Friday, October 18, 2024

Short Story IV


            Detective Joseph sat in his armchair with his usual nightcap, a glass of scotch filled with ice. He was sifting through the box sent over to him after the death of Detective Kureshi. A murder was committed at the property of Mrs. and Mr. Brattis. One Mr. Munna Rao, was killed with a barbecue skewer in the staff quarters of the Brattis mansion. The Late Mr. Rao worked as domestic help in the maintenance and upkeep of the large property which had one one-storey mansion, a vegetable garden at the back with a large open field adjacent to it and a 3-room structure at the end of the field which housed the victim, a cook, Mr. Musheed Khan and a maid, Ms. Lata Kurien. The house also employed a driver, Mr. Mahesh Yadav, who did not stay at the property and reported for duty every day at 9 AM till 6 PM. The couple had a sixteen-year-old son, Ritvik Brattis. On the morning of the murder there was one other person at the property delivering manure for the fields and garden, Mr. Peru Halder.

            Detective Joseph flipped through the file and found a few photos of the mansion clicked on the day of the crime. There was no cordoning-off of the crime scene and he could see at least ten policemen in the small room where the murder happened. He knew he could not rely on the forensics or the lack thereof, solely, to find the perpetrator. Detective Kureshi had spent almost 14 months on this case but he could never pin point with certainty who would have the motive and the means to carry out this crime. The father of the victim was very close to Detective Kureshi and he had made it his absolute mission to provide the victim’s family with the closure they deserved. Now that Detective Kureshi was no more, Detective Joseph had made it his absolute mission to solve the case as a goodbye gift to one of his most revered seniors.

            The file also contained some handwritten notes of Detective Kureshi and Detective Joseph pushed everything on his desk aside and opened the file with a renewed sense of urgency. Mrs. Samantha Brattis (nee Samson) was the only daughter of the pharma giant Dr. Albert Samson. After Dr. Samson’s death, all his property and businesses were passed down to Mrs. Brattis who was already managing everything ever since her father had taken ill. She was married to Mr. Kevin Brattis, whom she met on one of her company retreats. Mr. Brattis was a new entrant in the pharmaceutical line at the time and had started buying licenses for production of generic medicines, which Dr. Samson along with his entire fraternity felt would be detrimental to the big companies’ profit margins. After a few months, the Samson group had bought all of Mr. Brattis’ licenses and a grand wedding ceremony had been planned of Ms. Samson and Mr. Brattis. Detective Kureshi had made a small note on the side, Mr. Brattis – opportunistic sly bastard. Hates wife. Affair? Maid? Strong alibi. Mr. Brattis never worked a day after he got married. He completely left the everyday running and management to his wife. They had moved-in with Mr. Samson soon after their wedding since Mrs. Brattis wanted to be close to her ailing father. Mr. Brattis would often invest money in new ideas, especially if there was an attractive face which thought of the idea. He had lost money in almost all of these ventures but he kept doing it. He was also great at hosting parties and Mrs. Brattis found that quite useful for networking and meeting the people in the high echelons of the power circle, further accelerating the pace of her ever-growing business.

            Mrs. Brattis was the head of the family and everyone was scared of her. She had a panache for being in all places at once. She would take care of the business, keep her home beautiful and find time to indulge herself in the lavish parties her husband would throw. She knew everyone and she knew everything about everyone. She would never hesitate to blackmail bureaucrats, contractors and even the ministers in order to get what she wanted. Overambitious. Egoistic. Motive? Mrs. Brattis loved only two things in life, her father’s legacy and her son, Ritvik. The fact that she and Mr. Brattis had marital troubles was known to one and all. They slept in separate rooms and tried to avoid each other as much as possible. At the time of the murder, she was out in the garden with the cook. The cook confirmed this. Their neighbour, Retd. Col. A. Anthony was in his garden, which is adjacent to the Brattis’ gardens, also confirmed that she was there for almost ninety minutes and they had chatted with each other for quite some time as well.

            The neighbour was an ex-colonel in the Indian Army, who was widely decorated, and had been a close friend of Dr. Samson. Retd. Col. A. Anthony knew Mrs. Brattis since she was a child and was a big pillar of support towards the last days of Dr. Samson. He was Ritvik’s godfather and Ritvik would spend a lot of time helping the colonel in the upkeep of his library and his award cabinet. Mrs. and Mr. Brattis’ wedding was done in the colonel’s garden and he had strong reservations about the choice of groom. He still didn’t see eye-to-eye with Mr. Brattis. He was a very jovial man who would always talk to the staff politely and courteously. A true gentleman.

            The victim, Late Munna Rao, had been employed with the family for some three months. He took care of the vast garden, the driveways and the terrace nursery. He would spend most of his time outside the mansion on the grounds. He was a very reserved boy and kept to himself mostly. Even on a few occasions when Retd. Col. Anthony tried to spark a conversation with him, he would always find an excuse of finishing some pending work and leave. He was a very alert boy, hardworking and always wanted to impress Mrs. Brattis, often following her like a puppy, around the kitchen garden, and into the kitchen. Affair with maid? Cook killed?

            Mr. Musheed Khan, the cook, was with the family the longest. He started working here some 12 years back and was having an affair with the maid, Ms. Lata Kurien, which the staff knew about. Ms. Kurien had joined work a few years back and was a widow. She had no children and lived with the Brattis family. Mr. Musheed Khan was a man in his early forties with a very calm demeanour. He was a simpleton who loved cooking and worshipped his kitchen. Fit of rage? Crime of passion? Was the maid involved?

            The driver, Mr. Mahesh Yadav, was with Mr. Brattis in his study when the crime happened. He was also a newer employee in the family and was removed a few months after the murder. Detective Kureshi had tracked him to his new place of work but did not find anything worth pursuing further. Motive?

            Ritvik Brattis was a spoilt child who was not used to hearing no for a response. He worshipped his mother and his best friend was Retd. Col. Anthony. He shared with him things he wouldn’t talk to his mom about. He studied in a boarding school and was home for vacations when the crime was committed.

            Apart from all the usual residents of the house, there was one Mr. Peru Halder present in the property premises at the time of the murder. He worked as a day labourer and would often do odd jobs in and around the town. On the day of the murder, he was delivering manure and soil for the kitchen garden. He had drove inside in a rickshaw and was storing the gunny bags in the shed by the back of the house all morning.

            Mr. Brattis was in his study with the driver, Mr. Yadav, all morning on a very important phone call with the Health Secretary. Detective Kureshi had applied for the call records at the Swastha Bhavan and it confirmed that indeed, Mr. Brattis was on a telephonic meeting for over two hours that morning. As for Mr. Yadav, Mr. Brattis vows that he never left the room since it was a very important meeting and the driver was there helping him out in fetching the correct papers from the files, handing out the coloured pens to take down notes, et cetera.

            Mrs. Brattis was in the kitchen garden with the cook, Mr. Khan, who says he did not leave Mrs. Brattis’ side even for a moment. They were earmarking the field where new kitchen garden was to be added. The delivery for the manure and soil was for the same. They were talking and moving about just outside the kitchen on the fields for quite some time. The neighbour, Retd. Col. Anthony also confirmed the same as he was sitting in his garden the entire morning having his tea, breakfast and lunch, all in the garden. He even had a chat with Mrs. Brattis and the cook about the vegetables best suited for the coming weather and the choice of manure. All three of them denied seeing Munna that morning in the garden as he had informed through Mr. Khan that he was feeling a little under the weather that morning and wanted some time to rest before joining duty. The last man to see Munna Rao alive was Mr. Khan when he went in the staff quarter to give him some food and medicine before joining Mrs. Brattis in the kitchen and then the garden.

            The maid, Ms. Kurien, said she served breakfast that morning in the dining hall downstairs and then went upstairs to clean the bedrooms. She had not seen Munna Rao that morning and did not seem to be shaken by his death either. “I would never do such a thing in Madam’s home” was her reply when asked if she had killed Munna Rao. The fact that she did not like Munna was evident. “Yes, I did not like him. He was a very suspicious guy, I told Madam the first day itself. He always stared at the paintings in the hall, and the kitchen silverware; often picking them up in his hands and minutely looking at the detailed carvings on them. He would always keep a check on when Madam was leaving and coming back home. Ritvik sir also had a fight with him one evening by the kitchen.”

            The delivery man Mr. Halder said he entered via the main door in his cycle rickshaw carrying the order of manure and soil, some 45 gunny bags, with him in his rickshaw. The driver Mr. Yadav also reached around the same time and was locking his bicycle by the back of the house near the shed when Mr. Halder pulled in. Mr. Yadav went inside the house to inform of the delivery and unlocked the shed door. “Keep all the bags six inches away from the back wall in stacks. Come by the front door afterwards and collect the money” Mr. Yadav said dismissively, leaving Mr. Halder there. None of the other staff members saw him until he came out in front, the police having already arrived by the time.

            Ritvik Brattis was questioned when he came back that evening in his friend’s car. He had no knowledge of the murder till then. He said he went back to his room that morning after eating breakfast with the family. He listened to some music in his room before going for a shower. Got ready and left with his friend for the town where they saw a movie and ate lunch afterwards. While coming down from his room after getting dressed, he was seen by Ms. Kurien, who was cleaning Mr. and Mrs. Brattis’ bedroom across the hall. Ritvik had gone in the kitchen to look for his mother and waved her through the window when he saw she was in the garden. The colonel also corroborated the timeline. Ritvik then went out the front door and sat in his friend’s car who was already waiting for him there.

            All the alibis seemed watertight and the questioning by Detective Kureshi had gone on till late in the night. Mrs. and Mr. Brattis were physically shaken by what had transpired under their roof. Retd. Col. Anthony was the one who kept the entire house up and functioning through the night as the police collected evidence and forensics. The colonel took the mantle of ensuring tea and snacks kept rolling out of the kitchen for the members of the house and the police. He was unperturbed by death as the case with military men usually was.

            Detective Kureshi was heading out to light a cigarette when he accidentally overheard a hushed conversation between the cook and the maid. Ms. Kurien was afraid that the police might think they killed Munna to hush up their affair. “After all,” Ms. Kurien was heard saying, “he did say he was going to tell Madam about us. What if he did, and Madam tells the police that we were being blackmailed and the police decide to blame it on us?” Mr. Khan seemed lost for words. Just as he was about to say something, he saw Detective Kureshi eavesdropping and said heartily, “Do you need anything sir? Tea, coffee?” and went towards the detective, letting go of Ms. Kurien’s hand abruptly. “Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost, Khan? All ok with you two? Do you want to add something to your statements?” Detective Kureshi asked while keeping his eyes trained on Ms. Kurien.

            Ritvik Brattis was the last one to be interrogated that evening. Retd. Col. Anthony kept pacing the hall as he was being questioned in the study. As soon as Ritvik came out the colonel offered him dinner and a glass of scotch to calm his nerves. Mrs. Brattis was tired and exhausted by the time and was lying asleep on the couch. Mr. Brattis was simply staring at the muted television set.

            Detective Joseph took out some more family pictures that were clipped inside the file. He looked at them carefully and wrote down some notes on his pad and stood up to refill his drink. Detective Joseph decided to call it a night after his drink as he kept staring at the pictures he had put up on the board. He was trying to picture himself at the scene of crime and in that mansion on the day of the murder.

            The next day Detective Joseph got ready to visit the Brattis’ home. Mr. Brattis was not pleased with a uniformed personnel knocking at his door early in the morning. “I thought Detective Kureshi was the officer-in-charge of the investigation.” Mr. Brattis asked annoyed. “He has left.” Replied Detective Joseph, “I will be looking into the case now.”

            “With all due respect officer, Detective Kureshi was unable to solve this case in the last fourteen months. We do not think it is of any importance anymore.”

            “With all due respect, Mr. Brattis, I think the law decides what is important and what is not! If you would just let me do my job, that’ll be very helpful.”

            “I am calling the commissioner, right now. Who do you think you are?” Mr. Brattis kept yelling and did nothing as Detective Joseph took calculated steps, observing the table in Mr. Brattis’ study and pausing in front of every family portrait hung on the wall beside the massive bookshelves.

            “Is Mrs. Brattis home?” Detective Joseph asked Ms. Lata Kurien as she entered the study holding a tray with a glass of water and a small case of medicines for Mr. Brattis. “Yes, sir. She is in the garden.” Ms. Kurien replied.

            “Will you inform her about my presence. I would like to talk to her in private.”

            “Good morning, Mrs. Brattis. I am Detective Joseph. I took over the case from Detective Kureshi after his untimely passing. I want to clear a few doubts with you, if you have the time right now” Detective Joseph said. “How did Munna Rao come to join your employment?”

            “Munna’s father had worked for a few months for my father long back. He was my mother’s chauffer. Munna’s mother had passed away a few years back and his father had hit the bottle after the death. So, Munna came to the estate looking for my father, who also had passed away recently. Munna wanted to take a loan from my father to send his own father to rehab. When he was apprised of Dr. Samson’s death, he requested me to give him a job at the estate.”

            “You gave him a job where he had to stay in the property without any letter of recommendation? That’s a bit odd, Mrs. Brattis.”

            “As I said, I remembered his father driving my mum’s car when I was a kid. When he told me about his family situation, I took pity of his situation. It is not very odd of us to help out a poor family. You should ask around the town.”

            “Yes, I did ask around. As it turns out, your family fortunes have been dwindling in the recent years. Forcing you to cut down on the servants, the cars, the properties.” Mrs. Brattis just gave the detective a cold look and continued to stare outside the window. “Was Munna good at his job? Did you have any complaints? Did you ever find him trying to steal or eye any object?”

            “No. Of course, not. I would have fired him then and there if something of the sorts had happened.”

            “The other staff members said in their depositions that Munna would often follow you inside the house, talking to you in careful whispers. What was that about, Mrs. Brattis?”

            “It was nothing. He was trying to get in my good books by telling me about the affair my cook was having with my maid. Obviously, I already knew about it. Such things keep happening in big estates. It is no big deal.”

            “Did you confront Mr. Khan or Ms. Kurien about it? That could have been a motive for them?”

            “No. I did not bring it up. I do not like to get involved in the staff’s personal lives.”

            “Why did you remove your driver, Mr. Yadav, from service soon after the incident?”

            “It was nothing to do with the incident. He was demanding a raise which I did not think he deserved so soon into the service. That’s all.”

            Detective Joseph made notes in his pad. He was looking at Mrs. Brattis with accusing eyes. He was sure she was not telling the entire story about what had happened between her and Munna Rao.

            “Your staff also accused Munna of eyeing the silverware and other valuables keenly. Did you find anything missing during his tenure here?”

            Mrs. Brattis shuffled uncomfortably in her shoes, trying to avoid eye contact with Detective Joseph. “There was a necklace missing from my dressing which I had worn the night before the murder. But we could not find it anywhere in his belongings. I thought I probably misplaced it somewhere and will find it eventually.”

            “Why did you not reveal this during the investigation?” Detective Joseph was angry at this revelation. He had started doubting Mrs. Brattis with even more conviction than he had approached her with.

            “The case had become a local sensation. We just wanted to get it over with. We did not want any more attention on us. By the time I realised the necklace was missing, the police had just started to leave us in peace. I did not want you guys to rummage through the house again.”

            Detective Joseph went out into the garden heaving in anger. This was a crucial piece of information and he was trying to make sense of it. As he was pacing the garden up and down, he saw the cook, Mr. Khan, come out of the staff quarter and immediately go back inside on seeing him there. He knocked on Mr. Khan’s door and heard hurried closing of briefcases. He pushed the door open and saw Mr. Khan putting a briefcase under his bed. The briefcase contained the stolen necklace of Mrs. Brattis.

            “I am sorry madam. I am extremely sorry. Me and Lata were extremely worried that Munna had told you about us and you would throw us out. So, I made a plan with Peru, the delivery boy, to steal something valuable before we got fired. That morning, Lata stole the necklace from your dressing and threw it out the back window where Peru was unloading the bags. He kept it with him. The murder made us defer the plans of selling the jewellery since we thought the police might already be on the lookout for it. Please, please, forgive us madam. After you did not remove us from your service, we thought we will sneak the necklace back in the house somewhere you can find it. Hence, I got it back from Peru last week.”

            “Did Munna know about this heist plan?” Detective Joseph asked the cook.

            “No, sir. We had not told him. But that day he saw Peru wrapping the necklace in a cloth and shoving it under his rickshaw seat. But we did not do anything, sir. In fact, I got to know about this only after he was found murdered. You have to believe me, sir. I swear on my mother.”

            Detective Jospeh walked out of the building again. He was walking along the fence, talking over the phone. “Go and find Mr. Peru Halder and bring him to the station. I think I know what happened to Munna.”

            The next day, the Brattis family was called to the police station along with all the staff members. When they reached, they saw Retd. Col. Anthony was also there, sitting on the bench next to the lockup. Inside the lockup, Peru was squatting in a corner. Detective Joseph was not there in his office. As the family started to sit and discuss what was going on, Detective Jospeh stepped out of the interrogation room with Ritvik Brattis behind him, handcuffed. Everyone stood up in shock and Mrs. Brattis stared at the detective in disbelief.

            “Mrs. and Mr. Brattis, your son Ritvik is under arrest on the charge of murdering Munna Rao. Colonel Anthony, you are under arrest for abetting the murder and on the charge of falsifying your statements given under oath.” Detective Jospeh announced. Mrs. Brattis fell back on her chair and started crying. The Colonel simply stood up straight and held his hands in front of him to get handcuffed.

            Outside the police station, media personnel had started arriving where the detective was to make the news of both the arrests public. “It was a perfect crime not because of the way it was planned, but because of the circumstances under which nobody could rat on each other. The deceased, Munna Rao, was the step-brother of Mrs. Samantha Brattis. The bastard child of Dr. Samson who had an affair with the wife of his chauffer. Before the death of Munna’s mother, she told him the truth about his real father and Munna saw this as an opportunity to alleviate himself from his life of poverty. He came to the Brattis family looking for a job, and then started blackmailing Mrs. Brattis that he would come out with the truth unless she paid him to keep quiet.” Detective Joseph held up a family picture which had Dr. Samson in it and a photo of Munna Rao. “As you can see, both Dr. Samson and the victim had the exact same grey eyes and jawline which first led me to believe that they were related. On one of the occasions when Munna was trying to blackmail Mrs. Brattis, her son Ritvik overheard the entire conversation and took it upon himself to solve this conundrum for his mother. He could think of only one other person who would be willing to help him without asking any question, Retd. Col. A. Anthony, who was also his godfather. The colonel and Ritvik plotted to kill him when all the staff and family were in the house so the blame would not come on Ritvik. The Colonel made sure that Mrs. Brattis had an alibi when the crime was committed because he cared for her deeply. Ritvik was beyond any suspicion because everyone saw him come out of the house and get into the car of his friend who was waiting in the driveway. But it took Ritvik less than a minute to quickly go into Munna’s room and stab him with a skewer right before entering his friend’s car. Unluckily, Mr. Peru Halder had seen Ritvik coming out of the staff quarter when he was going there to talk to Munna about giving him a share if he kept his mouth shut. The colonel had ensured Munna would be in the staff quarter by mixing sleeping pills in his food the night before by entering through a loose slat in the fence between the two properties. We have arrested both Mr. Ritvik Brattis and Retd. Col. A. Anthony after getting written confessions by Ritvik Brattis. The case stands closed.” I hope you get peace, Kureshi my friend, Detective Jospeh thought.

Thursday, September 26, 2024

Short Story III

    School always seemed boring and monotonous to Daksh. He had no friends, not because he was new or unknown, quite the opposite; it was because everyone knew him well. He was always like a wrong cog fit in a gear by an unknowing child. When all other parts moved perfectly well, he was the one who would not turn and neither cause any hindrance in the overall movement. Just an unwanted, unrelated, disjointed piece in an otherwise normally functioning mechanics. Daksh mostly remained quiet around his peers, in an eerie way, even when he was bullied, harassed or physically hit. There was nothing wrong with him, medically speaking. His brain growth was normal, in fact, he would always be amongst the top scorers in his age category. As a result, the school had no problem with his activities which were considered co-curricular, like making friends, doing team projects before the annual day celebrations or even the fact that he would often argue with the educators about a particular way a sum had been solved or the answer to a particular question. As far as the management was considered, Daksh was a sixteen-year-old boy, who was a genius with zero social skills.

    The management had initially tried to reason with his father, that Daksh should be availed of special help for his social lacking, but the father had much bigger problems; trying to ensure none of his girlfriend met each other while he travelled the globe in his private jet, amassing enough money to last till Daksh’s grandchildren died living a lavish lifestyle.

    Daksh excelled in Science, English, Math and found Geography and other Social Sciences to be extremely unnecessary for his growth and future. He would often read a novel hidden inside his atlas during the class of Mr. Rao, and would just as often be caught while doing it. What ensued as a result would hardly dent his future course of action. He would be made to stand and explain his behaviour to the class. “Please tell us boy, why should you not be punished for not paying attention, hmm?” and he would listen intently, trying to understand what his alleged misdemeanour was. “Because, sir, sitting here, in this class is punishment enough. I have tried listening to you explain the topic, but I do not think you are imparting any knowledge.” There would be a hushed giggle which was clearly audible in the class. Mr. Rao looking furious, yelling “Enough! You will come see the principal with me, right now.” The giggles would fade as nobody wanted to accompany them on that trip.

    Mrs. Moitra was the only teacher Daksh would feel comfortable around. Someone who would see him as just another student, just another human. Mrs. Moitra taught fine arts and the classes would be spent mostly outdoors in the fields by the school, or near the greenhouse. Students could be seen carrying easels, canvas boards, buckets full of paint tubes and brushes back and forth from the main building to the annex quarters near the fields. Fine arts included painting, mural making, pottery, poetry, story writing et al, which according to Mrs. Moitra could not be excelled at by confining the brains in a small room. She would always walk with the students from the classroom to the fields, talking to them about an artist or a genre of art, about the little intricacies and detailing that made art great.

    During one such painting class, which was being held at the path connecting the field to the greenhouse, Daksh felt for the first time that it was possible to talk about his own feelings with someone, without having to deal with nausea or self-loathing. Each student was supposed to complete their project entirely on their own. From carrying the easel and canvas board, selecting the equipment they would use, the ideation, the spot they would choose for their seat and so on. Mrs. Moitra would always say “Art is just as much as the thing you create, as it is the journey which leads you to that creation.” All the students had taken nice shady spots near the bases of the trees to set their workstations up. Daksh chose to sit at the far end of the path, beside the boundary wall of the greenhouse complex. His view was not of the fields, or the giant trees which towered around the greenhouse boundary, but that of the path overlooking the class which had stationed itself to view the best scenery their city had to offer. Mrs. Moitra went around observing each child at length, often providing help on how to use the particular brush, or how to chisel extra paint away. She would enquire about the motivation behind a particular tree a student was painting. She hovered around to where Daksh was perched and asked him why he chose the particular lonely corner, with just as much ease as she had asked everyone else.

    “What you said earlier made me think. If the journey is also an extension of our art, then I want to capture that journey of the entire class.” Daksh replied without acknowledging Mrs. Moitra’s presence, like he was talking to her over a speaker phone; that her physical existence beside his own body made no difference.

    Mrs. Moitra stood silently, perusing his palette and the colours he had chosen. There was a whole array of small little balls of bright orange, scarlet red, sunflower yellow, peach, turquoise, emerald green and two big boulders of navy blue and ash grey. His beaker had clean water and an eight-piece set of spatulas and three brushes of varying thickness, fully immersed inside the liquid.

    “I did not expect you to be interested in knowing how your peers think.” Mrs. Moitra jokingly said, examining his face closely, watching out for any little twitch which might reveal his hurt or indifference to the quip. But Daksh did not fall for the trap, his eyes were still, scanning his bag for other tools he might require. “Neither did I.” Daksh replied, looking directly at Mrs. Moitra for the first time.

    “Do you feel this class is important? That it will help you somehow? Or you think of it in the same light as Mr. Rao’s teachings?”, Mrs. Moitra knew she was reeling Daksh in. That somehow, she was starting to peel the exterior, and might get a peek inside this marvellous boy, whom she thought would grow up to do great things in whichever field of work he chooses.

    “I like painting and carpentry. Honestly, I do not know if it will help me in the future in any way or not, but it definitely helps me to think clearly in the present.” Daksh replied, looking in the distance just above where the entire class was clustered.

    “Yes. It has a similar effect on me.” Mrs. Moitra paused. “Do you hang any of the art that you create in your room or elsewhere in your home?”, she continued.

    “Is it important to showcase your art? To seek validation for it?”

    “We do not show it for some validation. We show it so other humans can look inside themselves through your art. Creating meaningful art is the biggest gift you can give to all humankind.”

    Daksh sat motionless for a moment, absorbing this information and nodded silently. Mrs. Moitra moved on to the next student as Daksh started painting.

    Mrs. Moitra was not like the other educators in the school. She would never mince words in front of the students about school policies or academic results. She believed, that students who would pass out of this institution as adults, should be told the truth and be helped to be better able to handle it. This was the reason why students respected her genuinely, and were afraid of her morbidly.

--

    Daksh sat waiting outside the principal’s office with his right hand bandaged near the wrist to curtail its movement. He was sunken deep on the bench, eyes closed and breathing deeply. A person who was never exposed to the magical world of meditation could have easily guessed that he was trying to calm his nerves. There was a deep red stain on his shirt just below the left shoulder. Daksh knew he was in big trouble this time.

    Daksh was simply minding his own business, reading his novel during the lunch break near the basketball court when Aryan suddenly appeared from behind him and slapped the book out of his hand. “Why do you keep reading these novels, Dicks? Doesn’t your dad bring back enough drama after his ‘Business Trips’. By the way, your new mom-to-be looks sizzzzlingggg brooooo.” Aryan said while making a lewd facial expression. Daksh simply picked up his book from the ground and started walking towards the school building without even looking towards Aryan even once. This nonchalance made Aryan angrier than Daksh presently was. “Hey, running away as always? What a waste to be so rich but to be such a coward.” Daksh simply smirked and continued walking away from Aryan. “Go run back home and wear your dead mother’s bangles, Dicks. They must be gathering dust.” This last comment filled Daksh up with rage. He turned, smiled and casually walked up to Aryan, looked him straight in the eye and punched him on the nose with his right fist making Aryan lose his footing and almost falling on his back. Just then Daksh caught Aryan’s collar and rained a few more blows to the left of his head and cheeks making blood flow like a river from his nose and mouth. They were now surrounded by other students and Aryan landed on Daksh’s left shoulder, trying to hug him to make the beating stop and also to stop himself from falling. Daksh simply moved back a couple of steps and Aryan collapsed on the floor like a deflated balloon. All around, Daksh could hear students sighing and gasping and as he took a few more steps back, a few of the students came running to help their schoolmate up on his feet. Daksh left, holding his right hand, stretching and contracting his fingers in a fist.

    Sitting at the waiting lounge outside the principal’s office, he was only trying to reason with himself that what he did was completely justified and there would be no reason to explain his actions to the school authority and probably to the police. He knew that Aryan was taken to the hospital as he needed stitches on his lips which the school infirmary was unable to perform. Aryan also had to be treated for concussion. As Daksh stepped inside the principal’s office, he was relieved to see the absence of any uniformed personnel. There was present, the principal, Mr. Ghosh, Mrs. Moitra and the teacher coordinator, Mrs. Singh.

    After an hour of retelling the events of the day, Daksh walked out of the office completely drained of energy. He was sure they would try contacting his father, who was in Denmark presently, purchasing machinery for the plant. He was glad he would have some time alone as soon as he reached back home. In the corridor, students were whispering and covering their mouth while talking, like he cared in knowing what everyone was saying about him. He collected his belongings from his locker and went back home. He skipped school the next day and stayed indoors during the entire weekend. On Monday morning as he was getting ready for school, he got a phone call from Mrs. Moitra informing him that he was suspended till his father met the principal. To Daksh’s utmost surprise, after informing him of the school’s decision, Mrs. Moitra invited him to her house in the evening to talk to him about how he was feeling. Daksh did not have the faintest idea about how to respond and just stayed quiet for a few moments and then Mrs. Moitra said, “OK then, see you at half past four.”

    Mrs. Moitra was not wearing a sari which was the only attire Daksh had ever seen her in. Instead, she was wearing a pair of denim and a loose shirt. She was very warm and welcoming and offered him a chilled glass of lemonade as she sat on the high-backed settee opposite Daksh.

    “How is your hand now? Still paining” she asked while staring at his bandaged hand.

    “It’s OK, thank you!”

    “Did your father call you?”

    Daksh was taken aback by this question because he had still not thought about this. About his father not even calling him up after he was informed about the incident. He remained quiet, staring at the floor.

    “You can talk to me, Daksh.” She spoke with true compassion in her voice. “I know it must have been difficult growing up without a mother and with an absent father.”

    “Yeah, somewhat!”

    “Was your mother ill?”

    Daksh shuffled in his seat uncomfortably. He had locked-up every memory of his mother in a dark room in his brain and had long lost the key to that door.

    “Hale and hearty till her last breath.”

    “Hmm. What happened to her, if you don’t mind answering?” asked Mrs. Moitra.

    “An accident of sorts” replied Daksh, again moving uncomfortably in his chair.

    “I’m really sorry. It must be dreadfully difficult to live in that house after all of it.”

    “I have Shanti Maasi to take care of me. She’s really nice.”

    “That’s good. Have you thought about your future? What you want to pursue after school.”

    “Psychiatry from Cambridge” Daksh replied in an instant.

    “They have the best course for it. That’s very good.”

    Daksh remained silent. He wanted to know why he was summoned here; what was the reason behind this out-of-ordinary meet.

    “Daksh, let me be honest with you. I am sure you will get admitted in the college of your liking, not because your father has connections in all the right places, but because you deserve a college of your choosing. I also believe that any college you attend, you will excel in their programme. What I am not sure is, how will you look after yourself?” Daksh cleared his throat but said nothing. He kept staring near Mrs. Moitra’s feet. “You will have to make friends, ask for favours, get outside your comfort zone every day.” Daksh knew where she was going with it. It was not like he was not capable of all the above things she mentioned. He was just not interested to do so here. Here, where everyone knew who he was, where everyone knew where he lived, where everyone knew what had happened in that house.

    Daksh was eating breakfast at the dining table before leaving for school. Her mom hadn’t come down to bid him goodbye, which was most unusual, he felt. Shanti Maasi had toasted the bread and was heating the milk for him. “Where is mom?” he asked her and she just made a face that she didn’t know, shrugging her shoulders. “She was up till late” she said, adding it as a consolation for a candidly upset Daksh. “Is Papa back?” he asked Shanti Maasi and she nodded her head. “He is supposed to come back tomorrow night.” Daksh continued eating his breakfast, a little slowly than before. He got up and started walking upstairs to wake up his mom. The cook tried to reason that she must be sleepy and he can meet her after school. Daksh knew he was getting late but it would take just a minute to hug her and say goodbye.

    Daksh knocked on the door and upon no answer he entered the room. The bed was still made from last night and he couldn’t see her mom anywhere. The room had a stale, pungent smell of cigarettes, alcohol and something funkier. He called out for her a couple of more times and then walked towards the washroom when he heard the tap running. Just as he was about to enter the washroom, his mother opened the door and came out, surprised to see Daskh standing there and wished him good morning. Her hair was nicely tied behind her head and she was wearing a robe above her night dress. She had a towel in her hand which she was using to wipe her face and he could see that her eyes were swollen and red. She was rubbing her upper lip and nose, trying to remove dry white flakes. “Will you come down with me? I am leaving for school.” “Of course, darling. I am sorry I am late. I didn’t realise what time it is. I love you.”

    Daksh got called to the principal’s office during his second period. His cook, Shanti Maasi, was already sitting at the table, holding a handkerchief over her running nose and sobbing. His mom had allegedly decided to end her life 20 minutes after Daksh left for school. The police later informed that the victim’s post-mortem showed a large amount of cocaine in her blood stream and thirty tablets of anti-depressants in her stomach. Daksh was the last person she spoke to, her own blood and flesh. Her husband declined to comment to the press about her mental state and their married life. He buried every news about her suicide from leaking. Daksh was home-schooled for the rest of that year’s session and was admitted in a different school the next year. Now, finally he was about to leave this city.

Thursday, August 29, 2024

Naaz


तुम सवेरे की पहले किरण की गर्मी हो,

बारिश में भीगे पत्ते की नरमी हो,

मुस्कान जो लाए अकेलेपन में वह खयाल हो,

दिए की लौ जिस धुन पर नाचे वह अनसुनी ताल हो।

पंछियों के सुबह की चहक हो तुम,

सावन के गीली मिट्टी की महक हो तुम,

तुमसे ही तो दिवाली में खुशहाली है,

तुम ना हो तो हर एक महफिल लगे खाली है।

कलियों में जो रंग भरे वह राज़ तुम हो,

जिसकी ज़िंदगी में आ जाओ उसका नाज़ तुम हो,

शोर कितना भी मेरे रूबरू हो,

जो साफ़ सुनाई दे वह आवाज़ तुम हो।

लंबे सफर के बाद का आराम तुम सा है,

सूखे लबों पर पानी का एहसास तुम सा है,

शराब यूं तो कभी छूता न था,

पर पीने लगा जब देखा उसका नशा भी तुम सा है।

जी रहा था खुश अपने कुएं में मैं,

तेरी बातों ने हटा दी आखों के पर्दों को,

ढूंढता फिरता हूं अब तेरा अक्स हर कहीं,

होश में आने का यह मज़ा भी तुम सा है।

मत कर मेरे ईश्क की नुमाइश इस बाज़ार में,

यहां सिर्फ खोखले वादों का धंधा है,

मुझ जैसा कहां मिलेगा तुझे यहां अब?

सच्चा प्यार भी तो नायाब तुम सा है।।



~सौरव गोयल

Monday, July 29, 2024

Understanding Indian Parents

Thank you, dear reader for taking out the time to read this comprehensive guide on Understanding Indian Parents. If you have found yourself mildly surprised, greatly disturbed or shockingly aghast while witnessing an Indian parents’ behaviour in your family or around you- this guide aims to calm your nerves and provide an in-depth view of the inner workings of the mysterious minds of The Indian Parent.

I have divided the guide into 3 parts:

i. Who?

ii. What?

iii. Why?

Who?


Let us tackle the most important question that arises in our mind first- Who is an Indian parent? An Indian parent is not your typical ‘homo sapiens’ who might think logically, behave in a civil manner or respect others as equal (especially their children).

An Indian parent is a complex byproduct of its own father’s patriarchy and mother’s repressed anger. It is an organism which has the worst of both -the men and the women- of this great country. It is a living, breathing, abusing manifestation of its childhood’s traumas, who somehow thinks that inflicting the same injustices and pain on their offspring will somehow lessen (or even completely eradicate) their own hurt and haunting memories.

An Indian parent is not only an unreal-expectation-building-3D-printer, but also the fastest learning AI for self-vindication and blame shifting. One of the many reasons behind the ever-growing population of our country is the Indian parent, because it knows that to successfully divide-and-rule, it needs to have multiple subjects it can divide and rule over. Having said that, do not, for even a minute think that single children have it easy. They have to deal with the bigger issue of one parent creating a rift between the other parent and child to dominate the family politics.


What?


You might ask what makes an Indian parent so unique in its identity, so different from the flock of parents grazing the earth. For one, the ability to survive by solely consuming the happiness of its children. It is no easy feat to achieve such a heartless state of zen where your own blood and flesh’s sorrow and despair no longer move you, let alone arise some form of sympathy or empathy. Consumed in a false sense of power dominating the Indian society, where respect is earned through longevity and not character; through seniority and not nature; through the ability to rule with an iron-fist and not love or care, it is easy to often lose your grip over the basic tenets of what makes a family – a family. A typical Indian family might have a dearth of a lot of things- money, space, time –but never a lack of bigger-than-life egos. Egos more fragile than a soap bubble and bigger with people who are the closest. Whoever said “The true character of a man is reflected in how he communicates with the weak”, was definitely talking about the Indian parent. Submitting towards your child is seen as a great weakness in our society, and pinning them down not arrogance, but a necessity.

Why?


The best schools and colleges will teach their students not just theoretically but through seminars, public speaking or group projects. This is done because they believe it is easier for the human brain to retain information which they have learnt through the experience of hearing the words read out aloud, being involved in the active discussion of a subject and experiencing the lesson as a group. As a result, our parents have perfectly good memories of all the ways they were ill-treated in their childhood and because it was done uniformly with all the children in the late 60s and early 70s of India, it seemed as the norm and a perfectly ideal way to be raised. The advent of internet educated the Indian youth of what was happening with them, was indeed tantamount to child cruelty and mental torture. As a result, the parents became even more annoyed- how could something that happened to them in their childhood be suddenly looked down upon and expected not be repeated with the current generation? As heartbreaking as it might have seemed to them, the youth was not ready to give up this newfound right to protest against the atrocities happening behind the closed doors of their supposedly safe places. After all, it is always easier to remember our rights than our duties.

Hence, it is no wonder that Yahoo chat-rooms were so famous amongst the youth when it was launched in India. It was so liberating for all of us to talk to faceless strangers online, and not having the need to talk to our own faced parents.

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We were born to our parents to love them, respect them and then become our own individuals who are not just a mere shadow of their creators, but more than them, bigger than them, better than them. If we never outgrown them, we will always remain their children and never become men and women capable of living in this society by ourselves. We all have the capacity to achieve great fetes in life, but to shine, we have to come out of the shadow and face the sun.

Saturday, May 18, 2024

Short Story II

1589 AD

The calm of the night was broken by a loud shriek of pain and the sound of growling of an unhuman nature. The Sukhwali village at the foothills of Himalayas, nestled in a valley, was a peaceful and serene place. The villagers ran out of their huts in disbelief that their sleep was disturbed by sounds so ugly and violent. They all stood staring at the cave from where the sound seemed to be emanating from. The echo of the cry seemed to be still hanging in the nighttime air, as the growling kept growing louder. The entire village stood there, stunned still for a few moments and then started noticing the fear hanging from the eyes of the men and women around them. A few men murmuring to each other in one corner started running towards a hut at the far corner of the clearing. As those men had suspected, Jaaka was not in his home and neither was his goat. He had seemed to left behind all his other meagre belongings like his rice bowl, his leather tote, his writing quills and even his beloved brass pot.

Jaaka was the village outcast who lived alone and loved his goat the most. The young populace considered him mad and wanted him removed from the village; the more matured citizens were more sympathetic towards him and considered him sick and a simpleton; then there were some who considered Jaaka to be enlightened and a psychic. Since the last new moon night, Jaaka could be seen walking around the village with his goat, warning people about the spirit in the cave. Now, he was nowhere to be found.

The growling noise from the cave kept increasing in volume and in intensity; and then seemed to stop for just a few seconds before the loud explosion that spewed fire, dust, smoke and debris from the mountain all over the valley. The bodies were instantly flung meters away, the skin barely hanging from the bones. Everything in the village was on fire- the trees, huts, animals- even the well had flames leaping from the water below. Then another explosion happened and the entire village was under rocks and ash. There was no sign that life ever existed in that small hamlet. All was buried, the hopes, the aspirations, the memories, the sounds; what remained was only a pile of glowing stones near the cave, the amber light casting dreadful shadows all around in the dark moonless night.

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2022 AD

Paul walked out of his office and into the canteen with a big smile and a hop in his step. Everything was planned and ready for his long overdue vacation. The leave had been granted, bags had been packed, tickets had been booked and the Airbnb had been paid for. His bus was to depart at 7:30 PM from ISBT for Bhuntar and from there he had booked a cab till his destination, Dilwada in Himachal Pradesh. Paul, better known as Pulastya Mallya, had been looking forward to taking a break after all the overtime he had to put in because the bank he worked in was merged with another bank, which led to massive paperwork and changing of assets in the books of both the banks etcetera.

Paul reached Sikhwada at eight in the morning, surprisingly well rested in the gently rocking bus ride, winding its way through the Himalayas. After spending most of the day in the local shopping street, he had an early dinner and went to bed at nine in the night excited about the next day’s trek for which he had travelled all the way from New Delhi. It was a three-day trek in which he would cover close to 47 kms and a change in altitude of about 3700 ft.

Paul was ready with his backpack and his trekking gear, eagerly waiting for the rest of the people, having reached the earliest. There was a small kiosk serving hot tea and soupy noodles near the meeting point and Paul was helping himself to a quick breakfast, watching the light drizzle fall diagonally in the strong wind. Soon, people started to arrive for their respective treks and Paul got busy getting to know others. The weather kept getting gloomier and it started to really pour. The mood in the camp, however, was upbeat and full of excitement. There were groups of boys and girls sitting with their respective tour leaders understanding the route they were going to take and the dos and don’ts of the journey. Paul’s party of trekkers included a married couple, a couple of girls from DU enjoying their summer break and a group of three men. Being the only person who had come alone, he quickly chose to walk with the DU girls in order to have company for the long and arduous task they had all undertaken. The girls, Meenu and Ria, were happy to have Paul’s company as well- he was a funny guy and also had a Bluetooth speaker which he had inserted in the bottle holder of his bag and was playing the latest Punjabi Pop.

The first break they took was after two and a half hours of climb at a small village where the fierce river they had been following upstream became calm as it took a turn around the village. The green river banks gave Paul an opportunity to open his shoes and dip his aching feet in the cold water and to wash the sweat from under his cap. The guide advised them to eat a hearty meal as the next village was at least four hours away. All of them sat on a big table, talking about their big city lives while waiting for the meal to arrive. Weather had turned really ominous in the meantime and dark clouds had completely engulfed the sun. By the time they finished eating, it was raining heavily making all of them decide to wait till they proceeded any further and take a nap.

Paul woke up to the sound of a loud thunder, panting for breath, covered in cold sweat. He quickly saw the sleeping faces around him to check if anyone saw him in this dishevelled state of being. Everyone was still enjoying their siesta and he glanced at his watch to realise it had been only fifteen minutes in which he had seen one of the most intense and scary dreams. Paul saw himself standing alone on a cliff overlooking a burning village. He saw destruction like he had never imagined was possible; everything in his sight was ablaze- huts, trees, cows, humans- and he was chained to a giant oak tree. He was trying desperately to free himself and help the burning children, but all his pulling and tugging had absolutely no effect on his bondage. Tears were rolling down his face and he was wailing in agony, just when an ear-piercing noise rang through the air and he woke up.

Paul quietly got up from the table and walked to the hut serving grocery items and bought a packet of cigarettes. He lit one and started smiling to reassure himself that all was good and it was just a meaningless dream. Finishing the cigarette, he walked back to the group as the weather began to clear up and everyone started to pick up their gears and sleepy bodies.

The rest of the day passed by like a slow-moving bus in a traffic ridden road. There were intermittent spells of heavy rain that kept them confined under trees for long durations of time. The group would then increase their speed whenever the weather cleared, thus making it a risky climb up the muddy trails. They finally reached their destination at Eight PM, long after the sun had set, against the estimated arrival time of Four PM. The trek after the sunset was spooky enough given the slippery path and cold water dripping from the leaves, the guide’s warning to all of them to stay together for the fear of bear attacks only made the last leg of the journey even more nauseating.

Once everyone had put up their tents around the kitchen hut and had freshened up, they sat together in one of the small rooms connected to the kitchen. There was enough food on the table to help their sore muscles recover; and enough alcohol to rid their bodies of the cold that seemed to have settled between the bones. Ria and Meenu were sitting together sipping on rum, observing the room around them; the married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Verma were half asleep on the table, sitting just out of courtesy to their fellow travellers; the three men were seemingly drunk, narrating a story to the tour guide and Paul about their encounter with the devil on some trekking trip in Rajasthan.

The tour guide, Vaibhav, said something funny and everyone started laughing in unison as he got up and asked everyone to disperse and catch on some sleep before the morning hike. Paul was sharing his tent with one other guy, Mahesh, and they decided to put off the lights as soon as they entered the tent. Paul immediately went into a deep slumber and the vivid dreams returned to haunt him. This time, he was running alongside a cliff overlooking a village. He was barefoot, he realised, as the little stones kept stabbing the soles of his feet. He was wearing a skirt-like garment made of animal hide and was carrying a goat in his arms. He was pacing swiftly and with the precision of an acrobat, never letting any step fall where he did not desire, balancing the goat like it weighed nothing. Finally, after many long strides, he was standing in front of a big cave opening, amber light glowing and dimming from inside the cave in perfect rhythmic patterns. Paul saw himself tying the goat to a tree near the entrance of the cave and whispering something in a foreign tongue in the goat’s ears. As he entered the cave, he could feel the vibrations of a sound emanating from somewhere deep under the earth’s surface. He took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the darkness inside the cave and then ran towards the source of the ambient light. Picking up a big stone from the ground, he flung it at the light-emitting minerals on the wall and a big crack developed on it. It seemed to have worked like a pressure valve opening because from the crack, gushed out a thick and warm liquid which threw Paul a few feet away on his back. The liquid kept bubbling out of the widening crack with a loud gurgling noise. Paul got up from the floor and fell on his knees, bowing his head to the crack on the wall and chanting a prayer in a language he had never heard before. The light from the wall was flashing more frequently now, as if getting energised by the words Paul was uttering. Paul was in a trance now, swaying his body with the melody of the prayer and then suddenly it was all silent; the prayer ended, the flow of liquid ended, the noises ended, the lights ended, and the dream ended.

Paul woke up feeling hungover after a night of heavy drinking. He was not in his tent, but in the midst of the forest, sleeping underneath a huge banyan tree, covered in a sap like substance- sticky and sweet smelling. There were flies stuck in his hair and he had mud all over his feet. He had no idea where he was. He did not have his phone with him. His heart started racing, recalling the tour guide’s words about bears living in these parts of the forest. He looked up at the sky and tried to guess the time and which direction he was supposed to head. It was still early morning. The sun was just starting to rise and he decided to walk towards the direction the birds were flying. After a short walk of ten minutes, he could see smoke rising in the air- he had reached the camp and could see the kitchen hall. He quietly went towards the washing area, avoiding being seen and cleaned himself thoroughly. After that, he went back to his room and found Mahesh still fast asleep inside his sleeping bag. Paul unplugged his phone from the charger and walked towards the kitchen, trying to make sense of what was going on.

Paul shut his eyes and tried to catch every fragment of memory he had from the last night. He tried to call his mother to talk to her about the two dreams and if he ever sleepwalked during his childhood, but his phone had no network. He paced around reciting every religious hymn he could remember. If there was a spirit possessing his body, he wanted to flush it out by the sudden flood of mantras reverberating in his body and mind. Paul then started going back to the spot in the jungle where he woke up to check for any signs which might explain how he reached there. It was a simple hike through the clearings in the otherwise dense forest. When he reached the banyan tree where he had woken up, he saw that the tree was gigantic with thousands of branches spreading out in every direction. The bark of the tree was almost red in colour and was at least ten feet in diameter. It was not like any other tree in that area, towering above every other of its neighbour. As Paul was circling the tree, he stepped on some slime like substance oozing out of the ground. It was the same clear fluid which he was covered in when he woke up that morning. Paul got down on all his fours and started digging frantically, flinging muddy slime everywhere around him.

After twenty minutes of tireless digging, Paul could hear his name being called out by some people nearby. He realised in his state of confusion and daze he had not told any of his group members he was heading inside the forest. He called out to them and soon all eight of the others had found him and were staring at him dumbfoundedly. As Paul tried to explain what he was doing, Mahesh came forward and knelt down beside the hole. Mahesh picked up the slimy earth and had a perplexed look on his face. Mahesh looked at Paul and asked him what was the slime mixed with the mud. Mahesh explained that he is a geologist and he had never seen slime coming out from the soil. It was an aberration.

Mahesh and the group ran back to the village to find a landline phone they could use to call Mahesh’s office and take some more information regarding the weird findings of the group. Meenu asked Paul how he discovered the site and Paul had no plausible explanation to give to her so he skirted the topic and asked the group leader if he could stay here a bit longer and the rest of the group can go ahead with the scheduled itinerary. Unanimously, everyone shot down the idea as this sudden development was much more exciting than the trek, and all of them decided to stay back till the mystery was solved. Mahesh’s colleagues were equally shocked to hear about the slime-seeping soil and the description of the banyan tree and decided to send a team to the village at the earliest.

Three days later, a team of soil experts, mineral rocks expert and archaeologists descended upon the small village and started digging and taking samples in large beakers and jars back to New Delhi. While digging, they unearthed a few shining rocks from the site which was when Paul decided to tell them about his dream and the circumstances under which he discovered the banyan tree and the slime. The archaeologists’ team was most excited hearing about the dream because there had been similar folk-stories they had heard about sacred ancient villages around the Himalayas which had been trapped under thick layers of igneous rocks, resin like sap and ash; but this was the first time they had come across a site which might prove the mythical tales to be true.

Paul and the others were told to head back home by Mahesh, as it would take at least five months for the archaeological team to dig the area and find out more about the sap and the mythical sacred village. Paul was happy that he had led them to such an interesting find which may say a lot about the composition and history of the sub-Himalayan region and better prepare the future generations from any unknown disaster, but he was still keen to know more about the dreams and his mysterious venture to the banyan tree. Paul and the others were sitting at the bus station to book tickets for their journey back to New Delhi, feeling a little sad that their adventure was about to come to an end the next day. To celebrate their last night together, they decided to light a bonfire near their campsite and have a few drinks together with Mahesh’s team. Paul called it a night after a few drinks and excused himself from the party. He went for a walk nearby, staring deep inside the forest towards the direction of the banyan tree. Paul sat down on a rock and was searching for his matchsticks when he felt someone walk up behind him. He turned around thinking it must be Mahesh, but there was nobody to be seen. Paul saw a mist rise in the air around him and soon it enveloped his entire vicinity. The visibility became so poor that Paul could hardly see beyond two feet. Then he heard a voice, coarse and heavy; it was weighing every word before uttering it as if unsure about the impact the words might have.

“Thank you, Pulastya! Because of you, finally our great city will be rediscovered. I was sure of your capabilities and dedication. It is the reason why I chose you to show what had happened to us. Now the world will know that I was not mad to warn my neighbours. It really happened! The spirit in the mountain did swallow everything and everyone. Jaaka owes his reputation to you. Goodbye!”

And just like that the mist cleared up and the noises from the party could reach Paul’s ears again. The next day all of them left the village that was originally called Sukhwali, but nobody knew except Paul. Paul was just happy that he was privy to a secret that was buried deep inside the layers of Earth. After months of excavation, soil tests and geological studies, Mahesh called Paul one day to tell him that they had solved the mystery of the slime and the light-emitting rocks. These were spewed from deep inside Earth’s core through a volcanic shaft which got sealed shut after the eruption. It was probably the time when the Himalayas was still growing and seismic movements caused the minerals to be pushed up to the surface. This was a major breakthrough and they were writing a paper on it for The Science magazine. Mahesh said that they were mentioning Paul in the paper and he would be getting all the credit for the discovery. After a long moment of silence, all Paul could say was, “Jaaka thanks you!”

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