A PICTURE SPEAKS A THOUSAND WORDS, OR DOES IT?

Fluffy clouds puffed merrily in and around the majestic sun which had its belly sagging, and was sitting rather heavily in its throne faraway in the distance. My tank top stuck to my body in a very uncomfortable manner. I looked down at my arms and marveled at my skin which glowed if I may say, rather beautifully in the dusky rays of the sleepy sun. Groaning, I lifted the canvas bag and flung the tremendous weight over my sore shoulder. I simply had to call it a day despite not wanting to. The landscape was losing its light and it would be pointless to remain and beg for any remnants of nature.

“Anshula! Hurry! We need to get to the road before it becomes really dark! It’s not safe to travel in the night these days.”

I took my time. After all, I needed it. Time…time had to be captured in its essence. It was my job. A job that I had fought so hard to get, a job I would never part with no matter what it cost me, a job that had made me who I was. As I neared the 4-wheel drive, I struggled to transfer my load onto the seat, all the while cursing at my masculine colleagues who had just burst into a fit of boisterous laughter, completely oblivious to the help I obviously needed.

Sometimes I wondered if they did it on purpose, or just had that much of confidence in me. I would have liked to believe the latter except that I knew for a fact, that they really couldn’t figure out when they could be of some assistance. I kicked a leg through all the mess below the seats, then turned to take one last look. It was too brilliant. The drowsy sun was now diffusing its glory through the sky in a beautiful pinkish hue, extending its touch to the peak of the highest mountain and the tip of the tallest tree. I lifted my camera in one hand, and focused the lens with another. Click!

******

“Can you please get into my office now?” Mr. Takur’s voice peeled through the telephone.

I clicked the receiver back into place, then pushed my chair backwards and stood up, sending my pen rolling to the edge of the table where it danced precariously. I hurriedly extended my hand towards the pen in an attempt to cup it in mid-air. It fell with a dull thud to the floor anyway. Sighing, I bent down to pick it up and suddenly turned to look behind my shoulder. How could it have been anyone else but Charan, with his thick framed glasses perched awkwardly on his bulbous nose, his lips in a half open distracted grin, his droopy eyes focused on my back below my waist. I straightened myself and flung the pen on my desk annoyed. At least it could have been someone more desirable.

I almost forgot to knock as I placed my fingers on the door handle, my perfectly manicured nails catching the glint from all the tastefully nestled lights in every nook and cranny of the office.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Ah, come come, sit. That was some wonderful piece of work on the forest reserve you did that day. I think it is time for you to consider new venture.” Mr. Takur spoke in a professional tone, yet I couldn’t help noticing his eyes hesitantly lingering over the base of my neck. I cleared my throat loudly and crossed my leg over the other, silently wishing my eyes could pierce right through him, slicing him up.

“I am happy with the job I have for now, Sir.”

“I assure you that you will enjoy this project tremendously. At least hear me out.”

I nodded passively.

On the way out of the office that day, I noticed the man for the first time, his face covered by his lowly worn cap and a pair of sunglasses.

******

“More work? So you aren’t going to get married? Hare bhagavan! You told me to wait till you finished this. Then you told me to wait till you finished that. I have been waiting my whole life for you Anshu! And I’m not going to wait anymore. Pandit Ji will be coming tomorrow, and you’re going to choose a nice boy from all those lovely photos, and you’re going to have a lovely wedding end of this year! You hear me? Anshula! You come back here!”

Mother’s voice continued to echo in the background, like an invisible shadow leaping off the walls.

I hopped up and down frantically, each spring higher than the first, trying to grasp the bag on top of the solid teak cupboard. At the slightest touch of cloth, I administered a mighty yank, sending a spell of dust over and all around me as I tried to muffle a sneeze. I absent mindedly threw in a number of clothing without giving much thought, a bar of soap and some fancily bottled shampoo I had whisked from one of those hotel stays. I balanced a hand torch between my chin and neck dangerously as I pulled out a towel from a shelf.

Now, for the important part. I walked over to the two huge bookshelves in my rather spacious room. Running between the lanes. It was a captivating, almost implausible rendition about life of the less fortunate by one of my favourite authors, Gulam Hashik. Fiction of course, but I thought it would do wonders to help me get into the mood before I started working on my new project. I had to admit, Mr. Takur could very well have given that Ranveer this opportunity. Whether it was his fascination for my curves, or his respect for my work, I was going to make the best of it.

******

“Did she see you?”

“No,” he replied in a low, deep voice. “She walked right out of her house.”

“Don’t let it get too obvious Shyam. You know how important this is to us!”

He cut the call and slipped the phone into the pocket of his kakhis. He let his glove glide back on swiftly and gracefully, covering the tattoo of the eagle on the dorsum of his hand.

******

The traffic was unbearable. The noise, even more unbearable. Vendors yelling, vehicles hooting, animals moving about restlessly, the smell of deep fried batter turning my insides out. But there was no other place I would rather have been in.

“Are we still very far?”

“No madame. We are reaching soon!” was the driver’s enthusiastic reply.

“Is it just me, or has he been saying that for the past half an hour?”

Mohit cackled at my frustration and patted my hand. “Don’t worry didi we’ll be there before you know it.”

“Mohit? What are we even doing here? In this city where men are lunging for money and flesh. People are losing sight to the beautiful trivialities in life, missing opportunities, losing precious time. We’re chasing the wrong things in life Mohit, the wrong things. How long or how well can I freeze time inside this?” I picked my camera and held it in front of me. I guess it was acceptable as long as it didn’t happen to any one of us. After all, what were the chances that it would happen to me? Nah. Impossible. The thought was even derisory. But of course I would offer my sympathy to those who needed it. Oh yes, I would. Mohit was looking loyally at my camera, waiting for me to finish.

Mohit was one of the very few colleagues who didn’t drool all over me in the male infested company I worked for. He had been my assistant for as long as I could remember, and a great help at that. Photography was something that my family never thought I would adopt. I wouldn’t say I did either. It came to me. Naturally. I liked it. Capturing the subtlest of the details, its preciousness and splendor trapped, frozen in the passing of time, I took pride in the authenticity of my talent. The right angle, the right light, the right moment.

A knock on the window nudged me discourteously from my day dreaming. Fiery hair, tattered saree, malnourished infant. Ah these beggars! Mohit reached across and waved her away. I hardly took notice at her pleading eyes and the tear stained face of her child. On the other side of the road, I watched in awe as a tiny man spun a soft cotton ball from his huge wok. He stuck it together with the other magically conjured cotton tufts. I took out my camera and waited for it to whirl into focus. Click!

Behind us, the beggar woman diligently went on from car to car, putting on the same act, to which most people reacted with disgust. A small boy skipped towards her and tugged at her ragged clothes. Her eyes lightened up with gratitude and happiness as she raised her rusty old tin now filled with a few coins up in the air, muttering what she knew of prayers of thankfulness to the Almighty whom she had never seen before. I forced back a funny feeling that had cheekily crept into my heart, my camera idle in my lap.

******

Irritated, I dialed Takur’s number. “Mr. Takur, my talents are of no use here. This place is a mess!”

“I sent you to capture the lives of children in the slum, Anshula. Not to photograph Prince William’s new heir.” The line was cut rudely and abruptly. A child who hardly came up to my knees came and stood beside me, looking at me curiously. Startled, I inched slowly backwards and cringed as my shoe sank into what was surely a puddle of things I didn’t want to think about.

There was a sudden commotion when a small, dirty looking boy bolted through the lane, spraying Mohit and me with dirt and muck. It took me all the effort I had not to scream. In surprise or disgust, I hadn’t decided yet. A man who looked like a vendor was yelling at him in a language I wasn’t very sure I understood. The boy retreated to a corner with defiance in his eyes, his hands hiding something behind his back. Without warning, he shot out from below the arm of the vendor, into one of the tiny cubicles these slum citizens called home.

People poked their heads nosily into the small opening, my head being one of it, that too which was being held in an awkward position as I painstakingly tried not to make contact with the others. The small boy was hugging something in his arms, his back faced towards us, as he moved one hand mechanically. The vendor, a pang of pity washed over his face, guiltily backed away from the door leaving me perplexed. As the child turned slightly, we were introduced to his shirtless baby sister, who was munching happily on the snack he had stolen from the stall. My hand hung limply beside my camera that slung over my shoulder.

******

At the end of the day, I slumped into the sudden found comfort of the car and looked through the photos. I thought the natural light didn’t help me too much today. But I had gotten a good shot of different parts of the slum. And some profiles had turned out quite good too.

Broken roofs, make do doors, dirt and filth.

Loneliness, despair and helplessness.

******

“Your work is too abstract! These aren’t moments, Anshula. These are monuments! I don’t want to know what the place looks like. I want to know what the people are, how they are, who they are. I want you to catch emotion! Happiness, greed, anger, sorrow…this…this is not what I want. Please go home today and think about this.”

“Mr. Takur, allow me to say this with what scanty experience I have as a photographer. Beauty, can be caught in a frame, but the happiness of a mother the first time she sees her child, the love between two lovers who have found life in each other and the peace felt by an old couple who are celebrating their 60^th anniversary together, are moments my camera is incapable of accurately preserving and portraying. Because although the moment can be seen, it cannot be savored. In life, the best moments are those that your camera always failed to capture. I hope you will think about this too. I will be taking my leave now.”

“Hold on, I have something I want to talk about.” Mr. Takur twirled a small pendant on the table distractedly.

I turned, crossed my arms, and waited.

“Remember the story Thomas covered a couple of months back? The kidnapping of the doctor’s daughter. I had asked you to photograph the press conference because the assigned photographer was on leave?”

“Yes, why?”

“Do you have a copy of the photos? The police are coming over tomorrow. They want to reopen the investigation.”

I rummaged through my usually neat drawer and pulled out the file. I quickly glanced through the photos, my eyes easily overlooking the police officer standing to the right of Mr. Takur, his right hand on the table, an eagle spreading its magnificient wings over it.

******

When I stepped into the house, Mother was bumbling about like a bee. Something was definitely not right, or at least not in my favor.

“You are just in time! Pandit Ji is here, go and change into something decent for God’s sake! Go, go!”

I watched her literally whiz back into the kitchen as I looked at myself in the mirror on the wall. Black t-shirt and a pair of full length jeans. I looked back at the place where Mother had vanished into the kitchen.

Back downstairs in the living room, I paid my respects to Pandit Ji as he blessed me in return. I was shown a series of photos of various men in amusing, almost pathetic “groom-to-be” poses. I looked up at my mother, her hands held together in a tight clasp, her eyes all hopeful, watching my lips for an answer, then darting towards my hand to see if they would take pity on her and pick my future.

I told them I needed some time to think about it.

Time was bestowed.

******

The robotic voice of the news reader boomed through the speakers.

“Sources have revealed that the rape and murder of Maya Takur might have been an inside job. The public are now questioning their security that has been placed in the hands of the Police Department.”

There was a lot of yelling in the background as everyone tried to get each other’s attention. A lucky man was presented with a microphone and he spoke in a high pitched voice as younger men tried to push their faces closer to his, chancing at possible fame.

“We trust the police to protect us. If they start resorting to such shameful behavior how are we to sleep in peace believing that our daughters are going to come home safe and sound? How are we…”

The microphone was snatched back by an attractive reporter. “…and do stay tuned for more information after the break.”

It was a sad ordeal. Mr. Takur was a mess. Of course, I had dutifully visited his family and conveyed my condolences. Unable to fathom the true extent of the loss. Unable to imitate grieve of the same magnitude.

I glanced over at the clock. He would be back soon. I decided to start preparing dinner. He did like to have an early dinner, and with all that was being thrown at him he could very well do with some pampering today. I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. Just two weeks of being a wife and I thought I knew it all. I was about to press the power button on the remote when the news came on again.

“This is a screenshot of a video footage we managed to save from the recording obtained from the crime scene.” A photograph of greatly pitiable quality flashed across the flat screen. On the left side of the image was a fuzzy outline of a pair of bare legs and over one ankle, was a hand.

******

My eyes were puffy and swollen by the time he walked in. My hand curled protectively over the handle of the knife that I kept pressing harder and harder onto my back. I watched in teary silence as he turned the knob and latched the door. As he bent to pick his briefcase a small pendant slipped out from his collar and twirled innocently.

In life, the best moments are those that your camera always failed to capture. What if they aren’t the best? What if you never wanted to see what was in that picture ever again? What if a picture couldn’t actually tell a story, but merely rekindled the unwanted memories of only those who were in it? The story was theirs to be told, theirs to be stashed away.

“Hi sweetheart,” he cooed as he sank himself in our new arm chair.

“Why?” I asked, my voice hoarse and hardly above a whisper.

He looked at me cautiously and came closer. He so very slowly placed his hand on my thigh.

“Why Shyam?”

The eagle soared ever so gloriously on the back of his hand.

Sand Dunes

A gust of wind rushes angrily over the mountains,
As dunes spew sand into the air,
The unsettled earth calms itself,
Falling back down in a heavy sigh,
It remains lost, it remains lost.

The sun lowers its veil,
Darkness embraces the soul,
The night is tranquil save for a long howl,
The cold creeps in like a predator encircling its prey,
It remains lost, it remains lost.

She runs along the stone walls,
Her bare feet shuffling silently over the cracked ground,
They have arrived, men and their mounts,
Shoulders burdened with bows, hips with swords,
It remains lost, it remains lost.

It is time now she tells herself,
Floors above the old man fights death,
Dainty fingers wrapped around a hilt,
She leads on the magnificent steed,
"I will get it back, I will get it back."

Deception

She reached her hand towards his heart,
And cradled it never wanting to part.
He took her hand under the rising moon,
And embraced her off the damp white sand.
I heard a gasp that should have been mine,
I heard a laugh that should have been mine.

Together they built a house,
Together they fulfilled dreams.
Together they disciplined children,
Together they waited till death parted them.
I heard fights that should have been mine,
I waited eventhough the time was not mine.

All that was left to me,
Was a tattered heart,
Wingless hope,
A soulless body,
And a mind void of any clue of how his fingers felt to my touch.

Just Another Day

                Donna fanned herself with one hand and dabbed at her face with a piece of tissue paper that seemed to be holding more moisture than it was supposed to hold. She opened her bag and rummaged for her tissue packet which she found empty. Sighing, she started fanning herself again. The sun was offending her with its sweltering heat and her sweat glands were trying their best to compensate for it. And she? She was sitting beside her not-so-interested teammate on a plastic stool that had seen better days. Pamphlets that they had distributed from 8 o’clock in the morning had been unceremoniously strewn all around them, most before their very eyes, some discretely into the dustbin around the corner of the building about twenty metres away. They had put up their booth in front of a row of shops, hoping that they could send their message across to many people. They had sent their message alright, but they were highly in doubt of whether or not the people had received them.

                Donna looked at the form on the foldable plastic table. Of all the one hundred spaces they had aimed to fill, only three were occupied with names. Saddened, and not understanding why people had failed to come to such an important realization about life, Donna picked up a pamphlet again to continue fanning herself. As she did so, she observed a tall, rather good looking man coming from the opposite direction. Everything he wore, from his sunglasses to his olive green shirt, to his shoes bore price tags Donna knew she couldn’t even dream of. She could vaguely make out what he was saying into the phone.

                “Come on darling, you know how it is. I promise to bring you tomorrow instead. Don’t you trust me?”

                His facial expression gave Donna every reason not to trust him. She quickly walked up to him with a pamphlet and extended her arm to him. To Donna’s disgust the man didn’t even give her a glance as he waved her away. As a last resort she opted to beggary and was again slapped with disappointed. He had merely stepped out of her way. She didn’t mind the people who put up their hands apologetically, but this, always left her fuming. She went back to her chair and sat down so hard that she was very sure she heard something crack.

                Donna was a nurse. She was a plump girl with a round face which was a flustered crimson now, and she was hardly above five feet. She had graduated from university a few months ago, and she had been very excited about work. Little did she realize that many other things came with her job, and it wasn’t just wiping bottoms and cleaning food off her apron. Frankly speaking, all that was dim in comparison with what she was going through now. She was horrified at the attitude of people, their lack of interest, and their selfishness.  Then they were those who really wanted to make a difference but were afraid to do so. She herself had been one of them. It had taken her a really long time to come in terms with it.

                She picked up a pamphlet and flipped through it. Sometimes, she still wasn’t sure what had made her do it. She had asked herself many times if it would matter when the time came. She would have no idea that it was happening, her friends and family might finally have a reason to feel proud of her, and most importantly, she would give people a reason to live. She had toiled this over and over in her mind until she was very sure that the only thing that could come out of it was nothing but goodness. But why didn’t people understand that? It couldn’t be because they really didn’t care. She had more faith in people around her. Maybe they didn’t know to what extent the change would be. Maybe they took what they had to give for granted. Maybe they had to understand what kind of difference it could actually make. But who was she to make that difference? Throughout her schooling days, the number of friends she had could be counted using her ten pudgy fingers. She hardly met her cousins, she hardly spoke to her three older siblings, and her parents might have even forgotten the fact that they had a fourth child who had just finished nursing school and was fighting against the world to save lives.

                She didn’t know either. She didn’t know what kind of a difference it would make either. But she had done it. For the greater good. When she had asked her parents opinion they had merely ‘mm-ed’ her, as though her actions had no significance, no purpose, totally useless. When she had asked her friends, she had been accused of insanity.

                “You crazy ah?”

                “What’s wrong with you?”

                “Don’t la! Later you don’t know what they will do to you also!”

                Donna had angrily retorted all of them. “They will do what they have to do. And that depends on what I do now!”

                Her friends watched sadly as their mad friend walked out of the door. After an intense discussion they decided that her lack of attention at home had gotten the better of her. Donna had turned out perfectly fine for a child deprived of time, love and attention. She was independent, and she was always trying to make a difference for the better. Even if not for the whole world, at least for people around her. She never put herself before another person who needed her more than herself. She looked at her watch. This quality had further assured her that she had done the right thing, and she wanted to encourage people to do the right thing too. It was six o’clock, an hour well past the time she was expected to be at her booth. Asha, her petite partner on the job looked up at her hopefully, her eyes clearly pleading for Donna to call it a day.

                Donna sighed and started packing her things. She stacked the pamphlets neatly and held them in one arm while she picked her bag up in the other. She crossed the road and turned back wondering what was taking the other girl so long. Asha was waving to her. Donna looked at her first confused then her eyes glinted with hope and excitement as she noticed the lanky boy standing next to Asha. She struggled to balance the pamphlets in one hand and hugged her bag closer to her. Crossing the road was the last thing she remembered.

                In a few moments, a large group had formed around Donna. Many members of the crowd were those who had passed Donna earlier in the day. An elderly man wearing a pair of spectacles stepped forward and squatted next to Donna’s body. He placed two fingers on her neck. He then looked up at Asha who’s face had been drained of color.

                “Is she an organ donor?”

Some of us may already be organ donors, some of us may not, that too for many reasons. I have friends who roll their eyes when I speak of organ donation, I have friends who say “Die already somemore what? Donate la! Don’t care.” Then I have friends who say “Yeah, I think I donated a couple of stuff. But I doubt they’ll be usable la. You know the amount I drink and stuff”. I also have friends to whom this topic is taboo. If selfishness and lack of interest are your reasons, I plead you to think again. If there are more complicated reasons, and you’re still eligible with healthy organs, talk it out with someone who can help you make a decision. Out of many, many donated hearts, probably only one will match a dying young boy. The next day is always just another day for most of us, but it may be another life for someone else.

                

Would you?

I run my fingers over your words,

Trying to take in all I might have missed,

All I could have had,

If only I had known.

I close my eyes and see yours,

I take slow breaths and wish to hear yours,

I place my palm over my heart and yearn to feel yours,

If only I had known.

What if I had seen all you said I hadn't,

What if I had felt all you said I didn't,

What if I had said all you said I wouldn't?

If only I had let you know.

Has time taken you away from me?

Has another hand stolen your heart?

Has another pair of lips deprived me of yours?

I don't know if I have the strength to know.

I would lie forever in your embrace,

Be forever in your debt,

Trudge beside you like a puppy,

If only you would let me know...

Imperfection

She hardly felt its weight as she turned over the soft roll between her fingers. Running her finger along its whole length, she absentmindedly brought it close to her nostrils, taking in its scent, and traced her lips with one end. She sat with her legs crossed over each other, her Prada shoes glinting under the flamboyant lighting of her office. The office was of a magnificent size, her desk carrying some of the latest development in technology and the furniture reflecting anything but modesty. Lights were nestled in the walls in every peculiar way possible. She picked the yellow rectangular box and swirled the fluid inside. She raised her thumb to a tiny catch at the top of the box, her perfectly manicured nail gleaming under the lights. She deftly pressed the lever down in a swift movement, causing an angry flame to burst out of it. She brought it closer and watched as the flame hungrily consumed the white papery stick.

                Ananya had the perfect life. Numerous pairs of eyes stared at her not being able to get enough of her skin deep perfection wherever she went, she had a company full of people to boss around, and she got most of her things done by assistants and servants. Her refusal to accommodate, her expectation for all to adore her, and her perception that no one would be on par with her deprived her of a life companion. It wasn’t surprising, really. She turned back to her laptop screen. It was still showing the same mail. She had been assigned to Luanda, and if she managed to plant conviction in the hearts there, the position she had been waiting for would be hers. There was nothing more to think about. She pressed her cigarette into the ashtray causing it to crumble to dust. Her fingers danced over the keyboard then clicked the ‘send’ button.

                

              Her flight had been of utmost comfort. Dishes at her fancies, scotch to her pleasure and seats of her choice. As she walked out of the plane and into the airport, she looked around the small building in disgust. She had never seen walls dirtier than these, or floors matted with so much of dirt that her open-toed silver Gucci shoes left shoe prints on the dirt. Clearing the immigration checkpoint at which officers not involved with her admittance were busy eyeing her, she gingerly reached out her hand to take back her passport very carefully so as to not touch the man or the metal table top that reeked with a funny smell and glistened with grime. Anger rising in her veins, she walked briskly to the tiny exit door and rummaged her handbag for her phone.

                Mr. Jenkins, Ananya’s boss, was a man in his early fifties. He ran this company with the help of his childhood friend Mr.Rumi, whose son did everything a boy without a mother would do. Mrs. Rumi had succumbed to a respiratory disease when their son was very young. And Mr.Rumi, keeping his work top priority had lost his son as well. The phone rang. Jenkins looked at the caller ID then smiled and winked at Rumi. He tried to keep humour out of his voice as Ananya’s voice boomed over the speaker. He hardly heard what she was saying as he played with his paperweight.

                “Yes, yes my dear. Remember, it’s all for this company. You’re the best we have. Why would I have sent you otherwise? You’re the only one qualified to...” Jenkins stopped short as more shouting interrupted him. He had barely managed to stifle a laugh before he ended the call. He turned back to Rumi and put a long arm around his friend.

                “I think the job is definitely your son’s, partner.” Both men laughed and walked out of the door, arms resting on each other’s shoulder.

                Ananya would have slammed the phone down if she could. She took a deep breath and walked out of the exit door. It was rather empty. Maybe not many people were expected at airports in places like this. She looked far ahead. Dry earth, dry earth, and more dry earth was all she saw. A few rickety cars stood around here and there. Other than that, there were no vehicles, or greenery, or civilised looking people. They were all staring at her. She looked at their ragged clothes and uncovered feet. For the first time, she was not very sure why she was being gawked at. She looked a little lower then spotted a withered paper that bore the name ‘Anyanya’. Behind the paper stood a short, small framed man who grinned at her from ear to ear. Before she could walk towards him he ran to her and collected her luggage from her. He half ran, trying to show her the way while he chanted “Welkam madim, welkam madim, this way madim!”

                Her pick up vehicle was a wobbly assumed-to-be-white car of a make she was unable to identify. From what she had already seen she would not have been surprised if someone had taken parts from different places and assembled them together. Trying not to think about it, she spread a paper bag over the seat before she got in.

                “Madim! No woari! I clean alldy!” he flashed his ear to ear grin again.

                Ananya had to pretend to be asleep to avoid conversation with this over eager man but she did not dare rest her head against the seat. As a result, she looked like a statue with closed eyes and very stiff limbs being held as close to each other as possible. She still couldn’t believe that she was in a place that smelled and looked like this. If this was a nightmare, she hoped that it would end very soon. Her eyes flew open as the car jumped to a stop.

                “Sorry madim! Big cow crossy!” he smiled apologetically.

                A few hours later, she felt something soft prodding her. She woke up to find herself sleeping comfortably on terrible looking seats at the back of a car and she instinctively wiped away saliva that had begun to escape the corner of her lips. She sat up suddenly remembering where she was and was greeted by at least ten wide grins. The car door was being held open by two kids and her driver had tried waking her up by tapping her with a browning towel, afraid to touch her in case he ruined her perfect skin. The kids were of many sizes and mostly the same shapes. They had thin wiry limbs and distended pot bellies. Their skin stretched over bone mostly. They looked at her with wide eyes and hopeful smiles. Most of them wore loin cloths and their scrawny toes were caked with dirt and mud. She continued to watch them as she felt pangs of an emotion she couldn’t quite place.

                “This way madim!” Her driver, whose name she found out later was Shakur, led her to a small earthen hut. She had to bend to enter the door. She kept reminding herself to take deep breaths and talk herself into not fainting. She had never pitied herself more than this in her life so far. A huge pot stood over carefully arranged coal that shone a brilliant amber. A woven mat had been placed on the other side of the room and in front of this mat were plates of different sizes that seemed to be made of dried leaves. She consoled her heart hoping it would calm down as she saw her luggage at the corner covered in layers of dirt. She would have to dispose them as soon as she got back. She brought back her concentration to the small couple who were standing in front of her with their hands clasped together. The entrance to the hut was now filled with bodies and heads and soft chatter. She looked at the mat again then back at Shakur.

                “I really just want to sleep,” Ananya said in a tired voice. What kind of sleeping arrangements she was going to have, she was too terrified to even think about in case her imagination got the better of her.

                “No, no madim! You eat. Then Saar come, you go big bed!”

                Before she could decide what he meant, there were sounds of exclamation from the crowd at the entrance and they made way to let someone in. It was a tall man with a big build, squared jaws and heavy set brows. He wore a clean set of formal attire and to Ananya’s relief, a pair of shoes.

                “Miss Anyanya?” he asked in a deep voice and in an accent she could thankfully understand.

                “It’s Ananya.” She said as she rejected his extended hand and put her hands together in a traditional Indian welcome gesture. Being Indian had its perks sometimes.

                “Ah yes,” he said as he retracted his hand. “I am Waiyaki. Please come with me, I will brief you on your assignment while we take you to your hotel.”

                Kids ran to take her luggage and load it into the car. This car, was more acceptable than the cart she had arrived in.

                “Madim you no eating?” asked Shakur in a clearly disappointed voice. Ananya looked at the man. She came from a place where she ordered people around because she knew they were afraid of her. But they always did it for the money she paid them monthly. If she was to take away that benefit, she might even find her food poisoned. But this man, here, had not a clue who she was or where she was from, and he was begging her to eat food that he probably couldn’t afford for his family. She peered into the big pot. It held thick yellow liquid with tiny yellow lumps floating on it.

                “What is this?” she asked Shakur.

                Absolutely delighted at her question, he said “Ugali mash up madim!”

                Laughing at Ananya’s expression Waiyaki explain that it was a type of corn or sorghum porridge that most Africans ate. Ananya smiled for the first time in what felt like years and emptied her water bottle. Into it, she told Shakur’s wife to fill the ugali.

                The hotel was of an acceptable standard. After what she had been through today, Ananya couldn’t care much about anything else there was to come and even if there was, she was too tired to do anything about it. She closed her eyes and bathed while praying very hard that God would divert any insect or animal away while she showered. The water was biting cold and her joints were beginning to feel fragile but exhaustion made her stand still under the frosty pellets. The next morning she slept through her alarm and seven calls and woke up to loud banging on her door. She shot out of bed and cautiously opened the door to a rather worried Waiyaki. His expression of anxiety turned to that of amusement as he looked at Ananya.

                “How do you always manage to look so pretty?” he laughed and told her the car was waiting for her downstairs. He promised her a good breakfast when he saw the bottle of ugali still on her dressing table. Ananya walked into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Then she understood what he had laughed at.

                Soon, they were on the way back to the village. Ananya spent almost a week there. And then it was time to go home. She shook hands with Waiyaki, hugged Shakur’s wife, hugged all the children in the village, and smiled at the immigration officer before entering the waiting area. She gave herself two days grace period before she turned up for work again. She entered the office and took her seat in front of Jenkins. As she had expected, he was not very happy. That somehow left her beaming.

                “Aren’t you going to ask me anything?” Ananya challenged Jenkins. He remained silent. Out of fury or hesitation, she knew not.

                “Then I shall begin. I was born into a family that offered me nothing but perfection. In one week, I learnt mistakes from failures I never faced, I felt happiness I did not know how to share, I heard laughter I had no time to produce, I saw miracles I had considered so insignificant and I said things I wish I had learnt to say a long time ago. Wealth and empty promises you made beneficial to your future had my mind clouded in grey. Thank you. Thank you for making my manicure session go to waste, for the damage gave me an opportunity to repair my ways. Thank you for letting a car ride cover me in dirt and grime, for that dirt taught me that health was a favour offered by disease. Thank you for letting insects find shelter in my hair, for that invasion made me realize how people shelter their kind for only profitable gestures. Thank you for taking away electricity from one week of my life, for that darkness has made me realize how much light I could shine onto paths of others. I am ashamed to admit that I had moved to your strings and played to your tune. The abolishment of the whole village for your corruption to prosper I deemed inappropriate, and hence, refused to approve the proposal. I have informed the Luanda authorities. I closed my eyes to facts, hence I had to learn through an accident*. This, is my letter of resignation.”

                Ananya did not turn back to look at Jenkins. She placed her hand on the handle of the door and her eyes fell on her clean and short fingernails. She stepped out of the office in her simple chappals and pastel cotton salwar kameez. She took out her phone and dialled the number. A deep voice answered.

                “Hello?”

                “I’m flying down this weekend. Kindly inform all the people you have selected. We will discuss about the school.”

                Ananya smiled and walked out of the lavish building. Her former secretary ran behind her, a piece of chocolate cake in one hand, made specially by Ananya who had discovered a new talent.

*Adapted from an African proverb

                                                                                                                                                           Shalini Subramanian                

Out Of Control

            Nehan closed his text book and covered his face with his hands. A deep sense of regret filled his overworked mind as he shut down his laptop. “I should have started earlier, I should have started earlier!” he muttered angrily to himself. He left his papers and stationeries strewn all over the table and turned off his desk lamp. Walking over to the other end of the room, he opened the refrigerator door and helped himself to a few mouthfuls of ice water. Nehan had recently been employed at a highly respected financial company as one of their accountants. This fantastic studio apartment had been one of their many offers. A few years ago, he could not even have dreamt about having friends who owned luxuries such as this one.

            The studio apartment was one of the three units available on the twenty first floor of every block of a high end condominium that consisted of four towers. Nehan stayed in the West Tower. Each studio unit comprised of its own bedroom, a bathroom, a petite corner that served as a kitchen and a vast space across the kitchen which Nehan had divided into a living room and a working area. He was promised a regular cleaning service which was available only in two weeks time. He had never been much of a workaholic but this new employment was pushing him to his limits. He succumbed to all its demands only because he knew the rewards offered were equally grandiose. It was, after all, a company with impressive international reputation and he simply had to be on par.

            Deciding he would call it a night, Nehan dimmed the lights in the kitchen, turned everything else off then walked over to the bedroom. His bedroom had been furnished to his liking, all of it paid for of course, and he wasn’t too bad with his interior designing. The bedroom was rather huge for a room that was meant for one person. It had a queen sized bed to one side, a fluffy carpet was spread in front of it, and a few metres away was a huge bathroom, that had a big bathroom that was attached to a walk in wardrobe. Nehan had always felt that white was the colour of elegance and had tried to get everything in white.

            He looked at himself in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. He felt a slight tinge of pride as he realized he was better looking than the average man. He admired his symmetrical features, his new French beard, and how his slightly tanned skin made him look more masculine than he actually was. Wiping his face, he stepped out of the door and dragged himself onto bed. He would need to start out for work earlier than usual the next morning. There were going to be road blocks.

            At 6 o’clock sharp, his phone crowed at a magnitude that would have put a rooster to shame. As per routine, Nehan coaxed his alarm to a snooze without even looking at it. Fifteen minutes later, it crowed again and Nehan woke up grumpily as he tried to shake his mind awake. He went through his customary morning duties, decided he looked good with his two day stubbles and blindly picked off clothes from his wardrobe. He walked out of his bedroom and entered the kitchen, clumsily stirred a packet of instant coffee into the milk that he didn’t have the time to allow to boil properly, gulped down his coffee, and walked out of his home with a tie over his shoulder and his things packed in a briefcase. If he had remembered to take his laptop, he would have realized that his table was neater than he had left it. 

            After parking the car in the basement, he took the lift up to the fourteenth floor and greeted the security guard as he entered his room. Like his apartment, his office too looked as ostentatious as possible. Eight floors were allocated to administration alone and every floor had a common pantry. He dumped his things on his table and walked over to the window to open the shutters. Nehan was fond of the sun. He didn’t like his working area to be dark and gloomy or to be drenched in fluorescent lights. He preferred the sun to project its rays into every corner of the room. He returned back to his desk and opened his briefcase. He took out his laptop and set it on the table.

            It was his habit to check the stock market before he started work every day. Finding nothing interesting to invest in this morning, he set to sorting out the pile of files on the table. His office phone rang. Expecting more work in his hands, he wearily answered the phone.

            “Good morning. Mr. Nehan?” asked a light, breezy female voice.

            “Yes, speaking,” he replied, slightly puzzled.

            “I’m calling from the bank. This is regarding a withdrawal you made a short while ago. We’re calling to make sure it was made by you because it seems to be rather far from your location and we were wondering if you may have left without informing us. The transaction amount was rather large too. We couldn’t get you on your mobile phone, so we tried your office.”

            Panicking, Nehan groped for his wallet and fumbled with the flaps and pockets as he searched for his ATM card. His heart calmed down when he pulled out the glinting silver card. He heaved a sigh of relief and focused back on his receiver.

            “I think you must have been mistaken. My card is still with me, and no, I did not make any transaction today.”

            The female voice took some time to come back. Nehan could hear the sharp clicks of a keyboard. “The system has recorded a withdrawal at 7.34am this morning sir. However, if you insist nothing is amiss then we are very sorry for the inconvenience caused. Do let us know if you need assistance with anything. Have a pleasant day sir.”

            “Thank you, and same to you,” replied Nehan.

            He sat back on his chair, his heart somewhat still jumpy. It was 8.12am now. He must have been on the way to work at the mentioned time. We couldn’t get you on your mobile phone, she had said. That was weird. He took his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it. The screen remained blank. He remembered charging it last night and he never switched off his phone. He tried turning on his phone and it showed some sign of life. There were two missed calls and a text message. The text message read:

            Your account has been debited with $5000 at 7.34am.

            Nehan froze at the words on his screen. But...that’s impossible! He checked his card again. It seemed authentic enough and it still bore his signature at the back. The phone rang again. He picked it up and the same female voice answered. This time, she sounded a bit worried herself.

            “Mr. Nehan? I’m sorry to be disturbing you again. But our security cameras have confirmed that you have withdrawn the money yourself.”

            His heart racing again, he said in a tone that sounded angrier than he was. “Look Miss...missy. At 7.34am, I was on the way to work. There is no way I could have travelled to an ATM halfway across the country then returned back here in time for work.”

            “I understand sir, which is why we would like you to drop by to have a look for yourself. You can come after working hours. The security rooms will still be open.”

            Nehan fidgeted for the rest of the day, unable to keep his nerves in check. He couldn’t take time off from work either because he was afraid it would reflect badly on him. Each time his phone vibrated with a text message he panicked. As soon as the clock ticked five, he picked his already packed things and almost ran to the lift. The lift took longer than usual to reach the bottom and Nehan drove as recklessly as he dared. When he reached the bank a security guard guided him to their control room. A woman of about average height was drinking from a mug that smelt like chocolate.

            “Mr. Nehan?” she asked with her eyebrows raised. She had friendly brown eyes and a  pretty dimple on one cheek.

            “Yes, yes. Can I see the footage please?” Nehan was surprised at the politeness he could still afford.

            “Yes, of course sir. I’m Kaushalya. We have been waiting for you and we’re terribly sorry for the inconvenience caused sir. Please have a seat.” She motioned to a chair next to her. Nehan sat at the very edge of the chair, his breath short and rapid, his imagination running wild.

            “The footage is ready ma’am,” said a man with a heavy foreign accent.

            It played on the computer screen in front of them and Nehan watched it with horror. He saw himself walking towards the ATM, and withdrawing the money. He saw himself wearing his favourite red Polo shirt, his jeans which were slightly torn at the right knee, and his pair of running shoes. But his eyes...they were a greenish brown. He mentioned this to Kaushalya and she requested the guard to zoom in on the face. It was Nehan. The new French beard, the symmetrical face, the two day stubble, the exact shade of tan...but the eyes weren’t his. Kaushalya promised to look into this matter immediately and she said she would keep him informed of the progress. Meanwhile, she offered to cancel his card. Unable to respond otherwise, Nehan merely nodded his head and left for home.

            He opened the door and walked to his working desk. He sat down on the chair and absentmindedly ran his fingers along his laptop. He suddenly stopped and looked down. The laptop bag was under his table, and its zip lay opened. He just remembered he had not brought his laptop bag to work today and yet, he had used his laptop. He looked back at the laptop on the table. He contemplated if he really wanted to open his briefcase to check if his laptop was still inside. He decided not to and ran to his wardrobe instead. The advantage of having such a large wardrobe was that everything could be organized easily. He kept all of his t shirts in one section. He searched his entire wardrobe twice but could not find his favourite red shirt. He even rummaged through his laundry and found nothing.

            A sudden clink of metal caught his attention. Not sure if his heart was still inside where it was supposed to be, he picked up his golf club from the corner of the room and slowly walked out of his bedroom. There was no one outside. He inched towards his desk and saw a mug on his table. It had a faint lipstick stain on one side and smelt strongly of chocolate.

            “Looking for something?” asked a light, breezy female voice. Nehan spun around so fast that he was unable to stay balanced on his feet.

            “Kau...Kaushalya?” sputtered Nehan. His voice hardly above a whisper, his heart definitely not where it was supposed to be. His whole body seemed to be pumping blood in every direction now.

            Kaushalya looked at him with her greenish brown eyes and grinned, revealing one pretty dimple. Clamped between her jaws, was a tiny fragment of a red Polo shirt.