The Doll

Let me clarify one thing in the beginning. I don’t believe in ghosts. Period. At least till now. Now I am not sure. Confused? Listen to my story first then tell me what you think.

It was a hot, stuffy day to travel and poor me had to obey the orders of my superiors and travel to check on our factory at Midnapore. I had reserved a compartment on the night train and was looking forward to a good night's sleep.  The train pulled in and I settled into my seat. I had just kicked off my shoes when I noticed someone sitting at the far end. ‘Oh no,’ I muttered under my breath. ‘I thought I’d have the place to myself.

“Na Babu, I am too tired to talk. You rest. I will just sit here. I will be getting down at Balia so I will not disturb you for long.”, the person spoke in a cultured tone. I smiled, a little embarrassed. ‘Sorry,it’s just that I’ve been traveling so much, I was really looking forward to some sleep. But why sit in the dark? Please make yourself comfortable. Would you like some tea? My servant has packed enough for two. We can share.’ I opened the hamper with a sense of relief. Lallan Da truly is a gem; he always knows what I like. There was a neatly packed meal, fresh fruit, a box of soft sondesh, and a big thermos of hot tea. Absolute bliss.

The gentleman had a cloth bag on his shoulders which he gently took off and kept in the corner. He sat down opposite me and gratefully took the tea cup. “Thank you.I will not say no to tea. I am Partho Roy Choudhury from Balia. I am the last of the Zamindars from there. I have been roaming the world but I now realise that I will only be at peace in Balia.”

The man looked exhausted. Not just physically but as if he was carrying a huge weight on his shoulders. He had a deep voice but a strange cough marred his sentences. He was dressed in a white dhoti kurta which had seen better days. The only thing he carried was the patchwork cloth bag and there was something sticking out of it.

“You must have seen a lot of things in your travels. Can you tell me of your travels and why are you going back now?”, I asked. He sighed and said, “I have travelled everywhere to try and ease my burden but I don’t think I am destined for peace. No till I have repented and she has forgiven me. Till then, I must go on.”

I was curious. “What could have happened to make you miserable?”. He looked at the cloth bag and whispered, “I have a burden that I can not put down.”, then he asked “Do you want to know my story? Listen, maybe retelling the story will be my repentance.”

He hitched up his dhoti and sat cross legged. “ I am Partho Roy Choudhry, the last remaining Zamindar of Ballia and with me my family ends. I was studying in Kolkata but my parents lived in Ballia. I am the only son so I was loved and maybe pampered too. My family lived in Rajabadi. It was built by my grandfather, Bijoy Roy Choudhury and was a big rambling place. When I was kid, all my cousins, aunts, uncle, Pishima, Thakuma, and all stayed there. We were a big joint family but today there is no one apart from me.”

He was quiet for some time, then he continued, “I loved Kolkata and had no intention of coming back to Balia but life had other plans. My father fell sick and I had to come back and become the zamindar. My father wanted me to marry the daughter of his old friend from Burdwan. Before I could think, I was married to Kumud.”

He started coughing badly and had to pause. Believe me, when I say that I saw a movement from the bag in the corner. I was not sure and Partho was fine after a while. He continued, “ My wife Kumud was a tiny , shy solemn girl. She had beautiful big eyes and was always quite quiet. I had not seen her before the marriage and only saw her face when she came home. Though I was not happy to be married, it was hardly her fault. I decided to become her friend first and husband later. She was very young and had no idea how to take care of such a big house as the rajbadi with so many different people. I was also slowly learning the ropes of zamindari and could hardly spare time for her. Maybe I should have given her time.” he mused.

“Kumud had a doll with her, given by her Pishima. It was a rag doll but it was her prized possession. Kumud carried it with her everywhere. She would whisper to her in our room. I knew that she told the doll everything. What Pishima said or what the maid had said…everything. I told her to talk to me about her fears but she would look at me with fear and say that I would not believe her. I always felt as if the doll was listening. Her eyes seemed to follow others and I can swear I had heard the doll breathing.” He looked at me to see if I believed it. “No , I am not crazy. Here, let me show you something.” Saying that he took out a ragged doll from the bag. It looked old and worn but I can swear it looked as if it could hear everything that was being said.

I was taken aback, Partho smiled and said, “You see, she watches. Anyways, to continue, Kumud was becoming quieter and quieter day by day. I knew she had no one to speak to in the house. Ma, Pishima, Boudi had left the working of the household to her and she was not adept at it. I was fine if my lunch was not served in time or that my clothes were not ironed on time but the others were not that forgiving. I should have said something. I should have stopped them taunting her but I myself was head over heels in the Zamindari work. I just did not have the time. All excuses, I know,” he said looking at the doll, “but I seriously did not know the effect on kumud. Believe me, I would have done something had I known”.

“Every month, I had to go away for a week to the collectorate at Kolkata to submit reports of the zamindari. Every month , I would buy some ornaments for Kumud. I thought that giving her jewelry would compensate for my absence. Kumud never said anything. She did not complain nor did she acknowledge the jewels. I just thought that she was shy. I should have asked her but…” he paused and sighed.“Maybe if I had asked her the tragedy would not have happened.”

“Tragedy,” I said, “What happened?”

“One day, I met my college friend, Rashbehari Ganguly in Kolkata. He had lost his father recently and his house was mortgaged. He asked me if I could help him. I brought him home and gave him a job in the office. Rashbehari had always been a social person and soon he had become a darling of the house. Everyone, from Pishima to the servants loved talking to him. Ma would make sweets for him too. Kumud was still shy but Rashbehari took it upon himself to get Kumud talking. I was always busy but I was happy that now Kumud had someone to talk to. I should have stopped her. I knew what a scoundrel Rashbehari was. I should not have got him home.” He paused and tilted his head as if listening to something, “Yes, yes. I know. All excuses. I am to blame.” 

“Then one time, rains failed and the crops were ruined. All my investments turned wrong. I lost a lot of money. I had to sell off some lands but nothing helped. I was drowning in debt. The rajbadi was the only thing left now. That and Kumud’s ornaments. I spoke to Rashbehari and to Ma and Pishima. I told them that I had decided to sell off Kumud’s jewelry to pay off the debts. They agreed. I should have asked Kumud. I did not. That was my mistake.”

He sighed and looked out into the night. The train whistled as it crossed the bridge. “That day, I went to Kumud in the afternoon. She was sitting at the window brushing her hair and talking to the doll. I told her that I needed all her jewelry. She looked startled and asked me why. I did not answer. How could I tell her that I had lost everything. I just told her that she did not understand. All I wanted from her were the jewels. I told her that I had already spoken to Ma and Pishima and they said that jewels were an asset to be sold when in trouble.” 

“She said that I had given it to her so they were her property. I was so angry that I just slapped her and shouted that I had given the jewels to her so ideally they were my property and she had no right to them. She was stunned and her doll fell from her hands. She did not cry nor did she shout. She just stood there. I stomped off. I should have explained.” he said.

“Anyway, I had to go out soon enough. I don’t really know what happened. Gobind Kaka said later that Kumud was very restless. She wore all her jewelry and sat on the bed. She refused to come down and when Ma ordered her to come out, she shut the door on her. Gobind kaka said that Ma was very angry. She complained that this trouble, the failing rains, the drought, the bad investments were all Kumud’s doing. She had brought ill luck. Kumud called Gobind Kaka and asked him to get Rashbehari.”

“ I should not have slapped her. It was my fault that she turned to Rashbehari. Kumud told Rashbehari that she had decided to go back to her parents house. She said that I did not need her and she was tired of this big house where everything was her fault. Rashbehari agreed to take her. That evening, Kumud wore all her jewelry and stepped out with Rashbehari on the boat that he had got. When I came back, Gobind Kaka told me that Kumud was gone. I rushed out just as the rains swept in. I called for her in the pouring rain. The river had turned angry and the waves looked terrible. 

The boatmen told me that Rashbehari had taken the boat out himself. I wanted to follow but in that gathering darkness, I had no idea where to go. I sat there on the ghat, cursing myself, weeping and waiting for the storm to subside. Then, just as the dawn broke, I saw something on the waters. This doll came to me bobbing on the waters. Her eyes looked at me, searing me with contempt. I dragged her out and with her came Kumud’s anklet. I rushed about the ghat calling kumud’s name but nothing. No sound, just silence and this doll’s moving eyes.”

“I came back to the Rajbadi dragging my wet, exhausted self. That night, I was in terrible pain. My fever was high and I felt as if something was choking me. Some kind of weight on my chest but I just could not open my eyes. I felt someone treading quietly across the room and I swear I heard Kumud’s quiet voice but nothing. No one knew where Kumud and Rashbehari had gone. After a fortnight, my fever broke but I was still weak. I asked Gobind Kaka to take Ma and Pishima to the village. I just wandered the great house looking for something but what I don’t know. I too started to talk to the doll but she never answered me. Then one day, the police came. They had found a body near the marshes. I went with them just praying that it should not be Kumud. The face was disfigured but I recognised the anklet. I had its pair with me. It was Kumud. The police said that Rashbehari had also been caught and he had confessed to killing Kumud for her jewels.”

I sat there looking at Partho. His anguish and despair was very visible on his face. “Then, what happened?” I said softly.

“Then, things got strange. I kept seeing Kumud everywhere. She looked at me with anger, sometimes with sorrow. Her doll kept me company. Everywhere I turned , it was there. Sitting quietly on judgement. Everyone had left the big house. I was the only undead person there. I, the doll and Kumud’s shadow. I knew I had to get away. So one day, I just picked the bag and left. I thought I was alone but the doll has never left me. It takes me where I want to go. I think it will take me to my grave too.” laughed Partho. 

Just then the train stopped at Balia station. Partho took the doll and his bag, “Thank you for sharing your meal with me. If you come here some other time, look me up. The rajabadi is still there, maybe I will meet you once more.” Partho got down. I was not sure what to think of the story I heard. Maybe the guilt that he felt made him see something which wasn’t there but even I had seen the doll’s eyes move and had heard quiet sighs as Partho told his story. 

Some weeks later, as I was working late in the office, I remembered our clerk Madhu Chand Nabi belonged to Ballia. I called him to ask if he knew about Partho and the people at Rajabadi. Madhu Chand said,”Yes Sir. Partho Roy Choudhury was the zamindar.” “Was,”I stuttered, “what do you mean?” “Two weeks ago, there was a big fire at the Rajabadi. The house burnt down completely. Partho Babu was at home. He died in that fire. Nothing remains in that house, just a doll which was found sitting on the desk in Partho Babu’s study. It was the only thing which was not burnt.” 

I was dumbfounded. Do you think it makes any sense? How did the fire start? How did the doll survive? I have no answers. Do you?

 

 

THE OLD MAN ON THE SEA

Long long time ago , in a small village by the sea, lived an old fisherman. He lived in a small little hut made of driftwood and draped with sea nettles. The windows of his hut were tiny and round and had seashells embedded all around. The tiny little door could never manage to close and flapped open in the sea breeze like the jaws of a shark.

 

Inside the hut, it was always dark and damp. The old fisherman kept a lamp burning on the table but there was hardly any light. The old man was bent with age and could barely stand up straight. Everything in his house smelled of the sea and was crusted with salt.

 

It had been ages since the old man had seen anyone or talked to anyone. He had a small boat in which he would venture out to the sea and cast out his net to gather up small fishes. Age and time had closed off the old man and made him look more like an old turtle than a man.

That day too he got up from his bed and took his boat out to the heaving seas but something was strange today. The skies were grey and leaden. It looked as if the sky would just fall into the sea and that would be the end. The waters were unruly and heaved with great emotion. The waves crashed with ferocity and the surf thundered up the rocky beach as if the dogs of hell were rushing out. The wind was biting cold and snatched at the old man in anger. The sky and the sea all roiled with anger. There was no boat on the rolling waters except the old man’s. 

 

The old man gnashed his teeth and threw out his net. He clamped his old, beaten, ragged pipe and hauled the net with all his might. The net was heavy and chafed at the old man but the old man fought with the waves and brought the net up into his boat. There was something thrashing about in the folds of his net. As the old man pulled away the net, the wind died down and the waters calmed as they waited with baited breath to see what the old man had caught.

 

The old man was gobsmacked to see that he had caught a sea nymph, a mermaid. The mermaid looked exhausted and wary of the old man. She was dressed in a shimmery armour but her shimmery tail was pierced through with an iron harpoon. Her pale skin looked bloodless as she looked up at the old man.

 

 The old man had heard of mermaids and that their tears turned into pearls and the touch of their scaly tail could heal any wound but this one looked completely defeated. Something turned in the old man’s chest, maybe his salty old heart cracked a little but he just could not bear the mermaid’s tears or her pain. He approached the mermaid and very gently bound his old ragged cravat around the tail. Then he turned his boat around and took her to his hut.

 

He gestured and told her to hold on as he prepared to yank out the harpoon. The mermaid understood and grabbed the rim of the old wash tub as the old man pulled it out. The mermaid screeched a painful gut wrenching cry and fainted. The old man was staggered at the sound but he quickly bathed the wound and bound it with medicines. The old man filled the wash tub with sea water and stoked the fire in the hearth. He prepared a thin gruel to feed her and took care of the wounded mermaid.

 

Days passed and the mermaid grew healthy. Everyday, the old man would take his boat out to sea and the sea was kind to him. His net would be full of fishes of various kinds. Seaweed, kelp and driftwood would wash up to his feet as he walked out to the beach.  The old man would cook and feed his guest. He carved charms, necklaces and jewellery from the driftwood and gift it to the mermaid. He would talk to her and sing little sea shanties. His heart was filled with love for his finned guest.

 

One day, the mermaid called him and said, “Father, I am healthy now. I must leave you for my duty waits.” The old man was sad but he said smiling proudly at the mermaid, “I am glad to see you healthy, my child. I will take you out to sea but remember me and come visit me sometime.”

 

Next day, the old man woke up very early. He gathered up all the things that he had carved for his sea dwelling daughter. He made a little package of fish cakes and sea kelp. Then he put the mermaid in his boat with the package and rowed out to the waters beyond the breaking surf. There in the high waters, he looked tearfully at the mermaid and said, “I had forgotten how lonely I was. You gave me so much love, my daughter. Remember, that my house is always open for you. Come and visit this sad old man soon.” The mermaid sighed and kissed the old man’s crusty face. “Father, I will remember and soon I will come for you. Look for me when the sea boils and the sea horses thunder up the beach. I will be there.” Then the mermaid jumped into the sea and vanished into the blue.

 

The old man came back to his silent, dark house and went to bed. His heart was sad and nothing cheered him. Next day, he took his boat and went to sea but he did not cast his net, just drifted about in his little boat thinking deep thoughts. Days passed and the old man became ill. He knew his days were coming to a close so he took his boat out for the last time. He looked down into the blue sea and said, “Oh my daughter, it has been so long since you left and I am getting old and frail now. My eyes are weak and my heart is sad. I wish that I could talk to you for the last time because I feel as if my time has come. Be brave and be happy, my daughter. Your old father is tired now and wishes to sleep.”

 

The old man sat back in his boat and looked out to the horizon as he waited for the sun to set and life to ebb. Just as the old man closed his eyes for the last time, the waters boiled up around the boat and sea horses surged up from the depths. The mermaid swam up and gently whispered to the old man, “ Come father, I have come to take you with me. Rest your weary head in the palace below the waves.” The old man smiled and taking the mermaid’s hand slipped beneath the waves.

 

 

On some nights, when the moon is round and silver and the seahorses thunder up the beach, you can see the old man on his old boat, bobbing gently upon the waves. The fisherfolk say that you will be lucky and your nets will be full if you see the old man on the sea.

THE CURSE OF THE SILENT PUPPETS 

Many years ago, there lived a puppeteer. He had no home but a small cart that held all his belongings. It served as his home, workshop, and theatre. He wandered the wide world, telling stories with his puppets, staying in each village just long enough to weave his tales, mend broken dolls, and carve new marionettes. Then, without warning, he would disappear.

One evening, he arrived at a village nestled on a cliff, deep in the forest where few dared to go. The villagers, curious and eager, gathered around his cart and begged for a story. The puppeteer smiled, his eyes reflecting the flickering light of their lamps, and brought out his puppets. He told a tale of love and betrayal, of anger and jealousy, of happiness and friendship. The villagers, enchanted, pleaded for him to stay. The puppeteer, weary from his endless journey, agreed. For the first time in many years, he felt the urge to linger.

In the days that followed, he mended and crafted in his cart by day and enchanted the villagers with stories by night. Among his audience was the prosperous farmer who owned vast fields on the cliff. He was known for his riches but also for his miserliness. He had a daughter, Lina, who was old enough to marry, but the farmer could not bear the thought of her leaving. "Who would care for me in my old age?" he often muttered to himself, clutching his iron box of gold coins.

Lina met the puppeteer in secret. Drawn by his warmth and the life he breathed into his puppets, she found herself falling in love with him. One evening, as the lanterns dimmed and the village hushed, she confessed her feelings to her father.

"Father, I want to marry the puppeteer," she said, her voice trembling.

The old farmer's eyes darkened. "A vagabond? A man with nothing but wooden dolls and a rickety cart? Never."

"But I love him," Lina pleaded. "And he loves me."

The farmer's face twisted with rage. "You will not marry him. He is not worthy of you, or of this family."

That night, while the village slept, the farmer sent word to the puppeteer, asking him to come to his house. The puppeteer arrived with hope in his heart, believing the farmer had softened. But as he walked through the garden, a shadow loomed behind him. The axe fell with a sickening thud. The farmer, breathing heavily, looked at the lifeless body at his feet. He buried the puppeteer beneath the garden soil, his heart pounding not with remorse but with a twisted satisfaction.

The next evening, the villagers gathered at the puppeteer's cart, but it was eerily silent. The puppets hung limply, their strings untouched. Days turned into weeks, and rumors swirled. Some whispered that the puppeteer had stolen away in the night. Others claimed he had found a wealthier patron. Lina, grief-stricken, withdrew into herself, her laughter silenced. The farmer, despite a creeping unease, found solace in his gold.

Then, strange things began to happen. On moonless nights, a rustling sound echoed through the village, followed by a faint clanking, like marionette strings in the wind. In the mornings, a puppet would be found on a doorstep, its wooden face frozen in an expression of sorrow or terror. The villagers, once entranced by the puppeteer's tales, now spoke of curses and restless spirits.

Lina wandered the village, her eyes vacant, her hands clutching one of the puppets left at her door. The farmer watched her fade away, guilt gnawing at him, but he told himself it was for the best. "She will understand," he muttered to his gold. "She will forgive."

One moonless night, a commotion arose near the puppeteer's abandoned cart. The villagers gathered, holding their breath, as the lanterns cast long shadows on the ground. The puppets began to twitch, then rise, their movements jerky but purposeful. The villagers gasped, rooted in place by a mixture of fear and awe.

Suddenly, in the flickering lamplight, the puppets began to dance. But this was no ordinary dance. It was a reenactment. The shadows cast on the cart’s side told a story—a story of love, betrayal, and murder. The villagers watched, horrified, as the shadows depicted the young puppeteer walking up a garden path, the gleam of an axe, and the sickening blow that felled him.

An unearthly scream ripped through the air. The puppets froze, their heads snapping toward the old farmer, who stood trembling at the edge of the crowd. A new puppet lay on the ground, its carved face a twisted replica of the farmer's, eyes hollow and wide with terror. The puppets turned toward the farmer, who stumbled back, his face draining of color.

"No... No!" he screamed, but his voice was drowned by the rustling of puppet strings. The shadow of the young puppeteer rose from the cart, his form dark and vengeful. It reached out and seized the puppet of the old man, lifting it high. The villagers watched in stunned silence as the puppeteer’s shadow threw the puppet into the trees, where it hung, swaying gently in the breeze.

Morning came, and the village awoke to a scene that would haunt them for years. The puppets were arranged in a circle around the cart, with the puppet of the old man sitting at the center, his eyes staring into nothingness. The farmer was gone, his house silent and his garden untouched, except for a single mound of disturbed earth where flowers would not grow.

Lina, clutching the puppeteer’s favorite puppet, looked to the horizon. She knew he was gone, but in some way, he had never left. The puppets were quiet now, their strings at rest. The village, though scarred, moved on, but they never forgot the puppeteer and his final story—the story of how a man who lived by guiding strings had his own fate tangled with those he loved.

 The quest for the jewel

The city of Dilli was in turmoil. The magnificent Red Fort was in shambles. The treasury was empty and the Badshah had a broken crown to his name. The only name on everyone’s lips was Mangal Pandey, the hero of Barrackpore. The one who refused to bow down before the British Commander. The soldiers were angry and restless. The idea of freedom was a spark which had ignited their souls. The Badshah sat terror stricken in his empty court.

 

Asfaq, Usman and Noorul sat under the stairs leading to the ghats of Yamuna. They had come here early in the morning to pick out lilies to sell at the market. Noorul’s sister, Reshma Appa was a skilled florist. Her bouquets and garlands of fragrant flowers were always the first ones to be sold out. In the hazy dark of dawn, they saw a boat slide silently over the quiet Yamuna. Huddled figures on the boat leapt into action as the boat scraped the bank. The three kids were struck dumb at the sight of the beefy swarthy figures. They were dressed in the red coat of the soldiers and carried swords and rifles. One of them whispered, “Look, we are not safe here in the open. Let’s get to Phani Ram ki Havelli. We will make our plans there.”

The three kids hid under the darkened step and watched as the soldiers lifted out a bloody bundle of clothes. Noorul stiffled a scream when he saw a lifeless hand slide out of the bundle. The kids were terrified. What would happen if these soldiers saw them or heard them? Asfaq, Noorul and Usman were scared but thankfully, the soldiers heard nothing. They picked up their rifles, the bloody bundle and few other sacks from the boat. "Take the boat to the middle of the river and drown it. Don't let anyone see you. After that go to the market and find out the news. Then come to the haveli. We will discuss our plans further. Also, get medicines and first aid from the Vaid and something to eat. Do you have money? Be careful." The leader clasped the boatman to him and, "We will meet soon, God willing. Jai Bhavani."

The Soldiers moved ahead with their bundles and the boatman rowed the boat away. The three kids stood up silently. "What was all that?" whispered Noorul. "Are these soldiers from Kanpur? My baba said that the Sipahis were angry and Mangal Pandey refused to shoot with the gun. He was taken away to prison and his friends shot all the Gora officers.", said Usman. Asfaq said,"I heard my Abba say that the Goras are hunting these soldiers. He said, they have disobeyed the command so the afsar log will catch them and hang them but fighting for freedom is not wrong." "Hmmm," said Noorul thoughtfully, "I hope they get to safety soon. Let's go and give these flowers to Appa. It will be morning soon. Just keep your ears and eyes open. Let's see if we can find out more about these sipahis."

CHAPTER 2

Reshma was there at the market, setting up her stall. She lifted her eyebrow and looked enquiringly at the three as they rushed in with the baskets of flowers. "What happened? Why do you all look so scared and jumpy?". Noorul put the basket down and squatted , "We saw something, Appa but this is not the place to tell about it. I promise, I will tell you at home. I am going back home with my friends. Is there anything to eat? We are all quite hungry."

Reshma had already started braiding the flowers, "Go home. I had made Khichda in the morning. You all can have it. Take some rest and thank you for the lilies, my brother. I will be back before you know it." Noorul rubbed his fingers over her arm,"Don't worry appa. We are fine. We will be back to help you close shop." Then they left, taking the wet sacks with them. Ashfaq looked around the market, "Look guys, isn't that the boatman? There, near Khan Chacha's kebab stall." "Should we follow him and find out more about those people?", asked Usman. "Let's go. Be careful. Ashfaq, get some fruits from Manju Amma. We will eat on the way", said Noorul.

The children followed the boatman through the crowded market. The boatman went from stall to stall picking up things to eat and finally vended his way out of the market with the three still on his trail. After walking for some time, the man veered left into a narrow alley. The three dashed across the street, dodging the tongas and other shoppers. By the time, they reached the alley, the boatman was at the far end. The three quickly ran after the disappearing person but it was to no avail. The boatman had vanished and the alley stopped at a wall. The kids ran parallel to the wall searching for an opening and soon they found a place where the wall had caved in. They scrambled in and found themselves in a dark, gloomy, unkempt, overgrown garden. 

The house at the far end of the garden did not look inhabited. It's wide verandahs and jaali windows looked soulless and empty. The kids ran fast through the knee length grass and climbed up the verandah. They slithered forward keeping to the shadows. There was a door at the far end of the verandah. The children tiptoed to it and nudged it open. The room looked like a small drawing room or baithak. There were old, mouldy cushions and gaddas on the floor and long circular pillows, masnad. The lacy curtains on the windows were frayed and dull. This house had seen better days but was now reeling under bad times. No one was there but a groan startled the children. They quickly ran forward on soft toes and peered in at the room beyond. 

There on the old bed, lay someone. Someone who was bandaged up and bundled in a heavy quilt. The man looked poorly. He was awake and staring at the kids. He motioned them to come forward and rasped,"Who are you? Why are you here? This is no place for children. Go away,before they find you in here." Asfaq looked at the man, "We know you are sipahis. We saw you come in but we have not told anyone about you . Why are you here? Who injured you? What are you planning to do? Will you avenge Mangal Pandey? We will help you." Noorul 

 

 My mirror shows me wrong

I feel wrong

something not quite right

sits within me

waiting for me to cast it out.

It sits knowing that it is my truth

the lie, I wear right now is threadbare.

Another push. just a shove

and the truth will tumble out of the closet

along with all the nicely pressed clothes

shiny garments, pearl studded untruths. 

There at the back of the closet, truth sits wearing

the garments called impure, unworthy, scandalous

It wears it with pride

and steps forward even as I struggle to accept

my truth VS their truth.

ROMANCE OF THE FOUNTAIN PEN

Today, as i was cleaning up the clutter left behind by a month of holidays, I came across a fountain pen.Do you remember those pens lining our geometry boxes? It was as if a window opened and I could feel myself reliving those moments again.
In those days when we reached the middle school, a fountain pen with a Chelpark ink bottle was part of the rite of passage. Every child was entrusted with a pen belonging to their father or grandfather and it was a ceremonious  call to arms , if you will, to the serious vocation of being an adult.

I still remember the thrill of holding my first ever black and silver pen. It felt so smooth and weighty. Yes, surprisingly, that's what I remember it feeling. Weighty as if it wasn't just a pen but a tool to forge my destiny. I was given careful instructions on how to fill the pen with that rich almost velvety coloured ink, how to keep the bottle of ink tightly screwed. Many were the dire stories told about the accidents which could happen. A soft rag was also part of the paraphernalia of the pen. There used to be a suction dropper to fill the belly of the pen or if you were adventurous enough, you could eyeball and fill the pen directly. An exercise in hand eye coordination if ever there was one.It made you feel like Arjuna who succeeds in piercing the eye of the fish ,if you managed to fill the pen without spilling even a drop.

If you thought that the pen was just a tool to write; well, you thought wrong. It wasn't just a pen to function as a writing tool but also a fun instrument. In those dark moments of utter boredom, the pen would give you a light of entertainment. Squirt the ink onto the page. Fold the page at the centre. Smear the ink on the page with your fingers. Wait for few seconds and then open. What you see there was open to interpretation and as I think was the precursor to modern art.

There was always a method involved in making the pen write. Sometimes the pen would develop a stubborn attitude and refuse to finish that important letter or question or even a prescription. It was important to understand the mood of the pen and somehow calm the tantrum. Easy said then done. One had to take a step back. Pause. Pick up the pen and gently rub the nib of the pen, almost like stroking a cat. Then very slowly coax the pen to write while mumbling sweet nothings into its ears.
Believe it or not, it always worked.

Sometimes when the mood was just right, the pen would almost dance over the page leaving beautiful velvety , inky , glowing letters on the page. It was as if a dam had broken and words which echoed in your mind connected to the pen. Magic. That's what it was.

If you think about it, a simple fountain pen could teach you appreciation to life itself. Lets recount certain lessons by this beautiful  yet humble instrument to people's creativity.
1. To be prepared
2. Never to loose focus
3. To pause when things go wrong
4. To appreciate the beauty of the written word
5. To think before you act, write because the wrong act/ word would leave a mark on the pristine page.

Unfortunately with the  passage of time and technical advances the romance of the written word has faded. Now the fountain pen resides in the cupboard , waiting for the era to return.

Why is the crow black


Long long time ago
when the world was still new
when the trees and flowers gladly swayed
when the birds and animals gladly spoke
It was a time when the good lord
had not yet made man in his image
when the world was a paradise
and every creature big and small could talk

The lord of the world saw his creation and thought
"I should colour it for it looks too bland".
He declared that the next morning he would colour the birds
"So, come early everyone and I shall colour you pretty".
Such excitement gripped the avian
"We will be colourful". chirped the finches
"We will be colourful', chirped the swift swallows
'I will look the most elegant", strutted the peacock
But the lazy crow just opened his eyes and said
"time enough, time enough.
Let me sleep. There's time enough"

Next morning, the glade was full of twittering, chirping
clucking,tweeting, trilling, quacking ,shrieking and hooting.
Every bird big and small jostled and plucked for space
Every bird had a demand that the lord paint her beautiful.
But the lazy crow peeked from beneath his wings and yawned
"time enough, time enough.
Let me sleep. There's time enough"

"Soon, soon my feathered darlings , you will be beautiful
.Have a  little patience. let me get my tools and I will be ready for you".
HE called the rooster to strut out of the coop
"Tell me what colour suits your mood"
"Red please, your lordship. Red as the rising sun
For I greet him every morn"
"True", said the lord "I will gift you the colours of the sun"
The rooster looked proud with his fiery red and flaming orange
"I look perfect", crowed he
But the lazy crow with the sleepy shut eyes said,
"time enough, time enough.
Let me sleep. There's time enough"


A dove came fluttering shyly"May I, please, choose my colour?"
"Yes, my dear. What is your wish?"
"White.Just Like the foam of the sea.
That's the colour for me"
"White it is my precious .For white is the colour of hope too
The colour of peace in a world which is quite noisy sometimes
HE picked up his brush and painted the dove white.
"Oh!! Its beautiful. It's just the colour for me. "
"Yes . It is ", Said the lord
"When the storm clouds gather You can be seen from a distance
When the noise of the world becomes too loud,
then will your wings beat out the message of peace,
You are the symbol of hope. Go spread your wings to the sun"
But the lazy crow cracked open his eyes and said
"time enough, time enough.
Let me sleep. There's time enough"

Soon the eagle bold came and stood by the lord

"Paint me a colour of the dazzling sun

For I rise above the Terra firm.

Give my wings the speed of wind

When I strike, I strike true"

"Yes, my child." Said HE ," I made you free and true

and the golden colour is for you

Rise above the petty morass
Fly to heavens above the high mountain pass.
How proudly shook his wings, the brave
and to the heavens , a path he paved
But the lazy crow drowsily mumbled and said
"time enough, time enough.
Let me sleep. There's time enough"

Sashayed the peacock through the mob

Spread his feathers and coyly bobbed

"Please your Highness, Wouldn't you paint me bright?

I have such long feathers. Wouldn't you colour me to rival the light ?"

"Of course," quote HE" I would love to see your feathers bright

Don't You worry, darling. I will colour them just right".

Then the lord picked his brush and dipping it in colour so gay

HE made the peacock dance and sway

"When the rains beat their drums from the skies above,

You shall show your glorious feathers dancing in the grove"

But the lazy crow hardly heard the talk but lisped

"time enough, time enough.
Let me sleep. There's time enough"

The day was now waning fast
and the lazy crow got up with a gasp
"Am I late?", wondered he
"Where is everyone? Have they left me here?"
He crawled out of the tree and looked everywhere
Not a bird could he see.
"Oh my!! I am very late."
Saying so , he shook his wings and flew post haste
The glade was full of birds colourful
Who looked at the lazy crow now doleful.
"Am I very late or is there any colour left?"
He looked so sad and felt so bad.
Why oh why , was I so lazy??
Now I am the only one who looks  so hazy".

The good lord with a stern face said
"You knew the order of the day.
Yet you chose to sleep and stay.
Now all have been painted and done
and my paints are all gone.
I am afraid I cannot help you
for this wonderful chance you blew."
HE gathered up his tools and brushes
and the lazy crow wept in gushes
"Forgive me ,please. I am sorry
Please paint me  any colour without a worry"

How could the lord turn away from the sad crow
He put down his brushes and wiped his brow
Looking here and there , he spied a tub of colour black
"This is the only colour that I don't lack.
Would you like this on your back
cause there is no more in my pack."
All the birds stood silently by
 As the crow nodded his head with a sigh.
The lord gently picked up the crow forlorn
and coloured him all black from head to toe
and with HIS grace caused the colour to glow
"There, You look beautiful. So black and so shiny
You will be a piece of night in the gleaming morning

Now the crow looked over his feathers gleaming black
He bowed his head and said" thank you lord for this colour so right
I will gladly carry it as a mirror to light and say I so humbly
I am glad that i was forgiven for my mistakes horrible"
So every bird was glad and chirped up a storm
and returned to their nests in a swarm.