You’re always in the room,
never in the plain sight.
I see you hiding behind the peripheral vision
in the corner of my eyes,
where yesterdays mixes with todays,
where lines of the worlds fade,
and you stand with disapproving silence
at my childish ways,
ungracefulness, wrinkles, greys,…
judging anything that I do,
no matter what I do
to please.
I carry on the facade
as if I don’t see you
frowning, shaking your head,
in every moment of my life,
wake and dreams alike…
Her knuckles were white as she gripped the handles of her two wheeler tight–lost, teary-eyed, not sure where she was driving to, except that she had to get away from…herself? Because he, clearly, wasn’t following her when she walked away without looking back.
Why would he? He hadn’t made any promises…just an ‘I love you’ spoken on the phone from a thousand miles away.
She, on the other hand, had taken another month to speak those words until she meant every syllable and was ready to make a promise, because for her, saying ‘I love you’ meant ‘I can’t live without you and that I want to marry you so that I can be around you for the next seven lives’. Her ‘I love you’ was a promise of eternity. His was a spurt-of-moment statement spoken in the wake of Valentine’s Day–a day she never celebrated before him and had never ever since.
She was going too fast–the road was too crowded for that kind of speed, but in that moment, she didn’t care that she couldn’t see with tears filling her eyes, couldn’t anticipate with her mind crowded with so many thoughts, couldn’t stop if needed because her brakes weren’t meant for that speed.
She wanted to die…
No, he hadn’t slept with her or done any thing to incriminate him, but knowing that she wasn’t anywhere on his list of priorities in life, was painful, heart wrenching. When during their date, she broke the news that her parents were looking for a groom for her, he wasn’t the least concerned. He later told her of his life plans, probably to clarify his stand about her, she could clearly see he wasn’t considering a future with her.
And here she was worrying night and day about losing him…Somewhere between their phone conversations, he had become her life. Somewhere between those conversations, she hadn’t become that for him.
Her stomach had dropped in a bottomless pit and she was going down with it. She couldn’t let him see that though. So, she had quickly ended the date and drove away in silence at an irrational speed.
Blurry-eyed, she saw an open rickshaw. She was ready to die but not to kill. Instantly, breaks screached and two wheeler halted–without skidding. She could hear the drivers from vehicles behind her shouting profanities.
The rickshaw had moved on without noticing her.
She moved to the side of the road and stopped. There, she cried with her face hidden under the helmet. She wasn’t sure how long but she could finally breath and see again. She drove back to her parental home, then, wearing that unwavering smile, pretending that all was well in her world.
This excerpt from Three Men on a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome (1889) reminds me of my childhood when we often travelled by railways, before the advent of digital tracking, and hopped from platform to platform looking for the elusive trains. It has been hauntingly true since the COVID 19 Pandemic began. God bless those who run and use railways…
We got to Waterloo at eleven, and asked where the eleven-five started from. Of course nobody knew; nobody at Waterloo ever does know where a train is going to start from, or where a train when it does start is going to, or anything about it. The porter who took our things thought it would go from number two platform, while another porter, with whom he discussed the question, had heard a rumour that it would go from number one. The station-master, on the other hand, was convinced it would start from the local.
To put an end to the matter, we went upstairs, and asked the traffic superintendent, and he told us that he had just met a man, who said he had seen it at number three platform. We went to number three platform, but the authorities there said that they rather thought that train was the Southampton express, or else the Windsor loop. But they were sure it wasn’t the Kingston train, though why they were sure it wasn’t they couldn’t say.
Then our porter said he thought that must be it on the high-level platform; said he thought he knew the train. So we went to the high- level platform, and saw the engine-driver, and asked him if he was going to Kingston. He said he couldn’t say for certain of course, but that he rather thought he was. Anyhow, if he wasn’t the 11.5 for Kingston, he said he was pretty confident he was the 9.32 for Virginia Water, or the 10 a.m. express for the Isle of Wight, or somewhere in that direction, and we should all know when we got there. We slipped half-a-crown into his hand, and begged him to be the 11.5 for Kingston.
“Nobody will ever know, on this line,” we said, “what you are, or where you’re going. You know the way, you slip off quietly and go to Kingston.”
“Well, I don’t know, gents,” replied the noble fellow, “but I suppose SOME train’s got to go to Kingston; and I’ll do it. Gimme the half- crown.”
Thus we got to Kingston by the London and South-Western Railway.
We learnt, afterwards, that the train we had come by was really the Exeter mail, and that they had spent hours at Waterloo, looking for it, and nobody knew what had become of it.
The storm is long gone
leaving behind in rubbles
my life.
I have picked up pieces
and started over,
rebuilding the haven for my heart.
.
My walls are stronger.
Doors shut tighter.
Built no windows
to keep love out.
Let the people whisper,
let the friends knock,
no one crosses the threshold.
I leave my hearth stone-cold.
.
I’m a fortress–I’m cold.
I’m safe from hope.
Not sure why but Egrets always look to me like grumpy old men. Their expression is always downcast and sad, shoulders hunched…I love them for their grumpiness.
You see me!
I try to hide
the black shadows beneath my eyes
behind layers and layers of masks–
the poker face;
the impersonal nod;
the practical discussion
of returning belongings;
the frown;
the anger;
the layers and layers of accusations;
the pointing finger;
the clenched fists;
the huffed walking out–
the many masks I use to hide
the pain behind my eyes
that rakes my heart and questions my being,
bridled losely by my need to survive…
.
But you see me through the facade
and give that smug smile
that shows you know how well you’ve hurt me
and you’re fine with the price…
You were here again,
as angry and distant as ever.
You crossed the worlds
to see me
but you speak not a word.
Your handsome face
is marred by the scowl
that is your permanent expression…
with me.
You might think it tells me
what you wish to say,
but it only makes me wish
to run away to the place
that is safe
from the heartbreak
your hatred brings to me,
even in dreams.
There is no way to start over
until we meet again
in death…
Damn these monkeys! We’ve been following them for half an hour now. We have tried enticing with food, shouting and throwing stones. So far, nothing has worked. We can’t shoot them because the sound will alert the military of our presence, and risk igniting the RDX.
The three of us have been travelling on foot through the forest for the past 75 hours towards the closest city. From there, we’ll assume our fake identities as citizens. Once we reach our destination–the capital city–we’ll build bombs out of the RDX we are carrying for a series of blasts in the busiest public areas. The money was good, so I never asked why.
We had everything planned for a long time–training for building bombs out of everyday things, language and mannerism of the country to avoid suspicion, fake ID proofs, transport, place to stay…
But these stupid monkeys raided our camp while we were sleeping (no doubt, hoping for treats). We woke up with their chatter as they sniffed our bags. When my mate grabbed for the bag with RDX, and one of them picked it and ran away–our entire supply…
We can build bombs without it but they won’t be even half as potent. We can procure it in this country too but it will waste precious time and cost another millions of rupees. Months of planning and efforts, and several million rupees gone down the drain, or up the tree. Worse, if they accidently set it to fire, the forest fire will be out of control in this season, and Forest department will have an in-depth enquiry. That will close the path for us in the future.
Our employers will never let us live it down, or even just live…we get no second chances.
So, we’re tracking these little menace, trying to get our bag back but they seem to love teasing us. They have been moving deeper in the jungle, probably towards their family to share the ‘booty’. But they aren’t in a hurry–when one of us trips over tree roots, they stop as we curse and get back up, and then move ahead.
Are they leading us into a trap? But what could it be? They are mere monkeys, not lions. What can they do to us? Tear our clothes? It’s the mysteriousness of the dark jungle, where sun never penetrates to the ground, the humidity, claustrophobia from being surrounded by so many trees, and the training of never trusting anyone and reading between the lines.
The monkeys have stopped now. We are in the middle of a clearing and the monkeys have climbed too high on the trees. Climb or wait? Wait, because if we climb, they’ll move further away.
Now once they tear open the bag and find no food, they will throw the contents down. We just need to be nimble enough to catch it; and hope they don’t tear the tiny packets; and that RDX is stable enough to not explode by the impact. Well, we are dead without it anyway. So, we gather around the tree, put our guns inside our clothes, ready to catch, keeping our eyes trained on the bag.
A military voice shouts, “Fire!” and the firing begins.
My smartphone has a thing against making calls to my husband. Specially, during the pandemic, our connection has gone for a toss.
1. On the first call, I get no dial tone, no caller’s tune–only a woman in her mid-twenties educates me about COVID 19, washing my hands and keeping a six-feet distance. Yup! That’s the standard caller’s tune in India now. I wait for her to end her ranting so I can bug my husband. She speaks non-stop for sixty seconds. Then the call goes dead.
2. I call again. This time, some random guy picks up the phone and we both hello each other without being able to talk. I hang up.
3. I call yet again. The call gives some feeble beeps and goes dead.
4. Desperate to get through to him, I call yet again. The call connects but I can’t hear him. The call disconnects after 8 seconds.
Frustrated, I dump my phone and stomp off to let off my steam.
5. Five seconds later, my husband calls me demanding to know why I had called him four times and never cared to speak. Duh!
Thanks to Ngozi Awa for nominating me for the Liebster award. Just to clarify, Liebster is a German word of endearment. It means, a sweetheart, darling or friend. Hence, I’m really honoured to be called that. Here are my answers to the questions.
1.What is your best childhood memory?
I had a privileged childhood with loads of toys, but my best memory is that of car journeys with my family. My father never hurried, and always made it a point to stop at multiple places on the way. The food at the farm side restaurants had a rural flavour and water tasted so pure…even the air felt so fresh. We had our share of traffic jams but they could not beat the freedom.
2. If you had a chance for a “do-over” in life, what would you do differently?
I would stay back at Kanpur for my Masters in Painting, and Doctorate too. Life would have been a lot simpler.
3. How do you spend your free time?
Writing and reading stories, Painting with my daughter
4. What do you feel most proud of?
My ability to empathise with peoplr and use it to teach them better
5. What skill(s) would you like to learn and why?
Concentration and patience
6. What is your strongest quality?
My forgetfulness…it helps me forgive and forget.
7. If you could only keep five possessions, what would they be?
8. What teacher in school made the most impact on you and why?
My English teacher in junior high school. In the course if three years, she taught me many things, leading by example: it was okay to be afraid, to admit you made a mistake, to ask for forgiveness from youngers without shame, to be human…
9. Who do you most admire in your life?
My parents
10. Do you believe in luck?
I do, but I also believe that there is nothing that can’t be changed by prayers.
Short Stories 