various apartments nearby were silent. It seemed everybody was having an afternoon siesta.

A man stood at the door of a ground-floor apartment in Kolkata. He was wearing a T-shirt hanging outside his trousers. His name was Raju ‘Pehelwan’ Das. The door was closed, and he was in the bedroom. He took off his T-shirt and placed it on the clothes stand. He then changed into white shorts.

He has thick biceps and triceps. A smooth brown body. Entering the kitchen, he opened the fridge, took out Tropicana juice, and filled a glass with it. He sipped from it as he moved to the living room and switched on the TV. Aware that there was silence all around, he kept the volume on low and watched an English film on Netflix.

Pehelwan was a hit man for an underworld gang. He lived alone in Kolkata. His family lived in a village in Midnapore, 128 kms away. Every month, he sent money through Google Pay. Pehelwan has a wife, two sons and a daughter. They were all in college. Once a month, he took a train and headed back home.

The family lived comfortably. Nobody knew what he actually did. He has told the village that he was doing business. And he did not clarify what business it was. Because of his body, people were intimidated. They didn’t ask questions.

Since he was quiet and well behaved, nobody suspected anything.

In his job, he can be violent, slapping opposing gang members with ferocious slaps. He was a mean boxer and could trade jabs with the pick of them.

Pehelwan did not drink, smoke or take drugs. But like all men, he had one vice. He kept a mistress in a flat and made love often. He paid her bills and kept her happy. She was in her late twenties, a widow who did not have any children. At the moment, she was happy with the arrangement. Pehelwan has interacted with many women. So, he is not sure when she will insist on getting married and having a child with him.

He was sure he would ignore these suggestions. If she insisted he would get rid of her and get a new woman. He did not have any emotional attachment to this woman. She was a competent lover; he knew that, but there were many women who were capable lovers. Pehelwan wanted an uncomplicated relationship.

He understood her apprehensions. What if he got tired of her body and told her to go? What would she do then? He had several lovers before. Most were struggling and needed money. They used their bodies to pay household bills. But it was a fact that after a while, Pehelwan got tired.

He has explored every nook and cranny of a woman’s body and ravished her. There was nothing new to discover. A sense of staleness can creep in. And since Pehelwan had the money to get a new piece of flesh, he did. But to his credit, he gave enough money to the woman when he left her. They could survive for a year with no financial worries.

He was keen that they did not hurl curses at him. He was always scared of a woman’s anger and abuse.

Pehelwan knew that in his high-risk career, somebody could shoot him dead. There were enemies lurking everywhere. Which was why he had put fixed deposits in the name of his wife and children to the tune of a few lakhs in a few banks. If he died, they should not have any financial problems.

When Pehelwan was a teenager, he started lifting weights. Soon, he had a bulky body: a muscular chest, thick biceps and calves. It did not take long for the local people in his area to call him Pehelwan, the Hindi word for wrestler. He knew enough Hindi to know that was the wrong word, since he was a weightlifter. But the name stuck. And he liked it.

After he finished Class 12 in a Bengali-medium school, Pehelwan came to Kolkata in search of a job.

One evening, he was sitting in a street-side restaurant, having tea and samosas. A man observed him. He was none other than Malik Babu, who had established his gang in Kidderpore. Malik Babu was 20 years older than Pehelwan. He invited Pehelwan to join his gang by offering a monthly salary of Rs 10,000. That was difficult to resist.

Pehelwan began his career as a pickpocket and was very successful. Malik Babu allowed him to keep 20 percent of whatever he filched. Malik Babu told him that if he wanted to do well, he should be honest. He took it to heart and never cheated Malik Babu. Over the years, Malik Babu trusted him.

From the beginning, Pehalwan was careful with money. Instead of spending lavishly, as any young man would do, he opened a bank account. He began saving money every month. After a year, he had a tidy sum. After five years, he bought some land in Midnapore and built a small house. This was so that his parents could live in a house of their own, instead of being at the mercy of landlords.

As the gang did well, Pehelwan moved from being a pickpocket to being an enforcer. At some point, when he was in his mid-twenties, Malik Babu sent him to a shooting school. He learned how to use pistols and revolvers. Only in extreme cases would Malik Babu ask him to kill somebody.

It was only the first time that his body trembled as he took the shot. He saw the bullet enter his skull from the back and saw a streak of blood come out.

This happened on the outskirts of Calcutta. Pehalwan had followed the man who was heading towards Digha. When he stopped his car at a petrol station and walked to the toilet, Pehalwan followed. He shot him as he was urinating. Since he had a silencer, there was a low ‘phut phut’ sound. The man slumped against the wall and slid to the ground.

He was in his late fifties.

He was a building construction magnate. He had borrowed money from Malik Babu, but his business went bust and he could not repay. There was no alternative but to kill him. The aim was to send a message to the other business people they were dealing with. Pay up or else… It was the standard Mafia message, which criminal gangs used all over the world.

A message soaked in blood.

That night, Pehelwan had a difficult time sleeping. Images of blood spurting out kept recurring. He twisted and turned from side to side. Since he was a teetotaler, he couldn’t drink alcohol.

Instead, he lifted weights.

After several months, his mind calmed down, and he finally had a peaceful sleep.

He was glad that Malik Babu did not make too many calls to kill anybody. The gang leader used it as a last resort. Pehelwan knew Malik Babu was smart. A murder drew the ire of the police, the media and society. They would feel a sudden heat. Malik Babu had to pay a lot of money to the cops so that the spotlight moved away and the case remained unresolved.

‘Thank God for corrupt cops,’ thought Pehelwan. ‘Without them, our gang would have been busted a long time ago.’

In the past twenty years, Pehelwan had killed six more people. He knew nothing about their families. Pehelwan did not know how they survived following the death of the breadwinner. He hoped the wives would step forward and assume responsibility for the business. And he hoped they did not curse the unknown killer.

All the cases were unsolved.

Pehelwan kept a low profile all the time. He was a loner. So far, he has not appeared on any police record. He reported to Malik Babu. The Don gave him assignments. He did it efficiently. Sometimes, he wore a mask, especially because there were so many cameras everywhere. And he continued to save money and invest in land in remote areas of Midnapore, where it was cheaper.

He was sure that, after 20 years, these remote areas would become part of the town because of the burgeoning population. Then he could sell the land at an exorbitant price. His son and daughter were in Plus Two. Soon, they would graduate and get jobs of their own.

Everything was working fine. He prayed that there would no longer be any more murders. He was preparing to tell Malik Babu to get a younger hitman. At 48, the stress was too much to bear. And he feared a reaction. Like most people, he believed in the law of karma.

Pehelwan switched off the TV and lay down for a nap.

In the evening, he got up and walked to the kitchen. He made a cup of tea. As he sipped his tea and dipped Parle G biscuits in it, at the dining table, the front doorbell rang. He frowned. None of his gang members visited the house. He was not expecting any visitors, except Ganesh, a distant relative, who wanted to borrow some money. Pehelwan put on his T-shirt and walked to the door.

Two young men stood there. He did not recognise them. He had never seen them before.

His sixth sense said danger.

One of them took out a revolver. With swift reflexes, Pehelwan tried to shut the door and dived to one side. But he heard shots ring out, with the familiar ‘phut phut’ sound of the silencer. He felt something touch his lower back. And then he lost consciousness.

It was Ganesh who found him, with a pool of blood next to him, on the floor. There was the strange odour of rusted iron. Ganesh called for an ambulance and took him to a government hospital.

Two weeks later, Pehelwan received the prognosis. The doctors told him he was paralysed from the waist down. The bullet hit his spinal cord in the lower half. Pehelwan could not feel any sensation in his legs. He knew that his career in Malik Babu’s gang was over.

Overnight, he had become a useless member.

One week later, Malik Babu came for a visit. He had the look of a man who had come to view a dead body.

“You were my best man,” he told Pehelwan.

Of course, Pehelwan was smart enough to realise that Malik Babu had used the past tense. Pehelwan stared at Malik Babu, with his handlebar moustache and his jutting out eyes. He looked freakish, but Pehelwan respected the man’s intelligence. Malik Babu had always resorted to violence and murder as a last resort. He preferred psychological methods to intimidate people. That was one reason he lasted so long.

But Pehelwan had to accept the grim news that he would have to go back home. He thanked God that he had saved so much over the years.

Malik Babu said, “We still do not know who planned the hit. Or was it a warning? I am not sure if it was a gangland hit. It seemed to be somebody from outside, but who? There are no leads so far. Nobody informed the police. Thank God for that, because nobody knew.”

Pehelwan nodded. He was sure Malik Babu would solve the mystery. But it would take time. Pehelwan was no longer interested in revenge. Whatever happened, it would not restore his ability to move. He didn’t care, since he no longer belonged to the gang.

He wondered what he would do now. How was he going to live the rest of his life? What work could he do? He realised the roles would be reversed for his wife, Deepa. In the past, she always stayed at home. Now, he would have to stay at home while she went out for work, so that they could pay their bills.

He wondered whether he could be active. Would he be able to get an erection? He was not sure. One night, at the hospital, he held his penis, and it seemed to become stiff. ‘Maybe’, he thought, ‘it can be done if Deepa gets on top of me.’

He did not worry about his children. They were smart. He was sure they would graduate and get well-paying jobs.

The day before the hospital discharged him, Malik Babu gave him a packet covered in brown paper. Deepa had been present. She placed it under his clothes in a bag next to the bed. This was the first time Deepa had met Malik Babu.

Pehelwan said, “Malik Babu lives near my house.”

When he returned home two days later, he checked the brown packet.

It contained Rs 10 lakh in cash.

It was a parting gift from Malik Babu.

It was a generous amount.

Pehelwan was grateful.

And so his new life began. He sat in a wheelchair and stared out of the windows. He read newspapers, watched TV, and lifted weights for his upper body. Every morning, he watched his wife getting ready to go to work. She worked as a secretary in a small trading firm. His parents lived with them. His mother provided his meals.

He learned how to invest in the stock market on his laptop and earned money.

So life carried on.

He knew that by the time he died, he would clean up all the negative karma he had gained by killing seven people.

He also hoped to achieve a peaceful death.

A Naga short story

 

By Shevlin Sebastian

There is a wall, about 20 feet in height, and painted in white. In certain sections, you can see bougainvillaea creepers.

Despite the height, the wall has a benign feeling to it. But things are not so pleasant when you look at the top. There is barbed wire all along the perimeter.

On the other side, the authorities had not painted it. There is moss growing in certain sections. The constant rain had chipped away at the grey paint. You can see the concrete bricks.

There is a large, open area. This is a place where several convicts walk up and down in the evenings. In certain areas, they marked lines on the ground with white chalk. There is a net strung across two poles. It is a volleyball court. In another area, they have put up goalposts. Sometimes, the convicts play games if the weather is pleasant.

This is a jail in Nagaland. Most men are serving life terms. The courts had convicted them of murder, arms and drugs smuggling and for using weapons against the state. Many of them have narrow eyes reflecting their Mongolian ancestry.

Sometimes there are fisticuffs. Then guards have to break up the fights. They put the men involved in isolation blocks for weeks at a time.

Two Naga men, Asangla and Dadi, are close friends. Each is undergoing a jail term of 25 years. The Indian Army and rebel forces engaged in a gun battle in a jungle. In the ensuing mayhem, the soldiers captured them. They wanted freedom for Nagaland, so that it could become an independent nation. In short, they wanted to secede from India.

They have already served for 15 years. While Asangla is 52, Dadi is 46. In the evenings, they sit next to each other, out in the open.

Sometimes, they wonder whether it had been foolish to think they could secure independence from the Indian union. It had a powerful army. What they did was give pinpricks, at significant personal cost. But their leaders had indoctrinated them about the need to get freedom. They were too young to understand what a gigantic task it would be. And how much they would have to sacrifice to achieve their goals.

Most of the Naga leaders have spent decades in jail. The life they led hollowed them out and shattered the equilibrium of their families. The rest of Naga society carried on. Not everybody was grateful for their contributions because they achieved nothing.

They were on the losing side.

Who cares about losers?

But this is the dilemma for freedom fighters. When they try peaceful methods, nothing happens. But when they use violence and then lose, they face wrecked lives and the crushing of their hopes and dreams. What is the way forward? Could they take part in the election process? But what if the government bans them? In many countries, there is no democracy. At least in this Nagaland jail, the police had beaten the duo, but had not tortured them. But in countries like Iran, China, Russia and Belarus, the state had tortured and even killed political activists.

But when Asangla and Dadi talk to each other, they have no option but to feel regret.

Asangla’s wife Lily is a teacher in a private school. The childless Dadi’s wife, Narola, works as a secretary in an office. For Asangla, it was painful to see the children growing up without his physical presence.

Asangla could not take his children to school. He could not celebrate their birthdays and teach them discipline. He missed out on earning a living and building assets for the family. Both he and Dadi had missed out on sex with their wives during the peak years of their masculinity.

Asangla’s son, Mhalo, now 20, had fallen into the wrong company, dropped out of school and was doing drugs. His wife complained about it to Asangla. When Mhalo came for a visit, Asangla begged him to change his ways. He wanted him to make new friends and to divert his attention by playing football or badminton. But his son seemed unmoved. For Mhalo, it was like listening to advice from a stranger. He had tied his hair into a ponytail, using a rubber band, and wore a steel bracelet.

Asangla feared for the boy’s future. He knew that from drugs to crime is not an enormous distance. His daughter, Rita, 18, was already staying with a musician in a live-in relationship. She wore short skirts and high heels all the time. At least, she stayed away from drugs and studied till Class 12 and now works as a secretary in an office.

Asangla knew the future of his children, like his own, was dark and unclear. Lily came every week and brought along some soaps and toothbrushes. They could not bring food items. She spoke; he listened. She had more news than him. He led the same regimented life from morning till night.

Asangla stared at her. More and more, she was becoming a stranger to him. And he was becoming a stranger to himself, too.

He no longer understood his motivations, dreams, or desires. He was rolling from one day to the other, his mind blank.

Asangla wondered whether Lily was faithful. And yet, he could not blame her if she sought sexual gratification outside of their marriage. Why shouldn’t she? He had opted to be a militant, so why should she lose out?

Anyway, Asangla never asked Lily these questions because he knew it was futile. There was no way she would tell him the truth.

What stunned them was how Naga society had forgotten them. Life went on. Nobody spoke about freedom and independence. They were in the thrall of the mobile phone and the consumer lifestyle. It was engulfing their society.

The duo felt they had no option but to bite their lips, maintain proper behaviour and hope to get out. In that way, they wanted to salvage the remaining years of their lives.

As for Dadi, he was childless. Narola always came dressed in colourful tops and tight jeans and high heels. As a secretary for an international NGO, she earned well. She spent most of her money on clothes, lipstick, perfume and other items. Dadi knew Narola was enjoying life. She has been to concerts and parties.

Sometimes, it was with her female friends and sometimes with a male companion. Who the man was, Dadi did not know. And he did not want to know. She could have divorced him any day, but so far, she had not. Dadi was not sure whether she would remain with him. He wondered whether she loved him, or whether she was too lazy to get a divorce. Maybe she had not found a man whom she wanted to marry.

They met when they were teenagers. They lived on the same road. It led to a romance and later, marriage. Both were in their early twenties when they got married. But Narola did not have any children. Dadi was not sure whether it was his problem or hers. Within three years of his marriage, he had joined a militant group.

His life changed. Dadi lived an underground existence. His parents passed away when they were only in their fifties. His only brother worked in Delhi in an IT firm. He married a Naga girl and had children.

Dadi was happy for him.

His brother had always been practical and smart. Now he was enjoying life, while he rotted behind bars, keeping company with tough people. All with massive egos. Nobody felt any sense of repentance. For many of them, murder was something they yawned at.

Dadi only felt comfortable in the company of Asangla because they had been comrades in the battles against the Indian Army. Once his wife Narola asked him whether he had taken the right path.

He said, “I thought I was on the right path. Nobody can live a perfect life and always make the right decisions. Sometimes, we make mistakes.”

She nodded, partly in appreciation because Dadi admitted he had made a mistake. She felt there was no point in ramming home the point about his errors. Dadi was paying for it every single day.

In December, 2021, a unit of the 21st Para Special Forces of the Indian Army had killed six civilians near the village of Oting in the Mon District of Nagaland, India. In the subsequent violence, eight civilians and a soldier lost their lives.

Some of their old anger and fire reared in the duo when they heard the news.

“We can never trust these Indians,” Dadi said.

Asangla told him to keep quiet.

“Our aim is to get out because of good behaviour,” he said. “So, let’s maintain our composure.”

Of course, the others railed against the Indian state. But Asangla was tired of it. He wanted to move on. At 52, he did not have the energy to change anything. All he did was worry about his children. He prayed every day that God would protect his children.

But, at night, like Dadi, he had a disturbed sleep. Images of him shooting Indian soldiers appeared in his mind. Blood was oozing out of their skulls. He had killed three of them. He wondered whether they were married and had children. Every day, their families must be cursing the killers. This was also the case with the families of the Nagas, whose males the Indian soldiers had shot dead. They must be cursing the soldiers for their trigger-happy fingers.

And this cycle of anger, hatred and violence has carried on for decades.

Who knows, it might go on for centuries.

A penetrating look

By Shevlin Sebastian

‘The Silent Coup: A History of India's Deep State’ is one of the most chilling books I have read in recent times.

Josy Joseph, an award-winning reporter, highlights the callous behaviour of law enforcement.

If, by bad luck or coincidence, you fall into their clutches, you could end up dead. If you survive, you will become a mere husk of a human being, physically broken and mentally shattered. It will destroy your family. The family will take decades to feel a sense of normalcy. They feel a deep sense of injustice when the authorities do not reprimand the police for false cases. There is not even a slap on the wrist. They continue to flourish under political patronage. The law of karma never works in their case. Their life moves along splendidly, with plum postings and perks.

Josy said Parliament must enact laws that will make law enforcement accountable to it.

When a major terrorist attack takes place, the investigation is shoddy. Those whom the police arrest are informers. The informers get shocked because for so long, they have worked with the police. The police feed the media a false narrative. The actual perpetrators escape justice.

Most times, the police delay filing the charge sheet. The case moves at a snail’s pace through the legal system. Courts can take anywhere from ten to fifteen years to exonerate them. 

How do you pick up the pieces of your life after that?

Some of the topics Josy has dealt with include the militancy in Kashmir, bomb blasts in Mumbai, the 26/11 Pakistan terrorist attack, the insurgencies in the North-East and the Sri Lankan imbroglio. He also focuses on the other conflicts that have beset the nation in the past 75 years.

Josy highlights the anti-Muslim bias among police officers. 

The lack of Muslims in law enforcement heightens the prejudice. According to Josy, the political executive has completely seized control of the agencies. They have no independence. Hence, their investigations lack credibility and integrity.

This book is a must-read for any Indian who is worried about the future of the country.

We need multiple and honest viewpoints to have a better understanding of our complex country. 

Only the truth can save a society from ruin.

All about a crow

By Shevlin Sebastian

I am standing outside a tailor’s shop. As he deals with another client, I notice a crow standing less than a foot from me. We exchange looks. Something seems to reassure it. The crow does not fly away.

It is pecking at a brown powder, which somebody had spilled. It seems to be wheat. A scooter whizzes past, within inches of the crow. It flies up a couple of feet in shock. Then again, it returns. A car and a bike pass. The crow keeps a wary eye as it keeps pecking away.

I realise it is hungry, and willing to take the risk of being hit by a vehicle. I wonder how old it is. It looks healthy. It has a firm beak, strong claws, and smooth feathers. In the crow world, does it have a name? How do they identify each other? Is it married? Does it have baby crows? Where does the crow stay? In a tree nearby or somewhere far away?

Does it have parents? Do they all stay together? Or are they all scattered? Do the crows have moods? On some days, it feels as light as the clouds it passes through. Other days, does its head droop and the crow sheds tears?

When that happens, does a female crow offer solace? How do they do that? Is it through touching or cawing? Are there days when the crow goes hungry? As we throw food waste away inside packets, birds and animals like dogs and cats cannot access it. Is filling the stomach the primary purpose of every day?

What about elderly crows? How do they feed themselves? Can they fly until the end of their days? Do they suffer from weary bones and wings, hypertension and stress?

Do younger crows look after the older ones? Or are they abandoned? When crows fight, do they have a court where justice is dispensed? Or is it a pecking match and the strongest crow wins?

What do crows think about humans? Do they hate them? Or fear them? Do they feel we humans have perpetrated a grave injustice against them and all other birds, with our destruction of their natural habitat?

Do crows believe in God? Or the afterlife? Do they have goals and desires? Are there any sporting competitions between the crows? Like a World Cup or Olympic Games? Do crows get divorced and find a new mate?

How do they gain new knowledge? Is it only learned from experience? What happens when they suffer a broken wing? Do they have doctors to repair it? Or are they condemned to live with a broken wing until the end of their lives? Do they have an inferiority complex because their cawing always sounds like a death rattle?

What is the attitude of other birds, like sparrows, cuckoos and parrots towards crows? Do they like them? Or prefer to stay away? Is there a caste system among birds? If so, where are the crows located? Are they at the bottom because they are black?

How long do crows stay in a particular tree before they leave for new pastures? Do they find the monsoon too difficult to bear? What about when the climate is too cold? How do they bear it? Do they use leaves as blankets? Or do they shiver through the long and lonely nights?

Do they have philosophical discussions with each other? Why am I here? What is the meaning of life? What will happen after we die?

What kind of brain does a crow have? Does it have a conscious and unconscious mind? Do crows dream at night? Do they have sexual fantasies?

Do crows have a language they use? Do the older crows tell the younger crows the stories of past eras, and the history of the cows over several generations?

Do crows believe in God? Is it one God, or several gods and goddesses?

Are there criminal crows? Is there a Mafia among the crows? Perhaps, like human land grabbers, could there be crow tree-grabbers? Are there law enforcement officers among the crows?

Is there an all-India meeting for crows? What is the common language they use? Do they talk about the loss of habitat? About the endless greed of man, which is destroying nature? Do they think people are staring too much at screens and losing their connection with Nature?

The tailor interrupts my thoughts and says, “Sir, please come in.”

I show him the torn pocket. He nods and says, “Come tomorrow.” 

As I step out, I completely forget about the crow and walk home. Had the crow flown away? No idea. I was back to living inside my mind. I am there 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.

I hope that one day, aeons later, human beings, animals and birds will develop a common language, so that we could all communicate with each other. 

When stories die

By Shevlin Sebastian

On some evenings, when I approached Sunny Uncle’s house, on my two-wheeler, I could sense my wife sitting behind me, making a movement. When I turned to look, she was waving at Sunny Uncle.

He sat in a plastic chair on the porch of his house and waved back with a smile. Sometimes, when she waved, he did not wave back. That’s because he had nodded off. Sunny Uncle was not in the best of health. His wife had died four years before, a victim of cancer.

He lived alone, this broad-shouldered man with curly hair. Like many Keralite families, his children lived abroad with their wives and children. A maid came during the day, swept and cleaned the rooms, provided meals and left in the evening. Then her husband came to spend the night, so that Sunny Uncle would not be alone. Like most men of that generation, he found it difficult to cope without the emotional anchor of his wife.

Over 60 years ago, like many Malayalis, Sunny Uncle travelled to Kolkata to seek his fortune. Once, he told me that my father had helped him at the beginning. He would never forget that. Alone, in a strange city, a stranger reached out to befriend him. Anyone who moved to a new city knew that at that moment, you were searching for companionship, preferably from your home state.

Who could have imagined that decades later, they would build houses less than 500 metres from each other in Kerala? Both had done well. In the end, Sunny Uncle had to spend his time alone. In the earlier years, Sunny Uncle would head out for a morning walk. I would see him from my first-floor veranda. If he looked up, I waved. Otherwise, I would let him be with his thoughts. Then the walks stopped. And he remained house-bound.

A couple of months ago, Sunny Uncle was not on the porch. There were several people in front of and inside the house. Then we got the news that Sunny Uncle had passed away. He had spent a few days in the hospital because of heart ailments. Then his heart stopped beating.

He was 86.

On the morning of the funeral, I stepped into the house. Sunny Uncle was lying on a flower-bedecked table. He did not look sad or happy. Maybe he was happy to leave the planet. Sunny Uncle may have felt the time had come. And he was ready.

I don’t know Sunny Uncle’s children, as I have never interacted with them.

Today, the house is shuttered. But the chair remains on the porch. It looks forlorn without its occupant. My wife feels distressed when she sees that. Being reminded of death isn’t always pleasant.

Sunny Uncle’s children have re-entered their lives abroad. They may come later and dispose of the building. Their father lies six feet below, his coffin surrounded by mud.

But what we rarely reflect upon when a person dies is the hundreds of stories, from his life’s experiences, that have vanished into the ether.

When you grow old, you move from the centre to the periphery of the family. You can see this at family gatherings. The older generation sits to one side, next to each other, watching the proceedings. Meanwhile, the youngsters dominate the conversation and are the centre of attention. And they tell their stories animatedly.

They are not interested in the stories of the elders. And they don’t care. The youngsters have money, power, and jobs. They don’t need to show any deference to the old. The subtle message is goodbye, old man, it’s finito. Head to the shadows, uncle. We love you, but you had your time in the sun. Now it’s our turn.

This is a loss for the younger generations. The elderly have fascinating stories to tell. The young could learn valuable life lessons from them.

The other day, I met CV Anthony, 75, a retired contractor, who lives in our area. Every morning, for the past 10 years, the grey-haired man has been feeding stray dogs at dawn. And, as we started chatting, he told me a lot about the psychology of dogs. When they see you once, they will not bark again. Anthony said they had an excellent memory.

When asked why dogs attack people a lot these days, in Kochi, he said it was because of starvation. Anthony said that, in the olden days, people would place leftover food outside the gate. The dogs would come and eat it. Now they put the excess food inside a packet, make a knot at the top and throw it away. As a result, the dogs cannot access it.

He also said that if a dog growled at you, it was wise to stand your ground and make a clicking sound with your mouth. The dog will relax immediately. Anthony said dogs respond to the tone of voice. If you talk roughly, they will get aggressive.

Anthony is brimming with stories. He told me the economy is in such terrible shape that many poor people cannot feed the dogs. In urban areas, it is the poor who care for dogs, not the middle class or the rich, he said.

This conversation proved enlightening for me.

A few days later, I stumbled on to another story.

Annamma (name changed), a lady in her mid-sixties, lived in our area. She asked whether she could go with us in the car, to attend a wedding reception for the son of a former neighbour. The event was taking place 30 kms from the city.

So, when we were travelling, my wife asked about her daughter. For the next hour, Annamma spoke nonstop about her daughter. At age six, she contracted meningitis, and became paralysed, but her brain was intact. She could not speak, but could hear.

Annamma had been looking after her daughter for the past 28 years. She said that she always picked up her daughter from the bed to place her in the chair. But many years later, as her daughter grew and became a woman, Annamma experienced severe pain in her arms. She sought treatment, but the pain persisted. Now, her son who lives abroad, has sent a manual pulley. Annamma can lift her daughter using this system.

You can imagine the mental strain of looking after somebody 24 hours a day for several years. Annamma told us many stories about her daughter. Whenever Annamma stepped out, she would have to come back and talk to her daughter about all her experiences.

As for Annamma, it was clear she never told her story to anybody outside of her family. And there was a feeling of catharsis in her. She had all these intense stories bubbling inside her mind, but nobody was there to hear them. Now, finally, there was a group of people who were interested.

We were glad we could hear it.

Finally, Annamma turned to my mother, who was sitting near her and said, “Amma, you have not spoken.”

My mother, a dazed look on her face, said, “I was listening to you.”

On another occasion, during a family get-together, I met a distant relative who works in a bank. When I asked which section he worked in, he said it was in the loan default section. “That would be interesting,” I said.

He nodded and told me a story.

A resort near Kottayam had taken a loan. The owners kept defaulting on payments, even though the company was doing well. There were guards outside the resort. They prevented bank officers from entering the property to submit the repossession letter.

One day, an ambulance, with sirens blaring, approached the gate of the property. The driver told the guards that he had received an emergency call. So the guards opened the gate. A few bank officers, as well as private guards, were inside the ambulance. They entered and captured the property.

The owners immediately agreed to a compromise. They cleared the dues. It appeared they had the money but were investing it in the business. So, using an ingenious method, the bank settled an outstanding loan.

So, friends, this is what I learned. When you meet anybody, be it a friend or stranger, we should look to ‘hear’ stories rather than tell ours. That will make the encounter far more enriching. You will be able to avoid the tittle-tattle that we usually do at get-togethers.

A tribute to a mentor

Photos: George Abraham; KM George; Kunjamma; George Abraham with his extended family; with his wife and sons 

After paying a visit to the home of George Abraham, former Deputy Resident Editor of the New Indian Express, Kochi, a desire arose in me to write about his life. I remembered what AM Chacko, the father of former Resident Editor Vinod Mathew, told him, “There is no point in talking good things about me after I die. Then I cannot hear it. So, better do it when I am alive.” So here it is. Marathon Man George Abraham, former Deputy Resident Editor of the New Indian Express, Kochi, relaxes after his 40-year plus careerBy Shevlin Sebastian On the afternoon of November 5, I saw a slip near the door of my house. When I picked it up, I realised it was from the Speed Post. Since they could not meet me, they asked if I could collect the parcel from the Edappally office. I groaned to myself that now I would have to make the trip. That night, as I watched the Spanish hit series ‘Velvet’ on Netflix, apropos of nothing, I thought of George Abraham, the former Deputy Resident Editor of the New Indian Express. George Sir lived near the post office, on Chandrathil Road in Kochi. I sent him a message asking whether I could meet him. He replied, “Yes, please.” So, the next day, at the appointed time, I arrived at his house. On a low table, there were three newspapers. He pointed at the New Indian Express and said that the local reporting continued to be very good. Soon, we were in full flow. We talked about the current political shenanigans in the state, the alarming drug use among youngsters, the isolation of the elderly, and news about former colleagues. George Sir’s mind was curious, alert, intelligent and focused. “I was lucky to work for the Indian Express, which later became the New Indian Express for 40 years,” he said. “I worked till the age of 65, then had a five-year freelance online editing career. I am 74 now.” In my career, the most interesting people I met were artists. The next group were journalists, who also have keen minds and lots of interesting experiences to recount. George Sir was no different. He lived in a large two-storey house. At 11 a.m. a maid came in. She stayed till 2 p.m., and then left. After that, George Sir lived alone. The reason he lives alone is that on February 4, 2020, after a brief illness, his wife Molly, who had worked in a bank, passed away at 67. They had been married for 43 years. Thereafter, George Sir experienced a deep sense of loneliness. “The loneliness is hard to bear for a person who has led a happy family life,” he said. “It struck me like a lightning bolt. I never expected my wife to depart so early, even though she had some health issues.” He realised that this was the fate that strikes every person at one point or the other, with none of the family members nearby, including children who are far away at their workplaces. What has sustained him is his spirituality. “The biggest enlightenment comes when one’s mind reaches a higher consciousness and finds the essence of the all-powerful force that operates in the universe,” said George Sir. “It is a force that can lead one from darkness to light, from ignorance to knowledge, and from misery to bliss. It will enable one to see life and its forms in a better and truer light. I have understood that every person reflects God. One thinks of a higher purpose in life and the pursuit of it, instead of living for the moment or for momentary pleasures.” But he admitted that to reach such a stage had been arduous. “It requires the shedding of the old baggage of thoughts and ideas accumulated over a lifetime, but the ultimate result is peace of mind and harmony with the world all around,” said George Sir. “When one can remove worries, anxieties and fears, it can lead to physiological changes, like normalising blood pressure and sugar levels.” As George Sir embarks on a spiritual journey, his children are leading the practical life he had lived for so many decades. Among his two sons, the elder, Abhilash, is in Toronto. He is married to Ruby Shanker, whom he had met in Dubai, and they have a two-and-a-half year-old daughter Ziva. Anil works in Doha. But in the past few months, Anil’s wife, Betsy Maria Josephine, and children, eight-year-old Anya, two-and-a-half-year-old Xavi, and Reya, six months, have been staying at George Sir’s house. Anil had moved from Dubai to Doha. Authorities were not issuing family visas until the conclusion of the World Cup football tournament on December 18. So, Anil’s family stays with George Sir. The day I arrived, Betsy had gone with her children to visit her sister in Maradu. After two hours of conversation, accompanied by cups of tea, George Sir came with me to the gate to bid me goodbye. Just then, a car rolled to a stop. It was retired Professor S. Muraladheeran, who had a busy career as a guest lecturer. As soon as George Sir introduced me, we started chatting. Prof. Muraladheeran said, “I am the only neighbour to whom George talks.”This did not surprise me. In the office, we knew George Sir for his reticence. For decades, George Sir managed the stress of the daily deadline calmly. But it can be a crushing pressure and doing it day in and day out for decades together can take a fatal toll. George Sir’s long-time colleagues on the editorial desk have died in their fifties and sixties. They include V Vijaykumar, M Kesavan Nampoothiry and MS Rajan. George Sir was a mentor to me. He encouraged and occasionally complimented me on my writing. Aware that I am sensitive, he always spoke in a polite and low-key manner. It soothed me to see his kindness and respect. George Sir was also a superb writer, but he did not write often. Somehow, it was his shyness that prevented him from doing so. But when he did, he used clear, concise and crisp sentences. This was clear in the two eloquent memoirs he wrote in which he mentions about his life and career.In one book, he wrote that his six brothers and their parents were living a peaceful life in the village of Kumplampoika in Pathanamthitta district. Soon, the most traumatic event of their life took place. This was how George Sir described it: ‘It was the evening of a hot day in March 1959. The sun had disappeared from view over the tall hills surrounding our house and darkness was about to settle over the earth. A taxi drove up and stopped opposite our house on the metalled road that stretches up to Chengara Estate. In those days, cars rarely passed on that road. ‘In the car was our Achayan (KM George), who had lost consciousness while undergoing treatment in the Trivandrum Medical College, where he had been taken two weeks earlier during the last stages of his terminal disease—cancer. ‘Uthimoottil Uppappen had accompanied him as we were children. But few people, especially Amma, had any idea about Achayan’s disease. On the night before we took Achayan to Trivandrum, I saw Uthimoottil Kochuppappen crying alone in a room in our house. I did not understand why, as I was a fifth standard pupil. Many important people from the place, including Munshi Sir of Nirayannur, had come to our house that evening. ‘Amma was sure that Achayan would return fully healed as she was getting letters from Uppappen, that Achayan was getting better. ‘As soon as the car came to the road, Kizhakkekoottu Chedathi, wife of our neighbour Samuelchayan, came running and told Amma that Achayan had passed away. Amma was stunned, and she fell back, but Chedathi supported her and helped her lie on a bed. Joychen and I, who were playing in the courtyard of our house, heard the cries of Amma and Chedathi. Joychen was studying in the third standard. ‘Kunjoonju, a daily wage worker of our house, rushed in from somewhere, took a cot and went to the road. We too understood that Achayan was no more and started crying loudly, asking, “When will we be able to see Achayan again?” ‘Amma’s fortitude, courage and strong faith came to the fore. She stopped crying and told us we could see Achayan in heaven. Hence, we stopped crying. ‘Achayan remained in an unconscious state for two more days and attained eternal rest on March 18, 1959. Achayan was 45 and Amma 39. ‘Vellichachen (George Mathew), the eldest of seven sons, was 15. Achayan died on the day his SSLC exam was to begin. He did not write it but appeared for it in September and passed it. ‘Till Achayan’s death, Amma was living like his shadow. Amma, who was teaching in a government primary school, would hand over her entire salary to him. She was happy taking care of us, the children, and managing the kitchen, besides doing her work as a teacher.’Eventually, it was their indomitable mother Kunjamma who kept the family together. In his memoir, George Sir writes, ‘When Achayan died, she was the only earning member of her family and she could educate all of us just because of her job. And now in her nineties, she draws a respectable pension. I dread to imagine what would have become of our situation without a job at a critical period of our growing stage, her dedication and willingness to work hard’ (Kunjamma died on February 11, 2017, at the age of 97). George Sir admits his father’s death had a profound impact on him. One direct consequence was that he became silent. His mother would call him German Kaiser, or a ruler who spoke little. After his father’s death, his mother taught in a school in Punalur (43 kms away). She would come home every weekend. When she had to leave, George Sir’s elder brother Kochachen would run after her, crying, “Amma, please don’t go.” As for George Sir, he stood at the door showing no emotion. In his career, people knew him as a man of few words. In his memoir, George Sir acknowledges this trait. ‘I was soft and did not assert myself often,’ he wrote. ‘When other editors were mostly ruthless and stern, I had a very humane approach. This had its advantages too as I could win the trust of my colleagues. The editors who were successful in asserting themselves by pulling up everyone for anything and everything sometimes drew negative results too.’ George Sir elaborated on the editorial process, the emergence of women in the workplace, and how this led to romances and subsequent marriage break-ups. He lamented about how alcoholism destroyed the lives of many talented journalists. George Sir also highlighted the various events in our nation’s history, post-Independence. George Sir also wrote about unusual events, like staffers writing anonymous letters to management. ‘Writing anonymous letters is a bad practice,’ George Sir said. ‘It is resorted to by persons who have some score to settle with someone but lack the courage for a direct confrontation. In many offices, such letters are sent without names or under some fictitious names to the top authorities against some members of the staff. ‘That happened in my office and against editors, including myself, by those who nursed a grudge against us for no reason or for some action, like issuing memos. But, mostly, such letters were ignored or sent back to the editor concerned.’ He also wrote about how people would come to the newspaper office in search of coverage. “Once in the early nineties, a very handsome person walked into our office to meet the then editor,” said George Sir. “He was an upcoming young actor struggling to establish himself in the film world. He came in without looking at anybody and straightaway went to the editor’s room. He also left in the same way. Later, a feature about him appeared in the newspaper, which boosted his image.”This was none other than Jayaram, who became a popular actor later.Even politicians landed up for coverage. In 2012, a short man entered the cabin of George Sir holding a file. He wanted coverage for a Dalit conference he was organising in Kochi. Neelalohithadasan Nadar had caused a scandal for his alleged advances towards a female IAS officer, Nalini Netto. ‘None of the political turmoil he had faced was clear in his behaviour,” wrote George Sir. ‘He appeared very calm, confident and pleasant. That showed what kind of stuff politicians are made of. They thrive, despite the worst setbacks, although they may vanish from public view.’ There are many such anecdotes in both his memoirs. Ultimately, George Sir reveals himself to be a man of kindness, honesty, sincerity, and magnanimity. Kudos to you George Sir for a life well lived!

Out of 398 entries, happy to be in the longlist of 16 for the Himalayan Writing Retreat flash fiction contest, in association with The Story Cabinet.

Painting by Andrew Ostrovsky

The following story was also published in The Story Cabinet.

https://readstory.page.link/MXCqoTkboC3CUnpT6

Darkness 

By Shevlin Sebastian

Lata Bhonsle was striding down a deserted street in Bandra, Mumbai. She could hear her heels making a ‘click clack’ sound. Wearing black sunshades, she was heading towards a taxi stand. It was a humid day. She could feel a hint of perspiration on her forehead.

She glanced at her watch. It was 9.45 a.m. She was late for work.

She did not notice a white Maruti van which glided up. The side door slid open. The next thing she realised, through the corner of her eyes, were three men who jumped at her. One man clamped a palm over her mouth, while the other men grabbed her shoulders and legs. Her first reaction was to hold on to her Hidesign leather bag even as her sunshades fell to the ground. They pushed her inside the van. She could sense her frock ride up. Two men were burly, while the third was a slim man. They all wore cloth masks, with slits.

“Band karo,” said a burly man.

The slim man shut the door with a bang. Lata saw them look around through the windows to see if anybody had seen them. She felt a stab of pain as the man pressed harder on her mouth. She heard the driver shift gears. It seemed as if somebody cracked a knuckle. The van jerked forward. The slim man pulled out the cork of a small glass bottle. He sprinkled chloroform onto a piece of cotton. A sweet odour spread in slow motion inside the van. Then the man placed the cotton under Lata’s nose. Lata tried to stop breathing. But in less than five seconds, she gave up.

Soon, she closed her eyes and drifted off.

Forty-five minutes later, the van reached the compound of an abandoned cotton textile mill in Lower Parel. They parked in front of a large and empty shed. Grass was growing against the walls of the shed. The paint had peeled off to reveal the red bricks underneath. A rat skittled away into the undergrowth. They carried Lata inside and placed her on a dirty mattress…

When Lata awakened, two hours had passed. She looked up and saw the iron girders below the sloping roof. There was brown rust on them. She looked down at her body and saw her thin maroon panty. The men had pushed it to one side before entering her. She saw the frock lying on the ground. She sat up. The veins at the side of her forehead throbbed. She rubbed her forehead in a circular motion with her fingers for a few moments.

Dimly, she had been aware that men had climbed on top of her. She had heard grunts and moans. Lata touched the edges of her vagina with her finger and felt a soft and recurring pain. Her body gave off an odour of perspiration mixed with her Versace Bright Crystal perfume. It made her want to retch, but she controlled herself.

They had not taken off her heels, making it hard for her to stand up. So, unhooked her heels before standing up. Then she put on her dress. She looked around and saw her handbag lying against a mound of raised mud. She picked up the bag and smacked her handkerchief against it to remove the dust.

She pulled open the zipper. Incredibly, the rapists had taken nothing. Her leather purse was there. Her debit and credit cards were intact, along with a plastic comb, house keys, a lipstick holder, a packet of tissue paper, and a mobile phone. Inside a white envelope, there was Rs 8000 in Rs 500 notes.

Lata pulled out a face mirror. The lipstick had run out of her lips, towards her nose, creating a red mark that looked like a scar. It looked like the men had tried to kiss her. Lata cleaned it off with a tissue paper. She used another tissue paper to wipe her face.

Lata stepped forward. On one side she could see old wooden looms, all dusty and silent. On some there were large cobwebs. They seemed to have remained undisturbed for a long time.

It was difficult to walk on the grassy uneven ground on her heels. But she gritted her teeth and moved forward, hobbling now and then. Lata walked for ten minutes.

She exhaled when she saw the rusted gate in the distance.

Her breathing slowed down as she made her way to the main road. She flagged a cab and asked the driver to take her to Bandra.

It was an ordinary day. Sunlight reflected off the windows of buildings. There was the blaring of horns. People rushed past each other on the sidewalk. But for Lata, there was nothing ordinary about this day.

The rapists had puzzled her because they had stolen nothing. So, were the men only interested in the rape and nothing else? What type of men were they? Those who usually indulged in these activities were career criminals. They would have definitely emptied her handbag. She kept tapping her lower lip with her fingertip. A hundred thoughts raced through her mind.

Was this a planned rape, or did the men pick her up in a random selection? Sexy woman + deserted road = grab her? Lata thought the latter explanation seemed more likely. She did not have any enemies. Nobody who knew her would harbour so much anger that they would arrange for men to rape her. Lata knew she did not have a personality that ruffled people.

She messaged the office, saying she would be late.

Lata reached her fourth-floor flat at Bandra.

She undressed and turned on the shower. She remained under it for a while, wanting the pinpricks of water to clean her soul as well. Tears gathered in her eyelids and then rolled down her face, mixing with the water. Finally, she took a soap and lathered her body.

It took her an hour before Lata sat down on the edge of her bed clad in a pink bathing robe. She wondered what to do.

She called her company CEO, Rekha Mehdirata.

Rekha, with striking doe-shaped eyes, had risen through sheer drive, talent, and ambition.

Lata, who was senior vice president of marketing, told Rekha about what had happened in a low voice.

At the conclusion of the narrative, Rekha said, “I don’t know what to say, Lata. Mumbai has always been a safe place for women, even late at night. And to think this happened in broad daylight.”

Lata remained silent. Yes, these were the thoughts she had, too. Mumbai has always been safe for women.

Finally, Rekha said, “Lata, what do you want to do?”

Lata stared at her bare feet placed on the brown-tiled floor. The maroon nail polish on her narrow toes made her feet look sexy.

She processed the pros and cons of any sort of action. Finally, she said, “I should file a FIR against unknown persons. There are CCTV cameras in Bandra, although I am not sure there were any on the road on which they captured me. The police could find the van’s registration number on other cameras.”

Lata could hear Rekha’s breathing through the phone. It seemed to be a stutter. A rush of breath followed by a complete halt.

“It’s a risky business,” said Rekha. “These people can be dangerous. But if we don’t fight back, they will attack other women with impunity.”

“I am scared,” said Lata. “But I don’t want them to get away with this assault.”

“Take leave for a few days,” she said. “File the FIR. You might have to go to the hospital so that the doctors can examine you and give a certificate of penetration. If they can locate semen, that would help your case.”

Lata nodded, even though Rekha could not see it.

Both of them were discussing this matter-of-factly. But Lata knew somewhere deep inside her she was in a state of shock, as well as denial. Did all this happen to her? Was it a dream? And why did it happen? What did they do exactly?

She lay down for a nap.

Two hours later, when she woke up, her brain felt foggy. The sleep had made it worse. Whom should she turn to for emotional support? How to tell people about this? If she told one woman friend, the news would spread. Soon, all her friends would give her sympathetic looks.

If she filed an FIR, it might come out in the media. The police would leak it because reporters are always looking for juicy news. And what would happen anyway? The police will do a desultory investigation and use delaying tactics.

Lata would have to hire a lawyer and launch a crusade to get the police to react. While she would do this, she would have to contend with the pressures of her career. And will the bosses and the owners like this negative publicity? On top of all that, she would have to battle it all alone emotionally.

She was in a cul-de-sac.

It would devastate her parents in Bhopal. Her grey-haired mother, Sumati, will immediately say, “Beti, get married. Don’t live alone. Have children. They will bring meaning to your life. Family is more important than a career. At the end of your life, when your career is long over, only the family will be there for you.”

‘What sort of family,’ thought the 36-year-old.

Lata had seen so many marriages implode because of infidelity. Which child today is going to look after their parents in their old age?

The joint family had collapsed. India was going the Western way of individualism. Everybody was thinking of themselves only.

She could hear growling sounds from her stomach. She looked at the wall clock. It was 4.30 p.m.

Lata had eaten nothing since her breakfast.

She took out her mobile phone from her bag and ordered American chop suey on Zomato.

Later, as she ate with a fork on a low side table, she watched a Netflix movie. But she could hardly follow the story. Her mind remained blank.

As night fell outside, she switched on YouTube on her mobile phone. Lata listened to the Tibetan Buddhist chant, ‘Om Mani Padme Hum’. She listened to this every day. It brought her tranquillity, to hear the word ‘Om’. She had read somewhere that ‘Om’ was the most powerful word in the universe.

A horrible event had taken place.

She would have to deal with it.

She felt she needed to sleep over it before she decided. Let her unconscious mind think about the best actions to take.

So, she went to sleep, but not before adjusting the air conditioner to mild.

The next morning, when she awoke, she could feel her mind had become clear, like it always was. And which had enabled her to be so successful.

Lata came to some conclusions, as she made an omelette on the kitchen range.

She would consult a top psychologist. Lata was hoping to work her way through the damage to her psyche.

She would not file an FIR. It was too much of a headache. If the news became public, these criminals might kill her.

She would be very careful when she moved about. It would always be in a cab or auto-rickshaw. No walking anywhere, unless she was in a group.

And she would request Rekha to keep this a secret.

Lata was not in a relationship. She had not been for a few years. So, she knew her career would provide the distraction that she needed.

‘These are the decisions for today,’ she thought.

She slid the omelette onto a plate using a wooden ladle. Then she put pieces of bread inside the toaster and pressed the lever downwards...