The Teapot

From the day I moved to a small tea estate in Assam with my husband Amit, I heard nothing else but stories about Mrs Dubey. 

No one knew how long Mrs Dubey had been living in the ivy-covered bungalow at the farthest corner of the estate. Neither did they know how old she was? Or from where she was before moving to the remotest tea estate in Assam? But they knew about her teapot. They knew about its magic powers. 

“My brother couldn’t find a suitable match for his daughter,” my maid stopped mopping the floor to attract my full attention, “Mrs Dubey invited her to have tea with her. The poor girl, she was used to having tea in a metal glass, but Mrs Dubey served her in a china cup. From the magic teapot. Within two months she was married.”

Of course, I didn’t pay much attention to her. The remote communities always had magic stories. But a magic teapot was the first. I wanted to meet Mrs Dubey but didn’t think it was appropriate to go to her unannounced. I waited till someone introduced us. 


One morning Mrs Dubey’s maid knocked at my door, inviting me to have tea with Mrs Dubey in the afternoon. I strongly believed my maid had something to do with it. By now everyone in the small community was aware of my childless status. It was her way to help me. 

But accepted the invitation not because I believed in the magic of the teapot but because I had nothing better to do. At least Mrs Dubey was educated. She might be a good company to pass time.

I walked to her bungalow, through the winding tea plantation carrying a cake which I managed to bake during the noon. 

Mrs Dubey looked much younger than her years, which I estimated to be somewhere in nineties. Her skin was as white as the white lace dress she was wearing. 

“Welcome, my dear. May I have the pleasure of knowing your full name.” she asked in a flawless English accent.

“Nalini Mistri.” I took her hand which she had put out so delicately while resting the other one on the walking stick. In a white lace dress and a matching hat she looked more elegant than someone half her age would.

“Lovely name!” she said, “I hear you have been shy to make an acquaintance.”

“Of course not!” I started with a lie but checked myself in time. For some reason, it didn’t feel right to lie to her. “A little bit!” I nodded.

She laughed. “No need. In country side all we have is each other. Follow me please.” She led me to the verandah where a round table was set up for afternoon tea. It was quite an elaborate setup. A lacy white table cloth. English china. White hand-embroidered napkins, which Mrs Dubey told me she embroidered herself in her younger days.

We started chatting easily. Mrs Dubey came to India as a young girl from England. She fell in love with a local tea estate owner Mr Deshmukh Dubey. They got married and she never went back to England. Although they travelled to a lot of other places.

The maid brought the egg pudding and home baked cookies along with the cake I brought. The warm evening air got filled with the aroma of home baking. 

Then came the much anticipated tea pot. It was no doubt beautiful. Despite frequent use it was in good condition. Perhaps due to the utmost respect with which it was treated. It had a big belly, like a pregnant woman. The handle small and sturdy, the spout short and curved. If you look at it from a certain angle it looked like a matron with one hand on the hip and other up in the air.

“It belonged to my aunt,” Mrs Dubey noticed the awe with which I was looking at it. “It has special powers, she added.” 

I didn’t say anything, not wanting to disrespect the old lady. 

“Anyone who drinks tea from this pot,” said Mrs Dubey, “their luck change for good.” 

The maid had gone inside leaving us to eat and chat. I offered to pour the tea. As I got up, a bird flew in my direction and I lost balance trying to doge it. I caught the table to break my fall but hit the teapot which fell on the floor and shattered in pieces. 

My hand went to my mouth. I looked at the Mrs Dubey’s face which fell open with disbelieve. The maid came running from inside. The look on her face, when she saw the broken pieces floating in steaming tea, gave me a fair idea of the gravity of my crime.

“I am sorry! I am so so sorry!” I looked at Mrs Dubey and then the maid and back to Mrs Dubey. I had no idea why I was apologizing to the maid but I was. Maybe because I had taken the magic out of her life. 

“It is all right my dear. It was bound to happen one day.” Mrs Dubey was much more understanding and forgiving. But her maid was in obvious shock when she bent down and picked the pieces one by one, carefully placing them in a tray. 


I brought the pieces of the broken pot with be hoping to find a similar one on the internet. It was the least I could do. Although it wouldn’t have the same powers everyone believed it had, it was the least I could do. 

Days of searching on the internet brought results. I found a similar looking pot on eBay. It was expensive but I thought I owed it to Mrs Dubey. When it arrived, I took it to her. She was very pleased. It even brought the smile back on the maid’s face. That day we had tea together, with the usual ceremony.

Mrs Dubey told stories of people who came to her with their troubles, and she would listen to them. She had such a reassuring face that anyone would want to tell her all of one’s worries. 

I told her everything too. How Amit and I got married, how he was always busy with his work, how I had to leave my research career behind to follow him from tea-estate to tea-estate, how a baby would have filled that gap but perhaps God had other plans.

She listened to me with the same patience she would have listened to thousands.

I started meeting her regularly. We always found something to talk about. She was a worldly-wise woman who had travelled far and away in her time but had nothing to do nowadays. I was a well-educated woman who had no idea what to do with her life.


Months later, two things happened simultaneously. Amit got the news that he job in Munar tea estate that he wanted so much before coming here. I got confirmation that my pregnancy test was positive.

Mrs Dubey and I looked at the teapot as if wanting it to reveal its real identity.

Was it possible that it was the twin of the broken one? Maybe it was not the teapot but Mrs Dubey was the one with magical powers? An idea she dismissed instantly.

Whatever might be the case, I didn’t have enough time to get to the bottom of it. I had to pack for our next move. It also meant my friendship with Mrs Dubey came to an abrupt end.


Months later, after the birth of my daughter, on a hazy morning at Munar, I received a big parcel in the mail. As I opened it I found a neatly written letter on top of a carefully packed box. It was from Mrs Dubey.

Dear Nalini,

By the time it will reach you, I would have gone to a better place. I had a long and fulfilling life, so no need to shed tears for me. I am forever grateful to you and never properly thanked you for the time we spent together in the last few months of my life. I was starving for some company when you came. I always wanted to tell you but didn’t have the heart. There was no magic in the teapot you broke. It was a story I made up to give people some hope.

As time passed, more and more stories got connected to it, and the teapot became a thing of magic. Then it broke. My heart broke with it too. I thought no one will come to me to share their stories now that the magic is gone. But then you brought the new teapot, exactly like the one before. And immediately afterward fell pregnant.

Your story got connected with the new teapot.

Since you left, Ira’s daughter got cured, Chandra’s nephew passed exams and Bodhram’s cow survived malaria.

These things were probably going to happen anyway, but they got connected to the teapot.

You see, magic is in beliefs, not in objects.

There are so many desperate people in this world who need some magic in their lives. Magic gives them hope.

I am passing the teapot on to you because I feel you will use it to incite some hope in people’s lives.

Lovingly,

Eleanor Dubey

I opened the box to find the teapot I bought from eBay. For some reason, it looked shinier. Maybe Mrs Dubey’s magic got rubbed on it.

Photo by David Brooke Martin on Unsplash

How To Write Stories From Everyday Life (Part 2 – Writing the first draft)


In yesterday’s article, I suggested three ways to pick stories from everyday life. Today I am going to talk about how to develop them into a stories.

You have to keep in mind that this form of storytelling is different from plot-driven storytelling, where the plot thinks for you.

There is basically only one plot in all plot-driven stories, whether you consider Christopher Booker’s Seven Basic Plots or Georges Polti’s Thirty-Six Dramatic Situations.

And that plot is — there is a central character who wants something intensely and goes after it. He struggles and faces obstacles after obstacles, leading him to climax, after which he either wins or loses.

In this format of storytelling, the plot leads you to the considerations such as theme, setting, point of view, structure, narrative arc, etc. Plot-driven storytelling works well for anything above 5000 words.

Usually, stories from everyday life events are written as micro-stories (300 words or less), or flash fiction (up to 1000 words), or short stories (1000–2000 words). Anything longer than that, you need to follow plot guidelines.

Now that we have got plot-driven stories out of the way, let’s concentrate on non-plot-driven stories.

There are five elements to consider while writing stories from everyday life events. They are:

  1. Emotion
  2. Characters
  3. Conflict
  4. Scene
  5. Insight

Emotion

Emotion is the most important consideration to write everyday stories.

When reading a story, readers want something to touch their hearts. They want to feel something — love, compassion, hatred, pity, anger, wonder, surprise, fear, sadness, disgust, hope, trust, joy, shame, envy, anticipation etc.

In the short form, you can’t have too many emotions. So you need to concentrate on one.

Find the key emotion; this may be all you need to find your short story. — F. Scott Fitzgerald


Characters

Stories are always about someone. Micro-stories or even a story of few paragraphs has a character. Even the stories about animals, vegetables, or machines have central characters.

One of the main characteristics of a story is that the lead character goes through some form of transformation. However small, but the transformation is there. It doesn’t even have to be a positive transformation.

Long-form fiction has several characters in it. You do not have that luxury in short stories. The more characters you have, the more words you will need to describe them and their relationship and interactions with each other.

Keep the number to as few as possible. Two are ideal. Three or four are permissible. Anything more and you will end up writing a novella or a novel.

Conflict

conflict is the breeding ground from where the stories emerge.

It could be an internal conflict (conflict happening in the protagonist’s mind, also depicted as man vs. mind) or external conflict (man vs. man, man vs. nature).

Since the short stories don’t have much space, they mostly start when the central character is at the end of the road—a desperate man taking desperate measures.

Once you have chosen the key emotion, elaborate on the conflict around it. Make it simple and focused. Narrow down your ideas as much as possible.

Think of all the things that can go wrong for your character. Everything you don’t want to happen to you or your friends should happen to your character. The only conflict is interesting. 

Scene

When you write a story, you have two choices. You can show, or you can tell. If you are showing you are writing a scene. If you are telling you are writing a summary.

A scene is vivid and intimate; a summary is distant and efficient. The scene is where the writer engages the imagination and the emotions of the readers. Everything important in your story should happen in a scene.

You now have a key emotion, one or two-character, and a conflict. Next, think of a scene where this conflict unfolds.

You start writing from the middle. When the action is over, and the aftermath is unfolding. Suppose it is a story about a long-standing marriage in trouble. You don’t need to write about the years of prosperity and bliss.

Insight

When does an anecdote become a story? When there is an insight.

Stories from everyday life are reflective. The writer examines an event or a memory to draw home a message. Sometimes the message is explicit, other times it is implied. But it is always there. Without a message, a story has no reason. 

When reading a story readers are on the lookout for insight. It invites them to introspect and examine their own thoughts and beliefs. It is through insights that readers build a connection with the writer. 

When the readers feel the same emotion you as a writer want to convey and get the same insight you want them to get, you have succeeded in writing an emotive story.

Here is a story by Nardi Reeder Campionthat appeared in Readers Digest a little while ago to illustrate the significance of insights in everyday stories.

Nardi describes a time in her life when she was down in dumps when she discovers a diary that had been kept more than forty years by a maiden aunt who had gone through some bad times herself.

Aunt Grace had been poor, frail and forced to live with relatives. 

“I know I must be cheerful,” she wrote, “living in this large family upon whom I am dependent. Yet gloom haunts me. Clearly, my situation is not going to change; therefore I shall have to change.”

To help her hold her fragile world together, Aunt Grace resolved to do six things every day:

1. Something for someone else

2. Something for herself

3. Something she didn’t want to do that needed doing

4. A physical exercise

5. A mental exercise

6. An original prayer that always included counting her blessings

The rest of the story described how these six steps help change Aunt Grace’s life.“Can life be lived by a formula?” Nardi asked herself. 

“All I know is that since I started to live by those six precepts, I’ve become more involved with others and less ‘buried’ in myself.” Instead of wallowing in self-pity, I have adopted Aunt Grace’s motto, “Bloom where you are planted.”

“It is extraordinary how extraordinary the ordinary person is.” — George Will

And even more extraordinary is the number of stories they’re carrying around — waiting to be written.


Now write the first draft.

Write the story as it comes to you.

Remember, it is only the first draft. The aim of the first draft is to find the story.

Don’t worry about polishing it or introducing various storytelling elements to it. All that can be done later. Don’t worry if you can’t take it to a conclusion either. Take it as far as you can.

When you get really stuck, use the TPIOM technique.

TPiOM is the refined version of James Altucher’s Idea Machine technique for fiction writers.

TPiOM stands for Ten Ideas in One Minute. If you can’t figure out what bad thing will happen to your protagonist, list ten possibilities in one minute. You must write ten doesn’t matter how unlikely they are to happen, and you must write them quickly before your left brain gets a chance to interfere. 

Then chose the most unusual one and proceeded with it. 

Don’t worry about the word count.

Write as many words as you need to tell the story. 

Don’t worry about bringing it to a certain length. 

If your story is about a conversation you had over coffee, capture as many details as you remember — describe the cafeteria, the smell of coffee, what your friends were wearing, the waiter in the background, the crockery. Try capturing dialogue as best as you can.

Once you have done it, put it aside and pat yourself on the back.

Today’s work is done.

Your draft is rough, but we can smooth it out in revisions.

Because stories aren’t written, they are re-written.

——-

Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

How To Write Stories From Everyday Life (Part 1 — Idea Generation)

Everyone likes stories. Stories are how we communicate. But, the best stories are the stories that are close to home – stories from everyday life.

Storytelling is important not only for fiction writers but the non-fiction writers too. What makes non-fiction interesting to read is the stories.

One way to practice storytelling is to write short stories based on what happens around us. There is a story in practically everything. You need to develop a knack to pick them up.

Getting good at writing short stories can set you up for success in other writing ventures as well.

Even if your end goal is to write a novel, you should learn how to craft solid, captivating short stories.

If you think writing short stories is easier because they are short, you are mistaken.

Writing short stories is hard.

The truth is to tell a story in a limited number of words takes more skill than writing a full-length novel or a nonfiction book.

And writing short stories from your life is even harder. Mainly because you are too close to the incident. But stories from your life are more impactful and insightful. They relate better.

There is an art to writing amazing stories. I am going to write a three article series on how to write stories from everyday life.

Today’s article is the first one of the series where I will suggest how to pick ideas for stories.

There are three ways you can pick stories from around you.

Be on the lookout for something unusual.

Out-of-ordinary things are happening around us all the time.

A next-door neighbor whom you know like the kind and docile man turns out to be a crossdresser.

A couple you know as an ideal couple divorced after twenty years of marriage.

The well-dressed old lady at the end of the street is a shoplifter.

We see and hear about these things all the time, but instead of making a note of them, we dismiss them.

If you take a moment and start thinking about them, each one has the potential to become a story.

Take the crossdresser man, for instance. How did you find out he was a crossdresser? Was he embarrassed? How often would he have felt that embarrassment? What does his family think about him? How made him a crossdresser? What would his world be like? What he really wants in his ideal world? Of course, you don’t know the answer to all these questions, but that is exactly the place to develop your fiction writing skills.

A non-fiction writer will try to find the fact and write the story from the factual aspect; a fiction writer will fill the details from her imagination.

Another source to pick unusual events or things in the newspapers, TV, magazines, or even other fictional stories. Start collecting them as you come across them. For example, a young man jumping from the Sydney Harbour Bridge is a story. Two drunken young women arrested for revealing themselves also is a story.

Keep the cuttings in a folder, and let them rest there for a while. Then, when you take them out months later, you will be able to see them with fresh eyes and weave a story around them.

Add something unusual to every day happening.

Not all daily happenings are out of the ordinary. But they still can be turned into a story with a bit of imagination.

Three friends driving out of town to a winery for lunch is hardly an out-of-the-ordinary event. But with some imagination, you can add something unexpected to it.

They can meet an accident where just the driver survives, and the other two are killed. The driver holds herself responsible for their deaths because he knew it was his fault.

They can meet an extraordinary woman in the winery whom all three want to be friends with, so they toss a coin.

The winery could be closed due to renovation, but they decide to poke around and find a stock of bottles. Seeing no one around, they decide to steal a few boxes.

Imaginary stories have been used in non-fiction writing too. They can become hypothetical scenarios.

Write it as it is but give it an insight.

Some events are complete stories in themselves because they hold meaning in them. You don’t need to do much with them other than highlight that insight.

Have a look at the story below:

One afternoon, Martha Sweeny, was in a coin laundry outside her hometown of stonewall Texas, when half a dozen young motorcyclists suddenly roared up to the gas station next door.

They were all a boisterous, rough-looking lot, and one of them — younger than the other, no more than seventeen — was the loudest and roughest-acting of the bunch.

With several of his friends, the boy entered the laundry, and then something happened when he looked around this small, rural town laundry and, especially when he notices this older woman observing him.

In one of those revealing moments we’ve all lived through, Martha made eye contact with the boy and saw him hesitate.

Later after his friends had gassed up their cycles, he told them his starter was on the blink to go on without him. He said he’d catch up.

After the others went roaring off, the boy brought some dirty clothes into the laundry. “His shoulders sagged as if he were terribly weary.

Dust and grease and sweat-stained his shirt and jeans. A beginning beard faintly shadowed his chin and lean cheeks. He turned, briefly, our eyes met again. Emotions flickered across his face. Doubt, longing, pain?”

Moments later he ran his clothes through the washer and dryer, then disappeared into the men’s room.

When he emerged ten minutes later, he was wearing clean pants and shirt and he had shaved his scraggly beard scrubbed his hands and face and even combed his hair.

He now grinned in Martha’s direction and jumping on his motorcycle, zoomed away.

Not following the others, but going back the way he’d come. Back towards home.

I read this story in a Reader’s Digest years ago (unfortunately, I didn’t note the writer’s details). Every time I read, it gives me a lump in the throat. And that is the point of the stories — to evoke emotions. 

The insight here is highlighted by a single line ‘He now grinned in Martha’s direction and jumping on his motorcycle, zoomed away.’ It gives you hope that a single moment can change the course of your life.

I have published some stories on Medium The Flight, Aunt Olivia, A Christmas Wish, The Blessed, and The Goddess based on observation of everyday happenings in life.

I wrote them six to seven years ago and haven’t done much with them since. I am trying to get back into fiction writing, and this is my way of revising what I learned about story writing years ago.

In the next article, I will explore how to develop stories once you have collected some ideas.

Photo by Silas Tolles on Unsplash

The Goddess (Fiction – Short Story)

Three years ago, we moved to Darwin with my husband’s job during the famous build-up season. He had been offered a project manager position with a housing development project for the indigenous community. Since our kids were young, we decided to use the opportunity of living in a small town with warm tropical weather. We were given a company house to live in for the tenure. Aakash joined the work straight away and left me with the responsibility of setting the house and finding the school for our kids.

We did not know anyone in Darwin and I was overjoyed when driving back from the local grocery store. A car followed me and pulled out in our driveway right behind mine. Out came Vasanthi, a tall, slender woman with a long black braid. Accompanying her was her daughter.

“I saw you at the supermarket and called you, but you didn’t see me. Are you new to Darwin?” asked Vasanthi.

Vasanthi lived on the same street. Her daughter Sonali was five years old, a year younger than our daughter Richa and a year older than our son Karan. She invited us for dinner that night and soon our families became inseparable. Her husband, Nilesh, was an accountant. A self-conscious man with distinct South Indian features. Nilesh developed an instant liking for Aakash. They had plenty to talk about from the beginning, even though it was evident that Nilesh was a quiet fellow.

He was very much in awe of his wife’s beauty. Vasanthi was the kind of person in whose presence everyone else dimmed. At five feet eight, she towered above all of us. Dove eyes, long hair reaching to her waist. Her curvaceous body was perfect for the sari. Like Nilesh, she had South Indian features except for the complexion. She was fairer than even north Indian women. She was the kind of woman about whom it is said men want to own her and women want to befriend her.

Vasanthi made friends easily. Half of the town knew her. For the next few months, she became my companion and guide. She showed me where to shop for ethnic vegetables, whom to call for house cleaning, and which playgroups were more tolerant of multicultural children. All this time telling me stories from her life.

“I was barely twenty years old when I got married. I was in the second year of college when my father passed away.”

“Would you like to resume your studies?” I inquired sympathetically.

“Oh, I am. I am finishing my classical dance degree soon.”

“Classical dance degree? Here in Darwin?” I asked incredulously.

“I go to India each year, for three months,” she added in a matter-of-fact tone.

Aakash and I started walking with kids in the soft evening breeze of Darwin beaches. On weekends we took them cycling around the park. When the build-up season came, we joined the crowds to see the lightning on the Nightcliff beach.

Soon my days got filled with the children’s outings and craft get-togethers. Three days a week swimming, two days decoupage, in-between scrapbooking and glass painting.

When school started, I met other mums and with stay with them to help the teachers in the classroom.

Even though we lived in the same street, I didn’t see Vasanthi that much. Whenever I went to her house unannounced, she won’t be home. Nilesh would inform me that she was out, either organizing some fundraising event or helping someone with a wedding or birthday celebration.

On most of these occasions, I would find Nilesh either doing dishes or vacuuming the house. Vasanthi hated the housework. She cooked whenever they were entertaining. For the rest of the days cooking was Nilesh’s responsibility.

It didn’t matter how busy Nilesh was at work. He would never skip taking their daughter to various classes her mother had enrolled her in.

***

When she was not home late at night he would read her book and put Sonali to sleep. Sonali was always dressed immaculately. Like her mother, she had expensive tastes. Like her father, she was quiet and lacked confidence. For her mother, she was a living doll whom she could dress as she pleased. Every time Vasanthi went to India she brought back dresses worth seeing.

Nilesh and I often met at the park at the end of the street where my kids loved to play. Whenever we got there, Sonali would also come with her father.

“She loves the swing. She has been coming here ever since she was a toddler.” Nilesh would sit patiently on the bench equipped with a water bottle and peanut butter sandwich.

“You must feel lucky to have such a lovely child and such a lovely wife. He blushed. After a bit of hesitation, he shared the story of their marriage. “When her parents brought her proposal to my mother, I couldn’t believe my luck. She could have married anyone. I mean, I used to watch her in the college, from a distance. Every boy wanted to be her friend. Wanted to marry her. Boys much more handsome than me. Much richer than me. I indeed am lucky.”

***

Each year, when Vasanthi went to India to continue with her classical dance degree, she would take Sonali with her. Nilesh would be by himself. We often invited him to have dinner with us. Aakash and Nilesh would watch footy over beer, while I would cook Indian meals while keeping an eye on kids playing in the backyard.

Occasionally, Aakash will offer to do BBQ to give me a break from cooking. Two men will go to the local shops to get fresh fish, marinate it in lemon, ginger, and garlic, wrap it up in aluminum foil and cook it on the charcoal grill. I would heat frozen chips in the oven, and we would eat outside along with garden-fresh salads and relishes.

This year we went to Bali for a holiday. When we came back, I reminded Aakash to ring Nilesh and invite him over for dinner. But he got busy, catching up with work and I with unpacking and bringing the house back in order.

It was almost the end of February. On a Saturday morning, Aakash was buried in the newspaper. I was thinking about what to cook when I realized we hadn’t had BBQ this year.

“Aakash, how about inviting Nilesh and Vasanthi for BBQ tonight. Vasanthi must be back from India. Kids can play together while we can catch up.”

“That reminds me.” Aakash looked up from the paper, “I saw Nilesh at the shops the other day. He looked… disheveled.” He paused before continuing, “When I shook hand with him, he looked the other way. He had a brooding expression on his face. As if he was trying to avoid me.”

“Did you ask him to come for dinner?”

“No,” Aakash got buried in the newspaper again, “It didn’t feel right.”

“Maybe you should ring him, just to find out if he is OK.”

“I guess I should,” Aakash mumbled from his paper. I got busy mopping the floors and cooking. The suitcases from the holiday were still needed to be put away. I got Aakash to put them on the top shelf of the wardrobe.

A couple of days later, Aakash mentioned that he rang Nilesh a couple of times, but there was no response.

Weekends passed and so did the weekdays. Children’s school was going to start on Monday and after the Saturday morning cleaning regime, we took kids shopping for school supplies.

A few hours later, we headed towards the car park with a trolley full of bags from Big W and K-Mart promising kids dinner at Kentucky Fried Chicken.

Rather than eating at the crowded shopping center, we drove to the one by the lake. At the car park of the fast-food restaurant, Aakash spotted Nilesh’s car. Like us, he might have also brought his family to the fast-food joint to mark the end of the holiday.

I got excited at the prospect of catching up with Vasanthi after her trip from India. We always had a lot to discuss when she came back from India, starting from the well-being of the family members to the latest fashion and shopping spree she would have had.

We didn’t find Nilesh inside the restaurant. We ordered the food and waited in line for our food to be ready. There was still no sign of Nilesh. We picked up our tray and sat down near the window overlooking the lake when Aakash spotted Nilesh. He was sitting on a bench in the park overlooking the lake. He was alone. Kids ate their meal while Aakash went to say hello to him. I watched from the window. Aakash was right. I had never seen Nilesh so disarrayed. Hunched at the shoulders, he had the posture of an older man.

Aakash tapped him on the shoulder from behind and offered his hand, which he shook, sitting down. I watched Aakash sitting next to him and put his arm around his shoulder. They talked for a while, or rather, Aakash talked and Nilesh nodded.

“Mum, she is eating my chips,” Karan whined.

Richa made a face mimicked Karan.

Children’s bickering brought my attention back to the room. I separated their chips. A sickening feeling arose from the bottom of my stomach. Something was not right. When I looked up Aakash was back. I raised an eyebrow and he nodded. ‘He will come tonight.’

At home, I prepared a simple meal while Aakash helps the kids prepare their school bags. We decided to feed the kids early so that they could sleep early. By half-past eight, both of them were in bed with their neatly ironed school uniform hanging from the wardrobe handle.

The doorbell rang faintly and only once. Aakash opened the door and brought Nilesh in. I greeted him. He nodded. Aakash handed him a glass of whisky when he slumped in the lounge. Both men sat down and I went to the kitchen to heat the food.

His hair was long and badly needed a cut. His face was unshaved at least for a week. It seemed like he had been sleeping in the same clothes he was wearing now.

He stayed silent and so was Aakash. The only sound in the room was of me putting the food on the table. I wanted to announce that the dinner is ready when I caught Aakash’s eye. He indicated I come and sit with them.

I sat on the lounge in front and waited. As if it was the cue Nilesh was waiting for. He hadn’t touched his drink. Rolling the glass between his hands, he leaned forward and said in a faint voice, ‘I did everything. Everything I could.’

We both remained silent.

‘Even when I couldn’t, I did whatever I could. But I should have known. She was too good for me. I didn’t deserve her. She was meant to have a better life. A life I could never give her.’

I couldn’t stop myself and asked, “What happened, Nilesh?”

“She is gone. She is gone,’ he looked straight at me with his red eyes, ‘apparently, he was waiting for her since high school. Never married because of her. And now he is a millionaire in America. Owns a hotel chain there.”

Aakash put his glass on the side table and reached forward to place his hand on Nilesh’s back.

‘She took Sonali with her too.’ And he broke down crying. His body shook with the violent sobs which came from deep within where it hurt the most.

© Neera Mahajan, November 2015

Photo by Saksham Gangwar on Unsplash

The Blessed (Fiction – Short Story)

If you ever get a chance to come to the South of India, close to either the state of Karnataka or Tamilnadu, I urge you to come and visit me. I reside on a hill almost at the border of two states, mere 20 km east of Bengaluru and about 230 km from Chennai.

I stand forlorn and deserted overlooking the valley, crumbling with the winds of time, thinking about the days when I was revered and famous. Hardly anyone ever comes to my altar to pray these days, but there was a time when worshippers surrounded me. My tapering ceilings decorated with amorous apsaras, posing gods, and bellowing elephants touched the skies; the sound of bells and prayers filled the morning air, and beggars came from all around for their daily meal. Dignitaries and commoners from far and near came to seek blessings of the stone statues that resided on the alter clad in finest linen in bright colors.

Over the years, I have heard countless mantras chanted by thousands of priests who prayed in my belly. I have swelled with the songs of gratitude and praise from the zealot on the fulfillment of their desires. Then, on the other hand, I have been saddened by the grievances of the worshippers and wails of the sufferers. I have witnessed childless women praying for sons, unmarried young women seeking worthy husbands, young men seeking blessing for success in their endeavors, older men asking for prosperity and peace.

Today in my twilight years, I have nothing better to do but go over the days of my glory. I reminisce about my devotees and wonder what happened to them. Their stories keep me wondering. 

If you care to listen, I can tell you a story each night. I remember them as if they happened yesterday.

This one is about a young girl of marriageable age in the thirteen century. 

I was young too then. Recently built. Still getting to know my role in society. Three priests were responsible for my upkeep, taking turns in doing prayers and building my reputation. An army of devotees kept the premises clean and collected offerings.

Her name was Champa. She came with her parents, carrying a silver platter full of offerings to ask for a worthy husband. 

She was fresh like the jasmine flowers she wore in her hair. Fair-skinned, short-statured, her sensual body she was not easy to forget. Maybe that is why she is still stuck in my memory. 

Gods probably also noticed her because they granted her wish.

Less than a year later, she came back. This time with her husband, the only son of a personage. The parents accompanied the young couple too. They did puja and asked for an offspring to complete their happiness. 

There must be something lacking in their prayers. This time, gods didn’t respond to their prayers for many years.

It came to the point that the young man’s family started pressuring him to seek another wife. “The girl might be barren,” was their argument. But the young man was hopelessly in love with the girl and wouldn’t hear of any alternative. 

The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with the couple. “This is something in God’s hands” was all they could offer. 

A few more years passed. 

Now the family was getting really anxious. If the couple didn’t produce a son soon, the family name would vanish. 

The boy’s parents consulted the elders, the astrologers, and priests. Finally, a solution was agreed upon without the knowledge of the couple.

Next month, on a full moon night, the girl and her mother-in-law came to me with a whole load of offerings of fruits, flowers, and coconuts. The temple was kept open late that night just for them. 

All three priests were present. Led by the head priest, they performed a special puja. Champa was asked to do parikarma twenty-one times around the deities, reciting the mantra the head priest gave her. 

While she was still doing the parikarma, the mother-in-law left the temple. Fully immersed in the puja, Champa didn’t even notice her departure. When she finished the final round and stood in front of the deities, hands folded, head bent, and eyes closed. Suddenly everything went still. I drew in my breath.

Champa probably felt the stillness too.

She opened her eyes. The head priest was standing a few feet from her, leering intently. She didn’t like what she saw. Looking around for her mother-in-law, she backed towards the door. When she couldn’t find her, she ran. My carved gilded doors, which should remain open at all times, were closed.

I knew what I was about to witness but couldn’t do anything to prevent it. 

Champa banged and banged. Even I couldn’t open my own door. She begged when the head priest tore the sari from her body. He laughed at her, begging through his stained teeth. She ran back inside the temple, this time to beg the gods. It was time for me to discover that those idols whom the whole world came to get their wishes granted were nothing more than stone statues. The head priest took her, right there on the altar, followed by the other two.

My whole being shuddered with disgust. That night I learned the meaning of sanctity. A place can’t be sacred if the hearts are not. Ashamed at myself, more than anyone else, I figured out what my role was going to be—the one of a mute observer. 

A few months later, Champa came back with her husband and his family. A baby in her arms. She followed the priest’s instructions to get her son blessed.

But she didn’t bow her head, either in front of the priest or the gods.

© Neera Mahajan, December 2014

Photo by Kristen Sturdivant on Unsplash

A Christmas Wish (Fiction – Microstory)

Jim is planning to make a dash for it tomorrow. He has asked me to join him.

‘We will leave through the small door on the side after dinner. No one will notice. Not for a long time,’ he says.

I am not so confident. The price of getting caught is too high. Besides, where will we go? Jim has thought of that too. We are to head straight to the station to catch the next train to the last stop. He even has money for the fare, the source of which I am not aware of, but I dare not ask.

Neither one of us sleeps that night. The nights are the scariest. They are cold and dark. And there are always cries. We hold our breaths and pray.

In the morning, we do our chores with little more diligence than usual so that we don’t get in trouble for making a mistake. I want to take Walter with me but Jim doesn’t think it is a good idea.

When the time comes, Jim and I inch slowly to the back wall. We have a lot of practice in becoming invisible. As Jim had foreseen, getting to the gate without being seen, is not difficult. Within minutes we are on the street but which way is the train station. A tram stops nearby and we climb in. Further away we are more chance of not being caught. We read the street signs and figure out the tram is going towards the city. Jim knows the grand station is in the city. We are heading in the right direction.

The streets in the city are decorated with Christmas lights. We pass a giant Christmas tree in the city square decorated with colored balls, lights, and tinsel. Outside the station, a choir is singing Christmas carols. Their melody is soothing and reassuring. Everything will be alright now. We get off the tram and blend with people. There are people everywhere.

At the station, we stand in the queue to buy tickets. The clerk looks at us suspiciously, especially when Jim can’t tell him where we are going. The train arrives and as we are about to board, two policemen appear from the crowd.

‘Where do you think you two are going, you little bastards?’

I do not remember much of what happened afterward that other than that year I made my Christmas wish for the first time.

Dear Lord, when I sleep tonight please make sure I don’t wake up.

I have been making the same wish each year for the past forty years.

© Neera Mahajan, January 2014

Photo by Johny vino on Unsplash