A daring escapade (857 words)

 

Koyambedu bus stand was humming with activity. My bus to Bangalore leaves at ​7:30 am. I barely made it on time, rushing to hop ​in just as the doors were about to close​. I found a young boy of 11 years sitting on the window seat that was earmarked for me. I did not mind though he​ ​had not requested for switching the seat​.   After stowing my bag in the overhead compartment, I settled into the aisle seat beside him   He was in shorts and a colourful ​​T-shirt. He was busy watching the vast array of buses and passengers with bags rushing to them.

When he turned to look at me, I smiled and asked him, “Are you travelling to Bangalore alone?”

He nodded and said to my surprise, “Can I sit in the window seat​? I like watching the small towns and villages.”

I was happy he sought my permission and said, “You can sit. What is your name? Do you belong to Bangalore?”

“No, I live in Chennai. My name is Rishab​,” he said and started looking out.

“Do you like cricket?” I asked and he vigorously nodded his head

Intrigued ​that it was mid-week and there was no vacation, I asked him, “Do you have relatives there? Which part of Bangalore​ are you going​ to?”

When he kept silent, I prodded him saying he had not answered my question.

He looked at my face and said calmly without any emotion,” I have no one there. I do not know where I will be going at Bangalore.”

“Are you running away from your home? It is dangerous to be alone ​i​n ​an unknown city. Where did you get the money ​to buy the ticket ​on this Volvo bus? Tell me the truth. I am worried about you.” I asked in disbelief.

He did not answer.” Alright we can continue the conversation after breakfast​, I said. The bus stopped​ after an hour at a ​wayside restaurant. “Come along, we will have our breakfast,” I said and when he did not get up, I pulled him up and said, “Do not bother about money.”

The boy was relaxed after breakfast and in a mood to talk. I decided to give him some space before continuing our conversation.   After one hour, I told him, “I want you to be truthful. Why did you run away from home? What is the problem? Your parents must be worried now about you. Did you fail in your class​ or what?”

“Yes, I ran away. I did not want to stay there. My father keeps touring for ​a large part of the month and hardly talks to me when ​a​t ​the station. My ​stepmother though not cruel, is disinterested and busy with her friends and social circle. I did not want to stay there,” he replied.

“You are foolish. The world outside is wicked and very soon without any protection of ​a home, you will be thick in all vicious activities,” I warned him. Where do you intend ​to stay at Bangalore? I hope not at the​ bus or railway station as another rag-picker?” 

“Malleswaram.​ One of my friends, Shammanna, lives there. We studied together till last year.”

“Do you know where he lives in Malleswaram or the name of his father?”

He kept quiet as he had no answer.

“Do not worry. After we reach Bangalore, I will talk to your father. Do not be scared. I will ensure no harm comes to you. You can stay with me​ till then.

I felt sultry despite the cool bus and ​was restless by the thought of a young child​ driven to such ​a foolish step by uncaring parents.

“It is hot. Have this fruit juice,” I offered ​him one of the two I took from my bag. Sleep for a while till the bus stops for lunch.”

It was almost ​2​ pm when the bus entered the Central bus stand opposite Bangalore city station.​A​s we alighted from the bus stop, I heard a voice hailing the boy by a loud “Rishab​". I ​​turned to see an elderly gentleman in ​a silk kurta and dhoti with his wife in silk sari ​​and a driver in ​a white uniform. They looked affluent.

The boy turned ​i​n that direction and shouted aloud,” Thatha, Patti, one second​, I will be with you with my bag.”

“How was your first bus trip alone? Your mom rang me up at least half a dozen times enquiring whether you had reached safely,” said his grandpa and turning to ​the driver asked him to take the bag from the boy.

Pointing me out, the boy said “Thatha, this uncle who was seated by my side was very nice and concerned​ about my travelling alone asking me ​a lot of caring questions and bought me my breakfast​, fruit juice​ and lunch. He gave me ​his window seat too.”

Surprised​ and relieved at the new revelation, I saw the boy walking happily with his grandparents towards ​a big Toyota​ car. He turned towards me and shouted with a​ cheeky wink from a distance,” I am going to Malleswaram.​ Do not be worried.” 

 

I love you, my dear Grandpa (1008 words)

I was then a young boy of twelve years. My maternal grandpa (Thatha) lived in another part of the town with his son, my uncle. He was an old man in his seventies. He was a widower having lost his wife at a young age and led a life of strict discipline and austerity. He wore only Khadi made out of the yarn spun by him in the charka (wheel). He rose early, finished his ablutions and did the puja by 6 am to be ready before the wheel spinning yarn for two hours. He was a disciplinarian, spoke only when necessary and was given to reading habits. He was spotlessly clean except for the snuff that fell on his dress when he inhaled it frequently. This was one ‘bad and nasty habit’ he admitted he could not get rid of. He ate less but was a gourmet relishing good food.

Whenever I had holidays after each term, he took me away forcibly to his place. It was a big house and he had rented several small portions to many poor families. There were young boys and girls of my age to play with. While I looked forward to the fun with them, I detested his strict study regimen for two hours in the morning and one hour in the afternoon. He would teach me in the mornings daily along with a few other boys living in the house algebra and geometry for an hour and English grammar from Wren and Martin for another hour. Learning Maths was fun but grammar I found a bore.

 His temper was short and he had a ferrule at hand and believed strongly in the dictum of ‘sparing the rod and spoiling the child’. I remember he used it only on me and not on other boys. My uncle often came to support me when I got beat only to be chided away by my grandfather. My tears never moved him though I should confess he never beat me hard.

What scared me were his angry face and his inhaling the snuff before taking the ferrule in his hand. He gave without fail homework to be completed and shown in the afternoon session. Besides this, he chose one story poem daily and asked us to write it in prose form.

This story poem assignment was difficult for me not only to comprehend but to write in prose form. I made several mistakes in punctuation and grammar. One boy in the group always got praised for paraphrasing the poem in impeccable and flawless English though he fared poorly in all other subjects.

My grandpa’s anger grew more when he read mine after reading his work which invariably led to his ferrule coming into operation. This went on for quite some days till I accidentally stumbled on the boy’s table one book that was a key to story poems with answers neatly provided. He just copied it and presented it to my grandpa winning his appreciation.

So, the next day when he started praising him and hitting me, I spilled the truth. That incident witnessed the boy being dismissed permanently from his classes. He said” Yes, I was wrong in praising him and should have suspected it. But that does not in any way condone your poor work.”

I remonstrated, ’Thatha, you are always partial. You always beat me. Never once you have hit them. You revel in spoiling my holidays bringing me here forcibly without fail. I hate you. I don’t want your tuition. I don’t want to be here with you. Please allow me to go home.”

He hugged me tight. “Partha, you are my favourite grandson. They are nobody to me. You are weak in English. I want you to improve your comprehension and writing skills without grammatical mistakes. You have opened my eyes. I will throw the ferrule away and promise not to touch you. Please do not go away. I am sorry” he pleaded.

I felt bad when I saw a tear trickle from his eye. I fell at his feet and said “Thatha, please forgive me. I know you are doing it for my benefit.”

He said “It is okay. You can go home today and come after three days if you wish to. Let us finish the few chapters of Wren and Martin and a few theorems before the school reopens.” When I said that I didn’t wish to go, he still sent me back gifting me a book titled Self-Help by Samuel Smiles.

Two days later when I was playing cricket in the garden behind my house, my sister came running to tell me “Partha, Thatha died an hour back due to a heart attack. Amma is going. You also join her.”

it was a hammer blow for me. There was a big crowd as my grandpa’s body lay in the hall there. I could not suppress my grief and wailed inconsolably. I felt an arm on my shoulder and turned to see who it was. It was my uncle with his eyes red and swollen in tears. He whispered in my ears “What happened Partha? He was depressed ever since you left that day and mentioned to me something about having been harsh to you. What was that?”

I remembered my insensitive words about hating him and his pleading with me not to go away. He was not demonstrative in his affection for me and had never told me even once that he liked me. But that was his way of keeping his feelings inside his heart. I sincerely felt I was instrumental in hastening his end with my thoughtless and rude remark.

 I could not contain my grief and broke out weeping loudly to the surprise of the people gathered.  “Thatha, forgive me, I never meant what I said that day. You were a pillar of strength and knowledge to me. I was an idiot in not realising your immense affection for me.”

I was gently taken away from the place by my uncle.

Paul's Gift (699 words)

Paul ​​hurried ​ through the hospital corridors to meet​ his elder sister Stella. ​She was recovering after a major surgery​. The young boy was attached to his sister but never liked the sterile, unpleasant​ ​smell of ​the hospital. The family members took ​turns to be in the hospital. ​P​aul was required to spend ​two hours in the evening till his mom relieved him. He brought​ flowers, a couple of times​,​ for the vase by Stella's bed​ knowing how much the bright ​​flowers in vibrant colours lifted her spirits.​ Paul would ​​recount to her all the happenings in school and about her pet dog that had turned quiet and morose after she came to ​the hospital.​

​To reach, Stella's private cabin, he had​ to pass through a general ward. There ​were​ row​s of beds ​on either side fully occupied by patients with different ailments in different stages. Some ​​were hooked to IV drips or oxygen tubes, some with heavy bandages on their raised legs, some moaning in pain and many weak and drowsy. The nurses were always seen busy tending to some patients. During visiting time, the scene resembled a ​m​marketplace with visitors milling around each bed.

But amidst the​ ​noise and bustle, one bed always stood out to Paul. It was the only one without visitors. A young girl of 13 years lay with her head raised by lifting the head of the bed in a reclined manner. The girl, though wan and sickly in look​, was attractive. There was ​a certain sadness in her eyes ​as she looked lost and lonely. While Paul had an aversion ​to the sick ambience and rushed through the ward in a hurry, he used to linger ​by the girl's bed for a moment or more. One day to his surprise she smiled at him. Unsure of himself​, he smiled back at her and hastened to his sister's room. He parried his sister’s question when asked why he seemed happy.

The next day, as he crossed the ward, he​ could not resist ​​stopping at her bed and ​smiling. When she smiled back at him, he noticed a faint nod suggesting that he come near her. Paul went near and said “I am Paul. I come daily to visit my sister. I don't see anyone with you on any day​."

"Sophia is my name. I have no one. You are my first visitor" she said and giggled. The two tiny dimples on her cheeks enhanced her charm.

"Don't worry, you will have one daily ​​from now on" he said​ with a chuckle and added, “I must hurry. Will see you tomorrow"

And so, it became part of Paul​'s routine. Each day, he stopped by Sophi​a's bed before heading to Stell​a's room. He would share funny stories from school and updates about his sister​'s dog, making Sophia laugh. He never asked her about her details after she said she was from an orphanage. But this ​did not dampen his warmth for her, rather he spent more time with her impelling his sister to ask why he was late​ these days.

It was a Thursday and more than a fortnight since he bought flowers for the vase in the cabin. He bought ​with his pocket money a bunch of tulips in ​soft pink, ​vibrant yellow and ​delicate blue on the way to ​the hospital​. As he stopped by ​​Sophia's bed, she smiled and ​raised her eyebrows ​in surprise at the flowers​, though she did not ​s​say anything.

 It was on an impulse that Paul thrust the ​​bouquet into her hands.

"Is it a ​​Valentine’s gift on ​​Valentine’s Day?”​ she asked.” I am so happy as it is ​the first gift in my life. I am sorry I have nothing to give you except a warm handshake​," she said.

"Frankly I didn't know that today was special. But I am happy that I could be your Valentine and hope to be so always," he said and warmly shook her hands. Sophia gently wiped the tears of joy from her eyes. She was no longer a lonely soul and her eyes sparkled​ with hope and gratitude.

Happy Valentine’s Day! Remember, kindness is the best gift you can share today

The nomad's unfailing prediction (825 words)

Ramalingam was a worried man these days. The condition of his wife who was ailing with a serious heart complaint for some years had deteriorated suddenly. She had difficulty in breathing and was unable to exert even a little. The doctors had said that nothing could be done to arrest her progressively worsening condition and that she should just manage with medicines and rest as much as possible. Though the couple never spoke about it, they knew the end was not very far, maybe a year or two or even less. They were living alone in their flat with their sons living abroad. Ramalingam spent long hours daily praying to God to give her a long life. They were a loving couple and were averse to living with their sons in foreign countries.

It was one early morning around 5 am they heard a kudukudupandi (a gypsy like tribe) at some distance on the road making a loud noise with his rattle (udukkai). These gypsies are generally attired in a black coat like a sherwani often tattered and stitched at several places with dozens of small bits of clothes in different colours on their shoulders. They have a big red dot above a black line drawn with a khajal between the eyes. They generally sport a long moustache.

They follow the rattling with predictions of the events likely to befall some of the residents of the small street. The one today on the road invoked the names of Demi goddesses “Oh Jakkamma, Oh Makkali, Oh Bhagwati.” The couple fully awake trembled with fear as they heard the approaching kudukudupandi. They pretended, however, to be asleep with their eyes closed each wanting the other not to hear the forecast. Although afraid of any adverse tidings, they still could not resist the temptation to listen. They waited for him to approach their apartment. They sharpened their ears to listen to the predictions with rapt attention.

 As he came near the apartment complex, there was a brief silence followed by a long rattling of the rattle( udukkai) before making general statements of good times to come (Nalla kalam pirakkudhu) for the residents before turning to specifics. He said one prince would be born to a girl within a week, one man would turn a sanyasin and run away from the house and one death of a female would occur within three days in the vicinity. Usually, superstitious people were apprehensive of this tribe as what they said usually occurred.

Their lifestyle was shrouded in mystery and what they did during the day was unknown. It was believed they spent the nights in burial grounds doing occult practices to gain the skill to predict correctly. They usually come again after the day break and collect alms from the households. Most people out of fear that he would curse never refuse and even turn generous giving away old clothes besides rice and money.

Ramalingam and his wife unknown to each other listened to the prediction of the imminent death of a female. Both never spoke about it to the other though anxiety and fear were writ large on their faces. Ramalingam did puja that day for a longer period and went to a Ganesh temple nearby.

 The old lady knew her end was near but was unwilling to leave her husband alone. She knew his adamant nature and aversion to staying with sons. That night she heard dogs bark incessantly, not a good sign, as dogs have the power to see Yamadhuthas and ghosts. This accentuated her fear. Ramalingam made discreet enquiries about an old woman in the adjacent complex who was unwell with typhoid. To his dismay, he heard that she had recovered well. The second night Ramalingam’s wife had a dream of ugly and grotesque faces that were scary. She remembered her grandma saying that such faces appear before death signifying the awaiting hell. She also spent the day in silence and prayer  like her husband. In the evening, she gently told him that if anything were to happen to her, he must not stand on false prestige and live alone. He chided her asking her not to talk rubbish and that she would live longer than him. She fell silent thereafter.

It was the third night. Both could not sleep. He put his arm around her as they were sleeping. She snuggled close to him. There was an amalgam of apprehension love, concern, warmth, and gratitude in those moments. The night passed away smoothly with nothing untoward happening.

It was 6 am. A greatly relieved Ramalingam hurried to get milk from the milkman in the adjacent compound to make hot coffee for his dear wife. When he neared the shed, he heard a loud wail of the milkman’s wife and milkman. It transpired that one of the cows had died the previous night while giving delivery to a calf.

The nomad’s prediction has after all come true.

A journey that was too short (359 words)

After a hard day's work, I was returning to my room by the fast local. it would be 9 pm by the time I reached my place. As it would be too late to cook, I decided to have my dinner from the roadside 'Dhaba’. They make tasty food no doubt and at affordable rates though they recycle the used oil till it gets exhausted.

My parents were looking for a suitable match for me and the photos of a few they sent did not enthuse me. Though not aiming at a drop-down stunner, I was not prepared to settle for a plain looking Jane.

The train was crowded but I managed to secure a seat. Still, the oppressive humidity, the hot breaths of passengers close to me, and the body odour from their perspiration made the journey extremely uncomfortable. Just as I reached for my handkerchief to cover my nose, I turned to my right and what I saw made my heart skip a beat. Such beauty, such perfection in creation- no sight can be more captivating. I forgot my handkerchief but adjusted my sitting posture to enjoy an uninterrupted view for the rest of the journey.

There was a faint smile at the corner of her lips and her eyes twinkled as a stray strand of hair curled insouciantly on her forehead. She wore a sleeveless blouse and a thin yellow saree was draped carelessly over her chest and shoulder. I could tell she was looking at me from the corner of her eyes, her gaze unmistakable and unhidden. This emboldened me to gaze at her uninterrupted except for short breaks to avoid disapproving stares from other passengers at my crude ogling. I had four more stations to go and wished that the train travelled slower yearning to feel the slight touch of her skin.

When the train stopped at the next station, the passenger seated beside me abruptly stood up closing the glossy colourful fashion magazine that had featured her on the centre fold. In that instant, my dreamy interlude came to a sudden end and the nauseating odour started assailing my nose with a vengeance. 

The Unresolved Murder (951 words)

 

Sub Inspector Manoj sat morosely at his desk, his head cupped in his hands, with the prospects of his promotion looking doubtful.  His boss was upset and berated him on the phone for his inability to find any lead on the sensational murder that took place in his jurisdiction.

Despite his relentless efforts, there were no clues like when and where the murder took place, the whereabouts of the weapon and how the body was shifted brazenly with none noticing to his jurisdiction. The biggest hurdle was the dead man’s face was smashed beyond recognition and the body was left naked before a women’s college without anything on it. The media had gone to town when many of the college girls fainted at the horrifying sight of the mutilated body at the entrance of the college and the management reported the matter to the higher-ups in the police.

 The assembly was in session and the opposition lost no opportunity to berate the government for the dwindling law and order situation with this latest murder following a spate of murders in the city and the audacity of the murderer leaving a naked body at the women’s college premises. What can poor Manoj do when even the best brains cannot unravel without some hint or evidence to work upon? His boss was not interested in all these excuses but wanted SI to go out, and find more about the dead man, missing men and complaints if any in other police stations.SI was told that there was pressure from high quarters as the matter was in the headlines

It was then he saw a young man walking in through the swinging doors into his room with no constable announcing his coming in.

The young man stood before Manoj and said” I have come to tell you about the gruesome murder that took place with the body thrown at a college gate.”

Manoj found the man a bit unusual, pale in look, though three-dimensional without solidity about him. It looked as if he could pass his hand through him. A sudden chill passed through his spine.

Gathering himself he asked” What do you know about the murder? Who was the victim? Why was he killed and who killed him? Tell me your name and address first.”

“My name is Sudheer and I am the victim” the man uttered.

Manoj sat up with a start and rang the bell feverishly till a constable entered. Asking him to remain, he asked the young man before him,” Are you a mad man? I asked you who the murdered man was.”

“I understood Sir and answered you correctly. I am the murdered man. Please listen without interrupting me,” he replied

“I was in love with Mandira and we decided to marry despite the opposition from her parents and brothers. They are rich and powerful. I belong to a different caste and they would not allow her to marry me. She told them she would either marry me or remain a spinster. In fact, we had decided to elope. They must have got a scent of it when her mobile was lost by her. They had finalised someone rich from their community. Her brothers with the help of some hired killers killed me as I was proceeding in a two-wheeler ​on the outskirts of the city,” the man said

“I don’t know what to make of your statement. Can you name them? Can you also show me some evidence to nab them? I promise I will avenge your death as you have been God–sent to me when I was at my wit’s end. Can you show me the place of crime? You can come on my pillion,” Manoj said hurriedly.”

“I can travel on my own. Come on let us go,” said the figure

​Sudheer led Manoj to a desolate and dark area about 40 miles away from the city​. ​​The area ​was surrounded by trees a little away from the highway. The man stopped near a very large and deep well and said,” They threw the sickle and the iron rod with which they murdered me in the well and pushed my two-wheeler also in it. Come with me to the tree here and see for yourself. Here they dashed my head against the tree before killing me​.”

The SI saw evidence of blood with hairs sticking on the bark of the tree. The forensic department was called​ immediately and it appeared to SI that the case against Mandira’s brothers and father was all sewed up watertight when they found the murder weapon and the two-wheeler.

Manoj was in high spirits about cracking what appeared to be an unsolvable crime. The SP who was initially jubilant became lukewarm when the girl's parents met him at his residence and discussed the matter. Not much was known about what happened in the background except that Manoj​ found the initial happy demeanour of the boss changed soon after a quiet meeting with Mandira’s parents.​

He soon found himself transferred​ to a god-forsaken place. The two-wheeler unearthed from the well, it was announced had no number plate, the engine number illegible and the identity of the dead person could not be established. Mandira’s lover​, it was mentioned​, had ditched her and ran away when rebuked by the girl’s brothers leaving no clues about his whereabouts.

The frustrated Manoj had reason for some small comfort when he heard after two months that his earlier boss the SP had gone insane after what people ascribed to a ghost hounding him as he was always seen staring at vacant spaces and screaming in fear, “Go away. Go away. Don’t harm me. Don’t scare me​."

 

 

Doubting God (1289 words)

 

Roopa Ghosh wound through the crowded roads in a three-wheeler. She had just 30 minutes to reach Chittaranjan Park for her appointment at 4 pm. Had she known the previous day she would have been well prepared. Only when she reached her office at 2 pm, she found a slip on her desk from the Editor. It read

” Mr. Nakul Goswami, the celebrated author, has agreed to give an interview at 4 PM today. Meet him at 24, RT road, CR Park sharp at the appointed time. Carry slips of paper for questions and answers as he is deaf-mute. His latest book Doubting God has already become a best seller for the year and a heated topic for discussion in literary circles. Can I have your report the day after tomorrow? I wish to carry it in this weekend's edition. Cheers, Som”

She knew this book was popular and much in demand though it is on her shelfari under books to be read. She quickly ran through Wikipedia and the internet to learn about the man, his background and his literary output. She read some rave reviews and jotted down some points in her diary. There was a tinge of envy when she found he was just 34, already famous as a writer with a few more books in the pipeline, and possibly already wealthy. She looked at the mirror, had a small touch-up, applied lipstick and sprayed gentle perfume. She did not want to look like a sun-beaten reporter with a hoarse voice and dishevelled hair.

She rang the bell a minute before 4 pm and was ushered into the study where Nakul Goswami was waiting for her. She greeted him with folded hands and he reciprocated by extending his arm. She shook his hands warmly. Both smiled at each other without a word. There was a twinkle in his eyes and looked younger for his age and was very handsome. The hair was slightly receding but it only enhanced his charm. He sat opposite her at the mahogany table in the spacious well-furnished air-conditioned room. They kept silent momentarily when Roopa scribbled her question in a slip.

“I am Roopa Ghosh from Bharat Times. I am fortunate to meet a celebrated author for the first time. I visualised a serious-looking person and am pleasantly surprised to see a young man who has achieved so much at this young age. I have read enough about you though I must confess I have not read your latest book Doubting God. I will do it within the next two days. My interview will not be about the book but more about you, your life and your motivations” She handed over the slip and kept the bunch of slips on the table under a paperweight.

He read it and laughed aloud. He wrote” You have a sweet name and an apt one too. I was actually looking for a middle-aged guy with three days stubble and not a young lady. Before we start tell me what will you have, tea or fruit juice?” and gave the slip.

She signalled a no with a wave of her hand but he ignored her and rang the bell.”I appreciate your honesty in telling me you have not read my book. Tell me about you before we proceed with the interview. How long have you been with this daily? You look in your early twenties. Where are your parents? What is your goal in life?”

“I am not that young and am 27. I live in Moti Bagh with my parents. My dad is a government official. I graduated with a degree in English literature and a degree in Journalism. I have been with this daily for nearly two years and wish to be a writer like you. Can I now start asking you questions?”

“Wow! We are birds of the same feather, a writer and a budding writer. We are both Bengalis too, he he. Okay, shoot your questions”

‘Born in a Bengali family where Maa Kali is held in great reverence, the title of your book Doubting God is intriguing. Are you not a believer?”

“Good question. My mother is a very pious lady doing all pujas and observing rituals. My dad is also a devotee but not very demonstrative. Much to my mom’s disappointment, I am an agnostic. I don’t interfere with her beliefs and gladly eat the sweet prasad she makes. Maybe when I grow old I may change or may not. I do not discuss this with others though the book is about an agnostic converted later by his lover. I am sure you must be a great devotee of Goddess Durga.”

“Yes, I am very pious and pray twice daily. Now coming to your writing, you are already an icon among the youngsters after the release of this best seller. What were the motivations of taking up such a theme? Can I say that it sounds like autobiographical after knowing your beliefs?”

“It is simply like this. I do not know whether God exists or not. I am not sure like others. So, this unsureness is unconsciously reflected in the story when I write. It is a theme that is known to me and has been discussed in the novel. As in all novels, there is a woman in it and inevitably a romance. I wished for a happy ending making the agnostic succumb to her persuasions. Of course, she could not prove the existence of god but he found it comforting to agree with his beloved. Please note he is not an atheist who refuses to believe in God but only professes his lack of knowledge about the existence of God”

“Do you mean an agnostic is a cowardly or a weak atheist vulnerable to romantic persuasions?”

“Haha, I think love is a powerful emotion. Won’t you agree?”

“I have no idea. I have had no lover” she laughed and he joined her

Meanwhile, the help brought a tray full of Sandesh, rosagollla and singharas with tea

They talked for quite some time through the slips of course about the initial difficulties in publishing a book, the disappointments of rejections, the unexpected break and finally when the book is out the tremendous response from readers. They talked about the publishers who initially rejected making a beeline with new offers once the fame and sales were established.

“Do you have any plans to write a novel?” he asked

“I wish to but do not know how to start it. My mind gets blank”

“Make a storyline for some 15 chapters and bring it to me. We shall discuss and refine them. You can then start writing. I am willing to help you” he said

“I your kindness touches me. I will consider it seriously. Thanks for the interview. It is nearing 7 pm.I must rush back” she wrote on the slip

He came up to the door, shook hands with her lingering a tad longer than usual and profusely thanked her.

On the second day, a messenger brought an envelope containing a draft of the interview and a small note from the Editor.

“Dear Mr. Nakul Goswami,

Please see the draft enclosed. It is written excellently by Roopa. If you wish to modify it, you can make the corrections. My office boy will come to collect tomorrow.

Incidentally, Roopa is all praise for you and thanks you for the courtesy shown to her. She told me about her plans to meet you soon but she did not reveal the purpose. I do not know whether you have observed that she is also a deaf-mute but she is one of our best reporters.

With best wishes and regards, 

Som”