Out of Print Workshop at Infinite Souls Farm: FEEDBACK

What the Participants felt after the workshop

Bharath

Had a wonderful time at the Out of Print Magazine writer's workshop at Infinite Souls Farm. Between the beautiful view of Savandurga ... delicious home-cooked food, the birds..., we read amazing stories and saw them come to life in other people's words. Thank you Indira Chandrasekhar for making this possible and being there and encouraging us. Thank you Zui for providing extensive feedback, for being as equally invested in our stories as we are.

Anusha M

The Out of Print short story workshop was an immersive and indelible experience. I went in like a sponge and absorbed every single word, debating the motivation while learning to observe my stories from different viewpoints. The nuanced structure of the workshops is a great platform to examine your perspective as a storyteller, and one would benefit immensely from workshopping your stories with other writers.

Bodhi Ray

I’d attended writing classes before but Zui’s class at Infinity farms was something very special. Set amidst rolling green woods, the farm animals, the deep discussions and feedback and the various perspectives from which to look at our stories opened up the rusty hinges to creativity. I was amazed how deeply Zui critiqued my writing. I connected with the pre-reading materials which were carefully curated and gave me the much needed sense of why I write and to see the shimmers. Strongly recommend this workshop to serious writers.

Anushka Chatterjee

Having attended OofP's residential workshop, my mind is brimming with feedback, afterthoughts, and most importantly, boundless love and warmth. I'll forever be grateful to OofP for the much-needed surgery done to my fiction, and for the community we've built thereafter. Of course, one can't not mention the gorgeous backdrop of Savandurga, and farm-fresh food to top off the entire experience.

Amritha M Berger

The Out of Print Workshop on the Infinite Soul's farm and retreat was a truly magical experience. Being surrounded by nature and getting to immerse myself in sharing and critiquing work for an uninterrupted period of time in that beautiful and serene space was a unique and rare gift. 

Indira and Zui were the kindest and most welcoming, as were her family, who treated everyone like family, and treated us to the most delicious, homemade food. By the end of it, even though it was only a couple of days, strong bonds had been formed and friendships made.  

After the workshop was over, I was able to get the ongoing support of Zui in the editing process of my submitted piece, which helped my writing so much and brought me closer to crystalising the vision I had for the piece.

Out of Print Workshop at Infinite Souls Farm: THE STORIES

On the 19th of August, five wonderful writer’s arrived at Infinite Souls Farm and Artist’s Retreat for an Out of Print Writer’s Workshop where they would be workshopping each other’s short fiction. They spent a day and a half delving into aspects of character, voice, structure, motive and above all that, pin pointing the ‘shimmer around the edges’ – as Joan Didion puts it in her essay ‘Why I Write’ – in one’s own writing. The writers were incredibly sincere in their giving of feedback and receptive in their accepting of it and we are so pleased to share with you the final results here on the Out of Print blog, so in no particular order, here are the stories from the first Out of Print Writer’s Workshop at Infinite Souls Farm.

Stuck In a Loop  by Bharath Kumar

Outhouse  by Anusha M  

Not a Love Story by Bodhi Ray

I Can’t Complain Jaan by Anushka Chatterjee

On the Yard by Amritha M Berger

Writers' Feedback:

The writers were kind enough to send their response to the workshop and what they got out of being part of a community that supports their writing.

Read their responses here.

Out of Print workshop at Infinite Souls Farm: BHARATH KUMAR

Stuck in a Loop

Bharath Kumar

My wife sits on the edge of the bed facing me but looking past me in the direction of the window. The marigolds are in full bloom outside. She has her phone in her hand but hasn’t looked at it in a while. I'm sitting on my chair in front of my laptop. I am bored, almost at the end of a YouTube rabbit hole. I am ready to give up but not sure what else to do.

‘Edi,’ I say. ‘Are you, okay?’

She catches my eye and then looks at her phone. 

‘Ya, da. All okay,’ she says without missing a beat.

Our separate worlds were squeezed into this small apartment when we decided to move in last week. Is she ready for this? Is she frightened of what she will discover? 

‘Are you sure?’ I ask again.

‘Ya,’ She says with knitted eyebrows, slightly assertively, ‘I am okay.’

‘I was just asking,’ I say, ‘You let me know if something is wrong.’

‘What could be wrong, da? I am just chatting with my reading group friends,’ she says. to mean that it is none of my business. 

‘I only asked because you seemed upset.’ 

‘Upset?’ She raises her voice, ‘This is my thinking face, da.’ 

I feel like a child when she raises her voice. ‘You sure, di?’ I ask, just to make sure I haven’t done anything wrong, but she does not give me what I want. What I am truly looking for is not a blanket ‘I am fine’ but an assurance of ‘you haven’t done anything wrong’.

‘Eda, what is happening?’ She doesn’t seem very upset or angry anymore, her eyebrows are relaxed, and her shoulders are rolled forward. Is it disappointment?

‘I am sorry, di. Have I done something wrong?’ I stammer and she looks at me incredulously.

My phone rings. It is Appa.  

‘Appa is not doing well,’ cries Amma. ‘He couldn’t get out of bed this morning and is refusing to go to the doctor.’ I don’t want to ask her if he is still breathing. ‘Is he talking?’ 

‘No. He is mumbling something. Will you ask him to get up and have this coffee I made?’ She gives the phone to him. He refuses it but I can hear him scold her. My heart rate eases up.

‘Amma!’ I scream. She takes back the phone. ‘Let him be.’ I can hear Amma’s breathing as she moves away and cuts the call.

‘What happened, da?’ All okay?’ My wife looks at me. I turn away. 

 ‘Yeah, false alarm, di.’ 

She shares a smile and returns to her phone. 

‘I am sorry.’

‘Pssst! What are you apologising for?’ she says. I can’t tell if she is still disappointed.

*

It has just rained. It is dark and everything moves slowly, trammelled by the wetness. 

Appa is supposed to pick me up. I get off the bus, tiptoe around the potholes and take refuge in a tea shop. The tea shop where Appa usually smokes. 

I am twelve. I’ve just finished school in the city. I call Appa using the yellow coin-box pay phone tied to the electric pole outside the shop. He doesn’t pick up. I call the landline at home. No one picks up. I am tired and hungry. The tea shop Anna offers me two very oily banana bhajis and I devour them. 

Appa comes half an hour later and slips and almost falls when his Bullet comes to a halt. I inspect him carefully for signs of drunkenness. He walks into the shop, without saying a word to me, and pulls out a cigarette. Gold Flake Kings, his usual. I am too afraid to ask him if we can leave.

He tosses away his cigarette and kickstarts the Bullet. When I sit behind him, the stench of alcohol hits me like a brick. The bike jerks forward and backwards for a while. I hold onto the back handle with everything I have and as far away from him as possible, I bend like a gymnast. I am relieved, at least, that he isn’t going as fast as he usually does. 

A young man in a veshti and chequered cotton shirt is on his Splendor. He accidentally cuts us off. Appa throttles behind and catches him. He parks his Bullet in front of the young man, shoos me away from the bike, gets down and slaps him. When the young man tries to get up, Appa is all over him, swinging like a desperate boxer. The young man falls off the bike, then gets back up, and pushes Appa toward me. Appa slips and falls, and I catch him. The young man dials a number and asks his friends to come beat up a drunk bastard.

I pull Appa up and hold his face in my palms.

‘Poyidalam, pa!’ I want us both to leave but he doesn’t listen to me. The young man catches hold of Appa’s shirt collar. Appa tries to evade, unsuccessfully. I run to the nearby fertilizer shop where Periappa works. Periappa brings a few others and they beat up the young man. After a decent thrashing, the young man flees on his bike. Appa shouts at the people who are holding him up and asks everyone to leave. They do so without protest. Appa picks up his Bullet and tries to start it. It doesn’t. It takes a few more kicks. I am standing close to the Bullet not sure what to do. He asks me to get on the bike. I do. We go home as the bike jerks forward and backwards.

Before I sleep, I imagine many scenarios where I save Appa. I imagine using the jump kicks and butterfly kicks I learnt from Hollywood movies to fight the drunkards and criminals who fight him. I cry silently.

*

My wife doesn’t like the fact that I spend many hours on the internet, chasing rabbits. I like it because I like learning. I’m addicted to the hit I get at the end of a four-hour journey when things become clearer, patterns emerge, and the mind wanders to places it never knew about. And it doesn’t have to go to places close to my life or anything practical. It can wonder about rockets or the latrines in the Roman Empire or an almost extinct language. It yearns for the moment when the veil is lifted and, with a blink of an eye, I see a new dimension. 

I don’t know how I ended up here. I try to imagine the face behind the green apple in ‘The Son of the Man’ but that leads nowhere. I read all about it and accept that that’s kind of the point. But I do learn a new word in the process: hyperempaths. 

‘Edi, I think I am a hyperempath’

‘Hmmm?’ she asks, looking up from her phone in the middle of a smile.

‘Hyperempaths. It's a thing.’ I regret bringing that up. I know what her response is going to be – hypochondriac; obsessed; paranoid.

But she doesn’t say a thing and gets distracted by a text. She smiles again. I look at the time and realise that I am late. I fetch my backpack.

‘Okay, I am going out.’ 

‘Where, da?’ Her focus is back on me.

‘Just outside. Ashwin is in town.’

‘You’re drinking?’ Her body is stiff.

‘Maybe a little. For old times’ sake, you know…’ I give her a half-shrug and walk away. As I walk through the door, I hear her say, ‘Just eat a lot, da. No matter how much you drink.’

I drink a lot and don’t eat properly. I get back late and throw up the little I ate – chicken chilli and prawn pepper fry that Ashwin and I shared. I pass out. 

Amma warned me of this. In my mind, I am the furthest thing from my Appa.

But I wake up, hungover. I am sure I have gas trouble, chest congestion, dehydration, and add to that, the Vitamin B12 deficiency. Hair loss is one of the most common symptoms. I look out for a few strands stuck to the pillow. They look like fallen soldiers on the shore. There is a sharp pain in my gut. Fatty liver? Cracked lips. Starvation of essential salts too? I am sure. I am breathing. I am breathing.

I lift my head, squinting my eyes, to see my wife. She looks concerned.

‘Don’t drink so much, da’ 

I rest my head on the pillow.

‘Nee paathukko,’ Tamil comes out of her Malayali self when she wants to say something important or loving, and sometimes when she is angry. Malayalam usually comes out of my Tamil mouth when I want to make fun of her or her language.

‘You were grinding your teeth all night. I could hear it from here.’

‘Yeah, di,’ I say. ‘I’m glad it’s a Sunday. No more drinking.’

*

I like butterflies. Especially the black and red ones because no one else likes them. Others like the yellow ones or the blue ones because they are pretty. I like them too, but I like the black ones more. 

When I ride my cycle to school through my favourite lake ridge that is filled with pimpernels and hibiscus and marigolds, they flock towards me. They bounce off my arms and face, give me little kisses, and follow me to school and back. 

I think they like me too. I once stopped for them thinking they wanted me to stop but nothing happened. They kept circling me and I got late for school. So, I don’t stop anymore. 

My friends say it's the Ponds powder I apply all over my body. That the butterflies like the smell. But I don’t believe them. They are probably jealous because butterflies like me and not them. 

When I told Appa about the butterflies, he had a disappointed look on his face. Without saying a word, his focus shifted towards the banana in my hand instead. 

‘Where did you get that banana?’

‘Muthu anna gave me this banana, Appa.’

He flicks the banana from my hand and throws it out of the house. 

‘How many times have I asked you not to take anything from strangers?’ He gets up from the chair.

Muthu anna is not a stranger. After all, he belongs to our village and no one is a stranger here. But I don’t dare tell Appa that. 

He slaps me across the face. I twirl around three times like a top and fall face-flat on the ground. He asks me to get up and kneel on the floor next to him. He sits in his comfortable chair and watches tv for the next five hours. The floor is never swept properly in our home, so the sand on the cement floor feels like tiny needles against my knees. I cry but not so loudly, so as to not distract him. In the five hours that I am on my knees, I try to understand my mistake, but it isn’t clear to me. In any case, I submit. I take a vow to never make a mistake again without really understanding what a mistake is.

After a week of taking the bus, I am back on my cycle on the lake ridge. I take a deep breath.

I am surrounded by swarms of butterflies of all shapes and colours. I feel like I am levitating. But a butterfly smashes into my nose and falls dead on the ground. I stop the cycle. I feel a sharp pain in my nose and upper lip. When I touch that part of my face, I see yellow powdery liquid on my fingertips. I remove my tucked-in shirt and wipe the disgusting stuff off. What if it is poisonous? I look around me and see hundreds of butterflies fluttering at very high speeds.

*

Physicists are losing hope in the Unified Field Theory. Poor String Theory might go under the bus. It was so exciting with its twelve or thirteen dimensions. What would the world with twelve or thirteen dimensions look like? Physicists will say we are living in one. Probably only they can understand it. Though they say if anyone claims to understand relativity, quantum physics, or string theory, then they have not understood it. Then who does? Those who claim to have not understood it? No. No one understands anything. What was that interview that I saw many years ago? The one with Edward Witten? As I search my playlists of favourites, watch laters, physics, quantum physics, and interviews with physicists, UFT, and ST, I see my wife moving to the kitchen to cut vegetables.

I was supposed to cut them. Today is my turn. She’d reminded me an hour ago.

Should I ask her? Should I stop her? Is she angry?

I was going to do it. I really was. Why would she do it? Why wouldn’t she ask me again? She must be angry. She is. But can she do whatever she wants because she is angry? I must get up and talk to her. And say something, anything at all. But she is done with the onions and is moving on to the tomatoes. Is it too late? No. I can stop her at any point. I can do something. I have to.

She has crossed a line this time. If this was bothering her, she could have just spoken to me. She is almost done with the tomatoes. She is cutting the last one. The more I wait, the more I feel like my choices are limited. 

‘Edi!’

‘Endha, da?’

‘I said I will cut the vegetables, no?’

‘Yeah, da. But it seems like you are busy with something, and I am free.’ She puts aside the vegetables, washes her hands, and leaves the kitchen.

*

I am lying down on a tarmac. It is a long wide road covered on both sides with beautiful trees. Mostly pines. I can’t make out the others. I find it hard to focus on anything else because my eyes seem to move on their own. In the distance, I see a rocket launching station and a rocket that is ready to be launched. How exciting. I’d said in the distance, but it is quite close. Frighteningly close for a rocket launch. There are small huts behind the trees but no trace of humans. Only a few chickens and dogs. That's about it. The countdown starts with a siren. I panic and try to get up. An arm catches hold of me. Appa. Appa is unusually close. He is lying on his back next to me. I have never been this close to him without feeling his presence. Where did he come from? 

‘It will be fine. Don’t worry,’ his voice has never been so reassuring.

‘Enjoy the view!’ he says, ‘It’s wonderful!’ I can see that he means it.

I see the wonder. The scale. The magic of this mountain of a thing being lifted off in the air. An all-consuming fire erupts from beneath it like an inverted volcano. I am too close; I can feel the heat above my lips. On my forehead. And in my ears. 

Suddenly, the chicken hold made of coconut leaves beside us goes into flames. The dogs and chickens scurry. I panic again. I can smell burning skin. Is it mine? 

‘It will all be alright,’ Appa tries to reassure me.

The rocket that was headed for the sky is turning around. It is coming straight at us. 

‘Don’t worry,’ Appa says.

It whooshes past as I duck and embrace the tarmac. 

‘It’s okay. It’s okay. Don't be scared,’ Appa barely moves the whole time.

The rocket explodes a little far away with a big boom. I close my eyes, cover my head, and tuck in like a baby. I open my eyes to see if Appa is okay. A large chunk of the rocket swirls around and hits him in the face. He turns away and falls on his stomach. He doesn’t make a noise.

I turn him around and see half of his face missing.

*

My wife moves towards me with a lightness I never knew was possible, places her palm under my chin and lifts it up gently. She sees the tears on my cheeks but doesn’t wipe them. 

‘Ennada, Enna aachu?’ She wipes the tears now, recovering from the fact that she saw me crying for the first time.

I swallow the wad of saliva that has accumulated in my mouth. 

‘I am sorry, di,’ I say very softly and that makes me wail. 

‘It’s okay, da. It’s okay,’ she says, trying to pull my body closer, to embrace all of me. 

I turn to the window. I see the flowers outside glazed in sunlight. I wipe my tears and turn to her.

‘I don’t know, di,’ I say. 

She pulls me closer and plants a kiss on my forehead. She has never kissed me on my forehead before. This is new. This is different. As she pulls back, I see her eyes shimmer in the sunlight. 

*

Response to the workshop:

Had a wonderful time at the Out of Print Magazine writer's workshop at Infinite Souls Farm.  Between the beautiful view of Savandurga ... delicious home-cooked food, the birds..., we read amazing stories and saw them come to life in other people's words. Thank you Indira Chandrasekhar for making this possible and being there and encouraging us. Thank you Zui for providing extensive feedback, for being as equally invested in our stories as we are.

Out of Print Workshop at Infinite Souls Farm: ANUSHA M

Outhouse

Anusha M

This morning was unusual – I was getting into a red bus with Appa and Amma instead of the yellow school bus. And it was too early, even the milkman had not made his delivery yet. I was too groggy to ask where we were headed and fell asleep on the bus. When I woke up, we were walking towards the wide gates of Ajji’s house. They were both open, and there was a lot of activity in the yard – strangers were walking in and out of the house. Raghu maama was standing near the door of the main house, but he did not greet us. Just a nod, and Appa walked towards him.  It had been raining the previous night, and the champaka tree near the gate was full of flowers. The garden was squelchy, and when Amma tried to put me down on the ground, I resisted and refused to walk. Amma was annoyed, but she pulled her sari up to her knee with one hand and balanced me on her waist with the other. This was not the most comfortable of positions, but Amma dismissed my objections saying that she was in a hurry as we headed towards the Outhouse. She knocked gently and Nidhi opened the door that creaked on the hinges. He didn’t even bother smiling to greet me. Amma led me inside and  kneeled to address me, her face serious. 

‘Mira, stay with your cousins. Don’t come out until Raghu maama comes to fetch you.’ 

I nodded obediently and left my worn out hawai chappals near the threshold. Nidhi carried me in, and I could see that the entire clan had gathered in the hall. I ran and hugged Smita akka, who was playing with her sister Sunita in the corner. 

‘Akka, Akka, I’m so happy we are meeting before the Dussehra holidays.’

‘Yes, yes, come on now. Do you want to join us or not?’

They were in the middle of a game and pointed at the kavade grid drawn on the floor with chalk. It was a game I didn’t completely understand yet, but I wanted to learn everything that my cousins knew. 

‘You finish this game; I will watch and join for the next one.’ 

Amma had wound my juttu very tightly, so I fiddled with my hair strands until they loosened. Kittu and Rani akka used to live here with their parents Raghu maama and Rekha maami, but after Ajja became a star in the sky they moved into the main house to keep Ajji company. The Outhouse had a small hall once you entered, with a tiny kitchen space at the end of the hall and a toilet. The hall had many windows, but they were mostly shut to keep the dust out. Today, only one window was open, and there was hardly any sunlight in the room. The room was lit by a lone incandescent bulb, not a tube light like the main house, and every time we tried to reach the switch our palms would brush against the wall sprinkling the floor with a bit of crumbling paint. The Outhouse was used occasionally – when there were too many of us to sleep in the main house, but it wasn’t time to sleep yet.  

‘Why are we all here, Akka? Did the white crow bite us?’ 

Sunita’s stare locked onto Smita. 

‘Don’t be silly! How can the white crow bite all of us at once? Even the boys? Huh! No such luck today. All the elders are discussing something important and want us out of the way’, dismissed Smita. 

Sunita beckoned me closer, ‘Mira, do you want to start a new game? I’m losing this one anyway.’ Smita twisted her lips from side to side, mocking her sister. ‘Go find something to act as your pawns. Four small things of the same kind, ok? Quick!’

I went straight for the shelf looking for Rekha Maami’s sewing kit. It was a treasure box of buttons, of all sizes and colours. It was an old biscuit tin, one that Charley uncle from down the street had bought from Dubai when Rani akka was a small girl. Maami often joked that this expensive box would be part of Rani’s dowry. I turned it around to see that Rani akka had claimed it, by etching her name under the tin, ರಾಣಿ, with a ball point pen. She was old enough to use a ballpoint pen, because she was already in college, the oldest of us. Would she soon be married? Who would teach me the disco steps to ‘Om Shanti Om’ if that happens? Oh, I would miss her dearly if she got married. Who would we take our secrets to? Who would shield us from our parents when we broke a vase? 

I searched through the box and found four glittery blue buttons, and blue is my favorite color. Clutching them, I passed by the only cot in the Outhouse. It was used by the women when they were sent away to rest. Rekha Maami ferried food and water to them thrice a day when that happened, and they could come back after they had cleaned themselves. If the aunties were sent away, it was fine with me. But I hated when Netra or Rani had to sit in the Outhouse instead of playing with us. Today, curiously, it was Kittu who I found asleep, thin elbows shielding his face. I wanted to piggyback with him and find Rani akka, but he was in a deep slumber. I walked back to the kavade corner and handed over the blue buttons for a new game. 

‘Why is Kittu napping during the day?’

Smita and Sunita had a language of their own, one spoken without words. Large almond eyes that were identical, always lined with kohl and a streak of suspense. A secret dialogue was exchanged. 

‘Kittu was up all night, that’s why he needs to rest.’ 

‘Why didn’t he sleep?’

‘You’re only five years old, yet you ask too many questions, Miru. Come now, let’s start this game before they call us to the main house.’

‘I’ll win this time too!’ Smita waved a finger to taunt her sister. 

Smita and Sunita were playing this round of kavade as if there was a prize for the winner. I was the third wheel, a silent player, not in the game to win, just for fun. But I loved being around my older cousin sisters. ‘Why can’t I have an Akka of my own?’ I had asked Appa. He said that it’s too late for me to have an Akka, but I could be an Akka if I wanted. I didn’t know if I was old enough to be an Akka, like Rani or Sunita. I just wanted to play with an Akka of my own all the time rather than waiting until my cousins gathered in Ajji’s house. Seeing that Smita and Sunita were deeply engrossed in the game, I tiptoed toward the window. 

With the help of a stool, I peered at the garden from the Outhouse window. Ajji’s garden was lined with rows of plantains and cashew shrubs. The lush green vegetation provided ample cover for us to play hide and seek whenever we gathered. Rani was an expert at climbing the champa tree and plucking the fragrant flowers, while we stood underneath spreading an old bed sheet to catch the delicate blossoms lest they get soiled with our feet. The women of the house loved these flowers so much; but Ajji had recently stopped wearing them. The plantain trees with their broad leaves looked welcoming, ready to be plucked and have a feast served on them. I sighed and wiped the cheap white paint from my elbows onto my frock, knowing Amma would scold me. I wanted to play outside. 

‘Smita Akka, Smita Akka – come let’s go out?’

‘Not now, Miru. We have been told strictly to stay here. Today, we must do what they say.’

My enthusiasm was dampened, and I frowned and made a fake crying sound. 

‘Don’t be so sad, Miru. Why don’t you go and play elastic with Sudhir and Nidhi?’

I rushed to the other end of the room where Sudhir and Nidhi were playing the elastic game with Netra akka. As I approached them, I couldn’t help but notice how gracefully my older cousin’s hair was bouncing while they hopped about. I was envious that Netra akka’s mom let her grow her hair long. Amma always dragged me to the beauty parlor, despite my protesting and tears. Once I’m old enough to plait my own hair to school, I will not let Amma have her way. Sudhir’s hair had been recently trimmed and sweat beads were glistening on his scalp while he jumped higher. 

‘Anna, anna, please. Let me have one go at the elastic.’

‘Ok Miru. Eh Nidhi, lower the elastic for our little one. Let her have a chance to play.’ 

Nidhi pinched my cheeks affectionately before it was my turn. I soon levelled up while repeating the challenges, and the height of the elastic was raised twice. Meanwhile, Netra akka went to the cot that Kittu was lying in and checked if he was running a fever. Muttering in his sleep, Kittu’s hair was dishevelled. She covered him with a blanket and pushed his hair back so it wouldn’t disturb him. 

‘Why is Kittu sleeping?’

‘He saw a ghost it seems!’ Sudhir held out his open palm and mocked him. He turned around to see if Nidhi would laugh with him but was bluntly reprimanded with a slap on his upper arm. 

‘What? That is how he appeared when I came in this morning.’ 

Nidhi pointed his forefinger threateningly at Sudhir, ‘Don’t bring this topic up now.’

While they squabbled, I saw Rani akka’s old trunk lying in the corner. Where was the pink dupatta with shiny stars on it, the one I liked to wear as a sari and twirl in? Ah, Found it! Rani had wrapped the dupatta around a bunch of letters and a cassette of ‘Ek Duuje ke liye’. Now, where was she? No one else was good at draping it. I looked around and counted my cousins, six in the room and seven including me.

‘Where is Rani akka?’ 

Everyone turned around, and their eyes were on the pink dupatta. My words seemed to have crashed into the Outhouse, shattering my cousins into a sudden silence. But no one gave me answers. 

‘When will Rani akka join us?’

Netra began sobbing, and Nidhi rushed to her. Before I could figure out why, the door suddenly opened. Raghu maama looked tired, the dark circles prominent, his grey hairs more pronounced than ever. He didn’t speak, just waved his arm to indicate that we were to step outside. 

Nidhi and Netra went first. Nidhi was wearing his school sweater over his night suit. Netra wore a faded brown synthetic frock made from her mom’s sari with tiny white daisies on them.

Smita and Sunita went next, holding hands. They looked so alike walking next to each other. Both wore long worn-out skirts of the same fabric, but Smita wore a yellow blouse while Sunita’s was a distemper green. Sudhir darted outside wearing one of Kittu’s shorts, while Raghu maama gently woke Kittu, who immediately dissolved into a crying heap. With a sad nod, Raghu maama led Kittu outside and there was no one left behind to hold my hand. The sun had stopped hiding behind the clouds and Ajji’s house was bathed in fresh bright sunshine when I walked outside.

The porch was full of people, and there was a huge commotion on the road in front. The steps leading into the house had benches on both sides, and Ajji was seated on one of them; hands covering her head, the end of her sari shielding her face. Rekha maami was bawling, the cries escaping in between gasps of breath. Kittu and Netra stood beside her, wailing endlessly. Smita and Sunita held on to each other tightly. Raghu maama scooped me from the lawn and handed me over to Appa. Raised above ground, I could see a black van that was decked with flowers. This wasn’t a wedding – no one was dressed for a happy occasion. People were throwing garlands at the van, and someone was shouting at the gate. Raghu maama slowly walked outside, but no one else ventured towards the van. Amma was crying, and I didn’t know why. 

‘Why is Amma crying?’ 

‘Be quiet, Mira.’ Appa tried to turn me towards his chest, as if he didn’t want me to see whatever was happening now. Appa did this in movie theatres too, when a villain would be beating the hero, but today he was squeezing me too tightly and I wasn’t comfortable. I needed the reassurance of my mother’s arms, wanting her to hold me. 

‘Amma, Amma…’

Appa handed me over to Amma. There was a sudden commotion at the gate and a lot of men started walking ahead of the black van. Appa joined them too. Rekha maami began to beat her chest. Someone pointed to the van; it had started moving.

Amma cried out, ‘Rani! Rani!’ 

Did Amma think Rani was in the black van? Was everyone worried that Rani akka was going away? She was just going away to the college hostel; Rani had assured me. Why was everyone being so silly? 

‘Amma, don’t worry. I will call Rani akka and she will return. Wait now. RANI AKKA, RANI AKKA! COME BACK SOON, OK?’

Tears flowed silently down Amma’s cheeks, and I wiped them with my palms. I hugged her and planted a kiss on her wet face, wanting to fix whatever was making Amma cry – ‘Don’t worry, Amma. I have told Rani akka; she will certainly come home.’ In response, she kissed my forehead but continued to cry. 

The black van swiftly drove away from our street, and all the adults were left standing at the porch. It started drizzling, and Ajji was the first one to move inside the house. Whatever spell had been cast on them seemed to have faded away. I wanted to go into the garden and play, hoping Rani akka would join me too. 

*

Response to the workshop:

The Out of Print short story workshop was an immersive and indelible experience. I went in like a sponge and absorbed every single word, debating the motivation while learning to observe my stories from different viewpoints. The nuanced structure of the workshops is a great platform to examine your perspective as a storyteller, and one would benefit immensely from workshopping your stories with other writers.

Out of Print Workshop at Infinite Souls Farm: ANUSHKA CHATTERJEE

I Can’t Complain Jaan

Anushka Chatterjee

On lazy afternoons, as I mash rice and daal alone, I picture you seated on a plastic stool, slashing bellies of slithery fish in the market. That you don’t flinch when blood spurts onto your bare legs seems improbable, for the way you cup squirrels in your palm, and keep me from swatting cockroaches implies you could be anything but cruel. In the evening, I frown at the sight of your shirt; blood-spattered, scale-sequinned. Neither will you realise how strenuous it is to thrash fabric on stone, my back hunched from stooping over stains, nor will I ever account to you the money I spend on buying extra detergent every month.

But how do I complain, Jaan?

Didn’t I slap you into fish-vending when you thought of gambling for a living after our marriage? Didn’t I beat my chest, prostrated at the feet of the local counsellor for access to fish from his private pond? Didn’t I want you to have something of your own? You’re smashing heads of God’s voiceless children because of me, a wretched woman who believes in sustaining at the cost of kindness.

When you open up the shopper stuffed with remnants of the day’s fishes, their lanky skeletons and fragile fins, your sweaty face glows like you’ve got me ilish, the queen of the seven seas. I twirl the fish in its own fat with diced potatoes for dinner. It isn’t heavy on your pocket as it spares oil from being recklessly poured into the pan. Before taking a mouthful of rice and curry, I thank God for such a culinary miracle. The more I crush the bones under my molars the more fluid they exude. I beseech some praise from you, a faint hint that you, too, have noticed how seamlessly the masalas have seeped into the cavities, how crisply fried the gills are, how, with every meal, I’m honing my expertise in cooking. “Just smile for me,” I want to say, but you never lift your drowsy eyes from the plate. Not even when a nasty spine pricks my gum and I fail to swallow a yelp. As I circle my tongue in my mouth, coating the wound, I’m reminded once again of how unforgiving the bones are; residues the rich cleverly discard, a delicacy you and I foolishly cherish.

But how do I complain, Jaan?

At the Sunday mela, I demand that the man at the chaat counter loads our samosas with chilli chutney. It’s a break from all the fish waste scraping our gums through the week. ‘Bhaiya, thoda aur daalo,’ you request him as I keep insisting. It’s so innocent of you to think I love the spicy gravy, but it’s also a sweet-sly trick: as we quickly give in to the gravy’s temptation, our running noses turn to baby tomatoes, the heat singes our ears. In no time we find ourselves slurping mango ice-cream. To see you chortle at the cream trickling down your wrist and into the sleeve of your shirt, I will eat all the chilli chutney in the world.

You’re already snoring with your mouth agape when I’m done scrubbing the kitchen. I tiptoe into our room and slip into our bed. I shrink the distance between the two of us until your breath warms the nape of neck. You’re hypnotised, too weary to feel me turn towards you and lift your thumb to the bridge of my nose, and then, very gently, dip it down to my chin. You’ll never sense how your sleepy fingers outline my cheek, trace my lips, carve new dimensions out of my face. A closer glance at our braided fingers reveals dark grey crescents under your nails: grime from fish intestines, perpetually trapped. 

But how do I complain, Jaan?

I fled home in the middle of night holding this hand of yours. You didn’t force me to. I did. The world doesn’t believe I did, for rebellion in love is too brazen to stem from a woman’s mind. When I stood at your door, defiant and determined, the bag under my arm bursting with clothes, the creases on your temple had deepened. Your damp hands trembled as you gripped mine, simply because our love was young, too young to mould our future with. You weren’t ready to forsake the warmth of family for my impulse. But you did.

Sometimes, I shut all the windows and draw the curtains to seal myself in. In front of the mirror, I crumple the bed sheet into a giant round ball and tuck it clumsily under my petticoat. Gazing at the ballooned belly, I wonder how many inches I shall need to unfurl my kameez to have room for a baby to fit snugly. Deep within, my heart flutters at the thought of undivided attention from you, a little respite from unforgiving chores, and unquestioned access to jars of imli aachaar. Wrapping my arms around the globe, I inhale deeply. I don’t know what moistens my eyes. I’m thirty, pretending to be the mother I’m soon not going to be. 

But how do I complain, Jaan?

I know how badly you want a daughter. I’ve seen you peering like a child at dolls in glass-walled shops. You haven’t seen me seeing you. I know what makes you delay at desolate bus stops and play games of claps with little girls you’ve never met, filling their pockets with lozenges. When their parents turn up late, sweaty from concern, they grimace at you, snatching their daughters away. Had your hair been shampooed well or your shirt perfumed, Jaan, they would’ve thanked you, invited you for dinner at fancy restaurants. 

The alphabets of your signature continue to wobble shamelessly. You haven’t yet mastered aligning them because the comfort of pinning an inky thumb on documents remains ingrained in you. The last time I demanded that you start afresh, you laughed. A loud, sarcastic laugh that keeps ringing in my ears. You’d taunted me for being born with a silver spoon in my mouth while your father had to sell beedis for a spoonful of rice. I should’ve revolted and taught you how learning isn’t confined to the school you could never afford or the books I left behind. To learn something, Jaan, you need to unlearn first. At times, I feel you’ve come to terms with the ordinariness of this life. 

But how do I complain, Jaan?

You haven’t bought anything for yourself in years. A roof above your head and a filled stomach is all you need, you keep repeating. On one stealthy attempt at peeking into your notebook—the one with an eagle grabbing a fish on its cover— where you try to catalogue your expenditure, I discovered how you’re saving each penny to enrol me in the computer course I’m pressing on. The neon board dangling outside New Age Cyber Cafe flashes a “100% Job Guaranteed!” for women registered in the same. I’ll soon go to an office, bury my face into a screen, and eat from a lunch box every day. Someday, we’ll see snowy mountains and eat no more fish remains. Jaan, you have keen foresight, like that eagle on your notebook.

Each leg of our almirah stands on four thick bricks all year round. There is water, knee-deep, in the room every monsoon. I need to lift my maxi to the thighs and knot it around my waist. As I cook, water from the overflowing gutter lashes at my calves. Days later, when the rain god pities, the water subsides, brick by brick, and renders the floor grey with smut, dotted with lifeless white lizards and earthworms. I stand at the door, scanning the room with a boulder pounding in my ribcage. It seems like the end of the world, like a tsunami has washed off life from the land but forgotten to swash me along. Moments like these thrust me with memories of the village my father was the Sarpanch of, the plumpness of my mother’s palm, the ease of a life I’ve so unceremoniously blotted out. I condemn myself, splashing buckets of water under the bed. Look what you have done to yourself.

But how do I complain, Jaan?

The Sarpanch had deployed his men with knives to slit your throat. We ran and ran, kept running till our soles blistered, till we fetched up in this city, a maze where they’d endlessly hunt for us, jostle, and pant, only to forget what they were here for. When I narrate this story to our neighbours, they dismiss it as the course of most Bollywood films; stories they never believed yet paid to gawk at on giant screens. We are now the tenants of a house owned by an uncle who lately wants to shift to an old-age home. In few years, Jaan, we’ll have to abscond to save ourselves from being crushed, like the bricks of this house, by towering, yellow excavators. I pray we save enough to seek for a flat in that part of the city where an hour’s rain doesn’t create rivers out of lanes. You’ve never wanted a life in cities. But here you are, spraining your neck as you count how many floors culminate in the peak of buildings, your eyes round like marbles, brimming with wonder. You don’t pardon the man ogling at your wife in a bus anymore, or gulp abuses without spurting them back. You’re slowly befriending the ways of this stifling city, not for yourself but for me.

I will never complain, Jaan. 

The day I die, tell my parents what I’ve never told them. Tell my father he was wrong if he thought I’d slip into the bubble of my early life complaining, conforming to his whim of wedding me to some filthy rich loafer. Tell him, a cage made of gold is still a cage, and once a bird has tasted freedom, it never returns. Tell my mother she was more unreasonable than my father, for letting her daughter go seemed easier than mustering courage to disagree with her husband. If they wail over my frozen body, tell them the curses they inflicted on us must’ve recoiled. Show them how we’ve lived. Let them realise what their daughter ever needed was just a room and a kitchen, but with the liberty to choose whom to love. 

Before you set my ashes off in the river, let them know their daughter has never complained in her life because she made the right choice – she left them for a man who had nothing but a backbone.

*

Response to the workshop:

Having attended OofP's residential workshop, my mind is brimming with feedback, afterthoughts, and most importantly, boundless love and warmth. I'll forever be grateful to OofP for the much-needed surgery done to my fiction, and for the community we've built thereafter. Of course, one can't not mention the gorgeous backdrop of Savandurga, and farm-fresh food to top off the entire experience.

Out of Print Workshop at Infinite Souls Farm: BODHI RAY

Not a Love Story 

Bodhi Ray

‘Do you have a spare cigarette on you?’ 

‘W-h-a-t?’ Ann shouted over the blasting music.

‘C-I-G-A-R-E-T-T-E?’ I sucked on an imaginary one and blew smoke upwards.

‘Oh. Yea. Hang on.’ Anne slipped down the pole she was on, swirling while she did, her legs a bow and arrow. 

‘There you go, Vid.’ She fished a stick out of her shorts and held it out to me. 

In the shadows away from the roving spotlight, fair-and-skinny Anne was a silhouette. Her hand holding the cigarette to me was a bridge amongst worlds. 

But, Gawd, she remembered my name. ‘Thanks Anne.’ I grabbed the cigarette and lit it. I felt great. I felt scared. The Benson smoke scorched its way down to my lungs leaving a strange after taste. Not smooth like a Marlboro Ice Blast. 

But f#k it. 

Anne was back on the pole but barely moving. She looked more like a forlorn Bollywood belle of the 60s, hugging a tree and looking out for her Pardesi lover who’d left her. She seemed to be waiting for someone. Not me surely. But she gave me the cigarette. That was something. 

I plopped down on the nearest chair and put my feet up on the one in front.

‘F#k you bro!’ The boy frisking the girl in the seat in front hissed at me. The girl got busy pulling her jacket back in place. 

‘Peace brother. Sorry.’ That calmed the brown guy-yellow girl combo. Maybe the guy was Indian. Or a Paki. Or a Lankan. Pakis and Lankans were far more forthright than us. India, an Uncertain Glory by Amartya Sen flashed in my mind. What a place and time to remember this.

Whatever. 

I looked back at the poles and felt Anne’s eyes on me. I quickly moved my stare to other girls. Anne was different from the other girls not because she didn’t peddle herself aggressively or because she was the most petite, but she was apologetic. Which made her petite-ness look needy. In these shadow lines, Anne’s skin glowed like a translucent jellyfish that, if rubbed hard enough, would reveal someone else inside of her. 

Prashant had rubbed hard enough many a time and I’d only dreamt of doing it. So, I don’t know if a different person had ever crawled out of Anne. I wondered who it could’ve been, someone with the sparkle of galaxies in their pupils and the confidence to make men do pole dances, the very men who ogled at her. But that also would include me then, wouldn’t it?

Whatever.

My head hurt from the eight pints of draft, five Sauza shots, three Long Island iced tea and the numbing music that hung in the stadium-sized hall like a thick curtain causing everyone to flail their arms to clear it so they could see ahead, while trying not to trip over chairs, bottles or some drunk passed out on the floor. 

And then there was the smoke from the million cigarettes, a constant smog. Despite these distractions one couldn’t miss the smell that the place reeked of: A concoction of mingled sweat, cheap perfume, room fresheners, cigarettes, alcohol and too many men and their raw libido flung into the air. Was that even a thing?

Thinking wasn’t an activity that could be continued here for long. 

‘Here’ was Orchard towers, on Orchard Road Singapore. A place for ‘gentlemen’ to get ungentle. A pilgrimage for those who worshipped the flesh. Providers came from far and wide and so did the consumers.

I’ve only come from a few kilometres away, dragged along by Prashant who was a regular at OT each time he was on a business trip from India. I came along because that’s what Vik would have done. I need to be Vik tonight. 

Prashant, was a handful. If you were to break down his DNA, he was a simple God fearing, whiskey loving, wife beating, girl chasing, senior executive in a multi-national firm. So his routine too, was simple: drink silly before coming to OT and get his gang drunk as well. Then enter OT and run from his friends into the many dark corners hunting out the ‘working girls’.

Girls of the same nationality usually hung out together, and they had the same strategy for the night. Sometimes they’d walk around as a giggling group as if on an evening walk, inviting guys to join them. They would even try to break up couples who might be deep in action. This was the girlfriend experience strategy. On other nights, they’d dance on the poles and target the customers closest to them. Easy pickings, but the worst drunks and lechers were near the pole dance area. 

And then there were pros who just sat, aloof, looking bored and saying no to all approaching, until they spotted the richest guy in OT. It was game on then.

Prashant was gone longer than usual today. I thought to go find him. But not before I finished the borrowed Benson. 

I watched Anne, shaking her tiny hips on the pole. Why does she need to do this night in and night out? What did she do during the day? Sleep it off? Go shopping? 

I used to shop alone a lot, especially in Kolkata Gariahat market during college days. The prices fit my budget and I could get lost in the crowd. Vik always went with a huge gang of college mates. He’d own the place he’d go to, alone or in a group. Bumping into him and his mates used to be my worst nightmare. Because often times I’d feel lonely. Not craving for real companionship, but say after finishing a very good book, like Purba Pashchim. The characters who I ran with, loved with, fought and died with, just disappeared after the book ended. I used to think this was worse than death itself. Until Vik died. And I became a single child of my parents. A long-standing dream of mine coming true through a nightmare.

‘I’m fucking lonely’ started playing in my head. Was Anne lonely too? Were the 200 odd people in this hellish den trying to un-lonelify themselves? 

The song got louder until it filled my head and the hall and I saw Anne crooning, I’m F#kin’ Lonely, So F#ckin’ Lonely, Somebody Call Me, while moving on the pole. Seemed like a scene out of Once upon a time in Hollywood. Anne auditioning while Cliff Booth stood watching with a cigarette dangling from his lips. 

I’m no Cliff Booth. Though I imagined myself to be; strong, handsome and aloof from the noise. Aloof from Anne. 

Prashant, just like Vik, was definitely a Rick Dalton, barraging on how the world worked and how to make it big and live a grand life. He’d even act out stuff how it ought to be. Or maybe how it oughtn’t be.

Whatever.

I shook my head and tried to jerk the song out. 

I looked back at the poles. Indonesians with straight black hair were the favourites of Ang Moh and swirled jauntily. Competing with them was a herd of Chinese girls with breath bad enough to wake up the dead. There were a couple of Phillipinas and the clique of international celebrities. Today’s celebs were some Columbian girls – or maybe they were posing as Colombians with shiny dyed blonde hair – and a black girl, who may have been posing as an African, but might have just been Tamil. Mixed bag, and Anne was the only lone lass. The rest had been ‘taken’ by customers, their paramours standing close by the poles, drinks in hand and clapping like ghoulish school kids at a dystopian concert.

Beyond the pole dance area were gambling tables where beer pong and strip poker were on. And right at the back was a stage where shows were supposed to be run. I don't know what shows, nobody ever saw much. Maybe the place was licensed as a circus or something of the sort, mandated to host shows.

‘I searched all around for you. Wassup?’ Prashant was back. From wherever he was, doing whatever it was.  

‘Nothing. Let’s go?’ 

‘Go? Night is still young. Whoa, Isn’t that Anne?’ Prashant whistled, narrowing his myopic eyes sans specs.

‘You got a cig on you?’

‘Nope. Borrowed from Anne.’

‘F#k. You took a cig off a pole dancer?’ 

‘Don’t make me cringe. I was desperate.’

‘Cringe? This is stuff of fairy tales’ dude. Who knew you could claim such a feat?’ Prashant slapped my back. 

‘Drinks boys?’ A couple of tall Russian women stopped by. I couldn’t make out their faces through the smoky darkness but I wasn’t picky when it came to Russians. Like I’d be anyone to judge – a small-town boy from Bihar.

‘We love Russians. Join us ladies.’ I said.

‘Fak you Paki,’ the women’s eyes spewed fire even in the darkness, before they huffed off. 

‘Hahahaha.’ Prashant rocked with laughter.

‘What the fuck was that?’

‘They too are Ukrainians. They hate Russians. You’re such a dodo. How many years are you in Singapore again?’

‘Fuck them all. Russian-Ukrainian-Estonian-Polish, all look the same and talk the same. And why call us a Paki?’

‘Not us, you. To screw you man. Because Pakis are India’s number one enemy. But if you shoo beauties away like this, whatever we do, we ain’t gonna score tonight. And you’re a half Bangladeshi anyways, which was part of Pakistan sometime back. So yes, FAK you Paki.’

‘Wow. Such history and lineage lessons in a strip bar.’

‘This is no strip bar. Just a bar with girls and some poles.’

‘And a few random hungry souls.’

‘Nice.’

‘Let’s push off now?’

‘And miss out saying hullo to Anne?’

Prashant jumped on to Anne’s slowly turning circular podium and hugged her. She looked startled at first and then hugged him back. Too tightly. Was there a new spring to her gait? 

Every few seconds the spotlight shifted till it fell on Anne and Prashant. Someone from the crowd hooted and that set off Prashant. He wiggled his butt and slow twisted his way down the pole and back up, all the while hands around Anne, who was giggling to splits. The chalk-like spotlight made even Prashant look fair. 

Finally, just when it was too unbearable to watch, he got down and brought Anne with him, kissing all the while, hands around her hips. 

I tried to get away but she saw me.

‘Hey,’ said Anne.

‘Hey,’ said I.

‘Whose turn is it to order now?’ Prashant asked. I tried to see where his hand was but couldn’t make out in the darkness.

‘Yours.’

Prashant left. He didn’t waste time asking us what we wanted to drink.

Anne sat down and I sat beside her. 

‘You from Prashant’s place in India?’

‘Nope. Quite far from his place really. But I stay in Singapore.’

‘Aha. A Singaporean. You’re so lucky.’

‘Not a Singaporean, but yes lucky.’ I laughed. I hoped I sounded smart. The thought de-dignified me a few notches. Smart? To a pole dancer? 

‘Why you come here?’ asked Anne.

‘Sorry?’

Did she really ask me that? 

‘Why you come here?’

‘Same reason as anybody. He he.’

‘Then why you not touch?’

‘I do I do.’

‘Touch.’

Anne took my hand and placed it on her thighs. I jerked away. Her skin felt like a cold slab of ice. 

‘See?’

‘You’re cold.’

‘Come close I show you something.’

I bent towards her, my heart fluttering. She stretched her hand in front of her, palm upwards. There was a tattoo. Wait. Was that a swastika?

‘Holy Hindu symbol.’

I touched the swastika and rubbed it. The skin was still cold but now I felt it’s rubbery-ness. I rubbed and squashed the swastika between my thumb and forefinger and slowly locked my fingers in hers.

‘This is such an a-hole place! They wouldn’t let me skip the queue at the bar even though I’m buying a full bottle of wine. Goddamm Singapore.’ Prashant stood with a wine bottle in hand panting, out of breath.

I pulled my hand away. 

‘Now now, did I just see some lovey dovey stuff going on?’

‘She was showing me her swastika tattoo.’

I could have been wrong but I thought I spied a shadow cross Anne’s face like a cloud passing over the moon. 

‘Swastika? Hmm. The Hitler one or the Hindu one? Ha ha ha.’ It was such a relief that Prashant laughed at his own jokes. 

‘Pass me the wine,’ I reached for the bottle, eyeing Anne from the corner of my eye. Our moment was gone. Did she regret sharing so much with me? Or that I shared our moment with Prashant? This is why I never opened my mouth much. Bloody over-sharing introvert-ish nerd.

Prashant had uncorked the bottle and took two-three quick swigs before passing it to me. Only after I had downed half of what remained did I remember Anne. She shook her head and kept looking down, twitching her fingers on her lap. 

‘Whaaat? Take it. It’s for you.’ Prashant visibly slurred. The wine seemed to have taken hold of him already. It was too early for him to slur. Strange. 

‘The Paki got Anne.’ The Russians, sorry the tall Ukrainian women gang, was back. 

‘He’s not Paki.’ Anne murmured. 

The women said something in their language and they all laughed. Prashant tottered up from his seat and grabbed the arm of the lady standing closest to him. ‘I, Paki. I Lankan. I Indian. You come with me? I become what you want.’

‘Ha ha he’s cute. Come along.’ They walked off, the tall white women with a small dark man in tow.

Prashant was taken. It was bizarre how he had sold himself so well to the sellers themselves. 

Anne and I were alone again, with a hundred hookers and lechers. We could be characters straight out of Pretty Woman.

‘In the Air Tonight’ started playing in my head and the din of the hall seemed to recede into the background. 

I can feel it coming in the air tonight, 

oh lord

And I've been waiting for this moment, for all my life, 

oh lord

Can you feel it coming in the air tonight, 

oh lordddd, oh lordddd 

‘You a Hindu?’ Asked Anne.

‘Yep.’ It felt strange agreeing to being a Hindu in this place. So, I added, ‘I eat beef though.’

‘That’s all right I guess. You’re not a priest or in a temple city.’

‘It’s a bad thing to eat beef anywhere. Being a Hindu I mean.’ 

‘That’s just what they tell you. Like they tell abortion a sin in Christianity.’

‘And it’s not?’

‘To me no. I ready for pregnancies. And ready for quick abortions.’

She looked at me and squeezed my left palm, ‘I’m used to it now.’

‘Was any of … them … uh … erm … Prashant’s?’

‘Oh lord no, Vid.’

It was a relief. I don’t know why. 

‘What do you think Prashant and I have done?’

My ears burned bright red, thank god for the darkness.

I thumped my pocket for cigarettes, seeing which Anne laughed. ‘No more, dear. We’re out.’ 

I wanted to grab Anne and kiss her. But she was dirty. Dirty for being here. Dirty for letting Prashant touch her. Dirty for letting me touch her. 

What was I doing in this place anyways? I wasn’t lonely like Prashant. Or Anne. They could be in a crowd, partying, dancing, touching, feeling and still be lonely.  

I could sit on the window ledge; my face pressed to the glass and watch the cars go by on mute for hours and not feel lonely. 

But out here, I felt lonely. 

I wanted Prashant to come back and put me out of my misery. I wanted him to never come back.  

‘Prashant is sure taking his time.’ Anne observed as if reading my mind. Was she missing Prashant?

‘I don’t think he’ll be back for the night.’ My voice sounded disgustingly hopeful.

‘Yeah you maybe right. He’s found bliss today.’

‘Ghanta.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s a Hindi word meaning meaning, no way.’ 

‘Ha ha. You’re jealous.’

‘And you’re not? You’re his lover.’

‘Huh? Lover?’

Anne’s voice drifted off; her eyes faraway. I untangled my errant fingers from Anne’s, not knowing when they had sought each other out. Now they felt out of place. 

‘Hey Paki.’

I jolted back in my seat. One of the tall ones were back. 

‘Your friend has called for you. Come. And zip up.’ She chuckled. 

I stood up. I felt angry at her for thinking I was unzipped.

‘Sorry, I wasted your time. I should have offered to – 

Before Anne could finish her sentence, I wiggled out of my seat nearly stamping on her feet and ran down the short flight of stairs behind the tall Russian, sorry Ukrainian. 

We crossed two rows of chairs and walked in through a small door with heavy drapes. We were in a room with a lone overhead bulb pissing a puddle of yellow glow onto a two-seater sofa on which Prashant lay, legs sprawled in front of him, head rolling. 

My heart leapt to my mouth. Was he dead? 

‘Prashant? Hey Prashant.’ My cries must have been getting louder because one of the women shushed me up. 

‘He’s just high on crack. Took it earlier. He come here and just crash. You his friend. You take him away. But pay us a thousand dollars as he had promised us.’

Cliff Booth or not, I was Prashant‘s sidekick in school, and maybe even now. But seeing him with his head lolling and limp, almost lifeless body stoked a fire in me. 

‘I not his friend, he Indian, I Paki, remember? Keep him. But then I might call the cops. Or I may not.’

With that I stormed out, half expecting them to stop me. But they didn’t.

Anne was standing outside.

‘Is he ok?’ She was panting. 

‘Yes, just drugged. Let’s go.’

‘Go? He’s inside.’

We heard a thump behind us and jumped. It was Prashant lying crumpled on the floor. 

I checked his pulse. Running fine, just a bit erratic. 

I stood there with Prashant crumpled on the ground and Anne trying to uncrumple him. She laid him out straight on his back and gently stroked his chest, easing the creases of his Bombay Company custom white shirt. It was a gift from his wife, now being caressed and smoothened by this girl from Ukraine. 

‘I’ll come with you.’ 

‘Sorry?’

‘Let’s go. Help me with him.’ She got up and started pulling Prashant’s hand in an effort to make him sit up. 

‘I don’t have money. He might not have either.’

‘Just pay me 200 dollars, I need to pay a hundred to the agents and wire the other hundred to my son in Kiev.’

‘You have a son?’

‘Yes. He’s five. Are you helping me or not?’

Wasn’t this what Prashant’s wife had asked of me once when he had slipped and fallen while trying to hit her after a drunken brawl?

‘Help Vid. He’s your friend.’

‘No, he’s not. I’ve just been carrying him around for the last forty years.’

Anne stared at me but I couldn’t make out her face. 

‘You want to fak me, ok you can fak me. With the two hundred dollars. But help him.’ She started pulling at his hand again.

‘I go where he goes, I drink what he drinks, I love who he loves. He’s got a wife, kids, girlfriends … you … these other tall blondes and … and I need to carry him? No, I don’t want to fu#k you. But neither will he.’

I yanked Prashant’s small dark frame and put his arms around my shoulder.

We tottered out like Vikram Betaal. 

It's the first time, the last time we ever met-met-met

But I know the reason why you keep this silence up

No you don't fool me

The hurt doesn't show, but the pain still grows

It's no stranger to you and me

‘In the Air tonight’ was still playing in my head when I hailed a taxi. The drums were getting so loud that I could barely hear the driver. 

*