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

by with No Comment Beach Writing Challenge

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.

The Dhoklu Series (Episode 2)

by with One Comment Episode Two - Licked in the Literary Nuts

RECAP (loosely translated for my Hindi-speaking friends as: Phir se topi pehnana)

(Read Episode One: Nipped in the Literary Bud here.)

In the previous episode, we saw how Dhoklu’s mother kindled (a beautiful word, BTW – Dhoklu is going to learn so much more about the word ‘kindle’ in the near future, and… so many meanings of it!) a spark of literary aspirations in his little mind. We saw how Dhoklu’s teachers and Education Board murdered those very dreams before they started (for references, look at anyone educated in your vicinity, even yourself – 99 in 100 people are doing anything but what their “education” taught them). Then we saw how Dhoklu finally revealed his aspirations to his father who immediately jingled his cash-filled deep kurta pockets and told him to go ahead and make it large.

 

Let’s see now how large.

Episode 2

Licked in the Literary Nuts

(Written by Neil D’Silva)

After duly searching and researching on what ‘vanity publishing’ means, Dhoklu sat down for a breather. His dad asked him about it, and Dhoklu, like the learned man he was now told him – “Papa, paisa aapvanu chhe ane publish thai jashe!”  (“Papa, we have to pay money and I will be published!”)

Papa heard ‘paisa’ and sat down. This was a part he was proficient with. There was a flurry of questions such as ‘ketla paisa’, ‘kone aapva padshe’, ‘returns ketla malshe’ (‘how much money’, ‘whom to pay the money to’, ‘what will be the returns’) and about a dozen more in the same vein, and when it was finally and fully appropriated (through highly optimistic projections) that for every 1 rupee investment there could be a return of 10000 rupees, Ranchhodbhai called up the downstairs Sankalp Pure Ghee Mithai Shop for half-a-kilo kaju katri and another half motichoor laddu.

Dhoklu thanked his lucky stars that his father had not yet asked him about which book he was planning to write. Or about its subject. Or about its characters. Or even the title. So far, Dhoklu was in safe zone. Very safe zone.

The Publisher

Next day, between 10:37 and 10:55 in the morning, Dhoklu was busy on a call. His mother duly shushed the children playing cricket on the street outside, and shouted with as loud a whisper as she could manage, “Dhoklu na Delhi thi call aiwa chhe! Chhup raho!”  (“Dhoklu has received a call from Delhi! Keep quiet!”) After making sure that the neighbors had heard her whisper, she shut the window pane.

So, Dhoklu kept the phone down and the next moment, his family gathered around him. Like a man possessed with a dream that’s turning into reality, Dhoklu announced that the call was from Delhi (where else!). Actually, 113 km away from proper Delhi, but who cares for such stuff? It was a vanity publisher, who insisted on being called self publisher. He told everything that Dhoklu needed to do (except the part about writing the book, of course!) There was clear business talk about how Dhoklu would have to buy back 500 copies of his own book once they were published.

Ranchhodbhai interrupted at that point. 500 x 120 = 60000. “Rupya ne? Dollar to nathi?”  No. It was not doh-lar as he had pronounced it. Then that was perfect. 60000 was less than what he had spent on feeding his entire family and their families Gujarati thalis from Maharaja Bhog on his eldest daughter’s son’s first birthday. And then treated them en masse to a show of Bajrangi Bhaijaan (most people’s sixth viewing), where the ladies sat together in the front four rows, and the men in all the comfortable back rows. This publishing thing was definitely doable. He patted his grown son’s back like a man possessed.

So, father and son deliberated for a good three hours on which publisher to contact. They went through the websites given to them by Google Baba, and finally father and son zeroed in upon one of them. Ranchhodbhai drove this decision mostly based on the fact that the homepage had the pictures of the right gods and the directors of the company had the right surnames.

The next day, the contract came on email. Dhoklu was very happy on seeing the contract, because it was about ten flimsy points on a green page, that did not even come up to half the page. The title was a blank line for now, which suited Dhoklu all the more! And the language was something Dhoklu could understand very well. It was definitely not the complex and show-offy kind he had read in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer when in school. This was so simple to grasp – “Auther does not lays claims to His books fr nxt 10 Yrs.”

Ranchhodbhai whooped with joy again. “Royalty!” he jumped. “Royalty lakha chhe! Dhoklu, tu to Raja bani gaya re!” (“Royalty is written! Dhoklu, you have become a king!”)

The next day, the entire extended family went to the post office to courier the contract, speed post no less. Firecrackers were burst on the road, and children danced on the Gujarati dubs of Bahubali songs. The womenfolk stood suitably 60 meters away from the menfolk, and everyone gossiped about how Dhoklu was embarking on something that no one had done before.

Dhoklu thanked his lucky stars no one had yet asked him his book’s title.

Dhoklu’s Friends

Now that the news was out that Dhoklu was writing the next bestseller (a word that had gained a lot of currency in that village overnight), the friends – all boys, of course – started pouring in one by one. Dhoklu’s mother had almost permanently positioned herself at the door so that the friends could suitably touch her feet before moving inside.

Every friend came armed with suitable praise – one comment each, and one for backup in case someone else used that one before them. This was quite a difficult task though, because Dhoklu had never been a popular student, and people did not know what to really say to him or about him. So, by the end of the samosa-and-Fanta filled day, Dhoklu was left with comments like, “Dhoklu is so observant! Now I know why he used to keep staring at the girls’ section in the class all the time,” and “Dhoklu has always been a man of words and not of action – remember the time you said you’d come with me to talk to Bhavani Mam and never showed up?”

Meanwhile, Ranchhodbhai had positioned himself by the window with the phone. The 31.30 minute call was to Taarakbhai, and there was definitely a purpose. The purpose was in the form of Ankita, Taarakbhai’s daughter who probably was of marriageable age now. Or maybe a little less, who cares? Hopefully she had returned from wherever in London she had gone for whatever studies she wanted to do.

Studies! Bah! These girls of today…

Come back tomorrow when we continue Dhoklu’s saga. Read about Dhoklu’s new Apple computer and broadband Internet connection on which he discovers the greatest resource for writers there can ever be – Facebook.

The Dhoklu Series (Episode 1)

by with One Comment Episode One - Nipped in the Literary BudThe Dhoklu Series

Nipped in the Literary Bud

(Written by Neil D’Silva)

 

Dhoklu could have been a literary genius. His name could have been shining right up there with all the Chetan Bhagats and the Amish Tripathis and the person who wrote the Chacha Chowdhary series whose name he does not remember now (all Dhoklu’s great – and only – inspirations), but sadly it did not happen. He could have won a Booker or a Pulitzer or maybe Amdavad’s New Debut Litstar Award (ANDLA) but it never happened. And we will never know what a genius Dhoklu could have become.

It will be too depressing for you to know what Dhoklu is doing today after his literary dreams were shattered, so I shall not speak about that, but it might help a couple of us here to know what really shattered Dhoklu’s dreams.

So, these are the culprits right here.

Dhoklu’s Mother

Imagine literary murder. Nay, literary terrorism. And imagine the terrorist standing right there with the automated weapon that’s known only with its acronym and its serial number. And imagine the terrorist massacring literature in cold blood. Well, that’s Dhoklu’s mother right there.

Now, don’t get me wrong. This quintessential Indian Maa did all the right things. She doted on her Dhoklu like she definitely should have. But the moment the poor woman saw the beautiful curves of Dhoklu’s English writing in his III Standard (those were the days we said III Standard and not Grade 3 like today), which were suitably assisted with his newly-bought China pen filled with Chelpark ink, the lady went into a state of euphoric high. And then she said those brutal words that marred Dhoklu’s psyche forever – “Dhoklu, tu ketla saras lakhe chhe! Writer bani jaao!” (“Dhoklu, you write so well! Become a writer!”)

Those were the bullets that she assaulted our poor Dhoklu with, and the wounds never healed. Maa kabhi jhoot nahin bolti and all that, so how could Dhoklu not believe in it? Like Mithun Chakraborty of yore, Dhoklu took it upon himself to become a writer, by hook or by crook. Mostly the latter.

But today Dhoklu is wiser, and Dhoklu has learned. Dhoklu has understood the impact of his mother’s carelessly spoken words. That is why he almost had an altercation with his wife last week when she told their son Paatru – “Paatru, tu ketla saras lakhe…”  “NOOO!” Dhoklu yelled out. “Stop it right there!” Well, Dhoklu’s wife stopped, but not before ending it tearfully with, “Pann hoon to… hoon to keval Paatru ne protsahit karwa maan aavi hati… nahitar Patel ni putri handwriting competition jeeti jashe!” (“But I was… I was only saying this to encourage Paatru… otherwise Patel’s daughter will win the handwriting competition!”)

Dhoklu’s Teachers

Oh, Dhoklu had several Taare Zameen Par moments when he was a kid. That’s not at all surprising, is it? Most of us writers have had those. Maybe we did not see animated fish in a bottle, but we have had our individual fantasies. Dhoklu had them too. And he might have worked on them as well, but his teachers, his brutish teachers…

They gave him homework. Which was nothing more than writing the chapter on Solar Energy ten times, copying it word to word.

And then there was his tuition teacher (whom his mother referred to as too-shun teacher), whose only religion was the term exams. And her only procedure was to make the student know the answers so fluently that they could say that in their sleep.

Well, once Dhoklu’s school did the unthinkable and prescribed an actual literary book – The Adventures of Tom Sawyer – for casual reading. It was a good initiative, of course, and Dhoklu could actually have seen what literature looks like, but then his teachers brutally murdered poor Dickens by making Dhoklu mug up answers to questions such as “Why is Huck Finn admired by all boys in the class?” which was suitably translated as “Chokraaon na Hook Feen kem gamay chhe?”

Dhoklu’s Education Board

Oh, why blame the individuals when the system itself can be put to shame? And deservedly so. Things would have been so radically different if there was ICSE in Dhoklu’s time. But all the poor stifled genius had was to make do with the State Board.

And, believe me if you will, this was a State Board with the most pathetic textbooks ever. It was a Board that did not differentiate between ‘Suez Canal’ and ‘Sewage Canal’. This was a Board where African natives were referred to with the N-word. This was a Board which said that astronauts go to space wearing helmets. I kid you not!

This was also a Board where the only literary pieces in the Standard X textbook were written by people of dubious merit such as Shobha De. Oh, they did have literature, but that literature was poorly-translated versions of Munshi Premchand’s stories. Like, Bade Ghar ki Beti was transliterated as ‘Daughter of Big House’.

And the Board Exams! The big sham known as Board Exams. The kind where all you do is cram, cram, cram, and go and puke, puke, puke. The Great Indian Vomiting Marathon, if you will. They didn’t help Dhoklu one bit.

Now tell me, under these circumstances, what could poor Dhoklu do?

Well, there is ICSE Board now, and Dhoklu’s son Paatru is a proud student of the Board, but sadly Dhoklu and his wife are not. Hence, half of Paatru’s proper learning is unlearnt because of his parents and his tuition teacher. Hopefully, in the next generation…

Dhoklu’s Father

Dhoklu’s father came into the picture of his literary world quite late in the day. After he turned 57, to be precise, when it was found that his blood sugar was too high to continue running around for his garment business. But by then he had earned enough and with suitable investments in all the right places, that paid him more than the average salaries of ten Indian families, he could very well retire.

That was also around the time when Dhoklu told him – very hesitatingly, I might add – that he wished to be a published writer. The guffaw that followed shook the very foundations of Gajanan Apartments for a whole ten minutes, until the neighboring Chhedas and Prajapatis came to inquire if everything was all right with Ranchhodbhai, and when they left, Ranchhodbhai asked his son if he was really serious.

Well, Ranchhodbhai had money. And a small dream of seeing his son’s name on a publication did ring a bell somewhere. He might have thought it was his contribution to the alien world of intelligence that he had never been a part of thus far, and, what the ho! He had money, didn’t he?

“Jaa, beta, jee le apni zindagi!” he said in truly filmi style and Dhoklu ran in slow motion to his computer and typed in the Google search box – carefully, letter by letter, thinking of the spelling as he proceeded – ‘how to get published in India’.

And the whole family rejoiced when they saw the top ten results. Ranchhodbhai read them slowly too, and then asked, “Dhoklu, aa v-a-n-i-t-y soo chhe?” And Dhoklu smiled back. “Search karoon chhoo, Papa.”

Dhoklu’s saga continues in the next episode. Read it here now:

Episode Two: Licked in the Literary Nuts

(c) Neil D’Silva

Suicide Point (Part 2 of 2) | Short Story by Neil D’Silva

by Serialized FictionSuicide Point

 

Suicide Point | Short Story by Neil D’Silva

Part 2

(This is a two-part story. Read the first part here.)

“How can you promise that?” she asked.

“I know,” said Sahil. He sat down next to her. “I have a wife whom I love dearly. More than anything else in this world. One year ago, we found out that we cannot have kids. There’s something wrong with her uterus. It shattered her. I have never told her, but it shattered me too. I cannot tell her that, can I? I have to be the strong one. But becoming a father would have meant so much to me. Anyway, we are fine now. We thought there was nothing left in our existence, but here we are, each day finding new meaning in our lives. It’s her birthday today, by the way.”

“I see,” said the woman. “A happy birthday to her. She’s a lucky one indeed! What’s her name?”

“Mala,” said Sahil. He was sharing personal details with a strange woman on a strange night, but if the conversation could veer her out of her suicidal thoughts, it could be his good deed for the day.

“Why aren’t you with her on her birthday then?” asked Sumanlata. “Is she in the car?”

“No,” said Sahil. “I am going to her. I hope I can make it in time.”

“Then you must go. Don’t wait out with me.”

“I cannot leave you like this,” said Sahil. “I cannot leave a woman to end her life this way. I won’t ever find peace if I did that. It would be like having blood on my hands.”

“Oh!” said the woman. “Don’t say it like that. I don’t want my decision to affect your plans. You seem to be a nice man. You carry on.”

“Does that mean you are going back home too?”

“No,” she said. “There is nowhere I’d like to go to at the moment. I’d better wait out here for a while.”

Sahil looked at his watch. “Okay,” he decided. “I’ll hang around for a few minutes more. Let’s see if I can talk you into going home. Where do you live, by the way?”

“In the city. About half an hour from here.”

“How did you come here? Is there a car?”

She pointed towards the bushes. “It’s parked in there. Your car is a nice one, you know.”

“Thanks,” he said. “It’s Mala’s choice. She wanted the more expensive one.” He smiled.

“I see,” she said. “Does Mala work?”

“No.”

“How did you two meet? I’d like to hear the tale,” she said, “that is, if you really intend to sit here.”

“Sure,” he said. “It’s one of my favorite tales, you know. I was this geeky nerdy person in college, oiled hair and buttoned-down shirts and all, totally into studies, and I bumped into this girl in the canteen. Quite literally, you know, I dropped her books like it happens in the movies. There was a moment, but then I reminded myself I was in my final year of engineering. I could not afford distractions. It was she who took the lead though. She chased me till I fell for her—not literally this time, fell in love I mean.”

“Interesting!” she said. “Did you complete your engineering?”

Sahil laughed. “No! That never happened. That was the year I discovered what love meant. We got married and here we are.”

“So, what do you work as?”

“I tried to start a business with digital electronics.”

“Oh, a brainy one! I like to meet a brainy one. What happened to the business?”

“It didn’t work. Now between things.”

“Why did it not work?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I was too depressed. Who knows?”

“Because of the news of your wife?”

Sahil looked at her.

“The uterus, I mean?”

“Yeah, could be,” said Sahil.

“But that does not matter, does it? So what if you could not complete your education or become a rich man. You still have your wife, don’t you?”

“Don’t say it like that,” said Sahil. “I have no regrets at all. She’s the best thing to happen to me. Money isn’t everything, you know?”

“Of course, it isn’t. Love is. Look at me; I am still looking for love.”

“Are you okay now?” Sahil asked. “I hope your mind is easier.”

“I’m feeling better, that’s for sure,” said the woman. “You are such a wonderful storyteller. I can almost see Mala. So, how is she? Long hair or short?”

“Short. She’s almost a boy,” Sahil laughed.

“What kind of clothes does she like?”

“She likes casual. Oh, she wouldn’t want to be caught dead in a saree.”

“Why? Sarees are nice,” the woman said. “I love sarees. See this white one I’m wearing.”

“Yeah, that’s a bit strange. Aren’t white sarees usually worn by—”

“—widows,” she completed. “Yes, say it. I don’t mind. I am a widow already, isn’t it? He’s gone.” A teardrop formed again in her almost dried up eye.

“I’m sorry I said that,” Sahil said.

“Forget it,” she said. “You should be going now. Mala will miss you.”

“Yes, she will, but it is all right,” he said. “I can tell her I was held up.”

“You will lie to her? Why?”

“She’d be upset if I told her the real thing.”

“Why?” the woman asked. “Are we doing anything that’s bad?”

“You don’t understand,” said Sahil. “We are in a situation that’s easy to misinterpret. Anyone would.”

“Then go.”

“I don’t know,” said Sahil. “I am enjoying this conversation actually. I have never spoken about these things with anyone. You are helping me see the light.”

“Am I?” she said. “About Mala, she seems to have you on a tight leash.”

Sahil looked at the woman. The tears had again gone, and there was a genuinely curious look on her face. “How did you arrive at that conclusion?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” said the woman. “You are rushing to catch her on her birthday. Isn’t it because you are worried she’d be angry at you? Driving at this hour means you couldn’t get out of your work the whole day. Now you tell me you need to lie to her. All this, despite the fact that she chased you into marriage and not you?”

He shot an ugly look at the woman. He should have got up at that moment and stormed out of the conversation but a part of him wanted more of this self-analysis. Such things had crossed his mind earlier, but he hadn’t dared to think about them further.

“Come to think of it,” he said, “Mala is a bossy one. She did send me a letter in blood when she was, you know, pursuing me.”

“That’s horrid!”

“It was. I was repulsed actually.”

“Why doesn’t she work? It might be difficult for you, right?”

“She’s not the working type,” said Sahil.

“How does she spend her day then?”

“Watching television mostly. Sometimes she goes to her friends’ houses and has parties.”

“Funny how one person has to do all the work,” said the woman. “I mean, it’s expensive, isn’t it? A house in the city is terribly expensive. Do you have your own house?”

“Yes. It’s on installments.”

“Good Lord! How many years more?”

“Fifteen.”

“That’s an age!” she said. “Do you earn enough?”

“Most times, yes,” said Sahil. “But there’s little else I can do. Like I cannot get her the gifts she wants or take her to the places she wants to go to.” He buried his head in his hands. “The installment decision was horrible. It has fucked up my life. There is this constant fear that I won’t be able to pay and will land in jail. Am I a bad husband?”

“Of course you are not!” she said. “But you have to set a few things in order. You need to make sure you earn more. Ask your wife to contribute too. As it is, you won’t have children to look after.”

“Oh God!” Sahil let out a big breath at the reminder. “I’m in such a miserable condition. I am working my ass off to retain this house, this life, and what for? There is no one to leave this to. One day, the fuse will blow and that’s it. I am gone. What is the use of all this?”

“It will work out fine,” she said, holding his hand. “There’s a solution to everything.”

“There isn’t for this,” said Sahil. “What have I put myself into? Everywhere I see I am trapped. This loan, this loneliness, this marriage…”

There was a moment of silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it that way. I am not trapped in my marriage. Am I?”

She passed her fingers through his hair.

“Am I?” he repeated.

“Once you are in, you are in,” she said. “You know what? I think we are sailing in the same boat. The only difference is that you are married. I am not. You are trapped and so am I. Once my belly starts showing, people will want to know whose child it is. What do I tell them?”

“There’s no way out,” he said. “Not for me, at least.”

“Now you understand why I am here?” she said. “There is something in this—ending your life. You are free from all these problems. What’s the meaning of this existence anyway? What are you going to get out of it? I don’t want to bring this child into the world either because all he or she is going to face is ridicule.”

Sahil had tears in his eyes now. How had the night suddenly become darker? Gloomier? “And to think I bought a diamond bracelet for her. I spent my three months’ earnings on that fucking thing.”

“It could be the last you spend on her,” said the woman.

“What do you mean?”

The woman got up and took Sahil’s hand. He got up too, and she led him into the thicket behind them. There it was—the gnarled banyan tree that was the terminal point of a dozen and a half disappointed lives so far.

“If you are brave, we can end it all,” she said.

He looked at her aghast at first, and then slowly mellowed down into an expression of understanding.

“I have done the research,” she said. “The noose is already put up. I was sitting there crying because I had a weak moment, but now I am sure. I am going to end it.”

He did not say anything. He noticed the midnight hour had passed.

“Do you want to do it together? You can use the noose. I will tie my saree on the other branch and hang myself from there,” she said.

Sahil’s life passed in front of his eyes. The mask had been taken off. So far, he had deluded himself into thinking he led an ideal urban existence, but he now saw the muck that lay beneath the glossy exterior. The reality of his life stared at him now, and there was no mistaking the termite-ridden ruination of it.

“Yes,” he said. “It will put me out of all problems.”

She went behind the tree and took off her saree. “I’ll put this up too,” she said. She climbed up the twisted branch and hung the makeshift noose from a low-hanging branch. Then she came down and placed a log under the two nooses.

“We climb up this log,” she said, “put the noose around our necks and then kick the log away. As it will roll away, our lives will be gone too. It is easy and the most painless way out, believe me. You go up first.”

Sahil put his foot on the log. The log rolled and he fell. Then she held it with her foot and asked him to try again. He balanced himself more carefully now, and took small steps until he reached the noose. She started coming up too.

“Look ahead and put the noose around your neck,” she said. “I am doing the same.”

With trembling fingers, Sahil placed the noose around his neck.

“At the count of three, okay?” she said. Sahil stretched his hand to hold hers, but he could reach her.

“Okay,” he said.

“Here goes then… one… two… three!”

The log rolled instantly. The noose, which was until now a loose coil around his neck, suddenly tightened with all its merciless brutality, and bit into the flesh of Sahil’s neck. His neck choked, completely shutting off his windpipe. His nostrils took in a huge amount of air but there was no way for it to reach his lungs.

He heard a bone in his throat snap.

And just as life was going out of him, he saw the woman standing right in front of him, laughing with a menacing expression in her bloodshot eyes.

“Surprised?” she said as his eyes closed. “Don’t be. Things like death cannot kill me.”

The next morning’s newspapers bore a headline:

Nineteenth suicide at Suicide Point.

END

 

Read more free stories from Neil D’Silva.

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The Birth of Maya’s New Husband

by with No Comment Author ProfileThe Birth of Maya's New Husband

The Calling at Calangute

In the pleasantly warm month of August 2014, my family and I went on our annual food, fun and frolic pilgrimage to the wonderful carnival and cashew feni state of Goa. Over the years, this has become almost a ritual for us, a way to unwind from the hectic mores of the routine Mumbai life.

The Calangute Beach Residency where Neil D’Silva’s novel Maya’s New Husband took birth

Now my family consists of me, of course, my wife Anita, and our two lovely angels, Gilmore and Felicia. The kids are quite a handful, but they keep our spirits high. Most of our trips are centered on them, as they should be; there’s precious little that we do for ourselves.

Every year, our trips to Goa turn out to be the annual highlights. We begin looking forward to them from March itself, and the year of 2014 was no different. However, that was only as far as anticipation goes. For, when the trip actually began, we suffered, right from the outset, from a severe case of Murphy’s Law. For the uninitiated, this Law states: If anything has to go wrong, it will.

So, in Goa, this year, everything began going wrong. We decided to go by train this year, which turned out to be a bad idea. Blighted by gregarious co-passengers and facing inordinate delays, we somehow reached Goa. We alighted during a sudden torrential downpour, in which we traveled to our destination — Colva. This was a long and onerous journey because of the rain and a major road accident ahead of us. The next day, we had to go to Calangute, our final destination, and that journey turned out to be misery personified as well. In any case, when we reached Calangute, we were told — horror of horrors — that there was an issue with our booking. Despite having a two-month advance booking, due to an oversight (mea culpa), we had to give up the reservation and then footed it along the beach to another hotel I knew had rooms available.

Finally, we downgraded ourselves, and found ourselves in a passable accommodation, where we would pass our next three days in bliss.

But, alas! Bliss it was not meant to be! For, the very moment that we dumped our bags at our hotel, Anita caught the chills. She ran a temperature, which was brought down by the antipyretics we carried with us, but she was too emaciated to travel anymore. She could only join in the fun from the hotel room.

So, this was the trip in summation. But, what has all of this got to do with Maya’s New Husband?

I’m coming to that.

The one most wonderful thing about our impromptu accommodation was that it gave us a magnificent view of the salty Goan sea. We were right on the beach, and the balcony opened out to the sounds of the lashing waves at every hour of the day.

On the second night there, after the kids had slept, Anita and I sat on this very balcony, close to each other, snuggled in one warm blanket, and looked at the stars. We spoke of general things, mostly about our lives back home, because that ghost never seems to leave us. But, somewhere midway through this conversation, I was reminded of Longfellow’s brilliant phrase: Footprints on the sands of time.

This created a passion in me like no other. I began thinking aloud, with my patiently-listening wife for company. What would happen of me when my journey here is done? Would I be obliterated just like that? Would I be one of those nameless, fameless grains of sand? Or, would I leave a few of my footprints on the sands of time?

What legacy would I leave behind?

I thought aloud, and she listened. And then I told her that I have to follow my dreams. Because, well, ars longa, vita brevis. I decided, then and there, that from that moment on, I will give wings to my fancies. I will leave my footprints in the form of my stories.

I brought my laptop out that night when everyone had slept, and sat through the dead of the night, in that quaint hotel on Calangute Beach, Goa, chipping away at the machine. It was around 3 in the morning that the initial words of Maya’s New Husband began to take shape.

The Inspiration

The story of Maya’s New Husband chose me. I did not choose it.

Horror had always fascinated me, but, for me, horror isn’t just about spirits and ghosts and vampires. It is much more. Real horror is that which you can feel. Real horror needs to have its element grounded in reality. Horror stories that play out in our real world are the ones that are the scariest.

Here, again, my marriage with Anita became an inspiration for the story. Ours was a so-called ‘arranged’ marriage. We knew each other just for a little less than a year before we got married. This is too short a time to understand each other, their likes and dislikes, their pet peeves and fond fancies, or anything for that matter. Despite that, we took the plunge.

From that first day of marriage itself, I had an awareness of how much harder the marriage must have been on her than on me. She was the one who had left everything behind and made a home with me. I was still in the same house I lived in. Her stakes were undoubtedly higher.

Millions of women marry in this manner in India each year. Knowing practically nothing about their husbands, they aspire to make their homes with them. And, a lot of times, they face unspeakable horrors at the homes of these unknown husbands.

What if, a woman married someone who held the most terrifying secret within him? Won’t each moment with such a man be present a new horror for the poor woman?

This was the basic grain of the horror element of Maya’s New Husband. The horror is not because of the themes; it is because of this desolation that Maya surrounds herself with in her new house.

My inspiration took form from my personal observations, and Maya took shape.

View from balcony of Calangute Beach Residency that inspired D’Silva to write MNH

 

The Process

I could not have written the story if I hadn’t been introduced to National Novel Writing Month in 2014. Towards this end, many things had been instrumental. My brother, Roy, helped me in creating an author website. As the website was created, I saw how my short stories got a concrete platform. My interest was piqued, and I started sharing my stories with people, and got a heartening response.

This was what made me confident of writing a full-fledged novel. It was time to give Maya’s New Husband a shape too. During the NaNoWriMo month, I started writing right from November 1, 2014. I wrote all through this month, religiously clocking in several hours every day. Finally, the manuscript was finished on November 21, 2014.

I won the certificate as a NaNoWriMo 2014 Winner. I proudly shared it with everyone I knew.

When we were a week into December, I sat with the editing of the novel. Anita sat next to me all through those hours, and as she read it, I saw the expressions on her face and realized this was something that could hold people’s interest. I shared the story with a few other people and found similar reactions. I knew I had something monumental in my hands; now all I had to do was to edit it thoroughly and share it with the world.

Maya’s New Husband underwent three complete revisions. I added scenes, deleted fluff and when the third version was done, I got the feeling that this was ready to go.

Around this time, I did some research on self-publishing. This is really an amazing thing! Writers no longer have to grovel at the feet of traditional publishers; they can hold out on their own. The Internet is a wonderful place.

On January 1, 2015, I put forth the eBook to the world. It earned strong reviews right from day 1. Maya’s New Husband had taken off.

On January 18, 2015, I was ready with the print version. This was launched at a happening online event, where some of the best self-published Indian authors attended. The event was buzzing through the night, and the book arrived in its print form.

Today, as I see the print version of Maya’s New Husband, I get a feeling that cannot be described in words. Yet, I am only humbly reminded of the beautiful words of another masterful poet, Robert Frost:

But I have promises to keep

And miles to go before I sleep

And miles to go before I sleep.

 

Read the entire success story of Maya’s New Husband here.