Vinka's New Friend

Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there lived a little boy named Vinka. The place Vinka lived in was full of tall green trees that held the juiciest of fruits and huge velvety mountains that were home to the friendliest of birds and animals. Every morning the sun would rise slowly from behind those mountains and spread soft sunlight all around. Tree by tree, fruit by fruit, bird by bird and animal by animal, everyone would be soaked in its cozy warmth. The animals would come to the water front to get a quick drink while the birds would fly from tree to tree and sing many happy tunes. Soon the entire place would be drenched in golden curtains and butterflies would come out to dance. The place was truly a paradise.

But despite being surrounded by such beauty Vinka was a sad boy.

He was an only child to his parents so they showered him with all their attention. They constantly pampered him with all kinds of sweets and other delicacies. They took him to various fun places like the large park where jugglers came and showed off their tricks and magicians arrived grandly on sparkly flying sticks. They took little Vinka on various nature trails where they showed him birds that had wings but could not fly and monkeys that flew from tree to tree without any wings at all! They would show him flowers that were huge but lived on really short plants and fruits that were so tiny yet grew on the tallest trees!

But nothing, it appeared, could make little Vinka genuinely happy.

You see, Vinka was born with nose and ears that weren’t like the rest of the kids he knew. His nose was a bit longer than the ones he had seen and drooped a little towards his mouth. This made his nose look a little like an elephant’s trunk! His ears weren’t tiny and soft like the rest either. They were slightly large, a little rough to touch and stuck out from the sides of his head. The other kids would endlessly tease poor Vinka with the notorious chant “Vinka Vinka never sneeze! Your ears are banana leaves!” every time he made an attempt to befriend them.

All this hurt little Vinka very much and so he would run to his mother erupting into tears. He would hug her tight and ask her “Why ma? Why am I so ugly? Why am I not like the others? Why shouldn’t I ever sneeze? Why are my ears like banana leaves?”

His mother would comfort him with every pleasant word she knew. She would sing him his favorite songs, cook him his favorite dishes and tell him that everything would be alright. But deep down Vinka was convinced – nothing would be alright. He was somehow different and ugly and nothing could be done to fix that. He would have to stay unhappy for the rest of his life. His tears were the only friends he had. They were the only friends he could afford.

With things looking like this, one sunny day Vinka’s grand uncle, Uncle Dwaipa, stopped by.

Now, if there was one person in the whole wide world who could make little unhappy Vinka laugh and dance in joy, even if it was for just a little while, it was Uncle Dwaipa. He would bring along various curious items such as the wooden bear that could sing and dance at the same time! Or the mechanical clock that would tell Vinka the time of the day along with his name! Once, Uncle Dwaipa even brought Vinka a large colorful blanket. He called it the “Secret Mask of Happiness”. It had strange shaped holes and odd looking patterns in it. Whenever Vinka wrapped himself in it the world outside would look strange and odd too! Trees would look upside down. Birds would appear as if they were flying in the ocean. Why, even the kids who tormented little Vinka would appear with no heads or legs! Just floating torsos! His little spot of joy in a life filled with disappointments was Uncle Dwaipa’s blanket. He would wrap himself with it every time he wanted to have a little laugh at the world that was laughing at him.

But that day when Uncle Dwaipa visited, Vinka was in a terrible mood. The moment Uncle Dwaipa walked into the house he knew something was very wrong. Sure, he had walked in before when Vinka would be weeping or some other commotion would be taking place. But never before had there been such a deafening silence in the house. Uncle Dwaipa immediately rushed to Vinka’s room to find him sitting in the corner covered head to toe with the “Secret Mask of Happiness”.

“He has been like this for a few days now!” Vinka’s helpless parents complained to Uncle Dwaipa. “He eats very little, doesn’t want to go out. He even doesn’t sleep properly! He just sits there like that most of the time...” his poor mother said breaking off into sobs. “Please help him!” his father added with sad eyes. “We have tried everything. We have no one else to turn to…” “Let me have a moment with him” said Uncle Dwaipa in his deep baritone after a brief pause. Vinka’s parents left the room slowly. Uncle Dwaipa walked up to Vinka and sat on a large wooden stool right next to him.

“Hello Vinka!” he said and tried to remove the blanket.

“No!” Vinka shouted struggling back. “I don’t want to talk to you! Go away!”

This was very serious matter indeed, Uncle Dwaipa observed. Never before had Vinka reacted like this. All the distractions that he had devised for little Vinka now seemed to have served their purpose. No more mechanical toys, no more magic blankets, no more mind boggling tricks would do. Uncle Dwaipa knew exactly what he had to do next. It was time.

“Very well” he said untying his large bag. “Then I guess you do not want to meet your new friend.”

Vinka’s curiosity was tickled just a wee bit but he shook his head vigorously from within the blanket.

“Ah alright then” Uncle Dwaipa continued. “I guess I will play with your new friend myself. It is such a pity you will never know how brilliant your new friend is!”

Saying thus, Uncle Dwaipa began humming a cheery tune and pulled out something from his bag that seemed quite heavy. Vinka did not react. He continued blinking in the dark of his magic blanket.

“Ah let us see here then” Uncle Dwaipa said placing Vinka’s new friend on the lap.

No sooner had the new friend been produced than Vinka’s nose picked up an unfamiliar fragrance. It wasn’t anything like he had ever smelt before. It was like a mixed concoction of old trees, young leaves and fresh honey. Or was it like the mixture of roots, barks and mud? The sounds it made too were nothing like Vinka had ever heard before. They were like a mix of dry leaves, coarse sand and gentle breeze. Or was it like the mix of shifting feet, water ripples and rain?

Vinka couldn’t tell!

His slightly oversized nose and ears were now starting to itch. He had to find out what it was Uncle Dwaipa had brought.

“Ohoho! This is a good one. Yes it is indeed” Uncle Dwaipa guffawed. “Just look at his big crooked teeth! And he is trying to eat this little man! How stupid! The man has a sword hidden in his shirt!” roared Uncle Dwaipa slapping his thigh and letting out a storm of laughter.

Outside the room Vinka’a parents looked at each other with questioning eyes.

“O no! Don’t do that you silly ape!” Uncle Dwaipa continued, the rustling sound accompanying his monolog. “That blind crocodile will eat you because it is not really blind! It is all a drama you clueless beast!”

From the corner of his eye Uncle Dwaipa could notice a blanket wrapped figure stirring in increasing curiosity. He could sense the rising levels of impatience emanating from that blanket. It wouldn’t be long now.

“Five and five isn’t eight you silly bird! Did you not learn mathematics? How much is five and five? Everyone knows that! Even our Vinka does! Don’t you?” asked Uncle Dwaipa now turning towards Vinka.

“It is ten!” screamed the little boy finally flinging off the blanket and jumping onto Uncle Dwaipa’s side.

What he saw next was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes upon his whole life. Uncle Dwaipa held in his lap a large box like object which contained hundreds of rectangle-shaped, smooth-surfaced, thin slices of bark. The top edge of all these slices had tiny holes in them through which slim strands of threads ran and held them all together. This mechanism made it possible to turn the slices back and forth! And on each of those smooth barks he saw such colorful illustrations! There was the blue of the sky, the red of the berries, the green of the grasshopper, the yellow of the flowers – it was like a rainbow of shapes. It was, Vinka thought at first glance, even better than the magic blanket. This new friend did not change his vision of things that weren’t different in reality. On the contrary it remained as it was and allowed Vinka to choose what he wanted to see. This was better than magic!

As Uncle Dwaipa slowly turned over each slice of bark more colors and more drawings became visible. Vinka now saw creatures in them that he had never seen before. A boy with three heads and four arms! A girl with large angry eyes, her red tongue sticking out in thirst and ten arms! A creature that had the head of a horse and the body of a man! Another creature had no body at all! Just a flying head that could look around and spit out fire whenever it yawned!

Vinka quickly elbowed out the large frame of Uncle Dwaipa and buried his face into the barks. His slightly long nose and slightly large ears were alert now. He would giggle when a large bellied king was chased by a very short man holding an even smaller wooden umbrella in his hand. He would cackle when a boar-faced beast with two long white horns was shown running away with the entire earth in its hands! He couldn’t stop laughing when he saw hundreds of tiny sweaty men trying to wake up an incredibly large and extremely sleepy giant!

“Who are these people Uncle Dwaipa?” Vinka asked amid bouts of laughter.

“They? O, why they are all part of a very long and the most adventurous story!” said Uncle Dwaipa taking the little boy in his arms.

“Which story Uncle Dwaipa? Tell me tell me! Please tell me!” implored an impatient Vinka.

“Not today my dear child” said Uncle Dwaipa in an assuring tone. “Today I want you to play with this new friend of yours. Look at these people, these creatures and see how different and odd and crazy they are. How strange yet how interesting they look! The next time I come you should be ready to tell me one story using them. But remember you can only tell me one story so make sure it is a good one! Can you do that?”

Vinka thought about it for a minute. This was an interesting challenge. All these days his mother would tell him stories. But he would never be able to change them the way he wanted to. Now he was being given a chance to make up his own using such a wide range of absolutely hilarious characters! He liked the idea immensely.

“Yes! Yes!” he screamed. Despite his small stature Vinka grabbed the collection of barks from Uncle Dwaipa and keenly began looking at the drawings one by one, clapping to himself in pure joy. Uncle Dwaipa got up and walked out of the room leaving Vinka with his new friend. Outside the room his parents stood waiting with eager and puzzled eyes.

“Do not worry” Uncle Dwaipa told them. “Vinka may no longer want to go out and play. He may no longer wish to see magicians perform tricks. He may no longer want to befriend other kids. But that is alright. I have introduced him to the only friend he will ever need. But know this - from this point forward Vinka will never be sad again.”

Vinka’s parents looked a little relieved but questions still remained. Just as they were about to ask something they heard Vinka’s echoing laughter from the room. They had never heard Vinka laugh with such pleasure. They realized Uncle Dwaipa had created some magic, as always. So they didn’t say a word. They just looked at each other and smiled, happy that Vinka had finally found what he was looking for.

Uncle Dwaipa continued to visit little Vinka for several years after that day. Each time he would bring along a new better looking friend of the same kind. With each visit he would sit and listen patiently to the fascinating stories Vinka had made up using his imagination. He had given the creatures he had seen various names and added some amazingly interesting incidents to each one of them. He would stand and enact various scenes from his stories as Uncle Dwaipa and the parents would sit and watch their little boy with tears of joy.

Then one day, many years later, Vinka got another visit from his grand uncle. This time Uncle Dwaipa didn’t bring along any new friends. Instead he brought with him several blank slices of smooth-surfaced bark, a few big bottles of black ink and several beautifully carved sandalwood pens.

This time Uncle Dwaipa wanted Vinka to write something.



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PS:Given that Ganesha Chaturthi celebrations are agog all around I wanted to use the premise of Ganesha being the scribe for the Indian epic Mahabharata at the behest of the sage Veda Vyasa (or Krishna Dwaipayana, as he was originally called). This piece is based on that idea where Vyasa (Uncle Dwaipa here) essentially trains Ganesha (Vinka here) for such a gigantic project by first introducing him to his own imagination.

Naked & Clothed - A poem

Naked & Clothed

On the naked wooden table lay pages clothed in words,
On the naked skin of each letter stood a clothed meaning.
On the clothed wrinkled bed sat a naked emotion,
On his wrinkle clothed face sat a naked tear shivering.

The naked breeze outside came clothed with the scent of a tree,
The naked flower by the window stood clothed in that glee,
It clothed the room with fragrance and its naked glory,
It clothed his walls with remembrance, with naked memory.

The naked pages fluttered slowly now clothed with his sighs,
Its naked essence dripped onto well clothed denials,
Clothed in a momentary respite the naked breeze brought along,
He clothed his sorrow further with a newfound naked song.

Yet the naked truth pierced into his well clothed heart within,
Sending many naked shocks into his regret clothed skin,
With the clothed words of venom his naked love had sent him,
His past now stood clothed with naked facts sans whim.

The naked wooden table now stood clothed with perspective,
As the naked words clothed him slowly, made him introspective,
Clothed now warmly with the naked sunlight of reality,
Clothed windows went asunder, his naked heart could finally see.

Short Fiction : Ranga and the demon king

Ranga and the demon king
a short fiction by ShaKri


Circa 19— and the land was a meat mart. Fresh ones went for a higher price while the aging skins were left on the back burner. Dicey ones abandoned in the name of the Omnipresent while the smarter ones were often found in a puddle of their own blood. A shameful dance of how meaningless and absolutely worthless a human life was became more apparent with every tabloid spill. Burning the soles of his hardened feet was the common man, stuck somewhere between the moon and the rainbow, trying to scratch his back in peace. Ignored, he sat waiting in line for an unknown finale just because others like him did too. Fanning themselves with the only other piece of clothing they had brought, they waited. And they hoped.

Thrown somewhere into this bizarre equation of simmering humanity was Ranga. Burning the tips of his fingers with a beedi he had borrowed, he smoked in deep drags with a moist hand towel on his head. Strapped in a dirty dhoti that begged for a wash and an equally shabby cotton shirt he sat enjoying his ten minute lunch break. His face was an image of eternal struggle laced with a hint of a discerning frown. Little was known about this middle aged looking wrinkle-faced nobody who minded his own business and slaved at almost every road repair, flyover construction, brick-laying and sign painting project the city would undertake. Sniffing till his mouth went dry in the blistering heat, Ranga would get soaked in sweat as he toiled relentlessly each passing day to make the few rupaiyyah he got at the end of it. A quick wipe of the weary face and another deep whiff of the foul tasting beedi was all he needed to get through the day.

He ate when there was food available. He slept where there was room. His only possession was a hand-sown cotton bag that hung in desperation along his groin. He would flap up his dhoti with an air of uncouth proficiency and stuff his earnings into that bank of atomic fortunes. Many a time this rather ghastly act of uninvited publicity would see orthodox faces in the crowd look away in utter disgust. With little care for anything around him he would sneeze out a long one, adjust his crotch with practiced ease and move on. Nothing, it appeared, could make the fellow blink an eyelid of concern for anyone else besides himself.

Not far from the invisible shanty-town that was the city’s eyesore was the new project at hand. Ranga’s discovery about this high yielding job had borne fruit when he found himself tenth in the ant-hill that was forming for rapid occupation. A name exchange, a nod of approval on the payment rules and he was in. Zaveri Builders had taken it upon themselves to provide the already bejeweled headdress of the city yet another elite column of apartments with one bedroom and two bathrooms. Ranga was once forced to join in some banter about the owner being a major power player but being the way he was, he coughed and spat before resuming work.

His apathetic reactions to the people around him had created unrest among the ranks as he quickly got the repute of being a loathsome loner. He was, without a shred of doubt, a man of few words but somehow the only salvation others like him with nastier coughing and spitting habits had was to know they were part of a community. This blatant disregard by Ranga of the working-ants brotherhood did not seem to gel well with the clan.

The meat market would remain simmering with the blister of each passing sun. The women folk carried heaps of gravel and stones during the day while their bare bottomed toddlers watched in curious glee before returning to their sand play. At night these mothers and their children nestled next to each other with a half empty stomach while the fathers drank themselves insane and yelled obscenities at the perfumed bedrooms of the snoring elite. Their make shift tents with a dull kitchen outside would be filled with badly sung lullabies and the occasional wail of a nightmare as the stars enveloped this part of the globe. Apart from this faction of noise and activity the rest of the area and all sixteen-floors of it would be the city of the dead.

The booze-hound men would sit around all night exchanging dirty jokes about the owner of the building being an impotent with only one working testis. They would guffaw at various ill conceived rumors about the project’s money being generated by the mafia. Some of them would swear on their dead mothers (‘God rest her soul!’ they would add) that they had seen with their own living eyes covert exchanges at late night meetings. Initially they would call out to Ranga to come on over and join their verbal exploits but on his consistent reluctance to do so they had confidently declared that even he was not a complete man either. Too bad, they said, that at least the owner had so much money! And they might as well have been right about Ranga’s non existent manhood had it not been for that fateful night when the demon king finally decided to make an appearance.

Literacy among these folk was pretty minimal. Agriculture had been their main occupation before the land started to crack and worms began consummating on their crops. While some of them took rat poison for dessert others fled the land to the city where the dreams were produced and caged. They left behind wailing wives and dead kin. Memories of a hard life were past them as the glitz and distraction of a disoriented metro consumed them in one merciless gulp. The silence that engulfed their empty eyes would be filled with the reflections of the stars sequined on some teenager’s ripped jean. The masks they would wear as they built someone's aspiration during the day would burn off their faces as the liquor made way into their food craving veins. With a stomach full of lost ambitions, they would disappear into a mirage of poison vials and humping ring worms before the irksome crow would croak each morning. Those few minutes of reconciliation was all they had. It was all they could afford.

What did not bother Ranga about this scene was the familiarity of it all. He too was a child of abuse in the name of democracy. A lowly farmer whose land had been lost in oceans of debt that would take at least three generations of buttock peeling to pay back. As the heads of the administration looked the other way his home burned. His brothers hung from banyan trees with letters of sorrow cold in their still palms. The elders cremated their mortal remains but the spirits still wandered around the old banyan tree, looking for a release. A proper one. And hopefully a happy one. It seemed like the mixed emotions of the banyan tree dwellers fell on the wrong ears. Somewhere in the belly of an undigested sky slept the demon king in peace. Their cries soaked in flesh-scented fury, somehow, reached the pit of the evil that sang itself a lullaby of death. Not the silent kind O no! The noisy kind. The kind that makes stomachs churn and tongues heave. Somewhere someone somehow had managed to say those two words – magical concoctions of liberty – that would descend from the ill bowels of the skies. That unmistakable pair wrapped in one pristine request – ‘Release Us’.

Ranga squatted for a quick late night relief near the garbage mound when the signs initially appeared. Two drunks were discussing various ways of having rough sex with the latest starlet when mixed with the wind came the scent of decaying souls. Ranga picked it up almost right away. His thoughts ran back to his village, to his family, to his wife, to his twin-daughters who still had not yet reached their tenth year of existence and to his dying land. The land that sat buried inside the shame of his family. The land that had made him as hard as itself. That mass of helpless earth that sat choking on its spit with no one to care for it. As the silence broke with the demon king’s flaming eyeballs Ranga was on his feet – alert, aware, ready. He stood all set to take the monster by his blazing horns and send him back to where he came from.

It was close to 3 AM when the out of control four wheeled chariot of the demon king was on its final ride. Loud and unfamiliar music radiated with glaring insanity from its foul interiors that spat out sparks of fire as it mercilessly banged itself against the sidewalk. Ranga’s math was as accurate as it had ever been. If he did not come in the way of the demon king’s death-strewn path then more than two dozen drunks and eight sobers would be trampled under the hot wheels of the chariot the demon king was riding. The refugee camps with the mothers and children would be next in line. If he did manage to cross paths with the frenzied machine then there was no way to predict which route the dying chariot would take before fragmenting into a thousands pieces perhaps taking Ranga along with it.

Without a second to spare, Ranga took one last look at the boiling lights from hell and leaped onto the chariot’s view. The dark shades prevented him from seeing the demon king in the eye but what a sight that was! An ear piercing crescendo of unearthly noises came out of the metal chariot as Ranga clung onto it desperately trying to force it out of its path of impending mayhem. A few meters away from the snoring half-dead Ranga realized he had gained access to the chariot's steering wheel. He quickly maneuvered his arm onto the square that was dimly lit by smoke and expensive alcohol. He heard a cry behind him; a sleepy sober was shouting at the top of his lungs and trying to pull out every sleeping worker away from that cursed sidewalk. In the following moment the chariot was in Ranga’s control. At a speed unimaginable the demon king's chariot sped onto the construction site narrowly missing the snoozing booze-hounds and crashed violently into one of the weaker pillars in the basement area.

The explosion that followed echoed across the neighborhood. The roar of melting metal was so intense that life in the hundred meter radius was brought out of its slumber. Within a few seconds scores of groggy heads surrounded the smoking chariot of the demon king that was now engulfed in raging flames. Wailing children and their hysterical mothers appeared from their camps and did little to bring order to this chaos. Residents from the neighborhood rushed towards the accident spot with overflowing buckets of water and blankets. Within minutes the fire was brought under control as the entire area was engulfed in a foggy layer of invisible grief.

A burly man, who identified himself as Yadav, began pushing curious onlookers aside to try and rip open the doors of the burning chariot. Using the water and the blankets as fire-safety gadgets he pulled open the door with some effort to find two seriously injured individuals trapped inside. One of them was a young woman who seemed to have hurt her head with a bright red stream of blood dripping down her face and the second one, the driver, was a young man who was immediately identified as the impotent owner’s only son. Someone’s presence of mind worked well that dreary night as an ambulance and a police jeep arrived within the next few minutes.

The impact had been quite vexing. The front portion of the chariot had been completely damaged as the bodies of the unconscious occupants were awkwardly stuck inside. With efforts by the burly Yadav they were finally pulled out and put on sanitized stretchers before being whisked away to safety. The police quickly cleared out the area so that the clean up operation would go smoothly. Considering the owner’s son was involved in this grisly incident they did not want any delay. Not a minute more. Not a second more.

‘Hey! See this!’ screamed one of the younger workers as the ambulances disappeared into the distance. The crowd turned its attention towards the lad only to realize that one more fatality had occurred. One of the local workers, whose name no one knew, lay in a pool of blood as the back of his head had pierced into one of the metal rods that stuck out of one of the concrete blocks of aspirations. They slowly pulled out the dead body of the stranger from its entanglement and laid it out in the open for everyone to take a peek.

‘Sorry son of a bastard’ said one of the intoxicated workers. ‘We pleaded with this fellow to be with us. If he had been then he would have been alive today. You see what happens if you act too smart? I always knew he was not man enough!’ Having said this he spat on Ranga’s bloodied face before being pushed away by the others. Someone later called the local authorities and informed them about an unknown body that had been involved in the incident and needed cremation. Thus, Ranga’s historic tryst with the demon king remained undocumented.

.

Note:
The inspiration for 'Ranga and the demon king' came from Shankar Nag's 1985 Kannada movie called 'Accident'.

Other posts of a similar genre:
A tale for Ambu
The death of Krsna

09/09/09

The folks from the Kommune (regional state/county) replaced the name plate outside the apartment today. Given as to how there is so much significance being attached to today's date - 09/09/09 - I thought it was only fair to document this event with a little photographic spice and poetic salt.

Smiles.

1st Wedding Monthaversary!

It isn't the most pleasant experience to have to spend the very 1st month of wedding away from the beloved. But then despite the bizarre separation me and Jaya are experiencing (thank you visa officials! You guys have no clue how powerfully 'God like' you guys can be! Heck, maybe you do!) I knew there was no need to be blue about it. Hence, in the sunshine of that new hope and renewed faith that we two will be together soon, here is my gift to her this time around. And with it is the prayer, that next month I will be able to spend it with her without the needless distraction of the Internet.

A much needed perspective!

There is possibly nothing more realistic than an Indian wedding. Even so because of the vast abundance of perspectives it helps us get. Given the numerous self styled nuances our nation’s male dominant chutzpah has successfully help create over the centuries, it is little wonder then that what I now know is a serious reality check. Every time I would pass by elaborate labyrinths of colorful flower banners outside glittering kalyana mantap’s in Bangalore, I would wonder what the to-be weds might be going through. Considering the amount of rituals involved even in the most minimalistic Hindu fare, there is definitely little room for the ‘fun factor’ as the priest takes the couple through a journey of verses and exercises. As much as I am fascinated by the variety in these activities, I cannot help but reflect on what the travel has been thus far. In a rather interesting turn of events, me and my family found ourselves (despite the much hyped ‘we are from the groom side’ rhetoric) having to take care of everything a bride’s family ideally would. This, of course, was because my fiancée’s family had kindly agreed to have the wedding in Bangalore instead of Mumbai, where she is from. If I knew then what I know now, I want to think that I would have flown into India better prepared. For starters, catering is a million dollar jackpot. Getting the right caterer who understands and acknowledges your traditions is a serious challenge. After our family caterer had quoted an impossible seeming number for our moderate sized marriage’s food requirements, we had to scramble for alternatives. In that phase, I got an up close introduction to the challenges the girl’s family has to face with making such decisions. Everything from ensuring the work is done well and pleases each grinning face who shows up for the event becomes an automatic priority. Everyone from the DVD wallah who is charming you with his ‘high tech’ versions of yourself set amid graphic valleys to the flower decoration wallah who assures you he will recreate paradise at your doorstep, needs your kind ear. Phew! And all this with a budget line in mind! One thing is certain – after this 10 day long experience, I definitely have new found respect for every Indian girl and her family members. The amount of work that goes into making an Indian wedding tick is definitely no joke. And to think that the boy’s side actually has the cheek to demand dowry on top of this! No wonder such fellows need a strong kick in their derrieres. And for this much needed perspective, I cannot thank my in laws enough!

Book review blog

Dear reader,

I began a blog a few years ago to document my reflections of the books (mostly novels) I read each year. Somehow with time that kind of took a backseat. After posting a book review for 'The enchantress of Florence' recently, I decided to revive that blog too. Given the fact that a lot of you guys are readers too, I thought it would be interesting to maybe share thoughts about some of the common stuff we might have read? Just a way to keep writing, I suppose. :)

So feel free to check it out and let me know your thoughts about the same.

http://shakreads.blogspot.com/

Cheers,

SK

'A Raw Score' - another milestone

I self published my first book - what seems like an embaressingly amateur attempt at writing a book now - 'Existing in pieces' in December 2006. After that life kind of caught on but the itch to write something a little more cohesive and hopefully more interesting was still there. So, after much procrastination I now have my second release - 'A Raw Score'. Just for the record, the title was suggested by my fiancee Jaya. So a big thank you to her!

'A Raw Score' is a book that has come a long way since its inception. In fact it was 'Untitled' for almost a year before Jaya suggested the title a couple of months ago. The theme I always wanted to write about was the subtle nature in which the common man in India goes about the daily humdrum of an ordinary life. Despite the stereotypical assumptions about a setting like this I was convinced that there still existed possibilities to find some exciting and interesting episodes. Spots of incidents that would bring to light the celebrated heroes, the unknown perverts, the hopeless romantics, the hopeful patriots, the helplessly superstitious and of course, the unsung martyrs.

To bring this search of mine to reality, I decided to focus on some of the major issues that one might find in India - corruption, religion, politics, poverty, illiteracy, sexual abuse, communal disharmony, the 'urban' middle class and its many related issues among other things. These seemed like fragments that could possibly be stitched together to make one cohesive pattern that might give the reader a better insight into the lives of working class Indians who ordinarily are thought of as ... well just that, ordinary. Hence, 'A Raw Score' is another ambitious attempt to capture some of those bizarre, whacky and unusual instances of working class Indians in their many complex emotional roller coaster rides.

The artwork for the book was done by a dear friend and ex-colleague Helen Gil. Given below is a snapshot of the cover and also the link where a few preview pages of the book are available for your viewing.

Thank you.

..ShaKri..

Click here to view a preview/buy 'A Raw Score'

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What dreams may come

or many years I have considered the dreams I see as an important source of information and reflection. Given the scientific and supernatural explanations that exist with dream interpretation, I decided to blog the three most comprehensive dream sequences I saw within the last week. Now, maybe they are all indicative of the same thing – the biggest decision of my life that takes place in July – but notwithstanding their symbolic value, I still wanted to see them in black and white, for once. There have been many dreams in the past that have been more in depth with their description than these but never before have I seen so many dream fragments connected to the same person and/or event. Hence, I felt the need to blog about it. So here we go.

Sequence 1

There is a long corridor that is painted red and green. I am sitting with my mother and helping her prepare some dish. My hands are soaked in the batter using which we are making the delicacy. At this point my brother comes running in with a pile of pink colored sheets. I immediately stop helping mom and start to chase him to retrieve those pages he has with him. After a brief pursuit I finally bag the sheets that have blue colored writing all over them. Some of the sentences on them are so badly crossed out multiple times that I cannot read a word of what the original thought was. On closer inspection I realize that they are actually love letters from Jaya. I recognize her handwriting and continue reading them as everything around me begins to fade out into a white glow. I can hear my mother shouting from inside the house warning me that she will tear up the sheets if I do not return to help her. I ignore her and continue reading the contents of the letters. Most of it is now incoherent to me but the one line which I cannot forget is – ‘How can something that is cause for my pain also be the medicine too?’ The air fills up with the aroma of a thousand roses as I continue reading the letters one by one...

Sequence 2
I am in a crowded bus surrounded by every relative I have known my whole life. Aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, nieces – everyone is there. I find myself wondering how a bus would be enough to fit all 100+ of them! I then turn around to find my aunt Indu sitting next to me and enquiring me about something. I respond something incoherent while one of my cousins comes over and tells me they need to stop for some tender coconut water as everyone is quite thirsty and tired from the journey. I look outside the window and find dark green signs all over the city we are in with something written in Tamil. I do not know the language yet I find myself telling them that there is one coconut shop right around the corner. The bus stops and we all get down one by one and start ordering the coconuts. The man who sells the coconuts seems familiar. I do not know where I have seen him before but it is only after I awoke from this dream sequence that I realized who he was. More on that later. We ask him for directions to a river nearby and he speaks in fluent Kannada and tells us that the river is about half a kilometer from where we are. I ask him how he can speak such wonderful Kannada in what seems to be a predominantly Tamil speaking place. He says something I do not recollect properly now. We get back on the bus and I go to the driver to give him directions to the river. To my surprise I find that the driver is the same person who was selling the coconut water just a few seconds ago! I ask him how it is he does two things at one time to which he says something, again, I cannot recall. We arrive at the river that seems to be at the end of a dusty lane and we get ready to cross it. Someone suddenly remembers that Kamalu ajji (my late maternal grandmother) is also with us and needs a boat to be transported across the river. I turn around to find the driver and my brother both carrying a coracle and heading towards where we stand. We put the old lady on it and set her afloat only to realize she hasn’t been given a paddle! I turn to the driver to ask him for a paddle when I realize I am the only one there. All my relatives, the driver, the coracle – everything and everyone has vanished. It was only after waking up that I realized the driver and the coconut vendor was Krishna, Jaya’s elder brother...

Sequence 3

This one was the most descriptive among the three I am narrating here. I am inside a fort like enclosure with very high walls. A giant wooden door stands in front of me through which I am trying to look at an approaching procession. There is a lot of cacophony and musical instruments that are giving the procession a regal flair. A giant elephant is carrying a small mantapa inside which seems to be seated a woman with a veil covering her face. I try my best to open the Herculean wooden door but without success. I find myself wearing ragged clothes and I am also barefoot. Weird looking insects buzz around me and mock me telling me how it is impossible for someone like me to get a glimpse of whoever is in the mantapa on the elephant. I ignore their jabs and start running along the wall to see if there is an opening somewhere so that I can get out of the fort. But no matter how fast I run (and believe me, I was running real fast!) the wall doesn’t seem to end. If anything it continues to grow taller and wider. Eventually I hear a voice booming behind me telling me that the only way I can get past the wall is if I manage to get fire in my legs. I take a deep breathe and jump as high as I can to find that indeed, sparks are flying out of my feet and my foot is blazing with a dull glow as if it were ignited. I fly past the merciless hardness of the wall and cross over it in one giant leap. On getting to the other side I realize that the procession is headed to where I was standing before – inside the giant door. A pathway is surrounded on both sides by five-foot tall grass blades. I push my way past them and approach the procession slowly. When I realize I am at an arm’s length from it I once again kick myself up to be able to fly like before and to attempt reaching the mantapa atop the elephant’s back. But to my surprise I find that the higher the leap the farther the procession gets. This means that there is just no way I can ever reach the mantapa and see who the woman behind the veil is. Those pesky insects return to mock my attempt and take jabs at my meaningless trials at getting to see the princess. I continue watching in silence as the procession passes me by in all pomp and glory...

..ShaKri..

31 - 3 decades to find the 1

Dear reader,

Yes - it is here - March 18, 2009. My 31st birthday. As I reflect upon the journey my life has taken thus far, I am left quite speechless at the hundreds of surprises I have seen along the way. Some beautifully enchanting while others painfully sore. But as I start this new chapter in my life, I cannot help but beam with enthusiasm as the months ahead promise a lot of happiness, joy and peace. So here is a special tribute to that thought of satisfaction. And here is to note - that it took me 3 decades to finally find the 1 birthday where it all comes together. :)

The song clip you hear in this poem is a piece I have recently come to like immensely. Hence I thought of adding it as part of this minor celebration. Of course, I can never forget you, my audience, who visit and/or respond to my posts ever so often. Looking forward to another wonderful year of such blissful companionship. Thank you, reader. And enjoy!

..ShaKri..

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[Special Feature]- Happy 1st Monthversary!

Dear reader,

Today, 8th of March 2009, is the first month anniversary of the day I proposed to my fiance and she agreed. Truly a milestone day for the two of us as we finally found the true love of our lives in each other. Our days since then have been filled with wonderful hues of various new shades that are teaching us what it is like to finally have a soulmate in one's life. A time truly so golden that no amount of planning can ever make one ready for the amount of joy and satisfaction they bring with it. Hence, to commemorate this joyous first occasion, I decided to share with you all the gift I have designed exclusively for her on this special day. :-)

Cheers,

..ShaKri..

PS: The presentation has audio, so make sure you have your headphones ON! Of course, there is the option to switch OFF the music as well if you choose to.

...

14 planned days, 4 planned flights and 1 unplanned love story

The rays of a lazy sun filtered through his silent room. He opened his eyes to the noise of a familiar buzz that radiated from his cellular phone lying next to him. He quickly flipped it open and realized she had sent him a message. ‘Her first message for me in India…’ he thought as an unconscious smile escaped his curious lips. He continued reading the contents before pressing ‘Reply’ and punching in his own matrix of quiet alphabet patterns. This was Day 1 at 5:30AM.

The bizarreness of the affair started becoming obvious quite soon. The fact that the two of them had somehow, given the very restrictive framework of an arranged matrimonial alliance, managed to go beyond formalities into a whole new world of trust and friendship was becoming too apparent. Their conversations took various shapes – SMS messages, text chats, voice chats, web-cam chats and of course, telephone calls. While all this was good enough to keep them waiting for the eventual face to face interaction, there was something else to it too – it didn’t seem to matter. His liking for her was seeded in her shockingly pure shades of genuine earthy innocence while her adulation for him stemmed from the creative attempts of sporadic star spangles he had managed to weave around himself over the years. A pair, one might say, truly unique in relation to one another.

After having exchanged over 200 messages, 100 phone calls and several telepathic signals by the end of day 5, there was little else remaining to be said or done. The meeting of the revered elders now seemed like a ritual that needed to be executed. The truth was he had fallen for her the day she had switched on her webcam for the first time and seen directly into his eyes not realizing she had scooped out his heart in one simple glance. She, on the other hand, had found a new lease of humanity in this stranger who, despite being the quintessential paradigm shifting prodigy-like symbol with an ‘NRI’ label attached, still had his feet firmly stuck to his roots regardless of where his life’s branches extended to. A match that was beginning to compliment each other with every interaction. A pair that was now officially in love but with neither the mental setup nor the physical parameters to confess it yet.

Day 6 brought some hopeful indications to that end as he prepared to take flight # 1 out of his city the following day to the place where he was convinced his soul mate stood waiting for him. Having been a lone wanderer for close to a decade, he wasn’t entirely sure what to expect in terms of companionship. One of the consequences of living alone was this – self reliance. An emotion so intense that many people never get married only for fear of ‘losing’ that space of island life. However, what he didn’t know then was that his much appreciated ‘island dwelling’ wasn’t complete without another shadow that could compliment his ragged presence. A fact that would dawn upon him like a thunderbolt on Day 7.

After the initial bugaboos of ‘arranged marriage’ idiosyncrasy, the two finally got some time to be by themselves. They walked around for a couple of hours exchanging pleasantries and trying to connect the dots about each other that had formed in their heads over the weeks. She spent her time narrating stories from her past and showing him the neighborhood, while he reacted with the utmost sense of sincerity and slapped away annoying mosquitoes that had started their rounds at dusk.

The families decided to eat out for the night, so they went to a delicious ethnic joint in the city. Over several steel tumblers of savory curries and endless supplies of interestingly small rotis he never missed an opportunity to look at her. What the 4-5 weeks of nonstop interactions had done was ignited this brazen craving in him to catch her in all her moods – surprised, thoughtful, serious, unattached, sober, mischievous…all of it. And try as he may, given the rather generously joyful occasion that day, he continued to silently etch her face into the interiors of his heart. She continued stealing glances from him and giggling away incessantly at jokes that only the two of them knew about. Over uncertain queries from her confused elders, she continued munching her limited meal as the evening came to a pleasant close.

Day 8 was going to be a big one. Quite possibly the ‘deal maker’ day for the two. Every exchange thus far had basically culminated up to this day that would go on to become one of the biggest milestones in both their lives. Over idle chat and the humdrum of the traffic whizzing by, he suddenly turned to her and asked her if she would marry him. A gasp of genuine surprise escaped her lips as she paused for a second, before continuing with a reasonable ‘Sure!’ and then they sat in silence for a few seconds before breaking into short giggles at how easily they had moved on to the next step. As the day drew to a close, sitting next to the waves that crashed into custom made rocks with subdued fury, they confessed their love for one another. It was a simple affair. No trumpets. No needless exaggerations. No cards. No music. No sonnets. Nothing. Just a quiet look into each other’s eyes and the magical words spilled forth. It was becoming quite apparent that their story wouldn’t be an ordinary one given that the proposal had preceded the confession, when usually it’s the other way around.

He flew out of her city in flight #2 as day 8 ended. It wasn’t easy, as he later realized sipping cold tea on the flight, to walk away from someone who had responded in the affirmative to the two major things in life – love and marriage.

Day 9 and 10 were a blur. More talk. More SMS exchange. More calls and yes, definitely more love. It wasn’t clear to either of them if what they had done was timed properly, but what they definitely knew was this – it was the most beautiful thing they had ever done in all their lives. Hence, the timing aspect of it just didn’t mean much.

Day 11 arrived with another packet of beautiful surprises. She took flight #3 into his city and brought to him the much needed sense of calm he was so desperately seeking. One look into her calm yet sparkly eyes and he knew – he would live out the rest of his days gazing into those pools of everlasting beauty. The elders met at his place under the blistering sun over cups of sugary coffee and equally sweet juice. After a few placid interactions, it was settled. They then shook hands, touched feet and received the blessings of the elders all the while aware that they were already blessed to have each other. She was now officially welcomed to his family.

She flew out of his city in flight #4 at the end of day 11. A capsule in time he so wanted to forget as he helplessly watched her walk away from him. Their eyes met just before she disappeared in an ocean of bags with hands attached to them. It was in those few seconds, that they had a dozen conversations. And that was enough – for now, he thought. As he drove back into his city constantly checking his messages to see if she had sent anything, he was sure that she was doing the same thing. He found himself instinctively letting out a prayer – ‘God…let this be the last time I see her walk away from me…’ and looked away into the dizzyingly maniacal traffic. A unique bond had been created that the event of ‘marriage’ would only solemnize in public since their celebrations of the heart had already begun.

Days 12 and 13 went by with equal temperaments. He would stay up till the wee hours of the morning as she would spend a good 3-4 hours after a 10 hour shift at work talking to him. This love story had to be the shortest and yet the most beautiful in his recollection since what he had known was that he would have to get married some day. But what he didn’t know was that he would fall in love with his future spouse with such intensity even before the families had properly met. A prospect that has him smiling in blissful wonder even today.

Day 14 came. The day when he would leave his city and head back to his second home in the west. He arrived at the airport almost four hours in advance so that he could speak to her contently for as long as he could. Luck, again, was on his side as he found an isolated phone booth and spent 45 minutes speaking to her and wishing her the best on their first Valentine’s Day. After being eyed suspiciously by a waiting co-passenger, he had to hang up, albeit with a very heavy heart.

He flew out at 3:30AM on the 14th day and slept like a baby for five straight hours on the flight. It was only after waking up and heading to the washroom did he realize why it was. He no longer struggled to sleep on long flights since he had now fallen in love with the most beautiful dream.

..ShaKri..

[ShaK Recipe] - Okra Kurma / Bhindi Gravy

Dear Reader,

Presenting another little experiment of mine that I tried out today listening to some Alejandro Sanz in the background. Okra Kurma, it is called. A concoction made with okra and spices. I am attaching below the mouth watering result and following it is the recipe. Hope you try it too and enjoy it as much as I did with my stuffed aaloo paratha!

Ingredients

Okra/Bhindi/Lady's Finger - about 15 (thoroughly washed and VERY dry)
Onions - 1
Tomato - 2
Ginger/Garlic paste - 1/2 teaspoon
Coconut paste - 1 table spoon
Oil - 1 table spoon
Curry leaves - a few
Red Chilly Powder - 1 teaspoon
Coriander Powder - 1 teaspoon
Turmeric Powder - a pinch
Mustard seeds - for seasoning


Method

Wash and pat dry the Okra. It has to be very dry. Cut them into 1 inch pieces and fry on dry tawa till it changes bright green in colour. Keep aside.

Heat oil add mustard seeds, curry leaves. Then add chopped onions and sauté till they are brown in colour. Then add ginger garlic paste and fry well for a couple of minutes.

Then add nicely chopped tomatoes, chilli powder, coriander powder, turmeric powder and salt to taste. Cook the dish till tomatoes are well cooked. Then add the Okra and mix well. Add coconut paste with water. Cook on high flame for 5 mins. Simmer for 10 mins until the gravy thickens.

And that's it! Enjoy with rice and/or roti with daal.


I hope you try this out some day and enjoy it as much as I did. It's great with aaloo paratha as you can see in the mouth watering photograph I have added above. Cheers!


..ShaKri..

Tomato Dosa - experimenting with food!

Dear reader,

Xmas vacations are a time for me to expand my cooking skills and try out new recipes. I am not much of a chef, per say, but I do experiment with things I feel meet my basic cooking skills. This new recipe - Tomato Dosa - was one among them. I am attaching an image of the dosa I ended up making. I had it with some spicy Karela gojju (the # 1 favorite dish on my list) for dinner tonight so thought of sharing the joy - and the recipe!

Ingredients:
1 cup raw rice (about 200 grams)
4 medium sized ripe tomatoes
4-5 long red chillies
Coconut - shredded or a can of coconut milk
Salt to taste


Method:
1) Wash and soak rice in water for about 2 hours.
2) Grind together - coconut, tomatoes and red chillies to a fine paste. Make sure there are no lumps.
3) Add rice slowly to this mixture and keep grinding until a fine batter is ready. Add salt to taste and grind it one more round.
4) This dosa is not like a rice dosa where it has to be turned to be cooked. So, ensure that the batter is a tad thin - but not too thin like Neeru Dosa either.
5) Pre-heat the pan with a little oil and ensure the pan is really hot.
6) Pour batter on it in circular motions. One swift motion recommended without spreading it around like a regular dosa.
7) Sprinkle a little more oil on it and cover it with a lid to let both sides cook for about 2-3 minutes.
8) Once done fold it carefully and put it on a plate. And thats it!


I am sure there are several variations for this that more experienced folks can accessorize with. For me, this was heaven considering I had it with Hagalkai Gojju!


Cheers,
ShaKri

The ghost in Miss Devaki’s purse – Part 2 of 2

For those who came in late - Part 1 of 2



The ghost in Miss Devaki’s purse – Part 2 of 2
A ShaKri Tale


IT HAD STARTED FEELING strange that Nandini was actually being led to God knows where by the same woman who had been her biggest fear for so many long years. After the first few steps she was suddenly unsure of her spontaneous albeit noteworthy mission since she was beginning to feel oddly out of place. She knew the moment they took a steep turn into a dimly lit alley that she had somehow managed to make the wrong move. An immediate rush of uncertainty clouded Nandini’s thoughts as she passed by an array of crumbling walls attached to blackened houses with tired housewives looking back at her in mute wonder. This just seemed like a little too much reality for what was supposed to be a more predictable reunion. At least the way it had played out in Nandini’s head at some point. And that’s when she knew – she had to tell the woman who she was even if it was beyond reason.

‘Miss Devaki…’ she mumbled in a tone that still had hints of a primary school girl.

The old woman kept talking to herself in whispers and completely ignored Nandini’s initiative.

‘Miss…Devaki?’ said Nandini again after clearing her throat a little and raising her tone.

‘What is it now? Are you already tired from the walking? Look at me! I am seventy five and still slaving like a dog to keep that bastard happy. What woman my age wants to go through this hell! I can’t even kick the fellow out since that will make me the crazy one! What a life this is! Now shut up and bring my bag. I still insist I wont pay you a dime…’ And then she continued ranting about several things that made Nandini lose complete track of what her original intention was.

But that wasn’t the problem anymore. The moment they stopped at a cream colored wall that had a large poster of some rally by an unknown politician, Nandini was about to get a glimpse of her teacher’s purse and the ghost in it.

There was a distinct smell of something rotting that hit Nandini’s nose. This made her cringe with disgust as she quickly grabbed her veil once again for help. She just couldn’t believe how on earth her teacher had ended up in a place like this. Devaki pulled out a bronze colored key and unlocked the door that opened with a tiny squeal. The interior of what looked like the living room was lit just by the subtle rays of the sun that were peeping through from one of the only two windows in the wall. There was the strong stench of body odor that had enveloped the interiors and got to Nandini once again. As she looked around she realized that right under that open window was a bed on which lay the silent body of someone moaning in dull murmurs.

‘Yes! Yes! Don’t shout! I have brought your bloody medicines! Let us see how many more days this can keep you screaming! Do you hear me? Are you still alive or dead?’ yelled Devaki as she grabbed the bag she had handed to Nandini earlier and disappeared into the only other door that room had.

Nandini walked a little closer to the person on the bed. Just as she had taken two steps further her eyes casually rested on an old black and white photograph that was lying on a pile of two steel trunks and a rolled up mattress. It was clearly a photograph of a couple and needless to say one of them was Devaki but she couldn’t quite place the other person in it. She then walked a little closer to look at it in the light that showered into the room when she heard a shivering masculine voice from the bed say softly ‘…a smaller size of that used to be with her all the time you know…’ Nandini was a bit startled at this rather unexpected interaction and turned to speak to the stranger.

‘Excuse me?’ she said as she took another step closer to the ailing man.

‘….she kept it in her purse then…old stories…who are you?’ he responded straining his silver eyebrows and trying to place the woman in front of him.

‘Uh…’ started Nandini before being interrupted by the old man. ‘Oh… it doesn’t matter. It is nice to have company…would you like to sit down?’

‘No thank you,’ said Nandini as she realized there wasn’t anything in the room to sit on. All the room had was an old carpet rolled and set aside, a medium sized metallic cupboard that had an outdated calendar stuck on it, a rickety tea table with three and three fourth legs and an old bed pan that lay next to it.

‘…times have changed…’ continued the man without acknowledging Nandini’s words, ‘…there was a time I used to say the same thing and people would say ‘Thank you, sir!’ and sit in front of me with respect….now…’ he stopped and turned to look outside the window ‘…even I don’t respect myself for what I did…’

Nandini could swear she had heard that voice somewhere before. But she wasn’t really sure where. That soft gentle way of putting things in perspective and that easy going attitude which could easily win over the toughest of children. Yes – Nandini definitely was having flashbacks about this man too.

A bunch of steel pans rattled in the other room as Devaki yelled back ‘Oh! Don’t worry! I am OK! No need to come and help me! As if you can just walk up on those lifeless legs and hop by to finally free me from this jail!’

Following the incoherent chant from the woman, Nandini ventured the next obvious question.

‘I am sorry about your condition. How did you lose your legs?’

‘….they had warned me against it…’ the old man continued oblivious of Nandini’s existence. ‘…they had told me….Namboodari…don’t do it…Devi is tricking you…don’t do it…what about Parimala…don’t do it…but…’

‘Oh! You are still here! What the hell do you want from me! Go away! I am not giving you any money! Go now! Out! Else I will have to call the neighbors!’ screamed Devaki as she emerged from the room with two small bottles. She waved one of them viciously at Nandini screaming at her to leave.

Nandini took one last look at the couple – the oddest kind she had ever seen, smiled back quickly at the emotionless face of the old man and walked outside the door. No sooner had she stepped out back into the rotting alley Devaki slammed the door shut behind her. ‘Thieves! They are all thieves! They put on perfume now and cheat you…’

A minute later Nandini was out of the alley and into bright sunlight again. She quickly opened her shoulder bag and took out her cell phone. A few buttons later she awaited the call to be picked up.

‘Nanda…where are you?’ said a male voice.

‘Pa I got off at the wrong stop that’s all. Don’t worry. I am waiting for the next bus.’

‘I told you not to take the bus! What is it with you? All auto-drivers are the same. Just pay them whatever and get on one will you! This city is unsafe…and you…’

‘Don’t worry pa,’ she continued realizing that her worried father was missing the point.

‘I am not far away. I will call Shamili and have her pick me up in her bike. But listen…’ she said as she quickly started walking back to the bus stop. ‘Do you remember Vidyavardaka Primary?’

Her father paused for a moment and responded ‘Uhh…yes yes…why?’

‘OK. I will explain that later but was there a man called Namboodari there?’

‘Namboodari? Yes. The Principal of your school. Why?’

‘Do you know anything more about him?’

‘Well,’ continued her father ‘…you were too small then so you didn’t know. The man was fine but they say he had an affair with someone. Some teacher in the school. I don’t know her name but she was definitely not popular. The guy was married too…so that caused more issues they said. Maybe your mother knows I think. I can ask her….but…Nandu…are you OK? Why are you asking me this? Did you meet him?’

After bidding her father a quick goodbye Nandini fell silent for a few seconds. There it was. The ghost in Miss Devaki’s purse. That photograph that showed the two of them together in some random park somewhere. The dirty little secret that nasty woman had hidden from everyone at that school. Nandini suddenly saw the irony that the crime she had been publicly humiliated for was actually something Devaki was guilty of. Not only had she stolen the man from his wife but had made him absolutely miserable in what were possibly his last few days. How they both went from being respectable educators to leading an insufferable existence in a nameless shanty town was best left unexplored.

And just like that – Nandini was no longer afraid. No longer did the threatening looks of the men on that street bother her. No longer did the rabid looking canine scare her. No longer did the stench of the rubbish annoy her. No longer did the disturbing image of her past haunt her since now she knew – she had not only found the ghost but had also released it. The smacks she had received for being an innocent had returned to haunt Devaki for the rest of her life. Namboodari was just paying the price.

And as for Nandini, well she had finally found redemption.





End of Part 2

The ghost in Miss Devaki’s purse – Part 1 of 2

The ghost in Miss Devaki’s purse – Part 1 of 2
A ShaKri Tale




IT TOOK MORE THAN A COUPLE OF MINUTES for Nandini to recognize the old bag and register a mental confirmation. The crooked nose, the hollow cheeks, the ridiculously obvious mole that stood staring back in brazen shamelessness from just below a dangly chin. And of course, the trademark gold rimmed spectacles that had lost its bi-focal power centuries ago yet remained on that bridge clinging for dear life. Yes – there was not an ounce of suspicion left that it indeed was the mug shot which was connected to a sinful hand that had once planted intense slaps across little Nandini’s sobbing face.

The incident back then had consumed a little over three minutes of Nandini’s time and six minutes of the classroom’s but had haunted the girl for over three decades after. The moment she had realized it was her long forgotten nightmare, Miss Devaki Rani, sitting just two seats beyond her on the bus that fateful afternoon, Nandini’s graveyard-friendly fears suddenly made a brief but shocking comeback. She found her hand automatically heading to her right cheek that had felt the sting of a heavily ringed and immensely flaky palm one rainy afternoon back in Vidyavardaka Girls’ Primary School. An image flashed by the following second in black and white where she saw herself as a seven year old standing helplessly in front of a figure larger than any door she had ever been through at her grandmother’s ancestral house. She then witnessed the Hercuelean silhouette barking those unforgettable words – ‘…Why you little cunning witch! You are not even as tall as my thumb and you are already stealing! What do you want to be? A dacoit? A robber? Will that make your mother happy? Is that going to bring your father smiles? Tell me! Should I call the police and ask them to take you away? Should I? Tell me! SPEAK UP!’

As tears flowed from silent Nandini’s saucer cup eyes, she had found further reason to bellow in pain as the large trunk like arm swung up once into the air and flung back on to the little girl’s reddened face.

SMACK!

As Nandini’s head reeled under the ripples of shock that impact had created, her ears had gone momentarily deaf to human sounds. All they could hear was the faint buzz of a telephone ringing in the distance. But before she could inform the furious teacher that the phone needed to be answered….

SMACK! SMACK!

Two more freshly baked crisps had been stamped on the little one. And with that it was over. The woman had carelessly pushed the child back into her place and had yelled out a stern warning to everyone that any further attempts at trying to find ‘the ghost who lived in Miss Devaki’s purse’ would result in more serious consequences.

As Nandini returned to her present state of nostalgia she couldn’t help but feel relieved. One couldn’t blame her since she had been after all – guilty. Thanks to the endless taunts of her fellow class mates as to how cowardly and puny she was, there was never a chance Nandini would not have dared to explore the five rupee note sticking out of her teacher’s purse while the woman had left the classroom for an errand. What Devaki, on the other hand, didn’t know was the child was actually looking for what was popularly called ‘the ghost in Miss Devaki’s purse’. This had been a trendy way to taunt the woman by the kids as they had all wondered who exactly would release that ‘ghost’ some day. That brave girl! Who would it be? The one who would go ahead and do the impossible! Unfortunately the day Nandini had taken it upon herself to become ‘the one’ was the day she had been stung by the owner of the purse so badly, that it became one of the most traumatic experiences of her entire life. An incident that had come back to her thirty something years later, while traveling to meet her class mate from that very class in her native.

As Nandini struggled with the dilemma of whether or not she should go and reconnect with her nemesis, the old lady’s stop arrived. Despite being four stops away from her original destination, Nandini took a deep breathe, adjusted the long flowing veil of her salwar-kameez, pulled the tiny lock of hair hanging near her temple back behind her ear and got down too.

The first thing Nandini noticed was the location she had chosen to pursue her past. The stop was located in what was easily one of the dirtiest neighborhoods of her city. Strewn with open sewage drains and scantily spread out garbage bins surrounded by trash around it rather than in it, Nandini suddenly covered her nose with the edge of her veil to escape the stench emanating from almost everywhere.

‘Gosh!’ she thought. ‘What sort of a place is this!’ But given the reasoning behind her rather abrupt move, she didn’t have a choice but to see its end. And so she walked slowly behind the frail looking figure staggering a few feet in front of her avoiding cow-dung and other manure.

The vision of seeing Miss Devaki from behind suddenly seemed like a new context. The woman now looked old, fragile and extremely unhealthy. There had always been a rumor that she secretly smoked but considering Nandini had left that school just a year after the ‘smacking’ incident, she knew nothing more about the teacher’s life except the three minute physical ordeal she had endured. Devaki kept coughing into what looked like a napkin as she shooed away stray animals that seemed interested in what she was carrying in her four plastic bags. Nandini suddenly felt insecure as she began noticing that she was the clearly the odd man out in what looked like a lower middle class locality with bare-bottomed kids playing outside with rabid looking street canine and bare-chested middle aged men staring emotionlessly at the well dressed woman who was following an ill tempered old lady.

To play it safe, Nandini did the unthinkable. What had started as a non-plan was now turning into a sequence of meaningful events. She paced herself and joined the old woman who was struggling with her bags.

‘Can I help you, Miss?’ she enquired in her British accented English that had only improved after she had moved to the United Kingdom with her husband a decade ago.

‘What?’ coughed the old lady back as she strained her aged eyes to recognize the stranger offering her needless and intrusive help.

‘I said can I help you?’ she repeated with a genuine smile that she hoped would vitalize the aged soul.

‘Who the heck are you all of a sudden? Go away!’ said Devaki making it clear to Nandini – that she hadn’t changed one atom. Age had definitely not deterred the will of this woman who could only spew bitterness. She was treating Nandini the same way she had fanned away the canine earlier.

‘O! I am no one…’ Nandini found herself saying almost apologetically. ‘I noticed you were being hassled by the dogs…so I wanted to help, Miss.’

She found it odd that she couldn’t stop herself from calling the woman ‘Miss’.

‘No need! I do this every day. Now go away! Lot of thieves these days. I don’t want you stealing my things. You can’t fool me by putting on make up, I say!’

Nandini was shocked. She couldn’t believe Devaki still accused people of being criminals who were out to burgle her blind. Even if it meant random blokes who were trying to be good Samaritans.

‘Miss please…’ Nandini insisted as she found the old woman almost dropping one of her bags. ‘Please let me help. You can hold my hand if you don’t want me to run away. OK?’

Once a teacher – always a teacher. They cannot stand too much whining. And so this tactic worked somewhat. Devaki immediately lost whatever was left of her temper and flung one of the bags at Nandini and grabbed her right hand. ‘Amma!!!!Fine! My God you are a pesky little girl! What a pain! But listen! I wont pay you anything for this service you hear me? I don’t want you haggling outside my door for money!’

Nandini smiled back and responded, ‘That’s OK Miss. I don’t want anything. Let’s go.’ And then they walked. Devaki held on to Nandini with the same sinful hand that had come crashing down on the child one rainy afternoon in pursuit of a rumored ghost. What Nandini didn’t know then was within the next few minutes, she would actually meet the ghost in Miss Devaki’s purse.



End of Part 1

Click here to read Part 2 of 2

[snEhakkAgi] - new animated E-cards for Friendship!

Friendship (ಸ್ನೇಹ) is a unique emotion and a special bond. A relationship which transcends time and origins. A connection that lasts a life time despite the ups and downs. We, at Shubhashaya.com, would like to be part of this journey and so have added 21 new, animated and colorful E-Greeting cards that can be sent any day of the year - to that special friend whom you miss or would like to acknowledge.

So why wait? Go on to - http://www.shubhashaya.com/friends.htm - and start sending those cards right away! These cards can also be used for "Friendship Day" in August by when I am sure we would have added a lot more entries to this wonderful collection.

Here is a flier I created to spread the word about this update. Please click ON it for the larger version.

Your support is our inspiration. So we hope you enjoy sending these cards as much as we enjoyed providing them to you.

Cheers,

ShaKri