Tuesday, March 12, 2024
Kodaikanal Gandhi Prize 2023 - The Prize Winners
Friday, February 2, 2024
Out of Print Workshop Online - October 2023: THE STORIES
The Out of Print online workshop held over weekends at the end of October and early November 2023, featured four writers.
Experiencing a writing workshop online is very different from the fluidity and intensity of in-person engagements. The participants of this workshop were patient with technical glitches, committed to their projects and worked the final versions of their stories over the end of the year.
We present here, on the Out of Print blog, the stories that were developed in the workshop.
Marma: The Places that Hurt by Arshaly Jose
Death Wish by Niranjana H
It’s all About Her by Sushma Madappa
Home Story by Akansha Naithani
Out of Print Workshop Online - October 2023: ARSHALY JOSE
Out of Print Workshop Online - October 2023: SUSHMA MADAPPA
It’s all About Her
Sushma Madappa
The bottle topples over and water seeps into the patterned red tablecloth. I watch as the patch darkens and creeps up to the bottom of the fruit bowl. Mother gasps. The man with grey-green eyes looks up from the newspaper he is reading. He doesn’t say a thing. He has other ways of making his displeasure known.
I wake up to the incessant cackle of crow pheasants from the Gulmohar tree outside my bedroom window. The bedside clock blinks sinisterly. Its neon digits announce 7.09 am. Are these harbingers of impending doom, warning me of the day that lies ahead? The faint smell of cigarette smoke still lingers in the air. I walk into the bathroom and gaze at my reflection in the mirror. A pair of dark brown eyes stare back at me. I stand there for a few minutes, eyes affixed to the image in the mirror. And once again marvel at how different we are, me and the man with grey-green eyes. Same gene but like chalk and cheese.
*
I look down at the toothbrush holder; it’s shifted a bit to the right. I finish brushing, splash some water on my face and reach for the towel. It’s not where it should be. I look around frantically and realise it’s hanging from the hook behind the door. Why must I be the only one to put things back where they belong?!
I walk down to the kitchen, pour some water in a pan and light the stove. While the tea is brewing, I step out and pick up the day’s newspaper. There are dark cumulus clouds looming in the distance. The breeze carries the fragrance of the Frangipani flower from the neighbours’ garden. I hear the susurrus of water and turn around. The man from next door is watering his plants. He turns away, avoids eye contact.
I wonder what he thinks. What he knows.
I walk back in and pick the brass vase off the floor. The photo frame that usually rests on the side table is lying on the ground. The glass has cracked. I must get it changed tomorrow.
She is still asleep but I am dreading the moment she will wake up. How will she react today, what is she thinking and what will she say? These thoughts hang like a sword over my head.
*
I first met her at a common friend’s party. I was getting my drink at the bar when she walked up and asked the bartender to fix her a large Glen on the rocks. Her choice of drink piqued my interest. I observed her for a while that evening. Everyone seemed to know her and wanted to speak to her. She seemed to be equally attentive to each person; talking, listening and responding to them in a manner that made each one feel like they were the most important person in the world. Was she attractive? Yes, very. It was not just the men; the women too seemed to be drawn to her. She seemed oblivious to the impact she had on people. And this was the quality that drew me to her.
I was too proud to ask the host for an introduction, but I got my chance later that evening. I was on my way out when I saw her waiting for her Uber in the parking lot. She was frantically trying to give directions to the clueless cabbie. I thought I’d take my chances. I walked up to her, introduced myself and offered to drop her home.
She hesitated for a brief second before smiling pleasantly and accepting my offer.
Conversations with her were effortless. She was guileless, vivacious and exuded a confidence that eluded me. I desperately wanted this fabulous creature to be a part of me.
*
Is that her phone ringing? Is she awake? Is she silently biding her time until I speak to her? Is she pretending to be asleep? Why does she keep me guessing? What stance will she take today? Will she be pliable or petulant? I don’t want to guess anymore! Why doesn’t she come downstairs and end my misery?! Why must she make me suffer?!
The first time I asked her out, it took a lot of effort on my part to seem nonchalant. Once she’d agreed to dinner, I tried my best to contain my excitement but still ended up in her studio on the pretext of seeing her work.
As she pushed open the door to her five hundred square foot studio space on the terrace of her apartment building, the first thing I noticed was a picture of her at the potter’s wheel. Her unruly curls were piled on top of her head in a careless bun; part of her forehead and the crown area were smeared with clay. She was looking up at the person who had taken the picture with an untamed twinkle in her eyes. There was a quote printed at the bottom that read, ‘At the end of the day your feet should be dirty, your hair messy and your eyes sparkling.’
I watched her as she moved about switching on the lights, explaining what her sculptures represented and how she visualised them. My eyes stayed glued to her hands as they danced about caressing forms, gesturing, stretching, withdrawing; as though they had a mind of their own.
That night, we swapped stories, listened to silly songs and found comfort in the warmth of each other’s skin. In the morning, I was dreading going back to my apartment and my mundane 9 to 5 existence. She asked me to stay on. I agreed and never left. Until we moved here.
I had been a recluse for most of my life, until I met her. During the initial years, our weekends were always packed; visiting friends, watching films and planning weekend getaways took up most of our time. These activities have dwindled over the years. She has changed so much.
I used to wonder what she did holed up in that studio of hers. She could stick around there for hours; even forgetting to eat at times. How could someone be so much in love with what they did? So invested. So immersed. As though it actually made her happy. I can’t get through work without multiple smoke breaks. I can’t get through anything without multiple smoke breaks! But she was different. She was consumed by clay. But that was before. Things have changed since then.
Every now and then I catch her staring listlessly into space. Last week, she was lying on her side and staring at the sunlight streaming though the gaps between the curtains. What did she think of when she got like this? Why didn’t she tell me what was on her mind? Didn’t she realise I needed her! I’d let the glass in my hand slip through my fingers and shatter on the floor. This jolted her out of her stupor and as though on cue she stood up, walked towards the kitchen and returned with the dustpan and broom. The shards of glass don’t bother her anymore. There was a time she would have rushed to see if it was one of the glasses from her favourite set; chided me even. Not anymore. She has stopped caring. Doesn’t she notice it bothers me? Her passivity drives me insane.
Now, I hear the water rumble through the bathroom pipes, the gurgle of the flush and the shuffle of feet upstairs. She is up! Please, please God! Let her be cheerful today! I can’t bear to watch her doleful face anymore. I won’t allow her to drag me down with her.
I look out of the window. The neighbour is trying to get his golden retriever to go inside the house. There is a faint smell of wet earth in the air. It has begun to drizzle.
Yesterday before I left for work I had asked her to get a gift for Krish and Nidhi. ‘Could you pick up something they can use and get it gift wrapped? I’ll be back a little early so I can change before we leave for the reception hall,’ I'd said.
‘Hmm ok,’ she said incoherently.
When I got back she was all dressed-up in this green silk sari. She looks good when she makes an effort but she rarely does these days. The last few years have dulled the sparkle in her eyes. Her lackluster hair, dreary clothes and lack of enthusiasm have begun to embarrass me. It’s like her spark has been snuffed out. Can’t she at least make the effort for me, if not for herself!
‘I have run out of wrapping paper. I bought two sheets but they are not enough to cover the whole box,’ she’d said her lips quivering and eyes brimming with tears as she frantically tried to cover the rectangular patch of cardboard that was left bare.
Why must she always be so melodramatic?
‘Couldn’t you have gotten it gift wrapped at the store?’ I said.
‘I meant to, but I got out of the studio at six thirty and was running late. The lady at the counter wouldn’t hurry; so I thought I might as well get home and do it myself and picked up a couple of sheets,’ she said.
She can’t do anything right. Why must she make everything so difficult for me? Why should I put up with her carelessness! Yesterday, I made sure she understood this. She can't continue to make these mistakes.
I ended up going to the reception alone. This isn’t unusual. I have made excuses on her behalf plenty of times before. When Krish and Nidhi asked I said, ‘You know what artists are like. Taciturn and temperamental.’
I could see they were disappointed, but how could I have helped it!
At parties and weddings, I used to like watching her move around talking to people. No matter how many people laughed at her jokes or were on backslapping terms with her, I liked knowing that I was the one who got to take her home. At a gathering I’d follow her with my eyes to see how much time would pass before she looked in my direction. I would time the frequency of these glances. When she did glance my way she would smile with an unabashed twinkle in her eye. Or so I liked to believe. But as our relationship progressed these glances began losing their charm. These days, she seems sad when she looks at me. At times, even furtive and fearful. I wonder what’s eating her? I wonder if she shares her fears with anyone?
But who could she be talking to here? We now live an hour and a half from the city. And the cellphone reception is patchy at best. We don’t have any friends here. But I believed leaving behind the hustle and bustle of city life and living closer to nature would calm her down and help with her headaches. Also here, she can rent a larger studio space at a lesser cost. This last bit sold her on the idea. So after the initial resistance, she caved.
I hear the dull thud of footsteps on the stairs. The wooden staircase creaks under her weight. I hear the roar of thunder and catch a flash of lightening bounce off the neighbours’ car. I prepare to steel myself against her reproachful gaze.
It begins to pour with a vengeance as she gingerly walks into the kitchen, limping a little. Her eyes, as usual, don’t give away her thoughts. I hand her the tea in her usual cup. She accepts it silently and wearily gets on with the breakfast preparations.
Why doesn’t she say something? Why does she torment me? Does she enjoy my misery? Does she get a kick out of the fact that second guessing her thoughts drives me crazy? Why is she doing this to me? Her subservience irritates me. Where is the feisty woman I first met? I feel cheated.
The oil sizzles on the pan; the smell of processed meat assaults my senses. She cracks one, two and then three eggs and starts blending the yolks and whites, beating them with a fork; all the while staring listlessly at the rain pounding against the window behind the stove.
It’s only eight thirty in the morning but it’s dark and gloomy inside. I switch on the light, walk up behind her, circle my arms around her waist and bury my head in her hair. She still smells the same as she did on that first day I dropped her home. The flowery, fruity fragrance of her shampoo drives me into a frenzy. I can feel her body stiffen. I graze my lips on the bluish-purple bruise on her bare back and mutter an apology. She is still, her body neither resisting nor yielding. I compel her to turn around. She doesn’t protest, says nothing and soundlessly crumples into my arms; as she always does. I let out a sigh of relief and catch my reflection on the windowpane behind the stove. The man with grey-green eyes, stares back at me.
*
Out of Print Workshop Online - October 2023: NIRANJANA H
Death Wish
Niranjana H
Muthassi died that afternoon. No one knew the exact time. The family had palada pradhaman for lunch and was fast asleep over the humdrum of October showers and the afternoon matinee that was coming to a climax on the television that was accidentally left on.
It wasn’t an eventful death. A few gentle wheezes in tune to the table fan, and a paper-thin hand that fell limp as her eyes closed and her pulse sagged. A heart that ticked for ninety years slowly came to a halt.
The clock on the mantelpiece limped on: 3:54 … 3:55 … 3:56, an eyelid twitched for the last time. It was a pity she had no audience.
By the time Meenakshi came in with her mid-afternoon lemon water, Muthassi was long gone – leaving only wisps of white hair, her muslin sari and sluggish afternoon dreams behind. Meenakshi had anticipated this coming, but not such a quiet passing. Her afternoon slumbers and 2 am musings often involved Muthassi falling off her bed and to her death, or a heart attack that called for an ambulance to come trundling through their pave way to take her off. Meenakshi had always imagined herself – the oldest daughter sitting importantly by the driver as the sirens wailed and whined, painting the town red with the news of the passing of the matriarch.
But it had come to this end. Muthassi wouldn’t have liked it – she had a penchant for drama. She’d have liked her grandchildren to have sat by her feet thumping their chests and calling out her name while blaming Yamraj for taking her away.
Meenakshi surveyed the room as Muthassi snored on in her afterlife. She straightened the old green cushions and removed the stray threads of silver around her mother’s forehead. She’d need to get new cushions – probably rose pink, to offset the pista green walls of the room. The glass of lukewarm lemon water sat weeping by her bedside table. Meenakshi downed it in short sips as she surveyed her mother’s bedside cabinet – nestled between stray stick-on bindis, some loose change and a toothpick, her fingers caressed her mother’s collection of books. She impatiently flicked past the Ramayanam and Bhagwatham and found herself staring at the three Mills-and-Boon paperbacks, dog eared and drenched in Vicks vaporub.
She put two of them under the pillow. They would have to wait until nightfall. Until her mother left the nest.
She clicked her tongue, and took a seat by the bed letting the loss and lemon water soak over her.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked a minute. The rest of the house was still asleep. Let them sleep a few more minutes – once word got around, the entire village of Killikurishi would be flocking here to pay their respects. They wouldn’t even be able to have tea. They had not bothered to show up at the doorstep in the last ninety years but Mandakini Amma’s death would spread like the virus that was taking over the country – or was it the world? One couldn’t trust the news these days.
She wanted to go into the kitchen, but her feet felt heavy. She shouldn’t have eaten the palada. It sat heavy in her stomach – curdling away with the feeling of trepidation of what was to come. Meenakshi hated change – especially those that made her alter her days. She despised it almost as much as she despised loosely tied saris with mismatched blouses, or crumpled wrapping paper or her husband’s breath that smelt of cheap cigarettes and cabbage.
4:12 … 4:13 … 4:14. Time was ticking on. She must get on too.
4:16…. The kitchen light is flicked on, the long-tailed vessel filled with water and tea leaves – three extra spoonful’s of sugar to get through the evening. Her daughter Ambily would be pleased. She liked her tea sweet – the syrupier, the better. Probably helped her connect with that Guruji of hers as she meditated well into the evening. It was probably Prakash’s idea. Meenakshi didn’t think much of her son-in-law but he provided well for the family and showed up for family dinners, so she’d have to excuse the long satsang Ashram visits that came with it. But there wouldn’t be any meditations today. Muthassi was dead.
Which brought her to the subject of sleeping arrangements. She’d been sleeping with Muthassi for 13 years now, a practice that began ‘only for a night’ lapsed into many – a fall in the bathroom, someone to read out the Bhagavatam, her 3 am diabetes injection, the invisible ghost in her closet. Small asks, big adjustments, done gracefully, almost too graciously. Meenakshi had picked up her micro-fibre pillow, her copper mug and her blanket and never returned to her husband’s bed. She brought them back diligently every morning, an excuse for the previous night’s disappearance frothing over his morning cup of tea. Not that he asked. He’d replaced her presence with a stack of his bedtime reading and a portable radio.
Now, thirteen years later she’d have no reason to respond to an imaginary call of duty and stumble out of the room. She had to face her husband of thirty-five years tonight. She’d also have to deal with Muthassi’s death. But not before that cup of tea. The elephants could wait a little longer.
*
4:41 … Ambily was still fast asleep. In her dream, she is at the ashram, walking by the lotus hall with a tray full of white parijat flowers and saffron laddus while the other devotees look at her admiringly – even covetously. She is the best dressed of the lot, in a white ikat sari and antique gold jewelry. All eyes are on her – even Guruji’s, but her own seek her husband’s, which are closed in meditation, or whatever it is he thinks about when he shuts her and the world out – but in her sucrose-fueled dream, they suddenly open and devour her like they did fifteen years ago when they’d first met. Prakash reaches out to kiss her on the lips at the exact same time that Ambily wakes up.
She curses her mother for the timing.
‘Your tea is getting cold Ambily.’
Her mother is setting a tray of tea by the table. In the other room, her father is taking loud sips. He sounds like he has been roused from his sleep for an impromptu tea too.
‘The palada was probably a bad idea. It has made me groggy, and I need to get ready for the virtual bhajan session this evening.’
‘Muthassi is dead.’
‘What?’
‘Finish your tea. we can talk about it later.’
‘Does Achan know?’
‘You need to tell Prakash. He needs to be here for the last rites.’
‘But … he has a press conference with Guruji tonight.’
‘Call him. Nair from the funeral home will want to see him. He needs to be with you in mourning right?’
Her mother’s lips say no more but her eyes pierce into Ambily’s searching for answers she’d never got, since her daughter had come home without explanation, a week ago.
Ambily sighs and picks up her phone.
A decoction of trepidation brews over the afternoon, as Muthassi’s living family condoles her death.
*
7:23 am
‘M-A-N-D-A-K-I-N-I, Survived by whom?’
‘Mandakini Amma, survived by her children, the grandchildren and their husbands.’
‘And where do the grandchildren live? I can mention the location here if they’re overseas.’
‘Can we mention Bangalore?’
‘Amma, they call it Bengaluru now.’
‘Bangalore is like Kerala only. Do we want to waste space on that? It is two Rupees a word for the paper.’
‘Hurry up Ambily, these formalities need to be finished before sundown. And keep your voice down. It is inauspicious to talk so loudly in a house of the deceased.‘ Her mother’s voice cut like a knife.
Her husband coughs awkwardly.
‘Meenakshi, will you please finalize the breakfast menu for tomorrow’s service?’
‘Idli or Vada?’
The house is teeming with activity, for the first time since the lockdown. Nair and the team from the funeral home are sitting importantly on plastic chairs they have carried down the road with them (sanitised of course). Meenakshi is serving them tea in plastic cups, as they sit in a circle on the porch, careful not to set foot indoors because in the living room by the tv lay Muthassi, fast asleep, crystalising in her glass box.
Nair is holding fort. He’s excited and there are beads of perspiration forming on his lips. This is probably a better evening than he’d anticipated – watching his wife while away her evenings, wailing over the rising cases. He’s in charge here, sitting in the centre of his plastic circle – planning the last rites of a dead women for the two women who seem to be all over the place. Death does that to the household. The women need a man to shepherd them, the old husband of Meenakshi seems to pale in his existence like a zero-watt bulb, only caring about finishing the rituals before raahu kaal. Lucky for them Nair was here to be the acting man of the house.
Fifteen’ sets of vada, searing hot from the pan served with chutney and milky tea. No sambar. It is a time of mourning after all. Let the family have a hearty meal before the funeral.’ Nair would tell his wife not to make him breakfast. His mouth watered.
The rules for the funeral and the mourning period to follow are explained. There are three versions – the express version of three-day mourning reserved for Emirate returnees, the ten-day medium version and the sixteen-day traditional one that old Malayali families follow. This is a new normal though, there is a virus on the prowl.
Nair carefully nudges them to pick the medium mourning package.
Ambily wants the express version. she’s sure she can coax Prakash into staying with her for three days. Seventy-two hours. It’d take her only that long without Guruji to rekindle what was lost. Muthassi had given her a golden ticket in her passing. She turns to her father to bail her out.
‘Achan, three days sounds ideal given the times. Prakash can make it too, and then return by Monday for his ashram duties. Besides, there are rules for mourning. You’d go mad without tuning into your 7 pm news. No television during mourning remember?
Her father’s face is impassive.
‘I can read the paper. That is allowed, isn’t it Nair?’
Nair’s mustache twitches in importance.
‘No entertainment. No family gatherings. No visitors except for Saturday and Thursday. No non-vegetarian … not even egg, and someone needs to sleep in the departed woman’s bedroom until the mourning period passes – they say the body leaves, but the soul lingers. Visitors coming to pay respects to carry a care package of sugar, tea, dal, soap...
Over Nair’s rumbling monologue, a loud bell suddenly rings in Meenakshi’s brain. She sends a silent prayer to Guruvayurappan.
‘I think Amma would have preferred us doing the sixteen-day ritual. I vote for that. I will sleep in her room on her pillow to pay my respects. I have been doing it off and on these last years,’ a pinched look in her husband’s direction. Four fingers, on two different sets of hands, crossed in prayer.
Her husband nods before she finishes. He pulls out a mask and puts it over his face- blocking out the world. Period.
‘Yes, I also think we need to do sixteen days. It’l keep the visitors away. I am wary about visitors who could be asymptomatic.’
‘But Amma, sixteen days is a long time for…’
‘Keep quiet Ambily,’ two voices chime in unison, for the first time in thirty years.
Nair smiles, and scrawls into his diary.
From the box in the living room indoors, Muthassi sighs.
*
9:48 pm
Prakash is undressing in the guest room. He gingerly peels off his sheer white kurta and hangs it up.
‘You can wear it for the service tomorrow.’ Ambily comes in with a cup of tea laced with saffron – an aphrodisiac. She’s changed out of her tracksuit and pants into a pristine white sari, and her eyes are smudged with kohl. She’s left her curls open in a show of despair and loss.
She is a vision in mourning. But Prakash doesn’t pay attention to her.
‘Keep that away from me. Guruji has advised us to drink only pure cow milk now. Are you still drinking tea?’ A derisive glance from those peace-loving eyes.
Ambily sits cross-legged by the bed. She calls on her dead Muthassi, ace seductress in her time to help her through hers.
‘No, just this cup. I guessed it was a long night for us, having to keep the lamp lit by the body. Nair says one cannot sleep (without it?) until the dead leaves the house.’
The eyes glaze over again. His mind is back at the ashram. She watches him with his long lashes and longer legs as he moves around the room in a trance – removing pieces of clothing and donning a mundu and t-shirt with the ashram logo.
Ambily stifles a well-timed sob. She beckons to her husband to sit. He does and holds her hand as though on autopilot. His fingers are cold, and there’s a new ring on one, it has a picture of Guruji on it.
Prakash rubs her fingers comfortingly, then perks up as an afterthought.
‘Do you want to engage in a peace meditation before dinner? I taught it to some Filipinos yesterday and they were so relaxed.’
Meenakshi squeezes out a tear.
‘I want to talk about Muthassi, Prakash. Can you just hold me please’ Prakash puts his arms around her awkwardly. They’re like a jigsaw that doesn’t quite fit anymore.
She's at eye level with the ashram logo on his t-shirt, until she, Ambily, snuggles closer to him, wipes her snot on it.
‘As a well spent day brings happy sleep, so life well used brings happy death.’
He parrots into her ear.
Ambily stiffens.
‘Didn’t Davinci say this?’
Prakash’s demeanour changes, his arms coming loose from the embrace. ‘Guruji did, summer of 2018, Australia. Keep track Ambily. Guruji is there with us, in joy and in despair.’
Ambily sighs and picks up the glass. The intimacy she’d tried to orchestrate is submerged in the glass of milk she downs. Guruji has one upped her again.
‘Will you be staying here for sixteen days? My parents have decided they want to do it the good old-fashioned Malayali way.
Prakash’s nose twitches and she rushes on.
‘If you could at least stay till day three, that would make Muthassi so happy. She respected you, and it’d mean so much to her soul if you could do this much. I’m sure Guruji would understand your need to serve our elders.’
Prakash was looking troubled. She’d used Guruji’s words against him. He runs his fingers through his hair, and Ambily sends Muthassi a thank you guys up in heaven.
‘I need to be at the ashram Ambily. They are doing a massive puja with over one lakh chants to drive the virus into hiding. I am coordinating the logistics on Zoom. Muthassi would understand, wouldn’t she? She used to love Guruji’s organic soaps after her chicken pox. I’m not asking you to join us right away. Guruji would understand you want to mourn with your parents. How will Amma manage without you.
He holds out his hand in a peace offering, his long fingers snaking through hers. Guruji seated in lotus position smugly on his ring catches the light and smirks at her.
Guruji 02, Ambily 01.
She nods mutely as he takes her through his plan for the great Puja that’d put her husband on the ashram website.
She even smiles conspiringly as he opens YouTube and plays the evening Bhajans for them. They share an earphone each, and sway in unison to the songs they have long learnt by-heart now. Thank god for Guruji. Thank god for good internet.
The elephants in the room retreat for the night.
*
The next afternoon, twelve hours after Muthassi left: the funeral was quick and uneventful. The stipulated twenty people had shown up at their doorstep, lowered their eyes in respect and left care packages by the doorstep. Twenty packets of tea, sugar, semolina … enough for sixteen days. Several packets of sanitiser lie at the doorstep along with Muthassi’s ivory gold shroud, her only living memory flailing on the porch. She’d flap here for fifteen more days.
The household is quiet. Prakash hasn’t changed out of his funeral whites, despite having cremated her while wearing them. He is smoothing out the creases and humming under his breath – one eye on the clock.
‘Achan, is Raahu Kaal over?’
Meenakshi’s husband responds from the head of the table he’s been seated at since Muthassi died. He’s wasted no time taking her spot in the family.
2:45 … 2:46….
Eight sets of eyes watched two hands take a turn around the clock.
‘Yes, it is over. Prakash, you should leave now. Nair says no one is allowed to leave the house after Raahu Kaal. We are in official mourning now.’
Prakash frog leaps off the table and regains composure by bowing his hands in namaste to his in-laws. Ambily walks him to the door.
‘Call me when you reach.’
‘Mmm.’ His eyes are searching the depths of the gate as his fingers latch onto an ashram access card. Several Guruji’s facepalm her.
She knows he won’t call. She’ll see him next on the 6 pm Facebook Live. She tuned in religiously to ensure he was there.
It was like he’d read her mind.
‘I’ve left the earphones by the bed. Meditate, know you’re blessed.’ A cold set of hands touch her head.
A tear escapes Ambily’s carefully made-up eyes.
Prakash smiles.
Gratitude is the best prayer. I’m happy to see you practice it. See you at the ashram, Ambily’.
She watches the car leave the driveaway. He was a good man. He had come here to do his duties. He was probably rushing to save them all from the virus. That’d be a story to tell the extended family. Their relationship could wait. She was in mourning now.
She locks eyes with Muthassi who is sitting sagely in a gilded photograph on the wall. She shakes her head, and a tear escapes her. She’s mourning. For her Muthassi and for herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees her mother walk into Muthassi’s room. She hears the bolt. She wonders if this would be her, twenty years from now.
She downs her trepidations with a glass of pure cow’s milk and lies down by the tv that will now be switched off for sixteen days. She closes her eyes and waits for the dream.
In the bedroom recently vacated by Muthassi, Meenakshi lies reading a book – her dog-eared Mills and Boon. She doesn’t have to read aloud to let the household know she was serving. The server was being served. She could sleep in peace knowing that her Amma’s soul wouldn’t leave the room for another sixteen days. In the room adjoining hers, her husband lay on his queen- sized bed, listening to his wife’s happy sighs. He gets up and bolts the door.
Sixteen days more. Then he’d keep it unbolted through the night.
*
Out of Print Workshop Online - October 2023: AKANSHA NAITHANI
Monday, October 16, 2023
Out of Print Workshop at Infinite Souls Farm: FEEDBACK
What the Participants felt after the workshop
Bharath
Had a wonderful time at the Out of Print Magazine writer's workshop at Infinite Souls Farm. Between the beautiful view of Savandurga ... delicious home-cooked food, the birds..., we read amazing stories and saw them come to life in other people's words. Thank you Indira Chandrasekhar for making this possible and being there and encouraging us. Thank you Zui for providing extensive feedback, for being as equally invested in our stories as we are.
Anusha M
The Out of Print short story workshop was an immersive and indelible experience. I went in like a sponge and absorbed every single word, debating the motivation while learning to observe my stories from different viewpoints. The nuanced structure of the workshops is a great platform to examine your perspective as a storyteller, and one would benefit immensely from workshopping your stories with other writers.
Bodhi Ray
I’d attended writing classes before but Zui’s class at Infinity farms was something very special. Set amidst rolling green woods, the farm animals, the deep discussions and feedback and the various perspectives from which to look at our stories opened up the rusty hinges to creativity. I was amazed how deeply Zui critiqued my writing. I connected with the pre-reading materials which were carefully curated and gave me the much needed sense of why I write and to see the shimmers. Strongly recommend this workshop to serious writers.
Anushka Chatterjee
Having attended OofP's residential workshop, my mind is brimming with feedback, afterthoughts, and most importantly, boundless love and warmth. I'll forever be grateful to OofP for the much-needed surgery done to my fiction, and for the community we've built thereafter. Of course, one can't not mention the gorgeous backdrop of Savandurga, and farm-fresh food to top off the entire experience.
Amritha M Berger
The Out of Print Workshop on the Infinite Soul's farm and retreat was a truly magical experience. Being surrounded by nature and getting to immerse myself in sharing and critiquing work for an uninterrupted period of time in that beautiful and serene space was a unique and rare gift.
Indira and Zui were the kindest and most welcoming, as were her family, who treated everyone like family, and treated us to the most delicious, homemade food. By the end of it, even though it was only a couple of days, strong bonds had been formed and friendships made.
After the workshop was over, I was able to get the ongoing support of Zui in the editing process of my submitted piece, which helped my writing so much and brought me closer to crystalising the vision I had for the piece.