City Name Changes — Do They Matter?

One of the chief reasons why our worldview is becoming so lopsided these days is that we have lost sight of the difference between the terms ‘civilization’ and ‘culture’. It’s a grand fallacy to think that these are the same, and, unfortunately, this is a mistake even the people in governance have been making since ever.

I see it this way — civilization is the body, whereas culture is its soul.

Over the millennia, people came and settled in places across the world and built villages and towns and cities and created the infrastructure they needed to live in—the buildings, the roads, the schools and hospitals—that is civilization.

And once the people settled, the essence that they collectively evolved as a common population—their art, their music, their languages, their cuisine and couture—that is culture.

Civilization is the visible part of human evolution, whereas culture is the invisible component. When you land into a new city, the first things you will see—their people, their airports, their roads, their vehicles—that is their civilization welcoming you. But as you spend time there, you hear the languages of these people, you taste their foods, you become aware of their thought process and their beliefs and religions, and that is where you partake of their culture.

What is more important for me to talk about here is about culture.

I don’t see culture as a vague abstract. For me, culture is a living organism. You cannot see it, but it is living. It breathes just as the people living under its canopy do. In North India, the chanting of the verses on the Holy Ghats, the rattling of the bells in the monasteries, the influence of Arabian architecture, these are evocative of the culture prevailing there. When you come to the South, the tinkling of the anklets of the dancers, the perfume of the sandalwood outside the temples, the heavily adorned sarees on the women, that is the culture there.

While, in a city like Mumbai, the culture would be an assimilation of all of these, because Mumbai is a city that is not homogenous. It is a microcosm of the several mini-cultures prevailing all over India, and even on foreign shores. That’s how the city has evolved. But even in Mumbai’s heterogeneity, there is a kind of uniformity that defines it. Even the foreigners who spend time in Mumbai have gradually become part of Mumbai’s culture. You cannot imagine walking for a few minutes on the South Mumbai streets, for instance, without spotting a foreigner. Or, for that matter, you cannot travel in a Mumbai local train without hearing at least six different dialects being spoken around you. That is Mumbai’s culture.

The problem today is that people are confusing these two.

They think that by changing the name of a city, they will change the city. They think that by changing the way people dress or talk or eat, they will change the people. They think that by censoring or changing the books and movies, they will change the thought process of the people.

But when has that ever happened? Have such cosmetic changes ever changed the core soul of the identity of a people?

Bombay changed to Mumbai in the nineties but ask any Mumbaikar—it makes no difference. We still think and live in the same manner as we used to think and live when it was Bombay. The changes that have happened are on account of the usual pace of progress; they haven’t come because of the change in our name. Who has the final laugh then?

We cannot change culture. History shows how heads of state have tried to change certain cultures. But even though they could destroy certain civilizations, they could not tame their cultures. They partially succeeded, that I won’t deny, but then the organism called culture continued to live and thrive and continued to give the society its identity, in some cases, even after its annihilation.

When someone tries to throw a stone in the lake of culture, there are ripples for sure. There is consent and dissent, and there is some transformation. But the core of the culture still stays.

What people also need to understand is that our culture will outlive all of us; it will outlive even our civilizations. Think of civilizations such as Pompeii or Mohenjo Daro. Their civilizations have long gone; but we still know a lot about how they were, which is because their culture still survives.

As a final thought—I’d like to say, culture does not come only from our bigger creative achievements. It’s not just the epics or the classics that define culture. Culture even comes from a single piece of wall art created by a student, or an ornament designed as a hobby by a woman at home, or an atrocious movie that was never watched, or a ridiculous book that was never read. All of it is our culture.

And the beauty of culture is that it doesn’t die. It evolves and it continues to thrive.

Beach Writing Challenge Days 5 and 6 — Meeting with Friends, Risking it a Bit, and More Writing

16th of July, 2018

Click here for the previous day’s post.

So, continuing with my Beach Writing Challenge, after a healthy writing sprint of 4 continuous days and crossing the 23,000 word mark, I took a break on this day. Just chilled out, walked around the Mapusa market a bit, ate, and did nothing. Let’s count this one as my holiday then!

Statistics so far:

Day 1 total – 6500 words

Day 2 total – 13000 words

Day 3 total – 20000 words

Day 4 total – 23000 words


17th of July, 2018

This was my 5th day of writing then. The word count right now is 23000 words and 4 days have elapsed. I am nowhere near my halfway mark (which should be at least 37500 words). The scenes that I write are so exhausting that I need to take a break after every two or three scenes. Now that’s an unanticipated problem. Well, at least, because I have thought of the story beforehand, I do not face the dreaded scourge of the ‘writer’s block’.

The Progress

Started out with a nice in-hotel breakfast of poached eggs. Loved the way they made it. The eggs weren’t too runny and though the yolks could have been a bit softer, these will do quite well. Tipped it up with ginger tea. Great mind stimulators for a long writing day ahead.

The Writing and the Story (Some Advice too!)

Then back to the hotel room and more writing. No distractions today. Wrote up quite breezily until lunchtime. Put in around 5 chapters, which is a biggie.

Our poor Devika is now in the thick of things. She has come to this house with a completely blank slate, for her memory is lost, and she is falling for the young doctor who has brought her into the house, Dr. Sumit Vishwakarma. Their romance is brewing, but at the same time, weird things are also happening in the house. Balancing the story between a blooming romance and nightly haunting is turning out to be a great narrative structure. Also, since the story is told from different POVs (we get to hear from both Devika and Sumit and even other characters when needed), there’s a lot of variety.

Pro-tip: Multiple POVs add variety to the writing and makes the reader sample different characters. Advisable if your story spans a large spectrum.

The Rest of the Day

Lunch was a brilliant prawns thali at a place called Flying Fish off Mapusa market. Wonderful fare at a dirt-cheap rate. Do check out the pic, and if you are here the next time, go to Flying Fish with all my recommendation.

Returned to the hotel room and back to writing. Only took breaks for a cup of tea in the evening (called it to my hotel room) and for dinner had some Goan specialties that I got from the market. One piece of batk was enough to fill an entire dinner for me.

More writing till late night brought my word count to 32000, which makes this day my most productive day so far. And also explains why there are not many pics!


18th of July, 2018

I was quite looking forward to this day because there was a plan to meet with fellow-authors in Goa. Authors have this thing; when they go to another city, they scope out other authors there and plan a meet. It’s almost an unspoken rule. And if those other authors are also friends, then it’s an icing on the cake.

The Mini Authors’ Meet

Four of us met at a lovely eatery called Cluck Tales in Panjim. It’s right across the Panjim Market and pretty famous. We managed to get a cozy table on the mezzanine floor and really had a go with our chats and plans for future events.

In the picture are (from left to right), Charmaine DeSouza Fernandes who is writing her first book and is a winner of the Readify Author Hunt and also quite a popular animal activist, myself, Uttam Kumar who is a social worker and has also written a book titled First Job and 10 Mistakes, and Rohan Govenkar who is an author of two books titled 1000 Kilograms of Goa and Oh My Goddess and a very popular Goan personality.

 

We talked about Rohan’s recent trip to Russia for the FIFA matches, Charmaine’s and Rohan’s visits to some of the spookiest places in Goa, and Uttam Kumar’s observations on society at large, which were quite the treat. We also spoke about having a bigger event in Goa to bring the local literary community together, on which details will be put up soon. Now that’s what I call an enriching meeting. Likeminded people getting together and trying to give something back. Rohan also gifted us copies of his books!

And since I always mention food, mine was a wiener schnitzel with beer! (sorry, didn’t get pics of the food). A shout-out to Vasco, the owner of Cluck Tales, for the good food.

Roaming Around in Panjim

Panjim is called the most walkable city in India. No, I don’t have any citation for this, but I have heard it said. And, of course, I have the experience. The city is quite clean and uncluttered and there’s no traffic on most routes, and then there’s this cool breeze blowing in that keeps you walking. I walked for about an hour through the various spots.

Here’s my pic of the Panjim Market. Have always loved the Mario Miranda murals on the walls.

Walked around to Our Lady of Immaculate Conception church, the popular church with the white exterior and beautiful steps, spent a few minutes at the Jardim Garcia de Orta, came to Fountainhas, and then got back. My story was calling!

Our Lady of Immaculate Conception Church, Panjim
Jardim Garcia de Orta, Panjim

The Writing

Wrote a few scenes without any distraction until evening. I knew this day wasn’t going to be much fruitful writing-wise, and it wasn’t. Something else was coming up! A casino visit! A friend had invited me to one of Goa’s most popular floating casinos, and I saw myself going to Panjim again and was there then till the wee hours of morning trying to test my luck. Don’t ask me how that went!

Progress at the end of day = 35000 words in total.

One more day left technically. How will I finish?

Beach Writing Challenge Days 3 and 4 — A Change of Venue and Some Brisk Writing

14th of July, 2018

 

Click here for the previous day’s post.

 

The third day of my writing journey began with my checkout from the Calangute Beach Residency. I had initially thought this would be silent owing to the off-season, but can a North Goa beach be quiet at any time? My hotel room was peaceful but the very fact that the beach was just a shout away tempted me to go out and look. So, I decided to change the venue.

 

New Place

I found a great deal at the Mapusa Residency. The room cannot be more silent than this, and there’s everything at a stone’s throw. The market and bus-stand are right across, and the buses can take me to anywhere in the state that I need to go. Beautiful, just the way I like it. Brightly painted too (see the pic!).

 

Had lunch at their in-house restaurant. Good food but had just a chicken sandwich and a can of Budweiser, since they didn’t have steaks and none of the other lunch stuff could be portioned for a single person.

The Writing

 

 

Wrote up a storm actually. Went 500 words higher than my average of the past two days and covered the 20000-word mark. Devika is now deep in the mess and her enemy has already had one victim and she’s inching closer to Devika. Things are bound to happen soon.

Okay, keeping Day 3 a very short post as I did nothing but write the whole day. See you again on Day 4.

15th of July, 2018

Day 4 dawns a bit late for me again, for I had been up till late in the morning. Had a short sleep and was up at 10, for the cleaners come in here and they give the room a good shakedown. It’s a good thing; not complaining. You can be as messy as you like.

Wrote two scenes in the morning and then set out to lunch.

By the way, I have been limping since two days because I have got a nasty slipper-bite (yeah, like a shoebite) and there’s not a medical shop open when I go down to get bandages. It’s healing anyway.

Lunch at Ronaldo’s

There’s this quaint little place bang outside Mapusa Bus Stand called Ronaldo’s where I had my lunch. You can see the football evidence everywhere in Goa actually. Even right next to Mapusa Residency, there’s a place called Zidane Boutique.

Anyway, at Ronaldo’s, I had some cool scotch (mistake, I’ll tell you why), some chicken tandoori and a rice plate. Interesting stuff, well-made too, and for just 300 rupees! Quite a steal for backpackers really.

Moved around a bit in the Mapusa Market, decided to come back when I am not limping, and got back to the hotel room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Mistake

 

Well, the mistake was that I slept in the afternoon! Had a short sleep the previous night and then the scotch on a rainy afternoon could lull a giant to sleep even after getting up from a six-month slumber. Was out like a light for two hours, and by the time I woke up, I did not want to be in Goa. I wanted to be at the Luzhniki Stadium!

The Match

Well, what a FIFA World Cup Final that was! Chatted with my kids on WhatsApp all through the match and we had our own commentary going on here. A fun two hours, and the better team won, though for me the Croatians are the true winners. Not many people had heard of Croatia before this month, and see how they have just stormed into the world space. Modric, we love you.

The Writing

 

Sadly, didn’t get much by way of writing today. Just a piddly 3000 odd words. Have to buck up tomorrow, for it will be my fifth day here already. The week’s coming to a close.

Till tomorrow, ciao!

Beach Writing Challenge Day 2 — An English Breakfast, a Spooky House, and Some Furious Writing

13th of July, 2018

 

 

Guys, thanks for continuing to read these updates on my self-imposed Beach Writing Challenge as I write the third book in my Supernatural India series.

 

If you have not read it yet, read what I did on the first day here: Day 1.

 

So the second day in Calangute began with me getting up late in a weird and divinely comfortable room, getting alarmed, and then realizing WTF I had no particular place to go to! As soon as I could, I set out for a breakfast and breakfast it was—a lavish English Breakfast at Infantaria (that famous restaurant attached to a church on Calangute), which had baked beans, Goan sausages, bacon, and two fried eggs. Dieting be damned.

 

The Spooky House

 

It was while returning to my hotel room from Infantaria that I noticed this particular bungalow. I had seen this the previous night too but as it was plunged in darkness, I couldn’t see much. Moreover, there was no light for a distance and there weren’t any people walking on this particular stretch too. In the darkness of the previous night, I had eventually noticed two dogs sitting on a corner of the fence surrounding the bungalow, and I had just walked away.

Now in the morning, I saw the house in its glorious self. It looked immediately like an abandoned house. All the doors and windows were shut; there was no evidence of anyone living inside. I heard no tales of this house from anyone, but it just gave off those vibes.

The gate is quite an anachronism to the rest of the house as you will see in the pictures. Maybe that’s why the house has this kind of bizarre appeal that makes a passerby stop in his tracks and take a few pictures.

 

Writing, Writing, and More Writing

 

On the second day of my writing challenge, I could not afford to not continue my writing. I was immediately back in my hotel room after breakfast and sat down to write. The scenes were already planned out and I had to lay them down now. So I entered into the world of Devika (the name of my protagonist in this tale) and built up her story as she enters into a new world. In parallel, I also wrote the chapters of her nemesis (the monster lady whom I shall not name for now). Really, it kicks me even as I write this thinking how I will build up to the eventual fight between Devika and her enemy.

 

By the end of the day, I had completed 13000 words, thus maintaining my average of 6500 words/day.

 

Picture from earlier in the day.

 

Night at Calangute

 

You cannot be on the Calangute Beach and not go see the water. So, I did. I am not having dinner these days, or rather it’s mostly a packet of biscuits, a pint of whatever beer, and a smoke. Lunches are heavy, afternoons are sluggish, evenings are vibrant. Just the way it ought to be during a vacation!

 

Spent a silent hour at the Calangute Beach just gazing at the water. The activities at Souza Lobo were going on in full swing and there were the hookah smokers at the adjacent restaurant. It was fun to watch when the rains came in all their heaviness and the waiters had to dismantle all their makeshift tables and take them inside. And funnier still was when the rains went away in ten minutes and they assembled everything again. We need some of these people in Mumbai for our municipal tasks!

 

End of Day

 

Back to the hotel, back to looking at my MacBook with 13000 words and rereading some of the good paragraphs I wrote and gloating over them in private, and then writing some more. Called it a night around one, and day 2 came to a close. Next day, new venue, new writing location.

 

See you with the next update. Ciao!

 

Click here to go to the next day’s update.

Beach Writing Challenge Day 1 — A Dead Man’s Tale, a Haunted Bench, and Lots of Inspiration

12th of July, 2018

 

 

Sorry for the late post but blame it on the poor net connection. It is actually the third day as I write this here. But I promised a day-by-day account, so I shall be updating my posts of Day 1 and Day 2 shortly.

So It Begins

On the 11th of July, 2018, I started out from Mumbai to Goa by train. Train because of the rains. Definitely not a good idea to take a flight under these terrible weather conditions. But, this proved to be a blessing in disguise, mostly because of the Ola ride that took me to the LTT station. The driver of that cab, a man named Shyam, told me the most astounding story. Wait till you hear what it is. Okay, no waiting. This guy told me, with irrefutable proof, the story of how he had returned from the dead.

The Dead Man’s Tale

Two years ago, Shyam met with a terrible accident in his native Kanpur. He was on a bike and a truck rammed into him. So gut-wrenching was this accident that his left leg was completely severed from his body and thrown meters away and a portion of his skull was split open. The doctors proclaimed him dead. His parts were practically kept on the pyre, ready to be burned, but his wife had the firm faith that he wasn’t dead. As they were preparing to carry him to his funeral, his wife struggled and the corpse fell. That was when someone noticed his heart was still beating.

The family put him back on his arthi but this time they took him to the hospital. The doctors hailed this as a miracle. They said the leg could be sewn back, the skull could be closed. But it would amount to a heavy bill of 16 lakh rupees.

They were plunged in gloom again, and as the man lay there, almost dead for a second time, two strangers visited their house. They told Shyam’s wife that they were his old friends and had come upon hearing of the accident. When they knew the situation, they did not even bat tan eyelid in “loaning” the money for his operation. It was such a happy moment that the family did not even stop to ask them who they were. They just took the check and ran to the hospital. Meanwhile, the two friends volunteered to stay back and look after the house.

The operation was successful. So successful it was that Shyam did not even need a rod in the leg. But though he was joined again, he was in a coma for over a year. And after that, he miraculously woke up one day and walked home.

Shyam showed me the stitches on his forehead and on his leg. He drove perfectly too, and before I knew the story, he had even heaved my suitcase into the cab without effort. He was healthier and stronger than most men we come across.

His tale was carried in many newspapers in Uttar Pradesh and he even made it on TV.

But the strangest thing was about those strangers. They weren’t there when the family got back home. No one came to claim the money.

So here’s what’s striking. He told me those people were sent to him by Lord Hanuman, the deity whom he has worshipped every day of his life ever since he was a child. The rest of the drive was spent by him in describing to me how faith can move mountains. And as I rode with him, I saw just that.

The Haunted Bench

Okay, for this one I have a picture. I reached Karmali station on the afternoon of 12th of July, 2018. I caught another cab this time to take me to my hotel at Calangute. And on the way, I heard another amazing story from the driver. This time it was a local legend.

 

This bench is supposedly haunted.

 

Our car stopped for a while thanks to a large puddle right in the middle of the road. I happened to look to my left then, and I saw a stone bench. It was just standing there in the middle of nowhere. There weren’t any houses or shops for miles either way. Why would anyone need a bench there?

The driver saw me looking and told me that the bench had historical value. Decades ago, there used to be a house there which was broken down to make way for the road. For some reason, the bench stayed. It was part of the house where the couple who lived in the house would sometimes sit in the evenings and have their tea. The couple had then moved to another place and subsequently grown old and died. But even now, drivers on that stretch of road in the night sometimes see an old man and his hunchback wife sitting on the bench quite romantically close, looking into the distance. And it appears like they are having tea.

Wow!

The Inspiration

The third floor of this hotel was my writing challenge haven. Calangute Beach is out there.

 

There was no dearth of inspiration as I moved in to my hotel room. A perfect room from where you could see the silent part of the Calangute Beach. I strolled on the beach road in the evening, had my very late lunch of chicken fried rice (which I could not eat even half) and a Heineken, and then went back to the hotel room to write.

And, boy, did I write! I hit the ground running. That long train journey had helped me mull over the entire story in my mind.

On the first day itself, I crossed 6500 words of good solid content.

And this is the perfect story to write in such an environment. It is the story of a battle of two women, one on the good side and one on the evil side, and both flawed. Both women derive strongly from South Indian folklore, and they represent two communities. It’s a fantastic tale to write on an epic scale, and that’s how I think it will go. Early days yet, but I am hopping with excitement as I bring to you this one, the third part of my Supernatural India series after Pishacha and Yakshini.

Going back to write now. See you in a while with the post on Day 2. Until then, keep the comments coming.

My Beach Writing Vacation — A Self-Challenge to Complete a Novel in 7 Days

(12 July 2018 – 19 July 2018)

A Writing Challenge to Myself

Hi folks! For those who just came in, I am Neil D’Silva. But of course you know that! This is my site, and here I am going to talk about a writing challenge that I have imposed upon myself.

Come tomorrow, I am embarking on a very special writing journey. Leaving the usual distractions behind, I am setting out on a journey to one of Goa’s secluded beach destinations to write my next novel. The novel is mostly outlined and all the main characters and plot points are in place; now all I have to do is breeze my way through it!

Consider it my self-challenge or, rather, a goal. Will I be able to finish writing my manuscript in 7 days? Come on, cheer me up already, guys!

The Location

I am headed to Calangute Beach in Goa to kickstart my novel! From there, I shall move on to other places. Pics shall follow.

Why Goa, some people might ask. But does that even need to be asked? I was looking for a place that was away from the usual trappings of routine life and at the same time not so far removed that I’d have to struggle for my basic needs. Goa fits the bill most perfectly. Listening to those lashing waves as I write promises to be pure bliss. I can almost hear the waves telling me my story.

And Calangute has a special connection for me. It was in Calangute Beach Residency four years ago that the plot of my debut novel Maya’s New Husband popped into my head. I am a romantic at the heart of it all, and the entire idea of going back to where it all began knocks me silly.

Read the story behind the story of Maya’s New Husband here.

The Plan

To accomplish my writing challenge, I am allotting myself 8-10 hours per day to write. I will break that into three slots — morning, afternoon, night. I expect the first manuscript to be around 75,000 words, which would be around 7,500 words a day. Quite doable.

As I mentioned, I have the story planned out already. I have to write it now. Of course I will see problems with my outline as I write, but I intend to repair them as I go ahead.

To keep away from the continued stress of writing, I plan to read, have my fill of the wonderful Goan food, visit its old churches and museums, buy trinkets from the markets of Mapusa and Anjuna (special note to get those Indonesian Black kretek cigarettes), indulge in a bit of the nightlife, and, of course, do my daily quota of exercise. Exercising on the beach—now that’s something to really look forward to!

Will You Cheer Me on?

Follow my progress as I keep updating my blog on my writing challenge every day. I shall be making 7 diary posts for the 7 days.

Also, look out for tomorrow’s first diary post where I reveal the working title of the novel. To all my fans and casual readers, this is some really wonderful stuff coming up! Based on a supernatural folklore concept of South India. Totally warrants staying in seclusion and writing this horror story.

Ooh, now I think of it… I’ll be all alone by the sea and writing a horror story. Sounds like the kind of fun I need!

Stay tuned. Until tomorrow. Be well and honor by the sword.

 

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Image result for authors on social media

Authors on Social Media — 5 Ways Authors Antagonize Social Media

Image result for authors on social media

 

All right, so at the very outset, I will say that this is going to be an unpopular post. It is possible that a bunch of you might unfollow me after reading this one, but let me put up a disclaimer. Whatever I say in here is out of my observations and interactions on social media. Which means to say, even I have committed the mistakes mentioned below, but then there’s always a time to learn and live on, right?

Now after seeing authors on social media for several years now, I have observed this: The majority of authors use social media for one of two things (and usually just these two things, which is the sadder part) — (1) propaganda of their works (2) ranting about their pet peeves. Look at your author friends on social media. Chances are that a high percentage of them come alive on those posts only when they have to do one of these two things, otherwise they are totally absent. And if you are an author who is doing things apart from these—constructive things—then we need to doff our hats at you.

Why is this bad, though? Let me enlist it in a way that it becomes more readable.

Most authors will excessively promote their works.

Definitely not recommended. Typically, one post when your book is launched and then follow-up posts whenever your book makes some kind of achievement is good enough. If authors are going to make a post every day about their book in the hope that someone will like, comment, or share, let alone buy the product, then that’s a horrible way to go about promotion. The best case scenario here is that your followers are going to be frustrated looking at your excessive post with the same cover page (of course you cannot change that, can you?) and they are simply going to scroll down. The worst case is that they will unfollow you, and there it goes—a prime example of counter-marketing.

We authors have to trust that our readers have good recall value. They know that we have authored that particular book. It is not necessary to post the cover page at every given opportunity. Sadly, most authors fail to understand the point that book marketing has to be classy.

Most authors will form close-knit communities and stay only in those.

Oh, this does happen. Hang around a bit on social media in writers’ groups and you will see how authors tend to band with each other. They won’t label themselves or name themselves, but they will definitely flock together. You will see them liking, commenting on, and sharing each other’s posts but no other posts at all. You will see them coming out in support of one of them to the point of undeserved raving. You will also see them blindly praising each other’s books in the hope (sometimes there are also unwritten rules) that their book will also be praised by the others when the time comes.

I am not saying that this is totally a bad thing. Author groups help. I have been a part of many too. All I am saying is that the authors who are part of one group should not stay in only that group but also be friendly towards other groups. Why make it so obvious that you are trying hard to promote only yourself and others in your community? Does it harm you in any way to respond to posts from other people too, especially if they are saying the same thing that your community is saying?

A time comes when these communities go out of control or simply get defunct. They all will. Law of nature. And when they do, it will become difficult for the authors concerned because a lot of things will need to be done from scratch, like rebuilding visibility outside the community.

Most authors will rant about their pet peeves (and nothing else).

Some of the best authors we know, some of the biggest award-winners in the literary world, have been reduced to being whiners. And that is sad. It is pathetic to see post after post from good authors speaking only of one thing, and that is the thing that they hate. It might be a valid issue that there are voicing against, but if the author goes on and on about that in one post after another, it becomes oh-so-annoying.

Trust me, even the best of authors lose respect that way. This is one of the surest ways to turn those likes into dislikes. Our readers might be aligned to our thoughts, but when we go on a continuous tirade, even they will be put off.

We cannot help it though, because most of us are hard-headed opinionated pricks whom we ourselves would not like to get into a conversation with. But that’s the sad part. We authors have the potential to change the thinking of society and veer it towards a positive direction. We have to do it constructively though, and not by coming across as a ranting crybaby. Our words are effective. Our poems can stir hearts. Those are the tools we must employ, maximum impact in minimal words.

Most authors will abuse the freedom social media gives them.

A lot of us are culpable of this, including yours truly. We go on and post just about anything on social media. Just because we have this freedom of sharing things at the click of a button, we go ahead and do just that. We don’t stop to think anymore. That post might be badly-constructed, show us in a poor light, be detrimental to our reputation, but we hardly stop to think about it and go trigger-happy with the posting.

Just think about it. Orwell, Dickens, Hemingway, and all—how would it have been if they had social media at their time? How would it have been if they posted their half-baked poems and prose too? Would their readers have followed them with the same conviction, and would these authors have been classics today? I am sure Shakespeare would have ranted on social media and so also Dickens. That would have blunted their edge. The reason why our classic authors and poets are classics today is because they were selective about the things they put out in public. Not to say they had a choice otherwise, but they were selective anyway. We saw only the best of them, and that’s why we revere them.

Most authors won’t “talk with” people but “talk to” them.

There’s a difference between ‘talking to’ and ‘talking with’ someone. When you talk to someone, you are only telling them your thoughts and not listening to them. In short, you are being condescending. People comment on your posts, but many of us are not listening to them. We are only telling them what we feel, over and over again, and not even entertaining the thought that they might be reasonable too.

The thing we need to do is ‘talk with’ our people on social media. Social media is all about interaction. When someone comments, we have to talk with them, maybe take the conversation ahead, and sometimes when there’s reason, begin to see things a different way. Well, that’s what I believe social media is—a place of learning. It is not just a place of teaching as a lot of us authors tend to believe it is.

And this applies to posts from other people too. Sadly, very few authors will comment on other people’s posts. Maybe there’s always this unspoken elitist feeling going on. But then that’s again ‘talking to’, right? It is a very selfish way to use social media if you only expect people to interact on your posts and you turn a blind eye to theirs even if they have written something that makes sense.

So, that’s it. These were some things I really wanted to say since a long time, and I did it now. Feels better, because now I can also “listen to” the mistakes I have been making and can improve on them.

Ciao!

Yakshini by Neil D’Silva | Read for Free

These are the first three chapters of the novel Yakshini by Neil D’Silva. All copyrights reserved with author. 

 

 

 

PART ONE

 

 

~ The Sapling ~

 

Year 1995

 

 


YAKSHINI CHAPTER ONE

Little Bud in Full Bloom

 

IN THE MIDDLE of the courtyard, a solitary sal tree stood proud and magnificent, once again abloom with its bright red and yellow flowers. The glory of the season had caused the flowers to attain their full bloom, and their thick central petals, now fully grown, resembled the hoods of many tiny cobras raised to threaten anyone who might dare to witness their majesty without permission.

Nature thrived under the tree, which was now carpeted with its own discarded foliage. Large ripe yellowing leaves kept falling off the tree, adding to this carpet. They would soon turn brown and return to the dust whence they had sprung from. Black ants and beetles ran over these leaves harmlessly, busy with whatever held their tiny interests. Tiny heads of mushrooms plumped out from under them, vying for their own little space, and sorely losing in that quest. And amidst this nature-ordained chaos, a plump frog poked his head through the leaves. He took his stance, and as if aroused by the uncharacteristic early morning darkness that had begun to gather, croaked a wild mating call.

Just then, a little girl’s feet adorned with a pair of silver anklets came prancing into the garden, and the frog leaped away. Old leaves rustled and cracked under her feet, and the mushrooms were squished. Yet, nature bore no complaints, for this girl was one of them. A friend. In her presence, nature rejoiced.

Meenakshi, for that was the thirteen-year-old girl’s name, came up as close to the sal tree as she could and hugged its sturdy trunk. “Companion,” she said in a voice that sounded like Mother Earth’s own breath, “how are you this morning?”

The sal did not respond. Instead, its leaves shook with the breeze and the hoods of the flowers turned down to look at her. Meenakshi raised her dainty chin and peered at the far-reaching canopy of leaves that seemed to go as high as the mountains. She squinted and laughed.

Then, her brow creased. There was something under her bare right foot. She could feel its coldness, and yet, she did not take her foot away. Instead, she frowned and stooped. Slowly moving her foot, she shuffled through the foliage, and exclaimed, “Aha!”

It was a gold coin.

“Thank you, Companion.” She hugged the tree again. “You always make me smile.”

The hoods of the flowers nodded.

The next moment, this chaste romance was broken by a hoarse call that came from inside the house that adjoined this garden.

“Meenu, ae Meenu, where have you run away so early in the morning?”

“COMING, AAI!” Meenakshi screamed so loudly that her tonsils hurt, and then ran into the house, hiding the coin in the folds of her skirt.

 

***

 

For the world, Renuka was in her kitchen, throwing her spices into sizzling groundnut oil. But years in the kitchen had turned such things into a learned reflex; and that helped because, in truth, her attentions were focused on her daughter who had just walked into the house.

She didn’t say anything immediately as Meenakshi entered, but she noticed with distaste the mud-marks her little feet left on the floor as she scampered into the house, clutching her skirt as if it would fly away.

“Meenu, wait.”

Meenakshi stopped.

“Where had you gone so early in the morning?”

“Just out in the garden, Aai.”

Renuka kept her ladle aside with a pronounced clang and turned off the stove. Wiping her brow with the corner of her saree, she came up to her girl.

“Meenu…”

She started and stopped. Her eyes fell on the front of her daughter’s shirt, where the buttons were threatening to split.

“Meenu,” she started again, “how has this shirt become so tight for you already? We got it just last month.”

Meenakshi looked down at her bust. “I don’t know, Aai… What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing. You have another shirt, a looser one?”

“This is my newest one, Aai.”

“Then wear one of Suparna’s. It will fit you.”

“Okay, Aai,” said Meenakshi and began to run away.

Renuka grabbed her by the hand. “Wait! Running, running, running. Like the wind. Look, Meenu… today you have to behave.”

“Behave? Why?”

“Don’t you know? I told you last night.”

“Ho, that boy from Bombay is coming to see Manda tai.”

“Yes,” Renuka said, this time with a lingering smile. “A proposal for your oldest sister. Can you see how fortunate that is?”

Meenakshi looked at her mother without comprehension.

“You won’t understand.” But still, Renuka did not want to miss the opportunity to tell it to someone, and so she did. “You are seven sisters. If your oldest sister gets a nice groom soon, the line for all of you is clear. He is such a nice boy too. Educated. Family business.”

Meenakshi blinked.

“And now don’t you go about your usual shenanigans in front of them. He’s a decent chap, from the city and all. Not a rustic buffoon like us.”

“I will behave, Aai.”

“And please, wear decent clothes. God knows how you are growing so fast!” She looked at her daughter’s bust with an uncomfortable feeling. “You are already larger than three of your older sisters. You are eating the same food as them, aren’t you?”

“You give us all the same food, Aai.”

“Go run away now! Chatterbox!”

Meenakshi turned and ran. Renuka’s eyes followed her scampering form with a smile.

 

***

 

Dressed in Suparna’s finery (Suparna was three years older than her), Meenakshi ran off again into the garden. There was an hour left for the lunchtime guests to arrive anyway, and her mother did not stop her. Maybe, like always, she was glad to have her out of her hair. She told her as much. “Go, Meenu, go out and play. If you are in the house, you’ll just be in the way of everything. Won’t even let your Manda tai dress up properly.”

So, hitching up her silken skirt, Meenakshi played chhippi-langdi all by herself. She hopped on one leg over the squares drawn with chalk on the ground, picking up and throwing the little tile piece into the squares with dexterity and precision. Ten minutes into the game, she stood in the Home position, looking at the block numbered 8, the farthest. She stood, took a deep breath, closed one eye, and spent a whole minute aiming the chhippi as accurately as she could. Then, before letting go, she mumbled a prayer up to the skies to whoever was listening. And then she let go.

“Arrechya!” she exclaimed when the chhippi just missed the 8 box and fell on the top line.

She made a pout, a sulking pout, and looked at that chippi mocking her at her defeat. No, this won’t do! She was winning; this was the last square!

A flicker of mischief arose in her eyes then, and she stood up. She cocked her head this way and that, for she had to first make sure that no one was seeing her. None of her sisters were out; they were all getting dressed inside. Even Manjula, their cow, was not to be seen. She was probably sitting on the cool comfort of the straw in her shed and ruminating on her quota of the day’s fodder.

Darting like the wind, Meenakshi came back to the pattern, and slowing down when she reached the incriminating position, she deftly stooped to pick the chhippi.

But she stilled. Her hand stopped mid-air, even as it hovered just inches above the chip.

A noisy rustling of leaves had stopped her, and she knew instinctively who it was.

She turned to look, and saw the stern tree, the hoods of its hundred blazing flowers looking down sternly upon her.

“Sorry, sorry,” Meenakshi said and backed out, touching her earlobes with her fingers. Then she ran up to the sal tree and hugged it. “Sorry, Companion. I slipped. Will never, never do it again. Will never cheat again. You aren’t angry with me, are you?”

 

***

 

She had stood there hugging the tree for a whole minute with her eyes shut when she heard another familiar call.

“Ae Meenu, why are you stuck to that tree?”

Meenakshi opened her eyes. There at the gate was Tappu, the neighbors’ boy. He was her exact age, and they went to the same class. Right now, though, he was in his Sunday finest, which was a pair of khaki shorts that came up to his knees and a loose shirt that was probably one of his father’s discarded ones. Three of him could have fit into it.

Meenakshi came up skipping to him. “Ae Tappya, you go away. We are busy today.”

“Busy doing what? Making love to the tree?” Tappu laughed a boyish taunting laugh.

“That’s none of your business,” Meenakshi said, swinging her hips and pointing a stern forefinger at him.

Tappu jumped over the little iron gate and came into the courtyard. “Finished with Kulkarni Sir’s homework?”

“Loooong back!” That was in a singsong voice, pronounced with narrowed eyes and a pulling back of the hand to indicate the passage of time.

“Hey, new clothes?” he asked, suddenly perking up.

On her face was a pout, but now that slowly transformed into a blush. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing…” Tappu said. “You look… look… different.”

Meenakshi said nothing.

“Come, let’s go to the well,” he suggested.

“No re,” Meenakshi waved him away. “I told you, na? We are having guests today.”

“Who?”

“Aai said not to tell anyone.”

Tappu slapped his head. “Ah, of course, I know. The whole village knows. Someone’s coming to see your sister, no?”

Meenakshi fretted again. “What’s it to you? You go now. They will come and they don’t want to see your torn chaddi.”

Arre, wait, no!” Tappu protested. “What else is there to do outside? Let them come; I’ll dart away like a squirrel as soon as they turn into the gate.”

But that plan did not materialize. At that very moment, there was a jostling at the gate, and the children turned to look. It was Govind, the oldest boy in the neighborhood, and by extension, a bully.

“Aye Tappya, what are you doing here?” he yelled. “You broke our cricket team of eleven, you rascal!”

A frightful look immediately arose in Tappu’s eyes, and he scampered away.

Govind ran after him, chasing him down the street. “Come here, you scoundrel! There are still ten of us in the team. We’ll all whoop your ass when I catch you.”

Meenakshi laughed with her hand on her mouth as if not to laugh too much, even as Tappu ran a-flying to the gate with profuse apologies.

Govind stretched his hand as Tappu reached him, caught him by the ears, and gave him a thwack on the back of his head, while showering upon him the choicest of abuses. And then he heard Meenakshi laughing and stopped.

His hold on Tappu loosened and the boy ran away.

But Govind’s gaze was locked on Meenakshi now, and it made something happen to her. She felt something tingling through her body, and she felt every fiber of her sister’s clothes that she was wearing, which even though loose, contoured over the curves that she had developed of late (which her Aai always said were ‘too early’).

Govind moved closer to the gate and brought his lips together in a whistle.

“Looking beautiful, Meenu!” he said in a markedly different voice. And then he winked.

Meenakshi, stunned at the sudden praise, fled away into her house and stood blushing by the door, her breath stuck somewhere in her throat.

 


YAKSHINI CHAPTER TWO

The Unfortunate Suitor

 

“HARIKUMAR JAYWANTRAO DESHMUKH.”

The young man sitting decorously next to his mother pronounced his name.

From behind the wall created by her sisters, Meenakshi tried to peer into the room. Through the slits left by their bodies, she snatched glimpses of him. A man quite different for these parts, surely. Dressed in a crisp, checkered shirt and well-fitting, well-creased trousers, not like the ones stitched by that tailor Mangesh Kaka in his shop under the banyan tree near the Rukminidevi Temple. Smelling good too. She had heard men from the city wore things called perfumes. You had to just spray them on your bodies and you smelled like jaswanti or mogra or whatever you chose. His hair was sleek too, parted neatly at one side of his head, not one strand out of place, and oh-my-God, he had no mustache. What a rare thing in these regions, where men considered mustaches a matter of pride!

Then she heard her father’s voice.

“Good, very good,” said Shantaram Patil. “You are so clearly a city boy. A clear and authoritative voice, just like a man should have! I have been to Bombay once too, about twenty years ago. Isn’t it, Renu?”

Renuka tittered appropriately.

The boy’s mother chipped in. “Do visit Bombay again. And this time, stay at our place.”

That was followed by an awkward silence. It took a few moments for the boy’s mother to realize the impropriety of her invitation. One just didn’t invite folk from the daughter-in-law’s place to stay over.

But then to Mrs. Deshmukh’s credit, she quickly rectified herself. “Patil bhau, we are all forward-thinking people here. Most of these customs and traditions mean nothing to us.”

Shantaram laughed uneasily as though it meant nothing to him either. Later that night though, Meenakshi would hear her father and mother discuss that inappropriate comment till long into the night.

“But tell me, will you be okay with a girl from Vatgaon?” Shantaram asked. “Everything in your city will be new to her.”

“We are okay if you are okay,” said Harikumar’s mother. “As you know, Hari has no father; God rest his soul. I just want him to get settled now with a decent girl who will look after the house while he focuses on his business and they both lead happy lives. I have asthma, and it gets really terrible sometimes. Everything will be in the hands of this young couple, to be honest. When Holkarbai referred Manda to us, Hari liked her instantly, and we trust Holkarbai like a family member.”

Meenakshi searched for Holkarbai, the marriage agent who had brought this proposition. There she was, sitting on the plumpest sofa, smiling like a well-fed kitten.

Mrs. Deshmukh leaned forward. “We don’t expect anything from you. Hari does very well for himself, and—by God’s infinite grace—his father has left us well off. And I must tell you, Hari liked your girl the best of the lot.”

“All that is fine,” Shantaram said with a polite wave of his hand. “Educated and fine business and all that, but does he know our traditions?”

There was a smile on Shantaram’s face, something of a mischievous smile. Standing in that faraway corner of the room, Meenakshi recognized it as the kind of indulgent smile he often had when he would test his daughters.

“Yes, sir,” said Harikumar. “I do puja and keep upwaas and everything.” His voice was sophisticated, no slurring or slanging of words, the kind one would expect on a city-bred well-educated man.

“Last solar eclipse, he even fasted the whole day,” his mother waxed eloquent. “He keeps shravan fasts too. Tell me another boy who does that in today’s times.”

Renuka raised her brows at Shantaram. It was that look of caution that said, “Don’t finger him too much. He’s a good boy.” She cast another sideways glance at Manda. She sat there, occupying as little space as possible, a smile hidden within her lips. It was surely a preordained match. Renuka threw a silent prayer up to the skies.

“Okay!” Shantaram said loudly. “We really like your family too. It is true what they say, matches are made in heaven. It will be our first experience, you see, first daughter and all.”

“Of course, of course,” Harikumar’s mother laughed.

Then Shantaram shuffled in his chair and assumed the pose of someone with authority. He asked, “Son, do you know how to make a patravali?”

Harikumar balked. He looked at his mother, who looked equally lost.

Meenakshi smiled though. Here was the test!

Renuka came to the rescue of the flustered boy. “Patravali, you don’t know? The plate we make out of leaves, for eating meals on special occasions?”

“Oh, that!” the boy’s mother said. “It scared me when bhau said that so suddenly. Of course, Harikumar can make it. He’s good at craft.”

“I’m just wondering if he could make one now,” Shantaram said. “You see, in our village, there is this small custom. The prospective groom makes a patravali when he proposes. I made one too, in my time.”

“It’s an old stupid custom, and it’s okay if you don’t want to—” Renuka began, but she was cut off when Shantaram glared at her.

“He says he can make one,” Shantaram laughed without mirth. “So, let him. It will be pure fun only, all right?”

Harikumar wiped away a sudden train of sweat that emerged from his temple. “Of course!”

A plate of large green sal leaves was brought to him. Ten pairs of eyes, nine of them female, looked at him as he folded his sleeves and prepared for the task. Meenakshi took a step forward too. This was the fun part.

Next came a tray with a reel of thread and needle. No instructions were needed now; the materials on the tray were self-explanatory. The needle wasn’t threaded; threading the needle was part of the test.

Harikumar smiled at everyone, and as his mother tapped him lightly on his back, he picked up the needle. Squinting, he tried to pass the thread into the needle and missed. The girls tittered. He tried again. More titters. But after he missed about twelve times, the titters died away and gave vent to frustration.

“There is some wind coming in from somewhere,” his mother reasoned.

One of the sisters ran up to the windows and closed them.

Saavkaash, Hari,” his mother said. “You will do it now.”

He wet the thread with his lips, squinted, and tried again.

And then it happened. The needle pricked his finger, but he did it.

Shantaram heaved a sigh of relief as if he had been holding his breath. Then he said, “Now, the leaves. You have to fold them and stitch them. Do you know how?”

As the room fell silent once again, Harikumar tried various combinations and arrangements, folding the leaves and holding them in place. Renuka shuffled in her seat (she looked more uncomfortable than Harikumar was), and Shantaram signaled her to stop fidgeting. Meenakshi saw that gesture; it was a gesture of confidence. Her father knew the boy would do it.

Harikumar started. He put the base—the largest sal leaf—and deftly folded six other leaves and made a circle around it. Then he went on to stitch them in their positions. Slowly, sighs of relief passed through the room.

When he was done on one side, now much more confident, he turned the whole thing over, and started to make the other layer of leaves.

“I will need more leaves,” he said.

“Sure, sure,” Shantaram said, and then ordered, “Meenu, go run and get more leaves from the tree outside.”

Meenakshi, startled at the sudden mention of her name, gathered her bearings and scampered away.

 

***

 

The afternoon sun had come up. Meenakshi looked with disdain at the fallen leaves of the sal tree, which had already turned brown. She could not take those for the patravali; they would crumble to bits the moment a needle was driven through them.

She looked up at the tree. Fresh green leaves, now lustrous in the reflected sunlight, mocked at her. She tried to reach them, but couldn’t. Hitching up her skirt, she tried to jump, but apart from the tinkling of her anklets, nothing happened.

“O Companion, don’t be so miserly,” she said grudgingly. “What’s with a few leaves?”

But the tree had chosen this occasion to play mischief with her.

With childish petulance, Meenakshi picked up a stone. “If you don’t give me the leaves,” she said obstinately, “I’ll hit your boughs till they break and fall down.”

The tree, spread like a mammoth over her, looked down at her benevolently, but nothing happened.

Meenakshi shut one eye, took aim, and hit a bough.

The tree still did not move.

“You are petty and selfish, Companion,” she said and sat down right beneath the tree. “I will sit right here till you give me your leaves. What do you think? I cannot just go inside and say I did not get the leaves. There are new people inside. Maybe he will be my brother-in-law too. I won’t be insulted. I will sit right here.”

At that, one leaf broke off and fell into her lap.

“What will one leaf do, you miser of a tree?”

Then another leaf fell, and before it could touch the ground, a third came down, and then a fourth and a fifth, and soon there was a shower of them falling all over the little girl. She wiped her tears, laughed, and picked them up till she could hold no more.

“Did you make the whole tree bare?” Shantaram asked as she walked in with the leaves.

Without answering him, Meenakshi walked in, the leaves held up in the hammock of her skirt. She came in just like that, and dropped the leaves on the table.

That was when Harikumar really noticed her.

His gaze first fell on her bare legs, and then he saw her face. It was a brief glance, but the gaze lingered for a split-second over that region on her body that her mother had told her to keep well-hidden.

Meenakshi withdrew, now aghast as if she had committed a crime.

The young suitor silently worked with the leaves that Meenakshi had brought in, but this time, he began sniffing at the leaves too, as if taking in the scent of the person who had held them not so long ago.

When he put the last stitch into the patravali, and held it up for display, there were sighs and gasps. This was not a masterpiece by any standards, and yet it looked fit to serve a nobleman on. It was a rare moment when Shantaram praised someone openly; this time he did.

“Son, you are precisely what I am looking for. My Manda will be truly happy with you. You have your head in the sky, but you are the true son of the soil.”

Harikumar’s mother giggled like a schoolgirl. “I told you so!”

“So, because I am the father of the daughter,” Shantaram said, “I ask you, Mrs. Deshmukh. How do you want to do the wedding?”

Renuka sent another prayer to her unseen, unknown god.

“Any which way you suggest, Patil bhau,” the boy’s mother said. “We are open to all options. What do you say, Hari?”

Harikumar cleared his throat. “Aai… I wish to say something.”

“Well, sure! It’s turning out to be your day, after all.”

The young man’s gaze scanned past everyone in the room. They looked at him too, with their bright eager eyes, as if waiting for him to just say the word and then they would jubilate.

Harikumar’s gaze rested on Manda. “You are a really nice girl, Manda,” he began, his words steeped in diplomacy, “and someday you will make your husband very happy.”

Shantaram shuffled in his seat. The smile on his face was wiped off with those words and replaced with a frown that made his daughters take two steps back, the ones who were standing closer to him.

“What do you mean, young man?” he asked.

“Sir… I don’t know how to say this except with total honesty.”

“I don’t like preambles, young man.”

“Not preamble, sir… but…”

Kaay aahe tujhya manaat, Hari?” his mother chipped in. “Speak out your mind.”

“Aai… I like Manda, but… but I like her more.”

And just like that, Harikumar raised the forefinger of his right hand to point directly at Meenakshi, who was now standing at the heart of the crowd.

The little girl, when she realized what had just happened, shrunk into nothingness.

“WHAT!?” Shantaram shot up. “Are you out of your mind? She is just thirteen.”

“Sir,” Harikumar stood up too, but with politeness. “Please listen to me. I am not making an obscene request. I am only twenty-two myself. I am prepared to wait for your youngest daughter till she comes of age.”

“What is this madness?” Renuka stepped forward, and looked directly at Harikumar’s mother. “What is your son saying?”

“Madam, I have fallen in love with your daughter,” Harikumar said hesitantly and yet with a strange boldness underlining his words. “I have never seen her before today. But she just walked in now and something stirred in me, like it has never done before. And that something now tells me if she doesn’t become my wife, my life itself is a waste.”

“HOLKARBAI!” Shantaram called out to the marriage agent who was hitherto sitting silently, though the recent turn of events had made her aghast as well. “Kindly tell this fool to get out of my house immediately.”

Radhabai Holkar stood up at that command, and grabbed the man by his hand. “Have you gone insane? What are you blabbering? She is but a child…”

“You don’t understand—” Harikumar protested.

Shantaram flung the towel that was on his shoulder to the floor and stormed into his room. “Renuka, get everyone out of my house, right now,” he yelled and disappeared.

 

***

 

Meenakshi shut herself in the girls’ room after the suitor and his mother were unceremoniously ushered out of the house that afternoon and did not open it until evening. Ardent cries of her sisters to open the door went unheard. Shantaram locked himself in his room in a wild temper too, and when he came out hours later, no one spoke above a whisper. Renuka sat sobbing in a corner too, cursing whoever it was that she cursed on such occasions.

But if anyone would have seen Meenakshi at that point, they would have felt that creeping feeling of fear everyone experiences at some point or the other. There’s a reason why fear is described as creepy; it’s because when you are really, absolutely terrified, there’s this slow but undeniable sense that something’s creeping under your skin. Looking at Meenakshi at that point would have done just that.

For, the girl did not move an inch from afternoon to evening. She kept on standing fixedly at one spot in that locked room, right in front of the mirror where the girls used to dress up, and kept on staring at herself. She didn’t know what was going on with her; such a benumbing feeling of senselessness had never overcome her before. Perhaps it was because of the way the man had looked at her. Or because she saw the silent complaints in her sister’s eyes. Or because she saw the admonishment from her parents coming upon her.

In a fit of rage and utter helplessness, she messed up her hair and whatever little makeup was on her face. Her eyes bled kajal; her lips bled lipstick. And thus she stood like a rock, refusing to even let tears flow out of her unblinking eyes.

She had hated it. The man’s trembling finger, pointing at her, singling her out, and his face. She did not know what that face was, but it looked no different from Tappu’s face when he saw sweetmeats at Kopre Dada’s sweet shop. That sick drooling face with those miserably misty desirous eyes. He looked no more than a dog who has a morsel of prized meat in front of him. Yes, that was the look. That was the look with which that man had looked at her.

Or… or the look of that ruffian Govind whenever he cut across her path. And that was often.

Why? What was it in her that men looked at her in that manner? No one looked at her sisters like that!

She stared and stared and stared at her reflection in the mirror, trying to locate that one thing that was different in her. Aai said she was too full for her age; maybe that was it. Perhaps. Who knows what the male mind thinks? It might be true though; no girl in her class was as well-endowed as she was. Meenakshi had just stepped into teenage, but she understood things like breasts, and she knew that they had something in them that attracted men. But was that just it? How could men be so shallow?

She hated herself. Why was she growing into this woman that scared her? Why couldn’t be like her sisters, all docile and demure girls who are expected to create good families and take care of them, and nothing more? Wasn’t that what was hammered into her since her childhood? Then what was happening to her?

‘It’s because you are special.’

Meenakshi almost fell. It was a voice. Words. Almost human. Not some vague mental monolog; these words were the real thing. Spoken right into her ear, slow and yet firm, like someone had poured those words into her with great adamancy.

“Who is it?” she turned to look. But apart from the howling wind, there was nothing.

 

***

 

Around dinnertime, her mother knocked on the door.

“Come out, eat something,” she said curtly.

Quite in a stupor, Meenakshi opened the door.

“What have you done to yourself?” Renuka exclaimed, thrusting her wrist into her mouth in horror.

And then she broke down. She threw herself into her mother’s arms like the little girl she was. She hugged her as tightly as she could; she let go.

Buss, buss,” Renuka said. “It’s not your fault.”

“But why, Aai? What is happening to me?”

“You are growing, that’s all.”

“But why like this? None of my sisters—”

“Every girl is different, Meenu.” Renuka sat her down on the bed. “You will not understand it now, but you are maturing fast. Very fast. A man who does not know you will not be able to understand you are just a child. Don’t ask me how this is happening, but it is.”

“I don’t want this…”

“Why, child?” Renuka said in a soft voice, much different than what it was a few hours ago. “Think of this as a gift. Everything that we cannot control is a gift from above, isn’t it? But sometimes, we don’t know how to use it the right way. This is a gift too. Slowly, you will see it is, and you will learn to use it properly. We mustn’t cry for the gifts we have.”

“It is not a gift. It is a curse. I don’t want it.”

“No, Meenu!” Renuka admonished. “Don’t say like this. You are my most beautiful girl. You will see that soon and be happy.”

“But what if something bad happens to me?”

“Nothing will. I am there with you. I will take care of you.”

“And… Manda tai’s wedding?”

“We’ll wait for another opportunity. That man was stupid, anyway.”

There was a faint trace of a smile on both their lips.

 

***

 

Renuka’s words put Meenakshi’s mind at ease. For the rest of the day, she was almost her usual self, moving about the house on her quick toes, even giggling a few times. Things changed again after dinner though, when Shantaram went back to his room and Renuka took his plate inside.

Meenakshi sat on the kitchen floor with her sisters, having her dinner. The sisters chatted away in hushed tones, and occasionally tried to cheer Manda up. Meenakshi wanted to say something too, but this was one of those occasions where anything you could say would turn out to be the wrong thing. Then there was the fact that she had always been considered a kind of pariah by her sisters. Or maybe they were simply in some kind of awe of her. If these had been just nebulous notions so far, today they hung in the atmosphere so thickly that they could be cut with a cast-iron knife.

“Manda tai, Aai said that man was stupid,” she said eventually, and that brought her sisters’ chatter to a grinding halt.

All the girls turned to look at her, all except Manda, who continued to hide her face and now broke into a fresh set of tears.

“You don’t talk too much,” said Suparna, the fourth sister, “this is all because of you.”

“Because of me? How?” Meenakshi quipped.

“There you go about strutting like an apsara! Which man will not slip? Hasn’t Aai told you how to behave like a woman? Look at Kumud. She’s also a child, but see how decent,” Suparna spat out.

“I am not decent?”

“Go away, Meenu. It is all because of you that Manda tai lost such a good match.”

The other sisters said nothing, but they did not have to. Suparna was always the more acerbic-tongued of all. Whenever any of the sisters had to pick a fight with anyone, they always sent Suparna ahead, and she sallied forth with the end of her dupatta tucked into her waist, as if for a battle. Meenakshi had always admired how her Suparna tai never flinched from confrontation, but today she was the subject of the confrontation.

Pushing her plate aside, Meenakshi stood up and stormed out of the kitchen.

Screw her sisters! All they could do was bitch, bitch, bitch. And now that she wasn’t there sitting with them, they’d bitch all the more.

In blind anger, she proceeded to her room to lock herself up again, but she stopped when she heard the soft voices of her parents coming from their bedroom.

Curiosity overcoming everything else, she came up and stood by the slightly open door and pressed her ear as closely to the slit as she could.

“She is still young; she doesn’t know,” her father said. “You have to teach her.”

Aaho, I try,” Renuka said. “I try the whole day. What do you think? Just this morning, she was wearing this shirt and I had to tell her to change it. She just doesn’t understand. I am telling you, there’s something wrong with her.”

“Wrong? What’s wrong?”

“I am a woman. I know. She is… growing up very fast. Do you know she has already had her woman’s thing? She started at just ten, imagine. Why else do you think I don’t take her to the temple on some Saturdays? But it is so precise that it astounds me. It always starts on a Saturday morning and dries up that same night. She flows just for a few hours every fourth Saturday. That’s not natural!”

“Well, you know your womanly things better. Should we take her to a doctor?”

“Doctors don’t know anything. I talked about her with my old Aatya. She said girls grow differently. But…”

“But what?”

“She is growing very fast. Just look at her with a man’s eye for once, not like a father’s. You will see how fully grown she already is. She needs larger bras than even Manda.”

“She might just be large?”

“No. She is in full bloom. She is a fully-grown woman in a child’s body.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Make Manda and Meenu stand side by side,” Renuka said, “and then call a stranger to tell who is older. You are their father. You won’t see all this.”

Shantaram pondered. “But she’s only a child. Our child. We have to do what is best for her.”

“Of course. That’s what I am worried about. And it’s not just about her growing so rapidly. See, I have noticed, something happens to the men when she is around. I don’t know why. Those neighbor boys… I have stopped her from playing with him. That day I caught them standing behind the wall of our compound, looking at her. They… had their hands inside… oh God, I cannot say this.”

Shantaram glared.

“They are just ten or eleven too! How do they know anything? I wanted to shout at them, but what could I say?” Renuka asked.

“You have to—”

“You don’t understand. Nothing has happened with our other daughters, has it? We give them the same food that we give Meenu. Same bhaat-bhaaji. Nothing different. I am telling you… we need to be extra cautious. If anything happens tomorrow, we won’t be able to face society.”

Meenakshi reeled. Her parents—no, not her parents, her mother—were thinking she was a freak. Was she? Was she the way she was being described? A full-grown woman in a child’s body?

What did that even mean?

She ran into her room. There was no sleep that night.

 


YAKSHINI CHAPTER THREE

The Waterless Well

 

MOROSE AS SHE never had been, Meenakshi missed wishing her Companion the next morning.

When she remembered, it was almost midmorning. Her sisters had already bathed and were dressing up for their schools and colleges. Her mother came in once to wake her up for school, but she firmly turned to the other side and pretended to sleep.

Missing school was nothing new for Meenakshi.

She heard the last of her sisters wishing her mother goodbye and slamming the door behind her, and then she finally opened her eyes and sat up with the realization that one cannot keep themselves tethered to the bed forever. She came out of the house with a lota of water and went to the corner of the compound designated for the family’s morning ablutions. There she brushed her teeth and washed her face, and only when she was clean did she visit her huge leafy friend.

“Companion, everyone is bad, very bad,” she fretted, not caring if her voice carried into the house. “You are my only true friend. You will never hurt me, will you?”

Meenakshi blinked back her tears and peered at the tree as if it would give her some sign. There was no sign though, except perhaps that the flower hoods seemed to be exceptionally bowed down that day.

“See, I told you,” Meenakshi said. ‘You are sad too because I am sad, isn’t it?”

She walked along, her naked feet crunching the leaves. When she circumambulated the tree once, she felt it.

“Oh, goody!” she said, and picked up the gold coin of the day. “You never fail to cheer me up.”

 

***

 

That afternoon after lunch, Renuka sent Meenakshi to a store that was only about five hundred meters from the house with a shopping list that had three items on it—some liquid soap, a half-kilogram packet of tea, and sugar. The barest necessities.

Meenakshi reached the shop, ignored the smiles of Debu, the boy who sat at the counter, and stuffed the necessary things in her bag. When she brought her purchases to the counter for the billing, she felt his hand grazing hers. Twice.

Not sure whether it was intentional or not, she quickly retracted her hand, paid him, and walked out of the shop without giving him another look.

But no sooner did she come out of the shop and take a few steps homeward than she heard some muffled laughter behind her.

Then there were voices. Of men and boys. She could hear them behind her, and no, these weren’t voices she could ignore easily.

A wave of anger mixed with fear overcame her, the kind that made her armpits feel all clammy with sudden cold sweat. She recognized this feeling. Almost every male gaze evoked those feelings in her nowadays.

And there were male gazes; she knew.

She did not want to turn behind and look at those men. She knew exactly what kind of men were looking at her, and what they were doing. It might be that idiot Debu and his friends, standing at the door of his shop, ogling at her rear. And with those disgusting grins on their faces. At times, she felt like going right up to such boys and slapping them across their faces, or probably something more—digging her fingernails into their mouths and tearing their lips clean off. Then they’d be grinning forever, won’t they?

“Go now, go, go. Don’t be a sissy!”—she heard one of the boys speaking in a hushed voice behind her.

“Going, going… don’t push!”—came another voice, and this voice astonished Meenakshi.

The next moment, it was Tappu who came up walking quickly, trying to match her step for step.

She turned now. Debu was in the shop, far removed from this scene in more ways than one.

“How are you, Meenu?” Tappu asked.

It took Meenakshi a moment to register that Tappu had spoken, but then she began breathing easier. It was only Tappu after all.

“What happened to you, re Tappya? Why are you dressed in these funny clothes?” she said.

The funny clothes were a full-sleeved checked shirt that was all buttoned up, a pair of tight crotch-hugging jeans hitched up with a black leather belt with a screaming oval buckle. He wore black sunshades too, as if he meant business.

“Nothing. Where are you going?”

“Tappya, what’s wrong with you? Why are you acting all strange? What’s with these clothes?”

Tappu laughed. “Don’t I look all grown up today? You like it?”

Now Meenakshi laughed. “Is a girl coming to see you?”

“No, no, no girl. What girl? I just wanted to dress up.”

“You look nice.” Meenakshi winked. “Bilkul hero.”

A broad grin grew on his face at that and he turned back as if to look at someone. Meenakshi looked too; but she could not see anyone, only bushes.

“Is anyone there?” she asked.

“No, no, no one…”

“But I heard you talking to someone.”

“It’s no one, aai shapath! Only me.”

He moved closer. “Meenu… I wanted to tell you something…”

“Wanted to? Means you don’t want to tell anymore?”

“No, no, I have to tell. I mean… I will tell now.”

Meenakshi let out a huge belly laugh, which made her upper body shake. “You are really an ass today. Okay, tell.”

Then, almost dancing on the balls of his feet as if the soles of the sports shoes made him uncomfortable, Tappu let it out. “Meenu, will you come with me to the viheer?”

The viheer. The well. The common village well where the entire village sourced its water from. On the huge embankment that surrounded it, there was a dense growth of trees and plants of all kinds, growing on the soft cool soil. That is where people hung out, with their families in the evenings, with their friends in the mornings and afternoons, and with their lovers… almost never. At least no one saw lovers sitting there because they made sure to be well-hidden in the profuse shrubbery, but everyone knew they were there. That was the dating spot of Vatgaon, after all.

Viheer? Why?”

“Just like that. We’ll do some time-pass.”

“What time-pass?”

Arre, come, no…”

“Okay, like a picnic? Pindya, Abdul, Nisha… they are also coming?”

“No. Just you and me. Like we used to play alone so much when we were kids? Same like that. We will play and sit and talk. Just fun, nothing else.”

“I don’t know, Tappya,” Meenakshi grew thoughtful. “I am not in the mood these days.”

“What happened?”

“Let that be. Okay, let’s go…”

“Really?”

“Yes. I am telling you, no? Let’s go. It will be fun.”

He whooped in joy, and then stopped abruptly when he realized it was weird.

“But see, I also have this shopping bag with me. I’ll keep it home, tell Aai I am going with you, and then—”

“No, no, no need. If you go home, your aai will not let you come out again.”

“Then why don’t you go with someone else today? There are so many friends… I’ll come tomorrow.”

“No. I want to go only with you. Or not go anywhere at all. Ever!”

Arre, Tappya, oh okay, don’t start crying now!” There was actually a tear in his eyes. “Okay, I will come. But you be careful, okay…”

“Careful of what?”

There was no answer. The next moment, they turned and walked toward the well, Meenakshi taking the lead. She did not see Tappu turning back and waving a gentleman’s salute to Govind who was hidden in the bushes, giving him a thumbs-up sign and a wink.

 

***

 

They could not see the water in the well from the mound they were sitting on. All they could see was the foliage of the many lantana bushes that were around them, with their clustered crimson-yellow flowers shining back at them in the post-noon heat. And that gladdened Meenakshi’s heart.

Unable to resist herself, she ran up to the nearest bush and picked a cluster and smelled it. “Aren’t these flowers lovely, Tappya?” she said, holding up the cluster. “So small and yet so delightful. It looks like they are smiling, all at once.”

“You look nice,” Tappu said, completely ignoring the flowers.

He was comfortably settled on the mound already, his knees drawn up, his arms resting on them.

“How many times will you tell that?” Meenakshi laughed and came up to him. “Chal now, are we going to just sit here?”

“Let’s sit for a while,” he said. “A bit tired after all the walking. Then we will play.”

“Okay, what will we play? I know… hide-n-seek. It will be fun in these bushes,” Meenakshi looked all around as she said that, and then something grabbed her attention. “But, oh… see that!”

She threw the cluster that was in her hand, and romped back to the bushes. When she returned, she had a fallen drumstick in her hands.

“You always need to have something in your hands, don’t you?” Tappu said with a grin.

“I cannot sit idle. I am not like you, mhatara!”

But Tappu did not take offense at being called an old man. In fact, something very contrary was happening to him now. His eyes were now on the drumstick, which suddenly had a different meaning as the girl held it in her hands. He knew he mustn’t look, but he could not avoid seeing her soft, grown-girly fingers moving up and down on it. Her forefinger came to the tip of the drumstick and tapped it gently, and something happened to him in those tight jeans, something that had started happening lately and then he would have to run to the bathroom, leaving whatever it was he was doing. And usually when that happened, he would be thinking of Meenakshi.

Pulling his legs closer, he moved up to her.

“You watch movies?” he breathed hard.

“Sometimes.”

“Which? Tell me the names.”

She rattled off a few.

“Ae Meenu, don’t we look like the hero-heroine of some Hindi movie, sitting alone like this?” His hand came over her shoulder.

She didn’t seem to mind it. He drew closer.

“You like that… that drumstick?”

He placed his hand over hers, guiding it to squeeze it gently.

“Leave me, Tappya. What is this?”

“Just showing you a game.”

He forced her hand now and put it right on his jeans and sighed, “Feel it, please.”

“TAPPYA!” Meenakshi screamed and pulled her hand away. She stood up, horror written all over her face.

But the very next moment, the boy’s excitement all died away. An unfamiliar pain began in him, of a kind that he had never experienced before. Oh hell, what was this! Even as he sat there, looking at the horrified face of the girl he had just outraged, he felt the blood running out of his groin and rushing frantically into the organ that needed it all the more. His brain. And he just knew, something bad, something very bad, was going to happen.

Regret of a misdeed may have rarely hit anyone as quickly as it smacked Tappu right across the face that afternoon.

There was something growing in her eyes now! For once he looked beyond her chest and her hips and looked at her face. It was worse than the face of his mother when she had caught him masturbating, and worse than the face of his father when he had caught him puffing on his discarded cigarette.

“Sorry, sorry, Meenu… I didn’t mean…”

But she only stared at him now, with an expression that belied all definition. She did not even look like Meenu anymore. Suddenly, a vision flashed in his mind, the vision of his Kusma Aunty who had fallen to her knees midway during their procession to Pandharpur and begun to rhythmically sway backward and forward like a crazed woman. He had been scared to death, but the men started pounding their dhols and chinking their taashas around her, encouraging her to continue her eerie dance, while someone had said aloud, “We are blessed! The Mother Goddess has entered Kusma’s body.”

He could not place why this look was similar. He hoped it was not.

What would he do if some kind of Devi entered this girl’s body now to punish him? He had heard tales of that kind of thing happening.

“You should not have done that, Tapan,” Meenakshi said. It was a grown, womanly voice now.

“I am sorry.” Tappu fell to his feet, and lay prostrate on the ground, rubbing his nose in the soil. “I will never do it again.”

Meenakshi had gone beyond all hearing. The thing that was growing in her eyes was complete now, two red disks that had replaced her black-brown irises. And she continued to stare at her offender with those bloodcurdling eyes, accusing, her big bust heaving up and down like it were lugging a heavy load up the five hundred steps of the Ambabai Peak.

 

***

 

When Meenakshi neared the house, the evening sun had already begun its descent. The shopping bag handles curled around her tiny fingers, she walked in a daze, unmindful of the two street dogs that had been following her all the while, trying to sniff at her bags.

It was only when she reached the gates that her reverie broke.

Suddenly realizing the hour and seeing the bag in her hand, she felt that sense of panic that she should have felt an hour ago. Shooing one of the dogs with all she had (and sending the other packing behind it), she broke into a run herself.

She slowed down at the gate, and jumped over it rather than opening it with the infernal creaking noise that it made. There she stood still for a moment to assess the atmosphere inside the house. Was her father sitting in the verandah, fretting and fuming? Was her mother peering at the path outside the house, panic-stricken? Were her sisters running all over asking for her? No, nothing.

Nothing seemed to be amiss, at least. None of those worrisome thoughts were playing out here. So far, so good. Her folk probably didn’t even realize she was not back home yet, and for once, she was happy no one cared for her too much. She was the seventh daughter, after all. Probably by the time her parents reached the point of giving her birth, all their love had dried out. How much love can humans have in their puny hearts anyway?

Looking at the sal tree for reassurance, she tiptoed into the house.

Her mother was preparing dinner in the kitchen. She could hear the pots and pans. The sisters were probably out at their classes, learning. And her father, as usual, was invisible.

She kept the bag down on the dining table and ran directly into her room.

It was at night that Meenakshi found out her absence hadn’t gone entirely unnoticed. The girls had just finished dinner and after washing their plates had moved into their common sleeping rooms. Meenakshi followed them at a distance when she heard a voice calling out to her with an unfamiliar undertone.

“Meenuye…”

It was her father.

Upon that, the other girls hastened to their rooms and Meenakshi felt that tingle run down her spine. She had been summoned, and that was never good. Being summoned has never serviced anyone quite well, has it?

She looked in the direction of her father’s room and there he was, wiping his hands with a towel. Her mother came out of the room with his dinner plate in her hands and rushed into the kitchen without even looking at her.

Meenakshi had no recollection of when she had entered her father’s room the last time. With calculated steps, as if she were entering an uncharted cave, she moved in.

“Yes, Baba?” she asked.

“Sit down.”

As usual, her father was dressed in all white—a white loose kurta and a white loose pyjama. It contrasted with the dark skin on his face and arms and made him look larger than he was. Almost like a specter in that mid-darkness of the room. Was he really like this now? At least, she had never seen those thin strands of gray hair in his sideburns. Then, even as she was scrutinizing him, he belched and then began.

“Meenu, you know you are my favorite daughter, don’t you?”

Meenakshi did not know that. She could not remember when her father had expressed anything to her directly.

“As a father, I am not supposed to be close to my daughters,” Shantaram continued. “That’s how our tradition goes, and that’s your mother’s duty anyway. But I try to express my love as much as I can.”

Meenakshi nodded.

“But, Meenu, you must know that a father’s love is different. A mother’s love is built on concern; a father’s love is built on hope.”

Meenakshi occupied herself in pulling at a string on her dress.

“Your mother tells me that you are growing, and I see that too. Growing up is a good thing, but your mother is concerned about it. She says you are still a child and you are growing too fast. Are you, Meenu?”

“I don’t know, Baba.”

“Look at that mango tree in our courtyard. You know how the cycle goes. The fruits first come out, little and green and extremely bitter. And in a few weeks, they become ripe and yellow and sweet. Now imagine if there was one of these fruits that did not follow the cycle. Imagine that parts of that fruit grew rapidly while the other parts still remained immature. Think of a yellow ripened fruit with its tart juices still inside. That would not be acceptable, no?”

“I… don’t understand.”

“Maybe I am not a good teacher. But your Aai tells me I should talk to you, and here I am talking to you. Meenu, I see you as someone capable of doing great things. Other fathers in this village restrict their daughters. I don’t. But to reach that sweet age of the yellow ripened fruit, you have to be patient. And careful.”

“All right.”

“This is a crucial time of your life. You have to be aware of the people around you. Especially men. Do everything that you like to do, but be aware of your surroundings.”

“I always am, Baba.”

“You don’t understand, child. Monsters will never show themselves as monsters. They will come hidden in various garbs. Sometimes they will look beautiful and tempting.” Then his tone suddenly changed. “Your friend, that boy, Tappu… is he back home yet?”

She felt a jolt of electricity running down her spine.

“What happened to him?” she asked, hoping her voice wouldn’t break.

“His mother had come looking for him while you girls were eating.”

“I haven’t seen him today,” Meenakshi said with a straight face.

“He is your age too,” Shantaram said. “See what I mean? He’s probably gone off somewhere, not caring for his folks at home. Look how distressed his mother is now.”

“I don’t know anything about him.”

“I am not saying you do.”

At that moment, Renuka walked in again. She had probably stood at the door, hearing every bit of the conversation.

“Where were you this afternoon then, Meenu?” she asked. “You took two hours to return from the grocery store. You walked in silently like a mouse, but I saw you.”

The pang in Meenakshi’s little heart grew more intense, and she hoped it didn’t thump so wildly so as to be noticed. Be still my beating heart, she muttered under her breath, but then her entreaties where lain to waste, for treacherous tears prickled her eyes.

“Why are you crying now? What did I say?”

Meenakshi tried to look up at her mother, but she could not. Yet, she knew her mother’s figure was looming overhead, for she could see the corner of her saree tucked into one side of her waist and her arm held firmly at the other side.

“I… I really don’t remember, Aai.”

“Didn’t you see Tappu at all?”

“No…” Then Meenakshi looked at her father. His head was bowed down as if in shame. Something broke Meenakshi’s heart at that gesture from the man she had always looked up to, and she said meekly, “Ye…es.”

“Why do you lie then? Where is he?” Renuka roared.

Now the tears came out like a bleeding wound that had broken its clot. And along with it came out spit and mucus and a lot of wheezing. “I tell you the truth, Aai… but you won’t believe me. I was returning… from the store. Tappu met me outside. You can ask Debu. Then Tappu asked me to go to the viheer with him.”

“Viheer?” Renuka’s eyebrows disappeared in her hairline. “Why?”

“He said we could play. And I went, but I didn’t really want to go, Aai, Baba. Believe me. He insisted.”

Shantaram said quietly, “What happened after that?”

“I remember sitting down with him. We were talking for a while and then… he just came close to me.” The bawls grew louder, almost to a deafening extent. The sisters came down at that, but Renuka shooed them away and shut the door.

“What happened then, Meenu? Did he touch you?”

Shantaram shot a look at his wife, but she waved him away, and waited for her daughter’s reaction.

Then, slowly but with purpose, Meenakshi nodded.

“And?”

“Then I don’t know anything. Believe me. I went blank. Totally blank. It was like I was sleeping, Aai. When I woke up, I was near our house gate and it was nearly evening.”

Renuka and Shantaram shared another look between them. It was an inscrutable expression this time, but there was disbelief written all over it.

“You don’t remember anything?” Shantaram asked.

“No.”

Shantaram stood up. He walked up to the door and began to put on his chappals.

“Where are you going now?” Renuka asked.

“To their house, where else? I have to see if—”

Renuka came closer to him and held him by the arm. “Listen to me, don’t go.”

“Why? His mother is looking all around the village. We have to tell her this.”

“Look at her.” Renuka pointed to Meenakshi. “We don’t know what really happened. People will come and question our girl.” Her voice went really low now. “And she says she blacked out. You see that? You don’t? I do. She is hiding something.”

Shantaram sat down. “But the boy—”

Renuka waved a hand of reassurance at him, as if telling him mothers know best about such things and fathers should not interfere.

She went to her weeping child and patted her on the back. “Sit here,” she said. “I’ll make some sherbet for all of us.”

Renuka was still putting the deep red kokum concentrate into water when a loud sound from the neighboring house shattered the silence. She almost dropped the glass.

She came running up to her husband. “What was that? What?”

Shantaram shoved her aside and walked out into the courtyard. He opened the gate which made a huge screech that set the dogs barking, and then disappeared into the neighbor’s compound.

“Oh my God!” Renuka exclaimed, clutching her bosom. She stood like that with bated breath, and when Meenakshi came up and kept her hand on her shoulder, she got a start.

For nearly ten minutes they stood like that, and then they saw the white ghost of the man of their house returning from the darkness he had vanished into.

Renuka ran up to him, “What happened, ho? Did they find the boy? Is he all right?”

Shantaram came back into the house, sat down, took the glass of sherbet, and sighed. All his daughters were around him now; Renuka could not shoo them away any longer.

“He has been found,” said Shantaram, and Renuka almost went ecstatic. “But—”

The silence that followed that ‘but’ could be cut with a knife.

“He is not himself. He is delirious, sort of. All dazed and stunned. I saw him, and I don’t advise you people to go see him right now. His mouth is open. I mean stuck open by some force, and his tongue is retracted all the way down to the throat. The Vaidya is trying to pull it out, or the boy might choke himself to death. His eyes aren’t closing either. Dazed, like he stared at something horrible and turned to stone. The boy is colder than the lake in winter.”

“Oh my God!” Renuka said again and looked at Meenakshi. The girl looked on with a frown, and possibly an expression of fear. “But at least he’s alive.”

“Why? What happened to Tappu, Aai?” Manda asked.

“You girls don’t talk now,” Renuka chipped in. “He has been found, that’s all. Hopefully he’ll be better tomorrow morning.”

The obedient girls filed into their rooms en masse, speaking to each other in muted whispers.

“Why are you here? You go too.”

Meenakshi turned at that and followed her sisters.

After the girls left, Renuka sat next to Shantaram, rubbing his hand, which had gone as cold as he had just described.

“Don’t worry. It will all be all right,” she said. There was no meaning in her words.

“You don’t understand,” Shantaram said. “If the boy comes to his senses tomorrow, he will tell exactly what had happened to him.”

Renuka felt her beat quicken. “I… I didn’t think of that.”

“We don’t know what happened, do we?”

“No, we don’t,” Renuka said. “Meenakshi does not seem to remember. Or she does, who knows? But what if the boy tells it tomorrow? What if this is something we cannot control?”

The man and woman had no answer to that. They sat like that up to a late hour in the lingering darkness, enveloped by the frantic sounds wafting up to them from the neighboring house.

 

 

(c) All copyrights reserved with Neil D’Silva

 

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This One Change Could Have Made Get Out a Totally Different Movie

(Image from the movie ‘Get Out’)

A lot of noise has been made about Jordan Peele’s Get Out, and here I am adding to that noise. But I am not going to get into the debate of how good or bad the movie was (because this movie has polarized people into both camps) and I am also not going to dissect the movie for its horror appeal. Instead, I am going to talk about just one thing, a purely cinematic input. Or, rather, something at the scriptwriting level.

Now I know I am taking a big leap here. Get Out has, after all, won the Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay, and that is the biggest certificate you can get for its merit. But when I watched it for the first time, I felt something amiss. I did not get what I wanted out of this much-recommended movie. The punch, for me, was missing. And this was despite the mid-movie twist. (I loved that reveal, by the way. Coagula, anyone?)

So, here follows my personal opinion. It’s a small tweak but it could have taken the movie to a different zone altogether. Again, this is just my opinion. Feel free to let me know your opinions on it. And I must say this now: major spoiler alert.

 

What Could Have Been Changed in Get Out? An Alternative Ending.

Let’s go to the second scene of the movie.

Chris and Rose are driving to Rose’s parents’ house. On the way, their car hits a deer. A white policeman then appears and we get the very first glimpse of racism when the policeman interrogates Chris. Rose intervenes and the case goes unreported.

After that, we don’t see the policeman again.

But…

Let’s move on to the very last scene.

By now, we know all there is to know. We know how the Armitage family uses Rose as a lure to trap African-American men into the house, and how the brains of these hapless but physically superior men are then implanted with the brain cells of dying white people so that they can live on in their bodies. So far, pretty much everything is confined to the Armitage house. In short, if you somehow “get out” of the Armitage house, everything is fine.

And now here’s my little thought…

 

What if?

What if, in the very last scene, when Chris has almost killed Rose and he himself is half-dead and his friend’s car arrives to get him out of the house…

What if… in this scene the car is not of his friend, but of the white policeman from the first scene? What if… that white policeman ends up incapacitating or even killing Chris and saving Rose?

And then taking Chris into the house, he implants another white man’s brain into him, effectively making him the next victim of what the Armitages are doing. Of course, this means that the white policeman is in on this conspiracy; heck, he’s very much a part of it.

Which brings the shuddering thought — how many white people are there outside who are in on this conspiracy? What you thought till now was only happening in the Armitage house might be happening in dozens, scores, hundreds of other places.

Don’t black men go missing all the time, never to be found again? Makes one shudder to think if this is what is happening to them. They are living on in some palatial and secluded white family home, but not really living on their own lives, and, like Chris, they can never really “get out” now.

 

This Is How Get Out Would Have Changed

  1. It would have established that this conspiracy is not just limited to the Armitage household, but is much more wide-reaching. City-wide perhaps, even state-wide. And even the police are on it. The scope of the movie suddenly increases to immense proportions.
  2. The movie gets another huge twist. After the mid-movie twist, there is now a final twist as well. And if the first twist shocked you, this one makes you terrified.
  3. The movie turns as dark as it gets, and in the very last scene that too.
  4. Everything doesn’t get tied up in a neat package, which somehow does not befit the horror genre.
  5. You get out of the movie theater with the sick and lingering feeling that poor Chris (and hundreds of other “missing” black men) can never really get out.

 

The way I see it, that would have been a great way to end a movie such as this. Get Out would have taken a deeper meaning which would not be so literal any longer.

Knowing that how many drafts a movie undergoes, and specifically knowing how involved Blumhouse is with all its films, I can practically vouch that I am not alone in this thought. It must have occurred to the writers too, but then the bigger question is — why did they not go ahead with this ending and chose the prettily-tied-up-with-a-bow finish?

 

In any case, what do you think of this alternative ending? Do post your comments below and let me know.

 

Neil D'SilvaThe writer Neil D’Silva is an author and screenwriter. He has six books to his credit and he writes for TV shows, digital shows, and films. He works primarily in the horror genre.

Here is his Amazon page.

The One Thing that is Missing in Hindi Horror Movies Today

– Neil D’Silva

There are two things that are absolutely true with Hindi horror movies today:

  • Everyone who is a creative producer (read: film/TV/digital show producers, channels, book publishers) wants to do something in horror.
  • But the horror that they put out rarely works.

Think about it. When was the last time that an Indian horror film or a show really had you scared? Really raised your hair in the theater and then kept playing out in your mind long after you had done watching it?

I’ll be really surprised if you have a ready answer for this one.

And the answer to why Hindi horror films are not working is not all that difficult, really.

Let’s go back a couple of decades. Eighties would be good. That was the time when Indian horror was at its prime (and probably the only decade it was). That was also the time when I was growing up as a child fascinated with the genre.

In those beautiful eighties, there was only one name in Indian horror, and no prizes for guessing it; I am talking of the Ramsays. Well, a lot of people might roll their eyes at the Ramsay brand of horror today, but back in those days, these low-budget horror movies were giving even top stars such as Amitabh Bachchan and Mithun Chakraborty tough competition. People were thronging the theaters for the Ramsay movies such as Dak Bangla, Tahkhana, Purana Mandir, Purani Haveli, Veerana, Bandh Darwaza, and many others. People were talking about them for days on end. Even today, horror fans worldwide are digging up the movies of the Ramsays, and are crinkling up their noses at the contemporary Vikram Bhatt brand of horror.

So, what was in the Ramsay’s horror movies that is missing in today’s horror movies? In one word — atmosphere.

Every Ramsay movie had this absolutely chilling atmosphere running throughout. Each movie had a different atmosphere, whether it was a mandir or a haveli or a cave or sometimes an entire village. And this atmosphere was not an afterthought; it was written into the scripts in such a strong manner that it become an identity of the film. Well, in some cases, the names of the movies were based on the location where there were taking place.

Long before the monsters appeared in these films, it was the atmosphere that freaked us out. A door opening, a window pane creaking, a curtain rustling… all of these things sent a chill down our collective spines. The poor monster would usually have only ten minutes of play-time, if he was lucky that is, but that was not where the real fear was.

In fact, in the Ramsay movies, the atmosphere was so profoundly built up that even when there were those filler comedy or sex scenes (which was a hallmark of their movies), there was a sense of dread.

The Ramsays were smart. They knew that once the monster came in, the shock, awe, despair, fear, all of that, were over. They knew that the entry of the monster meant that the movie now became an action movie of sorts.

That was one rule of horror that the Ramsays mastered with their Hindi horror movies — the foreplay is much more important than the actual bang-bang.

If you think I am giving the Ramsay movies too much weight here, think of the other horror director of India that met with success in the genre. Ram Gopal Verma in his early days. His horror movies, Raat, Vaastu Shastra, Phoonk, and Naina played on the psychology in a major way. In fact, even the insipid Bhoot was such a major success because for the first time an urban home was the setting of a mainstream horror film. And, I need to remind you of Kaun, of course. Though not technically horror, it is one of the scariest movies ever. That last pay-off, Urmila Matondkar’s dance of death on the terrace wall is something I will carry to my grave.

Heard about this little nugget of an Indian horror film — Gehrayee? India’s answer to The Exorcist, and what an answer! It is a possession film at its core, but the movie spends a significant amount of time in the evolution of the girl and how it impacts the people around her. The actual frights come in much later in the movie. And again, what a pay-off!

In the 80s and 90s, even the TV horror shows knew how to do this right. I can name at least two TV horror shows that can send a chill down your spines even today. Stone Boy and Aghori (the one starring Rajesh Vivek as Baba Shandilyanath). Terrifying shows, both. And people of the 80s and 90s who watched them still remember them. Again, what was the common factor in them? You guessed it — they were brain-numbing atmospheric delights with a slow-burn build-up that would never go away.

This is so true in all the classic horror movies of Hollywood as well. One of the movies that well and truly scared me out of my skin was The Silence of the Lambs. What a movie! Now that’s a movie I will think twice before watching even today, even though I know it frame by frame. But those who know this Oscar-winning movie will identify with this — where were the jump-scares? And similarly, where were the jump-scares in any of the other horror greats, such as Psycho, Rosemary’s Baby, The Shining, Children of the Corn… The list can go on.

That’s what is missing in Hindi horror movies and shows today. Everyone is too busy stuffing jump-scares at every opportunity. Stories are written around jump-scares; that’s how sad it is. People want to fill in a jump-scare right in the first scene when you don’t even know the characters, much less care about them. That is a definite wasted jump-scare, and it spoils your experience because now you know the extent to which the movie can scare you.

Instead, how about creating (and investing) in a slow-burn horror that doesn’t just horrify but also terrify? How about creating an experience that is well and truly hair-raising? Horror doesn’t need monsters and lonely girls walking long corridors in search of them. It needs an atmosphere that we would not want to get into.

(All image sources: IMDB)

The writer Neil D’Silva is an author and screenwriter. He has six books to his credit and he writes for TV shows, digital shows, and films. He works primarily in the horror genre.

Here is his Amazon page.