right wing wankers just crossed a line

I'm a very politically inflamed guy but choose to keep it in my pants unless there's something REALLY extreme said or done. Indian politics, as most of us who don't live under a rock would know, has never been anything BUT extreme. This compels me to call out bullshit from time to time, mostly on my facebook profile. 

Now, let me tell you- I'm no activist or political know-all; in fact I'm closer to being complicit in all the stupid shit that happens in the political arena these days than anything else. So, for the most part, I aim to make no real difference to the status-quo. A figure like me can be likened to the trope of the Gangster Wife, or for want of a better analogy, the humble Nazi footsoldier who was 'only following orders'. I turn a deaf ear to handicapped beggars and charity-appealers, but still rant about wealth inequality on heated facebook comment threads, thus riding the Hypocrisy Express on a first class ticket.

But every once a while something so ridiculous comes along that shit hits the fucking sky. To not call it out for its stupidity tilts the needle of my moral compass to 'criminal offence'. 

Asaram Bapu, accused multiple times of being a child rapist and a murderer, is arguably the father of dick moves across the spectrum of right-wing wackos. Him and his pro-Hindutva pals have led rancid and lethal hate campaigns over the years about 'Love Jihad', boycotting Pakistani artists, the politics over beef ban, national anthem and many other minor to major issues. 

Their muscle flexing has grown in rabidness after the ascension of the BJP at the central government in 2014. I had privately predicted the rise of these dastardly elements in an argument with my father when the Modi sarkar was elected. Modi himself may not be at the forefront of this fuckall socio-religious thuggery. But his proximity to the Sangh Parivar, documented to have played a role in the Babri masjid demolition - among many other controversial incidents - cast serious doubts in my mind about his integrity to bring these misguided miscreants to books.

Sadly, there exist no better political opponents to Modi as of now, which is dangerous for a diverse democracy. All other regional leaders are either too weak, divisive or corrupt. They have made careers out of politics and filled their personal coffers while at it. 

But more on all this some other day; let me go back to Asaram Bapu and the point of this post.

Bapu and his minions run close to fucking 400+ ashrams all across India, but mostly in the 'pak sarzameen' of Gujarat. Kuch din toh guzariye pls.  

Still not convinced? Read some personal testimonies!

Bapu Ji also runs about 40 'gurukuls', or boarding schools which have been mired in controversies related to mysterious deaths of its students. Some parents have accused the staff of practicing black magic, only to later retract their statements in court, under no pressure from anyone at all. 

Sounds a lot like Hogwarts, eh?

	Hogwarts	Asaram’s gurukul
Secretly teaches magic	✓	✓
Students die under mysterious circumstances	✓	✓
Occasionally hounded by official authorities	✓	✓
Sometimes muggles get a whiff of what’s happening but eventually lose their memory	✓	✓
Led by a bearded old man whose sexuality is dubious	✓	✓

Apart from being a part-time court liar, prison inmate and clown, Bapu ji also excels in single handedly keeping the venom of Western cultural influence at bay from the gullible Bharatiya masses. His campaigns to shun the allure of culture-eroding vices like Valentine's Day and Christmas celebrations have manifested in parallel festivals of his own. 

He announced 14th February to be marked Matri Pitri Poojan Divas ("mother-father worship day") and 25th December to be celebrated as Tulsi Pujan Divas (Basil Worship Day). Surely, these six-sigma certified, ISI-pramaanit Indian festivals could not be observed on any other two days on the Kaalnirnay calendar.

The most cringeworthy effort to publicly promote the latter is in the form of a recent straight-to-DVD, barely feature length film, '25 December: Ek nayi pahal'. Here's the trailer:

Ouch. The cringe was high with this, right? Picture abhi baaki hai. Turns out they have simultaneously released the full movie on youtube. 

Unless you have assimilated the entire experience in 1.5x speed like I did, stop reading here if you care for spoilers. Actually no, just read on; this is truly a spoiler proof film, the only one after the Ebert-certified Inception. My spoilers will only add to your anticipation to witness this unique movie first hand.

In the opening scene, we are introduced to textbook baddie Rocky, who is always chucking around strategically-placed cardboard cartons for some reason. His teenage angst has led him away from the path of goodness and godliness, and the heathen spawn has taken upon himself to stop the pious folk of his housing society from worshiping the Holy Basil ('Tulsi'). While the other angelic kids are busy prepping for the Tulsi worship gig, villainous Rocky reports the public nuisance to the cops. The cops come knocking at the right place and time (for once!) and are just about to cancel the shenanigans for totally legit reasons when...flashback happens.

Turns out everyone in this moronic society is an Asaram supporter and has pimped out their unassuming kids to his gurukul. The young-uns (all suspiciously males) have been brainwashed to sabotage the livelihoods of anyone who deals in cow-flesh ('gau mata hatya'). The story of their twisted efforts to stop cow-flesh trade and other equally worthless pursuits melts the heart of the policemen in charge and they let the show go on. The District Magistrate makes a special appearance and leads the chanting of 'Hari om!' for the enthralled crowd.

One of the kids then goes on to enlist the benefits of tulsi - from being a cure to cancer to an ozone-releasing miracle herb. Poor Rocky takes to the stage and accepts that he had been led astray from the noble path of goodness and...Hinduism. Yes, he does not openly say it, but he confesses that he also 'used to be a Rohan once', and that it was now time to go back to being one. Ghar wapsi, anyone? 

No one, at any point, openly targets Christmas or Christianity, but the words 'sharaab aur kabaab' are repeatedly used with disgust and revulsion. The word 'party' is detested; 'utsav' is suggested as an acceptable replacement. Everyone is repeatedly told to observe the 25th of December as Tulsi Pujan Divas alone. It's not like any other major festival falls on the same day, right?

Asaram Bapu demonstrating the number of fucks he gives

And yet, my major problem is not with any of what I just mentioned. I don't really give a shit about misguided, brainwashed masses as long as they are adults. They're already fucked. The chuck-chuck train has long passed for them. 

But it is when children are taken away their childhood by adults with an agenda that I lose my shit. Don't drag the fucking kids into your hateful, sexist, xenophobic campaign. Leave them home with better role models. Let them truly make up their minds. Ensure they get the unbiased, neutral account of the world they deserve during their formative years. Don't pass on your fucked up legacy to them.

This goes for everyone who brings along their young ones to political and ideological rallies. Don't. Let them stay home for a day instead, with their Barbie dolls or Hot Wheels, Hardy Boys or Nancy Drews, or whatever it is that sells these days. Don't snatch away their sense of wonder and exploration for your selfish motives.

I am not a parent so I am in no position to say whether I can guarantee the same for my kids (if and when I have any), but I will try. In any case, it's not like we are leaving this place for them in any good shape - this is the least the future generations deserve.

I write this with the biggest FU to everyone who uses kids for their agenda. Fuck you for messing with the children.

We failed you.

Insulin shot: a short story

Ma calls out for dinner.

That’s my cue. I open the refrigerator and reach for the tiny insulin glass bottle on the door panel. I grope through baba’s medicine box for a fresh syringe. It’s such a habit that I can literally do it without taking my eyes off the mobile screen.

I load the syringe with the exact quantity of the transparent medicine, with some help of the markings. Carefully, so as not to form bubbles. I give the needle a shake to let the extra drops fall. This I can’t do without looking for sure, so I restrain myself from checking the Instagram feed.

I walk to where baba is sitting, like every day, on his special reclining chair, enjoying the angry debate on TV…

But something’s wrong today. The TV is silent; the suited news anchor is speaking over everyone and the supers are spitting fire, but it’s all on mute. The look on my grandfather’s face is one of abject loss. His eyes are looking away, as if following some wayward thought. The TV seems on only on account of a habit half observed.

There are about ten of us in the same house but no one notices him because, well, old people.

“What’s up, baba?”

He looks up at me but it’s not like when someone is jolted from their thoughts and brought back to reality. He turns to look at me very gradually, and I see something frightening in his eyes. It’s hard to put down in words but the fuzzy warmth about him is gone. His eyes are vacant, drained and tired. I haven’t seen him in this shape in the seven years of our insulin-shot ritual.

*

My grandfather has been diabetic for more than 35 years now: a little more than twice my time in the world. As a kid I would watch mortified as he would fearlessly apply the injection on his bare stomach, ten minutes before the day’s last meal. I would run and hide in my room every time dinner was announced.

As I grew older, my fear turned to fascination. When I was about 10, I remember him calling out to me as he was about to take the shot. Nervously, I walked up to him and sat on his lap.

“Do you want to puncture my tummy today?” he asked me in his genial dada ji voice.

I whimpered at the idea but quickly recovered. Curiosity dictated that I nod. He handed me the syringe, showing me how to correctly hold it. He bared his fat belly and wiped the spot of the injection with a piece of cotton. Then he signaled me to go ahead.

I nervously brought the syringe closer to his belly; I think my hands trembled. He held my arm and guided it towards him. Slowly, the needle pierced his skin and I discharged the insulin. I looked up at him to gauge his pain but his beaming smile did not wane even a bit. I was awed.

This became a part of our routine. No sooner would ma, chachi or dadima call for dinner than I’d run to baba to ‘puncture his tummy’. It became our bonding session: those ten or so minutes between the injection and the dinner being served.

Baba generally had been a very self-motivated individual. He’d retired as a star journalist when no one else in the family saw any merit in the jhola-chhaap profession. All my uncles and aunts and distant cousins had gotten themselves involved in our family business, which functioned more like a clan now.

“Truth be told,” baba said during one of our insulin moments, “I’m sure they all hate my guts.” He looked over to where my dad and younger brother were, enjoying a cricket game on TV. “Can’t say the feeling isn’t mutual!”

We had a laugh about things that would have seemed so revolting outside of context. And I won’t say we always talked progressive and intellectual all the time; oh, we trash-talked a lot. Sometimes he would comment on the shortness of bua’s pants or ma’s closeness to chacha, which created doubts in his mind regarding her fidelity. “But that’s none of your business, and I am sure you are seeing things.”

“They called me the sharpest eye in the newsroom…”

He would often hold on rigidly to his opinions, like when we passionately debated on the subject of the existence of god. I’m a militant atheist and he considers himself a high-caste Brahmin, so a clash was imminent. We continued to debate all through dinner and up till bedtime, but he did not budge an inch from his standpoint.

But at the end of the day, we agreed that we had had a damn good argument. No one else would give us much notice. Only occasionally would someone look up from their TV screens or food plates and give an impervious glance. Nobody got us. And it’s been like this till date.

*

“Tell me?” I crouch down and pull up his shirt. He wipes his face with the back of his palms and looks at me, now with a restive manner. He appears like a man who has just about made a momentous decision.

“I want to tell you something really important.”

I let go of his shirt and let it fall. His voice is clear, stern and very serious; the kind that demands immediate and absolute attention.

“I am only telling you this because,” he pauses as he glances to the sides, then continues, “you’re the only one who will understand me and not freak out.”

“What’s up?” I ask.

“As you know, I was in and out of hospital all of last week due to my breathing problems…”

He had been briefly hospitalized after a nasty asthma attack triggered by dust and pollution. For about 5 days, he had been under observation and I could not meet him for that duration. I had been busy with work and had not thought much about it. It had not been a particularly serious illness, so it was not a cause of any considerable distress.

“In those few days lying on my bed, with an oxygen mask plastered to my face and intravenous drips pierced under my skin, I had a spiritual revelation. I realized the frailty of my body. I haven’t felt any weaker and helpless before. For the first time in my life, I could feel myself getting older and sicker. I think a big part of my spirit died on the hospital bed when I was finally discharged.”

Another call for dinner from the kitchen interrupts him. My younger brother is engrossed in his mobile phone. Papa is nowhere to be seen, probably confabulating with a business buddy in a room inside. There is commotion and activity all around, but we are alone.

“You don’t need to feel so down, baba,” I console. “All these things come with age.”

“That’s what I am afraid of. I am afraid of turning into this incapacitated vegetable that will be as good as dead. I do not want to die slowly and painfully in some hospital room away from family, away from friends…away from you. Everything I’ve done in life has been on my own terms. I was once a young hopeful man like you, ready to make a dent on the world. And over the years, I have made quite a dent by doing what I always wanted. I have bravely faced thugs and exposed the wrongdoings of the rich and influential. I’ve fought fights with gusto and stood up for what I know to be right and fair. I have loved, I have failed and I have succeeded. I have lived all facets of my life and I have played all my roles as a man of God. My life’s targets have been achieved and I can now die with no regrets.”

I cannot bear to look at him anymore. He is no longer the listless wreck he was just moments ago. In the course of his speaking, his demeanor has changed and his face has gained color. His speech is clear, articulate and impassioned. He speaks like a man possessed, a hawkish debater who has found the flaw in the opposing argument. He is speaking with an intent that is scary for me as his granddaughter, which makes me look away and contemplate.

The news anchor barks soundlessly on primetime. My brother aggressively pokes the touchscreen of his smartphone, perhaps caught in a tense moment in a video game. The plates are being laid out on the dining table.

Baba holds me gently by the chin and lifts my head towards him. His face is serene and his eyes sparkle with a youthful charm; he’s made up his mind.

“I have lived every moment of my life on my term. I want to end it on my terms too. And I want your help with it.” He smiles enigmatically. Then he looks at the syringe in my hand, filled with the right dosage of insulin.

“I’ve already taken two extra doses of insulin before this, but only a third can make it potentially lethal. I want you to go ahead and give me what I want.”

The syringe drops from my hand and falls on the ground. I cannot believe this is happening. I pick it up; luckily, the needle is still intact and the liquid has not dripped.

“You are an intelligent young girl, uncorrupted by the cynicism and reasonability of adulthood. I know I can trust you to make the right choice. In case I die, I already have a suicide note saved and ready in the drafts folder of my email ID.”

I know the ID and password of his email account because I am the one who set it up for him.

“I leave the rest to you. If you’re logically convinced by my argument, you should go ahead and puncture your baba's belly, one last time.”

His argument is airtight, and I know the stubborn old man cannot be talked out of it. The weight of the decision trembles me. Dinner is served. Papa appears from an inside room, still on the phone. Chacha and chachi take their places at the dining table, oblivious of me and baba. The news anchor is out of breath.

The syringe with the lethal dose beckons me.

THE END

The genius of Kammatipaadam

A few months ago, a Malayalam language film called 'Kammatti Paadam' had released. Directed by Anurag Kashyap's long time DoP, Rajeev Ravi, it's a story spanning a generation of gangsters in the shifting landscape of semi-urban Kerala.

I doubt if the film saw a respectable theater release beyond some urban pockets in Kerala. It got a grand total of one screen in Mumbai. No one I mentioned the movie to had even heard the name, apart from three college friends who worked on it as part of the crew. In fact, I'd only heard of the film and its release through them.

I also remember reading Kashyap's praise of Kammattipaadam, because that's what compelled me to watch it. He called it a 'slow burning', old school gangster film in the tradition of Once Upon a Time In America. I was instantly sold.

Of course, I couldn't catch it in the solitary theater in Mumbai, so I waited until the torrent was out. But after having waited for months and finding only bad quality screener rips, I decided to be a good samaritan and settled for a DVD. Priced modestly and affordably at Rs. 130, I got the beauty office delivered from Amazon. I waited till EOD (professional email jargon is rubbing off) to rip open the plastic wrapping and reveal the unassuming DVD. Then, Movie Magic happened.

No, I don't want to speak about the film in its entirety, even though it's an enticing prospect. It's one of those rare films which benefit from being viewed with as little foreknowledge as possible. So I'm not going to talk to you about the plot and its numerous merits - there are many. I will instead focus on the first images the film throws your way: the title credits.

A little bit of a rewind here before I proceed.

Satyajit Ray is unarguably India's most influential international filmmaker. In media school, we've studied his painstaking dedication to every frame he composed. He fought to retain as much creative control of the film as a single person could. He would often score for them. Sometimes he would handle the camera himself. Another thing that he did invariably was closely overseeing the opening and closing titles. He would initially design them on his own. The confluence of sight, text and sound was thus dictated by him to a t.

He would construct the title & credit slates such that they would not appear out of place for the setting of the film. For example, the opening credits of Pather Panchali, his debut film, were handwritten on crumpled sheets of paper. The father of the protagonist, Harihar Rai, is a writer struggling to make ends meet for himself and his family. They live in a derelict house which has buckled under the effects of the elements. The credit sequence resembles Harihar’s carelessly stored manuscripts and thereby becomes a part of this universe.

That’s just one way to use credit sequences: to acquaint the audience – even if subconsciously – to the environment of the film. There are innumerable more. Hitchcock gets his audience into the psyche of the characters or the tone of the film through innovative use of music and text. Daniel Craig’s Bond films start with elegantly animated sequences that run us through the many locations Agent Double-O Seven will visit through the course of his adventures.

Closer home, Imtiaz Ali stands out as someone who lays emphasis on his credit sequences and injects them with some meaning. Here, too, as in James Bond, we are shown distinctive moments from the story that will be pivotal to the growth of the characters and development of the plot. Sudhir Mishra’s Yeh Saali Zindagi attempts to do the same with animation.

Kammati Paadam plays out in at least three interwoven timelines, from the time when the three protagonists were kids, till they are middle aged people. Fittingly, it opens with an energetic music video which sets the stage for the epic scale of things.

Through the music video cum credit sequence, we are led into the world of Kammaati Paadam through the protagonist’s eyes when he is a pre-teen. His Brahmin family is shifting to the village, which is also home to a sizeable tribal settlement. We see him befriending Ganga, an impressionable young boy of his age but from the tribal community. He attracts the attention of Anitha, who is also the same age and almost instantly falls in love with her. So does she. We see his father’s muted disapproval of his lower-caste company.

In a crescendo aided by rising musical tempo and frantic shot transitions, the tension between the three friends is underscored. Ganga and Anitha’s ceremonial child ‘wedding’ is implied when Krishnan’s family passes by the marriage procession. In another meaningful shot, Krishnan is helped up on a tricky branch of a tree. He has eyes only for Anitha, who is swinging from a branch and has her gaze fixed on him.

We see the boys bonding over a game of marbles. They are exposed to the violence of a village hunting party together. They run amok in the green fields, chasing butterflies and breaking age old caste barriers by simply sticking together.

All this while, the music and lyrics add an additional layer to the narrative. It’s a percussion heavy score that rumbles like a bad omen at first, then breaks open into an energetic beat to the hypnotic chants of ‘para, para’ (‘tell, O tell…’). These seem to be lines from a folk song, a paean addressed to the Pulayas, a well-known Dalit sub-sect. There are pantheistic verses that go well with the natural setting of these opening visuals:

‘Why was the sun-god, so late in coming up today?

The sun-god has come, it has steadily risen.’

The traditional way of beginning any story in Indian mythology is to first pay obeisance to the Gods. In the conventions of nature worship Hinduism has evolved from, praying to the elements was a common ritual (and to an extent, still is). The storyteller harks to an older era, a simpler time through these hauntingly beautiful sights and sounds.

These vital opening moments take you on the character’s journey back in time and space; as he travels, so do you. What it also does is wordlessly establish the dynamics between the three primary characters: whether they know it or not, the undercurrents of tension in their childhood will have much greater consequences than they can imagine.

In less than five minutes, Rajeev Ravi gives you a holistic sense of the scale, scope and character dynamics of Kammaati Paadam. To the astute viewer (or a second time viewer), this opening sequence has carefully embedded clues to the events to follow. It establishes a village landscape that will drastically change, a close friendship that is tinged with jealousy, and a love story that is doomed from literally the first meeting. In doing so, he reveals the biggest character in the movie: 

Destiny.

dem biches b cray: a short story

(NOTE: This is fit for 16+ readers. As in, people over 16 years in age, not 16 people in total. It's sad and funny because that is most likely the size of my readership lol.)

1.

I define myself as 'sapiosexual', which means someone who is sexually attracted to intelligence.

At some point in adolescence, many youngsters simultaneously discover a pseudo-intellectual fondness for things that sound deep but really are not. Words like 'petrichor' and 'wanderlust' and 'schadenfreude' catch our collective imaginations like 'le me' memes and pinterest feeds. These short lived trends come and go out of fashion before you can complete this sentence in your head. Nvm.

But sapiosexual has stuck to me. It feels like it was included in the English language just for me. The hot girls in school - the ones with bouncy assets, supple waists and simple minds - held me in no thrall. Or perhaps I resisted my carnal urges to appear holier than thou in my own eyes - holier than myself, lol.

I have been in the best of romantic relationships with my long time girlfriend, Sonal. She's hardworking and sincere but a little fragile emotionally. She isn't the bearer of a very pleasant face and is more or less shapeless, especially at the seams, but guess what, she is not lacking in the grey matter department. When I fuck her, the grunts of intelligence and wisdom fall like music to my ears. We are both clumsy in bed, we are both hairy and flabby, and we are fucking perfect for each other. Like totes.

I cannot say the same for my best friend, Abhishek and his girlfriend Maya. See, Maya is the kind of made-for-instagram girl who poses in all her top-angle, cleavage-showing, pout face-flaunting glory in every photo. She's sexy and she knows it, and shoves it down everyone's timeline like the dicks down her throat. Wordplay ftw.

So she's what many call 'plastic bitch', but I know better because I call myself a feminist and must live up to the tag. As a practicing online feminist, I cannot use a derogatory term for women that likens them to mongrels or objects. But I know she is very much a bitch and a plastic one at that, because she's about as smart as a cockroach and as emotionally present as a lump of dry ice. Her friends on facebook like to be tagged in the same photos as her only so they can kid themselves that the enormous number of 'likes' are because they are in it. Many boys use her regularly updated online party albums for excellent fap material.

How do I know, you ask? Because I'm one of them. I justify fantasizing about women like Maya by thinking about Sonal at the moment before ejaculation. That way I continue to tell myself that I am indeed sapiosexual.

But hey, at least I don't take these urges beyond an inch of my dick and left hand. So there's my moral high ground right there. I am attracted to my girlfriend who is intelligent af. I mean look at her grades. JUST LOOK AT THOSE STRAIGHT As! I even love her imperfections, those occasional A minuses that make her more human.

The phone rings: it's...Maya. I stick my hand out of my pants to take her call on the second ring.

"Hello".
"Hey Sankalp. Are you busy?"
"Um, no, not really...tell me?"
"I needed your help."
"Ya, tell me?"
I hear her take deep breaths through the receiver.
"I had a fight with Abhishek. He is not taking any of my calls. He left all his other stuff at my place and stormed off for I don't know where and now it's raining-"

I look out of the window: it's drizzling. Funny I didn't smell the petrichor.

"-and I hope he's fine, by god!"

She trails off and starts sobbing.

"Um, listen Maya, don't worry. I know Abhi very well, he'll be somewhere having a drink alone. I'll just give him a call and knock some sense."

I swear under my breath. This has happened so many times already that I am not even alarmed or worried. They have a fight every fortnight on an average and more often than not, I'm the one who ends up as the interlocutor. I track either him or her down and become their punching bag so they can let off some steam. Then they post a couple of cozy selfies from their bed and pretend to be the most in-love couple 5eva. Drives me absolutely cray-cray.

"I'll be really grateful if you could do that, Sankalp. You've always been a great help."

She hangs up after some half baked reassurances. I am tempted to call Abhishek right away but decide to take care of unfinished business before. I stare into Maya's stone eyes on my laptop screen, then slide down to her tight cleavage and exposed thighs, all the way down to her ankles, how they arch and taper, how her face betrays any emotion but her navel seems to express volumes, and AHHH how her underarms show no traces of hair and OHMYGOD her waist is so perfectly curved - BUT REMEMBER STRAIGHT As UHHHHHHH-

I call Abhishek. It rings for a while before he picks up.

"Hey man-"
He cuts me across. "O fuck, did she call you too, again? What a bitch."
"What happened now?"
"Nothing really. She was just PMSing so I walked out on her face. She might have gone on a guilt trip after her anger died out and she thinks talking to you might help."
"Yeah, well...just go back and pacify her dude. Don't want to get involved all over again."
"There's no chance I'll go back tonight. That's that. You don't worry, she'll be back to normal tomorrow."
"I'm cool as long as you are."
"Okay then. See you."

He takes a gulp of whatever he's having and cuts the call. I pick my phone up to call Maya exactly when she calls me.

"Hey Maya-"
"Sankalp," she says in a heavy voice, "can you come home for a bit?" She sounds harrowed from crying.
"Yes but what happened?"
"I feel all alone, even my roommate has stepped out for some work...I want to talk things over with someone."
Ya sure, she wants to talk things over! I bet she wants someone to fuck her wet pussy for the night because her boyfriend cockblocked her (or is it called something else when a guy does that to-)

"Sankalp-? Are you coming?"
NO, you unattractive airhead! First of all, I'll never fall to your unintelligent advances and second, he's my best friend-
"Yes. I'll see you in 10."

lolmax. roflcopter. fml.

2.

See, I'm a considerate person at heart, so I can't rest easy unless everything is more or less sorted out. Even if it means meddling into someone's private matters. But this is Abhishek we're talking about, so that's alright, right? RIGHT? Right.

Despite his flippancy about Maya's obvious distress, I decided to career on and give her a friendly shoulder to cry on. Just to be there for her, you know, just to give her some warm, old-fashioned company. There was no question of infidelity or stepping out of my limits. The bro code is strong with me, bro. 

I press the bell on Maya's door when I notice my little one down there getting all stiff. I hear the opening of an internal door, probably the toilet door. I think I hear a muffled 'coming!' in Maya's voice. She's coming...

So there are hacks to get your erect dick to calm down in little time. I saw it on some fb post once. The idea is to stiffen your thighs to divert the blood flow away from the johnson, in essence deflating it off all the out-of-turn excitement. I have never tried doing this before, but now is the time. 

Her footsteps come closer and I'm still struggling to squat. It's not really helping the erection. She opens the door and I hastily straighten up.

"Hey," I offer, covering my crotch gentlemanly with both hands. Her eyes are reddish and cheeks drawn up, which strikes me as unusual. In one single swift motion-

SHE HUGS ME.

I'm barely able to pull my hands from the receding space between her body and mine when she wraps me in an encompassing hug. Her breasts press against mine my chest and the lil one down there can't fucking contain himself. 

Her thin black hair rub against my cheek, smelling like rainbow flavored farts of a unicorn in a wet dream. I slowly creep my arms around her back, the back of her neck tantalizingly close to where my pinkie lands. She sobs in my right shoulder, her head almost the perfect size and shape for the space between my shoulder blades. I am hoping to touch some more skin without being creepy, trying to smoothly work my hand up. But the audacity fails me and I'm content with the bird in hand. Her head moves gently as she sobs softly in my arms. The moment gets imprinted in my memory, and I never want it to end...

But all good things do. She awkwardly pulls herself out of the hug, perhaps, nay surely not understanding its monumental significance to me.

Her dress is a few inches too deep to be deemed appropriate (by me and me alone, might I add for my feminist readers). Her yoga pants - THE BEST PIECE OF CLOTHING AFTER THE BIKINI - outline her hips down to each curve. It takes some will to keep standing.

On her face's journey out of the hug, I catch a fleeting whiff of rum and red bull. She's definitely tipsy.

"Are you ok?"

She raises her head to me, as if the question is a physical entity she can answer better when she has a look at it. Her eyes are droopy and cheeks flush. She leaves my question unanswered and totters to a side to allow me to enter. I walk in on tip toe, like a burglar after bedtime. She slaps my bum softly and close the door on us. I jump up and let out a sharp squeal in surprise. My penis reacts in a more favorable way. It's getting harder to not get carried away.

"Um, Maya..."

And then she swoons in my arms. Her body collapses on me as I scramble to support her. Like they show in the movies. 

She's gone, done for, knocked out cold. I don't even try to revive her, I don't think I want to. My heart is suddenly pumping a lot of blood to my genitals; it feels like her whole body is propped up on the support of...

Her eyes are half open but distant, not human anymore. Her mouth, half open and already drooling, shows the only sign of slumber and life: a constant heavy pitched snoring. 

I hold her tenderly, like an object of frailty and not the crafty vixen that she is. Of course she planned all this to happen! She got drunk just the right amount to knock her out and called me after her boyfriend would not entertain her. She wants me to take the first step. She wants to feel needed, to be desired, and be done things to rather than having to. What a masterstroke!

I slyly put my entire hand on her bare back now and a shiver runs down my neck. Her entire back has no trace of hair at all, unlike - whats her name again - yes, Sonal. She does not care for outward beauty, just like I don't, and I completely approve-

My hand edges further down...

Think about Abhishek. Bro code! Sonal and her A-minuses and B cups! But she just slapped my ass. She wants it and she asked for it and now my dick is also hard as steel, just don't think so much you fucking klutz!!!

I stop in my tracks and hold my breath. I am getting carried away. This is not how a sapiosexual person should behave. 

I hold Maya's lithe body from just above the waist, as dispassionately as possible, and deliver her dutifully to her bed. All this I do without exhaling, and finally when I've put her to bed, I let go. I feel relaxed. I open my eyes and adjust her body into a more comfortable repose. I tuck her arms gracefully to the side, untie her shoes and stretch her legs gently. I reposition her crooked head to a neutral stargazing pose. 

I pull the blanket over her legs and cover her till her chin. In doing all this, I respectably restrain from making physical contact with her skin as much as possible.

I calmly walk to the tiny, damp washroom, pull down my pants to the ankles, pull down my underwear to the thighs, and put my left hand to my dick.

I close my eyes and relive the last five minutes in my head. How her voluptuous body surrendered to my waiting arms, and AAHHH how her boobs bounced on impact and OHMYGOD her open back was so silky smooth and velvety - BUT REMEMBER STRAIGHT As UHHHHHHH---

THE END

Invested

On 28th of April this year, I woke up to a phone call at 7:30 am. It was from Professor Anupam Siddhartha, the director of the institute where I had finished a three-year course in media studies, earlier that month. We are not overly friendly on a personal level, so the call was every bit unexpected.

'Hello Bharat. Did I wake you up?' 

'Yes- no sir. Tell me?' I stuttered the way I always do when I speak to him.

 His neutral tone fell immediately and he spoke in a voice that faltered and waned, without losing its carefully measured quality. The verbal equivalent of 'फूँक-फूँक के कदम रखना'. Perhaps the first time in my 3 years of knowing him had I heard him be so cautious of his words.

'Your batch mate, Yukti Mehra...'

His voice trailed off. 

'Yes sir?'

'She...passed away this morning.'

Silence. My mind went blank. I double checked. He confirmed in a croaky, heavy voice that she had indeed passed. He had called on me to inform our batch about her untimely death on whatsapp. I did not think of asking 'how' or 'why' it happened and assumed it to have been some sort of a motor accident. I don't know why.

The next few hours went by in a haze. It was like I was carrying out formal instructions. I felt the rush of being the news bearer. I think that is what thrills people the most about sensational news: to observe the emotion on the faces of people when you reveal something shocking to them. It's sickening but I guess very much a part of human nature: as much as greed, hatred or anger. I myself felt little grief because I had never been very close to Yukti in the last 2 years. 

--

We had bonded mostly over a period of six weeks (Nov-Dec 2013), when we had interned at the same school with an NGO called Teach For India (TFI). We had not chosen to be clubbed together, but since we both resided in the far-flung municipality of Pimpri Chinchwad, we had been allotted the same school by our institute. We were 'expected' - by our institute's stern guidelines - to be 'at the best of our behavior' and carry out our responsibilities to a T. 

We had worked with a 'fellow' each: a candidate who had enrolled and trained with TFI for a 2 year teaching job, usually at schools based in under-developed communities. Fellows are class teachers in a primary-level classrooms, responsible for their students' wholesome education based on a detailed progress metric.

We met our would-be fellows over dinner at a MacDonalds. Their day had ended and we, free from college for a week before internship began, were sulkily enjoying our last few idle days. I was also perhaps meeting her formally for the first time. Since I had secured my admission in the institute against cancellation, I had joined the course nearly a month later than the others. So I already wasn't on the same page as my batchmates in the first semester. This added to the fact that I am an introvert meant that I was not surprised I had not seen her ever before. She later told me she had missed almost her entire first semester due to a prolonged chicken pox illness, for which she was still under medication. She had not been allowed to appear for the sem-end exams as a result of her poor attendance - the concept of medical leave does not exist at our institute.

My fellow turned out to be Veda Veeravalli, a bespectacled former IT professional from Andhra Pradesh. At 26, she was the most senior on the table by a mile. Pranjal Chandra, her co-fellow, was a much younger graduate from Delhi, whose most striking features were incisive, sunken eyes and a patchwork of facial hair along the jawline.

What struck me during our brief interaction apart from my own typical diffidence was how quickly and effortlessly Yukti befriended them. I would nod and look straight with a dour expression when someone addressed me, often pretending to understand every word. She on the other hand, had her lips screwed open, half-smiling, at all times, immediately warming up the speaker to her. She spoke in a shrill yet small, squeaky voice, in a perfect Delhi accent that could not be wrongly placed as Haryanvi or Punjabi, as is often the case with Delhiites. I later learned that she got that trait from actually being a true blue Delhiite, having never lived outside the capital city ever before. Moving to Pune with her family was a great adventure for her.

We were explained what our designated roles would be at the school, which were not nearly as strict as we had been prepared for at the institute (which was a good thing). After the meeting, Yukti and I decided that we could travel together everyday to the school, which was situated at a distance of about 5 kilometers from her house and two more from mine; I would pick her up on my scooter. We'd split the fare to be fair (pun not intended).

Those scooter rides from home to work and back were the most time we spent together. Mostly they would fly by in 15-20 minutes, since we passed a long empty stretch where I felt safe to race ahead of others. She would seldom speak much, considering how I am not the most responsive person, but when she did, she would tell me stories of home. 

They were always happy and pleasant portraits of an ideal life. She often mentioned emotional closeness to her dad. Sometimes she would tell me how she felt a unique bond with her neighbor's kid (boy or girl? I forget). She told me about her ancestral house in Old Delhi, handed down through many generations. Always tales of fullness and satisfaction. 

At the school, she exuded the same effortlessness in every task assigned to her. We were put in classrooms full of 2nd grade students and made to assist Pranjal, Veda and Nidhi (our third fellow) in their day long activities. 

I was very clear by that time in my academic life that my true calling was film making. I had never taught anyone before and had no inclination to. But I also knew if I were made to take up a task I found worthwhile and positive, I would see it to its end. That is the philosophy I worked with throughout my short lived teaching career, and it worked well for me. 

I put in extra hours just to drill the concept of double-digit divisions into the mind of a low performing student. I came in on Sundays, on voluntary field trips, on extra supplementary classes, and pushed myself hard. I was also rewarded greatly for my contributions: my final feedback remarks by Veda were full of superlative adjectives. I made strong bonds with my students who gifted me a stick-on diary of personalized notes written by each one of them. They tried to hugged me all at once on my last day, imploring me to return soon. I might have welled up a tear or two.

But here's the thing: Yukti did all this and more without seeming to push herself the tiniest bit. I didn't feel it then, but she forged a much stronger bond with her students than I even could. She knew each one by name. She called them home and took their parents' concerned calls regarding their wards' academics at odd hours. She smiles through all the hard work as if it wasn't hard at all. She made a relationship with our fellows that went beyond the classroom, while I took on all that as a challenge. 

These were the last intimate memories I made with Yukti. Over the next two years of our academic life, we met each other a lot but never quite sat down together and spoke for any longer than ten minutes at once. I took mass communication as a specialization and she chose communication management. Our paths diverged and we became parts of different social circles. I would hear of her and meet her often, but these were all fleeting moments.

--

On the day I learned Yukti died, I thought Veda ought to know about it. In the frame of mind of a bearer of tragic news, I dialed her number and called, unmindful of what exactly I would say. In what words would I describe Yukti's passing? I didn't even know how it had happened; how would I articulate such a sudden development? I cut the call before she could pick up and just held the mobile phone in my hand, thinking what had suddenly stopped me.

She called back moments later and I prolonged confronting my own voice than hers. Merely the thought of speaking those words, in all their crushing finality, made me shudder. I had very eloquently and carefully drafted a whatsapp message for my college group, being careful and sober with each letter. But the physical action of vocal cords vibrating to create sound, sound that had a meaning so unbelievable till last night, frightened me. I finally mustered an ounce of courage and slid the green icon. She greeted in her usual chirpy voice. Everything about her was so cheerful, and understandably so - we had not spoken in months. It made speaking about the tragedy all the more laborious. 

'Veda...Yukti-'

A pause. She heard me alright but sensed something off.

'Ya, what about Yukti?'

I just could not say anything. I think I choked up a bit.

'I can't tell you Veda. I'll...message you.'

'What happened to her, Bharat? Is she fine?'

'I'll message you'. I hung up. I messaged her soon after in the same, simple and straightforward tone. But this time my words were laced with a greater understanding of themselves. They moved me even as lifeless unspoken letters stringed together.

'Yukti passed away last night. I was just informed by our director. I have no other info. I might go to pune.'

I did go to Pune that day to join her family in grief. On the bus from Mumbai to Pune with a couple of other friends from college, I finally learned what had happened to Yukti: she had committed suicide. She had been fighting depression for years, silently, bravely. The first year that she had almost fully missed owing to severe ill health had not been chicken pox. She had been depressed and showed nothing of it. I had failed to gauge her at all. I felt she had been the happiest, most content person around. Even her best friend had been taken totally by surprise by her death. She had hoodwinked us into believing she had been perfectly fine all this while. I wished she was still very elaborately hoodwinking all of us...

That night, I went to sleep at my parents' empty house in Pune. They were both working in New Mumbai then. All alone in a stuffy, dusty house with thoughts only of Yukti swirling in my mind, grief assumed a living, palpable entity. I slept uneasy.

--

I met Veda a few weeks later in a mall in suburban Mumbai. I hugged her tightly and held on for a few seconds. She held me back knowingly, fully, unabashedly. I didn't have to tell her I was incredibly, deeply sad; she already knew it somehow. We surfed for books at a huge bookstore, just like we did for our 'kids' in school during my internship. 

After everything was done, Veda gave me the words that I shall always remember Yukti Mehra by. As a genuine query, I asked her how she honestly felt we had performed during our teaching stint.

'Oh, you were very good. You did all that was told to you, you were very sincere in everything...'

'And what about Yukti?'

She mulled whether to really say what she wanted to or hold back.

'See Bharat,' she started carefully, 'you were the sincere guy. But Yukti...she was invested.'

Part 3. Broken Nest

[NOTE: This is part of an ongoing short story. Read parts 1 and 2 before this to make any kind of sense.]

“Those nights that once were;

On rooftops when stars rained light.

Dreams that seemed impossible by day,

Came alive in the dead of night”.

Mother of mine had been a poet. It seemed like centuries ago- the memories my mind had created in its fancy. How she might have rocked my cradle at night, how she’d have recited her secret poems to my readily receptive ears. How those words swallowed whole and unquestioned must constitute to me at present. How a parent gives to their children in more than just biological ways.

The BEST bus lurched sideways as it turned the final right towards Veera Desai Road from Link Road. The height of monsoon was upon Mumbai and, like every year, the authorities had only been half-prepared. The roads were predictably holed up in craters, harvesting water. One would have expected the on-foot commuters to run for shelter given the intensity of the downpour, but the Mumbaikars were no longer naive enough to be caught unawares; people sauntered about under the cover of umbrellas as if it were a balmy Sunday afternoon.

The bus halted at what google maps indicated was the closest stop to the residence of a certain Bharam Swami. I alighted holding on tightly to my raincoat, and the sling-bag underneath. The raindrops fell harshly on my uncovered head and I ran for cover under a tea vendor’s shanty on the footpath.

Have you even felt a knot in your stomach right before a crucial moment in your life? I‘m not much into grade-boasting or scorekeeping but examinations were sort of a big deal for me growing up. As the number of days separating me from the D-day decreased, the knot in the tummy would tighten and coil itself around my intestines like an invisible viper. I‘m sure some of you all might share the feeling.

I felt that snake tightening its lethal grip around my waist as I neared the man’s house.  So far I‘d steeled myself from overt emotion because thirty years is a very long time. But that old familiar feeling of dread and peril and all things dark and ugly was coming back to me as I took slow, unsure steps towards the red pin on my mobile.  

Zilleh cooperative housing society loomed up ahead like a haunted relic. A dilapidating off-white building resembling countless other crumbling residential blocks dotting the ugly suburban landscape. Fresh raindrops had drenched the buildings sheathing the few top floors in a deeper hue. Paint peeled off from the walls and exposed the cement underneath. A rusting brass gate swung untethered by the gust of cold wind. No one questioned who I was or where I wanted to go at the gate; the guards did not bother in the heavy rain. The old fashioned complex had two blocks: A and B, both having four storeys and a narrow flight of stairs leading to two cubbyhole houses on each floor’s landing.

My steps grew heavy and difficult and my breath grew more labored. My hands were now shaking not so much from the dampness but from an indescribable dread. There should have been people here, at least a small group of mourners outside house number 242. I started to climb up the stairs, an uncomfortable rigidity catching hold of my legs. As if someone had left their bicycle unoiled for too long. 

 At the first floor landing I felt like throwing up. I supported myself against the railing. I could make out some faint activity emanating from the floor above. A general sound of people. Some thoughtful  undertones. I struggled to climb the last flight of stairs, choking up, unsure of what I would encounter, the monsters in my chest heaving and throbbing. The curiously numbered 242 lay just out of the corner of my sight now. The man responsible for my broken nest lay dead a few feet away from me but his ghost appeared before my eyes. I felt myself going weak and my limbs collapsed under their own weight. I fell with a thud and a sharp stinging pain at the back of my head. The apparition straddled and crouched close to me.

 I slipped into the dreams of past…

*

The Kotkars ensure her daughter sleeps in their room, the door firmly closed on their fights. But they do not anticipate Namah’s curiosity. She slips out every night, woken up by the deafening screaming matches, and becomes a voyeur to their violence.

“We must end this.  Cannot go on like this, like nothing ever happened.”

Namah presses her ear against the door.

“Why do you assume I can? You think it’s not hard on me? Living through everyday?”

“This is it. I want a divorce; a proper one. You don’t get to touch me-“

A chair is overturned. 

Father is attacking mother!

Someone is thrown against the door. 

She’s hurt her head! What do I do?

Namah steps away from the door but does not dart back into her room like the last time. The door is ajar now, allowing a better view of perpetrator and the perpetrated...

Her memory starts to crack and shatter. She is not sure what she is seeing; perhaps her mind is playing tricks. In a flash of memory, she realizes everything. The rapist. The obituary. The face. Ms. Taraporevala. And the monster under her bed.

*

I woke up inside the apartment that had been my destination. I could see a bunch of solemn mourners huddling around me instead of…the deceased. Awkwardly, I propped myself up on my side, seeing more of the place. The living room area had been cleared for a tidy floor mat, where I had been laid out.

Someone asked me how I was feeling, but it barely registered in my brain. Something restless and anxious was growing within me; a strong revulsion for everything, and I was already zoning out once again. The pain in the back of my head returned gradually but greatly, probably from having fallen over in the staircase.

The flash of memory returned all at once. I swung around like a woman possessed. The lifeless body of M. Bharam Swami lay right behind me, draped in a modest white cloth draping it from neck to toe.

In death, his colorless face bore almost complete resemblance to the man of my nightmares: small pair of  lips pursed together unevenly, caught mid-sentence; high cheekbones - not bony - wrinkled with age; and most strikingly, round, bulging eyelids hiding a large pair of eyes.

From somewhere under the folds, the tips of his fingertips were also exposed. I frantically crawled over to the cadaver and dug up its hands. Some commotion arose behind me: alarmed voices ordered me back. Restless and almost panicking for answers, I unearthed the hands of the ‘man’, and only confirmed my greatest fears.

Feline, graceful and wrinkly as they would have grown after all those years, I knew the slender fingers of my rapist could have belonged to none other than-

‘MOTHER!’

--

[Epilogue coming soon...]

Part 2: Upon a whim

[This is part 2 of an on-going short story. Read part 1 here.]

The moment I called mom I realized I’d made a fuck-all mistake. She would surely have changed her number in 30 years. Before I could cut the call, though, the phone had begun to ring. On the second ring, someone picked up.

“Hello,” spoke a curt, masculine voice.

“Hey, mom…?” I spoke, awkwardly.

“Um, excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, is this Mrs. Maya Kotkar…” I paused, realizing she might have reverted to her maiden name after what had happened. “I mean...Menon; Maya Menon?”

Pause. No response. I could swear I heard a sigh before the line got cut. I called again. The line was engaged. I tried at least thrice but it gave me the same response.

I hadn’t met or spoken to mom for 30 years. I couldn’t be sure whether it was her on the other end or not. It had seemed like a ‘he’, but I could have been mistaken. I had not followed mother on any of the social media. I had not kept track of her either online or offline. Because of whatever happened between her and dad, they decided to give up on me and I on them. Nothing had broken my stubborn stand not to contact her or dad ever…until today.

And now that I wanted to, I could not.

Upon a whim, I checked my rapist’s obituary details. The soggy remnants of the obituaries section revealed the hellish face of my perpetrator, the asshole pedophile. A shiver ran down my spine when I looked into those monstrous eyes once again. Horrors I had long since locked away at the back of my mind came flooding back.

His name was given under the photo (in fucking comic sans): M. Bharam Swami.

‘Bharam Swami’. The man responsible for everything bad in my life. The manufacturer of all my pain and agony . The man had died after living a full life, never suffering any retribution or karma for his crimes against me. His smile in the photograph, though creepy, did not seem full; he seemed like a broken man, a man possessed by a terrible curse which even spilled on to his happiest moments.

The brief obituary read,”Mr. Swami, our Beloved Father and Grandfather left for his Heavenly Abode on the 26^th of June,2016. All Loved Ones are invited to be part of a Prayer Meeting on the 27^th of June, at 5:30 PM. Address – A/242, Zilleh Building, Veera Desai Road, Mumbai”.

‘Veera Desai Road’: Not very far from where I was staying.

‘27^th of June’: Today.

‘5:30 PM’: Still 8 hours to go.

Like every decision this morning, I decided - upon a whim - to attend the funeral of my rapist. He had been inside me once, and going by one line of reasoning, I had a connection with him that was greater than most. The last time I had seen his face was under my bed, in my nightmares…

*

It takes a kid to make adults do stupid things.

Ms. Taraporevala, Maya and Kamal bend down to have a peek under Namah’s bed. They lift the untucked bedsheet partially concealing the space between the base of the bed and the floor. Namah topples back as the drapery is pulled back, as if knocked over by an invisible force. Her head hits the floor with a thud. The psychologist continues to look, as if to search for a real entity huddled underneath. Maya and Kamal rush to Namah’s aid, who is now convulsing violently. Maya is suddenly unnerved, quivering with every word and action. Kamal tries to assuage her, but she is as frantic as her daughter.

“It’s all my fault!” she keeps repeating under her breath, her head hidden in her palms. “I failed!” 

Kamal makes a move towards her but she shirks away from his touch and storms out of the room. He picks up Namah and gently eases her on the bed. Ms. Taraporevala still seems to be dazed by the girl’s extreme reaction, looking under the bed.

“There’s nothing really there!” he says with a hint of annoyance.

Ms. Taraporevala knows better. She gets up and checks the girl for signs of mental trauma.

“Mr. Kotkar, it is best if you leave this house forever.”

She stares blankly at him. She’s the best psychologist he could afford. He can’t fucking believe it.

“What-“ he starts.

“I’ll take your leave,” she cuts in.

“But…what about…”

She walks out and stops near the entrance of the master bedroom, where the mother is crouched over with her back to her. She seems prostrate in deep prayer or introspection. Ms. Taraporevala does not enter the room and walks away…

Read Part 3.

Mother of Mine: A short story in parts

Part 1. The Arena of Misery

The Times of India woke me up today. The papers might have rapped against the door when the newspaper guy lobbed them into my flat. I collected the thick bundle, skimmed through the full page advertisement on my way to the loo and closed the door behind me. The toilet seat was warm and musty, so I used the advertorials to wipe it dry. I opened the paper to read in detail.

Going from page four to page five, I thought I spotted a familiar face in the obituaries section.  I did a double take. I instantly recognized the face in the photo.

It was the man who had fucked me when I was 6.

It was awkward sitting there, in the loo, realizing my life’s biggest mystery had solved itself. The smell of shit and urine hung in the hot morning air. I had trouble breathing. I went for the hand shower. The newspapers fell to the wet floor, getting soaked. I slipped my feet inside my flip flops and cleaned my ass. The air stank even more and the heat grew unbearable. My gown stuck to my back due to sweat.

I picked up my phone and called mom for the first time in 30 years.

*

 “Ma,” cries Namah from her bedroom, thirty years ago. She has been hollering for a good minute, but the screams have not attracted Maya or Kamal’s attention. Kamal is the first to rush in. The baby’s skirt is bloodied, her eyes are puffy and her hands are trembling after a trauma.

Her undies are pulled down to her ankles.

“What the-"

The young father runs towards her and hugs her, but she does not stop howling. Maya enters the room restlessly, only to confront a shocking sight. She rushes to her daughter’s aid and breaks down.

“What happened?” “Who did this?” “Tell us, don’t be afraid.”

But Namah is not fit to speak. She is taken to the hospital, her body is thoroughly examined and the reports come out within a day. She has been raped, but there is another bizarre revelation: no semen samples are found on her vagina. There has been forcefully penetration, and the urethra is bloody, but it is likely to have been an object than a penis.

She remains mortified and silent despite the continuous requests of her parents. The police flags off a dispirited investigation. They begin questioning the usual suspects: the building security guard, the washer-men, the neighbors and other daytime loiterers. No one claims to have seen anything. Even the parents themselves had been busy with their own chores.

Back at home, Namah refuses to enter her bedroom again. At the door, she falls down in a crippling fit. Her pulse quickens, her eyeballs roll up, and her limbs pulsate with a life of their own. When she regains consciousness, she has been safely shifted to her parent’s master bedroom.

“Let’s call if off…she doesn’t deserve us then.”

“She doesn’t deserve you, yes. Why don’t you fuck off from our lives?”

She can hear her parents from the other room - her room - fighting. She steps off the bed, trying to make as little sound of her feet as she can.

“I was in the kitchen, Kamal. You were supposed to take care of her. Why couldn’t you?”

“Are you blaming everything at me? How am I at fault? We don’t even know-“

She hears them struggle and topple over some furniture. Tactfully, she returns to her bed, pulls over the blanket over her head and pretends to be asleep.  

The next day, after a dose of anti-depressants and mild sedatives, she finally recounts the ordeal in short, trembling sentences to her parents.  

“The bad man climbed in through the window. He looked…funny. He looked like a clown but he did not smile. His face was white-colored. His hair was thin and grey. His arms were slim and he wore a black coat. One with those lines running all over. He wanted to hurt me really bad. He held my mouth and undressed me…”

She chokes up and snuggles back into the comforting embrace of her parents, whom she knows are drifting away – because of what happened.

The police launch a district-wide manhunt. Big money and publicity ensure that they are not caught napping another time. There is a rapist on the loose and not a minute to waste. The suspects are picked up again, locked behind bars overnight, but no confession is extracted. The parents are questioned over and over, their place is searched from top to bottom but nothing substantial is found. A sketch is drawn on the basis of Namah’s descriptions: a monstrously pale face with round, youthful eyes and small, narrow lips; the cheeks are puffy and the hair is greying. Black and white posters of the much-despised child rapist are splashed in the papers and stuck on police station walls. The police hold little hope, though; Namah’s testimony is unreliable and sketchy. They fear her state of mind is affecting her judgement greatly. No concrete arrests are ever made and the case slips from public consciousness and media eye. For the many social media crusaders closely following the case, something fresher and more revolting comes along and Namah’s absconding rapist is forgotten.

During the day, when her parents are at their respective workplaces, Namah is left alone with a female caretaker. Her fear of excessive human interaction seems to have taken deep root. Concerned about her education, Kamal and Maya consult a psychologist to counsel their daughter into normalcy.  Between ensuing fights and arguments, her parents find a common ground only in the well-being of their daughter. They anticipate the meeting with Ms. Taraporevala, their psychologist, who is gracious enough to make a house visit. It’s a weekly ritual they are comforted by as much as their daughter.

“Did you dream of anything today?” Ms. Taraporevala questions Namah.

Namah is quiet, staring into space.

“Namah…” eggs on her mother. “Tell her what you dreamt of.”

Maya seems as rattled as her daughter, whereas Kamal maintains a composed exterior. In the weeks since the crime, she has lost her obsessive pursuit of cleanliness and presentability. Her hair is wispy, singled out, and quickly losing volume. She nags her husband less but violent fights erupt ever so often.

“I saw a ghost.”

“What kind of a ghost?”

“He sleeps under my bed and whispers in my ears…every day.”

The adults exchange worrisome glances.

“There’s nothing like ghosts, Namah,” assures Kamal softly. Ms. Taraporevala gestures him to keep quiet.

“Every day? Even today?” she asks.

“No, I’ve stopped sleeping on my bed.”

“She’s shifted into our room since…” explains Kamal. Maya shudders at the reference of the dreadful day.  

“Will you show me?” she asks.

She leads the adults to her bedroom, which is locked.

“Ma’am, she is still a bit anxious about entering the room, so we’ve had it locked…” explains Kamal.

“Namah, are you scared of going inside?” asks Ms. Taraporevala.

She nods, her eyes wide with palpable fear. Some color from her face has vanished; her naturally rosy cheeks are pallid. The psychologist considers for a moment if she should press on. She looks back at Maya, who is distraught and frazzled, and then at Kamal. He manages the subtlest of nods, barely perceptible.

On his cue, her bedroom - the arena of all her misery – is opened for the first time since the fateful day. 

--

Read part 2 here.