The Yellow Notebook

The yellow notebook was filled with gray lines - contoured into alphabets that said something, meant something. People said that she had written them every single day of the last year. Those words that seemed meaningless, like a forgotten memory, were part of her life each moment of the last twelve months. But to her they seemed like shady shapeless figures, visible now but disappearing the very next minute.... like figures in the foggy mornings of chilly winter months. Each word dispersed an aura of emotions that was alien to her....She could smell not their scent as they looked like flowers blooming bright on the spring canvas that adorned her wall. They looked beautiful but emanated no fragrance.

She struggled hard to gather them up in one coherent chronicle but they fell, like leaves falling in August. She shuffled them, rummaged through them but the rake of her mind worked to no avail. The task became laborious to her. She tried to shrug away the helplessness but it stuck on her like sweat pasted on the forehead in the months of May and June.

Exhausted, she planned to dump them , like some leftovers of the New Year party. But despite the cleaning, the crumbs lay hidden in the corners, on the counter, on the table..... poking her to pick them up as she got up the next morning. She took a deep breath, and opened the blinds to let in the sunlight. Then, very slowly she drew them together. They needed nourishment. She poured them in her lap. Steam rose from them reminding her of steam rising from the cup of simmering tea, her morning companion. She got up, cupping them in her hand. Then, she turned the stove on to prepare her favorite brew. As she dropped tea leaves in the boiling water, she realized it was time to spice things up. She added ginger. The pungent aroma enlivened her spirits. She hugged the words she was holding and then let them fall in the brewing pot. It was time to create a new concoction.

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(My post begins with the words 'the yellow notebook' and 'gray'- I borrowed these from one of the most touching children's books I have ever read in my life. It is titled Serafina's Promise. Written by Ann E. Burg, it is a novel in verse form. I strongly recommend it to everyone....will be reviewing it soon....)

Linking it to Indispire #151

Simple Wishes.....

 

"What is that boy doing?" The little eager eyes were looking at a boy standing near a fountain in the middle of the park.

"He is throwing coins", her mother replied.

"Why?", she asked.

"It is a wishing well, dear. Some people feel that by throwing a coin in the fountain, your wish will come true."

"Can I have one, please?" The little girl started jumping restlessly. Her mother fumbled through her wallet and took out a penny. The girl grabbed the penny and rushed towards the fountain and threw the coin aimlessly. As the coin plopped into the water, she squealed with joy. She ran back to her mother. 

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"Did you see that, did you?" The look of pure delight in her eyes was priceless.

"Can I have one more coin, please?"

The reluctant mother took out another penny. Her daughter snatched the penny and grabbed her mother's hand. She pulled her close to the fountain. Then, again in a casual way, she tossed the penny into the fountain, waiting to hear the plop, as if that was all that mattered in the world.

Unmistakable laughter - pure and hearty - filled the air.

"One more, please.....one, only one.....please", she pleaded to her mother.

This time, her mother took out a handful of coins, and started giving them to her one by one. And she couldn't resist smiling at her simple pleasure. With every plop, there was a moment of a bellyful of laughter. After sometime, both the mother and her daughter were laughing their heads off.

"No more coins left, dear", Mother said. "Let's go."

"My wish came true Ma", the little girl confessed as they walked away from the fountain.

Mother stopped. "What wish?", she asked.

"I wanted to see you laugh, and the fountain fulfilled my wish. You were sad today. I didn't like that."

Mother was stunned. She was so little but she observed so much.

"You did not laugh at first Ma. But later, as I kept throwing the coins, you started feeling happy too. It is a wishing well Ma. We will come here often."

Mother hugged the little one tightly. She had never realized how much her daughter understood. As for the wishing well, perhaps, some wishes were meant to come true. Or perhaps, for wishes to be fulfilled, all you needed was a simple heart that never stopped trying.

Linking to #FridayReflections with Write Tribe and Sanch Vee

"Hold Fast to Dreams...."

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She stared at the pages of her diary. For the past fifteen days, this diary had been her sole companion. Something had happened to her lately. Nobody knew what. She woke up one morning without any memories. She knew not her name, and who she was. 

In the facility where the doctors were trying to treat her, people came and went. They would come with photographs and other trinkets with which they tried to goad her out of this oblivion. First ones to approach were a child accompanied with his father. The man claimed to be her husband. And the child's little hands craved for her motherly touch. She felt a pang in her heart as she reached out hesitantly to the boy and hugged her to comfort him. But in her heart was just a torment. Who was she? "You are my wife", the man had replied. "Mom", the boy had cried.

Later came an old couple. They were her parents. They embraced her with a touch that gave her some relief. They brought with them stuff that had been dear to her when she had not forgotten anything. Stuff like books, paintings and her favorite food. Her gaze remained vacant as she held each of those things in her hand. "You are our daughter", the couple had pleaded before they left the room.

Some came who were about her age, though she had no idea how old she was. They were a jovial lot, her colleagues. They brought memories from the school she worked in. They humored her with silly jokes. They told her that her students missed her a lot. "You are a teacher, you ought to come back soon", they advised.

A woman simply clad in black and pink dress came and recited her favorite poem to her - Dreams written by Langston Hughes. 

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

Before leaving the room, her friend tried to remind her that she had had many dreams she wanted to pursue. "One was to write a book, remember?" and saying that she dropped the diary in her hand.

She stared at her diary again. She took a pen and started writing something.

On the first page she wrote - Wife

On the next she wrote - Mother

On the next - Daughter

Then, Teacher.

Then, Dreamer.

Then in capitals, she wrote - WHO AM I?

and she closed the diary shut.

‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’

Also Linking to IndiSpire #132 

Outgrown.....

Soumya looked at them again. Then, she picked them up, and caressed them. The gentle grey and the soft pink colors played in her eyes, and perhaps in her memory too. She was in that room, but only physically. Her mind was transported somewhere else along with her heart. She was of slim built. Her hands were long, and her fingers thin and lean. In those slender but long hands, the tiny shoes looked even tinier. She hugged them, once again. Then, she lifted her head as if she was woken from a trance. She looked around. The room was scattered with clothes. Her four year old daughter was busy playing with some trinkets she had just taken out from the closet.

"Devika, can you come here, my dear?" She called out to her daughter.

The little girl took some sprightly steps towards her and landed in her lap.

"Look at these shoes. These were your first walking shoes. You took your first little steps wearing them."

Devika looked at them. "Pretty", she said. Then, she held the tiny shoes in her hand for a moment. Something else caught her attention the next minute. "Dollie.....my lost dollie....", she loosened her mom's grip dropping the shoes from her hands, and jumped away.

With a sigh, Soumya picked up the shoes.

They don't mean anything to her at this age. And why will they? I am the one whose mind is filled with memories of those days. The many moments I have spent with her, the times I have fallen with her, the instants I have cried with her, feeling the pain of the cuts and scrapes on her knees and hands. It is me who is more attached to these tiny shoes. They are not just shoes for me. They are part of my motherhood. But to her, they are just shoes that don't fit anymore......... Baby shoes, how I had searched for the best I could afford for her, going from one shop to another....... Baby shoes are so pricey. The cuter they look....... the pricier they get....But I stole a deal that day, thank my lucky stars.....

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She touched the shoes one more time. Even though her daughter had used them so often, they were in the best condition. Unspoiled, un-torn, and beautiful.

They can be really useful for someone....another little girl like mine....someone's little princess.....They might brighten her eyes as she will look at these little beauties....hmm....I will miss them.....but.....that's not important.....Some other mom like might be able to smile as she watches her angel walk in these gems....

Her hands hesitated. Her heart ached. She put them in a bag and dropped them in the box labelled DONATION.



Linking to Blog-a-rhythm's  Day 5 of the #BarAThon #blogging challenge

C-H-O-I-C-E-S

A couple approached their son who was busy playing with his toys. They asked him, "Do you like cookies more or cake, dear?"

"Sometimes cake, sometimes cookies", the son replied.

"Do you like snow more or the sand at the beach, son?"

"Sometimes I like snowman and his carrot nose, and sometimes I like to build sand-castles at the beach."

"Do you like to play with Mama more or with Papa?"

"I like when you tell stories and Papa when he plays ball with me."

The couple looked at each other in the eye. They seemed to say to each other that they were no longer just a couple. They were parents too. It was time to resolve their quarrels for him whose little dreams were taking shape, whose little wings were learning to fly. Their own egos and expectations left no room for their precious child to blossom. They had no right to wither him away with their petty disputes.

They cuddled their child. They held each other's hand and left the room, with the conviction, that for him, they would stay together, that for him, they would sort things out.

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It might be easy to walk out from your partner's life, but you can never walk out from the life of your children. At every point, your absence stabs their little hearts.

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Book Review - Tomichan Matheikal's The Nomad Learns Morality

Literature does something funny to you. It makes you see meanings underneath meanings. It makes you probe a little more, question a little more. It agitates you, adds to your disquiet, makes you less dogmatic and more poetic. It also gives you a tool, a potent and compelling tool, the pen. It fires your thoughts, kindles your imagination, and intensifies your narratives with an integrity that is rebelliously coordinated. Tomichan Matheikal's The Nomad Learns Morailty  to put it in brief is good literature, with all the features mentioned above and much more than that. 

The book is a collection of 33 stories that deal with topics ranging from mythology to religion, history and politics. The themes are vivid - faith, doubt, human fallacy, God's devise, divinity, morality, sin, facticity, fantasy, truth,  illusion and deception. The collection begins with tales from mythology. When I asked Mr. Matheikal what he meant with mythology and religion, he came up with an answer that set me thinking. According to him, 

"Myths are literary expressions of human aspirations.  They acquire spiritual connotations eventually.  Gods and Devils are part of those aspirations as well as attempts to give meaning to life.  Add some rituals to spirituality and you get religions."

Much before civilization came myths. Myths were flexible, less deterministic than religion. They did not aim to take everyone in their 'fold'. With time however, societies grew sophisticated. Culture became more defined and rituals more pronounced. And myths acquired the status of religion. Human consciousness has been predetermined, shaped to a large extent by these forces. The author succinctly sets out to explore the narratives that he has encountered in his life. There are anecdotes from history, legends from mythology, and yarns from everyday life.

Let me start with something I requested from the author himself. I was curious as to why he had not added any preface or introduction to his book. Instead of an introductory note, he said he wanted to make a 'request'. This is his reply:

"When writers like Salman Rushdie write books like Satanic Verses, they are not ridiculing any religion or God.  They are probing their own inner conflicts.  It is their way of trying to make sense of the religion, its deities and also the fellow human beings who may appear absurd and baffling.  It is their way of making sense of life.  When I probe characters and events from religious books or other existing sources, I am doing the same: trying to make sense of them and life.  I also expect that my attempt at making sense of life can be of help to the readers.  Unless the reader understands this, the work will be a failure."  

The collection begins with a 'chaste' and 'wronged' woman Ahalya and ends with the deceptive Queen of Spades. In between the two lies a whole panorama of life. The author dons the garb of the narrator in many places, trying to locate meaning in meaninglessness, and sense amidst absurdity. He attempts to be an interpreter and not a judge, for he himself is a reader. He is venturing through his texts to read through time and consciousness to find the many faces of truths and falsehoods. 

I present before you in brief, the strand of each story. I have asked some questions in some places.

In the stories Ahalya, Sarayu's Sorrow, and Snakes and Ladders, are the gods in their human incarnation existential' beings searching for answers that are almost impossible to find? The mistakes they commit, are they an 'authentication' of their life on this Earth? When Ahalya was given freedom from her 'stony' existence, was it an acceptance of her fault, a peep into her consciousness, or a recognition of 'desire' she had nurtured? Was it the delusion of 'chastity'? If everything was a matter of perception and choice, where did God Ram falter? At the altar of humanity itself? 

Autumn of the Patriarch

Is the 'greatness' of a figure of prominence like Bhishma a 'construct' that 'cages' him? Is it something that forces upon him the decisions he 'thinks' he has made willingly. Isn't the 'selfless partiarch' an oxymoron, an impossiblity, a contradiction? Draupadi's question sets Bhishma thinking. He wonders whether a 'woman' can understand the complexity of something as subtle, as complex as 'dharma'. Is 'Truth' something that needs to be even told? Will a 'woman' understand the meaning of it? And there stands Draupadi at the other end, asking a pertinent question - Can he not see the 'adharma' of it all?

Original Sin

We have heard it all. The story of our fall. But was that so simple? Is innocence the bliss that one should aspire for? What was the original sin? Where did Eve err? What if there was an even more sinister plan, something as mundane as simple boredom? What if God was in cahoots with Satan? What if?....

Children of Lust 

What was Lot's fault? Did he 'sin' against 'God' or was his fault something most of the protagonists in this collection are found making? Also, was his fault an outcome of something that God 'let' happen in the 'Original Sin'?

First Christmas - The greed for 'knowledge' has larger context here - the persona of the narrator seems to intervene - his greed is for a deeper knowledge, something that will encompass religion, myths, magic, Creation, sin, will and even time.

Achilles' story brings us back to 'The Autumn of the Patriarch' which asks similar questions. The question of the 'identity' and 'will' of woman are crucial thoughts running through both the stories. History, if re-written from the perspective of a woman, would probably include lot of unanswered questions, and would perhaps also compel us to understand the whole concept of 'dharma' and adharma'. And one would ask again if everything is fair in 'War' and 'Love' after all?

Barrel Life

The 'teacher' is a 'madman' and does a 'slave' work.  Sanity' and 'madness' are relative to each other and also a matter of perception. There is bias. There is interrogation and rebellion too. The conversation between the 'teacher' and the 'king' is something that will haunt you with an insight you might not have had before. The trappings of civilization, the conquests of kings, the minimalist living, the never-ending 'quest',  and then, the ending leaves you with another question mark. The strand is carried in the next story And Quiet Flowed the Beas which witnesses the downfall of the king and the crumbling of the conquest. Roxana, like many other women in history, stands at the periphery of history but her presence reiterates the questions of Draupadi, Ahalya and Sita from the earlier stories.

'Worship' has a different connotation in this story that is short and still makes you wonder at Nebamun who has 'authenticated' his life in a certain sense. It is ironical that that validation comes at a huge price.

Scholar, Priest and Politician is another excellent story which by way of history proves its contemporary relevance. Times change, beliefs are put to test through experiments and hypothesis. Heresy seems close by. These interrogations are a threat to 'power' and 'power-holders' and ought to be nipped in the bud. Meanings need to be twisted and spoken words misquoted to uphold the status quo. Intelligence and power wrestle and new-fangled ideas are conveniently brushed aside. Galileo's Truth extends the theme further. What is heresy? A pertinent question would be, who is being 'harmed' by the 'heretical' claims? Can 'thoughts' possibly be caged? Can 'tongues' be imprisoned? No, and yet the intelligent suffer as scriptures are stripped of their 'poetry' and read literally. 

'Heresy' finds a new meaning in the next story Caliph of Two Worlds. The most important line perhaps in this story, which has a lot of relevance even today is this

"The line between politics and religion is an illusion that can be shifted in any direction as required by the occasion." The usurping of the king can be viewed as a sin against God, but what if God's representative ordains it. Meanings change, are perverted and subverted, only to be reinstated in obedience to the God-man. 

Saga of a Warrior  - The title tells it all. It is the 'story' of a warrior, a figure from history. Whether it is accurate, or otherwise, is a matter for historians, who are themselves prone to errors. So while I leave that strand there, I want to emphasize the fact that the story of Khusru, as narrated from the view-point of his wife, has deeper meanings and throws light on how histories can be constructed differently and how every story can have elements of 'truth' and 'fabrication'. History written by 'sycophants' as the writer correctly puts it, is full of 'blunders'. Approaching them with caution is advised. History etched on the walls and erected as mausoleums also hides skeletons inside. Who is a hero and who is weak, who is hailed as a true warrior and who is stigmatized as a coward and a traitor should be objects of continuous interrogation. 

Aurangzeb too dies, but with some regrets and many questions. Will his son ever get to understand those questions? Will he try to seek answers to those questions? Perhaps yes. Like his father, when he lies dying. For now, he is busy. He needs to 'conquer' others' gods.  

Under the Peepal is a story I started with a little unease. Reason - Buddha. But that unease settled soon as the story's ironical rendering of 'nirvana' lays bare the mechanisms of present day life. The humorous positioning of Siddhartha, the son of an estate owner, with all modern day entrapments, with the cheeky narrator, I suspect, it is the writer himself, who audaciously enters anybody's life (how dare he..?!!!) heightens the drama minus the melodramatics. Who knew a Russian 'Idiot' would be of some help?

Maya significantly becomes the reason for renunciation and escape to scriptures. Illusion, or the breaking of it, is the cause of the fate she suffers. What will the narrator or the reader learn from it? Will he find a meaning, a resolution in the end? Destiny asks questions that pertain to the way things happen, and decisions are made or thrust upon us. Lennon's quote with which the story ends has relevance not just to this story. Are we 'meant' to be where we are? Why? Who decides this? Who plans it all? The story I assume has a personal reference for the writer who himself has been a teacher and has experienced the whims of the 'rich'. Lennon's quote becomes even more engaging when read in conjunction with the next story, The Devil has a Religion. Philip's fate hangs in the hands of Father Joseph whose absence only seems to offer an illusion of peace. The self-ordained God-man leads the 'chosen' one to 'damnation'. A Ghost and a Secret have the elements fit for a light thrilling read. The conversation between the 'ghost' and the narrator are reminiscent of the conversation between Alexander and Diogenes in Barrel Life. The narrator's failure to keep up his promise is a failure of human beings in general. The quest remains unfulfilled since the object of quest is something that is lost on the way to the destination itself.

Mayank Passes deals not just with matters of blind faith, faulty parenting, and duplicitous Babas. The entire education system is open for interrogation here. 'Phenomenananda' Baba is an excellent dig on the phenomenon of the God-men which has become so common these days. Michael and the Witch engages the reader by an apparent simplicity underneath which all lie some questions that need urgent answers. The narrator is walking to the 'edge' of the forest. The disappearance of woods is symbolic of a disappearance of good literature, taste, and sensitivity too. The narrator tries to bring 'change' through a 'kiss', which I read as an attempt the writer is making to bring about a questioning of dogmas, and prejudices through his pen. Will he fail or succeed? Even the witch does not know. Sacrifice is a heart-breaking tale. The word 'sacrifice' can have different meanings, and is here used both ironically and literally. Coma discusses the vagaries of employment and fate yet again. The protagonist Tony reminds one of Philip from The Devil has a Religion. The Lights below Darkness is an engrossing read. While the narrative hinges on who is going to be the Head of the English Department this year, other strands come in too - the way we perceive others, the assumptions and judgments made upon people around us, 'opinions' we hold, selfish interests that we harbor. The trope of 'wires' and the life that is entangled between them for in Twinkle Twinkle Little Star makes for another appealing read that leaves with you with some questions. Is the decision Rohan makes towards the end worth it? The short and piquant BMW of desires gives many a sleepless night. Anna, I Miss You narrates the dance of life and death and everything in between and ends with Yeats's beautiful words. It can serve as a metaphor for the writer's attempt at making sense out of life, and his wish to see what the world makes of it. The Queen of Spades is a brilliant adaptation of Pushkin's story by the same name. The writer's distaste for the 'rich' is seen in the characterization and his choice of words. Deception and illusion are key themes in the story and prove a worthy end to the entire collection.

Now for the title and the story with the same title:

  

The Nomad Learns Morality is a self-contradictory title. Who is a nomad? One who has no boundary. One who is a wanderer. What is morality? It is the qualification of conduct as good and bad. It happens in a 'society/ Morality of one society can differ from another. Morality of a certain time period can be in opposition to the morality of the other time. A nomad 'learning' morality is a nomad dispossessing his essence, his very being. The story is subtle and complex. It serves as a parable of life that we live today when attempts are being made from all directions to conquer gods, to trample faiths, to crush diversities. The terror of religious dogma is something that is scattered all over in Matheikal's writings. His blog articles time and again have dealt with the issue. The story takes it one step further. Read it together with Life's Journey which tells you that ''the distance between life and death is just a moment' and mocks at the absurdity of it all. Read alongside it Pearls....and Bullies which proves in a certain sense that the 'soft' ones are bound to suffer. It is in their fate. And yet, if they choose to just sit there and not act, it can get pretty 'boring'. There are tears, yes. There is pain, yes. But then, there are pearls too. 

I personally feel that Mr. Matheikal should include a bibliography for further reading for his readers. He should also add in brief a bit of a background for the mythological and historical stories for those who are unfamiliar with the same. This will ensure a better reading, understanding and analysis of his own narratives.

I have tried to deal with each story as it has affected me. I have asked questions in brief in some places because those questions are my responses to his text. There are many things that are untouched in this review. I could not incorporate everything here. I urge, with a strong conviction, that if you have not read the book, please grab a copy and read it. Who knows, you might find the answers to questions the author himself is seeking. 


To buy the book, click here
To reach Mr. Matheikal's blog, click here

Food for the Goddess

They often left food for her near the lamp. It would miraculously vanish and they thought Goddess Imoinu ima was pleased by them and appeased by their offering.

 Deb was an eight year old domestic help in their household. He could not play like Ajoy because he was not born with the silver spoon in his mouth. He had no access to the mouth-watering delicacies that Ajoy was forcefully fed by his mother. He had to satisfy himself with the left-overs.

One day, Deb could not clean the house as he was sick. The master of the household got very angry. He had invited the head of an NGO running in his area. The NGO worked for poor kids and saved them from child labor, malnutrition and abuse. Ajoy's father had a given some substantial amount of donation and secured his position as a good samaritan in a hopeless world. The unclean house enraged him and he beat Deb and threw him out of his house.

A crying Deb, jobless and starving, had nowhere to go. He waited for someone to come from the house and take him back. But nobody came. He decided to spend the night under the tree he had often watered.

That night, surprisingly. the morsels of food left near the lamp, for Goddess Imoinu Ima, remained untouched.

Ajoy's mother was panicky in the morning.
Ajoy's father was called.
Their was a long pause.

Then suddenly Ajoy's mother realized her folly.

"The Goddess is angry because you threw out Deb. Bring him back', she pleaded to her husband.

The husband was god-fearing man too. He rushed outside.

Deb was still sleeping. He touched his hand. Deb got up and apologized. The master of the household made him promise that Deb would do his duty well. Deb promised.

Deb was back in the house.

Ajoy's mom was feeding Ajoy. She did not ask Deb to eat anything. Deb started mopping the floor. The day went just as always for Deb.

Night came. Food was left near the lamp.
It was gone in the morning. The Goddess was appeased.

Everyone was happy in the household.

Picture Prompt provided by blogger Parul Kashyap Thakur

Book Review : Kaleidoscopic Lives – Ensemble Narratives of the Common Man by Roji Abraham

Man has always felt the need to tell stories. Ancient people told their stories through art. With the development of language of communication, narratives flowed from one generation to another orally in the form of folk tales, fables and legends. On the way, the plots and characters changed and were embellished as per the perspective of the teller. These stories survived by word of mouth, although they kept changing in one way or the other. With the development of scripts and languages, stories came down to us as the written word. They became permanent. While initially, stories were meant to teach a moral lesson, with time, they evolved into a complex form of literary art. Today, short story genre is a recognized field. It is a genre that is not easy to write. Therefore, mastering the art of writing short stories takes time and effort.

When I picked up Roji Abraham’s Kaleidoscopic Lives – Ensemble Narratives of the Common Man, it was the title that first caught my attention. Titles are like windows. They let us see something but leave the rest to imagination. The title speaks of narratives of the common man, a figure appearing frequently in present day political discourses. It hints at the variegated colors of life.

My expectations were well-raised and the very first story hooked me completely. Chocolate Uncle left me mesmerized, making me relive my memories of childhood. It is a tale of sweetness, a short but well-spun yarn with strands of historical forces intertwined into the personal lives of the characters. There is no detailed analysis of the historical tensions at work but they are subtly hinted at, which adds to the text’s richness and the responses it induces in the reader.

Life devoid of humor would be very dull. So we have the Thai Massage, The Court Witness and The Cripple. These stories evoke contrasting responses from the reader. The titillations of youth, the worries of a legal tussle the character is involved in and the sympathy aroused from hearing the story of the crippled man are well complemented by the climax these stories reach. Expected behavioral reactions are dealt with in a clever way making space for subtle humor.

The First Fan and Pilla the Thief deal with both the past and present lives of the protagonists. While the former deals with first impressions which are often misleading and throw light on individual biases and social prejudices, the latter is a tale of reform and social acceptance.

The sexual promiscuity in The Talented Cook weighs well against the poignant tale Till the Day I Die. The care-free joviality of the cook is well-documented in not just his cooking skills but in the other ‘passionate’ spheres of life. The young men learn important life-lessons from the cook’s escapades but also risk running into trouble. Till the Day I Die is placed at the opposite end of the spectrum. It deals with true love in a restrictive society. It is a befitting end to the motley of emotions that pervade the book.

Shahab is another narrative that registers unconditional love and nostalgia for unfulfilled dreams. Sometimes, some people come in our life without knocking the door and they fill up a void that nobody else saw or sensed. Shahab is one such story that registers a good deed done and a cherished dream fulfilled. It leaves the reader with a feel-good factor. So does The Cab-Driver’s Story. Responsibilities force the cab driver to choose a career he had not sought. What the story does to him and to the person who hears his story is what one needs to look out for. It is a touching narrative with positive ending.

One of my favorites in the collection was The German Housemate. What happens when two opposite personalities share one roof? Do they fight, ignore each other or become friends? What exactly is ‘friendship’? Is it the unspoken bond between two people who come close to each other just because of spatial proximity? How much can one overlook the mannerisms of a loud roommate? Does an ‘awkward hug’ seal the friendship bond for good? It is a story that will stay with the reader once the book is completed – a special treat of words and wonderful characterization.

 There is a beautiful line at the end of the last story in the collection Till the Day I Die. “The curse of education is a rational mind……it takes away the beauty of dreams.” Roji Abraham has lived his ‘beauty of dreams’ by weaving this narrative collection by creating characters we meet every other day. For those who want to read something that connects them to their real lives and yet transports them to a distant world, then this book is a must-read.

 “A short story is a love affair, a novel is a marriage. A short story is a photograph, a novel is a film.”           - Writer Lorrie Moore  

Author's Facebook Page

Author Roji Abraham's Blog

To buy the book from amazon, click here

Have they come to take my doll?

She was the only girl child in a family of ten children. The only other female in the house was the mother whose job was to bear children and then look after them and their father. Father was a loving person but did not understand what it meant for a woman to be a woman. Although he came from a large family, nobody had taught him what a woman wants, or if a woman can want anything. He worked hard for his family and came home only to give rest to his aching bones.



Her name was Naazeeya. She had just turned six, the youngest seed. Her nine brothers would hardly be home to play with her as either they had gone to school or to work. Mostly it was work as schools were often closed owing to the unrest in their region. Naazeeya had already learnt a lot of cooking as that was what she ought to do. There were no books for her, no pencils, no school-bags. She sometimes would ask her mother why she could not go to school and her mother would remain quiet. Naazeeya had the thirst to learn. Her eldest brother Zafar saw that thirst and would often try to teach her the alphabets. It was just that Zafar had to go to work too and did not get much time. But deep in his heart, the brother doted on her sister and never missed a chance to teach her.

In her solitariness, Naazeeya had a special companion - a doll her mother had made at home just for her. Naazeeya named her doll Gazal. When her mother asked why she chose this name, Naazeeya replied, " I sing songs with her, I feel so free and happy with her....just like when I hear you sing a lullaby for me or when Zafar reads me a poem." In the house that smelled of just male sweats, the doll was the only symbol that stood apart - a mark of nurturing, a sign of the feminine, the lone token of tenderness.

That night, the family was about to sleep as usual when there was a knock on the door. It was their neighbor. Naazeeya could not hear anything he said as he spoke in hushed tones. Father was worried after the neighbor left. He whispered something in Zafar's ears. Then he went to bed. The dark hours rolled on with dead silence as a companion. Naazeeya drifted off only to be startled by loud noises and screams. She woke up to see there house in ruins.

'They' had come. Everyone dreaded their arrival. They smashed everything in the house. It seemed like they were searching for something. Naazeeya nudged Zafar who stood holding her sister's hand tightly. She wanted to ask Zafar but he shushed her. The entire family stood there - jittery, shaken, nervous and speechless.

One of 'them' threw Father on the floor and asked if the kids go to school. Father replied in the negative.

"Are there any more books here, any toys, anything?", one intruder howled. A small pile of books had by then been set alight.

Naazeeya gasped on the word 'toys'.

"Zafar, have they come to take my doll?", she sobbed.

Before Zafar could answer, the intruder approached Naazeeya. There was nothing but rage in those eyes, blind and insensitive rage that had no mercy for anyone. He tried to rip the girl away from her brother. But Zafar would die before they touched her. He fell to his knees and caught the intruder's feet.

"Leave her. She doesn't have anything. She doesn't play with dolls. She is dumb and stupid and foolish. There is no place for silly stuff here. Please leave her. See....see.....this is what she made....and this is what she calls her doll....and I took it from her....and I tore it.....I tore it....see.....There is nothing else...," hysterical Zafar took out a paper with the picture of a doll on it. The paper was crumpled, and the doll's face was badly scribbled over.

The intruder relaxed his hold and looked menacingly at Naazeeya. The little girl's eyes were flooded with tears. Her whole body trembled as the man flung Zafar away from his feet and went out. The other men with him were gone too.

The shattered room lay still. When the sound of the feet died down, frozen and stunned sister dashed towards the fallen brother. Her trembling hands wrapped around Zafar's bleeding head.

"Why did you do this? They could have killed you. I am so sorry....I am so sorry.....Are you alright....? Who were they? Why did they do this? Why.....Why.....why....???", she wept bitterly.

Zafar hugged her little sister. After she had calmed down, he said,

"I knew they were coming. I hid your doll last night. I dug it in the backyard. It is safe. But from next time, keep quiet."

Naazeeya promised. She cleaned the wound and covered it with a cloth. Zafar got up.

"Let us dig out Gazal."
The two walked towards the backyard.

(If you like to read more brother-sister stories, do check out another story I wrote here - http://istoppedtosmellarose.blogspot.com/2014/11/gul-and-faiz-how-many-times-have-i-told.html )

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How the Sulky Town became happy.....

In a far far away land, there was a place called Sulky Town. It is a strange name for a place but so was it called. And do you know why it got this name? Well, because the people living there did not know how to laugh. They were always frowning and pouting and sulking and brooding.

It was only those few little children in the town who knew how to smile. But they were tired of the big folks. They would often wonder what was with these sullen faces. No matter what they did, big people would never smile.

One day, the children decided to call a fairy for help. They had overheard their elders talking about a fairy who was naughty and mischievous and who always created menace wherever she went. She had a strange name too. One of the town man said, " Her name is Giggle Fairy. Ever heard of such a name? I wonder what it means!" All the other elders agreed with this town man. Since nobody in the town had ever laughed, the meaning of giggle remained a mystery too!

"I heard that the Giggle Fairy visits the park every night. And since we are always fast asleep at that time, I wonder how we will meet her and ask her for help." the children of the town thought.

Of all the happiest and chirpiest of kids, there was a pair that stood out. That pair was of two brothers Max and Martin. They were twins. They loved to smile, they loved to joke and they loved to just monkey around the town. So they came up with a plan. They would go to bed early tonight. Max was going to stay awake for the first few hours after which he would wake up Martin. Then Martin would let Max catnap and then both of them would scurry out of their house and wake up their friends. The friends decided to keep their windows open for them that night.

Things went on as they had planned and the flock of merry urchins reached the park. Giggle Fairy arrived on time. Oh what a lovely fairy she was with dimples on her cheeks and with jingles on her lips. The kids squealed at her sight. The little ones did not waste a second and narrated their tale of woe. Giggle Fairy rolled her eyes and gazed at the sky, just wondering at the discovery of such grumpy beings. She whispered something to the kids and disappeared. The kids faces brightened and they went home.

The next morning, kids were late in getting up. They had stayed awake for so long after all. So when they got up, they came out of their houses. There was a lot of hurly-burly in the air. The commotion outside was being caused by something over their heads. All the elders stared at a bunch of somethings that was floating through the sky. It was colorful, and light and it drifted smoothly in the air. The elders mused what it was. They started chasing it. It hovered over a tree here and glided past a tree there. Many tried to grab it but it slipped past their fingers. It became a hunt, a race. The fastest racer ran, the swiftest climber jumped but the thing kept flying beyond them all until it finally became entangled in a branch. 

Nobody had realized it but the whole town was there, watching, holding their breath. The boldest, strongest man of the town came forward.

" I can get it", he bragged.

Hearts beat faster, pulses throbbed quicker and with a silence that was deafening, the mighty man pulled the thing down. He touched it here, and poked it there. Swelling with pride, he gave it another thrust when.....with a bang and a boom, the thing popped flat. The burst was followed by another explosion....an explosion of laughter. The silent onlookers just cracked up. The startled robust man could not resist too. All the pride was gone. He laughed till his belly hurt. The others laughed till their eyes were wet. The children yelled 'Giggle Fairy' and the sulky town became jolly, jovial and joyful forever.


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Beyond Words

Words are deep. Words are poignant, passionate, meaningful. They clarify, they state, they symbolize, they express. But there is a world beyond words - a world so intense and thoughtful that it outreaches the boundaries of language. It is a realm where feelings cannot be stated verbally, where the Maker muted the voices. Who knows if it was a contrivance on His part to let passions flow through a different, purer medium. Hazel had never met this world before, never until she met Scarlet.

Hazel was new in town. She had just moved in. For the past three days she had been busy setting up her things and had hardly left the house. Feeling overwhelmed by the boredom of it all, she decided to go out. The shore was so near that she could hear the ocean. The splashing waves kissed the shore and receded leaving behind wet sand, some pebbles and some sea-shells. Hazel picked up her violin and stepped out. She headed toward the shore joyfully. She looked at the new neighborhood and the house adjacent to hers. The house was quiet. She wondered who lived there. The blinds were open but it seemed that the house was empty.

Hazel reached the shore and immersed herself in music. Violin was her soul-mate. The music that poured out was perfect. It seemed that the waves danced to Hazel's strings. The scene was idyllic in its beauty, blissfully melodious and content. An hour passed. As the sky turned its hue, bidding goodbye to the day, Hazel traced her steps back. She again cast a look at her neighboring house. The lights were on. So there was someone inside. Her talkative self craved to have a word with someone. She decided to knock on the door and say hello. She tapped on the front door. There was no answer. She tapped again. Still no answer. As Hazel retreated, she saw a figure peeping through the window. When the spying figure realized she had been discovered, she hid behind. Hazel waited for a few seconds, intrigued. But there was no movement inside.

The next day Hazel spotted her watcher. She was a tall beautiful girl, almost Hazel's age. Before Hazel could reach her, she disappeared again. It became like a game between the two of them. And it continued for days. The only thing that changed was that the girl would often smile back at Hazel. But she never said a word. She became dauntless enough to follow the violinist to the shore and sit through her performance. Her face would gleam with joy almost akin to ecstasy. But the moment Hazel's music stopped, the listener got up and rushed away. Hazel being of an amiable nature did not mind this at all. The only thing that poked her was that the latter never spoke a word. If only, she said something....just once....just a hello maybe.....!

One day, the bashful admirer wrote something on the sand and left. Hazel hastily read what was written. S-C-A-R-L-E-T! Her name was Scarlet. 'This isn't bad! She seems to have taken the plunge," Hazel said to herself. She felt happy. Very happy.

Scarlet did not come out the next two days. Hazel was worried. She could not play violin. It seemed that she had been playing her music for her lone bystander and without her, there could be no melody. What was wrong? Where was she? Hazel was not sure if Scarlet would open the door if she went there. But she had to find out.

Nervous and anxious, Hazel approached Scarlet's house and knocked. Those few moments seemed like eternity to Hazel. She fidgeted as she waited for Scarlet to answer the door. Then, the door opened. Scarlet stood there. She looked fine.

"Where have you been? Why aren't you coming out? I was so worried? Don't you understand? You never say anything....Do you think I am a fool? What is wrong with you Scarlet?...."

The tirade would have continued but Scarlet motioned Hazel to come inside. Hazel followed her blindly. Then Scarlet pointed at something. Hazel looked around. The room was full of paintings. It seemed like a haven of art, brilliant aesthetic canvasses decorating each and every wall. Each work stood out like a masterpiece, absorbing the onlooker by its beauty and emotional appeal. But amid all the paintings, there was one that excelled beyond measure, one that flooded Hazel's eyes - the silhouette of a girl with a violin in her hand, the azure sky as a fitting backdrop. Yes, it was Hazel playing her violin! Yes, it was she drenched, lost in her music!

Painting by Nitish Sanan

Underneath the painting lay a note. Hazel picked up the note and read it

You violin is my voice. The music you play are my words. When the notes are sad, they speak of my grief. When the notes are happy, they express my delight. They are transmitters of my silent self. Thank you for giving me a voice. You do not know what you have done to me. 

Love 
Scarlet

Hazel did not know how to react. For the first time, she felt that she had no words to convey how her heart felt. The painting had touched a hitherto unknown chord inside her. The note left her speechless, with a heart overflowing with love. She hugged Scarlet tightly. Then she picked up the violin and started playing a beautiful composition, just for the two of them. Since words became inadequate  it was only music that could complement the feelings of gratitude and fondness the immaculate canvas had induced.



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The Funny Case of Santa's Tooth

It was a blistery cold night. It was a beautiful white night. There was snow on the doorstep, snow in the backyard, snow on the window panes, snow on the rooftop.....snow, snow snow.....just everywhere. It also happened to be the night when light from the Christmas trees adorned many houses - the night when all the kids in the world tossed in their beds...trying hard to keep their eyes open so they could meet Santa. 

Yes, it was Christmas night. 

One such boy turned right, turned left, sat up straight, bounced on the bed....waiting...waiting....waiting for the bells. He thought not about gifts, he thought not about presents. His mind pondered on something else.

How in the world will Santa come down this chimney? Santa is so....well.....round and the chimney looks so narrow, he wondered. He thought and he thought and the thought kept him awake in his bed. The clock struck twelve. It was midnight. Santa had not come. The boy rose from his bed and quietly climbed down the stairs. The Christmas tree looked bright and beautiful in the darkness. Santa's special cookies were still in the plate. 

He cannot come down this cramped path.....
No way...

Just then.....

Thud..!!!

The boy froze. Somebody had just come down the chimney. The figure wore red clothes, carried a bag, wore a red and white cap, had the whitest beard that shone in the dark, and the figure was.....OH.....ROUND!!!

"SANTA!!!," the boy gasped. " How in the world can you climb down this narrow chimney? How did you do that?", he exclaimed

"SHHH.....," Santa jumped in surprise. He removed the soot from his rob, tightened his belly and said, " Ho, ho, ho...it's easy for someone of a fit stature like me."

The two stood quiet, staring at each other, neither one blinking their eye. Then Santa's gaze fell on the cookies. How delicious, tempting and crispy they looked...round just like him, with chocolate chips and sprinkles, and icing and  sugar crystals...

"Ummm....how divine...", Santa muttered and slowly headed toward the table.

The soft cottony hands reached the table, fingers twitching to grasp the cookies but just then,

"Ouch....", cried Santa, putting his hand on his cheek.

"What happened Santa?", the little boy exclaimed, having been silent all the time.

"Oooooh....my tooth....it hurts."

"Didn't you brush your teeth?"

"I did, but I ate so many cookies tonight. My mom told me to watch what I was eating. I should have listened to her."

"Your Mommy," the boy laughed. The thought was hilarious to him.

"Yes...my mommy. She loves me so much but she is very strict. I look like her but her hair are much whiter"

"WHAT!!!", the boy rolled in laughter.

"Nick, what is happening? Go to bed", a voice came from inside.

Santa jumped and the little boy jumped too.

"My mommy is here...I should go...She will scold me for not brushing my teeth...I better go....", Santa wobbled as he tried to climb back the chimney.

"Wait....that's my mom....My name is Nick....Your name is Nick too?"

"Oh...is it.....Oh....Okay.....My mom calls me old Nick.....Everyone else calls me Nicholas or Santa." Santa heaved a sigh of relief.

"Ouch...my tooth."

Nick rushed to the bathroom and brought a new toothbrush. 

"Here....Go brush....And remember to floss after that," Nick pulled Santa's cloak and directed him to the restroom. 

"Can I taste just one cookie first?", Santa pleaded.

"No", Nick replied firmly.

"Please....pretty please...please......", Santa insisted.

"I will count till five and if you have not gone to brush by that time, I will call my mommy and....", answered Nick.

Santa leapt up from the sofa, sprang towards the bathroom and shut the door. After some gurgling, and some sputtering, the door opened. Santa emerged....happy and cheerful. The sunny face sparkled and the eyes fell straight on the cookies. Eager steps trotted towards the cookie plate and yearning fingers grabbed the savory delights, munching them ...one, two, three....all gone.

"Do you have some more.....please?", Santa asked Nick.

"Watch what you eat Santa....remember what Mommy said," reminded Nick." And always brush your teeth, okay?"

Santa smiled timidly. " You are a good boy Nick." Santa put some present for the little boy near the Christmas tree.

"Ho, ho, ho....away I go....."

"Wait.....Take your brush Santa."

Santa took the brush and tried to put it in his pocket. He struggled and struggled and a whole bunch of cookies fell out of the pockets.

"Santa.....you have to be nice.....," squealed little Nick.

Santa smiled sheepishly. He hugged Nick and disappeared.

The next morning Nick excitedly told his mommy about Santa. 

"You must have been dreaming Nick. Santa always brushes his teeth. Now you go and brush yours," said Mommy.

Nick smiled. What would mommy say when she would find out that the new toothbrush was missing? Just then he saw a new toothbrush hanging on the tree. Nick smiled. Santa meant to keep this a secret. And a secret it would be, thought Nick.