FINAL Story: Lily House

Lily House


Even after three weeks, Shalini was still getting used to her new home. They had finally taken a loan from the bank and bought a cozy two-bedroom flat near the Behala Chowrasta. Although the building was called “Lily House” there were no lilies to be had. It was instead a pile of bricks and cement, in a rather noisy locality, and the power failed for an hour or two everyday; but Shalini found the markets cheap and the neighbours friendly. Besides, it was a blessed relief from their old home in Survey Park, a cramped and stifling affair they had shared with her in-laws. Here, she and Ajay, her husband, could live as they pleased, and little Anurag, their six-year old bundle of joy had his own room.

“Lily, ami berolam. I’ll be back at the usual time,” said Ajay, briefcase in hand. Lily was the nickname her husband always used for her, ever since they had dated back in college. “Lily shall stay in Lily House,” her husband often said before bursting into giggles, and the joke was getting pretty old. “Alright, take care,” Shalini, or Lily, replied as she came out of the kitchen, gave him a little smile and closed the door after he had waved her goodbye from the bottom of the staircase. As she was about to shut the door however, she felt, rather saw, a flash of movement, something small and black between the gap of the door and its frame. Startled, Shalini flung open the door and looked around until she spotted it: it was just a cat. A jet-black cat with a black tail and black paws and vivid yellow eyes was sitting near the banister, gazing directly into her soul, or so it seemed to her. “Shoo, shoo, you stupid cat!” she said agitatedly, jerking her hand in its direction. The cat remained immobile and stared back. Shalini made a face and shut the door with a thud. She didn’t believe in omens, but a black cat was definitely not a lucky thing!

Shalini, or Lily, did not give it any thought for the rest of the day. She was far too busy for that. After she had put Anurag on the school bus, she had done the day’s shopping, washed the dishes, swept the floor and finished her laundry. It was only at noon that she could take a little break, before it was time to fix her lunch. Shalini didn’t know it when she fell asleep on the couch. She imagined that black cat’s impassive face, its piercing yellow slits of eyes. She drew her anchal over her face and turned on her side, but the face followed her, growing into a monstrous size, opening its maw with its small white teeth to swallow her face…Shalini was jolted out of her sleep by the sound of scratching, a faint and ugly sound that seemed to be coming from the door. She got up and walked hurriedly to the door. As she approached, the scratching stopped. There was nothing in the peephole, but when Shalini opened the door, there it was: the black cat with the yellow eyes, which was now standing on the steps leading upstairs, it’s back arched away from Shalini. Intrigued, she watched the cat’s movements. The cat was bobbing its head up and down, climbing a few steps, and then retracing its steps back, all the time looking at her, as though begging her to follow. Shalini had once read a romance novel where a man’s dog once led him to the grave of his fiancée. That passage had brought tears to Shalini’s eyes, so was eager to forgive the cat. She began following it upstairs. They had climbed three flights, and just when Shalini, now less than eager, thought the cat was climbing to the roof, it stopped in front of a large door and looked back toward Shalini. It was Mr Majumdar’s flat. Although he was the original owner of the plot on which the apartment building was built, Lily had seen very little of him. He was a retired gentleman in his seventies, very dour and reserved. She had only seen him twice or thrice these past few weeks, and every time they met, Mr Majumdar would stare at her a while, as if willing himself to say something, and then turn away wordlessly. Shalini was wondering whether she should knock when the door opened by itself. The cat shot in and disappeared, and was replaced by Mr Majumdar’s worn and wrinkled face. Lily was about to make some excuse for disturbing him, when he gave her a wan smile and spoke to her for the first time. He had a rather hoarse voice, but still quite strong. “Ah, Lily, what a surprise. I thought I heard something scratching. Please do come in.”

‘Oh, I wouldn’t want to trouble you, Majumdar-babu—

“Oh, that’s quite alright. I’ll make us some tea. I’m opening a fresh packet today.”

Despite herself, Lily stepped over the threshold to find herself in a very neatly kept room, beautifully appointed with old wooden furniture. The walls were simply plastered with old photos, some in colour and some black-and-white. There were several pictures of Mr Majumdar, younger, less wrinkled, and happier, with a young woman with a very sweet smile. Suddenly, she saw it: the black cat, gazing at her from one of the photos. It was a portrait of the woman, and she was cradling the cat in the crook of her arm!

Mr Majumdar came back with the tea. A little flustered, Lily asked, “If I may, who is the young woman in that picture?”

“That is a picture of my late wife. She passed away thirty years ago. In fact...how very surprising!—today would be her thirty death anniversary. What a coincidence!” he replied with the preoccupied expression people sometimes get when thinking fondly of the past.

“I’m so sorry. But, why is it a coincidence?”

Mr Majumdar replied with a sad laugh, “It’s a coincidence, my dear, because here you are, sitting in the very armchair my wife used to sit in, and she was called Lily too!”

Shalini almost spat out her tea. “What? I mean, how…really…?”

Mr Majumdar was genuinely smiling now. “Yes, he relied, “she too was called Lily. Her real name was Lilavati, so Lily for short. That’s why I named this building Lily House, you know.”

Shalini was looking at the portrait again. Another Lily, just like her. “I see. She really loved that cat, didn’t she?”

“Yes she did. When our neighbour’s pussycat had kittens, no-one wanted the black one. So she felt sorry for it and took it in. They were together till the day she died.”

“That’s such a sweet story. May I know how she died?”

Here Mr Majumdar made a pained expression and said, “I don’t really like talking about it, but I’d rather you heard it from me than someone else. You see, when she died here thirty years ago this building wasn’t yet quite finished. The roof was completely open, without any railing or anything. So she… fell.” Shalini could see tears welling up in the old man’s eyes. “Some people might tell you she committed suicide, under her black cat’s influence, but that’s just something people have cooked up. I can tell you, you can take it from me, Lily would never do something like that. She was a wonderful woman, full of love and joy…” Here, the old man gave up and began sobbing, his frame shaking gently.

“Oh, Mr Majumdar, I’m so sorry to have upset. Please, lets not talk about it anymore!” exclaimed Shalini as she got up to pat his shoulders comfortingly.

“It’s alright, my dear. I’m getting old, and old people sometimes have no self-control…” Mr Majumdar was back to his composed self, wiping away his tears with his handkerchief.

When Lily thought it safe to sit down again, she said:

Well, at least you have the cat to keep her memory alive. It must be quite old now.”

“That just the strangest thing! You know the day she died, from that day the cat couldn’t be found anywhere! It had simply vanished! That’s another reason why some people say the cat bewitched her, I suppose. But it’s alright, no need to look so pale, its all superstition, you know. Here, drink up your tea. Would you like a cream cracker with that?’

-------------------------------------------------

That night Lily started up from her sleep. She wiped her forehead and her palm came back moist with sweat. The fan wasn’t running: it was a load-shedding. Lily swung her feet onto the floor and was feeling for her slippers in the darkness when she saw it again. It was looking into the room from the window ledge, its sleek feline body bathed in moonlight. It gave a low purr and melted away into the silvery light. Its brilliant gem-like eyes seemed to linger for a second and then they too were gone. Something told her that she would be seeing it again.

final story

Hwær cwom mearg? Hwær cwom mago?

Over his land was Aldwyn lord, and kissed the ring of no gold-giver save the King of the West-Saxons, for proud was he in his strength, who had so mightily striven with King Egbert at Charmouth, where there was a great slaughter, and though victory had gone to the Danes, had gained honour. At Hengeston, too, he had fought, where the Danes were put to flight. At Egbert’s death, he had kissed, too, the ring of Ethelwulf, Egbert’s son, and to his lands gone, to live in his age, thinking to find peace, bowed down under the gifts of his kings.

Summer ripened to autumn, and peace silvered his beard as his fields turned gold and the harvest was brought in, and the windows of his hall held lit the darkness of night, and the laughter of braves mingled with the songs of the bards. Many came to Aldwyn’s lands, to kiss his ring of twisted gold, for his renown was known well, and news of his gifts of gold, and the good cheer of his table were spread far in the mouths of those who had tasted his hospitality. His warriors in their armour were as bright as their swords—shining death—and as straight as the ash spears they bore, and swift were their horses, and skilful the riders. Foremost among them shone the swords of his sons, and in the light their fair hair shone, for in Beorn’s face shone his mother’s, and in Alden’s, her eyes.

Many feasts there were, as winter silvered the land, and the wolves howled hunger in the shadows of the forest. With the new grass came gladness, for as the flowers to the trees, a child had come to Aldwyn’s home, daughter of his son, and Eadignes they named her, and Edyth they called her, for happiness she brought to that home, and her laughter sounded like a silver bell through the halls, and the cuckoo mourned that some other song was sweeter than its. And Beomia, her aunt, Aldwyn’s daughter, looked at the child and the soft smile on the face of its mother Eldrida, and the gentleness in Alden’s hands as he held her, and her dreams of horses and swords left her, and no longer did she clamour to hunt with her brothers.

In the summer they went to watch for the Danes, and to defend their coasts against the wolves of the sea, and Beomia bid them a sad farewell, and Aldwyn. Eadignes no longer was bliss, for the house resounded now with silence, and the steps of the women, and Aldwyn, grown unwillingly old. The fruit in the orchards was yet unripe when they returned, joyous though not triumphant, for no Danes had they found, but only good company, and hunting instead of war.

With them came Eadgard, come from his father’s lands in Kent, to kiss Aldwyn’s ring and fight his battles and share his feasts. All shining was he, eyes the silver of his sword—bright death—and hair the shine of sun on copper. And Beomia’s eyes sought Eadgard out, and held them as the days darkened. On All Hallows’ Even he asked for her, and on midwinter wed her, day of the longest night. With candles they lit the night, and with laughter the days after, and with songs they sent her to be peace-weaver in his home, and with gold, and with tears. Her brothers rode with her, and their laughter drowned the howling of wolves. Eadignes’ crying was loud in the ears of her mother, and Aldwyn’s hidden in his beard—his only daughter, she, and born in her mother’s death, and her mother’s image in a silver mirror.

Days they strained their eyes against the sun on the snow, waiting to see it churned up by horse-hooves, and see the smiles on her brothers’ faces, come home to tell them how she was loved in her husband’s home, how cherished. The snows weighing down the dead boughs dropped to the ground and a new burden grew and met it, and yet no riders approached, no horses. The dread in Eldrida’s heart grew as she watched, and often it seemed to her that the wind bore her husband’s last breath to her, and she longed to tell the lord of her house to shut his aged ears against the screams of his daughter. And into the house she went from her lonely watch, and sang to her daughter in a voice grown soft with unknown sorrow.

The riders that came were not those who had ridden away, and Eldrida had never seen their faces save at feasts to honour the father of her husband. Grave were they, and grim-faced, and armoured as for war. They drew rein at the gates of her house, and spoke in sombre voices with Aldwyn, her husband's father and now hers. Their words were not for her ears, but she heard their speech, and pulled her daughter far away, ere she heard as well. The Danes had come, sea-wolves, hunting in winter hunger, and her husband and his brother were perished, and their sister, and her husband, and all that kin were dead, and burnt in the great pyre of their hall in flames, like the great heroes of earlier times.

Yet the world went on, and there were guests in the halls. She shut her tears away, to be brought out in the dark of night, and savoured with her jewels and her husband’s memories, and brought mead to the friends of her father—she as his only child, now, sons and daughter and all—and let Eadignes charm them with her babble and be passed from lap to lap, till gnarled soldiers strove with each other to make her laughter sound out. And yet her heart beat time to the flurry of their horses’ hooves, and yet was Aldwyn gone. She waited till the sky had darkened, and beds had been found for all the riders, and her table greatly praised, and when the house was silent went softly to his room.

The candle’s light threw shadows on the walls, and gleamed redly on the armour pulled from its oaken chests, and the sword, still-sharp, in Aldwyn’s hands. All night she argued with him, but words could not dissuade nor pleading persuade him, and his life was as unlived were his sons unavenged, and his daughter, and her daughter who would grow without knowing a father’s face, or a brother’s. With dawn the riders rode out, and Aldwyn with them grey as the sky in visage and armour, and all his warriors still in his halls, and Eldrida waited with the babe in her arms and showed it the sunlight on snow, and on the tears freezing on her face. This, too, would pass.

All day the chargers rode, and old songs of war came easily to mouth and memory, and almost was this pleasure to Aldwyn, even in his sorrow, to again feel the horse lithe beneath him, and know himself a warrior riding to battle and enemies’ death. At eventide the Danes came upon them, and they fought on the icy road, till their horses were killed beneath them, and then on foot and in field and ditch they fought, and many Danes were sent forth under the bright death of gleaming swords turned dull. And yet did Aldwyn perish, and those he had ridden with, for the Danes were brave, and many, and they, though brave, but few.

He died under the westering sun, and no burial was found, nor stele built for him, for his sons were dead, and all his kin with him. The snow built him a burial mound, and in spring the mourning cuckoo wove his hair into its nest, and insects burrowed into his flesh to find homes for their young. His death went untold, for there were none remaining to speak of it, and none left to remember Aldwyn, and his sons and their sister, save the widow mourning in the empty home, and the child who knew only her mother’s name. Woods took on blossoms, dwellings grew fair, meadows grew beautiful, the world hastened on.

***

Title from "The Wanderer" (where has the horse gone? Where the rider/young man?). References to "Deor" and "The Seafarer". Historical events of the years 836-842 taken from the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle entries for those years; Egbert and Ethelwulf are historical figures.

Final Story. Shayeari Dutta

“ There was a time, many a thousand light years ago…there was a time when I used to have wings. Brick-red wings of recycled newspaper, put together with tedious concentration, unflinching dedication. And by the time this task had been completed, the entire stretch of Kumortuli would reek of Dendrite, soggy paper, and divine sweat!”
“What happened to the wings Baba?”
Rudra Pal looked down into the mesmerized eyes of little Krishna and winked.
“Oh! Nothing…the curious scribbling on my wings attracted too much of an attention…God knows what charm a few insipid black letters hold, but the entire world lunged for them. I am an old man. Too old to sustain a fight, don’t you think? So I let them go…the wings.”
Krishna shifted his gaze from his father’s watery eyes. From where he sat upon the squeaky upturned crater, the street went winding forth, its murky surface glazed by previous night’s shower; polythene packets, coconut shells, cigarette-boxes- all flattened out nicely by the merciless march of wheels. The tiny expanse of Krishna’s head served as the black tuning disk of a table; tip top tip top fell the water drops from the shed above. The shed of hay, soggy hay, like the unkempt, untrimmed hair falling over the brows of the hundreds of foreigners who visited Kumortuli at this time of the year. For as far as one could see, both sides of the narrow lane are flanked by these haphazardly positioned shacks. And, from every such shed peeked a dozen clay arms, arms glowing various shades of peacock blue and black, fingers bunched, wrists resolute…arms that would stretch themselves out any moment now and ravage the patchwork of wires above.
“ And the foreigners, fascinated, stupefied, clicking away at their cameras with the frenzy of a madman? Why do they come here Baba?”
Baba smiled, accentuating the mystery, and then he whispered-
“They come for the gold…and the silver!”

It was an oppressive afternoon…the afternoon of provocative clouds edging with baby-steps towards each other, and just when the hope of man had shuttled all the way to his throat, moon walking gracefully back…
It was one of those afternoons…
“Krishna-a-a-a? Krishna-a-a-a?”
“what is it Baba?”
“Listen, do you think you are old enough to travel?”
“Haan Baba…”
“No! Why this tone of doubt? Tell me confidently.”
“Haan Baba!”
“Good! Now listen. All my workers and delivery boys are busy with the preparations for Kali pujo, and this man…this spice trader from Burrobazar….ki jeno naam ta? Ananda….Anand Jain I think. Well, he wants a Ganesh idol delivered to this new store that he is opening. He wants it delivered by tomorrow. Do you think you would be able to do the job? It’s just a tiny idol…not too much of a weight to carry really…er…now listen, your mother detests those Marwaris, and Burrobazar is like their breeding-spot! So…er…”
In his helpless groping for words, the father failed to see the tiny firecrackers erupting silently in his son’s eyes. Eight year old Krishna would finally visit a world other than his own! Burrabazar! Marwaris! Words that were familiar, and yet, eluded the irritating shackles of definition…. It filled Krishna with the joy of a newborn.
“Ma-ke bolo na”, he assured his father.

“Er! Excuse me Mr.Roy, but would you kindly explain the relevance of this nice little account…and no doubt it is er…quite a delightful little story…but what’s the relevance of this to your research paper?”
“Sir, this is my research paper!”
“What? What do you mean by…”
“Sir! Sir! Please….if you would kindly allow me to continue…..”

Krishna was dizzy with the simultaneous rocketing between familiarity and unfamiliarity- the dinghy streets, crooked lanes, garbage-strewn corners, tinkling hand-pulled rickshaws….it was all uncannily similar to his area. But, the rush of people on the road, the road that donned the multiple cloaks of showroom, warehouse, parking lot, his anxious search for the calming grey of the concrete pavement…the concrete pavement that had been veiled completely by the millions of odd shoes and sandals…all these made him sweat profusely as his inexperienced eyes tried making out the meaning on the sign-boards hanging above the hundreds of shops.
“Oye! Lost kya?”
Krishna looked behind him to see a boy, not much older than him, hands akimbo, smugness imprinted in graceful italics on his square face.
“You must be delivering that idol for my father, Anand Jain, is it not?”
Krishna followed the boy up the stairs to the room above the garage. It had a low ceiling, no ceiling fans, but a single pedestal fan churning out dollops of hot air from within its rusty bowels. There was a plywood table with lots of files upon it, a plush rotating navy blue chair, rather out-of-place in that shabby place.
“I am Rupesh Jain. And these are my friends!”
It was then that Krishna noticed the two other boys hunched over a computer at another end of the room.
“Aye Rupesh! What luck boy! You just entered, and we won the bet!”
And then, their eyes fell on the Ganesh idol in Krishna’s hands. Terror struck at little Krishna’s heart as both the boys pounced upon him. It all seemed to happen in painful slow motion, as the two pair of limbs came descending upon him, clawing savagely at the hot air…but, they continued to fall….and finally, fell prostrate on the ground, at Krishna’s feet.
“Ganesh ji brought us luck! Jai Ganesh ji! Who is this angel Rupesh? We must make him play for us! He is our lucky mascot!”
Rupesh nudged Krishna forward.
“Would you like to play?”
Before Krishna could say a word, Rupesh replied- “Of course he will. That is why he has been sent here.”

“Now! Now! Now! Mr.Roy! are you trying to suggest that Mr.Holwell had any vulgar acquisitive intentions that might have instigated him to….you know….assuming of course that the man is not entirely without errors… are you trying to say that the largest empire in the world built itself on the foundations of ….of….as you call it….base gold and silver?”
“I am extremely sorry sir…but that wasn’t my intention at all. and I am sorry of I have unknowingly caused any untoward emotional turmoil in you…but if you would please allow me to continue sir…?”

“Oye Krishna? It is the rule of betting that we all put up something on offer, anything that we have….what do you have to offer?”
Santosh, one of the other boys, glanced doubtfully at Krishna’s slipshod appearance.
“Er, Rupesh yaar, don’t you think he is rather inappropriate to bet for himself. I mean, he comes from Kumortuli…not the kind of place where you would expect riches. You have never been there, so you wouldn’t know…and, er…look at him…he is just not the sort…”
He is just not the sort….
What sort am I, he wondered.
Buckets of bamboo strips, blackish clay, rice husks, garish shades of pink and red paint….what did he have to offer?
He comes from Kumortuli…not the kind of place where you would expect riches.
Baba, why do the foreigners come here?
They come for the gold…and the silver.

“gold and silver? Now that is too much Krishna. We are not joking here. this is serious business.”
The naked incredulity on Rupesh’s face pained Krishna.
“no Rupesh! Believe me. Im not lying. This is my father’s secret. Nobody knows! People from far and wide throng our place just for this. I am telling you!”
Rupesh thought hard…as hard as a twelve year old brain could think. Gold and silver were fine things…this was a fine magical place too. So why not? Maybe this boy is telling the truth. Maybe this would be Rupesh Jain’s opportunity to shine…

That night Krishna floated into the shabby lanes of Kumortuli, his feet twitching in the warm air. In the dim glow of a singular light bulb, his world seemed to glow a clandestine gold….like the whispered words of his Baba- “they come for the gold…and the siver!”
“Baba! Baba!”
Rudra Pal was mixing rice husks in a pail of water. The urgent screams of his son brought him to the entrance of the shed.
“What is it Krishna? Is something wrong?”
“Baba! There is no time to waste! Give me the gold and the silver…the ones that you said we have….the ones that those foreigners come seeking! Baba, quick! Tell me where they are?”
The old idol-maker broke into a loud laugh, his shoulders slumped further, his head threatened to touch the ground as he continued to laugh.
“Gold? Silver? Bas? Just that?”
Krishna nodded his head in confusion.
“Wait….wait here…”
The old man returned a few minutes later with a bulging red bundle.

“Here you go! Here is your gold and silver!”
A triumphant Krishna held out the bundle before an incredulous Rupesh’s nose.
The others in the room stared hard at the red bundle, each trying to somehow to read its mind.
“Rupesh! It better not be a joke. Dinesh bhai has been promised the money. He won’t forgive us this time. You are new in this place, but we have a mounting debt. We are counting on your words here…remember.”
The bundle was vibrating in anticipation now…the blood-red spilling down its sides…
“Go on…open it!”
Rupesh started untying the knot.
The bundle lay on the table…untied.


“There was no need to kill him Rupesh! What have you done? Now where will you dispose of the body? The police will get to know. There will be a hell lot of trouble. Why did you do this?”
The strips of gold foil and flashy filigree ornaments lay splattered in blood on their blood-red cloth bed. Krishna was splattered in blood. His own blood. An iron rod lay on the ground.
“Rupesh? Rupesh, do you hear us? What was the use of killing him? Now anyway Dinesh bhai will kill us! As if this pauper’s death would buy us our lives! Kya kia bhai?”
Rupesh was thinking hard again….as hard as a twelve year old brain can think.
“Santosh? Where exactly is this Kumortuli? Can you give me the address to that place?”
“Now what are you going to do? Don’t do anything more Rupesh! Rupesh?”

Gold breeds in darkness…..in darkness, where oil wicks are stamped underfoot….willingly.
Silver is the moon…where black clouds spread themselves out …readily.
“Krishna was not lying….he was fooling us. There is gold here…and silver….”
Rupesh staggered his way into the lane….Kumortuli stood bathed in obscurity. The lights had been muted, the day’s work done. The familiar bumping and brushing of shoulders didn’t challenge him here.
“Hell! Now where do I find this treasure? And what happened to the bloody moon? Why is it so dark out here?”
The moon must have heard his curses then….and so, out it came…in full bloom.
The moon revealing an army in menacing black and blue, disheveled black hair, fiery red eyes of intoxication, lolling tongues hanging out like fangs of venom, garlands of beheaded humans dangling victoriously at their necks….
And then, his scream….the scream of disrobed fear.
The blood-curdling piercing scream of a terrified little boy.

“Mr.Roy! Is this story true?”
“Of course it is! It has become a legend down there at that impoverished idol-maker’s haven. They cite it as a rallying point against the Marwaris…they cite it to light trembling lamps of hope in the hearts of their fellows whenever business is threatened by oblivion. They also cite it to infuse their deities with a kind of supernatural aura. I know, it’s hard to believe...but that is how things are!”
“and the spice trader….he had to close down the shop?”
“of course….it’s hard to have your only son lose his mind….and not just that, he lost his speech that night too. The last time they heard him, they say, was when his scream could be heard all the way to the other side of the Ganga!”
“But Mr.Roy, what about this photograph that you have clicked? This garment store with ‘Rupesh and Krishna pvt.ltd’ sprawled across its walls? What does this mean?”
Mr.Roy gave a smile, tapped the butt of his cigarette gently on the edge of his ash-tray.
“You know Sir, there are so many arguments listed against Holwell’s account of the controversial Black Hole tragedy. Some say there is no independent confirmation apart from Holwell’s own account, some say Holwell exaggerated the exact number of people by about three times its actual amount, a Bengali landlord opined that a floor area of 267 square feet could not contain 146 European adults…so on and so forth….”
“So? What’s the connection Roy? Will Krishna’s story save you from the wrath of the external Board of Council next week? You did not go to Kolkata to scout for folklore and legends, did you?”
A smile peeked out of the corner of Roy’s mouth. He buried the remains of his cigarette deep into the ashes of the ash-tray……

2008 question paper

I think I forgot to put this up. For your delectation:

Writing in Practice

Answer any one question. All questions carry equal marks.

1. Here is a character’s biodata. Using all of these facts, make up additional details, personal quirks and life events to create a backstory for the character.

Name: Radha Karmakar, Age: 33, Height: 5’4”, Weight: 55kg, Distinguishing marks: scar on right hand. Education: History honours, diploma in textile design. Marital status: divorced, one child. Income, 2.5 lakhs per year. Occupation: sales executive in a small jewelry manufacturing firm. Residence: near Shyambazar Metro station. Place of birth: Cooch Behar. Ex-husband: Army officer.

2. Create a plot outline choosing one character, location, mood and object from the lists below. You may add other elements and characters, but the four things you choose must figure prominently. State your four choices at the head of your answer.

• Characters: Stone mason, Railway engine driver, teenage drama queen, werewolf,
• Locations: Roof of skyscraper, river gorge, flower market, bedroom
• Moods: Tranquil, frustrated, curious, despairing
• Objects: Loaf of bread, shoe, rubber duck, tractor

3. Complete this piece of dialogue:

‘So,’ he said, looking not at her but at the road outside the window, ‘we finally meet.’

‘Finally,’ she agreed, fidgeting with the menu. ‘Do you like tandoori?’

‘Can’t stand it.’

‘Well, that’s one thing we have in common. Let’s order Chinese.’

His Blackberry beeped. She caught her breath, but he waved a hand. ‘I can’t turn it off because my boss will yell, but it’ll keep for an hour or so. So tell me, how long have you been living in this city?’

The waiter arrived to take their orders. When he left, she said, ‘Look, there’s no need to pretend. We both know why we’re here. Let’s skip the small talk.’

‘Agreed,’ he said, and looked her in the face for the first time.

4. Rewrite this passage, giving the scene emotional colour. Invent the details you need to add, such as colours, sounds, sights, objects, activity, people and animals, smells, etc, but do NOT introduce a plot or principal characters.

The stalls are being set up for the fair. Bundles of merchandise lie around. People are hurrying to get ready. The fair is to be held on a low hill outside the town. The Ferris wheel is being set up. Many musicians, dancers and entertainers come to the town for the fair. A magician is pitching his tent. Kids lounge around watching. It has rained the night before, but today is sunny. Winter is coming and there is a nip in the air.

Presentations

PLEASE NOTE: These presentations are open to everyone to come and listen. Please join us and listen to some corking stories.

Yes, now we come to the final chop: who will present on which day?
So far this is the list:
Additions and alterations in red

Day 1: Wednesday 11 November 3-5pm
Anomitra Biswas
Anway Mukhpadhyay
Arijeet Mondal
Sristi Ghimiray
Pallabi Gupta


Day 2: Friday 13 November 3-5pm
Promit Basu
Sharad Saumya Majumdar
Shayeari Datta
Monidipa Mondal
Malini Bhattacharya

Day 3: Wednesday 18 November 2009 3-4pm
Mrinalini Sen
Pujarini Sen

Your name will only be on this list if you have completed your quota of class assignments. I'm not taking any more submissions, so please don't come and beg and plead. There is NO WAY you can write three class assignments and a final story by tomorrow. Seriously.

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Crime Prompt

Fagin

Around Bhawanipur, an old man got on the bus, stumbling slightly against the people pouring out, and looked around in a slightly helpless manner, dripping gently on the wood. Amol, who had been looking blankly out at the rain-washed, hazy streets, looked around and found himself raising a hand to get the man’s attention and vacating his seat when he was close enough to ensure it wouldn’t get taken by someone else.

He missed what the man said, what with Mir babbling in his ears, and assumed it a generic thank you. “No problem.” The man gestured imperiously, and he took the earphones out. “What?”

“Bag-ta dao,” he said. “Least I can do.”

“It’s no problem.”

“It isn’t a problem for me to stand, either. Come on, give it.” And he tugged the bag off and down. “Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m feeble.”

“I hadn’t meant…” But of course he had, and flushed at the ears and the nape of the neck.

“I’m not complaining,” he said, settling the bag in front of his own, “simply pointing it out to you. These small ways in which they discriminate against the old quite fail to register with even the most well-meaning of the youth.” The bus jolted over a speed bump, and he clutched at the bags. “Discrimination is a strange thing,” he said, then, “have you noticed, for instance, that it’s rarely the elderly that are accused of crime?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Amol grinned. Clearly the man is obsessed with being discriminated against. “Aren’t mafia masterminds often old, though?” Don Corleone and such, he thought and didn’t say. No point aggravating him further. Doubtless that’d be discrimination, too.

“No, you tell me, if someone in this bus suddenly says that their wallet has been lifted, who would you suspect? A well-pressed, neatly-combed old man,” he gestured to himself, “or an untidy young ruffian who looks unemployed?” the long finger jabbed at two boys around Amol’s age standing nearer the ladies’ seats than they needed to. “Well?”

He shrugged, nodded. “Fair enough.”

The old man smiled up at him. “Discrimination, I tell you. It’s not as though someone my age couldn’t have done it. But,” he stopped to gently push away the man beside him, who had been dozing since Amol got on the bus at Dharmatala, and possibly since before that. “As I was saying, this is possibly a useful sort of discrimination.” He paused as for some sort of response.

Amol twitched a grin back, and leant forward in not-entirely-pretended interest. “Why, sir?”

“Were they to search the old gentleman’s shabbily genteel valise and find a variety of purses and wallets, he’d possibly not survive the lynching that would follow, right? Whereas you young people…” He paused to shift the bags again. “It isn’t as though I don’t feel bad, you know, about them. Last month, one died before he could be taken to the hospital. Bad business. Quite put me off for days, weeks, actually.”

Amol twisted his grip on the overhanging handle, and changed hands—his left was beginning to itch. “First day back, huh?” It’s amusing to think of this rather imperious man—who looks like a retired officer—as a pickpocket. Discrimination again.

“Needs must and getting back in the saddle and that,” he allowed. “Besides, the weather is so opportune.” He stopped again, like he had earlier, and Amol, now playing this strange game quite wholeheartedly, lifted an eyebrow in inquiry. “Well, they’re all too wet and miserable to notice when they’re being robbed, of course.” He paused again, this time to rub at his nose. “Of course, I’m rather wet and miserable myself.”

“Necessary price.”

“Quite. Koshto na korle Krishn melena, ei aar ki.” He sneezed. “I’d better go home, I think, before I catch pneumonia. Or a cold. Terrible hassle to nurse oneself through it, either way.” Nurse oneself. Not married, then. Or widowed. “And that’s my stop coming, too.”

He got up, letting Amol slip into the slightly-damp space and take the weight of his dozing neighbour. “Thanks for taking my bag.”

“Not at all, not at all.” He settled it on Amol’s lap, gently, as though it contained breakable things. “Thank you for the seat.” He smiled, swaying lightly. “You don’t believe a word I’ve said, do you?” Amol shrugged. “Quite right.”

The bus screeched to a stop in front of EEDF, and the man moved towards the entrance, bumping against a knot of others getting on and off, and disappeared, somewhat unsteadily, into the rain. Amol’s sleeping neighbour opened his eyes, very alert. “Are you mad?”

“Excuse me?”

“Letting a pickpocket hold your bag, really.”

“There’s nothing in the bag worth stealing,” he said. “You were awake?”

“Yes, yes. I was feigning sleep, you know, to see whether he would try and steal from me.”

“”Really?” Given that he’d heard snores around Rabindra Sadan, Amol felt his scepticism justifiable. “Did he?”

“No,” answered Sleepy, completely unflustered. “Must’ve realised I was pretending.”

“Of course.” The men who had got on at EEDF paid their fares, and Amol relaxed infinitesimally. Just a story, then. “He got scared of you and got off the bus.”

“You think so?” He puffed up a little. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

The bus coasted near Anwar Shah. “Me? No.” Amol said, swinging up. “Not at all.” The bag swung the other way and he had to grab a handle with his left hand, now itching furiously. “You’ve saved us all from being robbed.”

The bus stopped at the red light, engine still roaring, and Amol scrambled to get off. It took fifteen minutes to negotiate autos to the right one, and only the auto-wallah asking for the fare beforehand saved him worse than a long wet walk home in the steady drizzle.

CHARACTER SKETCH- Shayeari Dutta

NAME- Esther Rozarrio (maiden name- Esther de Silva)

AGE- 34 Years

ETHNICITY-
Esther’s family, the de Silvas, are fifth generation immigrants to India from Portugal.
The Rozarrios are also immigrants from Portugal. Esther’s husband is the fourth generation immigrant.

LOCATION-
The de Silvas and Rozarrios live in the town of Maldovi in Old Goa, situated about 9 km away from Panaji. The defining feature of this town is the world heritage monument of the Basilica of Bom Jesus, built in 1695.
Both the Rozarrios and the de Silvas live in what is known as a typical ‘old style’ Goan house. The roof is constructed with red "Manglorean" tiles. There is a long winding stairway leading to a balcony also known as a "balcao" in Konkani and Portuguese.
However, even though the Rozarrios continue to have their estate well looked after, painting it at least twice a year, and having original materials brought in from Mangalore and Panaji, the de Silvas have long relinquished any efforts to reflect their social status in the houses they keep. It is atrociously beyond their means.
As for the town, the only thing that can be said, is that, it resonates with the glory of Old Goa, but like Old Goa itself, it is struggling to brush away the cobwebs from a nearly dead heritage.

EDUCATION-
There is not much to talk about regarding Esther’s formal education. She never got much of an opportunity to explore that territory. She studied at the government school, a decrepit sickeningly yellow building that threatened to crumble under the weight of about a hundred students, and did crumble a year after Esther passed out of it. As for her higher studies, she had just started doing her Bachelors in Philosophy from St.Paul’s College. However, she could not even complete the first year. She got married off before that.

PRESENT OCCUPATION-
Esther teaches music to the choir at the Se Cathedral.

APPEARANCE-
Esther has very scant hair on her head, that’s probably the most striking feature about her appearance. She has a slightly elongated face, with deep-set eyes, of a deep brown colour, very pale skin, and a snub nose. Another interesting fact about her physical appearance is, her sixth finger, growing from a stub at the end of the root of her thumb. Her body is a bit flaccid, almost formless, but she is not obese. However, the single inconsequential mark of beauty on this frame, is her chin. It has a beauty spot right at its tip which gives her face an air of gentleness.

FAMILY’S BACK-STORY- the DE SILVAs and ROZARRIOs
The back stories of the two families merges with the history of the Goa Inquisition, established in the year 1560, abolished in 1812. (This office of the Inquisition acting in the Indian state of Goa and the rest of the Portuguese empire in Asia, was executed by the Portuguese Catholic Church. It was established to punish relapsed New Christians- Jews and Muslims who converted to Catholicism, as well as their descendants- who were now suspected of practicing their ancestral religion in secret. However, while its ostensible aim was to preserve the Catholic faith, the Inquisition was often used against these people as an instrument of social control, as also, to confiscate the victim’s property and enrich the Inquisitors.)
The tribunal of the first Inquisition had as its Deputies of the Holy Office, the two de Silva brothers, Diego and Aleixo de Silva. That is how the de Silvas sailed to India and became settlers in Goa. The de Silvas brothers were known for their highhandedness. They were largely feared and abhorred. Their opulence was a further marker of their gluttony. Then in 1812, when the British put pressure on the Portuguese to put an end to the terror of the Inquisition, along with the palace of the Inquisition, (known as the Big House) the sprawling estate of the de Silvas was also demolished. However, nobody was killed.
In a such a situation then, to revive oneself, something more than an unflinching faith in one’s pedigree is needed. It was then that the Rozarrios extended the olive branch of friendship to the de Sivas. The Rozarrios were among the first fleet of merchants to arrive in Goa with their precious and semi-precious stones. They profited from their enterprise and now desired to climb the social ladder as well. They felt that the only way to achieve this, would be to attach themselves to some church in Goa. The Se Cathedral in Old Goa, originally built in 1510, housing the Golden Bell (the bell of Inquisition whose tolling heralded the start of ‘auto da fes’, or, the brutal part of the Inquisition process) was the Church to which they desired to be attached in some way. The aim was to be one of its prime patrons.
The Rozzarios could be described as a family with no ethical or moral scruples, solely driven by a blind ambition for social respectability. For them, the Church is not a seat of worship, but a rite of passage, whereby, they would become members of a society of the privileged. The deepest fears of these people was, the fear of extermination, and they had a strange belief that by signing themselves into some hallowed establishment, like the church, they could be saved.
Thus, it was a sort of symbiotic relationship between the two families. The de Silvas had by then found a tiny space for themselves in the church (where the women took up the job of the mistress of the choir, and the men helped about in little duties of the priests and clergy), but they needed the money to get back to their earlier mode of existence, (for old habits die hard) and the Rozarrios helped them by making them shareholders in their shipping business. The Rozzarios in turn, helped by a particular smooth-talking de Silva, managed to be one of the patrons of the said church, i.e. the Se Cathedral.

PERSONAL BACK STORY OF ESTHER-
Esther de Silva is born into a family that proclaims its dubious high status, but economically, they are almost impoverished. Esther’s father was not interested in the proceedings of the Church, so he worked as a master gardener in the estate of the Church. This is not to say however, that he was not a believer in Christianity like the rest, but he was definitely not of the orthodox nature. He passed away quietly in his sleep when Esther was twelve years old, and his brother David, six. Esther’s mother worked as the mistress of the choir till the day she retired and Esther took over from her. Esther’s mother is a dominating woman, a woman of determination and has a remarkable capacity for sustaining an argument. She was almost a kind of menacing disciplinarian to Esther’s father and the two children. Esther’s father on the other hand, was a man of few words.
The mother brought up the two children in an atmosphere of piety and discipline. ‘The Grand Cane’ was the great instrument of torture at their house, and its services were employed even on the day that Esther’s marriage was finalized when Esther coughed out the words- “I don’t want to.”
Though the two families had begun a sort of partnership, the losses slowly started loading up upon the de Silvas. The de Silvas were not able to understand the intricacies of business, and started suffering losses. The Rozarrios had then struck a deal- marry the de Silva daughter to our forty year old son, and we would settle all the accounts. The prospective groom, Peter Rozarrio had one damaged kidney (nobody knew the reason behind this) and had found it difficult to find a wife for himself among the wealthy Christian families. So now, because of their family lineage and the long history of a bond that the two families shared, the marriage between Esther and Peter was finalized.
Esther was twenty when she got married off. She was just in the first year of her college, doing her Bachelors in Philosophy from St.Paul’s College. Another important fact to be mentioned is that, at around the time that Esther’s marriage plans were being chalked out by her mother and the Rozzarios, (and Esther was weeping copiously in her room) David, her brother, had a final rather violent row with his mother (and he had had many such rows before) and left the house. He has never returned, and at present, no one knows where he is or what he does.


FRIENDS\CONFIDANTES-
Esther has always lived a cloistered life, so there has never been much of an opportunity to make friends. However, her closest companion (and the dearest) had her brother, David. She has always adored him, but had fallen short when it came to the duty of standing up for and protecting her little brother. Esther lacks the personality to do that. But that had never created any strain between the two. In fact, David had shown stupendous courage by walking out on his mother. He had always been a boy of determination, and this had extended to his attempts to save Esther’s life from the clutches of their mother and the Rozarrios. However, when he could not do that, he left the house.
Apart from the brother, Esther had another friend- a grizzly looking cat. But that was finally removed by her mother to some other part of the town because Mrs. De Silva despises cats.
Therefore, in a nutshell, it could be said that, Esther had just two close friends in her life, and was separated from both very early in her life.
Now she has no friends or confidantes.

RELATIONSHIPS- ROMANTIC OR OTHERWISE-
Esther hardly ever looks up at the world when she walks. And then again, she has never walked far into the world of strangers and chance opportunities. So, the chance of getting romantically entangled with anyone is beyond the question. Also, she has never really been the romantic sort. But not practical either.
As for her relationship with her mother, Esther shares a formal relation with the woman, and hardly ever speaks to her. She speaks only when spoken to. There was a time when she was mortally terrified of the woman, but now, after her marriage, since she doesn’t see too much of her mother, the fear is slowly dissipating, and drops of anger entering to fill that void.

ESTHER WITHOUT-
After her marriage into the Rozarrio family, Esther has to make quite a number of formal appearances. There are occasional social gatherings, charities organized by the Church, where she has the role of a silent smiling attentive spectator, the wife of Peter Rozarrio. At these gatherings, she hardly makes an effort. She goes about it as though it is a duty. Her chief aim (and that has always been the case) is to do the duty\chore assigned to her deftly, indifferently, silently and then to fade with the background. She excels at this self-constructed game of ‘fading out’.
Her husband never takes her out anywhere. She does not feel the urge to complain or request either. In fact, she is swept by a wave of relief when her husband leaves for his work.

ESTHER WITHIN-
Emotionally, Esther is as fragile as a glass, but this glass is insulated from outside (and this process of insulation had begun the day her father died) so that whatever might pass in her heart, might not be reflected on her face.
She despises tears, but only when the urge to cry overwhelms her. Every time David had broken down, she had supported him with a warm hug, if not with anything else.
Esther might not have any great capacity for cultivating anger or hatred, but when she has a grudge against anyone or anything, she tries to fade out that person or thing from her sight and memory. It is a very conscious effort on her part, but she is perfecting it, just as she is perfecting the art of ‘fading’ out herself. However, what Esther is not conscious of, is the great cauldron of anger and wrath bubbling within her for quite some time now. She is still not conscious of it, though the symptoms are starting to show of late- sudden spurts of impatience, a violent combing of the scant hair on her head, talking to herself, slashing down beautiful blooming roses and petunias with her garden scissors when nobody is watching.
Esther does not love her husband, or any member in her husband’s family. She does not know the names of a few of them , and the rest are just as insignificant to her as they. For her husband, she tries to muster respect at least, but cannot.
Esther has often contemplating leaving all and running away somewhere, but years of servitude and acceptance of her mother’s orders, has washed away any traces of determination in her. She lacks confidence. The one thought that keeps haunting her is, of being forced to beg at street corners. By far, the fear of not being able to feed herself, is the greatest fear of all. This fear is the product of her insufficient qualifications, of the fact that, if let loose in the world, she won’t be able to fend for herself.

TRAUMATIC\SIGNIFICANT EVENTS-
Esther’s father’s death is by far, the single greatest life-altering event of her life. The sudden feeling of being unprotected in the world, was a tremendously difficult feeling to cope with for the young girl.
Esther and brother had at one point (when Esther was thirteen) started putting together a sort of mystery story, largely a juvenile attempt at recreating a Secret Seven or a Famous Five. They got completely immersed in the project. They had just been introduced to the world of Enid Blyton by a friend of David of his school, (who had established a kind of personal library and was making a huge profit out of it) and were mesmerized. At this time, the dream of the duo had been, to get really famous by writing these books, and then, with the money, to run away somewhere and live life the way these British children did. However, one day their mother came across these diaries filled with fantastic stories, and she set them on fire and caned the children hard. This single incident of having their work burnt to ashes, affected Esther deeply. It was at this time that she became a complete recluse. And the feeling of being unprotected in the world, heightened.
Esther’s brother’s estrangement from the family was another event which affected her. It all went on adding up to her feeling of being a cornered beast and losing all the people and things that might have protected her.
The day Esther’s mother got rid of the grizzly cat, Esther dreamt of her father. It was not a symbolic dream or something, but when she woke up, she had felt a sudden blaze of anger, (not directed towards anybody particular) which had almost immediately died down.
After her marriage, she started suffering from insomnia. She has never been able to sleep at night since then.

QUIRKS-
Esther has suddenly, in the dead of the night, started writing again. It happened without any forewarning. Her insomnia probably drove her to it, but even though there are significant traces of the earlier threads of thought that David and Esther had put together in their childhood exercise, this time, her writings are more graphic, with lengthy (and completely inappropriate for the story) gruesome descriptions of rotten corpses and men murdering men. Also, there is slowly, a suspension of the storyline altogether. Now, it is more of an exercise, a kind of catharsis. Esther feels a sense of relief after these violent sessions. Often, she simply spills a huge drop of ink right in the centre of her paper, and starts describing a murder perhaps by dragging the tip of her pen from within that gleaming pool of ink, outwards, like words spilling out of a drop of blood.
Esther has been appointed the mistress of the choir at the Church, but she simply abhors the sound of the organ. She hates the touch of the cold hard keys against her skin.
Esther is probably the only non-superstitious person in the family of the Rozarrios. Her mother is highly superstitious too (which is why she got rid of the cat.)
Esther has no favourites- colour, music, sports, etc. One of the reasons could be that, in the kind of environment where she has been born and brought up, (and continues to live) one has never had the opportunity to develop one’s finer tastes, or concentrate upon one’s personal choices in matters of art, literature, music. Such things are not encouraged in her kind of an environment. Here, the idea of ‘duty’ dominates, and Esther has as of yet, not accumulated sufficient courage to break out of this tradition.
However, it should be noted that she absolutely loves the sea.