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.

Unresolved

When was it that I became no more than a shadow
Was it then when the fire at the pit burned bright and strange
Was it then when under the veil questions trembled
Was it then when unknown people pushed forward and claimed me as theirs

Was it then when I was expected to do ; not think , not say
Was it then when the person i thought was mine turned away
Was it then when questions were not to be thought of
Was it then when I realised I am homeless

For the home I knew for the last many years is not mine anymore
And the home I dreamed of creating has no room for me

Was it then when the doors shut tight against my beating fists
Was it then when I was told it is all your fault
Was it then when the person who claimed me turns and says
You are nothing.

Yes it was then and now and ever more when the girl I knew is gone
Ask her what her dreams were and she gives a stupid look

Yes it was then that she realises she has offered not just the ghee
But burned herself slowly and steadily so nothing remains.....just ashes

Yes it is now I say that phoenix rise from ashes
Take it and smear it on the forehead of your conscious self
Take it and mix it with your yet to be formed soul
Like manure or fertilisers
Let new flowers bloom forth
Let a new garden of dreams emerge.

I am a woman,hear me roar
give me wings, watch me soar
Too long have I sat brooding
Too long has the night been roosting
Let me take up my hammer
Draw the steel from my heart
Shape my destiny as an arrow
Break the boughs, make  a bow
Temper the steel with my resolve
Brace the arrow and evolve
Shoot straight and true
No time to sit and rue
Long has been the winter
Now for the ice to splinter
I might be weak
But my dreams are strong
Make no mistake
Nor chains bind
I will break all
I am a woman , hear me roar