The Times of India initiated a Write India Campaign a few months ago. Eleven popular authors would participate. Each month, a given author would indicate a certain passage, and the idea was those interested in participating would include this passage and develop a short story and submit it. There would be 10 stories highlighted each month, and one winner declared, who would win a Kindle.
Looking at prompts and building stories around them is something that takes me back to school days, when you were given a subject and had to write essays. Except , then, your teacher had something to say about it.
In keeping with the spirit of going digital, you can now be a 0 or a 1. And there are no feedback comments.
The second month results are out, and while it is very clear that one is NOT amongst the talented top 10, it has been a fun thing to participate in.
The same spirit of going digital now allows me a fun opportunity of putting my zero category entry on the blog.
Chetan Bhagat was the second author. The passage he specified was :
She sat in the Starbucks cafe, sipping her coffee and staring out of
the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her
“blue silk scarf”. .. (you could use the passage anywhere within the story)
--------------------------------------------My entry ----------------------------------------------
At the Cutting Edge.
Esha, was startled out of her reverie by the sudden
braking of the CST local. As usual, the train
came to a stop just outside the main station, and waited, in anticipation, of a
free platform, where she could disgorge her innards, full of active,
hardworking, cheek to jowl standing folks, mobilizing to rush to work, hurrying
across the grand interiors of the station.
Collecting her purse and a small handbag, she moved towards the
door. The train would start with a
knowing jerk, and slowly glide into CST.
Like a child homing to its mother.
No. She didn’t want to think
about it like that. It hurt.
There was a time when she found something hurtful, and quickly shoved
it away from her mind, trying to
convince herself that her mind was at fault. But when something happened again and again,
she wondered.
The last few years had gone by in a blur.
Esha Prabhu had become Esha Gupta,
with great celebrations and
declarations. She had met Harish at
an Equal Streets event, where they were conducting a drawing competition for
kids on the wondrously empty Sunday streets.
Many months of cutting chais, train rides, chats and chaats, whatsapp,
FB and hanging around with each other’s friends, they decided to take a step ahead.
Families met. Appraised each
other. Smiled. Approved.
And Esha-Harish were now hyphenated.
Six months later, amidst all the mandatory pomp, ceremony, and social
posturing, they were married. The family
owned factories and stuff, and the women did not need to work, although
socially active at all times.
Esha, who had completed her Masters in Social Work, wanted to
work. And that’s when she started
sensing the speed breakers. Or maybe she should have called them potholes?
She would apply to some place, get a call, and just when she got ready
to go, something would change, and the interview would get called off. Sometimes she thought it was some
disorganized HR of the company, sometimes she thought it was just her
luck.
Harish would be busy with his managerial responsibilities in his family
enterprises, and when he was home, never really had an ear for such cribs. On the rare occasions that he heard her out,
he would suggest patience, respect for his folks, family traditions etc etc.
And she would force herself to keep quiet, wondering what happened to
the old Harish of Equal Streets.
Then, one day, something changed.
Within her, that is.
At first she couldn’t figure it out, and then she realized, she had
missed her period.
It was a matter of time and soon the women folk were buzzing with the news. Her parents were delighted, and so were the
in-laws. Many customary celebrations
were done. No one really said anything
about her going to work. And so she decided
to enjoy this new phase in her life and think about work later. Acutely aware of the changes, the shapes,
the sense of movements within her, she faithfully went for checkups with her
ma-in-law.
Till she was advised a sonography.
There was all that water she had to drink before the procedure, and
then the actual sonography, and the rushing to the bathroom desperately
afterwards, with her ma-in-law solicitously hovering. Then
the waiting for the report.
Not that she understood the technical jargon, but she heard someone say
it was a baby girl. And she smiled as
she went to bed that night. Clearly, law
prevented mentioning this in the report.
But some whispers happen despite the law. Which may have long arms, but sometimes has
ears too, that actually shut?
She can’t tell the exact moment things changed, but before she knew
what was happening, she was told there was something wrong with the fetus; it
was not destined to go to full term. She
was admitted to the hospital, and she emerged, with a uterus, completely bereft
and a mind, completely blank.
Everyone made the solicitous noises, hovered around, and spoke of how
young she was, and how there would be another time, and so on. Harish was affected, and it was assumed,
that his silence bespoke support to her.
Life got back on to the previous well trodden track once again. Like they say, time heals. And time did its stuff.
A year later, she went through the exact same stuff. Conception,
celebration, checkups, and an urgent D and C. This time she stayed a bit longer
in hospital, and confirmed what she had always suspected since a year.
Daughters were not wanted in the family. And she was just a machine that kept getting
rebooted time and again.
Maybe it was time to move to a place of her own with Harish. Maybe her unborn children would have a better
future then. She discussed this with
him, and was not terribly surprised to see, that he did not want to do that. He
was in his comfort zone, and who cared about whether she was?
She went home to her folks for a few days, and thought things out. She decided to leave her marital home. She couldn’t spend a lifetime fitting into a
constantly changing random jigsaw puzzle.
Her parents were aghast. Nice
girls from good families didn’t do this.
And so she shifted out. Both, from her in-laws, as well as her parents.
The in-laws could figure out what to tell nosy folks, and her parents
wouldn’t have to explain to folks who came with proposals for her younger sisters.
She was qualified, and found a job with an NGO, and a small shared room
in a women’s hostel, with leaky rooms, insufficient bathrooms, and terrible
food. There were health problems,
gynaec ones, there were repercussions of the earlier surgical
interventions, but she was beyond worry.
She would cross bridges when she reached them.
She was happy, as she traveled daily by Mumbai’s iconic but geriatric
suburban railways, ensconced in the warmth of the fellowship of diverse women.
She loved her work, her colleagues from different backgrounds, the ethos,
and her natural abilities ensured that she was appointed to a supervisor level
person. Years passed. She kept in touch with her old friends, but
life had changed. She now enjoyed visiting
schools and colleges to speak about the Social Work Discipline now available
for undergraduates, and was much appreciated as a speaker.
Another day. Another train
ride.
She got in, or rather, got pushed in to the compartment that morning,
and was pleased to see her usual companions of the trip. Sometimes, they saved a seat for her, and sometimes,
they shared their seat, offering to stand half the way, so she could sit. They were single women, mothers of small
kids, older women braving the tough crowds, and even school girls, travelling
to schools. There were also the fisherwomen.
Nothing daunted them, as they clambered into the compartment, big
baskets on their heads, tilted a bit sideways to avoid tangling with the middle
pole at the entrance. And then there
were the hawkers.
They often knew the regular commuters. You could get anything in the train, from clothes, to trinkets, to bed sheets, to kurta pieces. Vegetable portions and food too. Entrepreneurship at its best, because they knew the women going home would save time dealing with the veggies in their long one hour commute north. Esha often admired those who actually chopped and/or peeled stuff in the train, making good use of the time.
They often knew the regular commuters. You could get anything in the train, from clothes, to trinkets, to bed sheets, to kurta pieces. Vegetable portions and food too. Entrepreneurship at its best, because they knew the women going home would save time dealing with the veggies in their long one hour commute north. Esha often admired those who actually chopped and/or peeled stuff in the train, making good use of the time.
The train glided into a junction en route, and a wave of humanity slid
out, followed by another one getting in, stumbling to find a sitting
place. Something made her look. It was a woman, possibly full term pregnant,
and what looked like her mother or mother-in-law, chaperoning her. The sisterhood conspired to create a seat for
her, and the train departed, lulling everyone into its comfortable rhythm.
She could see the pregnant woman wince, and move and adjust herself,
and the elder lady comfort her. Her
neighbors smiled at her. They had been through it all. As always happens, there was chitchat. They were on their way to one of Mumbai’s
municipal hospitals. The pregnant woman’s
husband was in the general compartment.
And would join them at the terminus.
Suddenly, the woman moved, and tried to stand. There was a buzz around her as a pool of
liquid spread on the compartment floor.
Her neighbors got up, realizing what had happened, and shouted out for help. Were there any nurses or paramedics
travelling? Possibly medical students?
As it always happens, first there was a rush to see what had happened.
And then better sense prevailed. Yes,
there was a trainee nurse travelling.
She dashed forward. Asked the
women to create a protective enclosure.
Several dupattas came off and were opened and tied here and there, or even held by folks
to allow the woman some privacy of sorts. A few women including Esha dashed
forth to help, and follow the trainee
nurse’s instructions. Women
carrying newspapers and tissues, offered
their supply. Those who carried napkins
and towels offered everything they had.
An amazing coming together, of
women, for women. Some attended to the impending birth, some supported her
physically as she pushed, some continued
to say words of comfort, patting her and pushing back her hair from her face.
The adjoining gent’s compartment
could be seen through a grill in
the compartment wall, and some of the ladies sent word , after ascertaining the husband’s name; his wife was in labour, was being attended
, and they would keep him informed. They then covered the grilled window.
The Maximum city, sometimes
performs to more than maximum.
Guided by the nurse, the woman
delivered , and word was passed
around that they needed something to cut
the umbilical cord. The baby lay on the
woman’s abdomen, amidst what could have
been called a mess, but was actually an amazing victory for the child. Esha suddenly remembered her friend who cut
veggies every evening , and shouted out to her.
Somewhere from the back , a knife was passed around and Esha took charge and gave it to the nurse. A fresh unopened razor blade would have been
better, but then a woman’s life is more about knives and less about
blades.
For an instant, she waited, and then the child was free. A new entrant into the world, learning even before birth, what lay in store. It was a girl, and the compartment
rejoiced.
In the meanwhile, the people in the adjoining gent’s compartment had
informed the railway police, who
informed the motorman . Somewhere
before reaching the CST terminus, the
new mother, the new grandmother, the new father , and the nurse, got off and
were rushed to the nearest hospital .
The compartment got slowly back
to normal, wreathed in a euphoric high,
as the
ladies made their way, some to disembark, some to
tentatively sit till CST, and some just to enjoy the breeze in the
doorway. There was adrenaline in the
air, and a sense of power and
achievement.
Esha glanced around, and saw
folks move away from the delivery
scene. A jumble of dupattas, towels, newspapers, and fluid.
And somewhere amidst it all, was the
knife. Like her, bloodied,
a bit from the skirmish, but more from the environment. She spied a part
of a blue dupatta that was still untouched by the stuff, tore off a large
piece, and wrapped it around the bloody knife.
Quietly she held it in her arms
as she anchored her purse on her shoulder and gravitated to the door.
She would soon be at CST and would need to disembark.
She walked , as if in a dream,
to the doors of the station, and
felt a sudden loss of energy. It was a coming down to normal, from
the extended high
in the compartment, and she stopped in her path.
She needed to have a coffee. And
get her thoughts together.
A Starbucks beckoned. She normally never went there due to what
she thought were outrageous prices. But
she needed to sit, amidst some solitude and quiet. She needed some time alone .
She felt strangely happy , and rich.
She had helped bring a little girl into this world. Against huge odds. There were no spic and span wards, no shiny
instruments, no surreptitious, narrow minded , cheating family types, but a huge
set of ordinary folks willing the little girl to make it to this world. All the dupattas were like silk , as if
softly mobilizing to swaddle the child.
She smiled and felt a sense of closure. Knives could kill, but then, some knives were life givers.
She sat in the Starbucks cafe, sipping her coffee and staring out of
the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her
“blue silk scarf”. ..
She was home.
