Trials and Tribulations by Fire

Reality

2021-04-17T17:43:00.002+05:30

I find myself standing at that juncture once again

Hands wringing, heart beating harder

Mind wandering...

They say energy goes where your attention goes

I never let my attention waver from that happy place...not even once...then why does the reality seem so bleak...why is it so tough to create an alternative

Energy spent, attention waning...I lie spent...not wanting to open my eyes to my reality.

I don't feel melodramatic today...i would rather not share, remain cooped up, silent...dreading the reality...of my being, of my silence

Making a video is easy...wiping it from someone's memory is tough...very tough

44 and going strong...

2021-02-19T14:00:00.000+05:30

What is it about age or aging that is so traumatic? Is it the realization that after a certain age, you are automatically expected to conk off.

I turned 44 today.

It is a regular day. I would say, it is just another day. Except for strangers and virtual familiar faces wishing me all the goodness in this world.

Imagine if wishes became true as soon as you say them aloud.

For some reason I have believed that I will not live beyond 45 years of age. That gives me 1 more year in this world. Sigh. Sad one? Nah.

Relief. Actually, I am quite ready to take off even today. I have seen enough, done too much...achieved zilch and am tired.

All these years, somewhere there was a hope that something will work out in the end, making it all a happy ending. But, today, no no, sometime back, it just came to me that nothing is going to change. Nothing. Nobody is going to come for me.

My reality is going to remain the same. Always. Until I leave. I don't mean leave the situation...I don't want to enter another situation...I just want out. Bas. Am done.

Am I sounding depressed? Nah. Far from it...am relieved...I have this clarity that things are not meant to be the way I had craved for, yearned for...and whatever you visualize happens...only when it is someone else...Lol. It was so funny when I sat down and laughed...hard.

No, it is quite hilarious you know...knowing all this yet going on as if life is just normal and all is hunky dory. Bah.

Life Goes On...

2019-01-16T10:32:00.000+05:30

Since the New Year, I have been in a weird mood. People who know me might nod furiously and say 'ya ya, she is like that'. Well, this is a different sort of weird.

I feel weird enough to shun some daily habits that I had imbibed, like doing rigorous Puja or cooking elaborate meals and so on. I no longer feel pressurized to be ritualistic or appear religious.

There is a certain waywardness in my mind. I do not feel like following certain rules. This statement might conjure up images of me cohorting with men of all hues in your mind. but, sadly, no, I do not mean promiscuity. I just mean the intense urge to just stay put and not follow any strictures or rules.

Somewhere between the New Year and the week after I stopped my urge to cling to the belief that God will take care of me and that a benevolent God is all I need to tide over life's ups and downs, though it seemed more like a plateau and absolutely no ups.

Do I mean the absence of an opportunity to throw an offspring on this earth? Well, not really. I also realized recently that I do not have the deep interest to become maternal in any sense, be it for a whining baby or for a grown up adult choosing to throw temper tantrums.

Between the urge to scream and holler at anybody who cared to cross my path and to become Budhha-like, I drew a line and withdrew. The life that I have chosen for myself would be child-free and full of things that I want to do or maybe I have dreamt myself doing. Strangely, whenever I picture myself doing something that I love, I am always alone. I do not have someone standing near me throwing an arm over my shoulder or holding me by my waist. I don't because I feel complete by myself, or am I so selfish I cant think anything beyond me? Is that a sign of things to come? I do not know. The weirdness goes on...unabated, unbridled, like me.

New Year 2019 and Colette

2019-01-01T09:48:00.000+05:30

Who watches a movie on Jan 1st?

I do. I do.

For the want of anything worthwhile to hold my attention, I got up early and after stuffing my face with an omelette and slurping some coffee, I started watching movies. I plan to watch atleast two, hence the plural usage.

I like this time of the day. Calm. Quiet. No distractions. No disturbances. No duties.

I am watching 'Colette' as I write this blog post. It is about a middle-aged writer Willy who marries a young Colette and after a while realizes that she has a natural talent for writing. I somehow felt so kicked by this whole idea, I started watching the movie, ignoring the pile of clothes lying in front of me, the ironed clothes begging to be arranged, and the maid who is showing signs of vanishing. Nada. I dont care what chores are pending. I want to watch. And I am going to watch.

Digital Detox

2018-10-04T14:10:00.000+05:30

Came back after receiving a almost crushing verdict. But, this is not something I have not known before. My eggs. Which has a direct correlation with things like my ego, my identity, and my self esteem.

I came back home, shed some tears, unloaded my agony on two applications and felt better after deactivating both. Whatsapp deleted, FB deactivated. Task over. Has my problem gone away? No. Its there in my head. It wont go easily.

I have no interest in interacting with anyone. I dont have anything to say to anyone. I dont want to listen to anyone. I just want to mope.

Why me? Why always me?

The bitterness of my interactions has left such a deep scar that everything I touch has become bitter and venomous. I feel like a reptile sometimes.

On top of this, I am expected to respond to two job offers. Do I even look like I care about taking either of them? I don't. This is not what I want. But, I need to. I have to. I must. But, this must is what is killing me. I tried many things. Nothing seems to be tailor made for me. Things that I try and accomplish after a struggle seem to be just the basics for others. They do it with a backhand. How cruel is that?

I picked up fights with two popular ladies. Why? Because I envy them. Somehow I feel they do not deserve the praise and fame they are getting.
But then who am I to judge whether they deserve it or not. What have I achieved? Even 1% I haven't achieved. Then I don't have the right to point fingers at people like them.

Envy has made such a strong hole inside my brain, I use it as an excuse to show how pitiful my state is and how lucky others are.

I am in a weird state of mind and I just dont feel like interacting with anyone lest I vomit more poison on them.

I am such a pathetic sample of humanity that I have even lost count of the depravities I have conjured up. My twisted brain and my uneven sorry existence.

Is there anything good? I am no longer sure.

I feel obsessed with someone who is happy in their life. I read up all BS on the net and try to use them to strong arm them into my life. What the fuck am I even doing?

Why can't I accept the fact that I can never become a parent. Ever. Donor eggs belong to the donor, not me.

I can't accept it. I feel let down. All my life, I have waited waited for the moment when I would be able to hear a tiny being's steps, its gentle snores...feel love for a being that would come out of me, look like me. But, no...

My body has betrayed me. My luck has betrayed me. My mind is not working anymore. I can't write anymore. I have stopped existing long back.

Why the hell did He put me in this fucking world? Maybe to tickle himself and see what a human without an ability to procreate can do.

Some well-meaning friends with umpteen kids of their own give me advise. Of course, they feel empathetic. They want me to feel better. I understand. I appreciate. End of the day, it is BS.

That's what it is. BS.

When you can't procreate, people give you, they feed you all sorts of crap. Even strangers tell you how difficult it is to clean poo, vomit etc. Who the fuck asked them for opinions? Astounds me, all the time. Being immune to such 'cute advice' I just nod. Hoping that they would just shut the fuck up and let me mope.

Ok. Officially, I give up. Today is the day I stop believing crap about faith and hope and everything under. It is just nice beautifully packed BS. And I am done.

Table for One by Neha Bindal

2018-08-09T09:35:00.001+05:30

Table for One was sent by the Publisher.

The book cover looked very interesting. Also, the plot about a lone woman travelling by herself was intriguing. A very different tale where the show-don't-tell rule has not been used at all. It is written in a linear manner, which gives an impression that the author is sitting and monotonously narrating the story to an audience.

I love travelling. I love stories for the same reason. They take me to different places, allow me to be different people. This book is apparently about Taara's journey to realize that self-love is an important aspect of life. There are times when one has to do what one does not want to. It is important to be real and honest and not succumb to external pressure and expectations. Taara's story is all about discovery. Travel to Europe with Taara and understand the importance of weaving in nuances in storytelling. On the lines of Queen, but with Europe as a backdrop, Table for One seems like a brave attempt to tell a story about a single woman traveler. Sometimes there are instances when one must keep aside the stars and do what one must do. I am giving the book 4 stars.

Borrow this book today.

The Pain

2018-08-08T10:03:00.001+05:30

This pain.
Searing through my mind, my brain, my heart, my cells.
Scorching and unrepenting, sucking the life force out of me.
It suffocates, holds me captive.
I turn around to see the source of my distress.
Inky blackness around.
I close my eyes once, willing this to vanish.
It remains, grinning devilishly.
This pain.

Wind knocked out from the body.
Eyes poured in.
Mind chilled with the intensity of an arctic storm.
Heart gouged out from its place.
What you achieve with one gaze
Strong enough to cause tsunamis
Light enough to float a feather
This pain.

I bear it all in good grace
Grin and carry on with my head held high
Not to be knocked down by you
Not to be razen again. Again.
This pain.

Time is a great healer, they said.
Time ran a smooth hand on my wounds, softening the blow you gave.
I stood up, dusted myself, built myself.
You tore it all down, with just a gaze. The pain, that rushed into my cells.
The pain. Of hurt, of terror, of heartbreak, of sorrow, of being pulled apart.

Only thing remains is the pain.
The pain.
Which refuses to go away now.

Despondency

2018-02-23T16:05:00.000+05:30

Despondency...

I am going down somewhere, like Alice went down the rabbit hole
Words, I thought were my strength
Not I realized today
No one wants to read what I write
I am becoming despondent, frustrated, disillusioned

Finding it hard to slog on, keep writing
Wonder how people keep writing in the face of such rejections

Multiple times, always...
Wonder till when

Book Review: Amulya Malladi's books

2018-02-08T13:14:00.001+05:30

If you have ever felt consumed by the need to know more about an author or get into their minds through their writing, you would perfectly understand my situation.

Amulya Malladi did this to me. I read all her books back to back within couple of weeks.

A few I downloaded using my Kindle Unlimited subscription, a couple I purchased. I was so enamored by the lady's style of writing that I just had this weird compulsion to read everything I could lay my hands on. Easy to read, laid back yet fast paced, no mincing of words, her words felt like honey after the blatant abuse my mind had undergone after reading a few pieces of total shit.

I treated her books like little treats. To be consumed when I was down or had just completed a strenuous task. It did my spirits a lot of good. Be it "The Mango Season", "A House for Happy Mothers", "A Breath of Fresh Air", or "The Copenhagen Affair" I lapped up everything that Amulya offered.

Each story was unique, fresh, and offered (I felt) a slice of what Amulya had seen in her eventful life. There are these times when an author views incidents around her as if they are happening on TV. A sense of total detachment can be felt. Amulya took me through a similar journey. In each of her book, I felt complete empathy with the protagonist, in fact, I could sense their misery or dismay. Such was the impact.

This certainly doesn't qualify as a book review, but I surely do recommend all her books to anyone who stumbles upon this post.

Book Review: The Queen of the Comeback by Nidhika Bahl

2018-01-16T09:06:00.003+05:30

There is thing about self-help books: most of them repackage existing facts. How smartly they pull this off makes all the difference. So is the case with 'The Queen of the Comeback' by Nidhika Bahl.

Author: Nidhika Bahl
Name of the book: The Queen of the Comeback: 7 Ways for anyone to bounce back from life's obstacles
Publisher: Black Card Books
Genre: Self-Help/Personal Growth/Success
Pages: 226

Here is what I think:

I got this book as a review copy from the publishers in exchange for an honest review. I read this book in spurts only because that was all I could manage to do at that time. Honestly.

The book is divided into 7 chapters and the last chapter has 7 sections, each containing an inspiring tale of a survivor. Some famous names include Anurag Kashyap, Kanika Tekriwal, and Patricia Narayan.

So, after I completed Chapter 1: The Wake-Up Call, I decided to take a break. I chewed on the ideas I had just read. After a few hours, I picked up the book again and read a couple of chapters, taking time to internalize the ideas and thoughts described in detail.

I took around 3 days to complete the book. It was certainly an effort because I usually read books pretty fast. I had to deliberately take it slow and work on the suggestions provided by the author, use them and see if they work for me. I am yet to make it a habit so I would not comment on the efficacy, but it is certainly a good start.

The first thing that pointed at the exclusivity of this book was the dedication: "This book is dedicated to all those who are battling with the dark days and think they are alone." They had me there. It felt raw and so close to home.

All of us have been there, haven't we? The darkness within all of us, it does take a heavy toll and it remained to be seen if Nidhika offered any hope or was it again another tall tale? Let me continue. The quote printed at the top of each chapter beginning is bang on. Chapter 1 had: "The only people without problems are those in cemetries" - Tony Robbins. Well, how true, isn't it?

Sample another one:
Jim Rohn says, "If you don't design your own life plan, chances are you'll fall into someone else's plan. And guess what they have planned for you? Not much."

That was some cool advice!

I read the first few pages easily. Reason #1 being the fluidity of language. It is easy to read. It sits well on your nerves and allows you to assimilate the information without stressing you out. I paused when I read this: "Life is difficult for everyone. This is the greatest truth of all, and once we truly see it, we transcend it." Nothing could be clearer than this. It is always our problems and our depression that we swim in, giving no consideration whatsoever to others or even loved ones, never once allowing others the benefit of the doubt that maybe they are also going through a similar, or maybe a more difficult time. We tend to gloat about our miseries and ignore the obvious distress calls from loved ones. It is sad but it is the truth. So, it hit me hard when I read this line, "Once we truly know and accept that life is difficult for everyone around us, then life is no longer difficult." I did have trouble accepting that one. I mulled over it for a while before deciding to move on. It was yet to be seen if this book would give me something worthwhile.I continued my journey with Nidhika and paused to reflect on the quotes brilliantly interspersed. When I reached Chapter 7, I paused again, to assimilate all that I had learned rather re-learned. You see, all this information, this is not new. We all have heard it from someone, teacher, parents, a well-meaning mentor, or that babaji on TV. But, how much do we actually practice? Nah, zero % maybe. Same is the case with me.

This was supposed to be a read-and-review kind of an exercise for me. I didn't realize when it became a life changing experience! Coming to the point, I would just add that THIS book is worth all the time in the world and is a must read. Whatever your situation might be, I would urge all of you to pick it up and read it at least once. If you read my blog posts, you would have seen that I have never bothered to "market" any book, including mine! But this book is a must read. This is one of the best self-help books to have hit the market in recent times.

That said, let me talk about a bit about the cover design, language, and layout.

Cover Design:
The delightful picture of the author makes you take a second look, not because she is pretty, but because of the way the picture exudes positivity. So, in my mind the design is a winner. It has effectively created intrigue and forced the audience to give the book a chance and pick it up.

Language:
Aah, my pet peeve.
The language is easy and flows very well. Simple English words and no flowery terms used here.

Layout:
The chapters are laid out very well, making it simpler for the reader to understand and assimilate all this information. The quotes and images interspersed within the chapters make for delightful and easy reading. The book doesn't feel heavy despite having 226 pages. The font is easy on the eye and the story of a Chennai entrepreneur, Patricia Narayan, a surprise element for readers from Chennai.

Ratings are here:
Ease of reading: 5/5
Worth the moolah: 4.5/5
Must read factor: 5/5

About the Author
Link 1: Talks about how Nidhika Bahl associates with Yamaha Fascino Miss Diva 2017 as Life Coach

Link 2: Her website

Book Review: The Goat Thief by Perumal Murugan

2017-12-08T19:49:00.000+05:30

Name: The Goat Thief
Author: Perumal Murugan
Translator: N. Kalyan Raman
Publisher: Juggernaut
Pages: 205
A lot of interest gets generated when a celebrated author comes under intense scrutiny for his ideas offered in the public arena. Media hyperventilated on the issue of Perumal Murugan's offering, One Part Woman, hurting the sentiments of a particular community.
Perumal Murugan's latest offering, The Goat Thief, translated by N. Kalyan Raman, and published by Juggernaut, is a collection of short stories. Each story is similar to a different emotion in the bouquet called life. A master storyteller, Perumal Murugan, has woven tales around household objects like a salt shaker, the rice vat, the toilet pot, and so on and engaged the reader with the finesse of a magician.
Each story is unique in presentation and relates to the mundaneness of our daily lives. Readers can relate very well to one or most stories. Like a master craftsman wielding his instrument, Perumal Murugan has beautifully crafted each piece, with care. Most of us are capable of allotting multiple facets to our lives and he has ably captured this in his stories. Be it The Well, The Wailing of a Toilet Bowl, or Shit, the mundane and often ignored objects are highlighted and accorded almost a fantasy-like state.

There are 10 short stories in this compilation called 'The Goat Thief'. N. Kalyan Raman, has done a fine job of translating the stories. Somewhere, I believe, the original language in which an author pens his thoughts and weaves a story is what often retains the core essence of the tale. In The Goat Thief, the translation effort, I feel, has somehow imbued the thoughts of the translator or even the pressures of using certain terminologies, thereby, diluting the impact of the words that the original Tamil words might have had on the readers' psyche. Though a fine product, retaining the simplicity with which Perumal Murugan originally writes without falling prey to the use of heavy English words would infuse more life into a few stories. Some words, I feel, would have had a different impact on the reader if delivered in Tamil, as compared to when read in English. I agree that English has a wider reach and translated works help carry the words of a writer to different audiences.

Overall, I feel, The Goat Thief, is a great effort. The nuances of the characters in each story has come out beautifully like a well-cooked meal, which retains the flavor of each ingredient yet fulfills the soul's hunger.

My verdict: A must read
Rating: ****

Thank you Juggernaut for sending me this book in return for an honest review.

Book Review: A Hundred Little Flames by Preeti Shenoy

2017-12-08T17:56:00.002+05:30

Name of the book: A Hundred Little Flames
Author: Preeti Shenoy
Publisher: Westland
Pages: 400
Ease of reading: 4/5
Time to complete: 3-4 hours
Preeti Shenoy, the name invokes images of stories about women going off to complete their to-do lists, dealing with abandonment, and the usual brouhaha about worthless men and loyal wives. Preeti nailed it more than once with her heart-wrenching stories.
AHLF is the story of Aryan and his grandpa, Gopal Shanker. Aryan travels from Pune to a remote village in Kerala and starts living with Gopal. Their lives intermerge and Aryan discovers little endearing things about himself, his father, and his grumpy grandpa.
Like how old houses are built to take you on a journey to another world, in this story too, Aryan and Gopal traverse back in time to unravel certain forgotten memories. During the course of their daily conversations, Aryan discovers facets of his near and dear ones and marvels at the way relationships change once harsh truths surface.
Jairaj, Gopal's son and Aryan's father, is a domineering arrogant man with a plan of his own. He tries manipulating his aging father to accede to his demands without thinking about the old man's wishes and convenience. Gopal starts mentioning Rohini making Jairaj fume and Aryan wonder. The story unfolds beautifully after this.
A few months is all it takes for Aryan to understand the true nature of people he has spent his lifetime with, namely, his parents, his aunt, and understand the affection that his grandpa has for him. Aryan is forced to confront the worst: greed and deception in order to save his grandpa from the clutches of money-minded goons.
Aryan settles in the Kerala village enough to let it soothe his hurt and help him evolve: into a better person and understand where his joy lies. While traversing the memory lane with his grandpa, he also encounters Shivani, a girl with a past. Though there is an attraction, Aryan is not yet ready to leave behind his apprehension about relationships and move on. After his little tryst with his Grandpa's past memoirs, Aryan wishes for a relationship that. Aryan discovers some neatly written diaries written by Gopal and reads them with great curiosity and rides the memory lane, recalling his vacations and his adventures with his cousin, Nithya. Many unanswered questions throng the mind of the 26-year old Aryan, making him rebel against his domineering father. Some decisions are life changing. But, mostly, all decisions are to be taken keeping in mind the sensitivities of other people and family members of course. When one forgets to tread this path lightly, destruction of relationships and sorrow follows leaving in its wake broken hearts and bleeding wounds. Gopal Shanker rediscovers the love of his life with the help of his grandson Aryan and Aryan discovers the courage to take the correct steps in his life after coming to Thekke Madom.
All's well that ends well, they say.
When certain words need to be said in order to heal wounds, one needs to deliver them at the right moment. Else, if the time goes by, that moment goes by and leaves behind a mist. A mist of uncertainty. Preeti's story-telling abilities are one of a kind. Among her peers, Preeti stands out because of her simplicity and her eagerness.
Her narrative is always easy to read devoid of heavy sounding words that serve no other purpose than to show off the dictionary-rummaging skills of the author.
Rating: ****
Verdict: A must read for all those who love a nice heart-tugging story written Preeti-ishtyle

Short Story: Kalyani

2017-10-30T22:38:00.001+05:30

Kalyani stared hard at the envelope she was clutching in her hands. Her legs were going to give up soon, she knew. She was running as fast as she could. The postmaster’s house seemed light years away, though she had been running only for the past five minutes. Her mother, Bhairavi, had instructed her to get the contents of the letter read. The Postmaster had come by when her mother was bathing at the ghat. Kalyani had gleefully received the letter, forgetting to get it read. Bhairavi, on her return, had slapped Kalyani on her back chiding her for this miss. So, it was more like a penance for her slip. Kalyan, her brother older by a few years, had watched all this silently, munching on his akki roti, a glee pasted on his cherubic face.

Little Kalyani, all of seven, ran like the wind. After covering a few hundred metres she realized the futility of her exercise. The lure of the jaggery-dipped sweetmeat had pushed her into agreeing for this errand. If only she could turn back the clock, she thought ruefully.

Now, now, she chided herself. A few more kilometres more and she would reach the thatched roof building with the red bricks. Kalyani had never ventured into the main village by herself. She had always visited the village either with her mother or brother.

That fatty Kalyan, she thought, with fury. Couldn’t he have volunteered to go? Her little feet were aching now. Her heart beat like the drum they played during the festival for the Goddess with thousand arms. Kalyan must be filling his tummy with the jaggery-coated sweetmeat, she was sure. Mentally kicking herself for the stupidity, Kalyani ran faster.

Finally, when Kalyani reached the Postmaster’s house, she collapsed on the steps. She was exhausted. She was thirsty. On top of her physical exertion, the Gods seemed to be playing with her. The door was padlocked indicating that the Postmaster had stepped out for his rounds. She decided to wait for a few minutes before making the twenty minute trip back home.

How long have you been walking, asked a booming voice, making Kalyani jump out of her skin. She turned to face a brown-skinned man wearing a red coat staring down at her. She stared at his coat. In this region, nobody wore a coat. Moreover, nobody wore a red coat. She stared at him defiantly and remained mum. Her mother had taught her not to talk to strangers. This one was surely a stranger.

He repeated his question after lowering his tall and well-built frame down on the Postmaster’s house steps. Kalyani turned to look at the man’s face. She bent her head and stared at the envelope in her hand.

The Postmaster won’t return for the next half an hour, he went out just now, the man informed without waiting for Kalyani’s response. A startled Kalyani stared at the man’s face, thoughts churning in her young brain.

Half an hour! That gundu Kalyan will eat her share. She could not wait that long, she had to do something!

Do you know to read, she asked. This was the first time she had spoken to a stranger. And, if he was at the Postmaster’s house, he must be from the village. Maybe he was the new husband of Gauri Akka, her portly neighbour. Gauri had re-married and had shared delicious sweets with Bhairavi. Kalyani had not seen her husband but since the man looked new in the village, she assumed he must be the groom.

I can, what do you want me to read? The man asked, looking pointedly at the letter in her hand. Before Kalyani could make up her mind whether she could trust the contents of the letter from her father to a stranger, the man took the envelope and opened it. He then slid the letter out with his slim fingers. It was a white sheet of paper with a few dried rose petals folded neatly inside. The man carefully dropped the petals into the envelope and handed it back to Kalyani.

He then started reading the letter aloud without waiting for Kalyani’s approval. She did feel offended, but the urgent nature of the situation demanded that she take on a broader view and allow the man to take liberties. And if he was actually Gauri Akka’s new husband, he was family and mother had said one could trust family members. Her mind put to rest; Kalyani slid closer to the man and peered at the letter.

Kalyani rewarded him with a dimpled smile. He was family, she was safe. Maybe he would drop her back home.

The letter was from her father, Arun Kumar who worked in Madurai at a printing press and visited regularly. Arun knew that Bhairavi would get his letter read by the Postmaster or the school teacher. Kalyan was yet to master the Alphabet to read his letters.

The man read out Arun’s letter slowly to an attentive Kalyani. The letter was addressed to Bhairavi. At one point where Arun enquired about her health and asked if she had any pain after the surgery, the man stopped and asked Kalyani if she knew anything about it. Kalyani shook her head. She had never seen her mother cry. So she didn’t have any pain. For Kalyani, crying was directly proportional to being in pain. If you were in more pain, you had to cry loudly. Kalyani knew pain. No, her mother did not have any pain.

The man continued reading. Kalyani asked the man if Arun had mentioned anything about his arrival to which the man replied in the negative. Folding the letter neatly, he handed it back to Kalyani, who immediately double folded it and stuffed it into the folds of her pavadai.

She stood up to leave, wondering if she should ask the man if he would drop her home. It was tiring to even think of walking all the way back home.

Will you drop me home, she blurted, waiting for a refusal. The man smiled and held out his hand. Kalyani hesitantly placed her small hand in his, which he held firmly but not tightly. Kalyani immediately felt safe. He was no stranger.

Kalyani and the man made an odd pair, walking hand in hand through the partly deserted yet inhabited streets of the small village.

It was yet another typical village where everyone knew everyone. Kalyani walked without complaining of leg pain till they were intercepted by the grocer, Murugan, who wanted to know where Kalyani was headed to with a stranger.

Kalyani immediately jumped to answer the question, which was directed at the man. Kalyani failed to notice, mainly due to her age that the man looked distinctively uncomfortable when stopped by Murugan, who was in a hurry.

They walked on. After a few steps, Kalyani enquired about the mode of transport, which she was sure the man possessed. He smiled gently and told her that they had to walk to a friend’s shop from where they would pick up the man’s cycle and then they could be on their way home.

The village had a typical layout. It had a chowk with vendors of all sorts selling their wares, a makeshift hospital, a police station, a post office, and a small school. The houses were scattered around the chowk in a radius of 50-100 metres. It was set like concentric circles, owing to which it was called Uranda Puram.

Kalyani’s house was located away from the main village, where people from her community lived in forced seclusion, and followed their inherent rules and rituals. Kalyani was yet to understand these social divisions and largely remained immune to these sentiments.

The man pedalled hard, unlike Arun, Kalyani’s father, who would pedal slowly and always ensured Kalyani wasn’t feeling scared. The man was also sweating now, which Arun never did. Kalyani had a thing for bad odours, she suffocated on bad odours. Bhairavi called her a princess because of this.

Kalyani gripped the sides of the wildly swaying cycle with both hands and closed her eyes tightly. She was very scared she would fall and break her teeth. Bhairavi had told her that if she lost her teeth no man would marry her. Kalyani didn’t want to lose her teeth. Another worry now niggled at Kalyani. She had begun to forget the contents of the letter. She would ask the man once they reached home, she decided.

It was already dusk and the wind was carrying slight traces of moisture indicating a shower in the night. Kalyani smelled the wind the way her brother had taught her to but could go no further because he hadn’t told her what she could gather from the smell. The list of questions she had for different people kept growing in her head. She held onto the bar with all her life. The cycle was going on a dusty road and she was feeling very scared. Kalyani slightly opened her eyes and was taken aback to find herself on a deserted dark road. There was no light anywhere. All she could smell was the sweat from the man pedalling hard with his hands around her gripping the cycle handle. His rough arms were beginning to brush against her sides and the wind was making her pavadai fly in all directions.

Kalyani wondered if this was a shortcut and demanded to know. The man remained silent and answered with a curt, we will reach soon.

Then suddenly, the man stopped. There was nothing in sight, only the light from the cycle throwing a dim halo on the dark road. Kalyani slipped down apprehensively looking up at the man. Had the tyre burst? What happened and why had they not reached home yet.

Come on, we have reached our destination the man said and roughly pulled her hand. A loud scream left her parched throat, surprising Kalyani. She struggled against the strong grip but to no avail. The man held on and dragged her towards what seemed like a shack. Kalyani had never come to this place. She had no idea where she was. Weird thoughts clouded her mind.

Her doll was lying near the cot, outside, in the verandah. If she was not rescued on time, she might get drenched.

Her mother would be worrying about her.

Kalyan would have gobbled up all the sweets.

They reached the shack and the man opened the lock on the door with a key tied to a rope around his waist and pulled Kalyani inside. She struggled against his tight hold and tried to bite him like how Bhairavi had taught her.

The man took no notice of her struggle and continued to pull her. Inside, it was well lit and Kalyani noticed that there was a cot, a small chair, a stove, and a pot for water. There was another door at the far corner, which also had a padlock. The man pulled Kalyani towards the second door and opened it with a similarly placed key.

Kalyani was now petrified and had no energy left to even shout. Her throat was dry and her tears were refusing to fall from her already puffy eyes. She had started crying aloud somewhere outside and had not stopped yet. The man seemed to know exactly what he was doing and calmly continued with his activities ignoring her pleas.

Kalyani realized a bit late that this man was indeed a stranger and was certainly not Gauri Akka’s new husband. She wanted to go home and cling to her mother’s bosom.

Never talk to a stranger, her mother had said.

Kalyani looked around the room. The man had left after tying her hands and mouth with cloth. He was still around. Kalyani could hear him.

After what seemed like eternity, he returned to the room, closed the door, and undressed. She watched horror-struck as he stepped closer and made Kalyani smell a handkerchief.

She blacked out.

Bhairavi was going mad with worry. Her little girl had not returned. It was almost three hours since she had gone to the Postmaster’s house, just outside the village.

Kalyan had been dispatched to the Postmaster’s house to look for his sister. He had returned and reported that the Postmaster had not seen Kalyani. He had met the school teacher though who had informed Kalyan about the gang who kidnapped little girls and sold them. Kalyan had rushed home to inform his mother about a possible kidnapping. Though he was unsure why anyone would kidnap his irritating little sister.

Bhairavi rushed to her neighbour Gauri’s house to make a telephone call to Arun at the press. He was on a night shift most days and would be available. She recounted with horror and rising fury at her stupidity for sending the little girl on an errand. Arun calmly listened to her and offered several suggestions. Maybe she would have stopped somewhere and gone off to sleep. She might have stopped at some friend’s place, did you search in her friends’ place. Yes, replied Bhairavi, her worry mounting with each passing second. She knew in her heart that her child was in immense danger and was calling out to her. She had to look for her. She made her husband promise that he would catch the early morning bus and come to the village, which he did. He was also worried, far removed from the situation that he was. Where could she have gone, he wondered. Theirs was a small settlement and everyone would know by now that Kalyani was missing. He disconnected the call after promising his wife to come as soon as possible and went to inform his superior about the emergency and that he would have to rush home. After taking two days off, he set off for the bus stand to catch a late night bus to his village.

The burly policeman twirled his thick black moustache and glared at the man and his wife sitting on their haunches in front of him. They had been going on and on about how someone had kidnapped their daughter and how they wanted him to help them. The policeman had been informed by his deputy that there certainly were several reports of kidnappings of young girls in and around the area. His peer from another town had faxed him the picture of a possible suspect. The red coat stood out like a sore thumb. What choice, the policeman thought. One could easily pinpoint the man, but the face was not clear. He seemed like a priest.

The District Magistrate stared at the handwritten letter on his table. The handwriting was more than a scribble and was in Tamil. He was having difficulties reading the script though he was from this region. After giving a cursory glance because he knew the contents of the letter, he glared at the three men squatting in front of him. The burly policeman standing erect in front of him made him imagine a stiff mannequin in front of a lingerie shop.

One of the three men, as if on cue, started speaking and explained how they had been looking for his daughter and how they wanted him, the DM, to give orders to the DSP to arrest a possible suspect. The problem here was that the arrest could spark a caste issue as the suspect was from a higher caste.

The DM stared at the man, clad in a white-with-brown-splotches dhoti and a cheap polyster shirt. Why could the plaice not handle this? Now, on top of his existing troubles, he had to deal with a serial kidnapper. He had got himself transferred to this place to live a peaceful life with his new bride.

His mind was elsewhere, but he had to focus on the kidnapping. Of late, there had been a spurt in kidnappings and murders. There were some rumours about some tantric baba who carried out devil worship on full moon nights. The villagers believed that several children had been kidnapped to be sacrificed to appease the goddess. There was no proof of any such incidents and the police had not found any clues either.

The DM signed the orders asking the DSP to take necessary precaution and immediately lost interest in the missing girl and surmised that she must have ran away from home, like how the kids in these areas were prone to.

He had little or no interest in delving too deep into these regional issues. He was a devout Christian and wanted to do his job and go back to his new bride, Jessica. He was so obsessed with the woman that all he did the whole day was to fantasize about her and then rush home as soon as the clock struck five. It was already half past four and his mind was on an overdrive thinking about the positions he would try today with Jessica. He could feel an erection at the mere thought of his wife’s nubile body in his arms.

When they did not get an appropriate response from the DM, the three villagers looked at the policeman still holding his erect position. He gently cleared his throat to get the attention of the DM.

Shaken out of his reverie, the DM completed signing the order and gave the paper to the policeman who saluted smartly before herding the dhoti-clad group out of the room. They had a long way to go. The arrest could happen only tomorrow now.

Bhairavi was still sitting at the door when she saw Arun walking in, his head hung low, his shoulders slouched. It was more than 12 hours since Kalyani was missing and no one knew anything about her. Except the grocer who had seen her with a stranger, no one had seen the girl in the village. Bhairavi’s tears had dried up. She had cried till she could cry no more. Even Kalyan was getting worried now. Whatever said and done, his sister was an irritatingly adorable thing and he was attached to her.

Did the police arrest the man in the red coat, asked Bhairavi through another spate of fresh tears? Shaking his head, Arun replied in the negative. They can do it only tomorrow.

Bhairavi did not understand these rules these officers had. They could not do this, they could not do that. But, someone could just pluck a little girl from the streets and nobody could do anything. Why didn’t the thugs follow any rules? Maybe they should have a rule that they could not kidnap little girls. Arun looked up sharply at his wife. He decided that she had lost her mind due to the loss and was blabbering.

The man in the red coat was now an enigma and anyone who might have any idea, however vague it might be, was being celebrated. As is the custom during such incidents, people and their creativities were unleashed in full force. Many stories surfaced. In almost all stories, the man in the red coat was the villain and Murugan the grocer, a hero, owing to the 1-minute conversation he had had with the duo.

In one version, Murugan claimed that he had tried to pull Kalyani to safety and the man in the red coat had given him a black eye and ran off with the screaming Kalyani. Some versions had the tantric as the man wearing the red coat and carrying a drugged Kalyani on his shoulder.

Bhairavi had heard almost all the versions carefully to ensure she had not missed any information about her missing child.

She had made at least hundred trips till now to the Postmaster’s house to ensure Kalyani was not playing a game with her, teasing her. Only when the Postmaster yelled at her saying he was an adult and would not encourage such an act did Bhairavi believe that her child had indeed been snatched by someone.

Three days later, almost everyone in the village had done their bit to search for the missing girl.

In many houses in the main village and the outer settlement, there was a picture of a missing child adorned with flowers, and these mothers could relate to the sorrow Bhairavi was going through. Even the priest’s wife had enquired if Kalyani had been found. Bhairavi could not believe her eyes when the stately woman called for her from the other side of the road while Bhairavi was returning from her hundredth trip to the Postmaster’s house.

Arun had called up his boss and got his leave extended till his daughter was found. The boss explained that Arun could of course take leave and could also draw some amount from his pension to help him tide over this difficult phase. The boss also reached out to his well-heeled friends in the ministry to find out if any known offender had been spotted in these areas. None, they confirmed. The needle of suspicion now pointed only at the village tantric who had been hauled up to the local police station at least four times to be questioned. Only he seemed to have a direct motive as the full moon day was fast approaching. There was another thread connecting the tantric to the kidnapping. The local village tailor had confirmed to anybody who cared to listen, that the tantric had ordered for and received a well-stitched coat. A red coat.

That was enough for indicting the tantric. Though Murugan the grocer was adamant that he had not seen the tantric with Kalyani on the day she went missing. Another important point most people missed was the height of the suspect. The man in the red coat was a tall and well-built man, as described by the eager Murugan.

He had helped paint a picture of the man to the glee of the fawning policemen. They huddled around the grocer while he helped the police artist paint a picture, which looked like a cross between Vijaykanth and Sarath Kumar, both actors in the Tamil film industry.

The tantric was short and this point was conveniently ignored by the police and everybody else. Though the police ransacked his small hut, they did not find even a red thread, leave alone a red coat. Frustrated, the policemen had picked up the bumbling tantric and booked him, aiming to see some kind of closure and not because they had found the real culprit.

Five days later, early in the morning, the priest’s wife gave a shrill cry, waking the sleepy village and the neighbours from their deep slumbers. Kalyani’s mutilated but alive form was lying on her doorstep. When she stepped out to put the traditional kolam, the traditional drawing with rice, she tripped on the form and shrieked.

Initially, she had presumed it to be a dead body and had almost rushed inside to pour another bucket of water over her head, but decided to investigate. When she turned the body, she gave out the cry that rattled the heart beats of many a woman in the neighbourhood. In no time, Arun and Bhairavi were summoned who identified that indeed the mutilated form was their child Kalyani?

The priest had then grumbled a bit about his doorstep being made impure and that he would have to do penance but shut his mouth when he saw the DM’s car pull up. Such was the publicity of the case that the DM had been pulled out from his warm bed, hurried through the dawn hours and into the narrow roads to the priest’s doorstep. No one had bothered to cover the little girl’s nude form. She didn’t have even a stitch of cloth on her. The priest’s wife, as if on automaton, quickly grabbed a saree and wrapped the girl and made her sit up. The girl was unconscious and had deep gashes running all over her face. Bhairavi had collapsed seeing her precious child in such a ghastly form. The priest’s wife stepped out and engulfed the toilet cleaner’s wife in recognition of the sorrow the latter was feeling. A collective gasp from the crowd made them spring apart and the priest’s wife stepped aside leaving Bhairavi to mourn the fate her child had been meted out.

Such was the intensity of the situation and such was the grief that each man and each woman gathered at that spot wanted to hold the child and rock her to assure her that they were there for her.

On the DM’s arrival, Kalyani was taken to the village clinic.

The DM followed the group to the clinic in his government-sanctioned car in a slow march. The villagers gathered around the clinic and allowed Arun and his wife to enter the clinic with the newly appointed head doctor, a handsome delhi-boy with a freshly minted medicine degree hanging in his small cabin. He smiled warmly at the group and ordered his nurse to prepare the child for examination. When Arun stepped forward to accompany him, the doctor instead motioned for Bhairavi to come forward, which she did.

Kalyani was unconscious and still covered in the saree shared by the priest’s wife. Bhairavi had accepted a cotton dress given by one of the village women and dressed her daughter up. She folded the saree carefully.

The doctor nodded each time he made an observation and spoke in hushed tones to the nurse who made a note in her notepad. After their examination, the doctor asked Bhairavi to step aside and updated her of the gravity of the situation. Bhairavi knew in her heart that her child had suffered much but collapsed once she heard of the brutality meted out to the little girl by the man in the red coat.

Kalyani needed immediate surgery to ensure her complete and normal recovery, the doctor urged. At this point, the DM stepped in and urged the doctor to do whatever was possible to help the child. The administration will bear the cost, he announced, albeit a bit grandly. The head doctor nodded and asked Arun to fill up a form and submit it with his assistant. The younger doctor, he was told, could be found in a cabin next to the pantry. Arun found the other man easily and handed over the form to begin the process of Kalyani’s surgery. When Arun was stepping out of the younger doctor’s cabin, he stopped and stared at something hanging on the door, a red coat similar to the description going around.

He turned to look at the doctor and feeling his glance on him the doctor looked up and asked if he could help him with something else. Could he please stand up, Arun enquired, politely. The doctor stood up, making Arun skip a beat.

The crowd stayed put. None of them had eaten or had a sip for more than fourteen hours now. They stood there, braving the wind and the hailstorm, staring defiantly at the policemen who had been brought in to control the situation.

Arun, Bhairavi, the priest, his wife, Murugan the grocer, and the Postmaster stood in the front. The other villagers stood behind them in a semi circle, totally blocking the clinic. When night fell, they were still there. Kalyani was long dead, her cold body lying inside the clinic on a stretcher. The DM tried very hard to pacify the angry mob, but to no avail. They were baying for the young doctor’s blood. The policemen were brought in then, to control the violent mob. Not that the villagers had done any damage. They were standing there, holding hands, in a tight circle, not allowing anyone from the clinic to leave or enter. There were no in-patients in the clinic and the doctors worked till 5 pm. It was more than fifteen hours and no one had been allowed to leave. The food and water in the clinic had long since dried up. The white sheet covering the cold body of little Kalyani made the resolve of the villagers like steel. They will get her culprit to book.

The policemen had refused to book the young doctor as Kalyani’s culprit because of circumstantial evidence. Just because he possessed a red coat didn’t make him a killer, the policeman said. What he didn’t mention is that the doctor’s daddy was a rich man and had just promised a seat for the policeman’s son in his medical college.

In response, the villagers did what they felt was right, they gheraoed the young doctor before stripping him naked.

The media appeared on day twenty and the villagers and Kalyani’s fate became a national news item. Kalyani’s face was splashed on every newspaper along with the young doctor’s tight bum in full display. The villagers stood around defiantly.

The villagers did not move even an inch. They had not eaten for days now. Some of them were lying on the ground, unable to handle the hunger. Media was having a field day, baying for the police department’s blood.

On day twenty one, the DM after feeling intense heat from the ministry, which reacted due to the upcoming by elections, ordered an enquiry into the death and suspended the doctor.

On day twenty five, the crowd swelled. Other villagers joined the protest. Now, they wanted better safety programs for their kids. How could a doctor walk scot free, after indulging in such a heinous crime?

On day thirty, the administration buckled smelling huge political ramifications and ordered the police to arrest the doctor under a non-bailable section.

Life limped back to normalcy. Grocer Murugan lived long enough to recount the horror story of Kalyani and the man in the red coat.

Arun and Bhairavi returned home with Kalyan to an empty house.

Arun shifted his family to the city.

The clinic reopened and female doctors were appointed.

Book Review: Have a Safe Journey by Various Authors

2017-10-28T08:39:00.001+05:30

Name: Have a Safe Journey
Author: Various Authors
Publisher: Amaryllis
Pages: 232

The blurb:
Have a Safe Journey is probably the first compilation of short stories on the topic of road safety to be published in India.

Guest Authors:
Anand Neelakantan, Ashwin Sanghi, Kiran Manral, Pankaj Dubey, Priyanka Sinha Jha, Shinie Antony, and Vikram Kapur

Authors from the #HaveaSafeJourney contest
Ambalika, Anukriti Verma, Aritri Chatterjee, Arvind Passey, Barnali Ray Shukla, Dipali Taneja, Geetanjali Maria, Ketaki Patwardhan, Meera Rajagopalan, Ratnadip Acharya, Roshan Radhakrishnan, Roshni Chhabra, Sahar Fatima, Sanket Chaudhury, Taamra Segal, Thommen Jose, Veena Nagpal, and Vibha Lohani

Review:
The book, again like the previous book I received from Manjul Publishing, is neatly bound and has absolutely no typos and no errors. The pages are nicely printed and the font size comfortable. It sits well in your palm and the cover has a glorious image of the Himalayas and a rugged jeep. Interestingly, Mahindra Truck and Bus has two interesting images in the inside cover. I believe it is because they have collaborated with the Ministry of Road Transport & Highways to get this book out. Overall, it is a commendable effort, both from the look-and-feel perspective as well as from the conceptualization perspective.
A book with stories of road accidents is a novel concept and I am sure will be well received. I personally. havent come across a book that stresses on the importance of being safe on the roads. Going a bit further, the Ministry has collaborated with Manjul Publishing to bring a short stories collection to drive home the importance of reaching home safe to your loved ones.

Shri Nitin Gadkari, Minister for Road Transport has written a foreword where he describes a personal experience, which left him immobile for a year.

Anand Mahindra has a special message to share with the readers of the book as well. The overall idea behind this effort is to try and reduce the loss of lives on our roads.

Each story in the book is unique.

Anand Neelakantan, Ashwin Sanghi, and Kiran Manral, stalwarts in their fields, have written very engaging and relatable stories on this subject. While some stories are common, some are so heart wrenching, you would want to reach out and wipe the tears of the loved ones.

Vikram Kapur's very believable "The Level Crossing" could happen to any of us, while returning from work. An overworked, sleep-deprived driver killing his ferries is an occurrence not far from truth.

Then there is "Rush Hour" by Priyanka Sinha Jha about a woman hurrying to reach office who gets hit by a vehicle while crossing the road.

"Why we dont talk" by Shinie Antony is a bit different from the rest. It is drawn out and doesn't make much impact.

Arvind Passey's "The Street Photographer" makes you cringe, not because of the gore, but because it is so true. A man's death, which could shake some soil off some powerful people makes a few khakhi clad men jump to steady the boat. A quick transfer and the deed is done.

"Misplaced Dreams" by Barnali Ray Shukla is very visual and you can actually feel the bones breaking in the impact of the accident. The author has nailed the description.

Out of these stories, Veena Nagpal's "Girl on the Road" shook me up. It was something that could happen to any girl driving on our roads. Be it Delhi or Chennai or Bangalore, all it takes is a misplaced hurt ego and poof a life is lost, wiped out from the face of earth.

Are there any favorites? No, I liked mostly all of them. They are all stories of apathy, ego, and poor decisions. When we start from our homes, we tend to become complacent and say, "We will be fine, this is not going to happen to us." We never know what can happen once we are on the road and at the mercy of a drunk teenager, high on dope and daddy's cash. Do we wish to take such chances? This book is a must read for anyone who is particular about reducing road accidents.

Apart from posters and messages on social media, a book with stories might drive home the point of road safety in a better way is what I feel. Kudos to the team!

Rating: 4.9/5
Time to Read: 2-3 hours

Buy here:
Amazon

Book Review: I Quit, Now What

2017-10-15T00:09:00.001+05:30

Name: I Quit! Now What?
Author: Zarreen Khan
Publisher: Amaryllis
Pages: 289

Have you ever come across a story that you can relate to so well, you wonder, why you didnt write it? Yes? Well, I just completed reading a story just like that. And I was nodding like mad. It felt so true and so close to the heart.

There is thing about well-written stories. By well-written, I mean stories that are neatly packaged, have no typos or mistakes, and instantly reel you in. This story was like that. From the word go, I got hooked. To say that it is a great story would be a hype. It is not. It is a normal story, about a normal woman, about a very common occurrence. It happens to all of us, sometime or the other. Working people can relate to the story totally.

The publisher sent me the book for an honest review. And here it is. A totally honest review.

Initial thoughts:

The moment I picked up the book I felt a smile creeping up. The cover was so simple yet powerful: Yellow, pink, blue sticky notes with reminders. These notes are a bane of any corporate worker. In some offices, they are a stark reminder of the employees' non-existing personal lives. The book is neatly bound and has a nice feel. The embossed letters and the print quality add to the overall neat effect. There are two parts to the book: The Corporate Life and The Sabbatical. The blurb on the back cover piques your curiosity enough to open the book and start reading. I took 1.5 days to read it. I feel it can be read in a shorter duration also.

The actual review:

I Quit! Now What? is the story of Nimisha Arora. One fine day Nimisha goes off on a sabbatical, without a Plan B. Well, she does have a list (created in MS Excel) but it seems quite improbable as the days go by. I Quit is a story about a woman who wants to go on a sabbatical and decide on the next course of action in her life.

The story begins in Goa where Nimisha is attending her BFF Isha's wedding. After attending the wedding, Nimisha jumps right into the never ending demands of her corporate life. She works for a toy company called Toddlerz and is distressed at the very thought of working for her grumpy grouchy boss Mahesh. Working endless hours makes Nimisha want to realign her goals in life. That is when she bumps into the pregnant Nivedita who is planning to go on a sabbatical after her baby's delivery. Nimisha chews on this new thought and considers it for herself.

The story is beautifully woven around the various people who cross Nimisha's path, the frailties of relationships, and the human reactions that portray our inner battles.

The second part of the book, The Sabbatical is all about Nimisha's sabbatical. Does she actually achieve whatever she aims to or does she do something else is a question, you, my reader should find out.

All of us have at some point wanted to take a quiet break and vanish into nothingness. God promise, I certainly have wished, many a times in my corporate life. Taking a sabbatical takes a lot of courage. You must read this well-written story to find out if Nimisha succeeded in her sabbatical quest or not. Did she achieve what she wanted to or did she fail miserably?

This is a rare book, with a touching story. Zarreen Khan has a neat story around a common occurrence. Do pick this up and enjoy the moments with the headstrong Nimisha Arora.

Rating: 4.8/5
Time to read: 1 day if you are someone like me (on a sabbatical!) Or a few days if you are like Nimisha.

Buy at Amazon

Book Review: Slapstick by Kurt Vonnegut

2017-10-02T22:44:00.002+05:30

Slapstick, or Lonesome No More! is a science fiction novel written by American author Kurt Vonnegut. The book apparently was written in 1976 and depicts the author's views on loneliness.

This science fiction novel brilliantly captures the nature of the closeness Vonnegut had with his sister Alice, who died of cancer in 1958. Apparently, her husband had died in a train accident two days before her death. Kurt Vonnegut raised her children. He wrote this book after the death of his uncle. In Slapstick, Vonnegut imagines himself and his sister as these giants Wilbur and Eliza. The Swains are Neanderthaloid dizygotic twins (giants). The twins live in a huge mansion on an asteroid with apple trees. They have servants and spend their time reading and discussing. Wilbur and Eliza's genius is unparalleled when their minds are combined but they become idiotic when separated. They return to saying 'Duh' and 'Buh' to prove their stupidity. The twins spend their time reading: Wilbur reads out to Eliza as she can't read or write. The twins feel that they become ugly ducklings as separated individuals. Their parents are also ashamed of the twins.

The novel is in the form of an autobiography of Dr. Wilbur Daffodil-11 Swain. Dr. Swain tells us that he lives in the ruins of the Empire State Building with his pregnant granddaughter, Melody Oriole-2 von Peterswald, and her lover, Isadore Raspberry-19 Cohen. Dr. Swain is a hideous man whose ugliness, along with that of his twin sister Eliza, led their parents to cut them off from modern society.

The siblings create, among other things, a plan to end loneliness in America by creating vast extended families. In the plan, all Americans would be provided with new middle names, made of the name of a random natural object paired with a random number between 1 and 20. Everyone with the same name would be cousins, and everyone with the same name and number would be siblings.

Eliza is still deemed retarded, and is sent to a mental institution. Wilbur however is sent to a prep school and eventually goes to Harvard University and earns a doctorate. Eliza gets out of the asylum and sues Wilbur to regain her wealth. When the twins meet again they realize their combined genius and create a manual for rearing kids. When Eliza dies tragically on her way to Mars, Wilbur wonders if he can go on without his twin.

Armed with the plan created with Eliza and the slogan, "Lonesome No More!," Dr. Wilbur Swain wins the election and becomes the President of the United States. Swain then explains the effects of the gravity effect and how the middle name assigned by the government unites the people. Hi Ho!

This was my first science fiction novel after a long time. I thoroughly enjoyed it. It has the signature Kurt Vonnegut style of writing in spurts. After Cat's Cradle, Slapstick was delightful.

New story: Roll number 317

2017-09-21T04:17:00.002+05:30

This post contains a portion of my new story.

It shows 03:24 a.m. on my laptop.

One would wonder why I am awake at this ungodly hour. I have been awake since 1:30 a.m. Tossing and turning, trying to put my turbulent thoughts to rest. My mind refuses to cooperate today. Today, of all days.

It is the beginning of navratri today. In some time, I must be wide awake to usher the goddess into my humble home and perform stringent rituals to propitiate her. Is the goddess listening to me? Or is she not aware of my mental turbulence?

I spent three hours thinking about him. Memories hit me like an avalanche on a high altitude mountainous slope. I slid, slowly, softly into its fold. It engulfed my mind then my whole being in its wake. His thoughts came in bursts. I shed a tear or two. I felt ashamed later. Is it right? No no, the question here is not about whether it is right or wrong, the question is why. Why? Why me? Why today, why after all these years?

Isn’t it always like this? I asked my mind, for the nine hundred and ninety nineth time, why me? Whats with the number, you would ask. It is just a random number, something that I thought of just now. Sitting with my laptop and typing furiously. Fury, anger, and extreme sadness combined with desolation is what I am feeling right now. I am torn between a desire to run into his arms and never let him go and to take a sharp dagger and enter it in his abdominal cavity with ease, softly turn it and then take it out. Repeat. Turn. Repeat.

There will come a moment when the blood will begin to clot. I will stop then.

I was fine till I came home. I watched a silly movie on the TV. Then my phone decided to die. That was after my friend decided to end the call we were on, discussing the upcoming rather planned reunion in a far off town where we both grew up, Chandrapur.

Well, I didn’t technically grow up there. Like many people, I grew up in many places. Well, it does sound a tad confusing. So, while I was growing up, I and my family, primarily Ma and Pa moved to different places. So, when I was in Chandrapur, I met my friend with whom I decided to yak for like an hour or so. She was curious to know if I would make the trip. I wasn’t sure. We chatted about many things, including him. The Him. So, let me quickly delve into the story behind this Him. I did not want to mention him in our conversation. She steered our conversation there. Unsafe waters. For me always. I become a bit odd whenever I am forced to think of him.

This is how it usually happens. It is as if everything becomes slo mo and I am a teenager again. I can even recall the smell of his saliva after all these years. So many years. In that rickety rickshaw, on the torn backseat, I could smell him, his hurriedly slathered aftershave and the smell of his saliva. Unlike many men, he didn’t smell. Maybe he made it a point not to. God knows. It still lingers somewhere in the deep dark recesses of my mind. The feel of his luscious lips and the sudden flick of his tongue. Unsure but hurried. Full of longing and unbridled passion.

I pushed all these thoughts to the back of my mind and continued the conversation with my friend. She was merrily describing the way her husband made hurried love and snored afterwards. The muted giggles and the reticent sigh reminiscent of prolonged foreplays in the aftermath of the institutionalisation of two souls forever and forever made our hurried conversation a bit saucy.

While my own ticker raced with its single-point mandate, I forced my mind to evoke the all pervasive knowledge of reigning in such runaway desires. I could smell him like it had happened a moment ago. It was years ago. It was exactly twenty two years. I was eighteen and he nineteen.

I took out the packet hidden for such days and licked the smooth end. Then with a practiced flick, I puffed a bit lighting the end, just enough. To my satisfaction, the ciggie didn’t give up on me. Not yet. After downing three, I called it a night. It was not enough. My mind was in full turmoil mode. I took out the bottle of wine from the fridge and poured myself a little bit. Just for the buzz, I reminded myself. I needed to forget myself. I needed to forget him. Forget the memory. Erase it if I ever could. Damn! It was navratri and I had a puja to do in the morning.

Desire and pain coexist and cohabit whenever my thoughts veer towards him. The rawness of the jolt he had given was so sharp that I could feel the blood trickle slowly down my abdomen. It took its time, soaking my dress, my navel, and my legs. The smell of blood did not do anything to the smell of his saliva. It remained. Coexistence, I understood the meaning, the real meaning of this word then.

My mind pulled out more memories, to my absolute horror. The way his hands had moved over my boobs, urgent, lust-filled, and full-blooded. The way he had urgently pushed his fingers into my dress and tried to push his limbs into me, I still recall and shudder. The memory is fresh. If I reach out, I can touch them, the nineteen-year old him and the eighteen-year old me, lost totally in the churning passion usually reserved for the firsts. First kiss, first fuck, you get the picture.

At eighteen, I surrendered my heart and soul to him. Satish Ramaswamy, roll number 317. I became, unbeknownst to him, his slave. He could have commanded me to kill, I would have. Single-minded obsession and desperate need to be in his arms forever and forever was my only goal. I gave up my thinking ability and followed him around the huge campus like a lost puppy. Hushed tones and sarcasms fell on deaf ears.

Cut to the present. Jolted out of my reverie, I recalled why I was having the late night inter-state conversation with my bosom friend, Sushma. She groaned when her husband called out to her. The conversation disrupted, I stepped out onto my tiny balcony for some fresh air. The very thought of him made me hyperventilate. My body reacted in a way I had forgotten it could just by a mere memory of his smell. The way he brought out the woman in me, no one ever could. A portion of me died sometime in 1999 when he chose to leave.

Book Review: Before We Visit the Goddess

2017-09-03T19:46:00.001+05:30

Just finished reading, "Before we visit the Goddess," by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni. I have been a fan of her languid prose and beautiful poetry. She brings to life the three women protagonists:Sabitri, Bela, and Tara, Grandmother, Mother, and Grand daughter. The letter that Sabitri writes to Tara is the strong point for me in this novel stretching from Assam to U.S. The men in these women's lives do have important roles to play but are not given enough standing room by themselves. Be it the CPI(M) student leader Sanjay or the two-timing Robert, they have minimal roles in Divakaruni's land. This novel belongs totally to Sabitri, I feel. Tara and Bela and Bela and Sabitri go through similar strained relationship struggles. I could relate to it so much. I love the way Divakaruni makes you go back and forth to stitch a complete tale.

Life is...

2017-08-13T11:10:00.001+05:30

Life is...

Facing sudden upheavals
Dealing with morons
Getting drenched in a sudden downpour
Admiring a sleeping S
Believing in the almighty
Letting go
Hanging on to faith
Sleeping for some more time on a Sunday
Standing up to a bully

Loving unconditionally

Freedom @11

2017-08-04T11:06:00.001+05:30

Suddenly, I have nothing left. To spend my time on. Today, it just ended, I had an inkling, it would. But, I had certainly worked a bit for it. I should have been a bit more careful, but for what, I do not know. Had I been more vigilant, would this have happened? No, I know, it would not have...I am like that no, flippant, careless and sometimes I take things for granted. But, then, few days back I was so distracted, owing to so many things...It certainly affected my writing. One thing I thought I could do well. Looks like, I cant do it while I am asleep, no?

In a way it is good, I don't need to break my head over numbers and all anymore. I don't need to worry about working while sulking in Mumbai. Stress free...

But, I am feeling a bit bad about being chucked out. But, hasn't that been the case, each time. Rejected...rejected...unwanted...no good. Well, everything seems to be heading that way. Bad or good, I don't know, but this is how it is.

High time I focussed on other things in my life, long pending things...
They say, be careful what you wish for, you might get it. I was just wondering how nice it would be to just sit back and chill and not worry about anything...Lo! it happened...Wow! Why don't other things also happen similarly, I wonder.

Let me move my ass and go do some house work. Now, that I am officially jobless. Super!

A matter of time

2017-07-29T21:26:00.005+05:30

It is always a matter of time

Before the screams start, the anger boils over sprouting a burn

Always a matter of a few seconds

Takes nothing to trigger lava

Lava of tantrums, outbursts, insults

Attitude I have I am told, plain speak is what I use

Is it the money? Is it the worthiness of the flesh that bites?

What is it?

Lack of lust or love, the one emotion, anger regains and retains

Always a matter of when not how

It can be a continuation or a slow build up

Lacklustre is the journey, tiring the tirades

Materials matter more than human emotions

Always a matter of time before dreams are crushed and joys submerged

When the fucking bathroom took over...

2017-07-11T10:02:00.001+05:30

That feeling of utter helplessness, downward spiralling joy
How much ever you try, you can't shake off or ignore the ever present ghost of the woman
It is not about you
It is always about what she could and what you cannot, ever
Do I care? I don't but does it matter? Yes
But not to me. Complicated it is.

Am expected to be obsessed over bathroom stains while all I want is to fly away, into the oblivion, spread my wings, with no worries of financial security or rapists on the loose ready to plug the hole...

Rules, rules, and more rules.
Don't do this, don't do that.
Wear a nightie but as soon as you get up in the morning, wear your bra and a pyjama under your nightie. Or better still, get up early in the morning and ensure you dress up like a fucking doll and serve the god. The fucking god who can sleep late because he is tired. The hypocrisy of it all is so fucking maddening that a normal person can just lose it. Is it worth it? Many well-meaning friends asked me. I don't know. I have no answers. I feel, somewhere I probably have sinned so much that it is retribution time. To grin and bear till the life gets fucking sucked out of my body. Maybe, there is a hell after all. It is here, in this world. You live through fucking hell. Each day. Your pride and self esteem gets trodden below super egos and anatomical differences. Have heard this rant about not being more diligent many times, today it rankled a lot. Because it started with the dead mother. I used to feel bad earlier. Now, when I look at her (there are many pictures in the house now) picture, I feel safe. No more new interruptions. Thank god for small mercies.

Are bathrooms more important than people?
Is a piece of furniture more critical than people and their emotions?
My mother should have taught me how to cook, clean, and supervise. These are skills that are much in demand. Who cares if you can make the pivot table dance to your tunes, who fucking cares if you are a wordsmith. End of the day, are your skills making you any money? Money, here is the most important thing, you see. Can you make money as well as be superman and fly around doing everything that momma dearest did and more?

I have been through this before. It rankles. A lot. These are days when I feel that urge to escape. To fly away. Then, reality kicks in, I swallow my pride and stay mum. Isn't the world outside just so difficult to survive in? Men out there ready to lay you when you are just trying to understand how to fucking file IT returns. End of the day, misery is part and parcel of a woman's life. Then they ask, 'Oh are you not happy with me?' Yes, fucking yes, I am so thrilled, I could just jump with joy at the mere mention of your fucking name. Is it love that binds people in such suffocating relations? It is just bloody old fashioned compromise, nothing more nothing less.

Yes, today, I am pissed off. Mighty pissed off.
It started with the bathroom. It always does. Stains are to be obsessed over. But, other things that make a home are to be overlooked because the dead mother has not 'taught' the old boy all these. Or rather she was not visibly harassed about such things. She obsessed about bathrooms and other places and it remained that way. No other rooms are important in people's lives. Bathrooms are sacrosanct. I need coffee.

The state of being Jobless

2017-07-09T13:06:00.000+05:30

From dust we rise and to dust we return, some great man said!

Corporates we serve and like corporates we become, is my version.

I quit my day job. One fine day, I could not take it anymore and I just quit. The woman who used to be my Manager was thrilled beyond explanation and accepted my resignation before I could spell my name. Sigh! So much for slogging away at that place. Anyway.

So, I have been without an identity tag for a couple of months now. I feel free. I am not required to say 'yes mam no mam' to any woman or man. Is it good? I don't know. End of the day, I do not have the pressure to reach some place by a particular time with bated breath and wait for the other person's impression to fuck my life. I am beyond caring now. I am in a stage of my life where I just want to do what I please and how I please.

My days start with the bell. The calling bell which announces the arrival of The Bai, Madame Krishnaveni. She moves around like a broom on fire and leaves after 45 minutes or so. She demands her cuppa, which I offer, grudgingly on most days, under the watchful eyes of the DH.

Then I force my rigid muscles into easy-but-difficult-for-me yoga postures and try to hold each pose at least for a few seconds and feel like a ninja, already. Sigh, that done, it is time for a cup of coffee. Nowadays, after a few thousand articles flew into my brain from my FB newsfeed, I started adding coconut oil to my coffee. I do not know the effects, not yet at least. Will perhaps have to wait and watch.

Then I do the usual ghar ka kaam for the next hour or so and please the gods with my bell and the incense stick. My laptop is ready and then I chug away, working on some odd freelance work. The money is nothing compared to the pots (LOL..ROFL) of money that I presumably used to earn, but it is good money.

Oh yes, I have started walking. When I started walking initially, my legs gave up on me and my body went on strike. My brain prevailed and I stuck to my routine. Thirty minutes and a brisk one at that. Life went on, 2 weeks, I am finding it much easier to keep the pace and keep up the time. Now, I walk for an hour. I like to go to the beach. I like looking at people, odd people, couples, the madman who walks like he is in a marathon, the girl who sells chips on the beach, the bored policewoman yearning for some company and so many more. They keep me company while I wage my silent war against my accumulated fat. I do chew on memories while walking, but most often I succeed in pushing bad ones out and relish the good ones. I use these good moments to bring up the happy hormones.

When I return, it is ghar ka kaam again for the next two hours. After food, it is work time again, till about 1 am. Then good night world!

Covering the Southern Ridges

2017-06-17T13:36:00.006+05:30

Went to Singapore for 10 days with the DH. He was going for work. I tagged along. One could write a Behavioural Science tome on the way we both approached the trip. DH approaches everything very clinically. Staid, is how I describe him, mostly. Me, well, less said the better.

At the oh-so-lovely Marina Bay Sands, in that huge suite, seated on the sofa, impeccably dressed, DH woefully looked at me as I got ready for my tryst with Singapore.

"Will you be ok by yourself?" He asked, for the hundredth time. Irritation rose like bile in me. I curbed it. I recognized concern when I heard it. Concern equals to love, especially for a pure blood Capricorn. I looked at him, went over, gave a sweet peck and said, "Yesss, I will be just fine, don't you worry. Get going, you will get late for your meeting." He looked at me doubtfully, but then, he had no choice. He had meetings the whole day and I could have slipped out without his knowledge or so he surmised. Anyway. So, off I went, armed with maps and water bottles, on my walkathon in Singapore.

I visited many places, touristy types, mostly. I got truly hyped about visiting the Southern Ridges, having upped my excitement quotient just by reading up on the Net. I simply had to do this trek. Henderson Waves was calling me. I had initially decided to take the train and then take a bus to Henderson Waves. This is a architecturally-striking 274-metre long pedestrian bridge that connects Mount Faber Park to Telok Blangah Hill Park.

Since it was already quite late by the time I reached my hotel, I just jumped into a cab. Surprisingly, the cab guy didn't even know this was a tourist place. He kept looking at me to check if I had lost my marbles.
When we finally reached the destination, he peered at the bridge and said, "You wanna visit that?" He must have decided that I was totally cuckoo...I nodded gleefully before hopping off.

Here I was. Thrilled to bits for having finally arrived at my destination after a few failed attempts. In SG, people who trek are aware of this place, others simply are ignorant. How sad! It has such a breath-taking view of the entire island. I climbed the really steep steps to reach the top.

Some guys on a selfie spree let me pass politely before resuming their click-click-click game.
I had decided to walk the entire stretch. By the time I reached the middle, I decided I had to do some course correction. It was getting dark and I really wanted to catch the train back home, err hotel. So, I dropped the idea of walking to the other end and started walking back.

(Me: After the exhausting but exhilarating trek)

So, if you go to SG, don't fail to pay a visit to this lovely place. Arm yourself with water, hat, sunglasses, and a cool camera. The view is lovely and the walk is pure bliss. Wear some good sturdy shoes, if you will. You can do the entire trek (till Faber Peak, I believe) if you have the energy or get off in the middle, like I did. Upto you. Have fun!

Oh, before you go, here are some nice links, which I found very useful:

Trip Advisor
Singapore Tourism Site

Finality

2017-04-28T15:23:00.002+05:30

Finality is a strange companion you see
It lets you breathe in the free air just enough to let your spirits soar, not more, not less
Finality seems like a far thought, lingering at the horizon, making you seek, yearn
When you reach out to reach the state, it vanishes, poof!
Finality sometimes gets you into a rhythm of vacillation, uncertainty before it displays its true nature

Finality is also a full stop, not a semi colon
Take a turn, stop, or rest.

Finality allows you the respite. It is after all, the End.