BWW RK Anand Short Story Prize 2024

We at Out of Print are very pleased to be hosting the special mention and shortlisted stories of the inaugural Bangalore Writers Workshop R K Anand Short Story Competition on our blog. The winning story has been published in Out of Print 55, the December 2024 issue of the magazine. 

We are encouraged by the efforts of BWW in supporting short fiction. Our principal editor, Indira Chandrasekhar was on the jury for the prize along with noted writers Jahnavi Barua and Saikat Majumdar. Our gratitude to the Atta Galatta team for reading through the submissions and creating the shortlist. It made the task of the jury that much easier.

An introductory text to the prize by Bhumika Anand, director of BWW follows. It includes a response by Jahnavi Barua to Salini Vineeth’s special mention story, and to the shortlisted entries by Saikat Majumdar. The winning story by Vrinda Baliga about which more is said in the Out of Print Editor’s Note and in the post below, is a tale of subversive resistance that plays with ideas of AI control and tropes and symbols from mythology.

We were gratified to find that both Vrinda Baliga and Salini Vineeth, have been published earlier in Out of Print. Vrinda’s 'The Closed Door' appeared in the special issue on sexual and gender violence brought out with guest editors Meena Kandasamy and Samhita Arni and dealt with the complexities of a sexual perpetrator in the family. Salini Vineeth's 'Nest' addressed the ugliness of othering that is brought to the fore when a young woman goes house hunting in Delhi.

In discussion with Bhumika, the stories being published on the blog will appear unedited, while the winning story went through a round of textual refinement as is the usual practice with Out of Print.

Links to the Stories:

Winning Entry

'Breakout' by Vrinda Baliga

Special Mention

'The Diamond Needle' by Salini Vineeth

Shortlist

'Cold to Touch' by Sumanya Velamur

'Repast' by Nayana Ravishankar

'Fall of Icarus' by Anannya Nath

'Mat' by Anjani Raj

'Reflection' by Aditi Chandrasekar

'Of Bala and Me' by Bashari Chakraborti

BWW RK Anand Short Story Prize 2024 - Jury Comments on the Winning Story

Response to the Winning Story

Indira Chandrasekhar

Excerpted and adapted from the comments made at the Prize Announcement at the Bangalore Literature Festival, 2024

There is a difference between recounting a story, and writing a story, that is creating a literary rendition of a tale. For the latter exercise demands refinement of text, an ability to evoke an emotional immersion, a crafting that transforms the story into art.

In one of her last public addresses, sections of which have been reproduced and made accessible in Marginalia, Susan Sontag, the American writer and feminist said: ‘A great writer (may I interject – those of us who strive to be great) of fiction both creates — through acts of imagination, through language that feels inevitable, through vivid forms — a new world, a world that is unique, individual; and responds to a world, the world the writer shares with other people…’

In my opinion, Vrinda Baliga’s ‘Breakout’ does all of that – creates a world, responds to our world and crafts a fine piece of literature.

The story responds to the immense pressure that our educational system imposes on children, on students, a system that emphasises rote reproduction of learnt material over the development of imagination, critical thinking, and a celebration of the joy of learning and knowledge.

The story imagines a world, directed by the new creature in our midst – AI – Artificial Intelligence. Is AI a thinking being or a rote reproducer of information? Is it a saviour or a monster? Is it a new manifestation of the patriarchy?

The story is imbued with an underlying disquiet, an anxiety, a scary hopelessness that its very plausible characters must deal with.

But then, the plot reveals an underground resistance to mute acceptance and hints at the power of quiet sustained rebellion, and the story cleverly lifts its readers into a space of possibility.

BWW RK Anand Short Story Prize 2024 - Shortlist: An Introduction

The BWW Short Story Award Shortlisted Entries: An Introduction

Bhumika Anand

The best short stories offer a unique insight of the world and its people, while also capturing the cultural and societal concerns of a particular time and place. This is what we want to celebrate through the BWW Short Story Award. The award is also our attempt to nurture new writing voices, particularly in short fiction, and in English. 

The plaque, called the R K Anand Prize, is a memorial tribute to a simple, artistic man whose worldview was always tinged with kindness, empathy, and joy. We are using his only surviving artwork for the plaque.

In 2024, our first year, we received 174 entries. Our process to pick the winner included two blind reads (reading without knowing who the author was). Once the longlist was created, the team at Atta Galatta picked the shortlist. The jury members then read the eight shortlisted entries and picked a winner. 

We are delighted to post the seven shortlisted entries here on the Out of Print blog, because all these stories are so well-written and deal with important topics. It’s an unexpected delight that all our shortlisted authors ended up being women writers, and four of them are BWW alumni. 

As Saikat Majumdar, Professor of English and Creative Writing at Ashoka University, the author of five novels, most recently, The Remains of the Body, and our jury member said, ‘The women writers in the list wrote about everyday life, and they had interesting takes on life. These stories resonated with me. I loved the story, ‘Cold to Touch’ by Sumanya Velamur, with this abiding question, ‘Are white people cold to touch?’ It seems nonsensical but it’s very interesting and explained wonderfully in the story.’

The next story was a nod at the Grecian myth – ‘The Fall of Icarus’ by Anannya Nath, that deals with teaching, a professor, and the possibilities around rank and privilege. 

‘Mat’ by Anjani Raj, is a story of rebel feminism of a young girl. What’s interesting about this is that the feminism seems to be equally directly against women. It brings about how patriarchy is not necessarily about men and women; it’s an ideology, and women can be just as much agents of patriarchy, as men. It shows how miserable this equation can be. 

‘Of Bala and Me’ by Bashari Chakraborti, is a striking story of a woman in a marriage that the husband’s family does not acknowledge, and gets him married to a young girl of a different social class, and the relationship of the woman with the second wife, who is almost like a servant to her. It’s very erotically tense and also very profound at the same time.

‘Reflection’ by Aditi Chandrasekar, is a story about quotidian life, something very personal, and two roommates and how their lives mirror each other. One of them has a boyfriend and the intimacy shared in close quarters. I really enjoyed this story. 

‘Repast’ by Nayana Ravishankar, is the story about community, cooking, and women. It’s a very sensory story around Mysore Pak, teasing even our olfactory senses as we read it. I really enjoyed this story.’

Salini Vineeth’s, ‘The Diamond Needle’, is our special mention story of the competition. 

Jahnavi Barua, an Indian writer based in Bangalore, author of Next Door, Rebirth, Undertow, and short fiction that has been widely anthologised and our jury member, said, ‘When I read a short story what makes it for me is if I am moved at the end of reading it. It’s a deep emotional connection through fiction. And beyond that it’s about structure and craft. It’s hard to get a short story right. You arrive at a short story not just with knowledge of craft; you have to live life to write it. What’s hard to get right in a short story is authenticity. 

I must say I enjoyed ‘The Diamond Needle’ the most. It was emotionally satisfying, and at the craft level, it felt very authentic. It was set in Kerala and had a distinct flavour of Kerala. As Indian writers writing in English, we have a big task. We are already in the place of translators because we are writing characters who are speaking in Gujrati or Malayalam and we don’t want the readers to find it awkward. So Salini has got this right. It’s not done to make it exotic, but the Malayalam inflection is needed. The old man, and the way the migrant walks into his life, and the shocking ending written in the assured manner that it was, I really enjoyed that.’

And we hope, you, our readers, enjoy these stories too. If they make you glimpse a new world, or reaffirm or question existing worldviews, then all our writers have indeed won. It’s a gratifying honour for us to be able to bring this to you. 

Happy reading!

Warmly, 

Bhumika Anand

Founder and Director, 

Bangalore Writers Workshop (BWW)

www.bangalorewriters.com

BWW RK Anand Short Story Prize - Special Mention: Salini Vineeth

The Diamond Needle

Salini Vineeth

When he first appeared in the market on a stifling afternoon, he had no name. The morning show had just been over, and the crowd gushed out of the Sagar Theatre carrying the smell of popcorn and cigarettes. The newcomer stood in the middle of the market square, grunting as if asking for help. The crowd flowed around him like a river around an islet. They didn’t offer him anything more than curious glances. 

Appachan, who was scoring a sheet of glass with his diamond needle, looked up when he heard the grunt. He rested the diamond needle on the glass, wiped the sweat off his forehead with his thorthu and stepped outside his coffin-cum-cooldrink shop.

‘Chetta, oru soda.’ Suddenly, a worker from the sawmill across the street appeared before him. 

Appachan went back in, opened the refrigerator, and handed his customer a soda. He then stepped into the scorching sun, with the white thorthu over his head. He waded through the crowd to find the source of that grunt. At first, Appachan couldn’t figure out if the newcomer was a boy or an old man. The man’s face was furrowed, but his limbs were short and tender, just like a child’s. He was all white: white skin, white hair, white eyebrows and even white eyelashes. His skin had red patches that looked like sunburns. When he moved, his oversized clothes waved about him like limp flags.

The newcomer seemed to be watching the sawmill worker at the cooldrink shop. His eyes followed the worker’s Adam’s apple, which moved in sync with the marble inside the soda bottle. He put his scarlet tongue out and wetted his lips. The lines around his lips made his mouth look like a drawstring purse, small and puckered.

Appachan went closer.

‘What’s your name?’ ‘Where are you from?’ ‘Have we met before?’ Appachan asked none of these questions. He knew it wasn’t the time to ask them. He didn’t need those answers to understand the newcomer was hungry. 

‘Hello.’ Appachan tapped the man’s shoulder. He shuddered and looked around. ‘Come, I will give you a soda,’ Appachan said, gesturing at his shop. The newcomer followed. 

‘Here, sit.’ Appachan dusted a wooden stool with his thorthu. The newcomer’s eyes wandered around the coffin shop and finally landed on the open refrigerator: rows and rows of soda bottles, each with an alluring marble inside them. Appachan pulled out a bottle, pressed his thumb into the mouth of the codd-neck bottle, and pushed the marble down. The glass marble fell into its slot with a delightful clink, and soda fizzed out. The newcomer grunted and flashed his pan-stained teeth. He almost snatched the soda bottle from Appachan’s hands. 

‘Appachan Chetta, where did you get this Pottan Sayipp?’ asked the sawmill worker.

‘Don’t call him Pottan. He has a name.’

‘Oh, what is it?’

‘What’s your name?’ Appachan asked the newcomer. The newcomer had finished drinking his soda. He grunted and looked at the refrigerator again.

‘See, I told you, he can’t speak. He is a Pottan, and he’s all white, like a Sayipp,’ the sawmill worker said.  

‘Don’t call him Pottan. I will call him … hmm … Kunjimon,’ Appachan said. ‘Kunjimone, do you need another soda?’ Appachan asked, and the newcomer nodded. 

‘See, he understood.’

‘Why do you always bring in such people and feed them, Chetta? Vayyaveli!’ the worker warned Appachan.

‘You don’t worry about it. Can you do one help? Ask the teashop to send three sukhiyans. Ok?’ 

‘Oh, the soda wasn’t enough, eh? Now you want to feed him sukhiyan, too? Like the Vetalam, he will sit on your neck and never come down,’ the worker said, spitting onto the drain in front of the shop. 

‘It’s my problem. Now, will you ask them to send the sukhiyans or not?’ 

‘Shari, shari … I will tell them. It’s your money. You can waste it feeding tramps like him. Who am I to ask?’ The worker slammed a ten rupee note on the candy jar and left. 

That’s how the newcomer got a name: Kunjimon. However, no one in the market would call him by that name. They would prefer Pottan Sayyip, the sawmill worker’s invention. They thought it was the perfect name for someone who looked like a foreigner and conversed through grunts and snorts.

Soon, three crispy sukhians, sweet green gram fritters, arrived wrapped in a sheet of newspaper. Kunjimon ate the sukhians and drank one more soda. His grunts softened, and its cadence conveyed satisfaction. He looked around, his mouth slightly open. He examined the unfinished coffins on the floor and the finished ones neatly stacked on the side racks. Then he smiled. 

‘Do you like them?’ Appachan asked. Kunjimon smiled again. 

Kunjimon was the first person to show any admiration towards Appachan’s coffins. None except Appachan considered them works of art. Earlier, people stayed away from his shop. Only when there was a death in the family did they step inside the shop. Even then, they would quickly choose a coffin, pay up and exit. People considered coffins inauspicious, a reminder of the inevitable death. Appachan started a cooldrink outlet when the new theatre opened, hoping it would draw more people in. However, people were reluctant to buy drinks from a coffin shop at first. Once Appachan started selling cigarettes and provided a tin of smouldering coal to light them, people started pouring in. A place that was desecrated by coffins was sanctified by tobacco. 

The evening grew older, and the crowd flowed in to watch their favourite Mohanlal movie. Meanwhile, Appachan worked on a piece of glass, and Kunjimon sat on his wooden stool, observing the diamond needle gliding through the glass. He didn’t seem to have any intention to leave, and that didn’t bother Appachan. He calmly fixed the hexagon-shaped glass pane onto a coffin’s lid. Appachan imagined how the glass window would give people one last glimpse of their loved ones. He sighed and smiled at Kunjimon. When the crowd erupted from the theatre after the evening show, Kunjimon got up to leave. 

‘Where do you stay?’ Appachan asked, but Kunjimon had already vanished among the crowd.

*

The next day, Kunjimon appeared at the coffin-cum-cooldrink shop around lunchtime. Appachan had just opened his lunch wrapped in a banana leaf. He opened a plastic dabba, and the smell of fish cooked in red chilli and kokum spread through the shop. 

‘Vaa, vaa. Come inside. I thought I would never see you again. We’ll share the lunch today. I will bring another pothi for you tomorrow, ok?’ Appachan said. He scooped half a portion of the red rice onto a steel plate and poured the fish curry over it.

‘How’s the maththi curry? It’s my speciality,’ Appachan said, licking his fingers after lunch. Kunjimon smacked his lips. Later, Appachan ordered sukhians, and they ate to their fill.

Kunjimon came at the same time the next day and the next. Appachan never failed to bring a second packet of food. They would eat together, and then Kunjimon would settle on the wooden stool, observing Appachan as he cut plywood, stuck the laminate, and hammered together plywood boards. Every evening, Kunjimon left after the first show.

‘Mone, where are you from? Do you have a place to stay?’ Appachan once asked. Kunjimon hung his head low and walked away. 

After Kunjimon left, Appachan followed him. He saw Kunjimon walking towards the river and disappearing into the bushes under the bridge. Appachan waited on the riverbank till nightfall, wondering if he should go and check under the bridge. What if he is doing something nasty under the bridge? Appachan hesitated. He was a respectable, church-going Christian who had no business in shady places. But he couldn’t leave Kunjimon under the bridge alone. So, he climbed down to the pebbled path and walked towards the bridge. When he parted the communist pacha shrubs, a small clearing under the bridge came into his view. There was Kunjimon, blissfully asleep under the bridge, on a piece of cardboard, snuggled up in a torn lungi. The angry river gushed three feet away from him. During high tide, the river could wash him away in a blink of an eye.

‘Da, mone, get up, get up. Come with me. Take all your things.’ Appachan poked Kunjimon. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Seeing Appachan, he smiled. Holding his cloth bundle, he followed Appachan.

‘You can sleep in the shop if you want. Is it ok?’ Appachan said, not sure if Kunjimon would like the idea. Sleeping with a bunch of coffins wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience. But Kunjimon laughed, which sounded more like a hiccup.  

*

‘How can you trust your shop with a tramp like him?’ the sawmill owner asked Appachan when he came down for a cigarette the next evening. 

‘Sare, he is a poor homeless fellow. He sleeps under the bridge. During the high tide, the river would take him along with her. Where else will he go?’ Appachan asked while Kunjimon watched them from his wooden stool. 

‘What if he robs you? You are a good man, and you trust everyone. But, not everyone is trustworthy.’ The sawmill owner flicked his cigarette and eyed Kunjimon with suspicion.

‘Oh, what is there in my shop that’s worth stealing? If he drowns in the river, I won’t be able to sleep properly. He’s a poor thing. He won’t do any harm,’ Appachan said, glancing at Kunjimon, who sat like a stone on the wooden stool. 

‘Athe, athe. Don’t be fooled by his innocent looks. Pottan! Look at his face. There is something weird about him, and I am warning you.’ 

‘Sare, why are you saying things like that in front of him? He will feel bad.’ 

‘Oh, as if he understands Malayalam. I think he’s not even from India. Maybe an illegal immigrant from Nepal or Bangladesh. You find many of that lot roaming around here these days. If police get the wind of it, you’ll be in prison for sheltering him. Just remember that.’ The sawmill owner threw his cigarette away and left. Kunjimon looked at Appachan, pain in his eyes.

‘Da, mone. Don’t worry about that. Some people can’t trust anyone. But it’s their problem, not ours,’ Appachan said, shrugging. Kunjimon smiled.

*

For the next few days, Kunjimon spent most of his time in the coffin shop. He would perch on the wooden stool and observe Appachan cutting plywood, fitting beadings, and scoring glass panes. A child-like glee would bloom on Kunjimon’s face whenever he saw the diamond needle at work. Once or twice, he expressed his wish to touch the diamond needle. But Appachan never let Kunjimon touch any of the sharp tools. Every evening, before leaving, he locked them up in the cupboard. 

At first, people who came to get a soda or a smoke eyed Kunjimon with disgust. The coffins were enough to repel them, but they found his white skin and constant grunts more annoying. Kunjimon smiled at the children who came to get ginger candies, and they ran away, terrified. Their parents soon came searching for Appachan and advised him to get rid of Kunjimon. 

‘He’s not a dog or a cat to get rid of,’ Appachan would say. As if I would get rid of a cat or dog! He would then mutter under his breath. While Appachan didn’t bother about the complaints, such comments made Kunjimon’s face lose its glow.

*

The next morning, Appachan visited his friend, the theatre’s supervisor. 

‘Satheesaa, I need you to do me a favour. Kunjimon can’t sit in my shop all day long. People won’t give him peace. Will you give him a small job? Maybe as a ticket collector?’

‘Who is Kunjimon?’

‘You have seen that guy in my shop, right?’ Appachan asked.

‘Oh, you mean Pottan. You’re the only one who calls him Kunjimon.’ The supervisor laughed, and his potbelly jingled like jelly. ‘Ok, Whatever. Now tell me, how did you even assume I would give him a job? People will be terrified to go near him. The owner will kill me if he finds out.’

‘Oh, people will get used to him. And your owner, how will he know about this sitting in Dubai? Haven’t he given you all the freedom with the theatre?’ Appachan asked.

The supervisor sat straight and considered it for a moment. ‘If you are so worried about him, why don’t you give him a job in your shop? Anyway, he’s sitting on that stool like a crane from morning to evening.’ The supervisor laughed at his joke, but Appachan didn’t. 

‘His arms aren’t strong or steady enough to do the work I do. He will hurt himself. He can only do some light tasks, like collecting tickets. Please give him one chance, just as an apprentice. If he’s bad, send him away. Please, I am begging you,’ Appachan said. The supervisor stared at Appachan from behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. 

‘Edo, I can give him a job. But is he even eligible to work? People say he’s not even from India.’

‘Then how does he know Malayalam? He understands everything I say. If you trust me, you can trust him. Please?’

‘Ok, fine. Just for a week. But, Appachaa, I don’t understand you sometimes. I think you have a screw loose somewhere.’ The supervisor laughed, and Appachan laughed along. 

*

Sagar Theatre had three doors, and the movies often ran houseful. Miscreants usually tried to tailgate to watch their favourite movies. Each door needed a ticket collector who watched the crowd like a hawk. People would push and shove in the excitement to catch the film. The ticket collectors didn’t get much time to examine each ticket and let people in. Being a doorman at the Sagar Theatre wasn’t a job for the fainthearted. 

Kunjimon not only survived but thrived in his job. Every morning, after cleaning the coffin shop and handing the keys to Appachan, Kunjimon reported to the theatre for duty. Grunting, he stood guard at his assigned door as if it were the door to heaven. He was not like the other doormen who were distracted with their mobile phones. Initially, people were taken aback when Kunjimon demanded their tickets. But just like the supervisor, the crowd got used to him.

Ticket collectors didn’t need to be on the premises while there was no show. After the morning show, Kunjimon would return to the coffin shop and sit on his wooden chair. He would have lunch with Appachan, and they would crack jokes and laugh. It was Appachan who cracked jokes. Kunjimon just laughed, a hiccup-laughter. 

At night, Kunjimon slept on a Palmyra mat in the corner of the coffin shop. But Appachan noticed that Kunjimon sometimes slept in an almost-finished coffin. Appachan was taken aback when he saw it first. 

‘Don’t sleep in a coffin; it’s an inauspicious thing to do. Are you in a rush to go to heaven?’ Appachan warned him many times. However, Kunjimon seemed to like the coffin’s cotton padding and cosy silk lining. His small frame perfectly fitted inside it. Whenever Appachan came early, he often found Kunjimon blissfully asleep inside that coffin, so still, as if he weren’t breathing. 

Then, one day, he stopped breathing. 

*

‘Who saw the body first? How did it end up in the coffin?’ the constable asked. The theatre supervisor looked at Appachan.

‘I saw him first. He sleeps in my shop at night, and he likes to sleep in that coffin sometimes,’ Appachan said, his voice trembling. Voices echoed inside his head. People crowded outside to get a glimpse of Kunjimon’s body. 

‘Edo! I asked you how you two are related.’

‘Umm … Not related. I met him in the market a few months ago. He used to work in the theatre as a ticket collector.’ 

The theatre supervisor glared at Appachan. ‘Sare, I gave him the job on Appachan’s recommendation,’ he declared. 

‘Ok. So, what is his name? Have you informed his relatives?’ the constable asked.

‘His name … Umm … We call him Kunjimon,’ Appachan said,

‘Kunjimon? But I heard another name outside … What was that? Ah … Pottan! Does anyone know his real name?’ 

‘He couldn’t speak, so we didn’t … We couldn’t … Umm…’ Appachan looked down at the half-built coffins on the floor.

‘What are you blabbering? I think there is something fishy here. Will someone willingly get into the coffin and die?’ The constable twirled his moustache. ‘Sare, I think he’s lying,’ he then turned to the head constable and said.

‘So, you mean to say you don’t even know his name? Still, you let him sleep in your shop and got him a job in the theatre. No, I don’t find it believable. Tell me, how do you know him? Wasn’t he your illegitimate son?’ the head constable asked. 

‘Sare, this old fellow is a gentleman. He gives refuge to many such people. He is not a fraud or anything,’ the theatre supervisor cut in.

‘Who are you? His lawyer? Don’t be over-smart, ok? I will grab both of you, put you behind bars and charge murder. Then let’s see if you still want to play the lawyer,’ the head constable said. The supervisor covered his mouth with his palm.

Appachan feared that the constable would knock him down with the lathi. But the policeman got a call and moved away.

‘Yes sir, yes. Yes sir…’ the head-constables voice turned mellow. 

‘Ok, we are moving the body to the mortuary. We will try to find the relatives, and if no one is found, we will cremate the body,’ he turned to Appachan and said. 

‘Sare, that’s not possible. He shouldn’t be cremated like an orphan,’ Appachan sniffled.

‘Oh, yeah, I will make all the arrangements for the funeral and invite you! If you try to play the guardian angel anymore, I will charge you with sheltering illegal immigrants and maybe even with murder. Manassilayo?’ 

Appachan didn’t understand. When Kunjimon was alive, no one wanted him. Neither the government nor the police came inquiring about his welfare. After his death, everybody seemed to be interested in his dead body. 

*

A day passed after the police took away Kunjimon’s body. Appachan couldn’t do any work, and he couldn’t sit idle. He begged the theatre supervisor to go with him to the police station. 

‘Oh, so you’re the saint who shelters the illegal ones, huh? Don’t you know you have to report them to the police station?’ the sub-inspector asked. 

‘Please don’t call him an illegal person! How can any human be illegal, sare? He was a poor, honest fellow,’ Appachan said.

‘How can you say confidently that he’s not an illegal immigrant? Does he have an Aadhaar card? Or ration card? Any identification?’ 

‘Sare, what are you saying? He understands Malayalam.’

‘Has he ever talked to you?’

Appachan shook his head. He had never exchanged a word with Kunjimon. But it didn’t mean they didn’t communicate. Was language always necessary to understand another person? But Appachan didn’t say anything. He just stood there, his head hanging low. 

‘Sare, will you let us know if you find his relatives or when you plan to cremate him? Appachan and I would like to attend the funeral,’ the theatre supervisor asked. 

‘You know what I should do? Throw both of you in jail for sheltering an illegal person! Only because you are an oldie that I am not doing it. Now, scram before I change my mind. I already have so many problems above my head. Now, I should also invite guests to a vermin’s funeral,’ the inspector barked. 

Appachan tugged at the supervisor’s sleeve. He knew there was no point in arguing with the inspector. After all, everything depended on papers and identification. Every relationship needed proof. 

*

A few days passed by. Every day, Appachan went to the police station, hoping to get some information. But no one bothered to listen to him. 

‘Hey, you! Old man, are you doing satygraham here? There’s no point in you coming here. The post mortem of the corpse is done. That fellow had a heart condition. That’s why he died. So, the police have closed the case for now. I think you’ll be safe if you don’t poke your nose in this case. The inspector is suspicious about your interest in this dead body,’ a constable informed Appachan. 

‘What, sare? I don’t have any bad intentions. I just want to be present during his funeral. How do I know the time and date?’ Appachan asked, almost in tears. 

‘Edo, you better forget about this person, ok? You’re not related to him. So, you have no right to ask about his body. If the relatives come with proper proof, we will hand it over. Do you understand?’ the constable asked.

‘Sare, he has no relatives. If he had, he would’ve told me. So, now what will happen?’

‘They’ll preserve this body for ninety days and then cremate it in the public cemetery. I don’t know exactly when. If you want to know anything more, go to the mortuary and check. Ayyo, I have seen so many kinds of crazy people. But I have never seen anyone like you.’ The constable shook his head.

‘Sare, I knew Kunjimon for only a few months. But when he was alive, no one respected him. I don’t want him to go to the otherworld like an orphan. I want him to give him a proper send-off,’ Appachan said. 

‘There is no point in crying here. If you’re so worried, go to the mortuary every day and do your satyagraha there, ok?’ the constable said, almost pushing Appachan out of the station.

*

The very next day, Appachan visited the mortuary. He stood in the cold corridor, suffocating on the smell of formaldehyde. He had no idea what to do or whom to talk to.

‘Appachan Chettan! What are you doing here?’ the young mortuary attendant asked Appachan. 

‘Mone, I don’t seem to know you. Who are you?’ 

‘Chetta, I used to work in the sawmill before passing the PSC exam. You have given me many free sodas. You have even bought me sukhians. Do you remember me? I wish I could say I am glad to see you here. But … Anyway, what’s the case?’ 

So, Appachan told him everything  events from the day he first met Kunjimon and how everything turned out. 

‘Chetta, it’s not easy to know when an unidentified body will be cremated. But give me the details, and I will keep an eye on your case. I don’t want you to take the trouble and come here daily. I will call the theatre if there is any news.’ 

‘Ok. You know, I just want to send him off in the coffin he loved and tell him goodbye,’ Appachan sniffled. 

*

After a few weeks, the mortuary attendant called Appachan. As they couldn’t find Kunjimon’s relatives, they were about to cremate his body. The mortuary superintendent had given the task of acquiring a coffin to the attendant. As he received the news, Appachan rushed to the mortuary with Kunjimon’s coffin. 

The funeral was held in the electric crematorium. Before closing the coffin’s lid, Appachan placed his diamond needle next to Kunjimon’s body. Before they pushed the body into the combustion chamber, Appachan had one last look at Kunjimon’s face through the hexagonal glass pane on the coffin’s lid. He was glad that he had placed it there.

***

Shortlisted for the inaugural (2024) Bangalore Writers Workshop R K Anand Prize
Jury: Indira Chandrasekhar, Jahnavi Barua, Saikat Majumdar
Conducted with Bangalore Writers Workshop, Atta Gallatta Bookshop and Out of Print Magazine

BWW RK Anand Short Story Prize - Shortlist: Sumanya Velamur

 Cold to Touch

Sumanya Velamur

I felt gora people were cold. Not in temperament but in temperature. Cold to touch. I felt like if I touched white people, I would feel nothing but ice. 

I told this to my best friend in school, Trupti. She was telling me the story of the movie ‘Koi Mil Gaya’ in minute detail. During sports period, I hardly ever played – my coughing fit would have interrupted any game – and Trupti did not like to play, so the two of us would take rounds of the school ground. She would usually fill me in on the latest movies she had seen – movies her mother took her to watch every now and then. Over recess, over sports period, over lunch, I would listen as she told me the story scene by scene. She never spared a single detail. She was very keen that I don’t miss out on anything just because I had no mother. 

‘Then, the Rakesh Roshan character tells a bunch of gora scientists, his colleagues, that he was able to contact an alien life form. They laugh at him,’ she was saying.

My mind slipped to gora people in general. How would it be to touch them? How would they feel on my fingers? How would it feel to kiss them on the lips? How would it feel to hold them in my arms?

Trupti sensed that my attention had flagged and turned her inquiring eyes onto me.

‘How do you think it would be to fall in love with a gora man?’ I asked.

She giggled. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t fallen in love with a brown man only!’

It was true. Neither of us, at fourteen, had developed a serious crush on anybody in school. The boys in our class were not interesting. And those senior to us seemed way out of our league. 

‘Yes, but think about Hrithik Roshan.’

Trupti took a sharp breath in. 

‘What about him?’

‘You know how you would feel if you were in love with him.’

Trupti was in love with Hrithik Roshan. She had been ever since ‘Kaho Na Pyaar Hai’ was released two years ago. Half the girls in school and half at the Home were also madly in love with him. It was one of the few movies I had seen on the big screen. The Sisters made it a point to take us to one or two movies a year. When ‘Kaho na Pyaar Hai’ came out in theatres, we had already seen Hrithik Roshan in the songs, dancing on a beach with Amisha Patel. A bunch of us girls made a contingent and lobbied the Sisters to take us to see it. The Sisters did take us to the theatre for the movie. And for the first time, I found I had the upper hand. Trupti’s mother was unusually busy that month and was unable to take her for the movie. It was my turn to tell her the story during lunch, during recess, and during sports period. 

‘I AM in love with him!’ Trupti said indignantly. 

‘Yeah, so you can imagine hugging and kissing him na?’

‘Yes,’ she said shyly, ‘I have imagined my lips touching his many times. I do it just before going to sleep. Tara didi from my building says that if you conjure up in your mind your desires and they are the last things you see before nodding off to sleep, they will come true. Ever since then, I have been trying to see my lips and Hrithik Roshan’s lips meet just before I sleep.’

‘Yes yes! I know. You told me all this. But do you ever feel this way about white people? Like have you ever felt like you wanted to kiss a white man on the mouth?’

Trupti thought for a bit, ‘Not really.’

‘Yesterday, we were watching ‘Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets’ for the hundredth time on our home VCD player. And I was wondering why none of us feel about the characters in that movie the way we feel about Hrithik. 

‘Maybe because Harry Potter is a small boy?’

‘No. That’s not it. I think it is because white people are cold to touch.’

‘Are they cold to touch?’

‘Aren’t they?’

*

One day I told Shamoli didi that I felt gora people were cold to touch. She laughed and laughed. She was clutching her stomach in pain by the end of it. When the laughing subsided somewhat, she asked why I thought this. 

‘I don’t know why. But, I cannot find white people attractive because I feel they are cold to touch. Technically, I know there are no real differences between white people, brown people, black people or any people. Everybody bleeds red. Everybody’s insides are the same, the same intestines, the same stomach, the same brain, the same heart, the same everything. Sizes might vary, but all in all, there is no reason for me to think that white people are cold to touch. I know this.’ I emphasised. ‘And yet it is just a feeling, a strong one, that I have. 

‘But you like Hrithik Roshan, Ridhi. Isn’t he very fair?’

‘He is fair but he isn’t white. He feels warm to touch.’

Didi smiled. 

‘Maybe, if you actually met a white person, the feeling would dissipate?’ she suggested. 

Maybe. Maybe not. 

‘You have met white people, didi. You tell me. Are they cold to touch?’

Didi had studied in America and had sat with white students in large classrooms. During our therapy sessions, she told me stories from America sometimes. And I imagined a sea of white people standing at touching distance from her. 

‘Ridhi, they are just as warm as you and me. But don’t take my word for it. You will meet a white person, maybe when you are studying in college like I did, and then you can touch them and see for yourself.’ 

A silence came over both of us. I would certainly like to touch a gora person and see for myself. Maybe, like Shamoli didi said, I might find myself studying in America or London, and then there would be an ocean of white people to touch. I decided to take Trupti’s neighbour Tara didi’s advice and visualise this just before nodding off to sleep. And then maybe it will come true. I thought of what should be in the picture. I imagined standing on the footpath in a foreign country, stretching my hand out and my fingertips brushing against a passing white man. And then I would know for sure if they were cold to touch. The idea of standing in a foreign street amongst a sea of white people had made me go quiet. Perhaps, the same idea had made didi also go quiet. Maybe she was praying that it would all come true – that I would survive to go to college, that I would go abroad, and that, one day I would touch a gora person and see for myself.

*

It was not that I had never seen a gora person ever. White people were more common now in cities like ours. Once a priest from Switzerland, Father Gerard visited our home. He was as white as milk. He stayed at the Church with Father Rupert but spent his days with us. He came with chocolates, toys and books. While he went around touching the little children on their chins, he never touched me and I never touched him. I was twelve then and the idea that white people were cold to touch had not occurred to me yet.

One day, Shamoli didi, Suryamma, and I took Father Rupert’s car to attend a conference. Shamoli didi and Suryamma were invited because they were to present a paper. It was didi’s idea to take me to the conference. 

‘Ridhi is fourteen. Girls her age have so much exposure. She only goes to school and comes back home. She also works so hard at home. She deserves a little outing. And it will be educational as well.’

Suryamma looked doubtful, ‘What does a fourteen-year-old need exposure for? School is enough to get all kinds of outlandish ideas.’ 

Shamoli didi pounced on her when she said that. ‘But that’s exactly why she should go to the conference. We will both be with her and we can keep an eye on her. Also, she is a bright kid. She may learn something from the presentations. These things will come in handy when she has to choose what she wants to do in life.’

‘I really don’t see it, Shamoli. What good can come of it? Also, wouldn’t it be traumatic for her to listen to people talk about sickness all day long.’

‘No. It’s not like she doesn’t know what ails her. She has already spoken to me a couple of times about death and dying. Besides, we will carefully monitor the sessions she attends. Plus, on each day of the conference, they are putting up a variety entertainment show. I think she will enjoy those immensely.’

Suryamma relented. The conference was held over three days, over a weekend, in a huge auditorium in the city centre. The three of us piled into Father Rupert’s car and we zoomed across the city. Friday afternoon was the key note address by a gora woman. Watching her it occurred to me that there may be other gora people around. Maybe an opportunity was presenting itself once more. Lunch was a buffet and I found myself right behind a gora person in the queue. I gently touched my elbow to her hand but her full-sleeved shirt came in the way of touching her skin. 

After lunch, I went to the toilet and when I came out I saw an old white man talking to Suryamma and didi. As I came close to them, Suryamma put her hand out to me and said, ‘You must meet Ridhi. She is one of our star pupils. A very hardworking girl.’ The old man turned and smiled at me and put his hand out. This was my chance. I could touch and see. Just then, somebody called from behind him, ‘Henry!’ and he turned and walked away. 

*

One day, I overheard Shantamma tell Suryamma that if I had received proper training in music, I would have been a famous singer. I daydreamed that day, that I was standing on a big stage, facing three judges, singing my favourite song, ‘Gali mein aaj chaand nikala’, at a high octave, one I had been unable to reach in real life without a coughing fit. But in my imagination, I ascended those high notes smoothly. The audience was uproarious. In the wings, stood the three Sisters, Suryamma, Shantamma, and Simoneamma, and Shamoli didi, tears running down their cheeks. Maybe if I became a famous singer, I could go abroad and touch a gora person. I changed the vision I would muster just before nodding off to sleep. It now had me on a stage, the spotlight hugging me as confetti dropped from the heavens. And white people were scurrying up the stage to congratulate me.

Shantamma was always telling me to sing. And when I hummed while doing the chores, she would bellow at me, ‘Sing aloud. Open your chest and sing.’ I think she meant heart, but it’s okay, I know what she meant. I had thought Shantamma urged me to sing because I was happiest singing. But after I overheard her conversation with Suryamma, I thought for the first time that I could be famous. Being famous, I thought was inherited from parents, and came down from one generation to another. What had my parents given me? Only he-who-must-not-be-named. 

Yes. I know. He-who-must-not-be-named is the villain in Harry Potter. But ever since Rubina and I saw the movies, sitting next to each other in the theatre, we have been calling the thing that ails us, Voldemort. It was Rubina who said it first. We started giggling at how apt the name was. We were Harry Potter. Our Voldemort decided what we did or did not do. Ever since, I only call it Voldemort – this formless, ugly thing that plagues our lives. Voldemort scripts our stories.

*

It certainly scripted Rubina’s life and death. Rubina was my best friend in the Home like Trupti was my best friend in school. It happened when Rubina’s pink-as-pink-can-be lips turned white. I was at the hospital with her, then. While Simoneamma spent the night with Rubina, Shantamma came in the morning. When the doctor made his rounds, Suryamma was always there to talk to him, ask him questions, and tell him about the things Rubina had done the previous day. 

‘Was there any blood in the spittle?’

‘Did she vomit?’

‘What are the blood tests saying?’

‘She was in a lot of pain last night, Doctor. Can we do something about that? Can we give her some morphine?’

‘She is too young for that, Sister. She will feel very weak.’

‘How is she sleeping?’

‘Sister Simone who was here during the night told me that her sleep has been fitful.’

‘She has been having nightmares.’

‘Is this the girl who keeps her company during the day, Sister Surya?’

‘Yes, Doctor. This is Ridhi, a very conscientious girl who is also Rubina’s best friend.’

‘Oh! that is good. Beta, make sure to wear your mask at all times. It is good for both you and your friend.’

Rubina had lain motionless on the hospital bed. She looked pale but her lips were bright pink, maybe tinged a little by the blood in her spittle. Or was it the blood in her vomit? She could hardly open her eyes but whenever she caught me looking at her she would give me a weak smile. 

One night, Rubina’s lips turned blue. And then, they turned white. I touched them. They were cold as ice. Voldemort made its presence felt.

Suryamma hated it when I called it Voldemort. ‘Aye! Ridhi, Don't be ungenerous. God gave you this. And he is not Voldemort.’ I never said God was Voldemort. But God did give me Voldemort. Suryamma was always like this – giving illogical explanations hoping to reassure a troubled mind. She was also the scariest of the three Sisters. Sister Surya, as she was known to the rest of the world, was the head of the Home. She decided on the rules and then followed them to the tee. She did not brook any misbehaviour. She never raised her voice. But a look from her – her eyes like perfectly-shaped, round fried eggs in eye-shaped saucepans – would send us scurrying for cover.

Sister Shanti was the kindest, least likely to scold. Shantamma would scold only if you put your life or anyone else’s life in danger. This was, believe it or not, quite frequent since Voldemort made all our lives precarious. She giggled a lot at all the children. She giggled when we told her how much we loved Hrithik Roshan. She giggled when we told her that Harry Potter was an eleven-year-old wizard. She giggled when we told her that Voldemort was the grown adult villain who Harry Potter fought. She giggled at everything we said and did. She did not have a problem calling it Voldemort. Only, her heavy Malayalam accented Voldemort made us giggle in turn.

Sister Simone was the most hardworking. Simoneamma once told me that whatever suffering I was going through, would be completely erased if I just focussed single-mindedly on work. ’Prayer is good, Ridhi, and one must do it regularly and diligently. But there is no substitute for hard work. It’s the one thing that can keep Voldemort at bay.’ Simonemma took to the metaphor smoothly, almost with a sense of relief. She hated to say ‘HIV positive’ aloud, especially in company. 

*

During the last days, it was Rubina’s shit that gave it away. It was watery. There is something I love about a good, well-formed, stalactite-shaped, smooth-on-the-outside, well-coalesced piece of shit. Once Shantamma told Suryamma how she was happy to have had a good shit after two days of constipation, and I nodded animatedly in agreement and said, ‘Yes, yes. Nothing like a good shit!’ Shantammma giggled and Suryamma laughed in a roar. Then she playfully tapped me on the back and said, ‘Ridhi, always listening to adults conversations!’ 

It is true. Voldemort made sure even the littlest of us had adult problems. There were around ten babies in the house, give or take, all around one or two years old. Ours was a household, where the numbers fluctuated every day. They lived (if you can call it that) on the first floor in the room called the Nursery, their white-painted wooden cradles set up in an orderly line. I always wondered why they would keep them all in one room. If one started crying, all the others would join in. I thought it made sense to split them. I told Suryamma this, once, and she smiled and said ‘When you run an orphanage, do it differently, Ridhi’

In the mornings, I had to check their nappies and wash the bums of those who had soiled them. This was, more often than not, all of them, since they all had dysentery every day. We all had dysentery quite often but the babies always had more of it. While cleaning their bums, I would often wonder how irritable I would be if my shit was always watery. Their bums must have felt like a perennial river of sludge. I would make them wear clean new nappies. Then I would be in charge of washing the soiled nappies. First, I had to dip the smelly, gooey, nappies in boiling hot water, leaving them to soak in it for 30 minutes. Then dip it all in cold water. Then scrub with a wooden handled scrubber, jhik-jhik-jhik. I always wondered at what point do the nappies become threadbare. Not that I was ever allowed to find out because before it got to that, Sister Simone would take it away to wring out and dry in the sun. 

Once school was over, I was supposed to help out in the kitchen. I was always given the job of sorting. Airlines donated their waste food to us and while most of it was perfectly consumable, we would come across the occasional rotten meat. So I was supposed to go through everything and make sure the inedible stuff was removed from the pile. 

Working in solitude gave me the time to think up ways in which to keep Voldemort at bay. When I was in school, I couldn’t think because of studies and Trupti and when I was home, if not doing chores, I was supposed to be studying. So this was the only time I had to think. To think about how I would grow up to go to college. To think how I would go abroad for higher studies. To think about how to become a famous singer. To think into the future, when I can touch a gora and make sure they are cold to touch. 

I knew of only one thing that would come in the way of me doing all these things. That was Voldemort. Voldemort was the one thing that made babies with a sludgy river for a bum. It was the one thing that turned Rubina’s pink-as-pink-can-be lips to white. It was the one thing that gave me coughing fits every time I sang. It was the one thing that made the numbers in our house fluctuate rapidly like a stock exchange ticker. The Sisters watched that ticker without blinking. And through all the fluctuation, they continued to work because there was no substitute for hard work. 

*

A few months after my ‘cold to touch’ conversation with Trupti, I was in a hospital bed. The dry, raspy cough and the breathlessness that had been part of my entire life, that I had managed with my hard work, had returned. The blue light of the hospital room and the white bed reminded me of Rubina and her lips, coloured by blood-ridden spittle. Was this how she had felt when she was lying here some months earlier? Simoneamma spent the nights in the hospital, as usual. She would come up to my bed and check on me every time I made the slightest movement in bed. Shantamma relieved her in the mornings, just as she had done when Rubina was in hospital. When the doctor came on his rounds Suryamma would be there, to field his questions and to ask him questions in turn. 

‘Yes, Doctor! There is blood in the spittle.’

‘How are her stools? Any vomiting?’

‘What are the blood tests saying, Doctor?’

 

‘It is important to keep her comfortable, Sister Surya.’

‘Yes, Doctor. Whatever it takes?’

‘How is she sleeping?’

‘Sister Simmone spends the night here, Doctor. She says she sleeps like a baby. She does not have nightmares like Rubina did.’

It was true. I did sleep like a baby. Before nodding off to sleep, I would conjure up a white doctor. Someone who would touch me. 

***

Shortlisted for the inaugural (2024) Bangalore Writers Workshop R K Anand Prize
Jury: Indira Chandrasekhar, Jahnavi Barua, Saikat Majumdar
Conducted with Bangalore Writers Workshop, Atta Gallatta Bookshop and Out of Print Magazine

BWW RK Anand Short Story Prize - Shortlist: Nayana Ravishankar

 Repast

Nayana Ravishankar

The smell of caramel filled the house. From the kitchen it floated above people’s heads in the bustling hall to the porch outside. It meandered lazily over the well and outhouse in the backyard before it finally reached Jaya on the terrace. One sniff and she knew. It was time. A second too late and the sugar would burn. She rushed down the stairs just in time to grab the ladle, stirring the sweet sticky mixture as her mother poured in the gram flour. Stirring constantly, Jaya watched the mixture turn golden and bubble up. It greedily drank up all the ghee that was offered, developing a beautiful airiness. Finally, the golden mixture was poured into a massive pan and quickly cut into bars before it could harden. Now they just had to wait for it to cool. 

The Mysore pak would be crisp on the outside, tender and melt in the mouth on the inside, it’s sweetness lingering on the tongue for hours after. Amma’s Mysore pak was famous all over the village. On the rare occasion she made it all the neighbours would find an excuse to visit, hoping to be served the sweet treat with steaming cups of tea. Jaya hovered in the kitchen, watching her mother clean. She was impatient to taste the Mysore pak. It had been nearly a year since Amma had made it last. She inched towards the pan, hoping to snag an edge piece when she felt her mother’s hand land heavily on her shoulder. Guiding her away from the pan, Amma glared. Jaya knew better than to argue. Smarting at the unfairness of it all, she stormed out leaving her mother alone in the kitchen. Careful to avoid stepping on the colourful saris and the pristine white panches of the many visitors in the hall, Jaya settled into her spot in the corner beneath the stairs. From this vantage point she had a view of the hall and the entrances to the two rooms. She had spent many an hour there eavesdropping on the adult’s conversations. Using these half heard dialogues to make sense of her world. Lately though Amma barely spoke. Her parent’s loud fights from the last year had transformed into thunderous monologues by Appa. Before, when Appa was away in town after the harvest, Amma would sing and chatter endlessly. She would imitate bears, lions and elephants and chase Jaya and her sisters around the fields. Jaya would secretly pray for Appa to be away so the house would lighten as it always did in his absence. She carried the guilt of her prayer until he returned. 

Jaya leaned against the cool mud walls and admired the sight of the decorated house. The air was filled with the scent of the jasmine adorning the women’s plaits and the marigold garlands that hung from the walls. Along with the sweet perfume, snippets of conversation amongst the guests washed over her. 

“Mmmm … Mysore pak gama gama antha idhe.” 

“Howdu ri. Last time they had only boondi and payasa. This time Mysore pak too.” 

“And why not? Finally goddess Lakshmi is entering this house. That wretch in the kitchen brought him nothing but misfortune. Three. Three girls she gave him. Poor man.” 

“Tch tch … that is true…. What else is a man to do?” 

“But having her prepare the Mysore pak…” The voices faded as the group of women wandered away. Feeling the warmth creep across her face, Jaya was inexplicably embarrassed and irritated. She emerged from her spot and hurried outside, away from the women. The noise around the side of the house drew her attention. Large vessels had been set up atop roaring fires, the fields behind them shimmering in the heat. Groups of men and women sat around the vessels, peeling and chopping mountains of vegetables for the banquet. Jaya’s stomach growled as the smells of all the delicious food assailed her. She watched a man in a once white undershirt, now thoroughly stained with splashes of rasam, fry up a fresh batch of crisp sandige. Over there the payasa bubbled happily, waitng for the final garnish of ghee, raisins and cashews. The boondi was briskly bathed in the sugar syrup for just a few seconds to maintain the perfect crunch. And in the middle of it all sat the Mysore pak glistening in the afternoon sun. Absorbed in the wonder of these sights she almost didn’t hear the familiar voice call out. 

"Jayu! Come here.” It was her favourite Aththe. She was on her haunches finishing up an elaborate rangoli in front of the house. “Look at you lovely girl. You are growing more beautiful by the day”. Dusting herself off, her aunt straightened and pinched her cheek playfully leaving a smudge of pink powder on Jaya’s face. Laughing and squirming away, Jaya joined Aththe’s daughter, Girija, and they were soon absorbed in the sight of the colourful jeerjimbe that fluttered and thrashed in Girija’s palm. The emerald green of the beetle matched her new langa. Jaya admired her cousin's new clothes and looked down at her own plain ones which were just a little too short. Jaya wore mismatched ribbons. No flowers graced her hair, no bangles clinked merrily on her small wrists. 

Her envy was soon forgtten as Aththe brought the girls bowls filled with steaming payasa. She handed Jaya the larger bowl to share with her sisters. Scooping a bit into her mouth first, Jaya set out to find her younger sisters Sunita and Beena. The payasa was just a little too hot and burnt her tongue. But the ghee coating her mouth soon soothed it. She searched for them everywhere, despairing that the payasa would get cold. Finally she found them in the old granary which was now used as a storage room. It was filled with the odds and ends that they imagined would be of use one day. There, her mother was feeding the two girls between sacks of old newspapers and a broken vanity table. The girls happily abandoned the rice and rasam for the payasa and Jaya fed them patiently. Jaya was used to feeding her sisters. Some years when Amma’s belly would grow really large, she would tire easily and sleep a lot and Jaya had to help take care of her sisters. Sometimes Aththe came over to help but she couldn’t stay long. The first time Amma’s belly grew Jaya was only three and Sunita arrived. Two years later it grew again and Beena appeared. After that Amma’s belly had grown three more times but there were no more babies. Those years, even after her belly had flattened again, Amma barely noticed the three girls. She stayed locked up in her room for weeks on end ignoring them all. Every time Jaya peeked in through the keyhole she would see her mother just lying motionless on the thin mattress staring at the ceiling. It seemed that was all she did. Each time though Amma had returned eventually. When the payasa had been thoroughly licked clean from the bowl the younger girls contentedly settled in for a nap. Jaya quickly made her escape before her mother could gather her in too. There was too much excitement outside today that couldn’t be missed. Out on the porch the older women had gathered to sing. As the afternoon wore on they sang all kinds of folksongs. Songs with wisdom and lessons, songs with anecdotes and histories. The songs contained the essence of the village and its people. The crowd around them grew. People withered in the heat as they waited for the feast to begin. The flowers in their hair had wilted. The saris and crisp ironed shirts had creased. But still people stayed, entranced by the songs. 

The air was filled with melancholy as the women sang of childhoods past, innocence lost and the impossibility of return when suddenly they heard a loud shout “They are here! They are here! The bus broke down on the way but they are finally here. Come, everyone come”. The spell was broken and crowd scattered. The cooks hurried to add the finishing touches. The guests assembled at the gate. Up front was Aththe who held the aarthi plate, ready to welcome them. The tractor covered in flowers approached the house and a hush fell over the crowd. Jaya stood on her tiptoes to get a better look. She watched Appa steady himself on the girl’s shoulder as he got off the tractor. Despite her heavy sari, the girl jumped down with ease. They stood in their matching garlands while Aththe performed the aarthi. Appa, smiling wider than Jaya had ever seen before, looked softer in the warm glow of the aarthi flame. The girl was so short, Jaya could only see the top of her head. The girl stood with her head bowed, staring at the floor. She didn’t look up even as she kicked the small pot of rice before entering her new home. 

Lowering herself back on her heels, Jaya stepped back and watched the crowd drift. Most of them rushed to the meal they had been waiting for all day. The unlucky ones who weren’t able to snag a spot followed Appa and the girl into the house for the rest of the rituals. Jaya stood still as the evening breeze dried the sweat on her neck. Despite the lingering heat of the day she felt a chill envelop her. Pulling her arms around herself gently she walked slowly back to her family. Back near the storage room, she found her sisters outside, fighting over a doll. Shushing them impatiently she called for her mother but got no response. She tried the door but found that it was locked. Bending slightly, she scrunched one eye closed and peered into the room through the keyhole. 

In the fading light she spotted her mother seated at the broken vanity table. Amma sat still looking at herself in the dusty mirror. Bringing her palm up to her forehead she slowly wiped off her battu, leaving a dull red smear across her brow. Her movements quickening, she yanked at her thali saraa, the black beads scattering all over the small room. She brought her wrists up to the edge of the table and began to slam her glass bangles against it. As they broke, some of the bangles pierced the delicate skin on her wrist. Jaya’s eyes traced the rivulets of blood as they ran down Amma’s hands. 

***

Shortlisted for the inaugural (2024) Bangalore Writers Workshop R K Anand Prize
Jury: Indira Chandrasekhar, Jahnavi Barua, Saikat Majumdar
Conducted with Bangalore Writers Workshop, Atta Gallatta Bookshop and Out of Print Magazine

BWW RK Anand Short Story Prize - Shortlist: Anannya Nath

 Fall of Icarus

Anannya Nath

‘Ma’am,’ the boy utters carefully, standing at her door.

Nilima looks up from her desk, her brows still knitted into a frown. She eases her frontalis. 

‘Yes?’ she asks curtly. 

The boy timorously starts up and hesitates to answer. His eyes fall on the two large mounds of answer scripts over her desk. These are testimonials of students who skip classes with the primitive assurance that their parents’ money would guarantee them a degree without their participation. They appear, quite dramatically, on examination days and finish their answers with great nonchalance. If she wished, she could evaluate them with similar flippancy but Nilima was known for her implacability. Quite ironical, really, for she was the youngest faculty. The corporal proximity of her age with her students was overpowered by her sense of discipline. It was not that she did not want to participate in their lives, but her academic expectations created an impassable wall between her and her students, dulling all her efforts to assimilate. 

‘Yes? What do you want? Speak,’ she asks again, the frown back on her forehead. 

‘I need your help, ma’am,’ he says, fighting his dread. 

Nilima asks him to come in. 

‘Ma’am, I wrote an essay for the inter-state annual literary competition,’ he waits for a response that does not come. Nilima nods with her head hung over the answers. ‘But,’ he continues, ‘I don’t know if it is coherent.’ Nilima nods again, still reading an answer that visibly upsets her. She draws an aggressive circle over it and slams it atop the pile on her right. 

‘What essay?’ she asks, lifting her head briefly. 

‘Asymmetrical Power Relations in the Classroom, ma’am.’ 

‘Alright.’ 

‘I thought you might … you could … perhaps, help me with it?’ he keeps on egging. 

Nilima picks another unevaluated sheet and leaf through the pages before reading the contents. ‘Keep it on that shelf,’ she points him to a shelf in the corner of her cabin. 

‘When can I come back, ma’am?’ he asks, placing his file in place. Nilima looks at the calendar that flutters from one of the walls. She opens a diary, skims through the details of an entry and clicks her tongue. She barely has any time to spare. In fact, the pressures of random extra classes, the mounting administrative responsibilities, and the overbearing orthodoxy of most of her colleagues were all part of a huge summation that left little time at her personal disposal. Embittered, her face was the first thing to always betray her irritation. 

‘Wednesday. After lunch,’ she replies, a little composed. 

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ 

The boy does not move. He looks around her cabin – the chest of drawers on the right, files of different colours stacked inside it. He eyes her desk floored with all kinds of stationery, a printer and a scanner, the long registers where she kept tabs on her students and Nilima herself, sitting on her chair. He notices the low neckline of her kameez and the dupatta stuck slenderly on her neck, like a rope fastened around a pole. Every time she sighs to show her disappointment, his eyes follow the ebbs of her breaths. 

‘You can go,’ Nilima says, suddenly aware of his presence. 

Her command breaks his trance. His cheeks burn. Without another word, he drags himself out. 

Nilima inadvertently stares at him. Unlike her many students who study Marx in air-conditioned libraries and carry totes imported from Shakespeare and Company, he wears a backpack, slung in tandem on his back and walks with a limp, his shoes torn at the seams. Most of her students usually give away their wealthy parentage with their often-credulous behaviours as their affections tilted, like a broken pendulum, towards their privilege. 

*

Wednesday, he comes to her cabin exactly at three and finds her doing exactly what she had been doing two days ago. She uses a sharp, red ball point pen and scrawls comments on the margins of these papers, the noise of corrective remarks filling for the silence around her. The boy hesitates, again. 

Nilima tilts her head and starts up. She was not expecting punctuality. She motions him to come inside and offers him a seat, meanwhile taking out his file from a drawer. 

‘Your arguments are good,’ she begins. ‘Valid, even,’ she finishes.

‘Thank you, ma’am.’ 

‘But they are,’ she thinks through the word, ‘radical.’ 

‘Radical?’ 

‘You make claims in your paper as though you would not like to consider any other possibility.’ 

‘But it is true. Personal bias in class is a reality. I mean, you have seen it, haven’t you?’ his voice becomes accusatory. 

‘What do you mean?’ Nilima presses on. 

‘I … I mean, you are … I am sorry.’ 

‘That is a very discreet observation.’

‘Well, there are teachers who do that…’

‘Probability is not conviction,’ Nilima smiles. ‘Alter the conclusion, please. You cannot pass a verdict. No one can. Keep it open to interpretation.’ 

‘Verdict?’ 

‘Declaration.’ 

‘How am I passing a verdict?’ 

‘You are. You are claiming that you have suffered because of this, well, have you? What proof is there?’ 

‘I am not lying. I have suffered because of…’ 

‘Oh, I am sure you have. We all have, at some point.’ 

‘But it is the truth. Every day I come to class, I work hard and then when I do not understand something, I try to ask the professors and they … they look at me and…’

Nilima’s phone vibrates on her desk. ‘One minute,’ Nilima cuts him short and picks up the call. 

‘Yes…. No … I am in a meeting’ she pauses, ‘I said I am in a meeting. No, I remember. I remember. Yes. Your mother said she would come tomorrow. No, not there. Yes…. Tomorrow. I paid the caterers already. We cannot change the menu now,’ she sighs. ‘But….  No. I cannot. Not today,’ she disconnects the call, turning her attention to the boy. ‘Yes, you were saying?’ 

‘They look at me and find reasons to not teach me.’ 

‘Who?’ 

‘Teachers.’ 

‘I see, but you cannot submit it with that conclusion.’ 

The boy appears small, defeated. Nilima almost feels pity for him. 

‘Okay. This is what we will do. We will rewrite the essay in a way that makes it tell your story without making it obvious,’ she offers. 

‘Is that doable?’ His eyes light up. 

‘I suppose so.’ 

The boy smiles. He unzips his backpack and takes out a notebook. 

‘Not today,’ she stops him from reaching for his pen. 

‘Tomorrow. Come at 3 tomorrow,’ she hands him his file. 

Nilima goes home to a salty fiancé who would rather she busied herself with their wedding than attend to the needs of pesky teenagers. He reminds her, crudely, for the seventeenth time that she must meet his mother for lunch the next day. 

‘But the menu is decided.’ 

‘Oh god, Nilee, just do what she says. It is not that hard. We are having a reception afterwards, aren’t we? Let’s just have whatever food they want at the ceremony.’ 

‘Ro, I have already…’ she considers the possibility of another inconclusive argument. ‘Okay. I will see what I can do,’ she ends the conversation. A little later, her mother calls to know when she would pay the mortgage. The term expires in three months and if she does not clear it up by then, they would lose their house. ‘The regularisation will come about in two months, Maa,’ Nilima tries to assuage her mother’s apprehension. Once she becomes a regular faculty, her salary would fetch her a decent loan and she would start earning just as much as her associates who taught at public universities and were protected by the steel hand of the education department. Nilima too could have secured a similar job, but the helmsman of her fate rowed her destiny in murky waters.

For five years, Nilima appeared for several state university interviews. She was exceptional with her demonstrations and augmented her answers with a flair that only accentuated how well she knew her subject. But she had no connections. Her erudition was marred by the interviewers’ lackadaisical attitude who found her wanting – either her research deviated from her discipline, or her papers were not highly indexed and when they could find no fault, she was deemed unfit because of her body language. She understood their excuses, fought against the system but eventually lost. Filing lawsuits against them was a tirade that drained her mentally and financially and because these people had their hands deep inside the pockets of administrators, she withdrew all cases within three months of filing them. That, however, did not quell her spirit of recalcitrance. Today, she surprised even herself. 

The boy who came for help was not wrong. She had suffered the same gridlocks, rebelled against similar institutions. No one can better understand the plight of seeing men in black suits evaluate her education and instate candidates who promised to ‘satisfy their students and superiors,’ a euphemism that translated into mooching them in academic meetings and union screenings. Dejected, she intended to avoid mourning her lost dreams for as long as possible. 

Nilima knows that once she is regularised, her position within the university would solidify like calcified tissue, and increments would kill any desire to ever leave. Autonomous universities were a corporate extension where academic integrity was a by-product, yet she felt tethered under the bludgeoning weight of expenses that never seemed to lessen. There is no way she would favour the student who talked distressingly against authority. She cannot risk losing again. Of that, she is resolute. 

*

The boy comes to her cabin the next day and sees Nilima holding her face in her hands, her eyes closed in contemplation. She opens them to find him already inside the radius of her cabin. She closes the notebook she has been scribbling on, calculating the imminent expenses, and detailing everything the regularisation would entail. She realises that a loan to clear the mortgage would stop her from taking another soon. She would be unable to afford a honeymoon, unless Rohan intervenes and decides to pay, and she cannot change apartments – not for another five years, neither can she start a family immediately. 

‘Okay, let us begin from the beginning,’ she composes herself. One of the basic tenants one agrees without vocalising while joining this profession is to appear unafraid and always ready to help. 

‘Actually,’ the boy replies, a little unsure. 

‘Yes?’ 

‘Was my essay grammatically accurate?’ 

‘Yes, of course’ 

‘Then I don’t think I will alter anything about it.’ 

‘But you agreed yesterday. And if you don’t alter it, you cannot hand it in.’ 

‘I can, there are no rules for that.’ 

‘Well, remove my name from the supervisor’s space.’ 

‘But I cannot send it without a supervisor’s name.’ 

‘I definitely did not supervise that.’ 

‘You did.’ 

‘What?’ Nilima agitates. 

‘You signed the essay.’ 

‘No, I did not,’ she refuses vehemently. 

‘Are you sure? Because I know you did,’ he hands a photocopy of his write-up, the original safe in his bag. 

Nilima frantically flips through the document and finds her signature on the margin of the last page. She does not remember signing it. 

‘You forged my signature?’ she points a finger at him, rising from her seat. 

The boy smirks. Yes, he did, it was easy. 

‘Do you know what this means? You will be suspended,’ she threatens him. 

‘By whom? You or the administration?’ 

‘How dare you smile? Here I was trying to help you and you dare do this?’ She fumes, her body sweltering in the sudden heat of her rage. In the commotion of pointed fingers and her permanent scowl, her dupatta, placed messily over her shoulder, falls off on the desk. Standing across, the boy leans towards her and glares at her chest. He picks up the dupatta and puts it on her shoulder. His hand slides down and finds way to her neckline, brushing her soft skin. Nilima flinches, falling back on her seat. Everything happens very fast, too fast to make sense of the boundary crossed. The boy steps away, gulps down his primordial instinct and picking his file, darts out of the room. 

Time stretches on tearing into Nilima’s reality. She does not move. Her phone, ringing on her desk dies several times before she finally hears its shrill ringtone. With a jolt, she breaks from the stupor, and gropes the ground below her feet, feeling gravity pull her back to earth. The noise frequents, but Nilima feels tethered to her surroundings, as if she is cursed by a spell breaking which would drown her in shame. For the first time since her appointment in the university, she is scared. The ringing stops for a while. When it screams again, she fumbles and picks it up. 

‘Do you know what bloody time it is? Do you know how many times we called you?’ Rohan thunders, throwing a volley of questions at her. 

‘I was … I,’ words refuse to make meaning, the knot in her throat getting tighter with every word she speaks. 

‘This is unbelievable. What do you want to prove, Nilima? Only your job is important?’ 

‘No, Ro, not at all. Please listen to me, something happened.’ 

‘Whatever it is, this is more important. Come out. We are late.’ 

‘Ro, I cannot. Not today. Please reschedule it.’ 

‘What? Why? Is it about that boy you are helping?’ 

‘No, it’s not.’ 

‘Stop your excuses and come out,’ Rohan disconnects the call. 

Nilima goes into the restroom and washes her face with an uneasy urgency, as if by washing away the tactile sensation she would undo the dirt of his act. She hangs her head over the basin and runs the tap, the water streaming down the bridge of her hair. She rubs water on her hands and scrubs them over her chest until the skin hurts, turning red and itchy. When she emerges out to meet Rohan, her voice shakes. 

*

Nilima is surprised when the Internal Complaints Committee calls to discuss her complaint just the day after she had filed the case. Rohan, however, warned her against it. He told her not to sabotage her chance at getting regularised. 

‘Dr Nilima Saikia, I believe you are well aware of the charges…’ the director of the committee begins.

‘Yes, sir, I am’ Nilima interrupts. 

‘…that have been levied against you?’ he finishes, raising an eyebrow. 

‘Against?’ Nilima twitches. 

‘Yes, you are accused of misusing your power.’ 

‘Misuse? Me?’ she cannot process the grievance. 

‘That is what the petitioner says,’ the director shows her the file containing the complaint letter written in bold, black ink about how she fails students who do not meet her personally. The filer’s name is struck off for privacy. 

‘This is ridiculous, sir. I have never done so,’ she roars. 

‘Well, actually, Nilima, we did some research and found that maximum number of students fail your papers. Why is that so?’ 

‘Because they write rubbish.’ 

‘Even the scholarship students?’ 

‘I do not know who is what. My job is to teach and evaluate. If students do not take studies seriously, is it my fault?’ 

‘No, definitely not. But if indeed your papers are difficult, why don’t you take remedial classes?’ 

‘I do. I mean, I did.’ 

‘You leave the campus before five.’ 

‘They do not show up. I waited for them every evening for three months after the semester commenced. Only recently...’ 

‘Dr Saikia, you do realise the precedent you are setting, don’t you?’

‘Sir, I have been busy with my wedding preparations for the past two months,’ once she claims it, Nilima realises what is at stake. Her life, clamorous as it already is, might come apart in that very moment, all because of the piercing testament. 

‘Two months? How could you think that you can leave before time for two months straight?’ 

‘Sir, I never miss any class. I tell them, repeatedly, if ever they have doubts, they can ask. I have never misused my power, in fact, I have tried all in my capacity to execute it well. If students fail, that is because they do not study nor desire to.’ 

‘An ‘F’ in a paper can terminate the grant scholarship students get; do you know that? Others can pay for backlogs but they cannot. If we do not have scholarship students complete their graduation, we will be answerable to the government. Look at this complainant’s scorecard. They have score exceedingly well in all other subjects except yours. You have given them an ‘F’ for two consecutive semesters.’ 

Nilima looks at the tally of grades and notices the roll number. Her fury, latent for so long morphs into an inferno. 

‘Him? He filed a complaint against me?’ 

‘That is not your concern...’ 

‘Of course it is. He is not the victim here, Sir.’ 

The director scoffs. 

‘Why are you laughing? He forged my signature on an essay when I refused to sign it, and he … he groped me….’ 

‘Come on Nilima. Stop lying.’ 

‘He came into my cabin.’ 

‘You are not supposed to allow any student in your cabin.’ 

‘Yes, I know. I thought he needed help with…’ 

‘No, that is no excuse. We have classrooms.’ 

‘I was in a hurry and…’

‘Dr Saikia, you are one of our best teachers. You know that. In fact, you are the youngest who was considered for regularisation. But I am afraid we must cut back on that,’ the president speaks for the first time. 

‘Please, Sir, don’t. I need the increment. My house will go away. My wedding-’ 

‘We are sorry,’ he stops her from speaking any further. 

‘For now, we are only cancelling your regularisation, if students keep failing your papers, we will have to terminate your contract,’ the director passes on the final decision. 

Nilima has wrongly assessed that the potency of her association with her students belonged to her. Instead, she had been a conquerable pawn despite the privilege of her position. As she walks out of the office, the clamour in the hall melts in her ears, blocking all sounds behind the cacophony of her thoughts. She sees the boy standing on the other end of the open yard. He passes her a victorious smile and disappears in the corridor behind the field. Nilima finds herself striding towards the same corridor. She enters each classroom on either side without permission and scans through the students. She finds him in the fifth room, sitting on the first bench. Without a moment’s reluctance, she goes up to the boy and slaps him across his face. Students gasp, but their uproar seem less jarring. He has, after all, destroyed everything that took her years to build. 

‘How dare you?’ she challenges through clenched teeth. The boy stands up, unnerved. 

‘Dr Saikia, you just can’t…’ the teacher in the room protests in vain. 

‘Mr Sahai, please. I must talk with this student alone,’ she demands with such ferocity that he asks the other students to leave and walks out himself. The students do not leave the corridor. They glue themselves to the wall outside, their ears cocked towards the dramatic encounter. Nilima proceeds to shut the door but hesitates. She keeps it open. 

‘Explain everything,’ she crosses her arms. 

‘You deserved it,’ the boy shrugs. 

‘Why?’ 

‘Because of you, I lost my scholarship,’ it is his turn to be angry. 

‘Really? You do not study, fail an exam and when your scholarship is revoked, blame me?’ 

‘I don’t understand what you teach.’

‘Then why do you not just ask me?’ 

‘Ask you? You do not even take the remedial classes.’ 

‘That is not true. I do, it’s just…’ 

‘Just? Is it not your job to teach? Do you know how hard I worked for that scholarship? How am I going to pay for the backlogs? Will you pay for me? No, right? You will not!’ The boy unleashes all his fury. ‘If you were not so caught up in your own little world, you would have seen me.’

Nilima uncrosses her arms. 

‘So, I made sure,’ he slows down, ‘I made sure neither of us got what we wanted. If I had to lose my scholarship, you should also suffer and realise what financial crisis is.’ 

‘This was revenge, then?’ Nilima asks, unfazed. 

‘You earned it. How is it that you get to fail me, mock me simply because I lack expertise in the one thing you ace at? How is this fair?’ his words sound other worldly, as the rot of disdain spreads through him and the stink of crisis floats out in all directions. 

‘You touched me,’ Nilima bangs on the desk, aloud. 

The boy fidgets but smirks. ‘Yes, so? What will you do? Nobody likes you here. Did they even consider your plea?’ he taunts her. 

‘You bastard,’ she grabs him by his collar. 

The boy does not fight back. The smirk on his lips turns into a grin. The proximity threatens her and she jumps back, pushing him away. 

The president of the Internal Complaints Committee hurries into the room. ‘Dr Saikia, you cannot talk privately with your victim. It is against the rules,’ he explains, worried. 

‘Victim? Him?’ Nilima breaks into a hysterical laugh.

***

Shortlisted for the inaugural (2024) Bangalore Writers Workshop R K Anand Prize
Jury: Indira Chandrasekhar, Jahnavi Barua, Saikat Majumdar
Conducted with Bangalore Writers Workshop, Atta Gallatta Bookshop and Out of Print Magazine