Month: June 2016
Story Club # 1: Life of a Writer
Hello everyone! How’s the week going so far? Hang in there, half done anyway 🙂 If you remember I threatened promised to begin the Story Club today. Until yesterday, the going was slow. But now Story Club is officially on with a slight change. Instead of a weekly event, it will be a fortnightly activity – 1st and 15th of every month. I shall take the first step today and Yvette will do The Open Boat by Stephen Crane on the 15th of July. If anyone is interested in doing one on the 1st of July please do let me know. Otherwise I will take Yvette’s advice and go for a monthly event.
All set? Great – let’s begin!
For today I have chosen a story by Lorrie Moore, a contemporary American award-winning writer known for her brilliant, funny and yet poignant short stories. I was spoiled for choice but I finally settled on How to become a writer, or Have you earned this cliché from the book “Self-help.” I do apologize for not announcing the name of the story earlier but to tell the truth I wasn’t quite sure if this was happening or not. Besides, this is not a story – story but more of an insight into the life of an aspiring writer.
How to become a writer is a vastly entertaining read but more so if you are not a writer. Yet, it’s the writer who needs to read it the most. As the title suggests, this is a guide about how to become a writer or more like what you should be prepared to face in case you want to take up writing, particularly as a full time job.
I would go so far as to suggest any aspiring writer to read this piece and use it as a sort of an acid test. If you feel more of a sinking heart than a desire to burst out laughing – writing as a full time job is probably not for you.
Through Francie, our guide to the world of writing, Lorrie leaves the aspiring writer no scope for any sort of delusions or hallucinations regarding the ‘glamorous’ life of a writer – with dollops of cracking humor.
This is how she begins:
First, try to be something, anything, else. A movie star/astronaut. A movie star/ missionary. A movie star/kindergarten teacher. President of the World. Fail miserably. It is best if you fail at an early age – say, 14. Early, critical disillusionment is necessary so that at 15 you can write long haiku sequences about thwarted desire. It is a pond, a cherry blossom, a wind brushing against sparrow wing leaving for mountain. Count the syllables. Show it to your mom. She is tough and practical. She has a son in Vietnam and a husband who may be having an affair. She believes in wearing brown because it hides spots. She’ll look briefly at your writing then back up at you with a face blank as a doughnut. She’ll say: ”How about emptying the dishwasher?” Look away. Shove the forks in the fork drawer. Accidentally break one of the freebie gas station glasses. This is the required pain and suffering. This is only for starters.
This kind of sets the tone for the piece – witty, funny and hard-hitting. The aspiring writer with the slightest bit of delusions about the grandeur of his or her work (and future) is in for a huge shock. She goes on to say:
Experiment with fiction. Here you don’t have to count syllables.
In creative writing seminars over the next two years, everyone continues to smoke cigarettes and ask the same things: ”But does it work?” ”Why should we care about this character?” ”Have you earned this cliche?” These seem like important questions.
On days when it is your turn, you look at the class hopefully as they scour your mimeographs for a plot. They look back up at you, drag deeply and then smile in a sweet sort of way.
The seminar doesn’t like this one either. You suspect they are beginning to feel sorry for you. They say: ”You have to think about what is happening. Where is the story here?”
There is simply no let up – she continues unrelenting:
Thank god you are taking other courses. You can find sanctuary in 19th-century ontological snags and invertebrate courting rituals [….]Be glad you know these things. Be glad you are not just a writer. Apply to law school.
Begin to wonder what you do write about. Or if you have anything to say. Or even if there is such a thing as a thing to say. Limit these thoughts to no more than ten minutes a day; like sit-ups, they can make you thin.
Lorrie goes deep into the life of a writer and catches it by the heart. She then proceeds to unveil the mystique behind the writer’s life, handing out punch after punch – her biting humor the only respite. The entire subtext of the piece underlines the hard work, patience, grit, persistence and unflagging unwavering commitment that a writer must have. That rejection, discouragement and frustration are par for the course. In the entire piece there is only one bit from where aspiring writers can draw some hope:
You spend too much time slouched and demoralized. Your boyfriend suggests bicycling. Your roommate suggests a new boyfriend. You are said to be self-mutilating and losing weight, but you continue writing. The only happiness you have is writing something new, in the middle of the night, armpits damp, heart pounding, something no one has yet seen. You have only those brief, fragile, untested moments of exhilaration when you know: you are a genius. Understand what you must do. Switch majors. The kids in your nursery project will be disappointed, but you have a calling, an urge, a delusion, an unfortunate habit. You have, as your mother would say, fallen in with a bad crowd.
Lorrie Moore not only has a remarkable control over the language but a neat turn of phrase which I can only marvel at. Here are a few gems and my personal favorites from her other works:
Love drains from you, takes with it much of your blood sugar and water weight. You are like a house slowly losing its electricity, the fans slowing, the lights dimming and flickering; the clocks stop and go and stop.” ― Lorrie Moore, Self-Help
Forgiveness lives alone and far off down the road, but bitterness and art are close, gossipy neighbors, sharing the same clothesline, hanging out their things, getting their laundry confused.” ― Lorrie Moore, Self-Help
Her voice was husky, vibrating, slightly flat, coming in just under each note like a saucer under a cup.” ― Lorrie Moore, Birds of America
Reading her work makes me wonder about mine. Perhaps I should get back to doing what I have been trained to do. But then I wasn’t doing particularly brilliantly there either. So it’s a toss up between doing something that I am supposed to know and well, like doing or, do something I don’t know the basics of but yet feel almost obsessively compulsively drawn towards. In fact, it’s almost like a disease. Interestingly, Francie described writing as ‘a lot like having polio.’
In that case, once infected with the writer virus, one is doomed for life – awesome isn’t it?
Coming back to Lorrie, in an interview she was asked, “What kind of eye do you cast on your earlier work?”
Her response is liberating to say the least.
“I don’t go back and look at my early work, because the last time I did, many years ago, it left me cringing. If one publishes, then one is creating a public record of Learning to Write. My first two books, I know, are full of energy, and there are sentences I still like here and there, but mostly they are chock-full of mistakes of judgment and taste and sensibility. I did not have the skill to take on some of the material I took on, even when the material was fairly stock or meager. But that inadequacy, or feeling of inadequacy, never really goes away. You just have to trudge ahead in the rain, regardless.”
No doubt she is being modest and self-deprecating but it is heartening to know and hold on to the thought – it happens to all of us, no matter how good or bad one is. So without any further debate, I shall continue to write (hey! I saw those eyes roll) – for writing is something I not only want to do, but need to do, have to do, regardless. With the hope and prayer that I get better at this elusive craft.
Anyway got to rush, I have to, simply have, to read Self-help now!
Thank you for reading and don’t forget to leave me your notes, suggestions and thoughts. If anyone has another perspective to share on this story, please put up a post on your blog with a pingback here so that we can all hop over for a read.
Is anyone willing to host a Story Club on the 1st of July (or any other date)? Do let me know.
Rules are simple – advance announcement of story name ((I already apologized!) and date. Bloggers should post on their blog while non-bloggers can email me – mysilverstreaks@gmail.com
Quote of the day: “A short story is a love affair, a novel is a marriage. A short story is a photograph; a novel is a film.” ― Lorrie Moore
Readers of Moonshine, here’s Chapter 67 and Calvin :- Poor Susie :( Click here for more Short Stories or here for more information About the Blog
COB #25: Believe It or Not
Yoohoo – it’s me again 😀 Sorry to disturb you again, but Cee’s Odd-Ball Photo Challenge (again thanks to Irene) got me thinking.
But first a little backdrop for the photo 😀
Some years ago, my parents had gone for a picnic not knowing that the place was owned by monkeys. As they sat down to eat, a monkey dropped in from nowhere and snatched the sabzi (cooked vegetables) bowl and climbed a tree. He sat there eating and occasionally making faces at those staring up at him. He licked the bowl clean and was considerate enough to throw it back.
Later, when my mother narrated the incident to my then 4-year-old niece, she listened in silence. “Granny, are you telling me a story or are you lying to me?”
She put is quite succinctly didn’t she? A few years later, we stopped here for tea. Like long lost friends, they turned up to share our cuppa tea. Nothing to go with it thank you – an empty packet of chips fluttered down from a tree 😀
Notice the drip marks? Poor fellow couldn’t quite drink from the cup. He tried his level best before pouring it over the bench and licking it up.
We have been honored at other instances too – take a look 😀
We dared not open the window until the babies were all hatched and gone. I did have a snap of the babies as well but mama squirrel seems to have snitched it on her way out…
This was perhaps the fourth time we were playing nursemaids. On a couple of occasions we had to be cruel to be kind – building nests in the most precarious places, one gust and the whole thing was bound to come tumbling down. A council of war was held – we bit the bullet and got rid of the nest – better the nest than with the babies.
Another squirrel with more exotic tastes, was particularly impressed with the exhaust fan in the washroom. She set about nibbling at the blade without any further ado at odd hours of the day and night – giving me nightmares. What if somebody switched on the fan?
During my hostel days, I had in a moment of kindness, allowed a pigeon to make it’s nest over the cupboard. The chicks hatched and chirped – they were so cute! It was time for them to learn how to fly. Mama pigeon would by catch them by their beaks and pull them up, forcing them to flap their wings – everyday – at 4 am.
Yet the worst was when I entered late one night. I switched on the light and fan – there was a flutter and the pigeon lay beheaded on the floor. I don’t remember anything more. Another true story.
We got rid of the aspiring exhaust fan resident ASAP.
Another day it was raining heavily, when these two looked in – I am afraid we weren’t renting 😉
Did you read about when we had a cat-burglar? Seem like too much of a circus or a zoo?
Less than what we had in our childhood – frogs, snakes, leeches, jackals, elephants. Again all true.
We lived on the banks of the Ganga – elephants often dropped in for a bath, jackals howled as they are known to, frogs crept inside during the rains and the snakes followed suit.
Those were pretty exciting days. One morning Mother called Father to take care of a snake – almost ready for school, we watched with avid interest. Half asleep, he asked for a stick. Mother handed him one but it turned out to be a dried sugarcane with no backbone. There was uproar – the snake left us to our petty squabbles.
Another time, the dining table was out in the backyard as the house was being whitewashed. Father had just left the table while Mother was on her last bite – she looked up to see a snake sitting on the chair across her with its hood raised. She froze and sat until the snake got bored and slithered away.
Among the locals it is considered bad luck to kill snakes – apparently snakes have a camera in their eyes. They can capture the image of the last person they see. Their mates use this image to identify the murderer and take revenge. So the protocol was either to burn the snake immediately or (preferably) offer it some milk and wait for it to go away on its own.
While playing on the fields, we often saw small, yellow and black colored snakes and leeches too. In retrospect, we were pretty mean as children – we got morbid pleasure out of putting salt on leeches and seeing them melt. I also remember watching unflinching and with a clinical eye, the slaughter of a hen.
The youngest and the late entrant of our group had a particular liking for bees – oh yes beehives and wasp nests lurked in every nook and cranny, sometimes even inside the house. Coming back to the brave young one – he insisted on a deep study of the bees that infested one corner of his house. And what better way to investigate but to taste it?
Poor chap couldn’t even drink milk from his bottle for a few days. The unfazed little pugilist continued to flash his adorable, albeit lopsided smiles. Undaunted, he turned up the next day with a swollen forearm.
Oh goodness me! This was supposed to be just a-one-photo post! Hope this doesn’t violate the photo challenge rules. Memories are amazing – you think you don’t have any but once you start…see I forgot about the dog we had (not me, my little sis) and the wingless parrot pet.
That reminds me – the parrots were the worst. They ate up all the mangoes leaving only the seed hanging from the trees…
Enough about my memories and time for you to share yours! Surely you too have some wonderful memories? Do share them 🙂
Have a good day all of you and catch you all tomorrow, again 😀
Thanks for reading!
FFftPP # 24: A Dino Tale
https://pixabay.com/en/bone-large-ostrich-femur-bleached-316228/
A Dino Tale
“MOM! Look what I found.” Dev ran inside.
“Yuck! What a mess!” Khushi dragged him off for a scrub.
“Why did you throw it? It was a T. rex bone!”
“No it wasn’t. It’s too small for a T. rex!”
“It was his finger bone.”
Khushi ruffled his hair. “You certainly have a T. rex bone in your head.”
“Really?” Deva’s eyes shone. “Oh I wish I was all T. rex bone.” He loped around howling and snarling.
Khushi couldn’t help laughing. “But remember, T. rex don’t eat Maggi.”
“Then I will be a Brontosaurus.” Dev decided.
“More like Maggisaurus!”
Deva gave a whoop and chanted. “Yay! I am Maggisaurus!”
“What the hell Aman! Can’t you ever do anything right?”
Dev froze and stared at Khushi. She smiled at him reassuringly.
“Mom,” he lowered his voice, “I think Daddy is a T. rex.”
Khushi’s lips twitched. “Really? You think so.”
He nodded. “Yes. He especially likes to chew on Aman Uncle.”
Khushi snorted. And me.
“Where’s Chotti?”
“Sleeping. Why?”
“Better keep her away from Daddy.”
“I thought you loved Daddy?”
“I do. He is T. rex! But I love Chotti too.” He paused. “Mostly.
***
Words 200
Written for the Flash Fiction for the purposeful practitioner (200 words or less). For amazing stories click here
So what did you think? Do let me know in the comment box below. Also do let me know your thoughts and plans for the Story Club beginning from the 15th of June i.e coming Wednesday.
Fans of IPKKND and readers of Silver Streaks please visit From DM’s Desk for more 😉
Have a great week.
Quote of the day:
“ ‘Aeric!’ Grayson exclaimed, with genuine delight. ‘You’re not dead yet?’
‘Not yet,’ Aeric replied, looking pleased with his continued viability. ‘But I keep trying. And so do you, I hear!’ ” ― L.S. Baird, Evensong’s Heir
Pure Fun and Joy
It was hot, sunny and humid. The boys who usually kick up a dust playing football were waiting for the sun to go down. In the meanwhile, the field caretaker watered the lawn. Look what happened! A puddle formed and the parched birds gathered around for an impromptu pool party – a moment of pure fun 😀
And before you go: – dont miss the mangoes. Mother Nature’s reward to us for putting up with her temper tantrums 😉
This is in response to the Weekly Photo Challenge prompt Pure. But honestly speaking, completely inspired by Irene’s photos. They are stunning, in a league of their own and not to be missed.
Have a super cool weekend 🙂
FFftPP #23 – Monkey Business
Written for the Flash Fiction for the purposeful practitioner (200 words or less). Perhaps a bit late in the day and not exactly in line with the ‘rules’ but it is monkey business after all 😀 For amazing stories click here
https://pixabay.com/en/alligator-head-close-up-reptile-316252/
Monkey Business
“Darling! You are back!” Her teeth gleamed and her perpetual grin widened. “Where’s the monkey?” she lowered her voice.
“Err, sorry…”
“But what about my medicine?”
“I’m sorry.” He offered her his worst abject smile.
“Sorry? Do you think your sorry can cure my illness?”
“Calm down honey. Your health…”
“If you are so concerned about my health, you should have…
“I tried honey. I really did, but…
“But what?
“The monkey escaped.”
“Oh no! Don’t you know I have to eat his heart to get better? You’ll have go again.”
He crept closer. “Forgive me, but he knows…”
“Oh what a fool you are. I am done with you. Get out!”
“But…
“Tell me have I ever asked you for anything?
“No honey.”
“All I ever asked for was a measly monkey’s heart and even that you couldn’t get. Go away. I never want to see your ugly mug again.”
“But our eggs…”
“Is that all that matters? Your precious water-ball team? You can say goodbye to your dream of an all-boys team. I will make sure only girls hatch from that lot.”
She swished away to pour mud over the eggs on the leafy nest.
Words 197
I guess an explanation (or two) are in order here :D. Let’s get the shorter one away with first. Interestingly crocodiles (btw all alligators [in the pic above] are crocodiles but not vice versa…err at least I think so) lack chromosomes that determine sex. Instead, the temperature at which the eggs are incubated determines the gender. According to Wikepedia, at 30 °C (86 °F) or less most hatchlings are females and at 31 °C (88 °F), offspring are of both sexes. A temperature of 32 to 33 °C (90 to 91 °F) gives mostly males whereas above 33 °C (91 °F) in some species continues to give males but in other species resulting in females.
Wonder what would have happened if humans too had such a system? But that’s another story 😀 Coming back to the above story, many of you may have recognized (at least I hope so) as the extension of the Monkey and the Crocodile story from The Panchatantra. But just in case you have been ‘deprived’ of it, here’s the original story as well – do read, it’s one of my favorite childhood tales 🙂
The Monkey and the Crocodile
Once upon a time, there lived a monkey on a mango tree beside the mighty river Ganga. He was lonely so he befriended a crocodile with whom he shared the delicious mangoes of his tree. The crocodile enjoyed the mangoes and one day took some back for his wife. She asked him a number of questions and then got it into her head that she was more interested in eating the monkey. But she wasn’t sure if her hubby would do the needful. So she hatched a plan. She pretended to fall ill and claimed that the doctor had recommended eating a monkey’s heart. So if he wanted her to live, he should do the needful, otherwise….
The poor hubby was in a fix – friend or wife? It was a no-brainer (at least for him) and he bit the bullet. He put his plan into motion. He went to the monkey and told him that his wife liked the mango very much and in return for his kindness wanted to invite him for dinner. The monkey was pleased but sad.
“But I don’t know how to swim! How can I go?”
“No problem,” said the cunning crocodile smirking more than usual, “you can have a ride on my back.”
Thrilled, the monkey climbed onto the back of the crocodile and went off for an invigorating ride followed by a sumptuous dinner.
Half way through, the crocodile suffered bouts of doubts. He confessed the truth.
“I am sorry my friend, but my wife is dangerously ill. She must eat a monkey’s heart to survive.” The crocodile shed bitter tears. “It breaks my heart but I have no choice but to offer her your heart. Forgive me my friend, but it is my duty to fulfill her wishes.”
The monkey as you can imagine was horrified. They were the middle of the wide river and he didn’t know how to swim. Death was minutes away! He racked his brains.
“Your esteemed wife needs to eat my heart to live? Oh dear friend what an honor! But if only you had told me earlier…”
“Told you earlier? What do you mean?”
“I mean I left my heart on the tree. If you had told me, I would have brought it along.”
“We could go back and get it?”
“Sure!” the monkey beamed. “If you don’t mind swimming back that is.”
But of course he didn’t. So the crocodile swam back to the tree. The monkey promptly jumped to safety and yelled, “Tell your wife that her evil plan failed because of her foolish husband.”
The moral of the story was of course how presence of mind can save people from tricky situations but as a child, I did feel sorry for the poor hubby croc – I often wondered how she would react. Well now I know 😀
Thanks for reading! How’s this as a sample Story Club? Nope I havent forgotten and wont let you either! Do have a think over the weekend but dont forget to have loads of fun as well 🙂
For the readers of Moonshine, here’s Chapter 66 and Calvin :- Calvin is back in the game! 
Click here for more Short Stories or here for more information About the Blog
Quote of the day: “Appear weak when you are strong, and strong when you are weak.” ― Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Echoes of Another Love
She waited in the dark still, silent and watchful. Why was he late? Was he not coming home tonight? He did that sometimes. And he never ever bothered to tell her. But she always knew – for he could never pack without her knowledge. Not much escaped her, she thought with grim pleasure.
So why wasn’t he home yet? One of those late night parties, she supposed. One would think he would know better. What about those dark circles? And when she pointed them out he would get so mad. But that wouldn’t change facts would it?
Like she had accepted that in his line of work as a model, there were others. But it was to her that he always came back, and for her that was enough.
She maintained her calm dignified exterior unruffled by goings on in his life – steadfast and unwavering in her approach. Nobody could tell by looking at her that she was waiting – waiting for his firm tread, the click of the switch, bright lights, the whirr of the fan, the rustle as he changed – perhaps that’s when he would throw her a glance.
Just a look just a glimpse of him was enough to change her entire perspective. In an instant, her empty existence would be filled with his presence. This was what she lived for as she gleamed and shone in the knowledge that he loved her, relied on her like he never did anyone else.
For it was only in front of her that he shed his mask and showed his real face. And she prided herself in showing him the nothing but the truth unmindful of the consequences.
Today she would show him the tiny white patch just under his ear. No one else other than her had ever seen it.
And no one would ever hear of it from her – not even if he smashed her to smithereens.
Written for the Indispire challenge: Write a love story with no human, animal or any living characters in it! #LoveChallenge
So what do you think? Pass or fail? Did it work? Do let me know!
For the readers of Moonshine, here’s Chapter 65 and Calvin :- Hobbes is still winning Click here for more Short Stories or here for more information About the Blog
Quote of the day: “What does a mirror look at?” ― Frank Herbert, Chapterhouse: Dune
PS: Have you given some thought to the Story Club? Come on, wake up we are supposed to begin next week! Those who are interested, please drop in your story suggestions and preferred dates of hosting the analysis and discussion – Thanks.
Hungry
Hungry
Words 100
“How much?” Rhea asked the man in the tattered coat persistently dogging her.
“1000 rupees only.”
“1000!”
“Please Madam think of my poor family.”
“But 1000 is outrageous!”
“Don’t mind Madam, how much?” He pointed to her new Pashmina shawl.
“2,00,000 rupees. But this is art – see the exquisite design, the handiwork – priceless. Don’t compare this to leading a pony up the mountain.”
The Kashmiri straightened and his eyes glittered. “For Madam, free trip.”
“Free?”
He picked up the free edge of the shawl and showed her – Ahmed was intricately embroidered along the design.
“I know English also Madam.”
***
Pashmina wool of Kashmir is from the undercoat of a Capra hircus laniger or a Cashmere goat. Pashmina wool is the softer hair located at the root of the longer hair. Pashminas are 15 microns or less. Each goat produces less than 100 grams of wool fiber. A fine Pashmina would require the annual growth of at least three goats to weave one shawl. Pure Pashmina is said to be almost weightless. Pashmina Shawls are handmade and hand-embroidered by Kashmiri Artisans who spend as much as two years to complete just one wrap. During a visit to Kashmir, our pony man told us that he and his family spent the winter season snowed up inside their homes making shawls. During the summer tourist season, they descended into towns to supplement their meager incomes.
Written for Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers (photo prompts and 100 word stories). For amazing stories click here
Click here for more Short Stories or here for more information About the Blog
Quote for the day: I can live for two months on a good compliment – Mark Twain
Love Jihad
The sixth short story submitted to the TOI Write India competition. For the other stories click here
Author Prompt
“Love Jihad
Syed and Gayatri didn’t mean to fall in love. But love happens when you least expect it. It creeps up suddenly. When someone needs attention, care, conversation, laughter and maybe even intimacy. Love doesn’t look at logic, or at backgrounds and least of all, religion.
Gayatri was from a very conservative South Indian family that went to a temple every Saturday. Syed bought goats for his family every Eid. That said it all. Their paths would never have crossed if it hadn’t been for that fateful day. That day when he walked into the coffee shop. Gayatri wondered if destiny chose our loved ones for us. Did we have any role to play at all?
She looked at her watch. Syed was late. They met every Thursday at five pm to catch up. Their conversation lasted for hours. Sometimes at the cafe, sometimes in his car, sometimes in places that she could never tell her friends about. They would never understand. And yet Syed made her happy.
Suddenly her phone beeped. He had sent a message. “On my way. Have something important to tell you.”
Gayatri stared at it and realised she had knots in her stomach. Thoughts flooded her mind. What did he want to tell her?” by Madhuri Bannerjee (For more about the contest/rules click here).
Love Jihad
Syed and Gayatri didn’t mean to fall in love. But love happens when you least expect it. It creeps up suddenly. When someone needs attention, care, conversation, laughter and maybe even intimacy. Love doesn’t look at logic, or at backgrounds and least of all, religion.
Gayatri was from a very conservative South Indian family that went to a temple every Saturday. Syed bought goats for his family every Eid. That said it all. Their paths would never have crossed if it hadn’t been for that fateful day. That day when he walked into the coffee shop. Gayatri wondered if destiny chose our loved ones for us. Did we have any role to play at all?
She looked at her watch. Syed was late. They met every Thursday at five pm to catch up. Their conversation lasted for hours. Sometimes at the cafe, sometimes in his car, sometimes in places that she could never tell her friends about. They would never understand. And yet Syed made her happy.
Suddenly her phone beeped. He had sent a message. “On my way. Have something important to tell you.”
Gayatri stared at it and realised she had knots in her stomach. Thoughts flooded her mind. What did he want to tell her? Had he talked to his parents? What had they said? Was he coming to break off with her? What else could he do? Even her parent would never accept their illicit love.
No! Love could never be illicit.
Yet Gayatri couldn’t see the way out. She shuddered – how could she choose between her parents and her love? Or expect him to? So where did that leave them? Nowhere unless they ran away, leaving their parents to face the brunt of societal ire and agony of betrayal. But they couldn’t do that could they? The knots in her stomach tightened and she struggled for composure.
“Hi!” Syed broke into her thoughts as he slid into the seat opposite her. Heart thudding, she stared at him. She wished she could throw herself into his arms and let them close out the world. She didn’t need anything, anyone, hysteria bubbled up within her. “Where the hell have you been?” She couldn’t help herself. “I have been waiting and waiting. Worrying about us, and on top of it you are so late…”
Syed reached out and put a finger on her lips. “Shush. How can a doctor berate another doctor for being late? I was busy saving lives dammit!” He winked as he pressed a quick kiss on her clenched fist.
Gayatri stilled. Her eyes fluttered as she involuntarily cast a look around the cafe. What was wrong with him? He was not one for public displays of affection. And the look in his eyes! She flushed a beetroot red – yet the world, the society faded into the background. It was just them.
“What important thing?”
He clasped her hand. “Will you marry me?”
Her fingers tightened involuntarily on his. “Are you crazy? What about…”
“Look what Ammi sent.” He opened a box. “Her engagement ring. With her blessings.” He took it out and slid it on her finger. “It fits!” he gave her hand a tight squeeze before releasing it and leaning back into his seat. “I need a coffee!” He signaled for two cups and grinned at her. “What’s the matter?” His voice was innocent. “Don’t like the ring or don’t want to marry me?” He waggled his eyes at her looking smug and confident.
Gayatri worried the ring on her finger which felt odd yet right. “It’s not so simple Syed and you know it.”
“Don’t be so negative Gayatri!” He chided her. “Ammi agreed didn’t she? Your Amma too will.” He cast her a knowing look. “Once you gather the guts to talk to her of course.” He paused as the waiter placed their order. “Or should I…”
“Stop it Syed!” Gayatri was irritated. “One swallow does not a summer make. Just because your mother agreed doesn’t mean anything. What about your father? What about the others?” She looked away. “Does your mother know that I wont change my religion?”
“She does.”
“And?”
He shrugged. “And nothing. I told you she is okay with this marriage. She has given her blessings and taken responsibility for convincing my father, the others. You manage your family.”
Gayatri shook her head. “I don’t believe you. How could she agree? She doesn’t even know me.”
Syed smiled. “But she knows me!”
“Oh stop treating this as some kind of a joke dammit!”
“First you stop making it into a Laila-Majnu tragedy. For your information, this is the 21st Century.”
Gayatri clenched her fists. “Syed, I…”
“Okay!” He raised his hands. “Look, how about you meet my mother and see for yourself?”
Two days later, she was at Syed’s house. Since Syed couldn’t get leave, she was here all alone, nervous and tense. But Syed had assured her of a warm welcome. “I promise you will love her.”
Yeah, right.
“Come in dear. You are Gayatri aren’t you?” A beaming elegant middle-aged lady opened the door. “I am Ayesha, Syed’s mother.
“Namaste…I mean good afternoon Ma’am.”
“Namaste, Namaste. Come in and make yourself comfortable. Don’t worry there’s just us. Here have a glass of aam panna. It’s so hot, I thought this would be refreshing.” She bustled about busily around their cozy house. She carried in a tray loaded with goodies. “No, no you sit. I had it all ready before you came so that we could chat in peace.” She sat down across her. “Here, try this.” She held out a plate of cutlets. “Don’t worry Gayatri, it’s pure vegetarian. No onion or garlic. I even used a new frying pan.”
Tears started in Gayatri’s eyes. She just couldn’t help it. She sank down on the floor beside the baffled lady, put her head on her lap and bawled like a baby.
Ayesha let her cry for a while before forcing her up. “Enough of crying now. Go and wash up, while I make a cup of tea. Or do you prefer coffee?”
The tears started again. Gayatri controlled herself with an effort. “Tea is fine.” She managed a weak smile.
“Good. Wash your face and come into the kitchen.”
“I am sorry.” Gayatri stood behind Ayesha, pleating the edge of her dupatta. “I was very stressed and worried, you were so kind, so accepting.” she choked. “My parents…” She broke off.
“Have you talked to them?”
Gayatri shook her head. “I know they will never agree.”
Ayesha was silent, intent on the pan of boiling water.
Gayatri reached out and turned off the gas.
Ayesha started and busied herself with the tea. “Strange, how our past comes back to haunt us at the most unexpected of ways,” mused Ayesha with a twisted smile. “You could be me, three decades ago.”
“I don’t understand.”
Ayesha wore a faraway look. “When I was about your age, I was madly desperately in love with Indrajit, my childhood friend, classmate and constant companion.”
Gayatri stared.
“Nobody stopped us from playing together and we didn’t even know when we fell in love. And by then it was too late. Yet, marriage was out of the question.” Ayesha paused. “Actually, that is my greatest regret. That we didn’t even ask our parents – who knows what they would have said?”
She strained the tea and allowed Gayatri to carry the tray to the sitting room.
“What happened?”
Ayesha shrugged. “The usual. I cried, he cried. He got married. I got married and we both got on with our lives.” She smiled. “You know, you are the first person I have ever told this to. Nobody else knows, not Syed, nor his father.”
“And that is why you agreed to let your son marry me.” It was a statement not a question.
“Yes, perhaps.” An odd expression flitted across her face.
“What?” Gayatri asked.
“Indrajit has a daughter. Her name is Gayatri.”
Gayatri’s eyes widened.
Ayesha smiled. “When Syed told me, I took it as a sign, a gentle rebuke if I may call it that. I shouldn’t have given up so easily then. It was time to make amends. If not me, at least my son could have the happiness that I couldn’t.” She reached out and clasped Gayatri’s hand. “Don’t do what I did. Don’t give up so easily. Talk to your parents. At least you would have tried.”
Gayatri nodded. “Yes I will. Thank you,” she hesitated, “Ammi.”
Ayesha enfolded her in a warm embrace. “Bless you my dear. If it is meant to be, it will happen. But you have to at least try.”
Armed with these words, Gayatri took the bull by its horns and confronted her parents.
“Amma, Appa can I talk to you?”
“Yes?” Her father muted the TV and shot a look at his wife who shrugged.
“I…I love this guy and we want to get married.” She paled and her breath hitched in her throat but she gritted her teeth and continued, “his name is Syed.”
“You want to marry a meat eating scoundrel!” There was a crash as the remote hit the TV screen. Gayatri’s mother shot to her feet and slapped her. “Over my dead body.”
Gayatri’s neck snapped and she put a hand to her bruised cheek. But she held her ground. “Please Appa, he is not a scoundrel. He is also a doctor, senior to me, well-settled, good family, even his mother has agreed. And I won’t have to change my religion, eat meat…”
“Meenakshi,” roared Ravi, “tell that girl to shut up or I will murder her right now.”
“Appa,” stunned, Gayatri pleaded, “listen to me please. Just meet him once…”
Ravi strode off and returned brandishing a knife.
“Ravi!”
“Appa!”
They ran towards him but he waved them away. “One step forward and I will slash my wrists,” he positioned the knife. “Gayatri, do you swear never to talk about this thing again? Swear, otherwise I will kill myself.” He lowered the knife over his wrist.
“Appa please don’t, Appa,” Gayatri was weeping hysterically while her equally panic stricken mother berated her, “What are waiting for you wicked girl? Promise him! Promise him before he hurts himself. Gayatri does your father’s life mean nothing to you? You ungrateful wretch,” her mother shook her till her teeth rattled. “Is this why we brought you up, so that you could make us the laughing stock of our society? Is this any way to repay your parents’ debt?”
“Appa please just listen to me…
“Gayatri, I am asking you one last time.” Ravi touched the knife to his wrist and began slashing motions.
“Appa!” Gayatri shrieked. “I promise Appa, I promise. But let me meet him once, just once to explain, please Appa.”
“Fine.” Ravi nodded. “Only once. And you can invite him to your wedding next Saturday.” He threw the knife down and walked off.
“Amma! What is this about my wedding? To whom and so quickly?”
“To the first guy your father approves of, what else.” Meenaskhi too flounced out of the room.
***
“Please try and understand Syed,” a tearful Gayatri pleaded as Syed turned his back upon her, “please don’t ask me to choose you over my parents. I wouldn’t be able to live with being the cause of…”
Syed turned back and squeezed her hands before releasing them. “I am not. I am just trying to accept the situation.” His throat worked.
“What else can we do?” Gayatri said dully. “Nothing has changed in three decades.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” Gayatri shook her head. “Appa fixed my wedding. I have no choice but to go ahead with it. You also get married and forget that…” She wept bitter tears for one last time in his arms.
“You do what you think is right and I will do what I think is right.” His voice was cold and implacable.
“Wh…what do you mean?”
“I will never marry anyone other than you.”
“Syed!” her voice was a mere whisper. “Please don’t do this! I will die of guilt. You should at least try to move on.”
“I cannot, Gayatri. I cannot spoil a fourth person’s life. Please do not ask me to.”
“Syed…”
“Goodbye my love.” Syed pulled her into his arms and pressed a fierce kiss on her lips. “Remember that I will always wait for you.” The next instant, he was gone.
“Syed.” Gayatri wept bitter tears. For one wild moment she contemplated jumping off the nearest high rise building – anything to be rid of this deep agonizing excruciating unbearable pain. But then her phone rang.
“Yes Appa, I told him. He has gone. Yes, Appa, I am coming home.”
True to her word, Gayatri didn’t contact Syed. Yet she couldn’t prevent herself from calling Ayesha.
“How is he?”
“How do you think? Completely shattered.” Ayesha was short.
Guilt smote Gayatri. “Please don’t be like that! I thought you would understand. I didn’t have a choice!”
“I disagree.” Ayesha’s voice was hard. “There is always a choice. You made yours. You chose your father over my son. Your father is alive. My son…” She choked.
Gayatri flared up. “How can you blame me, when you also took a similar decision?”
“That wasn’t my decision. It was Indrajit’s. He was too cowardly to face societal ire. I was ready to brave anything but he backed out.” Her voice broke. “And now you. I hope you are happy Gayatri.” She disconnected the phone.
Gayatri broke down – it wasn’t fair! She screamed silently and not for the first time. Why should so many lives be shattered because of the outdated dictates of some faceless, unknown ‘society’?
Taking no chances, Gayatri was married off to Ramesh at the next auspicious date in a quiet private ceremony followed by a gala reception. Society turned out in large droves to bless the happy couple, gush over the ostentatious arrangements and gorge on the lavish spread. Ravi and Meenakshi beamed from ear to ear as they basked in the glory of their appreciation. They heaved a sigh of relief and carried on with their lives.
A few days later, Gayatri burst into her parents’ home and threw up in the washroom.
“What the hell!” Ravi thundered. “I will kill you.” He grabbed a still retching Gayatri by the throat and shook her like a ragged doll.
“Are you crazy?” Meenakshi threw herself into the fray and dragged Gayatri away.
Meenakshi slapped her hard. “Get out you shameless woman. I never should have brought you home from the orphanage.”
Gayatri stilled as the penny dropped.
“And yet you didn’t let me marry Syed?”
“You ungrateful wretch!” Ravi charged at her.
Gayatri held up her hand. “Relax. I am not pregnant.” She looked Ravi full in the eye and said, “I threw up because Ramesh, your beloved son-in-law, insisted that I eat meat.”
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SPF: Holidays!
Holidays!
(Words: 187)
“Why do I have to always sit in the middle,” Molly grumbled.
“Because you are the middler!” Pia giggled.
“There’s no such word.” Rohan sneered.
“There is!”
“There isn’t!”
“Middler is a word isn’t it Mom?”
“Are you hungry?” Mom handed out sandwiches.
“I don’t like tomatoes.”
“Eat it up. It’s good for you.”
“Yech! You dropped it all over me.”
“I did not!”
“You did! Mom will you look at her?” Molly called.
“Here use this tissue to clean it up.”
“Mom look! Rohan is stealing my samwich.”
“Eat up quickly then.” Mom turned to glare at Rohan.
“Mom are we there yet?”
“But we just left home dear.”
“I need to go.”
“Later.”
“I am thirsty.”
“Not now.”
“How much longer?”
“Another 8 hours.”
“Why is it so far away?”
“If you go to sleep, we’ll reach faster.”
“Can I have Pooh-bear? I can’t sleep without Pooh.”
“It’s in the green bag. Would you take it out from the boot of the car?” Mom asked Dad.
“The green bag?” Molly asked.
“Yes.” Mom looked at Molly. “Why?”
“But we left that on the dining table.”
Quote of the day: There is no such thing as fun for the whole family – Jerry Seinfield
Written for the Sunday Photo Fiction (within 200 words) For better stories click here
For the readers of Moonshine, here’s Chapter 64 and Calvin :- down but not out 😀 Click here for more Short Stories or here for more information About the Blog
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