The Tale Of Tilottama by Aparajita Dutta

artist : sachin venkatesh

I can see your recondite tears,

Your love for me, even the shore hears,

Then why are you so silent ? !!

 I still remember leaving Tilottama......It was midnight .... Her outlandish anchal concealed her tears. I have always been the interloper. 3 years back, I was puerile, but this time, I am conscious. Lemon’s cries could not break through the stratosphere or maybe, I didn’t try to remember that I am being missed. I have never wanted to palliate, neither 3 years ago, nor this time. Why would I do it 3 years ago when my heart was dripping with dubious melodies? But this time, even, I did not. Even with Tilottama, I really do not know what it ‘is’ or what it ‘was’. She has never been spurious of my actions – maybe, she knew the real ‘me’ ---- someone whom I can never understand.  I am not worthy enough to plumb her feelings for me. Guilt? 

Maybe ---- may not be. I never tried to. I am not going to do it this time. But Lemon ?? What is his fault? This is really don’t know. I will be back to leave them again. It is something I have been trying to convince 

myself since months before leaving; Lemon never understood – he is a child; how can he understand the qualid ways of a wanderer like me? 

I have not left Tilottama since the last 2.5 years and Lemon is just 2 years old. 

 I did not cry. Lemon thought I was just leaving for some work, which I would always do. He knew I am coming back. I am, of course, but after a few months. The clock is a wanderer’s enemy. This is true for me. 

It is the Time who is close to me. The time, who does not remind me of the moments which I am losing, rather, like the soft velvet petals, impregnated with the aroma of a winked present, presses against my 

skin, drooling in my breathe, and whispering –‘ it won’t take a moment to wither away ‘. The mechanical clock can never be a friend to the erratic wanderer. 

 Tilottama knows that I have plans to leave after my return. But I have never heard her ask me. I always find her in her phlegmatic self. But she loves me --- she has always done so. She never impedes me for maybe, she can feel my rave for wanderlust. In spite of me kissing her in ignorance, she never forbears to give me all the comforts and pleasure I need in my life. 

 Why do I leave Tilottama? I ask myself!! I don’t know. Those stolen kisses are still somewhere within the saliva of my lips, which I have pressed against hers in dust. Her each and every nerve seemed to be blooming in seminal notes and I, like the esurient wanderer have 

pounced upon her, trying to drain out everything she had but failing again and again. She would never dry up. Was this the reason I have come back to her again and again? Or that is just another ball game? 

 (II)

Strange are the ways of a lover’s touch,

Strange are the ways of the time’s watch;

Let Eternity weave the threads of our love !!

 The announcement that soon, we will be landing at Dubai, broke through my abstracted mind. I was least bothered about Dubai. For some reason, my cherubic valentine of the Atlantic shore had started denigrating my overburdened heart. Something inside me, started saying that I was not going to see my ‘ Atlantic angel ‘-- my cherubic valentine of the Atlantic shore. I had fantasized her for years and 3 years ago, when I finally met her, she turned out to be more enigmatic than I could have ever imagined her to be. I was a foreigner in her land --- but she never treated me as one. I remember those silent nights with her where she would pour drizzles of love, allaying me from the sun’s heat. In the dawn, she looked like an azure empress, preened 

in purple gown with trails of mauve and black. She was coquettish in her manners and carried a certain elegance in her which allured me , making me forget about Tilottama. Honestly, I didn’t miss her. Not a 

single day, I would remember her. I knew, I was going to return back to her. Was this sense of security actually playing with my mind in my acts of remembering? I thought I was enjoying the best of both worlds. The only thing I didn’t know was that I was , consciously or unconsciously, practicing the act called : compromise. My ‘ Atlantis angel ‘ was an empress in her own way--- graceful, genial and gorgeous. She was more of a queen, rather than a servile wife like Tilottama, continuously keeping everything at my finger’s

reach. My ‘Atlantis angel’ would let me explore --- something which I loved but I was never lost. I would look at her with awe feeling the soft sands of her skin. She would make love to me, in ways, pretty outré , 

making me lose my way in her heart. When it was time for me to leave her, I cried. Yes !! I did cry but we did not have any option. We had to part. When I came back to Tilottama, it occurred to me that I have fallen in love with my Tilottama again. 

 (III)

Let me leave for I will come again,

Let me drown in love, let us feel the pain;

Tell me, will you not miss me??

 Homesickness is not love, by now, I have become pretty sure of it. Then again, what is it ? What I have understood is that, it is the sense of security which I find in Tilottama. No matter where I go, when I come 

back to Tilottama, she would remain the same. But leaving Lemon pricks the thorns of guilt within me. I am going to come back this time but the preparations I am taking to leave next year? I understand, my priorities are changing and for some reason, I rue to bring forth this fate on Lemon. Sometimes, we are bound to fulfill our responsibilities. My eyes could see the flickering candles of Wichita. Wichita is calling me and I am bound to leave. I have no option but to accede to her call. Wichita needs me. And I know, when I come back, my Kolkata Tilottama will remain the same. She will nourish me in the same way she has done and if I leave for the next time, she won’t forbid me. May be, my pet bird Lemon will get used to my absence and maybe, then, I will miss being missed !!

About the Author :

She is a research scholar in the Department of Comparative Literature, Jadavpur University, India. She loves to write and read as well. Creativity means everything to her, be it composing poetry or cooking or even photography. She travels a lot and enjoys learning new languages. She derives her inspiration from different spheres of life, including her little sunshines, her two pet birdies , dogs and cats. 

Please visit her blog and she will be extremely grateful to receive your comments and criticism. Be creative. Stay blessed.

  

My Platinum Day Of Love by Nikita Soni

artist : sachin venkatesh

It was a cold and foggy night. The one that comes only in the month of mid December here in Madhya Pradesh and as I stood alone at a deserted bus stop, I couldn't help but chant the “Hanuman Chalisa” fervently wishing for a bus. The preference for an A.C. bus had long ago been replaced by the necessity for any bus. After all beggars can’t be choosers.

I was regretting my decision of taking a short, previously unexplored route to my home, one that no one had seemed welcoming enough to take other than the stupid me who had ignored all my friends’ warnings and taken off to catch a bus from Indore which would take me straight to Lucknow rather than taking one from the college to Jhansi and then from Jhansi to Lucknow which we usually took. But it was too late now and I could not return to the college as there was no transport in sight. I was stranded here with no company apart from the thick swirling fog which gave an eerie sensation of impending doom.

“It’s so fitting. Ava you deserve to be stranded.” 

I scolded myself and again regretted my decision to leave alone. I had just wanted to get away from everyone as quickly as possible. After all what was left for me there to stay any longer. The man of my dreams had left with just a dry goodbye and no indication of any sadness on parting from me. Meanwhile I, being the fool that I was, felt hollow. The course had ended and with it my hope that Ajay loved me too as I did had also died. He had seemed too eager to leave and start his new life in which I felt I had no place.

A sob escaped my lips as I thought of all the times I had felt my heart flutter when he was near and had desperately hoped for his care to be anything but platonic. Suddenly I was jerked from my reverie by the sound of a car door opening and then a loud sound as it was banged shut.

As the unwelcome thoughts of kidnapping to assault to mugging ran through my mind, I heard loud footsteps coming towards me through the thick fog that had enveloped everything leaving me more aware of my other senses. My heart started thumping loudly and my blood roared in my ears. I felt trapped. There was nowhere to run and the footsteps were getting nearer with each passing second. It seemed like the person was running now.

“Oh God! What do I do? Please God save me and I promise once I reach home I will treat you with one kg of besan laddoos.”

I coaxed and begged God to listen as I crouched behind the bench hoping that whoever it was, would leave.  I could not see the person (I had my eyes shut and I was busy chanting the names of all 33 million Hindu Gods) but I could feel him standing just on the other side of the bench. He was muttering something about someone being stupid and impulsive and once he got his hands on that someone he would wring his neck.

I was trying very hard to concentrate and make my prayers reach God so that the first time I heard my name I thought God himself was speaking and before I could repeat my prayer once more I was suddenly pulled upright and someone shouted my name.

“Help!” I rasped. My throat had suddenly gone very dry.

“Ava! Listen to me. It’s Ajay.”

But I was not listening. My brain had shut down and my worst fears had come true. I was sure I was going to get assaulted and couldn't even shout. Even my voice had deserted me. As I kicked and bucked I was conscious of strong hands imprisoning me and someone shouting. But I wouldn't open my eyes. I had one thought and one thought alone which was to run.

“Wait and listen stupid! I am Ajay. Open your eyes dammit.” He shouted.

Through the haze of fear I heard my name repeated once more and opened my eyes. I blinked again and again but every time I saw Ajay. But that was impossible. He would have left hours ago for Gwalior to catch his train to Delhi yet here he was staring at me like he suspected I had lost my mind.

“Ajay?” I croaked.

“Yes, Ajay. Thank God!” He blew out his held breath as his eyes searched me for any possible damage.

“What are you doing here?” I was still incredulous and not sure if he was still here or my eyes had just conjured him up.

“I should ask you the same question.” He glared daggers at me.

“What were you thinking? Taking off alone like this? It was fortunate that I heard of this stunt of yours and came looking for you.” He scolded me while his eyes flashed.

He was so handsome with wavy black hair and coal black eyes set in a fair and soft face. He was constantly saying something and I guessed none of it was praise for me but still I was mesmerized by his beauty. He was so tall. I thought more than at least a foot taller than me and yet so gentle as he held me. He was my best friend.  I smiled as I remembered the first time I had met him. It was our “Professional Development” class and we had been divided into groups of five. Ajay came in our team but he was so shy. He hardly said a word and sat quietly. Later I came to know that he was shy of girls and could not talk to them. Our first interaction started with chatting on “Yahoo messenger”. Ajay, it seemed, had no problem talking through social media, it was only face-to-face that troubled him. As we started talking it became clear that he was a very interesting person with varied tastes and was a very good listener which I knew for a fact as he would listen patiently to my nonstop chatter for hours and hours and I was already known as a talkative person and had often been told that I could talk nonstop on anything under the sun! Our talks became a constant and much anticipated time of the day. Slowly Ajay was opening to me and we even tried talking face-to-face which I think went really well since it was only me talking and him listening!! 

Now after two years, he was totally at ease in my company and I really believed that he thought of me as a friend though how I wished he would consider me more. I don’t know when I started falling for him but I had fallen pretty hard. He was still talking and I could see his mouth moving.

“Are you listening?” He shook me.

“Are you okay? Speak up dammit.”

“I am fine. What are you doing here?” I asked meekly. He was really angry and it somewhat sacred me because Ajay never got angry. He was a taciturn and calm person.

“I came for you. I don’t know what you were thinking. Come now. I have a cab waiting.” He told me while taking my luggage and pushing me deeper in the fog. A cab was waiting and as we sat he told the driver to take us to the train station.

“Why are we going to the train station?” I still felt as if all this was a dream.

He muttered something unintelligible.

“Why do think? We will take a train to the next station and hopefully get a bus to Lucknow or any city on its route from there.”

“But why are you going to Lucknow? You live in Delhi.” I justified thinking that he needed to get his memory refreshed.

“I know I live in Delhi.” He snapped.

“Then why are you going to Lucknow?” 

Everything was looking so unreal to me that I felt in a trance. My heart was still beating a little faster which scared me. The thick fog outside the cab windows and the shifty eyed cab driver were no solace either. I was feeling cold and uneasy which was odd. I had always felt safe with Ajay. 

Could it be that this was not Ajay but a ghost? 

I had heard of stories where people swore they had seen someone they knew but in reality that person was not there and this mostly happened on a cold foggy night!

“Stop it! Stop it!” I chanted and tried to shut down my overactive imagination.

I was shivering now.

“What is it?” Ajay was worried. I could see his eyes narrowing and seeking an answer to my uneasiness.

“You are here?” I whispered.

“OMG Ava!” He whispered and suddenly I was in his arms.

“Of course I am here. See.” He said as he got away from me and straightened, waving a hand at his body.

“I heard about how you had left alone to take a direct bus from Indore and I knew I could not let you go alone so I came.” He flashed his mega watt smile at me.

Now my heart was thumping for another reason. He had come for me, for just a friend. I could not believe it. I had to know. Know if I was just a friend or something more. This was my last chance before we separated forever and so, taking a deep breath and the biggest risk of my life, I asked.

“Why did you come?”

“I told you just now. I heard that you had …” I interrupted him by raising my palm to make him stop and asked again.

“No, why did you feel you had to come? I could go on my own?”

“Yeah, I can see how you could go on your own.” He laughed like I had cracked a joke. This angered me. Here I was with my heart on my sleeve and breaking every possible rule of the society by asking a boy how he felt about me and he thought this was a joke!

“Who am I to you that you think I need your protection? You are not my keeper.” I lashed out.

“But I mean to be.” His answer was so low that I barely heard it.

“What? What did you say?” I asked between the loud roaring going on in my ears and the banging of my heart against my ribs.

He straightened even more and looked me in the eye.

“I said that I hope to be your protector and your keeper. I love you Ava. Marry me.”

I wasn't sure I had heard correctly. The drop dead handsome and the one, who had captured my heart so long ago, loved me!

My heart soared with happiness and as I looked at him I saw the sincerity and the doubt he had. Hell! Who could have believed that this so-sought-after boy could love me, a plain Jane?

“Well. What is it? I just bared my heart to you and you have nothing to say?” He was getting angry for the second time in one evening which was so uncharacteristic of him. All because he cared for me! Yippee…I felt powerful and a bit smug.

“Oh, I have a lot to say.” I faked anger and saw him blanch with the light going out of his eyes.

“I am sorry. Please forget what I said. It was nothing.” He spoke in a dull and robotic voice.

“Oh, but I know it is everything I wanted to hear and more.” I told him all the while looking for a reaction.

He jerked like I had slapped him.

“What do you mean?” He looked at me with beseeching eyes like a love starved puppy.

“It means that I love you, stupid. I love you so much that sometimes I feel like I will die if you leave me. It means that I have always loved you but was never sure if you would love me back. It means that I could have jumped into the well had you asked me to jump, even once. When you left me so easily today, I died a hundred deaths and you have to pay for that.”

I shouted as I jumped across the cab seat towards him as he caught me and we both laughed. Even the shifty eyed cab driver or the fog could not daunt my happiness then.

“Why did you leave so suddenly? You didn't even say a proper goodbye.” I admonished.

“That’s because I had a surprised planned for you which thanks to you, is now spoiled.” He reprimanded me.

“What surprise?” I asked ignoring his dark eyes which now had turned even darker with an unnamed emotion sending shivers down my spine.

He cupped my chin in his palms and said, “I was going to ask your hand in marriage and seek your parent’s blessings once I reached your home. I even had a flight booked which would have got me to your place before you. But what do I get? I get to give you this, here, like this, in the back of a cab!” He shook his head as he feigned irritation but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he slipped a beautiful white band on my finger.

My eyes opened so wide that I felt they would pop right out.

“I love you, Ava. Even though you are a major pain and I never know what stunt you will pull next but what I do know is that I can’t live without you. I promise to cherish and respect you as long as I live. This band is my promise to you.”

I could not believe that all this was real. I was too shocked to formulate a proper reply to his great admission of love for me and so the best I got out was this.

“Why platinum? Why not gold or diamond?”

As soon as the words were out I cringed and was afraid of his reaction to my blunder but Ajay laughed heartily.

“It’s just my luck that out of all the fair ladies, I fell for one who instead of hugging me questions my choice of metal.”

He rolled his eyes in feigned disgust but hugged me nevertheless and said in a gentle tone.

“I chose platinum because it is eternal. Just like our love, platinum will never fade or tarnish. So it is best suited for us.”

“I will always love you.” He whispered as he stroked my ring adorned finger.

“Me too.”

I replied as I finally got the love of my life and thanked God, vowing to treat him with my promised one kg of laddoos.

My impulsive decision to travel alone got me the love confession from the man I loved. That day was truly our “Platinum Day of Love” which we made memorable with our platinum bands vowing to love and cherish each other forever.

Our parents gave us their blessings and soon we were married. Our bands of love still shine bright and each day reminds us of our promise to love each other. 

Because real love can only begin. Never end.. 

About the Author :

Nikita is a software engineer with a love for books. A book critique and a bibliophile, she happily runs a blog called Njkinny's World of Books and can also be found on Facebook, twitter, Linkedin, IndiBlogger, BlogAdda, Goodreads etc. She loves to laugh and make the best of each day.

 

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.