Short Story 23 : The Last Foxglove.

The Butterfly Effect

The butterfly effect is the idea that small things can have non-linear impacts on a complex system. The concept is imagined with a butterfly flapping its wings and causing a typhoon.

Of course, a single act like the butterfly flapping its wings cannot cause a typhoon. Small events, can however, serve as catalysts that act on starting conditions.

The things that change the world, according to chaos theory, are the tiny things. A butterfly flaps it’s wings in the Amazonian jungle, and  subsequently a storm ravages half of Europe – Good omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.

For the want of a nail the shoe was lost,

For the want of a shoe the horse was lost,

For the want of a horse the rider was lost,

For the want of a rider the battle was lost,

For the want of a battle the kingdom was lost,

And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.

- Benjamin Franklin’s variation.

This story is an attempt to create the butterfly effect, where a small, seemingly unimportant event triggers a catastrophe of great magnitude.

***

The Last Foxglove.

The flower was mesmerizing. Radha stared at it, spellbound. How had she never noticed this one before? She knew all the flowers grown in this nursery, didn’t she? She must have missed seeing it, because she never passed this side of the garden on the other days.

It was unlike any other she had seen.  It was a long flower, the petals formed a neat little groove around each other, to close into a long hollow, exactly like a bell. The petals were a bright yellow. They reminded her of the Kancheevaram saree that her aunt Savitri had worn to Anna’s wedding last year. It had looked ghastly on her aunt but looked gorgeous on this bloom. She had not noticed this particular flower earlier. It was dotted with bright orange, with streaks of harsh pink along the insides of the bell. Yes, this was a new one indeed. She wondered what it was called.

All the other blooms along the stalk were gone, somehow. Only this one remained.

Could she pluck it? Radha looked around carefully. She knew that the lanky security man would be stationed around the garden at this time. But he was nowhere to be seen now. She glanced at her watch. It was 1.57 PM. He must have gone for lunch as he did, sometimes. He would usually be back long before 2PM. Today was her lucky day.

Radha reached for the flower, stretching her hand carefully over the prickly fence that had been erected around the shrub. She dug her long nails deep into the stalk, already imagining the joyful expression on Amma’s face when she saw this bell flower.

Besides, tomorrow was Thursday. Amma would be happy to decorate the white foot- long marble idol in their puja room with this flower. Radha smiled to herself, as she placed the flower gently in her handbag. A tiny wisp of apprehension sliced through her mind. She could lose her job for this, if she was caught with the bloom.

Radha knew the rules. It was strictly forbidden to pluck flowers, leaves or anything else from the garden of the institute. Radha began to walk a little faster towards the nursery gate. Well, she had been slogging for a whole nine months as the stenographer at this place, hadn’t she? Surely she was entitled to pluck a small bloom once in a while?

Besides, Baba loved yellow flowers, didn’t he? She was doing this for Sai Baba, her favourite deity. All sins would be forgiven. She envisioned the snow white Baba, with the yellow flower on his head and smiled again, as she slipped out of the garden gate of her office premises, into the long pathway that would take her past he main building  and finally lead to the main exit of the Institute of Herbal Medicine & Research Laboratories.

***

Damn! It was late! Joel glanced at his watch and swore under his breath. 1.58 PM.

Why was there so much traffic at this time of the day? Those bloody ambulances, they had come out of nowhere onto the main street, three of them no less, one behind the other, their sirens blaring as they whizzed past the traffic lights. The traffic had come to a standstill what with all the vehicles and people scrambling hither-dither out of the way. He was only two furlongs away from the institute but the signal had turned red. 

The ambulances were no doubt headed to the Falcon hospital five blocks down the main street from the institute. He was supposed to have been at his post at least ten minutes ago. No one would miss him, he knew. After all, he was the chief of security for the nursery premises of the IHMRL.

But then, he knew that he couldn’t afford to go slack on his job, especially since Shaji Sir had given out the special instructions, two weeks ago.

Joel honked angrily when a cyclist crossed his path and he had to slow down just when the signal turned green.  Two minutes later, Joel parked his bike in his parking slot and hurried over to the garden to check on the flower.

He reached the garden gate, already noticing the absence of the bright yellow speck that would have been visible from this point. Panic made him break into a run as he recalled Shaji sir’s specific order to keep this particular flower safe, although Joel didn’t know why. He reached the shrub and stood panting with his palms on his knees, as he gaped at it, unable to believe his eyes. All that stood there was a sorry-looking green stalk, with its end rudely gnawed off, hairy green strands still hanging haphazardly around the leaves.

The foxglove was gone.

***

Three more patients! Dr.Dhruv Ramani replaced the receiver of his landline slowly into its cradle, his hand shaking slightly.

How had this happened? He'd heard the wailing ambulances as they passed the institute a while ago.  How had he let this happen? He wiped his forehead with his pristine white hanky and absently examined the wet droplets of sweat that dotted the starched cotton.

Sixteen people were already dead. All of them were suspected to have succumbed to the same reaction. And the chief doctor had called him at once, as soon as the ambulances had reached the emergency ward of the Falcon. He would call Dhruv, of course. After all, he enjoyed a sizeable percentage of the profits that came in with the sale of the drug from Dhruv’s pharma company, didn’t he?

But now the bastard had decided to grow a conscience all of a sudden and was trying to wash his hands off the matter. Where had this conscience been when he had agreed to prescribe medicines exclusively produced by the institute and marketed by Asha Pharma? Dhruv was one of the sleeping partners of Asha pharmaceuticals and had a spotless business reputation. Until now.

Now, everything they'd worked for, was in jeopardy.

All because of a drug - Digipure.

A wonder remedy made from a type of Digoxin extracted from the yellow foxglove flower, the Digitalis Grandiflora.

A miracle medicine that arrested the congestive heart failure and congenital heart disease in patients with weak hearts, by relieving the fluid retention in irregular heartbeats.

DigiPure. It had been a dream come true for Dhruv, when Asha Pharmaceuticals, which he'd registered under his wife’s name, was the first to harness the amazing curative properties of a combination of digoxin extracted from the foxglove flower at IHMRL laboratory. They'd been the first to manufacture and market the phenomenal medicine across the city.

Soon after Asha Pharma hastened to patent the combination, the medicine was released into the market with great aplomb. The results were remarkable in treating patients with history of heart attacks and the sales had shot up, so much so that Dhruv managed to secure exclusive marketing contracts with 14 hospitals in the city. Thousands of heart patients had been saved because of DigiPure.

But then, no one had foreseen the side effects that manifested themselves, only one year after the patients were administered the drug. 97% of them suffered a condition that caused a series of contractions in the cardiac muscle that ultimately led to the Sudden Death Syndrome in regular users of DigiPure.

 Thankfully, Shaji’s team managed to isolate a new kind of Digoxin, from a particular hybrid variety of foxgloves, which were multicolored, and peppered with a deep shade of pink within their bells. They’d been grown as a result of random grafting, right within the nursery of the IHMRL by the gardeners and the research team stumbled upon their unique qualities quite by accident. The animal testing, and consequent testing on a few patients, disclosed that the new elements nullified the deadly side-effects of DigiPure, within two-three weeks of administering it. The patent was through as well and the drug could be manufactured in bulk and would be released under a new name shortly.

There was just one problem, though. The morons at the lab had used up all the samples of the new hybrid flowers to research the digoxin. And now, they were left with one, just one flower in their campus.

Fortunately, Shaji had assured him that they would be able to extract a considerable amount of digoxin to salvage the situation for another month or so. New hybrid saplings were already been planted and there was hope of yielding a good harvest by the end of the year. They could still produce a sizeable quantity from that single bloom for a fresh batch and release them to the hospitals that had administered DigiPure to their patients.

Dhruv sighed heavily and picked up the phone to summon Shaji to his cabin.

***

‘It is gone!’ Dr.Shaji wailed.

Dhruv stared at him, shell-shocked. Gone? How could it be gone?

‘The foxglove is gone, Dhruv! Gone from the nursery.’ He began to weep again and sobbed, ‘It only needed another day to bloom completely for us to extract the digoxin…but now…’

Shaji let unabashed tears flow down his plump cheeks, and blew his nose noisily into a large red wrinkled hanky. For a brilliant scientist with double doctorate degrees under his belt, Dr. Shaji was a hyper emotional wreck, even under normal circumstances. And this was a catastrophe.

Dhruv felt his head reeling and clutched the edges of his desk with his hands.

‘But it was there this morning…I saw it on my way in…’ he croaked.

‘That asshole of a security left the flower unattended and went for lunch. Lunch, can u believe it?’ Shaji’s eyes flashed with rage.

Dhruv groaned inwardly. His stomach clenched at the thought of the enormity of losing the only source of salvaging the situation. Why hadn’t he arranged for more security for that goddamned flower? But then, this had never happened before. Never in the history of the institute had they ever lost any specimen of flower, leaf or even a seed from the premises.

He watched Shaji move his sizeable bulk over to the chaise lounge. The furniture groaned pitifully as his immense mass sank into its depths.

‘Finished. We are finished now.’ Shaji blew his nose again, in-between incessant sobbing. He wiped his eyes with the red hanky that he’d just blown his nose with.

Dhruv had ceased to feel any disgust towards Shaji’s mannerisms, ions ago. He was used to Shaji’s dire lack of finesse or hygiene outside his laboratory, in all the years of working with him.

How had this happened at this crucial time? Had his competitors gotten wind of the research and stolen the specimen? It was highly unlikely. They had taken extraordinary care to ensure that no one knew about the current research his team was working on…but then, could he have a mole within his own team?

A knock sounded on the door and Joel entered, looking scared out of his wits, but trying to appear brave. Dhruv had never seen him so disheveled and downcast since he’d hired him four years ago.

‘It was the stenographer, sir,’ his voice faltered. ‘I glimpsed her hurrying out of the garden gate and caught up with her before she left the compound.’

Ridiculous! A mere stenographer had betrayed his secrets to the enemy? But then, it wasn’t ridiculous at all. In fact, it was brilliant. No one would have suspected a lowly employee, a woman at that… It was possible. If only they could get her to spill the beans about who she was working for…

‘But she had nothing on her, sir. The female staff has frisked her three times over.’ Joel gained confidence from the sound of his own voice. ‘She claims to have plucked the flower as an offering to God, but says she threw it away somewhere near this very place…we looked everywhere she indicated, sir…our security is still searching the entire grounds…’

‘We can’t even sue her, Dhruv…’ Shahi cried in agony, from his perch on the creaking seating. ‘She only plucked a flower. We can’t let out the secret that the specimen is a storehouse of path-breaking research and invention...’

‘It was because of those ambulances that I was too late to stop her from plucking it, sir…’, Joel voice trailed off.

What would they do now?

One foxglove. Just one last foxglove.

‘A girl plucked a flower and hundreds are going to die…’ Shaji’s prediction of doom echoed around the room in the still silence.

***

‘Dhruv!’ Asha’s voice pierced into his consciousness. ‘How disgusting! Wake up, Dhruv!’

He groaned and opened his eyelids, only to shut them again as a shaft of light sent slivers of pain shooting into his pupils and straight onto his skull.

He recognized the hangover for what it was and tried to tune out Asha’s voice from his hazy mind.

‘You didn’t even remove your shoes, Dhruv!’ She moved around the room, drawing the blinds, dusting the bedcovers around him and tugging the sheets from under his deadbeat form. ‘Couldn’t you have gotten out of your suit and shoes before tumbling into bed?’

Dhruv pulled himself out of the King sized cot and sidled over towards the washroom. He was going to be sick again. When had he finally returned home last night? 1 AM? He couldn’t be sure. He recalled plopping into bed, in the semi-darkness, next to Asha’s supine form…

He vaguely remembered parking his Audi in the garage, because the driver had left for home after waiting for him till 11 PM last night. How had he even driven himself home from the institute? It was only ten minutes away from his bungalow when the traffic was light, but then…what a miracle he was still alive, given his state of mind, he thought, just before he threw up violently into the basin.

‘You know how much I hate it, when you do this on Thursday mornings, Dhruv…’ Asha continued her rant, raising her voice to make herself heard above the din of his torment. ‘Especially when we have our weekly SaiBaba puja too…’

Dhruv heaved again, coughing out the remnants of last night’s distress-binge.

‘You barely notice the trouble I take over the decorations,’ Asha continued. ‘And what is that bell-like flower I found on the top of your car, Dhruv? It’s so cute, a perfect yellow too, the maid found it when she went to sweep the garage this morning and brought it in because it is so pretty…’ she almost smiled as she turned towards the washroom, only to face the door, which had been shut firmly on her face. She heard the sound of running water and realized that Dhruv had long since begun his shower.

        Asha sighed and left the bedroom. She headed to the kitchen and placed some kheer into a silver bowl for the ritual offering. She entered the puja room and placed the kheer in front of the idol. She smiled benignly, as she rearranged the soft yellow-orange petals of the bell on Sai Baba’s head and proceeded to open her prayer books to begin her chants.

*****

Image : Google

The Bronze Beauty - Poems.

It is a challenging endevor to write contrasting themes for the same picture. I have attempted to write two opposite perceptions that may be gleaned from this brilliant artwork by Alexander Shubin.

The first poem is a sensuous one bordering on erotica. The second one is disturbing, as it touches upon the torment of sexual abuse.

***

The Bronze Beauty.

Moves of sensual advent

a bronze beauty craves release;

Waves of writhing torment,

as knowing fingers test & tease;

Curves to savor, succulent,

crimson contours to appease;

Sounds of lusting lament

escape ravaged lips with ease.

***

Vile gropes 

in lusty throe,

in temptation 

of coffee-gold skin;

Scarlet sheathes 

her copper glow,

not an invitation 

to slimy sin;

Agony screams 

in silent woe

of agitation, 

destroys soul within.

***

 By Alexander Shubin

Book review 10 : 'Matilda', by Roald Dahl.

'If only they would read a Dickens or Kipling, they would soon discover there was more to life than cheating people and watching television.'

Some parents become so blinded by adoration they manage to convince themselves their child has qualities of a genius.

She seemed to know that neither crying nor sulking ever got anyone anywhere.

The Key Characters:

Matilda, an exceptionally gifted five-year old.

Mrs. Phelps, the librarian, heads Matilda’s journey into the world of books.

Ms. Honey , Matilda’s class teacher, recognizes the extroniary talent of the little girl..

Mrs. Trunchbull, Headmistress of the school, the villain of the piece..

Matilda’s Parents, shamefully obnoxious, beastly and bullheaded.

The Review.

This is my first book of Roald Dahl. I like to read Children’s literature from time to time, especially between my reading trysts with hardcore thrillers.

The story of Matilda appears like any other simple one, but unveils one twist after another right from the first chapter to the last. It is an absolute delight to read for avid readers who love to devour English Literature.

The brilliance of a mere five year old child, who can read books that most adults struggle with and work out complicated math with the same ease as a calculator, hooks the reader. Contrary to what one would expect her parents turn out to be detestable and appalling characters, who take pleasure in insulting her capabilities rather than being amazed or proud of her.

The child in Matilda offers the reader some solace by turning her brilliant mind in paying them back and thereby keeps the reader glued to the pages.

The perpetual appetite of the child to glean more knowledge and her unerring dedication to reading is heartwarming. Ms. Honey’s aspirations to help Matilda upgrade to a higher class is met with refusal because well, the headmistress of the school is the next antagonist of the story.

Mrs. Trunchbull is the quintessential villain that terrifies the strongest souls in the vicinity. How Matilda uses her intelligence and grit to overcome her challenges, amidst of host of twists and turns, forms the crux of the story.

The dialogues of the antagonists are annoying enough to disgust the reader to good measure.

The condescending attitude of Matilda’s mother, who believes that a girl’s sole calling in life should be to make herself attractive for a rich man, resonates with life lessons that aim to teach more about ‘Brains vs Beauty’, than even most adults would care to admit.

The character of Trunchbull, although supposed to be terrifying to the young reader is grossly exaggerated. The parts about where she manhandles the children makes the reader suspend belief as it is aimed to be. The notion that all the children are relatively unharmed despite being thrown bodily for miles or having their arms almost pulled off, fails to ring true.

It would have been more interesting if the story had not taken a turn towards the supernatural element in the second half. Although there is an attempt to color Matilda’s levitation ability to a scientific phenomenon, it does not resonate smoothly with a reader who has already been forced to accept the hyper-intelligence of a five year old child.

Overall, a good read for children and yes, adults too. Because, life lessons are not limited to children alone.

***

Excerpts:

And that is the Trunchbull’s great secret.

What is? Lavender asked.

‘Never do anything by halves to get away with it. Be outrageous. Go the whole hog. Make sure everything you do is so completely crazy, it’s unbelievable.’

It’s a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imagine, they still think that he or she is wonderful.

Some parents go further. They become so blinded by adoration they manage to convince themselves their child has qualities of a genius.

The books transported her into new worlds and introduced her to amazing people who lived exciting lives.

If only they would read a Dickens or Kipling, they would soon discover there was more to life than cheating people and watching television.

She sat there still & white & thoughtful. She seemed to know that neither crying nor sulking ever got anyone anywhere.

There was an aura of menace about her even at a distance..Thank goodness we don’t meet may people like her in this world, although they do exist and all of us are likely to come across at least one of them in a lifetime.

‘The human brain is an amazing thing.’Miss Honey said. 

'I think it’s a lot better than a lump of metal.' Matilda said. 'That’s all a calculator is'

A witty limerick is very hard to write. They look easy but they most certainly are not.

‘I think C S Lewis is a very good writer .But he has one failing. There are no funny bits in his books.’

‘But does it not intrigue you that a five year old girl is reading long adult novels by Dickens and Hemingway?’ Ms.Honey said.

I’m not in favour of blue-stocking girls. The mother said. ‘A girl should think about making herself look attractive as she can get a good husband later on. Looks are more important than books…You chose books and I chose looks. And who’s finished better off? Me, of course. I’m sitting pretty in a nice house with a successful businessman and you’re left slaving away teaching a lot of nasty children the ABC.

The Trunchbull said, ‘My idea of a perfect school, Miss Honey, is one that has no children at all. One of these days, I shall start up a school like that. I think it will be very successful. ‘

The whole face was transfigured, the eyes round and bright, and she was sitting speechless, quite beautiful in a blaze of silence.

*****

Monstrous beauty - A Poem.

Flirtatious but snooty

in stilettos of eden,

a monstrous beauty

emerges from her den;

Narcissistic & naughty

vices of heaven,

Nocturnal wiles aplenty

in a shadow garden;

Hot & haughty

humour unbidden,

hunts in dark gaiety

in alleys untrodden.

***

Image: Google

Book Review 9 : 'Key To Rebecca', by Ken Follett.

It was not the Jews 

whose racial weakness 

infected the world, 

it was the British. 

The Jews in Egypt 

were more or less 

like everyone else: 

some rich, some poor, 

some good, some bad. 

But the British 

were uniformly arrogant, 

greedy and vicious.

***

The Key Characters:

Alexander Wolff, the German spy.

William Vandam, General staff intelligence.

Elene Fontana, the courtesan of Egyptian Jewish origins.

Rommel, the German officer Wolff reports to.

Sonja,the exotic belly dancer.

Abdullah, the thief.

***

The Review:

The best and worst part of this spy thriller is that the reader tends to root for the bad guy Wolff, the German spy. He is likable, his ability to squirm out of trouble that arrives at his doorstep at regular intervals is impressive. One feels sorry for him; his humane side that exhibits alternating fear, panic and calm in dire situations, reminds us that he is after all another human trying hard to stay strong, physically and mentally to serve his country. This is so well articulated that one cannot help feeling for his predicaments. It is useful to keep reminding oneself that he works for the Nazi side, reporting to Hitler. For a spy who is vigilant with his expertise, Wolff keeps getting almost caught by the authorities at regular intervals.

The cat-and-mouse game between Wolff and Vandam racing against time to manipulate the war and secure victory for their respective countries forms crux of the novel. 

A motorbike chase where Vandam almost catches Wolff, is no less than a Hollywood thriller sequence. Vandam’s patience and expertise in cracking the code that is crucial to the outcome of the wars is riveting.

The other thrilling scene is the brilliant orchestrating of the theft of the briefcase containing secrets of the war plans of the British. Wolff working with Abdullah the thief, in perfect harmony despite the complete lack of trust or loyalty between them is absolutely enchanting.

Sonja is a fascinating character, with a dense history to match her beliefs, choice of loyalties and more interestingly, her quirky sexual fantasies. Her uninhibited dancing is a treat to experience, while her fantasies provide Wolff with much needed action in the bedroom.

Elene is rather boring until she proves her mettle, midway through the story. The way she overcomes her fears to risk her life for her country is commendable.

Each relationship between the characters is complicated and completely unpredictable, in a brilliant contribution to the suspense. The novel however has parts that are slow and boring, especially when the larger suspense looms in the background of the  story.

It is somewhat necessary to show the reader how ruthless Wolff is, especially his utter lack of feeling towards Sonya or his ruthless treatment of Vandam’s little boy, perhaps because to soften the blow for the reader, who must ultimately accept that the villain has to meet with failure at the end.

Each character has strong reasons for the direction of their loyalties. The multiple plot twists are superbly infused in accordance with each character’s selfish motives, however minor the character may be.

Overall, a thrilling journey for readers who enjoy travelling over deserts, across cities with the characters to the period of WW2 in war ravaged Cairo.

***

Excerpts:

Men generally treated her conversation like background music in a cocktail bar, pleasant enough but largely meaningless noise.

There was a certain amount of information Wolff could get by just walking around the city.

There was no artifice in her dancing, not any more, she was doing it for herself.

They did not understand. Nobody knew what it was for her, nobody knew what she went through every time she danced.

Hitler had the right idea but the wrong target, she believed. It was not the Jews whose racial weakness infected the world, it was the British. The Jews in Egypt were more or less like everyone else: some rich, some poor, some good, some bad. But the British were uniformly arrogant, greedy and vicious.

Her father made the family sit shiva for her. What is Shiva? He asked. “Mourning.”

For a while she had thought he might be different from all the rest, but she had been wrong. And she thought, ‘why do I mind so much?’

He could feel the fear pumping desperate strength into his arms.

Wolff felt as if the hunting pack had formed a circle around him, so that every way he ran, he came up against one of them, and the circle grew tighter every day.

Vandam thought about Sonja. He wondered from what source she had been drawing the strength to defy him…..then in the end she had allowed herself to explode, but even then she had used her fury not been controlled by it….not anger, not fear. It had been hatred. And her hatred had given her strength.

You see, this is the way I win. I mean, win everything…the game of life, so to speak. I am detached. I do care, but I refuse to do pointless things, symbolic gestures, empty fits of rage. Either we love each other or we don’t, and all the flowers in the world won’t make any difference.

None of them would help her…and women like camels, had to be beaten from time to time. Useless, impotent rage boiled within her.

*****

Photo: ©ChethanaRamesh

Confessions of a Transvestite - A true account.

transvestite

tranzˈvɛstʌɪt,trɑːnzˈvɛstʌɪt,transˈvɛstʌɪt,trɑːnsˈvɛstʌɪt/

noun

plural noun: transvestites

1. a person, typically a man, who derives pleasure from dressing in clothes primarily associated with the opposite sex.

The first realization: I was different.

I was a kid, around 6-7 years old. I used to play with street friends, cousins and my sister. I was the only guy among all those girls, so what we played were girly stuff like cooking, 'dress your doll', makeup and all such games. 

I didn't even know what games the boys played. I only played girly games because I kind of liked them and enjoyed them.

That's how my childhood passed. 

The first crush: A guy.

After class 5th, I went to boarding school. Living with so many guys and new faces was difficult for me but later I felt okay, because I got used to it. 

But the major part was the comfort level. I never felt good living with them till a point in class 8th, when I met a junior guy & I found him attractive. I guess he also felt the same about me. We had a kind of relationship, but we were too small to understand what was going on (or what we were doing).

Later, during my vacations I used to come home. I liked wearing girls' dresses, because that's what I used to do before joining boarding school. But at that time, I didn't realize that I was used to it. (We always feel something when we lose it or after a long break). 

But now I was not a kid anymore. Wearing girls' dresses in 8-9th standard wasn't childish. 

That junior guy in my hostel later turned out to be 'straight' (or bi). But I never felt any attraction towards a girl, ever. 

I liked and wanted to be a girl. All my habits were (and still are) girlish. 

College woes

At a later point in time, I joined college. Of course, no one at home knew about me, about the kind of life I was going through.

I belong to a small town, where people aren't that open minded. I had a lot of family pressure, I still do.

In the first year of college, being a good looking & smart guy, I was approached by many girls. They used to talk to me a lot, listen to me and generally play around with me. I enjoyed the attention and liked it because I was used to it. But there was never any attraction or relationship  between me and any girl.

A girlfriend...

At one point in time, I tried to conform to society norms and dated a girl. But that story lasted not more than 2.5 months, as she felt I did not take any interest in her but her clothes! I used to compliment her dresses, earrings, heels, etc. because that's all I ever notice and point out when I see a girl. 

It was very lonely for some time when she left and no one was around to understand me. There was nobody with whom I could share my feelings. 

It is absolutely difficult to find another guy like me, a gay guy, I mean. Obviously no one goes around with a signboard on their forehead that says 'I'm also gay'.

Confusion and clarity. 

For many years I didn't even know I was gay. In fact I'm still confused. 

What's the exact definition of 'gay'?

All I want is to be a girl. I just like being a girl. That's all I know.

Currently, in my whole life of 23 years, I have faced so much societal and familial pressure.  I'm the only male child in my family. 

But with whom shall I share this part of my life?

IT'S DIFFICULT.

My parents are very orthodox people. They will never accept or face the fact that their only son is not 'normal' like other boys. They will never, ever accept the truth about me.

And, in future I don't know what I'm gonna do. 

Taking small holidays away from home and living far from family won't work in the long term. I need to find a solution. Shifting to a foreign country may help. But I don't know. 

Tension and Questions.

I’m facing a lot of tension, day by day.

So many questions eat me up everyday.

What will happen to me, my life?

Should I share this to someone, what will one think if he/she knows about it?

What if my parents ask me to marry some girl one day?

In addition to this, I have the daily-life tension of hiding my ladies' lingerie (satin and lace) within my room, way from others’ eyes. Obviously, I can't leave them in the bathroom or dry them on the terrace under sunlight.

I’m worried about my future.

What will I do now? How will my future turn out?

It is a good thing that India is changing, people are changing, they are accepting this issue. But at the same time some societies are not that broad-minded, and I belong to latter one. 

.

.

.

I can write more. But I think this is enough for now.

***

(As told to the author, compiled over a period of time. 

Published by the author with only grammar and punctuation edits, to retain the voice of the person)

Image courtesy: Barewalls Art Prints.