Blink issue 52 january24 2015

saturday, january 24, 2015

As BLink turns one, promising new authors of 2015 write exclusively for our fiction issue Amlan Babu and the Encyclopedia of Bengali Indigestion Sandip Roy p2 Charagh Din’s Birds Ali Akbar Natiq p4 The Supplicant Indra Das p6 The Missing Horses Bilal Siddiqui p8 Hourglasses Abeer Hoque p10 Night of the Harvest Moon Rosalyn D’Mello p14 The Retirement Avinuo Kire p16 Mahek Aarya Babbar p18 Vacancy Mike Masilamani p20 Tiger Haunting Kanishk Tharoor p21 Before You Step Out Kaveri Gopalakrishnan p22

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Before you step out kaveri gopalakrishnan

Holy triad As Amlan babu discussed the finer points of Pudin Hara vs Zinetac vs Unienzyme and lamented the disappearance of Aqua Ptychotis from the marketplace, the publisher had said, “Amlan babu, you should write a book about this” partha pratim sharma

sandip roy

Amlan Babu and the encyclopedia of Bengali indigestion

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J – Jowaner arak The pungent bright orange Aqua Ptychotis made from ajwain seeds is the Bengali saffron — more valuable than gold. Made by Bengal Chemicals, it is the only reason the Bengali race has not been wiped out by dyspepsia. Sadly, in globalised India, it is becoming harder to find. Thankfully, its cousin Carmozyme, brewed from Nux Vomica tincture and cardamom, is still plentiful.

After Amlan babu retired from his job as a mid-level bureaucrat, he was free to devote all his time to his dream project — the comprehensive encyclopedia of Bengali indigestion. Amlan babu had always been a man of modest ambitions, someone who had not wanted to be noticed by the world. His main aim in life as a bureaucrat was to stay out of sight. Even promotions gave him stress. And any kind of stress gave him acute indigestion, which came with an ominous rumbling sense of impending doom. He was never to be found without his Pudin Hara and Zinetac, which he carried with him everywhere like talismans. Sometimes when he felt extra stressed, he patted his pocket gently to reassure himself that they were still there.

One of the high points of his life was when he had been able to offer a Pudin Hara to a well-known publish-

er, who had just had a very rich lunch of extra oily mutton kasha while meeting with the minister who headed Amlan babu’s department. As Amlan babu discussed the finer points of Pudin Hara vs Zinetac vs Unienzyme and lamented the disappearance of Aqua Ptychotis from the marketplace, the publisher had said, “Amlan babu, you should write a book about this.”

Amlan babu had turned red. No one had ever suggested such a thing to him in his life. But the idea teased its way into his mind and refused to leave. That very evening he bought himself a lined notebook and started writing down his first notes about indigestion.

A – Ambol Acidity. Unavoidable Bengali condition precipitated by many factors — deep-fried puris after sunset, drinking water after savoury chanachur, fruits at the wrong time of the day, not listening to your mother. Ultra-sensitive Bengalis are known to get ambol just seeing parathas being fried in ghee in television ads.

His wife Sandhya was less than supportive.

“What is all this hiji-biji you keep writing at night?” she would complain. “Why don’t you just come to bed?

That table lamp is keeping me awake.”

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“Oh, just some reports,” he would mumble without revealing what he was really doing. Sandhya too was known to worry about gas and indigestion and never had water after eating fruits, but Amlan babu jealously guarded his project, keeping it a secret from everyone around him. He did not tell his friends and colleagues either. As he sat in his office going through files and reports, he daydreamed about Isabgol.

ished the last film of a famous director, did she not? He imagined her writing the entry for ‘Pet bhaar’.

P – Pet bhaar Literally, heavy stomach, meaning no appetite. The most sorrowful expression in the Bengali vocabulary because it is not accompanied by ambol (see A) or loose motions (see L) or choa dhekur or eggy burp (see C). In short, the Bengali feels physically fine, just unable to eat. Might be an omen for constipation. Double Isabgol dose (see I) I – Isabgol Psyllium husk or dietary fibre for regular bowel move- immediately.

Amlan babu decided to start leaving a treasure trail of ments is a carefully timed Bengali ritual to ensure the “pressure” comes at exactly the right time. No Bengali little ghostly clues for his wife.

One day he left an old photograph from their wedwants to wake up at the crack of dawn thanks to some ding on the floor near his desk. She picked it up, looking mistimed Isabgol.

He cleared out an old writing desk in the living room puzzled and then put it away. Another day he left the taand installed a table lamp. At first he typed on the old Ol- ble lamp on. He began to enjoy this spectral dalliance. ivetti typewriter that had belonged to his father. But the Amlan babu and Sandhya had an arranged marriage. clickety-clack of the keys also disturbed his wife. In time They had never had an opportunity to date. In the early he bought himself a laptop. days of their married life, they would sometimes go to After he retired, Sandhya asked him about whether films together but even in the dark theatre they never they should sit down and organise their finances. Amlan held hands. Now he felt he was leading her by the hand babu nodded agreeably, but in his mind he was already to his life’s great unfinished masterpiece. figuring out the next entry in his encyclopedia.

Each little dropped keepsake brought her closer and He visited homeopaths to learn about what studies closer to the desk. Sandhya was not an unintelligent had been done on Nux Vomica. He spent hours tracking woman. She surely remembered the late nights he down Ayurvedic doctors to find out the digestive value worked on “reports” even after he had retired. The day of Thankuni leaves or the Asiatic pennywort. “Are you he left his old key on the floor, he knew she would sit sure you have retired?” Sandhya asked susdown at the desk and try to see where it fit. piciously. “You seem to be out of the house That was exactly what she did. far more than when you were actually goThe ghostly Amlan babu watched with ing to work.” bated breath as she tried one lock after anHe had not been a Amlan babu just smiled mysteriously. other until she found the correct one. His very religious man or He had some consulting projects, he mumeyes glistened as she pulled out his old inka superstitious one bled. He was not sure why he lied. But he stained Nataraj folder and untied the and had not thought felt his encyclopedia was not ready to meet string. She stared at the pages in bewilderdeeply about what to ment, with furrowed brows and then turnhis wife’s scrutiny. expect after death.

Then one day Amlan babu died. ed on the lamp and started to read.

So he was a little His heart was clenching with pain but Then she shook her head, staring at each taken aback to find his wife thought it was a gas attack. “I think sheet as if in disbelief. Amlan babu wished out that he had you should not have had that Mughlai she would say something but she said become a ghost paratha last night. It was too rich,” she said nothing at all, just sitting there, reading reprovingly. His wife, who had no medical page after page. One page fell to the floor. training, was prone to making medical Amlan babu gently made it flutter a few judgements with great certainty. To be fair, feet. She reached for it. He blew it out of he had a gas attack before that had been her reach. Then he stopped because he did mistaken for a heart attack. But this one was a real heart not want to scare her and shatter the moment. As she attack. Amlan babu died. slept that night he kept watch over her. She smiled once in her dreams and his heart swelled with pride.

R – Rich But the next morning everything changed.

Rich or “ektu reech” (a little rich) sums up almost every“I thought he was doing retirement planning in that thing that’s part of eating out (see E) or wedding feasts. study. When I found that folder I was so relieved. I was The post-midnight roadside biryani and egg-chicken roll sure it listed all his investments. But he was writing pageventually take a toll despite all the Pudin Hara pills. “Dur- es and pages of nonsense about indigestion and ambol,” ing Durga puja, it’s always ektu reech,” laments the he heard Sandhya tell her sister on the phone. “TomorBengali. row I am calling the bikriwallah.”

He had not been a very religious man or a superstiBy evening, he found his desk had been cleaned and tious one and had not thought deeply about what to ex- his folder was nowhere to be found. Later he discovered pect after death. So he was a little taken aback to find out everything piled in the storeroom next to the old newsthat he had become a ghost. Then he realised to his fur- papers and the broken showerhead. If he had not been a ther consternation, he was not only a ghost, he was what ghost already Amlan babu’s heart would have stopped. his mother used to call an “otripto aatmaa”, an unsatisHowever Amlan babu’s life’s secret work did not go fied spirit who is still craving something. Amlan babu entirely to waste. It was turned into paper packets and a sat on the neem tree outside his house and gazed long- stack of them ended up in Nalin’s roadside stall selling ingly at the desk where his encyclopedia lay unfinished. deep-fried telebhajas. One day on her way home from His family did not seem too devastated by his death. the market, Sandhya, stricken by a moment of temptaSandhya appeared more concerned that she did not tion, bought two aloo chops from Nalin’s. She did not know where he had left an account of all their notice the packet it came in and crumpled it and threw investments. it away after devouring the contents.

The ghost of Amlan babu did not wish to harm his That night, despite a Zinetac, she had terrible indigesfamily or scare them. He discovered he appeared in his tion laced with eggy burps or choa dhekur. As she tossed wife’s dreams. Once she woke up in the middle of the restlessly in bed and got up to drink water, Amlan babu night from a dream and patted the side of the bed where watched her from his neem tree. A pettier man would he used to sleep and started weeping softly. Amlan babu have relished her plight but Amlan babu merely felt a was touched that she missed him more than he had strange sense of melancholy as he realised that now he thought she would. Another day he found her leafing would never ever have another choa dhekur again. through an old album of pictures of their honeymoon in Shillong. He stood behind her as she smiled nostalgi- C – Choa dhekur cally tracing a photograph of the two of them standing The long-lasting eggy burp is the bane of Bengali existtogether at Elephant Falls. Amlan babu, in death, felt a ence. Brought on by gastronomic excess. Assumes pandemic proportions after copious roadside biryani rush of tenderness for his wife.

Perhaps I should have shared more with her, he consumption or an overdose of “reech” food. thought. Perhaps this encyclopedia could have been our great joint project. The more he thought about it, the sandip roy’s Don’t Let Him Know (Bloomsbury Publishing) more it made sense to him. A spouse sometimes fin- released this month

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Vacancy Att: S. K. D. S__________1.9. 2012 The last execution was on June 23, 1976 — when 27-yearSoaring fortunes By eight inPCWP the morning all bets would be laid and the pens of the pigeons were raised a tofarmer the sky mohammed yousuf Ref: PHM 166/ 8/2012/ old Jayasinghe Chandradasa, convicted of murmike masilamani

Dear Sir, We write with reference to your application for the post of hangman dated 14. 8. 2012. Please be advised candidates will be called for a medical examination shortly.

Please quote the above reference number in all correspondence.

Mr K Commissioner Prisons

der, was hanged to death. A total of 1,868 men and women have been executed.

Since then the death sentence has been pronounced by judges around the island but automatically commuted to life imprisonment by the President of Sri Lanka. On December 18, 2008, and December 21, 2010, Sri Lanka voted in favour of the Resolution on a Moratorium on the Use of the Death Penalty at the UN General Assembly.

This year the Ministry of Justice prepared a report regarding the prisoners on death row. This report has been compiled with information obtained from the Ministry of Prison Reforms and Rehabilitation to be handed over to the President. According to a survey conducted by the Rehabilitation and Prisons Reforms Ministry, 76 per cent of those interviewed wanted capital punishment implemented to fight the rising wave of “Men, Mongia no ordinary rooster.

When my greatcrime.

Only 8 periscent opposed the implementation. great-grandfather leftonly theauthority court of who Nawab Wajid on Ali The President is the can decide Shah, he brought rooster with him and Mongia hails implementing theadeath penalty or pardoning convicts from the samewith stock.” manvested Charagh Din under addressed in accordance theOld powers in him secthe crowd running his hand gently through the tion 34(1)ofwhile the Constitution. rooster’s comb.conducted trials at the Welikada Prisons We recently The avillagers looked at him enviously.

Allanight there using bag of sand equal to the weight of human bewas to talk of rooster quails pigeon flying and ing, establish thefights, gallows are inand working order. allWith nightreference sugarcane was served. tosweetened the post ofrice hangman please be advised two candidates have been selected for the post on his wasofthe only house in the village which be a contract 15 years.

The starting salary for the could position to belong to everyone. No walls surrounded it is Rssaid 11,000. and fence madeconvicted of thornyofwood served estabAt only leasta480 people murder andto drug oflish the are limits of ownership.

There must been three fences liable for execution.

This have includes your or four rooms in the with—walls of clay and a roof daughter’s rapist andhouse murderer S.T____________, curof dried grass.

In the winters, the cows were kept inside rently being held at Welikada Prison. these do not remember ever having seen On rooms behalf as ofwell. the IPrisons Department please accept old heartfelt man Charagh Din doing anyloss. work. Whenever I enmy sympathies on your tered, thenote firstthis thing was the old sittingreferin a Please fileIissaw now closed andman the above corner with aispedigreed rooster in his lap bearing a ence number no longer valid. magnificent comb.

Mr K Charagh Din had six sons, one after the other. They Commissioner Prisons had followed in the footsteps of the father and the mike is theofauthor of There The Boy Whothree Speaksorinfour housemasilamani bore the look a zoo. were (Tara Books) releasing thistoApril Numbers landing nests on the rooftop bring down the pigeons.

Everywhere you could see clay pots which held feed for

ali akbar natiq

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valentin agapov/shutterstock; author photo deshan tennekoon

Charagh Din’s birds

Att: S. K. D. S__________15. 9. 2012 Ref: PHM 166/ 8/2012/ PCWP Dear Sir, Thank you for your letter of 14.9. 2012. Reference your enquiry, please note that all candidates are required to have passed their Grade 8 examination and be between the ages of 18 and 45 Out of a total of applicants, male candidates inell178 done, Mongia,65well done!

Peck him cluding your good self met with again!

Finish offthese that criteria. tailless bird. Yes! We regret to Hit inform that you failed the subsehim you again.

Aha! Yes!” quent medical examination.

As the intensity of the fight between have onincreased, record your of recommendation by theWeroosters soletter did the volume of old man Lt. Colonel C ofvoice.

8 Gemunu and note that you reCharagh Din’s There Watch was a crowd of about a 100 ceived in thejab line of duty. people,your and injury with every there were cries of praise all However be informed, given thedone! nature of the around andplease deafening cries of “Yes! Well Grab his work no exemption is possible. comb!involved, Rip his liver!”

Your offer work without remuneration is On thekind other side,toShareefa saw his rooster being beanoted. ten and he started cursing it. “Bastard! I have been starvK family and feeding you almonds. I even sent my ingMr my Commissioner Prisons wife home and you have humiliated me. By God, I will have you for dinner tonight, or my name isn’t Shareefa.”

Att: S. the K. D.poor S_____________22.9.

But rooster didn’t get 2012 up. Old man Charagh Ref: PHM 166/ 8/2012/ PCWP Din came forward and picked up Mongia, whose comb Dear Sir, was drenched in blood. Shareefa left quietly after Accha I thankhim youhis forrooster. your letter of 20.9 2012 and your interhanded estNow shown the matters of gathered the PrisonsatDepartment. theinwhole crowd Charagh Din’s Gallows currently existtall at the Bogambara and Welikaplace and started telling tales. da“Didn’t Prisons.I The first Mongia hanginghas wasimperial held onblood February 11, say that in his 1884, Welikada Prison. veins?atBy God, if we hadn’t stopped him he would have After Sri the Lanka gained Independence, Prime Minister split open spleen of that bird.”

SWRD abolished death in “His Bandaranaike beak has the sharpness of the Zulfiqar, thesentence bifurcated 1956. hisHe assassination, it was reintroduced 1959. swordAfter of Ali. treats all opponents like infidels, in may he have a long life!”

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A

the pigeons. Dozens of pigeon houses hung around the pigeon hobbyist might be a saint otherwise, but he place. The finest quails would be seen walking about. A always has one flaw and that is the habit of jumping row of sheesham trees provided shade. A stream flowed across walls and rooftops after pigeons. Accha was an exright next to the house, and in the afternoons its water pert in this. He could spot a pigeon a mile away and then was used to sprinkle the place. When the cool breeze en- he would be off — jumping across this roof, climbing tered the shade of the trees, the scent of wet earth would over that wall. The pigeon could not escape him. He got mesmerise the senses. The deep shadows reminded one into trouble because of this on a number of occasions. of dark clouds. Anyone was welcome to drop in at any Once the wife of Sardar Nabi Siyal was taking a bath in time. They could smoke a hookah, have a chat and then her courtyard when Accha, in his pursuit of a pigeon, dego their way. At any time during the day, a crowd of a scended right in front of her. While the poor woman was dozen could be seen. Pigeon sports and kite-flying scrambling for her clothes, Accha grabbed the pigeon would be the topics of discussion. In short, it was more resting on the foot of the charpoy and ran back as if of a dera, that is, a homestead, than a house. nothing had happened. Of course, there was a big scene All six brothers would get up at five in the morning. in the evening and sticks came out from both sides. But For four hours, till nine o clock, they would labour on one of the elders of the village, Haji Latif, got involved the tractor trolleys which took sand from the river to the and the issue was settled with the necessary apologies. city. From nine to twelve they would prepare the fodder It is true that pigeon breeders can be found in all for the cattle. That was their routine. The rest of the day towns and villages, but the passion for the sport in our was spent with the pigeons and in other games. village was no less than in the historical city of Awadh.

They fought a dozen times during a day.

And Charagh Din’s house was the most appropriate for “Look here. How many times have I told you not to such activities. There were about 30 villages located in touch my pigeon Kaalsera or I will smash your head in.” the vicinity of ours which housed about 500 pigeon “Who do you think you are? Nadir Shah’s son? What is hobbyists.

Kaalsera to you?”

Every year on June 15, all of them would gather with “I am telling you, you will lose your life by my hand!” their pigeons in the village school. The grounds of the turning towards his mother, “Ma, you betschool were spread over five acres. By eight ter talk to Jeeda, or else you can pretend in the morning all bets would be laid and you gave birth to one less son.” the pens of the pigeons were raised to the Old woman Charaghan would start sky.

People seemed swearing. The brothers would bring out axDifferent breeds would be on display oblivious to the es and sickles and confront each other. The and they spread in a multitude of colours summer heat and whole household would split into two across the sky. People seemed oblivious to groups. Old man Charagh Din would butt could be seen running the summer heat and could be seen runbarefoot. It was one son’s head and talk down the other but ning barefoot. It was understandable for understandable for the brothers would keep going at each oththe owners to run after their pigeons but the owners to run er. Eventually he would tire and sit down. us young folks would run for miles to after their pigeons The ruckus would bring the whole village watch the pigeon that had taken our fancy. but us young folks to the house and they would hold the sons And then there were the jibes of the ownback. After great efforts, order would be re- would run for miles to ers directed at their competitors. stored to the place. But no one ever got watch the pigeon that “Look, Khan Muhammad, your Dabba is had taken our fancy hurt in all this chaos. At first, the villagers about to shit. I guess he will have to land used to fret over these fights, but over time for that,” Accha quipped. they came to enjoy them. Actually, they “Mind your own business. He’s been fed would wait for the next one so they could a hundred kilos of almonds. There is only amuse themselves. one direction he is going and that is up.

Look here, I have not even mentioned their names. You take care of your Kaalsera; looks like his tail is pointWell, Waris was the eldest. Next up was Sadiq, known as ing to the sky and in half an hour his story is going to Saada. He was followed by Gaagar. I am afraid I don’t re- end,” Khan Muhammad replied, squinting his eyes. member his real name. The fourth one was Jeemal. Here Then Shafique chimed in, “Khan, your Dabba is more a again, God knows what his true name was. Arshad alias chicken than a pigeon. You have wasted your almonds Accha was the fifth in the line followed by Javed or Jeeda, on him. Here, I have brought a knife. You should sacrias he was called. The elder three were married and, I fice him as soon as he lands.” have to admit shamefacedly, I have witnessed all of them “I’ve seen your Ghalwa too. One might mistake him being beaten by their wives. And it was not even very for a duck. He is flying as if he has been suffering from rare. Gaagar, who had the build of an elephant, would consumption.” take cover behind his brothers when his wife went after Now Sheeda joined in, “By God, this Kaalsera is a hawk. him with a broom.

With every round he goes up 10 feet. Flying low seems Everyone in the village, from the landlord to the like it’s against his honour.” sweeper, was their friend. On a number of occasions I “Maybe he wants to discuss some important matters saw them becoming involved in the fights of others. with the Almighty,” Jeemal joked, “I bet you he will be Half of them would join one group and the rest the oth- down on the ground before the clocks strike one.” er. This strategy was so effective that the situation would This buffoonery continued and Hameeda Mirasi be defused in no time. I do not believe that any house- would bang his dhol. Some of the young ones would enhold in the village was poorer than them but they never circle him. The entire day was a continuous celebration. saw it that way. Winters were a blessing as saag would be After one o’ clock the tired pigeons would start returnfreely available during the season. And for nearly four ing to the ground. One would fall here and the other one straight months that was the only item you saw being there. The colour would drain from the losing owners’ cooked at their stove. They wouldn’t even bother with faces as they saw their pigeons coming down. Slogans bread. Morning, noon and night they would eat saag were chanted and fireworks were set off. For a while it and sugarcane — another freely available commodity in seemed as if the village had gone to war. Amidst all this, the area. Summers were more difficult, but they would Accha and Jeemal’s pigeon would continue scouring the borrow some land from the landowners and grow vege- sky like an eagle. Finally he would be brought down at tables. If some beggar happened on their door they six. In the evening, sweet rice was cooked and distribwould address each other with surprising graciousness uted, and the earnings from the bets would be spent.

— give him something, he’s poor — and always gave him The money went as it came and the brothers remained something. the same.

Nights were spent on charpoys under the starry sky.

(Excerpted from The Anklets of Shah Madaar by Ali AkThey would sing verses from folk ballads, regional songs bar Natiq; translated from the Urdu by Ali Madeeh Hashmi.) and Heer so melodiously that one couldn’t help but offer praise. One brother would start off and then another Islamabad-based ali akbar natiq’s debut novel in English, What would follow. Then the one in the far corner would Will You Give for This Beauty? (Penguin Books India/Hamish chime in. All seven, including the old man, would sing Hamilton), releases this month. in turn and, lying in their beds, the villagers could listen Writer and translator ali madeeh hashmi has written about the lives and works of Faiz, Ghalib, Iqbal and Manto to the singing.

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The supplicant

Blink and I love you I cudn’t stop lookin into her beautiful hazel brown eyes serg zastavkin/shutterstock

Mahek aarya babbar

Those hazel brown eyes…

Sigh! Those hazel brown eyes...

I stood there looking at the most beautiful girl I had ever seen till then or even till today, I just stood there lookin at her… it would be an injustice to say that an angel cud look any better... True to her name — Mahek, she filled my heart with that heady scent of flowers.

I know this may sound absolutely crazy! But even at here r many unfinished moments that we crave for & wish were fulfilled. Moments the age of 14, I knew that my heart felt something differwhich cud have changed our life forever, mo- ent, something more than its usual pumping blood acments which cud have made our future a dif- tivity! It’s like all I wanted to do was talk to her, eat with ferent, nicer, pleasant present… but everything gets her, hangout with her, make her happy & smile like a lost. Yet some remain engraved in our memory, in our dumb 14-year-old idiot around her! heart, to haunt us forever. Some visuals, some feelings, a Me: Hi Mahek … touch, a caring hug, a sensation, a sensitive eye contact & Mahek: Hi Motu! a skip of a heartbeat… which no matter how mushy it Yea Motu… I was fat then… not that today there is an sounds, we will never forget when we felt it for the first eight-pack or so, four-pack? maybe… hmm but yea… I time. That ‘skip of the heartbeat’, u remember when u was 14, a loner, a lil fat kid, an introvert, and shy, with too felt it for the first time? I do… I remember… many complexes — thanks to the family dramas we all I was 14… have. But Mahek had this effect on me like how a paceAnNorth alien The Supplicant is a being from the sky, not the kind that’s justmaker a human crossing the borders a country thatsmiling doesn’t want India… has on a dying man!ofI cudn’t stop around them n rajesh her… I cudn’t stop lookin into her beautiful hazel At a family friend’s villa… & a sweet fragrance of a thousand flowers wafted thru brown eyes! She used to fool around with me, I used to the window when I first felt her presence around me. It happily enjoy her foolin around with me… I think she was the dining hall, I turned & I cud not speak or move. I knew I liked her… honestly, I think every girl knows just stood there, Why? Coz I was captivated by her mes- when a guy likes her. We guys make it super obvious! But I never spoke about my feelings, it was the ‘unspoken merising hazel brown eyes.

Those hazel brown eyes… love’. The memory of that holiday never fails to bring a The Right words & The Right moments with The Right words, make the difference…Trust me they do…

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he Supplicant looks like a small tree at first the years since, she’d heard that most of them had been glance. A tree shaped like a kneeling huma- walled off by governments and militaries. Others were noid figure, perhaps — its trunk a bent torso still left alone, like the one in front of her. Not for long, robed in roots, folded limbs ingrown twists of she was sure. The farmer who owns the field charges branch. Its flesh, or bark, or skin — is a livid, dark red. It people exorbitantly to see the Supplicant. His toothless has no leaves, though a veil covers the stump of its head, but beefy bouncer took money worth several bags of a hood of tissue that grows like some filamentous weed rice out of her hand as she stepped into the field. But the to shadow its featureless face. Though the Supplicant is Supplicant doesn’t belong to him. One day, someone entirely still, its uncanny form projects the illusion of will wall it off, just like the others. gentle, slow breathing if one stares at it too long, espeShe kneels and listens to the Supplicant’s silence, cially when a breeze touches its visitors and stirs the looks into the place where its face would be, if it were dust and grass around it. human. She wonders whether human prayers are turnShraddha knows that the Supplicant isn’t a tree, but ing it into a human under its thick cocoon. an alien. A being from the sky, not the kind that’s just a For so long, nothing seems to happen. As she expecthuman crossing the borders of a country that doesn’t ed. So she keeps her hands clasped and concentrates on want them. She’s waited in line for hours to see it, even everything that is wrong with her life. Then, she hears though she knows it’ll give her nothing. Not her hus- something, feels something stir inside her like the band back, nor money to ease her burdens and those of dreadful warmth of a fresh fever. A sound envelops her, her children. But then, what have earthly idols ever giv- like the inside of a conch-shell, blotting out the sounds en her? All her life, she still went — to shrines, temples, of the field, the rustle of the grass, the voices of the peopandals. Anirban, her husband, still died by her hand, ple in the line. Within that quiet roar, she hears voices his lungs rattling like cheap toys, bluebottles on his bo- that have no sound, that are like feelings inside her ny face. She’d swung a scythe across the back of his neck, head. Like when she speaks to herself without opening painting the yellow flowers of their mustard field red. her mouth.

Idols hadn’t been able to stay Shraddha’s hand. She’d Across the heavens, Shraddha hears another world, or given eight years since the day Anirban dislocated her another place, another time. She can hear other people shoulder in a drunken rage. Those years, punctuated by beyond the stars. And they’re praying. They’re praying, prayers, did nothing to change him. like her. Somewhere on another world, maybe in the sky, And yet here she is, in line to see the Supplicant. She or maybe in her skin, deep down in the space between doesn’t know what else to do. There is love for her what makes her and all things, somewhere, she sees othwretched husband trapped inside her shuddering ers like shadows against her mind, cast by candlelight, chest, guilt and grief like a sick and kicking baby nestled cast by whatever invisible light the Supplicant emits, in her belly, making her heavier, refusing to ever leave warming the air and raising her hair. She can’t see exacther body. ly what they look like, but she can feel the outlines of Shraddha can’t so much as look at her two sons and their long, silvered bodies under a vast sky where moonone little daughter, who are tending the farmland while light is spread from east to west in an arch instead of a she’s away. It’s too much to bear. She can’t give them sphere. They huddle around her, only it is not her, but back their father, and she can’t tell them another Supplicant on their world. Shraddwhy she took him away from them. They ha can feel their suffering in the wake of think he’s gone missing, when he’s lying some vast tragedy — a great war and famat the bottom of a ditch, under a thin blanine, violence spreading across their world. ket of mud and weeds. She’s made her She kneels and listens A pain so acute it trembles the universe itown flesh and blood sick with grief, and self, resonating with her own. to the Supplicant’s she can’t make them better. Instead, she silence, looks into the She gives the Supplicant her suffering, woke one cold winter dawn and travelled her guilt, her pain. She feels it drain out of place where its face 20km of National Highway, on foot and on her like water or blood. It is gone, across the would be, if it were the wooden pallets of inter-village motoryears of light and space, to those silvered human rickshaws, bracketed by reeking men with people, whatever they actually look like. their dirty feet hanging over the road, to And then it is over. get to Bolpur. From there, she walked to “Hurry up,” says the girl behind her, a the cratered field where the Supplicant teenager in a scant sari, shivering in the kneels forever under rain and sun and mist, fallen from winter sunlight, her belly swollen with child. Shraddha the stars years ago. She joined the line of people stand- walks away unsteady, understanding now why people ing and waiting for their turn to see it, as the sun rose to- come to the Supplicant. It is not a god, like other idols. wards noon. The line stretched like a snake through the No, the Supplicant is like a radio placed on a bench in tall grass. Now, the sun is long past its zenith. The Suppli- a tea-shack at the side of the highway, filtering strains of cant casts a longer shadow. voices from a far-off city. But it both receives and She steps up to the Supplicant, aware that there are transmits. tired, impatient people waiting behind her. It feels like She doesn’t know what stories the Supplicant just summer around it, warm and humid. She’d watched the told to its far-off people, what its language made her life old man in front of her wobble on his walking stick till sound like, what is lost or created in its unknowable she helped him to his knees (his lungi sweeping up the translation. But she knows that she has given them dusty earth). He stayed on his knees for five minutes, like strength — the story of a brave being on a blue world, a breathing mirror image of the Supplicant’s illusory (or who vanquished her violent mate to protect her young. not, no one knew) human shape. Then he clutched his She is now an idol, somewhere in time and space, her walking stick — which wobbled like a top again under pain transmitted like radio signals across the universe his fist — got up, and shuffled away, giving her no clue of to become myth. what he’d seen or felt.

Walking across the gentle slopes of the cratered field, She doesn’t know much about the alien she is about Shraddha is aware of every aching joint, her throbbing to kneel in front of. Like everyone in the world, she’s teeth, her cramps, her itching hair. She feels attached to heard many things about it, or them. One woman she the ground like never before, so human — evil, munmet on the pilgrimage across the National Highway said dane, a victim, a survivor, a murderer. Here on this that they eat prayers, that they’re actually cocoons that world, she might have doomed her children to lives will hatch when they’re fully fed, like butterflies. Anoth- without their mother. If the police catch her, she’s as er said that touching them will rot away one’s fingers, good as dead, condemned to misery in some prison in a which is why they remain un-painted and un-garlanded. distant city, even hanged. But on another world under Shraddha remembers when they fell from the sky, an arched sky, she is heroic, triumphant, a legend when she was a young woman and it had seemed even among their stars. She leaves the warmth of the Supplimore a miracle than it was. She’d seen a star begin to cant’s strange aura, and walks back towards Bolpur move in the night sky and become a long thin line of through the tall grass, walking the thin line between white fire to the horizon. A line drawn straight and true, those two worlds, a new balance beneath her feet. She as if showing humanity how far it is to fall from heaven walks back to her children. to earth.

Other stars had fallen that night, all across India and indra das’s speculative fiction The Devourers (Penguin) will the world, each leaving behind a silent Supplicant. In release this April

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The retirement

Final strokes The painting was estimated at a whopping ₹1.2 crore, but sentiment almost always scored over monetary value mf husain

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scheduled to be unveiled, was to be guarded. Nobody ast night, we stumbled upon an interest- was allowed inside or out without being checked thoring conversation,” the Joint Commissioner oughly. She had every CCTV camera routed to a server of Police Sushil Rao addressed his audi- that would allow her phone to access it at any point of ence of three Deputy Commissioners of Po- time. Once the painting was brought to the venue, she lice in an air-conditioned conference room. He switched would keep a strict watch on it until it was flown back to on the television, inserted a flash drive and played an au- MF Husain’s estate in London. His son wasn’t willing to dio note. They listened intently, casting each other wor- part with his late father’s final piece of work yet. The painting was estimated at a whopping ₹1.2 crore, but ried glances as the conversation played out.

‘It’s a rather unusual request, Karim. But I’m afraid it sentiment almost always scored over monetary value.

Sonia stepped out of the museum and put on her sunis what I want in exchange for the next consignment glasses. She looked out at the streets of Kala Ghoda. She that I am going to ship to you.’

There was some static disturbance. But the voice was knew they were being watched. Karim’s men were certainly conducting a reconnaissance of their own. Sonia distinctly accented, and then it continued.

‘In fact, I have made various such acquisitions in the smiled to herself.

She had always been keen on fine arts, like her late fapast. I am, what people might call, a collector. But in my vast inventory, I don’t quite have something valuable ther, who was an accountant by profession. He had encouraged her to paint since a very tender age. He would from your country.’ glimpse over her shoulder and smile at what she always ‘And what might that be?’

‘In a few days from now, MF Husain’s previously un- knew were substandard sketches and paintings. She seen painting will be unveiled in a grand function at didn’t quite have a style of her own, but her father apsome art gallery in Mumbai. Do you think you’ll be able plauded her work nevertheless. And then he would encourage her to sign them. She quite enjoyed signing her to get it for me?’

There was a pregnant pause. All the four DCPs looked art. She still remembered how he would bring back heaps of books on the Renaissance and famous artists at at Rao, who maintained a stoic expression.

‘I hope you have chosen which room you’ll have deco- a bargain from the book-mart at Flora Fountain. The works of Monet, Van Gogh, Mary Cassatt were amongst rated once it reaches you.’

Rao bent down and stopped the audio file. He turned her favourites. After he passed away, her uncle who was to face the screen and pressed a button on his remote. an IPS officer took the responsibility of bringing her up Photographs of two men, juxtaposed next to each other, along with her mother. Very soon, she was pretty clear what she wanted to do. The idea of using a gun was more popped up.

“The man on the right is Juan Alberto. On the face of it, thrilling than using a paintbrush. But she never quite he exports fresh fish. But some of his special customers lost her connection with art. It rekindled the few chermight find little packets of white powder once they slice ished memories she had of her father.

The manager of the Art Gallery broke her chain of up their sea bass.”

“Alberto is Colombia’s biggest drug dealers,” DCP thought. “We plan to set the painting up tomorrow, ma’am.”

Pradhan chimed “His product is and known to bewas theno rush Inert Guolhou staredin. at the ceiling, lying still alert. There to get out of bed, to get dressed, prepare breakfast shutterstock “Yes,” she replied, without looking at him. “That best.”

“And Aslam Karim is the only man he exports to in In- shouldn’t be a problem.” dia,” DCP Mehta contributed. “Aslam is India’s biggest he driver hummed along carelessly, as he drove drug lord. And he has Alberto to thank for that. Top polidown the streets of Mumbai in his van. It was past ticians, Bollywood stars, businessmen swear by the fter 35has years of service under the Government midnight Twenty to and fifty-five; surelyDecember these werechill the made best years the nippy him of rolla product Aslam to offer.” of Nagaland, Guolhou woke one morning man’s he pondered to himself philosophically. his life, window.

He needed to make the delivery to the “He is extremely smart,” Rao added.

“It’s difficultand to up hollow emptiness His restless the place whereBollyit all as soonmind as hewandered could. Histo ringtone, a latest get hold ofexperienced him. But theareal issue remains. deep They within. plan to Gallery began,track, manyblared years suddenly. ago, whenHe hereceived was a desperate was a sensation similar to when his chest wood the call. youth get hold ofItMF Husain’s painting.

The unveiling of which 20. He the10 way he had blubbered with tightens up four afterdays eating toonow.” much or hastily. But this of “Yes. I’llremembered be there within minutes,” he said as he puta is scheduled from time, Guolhou not thump his chest withaasoft heavy fist his mixture ofthe joypedal. and disbelief, when informed that a disfoot to “I’m almost…”

There was a did prolonged silence.

Finally, voice like heit.normally would. Instead, he stared up at the ceil- tantly related, well-to-do uncle as in it Kohima had secured He lost control of his vehicle, skidded along over broke ing, lying andthis alert, if to himself with the himfootpath the mostand coveted government job.

The facthad thatfired this crashed into a tree.

Someone “You canstill leave toas me, sir.familiarise The painting is going this new awareness. Seconds ticked into minutes as he at particular jobHis washead the post of asteering humblewith peonaand his wheels. hit the dullunder thud. nowhere.” counted thethat, squares the men ceiling, again and turned yet again. contract period with a fixed of only per tried to regain himself andpay pushed his ₹3,000 head backAnd with theon three in the room to He ThereDCP wasSonia no rush to get out bed, to get dressed, monthAdid notofbother inits the least. barely cloud smokehim found way out Having of the bonnet. face Menezes, whoofhadn’t uttered a wordpreso wards. pareThe breakfast; there was no longer any need. studied tillthough the primary level, what more could herun exvision, hazy, saw three vague silhouettes far. confidence she exuded was enough to put their His Guolhou had retired yesterday along with one gazet- towards pect! Besides, a government job was a government him. As they drew nearer, realisation struck.job. minds at ease. morning next day, leftaimed his village to ted officer and three other fourth-grade staff like him- Early “Open the safethe behind,” oneGuolhou of the men a pistol setthe out for Kohima afterwe’ll bidding self. next Having driver’s chest. “And let youfarewell live.” to all his The dayentered service at the youthful age of 20, he at wasonia onlygot 55 years when he retired.

HeEvery had served as a friends.

He couldn’t had beenget orphaned anofearly andThey did downold to executing her plan. exit point The man a look atat any theirage faces. peon the Department Treasuries for 35 years. not have much family to and speak of. But nowThe withman thisreacnew at under the Jamshed Art Gallery,ofwhere the painting was had covered their heads worn gloves.

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hed for a key in his pocket and handed it to one of the armed robbers. With the butt of his pistol, the man knocked him unconscious and ran behind to get the Husain painting.

They tore down the plastic that covered the frame and had a good look at the painting under the streetlight.

Their masked visages didn’t need to be seen by each other to be understood. What the world considered a great painting, these three men saw as a few horses in different shades of grey.

“This painting can’t be worth a crore!”

Their muffled guffaws continued as they headed towards their getaway vehicle. The untitled oil-on-canvas painting by one of India’s finest painters wasn’t quite their idea of art.

“It’s just a few horses! I did a better job with crayons as a child!”

“Well, you’ve got another career option then!”

After they were done laughing at MF Husain’s iconic rendition of horses, they hopped into their sedan, slid it into a large black bag and zoomed away as they heard the police sirens grow louder.

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onia made herself a cup of coffee as she got home. It was an exhausting day. The media overdrive rendered her crazy. The painting had gone missing and she couldn’t do anything about it. On her part, she had arranged for the artwork to be delivered to the gallery late at night. She had waited at the gallery herself along with the manager, hoping to welcome it. And then she got the news. The painting was stolen.

She switched on the television as she gulped down a mouthful of the strong espresso. An uptight news anchor yelled away. She read the headlines — The Missing Horses. Her Twitter feed was flooded with people cursing the Indian Police’s carelessness, with ‘#HusainsMissingHorses’ trending worldwide. She took in a deep breath, rested her head backwards and sighed. But, she still had a call to make.

ters being pulled down behind him. He was trapped! He tasted fear. He opened the briefcase and found a note.

His eyes bulged out of their sockets.

“You should’ve known better than sending me a fake.

Messing with me wasn’t the brightest of ideas. Luckily for you, there won’t be a next time.”

And then, Karim heard a beep and the suitcase exploded, tearing down the little warehouse and engulfing it in flames.

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he mediapersons had two major stories to break the next morning. Dreaded gangster and drug kingpin Aslam Karim was killed in a minor explosion in Parel.

The police remained tight-lipped about the incident.

However, Joint Commissioner Sushil Rao sent out a very ambiguous statement later on. He said the MF Husain exhibition at the Jamshed Art Gallery, which was cancelled a few days ago, was to be rescheduled.

“Does this mean you have the painting back in your custody?”

He smiled. “We’ll have to wait and watch, won’t we?”

He looked fondly at DCP Sonia Menezes, who returned a quick smile as she waited outside his cabin. Her plan was risky, but the returns were fruitful. It was the most unconventional of ideas and it took her some great persuasion to get him to comply.

“So when are we getting the painting back?” Rao asked her.

“When Juan decides to send it back, sir.”

They laughed lightly. And then Sonia’s face broke into another smile.

“Very soon, sir. I’ll return it to you very soon.”

Rao turned around and walked into his cabin.

“Take the rest of the day off. I’ll see you at the Husain unveiling later this week.”

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onia returned to her modest apartment. She drew the curtains open and let the breeze caress her face gently for a while. The fading sunlight looked beautiful.

She closed her eyes and leaned against the railings of her balcony. And then, she turned around to look at her Two days later slam Karim was rather content with easel that invited her with a canvas. himself, as he lay on his sofa. He didn’t She pulled out a palette from her drawer know that a silly painting would cause and brought out her set of oil paints. And such brouhaha. He was overjoyed at the then, she opened the largest compartment media circus, patting himself on the back of her cupboard and pulled out the paintHer Twitter feed for being responsible for something like ing that had started it all. The painting that was flooded with this. It was late in the evening and he had MF Husain himself hadn’t named, but had people cursing the retired to his lair. He poured himself a found quite the apt name on its own. The Indian Police’s scotch to celebrate, when his phone rang.

Missing Horses. carelessness It was Juan Alberto.

She perched it atop a table. She was go“Hello, my friend! I’m hoping your wall ing to recreate one more likeness before reis graced with your latest acquisition.” turning it to the Gallery. After all, the Karim’s joviality was matched at the othprevious one she had made was stolen. er end of the phone.

As she squeezed paint into her palette, she relived the “It most certainly is,” Juan replied enthusiastically. “I entire incident again. She was always a step ahead. As have decided to repay you with something special! soon as she had made the promise in the meeting, she Apart from the usual consignment, of course. I would knew she would have to act fast. She prepared what was like you to go get it yourself. My man will get in touch a fairly good likeness of the original and had it replaced with you shortly. Thank you!” in the van that was driven by DCP Pradhan. As she had Karim gleefully agreed and put the phone down. guessed, he was ambushed and the painting taken away.

Within the minute, he got a text message asking him to As her paintbrush began to stroke the rough pencil come to a warehouse in Parel. He left his scotch on the lines she had etched out, she remembered how she had table, picked up his pistol and tucked it at the small of gone through the same process right after they had his back as a precaution and walked as quickly as he learnt about the plot. A fairly simple oil-on-canvas, Hucould to his sedan. He asked one of his cronies to join sain’s painting was clearly a work-in-progress. And that him. One could never be too sure in his line of work. suited her just fine. She might never have been able to They drove for about half an hour. Karim continued to replicate a complete Husain painting. gloat. He had never attempted something of this kind More importantly, she managed to take out Mumbai’s before. And he was about to be rewarded handsomely. biggest drug lord with a simple phone call to Juan that For a painting that cost just over a crore, he was going to informed him that the painting he had was a fake. She get two crore worth of cocaine. He grinned to himself. was glad Karim was dead. Even if he had been arrested, it “Stop right here,” Karim said as they arrived outside would’ve been ages before the law decided his fate. This the abandoned mill. He knew which one of the ware- way, she got one scumbag to eliminate the other. Much houses he was supposed to go to. easier than staging an encounter, she smirked.

Karim saw Juan’s man, a young Nigerian recruit. The It was three in the morning when her painting was alNigerian poked out a calloused hand to shake Karim’s. most done. She realised she had to give it one final touch “Step right in here, sir. That briefcase has got what Mr — Husain’s signature is missing. She picked up her paintJuan has sent for you.” brush, mulled over it for a moment and on the bottom Karim’s eyes glimmered as he walked up to the table right of the canvas made the signature. where the sole briefcase lay. The briefcase was larger But instead of ‘Husain’ it read ‘Sonia’. She felt her fathan usual. Maybe he’s sent me more coke for free! But ther smile over her shoulder. then, why would he ask me to come get it personally?

Mumbai-based bilal siddiqui’s debut thriller, The Bard of Blood No. Something’s not right...

And then Karim heard a loud thud, as he saw the shut- (Penguin Books India), releases in March

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Hourglasses abeer hoque

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remember the first time I was afraid I was a lesbian.

It was years before we would meet, but well after I had noticed boys. My feelings were a forlorn, frantic thing, commencing with my tender double-digit days. I had no breasts then, no hips, no hair down there. Still, I could feel my skin singing under my blueand-white uniform, the dopatta planked in a V across my chest. Desire, mute and responsive, invaded my body as if nothing else belonged, my senses overtaken by this one lusty lens.

Once I realised my attention was being siphoned, slowly, steadily, by my own gender, it seemed the city was primed for my pleasure. The girl-women from the villages and slums and boarding houses around Dhaka, walking their urgent walks to work, bright shawls wrapped tightly around contrasting kamizes, legs scissoring inside shalwar pants, these were only the beginning. Female bodies everywhere. At home. At school. On the street. There was nowhere else to look.

My school in Shantinagar was mixed, as they say, and so yes, the boys mattered, in the beginning. Ridoy, Akash, Joy. Each a strident tap on my willing shoulder, and with Joy, if I’m honest, warmth elsewhere. I remember him walking past my desk and though I kept my head low, I could feel my lower back, my collarbones, my cheeks, burning. The swing of hair across my face was itself a herald.

But this is about you, the prickling sensation of my scalp when I first saw you, standing in the doorway talking to a manager in his corner office. Our offices overlooked the snarled traffic jam that is Gulshan II Circle, and the silence from seven floors up never failed to amaze me, knowing as I did what a monkey house it was down there. From our bird’s-eye view, what looked like chaos resolved into lines of traffic, moving in legal and concentric turn. The beggars and pedestrians darting between the vehicles all but disappeared from that great height, as if the camera of my eye had slowed its

Look at me The moon reigned supreme in a clear sky... like a burlesque star lifting up her skirt, daring us earthlings to confront the frightening directness of its celestial gaze shutterstock; (below) author’s photo/malini kochupillai

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lifting up her skirt, daring us earthlings to confront the frightening directness of its celestial gaze. “Look at me,” remembered you as I recited The Apostle’s Creed, it seemed to say, that orchestrator of tidal swells. past midnight. The moon reigned supreme in a You ebbed into my thoughts, like a buoy floating on clear sky, not dotting the horizon so much as draw- tempestuous waters, during my performance of that suall go. attention towards likemyafavourite burlesque star I feigned belief in God, his only Lifting the veil My first wasn’t even my first, as theseing things It was merely an idea,it,that uncle’s futureperstitious wife with herritual, rougedas cheekbones, one startling dimple, mightSon, be an object of desire abeer hoque

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the Holy Spirit, the Catholic Church, the Communion of and his gay lover, F, have been conducting, injecting Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the themselves with half a portion of “Holy Water” from body and life everlasting. When I arrived at the solemn, Lourdes and half a portion of water from the spring at “Amen,” I had run out of water. The translucent plastic Catherine Tekakwitha’s shrine. bottle moulded in the imagined likeness of the Virgin As my head touched the pillow that night, after I had who appeared at Lourdes had been tapped dry. I was composed these notes for you, I confronted the perfect mimicking the gestures my mother taught me to make round moon that presented itself at a slant from my in times of duress. I was baptising the territory of my window, a white round communion wafer promising house in a desperate attempt to exorcise whatever dark deliverance. matter had settled into its corners, resulting in the synI fell asleep and after weeks of uninterrupted muteaptic failure it had come to represent. ness, finally dreamed.

It was no ordinary sequence of events that had forced me to seek recourse in such a counter-intuitive deed, September 15, 2014 one my rational mind would possibly never forgive. But The apostrophe between the D and the M has baptismal then vulnerability was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I had significance. It is how it is meant to be written. expended too much energy dealing with trivial trageI know I owe you an apology. My last letter to you was dies, first an electrical fire that could have burned down excessive. I should have practised restraint. Forgive me the building, then a potential flood from one particular- my audacity. ly furious spell of rain, then a broken pump that heraldWhile you have been wandering the world, I have ed a day of drought, then waking up one morning to been fixed in space, bound to my possessed rooms, batfind the black, leathery remains of a baby bat that had tling demons, looking up spells that will restore my prichosen my living room for its suicide, etching an im- meval connection with language. I have been searching, print of its dark, crimson blood onto the floor behind relentlessly, for the Paradise that was promised to me in my book shelf, like a seal. This synaptic failure was no my dream. It remains elusive. I have been at the mercy of longer purely residential, the trauma translated into a the fruit seller and the vegetable vendor, both of whom state of muteness, a literary coma. It wasn’t that I was assure me that my temporary state of pennilessness unable to write or read. I could. But I had, since I first must not interfere with my culinary escapades. Take emailed you, not dreamed a single dream, them for free, they tell me, or pay us later. which meant the last dream I could recall Their kindness reduces me to tears and it is was of you. The absence of dreams signals, only when I cry that I realise that for alfor me, the death of creativity. most as long as I have not been dreaming, I We are, as you say, I was sure the dreams would return. stumbling onwards in have not wept either. The only constant What I was contending with was a sense of over the last two months has been my time, except our betrayal because the prophecy made in a bleeding in sync with the full moon. correspondence has dream I dreamed back in January, a day af- begun to resemble for Last night I dreamed of you. It was a ter I finished my book, had not come to rushed affair and the specifics escape me. me a portal, an pass. I was at Sunday Mass in my parish Something inside of me knew it was time escape hatch to a church in Kurla, Bombay. I was late, as usuto send you a letter. We are, as you say, seventh dimension al, and when the service had ended, was on stumbling onwards in time, except our my way home, when a faceless woman correspondence has begun to resemble for made eye contact with me, then casually me a portal, an escape hatch to a seventh said, “This is the beginning of your dimension. I have begun to desire your Paradise.” “gesticulation with texts”, your “sign language that can If only I could dream again, this situation could per- be used as telegraph”, your “touching from a distance.” haps be undone. A correction had to be made, and the It is in fact Moyra Davey’s writing that is currently sus“Holy Water” from Lourdes could perhaps be of assist- taining my hunger for insight. I find I share with her ance. That morning, I watched a man walking over an- many literary affinities, particularly her appetite for other man who had lain face downwards on the roof of note-taking. It was on one such morning of creative failone of the slums in the makeshift colony that exists on ure that I encountered her notes on ‘Photography & Acthe other side of the fence separating our residential col- cident’, her attempt at inscribing her own abortive ony from theirs. As he tread along his spine from neck to attempts at photography and her difficulty with sight, toe, I could sense how the pressure from the weight of with her readings of Sontag, Barthes, Walter Benjamin, his body was possibly smoothening the circulatory and Janet Malcolm. Writer’s block has a legitimacy. knots in the other man’s body. I knew then that I had to There’s nothing comparable for artists, no common desundo the synaptic failure that had afflicted my house. A ignation for similar stoppage, and with this symbolic correction was in order. deficiency comes a shame implying a failure of the will, Rites of passage The sunlight turned the oily waters of Sader Ghat into gold, and myofheart into herso hands abeer hoque Faith is merely theold suspension disbelief, I realassitude, impotence. I may as well admit it. I’m blocked. soned with myself. I decided to take my mother’s word I take pictures of the same dusty surfaces, the cherry for it, believe that the water indeed was holy, that it in- wood bedside table with its thin coating of linen dust, a Mizan Mama, it graduated to admiration, kind of shutter speed to smother all human motion.

Evenneed the to deed had miraculous properties.

I didn’t, however, colour that I know doesn’t reproduce well. It awill have love, amagenta true thing if there were one. billboards poster-sized, onto the of the a miracle. Ishrank, simply wanted a restoration of sides the order of platonic that plummy look that I ever always find a bit sickI wasAafraid, you see.

It was hard enough finding a huslooming high-rises. at night, thecalled neon“Chromatic lights and ening. things. I wanted whatAnd Leonard Cohen week later I pick up the film: no transformation. in Bangladesh, would welcome signs were little more than over-bright streetlamps.

Metamorphosis,” when his saintly subject of study, band My ration these daysespecially is perhapsone onewho usable frame for evworking woman.

You hadTekakwitha, that stance is I would come know well, into lan- aery Catherine at a feast aftertoher baptism five or 10 rolls ofHow film.was I supposed to handle wantguid yet commanding, yogitemporarily gone rogue. blinded Your kamiz the Christian Faith, and, by had the ingItaiswife? the same with me. Five usable lines for every 50.

Every morning duringfor school, woke with the sound obviously been starched day and but the of glint of cutlery, spills herearlier glass that of wine the heat whaleThree original thoughts everyI10. the afternoon had wrinkled theextended fabric under your shaped stain begins to discolour regions of of the crows screaming through the grilled windows. though the treesto in near-poverty our neighbourhood were long breasts.

I could go further that’s where had to be reduced to experience the the virginal tablecloth to thebut utter dismay andI stopped surprise Even and the quiet corner pond had beenfrom filledmy uppuband that afternoon.

At your half-obscured by a caresatisfaction of receiving my advance of her guests. Wails andbreasts, oaths resounded through the gone, but underneath, a towering residential birds lessly lisher. It with has become all too real now.building, And I am the petrified. purpledraped hall asdopatta, faces, clothes, tapestries,heavy, and rounded, furniture planted clearly outlined in close-fitted blue cotton, nipple city remained, by the score on thick, I’mthe struggling with theperched final edits on the manuscript, displayed the same deep shade.

Beyond theone high win- of electricmy lines crisscrossing faintly pushing mouthofshape cloth. sometimes intervention is the as sky. banal as debating dows there wereitsislands snowthrough glintingthe in the moon- black I consider it my good fortune thatand youmasters, weren’t had my whether In the agrowing I’d wash my night-dank comma light, has been misplaced.

There are askin, few light.

The entire company, servants kamiz, and setcan, off for my tutors.

Exiting first.

My first wasn’t even my as these things It dress in ahere freshand passages there that I know, be perfected, directed its gaze outside, as iffirst, to find beyond thego. conthe humid outside undid all my morningItablutions was merely an thatreassurance my favouriteofuncle’s future wife into but there is inside me too much emptiness. comes in taminated hallidea, some a multicoloured I found it a trial, those first few minutes of heat and with her Before rougedtheir cheekbones, dimple, the way of creation. universe. eyes these one driftsstartling of spring’s snow and and dirt, until mywarning,” body accepted theLispector new normal. might be an object of desire.

I used to ascribe it to where “Writing is without Clarice says. darkened into shades of spilled wine, and the moon it- light Despite this,for it’san true the new normal was better than Iself metabsorbed her, the the narrow, old-world lanes of Puran yet I wait omen. imperial hue. Catherine knowsDhaka, she is And old,you or atforgive least less The hot boxes are on a boat ridefor onthis the black waters of Sader Ghat. My mepolluting. this dribbling?

Will youthat forgive responsible unintended consequence of unher theWill ubiquitous three-wheeled taxis were now cle took aofturn at “I theguess oars,Iand theall ridiculous me this drought?

Will you allow this to suffice?

Andpowwill spilling the pulling red wine. oweasyou an apol- Dhaka’s with compressed natural (CNG),once andmore manywith perpink came oh says. how ICohen’s loved that gaudy ered you write back to me so I may gas be filled ogy,”mansion she stands upinto andview, slowly narrator cars had been converted thus. My father’s little thing the sunlight turned the oilythrough waters into the effusiveness of light? learnsasofa child; this undocumented “miracle” his sonal old andamy heart into hersame hands.unnamed tribe as Hyundai had vigorously protested this conversion, and wife,gold, Edith, member of the time wasn’t spent infor theMylong, lines at I confused first feeling with the awe,link finding rosalyn d’mello’s A Handbook Loversnaking (HarperCollins Catherine.

He,that however, discovers onlysomelater, whatever stations wasyear spent at the mechanic’s, a huge thing thatupon you fall thrall. With her marriage India)CNG releases later this when so helovely chances theinbizarre experiment Edith the

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Urban swell Everything, roads, people, residential and corporate developments, all of it was spreading, virus-like, in every direction abeer hoque

tray of metal tools sitting hopefully by an even bigger pile of car parts and the car itself.

But it’s also true that with this shift from petrol to CNG came a boom in road traffic, zero sum game. Not just traffic, but the city’s population itself had doubled in my childhood alone. Everything, roads, people, residential and corporate developments, all of it was spreading, virus-like, in every direction. Still, breathing stung less these days. You didn’t necessarily see the air.

But it didn’t mean you weren’t inhaling poison every day, or that the opaque, lavender sky wasn’t particulate with haze.

From inside the CNG taxi, I watched a traffic jam collecting itself at the Bailey Road intersection. It was almost delicate how each piece of the puzzle — hawker, pedestrian, rickshaw, cart, car and truck — eased itself into the fray. Nothing happened suddenly or even accidentally. This state of affairs was ordained, inevitable given how many more cars plied the city roads each year.

Rampant theft and assault had resulted in the CNGs being caged, literally. My view was metered by green metal grids, blocking both sides of the vehicle. These cage-doors were usually locked from the inside, but sometimes, bizarrely, from the outside, and made trips hotter and more claustrophobic.

I didn’t mind the close quarters, nor the laden air. It would take anywhere from 30 minutes to two traumatic hours to get from Shantinagar to Uttara, but I was on my way to see my first true love, she of the oiled hair and one crooked canine, faint smell of perspiration and perfume, my awkward and inarticulate Physics tutor, Kanta.

I say first because it was the first time anyone had reciprocated my unfitting and urgent feelings, initiated them even. Not that you can prepare for this sort of thing, but I wasn’t remotely expecting anything when Kanta took my hand. But as soon as she touched me, I expected nothing else.

We had just finished reviewing a chapter on velocity and my mind was occupied with airplane trajectories, and wind speed, and how long it took just to read each

problem question. Outside Kanta’s parents’ flat, the main road through Uttara roared north, out of the city, crammed with trucks and other traffic heading to the farms and fields and brick factories of Savar and beyond.

It was green up there; a kind of green you might forget was the iconic cliché of Bangladesh if you spent long enough in the Capital. It stretched for miles on either side of the elevated road, paddies soaked in water, stabbed here and there with brick columns, smoking into the blind white sky.

I had never kissed anyone before, but when Kanta pressed her mouth to mine, it was so familiar I almost couldn’t remember it afterwards. The smell of coconut

Mobile coop Rampant theft and assault had resulted in the CNGs (three-wheeled taxis) being caged abeer hoque

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in her hair, the sweets we had both eaten, the synchronous curves of our bodies, it all matched, made sense. If you try to press two hourglasses together, you’d have to stagger them vertically, but the difference that I understood over time and those afternoons at Kanta’s was how women’s bodies can accept impossible offerings, a sine curve entering, fitting where there’s no visible space. Breasts, thighs, stomachs, mouths, and that heated centre whose every name makes me cringe. That one in particular, a dark space of pleasure, softness, everywhere, everywhere.

It was coming into winter when Kanta and I broke up, as if the cooling air was a harbinger of something lighter, drier. I’d just taken my last Physics lesson, and everything I had learned in the hours previous fled my mind when Kanta said what she had to say, halting as ever, but clear as a vector, the final coordinates marked in red.

I couldn’t go home right away, so I had the CNG drop me off near the TV station in Rampura. After his marriage, Mizan Mama had moved to Chittagong with his wife, but he used to live in Rampura, and we would visit often. Back then, it was more water than land on either side of the road, but now residential complexes were crowding the horizon, no sign of water for miles.

The vegetable markets were spilling over the sides of the road with their wares, winter produce coming into season in all its tremendous variety, mocking my singular heartbreak. I walked on from Rampura to Badda, passing stores selling all the usual conveniences: biscuits, sugar, paan, batteries, phone cards, cigarettes, flowers, fruit, soft drinks, shingaras, sweets.

In Badda, many of the stores stocked industrial or construction items: rubber tyres, lengths of reluctantly flexible wire, and, most strikingly, the longest stretches of bamboo. These were stacked in huge piles, stretching out from the road like oars, through the stores, through the roofs, up into the sky, metres and metres of jointed wood, and as the sun went down in a slow flame, the tips of the bamboo disappeared into the blinding light.

First brush I had never kissed anyone before, but when Kanta pressed her mouth to mine, it was so familiar I almost couldn’t remember it afterwards abeer hoque

Eventually I went home. Eventually I got over Kanta.

But I never went back to men. There were still some who gave me pause, a quick smile that turned my head, a stretch of forearm, thin and corded, a jaw too sharp if pretty. But it was as if Kanta had flicked a switch, and I couldn’t flick it back. abeer hoque is a Nigerian-born Bangladeshi-American writer and photographer (olivewitch.com). Her novel in stories The Lovers and the Leavers (HarperCollins India) releases later this year

Bought and sold I walked on from Rampura to Badda, passing stores selling all the usual conveniences: biscuits, sugar, paan, batteries, cigarettes, flowers, fruit, shingaras, sweets abeer hoque

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Hourglasses abeer hoque

I

remember the first time I was afraid I was a lesbian.

It was years before we would meet, but well after I had noticed boys. My feelings were a forlorn, frantic thing, commencing with my tender double-digit days. I had no breasts then, no hips, no hair down there. Still, I could feel my skin singing under my blueand-white uniform, the dopatta planked in a V across my chest. Desire, mute and responsive, invaded my body as if nothing else belonged, my senses overtaken by this one lusty lens.

Once I realised my attention was being siphoned, slowly, steadily, by my own gender, it seemed the city was primed for my pleasure. The girl-women from the villages and slums and boarding houses around Dhaka, walking their urgent walks to work, bright shawls wrapped tightly around contrasting kamizes, legs scissoring inside shalwar pants, these were only the beginning. Female bodies everywhere. At home. At school. On the street. There was nowhere else to look.

My school in Shantinagar was mixed, as they say, and so yes, the boys mattered, in the beginning. Ridoy, Akash, Joy. Each a strident tap on my willing shoulder, and with Joy, if I’m honest, warmth elsewhere. I remember him walking past my desk and though I kept my head low, I could feel my lower back, my collarbones, my cheeks, burning. The swing of hair across my face was itself a herald.

But this is about you, the prickling sensation of my scalp when I first saw you, standing in the doorway talking to a manager in his corner office. Our offices overlooked the snarled traffic jam that is Gulshan II Circle, and the silence from seven floors up never failed to amaze me, knowing as I did what a monkey house it was down there. From our bird’s-eye view, what looked like chaos resolved into lines of traffic, moving in legal and concentric turn. The beggars and pedestrians darting between the vehicles all but disappeared from that great height, as if the camera of my eye had slowed its

Look at me The moon reigned supreme in a clear sky... like a burlesque star lifting up her skirt, daring us earthlings to confront the frightening directness of its celestial gaze shutterstock; (below) author’s photo/malini kochupillai

rosalyn d’mello

Night of the harvest moon September 9, 2014

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lifting up her skirt, daring us earthlings to confront the frightening directness of its celestial gaze. “Look at me,” remembered you as I recited The Apostle’s Creed, it seemed to say, that orchestrator of tidal swells. past midnight. The moon reigned supreme in a You ebbed into my thoughts, like a buoy floating on clear sky, not dotting the horizon so much as draw- tempestuous waters, during my performance of that suall go. attention towards like burlesque star I feigned belief in God, his only Lifting the veil My first wasn’t even my first, as theseing things It was merely an idea,it,that myafavourite uncle’s futureperstitious wife with herritual, rougedas cheekbones, one startling dimple, mightSon, be an object of desire abeer hoque

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the Holy Spirit, the Catholic Church, the Communion of and his gay lover, F, have been conducting, injecting Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the themselves with half a portion of “Holy Water” from body and life everlasting. When I arrived at the solemn, Lourdes and half a portion of water from the spring at “Amen,” I had run out of water. The translucent plastic Catherine Tekakwitha’s shrine. bottle moulded in the imagined likeness of the Virgin As my head touched the pillow that night, after I had who appeared at Lourdes had been tapped dry. I was composed these notes for you, I confronted the perfect mimicking the gestures my mother taught me to make round moon that presented itself at a slant from my in times of duress. I was baptising the territory of my window, a white round communion wafer promising house in a desperate attempt to exorcise whatever dark deliverance. matter had settled into its corners, resulting in the synI fell asleep and after weeks of uninterrupted muteaptic failure it had come to represent. ness, finally dreamed.

It was no ordinary sequence of events that had forced me to seek recourse in such a counter-intuitive deed, September 15, 2014 one my rational mind would possibly never forgive. But The apostrophe between the D and the M has baptismal then vulnerability was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I had significance. It is how it is meant to be written. expended too much energy dealing with trivial trageI know I owe you an apology. My last letter to you was dies, first an electrical fire that could have burned down excessive. I should have practised restraint. Forgive me the building, then a potential flood from one particular- my audacity. ly furious spell of rain, then a broken pump that heraldWhile you have been wandering the world, I have ed a day of drought, then waking up one morning to been fixed in space, bound to my possessed rooms, batfind the black, leathery remains of a baby bat that had tling demons, looking up spells that will restore my prichosen my living room for its suicide, etching an im- meval connection with language. I have been searching, print of its dark, crimson blood onto the floor behind relentlessly, for the Paradise that was promised to me in my book shelf, like a seal. This synaptic failure was no my dream. It remains elusive. I have been at the mercy of longer purely residential, the trauma translated into a the fruit seller and the vegetable vendor, both of whom state of muteness, a literary coma. It wasn’t that I was assure me that my temporary state of pennilessness unable to write or read. I could. But I had, since I first must not interfere with my culinary escapades. Take emailed you, not dreamed a single dream, them for free, they tell me, or pay us later. which meant the last dream I could recall Their kindness reduces me to tears and it is was of you. The absence of dreams signals, only when I cry that I realise that for alfor me, the death of creativity. most as long as I have not been dreaming, I We are, as you say, I was sure the dreams would return. stumbling onwards in have not wept either. The only constant What I was contending with was a sense of over the last two months has been my time, except our betrayal because the prophecy made in a bleeding in sync with the full moon. correspondence has dream I dreamed back in January, a day af- begun to resemble for Last night I dreamed of you. It was a ter I finished my book, had not come to rushed affair and the specifics escape me. me a portal, an pass. I was at Sunday Mass in my parish Something inside of me knew it was time escape hatch to a church in Kurla, Bombay. I was late, as usuto send you a letter. We are, as you say, seventh dimension al, and when the service had ended, was on stumbling onwards in time, except our my way home, when a faceless woman correspondence has begun to resemble for made eye contact with me, then casually me a portal, an escape hatch to a seventh said, “This is the beginning of your dimension. I have begun to desire your Paradise.” “gesticulation with texts”, your “sign language that can If only I could dream again, this situation could per- be used as telegraph”, your “touching from a distance.” haps be undone. A correction had to be made, and the It is in fact Moyra Davey’s writing that is currently sus“Holy Water” from Lourdes could perhaps be of assist- taining my hunger for insight. I find I share with her ance. That morning, I watched a man walking over an- many literary affinities, particularly her appetite for other man who had lain face downwards on the roof of note-taking. It was on one such morning of creative failone of the slums in the makeshift colony that exists on ure that I encountered her notes on ‘Photography & Acthe other side of the fence separating our residential col- cident’, her attempt at inscribing her own abortive ony from theirs. As he tread along his spine from neck to attempts at photography and her difficulty with sight, toe, I could sense how the pressure from the weight of with her readings of Sontag, Barthes, Walter Benjamin, his body was possibly smoothening the circulatory and Janet Malcolm. Writer’s block has a legitimacy. knots in the other man’s body. I knew then that I had to There’s nothing comparable for artists, no common desundo the synaptic failure that had afflicted my house. A ignation for similar stoppage, and with this symbolic correction was in order. deficiency comes a shame implying a failure of the will, Rites of passage The sunlight turned the oily waters of is Sader Ghat into gold, and myofheart into herso hands abeer hoque Faith merely the old suspension disbelief, I realassitude, impotence. I may as well admit it. I’m blocked. soned with myself. I decided to take my mother’s word I take pictures of the same dusty surfaces, the cherry for it, believe that the water indeed was holy, that it in- wood bedside table with its thin coating of linen dust, a Mizan Mama, it graduated to admiration, kind of shutter to smother all human motion.

Evenneed the to deed hadspeed miraculous properties.

I didn’t, however, colour that I know doesn’t reproduce well. It awill have love, magenta a true thing if there were one. billboards poster-sized, onto the of the a miracle. I shrank, simply wanted a restoration of sides the order of platonic that plummy look that I ever always find a bit sickI wasAafraid, you see.

It was hard enough finding a huslooming high-rises. at night, thecalled neon“Chromatic lights and ening. things. I wanted whatAnd Leonard Cohen week later I pick up the film: no transformation. in Bangladesh, would welcome signs were little more than streetlamps.

Metamorphosis,” when hisover-bright saintly subject of study, band My ration these daysespecially is perhapsone onewho usable frame for evworking woman.

You hadTekakwitha, that stance is I would come know well, into lan- aery Catherine at a feast aftertoher baptism five or 10 rolls ofHow film.was I supposed to handle wantguid yet commanding, yogitemporarily gone rogue.blinded Your kamiz the Christian Faith, and, by had the ingItaiswife? the same with me. Five usable lines for every 50.

Every morning duringfor school, woke with the sound obviously been starched day and but the of Three glint of cutlery, spills herearlier glass that of wine the heat whaleoriginal thoughts everyI10. the afternoon had wrinkled theextended fabric under your shaped stain begins to discolour regions of of the crows screaming through the grilled windows. though the treesto innear-poverty our neighbourhood were long breasts.

I could go further that’s where stopped Even had to be reduced to experience the the virginal tablecloth to thebut utter dismay andI surprise and the quiet corner pond had been filledmy uppuband that afternoon.

At your half-obscured by a caresatisfaction of receiving my advance from of her guests. Wails andbreasts, oaths resounded through the gone, but underneath, rounded, planted a towering residential the birds lessly lisher. It with has become all too real now.building, And I am petrified. purpledraped hall asdopatta, faces, clothes, tapestries,heavy, and furniture clearly outlined in close-fitted blue cotton, nipple city remained, by the score on thick, I’mthe struggling with theperched final edits on the manuscript, displayed the same deep shade.

Beyond theone high win- of electricmy lines crisscrossing faintly pushing mouthofshape cloth. sometimes intervention is the as sky. banal as debating dows there wereitsislands snowthrough glintingthe in the moon- black I consider it my good fortune thatand youmasters, weren’t had my whether In the agrowing I’d wash my night-dank comma light, has been misplaced.

There are askin, few light.

The entire company, servants kamiz, and setcan, off for my tutors.

Exiting first.

My first wasn’t even my as these things It dress in ahere freshand passages there that I know, be perfected, directed its gaze outside, as iffirst, to find beyond thego. conthe humid outside undid all my morningItablutions was merely hall an idea, thatreassurance my favouriteofuncle’s future wife into but there is inside me too much emptiness. comes in taminated some a multicoloured I found it a trial, those first few minutes of heat and with her Before rouged cheekbones, dimple, the way of creation. universe. their eyes these one driftsstartling of spring’s snow and and dirt, until mywarning,” body accepted theLispector new normal. might be an object of desire.

I used to ascribe it to where “Writing is without Clarice says. darkened into shades of spilled wine, and the moon it- light Despite this,for it’san true the new normal was better than Iself met her, the the narrow, old-world lanes of Puran yet I wait omen. absorbed imperial hue. Catherine knowsDhaka, she is And old,you or at least less The hot boxes are on a boat ridefor onthis the black waters of Sader Ghat. My un- theWill forgive me polluting. this dribbling?

Will youthat forgive responsible unintended consequence of her ubiquitous three-wheeled taxis were now cle took of a turn at “I the oars,Iand theall ridiculous me this drought?

Will you allow this to suffice?

Andpowwill spilling the pulling red wine. guess oweasyou an apol- Dhaka’s with compressed natural (CNG), andmore manywith perpink came oh says. how ICohen’s loved that gaudy ered you write back to me so I may gas be filled once ogy,” mansion she stands upinto andview, slowly narrator cars had been converted thus. My father’s little thing the sunlight turned the oilythrough waters into the effusiveness of light? learnsasofa child; this undocumented “miracle” his sonal old anda my heart into hersame hands. wife,gold, Edith, member of the unnamed tribe as Hyundai had vigorously protested this conversion, and time wasn’t spent infor theMylong, lines at I confused first feeling with the awe,link finding rosalyn d’mello’s A Handbook Loversnaking (HarperCollins Catherine.

He,that however, discovers onlysomelater, whatever stations wasyear spent at the mechanic’s, a huge thing thatupon you fall thrall. With her marriage India)CNG releases later this when so helovely chances theinbizarre experiment Edith the

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The retirement

Final strokes The painting was estimated at a whopping ₹1.2 crore, but sentiment almost always scored over monetary value mf husain

avinuo kire

The missing horses “L

scheduled to be unveiled, was to be guarded. Nobody ast night, we stumbled upon an interest- was allowed inside or out without being checked thoring conversation,” the Joint Commissioner oughly. She had every CCTV camera routed to a server of Police Sushil Rao addressed his audi- that would allow her phone to access it at any point of ence of three Deputy Commissioners of Po- time. Once the painting was brought to the venue, she lice in an air-conditioned conference room. He switched would keep a strict watch on it until it was flown back to on the television, inserted a flash drive and played an au- MF Husain’s estate in London. His son wasn’t willing to dio note. They listened intently, casting each other wor- part with his late father’s final piece of work yet. The painting was estimated at a whopping ₹1.2 crore, but ried glances as the conversation played out.

‘It’s a rather unusual request, Karim. But I’m afraid it sentiment almost always scored over monetary value.

Sonia stepped out of the museum and put on her sunis what I want in exchange for the next consignment glasses. She looked out at the streets of Kala Ghoda. She that I am going to ship to you.’

There was some static disturbance. But the voice was knew they were being watched. Karim’s men were certainly conducting a reconnaissance of their own. Sonia distinctly accented, and then it continued.

‘In fact, I have made various such acquisitions in the smiled to herself.

She had always been keen on fine arts, like her late fapast. I am, what people might call, a collector. But in my vast inventory, I don’t quite have something valuable ther, who was an accountant by profession. He had encouraged her to paint since a very tender age. He would from your country.’ glimpse over her shoulder and smile at what she always ‘And what might that be?’

‘In a few days from now, MF Husain’s previously un- knew were substandard sketches and paintings. She seen painting will be unveiled in a grand function at didn’t quite have a style of her own, but her father apsome art gallery in Mumbai. Do you think you’ll be able plauded her work nevertheless. And then he would encourage her to sign them. She quite enjoyed signing her to get it for me?’

There was a pregnant pause. All the four DCPs looked art. She still remembered how he would bring back heaps of books on the Renaissance and famous artists at at Rao, who maintained a stoic expression.

‘I hope you have chosen which room you’ll have deco- a bargain from the book-mart at Flora Fountain. The works of Monet, Van Gogh, Mary Cassatt were amongst rated once it reaches you.’

Rao bent down and stopped the audio file. He turned her favourites. After he passed away, her uncle who was to face the screen and pressed a button on his remote. an IPS officer took the responsibility of bringing her up Photographs of two men, juxtaposed next to each other, along with her mother. Very soon, she was pretty clear what she wanted to do. The idea of using a gun was more popped up.

“The man on the right is Juan Alberto. On the face of it, thrilling than using a paintbrush. But she never quite he exports fresh fish. But some of his special customers lost her connection with art. It rekindled the few chermight find little packets of white powder once they slice ished memories she had of her father.

The manager of the Art Gallery broke her chain of up their sea bass.”

“Alberto is Colombia’s biggest drug dealers,” DCP thought. “We plan to set the painting up tomorrow, ma’am.”

Pradhan chimed “His product is and known to bewas theno rush Inert Guolhou staredin. at the ceiling, lying still alert. There to get out of bed, to get dressed, prepare breakfast shutterstock “Yes,” she replied, without looking at him. “That best.”

“And Aslam Karim is the only man he exports to in In- shouldn’t be a problem.” dia,” DCP Mehta contributed. “Aslam is India’s biggest he driver hummed along carelessly, as he drove drug lord. And he has Alberto to thank for that. Top polidown the streets of Mumbai in his van. It was past ticians, Bollywood stars, businessmen swear by the fter 35has years of service under the Government Twenty to and fifty-five; surelyDecember these werechill the made best years midnight the nippy him of rolla product Aslam to offer.” of Nagaland, Guolhou morning he pondered to himself philosophically. up his life, window.

He needed to make the delivery to the “He is extremely smart,” Rao woke added.one “It’s difficultand to man’s hollow emptiness His restless the placea latest whereBollyit all as soonmind as hewandered could. Histo ringtone, get hold ofexperienced him. But thea real issue remains. deep They within. plan to Gallery manyblared years suddenly. ago, whenHe hereceived was a desperate was a sensation similar to when his chest began, wood track, the call. youth get hold ofItMF Husain’s painting.

The unveiling of which 20. He the10 way he had blubbered with tightens up after eating toonow.” much or hastily. But this of “Yes. I’llremembered be there within minutes,” he said as he puta is scheduled four days from time, Guolhou not thump his chest withaasoft heavy fist mixture ofthe joypedal. and disbelief, when informed that a dishis foot to “I’m almost…”

There was a did prolonged silence.

Finally, voice like heit. normally would. Instead, he stared up at the ceil- tantly related, well-to-do uncle in Kohima had secured He lost control of his vehicle, as it skidded along over broke ing, lying still andthis alert, if to himself with him the mostand coveted government job.

The facthad thatfired this the footpath crashed into a tree.

Someone “You can leave toasme, sir.familiarise The painting is going this new awareness. Seconds ticked into minutes as he particular jobHis washead the post of asteering humblewith peonaand at his wheels. hit the dullunder thud. nowhere.” counted the that, squares the men ceiling, and turned yet again. period with a fixed of only per He tried to regain himself andpay pushed his ₹3,000 head backAnd with theon three in again the room to contract There wasSonia no rush to get out bed, touttered get dressed, notofbother inits the least. barely wards. Adid cloud smokehim found way outHaving of the bonnet. face DCP Menezes, whoofhadn’t a wordpreso month pare breakfast; there was no longer need. tillthough the primary level, what more could herun exHis vision, hazy, saw three vague silhouettes far. The confidence she exuded was any enough to put their studied Guolhou had retired yesterday along with one gazet- pect!

Besides, a government job was a government towards him. As they drew nearer, realisation struck.job. minds at ease. morning the next day, leftaimed his village to ted officer and three other fourth-grade staff like him- Early “Open the safe behind,” oneGuolhou of the men a pistol out for Kohima afterwe’ll bidding farewell self.

Having at the driver’s chest. “And let you live.” to all his The next dayentered service at the youthful age of 20, he set wasonia onlygot 55 years when he retired.

HeEvery had served as a friends.

He couldn’t had beenget orphaned anofearly andThey did downold to executing her plan. exit point The man a look atat any theirage faces. peon the Department Treasuries for 35 years. much family to and speak of. But nowThe withman thisreacnew at under the Jamshed Art Gallery,ofwhere the painting was not hadhave covered their heads worn gloves.

Mumbai

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hed forhand, a key he in his handed it to one of the job at feltpocket luckierand than his friends, most of ters beinghis pulled down behind him. Heand wasrubbing trapped!

He running sleeves across wet cheeks snot armed robbers.

Withready the butt man tasted whom were getting to goofto his the pistol, fields. the Guolhou fear.way, He opened the briefcase and found a note. along the he climbed into bed with the certainty knocked him unconscious andhad ran joked behind to get thehim Hu- His fondly remembered how they and urged out of their sockets. thateyes he bulged was destined to live and die alone. His last sain painting. not to forget them when he becomes an important gov- thought “You should’ve knowntobetter a fake. before drifting sleepthan was asending fervent me hope that They tore down theday. plastic that covered the frame and Messing ernment officer one mecome wasn’t the brightest of ideas. Luckily the latterwith would quickly. had a good look at the painting under thefrom streetlight.

During the bumpy, treacherous journey his vil- forBut you,Guolhou there won’t time.”morning, he awoke, did be nota next die. Each Their visages didn’t need to betoseen each othlage tomasked Kohima, he rehearsed a speech bestby express his feeling And then, Karim heard and theemptiness suitcase explodso alive except fora beep the hollow in his er to be understood.

What the world a great profound gratefulness.

“Uncle, may considered God bless you for ed, tearing the little warehouse andday. engulfing it chest whichdown persisted, day after day after When he painting, these three men sawsuch as a few horses in differyour kindness to someone as myself…”

As he in flames. could not ignore it any longer, he decided to visit a hosent shadesthe of grey. mouthed words, Guolhou quickly decided against pital and get himself checked. hedoctor mediapersons had two major to break “This painting be worth aascrore!” any mention of can’t the Almighty he himself had not The was a young man whostories appeared to bethe in next morning.

Dreaded gangster and drug Theiror muffled guffaws continued theyAgain, headed prayed attended church for many as years. he tore- his 20s and introduced himself as Dr Kelhou.

Hekingpin seemed Karim was killed I’m in ahis minor in Parel. wards their getaway vehicle.

Theyour untitled oil-on-canvas hearsed, “Uncle, I thank you for kindness to some- Aslam a tad nervous.

“Perhaps firstexplosion patient,” Guolhou police remained tight-lipped painting one of India’s finest wasn’t quite The one such by as myself…”

By the timepainters he reached Kohima, speculated.

That possibility did notabout worry the him.incident.

Instead, Joint Commissioner Sushil fatherly Rao sentfeeling out a very their idea of art. his speech and the first thing he did However, he had perfected he experienced a protective, almost tostatement “It’s a few horses!

I didas a better job with crayons as ambiguous was gojust to his Uncle’s house, instructed. wards the young fellow.later on. He said the MF Husain Artand Gallery, whichinwas a child!”

The house appeared a mansion to him, with its impos- exhibition Sitting onata the coldJamshed metal stool breathing andcanout a few days ago, was to bethrough rescheduled. got another ing“Well, gatesyou’ve looming over his career figure.option “Thesethen!” rich govern- celled as Dr Kelhou listened intently the stethoscope, “Does this meandescribed you have his theailment: painting back in your Afterpeople they were at MF Husain’s iconic Guolhou ment evendone havelaughing their own roads!”

Guolhou helpfully rendition they hopped intoup their slid it custody?” marvelledof ashorses, he breathlessly walked thesedan, private dri“I don’t feel it so much now; it’s most severe in the He smiled.

“We’ll haveup. to There’s wait and won’t into a large black zoomed away as they left heard veway leading to bag the and main entrance.

Looking to mornings when I wake nowatch, pain but mywe?” chest Heintolerably looked fondly at DCP Menezes, whotime” returned the police sirens grow louder. right in incredulity as he took in the sights, he was taken feels heavy andSonia empty at the same she waited his cabin.

Herquesplan by surprise when the doors suddenly opened and he a quick After smile some as standard testsoutside and many probing oniahimself made herself a cup ofreciting coffee as she got home.

It was risky, but thefinally returns were fruitful.toItget wasanthe most found involuntarily the opening lines tions, Dr Kelhou asked Guolhou X-ray of wasspeech. an exhausting day.halted The media overdrive ren- unconventional ideas andBut it took some great perto his He quickly upon the realisation his chest and seeofhim after. thereher was something in dered herperson crazy. The painting gone shea suasion to getwhich him tomade comply. that the standing inhad front of missing him wasand just his manner Guolhou suspect that the couldn’t do The anything about it. On her part,and sheleft hadhim ar- young “So when areholding we getting young boy. lad spoke only Nagamese man was back.the painting back?” Rao ranged foron the artwork to be delivered to the gallery her. doctor. At least tell me what you think or susstanding the doorway, feeling anxious and stupidlate al- asked “Please, at night. She waiteddressed at the gallery herselfreappeared, along with pect “When decides to pleaded send it back, sir.” together.

Buthad a smartly lady quickly couldJuan be the cause,” Guolhou. the manager, hopingTenyidie to welcome it. And she got the They laughed lightly. And face into speaking his native dialect andthen profound relief Dr Kelhou hesitated for athen few Sonia’s seconds.

Hebroke looked at news.

The painting was on stolen. washed over Guolhou hearing the familiar words. another Guolhousmile. and blinked nervously as the latter stared earShe switched the television as shefelt gulped down “Veryinto soon, I’ll urging return him it to you very his soon.”

The lady was hison uncle’s wife. Guolhou certain thata nestly hissir. eyes, to speak mind. mouthful thewho strong espresso.

An she uptight news anRao turned around andthe walked into his cabin. she had noof idea he was although nodded when “Well, sir, you did say sensation began after the chor yelled away.

She read the headlines — The Missing “Take rest Did of the day off.unusual I’ll see you at thethat Husain he introduced himself as a relative.

Nevertheless, she ap- day you the retired. anything happen day Horses.

Her Twitter feed wassomeone flooded to with people later might this week.” peared kind and instructed usher himcursinto unveiling or after, which have triggered off the feeling?” Dr ing Indian Police’s carelessness, ‘#HusainsMishis the uncle’s office.

There were otherwith people inside the Kelhou paused for a moment before continuing, “Sir, do onia returned to her modest apartment.

Sheempty drew singHorses’ trending took in a deep room as he entered andworldwide. the sudden She realisayou think it at all possible that this the curtains opencould and let breeze caress face breath, her head and sighed. But, she tion thatrested his uncle was abackwards complete strangfeeling be the connected to yourher recent gently for a while.

The fading looked still had ahim callfeel to make. er made incredibly ill at ease. He retirement?”

Hesunlight appeared quitebeautiful. uncomShe closed her eyes and leaned against thethat railings of debated as to whether he should say somefortable as he spoke, worried his paGuolhou made cup And herabalcony. she turned around to look at her Two later thingdays to announce his arrival but ultimatetientthen, might take offence. slam Karim was stand ratherincontent with easelslow that invited her with a canvas. ly decided to simply a corner of of tea... Between Guolhou was rendered speechless. Withand lingering sips, he himself, as he his sofa. pulled out a palette from the room.

After all,lay it on wasn’t as ifHe thedidn’t man outShe answering the question, heher putdrawer on his conversed with know that a silly painting would cause and brought her set of and oil paints. was blind. jacket rather out thoughtfully exitedAnd the himself, muttering such brouhaha.

He motioned was overjoyed at the then, she opened the largest compartment Finally, his uncle for him to consultation room. media circus, patting himself on the back of Later her cupboard the paintcome forward.

“So, you are Guolhou eh!” aloud, a habit born of at home,and he pulled vaguelyout recalled the Her feed a lifeTwitter of solitude for responsible for something like ing thatdoctor had started it all. The painting the being man behind the elaborately engraved young anxiously calling out that “Sir, was flooded with this.

It was table late in the evening and he And had MF Husain himself hadn’t out named, but had mahogany barked, not unkindly. sir” after him as he walked of the hospipeople cursing the retired to his He poured himself found quite made the apt name on its The it was over all lair. too quickly.

Guolhou wasa tal.

Guolhou a cup of tea andown. sat himIndian Police’s scotch whenLetter his phone rang.

Missing Horses. handedtoancelebrate, Appointment and told to self down beside the kitchen table. carelessness It Juanand Alberto.

She perched it atop a table.sips, She he wascongobewas sincere hardworking if he expected Between slow and lingering my of friend!

I’mHehoping yourthe wall ing to recreate one more an“Hello, extension service. never saw man again and, versed with himself, muttering aloud,likeness a habit before born ofre-a is your latest acquisition.” turning it grew to the Gallery. After all,asthe tograced this day,with Guolhou wondered what he had actually told life of solitude.

His voice increasingly audible he joviality was matched the othprevious“A one she hadamade was stolen. hisKarim’s uncle that day inside his officeatroom.

But he did work excitedly exclaimed, purpose, purpose!

Yes, that’s er endand of the phone.always being the first to reach office what As she squeezed intoto herease palette, she relived the hard diligently, I need.

A newpaint purpose this terrible empti“Itlast most is,” Juan repliedan enthusiastically.

“I entire incident again. She wasofalways a step ahead. As and to certainly leave. Guolhou received extension of his ness, this void within!”

A look bemused understandhave decided repay you with something as she his hadface, made the promise in the meeting, she contract periodtoyear after year until finally, hisspecial! service soon ing crossed like something wonderful had just Apart from the usual consignment, of course. would she would acttook fast.aShe prepared what was was regularised.

As meagre as his savings were, Ihe cele- knew been revealed tohave him.toHe scrap of paper, pulled like youbytospending go get itityourself. man willfor getthe in entire touch aout fairly good likeness of pocket the original and had it He replaced brated all on teaMy and snacks a pen from his shirt and made a list. wrote with shortly. you!” the van was driven by and DCP as Pradhan.

As she had office.you And it wasThank over all too quickly and uneventfully, in halting andthat neat little words, he did so, realised Karim gleefully agreedhisand put office the phone hetowas ambushed and the painting taken away. just like that day inside uncle’s room down. many guessed, he needed learn how to write better and more legibly.

Within the minute, he got a text message asking him to And Ashe her paintbrush strokegrowing the rough years ago. added this too,began to his to steadily list.pencil Soon, come to a warehouse Parel.a He left his scotch onprothe lines she had etchedanother out, shesheet remembered had Yesterday, the officeinheld collective farewell he found he needed of paper. how Thereshe was so table, picked up his pistol and at the of gone same right they had gramme for the outgoing staff.tucked Along itwith thesmall others, muchthrough to do! So the much thatprocess he finally had after time for now. his back as a precaution andbouquet walked as as he learnt plot. Ainfairly HuGuolhou received a modest andquickly some other The about cries ofthe cicadas the simple nearby oil-on-canvas, woods reminded could to hisThe sedan. one of his shook cronies join sain’s painting was clearly a work-in-progress.

And that small gifts. headHe of asked the department histohand Guolhou that daylight was quickly vanishing. He placed him.

One could never belive tooasure in his line life. of work. fine. She might never have been able to and admonished him to happy retired Even on suited the listher on just his bed-stand and busied himself with prefor about was half an hour. Karim continued a complete painting.to memory a longhisThey lastdrove day, Guolhou instructed to live well intoa replicate paring the evening’s Husain meal, whistling gloat.

Hescolding had never attempted something of this kind forgotten More importantly, she so. managed take outfor Mumbai’s slightly manner of tone, which he observed tune as he did Soon, ittowas time bed. before.

And he was about to be rewarded handsomely. with aGuolhou simple phone callhis to Juan that higher-ups always adopted while addressing their biggest Early drug next lord morning, awoke, back that flat For a painting that costend justof over he programme, was going to informed the painting he had wasand a fake.

She subordinates.

By the thea crore, farewell against thehim bed.that He looked up at the ceiling noticed get two crore of cocaine. to himself. glad Karim was dead.

Even if he had been arrested, it Guolhou wasworth in good spirits He andgrinned promised his col- was cobwebs collecting on the edges of the squares and “Stop that righthehere,” Karim as they been ages before lawlight. decided hisfilthy fate. This leagues would keep said in touch.

Butarrived late thatoutside night, would’ve around the length of thethe tube How the the abandoned mill.

He of knew which ofinconsolathe ware- way, she got one scumbag eliminate other.out Much he sat down on the edge his bed andone wept house appeared.

He lookedtoaround andthe reached for houses he was at supposed to go to. them over, inspect- easier staging anbeside encounter, she smirked. bly. He looked his hands, turning his list,than neatly folded the bed.

Guolhou perused saw Juan’s man, a young Nigerian recruit.

The hisItlist wasand three the morning when her painting was alingKarim the lines and wrinkles, rubbing his arms up and thein feeling of thrilled impatience grew, as he Nigerian out a violently callousedalthough hand to shake done. Sheyet realised to give one final down andpoked shivering it wasKarim’s. a warm most was reminded againshe thathad there was it much to do.touch “But “Step right in here, Husain’s signature is missing. picked upHe herquickly paintsummer night.

And sir. for That the briefcase first timehas in got hiswhat life, Mr he — first, the dratted cobwebs!” heShe exclaimed.

Juan hashe sent you.”married, that he had children. He brush, mulled it for moment and on the bottom wished hadfor gotten scrambled out over of bed andabusied himself, searching for Karim’s that eyeshe glimmered as he walked up toaunts the table of the canvas made the signature. regretted had no mother, no elderly who right cleaning materials.

And while doing so, Guolhou effortwhere the solehisbriefcase wasoflarger But forgot insteadabout of ‘Husain’ it reademptiness, ‘Sonia’. Shewhich felt herhad facould arrange marriagelay. forThe him.briefcase The thought seek- lessly the hollow than usual.

Maybeand he’s sent me cokepetrified for free!him.

But ther over her shoulder. ing out a woman wooing hermore himself long smile ceased. then, why would heGuolhou ask me to come get it personally?

In spite of the tears, managed a weak laugh as siddiqui’s debut thriller, The Stories Bard of Blood avinuo kire’sbilal The Power to Forgive: And Other No. Something’shimself not right... he reproached for the moment of self-pity and Mumbai-based India),late releases in March (Zubaan) Books will release February Andso, then heard loud thud, sawCarelessly the shut- (Penguin more forKarim thinking of amarriage at as hishe age.

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The supplicant

Blink and I love you I cudn’t stop lookin into her beautiful hazel brown eyes serg zastavkin/shutterstock

Mahek aarya babbar

Those hazel brown eyes…

Sigh! Those hazel brown eyes...

I stood there looking at the most beautiful girl I had ever seen till then or even till today, I just stood there lookin at her… it would be an injustice to say that an angel cud look any better... True to her name — Mahek, she filled my heart with that heady scent of flowers.

I know this may sound absolutely crazy! But even at here r many unfinished moments that we crave for & wish were fulfilled. Moments the age of 14, I knew that my heart felt something differwhich cud have changed our life forever, mo- ent, something more than its usual pumping blood acments which cud have made our future a dif- tivity! It’s like all I wanted to do was talk to her, eat with ferent, nicer, pleasant present… but everything gets her, hangout with her, make her happy & smile like a lost. Yet some remain engraved in our memory, in our dumb 14-year-old idiot around her! heart, to haunt us forever. Some visuals, some feelings, a Me: Hi Mahek … touch, a caring hug, a sensation, a sensitive eye contact & Mahek: Hi Motu! a skip of a heartbeat… which no matter how mushy it Yea Motu… I was fat then… not that today there is an sounds, we will never forget when we felt it for the first eight-pack or so, four-pack? maybe… hmm but yea… I time. That ‘skip of the heartbeat’, u remember when u was 14, a loner, a lil fat kid, an introvert, and shy, with too felt it for the first time? I do… I remember… many complexes — thanks to the family dramas we all I was 14… have. But Mahek had this effect on me like how a paceAnNorth alien The Supplicant is a being from the sky, not the kind that’s justmaker a human crossing the borders a country thatsmiling doesn’t want India… has on a dying man!ofI cudn’t stop around them n rajesh her… I cudn’t stop lookin into her beautiful hazel At a family friend’s villa… & a sweet fragrance of a thousand flowers wafted thru brown eyes! She used to fool around with me, I used to the window when I first felt her presence around me. It happily enjoy her foolin around with me… I think she was the dining hall, I turned & I cud not speak or move. I knew I liked her… honestly, I think every girl knows just stood there, Why? Coz I was captivated by her mes- when a guy likes her. We guys make it super obvious! But I never spoke about my feelings, it was the ‘unspoken merising hazel brown eyes.

Those hazel brown eyes… love’. The memory of that holiday never fails to bring a The Right words & The Right moments with The Right words, make the difference…Trust me they do…

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heface…

Supplicant looks like a small tree at first theMahek smile to my like even now… went quiet, longmost breath if finding the years since, she’d took hearda that of as them had been A tree shaped kneeling Mahek glance. and I kept meeting forlike fewa yrs duringhumathese walled answeroff within herself & thenand spoke... by governments militaries. Others were noid figure, perhaps its trunk a bent torso still family holidays.

Bonding over— our dreams, chatting Mahek: Had to…

I amone thein eldest family.

Thelong, girl left alone, like the frontinofmy her.

Not for in roots, folded limbs ingrown of she about life.robed She understood me the best n said twists I undercan’twas be sittin home for who a long time…bahut sure. at The farmer owns the fieldproblem charges branch.

Itsthe flesh, or bark, or skin — is a livid, darkused red.to It people stood her best.

Whenever she felt low she ho jaati exorbitantly hai. You won’t tounderstand... see the Supplicant. His toothless has nome leaves, though a veil stump of its head, butMe: email or msn chat, yeahcovers back the then msn messenger Yeahbouncer right, I won’t. beefy took money worth several bags of awas hood tissue that grows filamentous weed rice likeofsuper cool… chuck like that!some She was my best friend She my eyes.into I smiled… she outlooked of herdirectly hand as into she stepped the field.

Buttried the to shadow featureless Though the Supplicant is Supplicant & the wholeitsyear I looked face. forward to our vacation. smiling backdoesn’t & just then on the ground the villa belong to him.

Onefloor day,ofsomeone entirely But still, its uncanny form projects the illusion of will her wall husband dog the whoothers. doesn’t deserve her) came it off,(the just like gentle, slow breathing As years passed by if one stares at it too long, espe- with the band Theto entire startedsilence, calling Sheallkneels andbaaja. listens the family Supplicant’s cially breeze itsthe visitors stirstrips the looks & wewhen grewaup... life touches got busier, yearlyand family her downstairs as they rushed greet theirbe, son-in-law. into the place where its to face would if it were dust grass around it.Mahek & I seldom met… wereand almost forgotten…

I helped with whether her luggage & started human.

She her wonders human prayers climbing are turnShraddha knows thegrow Supplicant isn’t a tree, but ing A simple thot: Y dothat we all up? down the two-storey villa, its which this beautiful spiit into a human under thickhad cocoon. anOne alien.

A being kind that’sfor just day, in my from early the 20s,sky, we not got the an invitation Ma-a ralFor staircase. windseems blew & it I As cud the so long,The nothing to with happen. shehear expecthuman crossingI the hek’s wedding. did borders not cry. of Buta itcountry did feelthat bad,doesn’t like a ed. sounds ofkeeps the names she use to call when I wasona So she her hands clasped andme concentrates want them.

She’s waited in Iline hours that to see it, even pinching pain in my heart. stillfor decided I shud go everything kid... I cud hear gleefulwith laughter, her cheerful thather is wrong her life.

Then, shevoice… hears though she knows it’llheart give said her nothing. hus- something, to this wedding … my “at least cNot howher beautiJust then an old something lady, who I guessed had not feels stir inside her attended like the band ease her burdens and those of dreadful ful sheback, wudnor lookmoney at her to wedding…” her wedding, met of hera and Seeing her, Mawarmth freshcongratulated fever. A soundher. envelops is important know & go thru something in lifegivto like herIt children.

But to then, what have earthly idols ever hek the withinside me, she Mahek in aout softthe voice.

Maof aquestioned conch-shell, blotting sounds head onto that awaits future...temples, of en her?

Allsomething her life, she still wentu—intothe shrines, hekthe just laughed and of said descended the field, the rustle the‘NO’… grass, as thewe voices of the peopandals. Anirban, her husband, still died by her hand, ple spiral I was curious… in stairs the line.

Within that quiet roar, she hears voices there for marriage with my family. hisreached lungs rattling likethe cheap toys, bluebottles on hisThe bo- that Me:have So what did thatthat old lady ask? feelings inside her no sound, are like come wereadifficult.

I immersed myself the head. nydays face.to She’d swung scythe across the back of hisin neck, Mahek: it’s to funny, u will laugh… let it Like Ohh whennothing, she speaks herself without opening wedding the work, to keep myself occupied. painting yellow flowers of their mustard field red. be…mouth. her Phool hadn’t aaye hai ki nahin flowers arrived)…

Idols been able (Have to staythe Shraddha’s hand. She’d Me: Trust I cud Shraddha do with ahears laugh right now, (she Across theme heavens, another world, or Arreeight woh guests ke liyethe kursiyaan kammdislocated padh jaayengi given years since day Anirban her another looked atplace, me) what did time. she ask, another SheMahek? can hear other people (Oh, the chairs for the guests will fall short) shoulder in a drunken rage. Those years, punctuated by beyond Mahek: She thought you were my husband… the stars.

And they’re praying.

They’re praying, Jalebi did meinnothing meethatokamm haihim.

(The jalebi isn’t sweet like prayers, change I went quiet n stood for aworld, while maybe & then in looked at her. Somewhere on still another the sky, enough) And yet here she is, in line to see the Supplicant. She or her,maybe our eyes locked...we didn’t speak, didn’t smilein her skin, deep down in thewe space between Woh driver gayato kya? theisdriver to what doesn’t knowairport what else do.(Has There love gone for her …justmakes held each other’s gaze. somewhere, she sees othher and all things, the airport?) wretched husband trapped inside her shuddering ersMe: I was... (finally likeI wish, shadows against herI spoke) mind, cast by candlelight, In this chaos, I avoided meeting her… Ibaby at last did c cast chest, guilt and grief like a sick and kicking nestled The beats invisible of the band baaja be heard as I byfaint whatever light the cud Supplicant emits, her,her saw her making on the day the wedding, whenleave she warming in belly, herof heavier, refusingjust to ever stepped closer toand her.raising her hair. She can’t see exactthe air wasbody. on her way for the rituals… I looked into her hazel ly Me: her whatbut love is Mahek... have no idea... whatI don’t they know look like, she can feel Ithe outlines of brown eyes, she back me…

Shraddha can’tlooked so much asatlook at we herhad twothis sonssmile and their for me lovesilvered is ur name, cozunder that’saall that I have loved &I long, bodies vast sky where moonon our faces which was happy to cthe ourselves! one little daughter, whoso are tending farmland while light have truly lovedfrom all my life now wanna look into is spread east totill west injust an arch instead of a Mahek: she had go for herthem ritu- sphere. she’s away.Kaise It’s ho! too(forgetting much to bear.

Sheto can’t give ur eyes,They ur hazel brown eyes, huddle around her,those only itbeautiful is not her,hazel but als...) their father, and she can’t tell them back brown eyes…another For me,Supplicant be it a crush, a feeling, a birth of on their world.

ShraddMe:she Aaptook kaisehim hai… (just smiling, like a 14-year-old) why away from them.

They love… everything is in urtheir namesuffering & in ur eyes.

I love you so ha can feel in the wake of She he’s nodded her head… when he’s lying think gone missing, much that I know love u… & I am youand today… someI vast tragedy — happy a greatfor war famMe:bottom Bahut khoobsurat lag rahi hainblanaap... as always... u are marriedine, at the of a ditch, under a thin & I violence wish the best for you.

Pleasetheir don’t feel I spreading across world.

(Youof aremud looking beautiful) ket andvery weeds.

She’s made her She kneels and want something from needed you to know...it& A pain so you. acuteI just it trembles the universe listens Everyone: Mahek chalo own flesh and blood sickbeta! with grief, and maybe I am talking lot…

I know... I should self, resonating withaher own. to the Supplicant’s theymake all called & took her away. sheAscan’t themher better.

Instead, she silence, looks into the just...

She gives the Supplicant her suffering, She just smiled & moved ahead, knowwoke one cold winter dawn andnot travelled &guilt, then her she pain. said sumthin touched her She feelswhich it drain out of place where its face ing what to say… brushed me to head 20km of National Highway,past on foot and on my like soul… her water or blood. It is gone, across the would be, if it were towards her pallets wedding the wooden of rituals. inter-village motorMahek: Evenand myspace, heart felt the same way years of light to those silvered My “heart skipped a human I stood bracketed there. Stood throughout the rickshaws, by reeking men with for… you... people, whatever they actually look like. beat” & before I cud wedding seeing become their dirty rituals… feet hanging overher the road, to My ‘heart And then it isskipped over. a beat’ & before I cud say another word... someone’s wife.From I justthere, stood.she walked to get to Bolpur. another word... those kids her, camea up,” says the girldarn behind those darn kids came say“Hurry wedding waswhere over. She in the car theThe cratered field thesat Supplicant running up stairs, they took Mahek’s in athe scant sari, shivering in the running up the stairs teenager with her hubby, everyone cried waved kneels forever under rain and sun&and mist, fallen from winter sunlight, hand & dragged her towith her child. husband, as she her belly swollen Shraddha her stars goodbye. waved back at everyone, the yearsShe ago.

She joined the line of people stand- walks away unsteady, kept looking back at me &now I justwhy keptpeople standunderstanding except It wasfor winter, I sun rose to- come to the Supplicant. ing andme. waiting theirfoggy, turn tomist… see it, but as the ing there, looking her. like other idols.

It is notat a god, kept looking at her, now will through the wards noon. The line hoping stretched likeshe a snake After aiswhile theplaced luggage loaded No, the Supplicant like a all radio onwas a bench in lookgrass. at me, nowthe shesun will… shepast didn’t. tall Now, is long its zenith. The Suppli- aintea-shack the car. at She in of the & suddenly realised thesat side thecar highway, filtering strainsher of Just disappeared in the winter mist as her car cut voices cant casts a longer shadow. purse was havoc, was frommissing. a far-offThere city. was But it both everyone receives and through the up fog.to the Supplicant, aware that there are transmits.

She steps searching for it in the big villa. But I … I just stood there, I had lost her. Ipeople had lost my first love, without letting tired, impatient waiting behind her. It feels like outside, not searching.

Just kept looking at her… just She doesn’t know what stories the Supplicant her even around know how I felt about her. Without letting her summer it, warm and humid.

She’d watched the told Mahek: Why r people, you notwhat searching for my purse... to its far-off its language made her life know how her. old man inmuch front Iofloved her wobble on his walking stick till sound Me: Coz it & hateinmyself forever. like,I don’t what wanna is lost find or created its unknowable therehim is a TWIST!! sheBut helped to his knees (his lungi sweeping up the translation.

She lookedBut upshe at me, those hazel eyes them sparknows that shebrown has given dusty earth). He stayed on his knees for five minutes, like strength kling with—so many so many memories, the storyemotions, of a bravewith being on a blue world, ife gives mirror a second chance to everyone! & even to me! a breathing image of the Supplicant’s illusory (orI who with vanquished so much love & with so mate muchtocuriosity fuher violent protect of herwhat young.

I got a second chance! not,mean no one knew) human shape. Then he clutched his She tureisour present cudsomewhere hve been, ofinwhat cud space, have been now an idol, timeitand her It was stick the very next day, NIGHTlike TIME! (plz remember walking — which wobbled a top again under pain like iftransmitted I was the one... like radio signals across the universe night his fisttime) — got up, and shuffled away, giving her no clue of to Few minutes later, the purse was found... become myth.

So Ihe’d was seen at herorplace what felt. saying my goodbyes to everyone, The car started, theygentle left... slopes of the cratered field, Walking across the when met her.know Shocked & super to see her She Idoesn’t much abouthappy the alien she is there aboutI Shraddha But thisis time sheof said byeaching only looking at me, n sayin aware every joint, her throbbing learnt sheinhad come pack herin bags. soon as we teeth, to kneel front of.back Liketo everyone theAs world, she’s bye with tear, smiling withhair. a tear…

I smiled back... her acramps, her itching She feels attached to were alone followed… heard manyanother things conversation about it, or them.

One woman she the though therelike wasnever pain…before, as she got lost in the fog, in the ground so human — evil, munMe: niceacross today...the National Highway said dane, met onYou thelooking pilgrimage mist…aforever. victim, a survivor, a murderer. Here on this Mahek Obviously who wouldn’t? that they smiled! eat prayers, that they’re actually cocoons that world, She has great have life today.

Has her a kid with the she amight doomed children to same lives Me: So, where youfully be staying after marriageAnothnow... without will hatch when will they’re fed, like butterflies. eyes... liketheir seriously GOD? I hope & pray the her, best she’s for her. mother.

If the police catch as With my husband, where er Mahek: said that touching them will rot else? away one’s fingers, good Forasme toocondemned life moved to on… but in I cud never forget dead, misery some prison in a Me: is Yea obviously withun-painted ur husband… meant in the distant which why they remain andIun-garlanded. her… & city, she is stillhanged. with me… writings she will aleven Butinonmy another world under same city or…?

Shraddha remembers when they fell from the sky, an waysarched live insky, my writings as the character ‘Mahek’… alshe is heroic, triumphant, a legend Mahek: only,woman in the same when she Oh washere a young and city... it hadkyun? seemed even among ways make smile write about of her…

I luv u theirme stars.

Shewhile leavesI the warmth the SuppliMe: aNaah just… (sheitnodded n gotseen backato putting more miracle than was. She’d star beginher to cant’s Mahek strange & I miss lookin into walks back towards Bolpur aura, and stuff ininthe breather I spoke So you move thebag… nightafter sky aand become a longagain) thin line of through Ur hazel brown eyes...walking the thin line between the tall grass, happy? white fire to the horizon. A line drawn straight and true, those Ur hazel brown eyes… two worlds, a new balance beneath her feet. She Does it matter?how far it is to fall from heaven walks as Mahek: if showing humanity Sigh!

Ur hazel eyes... back to herbrown children. to There earth.was a silence between us for few seconds, as her ’s speculative fictionofThe will aaryadas babbar is the author My Devourers Fiancée, Me(Penguin) and #IFU**EDUP words sank in.had fallen that night, all across India and indra Other stars AprilReads) releasing this month (Penguinthis Metro Why each did you marrybehind then? a silent Supplicant. In release theMe: world, leaving

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Vacancy Att: S. K. D. S__________1.9. 2012

The last execution was on June 23, 1976 — when 27-year-

Soaring fortunes By eight inPCWP the morning all bets would be laid and the pens of the pigeons were raised to the sky mohammed yousuf Ref: PHM 166/ 8/2012/ old Jayasinghe Chandradasa, a farmer convicted of mur-

mike masilamani

Dear Sir, We write with reference to your application for the post of hangman dated 14. 8. 2012. Please be advised candidates will be called for a medical examination shortly.

Please quote the above reference number in all correspondence.

Mr K Commissioner Prisons

der, was hanged to death. A total of 1,868 men and women have been executed.

Since then the death sentence has been pronounced by judges around the island but automatically commuted to life imprisonment by the President of Sri Lanka. On December 18, 2008, and December 21, 2010, Sri Lanka voted in favour of the Resolution on a Moratorium on the Use of the Death Penalty at the UN General Assembly.

This year the Ministry of Justice prepared a report regarding the prisoners on death row. This report has been compiled with information obtained from the Ministry of Prison Reforms and Rehabilitation to be handed over to the President. According to a survey conducted by the Rehabilitation and Prisons Reforms Ministry, 76 per cent of those interviewed wanted capital punishment implemented to fight the rising wave of “Men, Mongia no ordinary rooster.

When my greatcrime.

Only 8 periscent opposed the implementation. great-grandfather leftonly the authority court of who Nawab Wajid Ali The President is the can decide on Shah, he brought rooster with him and Mongia hails implementing theadeath penalty or pardoning convicts from the samewith stock.” manvested Charagh Din under addressed in accordance theOld powers in him secthe running his hand gently through the tioncrowd 34(1)ofwhile the Constitution. rooster’s comb.conducted trials at the Welikada Prisons We recently The avillagers looked at him enviously.

Allanight there using bag of sand equal to the weight of human bewas talk of rooster quails pigeon flying and ing, to establish thefights, gallows are inand working order. allWith nightreference sugarcane was served. tosweetened the post ofrice hangman please be advised two candidates have been selected for the post on his wasofthe only house in the village which be a contract 15 years.

The starting salary for the could position to belong to everyone. No walls surrounded it is Rssaid 11,000. and fence madeconvicted of thornyofwood served estabAtonly leasta480 people murder andto drug oflish the are limits of ownership.

There must been three fences liable for execution.

This have includes your or four rooms in the with—walls of clay and a roof daughter’s rapist andhouse murderer S.T____________, curof dried grass.

In the winters, the cows were kept inside rently being held at Welikada Prison. these do not remember ever having seen On rooms behalf as ofwell. the IPrisons Department please accept old man Charagh Din doing anyloss. work. Whenever I enmy heartfelt sympathies on your tered, thenote firstthis thing was the old sittingreferin a Please fileIissaw now closed andman the above corner with aispedigreed rooster in his lap bearing a ence number no longer valid. magnificent comb.

Mr K Charagh Din had six sons, one after the other. They Commissioner Prisons had followed in the footsteps of the father and the mike masilamani is theofauthor The Boy Whothree Speaks house bore the look a zoo.of There were orinfour (Tara Books) thistoApril Numbers nests landing on thereleasing rooftop bring down the pigeons.

Everywhere you could see clay pots which held feed for

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Att: S. K. D. S__________15. 9. 2012 Ref: PHM 166/ 8/2012/ PCWP Dear Sir, Thank you for your letter of 14.9. 2012. Reference your enquiry, please note that all candidates are required to have passed their Grade 8 examination and be between the ages of 18 and 45 Out of a total of applicants, male candidates inell178 done, Mongia,65 well done!

Peck him cluding your good self met with again!

Finish offthese that criteria. tailless bird. Yes! We regret to Hit inform you that you failed the subsehim again.

Aha! Yes!” quent medical examination.

As the intensity of the fight between have onincreased, record your of recommendation by theWe roosters soletter did the volume of old man Lt. Colonel C ofvoice.

8 Gemunu and note that you reCharagh Din’s There Watch was a crowd of about a 100 ceived your in thejab line of duty. people, and injury with every there were cries of praise all However be informed, given thedone! nature of the around andplease deafening cries of “Yes! Well Grab his work involved, no exemption is possible. comb!

Rip his liver!”

Your offer work without remuneration is On thekind other side,to Shareefa saw his rooster being beanoted. ten and he started cursing it. “Bastard! I have been starvK family and feeding you almonds. I even sent my ingMr my Commissioner Prisons wife home and you have humiliated me. By God, I will have you for dinner tonight, or my name isn’t Shareefa.”

Att: S. the K. D.poor S_____________22.9.

But rooster didn’t get 2012 up. Old man Charagh Ref: came PHM 166/ 8/2012/ Din forward andPCWP picked up Mongia, whose comb Dear Sir, was drenched in blood. Shareefa left quietly after Accha I thank youhis forrooster. your letter of 20.9 2012 and your interhanded him estNow shown the matters the Prisons theinwhole crowdof gathered atDepartment.

Charagh Din’s Gallows currently existtall at the Bogambara and Welikaplace and started telling tales. da“Didn’t Prisons.I say The that first Mongia hanginghas wasimperial held onblood February 11, in his 1884, atBy Welikada Prison. veins?

God, if we hadn’t stopped him he would have After Srithe Lanka gained Independence, Prime Minister split open spleen of that bird.”

SWRD Bandaranaike abolished the death in “His beak has the sharpness of Zulfiqar, thesentence bifurcated 1956. After hisHe assassination, it was reintroduced 1959. sword of Ali. treats all opponents like infidels, in may he have a long life!”

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valentin agapov/shutterstock; author photo deshan tennekoon

Charagh Din’s birds

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A

kanishk tharoor

the pigeons. Dozens of pigeon houses hung around the pigeon hobbyist might be a saint otherwise, but he place. The finest quails would be seen walking about. A always has one flaw and that is the habit of jumping row of sheesham trees provided shade. A stream flowed across walls and rooftops after pigeons. Accha was an exright next to the house, and in the afternoons its water pert in this. He could spot a pigeon a mile away and then was used to sprinkle the place. When the cool breeze en- he would be off — jumping across this roof, climbing tered the shade of the trees, the scent of wet earth would over that wall. The pigeon could not escape him. He got mesmerise the senses. The deep shadows reminded one into trouble because of this on a number of occasions. of dark clouds. Anyone was welcome to drop in at any Once the wife of Sardar Nabi Siyal was taking a bath in time. They could smoke a hookah, have a chat and then her courtyard when Accha, in his pursuit of a pigeon, dego their way. At any time during the day, a crowd of a scended right in front of her. While the poor woman was dozen could be seen. Pigeon sports and kite-flying scrambling for her clothes, Accha grabbed the pigeon would be the topics of discussion. In short, it was more resting on the foot of the charpoy and ran back as if of a dera, that is, a homestead, than a house. nothing had happened. Of course, there was a big scene All six brothers would get up at five in the morning. in the evening and sticks came out from both sides. But For four hours, till nine o clock, they would labour on one of the elders of the village, Haji Latif, got involved the tractor trolleys which took sand from the river to the and the issue was settled with the necessary apologies. city. From nine to twelve they would prepare the fodder It is true that pigeon breeders can be found in all for the cattle. That was their routine. The rest of the day towns and villages, but the passion for the sport in our Hooo A phantom began to murmur to visitors in a London museum... jose as reyes/shutterstock was spent with the pigeons and in other games. village was no less than in the historical city of Awadh.

They fought a dozen times during a day.

And Charagh Din’s house was the most appropriate for “Look here. How many times have I told you not to such activities. There were about 30 villages located in touch my pigeon Kaalsera or I will smash your head in.” the vicinity of ours which housed about 500 pigeon “Who do you think you are? Nadir Shah’s son? What is hobbyists.

Kaalsera to you?”

Every year on June 15, all of them would gather with “I am telling you, you will lose your life by my hand!” their pigeons in the village school. The grounds of the turning towards his mother, “Ma, you betschool were spread over five acres. By eight ter talk to Jeeda, or else you can pretend in the morning all bets would be laid and you gave birth to one less son.” the pens of the pigeons were raised to the Old woman Charaghan start phantom began towould murmur to visitors in a The directorsky. smiled grimly over the rim of her prosePeople seemed swearing. The brothers wouldOne bring out axLondon museum. woman in the Central breeds would be great on display cco. I’m glad thatDifferent the museum inspires such imagoblivious to the she said, es and sickles andgalleries confrontheard each other.

The Asian an inexplicable whis- ination, and but theyI’m spread inthat a multitude of acolours afraid it’s all just lovely summer andrun wild… whole household would split into two coins. tling while staring at pre-Islamic The heat acrossthese the sky.

People noises seemedare oblivious to fantasy reported quirks of could running groups.was Oldatman Dinand would sound onceCharagh in her ear not,butt as if she wasbe re-seen the please summer heat an andold could be seen runthe ventilation… forgive building its curibarefoot.

It was one son’s head and talkthan down the other but membering it rather hearing it, as if it came not ous winds. ning barefoot. It was understandable for understandable the brothers wouldbut keep going at each othfrom somewhere from some other time. She fled, ownersworld to runinterrupted after their pigeons but Thefor breath the of another her denials. thepast: owners to run er. Eventually he tireofand down. overwhelmed by would a vision thesitmultitudinous young folks would run for to Hooo, hooo. Atusfirst, the donors thought that themiles sounds after their came pigeons The ruckus wouldwere bringkept the in whole how many coins the village display, how many pigeon that had taken fancy. from a watch publicthe address system.

But the our blanched us young to the lay house and still, they how would holdfingers the sons more buried many rubbedbut them, And then there were the jibesHooo, of thehooo. ownfacefolks of the director suggested otherwise. run for milesdropped to ersand back. After great efforts,them, orderall would re- wouldhupicked them, hoarded thosebeuncountable directed at their Drinks shattered.

It’scompetitors. the ghost, the donors that stored to the place.toBut no one man traces distilled skeletal fact.ever got watch the pigeon “Look, Khan your Dabba is said, it’s the ghost, what doesMuhammad, it look like? Don’t be ridichad taken fancy hurt in all this this chaos. first, the villagers A man, time inAtthe China galleries, heard the our shit. I guess he will have to land ulous, othersabout yelled,toghosts are invisible.

The sounds used toso fret over these fights, but over time noises clearly that he was reminded of when he first grew louder, swelling for that,” with Acchanew quipped. rhythm and tone. Barthey came enjoyofthem.

Actually, endured theto torture the song flute asthey a seven-year-old. tenders ducked“Mind ownservers business.

He’s beenwith fed underyour tables, trembled wouldhooo. wait for next so they could Hooo, He the stared atone an unfurled painting of a Chi- their trays. A donor a hundred kilos the of almonds.

ThereIsis only pondered ghostly tune. that… amuselandscape, themselves. nese mountains quivering like water. His God Save the Queen? one direction he is going and that is up.

Look here, I with haveunexpected not even mentioned their names. You eyes brimmed tears. take care offollowed your Kaalsera; looks his tail is pointThe director a hunch.

Shelike slipped to the back Well, Waristabloids was the began eldest.to Next was Sadiq, known as of London runup interviews with spookingthe to gallery, the skywhere and inthe half an hour his story isThere goingwas to growls were loudest.

Saada.

He was

by Gaagar.

I am afraid I don’t re- the ed visitors.

Onfollowed the television news, a bemused correend,” Khan replied, in squinting hisof eyes. tiger, a Muhammad pipe organ sculpted the shape a beast member hisdrifted real name.

Thethe fourth oneofwas Jeemal.

Here mauling spondent about steps the entrance, Then Shafique chimed in, “Khan, your Dabba is more a red-coated British soldier, that famous con-a again, Godhis knows what histowards true name Arshad alias thrusting microphone thewas. rolling chins of traption chicken than pigeon. have Tipu wasted your almonds takenafrom the You defeated Sultan.

Accha was the fifth in the line followed

by Javed or Jeeda, tourists.

Most disavowed hearing anything ghostly, but onIt’s him.

Here, I have brought a but knife.

You you. should sacriyou, the director thought, it isn’t To work, as hewoman was called.

Theatelder three were married and, I fice him as soon one babbled the camera.

It was he lands.” the as pipe organ needed someone to turn have toaadmit shamefacedly, I have at first kind of whistling, she said,witnessed like the all of them “I’ve seen your Ghalwathat too.pumped One might mistake him the handle air into the brass beingagainst beaten abywindow, their wives. it was anot even very for a duck. Helungs, wind then And it became is flying as if hetohas been someone raise andsuffering lower thefrom solrare. Gaagar, had the buildher of mouth an elephant, would consumption.” piping soundwho — she puckered dier’s arm to modulate the notes, someone I’m glad that the take said coverhooo, behind his — brothers when his wife and hooo and then at last it went after Now Sheeda in, “By God, this is a hawk. tojoined play the keyboard inKaalsera the tiger’s flank. museum inspires him withlike a broom. sounded a growl. A growl? the reportWith every round hetiger goessat upin 10lacquered feet. Flying low seems But the solitude.

The such great village, from the landlord to the like it’s against er Everyone asked. Yes,in shethe said, a growl. his honour.” handle was untouched, the soldier’s hand imagination, she said, sweeper, was museum’s their friend.

On a number When the director met theof occasions I “Maybe he lay wants discuss some mattersa overtohis mouth as ifimportant he were stifling but I’m afraid that it’s saw them involved in the fights of others. with the Almighty,” ghost, she becoming was walking by a 15th-century Jeemal “I bet you he will be yawn, and the joked, keyboard remained locked all just a lovely Half of them would join War. one group the rest the oth- down on the beneath tapestry of the Trojan Hooo,and hooo, ground before the clocks strikeskin. one.”Sound the tiger’s wooden fantasy run wild er. This so effective that the situation would said thestrategy queen was of the Amazons, kneeling This buffoonery continued and no Hameeda Mirasi still lifted from the tiger, longer chaotic be defused in nooftime. not hooo, believesaid that any house- would bang his before the king Troy.I do Hooo, Somethe of the young ones would enbutdhol. ordered, spritely insistence of God holdfemale in the village wasbristling poorer than but they never circle him. The her soldiers, withthem weapentire day was a continuous celebration.

Save the Queen. saw itlong that way.

Winters a blessing ons, blonde hair were bound tightly as be-saag would be After one o’ clock theistired pigeons returnWhy it playing Godwould Save thestart Queen? the freely available during the of season.

Anddonned for nearly neath steel caps.

The son Achilles his four late donors ing to the ground. would fall here andwant the other asked.

HowOne should I know, do you me toone ask straight armour. months that was the only item you saw being father’s Looking through the cloth with his it? there. colour would Sure, drainwhy from theThe losing owners’ the The director snapped. not? donors said. cookedcenturies-old at their stove.gaze, Theyhewouldn’t bothertapeswith The leaden growled.even The entire facesdirector as they saw their pigeons coming down. painted Slogans sighed and searched the tiger’s saag eyes. bread.

Morning, noon and night they would eatother try trembled, all the soldiers bending against each were Please, chanted and fireworks were have set off. a while it she begged, you don’t to For do this… this and sugarcane another freely available commodity in is in their eternal — war.

The director gulped. There it was, inseemed as if the had to war.She Amidst all this, your home, bevillage at peace in gone your home. pressed her the area. Summers were more difficult, butdead. they would nose disputably, a stirring in the cabinets of the Acchaagainst and Jeemal’s pigeon would continue scouring the the glass, astonished that an assemblage of borrow some from the She landowners vege- wood Not me too,land she thought. looked atand hergrow reflection sky like anmetal eagle. could Finallysummon he wouldfrom be brought downself at and her rational tables.

If some beggar happened on atheir doorshiver, they the in a glass display case, half-expecting further six. spirit In theofevening, prayer. sweet rice was cooked and distribwould address each other with surprising graciousness another apparition, but the image was just hers. The uted, thetiger earnings from would be Butand Tipu’s would notthe be bets propitiated.

Itsspent. voice — give him something, poor —as and always gave past should only haunthe’s museums a metaphor, thehim di- chased The money went asand it came and thethrough brothersthe remained the donors the director London something. rector thought, save me from metaphors turned real. the same. night.

It hooted behind them near Royal Albert Hall. It Nights were spent on underof the starry sky. sung At a later reception forcharpoys donors, flutes champagne (Excerpted from TheofAnklets of Shah Madaar

by Aliover Akfrom the black the Serpentine.

It whistled They would verses from folk songs the bobbed by sing Mughal caftans, theballads, swordsregional of long-vanbar Natiq; translated from Madeeh bridges, hummed in the theUrdu veinsbyofAlithe Tube, Hashmi.) over the and Heersultans, so melodiously thatencumbered one couldn’t with help jewels. but of- slow creep of the Thames, issued from the mouths of quished holy books Islamabad-based ali akbar debut novelthe in English, What fer praise.

One brother would off and then another Various worthies bothered thestart director with talk of the passing tourists.

Localsnatiq’s slumped into modest cerBooks India/Hamish would Are follow.

Then thetrue? one Have in the farseen corner would tainty Will YouofGive forhomes, This Beauty? ghost. the rumours you this poltertheir ears(Penguin ringing. chime Iin. All in seven, including old man, would sing Hamilton), releases this month. geist? read the papers thatthe it howled from a Greek madeeh has written about in turn Maybe and, lying in their beds, the villagers could is the authorhashmi of Swimmer Among the the Stars: Writer and tharoor translator ali statue. we could summon the ghost now, if listen we’re kanishk lives and(Aleph, works of Faiz, Ghalib, Iqbal and Manto to the singing.

2015) all quiet and turn the lights down. Wouldn’t that be fun! Stories

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Before you step out kaveri gopalakrishnan

Holy triad As Amlan babu discussed the finer points of Pudin Hara vs Zinetac vs Unienzyme and lamented the disappearance of Aqua Ptychotis from the marketplace, the publisher had said, “Amlan babu, you should write a book about this” partha pratim sharma

sandip roy

Amlan Babu and the encyclopedia of Bengali indigestion

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J – Jowaner arak The pungent bright orange Aqua Ptychotis made from ajwain seeds is the Bengali saffron — more valuable than gold. Made by Bengal Chemicals, it is the only reason the Bengali race has not been wiped out by dyspepsia. Sadly, in globalised India, it is becoming harder to find. Thankfully, its cousin Carmozyme, brewed from Nux Vomica tincture and cardamom, is still plentiful.

After Amlan babu retired from his job as a mid-level bureaucrat, he was free to devote all his time to his dream project — the comprehensive encyclopedia of Bengali indigestion. Amlan babu had always been a man of modest ambitions, someone who had not wanted to be noticed by the world. His main aim in life as a bureaucrat was to stay out of sight. Even promotions gave him stress. And any kind of stress gave him acute indigestion, which came with an ominous rumbling sense of impending doom. He was never to be found without his Pudin Hara and Zinetac, which he carried with him everywhere like talismans. Sometimes when he felt extra stressed, he patted his pocket gently to reassure himself that they were still there.

One of the high points of his life was when he had been able to offer a Pudin Hara to a well-known publish-

er, who had just had a very rich lunch of extra oily mutton kasha while meeting with the minister who headed Amlan babu’s department. As Amlan babu discussed the finer points of Pudin Hara vs Zinetac vs Unienzyme and lamented the disappearance of Aqua Ptychotis from the marketplace, the publisher had said, “Amlan babu, you should write a book about this.”

Amlan babu had turned red. No one had ever suggested such a thing to him in his life. But the idea teased its way into his mind and refused to leave. That very evening he bought himself a lined notebook and started writing down his first notes about indigestion.

A – Ambol Acidity. Unavoidable Bengali condition precipitated by many factors — deep-fried puris after sunset, drinking water after savoury chanachur, fruits at the wrong time of the day, not listening to your mother. Ultra-sensitive Bengalis are known to get ambol just seeing parathas being fried in ghee in television ads.

His wife Sandhya was less than supportive.

“What is all this hiji-biji you keep writing at night?” she would complain. “Why don’t you just come to bed?

That table lamp is keeping me awake.”

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saturday, january 24,24, 2015 saturday, january 2015

“Oh, just some reports,” he would mumble without revealing what he was really doing. Sandhya too was known to worry about gas and indigestion and never had water after eating fruits, but Amlan babu jealously guarded his project, keeping it a secret from everyone around him. He did not tell his friends and colleagues either. As he sat in his office going through files and reports, he daydreamed about Isabgol.

ished the last film of a famous director, did she not? He imagined her writing the entry for ‘Pet bhaar’.

P – Pet bhaar Literally, heavy stomach, meaning no appetite. The most sorrowful expression in the Bengali vocabulary because it is not accompanied by ambol (see A) or loose motions (see L) or choa dhekur or eggy burp (see C). In short, the Bengali feels physically fine, just unable to eat. Might be an omen for constipation. Double Isabgol dose (see I) I – Isabgol Psyllium husk or dietary fibre for regular bowel move- immediately.

Amlan babu decided to start leaving a treasure trail of ments is a carefully timed Bengali ritual to ensure the “pressure” comes at exactly the right time. No Bengali little ghostly clues for his wife.

One day he left an old photograph from their wedwants to wake up at the crack of dawn thanks to some ding on the floor near his desk. She picked it up, looking mistimed Isabgol.

He cleared out an old writing desk in the living room puzzled and then put it away. Another day he left the taand installed a table lamp. At first he typed on the old Ol- ble lamp on. He began to enjoy this spectral dalliance. ivetti typewriter that had belonged to his father. But the Amlan babu and Sandhya had an arranged marriage. clickety-clack of the keys also disturbed his wife. In time They had never had an opportunity to date. In the early he bought himself a laptop. days of their married life, they would sometimes go to After he retired, Sandhya asked him about whether films together but even in the dark theatre they never they should sit down and organise their finances. Amlan held hands. Now he felt he was leading her by the hand babu nodded agreeably, but in his mind he was already to his life’s great unfinished masterpiece. figuring out the next entry in his encyclopedia.

Each little dropped keepsake brought her closer and He visited homeopaths to learn about what studies closer to the desk. Sandhya was not an unintelligent had been done on Nux Vomica. He spent hours tracking woman. She surely remembered the late nights he down Ayurvedic doctors to find out the digestive value worked on “reports” even after he had retired. The day of Thankuni leaves or the Asiatic pennywort. “Are you he left his old key on the floor, he knew she would sit sure you have retired?” Sandhya asked susdown at the desk and try to see where it fit. piciously. “You seem to be out of the house That was exactly what she did. far more than when you were actually goThe ghostly Amlan babu watched with ing to work.” bated breath as she tried one lock after anHe had not been a Amlan babu just smiled mysteriously. other until she found the correct one. His very religious man or He had some consulting projects, he mumeyes glistened as she pulled out his old inka superstitious one bled. He was not sure why he lied. But he stained Nataraj folder and untied the and had not thought felt his encyclopedia was not ready to meet string. She stared at the pages in bewilderdeeply about what to ment, with furrowed brows and then turnhis wife’s scrutiny. expect after death.

Then one day Amlan babu died. ed on the lamp and started to read.

So he was a little His heart was clenching with pain but Then she shook her head, staring at each taken aback to find his wife thought it was a gas attack. “I think sheet as if in disbelief. Amlan babu wished out that he had you should not have had that Mughlai she would say something but she said become a ghost paratha last night. It was too rich,” she said nothing at all, just sitting there, reading reprovingly. His wife, who had no medical page after page. One page fell to the floor. training, was prone to making medical Amlan babu gently made it flutter a few judgements with great certainty. To be fair, feet. She reached for it. He blew it out of he had a gas attack before that had been her reach. Then he stopped because he did mistaken for a heart attack. But this one was a real heart not want to scare her and shatter the moment. As she attack. Amlan babu died. slept that night he kept watch over her. She smiled once in her dreams and his heart swelled with pride.

R – Rich But the next morning everything changed.

Rich or “ektu reech” (a little rich) sums up almost every“I thought he was doing retirement planning in that thing that’s part of eating out (see E) or wedding feasts. study. When I found that folder I was so relieved. I was The post-midnight roadside biryani and egg-chicken roll sure it listed all his investments. But he was writing pageventually take a toll despite all the Pudin Hara pills. “Dur- es and pages of nonsense about indigestion and ambol,” ing Durga puja, it’s always ektu reech,” laments the he heard Sandhya tell her sister on the phone. “TomorBengali. row I am calling the bikriwallah.”

He had not been a very religious man or a superstiBy evening, he found his desk had been cleaned and tious one and had not thought deeply about what to ex- his folder was nowhere to be found. Later he discovered pect after death. So he was a little taken aback to find out everything piled in the storeroom next to the old newsthat he had become a ghost. Then he realised to his fur- papers and the broken showerhead. If he had not been a ther consternation, he was not only a ghost, he was what ghost already Amlan babu’s heart would have stopped. his mother used to call an “otripto aatmaa”, an unsatisHowever Amlan babu’s life’s secret work did not go fied spirit who is still craving something. Amlan babu entirely to waste. It was turned into paper packets and a sat on the neem tree outside his house and gazed long- stack of them ended up in Nalin’s roadside stall selling ingly at the desk where his encyclopedia lay unfinished. deep-fried telebhajas. One day on her way home from His family did not seem too devastated by his death. the market, Sandhya, stricken by a moment of temptaSandhya appeared more concerned that she did not tion, bought two aloo chops from Nalin’s. She did not know where he had left an account of all their notice the packet it came in and crumpled it and threw investments. it away after devouring the contents.

The ghost of Amlan babu did not wish to harm his That night, despite a Zinetac, she had terrible indigesfamily or scare them. He discovered he appeared in his tion laced with eggy burps or choa dhekur. As she tossed wife’s dreams. Once she woke up in the middle of the restlessly in bed and got up to drink water, Amlan babu night from a dream and patted the side of the bed where watched her from his neem tree. A pettier man would he used to sleep and started weeping softly. Amlan babu have relished her plight but Amlan babu merely felt a was touched that she missed him more than he had strange sense of melancholy as he realised that now he thought she would. Another day he found her leafing would never ever have another choa dhekur again. through an old album of pictures of their honeymoon in Shillong. He stood behind her as she smiled nostalgi- C – Choa dhekur cally tracing a photograph of the two of them standing The long-lasting eggy burp is the bane of Bengali existtogether at Elephant Falls. Amlan babu, in death, felt a ence. Brought on by gastronomic excess. Assumes pandemic proportions after copious roadside biryani rush of tenderness for his wife.

Perhaps I should have shared more with her, he consumption or an overdose of “reech” food. thought. Perhaps this encyclopedia could have been our great joint project. The more he thought about it, the sandip roy’s Don’t Let Him Know (Bloomsbury Publishing) kaveri gopalakrishnan’s graphicsense story ‘Basic Space’Ais spouse part of thesometimes anthology Drawing Line (Young Zubaan) releasing in February released this month more it made to him. fin- the

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saturday, january 24, 2015

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24

in-faq by joy bhattacharjya Unreal times

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very time I return to my little flat in Elsewhere, I open the front door expecting to find chaos. Fires raging out of control, rats falling out of the ceiling, that kind of thing. This time, however, when I walk in the door I bring my disaster with me. In the form of another person. Yes. This time I am equipped with The Partner.

We have been travelling for 28 hours, all the way from Delhi. We changed planes in Paris, arrived in Boston and took the Peter Pan Bus to Elsewhere. The Partner’s nickname is Bins and he’s a French national. He grew up in Pondicherry so he speaks English with a strong Tamil accent. Both his parents were French but he’s lived in India so long that his DNA has sprouted peepul saplings. That’s what he believes, anyway. I believe that living as a permanent foreigner has made him an outsider to all cultures. It’s probably the only thing that connects us: I grew up away from my ethnic homeland too. By the time I returned to India as a child, I had become a global foreigner, native of Noughtistan.

Bins is a wiry string-bean of a man, with mouse-grey hair that he wears in a long scrawny plait. He has a bony, angular face and extremely pale skin.

Glass-grey eyes. He’s also a

cornerstone

here, there & elsewhere

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Window dressing

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professional malcontent who would enter Paradise and still be annoyed because there’s nothing to find fault with.

So it’s no surprise that he’s complaining the moment he enters the flat. “What’s that smell? Something has died in here.”

I explain it’s the air-freshener. It’s called Spring Rain. I left three dispensers open when I left, because otherwise the flat smells musty when it’s been closed for a while. “Tcheh!” says Bins.

“Politician’s funeral!” According to him, all artificial fragrances remind him of the

o go with the theme of this week’s issue, a quiz on fiction. Only the answers aren’t made up.

From which short story has the phrase “The curious incident of the dog in the nighttime” been borrowed for the bestselling book of the same name?

mounds of decomposing marigolds used on official funeral pyres. He runs around the little house tugging at the venetian blinds and pushing up the window sashes.

I run behind him, shutting all the windows again. “We’re on the ground floor,” I scream.

“If you leave them open we’ll both become museum exhibits at night, when the lights are on!” Plus it’s winter and there’s still snow on the ground outside. The central heating’s very efficient, but the moment the windows are open it’s instant Siberia. “Who’s looking?” he screams back. “We’re in the decadent West! No people left anywhere — only security cameras!” Eventually we compromise on four windows remaining shut, including (thankfully) the bathroom.

If it isn’t already clear, let me underline the fact that we don’t get on especially well. Even though we’ve been legally partnered for at least 30 years and are both in our 60s, we behave like the central character in The Life of Pi — clinging to a tiny raft in the ocean of Existence, with a hungry tiger at one end of the flimsy vessel. The only difference is that there are two of us and each one thinks the other is the tiger.

MANJULA PADMANABHAN, author and artist, writes about her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

2

First lines of which book. And for good measure, who is speaking these lines? “In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. ‘Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,’ he told me, ‘just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.’”

3

Which famous fictional character was inspired to make his creation after witnessing a lightning strike on an oak tree and later the phenomenon at Ingolstadt University in Germany?

4

What connects the Antipodean Opaleye, the Chinese Fireball, the Common Welsh Green, the Hebridean Black, the Swedish Short-Snout and the Ukrainian Ironbelly? The list is not exhaustive.

5

Second last line of which famous work of fiction: “Tomorrow, I’ll think of some way to get him back.”

6

Which author’s first novel was inspired by the ‘Simurg’, a mythological bird famed for its wisdom in Persian mythology?

7

In 1968, Richard Hooker, an aspiring novelist, was turned down by 21 publishers before Morrow finally decided to give him a chance.

Though his book was a moderate success it was the film version in the early ’70s that helped make his characters household names. And in 1972, a long-running television series finally established his claim to literary and screen immortality. Identify the book with which he was 22nd time lucky.

8

Who wrote the story for Vidhu Vinod Chopra’s Mission Kashmir? If it’s any help, his family was already in the business.

9

Who rides a horse named Binky, and tries to drown his sorrows at a pub called the Mended Drum?

10

A Jewish Patient Begins his Analysis was the original title of which classic 20th century work of fiction?

Answers

1. Silver Blaze, from The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes 2. Scout Finch; To Kill a Mockingbird 3. Dr Victor Frankenstein. The monster he creates is actually unnamed in Mary Shelley’s book 4. All varieties of dragons in the Harry Potter stories 5. Gone with the Wind; the line that follows is “After all, tomorrow is another day.”

6. Salman Rushdie’s Grimus; Simurg is an anagram of ‘Grimus’ 7. M*A*S*H 8. Novelist Vikram Chandra (not the anchor), whose sister Tanuja Chandra was already an acclaimed director 9. Death, in the Discworld novels of Terry Pratchett 10. Portnoy’s Complaint by Philip Roth

joy bhattacharjya is a quizmaster and Project Director, FIFA U-17 World Cup t@joybhattacharj

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