The Lonely Sabotage

What begets of a sunshine girl who is conspicuously confined to the doors of darkness and anguish?

She was timid but curt, pretty but not flamboyant. Besides, she liked keeping to herself. With a cherry like smile and rolling brown eyes, she was this restrained girl of unreliable dreams. Quite and outside the cynosure of eyes, she liked quietness around her. 

Since last week, though, things have changed. She still keeps to herself and is quietness personified. But there is sorrow and pain in her eyes. Not the type to vomit our emotions or vent out in a fit of rage. But there is something so unusually distracting and tumultuous about her sudden stature. People in the workplace chatter but don’t talk to her. She hardly talks to anyone, if fact she does not talk to anyone. 

Couple of weeks gone by, the pain and the sorrow is still hovering large. The smile has disappeared and eyes look terribly woven.

What could have gone wrong? What could be so viciously staggering that is troubling a 25 year old to no bounds? 

After 4 disastrous weeks, she stops coming to work. Her colleagues, her peers, her bosses – all are worked and lost. But no one has the answer. She has just disappeared, just gone. 

One of her more inquisitive and caring colleague decided to take a peek at her home, which is located in the suburbs and the reachability is tenaciously disabled. Yet, she decided to take the plunge and find out what’s gone wrong (or perhaps can go wrong). She was ably supported by couple of adjoining people at work.

But nothing came out. The house was locked out and no one was at home. As it appeared, no one has been home since couple of weeks – the neighbours gave them good evidence.

Disappointed and dejected, they came back. They requested the neighbours to give them a call if they saw or heard about her whereabouts.

Couple of weeks went by without notice, and the realistic audience decided that the girl has gone absconding and was one of those characters who don’t come back. Pretentious and filthy.

3 days later, one of the neighbours called stating they find something unusual and scary about the house as they hear some noises though it is conspicuous and difficult to decipher. There is also this stale smell that is quite scary to explain. We rush to the girl’s place.

We break the door open to find out that the girl is lying in a pool

of blood. We have a man and woman lying beside her, with their throat slit. The dead bodies have been in this state for more than a week now and it was difficult for us to stay in the place any further.

We were stunned, no words to express the gore we just witnessed. 

What would have happened? What led to the mysterious death of such a tepid and innocent girl? Who are the 2 people found dead near her?

We only had questions at our disposal, but answers were more scary and heinous.

* The concluding part of this story will be published on Monday, 21 Aug at 11 PM.

Am I Home?

It is 1970. Civil War. The longest running and perhaps, the most ignominious in the history of human tragedies.

No war in the history of mankind has been kind. In fact, the ruthlessness lies in the aftermath, not in the ways of war.

In the wake of demands for a separate state, separate constitution and independence from the autocrats, innocent lives were lost and several rendered homeless. Thousands were displaced and we have never seen them again. I guess, we will never see them. But hopes don’t die, they are not meant to die. 

I have hopes too. I hope to see the light at the end of the unknown tunnel. I hope to see my family again. I want to see my daughter going to school again. I want my wife to wait for me when I return from work. I want my parents to feel proud that their son is doing well for himself in life. I want my siblings to visit us every week for dinner. I want the kids to play around in the garden. I want those moments back. I want to live those moments again. I want to live again.

As it stands today, we are separate souls in search of our soul mates. Our families are scattered or lost, our homes have been bombed, our workplace is a no-place now. Our industries are dead because we have no one to run them. Our economy doesn’t exist, or may be it does.

The war has ravaged our spirits, along with our land and its wealth. I feel I have lost my identity. I feel the credibility of being an accomplished is lost. I have the urge to live but how? I have the insatiable in me to survive but for who? Yes, the war is for us. But am losing grip over the factual representation of this calamity. Am I fighting an enemy in flesh and bones or am I battling my demons within? No sleep, but I have lost sanity.

Our city has turned in to an island of gaping quicksand. And with us, everything around is dying. Obscured death, if I can say what it is.

30 years later…

I am in Chester, UK. I own a convenience store, managed by me and my wife. My son is a freelancer and occasionally visits our store. My daughter is married to a British and they live in Liverpool.

Yes, I have a life. My family has been returned to me amidst chaos and catastrophe. In fact, I am one of the few who have emerged alive from the clutches of war and violence.

I feel, I have seen it all. But I am still not home. I know for a fact, I will never make it. 

There is no home, we have enclosures and we are breathing.

70 Years of ‘Bharat’

We have come a long way, we have a long way to go. Every country goes through turbulence, so have we. Every country has its moments, we have had our own. Every country has a vision, we have ours. No country is perfect, the flaws exude beauty of renaissance and evolution. We did, we do, we will. 

Jai Hind!

Death Smile

She is an Iron Lady. I have never seen her blink an eye or being moist in a situation. She took tuition classes, her husband has a decent job and her son was studying in a boarding school in a different town. A family of 3 with dreams of their own, I knew them as a courageous and friendly family.

But destiny had other plans. A plan that shattered their lives and bought them to knees. But I just had one question. Why?

One midnight, the phone rings aloud. The call is from her son’s Boarding school. They inform that her son collapsed in his room last night and they did not have a clue till one of his room mates tried to get in to the room. With a heavy and scary tone, they inform her that he is dead. 

Her world has just gone down. The couple rush to the boarding school and get his body back home. Doctors inform that he died due to a respiratory problem leading to cardiac arrest. 

I met her a few weeks after her son’s death. She was her usual self, didn’t talk much and I did not have the tenacity to stay longer. But I could see the pain she locked herself in.

Not willing to remain inside and refuses to come outside. I could see how her world has collapsed with a blink of an eye.

But disasters have this uncanny knack of knocking doors twice. Again, I was living with the same question. Why?

I visited her a few months later and during the normal conversation, ended up enquiring about her husband. Her response startled me. He has been diagnosed with cancer and is under treatment for the last 3 months. Her voice, not for a minute, had a touch of fear or apprehension about the situation she is dangling with. 

I was out of town for 4 months. When I was back, I learnt from her that he passed away last month.

Her life stood toppled and devastated. Yet, she stood firm and I did not see tears in her eyes. She continued with her tuition classes. She started visiting a nearby orphanage and offered her services. Few months down the line, she quit classes and became a regular in the orphanage.

I have since moved out of the city since 7 years. Last time I visited her place, door was locked and neighbours have not seen her around for sometime. As of today, I don’t know where she lives or has moved to.

I, at times, remain astounded by the ways of life. We are not perfect. We make mistakes. We have sinned. Yet, life bestows numerous opportunities to redeem ourselves. And, we survive. We live to see glory.

But in the adversity of time, life decided to show off it’s gruesome face to this lady and her family. 

I am still living with the same question. Why?

*Inspired by real life events.

The Mother I Never Was

The Preface

Motherhood is the most beautiful emotion in this world. Unconditional, unearthed and supremely human. Can this feeling be compromised?

The Story

On the day of child birth, we visited Martha in hospital. Martha has been the caretaker of our home and the most exquisite cook we have ever seen, for the last 7 years.

Martha has just given birth to a baby girl and it was a moment of great relief for all of us. Elated, yes. The usual happiness of welcoming a baby in the family was a precursor for all households. We are no different, with smiles and sweets all over the place.

But Martha was not happy. I would say, her face quite dead as a pan and she preferred not looking at the baby.

We were perturbed and equally curious. Why would a mother not look at her baby? Where is the usual epitome of love and sacrifice?

We decided to wait for couple of days as we wanted her to get some rest.

A week gone by, we sat beside her and with a sense of judgment and sensitivity, popped up the all important question to her. 

‘What went wrong’?

Martha did not answer for few minutes. Then she looked up at us with a grim and hesitation. What she finally uttered shook us hard.
‘This is not my child’. ‘This baby is not mine’. – exclaimed an unassuming and nonchalant Martha. She had tears in her eyes but her words were not fake. She emoted naturally.
We spent a couple of minutes gathering ourselves before popping up yet another inevitable question. 

‘What do you mean’? How is this possible?
The spate of questions obviously meant we wanted Martha to elaborate on this shocking revelation. The understanding was mutual as Martha started to narrate what has gone through in the last 18 months of her life.

Martha is a surrogate mother. Couple of years back, she was visited by a Columbia couple through the local agent in Martha’s area. They were desperate for a child, Martha was in need of money. She had a paralysed husband with no income and her tiny little brick house went down in last year’s torrential rain. It was difficult making ends meet with 3 children and an almost ineffective husband. Thus, began a process by mutual consent and shared affection.

‘I will not have sex with this man’, Martha was curt when she informed the agent. The agent then explained that sexual intercourse is not required for her to carry a child in her womb.

“We have progressed”, the agent told Martha with a smile.

Though Martha was consciously in agreement to this, she never felt motherhood all through the 9 months of her disputed pregnancy period.

“I have just rented my womb for another person in exchange of money. This baby inside me is not to identify me as a Mother, I see myself as a business woman who is selling babies for cash”.
Martha’s tone was all guilt and conscience.

A week later, the Columbian couple and technically Martha’s customer, took the baby with them after paying the sum of money, as agreed.

Motherhood was redefined, but not sure where and who is the ‘Mother’ here?

The Moral

Surrogacy is bringing cheer to many such families across the world but we also sense that this introduction has perhaps murdered the purity of Motherhood. Consent or no consent, Motherhood is a woman’s right to her identify and integrity. Surrogacy, by all its noble intent, has manufactured a new and spurious Mother.

Demo-Crazy

Theatre. Drama. Roots. Hiatus.

A political satire, hosted by Mylapore Fine Arts. An ovation and three cheers for the interesting attempt.

The Diabetes Doctor – Classified and Un-scripted

Talking about diabetes is a tasteless debate. Yet, quintessentially, has remained the most talked about subject in the last 4 decades (apparently, forever). For the curious onlookers, I ain’t talking about champion doctors and their tumultuous prescriptions this time.

Humans thrive on beliefs, tranditions and roots. Despite the spectacular evolution of technology and its peers, we remain faithful to our age old trivias and their adjoining stories of redemption.

In one such corner of severance and isolation, a small place called Kovilvenni thrives due to a rich history and an amicable legacy. Located near the more illustrious town of Thanjavur in the southern state of Tamil Nadu, India, nothing looks or makes you feel spectacular. Yet, in this glorious temple that it resides on, will tell you some dramatic stories. One, amongst the many, is the cure for Diabetes.

Lord Shiva sits in this temple in the form of a ‘Lingam’ and is adorned with sugarcane stripes across the body of the ‘Lingam’. Sugarcane, for all we know, embodies sweetness and the lord here is acknowledged to cure the disease of sweetness, infamously known as ‘Diabetes’. Interesting, isn’t it? To all, he is revered as ‘Venni Karumbeswarar’ (The Lord with Sugarcane Stripes).

Yes, it is. Remember, belief is all about staggering faith and relentless patience. If this kind of breaks the restrain in you, I will urge you to visit this place, at least once, in your lifetime. No warranty slips here, but don’t forget to take your trust along with you. 

This is an invitation to the world of empowerment, sans logic and prescriptions. Yes, Science will look like a ‘David’ in front of a ‘Goliath’, not virtually that is.

I take immense courage to share this piece of history with all of you. I am an incorrigibly instinctive person but this element of me is a revelation. 

I am not worried if I may go without takers but am certain for one thing – this is a story that deserves to be told.

Unseen Sanity

We came, we saw and we got conquered. The vanquished won, and the rest, as they say, is the work of the mercurial almighty.

Blessed, and in awe.

Location: Brihadeeshwarar Temple, Thanjavur, Tamil Nadu.

The Hit Back Photo

The elation was just around, another one knocking in? Cheers!

The Booth

Sometimes, it’s silent and empty. As far as you can see, that is.

Haraamkhor – Gutsy and Wretched

Yes. We have this society in us which possesses dark shades. Lives a simple life, appears to be noble, exploits women and their helplessness with élan. And yet, survive like worms and disappear to come back with evil. For a change, this protagonist doesn’t live enough. But it every story is fortunate enough, not every human being is planted with sanity.

‘Haraamkhor’ is a devilish tale of human beings who swear and die in a society very far from our urban excellence and glory. And, we have no clue till something like the the episodes in ‘Haraamkhor’ hit us. I don’t think it’s the question of culture or honor here, it’s about being a human and not being one. Sadly, we live with such creatures around who take advantage of innocence, insecurity and feminism to get there tails wagging. And, they do it shamelessly.

I think I will shower some unanimous praise on Nawazuddin Siddiqui, again. I don’t think anyone else will have the audacity and darkness to play such characters on screen. If you think ‘Raman Raghav’ was fetish enough, watch ‘Haraamkhor’. Nothing loud about it but equally menacing and scary. A thumping pat on the back for the director who chose to make a film on disdainful taste. I take a bow for the Kashyap stable who try to stand out with such films that shed light on such invisible yet mainstream holes in our revered clan.

Truly, wretched it is.

Time – The Nemesis

Time is a dis-component of our lives. It’s a sadist and an optimist. It’s charismatic and mundane. Its electric and submissive. But whatever it is, it isn’t ours to claim for.

We think we are spending money, we are actually spending time. Apparently, time is spending us. We crave for money and authority, power and deceit. Time pumps out the energy out of us, we are spent every minute, every hour.
Good and bad. Optimism and criticism. Love and hate. Pride and loathe. Jealousy and withdrawal. Time is the boss, rest are pawns of the dangling needle.

If it isn’t happening, then it isn’t the right time. Wait, hold on, take a step back. The plunge is not to be taken yet.

If ‘Time’ is not ready, then we are not. All we do, is to wait for a better pedestal to shine.