THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER!

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Shanaya’s heart constricted, as she peered at the blazing green eyes. They were an unusual green, reminding her of the myriad hues of the sea. Fleeting currents lurked within in a slideshow of dark emotions. Her voice shook. “What do you mean by you’re not wearing a mask? That is not even a possibility.”

The eyes smiled maliciously. “You do not believe in the supernatural?”

Shanaya’s breath rolled out in a sudden gust that made him snicker ominously in the dim light, as she imperceptibly tried to move away. From the corner of her eye, she sensed that the door was shut. The only light came from the slats of a small window.

The monster scratched his bloody face. “Cat got your tongue?” he asked, irritably, “I haven’t got all day. I am a creature of the night, after all.”

“Stop trying to frighten me. Monsters don’t exist.” Her tone was strident, though shaky. “I am going to walk out of here, and you will not lay a finger on me.”

She turned to go, when suddenly there was a swooping movement, and she went flying onto the scarred wooden floor as a huge hand swept her off her feet. She hit her head on the side of a cupboard, a thin trickle of blood starting its slow descent down her face.

The mask loomed close as the man hovered over her. In shock, she saw his tongue snake out through the hollow of the mask, as if he were licking his lips.

“Blooood, my favourite drink!” his voice purred, as the tongue came closer. She instinctively put her hand out, warding him off with a convulsive shove. Not expecting that, he lost his balance for a moment, as she rose swiftly, and ran towards the door.

He growled in frustration, but he was quick on his feet, despite being such a large man. “Stop, you wildcat!” he said through gritted teeth. As she ran in panic, he put a giant hand out and caught hold of her long ponytail. Her head jerked back, and she felt as if her neck had snapped with the force, as she hit the floor again.

“Help me, someone!” she screamed with all her might. But the crew had left and the silence outside was deafening. Her mind whirled in desperation. If only she had not been late for the interview! But the time for “ifs and buts” was over and here she was, at the mercy of a green-eyed monster.

Something metallic felt cold under her hand, a long iron rod in the shadows. She turned around in an instant, and slashed him on his face with all her might. He went over backwards, and lay still.

She pushed open the door, sobbing in relief. The next moment she froze as a pair of malevolent green eyes stared back at her.

Shanaya’s eyes were wide with terror. Those green eyes held a tinge of malice.

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“You were behind me. How... how did you get out?” she croaked, wetting her lips.

The figure spoke in a low, menacing tone.

“No one invited you here. You gate-crashed, and now, you have to pay for the consequences.”

Shanaya looked about wildly. Even if she screamed, no one would hear. This place was desolated; exactly why it had been chosen in the first place.

“Please don’t hurt me,” she whispered, as the figure twisted her arm around, making her face the dark room. He pushed her violently, and she stumbled in, almost losing her balance.

If only she could locate the metal rod again, she prayed, fumbling in the darkness that seemed to have entered her heart.

The figure snarled, “Now don’t try any of your pretty tricks. You know what men like me can do to over-smart women like you, who come in and throw their weight around.”

The voice continued in a monotone. “You journalists, who swarm around like vermin, spreading lies with your honeyed tongues. Even the innocent are not spared. Do you know the harm you creatures can do? Do you?” Coming forward in a rush, it pulled her up so suddenly that her arms could have come out of their sockets.

“We only report what we see,” she replied, trembling.

“What you think you see,” the voice said violently, the green eyes blazing again. “Useless, unprofessional parasites! Remember Malavika, the woman whose life you destroyed? The one you reported as a prostitute?”

“I cleared that up. It was a case of mistaken identity.”

“Yes, but her life was shattered - a living hell. No one believed her. Except her loyal brother. Me!”

The figure came closer, peered at her pale face, and then grabbed at her arm. “Who do you think you are? Joan of Arc? I can reduce you into a whimpering mess in no time. Do you want to risk it?”
Trembling inwardly, she looked away from the mesmeric eyes from which vitriol flowed. This person meant every word. Women were sexually assaulted, thrown from moving cars and trains. She did not want to be one of the victims.

There was a noise behind her, and she looked in horror as another figure rose, and stumbled towards her. He raised his hand and slapped her till her head spun. Then tearing at her clothes till they were dishevelled enough, he took a picture of her cowering, as she tried to cover herself. The next moment, he whispered to the other, and they both went out of the door.

*******

The policeman helped her up. “Are you OK, Ma’am?”

“Did you catch the men who molested me?”

 “No, there was no sign of them. We found two masks though outside.”

He looked at her, continuing. “Luckily, a friend of yours called us. She was outside and directed us here. A lady with green eyes! She said her name was Malavika!” 

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 This post is a past of #BlogchatterHalfMarathon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LOVE (TRY) ANGLE BY MANALI DESAI - BOOK REVIEW

 

18-year-old Ayesha Banerjee gets noticed onstage, not only for her hourglass figure and never-ending legs, but her eloquent stories which move people.

 Viren Joshi, a charmer with a wry humour, bowls her over initially. Meeting the dapper Abhi Agarwal sets off fireworks as he annoys yet captivates her with his arrogance. However, both men keep her off balance with their changing attitudes.

As Ayesha has a knack for attracting drama, there is never a dull moment in the story. Her fiery nature is irresistible, and the love triangle intriguing. Till the last page, the reader cannot guess who holds the key to her heart.

Manali Desai does justice to all three protagonists, even as she fleshes out the minor characters too. As the characters grow and mature over amusing moments in college, the plot plummets towards a finish that enthralls, justifying the book’s title.

Grass Skirts in the Army!

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The moon slipped behind a cloud, even as glasses clinked and sounds of riotous laughter filled the air. Chinese lanterns cast ominous shapes on the shamiana walls, even as a lone figure crept towards the makeshift stage door. The moon suddenly came out from behind its cloud cover and shone on the lanky figure of a young man with a shaven head, as he slunk towards the bright lights. The next moment, he was onstage, bare torso-ed, wearing a grass skirt, and a sheepish smile, as the whole crowd burst out laughing.  The occasion was the Regimental Battle Honour Day, when the ladies and the officers played host to all their guests, regaling them with entertainment, food and wine.

How this particular officer had got himself into such a position is now part of Regimental history, a chapter that raises chuckles every time it is told, which it is at regular intervals. It was on the occasion of the young officer’s wining-in that his seniors held him down and forcibly emptied a bottle of whiskey down his unwilling throat. Making him unclench his teeth was difficult enough, but disgorging his history was even more tedious. Once the liquor had unloosened his teeth and his tongue, out tumbled the tale!

“My mosher, moth.. mother promised me that I should never touch a drop of liquor...!” the poor man divulged. “Sh...she’sh very conshervative!” The slurring became more prominent and the syllables less so as he looked around convulsively, and then went out like a light! The seniors who had fortified themselves during the narration were not long in following him and soon there was silence in the room, but for a variety of snores that echoed all along the passage, some short, some long, interspersed with gurgles, rasps and a couple of unmentionable words.

The incident was soon forgotten, and the said officer went on annual leave. In the process of de-stressing, he would relate a few gory tales of his first few months in the Unit, tales which were lapped up eagerly by his old grandmother, his nine-yard-sari-clad mother and his attentive father, all of whom were very proud of him. One day the narration got beyond him as he dropped a brick, the saga of his having been forced into drinking liquor.

“Shiva, Shiva...!” moaned the mother, “No one has ever even looked at alcohol in our house!”

 “Ma, nothing happens if you look at it...!” protested her son.

 “Silence!” thundered the father, as Grandma looked on aghast. By noon they were on the next bus to Tirupati where the whole family collectively pledged the young man’s ample mop of hair to the deity for having defiled their religion.

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A sheepish young man stood in front of his senior officers, as they berated him, as seniors are prone to do in the Army. “You bl***y chap! How could you have shaved your head? Don’t you know that it amounts to changing your identity?”

The young man stammered, “But... but, Sir, my mother...!”

“No excuses! You will have to pay the price for this!” was the stern rejoinder! There were four officers who had all got married recently. Incidentally, they were all on the look out for a scapegoat to take part in a unique Fashion show.

That is how the young man landed up, cowering in a dark corner, wearing a grass skirt! Actually, a skirt made of camouflage material, with big gaping holes in it, and the entry was appropriately titled ‘Green Lagoon’ after Brooks Shield’s blockbuster, ‘Blue Lagoon’! Not that the other young officers were spared either, as they were made to walk the ramp to rambunctious tunes, in outrageous costumes made out of mosquito nets, tent material and the like, all for a Fauji Fashion Show that brought the house down! The Green Lagoon, of course, was the showstopper!

It was after this that the youngsters decided to take their revenge. One night when the clock struck twelve, and the witching hour began, they got hold of a bundle of loud firecrackers, the ones that the shopkeeper promised would go up with much sound and fury They crept to the guest room, where one of the seniors who had inveigled them into the Fashion Show, was staying with his new bride. They found a tiny bathroom window open, and lighting the crackers, threw the whole lot in. They landed perfectly in a plastic bucket, hissing for all they were worth. The next moment, the whole bucket had gone up in flames, along with all the noise and conflagration the shopkeeper had promised, as the startled couple awoke and darted out of the room, even as the curtains caught fire. What had begun as a joke nearly ended in tragedy! The chastened youngsters redeemed themselves by helping douse the fire, but for years after, no newly married officer dared to take up the generous invitation of the guest room.

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Suddenly, over a week, the young officers were invited to the newlyweds’ houses for breakfast. It was a way to say they were forgiven. “Young blood will be young blood, after all!” one officer said magnanimously, “And besides, we were not burnt alive in our beds!” So, in turn, the youngsters made their way sheepishly to the four houses. 

Before entering the first house, the seniormost officer told his young mates, “Listen, you will all behave! We will have breakfast and all of you will praise Ma’am’s cooking, whether you like it or not! And we will get out in 45 minutes, get it?”

“Yes, Sir!” came the resounding reply.

So, they all sat, on their best behaviour, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths. They were looking forward to good home cooked food, as is the wont of all young officers. Little did they know that their host had just about developed a cast iron stomach, to ward off the effects of his brand new wife’s cooking skills, or lack of them actually. Soon they were sitting at the dining table, as the lady of the house brought in a glass container filled to the brim with steaming hot upma.

“Wow, Ma’am, that smells awesome!” said one well-tutored youngster.

 “We enjoy home cooked food!” piped another voice.

The host sat, smiling grimly, as he knew the full extent of the damage his wife’s upma could do! Generous helpings were ladled, and after the first few mouthfuls, there was total silence at the table. The lady looked in anticipation at each of the faces but could get no reaction out of them. She glanced at her husband who smiled at her blissfully.

The silence dragged on, as the young officers continued the exercise of eating. Finally, unable to bear the suspense anymore, she asked in trepidation, “How’s the upma?”

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All the young men raised their heads and looked at her, as one of them replied with his teeth clenched, “Wonderful, Ma’am, if I could only get my teeth apart!” The upma had been liberally doused with water which turned it into some kind of gluey substance, leading to the long embarrassing silence. Needless to say, the youngsters were canny enough to take the experience in their stride, never once deriding Ma’am’s cooking, but they always made sure that they were fed to the gills when they went on a visit thereafter.

And thus, the gory tales of the cantonment carried on, unabated...

PS: My first book titled 'Arms and the Woman' took a light hearted look at the life of an Army wife, namely, my own experiences, both happy and not-so-happy. The reason I wrote this book was to reveal to people who did not know much about the Indian Army the travails that people go through, even as they hide their fears beneath a smiling exterior. I was fortunate enough to be part of my husband's postings, all except his perilous tenure at Rwanda and Mozambique as a Military Observer. 

Exotic India Art

Thus, we sustained the days of militancy at Gurdaspur, Punjab, the Kargil War, the earthquake and the riots in Gujarat, the power cuts and the remoteness of Arunachal Pradesh and the erratic schedules of being posted out and shifting house every two years. Our daughter studied in eight different schools in twelve years, which was an advantage as it helped her adjust to different climes and make friends easily.

I would term our days under the giant umbrella of the Indian Army as the best ever - the smiles, the laughter, the wonder, the camaraderie, the tears, the sighs and the respect we enjoyed made these years unforgettable. 

In fact, if I had to live my life all over again, I would still opt to be first a brat, and then a lady wife in the Indian Army. 

 This post is part of #BlogchatterHalfMarathon

 This post is a part of 'Tricolour Tales Blog Hop' hosted by Manali Desai and Sukaina Majeed under #EveryConversationMatters.”

 

 

 

A2Z OF BOOK TERMS BY SATABDI MUKHERJEE - BOOK REVIEW

 

Why do pages of books and newspapers turn yellow with age? How is paper made? What is the worst nightmare of archivists and librarians? Which insects and animals damage books? How do you treat pest infestations? What is another name for ‘pamphlets?’ Who are the famous poets who published chapbooks? When did bookmarks originate?

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These and many other queries are addressed by Satabdi Mukherjee in her eBook titled A TO Z OF BOOK TERMS, which was part of the #BlogchatterEBook Challenge.

Antiques have always been prized over the centuries. Did you know that there is a term for giving books an antiquated look that adds to their aesthetic value? In fact, modern machines have certain techniques that can replicate this effect. The author also gives valuable information about the various countries in which these and many other processes originated, thus revealing the remarkable research that has gone into the writing of this book.

One term that deeply appealed to me is ‘ephemera’, maybe because I give importance to keepsakes and emotions in my own life. There are numerous items that are referred to as ‘ephemera’ in today’s world as well. However, I leave it to you, the reader, to glean the exact meaning of the term because I do not want any spoilers to take away the excitement of the discovery. Another rather romantic sounding term is ‘floriligeum’, another concept which appealed to the romantic in me. What was fascinating is that the synonym of this word is ‘anthology’. I will once again leave it to the reader to see why.

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Can you guess the name for the translucent sheets of paper that separate photo plates from the other pages in a book? The author describes an interesting process to create this paper, a process that is chemical in nature. Not only does she point out its features, but she also mentions the uses to which it can be put.

History is replete with specimens of handwritten documents, or holographs, by famous personalities. Imagine being able to read documents by Leonardo da Vinci, John Keats, Emily Bronte and Beethoven? How about taking a peek into Sigmund Freud’s papers? I would imagine that the experience would thrill history aficionados and calligraphy buffs.

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John Gutenberg is credited with having invented the first printing press in 1439. But it was only years later that he could actually print a full book: the Gutenberg Bible. In fact, the world should be grateful to this inventor because he made it possible to print copies of books in a faster and cheaper manner.

Terms like ‘Incunabula’, ‘Juvenilia’ ‘Kerning’ ‘Medieval Marginalia’ ‘Provenance’ are all elucidated clearly with examples to further illustrate their meanings. There is an intriguing explanation as to why book margins were often filled with imagery, doodles and even cheeky illustrations.

Ancient books also had supple sides made of cloth, leather or paper. The author takes this one step further to explain what limp vellum is.

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Just when the reader feels that there is so much that he or she does not know of, there springs a familiar word – novella. A word that is still in vogue today and rather popular too! A few other interesting facts emerge to satisfy the readers’ curiosity. How do books go out of print? What are remaindered books? How does Sellotape damage books?

Finally, if you are foxed by ‘Foxing’ or wonder what ‘Yellowbacks’ are, this is the book for you. And to end on a fangirl note, the last term in the book is ‘Zine’ pronounced as ‘zeen’ and is the shortened form of “Fanzine”.

No doubt, Satapdi Mukherjee has done extensive research on a subject that is obviously close to her heart. By the time the reader gets to the last alphabet, there is a sense of satisfaction that one has read a book that offers a veritable bouquet of interesting information.

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This post is a part of #BlogchatterHalfMarathon

HEAVEN IN A WILDFLOWER

 

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The unearthly music echoed around. In the uncertain light of twilight, it seemed as if the gods themselves had paused to listen, so beautiful were the notes.

“She’s playing the piano again!” breathed Namita, rapturously. Her voice betrayed the reverence she felt for the soulful music, and the musician, Ujwala.

 A proficient piano player, Ujwala had performed across the country. Music aficionados flocked to her recitals in hordes. There was magic in her fingers, as they flashed over the keys, hovering over them so softly that the music could hardly be heard. Heartbeats would slow, and people would hold their breaths, till the next moment, her fingers would race across, creating chords that crashed and billowed like the waves of the sea. When Ujwala played the piano, it was as if nothing else existed for her… such was her passion for her beloved instrument.

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However, after her beloved husband passed away, she had locked away the piano along with the love in her heart. He had been the wind beneath her wings, as the song went. Vikrant, the dashing young Air Force pilot, who flew his planes with the same exuberance as his wife played the piano. They were known as the legendary couple, the eternal lovers whose love could make the very gods envious.

That fateful morning, Vikrant had given Ujwala a bear hug.

“When I get back, we will celebrate our anniversary in style,” he laughed.

“Our anniversary is only next week!” she had protested, smiling at his enthusiasm.

“We will celebrate next week as well,” was his rejoinder.

That day, Vikrant’s plane developed some engine trouble and he struggled in the lone blue skies. His last thought, as he crash-landed, was of his beautiful wife and of how they would never celebrate their anniversary again.

For Ujwala, it was the end of the world. The world which had seemed so full of happiness that very morning had turned bereft, as she teetered at the edge of it, wishing that she too could join her beloved Vikrant. Her family and her friends milled around her, trying to offer her solace, but the light had gone out of her soul. The piano lay untouched, gathering dust as its mistress refused to even look at it.

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“Ujwala, we long to hear you play again,” pleaded her friends. She had shaken her head, a tear sliding down her cheek. The music that had kept her going for so long had left her along with Vikrant. It seemed a kind of betrayal to play the piano, to experience any joy in life at all. She shut herself away from the world that had idolized her and her talent.

Two years flew by, but no music had echoed in the cottage. Till today.

Her neighbours flocked to her door, their hearts alive with anticipation. To their surprise, Ujwala was the one who welcomed them in as the music played on.

“Who is the magical artiste?” asked Namita, surprised.

Ujwala led them in. Her face glowed with a happiness that they had not seen on it for ages. They tip-toed in, gazing at the delicate girl whose long fingers tripped across the keys in abandon. The music filled their hearts with joy as it tripped along gaily. It finally reached a crescendo, dying away on a soft note that was as poignant as the peal of a melodious bell. There was silence for a moment, followed by applause.

“This is like finding Heaven in a wildflower!” remarked Annie, the poetic one.

“Naina!” called Ujwala softly.

The music ceased; the young girl turned, smiling.

“How well you play!” Annie said spontaneously. The others moved closer, and suddenly stopped. Naina smiled as she looked towards them. Ujwala placed an arm around the girl’s slender shoulders, as she guided her towards them.

Shocked, they gazed at Naina’s beautiful, but sightless, eyes.

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This post is part of #BlogchatterHalfMarathon.

 

 

 

 

 

THE NIGHT WATCHMAN

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There he stood, a six-footer, in front of the feisty old lady who was interviewing him for a job. His bald pate shone in the sunlight, as he stood to attention, holding a faded cap in his hand.

“What is your name?” she asked him.

“Manoj Kumar, madam,” was the subdued reply.

His supervisor nudged him with a sharp elbow. “Speak up…!” he hissed.

“M…Manoj Kumar, madam!” the voice rose a few decibels.

The short-haired lady, who had an impish smile on her face, looked at the tall man.

“Why do you look so worried?”

The man looked down at the tiny pugs who were sniffing at his ankles, trying to shy away from them.

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“Madam, I am scared of dogs. I was bitten by a Rottweiler years ago, and hence…” his voice petered off.

The 84-four-year old lady looked at the 40-something man whose forehead was speckled with sweat.

“Are you telling me that you are scared of these two?” Her voice rose in amazement. “They are such tiny little creatures. Besides, they don’t bite. Make sure that you don’t bite them instead.”

She laughed and so did her companion, a pencil-thin lady who loved to throw her almost imaginary weight around. She said in turn, “These two are harmless. Besides, you tower over them. Even if they do bite you, they will not get very far.”

The man blanched at that. The older lady shushed the younger one.

“Don’t you scare the living daylights out of the man now!” The supervisor scratched his head doubtfully. He had never seen a household like this. Three ladies, and two pugs, and the most spirited of them all was the gamine lady with short, unruly hair, who seemed to exude an irrepressible spirit. She asked the new guard myriad questions. What was his name, where did he live, how many children did he have, and the like. The man answered promptly enough, occasionally sneaking a wary glance down at the pugs who had now graduated to licking his feet. He probably thought that was a prelude to a quick nip.

The supervisor nudged him again. “Stop floundering!” he whispered. The man was from his security agency, and he needed to show him off as the perfect candidate. This was not turning out the way he wanted it to.

There was a moment’s silence. The conversation resumed as the ladies pointed out the desk and chair in the corner of the balcony that would be his little nook.

“You can sit there,” remarked the feisty lady. “And relax there…,” she continued, pointing to a comfortable looking armchair. “Of course, you can find a corner to sleep, anywhere in the premises,” she ended.

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I wish I had been a fly on the wall to remind my mother, for that is who she was, that a night watchman was not meant to sleep. He was attuned to sleeping during the day, and staying awake, wide-eyed, peering into the dark for any sudden noise or commotion.

The interview got over, and the watchman was appointed. That evening he would don his uniform and resume duty at seven in the night to seven next morning. Mom was relieved that there would be someone to keep a watch at night and the other two ladies and the pugs remained stoically silent.

Come evening, and the watchman was there, uniformed and punctual, stick in hand, and after a few pleasantries, he sat himself down in his chair, prepared to while away the uneventful hours ahead. What could possibly go wrong on a slightly rainy night, when the whole town was asleep.

                                                                           

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The next morning, at 6.15 in the morning, my husband suddenly got a frantic call from the watchman. “Sir, emergency here!” His voice was panicked, distraught.

Apparently, a huge tree had been uprooted in a sudden strong wind early morning, and it had fallen over the car shed, crushing my mother’s car under it. And what was worse, it lay sprawled across the road, its tips almost grazing the neighbour’s gate. The car was a mess, the branches had fallen on the power cables and the entire road had been blocked. Too much for a brand-new night watchman to take in, judging by the quaver in his voice.

To cut a long story short, that evening, the new night watchman decided that too much excitement was not good for him. While my 84-year-old mom, her 65plus companion and the 30plus maid took the mishap well, relieved that there had been no casualties besides the poor car and the tree, the watchman nervously asked his supervisor, “Do you think the power would have come on?”

The supervisor’s response was classic. “No! Shall I arrange an air conditioner for you?” The sarcasm did not go down well. By evening, my husband got a call. “Sir, I am too shaken up to report for duty tonight. Shall I come tomorrow?” He got a mouthful instead.

Mom was mighty amused when she heard the whole story. Apparently, she had already predicted that the poor man would not turn up in the evening.

As she was about to put the phone down, she said, “Guess which character he reminds me of in ‘The Wizard of Oz?” leaving us in splits at the end of the conversation.

*Please delve into ‘The Wizard of Oz’ to decipher the last line. 😊

This post is part of #BlogchatterHalfMarathon

 

A DAUGHTER IS LOVE

 

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“I believe in any religion that believes in putting treating people with respect and dignity above ritual and dogma.” Charles F. Glassman

Very often it is our children who teach us wonderful lessons even without their realizing it. We spend our entire life loving them, teaching them, berating them and trying to stamp our own personalities on them. When younger, they submit; when older, they rebel! And then, in one magical moment, they turn our worlds around with one tiny gesture that turns entire ideas on their heads. The blinkers fall off, and we see them for what they are, individuals in their own right, capable of living life with dignity.

When our little daughter was born, it was as if the whole world had opened up. When she looked up at me with those beautiful dark brown eyes, I was enslaved, never to be released again, a bondage that I accepted whole heartedly. Her father who whispered her name in her ear, and named her ‘Priyanka’, which means ‘the loved one’, soon realized that his world revolved around his little daughter.

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Priyanka went through all the normal mishaps of childhood, along with a few not-so-usual ones. Like when she bounced off the bed, when she was a few months old, and landed safely, thank God! It was only when Bozo, our dog, came tearing into the dining room where we were having lunch, barking his lungs off that we realized that something was wrong. Luckily, it is said that God Himself stretches out His arms to save little babes from falls.

Image: Harry Khokkar

When she fell off the bed again, despite the fact that she was safely ensconced in the middle of the bed, with us on either side, it seemed like Fate playing a prank on us. This time, God, maybe, held her with one arm, for she broke her little collar bone. Once the initial panic was over, she walked around with a figure of eight to hold the bones together, proudly showing it off to her friends, who goggled in disbelief.

That is when the beautiful quote of Marianne Williamson came to mind. “Children are happy because they don’t have a file in their minds called "All the Things That Could Go Wrong’, like we adults so often do."

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Of course, there were times when we would be sitting around and there would be no trace of the little missy. “Maybe she has fallen asleep!” the fond father would suggest. “Maybe she hasn’t!” I would retort. We would tiptoe towards her room, only to find her looking, wide- eyed at a crystal vase that lay on the floor, broken into a thousand shimmering pieces.  Those were the days when I truly believed that “Silence is golden... unless you have kids, then silence is suspicious.” She would take one look at us, and then burst into tears, her lower lip quivering, even as our hearts slowly turned to mush.

When she began school, there were moments of pride and joy, especially when she was chosen by her class teacher to speak on Chacha Nehru, on Children’s Day at the little Flower Convent. She was the only Nursery student amongst a whole gathering of seniors, and after days of careful tutoring, she stood up at assembly in front of a crowd and trotted out her little speech perfectly. My heart throbbed in happiness even as I peeped out from behind a tree, where I had been placed strategically, so that I would not distract the tiny orator in a smart red frock, and oodles of confidence.

One day she came home from school and asked me in all seriousness, “Mama, am I a Hindu or a Christian?”

“Why, child? Did someone ask you that?” She nodded earnestly. There followed a sermon in my own style where I pointed to pictures of Ganesha, Krishna and Christ and explained the different religions and how we were all human beings first. She listened to everything, and then smiled at me. “My teacher asked us in class because she wanted to write it on a piece of paper.” So much for my long sermon!

It was when she was about six that the Babri Masjid riots broke out. Discussions were rampant, opinions voiced vociferously, as religion turned into the catch phrase for loud voices and quarrelsome tones.

We were a protected lot, living as we did, within an Army Cantonment, being part and parcel of the Indian Army, an organization which sheltered all religions as one. We celebrated Holi, Diwali, Pongal and Christmas. We savoured the simple yet delicious ‘langars’ served at Gurudwaras. Bakr-id was an occasion of rejoicing, mouth-watering biryani and ‘sevaiyan’. Within our regiment area nestled a temple, a church and a mosque in close proximity, from where the wispy smoke of the ‘agarbathi’, the peal of church bells and the chanting of the Muslim prayers dwelt in perfect harmony.

Religion has never been a bone of contention amongst us. We have had friends from all communities, and what has helped us bond is our wavelength, which, quite simply, transcends religion, politics and controversial topics. As Rumi put it so simply, yet profoundly, “In every religion there is love, yet love has no religion.” The biggest example of this came when our daughter was about five and we were out on a walk. My husband and I were having a conversation, when suddenly, the little one stopped before a temple. As we watched her, she looked within, prayed and made the sign of the Cross, something that she was used to doing in school. That little gesture stopped us in our tracks, as we watched her saunter towards us.

How easily a little girl had fathomed the truth that lies inherent within every religion, the fact that all of them, despite taking different paths, lead on to the same destination. A lesson that, often, so-called adults find tough to accept!

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Today, our daughter is all grown up, with two adorable little ones of her own. When we look at the way she is bringing them up, we see much of her in them. Our hearts swell with pride for we know that, as parents, we have done something right in our youth.

 And as Angela Shwindt put it, “While we try and teach our children all about life, our children teach us what life is all about.”

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This post is a part of #BlogchatterHalfMarathon

SHADOWS - THE EXCITEMENT OF WRITING THRILLERS

                                                              Image: Deepti Menon

Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, Daphne Du Maurier, Victoria Holt, Edgar Allen Poe… the names would flash within my mind as I pored over their mysteries, looking for red herrings that were liberally peppered through the stories. All there in plain sight, and yet almost impossible to notice, till they were unearthed in the end. I would wonder at the ingenuity of the writer who could play around with suspense till the very end of the book, and then lift the curtain. Even Enid Blyton had this knack of leaving her mysteries unsolved till the last pages, the best way to keep her young readers hooked on to every book of hers.

Later in life, the list went on to add the more modern writers like Jeffrey Archer, James Patterson, Gillian Flynn, Dan Brown and Paula Hawkins. The stories became racier as the stories hurtled towards their climax. Every book was like a rollercoaster ride, leaving me breathless in its intensity.

That was when I decided that thrillers were what I would write. I believe that writing should always excite one, and suspense and crime intrigued me intensely. That is how my second solo book – ‘Shadow in the Mirror’ (Readomania) - came into being in 2016. A psychological thriller, it started from an acorn of an idea, and as Topsy said in ‘Uncle Tom’s cabin’, it ‘growed and growed’ till it became an oak tree of a book. I had no idea where the story would end, and as I wrote, my characters came to life in my mind, and on the page. As the blurb went, 

"It all begins with a death. Nita, a pregnant woman falling from her balcony becomes the string that unravels the plot. Her death casts a shadow over many lives; her heartbroken father, her husband and Vinny, a young journalist, drawn in by the whiff of foul play and murder.

What follows are stories within stories, eras and worlds colliding with one another, leaving behind splintered relationships and mesmerizing slices of lives that appear to be drawn together and driven apart by whimsical threads of destiny.

As events cast their shadows ahead to link the stories of Vinny, Kavita, Roma, Krish and Nita in an unrelenting knot, a journey starts to uncover the truth. What is the secret that links Nita's death to the other characters? Will Vinny be able to unravel the mystery of Nita;s death?

From intimate diary entries and letters, to bantering over a meal and sharing memories while spring cleaning, this novel de-familiarizes the ordinary, presenting a kaleidoscope of our own pasts, broken edges and pulsating hearts." 

                                                         

Short stories have always fascinated me. Around 2016, I began writing thriller short stories, or tales with a twist, many of which were published in myriad anthologies. As Stephen King put it so aptly,

"A short story is a different thing altogether – a short story is like a quick kiss in the dark from a stranger.” Some of my stories were published in anthologies like Chronicles of Urban Nomads, Defiant Dreams, Crossed and Knotted, Mango Chutney, Upper Cut and the like.

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Finally, in 2020, a year that spelled doom for many, a solo anthology of my thriller stories was published by Readomania. The eBook was titled 'Where Shadows Follow' and the blurb read:

"How would you feel if you meandered into a tale and suddenly found it leading you up a twisted path of intrigue and evil?

Life is made up of light and shade. Just when you feel that things are in your control,the darkness moves in and edges the light out. That is when the shadows follow, creating an atmosphere of disquiet.

The stories in this anthology do just that. They keep you wondering where they are leading you till the shadows catch up with you."

However, my fascination for  thrillers did not stop there. In 2021, my latest solo anthology titled ‘Shadows Never Lie’, again by Readomania, came out and this again had tales with a twist, which I had painstakingly put together over the years. The blurb? 

"Are these stories, or scenes out of real life?

The human mind is often the most dangerous place to be within, especially when it houses emotions like hate, prejudice, rage, and above all, envy. Shadoes Never Lie is a collection of thrilling stories that have a hint of menace patterned on the mysterious outcome of envy and rage.

Get ready to delve into the dark recesses of the human mind, that can be twisted beyond imagination."

 

There have been umpteen times when people have looked at me and asked in astonishment, “One would never think, looking at you, that you could write stories that are so twisted, almost dark! How do you do it?”

My reply is almost always, “Blame it on my over-riotous imagination!”

Buying Links:

Shadow in the Mirror:

https://www.amazon.in/dp/B01M4JL112/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1

Where Shadows Follow:

https://www.amazon.in/Where-Shadows-Follow-Readomania-Shots-ebook/dp/B087V628T7

Shadows Never Lie:

https://www.amazon.com/Shadows-Never-Lie-Deepti-Menon-ebook/dp/B094QTD5QL

 This post is part of #BlogchatterHalfMarathon