Showing posts with label Subhash Chandra. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Subhash Chandra. Show all posts

Fiction: The Cannibals

Subhash Chandra

Subhash Chandra

Prologue: Many creative writers suffered from mental health issues. They include celebrities, such as Franz Kafka, Virginia Woolf, Ernest Hemingway, Ezra Pound, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Eugene O'Neill, Sylvia Plath, Jack Kerouac, Scott Fitzgerald, and more.
------------

Me -- Hi Vipin, where have you been?
Vipin -- With the goblins. Call me later. (Crotchety tone)

Me -- Suresh, how are you doing, fella?
Suresh -- Still in bed … will give you a tinkle in the evening. (Churlish tone)

Me -- All well, Tarun?
Tarun – I’m super. Busy right now. Gymming. Building abs and biceps. (Tone snappish, gruff, off-putting).

I wondered what was wrong with the guys. How could they behave like that? …  We were bosom chums. The (in)famous five at college who seldom attended classes yet scored high in exams, leaving the professors confounded. I thought hard, but could not figure it out. Finally, I visited my friend, Ramaswamy, whom we call Kapila, (the ‘Primal Wise man’ or the ‘Knower’ in Indian Mythology). 

I told him what had transpired and asked, “What do you think is eating up the blighters?” 
Ramaswamy is gentle and of unflappable disposition. I have never seen him agitated. After a few seconds he said training his penetrating gaze at me, “They are pissed off with you.”  
“But why?”
“Nobody likes being turned into fodder for your fiction.”
“Oh!”  
“Even Google respects privacy,” said Ramaswamy gravely. 
“But I have modelled characters on myself, too. And often made them funny, crazy, even idiotic. All four of you have vetted the drafts of my stories that were published in reputed journals and garnered appreciation.  And I often use the conversations between you and me in my fiction… You never got miffed with me.”
“But Sujatha hates your guts.”
“What?”
 “Yes. She has resolved to murder you.” 
“But why?”
“The way you mock Sambhar, Rasam, Idlee in your stories. Call them bland, worthless food, ghaas-phoos. Lump all the Southern States together, and contemptuously call us ‘Ssala Madrasi.’ What’s more, you make fun of our pronunciation of English! 
“Eh?”
“Yes, you wrote in a story, we pronounce food as ‘foodda, ‘woman as oman, … and whatnot.”  
“But Ramaswamy, the narrator did not do that. And for the love of Mike, it is fiction.”
“Who creates characters? And you have repeated umpteen times yourself that fiction mirrors reality.”  
“Where is Anni (brother’s wife)?” I asked with a thumping heart.
“She is due back from the temple any minute!”
I sprinted out, downcast.   
                                                          #
That night I did not sleep a wink. I kept going over the options. Give up writing, and live a ‘normal’ life? That meant turning into a vegetable. 
No, that is not acceptable. I’ll continue to write … at all costs.

Five months went by. They had forsaken me. Then loneliness began to get to me. And it is the worst curse. I found myself talking to myself. My mind began to play tricks. I started thinking bizarre thoughts. I’d see hallucinations sometimes. Vipin, Suresh, and Tarun have come and apologised for their insolence … Ramaswamy has died of a sudden cardiac arrest and Sujatha Anni is sitting by his side shedding silent tears.      
                                                    #
“Hmm … so you are a writer,” the Shrink mumbled reading the history sheet his Junior had prepared. 
“Look, gentleman, you need to socialise,” he said after a thoughtful pause. 
“With whom? … Can you clap with one hand?”
He looked flummoxed.
“I have killed my friends.”
His face turned taut … wary. 
I asked, “Will you be friends with me?”
His brows got knitted.   
“It will be exorbitant,” he blurted out and abruptly got up from his high-back chair to indicate the session was over. 

I paused at the door and turned back. He looked worried and was staring at the ceiling … blankly!

Short Fiction: Money Madness

Subhash Chandra

Subhash Chandra

It was a vicious jam --bumper-kissing-bumper type. Between the gaps and crevices were wedged freight carrier tempos, three-wheeler autos, scooters and motorcycles, rickshaws, and bicycles.    

Impatience throbbed in the revving engines. Tempers were on the boil. A cacophony of needless honking frayed the nerves. Now and then, there would be a slight forward movement and the vehicles aggressively pushed their snouts in front of each other, further messing up the jam.  

Suddenly, a burly, pot-bellied man -- a thick gold chain dangling around his neck -- got out of the glistening Jaguar F-Pace and began to abuse and pound with his fist a skinny rickshaw puller. Every time the Jaguar man hit the poor fellow, he tried to duck but failed. He did not retaliate. He could not. Poverty instills forbearance.

I was privy to the scene as I was close behind the Jaguar man who was like a flaming furnace. When I could not take it anymore, I got out of my car and stood in front of the rickshaw puller. I was young and well-built, with an exercised body.  Blinded by fury, the man raised his hand again, but I held it midair.
“Stop it. And get a hold on yourself, please.”
He made an abortive attempt to push me aside to lunge at the rickshaw puller. He was trembling in rage, and the poor fellow was quaking in fear.  
“You don’t know what he has done?”
“I do. I have seen it all.” 
“I am on my way home straight from the showroom,” he rasped.
The dent and the scratch looked ugly, no doubt.
“But you were equally at fault.”
“What shit are you talking about?” he bawled, getting redder in the face.  
 “When the traffic moved a little, you pressed forward and so did everyone else,” I said in an even voice. I have a phlegmatic disposition and don’t get ruffled up easily.
“Both of you got too close to each other. The axle, protruding from the rickshaw’s left wheel, scraped your car.”
“I will not take this bullshit from you,” he barked. 

In fact, my intervention incensed him further. He glared venomously at the half-dead rickshaw puller and shouted over my shoulder, “Bastard … you wait, I am going to kill you.” 
He again tried to shove me aside but failed.  He was drenched in sweat in the chilly December.

This time a scuffle ensued between us. But it was inconclusive as he was up against an equal. Anyway, the scuffle was short-lasting because the traffic started creeping forward. I saw in the rearview mirror that he had grabbed the poor man by the neck and was raining brutal blows on him.   

Then I heard a collective plaintive shout but could not see what had happened, as I had turned into a lane. I thought the brute had succeeded in felling the poor man.    

I read in the next day’s newspaper, ‘Assailant Dies in Road Rage.’ The ‘story’ (called as such in journalistic vocabulary) went on to report how the victim -- a rickshaw puller -- took him to a nearby hospital, but he was declared ‘brought dead!’

Short Fiction: Thanksgiving

Subhash Chandra

Subhash Chandra


About six years old. She was running towards us as fast as her little feet could carry. Clad in an unwashed frock, frayed at the edges, barefooted, tousled hair perhaps infested with lice, she stood looking at me for a few seconds,  scratching her head. Since I did not respond instantly, she took her place at the end of the queue.  

While driving on the Outer Ring Road, I got involved in a dangerous pile-up that killed three and injured five -- two of them critically. I escaped with only a crack in my left wrist. A miracle indeed! We organized a pooja at home and decided to treat the poor as Thanksgiving to God Almighty.

Garima and I were readying and handing out thermocol plates with the delicious fare she had cooked: jeera-aloo, gobhi matar, chana-masala, raita, halwa, and kheer. (My wife can give the chef of a starred hotel in Delhi a run for his money. No exaggeration!) 

The queue comprising bicycle rickshaw pullers, E-rickshaws drivers, small vegetable and fruit vendors, and some Basti (slum) dwellers, crawled slowly.  Finally, when the small girl reached us, the food had finished except for a little Kheer … just enough for one katori (a small thermocol bowl). My wife handed her the kheer and said, “Sorry, everything is over!
The child looked terribly disappointed, but her eyes lit up when she saw the kheer was generously laced with nuts like almonds, pistachios, and cashews.

Meanwhile, a boy, about four years old, also came running. The girl told him, “Toone bahut dair kar di.” (You are too late).
His face fell. But the next moment, the girl said, “Listen, cup your hands.”
The boy looked confused.

Putting the small bowl on the side of our table, she demonstrated to him how to do that. He complied. She poured more than half of the contents in the small bowl into his cupped hands and he slurped the sweet. Then she licked the katori clean and both smiled at each other. 

I asked the girl, “Is he your brother?”
“No.”
“Friend?”
“No.”
“How do you know him?”
“He lives in the Basti.” 
I asked her, “What is your name?”
“Lakshmi.”
“And yours,” I asked the boy.
“Saleem,” she piped up before he could open his mouth.
“Eh?”
“Saleem … Saleem,” she repeated loudly, gave out a tinkling laugh and both gamboled away cheerily. 

The coconut vendor standing nearby, said, “If only they could remain children forever!”

Creative Nonfiction: Dare Devil

Subhash Chandra
A cautionary message (actually a warning!) on a signboard I had read while driving up to a hill station flashes in my mind.                                                          
                                                    #
Time: early morning, about 6.00 a.m. Place: Sai Baba Chowk Crossing on Lala Jagat Narayan Marg in Rohini, Delhi. It is a major crossing; the intersecting roads get clogged with traffic as the day progresses. But at this time, not many vehicles are on the road. The traffic signal is red and a taxi is waiting. I stop behind the taxi. A spanking new SUV whizzes past … the red light be damned! 

After about a month I read in the newspaper about a smash-up at Madhuban Chowk on the same road involving an SUV and a truck … and the death of the car driver on the spot!
#
The message on the signboard was: 
‘Better to reach twenty minutes late than to reach twenty years too early. DRIVE SLOW!’ 


Poignant poetry

Book Review by Subhash Chandra


Nostalgia Crafting a Home Within
Author: Mahua Sen
Year 2024
Pages: 122
ISBN 978-93-92494-52-9
Price ₹ 349 | USD 9.99  

Quite some time ago I posted on my FB page that all poets share the same address: RAINBOW. 
It was an impulsive act. Impulses, we have been told by psychoanalysts, spring from the Id (the Unconscious), and therefore, are chaotic and irrational. However, they have a subterranean logic that is not graspable … at least immediately. If reflected on after a lapse of time, often you begin to understand the rationale. 

Thinking back, I realise, why the Rainbow is Poets’ habitat. They are empathetic, blessed people who have been assigned the responsibility to create beauty through their poems (songs, even the sad ones) that make the world beautiful and create peace and harmony which the world has always needed … and does now more than ever.  It is not for nothing that the planets move in harmony and the process creates the music of the universe.   

That my impulsive statement was not a meaningless effusion is borne out by my encounter with Mahua Sen’s poetry collection, Nostalgia Crafting a Home Within.  The title is multilayered. It has depth and universality and is delicately suggestive. It indicates that the idea animating the poems is YEARNING – yearning for Home and all that goes with it: love, understanding, warmth, security, freedom from responsibilities, and the comfort of the lap of the grandmother and her stories to boot.

All of us irreversibly lose home through a shift in place/space or through the process of growing up, but the longing for home becomes more intense with time and we attempt to retrieve it by crafting it through memories (nostalgia).
                                                        #
Life is full of vicissitudes; we are vulnerable to crises that cause worry and stress. Each day seems an arduous climb and, at times a harrowing task. One can either find ways of dealing with the situation or go under and slide into depression.

In the poem “Red,” the poet is overwhelmed by the exhaustion caused by confronting nettling issues during the day, and sleep eludes her like a mirage in the ‘desert of the night.’ She wraps herself “in the warm, crimson hues of nostalgia … A comforting cocoon [home] that shelters” her “from the harsh winds of the present.” (!3). 

Trudging the cratered road of life is exhausting, and the drained sojourner looks for the evergreen ‘Live Oak’ under which s/he can rest in the dense shade, replenish her energy, and resume the journey. The ‘evergreen tree’ is the grandmother in the poem, “Grandmother,” which I find is one of the most heart-touching and beautiful verses in the collection.
To wit: “I still hear the faint chime of my grandma’s bangles, 
…. …
In the labyrinth of days … 
Her lap, a sanctuary from life’s tempestuous climb.” (15)

Craving for love and romance is universal. Each individual cutting across gender, class or caste, and marital status, is struck by Cupid once in a lifetime, even though it is well-known that unrequited love causes anguish.  This pain is captured in the poem, “Charulata,” who carries within her more of her ‘lover’ than she does of herself. 
“The epicentre of/my being now bears the weight of memories, suffused with the scent of 
bloodstains, amplifying the tumultuous chaos within” (16). 

There are other poems like, “Echoes of Childhood Fragrance,” in which
“Nostalgia seeps through the cracks of my heart, crafting a home
within.” 
And on “Certain evenings, in particular, carry a profound aroma, a scent
that resonates with ‘home.’ (23). 

In “Desiring Simplicity, 
“My heart longs for a voyage back in time, 
To days of innocent bliss and lavish twilight affairs, 
I muse upon the shade of nostalgia’s hue …” 
Even if the poem is not demonstrably about the yearning, the imagery unmistakably conveys dwelling in childhood: “They attempted to strangle my Hope
But my Hope is an infant
Unacquainted with the art of silence….” (‘Hope is a Thing with Feathers.’ (19).

To conclude, there are poems in the collection that may be outside the pale of the defining framework I set out with. But you will find memory, that is nostalgia, at work to create a comfortable, protective niche for the poet. 

If you enjoy poetry with poignancy, sparkling imagery, mesmerizing rhythm, and poetry with a purpose, then plunge into Nostalgia … Mahua Sen’s book!

Creative Nonfiction: Guilt

Subhash Chandra

Subhash Chandra

It happened decades ago.

While driving one day, I noticed a young man in the bylane walking almost in the middle of the road. I honked, but he did not move aside. I honked a couple of times in quick succession. Still no response. I jabbed at the horn which blared and created a racket.

No, he did not budge and continued his even-paced walk; he owned the road he seemed to think. His back mocked and defied me... It even challenged me.

Back then I, too, brimmed with youthful energy, impatience, and hauteur of being in a Maruti-Suzuki that had been introduced not long back. I softly inched the vehicle forward close behind him and pushed the bumper of the car into his legs. He lost balance and tumbled over on his side. But got up quickly, patted the dust off his clothes, and gesticulated frantically, communicating his consternation, and emotional hurt. His piteous eyes conveyed his accusation. Then he moved aside and resumed his walk.

I should have got out and apologized to him. I didn’t. I should have gone into the temple -- in front of which it happened -- to beg forgiveness. I didn’t. 
I was in a daze!

Now, sometimes, I wonder whether the inflated self-image and arrogance one acquires by being in a car is often responsible for the fatal road rage cases in Delhi.

To date, occasionally the guilt lacerates me.

Peer Readings: Subhash Chandra deconstructs Haunting and Other Stories

AN AMAZING BOOK!

Haunting and Other Stories by Sunil Sharma, Authors Press; Rs. 295, pp. 167

-Subhash Chandra

It has taken me two-plus years to snap out of the spell cast by

‘Haunting.’ Reason: if I find a profound thought, a striking idea, or beauty of style in a novel or a story, I underline the sentence/s. (Two mauled pages appended below).

Each story creates a throbbing universe; each universe is inhabited by individualised characters that are a diverse mix of class, gender, and sexuality. They are ‘familiar’ and yet surprise us; they reveal unexpected traits which make the narratives immersive. Most of them are morally bankrupt.

Subhash Chandra

Some are sensitive and cerebral, however; they reflect on society and feel anguished to witness inequity, injustice, and exploitation of a large dispossessed majority. Sharma is a trenchant critic of urbanisation which he thinks has a baneful effect on people: they become unfeeling and ‘phoney.’

This brings me to the passionate averment by Sunil Sharma that all art has (or should have) an ethical responsibility to make society a better place to live in. “Any book that fails to effect a deeper moral transformation of characters due for that cleansing process, and concomitant and parallel purifying process in readers, will remain a hoax, a sham, a counterfeit, a minor and largely forgotten product” (“The Haunting”:115). Gillian Dooley rightly remarks in his Foreword to the book, “There is no mistaking Sharma’s passionate ‘social conscience” (5).

A number of stories depict oppression, even victimisation resulting from gender, class, and sexuality.

Sunil Sharma

“A Story Told by a Maid Servant’s Daughter,” is a layered tale, constructed in the style of the ‘frame story,’ used in One Thousand and One Nights.

“And then Tanya asked Laxmi to tell her a two-minute story.”

There was a woodcutter who takes two of the four daughters to the jungle and comes back alone and tells the sisters that the lion has eaten them up. The next day, Tanya wants to know what happens next. The father takes the third child and repeats the same reason. Then Laxmi herself disappears.

It is a heartrending tale of cruelty towards the girl child.

In our society, it is the girl/woman who always bears the brunt of poverty, vengeful feudal feuds, and war.

WHY?

The differential treatment of a girl and a boy in families is rife in India. She bears the burden of household chores, and she is the one who is regimented to fit into the prescribed feminine codes.

The protagonist in “A Teen Daughter,” (in epistolary style) writes letters to her mother, away in the US on an exchange programme. She writes, “Helping out with the laundry. Spreading the linen -- alone. Dusting daily. Today brought some raw veggies and made breakfast for bro and granny … Granny says I watch too much of TV. Bro says I do not do any work. … I do not study. . . Dad shouted. Could not get his Sunday tea on time… I miss you, dear Mom.” (19)

The girl child is made to slave and is yet chided.

WHY?

In “Dream,” we meet an oppressed wife; the husband, Sukumaran, whips up fights over trifles. He is “Always mocking, Sudha, trying to snub and hurt by verbal weapons,” all through their domestic life. She goes silent.

Silence is the strategy adopted by women to keep peace.

Once she dreams, and the dream signifies death, but she has no time to mope over it; she has to ready the mid-day meal for the joint family!

It is an everlasting grind for the woman.

WHY?

“At an Indian Police Station: Some Philosophical Thought,” is yet another story that highlights the torture of a woman by her husband, and the apathy of the androcentric police. The battered young woman pleads with the Duty Officer, “Do something Saab. He [her husband] is a monster! I am scared for my life. The uniformed man was jaded. “Don’t worry,” he barked. “Tolerate. Learn tolerance!” (23).

WHY?

One of the most poignant stories is “Change,” which brings up the issue of double oppression resulting from gender and sexuality. Smita is not a welcome addition to the family, as the father had wanted a boy; and she is ill-treated because a male inhabits her female body.

“On weekdays … Smita would do what she could always deftly do – turn herself into a boy … an empty home was a perfect stage for any dramatic mid-afternoon gender-reversal.”! (47)

Il-treated by the father, and chided by the overworked mother, Smita deeply longs for parental affection. She empathises with her depressive father and tries to cheer him up by acting as a boy. Ironically, he is enraged and turns her out of the house into the chilly night; she develops fever and dies. Both, the mother and the father, have dreadful dreams: the mother sees Smita as angry Durga, father witnesses desolation all around which is symbolic. The story is an angry denunciation of the city … “where innocence can never survive …”

Then there is a cluster of stories about modern urban life. The wealthy treat the poor with contempt, or at best indifference. “The poor are the non-living species … They are the dead people.” “At the Party and After...” (3). Banbari Lal, BL, is a poor, lowly government clerk, but he occupies an important desk. He is invited to a party, hosted by and for the elite. He is brutally ignored both by the hosts and the guests. BL begins to feel out of place and sorts. He flees from the party, but not before the writer has used his agency to expose the greed, promiscuity, and hypocrisy of the wealthy.

“Profanities” is yet another acerbic critique of urbanisation that breeds callousness.

“The ole bastard did not like Chicago at all. More than two lakhs were wasted on transporting him to and fro America” (99). Shockingly, these words are spoken by the eldest son, Rahul, settled and practising in the US as a doctor, who has come to Mumbai to perform the last rites of his dead father.

The system is all-powerful. It eventually incorporates rebels, much like the Beat Generation was in America. The protagonist, Ramesh, in “The Man Who Wanted to Write like Marquez,’ eventually turns into a power-and-pelf-hungry bourgeois.

The title is mischievously misleading, as it suggestively foregrounds the story “The Haunting,” and prepares us to encounter a world proliferating with ghosts, ghouls, and spirits. Instead, we meet living people with their distinctive angularities and travails, aspirations and disappointments, frustrations and suffering.

However, “The Haunting,” and “The Meeting with Hemingway,” disinter the ghosts of writers: Dickens and Hemingway. Sharma is an ardent admirer of Charles Dickens for his passion to ameliorate the condition of the poor, and Hemingway for his outspokenness.

A brooding, grim darkness in the stories disturbs you, but then that is the purpose of the author – to shake you out of complacency and indifference.

A word about style: Socrates, a character in the story, “Mr. Socrates,” tears into a certain tribe of writers who get millions in advance royalties from foreign publishers.

Socrates was livid: “These upper-class guys living in New York or London … criticize India and get the Nobel. They talk of displacements and lost homelands and prefer to live in advanced countries and do writing ... They sell their country -- for personal gain. Who stops them from returning to a poor country and toil here like their peers? They are all fakes. Charlatans. Brown Sahibs, of the post-colonial country” (90).

A pulsating energy seems to course through Socrates' words, much in the style of D.H. Lawrence. To wit: ““The world is a raving idiot, and no man can kill it: though I’ll do my best. But you’re right. We must rescue ourselves as best we can.” (Lady Chatterley's Lover).

My recommendation: Go for it … if you love fiction with a purpose.


Heroes of the Pandemic: Subhash Chandra

Subhash Chandra
Adopted

March 2020

We are sitting and facing each other wordless, worried. The air in the room is heavy and doleful. Home is the only sanctuary. The invisible deadly demon, Corona, strides the streets unchallenged and powerful. And yet ….

I pick up a bag.

My wife gets frightened.

“Where are you going?”

“We’ve survived on potatoes and rice for four days. Now nothing left.”

“But how can you even think of it?  During the lockdown, shops open only for four hours. There would be surging crowds and no social distancing. How can you be so reckless?”

“Can you suggest an option?”

“I’ll go.”

“That’s a smart idea,” I snort. “With your slipped-disk and delicate Bengali constitution you plan to haul the weight up sixty two stairs to our third floor!” I say truculently. 

“In any case, I can’t allow you to go out,” she declares, agitated. “You know very well, the elderly are particularly vulnerable. You’re seventy plus; your age-compromised immunity is lower than the others because of your weight loss and low hemoglobin.”

Both of us are edgy and restive. The dust particles are frantically swirling in the slanting sunbeam streaming through the window.

Sanjay Trehan

#

We are startled by the trilling doorbell. Time was we’d warmly welcome a guest, as few undertook the trouble of climbing up. But now we get tensed up.  Cursed times!

“You go to the bedroom,” I tell my wife and put on a mask and specs. The Virus can get into you through the eyes, too.

Lo and behold! Sanjay Trehan, a lively young man adored in our Housing Society known for his guileless smile, and friendly, vibrant voice, stands on the other side of the grill-door. He works for a leading Indian company as a highly paid executive.

“Uncle,” he says in his booming voice, “I’m going to take charge of you two... I’ll bring all that you need and leave it outside the door. Please don’t stir out at all. This is my order!”

Overwhelmed, I could not utter a word.

“You can phone me up the previous evening and give me a list of items.”

It became a routine. Every evening, my wife would call him. We not only consumed veggies and fruits of our choice, but also of good quality because Mini, his sweet-natured wife, accompanied him. It went on for months, until the shopkeepers’ boys were allowed entry into our Complex after Corona cases dropped drastically. For a week at a stretch not a single case was reported in Delhi.

#

However, our worries re-surfaced with the onset of the second wave. Just a couple of days into it, we got a call from Sanjay one evening.

“Hello Uncle, we resume our old routine. Okay? Tell me if you have any other work, such as, going to the bank or paying bills.”

We’d learn later, he had driven a Corona-infected resident to hospital and helped many other people in several ways, besides.

Love you, Sanjay! Bless you Sanjay!! May God make more like you!!!

Fiction: Subhash Chandra

Subhash Chandra

Miss Him

At the starting point, Rithala, vacant seats in the Metro are aplenty.
But today also, he hurried to grab the seat alongside me. 
However, he never crept close, nor did he ever seize an opportunity to sneakily touch me, like most males. 
“You know what?” once he spoke abruptly.
“Sorry?”
“I wish I had been born a girl.”
“Oh!” 
He was a handsome young man!
#
On a Sunday, we’re at a Mall, buying specs for my mother.
A sharp scream! A body hurtles down from the seventh floor, arms spread-out like wings, hands clutching at the air.  
On Monday, a sleazoid sits next to me.
***


Two Bungalows, Four Cars

Affluence has eerie side effects!

The nouveau riche neighbours in NOIDA owned an SUV and a small car each. The Anejas and the Babbars had frequent fierce fights over parking in which their wives joined them. Filthy language was exchanged despite the women’s presence.

One day, the impulsive Aneja emptied his revolver into Babbar and his wife.
After an hour when the Babbars’ spoilt son woke up from his drug-induced slumber, he slashed the killers to death.

The bungalows and the cars have no buyers.Sounds of brawls, gunshots, and wailing are heard around midnight from inside the haunted bungalows.

Fiction: Thank You, Dinu

Subhash Chandra

- Subhash Chandra

“What’s wrong with you?” Suhasini asked him at the dining table.
“Why?”
“You have been to the loo twenty or more times during the day.”
“Is there a moratorium on it?”
Tushar was a man of figures, but he had a quirky sense of humour. He had retired from the office of Comptroller and Auditor General as a Supervisory Officer (Accounts) and was respected by his seniors and peers for his competence and dedication. 
“Don’t be facetious. I mean it seriously.”
He proffered a benign smile.
“I’m waiting.”
“You won’t understand,” said Tushar.
“Are you talking to a village bumpkin?”
Suhasini’s tone got edgy.   She was a Professor of English Literature at the university and was a specialist in African Studies. She had three years to her retirement.
“I’m trying to keep myself healthy.”
She gave him a probing look.
“Have you turned your washroom into a Gym?”

Knowing she was too smart, he thought it better to tell her. “You see, I have no intention to follow the two blokes – my colleagues -- who popped off within a year of strutting home with their farewell shawls.
I want to savour life; I have been a workaholic and never got a chance to fully soak in your extraordinary beauty; I never noticed the saris you drape yourself in. Now I want to …”
She cut him short, “Your compliments continue to be as pathetic as they were before we married. By the way, do you know why I married you?
“Yes. You were mighty impressed with my praise of your gorgeousness.”
“Wrong. I felt mighty sorry for you. You literally sweated to pay me what you thought were compliments, but which were actually jejune clich├йs. So cut out the fluff and give me the real reason.

“Okay,” Tushar got serious, “I was too taken up by office work which I considered my dharma. Remember, you often lost temper over my bringing home files and working on them late into the night.
Don’t bring home your office, for God’s sake, were your exact words.
I never got to spend time with you. I could not even play enough with our grandchildren when they visited us once a year. They loved the mathematical riddles I devised for them and asked for more, but I was too busy. So now I want to make up the deficit and rectify the balance sheet.”
She became reflective.

He continued, “You know who our greatest enemy are -- bacteria and viruses? 
Her gaze on him remained unflagging.
“The bacteria get into our system and we fall prey to infections. Then it is a vicious cycle: infection, antibiotics, reduced immunity and infection again ... and our final journey is advanced.  I want to keep the enemies at bay. Hands are the common source of ingesting them.”

Suhasini knew those were the early symptoms of OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) and hoped it would not aggravate.
But it did and soon.
One day Tushar insisted Suhasini chuck the maid who cooked for them. “She will kill both of us,” he said. “She does not wash her hands. I’ve checked it out for myself.”
“But we’re hale and hearty after eating the food she has been cooking for more than five years.”
“That’s a chance. And don’t forget we are five years older now.”
“You know I have osteoarthritis and can’t stand for long.”
That silenced him.

But he started cooking his own food -- boiling veggies and rice and having them for lunch and dinner day after day.
“Simple food is healthy,” he would repeat laughing.
However, he was losing weight and energy. He’d feel exhausted after his morning walk and sleep off for about an hour when he came back.

Something had to be done and urgently, because Tushar’s condition was worsening fast. He’d get up in the dead of the night to check if he had bolted the doors from inside, though she had seen him do it three to four times before.
In the day, he sat still staring at the sofa or the table or other objects in the drawing room.
When questioned he said, “There are bacteria moving all over the sofa, and on everything.”
In a couple of days, he bought a dozen masks and started wearing one when he went out, but soon he was putting it on, even at home.
“The Jain monks do the right thing by keeping their mouths covered, because the air is laden with bacteria and viruses,” he said to Suhasini.

One day when she was at the university Tushar got into a terrible mess at the bank where he had gone to bring out a necklace from the locker for an upcoming wedding of Suhasini’s cousin.

He spent close to an hour inside the locker-room repeatedly pulling the knob of the locker to ensure it was locked, peering under the cabinet again and again, and scanning the space between the two cabinets to check nothing had been left outside. As he had taken a couple of steps towards the door, he went back and started the whole process all over again. Those waiting for their turn got restive and complained to the Manager. He looked at the monitor of the CCTV, got suspicious of Tushar’s movements and called the police.

Suhasini received a call from the Station House Officer of Prashant Vihar police station. Tushar had argued with the SHO and shouted he would lodge a complaint with the Police Commissioner and would make him regret his action.
“I would get you dismissed. Tell me under what charge have you brought me here?”
The SHO had put Tushar in a lock up.   

Suhasini explained things to the SHO and brought Tushar home.
“Why did you have to go to operate the locker alone in the first place?”
“I tell you the Manager is crazy. I will complain against him to the Banking Ombudsman and cut him to size.”


#
One day Suhasini said, “Tushar we need to consult a psychiatrist for your condition.”
“Why? Do you think I have gone mad? I am perfectly fine. Left to you, you will push me into a Mental Asylum.”
She despaired and was at her wit’s end. After a couple of days, she visited the General Physician who was their family doctor and friend.
The doctor smiled. “No psychiatrist or medicine can help him. He is too rational and logical. Therefore, only credible proof that he is safe from bacteria will bring him out of his condition.”


#
And then Dinu came on to the scene. Their house needed minor repairs and white washing.  Dinu had worked for them earlier too. He was a one-member team who combined in himself a mason, painter and labourer -- he could move cupboards and the other heavy stuff all by himself, though he looked thin. He worked at a leisurely pace, but did an excellent job.

They were both fond of Dinu and Suhasini served him lunch every day, as she got back from the university by about 1:00 PM. He would sit on a stool in a corner and eat. Dinu never washed his hands. He just patted his butt, swirling dust and making his hands dirtier.  She noticed Tushar would intently watch Dinu.
One day an idea flashed in Suhasini’s mind. She served two gulab jamuns to Dinu as dessert.
Tushar was aghast and became frantic. “What’re you doing, Suhasini... don’t … they are terribly stale; have been in the fridge for more than a month. Electricity shut downs have been frequent and for long hours. They smell foul, in fact stink. I smelt them the other day.”
But she went ahead and Tushar saw Dinu relish them. Suhasini knew she was taking a huge risk.    
“Both of you are exceptionally kind,” said Dinu. “Nobody treats the poor with such generosity. Sometimes, I have worked at houses where in the scorching summer they did not offer me fridge water.” 

After Dinu left in the evening, Tushar who had been quiet and looked worried all day said in a wailing tone, “What if he gets food poisoning? He’s poor and would avoid going to a doctor as most of them do for want of money. If he dies, you will have a murder on your hands.”
Suhasini had been no less tense and worried. She even felt terribly guilty. What she had done was morally wrong. She had no right to turn the poor man into a guinea pig!
“Hope, he comes to work tomorrow?” she spoke softly.
“Pray for him,” Tushar suggested in a scraping voice.
Suhasini really did.


#
To their horror, the next day, Dinu did not turn up. Unfortunately, unlike many others, Dinu did not have a mobile. Fear petrified both of them. Neither spoke a word for a long time. Then Suhasini suggested, “We should visit his house.”
“His address?”
She thought a while. “At the gate the guards get all the visitors to make entries in the register.” 

It was a Sunday and Suhasini was at home. So, they left for Gautam Budh Nagar around 11:00 AM.  Tushar parked the car at the edge of the basti, and they walked into it. Each could hear the thumping heart of the other. Suhasini asked a little boy -- who was running an old cycle tyre with a stick -- about Dinu.
He nodded his head vigorously, led them to the house and ran into the hovel to inform of the sahib log. Dinu came out of the hovel and was surprised and delighted. Folding his hands, he said, “You Madam, and Sir?”
“Yes, we wanted to find out if all was well with you as you have never taken an off all these days.” 
“Oh, I am so sorry I forgot to tell you yesterday about my sister’s daughter’s wedding. I would come tomorrow, certainly.”
“No problem,” Suhasini said and both made as if to leave.
“No, no. How can that be? My niece is very lucky that she would get your blessings. And you are big people, but treat me as a family member. Please just a minute” he said and rushed into the house. He came out holding a tray with tea in two chipped cups, and a plateful of multi-coloured sweets.
“But Dinu, we have had breakfast.”
Dinu folded his hands. “Sir, Madam, please … it will give us lots of joy,” he said and lifted the plate of sweets towards Tushar.
He hesitated for an unnoticeable second, picked up one, and started eating; Suhasini did the same. They gave some money to Dinu as a blessing to the girl.

As they were walking towards the car, Suhasini observed Tushar had not put on the mask.

LITERARY DISCUSSION

Rana Preet Gill
The probing questions have been posed by Dr. Sunil Sharma, the dynamic Editor of SETU Bilingual (Pittsburgh).

Dr Rana Preet Gill is a Veterinary Officer with the government of Punjab, India. Her articles and short stories have been published in The Tribune, The Hindustan Times, The Hindu, The New Indian Express, Deccan Herald, The Hitavada, Daily Post, Women’s era, Spillwords press and SETU, Bilingual. She has compiled her published pieces into a book titled Finding Julia. She has also written two novels: Those College Years and The Misadventures of a Vet.

Subhash Chandra
Dr. Subhash Chandra, a former academic and distinguished scholar, has earned accolades for his short stories, one of which was declared a winning entry in a contest. Recently, he has been designated ‘Literary Brigadier,’ by STORY MIRROR, a large Online Portal with global reach. He has been awarded Nissim International Prize for Fiction, 2019 by ‘The Significant League, a Literary Forum, comprising writers and poets.

He has to his credit two collections of short stories, Not Just Another Story, and Beyond the Canopy of Icicles and about sixty short stories published in national and International journals, together with four books of literary criticism.

Chandra has presented papers at funded conferences in Australia, Canada, Hong Kong, Israel, Nepal and India. He worked on a post-doctoral project on a fellowship at the University of Toronto.

He is on the International Advisory Board of Intersections: Gender and Sexuality in Asia and the Pacific (Australian National University, Canberra) and on the Editorial Board of induswomanwriting.com


Sunil Sharma, Editor, SETU: What is writing?

Rana Preet Gill: Writing for me is an expression to raise my voice, to write about things I would like to change, to write about things I feel good about. Writing for me is creating protagonists. I like imagining things, giving them shape and letting them flow.

Subhash Chandra:  Writing is both self-expression and communication. It becomes communication when put into the public domain through publishing mostly, or in any other way. Otherwise it remains expression of the self for the self, like the Diary writing.
Being a portmanteau term, writing subsumes all genres, such as, fiction, poetry, drama, biography, autography, memoir and even Diary writing.
But for the purpose of this discussion, we’d keep the focus on fiction,(SETU would follow up with discussions on the other genres) and ‘writing’ would refer to fiction writing.
Talking of fiction, it is representation of reality that has been processed in the inventive crucible of the writer. It is a mix of reality and creative imagination

SS, Editor: What does it mean to you?

RPG: I look upon writing as freedom from what people perceive me to be, what they want me to do or what I am supposed to be doing. Writing for me is passion to be my own being. Writing for me is a very important part of my life now. I try to write every day. I want it to stay and become a part of my daily routine.


SC: Writing is cathartic by nature and, therefore, it’s therapeutic for me. I am not able to often articulate my feelings of anger, hurt, or guilt because of social-personal constraints. Such bottled up emotions cause affliction, even suffering. Once I’ve made them a part of my writings, I am purged of them, and my peace of mind is restored. 

Writing is also self-discovery for me. In the process of writing, I find, sometimes to my dismay, I have nurtured biases and prejudices (for or against) which colour my perceptions and attitudes. We have been told by the masters of fiction like Dostoevsky and Tolstoy, that it is the element of compassion that makes works great. Even the negative characters are treated compassionately. And that is possible only if the author is free from biases.

Besides, writing has also trained me in holistic thinking. I no longer think of life or people in binaries of white and black. I’ve realised there are shades of grey. People are a mix of contrarian traits, and qualities. Writing, therefore, has shifted my horizon. 

SS, Editor: How did you begin your career as a writer?

RPG: I started writing middles for The Tribune and the Hindustan Times. I got accepted and was published over and over again in these newspapers. Later on, I started writing for The Hindu, The New Indian Express, Deccan Herald, The Hitavada, Women’s era and the Daily post as well. I compiled my middles into a book titled ‘Finding Julia’. I have written two novels- Those College Years and The Misadventures of a Vet.


SC: When I was in class VII, one day the English teacher was absent and a science teacher walked in instead. He was a phenomenon and an inspiring role model. He loved literature and life and spoke fluently.
During his conversational lecture, he asked us if we liked reading stories.
All of us said yes. Then he asked whether any of us felt he should have been the writer of a story we read. No hand went up. I half raised mine and hastily withdrew. But he had noticed it, called me to the front, patted me and made me promise that I would write stories.
He went on to exhort the whole class to write about what happened during the day before we went to bed. That would help us to write stories and that is how great writers were born.
I betrayed my promise because of unavoidable factors. However, the seed of the dream was sown and it saw fruition in college, when I published my first short story in the college magazine.

SS, Editor: What constitutes fiction?

RPG: Fiction for me is imagination. I love to write, conceptualize, create people, situations which might or might not happen in real life. I like to play with words and most of the times I fall in love with characters I create. When I read books, I start loving the characters created by other authors. I think I relate more to the written word than people in real life.


SC: E.M. Forster outlined the constituents of fiction in his classic, Aspect of the Novel as story, characters, plot, fantasy, prophecy, pattern, and rhythm. For me the most important are story, plot and characters.  Though for Forster, story is an element lower down on the spectrum, but I resonate with Khushwant Singh who believed there cannot be a novel without a story and, therefore, it is the most important constituent in the fictional scheme of things. Also, as I said elsewhere, in the early stage of orality, the atavistic men listened to stories at night sitting around the campfire. If the story sagged, they either went off to sleep, or killed the story teller.  

SS, Editor: Do you think, fiction should aim at social reforms?

RPG: I think fiction can be a way to mend things in society. After all the fiction is nothing but contorting non-fiction in ways that is legible and acceptable. A book that makes me think and overpowers me in subtle ways is always welcome. Every book should leave an imprint and that happens when they have a strong voice which cannot come without challenging the existing norms.

SC: No. At least not overtly. That is a job best left to the social reformers. A writer imaginatively portrays society. It holds a mirror to society and in the process draws attention to the ills afflicting it.
But a writer should not be hemmed in by any type of commitment – ideological or otherwise -- or constraints. Or else intrusive didacticism in his writing would adversely affect the quality of his creative works.

SS, Editor: What is most appealing in fiction?

RPG:  To me the most appealing thing is when I find snitches of my life interspersed in my writing and in another people’s writing. Though fiction is supposed to be all created in the mind yet we often put ourselves on the pedestal and revolve the story around ourselves and spun it into magic. Its fiction and yet our lives. This intrigues me. If I find a little bit of me in a story I love reading it.


SC: It provides aesthetic pleasure and also offers insights into life. In our life, we meet only a limited number of people and undergo some experiences. Fiction enables us to live many lives. Each novel and short story is about the life of a protagonist. We tend to identify with him/her -- his feelings, emotions, and perceptions, thereby living his/her life. Fiction, therefore, enriches us and we learn how to avoid pitfalls and the resulting complications; it teaches us how to live life.  

SS, Editor:  Favourite fiction writers?

RPG: Rohinton Mistry, Khaled Hosseini, Nirupama Dutt

SC: The list is long and varied. But I would like to mention a few:  Munshi Prem Chand,  Phanishwar Nath Renu, Bhishm Sahni, Rajendra Yadav (Hindi), Somerset Maugham, Graham Green, Nathaniel Hawthorne, J.D. Salinger, Morley Callaghan (English), Saadat Hasan Manto, K.R. Meera, Chekhov, Gorky, Maupassant (translated into English from Urdu, Malayalam, Russian and French respectively); and among Indo-Anglian writers, Manohar Malgoankar, Kiran Nagarkar, Anita Desai and (take a deep breath!) Chetan Bhagat.

SS, Editor:: Your recurring themes and concerns?

RPG: I want to write against the dualities of life, the crime against women, the inequality in everyday life.

SC: I like to write about the marginalised -- the oppressed, discriminated against, and the exploited. For example, my first collection, Not Just Another Story contains “Catapult,” (about an exploited landless labourer), “That Many Splendoured Thing,” (Lesbian), “Amma” (Hijra),” I Have No Name” (Prostitute) and “Siblings,” (girl foeticide). My second collection, Beyond the Canopy of Icicles, includes “Mother and Daughter,” (Circus Joker) and “Good Morning Sir, Good Evening Sir,” published in MUSE, India is about women’s assertion and empowerment.

Writing about ghosts and animals also fascinates me. For example, “Believe It Or Not, “The Ringmaster,” and “The Wonders of a Smile,” appeared in SETU Bilingual (Pittsburgh). “Dusk” and “The Skinny Man,” were published in Confluence: South Asian Perspectives (London).  

I often wonder how it feels to be a beast of burden. “My Sister, Aaliya,”  (in Beyond the Canopy) is from the point of view of a cruelly treated horse who ferries passengers in a tonga every day.     

SS, Editor: How can the process of writing fiction be refined further? Are workshops necessary? Or is self-learning enough for improving the craft?

RPG: Writing requires time, patience and commitment. You are on your own when you write. I believe reading helps a lot. Every good writer ought to be a good reader. I do not think writing workshops make a difference. Writing is hard work and pushing yourself to think beyond the boundaries

SC: Yes, workshops play an important role. One gets to learn the finer points of writing from the peers and those who are superior to us in knowledge of the craft and have more experience. But having said that, I think, plenty of mindful reading and writing are the key to becoming a good writer.  

SS, Editor: Can IWE (Indian writing in English) compete with the best of the West?

RPG: Yes, we can compete with the West. We are doing very good. I love reading Indian authors.

SC: IWE is successfully competing with the best of the West. Several books have gone on to win prestigious awards including the Man Booker and have been globally appreciated. Arundhiti Roy’s The God of Small Thing, Kiran Desai’s The Inheritance of Loss and Arvind Adiga’s The White Tiger won Man Booker Prize. Jhumpa Lahiri’s Namesake was turned into a successful film an English film

SS, Editor: How can the books be sold and writers recognised by the mass media dominated by few well-connected names only?

RPG: Marketing your work is important. Bad books marketed well, sell sometimes and good books are lost because of poor marketing. This is how publishing industry works. I market my books as much as I can. Most of the big authors are very good at marketing besides being good writers. 

SC: Writers should ensure visibility of their books on Social Media like Facebook, and Instagram and organise discussions about their works, inviting reviewers from newspapers, magazines and academia. Acclaimed literary magazines should showcase the books and the Editors, who are held in high esteem, give their views on them.     

Wonders of a Smile

Subhash Chandra

- Subhash Chandra

At Kashmere Gate Metro Station, I was the first in the queue and so was he in the parallel queue.  Suddenly, our eyes met and I smiled at him for no conscious reason.   
As the train was sliding into the station, he came over.
"Grateful to you, Sir."

In Delhi people generally don’t smile at strangers. There’s general suspicion and distrust. And for good reasons too. Who knows the stranger might be a pickpocket, phone snatcher, smuggler, drug peddler or terrorist. Play it safe. That is the unstated principle. 

“For what?” I asked.
“Saving my life!" he said and walked away.

That evening at home, as I lay in bed, I tried to recall the face of the person but the specifics eluded me. After all I had only a fleeting look at him. However, the image in my mind was that of gentle and distinguished looking man, somebody from the elite class. 

I’m quite superstitious. Whatever has worked for me a couple of times, I slot it as lucky. Therefore, I take the same lane to the Metro Station every day, though it is circuitous and longer. I count the compartments, and always board the third. Incidentally, number three and thirteen -- almost universally regarded as unlucky -- bring me luck. And at the platform, I stand in the same queue – right in front of the large Medical Insurance Ad of a smiling, pretty woman, two lovely children and a proud man who has taken the insurance and holds a placard, ‘Secure Future. No worries.’   
I never saw the gentleman again. Felt happy that he had given up the idea. 

A year passed by. The memory of the episode hazed and then completely faded out of my mind what with myriad office worries and routine family responsibilities. The mind does not store what is not of personal importance, anyway. 

The nature of my work keeps my mind engaged even when I am not at my office desk. I am a copywriter with an Ad Agency and keep thinking of a slogan I am engaged in producing. The lowly sounding copywriter carries a good salary with perks, but is a high pressure job. One has to deliver every time an assignment lands on the table and create a catchy slogan or jingle that would stick in the mind. For a TV ad, though much of the success depends on the Visualizer, Director, Cameraman and the actors, but the copywriter is held to account in case of failure. You are as good as your last slogan. Three, four consecutive flops could bring you closer to the pink slip. The job is permanent and yet temporary. 

The staff  like to call the Ad world ‘cool’. But it is actually a cold and selfish world: Never share your ideas with anyone. She/he may use it before you do. Insecurities masquerade in chick witty talk and an invisible shiver is lodged in the psyche. 
#
This was my third consecutive slogan going wrong. The Boss passed a snide remark. “A good slogan. Would bowl over five year olds,” 
He then crumpled up the paper and chucked it into WB. 
I had struggled all day. Instead of going home, despite knowing that my child and wife would be waiting for me to get back home as soon as early as possible, I headed for Caf├й Coffee Day in Connaught Place.

While sipping coffee, I was lost in thinking up a snappy slogan. Suddenly, a voice jolted me to attention. 
“Excuse me, may I?” he asked in chiselled English, pointing to the vacant chair at my table. 
I said, “Please,” though I wondered why he had chosen my table when many others were unoccupied
. 
I was worried. If I could not come up with a ‘catcher, slogan’ my job would be on the line. For some odd reason I thought of oujr five-year-old Gudyia, my wife, Aarti and the Insurance Ad hoarding at the Metro platform.
I was scared my creativity had fled and the imagination had got blunted. 
Not that I had not delivered riveting, sharp slogans earlier. In fact, I had regularly earned Boss’s appreciation and accolades from the client companies because their product’s sales had soared.  But in the fiercely competitive Ad world you cannot bask in the past glory.  

As he pulled the chair, I recognised him immediately. He was the same man.
“How are you? I hope I would never see you again at the Metro station and as the first in the queue.”
I presumed he travelled by car and I’d be proved right.
“Hopefully not. But to share with you, I am a depressive. Sometimes, I am pushed by an impulse to put an end to everything.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Actually, it is congenital. My mother too suffered from it,” he told me.
Giving me a close look, he asked, “Anything wrong?” 
“Well … nothing.”
“We hardly know each other and I am being personal.  I can understand if you don’t want to share.”
I did not respond.
“I am Amar Khurana. Please treat me as a friend, and order a coffee for me too.”
I did and said, “I am Samar Banerjee.” 
“Life is tough business,” he said. 
I looked up.
“Yes. There’s no end to challenges. Especially if you are in an Ad Agency.”
That was uncanny.
“What do you know about the Ad world and how?
“I ran an Ad Agency.”
“Oh, how wonderful! I immediately brightened up. So you can help me.
“Yes, in every possible way.”
“I am not able to coin a good slogan for a talcum powder?”
“Which language?’
“Hindi.”
“Give me a couple of minutes.” 
He closed his eyes and kept sipping coffee till it was nearly finished. I ordered two more for us.
“Okay, how do you like this? “Har lamha mehkaai.’”
Or “Iss Valentine deejiye phoolon ke mehak, Or … …” he went on. I stopped him. 
“I will choose one of them. They are all good.”
“Thanks.”
#
The Boss looked up, smiled and nodded. 
“I like it.”
Khurana and I met the next evening, and then every evening. Our time was fixed and so was the table and the menu. Three-four cups of coffee. We’d chat about the intricacies and the corruption of the Ad world. 
“That is why I closed my Agency. Highly exaggerated, sometimes absolutely false claims for a product are sold through clever messaging, and celebrities. It is unethical.  But we had to go along. Or else we won’t survive. There is no regulatory body to verify the claims.”

We also discussed the exploitation of the young, aspiring models whose aim was to work for the television serials, or films. “The Director, Producer, even the cameraman tasted a new entrant, sometimes for months. I felt guilty and disgusted, but could not chastise the rascals. They were talented and would walk out, I knew,” he said.
“You are spot on. I am aware of all this,” I said.
“Parental property and a huge sum in FDs and shares was more than enough for me.  Besides I had also earned and saved a big sum. Enough is enough I decided and shut shop.” 
Khurana continued to help me with the slogans.  The most memorable were:  “Is chaand par daag kyon? Jab hai Moonglow cream” for a beauty lotion. And “’Add smiles to your life,’” for a toothpaste. The Baldie, I mean the Boss, was thrilled.
In the meantime, I got back my creative touch and one after the other I created stunning slogans. 

Meeting Khurana every evening had become a habit. But suddenly he stopped coming. For about a month, he did not come. Thank God I had taken his address and phone number.
On a Sunday I called his phone. A recorded message played out:  the number you want to reach does not exist. Next Sunday I decided to visit him at his house in New Friend’s Colony in South Delhi.
My cab got stuck in a vicious traffic jam at Ashram Chowk. I reached New Friend’s Colony around 10:45 PM and pressed the bell. In winter at this time there is a hush and the lanes are deserted.  
 
After a long while, a man opened the door.
“Is Mr. Khurana at home?”
He looked at me suspiciously.
“Who are you? And why do you want to meet him?
I told him about myself. “We are friends. We have been meeting at the Caf├й Coffee Day in CP.
“When did you meet him last?”
“Well, about a month back.”
“Please come in.” 
I was happy at the prospect of meeting my friend.
The drawing room was gorgeous. The walls were dotted with Amrita Sher-Gil, Raja Ravi Verma, and M.F. Husain.
“These are Papa’s selections,” the son told me. 
“He seems to be a connoisseur of art.” 
“Yes.”
A servant brought coffee in Bone China and the famous American cookies,
‘Oreo’
“He is a coffee freak,” said the son. 
“I know. We consumed three to four cups in one sitting,” I said.
The son smiled. His smile was a little skewed. Poor thing, he must have suffered from Bell’s Palsy, I thought. 
After about twenty minutes, I said “Could you please tell him Samar Banerjee is here?”
“I can’t. I mean not right away.”
“Sorry?”
“Yes, because he is not here.”
“Where is he then?”
“Up above. He is no more,” he raised his thumb upwards.
“Oh no. When did it happen?”
“About five years back.” 
“Oh no. But you were using present tense for him?”
“Yes. Because he visits us off and on.”
“I don’t get you.”
“I don’t blame you.”
Meanwhile his wife, a beautiful lady of about thirty five joined us. Her skin was excessively pale and eyes lustreless. She seemed to have come out of a long sickness.
“You two are not scared?” I asked.
“On the contrary, both of us are fond of him.”
The lady’s face remained impassive.
And then something strange happened. The son smiled for no reason. This time the lady joined him, but her smile was crooked too.
Suddenly, I bolted through the door which was still open.

An auto was parked at a distance from the house and I rushed to hire it.
But on seeing me coming out of that house, he sped away.