A Phenomenon called Percy Wadiwala

I’ve called Percy Wadiwala of The Slacker Tales as the Sachin Tendulkar of our little literary world. So good that the world loves him - even worships him, but that means that he is eternally cursed to perform, as if he is obliged to serve something better every time. I have read Percy’s stories, reviews, and excerpts consistently over a period of time and I can safely say that the God of Cricket will be happy to associate his name with this God King (a title aptly given to him by Aindrila and Pritesh).

So, Percy  Wadiwala  shared a short  story, ‘A Reason to Live’  with  Ritesh Kukrety. Ritesh reviewed it.   Imagine, a story which has been read by three to four people including the author gets a review on a blog! No, Ritesh isn’t a serial reviewer nor a serial blogger and knowing Percy, I know he would not have asked for it. The idea that Ritesh  had something  to say  about the story triggered a handful of people into asking Percy for the story, including me. I am late to begin, as well as a slow reader. When I got the story in my hand I knew I was going to take some time to read it. But people, especially on FB have no patience. They reviewed it with praise galore in the comments. The problem with FB is it's an infectious place, people outdo each other to look good or score marks. Yes, I am a skeptical person. There was a minuscule chance that the story would not be all that great.

Also, this was a period when I was fighting my own inner battles. How good am I?Why my stories didn’t make it to any of the contests that ran around including UnBound, a magazine curated by my own group? The debut novel I was working on looked frivolous and a run-of-the-mill kind of story. I was doing what I could. Making character sheets, drawing the infographics, but I moved nowhere. This battle ripped apart my soul as a writer and I’d nearly given up, ready to hang my boots even before the game had begun. Amidst all this,I opened the story received in my mailbox and it was fucking 30 odd pages and I shook my head. I KNEW I won’t make it to the finish line. Like my works, this will remain incomplete.  

But then, I began to read it then I savored it and then  it was over in a day without a hassle. The characters and their conflict were etched in my mind for days to come.

The story triggered a debate in my mind - what  exactly  is good writing  and no, this was not  about  grammar.  For a great  story,  it is given that it is well edited and proofread before  it is  presented to an audience.  What makes a story told  and retold over a period of time better than others? Why must people read my stories?

Then one day someone made a post on the group. It had a 100 or more comments singing the praises of the said flash fiction. Yes, reviews are good and when they are in hundreds the much entire better. It piqued my curiosity. The post was deliberately written for receiving an applause and someone might say there is nothing wrong in receiving the applause, yes they are right. But the OP had done gross injustice to one of the characters which was unacceptable. The OP must have thought the piece would create hope in this unjust and selfish world.The post it riled me to an extent that I was willing to walk up to the OP and tell - Listen, please don’t write. But I didn’t for two reasons - 1)  I feel everyone should write irrespective their talent and 2) I, myself, as a writer was struggling to come out with anything readable. Most writers work hard, they live in recluse and build characters in solitary and this OP was nothing but a blot on such writers.

My own story which I began to write after reading ‘A Reason to Live’, a submission for Juggernaut’s  prompt #FirstLove looked nothing more than a piece of pedestrian writing. It was so bad that I felt I should leave it midway and also I was fast pacing towards a feeling of “never take the quills in your hand”. In recent times, the Internet has been a great support to my writing but at the same time, I could have been mistaken for someone who constantly seeks attention and it’s the last thing I want. Cautiously, I spoke to Ravi Kumar and Percy. Ravi Kumar reminded me that we as writers write for ourselves. Yes, the primary customer is us, always. On the other hand, Percy pointed out that I don’t concentrate on my work which was again true. He gave few more tips which I won’t tell here and I was back with a bang. Once I finished it I sent it to him for editing and he said in his email (I am going to frame these lines) --

“I like the story itself. A good way of telling a story, though ‘First Love’ is not exactly the focus, but as a story on its own it’s a good thing you have there. Wish I had had the idea :)”

I was ready to shout from the rooftop after reading these lines. But then, doubt crept in because Mr. Wadiwala is an awfully nice guy. So, I sent it to Ravi Kumar knowing that it’s not the genre Ravi reads. Frankly, I was not expecting Ravi to read it but Ravi not only read it but also suggested that I should fine tune it which of course even Percy had suggested. This I must tell you is golden moment of my writing career.  This is what I seek as a writer. Appreciation from my peers. I already felt like a winner but then it didn’t end here.

A fellow named Anirban  shared a review of  yet another short story written by Percy. It was titled as - “Alayne’s Smile”. I called for it to read. Another round of praise on FB and once again I read, savored and finished it.

In Reason to Live, the author writes 20 odd pages before he gives a reason for Daranos Drivas (a character set in the mythical world of Mithos) to live. Drivas is several centuries old, technically immortal, and  is contemplating to sleep permanently (i.e. end his own life).  The 20 odd pages are all about Daranos , his world, his race, his academy, his students, and in the end his life. In these pages, he presents the conflicts between the races inhabiting Mithos, conflicts within Daranos’s mind and then gives him a reason to live.

Alayne’s Smile is a completely different story set in Midgard about a few college friends which is an imaginary town similar to Mumbai. In this story, he sets up conflict on page 2 and not only that, but author hits you with a conflict and how! And I knew from here the story could go anywhere and absolutely anywhere. I liked the way it unfolded, in the end, evoking emotions ranging from momentary euphoria to eternal sadness.

I have read authors who churn out stories in the same fashion in which they have written earlier ones, making them sound mundane. I might be one such author.  Though I do know Percy has written these stories years apart they still can be seen in a comparative sight. Both stories are distinctly different in language -- In former, Percy weaves subplots together in simplest language showing you the Drivas Academy, its legacy and its staff while in the latter he a uses a more complex method of telling the story to keep audience’s attention. I can’t say which one is better but they will remain my favorite, equally until I receive something more from him.

After reading Alayne’s Smile my thought strayed to my own story ‘Fault’ edited by Percy and the good things he said about it (Not available in public domain as it has been submitted for a contest) and other stories, I now want to work a lot harder on these stories. As Pritesh keeps saying --

‘We must match the level at which Percy writes.’

Edit: If you wish to read his works and wondering where to begin here are some links - Wuthering Heights, once again , She was the best of us., Lost Boys of Aiden

Guest Post - Deer, Predators, and Information Overload

Sriram Subramanian

About the author :Sriram Subramanian is a Chemical Engineer from IIT Roorkee and an MBA from IIM Calcutta. After a decade working in management consulting and corporate, Sriram founded Mind Matters in 2006, which is today one of India’s leading corporate training firms.  Throughout his career,Sriram has juggled multiple interests, including reading, writing, music, travel, sports and parenting. 

Sriram’s writing pursuits started at the age of six, when he faithfully wrote weekly letters to his mother (an English teacher); she marked them for grammar, punctuation, spelling and sentence construction in red ink. His favorite authors include  Shakespeare, Victor Hugo, Honore de Balzac, Dostoevsky, The Bronte sisters, John Steinbeck, Franz Kafka, PG Wodehouse, Salman Rushdie and Rohinton Mistry.You can reach him here.

His debut novel can be bought here. The cover is so awesome that I couldn't help sharing it.

Deer, Predators, and Information Overload
Sriram Subramanian

I’m a nut about structuring.

Specifically, organizing one’s thoughts and ideas logically—grouping, classifying and categorizing—before putting those ideas out in any form of communication, written or verbal. The concept is very simple—when a writer (or speaker) structures his thoughts, the reader (or listener) gets the message with the minimum of effort. Further, there is little scope for ambiguity—different readers won’t go away with different conclusions. The reverse is true when the writer just puts his thoughts out as they occur to him, which is usually in an unorganized dump. (That’s my day job, by the way…training people on stuff like this.)

I’d once written an article on this subject (in a blog, now sadly only accessible to our overlords in Google) and it generated some debate. One responder suggested that with the advent of real time communication technology (e-mail, SMSs, WhatsApp and so on), the cost of not ordering thoughts was minimized. If the writer missed something, or was unclear, the reader could simply request and receive a clarification, at virtually zero cost / effort.

This article is a response to that line of thought, which seems to be quite prevalent (and popular) today.

Yann Martel, the Booker-Prize-winning author of the Life of Pi (of course, there’s a literary connection!) suggested an outline of a fascinating analogy in an interview many years back and it stuck in my mind. Subsequently it seems to have vanished from the public domain (Googling yields no results at all). Based onmy visit to the Serengeti some years ago, I have taken the liberty of embellishing the original with my limited additional knowledge of the behavior of antelopes. So here goes…

Imagine a deer (say a Thomson’s gazelle) in the grassland. As far as his eye can see, the land is flat; the plains endless, interrupted only now and then by a line of short, stunted bushes, or the occasional baobab. He grazes contentedly, though always with his ears cocked up and his nose on high alert, ready to respond to the slightest hint of danger. Now, there are lots of predators on the same grassland – lion, cheetah, leopards and hyena. How does the deer survive? With the exception of the cheetah, the deer can actually outrun them all over a reasonable distance, given his low body weight. However, all these predators are capable of powerful bursts of acceleration, which make them faster over a short sprint.

The deer’s survival mechanism is a very simple one. At any point, the deer maintains a ‘circle of safety’ with respect to any predator. Imagine the deer at the center of the circle. His signal reception mechanisms (power of hearing, ability to detect predator scents and strange vibrations in the ground) have over millennia been synchronized with the safe radius. His signal reception limits equate with the minimum distance he needs to maintain to outrun a predator. If a lion moves into this circle, the deer is able to pick up the signal, process it (checking if it is a harmless or a dangerous signal), recognize the danger and take corresponding action. The usual response would be to move away by a similar distance, so as to maintain the safe distance. Any closer, and the lion would get him because of his short-sprint advantage.

(As an aside, lions counter this by hunting in pairs or threes, usually one lying hidden in the bush, while the others approach from the opposite end to nudge the deer in the direction of the one lying in wait. The reverse counter is provided by deer staying in herds—their effective radius increases, and they seek safety in numbers—statistically their chances of individual survival go up, though the lions would always get one or two, each time)

Now imagine this deer suddenly has access to modern communication technology. Say someone clamps a pair of headphones or RF antennae on the deer, so that now, magically, the deer can pick up signals at twice the original radius. Theoretically, this should be good for the deer, because there might have been some instances when a deer’s signal detection radius proved limiting (and fatal!)—say there was an unusually fast lion just outside the original circle. With better technology, the deer should be able to react at much greater distances.

What do you think will happen?

What will most likely happen is that the deer would go nuts.

Earlier, the deer would ignore all signals outside the circle, good or bad. Now the deer would go this way and that, as he responds to each movement of a predator outside the original circle, even if most of these movements pose no incremental danger to him. He would probably fall down out of sheer exhaustion. Not a moment’s peace left.Unless of course, the reception technology was combined with additional information processing capability—i.e. the deer also had double the brain he does, which he doesn’t.

The point is this—as humans, there are physical limits to the amount of signals / information we can deal with, without going nuts. The explosion in the last two decades is seriously worrying—on an average day, we watch TV, read news, check FB multiple times, respond to every WhatsApp ping (and boy is that irritating), get Twitter feeds, check out Instagrams, get SMSs, respond to so many calls, get office mails everywhere, anyplace, anytime. Our reactions are not dissimilar to the hypothetical deer.

Imagine you and your friend agreed to catch a movie at the theater just 20 years back, when there were no cellphones. (Sorry, millennials—you’ll just have to imagine this world. Think it’s Westeros, for instance) Presumably you would have agreed to meet outside the ticketing office, say 15 minutes before the start. If one of you got delayed, the other would have a coffee, watch the crowd, look at the posters or queue up to get tickets. Basically, wait patiently. And you know what, 9 out of 10 your friend would turn up in time for both of you to catch the show. Worst case, you’d be a few minutes late.

Contrast with the situation today – how many communication flows would happen within those 15 minutes—“I’m running a bit late / stuck in traffic / where the #$%% are you…” and so on, across 5 different apps and devices.

For all our endeavors, there is a period of planning and a period of execution. While the need for course corrections during execution is self-evident, it is also highly desirable that we have a frozen planning period—i.e. a period where we will continue executing the original plan, despite new information coming in. All corrections should be made beyond this period, which will in most cases correspond with a safe-holding zone, where we recognize, process / interpret and decide corrective measures. We shouldn’t be in a purely reactive mode and throw the planning / holding periods out, just because our reaction abilities have advanced manifold. The same applies to the need for original structure in communication—we can leave it to back-and-forthing, but the long run costs will be significant.

It is of course entirely possible, that the human brain adapts to our new situation and its processing power increases manifold, thereby enabling us to get all the benefits without incurring the costs.

Just yesterday, I flew from Delhi to Pune, and my flight landed on time, at around 11 PM. The wheels had barely touched the tarmac, when everyone’s cellphone was out, flight mode off, and a hundred conversations started all at once. ‘Flight’s landed. No, we’re still taxi-ing. 20 minutes lagega. I’ll call you once I get the baggage. Then you start from the place you’ve parked (illegally) and pick me up. Etc. Etc.’

Outside the terminal, utter chaos reigns as everyone tries to time it to save those two minutes—the net effect is everyone probably spent 10 minutes more than they would have if nobody had called anybody. If our brains are really getting better, I’m seriously scared the only way I have to explain it is I’m getting more brain dead as I age.

I’m no Luddite, though I am a relatively late adopter of new technologies. There has been much that is good achieved in the last two decades, and there’s no going backwards. However, I see signs of deer fatigue around me all the time – increased stress, reduced attention spans, loss of patience, inability to hear out a complex argument and so on. Any suggestions on dealing with this are welcome.

(If you asked me for a specific suggestion, I’d say, switch off all those devices and pick up a good book. Paper book. One with pages that turn, which you can touch, smell, feel and place gently, in its place, in your bookshelf.)

Breaking Up with My Mobile

Dear Mobile,

It hurts but I’ve got to say it – Its over! I’ve been dragging this on for some time. But it isn’t working anymore. I’d anticipated that the day would come sooner or later. The first signs were seen when you couldn’t survive a few droplets of rain in last Monsoon but you were special to me. You were different from my previous phones. I could talk to you, literally. You have been my companion in my long strenuous daily travel all these years, so trust me, letting go isn’t easy for me either. Some of my best times were spent with you - playing Candy Crush and surfing Facebook.

My Ex-Mobile

But then, slowly you changed. There were times when I made moves in Candy Crush and you took five whole minutes to complete them, you had moved into the comfort zone after all. You no longer felt you needed to please me. There were times when I came close to clearing a difficult level and you crashed. I’d have to start all over again and I did.  But still, I accepted you as you were becoming. 

You couldn’t handle Whatsapp notification during festivals and other  occasions.  I deleted twitter for your health. Recently I downloaded Instagram, the next coolest app to look cool to pursue my hobby in photography but then you’d long ago ceased to be a camera phone.

We continued so long because you helped me connect with people through calls and FB. But, I have observed for past few days – you just can’t do it anymore. It is painful to see you suffer like this.

Leaving you hurts but it’s in the best interest of both of us. I hope someday you become a component in an iPhone and I too will find someone eventually.

With Love,

Vanita

A Real Friend

There are a few things people should do. Not everyday we are published internationally. I was. Turns out I am a bad marketer. But today I decided to do the ammends. One of the short stories which Bennett Parrish of Circulogian Publishing edited and proofread and also published by him. Here is short excerpt from story:

The next day, her father saw Srikala who was in turn watching her friends who were now only boys playing cricket. Her father could not bear the sadness in her eyes. He retraced 10 steps back. He looked at Srikala, who was still watching the game and said, 

"Oh, you are home, you didn't go out to play." Srikala looked back puzzled. 

Her dad said, as if reading her mind, "If you are OK playing with boys, I don't mind." 

Srikala had gotten more than she had asked for. 

Download link: http://bookstore.thecirculogian.com/download-page.html

Do we need more books

"I want to buy more books!" I told Mom while I scanned through my collection of books at her place. She has been insisting me to take these books to my ‘home’. This isn't a small collection of Novels I am talking about. It’s much, enough to tell my mom that it’s a test of our relationship. The space these books take up is the space she gives me in her heart. Not that my current home doesn't have space to accommodate them but I need space for more books!!! But this post isn't about books and space they occupy and how Kindle is answer to my problems; it is about what my mom said after that -

"But, now you are writing your own book, why do you need more books?"

 I never told mom that I am writing a novel. My family doesn't even know what book I am writing; neither do my close knit circle of friends - friends who attended my wedding.  We don't hold such discussions. I don't tell them what are my character's dilemma are or what new catastrophe my protagonist is facing. I don’t, I am too shy to hold such discussions.

But one day, out of the blue I will be ready. The cover design will be in place. The draft would be final and edited. That day I will shout at top of my voice, from top of my building terrace - The book is Ready! Please read. That day someone is going to tell me what my mom said -

"Do we need more books?"

  That day I will sulk. I will rant about people want my work to be free. At least that day is not today.

Character Sheet

I began a project during NaNoWrimo, wrote 18000 words till date and now my characters talk to me. They ask, shouldn't you tell the reader that I failed my exams, other says isn't it important to tell my relatives deserted me at an early age and there is one more who says - it is time you created a sketch of me, give me color, shape and age.

Frankly, when people said their characters talk to them, I would laugh secretly and think come on aren't these people imaginary even if drawn from real life. Then one day I murdered two characters in my story and I felt I had blood on my hand. Slowly, the novel began to consume me. They followed me, walked with me, nudged me  to tell their stories. Tell their stories as if they are main characters however small role they played on the larger canvas I was building. And today, After much deliberation with online friends I finally embark upon journey of creating character sheet:

Hopefully, it won't be last of it.

PS: If this page is seeing less of me that is because I am either reading or writing or working.

PPS: Those who do not know what is NaNoWrimo, visit here.

F for Facebook Friend

The sun was particularly hot today. The heat was unbearable and yet I returned to office so that I could give details to the customer on time, but then my boss was in office. He always is, but that’s not the point today, it is about the events that unfolded.  He came to my desk as I was getting into the groove to provide details and asked,

“Hey! Ramesh, did you check my latest profile?”

“Erm… No I didn’t.”

“I know, I checked you haven’t liked it yet.”

“I will do once I send this to customer.”

“Oh! Yes, customer comes first but don’t forget I am your ‘internal customer,” and he went dancing back to his cabin. I’ve never liked Facebook as such but I have an account so that I don’t get stares from the world for not having one.  Anyway, I completed my work and logged in to FB and went to boss’s profile, liked his picture and returned to home page. Most of my friends screamed from their Facebook walls how awesome their lives are in foreign lands. Another of mine was waging a war against corruption and other matters that my country keeps on fighting with. He has also gone for candle march over some major crime incidence. I doubt he ever voted in any election. I prefer stay away from this hullabaloo.

I was about to log out when a chat window popped up,

“Hi Ramesh! I am sorry, I should not have done this to you,” the message was from some girl whose name was Shefali. I took a closer look at profile but I couldn’t place her in memory. We shared a common hometown but I’ve seldom travelled there in past ten years. I sat there thinking, the girl was at risk, anyone could fool her. She had not thought about consequences of sending out a message to a stranger. So I replied,

“Hi! Who are you looking for?”

“ Are you Ramesh Thakur from district Rajali?”

“ I am, but I am sure I have never met you.”

“L”

“You know it is dangerous to send messages to strangers. Some people might lead you on and they might do wrong things with you. I sat there tapping my table and waiting for response. I already missed to reach on time to catch an empty local to Virar.  I’d decided to wait until rush hour passes and crowd wanes. I could see the illuminating green dot  on chat window. I knew she was online and I wanted a response. I typed,

“I don’t mean to scare you and I am not a bad person. I am just trying to caution you.”

“J”

A brief overview of profile told the girl is suicidal and seemed to be very young. I’d some experience of Yahoo chat rooms. I gave her more confidence by giving her my information,

“I am Ramesh, 33 years old and a bachelor. I work in a major corporate in marketing. My mom thinks I will never find a bride. J”

“Hahaha, Thank you, I haven’t laughed in long time,”

The response was in broken English, I added vowels and consonants at various places, mentally to make sense of it. She continued,

“I have gone through worse already. I met a boy in my medical college who took ‘bad’ photographs of me. I thought he will marry me but all that was a lie. My family will never forgive me. I have lost all my friend.”

Bad, What does she mean? I looked up for synonyms of Bad on Google.  I thought of asking her but it might annoy her. Then it struck like a lightening to me, what must have happened to her and trust me I felt a knot in my stomach as soon as I realized what ‘bad’ photographs meant.

“You there?”

“Yes…”

“Police arrested that boy and he has been thrown out of from college. No one wants to talk to me. I deserve it; I should not have dumped Ramesh. He was my boyfriend in school. He never touched me L”

“Please, it is not your mistake.  You should move on in life. Take up a hobby maybe?”

“No, I must apologies to Ramesh even if I will need to ping each and every Ramesh on Facebook.”

I looked at screen and then at watch. Time had passed quickly. I told her I need to take a quick exit as I must reach home before mom lodges a missing person complaint. She laughed atleast I would like to think so and said a goodbye.

As soon as I got down at Virar station, I bought a smart phone which I had avoided for eons. I looked at my small handy un-smart mobile phone which had been with me for 5 years or more.  Such a beauty, long battery life, great reception and no-one steals it. But then I wanted Facebook for mobile. The Smart phone was operational by 11.00 pm in the night. So much for a smart phone, I thought. To my surprise, Shefali was still online.  I pinged her,

“Hey,”

I counted time. Finally a response,

“Hi, I have an exam tomorrow, studying.”

“So, Shall I...”

The message was sent before I could complete the sentence… I was about to write unfinished line when a message came from her,

“Do you have GF?”

“No, but I had once.”

I spent whole night chatting away about my past, present and future plans. She told me how nice Ramesh was, and how he left Rajali because she dumped him and all and how much she had wronged him. I sympathized her and gave her a window to speak her mind. We used to chat whenever we got time. This went on for a month, and I knew I wanted to marry her. I asked her number several times but she would not give me. And then in desperation and hope I gave her my number but we continued to chat on FB. I was in desperate need for advice on relationships as the ‘game’ had changed and I was at a dead end. I‘d no friends to turn to, frankly. 

One day she messaged, “I am in Mumbai and I want to meet you.”

I responded back, “Where are you? Tell me. I will come and receive you.”

I was in seventh heaven, she had come to accept my love. I planned and re-planned how I would propose her. I even bought a small ring for her. She was a short and slim, we would look like Amitabh-Jaya, a famous Bollywood couple, thought I. Oh! My mind raced and how. I finally got hold of my emotions and realized she had not responded. She was offline. In roaming one does search for a free Wi-Fi especially when they are student.  I remained optimistic, waiting for her reply.

An hour passed — no reply.

Another passed.

One more.

And then I stopped counting.

 

Finally, phone rang! For the first time I heard her voice and I went into trance. Her voice was angelic and sweet like her.  I have no memory of what she spoke in the two minute monologue until I was knocked out by the word— Marriage.

 

“We got married, Ramesh!”

“What?” I blurted out.

 “I am sending a photo, check. I wanted to meet you but I am at the Mumbai airport. I should go back and Mummy Papa.  Thank you, Ramesh for being there.”

I hung up, I am not sure if she was still talking. The picture took some time to load. Finally it did, it was a selfie, she wore red ethnic Indian attire and her boyfriend wore an ashen look on his face.  I was done with Social Media, once again.

E For Elocution

‘Is the elocution ready?’

‘Sir, you forget that the government has placed various restrictions on you and one of them is giving speech at public gathering.’

‘No! Dear Avanta. You are a naïve boy but honest and loyal and that is the reason you are in this room. What you do not know is the Chief of Guards is visiting us tonight for a general chat. You should know this is confidential; you must not utter a word of it.

‘Oh! Master, forgive me for my ignorance. I shall make arrangements for evening.’

***

My master is son of a late politician who went by a ‘title’ ‘Agranya’. Agarnya had raised to power with support our community Ravas who are a majority in our state. Our community all the time feel the threats from Shanks who control most businesses in the city but Shanks are a minority. My community’s people work for Shanks to earn their living but Shanks are shrewd people. They exploit and harass our community. They marry their daughters to the choicest of Ravas and convert them to Shankite. Agranya rose to this occasion and called for various rules and regulations.  He was one of the most respected politicians in my childhood. But he was killed, no one knows who did it, and his son was a natural successor of his position. The son is exact replica of Agranya in looks, voice, and demeanor but lacks generosity and humility of his father.  

When Agranya got killed, blood shot in our veins and we were ready to revolt. One word from our Master and we would have brought down the government. But, Master chose otherwise, he said he wants to respect law and order. He assured his time would come soon.

In past five years, the government has brought more resolutions against him than finding who murdered Agranya. My Master lives in a gleam hope that he will rise to power with the radical speeches he gives and our media keeps giving them the coverage from time to time.

But, I — Avanta do not have any hope. I want to exit this mayhem and today is my chance. There has been a riot in one part of the city where the poor Shanks and Ravas live. They have fought over some pity ritual.  The government, who mainly represent Ravas — want my master to confront Shanks. A message they want my master to convey in a public gathering. That is the reason ‘Chief Of Guards’ visiting.

He will offer more money and a few more gatherings where my master will bring attention to the corruption in government and life will return to normalcy in our state. The Ravas will go back to work for Shanks and Shanks will lay low for time being.

Me, I will leave this state with the money Chief of Guard will give me for my Master’s expense.  My Master doesn’t lose as he gets to give his Elocution.

D For Dilemma

Life was much easier when I’d to select which chocolate to eat or a few years later what career choices I must make.  I’ve been always proud of my decisions, always.  I knew the ‘My way’ song by heart and then he walked into my life. Suddenly my life’s decisions were not mine.  They were to be shared or approved.  He approved my friends on social media, my career decisions, and what should I wear.
I can’t remember when I slipped into this downward spiral but by the time I knew, I was in neck deep in this mess.  I want control of my life back but I can’t take it unless...  So, I did what I do best, ask him —

‘What would you do?’

‘About what?’

‘Say, you are caught in a trap, it’s a maze. Every time you think you are close to an exit but you are not.  But, then the devil makes you an offer. Will you accept it?’

‘I don’t often understand these abstract questions you ask. Did you take your pills?’

‘I will take them; you answer my ‘abstract’ question.’

‘It will depend on the offer, frankly.’

‘Give me an answer…please. I will take those meds if you give me an answer.’

‘Ok…If I am desperate I will take the offer.’

‘Yes, I am desperate.’

‘What?’

‘Ummm… nothing.’

And then I went ahead with my plan.

C For Creativity

I finally reached the village where she lived. I'd seen her painting in a hotel in the capital and in that moment I knew, only she could teach art to my son. It was one of the paintings sold during her first exhibition held in the capital.  The exhibition was a grand success, they say. But it was her last exhibition too. She was lost into oblivion— No one knows, why?  Her search had taken me to various artist, art dealers, and galleries. They all had many tales to tell about her, most amusing among them was — she was mystical. Then one day I met an artist who claimed to be one of her student and he told me how to find her.

The cottage was secluded from rest of the village. The villagers called her witch but a good witch, they clarified. They said her soup were magical which cured people's illness and were no less than elixir for the people on death bed. Frankly, I do not buy into such theories for one reason; I have been educated by my family at home. I know when human mind cannot explain science of it then they call it magic, divine, mystical or paranormal.  The driver of the carriage left me in front of a huge garden.

The garden in front of the house had grown wild. It must have been left as is for years. There were various trees and plants, many of them were fruit or flower bearing,  and  some medicinal.I could see the Rose bush had grown wide and met the Jasmine and a vine rapped both plants, but the vine had dried out, actually most of the plants were dry as autumn had arrived. The vines were all over the place covering the plants; I presumed they were mostly weed. On one of the vine though, a purple flower bloomed. It was like a bright spot, standing tall to tell that spring is around the corner.

The wooden door was slight open and I pushed in to get inside. On my way here, I practiced hundred times over that I would fall on her feet and ask to take my son as apprentice but now I was I two minds. The place looked wreaked and I was not sure if I will send my son here. I entered with bated breath.

 Sculptures were scattered around in randomly in hallway. The ducks rested on side table were made of wood, the lion near the door at times seemed to roar and at times appeared to welcome a visitor. The lion was carved out of Marble. On the table I saw a sculpture of a young woman with her both hands on her waist, happy woman, almost alive.

‘May I help you,’ I looked at my host who now stood in front of me. She was much older than I'd imagined, her thick grey hair tied in a bun. Her eyes were covered with thick glasses. Lines had shown up on her face displaying ageing. She was shorter than me. She wore a black robe with a belt around her waist. She walked with a support a stick, yes she was very old.

‘Oh! I am sorry to intrude but the door…’ my voice trailed off.

‘You look tired. It must have been a long journey. I will make a soup for you.’

‘Thank you, I said.’My cheeks were red with embarrassment.  I am a civil woman, I’ve been taught to knock on door but this cottage, and the garden drew me in. But, that cannot be an excuse. This is an intrusion and absolutely uncalled behaviour.

She returned from kitchen with a glass of water. I gulped it. To break the ice, she asked what do I think of the painting on the wall across.

‘I am not a person who knows art.’

‘Don’t fret, you do know.’

I moved towards the large painting and looked at it closely; it was a form of art not many can understand, including me. Colours were splashed all over which made no sense until I saw two women on corner peeking at me and little above it a light shimmering from a black hole, I moved  further left and all I saw went back to what it was — a splash of colour. I began to marvel at little things popped out for a few moments and again merged back into it. I’d seen nothing like it before. I turned to tell her but realised she must know what she had drawn.

‘Here, the soup is ready.’

The soup lived upto its glory as told by one of her student and the villager. ‘This tastes magical,’ I said for lack of better metaphor.

The woman smiled and I was now completely at ease. I explained her that I would like my son to learn art from her.

‘It is not important,’ said she. She took my palms in her frail hands. She moved it them on me.

‘You look like an educated woman, a rarity these days.’

 I nodded.

‘Have you ever drawn?’

‘Oh! I cannot draw or carve anything. I am terrible. I am not creative.’

Do you play music?

‘I used to drum during the songs but nothing formal.’

‘So, you must be a singer.’

 I nodded in negation.  She is going to refuse apprenticeship to my son.

 ‘You have nice round fingers, and I know they told you long ago that you can’t draw, sing or play.’

I looked at her in astonishment and my eyes had welled up.  She was right in her observation, every time I picked up a hobby people laughed or coerced me into why I won’t be able to do it.

‘I think today’s lesson is over. Come back tomorrow with luggage.’

I got up, I couldn’t thank her enough.

B For Beggar

I for one always believed people should earn their money and not beg for it. But, a lot of my friend my friends think otherwise, one of them even said that I never had to sleep empty stomach and hence I do not know what a down trodden person goes through. True, probably.

I’ve been living in this so called city of dreams for a long time now. I know a lot of people throng this city in their hope to survive. People who have been uprooted from villages mostly due to lack of infrastructure or deeply rooted social structure.  I’ve seen them make living under the flyovers and footpath, selling books, toys and often felt helpless for being unable to do anything for their economical elevation. But, I’ve always stood against begging or giving money to children, especially. And then,

I met a transgender woman, who would meet me at Goregaon traffic signal daily and ask for money, every week. This went on for months. She was tall, broad, and dusky in features.  She wasn’t the most stylish or beautiful person in their lot as but she would come, twice a week, ask  in same tone and extend her palm for money. I would say,

‘No,’ in an angry tone or sometimes I might just smile, or be indifferent to her existence. It would be any range of emotions carried from home.

And then one day I was happy, very happy. I can’t recollect why but I was exuding happiness after a long time and it was visible. That day she came again,

‘de’

My hands went in my purse brought out a 10 Rupee note and I handed it over to her. She as usual without showing any emotion moved on to next person.  I felt, I rewarded her efforts of all these months. Frankly, I do not know why I gave her the money that day because next day — I didn’t.