The Right Model By Adiana Ray

artist: sachin venkatesh

“Now remember girls, when we are talking about constructing an Ogive Graph, what we are interested in is finding the percentage of scores that are above or below the given score.  So first we construct a frequency table, then cumulate the frequencies and then work out the percent cumulative frequencies,” Mr. Raman intoned in his sing song voice.

“Did you all understand what I just said?” He questioned as he turned from his calculations on the whiteboard, a marker in his hand, which he waved in the air for added emphasis.

Sunlight filtered in through the windows and the dappled shadows it cast through the leaves of the trees outside, played on the desks like butterflies flitting about on a hot summer’s day. The girls in the front row of the class nodded earnestly. He looked down from the long low wooden platform which ran the length of the front of the room at the 25 young girls of 10th Grade before him. Many years of teaching experience gave him the insight to know that those in the front rows always understood. It was the ones at the back that he had to spend more time with. He hooked his thumbs into his suspenders as he strolled down the aisle between the wooden desks.  At least 95% of them looked as if  they had grasped the model. (Mr. Raman always thought in mathematical concepts). Good, he thought to himself with pride, he should be able to maintain his 90% results average again this year. Then his eyes fell on the girl in the last row and the smile was wiped off his face as fast as an ice cream melts in a hot pan.

Tara, he grimaced inwardly to himself. Why did he have to have one of those trouble makers in his class every year? As bad as some of them had been, she had to be the worst of the lot in all of the thirty years that he had been at Rani Laxmibai Girls’ Academy. Never paying attention and always disturbing the class as well.

Mr. Raman was an institution in his own right:  his suspenders, white pants and red socks were something of RLGA folklore. The girls joked with fondness about his dress sense and his manner of speaking  years after they passed out. He was aware of it and he glorified in his eccentricities, believing they all formed part of who he was; his personality. What they didn’t joke about, was his approach to mathematics. They knew he was the best and even if they disliked him, they were glad to have him teach them. Raman was aware of that and took great satisfaction in boasting about his record results in math year after year. There was no way he was going to let Tara and her group of friends spoil his reputation.

“Yes girls, did you understand what I just taught you about the Ogive Graph?”

Most of them barely looked at him, except for Tara that is. She sat and stared at him, purposefully blank, not saying a word.

He was exasperated by their attitude and struggled hard not to show it. Snapping his suspenders in his frustration, he asked, “What about you Tara?”

She yawned gracefully, looked at her painted nails and then up at him, her face cupped in her right hand which she supported on the table in front of her. She opened her eyes wide; her voice was mock innocent as she asked, “Why would someone want to draw Ogive Graphs?”

On the face of it Raman knew it was a valid question; there was a part of him that acknowledged that he should have told them that at the very beginning, but he pushed that thought aside in irritation. That girl was being arrogant, how dare she question him, with all his years of teaching experience and his exemplary track record? To make matters worse, he heard the rest of the class tittering behind him. He hated being laughed at. It was the final straw, all the indignation of having to suffer six months of Tara’s impudence came bubbling up to the surface.

“Maybe you should go to the Principal’s Office to find that out,” he thundered.

Tara was still doing her innocent act and playing to her audience. “You mean she can give me an answer?”

The girls roared with laughter.

Mr. Raman was beside himself with rage. “Out, I say out,” he fairly sputtered. “She will give you an answer to very much more. I will not allow you into my class again till I get a written apology.”

“You asked me a question and I answered it, what do I need to apologise for Sir?” She challenged.

His voice was steely, “To the Principal’s Office please.”

Raman took deep breaths to calm himself as she collected her stuff and sauntered out. Darn that girl, why did she always try to show him up? It wasn’t just that she herself was such a rotten egg, unfortunately she was able to sway most of the class to copy her example too.

***

Raman was still seething over the incident as he made his way home that evening. He re-enacted the scene in his mind again and again as he was having his bath and changing his clothes. Freshly bathed with his white veshti and cotton vest on, he paced up and down the tiny kitchen, running his hands through his hair in agitation. His wife Sarla looked at him and tilted her nose in distaste and resignation. She knew she would have to wash out all the hair oil stains from his shirt tomorrow and that was no pretty task. She sighed, the more upset he was, the more stains she had to wash out. 

Trying to distract him, she beckoned, “Come, let’s sit down and eat,” as she spooned out some fiery hot Kathrikkai Puli (Brinjal gravy) in a bowl and set it before him.

He was shaking his head in disbelief. “Can you imagine she questioned the way I was teaching Ogive Graphs? Me…me…thirty years I have taught; 90% pass rate I tell you, 90% pass rate and she can’t even get a frequency table straight and she dares to question me.”

She picked up his plate and put two big spoons of rice in it.

“I sent her to the Principal’s Office and Madam called me up in front of her and asked me what was the problem? Can she not understand how insolent that girl was acting? I am an old teacher of the school; a respected teacher and I am being asked these types of questions in front of a student.”

She filled a steel tumbler with water and set it before him, Then after wiping her hands dry in her sari pallu, sat down to eat as well. The bright green topped melamine table had seen better days. It was chipped at the edges and stained yellow with occasional turmeric spots. The metal folding chair was uncomfortable but she was used to it.

“The whole class was laughing at me because of her; tomorrow the school will know the Principal took her side against me.” His voice droned on relentlessly. “What will I say?” he asked rhetorically. “ I know my work 100 percent, no…no, 101 percent.” He banged the table for emphasis.

Sarla was used to these outbursts, they happened every year. Privately she thought he got too excited about his own importance. However she kept her thoughts to herself and nodded her head dutifully in between mouthfuls of rice, vegetable and dal; making little balls with the tips of her fingers and putting them delicately in her mouth. She knew she wasn’t really meant to answer; and was just there as a sounding board for his ire. Didn’t know what all the frequency table and graph talk meant anyway and it bored her to death. She chewed on the egg plant thoughtfully, maybe a bit more mustard would have been better. Now where was the pachadi? She looked around; must have forgotten to take it out of the fridge. She pushed her chair back to go and get it and he carried on talking to her empty chair: his food slopping down his hands even as he talked and gesticulated as he shoved it hurriedly into his mouth.

“If I don’t get 90%, my bonus goes down as well.”

Her hand stopped mid air as she was about to pull open the fridge door.

“What do you mean by that?” she questioned quietly.

He was too distracted to give a straight answer. Anyway for him it was not the money, never had been. In his eyes his excellent track record meant that he was better than the rest of the teachers. He took great pride in his achievements and never let any of them forget it. How could he face them if he didn’t get his 90% pass rate this year?

Raman stopped mid sentence, lost for a moment, his train of thought broken. “What?”

“What do you mean it will effect your bonus?” she asked again.

“Oh that, our bonus depends on the pass rate we achieve. If the students don’t do that well, then I don’t do well either.”

Her face looked strained, “I didn’t know that.”

“You didn’t need to,” was the simple answer.

As soon as they finished dinner and he settled down in front of the TV, she hurriedly washed up the dishes and went into the bedroom. Glancing furtively over her shoulder she took out a long flat box from the back of the cupboard. Glad of his preoccupation with the TV, she took the box and sat on the bed and opened it. She laid out the contents lovingly in front of her, on the bright red silken handkerchief that she had spread there. A feather, a small candle on a mirrored candle stand, a  skein of white silken thread, two shiny flat brown stones, a pin cushion and a lump of play dough.

A deep anger simmered inside her, she had put up with a lot, and there was no way she was going to put up with losing out on his bonus. Her daughter was in America; her  University fees had to be paid.  He deserved it, they deserved it and no silly girl was going to do them out of it.

The rage was building inside her as she lit the candle on the mirror and put it on the bedside table. She put the feather and stones beside it and then picked up the play dough and fashioned it into the shape of a female figure. Then she tied the silken thread around its neck and set it down. Her eyes glinted in frenetic ferocity as she picked up the pin cushion and began shoving pins into the female figure malevolently. Her mouth twisted into a caricature of a smile.

“Tara! Tara! Tara!” She whispered each time she stuck a pin in, her voice tinged with a hint of  hysteria.

She looked down at the small shape in her hands and smiled.

‘Did he even realize how much of that 90% he owed to her?”

About the Author :

Adiana Ray believes in the Zen tenet ‘each state has a 1000 truths’. Every person brings their own unique experiences to a situation, which makes them see things differently and interpret it in their own way.
This is what inspires her to write; trying to see each relationship in a different light, and always having a new story to tell for it. When she writes, her tale could well be a fantasy, but it will be a believable one. Something that could happen to anyone of us or to someone we know. Her focus, above all, is to entertain the reader.

 

Homecoming by Ahana Mukherjee

artist: sachin venkatesh

“Welcome back Aarav!” Everyone exclaimed in unison and the huge space reverberated with applause and cheers.

I had just stepped into my office after two months of travel in Iceland. Alex Kent, Director of National Geography, came forward and patted my back. 

“You’ve outdone yourself, Aarav. The photographs are a treat to the eyes and the article’s written from the heart. It’s so touching.”

“Thanks Alex. The country’s so beautiful; I mean I just couldn’t stop taking pictures. I couldn’t go wrong in that paradise,” I grinned with excitement.

“Aarav, you must thank me for suggesting Iceland,” said Birgitte Juul, the editor, beaming. 

Birgitte, though a Dane, had spent her childhood in Reykjavik. She gave me the opportunity to do a cover for Iceland, something I had wanted for a long time. When Eyjafjallajökull erupted in April 2010, it immobilized Europe in entirity. It was an interesting phenomenon where the eruption though relatively small, the ash plume created turbulence in the air. Researchers and scientists made a mad rush to the spot to find out why and so did journalists. I was a trainee at National then and much as I wanted to cover it I didn’t get a chance. Iceland since then had been on my mind. 

I fell in love with Iceland with all its fiords and geysers; hot springs and volcanoes; serene lakes and riotous spring flowers; the valleys and the foliage; the sky and its vivid blue colour; the sun and the daylight; the night time; the equinox and solstice. 

“Hey Aarav, your photographs on Iceland could be winning awards soon,” chimed in Annie, a colleague and friend.

“Hahaha, Annie you optimist,” I guffawed, slapping her shoulder lightly.

“By the way, after all the din is done, you should call your dad up, he has called a million times in the past two months. Why didn’t you leave your phone number with him?” 

“Because I didn’t want to be bothered a million times.” 

Annie just shrugged.

“Look, I’m tired and not in a mood for a lecture from anyone just now. I know it’s nothing. I’ll call them when I call them.” I added irritably.

Annie stalked off.

I took a deep breath and looked at Birgitte.

“Your dedication to your profession’s commendable and that’s why you’ve reached such heights so rapidly. But I’d listen to Annie. “

Alex came to my rescue. “We’ll all meet at the Tavern after work folks and drinks will be on the house,” he announced.

Amidst a thundering ovation, which made me cringe a little, I headed to my quiet corner. 

My desk looked relatively neat, except for a huge pile of mail waiting for me. I had been non-communicado in Iceland, trying to be one with nature, listening to it, taking photos, writing. I had been in touch with my office here of course, but that had just been a mandatory glance at my mails every day. Even so, I had told my folks that I would be off the radar and they won’t hear from me during the trip. 

While I was ruminating about them, I couldn’t shake the funny feeling that off late they did act a little strange and my mother often sounded distant and detached. I picked up the phone to speak to them. 

“Hello dad, I came back late last night so couldn’t call you.”

“Oh good! How are you? How was Iceland?” his voice was so expressionless it kind of irritated me.

“It was good, had a splendid time. Nature was at its best, couldn’t have asked for more. How have you been?”

My father was silent.

“Hello, dad, is everything alright? Where’s mom?” I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.

“Well, I… listen Aaru, I have to go now, maybe you should come for a visit. No compulsion, I know you’re busy. But it’s kind of hard to explain how we are to a son who hasn’t visited home in the last four years,” My father rambled.

“Dad please! You know I wasn’t exactly entertaining myself. I’ve been carving out a career, a place in society among my peers. Oh my photographs have been nominated for awards and will be part of an exhibition. Do you think this would be possible if I was irresponsible?” I screamed at him. 

After a moment of silence he said, “That’s wonderful. Congratulations. I’m very happy for you. You take care of yourself now. I’ve to run to visit your mom.” The line went blank.

I had a bad feeling. I dialed again to book an air ticket to Philadelphia. I ran to Birgitte and told her I would be visiting my parents. She smiled and nodded her head.

I quickly went home, packed a travel bag and made a dash to the airport. The flight was on time and as I sat down in my seat, I heaved a sigh and shut my eyes.

I didn’t see Iceland. I saw Ranchi, a small town in the state of Bihar in India. Most of my childhood was spent in a Steel Colony at Ranchi. The streets were laced with trees bearing flowers of different colors. It was so green those days. There also was a railroad that circled our little colony. Sometimes when the train chugged by, we heard its loud whistle blowing thick black smoke into the air. 

In the spring of 1987, when I turned thirteen, my father was deputed to Nigeria for two years. My mother was overjoyed and so was I. A new country, new school, new friends, it all seemed surreal. Anyway, the date wasn’t finalised. Soon, weeks became months and months became a year.

In the meantime, my mother sold off most of our household stuff. She felt it would be inconvenient to do it altogether just before we left. It seemed like a good idea then but soon became the butt of a joke in our little colony. It kind of embarrassed me too.

My mother wasn’t deterred. One day she suggested to my father that he leave his job and we all migrate to the US. My father protested but my mother is a strong woman. She wouldn’t listen to him and gave him practical advice on how they could both run the family.

The next few months were a blur. Between applying for visa; putting up my mother’s nursery school for sale; bickering with my father’s colleagues; bidding farewell to my friends and doing innumerable paperwork; time just flew by.

There were a few of my father’s well-meaning friends who did their best to dissuade him, insisting that it was a ludicrous decision. They told him that there was still time; he could withdraw his resignation and save himself from further humiliation. 

My mother staunchly stood by her decision.

“There’s no harm in trying, is there? And if we fail, we’ll come to you for help. You all have been so kind.”

“Bhabhiji, we’re here solely for your well being. We’ve nothing to gain if you stay back and have a stable life.”

“Thank you so much for your concern, we’ll think about it,” my mother would answer graciously.

My father was forty five when we moved to Philadelphia and reinventing at that age for an Indian is a daring decision. An engineer by profession, he ran from pillar to post in the US after giving up a good position in his home country. 

“Many work at petrol pumps and supermarkets, till they land good jobs. You have the credentials and will get one soon, don’t worry about it. Until then we need to run the family,” my mother suggested. “I’ll look for a governess’s job until I get a break at a school.”

Soon my father was working double shifts, at the supermarket and the gas station. My mother became a nanny to an American family.

We lived in an Indian ghetto. It was a dilapidated building but we didn’t complain. The kids from the local and adjacent neighbourhoods studied in my school. It was nothing like the elite school I went to in India. I felt quite lost. 

That’s when my mother had a word with me. “Beta, I know you think you don’t deserve this, but give me a little more time and I promise you things will be different. These boys and girls have a hard life, try to understand them. They are as much a human being as you are. Maybe you’ll appreciate what little you have once you know them well.”

Mother was the pillar of strength in our family. It was her courage and resolve that got us here and we trusted her to guide and steer us out of all difficulties.

“By the way, I have some good news,” she said, beaming.

“The Steinbergs suggest I take a few more children under my wing, and I could do it at their place. Two of Mrs. Steinberg’s friends will drop off their children too. They are school going kids and I can help them with their homework too.”

“Ma that’s wonderful!” I exclaimed, hugging her. She never ceased to amaze me.

I still remember the day Mr. and Mrs. Steinberg  helped Ma to set up a small nursery and crèche of her own which gradually grew into a full-fledged school. I don’t know how she did it, but she did.

On the contrary, my father had to struggle for a job. Steel factories weren’t doing well due to an economic downturn. At the behest of my mother he left the job at the gas station and came home earlier than usual. 

We moved into a better locality, which meant a better school for me. Though our new home was not a big place it was airy and spacious unlike the dingy dark abode we were first in. Much later, my father cracked a good deal with a leading engineering giant; my mother’s little school grew from a crèche to an elementary school and then to middle school; and we moved out to a swankier home. We made it after just a couple of years of struggle. 

I jolted out of my reverie as the flight touched down. I sped all the way home in the Ford I rented at the airport. As I drove into the driveway, the double-storied house gave an ominous aura.

My father was at the door, amazed to see me. “Aaru, what happened? Is everything fine?”

I felt ashamed that my homecoming could raise questions such as these. “I just wanted to be home dad. Where’s Ma?”

Father just stared at me in contemplation. “Come with me, I’m going to her,” he said quietly.

“Dad, please tell me what’s wrong,” I pleaded.

“Sshhh, you’ll soon find out.”

And I did find out. We went to Hart Center for Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s Care. There she was sitting on a reclining chair gazing out into the gardens. 

“Ma!” I cried, touching her hands. She looked at me, clueless. “I should’ve come sooner Ma, I should’ve come sooner.”

I put my head on her lap and at long last I was home.

About the Author :

An avid reader, can read whatever I lay my hands on but I think as I am growing old I am gravitating towards lighter reading. 
I also like travelling. I have been to a few places but the the world is so huge and with so many many beautiful places to visit and new things to see and experience, this life time will be not be enough to explore all.
And last but not the least I am a movie fanatic. I am not just interested in movies made in Bollywood and Hollywood but everywhere around the world and in any language. Gives me an insight into people and what they love and what motivates them - something an aspiring writer is always looking forward to.

 

The Prodigal Father by Neelesh Gajanan Inamdar

artist : sachin venkatesh

Manav entered the dimly lit bar and made his way through a maze of tables to the counter. A spike-haired bartender was juggling a cocktail while a black-suited dude noted food orders from the table-waiters. Manav made his way straight to the order-man.

“Two Chicken Tandoori, medium spicy; two Dal Tadka and two plain rice with a pinch of lemon.”

The manager repeated the order to confirm and offered Manav an empty table. 

“Would you like a drink while you wait sir?”

“Is it on the house?”

“Sorry sir, that’s only on special days, you can try your luck next time.”

Smart chap.

Manav smiled and looked around the restaurant as he sat. More than half the tables were occupied, not bad for a working day. They used to frequent this restaurant years ago, when they lived close to the Andheri flyover.  Ananya’s birthdays were mostly celebrated here and she was still fond of the food. The visits declined after they moved to Versova a couple of years ago. The food was still good, so he had heard from his friends, else he wouldn’t have taken the trouble of coming so far, ignoring next-door joints like Lazeez and Urban Tadka. 

A middle-aged couple sat in a corner, sipping beer lazily. On one table was a gang of noisy teenagers and at another was a group of young women celebrating someone’s birthday. They all chorused the birthday song, a little out of tune but with infectious joy. He followed the crown-shaped strawberry cake the waiter carried back to the kitchen, obviously to be cut and served later. His eyes came to rest on a familiar figure drinking whisky. 

Do I know him? Is it? Could it be? Yes!

He went to the man and slapped him on the back. 

“Hey Krish! Long time no see! What’s this? Drinking alone? I don’t remember you doing that before…”

“Manav!” 

Krish, or Krishna Raju, was surprised. 

“Good to see you man. Just enjoying a lonely evening. Come, join in.” 

Why doesn’t his voice match his words?

Manav sat across him and watched as Krish sipped whisky, now and then chucking salted cashew nuts into his mouth.

Meeta never approved of the chewing noise he made.

Manav zoomed back 25 years. He and Meeta were sitting at the gynaecologist’s when Krish and Preeti walked in. As all other seats were occupied, Manav vacated his chair for Preeti. Krish gave him a smile.

A few minutes later Meeta asked Preeti, “Do you feel like eating Paani Puri?”

Manav was uncomfortable whenever Meeta spoke to strangers but he could never really get her out of the habit. He was afraid Preeti (he didn’t know her name then) wouldn’t like her audacity and she looked at Meeta awkwardly for a moment. Then she said,

“Actually, I just ate it yesterday but I could easily eat some more.”

After their checkup Meeta, Manav, Krish and Preeti headed off to Sharma Bhelpuri house, Meeta’s favourite. It was awkward for both Manav and Krish because they had just met, but Meeta and Preeti behaved as if they were sisters from their last birth. They all feasted on the chaat items, with both the ladies giving full marks to the Paani Puri.

“So?” Manav asked when they finally reached home.

“So what?” Meeta asked.

“What do you think of Krish and Preeti?”

“He makes a lot of noise while eating.”

That didn’t stop Meeta and Preeti from becoming good friends. The two husbands were not given an option. The outing was followed by phone calls, then frequent visits to each other’s houses. 

Meeta and Preeti were admitted almost at the same time for delivery and while Manav had a baby girl, Krish had a son.

Manav said to Krish, “Krish, we’ve had a baby girl. Isn’t that great?”

Krish wrinkled his nose.

“A daughter is a liability. I always wanted a son.”

Manav wasn’t expecting this answer from Krish. They’d known each other for almost a year and debated the fall of the Babri Masjid, Narasimha Rao and Vajpayee and a host of other current issues, including Manav’s finance business and Krish’s diamond trade. Manav found Krish to be intelligent and knowledgeable. He even wore trendy clothes and you could mistake him for a model right out of a fashion show. But the ‘I want a son’ attitude rattled Manav.

“Krish, we are at the cusp of the 21st century. And you’re still discriminating between boys and girls? Whatever boys can do, girls can do equally well, and even better.”

“Can girls carry on the family name?”

Manav knew when a discussion turned pointless. Krish’s male chauvinist remarks made Manav uncomfortable and he began to avoid his new friend. 

When Meeta and Ananya came home from hospital, Manav no longer spoke about Preeti and Krish. Krish called him many times, but Manav was not as friendly as before. Their meetings dwindled to special occasions like children’s birthdays. 

On their anniversary Manav took Meeta and Ananya out of town and made it clear to Meeta that this was one occasion where Krish and Preeti couldn’t crash in. Preeti and Meeta remained best friends, though Meeta was mature enough to give her husband his private space. 

Manav bought a new house, far from where Krish and Preeti lived and gradually they lost touch with each other. Manav vaguely remembered Meeta telling him that Krish and Preeti had had another son, and out of formality had called to congratulate him. 

Manav and Meeta were happy with their Ananya and showered all their love on her.

Has he changed, or is he still the same? 

Manav wondered now, sitting face to face with Krish after many years. Krish poured out one more peg and added ice and water to it. 

“So how’s Meeta, and…”

“And?”

“I’m sorry I forgot your daughter’s name.”

He’s still treading the old path. 

“Ananya. My daughter’s name is Ananya.”

“Why don’t you have a drink?”

Krish offered, a drawl in his voice. He’d probably been drinking for a while now.

“I haven’t come here to drink, only to pick up a takeaway dinner.”

Krish shrugged. Manav noticed a tinge of sadness in his eyes. And in his body language, there was more than a tinge of gloom – his shoulders drooped; his movements were slow and not all of it seemed to come from the alcohol in the bottle. 

“How are you?” Manav asked. “And your family?”

Krish was silent for a while. He emptied his glass of whisky and barked, “Bastards! They’re all bastards!” 

His voice was louder than necessary, and a few heads turned. Manav became conscious.

“Who are you talking about?”

“My sons. What did I not do for them? I gave them whatever they wanted. Vijit, the elder, he failed his HSC. I paid through my nose to get him a first class. In college he never paid any attention to studies. I wanted him to be an engineer but that son-of-a-bitch barely managed to scrape through with a commerce degree. When he couldn’t get a job anywhere, I gave him a loan to open a shop. He fell for one of his female customers and she conned him into selling the shop and using the money to start a modeling agency. Once she had what she wanted she dumped him, and he came back home with his tail between his legs. He refuses to look for a job and now I don’t want to give him whatever is left of my savings. So I come here to avoid him.”

Should I feel sorry for him? I think I should, but why don’t I?

“That’s bad. That’s really bad. He really should be capable of shouldering his responsibilities.”

“You agree, don’t you? But you know, you’re the only one who understands me. His mother defends him, saying I haven’t done enough to set him up in life.”

“But what about your other son?”

Krish’s face hardened. “Don’t talk about him. Don’t you talk to me about him!”

“Why? What happened?”

“After spending half my hard-earned money on Vijit, I pinned my hopes on Arnab. He is a studious chap and toiled day and night to become an engineer. He worked in an MNC for two years and then applied to a US university for an MBA. I was proud of him when he got through. This boy is going to be ‘mera naam karega roshan’ for me.”

“Well, that’s good. Maybe your elder son was a disappointment, but at least the younger one fulfilled your aspirations.”

“My foot! He coaxed me to apply for an educational loan to fund his MBA and I was a fool to trust him. Now he’s got a well-paying job at Coca Cola. But he hasn’t kept in touch. He doesn’t call us at all. A common friend whose son studied with him says he’s married an American girl and is ashamed of his Indian roots! On top of that, I’m still paying the instalments on his educational loan.”

“Well I’m sorry your sons didn’t turn out as you thought they would.”

The waiter came with Shekhar’s order and the bill. Shekhar gave him a credit card.

“How about your daughter? Err.. Ananya? Is she married?”

“No.”

“Best to marry off a daughter as soon as possible, you know. Takes a load off your shoulders.”

“Well, I don’t know about marriage – that’s for her to decide.”

Manav shook his head and poured out a large peg.

“Does she work? Everyone wants a working wife nowadays. And you still have to pay a dowry. Maybe not in cash or gold, but I hear that fathers are giving their daughters a two-bedroom flat as a gift, mind you. I’m sure you’ve arranged one for your daughter.”

“Well, it so happens that on our last wedding anniversary Ananya gifted me and my wife a world cruise.”

Krish’s glass stopped half way enroute to his lips. Manav enjoyed the view – Krish’s mouth agape and the glass in mid-air.

“Well, Meeta and I brought up Ananya strictly but gave her full freedom to explore her potential. Initially I wanted her to study engineering or medicine but since we had accepted her as an independent person with her own separate identity, we didn’t force her. We just made sure she imbibed three facts of life – stand on your own feet; do the work you love or love the work you do; and if you ever fall down, get up and stand on your own feet again.”

Was I being a sadist? Why am I enjoying the look on his face? Hell, I’ve waited two decades for this opportunity and am not about to let it pass by. 

“Your daughter sponsored your world tour? Why? I… I mean, how?” 

“After graduating in commerce, she joined an interior designing firm. In two years, she formed her own setup. She met and fell in love with an architect and they decided to become life-partners. As soon as they joined hands, they bagged a plum contract. Ananya always knew it was Meeta’s dream to go on a world tour but both of us were too busy bringing her up. So when she had enough money in the bank, the first thing she did was to gift us that tour.”

Krishna Raju looked here and there, then he looked at his glass. He wanted to say something but he didn’t know what.

He’s probably thinking if such a thing was possible. Well, he didn’t give himself a chance so what can I do?

“Today, it’s her fiance’s birthday, so they’re both coming home to celebrate.”

Krish was even more speechless, if such a state of mind was possible.

The waiter came back with the credit-card slip for signing. Manav got up after he left, hammering the final nail into the coffin, “And Krish, Ananya can’t carry on my family name, but I’m proud that she’s my daughter.”

©Neelesh Inamdar

About the Author :

Like all good Indian boys, Neelesh first completed his Chemical Engineering, then chose to become a filmmaker. He has to his credit a telefilm and one TV serial, besides working as a script supervisor in many indie movies. Like all tales, a twist put him on a flight to Abu Dhabi where he rekindled his love for writing which had submerged under the pressure of Bollywood deadlines. He has two short stories published in Women’s Era and co-written a novel, ‘The Assassination of George Bush’. In Abu Dhabi, he attends a workshop in novel writing, besides working on his first novel.

 

The Curse of The Last Swan by Karthik L

artist : sachin venkatesh

The sun’s rays found their way through the dark skies and touched the brown earth. Father Sanchez’s spirit followed the light from heaven and descended on the earth as he finished his morning prayers. He was a frail man nearing his fiftieth year. This apostle of Christ bore a striking resemblance to the depictions of his master himself with his beard and his deep soulful look. As he walked towards the door of the church one could feel a complete sense of detachment in his gait.

The church door opened to a cobbled path. Wasteland lay all around. And behind the church was the final resting place of the island’s former inhabitants. Father Sanchez stepped out and began to walk towards the small area of low shrubs and bushes a few miles from the church. Foraging for mushrooms and berries was part of his daily morning routine. That was the only source of food on the island. Father Sanchez could identify a sufficient number of edible species to sustain him. He rarely ventured into anything new. He did not need to. The explorations had already been done and the pioneers rested peacefully behind the church. On a lucky day, a fish or two might supplement his diet of mushrooms and berries.

His path was lined with battered buildings on either side, giving an appearance of an archeological excavation site. Even in their ruined state the buildings emanated signs of past glory. A perceptive observer could not but appreciate the amazing town planning. Sanchez stopped by the grandest of the ruins. After hesitating a bit, he stepped in. He was greeted by a most spectacular sight. The chamber held some of the most intricately carved statues of marble and jade set with precious rubies and emeralds. In the middle of the room was the most amazing throne made of gold of seven different colors. The next room held the kind of jewels that would have probably given the caves of Ali Baba and Alladin a run for their money. But more surprising than all these sights were Sanchez’s utter indifference to these treasures.

Sanchez ‘s eyes were frozen in a glassy expression. This had been his home where he had spent his childhood. His father Fernando had been the lord of the island. That had been a golden period. The island had been one of the richest trading hubs. Ships from far and wide would come to buy the island’s timber and iron ore. In return, they received gold, jade, marble, finest garments, exotic spices and wines. The island’s population had been really industrious. The miners and loggers worked day in and day out to keep the island’s economy ticking. Then there were the craftsmen who carved exquisite sculptures and the jewelers who fabricated intricate designs out of gold and silver. The lords, who loved a life of luxury and opulence, were great patrons of these crafts. 

Sanchez’s gaze then moved on to their family of coat of arms – a majestic swan like bird. Sanchez himself had never seen one though. But the old palace servant Rafael had told him they had abounded in his great grandfather’s days. In fact the entire island had been a lush jungle. Hunting had been a favorite pastime of the lords during his grandfather’s times. But by his father’s time, the island had become a more urban community with urban pastimes. 

His reverie over, Sanchez proceeded on his daily trek. Once again he paused as he neared the water line. One could make out the remnants of a burnt down structure. This had been the dock. It had been a buzz of activity in its time. Sanchez had vivid memories of the night the rebels burnt it down. His mind began to trace the series of events that lead to the rebellion. One thing had led to another. Disease had followed drought and then came rebellion. The island had made the workers toil hard before yielding her last reserves of wood and iron. It was too late by the time the lords realized the price of their obsession with spices, wine and arts.

Sanchez’s eyes filled with tears as he reflected over the next ten years that followed. Things had gone from bad to worse. Hunger and disease were no longer the preserve of the working classes. Death stalked the island at every corner. Some said all the luck left the island long back along with the island’s symbol of luck – the royal family’s insignia. The last swan had cursed the island with its last breath. Now the whole island lay in utter desolation. Sanchez and his church were all that remained.

About the Author :

Karthik is a Bangalore based blogger. A management consultant by profession, he has been blogging since 2008 under an unusual moniker ‘The Fool’. He is very passionate about reading and writing, especially in the science fiction and fantasy genres. He maintains two blogs – ‘Lucifer House Inc.” and “Three Realms of the Mind’ where he writes on various topics across multiple genres – fiction, poetry, satire, memoirs, book reviews, philosophy to name a few. Two of his stories have been published in anthologies and he hopes to become a full time writer someday.