Answering questions.
speaking about the book.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Reading event at Crossword bookstore, Jaipur, India
Answering questions.
speaking about the book.
Thursday, December 08, 2011
Honorable Mention in Flash Friday contest # 4, Sonora Review
Good season continues for the writer in me. Has brought in some cheer, and better hopes.
So it felt nice to see my name among the Honorable mentions in the Flash Fiction contest, conducted recently by Sonora Review. Here's the link. Loved doing this piece.
My latest column is up on This Literary Magazine's home page. Here's the link. More color, perhaps.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
The Best Short Writing in the World 2011
I am very excited to share that in the competition ‘The Best Short Writing in the World 2011’ conducted by the Fleeting magazine, my short fiction has won a special commendation. Here’s the link. The story follows later in this post.
Quarterly Literary Review Singapore (QLRS), has published my short fiction ‘The Dogs of Delhi’ in Vol. 10 No. 4 Oct 11. Here’s the link
He is a boy. But seasoned to work and behave like a man. He sells roasted peanuts by the sea.
Not the only peanut seller who hasn’t heard of Osama
He is a boy. But seasoned to work and behave like a man. He sells roasted peanuts by the sea.
The hands I see are big – bigger for a child his age. The clothes that have him covered hang loose on his slim body, uncomfortable. As if expecting him to grow suddenly, overnight, in a few hours. The smear – of dirt, grime, pollution – on his face seems like a beard trying to grow in hurry for his ten, or maybe twelve years.
I am not hungry. Perhaps, it’s just the mood... I want to tip the peanut seller. I ask him for another packet. He’s fast. And hurriedly turns an old newspaper into a small six inch cone, scoops handful of peanuts, and smiles before handing me the packet. Very formal. Very nice. I pay the boy, happy to see his eyes gleam at the sight of money, yet again.
‘Osama,’ one side of the curved newspaper I see almost screams at my face in a red newsprint. Until I turn and read its hidden brother-word on the other side, ‘dead’, also in red.
I smile at the ability of the news to find me again, something the television anchors have been blurting at supernatural speeds on all the channels this past week, something I want to distance from. What they eat, speaking at speeds at which they do, I wonder. The thought frustrates me enough to exhale loudly and I combine it with a yawn.
I look away, beyond my feet, where the sea has embedded the Casuarina trees infringed shoreline and formed a cove, the white sand of which it now playfully sweeps with froth, comforting it together with a very fine spray. The sun, for the month of June on a laidback Sunday like today is furious as hell, but where I sit, there is plenty of shade. I drink from the beer can I am loosely balancing on my fingers. The cold brew catches my throat and wakes up the food pipe momentarily.
The boy is back again.
‘Sahib, it would do you a world of good if you buy some more peanuts.’ I spot a sparkle in his eyes, and he looks a child some more.
‘Can I take a sip?’ he removes a small plastic glass from the oversized shirt pocket and extends towards me. The sparkle is gone now and there is hope that seeps through the forlorn eyes, something that turns him into an adult. But I am unmoved, saying to myself: he is just a child damn it!
‘I am not a child, sahib. I am fifteen.’ He is smiling.
‘How do you know I was thinking about your age?’ I am genuinely flabbergasted.
‘All you guys who come to the beach alone to drink beer, I know what goes on in your mind. I have been selling peanuts here for the past two years.’
I wave the boy away and he obliges without a protest.
The sky’s at last filling with clouds; they are flying in from the south, riding a wind I can feel on my face. Looks like the monsoon has finally arrived, the time I know when lovers fondling will turn incessant, peacocks will dance without fear right on the wet earth and not somewhere high up in the trees, the fishes will mate in shallower waters, and the snakes will emerge out looking for the frogs, who, beckoning their partners for sex which they must, would be croaking like idiots simply to be eaten.
The first spray feels fresh on the face and I watch it patter the giant sea soundlessly in front of me, as rainwater playfully permeates my clothes and mingles through my soul that’s empty and rootless. A made up darkness descends in minutes and both the sea and the sky seem nearer to one another. I open another beer can and look around for the boy feeling hungry.
He is quick to appear on my side and hands over another cone of peanuts and a sandwich.
‘A sandwich?’ It’s a nice little surprise.
‘Didn’t I tell you I have been here for the past two years?’ The boy, very much a boy once again, is smiling at his smartness.
I eat gratefully, while he finishes my can and takes a loud, carefree burp. We chat and he says he has never heard of Osama Bin Laden and has no idea what the word terrorist means. I try to tell him, explain the use of arms and that they kill innocent people. He stops me briefly and tells me he knows people who do similar jobs: the police and the army. When I ask him how, he tells me about his brother.
‘My brother died last year, he was four years elder. But I don’t mourn his death. He promised me not to. He knew he would be dead soon – killed by the police or the army, the terrorist in your language.’
I open another can and tell him that terrorist is not the police or the army, and that they are in fact the good guys who fight the terrorists, the bad ones. I explain, until a stage reaches that I am tired of all the explanation, labored in my breathing with the effort, and the peanut boy breaks into laughter at the sight of me.
Then he tells him how his brother died. ‘Sahib, he used to take women behind the barracks for the policemen late in the night for money and with that he bought food for the two of us, even sweetmeats. It was nice, though he told me it was dangerous. Then one day he was killed. I don’t know how, but the police brought him home dead. I know they killed him. Can I have some more beer?’
I give him a can and he walks away, looking happy, slightly drunk.
It’s a new day when I wake up and I am feeling better. The sky looks clear through the window of my flat. The air is cold, wet and feels nice on the skin. I decide to begin my day with the newspaper. The headline is usual for me, but the picture next to it isn’t.
I can’t cry when I see the picture of the peanut boy with a bullet in his head. His face still has the artificial charm the beer had brought him last evening, and he surely doesn’t know he is now being called a terrorist. I wish I had asked his name. I wish the world realizes one day who the real terrorist is. I wish they know as much as him.
.
Monday, August 15, 2011
A Waiting Wave
My second title, 'A Waiting Wave' is now available. (Rs. 125. Kindle edition, 6.71 $)
Links.
Flipkart
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Indiaplaza
Stack you rack
Pustak
Facebook page
The publisher shares my enthusiasm. The book has been submitted to the judges for the fifth annual Man Asian Literary Prize.
For unbiased reviews, I am giving copies to fellow bloggers. Send me an e mail with a link to your blog if you are so inclined. Thank you.
Upamanyu Chatterjee
Kulpreet Yadav
Shridhar Raghavan , "Scriptwriter of Khakee, Apaharan, Dum Maaro Dum
Faraaz Kazi
Flipkart
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Indiaplaza
Stack you rack
Pustak
Facebook page
The publisher shares my enthusiasm. The book has been submitted to the judges for the fifth annual Man Asian Literary Prize.
For unbiased reviews, I am giving copies to fellow bloggers. Send me an e mail with a link to your blog if you are so inclined. Thank you.
‘A Waiting Wave’
“It is marvellous how Kulpreet has managed to write this deft and entertaining bit of breezy prose. His touch is surprisingly assured.”
"Kulpreet Yadav
Indra Sinha, shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize, 2007 and regional winner, Commonwealth Writer’s Prize, 2008
Jug Suraiya, author and columnist, ‘The Times of India
"Kulpreet Yadav
Natasha Stagg, editor-at-large, Sonora Review, literary magazine, University of Arizona
“If you are a travel freak, this is a must have. Detailed information about the Stone Age tribes of the Andaman Islands , their culture and the ability to converse with their ancestors, it’s all there.”
Sharell Cook, India Travel Guide, About.com, ‘The New York Times’ company
Fast, action-packed and hugely engrossing, ‘A Waiting Wave’ sure is a thumping good read.
“Kulpreet is gifted with an inventive and graphic imagination that will immerse the readers in this engrossing island saga.”
Sid Khullar, Food commentator and Editor, Chef-at-Large
“Kulpreet Yadav uses a language all his own, a syntax malleable enough to encompass the emotions and thoughts of his truly distinctive protagonist, Harrison Massey
Steven Miller, fiction editor, Leaning House Press
“The author uses myriad shades to display the essence of true emotions in this promising novel. From separation to self-discovery, the tale drips in the sweet flavour of wanting love between the characters.”
“Very riveting and refreshing account. Takes you to Andamans, even if you have never been there. Very enlightening and entertaining.”
Subhash Arora, President, Delhi
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Celebrity of the Month on okiedoks.com - Author Kulpreet Yadav
Well, I was busy re-locating from Port Blair to New Delhi last month when Okiedoks.com asked me if I would do an interview for them and I happily agreed. I found the questions very direct and rather difficult to answer. It's one thing to have various opinions about writing and life as an author, and quite the other having to say it. I did the balancing act. Overall a good experience I think, though I am yet to become a biggie in the writing world. Here's the link.
In the next few posts I would like to share information about my new title, 'A Waiting Wave', the reviews and the buzz it has generated, besides my experience of being at the launch of GRANTA 115 issue, the F Word.
Also, do remember to pick a copy of India Today TRAVEL PLUS in which I have bared a few secrets about Port Blair. By the way, Port Blair is also the setting for my new novel, 'A Waiting Wave'.
*
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Don't Worry, Be Happy
Read my column in the THIS Literary magazine by clicking here or scroll down. Thanks!
First, the good news. My fiction title, A Waiting Wave will be out soon and it is slated for publication during June 2011 by Pustak Mahal, India, one of the largest publishers in the Indian subcontinent. My first novel, The Bet, was published in 2006.
The beauty of a slow world
As part of my novel writing, I have been living for the past year in a rather remote part of India called the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. This Indian Territory is comprised of a cluster of over five hundred islands stretching along a north-south axis from south of Myanmar all the way down to Indonesia. As someone who is used to living in larger Indian cities like New Delhi and Mumbai, this has been a rather different experience for me. The people here, I have noticed, live life at a slower pace: they walk slowly, talk lesser, eat sparingly and laugh at things I can’t quite find a humor in. Survival is not a challenge here, competition is absent and the crime rate very low. So I wonder: Can our world become a better place if we dismantle larger towns and disperse the people far and wide?
Happiness: Who has a larger pie of it, the rich or the poor?
Ever wondered who is happier: the poor or the rich? If you have visited India, or are planning to do so in the near future, you might have an opportunity to find out. Start by observing the street children when they are not seeking alms at the city’s countless traffic signals. Here’s what you are likely to observe: that they are always laughing, playing pranks with one another or talking with others, all smiles and cool. Quite on the contrary, the children in the cars, who are comfortably seated in air conditioned spaces where a favorite song is playing through the perfumed air seem invariably lost in thoughts. Their minds seem to run ahead of them, working out future plans considered very important and in which they have no choice.
I always find it strange that people who have lots still desire for more, and the ones who have nothing want nothing, save the next meal. The rich too have
their share of happiness, you may argue. Sure they do. And I too, like you, have seen them laugh at parties and receptions. But happiness can’t be time bound and premeditated: okay, I am going to have a party on Saturday afternoon and I will be very happy then. The poor never plan to be happy, they just remain happy, whereas the rich plan to be happy and they don’t remain happy. Happiness is instantaneous and therefore no amount of planning can do any
good.
Online Magazines vs. Print Magazines
Right now, I think print and online magazines are equally poised in popularly among readers. The fulcrum is in the middle. The rise of the online magazines and the decline (I am looking the other way if anyone chooses to swear at me) of the ones in print stand at equal levels of popularity and appeal. Am I suggesting that the online magazine will, in a not-so-distant-future overwhelm the print? Yes. So how does the print magazine survive, as no one wants to be wiped out forever? I think accepting e-mail submissions can be a good starting point. It’s eco-friendly, it's fast and it’s convenient, but we need to shed that we-want-only-hard-copy attitude. Second, it might be a good idea to make the magazines available online too, at a cost of course, while the print edition continues. This would ensure the guys on the web and those smitten still with the feel of paper in hands both get to read the magazine, and not just the latter. In short, the print magazines will have to transform slowly into an online format as the traditional paper format fades away.
*
First, the good news. My fiction title, A Waiting Wave will be out soon and it is slated for publication during June 2011 by Pustak Mahal, India, one of the largest publishers in the Indian subcontinent. My first novel, The Bet, was published in 2006.
The beauty of a slow world
As part of my novel writing, I have been living for the past year in a rather remote part of India called the Andaman and Nicobar Islands. This Indian Territory is comprised of a cluster of over five hundred islands stretching along a north-south axis from south of Myanmar all the way down to Indonesia. As someone who is used to living in larger Indian cities like New Delhi and Mumbai, this has been a rather different experience for me. The people here, I have noticed, live life at a slower pace: they walk slowly, talk lesser, eat sparingly and laugh at things I can’t quite find a humor in. Survival is not a challenge here, competition is absent and the crime rate very low. So I wonder: Can our world become a better place if we dismantle larger towns and disperse the people far and wide?
Ever wondered who is happier: the poor or the rich? If you have visited India, or are planning to do so in the near future, you might have an opportunity to find out. Start by observing the street children when they are not seeking alms at the city’s countless traffic signals. Here’s what you are likely to observe: that they are always laughing, playing pranks with one another or talking with others, all smiles and cool. Quite on the contrary, the children in the cars, who are comfortably seated in air conditioned spaces where a favorite song is playing through the perfumed air seem invariably lost in thoughts. Their minds seem to run ahead of them, working out future plans considered very important and in which they have no choice.
I always find it strange that people who have lots still desire for more, and the ones who have nothing want nothing, save the next meal. The rich too have
their share of happiness, you may argue. Sure they do. And I too, like you, have seen them laugh at parties and receptions. But happiness can’t be time bound and premeditated: okay, I am going to have a party on Saturday afternoon and I will be very happy then. The poor never plan to be happy, they just remain happy, whereas the rich plan to be happy and they don’t remain happy. Happiness is instantaneous and therefore no amount of planning can do any
good.
Online Magazines vs. Print Magazines
Right now, I think print and online magazines are equally poised in popularly among readers. The fulcrum is in the middle. The rise of the online magazines and the decline (I am looking the other way if anyone chooses to swear at me) of the ones in print stand at equal levels of popularity and appeal. Am I suggesting that the online magazine will, in a not-so-distant-future overwhelm the print? Yes. So how does the print magazine survive, as no one wants to be wiped out forever? I think accepting e-mail submissions can be a good starting point. It’s eco-friendly, it's fast and it’s convenient, but we need to shed that we-want-only-hard-copy attitude. Second, it might be a good idea to make the magazines available online too, at a cost of course, while the print edition continues. This would ensure the guys on the web and those smitten still with the feel of paper in hands both get to read the magazine, and not just the latter. In short, the print magazines will have to transform slowly into an online format as the traditional paper format fades away.
*
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Simple Magic, Complex Lives
This short fiction was published by the Istanbul Literary Review in their latest edition (Issue 19). Click here to read from the site, or scroll down. Thanks!
*
I was at this conference. The lights had been dimmed; a man addicted to conferencing was putting across his strong views on a subject I wasn't least bit interested in, with ease. He wore a tragic looking white suit, proportioned inversely with a black shirt underneath. The red tie that intriguingly peeped from under the coat was clearly hesitant, as if, of its being of a color. I was focusing on the top of his head, not knowing anything better to do, which seemed to shine divine, having eradicated all the hairy vegetation from its surface. Earlier – that is before the conference had begun – the shine was even happier, reflecting playfully the many overhead lights. Now it seemed meditative, wobbling gently in agreement with whatever the man was trying to say.
I was bored to the limits of boredom, alive only to the frolicking of strange thoughts in my mind. Minutes dragged around me like earthworms slowing down. The air-conditioned space I was locked in, along with about fifty others, tasted and smelt of words bouncing off the walls, rolling gently down here and there, before giving up to a just-arrived batch of fresh, boring words. I dozed off a few times, getting up with a start each time, only to find no one noticing, and the man still talking. Could I have got up and walked away? Hell, no way! The trouble was, the man speaking from the dais was my boss and he had asked me – ordered, actually – to observe the reaction of all the listeners and report to him at the very end. ‘Your presentation was great boss,' my response was already ready in my mind, but the boring lecture continued.
It was only towards the end, perhaps, that I noticed an attractive woman seated diagonally across, listening intently, nodding now and then. I could see her from the side but it wasn't very clear due to the slight light. Even then, I couldn't help notice a virtuous nose rise gently, bisecting a pair of plump lips and an eye that surely hid a cluster of twinkling stars. I kicked myself for having missed noticing her before the conference, at the registration desk. Or maybe she came in late, I wondered, for I was convinced I wasn't used to making such blunders. In fact haven't made one such in thirty years, toddling years and kid-hood included.
Finally it ended, clapping hands screaming a relief which made my job of convincing my boss easier. Minutes later, I was whispering in his ears. “Boss it was great… did you notice the thunder in the applause?” He smiled, his chest ballooning in labor as he took a long breath, and his shiny head now reflecting all of the overhead lights. He got back to his talking, explaining to the three foolish people who stood around him, the highlights of his presentation.
I moved to the farthest corner of the tea room, taking shelter behind bodies of all others, and picked up a cup of tea. I couldn't curse for having taken a sip of the very hot liquid absentmindedly. I just couldn't, as I found myself peering into a familiar face. Hi, she said, as I gulped the liquid, fighting with my face to break into a smile. When she smiled, I knew I had succeeded. She offered a brief introduction which I listened intently and when done, I offered mine. I noticed her and it became like a man noticing an attractive female, the opposite gender. Her face was like a breathless surrender of a white dove to the summer heat – the eyes felt so intriguingly inquisitive that I worried it will rob all the charm around her that they could see; the nose stood like a winner after a lucrative prize; the cheeks flowed down in angles and curves never experienced or discovered by anyone before; and the lips sat like a fire under preservation. I stared, aware that I stared, and she talked, aware, I thought, that I stared.
As time tamed the laws of attraction to normalcy – which must have been ten minutes or so later – she told me that my boss was one of the best speakers she has heard for a really long time. The attraction ebbed silently, enough that in a few minutes I didn't die of a heart attack as she went back to her seat in the conference room. The lights dimmed once again and another person now took over the dais and started an equally boring presentation. I hated him, only until I saw my friend nodding enthusiastically. I looked down at the carpet inspecting my shoes, looked up to inspect the ceiling, looked at the walls making faces at the speakers on the walls, looked around at the faces of the mesmerized people and looked at my female friend, before starting all over again. Minutes now crawled even more slowly, as if they had sex and got themselves pregnant during our tea break. The words moved around my head in circles singing lullabies as I fought very hard to keep myself awake. My boss was now seated in the row ahead of mine and I was sure, if I slept – which meant I might snore – I would lose my job. So, I fought valiantly, staring at the woman every few minutes for stimulation.
There was sudden applause and I didn't miss the desperation in my energies as I joined others, clapping so hard that my palms ached. The clapping died after a few seconds, but somehow, I couldn't stop clapping. I clapped, and clapped, looking at my hands and looking at others, most of whom now stared at me. I noticed that my boss turned in his seat and glared at me, his eyebrows signaling a message. I was sure he wanted me to stop. But I couldn't; the attention I was now getting made something inside me joyful. I also noticed the attractive woman look at me with an anxious expression, and continued clapping, so much that my head throbbed, my eyes leaked and my lips trembled at the effort. I also felt sweat drops gingerly slither down my back. The echo of my claps crowded on me and the stares pushed me into an inky depth of nothingness. I closed my eyes. I wanted to shout, but couldn't. I heard someone whisper in my ears and I opened my eyes.
The speaker had changed and the world around me was as boring as before the dream. I took a long breath and was relieved at the discovery. “Did I snore?” I asked the man seated beside me, who looked at me with disgust and nodded. I controlled the urge to hit him. “Was it loud enough for the man over there,” I pointed towards my boss, “to have heard?” The disgust on his face multiplied and the nod became livelier. This, I knew meant serious damage as I had slept in the last conference also, and in the one before that, and all the times before that. And now I was on the final leash of life. My boss had warned me that just one more time and my story was over. I mustered some courage and asked the man again, “did he look around?” In response the man just got up and shifted a few seats further from me. Bastard, I muttered under my breath.
At the lunch time, I avoided my boss. I didn't have the courage to hear about my dismissal in front of everyone. So, I marked him from the corner of my eyes, and moved around as he moved speaking to people. The food was a good distraction and my taste buds allowed a temporary relief as I dunked in some real good butter chicken and butter nan , my all time favorite combination. It was while I was savoring the dessert that I met my woman friend once again. We were out in the open, the winter sun peacefully warming the best around us. Blue rock pigeons sat on the trees in the courtyard below chatting frankly in their chirpy-echoes-in-a-well-type-sounds.
“Hi again!” she smiled and I smiled back, nodding like the frank flapping of a fabric drying in a gale. She looked sweeter than the sweet in her hands and for a moment I felt stupid eating something less sweet. “You look worried.”
Did I? I tried to fake a smile and declared, “I guess I am fine.”
“The second presentation was also interesting, so educating, so…”
“More dessert?” I interrupted, sacred to recall the conference and the disasters I committed.
“You didn't like the presentation, I think. Am I right?”
I nodded with the innocence of a school child.
“Which one of the two you didn't like?” I liked the way she asked the question and I wondered. What if she also didn't like the presentation just like me? What if she is just faking? What if all the people inside were faking?
I couldn't lie to her, so I mustered some courage but spoke slowly, “both were boring for me but I hated the first one more. Maybe, because I slept in the second one…. By the way, you were seated right in the front row… tell me did you hear me snore?” She moved her head sideways and I almost jumped in joy. That meant, I thought, my boss didn't hear me at all. That also meant I could keep the job. So what if I didn't like working in this stupid company, with this stupid boss, at least it was paying me well. And who in the world would pay an idiot like me, who is dreaming all the time, clicking bad pictures, writing stories even more badly? My friends called me a failure; my parents called me a burden; my two girlfriends – both left me eventually – called me a pest, addicted to a world that didn't exist. One called me an egotist and the other, called me an alcoholic, just because I liked to drink heavily at the parties.
I liked the way she smiled, before whispering that she too didn't enjoy the presentations enough. “Oh!” I was surprised to hear the response though I had secretly desired just the same. “What about others?” I wanted to see how far my hunch could take me. “I guess it was the same with everybody.”
“You know,” I scratched my stubble and spoke to her what I always wanted to speak to a good friend about my boss, “the first speaker was my boss. He is worst scum on this earth. He is such an idiot that it is impossible to work for him. But you know, these times of recession, I just don't have any choice.” She nodded understandingly and I marveled at my convincing powers. We joined the conference again after a few more minutes and I now dozed more confidently as she had agreed to pinch me if I snored. Now she sat right in front of me and it was a big relief in submerging into the world of my choice from where I could abuse my boss, become his boss, sack him for incompetence and order him to fetch me a cup of tea.
When the conference got over, I and the woman exchanged our cell phone numbers. After a couple of days, I asked her if she could join me for a dinner. She agreed and I reached the address she SMS-ed me, wearing my best clothes sprinkled with the most expensive perfume in my cupboard. I found her standing in front of the gate, just as she had promised. Beauty conveniently clung over her, playing an overt game with the smart outfit she wore. It was already dusk and the dimming light abysmally contrasted with the glow on her face, failing like a born loser. Behind her, I caught something familiar on the name plate that slung heavily from the big wrought iron gates. I didn't have to focus hard to find out more. It was the name of my boss and she was his daughter. I heard her laugh behind me, as I raced away on my motorbike.
Glossary:
Nan (Hindi). An oblong shaped Indian bread made of wheat flour.
*
I was at this conference. The lights had been dimmed; a man addicted to conferencing was putting across his strong views on a subject I wasn't least bit interested in, with ease. He wore a tragic looking white suit, proportioned inversely with a black shirt underneath. The red tie that intriguingly peeped from under the coat was clearly hesitant, as if, of its being of a color. I was focusing on the top of his head, not knowing anything better to do, which seemed to shine divine, having eradicated all the hairy vegetation from its surface. Earlier – that is before the conference had begun – the shine was even happier, reflecting playfully the many overhead lights. Now it seemed meditative, wobbling gently in agreement with whatever the man was trying to say.
I was bored to the limits of boredom, alive only to the frolicking of strange thoughts in my mind. Minutes dragged around me like earthworms slowing down. The air-conditioned space I was locked in, along with about fifty others, tasted and smelt of words bouncing off the walls, rolling gently down here and there, before giving up to a just-arrived batch of fresh, boring words. I dozed off a few times, getting up with a start each time, only to find no one noticing, and the man still talking. Could I have got up and walked away? Hell, no way! The trouble was, the man speaking from the dais was my boss and he had asked me – ordered, actually – to observe the reaction of all the listeners and report to him at the very end. ‘Your presentation was great boss,' my response was already ready in my mind, but the boring lecture continued.
It was only towards the end, perhaps, that I noticed an attractive woman seated diagonally across, listening intently, nodding now and then. I could see her from the side but it wasn't very clear due to the slight light. Even then, I couldn't help notice a virtuous nose rise gently, bisecting a pair of plump lips and an eye that surely hid a cluster of twinkling stars. I kicked myself for having missed noticing her before the conference, at the registration desk. Or maybe she came in late, I wondered, for I was convinced I wasn't used to making such blunders. In fact haven't made one such in thirty years, toddling years and kid-hood included.
Finally it ended, clapping hands screaming a relief which made my job of convincing my boss easier. Minutes later, I was whispering in his ears. “Boss it was great… did you notice the thunder in the applause?” He smiled, his chest ballooning in labor as he took a long breath, and his shiny head now reflecting all of the overhead lights. He got back to his talking, explaining to the three foolish people who stood around him, the highlights of his presentation.
I moved to the farthest corner of the tea room, taking shelter behind bodies of all others, and picked up a cup of tea. I couldn't curse for having taken a sip of the very hot liquid absentmindedly. I just couldn't, as I found myself peering into a familiar face. Hi, she said, as I gulped the liquid, fighting with my face to break into a smile. When she smiled, I knew I had succeeded. She offered a brief introduction which I listened intently and when done, I offered mine. I noticed her and it became like a man noticing an attractive female, the opposite gender. Her face was like a breathless surrender of a white dove to the summer heat – the eyes felt so intriguingly inquisitive that I worried it will rob all the charm around her that they could see; the nose stood like a winner after a lucrative prize; the cheeks flowed down in angles and curves never experienced or discovered by anyone before; and the lips sat like a fire under preservation. I stared, aware that I stared, and she talked, aware, I thought, that I stared.
As time tamed the laws of attraction to normalcy – which must have been ten minutes or so later – she told me that my boss was one of the best speakers she has heard for a really long time. The attraction ebbed silently, enough that in a few minutes I didn't die of a heart attack as she went back to her seat in the conference room. The lights dimmed once again and another person now took over the dais and started an equally boring presentation. I hated him, only until I saw my friend nodding enthusiastically. I looked down at the carpet inspecting my shoes, looked up to inspect the ceiling, looked at the walls making faces at the speakers on the walls, looked around at the faces of the mesmerized people and looked at my female friend, before starting all over again. Minutes now crawled even more slowly, as if they had sex and got themselves pregnant during our tea break. The words moved around my head in circles singing lullabies as I fought very hard to keep myself awake. My boss was now seated in the row ahead of mine and I was sure, if I slept – which meant I might snore – I would lose my job. So, I fought valiantly, staring at the woman every few minutes for stimulation.
There was sudden applause and I didn't miss the desperation in my energies as I joined others, clapping so hard that my palms ached. The clapping died after a few seconds, but somehow, I couldn't stop clapping. I clapped, and clapped, looking at my hands and looking at others, most of whom now stared at me. I noticed that my boss turned in his seat and glared at me, his eyebrows signaling a message. I was sure he wanted me to stop. But I couldn't; the attention I was now getting made something inside me joyful. I also noticed the attractive woman look at me with an anxious expression, and continued clapping, so much that my head throbbed, my eyes leaked and my lips trembled at the effort. I also felt sweat drops gingerly slither down my back. The echo of my claps crowded on me and the stares pushed me into an inky depth of nothingness. I closed my eyes. I wanted to shout, but couldn't. I heard someone whisper in my ears and I opened my eyes.
The speaker had changed and the world around me was as boring as before the dream. I took a long breath and was relieved at the discovery. “Did I snore?” I asked the man seated beside me, who looked at me with disgust and nodded. I controlled the urge to hit him. “Was it loud enough for the man over there,” I pointed towards my boss, “to have heard?” The disgust on his face multiplied and the nod became livelier. This, I knew meant serious damage as I had slept in the last conference also, and in the one before that, and all the times before that. And now I was on the final leash of life. My boss had warned me that just one more time and my story was over. I mustered some courage and asked the man again, “did he look around?” In response the man just got up and shifted a few seats further from me. Bastard, I muttered under my breath.
At the lunch time, I avoided my boss. I didn't have the courage to hear about my dismissal in front of everyone. So, I marked him from the corner of my eyes, and moved around as he moved speaking to people. The food was a good distraction and my taste buds allowed a temporary relief as I dunked in some real good butter chicken and butter nan , my all time favorite combination. It was while I was savoring the dessert that I met my woman friend once again. We were out in the open, the winter sun peacefully warming the best around us. Blue rock pigeons sat on the trees in the courtyard below chatting frankly in their chirpy-echoes-in-a-well-type-sounds.
“Hi again!” she smiled and I smiled back, nodding like the frank flapping of a fabric drying in a gale. She looked sweeter than the sweet in her hands and for a moment I felt stupid eating something less sweet. “You look worried.”
Did I? I tried to fake a smile and declared, “I guess I am fine.”
“The second presentation was also interesting, so educating, so…”
“More dessert?” I interrupted, sacred to recall the conference and the disasters I committed.
“You didn't like the presentation, I think. Am I right?”
I nodded with the innocence of a school child.
“Which one of the two you didn't like?” I liked the way she asked the question and I wondered. What if she also didn't like the presentation just like me? What if she is just faking? What if all the people inside were faking?
I couldn't lie to her, so I mustered some courage but spoke slowly, “both were boring for me but I hated the first one more. Maybe, because I slept in the second one…. By the way, you were seated right in the front row… tell me did you hear me snore?” She moved her head sideways and I almost jumped in joy. That meant, I thought, my boss didn't hear me at all. That also meant I could keep the job. So what if I didn't like working in this stupid company, with this stupid boss, at least it was paying me well. And who in the world would pay an idiot like me, who is dreaming all the time, clicking bad pictures, writing stories even more badly? My friends called me a failure; my parents called me a burden; my two girlfriends – both left me eventually – called me a pest, addicted to a world that didn't exist. One called me an egotist and the other, called me an alcoholic, just because I liked to drink heavily at the parties.
I liked the way she smiled, before whispering that she too didn't enjoy the presentations enough. “Oh!” I was surprised to hear the response though I had secretly desired just the same. “What about others?” I wanted to see how far my hunch could take me. “I guess it was the same with everybody.”
“You know,” I scratched my stubble and spoke to her what I always wanted to speak to a good friend about my boss, “the first speaker was my boss. He is worst scum on this earth. He is such an idiot that it is impossible to work for him. But you know, these times of recession, I just don't have any choice.” She nodded understandingly and I marveled at my convincing powers. We joined the conference again after a few more minutes and I now dozed more confidently as she had agreed to pinch me if I snored. Now she sat right in front of me and it was a big relief in submerging into the world of my choice from where I could abuse my boss, become his boss, sack him for incompetence and order him to fetch me a cup of tea.
When the conference got over, I and the woman exchanged our cell phone numbers. After a couple of days, I asked her if she could join me for a dinner. She agreed and I reached the address she SMS-ed me, wearing my best clothes sprinkled with the most expensive perfume in my cupboard. I found her standing in front of the gate, just as she had promised. Beauty conveniently clung over her, playing an overt game with the smart outfit she wore. It was already dusk and the dimming light abysmally contrasted with the glow on her face, failing like a born loser. Behind her, I caught something familiar on the name plate that slung heavily from the big wrought iron gates. I didn't have to focus hard to find out more. It was the name of my boss and she was his daughter. I heard her laugh behind me, as I raced away on my motorbike.
Glossary:
Nan (Hindi). An oblong shaped Indian bread made of wheat flour.
Wednesday, April 06, 2011
The British Court, Agra, India, 1856 A.D.
Read my short fiction at Sonora Review, the Literary Journal of the University of Arizona, by clicking here, or scroll down. Thanks!
The white Magistrate asks the accused brown Indian, ‘Why did you kill the British soldier?’
The brown Indian replies, ‘Because he killed my brother and his family.’
The white magistrate is aghast, ‘Everyone knows it was an accident. I want the truth.’ White or brown, everyone nods in the courtroom.
The Indian smiles, ‘I killed him because he was white. A white lie.’
The magistrate’s verdict is ready: ‘To be hanged.’ Everyone agrees in the courtroom, white or brown.
*
The white Magistrate asks the accused brown Indian, ‘Why did you kill the British soldier?’
The brown Indian replies, ‘Because he killed my brother and his family.’
The white magistrate is aghast, ‘Everyone knows it was an accident. I want the truth.’ White or brown, everyone nods in the courtroom.
The Indian smiles, ‘I killed him because he was white. A white lie.’
The magistrate’s verdict is ready: ‘To be hanged.’ Everyone agrees in the courtroom, white or brown.
*
Thursday, February 24, 2011
February thoughts from South Asia
Read my column in THIS Literary Zine from here, or scroll down. Thanks!
Prof P. Lal, one of the most loveable Indian Publishers, closes his final book
I won’t talk about the literary festivals that are proliferating in India these days like wildfire (but don’t take me as someone who is averse to them). Rather, with esteemed reverence I would like to remember one of the India’s greatest publishers and writers, Prof P. Lal, who passed away recently. His ‘Writer’s Workshop’, during the five decades plus of its existence, published many famous names of the present times: Vikram Seth, Anita Desai, Shashi Deshpande and Raja Rao, to name a few.
I got to know about Prof P. Lal about four years ago and spoke with him on a few occasions. This was the time when I was looking for a suitable publisher for my novel. I had spoken to about a dozen editors and publishing house receptionists or so, and the only one who spoke to me with excitement was Prof Lal. Not just that, he also gave me a few words of encouragement, something that did a lot to my confidence and for which I am forever indebted.
But sadly, I couldn’t publish with Writer’s Workshop (I repent it to this day). And the only reason I didn’t publish my first title with him was due to the simple fact that WW didn’t have a distribution setup. Mr. Lal’s love for books was so deep-routed and his idea of books so unique that he hand-bound the books himself in lovely and colorful Indian sarees (the traditional clothing of Indian women) cloth pieces from his house at Kolkata, in north east India, and the book numbers were kept as low as 100, something like a limited edition.
During one of our recent conversations, I requested him to accept a small donation from me for the Writer’s Workshop, which his website announced they needed. I was honored because, not only did he accept my offer, but he also made it a point to talk about my small gesture on WW’s website. It is still there now. Aside from this, there was a poetry collection I had been working on, too, about which I told him and he asked me to send it for consideration. But since it wasn’t fully ready, I couldn’t send it. Now, perhaps, I never will. Worse, no one as good might ever be willing to see it.
A father at 94
Well, this got me thinking, I mean, how is it possible to father a child that is biologically one’s own at 94?
But it has happened right here in India! The man who achieved this feat asserted, according to a national daily, that it’s due to the food he had consumed when young: three liters of Buffalo milk, half a kilo of almonds and half a kilo of ghee (melted, clarified butter) everyday. It’s a magic formula to remain virile until the final breath, if you go by his theory. Food for thought for scientists, I guess.
In a race to unsettle the previous record holder, another Indian man who fathered a child at 90, this nonagenarian farmer is not just happy, he is bubbling with newly attained fatherhood and posing for pictures in his village in India’s northwest. He has called this unique achievement, ‘The God’s gift’. His wife is in her mid-fifties.
An important question: Is it not the responsibility of a parent to consider, before bearing a child, if he or she has enough residual time to bring up the child properly? But at 94 he can hardly be blamed to worry about such issues. And as Hugh Hefner, CEO of Playboy enterprises, recently said during his engagement to a Playboy model 60 years younger, ‘When you’re in love, age is just a number.’ Let’s watch out: he’s 84.
When it’s for the family, it pays to fight the weather
With the onset of a particularly aggressive winter this year, it hurt many of us to see so many people stuck at the airports all over Europe and America, spending Christmas and other holidays sprawled on hard benches or floors. So the question is: is it really worthwhile for you to jettison your travel plans, or the possibility of being with your loved ones, for the fear that the weather may play a spoil sport?
I would like to share what happened to me when I was confronted with the option and the opportunity came for me to visit my family at Delhi, nearly three thousand kilometers from where I am stationed. The newspaper had reported diversion of 76 flights during the last few days of December yet I grabbed the opportunity to visit my family with both hands and booked myself a flight for the first of January. And as luck would have it, the aircraft arrived in the afternoon on a clear day and on time. So you see, it does pay to fight the weather.
.
Prof P. Lal, one of the most loveable Indian Publishers, closes his final book
I won’t talk about the literary festivals that are proliferating in India these days like wildfire (but don’t take me as someone who is averse to them). Rather, with esteemed reverence I would like to remember one of the India’s greatest publishers and writers, Prof P. Lal, who passed away recently. His ‘Writer’s Workshop’, during the five decades plus of its existence, published many famous names of the present times: Vikram Seth, Anita Desai, Shashi Deshpande and Raja Rao, to name a few.
I got to know about Prof P. Lal about four years ago and spoke with him on a few occasions. This was the time when I was looking for a suitable publisher for my novel. I had spoken to about a dozen editors and publishing house receptionists or so, and the only one who spoke to me with excitement was Prof Lal. Not just that, he also gave me a few words of encouragement, something that did a lot to my confidence and for which I am forever indebted.
But sadly, I couldn’t publish with Writer’s Workshop (I repent it to this day). And the only reason I didn’t publish my first title with him was due to the simple fact that WW didn’t have a distribution setup. Mr. Lal’s love for books was so deep-routed and his idea of books so unique that he hand-bound the books himself in lovely and colorful Indian sarees (the traditional clothing of Indian women) cloth pieces from his house at Kolkata, in north east India, and the book numbers were kept as low as 100, something like a limited edition.
During one of our recent conversations, I requested him to accept a small donation from me for the Writer’s Workshop, which his website announced they needed. I was honored because, not only did he accept my offer, but he also made it a point to talk about my small gesture on WW’s website. It is still there now. Aside from this, there was a poetry collection I had been working on, too, about which I told him and he asked me to send it for consideration. But since it wasn’t fully ready, I couldn’t send it. Now, perhaps, I never will. Worse, no one as good might ever be willing to see it.
A father at 94
Well, this got me thinking, I mean, how is it possible to father a child that is biologically one’s own at 94?
But it has happened right here in India! The man who achieved this feat asserted, according to a national daily, that it’s due to the food he had consumed when young: three liters of Buffalo milk, half a kilo of almonds and half a kilo of ghee (melted, clarified butter) everyday. It’s a magic formula to remain virile until the final breath, if you go by his theory. Food for thought for scientists, I guess.
In a race to unsettle the previous record holder, another Indian man who fathered a child at 90, this nonagenarian farmer is not just happy, he is bubbling with newly attained fatherhood and posing for pictures in his village in India’s northwest. He has called this unique achievement, ‘The God’s gift’. His wife is in her mid-fifties.
An important question: Is it not the responsibility of a parent to consider, before bearing a child, if he or she has enough residual time to bring up the child properly? But at 94 he can hardly be blamed to worry about such issues. And as Hugh Hefner, CEO of Playboy enterprises, recently said during his engagement to a Playboy model 60 years younger, ‘When you’re in love, age is just a number.’ Let’s watch out: he’s 84.
When it’s for the family, it pays to fight the weather
With the onset of a particularly aggressive winter this year, it hurt many of us to see so many people stuck at the airports all over Europe and America, spending Christmas and other holidays sprawled on hard benches or floors. So the question is: is it really worthwhile for you to jettison your travel plans, or the possibility of being with your loved ones, for the fear that the weather may play a spoil sport?
I would like to share what happened to me when I was confronted with the option and the opportunity came for me to visit my family at Delhi, nearly three thousand kilometers from where I am stationed. The newspaper had reported diversion of 76 flights during the last few days of December yet I grabbed the opportunity to visit my family with both hands and booked myself a flight for the first of January. And as luck would have it, the aircraft arrived in the afternoon on a clear day and on time. So you see, it does pay to fight the weather.
.
Friday, January 14, 2011
The Walking Trees of the Village
This short fiction has been featured by 'Asia Writes' on 12 Jan 2011. Click to read from the website or scroll down.
What did the walking trees say to the village when they headed for the city? ‘Bye folks! This place is so depressing. We will have fun in the city and come back a few years later.’
They did come back, but not a few years later. In fact by the time they got back, the trees were old, tired. And they had stories to tell. The village was not prosperous anymore but they were patient and they listened: the thatched houses, the big eared dogs, the jumpy squirrels, the charcoal black buffaloes, the docile goats, the saintly sheep and the pesky pigs.
‘We loved our lives, made lots of friends who hung out with us all the time and made a lot of money. But soon we got old. People get older much faster in the cities, and when that happened to us, the city abandoned us. All our friends, money and calm – it all vanished.’
‘Oh!’ The village and all its inhabitants exclaimed. There was sympathy in their reaction and the trees smiled, relieved.
‘Will you take us back?’ The trees leaves hung heavy from their branches. The moisture on them rolled and sat precariously on the tapered tips, like studded gems.
‘Of course, we will.’ The thatched houses, the big eared dogs, the jumpy squirrels, the charcoal black buffaloes, the docile goats, the saintly sheep and the pesky pigs all screamed together as if without thinking.
The trees jumped in joy and their leaves brought a fine drizzle of jubilation in the village. That year the crop yield broke an old record. And soon the village once again became prosperous.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
The Rum Base
Read my fiction titled 'The Rum Base' from the website of the literary magazine, Orion Headless, by clicking here, or scroll down. Thanks!
There is this group of men, who are staring at me from the bar counter. But I relax; it’s good to get attention. I want to fight them – all three of them – but not here, in the middle of the shady Delhi bar. I want to take them to the park, near the musical fountain, more so now, when the music would be dead, the fountain lost for the day. There are trees there and they would be the witness. I am confident I can take them by my bare hands, all of them. I also have a pistol, and if required, a knife in my sock, and if things really go out of hand, my dad’s high position in the judiciary. A phone call and the cars would come screaming, screeching, like they were waiting for my dad to ask them. So you see I have come well prepared.
My fingers ache. I close my eyes and recall the karate lessons. I am ready, but have to learn to wait. I go over my plan once more: hurt, make them beg, and if required kill them. It is far too exciting. I ask for another peg of rum, just as they ask for their whiskeys.
I whisper: Bloody whiskey guys, sissies, slaves, you have your noses in the ass of the British and the Irish. I am certain they haven’t heard me, but one of them suddenly seems particularly agitated. I like him glaring at me. This is the opportunity, I know, so I wink, smile and move my lips: fuck you!
It’s fun to see his face twitch as he deals with the surprise. I don’t want him to consult his friends, and he doesn’t. So, I wink again. I see him jump to his feet and charge towards me. I laugh; the game is going just as I wanted. He is halfway when one of his drunken friends pulls him back. The two of them have a slight scuffle and I laugh when I hear his abuse. He is taken back, but he is now staring at me like I am someone who has ordered the world to come to an end. There is still time son, I whisper, as he glares.
It’s under a full moon that I follow them an hour later, drizzle adding to the mood as I pull up in front of their car. They hit my car but manage to stop. I jump out and hop straight into the park, jumping the wrought iron gates, ignoring as they abuse me in Hindi. Moments later I hear their footsteps; it feels nice for the predator to be chased by the prey. I stop when I know I am at the spot I want to be.
I hit the first of them with a punch and he goes back reeling. The second one gets me in the chest; it is a mighty powerful blow. I fear I might just go to sleep, so I shout and lunge at the third. Something doesn’t feel right. It takes me a second to realize that he has already hit me with the pistol which I see now. I take out mine. But it is late. I hear them laugh and I smile, unable to laugh. I should have stayed with my fighting just-with-two policy. The lesson is clear, but comes at the very end. Whiskey wins; the rum loses. I must return to the base camp now, my home that is, the rum base.
*
There is this group of men, who are staring at me from the bar counter. But I relax; it’s good to get attention. I want to fight them – all three of them – but not here, in the middle of the shady Delhi bar. I want to take them to the park, near the musical fountain, more so now, when the music would be dead, the fountain lost for the day. There are trees there and they would be the witness. I am confident I can take them by my bare hands, all of them. I also have a pistol, and if required, a knife in my sock, and if things really go out of hand, my dad’s high position in the judiciary. A phone call and the cars would come screaming, screeching, like they were waiting for my dad to ask them. So you see I have come well prepared.
My fingers ache. I close my eyes and recall the karate lessons. I am ready, but have to learn to wait. I go over my plan once more: hurt, make them beg, and if required kill them. It is far too exciting. I ask for another peg of rum, just as they ask for their whiskeys.
I whisper: Bloody whiskey guys, sissies, slaves, you have your noses in the ass of the British and the Irish. I am certain they haven’t heard me, but one of them suddenly seems particularly agitated. I like him glaring at me. This is the opportunity, I know, so I wink, smile and move my lips: fuck you!
It’s fun to see his face twitch as he deals with the surprise. I don’t want him to consult his friends, and he doesn’t. So, I wink again. I see him jump to his feet and charge towards me. I laugh; the game is going just as I wanted. He is halfway when one of his drunken friends pulls him back. The two of them have a slight scuffle and I laugh when I hear his abuse. He is taken back, but he is now staring at me like I am someone who has ordered the world to come to an end. There is still time son, I whisper, as he glares.
It’s under a full moon that I follow them an hour later, drizzle adding to the mood as I pull up in front of their car. They hit my car but manage to stop. I jump out and hop straight into the park, jumping the wrought iron gates, ignoring as they abuse me in Hindi. Moments later I hear their footsteps; it feels nice for the predator to be chased by the prey. I stop when I know I am at the spot I want to be.
I hit the first of them with a punch and he goes back reeling. The second one gets me in the chest; it is a mighty powerful blow. I fear I might just go to sleep, so I shout and lunge at the third. Something doesn’t feel right. It takes me a second to realize that he has already hit me with the pistol which I see now. I take out mine. But it is late. I hear them laugh and I smile, unable to laugh. I should have stayed with my fighting just-with-two policy. The lesson is clear, but comes at the very end. Whiskey wins; the rum loses. I must return to the base camp now, my home that is, the rum base.
*
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Kulpreet Yadav interviewed by Sonora Review, the Literary journal of the University of Arizona
I was recently interviewed by Natasha Stagg, the Editor-at-Large, Sonora Review. Click here to read from the website or scroll all the way down. You also might find my short short fiction at SR titled, 'Can I kill you again Mr. Hitler?', interesting. That's just after the interview down here, or read from the website.
*
Natasha Stagg: How long have you been writing?
Kulpreet Yadav: Eight years, in a serious way. Earlier I was just jotting random thoughts; and it could include anything of general interest. But now I am more planned, better focused and have developed an ability to take it forward where I left, much in the same tone. In short, I am able to sustain my thoughts, over a period of time.
NS: Do you write every day?
KY: Yes, on most days. I would reckon about eighty percent of days. The days I don’t write, I feel uncomfortable.
NS: What are your thoughts on “writing on writing?” Ever read the advice other authors give?
KY: I don’t know, frankly. It can work both ways: sure it is always a good thing to know what others think about your writing, but negative feedback can sometimes puncture the spirit of writing itself. To answer the second part, yes, I have read views of some people. In fact, I am at Zoetrope Virtual Studio, where fellow writers review other’s work.
NS: Do you have some advice to give?
KY: Just one thing: Writing allows you to reach areas and places you otherwise can’t. So, go ahead, write about your world, your ideas, your pains and pleasures. Reviewers may like the work, or may not, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is something that you thought worth sharing has been shared.
NS: Who is your favorite author of the moment, and what should we read by them?
KY: Anne Enright’s The Gathering, Rana Dasgupta’s Solo and Roald Dahl’s short stories. I am afraid I don’t have one favorite author.
NS: What is a book that kind of blew your mind, that we’d be surprised by?
KY: Tough one! As a kid, I was smitten by all the books written by Rene Brabazon Raymond. By the time I was eighteen, I had read almost all of his works. Indira Sinha’s The Death of Mr. Love and Upamanyu Chaterjee’s English August are two books I can say which really blew my mind.
*
Can I kill you Again, Mr. Hitler?
It’s funny; weird actually. When I close my eyes, I am with Hitler. But when I open, he is gone. So, excited, nervous, I keep them closed.
‘Hello, Mr. Hitler!’
He is smoking, smiling, but face is signature withdrawn. ‘Who are you?’
I start thinking, but he is ready for more, ‘Are you British?’
‘No.’
‘Russian?’
‘No.’
‘American?’
‘No.’
He turns to consult his aide; there is none.
‘We had fallen off the map.’
‘New enemy?’
‘Can I kill you again, Mr. Hitler?’
He laughs. ‘But I am a loser, already dead.
*
*
Natasha Stagg: How long have you been writing?
Kulpreet Yadav: Eight years, in a serious way. Earlier I was just jotting random thoughts; and it could include anything of general interest. But now I am more planned, better focused and have developed an ability to take it forward where I left, much in the same tone. In short, I am able to sustain my thoughts, over a period of time.
NS: Do you write every day?
KY: Yes, on most days. I would reckon about eighty percent of days. The days I don’t write, I feel uncomfortable.
NS: What are your thoughts on “writing on writing?” Ever read the advice other authors give?
KY: I don’t know, frankly. It can work both ways: sure it is always a good thing to know what others think about your writing, but negative feedback can sometimes puncture the spirit of writing itself. To answer the second part, yes, I have read views of some people. In fact, I am at Zoetrope Virtual Studio, where fellow writers review other’s work.
NS: Do you have some advice to give?
KY: Just one thing: Writing allows you to reach areas and places you otherwise can’t. So, go ahead, write about your world, your ideas, your pains and pleasures. Reviewers may like the work, or may not, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is something that you thought worth sharing has been shared.
NS: Who is your favorite author of the moment, and what should we read by them?
KY: Anne Enright’s The Gathering, Rana Dasgupta’s Solo and Roald Dahl’s short stories. I am afraid I don’t have one favorite author.
NS: What is a book that kind of blew your mind, that we’d be surprised by?
KY: Tough one! As a kid, I was smitten by all the books written by Rene Brabazon Raymond. By the time I was eighteen, I had read almost all of his works. Indira Sinha’s The Death of Mr. Love and Upamanyu Chaterjee’s English August are two books I can say which really blew my mind.
*
Can I kill you Again, Mr. Hitler?
It’s funny; weird actually. When I close my eyes, I am with Hitler. But when I open, he is gone. So, excited, nervous, I keep them closed.
‘Hello, Mr. Hitler!’
He is smoking, smiling, but face is signature withdrawn. ‘Who are you?’
I start thinking, but he is ready for more, ‘Are you British?’
‘No.’
‘Russian?’
‘No.’
‘American?’
‘No.’
He turns to consult his aide; there is none.
‘We had fallen off the map.’
‘New enemy?’
‘Can I kill you again, Mr. Hitler?’
He laughs. ‘But I am a loser, already dead.
*
Saturday, November 27, 2010
The Delhi Thug
The Delhi Thug has also been featured in the Nov-Dec issue of This literary Magazine. Click to read
***
Rohan liked watching people smudging the sidewalks on a busy afternoon in the city, some with hope in their eyes, some empty. He would stand with a smile on his thirty-year-old face, eyes half closed, letting his senses filter each person. The targets were chosen carefully, and he never failed. It was on one such afternoon he came across her. The excess of dress she was wearing for the afternoon, the wide-eyed wondrous look of a new person in the city, and the unnecessary “excuse me” each time he saw her bump into someone across from where he stood were like a treat for his senses. Behind the spectacles, the Delhi thug’s smile gave him the face of a friendly stranger – someone you could trust.
“What took you so long?” he asked his just arrived partner, Sheila, without any change in his expression. She didn’t reply, instead adjusted the one-year-old hired toddler in her arms and homed onto their target in less than five seconds, watching her walk across the road along the zebra crossing. Both turned slowly, the con family without any link between them except business, and saw her enter a large bookstore. Their strategy was simple: Rohan was the one who did all the talking, while Sheila stood nearby to show the baby wailing in her arms as she kept pinching him. It was a foolproof plan and in seven long years it never failed. Nobody ever informed the police as the money they managed to fleece was too trivial. And in any case, the strangers who came to Delhi had far better things to do in the capital city in the limited time they could stay.
Today looked like an easy day, Rohan thought. He could find all he wanted to know in less than half an hour. The stranger was from a small town and in exactly two hours she would launch her book at the tea shop in the bookstore. A couple of people sat with her and he heard them discuss the event as he pretended to browse through the books on a shelf close to them. Then he slipped out of the door and out of sight where his partner waited, the baby dead quiet in her arms. She thrust the baby towards him. “What is this?” Rohan was annoyed. “This is your part of the job.” Sheila smiled, laughed, and declared loudly that she needed to go to the toilet and walked away without waiting for him to react.
He felt the baby’s stare as he looked around. He looked down and was surprised to see that the child had very big eyes, like that of an adult. It was difficult to look into them and Rohan had to quickly look away. Then he felt the body turn lighter in his arms until he thought he was only holding a shadow. He looked down and the eyes stared at him fixedly, but now there was a smile that curled the side of the lips, one side of which had saliva dripping from it. The contrast was scary – the sadness in the eyes didn’t match the smile. He was scared wondering what it meant but quickly brushed the thought away.
Sheila took an hour to get back and when she did he noticed the bruises on her face and neck. “You could have told him this is not a good time,” he said angrily. She took the child and sat down next to him. He repeated his comment. This time Sheila’s reply quieted him for a long time. She hissed, through betel nut-stained, rust-colored teeth, “He is my lover and he rarely asks. You don’t have to tell me when to fuck.”
They saw the target walk through the glass doors, look in their direction, and go away looking confused. Both knew she was looking for the restroom and would find it at the end of the corridor. But they stared at her blankly, the child suddenly crying, reacting to the pinch. Minutes later when she was on her way back, Sheila was holding her face in her palms, sobbing, while the child was still wailing and Rohan looked at their target, his face sullen, eyes big with fear, hair disheveled. He saw her hesitate in front of them for a second before walking away. He knew it was time.
After five minutes he was standing behind her. She was alone browsing through the books, while others busied themselves making the final arrangements for the event. He knew the format. The bookstore had been a favorite haunt. He turned the final time to see if Shelia and their unhealthy child were where he could show them to her. They were.
“Excuse me, madam.” He was happy to hear the practiced tremble in his voice. She turned and the expression was just as he had expected.
“Yes?”
A tear rolled from Rohan’s eye when he narrated his story. He said that their child needed immediate medical tests which cost three thousand rupees and he didn’t have a penny. He showed her the fake medical prescription with the day’s date (he had a big bunch of such undated blank prescriptions at home that he filled himself whenever required, like today). He saw the uncertainty in her eyes, the first reaction he was expecting. He continued, his finger pointed towards his fake family. “We stay in this heartless city madam, I don’t want the entire money, just give me whatever you can.” She was looking at the child. Rohan knew his little con game was headed in the right direction.
“I will return your money in a month’s time. Here is my card.” He handed her a fake card.She had tears in her eyes when she gave him two thousand rupees. He smiled, bowed, and cried some more, before thanking her profusely and vanishing through the glass doors.
By now many people had gathered and she was asked to sit on the chair facing them. As she sat down in front of fifty close friends and people from the media to read from her second book, everyone, except her, noticed the police take a struggling family in handcuffs through the glass wall behind her. She didn’t need to see them as she herself had planned the arrest after being conned by the same thugs two years prior when she was in the city for her maiden book launch. There was a roar of clapping when she finished her reading. It certainly looked like this book would do much better than her previous one. She was getting better at telling stories, not plain listening to them.
.
***
Rohan liked watching people smudging the sidewalks on a busy afternoon in the city, some with hope in their eyes, some empty. He would stand with a smile on his thirty-year-old face, eyes half closed, letting his senses filter each person. The targets were chosen carefully, and he never failed. It was on one such afternoon he came across her. The excess of dress she was wearing for the afternoon, the wide-eyed wondrous look of a new person in the city, and the unnecessary “excuse me” each time he saw her bump into someone across from where he stood were like a treat for his senses. Behind the spectacles, the Delhi thug’s smile gave him the face of a friendly stranger – someone you could trust.
“What took you so long?” he asked his just arrived partner, Sheila, without any change in his expression. She didn’t reply, instead adjusted the one-year-old hired toddler in her arms and homed onto their target in less than five seconds, watching her walk across the road along the zebra crossing. Both turned slowly, the con family without any link between them except business, and saw her enter a large bookstore. Their strategy was simple: Rohan was the one who did all the talking, while Sheila stood nearby to show the baby wailing in her arms as she kept pinching him. It was a foolproof plan and in seven long years it never failed. Nobody ever informed the police as the money they managed to fleece was too trivial. And in any case, the strangers who came to Delhi had far better things to do in the capital city in the limited time they could stay.
Today looked like an easy day, Rohan thought. He could find all he wanted to know in less than half an hour. The stranger was from a small town and in exactly two hours she would launch her book at the tea shop in the bookstore. A couple of people sat with her and he heard them discuss the event as he pretended to browse through the books on a shelf close to them. Then he slipped out of the door and out of sight where his partner waited, the baby dead quiet in her arms. She thrust the baby towards him. “What is this?” Rohan was annoyed. “This is your part of the job.” Sheila smiled, laughed, and declared loudly that she needed to go to the toilet and walked away without waiting for him to react.
He felt the baby’s stare as he looked around. He looked down and was surprised to see that the child had very big eyes, like that of an adult. It was difficult to look into them and Rohan had to quickly look away. Then he felt the body turn lighter in his arms until he thought he was only holding a shadow. He looked down and the eyes stared at him fixedly, but now there was a smile that curled the side of the lips, one side of which had saliva dripping from it. The contrast was scary – the sadness in the eyes didn’t match the smile. He was scared wondering what it meant but quickly brushed the thought away.
Sheila took an hour to get back and when she did he noticed the bruises on her face and neck. “You could have told him this is not a good time,” he said angrily. She took the child and sat down next to him. He repeated his comment. This time Sheila’s reply quieted him for a long time. She hissed, through betel nut-stained, rust-colored teeth, “He is my lover and he rarely asks. You don’t have to tell me when to fuck.”
They saw the target walk through the glass doors, look in their direction, and go away looking confused. Both knew she was looking for the restroom and would find it at the end of the corridor. But they stared at her blankly, the child suddenly crying, reacting to the pinch. Minutes later when she was on her way back, Sheila was holding her face in her palms, sobbing, while the child was still wailing and Rohan looked at their target, his face sullen, eyes big with fear, hair disheveled. He saw her hesitate in front of them for a second before walking away. He knew it was time.
After five minutes he was standing behind her. She was alone browsing through the books, while others busied themselves making the final arrangements for the event. He knew the format. The bookstore had been a favorite haunt. He turned the final time to see if Shelia and their unhealthy child were where he could show them to her. They were.
“Excuse me, madam.” He was happy to hear the practiced tremble in his voice. She turned and the expression was just as he had expected.
“Yes?”
A tear rolled from Rohan’s eye when he narrated his story. He said that their child needed immediate medical tests which cost three thousand rupees and he didn’t have a penny. He showed her the fake medical prescription with the day’s date (he had a big bunch of such undated blank prescriptions at home that he filled himself whenever required, like today). He saw the uncertainty in her eyes, the first reaction he was expecting. He continued, his finger pointed towards his fake family. “We stay in this heartless city madam, I don’t want the entire money, just give me whatever you can.” She was looking at the child. Rohan knew his little con game was headed in the right direction.
“I will return your money in a month’s time. Here is my card.” He handed her a fake card.She had tears in her eyes when she gave him two thousand rupees. He smiled, bowed, and cried some more, before thanking her profusely and vanishing through the glass doors.
By now many people had gathered and she was asked to sit on the chair facing them. As she sat down in front of fifty close friends and people from the media to read from her second book, everyone, except her, noticed the police take a struggling family in handcuffs through the glass wall behind her. She didn’t need to see them as she herself had planned the arrest after being conned by the same thugs two years prior when she was in the city for her maiden book launch. There was a roar of clapping when she finished her reading. It certainly looked like this book would do much better than her previous one. She was getting better at telling stories, not plain listening to them.
.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Life: Forever Jigsaw, Forever Straight
I don’t know if I am sick, or it is just a bad taste in the mouth. Or, is it the mind that is playing tricks. I don’t know my state, but I would be lying if that is true. I think I might know: it’s the woman next door. Yes, I think that is what it is. You should see how unattractive she is. But she may be beautiful inside; I don’t know that yet. So, I live with the feeling.
*
Five years ago, I played a game with my friends; a game I think now can qualify to sit on the extremes of silliness. But back then, I was happy with it. The game was simple: scoop back the girls we fancied back at the school. Internet, my friends screamed. I think I spotted my own voice in it too. We failed, all of us still children. I guess, nobody grows.
*
I don’t like my job; I don’t like my not liking it; and now I do not like writing about my not liking it too. It is difficult to say you don’t like something. Its rejection; and it upsets me. It is one thing being cynical and quite the other rejecting it. If you are cynical, the creator of the thing cynical according to you has a chance to work upon it, or plain leave your cynicism all by itself. But if you reject, you make the creator reject your opinion, or hate you altogether. But I still choose to reject. It gives me hilarious pleasure, because in any case no one seems to be bothered about what I think. I am nobody; and nobodies can reject all the same.
*
There are sixteen varieties of bananas available at the fruit-seller near my house. He sells vegetables too, but I don’t need them as I don’t cook at home. The bananas, each variety, he explains comes from a different island in the Andamans. But there are 570 of them, I know, so I ask him why not so many varieties and he smiles, saying wisely that he doesn’t know. I like the man, so each time I go there I ask him why only 16 varieties, why not 570 and he just smiles, thinking I am joking. Sometimes he doesn’t charge me money; I think he is dealing with guilt that he can’t answer such a basic question of a weekly customer.
*
The other day I was at this bar: dark inside, smelling of sweat and roast peanuts, fans whipping the cigarette smoke into concentric circles. I don’t go to such cheap bars, but I did, and it surprised me a bit. Just a bit. So I asked the barman, a young man with a curly moustache and small eyes. He said I might have remembered that I owed him some money. I had to leave the place in a hurry. I don’t have money for such scoundrels. And I can’t remember taking anything from him.
*
At the airport last week I came across an old man. He was reading a book and there was this permanent smile on his face. There was something strange about the man, so I bought a coffee and sat next to him. An hour passed without him turning a page, or that smile slipping even a wee bit. When the boarding was announced and he got up to go, he answered my query without my asking, ‘I have read this book a hundred times. I was recalling my childhood.’ I smiled and he continued, ‘you know when I was a little boy I could fool everyone at my home that I was studying whereas I was not. Just like now. And I think I have been able to fool you too.’ I smiled, thinking, yes, we remain children throughout our lives.
*
The watchman of our society where I live keeps sleeping the whole day. What do you do at night, I asked him one day? What does anyone do at night? He looked surprised, while I waited. ‘I sleep of course,’ he said finally.
Friday, October 08, 2010
There is enough for one - Short Fiction by Kulpreet Yadav
This flash fiction has been featured in the latest issue of the 'Salt River Review.' Click here.
I was happy. The friends played with me all day, dogs chased us home when we stole mangoes from the orchard, and the camels farted while we danced to Hindi film songs in the afternoons narrating stories about our ancestral courage.
I was happy. The friends played with me all day, dogs chased us home when we stole mangoes from the orchard, and the camels farted while we danced to Hindi film songs in the afternoons narrating stories about our ancestral courage.
There were three of us: I, the jovial, black eyed, timid seven years old; Hobe, eight, brown eyed, strong, with a girlfriend, someone who all of us schoolmates loved as a hero, and perhaps a God even; and of course Anita, grey eyed, the plump girl, whose gums grew with such ambition over her teeth that we loved her smile. The trouble was, I was only one who was poor; the other two of my friends were better off, living in cement houses, their fathers cycling to work, mothers making chicken biryani on Sundays after watching a movie with the family in the only theatre around which our small town grew like a ghost on fire, reds, blues and greens fading the sky and the earth to disappearance.
My dad was smart, I think, or maybe stupid. As a child I had no idea why he couldn’t earn, why he drank so much alcohol, why my mother cried the way she did, and why he bought lottery tickets. One day, he made me buy one, and a day later came home looking for me – my mother hid me under the cot – but he found me and beat me for bringing bad luck. I hated him, but he hated me even more. When I saw my mother’s stomach swell and she told me there was a baby brother I was to get, I danced with her.
I told Hobe and Anita. Hobe laughed, laughed, and laughed till he fainted. But Anita was kinder; she just smiled. I couldn’t figure how, but I thought my kid brother needed food, so I asked my friends. It was on the next day and Hobe’s face was still red, I think, due to last evening’s laughing. They gave me some money and I bought chapattis and curd for my mom. It went on for days; she told me I made her very happy, and that my brother was well. One day I got my friends home; they said my house looked bad and my mother sick, yet my mother smiled and held their hands, kissing them, tears running on her face.
Two months later, the midwife told all three of us that my baby brother was happy. But he still cried when he was born. Anita said he was healthy. But my mother died. The midwife said she was too weak.
Years later, I told my brother about the story of our lives: our parents, my friends. He cried. It felt sad to see our country’s boxing champion cry, but it felt good that he knew from where the food came.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
The Evening Tea
This flash fiction has also been featured in 'The Leaning House Press'. Click here to read from the site.
There were many flavors: jasmine, lime, apple, ginger. But eyeing the beautiful ladies, wrapped in glittering saris, I wasn’t interested in having tea at the hotel lawn at all. One of them could become my life partner, the pundit had said, and I believed him; I knew his astrological forecasts never failed.
So I waited, waited for that something to happen, looking for it in the swimming pool which reflected the hotel lights and from the sari glitter, the two fighting with each other, suspicious, jealous, looking like competing clusters of fireflies; even the diamonds that sent reflections from the pretty necks clashed with one another, looking venomous, desperate. It all seemed nice, a cool place with umpteen options. And the wait already seemed behind me. And yet the hibernating courage needed to be woken up, to hasten the process, to bring the love of my life, closer, and faster. Just then I heard the inner voice; I had come prepared.
I made a few trips to the toilet to drink my hip-flask whiskey, and woke up next day with an old, bald woman. She smiled, wore her wig, patted my cheek and walked away. Now I wanted tea. The flavors circled in my mind as I dashed into the bathroom.
.
There were many flavors: jasmine, lime, apple, ginger. But eyeing the beautiful ladies, wrapped in glittering saris, I wasn’t interested in having tea at the hotel lawn at all. One of them could become my life partner, the pundit had said, and I believed him; I knew his astrological forecasts never failed.
So I waited, waited for that something to happen, looking for it in the swimming pool which reflected the hotel lights and from the sari glitter, the two fighting with each other, suspicious, jealous, looking like competing clusters of fireflies; even the diamonds that sent reflections from the pretty necks clashed with one another, looking venomous, desperate. It all seemed nice, a cool place with umpteen options. And the wait already seemed behind me. And yet the hibernating courage needed to be woken up, to hasten the process, to bring the love of my life, closer, and faster. Just then I heard the inner voice; I had come prepared.
I made a few trips to the toilet to drink my hip-flask whiskey, and woke up next day with an old, bald woman. She smiled, wore her wig, patted my cheek and walked away. Now I wanted tea. The flavors circled in my mind as I dashed into the bathroom.
.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Can I kill you Again, Mr. Hitler?
It’s funny; weird actually. When I close my eyes, I am with Hitler. But when I open, he is gone. So, excited, nervous, I keep them closed.
“Hello, Mr. Hitler!’
He is smoking, smiling, but the face is signature withdrawn. ‘Who are you?’ he asks.
While I am thinking if I can tell him my real name, he asks another question, ‘Are you British?’
‘No.’ I am not surprised.
‘Russian?’
‘No.’ I try not to smile.
‘American?’
‘No.’ I don’t know how to react.
There is a pause. Does he know no other country, I wonder?
I see him turn, to consult his aide but there is none.
I nod in understanding, wondering if there can ever be a possibility of killing someone who is already dead. I decide finally to wait, thinking: who knows what the future holds.
“Hello, Mr. Hitler!’
He is smoking, smiling, but the face is signature withdrawn. ‘Who are you?’ he asks.
While I am thinking if I can tell him my real name, he asks another question, ‘Are you British?’
‘No.’ I am not surprised.
‘Russian?’
‘No.’ I try not to smile.
‘American?’
‘No.’ I don’t know how to react.
There is a pause. Does he know no other country, I wonder?
I see him turn, to consult his aide but there is none.
‘We had fallen off the map.’ I offer, leaving him with a riddle.
He is now squinting in a fresh waterfall of cigar smoke that is sweeping across his face, defying gravity. Then he asks, suddenly, ‘New enemy?’
I know this is the right moment so I ask, politely, ‘Yes, a new enemy, perhaps. But Mr. Hitler, can I kill you again?’
He laughs and seems relieved. ‘But I am a loser, and already dead.’
Friday, July 02, 2010
Good Girl, Dumb Boy
He tried to tell her, but couldn’t.
Then on the final day at the college, he told her.
She beamed and they walked hands in hands
by the sea and made gentle love under the moon,
the waves tickling their struggling feet.
Both went their ways.
He wrote letters;
she replied sometimes.
Six years later he arrived at her doorstep,
flowers in hand
and wedding proposal on his mind.
But she couldn’t recognize him
as a drunken man pulled her in,
abusing him.
He couldn’t see her tears.
**
Also visible on Angie's diary.
.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Weekend at Havelock Island, India
(Now also read it on about.com, a part of The New York Times Company)
Two reasons that made us select a weekend at Havelock Island: One, the Times magazine rated the Radhanagar beach as the best beach in Asia in 2004 (the only one from India to figure in the list), and two, many of my friends have been recommending it over the years.
Two reasons that made us select a weekend at Havelock Island: One, the Times magazine rated the Radhanagar beach as the best beach in Asia in 2004 (the only one from India to figure in the list), and two, many of my friends have been recommending it over the years.
Cruise to Havelock from Port Blair
Already at Port Blair, I along with my wife and two daughters departed by a high speed cruise catamaran called Makruzz at 0845 Hrs last Sunday. The catamaran, bought by a local company from Damen shipping in Singapore, has a capacity of about 280 passengers seated on two decks in three classes. We chose to travel by the Premium class (the middle one with one way fare per person of Rs. 650) and that got two of us the window seats. The catamaran is 37 meters in length and built to international specifications. While the kids sat next to their window seats, munching chips bought from the central kiosk, I and my wife sipped hot tea, seeing the islands appear and disappear around us. It rained for a while, but for most of the travel of ninety minutes it was clear with a good view.
The Barefoot resort
It will be difficult for anyone to sustain the enthusiasm for long, as the driver takes you through totally uninhabited parts of the island before finally breaking off on a dirt road, tall trees standing stout all around. So, the arrival at the resort was slightly discomforting for all of us, particularly the children.
The biggest hut with a thatched roof was the reception and we were welcomed by the front office manager, Mr. John. He showed us various accommodation options and we chose the duplex Nicobari hut at Rs. 6500 (off season discount included). Made entirely of wood, the structure sits on wooden stilts on all the corners with a large palm leaf canopy on top and has a folding five step staircase that can be folded up to keep the reptiles and insects away during the night.
From inside the hut, the foliage outside could be seen from everywhere: if one wants, through the sliding windows the curtain of which can be rolled up; and if one doesn’t want, still through the glass top bathroom and nylon net sealed three feet difference between the roof and the walls.
Within ten minutes, we had our first wave of happiness. It felt strangely comforting to be right in the middle of a jungle, the waves of the sea within hearing distance. The Radhanagar beach
We threw our travel clothes away and donned our swimsuits. Then all of us ran towards the beach. Through the woods, the beach emerges like a blue green gem initially before you come across the powdery white sand all around it hugging like a pearly necklace. The beach mat, the umbrellas, the mobile phones all abandoned at the edge, four of us jumped into the inviting waters. Though it was midday it wasn’t sunny; the clouds had been playing hide and seek with the sun all day long and we didn’t exactly miss the sun. The Indian sun can be pretty harsh at such places, so we had prayed for a cooler respite and we were lucky to have got just that.
The best thing about staying at the resort – we realized at that moment –was the fact that since there was no other resort in the vicinity we had the entire stretch of sea and sand to ourselves. The visitors who come to the beach can reach only up to the far end on the other side where the road ends and we could see many of them looking like ants climbing over each other in the hazy distance. It was luxury to be having a beach all to ourselves, a forest guard sitting in the distance on his lookout post and the manager coming occasionally to check if all was fine with us. It took us two hours before the scenery began to wear its effect off and stomach grumbled with hunger.
The deadly crocodiles were definitely on our minds when we took the dip. Now, I don’t know how wise we were to venture in waist deep waters, just a little distance from the spot where an American tourist was attacked by a deadly salt water crocodile very recently (God rest her soul in peace). She was incidentally a guest at Barefoot resort, also the place of our stay. It was a wayward incident we were convinced by the resort staff. Anyway, what is life without a little bit of risk. That said, we decided to forego all our earlier plans to go snorkeling. The girls didn’t simply have the courage and I didn’t see any reason.
Dolphins Ahoy!
Next day, having rested really well and woken up to the cacophonic early morning discussions of the local birds and also having finished an early morning stroll on the beach, bathed and fresh, we were proceeding for breakfast at eight, when the Front desk manger, Mr. John, told us about the Dolphins. Giving the breakfast a slip for the time being, we scurried through the woods a little distance away, where, as I said before, the road got the visitors to the beach, to be in the middle of the action. A crowd of about fifty people had already gathered but there seemed to be no Dolphins. I asked a bystander and he said the two Dolphins had been washed ashore an hour or so ago, but the forest officials had put them back into the sea. But we could see their fins in the distance, so we waited. Surprisingly, a little later the Dolphins were once again washed ashore. The crowd thronged on the people who rescued them. I learnt later they were the forest officials. I hope their efforts revived the drowsy looking beautiful mammals.
Diverse ecosystem
Most of the islands in the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, I would like to mention, support diverse ecosystems. While on one patch you might have tall Mahua (Madhuca Longifolia) Dido (Bombax Insigne) and wild Jamun trees, on the other all you can see are short shrubs, while still on others you can see the coconuts and the areca-nut trees growing alongside palm trees. This diversity supports all kinds of life. We spotted parrots, mynahs and beautiful butterflies too.
The Vijaynagar beach
The next day, after checking out from Barefoot Resort (the checkout time here is nine in the morning but they allowed us the luxury of a late check out) we headed for the second beach called Vijaynagar beach. This beach has almost all the resorts dotting all along its curve. We selected the Wild Orchid for our lunch at the recommendation of our driver. The restaurant is called the ‘Red Snapper’ and when we ordered Prawn curry in coconut gravy and a Biryani, along with beer and coke we had no idea what was in store for us. Both the prawn curry and the Biryani turned out to be the best I have ever eaten. After the lunch we headed once again to the beach, our luggage in the safe custody of the front desk. This beach is not half as good as the Radhanagar beach: there are rocks dotting its shore line, which can become dangerous to navigate during high water, and there are too many people.
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