Note from Shaily: Here is a piece in Indonesian by a co-blogger, Sunarno. Even though I don’t know that language, I am a fan because the Google translation of his pieces take me to a world made purely of feelings.
And here is the Google Translation of his piece (I can’t vouch for accuracy of translation but assure you reading it will be worth it.).
Prayer mat on the shoulders of the Dusk Man
The market has shed its frenzy. The old man walked slowly, prayer mat hanging over his shoulders like an unhurried promise. The call to prayer has not yet sounded, but the time has shifted from bargaining to contemplation. The lowing of cattle was the only sound that lingered, filling the space left by conversation and ambition.
The ground was still wet with footprints and dirt that hadn’t been swept away, like a wound that had been left to dry on its own. No one is in a hurry to clean up, because here, chaos is part of everyday life, and everyday life is part of unfinished prayers.
And the man stopped for a moment at the edge of the prayer room, looking at the sky which was slowly turning orange. The prayer mat on his shoulders is not just a piece of cloth, but a path home that he carries wherever he goes. Behind the wrinkles on his face, there is a history of the market, a history of rice fields, a history of loss that he never talks about. Twilight embraced him silently, as if to say: prayer doesn’t need to be rushed, because every remaining second is an opportunity to return.
Did she use this particular song before? It sounds vaguely familiar…
It is so confusing when you have to shoot the video at the perfect angle and in perfect light and add a song to every reel you upload. And make sure you don’t repeat yourself. What if this song was already in one of her reels? She has been posting for good three years now, so it is difficult to remember.
It is midnight. She should probably stop this and go to sleep. But she can’t–she doesn’t have anything to post tomorrow on Insta, and if she doesn’t, her followers will be disappointed.
Or will they be? She hasn’t been getting as much response on her site as she used to–less likes, even lesser comments. Why, when she added her reels of their trip to Goa, her particular video of her close up shot in micro-mini did not get much response–just 23 likes and a couple of comments with oohs and aahs! Nothing on her beauty or amazing body…
Is she getting fat? She must be with all the calories she been intaking…
She looks accusingly at her kale–it hasn’t made much difference in the past couple of months. Her weight has stayed at 47 kg since forever. She looks accusingly at her husband who declined to bring her a weight-reduction formula, calling her crazy for wanting to reduce weight further.
What does he know about social trends? You have to be fit to draw the eyes. And he has a paunch under his night shirt, which is rising and falling as he snores softly.
Loser!
She looks back at her phone. She was tired. It is so much work when you have to hold the camera and make it look like it isn’t you who is making the video; like it is your husband or admirer who can’t stop filming you…
It would be so much easier if her husband agreed to make the videos for her.
Honestly, she doesn’t demand much–just a good location, some good clothes and twenty something pictures to make a reel or, may be, a few short videos. But he is more interested in taking in the sights and enjoying with their child rather than holding the camera for her.
Ugh! She wants to throw the phone at him right now, but, if it cracks, her three-hour work will be wasted. She has filmed herself at the local pool, hair spread out in water perfectly. It took several shots and a couple of hours to get the right shot since her hair was floating in weird directions.
She will post it before risking losing it.
So, what song was it again? Yeah, it sounds vaguely familiar…
Suddenly, the ice broke with the unexpected weight and she screamed for help. Melting with the sun as spring approached was something a part of frozen river would accepted as fate. She would have lived a complete life by then. But breaking down early because someone mercilessly stepped on her weakness…that hurt.
So, she screamed for help. But all of them were on their own now as more cracks kept appearing–the stag that had stepped on her continued jumping neatly on the now-broken ice and crossed the river.
The river was now a jumble of fast moving pieces of ice running forward to meet the sea.
Most of them were simply resigned. She struggled against the flow, trying to return to her calm and composed existence, but there was nothing to hold on to.
Her fight was desperate and fruitless. Her screams were drowned in the gurgle of the river just like the few woohoos from others…
Woohoos?!
She turned around and saw another part of the river, clearly enjoying the ride. He had always been far away, closer to the bank. But now he was pushing her, shining with a twinkle. His playful smile dared her to try beating him at the game.
She pushed back and he laughed, pushing her again, tickling where they touched. Soon, they were both laughing as they pushed and touched and tickled and woohoo-ed down the river.
Not sure how far they reached before they melted but they certainly never stopped to notice.
P was the most popular girl in the class. Boys were often falling over themselves to impress her while she basked in the light of their attention. Face shining, open laughter, plucked eyebrows at 15, I was awestruck by how she carried herself confidently among our classmates. When she sat on the desk to talk to me between classes, she looked like the queen of hearts, while I was a Knave, complete with a light dusting of a mustache.
Not that minded it. (I mean, I didn’t mind her being the queen. I did mind the mustache and removed it later that year.)
Inspite of being popular, she was pretty nice and happy to help. Her grades weren’t impressive, but she managed to scrape through High School somehow. In fact, she got her Bachelor of Arts degree too later.
She was one of my closest friends at that time and my mother often worried that her influence might derail me.
I wouldn’t say so. I had quite a few other things derailing me those days. Maths had never been my best friend. But ever since Algebra was introduced, I was struggling. Once I joined this school mid-semester, Trigonometry joined the ranks, and I gave up completely. History I could trudge through but, with an ever-absent teacher, Civics, Geography and Economics were quickly turning into mystery. Biology I understood but Physics and Chemistry were beyond comprehension. So, I solely concentrated on languages that did not give me hives. It meant that while I would pass English, Hindi and Sanskrit with merit and an A in Drawing, I would probably fail in all the other subjects, ending any future ambitions that I might have.
But, as I said, it wasn’t P’s fault. She had similar worries herself about studies, but she wasn’t a worrywart like me.
In fact, nothing seemed to worry her at all…except once, when she told me that one of our male classmates now had a caller ID on their home phone. I wondered why it should worry her. Later, she told me that his mother has explicitly told her not to try calling him again. I wondered why his mother would say that.
But as I said, generally, nothing really seemed to worry her.
Honestly, I liked her for what she was. While she wasn’t particularly attentive in studies, she was a well of information on some topics that seemed to miss my attention.
P had introduced me to blank calls. A couple of years into our friendship, she made a blank call to my brother (on whom she had a mighty crush) right in front of me. I was completely in awe now. Honestly, I would never blank-call my brother–he had learnt Marshall Arts and could break a brick with a single flick of hand. I had held that brick he broke, so I knew not to annoy him while living in the same house. So, I warned P, considering she visited my house pretty often. But she assured me that she has been making those blank calls for an year now, and my brother had always been polite.
As I said, nothing seemed to faze her.
From her, I found out about an infamous park where willing boys and girls went to make-out, as she rebuked one of our other friends for going there with her boyfriend and kissing him on first date. “What else would you expect if you go meeting someone in such a place? First, you should have gone for a lunch at—” Apparently, the park was also notorious for Police raids because of obscenity in public areas. Though I never visited it due to want of company, it was a good-to-know information as places to avoid in future.
A well of information, as I said earlier.
P also had a better aerial connectivity than me and seemed to know when boys were interested in her. She once told me how some boys seemed to follow her everywhere she went. I wondered if she was delusional until I saw it with my own eyes.
This particular incident stands out to me. One day, the two of us had gone to watch a movie. The plan was that two more female classmates would join us there directly and we would all leave together for home in evening. But they ditched us, and we arrived alone. It wasn’t much of a worry because it was a day show. Also, in small-town India, the cinema hall (and everything else) was within city limits on rather crowded streets.
We left the hall around six in the evening. It was still light outside. We took a rickshaw home. Soon, she told me, “Don’t look back but a bike is following us.”
Being the worrywart, I wanted to look back but I couldn’t now since I have been expressly forbidden. It could be someone I know but I was scared that it wasn’t. Suddenly, I saw a PCO (A public phone booth that survived solely by feeding on the fears of anxious females and new lovers; declared extinct due to the invasive species of mobile phones).
“Let’s call my brother.”
Checking her hair in her hand-held mirror, “Naah! Don’t worry. They are harmless.”
“How do you know?”
“The guy who is driving has been following me around quite frequently. Always on his bike. Never does anything!”
I didn’t understand. If a stranger had been following me on bike quite frequently, I would have called the Police. P was merely amused.
“But what if he means to hurt you?”
“You don’t know their kind. He is just trying to get my attention.”
Now I was curious, “But if he is behind you, how will he get your attention unless he calls your name, which he isn’t doing? Does he even know your name anyway? Shouldn’t he probably try coming in front and talking?”
P rolled her eyes. As if answering my question, the bike revved and shot from our left and overtook us like a bullet in the narrow street. And then, suddenly, it became very slow, almost idling. The riders let our rickshaw overtake them at a snail’s pace.
“See, attention-seeking behaviour…”
I was unused to such stupidity, never having encountered such a species before (or maybe I just missed it due to aerial issues). I wondered if they knew normal speech like us lesser humans. “Are you sure they won’t crash in our rickshaw at some point? This is quite a narrow road. If their bike so much as touches our rickshaw on that speed, it will overturn.”
“You are hilarious, you know!”
The bike revved again and overtook us. Some people on the road in the direct hitting range jumped to the sides to take cover. It happened two more times and I wondered why no one was calling the Police.
We almost reached the corner where we would take the turn. It looked pretty wide from where we were, but I had been on the road on bicycle before and knew what lay ahead. The engine revved again. “They aren’t planning to overtake us here?”
“Of course, that’s their grand finale before they make their exit.”
“Are they foreigners? Don’t they know what’s around the corner?”
“Are you worried about them now?”
I took a second to decide, “Yes. But I will not carry them to hospital. I have homework.”
We had almost reached the corner now.
The engine revved again, and it was too late to stop them anyway. The bike overtook us at the highest speed it could muster. It took a wider cut to avoid our rickshaw, which was now turning the corner too.
I could see the bike drivers’ eyes go wide as it entered the huge nullah (a large open drain) with a resounding splash!
For a second, I was worried they had died. But then, two black, lumpy, smelly ghosts were rising out of the nullah, staggering with the weight of muck and impact on their bones, helping each other stand.
I could hear peals of laughter and realised they were coming from the both of us. Both P and I laughed all the way home.
Henceforth, this particular pair never followed P again and this event marked the end of this tale of unrequited love, cut short severely due to the local Municiple Committee’s failure of cover the nullah. Since the drain remained open for several coming years, I wonder how many other boys without the skill of human speech lost potential opportunities at love.
I also wonder whether these boys forever resorted to the language of engine revving or if they ever learnt human speech, like, “Hi, my name is XYZ. Would you like to come on a date with me?”
But what would I, who never had a boyfriend, know about the matters of heart?
As discussed in the previous Matters of Heart post, my close friend X was having difficulty in decoding the language of Indian love. Of course, you need to learn Morse code to understand the language that relies completely on reading body language and crooked pick-up lines. (“What a wonderful weather for a long drive!” means “Will you join me for a long drive and go to places unknown so your family can’t catch us snuggling?”)
So, even after I happily supplied the explanation (a rare accomplishment), she remained incredulous. She was sure that if Y has wanted to take her out on a date, he would have said so. He didn’t need to resort to this round-about way of showing interest in me first.
I could only sigh!
One day, she came to college in a really foul mood. Apparently, Y had told Z (another male friend) that she was engaged. He had been very detailed about the ceremony and Z was sold on the idea. Z had then told his aunt who knew X and she called on her family phone to congratulate her.
Since family phone offers no privacy, she was having a difficult time in keeping it from her parents. If they found about this prank, they will obviously ask the most obvious question: Who are Y and Z and how come she is friends with them and their relatives without telling her parents?
You see, in small-town India of early 2000, no girl spoke to a boy without parental supervision. X had just struck a friendship during extra-classes in a co-ed institute and kept it under wraps to avoid any parental obstruction. It was a regular practice in those days. No girl in her right senses would talk to her parents of all the boys she was acquainted with.
Boys, however, could boast about all the girls they had befriended (or claimed to befriend). No pointed questions were asked from the male counterparts. Girls, however, were usually grounded.
Now that the conversation had happened on the family phone (no mobile phone in those days), she had to lay it very thick to avoid detection. Pointed questions were asked. Her standard answer–“a friend (obviously female) called”–was not sufficient. She had to go through the details of the call ensuring that all her facial reactions on the call matched the explanation without revealing the truth. Not satisfied because the conversation was whispered but finding no reason for open hostility, the parents had dropped the matter. Obviously, the next few days would involve close scrutiny.
While it was uncomfortable, X was mainly upset because of the loss of trust. She was clueless why Y would lie about her. She wanted to confront him. But she had to play the good girl and go home on time after college to avoid any further issues.
I offered an insight yet again based on my previous assessment–“Y was deleting competition. Once Z heard of the engagement, (having no way to contact X to confirm the news because he would obviously not call X on home phone), he would have bowed out. But, Y had not counted on relatives being involved.”
X was not satisfied with my assessment because it now implicated two male friends–Y and Z– and suggested that they “liked” her.
But she had run out of all possible excuses for Y’s odd behaviour. Unfortunately for Y, no matter what his reasons were, X now wanted revenge. She was angry enough to take my advice and I let my inner vamp take over.
A couple of weeks later, X came to college wearing a heavy gold ring on her ring finger that belonged to her mother. Two of us went to meet Y after college hours. She was still unsure how it would act as revenge (engagements were usually happy events) but I insisted her to try. There were no relatives involved at Y’s front so there was nothing to lose.
Once there, she declared she was engaged–that her parents had found her the most amazing husband and marriage is due in three months. (To learn how the process of finding a husband for a daughter works, please look at I do: The Indian Way series.)
To make the charade more believable, we carried a box of chocolates as a “gift from her fiance’ ” and offered him a piece as celebratory sweets. We discussed a whole lot of believable lies coming from my experience from my cousin’s recent engagement–the families being in touch discussing the matter for a long time, the sudden visit of boy’s family, quick arrangements and engagement on spot.
We also gave him the details of the amazing ‘boy’–looks based on my brother and education, job, family and other details of my cousin…
For a Home run, I thanked him for the joke from earlier, and assured him that his words had acted as a prayer and have landed X with a such a wonderful future.
As expected, Y congratulated X and we took his leave to “further spread the news”. I am usually not a sadist. But as I sat in the auto for home, I laughed all the way eating the “celebratory chocolates”.
Later that day Z, who was already in on the plan, informed X that the news had hit home and Y had called him to tell him about the “real” engagement; that he had consoled him with the standard “it was bound to happen someday” statement; and that Y had assured him that “he was usually quite happy these days” with a tone akin of a funeral.
Z didn’t tell him the truth for a month. Considering they were best friends and spoke every day, I would say, it was needlessly cruel…
But what would I, who never had boyfriend, know about the matters of heart?
Author’s note: My Matters of Heart series is about Indian dating culture and my failsafe ways of dealing with it. This is the sixth part. To look for the rest, just search for Matters of Heart in the Search box.
India may be the land of many languages but regarding the matters of heart, it is pretty much the same–vague! At least, small town India in my teens was like that. You needed to learn Morse code to be able to receive a signal.
That could be because if a guy didn’t hit the mark with 100% accuracy at the correct time and in the correct place and correct company, he might spend the rest of the month in a hospital ward with both hands and legs, and skull in bandages–if he was lucky!
If he was unlucky, he might land up in jail for eve-teasing, harrassment and obscene behaviour in public, or even end up starting a full-scales riot spread across several Indian states–especially if it was a Hindu-Muslim union he was looking for.
As I had mentioned in one of my earlier posts, until the age of 20, I never got a proposal. But honestly, I probably never recognised an attempt to propose. Many of such incidents were due to the vague language signals, which relied solely on reading body language and breaking code words (such as, “I am going for a movie alone.” means “Do you want to come for a movie with me?”).
Considering that I am rather thick in that department, it took me several years of quiet contemplation to understand the full meaning of a lot of these conversations.
Thankfully, I wasn’t the only one. My friends were equally befuddled. Most being bookish-nerdy-artist variety girls, they all had similar unyielding conversations. Surprisingly enough, I was sometimes able to break the code for them (but never for myself). Unfortunately, my decoding style used to put their hackles up and they would start avoiding the guy making the moves.
So I had a close friend (let’s call her X). Once one of her close friends (let’s call him Y to rhyme with a “guy”) told her that he “liked” me. Now, in those days, “liking” in India was the code word for “kind of crazy about and wish to take on a date”. Note that I had met him only once for 15 minutes in an office setting. When X expressed her surprise, he added, “Yeah, there should be somebody to drive around on my new bike!” And then, when she offered to pass the message to me, he said, “No! No! Promise me you won’t tell her I said that.”
So obviously, X told me. It is the girl’s code to share everything that is expressly forbidden.
Technically, this was the first non-proposal I had received, or I should say the first time a guy had clearly shown any interest in me. It didn’t get me interested. It got me curious. I had to dissect this conversation to see where it came from and where it was going.
Because the three statements together did not make sense: while it is natural to “like” someone and want company on a new bike, you need to tell the concerned person to get that company. Why expressly forbid?
Also if I was a guy, I would never want someone like me just to drive around on a new bike. Men LOVE bikes. They are their equivalent of a lover. (I have a colleague who has the name of his bike tattooed on his arm.) So, if they want a girl for a new bike, that girl will have to be a new-bike equivalent: shiny and polished-to-hilt girl with red glossy lips, eyelashes that are thick enough to be braided, plucked eyebrows, manicured fingers and pedicured feet, and fitted in a dress that shows it all.
A girl who new knew make-up and is a walking ad for “Just Books” wouldn’t fit into the image of the “bike” girl. Besides, I owned a new scooter and would never ask a lift from anyone anyway. So, the statements were not making sense.
Naturally, I wanted to ask Y directly to save me the decoding effort. But X told me that it would look like a breach of confidence to him. And I would move mountains for X. So, I had to solve this mystery on my own, trying to join the dots but always coming back in circles.
What did Y mean by…
Could he seriously consider sharing his new bike with me? I mean, I could take it for a drive…not with him in the back though…
What if he didn’t mean it and was just saying for the sake of conversation…a very dangerous conversation with a potential of public beating?
And why would he bluff to X?
Then inspiration hit–Dil Toh Pagal Hai (One of Shahrukh Khan’s movie–the god of Romance in India)!
Y was testing waters. He was checking X’s reaction to see if she would be jealous, like Anjali in Dil Toh Pagal Hai when she saw her best friend show interest in another girl?
If he was actually meaning to ask her out, he would draw her attention to his intention of getting a girl (and to the fact he had acquired a new bike). Since she was a close friend, it would switch on her jealous-friend track and (considering she wore her heart on her sleeve) it would show on her face.
But the plan backfired because X was truly disinterested. She offered to pass on the message, leaving him scared that I might walk in with my brother and he would have to be admitted in a hospital for broken bones (if he was lucky!).
I offered this explanation to X, telling her that she had a secret admirer who was wondering if he should ask her out. But she was as thick as me, “Naah, if that’s the case, he could have simply asked me.”
He was mellifluous. Not his voice–I hadn’t heard it yet. I am talking about the person himself.
As usual, I was late and had to run from my office with my backpack on my shoulders to catch the last bus to my town. I preferred Fridays to visit my parents when it was relatively spacious, as compared to Saturdays when, apparently, the entire world was travelling home.
After a lot of running and jostling, I finally managed to get on the bus. I was still trying to catch my breath at the door while searching for an open seat when I saw him…
…and never looked away.
It was the peace on his face that drew my eyes–a peaceful ship in the sea of turbulent waters…
He wasn’t a regular or I would have remembered such a face. His skin was light brown, and the dimples made him look rather ‘pretty’–if a man can be called ‘pretty’ without being offended.
As I slowly walked forward in the aisle, I realised he was in a deep sleep–how he managed to sleep amidst all the honking and sweltering heat was a mystery to me. But the way his chest rose and fell gracefully with each breath left no doubt that his lights were completely out. His hands resting in his lap looked fluid, even though there was no movement. His black hair flew gently with the wind from the open window and he seemed completely oblivious of my scrutiny…
…or my existence. Somehow, the thought bothered me.
I sat down a couple of seats ahead of him. I would have sat next to him, but the seat was taken by another female. She sat looking rather bored, consulting her watch often, as if wishing for the time move faster. She seemed completely unaffected by his presence.
Was it just me, then, who felt the tug towards him? I wanted to offer her my seat, so that I can sit with him–afterall, she didn’t seem to care either way. But it would be very conspicuous, completely irrational and totally unlike me. Why would I want to sit with him? I didn’t even know his name! Also, I wasn’t a big town girl. I was never friends with boys and my dealings with them were strictly on need-to-know basis. Dating was unheard of in my family and going after a boy made me feel like an overachieving fool.
Not that it stopped me.
I tried to think of other things, like my favourite food waiting for me at home; my father waiting at the bus stand (since it would be dark by the time my bus reached there); my mother waiting at the door, worried why I hadn’t turned up yet (even though I always reached at the same time)…
But it didn’t seem to make a difference. I kept looking back at him–intent on making introductions once he woke up.
Finally, the girl got up and got down the bus and I took her place in a flash.
I was blushing now because people had noticed how I had hurried to get to him. A lot of these people have seen me ride this bus for an year now. We had exchanged gossip on the way to our various destinations. Now they watched my walk of shame back to my seat to retrieve my backpack that I had forgotten in my hurry to secure this seat. They looked at me with me interest, some of them raising their eyebrows in obvious questions with knowing smiles.
I was also blushing because, as I sat back, our shoulders were touching. A small-town Indian girl that I was, I never had a boyfriend, and the only other boy I ever touched was my elder brother–to get piggyback rides. Of course, I sit next to other people in the bus and in office. But it never felt like this–like I was stealing a moment. Pathetic!
I didn’t like sitting next to him though. It was difficult to look at him properly now. But I could tell his profile was even more interesting. The crow’s feet around his eyes reminded me of happy times; of hikes and dips in the river; of lemonades and jokes; of shared family tales and good-natured ribbing…
It was still light outside and he slept on. His closed eyes were peaceful amidst the various traffic jams that our bus was stuck in. Even the sunlight falling on his face didn’t seem to bother him. His breathing was even and restful–like soulful music meant only for my ears. It made me drowsy. I wanted to talk to him but I didn’t want to disturb his peace. Surely, we can talk once he woke up…
An old fellow Friday traveler woke me up at my stop. The seat next to me was empty except for a gun wrapper. I felt my stomach drop as collected my backpack.
“He waited for you to wake up for eons. Kept stealing glances but didn’t want to disturb your sleep though. So, when his stop came, he jumped over the back of the next seat.”
Sensing my disappointment, she gestured at the gun wrapper with a smile, “I saw him scribble on it right before he left. I think he left his number for you.”
Author’s note: Last year, when we shifted to our new house, a welcoming party of six Jungle Babblers came for a visit.This is the tale straight from the horse’s mouth.
I was sitting on that wire when I realised the window was open…finally! I was so excited to meet the new neighbours, so, I just hopped on the ledge. And what did I see? All asleep!
Lazy bones!
It was 6 o’clock. My bretheren and I had been awake for the past two hours already–had breakfast and a flight across the river…
These city people must understand this is not how things work in our countryside.
But you can’t really go around delivering sermons to new people…the best way is to welcome them and then, politely, show them how things are done.
So, I decided to begin our association by giving them a song of welcome–the best way to introduce them to the delights of the early morning country music. I began with my favourite: The Aeroplane. My bretheren joined me as well.
It came out so wonderfully refreshing that the woman woke up right away, jumping to the window where I sat. Her eyes were wide and looked at the street in bewilderment. I was amused. She must be wondering where all that energy came from.
Smiling, I introduced myself. She looked me with her jaw dropped open. A fan already!
Her daughter was stirring, roused by sound of music.
I decided to give them a special piece that the child would surely love: The Chainsaw. I started with the highest notes I could pick, followed by my bretheren.
The child stirred further and the mother said something–I couldn’t really hear her over our music. But she was flapping her wings. These humans have never really learnt to use their wings but I could see my music was making her wish she could fly. So I added more vigour, urging my brothers to give it their best.
Alas, humans are unpredictable like cloudy skies. You never know what they would do next. The woman swung a broom at me!
Now, I don’t want to hurt anyone’s sentiments. I would have accepted a rose but broom is certainly not my style. Firstly, they are too heavy. Secondly, so many twigs of the broom wouldn’t have fit into my nest.
I tried to continue singing but when the broom came too close, I decided it was time to say a rushed goodbye.
After that I tried a few more times of different occasions but with the same results. After the fifth time she offered the broom, I decided it was better to keep my distance.
I think I have hurt her feelings . But I really can’t go building another nest for every fan! What would my wife think?
Surely she would know if her shadow was still her part…
.
She would feel it
Sticking to her shoe…
Certainly there would be something…a slight cue?
.
Unknown, unreasonable,
Fear crept in.
Panic filled up empty crevices within.
.
She rushed back
To the streak of light.
Her shadow was there the other night.
.
Travellers swear,
In car headlight,
A phantom dives under their speeding cars. Every night…
Author’s note: Some people working in graveyard shift in Gurgaon back in 2014 used to say that a phantom woman would dive under their car’s front wheels. Every night. Scary! 😨
Short Stories | Fish-eye Perspective 