time-1178121_1280

Start This Now to Save Tomorrow’s World

time-1178121_1280Have you ever noticed the structure of the word ‘reading’? I am not talking about the meaning of it; I am talking about its pure grammatical structure.

Consider this sentence: I love reading.

In this sentence, ‘reading’ functions as a noun – I love what? I love reading! But it is a strange noun ending with -ing, isn’t it? The -ing forms are usually occur in verbs to indicate a progressive or continuous activity.

Such nouns that end with -ing are called gerunds. But, technicalities aside, why is the action ‘to read’ accorded with an -ing noun form? (Think about it; there is no other noun form of this verb!)

Is it because the grammarians of old, or those people who made up the English language, wanted to give us the subtle message that ‘reading’ is something that has to be progressive and continuous, a never-ending activity?

I’d surely like to think so. Reading is something that cannot be done away with. It needs to always be an ongoing activity.

I stumbled across a clip of a famous movie recently in which a student asks a teacher, “Sir, why do you read?” And the teacher looks at the student with longing fondness and replies, “My son, I read because I am human.”

We talk a lot about ‘being human’ nowadays. But I don’t think wearing T-shirts with ‘Being Human’ printed on them is really being human. Instead, I strongly feel that one of the most essential elements of ‘being human’ is ‘reading’, regardless of what you wear. Or don’t.

Reading exposes us to the larger world that’s outside us. It tells us what kind of differences exist among cultures, civilizations, communities, countries, cities, and makes us more accepting. As a teacher, I often come across situations in my classroom when there is a mention of a foreign name or a tradition, and that usually elicits sniggers or derision from the adolescents, but seldom appreciation, let alone acknowledgment.

It usually goes like this: Chuwamba – what kind of a name is that? She leaves her parents to fulfill her ambitions – how selfish can she be? The man eats beef – he’s the worst sinner; kill him. The French eat cheese with worms and the Chinese eat fried insects – blech! That is what I get to hear whenever there is any mention of any foreign culture, and it does get woeful after a time.

But at least there is hope for these students. We are reading out to them. Maybe they will pick up the reading habit on their own after a while and come out of this frog-in-the-well and my-nation-is-the-best-and-rest-all-suck attitude. Maybe we teachers will be able to prevent another generation of illiterate and uninformed religious and nationalist jingoists from being created. Maybe reading is the solution that all of us are looking for.

We talk of tolerance? Tolerance comes through reading. A person who does not read becomes intolerant because, for them, only what they know is right. And because they haven’t read much, they do not know much. Everything outside their myopic line of vision is alien and therefore unacceptable and – most often – even a threat. Which is what makes them retaliate, often in brutal savage forms, leading to riots and aggressive protests that should hold no place in a civilized society.

Note also that there is no unique past tense form of ‘read’ as well, at least as far as the spelling is concerned. ‘Read’ is the past tense of ‘read’. Another subliminal message there, methinks – reading never gets into the past. It is always present, it is always continuous. What you read stays with you for a lifetime, shaping you, molding you, improving you bit by bit.

Just the right material for human progress.

So don’t keep that book away. Don’t skip that chance to enter the bookstore. Get reading. Be a part of human progress. Be human in the true sense.

What’s in Grandma’s Suitcase? (Part 2 of 2)

Read the first part of this story here.

No one spoke with no one in my house after that. I rarely saw Eddie, and whenever I saw him, he was too drunk to see me. And mother lost all her beauty in that one day. She sat forlorn and sad, up in her room, hardly ever moving out of it.

No one had ever visited our house much anyway. The front door rarely opened, except for Eddie going in and out as he pleased. There wasn’t any food prepared in the house either. When I felt hungry, and asked mother about it, she would not respond. On the third day, when my stomach began to growl with hunger, I walked up to the kitchen myself and tried to get whatever I could.

I hoped and prayed to Jesus to make everything all right. All these things, despite all those Sunday Masses… was this because we were all living in sin in some way? But Jesus is all-forgiving, isn’t He? Yes. Hadn’t Father Jacob said at Mass that Jesus knows all and forgives all?

Would he forgive my father? Or my mother?

I do not know. I would not have forgiven them even if I were Jesus. But I wanted their forgiveness. It was the only thing that would make things better in the house.

The loneliness began to eat me up. Being undesired is one thing; being unwanted is entirely another. I would probably understand one day why my mother had not desired me before my birth, but how could she not want me after I was here? How could she shun my very presence when I was here, in front of her, in flesh and blood?

I think all her silent brooding was repentance for her evil thoughts.

Finally, the day arrived when I knew I could not stay in that house any longer. What would you do in a house where no one spoke a word to you, much less prepare food for you, or involve you in anything they did? Of what use are their tears and silence? Grandma had left the home, and then I suddenly realized—no one had ever taken my name in the house except her.

In the darkness of that night, I made an important decision.

I decided to run away from the house.

I knew exactly what to do. So, when both of them slept that night, I walked up to the door, opened it as silently as I could, walked out in the same clothes I had been wearing since the past three days, and closed the door behind me.

The night was dark, but I hadn’t expected anything else. I had chosen the night for I did not want to bump into anyone my parents knew, for there would be uncomfortable questions I did not have answers to. Thus, I stole away, my hands in my pockets, braving the cold and the horrors, and walked along the single road, which was all my village had. I hoped I was going in the right direction.

And I knew in the morning that I was right.

When the first light of dawn broke in the sky, I saw the thatched hut where the village seemed to come to an end. And the moment I saw it, I whooped with joy.

***

I had seen this hut only once before. That was when I was four, I guess, the time when my mother had come to this house—Grandma Grace’s house—to fetch her to her house. I remember she had desisted back then, but my mother had insisted and had prevailed.

What was the use of that?

My Grandma Grace was once again in that same house. Nothing had changed.

I looked around for her, and found her quite easily. She was sitting in her garden, and digging up something. I knew how much Grandma Grace loved her gardens. She had a green thumb for sure, for she knew exactly what needed to be done with her plants. As I moved ahead, I saw her digging up something in the soil, probably preparing her farm to bear fruit once again.

I did not want to disturb her. And so I sat for a long time in silence, at a little distance from her, watching her work.

Then, when the day started turning to noon, I could take it no longer and softly spoke to her.

Her ears immediately pricked up. She looked in my direction, without seeing me, and said, “W’at’s dat noise? Dang dese eyes. Can never see as I used to.”

I walked up to Grandma Grace. All I wanted to do is to hug her and let her ruffle my hair. I surrendered myself into her arms, but she was stiff. Still as a statue. Why did she not respond?

Then I got my answer.

“My Immanuel! My dear Immanuel! Look at w’at t’ey did to you. ’ow will I ever get back de Immanuel I loved?”

I looked up at her, “Do you mean you do not love me now?”

There was no answer to that. Instead, her eyes filled with fresh tears and she looked away.

I walked into the hut and saw something that surprised me.

It was that suitcase. It was still packed and placed on the bed. It was evident that she hadn’t opened it yet, and that nagged me. “What has she brought in that suitcase that’s so precious?” I wondered.

But then Grandma came inside the room and I fell silent. Soon, absolute sleep came over me and I moved on from one world to another.

The next morning when I woke up, I again found Grandma Grace in her garden. She was doing something with twigs and digging up weeds, or whatever it is that she did in the farms. I went and sat next to her, hoping that she would talk to me at least today.

But another day passed in almost silence. Was she angry with me? I really would not want to think so. The tears in her eyes gave evidence that it was not anger that deterred her from speaking with me.

Even the slightest provocation moved her. I asked her, “What are you doing, Grandma?”

And just that much brought a fresh flood of tears in her eyes.

***

Then that afternoon was the last time I saw my Grandma Grace.

It happened all so suddenly, but had been a long time coming.

It must have been lunchtime—I do not know for sure because we did not eat anything, nor did she prepare anything—when she got up from her garden and walked into the room.

She came up to that suitcase of hers and took it off the bed. That relieved me, and I told her as much, for finally we would have a proper place to sleep. The bag seemed to be more difficult to carry now, or probably it was because she was burdened with something else now.

With a thud-thud-thud, she lumbered the suitcase through the house and brought it out of the door.

What was in it that she wanted to use in the garden? Was she trying to hide her gold and jewels in the soil like she had told me once? I wouldn’t disbelieve it if that was indeed what she was doing.

“Grandma, what’s in that bag?” I asked.

But she did not answer.

All she did was take the bag out into the open, and pull it all the way to her favorite place in the garden where she had been working.

Then she placed the suitcase next to the new patch, and even as I stood behind her, I saw her opening the lock on the suitcase.

What was inside the suitcase? Now I wanted to know it all the more.

And then I saw it.

***

When Eddie had fired the shot that night, it had been a thunderously deafening noise and nothing more. But I should have felt more. After all, the bullet had been shot right at me, right in the heart. It was an accident, everyone would like to believe, but since when has death been partial to accidents?

And I had not felt anything because death had accorded me with its infinite mercy—the mercy of painlessness. When you are dead, pain is the first thing that you stop feeling.

And that’s what Grandma Grace had rushed to fight for—to make them know that they had killed me. But when she saw that no one cared for me, perhaps she knew she had to take me with her.

That suitcase. The perfect size for my little body.

“Is mine! Is mine!” I laugh at it now. That’s not what she was saying. She was saying, “He’s mine! He’s mine!” with her dropped ‘h’s, the way she always spoke.

That is why she wouldn’t talk to me. Can she even see me?

When I came back from the reverie, my gaze fell upon the little cross she had made out of the twigs she had been sizing up all morning.

On those twigs, in her handwriting, were etched the words:

My Dear Immanuel

R.I.P. with Jesus

(2006 – 2016)

I wanted to hug her, tell her that I was there with her, but it wasn’t to be. The cross was a sign that it was time for me to leave. And as I left, I saw two things. One—the dear, dear face of my Grandma Grace, the only person who truly loved me; and—two—my own decaying face as she opened her brown suitcase.

END

 

For more psychological thrillers and horror stories from Neil D’Silva, check out Right Behind You, a collection of 13 stories that will make you sit up and read them a second time.

 

 

What’s in Grandma’s Suitcase? (Part 1 of 2)

My earliest memory of Grandma Grace is of her holding me as an infant in her arms; my tiny head nestled in her palm, and her slightly myopic eyes smiling down at me. She must have surely told me something then, something like, “W’at a wonderful boy ’e is! Let’s name him Immanuel.” It sounds about right, with that dropped ‘h’ thing she does, but I do not remember exactly now. You must forgive me these little lapses, for I am all of ten years old, and ten years is a long time to remember all these details.

But one thing is for sure—the first touch I ever had in this world and the first words I ever heard belonged to my Grandma. I know that for sure because she herself has told me this several times, and Grandma Grace can be many things but she can never be wrong.

My mother did not want me to happen. I can understand these things now, and Grandma has told me, on one of those long dreary nights when the wild dogs come out, that my mother had decided not to have me. Give me back to Jesus, as she puts it. But Grandma convinced her, and here I am. And good things did happen. My birth probably caused the change in my father’s heart that made him marry my mother. So, in a way, my entire family is because of Grandma Grace—the woman who cannot see what is right in front of her, but can see years into the future with the accuracy of an eagle swooping upon its prey.

Yes, Grandma Grace is a strange woman. I have seen her in so many forms that I am sure her true form is buried somewhere in that clump of cashew trees that’s in our backyard. That’s where we buried Timothy, my Labrador, who used to protect our house. That was when I saw Grandma at her saddest. As she dug up the little grave and buried Old Tim, she mumbled a prayer too, and told me to put a handful of dust on his fallen body. Later, she told me she was sad because I was sad, and that made me want to forget Old Tim.

I have seen her angry too, especially when she is standing up to Eddie, my dad. I don’t like it either, when Eddie comes home drunk and tries to act funny with me. One night, when his breath stank of cheap liquor, he hoisted me on his shoulders and danced in the middle of the room. I protested and screamed, but he continued dancing to Ya Ya Mayaya, till he moved too close to the wall and banged my head on it. I couldn’t stop bawling throughout that night, but even that could not drown the angry tirade that Grandma Grace had unleashed on him.

I have seen her brave. Whether it is stomping cockroaches that enter our bathroom almost every evening to chopping off the heads of chickens for our Sunday meals, she does not as much as flinch. There are tales of her husband having died in the middle of the night long ago of some sickness. Back then, she lived in a little hut outside our village. In that desolate area, there was no one she could contact or nowhere she could go to. Without any alternative, Grandma stayed in the hut with his dead body till the morning, even sleeping on the same bed as him. That’s how she is, my Grandma Grace.

I have seen her sick. Oh, that I have seen a lot! She keeps growing sicker nowadays. When I asked her once, she told me her age is eighty-one and I suddenly realized that day that her hair had all gone grey. And what happened to her teeth, the ones that formed the first ever smile I saw in this world? She does not know her ailment though. My parents do not bother to take her to the doctor much. I called Dr. Fernandes once, and he said it was old age and nothing could be done about it. After he left, Grandma Grace took me close to her and told me not to miss her if she went away. She’d go to Jesus and be with Old Tim. She’d be fine.

And I have seen her frightened—stark, white with fear.

That happened three days ago.

***

When Alberto came into our little Goan village of Antolina and joined the choir of our St. Benedict Church, there was something for everyone to talk about. Alberto with his Hawaiian shirts and flannel pants was unmistakable at Sunday Mass. Soon enough, the attendance at Mass shot up. Whether he sang Here I Am, Lord or In His Time, people exulted with him and felt God had come into their hearts. The priest’s sermon had little meaning or effect over Alberto’s singing, and it was no surprise that the Mass itself became one huge Alberto performance rather than a celebration of the Holy Eucharist.

It was no surprise that among the attendees, the women outnumbered the men. And among those women was my mother, Betty. Even I could not mistake the transformation in her. Over the weeks, her ‘Sunday best’ became better and better—she bought clothes from Panjim and ornaments from Anjuna and shoes from Mapusa. She changed the place she sat at for Mass, coming ahead a pew or two every subsequent Sunday, till she was finally on the very first pew for a complete ringside view of Alberto’s performance.

It did not take long for Alberto to take notice of her. Between his highly musical renditions of Alleluia, their eyes met, and locked.

How do I know all of this? Because I sat right next to my mother, week after week, and it did not take me long to understand what was going on. I am a ten-year-old, but a very intelligent ten-year-old. I have no illusions about that.

That was when the fights began.

When Eddie came to know of the real reason why my mother had turned a Mass regular, he fumed. He opened his bottles right inside the house, and yelled all over the place, especially at my mother.

“You two-penny whore!” he shouted seven days ago. “You think I do not know what’s going on between that pansy-ass and you? You have made a laughingstock of me in the village. Where I go, people laugh behind my back. That halkat, that Rodrigues, he tells me to stay more at home. Who gives that lowly bartender to speak to me like that? You! That’s who.”

My mother said nothing. She tried to go back into the room.

“Stop here this instant!” Eddie shouted at her. “What do you think? Going away is going to solve this? Tell me, what are you doing with him? Are you sleeping with him?”

I was hiding behind the door, my one eye barely able to see what was going on in there. But even from that position, I could see the expressions on my mother’s face change. It was like some veneer had peeled off and the ugly interior was exposed.

“Yes, I am. So?”

It was a horrid voice. An ugly horrid voice. I did not like my mother like that.

“You bitch! You—” Eddie could not control himself now. He stumbled against the squat coffee-table and his Royal Stag quarter bottle fell down, the whiskey inside it gushing to the floor. “What do you not get from me, you whore? You want more? Come inside, and I will give it to you.”

“Learn to control yourself first, you pig-ass!” said my mother.

I had heard it often, the way these two called each other names. Even the names were standard by now. I knew them all, but every time a new one came up.

“I will kill that bewarshi!” Eddie screamed at the top of his lungs. “And then I will kill you. And then I will kill that little bastard you have hung around my neck.”

I felt a chill run down my spine as I heard that. It wasn’t unexpected though. I figured in all their arguments nowadays. If his shirts weren’t ironed, I was a bastard. If the fish curry had less tamarind, I was a bastard.

At that moment, I heard Grandma Grace coming down the stairs behind me. The noise might have dragged her out of bed. She whispered to me to move away, but I wanted to hear more. I pushed her back.

“You dare talk about Immanuel?” said my mother. I could only see her back now but I could perfectly picture the expressions on her face. “You think I hung him around your neck? You fucker, it is you. It is you who stuck him around my neck like a… like a grinding stone.”

Grandma was now horrified. Even I was, from whatever I could understand of it. She placed a hand on my shoulder and tried to drag me away, but I stayed put.

Eddie laughed his evil stinking laugh. “Look at this mother, people of the world! A mother who thinks her son is a grinding stone! She thinks he is a burden, and why not? How can she sleep around so freely with him around?” And then the color of his face changed again. “I don’t give a fuck about your son. But you bitch, you slut, you go behind my back with that man? You want to divorce me so that you can shame me? No! That is not going to happen. I will put an end to this. Right here, right now—”

What happened next took only a moment but it seemed like time had stopped. Three pairs of horrified eyes looked as Eddie stumbled to the mantelpiece and pulled out his hunting rifle.

He hadn’t touched that rifle since years, but I remember him having told me once long ago, in a much happier time, that it still had one bullet left in it.

And that was when I saw my Grandma Grace the most horrified. There was pure terror on her face, like her world was going to collapse around her. I just could not take that look anymore and I looked back into the room.

Eddie’s finger was on the trigger, and my mother seemed frozen to the ground. Before any of us could make a move, he had pressed the trigger, and a shot rang out.

And I became deaf.

A few seconds later, after the smoke cleared, I saw the hazy figure of my mother now trying to wrest the infernal rifle from my father’s hands. There were words—angry thoughtless words—but she was unhurt. That was all that mattered.

I felt Grandma’s voice falling on my back. “My boy! I ’ave nothing left ’ere anymore. I cry for you. I cry.”

Then something came over her. She ran into the room and stood right in between the two angrily fighting people. I moved a few steps ahead, but desisted. I knew Grandma would put a stop to this.

“Stop, you fools!” she said. “Stop!”

But her very presence seemed to turn Eddie wild. “Come, come, you come too, mother of the bitch! See what your daughter says! Am I a fool to give food and shelter to all of you? This woman who does not respect me one bit—why should I take care of you?”

“Go away, mai!” said my mother. “Why do you come between us?”

This stunned Grandma. She could suffer violence, but words! For a woman who had lived her life with fearlessness and pride, insulting words were more hurtful than violence.

“I will go,” said my Grandma. “T’is very moment, I will go. I ’ave my ’usband’s ’ouse. I will go dere.”

“Go wherever you want, bitch,” said Eddie. “Who cares?”

Grandma Grace turned and left the room. She crossed me in the corridor and then went back up the stairs. I followed her and saw her getting her large worn-out brown suitcase, the one that she had come to this house in. Then I saw something that made me numb, number than I was then—tears. In all my days with her, I had never seen Grandma tearing up. And it was too much to take.

Little did I know then that Grandma’s tears weren’t going to go away anytime soon.

The next memory I have is of Grandma lugging that suitcase down the stairs and hobbling out of the house. There were no goodbyes, no turning back, just the soft thudding sounds made by the suitcase as it dragged along the floor.

Then there was a sound. From my father. “Hey woman! What are you taking away from my house?”

Grandma kept walking without turning back. But the man, drunk with liquor and his power over the weaker people in the house, lunged forward and tried to pry open her fingers that held the handle of the suitcase.

“Is mine! Is mine! All mine!” she shouted and protested, and those words seared into my memory. Her words were all a garble now, a spouting of emotions rather than any comprehensible expression of language. This was the beginning of the end of my Grandma. Only, I did not know it then.

“Let her go!” my mother hollered. “At least let her go!” And then slumped by the wall of the house and wept in a loud hollow voice.

Perhaps the sudden burst of emotions unnerved Eddie. He retreated, and I saw Grandma’s hunchbacked figure—when had she become a hunchback?—stealing away into the darkness of the dog-infested night.

Continue to Part 2 of this story.

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

 

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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Overthinking

How to Write a Review that Engages Readers

– Jean Spraker

Jean Spraker is an American expat living in Seoul. But, some say her soul is truly Indian. She is currently writing her first novel inspired by her life in India. She blogs at jeanspraker.com.

This guest post from Jean Spraker is a part of the Review Ramblings series.

When Neil approached me to guest blog about writing reviews, I said, “Sure! I’d be happy to do it!” I had recently written a review for Ravi Subramanian’s The Bestseller She Wrote that’s received high praise—even from Subramanian himself. That makes me an expert now, right?

That about sums it up, don’t you think?

About 30 seconds after I agreed to write this post, I thought, “Ah crap! How DO I write a review? What makes my reviews work? Why was the response so positive for this review? What makes it different? What tips can I give potential reviewers? Have I completely lost my mind agreeing to a guest blog two days before #NaNoWriMo? Why do I think so damn much?”

Whew!

Clearly, my head is a dangerous place. Someone should really post a sign.

Overthinking

The truth is that I don’t have a secret sauce for reviews. If I did, I’d bottle it and sell it. A writer has to earn a living somehow. Clearly, royalties aren’t the pot of gold at the end of the writing (or reading) rainbow.

So, what tips can I offer?

Enjoy reading the book

It sounds simple, but it isn’t. Too often, I see readers taking a snobbish approach to the books they review. Judging the author for every typo and plot hole. Look. I’m not saying we shouldn’t judge those things. Typos on every page and plot holes the size of Maharashtra or Minnesota annoy readers. Reviewers should assess those issues. But, do it with respect. I get it. Everyone plays armchair quarterback. “I could have written Half Girlfriend or Fifty Shades. That book sucked,” you say. But, you know what? You didn’t write either book. That book is someone’s baby just like that half-finished manuscript you’ve been working on for the last year and a half is yours. Would you kill someone else’s baby? No. Of course not. So, why are you wasting my time writing the most intensely evil and useless review of a book you hate? I spotted your hater tendencies in the second sentence and moved on. I wrote you off. And so should the readers and the author, quite frankly. I have only written a 1 star review once, for a book that I was given as a review copy. It was bad, and I felt obligated to review it honestly. Otherwise, I would not have made it past page 10. But, truthfully, these bad reviews often serve little purpose to the reader. There’s always someone to disagree.

Balance the good and the bad

On the flip side of the hater review, we have the lover review. The person who has nothing but rainbows and stardust to blow up the writer’s butt. That person who is either related to or connected directly to the writer. Or who just loves every book, no matter how bloody awful. Even the best books have flaws. Take Midnight’s Children. The Booker of Bookers. A book so good that it won a Booker twice! Once by popular vote. Seriously. If you haven’t read it, you should. It will change your life and challenge everything you thought you knew that you didn’t actually know until you knew it.
But, even Midnight’s Children has flaws. Maybe you thought the mango pickle factory setting was cliché. Maybe you didn’t get that whole weird shower story. Maybe you just don’t like how Rushdie punctuated the book. Whatever it is, that criticism should be there, too. Not just the praise. Not just the “You’re so totally awesome!” Always give at least one positive and one negative aspect to the book. My reviews are structured with the good, the bad, and the verdict sections to maintain that balance.

Give the reader a sense of the book, but dont give anything away

If you are reviewing a thriller or mystery, please, for the love of God, don’t tell us who did it or what happens in the end. Yes, I know this might make your review vague, but the readers will thank you for not ruining the book—and so will the writer. Trust me.

Be honest with your bias

I was so heavily involved in the final stages of Ketan Bhagat’s Child/God that I am in the acknowledgements. I am constitutionally incapable of speaking even one negative thing about the book publicly. Which is why when I reviewed the book, I admitted that and instead gave you a straight-up sales pitch. I recently saw the editor for a book review said book on his blog. No mention was made of his role in the book. And, to me, that’s wrong. As long as he’s up front about it, his review holds water. But, the minute you find out he helped shape the book, but didn’t tell you, his opinion holds less value, doesn’t it?

Know thyself

Say you’re a blogger, and someone asks you to review a romance novel. No really. Say it. “I’m a blogger and someone asked me to review a romance novel. Are they nuts! I don’t read romance!” you bellow. That’s a problem. Are you going to do the book or yourself justice? Probably not. This is the best time to refer the person to another blogger in line with their interests.

Provide context

I learned this trick in grad school. As part of my coursework and prep for my prelims, I regularly wrote book reviews. I always had to place the book within its historiographic context. Always. If the writer was a Marxist, that was contextualized within a discussion about class. Sometimes context is simple. Maybe it’s saying that Ravi Subramanian normally writes thrillers. Maybe it’s explaining the marketing mayhem around Half Girlfriend. Relating a book to other books can really help the reader understand if he or she would enjoy the book.

Follow the 3 Es of Ashwin Sanghi

Entertain. Educate. Enlighten.

I learned more about writing for an audience in those three words than I have learned in seven years as a tech editor sitting in branding meetings. Sanghi is absolutely right. Keeping your audience entertained is the key to success. Let’s face it. Attention spans are shrinking, but book inventories are expanding. If you want to capture an audience, you must entertain. Sorry. Your review has to be more entertaining than Candy Crush. Truth hurts. I know.

Incorporate multimedia

When possible, I try to bring in multimedia. As a former Creative Services Manager, I know how important it is to connect to users on multiple levels. Sometimes, that’s as simple as bringing in the Scion of Ikshvaku’s book trailer; sometimes it’s bringing in tweets or completely unrelated YouTube videos.

Multimedia is Awesome! Isn’t it? You get the idea. If you have a blog, you should be able to figure out how to copy and paste the YouTube embed code into your site. WordPress has made this easier with the Add Media button. Just copy and paste the YouTube link, and presto! Video!

Be a fangirl or fanboy

It’s OK. Really. Pay attention to the buzz around the book. Follow the author on Twitter or Facebook. See what he or she says about the upcoming release. Use that in the review to give the reader a better sense for the flavor of the book. It’s OK to go gaga over a book as long as you balance that with real criticism and don’t lose sight of the fact that your review is meant to help a reader decide whether to buy the book. Or not.

Write well

Proof those reviews, people! Run spell check, damn it! A poorly written 5 star review could do more damage than a well written 1 star review. No joke. No matter how insightful your commentary, if your review contains tons of typos, no one will pay attention to it. Not the potential reader and certainly not the author. I recently admitted on Facebook that I don’t read Amazon reviews. Poor writing is the biggest reason why.

Now that you know how to write a great review, you can do the minion dance! Gangnam style! So long from Seoul!