Thursday, July 11, 2013

Medium - new bottle, new wine.


Why do we blog? What moves us to record so many tiny, insignificant moments of our lives in digital ink and tuck away in a corner of the internet? Even when blogging is way past its prime and people don't really care what we do and don't do? 

I blog because it ... just feels natural. Who among us does not want an outlet with the world? Who among us often does not feel the crushing silence closing in and yell out against it in an act of frenetic obviation?
My blog is just that, my holler against the silence. As long as it rings strong and loud, I can go about my things in peace. 

BTW, I recently started publishing some of my old blog posts on Medium. It is an incredible site for reading great stuff. I am excited to be a part of it and hopefully, I will start publishing fresh posts on it.
Do check it out here when you have the time

But this one will always stay my little backyard on the net. :)


Tuesday, July 9, 2013

The Tree

A man sat under a tree to take shelter from the searing sun. It was the middle of summer and the afternoon hour; nothing alive could bear the might of the sun at that moment. The man, who was crossing a dense jungle, decided to take shelter under this ancient, beaten tree with a canopy so vast that it appeared to block the entire sky. Under that sylvan sky he partook his lunch, a simple affair of rice and curd – he was a poor traveller in search of work. After the meager meal, his eyes began to sink beneath a rising tide of drowsiness; he slowly nodded off to a deep sleep. After what seemed like an instant, he opened his eyes to find the sun low in the western horizon. He panicked. He had intended to rest just long enough for the afternoon sun to lose its edge but now the night was approaching and he still had many miles to cover through the jungle. Traveling in the dark was inadvisable for these woods were notorious for man-eating tigers, ambushing jackals, and poisonous cobras. 

The dying rays of the sun would last for a while more. He figured if he sprinted, with conviction, he just might make it to a safer place beyond the densest parts. There was a single road through the forest and he would not get lost As the man was bundling his things and preparing for a headlong spint, a deep, resounding voice spoke to him, 
“Human! Don’t run into the forest now. You will never make it through before the darkness descends and the demons emerge. Stay here. This tree is blessed. It is the only safe spot in this entire jungle. No man-eating tiger or four-headed cobra can reach you while you are under its protection.”

The man was stunned. The voice appeared to be from everywhere and nowhere in particular. He suspiciously eyed the tree and approached it with ample caution. He was a wizened traveler. He filled his lungs with air and shouted at the trunk, 
“Who are you? How do I trust you? What if this tree is not an agent of God but rather an instrument of the devil? What if the wickedness that resides in this tree emerges at night and devours me?”
A few moments passed. Slowly the ground beneath his feet began to shake as the voice returned with a mirthful laugh. The booming laughter seemed to send tremors to every nook and cranny of the tree, disturbing the birds that resided in its vast branches. As gradually as the laugh began, it ended as abruptly, 
“You just spent many hours resting peacefully under this tree. Any devil residing in this tree could have easily consumed you then. That you are still alive proves that this tree is not a tool of the Shaitan.”

This struck the man as a reasonable argument. He had indeed lost himself to an uncharacteristic slumber but had emerged from it thoroughly refreshed. But he was still not conviced. He replied, in a louder voice, 
“Even a toddler knows that demons cannot emerge when the sun is shining. Only the night bequeaths the fell!”
The sounds of his proclamation echoed through the woods until they were drowned by the twittering of birds rushing back to their aerie homes. The voice sprung to life grander than before, 
“The foolishness of man never fails to suprise. Demons don’t hide from the sun. They shelter from it. You too avoided the sun under this canopy, do you perish if you step outside for a moment? I pity your ignorance, but I want to help you. Go back to sleep. No animal or demon will touch you. Look at the birds flocking back to its arms. They are smarter than you for they know the magic of this tree and the evil that surrounds it. Stay here, stay alive.”

The man was perplexed. His rational mind suggested he should run towards the safety of the forest periphery. But what if despite his efforts he is unable to reach the periphery before nightfall? What will he do then? Where will he find shelter from the foul creatures of the night? Wouldn’t it be better to trust this mysterious voice and stay here?
As the man was wrestling with the two choices, both unpleasant, he heard a sharp screech above him. When he looked up he saw a hawk, her wings abraze with the dying sun behind them swooping down towards him. As she fell she ushed darkness towards him like a heavy curtain that has been unleased from its hinges. Her feathery edges shone red from the last rays of the sun and her razor talons rippled into his eyes. The man screamed and fell to the ground, his hands clutching his empty, bleeding eyes. Copious tears he shed for his missing eyes, until finally, in a voice filled with scorn, he called out, 
“Whatever happened to the magical tree? You said it will protect me, but even before the night the tree let me fall into eternal darkness. Answer me!”

There was no answer. The man struggled to his feet. In his newly blind disorientation, he swiveled from side to side like a drunkard and screamed agan, 
“ANSWER ME! If humans are so ignorant, how could this magical tree let this happen to me? Answer me!”

A few moments later, just as the man was preparing himself for another gut-wrenching scream, the voiced replied calmly, 
“This is indeed a magical tree, ancient and wise. It could have protected you from the malice of tigers and the mischiefs of jackals, but even magic cannot contend with the hawks of destiny.” 

The man screamed in agony and fell to his knees. Blood flowed down his face and arms as the sun finally went to sleep. 

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Rita

PROLOGUE
 
 
“Listen to me carefully kid coz I’m givin’ away wisdom here”, my grandfather would wheeze at me late at night, his drunken breath whisking the last bits of sleep away from my 7-year old eyes. “People call life many things. Many, many things. Fruity smart men call it an adventure, some call it a fantasy, hell, and some call it a journey. Give the turds a shovel! Get them to shovel coal up from the mines with fire in their lungs and urine down their legs and they will know life for what it is. It is a dungeon. The longest, deepest dungeon filled to the brim with shit and fire and darkness.  You go through it, initially trying to avoid the filth and the stench. You try to focus on a tiny shaft of light at the very end. You tell yourself, let me get to that light! All will be well when I get to that light. You put everything you got into moving towards that light. You let the shit squelch under your bare feet and the fire burn your hair down, but you move, keep on moving towards the bleak hole in the rock that’s let in a tiny bit of paradise. And you get there kid. You reach the light! You are fist-pumping thrilled. Here I come, my redemption, my legacy, you say. And just as you stretch your hand toward that magical light, with tiny particles of dust floating in it like delicate angels dancing just for you, the ground gives way. You fall, kid. You scream till your lungs give out, but you keep falling. You hit against the sharp rocks along the walls of your infinite abyss and you bleed. Blood pours out from your elbows and knees till you feel no pain, just boredom.  You just want the fall to end so that you can die. You no longer feel scared with the fall. You start cheering... cheering for your upcoming death, death, that sweet release from this dark dungeon.
And then you land. You land, kid, not squash against the bottom like a tomato under a cart-wheel. You land as gently as your mother put you to bed when you were a baby. You land gently on a new dungeon, even deeper, even darker. You are now anew. All the blood is gone and all the pain is gone. What's left in their place is a weariness that you cannot explain. You are brand new, but feel infinitely old. You see a light in the distance. Brighter and closer than the previous one which fooled you. You are in a dungeon, millions of miles beneath the ground, what else could you do? You start moving towards the light.”
“Grandpa, please stop! I am scared! And I am tired, I fell down while playing at school and my knee hurts. Let me go back to sleep”, I protest meekly, horror shimmering on my eyes in the form of inchoate tears.
“Shut your bung-hole before you wake up your father. I don’t care for a lecture from his highness, not tonight. I will let you sleep kid. Just remember, life is a dungeon. An infinitely wild dungeon. Sometimes, if you are lucky, you meet someone, whose dungeon is the same as yours and together you can move towards that wretched light.”



PS: This is an attempt to publish a novella as a series of posts. I am not sure if I will have the discipline to see it through, I hope I do! But, let's not get ahead of ourselves :)

Thursday, July 4, 2013

How to start writing?

People express themselves in various ways. Some sing themselves hoarse, some dance their hearts out, some cook and decorate their food with painstaking detail, some collect rocks that look funny, and some write. 
Writing is something each and every student has to do at some point of time in school. Anything made compulsory quickly becomes an object of hatred among kids and hence, a lot of people consider writing to be a chore, something they need to do from time to time to get the job done. Writing for joy or for emotions sounds alien and strange to them. 
However, there are tons of people who write simply because they love it. I am one such person. 

I write only when I am truly inspired to express myself in a certain way. Writing this blog is probably the most important thing I have done in my 22 years; it is a living, breathing scrapbook of my emotions and thoughts over the last 5 years and I am proud of it. 

One question a few people have asked me is how do I write? How to get into the mindset of writing and what are the tools required to write effectively? These are common questions and I am sure there is no right answer to them, rather there are several good answers. But I would like to share a few thoughts on my approach to writing. If you have different thoughts or views, please do share them in the comments - I would love to know them. :) 

Reading
A lot of people consider reading to be the first step in writing. They assume that being well-read is a necessary requirement for writing. I beg to disagree. Reading is *important* and *vital* for writing but definitely not *compulsory*. Reading and writing are two different strands but they intersect at several places. 
Reading helps writing in two key ways:
  1. It builds your vocabulary, arsenal of idioms, phrases etc. These lend to the richness and vitality of your writing. Good writing and great writing are sometimes differentiated only their difference in choice of adjectives and adverbs! Reading good authors will help you enrich your own tool set for writing, but this is a sub-conscious process which occurs over a long time. You definitely should not read just to write! That will deprive you of the joy of reading and writing! 
  2. Reading gives you content for writing. Let's be fair to ourselves, we don't have a lot of things happening in our lives. Most of us are students or employees and a major chunk of our day goes off in getting through to the next day in one piece. We don't get opportunities to travel or observe as much as we would like. Reading can provide with the much-needed fodder for writing your own content. Reading good newspapers, blogs and books will enrich your mind and give you a chance to build on those. You may do so through 'reply' articles or letters or even 'fan-fiction'! 

Write what you know! 
A lot of people love reading murder-mysteries and whodunits from a very early age. I am also a part of that list. I love reading tense, terse action-thrillers (think Bourne) and historical mysteries (think Angels and Demons), but if I try to write such a book, I highly doubt if I will want to read it myself! The reason is, I don't *know* how a murderer feels when he plunges his knife into his victim! I have not had the opportunity to talk to convicts or detectives to know their mindsets. I don't know how a helicopter flies or how it will explode when struck by a missile! If I try to write a book about a murderer who attempts to flee from the cops on a helicopter, it will be a childish rendering of what I would have read from numerous other whodunits. There will be nothing uniquely *me* in that book. So, I generally aver, don't write what you don't know. 
In its own way, my life has been full of challenges and excitements, so I try to write about things I can relate with - my past, my hopes, my concerns at the state of our nation etc. 
I don't publish any post unless I am sure there is at-least a tiny part of me in it :)

The Word Processor
Please don't write on MS Word. Please, just don't! It is one of the most depressing experiences in my opinion. Every time I open MS Word to start writing a post, I am reminded of the hundreds of school and college assignments I was forced to write and it totally spoils my mood! Word also has too many options for font, color, scaling, background blah blah. For writing all you need is a screen and a keyboard. Go for a minimalistic word processor like Q10. Trust me, you will be amazed at how much you can write in one sitting with a no-nonsense word processor! 

The Font
I know I just said, a screen and a keyboard are all you need for writing, and I stick by it. However, I am a fool for fonts! :| I love the typographical features of various fonts and they help me focus my thoughts better. If I am writing for office or work, I prefer a more serious *getting-it-done* font such as Calibri. It is crisp and literally has no frills attached. But for my blog, I prefer Helvetica or Trebuchet. I feel the elegant notes of these fonts give the blog post the personal warmth I want my readers to feel when they read my articles.

The Music
Simple advice - turn it OFF! People love listening to music when they read or write. I detest both. Reading and writing are for me - uni-functional tasks. You must give them your full attention, otherwise you are just wasting your time. Music has a great power to transport you to different states of mind in no time. While that is a magical thing when you are stressed out or bored, that may not be good when you writing. Imagine that you sit down to write a polemic about the garbage problem in Bangalore and you plug in your headphones to listen to classic country music (think James Taylor). If you are anything like me, your anger would instantly fly away and get replaced with a sense of wonder at the power of such simple lyrics. If you still strive to write your angry article, you will end up neither enjoying the song nor relishing the righteous anger etched into your words. 
There are innumerable places where music helps, I feel writing is not one such place. 

Whom are you writing for? 
Target audience is an important thing to consider when you are writing a blog or a book. Whom are you hoping will read and savor your words? Your peers? Young children? Women? Or, are you planning to write just for yourself? 
Any answer is fine! As long as you know your target audience, it will help to focus your work. If you are writing for your peers, you will automatically gravitate your article towards references or implications of their affinity. If you are writing for children, you will obviously refrain from certain avenues and topics. Like me, if you write largely for yourself, then it is an open world for you! You can write anything you want and there is a sweet sense of freedom in that. 

When to write?
Time tables help me get through my day. I assiduously compartmentalize my time into several chunks of productive work. Being a geek, I use tons of apps and websites to help me increase my productivity. But the one thing I can never organize is my writing time. If I sit down at my desk with the intention of writing, I usually cannot. Or worse, I will write such absolute drivel that I will get depressed for the next hour. Like most forms of expression, writing is inspired work. You may never know when it will hit you and you certainly can't predict it. For example, once after getting drenched to my bones in the rain, I came back home and after having a bath, sat down and wrote 3 chapters of a novella, no questions asked. The words just kept coming out! 
However, if you are just starting to write, it is always good to practice writing regularly. Don't expect your articles to always be at the best of your potential but regular effort will attune your mind to the patience and rigors of writing. 

Popularize
If you plan on writing a blog, even if it is a personal blog like mine, you will eventually want more people to read and share your thoughts. Obviously, like any form of expression, writing also demands attention and nourishment from informed audience. Popularizing your blog, however, can be an uphill journey. In this age of twitter and facebook, a lot of people don't have the discipline to read a full article. So it will take time and a *lot* of persistence before you assemble your band of dedicated readers. My blog, despite being 5 years old, is still an infant in terms of reach but I have managed to put in place a group of people who always read my posts and give me invaluable feedback. It makes me feel appreciated and inspires me to write better! So, don't shy away from popularizing your works. 
There are several techniques for promoting blogs - Search Engine Optimizations, Social Networking, Blog Directories like blogadda etc. Just Google it!

Editing
A very important part of writing is editing. You must keep reading and re-reading your own work to ensure that it is absolutely of top-notch quality. You don't want embarrassing grammatical mistakes or silly play of words to spoil the flow of thought in the article. Sometimes, reading your post after a day or two will give you a different perspective and aid the editing process. Never shy from butchering your work till it is *just* perfect! 

Respect your limitations
Just like anything else in life, you won't become a Gabriel Garcia Marquez after writing for a year or two. It will take time, effort, discipline and limitless patience before you reach a level that you will be proud of. But don't write for the sake of becoming better at it, instead write because you enjoy it. That will make the journey towards perfection a breezy ride. Respect your limitations but constantly strive to overcome them!

Happy writing!  :)

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

The Village by the Airavan - Part 1

As the boat slowly waded its way through the sluggish waters of the Airavan River, the first rays of the sun brushed against Motli's eyes covered by a wet jute rag. He stirred awake and sat up. The boat's owner, Juddi Kaka, was gently running his oar through the muddy waters, hymning a silent tune to himself. The Airavan, the widest of rivers, was all around them. The image of Juddi, oar in hand, paddling towards the rising sun emerging as if from a quick dip made for a spectacular sight. On other days Motli would have broken into a wide smile at such a beautiful image.

He was on his way to Ganeshapur – home — after completing his second year at college in the distant town of Ahmadnagar. The son of the village-school’s only teacher, Motli had exhibited an early interest in academics that most elders at Ganeshapur found amusing. 'Arre, whatever will you do with a degree? Anyway you have to come back and pick up cow-shit in the mornings!', his uncle Manesh would bellow after a hearty lunch cooked by his elder sister, Motli’s mother. Motli’s mother too believed that his attentions ought to be on the family’s ancestral lands. She had never forgiven her husband for choosing his books over her lands and leasing it to strangers for upkeep — an act of betrayal against their divine endowments. Motli had never understood her emotional, almost religious, connection with the fields. As a child, he would accompany her at the crack of dawn to inspect the budding paddies, sprinkle them with holy waters, and pray for a healthy Monsoon. If the rain gods were kind and the harvest was bountiful, they would offer two stout goats for sacrifice at the temple of Kaala, Ganeshapur’s guardian deity. If the rains were too healthy, the Airavan river would arise from its habitual slumber and flood everything — fields, homes, school yard, cowsheds, and Kaala. When the waters receded, as a child, Motli would try cheering up his mother by performing back-flips in the kitchen or presenting her with the smooth pebbles the Airavan left behind. As he grew older, he instinctually understood that this — the prayers, the rains, the harvests, the floods, the reconstructions — was the only life she knew and the only thing that will cheer her up is the next crop.

Unlike his mother, Motli’s father, Ramesh Mohan Pant,  encouraged his academic interests. He was the kind of man his students could take for a ride. One look at his bald, bespectacled face and every new kid’s eyes would gleam with mischief. As a little boy Motli had been ashamed of his father’s soft-spoken nature and delicate mannerisms. His numerous uncles and cousins were uniformly brawny and loud. Yet as he grew older, he found his opinions about his father changing drastically. For his 12th birthday, Motli’s mother presented him an axe and a wooden toy of a bullock-cart. His father gave him a worn copy of Robert Stevenson’s Treasure Island. His mother scoffed at the gift, ‘Are you trying to make our boy like you? Nose always buried in some book. Hummara Motli will grow up to be a strong boy like Manesh!’. Motli had learned the english alphabet from his father, who had studied the language under Father Frederic Smith, a Catholic missionary who had spent many years in Ganeshapur evangelizing his God’s word to disinterested farmers. Much to the silent delight of his father and the overt dismay of his mother, Motli fell in the love with the book! He read it cover to cover four times and was found for weeks afterwards, at any time of the day, with the book in hand. One day he surreptitiously approached his father and gently asked, ‘May I have another book? One with animals?’. His father chuckled and said, ‘There’s a library in Ghazinpat. You can take my membership card and bicycle and borrow a new book each month. Don’t tell your mother!’.

Many years and many books later, Motli topped his school in the tenth-grade examinations and decided to enroll for junior college at Ghazinpat, the nearest town. One lazy afternoon, as the entire family was idling in their shaded courtyard after a heavy lunch of plantains and rice, Motli broached the topic. ‘Hear this atrocity, oh Kaala! My son, my only son — the one who should set alight my dead body — wants to leave me to become a town-wallah. How much I sacrificed for him, but having read a few books, suddenly he is too good for his mother!’. Manesh pitched in, ‘What use is the junior college? Here we were, hoping our boy Motli will fetch us a beautiful daughter-in-law with a fat dowry. Look at your cousin Badru. Just a year older than you but already has one boy, with another on the way. Now THAT is a boy his parents can be proud of.’ Motli turned to his father who was staring intently at the tulsi plants dancing in the heat. He met Motli’s beseeching gaze and said, ‘I have some money saved up. We leave for Ghazinpat in a week’.

That had been four years ago. After junior college, Motli moved to Ahmadnagar for college. His mother threatened to disown him and refused to talk to him for months. Manesh and co., shrugged — resigned at last to his ways. Ahmadnagar was over 500 miles away and since Ganeshapur could only be reached by boat through the Airavan, Motli had an easy excuse to avoid coming home – even for the holidays. Instead he would spend the breaks working at the college library, a job that gave him plenty of time to read and just enough money to afford his hostel room and meals. A week ago Motli had received a letter from home. He had casually dropped it in his bag and didn’t get to it till later in the night. Letters from home were not rare. His mother, once her rage had subsided, would write him often. All her letters were the same — a mixture of questions about his diet and pleas for him to return. Motli could almost imagine her sitting in the verandah, dictating her misery to Manesh’s fourth son, Pappu who would dutifully scrawl across the paper in his childish handwriting. Oddly this latest letter was not written by Pappu – it was in his father’s hand. Motli tore open the envelope and hurriedly started reading…

Motli beta,
I trust you are well. From our post-man, whose son also studies in your college, I learned that your final examinations are over and you have a two-month break now. Why don’t you pay us a visit? Your mother is missing you very much. We haven’t seen you since last Diwali. Education is important, and understandably, occupies much of your time, but family is important too.

Manesh has been blessed with another son. Your mother is ecstatic for her brother but demands a grandson of her own. She blames me for turning you away from the family way. I try to make her understand that while family can wait, education cannot. Anyway, I wish you could come home for a few days and cheer up your mother. Please send a telegram to Ghazinpat post-office if you will come.

May Lord Ganesha shower your endeavors with his bountiful wisdom.
Ramesh Mohan Pant.

After reading the letter, Motli was beset with conflicting emotions. On the one hand, he was ashamed at being apprehended by his father for not visiting home during the holidays. On the other hand, he felt a tingling suspicion. Why send a telegram to Ghazipat when he could just write home? Guilt won and soon he set about sending a telegram that he could come home for a few weeks and would start the next day.

To reach Ganeshapur from Ahmadnagar, Motli had to take two trains and then a boat. The first train journey was uneventful. In Maninpet, a transit railway station on the second, he ran into an old school friend, Parindar, who was a deputy clerk at the station. Upon seeing Motli, Parindar embraced him furiously and said, ‘Motli, you dog! All your studying has paid off, eh? Madhumati – what a girl! You lucky, lucky dog.’ Motli stared at his friend in confusion and replied, ‘What are you talking about? What Madhumati?’. ‘Don’t you know? Your family has arranged for your marriage with Madhumati, Sundar Babu’s only daughter. Not only are you getting the pretty girl but also all of Sundar’s lands once he’s gone. Wah rey, what a match!’ Motli froze on his feet. His mother knew that Motli would come home only if his father requested. This explained the curious insistence on a telegram. The frigidity of his father’s betrayal washed over him; he shivered. Behind him the train blared its impatience to depart. He considered ditching it and returning to Ahmadnagar. How could he marry now? He still had one more year of college and then he wanted to become a lecturer in a city, maybe even Bombay! How could he abandon his dreams and settle down in a village? But Motli knew he couldn’t disrespect his father by not showing up after messaging otherwise. Besides, the betrayal made him seethe for a look of anguish in Ramesh Pant’s eyes. He ran back to the train just as it started moving.

After the initial shock subsided, Motli began recollecting about Madhumati. He had been away too long, he had no idea how she looked now. Their paths had crossed just one summer many years ago. During the Ramnavami celebrations in the village, the children had reenacted the scenes from the Sundara Kand where Hanuman, the monkey god, visits Sita, the wife of Lord Rama, while was imprisoned by Raavan, the King of Demons. Madhumati was Sita. Motli was Hanuman. In a crucial scene where Hanuman offers to carry Sita across the oceans and into the arms of her lord, Madhumati went off-script and remarked, ‘As if you can lift me with those puny arms!’. The gangs of villagers who had lined up around the square broke into guffaws and whistles. Motli, red-faced, poignantly attempted to salvage the play — silently vowing to break her arm the next chance he got. But after the play, as usual, he sat down with a book and forgot about Sita’s wisecracks and plunged into a story about a merchant in a watery city called Venice.

Wow, she would have grown up by now. Even as a child, she had been tall and broad shouldered. A sudden worry swept over him, what if she were taller than him? He immediately shrugged away the question, admonishing himself for the concern’s hidden implications. Of course, he will not marry her! The minute he reaches home he will announce his intention to break this proposal and leave. For the remainder of the journey, Motli concocted and rehearsed the solemn lecture he would deliver his father about the importance of truth in relationships.

Ganeshapur’s sloped, red clay roofs were visible in the distance as Juddi Kaka dropped Motli off at the bank of the Airavan. Instead of hiring Kalua to take him home on his bullock-cart, Motli decided to walk. His mood was foul but he always enjoyed walking through the fields on a brisk morning. As he ambled his way through the paddy farms, he ran into his little cousin, Smriti. She seemed to be in a great hurry and jumped in shock when she saw him. ‘Arre Dada! What are you doing walking? I thought you will be in Kalua’s cart.’ When Motli expressed his love for an early morning walk, she replied, ‘Walk all you want later on. Now you have to go somewhere!’. ‘Now? Smriti-behen, I am very tired after the long journey; can’t this wait till I’ve had a bath and a meal?’. ‘NO!’, Smriti screeched. ‘She is waiting by the Kali temple and wants to see you before you go home’, she added in a conspiratorial tone. Motli asked, though he knew the answer, ‘Who is waiting?’. ‘Madhumati-didi. She told me to fetch you. In return, I will get twenty raw mangoes from their tree this summer’, she grinned.  

Motli reeled in discomfort. Asking to see her betrothed even before her father had formally met him was a scandal of astronomical proportions in Ganeshapur. Even talking about one’s betrothed before marriage was sufficient to be branded a libertine. Did she even consider Motli’s plight? His uncles would brand him a desperate loser. His mother would lament him for dragging the family name through mud. Also, why would she go to the Kali temple? That dilapidated structure had been abandoned decades ago and was even considered haunted by some. How could a woman of a decent household even think of going there? How would he explain to Smriti that he could not possibly accede to this indelicate request?

Even as his mind was whizzing with such thoughts, a smirk escaped him. This was the Madhumati he remembered — putting him under the spotlight when he would rather shrink into a book. He could not let her expose him a fool again! He would go! He gave a strict telling-off to Smriti to not tell anyone about this business, deposited his bags by a nearby tree and stormed off towards the Kali temple. He would deal with Madhumati first and then his parents.