Short Fiction: The Evening Walk (PS: My first published work of fiction!)

In some HUGE personal news, I am now a published fiction author :-) My story, The Evening Walk, was picked up by The Bombay Review for their September 2020 issue. Please check out the story at the link below:

The Evening Walk, by Aditya Venkataraman

Short Story: Kamala

The dusty train wearily pulled into the railway station. The rushing gray blur slowly came into focus to became a slategray platform, and was instantly packed with a swarming hive of humanity. Porters in red uniforms, chai-wallahs with sooty black kettles in one hand and red-orange matkas in the other, and reedy boys hauling grimy thermocol iceboxes rushed into the train like pirates commandeering a three-Master. On the platform below roamed jaal-muri chefs balancing bags of puffed rice and varieties of spices in reused malt tins, and hawkers vending day-old newspapers in the curvaceous script of the local vernacular. The midday heat was oppressive; the air over the heads shimmered and shimmied. I pushed my way through the crowds blocking the carriage exit, stepped onto the platform and briskly moved away from the frantic eddies of commerce. Beckoning for a chai, I lit a cigarette and sucked deeply. I was beginning to feel myself again. I had been forewarned that the single-gauge locos on these remote routes often broke down and for long periods. Beside the platform ran a short wall with crudely stuck posters of local political parties and rail union factions; I leaned against it warily sniffing for any wafts of stale urine. So far the journey had been a waste. Twenty one days on the move and yet my journal lay untouched. 

From the corner of my eye I noticed a flower girl, around ten, approaching me cautiously. In her arms was a large wicker basket with coils of jasmine, bunches of marigolds, and clusters of loose flowers. 

"For the missus, sir?" she squeaked, offering me her basket. 

"I am traveling alone," I replied, arching to blow the smoke away from her flowers. 

My pidgin Hindi, that had miraculously survived my years in the US, was helping me get by on this journey. Her face fell. She turned and ambled towards the twisting orbs of humanity gathered at every entrance to the train. A brief flash of pink-white from her basket caught my eye. 

"Wait! I will take a lotus," I shouted after her. She swiveled, and smiled. 

The lotus. Kamala. Kamala Cafe. It came into my life when I least expected it; busy as I was smoking pot and chasing undergraduate girls. The idea gripped me, bewitched me, demented me. For four months I wrote, neglecting grades, personal hygiene, and diet. On Pepsi and pizza I wrote about that fantastical cafe in Ceylon where artists and socialites gathered for fine dining, exotic conversations, and illicit affairs. In unwashed slacks I wrote about the tuxedo-clad men and velvet-frocked women carousing and conspiring great mischief in the cafe's dance hall. Bunking classes and examinations I wrote about the occult symbols that appeared in its kitchen and the disappearances of journalists that went snooping. Ignoring friends and family I wrote about Kamala, my heroine, arriving at this eponymous cafe and getting swept into its whirlwind of mysteries behind a thin veneer of lively, yet comforting, stasis. The publishing was easy. The acclaim was universal. Copies flew off the shelves, and awards piled up in my tiny living room. 

"The freshest voice in fiction...", 

"An Indian voice shining through an international prism..."

"The normal and the abnormal twist and turn passionately in this dazzling debut..."

The book agents arrived unbeckoned, each advising to wait a different amount of time before publishing my next. The sophomore slump is crucial to avoid, they all said. Don't wait over two years, they all said. 

Five years passed, and there had not been a second book. The litterateurs that had first turned green with envy, gradually went purple with rage, then orange with vindication, then white with sympathy, and finally colorless with disdain. The agents did not call anymore. Is it better to have had and lost than never had it at all? No. 

"Reflecting self-harm tendencies...", "... uncharitable disposition towards self...", ran the shrink notes. Life became an amorphous blob; days merging with nights, faces merging with bodies, forced starvation merging with gluttonous food binges, extreme loneliness merging with drugged sexual escapades, until the phone rang one day and sympathetic voice from the distant past spoke into the dark recesses of my mind, "You need a change... take a trip... go back to India for a while... chase experiences..." That advise rang true where so many others had failed and I flew to India the next day.

India. Why didn't I think of it earlier? Like a window cracked open in a fetid room that invites in the afternoon sun, the thought of India swept inside my drug-addled mind and filled me with a cautious hope. Even when I flew out of India as a twelve year old, sitting in the middle seat between my parents, I knew my life would forever be tied to her tropical shores and untamed cultures. America, with her plastic gizmos and jingoistic fervors tries to engulf every pitiful Indian immigrant that lands on her shores, but pungent India always emerges from the cracks of the subconscious and reclaims her own. Graft an Indian out of India and eventually he will shed saps of India, bloom flowers of India, and bear the oversweet fruits of India. My amateurish short stories in high school were set in India. My first attempt at the novel, discarded after 40,000 words, was about an Indian searching for India in un-Indian places. Kamala Cafe was set in Ceylon, but its characters, occults, mysteries, and heroine were all taken from India. India, with her teeming masses, and uncountable stories would provide the story for my next book; that I hoped. 

"Wild flower, sir. Very fragrant," the girl said, handing me an unfurled lotus from her basket. 

"Does this grow around here?" I asked.

"Yes sir, in the pond near my village. Full of lotuses this time of year!"

"Can I see this pond?" I blurted before the oddness of the request became apparent. Kamala. Could it be a sign?

"It's half hour by bullock cart, sir. Ask for Ramdaspur village. You can get a cart outside the station else I can take you after I sell all my flowers," she mumbled, her eyes searching constantly for potential customers.

I felt an immense urge to see the wild lotuses in full bloom. The grumbling in the train had suggested the repairs would take all day. Many passengers had stepped out for a walk around town. I could safely be back in time to catch the train or worst case, take the next one; the station seemed busy enough. I picked up my backpack and went hunting for a cart. 

"You want to go to Ramdaspur to see lotuses?" the buffalo cart driver eyed me suspiciously. 

"Yes."

"Why? You don't have lotuses where you come from?"

"We do, but not much."

"Your accent is weird. Where are you from?"

"Doesn't concern you."

He grumbled in his local tongue, and said, "Rs. 200. I won't get a fare back from that shit-place." 

"OK."

I knew I was being swindled; I hoped the lotuses would be worth it.

The ride was bumpy. After his initial interrogation, my driver went silent chewing a stalk of grass. We left behind the trappings of what had seemed a small town and entered into densely cultivated fields. After a long, drowsy ride, a dot on the horizon slowly became a small cluster of mud-brick homes. 

"Ramdaspur," my driver stated, grabbed the cash from my hand and didn't even wait for me to disembark before turning the cart around. Only after he had retreated beyond calling distance that I realized I may not find another cart from this remote village. 

I turned towards the mud homes. The village seemed empty, the men presumably away at their fields. Some faces peeked from doorways and some windows were quickly shut. A dirty boy in tattered briefs emerged from one of the homes and began speaking in his language, gesturing with his hands towards the direction I had come from.

"I have come to see your pond," I said in my slow Hindi which the boy didn't seem to understand.

"Pond. Water," I said gesturing the universal symbol of a drink to convey my search for the village pond.

The boy grunted, went back inside, and emerged with an earthen vessel with some water that had some stuff floating in it. I eyed the water uneasily; afraid of offending him by refusing this first hospitable gesture. Remembering the flower the girl sold me, I took it out from my pocket and held it to the boy.

"Lotus. Kamal. I want to see the lotuses."

Recognition dawned on his face and he gestured towards the other end of the village, down the single street that wound through it. The road led past the village and into a densely wooded cluster of trees that remained cool and dark even in the midday sun.  Within this cluster emerged the small pond. Despite the shade, the thirsty sun had managed to lap up most of its water, what remained was covered – nay, infested – with lotuses. Layers upon layers of the green leaves spread over every inch of the pond, pockmarked occasionally with the most delicate pink-white blooms. I felt hugged by a gentle breeze carrying the heady smells of the flowers and the surrounding vegetation. A few squirrels scurried down from their tree-homes and began lapping around me. From one end of the woods a wave of cawing picked up. Whenever the breeze briefly blowed, the flowers would gracefully glide back and forth on their watery stage putting on a dance. It was a place of incredible beauty – an oasis of small delights amidst a burning world. 

The lotus. Kamal. The Indian obsession with this flower is legendary. When all similes failed at capturing the ethereal beauty of Krishna's eyes or Sita's lips, the ancient bards turned to the humble lotus. When confronted with the daunting challenge of demonstrating detached attachment, a cornerstone of their philosophy, the Vedic philosophers pointed at the lotus and the water on its leaves. 

"Do you like the flowers?"

The Hindi sentence snapped me out of my reveries. I noticed an old man with a flowing white beard in a clean kurta standing behind me. 

"Yes. They are beautiful."

"We don't get many visitors in our village, especially to see our flowers," he smiled revealing several missing teeth. I presumed the boy had informed him about the village's strange visitor on his stranger quest. 

"My train broke down at the town station. I was told the lotuses here are beautiful. I thought I'll make a trip of it." 

"Our lotuses are the most beautiful. Where have you come from?"

"America."

"America?" his eyes widened in shock. Even in surprise his demeanor retained an affability that instantly put me to ease. "What brought you to our country?"

"Just traveling. I am a writer. I am searching for ideas for my next book. "

"Did you find any?" he asked with a glint in his eye. 

"Not really," I paused for a bit and continued, "it has been a while since I wrote anything. I thought your lotuses might help me write again." My honesty puzzled me. Perhaps the thought that I would never meet this man again allowed me to shed my usual filters.  

"If all you needed was a lotus to write your next book, you need not have come all this way. The lotus is everywhere," he smiled. 

I returned his smile, not caring to explain that not every part of the world was tropical. 

"You don't believe me? What is Lord Krishna's eye? A lotus. Where is God? He is everywhere. Ergo the lotus is everywhere," the man burst into halting laughter at his own wisecrack.

"Do you know who planted these lotuses?" I asked, hastily seeking to avoid a sermon. 

"The lotuses were here before we came, and they will be here long after we are gone. They can survive through anything, even humans. Do you know? Every year each plant sheds thousands of seeds to the bottom of the pond. Most get eaten by fishes, providing life to so many. The few that remain wait patiently for the right time to germinate. Some wait for days, some for months, and some for years. A few even wait a thousand years. Why does one seed wait so long while others sprouted earlier? Because it knew that what was right for others was not right for itself. Why rush, it asked."

He walked up to a tree and sat on a large, raised root, beckoning me to sit beside him. I walked up to him and sat on a rock by the tree. 

He continued, "When one seed didn't germinate for so long, while all of its siblings did, did it ever question its location? Did it pick up and travel all over the world to find a better place to germinate? No. It remained where it was, knowing that its time will come. Only a restless mind expects solace in movement. The lotus is calm." 

"It is a lotus's nature to wait and germinate. Perhaps it is not my nature to write, which is why I couldn't do it in America," I interjected. 

"Maybe. No matter how hard it tries a lotus cannot any more of a lily and equally it cannot become any less of a lotus. If you are a writer, you cannot stop from being one even if it takes a long time to germinate. Why the rush?" he asked smiling. 

Both of us sat in silence for a few minutes. The breeze picked up again and brought with it the smells of dung and cooking from the village. Unbeknownst a tear rolled down my cheek. My tummy began to grumble at the smell of food. I remembered the train at the station. I stood up and bid adieu to the old man asking whether he would walk with me back to the village.

"I will stay awhile with the lotuses. Farewell, my friend," he smiled. 

Back at the village it seemed as desolate as before. I began walking towards the town braving the searing sun. The sun beat me into a pulp and I felt myself going dizzy. Suddenly a dot emerged from the distance and progressively grew larger until I could make out the faint outlines of the horns of buffalos surrounded by a halo of dirt kicked up by their trodding feet – it was a buffalo cart! Soon I realized it was the same cart that had dropped me off at the village. Seeing me, the driver yanked the beasts to stop.

"I thought you may not find another cart to come back. I thought I will come and check, but it will cost Rs. 300, sahib," the driver said. 

Handing him a 500 rupee note, I jumped onto his cart unable to control my smile and said, "Keep the change."

Beaming with happiness, the driver turned around the animals and began riding back towards town, "My name is Kamal Jeet, sahib. What's yours?" 

I broke into a smile. Perhaps the old man was right – the lotus is everywhere.

Short Story: Kazhugappan

“Paati, tell me a story, please!”, Vaidy beseeched his grandmother as she joined him in the pyol facing the street after partaking their midday meal. His grandmother sighed from fatigure, she had been up since 5 in the morning but Vaidy knew no patience, “Please! You said you will tell me a scary story!” 

Vaidyanathan (a) Vaidy Gurumurthy was visiting his grandmother in the village for his summer holidays. His grandmother was a formidable lady. Perennially donned in crisp madisar saris she held court in her vast ancestral house in the middle of Big Street. The street, its adjoining Little Street, and a few smaller pathways and bylanes contained the two hundred-odd howels that made up the bulk of the village. Beyond these streets lay a few isolated tenements, the government primary school, the weaving workshop, and the Perumal Temple. Verdant fields stretched in every direction around the village until one encountered the muddy Kapti river lazily meandering around the village in a wide arc. A short distance beyond the river was the small cluster of huts of the others. Vaidy’s grandmother forbade him from visiting their homes or playing with their children. 

Despite being a city-bred boy, Vaidy loved the village. To him, its sights, sounds, and smells teemed with mysterious possibilities. Unlike his parents who seemed perenially occupied with work or chores, the villagers were more relaxed and mostly had time for a precocious nine-year old’s questions and antics. Over a few summers Vaidy had even managed to make a merry group of friends who, despite initial apprehensions about a city boy, had wholeheartedly accepted Vaidy into their games and mischief. Since his grandmother wouldn’t allow him to leave the house until the sun was past its peak the lazy afternoons were always spent at home in their cement pyol facing the street. Its red-oxide coating kept the pyol cool and pleasant no matter the sun’s fury. And on this cool, cement oasis, his grandmother would entertain Vaidy with her stories. 

“Shall I tell you the story of the man who brought a Kaleidascope to the village when I was little?”, his grandmother asked him, pulling Vaidy into her lap. Her madisar sari created a comfortable hammock for him in between her legs. “Hair”, he commanded, at which his grandmother began gently caressing his hair. “Tomorrow I will wash your hair kanna. Do you spend all your time rolling in mud?”

“No paati. You have already told me the Kaleidascope story… you said you will tell me a scary story today.” 

“Won’t you get scared by it? Already you are afraid to pee alone at night…”, his grandmother chided him. 

“That’s because your bathroom is at the far end of the backyard!”, Vaidy countered. 

“Seri, seri. I will tell you a real story today, something that happened in this village when my mother was your age.” 

“Yay.”

“When my mother was your age, a new teacher was deployed at the local government school. He was not a man from these parts; he hardly spoke the language, dressed in ill-fitting, heavy tunics, and was an oddity wherever he went. He stood over six feet tall but was shrunken and emaciated and despite not being beyond thirty, was almost completely bald, which made his head dazzle under the midday Sun. He also appeared to be unmarried despite his advanged age. But the most defining feature of the man was his nose. Oh, what a nose it was! Long like a cobra, it curved like a cutlass to its pin-like tip and then retreated like a wave towards the upper lip. People joked that the nose traveled one day before the rest of him!“

“Like Garuda!”, Vaidy interjected. The eagle-god was the vahana of Ranganatha, their family deity and was one of Vaidy’s favorite gods. 

“Yes, it was sharp like Garuda, but where Garuda’s nose signifies auspiciousness and strength, the school teacher’s nose suggested wickedness and malice. The kids quickly started calling him “Kazhugu” behind his back”. 

“What is Kazhugu?”

“Vulture. The bird eats dead bodies and is unholy.”

“But isn’t Jatayu also a vulture? Didn’t he help Rama?”

“Yes, but Jatayu and his brother were exceptions. Now stop interrupting me or I will lose the flow of the story!”

His grandmother continued, “Despite the nose’s sinister appearance, the school master turned out to be an utter lightweight. He was easily startled and had a fragile constitution that was prone to shivering when agitated. The kids were quick to take advantage of him. Pandemonium would ensue in every class as kids would jump from bench to bench throwing paper balls at one another, while the hapless teacher tried to quell the class, until his shivering would make him collapse in a sweat.”

“I feel bad for him. Why were the kids so mean?”

“Kids can be the cruelest sometimes kanna”

“I am not cruel. When Lata caught a caterpillar during P.T. period and Senthil suggested we dismember it part by part, I fought with them to have it released”, Vaidy demurred. 

“Chamathu. You are my golden boy”, his grandmother rubbed his face with her palms and cracked her knuckles, the magical charm for warding off evil eyes. Whenever her knuckles cracked noisily, Vaidy beamed a little with pride; everyone knew that the louder the crack the more the attention one had begotten. 

“Continue story please!”, he exclaimed. 

“The helpless school teacher tried appealing to the villagers to rein in their wards but the villagers also couldn’t respect a man who couldn’t even control a few small boys. He even wrote to his superiors in the city begging for a transfer, but his letters got sucked into a bureaucratic maze.“

“Exhausted of all other options, one day he broke down to a postman who could understand his language a little and suggested he consult a Tantric sage who had recently taken up residence in the forest beyond the colony of the others. It is known that Tantric sages can only be seen at midnight, so on the midnight of a moonless night, the teacher went to meet the sage, carrying along a live chicken for propitiation. “

“Paati, what is Tantric?”

“It means the sage practised in the dark arts and could communicate with spirits and ghosts.” 

At that time a dog yelped sharply nearby making Vaidy cling to his grandmother’s leg in terror. 

His grandmother chuckled, “Shall I stop?”

“No, no. Continue. I am not scared.”, Vaidy replied, trying to salvage some pride. 

“The teacher poured his heart’s miseries to the sage but unbeknownst to him his sadness had calcified into pure hatred towards the children. Falling to the sage’s feet, he demanded the power to avenge his ill treatment. The sage, pleased with the offering of the chicken, boomed, “Thathasthu. So be it.” Immediately the teacher was transformed into a terrifying bird with a human face, the teacher’s own face. Finally the maleficent nose had a body to match. The teacher had been transformed into a demon! The demon shrieked in pain and took flight into the night sky!”

“Did someone kill the demon?” 

“Wait, you are getting ahead of the story! After that night, truant children in the village started disappearing mysteriously. Boys seen playing in the street corner at one moment were gone the next. A boy fast asleep on a mat next to his mother was gone when she woke up in the morning. A boy drawing water from a well was gone even before the pail hit the water. The only trace left behind were a few dark feathers. Through the postman, the villagers surmised that the teacher had come back to haunt the village and began to call him Kazhugappan. They didn’t allow their children out of sight and permitted no mischiefs. Children continued to be taken but at a slower clip until it eventually stopped.” 

“Was Kazhugappan killed?”

“No one knew what happened to him. But to this day, children that refuse to eat their meals or sleep on time are warned to not incur his wrath. He is always looking for naughty children, including city boys!”, his grandmother concluded in a gravely tone.  

Vaidy stared blankly at the street. He was taking in the sights, but his mind was elsewhere. The village had turned out to be more fantastical than he had ever imagined! Kazhugappan! What an adversary for Vaidy, who always fancied himself to be the hero of every story. At the stroke of three, his grandmother let Vaidy go out to play with his friends to whom he related the Kazhugappan story in complete detail. The group solemnly agreed to actively search for unseemly feathers and other such signs of the demon. But apart from copious quantities of cow and goat dung in various levels of decomposition, their investigations didn’t reveal much else. The story and their mission was forgotten after a few days. 

“Maami, how can you expect me to make a living if I sell you the entire bunch for three annas?”, the vegetable lady wailed. Every morning she would bring a basket of fresh vegetables from which Vaidy’s grandmother would select the freshest wares for the day’s cooking. Busy with his coloring book, Vaidy paid little notice to the negotiation. 

“Maami, did you hear about the new supervisor at the weaving workshop? He has moved into the room behind the workshop. I hear he has come from Karur, but no family nothing. Pah, you should see his nose! It’s so sharp, you can till a field with it.”

Vaidy froze. A sharp nose, a lone man. It can only mean one thing — Kazhugappan had returned!

As soon as the vigilante was allowed to leave home at 3 pm, Vaidy ran to collect his group of friends. The weaving workshop was at the edge of the village and had a one-room outhouse behind it. Such an isolated enclosure seemed like the perfect haunt of a demon. Convinced that no demon can emerge in the bright day and armed with packets of vibuthi which is universally known to ward off any unearthly foe, the group slowly crept up to room through the fields behind it. The room had a single window through which they peeked in. It was empty, the occupant probably still at the workshop. Sparsely furnished, they could only see a few utensils and a chulha in one corner and a rolled up mattress in the other. A shut suitcase lay below the window, Vaidy wonder whether it will have any clues about its owner. Valli, Vaidy’s closest friend, pointed out the lack of any framed photographs of Gods or Goddesses in the room. Vaidy nodded grimly. Just as they were wrapping up their reconnaissance, what was it that Vaidy noticed by the locked door? 

“Look! A black feather by the door!” 

The kids backed away slowly from the window. They had all the proof they needed, a demon walked in their midst. 

It was only when the group were plotting their next course of action that they realized the futility of all the mythological tales they knew. Each one of them knew at least a dozen demons from mythology in every grosteque shape and form, and yet none of the tales prescribed a foolproof way of taking down a demon. The kids neither had Rama’s bow to shoot down Tataka or Krisha’s strength to wrip apart Bakasura. The kids debated at length the pros and cons of various attack strategies; Valli suggested flinging dung balls at the demon, Murthy was all for digging up a trench and trapping him in it, Venkat argued for the slingshot which seemed like their closest alternative to Rama’s divine bow, while Vaidy felt it best to jump on top of the man to crush him while preventing him from taking flight. In a truly democratic fashion, they group argued and debated, breaking for tea and snacks frequently. Eventually a glorious plan was conceived. 

The man had been seen going for a walk around the village every evening after work. When he walks by the large banyan tree, Vaidy will jump on top of him stunning the demon to the ground. Instantly Valli and Venkat will emerge from the other side and fling stones and mudballs at the fallen demon, taking care as Vaidy repeatedly pointed out to not hit him. In case the demon was not subdued by this vicious assault and tries to run away, Venkat would have dug a trench a few yards ahead along the path and covered it with fallen branches, twigs, and leaves. The demon will fall into the trench and the kids will seal him shut! Vaidy beamed with pride. 

The next evening, the kids took up positions. Murthy had dug up the trench and was now tasked with lookout. Vaidy clung to the lowest branch of the banyan tree, directly above the path. The branch was more slippery than he expected. Tensions were high. Venkat had almost given up in fear and had to be slapped into sense by Vaidy. Like a general corraling his troops before an epic battle, Vaidy had spoken eloquently about this fight between good and evil. Mutiny had been abated, but skittishness remained. 

Murthy whistled twice. The demon was arriving. 

Vaidy gripped to the branch tightly, he knew he only had one shot. From the corner of his eye he saw Venkat shivering in fear and mused, “Only some people are born warriors!” 

The demon was now in sight and was steadily walking towards the tree. Vaidy readied himself for the plunge… from the other side, he heard a whimper that turned into a muffled cry that was immediately followed by a full-throated shriek. Vaidy swung in fear towards the sound. A deathly Venkat had emerged from the other side, his eyes brimming with tears and panic. “Aaaaaaaargh”, he screamed at the walking figure and let loose a big stone from his slingshot!Venkat, normally a decent shot on a good day, had become completely disoriented in fear and had aimed the slingshot too high. The meaty pebble flew through the air and struck gold in Vaidy’s cowering rump. 

“Ammaaaaa!”, Vaidy screamed and fell from the tree, landing a few spots in front of the supervisor who jumped in surprise. Vaidy, hurt but not defeated, swiveled towards the demon and cried, “Kazhugappan!”. The war cry energized the startled army as Venkat, Valli, and Murthy descended on Vaidy and the supervisor throwing mud balls, stones, and branches from all directions. Their spotty aims meant Vaidy got hurt as much if not more than the supervisor. The man raised his arm to protect himself from the constant onslaught and approached Vaidy to help the kid up. Vaidy, terror-struck by the demon’s proximity scrambled to his feet and ran. He felt something soft grasping his ankle for a moment, and in the next he plunged into the deep trench dug by Venkat. Vaidy fell with a puff. The army deprived of their general lost all nerve for the fight and scattered helter-skelter into the fields. The supervisor, shaken but not hurt, approached the trench to rescue Vaidy. The boy was badly scratched and bleeding from his knees. Initially grateful to be out of the trench, when Vaidy saw the identity of his rescuer, he prompty fainted. 

“I don’t know what happened Paati-amma. I think someone was trying to attack me. Your grandson was very brave and tried to warn me”, the supervisor whispered. “As I was taking him to the medic’s house, he kept saying, “Kazhugappan” over and over. Do you know what that is?”

Vaidy’s grandmother adjusted the cool compress over his forehead and pulled up the blanket over his sleeping self. She turned towards the supervisor and shrugged, “Who knows what these kids talk about these days? They are always picking up bad influences.” 

The Man in the middle seat

As soon as I sat down at my seat, I knew the man next to me had to die. Probably 6'4'' or 6'5'', he was a giant of a man, undoubtedly used to towering over the rest of us mortals all his life. 

I could hear the Viking blood coursing through veins that irrationally popped out of layers of old tattooed ink. Red serpents and black vines writhed passionately with one another in a bloodless conflict, coming closer at one moment and pulling back the next when the man would move his arms or flex his biceps. His white tee shirt, a little too tight for my comfort, declared in a bold font Make Beer, Not War, and yet despite its pacifist message it appeared to be a perennial state of Total Warfare with the layers of rippling muscles on his chest and back. If I sat back and edged to the side, I could feel his heat and it made me quiver a little. He was completely bald; despite the air-conditioning a thin layer of sweat was lodged on his scalp and made it shine and glisten. I had to focus intensely to curb the urge to stand up and kiss it clean. I pushed the pin harder into my thigh to push back these unclean thoughts, reciting my mantra over and over again. I am Pure. I am Pure. A small drop of blood appeared on my new khaki trousers. He was a Lion among men, belonging on tourney grounds battling for glory – not in the cramped middle seat of row 19 in Basic Economy. I am arrested by an image of him giving the winning rose to me. I am dressed in the finest red velvet gown and I can feel the jealousy of all the other girls on me. The jealousy brings me back to the present and I push harder on the pin to keep away the dirty thoughts. I am Pure. I am Pure. 

Around us was unfolding the packaged and rehearsed dance that is performed thousands of times every day all over the world. An intricate performance of the same dull people, the same crowded seating, the same stale air, the same duels between pudgy fingers and minuscule overhead air vents, the same stewardesses peddling tiny plastic cups of water and shoveling giant heaps of disgust, and the same captain's mumbled reassurances. One stewardess caught my eye, her beauty a gravitational pull that yanked my attention away. Her Asian heritage overflowed like a river past Monsoon and she carried herself like a prized fighter. She was helping a pitiful old man stow away his luggage. She lightly bent down and swung the box into the air, neatly placing it in an empty bin. At that moment the bag left the floor, a tiniest grunt escaped her prim self and rattled its way onto me. I was struck mute by it. I wanted to wash her feet and rest my tired head on them. Even if she spat on me, I wouldn't let go.  She walked over and asked me, "Would you like some water, sir?" I shake my head, sweat gently pouring down my upper lip. She too should die, she shouldn't need to suffer the impudence of my presence, but I know I cannot kill both at the same time. I would have to choose. 

To the man's right sat a pre-teen boy swinging his bony leg back-and-forth in the aisle. All his attention was reserved for the iPhone in his hands that chirped and beeped with the sound of a game. His eyes betrayed a tiredness reserved for the youngest. The kid was clearly the man's spawn. He was still young but I could see the same broad-shoulders, the same regal bearing, the same lean muscle that sinewed under his shirt. Like our flight, his hormones would soon lift off too, transporting him to that reserved club of the beautiful. I wanted to hate him as I hated his father, but not now, not yet. His father tried grabbing his iPhone which the kid resisted with great gusto. They soon began wrestling, throwing small jabs and shoves at each other in between peals of laugher. It was clearly an old game. The people around us seemed mildly alarmed at this unexpected violence, but soon cooed softly at this display of familial affections. Only I felt the bruises of every misplaced shove and jab, a slap of pleasure every time. 

The flight was in the air now. Meals had been provided and dispensed. Sleepy heads started nodding off around us. I couldn't risk sleep lest the dirty thoughts encircle me in my sleep as they so often do – there are no pins in sleep and no amount of flagellation when awake could wash off the sins of the asleep. The man and child began talking about their layover in Beijing for the next flight. Anticipation began growing in me. I had a layover in Beijing too, two hours would be more than enough for the deed itself the trick was in delaying the body's discovery until I was out of the scene. It would have to be the bathroom – I wasn't keen on repeating myself, but the wet blood in my pants would testify that these were desperate circumstances. Yes, it would have to be the bathroom. I had the syringes and the prescription vial of insulin. The act began unfolding calmly in my mind's eye. It was only during the planning that I didn't need to be vigilant with the pin. A crowded Saturday in the airport. Crowds swarming at every terminal. I will follow the man into the bathroom which too is buzzing with passengers. I will stand next to him resisting the urge to peek. I pee a little into my left hand. When he turns around, I too will turn and clumsily attempt to overtake him, only to stumble on him. The left hand smearing urine all over his arm while the right swiftly jabs the syringe into his hip. As he rushes to wash off the ignominy of another man's urine all over him, I apologize profusely and walk out. In ten minutes, the man collapses in his boarding area. I wish I could witness the collapse but I know not to ask too much of life. Unlike my younger days, I no longer deny the violence of my being but neither do I ask too much of it. Only when the act is complete can I let go of the pin – the pain is the only thing keeping me Pure. 

The planning calmed me a bit. Thankfully the beautiful stewardess too has retired to her hidden seat and I feel my discomfort waning. The man and his kid get up to visit the loo, I grab the opportunity to retrieve my backpack from the overhead bin. I probe inside for my travel-sized copy of The Invisible Man. My fingers land on the smooth surface of my compass – a gift from the Master Felipe. How wonderful is the compass? It claims to point to the North, but it really points to the Past. It is a scratched and handled hunk of metal, every cut a past journey. The dial claimed we were traveling West. That was odd. Were we being re-routed due to a storm? The skies didn't seem rough. I flung the compass back inside and sighted my book finally. I settled in under the blanket as the man returned. Focussing intensely on the book, I managed to read a few pages before drowsiness took over. I snuck my boarding pass into the book as a marker and placed it into the flight pocket. As sleep finally washed over me, through closing eyes one end of my boarding pass came into brief focus – the flight number printed in large black bettering that said MH370. 

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. 

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 :)

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.