The Witness

I can’t stop talking about the war. It has been more than a decade, but the war had taken roots in my soul. I have no explanations, but only my testimony. My memory does not fail me; I can call to mind how cold and grey the morning was when I lost my right thumb, I could tell you the numbers of all the inmates I shared my bunk with, the names of the hostile guards who wielded whips while we slaved under the harness. But these recollections curiously enough bring neither pain, nor deliverance. There was disease and morbidity both inside and outside the prison camp, yet none of us could throw ourselves at the fence and end it all. 

At night I dreamt of a patch of dry land, some sunshine, and maybe a pair of warm shoes. Working in the mines was unbearable during the winters; the chill seeped into our skin and rattled our bones. A few of us looked about for opportunities to wound ourselves- not dangerously, but enough to guarantee us some rest. As you know, every regime has its loopholes. It was then that I had severed my thumb; a blow that had been a trifle too hard. 

One day, J. sought me out and offered to share a cigarette. I knew that he had sacrificed his share of bread for this singularly rare luxury. Good old J. with his sparkling teeth, spotless hands, and his weakness for the better things in life. He told me that the human spirit was far too resilient to die and then he added, but here there are only enemies or rivals, and you can die if you don’t become a witness. A witness was necessarily a survivor and I survived because I believed in miracles. Yet, there was the task of remembering, and it became my sole concern, my only vocation. Even though one day started to resemble the other, I adamantly resolved to remember. None but the prisoners felt the pain and the immediacy of the war; those outside had been served anesthetics it seemed. The kingdom was gently erasing public memory and recollection became the prisoner’s legacy. 

I returned home once the war was over; yet returning is never the same as recovering. Other survivors talked about guilt and responsibility, but I never felt anything other than the need to confess and be absolved. The miracle I was waiting for had happened, but I became more confined than ever before. 

***
I am reminded of a certain poem whenever I look at the moon. No, not the one that talks about shivering stars in a fractured sky. In this poem, a man stands near his window looking at the city, at the moon, unable to escape the prison of his apartment, his body, and his mind.

 
There’s the moon
in my room’s window.
I balance it on my thumb
and try to flip it over.
It does not turn
but still, my thumb
is not broken.

Perhaps the night bothers him, and the moon is but a coin. I, too, am trapped- but my thumb is broken.

***

(The lines quoted are from a poem by Leonard Cohen, published in The Spice-Box of Earth).

Anurima Sen (PG-II)

The Mirror.

There is a woman who stands outside my cage, grinning wildly like a tiger which has tasted human flesh. I cannot begin to describe her anatomy. She is stark naked. Her breasts are magnificent and taut, her hips are wide but yet do not remind you of childbearing, and she paces up and down on all fours. Her hair is long and wild and curly, it covers her like a curtain of obscene desire. She breathes a different air- it is pure like liquid oxygen and perhaps as potent. I want to embrace her but I growl instead. She growls back at me. It seems as if we speak the same language.

Would such a woman have a husband? I ask her this question- hesitantly, tearfully, sadly. She asks me the same question almost simultaneously. I nod and she nods. I lose myself in contemplation- we are both at ease in this momentary silence. How can she have a husband? I feel bitter, as if tricked in a game of cards. My body is covered in scabs and sores, my stomach is creased after many childbirths and my breasts have sagged. Had my face been left to nature, it would have showed the lines of laughter and wisdom. I have found lotions and potions to make me eternally young and beautiful. My ringmaster wields his whip and a child is born. My ringmaster wields his whip and I perform for his friends. My ringmaster wields his whip and I, the circus clown, laugh a teary laugh. My face has been untouched by time. You see, my ringmaster knows how to wield the whip cruelly but delicately.

I am sick of my mediocrity. Once upon a time I knew how to paint more than my face. I could make a perfect likeness of what I wanted to be. I painted myself as an astronaut, a dancer, and once (how cleverly) as a painter. Now my fingers are solely occupied in the perpetual practice of cozy domesticity. Every evening I have religiously applied vermilion on the parting of my hair for twenty years.

I look at the woman outside the cage. I ask her a question- “Do we speak the same language?” She asks me the same question, almost at once. It disturbs me. She should not be my echo, she is so different. Her eyes are different. She makes me want to shake my chains off, tear off the gold jewellery that weigh me down toward the earth and bind me to the institution of marriage itself. What marriage is that which has known only a sick servility? It is a farce, a bloody circus. And I- I am a caged tigress- waiting to taste human flesh. I shall eat the iron bars, drink my own blood, and shake my hair wild in a frenzy. I will break the shankha, pala and loha that I wear on my wrists and thus symbolically disown he who has enslaved me. I shall cry and dance and paint, cook the soft flesh of my ungrateful children and then feed it to their sire.

I can do nothing. Thus I part my hair carefully and am about to apply the customary vermilion that I have applied on my forehead for twenty years, without a break, without parole. A strange despair grips me. Those eyes are haunting me and taunting me. She is naked, I am clothed. She is young, I am old. She is a tigress and I am a cat. I hate her. I strike her.

The mirror shatters into a million fragments. Blood trickles slowly from my palm. Before it can congeal, I apply this blood lovingly to my forehead. Only this time, there is no mirror to check whether I have done it right.

Ahona Panda.

PG II.

Light

I am on a ship. I am in a room. I am trapped in a cup. I am the torn underside of a roti. I am in a room somewhere, lying on a bed I do not own, on a patch of land not my own, fed by hands that don’t know me. My bed is smooth, the white sheet has streaks of grey. I did not make them. Am I alone or are there others below me? Above me? Speak if you can. There are no windows—am I entombed? The earthen graves are burning, burning with a strong blue flame: a guide for mariners and bored insurance agents. Make me a grave, my son. Let the shovel dry, then make your mark and swing hard. The bones are first to break, the skin shatters… and I am standing alone—in my room—with a little white shirt bleeding hard. My room is empty. I am not in it. I would—if I could—have a bird at my window-sill; something to look at, and something to look at me. Even through the bars. Even through these rough bricks. I look around to see if I am still here. It’s always dark—I can’t see my shadow. The latrine poisons me and every morning I strengthen its poison. I am a ship ploughing the acid seas, with the timid whales wailing far below. A screech! From where? Perhaps I am slowing down. Aging all alone was Cain’s curse. I am cursed by all. The toothbrush strips me everyday of a bit a skin, and the soap softens my bones for the final blow…and my shirt? Each day it twists me into an unknown shape—a marvel of infernal symmetry. My wife? I dare not speak of her. I built my home on the shores of Hell. Oh why were you born my son? You were sent to us without a soul: you slept eighteen hours a day, you did not speak, you did not move. You were born dead, my child. You see? And now the world spits on my face. All I did was to sever the thin cord of mucus imprisoning you in this earth. I did it to free you. I did nothing.
I am slowing down. I noticed this a month ago. It takes me longer to sleep, and I sleep longer. I am hardly awake. It must be something in the air down here. Nonetheless, I have much to do. A petty thief was knifed today—such a frail thing the human skull.

I lost my glasses today—remarkable!

Time to rest. The bed tolerates this cold bag of bones. Is it noon? Night? November? I cannot know. They are softening me for the rope. I see my arms glowing in that rarefied air. At last, I have become what I had never wanted to be. I have become a guide for mariners upon their acid seas. I will sleep. I am no more.


zeeshan islm UG3 Roll 45

And the Prisoners Eat Doves

He pressed his ear to the solid metal door but all he could hear were muffled sounds which he could not make anything out of. He gently tapped on it once…twice…thrice. “Knock knock” he said and chuckled softly. Some of his nails were broken from his previous attempt at displaying his strength, when he has heroically tried to break down that obstinate door. And some strange, funny looking people did things to him which he did not like in particular. He did not like being groped and touched by strangers. Besides, they smelled really horrible. Just like his room. It smelled of antiseptics and old age. It reeked of discomfort and disease. But he felt pretty fine. As good as he had ever been really. So he decided to go back to his happy-place, the bed, and threw down his body on it. It did not really matter to him what time it was or why exactly he was there. All that really mattered was his presence in that cell. Or his absence. He was not really sure anymore. Thinking made him tired.
Suddenly, he broke into a bout of perspiration. He felt very cold and he felt very angry. That same feeling of panic was gripping him again and he was not feeling as self-assured anymore. He was dizzy and he felt lonely. Very, very lonely. He murmured in inaudible whispers as he rocked back and forth. He needed some water. And he needed someone to hold. There were brilliant flashes of purple and red and he closed his eyes and desperately tried to remember snatches of his childhood. He was almost there. The golden autumn sunshine was bathing the wooden floor of the kitchen. And he saw his mother. She was knitting something and probably waiting for his sister to come home. He watched her like he used to watch her every move as a child.
Suddenly, he felt something going up his leg. A nimble, grotesque intruder.
-------
He was lying on the stiff, starched bed, sprawled on his belly and grinning. The cockroach was firmly in his grasp and he was toying around with it. Holding it by one of its legs and wriggling it in the air as it struggled to let loose of his hold. He shook it from time to time and it wriggled more violently. Suddenly, he felt furious at that disgusting little bug. How dare he protest against his authority! Well, his attempts at a tiny little mutiny would fail quite miserably, Michael told himself. He placed the insect on a small piece of stark white cardboard and with a pin, practised his surgical skills. Off went one of it’s tiny, hairy legs. It wriggled violently and squirmed under the pin. Then very carefully, he snipped off the lateral wing on the adjacent part of its body. He tilted his head on one side and paused- He was reasonably satisfied with the operation. He decided to let his patient free and picked up the cockroach with one of it’s legs and set it free on the bed. It tried to scurry as fast as it could, with its mutilated body and Michael never took his eyes off it. It was struggling, he observed, to latch on to life. Desperately trying to evade it’s predator. To cheat destiny. What a brave little idiot! He chuckled to himself, before carelessly inverting the insect on its back as it squirmed in agony and helplessness. He did not like most of his patients. Michael was bored by now, so he threw it down on vinyl floor and quickly stomped on it a couple of times. Euthanasia is a huge comfort, he reflected. Pity most people did not realise that. After brushing the bed off the dirt and invisible germs, he lied down on his side.
He was gingerly rubbing his forearm, where they pricked him. There was still some dry blood that had clotted and clung on to his skin. He rubbed it off and tasted it blankly. Vague thoughts filled his head and he was trying to picture the face of his last victim- the cockroach. He wondered how it would look like had it been a human being. It would look like his father-he concluded with an air of finality. He yawned. Sleep was descending on him like a heavy blanket as he curled his body into a sort of bundle. He shut his eyes.

--------------------------------------------------------------
The kitchen smelled familiar, of freshly baked pies. The brilliant rays of the sun made his face glow as his mother scooped him up and placed him on her lap. She had put down her needlework and her arms were around his neck. He buried his face in her warm softness and tried to hide in her long brown hair. She gently stroked his back and was probably singing a lullaby as he fell asleep in his soft little cocoon.

Debjanee Chakrabarti
UG-III

Cleaved

by Arnab

When you have nothing but your mind to entertain you, you start seeing things. Like the wall in front of me, with the myriad cracks spreading from the ceiling to the floor. The left one looks like a lightning bolt, as anyone can tell. The one on the right however, with the little corner edging inwards?...that looks like a gun. I think of telling Vincent but then remember its been a week since he's stopped speaking or even eating much. Vincent has started resembling a mantis, with his arms bent and stick like. Come to think of it, I’m very insect like myself. The little slab of glass nailed to the wall tells me exactly what kind: a cross between a fly, thanks to my bulging eyeballs and an earwig. That’s how my goatee’s shaped…like an earwig’s pincers.

The cell is damp but the food is excellent. It’s a pity Vincent doesn’t agree. He misses his wife’s cooking. Heck, I miss his wife’s cooking. I miss his wife more, but I won’t quite go there. Fifteen minutes earlier, a familiar gruff voice shouted "Food!" and shoved the bowl in, and today we have soup with nothing floating in it and bread only two days old by the looks of it. Oh joy! And still Vincent sleeps. You’d almost think he’s dead! As I sit down on the damp floor and say Grace and start my meal, I wonder why they never, in all this time, gave Vincent his share of food. He’s always been a skimpy eater but even then. Why should I have to share? Not that I had to for the last couple of days but its unfair. Much like its unfair of Vincent to have stopped entertaining me with his jokes and fond reminiscing. Such an enormous wimp, that man, but he was funny alright. And he helped make things less dreary. Vincent had a way with descriptions. The world as we knew it came alive right in front of my eyes. So yes, I miss Vincent and I wish he’d stop sulking and wake up. “Here’s to you, ol’ chap”, I say and make an invisible toast to him. He makes no noise, and lies there, deathly still.

I finish my meal and utter a sigh of contentment and look again. It’s no longer a gun now. It’s a house. It’s a house and wait there’s more…the little slab of wall that’s missing there, that right there is a backyard and the specks of dirt…they look like lilies, swaying in the breeze. And just then a breeze really does blow in through the grills from the sea just beyond . Reminds me of a few lines Vincent used to say aloud from time to time. Something that had lilies and the sea in it.

Someone’s coming. But I don’t feel like getting up. It feels pleasant suddenly. I think its Geoffrey again. What’s he want now?

“Oy Vincent, mate”, he said again, laughing that disgusting phlegmatic laugh of his. “Not too many days left now, is there?”

Something with the lilies and the sea. I forget the exact lines.

Imprisoned

It has been a long time since I have been here. I have lost count of days. I had tried, initially, to escape. But they put me back in. To punish me, they starved me for days, and then, when I could not stand, for hunger had weakened my legs, they let HIM into the room. He whipped me. He whipped me till I was hoarse from crying. Then He left. I cowered in a corner for fear of Him coming back with the whip. They fed me the day after. It was a frugal meal that hardly appeased my stomach. But I gnawed at it as if it were a banquet. They starved me again after that. I learnt soon enough that it would become a ritual to feed me and starve me alternately. I knew they would not be able to keep me imprisoned if I was strong. This damned hunger had caused me to lose everything in life.

My memory is sharp. I remember everything. I remember how they caught me, as clear as daylight, although it was a dark night when it happened. It was hunger that drove me to steal. We did not go into the village usually. It was an unspoken rule among our kind. The villagers were the enemy. Together, they were stronger and more cunning than we could ever be. But my children had starved for a week. It was the villagers’ fault that had happened. They were taking over our territory. I remember how I crept around the cottage, a black night hiding me from sight. But I was wrong. They had kept watch. They were upon me like a wave breaks upon a boulder. I had nowhere to run. The villagers surrounded me, taunting me with their flaming torches. I shrank back. Hunger had left me weak.

“Witch!” she called me, a woman in the background, “these Godforsaken creatures have wreaked havoc on us!” was what she exclaimed, to no one in particular. I could see her, framed in a doorway. Maybe she had children too. Why did she not understand my plight? My babies, starving, left alone. I had to get back to them. But the villagers would not let me. Someone fired at me.

I woke up in this room. Tired, hungry, scared. I ached for my babies. There is a window in this room. I spent days crying through it, for my children. Hoping they would hear. I gave up after a while. They were better off wherever they were, away from this hellhole.

The man with the whip comes to my room every night. I am scared of him. I do as I am told, or else He whips me. He is here now. He cracks the whip. I stand quickly and walk out the door. I walk onto the stage to jump on stools and wave at cheering crowds. It is another regular night for me, performing for the ‘Bagher Khela’ at the Minerva Circus.

Diya Sinha

Sick As a Dog

Sniff.
Sorry people, have been struck down with a virus, as has everyone else in the house except Putlibai and one computer. Babulal too had fever for a day (an awesome sight. Everyone was subjected to concentrated cute for 24 hours). Since I can't speak much above a whisper, we won't be meeting tomorrow. But just to keep things boiling, for all those who have access to the web, post a piece here by next Tuesday.
The piece should be about a prisoner (any prisoner, you make it up. Try not to steal existing characters) and should be not more that 500 words, ie a comfortable size for a blog post.
This is like writing a poem. Every word should count. So before you post, revise ruthlessly and throw out anything that isn't totally doing its job.
Right? Let's rock.

Letter

(Am I doing this right? o_o)

From Planet Ultimatau to The Federation of Earth

To All Earthlings This May Concern

Greetings and salutations! My name is Alloran-nee-Coras-Ray, and I write to you on behalf of Queer Quasar Studios, Planet Ultimatau. It is our deepest pleasure to inform you that your planet is one of the lucky few selected to participate in this year's episode of 'Uncanny Universes', the ultimate intergalactic reality show!

Selection is carried out by our very own Relativity Comission, and by means of a hyperspace ballot. Only ten lucky races are selected each year, so the opportunity is one which comes once in a lifetime (literally. The boys down the hall in Probability Indexes did some number-crunching with their Space Time Calculators)! We trust you will be all agog at this good news, and ready to participate!

The Rules and Regulations are as follows (they're simpler than they sound). Each planet will be put through a series of tests which include asteroid showers, total gravitational collapse, and an influx of flesh-eating parasites from outer space. If you're lucky enough to draw one of our Hyperspace Random Event cards, you may have the chance to have a mano-e-mano encounter with our undefeated champion, the Ultimataum who has the destruction of no less than seven galaxies (and one minor solar system) to his credit - The Chomper.

Two lucky planets will make it to the finale - I won't spoil it for you, but it's called 'Total Annihilation: Invade or Die!'

Of course, failure to participate amounts to immediate surrender of all real-estate currently in your possession (in other words, your planet is ours, chuckleheads), and we will foreclose immediately.

It's not as bad as it sounds. You get a five-day eviction notice!

And that's all for now, folks! Just zap us back a reply by the nearest vacuum-post, and we'll open you up a wormhole to our Studio right away!

We look forward to a long and fruitful partnership!

Yours, in anticipation

Alloran-nee-Corass-Ray
Supreme Mugwump,
Queer Quasar Studios
100 Terabyte Drive
Planet Ultimatau

P.S: The first three contestants to confirm their participation get a 10% discount on our universally-acclaimed line of Galaxy Gourmet Cookies! Act now!

New Sem Begins

Well, we're off to a running start this year with WIP, eighteen people having turned up on the first day of class, a record I think. I've just sent out invitations to 16 people today, so join up, join up. We've already had two story sessions and there'll be much more to come. Should be good. If you're in the class and haven't been invited yet, send me a mail.
Also, where is Ishan?

Writing in Practice 2010-11

Writing in Practice will run next semester. Don't forget to sign up tomorrow and on Thursday. The course is open to UG3 and PG2.

CFP: Samuel Beckett and the Encounter of Philosophy and Literature

NEMLA 42nd Annual Convention: New Brunswick, New Jersey April 7-10, 2011

Call for Papers
Seminar: Samuel Beckett and the Encounter of Philosophy and Literature

Contact email: arkaless@gmail.com

Conference Date: April 7-10, 2011

Conference Venue: Hyatt New Brunswick, New
Brunswick, New Jersey

Deadline for Abstract Submission: Sept. 30, 2010
(300-500 words)

Notification of acceptance of papers by 5th of October, 2010.

Deadline for Final Paper Submission: March 15, 2011

Length of Full Papers: 4000-5000 words (The full papers are to be mutually exchanged and read well before the seminar and shortened 10 minute presentations, consisting of four double-spaced pages, are to be made in the session)


Seminar Description
The seminar seeks to explore the complex and paradoxical relationship between the discourses of philosophy and literature focusing on the works of Samuel Beckett. Beckett has had a long standing dialogue with philosophy. From comments like ‘I am not a philosopher’ and ‘I do not understand philosophy’ to his love of Democritus, Arnold Geulincx and Arthur Schopenhauer, from a rich texture of philosophical allusions in early works like Murphy to a more resistant non-allusive (or allusive in a very subterranean way) later prose like Worstward Ho, Beckett’s work has always been seen in relation to philosophy, from championing a certain kind of Cartesianism to reviving the latent philosophical discourses of the Atomists, from positing existentialism to parodying it and so on.

In the 20th century, Beckett’s oeuvre has attracted a handsome amount of philosophical attention with almost all major philosophers responding to his work in vastly different ways. From early readings of Georges Bataille and Maurice Blanchot to the responses of the poststructuralists like Derrida, Deleuze, Foucault, reactions from Adorno, Stanley Cavell, Julia Kristeva, Irigaray, Martha Nussbaum and in more recent times perhaps in the most extensive fashion in the writings of Alain Badiou, Simon Critchley and a host of others, Beckett has commanded a rigorous attention of the philosophers. They have sometimes cited Beckett by way of exemplifying their own philosophical conceptualization and problematization while on other occasions they have seen his
work as a genuine philosophical repository, generating issues and debates, intrinsic to the discipline of philosophy.

Eminent Beckett Scholars like Ruby Cohn, Stanley Gontarski, Anthony Uhlmann, Garin Dowd and others have been sensitive to what we can call a ‘philosophical turn’ in the field known as Beckett Studies. Apart from dealing with the philosopher’s influence on Beckett from a biographical point of view and Beckett’s influence on 20th century philosophy, the seminar also encourages papers that see Beckett’s work as a topos where different and often contesting ways of conceiving the philosophy-literature interface meet each other. Beckett’s interest in classical philosophy and the supposed representational relation between philosophy and literature is on the one hand while on the other is the poststructuralist and postmodernist appropriation of his canon which tends to locate his body of work at the margin of philosophical thought. Samuel Beckett thus remains the fascinating literary icon that he is with Derrida defining an auto-deconstructive margin of philosophy in literature with Beckett and Badiou drawing on Beckett as an original philosophical thinker, who is instrumental in his discourse of a return to philosophy.

Therefore, the thrust-areas are (the abstracts may include these perspectives but need not be limited to these at all):

v Philosophy as influence on Beckett.
v Philosophy as intertextual cultural memory or a textual principle in Beckett.
v Beckett as an influence on 20th century Philosophy.
v Beckett’s texts as philosophy.
v Beckett’s texts as an anti-philosophical discourse.
v Beckett and the cognitive philosophical tradition.
v The politics of philosophical appropriation in and of Beckett texts.
v The philosophical categorization of Beckett as a Modernist polemic of canonization.
v The philosophical status of Beckett and its contribution in a supposed undermining of the pragmatics of his theatrical practice as a playwright and stage-artist.



All enquiries and abstracts are to be directly sent to:

Arka Chattopadhyay
M.Phil Scholar
Department of English
Jadavpur University, Kolkata, India

Address:
Krishna, Flat-105
75, J.K. Street
Uttarpara, Hooghly
Pin-712258
Ph: 033-2663-8270
91-9231536815
Mail: arkaless@gmail.com

Question paper 2009

Enjoy!


Writing in Practice
Time: 2 hours Full marks: 30
Answer any one question. All questions carry equal marks.

1. Here is a character’s curriculum vitae. Using all of these facts, make up additional details, personal quirks and life events to create a backstory for the character, taking care to fill in the holes in her history.

Name: Shamim Durrani, Age: 38, Height: 5’7”, Weight: 55kg, Distinguishing marks: scar on right knee from fall from a horse at fourteen when out riding with father in the mountains of Peshawar. Place of birth: Peshawar. Parents: big landowners in Peshawar, father killed in a riot, mother remarried widower with two younger children. Relationship with stepfamily cordial but distant. Place of residence: Amritsar. Education: Mathematics honours, diploma in chartered accountancy from private college in Chandigarh. Marital status: Unmarried, has a boyfriend who has moved to Dubai whom she hasn’t seen for a year. Income: 6.5 lakhs per year. Occupation: freelance stock market trader; has set up a small firm of her own, breaks even but yet to hit the big time.

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.
a. Characters: anaesthetist, construction worker, policewoman, cabaret artist
b. Locations: swimming pool, coral island, soup kitchen, car park
c. Moods: suspicious, frustrated, vengeful, exalted
d. Objects: keyring, boarding pass, lipstick, wheelchair

3. In each of these passages, two characters are implied. Choose any one passage and make up names and backstories for each of the two characters implied by the passage.

a. Her slippers lay by the bed, one slightly at an angle to the other, as if she had just stepped out of them while dancing and vanished into thin air. I raised an edge of the curtain, but the room beyond it was empty. From somewhere, I could hear the sound of water running.
b. She rummaged nervously in her bag for the pass card that would allow her to enter his inner office. He always hated her to be late; he’d rung her this morning at six am to remind her to be on time. Today the Ukrainians were coming to clinch the deal on the soft-nosed repeater rounds and the double-barrelled automatic cannon. She’d worked all night on the papers; her shoulders ached, and the expensive carpet sucked at her feet.
c. He stuck his head out of the open door and winced as the wind tore at his hair. The urn with her ashes was clutched in his right hand. As the helicopter danced on its column of air, he opened the urn and let the dark dust fly out upon the wind and fall towards the glittering ocean below. Goodbye, my love, he thought. I kept my promise. Nothing will ever imprison you again.

Marks

By popular request, I'm posting the marks here. Please supply me with your roll numbers. The classification is not exact for soem of the stories, especially the late submissions.

Writing in Practice	Char	Elem	Pic	Word	Plot
Anomitra Biswas	8	8	8	8	8
Anway Mukhopadhyay	7.5	8	8	8	7
Agnibho Chakraborty	6.5	7		7
Pallabi Gupta	7	6	7	6
Monidipa Mondal	8	8	7	8.5
Sharad Saumya Majumdar	8	8	7.5	8
Shayeari Datta	8.5	7	7	7.5
Malini Bhattacharya	6	6	7	6
Arijeet Mondal	6	6.5	6	7
Rituparna Sengupta	7	8		7
Pujarini Sen	6.5		7	6.5	6.5
Sristi Ghimiray	5		5	6	6
Promit Basu	7		6	6
Mrinalini Sen	7		7	6.5
Soham Bose	7	7		7

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

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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.