Short Story 15 : Liar Lair, Claps for Hire.

Theme : Being Kafkaesque.

Being Kafkaesque, is an expression that arose from the adjectivization of Franz Kafka, the famous bohemian novelist of the 18th century. 

It refers to nightmarish situations that most people may encounter or relate to, although they seem strongly surreal. It is strongly characteristic or reminiscent of the the oppressive qualities of Franz Kafka's works of fiction. 

His seminal fictional world had a strong premise of cruelty, insularity and lack of forgiveness in them and Kafka's characters populating this world, are often seen to be powerless against the absurdity of events happening to them. 

This story is based on a Kafkaesque theme, with an attempt to connect weird surrealism it to blatant reality.

***

Liar Liar, Claps For Hire.

  ‘I love you, baby…’ His voice is hoarse, almost a whisper. He attempts to clear his throat and ignores the old man. He must say it again, in a clear voice.

  One, two, three…

  ‘I love you too, Madhu..’ Neha smiles. He stares at her, dumbfounded. Can’t she hear it?

 ‘I love…’ he attempts a reply, but no sound emanates from his lips. His eyes are drawn, without his permission to the sound, to the source of the clear beats behind Neha.

  …Six, seven, eight…

 ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, after I wind up at the theater. Take care then,’ she picks up her books, purse and shades, bends down to place a peck on his cheek. His girlfriend of two months, the celebrated actress, Neha Kaur, who has promised him a break in the industry, turns on her heel with a dazzling smile and walks towards the exit.

   …eleven , twelve…

  Can’t she see him? She walks right past him, no way she could have missed that old asshole, and yet...

  …thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. 

  The old man stops clapping. His wheelchair turns in a smooth curve and moves towards the exit, a few paces behind Neha.

  A bead of surreptitious sweat rolls down, behind Madhu’s ear. What the hell is happening? Who is that bastard? Where does he come from? How does he appear all of a sudden, whenever…

  ‘Bill, saab!’ The waiter plunks a piece of paper, in a small stainless steel plate in front of him. Madhu fumbles in his wallet, pulls out a 500-rupee note, & puts it atop the bill, barely glancing at it. He stumbles his way towards the door, unaware of the now smiling waiter, who is saluting his back gleefully, for the ridiculously generous tip for a mere cup of tea.

  He would follow the old man today. And…ask him. How? Why?

  How did he know?

 How did he know when to appear? It was now obvious to Madhu. Madhu was no fool.

 An accomplished liar is anything but a fool. And Madhu is a specialist.

  Wasn’t it he, who had convinced the principal of his school to part with 200 rupees to treat an imaginary ailing mother, the day he wanted to miss the math exam?

  He, who had even fleeced the house maid of most of her salary, with that cock-and-bull story of a severe stomach ache, to treat his friends to Jim Carrey's blockbuster, 'Liar Lair' in college. His father had caned him for that, when he found out, but Madhu still smiles at the fond memory of the con.

  Making fools out of people is an art. And he is a talented artist, indeed. After all, he has been practicing all his life.

  All had been well, until that fateful day last week. He'd been going to meet Neha after work, when the  accident happened. If only he'd seen the policeman waiting patiently behind the truck to trap motorists who flout the rules, but of course he'd been too preoccupied to notice. 

   Madhu had jumped the signal and tried to avoid a pothole, when he collided onto the edge of the pavement to land with a thud, right at the cop’s waiting feet, complete with a small bump on the back of his head. He'd not worn the helmet because he hadn’t wanted to ruin the perfect hairstyle that Neha adored so much. Madhu noticed the gleam of greed in the policeman’s eyes, even before he picked himself up from the one-way street corner and dusted off his clothes.

   But then, he was Madhu, the trickster, wasn’t he? Only a genius could have made the traffic policeman to part with 300 rupees after violating the signal rules, with that classic yarn of a hospitalized child…He was a gifted artist indeed.

  Madhu’s chest swells with pride at the memory, until a flash of what happened afterward, assaults his mind. The half-smile dies on his lips and his chest constricts with…a fear he can neither put a name to nor describe.

   That was when it had begun, the nightmare of the old man.

  The old man in a pinstriped suit, a neatly trimmed snow-white beard, a black cap, and black leather shoes that gleamed on large feet, that rested squarely on the footrest of a wheelchair to boot. 

  He had appeared out of nowhere on the pavement, just as Madhu started his bike after conning the policeman. He looked Madhu in the eye, and never looked away. Oh those eyes, those eyes seemed to penetrate his very soul, even from across the street…

  And then, the man had clapped. Slowly, surely and deliberately. Clap, Clap, Clap…the sound was loud enough to be heard, despite the honking noise of the traffic. It was beyond creepy, the way the man looked at Madhu as if he knew. Knew that Madhu had lied.

  Since then, the man had begun to appear each time Madhu spoke a lie. The same suit, the same wheelchair, the same cap, the same shoes, the same goddamned eyes.

  And the claps. The claps that undulated in a slow rhythm into his ears, to pierce his skull & reel inside his brain like a chilling symphony. Lies. Lies. Lies. Fifteen claps, every fucking time.

  The most unsettling part was that no one cared! People went about their business like the man did not exist! No one gave him a second look, people just moved around the wheelchair and passed him, like having an aged person in a wheelchair in the unlikeliest of places, was the most natural thing in the world.

  The loud cry of a child brings Madhu out of his reverie. He looks around, to find himself on the driveway of the restaurant he has just exited out of. As expected, the man on the wheelchair has disappeared.

  Who is that man? Why does he appear as soon as Madhu utters a lie? Ah, it must be a conspiracy by his enemies. They must have hired the man to clap. Yes, that was it! The fifteen claps were nothing but a twisted ruse by his enemies to freak him out and get him to admit his deceits, maybe even elicit revenge in a distorted fashion for being wronged by his deceptions.

  What is he going to do? How does he end this crap? That man..how does he stop him from driving him crazy?

  Perhaps the old bastard would not appear if Madhu tries to tell the truth? No! That is impossible…he can’t possibly stop lying! Not now, after years of honing the skill to near perfection. But then, that man with his knowing eyes and his deliberate claps…

  Madhu wipes off the perspiration that moves in a free flow, from the tangled hair glued to his forehead, down over his face.

  What is he going to do? Madhu absently rubs the bump on the rear of his head to reduce the dull throbbing, while he deliberates his next move.

*****

Picture Credits: Google

The Dance Of Illusion - A Sonnet.

                                                                  A SONNET.

The sonnet is a popular classical form of poetry that has compelled poets for centuries. It is derived from the Italian word 'Sonetto' which means 'a little sound or song'. Traditionally, the sonnet is a fourteen-line poem written in iambic pentameter, which employ one of several rhyme schemes and adhere to a tightly structured thematic organization. 

There are two types of Sonnets. The first one is the Petrarchan Sonnet, perfected by the Italian poet Petrarch, divides the 14 lines into two sections: an eight-line stanza (octave) rhyming ABBAABBA, and a six-line stanza (sestet) rhyming CDCDCD or CDEEDE.

The second one is the Shakespearean Sonnet (English Sonnet) which condenses the 14 lines into one stanza of three quatrains and a concluding couplet, with a rhyme scheme of ABABCDCDEFEFGG.

Many poets, however, have been found to vary these schemes frequently.

This is my first attempt at penning a sonnet. Although I would have liked to stay loyal to my all-time favourite poet, the Bard, I have adopted the Petrarchan style in my sonnet.

***

The Dance Of Illusion.

In a profound prance of elation,

as the weary orb bids goodbye,

her unseen wings fan an urge to fly

in a carefree caper of jubilation.

In a newfound trance of liberation,

the scarlet heaven, surge her spirits high.

Copious clouds retreat in a silent sigh,

in a spree of serene seclusion.

Her success is but an illusion,

for the graveyard of failures seldom lie.

Despite the toil of tireless ambition,

her dominion of dreams refuses to die.

In an ecstatic dance of exultation,

she undulates to the rhythm of the sky.

*****

Image courtesy : Google.

Short Story 14 : Memora.

Theme : Of Ricochets And Recoils

'Eureka!'

The world is in perpetual anticipation of the next new thing that’ll arrive and elevate it to a higher level of existence. That word above is a testament of our hunger to ideate, invent and/or innovate; a rooster call  of humanity to the universe signifying its awakening to a new age of understanding about the universe and its ways. The person(s) responsible for such an outcome become(s) the eye of the apple of the world, reaping praises and prizes alike, etched in the pages of history as an exemplary member of the species. The media has open arms for just such a story; venture capitalists have open wallets for these game-changers, and society tends to have both. Such is the power of the hunger that we have designed our civilizational systems around its satiation.

Every once in a while though, there comes along an idea that changes things for the better, but only at first. The side-effects are either neglected or considered too minimal to be significant, until it isn’t. It is when the hunger driving the revolutionary and evolutionary transformations consumes us from the inside, and does so insidiously. It is when the celebrated heroes of humanity, ideas and at times, the people behind them, are viewed through filters of sanity that the true picture emerges, sharpening out the blur that appeared to be its/their natural state. This realization sets into motion a chain of events which turn out to be the true outcome of that idea; a myriad of reactions exposing the depths of both the producer(s) and consumer(s) of ideas alike, continuing to reshape reality for, quite possibly, eternity.

This story is an attempt to capture the above scenario in a short story based on the pharmaceutical industry.

***

Memora

‘They died, Reema’. Suresh’s voice was devoid of feeling. She barely recognized the flat tone that spoke the three words. They sounded like a sledgehammer smashing against her gut.

She hung up the phone and sunk down on the couch. The moonless night gaped at her through the tinted glass of her window.

It had all gone wrong. The shit had hit the fan. How had it come to this?

There was nothing more she could do now. There was no going back now. It had all been for nothing. All those tedious years of being cooped up in her lab, all those sleepless nights of hunching over her apparatus, all those trials and errors…all of it had gone down the drain.

The pride she had felt when the bright green capsules were first unveiled to the shareholders, the applause she had received when they had unanimously voted her as the sole recipient of the Best scientist of the year award…the memory of that surreal evening brought an ironic smile on her face.

Three people. Three people had died because of her. She was no longer a scientist who invented miracles for the betterment of the world. She was a…killer. A murderer. The very word had an ominous, sinister ring to it, more sinister than the effects that her medicine caused in the patients.

Why, why had she not trusted her initial instincts and allowed the animal testing to be carried on for another year?

And now, there was no way the company was going to retrieve the samples from the market, before it was too late for more patients.

Memora. What a nice name it was. What an apt name. Invented by her, Dr. Reema Biswas, Ph.d in Pharmacology. The white rats that they had tried it on at first, had shown almost 70% more propensity to remember both random and specific stuff they’d been tested with. Even the lab assistants had been amazed. The second level of testing had gone well too. The guinea pigs had even remembered which lab assistant had served them more food, and that the bright-colored bowls always had more food in them.

The phone began to buzz. Reema continued to stare listlessly at the tentacle like shadows cast by the swaying trees outside her window.

The final level of lab testing had brought in accolades from the Chairman himself. The monkeys that were administered the drug she had invented, showed almost superhuman cognitive skills for primates in their scope of evolution. Why, one primate even remembered the numerical combination that unlocked the phones of three of the lab assistants, before proceeding to smile into the camera phones for selfies!

It was after the said videos had gone viral around the top brass of the company’s confidential servers, that they had hastened to patent the combination of compounds she had used to bring about the miracle drug. After all, Arena Pharmaceuticals wasn’t known as the fourth top drug provider of brain related ailments for nothing.

It was three months after the patent was secured, that Reema had become aware of the first repercussions of the drug manifest itself. She noticed that three of the guinea pigs had begun to behave in what was normally termed as ‘funny’. And then the rats had begun to act weird during the night, showing unusual proclivity to violence. One rodent gnawed through his cage so much, that he was found dead early one morning with his jaws covered in blood. And yet, when she voiced her suspicions to her senior, Dr. Suresh Baliga, he had suggested that she needed to take a break from work, albeit kindly.

It was when one of the monkeys had died suddenly, of no apparent cause that Reema began to suspect that something was truly amiss. But the company had already announced the release of Memora, the new wonder drug for Amnesia, especially Anterograde amnesia, where patients were unable to transfer the short term memory store into long term store in their brains.  Memora was touted as the next big miracle to cure all the disorders related to storage, retention and recollection of memories, in not only amnesic patients but also those suffering from Dementia.

It was a mere four months after the drug was released, that the first repercussions of the medicine made themselves apparent. And Reema knew that although no one had made the connection to Memora as yet, it wouldn’t be too long before the physicians realized that the apparent violence and subsequent death of patients, were only happening with those administered with Memora .

If only she had insisted that the tests be conducted for more time! The company, bogged down by terrible losses and ruthless competition, had refused to wait until the final test results could be tabulated with the complete ramifications of the side effects, before releasing the drug into the market.

Last week, the CDSCO had issued a circular to Arena Pharmaceuticals to withdraw Memora from the market, for an unspecified amount of time. Reema knew that the same people who had applauded her invention, would now make her the sole scapegoat in the whole affair.

But what bothered Reema more than the prospect of unemployment, or a lifetime in jail, was something more crucial, eating into her very soul.

Reema stood up from the couch and walked slowly to her bedroom. She opened the drawer and pulled out the stash of strychnine that she had closeted away a month ago. She'd known that this day would come, though she had not anticipated it to arrive so soon.

She knew that the alkaloid would cause her body to get paralyzed for a few hours, and progress to respiratory failure, before dawn.

Could she live with the blood of innocent patients on her hands for the rest of her life? Could she live in the fear of anticipation of more people succumbing to the monstrosity she had created?

The persistent call of the doorbell rang in her ears, as she unscrewed the cork of the tiny bottle and emptied the contents into her mouth.

‘Reema, it wasn’t Memora…open the door Reema! It wasn’t your medicine that caused the deaths…the test results have come in...Reema damn you, open the door…!’ Dr. Suresh Baliga’s voice continued to echo off the empty corridor outside the door.

***

Images : Google

Creative Writing : Writing about Fire.

I had the honor and opportunity to host the session at the Write Club Bangalore Meetup this Saturday. The session went exceedingly well, even if I say so myself. My writer buddies, including the newbies, came up with some amazing stories, both humorous & heart-rending, that did justice to the material and prompts I'd provided for them.

Here is the material I prepared for the meetup, for all of you Write-Clubbers who couldn't make it to  the session, for those of you who need to break the Writer's block and for those who just love to write stories too. 

The history behind the choice of my topic is simple. I have been glued to Dean Koontz's novels for the past two months. I totally revel in the kind of prose Koontz adapts, he is indeed the king of similes and metaphors. I am currently reading 'Seize the night' which is the sequel to 'Fear Nothing'. I love both the books, not only for the heebie-jeebie fests at every turn of the page and the killer suspense, but also for the knowledge I glean from the protagonist.

Now, there is a scene in 'Fear Nothing' where Christopher Snow, the protagonist is trapped inside a house that is set on fire. I do not want to spoil the suspense for those of you who are yet to read the book, so it would suffice to say that the four pages of mind-blowing description of Chris's angst, got me hooked to the idea of using 'Fire' as the topic of my hosting session at the Write Club.

In addition to the excerpts from Koontz's 'Fear Nothing', that I have included within the material, I have borrowed heavily from the post of the Death Author, E.B.Black, titled 'How to write about fire accurately' to do justice to the topic in question.

However, all the prompts that I have put up at the end of the writing material are products of my own hyperactive imagination. I hope they fire up your creative juices and inspire you writers to bring out some blazing stories.

So, set your page on fire, writers. Happy writing!

***

Playing with Fire.

Writing about the elements can be a challenge, even for people who have had first-hand experience with the same. Fire is one of the areas misrepresented in fiction, most of the time.

There are a bunch of myths that need to be busted, before a writer can portray a fire or events relating to a fire with accuracy.

Myth 1: The only danger of being trapped in a house fire is of being burned to death: 

Although this might seem to be the case in books and on TV, a majority of people die of asphyxiation from lack of oxygen, than by burns. Smoke and toxic gases kill more people than flames do. Fire produces poisonous gases that cause disorientation and drowsiness. Asphyxiation is the leading cause of fire deaths, exceeding burns by a three-to-one ratio.

Note: If you want your protagonist to escape alive, ensure that he crawls low under any smoke, to the exit because heavy smoke and poisonous gases collect first along the ceiling.

Downward I plunged, toward the only hope of nourishing air. Each inhalation caused a spasm of coughing, increased my suffocation and fed my panic. I held my breath till I reached the foyer, dropped to my knees, stretched out on the floor & discovered that I could breathe. I squirmed across the room digging my elbows into the carpet, ricocheting off furniture until I cracked my head solidly against the raised brick hearth of the fireplace. (‘Fear Nothing’, Dean Koontz)

It seemed absurd to me that I couldn’t find my way out of this place. This wasn’t a mansion for God’s sake, not a castle, merely a modest house…(‘Fear Nothing’, Dean Koontz)

The smoke didn’t just choke or block my view with a wall of white. It seared my throat and closed my airways until I wondered if I could breathe long enough to get through it. My throat hurt for a good day afterward. 

Myth 2 : You can save someone from a fire by running into it : 

No, that would be a foolhardy thing to do. Not only are there dangers of asphyxiation, falling debris, suffocation from the heat even if one never encounters the flame, but there’s also the fact that one can see nothing. Fire starts bright, but quickly produces black smoke too thick to see through and irritates the eyes, resulting in complete darkness.

Note: Rescuing a pet from a fire is not easy. They may fight and bite rescuers in the panic (unlike on TV).

Coughing, choking, struggling to breathe, I reversed directions hoping to escape through the second floor window. Through smoke-stung eyes, flooded with tears, through the pall of smoke itself, I saw a throbbing light above. Yet, there was no advantage of glimpsing the reflected fire; I wasn’t able to tell if the flames were inches away from me, whether they were burning toward or away from me, so the light increased my anxiety without providing guidance. (‘Fear Nothing’, Dean Koontz)

Myth 3: During a house fire, the whole house usually burns down: 

House fires usually occur only in one room and they are put out before they get too far. Fires don’t generally spread too fast unless there is an accelerant causing them to do so, in which case it takes less than 30 seconds for a small flame to turn into a major fire & only a few minutes for thick black smoke to fill a house, or for it to be engulfed in flames. Also, cement, certain metals and bricks can’t burn.

Note: Writing about a whole house burning down with nothing left but ash, is not realistic. 

  

Either I was suffering from worse effects of smoke inhalation than I realized, including a distorted perception of time, or the fire was spreading with unusual swiftness. The arsonists had probably used an accelerant, maybe gasoline. (‘Fear Nothing’, Dean Koontz)

Myth 4: You have to touch a fire to be burned: 

This is untrue. The heat of a fire is enough to injure a person seriously. If the characters in your story are near to lava or something huge burning down, they may feel the heat and have ashes raining down on them. Heat is more threatening than flames. Room temperatures in a fire can be 100 degrees at floor level and rise to 600 degrees at eye level. Inhaling this super-hot air scorches the lungs and melts clothes to the skin.

Note: Your protagonist is smart, if during a house fire, she feels the doorknob and door, before she opens it.If either is hot, or if here is smoke coming around the door, she leaves the door closed and tries to find another way out. If she does open the door, she opens it slowly and is ready to close it at once, if there is smoke or fire present on the other side.

If the character in your story can't get out, she could close the door and cover the vents/cracks around the doors with cloth or tape to keep the smoke out, before she signals out of a window or calls the fire department for help.

Myth 5: Firemen always rush into a house at once to save the people inside: 

This is not always the case. They do help if someone is hanging out of a window, but the probability of searching for people trapped inside maybe low. Although this may sound heartless to someone who doesn’t understand the logistics of the same, one must remember that it does not make sense for firemen to enter an empty house to risk their lives. Besides,  there is usually bound to be utter confusion about how many people were inside the house when the fire started. Thereby, firemen normally douse the flames and then search for survivors or bodies afterwards.

Note: If your character’s clothes catch fire in your story, he needs to stop at once, drop to the ground, cover his face with his hands and then roll over & over, or back and forth, until the fire is out. If he is rescuing someone else, he can smother the flames with a blanket or towel and use cool water to treat the burns immediately for 3 to 5 minutes.

Writing Prompts:

• An inquisitive child comes upon a box of matches and begins to play with it.
• A firefighter enters a blazing house to rescue a puppy, when she hears the cries of a baby from inside one of the rooms.
• A survivor recounts the horror of being set aflame by a drunken husband.
• A billionaire’s bungalow has burned to the ground, during Diwali celebrations. The insurance investigator smells a rat.
• The charred remains of an unknown victim are found in a remote area on the outskirts of the city. The detective in charge is flummoxed about the case.
• A psychopath has committed a murder and decides to use his favorite toy - fire, to destroy the evidence of his crime.
• A homemaker/stay-at-home husband is busy on the phone/laptop and forgets to turn off the gas stove properly…
• A group of inebriated teenagers are dancing around a bonfire in a deep forest, when things go horribly wrong…
• A zookeeper is woken up from his siesta at work, by screams of ‘Fire! Fire!’ to see wild animals running helter-skelter in a fog of smoke.
• You are the fire. You are the flame. You feel an invincible power coursing through your depths, the power to burn, blister, roar, destroy and devour everything around you. You are out to have a field day,turning all and sundry in your path into ash. Be the fire. 

***

References: 

1. http://deathauthor.blogspot.in/2012/08/how-to-write-about-fire-accurately.html

2. http://reesloveofwriting.blogspot.in/2012/07/fire-in-night-when-life-sucks-write-it.html

3. 'Fear Nothing', Koontz.D; Bantam Books (1998)

Images : Google

Short Story 13 : A full circle.

Theme : Melancholy.

Heart-breaking tales may be hard to write, without sounding melodramatic. Sad events cannot be used only for the sake of making the story tragic.

I personally find it easier write stories that are drawn from situations that have happened to people I know or heard about, in real life around me. It is not uncommon to find such situations that leave us with feelings of frustration or helplessness and give us a taste of grief. 

This story is an attempt of mine to showcase a scenario that is all too common in the current fabric of our society. I hope it touches a chord with the readers to unlock the intended melancholy.

       ***

      A full circle

 

‘Ma, I’m busy. I’ll call you back.’

Okay, she began to say, when she realized that he had already hung up.

Seema sighed. Navin never had time for her anymore. When had he ever had time for her anyways? She couldn’t recall the last time he’d spoken to her at leisure. It had been this way ever since he had moved to his own apartment at the other end of town.

What had he told her when he had bought the place? That it was a mere investment; he’d no intention to staying there at all. He practically cleaned out their life savings and the gratuity that Rishab had received during his golden handshake, a few years ago. But then, he’d been transferred to Jalahalli by his company, it was a promotion, no less. He couldn’t have refused such an offer. And then, it only made sense that he would move to the apartment which was only a stone’s throw away from his office.

Seema picked up her glasses and wiped them carefully in the pallu of her soft cotton sari. Her mind flew to his childhood years when Navin couldn’t go a day without his beloved mother.

Rishab coughed raucously from his perch on the sofa. His cough was getting worse. He’d refused the antibiotics that the young doctor had prescribed for him. Rishab held a deep mistrust for doctors, especially the young things that inhabited the nursing homes these days.

‘What do they know about our ailments?’ Rishab would grumble. He’d lost almost 11 kilos in the last three months, but refused to follow the advice of any the doctors they visited. He’d never got over the demise of their longtime friend and family physician, Dr. Batra, who’d passed away from a sudden heart attack a year ago.

Seema knew that Rishab would never admit the real reason for his endless ailments. She knew that his ego would never accept the fact that their only son had abandoned them to their own devices and moved on to greener pastures that didn’t include caring for aged parents, although their son had had no qualms about soliciting their assistance to achieve it.

A twinge of guilt made its presence felt in Seema’s heart. Rishab had refused to part with his gratuity fund, especially since Navin had already lost all the money they had given him after selling their only house. It was Seema who’d insisted that they had to support their offspring in all his endeavors, however far-fetched or foolish they may be.

Thirty three years had passed since Seema had entered Rishab’s sprawling bungalow as a shy bride from a small town of Arasikere taluk in rural Karnataka. It took her almost two years to adjust to the hustle and bustle of Bangalore. She’d been awed and charmed by the handsome young man, who was a successful architect with inherent ancestral wealth.

How easy, oh, how easy it had been for the girl from a family of limited means, to settle into the affluence of the lifestyle wealth could offer. They would never have dreamt during those days that they would end up with no roof to call their own in only two and half decades from then.

Navin insisted that they sell their bungalow to fund his penchant to study medicine abroad.

‘I’ll earn it back within a year after I graduate, dad,’ he insisted to his father. ‘I’ll buy you a new bungalow, a much nicer one; this house is so old anyways…’

Rishab finally relented to his only son’s compulsion and for the first time in their married lives, Seema and Rishab had begun to live in a much smaller rented home.

Seema was jolted out of her reminiscence by the sharp barking of a dog on the street. This house was so small that they could hear the honking traffic on the busy ring road nearby. They had to keep the windows constantly shut to avoid the dust and pollution that made its way into their living room.

It hadn’t been easy. They’d gotten rid of most of the heavy furniture for stuff that was more compact. The housekeeping staff had to be relieved one by one and Seema understood how much she’d relied on the fleet of maids to keep her home functional.

The second blow was when Navin quit his studies during the final year of medicine.

“Sorry mom and dad. Very sorry. I can’t do this anymore.’ His curt email to them read. They barely got over the shock when he flew back to India and insisted that he would start his own garment business.

Seema gave up most of her jewelry and then some, to fund her son’s latest fad. Two years was all it took for Navin to end up with losses that took a further toll on their lifestyle.

Navin finally settled into a regular job as a counselor in a pharmaceutical company. It seemed like a fresh ray of hope for the weary couple that their son had finally found his calling and would set them back on the road to the affluence they had previously enjoyed.

What a wasteful exercise it had all been. And now, their son had nonchalantly moved on to his own three bedroom apartment, with no intention of including his parents in his new-found prosperity.

‘Get me some water,’ Rishab’s brusque voice broke into her reverie.

Seema got up slowly, taking care to place her small feet neatly into the hawai chappals, before she began to walk. The coldness of the bare floor seeped through the thin soles of the worn-out slippers and stung her feet. Her arthritis had gotten worse over the weekend and she stopped her daily morning walk in the park because she was unable to keep up with her walking partner, Alamelu. Alamelu suggested Seema to visit a bone specialist she knew, but Seema recalled with a sardonic smile, how she’d dilly dallied after she found out that the man charged only an arm and a leg for his consultations.

She had just poured the water from the jug into Rishab’s steel glass, when he was engulfed by a fresh coughing spree that made Seema wonder if his lungs would finally burst under the pressure.

‘Hot…hot water,’ Rishab managed to sputter, before he began to cough again. Seema poured the water into a pan and lit the stove under it. It was a full two minutes before she realized that the water had boiled and almost evaporated. 

She’d just been standing there lost in her thoughts staring at the pan, which was almost empty now. She became aware of her wet cheeks just then and realized that somewhere along the journey into the past she’d begun to weep softly.

She poured a fresh glass of water into the pan and wiped her tears away. It was then that her unseeing eyes focused on the ends of a brochure that she’d absent-mindedly tucked behind the tin of sugar last week.

She reached for the brochure and frowned in concentration, as she read it thoughtfully.

‘Beautiful surroundings nestled in the heart of nature…hospital a stone’s throw away…doctor on call…safe and secure…like-minded company…’ The keywords jumped out at her.

A host of pleasant images played upon her thoughts. A ray of hope, reluctant but persistent, began to wheedle itself into the dark contours of her mind.

‘Seemaaa, how long will you take to get me a glass of water?’ Rishab’s voice roared from the living room.

‘Coming,’ she called. She poured the water meticulously into his cup and placed it on a tray. Holding the folded brochure under the tray, she balanced it with care and made her way slowly across the tiny kitchen.

Rishab sipped the water noisily and smacked his lips in appreciation. How easy it is to make him happy, Seema thought, as she gazed at her husband’s wrinkled face with affection.

She waited until he had emptied the water, retrieved the cup from his hands and placed it on the stained glass tea table with a little clunk. She then sat down on the sofa next to him, handed him his reading glasses and placed the brochure in his hands.

‘What’s this?’ He put on the glasses and peered at the cheap paper, trying to decipher the words on it.

Seema said nothing, but watched him intently.

A host of emotions played across Rishab’s face: Enquiry, confusion, comprehension, anger, and then slow resignation.

‘Is this what we have been reduced to now?’ He asked after a very long time. The pain in his eyes tore at her heartstrings.

‘It is the best thing for us to do now, Rishab. At least we can be independent and happy…besides we will be very comfortable and well taken care of…’ Her voice began to break before she could complete the sentence.

Three weeks later, an aged couple got out of an OLA cab and made their way haltingly on the dirt path, towards the slightly dilapidated building, with a faded board that read ‘Sai Baba Ashram for the aged’, on the outskirts of Hosur.

***** 

Picture credits : Google images

You, the woman of strength - A Poem.

Who are you, dear woman, wherein lies your power?

Are you a bastion of ability or a delicate flower?

You are a daughter and a daughter-in-law;

You juggle multiple roles with aplomb and inspire awe

Sometimes the mother, other times the wife;

You are entwined in perpetual responsibilities, perils & strife

Hidden deep within your soul, lies a latent little child;

Rarely does the woman in you, go completely wild

There may be spells, when you've nothing to say

But there are times, when you allow your demons out to play

Mere living sometimes, is such an endless grind,

Strong that you are, you learn not to mind.

No matter what happens, you never lose hope,

For you are aware that life is but a tangled rope.

You live each strand of life, across its entire length

From each arduous journey, you draw your immense strength.

You're underappreciated and rarely get the respect that is due,

but you barely falter and always remember to be you.

In this tug of war of existence, you hold on really tight,

you know you can't lose, if you pull with all your might

You're a source of inspiration, a powerful strength-mine

Try as they might, your foes can never dull your shine.

You do not fret, for when you decide to win

You draw fortitude from deep within

Stay strong lovely lady, the likes of you are few

Well done, oh woman of strength, kudos to you!

****

Picture credits : Google.