by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 9, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
This story was published in the anthology collection ‘Existing Loudly Volume II’. The story combines my experiences of train travel with some everyday scenes at a railway platform, and a touch of fiction. You will find the actual version of this incident in my book Platform Ticket.
SILVER BRILLIANCE
The turbaned man, hunkered on the pavement opposite, was spreading his wares on a plastic sheet. He swished a yellow cloth like an angel waving her wand over the merchandise, forbidding the flecks of dust from listlessly settling on the heart-shaped keychains, multicoloured bead necklaces, or the trendy sunglasses. Asha watched him as she waited for the traffic lights to turn red, allowing her to cross over to the station. She envied him for the ease with which he conversed with his clients. His apparent contentment made her realise that happiness is self-achieved. A gaggle of young girls crowded around the preening vendor, elbowing each other for the knick-knacks.
Ah, the age of innocence. How blessed ignorance is! Asha thought as she passed the girls, still debating over the keychains. Asha bounded the twenty-eight steps leading to the platform, presuming them to symbolise one for every year of her life. The lights turned green, and the blare of the approaching train added to the chaos that engulfed her. She deftly dodged the peddlers who displayed their wares, hollering for business.
“Rs25 a dozen.” Screamed the fruit vendor.
“Fresh coriander and mint leaves! Amma buy a bunch, grind tasty chutney.” The old lady entreated the passers-by.
Beggars splayed their maimed bodies on the stairs, interspersing the vendors, and aspired to tingle the pedestrians’ altruistic behaviour by rattling their bowls.
“Ammmaaa… Saarr… God will shower his blessings on your family. Please drop some coins or currency notes.”
The urchins scratched their heads while nothing escaped the scrutiny of their eyes. They waited for the right opportunity.
A further stretch of 30 yards, Asha glided through the veritable bazaar of fragrances, absorbing strangers’ sweat and perfumes. Humanity failed to prevail as humans hurried unmindful of the hurt elbows or the stray hair that caught on to zippers of bags—each one rushing to outrun the others in the game of life. Asha then descended a few more steps, reached the platform to be swooped into the local train.
Heaving a sigh, she puckered her brows. The ladies compartment reeked of femininity. The glistening midriffs and the stained armpits nauseated her. Asha was pushed, poked, and jostled.
“Ouch! Are you blind? You broke my toe.” Yelled a bespectacled, stout woman.
“As if I intended to step on your toes. Why are you occupying so much space?” Barked a slender young girl.
“Oh! You have such a nasty mouth. I pity the guy who would marry you.”
“Do you have a son? Maybe I can marry him.”
The arguments escalated, and Asha steered clear of the loud-mouthed women and reached the back row. She smiled at the schoolgirl who would alight after a few stations. Rummaging in her bag, Asha picked and inserted the headphones. The melody, mixed with the trundling of the train, calmed her nerves. She closed her eyes and balanced her stance. In a while, the stench of the approaching bracken river broke her exaltation. The schoolgirl’s destination had arrived.
Asha rested her sore back and moaned in relief as she stuffed the headphones and glanced at the varied hues. Sarees, salwar, skirts, and jeans-clad women engaged in multifarious activity. A patter of numerous languages and accents spilled through as the women opened their tiffin boxes. The compartment stewed with diverse cuisines. Appetising aromas pervaded the cabin. From a corner wafted the deliciousness of succulent drumstick sambar and gingelly oil-drenched dosas, and on the other side, the pungency of garlic assailed the senses. Asha wrinkled her nostrils as someone relished dried fish curry. Tastes were approved, and women shared recipes.
Peddlers selling Roses and Jasmine thronged inside, and thankfully, the fragrance masked all the other odours. And soon after, almost every braid adorned a flower.
“Sister, buy a red rose. It will match your dress.” Marketed a dusky beauty.
Asha, though tempted to buy, restrained herself. She quickly estimated how many litres of milk a month could be purchased with the flower money these women splurged on without a care. She shook her head, and the girl’s eyes reflected empathy. The women engaged in discussions from menstruation to childbirth to episodes of quarrels with the mother-in-law, woes of the irresponsible teenagers, and despondency at drunk husbands. The countless conversations depicting the tedium of everyday existence dizzied Asha.
While the sea breeze played with her curls, Asha overheard the girl seated opposite on the phone.
“I couldn’t go to the reception. My parents were worried about how I would reach home so late. I am getting good marriage alliances, and they don’t want the neighbours to gossip or anything.”
The girl grinned at Asha and continued her rants, “I know I am still too young for marriage. It’s more to satisfy the wagging tongues of the many aunts in the family who are disgusted that my parents are letting me work instead of getting me married…. Hello, hello, can’t you hear me? Hello!”
She scratched behind her ears and said to no one in particular, “The line got cut. Poor signal.” An imperceptible smile crossed Asha’s lips, and ripples formed in the folds of her mind. A vision of her condoning aunts who practised speaking in overtones of reproval loomed largely. Last week, Asha had asserted her views and announced in clear terms that she would get married after her sisters completed their education. Being the eldest and the breadwinner in a family of women, she was burdened with responsibilities. Her poor mother trembled when her aunts visited, throwing insinuations.
“Are you married?” The question from the girl on the phone startled Asha.
“No.”
“You seem to be much older than me, yet unmarried. Why do my parents nag me!?”
Asha laughed, although annoyed, “All parents are in a hurry to marry off their daughters. It would be helpful if you could discuss your ambitions with them. They have your best interests at heart.”
Fortunately, the phone buzzed, and she left Asha to her musings.
Asha’s was the penultimate station, and the train was almost empty by then. She glanced around to check if the compartment was deserted. If it were, she would get down and change to the general compartment when the train halted. Asha preferred travelling the short distance to her destination in the general compartment to being alone in the ladies.
Her eyes were greeted by a passenger seated at the farthest corner. Asha shuddered and wasted a split second on the decision while the train dragged ahead. Clutching the bag to her chest, Asha gazed at the fleeting scenery while a sidelong glance registered the tall figure sauntering toward her.
“It is scary to sit alone, isn’t it?” Asked the hoarse voice, perched on the seat opposite, as she adjusted the parrot green sari that draped her body like a second skin.
Asha feigned nonchalance and surreptitiously observed the turmeric-stained face and the big red dot on the forehead.
“If you hadn’t been here, I would have shifted to the other compartment,” Continued the stranger, gesticulating like a dancer and stroking a square jaw.
Although the jingling bangles were mesmerising, Asha picked up her mobile and dialled a friend.
“This section hampers the mobile signal; you cannot make a call.” The familiarity of the stranger irked Asha.
When the train halted midway for an oncoming train, Asha’s countenance turned ashen.
“Don’t worry. The train will move soon. Drink water. You look pale.”
Then the stranger, with outstretched hands, touched Asha’s head, cracked her knuckles on her vermilion forehead, and then sashayed to the exit.
Asha whizzed to the foot over-bridge before the train screeched to a halt.
Asha’s stride faltered, and her eyes widened as she reached the top of the bridge. A day like any other, the regular train, the same platform, yet suddenly nothing was the same. A homeless man seated on the walkway had his hand underneath the tattered cloth covering his lower body. The hand jerked furiously. His eyes met Asha’s; he removed the cloth and flashed at her. His lecherous eyes stripped Asha. Not a squeak ensued from her parched throat. She couldn’t swallow her spit.
“Come, honey, come closer. I bet you haven’t seen anything like this before.” He said, slithering a pale tongue over his lips.
Her stomach was in knots, and her legs felt like jelly. Asha’s hands flailed in the air and clasped the railing. Bile soared inside Asha when a gust of wind delivered the fecund stench from the bedraggled man. She sensed footsteps behind her. The stranger from the train had followed her to the top of the stairs. The repulsion gave way to relief in Asha’s eyes. The stranger took charge of the situation and flung slippers at the homeless man.
“You swine! You filthy swine!”
The man tried to push but was no match for the heavy-set woman. Her single kick left him sprawled sideways.
Asha’s eyes flitted, and she cowered behind the angel.
The saviour screamed, “Help!” The patrolling Railway policeman and a few vendors from the platform rushed towards them, and the policeman apprehended the flasher. The clanging in Asha’s head grew louder. She baulked for a few moments, then followed her saviour to the police station at the platform’s end.
The women waited to register their complaint. Asha offered water to her new friend, Shilpa.
“Thank you. If you hadn’t come up the stairs….”
“Don’t think about that now. Relax.”
“Hmmm. I hope you are not in a hurry. Where do you work?”
“I don’t have a steady job now. Earlier, I worked in a software company. In our family, I was the only one who graduated and found a job. My parents were proud of me until I opted to live according to my terms.”
“Hmmm.” Asha inadvertently adjusted her dress and continued, “My aunts are pressurising me to get married. My working hours are not acceptable to the neighbourhood women. To shut them up, I need to settle down. We are expected to sacrifice our individuality for societal pressures.” Asha wondered at the ease with which she could open up to a stranger.
“If we opt to fight, we are ostracised.”
“Hmmm.”
“I see you every day. You work at the auditor’s firm, isn’t it?”
“Oh, yes. I have never seen you before today.”
“People do not like to see us. They turn their heads. Even you did not want to talk earlier.” A mischievous smile played on the betel-chewed lips.
“I am very sorry. I am ashamed of my behaviour. You come home; I will share my address. Meet my mother and sisters. They would be happy to meet you.”
Shilpa’s eyes crinkled, “It’s OK. I am used to such behaviour. Your family will not be happy to see me. The neighbourhood aunties would be busy creating stories.”
Asha lowered her eyes.
Soon, they were ushered to meet the officer in charge.
“What is your complaint?”
“Sir, that man misbehaved with her.”
“You stand aside.” The policeman snarled. Turning towards Asha, he asked, “Madam, you tell me, what happened?”
“That man was doing dirty things. He called me closer. Arrest him and put him in jail. Dirty scoundrel!”
“Relax, madam. Did you approach him anytime? Many passengers use the bridge. Why did he choose you?”
Asha crimsoned. “Why would I approach him? I don’t know anything. You beat and make him confess.”
“Madam, you need not teach us how to work. We know. Write your complaint. We will call you as a witness at any time. Will you come?”
Suddenly, the men sprang from their seats and saluted the officer who entered the office. The inquiry pattern shifted like a kaleidoscope, and Asha and Shilpa, who had been squirming just a few seconds ago, easily explained their issue.
The women completed the formalities at the railway police station and stepped out, concealing a sigh.
They bid farewell. Asha hesitated, wondering if she should share phone numbers. Then she checked her watch and rushed away, worrying about the pay cut she would incur for her late arrival.
They parted their ways as strangers again.
Asha scrambled out of the Railway station, and her eyes scanned the dimly lit corridor of the subway. A girl in a school uniform walked ahead, hugging her school bag, and her steps faltered when a group of boys approached, hooting and whistling. Asha paced forward, glaring at the boys. The young girl matched Asha’s strides.
Asha’s lips curled upwards as they emerged into the warmth of the silver brilliance.
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 8, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
This was written in April 2021 for the April Love prompt, Harness Writing Event, for the Penmancy Write. Read. Support group on FB for budding writers. I experimented with the Frame Narrative/Frame Story here, where a story is nested within a framework story. A fictional story inspired by a train romance I witnessed during one of my train journeys, combined with an anecdote about a friend’s love story.
A Beautiful Life.
I hated the holiday at the farmhouse. If not for the compulsion of my parents, I would have scooted from the godforsaken place long ago. The holiday, aimed to invigorate me, turned out to be a damp squib. I trudged along the narrow mud road as directed by a villager to reach the railway station. Only two trains halted there, and I hoped that I was in time for one.
The desolate platform welcomed me with its patches of light and fetid odour. The graveyard silence was occasionally peppered by the croaks of wearied frogs and noisily chirping cicadas that heralded its existence, interspersed with a distant bleat of a goat from the sloping fields on the other side of the track. I dropped my bag, twisted my hair into a bun, and slumped on the cracked cement bench, over which a slanting lamp post projected rings of yellow light.
Rummaging in my tote, I pulled out the best medicine to forget the mess around me. A sucker for romantic stories, I delved into a novel. The whisper of the pages was disturbed by stirrings near me. A sensual scent of vanilla tickled my nostrils before my eyes fell on a man dressed in faded jeans and a white kurta. Another lost soul in the middle of nowhere! He dumped his bag between us and settled on the far side of the bench. I looked around; there were vacant benches, but he chose to share mine.
“So, you like romance novels?” A teasing lilt interrupted my surreptitious observations.
“Excuse me, are you talking to me?”
“I don’t see anyone else around.” He grinned and continued, “But this novel is not as good as the hype it created.”
I closed the book and glared at his audacity. First, he sat on my bench and then criticised my favourite author.
“Storytelling is not an easy task. As if you know a better love story. Why don’t you write a book?”
Irked by his smirk, I opened my book and continued reading, hoping to shut him up—no such luck.
“I can narrate a better love story. Hmm, in fact, maybe two. ”
“Oh really?”
“Try me.”
“OK. Let’s see if your story captures my interest like this book.” I slammed the book and waited.
Crossing his legs, he began his narration…
Krishnan’s four eyes dripped with love as he caressed the tattoo on the wrist of his wife. He recollected the day she got inked. It was on their honeymoon five years ago that she expressed her desire for a tattoo. Coyly batting her eyelids, she mumbled that her strict family had never allowed it. Krishnan immediately consented and strolled with her to a tattoo parlour, goggling at her delight as she thumbed through the tattoo album. Unable to select, she asked him to make the choice. Krishnan wiped his glasses clean and, with the precision of a scientist selecting the best mice for his experiment, selected one that would encapsulate their togetherness. She clasped his hand tightly when the tattoo artist worked magic on her wrist.
Krishnan had never denied her anything. Their union sluggishly tumbled into a rhythm, taking time to understand each other and to plunge into a passionate romance.
“Borinnnggg”, I yawned and checked my wristwatch. The stranger uncrossed his legs, picked a pack of smokes, and offered me.
“I don’t smoke!”
He lit a cigarette, snapped the menthol, and puffed out smoke in circles before resuming his narration.
Krishnan’s reverie broke when a nurse entered the room. Upon seeing the patient asleep, she gestured for him to retrieve the medicines from the pharmacy. Krishnan planted a kiss on his wife’s forehead and ran his fingers on her pixie cut before stepping out. He adored her dark, lustrous hair, but when clumps began to clutter the comb because of the array of medications prescribed, she had reluctantly chopped it. Krishnan had assured his wife that it would grow again once they ended the treatment.
He chose to take the stairs to stretch his legs. A shudder rippled through him as he glanced at a small child wearing a mask walk out of the oncology ward. He peeked into an open room on another floor where a patient leaned on crutches surrounded by men in uniform, clapping in encouragement—a chorus of ‘Come on, AD. You can do it!’ filled the room.
I sat upright, rotating my neck to relieve the cricks, wondering where this story was going. Why did I agree to listen to this nonsense? Have I fallen into the fire from the frying pan? My book beckoned, and I picked it up, but the narrator resumed in a subdued voice.
Anand limped to the table….
“Wait. You were talking about Krishnan. Where did this Anand come from?”
“You are one impatient woman. Let me continue. You will understand.” He threw an exasperated look.
Anand limped to the table. The walking exercise had exhausted him, and he poured the tepid coffee from the flask, which tasted like the one sold by vendors in a railway station. His mind galloped to the day at the railway station years ago when he first fell in love. He had never believed in love at first sight or that it could happen on trains as showcased in movies. But his heart fluttered as she walked gracefully into his compartment behind a pot-bellied man and a stout woman. The retinue halted near his berth, and the bulging belly that strained the buttons brushed Anand’s shoulder as he stuffed a bedroll on the side upper berth. Then, pulling a chain, the man twisted his large frame and his jaw detached, and nostrils flaring, secured a suitcase under seat 16. The stout lady grotesquely bent to tug the lock twice, then scrutinised Anand seated on seat 15.
The couple interrogated the young defence officer. They explained that it was the first time their daughter was travelling alone, and it never hurt to be cautious about her co-traveller. Satisfied with the pedigree and ascertaining that Anand and their daughter’s destination were the same, the parents requested Anand to keep an eye on the young girl. Anand’s heart somersaulted at being granted permission to watch over the demure princess.
The train trundled out of the platform, and the couple bid farewell to their daughter. Anand yearned to wipe the tears that tumbled on Haasini’s ruddy cheeks. He gawked at her like a child yearning for a popsicle in another’s hand as her lips curled and the nose turned red with sniffles. Anand melted, and right then, he knew she would be his, now and forever. It sounded crazy to his mind.
Every single annual holiday, Anand’s family took him to view a prospective bride who would parade in front of his folks. He would squirm, embarrassed, when the girl displayed her singing talent while the proud parents listed her virtues. Anand had chalked in his mind the ideal qualities he sought in his future wife, which did not include singing Carnatic songs!
Anand looked at the most beautiful woman on earth sitting across him. He paused and corrected his thoughts – she was the most beautiful woman after his mother.
The romantic in me, forever, loved trains and love stories. My imagination presented Anand as the quintessential tall, dark, and handsome officer. I folded my legs, sat back, and yanked an orange from my bag. The citrusy notes wafted, and an errant spurt stung my eyes as I hurriedly peeled and gave the storyteller half. Squinting, I waited for him to get back to the narration while he gobbled up the fruit.
The train accelerated, and the warm breeze caressed the officer and the lady. Dabbing her face, Haasini glanced at Anand. But before she could say anything, a middle-aged man from seat no. 10 asked if Haasini wanted to exchange her berth, if she preferred to share space with the ladies.
Anand’s heart thumped with frightening loudness.
He went into contortions of mirth when Haasini refused the offer. The baldie, evidently reluctant to part and anxious to talk, went away suitably snubbed to yell at his wife.
The couple in the side berths wrapped themselves in a cocoon, sharing details about their lives up to that moment. Haasini liked to read, and so did Anand. They spoke volumes about their favourite authors and books. Then the topic shifted to movies, and she informed that she was an ardent fan of actress Madhuri Dixit. Her bedroom walls had posters of the actress. The wafting aroma of food from the compartment reminded them of their forgotten hunger. She opened her tasty home-cooked meal parcel, and he opened his station platform-bought food. Serving him from her pack, they enjoyed their first meal together.
A chubby child from the next bay, smitten by Haasini, decided to claim her attention. Giggling, he occupied her lap and turned villain for some time until his mother pitied the young couple and took the child away. Breathing a sigh of relief, Anand opened a discussion on music. They agreed on some and disagreed on a few. She took a Sony Walkman, played a cassette of her favourite playlist, and offered him the right earpiece. Sitting close with their shoulders touching, they swayed to the train’s movement and the music, humming a duet.
I almost hummed my favourite song. The pale lunar radiance cut through the gliding mist, revealing the temple spire. The faint tinkling of bells trickled in as the narrator cleared his throat and recommenced the story of the blossoming love.
Anand and Haasini’s conversations never ended, and their eyes communicated silently as well, oblivious of the other travellers. He fell in love with the clearly defined dimples on her cheek that surfaced every time she smiled. The way she played with her dark braided hair, the stray curls that danced in the wind, the line of her lips, the kohl-rimmed eyes. Everything about her intoxicated him.
As the sky spouted rain and webs of lightning patterned the sky, she playfully splashed water on him. Eyes burning with excitement, he laced his fingers with hers, and what should be spoken was unuttered, and gazes and smiles decided everything.
When weariness overtook them, unable to keep their eyelids open and with only a few hours left to reach their destination, they collapsed on their berths, wishing the journey would never end.
The train reached their destination, and the couple parted with heavy hearts. Anand hugged his brother and gazed wistfully as Haasini spoke to her sister, glancing in his direction. Anand pulled his brother towards Haasini, and introductions proceeded. With pleasantries exchanged, both went their separate ways….”
The stranger ceased the narration, and I went ballistic, “Is that all? What happened to them? Did Anand find happiness?”
He prolonged my agony as he slowly sipped water and folded the sleeves of his kurta. Checking the time, he continued the saga of Anand and Haasini. I sighed in relief and curled my feet, resting my chin on my knees, admiring the star-studded night sky.
At home, Anand appeared restless like a fish on land, pining over the girl. After an agonizing hour, he informed his family of his decision to marry Haasini and that she possessed all the attributes he desired in a wife. The puzzled brother and his wife failed to make sense to him.
Anand only heard blah… blah… blah.
Anand coerced his brother to accompany him to meet the girl immediately. He had cleverly exchanged phone numbers earlier. The brother, realising his younger brother’s plight and resolution, dialled Haasini’s house for their address.
His brother slapped his palm on his forehead when Anand stopped the scooter midway to buy a Madhuri Dixit poster. On reaching her house, Anand earnestly addressed the girl’s sister and husband, convincing them of his love and eligibility. This took a few hours, but he was a determined man on a mission. His brother argued on his behalf, and everyone reached a mutual understanding.
Anand travelled on the same night’s train back to the capital and met Haasini’s parents. He was nervous about winning their approval. Of course, it was not an easy task, but he was persistent and insistent in removing the obstacles on the path to marrying her. Initially, Haasini’s family treated Anand with disdain, acting as if he were a piece of furniture. The father barked insinuations and concerns about his job in the services and its danger. Determined not to let him get under the skin, Anand ignored the snarky remarks.
Falling prey to his incredible enthusiasm and madness, her parents finally agreed but set a condition that Haasini’s education had to be completed.
Anand and Haasini conversed on the telephone once every week and met once a month under strict supervision. As the lovers counted the days until the wedding, the Kargil War broke out.
Captain Anand Damodar, fondly addressed as AD by his peers, accompanied his platoon to the war zone. Haasini never heard from him again.
I almost fell from the bench, never realised I was holding my breath. The initial reluctance on hearing the story had been replaced by fascination and curiosity. My heartbeat accelerated, but the storyteller continued nonchalantly.
A stray bullet to the spine left Anand incapacitated. He asked his brother to inform Haasini’s family and arrange her wedding elsewhere. Haasini received the devastating news of Anand’s death from her parents.
I was stunned—a pregnant pause. My eyes turned moist as I demanded the narrator, “They never met again, eh? Is Anand alive?”
“Oho, looks like my story has caught your interest.”
“Oh, please complete the story,” I begged.
He smiled and picked up the earlier thread of the story.
Krishnan returned to his wife, who was sitting awake on the hospital bed. He placed the medicines on the table and gently nuzzled their little bundle of joy. He crooned their favourite song, basking in the glow of contentment. The new parents discussed a name for their prince. Haasini looped her hand into his and whispered that they could call him Anand. Krishnan nodded and cuddled little Anand to his bosom.
Haasini felt dreadfully sad and tremendously happy at the same time. She blinked away the tears, watching the two men in her life while her hands caressed the tattoo—Bella Vita– Beautiful life.
The rumbling train brightened the platform, startling us. The storyteller rose, heaved up his baggage.
“Thank God, life gave Haasini another shot at happiness. But I feel sorry for Anand. I could identify with the characters. Thank you for a wonderful story. By the way, I am Natasha.”
“The train hardly stops for a minute. My compartment is in the front. I am Anand.”
The stranger disappeared into the ocean of darkness. I plodded ahead, my head coiling with many questions.
&*&
Picture Courtesy – Unsplash Nathan Dumlao
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 7, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
This was written in May 2020 for the writing event Five-009, specifically for the prompt “Vintage” in the ArtoonsInn Writers Room on Facebook- a group for budding writers. I had fun researching the contemporaries of Dickens/Victorian era, their works (titles), and knitting them all together.
TO BE OR NOT TO BE!
In the days of yore, there lived King Chaucer, who hailed from the House of Fame and ruled over the kingdom of Canterbury. He had a glorious reign and was undisputedly known as “Father of the English World.” With advancing age and stricken with innumerable maladies, his complaints ranged from Mars to Venus. He spent countless days sipping wine in the Poet’s Corner, contemplating a suitable heir, and consulted with his friend Gower. The Queen consort had favoured him with heirs aplenty, but the matter of contention remained with the progression. The curious case of the septuplets, born of one conception!
Chaucer summoned all seven gems. Each one, eminent and noble. He proclaimed,
“The forest of wisdom awaits you all, depart now and expend seven days braving the tempest and entitle the befitting heir! On the victorious one, Tales would be spun in Canterbury.”
***
To the forest of wisdom marched the seven exceptional men, each one lost in his thoughts.
Charles sniggered, “What the Dickens! I do not have great expectations, and I glimpsed an advertisement in the Pickwick Papers about a house to let. Farewell, dear six, hard times to you all.” He walked away. An unexpected twist it was indeed.
Edgar, afflicted with woe and caressing a Raven on his shoulder, declared openly, “I read the purloined letter and do not want a descent into the maelstrom. I am on a journey to where my tell-tale heart leads, hopefully, to Anabelle Lee.” Edgar sprinted away, Raven and all.
Mark sauntered and in a nasal twang uttered, “Roughing it up, are you all? I have read the diaries of Adam and Eve, and nothing captivates me here. Sorry to say I am not your huckleberry. I am embarking on a journey to the Equator. A war prayer for you, my dear ones. Adieu.” The others nodded silently.
Ralph, who believed in transcendentalism, gazed at his diminished circle of siblings. “Society and solitude are the two paths before me, and I do not wish to advocate on the conduct of life. It’s preferred to select our paths according to our nature. I have chosen mine. Goodbye.”
Thomas elucidated promptly, “This is a wasteland, and you are all hollow men. I am on a journey to Little Gidding to sing rhapsodies on a windy night with Simeon. Convey my love to Aunt Helen and Cousin Nancy.” He strolled away with Ralph.
William bent his knees and announced, “I am here to make peace. This is no Vanity Fair, and neither are we snobs. Rebecca and Rowena are awaiting my arrival, and you can take the ‘Rose and the Ring’ and kindly let me stay in the kingdom.”
The Bard curled his lips slightly. “As you like it, dear brother, all this was much ado about nothing. All’s well that ends well.”
He strode victoriously to rule the English Wor(l)d forever.
Title credit: William Shakespeare.
Author’s Note – My respectful tribute to a few of the eminent personalities of the Literary realm.
***
Photo courtesy – Unsplash. Fiona Murray Degraff.
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 7, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
” Layers and Layers” was first published in an online journal, MeanPepperVine – The Mean Journal, Issue #002, July 2022.
This fictional story was inspired by an anecdote my uncle once shared with me. It holds a special place in my heart, as it was the first piece of writing that earned me a modest payment. I was overjoyed to receive my first ever remuneration for something I had written.
LAYERS AND LAYERS
After replanting the tomatoes on the freshly tilled vegetable patch in the backyard, I surveyed my garden. A smug smile cropped up on my lips. My association with gardening and cultivation began when my father, fed up with city life, decided to move back to his village in the foothills of the Western Ghats. Since then, I have dabbled in growing vegetables for the family. The practice continued even after I moved to the city and landed a bank job. Post-retirement, gardening became a passionate hobby, earning me the nickname “Mr. Green Thumb.”
The weeds needed plucking, but it could wait – my daughters will be here soon. The banker in me chose the last Friday of every quarter for their visit. Like the good old days before the girls left the nest, just the four of us would enjoy a cosy dinner at home. I wanted to finish my gardening, have a quick shower and catch a short nap before they reached. Their mother, my wife of 40 years, was toiling in the kitchen since morning. She had planned an elaborate menu, cooking all the girls’ favourite dishes.
“It’s too hot today. You shouldn’t have replanted them; they will wilt in the sun.” Visalakshy honoured me with her expert opinion, standing under the shade of the kitchen awning, her hands on her ample hip.
“I am the gardener here, madam. I know my job. Now be kind enough and fetch me a chilled beer!”
As expected, Visalakshy feigned nonchalance. Enraptured by the sizzling sounds from the stove, she did not bother getting me the much-needed beer. I washed the gardening tools and the mud clinging to my feet under the tap near the well. Then I wiped my hands in the apron and let my slippers dry for a while. Deciding to down a beer during the wait, I unfolded the teakwood easy chair with the colourful cotton canvas, under the shade of the mango tree. The chair belonged to my father, and whenever I sat on it, a feeling of calmness washed over me.
The next-door house had been unoccupied for a while. Now the raucous laughter from the new neighbours dented the peace and calm. The lady of that house hollered for her son or her husband often, “Kannaaaa, Kannan come here.”
I quail every time the name crossed my ears. The cruellest thing to happen to people of my age was the onset of forgetfulness. I would gladly welcome it.
In the late 1960s, when my father moved the family to the ancestral house in Kerala, the state was swept up in the communist political wave. EMS Namboodripad, at the helm of the government, had passed the Land Reform Bill, creating a furore.
My father inherited a couple of acres of agricultural land. But, caught in the communist upheaval, we were among the ‘Landlords’ affected. Steadily, the lands changed hands, and the reshuffling of the moneyed class occurred.
It took a while for the disparity to obscure. But it was shocking for a city-bred like me as older men and women bowed in obeisance, and gave way when I, a lad of 13, walked across the pathways between the paddy fields. They addressed me Thamburan, an epithet of respect, and my ego swelled like Goliath.
Andiappan, dark as a coffee bean, with a towel layering his waist and another on his head, strode the fields from dawn to dusk. He was my father’s trusted man on the campus. At the sight of me, Andiappan removed the headgear, stuffed it under his sweaty armpits, and bent his lanky frame.
Kunji, Andiappan’s wife, helped my mother at home. Attired in a tanned dhoti and a threadbare towel that failed to conceal her ample bosom, Kunji always sported a grin displaying brown betel-stained teeth. My teenage hormones somersaulted, and I crimsoned whenever I sneaked a peek at her sagging breasts. Kunji had to remove the towel when she encountered men from the upper echelon, as covering the torso was considered disrespectful.
Their son Kannan, a year younger than I, herded the cows and goats of our family. We could have been playmates if not for the yawning class division.
“Papa, I thought you would be waiting for me at the gate! Instead, here you are in the backyard… what is this? That too, two beers down!” Gayatri, my youngest, squatted next to my chair and touched my hand.
“Ah, my dear little girl. Your mother wouldn’t have bothered even if I slept here forever, but you care so much. When did you arrive? Where is your sister?”
Gayatri picked up the beer cans and hoisted me up, not that I needed help, but it was a pleasure if the children were around to fuss over.
“Sis is running late—some last-minute office call, as usual. I cooked food for my husband and children, and still managed to arrive on time. She has no one to take care of but acts pricey. As if her time is more valuable than everyone else!”
“Gayatri, stop comparing yourself with your elder sister. You don’t work in the corporate sector anymore. She holds a high position at work and has many responsibilities on a much higher level. Don’t you see how she tries to mask her sorrows with work?” Visalakshy ambled over with a tray of coffee and biscuits for her daughter.
“Grr… As if I don’t work at home. It’s because of the children that I had to quit my job. If I remained unmarried like Bhadra, I too would be at the top of some firm.” The drama queen Gayatri sniffled and wiped her nose on her dress sleeve.
“Ladies, enough. All my girls are responsible workaholics! I am the only one who whiles away the time drinking beer. Okay?” I gathered my little one, Gayatri, in a bear hug and winked at Visalakshy.
I excused myself to take a quick shower, hoping that Gayatri would not boast about her happy married life when her sister arrived.
It was a hot sunny day like today when Bhadra, my eldest daughter, had brought her friend home to meet us. He worked in her office, and they had started as friends but eventually fell for each other, just like in any other love story. He was a decent boy, ambitious with a middle-class upbringing. Visalakshy was hysterical at the apparent differences amongst the families. She cried and screamed for days, even managed to give us the silent treatment. I remember how peaceful the house seemed without her constant caustic comments. However, Bhadra stayed resolute in her decision, and I managed to convince Visalakshy to meet his family.
“Papa! Are you still in the shower?”
I heard Bhadra rap softly on the bedroom door.
“Just getting ready to meet you, my sweet child.” I pulled the door open and gazed at my firstborn, who had finally arrived. “You look tired. I heard you had an unexpected official call. Come, let me make you a ginger tea.”
“Yes, papa, that would be wonderful. Yeah, work tensions are never-ending. Wait! I will peel the ginger and grate it. You get the milk and water boiling.”
Bhadra was like that, always helpful and thoughtful. My darling daughter. It pained me to see her clam up inside a shell, a shell of my making. Oh, how I wish things were different.
The day I met the boy’s family, I knew I couldn’t allow this union to happen. A gamut of bottled feelings arose like bile, and I struggled to swallow than spit them out.
When my father left me in charge of the house and farmland for a few days, I had sprouted horns on my head. Until his return from the city, I monitored the wages paid to the fieldhands and watched them with hawk eyes. Then, one fateful day, as dusk bled into night, done with my studies, I reclined in the front veranda. The swaying fields and the cool breeze lulled me to sleep. My sister smacked my head and ran before I could catch her pigtails. Then my eyes fell on the shadowy figure rustling amidst the ripe paddy. Rubbing the sleepiness from my eyes, I sidled across the courtyard and merged into the darkness. A puny figure plucked the rice kernels from the bent paddy stalks. I pounced into the field and caught his hand. It was Kannan, the cowherd, stuffing his shirt pocket with our rice grain.
“Hey, you thieving bastard!” I yelled, twisting his arm.
“Thamburan, it hurts. Would you please release my hand? You shouldn’t be touching me.” Kannan howled like a hyena caught in a snare.
“Scoundrel, we treat your family so well, and this is how you repay our kindness!” I scuffled with him, tugging at his coir-like hair. My fingers caught his frayed shirt pocket, which submitted itself meekly. The precious grains tumbled into the earth. I pushed him away as he wailed and scrambled in the mud, gathering the grains.
I trampled the rice kernels into the earth and glared at him. His tears glistened, and he wiped his mud-streaked face with his shirtsleeve. His clothes, pre-owned and discarded by me, hung loosely on him.
“Thamburan, forgive me. Let me go home.”
“I should report you to my father. Maybe he will call the police.” Spit sprayed out of my mouth.
Kannan convulsed like he had touched a live wire.
“Better still, I will punish you. Remove your clothes, everything at once!”
Kannan goggled at me, realising that I meant business; he slowly undressed. His bones were sticking out. I crumpled the clothes in a bundle and darted home to hide them in the corner of the attic. I was wary of being seen carrying the clothes worn by a servant. Kannan waited till the darkness enveloped him before he sprinted home. The new moon showed him the kindness that I had failed to show.
“It was scorching in the morning, and now it’s chilly. Papa, you will catch a cold standing out bare-chested. Come inside. Amma and Gayatri are laying the dinner table.”
Snuffing the cigarette, I locked the door behind me. By then, the mosquitoes had begun their orchestra. Visalakshy had outdone herself. She served us a lavish spread. Gayatri had baked an apple and cinnamon cake, and Visalakshy opened her precious diary to write the recipe.
“Amma, everything is on Google. Even Gayatri got the recipe from it. So why don’t you check it on your mobile whenever you want to bake?” Bhadra patted her mother’s shoulder.
“I am old-fashioned. I love to have the recipes written in my own handwriting.”
Bhadra rolled her eyes and stretched her legs on the sofa. I sat near her feet and massaged them.
“Papa, it’s okay. I should be massaging your feet instead.” Bhadra chuckled.
I was a happy man surrounded by the women I loved. Gayatri had her family to get back to, but my Bhadra had no one waiting for her. She never once questioned me on my refusal to allow her marriage to that boy she had chosen. But she shocked all of us with her decision to stay single. Visalakshy tried her best until a year ago to change Bhadra’s mind. Stubborn daughter to a stubborn father. My eyes welled up, as if rubbing grit off them; I regained my composure and smiled.
“Let’s watch our family videos. It’s been so long since the four of us watched it together.” Visalakshy padded to switch on the system. Then, we all relaxed to dive into the days of yore.
When I met Kannan again a few years later after the harrowing episode, old customs had yielded to the new. The preconceived prejudices of snobbish traditions were diminishing. I was no longer the Thamburan, downgraded to Ettan, the elder brother.
I bumped into Kannan, a porter in a railway station. I witnessed his hair-raising speech delivered at a Railway Union meeting outside the station. When our eyes met, he swiftly moved his to the horizon. I walked up to him.
“What, Kannan, don’t you remember me? Perhaps I can rekindle your memory.”
“Ah, Parameswaran, how are you? Good to see you again.”
I recoiled as he straightened his spine and marched forward to be swarmed by people bestowing congratulations. My ploy to see him squirm with shame, remembering the old episode, misfired. I was pulled into the quicksand. Drenched in sweat, I struggled to veil my discomposure.
Laughter filled my house; the TV played a karaoke video from a time when days weren’t plagued by my guilt. Visalakshy and I completely smashed the song, after which the girls swore us off from singing ever again. Happy, carefree days. Some things never stopped being funny, even as years rolled.
I realised my throat was parched, and I looked for water on the table.
“Papa, do you need anything?” Bhadra touched my arm.
“Water. I was looking for water.”
“Here, take this bottle. Shall I get you a glass?”
“No, dear. Thank you.” We watched another happy memory playing on the screen.
Kannan had been shunted to the dark recesses of my mind. So, when Bhadra brought her special friend home, he immediately impressed me with his politeness and educational achievements. Visalakshy needed time to thaw, but I could see the merit in my daughter’s choice.
“What does your father do? Where do your parents stay?”
“Sir, my father retired from the Railways. They live in a village in ….”
As the lad proceeded, my heart constricted. I bolted from the chair and dashed out. It took three matchsticks to light my cigarette.
Bhadra scuttled behind, wringing her palms.
“This boy is not right for you. For our family.”
“But Papa…”
“I said NO. It’s either him or me in your life.”
My vicious words sluiced through her, and she was never the same again, ever.
The incident at the paddy field had warped my existence. I still remember how abrasive, like a tree bark, his skin had felt on that day. Something I read stayed with me – Heaven’s vengeance is slow but sure.
Oh, how true!
If only I could dare to uncloak my conceit? Dare to accept my flaws? Dare to stare into the mirror? But, instead, my punishment was to be plagued by the guilt of treading on my daughter’s happiness. Would I get another chance to salvage her life? Would a daughter forgive her erring father?
Forever such questions would swirl in my thoughts.
Multitudes of layers shroud me. Layers of ingrained customs. Layers of malignancy.
The layers demanded to be peeled.
One by one. Someday.
&*&
Picture Courtesy – Unsplash Beth MacDonald
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jul 7, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
Much Ado Over was first published in an Online Journal – INNSAEI – Aug 2021.
I couldn’t attend my niece’s engagement, so I asked my cousin how the event went. In response, she shared an anecdote that sparked a story in my mind as she spoke. That story became the only piece I submitted to INNSAEI, and I was thrilled when it was selected for their annual issue published in December 2021.
MUCH ADO OVER…
Mrs Nair clawed her way out of the elevator before it commenced the sequence of halting and opening its doors. Tall potted plants outside the elevator camouflaged Mrs Nair as she flicked her eyes first left, then right and straight ahead. The meticulously pleated silk sari escaped the confines of a safety pin as she treaded on its temple design border. Then, unmindful of the trailing temples, she plodded, twisting her small frame to tug the straps of the newly purchased heels as it sank into the carpet, biting her with a vengeance. Mrs Nair surprised herself by craning her neck, almost doing a 360 like an owl searching for her prey.
The vice president of an international conglomerate, Mrs Nair, prided on her planning and execution prowess. She firmly believed that everything happened for a reason and never once lost her composure, even when bombarded by challenges at work. And she wasn’t going to get stressed today, one of the significant days in the life of a mother.
She chipped the red painted nails vigorously, punching the buttons on the shiny mobile phone. A piercing yelp effused from the parched throat of Mrs Nair when a table deviously blocked her way, designed with the sole aim of hurting her little toe. While curses trundled out of her pursed lips, Mrs Nair ran her palm on her forehead, heedless of the pimples in the caked face that threatened to expose themselves. Further, the person she tried to reach on the phone continued to evade her ringing appeals.
She plucked a glass of liquid in a vile green colour, the welcome drink proffered by a dour-faced man in white as she watched children in ethnic clothes capering around, squealing and clapping. The sari-clad women and suited men in the jasmine-decked vast hall attempted to greet and congratulate her. But, oblivious, Mrs Nair elbowed everyone out of her path and bulldozed into a bevvy of men to pull her husband of several years by the scruff of his collar that protruded over his silk waistcoat.
“Didn’t you hear your mobile ring?” Mrs Nair’s voice reverberated above the Carnatic instrumental booming from the speakers.
Mr Nair understood his wife’s mood from the tone of her voice and refrained from making inane excuses. Instead, he waited with puppy eyes to swallow what was to follow next.
“You need to go home NOW. I forgot to get Ananya’s dupatta (scarf). She needs it.”
“Why? There is no need for a dupatta. Did you notice the time? There’s no time for me to go home and fetch it.”
The men, who had earlier engaged in conversation with Mr. Nair, swiftly moved aside at the sound of gnashing teeth emanating from Mrs. Nair.
Mrs Nair rolled her kohl-rimmed eyes and made elaborate gesticulations with her Mehndi-coated palms.
“The lehenga choli (Indian dress) will not be complete without the DUPATTA! Our daughter should be perfect on her engagement day. So instead of wasting time on spouting nonsensical arguments, drive home and fetch it.”
Mr Nair tugged his ear lobe, and his protruding Adam’s apple jounced wildly as he gulped down the words waiting to escape the confines of his constricted being. Just then, his ringing mobile saved him. He croaked a hello into his mobile phone while his spouse hyperventilated like the goddess Kali after killing the demons. He gestured for the car keys while bobbing his head to the person on the telephone line.
Mrs. Nair charged towards the elevator, remembering that the car keys were in the room where Ananya was getting dressed. Waiting a few nanoseconds, wringing her hands and checking her wristwatch for the hundredth time, she slapped the plant and sprinted to the stairs. Mrs Nair bounded them like someone who had a rabid dog on their heels. Gasping for air, she continued taking long strides through the dim corridor flanked by shut doors. Then, pounding on the door, she rested her finger on the buzzer. The beautician opened the door, clasping a bobby pin between her yellowed, uneven teeth encased in candy-pink lips.
For a few precious seconds, Mrs Nair’s eyes swept over her adorable daughter with unconcealed affection. Then, recollecting her urgency, she jostled her way amidst the crew of beauticians, raked through her handbag, ferreted out the car keys, and darted to the door. Unfortunately, the keyring caught the earphones coiled inside the bag. A trail of wires pulling the umpteen things stuffed in the handbag followed Mrs. Nair out of the room like trailing confetti.
“Mummmyyyy! What are you doing? You are yanking my lehenga. Aah!” cried Ananya.
“Oh dear! I’m so sorry. I did not see this.” The mother grabbed all that tailed her and shoved them inside the handbag, zipping it shut. Then she exchanged her new heels for the comfort of her old, loyal flats. Dashing out, she punctured the elevator buttons, hopping from foot to foot as the elevator trickled down.
As she jumped into the hall, again before the elevator had a breather, the video crew flashed light on her face, expecting the young bride to make an entrance. Instantly, the light bulb diffused along with the spirits of the waiting horde.
Mrs Nair tucked the loose end of her sari unceremoniously into her sweaty hips. The 90 minutes spent on her intricate coiffure lay wasted. Resembling Medusa, she scanned the room for her husband when her eyes fell on her other daughter running behind her four-year-old.
“Anju… Anjooo! Come here.”
“Yeah, mummy. Whoa! You look frightful.” Anju managed to grasp her fleeing son and pull him towards her.
Mrs Nair’s cheeks twitched. She said, “Anju, like always, I cannot find your daddy. I forgot Ananya’s dupatta at home. Without that, she cannot come out, and this function will not happen if the auspicious time is missed.”
“Mummy, cool down, relax. Tell me where you have kept it, and I will go and get it. You just hold my son.” Anju grabbed the car keys and thrust her squirming son into her mother’s hands.
“You go home and call me on a video call; I will tell you exactly where it is in my wardrobe.” Mrs Nair grappled with the hyperactive grandson and her silk sari. Both refused to obey her entreaties.
“What a wonderfully decorated hall. Where is the bride? We are waiting to see the young ones on the stage.” The groom’s mother, effulgent in diamonds, sashayed towards a hapless Mrs Nair.
“Ahh! Thank you. Ananya is almost ready. She will be down soon.”
“Your hands are shaking. Are you alright?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I had to run up to the room to pick something. The up and down galloping, you see at this age, can be quite tiring.”
The groom’s mother was unaware that she was the reason for all this tension. A week earlier, she had picked up the bride-to-be’s dupatta to purchase a matching outfit for her son. Hassled by the requirements of the engagement ceremony, it slipped the attention of both mothers to question the whereabouts of the said dupatta. Two days before the D-Day, the groom’s mother had a brainwave and sent the dupatta to the bride’s house through her driver. Ignorant of the conspiracies of the two queen bees, Mr Nair carried the lehenga choli set, minus the dupatta, for the steam iron as per the instructions received. He then promptly left the lehenga set in the hotel room for his daughter to dress up the next day and marked a tick in the list of things needed for the ceremony.
Mrs Nair trotted behind her grandson, ruing her failing memory while the groom’s mother, her nose up in the clouds, sauntered to hug and greet someone in mismatched gaudy clothes. Within minutes, Mrs Nair’s mobile phone buzzed. She retreated to a corner. Her bedroom at home looked like a tsunami had ravaged it! Anju was plucking odds and ends from the wardrobe.
“Mummy, I have looked everywhere. The dupatta is not here. Maybe it’s there in the hotel room itself. Did you check properly?”
“Anju! I told you to call me as soon as you reach home. Why have you pulled everything out of my wardrobe? It’s on the right-hand side, second shelf in a white cover. The name on the cover begins with a B. Ugh!! I don’t remember the name.”
A man in a rumpled suit, smothering a crying child, perhaps searching for his wife, momentarily distracted Mrs Nair.
“Oh, OK. I couldn’t reach your mobile. It kept saying out of coverage area. Got it! Is this the one?”
Anju pulled out a crumpled piece of delicate cloth and wagged it in front of the camera.
“Yes! That’s the one. Now, hurry up soon.”
“OK. Mummy. Where is my son?”
Mrs Nair’s countenance curdled. She squinted and lied rapidly, “He is here. Now you get back soon.”
Cutting the call, she searched for the naughty boy. He was up, on the stage, sitting on the love seat meant for the young couple. Mrs Nair climbed up the raised platform. The fumes arising from the incense sticks tickled her nostrils, and the overpowering scent of the jasmine décor accelerated the looming headache. Moreover, the howling kid refused to surrender. Mrs Nair locked eyes with Mr Nair, who was steeped in merry laughter with his friends. She scooped the kid and ploughed across the room. Then, plonking the kid in Mr Nair’s helpless hands, Mrs Nair thundered towards the hotel entrance to wait for the frigging dupatta.
Almost paring the skin and cuticle while snatching the bag from Anju, Mrs Nair hastened to the elevator. Then, banging her hand on the button angrily, she bounded up the stairs. Once again.
With minutes to spare until the end of the auspicious time, the bride made a grand entrance. The videographers and photographers flashed and clicked endlessly.
The bride coyly joined the dashing groom on the stage. Mrs Nair goggled at the groom. Then, she felt the ground sway and lurch around her. She grabbed Mr Nair’s hand and steadied herself.
“What now?! Don’t tell me that you have forgotten the engagement ring!”
Hot coals exploded from Mrs Nair’s eyes as she glared at her husband. Then she lumbered onto the stage and inched closer to her would-be son-in-law and cleared her throat.
“Hello, Mummy. You look gorgeous.” The exuberant son-in-law, without batting an eyelid, lavished compliments on the frazzled mother-in-law.
“Erm… thank you for your kind words. I know I look like someone who travelled by an unreserved train. But, dear son, tell me what happened to the colour code matching outfit? Ananya is in blue, and you are in yellow!”
“Oh, that couldn’t happen. I stained my matching sherwani with coffee earlier. I had to borrow this one from my brother. In fact, I peeled it from him. He is there wearing the stained matching outfit. What’s a matching outfit in the grand scheme of things, eh?” He gazed at Ananya, his eyes dripping love.
Mrs. Nair plastered a goofy grin on her face, attempting to douse her inner turmoil. Then she exited the stage with as much grace as she could muster, wondering about her belief – everything happens for a reason! What could be the reason for this hullabaloo that happened- the thought swirled in her head. Perhaps the auspicious time wasn’t propitious.
Uncurling her fists, Mrs. Nair exuded warmth as she greeted the guests with a toothpaste-commercial smile.
“Thank you for gracing the occasion….”
&*&
Picture Courtesy – Unsplash Vaibhav Nagare
by Sangeetha Vallat | Jun 28, 2025 | Fiction Bites, Short Stories
I watched the movie True Lies in a theater in Chennai with friends. Enjoyed it immensely, and the title and the HERO have stayed in my heart. This was an entry for #TheLie #Five00-8 (2019) –in 500 words. So, when in December 2019, a writing prompt was given for an event in the ArtoonsInn writing community, I came up with this story. The Importance of Being Earnest, the play by Oscar Wilde, was one of my favorites during my graduation as well, so I incorporated it here.
TRUE LIES
“Belief is a relative concept, and so is truth.”
With his signature sentence, Ernest concluded his talk on “Living a lie” to resounding applause from the motley crowd. This was his hundredth talk, and invariably, the auditorium was filled to the maximum. The sounds of appreciation were potent, but the effects of the five vodka shots were fading. He needed another drink, dammit! And he needed to piss.
Ernest was whisked away to meet the patrons of the event before he could excuse himself and run to answer both the calls of his nature.
What an absurd phrase that was, call of nature! More like an accident waiting to happen, Ernest chuckled to himself, squirming as he was forced to endure dozens of handshakes with the fools who made it possible for him to eat, drink and be merry.
Ernest finally escaped to the restroom and relieved himself for a copious amount of time. As he shook out the last drops, whistling in glee, he heard a snicker and turned. He was shocked to see Arnold Schwarzenegger in the adjacent stall.
Arnold Schwarzenegger? Again? Ernest shook his head, trying to clear the fog. It couldn’t be, it must be the vodka, a small part of his brain told him. Yet.
“Whoa, what are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?” Arnold grinned.
“I love your movies, man!”
“I love your talks, especially this- Living the Lie.” Arnold went about doing his job with remarkable intensity.
“Thank you so much, am honoured.”
“Tell me something, have you tried acknowledging to yourself at least, the truth? You travel around the world, talking about lies and beliefs and the consequences, but can you look yourself in the mirror without being consumed by guilt?”
Ernest was appalled as the Terminator actor bore him with his eyes.
“Mr Schwarzenegger, I can explain. It was just a joke. I once memorised a page from my brother’s diary and regaled it to my pals. They applauded, and that was the beginning. I became quite popular by copying my brother’s work. The popularity gave me a high. Agree he writes well, but I am the one who packages and presents it. People love me. I am a star. My brother is nobody. At least his work gets the recognition it deserves.”
Arnold sniggered, “Irony, isn’t it? Your guilt makes you name your talk show, such a blatant truth. You can try naming it – The Importance of Being Earnest, eh?”
The sarcasm was lost on Ernest.
“I do pay my brother plenty. He is happy. There are no regrets. No one will believe if you say this truth about me.” Ernest blurted out.
“I don’t need to convince anybody. Everyone outside has been listening to you. The microphone on your tie is still switched on.” Arnold laughed and added “Hasta la vista, baby” and vanished.
Ernest’s volubility deserted him as he witnessed his life and lie crumble- the lie that was his life.
***
Photo By: Afshin Asif – Unsplash
