You can go through my story line, its quite rough and it might change. You are welcome to give me any feedback.
-- Vishakha Jindal
9535678533
http://www.flickr.com/photos/vishakhajindal/
http://www.facebook.com/VishakhaJindal.Photography
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Story line for the surreal photo monatge book.
Hi Narendra
Friday, February 24, 2012
40 line
Hi, this is one of my old works that I have re edited.
Its just under 40lines.
Thanks
Shaun Machado
FW: 40 line
From: shaun_machado@live.com
To: narendraraghunath@onceuponatime.blogger.com
Subject: FW: 40 line
Date: Sat, 25 Feb 2012 09:39:11 +0530
Fwd: Sasha-My eventful vacation
---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: sasha gupta <sasha.gupta91@gmail.com>
Date: Sat, Feb 25, 2012 at 11:14 AM
Subject: Sasha-My eventful vacation
To: narendraraghunath.onceuponatime@blogger.com
After admiring the Taj Mahal for over a decade,I finally visited it in 2008.I had huge expectations on what the structure would evoke in me; the overall experience it would have, the architecture.Hence, it was not a surprise when I reached the Bangalore International Airport three hours prior to the departure.
From: sasha gupta <sasha.gupta91@gmail.com>
Date: Sat, Feb 25, 2012 at 11:14 AM
Subject: Sasha-My eventful vacation
To: narendraraghunath.onceuponatime@blogger.com
After admiring the Taj Mahal for over a decade,I finally visited it in 2008.I had huge expectations on what the structure would evoke in me; the overall experience it would have, the architecture.Hence, it was not a surprise when I reached the Bangalore International Airport three hours prior to the departure.
Prior to the trip, I expected to reach Agra peacefully and just enjoy the immaculate structure.Who knew the lords above had something else in store for me!With every pit stop we made and we made many as my bladder chose to be difficult that day, we were surrounded by typical Bengali speaking folk. One would think that since I belong to the same land, this constant encounter would excite me and evoke some sense of pride in me.On the contrary, I wanted to run to the nearest railway station and jump in front of it!In a matter of two hours, I had seen them spit, scream and shower oodles of love to their only son,making the scene absolutely nauseating.
"baaabuu,khethe aisho";"Aamar shona moni, ektu khao";"Mishti chele...." Phrases that can only make my head and stomach churn!
Once I reached Agra I thought I had escaped their company.On the contrary, with every step I took to appreciate the Mughal architecture, I had a million Bengali families hovering around me,eating their pan and embarrassing the land that was once famous for producing the "intelligentsia".
"How could the land appreciated for its culture ,produce unruly folk like this?";"If my family did not interact with the outside world as much as they did, would we have been the folk I was criticizing?"-while I sound very snooty with this opinion of mine I could not help but feel it.Was my upbringing a reason for this?In some ways, I am glad because I would not want to be despised!This annoyance was not limited to the "snooty" fifteen year old, but it was the opinion of every person around us.
Whether I understand the beautiful Taj Mahal or the Agra Fort,I cannot say.However I do know that, I would never want to be described as a loud Bengali!
Sasha-My eventful vacation
After admiring the Taj Mahal for over a decade,I finally visited it in 2008.I had huge expectations on what the structure would evoke in me; the overall experience it would have, the architecture.Hence, it was not a surprise when I reached the Bangalore International Airport three hours prior to the departure.
Prior to the trip, I expected to reach Agra peacefully and just enjoy the immaculate structure.Who knew the lords above had something else in store for me!With every pit stop we made and we made many as my bladder chose to have be difficult that day, we were surrounded by typical Bengali speaking folk. One would think that since I belong to the same land, this constant encounter would excite me and evoke some sense of pride in me.On the contrary, I wanted to run to the nearest railway station and jump in front of it!In a matter of two hours, I had seen them spit, scream and shower oodles of love to their only son,making the scene absolutely nauseating.
"baaabuu,khethe aisho";"Aamar shona moni, ektu khao";"Mishti chele...." Phrases that can only make my head and stomach churn!
Once I reached Agra I thought I had escaped their company.On the contrary, with every step I took to appreciate the Mughal architecture, I had a million Bengali families hovering around me,eating their pan and embarrassing the land that was once famous for producing the "intelligentsia".
"How could the land appreciated for its culture ,produce unruly folk like this?";"If my family did not interact with the outside world as much as they did, would we have been the folk I was criticizing?"-while I sound very snooty with this opinion of mine I could not help but feel it.Was my upbringing a reason for this?In some ways, I am glad because I would not want to be despised!This annoyance was not limited to the "snooty" fifteen year old, but it was the opinion of every person around us.
Whether I understand the beautiful Taj Mahal or the Agra Fort,I cannot say.However I do know that, I would never want to be described as a loud Bengali!
40 line
Dear Narendra
Here is my 40 line story!
Here is my 40 line story!
5:00 pm in the evening, I got a call from my mother. She asked me if I wanted to come to Bombay the next day early in the morning. Restless and tired of staying at home, my spontaneous reaction was a "YES"! She booked the ticket, told me the time of departure and sent me the PDF. I printed the ticket and chucked it in my bag, packed my bags and went to sleep. Dad woke me up next morning at six, stuffing the sandwich he made for me in my mouth. He pulled me with my bag and made me sit on the bike. With me and my bag, he took the bike zipped to the airport on that cold winter morning. Both dad and I were shivering. The weatherman had reported the morning to be at 2 degrees centigrade. We cut through the traffic and took the shortest road possible to get from East Delhi to West Delhi. After an hour and a half, we reached the airport. My father dropped me off at the entrance; kissed me goodbye and from there the airport shuttle bus dropped me to the departure gate. I ran with my bag to the check-in counter and showed them my ticket. She looked at the ticket with a puzzled look on her face. She said, "Sir this flight has already taken off sir. You've missed your flight". The moment I heard that, I felt like a huge canon ball had been fired onto my stomach. I had never ever missed anything in my entire life and I had no clue how to deal with what I had just heard. I asked the lovely lady, "Ma'am please try and put me in the next kingfisher flight to Mumbai please! I am a minor and I need to go and meet my mother! PLEASE help me out, PLEASE"! The lady smiled and said, "Don't worry sir; we have special policies of service for minors". She quickly looked through the available flights and after 15-20 minutes, printed out a boarding pass for me. She asked me to run to gate number 60 as the flight was boarding in 15 minutes. I snatched the boarding pass from her hand and rushed to the boarding gate. I finally reached the aircraft and I finally got some air to breath. I looked at my boarding pass to see where my seat was and I was bloody overwhelmed. I WAS NEVER EVER IN MY ENTIRE LIFE BEEN UPGRADED TO BUSINESS CLASS. I could feel the peace and tranquillity from inside. The beautiful air hostess guided me to me seat and brought me hot towels. It felt like heaven after the long bike ride early in the morning at 2 degrees centigrade. The moment I had my luxurious breakfast, I blissfully crashed on the lazy chair and went into the endless world of dreams. God that flight was the most ecstatic every!
I sent you the story in the email in case the attachment does not work
Thankyou
Nihar Apte
My Draft
Alone in the old house she lived,
So old that nobody recalled,
A tale only old blind men remembered-
Only one bearded man that had seen it all,
It had once been pretty it was told,
In the house lived a family big and tall,
To the villagers they seemed private and cold,
With one exception little Eli Pervalle.
She was the sweetest girl you could come across,
She skipped along the village streets that were covered with moss.
Though obedient by nature she was,
The dark dark woods often beckoned to her,
But her mother's stern voice recited the laws,
She was never supposed to go past the first fir.
As years went by in peaceful monotony,
Eli grew up, a woman she was soon to be,
Now though her body grew up,
The same could not be said for her mind or her heart.
One day with the rising sun she turned four plus twelve,
She ran along and paused in front of the woods,
Not a young girl no a young woman now,
She believed she could handle those demons well,
Wondering about what the dark actually held,
Into the pitch dark she went listening to every sound,
Lost in the thought of the story of red riding hood.
Later at night the village was in turmoil,
young Eli was nowhere to be found,
They ran and ran to come back with news and their finds,
Soon enough the family in sorrow was drowned.
As the sun came out a week later,
They searched and searched but to no avail,
They moved a month later for the worse or the better?
And here starts the second part of the tale.
- Madhul
40 line story
It's about 3:50 in the morning, I think of a way to finish my work and crawl into my beckoning bed. All that stares at my face is the blank screen. I've started to write now. I sit in my white balcony freezing my skin off. Who knew Bangalore could be cold. I dint! The lights shining in the dark make a pretty picture, no movement but the wind can be detected. It whistles soft music in my ear; I switch off my I-pod. Music in my ears soft music so different from the music I generally listen to. If not for the wind I would feel all alone. My friends have all gone off to sleep all in the process of finishing off their work. The lights throughout out the house are on giving a false sense of existing human activity. I feel myself succumbing to sleep. I push back. I have to finish my work.
I look out the sky moves, its restless tonight. A dark menacing cloud passes slowly over, daring anyone to obstruct its path. It casts the land below into the deeper shadows of the night. It looks as if the earth itself stands still, preparing for war with the shadow of doubt etched in its face. The wind howls as if warning everyone about the impending disaster, the cloud rumbles on unafraid and the trees sway, as if trembling, rooted in one spot frozen with fear. I jump at a sound, then relax my heart it was just the watchman on his hourly rounds I calm down. Or try to. Well this ought to keep me awake a while longer. I get up to look down, I see the ground not a very long drop from where I stand, but just enough to give anyone a broken neck. I shudder, this time not because of the cold. I walk inside, all an effort to keep me awake and see the house cluttered. I grin to myself, "thank god mom isn't here, she'd flip out." Inwardly I laugh at my drunk-on-lack of sleep joke and move back to the balcony. The sky has changed again the cloud has moved on passing over the land granting mercy to it this once. The wind has died a bit, I have a feeling it won't last for long. It seems to want to retire for the night. I hope it doesn't, I'd rather brave the wind than the silence. There are still cars on the road, buses mainly but some cars, I wish I was in one of them. I miss driving.
I see the bus depot, the buses are in the process of being washed, for some reason I find that insanely funny. I think the sleep's gone to my head. The streets are lit by the eerie orange glow of the street lights cascading off the alley walls. The more I write the more I feel it's a perfect night for a crime. Hope there isn't one though. I hear a car braking into a sudden halt, the tyres squealing in protest I can almost imagine the smell of burnt rubber. The darkness is lifting not by a measurable amount but enough for me to decipher. The wind has died down completely. A light in one of the bathrooms switches on; someone else wakes at this hour. All other lights in the two adjoining apartments are off. It's dark except for the ground floor parking space lights. I finally feel myself ebbing away into oblivion .My last broken thoughts are to get inside the house away from the cold. And then nothing.
- Madhul
Adaptation
The Haunted house
It was a stormy night, windy and rainy. As sheets of rain battered the ground with fierceness of a lost soul claiming its revenge, darkness crept closer and closer to everything that shed light, – the moon hidden behind the clouds, the trees trembling beneath the tyrannous wind. As the wind blew and hit the wall of the house, solitary in its state the sound of running could be heard in the hallways.
A door opens there, patter of small feet hitting the wooden flooring. "Where is he?". Another door, three others and then finally the noise comes to a standstill. Just the faint noise of a dress disturbed by the wind.
"There he is!", she giggled. Peeping in through the hallway she looked at him with a mix of anger and love.
He woke up scared, sweat covered his frame. As he sat up straight unmoving, paralyzed, almost in a hypnotic state, sweat dripped off his brow making a hasty descent for his blanket, much as he wanted to do. Instead he sat still, fixed upon the vision he saw that made bile rise up at the back of his throat. Too scared to even make a sound, to even breathe, he listened, listened for that noise he knew. The slight scrape of fabric against wood, the sound of light footsteps creeping into his room, the quiet malevolent giggle. There! He heard it, the fear settled at the back of his mind made its way to his throat. Choking on his scream he looked back and there was nothing, just the pitch black mask his room put on under the shadow of the night.
What is she looking for? What does she want? Sleep trickles in and dreams take over him again.
"Why doesn't he wake up? We're going to be late, he promised he' take me to the recital. Now they' be angry."
An invisible hand tries to wake him, tries to shake him out of stupor. "Wake up!", she says almost crying. "He promised", cheeks stained by tears, she walked out of the room slowly.
He woke up, startled, "Wait come back! Who are you looking for?"
story for blog
Custom Made
It was just another summer afternoon in the city of Fui .The bus moved only an inch for almost an hour. The city traffic jam survived only on honking, changing lanes, burning litres of petrol and not leaving even an inch space between vehicles. It's a Tetris view if seen from an airplane. The sun was itchy, hot and unbearable. It was as torturing as shampoo on your head that drips down your face and enters your eyes, while you try to turn the tap on, to realise that you're out of water.
Not many travellers visited this city because it had unplanned infrastructure, traffic, hostile people and the summer sun. But there was something very special about the city. No it's not the name and it's not the amazingly large number of vehicles. The neighbouring cities of Fui are always full of visitors from around the world. But 99% of them ignore Fui. Only 1% of the travellers from the neighbouring cities get lucky with an 'intuition' that Fui has a sacred corner. Apparently it comprises of a group of people who help travellers create custom made fruits. Those few overlook the disadvantages of the city and their fascination invites them to Fui. People come to know about it only through an intuition. The corner of the city keeps shifting and is not known by the locals. Hence it's not an easy discovery.
Joe put his hand in the pocket to look for his handkerchief. But he pulled out ends of his own pocket. A drop of sweat on his nose tip which was shining in the sun got heavier and fell on his chest. He gulped down dryness instead of saliva. He found himself in a dreaming mood as he was blessed with the intuition. He travelled miles to reach Fui in the same hope, but discovered custom made traffic instead of fruits. On his way he only imagined eating apples the way he liked them. Apples that melt in mouth as you take a bite, flavours that stay on your tongue for a long time with a hint of strawberry infused in every bite. He went crazy over the idea of such apples and could not wait to indulge in them. But the traffic was horrible and suppressed him to dream about them. Joe was on the verge of losing hope.
Joe stuck out his head out of the window, in the anticipation to get some air at least if not apples. Behind the row of shining cars, that almost began to melt by now because of the sun, he saw a patch of green bushes that stood out in the view. More prominently because the leaves begin to shake and shiver. Joe did not move his eyes from the scene. This coincidence after an intuition hinted him that there's something about the place behind the bushes. It seemed mystical, intriguing and inviting.
Collecting his bags from the bus, Joe decided to get off. He proceeded towards the bushes and walked through them fearlessly. Not just apples, he saw tons of unseen variety of fruits. It was all in his face as he stepped in. it was a long tunnel of bushes with fruits on both the sides. These fruits were grown for the customers that have been here before. Oranges in the shape of bananas, tiny grapes in pomegranate shell, mangoes as small as strawberries. He popped a peel-less mango in his mouth and could not believe his taste buds. Its taste was extravagant and beautiful. The juiciest and blissful fruits he had ever seen on this planet.
He walked further and wondered how on earth is it possible to grow or make such fruits. He reached further to see a huge apple tree on a tiny hill. He stood under it looking for the lowest branch, so he could pluck a few easily. The texture, the shape, the colour and form was very ordinary and he was not amazed by it. He took a bite to realise that disappointment existed in his discovery. His love for apples got diminished because of this incident. The apple tasted very normal and all his hopes were crushed. He dropped the apples on the ground and began to walk. The apples slid down the slope and hit his feet. He tripped and fell on the spot. His face was next to the grass that smelled like strawberries. Joe lost hope but the smell of strawberries refreshed him to an idea. He plucked some grass and rubbed it on to the apples. He left it in the sunlight for about 15 minutes. This was the time when he did not crib about the itchy sun. He realised that sun is the main element that helps in infusing flavours and magical characteristics in the fruits. His eyes gleamed with joy as he was ready to take the first bite of his custom made fruit. It was even more beautiful than he imagined it to be. The texture was perfectly according to his taste, sweet, with a hint of strawberry. Unexpectedly it was very chewy, almost like gum. He rolled some in his mouth and blew air to blow a bubble. It produced apple shaped bubbles. It was amazing for him to see such a magical apple, more importantly to eat one. His patience and determination paid off.
Vishakha Jindal
9535678533
http://www.flickr.com/photos/vishakhajindal/
http://www.facebook.com/VishakhaJindal.Photography
flight. (40 line story)
Ages ago, I used to fly. I used to fly over my house. Up in the sky, I would look inside my house. I saw my mother looking for me. She would look under the table, under the bed, inside the cupboard… everywhere. She could never find me. Whenever I came back home, after flying she would ask me where I was and how much I troubled her. I would tell her I went flying, she told me I was lying. Everyday this cycle was repeated. Afraid of being accused for lying every day, I stopped flying. Flying was everything for me. It was heartless of my mother to stop me from flying. All I wanted was to fly. Over the buildings, the bus depots and the sea. Today, I tried flying again. I could for a while, but then I fell. After the fall, I can fly again. But something is different. Flying seems lighter now. oh wait! Is that me lying there on the ground?
Koshy Brahmatmaj
Ruchika Nambiar - 40 Line Story
"What if our cells had minds of their own?"
"Our cells. As in the cells in our bodies?"
"Yes. What if they could think?"
"Okay. And?"
"Well imagine it. They'd have their own thoughts and dreams and wishes. They'd fall in love, marry, split up, have children, have dreams of their children being successful..."
"Well, what if they did?"
"Think about it. You know how we tend to believe we're the most important thing in the world, simply because we are, by default, the most important thing to ourselves?"
"Yes."
"Well wouldn't you feel rather condescending to think that your cells actually thought they were important?"
"Important in what sense?"
"Important as individuals, of course."
"Oh. Well, I suppose I would then. Feel condescending, that is."
"Exactly. It's quite amusing that they might think they actually make any difference whatsoever, because nothing they could possibly do could have any effect on our organism as a whole."
"Haha I guess. Their dreams, their ambitions; none of it matters in the least. Although, don't you think it's a rather nihilistic view of the world?"
"Oh quite. But then again, I get that way sometimes. After all, what do we know how far or deep the world extends?"
"I suppose you're going to apply the theory to humans too?"
"Quite expectedly."
"Haha. So none of what we do matters?"
"Nothing. It doesn't matter if we're a saint or a sinner, we all meet the same fate whether by accident or design."
"You mean death?"
"Yes. And even that makes no difference to the large organism we are a part of, whatever that might be."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, millions of cells in our body die everyday. Does it make a difference? No. They're replaced by new ones."
"Ah. And the new ones carry out the necessary functions one way or another."
"Exactly. Have you noticed how no social group ever goes extinct? There are always new humans to fill it up."
"What social groups?"
"We'll always have dictators, we'll always have scheming corporates, we'll always have downtrodden victims. There's always someone to fill in these roles."
"And they keep the world going in the same cycle."
"Right. For years and years and years. Like how our circulatory system always works in the same way, along the same route."
"But of course, the meaning of time changes."
"Oh yes. Like dreaming, where hours in a dream may have been a minute in real time."
"And our lives are of no significance whatsoever."
"Nope."
"Well there's some food for thought."
"Oh sure."
-------------------------------------------------------------
And now we zoom out by 44,59,734%.
-------------------------------------------------------------
"I've been wondering..."
"What's that?"
"What if the little humans in our bodies had minds of their own?"
"Hahahaha. You crack me up."
Friday, February 17, 2012
Monday, February 13, 2012
FW: Siddhanth Shetty - Once upon a time
From: funkysid@hotmail.com
To: narendra@srishti.ac.in
Subject: Siddhanth Shetty - Once upon a time
Date: Fri, 10 Feb 2012 22:58:02 +0530
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Ruchika Nambiar - Final Story - Chapter 1
Ruchika Nambiar - Story for Final Project - Chapter 1
The Adventures of Time & Circumstance
Chapter 1
Circumstance and the Potato Problem
Time and Circumstance sat atop their twisted tree stumps, playing their favorite game for no reason besides boredom. They were oblivious to the havoc they caused in the lives of unsuspecting humans. Between them was a depthless marble bowl and inside, swirled a never ending mass of events yet to take place.
"Which year do we visit?" asked Circumstance excitedly. Her voice shrill and her ringlets danced about her dimpled face. Circumstance was made up of a million threads – like nerves – interweaving to form her body. These were the uncountable, infinite strands of life – one for every circumstance of every moment and an infinite more for all the other undiscovered possibilities of every moment.
Time was many people seen as one – one for each second of each person's life. The opposite of how a drunk man would see many of one person, humans were taught to see all these different people as one for the sake of convenience. Like many different transparent images of a person blurring into one, splitting again when you look too closely, and coming back together once you've blinked.
These reckless children of the universe sat across from each other, like parallel mirrors, causing each other to multiply infinitely, each holding the image of the other within itself. They each held within them, all the parallel universes that existed in the world.
"Circumstance, why must you worry your pretty little head when the dice can make the decision for us?" he asked condescendingly. He held out his hand and a small dice slowly materialized in his palm. It was a curious little object. Curious because its faces were constantly changing. Each face had numbers changing between zero and nine, the numbers pausing just long enough to read.
"How many times, Circumstance?"
"Four!" she clapped her hands in delight.
And Time rolled the dice four times. The dice landed on 1. He rolled it again. It gave him an 8. And then a 4. And finally a 5. And with that, like moving chess pieces on a board, Time stood up and moved away, and another Time took his place. Time had looped back to the year 1845.
"Say, sister. Why is it that you enjoy A.D. so much?" Time asked.
"Oh come now, Time. It's a lot more fun when the humans believe they're getting smarter. When they believe they're recording their 'history' and 'progressing' and all those other funny words they use. I believe the later the year -- or rather the later they believe the year is -- the better."
"Well, I must admit their concept of 'history' is quite amusing."
"Quiet now brother, let us get back to our game. Pick a place." She rested her elbows on the edge of the bowl and waited for him to decide.
"Ireland?" he asked after a moment of thought. Circumstance wrinkled her nose in response.
"I don't like the Irish. They eat too many potatoes."
Time laughed. "And what problem have you with potatoes now, sister?"
"They're boring. And shapeless." Suddenly her eyes lit up. "Let's make the potatoes in Ireland disappear!" She looked back at him with sparkling, eager eyes. Time shook his head reproachfully.
"Now, now, Circumstance. You know the rules of The Bowl. You can't just make things disappear." Her face fell. She really wanted to make potatoes disappear. But she soon cheered up as a new idea struck her. Without wasting any more time, she reached out with one hand into the bowl. She quickly rummaged around in Mexico until she found what she was looking for. She picked up a glowing bead and looked at it with a wide grin on her face. It pulsed with a soft even rhythm between her fingers.
"And what might that be?" Time asked, staring curiously at the bead.
"You'll see," she responded, pulling out a strand from her little finger and stringing it through the bead. Placing the bead back in its place, she took the other end of the thread and stretched it all the way out to Ireland. She quickly strung it through the first potato bead she saw.
"Now watch it grow." The two children leaned over the bowl, watching with glee as the little bead flattened and then proceeded to expand, its bluish glow engulfing the whole of Ireland.
* * *
The proximate cause of famine was a potato disease commonly known as potato blight. How and when the blight Phytophthora infestans arrived in Europe is still uncertain. The origin of the fungus has been traced to Toluca Valley of Mexico, from whence it spread first to North America and then to Europe. The famine was a watershed in the history of Ireland. Its effects permanently changed the island's demographic, political and cultural landscape.
During the famine approximately 1 million people died and a million more emigrated from Ireland, causing the island's population to fall by between 20% and 25%. Although blight ravaged potato crops throughout Europe during the 1840s, the impact and human cost in Ireland – where one-third of the population was entirely dependent on the potato for food – was exacerbated by a host of political, social and economic factors which remain the subject of historical debate.
* * *
Circumstance yawned a few hours later. "I'm bored," she announced. "Too many bodies lying all around."
"One more before we call it a day?" Time asked. This was his favorite game and he loved watching how the little players ran around on their tiny feet. His favorites were the ones who tried to figure out life. It was even more fun when they thought they were succeeding at it. "Let's make it a quick one. No far-reaching consequences this time; I'm hungry and I want to go inside too."
"Oh alright alright. Pick a time and make it quick," she groaned.
Time stood up and quickly chose a year at random.
"What year is it?" asked Circumstance, her voice bored and sleepy. She slowly lifted her head to look into the bowl in front of her.
"Don't know," replied Time impatiently. "Late 17th century or so. Does it matter?"
"S'pose not," she replied and yawned again. "She peered into the bowl more closely. Her eyes finally focused on something.
"Time!" she wailed, annoyed. "There's nothing going on here! It's just a boy sitting under a tree."
"It'll make for a quick game, won't it?" he defended.
"Oh alright." She brightened up at the prospect of a quick prank. Bending down into the bowl, she blew at the tree under which the boy was sitting. The tree and its branches shook and apple fell out of the tree. It fell right on the boy's head with a low thud.
The children giggled in delight.
"Nice aim, sister." Time complimented her. They both stood up laughing and started walking towards their cottage.
"Told you there wouldn't be any far-reaching consequences on that one," Time boasted, as they skipped back home, hand in hand, for a slice of pie.
My draft for the story.
Apart from amazing strategy and intense discipline, the Indian army works using other more tools as well; one being rum. Being up there and as cold as it is, rum is a big favourite of many locals and knowing this, many friends are made around a drink or two. A great thing about rum is that it's a phenomenal ice breaker and so conversations pour out as fast as the drinks.
As part of their strategy to gain intelligence about the enemy, informants for the army are often ploughed with bottles and bottles of rum. Sure, they're paid as well but it's much more about the rum for most. I happened to make a friend of one of the informants. I can't tell you his name but I can tell you that with him was one of the greatest friendships I've ever had.
I had called him to dhaba we usually meet at. The fire was ready with the two glasses and bottle of rum already in place. The food was still getting ready. In fact, the cook was an ex Jawan who had been injured and couldn't serve anymore and had taken up this position to stay as close to the action as he could. He knew what the conversations we conducted were about but always kept to himself and knew where his loyalties lied. My friend arrived a little while after me and greeted me warmly as he always does; more so that my own brother does. We sat and I poured him a drink to give some warmth in the blistering cold. He asked, "Bhai Sahib, aaj koi khas baat hai kya? Janam din ya kuch? Mein tho aapko parso khabar leikar milne vala that." "Nahi, nahi yaar," I replied, "aaj bas milne ka man kiya tho bulla liya. Kaam ki baat hamesha hoti hai." The cook brought out some chicken, still steaming.
I began to tell him my favourite story. I hadn't told anybody this story and I didn't know a better person to tell it to first. It was a story from a very long time ago; before I had the white in my hair or even the belly nurtured from years of rum and chicken.
It was when I first joined the army and we had been tipped off by someone that there were three terrorists hiding in a small house in the market place. I was picked as part of the team to bring them in. Geared up and racing through all the training tactics in my head, we arrived at the market place right in front of the house. We burst with guns pointing in every direction with no one in the house but a glimpse of a foot escaping through the window. It was them, they were running. All split up, I was ordered and pointed in the direction of one. He knew the market much better than I did and managed to take every galli possible darting at every turn and over every wall he could find. His exit had been planned and he knew that it would be extremely difficult for anyone else to keep up. He kept majorly to crowded areas so as to not allow me to take a shot at him. No one stopped him either but I didn't really expect them to.
"Iss kutte ne mujhe itna bhagaya, itna bhagaya! Aur tab, mujhe mauka mil gaya." He passed a path where there were no people and I took my shot. While taking another one of his turns, the bullet missed his back but went into his shoulder and I could see him fall to the ground on the other side of the corner. I moved forward slowly, ready for any surprises and stuck to the wall. I turned the corner and pointed my gun straight at him. He was bleeding everywhere and didn't seem to be armed. He didn't seem to be trying to escape; he knew he didn't have it in him anymore. I took out the cuffs and approached him cautiously to arrest him when he shrugged me off and asked, "Goli pehle kisne chalayi?" "Maine" I replied. "Tho aap mujhe marne hi vale the. Agar aap mujhe vapis lejaoge tho ya tho tum log mujhe aadhi jaan leikar hamesha ke liye rakhoge ya phir mere log mujhe maar denge. Agar aap mujhe pehle goli chalakar marne vale hee the to abhi bhi maar sakthe ho." And I killed him. That was the first person I had ever killed. And till then I had wondered if I would be able to handle it, be able to kill another person. And I realised after that, that killing them is what should be done, for us and for them.
"Aur aaj aap mujhe marne vale ho." He said as he finished his drink. He didn't ask, he said.
There was in incident today where a few of my men died. Good men died. And it was because of my friend, the informant. He had been double crossing me and getting me to kill their people who they needed sent away. But like the man I killed that first day, I didn't want my friend to be tortured like I know he would be. I wanted at least a respectable death for him if he hadn't leaded the most respectable life. And that's when I shot him.
The girl who lost her soul
Koshy Brahmatmaj
Hidden behind the bright, cheerful voice of Iha was the voice of darkness. Initially she would hear this voice just once in 6 months, but recently it has been as frequent as every hour. To make the situations worse, the voice has multiplied. There are days when she hears as many as 7 voices. There are some voices that give her order, some that taunt her and 1 that compliments her and helps her out in each and every situation. That voice is the only the source of Iha's courage. Most of the time it over powers the rest of the 6 voices.
One day while Iha was sitting with her friends gossiping, one of her friend said something about her and the 7th voice broke down. The rest of the voices were quick to note that the 7th voice was at its weakest. They attacked it. They kept on attacking it until everything was lost.
Koshy Brahmatmaj
Friday, February 10, 2012
Man
by Shreyansh Agarwal
THE SEVENTEENTH DAY OF JUNE OF 2008.
THE SEVENTEENTH DAY OF JUNE OF 2008.
Anukriti Kedia
‘Please fasten your seat belt.
The flight is ready for takeoff’ said the flight attendant, the blue of her
formal attire, highlighting the beauty of that blue of her eyes which seemed to
be peeping out of the black kohl around it, her cheekbones shaded with a tinge
of pink, adding glow to her already fair skin, not even a strand of hair
falling on her face, coming out of her neatly knotted bun. But this story is
not about this young lady with beautiful eyes and a remarkable posture. Nor is
it about me. It is about what happens in AE809, seven thousand miles above sea
level on the seventeenth day of June of 2008.
Two minutes after the
announcement, one could hear the click of the seat belts, the cabin lights were
dimmed and the flight took off. It took off not just on its route, but on its
journey. A journey across one continent, one ocean, two seas, and several other
states. A journey that was going to take those on-board from Abu Dhabi, to a
place with a different time zone, different weather, different people,
different culture- New York.
Walking down the aisle, the
blacks and whites of the clothes of the Arabs were the most dominant in
relation to the other different hues reclined against the grey seat covers. It
was way into the night and most of the passengers were fast asleep, the few
others on their seats, engaging themselves in books or music under the
incandescent yellow of the light overhead. But it was those four seats, of the
middle aisle of the fifteenth row, which was the centre of the flight, and not
just literally, it was like the bubbling hub of a city half asleep. All four,
wide awake, busy in an animated discussion. No, they were not acquaintances,
they had become so in a matter of an hour of meeting each other.
“My father wants me to become
as successful and independent as him, so he asked me to go and write my own
future. I will be studying in New York University for four years,” said Ahaan.
He was a young boy, 18 years of age, going to pursue his dream of becoming a
young entrepreneur. He was leaving behind his home, parents and elder sister
hoping to bring `prestige to his family. Benezeer, a young woman in her
mid-twenties on her way to her honeymoon, listening eagerly to what he had to
say and also thinking at the same time how she never got the chance to carve
her own destiny. She had once dreamed too, of becoming a Director. Of making
meaningful cinema to reach out to people. But things had changed since the
death of her father. Her destiny taking
its own path. She was a young beautiful woman, sharp features, petite
body, but there was apprehension in her eyes. Her eyeballs constantly shifting
focus, telling a story of their own.
“What happened” said the man
sitting next to her-her husband, Kabir- a rough man, very hardworking but also
very cryptic and withdrawn. A man of few words, he had met Benezeer on a local
train two months back. Little did he know then that their fates will be sealed
together in a holy matrimony just in a matter of a few weeks from then-Benezeer
being adamant on getting married as soon as possible. “Your father is doing the
right thing, making you understand survival in today’s competitive globalised
world” said, Diana, a woman in her early forties, listening to all three of
them and thinking about her own family at home. She missed her two children
while on business trips. Being a working mom was tiring but she always knew she
wanted it-relating to Ahaan’s situation very well.
The conversations kept flowing
, from careers to aspirations, to friendship to life, and so the night went by
as they neared their destination. A steward came to ask if they needed anything
and all but Benezeer requested refreshments. She was distant today,
thought Kabir. Surprised to see his usually talkative bride, behave like this.
Nervous, as though there was some crime she had committed. She looked over at
her handsome husband and then at her sweaty palms. She knew the time was near.
00:10, it was just minutes away. She knew there was no going back now. She had
committed to it and now had to carry it out. Would her mother ever forgive her
for cruelly snatching away her future, her husband’s future and also of the 187
other passengers? But she would understand, that all this was for Abba. To let
his soul rest in peace. He was her husband, she had to understand.
00:15.It was time.
Ahaan and Kabir were still in
conversation while Diana sipped her drink listening to them. Benezeer suddenly
got up and walked off. The others assuming that she must be going to the lavatory.
But she walked past it. She entered the cock pit pushing out of her way two
crew members without the knowledge of her husband or co-passengers. Coming
closer to the accomplishment of her mission, with every second that passed.
‘The wait shall finally come to an end’ she thought.
Suddenly the cabin lights were
switched on and the crew was on high alert. There had to be something wrong.
Was it a storm? They didn’t know that it was a storm of a distinct kind.
The passengers were suddenly
woken up by a distressed and overwrought voice. “All passengers to kindly
remain seated. This is your pilot declaring an Emergency. I am communicating
with the base and making a Mayday call”
A sudden fear gripped everyone.
What could possibly be the reason for this.
Suddenly an armed Benezeer
walked through the cabins, shouting and telling everyone to stay put. All the
passengers were staring at her, not knowing what to think or feel, not
understanding what was unfolding before them. “Arre, that’s Benezeer!
You, you knew this was going to happen. You’re terrorists. We’re all going to
die. This woman is a terrorist and so is her husband,” screamed a terrorized
and aghast Diana. But Kabir knew none of this. These words were like thunder
clap for him. He merely sat frozen in his chair. How could this be? How could
he not have known this or not have the slightest doubts about this woman? How
could he ever marry her like that? Was this even reality? It seemed like the
last two months he had spent, were in complete blindness.
Hearing Diana, it hit everyone
that this woman was a terrorist and from the looks of it she was a going to
attempt mass murder. Right then. She had somehow in this time frame managed to
hold onto two rifles. How she managed to get them past security, nobody would
ever know. Ready to shoot anyone who protested, though it hardly mattered if she
was going to blow up the plane. She reached for a bag in a storage compartment
and kept it open in one of the aisles. It contained even more explosives and
shrapnel. The trigger, marking the thin line between life and death for all.
‘Will I be able to carry it
out? Can I kill so many innocent people just to prove our point?’ was what was
going through her mind. She had her doubts but knew she had to carry this out
to get the message across. To get her and her companions’ message across. All
the planning from the last year, couldn’t go waste. How efficiently it was all
figured out. How she would meet Kabir, and make him fall in love with her, and
then carry out her mission, with the least suspicion. The only problem being
that, it was she who had fallen for Kabir as well. Emotions were one thing she
wasn’t taught from her superiors. Emotions couldn’t come in her way. Emotions
wouldn’t. She had to take revenge for her father’s death. Complete what her
father had left undone. It was all in the name of the greater good for the
human being. All in the name of Allah.
And then. It happened. No, not
the shootout, but another event which changed the course of the incident. An
air turbulence hit the airplane. The balance of the plane went hay wire, and
everything inside shook. And it was in the middle of this, that one of the guns
in her hand, fell from her hand, slid down the passage and landed right in front
of the fifteenth row. Right next to Kabir. Was this a mere coincidence? Was it an underlying message of destiny?
And Kabir, who was numb all this while, gathered all his courage, and acted. He
took the gun up, and pointed it straight at Benezeer. While at the other end
Benezeer’s gun staring at him in his face as a reflex. The whole flight now,
gazing intently at the couple.
“ Benezeer, in one of our last
moments, I am not going to tell you about how much I actually loved you, nor
will I tell you about what I am going through at the moment. The only thing I
am going to ask you is Why? Why did you come in my life? Why would you disrupt
my life after adding colour to it? Why would you put the lives of so many
people on stake? WHY?”
Benezeer suddenly realized she
couldn't go through with it. She just couldn’t take so many innocent lives. But
then the evil took over her mind again, and maintaining her stand she said “
Kabir, you will never understand. The World shall never understand until some
violence takes place, until some blood is shed. I didn’t mean to hurt you. But
there was no other way. And now also, there is no other way.I will have to kill
you, if you come in my way.”
“If that is so Benezeer, then I
am giving you three seconds to think again. By the end of that, either you will
keep your gun down, or I shall fire at you,” said Kabir.
And then the countdown started.
There was utmost silence, not even a drop of a pin could break it.
“ONE-TWO-TH….”.
And then there was a gunshot.
And Benezeer collapsed. But it was not Kabir’s gun which had fired the bullet.
It was her own.What came over her in the last three seconds of her life, nobody
would ever know. “The greater good of mankind is in their survival.” she said in a faint voice. And those
were her last words.
And this is what happened in
AE809, seven thousand miles above sea level on the seventeenth day of June of
2008.
Shaun Machado
I woke up in morning. At 7.4567 hours to be exact. Started
counting my fingers; One, two, three, four, five, five plus one, five plus two,
five plus three, five plus four, five plus five .Infinity. I never seemed to
get tired of my cell. It treated me well, spoke to me and never misguided me.
The voice from the speaker box suggested a set routine for me every day. The
speaker box always knew what I needed. It sometimes asked me to leave my cell
and enter the common cell every (infinity-(5+5)) sessions. Each session
normally lasts for one moon and one sun. At least that’s how I calculate it
when I look out at infinity through a crack in my cell’s ceiling.
My cell has a window to look out of and dream. I see what my
speaker box calls a tree, a hill, sea and clouds. You very rarely see people
hear. As I was told that the we subjects are the only ones left around this area.
But when I occasionally see people out through the window; they don’t look like
me or the rest of the (5*5)+(5*5)+ (5*5)+(5*5) subjects at this unit. I suspect
that they are the controllers the speaker box.
I was instructed
at Infinity minus (five + five) sessions ago. That infinity will be when I get
my first visual experimentation experience. It is infinity right now. I was
told that I will be sent to an alternate state of existence where people never achieve
infinity. Where people live a monotonously structured life, where everything
they do and say is controlled by a ‘higher source’. The people are not aware of
this ‘higher source’. They told me that this ‘higher source’ controls the
people’s minds so that they are set in a loop. A loop that never lets them find
infinity.
TO BE OR NOT TO BE JADED?
TO BE OR NOT TO
BE JADED?
by Sasha Gupta
Having opened all her Christmas presents, she ran towards
her most trusted confidant-her grandfather. Her tiny cherubic frame seemed to
have been covered by all the goodies given by Santa Claus. But that did not
stop her from going to the library or her “wonderland” as she put it.
The library was more to her than a repository for books as
her love for them cemented her relationship with her old man. It was not about
reading “ladybird publishers” and their myriad of illustrations but about
seeing him enact and narrate the stories. These interactions were more
memorable as they were not directly dramatized; they were contorted and
manipulated.
In the modified version, Rumpelstiltskin
was not about a girl who could spin straw into gold. It was about a queen
who was infertile and in need of an heir. When challenged to guess his name,
they were not Caspar, Balthazar or Shortribs like the original. They were Hironishin Furuhashi (of Olympics fame), Kagemusha (A Kurusawa
masterpiece) and Lak Pak Shing (A
Bengali term for lanky).This was done to excite and add humour to the Grimm’s
brother story.
Rumpelstiltskin was not an exception. Every story by the
Grimm’s brothers or Hans Christian Anderson or Charles Perrault received the
same treatment. The above instance is probably common to every grandchild who
has spent many summers with their old spectacled friends.
An interesting point to note is that each of these fairy
tales have been altered a thousand times. For instance, Perrault’s version of Red Riding Hood ends with her being
killed by the wolf. However, the Grimm
Brother’s version has a happy ending with a hunter saving her. When one looks
at a fairy tales’ history one realizes that it has been revised many a times
with the aim of sanitizing it and making it more palatable. The version of Sleeping Beauty we all know might not
have been so popular if it had not been changed. The original, describes her
rape and impregnation by a king instead of being saved by a Prince. A story
like that could take away a child’s innocence as William Blake’s Songs of Innocence describes
“innocence”.
Seeing a grandfather improvise them would have seemed more
random and with the intention of entertaining as mentioned above. However, one
realizes that the reason to have stories with happy endings arises from the
need to maintain their “innocence”. It is an attempt to make them see the world
with rose tinted glasses. It is an opportunity to escape the harsh realities
that they are entrapped in.
Therefore, justifying her eagerness to jump into his lap and
listen to him narrate Cinderella (sanitized
version). It is their time to escape and go to “The land of Happily Ever After”
and find that pair of glass shoes. The aim is not be jaded and corrupted by the
evil world outside.
Shreyansh agarwal
by Shreyansh Agarwal
In a village
near Kolkata, known as Mednipur lived a Patachitrakar adorned with simplicity.
A kurta loosely hung on the skeleton of his body and wore a dhoti instead of
pants. Patachitrakars narrated mythological stories along with a visual scroll.
We live in a different world now. Folk art forms have gradually vanished and
there are few who cherish the richness and importance of such art. People
usually gathered around the artist in open spaces to hear his story and
experience the magical journey on which the patchitrakar took them. While the
patachitrakar narrated the story, two men namely sutradhars unravelled the
scroll as he proceeded with the story. People listened to him in amazement even
the nature around would seem non-existent. What children see today is heroic
tales of Batman or Spiderman. What they hard then were heroic tales of Krishna
and Rama who possessed magical powers.
The patachitrakar
would make the villagers escape into the world of dream from the daily hustle bustle.
The patachitrakar would first carefully write the story and tie it in a continuous
thread of music before visually illustrating it on the scroll. The scroll would
be visually divided in to frames; present day comics use a similar style.
Patachitrakar didn’t narrate the story but instead sang it in a repetitive
melody making it engaging to the audience. The tradition was passed on from
generations and each heir carried it ahead with the same passion as his ancestors.
Usually people paid him in kind rather than cash and that how the artist made a
survival. He even owned a small piece of land where his family cultivated rice
for self-consumption. Even though by birth he was a muslim he didn’t follow any
religion in particular. His folklores consisted stories from all religious
sects.
When people
gradually shifted to newer means of entertainment he didn’t even realise .The
evenings became less day by day and audience which once use to cheer and
applaud became silent. Children would not come to attend the session as they
were overwhelmed by the magic of gadgets. It was the old who just attending
these sessions. His survival was difficult as earlier people use to pay them in
kind. People hardly even bought their scrolls now. People just blindly adapted
to the western ways of entertainment like cinema and television.. All that he
did was paint these beautifull intricate scrolls and survived a basic lifestyle
with it. Of course what do these artists know about marketing and advertising,
they are simple men who know how to do their job and they are good at it.
There were days
when his family didn’t have anything to eat. He would work for months on the
beautifull scrolls of patachitra but there no people to buy it or appreciate
it.. They were artists and artists don’t beg. What else could he had done with all
that he knew was to paint patachitra and this is what his family had been doing
since time in memorial. Was he the one with whom the family legacy would
change, bearer of such folk form didn’t the responsibility lie on him to take
it ahead. The scrolls kept pilling up until one fine day when he decided to
give up and switch to a different profession. He joined the group of goldsmiths
in his village to try his luck at it. He worked diligently at for few months as
a goldsmith and hand crafted beautiful gold ornaments. It earned him a decent
earning and there was stability in this job. He couldn’t carry it on for too
long his heart didn’t allow him to. It might have been a safe option for the
survival of his family but he decided to go back to what he was best at.
The Bet by Anton Chekhov
The Bet by Anton Chekhov
(Adaptation by Vivan Kamath)
As I picked up my jacket from the bed and walked to the
door, I kissed her and said nothing more. Nothing more had to be said. I recall
the day still – it was just another night with everyone at the house, filling
up the house with smoke and the distinct smell of rum. There was a great
debate, one that we often got ourselves into, about whom of the two thinks
about sex more, men or women. I never truly thought that it was a sort of thing
you could generalise and was more of an individual character. Regardless, I
kept my loyalties where it belongs and fought ruthlessly on the side of my
fellow men. Most of us treated it as a jokingly friendly duel of wit and in
that spirit I cheekily remarked, “Personally, sex isn’t that a recurring
thought in my mind on a daily basis. I would much rather know about her
feelings and all that other stuff.”
“Hah!” exclaimed one of the opponents who coincidently
happened to also be my girlfriend, “let’s not get carried away with jokes here.
We all know how incredibly in love with sex and the thought attached to it you
are. Majority of what you say has some sort of innuendo attached to it.
I grinned at her for knowing me so well but then again, I
wasn’t all that discrete with my sexual connotation jokes friendly enough to be
in the room that night. I suggested a bet. I proposed that all the people in
the room would participate in a social experiment where in no one, not even
couples could have sex for the next one year. Great laughter broke out in the
room till a few noticed that I was being serious. It was even more hilarious
because it was coming from me and no one would ever have thought I would ever
be able of such a thing, not even her. In all honesty, even I didn’t take
myself seriously. It was just a game to tell stories about many years from now
when we were old. What made it fun was that no matter how unsure people were
about whether they could do it, they weren’t worried about being the first to
quit with me around.
It was decided that everyone would be honest in their
participation or failures as it was a little too personal to investigate into
everybody’s affairs and anyhow, the company I kept was more than willing to
talk about their most recent escapades and wouldn’t give up a chance to gloat.
Since we couldn’t really think of any suitable prize for the winner or winners,
we agreed that a suffix of ‘the legend’ would be added to their names and would
only be referred to in entire title at all required times.
Two of the participants lost that night itself after a
little too much found itself in their system. Another more inexperienced member
of the group gloated widely that who would surely be the winner considering he
had never managed any sex at all until then and didn’t see it happening in the
near future either. He was awfully wrong because a month later he found himself
lying next to a girl under some very undressed circumstances and decided that
no suffix was worth giving up that opportunity. He apparently examined the girl
from head to toe once again before coming to a definite decision to disqualify
himself for what he called the ‘greater good’. By the sixth month, we were down
to five people, four females, one of them being my girlfriend and to everyone’s
huge surprise, me. If it weren’t for me, the gender debate would have been put
to rest but the bet would have continued nonetheless. My girlfriend would often
tease me with sly messages or taunts using language she would otherwise never
speak. But I would keep cool, thanked her and move on to work. I don’t think I
had got better grades in my work ever before.
Funnily enough, I started noticing a lot more things as
well. It was like I was so caught up in trying to get her out of her clothes
that I never paid attention to how good she looks in purple or how often she
wears green. I never knew she listened to Devendra Banhart or even spoke Spanish.
She wasn’t very good but it was enough to notice. We spent the next five and a
half months together and it was great because now we were actually together. We
didn’t rush things to go get into bed every second, we saw more movies and
plays than I think I had ever watched in my life. I learnt more Spanish than
she knew just because I thought it would impress her. It did impress her. The
others who were disqualified continued with their promiscuous lives which I
would have to hear about constantly from one source or another and I realised
how much I used to do that and how stupid I must have sounded. My mother and
her spent time together properly for the first time and she stopped treating
her like the girl who corrupted her little boy.
My friends couldn’t believe I had managed so long and other
people who heard about it would come and ask me if it were true. When I told
them it was, they behaved as if I had been holding my breath this whole time. I
told them it wasn’t all that hard and joked about how it was easier once she
stopped taunting and teasing me.
A day before she and I were going to earn our titles of
honour, a party was being planned for us with again, a lot of rum and the same
friends along with the girl my friend gave up his shot at the title for. She
was his girlfriend now. A little before the party started, I was getting ready
with my bow tie on and picking which hat to wear for the ball. She came and
asked if we could talk, she started tearing up and looked shrivelled and scared
like never before.
“There isn’t easy way to say this so here it is – I’ve been
sleeping with someone else for the last two months. I’m so sorry” bursting into
tears of embarrassment and what seemed to be untameable regret.
“I know, it’s alright.” I told her in a far easier way. “I
figured it out when you stopped teasing me with the raunchy messages and all
that. I think it made it easier since I had gotten to know you so much this
year.” Shocked by what I said, she stood there mouth wide open. I told her that
I had realised even before all the cheating started that this relationship
wasn’t meant to be romantic and that I mostly only liked spending time with her
because I liked spending time with her. I just kept the whole thing up because
I didn’t want to make it uncomfortable for anyone. I knew everything was going
to be alright soon enough. I kissed her and said nothing more. Nothing more had
to be said.
Love in Prison
Love in Prison
Nanki Josiya Singh
Between attending back to back classes, playing sports and participating in other extra-curricular activities the boys at Saint James boarding school for boys had another hobby which they pursued with great diligence- finding their idyllic high school loves.
Like all schools, even this one had a mix of different types of people- there were the nerds, always cramming something, the jocks, the loafers, the geeks, the artists and the quite ones. Seemingly different on various levels, when it came down to the fundamentals all the boys were pretty much the same.
The artist as they called themselves weren’t bona fide professionals no; they were teenagers who had some skill which produced a drawing when they put their colourful markers to paper. And the payment would be in the form of the latest tuck package or a temporary loan of the fanciest gadgets.
The boys tired of each other’s company and looking for some change come into collaboration with the artist, they offer their new gadgets or their tuck package, hand him a sheet of paper and commission a bouquet. The number of flowers in each bouquet corresponds to the number of boys the in the group and each flower bears a coloured tag and a number relating to the respective boy’s house colour and room number.
These bouquets once completed are concealed as mail or newsletters and find their way to Rushmore Girls Convent. Rushmore Girls Convent as the name suggests is a girl’s boarding school situated on the opposite hill from Saint James boarding school for boys. The bouquets circulate from girl to girl and in a few days the senders of these bouquets hear the verdict, Sarah had chosen the rose with the blue coloured tag, Nina chose the tulip with the red tag and that Tanya had chosen the germanium with the green tag. This ritual was like that which takes place at the end of a wedding where the bridal bouquet would always be caught by someone.
Then onwards each of the three boys would have an enthusiast whose names were Sarah, Nina and Tanya. Boys went on for further studies where as the girls finished their school term and shifted back home. What did these girls do? They waited for their men; they moulded their lives around the idea of this one man who is the one for them.
She was committed and in love, they said. What did he look like? What did he like? How old was he? What were his hobbies? She knew nothing. She was connected to a faceless man, through a flower and all it represented. The wind, the meadows, the birds chirping, the sunshine, and the flowers it all reminds her of him. Just a flower convinces her that he is the one for her and makes him divine. Blinded by youthful fantasies and the mystery of the unknown this girl devotes herself to him. She forms a bond that is ethereal and true, one that can stand the test of time, a love that lasts.
But like all beautiful stories, every one of these also has some pain hidden behind it. Something that doesn’t let it reach the state of perfection, something that makes it seems like paradise lost. One day before leaving to pursue his higher education Avril, gave all he had- 50 francs to be given to a female
student that he had seen while both the schools had been out for an excursion, so that she could by herself something to remember him by, a bittersweet memory of sorts.
The distance between the boys and girls was bridged by this dream world, a place where you could find someone who you’d relate yourself too, a place where you had something to look forward to, a place where you had meaning, a place where someone pulled you in just like gravity.
Young love, we say as we laugh. We shouldn’t. It’s a powerful thing.
THE STORY-TELLER
THE
STORY-TELLER
An
Adaptation- Anukriti Kedia
The Shatabdi from Delhi to Dehradun had again been delayed
by another hour, waiting on the platform for the past two hours, time was
getting even harder for the passengers to cut. Sitting on one end of a rusted
bench, towards, the end of the platform, was an old lady, busy trying to divert
the attention of her nieces and nephews, who were sitting on a suitcase each
around her, getting even more fidgety as the minutes passed. On the other end
of the same bench, sat a dark broody man, a stranger to their party, who was
quietly observing them, wishing for a miracle to happen by which the kids will
sleep, and the noise they made would die down.
The aunt, who was tired of their constant questioning and
the ruckus they were creating, decided to engage them in a story, said, “come
here and listen to a story”. The children moved listlessly
towards the aunt. Evidently her reputation as a story- teller did not rank high
in their estimation.
She started her story, of a beautiful
young girl, who had the riches of the world with her, with a character that was
awe-inspiring and adjusting that got her to make friends with tons of people
who loved and respected her, and in the end was saved from a mad bull on loose
, by her well-wishers owing to her moral character.
"Wouldn't they have saved her if
she hadn't been good?" demanded the eldest of the siblings. It was exactly
the question that the man had wanted to ask.
"Well, yes," admitted the
aunt lamely, "but I don't think they would have run quite so fast to her
help if they had not liked her so much."
Upon hearing this, the children
collectively trashed the story, claiming it to be extremely stupid.
"You don't seem to be a success
as a story-teller," said the man
suddenly from his corner.
The aunt bristled in instant defense
at this unexpected attack.
"It's a very difficult thing to
tell stories that children can both understand and appreciate," she said
stiffly.
It was then that she challenged the man
to tell them a story, who then began.
“Once upon a time, there was a girl
named Rani. True to her name she was a queen of intelligence and etiquettes,
and her amicable behavior made her even more popular amongst her friends. The
apple of the eye of her rich businessman father, stories of her good looks and
charm reached around.
Hearing of that, she was invited to a
minister’s annual party. A party of high prestige for which not every young
woman was invited. The party was an extravagant event, set in a striking farm
on the outskirts of Delhi. The party was mostly filled with ministers,
diplomats, and high standing officials. Rani thought to herself, I wouldn’t
have been invited to such an extraordinarily beautiful place and such a
significant occasion had it not been for my impeccable nature. Feeling even
more important amidst such powerful people, and even better about herself, she
walked up and down, meeting new people, making new connections and exploring
the party area. While doing this, she walked towards the far end of the farm, a
little away from the party. Just then a man started walking towards her.”
“ Who was this man?” asked the
children, interested in this new twist the story took.
“This man was dark and bearded, his
breath reeking of alcohol, and his eyes, reflecting a hunger of sorts. The glow
of Rani’s skin and the innocence which reflected on her face caught his
attention from far off and he decided to follow her. Rani saw the man
stealthily take small footsteps towards her, and she immediately started to
wish she wasnt asked to come for the party. Sensing his wrong intensions, Rani
ran as fast as she could and went and hid herself in the thickest of the bushes
she could find. Praying to God with every step the man took closer to the bush,
and cursing her goodness at that moment, she wished the foliage would provide
her enough cover.
The man looked and looked for his prey for the night but
couldn’t find her, she had truly chosen her cover pretty well. Just when he was
going to turn back and mix into the party once again, a shimmer in the bushes
caught his eye. It was the shimmer of diamond which Rani was wearing across her
neck, and he instantaneously knew where she had hid herself. His red eyes
gleaming of ferocity and triumph, he dragged her out of the bush, and devoured
her, extracting pleasure out of her body, till there was nothing more she could
offer, and left her lying thereafter.
Her desperate pleads of help, and
shouts of agony went unheard in the music of the party, where not even her
friends of her remarkable character save her from what was happening. All that
was left of Rani was her frail body covered in just her bruises her half torn
clothes, and her jewelry.”
The children found sadistic pleasure in
the end calling the story the most beautiful they had hear ever.
The aunt, however had a dissentient
opinon said, "A most improper story to tell to young children! You have
undermined the effect of years of careful teaching.”
“At any rate”, said the man, collecting
his trunk, and walking towards the approaching train,” I managed to tell them
of the happenings of the world they live in today and keep them quiet for more
than twenty minutes, which was more than you were able to do."
As he walked towards his coach, the
picture of the girl lying on the ground came flashing into his head,and he
couldn’t help but suppress the shiver that went down his spine.
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