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A QUARTERLY MAGAZINE OF CREATIVE WRITING OCTOBER 2018 | VOL. 1 | ISSUE 1 PRICE `80

13 SHORT
STORIES

2 BOOK
REVIEWS

SARLA PUBLICATIONS, SHIMLA

CONTENTS OCTOBER 2018
EDITORIAL BOARD
01 About Us Editor: Dr. Usha Bande
Associate Editors:
Dr. Deepak Thakur
02 From the Editor's Desk
Dr. Anita Sharma
The Short Story Ms. Liji Narayan
03 by Dr. Anita Sharma
Consulting Editor: Dr. Rajender Attri

STORIES Managing Editor: Anshuk Attri

Thieves
05 by Dr. Hemant Chopra All paintings by: Jamuna Gurung
(jayagurung3832@gmail.com, 8627814722)
Maya
08 by Usha Srikanth All illustrations by: Sudharshan
(sudharshan10008@gmail.com, 9459040305)
Teacher Extraordinaire
12 by Anshuk Attri
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Disillusioned
18 by Megha Katoria
All the opinions and views expressed in the articles/stories
God's Inn belong to their respective authors, and do not reflect the views
24 by Jayamurali of Penmanship Personified or Sarla Publications Private
Limited.
Silver Town All rights reserved. Reproduction in any manner is prohibited.
26 by Iffath Khanam All disputes are subject to the exclusive jurisdiction of the
courts/forums/tribunals in Shimla only.
Nomad
30 by Deepika Rai Published by:
Sarla Publications Pvt Ltd.
Lower Panthaghatti, Kusumpati,
India 2049 - Tyranny of Revenge
34 by Shankar Ananth
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61 Sohinee Reads and Reviews H.P.-171013. Editor: Anshuk Attri.
by Sohinee Dey RNI Title Code: HPENG01194.
 A B O U T U S
Penmanship Personied is a quarterly magazine conceived
in Shimla with a vision to provide writers a commercial and
literary platform – both online and in print – to get their
writing reviewed, published, and distributed to readers
across India.
The magazine will be available both online and in print.
Apart from catering to adults, the magazine also has a
section dedicated to stories written by or for school
students, and we plan on promoting young writers.
We've assembled a team of highly experienced individuals,
all of them being related to the eld of literature and
publishing in some capacity.

O U R T E A M

Dr. Usha Bande Dr. Deepak Thakur Liji Narayan

Editor-in-Chief
Dr. Usha Bande, till recently Fellow,
Indian Institute of Advanced Study,
Shimla and also Visiting Professor at
Vishwa Bharati University, Shanti
Niketan (WB), was on the faculty of
English Literature in Govt. College for
Women, Shimla. She retired as the
Principal Govt. College, Arki, HP.
A regular contributor to The Tribune,
Alive, Women's Era, Times of India,
Indian Express, and many other
newspapers and magazines, she has
numerous research papers and more than
a dozen books to her credit.
Associate Editor
Dr. Deepak Thakur retired as a Principal
(College Cadre) Himachal Pradesh State
Education Department.
Not only has he published a book of
poems, but his poetry has also featured in
a few anthologies. He has written
research papers for various journals. His
book, Amitav Ghosh's Fiction: A
Discourse on Vasudev Kutumbhkam was
published by pothi.com.
He is presently running a charitable
library at Solan, Himachal Pradesh.
Associate Editor
Liji Narayan, an editor based in Delhi, is
a Malayalee, who was born and raised in
the Lucknow.
She has gathered more than 15 years of
experience in the publishing industry
with Encyclopaedia Britannica, Dorling
Kindersley and Vikas Publishing House.
She is associated with magazines such as
Architecture, Time, Space & People, and
HRKatha.
She has authored a book of rhymes for
children, Animals Around Us (Baby
Animals, Their Sounds And Homes),
published by Scholars Hub.

Dr. Anita Sharma
Associate Editor
Dr. Anita Sharma has been
teaching English to
undergraduate and
postgraduate students since
1989, in various colleges of
Maharashtra and Himachal
Pradesh.
At present, she is teaching at
Rajkiya Kanya Mahavidylaya
(RKMV), Shimla (H.P).
Besides being on the editorial
board of journals like Research
Digest, Ripples, Langlit, and
DJ JELAL, she has published
two critical books on American
and Canadian Poets, and more
than fty scholarly articles.
Sohinee Dey Dr. Rajender Attri Anshuk Attri
Book Reviewer Consulting Editor Managing Editor
Sohinee Dey is a full-time reader Rajender Attri retired as an Anshuk has a master's
and writer, and a part-time student. Associate Professor of degree in Aerospace
In mid-2017, she started her own Political Science from RKMV, Engineering from
book blog Sohinee Reads & Shimla. Technical University of
Reviews, which recently was He has numerous books to his Catalonia, Barcelona
chosen as one of the 'Top 50 Book name including Himachal and a bachelor's degree
Review Blogs in India' by Pradesh : A Himalayan in Aeronautical
Feedspot. She is also a Goodreads Dreamland, Himachal Engineering from
Top Reviewer. Her short story has Pradesh : Ek Bahuayaami Punjab Engineering
been published in anthology, Dad's Parichay, and Dr. Yashwant College, Chandigarh.
Darling Daughter. Her poems have Singh Parmar : A Political His rst book, Quarter
been published on many e-zines Biography.
and other online platforms Life Crisis, was
He is also on the editorial board published in April 2017
including Spillwords, By Me of the magazine Himachal
Poetry, and Her Heart Poetry. She by Maple Press.
Competition Focus, which is
has also contributed to an printed monthly in both
international poetry anthology, English and Hindi.
Poetica.
You can read her blog at:
www.poesyinchrysalis.wordpress.com.

01 | OCTOBER 2018
 From the
Editor's Desk
T o write an editorial is in itself a difcult proposition. And
to write an editorial for the rst issue of a magazine is
doubly so. However, being the editor of Penmanship
Personied the onus fell on me and I had no choice but to accept
the challenge; as I sat brooding over the contents, the icker of a
dream of these young would-be writers came surging through
the pages and my ngers struck the keyboard.
Here is Penmanship Personied, a magazine devoted to ction
or to put it more succinctly, to short story and here are young
men and women who have dreams to enter the world of
storytelling. When Anshuk Atri expressed his desire to bring
out a magazine of short stories, I was a little skeptical yet
enthusiastic; enthusiastic, because there are very few magazines
in English in India that cater exclusively to short stories. We
thought, our budding writers do need a platform to stimulate
their literary curiosity. Once we zeroed in on various
preliminary aspects, Anshuk and his team got to work and
within surprisingly a short time the overall pattern was drawn.
Life itself is a story. Scores of stories are strewn around us daily.
Not that everyone can draw on those scattered links but the few
with roving eye can pick up the threads and weave a tale from
the fabric of life and consciousness. The present issue of
Penmanship Personied contains stories predominantly by
young writers. The themes are familiar: love triangle, mother-
daughter love, crime and gruesome revenge, ghosts, suicide and
so on but the presentation has unavoidable contemporary touch.
Readers of old school might nd the ippant and “I-could-not-
care-less” attitude unpalatable but that is the contemporary
reality which the young are facing and living through. This
overall pattern is inevitably set within the surrounding social
system and a reader is bemused by the luridly surreal and utterly
–—
plausible vibrant world that emerges from these situations. Not
that all stories paint a murky, slapdash world. Some of the
stories make an obvious effort to stay motivated and inspired
which saves them from rolling into the abyss of gloom. We
cannot overlook the impact of the myriad forms of
contemporary malaise as well as joys on the psyche of the
young.
The story writers are from almost all over India: from places as
diverse as Bangalore, Chennai, Ambala, Kolkata and of course,
Shimla. These are upcoming Ph.D students, young
professors/lecturers who have just entered the profession, a
retired veterinary scientist and a senior professor. Dr. Anita
Sharma's lead essay on short story provides a bird's eye view of
the genre and can serve well to induct the new writers into the art
of story writing. One refreshing feature of the magazine is
inclusion of the section 'Stories by Young Writers'. There are
two sprightly stories by school going children: Samiya
Rahaman a student of class 6th and Vidhi Bhanishali studying in
class 8th. The Book Review section introduces two new works
and the new trends in writing which may help upcoming writers
in getting their road maps aright.
I would be missing on a vital aspect were I to omit mention of the
cover picture: colorful, expressive and discerningly empathetic.
I put on record my appreciation for Anshuk Attri and his team
for their incessant efforts and laser-focused approach.
Dear Readers, this rst issue of Penmanship Personied is now
out of our hands into yours and much depends on your feed-
back. We welcome your constructive criticism which would be a
compass to guide us on this crucial literary voyage.
Dr. Usha Bande
OCTOBER 2018 | 02
 THE SHORT STORY
BY
Dr. ANITA SHARMA

A short story can give artistic expression to supreme

moments in life, and this accounts for the wide
popularity enjoyed by this genre in modern times. It is
but natural that in today's busy life, shorter literary forms with
concentrated effects are preferred to voluminous epics. The
employing animals as characters, which act as if they were
human beings.
A novella is another form of literature, the aspects of which
appear to be different from that of a normal work of ction on
one hand and short story on the other, which crosses and goes
desire to listen to stories is deeply rooted in human civilization beyond the regulation of the short story proper and also does not
the world over. Man, being a social animal, is always interested t properly into the framework of the novel proper.
in another man's life. This feature of man's mind might have
The short story is a comparatively recent development in
created the art of story-telling. Short stories date back to oral
English literature. In Europe, the oral story-telling tradition
story-telling traditions, which originally produced epics, such
began to develop into written stories in the early 14th century,
as Homer's Iliad and Odyssey. A short story is a piece of ctional
with Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales and Giovanni
work of prose that is shorter in length than a novel, and can
Boccaccio's Decameron. Both of these books are composed of
usually be read in one sitting.[1] “A short story can be a fable or a
individual short stories set within a larger narrative story. At the
parable, real, fantasy, a true presentation or a parody,
end of the 16th century, some of the most popular short stories in
sentimental or satirical, serious in intention or light-hearted
Europe were the darkly tragic 'novella' of Matteo Bandello.
diversion; it can be any of these, but to be memorable it must
catch the eternal … immensity of time.” [2] The mid-17th century in France saw the development of a
rened short novel, the 'nouvelle', by authors, such as Madam de
It has manifested itself in diversied forms, such as sketch,
Lafayette. The appearance of Antoine Galland's rst modern
yarn, Marchen, parable, novella, cycles, and so on. Sketch
translation of the Thousand and One Nights or Arabian Nights
appears static in its nature as Washington Irving states, it is the
had an enormous inuence on the 18th century European short
“play of the thought, and sentiments and language: the weaving
stories of Voltaire, Diderot and others. The rst short stories in
in of characters, lightly yet expressively delineated; the familiar
the United Kingdom were gothic tales, such as Richard
and faithful exhibition of scenes in common life; and the half
Cumberland's The Prisoner of Montremos (1791). Great
concealed vein of humour that is often playing through the
novelists, such as Sir Walter Scott and Charles Dickens also
whole.”[3]
wrote some short stories.
The word 'yarn' seems to be derived from rope making,
One of the earliest short stories in the United States was
which is much connected with the nautical eld. Further, it
Charles Brockden Brown's Somnambulism. Washington Irving
seems to have been applied metaphorically for story weaving.
wrote mysterious tales, including Rip van Winkle (1819) and
Marchen is an adopted form of the fairy tale by a modern The Legend of Sleepy Hollow (1820). Nathaniel Hawthorne
writer, wherein faerie is usually replaced by magic. In Marchen, published the rst part of his Twice-Told Tales in 1837. Edgar
there is a profusion of supernatural elements. Allan Poe wrote his tales of mystery and imagination between
A parable is a story, which is didactic in tone and realistic in 1832 and 1849. Classic stories are 'The Fall of the House of
its approach to life, intending to bring home some moral. Usher', 'The Tell-Tale Heart', 'The Cask of Amontillado', 'The
Likewise, fable is a story, intending to teach a moral by Pit and the Pendulum', and the rst detective story, 'The Murders

03 | OCTOBER 2018
THE SHORT STORY
in the Rue Morgue'.
In Germany, the rst collection of short stories was by
Heinrich von Kleist in 1810 and 1811. The Brothers Grimm
published their rst volume of collected fairy tales in 1812. E. T.
A. Hoffmann followed with his own original fantasy tales, of
which The Nutcracker and the Mouse King (1816) are the most
famous.
In the later 19th century, the growth of print magazines and
journals created a strong demand for short ction. With rapid
industrialisation, people got less time to read long pieces of
literature. They expected to read something interesting in a
short period, and in a single sitting. This demand was fullled
by the short story and soon it became a popular genre. In the
United Kingdom, Thomas Hardy wrote dozens of short stories,
including 'The Three Strangers' (1883), 'A Mere Interlude'
(1885) and 'Barbara of the House of Grebe' (1890). Rudyard
Kipling published the short story collections, such as Plain
Tales from the Hills (1888) for grown-ups as well as The Jungle
Book (1894) for children. In 1892, Arthur Conan Doyle brought
the detective story to a new height with The Adventures of
Sherlock Homes. H. G. Wells wrote his rst science ction
stories in the 1880s, while Herman Melville published his story
collection, The Piazza Tales, in 1856.
The most prolic French author of short stories was Guy de
Maupassant. In Russia, Ivan Turgenev gained recognition with
his story collection A Sportsman's Sketches. Nikolai Leskov
created his rst short stories in the 1860s. In the United
Kingdom, periodicals, such as The Strand Magazine, The
Sketch, Harper's Magazine and Story-Teller contributed to the
popularity of the short story. Hector Hugh Munro (1870-1916),
also known by the pen name, Saki, wrote satirical short stories
about Edwardian England. In Ireland, James Joyce published
his short story collection, Dubliners in 1914.
The period following World War II saw a great owering of
literary short ction in the United States. The New Yorker
continued to publish the works of the form's leading mid-
century practitioners, including Shirley Jackson, whose story,
'The Lottery' published in 1948, had elicited the strongest
response in the magazine's history at the time.
The rst years of the 21st century saw the emergence of a
new generation of young writers, including Jhumpa Lahiri,
Uma Parameswaran, Farida Karodia, Shauna Singh Baldwin,
Karen Russell, Nathan Englander, Kevin Brockmeier, George
Saunders, German-American bilingual writer, Paul-Henri
Campbell, and Dan Chaon. Blogs and e-zones joined traditional
paper-based literary journals to showcase the work of emerging
authors.
Thus, the development of the short story is distinctive. Its
growth suggests the popularity of this genre. The most
important elements of the short story are plot, characters,
narrative perspective (point of view) and setting. In ancient
India, it was believed that listening or narrating a story grants
merit to the one who narrates it as well as to the one who listens
to it. Stories were held in high esteem as an inexhaustible source
of teaching and delight, a t medium to inculcate values. The
tradition was carried on by common people who relied on the
treasure found in great Indian epics, as well as folk narratives.
Ancient Indian epics, such as the Ramayana and the
Mahabharata are not based on a single plot; they are a series of
stories related to the central plot.
The rst written collection of stories from India is the
Panchtantra. It is also the rst Indian book to be translated into
many western languages. Another famous literary collection of
Indian folk tales is in Sanskrit, called Kathasaritsagara, which
means ocean or sea of stories, by Somdeva written around 1070.
Folk Tales of India by Ramanujan—a collection of oral tales
from 22 languages—comprises stories written originally in
Tulu, a Dravidian language.
Hindi writers, such as Munshi Prem Chand, Jaya Shankar
Prasad, Rabindranath Tagore, Acharya Chatursen, Janandra
Kumar, Yash Pal and many more contributed to the genre. Story
telling is a skill that comes quite naturally to human beings,
particularly Indians, because of their being fed on
grandmother's tales since their infancy and also because of their
ancient, rich and continuing traditions. The Indian English short
story can be traced back to the Brihatkatha Saritsagara of
Gunadhya and the Jataka Tales of Buddha. Starting with S.C.
Dutt's Realities of Indian Life (1885), the tribe of short story
writers has continued to increase and allure readers.
References
1. Abrams, M.H. A Glossary of Literary Terms. New York: Holt
Rinehart, 1957. Print.
2. Naik, M.K. A History of Indian English Literature. New
Delhi: Sahitya Akademy,1982. Print.
3. Keid, Ian. The Short-Story: The Critical Idiom. London:
Methuen, 1977. Print.
–—
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dr. Anita Sharma has been teaching English to
undergraduate and postgraduate students since 1989, in
various colleges of Maharashtra and Himachal Pradesh.
At present, she is teaching at Rajkiya Kanya Mahavidylaya
(RKMV), Shimla (H.P).
Besides being on the editorial board of journals like
Research Digest, Ripples, Langlit, and DJ JELAL, she has
published two critical books on American and Canadian
Poets, and more than fty scholarly articles.
OCTOBER 2018 | 04
 T hieves
Being one of the ubiquitous, nondescript hamlets scattered all over
the country side, the village’s only claim to fame was a sand
quarry on this bank.
Wrapped in the dark blanket of night, the small village lay
submerged in sleep. Not even a dog stirred in its pitch-black
alleys on this moonless night. But in one lane, there was
movement as Maniya picked his way slowly through the gloom.
Stopping in front of a door, he knocked softly. Inside, Pakhar
turned over on the bed and glanced at the door.
“Coming,” he said, pulling off the blanket and getting up.
Putting on his slippers and picking up a shroud, he stepped out.
The chill made him shudder. “Must be around two in morning,”
he thought.
“Here,” said Maniya, offering a smouldering beedi.
Placing it between his teeth, Pakhar took a deep drag and looked
around. “The cold is killing tonight. Let us postpone this for
some other day,” he said, expelling the acrid smoke.
“Don't be foolish. It is a perfect night of frost, and there isn't
a soul stirring. I have brought a couple of boiled eggs and a little
desi daaru (country liquor) also. Will keep away the chill,” said
Maniya, patting him on the back.
“Thieves of the black night,” mumbled Pakhar, wrapping
one end of the shroud carefully around his turban, and the rest
around his shoulders like a mackintosh.
Both of them started off towards the edge of the village,
which touched the eastern bank of a river. Being one of the
ubiquitous, nondescript hamlets scattered all over the country
side, the village's only claim to fame was a sand quarry on this
bank. Yearly auctions, which were total shams, allowed corrupt
cartels rights to it.
05 | OCTOBER 2018
By
Dr. Hemant Chopra
“A drink and a couple of eggs between the two of us on a
cold night like this? You sure know how to keep a man on the
edge,” said Pakhar, as they trudged down the slope towards the
bank. A thicket loomed ahead. Slowing down, Maniya lit a
matchstick, and approached it slowly. He went on to remove a
pile of dried sarkanda grass from its side, revealing a tractor and
a trolley. Pakhar took a ferocious pull at the beedi which made it
crackle, and then throwing it away, he climbed up on the driving
seat. Maniya jumped upon the mudguard behind him. The
engine came alive and the tractor lurched down the slope,
towards the sarkanda thickets lining the river bank.
“It is better to be on the edge on a night like this, friend.
After all, we are thieves, aren't we?” said Maniya.
“Thieves in the eyes of law or that harami guard of the
contractor, who can sell his own father for money?” asked
Pakhar, as he pouted to exhale a burst of breath, which scattered
the hair of his moustache. “I hid a sword under the trolley. Let
the %&@ come. Thief or no thief, I am going to chop off his
leg.”
The tractor crawled down the slope, like a prowling
predator, and the darkness all around seemed to mufe the growl
of its engine. A giant lurch made Maniya almost slide off the
mudguard.
“%&@! Enough to make a pregnant woman abort, that
one,” cried Maniya, clutching the pipe of the canopy
“Take out that pint of yours and light the lamp while I back
up the trolley,” said Pakhar, pressing the pedal right up to the
Thieves
oor to apply the worn-out brakes.
Ahead, the river bank emerged, its surface ravaged by
ditches created by relentless quarrying for the dark grey,
mudless sand, which sold at a premium in the town.
“It is hardly a pint but you make it sound like a whole big
bottle. Let us do something rst to earn it,” said Maniya.
Climbing into the trolley, he threw a spade and a trough upon the
wet sand, and jumped down to light the hurricane lamp.
“Back it up slowly, and keep to the left. There is a ditch on
the right,” he said .
Pakhar backed the trolley across the sandy slush, carefully
keeping it on the left edge of the ditch.
“The spade is for you, for the rst half,” said Maniya, tying
the lantern to the low branch of a kikar tree.
“Always cheating; you are no better than that harami,”
retorted Pakhar, pulling off his blanket and taking off his
slippers. “Sand cuts between the toes like a razor blade. But one
cannot buy a new pair every other day and I don't want to lose
these in the sand,” he added, placing the slippers carefully at the
edge of a thicket. Then spreading his legs, he dug his feet into the
sand, spat between his palms, and picking up the spade,
balanced it above his head for a moment.
“Here, take this,” he said, bringing it down in a neat swipe,
hewing off a large chunk of wet sand and depositing it into the
trough.
Soon, the night was lled with the dull thuds of the spade,
heavy breathing, muted curses, and the stench of human sweat,
which rose in the air, riding on the droplets of mist rising off the
bank. A pile of the wet sand gradually grew in the middle of the
trolley, where Maniya threw the contents of the trough with
neat, twisting movements of his arms. An odd gust of breeze
swayed the lantern, making the shadows dance crazily and the
river water throw up a dull shimmer in the inky night.
“Stop,” whispered Maniya suddenly, raising his hand in the
air and pointing towards two beams of light—apparently the
head lamps of two vehicles. Slowly, they inched down the
embankment towards the side of the bridge head, crazily
ashing up and down, like large ashlights in the hands of a
drunk.
“Shhh,” whispered Pakhar, lowering the wick of the lamp
and groping under the trolley.
“Are you mad? It is a police raid. You show them sword and
they are going to put a bullet through that stupid head of yours,”
cried Maniya, jumping forward and pulling him back.
Suddenly the lights stopped and went off. There were loud
clops of doors being closed and commotion of human voices,
which made the duo withdraw into a sarkanda thicket.
“It is something big, I tell you; may be a mining ofcer's
raid,” whispered Maniya.
"Mining ofcer himself to nab
two puny sand thieves?"
Pakhar asked.
OCTOBER 2018 | 06

Suddenly, a staccato rat tat tat of gun re lled the air,
punctuated by the pings of bullets, ricocheting off the metal, and
the shattering of glass. Simultaneously, screams rose as the
blazing barrels of ring guns danced to and fro in the darkness.
And then there was a lull.
“Kill them all,” shouted a voice, and shooting started again
till the screams died down.
Flashlights in faceless hands probed the darkness.
“Check for breath and pulse. Spare no one. Check inside
also,” shouted someone. Faceless hands yanked open the iron
doors again.
“Don't kill me,” wailed a voice, and there was a mufed
sound of something heavy being dragged.
“Spare me in the name of God!” cried the voice again, and
then the sound of a couple of shots punctuated the gloomy
stillness one last time.
“Let's go!” Sounds of running feet died down into deathly
stillness.
Pakhar peered at Maniya's face, aghast with terror.
“Lie still,” he whispered, gripping his arm.
Far away, there was sound of an automobile engine starting
up, and the vehicle sped away across the bridge.
“Come,” said Pakhar, getting up. Both of them ran towards
the kuccha embankment, and suddenly it appeared before them,
looming out of the darkness—a passenger bus, tilted towards
one side, with tyres half buried in the sand. Both of them stopped
and peered, snifng the air that carried the smell of gunpowder.
Holding Maniya's hand, Pakhar stepped forward, slipped, and
fell down. Getting up, he stared at his hands.
“It's blood,” he whispered and dug his hands into the sand
to rub them clean.
Maniya lit a matchstick, and both of them gaped at bodies
frozen in grotesque postures of the dance of death. They bent
down to pick their way amongst them. Maniya stumbled against
something buried in the sand. It was a ashlight.
“Give it to me,” said Pakhar, and switching it on, shone it
upon the lifeless bodies scattered around, with blood still oozing
from some of the gaping wounds. Tiptoeing towards the door, he
stepped inside the bus. The driver lay hunched over the wheel,
with two holes in his back.
“They have killed every one, wiped out the whole
busload,” he whispered, coming out.
A dull gleam struggled in the night around Maniya's feet.
Taking the torch from Pakhar, he shone it upon the spot. A pair
of eyes, frozen in the shock of a sudden, cruel death, stared at
him. Slowly, he moved the ashlight in a circle. A fair, young
face, with a silky, budding moustache and arms crossed over its
chest came into view. Maniya bent down, and held the lifeless
hand with a gold ring in its nger. Placing the ashlight
carefully on the ground, he tried to pull it off.
07 | OCTOBER 2018
Thieves
“Stop, you %&@! Stop!” yelled Pakhar, jumping forward
and giving him a blow, which sent Maniya sprawling upon the
sand.“How in the name of God can you think of doing this?” he
cried.
“But we are thieves, are we not? How is one theft different
from the other?”
“Yes we are thieves, but do we eat carrion left behind by
merchants of death?” Pakhar snapped, snatching the ashlight.
He once again pointed it at the ring, and bent down. A
monogram of two intertwined letters appeared.
“Appears to be newly married. Must be the same age as my
son,” he said. Suddenly his legs felt lifeless and he slumped to
the ground. “Those devils have massacred the whole bus load of
passengers, every single one of them,” he cried, his sobs shaking
his frame.
“Someone tell me—why have they done it?” he added,
striking the sand with his clenched st.
Maniya watched the whole scene, rooted to the spot where
he had fallen. Suddenly, he got up and took out the 'tharra' he
was carrying in his pocket.
“Here, take a sip. It will steady your heart,” he said
allowing the drink to touch Pakhar's lips, who gulped the whole
thing in a go. The ery liquid passing his gullet made him wince.
“Yes, we are thieves; we steal sand. But we do not steal
people's lives, their dreams and happiness. We are better than
these merchants of death. Thousand times better,” he shouted
into the darkness.
“Shhh,” said Maniya, pointing towards the head of the
bridge, from where a procession of ickering ashlights
approached.
“Let's go,” he said, trying to pull up Pakhar by his arms; but
Pakhar pushed him away and got to his feet, tossing the empty
liquor bottle towards the bus, where it shattered against the
metal frame.
The two thieves trudged slowly along the undulating path,
and were soon gobbled up by the darkness.
–—
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in Shimla in 1955, Dr. Hemant Chopra studied
Veterinary Sciences at Bikaner and joined Punjab
services in 1981. After retiring from his job in 2014, he
joined the corporate sector, and at present, is running
his own consultancy rm. Passionate about writing
from his college days, most of his short stories are
ctionalised account of his experience as a rural vet.
Currently, he is in process of getting a collection of
stories published. He is settled in Ambala
C a n t o n m e n t . Yo u c a n r e a c h h i m a t
hemant_1955@yahoo.co.in.
M aya
Turning her head towards him, she smiled.
“You asked, I didn’t reply.
“Memsaab, the car is at the door,” said the driver. Maya got
ready to leave her cabin, and took one last glance at the iMac to
see if it had shut down. She was the CEO of a top networking
company, the brain as well as the spine of the organisation. Clad
in a gure-hugging knee length dark blue business skirt; a beige
round neck; and a full-sleeved formal shirt, bought at Marks &
Spencer, she felt her attire was perfect for the formal meeting
she had attended that morning. The beige-coloured formal shoes
completed the entire suave look.
She took a look at herself in the elevator mirror and saw a
wheatish, dark-eyed oval face staring at her; the layer-cut hair
sat perfectly at her chin, giving a carefree look.
“Memsaab, shall we leave?” asked the driver.
“Yes, Gopal,” Maya replied.
–—
“Hey! Maya!”
It was Sunil, her co-worker, who was vying for the position
of managing director. He had the characteristic handsome face,
and the chauvinistic air to give him the 'don't mess with me'
look.
“So, you're leaving? I asked you out yesterday.”
Turning her head towards him, she smiled. “You asked, I
didn't reply.”
Sunil was bafed! No one had the cheek to deny him; no
one had, in fact, in a long time now — especially not a woman. A
quick rush of blood ushed his cheeks.
“Yes… I mean, right. But Maya, you do understand? Don't
you?”
All she did was smile again. 'Maya' the name and her
bewitching smile —which could make any man go soft in the
By
Usha Srikanth
head — had worked its magic on Sunil.
“Maya.....don't I stand a chance?” Sunil was stranded for
the third time in two months.
–—
Maya opened the window of her Chevy Cruz to let in the
smoke-lled, damp air; she took in a deep breath, as if she were
inhaling pure oxygen, put her head back, and relaxed, oblivious
to the buzz of the maniacal honking.
–—
“Maya! My goodness! What have you done to your hair?”
her Grandma screamed. Before she could retort, a tight slap
resounded.
“Daadi! Don't you dare hit me again; it's my hair.”
“Why did you cut it? To woo boys? Of course! What else
could be expected?”
Maya was too stung for words to make way; she was
sixteen and understood every syllable of the underlying
unspoken words. She no longer fancied her new look, and she
rushed to her room. She grabbed the knob of the closet, drew out
the only picture of her mom, and spat at it!
The next day, she woke up earlier than usual to meet her
extremely busy father. “He will like my haircut,” she thought.
Maya was not magical-she was a
taboo, and Baba resented her as
she was a liability to him now,
a living reminder of a
humiliating relationship.
OCTOBER 2018 | 08
 Maya

“Baba, look at me!” “Thanks,” replied Maya, blushing.

“Sir, doesn't she look like a little diva?” said Baba's “Say, why don't ya teach me this trig. prob? It's kinda eating
secretary. my brains out, dude.”
“Ha – Um,” her Baba replied. “Ohhhh....…,” hooted the gang, and took the cue to leave
“Say something nice, Baba,” Maya pleaded, already them alone.
sensing her father's withdrawal from her. Maya was an outstanding student, both in academics as
It had always been like this since her mom had left them well as co-curricular activities. She felt a strong need to excel.
ve years ago for another man. Baba picked up the phone, “Since when did you start doing homework Sanjay?” she
“Rajan, regarding the tender....” asked.
Maya dismissed herself. “Oh, hell! So you know why I came, haan?” Sanjay tousled
Maya was not magical— she was a taboo, and Baba his hair and gave an innocent grin.
resented her as she was a liability to him now, a living reminder –—
of a humiliating relationship. She was Daadi's punching bag, as The car screeched.
her son couldn't rebuild his life by remarrying. Maya was the “What happened, Gopal?”
impediment. Maya was the butt of mockery, even with the
"Sorry memsaab, these cows...."
servants. A new dimension was added to her identity with her
fteenth birthday— the boys had decided she was an easy catch! “It's already seven,” Maya sighed, closing her eyes. “I hope
–— we reach soon, Gopal. I'm too tired. I want to sleep, but this
smell...”
“How easy it was when I was ignorant,” she thought.
“Close the window, Memsaab. I'll turn the AC on.”
–—
“No, leave it, after all, it's lthy everywhere; you can't turn
With a skip in her steps and a tune on her lips, she set out to
that off by turning the AC on.”
college.....That was Maya!
With that Maya drifted off to Mumbai...…
“Hey gal, You look kewtttttt!” the gang complimented.
–—
“Hey wow! You look mind-blowing,” remarked Sanjay, a
boy from a conservative family, but with a 'modern' outlook. “Sanjay, how was your day today?”

09 | OCTOBER 2018
Maya
“Dad called me. He's coming in a week.”
“Wow! That's nice.”
“Oh, cut it out! You know what's gonna happen.”
“Sanjay, I don't know what you're...”
“Maya, stop being ridiculous! Snap out of it. You run away
from reality all the time.”
“Why do you want to keep me away from your family?
What's stopping you?”
“You really want me to say it?” Sanjay snapped, shocking
Maya. “Your mom left you and your dad, behaving like a slut;
you had your share of ings in college; you eloped with me; and
here we are. What kind of dignied family would accept your
type as a bahu? ”
Maya's world was shaken; the ground beneath her gave
way.
“I thought you loved me, Sanjay.”
“I always will, but telling my family is a No-No! Maya, I
thought you were smart enough to take all this.”
“Sanjay, do you remember that I am pregnant?”
“I gave you the solution...”
“And you want to go ahead with...... with thaaat?!”
–—
“Memsaab, we're here.”
“Tomorrow, same time in the morning.”
Maya opened the door to her paradise.
“Woof – woof,” greeted Tammy, wagging his tail.
“Mummy, you should see this circular. They're taking us to
picnic for three days. I will go! I wanna go!” This was 'Diya',
Maya's ten-year old daughter.
Maya lit up to Diya's voice, and soon they were lost in a
string of chatter. Tammy too contributed, occasionally.
“Maya beta, dinner is ready,” said Shanti, the live-in-maid.
–—
“OK, Ma, Good night!” she heard Diya say.
Diya brought sunshine into Maya's life.
She smiled to herself and closed the door of her room, to see
the cellphone light up. A message:
“Maya , your smile says it all. I'll be waiting in the Sheraton
tomorrow (Sat) at 11.30 AM”
Here we go again........ Oh, Sunil!...... Maya closed her
eyes.
Sunil waited in a striped blue and white t- shirt, blue faded
jeans, and Nike shoes. His sun- burnt face, which mirrored
maturity, love, and gentle firmness, looked more handsome with
a pair of Ray–Ban on it.
Maya stood still, her heart racing as it used to, when she
had a crush on Sanjay. No, it hammered even more., All she
wanted to do was to get into his arms and experience the warmth
in the soothing sunshine. This was a new beginning, there would
be magic after all.......
“Ma! Ma!”
“Diya! What happened?”
“Ma, I'm scared. I can't sleep. I had a dream that I went to
the trip and when I came back, you weren't here. Ma, I don't want
to go. I don't want you to go anywhere,” sobbed Diya.
“No, darling”, said Maya as she took Diya into her arms,
“Ma will always be here.......”
Maya's eyes welled up with tears. She closed them once
more, only to see Sunil fading away, as the light from Diya, the
sunshine of her life, shone brightly.
–—
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Usha Srikanth is a lecturer of English at Presidency
College, Bangalore. Meeting new people, reading
books, travelling, and writing are a few things that
interest her.Her stories and poems have appeared on
w o m e n s w e b . i n . Yo u c a n r e a d h e r b l o g a t
ushasrikanthblog.wordpress.com, and write to her at
vyasa.usha.eng@gmail.com.
OCTOBER 2018 | 10
 T eacher
Extraordinaire
He'd usually be wearing a loose tting shirt tucked into his pants,
and would always have the same dust-laden dark brown shoes on.
Arnav was a student of business studies, a subject he had
opted for over computer science.It was not a subject that he was
supposed to be serious about—a student of twelfth grade must
be focussed on his engineering entrance examinations, not on
any plebeian subject. This course was just a formality;
something he needed to nish high school.
If you could pay the school enough money, you were not
even required to attend classes, but Arnav's parents were not that
rich. Therefore, as much as he hated it, he had to drag himself to
school ve days a week; and there, each morning, he would see
his Business Studies teacher, Gautam Singh, make his way into
the school.
Gautam Singh would barge through the gate, on his
wobbling pale green Bajaj Chetak, and head straight for the
faculty parking. He appeared to have suffered from malnutrition
as a kid, and had never got down to correcting the imbalance. He
would park at the same spot every day, a place that was
unofcially reserved for him. He'd usually be wearing a loose
tting shirt tucked into his pants, and would always have the
same dust-laden dark brown shoes on. Strange, because word
had it that he was earning a good salary.
The rst thing he'd do after alighting from his scooter was
light a bidi. Arnav had never seen any other person smoking on
the school premises; even the security guards made it a point to
sneak out to do it. Gautam Singh would walk around, smoking
the bidi and talking to himself. This had made him a butt of jokes
around the school, but he never seemed to care. Even if he
caught people imitating him, he'd still continue.
11 | OCTOBER 2018
By
Anshuk Attri
His gesticulations would be either very
aggressive—maybe when he did not quite agree with
himself—or quite mellow. Either way, it was a sight to behold,
something eccentric that the students enjoyed.
Arnav never made fun of Gautam Singh for this. His
argument was simple: after all, we all talk to ourselves, then why
single out one person who liked to do it in a dramatic way?
Sometimes Arnav had a eeting thought of seeing his future in
this walking skeleton—a thought that made him shudder.
Gautam Singh's monologue would be interrupted by the
school bell. On conclusion of the school assembly, after
dutifully singing the national anthem, all the students would
make their way to their classrooms, mostly after being
reprimanded for not wearing polished shoes or not tucking in
their white shirts neatly into their navy blue pants.
Ties would come off as the twelfth grade would settle into
their seats, waiting for the roll call.
'Present, Ma'am'; 'yes, Ma'am'; 'present'; 'here' were the
usual replies.
They'd have to suffer through two classes before they could
walk out to a classroom on the other side of the hall for their
business studies class. There, they would nd Gautam Singh
leaning against the blackboard. He'd smile as the class walked
past him, even though no one ever smiled back at him.
The class would take forever to settle into their seats. Some
of them would shriek, call each other, talk and discuss some
match they had seen the previous night. People who never
Teacher Extraordinaire
watched football would pretend to be experts, just to
participatein the conversation.
Gautam Singh would say, "OK, that's enough," only to be
ignored.
"Silence," he would murmur.
The students in the rst two rows would open their
notebooks and stare at him intently. These were the "good" kids,
toppers of the batch, and people who were expected to be
successful in the future.
The others, especially the last rows would continue talking.
Gautam Singh would walk up to them, and stand with his arms
crossed and an embarrassed smile on his face.
"OK, stop now," he'd say.
They'd all stop, only to start again as soon as he turned.
Ignoring the miscreants, Gautam Singh would walk to the
blackboard, and begin his class. He would have to speak loudly
to be heard over the ruckus. He would try his best and the "good"
students would carefully jot down what he said, well, at least the
things they could understand. Not that they would be distracted
because of the noise; it was just that Gautam Singh would be
talking gibberish most of the time.
"I once had tea with RK Narayanan, the rst president of
the country," he'd say in the middle of the lecture. "Not the rst,
the current president, I mean."
He meant KR Narayanan, the tenth president of India.
"When, Sir?" someone would ask, repressing a giggle.
His murmuring would be incomprehensible. Cross-
questioning would begin, in the middle of which, he would turn
around abruptly to resume teaching.
At times when he'd be busy scribbling on the blackboard,
some student would throw something at him—an object that
they would have picked up on their way to the class, a piece of
chalk perhaps. Gautam Singh would turn around, and the
students would make grave faces, as if no one amongst them
could have been responsible for a thing so heinous. An abashed
smile would smear his face, and then, as suddenly, he would
resume teaching.
Once, a student took off the hat his bench-mate was
wearing and threw it at the board.
Gautam Singh turned around, picked it up, and said, quite
poignantly, "A hat must be worn on the head; it adorns one's
head. It has a special place. It's not something to be thrown."
And then he put on the hat, rather elegantly.
The class burst out laughing, while Gautam Singh resumed
his lecture on whatever in God's name he was teaching.
Arnav was never a part of those miscreants although he did
enjoy their pranks. In fact, he would sometimes encourage
others, slyly. The tossing of the hat was his idea, though his link
to the crime was never conclusively proved.
Gautam Singh's classes were rather hilarious, in fact they
generated riots of laughter. Arnav looked forward to them.
The high jinks in his classroom would never deter Gautam
Singh. Even after being insulted in nearly every class, he'd try to
strike up a conversation whenever he happened to run into his
students outside the connes of the classroom; but the students
avidly avoided him.
–—
One day, Arnav was hanging out with one of his friends,
Eshan, in the latter's hostel room. Day-scholars were not
allowed into the hostel and Arnav, being a day-scholar, had to be
OCTOBER 2018 | 12

careful not to get spotted by the teachers. It was not easy to stay
under the radar, for just across the hostel were the faculty
residences. He'd have to sneak through the back gate, where he
would bribe the guard with a few cigarettes.
Eshan fell asleep and Arnav left the room, hoping to sneak
out through the back gate of the hostel, like a brown ninja. He
noticed that the guard had deserted his post, and so he strolled
out without a care in his mind. Barely had he crossed the gate,
when he saw Gautam Singh standing there, ardently smoking a
bidi. Arnav froze and wanted to turn away, but he had been
spotted.
"Hey, you there!" Gautam Singh exclaimed. "You aren't a
hosteller, are you?"
"As a matter of fact I am, Sir."
Gautam Singh squinted.
"My name is Eshan."
"Are you in my class?"
"No, Sir. I study computer science."
"I could have sworn that I have seen you in my class."
"Maybe it is someone who looks like me, Sir. I have a very
generic face, I have been told."
"Why are you sneaking out of the back gate?"
Arnav thought for a moment, and blurted, "I am not
sneaking out, Sir. I have to attend the practise for Founder's Day.
I am in the play, you see."
"Why are you going out of the back way, then?" Gautam
Singh asked, throwing his almost nished bidi on the ground,
and letting out smoke through his nose.
Arnav looked around and said, slowly, "The view, Sir. So
many trees; I like walking through here." He bent down to pick
up a fallen leaf and added, "I like nature. Very much."
Gautam Singh sighed and replied, "I am glad you do.
People don't care about the environment these days. They say
they do, but they don't. I do. I care a lot. I smoke bidis because
they are rolled from tree leaves, you see. Very medicinal
properties those trees have."
Arnav nodded, trying to seem earnest. Before his teacher
could question him further, he said, "If you don't mind, I'd have
to take your leave, Sir. The practise starts in a few minutes."
Gautam Singh excused Arnav, and the latter hopped to the
bus stop.
Arnav had lied to Gautam Singh, yes, but at least he had
been polite, especially even when he knew he didn't need to
answer any of the questions posed to him. Had it been someone
else in Arnav's place, he'd have just pushed Gautam Singh and
run. There was no way Gautam Singh could have recognised
Arnav the next day, or even gotten any other teacher to take his
complaint seriously. Still, Arnav never treated him badly. Most
of the time he felt sorry for Gautam Singh! At least that is what
he tells everyone after all this time, maybe just to relieve himself
of the guilt.
–—
13 | OCTOBER 2018
Teacher Extraordinaire
Gautam Singh's day would normally start with a realisation
that the space next to him on his bed was empty, and had always
been. It would take him half an hour to muster the strength to
step out of the bed, onto the concrete oor. Dragging himself to
the balcony, he would light up a bidi.
He did not live in the faculty residences, although he did
have a place — a small room —there. He preferred to live in a
shabby two-storey house that he had inherited from his parents.
This house was on a hill just above the school, and in the
morning he would get a very good view of the school's football
ground, being slowly ooded with sunlight. Often he would
mutter, shaking his head, "It has been years since I played. I was
good."
On this particular day, that melancholy feeling mornings
brought with them was diluted. The school was going to start
after a short summer break and Gautam Singh enjoyed teaching.
Standing in his balcony, smoking his bidi, he stretched and
sighed. A few more hours and he would get to do what he loved
most. He could not wait to inspire students.
"I know, I know, I should shift to cigarettes," he
reprimanded himself, looking at the smouldering bidi. "I am a
teacher at the best school in the world. I should have some
class."
No one really knew why the school continued to employ
Gautam Singh. Students and teachers alike thought him to be
crazy. Some said that the principal had a soft spot for him.
Whatever the reason for his occupying the post, Gautam Singh
had been teaching at the school for more than fteen years.
Some say that he used to be "normal" once, that is, before his
accident. Since no biographer had taken time to document his
life and he had no known close friends, it was difcult to know
the truth.
Throwing the bidi butt down the hill, he turned around, and
waddled into the bathroom to get ready. The school would start
in a few hours and he had to be there on time.
After a quick shower, he started dressing, realising that he
had forgotten to remove his night-socks before getting into the
bathroom. He took them off, threw them on the bed, put on a
dingy old pair, and hopped into his shoes.
Gazing into the mirror, he combed his hair, at least what
was left of it, and could not help remember how different he
used to look just a few years ago. He was heavier, his head full of
thick hair, and his skin was light.
"I used to be taller," he said, with a smile.
His scooter was waiting for him just inside the gate that
separated his property from the public road. The paint on the
boundary wall was marred by water, and moss was thriving on
it. He pushed the metal gate open and dragged his scooter out.
Five minutes later, he could see the school's main entrance.
He was elated. Finally he would be where he was meant to be —
in his habitat, roaming in the wilderness.
He could barely control his excitement during the
Teacher Extraordinaire
assembly. A few more hours and he would be teaching, he told
himself. He looked around at the faces of the students, and to
him, they all looked eager to learn, to imbibe everything that
they were taught. He remembered being like that when he was
their age.
After the assembly, he watched the students leave in a single
le for their classes. Then he walked to the Staff Room, opened
his locker, and took out his attendance register, following which
he sat at the table that stood in middle of the room. With a smile
on his face he looked around. The hustle in the room made him
uncomfortable, but he knew that he would have to suffer through
it just for a few minutes. After that, every teacher would be busy
and he would nally relax. He glanced at a piece of paper
attached to his attendance register; it was his schedule. He saw
that the rst class of the day that he was supposed to take was
business studies for the twelfth grade.
"How are you, Gautam Sir?" asked a woman in her mid-
thirties. Before he could reply, she had pranced out of the room.
"Good, thank you. How're you?" he mumbled, regardless.
Three minutes later, he was alone.
When the clock struck a quarter to eleven he made his way
to the third oor of the academic building, all ready to teach, to
inspire. This was the day the cap-throwing incident took place.
–—
Three weeks after prodding his classmate to throw a cap at
Gautam Singh, Arnav was dragging his feet as he made his way
to the school. He had an essay due in the third period and he had
not even begun working on it.
As he neared the school, he saw a bunch of students huddled
outside the gate. The guard was shouting that the school was
closed for the day and that the students should go home.
Thanking God, he hurried to a classmate who was standing next
to the guard.
"What happened?" he asked.
The classmate shrugged. “It's just closed I guess."
Arnav was walking back to his home, when he met Eshan
and his hostel mates, loitering around the local bus stop.
"So you heard?" Eshan asked him. On seeing the confused
look on his face, Eshan added, "Gautam hung himself in his
"Gautam hung himself in his
faculty residence.
They found him there."
faculty residence. They found him there."
Arnav listened without any reaction. He felt nothing,
something that even to this day he nds rather enigmatic.
Eshan yapped on,"I saw him hanging. I was in the common
toilet when I heard a shriek - it was the sweeper aunty. We ran
over there and saw him. He had these creepy bulging eyes and
his tongue was out. Quite weird, actually. All the teachers from
the faculty residences assembled there in a few minutes, and
they started shooing us away. I managed to click a photo. No one
saw me. Here, look at it. So strange, right? What I don't get is
why he would come specially to the faculty residence to die. He
never lived there. His room was always empty. Now I am sure he
will haunt the place..."
When Arnav's mother saw him enter the kitchen, she asked,
with a mother's worry, "Are you OK? Why did you come back?
Are you sick?"
"No, Ma. The school's closed today. A teacher killed
himself, I think."
His mother started.
"Is there any juice left? I am thirsty," Arnav added, opening
the refrigerator.
That night, Arnav lay in his bed, thinking about Gautam
Singh.
"He could not have possibly done it because of the cap", he
told himself a third time, before rolling over and burying his
head in the pillow.
"Why would he come specially to the faculty residence to
die?" he heard Eshan asking, as he drifted to sleep.
Maybe he wanted attention.
Maybe he did not want to die alone.
–—
The next day, Arnav saw Gautam Singh's green scooter
standing in his "unofcial parking spot."
“What will become of it?” he thought. “Would someone
come and get it? Did he have any heirs? A family?”
No ofcial announcement was made of Gautam Singh's
suicide. During the lunch break, Arnav overheard two of his
teachers talking by the water lter.
“Could've been depression,” said one of them.
“Doesn't matter. He was a weirdo. It was bound to happen, if
you ask me,” Arnav heard, as he walked past, quietly.
A week later, the scooter was gone, and Arnav never found
out what happened to it. Not that he cared anymore, anyway.
–—
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anshuk has a master's degree in Aerospace Engineering
from Technical University of Catalonia, Barcelona and a
bachelor's degree in Aeronautical Engineering from Punjab
Engineering College, Chandigarh.
His rst book, Quarter Life Crisis, was published in April
2017 by Maple Press.
OCTOBER 2018 | 14
 I s there a tness
coach in you?
Amar would enjoy my stories and share his criticism.
We graduated and wished each other good luck in our careers.
I had a friend, Amar, who was passionate about becoming a
tness coach. In our college days, he used to talk about how
much he loved to be t. On weekends, he spent his time in the
gym instead of hanging out with us. All our college buddies
were happy for him. His passion inspired us. His interest in
tness grew so much that he decided to make a career of it after
graduation.
I liked spirituality and psychology. I also wanted to write
stories. We admired each other's passions. Amar would enjoy
my stories and share his criticism. We graduated and wished
each other good luck in our careers.
He landed his rst job in an IT company. He wanted to save
money and start his own gymnasium. With time, he became
more focused on his IT job. He worked for three years while
continuing his gym workouts.
Amar became determined to make quick money and move
up the corporate ladder. He stretched his work hours, which
drained his body and mind. His daily routine changed. He could
not wake up at 5 a.m. for his regular workout, any more. He
stopped going to the gym so that he could get some extra hours
of sleep, which his body demanded. Two years passed by. He
had become a project manager, and played a key role in his
organisation.
After ve years of slogging in the IT industry, Amar had
made a fortune. He thought of opening his own gym and
coaching people. But, then his desires changed. He fell in love
with a girl and got married. He bought a luxurious car.
His interest in tness started to disappear. He couldn't
15 | OCTOBER 2018
By
Vinayak Jawalkar
create time for his passion.
He bought a bungalow, and it was a day of celebration.
But somehow, Amar had mixed feelings, and he couldn't
gure out the reason. He started to doubt if he was really happy
with his wealth. He had gained weight after he quit the gym, and
he was not happy with the way he looked and felt. Not long after,
he gave up the idea of pursuing his dream. Everyday, he would
drive to work with a feeling of regret.
–—
It was a drizzly evening and I felt like having some hot tea.
Wanting to feel the rain and enjoy the chilly breeze, I decided to
walk to a nearby restaurant, beside which was a new book store.
Usually, I prefer to go to the library to read; but, it had been
a while since I had bought a book, so I made up my mind to
check out what was in. Following a few minutes of browsing, I
walked out, happily, after picking some English literature
books.
As I was about to enter the restaurant, a huge guy got down
from his car and waved at me. I could not recognise him, but he
seemed to know me. Curiously, I slowly approached him.
It was Amar!
It had been seven years since we had met each other. We
went to a restaurant and ordered some sandwich and tea. We
talked a lot, and I was happy to know that he worked in a reputed
company. He shared with me details of his work, family, and his
new house.
While sipping the hot tea, we shared our college memories.
Is there a fitness coach in you?
Both of us enjoyed the drizzle.
I was working in a bank and led a comfortable life. I had
been married then, and had a kid too. I told him that I was going
to quit my bank job. It startled him. Considering that I was
working in a bank and led a comfortable life; was married, and
also had a kid, he was naturally surprised.
He asked, “Are you crazy? You want to quit a bank job?”
“Do you remember that I wanted to become a writer?” I
replied.
"My job pays my bill and
gives me perks, but does it
full my dream?"
He nodded.
“I will become one, soon,” I said.
But, he couldn't accept that I was leaving my day job. He
was unhappy with my decision.
“I like to write, so why can't I become a writer?” I said.
He advised that I should not leave my secure income and
comfortable lifestyle. He suggested, “You should rst save
money and buy a house.”
“My job pays my bill and gives me perks, but does it full
my dream?”
There was silence. Our conversation paused. His face
showed no reaction. He started to listen.
The rain was pouring outside.
“If I'm not going to be a writer, I will become something
that I am not,” I began. “I like my bank job. I make enough
money. I get several perks. I live a good life. But, this is not all I
want. I want something more”.
“Fullment,” I added, after a pause.
Finally, Amar broke his silence. He did not ask me why any
more. He became curious and started to grill me. He wanted to
know how I took this risky decision. No one leaves a secure
bank job and risks his career. My job recognised my talents and
gave me a life.
He interrogated “How did you nd the courage to do it?”
“Do you know the consequences of this risk?” “Isn't it scary?”
I smiled at Amar and said, “If not now, then when. Yes, I
have fears. And, that's what pushes me to reach my goal. At
OCTOBER 2018 | 16
 Is there a fitness coach in you?

some point, I have to face my fears. I choose to do it now.”
Amar's face glowed. He looked at me with determination.
“It's my insatiable desire to express myself,” I added.
His smile proved that he was listening.
He was surprised at my positive thoughts. He asked
whether anyone criticised me for my decision.
“People criticise and I listen to them. I take their
suggestions and bits of advice.
“Forget others. My own reasons stopped me from
becoming who I wanted to be. I procrastinated and that became
my roadblock. I feared to fail even before I started. It was a
disaster.
“I found a hundred reasons not to write. I created a
comforting circle and was happy to live an average life. I spent
my leisure hours watching movies and hanging out with friends.
But, I did not work towards my goal.
“Unless I have an internal urge to reach my goal, nothing
will work.
“If I want to do something, I must start now.
“So, I let my goals drive me.
“Reason has always tried to stop my will. And, if I stop, I
will stop forever. I think beyond reasons. I know I am taking a
tough path and I'll have a beautiful life.”
We conversed for thirty minutes. The rain stopped. It
became dark and we wanted to leave.
I was happy to meet him. Before leaving, I asked him “Is
there a tness coach inside you?”
He smiled at me and said, “Yes. I will become one, soon.”
–—
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Vinayak Jawalkar is an independent writer from Chennai,
India. He helps start-ups boost their online brand presence
by writing compelling blogs, SEO-focused articles, and
engaging website content. He is adept at converting
complex information into easily readable content. When he
is not writing, you can nd him relaxing on a beach, or doing
y o g a a t h o m e . Yo u c a n c o n t a c t h i m a t
vinayak0521@gmail.com, and follow him on Facebook at
fb.me/vinayakjawalkars, and Instagram at
vinayakjawalkars. To know more about Vinayak, visit
pennbeyond.com.

Second Issue - Reading Period

October to December 2018

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17 | OCTOBER 2018
 D isillusioned
Seth Ji was a humble and polite man. His immense material
wealth did not dene him as much as his generosity did.
The dome of the temple embraced the warmth of the rising
sun in the cold month of December. Myriad colours of life
welcomed the sunshine with birds chirping, bells ringing, and
worshippers treading their way to the temple. The shops stacked
in a line outside the temple resembled the compartments of a
train, and added to its spiritual vibrancy. The shopkeepers
dusted their tables and cupboards as they displayed the incense
stands, fragrant incense, small boxes of vermilion, bangles, red
veils, coconuts, and other items offered to the goddess. The
priest, clad in a white dhoti and a brown shawl wrapped over his
shoulders, circled the camphor around the idol of the goddess, as
he chanted mantras.
Seth Ji, a pious man known for his social service and
generosity, visited the temple daily along with his wife, Sarla
Devi, to offer morning prayers. They would stand with folded
hands, hypnotized by the holy chants escaping the lips of the
priest. After reciting the mantras, the priest would distribute
prasad to the devotees.
Today, as always, Seth Ji came with his wife to the temple,
as was his routine. He had brought some things for the temple.
“We have brought some water-vessels and mats for the
temple, Pundit Ji,” said Seth Ji to the priest.
“Oh! Seth Ji, you are so generous in your offerings to the
temple. God bless you and your family,” replied the priest,
offering prasad to him.
Seth Ji was a humble and polite man. His immense material
wealth did not dene him as much as his generosity did. The
yearning for social service ran in his genes; even his daughter,
Diya, who was now married and stayed in another city, had
By
Megha Katoria
devoted her life for the upliftment of destitute girls and women.
Whenever she came to meet her parents, she never failed to visit
Anmol Ghar, the orphanage that her father had started for poor
orphan girls. Seth Ji and Sarla Devi visited Anmol Ghar every
day after their visit to the temple. They would enquire about the
well being of the girls from the staff appointed to look after their
needs.
“How is Shama now?” enquired Seth Ji.
“Last night she had high fever. I have given her medicine.
She is recovering now, Seth Ji,” replied Dulari, the nurse.
“Take good care of her,” said Seth Ji to Dulari, as they
moved into the inrmary.
Sarla Devi sat close to Shama on the bed, lightly stroking
her head. Unknowingly, Sarla's hand brushed against Shama's
chest as she turned back to ll a glass of water for Shama. Shama
squirmed in pain.
“What happened, dear Shama?” questioned Sarla, as tears
rolled down Shama's cheeks.
“It's the fever, Sarla Ji, and her deteriorating health that
make her inrm. We are attending to her health properly. She
refused to take food, but we are constantly giving her something
healthy to eat every few hours,” said Dulari.
“Is there any other problem?” asked Seth Ji from Shanta,
the counsellor.
“No, Sir, it is the fever that makes her such,” said Shanta.
“Let me know if there is any other problem or anything you
cannot handle. Speak to her once again,” instructed Seth Ji.
“Sure Sir, I will speak to her again and inform you,” replied
OCTOBER 2018 | 18

Shanta.
Shama held Sarla's hand all the while Sarla sat near her. The
girls had more afnity towards Sarla than towards Seth Ji.
Maybe, it was maternal affection that drew them closer to her.
Every morning, when Seth Ji and Sarla came, all the girls
gathered around Sarla, greeting her as she showered her
maternal love on them. Out of the twenty-ve girls who lived in
Anmol Ghar, seventeen-year-old Shama was the oldest.
“Take care, my dear Shama. You will soon get well. God
bless you,” said Sarla, as she got up to leave.
“Give her proper medication and food. Tell Seth Ji if you
need to call the doctor,” said Sarla to Dulari.
“Yes, Sarla Ji, I will take proper care of her, and will let Seth
Ji know if any help is needed,” assured Dulari.
Seth Ji and Sarla Devi bid them adieu for the day, as all the
girls resumed their classes and other duties.
–—
Ten-year-old Chamki had become a part of Anmol Ghar
two days ago. Her parents had met with a fatal accident at the
construction site at which they worked. She hopped from one
place to the other ignoring the words of the caretaker, Leela.
“Do not go around skipping and jumping everywhere. You
have to follow rules here. When you are told to be in the hall, be
there. If you are instructed to be in the park, go there. When you
are told to sleep, sleep,” commanded Leela, in a stern voice.
Chamki sulked, sitting in the corner of the room.
“You see Chamki, it takes time to adjust to a new place. It
has been two years now that I have been here. When I came here,
I was ten years old; today I turned twelve,” said Saira,
comforting Chamki.
“Saira didi, I do not like Leela aunty. She is very bad,” said
Chamki, angrily.
“Lower your voice and keep quiet. You cannot react like
this over here. You will be punished for not obeying. Did you not
see Shama didi?”
“I know, she has fever and is unwell,” replied Chamki,
condently.
“Keep your voice low, Chamki. You will get me punished
too. I will tell you something, but don't tell anyone. Shama didi
has been punished for disobeying, and it has been three days that
she has not been given any food to eat,” said Saira, in a hushed
voice.
“Why Saira didi?” questioned Chamki.
“She refused to eat the special food that they give to some
girls at night. Anybody who speaks too much and disobeys is
punished,” cautioned Saira.
At night, all the girls came to take their dinner plates. They
were given dinner at 8 o'clock every day, and instructed to sleep
by 9 o'clock.
Chamki stood in line with Saira, waiting for her dinner
19 | OCTOBER 2018
Disillusioned
plate.
“Wow! Chamki didi. Your white kurta with blue owers
looks so lovely,” complimented Chamki.
“Thank you, dear Chamki. Today is my birthday so Sarla
aunty gave it to me as a gift,” said Saira smiling.
Chamki noticed the special plate of richly laid food and
salad lying on the table separately.
“Saira didi…Who will get this magical plate of food
today?” asked Chamki.
“I don't know Chamki. I do not even want it. I wish you too
should never get it. Though, it looks delicious, whoever eats this
food feels sleepy and becomes unwell…There is some kind of
magic in it I think….Black magic…,” whispered Saira.
All the girls carried their dinner plates to the hall. Chamki,
too, held the plate with her little hands, and waited for Saira to
bring hers.
“Saira…Here you are. Happy birthday, Saira. You have
turned twelve today and you shall have this delicious special
food as your birthday gift,” said the cook, Rati Lal, stroking
Saira's hair.
“Rati uncle, I do not want to eat this,” said Saira, curling her
lip.
Rati Lal stared at Saira with burning anger. The erce look
in his eyes was enough to induce Saira to take the plate offered to
her. She was made to sit separately, right under his nose as was
the custom to be followed by the girl who got special food for
dinner.
The cook instructed Chamki to go and join the other girls
with her food. Saira reluctantly ate the food, taking a sip of water
to gulp down every single bite she took. Chamki was the last to
nish her dinner, and when she came into the kitchen to wash
her plate, she saw that the magic had begun to work and Saira's
eyes were half closed, with her eyelids refusing to open even if
she tried. The cook shouted at Chamki to go to the hall and sleep.
Leela, the caretaker came in to take Saira with her to
another room.
“Will Saira didi not sleep with me today?” questioned
Chamki.
“You little edgling, mind your own work! How many
times have I told you to just follow instructions without
questioning? Saira is not feeling well so Dulari ji will take care
of her. You go and sleep or I shall seal your lips someday,”
shouted Leela, angrily.
Chamki went in with the other girls to sleep. She tossed and
turned on her mattress as varied thoughts wove a mesh in her
mind, and she mumbled to herself, “What happened to Saira
didi? Did the special magic plate of food really make her
unwell? Will she sleep with me tomorrow?” Missing Saira, she
fell asleep.
The next morning, in the early hours when all the girls were
fast asleep, Chamki could hear gurgling sounds from her
Disillusioned
stomach and she felt an urgency to relieve. She silently slid out
of the dormitory to go to the toilet adjacent to it. Before she got
in, she saw Saira coming through the corridor. Saira staggered as
she walked with nothing to drape her except the white kurta with
blue owers, which now also had red owers with thorns etched
onto it. Seeing Saira, Chamki forgot all about her urgency and
went to hug her, but Saira walked on, or rather, dragged herself
oblivious to everything around her. She locked herself in the
toilet and stumbled onto the oor… Chamki could hear the
sound of water owing, and knocking on the door, she
whispered, “Saira didi, open the door. What happened didi?
Saira didi…”
There was no sound to be heard, no sound at all for a minute
except the sound of the running tap water and then suddenly
shrieks…..deafening shrieks could be heard that made
everybody shiver.
There was no sound to be heard,
no sound at all for a minute except
the sound of the running tap water
and then suddenly shrieks…..
Leela called the security guard who pushed open the door,
which Saira had locked from inside and was refusing to open.
Chamki was slapped by Leela for coming out of the dormitory,
and all girls including Chamki were instructed to sleep. Saira
was taken to the inrmary to share the bed with Shama. She was
given medicine that put her to sleep. Later that morning, Chamki
secretly peeped into the inrmary, twice. Saira did not scream
now; she did not come out of the room, but just slept. The nurse
told them that she needed rest to get well again. Chamki was
relieved that Saira didi was getting some rest and she would get
well soon. Throughout the day Saira's image of walking in the
corridor in the imsy stained kurta replayed in Chamki's mind
incessantly.
–—
Sarla's health was not good, and that day Seth Ji and Sarla
Devi did not visit Anmol Ghar in the morning. It was in the
afternoon that Seth Ji came along with his daughter, Diya who
had come to visit her ailing mother. The girls had told Chamki
that Diya didi was very loving and kind.
Chamki introduced herself by saying, “Hello Diya didi. I
am Chamki and I have come here recently.”
Diya lovingly hugged her and said, “You are at the right
place, little bird. If you have any problem you can tell me or Seth
Ji.”
Seth Ji too gave a peck on the little girl's cheek, and moved
in to talk to the staff and enquire about the daily workings of
Anmol Ghar.
The girls talked to Diya about their classes or other general
things, but never uttered a word about the hardships they faced
or the special magical food which made them unwell.
Chamki recalled the words of Saira that speaking too much
or disobeying called for punishment, but it was some
inexplicable feeling in Chamki that did not allow her to keep
quiet, and she hugged Diya, whispering something into her ear.
Whatever the little bird said caused a rattling in Diya's
mind. Diya inspected the premises of the orphanage and met the
two ailing girls, Shama and Saira.
“What happened to these two girls?” questioned Diya.
“Just general illness, Ma'am. These girls keep frolicking
around without woollens, even in this cold weather. I have given
them medicines and they will soon be well. It is the medicine
that makes them drowsy, but it's good that at least they are taking
rest,” replied Dulari, promptly.
Diya smelt something shy, though she did not let others
get a hint of what was going on in her mind. She thought that she
would look into the matter herself rst, without causing anxiety
to her old parents, as her mother, Sarla Devi, was unwell, and the
naïve father was already immersed in tending to his wife and the
hefty business.
After bidding the girls farewell, Seth Ji went for a business
meeting while Diya walked towards home.
“I will not let this edice of humanity built with love by my
parents crumble down. I will not let anybody ruin the lives of
these innocent souls,” she mumbled to her herself, as she
walked.
She reached home and enquired about her mother's health.
She gave medicine to her mother, and put her to sleep.
Thereafter, she secretly left for the orphanage. On the way, she
called up her husband, DSP Rathore. She shared her suspicion
with him and together they planned everything. They knew that
things needed to be done in complete secrecy without anybody
getting even a whiff of it, and they had to be quick about it as
innocent lives were at stake.
She was told by her husband that he would be there in
around three hours. On the way to the orphanage, Diya bought
some eatables.
Diya reached the orphanage and said, “Leela Ji, I may be
leaving tomorrow, so I got sweets and chocolates for these little
girls. I have got some fresh vegetables too. Tell Rati Lal Ji to
cook them for the children for today's dinner.”
Leela took away the eatables to be kept in the kitchen, while
Diya closed the door of the hall and talked to the girls, trying to
elicit the truth. She wished it was just mad suspicion and
everything was just right.
The girls did not speak.
What did their silence convey? Either things were really
bad or everything was just ne. Diya's mind was lled with
vacillating thoughts.
She bid the girls and the staff goodbye, but as soon as she
left the premises of the orphanage, she walked around its
OCTOBER 2018 | 20

boundary, and crept in through the back, where the fence was a
little broken. She took steady and quick steps to a storeroom,
which was built at a little distance from the main orphanage
building. The storeroom had a small window through which she
could see the workings in the Anmol Ghar.
–—
It was dinner time and the girls carried their plates from the
kitchen to the hall. Diya could see that there was one girl who sat
separately in the kitchen to have food, though she could not see
her face clearly. As all the other girls retired to sleep, this girl
was dragged to a separate room which was adjacent to the
kitchen and was clearly visible to Diya. She sent a text message
to her husband to be quick, as things really seemed to be
dubious.
DSP Rathore, along with his two assistants, secretly
entered the orphanage premises through the broken fence.
All the four were now in the storeroom, and kept an eagle-
eyed watch on the going on in the orphanage. All the lights were
put out, except a small ickering light, like that of a lamp, that
partially lit the room adjacent to the kitchen.
21 | OCTOBER 2018
Disillusioned
“I will not let this temple be tainted by the work of some
dirty hands,” whispered Diya to her husband.
“Don't worry; soon we will catch hold of the culprits.”
“I should call my father,” murmured Diya.
“We need to nd out what's going on here, before we tell
your parents. We cannot give them stress in this old age. We
shall let them know after we nab the bad eggs. God is with us,”
said Diya's husband.
Then suddenly the curtains of the room in which the girl lay
were drawn. They could see the shadow of a man unfastening
his shirt.
“We can no longer wait over here. We need to go in,” said
Diya, showing urgency.
They got out of the storeroom, caught hold of the security
guard, and told him to keep shut. On seeing three policemen
surrounding him, he nodded, and sat down.
In two shakes of a lamb's tail, they were in the orphanage.
No sound could be heard except the ticking of a clock. The room
was bolted from inside by a metallic fob chain, and through the
Disillusioned

little chink, they could barely see the back of the man who had
undressed himself and was taking off the clothes from the girl's
body as he kissed her.
Diya could no longer hold her repulsion as the girl lay
unaware on the bed in a semi-conscious state. Together they
pushed open the door.
DSP Rathore nabbed the monster; Diya slapped him as the
assistant switched on the lights. And then…….there he was….
“P…………P…..Pa….. Pa……. Paaaapa……,” cried
Diya, as she grew pale and her body shivered.
Her husband's eyes seemed as if he had never blinked in his
life, as his grip loosened. He too let out an almost inaudible
sound, “It's you……. Pa………Pa…….”
Words refused to come out of Diya's mouth. Stammering
and stuttering she said, “Succcchhh a beassttt…
cannn…nev….neverrr be some….someone's….fa…
faaaa….ther…Hanggg….him…Takeeee him away……”
There was complete pandemonium in the orphanage as
DSP Rathore and his assistants arrested the devil in disguise,
along with the staff members who were his accomplices. As
they dragged them out of the orphanage, one girl spat on Seth
Ji's face, and the others mouthed obscenities.
Diya looked on, silently.
“I will not let this temple be tainted by the work of some
dirty hands...”
–—
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Megha Katoria is pursuing her doctorate in English
Literature from H.P. University, India. Formerly, she
worked as an Assistant Professor and as an Assistant Editor.
She enjoys writing, painting, sketching, and all activities
that involve creativity. An avid reader and writer, she has
contributed to journals, magazines, and newspapers like
The Criterion, Galaxy, Dialogue, Ruminations, Research
Chronicler, Gen-Next Times, etc. Her research-led article
'Ismat Chughtai: An Interrogating Dangerous Voice' also
appeared in Dangerous Women Project of the Institute for
Advanced Studies in the Humanities (IASH), University of
Edinburgh.

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OCTOBER 2018 | 22
 G od's Inn
He skilfully jumped to avoid the numerous red spit,
which looked like patches of blood scattered all around
on the holy street, and dodged the seemingly
dried but still half-wet cow dung
The dusty street was fanned by a mesmerizing breeze,
which dashed the dancing dew drops into small pieces that
splashed at Anatman's wide open eyes. The splendid sight of the
morning landscape seemed to blur for a moment, but soon,
young Anatman resumed capturing the delightful charms of the
smoggy dawn.
He started very early from his hut to meet his Goddess, who
stayed far away from this pious village, caged in a little dark
room that was abandoned by the Sun god. Though Her residence
was full of eerie silence and gloom, it was the most trusted place
for any devoted heart to nd comfort and even calm ecstasy.
Everyone in the village often found the temple an apt place to
unburden themselves of their innumerable unsolved, probably
never-could-be-solved crises.
Young minds spend hardly ten minutes at prayer, for the ten
thousand-things they want to beg from the Almighty. Anatman's
was also one such craving heart, and it could not be easily
satiated, not even with any astonishing boon. He, having risen
unusually early in the morning, was attentive to not dirtying his
feet.
He skilfully jumped to avoid the numerous red spit, which
looked like patches of blood scattered all around on the holy
street, and dodged the seemingly dried but still half-wet cow
dung.
An auto rickshaw driver—who usually would drive at a
speed of 50 km an hour — had, on this very day, slowed down
his speed to 30, for he was, to Anatman's good luck, not under
23 | OCTOBER 2018
By
Jayamurali
the reign of liquor. The man somehow managed to stop the auto
after a threatening jolt, just a few inches away from Anatman's
forehead.
It is not uncommon to nd auto drivers in Tamil Nadu, who
consider themselves no less than superstars. They paste pictures
of their favourite heroes on the transparent windscreens of their
three wheelers, often blocking their vision, considerably; it
leads, naturally, to many accidents, even fatal ones. They
worship their heroes as gods, which is good in a way because
they believe in keeping their gods and their abodes tidy—this
belief makes them clean their autos, regularly.
Obviously, the man abused Anatman. Unwilling to bow to
the garland of lthy words, Anatman shut his ears tightly, as if
he had come across an exploding Diwali bomb. He was
determined to not let the unholy, non-parliamentary words
intrude his ears, for that would have spoilt his spiritual mood for
his Devi. The rain of abuses pouring down came to an end when
the auto driver became absolutely exhausted. Anatman had
already anticipated such words from this gentleman with great
wrath, and when these ceased, he rushed from the place, his
gure vanishing from the eye-balls of the drained throated man.
It was then that he came across the mysterious smog—a
ring of smoke coming out of a petty shop, polluting the
otherwise enchanting breeze. It entered the healthy nostrils of
Anatman and made its way into his windpipe, making him
cough. Suddenly, he collided with OCTOBER 2018
a man, who was| smoking,
01 and
barked, “Don't you have any manners? Can't you see a man
God's Inn
passing you by, ah?” The man was mute for some time and
seemed to be seriously examining Anatman's countenance.
“You fool! I'm speaking to you only. Are you deaf, you
rascal?” abused Anatman.
The man simply smiled while confessing, “Yes, you speak
truly. I'm deaf.” Anatman intended no further argument as he
realised what a waste of time and energy it would be, and at once
hurried to the temple.
When he almost reached his destination, he nosed the
fragrance of roses and, instantly thought of the offerings for the
Goddess.
We are often shopping at the spectacularly furnished super-
markets, where owers are kept imprisoned in distinct glassy
covers, and are used to abiding by the price tags of such
convicts, without any dispute; but we somehow feel that there is
always a chance for bargaining at an open-to-sky ower shop.
Anatman approached a ower girl and enquired, “How much
does a bunch of roses cost?” Before she uttered a letter, Anatman
decidedly said, “It'll be given for ten rupees.”
He handed her the only ten rupee note he had, saying, “Ok,
take this, and pack it up in a long leaf. Hmmm….hurry.”
Anatman whirled around and headed for the entrance of the
shrine, while the ower girl was convulsively chasing behind
him shouting, “Brother, please, could you give ve rupees
more? Please consider my plight; I myself bought it for ten.
What prot could I get out of it if I sell it to you for the same? Do
consider, please.” The poor girl would call everyone 'brother',
irrespective of their age and relationship. Anatman replied with
a ridiculing smile, “I can't help it, Sister.”
Neglecting the mourning of the ower girl, Anatman
entered the temple, bidding a morning wish to the gate keeper, as
was his usual practice during his unusual visits to the temple.
“Good morning, Anatman Ji,” greeted the gate keeper, who
seemed enthused by Anatman's arrival. The gate keeper longed
to wish everyone who came in, so that they could wish him in
return, and considered their greetings to be a sign of concern for
him. He would respectfully add the sufx 'Ji' to everyone's
name.
In his ight, Anatman collided with the overworked right
shoulder of an old lady who seemed to be a regular visitor to the
temple. Instead of abusing Anatman, she compassionately
embraced him, saying, “Oh! Lord! Save this child.” She further
enquired graciously, “Has anything happened to you my child?”
Anatman could trace the divine spark in her eyes, and
became speechless. He slowly recovered his composure and
confessed, “Extremely sorry, dear old lady, I did not deliberately
dash into you,” to which she replied with a witty smile, “No one
does anything deliberately in the world. Moreover, I'm too old
for you to do anything deliberately with me. Tolerance is
everything, child.”
OCTOBER 2018 | 24

"No one does anything
deliberately in the world.
Moreover, I’m too
old for you to do anything
deliberately with me. Tolerance is
everything, child."
The lady walked on, and was soon out of sight. Anatman,
still contemplating her words, exhaustedly approached the
queue and realised that it would take a long time to enjoy the
dharshan of the Goddess. He, with a sigh, joined the serpent-
like queue. Everyone was pasted rmly with each other, and the
queue made a good motion by a mere push from behind.
Anatman was standing last but one. When he, at last, made
it close to the main shrine of the Devi, he felt a ray of hope that he
would see Her holy face. Suddenly, the gate that guarded his
Goddess' idol was shut half way. That was a sign of closure.
Anatman started pushing the enormous man before him,
shouting, “Hurry-up! Man, don't you have any desire to see
Her? If you don't, then let me go before you.”
The man snorted at his statement, and Anatman pushed him
again. Annoyed at Anatman, the man said, “How dare you push
me from behind? If you have the guts, touch me now while I'm
facing you, coward. Come on, do it if you dare, you idiot!”
Temples can sometimes become battleelds, and this is not
surprising , diverse people assemble there with their diverse
demands, hoping God would full them. They wish to
communicate with God in peace, in a relaxed state of mind. Any
interruption or disturbance in this ritual or process makes them
lose their composure.
Anatman at once calmed down, just like a submissive
puppy does on encountering a gigantic, powerful, and majestic
creature. Before the issue could settle down, the door to the
sanctum sanctorum was completely shut. The huge man left the
spot disappointedly, but Anatman, equally disappointed, stayed
on for a few more minutes, and exclaimed sadly, “I don't deserve
to get Her blessing today.” He had moved only ten yards when
he noticed the man he had fought with standing there to catch up
with him for a sensational second round — as a boxer seeking
his second chance to knock out the opponent.
25 | OCTOBER 2018
God's Inn
Anatman looked back innocently, like a baby who asks her
mother to beat or punish the ground after a bad fall. He almost
sobbed and surrendered, “Sir, you seem to be angry with me
without cause. I deeply apologize for my misbehaviour.”
Aware of the man's gigantic physique, Anatman stood at a
safe distance from him. The man responded magnanimously,
“Hey, you, I set you free because I am standing in this holy
place. Run and save yourself.”
“That is very polite of you, Sir,” Anatman managed to
stammer. Taking advantage of this partial relief, his legs
randomly turned towards whatever path they could take. The
frightened and disturbed Anatman retraced his steps from the
temple back home. He did not pay attention to the gate keeper
who, with great concern, asked, “Anatman Ji, had your
darshan?”
Anatman passed the ower girl on his way out, who stated
with dismay, “Why, Brother, you have not even opened the knot
of my bundle of roses?” He remained silent and accidentally
stamped on cow-dung. Ignoring the smell, and feeling no
disgust, he kept walking towards home in deep thought.
The same auto-rickshaw driver, who had earlier showered
him with the lthiest of abuses was waiting near the stand, and
approached him politely saying, “Sorry, boy. I have abused you
a lot.” As the driver was under the inuence of alcohol, he spoke
the truth, right from his heart.
Anatman simply smiled back at him and turned his gaze
towards the smoker who he had run into earlier, in anticipation.
The smoker walked up, almost next to Anatman's shadow and
whispered in its ear, “I'm not deaf, but blind.”
Anatman felt enlightened! All the anger, aggression and
unpleasantness he had encountered on his way to seek the
Goddess' darshan, had transformed into surprisingly pleasant
encounters on his way back. A sense of shame overcame him all
of a sudden. He hugged the blind man and wailed, “I'm
extremely sorry, my brother. I admit my ignorance. I'm defeated
in my desperate endeavours in search of ….”[Sobbing]
–—
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jayamurali is currently serving as an Assistant Professor of
English at Sri Sankara Arts and Science College, Kanchipuram.
You can reach him at jayamuralidhar86@gmail.com.
 S ilver Town
The weather was crisp and wintry around me,
but Chris had reported that it was fall in Silver Town.
50A, Dodge City
London
United Kingdom.
19 January, 1995.
Dear Dave,
It has been a while since I heard from you. How have you
been? I was thrilled to see your request to visit Silver Town. I'm
writing to you with some good news – I have been sorting out my
old room for you to stay for about two weeks.
I would be glad to introduce you to 'Silver Town' as soon
as you pay a visit. It's fall here, so I hope you will enjoy the trip.
Here's my address:
170c, Silver Town,
Bradford.
Lots of love,
Chris
I stuffed my wardrobe in an old briefcase, which lay
under my closet for several weeks. Finally, it was time for me to
go on a journey to a place I had always found intriguing. I had
visited many locations all across the country, and I proudly
called myself a born traveller. Not long back, I had visited the
south of Norfolk and several other places along the city. The old
By
Iffath Khanam
and very ancient monuments had caught my fancy. Easily
dazzled by classic architecture, more than any other style in the
world, the trip to Chris' place was something I was eagerly
looking forward to.
My train to Silver Town was leaving at 6.45 p.m. I had
booked a rst-class ticket, because I preferred solitude.
The weather was crisp and wintry around me, but Chris
had reported that it was fall in Silver Town.
The train stopped at the station at 9.30 p.m. I got off as
quickly as possible as it was already very late.
I noticed an old man at the end of the platform, seated
comfortably before his ofce, half asleep. I assumed he was the
station master. I walked towards him, putting my jacket over my
broad shoulders. My footsteps seemed louder than usual. The
station looked deserted and there were hardly ve to seven
people waiting for their trains to arrive. The station master
peeked at me through his spectacles and asked what I was
seeking. I showed him the address that Chris had given me.
“You will nd this if you go by Winchester Block and
cross the woods,” he said, warily.
“The woods?” I asked, with an eager face.
“Yes, the woods. But it is not as deep as you think. You
can cross if you have a torch with you. Or you will have to wait
until morning if you are frightened,” he smirked.
“No, I don't have any hesitation in crossing the woods.
But I'm a stranger to this place, and in fact, I don't have a torch
with me,” I replied.
“So, are you a tourist, then?” he asked, eagerly. I nodded.
OCTOBER 2018 | 26

He stood up and walked into his ofce.
He offered me a torch, and wished me a safe journey
ahead. I thanked the old man and departed from the station.
“I have to cross Winchester block before it gets too
murky,” I told myself.
–—
There were strange sounds coming from all over the
place. The station appeared to be like an abandoned place from
the outside. The bricks were too old to even stay in place for a
few more years. The façade of the building badly wanted a coat
of paint. It was quite old—ancient, in fact.
I found a phone booth outside the station and thought of
calling Chris to get directions to his place, but his phone was
switched off.
The trees on either side of the road were evidently
spooky. I observed that there were barely any leaves on the trees.
I walked for a while along the road, dragging my briefcase with
me. Silence was my only companion.
I had to walk two miles before I noticed a wooden sign,
which said, 'Winchester Block'. Finally, I was close to my
destination I thought, relieved.
The landscape at that time of the evening was
27 | OCTOBER 2018
Silver Town
fascinating.
There were orange leaves on the sidewalk, indicating it
was autumn. The street lights were dim, but enough to light up
their yellow reection on the silvery road. The pavement before
me was bright enough for me to walk on.
I saw a very strange cat pass me by, and I noticed it only
had one eye. A long scar ran down its right eye. Its ears were
upright, and its paws shone. There was something sinister about
it.
Was it just a stray? I wondered.
A few steps further ahead was a supremely built cottage.
The plaque on the door said 'The Martins', which meant there
surely was a family living inside. The house looked unusually
striking, and it was the only one in which the lights were
glowing.
I knocked on the door slightly, and it opened. There sat a
middle-aged man with a perfectly curved moustache, blowing
his pipe, with a book in his hand. I guessed he was going to bed
after reading, because he appeared to be in his pyjamas and
sleeping cloak.
“Who are you, young man?” he spoke in his coarse
voice.
Silver Town
“Hello, Sir. Could you please tell me where Silver Town
is?” I asked him, curiously.
“Uh oh! You need to pass through the woods, to get to
that place,” he chuckled.
“I can do it, Sir. I do have a torch with me,” I replied.
“But you can denitely not hit a wild bear with a torch, I
suppose?” he asked .
“Wild bears? But the station master told me that the
woods aren't deep,” I said, confused .
“Of course, they are not that deep. But you get to have a
cup of fresh honey with Mr Bear, occasionally, during the
nights. It might ditch you while you nish that cup of yours. I
mean, it might kill you. Think of it,” he said, dropping his hands
. The lake in the backyard was appealing and admirable,
“But I'm sure the station master was not lying about what
he told me. How do you know so much about everything in the
woods?” I snapped.
“I'm a forest inspector. I hold a licensed rie and I
suppose I know a lot more than the station master does,” he
replied, blowing on his pipe.
“Oh! My apologies, Sir! I do not know where to go at this
hour. I've been calling a friend of mine for a very long time, and
he doesn't seem to answer any of my calls. I'm a tourist and I am
apparently very unskilled to be at a place such as this,” I said in
disappointment.
“Well, then. You can surely stay at my place, if you are
willing to. I'm afraid you have to stay here because wild beasts
sometimes are caught outside the woods, as well. We
undeniably have a room for one more in the house. You can
come in without trashing any time,” he said, with a pleasing
smile on his lips.
The man seemed kind and pure hearted. I had to accept
the offer to stay– it seemed the safer option. I entered the house
and sat patiently on the couch. He called for someone and asked
the person to make a mug of hot chocolate.
I saw a girl climbing down the stairs, seemingly about
eighteen years old who had skin that bloomed like the cherry
blossoms. She was very fair, with a tint of healthy pink colour
ushing her cheeks. Her dark hair with a wavy texture framed
her face.
“Meet Mavis. She's my daughter. I have a son named
Charlie. He's probably asleep in his room right now,” the old
man said, delightfully.
“I'm Dave Jones. I'm just a lost traveller,” I said, locking
my arms together.
The girl glanced at me shyly and grabbed a few
marshmallows from the mason jar above the replace. I sipped
my hot chocolate, while my bed got ready.
The room was a fancy one with a medium-sized bed for
me to comfortably doze for the night.
–—
The next morning, I woke up very early. It was a calm
morning, and I quickly nourished my growling tummy with the
breakfast set on the table next to my bed.
–—
Mr Martin was going through the morning newspaper in
the living room. Mavis was engaged in making postcards.
Charlie had been playing with a ball of yarn with their gorgeous,
golden coloured cat named Felix. Mr. Martin noticed me
standing with my briefcase and stood up, stepping towards me.
“We're going shing after lunch. Why don't you depart
after dinner tonight? Don't you want me to show you the lake in
the backyard?” he requested.
“Oh sure, Mr. Martin. I would love to,” I replied, with a
smile.
–—
and I shared my excitement with his little family. The boy,
Charlie, was a companion full of fun and charm. I felt attracted
to Mavis, even though I had known her for just a day, but I never
thought of expressing my feelings to her family. At the end of the
day, I felt contented. I packed my briefcase myself, and soon, I
was ready to leave the cottage.
–—
That was when it all began. I heard Mavis scream from
the living room. Mr. Martin's voice was ear-piercing.
That was when it all began.
I heard Mavis scream from the
living room. Mr. Martin's voice
was ear-piercing.
“Over my dead body, Mavis! You cannot marry that man.
I dislike him,” he said .
“But father, I'm pregnant.” Mavis's voice sounded weak.
I was appalled. I had no clue of what was going on.
I heard something like a gunshot. Awfully shaken, I felt
as if the room around me was falling apart.
The roof darkened and the walls started cracking. I was
witnessing an eerie phenomenon. The bed was beginning to
mess itself. There were spider webs forming in all the corners of
the walls. All I wanted to do was to escape from that room.
I walked downstairs.
There were human bones in the living room! I guessed
they belonged to Mavis, because there was her dusty, shattered
apron lying under it.
I found Mr Martin's rie lying opposite Mavis' skull. It
was covered by ravenous termites. There were dirty and torn
postcards lying above the replace.
Desperate and speechless, I ran out of the cottage. The
sight that met my eyes was horrendous.Bats and crows were
ying all over the place, against the dark and haunting sky. I
OCTOBER 2018 | 28

couldn't spot a single other house next to the cottage. The road
was greasy and muddy.
Silver TownI heard a loud cry from the backyard of
the house. It sounded like Charlie. I was terried, but I couldn't
ignore the pitiful cries, and I found myself hurrying towards the
backyard.
The lake was not exactly the beautiful lake I had seen
earlier. It looked ugly. The boat on the bank was ripped in the
centre. There stood a weeping Charlie, looking at my shocked
self.
“I saw my father killing my sister in front of my eyes. My
father killed himself too,” he said, bursting into tears.
“But Charlie what is all this? What is going on with this
place? I need answers!” I scoffed at him.
“What do you think you are doing here?” he asked with a
plain expression on his face.
My phone immediately rang. I took it in my hands
quickly to see who was calling. To my surprise, it was Chris.
“Hello?” .
“Hello, Chris? I've been calling you for a very long time.
Where are you? I need you to pick me up right now from
Winchester Block. Please come soon. This place is strange and
I'm very frightened,” I said, rapidly.
“Winchester Block? Oh my goodness!” he spoke,
roughly.
“What is it?” I asked in fear.
“I've heard stories about the family. A man shot his
daughter and committed suicide immediately after her death. I
suppose it was honour killing because the daughter had an affair
with a poor man she loved. The man had a son too. The young
boy is said to have been so traumatised by what he witnessed
that he killed himself a day later, just like his father. It happened
ve years ago,” he narrated.
I was dumbstruck. I did not know how to react to what he
had said. Charlie had disappeared already.
29 | OCTOBER 2018
Silver Town
“I think the family had a cat named Felix. It was the only
soul alive in the incident that had happened,” he exposed.
I felt something nudging my feet, compelling me to pull
away my legs in fear. It was the one-eyed cat I had seen before
entering the cottage; probably Felix.
I realised that I had forgotten my bag inside the cottage in
all the rush and commotion. Abandoning it, I ran to the train
station and sat there, trying to regain my composure. The station
master kept me company while I waited for Chris, who came an
hour later.
–—
The experience made me fall sick, and I took a week to
recover.
That was surely the most dreadful and haunting incident
of my life. I had never told anyone about it except Chris.
It was then that I decided that I wouldn't go to any
stranger's house, even if I were invited.
I have never travelled, or even stayed alone ever since
my visit to Silver Town!
–—
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Iffath Khanam has an undergraduate degree in Arabic and Islamic
Studies. She is currently doing her Bachelor's degree in English
Literature at Anna Adarsh College For Women, Chennai. Her
novel "The Forgotten Past" is available on Amazon Kindle Store.
Her other interests include learning new languages, sketching, and
travelling. She aspires to become an English professor, an Accu
Pressure therapist, a novelist, and a preacher in religion. You can
write to her at welcome2zeenath54@gmail.com.
CALL FOR
Send in your artwork to:
submit@penmanshippersonified.com
 N omad
His eyes could only make out big mountains across
the border. Sunrise in this border village, was more
beautiful than anywhere else he had been.
Mayank remembered the sofa, which used to be placed in
his room, and the brown window curtains, which were long and
touched the ground. The rst rays of the sun would enter his
room, crossing through the pores of the curtains, adding their
own colour to them.
Some voices rang around in his subconscious mind, broken
voices speaking broken sentences.
A wall, which was decorated with paper dolls and stars, was
still clear in his memory. Almost every thought was clear, but
hazy at the same time.
Mayank, sitting on a chair, was thinking about going back
home. But his home was a thousand miles away. He had been
living the life of a nomad. Walking down memory lane, he
entered a state where he was trying to connect his past life with
his present, but the very thought of re-living it was absurd.
The cantonment area was his home now. People from the
surrounding village supported him, and were with him in his
hour of need. The air of this village was not strange for him now,
and he was more familiar with the things here than he was with
the ones at home. Most of the faces smiled at him when they saw
him, and he felt an unmistakable connection.
Two years had passed since he had seen his native place.
His eyes could only make out big mountains across the
border. Sunrise in this border village, was more beautiful than
anywhere else he had been.
His duty as an army ofcer had made him busy.
–—
By
Deepika Rai
One day, while walking on a road which led to the local
market, he met an old man of around eighty.
The octogenarian was one of the most renowned men of the
valley, but had a somewhat hidden personality. He was an artist,
and most of the time, he was found in his art studio. His art work
had brought him name as well as fame, but still he preferred a
simple life, away from the limelight. Mayank, being a man of
practical thought and approach, had never visited his art studio.
Aquib, as the old man was named, had to leave his house
quite early in life, or perhaps was forced to do so. Now a man of
eighty, he did not even remember the shape of his house, the one
he used to live in, before he moved to this village with his
parents and two siblings.
His parents lived for a long time in this village house and
died in the same. His siblings played and grew here, and were
married off from this very house. Its walls were more familiar to
him than the ones he had left long ago.
His house was connected to his art studio, which was
bigger. The walls of the studio were full of paintings rather than
cupboards.
The colours of his house seemed more vibrant with the
presence of his two grandsons. The younger one was in the
army, and a good friend of Mayank. Despite his frequent visits
to the house, Mayank never saw Aquib's art studio.
–—
Mayank applied for leave to visit his home town, and a
letter of acceptance was soon handed over to him. He was the
OCTOBER 2018 | 30

only one left in his family, as his parents had died in an accident,
and he was their only child.
He boarded a bus early the next morning. The bus was lled
with many kinds of noises – some made by the people, and
others by the engine and the songs that played in the bus. The
tunes from the 90s Bollywood movies made him reminisce
about the Philips player, which was his family's most valuable
asset, and was presented to him by his grandfather on his second
birthday.
A boy of about twenty-two sat next to him, and was
constantly talking on his cell phone, trying to make people
aware of his present state. He seemed to be a trekker who had
travelled a lot in the last few days. His brown hair and white skin
were signs of his being a native of some hill area.
He introduced himself to Mayank, and shared his passion
for travelling and his frequent trips back home. “Home is,” he
said, “the place where one belongs; where love resides; one
cannot do without returning home.”
With home he seemed to have xed some importance.
“Home is the only place where you get a healthy sleep,” he
added, expecting a favourable reply from Mayank.
Mayank wondered what he should say. He was suddenly
31 | OCTOBER 2018
Nomad
out of ideas.
The young guy kept on babbling about his experiences,
while Mayank remained quiet. At ve feet, his body was very
energetic and exible.
Next, the young man started talking about his girlfriend. He
used abuses generously; probably thought it was cool. But his
language annoyed Mayank. It seemed he was talking to amuse
himself than anyone else, jumping with excitement every time
he spoke in the local slang, beginning and ending his sentences
with the word “bhaiji” (brother).
With a strange feeling, Mayank was returning to a place to
which “he belonged”.
–—
The air felt somewhat different to what he remembered it to
be like a few years back. He was still miles away from home.
Night arrived, and he fell asleep. The young guy sitting next to
him was still talking on his phone. Mayank's job had helped him
to adjust at any place. He had long lost the idea of comfort. He
was miles away from it, as was his home.
He awoke the next morning, with the rst rays of the sun
hitting his face.
The chatty young man was still asleep. The bus had taken a
Nomad
break for breakfast. Mayank got down.
People around him were talking in local slang. The eatery,
which was situated inside a busy marketplace, was overowing
with customers. People were busy with work; grocery stores
were crowded with people who seemed to have come out in their
night clothes. They spoke loudly and the whole place seemed
like a Mumbai railway station. The trafc further added to the
noise, as pedestrians pushed their way through the trafc.
Mayank again walked down memory lane, and thought of
the time when he was young and would visit this place with his
parents. Being short in height then, he couldn't see much
through the rush, nor feel much, except suffocation.
The bus driver blew the horn, indicating to the passengers
that they should get back into the bus again. Mayank was
somewhat excited now, for he was about to reach his
destination.
–—
The young guy got off. Mayank wasn't sure whether he
would see him again or not, but he gave him a smile all the same.
The winds had started changing now. The cool but familiar
The winds had started
changing now. The cool but
familiar winds were now
substituted by warm and
unfamiliar ones.
winds were now substituted by warm and unfamiliar ones.
–—
The bus reached its nal destination. Mayank got down and
walked towards his house.
His steps quickened and in a moment he found himself
standing at the doorstep. He unlocked the door and entered.
Tired from the long journey, he went and sat on the sofa.
The curtains had now faded and like the sofa, they appeared
different.
His house appeared to be strange to him now. The sofa did
not feel as comfortable as he had remembered it to be.
–—
Night fell and silence enveloped the room. The house was
different from the one etched in his memory. It used to be lled
with noises made by the kitchen utensils, and the ghts and
laughter of his parents. Amidst all that rush and chaos, there was
something unique —the feeling of happiness; so pure. But times
had changed now.
Sometimes, the happiest moments are lled with worry and
fear of losing the happiness. For, without happiness who can
live? But things change within seconds, without giving any
warning, leaving us with regrets or grievances, whatever we
choose to call it. Only acceptance, with time, makes one
comfortable with oneself – otherwise questions such as, 'Why?
Why only me? What is my fate?' and so on will make days
unbearable, and nights darker than they actually are. The outer
reality is not that powerful, but it is the inner self that changes
the whole course of life.
–—
After spending a day and the following night in his house,
Mayank felt the urge to talk with someone. The old neighbours
were now gone. The area was lled with tenements, and people
came and went as their jobs changed or when they retired. So
now, most of the faces he saw around were new and unfamiliar.
Mayank found some old books, and took out a collection of
short stories by one of his favourite writers, Manto. After
reading for two minutes, he left his book on the table, and went
out to weed and clean his garden. But he found himself returning
even before he could enter the garden.
He sat for hours reminiscing about his past.
–—
Night fell once more. His body was not tired enough, and so
he found it difcult to fall sleep.
Sitting on his bed, his thoughts moved backward and
forward in time. The only thing on which he could set his eyes
was the moon. A big ball, as he used to call it as a kid, it was the
only thing he seemed to have some connection with.
–—
He rose early the next morning, and waited for the clock to
strike eight. It was a long wait. At eight he called Aquib Qureshi.
Aquib answered immediately. He was surprised that
Mayank had called but was glad to hear his voice. Aquib
realised there was something bothering Mayank.
Mayank shared with Aquib his concern about his lack of
excitement on return to the place where he was born. He told
Aquib that he couldn't understand why the house in which he
grew up failed to make him happy. He couldn't fathom why he
seemed to have lost the connection with the once familiar things
in the house, where his parents had spent their lives— the place
where each and every object belonged to him; things that he had
loved and cherished.
Mayank was also surprised that he had chosen to share his
feelings with Aquib of all the people. After some hesitation, he
continued, “What makes things and people familiar and
unfamiliar at the same time? What creates a gap between you
and what is yours so wide? What is making me so
uncomfortable at a place which should have been the only place
of comfort for me?”
Aquib, for a moment, had gone back to his own time. These
were questions he had already heard somewhere. They were not
new to him and he was quite clear about the answers, but was not
OCTOBER 2018 | 32

sure where and how to start explaining. But he nally began
telling Mayank a story.
Aquib said, “A sh shouldn't keep living in its natural
habitat just to prove its belongingness. Some species have to
migrate between the rivers and the sea, just to complete their life
cycle. Many species fail to reach their breeding grounds and
eventually die.”
Mayank had by now started visualising the story and was
trying to establish a link to his situation.
“The ones who migrate in search of food and life are the
ones who eventually survive,” added Aquib. “The migration
doesn't mean that their home will also change, but the idea of
regretting the move, and over romanticising the past in
comparison to the present, is a way of killing oneself day by
day.”
Aquib stopped and waited for Mayank to register what he
had said.
Mayank was now curious to know the crux of the whole
thing, and Aquib continued, “The sh enter a new place that
will help them survive and grow. The new place is their fate,
and the move is their destiny. It welcomes them with open arms,
and provides them with everything required for them to live.
One should always remember that the concepts of home and
belongingness are poles apart. Home doesn't change, no matter
where you live. But your belongingness is not a matter of birth.
It's a matter of the connection between the place and your inner
self. Home is an outer concept about which even people will tell
you, but what about the inner self? You cannot live near the sea if
you belong in the mountains. The breeze from the sea will never
touch you, if you are used to the cool winds of the mountains.
You will never notice the sunset behind the sea if the open rays
of the sun have touched you cutting their way through the
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33 | OCTOBER 2018
Nomad
mountains.”
Mayank was feeling something inside his heart. This was
something which he had longed to hear. What Aquib was telling
him, conrmed his own inner thoughts. Mayank's confusion
was now sorting itself out. After leading a life of a wanderer, he
had nally found himself.
The strangeness between him and his house had now
started vanishing, not because of some physical change, but
because he had willed it to do so. The day came to an end, and he
packed his bag and left for his army camp before nightfall.
He boarded the last bus, and his face carried a smile that is
seen on a person's face when he returns home.
This was indeed his return to 'his place'; the place he
'belonged' to.
On reaching the camp, Mayank decided to go and meet
Aquib before anyone. He knocked at the door of his art studio.
Aquib opened the door and welcomed Mayank with open arms
saying, “My nomad is nally home.”
–—
ABOUT AUTHOR
Deepika Rai is a PhD research scholar at Himachal Pradesh
University, Shimla. She has written a handful of short stories and
research articles. Her rst story "Not Until She Gets it Back" was
published in The Tribune. 'Nomad' is her third published work.
Deepika has been working as a freelance content writer for a long
time. An art lover, she has also worked as a teacher,and pencil
sketching is one of her hobbies. You can write to her at
deepika.rai.shimla@gmail.com.
Or call:
+91-9115660225
 I ndia 2049:
Tyranny of
Revenge
“Thank you for coming, Mr Ahmed. We were afraid
you were going to run away,” smirked Joseph Francis,
Hafeez’s older and much experienced Indian counterpart.
He clenched his sts. His lips immediately went dry, and
his eyes shut, even without him knowing it.
Revenge is worth it.
–—
A light appeared.
Hafeez Ahmed straightened his Prada tie as he gazed at the
bathroom mirror.
A depleted, 31-year old man stared back at him. The long
ight from Islamabad to Washington had not helped his
appearance.
One of the most promising diplomats to come out of
Pakistan was now facing the toughest task of his life. Among his
many achievements in a short career were helping the US
negotiate a peace treaty between Israel and Palestine, brokering
the peace in Afghanistan, and achieving a rather difcult but
favourable trade deal with China, that eventually saved his
country from bankruptcy. But now, he was facing a hostile
country, trying to ght for his nation not to get wiped off the face
of the earth, and to bring sanity to the region that was stuck in an
era of war, when the rest of the world had moved on a long time
ago.
His forehead sweated profusely, despite the many splashes
of water. The discussions were not going as planned, and Hafeez
felt that he would break at any moment. He drew a breath of the
articial hotel air, wheeled around and walked out of the
By
Shankar Ananth
bathroom towards the conference hall. Armed soldiers watched
over every corridor of the hotel. As he entered the room, he
could see that Sheena Alam, Pakistan's veteran foreign minister,
keenly awaited his presence in order to continue. Everyone else
was already in their seats, including the Chief of Army Staff.
The tension was palpable.
“Thank you for coming, Mr Ahmed. We were afraid you
were going to run away,” smirked Joseph Francis, Hafeez's
older and much experienced Indian counterpart. Hafeez could
do little but offer a weak smile in response.
“So let's continue from where we left off,” began Jeremy
Richards, the US foreign secretary, mediating the discussion, as
Mr Nayyar, the Indian defence minister, nodded in agreement.
“Yes, let's,” Sheena Alam interrupted the conversation,
seeking to take the advantage. “I believe we were discussing
what you called a 'pre-emptive measure' to protect your country,
and which you planned to blame on Pakistan.”
“Mrs Alam, if we are discussing this with you instead of
taking action, you know we are serious about preventing any
calamity. We could already have done lots without telling you.”
The retort was authoritative and just stopped short of an
intimidation.
“With all due respect Mr Nayyar, you can't threaten us and
force us to do something. We too want this madness to stop, but
what you ask is simply impossible,” Hafeez chipped in, with
determination, though knowing fully well where the power
OCTOBER 2018 | 34

centre of this discussion lay.
“Alright, let me roll out the situation once again for your
benet,” Joseph Francis, the Indian foreign secretary, stepped
in. “You have lost control of your nuclear weapons to elements
that have openly been hostile to India: terrorists. From the secret
ISPR conversation we intercepted last month, we know that
though their loyalty to you is no more, but they do blame India
for the famine in Pakistan--the famine for which your own
government was responsible. Did I falter anywhere?”
“The Indus Water Treaty…,” Hafeez started.
“India never broke the Indus Water Treaty, and you know
it!” thundered Joseph. “India just started using its fair share.
Your government started diverting water to your mega-projects
built by foreign inhabitants, without any concern for your
people. Don't blame us for your incompetence and lack of
compassion towards your citizens. You have no right to do so.”
“We may have mismanaged water, but don't teach us about
compassion. You had more water than you needed. You could
have helped us.”
“Well, I will again submit our demands to you,” Joseph
said, ignoring Hafeez's last comment. “We want you to hand
over the control of your remaining nuclear devices to a trusted
ally, so that they can be neutralized remotely. We also would like
you to get assistance with your hunt for the 'Coalition of
35 | OCTOBER 2018
India 2049: Tyranny of Revenge
Mujahid (CoM)' militants who are in possession of the
remaining nuclear warheads. Or we will be forced to take
action.”
As an awkward silence gripped the room, the US foreign
secretary spoke up, “With all due respect to the honourable
guests from Pakistan, this seems like a reasonable request to me
given the circumstances. In fact, it is also for your own good.”
“This essentially means an invasion of Pakistan, and we
will never agree to that,” Sheena Alam said, with a conviction
that sealed the matter.
Two hours later, Hafeez and Sheena, along with the CoAS
(Chief of Army Staff), left the conference room, unsure and a bit
shaken. It was 3:30 AM on a Tuesday. Thankfully, given the
clandestine nature of the meeting, there were no media reporters
thronging the venue. Hafeez and the CoAS followed Sheena
into her room.
“Mrs Alam, what would we have done, had the situation
been reversed?” Hafeez asked, a question that took the other two
in the room by surprise.
Silence followed for an extended period before the CoAS
responded, “What matters is what will we do now. Or rather,
what will India do next. I suggest we alert our forces for now, get
the Nasr ready. From what I can tell, India is hell bent on
aggression and there is very little stopping them, except for our
India 2049: Tyranny of Revenge
tactical nukes. Right now, as far as they are concerned, we have
lost that leverage. They might be compelled to attack.”
“I agree,” Sheena said, much to the CoAS' surprise.
He nodded.
“Please get your missiles ready. I do see the little skirmishes
that've been going on turning into a bigger war, given India's
stance. But for goodness' sake, I hope it does not become what
we expect it to become. Frankly, I thought our nukes were safe!”
her voice trailed away as she glanced at the CoAS, with a hint of
indictment.
She received no words in response.
Fifteen more minutes of debrieng later, they decided to
retire to their rooms for an hour and meet again in Sheena's room
at ve in the morning.
Hafeez entered his room, a mere three doors down from the
Pakistani foreign minister's room. He switched on the lights,
stripped to his underwear, and crashed on the bed. He forced his
eyes open long enough to set the bedside alarm clock to an hour
later, kiss the picture of his wife and daughter, and let himself
drift away. He never knew when his eyes closed, for he was
dreaming of seeing his family again. They were in a pool, his
daughter splashing water all over him. The dream was perfect. It
was everything he ever wanted.
But before he knew it, he was shaken awake by thunderous
knocks on his door.
He wrapped the bed covers around him, and stood behind
the door before opening it. Sheena and the CoAS entered the
room, without any concern for his privacy, their faces dark with
worry.
“Hafeez, we just received communication. It is code Red.”
For a moment, Hafeez forgot that he was almost naked in
front of his boss. A code red meant it was a colossal disaster, and
a stunning failure of diplomacy. The ground shook beneath him.
“But didn't they say they'd wait till tomorrow morning for
our…?”
“Well, they didn't. Their side of the story is that their
intelligence detected an attack position in Gilgit. And since we
don't have any control on them, we can't conrm or deny that. I
am leaving for Pakistan in 30 minutes,” said the CoAS, with
more than a hint of worry on his aging face.
Hafeez turned towards Sheena for guidance, but she
seemed just as lost for words as him. When she met his eyes, she
opened her mouth, but words struggled to come out.
“We need to stay here. The need for diplomacy has never
been more.”
Hafeez nodded in forced agreement. He used the brief
moment to check his cell-phone. Three missed calls from
Shabana, his wife. He did not respond.
The fact that India's Army Chief had returned to India
moments before the meeting began should have sounded alarm
bells. Pakistan's CoAS had decided to stay and attend the
meeting, a fatal aw. The hope that an aggressor could be
prevented in such a delicate situation was a fallacy of the
hopeful.
Hafeez excused himself to the bathroom, and came out
looking much more presentable in a pair of shorts and a white
tee. Sheena barely noticed the change.
“Sheena mohterma what exactly happened?” Hafeez
initiated the conversation.
She didn't look up. “Indian military has started bombing
areas in Azad Kashmir. And things are very likely to spiral out of
control.”
After a brief pause, she continued, this time looking at her
subordinate, “As you know, after the CoM gained access to the
nuclear warheads from Kori's underground facility and Gadwal
facility, we tightened our hold on the other nuclear assets.
Though, from my sources I heard that a rogue ISI faction led to
this catastrophe.
“I just had a conversation with Joseph. Since the CoM has
these high-yield weapons, India says it is their right to target the
areas in which they think these militants are holed up. And to
add to that, they have tremendous backing from the
international governments to act, with barely any caveats. We
have to somehow nd a way to get this madness to stop, at least
from escalating into a full-edged war…”
Hafeez temporarily experienced a brain freeze. Twenty
days ago, he was accompanying his foreign minister on an Indo-
Pak cricket match, a sign of approaching normalcy. Now he was
sitting bang in the middle of a probable nuclear war threatening
to engulf the world.
Over the past few years, alliances had been formed,
primarily out of compulsion. Chinese investments in Pakistan,
to the tune of over a $100 billion, predominantly as a
geostrategic investment under the façade of an economic
initiative had resulted in some signicant nancial troubles for
Pakistan. Some of Pakistan's strategic assets had been
transferred to Chinese ownership. India's economic prowess
meant a natural US interest, and a mutual attraction.
Subsequently, NATO's weight helped India form global bonds,
whereas Pakistan was increasingly becoming a pariah, its only
allies being China, North Korea, and Turkey.
Hafeez picked up the remote and switched on the
television, going straight to the news channels. As he ipped
through them, he saw news ashes all across, as the world tuned
in to see the hottest nuclear ashpoint getting active. India had
pulled away from Pakistan, both in terms of economy and
military might, and except for the nuclear weapons, nothing
much stood in the way of Pakistan's eastern neighbour sweeping
away its perennial rival.
He looked at Sheena. The next steps were clear, and very
obvious.
“Contact the Chinese Embassy,” Sheena said the words,
even though they weren't needed.
OCTOBER 2018 | 36

Contact the Chinese Embassy,
Sheena said the words, even
though they weren’t needed.
A fteen-minute call, and Hafeez realized how ill-prepared
they had been. He turned to Sheena, in a state of shock. This had
been planned all along. The Indians were already in touch with
the Chinese, and had promised not to damage Chinese property,
so as to not draw China into the war. The only safety net for
Pakistan was torn apart. The simple fact was that Pakistan could
not match India's superiority in the air, land or sea. They needed
someone to help them out. China had been their last hope.
Sheena's phone rang. It was the CoAS. As soon as Sheena
picked up, he got straight to the point. “The area of conict is
currently contained to Azad Kashmir, where the Indians have
been conducting air sorties. We have been responding to them in
kind, and so far have shot down one of their Rafale-Super 3s.
But we have lost 4 JF-20s. There has been no ground conict so
far, and we are trying to keep it as limited as possible. We have
also been in touch with the CoM to not take any foolish
measures with their nukes.”
“Ok. But…”
“Here is what I would like you to do,” the CoAS cut in,
before Sheena could make her point. “Contact the Chinese. Ask
for assistance. Also, see if Turkey can help us with some funds.”
“China is not going to interfere. The Indians have already
made sure of that,” replied Sheena, which was followed by
silence at the other end. “I will contact Turkey for any assistance
they can provide.”
“Ok. Keep me posted,” the CoAS seemed unperturbed by
the news, characteristic of any man in that position.
Sheena turned to Hafeez and conveyed the message.
Rushed communication was shared with Pakistan's possible and
probable allies across the world.
Hafeez spoke to his Indian counterpart, Joseph Francis, and
immediately arranged for a meeting in the conference room.
Within twenty minutes, the Indian and Pakistani envoys, along
with the American mediators, found themselves in a heated
discussion on the situation.
“This is selective bombing. You can't ask my country to not
defend itself from aggressors,” droned Joseph.
“We are in a state of war. The air forces of both our nations
are involved in a bloody battle over one of the most disturbed
areas in the world. We both have allies, some much closer than
the others. No one wants this to turn into a world war, right?”
Sheena Alam countered her Indian counterpart, deantly, but
secretly she knew words were her only major ally right now.
“Ms Alam, we know whom you are referring to. If you
37 | OCTOBER 2018
India 2049: Tyranny of Revenge
think that is going to be a threat to us, I am sorry to disappoint
you. The only solution here remains that you assist in
neutralizing the targets. The fact of the matter is that India can
afford to ght on its own. You can't. I am helping you make a
decision that ends well for everyone.”
“To all the Indian envoys, with my due respect, tread very
carefully. Mutually assured destruction is not merely a
theoretical concept, but a very real thing.”
–—
Gilgit
That day
12:30 AM
Col. Danish Khan sat up in his bunker, thinking. His role in
helping the CoM secure the nuclear weapons was now known to
most of his compatriots. Part of the ISI hated him for the act, and
for plunging his ailing country into war. But he took strength
from the fact that a signicant section of the tribal jihadis, whom
he had supported all the while, were in his favour.
He had set up a command centre at a location conspicuous
by its very presence: bang in the middle of a little village at the
edge of the Gilgit city. And no one would give him up.
Now that he had deed all common sense to achieve
glorious vengeance, he slowly became cognizant of the
conditions, and the actual disparity of military strength between
the two nuclear armed neighbours. The biggest setback was that
his trump card had not played out the way he thought it would.
The Chinese had not interfered at all, in a huge surprise to
Danish. He looked at his satellite phone. No instructions so far.
Outside, the bombs were raining furiously, shaking the ground
beneath him. Was he left to fend for himself?
Thirty minutes later, the phone rang. He was glad to hear
the voice at the other end. After a brief call, he shook his head to
force himself to believe what he was about to do. He called Abu
Kamal inside. Despite his initial hesitation, he knew it was the
only thing that would give them a chance.
“Bomb the Khyber land route. That is 20 kms away from
the current bombing site, isn't it?”
He could sense the surprise grow in Abu Kamal's eyes as he
delivered his instructions.
“Are…are you sure?”
“Yes. Clear the entire area of people, and raze it to the
ground. Nothing is to remain standing.”
Still confused, Abu Kamal left the room, but deant in
carrying out the assignment handed to him like he had done for
the last four years since he took over the operations of the CoM.
Danish Khan sincerely hoped this would work. If not,
doomsday was certain.
–—
Washington
The Four Seasons Hotel Lobby
India 2049: Tyranny of Revenge
7 PM
Joseph Francis sat with his minister, Shyam Nayyar. In their
hands were glasses of the Remy Martin cognac. Their minds
were desperately trying to relax with the help of alcohol after a
day of frenzied discussions, planning, and counter-planning.
Though the discussion began on the quality of cognac in India,
it somehow kept circling back to the war despite their deliberate
attempts to think of anything but.
So far, things were moving in their favour, and a couple of
swift moves had taken Pakistan by surprise. The glasses of
cognac were part of undeclared celebrations.
A ping to his mobile almost made Joseph spill his drink. He
looked up at his boss.
“China has attacked India.”
“WHAT??? Did we hit them?”
“No. I hope not.”
A rushed call from India gave them the AS-IS situation.
Chinese troops had come in to guard their property. India-made
shells were found near the site of destruction that had given
China a reason for escalation, despite India's careful attempts at
swerving the scene of battle away from any Chinese
installations. It was a quagmire. A single bad move could trigger
a wave of destruction much greater than anything before. Within
a space of 12 hours, the war had gone from dormant to a
continental clash of superpowers.
–—
Washington
Room 801, The Four Seasons Hotel
10 PM
With his phone rmly in his hand, Hafeez ipped through
the news channels for any updates. He was waiting in his boss'
room, and they were both anxious. News of China's interference
in the war bought a smile to their faces.
Hafeez's plan had worked. His instructions to Col. Danish
had paid dividends. Now the Indian forces will back off, and
with Chinese help, Pakistan will annex swathes of their
territory.
Their rightful territory!
The few moments of elation transformed into radical shock
as they saw the Indian forces invade Pakistan. Things were
rapidly getting out of hand.
About two decades ago, till 2029, India relied on the
'Prahaar' doctrine of attack, an enhancement of India's 'Cold
Start' doctrine from the start of the century. But Hafeez was told
that now India's position had become much bolder. This new
doctrine combined an Indian aerial blitzkrieg with an assisted
covert attacks on Pakistani cities. Drone attacks were launched
into Pakistani cities of Rawalpindi and Islamabad, an attempt to
cripple both the administrative and military control centers.
Hafeez panicked. He had never expected this. As soon as he
heard the news about the attacks on Islamabad, he tried ringing
his family. His wife picked up.
“Hello darling. Are you…”
–—
The voice trailed away as the light faded. It echoed mildly
at rst, but then started getting louder.
“Sir, I am switching off the simulation. Your scores have
fallen below the cut-offs.”
A blinding light entered Hafeez's eyes as he felt a small chip
exit his brain socket. He struggled for what seemed like eternity,
and eventually dared to open his eyes wider. The room seemed
like a polished laboratory he remembered from his childhood
comics. Slowly, his memory made a comeback as well.
“Mmm…what did I do wrong?” he asked, as he took notice
of the number of doctor-like gures in the room. Some looked
South Asian, while the majority were denitely Chinese.
“Sir, do you remember where you are? I want to check your
memory rst. Please tell me the names of your wife and
daughter,” questioned the doctor, handling him rather politely.
“Mmm..Shabana and Fatima.” Hafeez barely had to
struggle to remember their names. How could he ever forget?
“Sir, this was the simulation of the war in 2049, and you
have repeated the same mistakes again. You made some poor
calls and let your feelings cloud over your judgement while
taking decisions. You took an unnecessary risk and led your
previous country down the path of destruction. The move to
setup India by destroying Chinese property was a colossal waste
of resources.
“It is now 2069, and war strategies have advanced a lot
more. Sorry to say, but this was your last attempt at becoming a
war strategist for the Chinese-Pakistani army. You will no
longer be taking part in the rest of the recruitment process. The
drive for revenge isn't simply there.”
A teardrop appeared on Hafeez's face, but he fought any
attempts to let it run down his face. As he exited the simulation
room and left the strategy ofce of the SinoPak Corporation for
one last time, he tried to make himself feel better by recalling his
age. He handed over his identity card, and the moment it got
deactivated with a loud beep, he felt a dream getting crushed.
Outside, he put on his body-mask as he waited for the
metro-tube to arrive. The radiation levels in Islamabad were
still signicantly high to roam around freely. As soon as he got
into the metro-tube, he found himself an empty seat and
carefully removed his body-mask, which he then folded and put
in his backpack. These things were expensive, and it will be a
bloody shame if it got stolen.
He gazed out the window, at what was once a sprawling
city. Now, he saw a red hue outside, with the kind of vegetation
he had never seen for the rst thirty-one years of his life. The
fact that people avoided going outdoors helped in the unbridled
spread of vegetation.
OCTOBER 2018 | 38
 India 2049: Tyranny of Revenge

Hafeez closed his eyes, for the sight outside was not worth
seeing. 'Was it all worth it?' was the question he had been asked
by his leaders to avoid. “This is not a good time to think about
that,” they had said. And he agreed. Revenge was important.
Twenty years ago, the inevitable had nally happened. The
threat of rogue state actors and a prolonged water crisis in
Pakistan had led to a cascading, devastating war that had
resulted in the death of over 30 million people, mostly in India,
Pakistan, and China. His recollection of the details in the
simulation was surprisingly vivid and accurate.
He had been teaching a class when Islamabad's central
district was obliterated, where his wife and daughter had been.
The shockwave of the blast and the physical trauma it caused
had been ineffable. But the pain of not being able to nd out
what happened to his family, yet knowing what transpired, was
million times greater.
Pakistan had been reduced to a pile of buildings littered
with corpses over what was once a mammoth nation of 200
million people. India had suffered losses as well, but Pakistan's
core identity was physically destroyed. Pakistan had lost its
identity as a sovereign state, and was left with no other option,
but to be absorbed by China.
The remaining Pakistani society had made it their aim to
exact revenge. India had to be destroyed. The Chinese were only
glad to help them on their way.
Hafeez entered his house, which was essentially a concrete
structure surviving on its last legs. He had been trying to look for
a new resting place, but nice spaces were hard to come by in this
regulated economy full of scramblers for basic necessities.
Having poured himself some cereal, he sat down on the
rickety couch, carefully avoiding the protruding springs, he
glanced upon the dusty picture of his wife and daughter. He had
to wipe off the ash, even though he had done so only this
morning. He picked up the picture, and kissed both of them.
He would never be able to ght again. But then, he thought,
ght for what? Was anything worth losing this much? Was
revenge worth losing so much? Was any revenge worth it at all?
He switched on the television where the state propaganda
TV yelled on about national pride and revenge, and the glory of
martyrdom. Glancing at the ash-covered picture of his family,
he shook his head in shame.
“Was it all worth it?”
He was sure of the answer to the stupid question.
–—
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Shankar Ananth works for McKinsey & Company as a digital
consultant. He is an Aeronautical Engineer from Punjab
Engineering College, Chandigarh and has an MBA from MDI,
Gurgaon. He loves writing, with a slight tilt toward sci-. You can
talk to him about mangas, anime, football, cricket, geopolitics,
economy and technology – basically everything under the sun!

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39 | OCTOBER 2018
 L aid to Rest
The bearded man is whom we seek,
He who kills to sate his greed, He who hunts the
old and the meek, And uses them when he needs.
The sun had started retreating behind the mountains. The
corridors of the medical school, which were usually crowded
with students, were now eerily quiet. The dropping temperature,
or the deafening silence wasn't new to Mr Goodwill. True to his
name, he was a calm person who led a peaceful life.
He had been working at the med school for ten years, and
the job had remained the same—cleaning the apparatus and
locking down the place securely. He didn't complain though.
This job paid his bills, and that was all he cared about.
He went into the anatomy lab and removed the skeleton
from the glass showcase. It had creeped him out at rst, but now
it was an old friend. He began working, humming a tune to
himself.
A cool breeze oated into the room, rufing the curtains in
the process. Even an innocent noise sounds ominous at night,
but Mr Goodwill knew not to let his mind play games. He
quickly cleaned the apparatus and put them away.
Finally, he took the skeleton and turned towards the
showcase. On the glass door, there was a poem written in red
ink.
The bearded man is whom we seek,
He who kills to sate his greed,
He who hunts the old and the meek,
And uses them when he needs.
By
Sujatha
Sugumaran
The words looked fresh. The ink was dripping down the
glass, giving it a sinister look. But Goodwill knew better than to
be fooled. It wasn't the rst time the students had tried to prank
him.
“You can't fool me all the time boys,” he laughed. “What
are you poets doing in a med school?” he murmured, as he wet a
rag and started wiping the words on the glass.
After cleaning the glass, he hung the skeleton inside and
headed home. That night he couldn't sleep. The words on the
showcase kept ashing before his eyes.
'The bearded guy is whom we seek'.... 'Who hunts the old
and the meek'..... 'Uses them when he needs'....
He convinced himself that he was wasting his time on
something stupid. Closing his eyes, he decided to talk to the
Dean about this the next day.
Next morning, he spoke to the Dean, an indifferent man in
his late sixties, who warned the students over the intercom and
dismissed the issue.
Goodwill hoped that this would help, and no students will
dare to prank him again.
The need for him to visit the lab did not arise for a while
after the incident.
However, a week later, he entered the lab again, hoping that
the kids would have forgotten about him, and began his routine.
He cleaned the skeleton and hung it back in the closet. As he
OCTOBER 2018 | 40

closed the door, words appeared on the glass, right in front of his
eyes. It was written with the same red ink, and dripped down.
Our fate that you believe to be a lie,
Is the reason that so many died,
Help us find the sly culprit,
And punish him with what we deem fit.
Goodwill was frozen with fear. His mind refused to believe
that what he was seeing was true. He staggered away from the
glass and grabbed a wet cloth from the counter. He hastily wiped
off the words with shaky hands, but as soon as he erased the
words, they reappeared.
The wind was harsh outside and the lights ickered off,
leaving the room dark, except for the moonlight. Goodwill
couldn't take it anymore. He grabbed the keys, sprinted out, and
locked the room in a hurry.
He ran through the hall, his footsteps echoing in the quiet
night. He didn't stop anywhere on his way home. His hands
trembled, and his mind was conjuring images inside his head.
Was any of this real? Or was it just a sick game played by the
kids? He wasn't sure.
But how did they manage to make the words reappear?
Even the smartest of kids would not be able to pull off
something like that.
It took some time for him to calm down. He decided to
think about this in the morning.
Goodwill had never been a brave person. His love for a
quiet life was one of the reasons he never married; and he never
regretted his decision until now. After a long time, he nally fell
into a restless sleep.
–—
The next morning Goodwill woke up with a headache. He
called the college and took the day off. He sat on his bed,
pondering over the events of last night. It all felt like a dream—
more like a nightmare. He knew what he saw was real, but the
logical side of his mind refused to accept it.
He went to the bathroom and splashed his face with water,
looking into the mirror. What he saw next horried him to the
bones... On the mirror there were words written in the familiar
red ink, that dripped down the mirror.
We seek your help and not your life,
Help us in our quest, to avenge our unfair death,
For we come begging thee,
Our only hope in punishing the grave thief.
Goodwill was stunned to silence. His mind nally
acknowledged the fact that this wasn't a funny prank by the kids.
He was facing his worst fears. The only consolation he had was
that he wasn't the one at fault.
But none of this made sense. What was he doing in the
middle of this mess? Who were they? More importantly, what
were they?
41 | OCTOBER 2018
Laid to Rest
All this thinking intensied his headache.
'Who are you?!....Why would you seek my help?!.... How
am I involved in this?!....' he yelled out, frustrated.
As he held his throbbing head, the words on the mirror
changed.
We are many, not one,
But we were reduced to none,
We seek you, for you are our friend,
Who preserves us even after our mortal end.
The words did nothing to clear his doubts. He was a very
private person with very few friends. And none of them were
dead yet. And the fact that these 'friends' were speaking in
riddles was not helping him at all.
He decided that he needed his coffee more than anything.
The thought that these 'friends' weren't going to harm him, put
him more at ease.
He went into the kitchen and prepared a strong cup. With
the steaming cup in his hand, he sat on the sofa, took an old
paper that lay before him, and wrote all the poems that he'd seen.
After reading the lines many times, he only knew that these
people were killed by a bearded guy who hunts weak people for
money, and that they want to avenge their death.
But how can I nd the particular bearded guy in this town?
he thought. Hell, even I'm a man with a beard, for the love of
God!
As he stared at the paper in deep thought, the familiar red
words reappeared on the paper.
He's someone with whom you work,
Behind a respectable veil he lurks;
Waiting for his next kill,
To trap and turn them into dollar bills.
Associated with my work? So, is this person someone I
know? Is that why I'm being haunted by these people?
He quickly turned the paper and wrote the names of the
bearded people he knew at work.
Dr Rick
Dr Kevin
Dr Joey
All of them were respectable people of the society. And
they were all lthy rich. Why would they kill for money?
He began thinking about all the conversations he had had
with them. All of them were as normal as he himself was. No
matter how hard he thought, he couldn't come up with any
answers.
After a long day, he collapsed on his bed, yearning for a
good night's sleep.
–—
The next day, he went to work early, looking at every
Laid to Rest
bearded person he saw with suspicion; but he couldn't accuse
anyone of murder, when he himself didn't know what the whole
issue was. So he resorted to silently observing everyone. He
strained his senses for any clues, with no avail.
He was getting ready to leave for home and that's when he
saw him – Dr Caviler.
Dr Caviler was a shy and bitter person. He seldom spoke to
anyone and found everything annoying. He lacked social skills
and was always in a sour mood. And most specically, he had a
BEARD!
Goodwill couldn't believe he had forgotten Dr Caviler
when he was making a list!
The more he thought, the more convinced he became that
Caviler could be a criminal;. the only thing left to do, was to
conrm it.
Goodwill decided to follow Caviler instead of going home.
Following an expensive and well-maintained car is tough when
all you have is a seven-year old bike, but Goodwill managed to
do it.
Caviler went straight home, only stopping at the grocery
store on his way.
Goodwill wasn't ready to give up. He decided to watch him.
He parked his old bike behind a large car and waited, watching
Caviler's house from behind the car. He watched his house for
hours, and Caviler didn't seem to be doing anything suspicious.
The sun had retired to its home behind the mountains, and
the winter air was starting to bite. Goodwill's thin sweater didn't
help him. He had to light a cigarette to keep himself warm.
The street lights kept him company, and Goodwill thought
back to the events that took place in the past couple of days. He
didn't even know why he was doing it, but he was too far in to
back out now. Doing this felt right. If there was a serial killer
around, then he should do something about it. God forbid, he
might be the next victim.
He was forced to wake from his reverie by Caviler, who
seemed to be in a hurry as he locked the door of his house.
OCTOBER 2018 | 42

Caviler staggered to his car, almost as if he were drunk. Before
getting into the car, he looked around as if to check whether he
was being watched.
Goodwill promptly moved out of his sight. He waited till he
heard the car door close and looked again. Sure enough Caviler
had gotten into his car.
He immediately started his bike and waited for Caviler to
move, before following him at a safe distance.
The city they lived in wasn't very huge, but it was
overpopulated. The public places were seldom free, except
during the nights.
After a short ten-minute drive, Goodwill saw Caviler park
his car right in front of the city's graveyard.
How ironic, Goodwill thought. The killer at the
graveyard..... Is this where he killed his victims?
Goodwill drove his bike up the footpath, and parked it
behind a large tree, which hid him well while simultaneously
giving him a clear view. He watched as Caviler got out of his car,
walked towards the graveyard, and opened the gate with a key.
How does a medical professor have the key to the city's
graveyard?!
Caviler went inside the graveyard, and locked the gate from
inside.
Goodwill deciding to follow him looked for a way to go
inside. He noticed that the wall was pretty short and decided to
jump over it. Right when he was about to jump, he saw another
car entering the street. He quickly hid behind the tree and waited
for the car to pass.
However, instead of passing, the car parked right behind
Caviler's, and a man got out. He was tall and wore a long coat
with a hat that hid his face from view.
As Goodwill watched, the mystery man walked down
towards the graveyard and opened the lock with a key, just like
Caviler had done.
Goodwill was shocked! Did Caviler have a partner?
The mystery man locked the gate and went in.
Goodwill was shocked!
Did Caviler have a partner?
The mystery man locked the
gate and went in.
Without wasting any more time, Goodwill jumped over the
wall and entered the graveyard. As soon as he set foot inside, he
felt a chill run down his spine.
If anything went wrong tonight, he would probably end up
dead and buried in this same ground, he told himself.
43 | OCTOBER 2018
Laid to Rest
Goodwill forced himself not to think about that and
focused on the problem at hand. He scanned the place for the
two men.
The graveyard was littered with tomb stones.
At a distance, he spotted the two men shaking hands.
He slowly crept towards them, hiding behind tombs and
trying not to make any noise. After a while, he realised he
couldn't hear them, without being caught. So he decided to
watch them from a safe distance. He noticed that the mystery
man had a beard too.
At rst the two men seemed to be having a normal
discussion, but soon it appeared to be turning into an argument.
Both of them were whispering in an agitated tone. Caviler was
shaking his head and waving his hands as if to indicate his
displeasure.
Goodwill couldn't hear what they were arguing about, but
Caviler shut up as soon as the mystery man shoved a bundle of
cash into his hands.
Money indeed is a universal language.
Goodwill watched the men shake hands in parting and walk
towards the gate. He waited for them to leave, and then started
towards his home.
On his way back, Goodwill kept thinking about the things
he had seen. He wondered about the connection between
Caviler and the mystery man.
Why was Caviler killing people?..... How did he make
money from that?
All these questions only led to new questions.
As soon as he reached home, Goodwill took a relaxing bath
and settled on the sofa with a steaming cup of coffee. He wrote
down all the information he had found out, and thought about
the various possibilities.
After breaking his head for a long time with no results,
Goodwill went to bed. He came to a conclusion that the only
way he could gain information was through Caviler.
Goodwill decided to blackmail Caviler into giving
information, the next day. With that thought in mind, he fell
asleep.
–—
The following day, Goodwill arrived at college as usual. He
decided to wait till the end of the day to confront Caviler.
Evening came, and after nishing his work early, Goodwill
waited for Caviler in his ofce. When Caviler returned, he was
surprised to see Goodwill in his ofce.
“What are you doing here, Goodwill? Don't you know
you're supposed to seek permission before entering a
professor's ofce?” Caviler asked, bitterly.
This wasn't new to Goodwill. Everyone knew that Caviler
was bitter.
“What were you doing in the graveyard last night?”
Laid to Rest
Goodwill asked, bluntly. No point in beating around the bush, he
thought.
“Wh... what?.... what are you..... talking about....??”
Caviler stammered.
“There's no use in trying to lie, Caviler. I know all about it,”
Goodwill replied.
“I....don't know...what you're talking about. Wh...why
would I go to a graveyard? Stop talking nonsense and get out of
my ofce!” Caviler yelled.
Even a blind man could tell he was lying.
“Look, I don't have the patience to talk to you. You can
either tell me the truth now, or you and your friend can say
goodbye to life outside prison,” Goodwill said, casually.
“Pr....prison!!... why would I go to prison?!” Caviler
stuttered.
“Because you kill people for money,” Goodwill said. He
knew he was playing with re blufng like that, but he had to
scare Caviler into giving him answers.
“H...how do you know that?!” Caviler exclaimed. He was
sweating profusely and looked like he would faint any minute.
“Look, if you tell me the truth, I'll help you through this,”
Goodwill tried to coax him. It seemed to be working.
“It isn't me... I swear! It's him…Damien! He is the one who
kills them!” Caviler broke into tears. He collapsed into the chair
behind his desk, and narrated everything to Goodwill.
“I happened to nd out by accident. He threatened to kill me
if I exposed him! He paid me to be quiet. Please save me from
that monster! I'll do anything you say! I'll even give you the
money!” Caviler wailed. By the time he completed, he was a
crying mess.
“How long have you known and how many people has he
killed?”
“I've known for a year. And as far as I know he's killed
eighteen people,” Caviler continued, crying.
“How does he earn the money? Do people pay him to kill
someone?”
“No, no one pays him to kill. He kills the old and homeless
people, and separates the bones from the esh, and sells the
bones to medical schools. Since he is the cemetery caretaker, no
one doubts him,” Caviler explained.
Suddenly everything made sense to Goodwill.
'We seek you for you're our friend....Who preserves us even
after our death....'
He was the one who cleaned the skeletons in the lab every
week. That is why the spirits thought of him as their friend. That
is also why, they asked for his help.
Goodwill felt emotional all of a sudden. He had been lonely
for the most part of his life, and liked it that way. Now he realised
why people yearned for others. He felt the need to avenge his
friends' death. He turned to Caviler, determinedly.
“You want to get out of this, right?”
Caviler nodded, immediately.
“Then help me trap this guy.”
“But how?” Caviler asked, sceptically.
Goodwill quickly explained how he found out about the
killings to Caviler.
“I know this sounds bizarre, but I need you to trust me.”
Goodwill told Caviler his plan to trap Damien. They decided to
execute the plan at midnight.
–—
The night rolled in. Goodwill was ready to leave. The plan
was to lure Damien to the graveyard. Caviler would call him
asking to meet him at midnight, claiming to have an emergency,
while Goodwill would already be there to welcome him.
He reached the graveyard at 11.30. Caviler had given him a
key to the gate, so he didn't have to jump over the wall this time.
He went in expecting to be alone, but he was surprised to see
both Caviler and Damien standing there, waiting for him.
“Welcome my friend,” Caviler greeted. “It's rather nice to
have some guests over, isn't it Damien?” he turned towards his
partner.
“Indeed!” Damien exclaimed, cheerily.
It didn't take a genius to gure out that Caviler had tricked
him into coming there.
“You really thought I'd fall for your ghost story, Goodwill?”
Caviler laughed. “You should've known better. The Dean called
me yesterday, and you know what he said Goodwill? He said
that a skeleton in the lab had become too old, and he gave me a
pretty good deal for a new one. I guess you'll be replacing your
friend.”
Both the men retrieved sharp knives from under their coats.
“Killing isn't an easy job you know,” Damien began. “You
have to be careful about not harming the skeleton. Do you know
how we kill our guests, Goodwill?” We stab them in the
stomach. Its messy, but enjoyable at the same time!”
Damien twirled the knife in his ngers.
“Don't worry we'll make it less painful,” Caviler smiled.
Goodwill had no other choice but to run. He couldn't take
them both at once. He dashed towards the gate with the two men
hot on his heels. He was running a race against death.
Goodwill ran as fast as he could. He found hope as he
neared the gates.
If I can manage to reach my bike, I'll be able to escape…
But his hopes were cut short as someone grabbed his ankle
from behind. Goodwill fell on the ground with a heavy thud. He
had never felt so hopeless in his life.
Caviler twisted Goodwill's ankle making him turn on his
back. The two men looked down at him with sinister smiles.
Caviler held Goodwill down, as Damien prepared to kill him.
OCTOBER 2018 | 44
 Laid to Rest

As he raised his knife to stab him, Goodwill shut his eyes
tightly, saying his nal prayers. At that moment, a loud thunder
struck the dark sky, scaring the three momentarily. Goodwill,
who was powerless until then, pushed Caviler off with new-
found strength.
Damien, shocked by this, tried to stab him, but realised that
the knife was not in his hand. When he looked up again, he saw
Goodwill standing in front of him, twirling the knife between
his ngers, the same way he had. His irises were dark red, like
the blood that seeped out of his victims' wounds.
Damien realised that the person before him wasn't
Goodwill. They were his sins personied. Beside him, Caviler's
knees buckled in fear, as he fell unconscious. Damien tried to
run away from this nightmare, but his body was rooted to the
ground. It seemed like nature had chosen this place for his burial
and the soil seemed to hold his legs, without letting go.
He watched as Goodwill inched towards him slowly. He
ran the knife down Damien's throat, very much the way he had
did with his victims. While doing this, Goodwill opened his
mouth, but the words that came out sounded like they were
spoken by multiple people. The spirits in him chanted in an
ominous tone:
What you sow, so shall you reap,
We've come here to charge you for your greed,
Let us avenge our fateful pain,
So none shall suffer ever again…
With these words as a nal bidding, Goodwill stabbed
Damien in the stomach, pulling his guts out. As Damien fell
down, the silhouette of his skeleton appeared on the graveyard
walls. Nature had punished him using his own crooked ways.
At that moment, rains poured from the heavens, rejoicing
the death of the vile creature. The spirits left Goodwill and
ascended to their heavenly abode, thanking their friend.
For a while, Goodwill soaked in the rain, willing it to wash
away all the dreadful events from his memory, before heading
home to his comforting coffee and welcoming bed.
–—
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sujatha Sugumaran is currently pursuing her bachelor's in
English Literature at Anna Adarsh College for Women,
Chennai. She enjoys writing poetry, which she posts on
Instagram, and short ction, which she posts on Wattpad.
Her other interests include travelling and painting. She
aspires to become a diplomat in the Indian Foreign Service.
You can follow her poetry account on Instagram at
e ff u l g e n t _ t h o u g h t s . Yo u c a n w r i t e t o h e r a t
sujatha1899@gmail.com.

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45 | OCTOBER 2018
 T ia and Pia
She stared at the e-mail message on the screen,
her mind racing so fast that the words blurred
and no longer made any sense.
It was ten in the morning. She had just woken up. Like
always, even before brushing her teeth, she logged on to her
computer. Little did she know that the moment she opened her
Gmail account, her world would be shaken to the core, almost
like an earthquake.
She stared at the e-mail message on the screen, her mind
racing so fast that the words blurred and no longer made any
sense. Just three lines, but enough to make her life—the life
she'd worked so hard and sacriced so much to build—begin to
crumble around her.
The email said:
Tia,
I'm sorry. We can't be together anymore. Please forget
everything and move on.
Goodbye,
Kartik
Now, a ve-year long relationship generally doesn't end on
that note.
Someone she loved more than herself; trusted to the zenith;
had planned her future with; knew for sure would be her life
partner; used to ght with for one hour only to make up in the
next; could shout at any time; could listen to always; who, for
her, could ght with anyone —that someone , 'the most
important', 'the most loving', 'the most special' someone was
going away from her all of a sudden, for reasons best known
only to him; thereby creating a vacuum in her life, which was
certainly way too difcult for her to live with.
“What would you do, if I leave you some day?” Kartik used
By
Karan
to ask her jokingly, sometimes, just to pull her leg.
Now that question repeatedly rang in her ears. Her usual
reply would be, “I'll kill you,” but right now he wasn't there to
listen to her answer.
Quite expectedly, she was shocked and heartbroken too.
She couldn't control her emotions well, like some people can.
She cried out loud. While it was important for her to cry and
release the pain, there had to be an end even to that. But, her tears
kept owing for more than a couple of hours. She was alone at
her place, with nobody to console her. May be, that's why...
However, around 2 p.m. her roomie, Roma, returned from
the theatre. It took her some time to calm Tia down, but,
eventually, she stopped sobbing.
After a while, Roma tried to get to the heart of the issue, and
began questioning Tia, her bestie, to understand what exactly
had happened.
“Tell me...Did you have any ght with Kartik yesterday or
today? ... Are you sure, it's not a prank?”
“Neither did we ght, nor is this a prank,” Tia told her.
“Okay...Okay...Any other girl? I mean...,” Roma
interrupted.
“No. I can doubt anything but his degree of commitment,”
Tia was quick to negate any such possibilities.
“Did you reply to his email?” was the next question.
“Yeah. I did. But, got a Failure Daemon message stating
that the e-mail id no longer exists,” Tia promptly replied.
“What about his mobile number? WhatsApp, Facebook?”
OCTOBER 2018 | 46

Roma enquired.
“It seems heand
Tia has blocked
Pia me everywhere,” stated Tia .
“And you don't know any of his friends, right?” Roma
muttered.
Tia nodded and said, “He never introduced me to any of his
friends. In fact, every time I talked about you, he'd tell me to
stop. As far as common friends are concerned, we don't have
even one. I was always keen to party along with his friends, but
he always dodged such requests of mine by citing some stupid
superstitions that he had himself planted in his life.”
“Yes, I told you, this is so strange. I always wanted to ask,
but I never did, what kind of superstitions?” Roma asked, in
wonder.
“He used to tell me that he believed that he might lose me if
more people got to know that we are a couple. Some strange and
silly superstition. All superstitions are strange, by default,” Tia
answered.
“So, you guys didn't ght. No love-triangle scene either.
Yet a break-up...rather, I should say, a one-sided breakup. That
certainly is quite mysterious.”
“I wonder if he's under some sort of pressure”, Roma
added.
“No matter what it is or what it may be, I'll never forgive
him,” an emotionally down, angry Tia yelled at herself.
“Relax Baby. Let's not judge him without knowing the
47 | OCTOBER 2018
Tia and Pia
entire matter. We need to nd out what's going on,” Roma said,
trying to take control of the situation.
“What relax? I trusted him a lot, but he betrayed me for no
reason. God can, even the world can, but I can't forgive him. I
won't forgive him. I'll commit suicide, and hold him responsible
for that. He destroyed me. I'll destroy him back,” Tia started
crying, again.
“What nonsense are you talking? You aren't that low a
person to do such things. Be calm, and let's try to gure out
together the Whats and Whys of the situation,” a rm Roma
tried controlling her again. “Now, listen. He has blocked you.
He doesn't know me, not well, that is. So, possibly, he wouldn't
have blocked me. These days, you can nd almost everything
and everyone under the Sun, through social media.”
They then tried accessing Kartik's Facebook account, but
Kartik turned out to be smarter than they had thought him to be.
He didn't just block Roma, but, also all of Tia's friends.
But Roma was no less. She created another account, and
then, was able to access his prole. The poor guy had missed out
on one simple setting. He could have either simply deactivated
his account or made his account, posts, friend lists, and so on not
public, that is, visible to only those he chose — himself, friends,
or friends of friends. He went the long and not-so-smart and
secretive route.
Anyway, the reason Roma wanted to take a look at his
Tia and Pia
prole was to see who all had become his Facebook friends
recently. Despite all that Tia said, Roma had a feeling that there
was a third angle —in this case, another girl. The search result
was there in front of both. In the last one month, only two new
connections had been made. While one was a married lady,
Anita, the other was a girl named Tina. It didn't take them long
to make out that both these new Facebook friends of Kartik were
somehow related/connected to each other, for both (as per their
proles) belonged to the same city (Kanpur), and had the same
surname.
Now, before Roma could say anything, Tia started, “Yeah,
you were right, Roma. See, he's marrying this girl now, and this
lady is his mother-in-law to be. Kartik is such a thug. He's just
another dog...He's...”
“Calm down. Calm down, baby. Right now, we are close to
the truth. But, we haven't found it yet. So, don't speculate. We
can do all that anytime later,” Roma stressed.
Roma then texted a 'Hi' to Tina on Facebook Messenger, to
which she got a response almost instantly. Now, Roma didn't
want to waste anybody's time. She got straight to the point.
“So, how do you know Kartik?” Roma asked her.
“How does that matter to you?” Tina replied with a counter
question.
“It does a lot to my friend. Maybe we should be
straightforward with each other. You may not be aware, but a lot
of lives are at stake right now,” Roma tried explaining herself.
“What...???? See, I'm not getting you. I don't know you at
all. Please, can you tell me what you want from me?” several
bullets red simultaneously at Roma.
“I understand. Maybe we should talk over the phone.
Would have been better if we could meet, but you seem to be in
Kanpur, and I happen to be in Gurgaon,” Roma replied.
“Wait a minute. Why would I talk or meet a stranger?” Tina
questioned again.
“The fact that it has got something to do with Kartik should
be enough of a concern to you, I believe,” an angry Roma
replied, in all caps! .
“You told me you live in Gurgaon, right? Okay. Let's meet
at Cafe Coffee Day, Ambience Mall, tomorrow at 11 in the
morning”, she said in one line.
“You are in Gurgaon?” Roma asked.
“CCD, Ambience Mall, 11 AM, tomorrow. Talk to you
there,” Tina signed off.
–—
Post this conversation, it was almost clear to both Roma and
Tia that something was brewing between Kartik and Tina. And
the whole evening Tia kept on muttering, “That bitch, Tina, took
Kartik away from me. What does she have? Just an extra 'N'?”
Next day, they all met at the decided venue. Now, when Tia
and Roma reached there, they saw someone else along with
Tina.
Before they could ask, Tina herself introduced her to them,
“She's my elder sister, Pia. She's getting married to Kartik next
week, and because you mentioned that you had something to tell
about him, I thought it right to have his wife-to be too to listen to
that.”
“The thing is, I and Kartik have been in quite a steady ve-
year long relationship,” Tia sighed, and said. “He means
everything to me. I didn't know why he suddenly left me, but
now I know the reason. You're responsible for this debacle. You
bitch!”
Tia got up, knocking her coffee cup to the ground, and
stormed out of the café.
Roma tried to stop Tia, but in vain. She then apologized to
Tina and her sister, on Tia's behalf; stayed on to have coffee with
them; and tried to explain to them how strongly and deeply Tia
and Kartik were committed to each other, and how everything
just changed in an instant, way too abruptly, and in a very weird
manner too.
The meet got over by 12 noon. Roma even wished Pia the
best, while seeing them off.
That's quite a good gesture, some people might think -- a
sign of a clean-hearted human-being. On the other hand, for
some it may seem a little strange because Roma should have at
least tried to persuade Pia to call off the marriage, but, she chose
not to do so. Her bestie, her roomie, was being put through a
turbulent situation, for which none but Pia was largely
responsible; and here she was shaking hands with her, and
wishing her a happy married life. Anyway, that is how it all went
down.
Later, at around 5 p.m. in the evening, while Roma was
watching television, Tia got several calls from an unknown
number, but they all went unanswered, because Tia was
sleeping. Eventually, the repeated rings woke her up.
“Who the hell is this calling me?” she asked.
“Sorry baby. Kartik here. Sorry about that e-mail. I know
you must be angry, but, please give me a chance to explain
myself. Please...,” Kartik said, apologetically.
Tia didn't respond, but, didn't end the call either.
"Sorry baby. Kartik here.
Sorry about that e-mail. I know
you must be angry, but,
please give me a chance to
explain myself. Please...,"
Kartik said, apologetically.
OCTOBER 2018 | 48

“So, it wasn't just because of me. I was just sacricing our
love and relationship, for my sister. The thing is, no matter
which family we approached for my sister's marriage, they all
asked for a huge amount of dowry. You know my family isn't
that sound nancially, and can't afford to give a huge dowry to
anyone. So, they thought of getting a similar amount from
someone else, for my marriage. Coincidentally, they were able
to nd one such family. I'm ashamed to say this, but, indeed,
they were kind of selling me to that family. That's the way I see
dowry. Maybe I was brain-washed for some time, or maybe I
was restless seeing the condition of my family, but, it was my
mistake that I agreed to what they had decided for me.
“After you and your roomie met Pia this morning, Pia
called me and asked me about our relationship. I told her
everything. And you know what, whatever wrong path my
family was pushing me into, she just put me back in the reverse
direction, i.e. the right path. She assured me that she would call
off the marriage, provided I go back to you - no matter what it
takes. As for my sister's marriage, we will nd for her a suitable
match, and not wed her to any greedy and materialistic person.
“That's all, your honour,” Kartik concluded.
“Hmm...But, how can I be sure that you won't do this
again?” Tia asked.
“I don't think there's anything bigger and cleaner than
marriage as a guarantee in our society. We're getting married
tonight in the temple. We can go for the extensive version later,
but let's close the doors to chances of any such mishaps once and
for all,” Kartik summed up.
Silence still...
“I am sorry, Tia. Please forgive me!”
Silence.
“And by the way, you know what. It wasn't the abuse that
you hurled at Pia that made her do this. It was your friend's
simple, plain assertion of our relationship to her, and my honest
confession that inuenced her,” Kartik further added.
“Then, why don't you marry Roma instead?” saying that
Tia cut the call.
–—
49 | OCTOBER 2018
Tia and Pia
“Your wedding gown is ready there in your wardrobe,
baby,” Tia heard Roma speak.
“Hey. I have been meaning to ask you, how did you cut this
deal?” Tia promptly asked Roma.
“I just did what I'm good at,” replied Roma, with a sly
smile. “I acted in front of them. I kind of indirectly threatened
them. I started off by saying that it's good for Kartik that he's not
getting married to an insane person like you. I told them that you
suffer from split personality disorder. To substantiate that, I
instantly wove and narrated cock and bull stories of you causing
physical harm to a lot of girls in the past who once tried to enter
Kartik's life. The way you expressed your anger did the rest. I
shook hands with her, and even gave her my best wishes.
Anyway, by that time, she had got an idea of what could have
happened to her had she gone ahead and married Kartik,” Roma
chuckled.
“What?!” exclaimed Tia.
“I am sure Pia was all praises for me when she talked to
Kartik. He probably told you that. Didn't he?" Roma continued.
“Yeah...But...” Tia was dumbfounded
“You go get ready now. Time is running out,” Roma said,
back in control.
–—
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A software engineering professional, Karan has been
writing for the last eight years, with few
published/adapted works in almost all the forms of
writing - poetry, short stories, articles, write-ups,
spoofs, advertisements, and slogans. A realistic
idealist, a true optimist, and a strong believer in
Karma, Karan likes watching cricket and movies in his
free time. Currently, he's busy working on the draft of
his dream novel. You can write to him at
www.anishanand@yahoo.co.in.
 Uncertainty
Depression
Love
“There is freshness in Attri’s style of writing…. I am glad that he has touched a social
cause..If he continues using his quill then I foresee a bright future of Attri in penman
world.” – Shriniwas Joshi, Himachal Tribune

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S T O R I E S B Y
 J ourney to the
'Mirror World'
I will tell you what is at the poles - 'mystery'.
Have you ever wondered what is at the poles?
If you think and say with full of condence that there is
snow, icebergs, and lots of strong, cold winds blowing, then
think again.
I will tell you what is at the poles - 'mystery'.
"Mystery?!" you will shout with an unbelievable tone, and
your stomach will start wriggling with excitement, I know that.
I am about to tell you the darkest secret of my life, so don't
go around screaming about it. When I was about nine or ten years
old, I had to study several lessons. The subjects I studied were
maths, science, English, and social studies. I did not like social
studies, and tried to ignore it a lot. But alas! My exams came and
thus, I had to sit and study the boring subjects of geography and
history.
Studying geography means learning about different
countries, their temperature, their physical features, and so on,
and especially about the poles. I had a habit of surng the
Internet to read up about whatever I read. So, as usual, I started to
search for information on the poles.
I was glad I did so.
A news piece I came across said:
A giant hole has been found at the North Pole. NASA is
deliberately trying to hide it. This giant hole can lead you to the
centre of the earth.
I thought, “Nobody really has the guts to go to the centre of
the Earth. What if they get burned even before they covered half
By
Samiya
Rahaman
of the distance, or if a monster ate them?”
My head was full of silly and stupid ideas.
I picked up a globe, and, God knows what came to my mind,
I started to unscrew the metal screw and the rod. There was a
hole, into which the metal rod went, and acted as the axis. I
looked through the hole and what I saw nearly gave me a heart
attack!
It was the universe! With the solar system and the seven
planets! I could clearly see the earth. I wanted to go there so
much! I pointed my nger towards the hole, and I got pulled in
like a bubblegum that bursts and gets sucked into the mouth.
Suddenly I was inside the globe. I could clearly see the hole
through which I had come. And believe it or not, it was a black
hole, and only black holes pull you towards themselves with
such force.
I discovered that I was breathing, right in space, where there
is no oxygen! I found myself getting closer to Earth, which was
giving off a bluish light. I entered Earth's atmosphere, got the
shake of my life, and shot toward the ground at the speed of a
rocket.
I could not believe my luck! How did I manage to enter
Earth's atmosphere without burning? All of this was a mystery,
and I still haven't managed to discover the real reason.
Now back to the story.
So, after having entered the atmosphere, within eight to
nine minutes, I reached the surface of the earth. I could not
OCTOBER 2018 | 52

believe the smoothness with which I had landed. This was also
an additional mystery to me, aside from the one before.
I felt a slight movement behind me. Turning around, I found
my own self watering the plants. I stood there, aghast by what I
had seen. How can there be two of the same persons at a time in
different places?
My replica had also seen me. She let out a scream, dropped
the watering can, and ran inside the house. I looked around and
noticed that all the surroundings and buildings were the same as I
had seen on Earth. Suddenly, a person who was a replica of my
dad emerged. He looked around cautiously, as though to make
sure nobody was watching, and then carefully led me inside the
house.
He said “Would you like some cookies?”
I nodded.
He came back holding a bowl full of cookies. It was then
53 | OCTOBER 2018
Journey to the 'Mirror World'
that I noticed a sickening sight. My father was wearing a
woman's dress! And before I could say anything my mom,
rather, her identical twin, appeared in a police ofcer's uniform,
which should have been my father's outt. Mom said, “Today
was one of the busiest days at work. Following an investigation,
I put one murderer and two thieves in jail.”
I also saw my duplicate wearing a boy's dress, although she
was supposed to be wearing a girl's.
I could not stand the sight and started shouting, “Why are
you all wearing dresses of the opposite gender?? If you think this
is fashionable, then I must say that you have got very bad taste ,
and it is very sickening!!”.
All the three copies were looking at me with an amazed
expression, which soon turned into something calm.
My mom's replica said, “Are you new to Mirror world?”
“Mirror world? What Mirror world?” I asked, still not
Journey to the 'Mirror World'

daring to believe the scenes oating in front of my eyes.
“Well, have you noticed your reection in the mirror?”
asked my duplicate mom.
"Well, have you noticed your
reection in the mirror?"
asked my duplicate mom.
I shrugged clumsily, and with a lot of difculty managed not
to roll my eyes, “Of course I have.”
My duplicate mom said, “The image shows lateral
inversion, doesn't it? The left side appears to be the right side and
the right side seems to be the left side. Just like that, this planet
Earth is called the 'Mirror world'. Everything is opposite. A man
does all the work of a woman, and a woman does all the work of a
man. A man wears a woman's dress, and a woman wears the
dress of a man as it happens on your Earth. A foolish man
becomes a clever man, and a clever man becomes a foolish
man.”
“What?!” I said, shocked.
My duplicate mom said, “Yes. And you'd better return to
your own planet. All the scientists over the news were saying
that this could happen.”
After that I don't remember how I got back to Earth. I found
myself lying on my bed.
When I told my dad all about my adventure, he gave me a
deathly glare, and blew his top, “Don't try to give me all that
nonsense! Go and study.”
That day I realised that as people grow old, they dismiss the
stories we children tell them as rubbish.
Well, all you children out there, I told you this in the hope
that you will believe me. I am sure you will not brush this aside
as rubbish.
And nally, I want to tell you that I have tried several times
to go to mirror world again, but I have been unable to.
–—
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Samiya Rahaman is twelve years old and hails from
West Bengal. She is currently studying in the seventh
grade at Shri Shikshayatan School, Kolkata. Reading
is her favourite pastime. Her father, Ekbalur
Rahaman, is a sub-inspector with the West Bengal
Police. Her mother, Kohinur Sultana, is a housewife.
She has a brother, Ahiyan Rahaman.

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OCTOBER 2018 | 54
 T he Knight of
Endornia
Ever since she could remember, she had been told
that her parents lived and worked in Houston.
It had been a very busy day for Emma, and she didn't even
realise when she hit her pillow and fell into a deep sleep. Next
morning, she woke up hearing her sister screaming at the top of
her voice. “Wake up, Emma! Wake up!” she said.
Emma rose from her bed only to see that it was early in the
morning and still dark outside. To her surprise, her room was
crowded with her family members. She blinked twice to conrm
if these people were really there.
“ Happy Birthday!” they said together.
She realized it was 21st January and she was going to go to
Houston to meet her parents. She was more excited about the
visit than her birthday. Tears of joy welled up in her eyes as she
hugged her relatives. She had turned twenty-one.
Never could she forget the day of her 21st birthday. It was
fun, cutting the cake, while she was still in her pyjamas.
By eight in the morning, everyone started to leave. She
quickly bathed and got ready for the day.
Emma lived in Lake Jackson, Texas with her elder sister,
Rose.
Rose had a job and could earn enough for two people, or at
least, Emma thought so. In fact, Rose received money from her
parents every month even though she earned a little by working
in a charity.
Ever since she could remember, she had been told that her
parents lived and worked in Houston. What Emma didn't know
was that her parents were the King and Queen of a magical
55 | OCTOBER 2018
By
Vidhi
Bhanushali
kingdom called Endornia. Rose had decided to tell Emma
everything when she turned twenty-one, and the day had nally
arrived.
After nishing their breakfast, both packed their bags and
left for Houston. While driving, Rose revealed everything to
Emma. Emma's eyes widened and her jaw dropped. With each
word that left her sister's mouth, she became more and more
astonished.
They reached Houston in an hour. Emma was still in shock.
It was too much for her to digest. Rose drove to the Hall of
Ancient Egypt at Houston Museum of Natural Science. Emma
followed her as they entered a secret passage that was
completely dark. To Emma's surprise, Rose's hand glowed! The
light that emerged from her hand guided them on that never-
ending path.
“How are you doing that?” asked Emma, surprised.
“I've been practising since I was twenty,” replied Rose with
a smile.
“I have so much to learn,” realised Emma.
Rose agreed. It had taken her a lot of time and practice to
master that.
Finally, Rose stopped in front of a door, and Emma nearly
bumped into her. She removed the chain with the owl pendant
from her neck—the one she never took off; it was almost a part
of her. She touched that pendant to the doorknob, and the door
ew open, blinding Emma with light. When her vision cleared,
The Knight of Endornia
she saw that she was in the centre of what looked like an ancient
royal courtroom with two people sitting on thrones. Her body
froze at the sight of them.
The king and queen rose from their seats. They smiled at
Rose and turned towards Emma.
“Welcome, Princess Emma, to the kingdom of Endornia.”
Emma's heart skipped a beat.
They were her parents!
She rushed towards them; and her parents, the King and
Queen of Endornia, embraced her with warmness.
It was Emma's best birthday. She was shown to her room
where three of her personal ladies-in-waiting awaited her. After
seeing her room, she went in search of Rose. She asked a few
servants whom she met about Rose.
“The princess is in the library, Your Grace,” said one of the
servants, pointing to her left.
Emma thanked them and hurried towards the library. As
she walked into the doorway, she bumped into some woman,
sending the poor woman's books and papers ying by.
“I'm so very sor-“
“How dare you!” the woman interrupted her.
She narrowed her snake-like green eyes at Emma and made
a face of disgust.
“Oh! It is the new little princess Emma. May I ask why you
were running so fast? Or do you think it is just your lthy family
that lives in this palace?” she snarled. Emma inched at the
word “lthy”.
“I'm so sorry. I didn't mean any harm. I was looking for my
sister Rose. The servants said she was in the library, so I headed
this way,” Emma said, while she helped the woman pick up her
books and papers.
The lady snatched them out of her hand, and stormed past
her without saying another word.
“Great! First day in my home, and I've already made an
enemy,” Emma scolded herself.
As she opened the doors of the Library, her mouth opened
in amazement.
The place was really enormous. She entered, and turned a
full circle to see the innite number of books on the shelves.
She had always loved books, and this library felt so
magical.
“Emma!” shouted Rose.
Emma returned to reality recalling why she was in the
library— to nd Rose.
Emma spotted her descending the stairs, waving at Emma
as she approached.
“I was about to come to your room,” said Rose.
“Why?”
“Father has announced a ball this evening on the occasion
of your birthday.”
“Oh!” Emma said, astonishingly.
“You don't need to feel stressed. I was planning to take you
to Mother. She has a surprise for you,” said Rose, with a smile.
Emma was touched by her sister's words. Everyone cared
so much about her.
As Rose led her to the queen, Emma thought about the kind
of queen her mother would be. She thought of Alice's
Adventures in Wonderland. Will she be like the Red Queen or
the White Queen?
She came back to her senses when Rose called her name.
“We're here,” Rose said, as the doors of her mother's
bedroom opened.
Her mother was sitting on the chair of the dressing table
with a mirror in front of her.
“Emma, my little princess. Come here.”
She smiled at Emma from the mirror.
Okay, maybe she was the white queen after all, thought
Emma.
She did as she was told by Rose, and knelt in front of her
mother, as one of the ladies-in-waiting braided the Queen's hair.
Her mother cupped her face with her soft hands and kissed her
forehead.
“How do you feel being here?” she asked.
“Home,” replied Emma.
It really felt like home. At last, her parents were with her.
The Queen smiled and gestured to her servants, as Emma
stood up.
“I have a surprise for you.”
Oh, great. Just great. Another surprise, thought Emma.
Her mother stood up and turned her around by her
shoulders.
Emma couldn't believe her eyes.
Right in front of her was very beautiful light-purple ball
gown with a heart shaped neck, and smooth silk fabric, falling
off in two layers beneath the waist.
“Happy Birthday, little princess,” said the Queen.
Tears of joy escaped Emma's eyes, and she hugged her
mother. The gown was so stunning.
“Thank you so much.”
“Oh, don't thank me. It was Rose's idea. Besides, the ball is
going to start in a few hours and you still have to get ready. So,
stop thanking and go get dressed,” said the Queen, hurriedly.
So denitely “the white queen”!
Emma wiped her tears, and rushed to her room with Rose.
“I'll get ready in a few minutes and come to pick you up,”
said Rose, when they neared Emma's room.
OCTOBER 2018 | 56

As soon as Emma opened the doors, the maids she had met
earlier rushed in behind her, with her beautiful gown.
They helped her wear the gown and made her sit on the
chair in front of the full-length mirror.
The gown tted her so well. She imagined how it would
feel to twirl in it.
Her maids started with her curly, long light brown hair.
They pinned the front of her hair with pins, and let her curls
cascade. As Emma continued to admire herself, the maids
perfected her look. Hearing a soft knock, one of the maids
opened the door, and Emma saw Rose standing in her blue
gown, simpler than Emma's, but elegant enough, with a
matching tiara on her head.
“You look beautiful.” Rose said, as she walked in front of
her.
“So do you,” smiled Emma.
“Come, everyone's ready.”
Emma wore her sandals and took her sister's hand in hers,
as they headed towards the ballroom.
Emma was anxious to meet everyone.
She met her parents at the top of the stairs leading to the
ballroom.
Her father smiled at her, and placed a kiss on her and Rose's
forehead.
They descended the stairs together, with the King and
Queen in front and Emma and Rose following right behind.
Everyone in the room faced them and broke into a murmur.
They went to their seats and stood there.
“People of Endornia, may I present to you, Princess Emma,
second to the throne of Endornia.”
The crowd broke into applause.
Emma bowed to the crowd but her mind was lost on the last
line said by her father.
“Second to the throne of Endornia! Will I have to be a
Queen someday?” thought Emma. “Of course I will have to rule
this kingdom, since my father is the King. How stupid of me to
even doubt this statement” she chided herself.
But still she felt that it was going to be a huge responsibility.
She shifted that thought away and tried to look calm.
Her father took a small, purple tiara from one of the
ministers, and turned towards her.
She bowed her head, and he placed the diadem on her head.
She rose and smiled at her father, and then turned towards
the crowd.
“Daughter of King Rafeal and Queen Aurora, Princess
Emma of Endornia,” announced the King.
The crowd cheered in response.
The next few hours ew by like the wind. Emma was so
happy. It really was her best birthday ever. She met many new
57 | OCTOBER 2018
The Knight of Endornia
people.
Then, just as she was admiring the crowd, she spotted the
woman whom she had bumped into while heading for the
library. Somehow she did not like her; she carried a strange and
mean aura.
Rose noticed Emma staring openly at the woman.
“Oh, don't stare so. That's Lady Leticia. She's quite full of
herself,” Rose warned.
“Yeah, I learned that the hard way,” Emma pitied herself.
“What do you mean?” Rose asked confused.
“I wanted to ask you earlier but I forgot. When I was headed
to the library to search for you, I bumped into her,” admitted
Emma.
And she narrated the whole episode.
Just when their conversation nished, a boy of her age
approached her.
“Your Highness.” He bowed and kissed Rose's hand.
“Trystan, I've told you so many times. Please stop calling
me that,” Rose smiled, annoyingly.
The boy giggled and turned towards Emma.
“Emma, this is Trystan, your cousin brother,” Rose said, as
Trystan bowed to Emma.
“At last! I have someone of my age now,” Trystan said,
merrily.
“I'll leave you two, then. Enjoy your evening,” Rose said,
and left to attend to the King who had called her.
“Do you want to dance?” asked Trystan.
“Well, I'm not an expert,” said Emma.
“I insist,” said Trystan, with a smile.
“Do I have a choice then?” Emma returned the smile.
Trystan laughed at her humour, and taking her by the hand,
led her to the centre of the ballroom. The rhythm of the music
changed as Emma swayed gently in Trystan's arms. She twirled
in the gown, just as she had imagined earlier. Soon the music
ended and they stopped dancing.
Suddenly, Emma heard the most horrible cry followed by a
roar. Everyone in the room froze in their places.
In a fraction of a second, the wall towards the garden burst
open and a giant dragon entered the room.
Emma was too shocked to move, but Trystan grabbed her
by the hand, and ran towards the main gate of the castle. Emma
stopped abruptly.
“What?!” asked Trystan, frustrated.
“My parents and Rose are still in there! I cannot leave
them,” said Emma.
“Emma!”
She spun around at the familiar voice only to nd her
parents and Rose running towards her.
The Knight of Endornia

Her father held her by the shoulders, and said,
“Listen to me carefully, Princess. You have to go with
Trystan to a safe place. We've been expecting this attack…”
"Listen to me carefully,
Princess. You have to go
with Trystan to a safe place.
We’ve been expecting this
attack…"
“But I don't want to leave you guys behind,” she replied,
and paused. “By saying you have been expecting this attack, do
you mean it is happening because of me?”
“I'm sorry Emma, there's very little time to explain
everything.”
There was a loud BOOM!
Her mother came in front of her, and kissed her forehead.
“Go!” she said.
Trystan caught her tightly by the arm, so tight that it hurt.
And together they ran. Emma struggled to keep pace, but kept
on moving.
They approached the stables and Trystan took a saddled jet
black stallion and helped Emma mount it. He jumped in front of
her and kicked the horse hard enough for him to gallop as fast as
the wind.
“Hold on!” Trystan shouted, as Emma started to slip from
the saddle.
“It's going to run faster!”
The wind whipped Emma's face and hair. She hung on to
Trystan's waist for dear life.
The ride felt like hours.
Finally, the wind slapping her face slowed into a calming
breeze. She was nearly asleep on Trystan's back when the horse
stopped.
“Where are we?” Emma asked, as she scanned the area.
The forest they were running through was left far behind
them, and in front stood a long, old gate.
“It's your grandmother's house,” replied Trystan.
Emma was surprised. So apparently she had a
grandmother, living in the castle that stood in front of her.

OCTOBER 2018 | 58

Before she could ask further questions, the gate opened by itself
and they proceeded inside.
She got off the horse, half asleep, and followed the servants
that led her to a room.
She was so tired she didn't even realize that Trystan wasn't
near her. But she was too exhausted to nd out where he was,
nor did she realize that she was still in her purple gown. As she
was shown to her room, she didn't even bother to change, and
collapsed on the comfortable bed.
–—
She woke up with sunlight streaming from the windows
into her room. As she blinked her eyes open, the last day's events
came ashing back. Her parents were the King and Queen of the
magical kingdom of Endornia. She was the second heir to the
throne, and she escaped with Trystan on the back of a horse to
her grandmother's castle.
Wait, where was Trystan?
She got out of bed and surveyed the room.
There was a bathroom, a closet with a warrior's battle attire,
and a full-length mirror.
She cleaned herself, and wore the dress that was kept in the
closet. They tted her perfectly. She pulled her hair into a high
ponytail, and left the room. Two guards were positioned right
outside her door.
“Princess, you are expected to go to the dining hall,” said
one of the guards.
“And where exactly am I going to nd that?” asked Emma.
“Follow me, Princess,” said the guard, with a hint of a
smile.
She did as she was told, and followed him to the dining hall.
There was a long table in middle of the room with all seats
occupied except for one.
Everyone stared at her.
She stood transxed.
“Princess Emma,” said the woman sitting at the head of the
long table. She looked to be in her sixties. It was her
grandmother.
“Please take a seat.”
She took the only seat that was left, next to Trystan.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hello,” replied Emma.
“Welcome to Endornia. Please eat rst. I know you might
be famished,” continued her grandmother.
Emma really was ravenous.
They ate in silence, and after everyone had left the room,
Emma's grandmother led her towards the garden.
“You might be having a million questions in your mind
right now, I'm sure,” said her grandmother.
“More than a million,” admitted Emma.
59 | OCTOBER 2018
The Knight of Endornia
“You can ask me anything you want. After yesterday's
incident, you have the right to know everything.”
“Umm, why did the dragon attack the palace yesterday?”
“Okay, that question has a very big answer. Let's start from
the beginning. There are seven kingdoms, like Endornia, all
over the world. The nearest to Endornia is Avalon. Well, you see
the bond between them is not that good. The king of Avalon is
very jealous of your father's kindness and the way he handles
the kingdom. But during a war, the king of Avalon had saved
your father's life unintentionally, so that he could win the war,
and to repay his kindness, your father had asked for anything the
king wanted.
“The king smartly asked for the throne of Endornia, but
your father was no less intelligent. He agreed on one condition,
that as long as his heirs are alive and he himself is alive, the King
of Avlon will not get the throne. That settled the matter
temporarily, but your father then realized the mistake he had
made. He had put you and your sister's life in danger.”
“So, that dragon had actually come to kill me and Rose,”
murmured Emma.
“And your father. Dragons are vicious creatures,''
continued her grandmother.
“Okay, another question, where is my family right now?”
asked Emma.
She'd been worried about them.
“Oh! What timing. They are right behind you.”
Emma turned around.
Seeing her family, she rushed towards them and hugged
them.
“I was so concerned about you all,” she said.
“It is yourself you should be worried about,” said Rose.
Her mother shushed Rose.
“It's okay, Mom, I know everything. Grandma told me,”
Emma said.
After her family got cleaned up and ready, Emma followed
them towards the empty ground where soldiers and mages
practised.
Her grandmother was waiting for them.
“After yesterday's attack, your father realized that it is
important that you know how to defend yourself when there is
no one around to save you,” said her grandmother to Emma,
while her family went to relax in a nearby tent.
–—
The rest of the week ew by, and Emma became stronger
day by day. She learned magical skills from her grandmother,
while a female soldier, Penelope, taught her the art of combat.
Her day was full of activities – she didn't have time for herself.
She woke up early and went jogging with Penelope. She
returned ravenous and ate a very heavy breakfast. This was
followed by a session to enhance her magical skills with her
The Knight of Endornia

grandmother. Then she practised the art of defending and
ghting with Penelope. After lunch, was her favourite
part—studying politics in the library, with Rose and her father.
Soon after nishing her dinner, she would return to her room and
go into hibernation.
All this while, Emma had been wondering where Trystan
was. She hadn't seen her since the morning she met her
grandmother. And no one knew about his whereabouts.
–—
One morning, when she was doing her usual rounds with
Penelope through the safe parts of the forests , an arrow zipped
past her head and she ducked, in time.
An attack!
She ran with Penelope to warn everyone. She was
instructed of what to do in case of an attack like this and thanked
her father silently. An army of enemy soldiers came rushing
from the side of the forest. Thankfully everyone was safe inside
the palace and ready for them. Their own army rushed out of the
castle, and in no time the enemy soldiers started falling. The few
that were left just ed.
–—
When the enemy soldiers were gone and the attack stopped,
Emma was dragged inside by Penelope and Rose, who told her
that it was very risky of her to stand guard.
Emma didn't like that thought, but being with her family
and knowing they were safe made her feel relieved.
–—
Not long after they had returned to their castle, they came to
know the truth.
Lady Leticia and Trystan had been the spies for Avalon.
They were the ones who kept informing the enemy king of all
the movements of Emma's family.
Emma had saved her kingdom and her people from the
attack. For this act of bravery, she was knighted and soon came
to be known as the Knight of Endornia.
–—
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Vidhi Bhanushali is a student of eighth grade at Pawar
Public School (Bhandup). A big Harry Potter fan, she loves
reading ction and listening to music. Residing in Mumbai
with her family, she dreams of becoming an author.

Yashwant Singh Parmar:

A Political Biography
By
Dr. Rajender Attri

Ÿ Inspired by the huge and unique

contributions made by Dr.
Yashwant Singh Parmar in the
creation and shaping of
Himachal Pradesh.
Ÿ Historical and analytical in
approach.

Order at:sarlapublications.com
Also available on

OCTOBER 2018 | 60
 SOHINEE READS
& REVIEWS
BY
SOHINEE DEY

Tied to Deceit
by Neena H. Brar
Pages: 328
Publisher: Penguide Books
Publication Date: 4 August, 2018
Genre: Fiction/Mystery/Thriller

About the Author:

Neena H. Brar lives in Edmonton, Canada with her husband, two children, a highly
energetic German Shepherd, and a lifetime collection of her favourite books. A
hermit at heart, she's a permissive mother, a reluctant housekeeper, a superb cook,
and a hard-core reader. Tied to Deceit is her debut novel.

I love crime ction, murder mysteries and anything that has

to do with nding a killer and discovering secrets. I think I
have established my love for this genre so, before I get
distracted further, let me get to the review right away!
Tied to Deceit is a mystery novel spun around the death of
Devika Singh, a woman who was known for her manipulative
behaviour, secret nature and clandestine affairs.
The story is centred around a hospital and the characters
constitute mostly doctors, nurses and patients. The backdrop of
the story is a place called Sanover in Himachal Pradesh.
It is in the month of August that the murder takes place.
Superintendent of Police, Viswanath Sharma takes charge of the
case and slowly starts to uncover bits and pieces of Devika's life,
which she had kept secret. From these discoveries, many people
are suspected of being guilty of her murder. Some of the leading
suspects include Dr Bharadwaj with whom she had an affair,
Mrs Bharadwaj who knew about her affair with her husband and
was fed up with his debauchery, people at the hospital and even
her family members. All of these people had reasons to kill her
and when there are way too many suspects, the case becomes a
lot more difcult to solve.
I have read murder mysteries where I was unable to suspect
anyone because all of the characters didn't seem to have any
reason to kill the person but, in this book, it is quite the opposite.
Also, there's not much of bloodshed, no stalking or the usual
masked killer. There's only one murder and a neat one at that.
The murder scene isn't described that much so if you're someone
who can't stand vivid descriptions of such actions, good for you.
Along with a murder mystery at the heart of the book, there are
other themes which the book deals with; such as adultery,
deception and falsity.
The thing about the book is that even though most of the story
revolves around Devika, she is introduced into the storyline as a
secondary character. When I rst started reading this book, I
thought of Gayatri as the main protagonist because she had this
haughty demeanour about her and because she was the rst
character that was actually introduced. Then there was Dr
Bharadwaj, Rudra and the whole Bharadwaj family. So, I never
thought that the story would be about this woman who had an
affair with the doctor and even when I was reading that
particular scene, I was like “okay, she is going to be that
character whom everybody hates” but in the end she turned out

61 | OCTOBER 2018
Sohinee Reads and Reviews

to be sneaky.
Tied to Deceit is a very well-written book. For a debut author,
Neena has done an excellent job with the language. I don't get to
say this often but Neena's writing style is truly commendable.
She has a very good command over the language and knows
how to string words without making the sentences appear
ostentatious.
There's a lot of character detailing in the book. If I look at it from
a literary perspective, the minute details about the characters
really works well, but if I consider the murder mystery plot, I
think describing the characters a bit too much hampered the
ow of the story. Don't get me wrong, I loved each and every
character, as they were so well-developed but since the book is a
murder mystery, I think the pace is also a very important factor.
The book lagged in terms of a constant and smooth pace, which
did hinder the overall ow of the story.
All the characters are awed and no one is shown to be
extremely good or bad (except for Devika). Readers will nd
themselves in a constant dilemma as to whether they should
sympathise with a particular character or be angered by their
actions. The characters always kept me on my toes with their
actions and thoughts. Gayatri was very well structured. Her
character was one of the truest to life — wasn't too exaggerated,
yet enough to tell that she is human and not a doll.
Unlike in other mystery novels, where the emotions of the
characters aren't highlighted much, Neena made sure to show
her characters' emotions whole-heartedly. I could connect with
the characters, feel what they were going through and it was an
amazing experience.
Tied to Deceit is denitely a character-driven book rather than a
plot-driven one, considering its genre, not that I am
complaining.
Final Thoughts
The book is really compact in its composition. The narration is
precise. The scenes are well-described. All in all, the volume left
a positive impact on me, which translates to…I loved it. Except
for the pace being a tad slow and the character descriptions
being a little heavy, I enjoyed everything about the book.
Recommended to mystery and crime-ction lovers.

–—

Finding Your G-Spot in Life

by Geetika Saigal
Pages: 192

Publisher: Invincible Publishers

Publication Date: 29th April, 2018

Genre: Non-Fiction/Self-Help

About the Author:

Geetika Saigal is an MBA and Economics graduate; a corporate leader turned entrepreneur
turned writer, by profession; an explorer of the unknown and a believer in self-created destiny.
She chose the path of a life lived fully, explored globally, experienced intimately; before she
took a pause and started to write. This is her debut book.
Explore her daily inspirations via her Instagram handle @gstorytime.

A s a reader, I have never been a fan of self-help or

motivational books because at a point, all of them seem
to “preach” the same things over and over again and
another reason would be because I can't relate to them in any
way. I have read my fair share of motivational books but eh, the
motivation was only short-lived. I have a love–hate relationship
with non-ction as whole anyway. I have surely read some great
non-ction during the past two years but, if I had to pick, I would
always choose ction. I decided to take my chances with
Geetika Saigal's Finding Your G-Spot in Life and I wasn't
disappointed. Steering away from the conventional ways of
writing a self-help book, Geetika has written about her own life
experiences and she has given all the details from her childhood
to adulthood. This book talks about how Geetika decided to live
a miraculous life despite all the obstacles and the difculties she
had to face in her life.
Finding Your G-Spot in Life isn't preachy nor is it a book where
the author is “telling” you to do a list of things to make your life
more meaningful. Geetika shows how it is done.
The book is divided into four parts and each chapter comes with
a 'Do-It-Yourself' exercise. In the rst part, Geetika opens up her
heart and openly talks about her vulnerabilities. Later on, I
could see her growing and becoming stronger with each phase

OCTOBER 2018 | 62
 Sohinee Reads and Reviews

of her life. The Do-It-Yourself chapters help us analyse who we
are and what's our purpose in life but they are presented in a very
informal way.
The language is very simple and the author has approached the
narrative in a very friendly manner. She jokes, quotes some of
her thoughts which are very relatable but never really preaches
to the readers about what they should do and that's what I felt
was the biggest plus point of the book. She shows us how to do it
and what could be done to make our life more meaningful.
The title of the book is very quirky but it ts perfectly with the
content and the theme of the book. The writing style is very
casual and it felt as if I am listening to a friend talking to me.
I really loved this book given that I had decided to not read any
more self-help books. These 190 something pages left more of a
positive impact on me than any other books of this genre that I
have read. There were a few errors here and there but they can be
easily overlooked.
Final Thoughts
I am so happy that I nally read this book. I had delayed reading
it for so long because of the genre, but nally when I picked it
up, boy, was it good!
If you are someone like me who doesn't like self-help books or
think that they have the same old advices to offer, I recommend
you pick this book. You won't be disappointed.

–—

63 | OCTOBER 2018
 Sarla Publications, Shimla
Publishing Books on Himachal since 1998

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 Uncertainty
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