Out of Print-CLF Stories 2015: Parminder Singh

Regurgitation

Parminder Singh

He called me by the name I had loathed ever since I was a kindergarten student.

I did not know its meaning then, but I could make out that I was being looked down upon when I heard this word thrown at me for the first time by a sneering group of senior boys in the school bus.

And how vividly I recall that day from my early adolescent years when I encountered it during an inter-school cricket match! I was humiliated with the word when the captain of my team was run out due to my mistake and we lost the match. I rushed home and cried silently after locking myself inside the washroom. My mother made umpteen futile attempts to know why I cried that afternoon. That was the last time I cried though. I used to play really well but I discontinued playing the sport after that.

The number of instances when someone mocked me by calling me that name surged over time. Believe me, it affected my blood the way quinine affects the blood cells to kill malaria parasites. I actually began to imagine mosquitoes dying after pulling a meal from my blood vessels.

And, how can you overlook the muscles that I wear today? It’s not that I have been a gym enthusiast from the beginning. It’s only when a couple of bullies tested their muscles while I tried to show some resistance that I felt a need to respond. Everyone at the gym envied my weight lifting capabilities. They could only dream of carrying the weight I lifted in each set.

I experienced that one’s fear amongst others is proportional to the power one possesses. Nobody dared taking that name in front of me. I overheard it at my back sometimes but always tried not to look back and let go. Whenever the fury began rising up from the bottom of my heart, I would to hit the gym or pedal kilometres on a deserted road.

I had nevertheless become afraid of the rage sulking inside me more than anything else. I made a promise to myself that I would let the word strengthen me, make me more patient and resistant to the hardships that life has in store.

But today, when this man called me by the same name in front of my child … the suppressed bitter froth of anger and humiliation resurfaced. This was unlike anything I had experienced before. I could never feel that these people I come across everyday are my compatriots, and I did not want my child to begin thinking the way I have been made to.

I have never said anything wrong to anyone throughout my life. They have been doing it, persistently. And today, I want to know what gives them the right to behave as if they are the landlords of the nation, and I, some loathsome vermin.

Yes, I hit that man. But it was just a blow. I did not know it would be fatal. I could sense drops of my bitter blood coming together in the veins crisscrossing my biceps and flowing down to the fist where the lava of my rage had accumulated. This all erupted together in that single blow.

But judge sahib! If circumcision is a part of my faith, why should one have a right to call me a katua?

Parminder Singh is a Research Scholar at the Department of English & Cultural Studies, Panjab University, Chandigarh. He was an IT Professional for over a decade. He the IT section of Panjab Digital Library since 2008 and has been instrumental in setting up this major resource on the preservation of the heritage of Panjab. He made a career-shift from the IT industry to teaching and also teaches English at DAV College, Chandigarh.

Parminder has presented papers at international and national conferences and seminars and his research papers have been published in peer-reviewed and refereed journals such as New Academia, Galaxy and Langlit and in conference proceedings. He has recently published a book Sikh Dharma, a Punjabi translation of Appreciating Sikhism. He has also been part of three anthologies of poetry in Punjabi, Kosse Chaanan (Lukewarm Lamps) and Kosse Chaanan II and Ghazal Udas Hai. His poetry has featured in the refereed journals such as South Asian Ensemble and The Criterion, and on websites such as Preetlarhi, ApnaOrg, Punjabizm, HaikuPunjabi, UNP, Seerat and Sanjhi Kalam.

  

The Out of Print Workshop at the Chandigarh Literature Festival 2015

Out of Print-CLF Stories 2015: Jonaki Ray

Kaleidoscope

Jonaki Ray

The Neighbour

I always knew that their marriage was too good to be true. A love marriage. Bakwas! There was something very fake about her. While everyone else in the colony was ga-ga over her ‘vivacious nature, her dynamism’, I could sense that it was all an act.

I mean, look at poor Teju. He got married in September, and by October, she was off, ‘touring’. Who does that? The poor guy had to take care of the house, do the groceries, manage the maids, look after his father, and run the family business. And what was madam doing, that is what I would like to know.

I wish Mrs Gupta had taken my doubts seriously when she first told me about Teju and Shefali’s engagement. I had murmured right then, ‘Don’t you think your nephew could do better?’ He is a tall, strapping, good-looking guy. He comes from a good family. So, why should it be such a big deal if Shefali is bright and a working girl? She isn’t much to look at – skinny and dark. And if her nature had been sweet, say, like Mrs Saran, who gets along with everyone, it would have still been all right. But the way she is, hoity-toity, flying in and out for her tours, getting dropped off at odd hours by her colleagues in their expensive cars, I tell you, I knew their marriage was a sham.

If you ask me, though, Teju was better off when he was a bachelor. He came and went as he pleased, dropped by for snacks and tea, and seemed like such a happy guy.

I knew that sooner and later some big trouble would come to them, and I was right, like always, ha! I mean, if a man is left alone and it is obvious that his wife doesn’t care for him, he will start looking elsewhere, won’t he? I tell you even my husband … but anyway, I digress. When that young chokri, Rinki, started hanging around their house, I knew it would spell problems. She is young and pretty, and we all know that these women from the jhopad-pattis are ready to do anything with anyone. I don’t blame Teju at all. Don’t use that ugly word, rape, please! We are decent people here in this colony, and no one does such things. What happened is that girl enticed Teju, and now they are trying to make some money. Bruises, you say? Bah, everyone gets a few bruises once in a while. I could show you mine, and all I had done was chat with my sister on the phone for too long and got a little late preparing the lunch dabba for Mr Patel. But, do I complain? Never. A good woman knows how to keep her husband straight, I tell you.

The Wife

I just know that Mrs Patel thinks I am to blame. I can see her glaring at me every time I walk past her flat. For what, though? I have worked hard all my life and I worked hard in my marriage as well.

When I got through IIT, I was ready to forget that cramped one-bedroom government quarter of my parents. I took every internship that was offered, enrolled in English classes, wore the right clothes ... and I have to say, it paid off.

When I met Tej, I thought he was like the Mills & Boon hero my cousins drooled over. I ignored him at the party where we met, didn’t give him my number, and refused to talk to him. It was only a few weeks later, when I was trying to repair my scooter, and his BMW slid by, that I took his help. I met him for coffee a few times after that, but made sure to keep a distance. But, the first time I saw his house – spacious, airy, decorated with antiques – I realised this is what I needed to have in my life. I let Tej kiss me for the first time that day. I could see it all, Mrs Shefali Shah, clad in chiffon and pearls, running my own business, living in this beautiful house.

I guess you could say I played the game well. I let him touch and kiss me, but no sex. And yet, I made it clear that I was interested. Men are actually quite stupid, you know! I kept him in a state of perpetual neediness, sometimes being nice, and sometimes just cutting off all communication. It worked! He proposed to me a month after that day at his house.

Tej wanted me to give up my job after our wedding. But that was the one thing for which I played no games. I straight up refused. I work a million hours, but all of it adds up to experience, and it will help me set up my own business. And now that their business, or rather his father’s business, isn’t doing well, my salary helps run the house. And I make it clear that makes me the boss in this house and family.

And what if we hardly meet or spend time? Why does he moan about intimacy? He should understand that money is what makes the world run; he is a businessman after all. The few times we have sex, it is horrible. But, that’s part of the effort I have made in this marriage. Let him have his few moments of ‘excitement’ from that, I don’t care. I take care of the house, the business, the money, and now, our image.

I really don’t want to find out if he did assault this woman or not. Oh, you think I am in denial, and should admit that he raped her? What nonsense! Why should I ruin all the work that I have put into this marriage? I will of course, stand by him. Even if he did do something with this Rinki-Tinki, whatever her name is, what does it matter? He is my husband, and one day, we will have a bigger house, perhaps at Nariman Point. Anything is possible.

The Husband

I can’t believe they are accusing me, Tejasvi Shah, of rape. I mean just because there are men who are animals, who beat and bite women, force them like beasts, doesn’t make every man one.

Yes, of course, I watch porn and get excited. And yes, I do visit women once in a while. I mean, who doesn’t? My father did. So did my uncle. Most of my friends do.

When I met Shefali for the first time, I was entranced. She was not pretty or rich. But, man, what attitude! She acted as if she owned the world. And that day, when she was kneeling by her scooty, she looked so grateful and vulnerable. I felt ten feet tall. It was this strange mix of arrogance and helplessness that had me hooked. I know I could have done better. But, I felt that with her, I had found someone who was a challenge. She was different from the other women who fell for me. I don’t want to boast, but there were two girls in college who had sex with me on the first date. I mean women would do anything to patao me.

And now that she is my wife, the times we have sex, I am on top, grinding into her, and she strains away, face all screwed up. I get so excited. But, I am not a bad guy, you understand. I didn’t force her. And I let her work even after marriage. Doesn’t that show that I am a good guy?

I know that the old biddies in the colony feel sorry for me, they murmur that Shefali runs the house. I just learnt to ignore them all. I mean, is it my fault that the diamond-polishing business is going through a slump? Or that the shares I invested in to make up for my losses, also tanked? What is a man to do when circumstances are such?

Shefali was away and I was bored. And I wandered into our kitchen and saw Rinki, our driver’s daughter, lounging by the door. She often came and waited for her father. I had seen her as a scrappy kid, and now she was about to start college. We chatted for a few minutes, and then I kissed her. She tried to move away, and yes, I got a bit excited. I pushed her against the wall, and had her. She said No a couple of times, but then was quiet. So, how can it be rape? In fact, if you ask me, she must have enjoyed it. She would have struggled otherwise, no?

At the most, I would admit that I took her by surprise, but it was definitely consensual. And how dare, Chotte Lal, her father, press charges? He has survived all these years thanks to the salary we gave him, and now, all of a sudden, he is talking about izzat, and how his daughter is going through trauma.

I am telling you it was not rape. I don’t need to rape women. Why are you looking at me with that expression?

Jonaki Ray studied Chemistry and Computer Science, and then returned to her first love, writing. Her work has been published in Silver Birch Press, The Times of India, Telegraph India, Down to Earth, Pyrta Journal, The Four Quarters Magazine, and Kitaab, among others. 

The Out of Print Workshop at the Chandigarh Literature Festival 2015

Out of Print-CLF Stories: Sunaina Jain

A Faceless Voice

Sunaina Jain

I have lost all sense of time and space. The particular has become the universal. I am a faceless voice now as I feel myself evaporate into thin air. The bamboo wood pyre is still smouldering, the thick fumes of smoke are blackening the blue sky. My soul is in trauma, seeing the mutilated physical remains of my body.

My only daughter, Kadambri has come all the way from Bengaluru to Pune to attend my funeral. Earlier, she was arguing with some people who are in charge of the crematorium. My family and relatives were waiting for our space to get free. Don’t you know? We have been pushed to one of the corners specially Reserved for us Dalits. And today, our place was occupied because of another death in our community. Finally, my family members were relieved of their responsibility and bade me adieu. Tomorrow, my cold ashes will be consecrated to a nearby river. A neat, holy end to a life! Is it all?

‘Kill the bloody bastard! This son of a bitch dares to resort to profanity!’ They used curse words and started punching and whacking me with their closed fists, and hitting me with iron rods. I felt a hard blow on the forehead and lay writhing in pain on the verandah of my house. I could feel the hot blood coursing through my hair to the floor. The next thing I remember is a white flame emanating from my body and reaching up the skies. I am free now, I have no threats, no earthly hierarchies, nothing to fear, nothing to hold on to.

All my life, I had vowed to and worked towards maintaining the sanctity of my own beliefs. As a child, even as I felt humiliated when they called me ‘cuntfaced’, ‘son of a whore’, ‘shameless pig’ and … the list went on, I was a precocious learner. My teacher couldn’t accept how a Dalit could read and write flawlessly. Probably, that was one of my first violations of norms. ‘Ay! You pariah! How dare you sit on the first bench? You stink! The bench has been polluted with your touch. You and your posterity have been condemned to live as outcastes. You have to pay for the sins of your previous birth. Dare not forget that!!!’ my outraged teacher screamed at me.

‘Sir, I take a bath daily. How can I stink?’ My counter-question had resulted in a merciless thrashing at the knuckles of my fingers and flogging on my bony back. But this did not suppress me. I challenged my teacher’s authority by taking the beating in my stride. I became a disciple of Goddess Saraswati, though not so favoured a one. I stealthily caught hold of ancient Hindu scriptures trying to get at the roots of the earned censure of our community. This was my (in)formal initiation into the world of books. As I grew older, my fascination for books eventually turned me into a teacher cum writer. Some called me a Dalit activist.

Bina Phule, whom I married, had done her Masters in Political Science, no mean feat for a Dalit woman. She is a God-fearing woman who unlike me has faith in religious rituals. However, had she been actually God-fearing, she would not have entered the temple we had been debarred entry from since decades. I think she is God-loving….

‘You polluted caste, you have defiled our God. Now when we have caught you, you have your eyes downcast. Why don’t you get buried under the ground? We shall have to undertake the cleansing rituals in the entire temple premises,’ shouted the upper-caste Hindu.

‘Sahib, God does not make distinctions between upper-castes and lower-castes. We are all children of God. People like you are a blot in the name of humanity,’ my wife said defiantly. The man struck a harsh blow on her right cheek. The incident left her shattered but in a way, more assertive. Since then, she supported me in every possible manner, supplementing my writings with her own input and ideas.

My latest book ‘The Naked Indian’ did not strike a chord with many respectable torchbearers of religion and heritage. They purported the words of the scriptures, but only during the day. I would not delve into their activities at night!

Even after my physical existence ceases to exist, I cannot resist the temptation of transcending barriers … this time a crossover to the other world, free from temporal precincts. There is no ground beneath me and my soul seems lighter, floating freely over the silver cotton clouds. I am a little tired after a steep ascent. I want to sit back, relax and rest. During my life on earth, I did not physically hurt anyone nor did I play with anyone’s emotions. Rightfully, I should be destined for heaven. Now, after a sprawling void, I can see a wooden gate with floral and animal engravings on it. I had seen such magnificence only in tv period dramas before.

Tap! Tap! Tap! I knock mildly at the gate, I have mellowed after death. My anger and frustration have finally subsided as I anticipate a welcome entry into the starry tents. A robust guard with thick-black moustaches and shining brass armour, opens the splendid gate.

‘Who are you?’ he asks in a deep, husky voice.

‘Arjun, Sir. I am a writer.. I have been a fair and honest person in my life. But I have been a victim of senseless violence. I want peace now. Kindly grant me entry.’

‘Which gotra?’ the guard asks me plainly.

‘Isn’t this Heaven? I am a Dalit. Thankfully, I have left behind my baggage of unfulfilled hopes. May I not go in now?’

‘No, No. Wait. You are right, you are in Heaven. But you know, here entry is not on a first come first serve basis but on the basis of previous karma.  Since you are a Dalit, you might have committed more sins. Don’t worry. We are not judgmental. But rules are rules. There are a few Brahmins already waiting. Could you stand aside and let them come in first?’

Sunaina Jain has recently completed her PhD in English from Panjab University, Chandigarh. She is working as an Asst Professor in English at MCM DAV College, Chandigarh. She has presented papers at national and international seminars. She has published many research papers in refereed national and international journals. Her poems have featured in the journals, The Criterion, Galaxy, Langlit, Dialog and South Asian Ensemble. 

The Out of Print Workshop at the Chandigarh Literature Festival 2015 

Out of Print-CLF 2015 Stories: Rakshita Gupta

Born Good

Rakshita Gupta

‘Didi, I am not well ... call asap,’ texted Gaurav with a crying emoji. It was his usual message, his usual trick to trap Sania into his emotional crises. He knew how to use social media more than most time-eaters. As usual, the trick worked. Sania was on leave today; she needed the one-day break. Partly because of her hectic job schedule, but mostly because of the torture her younger brother, Gaurav subjected her to. She switched on her phone in the evening just to see it hang because of the many messages she had received, including Gaurav’s.

‘Eh! Now you want to destroy my meditating self! You better not’, said she to her phone. To her luck, the phone started working and she managed to read Gaurav’s message.

She immediately dialed his number. It rang once. Twice ... thrice…. For how long could she remain patient? She had been patient defending Gaurav all his life. She had pampered him. She was so possessive of him that she would sometimes forget that her parents were there too.

Finally, before she was completely stressed, he took her call.

‘Hello Gur, What happened? I just saw your message.’

‘Didi, I am sorry. I did not pass, I got detained, again! I do not know how. Please do not tell Papa, he will kill me. Didi, are you listening … Didi, please, I said I am sorry. Hello ... Hello Didi…’

The call was dropped. She did not cry. She had been dreaming of a bright future for him. Now he had appeared for his 6^th semester exams twice. She had thought she would be able to tell her parents and the entire world that her hopeless brother had passed. She was searching for colleges for his Masters degree ... Masters in Biochemistry ... and then a scientist ... and ... and … leave it! Her hopes for him shrank into a tiny particle of dust.

‘Oh Gur, what have you done!’ she cried but there was no one to hear. She gathered courage to call him again. This time he picked up her call at once. ‘Sorry Didi,’ he said, breaking the silence. ‘I’ll die if you will not talk to me. I swear I will!’

‘Dying would not make the difference, the difference which I want you to make from being a liar, thief, drunkard and a scoundrel, Gur, to a changed being.’

‘Please don’t worry, Didi, please. I will try to fill the retest form and reevaluation form. I will do every possible thing to pass this time. Some hard cash would do it, you know I have made contacts.’

‘What!’ shouted Sania.

Whom are you talking to? Have you again started taking drugs?’

‘No Didi, don’t get me wrong.’ But before he could continue she started off with her usual cribbing, scratching each wound till it bled.

She said, ‘Gur, you are a severe pain in my life, a brain hemorrhage that bursts my brain.’ She went on and on and on, evoking the time he stole the diamond ring from tayiji’s closet, when they caught him smoking as a child … till she seemed to be living those bitter memories again and dragging him back to the abyss of his past life.

Has the mind ever been in anyone’s control in anger and anxiety. They say ‘to speak less and thoughtfully when you are angry.’ She did completely opposite and continued, ‘And your infinite lies, my God! It was all my fault, all mine, I repent now. I should have never let you hold my fingers when you were born. I kept on defending your every mistake, but I should have known you would stab me. Why do you have to be such a failure, oh God! I am done with you. You are a scoundrel, a drug addict and whatever else everyone in the family has been calling you. And you can never change. How I wish you were never born!’

Something changed and both felt it.

She could not do anything about it. Words once spoken, could not be taken back. She tried to compose herself and went to do her household chores. She was unsure of what to say to her father about Gaurav’s result. And she did not have any idea what Gaurav was doing.

Not unexpectedly, she was not able to sleep. After twisting and turning for about an hour in bed, she got up and checked her Whatsapp. There was no message from Gaurav. But she had hectic days ahead because a fieldwork project had come up.

She dropped Gaurav a message saying, ‘You better handle this yourself this time!’

After three days it was time to face her parents. But before talking to them, she had to talk to Gaurav. Tangled in the mixed feelings of anger and love she did not know if she should talk to him in a tender voice or in a hard tone. She did not even know if she should talk to him or not.

Gaurav had not replied yet. In her anxiety she kept checking her phone. It had been about three days now. She hated that she was checking on him the way she never had done before. Yet she couldn't stop herself; no communication from him was becoming unbearable, almost tortuous. And then, just as she breathed heavily trying to compose herself, her phone vibrated. But when she opened it and read it, she nearly stopped breathing.

‘I am sorry Didi, I will never be a hemorrhage in your brain again. I will tell God you were never at fault to spoil me. I wish I had born Good so that you never had to say that…’

‘No!’, she screamed in panic and called him. Someone else answered.

He had overdosed. After staying clean for one year. He had overdosed

‘Sania you killed him. You killed your own brother.’

Rakshita Gupta is an inquisitive person who resides in the utopia of literature. Nevertheless she nourishes her soul with all forms of art and aesthetics. The 20 year old is a native of Jammu, J&K currently living in Chandigarh. She is a budding writer and a poet pursuing masters in English. She is a theatre artist by choice and a poet by passion but enjoys dipping her pen into the ink of fiction writing as well.

The Out of Print Workshop at the Chandigarh Literature Festival 2015

The Out of Print Short Fiction Workshop at The Chandigarh Literature Festival: The Stories

The focus of the Out of Print short fiction workshop at the Chandigarh Literature Festival was lynching and mob violence. Sadly, there is no need to elaborate on the reasons for the choice so soon after Dadri. The presence of Nayantara Sahgal as one of the key speakers and attendees at the festival, made this theme only more relevant.

This was a generous workshop, among other things, in terms of the time allotted, and I think all the participants were grateful for the time to write, and the time to critique, as a group, each other’s works.

Three readings were suggested to the participants in advance, two that have appeared in Out of Print, Mischief in Netanagar by Altaf Tyrewala and Bed Bug by Vasudhendra – which meant that they were easily accessible. The other, A Day in 1919  by Sadat Husain Manto was from the translation by Rakshanda Jalil in Naked Voices: Stories and Sketches, Roli Books, 2008.

The intention of the readings was to examine ways in which the issue of violence, mass violence can be dealt with in short fiction. In Altaf Tyrewala’s story, a mob riot is potentially triggered following Pakistan’s win in a cricket match. The protagonist is driven by a profound sense of powerlessness, a feeling of having no control over any part of his life, and is driven to mischief, with very wide-reaching implications. In Vasudhendra’s Bed Bug a young man is put to death for being blatantly and boldly homosexual. The actual killing is carried out by the father and brothers of the young man, but the multi-layered aspect of the violence may be seen as perpetrated on him by almost the entire the village. Manto’s brilliant A Day in 1919 has been beautifully and expertly analysed by many a scholar. Suffice it to say that the story creates many layers of distance in dealing with the violence of Jalianwala Bagh massacre, but in the end, its power lies in the sharp focus of the personal response.

That personal viewpoint, that ability to focus mass injustice, large-scale violence to a single, if multi-faceted story is one of the powers of short fiction. Which, of course, aligns with an instinctive human response to scales that seem beyond comprehension. Each of the four stories that were sent in by the participants deals with a larger injustice in a deeply personal way.

Parminder Singh’s Regurgitation places the story in the context of deep-seated prejudice and the cruelty it engenders. A Faceless Voice by Sunaina Jain views caste injustice from the very high seat of death itself. Jonaki Ray tells the story of rape, and the societal fabric that breeds impunity, from multiple viewpoints in Kaleidoscope. Born Good examines the pressure that a loving and indulgent sister faces when drugs and failure afflict a sibling.

I post this after attending the brilliant keynote address by Shashi Deshpande at the opening session of the Bangalore Literature Festival. Among many other critical points she made, she questioned if writers can bring about change. If one can summarise and paraphrase her, writers can’t change anything, but they can open the floor to discussion. All of the four stories from the Out of Print short fiction workshop at the Chandigarh Literature Festival can certainly do so.

The stories:
Parminder Singh, Regurgitation 
Sunaina Jain A Faceless Voice 
Jonaki Ray Kaleidoscope
Rakshita Gupta Born Good