Honeymoon in the times of Corona

The phone buzzed around 3 AM making me wonder if I have committed to a trip to anyone, then remembered that we were in lockdown so no question of any trip. Then I checked the number for the country code, to know if it was from a fraudster from a foreign country wanting to steal money from my bank account as we are constantly warned by the phone companies. But, no it was a local number.

By the time I figured that out the call got disconnected. I was ready to go back to sleep thinking that I will return the call during the day time and see if it was from a known person.

But, it buzzed again within a few seconds, it was from the same number. I picked it up quickly not wanting to miss it again and asked "who the hell…" a stern voice replied "Abdul? This is police… Does the autorickshaw KL-43 9530 belong to you?" "Yes… it is parked just outside my house". "Oh! Then please come out". I could feel that his voice had softened.

What can I say… The scene outside was utterly heartbreaking. Forget the upholstery, those mongrels didn't even spare the tiny LED lights fitted in the side.

……..

This is a partially fictionalised version of a chat with a friend who stays in newly formed hotspot zone in the district. He has an autorickshaw that can be mistaken as a mini discotheque with a state of the art music system and fancy lights. He had even given me a few rides in his vehicle.

He narrated this incident (when I called him to ask how he and his family are coping being in a hotspot), where a couple of stray dogs torn the upholstery of his auto, which would cost at least ₹ 10000/- to repair.

And, the only words I could utter in consolation were "they would have thought this was cosy place to celebrate their Honeymoon", before he disconnected the phone.

Broken Lives

It does sound like the title of a typical South Asian novel where a kid or kids growing up in poor or middle class surroundings and their family migrates to the West to improve their living conditions. But, this is not my story or to put it more clearly the story I intend to write, I wish to write a story about the people who drift away, disappear or just vanish from your life leaving you to languish in the pain of separation.

Ah! This is turning out to be some kind of meta fiction where the author or the storyteller is a part of the story yet it is not an autobiographical tale. I even posted what I thought would be the first line of the story on my FB wall to an encouraging response of likes, comments and shares. But, as it happens with me every time the vague plot did not take a solid mould.

I feel that you need a totally vacant, painfully vacant mind for a story to take root and I don’t believe in the theory that you go on typing and the story would automatically happen.

PS: I tried to write this to see if the blur picture in my head getting any clearer and, more importantly I did not want this title to evaporate into oblivion from my head. 

One Breath Away by Heather Gudenkauf

I haven't updated this space for a long while now. There are not many reasons or excuses for that except for lethargy or laziness. Some posts die in my head while in formation stage itself and a few die after I have jotted ('typed' would be the right term here) down a few lines or even words. And, as I'm thinking about it now I feel that writing about life when it is happening, it is better to write about something with the benefit of hindsight.

But, this post isn't about any happening or an event in my life, it is just about a book that I recently read (I may be wrong as 'reading' also can be a happening or an event), One Breath Away by Heather Gudenkauf. It is a book for anyone who loves fast paced books with some depth and multi-dimensional characters, and also for those interested in creative writing as such. It shows you how to structure a narrative interestingly by revealing a mystery on every page, peeling off a layer from the characters to show the motive behind their action.

An unidentified assailant with a gun enters a school in a fictitious small town called Broken Branch, Iowa State, USA and makes a classroom full of third graders hostage along with their teacher. The story goes on to show how the school, police, parents and the town in general reacts to the situation. The tale is weaved from the perspective of five characters directly effected by the incident; Holly, a burn victim recuperating in a hospital in Arizona. Her two children Augie and P. J are under the care of her father and are the students of the ill-fated school. Augie, a teenager, who had to shift school mid-term because of her mother's accident. Mrs. Oliver, the teacher in the class that is taken hostage. Meg, a single mother and police officer in Broken Branch, whose child Maria is the student of the same school, but, has taken a day off before the spring vacation to spend some time with her dad Tim. And, finally Will, a farmer and the grandfather of Augie and P. J.

As this intricate and intense story moves forward from character to character and from first person to third person format we get to see how interconnected small communities are and an untoward incident effects every single person in the locality.

For me, the vividly etched mind-scape of Mrs. Oliver and teenager Augie worked wonderfully as it showed how two persons of different ages and different mentality act similarly in a given situation. And, I'm sure Mrs. Oliver will remind you of your best loved teachers.

A line from this book that will stay with me is: “the easiest way to save face is to keep the lower half shut”.

PS. With this I shun the romantic notion that you need to smell the paper to enjoy a book. For me e-books are convenient to handle physically as I don't have to hold them and turn the pages. I doubt if I'd have finished reading this book it was in physical form.

One more attempt in fiction

Full of possibilities....

Uncouth

He was literate according to the official statistics because he could write his name in his mother tongue and even in English using Capital letters. This was a thing to be proud of when you know that there are millions around you who used thumb impression wherever their signature was required. And, he took small pride in it. Economically too he had brought his immediate family a few notches higher than the people of his group, sending his three children to school and college, earning and investing in enough so that the children would inherit his legacy in equal proportion without any major disputes. His calculations for life and thereafter would have made any Chartered Accountant unashamedly become his disciple.

Kaleidoscope

I found this passage in a long discarded story of mine (obviously because I found too much of me in it). This is also a tribute to one of first friends I made through blogs. His blog was titled Kaleidoscope, he has deleted his blog (for reasons that I cannot fathom), but, still he remains being one of my best friends and guide (as far as writing goes).

Hey friend, hope you revive your writing soon by whichever name you like.

Kaleidoscope is the word that reverberated in her head whenever she was with Rajan. It was not that she was good with allegories. For her everything was divided into two: Right-Wrong, Good-Bad, Like-Don’t Like or Love-Hate. Only a hyphen could fit in between and nothing else. Rajan was someone who rose above the two clearly divided portions of her mind. As a kaleidoscope was filled with broken pieces of glass, but would show colourful and vibrant images with a smooth jingle whichever way it turned, same way Rajan even with his deformed limbs and contorted face gave a sense of perfection and serenity to the world around him. The vibrancy he exuded was infectious, so was his humour.

The Diary – A Short Story

As I'd said here, I'm posting the short story The Diary below:

The Diary

Today is our thirteenth wedding anniversary. The thought left me numb the whole day, making me physically and mentally inert. I kept wondering whether she remembered or had forgotten, leading a blissful life with her new husband. Though it didn’t hurt as it did a couple of years ago; I had never imagined that we’d end up like this.

The unscheduled call from Priya was reassuring, as usual she just asked: “How are you Appa?” Her speech was so clear that I couldn’t imagine her face while listening to her. Maybe, I felt like that because her mother had remembered that it was an important day in our lives, which made me very happy. Even otherwise, I always look for improvements in Priya, however small they are.

The memory of Nirmala Auntie’s sullen face is still vivid in my mind. She had insisted that we both go to her clinic to discuss the ultra-sound scan report. She began with the history, saying that she was only a glorified midwife at the time of my birth some thirty years ago; just prescribing iron and calcium supplements for pregnant women. “The times have changed, now we depend on these things to decide the fate of a life even before it begins to exist as such,” she was saying looking into the report. I felt that she wished to change its content by the intensity of her gaze; “I think we should terminate this pregnancy -,” she was saying this while looking at the blank wall behind us. I couldn't gauge the seriousness of the statement at that moment but the shrillness in the response to her utterance from my wife surprised me. A simple “What is wrong...?” had a shattering effect. I always thought that she was the most pragmatic woman one could find on the face of earth. Nothing could move or shake her. For her everything had to have a logic and rationale. You'd learn to see the things happening around you with a clear perspective that is not effected by your emotions was her constant refrain.

Afterwards, whatever went on in Nirmala Auntie's cabin had a dreamlike quality for me. I couldn't register their conversation though I'd see their lips moving and their faces taking odd shapes as they spoke. Though, some words like chromosomal defect, Down's syndrome, mentally retarded and abnormal stuck in my head. “I wish to have this   baby.” “You see, it is not the nine months of pregnancy but the time after the baby is born; the struggle will begin then and it won't end soon. It will be lifelong. Anyway, both of you discuss this – we've got some time. It is up to both of you to decide.” Those were Nirmala Auntie's final words before we left her that day. We had not known that there was something called pre-natal detection of deformity in the foetus. Our impression was just that this fancy gadget was to know the gender of the baby before it is born (which is legally banned as leads to female foeticide). But, the modern day gynaecologists insisted on using this fancy gadget at least three or four times during the pregnancy saying that it was just to insure that everything was normal with the baby. And, above all it is an expensive affair.

I waited for a couple of days for her to initiate discussion on the topic. But, she’d become unduly silent after coming back from the clinic and even had extended her leave from work, which happened very rarely. Sometimes I felt like giving her a jolt just to bring her back into this world. At last I broached the topic asking her when we will go in for abortion. I just got a look in response that ordered me to stop. But I persisted; making a case out of whatever scratchy memory I had of Nirmala Auntie’s talk. I was prepared for a full blown argument and had the conviction that by the end she would see the practical side of it and turn around. But, I think I'd misjudged the maternal instinct in her as the only response I got was a grunt or a 'hmm'. “Everything will work out, we've to make it work”, was the lengthiest reply from her. My patience had started to wear off. I was feeling agitated in spite of myself and blurted out; “these kids look cute on TV and their stories make Reader's Digest worth reading”. But, what proved to be the final nail in the coffin of our relationship was my question; “How can we love an abnormal baby?” I never thought it was a harsh or inhuman question as it was made out to be. I had just voiced a practical concern. Still, it drew us apart.

It was utter disbelief and shock for me; I'd expected same kind of approach from her. Anyone knowing her well would have thought that she will go for abortion. She always claimed that she cannot be an irrational sentimental fool that guys like me expected her to be while I was chasing her while doing my MBA. She was my senior by a few semesters. As a single child bought up with lot of aspirations – parental as well as her own. She hardly had any friends out of the campus, knowing her life outside. Initially, I was interested only in casual flirting. But, her repulsive attitude intensified my desire to know her. Again, it took me lot of effort to take the relationship to the next level; there were always conditions; I shouldn't be childish, there was nothing called love whatever I was feeling was just a brief fascination and it shouldn't hamper our studies as our parents had invested their hard earned money for our future. And, unlike me she could stay aloof or distant she desired as if she had nothing for me. It used to make me insecure that she may not have anything for me. But, it didn't matter to her a bit; 'take it or leave it' was her only consolation. So, the onus was on me.

A few months before her final exams I gathered the courage to propose to her and made her read the last paragraph of Vikram Chandra's Commonwealth Award winning book Love and Longing in Bombay:    I might ask her to marry me. If we search together, I think, we may find in Andheri, in Colaba, in Bhuleshwar, perhaps not heaven, or its opposite, but only life itself. She just ruffled my hair in what I believed was a show of affection and told that we'd wait and see what life has got for us outside the campus.

    And, to put it simply as they say in the most abused cliché that 'the rest is history'.

People advise me to move on, to search for a new life-partner as if my heart is a moss infected water tank that can be cleaned with bleaching powder and filled with fresh water. Maybe, I'll be able to do it in future (as I've started writing this nearly after nine years. Had stopped it on the day we went to meet Nirmala Auntie to discuss the first scan report). But, as of now I don't feel fully detached from Priya and her. Though, I can smile without a reason when I wake up in the morning as I used to do before. The guilt has virtually subsided and I've got semblance of a balance and as of now that is the best I can do as far as moving on is concerned.

*********

This story was attempted as an exercise for Kochi Writers' Club, an informal gathering of friends with aspirations to write in English, in this exercise we had to use a passage of literature and I opted for the last lines of Love and Longing in Bombay by Vikram Chandra.

PS. A few posts I'd written about pre-natal detection of disability and other such things here, here and here.

News

One of my short stories The Diary has appeared in the Jul-Sep 2011 issue of Success & Ability.

I had put up a Teaser of that story here.

Some of my friends and dear ones have been gracious enough to have read it in the raw form. The rest of you wishing to be tortured watch this space as I may put it here in the near future or better subscribe S & A because I contribute in it on and off. Hehehe...

A big thanks to the Ability Team for being the first to publish my work of fiction.

Does this make you curious?

The beginning, middle, end or whatever…

The Noose

If she had imagined in her mind's eye how grotesque she looked hanging dead from the ceiling, she may have backed out of the idea of killing herself like that. But, obviously the pain or whatever it was must have been so overbearing in that moment to faze every other thought or vision out into some deeper recess of her brain. I wasn't feeling sad enough or even perplexed by her action. I was experiencing a sense of deja vu, as if I'd seen it coming. A strange kind of calmness had enveloped me, about which I'd have argued with her for hours if she had made a prophecy about it as my reaction to her death.

I’d written the above passage after reading how Ian McEwan starts to write something new:

Sometimes I experimentally write out a first paragraph – or middle paragraph, even – of a novel which I feel no obligation to write. Those kind of dabblings I always set down in a green, ring-bound A4 notebook. It’s full of paragraphs from novels I will never complete, or hardly start. But sooner or later, one of those paragraphs will snag my attention, and I’ll come back to it asking: why does that interest me so much, why does that seem to offer a peculiar kind of mental freedom? And so I might find myself adding a page or two. It was with a complete free hand, for example, that I once wrote what turned out to be the opening of Atonement – with no clear sense that I was committed to anything at all, I was just playing with narrative positions, with tone of voice, with a certain descriptive moment. Or I might decide that what I’ve written belongs to the middle of a novel, and then I’ll spend some idle time tracing out a beginning. Then abandoning it. It’s a way of tricking myself into writing novels.

Here is the full interview.

I’d this image of a female hanging dead from the ceiling in mind for a few days when I was thinking of writing something new. Without really having a clue how to convey it or even the story behind it. The first line came in two-three days. And, it took a few more days (with my legendary typing speed and lethargy) to add words to make into a paragraph.

Teaser

An effort to write fiction... Very rough edged... Posting the beginning just to keep this blog active in the new year...

Today is our thirteenth wedding anniversary. The thought left me numb the whole day, making me physically and mentally inert. I kept wondering whether she remembered or had forgotten, leading a blissful life with her new husband. Though it didn’t hurt as it did a couple of years ago; I had never imagined that we’d end up like this.

The unscheduled call from Priya was reassuring, as usual she just asked: ‘how are you Appa?’ her speech was so clear that I couldn’t imagine her face while listening to her. Maybe, I felt like that because her mother had remembered that it was an important day in our lives, which made me very happy. Even otherwise, I always look for improvements in Priya, however small they are.

A Short Story

I wrote this story in the same period when I wrote these poems. So, the same introduction will fit here.

Radical Parenting

The cigarette between his fingers was burnt upto its butt. His hands were stretched on the railing as if balancing his body. He was looking down from his second floor flat, but seeing nothing. The soft wind blowing made his Kurta stick to his chest. He looked like a creative person with black square framed glasses, the balding head with grey and black hair made him look experienced and mature.

Chhagan bhai (as he is known) seemed to be tense and nervous in this posture, the cigarette in his hand was a fair indication of his state, he always puffed at a high frequency, but now it was burnt out without being touched by his lips.

The problem occupying Chhagan bhai’s mind was his daughter.

Parul Ved, a final year B. Com student in a local college, a 20 year old girl with average height and beauty.

For Chhagan bhai his daughter is a semi-modern girl, who is not mature enough for her age. It was she who was bothering him from a few days.

Precisely five days ago Parul had told something that hit him like a thunder.

They were enjoying their dinner when she suddenly spoke disturbing the silence of the room. “Pappa”, she said; she had this peculiar habit of calling him that in an odd tune, and he loved it. He looked up. Surprise, confusion and concern showing on his face. “What is it?” he asked. He didn‘t remember once his daughter stopping for him to answer after calling, she went on talking even if he was not listening. Now she had stopped to get his full attention. “Pappa I want to tell you something”, she told. “Don’t you think I’m listening”, Chhagan bhai said; “see my ears, they are standing erect as a dog’s to listen to you”, he continued mockingly.

Parul smiled, her face showed that something was bothering her, she was searching for words, Chhagan bhai's patience was being tested, he was keeping the grin intact on his face despite of himself, He sensed something, somewhere was wrong.

“I’ve a friend”, Parul said, “He wants to meet you”.

“So”, Chhagan bhai asked, his face was still pleasant, his eyes soft, but the smile had disappeared from his lips. “ I think I know all your friends and I have met them all”, “You don’t know him”, Parul replied .She was searching for words again then she spoke after a while, “Pappa, he wants to marry me”.

“Oh, so tell me that he is your boyfriend”, Chhagan bhai quipped, the smile returning to his lips.

“What?” Parul’s mother almost shouted as the expression on her face was of utter shock; her eyes were fixed on Parul’s face, unblinking. Parul was frightened as hell when she saw her eyes. She thought they would never blink again.

“Listen”, Chhagan bhai said in a shrill voice, commanding their attention. Parul turned her face towards him, pushing her specs back on the bridge of her nose. His wife looked at him, her eyes still unblinking. “By the way, who is he?” he asked. “He was my senior in college”, Parul said. Her father was listening intently so she continued, “His father is a seafood exporter”. He was not satisfied by her explanation, so he asked with some irritation, “I asked about the boy, what is his name?”

Parul was getting tensed; she was finding it hard to breathe, she felt her heart turning around in her chest. She found it hard to speak and when she spoke the words came after much strain, "Pappa - his name is Shabbir Kapasi, he is a Muslim”, she said. Chhagan bhai was shocked, he had a feeling that something was churning inside his belly and his face stoned. It took him a few moments to regain his composure, “well’’, he spoke as if he was speaking in vacuum, “tomorrow is Saturday - call him, let’s see tomorrow evening”. Parul was happy but restrained her face from showing it.

For rest of the dinner there was a mist of silence hanging on the table, all three of them wanted to break it, but nobody dared to.

That night Chhagan bhai and his wife had a discussion, the crux of the discussion was Parul. His wife was wild at him for the way he handled the situation. “Then what do you think I should have done?” he asked desperately.
“You should’ve told no in the first place”, she said blankly. “Don’t be a fool, what do you think would’ve happened if I would have told no, the talk would have ended there with no result”, Chhagan bhai said with a tone of understanding.

“What do you mean?” his wife asked like a child. “See if I had said no at first, then it would have meant that we were washing our hands off from our responsibility and that she could have it in her own way”, Chhagan bhai explained.

“Yes”, she said, as if she suddenly had a clear vision after being short sighted for a long time.

The next morning at the breakfast there was an unusual muteness of the night. The morning sun was filtering into the kitchen cum dinning room therefore nullifying the need for artificial lighting.

The silence was heavy as an iron veil hanging around them. The silence, which was unheard of for last few years, was now swallowing the pleasantness of this home.

Chhagan bhai broke the ice suddenly. “Parul were you serious last night?” he was looking at her with a mixture of intensity and softness on his face. “What?’’ she asked, her face was an assortment of thoughts that were running through her head. He repeated the question.

“Yes”, she said, gaining the sureness, which she knew she lacked, “otherwise I wouldn’t have told you”.

“Well”, Chhagan bhai said, a kind of ambiguous look on his face, but it was polite and his tone was somewhat heavy, “What I meant to ask was you wanted to study future - M.B.A or CA”. “I will-“, she started to say, but Chhagan bhai cut her short, "by the way what he – Shabbir is doing? “

“Pappa, he is doing M.Com privately and he is also helping his father. He is planning to go to U.S to do a course in Management, he has got scholarship from some private concern”, she said.

“I thought you’re planning to get married immediately”, Chhagan bhai said, a surprise showing on his face, but his voice was calm.

“No Pappa”, she said, mistaking his surprise for mock she continued; “I told this early because my stomach was aching “.

“Oh”, he smiled a faint smile it vanished immediately. Parul became conscious of her mistake and she added; “Pappa, I also plan to finish my higher studies “.

“Has he talked about you to his parents? “ “No Pappa”, she answered; “He says we wait till he comes back “.

“What if he changes his mind?” “Chhagan bhai asked. “It can happen with me also Pappa “, Parul said, an odd type of confidence shone in her eyes as she spoke the words which she never expected to utter even to herself.

Chhagan bhai glanced at her as if he were a patient of amnesia, then spoke, “Parul Beta, you have grown up, really you have grown up, I thought it was only your size “.

It was at sharp five o’clock that the bell rang. Parul went and opened the door, after a slight murmur at the door she came in followed by a man-boy.
“Pappa this is Shabbir”, Parul said.

Chhagan bhai got up from his chair watching him. He had not seen such perfection in his life. What he was looking at was conceptualisation of Hindi movie star. He was tall, his complexion fair with strong black eyes, his face was soft and shining with lemon green hue on the parts of his chin, cheeks and moustache as it was clean shaved. His hair was parted in the middle; it flapped like horse’s mane when he moved his head. “Hello sir “, he said.

“You being Parul’s friend should call me uncle “, Chhagan bhai said.

“Yes uncle “, Shabbir obeyed.

After a few stray topics Chhagan bhai confronted Shabbir with the same queries as he had made to Parul, he was surprised at the similarities in answer of both of them. Shabbir was calm and composed; he didn’t hesitate to speak out his mind. Despite of himself Chhagan bhai was impressed by this boy and so he told Parul; “he is a brilliant boy”, he had said after Shabbir had gone.

But after five days also his mind was not free, the image of what happened in the past few days struck his head in random, in his mind he had accepted it, but he was lacking the conviction, and the support of his heart to evaluate whether it was right or wrong. He had a feeling that he was growing old and was losing control over life. Somehow he wanted to tell no to Parul, but he had no justification for doing that. The image of Parul came into his eyes, a clear photographic image. A strange sensation crept into him, because the image was not of his daughter but of an individual he did not understand. It went out and again Chhagan bhai’s heart started wandering in the blacked-out alley of his doubts.