

About the Emagazine

UnBound is an emagazine that is designed as a platform for established and budding authors to showcase their work and reach out to their readers. The emagazine is the brainchild of Neil D'Silva and Varun Prabhu and is affiliated to their editing service Pen Paper Coffee. It is exclusively tied up with Fireworm Publishing, a publishing platform that Neil D'Silva and Varun Prabhu have envisioned for the future. The emagazine is also an offshoot of the Facebook group For Writers, By Authors of which Neil D'Silva is founder-admin and Varun Prabhu is admin.

UnBound aims to be a biannual endeavor. The current issue is its first issue, which was launched globally on 15 August 2015.

The present issue of UnBound is an entirely non-monetary effort. All contributors have voluntarily submitted to the emagazine. The editors and distributors have worked on a voluntary basis as well. This issue of the emagazine will be permanently available for free download.

Our hosting partners are Sip N Read, a growing book club based out of Mumbai. The emagazine will be available for download exclusively from their website.

For this issue, our stories are centered on the theme of FREEDOM.

We thank our contributors and a few people who have helped us in special ways.

Vibhuti Bhandarkar for designing the UnBound logo as it appears in this issue.

Neelesh Vishwakarma of Sip N Read for hosting UnBound.

Aindrila Roy for helping us communicate with our contributors and in other ways.

Percy G Wadiwala for penning the Disclaimer as it appears in this issue.

Editors: Neil D'Silva and Varun Prabhu

Graphic Designer: Vibhuti Bhandarkar

Our Partners

All stories and poems featured in this magazine are works of fiction and their ownership and responsibility rests entirely with the respective authors. Resemblance to any real persons or places is for creative purposes only.

Unbound, its editors, and any other persons associated with publishing and hosting it are not responsible in any way for the content thereof. All material in this magazine is copyrighted with the respective authors and any story/poem or excerpt thereof may not be shared without express permission from the author.

# From the Editor's Desk

Yesterday, as I wound my way through the busy Malad traffic in the heartland of Mumbai, I was faced with several interesting observations, all within a span of an hour.

One of the visuals that refuses to go away is that of a pair of young children — very young, perhaps around ten — making their way to each car stopped at the traffic signal and pleading with the drivers to buy small paper flags. They managed several sales, what with it being the eve of the Indian Independence Day. As the drivers took the flags from them and proudly stuck them to their shirts or placed them on their dashboards, I looked at the children flitting away with the money and giving it to some shady person lurking in a corner. I did not buy a flag from them. No. Instead, I asked myself a question — are those children really free?

Then even before the signal opened, two bikers — one man and one woman — whizzed past, clearly flouting traffic rules. They apparently didn't see the traffic cop standing at the bend, and predictably he whistled for them to stop. But the moment he saw that one of the bikers was a woman, he let her go. The male biker was forced to pay a fine or whatever it is these traffic cops do. I did not feel happy that the woman escaped unscathed. Instead, I asked myself — was that man really free?

Finally, the signal turned and my car moved. By the roadside, there was a group of young men, doing generally nothing but just occupying space and hindering traffic. A woman passed by. She was dressed in a white salwar kameez and she held a textbook in her hands. My keen sense of observation told me that the textbook was a History textbook which had the Rashtrapati Bhavan and the flag of India on its cover. As she walked ahead, the men leered at her from behind, and hooted at her. She did nothing, only held the textbook tighter and walked on faster. I asked myself — was that woman really free?

Winning our Independence is undoubtedly a momentous achievement. It is a culmination of blood, sweat, and tears, and it deserves all the applause it gets. I humbly bow down to the leaders who brought us our political freedom.

But are we free in any other sense?

To be very honest, no one can ever be free. The moment we labeled ourselves as social animals, we bound ourselves with everyone else on the planet. We bound ourselves with our families, with our friends, with our ancestors, with our predecessors, with our societies, with our governments. We cannot unshackle ourselves from them, and that shouldn't happen either because it would only lead to chaos.

However, doesn't that ten-year-old selling flags deserve to be freed from his bondage? Shouldn't the same laws apply to people irrespective of their gender? Shouldn't women be able to walk freely where they want to?

In that sense, we are not free. We are independent but not free.

As long as there are moralists who interfere with our dinner plates and our viewing and reading habits, we cannot be free. As long as there are governments who punish lovers and reward rapists, we cannot be free. As long as there are law-keepers who intrude into our most intimate spaces and tell us what to do, we cannot be free.

The Indian Independence is one of the world's biggest political victories. Now, let us strive to make that victory even bigger. Let us strive for freedom of thought, of expression, of speech, of our eating habits. Let us work towards a society where a bunch of people cannot impose their views on others.

We proudly wish every Indian a Happy Independence Day today.

Now let us work so that we can also wish each other a Happy Freedom Day.

\- Neil D'Silva

# Contents

Drama

Freedom – Aabha Vatsa Midha

Hot Toddy – Jean Spraker

Freedom's Just Another Word – Percy G Wadiwala

The Makeover – Neil D'Silva

After Myriad Nights – Bharath Nandibhatla

Jaanaki Kaaki – Radhika Maira Tabrez

Invisible Chains – Aindrila Roy

Freedom: The Outburst of Emotions! – Vibhuti Bhandarkar

And Then an Endless Freedom! – Shobhit Narang

Love of the Common People – Shom Biswas

Winds of Change – Vanita Bodke

Broken Wings – Bhavik Sarkhedi

If There Was a God – Vishal Sah

Historical/Mythological

Freedom and Feardom – Reena Saxena

Ahalya – Aindrila Roy

How I Became a Freedom Fighter – Kapil Kumar

Sci-Fi/Fantasy

Boxed Up / Requiem for Autonomy – Biswadeep Ghosh Hazra

The Midwich Messiah – Varun Prabhu

Of Monsters and Men – Pritesh Patil

Free In Chains – Asif Uzzaman

Remote-Controlled – Lata Sony

Liberty in Death – Shubham Mamgain

Riva's Song – Ashwini Gopalkrishnan

What Does Freedom Mean to Me?

#  Freedom

## \- Aabha Vatsa Midha

Aabha Vatsa Midha is a poet, blogger and author. She has authored four poetry books — Harmony, Home Alone, Miracle, and Desire. She has also contributed to an anthology, which was a tribute to Kamla Das titled I Am a Woman. In addition, she has authored a travelogue, Barfani Baba, To Amarnath Happily. She was awarded the Margadarshan Award by KRDWG in 2013 for her work as a social activist blogger.

She has written Freedom exclusively for UnBound.

#   Hot Toddy

## \- Jean Spraker

Jean Spraker is an American expat who spent three incredible years in Mumbai and currently lives in Dubai. Hot Toddy features characters from her novel about her Indian adventures. You can follow Jean at jeanspraker.com, Facebook, and Twitter.

She has written Hot Toddy exclusively for UnBound.

___

Maggie deposited 5,000 rupees on the nightstand. Ranbir picked up the 1000-rupee notes and held each up to the bedside light. Maggie shook her head and laughed.

"I got those from the ICICI ATM. They had better be real."

"Occupational hazard. One of my bad banker habits," joked Ranbir.

"Don't invest it all in one place, my Rockstar Banker," teased Maggie.

Ranbir winced. Sometimes, that nickname stung his ego. His amber eyes flashed in the dim hotel room. He flattened his spiky, overgelled hair.

"Isn't it enough?" asked Maggie.

"No. I mean, yes, of course, it is. You are very generous," he replied.

"So are you, lover," said Maggie as she traced the curve of Ranbir's bare bicep.

"It's just..." he paused.

"Just what?" insisted Maggie.

"When will it ever be enough? 5K or 5 crore. It doesn't matter. Why am I even doing this?" he whined.

"Choice, Ranbir. We all have the freedom to choose. I choose to have sex with you, and you choose to profit from it. I could stop paying you, if you really want. But, that would change the nature of the transaction. Do I really need to explain economics to an MBA?"

"No, of course not. It's just I can't even remember why I made the choice in the first place."

"Well, why did you?"

Ranbir leaned farther into the pillows, glanced out the window, and sighed.

"I love my mother and couldn't bear to see her suffer."

"Wait. Let me get this straight. You have sex with random women for money because you love your mother? Good lord, now, I've heard everything." Maggie laughed, but Ranbir wasn't smiling. His face had turned a deep, gorgeous red. It almost matched the color of the bed covering that was a signature of BKC's best five-star business hotel. Ranbir turned away.

Maggie sat down next to him and tugged at his chin, turning his face toward her. Her blue eyes stared straight into his amber ones.

"Hey. I'm sorry. Tell me." A few strands of Maggie's blond hair had escaped her up-do and fallen on to her shoulder. Ranbir brushed them back behind her ear.

"I don't know where to begin."

"How about the beginning?" Maggie rose and turned toward the room service cart still cluttered with tea cups, samosas, and whiskey.

"Are you sure you want to hear this?" he asked.

"Yes," insisted Maggie. "More tea?" She picked up the teapot and poured another drink for him.

"Yes, with Glenlivet and little honey, I like the way you make it," he replied.

Maggie handed him her signature hot toddy.

"How did I get here?" he thought. He gazed at the silver tea tray and remembered another tea tray at his parents' old flat.

*****

Ranbir rose to help Mrs. Kapur as she struggled to balance the tea tray piled high with biscuits, cakes, and samosas.

"Maa, let me get that. Where's Stephanie?" he asked.

She shooed him away.

Mr. Kapur glared at his wife. She demurred.

"We gave her the day off. Please sit down, beta. Your father and I have to talk to you about something." After she set down the tea tray, Mrs. Kapur took her place on the couch. She touched her neck where her mangalsutra usually hung.

Ranbir picked up a samosa. His mother only served his favorite food to brace him for bad news. As he sat down, he bit into the samosa. The masala mixture tasted bland in his mouth. Ranbir's stomach lurched. Bile rose in his throat. He replaced the samosa on the tray.

"What's wrong?" he asked cutting through the formalities.

Ranbir's father shifted in his seat as he spoke. "We're about to be evicted."

"Evicted? Why?"

"We're behind on our loan on the house. We have been for some time." His father's matter-of-fact response undercut the seriousness of the issue.

"What loan? When did you take out a loan?" demanded Ranbir.

"When you started university. We couldn't afford the tuition payments..." his father trailed off.

"I knew the University of Mumbai was more expensive, but I didn't realise. Why didn't you tell me?" Ranbir's face reddened.

"It was not your business to know. Who are you to decide our financial concerns? That is my job. I am the head of this family. Not you. I took the decision. It was my choice." Mr. Kapur snapped.

"Then why tell me now? If it's not my concern? Not my decision?" Ranbir's voice rose and then cracked.

Mrs. Kapur had finished pouring a cup of tea and handed it to Ranbir. As he sipped the hot tea, his temper cooled.

Mrs. Kapur tried to bridge the growing rift between her son and her husband. "We're sorry, beta. We know the timing's not great. You just started your job at ICICI. We were hoping to delay the eviction until after your first pay slip, but we can't delay telling you any longer."

Ranbir blanched. His face matched the color of the bone white china cup in his hands.

Mr. Kapur cleared his throat. "Ranbir, we thought perhaps you could talk to your boss. That Mr. Jain. Perhaps he could intervene on our behalf. As a favor to you."

Ranbir blanched again. "I...can try...but, I can't promise..." The intricate fiction Ranbir had woven about his bank job was beginning to unravel like a cheap dupatta.

"Talk to him on Monday for us. Here are the bank details." Mr. Kapur handed over the latest loan statement. The number of zeroes on the remainder of the loan outnumbered the number of years Ranbir had spent at university.

"I...thank you," stuttered Ranbir. He felt a rush of gratitude that fell short of his simple acknowledgement of their sacrifice. He hoped Mr. Jain would take his call on Monday.

*****

On Monday afternoon, Ranbir dialed Mr. Jain's mobile number.

"Prabir Jain here."

"Sir, It's Ranbir..."

Mr. Jain cut him off. "Dekh, yaar, I told you last week—and the week before last—we don't anticipate hiring after all until next fiscal year. At the earliest. I'm sorry, but the downturn has hit the bank hard. It's out of my hands. HR has cracked down on expenses. They won't approve any more freshers. Check back with me in April."

"Yes, sir. I understand, sir. Thank you, sir. I'm calling for a different reason, sir. It's about my parents, sir. Could we meet for coffee, sir?" begged Ranbir.

Mr. Jain was silent. Ranbir's stomach flip-flopped.

"Please, sir. It's important. They're loyal ICICI customers."

"Customers." Mr. Jain perked up. "OK. Meet me at Starbucks at 2 pm. It's down the street from the new Powai branch. Do you know it?"

"Yes, sir. 2 pm, sir. Thank..." The phone clicked.

*****

At 2 pm sharp, Ranbir walked into the Powai Starbucks. He didn't see Mr. Jain, so he ordered a black coffee and sat down toward the front of the cafe. He took the paperwork out of his bag and read through the loan terms. Some time passed. Ranbir switched to the latest best-seller, but he couldn't focus on the words. He put the book down. More time passed. He glanced at his phone. The display read: 3 pm. More time passed. Ranbir typed out a text message to Mr. Jain and then erased it. An important man like Mr. Jain shouldn't be bothered with text messages from peon former employees. Right now, Ranbir wished he were a peon. Even that lowly office job seemed a vast improvement over no job at all.

Finally, at 3:30, Mr. Jain walked through the door.

"Ah! Ranveer, my boy! Glad to see you. Glad to see you," shouted Mr. Jain as he sat down.

Ranbir ignored the mistaken name and extended his hand. Mr. Jain did not return the gesture. Ranbir's hand fell to his side.

"May I get you a coffee, sir?" asked Ranbir, hoping for a cheap beverage choice.

"Yes, that would be great. I'll have a mocha frappaccino with caramel syrup, a chicken roll—and an oatmeal cookie."

When Ranbir returned with the food and drink, he found Mr. Jain buried in his phone, checking emails.

"Here you go, sir." Ranbir set everything on the table.

"Ah, yes. Thank you Ranveer. How can I help?" asked Mr. Jain as he slurped his drink.

"Well, it's my parent's loan with the bank, sir. They've fallen behind—way behind—and they are about to be evicted." He picked up the loan papers. "Here are the papers."

Mr. Jain eyed the papers briefly.

"Hmm. There's not much I can do."

"Please, sir, perhaps you can put in a call to someone in the loan department."

"Hmmm. Well, OK." As Mr. Jain dialled the phone, beads of sweat appeared on Ranbir's face.

"Yes, Sangeeta? Jain here. Listen, can you give me the status on account number 074237348976?"

Ranbir's stomached flip-flopped again as Sangeeta took some time to check the status.

"Ah. Yes. I understand. Just after Diwali then is it?... Yes. I see... OK. Thank you." Mr. Jain hung up the phone.

"I'm afraid I've got bad news. It's already gone to auction. It's scheduled for next month. Just after Diwali. There's nothing I can do. I'm sorry. You can always try to reclaim the property before the auction date."

"How?"

"Pay off the portion in arrears," offered Mr. Jain.

Ranbir's face fell. "I don't have a job, remember?" Bitterness seeped into his voice. "How am I supposed to generate that much cash before the auction date?"

"What other assets do your parents have?"

"Not enough to reverse the default." Ranbir remembered his mother's missing mangalsutra.

"What about you?"

"Me?" Ranbir's eyebrows met his hairline. "I don't have any assets."

"Sure, you do. You're a good looking guy. Fit, young. Fair, lovely. Those are big assets. Leverage those assets and convert them to cash."

Ranbir chocked on his coffee. "What are you saying?" Ranbir lowered his voice. "Prostitution?"

Mr. Jain waved his hand dismissively. "Call it what you will. I think the Americans call them gigolos."

Ranbir sipped his coffee. Stunned.

"You mean like in that American movie? Who was the actor?"

"Richard Gere, I think," came Mr. Jain's simple response.

"I... er... well... I never expected this from you, sir," stuttered Ranbir.

"Well, I've not done it, of course, but I've heard," coughed Mr. Jain. "There's a woman named Meera. I can put you in touch."

'Ranbir shrugged. "I don't know. I mean, you know, sex...for money. I don't think I could do it."

"Just take the number." Mr. Jain scrolled through his contacts and shared Meera's number to Ranbir's phone.

*****

Ranbir almost hit his head on the front door of his parents' flat. "Huh?" He looked up from his phone. The text with Meera's contact details glowed on the screen. Ranbir rang the bell. His mother answered the door.

"Come in, beta," she said. "You're just in time for tea." Ranbir was always in time for tea even when it wasn't tea time. His mother was always prepared to feed her always hungry son.

"Sit, beta." Mrs. Kapur shuffled off to make tea.

Ranbir sank into the faux leather couch. A filmy haze of pollution and dirt covered the windows of the 13th floor flat. Ranbir stared at his phone. Ms. Kapur returned with the tea things.

"Maa, why are the windows so dirty? Shouldn't they have been cleaned by now?"

"Oh, I guess I forgot, dear." She shifted in her seat. "So, did you speak with Mr. Jain, beta?" She smiled.

Now, it was Ranbir's turn to shift in his seat. He glanced at the floor. He couldn't break her heart.

"He's looking into it, maa."

Ranbir's eyes fell on his mother's bare neck. "Maa, did you forget to put your mangalsutra on this morning?"

Ms. Kapur cleared her throat. "No, dear, I sold it."

"But, your wedding jewellery, maa? You sold it? When?"

"Last month. We needed it for household expenses," she explained.

"But, it was your favorite piece. It meant so much to you," stuttered Ranbir. The teacup wobbled in his hand.

Ms. Kapur waved her hand to dismiss his concern.

"Why didn't you say something?" he asked.

"Because that's what it's for. An investment until it's needed," she replied as if the matter was settled.

"But, maa," he pleaded.

"But, nothing. Nothing means more to me than you, beta. Nothing. It was worth the sacrifice to keep a roof over our heads. Besides, you have a good job now. Soon, all our problems will be solved."

Tears welled in Ranbir's eyes. He rose to comfort his mother and started to touch her feet. She smiled and bent as if to stop him.

"Beta, why the formality?"

"I'm just so grateful for all the sacrifices you and papa have made for me. I love you, maa." Ranbir kissed his mother goodbye. The moment he left the flat, he dialled the new contact on his phone.

*****

Ranbir glanced at his phone again. Meera, flat 3201, Shahi Towers, SoBo. As he reached the towers, he instructed the driver to drop him at building A. The large bank of elevators shone across the highly polished marble entrance.

"Which floor?" asked the doorman.

"32."

"Yes, sir. Madam Meera's flat." He indicated the right elevator. "Go up this elevator, then get off on the 10th floor. From there you will see another set of elevators. Take those to the top."

As Ranbir exited on the 10th floor, he entered a floor ringed almost entirely with windows. He paused to enjoy SoBo's best view of the Queen's Necklace. Another storm was rolling in across the Arabian Sea. Raindrops began to pelt the windows.

Ranbir crossed the lobby to the other bank of elevators. He breathed in then out as he pushed the up button. As the elevator slowed to a stop, Ranbir breathed in then out again. He stepped into the elevator. The doors shut.

The trip to the 32nd floor made Ranbir's stomach lurch. The elevator creaked as it passed each floor. 11... 15... 23... 32. Finally, the elevator bell dinged, and the doors opened.

As he stepped off the elevator, Ranbir saw an elaborate wooden door at the end of a long hallway.

The penthouse.

A few hundred meters stood between him and his parents' financial freedom. His shoes smacked against the cold marble as he crossed the distance. A statue of Krishna playing his flute greeted Ranbir at the flat entrance. Ranbir knocked softly.

The door opened.

A woman appeared.

An angel.

Meera.

She was scantily clad in a white silk nightgown. Her fingers and toes were painted a shimmering lavender. Her black hair was parted down the middle and partially drawn up into a tidy knot at the back. The remaining hair was draped seductively across the front of her shoulders. She leaned against the door frame and blocked Ranbir's path.

"You've arrived just in time for tea," she purred, "I'm so glad you could come."

Meera stepped back from the door, and motioned toward the couch in the center of the room.

Ranbir stepped inside.

The door slammed shut.

END

#  Freedom's Just Another Word

## \- Percy G Wadiwala

Percy G Wadiwala was bitten by Schrodinger's Cat as a child, and has since then combined a deep fear of cats with an abiding conviction that he both exists and does not exist at the same time. This existential doubt has led him to grow up to be a writer while not actually being a writer.

He lives in Mumbai with his family, his book collection and a firm conviction that modern civilization is in an interminable decline.

Until that actually happens, though, you can read his scribbling at his blog Percy the Slacker and connect with him on his Facebook page, The Slacker's Tales, at https://www.facebook.com/slackerstales.

He has written Freedom's Just Another Word exclusively for UnBound.

___

"Freedom!"

The echoes of the cry would have resonated around the ninth floor of the head office of DCTMR Bank, had it not been for the fact that it was uttered inside a closed cabin.

Ardeshir Behram Cowasjee, Senior Manager, umbrella-lover and resident bawa, looked up from the papers he was perusing. His friend and primary underling, Girishankar Sisodia, did not budge from his laptop.

"Care to elaborate, Amrita?" Ardy's calm tones were a sharp contrast to the ebullient lady he was addressing.

"Offer letter!" she said, brandishing it. "My ticket to freedom! I knew the mannat I had asked for from Vaishnodevi last month would bear fruit!"

"I thought you went to Shirdi last month," said Ardy, his eyes back on his papers.

"I went to Shirdi and Vaishnodevi both," she said, looking even more pleased with herself, as anyone who has seen sincere efforts bear fruit can imagine.

"Joint venture then," mumbled Giri. Amrita wasn't his least favourite of the people who barged into Ardy's cabin to chew the fat, but she was just the kind of over-excitable, easily-agitated woman Giri would rather have less of in his life.

"When's your last date?"

"August 15 – well, 14th, I suppose, with 15th being a holiday and all. Hey, did you realise?"

"What?" Ardy looked up again, casting a look of carefully exaggerated cluelessness at his colleague. A waste of effort, given that picking up on subtle sarcasm of this nature was not something Amrita did.

"It's Independence Day! And I'm getting independent on that day! Don't you see? What a co-incidence?"

"I'd never have noticed if you hadn't told me," Ardy assured her.

"I'm so happy!" she said, leaning against Giri's table, pushing his laptop two inches sideways and leading him to type an incorrect formula. "Free from DCTMR, free from that idiot Shrivastav."

"We all are," Giri said, more with the intent to get her out of his space than anything else.

"So, Amrita, what department will you be in over there?" asked Ardy, putting away his papers as a lost cause.

"Oh, Private Banking," she replied.

"That's the same thing you were doing here, isn't it?"

"Yes, yes," she smiled back.

"Well, easy transition, then. Who's heading the team at Axis?"

"Same guy who took my interview – Akshay Damani."

"Damani? Sussudeo, didn't he work here?"

"Was an AGM in our Private Banking team," nodded Giri, who was used to his boss referring to him by the name of a popular Phil Collins song. "Must've moved up the ladder in Axis. He used to be under Shrivastav here."

"So you will be doing much the same work, under much the same boss," mused Ardy, yawning.

"At a solid pay hike, Ardy sir! Twenty per cent!"

"Well I'm delighted for you," said Ardy, just as his phone rang. He picked up the receiver and rolled his eyes on hearing the voice at the other end.

Amrita continued smiling as she left the cabin, and would no doubt have done a little jig as she did so, only restrained by the considerable girth on her hips that adversely affected her ability to indulge in such activities.

It was some time before the call was over, but when it was, Ardy put the receiver away with a sigh.

"Something the matter, boss?" asked Giri.

"Oh, nothing really. Amrita's girlish enthusiasm should make me feel happy for her, I guess."

Giri shrugged.

"Why not? She certainly seems ecstatic to earn her release."

"Yes, all that freedom claptrap. Go from one cubicle to another, working with the same people, enduring the same beastly traffic, licking the same asses. Even the colour of the décor won't change - DCTMR uses maroon to Axis' dark red. It's a prison by any other name. There's no freedom in it."

"At higher pay, though," pointed out Giri.

"So it is. She has a home loan, I suppose?"

"Yes, boss. Not all of us are blessed to live in bungalows named for ourselves," Giri couldn't resist the little dig at the fact that his boss lived in Malcolm Baug in a quaint bungalow named Ardeshir Wadi.

"I'm going to ignore that jibe, Sussudeo, but you're walking on thin ice," said Ardy, tapping the desk with a pencil. "Anyway, my point was that the cycle is unforgiving. Get a job – buy a house – pay EMI's – realise you can't afford EMI's – get a higher-paying job – buy another house, a few square feet larger than the first – realise you can't afford new EMI's – get an even higher-paying job – finally you remain a slave because they know you're bonded – whether it's DCTMR, or HDFC, or Axis, or ICICI – and you'll just rotate from one to another, doing the same meaningless paper-pushing, writing emails no human eyes will read, inventing work for yourself, dealing with morons who think they are dealing with you, the real moron..."

Ardy's voice had risen as he spoke, until he finally came to a stop, red-faced and slightly flustered. Giri turned to look at what had led to the choking of the eloquent flow of words and found himself looking at the lovely visage of Rocky Colabewala.

Roxanne "Rocky" Colabewala, secretary to Shrivastav, was the only other Parsee on the floor (besides Ardy), and easily the most beautiful girl in the building. She had skin like skimmed milk, jet-black hair that were always perfectly coiffed, except for two maddening curls that clung to her lovely neck, and flaunted as trim and fit a figure as the conservative official attire of DCTMR Bank allowed her to. Ardy adored her, and she was partial to him too, but nothing had come of it in all the years they had worked together. Nonetheless, if anything could interrupt his boss when he was in full flow, it was the sight of Rocky.

"Ah, er, hullo, Rocky. What's the news?"

"Shrivastav needs to book a flight to the US for Monday, but it seems we don't have a travel budget left. Is there anything we can do?"

"The best option is to tell the man not to go," said Ardy, frowning. "Between him, Bhatnagar and Dutta they have made shambles of the travel budget."

Rocky raised a shapely eyebrow.

"Fine, send a mail to Giri, I'll talk to someone in GFPIV."

"What exactly is GFPIV?" asked Rocky.

"If I knew what every acronym in this bank stood for, I'd be a human computer, not a human minion," said Ardy.

"Group For Performance Incentive Valuation," said Giri.

"I always thought Giri was a human computer," she smiled. Few people looked prettier than Rocky when she smiled.

"Don't say that too loud, or the folks at GFPIV will stop paying Sussudeo a salary and charge depreciation on him. He's going alone?"

"Nope, Bhatnagar too. And..."

"Oh. Nisha?"

Rocky nodded, a touch of sadness flitting imperceptibly over her eyes.

Ardy fingered the handle of his trusty umbrella thoughtfully. One never saw Ardeshir Behram Cowasjee without his long, antique umbrella, and it was often what he resorted to in times of stress or sorrow. And thinking about Nisha generally made him sorrowful. He looked through the glass door of his cabin at the cubicle where Nisha Sethia sat. She was a relationship manager, and reported to Bhatnagar, an odious personality who owed his seniority in the Bank entirely to his ability to grovel before seniors and ruthlessly exploit juniors. Nisha accompanied him on all his client meetings, and was pretty much the envy of everyone else in the team, who suspected she owed her success to being her boss' lover.

But those who were in the know, were aware that the relationship between Nisha and her reporting authority had more shades of abuse than love, that Bhatnagar had taken advantage of her gratitude and naiveté to entrap her into a relationship of which the details were as sordid as they were, unfortunately, common.

On an impulse, Ardy leaned over and dialed her number.

"Nish! Could you step in for a moment?"

"Paanch minit de sakte ho?" she replied in her jarringly-piercing voice, before recollecting herself and saying, "Can you give me five minutes, Ardy sir? Am working on a proposal."

"Take your time," said Ardy, putting down the receiver, and turned to the girl he adored, "Could you wait, Rocky?"

"Time's all mine," she smiled, and settled into a chair.

"When is Shrivastav back?"

"August 14," replied Rocky. "And some of the people from the Houston branch are coming too. Veer Singh and Chiplunkar."

"Oh, we'll have to arrange some sort of get-together."

"I'll book the auditorium," said Giri.

"Yes, do that, or rather, book Hard Rock Café. We can combine it with Amrita's farewell on the same day," said Ardy, just as Nisha knocked on the cabin door. "Ah, come in. Wanted to talk to you about the forthcoming US trip."

"Yes, sir, what is the issue sir?" she replied in a loud voice that, closed cabin or not, always carried across the floor.

"Lower the volume, would you?" said Rocky, turning her finely-chiseled features towards Nisha.

If there was anyone who could stand next to Rocky Colabewala and not come off too unfavourably by comparison, it was Nisha Sethia. What nature had stinted in giving her, had been carefully compensated by artifice, from the skilfully henna'd hair to the tips of her manicured fingernails.

"Oh, no issue, Nish. Rocky was just saying that there's some budget deficiency in the proposed trip to Houston. I think you're to go with them too?"

"Yes, Bhatnagar sir requested I come along so that we can do some client meetings." Only the slightest waver of her voice revealed the loathing with which she regarded the man responsible for both her spectacular career progression and deep self-hatred.

"Right, so..." Ardy dropped his voice to a barely-perceptible whisper, "unless you really think you need to go, I can make sure there's only enough money for two people to travel."

"Of course I'm going," Nisha replied, so quickly even less perceptive men than Ardy and Giri would have known it to be a conditioned response.

"If you're quite certain..." said Ardy, disappointed.

Rocky got to her feet.

"Nisha, you're being ridiculous. Two weeks in the States, closeted with that man? It will be worse than it usually is! If you won't take a stand, I will."

"I'm not being ridiculous! This will be good for my career, he said so!"

"Yes, it will. All the things you do for that vile man have been good for your career, haven't they? What have they got you?"

"Calm down, Rocky," said Ardy, looking around.

"I am perfectly calm," said Rocky, her tone cool and icy. "You think this is good for your career? More money for you to spend on decorating your flat so he doesn't find fault with it. More money to spend on your beautician and your dietician so he doesn't find fault with you. It's not got you status or respect. Not here, not in this organization. Maybe it has in your godforsaken village in Haryana, for all I know. How many times have I practically begged you to at least try to do something about it? This is 21st century Bombay, not eighteenth-century..."

"In Jindh, it's always the eighteenth century," said Nisha, her tone even, though her eyes were moist. "I can't go the cops, I can't go to the company's sexual harassment committee. He knows me, he knows my family. I'm not you, Rocky, I don't come from a family that would back me against the world. He could ruin me socially – and ruin my career. Not that you think much of it, I suppose."

Rocky uttered a sound that would have been a snort had it come from a less elegant woman.

"What would I know about careers and families, I'm just a secretary who still lives with her parents in the house she was born in," she said, as she swept out of the room. Nisha followed, distinctly downcast.

Ardy stared at his computer screen mournfully for a while, until Giri broke the silence.

"I say, boss, Miss Roxanne's sent the mail, but she only mentioned the names of Shrivastav and Bhatnagar."

"Ah, Rocky, you're playing a dangerous game," mused Ardy. "Shrivastav will have her head if Bhatnagar makes a hue and cry about it."

"Well, what should I do?"

"Forward it as it is. If Rocky wants to put her job on the line, that's her choice."

"But, boss, you like Miss Roxanne!"

Ardy smiled wistfully.

"Tell me something I don't know."

*****

"Ardy! What's up, mate? Been a while, eh?"

Ardy grinned. The speaker was Veer Singh, one of the best (if not popular) bosses in DCTMR Bank history, whose promotion to the Houston Branch had so impoverished the Mumbai office. It was the evening of August 14th, and while most of the team had already assembled for the party – Sankalp Sodey, in particular, had already downed a pitcher of beer – Veer was the first of the 'chief guests' to arrive. Ardy and Nisha had been chatting listlessly when he arrived, his leather shoes making a clop-clop sound on the wooden floor.

"Oh, life goes on much as it always has in Bombay," said Ardy. "What can I get you? Teacher's?"

"Always with the LOTR references. No, no whiskey. When in India, I only drink Old Monk."

Ardy nodded at the bartender, who mixed two Cuba Libre's and handed them over.

"Decent flight?"

"Painful. Shrivastav wouldn't stop yapping about work. I say, is that Rocky Colabewala?"

It was, indeed, Rocky, who wore a little black dress that was very little indeed, and sashayed across the dance floor to where some of the other girls were gorging on cashews.

"Yup," said Ardy.

"You and she – a couple yet?"

"Nope."

"Oh come on, you're like...made for each other, man!"

"Maybe too much. She once said it would be too clichéd for us to get together. Two crazy bawas from Parsee baugs making our parents ecstatic and producing whitewashed bawa babies."

"Silliest reason I ever...who's that short, stocky individual waving his hands and nodding his head?"

"That's Sankalp Sodey. Reports to Sussudeo. Kind of a shameless ass."

"And the woman laughing hysterically?"

"That's Amrita. It's her farewell party too. Joins Axis on the sixteenth."

"Ah, Independence Day for her, eh?"

"Do I detect sarcasm, Singh?"

"Cowasjee, you know me too well. I've worked in this industry long enough to know that there is no such thing as freedom, unless you're free in your mind first."

"Nice concept, ex-boss. Don't know if it means anything."

"I'll explain, Ardy. There's the dance-floor. There's Rocky sitting on the side-lines, hugging herself. And here you are, not asking her for a dance."

"What's the point?"

"Maybe there doesn't have to be a point to asking her to dance," came Nisha's voice, uncharacteristically soft.

"Young lady speaks sense. Now look at your underling Sodey over there – he's just taken Rocky to the dance floor."

Sankalp Sodey was, indeed, leading Rocky Colabewala to the floor. Ardy observed in silence as the contrasting spectacle unfolded – Rocky, beautiful, languorously elegant, trained in ballroom dancing, moving with a rare grace and Sodey - pudgy, clumsy, distinctly vulgar in his drunken flailing.

Veer chuckled.

"I'll tell you what, Ardy. He's the free man. Free of inhibition, free of any embarrassment about who he is or what his place ought to be. That chap sees he's at an office party, knows the booze is free and is collaring as much of it as he can while dancing with women who would normally never give him the time of day. Anyway, I'll go mingle with the gang a bit, you sit and fester," he said, and with a tip of his glass in Ardy's direction, walked towards where the bulk of the team members sat.

Ardy, red-faced, looked away and hailed Giri, who had been discussing the separation of veg, non-veg and Jain items with the manager.

"Any sign of Shrivastav and Bhatnagar?" he whispered.

"No clue, they did acknowledge the invite."

Rocky, tired either of dancing, or of dancing with Sodey, now glided towards the bar and ordered a margarita.

"Hello, Ardy. So nice to see you," she favoured him with a smile.

"Always a sight for sore eyes, Rocky," he replied.

"I say, Miss C," said Giri, sipping a Sprite, "How come nothing happened of your blunder with the travel plans?"

"What blunder?"

"You know, how you forgot to put Miss Sethia's name when asking for the budget and then money only got sanctioned for two."

Rocky laughed.

"Well, Bhatnagar went and raved his head off to Shrivastav. The old man assured him he'd reprimand me, called me into his cabin, and we discussed the relative merits of Serena Williams and Steffi Graf."

"That certainly worked out well," marvelled Giri.

"Shrivastav knows which side his bread is buttered. If I didn't keep his diary straight, and his mails in order, he'd be unable to function. Besides, I file his expense reports and make his travel plans. He knows, that I know, he spent a day in Vegas when he was supposed to be at a business meeting in Ontario, that he spent sixty dollars on a ticket for the Pin-Up cabaret show that he's showing as meeting expenses..." her voice trailed off, a mischievous glint in her eye.

"Bhatnagar tried to get me to come along anyway," said Nisha in a flat voice.

"What? How?" Ardy asked.

"He said it was very important, that it would make all the difference to my performance rating, that I should pay for the tickets myself and come, it would show commitment to the organization..."

"And of course, stay in his room to save incurring further expense," the disgust in Ardy's voice was undisguised.

She nodded.

"Pig!" said Rocky crisply.

"I told him I would come, but at the last minute I could not – just could not...he called from the airport – said the worst things – threatened to "see to me" when he came back...make sure I was out of a job..."

Rocky had always admired Nisha, albeit grudgingly. All that fate had given to Rocky – her being born and raised in Bombay by progressive parents, her stunning looks, her elite education, she had languidly frittered away due to lack of ambition, preferring the relatively relaxed life she led.

All that fate had denied to Nisha, she had worked hard to overcome, taking her life in her hands, moving to the big city alone, living on rent in a matchbox-sized flat, taking courses to improve her English, spending a fortune on ironing out the blemishes in her skin and hair, and even making the compromise with her morals that had led her to rise to being a Chief Manager in the Bank, an edifice of social success and respectability.

The fact that Nisha was able to sit now, outwardly calm, eyes unmoistened, while she awaited what would surely be the crashing down of the edifice she had built with such effort, only made Rocky's admiration a little deeper.

"There's Shrivastav," said Giri, nudging Ardy gently. It was, indeed, the head of Private Banking at DCTMR – average build, average height, nondescript hair, wispy moustache – dressed as always in the most expensive clothes a man could get to try to cover up his essential average-ness. Next to him was Sandesh Chiplunkar, Veer Singh's second-in-command, who was also average, but did not try to cover it up with his clothing.

"Ah hello, hello, people," Shrivastav said, in the faux-British accent he always affected. It always impressed the Bank's clients who were not actually from England.

"Come in, sir. So nice to have you!" Ardy succeeded, barely, in keeping the sarcasm out of his tone.

"Celebrations are nice! What are we celebrating today? Not just my return of course, it's Veer and Sandesh coming to Mumbai after so long, aren't we? And of course, this young lady's farewell. Happy Independence Day, dear! Ha ha ha! Freedom from DCTMR Bank, wonderful wonderful! But you will keep in touch with us, of course, of course. Give your contact details to Roxanne here, will you, and do ensure that..."

"Ahem, boss," said Rocky in a loud whisper, "This is Nisha Sethia. She's still with us. It's Amrita who's quitting. Over there, opposite corner."

"Oh, is it? Apologies then, I will meet her directly. Not getting your freedom after all, are you?" the great man wagged a finger at Nisha before striding towards where Amrita was swaying gently to the beat.

"By the way, where IS Bhatnagar," wondered Ardy. "Not that one is looking forward to seeing him or anything, but..."

"Oh, I suppose you guys wouldn't know," said Chiplunkar, taking a glass of water from the bar. "He groped one of our tellers at the branch. White girl, named Megan. She called in the cops. HR is preparing his final settlement right now. He's history. I will probably take his place. Expect a mail on it soon."

Ardy and Giri looked at each other and then at Nisha. Her eyes widened, her mouth twitched. Then, in a flash, she was gone.

*****

It was Rocky who found Nisha, sobbing softly in the bushes near the parking lot. She scrunched up her long, sharp nose, but sat down on the dusty parapet wall next to her anyway.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"I...I can't believe it! He's gone! He's...I don't know what will happen to me, but he's gone! I can...I can be myself again, Roxanne! I don't have to – do those things any more."

"Well, you seem happy," said Rocky.

"I'm crying! I'm crying tears of happiness," she said, "I don't know what will happen to me now, whether I will get promoted or whatever but – I don't care! Whatever I do, will be my work. My rewards. Which I deserve! I'm free, you know. Shrivastav sir was wrong. This IS my Independence day."

Rocky put an arm around her and held her for a while, until the hysterical sobbing stopped. When it did, she didn't expect the words that Nisha spoke next.

"It could be yours too, you know, Roxanne."

"What? I'm not sleeping with anyone, thank you very much!" she said, letting go.

"Why? Ardeshir sir loves you. And you know you like him very much. You should be with him! What's holding you back?"

"Oh geez! I'm not...I don't even know why I'm explaining...I mean, he's nice and all, but come on – Parsee boy, living in Malcolm Baug, loves his parents, plays the piano – how typical can it get?"

"But he's handsome, intelligent, good-natured..."

"Yes, but...it's just..."

"Roxanne, is the only reason you won't let yourself love him the fact that he's exactly the sort of boy your parents would choose for you?"

Rocky turned her head away.

"Maybe, just maybe...woh bolte hai na, ghar ki murgi daal barabar. Roxanne, your mind's desire to be unconventional at all costs is keeping you from finding happiness. That's all I'll say."

Nisha got up, tottered a bit, and walked out, hailing a rickshaw. The last she saw Rocky, she was sighing and burying her head in her hands.

*****

When Nisha came to office two days later, her neighbour Ananya told her in a scandalised whisper about how Roxanne Colabewala had come striding onto the dance floor, called out Ardeshir Cowasjee to join her, how they had rendered a waltz, then the foxtrot and then a tango, of such elegant perfection that they were given the floor to themselves, how it had ended with a passionate kiss, and how even Shrivastav had joined in the general cheering when they left together in Giri's car – Giri driving, of course.

"Happy Independence Day, Roxanne!" Nisha called out, standing at her seat and shouting over the cubicle wall.

From her secretary's station outside Shrivastav's cabin, Rocky stuck out her tongue.

"Right back at you!" she said.

END

#  The Makeover

## \- Neil D'Silva

Neil D'Silva lives in Mumbai but reaches out to the world on a daily basis through his various endeavors, which include his stories and his work with the Facebook writers' group For Writers, By Authors, of which he is the founder and admin. He calls this group 'his home outside his home' as he has been exalted as a saint here as well as reviled as an evil dictator here, just as in his physical home!

His book Maya's New Husband, is creating the right buzz in the right places. It is currently being converted into a script for a movie adaptation. His other books are The Evil Eye and the Charm and Bound in Love, which releases in late August 2015. You could check more stories from him on his website at http://NeilDSilva.com/.

He has written The Makeover exclusively for Unbound.

___

The first thought that entered Kiran's mind when she opened her newly-purchased vanity case was, "Oh, I'm not good at this!" The various hues of red nail paints and lipsticks intimidated her. The mascara was an object of horror.

Not that she hadn't decked herself before. But those few times when she had adorned her lips had been only for herself. For some reason, she had always felt embarrassed to show anyone her cosmetically-enhanced form. Once, when there was no one at home, she had even gone as far as rouge and eyeliner, and then she had washed it off her face almost immediately.

But today she didn't want to hold herself back. It was a momentous occasion after all. The job was good. It would be her first ever interview, and she expected all the other girls to come in their finest. There was no place for a shy, reserved girl in the hospitality business anyway.

So she started a video on YouTube on how to apply makeup. She made sure to choose the one with the best reviews. She wanted a professional touch, no less, and the salons were uber-expensive for a girl who was just starting out with a job.

A few seconds into the video, she brought out the foundation cream and applied it on her cheeks, which felt rough to her self-prejudiced mind. But she went on. Not quite satisfied with her work at the basics, she took the color brush and applied it on her upper cheeks in deft straight strokes. She smoothed it out and blended it with the rest of the background just like the woman in the video did. And then she went on with the lipstick, and even outlined it with a lipliner. The eye shadows came next.

She didn't look all that bad now. It turned out much better than those days in her early youth when she used to clandestinely practice the cosmetic art on her with her mother's things. Yes, she could go out with this look!

Half an hour later, she came out of her room. Brijnath Jaiswal saw her in the tiny red dress that stopped woefully above her knees and her heavily embellished face and let out a hollow cough.

"Are you all set, beta?" he asked.

Kiran wanted to answer that question because it was asked with the right concern, but the last word riled her.

"Why do you keep calling me beta?" she asked. "When will you realize that I am not your son but your daughter?"

Brijnath realized his goof. He didn't want to anger his daughter on this all-important day. "Sorry," he said. "Old Indian habits die hard."

"Change them," said Kiran. "Times have changed."

"I'm trying."

"Well, it's not enough. If you really put your mind to it, anything can change. Anything."

Brijnath stood up and came to her. He was a short man, or perhaps his daughter was taller than him. He looked funny when he put a hand on her shoulder.

"I know that more than anyone else, Kiran," he said. "Anyway, go forth and conquer. Make today your day."

"I will," said Kiran, and touched her father's feet for his blessings.

*****

Kiran stood in queue for the bus, a little away from the other ladies. They were all working women. It was evident that they worked in different places but had the same bus route. A strange thought entered her mind — if this job materialized, she would probably be sharing the bus with such ladies too. Would she become like one of them? She particularly observed one of them who seemed to complain about everything. But the more alarming thing was everyone agreed with her ideas. Kiran shrugged and looked the other way.

When she got into the bus, she tried to sit as far from the gabby women as possible. The bus moved and she bought her ticket from the conductor. A minute later, she felt the man standing next to her brushing against her. She flinched but said nothing. It could have been an accident. She stiffened and turned away.

Another minute later, the bus took a wild turn.

The man almost fell on her, making a hasty apology with his bad breath, and as he pulled back, she felt his hand brushing against her in a wrong place.

Now, clearly agitated, she turned her entire body to face the window. She looked out but her mind was conscious to every action that occurred behind her back.

And it would not stop. It was mild at first, but then it increased. She squirmed, but he only pressed further. Angry as daggers, she turned to look at him right in the eye.

There was a smirk on his face. And he winked.

That was it.

Kiran stood up at her full height, and landed a resounding slap on the man's face. The man, surprised out of his skull, lost his balance and almost collapsed on the college students standing behind him.

"What do you think, you worm?" Kiran yelled loud enough for everyone in the bus to hear. "I'm a woman so you can do as you please?"

The chatting women stopped and looked at her with both admiration and awe.

"Take your filthy thing and go somewhere else," she said.

This alarmed the women. The fact that there was one of them who could say 'filthy thing' so openly and so loudly was unheard of. Embarrassed, they tried to look anywhere else but at the raging woman.

Presently, the bus screeched to a halt.

"That's my stop," said Kiran. "Move aside."

Saying that, she shoved the man aside and strode on. When she got off the bus, she heard the murmurs behind her, and maybe even a clap or two. A smile escaped her lips.

*****

Chaos reigned in the buffet space of the Bluefinger Restaurant & Bar. The space had been converted into a waiting hall for the thirty-six ladies who had applied for the vacancy of Front Desk Supervisor. Everyone knew that the name of Bluefinger could be a worthy addition to their résumés even if it turned out to be only a brief tryst.

When the lanky woman in her short red miniskirt walked in, there was a collective snigger that rippled through the audience despite their nervousness.

But Kiran walked in confidently. She went right up to the desk where the receptionist sat, announced her name, waited for her to look it up, and then took her seat. She took a magazine and began to flip through the pages. Soon she was immersed in the perfect abs of the male models in the deodorant ads, so much so that she became completely oblivious to the muted laughter of mockery all around her.

"Er... Miss Kiran Jaiswal?" the receptionist announced.

The mention of her name made her look up.

"You may go in now," the receptionist said.

"Oh," Kiran said and got up, hastily straightening her dress and hair. "Thank you," she muttered and walked in with her trademark stride.

She hadn't expected the interviewer to be so young.

He had a French beard and spectacles, but none of them hid the handsomeness that lay beneath.

"May I come in, sir?" she asked.

The man looked up at her and was speechless for a moment. Then he said, "Oh, come in, please."

When she had seated herself, he said, "I am Kishore Das, and you are Miss... er... Kiran Jaiswal." He looked at her up and down as he said that.

"Yes," she said.

"I'll be interviewing you today," he said. "I am an HR manager with the Bluefinger Hospitality Group."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir," said Kiran.

"Equally charmed," he said. "Please walk me through your résumé."

Kiran was prepared for this part. She knew submitting the résumé was merely a formality. She knew every interviewer made their applicants speak as much as possible. It was their way of gauging how confident a person is. When she was done, Kiran was sure she had done a good job, which was mostly because the man was nodding in appreciation.

"I like that you have the confidence to speak," he said. "And this is your first job interview?"

"Yes," she said. She wanted to ask him how he knew.

But perhaps he heard her thoughts because he said, "I am doing this since three years now. I can spot a rookie from a mile away."

Kiran smiled.

"We usually don't waste our candidates' time," said Kishore. "So we tell them what we think at the first meeting itself."

"That's nice," said Kiran but the smile had vanished now.

"And, Miss Jaiswal," he said in calculated words, "I have to regrettably tell you that you cannot get this job."

"Oh!" said Kiran. Another question loomed on her lips, but she held it back.

"I'm sorry but this is just your first attempt. Keep trying," he said.

Kiran knew it was over. She knew this was the cue for her to get up and leave but something held her back. Maybe it was the fact that he was still looking at her résumé with interest.

She had to ask. It was now or never. "Why can I not get the job? It is because—"

"It is because of the educational qualifications, Miss Jaiswal," said Kishore with absolute politeness, even perhaps concern. "We are looking for a higher educated person. It was mentioned in the brief."

"And is that the only reason?"

"Absolutely."

She got up now, feeling a little lighter. In fact, by the time she reached the door, her smile was back on her lips. She was almost outside the door, but she poked her head in and said, "Thank you!"

It was the loudest and the most heartfelt 'Thank you!' she had said in a while. The HR manager looked at her with puzzlement written across his bearded face.

*****

By the time she reached her colony again, it was near eight in the evening. It was evening time and the park in the colony compound was buzzing with children playing their usual games. In one corner was a row of benches where a host of senior people sat, chatting about the most recent headlines. The watchmen sat at the gate.

As she entered, every head turned to look at her in her itty-bitty dress. Even the children stopped playing, but she walked on.

She was about to press the button for the elevator when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned and saw the face of a friend.

"Sushil," she said.

"And how you have changed!" said Sushil.

"Don't ask!" said Kiran.

"So, did you get the job?"

"No," she smiled.

"You didn't get it and still you smile? You know, you are a queer one."

Kiran looked at him in mock anger. "I should take offense at that word, shouldn't I?" she asked.

He ducked to protect himself from the handbag she swerved at him and said, "Sorry!"

"Forgiven!"

"Okay, so how was the rest of the day?" he asked and then added, "You do look strange in all that warpaint! I only know the person behind this subterfuge."

"Grow up, buddy," said Kiran. "You are going to see a lot more of this face this way. Do you have a problem with that?"

"'Course not!" said Sushil. "You are my friend, come what may."

"Glad to hear that," she said and shook hands with him. It was a firm handshake, the kind that's only shared between people who have faced several things together. "And the rest of the day was nice too," she added.

"Do tell."

"Okay, so it started with my father calling me beta, which angered me, but it's okay. I know he will take him a while to get used to the idea that I am his daughter now."

Sushil laughed.

"And then someone actually eve-teased me!" she said. "Couldn't have imagined that a year ago when I was Karan Jaiswal. But he did, and the poor sod got a solid thapaak on his lousy chin. Little did he know that though the body is of a woman now, the bones inside are still of a man."

"Great! Poor chap," said Sushil.

"And then at the interview, when I was fired, I found out that it was because my qualifications didn't match their requirements. Can you understand what a relief that was? He saw my birth certificate, I tell you, and he knew for sure I was born a boy. But he didn't say a thing. Not a thing."

"So it was indeed a good day."

"Yes. It was my true test of freedom today. For twenty-five years I was trapped in a man's body. The reassignment surgery was just the biological transformation, but the true transformation occurred today. Yes, I was accepted. Not for what I was, but for what I am. I not only experienced the joys but also the troubles of being a woman."

Sushil held her hand, and she tightened her hold on his.

"And then there's you. You who have seen me in every form. And you have loved me regardless. Thank you!"

"Sure," said Sushil. "Now run along home and free yourself of that cosmetic dust."

As Kiran walked homewards, she knew she had won a battle. She had attained her true freedom today — her odd little jigsaw piece had found its place in the puzzle.

END

#    
After Myriad Nights

## \- Bharath Nandibhatla

Bharath Nandibhatla is a 19-year-old who is passionate about writing and exploring its infinite dimensions. He is currently a student pursuing his second year in B.Tech. at NIT, Durgapur. He has a flair of verse that helps him delve deep and soar high paradoxically and helps him to quench his thirst. You could take a look at his blog at www.seethehologram.wordpress.com. He hopes to decipher nature's symmetry through his works.

He has written After Myriad Nights exclusively for UnBound.

Lustrous eyes and a beaming countenance,  
His tiny legs kicking the walls of the cradle,  
his father's blissful face, seemingly intense,  
until a hideous traitor rocked the cradle.  
Stabbed from behind, the father profusely bled.  
Minutes later, he lay there, dead.  
The kid oblivious, his mother widowed.

Days later, the highest bidder  
bought the kid and his mother.  
Enslaved, the mother would shudder.  
Yet, there were none to bother.

Time pranced in elegance;  
the kid's destiny did not.  
With a shrunken body, dreary countenance  
and a starving mother, he fought.  
He had a semblance of bravery,  
to survive through such barbaric slavery.

The epiphany dawned as his diseased mother,  
deprived of a morsel, turned to a deceased mother.  
He stood against his master's whip,  
gathering more courage than sinew.

"I no longer belong to you.  
Your vice has lost its grip.  
I have unchained my pinions,  
and I'm not one of your minions."

He dawned in the dusk of his mother's.  
And freedom unveiled his feathers.  
The sunlight initially blinded his eyes,  
but freedom finally opened his eyes.  
After all, myriad nights hence, it finally dawned.

#  Jaanaki Kaaki

##  \- Radhika Maira Tabrez

Radhika Maira Tabrez is a hustling mother by day and a closet writer by night. She spent several years trying to muffle the writer inside her, but spent two fruitful years earning an MBA from SIBM, Pune and over twelve of them in building a career in Learning and Development. Some of Radhika Maira Tabrez's recent writings can be found on her webpage 'Just a Thought – By Radhika Maira Tabrez' (https://www.facebook.com/radhikamtabrez). She has also published a few of her works on Readomania.com. Another of her short stories is going to be part of a Readomania anthology soon.

She has written Jaanaki Kaaki exclusively for UnBound.

___

The intercom rings just as I get out of the shower.

"Hi Nandini. How are you dear?" Mrs. Bhaskar, the caller, gets the politeness out of the way, with a sense of urgency.

"I'm good Auntie, how—"

She doesn't even let me finish my sentence. "Have you seen Jaanaki since this morning?"

"Um.... No, I haven't. But she should be coming in, any moment now." The clock says 8:30 a.m.

"Yes. I guessed as much. Would you please be a doll and send her over to my place right away?" It didn't sound like a request, though it was worded like one. "I have guests coming over for lunch and so much is left to do."

"Sure. No problem." She always has a reason to summon Jaanaki Kaaki, with a non-negotiable urgency. A knack, which, Mrs. Das from 202 and Mrs. Gupta from 401, are dying to learn from her.

Jaanaki Kaaki is an odd-job woman, who services almost all of the 10 flats in my building. Mrs. Bhaskar believes she owns the biggest share of her time, because she is the oldest resident here.

Kaaki first came to this building, as a ten month old baby, with her mother who worked as a maid here. When she was sixteen, her mother died, leaving these jobs as the only bequest to her. She got married, had two boys, got them educated and settled, all while she worked here. If you ask her how old she is, she would offer an estimate of 60. If you gauge from the wrinkles on her face, and the overall fatigued demeanor of her frail body, you will add at least ten years to that number.

The truth is she has long been relieved, from her duties as a maid by all the families here. With her old age came infirmity. Every other day, her unsteady hands would drop and break an expensive crystal ware or a fancy showpiece. Then there was also the problem of her unintentional tardiness. Her husband, who spent his entire life chewing tobacco and drinking cheap liquor, has been now bed ridden since the last few years with oral cancer and a hoard of other illnesses. Tending to him would often make her late in the mornings. She often missed work too, on account of taking him to the hospital. Soon, enough reasons had stacked up against her. She was too old, to try to get work anywhere else. Besides, she had spent her whole life, with these families. She couldn't bear the thought of not seeing them every day. So, even after losing her employment, she would still show up every morning, knock on every single apartment door and ask them if they needed her help with something. Cooking? Dusting? Laundry? Babysitting? She never asked for any money in return, only for the leftover food, or discarded clothes. Which made her the ideal additional help. Besides, soon after firing her, most of her employers realized that her replacements, who worked with one eye permanently on the clock and came with a inviolable understanding of what their job 'does not' entail; would never provide the kind of dedicated and extensive service like Jaanaki Kaaki. Hence, all the residents jumped at the opportunity to have her back in their lives, especially now when she came for free.

******

The doorbell rings. I know it would be her.

"Kaaki, You may want to straight away head to..."

"Arre bitiya, I know. She has already called 401 and 302 ten times. But I couldn't let you leave without breakfast." Before I can say anything else, she is already at the fridge, grabbing eggs and bread. For the frail old woman that she is, she can be quite determined. So I just smile, and go inside to get dressed.

When I come out, I see only one plate set on the kitchen counter. "Kaaki, how many times must I tell you to make some for yourself too?"

She just smiles in response. The pressure cooker whistles. I hadn't even noticed it was placed on the stove.

"What's that?"

"I made some daal. Now just need to boil some rice when you get back." Her unapproving gaze is fixed on the box of last night's pizza sticking out from my dustbin. "You can't eat this stuff every day. You will fall ill."

"You are too good to me!" I hug her, gratefully, and start collecting my things.

"And you, to me." She gives her standard reply, while trying to quickly finish up in the kitchen, because she knows I need to leave soon. That's the thing about her. You don't need to tell her much, yet she manages to understand everything anyway.

******

I moved into this building eight years ago. Kaaki dropped in with an offer to help, before I could even get all the cartons off the elevator. I liked her instantly. But in keeping with my resolve to do everything on my own, I neither engaged her except for an occasional weekend, nor employed any other help. She would, however, every morning, ring my doorbell and ask me if she could be of any assistance. Two years later, when my parents moved to U.K. to live with my brother, my mother sent me a lot of their old clothes. I offered them to Kaaki. She said she would accept all that, only if I let her make my breakfast and clean up my home every weekend. By then, I had been living independently long enough, to come to despise its aftereffects; my always messy home and always hungry for good food stomach. So I readily agreed.

On Sundays, she makes it a point to spend at least a few hours with me. She uses this time, to do whatever chores she could fit in, despite my protests. I can tell she likes to spend time at my apartment, instead of at others'. We chat about a lot of things. I tell her about the problems at work, and she listens with rapt attention, while massaging oil in my hair. Sometimes, she even gives me an advice, one would never expect from someone like her. She is surprisingly wise and well informed, for an uneducated old woman. I have to say, in the absence of my parents, having her around is a real blessing.

I often wondered why she had never questioned me or moralized me about my spinsterhood. The fact that I am well over thirty and still single, seems to bother everyone, from my parents to all the aunties in this building. But not her. One day, I was tempted to ask.

"Kaaki, how come you have never asked me why I am not married yet?"

"Bitiya, you are an educated and responsible girl. I am sure you must have your reasons." She answered while scrubbing the kitchen counter.

She was the only person to have ever said that to me. To almost everyone else, I was a woman too spoilt by her financial independence, to want to settle down, willingly. I informed her of that distinction. She smiled for a moment, but the very next her lips contracted into a tight grimness.

"Bitiya, despite what the world would have us women believe... Marriage isn't the solution to our problems. You are an independent woman. You can give yourself a good life without a husband. Don't get me wrong... I do pray that one day, you find a handsome Raajkumar, get married and have cute chubby children. But you must do it, only when you find the right man..." Years of pain floated in her lost eyes. "... There can be nothing worse than getting married to the wrong one."

In the few years that I had been here, some grapevine about her life had reached me. But I never encouraged gossip about Kaaki's life; someone I had come to like and care for a lot.

"Kaaki, your family... I mean your sons. Where are they?"

"They are married now, have children... busy with their lives."

"You should ask them to help you out."

"I tried... it didn't work. I could never bring myself to beg them for help." She sighed. "Not that it would have worked either. They do not have the time or the money to spare for their father... who, to tell you the fact, throughout their life, hit them more than he hugged them." It was hard to guess from her tone, whom she meant it for, with more repugnance; her sons or her husband.

Someone else would have probably, just shamed her sons into accepting their responsibilities. But not Kaaki. That is exactly the kind of person she is. She slogs for 12-14 hours a day in this building, and rarely ever leaves here, with anything more than just enough food for her and her husband. He, incidentally, had never been anything but a burden to her. She was married off to him by a distant relative, who didn't want to shoulder the responsibilities of a young orphan girl, barely months after her mother's death. Her husband, who was at least ten years older than her, did nothing but drink alcohol, eat tobacco and play cards all day. He would beat her up, if she refused to sponsor his addictions. The thrashing had only stopped in the recent years, because his illness confined him to the bed. Even now he lashes her with his tongue. I asked her why she put up with it all; especially now, when everyone else has deserted him, except her.

"That is the thing about us women, bitiya. We tolerate injustice or so long that it becomes our way of life... His abuses do not even hurt me anymore, that is how he's always been." I saw in her face, the look of sympathy, which I did not think one could possibly have, for one's tormentor. "Also... I can see that he is in in a lot of pain... he can barely get up... or eat... the medicines don't help much anymore. He just waits for his end... which seems to be coming painfully slowly."

******

It is 8:56 a.m. and Kaaki is still not here. She might just have forgotten that I am back. I have been away, for almost six months, on a project. On the way out, as I hurry towards my car, I just shoot an instruction to our guard Ram Singh, to remind Kaaki that I am back. He looks at me flabbergasted and mumbles something, which I do not catch. I am running too late to bother.

Kaaki doesn't come in the next day, as well. I'm quite sure Ram Singh didn't deliver my message; so I decide to stop over at the Bhaskars' apartment to drop by a message for her.

"Hello Auntie... how are you?"

"Oh! Hello Nandini! When did you get back? How was Australia?"

"Day before yesterday, Auntie... It was good. I'm in a terrible rush. Could you please remind Kaaki, that I'm back?" I turn around to run back to elevator because I know if she decides to interrogate me about my trip, I could be stuck with her for the next thirty minutes. Just as I the elevator door rings open, her words, grab my feet.

"Oh God! You don't know about Jaanaki, do you?"

"Know what?" I turn around, my heart almost in my mouth. At the age Kaaki's is at, one is quite prompt to jump to the most dreadful thoughts about her. There is a foreboding look on her face which tells me this isn't some everyday gossip, she is famous for peddling.

I squeal demanding relief. "Know what, Auntie?!"

She lowers her voice and her tone reeks of abhorrence. "Jaanaki was arrested for killing her husband."

I stand there, unable to move or speak for the next several minutes. She knows I have always been quite fond of Kaaki and quickly changes her manner to display fake empathy. "Oh honey, I know you liked her very much. We all did..." Her chubby arms are almost hugging me. "We can barely believe it ourselves... 40 years that woman has worked for us. She looked so normal... makes me sick, to think that someone who had such free access to our homes... our families... has done something like that! What is the world coming to?"

I try to swallow a knot, swelling in my throat. "But... it could... all... be a mistake."

"No. No. No. She herself walked into the police station and surrendered."

******

I am sitting in my balcony, hoping that the cold February winds slapping my face, would help me break out of my stupor. They don't. My mind feels as numb as it did walking out of the Women's Cell in the Vikas Nagar Jail, a few hours ago, where Kaaki is serving a life sentence.

I had to pretend to be a journalist desperate for a scoop, and grease three people, to be allowed to see her, outside of the visiting hours. The windowless visiting room, with the paint peeling off the walls, broken furniture and just one lamp hanging from the ceiling, reluctantly throwing some illumination, had an air of doom about it. It didn't look like this visiting room had seen many visitors. I broke down hysterically on seeing her, as she walked in, I guess from the confusion of the whole thing, more than anything else. She just sat there, her head hung low. She was obviously sorry to see me this sad, but her face had a kind of serenity which seemed completely out of place here; in this forsaken visiting room, with my wails, and under her current circumstances.

"What... is... everybody saying?" My sobs drowned my words.

"The truth."

"But... why...?"

"Bitiya, forget all that... How was your trip? When did you get back?... You look so weak. Did you not eat..."

"Answer me, Kaaki! Why did you do it?!" I had never taken that tone with her; or for that matter anyone.

She took a moment to recover from it. The agony of this question was beyond my capacity to handle and she could see that. "Bitiya, he was sick... very sick. I ran out of his medicines. Even if I hadn't, I doubt they would have helped him anymore. He would cry out with pain, day and night... he was a terrible husband and a bad father... there were times when I hated him and cursed him. But even I never wanted him to suffer like that." Her voice started to shake under the weight of her confession. Although she had surrendered to the law, on her own accord, it was obvious that she had never told anyone, what she was about to tell me now. Not because no one asked; but perhaps, because she didn't think anyone would understand.

"I was behind on the rent, for the last six months. The landlord was going to throw us out... You know how cold it gets here in the winters. How long do you think a man in his condition would have lasted, out in the open? Wasn't he already suffering enough..." She paused, swallowed hard, and wiped her eyes with the pallu. "One day... he couldn't take the pain any more. He begged me to relieve him. I cried for a week, wondering what I was going to do. Any day now, I expected the landlord to come and throw us out on the streets. His cries got louder as the pain increased...He begged and begged... and begged." Her puny frame trembled as though his pain pulsated through her veins, as she recounted the horrible tribulation of that fateful night.

"...when I couldn't take his screams for help, anymore, I put a pillow on his face and silenced him, forever. He did not protest... just quietly slipped away." The relief of finally voicing that confession broke her.

I didn't know what I should or could say to what I had just heard. I just sat there, looking at her trying to reconcile with her remorse. But then, it occurred to me that her husband's condition, could have served as a valid reason for a sudden death. No one would have suspected a thing had she not confessed to the murder.

"But... why did you have to tell anyone? It was after all, according to his wishes. And he was sick anyway..."

"That doesn't make it any less of a crime... Does it, Bitiya?" Her eyes were firm with the determination to atone. If only, I could convince her, what she did was far removed from a crime.

"After he died, I sat there in the darkness of my jhopdi... the whole night. I wanted to hate myself for what I did... I wanted to cry... A part of me also wanted to be scared, wondering what would happen to me next. But I felt none of that... No grief, no fear. Instead, for the first time in years... I felt free..."

I was too confounded to listen to or grasp what Kaaki was trying to tell me. I burst out. "And your sons? Why didn't you tell them the truth? They could have ensured you get a lenient sentence."

"They want nothing to do with me. Not that I can blame them... and... you don't understand. I do not want a lesser punishment. I want this." Her voice trailed off. She looked at my furrowed brows and creased forehead and continued to explain. "Bitiya, where would I go when they set me free? My landlord wouldn't let a murderer stay there anymore. Nor would anyone let me work for them... And if I were to stay with my sons... That is, if their wives ever allow it... I would have to pay back for their generosity by working harder than the memsahibs in the building ever made me, and listening to harsher words than my husband ever said to me."

She walked up to me and wiped my tears with her rough bony fingers, and sat down next to me. She took my hand in hers and started stroking the back of it, lovingly, as if I were the one who needed to be comforted. Her eyes were fixed on nothingness that surrounded us. After a long pause, she spoke, not to me, but to that nothingness.

"The last time I remember feeling this free... of responsibilities, of worries, of pain... of anger..." The last one, was something she had never even admitted to holding inside her. "...was when my mother was alive... But since, she died and I got married... I always felt trapped. Responsibilities had me tied down. I didn't have the time to stop, or slow down...or even complain. I had to keep working through my sickness and fatigue to support my drunkard husband, educate my sons and get them married. I kept telling myself, I just need to brave up to it all, till my sons are old enough to shoulder my burdens. Just when I thought my ordeal was over, my husband fell ill. My sons deserted us, and I was back where I started..."

I placed my other hand over hers and gently squeezed it. It reminded her of my presence in the room. She turned to me.

"There were times... especially in the last ten years, when I couldn't even get up from the bed in the mornings. But then I would have to, because otherwise I wouldn't have any food and my ailing husband wouldn't have any medicines. My body would revolt, but my brain would quickly remind it, that I was too poor to allow myself to feel tired"

She could tell from my face that even I, who prided herself in being more sensitive towards her than others, had never quite understood how overworked and tired she was. Her ever so jolly demeanor always had me fooled too. She read my guilt, just like everything else I had never had to verbalize to her. She cupped my face in both her hands. Her shaking, gaunt fingers had more strength in them than my whole body, at that moment.

"Bitiya, don't worry about me. I am fine here. I no more have to worry, about the roof over my head or the food on my plate... Can you believe I have been eating three times a day since I got here?" While she beamed with genuine happiness, ironically, the agonizing truth of that sentence was slowly dawned on me by the second, like a poison that spreads slowly.

"And I feel so relaxed... I have nothing much to do. I just laze around all day... Chat up with a few other women... Teach the younger ones how to stitch, or cook. They assigned me some duties, when I first came in. But a month later Superintendent Madam, relaxed them. She says she likes me. Even if I volunteer to help, the younger girls don't let me. They all call me Jaanaki Amma." She said it with more pride and endearment in than I had ever seen her using for her sons or her husband. Her words were sprinkled with the excitement of a six year old, finally at a vacation she had always dreamed of. "The other day I fell sick... fever...must have been 103-104. They did not let me get off the bed for three whole days! One person was messaging my feet, and another one was keeping strips of cloth soaked in cold water on my head. I felt like... like... one of the memsahibs from our building." She smiled. It was one that radiated straight from her heart.

******

Sitting here now, thinking about my visit to Kaaki earlier today, an odd sense of comfort mixed with shame inundates me. There's comfort, because she seems relieved. She is free of worries and hard labor. She is surrounded by people who care for her. She is home. And, thankfully, she will have all this, for the rest of her life. But there's an inescapable sense of shame too. Because she found all this in a building full of convicts and so called 'social rejects' instead of us - a society which wrung her dry, till the last ounce of her strength had been squeezed out and used; but failed to stand by her when she needed it. I was sure; the idea of asking any of us for help, never even crossed her mind. I try to tell myself that if I was around, she would have come to me and I could have helped her. But that illusion vaporizes quickly, too. Because I know, that is the kind of person Jaanaki Kaaki is, always interested in over-delivering and content in being under-compensated.

I don't know if I should grieve for my respect for our society, which got irreparably dented today, a society which comprises of people like Mrs. Bhaskar who washed their hands off Kaaki in a heartbeat; or celebrate for the restoration of my faith in humanity, represented by people like Kaaki. People with exemplary strength of spirit, compassion without any expectation of being compensated, wisdom which no amount of education can ever bring and integrity to surrender for a crime which no one even suspects them of committing. Someone, who is as poor as they come and yet manages to give everyone what they want, often, without them even having to ask for it; her sons, her husband, Mrs. Bhaskar, Mrs. Das, Mrs. Gupta. Me.

I wipe my face with my hands. I don't even remember how long I have been crying and for what. I look at my palms. The tears on them glisten as they catch the faint moonlight. Quite like the way the contentment on Kaaki's face, sparkled under the pale light of that bulb, in the visiting room, as she spoke the words. "Bitiya, I feel free..."

END

# Invisible Chains

## \- Aindrila Roy

Primarily a horror and fantasy writer, Aindrila Roy has published a couple of movie reviews in the MONSTER! magazine. Her first standalone horror novel is in the works and is set to publish soon.

She has written Invisible Chains exclusively for UnBound.

___

Everyone is bound by chains. Invisible chains that hold them, tie them down. These chains come in many shapes and forms. Chains like parental expectations, societal norms, financial responsibility, children or family. Some chains that bind people actually provide stability and in doing so, define them for who they are. These chains form the crux of human relationships. The base of all things good. But there are other chains that restrict, stifle, and imprison and take away from people the one thing that makes them special-their individuality.

Madhura too was tied with one such chain that corroded away at her being and left behind a hollow shell. Her story began innocuously enough at her cousin's wedding. At seventeen, filled with youthful exuberance, charm and a wide eyed innocence, Madhura was joy personified. Dressed in a pink lehenga, with hands full of bangles and glittering jewelry, she caught the eyes of many a young men attending the wedding.

Among the throng of admirers was Suraj, a twenty four year old man studying to become a surgeon. Unlike Suraj, whose eyes trailed her every movement, Madhura had not noticed him at all. She walked around, happy and oblivious to the attentions of the quiet and shy man. Soon the wedding was over but her story was just beginning.

The first time she saw him, he was standing outside her school. The news of an older man standing at the gates spread through the school like wildfire and Madhura and her friends giggled over it. In the busy life of a student however, the anomaly was soon forgotten. But then she started seeing him more and more often, to the point that it seemed like he was there every time she turned to look. It was at the urging of her friends that Madhura gathered the courage to approach him. She had asked him outright what he wanted and in a slow, halting voice, Suraj had asked her for a cup of coffee.

What harm could a cup of coffee do? The naïve girl wondered and agreed to it. On the date, Suraj was perfect. He was kind, thoughtful, gentle and very considerate. He told her how wonderful she was. How much better she was compared to everyone around her. When she bashfully confessed her desire to be a fashion designer, he had been vociferous in his approval. It hadn't taken long for Madhura to fall in love with the man who made her feel like a woman for the first time in her life.

Suraj was a troubled man. His father had abandoned his mother and him when he was four years old. His mother had never fully recovered from the abandonment and Suraj had grown up craving attention of the only parent left in his life. The abandonment and the subsequent neglect had left indelible marks on his psyche. He was the tall, dark, handsome and brooding man that she had read about in romance novels. She was the only one who could heal him. He was her tortured hero. Her soulmate.

At eighteen, Madhura fought with her parents for him. She wanted to marry Suraj but her father had not approved of him. Even her mother had not taken her side, but Madhura was adamant.

"He's not good for you beta," her mother had said. "There's something about him that just doesn't seem right."

And that only made Madhura angrier. She was eighteen! She was legally an adult and was old enough to know what was good for her. Her parents just didn't understand. She loved him! But her parents were determined to take away from her the one person who really understood her. And so, on a cold rainy night, with the help of her friends, Madhura had eloped. She thought she was leaving behind her misunderstood childhood and into a life of bliss, unaware of the hell that awaited her.

The first time it happened was on their wedding night. Suraj had purchased a red joda for her with matching glass bangles and jewelry. Decked in the crimson joda that set off her darkened hue alluringly, Madhura was a pretty bride. On the wedding night, Suraj delicately removed her ornaments one by one, showering praises about her beauty. He took everything off, save her glass bangles. Madhura started to remove them for him when his hands closed on hers.

"Let them be. I like to see your hands full of bangles."

"But Suraj, they prick me. I can't sleep with bangles on."

A dark expression crossed his face and he said, "I said, let them be."

"But Suraj –"

She never saw the slap coming. A resounding backhand that sent her ear ringing. Almost instantly Suraj was next to her, holding her and apologizing, "Oh God. I'm so sorry, baby so sorry. But this isn't my fault. You made me do that. Why did you have to say no to me? I'll just ask for one thing Madhura, don't make me angry. I can't control myself when I get angry and I don't want you to see me angry. Please, please forgive me. Please."

Madhura had cried that night but, in the end, had forgiven him. He was genuinely sorry. It was a mistake. Suraj was a deeply troubled man. Surely with a past as dark as his, he would have hang ups and issues. And while the slap had hurt her a lot, it was nothing compared to the pain he was in. He had spent the night holding her and crying. The next day they moved into a new house that was on the other side of the city. Suraj said that staying there she could finally get away from the painful memories of her parents trying to separate them.

The next couple of weeks went by in bliss and Madhura soon chalked the wedding night as a one off incident. Suraj was loving, tender and everything she could dream of in her life partner. It was a Thursday when the next incident happened. It had been raining all day and Madhura had been getting antsy sitting inside the tiny one bedroom apartment. So when the rain held up around six in the evening, she went downstairs to catch a breath of fresh air. Idly walking around the tiny compound, she met with the twenty year old Nihal.

Completely new to the area, Madhura didn't have a clue about her surroundings and Nihal was more than happy to help. He was just telling her the direction to the grocery store when Suraj arrived. She had eagerly introduced her husband to her new friend but the older man was barely civil. Gruffly informing Nihal that they had work to do, Suraj had all but dragged Madhura back into their house.

Slamming the door shut behind him, Suraj flung her on the center table such that the corner dug into her abdomen, making her gasp. Unmindful of her pain, he clutched her long black locks and pulled so her face was next to his, "Who was he? Are you having an affair with him?"

Pain and disbelief fought for dominance in her mind, rendering her mute for the moment. A mistake, for it had angered him even more. He shook his fist and tightened his grasp on her hair, "Answer me!"

"N-No, what are you talking about?"

"Who was he? Why were you talking to him?"

"I just met him today," Madhura cried, tears streaming down her face. "He was telling me how to go to the grocery store."

Suraj's eyes narrowed but then, just as suddenly as the viciousness had come, it left him. He calmed down, cuddled her into his arms and began whispering apologies and telling her how much he loved her. He loved her so much that he couldn't bear the thought of sharing her with anyone. He told her how much he needed her and although it wasn't as easy as it had been the first time, Madhura still forgave him. He didn't mean to hurt her after all. It was just because he couldn't help it.

On her nineteenth birthday, Madhura had received two gifts from Suraj. One was a yellow salwar-kameez paired with matching glass bangles and the other were the black and blue welts across her back. Suraj had wanted a cauliflower sabji but there was no cauliflower in the house. Not wanting to upset him, she had gone to the market to get the vegetable. As she was headed back, it had started to rain and she didn't have enough money for an auto. Running under a tree, she waited for the rain to hold up, but as the clock ticked, the downpour showed no signs stopping. Suraj would be back soon and would get very angry if she wasn't home when he returned.

And so, she walked. In the deluge. Cold and soaked to the skin, when she opened the door of her apartment, Suraj was already waiting and furious. Her gift lay on the sofa, wrapping paper torn to shreds and he sat next to it, his hands wound tightly around his leather belt. Madhura had hastened to explain but couldn't get more than three words across before the belt landed on her. Over and over again till she lost count.

That night, she lay on her bed, unable to sleep. Every inch of her body hurt and she was burning up but she didn't dare moan lest it woke him up. And so she lay still, hurt and delirious from fever. The glass bangles that now had become a part of her daily attire had never pricked her more. It was that day that Madhura had finally become aware that those bangles were the delicate, fragile, glass shackles that she couldn't break.

The love that had brought her here had suffocated in the confines of the apartment and now lay dead. She was left carrying the charred corpse of her heart, covered with the shroud of her lost innocence, while the splinters of her shattered dreams pierced her eyes. Broken, battered and bruised, Madhura was stuck. She couldn't move forward and couldn't go back. She yearned for her mother's lap, her father's arms but she had spat on their love when she had run away with Suraj. What right did she have to go back and demand their love now? They had warned her, but she hadn't listened. How could she go back now and ask for their love? How selfish could she be?

She had no friends. Suraj had made sure of that. One by one he had forced her to alienate from everyone and now she was left with no one to talk to. Her neighbors had given up trying to be nice to her because she would never invite them in. Could never invite them in.

And so, she was left all by herself. Alone, friendless and with no money in her hand, Madhura had nowhere to go. All she could do was stay in her battlefield, fighting every day, and hanging on to sanity by her fingernails.

As the days went by, things went from bad to worse. A spilled glass of milk meant marks on her body from his belt. A burnt bread would mean punches, and a misplaced sock could bring about kicks. Terrified where her next beating would come from, Madhura spent her days looking over her shoulder. Every rustle would make her jump. Every shadow made her tremble. Each time the door opened, Madhura's hands went cold.

The constant abuse had taken a heavy toll on her. No longer was she the bright, vivacious and delightful girl she had once been. Unyielding fear, coupled with prolonged abuse had led to drastic weight loss. Her once lustrous hair now hung in limp clumps. Dark shadow lined her eyes and her cheeks lost their pallor. Two years into her own private hell, Madhura learned that she was pregnant.

She knew she was supposed to be excited but she felt nothing. She was in no condition to feel anything. Fear had consumed her, overtaken every inch of her to the point that there was no room for any other emotion in her mind. Perhaps it was because of this apathy that she neglected to mention anything about her pregnancy to Suraj.

By now, Suraj was completing his residency and they had moved into a slightly bigger, two bedroom apartment. The move, coupled with her delicate health led Madhura to a frenzied state where she spent all her waking hours cooking and cleaning. She obsessed over invisible fingerprints and nonexistent specks of dust. It had reached to a point where even her abuser noticed.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked in a voice that was tinted with now familiar suspicion.

"N-n-nothing!" she replied with a stutter that had become a part of her now.

"You've never kept the house this clean," it sounded like an accusation, "You used to deliberately slack off earlier, didn't you?"

By now she knew that disagreeing with Suraj on anything could unleash the beast in him and so she nodded, her heart thudding in her chest wildly. To her luck, he seemed to accept the answer, nodded and continued to watch his TV. Madhura was careful not to let him hear her sigh of relief.

But the stroke of luck ran out soon. A mere week later in fact. It happened when Suraj called a colleague over for dinner. Lonely and desperate for a human contact, Madhura welcomed Prashant eagerly. Prashant was a nice, humorous and well-mannered man and he seemed to genuinely like Madhura.

"Bhabhi ji, you're like the best cook in the world! My girlfriend can't boil a glass of water without messing it up somehow. I only wish I'd met you before Suraj did."

A genuine compliment not laced with any malice touched Madhura deeply, bringing a smile on her face. Her first in a long time. It felt nice to smile for a change. To feel something other than fear was cathartic, "Th-thank you, I-I'm glad you l-liked the food."

Basking in the simple joy, Madhura had missed the thunderous expression on her husband's face. It was only after Prashant had left that she tuned into Suraj's mood.

"So," he said conversationally, as he closed the distance between them. "You like him, huh? I saw your smile. I get it, he's smart, good looking and seemed to like you a lot. You're thinking of him in bed now, aren't you?"

For one brief moment, hurt, betrayal, disgust and fear battled within her, but then a completely unexpected emotion took over. Anger. And on its heels came defiance. Lifting her chin up, Madhura looked squarely into his eyes, "Not everyone is pathetic like you."

The slap was expected and Madhura didn't flinch. She'd had enough. This time she was going to stand up to him, regardless of the cost. Some part of her knew that he might even kill her but she was past caring. Her life was not worth living anyway.

Tossing her hair, Madhura looked straight at him, her eyes blazing, "That's all you can do, isn't it? Tell me, does it make you feel like a man when you hit me? Is that what all this is about? Overcompensating for your shortcomings as a man and a human?"

Suraj had probably never been angrier. Without a word he grasped her hair and dragged her along as she fought and screamed. She scratched and shoved, but Suraj was stronger and managed to get her to the kitchen, where he threw her on the floor.

This time however, Madhura was determined not to give in without a fight. Scrambling on the floor, she grasped the first thing that came to her hand, a belan. With it she spun and rammed it into his leg as hard as she could. With a muffled yell, he dropped on the floor, clutching his shin. Pushing herself to her feet, she hit him, again and again. Two years of pent up anger, sorrow and frustration broke through as Madhura attacked him with all her strength, leaving him cocooned on the floor. A posture she was altogether too familiar with. Finally, after about ten blows, she stopped.

"See. It hurts. It hurts, damnit! And you're not the only one who can hit, I can do it too. And I will. Every time you hit me, I will hit you back. You're nothing but an overgrown bully. And I'm done being bullied. In fact, I'm done with you. I'm leaving."

The change that came over him was alarming. He had been silent all through the beating but now he let out an animalistic howl, "Madhura! I love you. Please, please don't leave me. I'll die," he begged crying and then, immediately started to laugh, "I'm going to kill you. If you leave, I'll find you and kill you."

The manic declaration was followed by another spate of tears where he proclaimed his love over and over again. Madhura stood by the kitchen door, clutching the belan and a disgusted, bewildered expression on her face. When he cried 'I love you' for the seventh time, something in her snapped, "Stop it! You don't love anyone! You're incapable of loving anyone but yourself. I don't care what you think you'll do, I'm leaving."

Saying so, she marched out of the house, with just the belan in her hand. She had thought Suraj would follow her, but he hadn't. And so she walked and walked and walked. Somewhere along the way, she threw the belan. One after another she pulled out the blue glass bangles and threw them on the street, not caring what happened to them. One hand wiped the sindoor with a vengeance. And through all this, Madhura walked. She realized that she probably looked like a madwoman but she didn't care. She was celebrating her independence day.

Today, seven years after she had walked out on Suraj, Madhura leads a happy and healthy life with her current husband Divyesh and her two kids and is pursuing a career in her newfound hobby, photography. Walking out had not been easy and Madhura shudders to think what would have happened if her father's neighbor had not spotted her that day. It was a stroke of pure luck that Kailash uncle had seen her as he was getting out of his pharmacy. Disheveled, barefoot, open hair smudged with a streak of sindoor, she had looked a fright. The older man had taken the dazed and confused girl to his home where he and his wife fed her, clothed her and gave her a bed.

Which was just as well for Suraj had gone to her house to look for her at 2:00 am. Her father, Swastik, had refused to entertain him and had in fact pointed his old rifle at him. Although Suraj left soon after, but he had managed to get her parents concerned. It was around six in the morning that Kailash uncle finally called her father. Uncle hadn't called earlier because he knew that her mother, Meera, was a diabetic and heart patient and her sleep mattered. He couldn't have known that their sleep had already been disrupted.

In the safety of her parents' arms, Madhura had finally broken down and shared everything. Her father had instantly gone to the police who had issued a restraining order. Within five days, divorce was filed, even though it would another year before the trial ended and the divorce was finalized.

Suraj continued to stalk her for a while, with blatant disregard for the restraining order. Every time she saw him, Madhura's panic attack began anew. Once or twice she even called the police, but other than giving him a warning, there was not much that was done. A couple of month later, she came to know that he got arrested for attacking a patient's relative at the hospital. The patient was someone with a political influence and he was pressing to charge 'attempted murder' on Suraj. He was now in prison, much to Madhura and her family's relief.

Even after escaping the poisonous clutches of Suraj's insanity, Madhura wasn't truly free. Night after night she would wake up screaming and shivering. In the last difficult days of her pregnancy, she had been unable to sleep for longer than 2 hours at a stretch. Just being in the company of men would make her shiver uncontrollably. Loud noises made her jump and break into sweat. Many a times she couldn't even eat properly.

In those turbulent days, her parents stood resolutely by her. Night after night, Meera would sit with her daughter, singing lullabies and combing her fingers through her hair. Swastik would take her out for walks, holding her hand, pointing at little things that were beautiful. A flying kite, a fluttering butterfly, a laughing child. This was their routine when she was a child and now they were back doing it.

It had not been easy on any of them. Meera's older sister had come to visit and had been scandalized to see Madhura visibly pregnant. The older woman had gone on a spiel about ghar ki izzat and how a married girl isn't supposed to stay at her parent's place for so long. Her aunt had been adamant that Madhura should have 'worked it out' with Suraj. At that point, Meera had categorically asked her sister to get out and never come back. The offended woman had tried to look to Swastik to 'discipline' his wife but the man simply looked away.

The aunt was only one of the many voices. Neighbors, friends, relatives, no one seemed happy about her coming back. Her life became everybody's business and they kept telling how she was maligning her family by leaving her husband. At times Madhura felt like jumping off the window of her 5th floor apartment but her parents' unrelenting support and the growing life within her held her back. She had been alone in the delivery room when Mishti arrived, her squealing little bundle of joy.

Mishti's arrival greatly helped in alleviating her PTSD symptoms. Motherhood broke the miasma of gloom and Mishti's toothless little giggles and tiny yawns revived Madhura's shattered heart. Slowly, over the course of next two years, Madhura recovered enough to be able to talk to strangers without trembling.

She met Divyesh at the pediatrician's clinic. He had brought his niece in for her vaccination and the two began talking in the waiting room. One meeting turned to two when they bumped again at a garment store. This time he asked for her number and she reluctantly gave it. One call became two, two became four and before they knew it, they started talking daily. Madhura told him everything about Suraj and her dark past. Divyesh, while furious at the man, never blamed her for anything.

When he came over to their home for dinner, Meera instantly liked the twenty six year old architect, Swastik too grudgingly gave an approval. Although his grudge was more because he knew that Divyesh would take his precious daughter and granddaughter away from him. When Divyesh proposed Madhura had broken down into tears.

The date for the wedding was four days after Misthi's third birthday. This time around the wedding was held in pomp and splendor. Madhura had refused to wear a red joda and so they had selected a maroon lehenga for her.

Two years into the marriage, Madhura happily announced to anyone who would listen that she was expecting another child. The child of a man she loved and one who loved her back. She had finally gotten the happy ending she deserved. She was finally free.

END

# Freedom: The Outburst of Emotions!

## \- Vibhuti Bhandarkar

A professionally qualified Graphic designer and Eng. Copywriter, Vibhuti's creative soul finds expression through writing, including blogging on short stories, book reviews, etc.

Vibhuti Bhandarkar turned a published author with her maiden collection of short stories published in 2011 titled 'Not Totally Unbelievable'. Her short story titled The Escape has also appeared in the Chicken Soup for the Indian Doctor's Soul.

She's presently looking to publish a fantasy fiction novel for young adults and also a hand-illustrated book of poems for little children.

You can read her creative works at http://klishmaklaver.blogspot.in/

Follow her at Twitter: @klishmaklaver and connect at https://www.facebook.com/AuthorVibhutiBhandarkar

She has written Freedom: The Outburst of Emotions! exclusively for UnBound.

___

Rati arched her left eyebrow and brought both her palms up, gracefully bending her slender fingers, demonstrating the Sanjukta Hasta Mudra that was being taught. The light tapping on the tabla travelled to their ears from the adjacent hall, as the player delicately practiced the accompaniment for a khyal, then a thumri.

"Kathaa kahe so Katthak!", the teacher continued. "We are storytellers. Every inch of your body, from your head to your toes, even your eyes, should emote in perfect synchronization." She instructed with a mouthful of betel nut and paan, taking intermittent breaks from the rhythmic chewing. She relaxed on the four-poster bed while their newest danseuse, a wispy brown girl stood on the Persian rug, listening attentively.

Rati went back to combing her lustrous length of wavy black hair, ten strokes at the minimum for each bunch of strands. Once done, she showed off her perfected pirouette, the gatherings of her embellished knee-length tunic swirling out and twirling back to hug her shapely legs. Then she struck a dynamic pose before the floor-length mirror, her hands raised taut above her head and studied the curves of her own body. The altha on her upturned palms was a richer red, especially that evening. Rati's cheeks blushed as she remembered his baritone voice calling her, "Jaise Ajanta ki murat koi!", in his heavily English accent.

The thought of being loved by a hopeless romantic sent a delicious quiver all over her. He had unabashedly lavished her with praises in a burgeoning mehfil — a hall packed with a motley crowd of local zamindars, British officers, and a stray poet or two as her audience. Rati peered into the mirror and retouched the dark kohl, enhancing the accent of the lines at the corner of her eyes which exaggerated its doe-like shape. Through the mirror, Rati noticed her teacher throwing an admiring glance towards her.

"Now, that's what you call Shringar Ras!", she heard her exclaim, drawing the student's attention towards the preening Rati.

"Each of the nine emotions bring meaning to your performance. Understand them, feel them, and claim your freedom of expression through your naach. Be it the Krodh Ras or the Adbhut Ras, the Bhayanak Ras or the Vatsalya Ras...", the teacher had visibly trailed off to a distant place in her thoughts, exactly after mentioning the emotion of mother's love.

*****

Rudra stood stolid, on the topmost step along the waterfront, staring into oblivion, unperturbed by the drizzling rain. Dhoti clad, legs apart and rooted to the ground, hands akimbo, he could have easily been mistaken for a warrior right out of Hindu mythology. Like every year in August, the Ganga had swollen to its maximum height and showed no signs of calming down. The winds billowed and the waters raged, threatening to engulf the ghat.

Rudra was stirred by the floodwaters licking his feet and he acknowledged it as a gesture from the animated holy waters.

"I know, Ma! You can feel the rising fury in my soul," Rudra huffed under his breath.

"I'm told, I had been discarded at birth but you miraculously saved this orphan and let me live. So here I am. I will not let this life be wasted." He swore. "I know not who my parents are but I know I owe this to my motherland. I pledge my soul, in your freedom I will live!" With invigorated steps, the 20-something strapping lad headed for the Lahurabir police station, near the North-West end of Banares.

Nai Sarak was a narrow street but the busiest in the city, dotted with frail hawkers, passersby and the regular loafers. By nightfall, the city would have roughly 500 guards stationed at the numerous gates of the different urban wards but it was only early evening, so all was mundane and casual. The only formal feature was the excellently proportioned, one-story high structure of the police station. A wide plain strip ran horizontally along the length of the building, effectively separating the base from its upper floor. Right in the middle of the first floor was a generously proportioned balcony supported by a fluted Doric six-column porch. The wall directly underneath the balcony had an unusual arched doorway which was the ground-floor entrance of the Lahurabir police station.

Rudra positioned himself across the street, exactly opposite the arch. He made himself less conspicuous by standing in the lee of the zamindar's haveli which was infamous as the harem of seductive nautch girls. A peeping tom lurking in the harem's vicinity wasn't an unusual sight, so getting caught wasn't a worry.

"How convenient!" Rudra fumed, imagining the lust-driven officers of the British Raj crossing over from the police station, making a beeline for the harem in the after-hours.

After the briefly distracting thought, he wiped the rain-water out of his eyes and returned his focus on the facade of the police station. Rudra gritted his teeth and fisted his palms, while he waited like a crouching tiger poised to prey.

"How dare they compel my brethren to go to war? Their slaves are we?"

Rudra's blood began to boil at the very thought, once again.

At half-past five with clockwork punctuality, the British officer would step out every evening onto the balcony. Rudra waited, his heart pounding while his ears turned a fiery red.

"God, please be with me!" he prayed, trying to steady his hand which was trembling with indignation. He tightened his hold on the square-butt, hard rubber grip and tacitly brought out the Smith & Wesson revolver from its perch at his waist. As his target came into the line of sight, Rudra pointed its barrel out.

*****

Vismay Lal hollered in his sandpaper voice, "Aao, khao, sukh pao!", unaware that his uncle had chosen the most appropriate words to anchor in the sales. The young costermonger was doing as instructed, happily sitting cross-legged on the ground with five cane baskets of fresh produce from their farms. There was very little of it left in them now, so Vismay could relax a bit, twiddling with a small potato or jingling his bag of coins, now and then. He was busy staring at the procession of a palanquin, with his mouth agape, when one of his regular visitor's sprawling potbelly filled the frame, obstructing his view.

"Arre, silly boy! Why do you continue sitting here in the rains with the blanket on your head?" boomed the friendly havildar.

"Ram-Ram, Chachaji!" greeted Vismay, picking out the biggest, ripe yellow banana and handing it out," Never mind the light drizzle; it will stop soon. It's a dream come true to get paid for just sitting around," he grinned while eyeing the gaudily dressed village belles who had stepped out of the zamindar's haveli, across the street. Vismay watched them intently as they walked past, his eyes growing larger and rounder than the ber fruit he was selling.

"You seem to have a better eye on the people than I do!" teased the policeman and chomped the banana down, all at the same time.

"No, no! Nothing like that," Vismay stuttered.

"You have full freedom to feast your eyes. You won't be charged for that!" jeered the policeman. "You'd better get going now. Enough for today!" he ordered, discarding the banana peel in one of Vismay's empty baskets.

"And remember, I am not your Chachaji!" he added blithely, turned his back, and set off down the road, rapping the ground twice with his long staff as he went.

"Achcha!",, Vismay shouted out his agreement. He gathered his baskets, piling them one on top of the other, covered them with his frayed blanket, and hoisted them up on his head. Raising himself to his feet, he had just started walking cautiously when a tonga arrived outside the Lahurabir police station and two Englishwomen stepped down, one after the other, onto the paved curb, a couple of feet away from him. Awestruck by the sight of the buxom white ladies dressed in the most beautiful colored satins he'd ever seen, Vismay stood transfixed at the spot.

"Aaha, Memsahib!" he made no qualms about exclaiming aloud.

The pretty frilly umbrellas held up in their white gloved hands, swished past him, leaving behind a trail of floral perfume in the air. The wonderment did not leave his senses, even as he circumvented the stationary tonga and crossed the street.

As he was wont to do, Vismay slowed his pace down and went as close to the haveli as possible, in the hope of getting a fleeting glimpse of the beautiful dancers inside. He had turned around the bend of the curving footpath when he sensed the presence of a figure in the lee of the dark- stoned exterior wall. Curiosity getting the better of him, Vismay stopped to find out who it was. The unexpected sight of a gun being cocked shocked Vismay out of his wits and he reeled backwards in utter panic.

*****

Lord Ogelsby Freeman roared like a lion emerging out of his lair, when he stepped out onto the balcony. His regular agenda had been disturbed, as his elevated view of the locality was marred by a tonga parked right outside the gate, in the street. The sight of his daughter and wife approaching the police station premises had driven him wild.

"Didn't I tell you girls never to visit me here, however urgent your need might be?" he growled at the two fair ladies. "Please leave a message with the gatekeeper and return now. I shall join you as soon as I'm done here." Lord Ogelsby had hardly finished shouting, when the women disappointedly performed an about-turn and scurried off like scared mice, back to the tonga, without a single word.

Lord Ogelsby's face was livid. A three-inch long scar which sliced his left eyebrow and ran down his cheek, past the corner of his eye made him look more like a convict than an officer of the British Raj. His bluish-green eyes flashed with a peculiar yellowish glint, like that of a fierce feline. Every time he opened his mouth to speak, the upper lip shrouded in a butter-hewed m-ustache rose like a curtain, exposing his jutting canines which reminded one of brandished daggers. It was as if God had designed Ogelsby with the intention of frightening everybody. His tongue was sharper than a saw, his mind viler than a serpent but his eyesight had been failing him lately.

"Go! Fetch me my monocles," Lord Ogelsby ordered the sepoy who was waiting on him.

"Hurry, you fool!" he snapped again, sputtering some of the water he'd sipped from the glass held out to him on a platter.

As the tonga cleared off, Lord Ogelsby leaned a bit further out from the sill to see the horses trot away. To resume his usual survey of the area from his lookout point, he straightened up and just then realized there was a bit of a flurry, right across the street. In the bad light, he had a blurred view but he could see that a peasant had collapsed in the street and his baskets of vegetables and fruits were strewn on the curb. Obviously scared of something the peasant was trying to scamper to his feet.

A man had stepped out of the shadows of the zamindar's haveli with a resolute stance, head turned up he was staring straight back at him.

*****

Devaki Bai had resignedly sunk back, throwing her head on the pillow, her upturned right forearm gracefully resting on the crest of her temple. To the naive new student, her teacher was apparently demonstrating a dramatic dance pose, so she patiently continued standing there. Devaki Bai shooed her away with a limp left hand.

"How am I to expound the Navras in Katthak when the single most important emotion eludes me?" she lamented. An old memory had come sneaking around once again and raked up a forgotten emotion in Devaki Bai's heart. Tears dropped out of the corner of her eyes, quietly. There was unexplainable, excruciating pain when the biggest tragedy of her life, caught up with her!

Visions from her childhood flashed before her eyes — a DevaDasi performing in a temple, her shrill narrative of the mythological tragic tale of Vasudeva and Devaki — imprisoned by the evil Kamsa and forced to sacrifice their children. Even the eighth child, the newborn baby Krishna, had been immediately separated from the mother. Devaki Bai remembered how she had begun to hate her given name ever since that evening. She imagined her name was a curse! Therefore, as an adolescent danseuse, she readily took to the nickname given by her regular patrons — Chulbulee Bai — in the hope of shedding the curse of her original nomenclature but that was not to be!

The very mention of the Vatsalya Ras while teaching her student had roused her maternal instincts. Devaki Bai felt a gnawing at the core of her heart.

"Crying again, Bai Ma? Why do you do this to yourself?" Rati enquired, sitting down beside her on the edge of the bed. Devaki Bai reluctantly rose from her reclining position and took a swig from the glass of cool water, poured out for her.

"You are the only one who calls me 'Ma' and gives more meaning to my life, Rati," Devaki Bai confessed through her ebbing tears. "I haven't shared my story with many but I think you deserve to know because you have loved me like my own daughter would have."

"Tell me everything. You can trust me!" Rati assuringly took Devaki Bai's trembling hands in her own. "What has been bothering you?" Rati asked, looking her in the eyes.

"I am guilty. It is not a rumour but the truth!" Devaki Bai stuttered, emotions rife in her voice.

She rose from the bed and left Rati's side, hurriedly walking the length of the room, to stand by the window that granted a view of the Nai Sarak Street below.

"Like most danseuse, in my heydays I was blessed with abundant beauty and a silly heart full of love." Rati was all ears to each word uttered. "There was no dearth of attention from men but little did I know the ways of the world! One particular admirer laid a trap and, unsuspecting, I walked right in and fell for him, so hard that I was soon with his baby," Devaki Bai's face crumpled in remorse but she continued in a voice, husky and low.

"I secretly gave birth to a beautiful boy and it was I who orphaned him too. I cold-bloodedly abandoned him in the wee hours of that fateful day, on the banks of the holy Ganga. It's been more than twenty years since, can you believe that?" Devaki Bai shut her eyes and pursed her lips." Rati, now I know it was a grave mistake and I'm repenting but is there anything I can do about it?" Devaki Bai's voice trembled, distinctly pained by the memory. She buried her face in her own palms and began sobbing profusely.

Rati was at a loss for words. She only stood there with her arms wrapped around Devaki Bai in a warm embrace, unable to find a voice to console the grieving mother.

"If it is death that will give me freedom from my misery, so be it!" Devaki Bai howled and precariously leaned against the window sill, as if she was contemplating jumping out the window.

"Nonsense!" Rati pulled her back and tried to shush her. "Why should you bear this burden on your conscience alone? The father was equally responsible for the baby." Rati protested.

"Over the past few months, every day at half past five in the evening, we have been seeing each other but continue to act like strangers. Every day, the father of my son stands there, right before my eyes; while over here, I wonder and worry, how and where our child must be. Such is my wretched life!" Devaki Bai complained.

Just then, Rati noticed a sudden glimmer of hope in her teacher's eyes as they steadied, like they'd found what they were looking for. She intuitively followed Devaki Bai's gaze and there was a catch in Rati's breath when she saw that Devaki Bai was staring fixedly at the figure that had emerged at the balcony of the Lahurabir police station, across the street.

*****

His finger had triggered the shot involuntarily, but the bullet went whizzing through the air, right on target. The sudden loud, sharp crack of the gunfire rent the humdrum noises on the Nai Sarak Street. The surface of the bullet was blazing hot with friction but at the core it must have been as cold as a piece of metal, for it went shooting ahead free from any guilt of its intent. Within a blink, the bullet had mercilessly pierced through coarse cloth and lodged itself in Lord Ogelsby Freeman's heart.

While they were startled by the sound of the gunfire right beneath their window, Devaki Bai and Rati screamed in unison as they saw the famously dreadful Lord Freeman, powerlessly doubling up and falling like a cloth doll over the balustrade of the balcony, down to the ground.

Rudra had not expected a vegetable vendor to come around and create a scene like that but destiny had made up its mind as much as he had. Uncaring about the result, the armed Smith & Wesson had emotionlessly fired and miraculously hit the target. Rudra's heart thumped crazily when he realized that his mission was successful. He took off from the scene of the crime and as his feet carried him away, he was suffused with an overwhelming feeling of happiness and sense of liberation.

There had been a great flutter of wings at the disturbing sound and the birds that were calmly perched along the roof terraces took flight, in fright. For the numerous hapless souls on the street down below, wrapped in their own emotional upheaval and weighed down by the British Raj, the sight of the freely flying wings was an omen of sorts!

END

#  And Then an Endless Freedom!

## \- Shobhit Narang

Shobhit Narang is a 12th-grader who takes pride in occupying the last bench of his classrooms, doodling and looking out of the window. He harbors an ambition of making the world a better place through love, humanity and charity. He writes on Instagram and blogs on Smiles and Winks.

He has written And Then an Endless Freedom! exclusively for UnBound.

And I'll profane every writer

Who claims that my country isn't free yet!

Who jests that my countrymen aren't free yet!

But those writers won't listen to me,

For I'm just a little tiny artist,

Exploring with my tiny eyes

But I'll plead with them

For I've been up on my country's dark raining nights

Shedding those tears of compassion,

I've sobbed and drenched my eyes!

And I'm still small

But I know we hold the freedom,

Freedom of some disgraceful time!

For here men are free to rape their wives,

It's all the marital statement and cannot be crime!

And I know we are free to campaign elections

In the name of religions, caste, and creed?

But to become a politician do we need any abilities?

And surely we are free to build a temple anywhere in society,

Because we are free to obscure society in the name of god!

We talk of endless love in the church

But we are free to hit the street dog!

We are free to slap our child on his attempted failure,

We are free to leave behind our pious grandparents,

We are free to command crores from the wife

And brag the value of dowry from the bride side!

We are free to abuse in the name of a mother on the road,

We are free to let those young children know

The roads of humanity to profanity,

And I make apologies to every western girl

For we are free to quite easily doubt her virginity!

Maybe we are free to exploit freedom,

Maybe we are free to still call ourselves A Happy Indian!

I know ignorance is bliss,

And so we Indians are free and blissful!

# Love of the Common People

## \- Shom Biswas

_Soumyadipta 'Shom' Biswas is a management consultant and short fiction writer who splits his time between Chicago, New York, and Bangalore. His short stories have been published in_ Quarterly Literary Review Singapore (QLRS), Out of Print, Kitaab.org, Reading Hour, The Bombay Review _and_ Spark _. In a former life, he was a quizzer, notably having been a semi-finalist at the "University Challenge" Quiz (2003-04) televised on BBC World, and a semi-finalist at the Commonwealth Games sports quiz, "Sports Ka Superstar" (2010) televised on DD National. He collects antique sports books, and is consistently one of the best EPL fantasy football players in the world. Shom is an active community member of the Bangalore Writers Workshop._

_He has written Love of the Common People exclusively for UnBound._

___

I think most women would find me uninteresting. I didn't know that fact earlier. Sure, I am not one for bungee jumping or Himalaya base camps and all that fancy stuff. That much I know. I am not an adventure junkie or something, thank you very much. But many others are not either, and that doesn't make them uninteresting. Or at least it does not make them uninteresting the way it makes me.

See, I am rambling. This is just the first paragraph and I am already rambling. That paragraph had no relevance to anything at all. Bloody rubbish. But heck, I am not a writer or anything. This is my first shot at it, so be a little easy on me, all right?

My friend Alok is a writer. He is quite decent actually. You can read his stuff and not have to open up a dictionary. Like Ruskin Bond writes. Remember Ruskin Bond's stories in our ICSE textbook? Remember that story, what was its name... That one with two blind people meeting in a train? Oh, what magic he created!

Alok is not that good, of course. But he writes in simple language too. I like that. I like that I can follow his writing. Sometime he sends me links of stories that he has got published in magazines. Decent stuff. Not Ruskin Bond level, but good. I think Ruskin Bond is my favorite writer. I have read only two stories of his. The ones in my tenth and twelfth standard textbooks. I should buy a collection of his stories, I think.

Again, again. Come to the point. Stop rambling. This is what Alok does really well. Short sentences. Quickly to the point.

Okay. Stop. Say it.

I am in love. Madly, stupidity in love. I have fallen in love with a woman half my age.

What to do?

It is all Alok's fault. Last week, he asked me to come by to this writers' gathering that he was having at his place. Just come by, he said. These were easygoing folks. I would not feel bored. There was great alcohol he had picked up from duty-free, he said. And if I did get bored, Alok promised that he would be there to give me company. We are very old friends, right from our college days. First year roommates. He always keeps his word with me.

So I went. And I met her there. And fell in love.

See what I did there? Straight to the point!

But really, I am not a damn writer. I cannot do all those airy-fairy language plays to describe how I feel, any which way. I don't even know how I feel. I feel great. I feel light. I feel happy. I feel like smiling all the time. I feel like doing something good. I felt so good this morning — I woke up early, made tea and breakfast for Rachna, and got it to her in bed. And then sang some la-la-la tune to her irritation, all through the morning.

I wonder what Rachna will say if I tell her of this problem. That I have fallen in love. I think she will laugh. Right, sure, father of two, forty-two years old me, falling in love and all. Right, that will be funny. In between her laughter, Rachna will want to know — Does she even know (Of course not, are you crazy?). How old is she? (Twenty-six) Does she call me uncle? (No, she calls me by my name. Or nearly so. With an ooo in the middle. T-rooon. I am fine with being T-rooon for her). What do I intend to do now? (Haven't figured that out yet).

But I think an introduction is necessary. Some detail. How I met her, how I fell in love, all that.

Her name is Anuja. Anuja Gupta. Journalist with the Deccan Herald. Recently moved to Bangalore. And, and, can you believe, she's from Agra too. There were never girls like her in Agra when I was there. Or maybe it's just that I didn't know them. There were no girls like her on our Peepalmandi Road — that much I can tell you. These must be those snobbish Civil Lines girls.

But she is not a snob at all. She seemed genuinely interested. Alok had almost forced her upon me. 'Here, Anuja, meet Tarun. Very dear friend from college. He thinks the company of us arty kinds is not enjoyable at all'. 'Tarun, meet Anuja. You once said, I remember, that there has never been a pretty girl in your Agra since Mumtaz Mahal, so well, here's one.' 'OK see you soon'.

After apologizing for a couple of minutes — apologies seemed easy to do with someone so much younger and so much different from me — we got talking. Well, we basically spoke about Agra. About how the city was going to the dogs, where she had done her schooling (Welham Girls' Dehradun, imagine!), and I (St George's, a little sheepishly now, even though mine's a fine school), when did we go to Agra the last time et cetera. General stuff. But she seemed genuinely interested in everything I said. And she was very pretty. Very, very pretty. Short hair. Large earrings. Big, beautiful eyes. A hint of some kind of a videshi accent. Not American, or I would know. Every IT guy worth his salt can identify an American accent. Fine Hindi though. The few Hindi words that came into the conversation, were all nice 'theth' Agra. See, I am smiling to myself even thinking about it now.

There's this thing about her, you know. She looks at you so... what's the word... intently, when you talk. Or maybe it's just me. Maybe she only looks at me that intently when I talk. I would like to believe so.

She's not like the garden-variety high-society liberal. Who don't just believe, but are absolutely convinced that their views are the only right views and every alternate view, especially coming from someone who isn't obviously their kind, is based on either some kind of conservatism, or backwardness, or patriarchy. Any conversation with them is basically some kind of a police enquiry, like one is in some kind of a trial. There are too many of them in these kind of parties, Alok's parties. I have been to a couple of them earlier, they bore the life out of me.

This girl, though, Anuja Gupta. Talking with her was fun. She seemed fairly nonjudgmental. She would either listen, or talk, and keep it to the topic in hand, debating my points, but gently. Yes, her points of view were different from mine, but hey, I would like to believe that I am mostly a liberal too, and coming to the same point from two different places is not a crime.

You know what — with her I did not feel like an outsider. Talking to her was like talking to Alok or Sunetra. I could just be easy and share my point of view. And, of course, Alok and Sunetra have the advantage of knowing me since forever. They know who I am. This girl does not. Then? Then she is special.

You know, I was trying to think up topics that would make for decent conversation. Imagine me doing that. Forty-two year old me. Married for fifteen years me. Father of a teenager me. Behaving like some kind of a college-going lafanga. Bloody testosterone.

Well, that's where the uninteresting part comes in. I wish I could talk about something apart from Agra. Say, can I talk about politics? Say, Modi? Surely not. She is a journalist, she must know a lot more than I do. Or sports? Well, I can talk about Sachin. Can I? I really don't care much about sports. That's the problem with journalists. She must be knowing more about everything than me. She must be having good GK. Suppose I get exposed as a guy who does not know much, will she be talking anymore with me?

I wish I knew one thing really, really well, that this Anuja would also be interested in. What do I know? I know mainframe porting. I know mainframe porting really, really well. Even clients think I am an expert. But you cannot talk mainframes with Anuja Gupta, right? See the problem? I wish I had some talent, like Alok does. You know, talent gives confidence. Now I don't lack confidence normally. But when stakes such as these are involved, you will agree that it is a problem.

Does anyone know yet? Alok does. The fellow knows everything about me, I knew he would figure out immediately. I only left their place after 11 pm. Sunetra had specifically told me, 'You, Tarun bhai, you will be the last to leave. You have deserted us after we have started having these writer folks around. Today, you will stay'. And she is my muh-boli behen, so there was no question of saying no to her. And after most of the guests had left, Alok and I stood in the balcony with a smoke and a whiskey. Generally, we have two topics of conversation — the past days like how we were in college, how life had changed; or about the families. But today, like an idiot, I kept on asking this thing and that about this Anuja Gupta. In my defense, I had drunk a couple more pegs than I should have. But anyway.

So, after a few minutes, Alok takes a long drag of his cigarette, blows off the smoke towards the evening Bangalore, looks me straight in the eye, and says, 'Pyaar ho gaya tere ko.'

I go defensive and all, 'Kya saaley, bakwaas bak raha hai,' and such sorts, but he does not say a word. Continues looking at me, a tiny smile on his face, and after I have stopped blabbering, says, 'It happens, my friend, it happens. If you have lost the ability to fall in love, you have stopped being human'. And then, 'Ab kucch kaand na machaiyo, bass.' Told you he is a bloody poet. A sensible one, that's all.

But seriously, tell me this — what do you do when you fall in love? I don't know. I didn't have anything like that in college. Like, sure, I liked the look of this girl and that, but hey, going out and talking to girls and all, that was way out of the equation. The maximum I had done was thought of one of them in the shower while mas... But we will let that pass, I am a grown man now, not a boy anymore. And I don't write like that. I don't like writing like that.

Do I love Rachna? Of course I love Rachna. I cannot dream of living my life with any other person. She is perfectly suited to me. It's a feeling of absolute comfort being with her. She has been married to me for fifteen years now. I might say that I am irritated by her cribbing every morning about the neighbors, the bai, Jeetu, Jeetu's teachers, anybody else that takes her fancy, but heck, I had once been in a project in Chicago for six months, and I remember having missed those 'aisa hai na, ki...' stories to the brink of tears every morning.

And what will Jeetu think about his father, if he gets to know that I am in love with a woman who is about half my age? Disgusted? I don't know. Kids these days are surprisingly accepting of things. And my Jeetu is a fine boy. Sensible. He will probably just look at me kindly, wait till I finish, and then say, 'Two things, papa.' I love how he numbers and lists everything he says, 'Two things, papa. First, don't be a creep. To her. Second, don't be irresponsible. To us.'

He is just such a smart boy, my son.

END

#  Winds of Change

## \- Vanita Bodke

Vanita Bodke is a complete Mumbaikar at heart. Born and brought up in the city, now she works as a qualified marketing professional. She's also a doting mother to a toddler. She keeps herself engaged on social issues by being a prolific blogger, which is where the writer within her finds expression. She hones her writing through passion and practice, and aspires to be a published author in the near future.

She has written Winds of Change exclusively for UnBound.

___

Raksha came out, shutting the door behind her. Another person rushed in just then, crossing her and went inside. It made her uneasy — this was part of her daily routine and yet it never failed to make her feel uncomfortable.

She was now bordering on teenage, and the public toilet where she went every morning had begun to get on her nerves. The noise and odor around it would always give her headaches.

Raksha stayed in a chawl in Mumbai with her parents. Her father, Shankar Pathak, drove an auto that he didn't own. Her mother, Sumitra, was a housewife.

Raksha entered her 100 sq. ft. house. The house had a raised platform which acted as kitchen. A TV sat on a trolley on the right side of the door. A lot of things were kept outside as the house was getting smaller for three people with a fast-growing child. Janki Devi chawl was one of the oldest chawls in Mumbai. Spread over more than two acres, it was home to many aspiring families. One of them was Raksha's family. Raksha's father had bought that place when she was born. Today, the look on Raksha's face elucidated that she had outgrown this place. Sumitra understood it, and the recent developments gave her hope. The chawl committee was negotiating redevelopment proposals. If it came through, Raksha would get to stay in a building. It would free Raksha and many others from the agonies of cramped spaces.

Raksha bathed and was hurriedly having her breakfast, for she didn't want to be late for school again, when Kamla Ajji knocked on the door. Sumitra welcomed her.

Kamla Ajji burst in saying, "Have you heard?"

Sumitra smiled and offered tea. Kamla Ajji was in her late 60s and lived alone. Sumitra knew, on days when she either felt alone or felt like having tea with someone, she would knock on her door. Today, seemed like she wanted them both.

Kamla Ajji settled herself on a plastic stool and propped her cane beside her. She took small sips of the tea and then continued, "The winds of change are blowing quickly now. It is always the same though. They will fool you and you will all be displaced. There are never any free lunches, remember."

Raksha came forward and bowed to Kamla Ajji, who blessed her with her sarcasm, "Seems like you have a test at school today. Even otherwise, I am an invisible person to most."

Raksha looked at her mother who gave her a reassuring nod. Sumitra knew that Kamla Ajji didn't want to be displaced, but she had kids who lived in better places. Perhaps it was time that she joined them in status. Sumitra hinted at that. She said "Ajju's place is expansive; your grandkids are lovely too."

"I know what you are trying to say," retorted Kamla Ajji.

Raksha was already at the door when she heard the raised voice of Ajji. She knew that Kamla Ajji was cranky ever since she had arrived. But, now Ajji was taking her mom for granted, she didn't like it. Kamla Ajji said, "Who doesn't want to stay with their children? But my husband built the house for me, and he built it using his sweat and sacrificing his desires. Ajju can never understand how valuable it is to me."

Sumitra understood what Ajji said but that would mean the dream of a better house was posted several years further. Ajji wasn't ready for the shift. Raksha, who had heard this conversation hundreds of times, turned and left for school.

Raksha loved her school. It was large and reflected its Victorian legacy. It was spread over an acre of land with a huge playground. Raksha's school was among the oldest schools in the vicinity, though the crowd had been slowly diminishing over the past few years. It was an aided school. Its teachers, who had laid its foundation and nurtured it, were now growing old. Raksha was a fairly bright student and her teachers knew her well. Ms. Usha Nadkarni, who taught social sciences, was the favorite teacher of many students. She was Raksha's favorite too.

The murmur and noise in the class returned to a quiet demeanor once Usha miss entered the class. She rested her book on the table in front of the blackboard. She appeared young for her age, but she would retire in a year.

She addressed the class, "Today we will discuss about Independence of India in 1947. Tell me what you know about it, Shikha."

"Mahatma Gandhi was shot soon after Independence."

Usha miss didn't expect this respond, but unperturbed by the response, she continued, "Ravi?"

"India was divided into two countries after Independence," said Ravi.

Usha miss responded: "True. Is there anyone else?"

The answers begun to flow.

"Bhagat Singh was martyred in the struggle."

"Dr. Ambedkar wrote the Constitution."

"Pandit Nehru became the Prime Minister."

"Dr. Rajendra Prasad became the first President."

"Sardar Patel constituted states together to form one country," said another kid.

Raksha, however, was disinterested. The agonizing smell of the public toilet had returned to haunt her. The scene was reproduced in front of her — men in banians and towels queuing in front of men's toilet measuring the size of every girl and woman that passed by, and untidy and sweaty women who gazed at her appearance and spoke in hushed voices.

Without her knowledge, she placed her both palms on her forehead while the resting her elbows on her desk. She was caught unawares when Usha miss came and stood near her. She gently placed her hand on Raksha's head and asked, "Raksha, are you okay?"

Raksha was startled. She responded "Yes miss, I am okay."

Usha miss told Raksha's partner to offer some water to her. Then she returned to her desk and began, "Yes, all of you are correct and have so far understood it well." She paused and cleared her throat. "At the time of Independence, India grappled with political, economic, and social issues. Today we will discuss the social problems in India and in detail will look at poverty alleviation."

Usha spoke at length about the provisions in the Constitution's fundamental Right to Life. Raksha was all ears to Usha miss' captivating monologue. So were the others.

When class was over, Usha then called Raksha to the staffroom to help her in carrying the notebooks she had collected from the class. Raksha obliged.

Usha knew this age is sometimes difficult for teenagers, as peer pressures were very high. She motioned Raksha to sit. Then she said, "The class went well today. You were listening to the class intently. I like that about you."

Raksha stood there quietly. After a while, Usha dejectedly told Raksha that she could leave for her class.

Raksha and Sumitra always waited on her dad for dinner. Raksha was an avid reader. She was going through the material provided by Usha miss about the Independence of India. She was particularly reading about Right to Life which spoke about giving access to better life, hygiene and healthcare to its citizens. She pondered over it and then smiled at the irony of it. She shut her books and switched on the TV.

Raksha called out to Sumitra, "Mummy, do you think I can be a good actor?"

Sumitra knew these were formative conversations. She gently replied, "Why do you want to be an actor?" to which Raksha said, "We will get lots money. We can buy a new house. There is this student, Ravi in our class, who works in Marathi television serials. He earns a lot."

Sumitra did not pursue it. She knew the girl was upset and would burst out any moment. She quietly continued making her rotis as her husband Shankar would reach anytime.

Shankar was late today. He was two hours later than his usual time. He washed himself up and sat for dinner. This family time was loved and cherished by everyone. Both husband and wife interacted at length about their activities during the day. Being an auto driver, Shankar would have lots of anecdotes to share. However, the past few months had been different. They had been approached by a developer who would build them a new building for free and shift them to a transit camp for a year or two.

Though Shankar was not a member of committee, he actively participated. Shankar begun, "The committee's efforts are bearing fruit. We are hoping to get through this one. Since the past two years, they have been working very hard. It appears we will be able to commence the redevelopment."

Sumitra told Shankar about Kamla Ajji's visit and her aversion to the redevelopment. Raksha intervened, "Baba, does this mean we will get a new house to stay?"

"Yes, a new, big house with an inbuilt toilet. But for that your Kamla Ajji must consent."

Sumitra said, "Kamla Ajji has lived her whole life here. She was very young when she came here. All her memories are associated with this place. Her kids grew up here." Raksha however didn't understand all these things and that only made her angrier with Kamla Ajji as she had been the whole day.

As they retired to bed, Shankar said, "The old lady is drawing a lot of bad blood. Her rigidity will take her nowhere."

Raksha slept on the single cot which occupied considerable space in the house; it was also an officially allocated space for Raksha. At times it was their study table, dinner table, and playground as well. Sumitra lay on the floor beside Shankar. She almost shuddered in the morning when she, for a miniscule of a second thought that all would be well when Kamla Ajji dies. The thought left her restless. Sumitra loved Kamla Ajii. She recalled the time they had spent together.

She remembered how Kamla Ajji had told someone years ago in her welcome, "Munna, go get the aarti thaali. A new bride has come to our chawl." She had welcomed Sumitra with open arms. Sumitra had eloped with Shankar and never saw her parents after that. Shankar had initially rented the place, and two years later Raksha had arrived in their life. Ajji had played a pivotal role in their lives. Ajji had two kids of her own. Sumitra's arrival and their departure were timed perfectly. Ajinkya had moved to a larger space in suburbs. Though he dutifully visited her, she had been reluctant to move in with him. With all these thoughts, slowly sleep dawned upon Sumitra and the chaos in her mind began to fade.

The next morning Kamla Ajji arrived again. She appeared as though she had aged five years in a day. Raksha didn't acknowledge Ajji's presence in the house and went about conducting her morning activities, which included doing her own ponytails and keeping her books in the bag. Sumitra greeted her and went to prepare tea. Kamla Ajji's eye followed Raksha. She said, "Seems the exams are over."

Raksha was already irritated with her morning's gruesome visit to public toilet. It now seemed like there would be a short battle between the two. Sumitra began to feel the tension too. Raksha finally opened her mouth and said, "My exams won't start until next month. I touch your feet only out of respect."

Ajji was happy finally the girl had opened her mouth in her presence after so many days. She also understood something bothered her. She knew she would find it out soon. She began with a compliment, "Raksha, you have got a good voice."

Raksha saw red. Sumitra intervened to avoid confrontations, "Ajji, here's your tea. Raksha, aren't you late for school?"

Sumitra, though a very gentle woman, knew how to modulate her voice to be well-received by her audience. Both the parties here amicably withdrew. Ajji went back to sipping her tea and Raksha hurried to leave for school.

*****

At school, during a free period, Raksha went to meet Usha miss. There were other teachers in the staffroom and so Usha said, "Let's take a walk."

Raksha didn't know why she wanted to meet her teacher, but she felt much agitation within. She was like a ticking time bomb now. Raksha was a shy girl, she hardly spoke. Usha had no idea how she could break the ice with this girl. She seemed delicate and fragile.

As they neared Usha's class, the clock had begun to tick for both of them. When they reached, Usha took the notebooks she had told Raksha to carry for her. She said, "Sometimes all you have to do is ask." Raksha looked up at her puzzled.

Usha Madam said, "Let me ask you, Raksha. What is it troubling you? Why are you so much disturbed?"

Raksha's eyes welled, "It's Kamla Ajji, She comes home every morning, taunts me, thinks that I don't respect her. I don't like her anymore."

Usha knew this was just the tip of the matter. She stood patiently waiting for Raksha to speak. Once the tears were over, she begun to talk. "I don't like the place where I stay. Everyone stares at me and I feel like running away."

It hardly made any sense to her teacher. After a long pause Usha said, "Why don't you visit Kamla Ajji? Talk to her, not about your problem but to know why she is behaving with you in a particular way."

Raksha nodded. She heard what her teacher said but didn't really understand her.

*****

After returning from school, she thought about Usha miss' suggestion of visiting Kamla Ajji. Once she reached home, she went directly to the kitchen. Her hunger pangs were back and she needed to satiate her stomach. Sumitra was glad that her daughter's appetite had returned. She quickly made poha for her and Raksha gobbled it up as against her general habit of nibbling on food.

Sumitra said, "Slow down, or else you will vomit."

Raksha said, "I feel that I am hungry since ages. Mummy, can you pack some for Ajji? I will go and give it to her."

Sumitra was on seventh heaven now. Her daughter was chatting again in a long time, and to her delight, she was eating well too.

Kamla Ajji's house was always open. When Raksha arrived, she was standing at the door. It'd been quite some time since she had visited her house. Kamla Ajji's house was a real mess, much more than Raksha's own home. There was a small bed in Ajji's house which occupied most of the place. Raksha went and sat on it.

Kamla Ajji brought her inside. Raksha gave her the poha sent by her mom. Kamla Ajji asked, "Will you eat?"

"I had them already." Raksha looked around the house. There was a photo frame of Ajji's husband. She studied the year of death.

Ajji looked and said, "It's been a long time since he left us. Here, I will show you something," said Ajji.

She took out small sets of albums. There was a picture of Ajji and Baba together. Raksha thought that the smile on Ajji's face was contagious, and Baba might have had a tough time to keep his face stiff. She then took a look at other photographs. Ajju dada sitting in a chair, his naming ceremony, baba and Ajji with newborn Ajju dada. All these photos were taken in a photo studio then. Her eyes fell on a girl's photo. The photo Raksha referred to was family photo of Ajji's family. It was not older than 15 years. It was also one of the last photos with her husband. But more than that, this was the only photo of Kruti she ever had.

Ajji's eyes welled, "This is my daughter's photo. Her name was Kruti. She was like you, jumping around, playful, and a chatterbox." Ajji paused while Raksha looked on. Raksha wanted to know where Kruti was now. Ajji stood up. "There are many other photos. I will show you."

Ajji brought out a file and showed her collection of pictures from newspaper cuttings gathered over the years. She spoke about the memories while Raksha immersed in those photographs. There was Indira Gandhi, Nehru, Jamshed Tata, war machines and above all a scenic and a less-crowded Mumbai.

Ajji told her that Baba had this hobby of collecting newspaper photographs. They were hundreds of photographs; it was a treasure. These photos meant nothing to Ajji, except that they were memories of her husband and their time spent on Sunday. After a while, it grew quiet. Raksha looked up. Ajji was nowhere to be seen. She went to the door and looked in the passage. Ajji was not there.

She went to the neighboring house and asked, "Did you see Ajji?" and they shook their heads. She came back in the house and then found Ajji standing right there in front of her. Startled, she asked her, "Where were you?"

Ajji replied nonchalantly, "I was in the toilet."

Raksha said, "I didn't see you go out."

To which Ajji replied, "That's because I have a toilet in the bathroom."

Raksha asked excitedly, "Really?"

Ajji showed her. "Yes, right here."

It was all tiled, new, and an English-style commode. Raksha said, "It is good that you have one. You don't need to stand in queues anymore. You don't need bear that smell."

Raksha was still talking but in Ajji's head, there were echoes of Kruti's rebellious voice.

"This place is a dump, I don't want to live here. I will not marry in this same chawl."

Ajji was in her prime then, much too blinded by matters of pride and principles then. She quarreled with her daughter until the day she left her to never meet her again. Raksha was still looking at the toilet. Ajji, lost her balance and crashed on the bed while her stick fell beside. Raksha turned around and helped Ajji to rest on bed. Raksha offered a spoonful sugar and water to Ajji. This was taught to her by Sumitra .She looked at Raksha in her eyes, "From tomorrow, use this toilet. No need to visit the one there at the naka."

END

# Broken Wings

## \- Bhavik Sarkhedi

Bhavik Sarkhedi is the author of The Weak Point Dealer. He is a philosopher by nature and a mechanical engineer by profession. He is also a passionate lover of words and blogs as a hobby. His inspiration is M. S. Dhoni. He believes in living life with the motto: Follow your intuition. He is currently working on his second novel Will You Walk a Mile?

He has written Broken Wings exclusively for UnBound.

___

The car stopped with a squeal of brakes and the door to the left of the backseat got unlocked.

"Okay guys. Bye. Will see you tomorrow!" Mannat spoke in a pepped up tone, getting out of the car that was already stuffed with four other people inside it.

"Bye!" they all chanted in unison and Randheer drove them all off.

An elated smile occupied Mannat's face as she recalled the fun she had with Kiya, Randheer, Kunal and Faizan. After college, they had gone to movies and mall, for a random hang out. Being best of friends since the first year of college, the five of them never missed any chance to have a whale of time.

If anyone asked Mannat about her best chattels, she would ingeniously say, "My friends and my family!" and that too with a huge grin of pride and contentment. Being the only kid to her parents, Mannat had always been footloose and fancy-free. She had learnt to enjoy life as to her, life was too short to complain and demand!

"Good evening, mumma!" Mannat said chirpily, hugging her mother who was busy with her kitchen chores.

"Good evening beta! How was your day?" her mother asked indifferently, still absorbed in her work.

"It was great! We had lots of fun today!" Mannat said, taking out an apple from a fruit basket and biting it at once.

"We? The five of you?" her mother asked.

"Yes! They dropped me home, as it was a bit behind schedule." Mannat spoke, gnawing the apple.

"Oh! You should've called them in!" her mother retorted.

"Naah! They were all late! Next time! Well, mumma, I'm dog tired! And I won't be having dinner because I'm sort of stuffed. I'm going to change now!" Mannat spoke in a hurry and walked upstairs to her room. She relaxed for a bit by listening to music and reading her favorite book. Soon, she slept.

"Manu, till when do you have classes today?" Mannat's mother asked in a serious voice at breakfast.

"Till 4," said Mannat. She looked up at her mother, and asked, "Why?"

"No. Nothing. Be back by 4:30," her mother said and looked down into her plate.

"But why? Are we going somewhere?" Mannat asked abruptly, looking at her mother and then at her father, with quizzical eyes. Her father shook his head.

"See Mannat! We're noticing that you're getting too far away from studies. You need to stop wasting your time and reorganize your focus," her mother said. She seemed to be in a different mood that morning.

"Okay, mumma. But it's not that I don't study. I study in the nights," Mannat said.

"Do what is being told to you, Mannat. You children of this generation always think they're right."

Her mother's words ticked her off. "But mom..." she tried to say something but was cut off midway.

"Stop arguing, Mannat!" reprimanded her mother. "You're not a kid anymore that you can do what you like and no one will notice. You're a girl, all grown up! People have started observing your activities. We live in a society where decent girls are not meant to walk around in the streets with a bunch of stupid kids!" Mannat's mother reprimanded again.

Mannat was totally taken aback by her mother's behavior. Her words were a bolt from the blue. She was stunned for a while and stared at her mother and then she shifted her gaze to her father, who ate silently, agreeing with her mother's words.

"Whose language are you speaking, mom?" Mannat asked in a tone that was almost as curt as her mother's.. Her mother looked at her, offended. "Because this is not you!" she continued. "Someone has injected these lame things into your mind and now you speak like that person! My friends, whom you wanted to call in for a snack, yesterday are now a bunch of stupid kids for you? Tell me who told you all this nonsense?"

"Mrs. Mishra came complaining that she saw you near the mall behaving inappropriately with that Muslim guy! You were taking pictures and laughing foolishly in the streets. Is this how educated people behave? And don't you know how brutal the world has turned? You're a girl, Mannat. Learn to behave like one!" Mannat's mother asked with a firm gaze piercing her eyes.

Mannat listened to every word of her mother silently, and that gradually killed something inside her.

"Things have changed now! You're about to be graduated in a few months and you're not a kid anymore to behave wantonly in this manner. And society? You know what they call girls who do all sorts of FUN! They're all brutes out there, Mannat; they'll tear your spirit down with their taunts and banters. One wrong step and things could turn ugly! So better be cautious beforehand!" Her mother now spoke a little politely with her.

"Ugh! Mom! You sound like an uneducated person yourself! Give me a break!" Mannat yelled and walked out of the house in a fit of rage. Her agony needed to be vented out, and the only way out for her was her eyes. Tears welled up in her eyes and flowed down her cheeks, shattering her disbelief of having the coolest parents of all.

"You are not allowed to go out unless you have something important to do! I don't want people to point their filthy fingers at you!" Her mother gave her bold instructions in a feeble tone; yet it was amply clear to Mannat. She wiped off her tears and headed to college.

Days in college were no more fun as the only thing Mannat did was just attending the classes and returning back to home. She excused herself from every plan that her friends made because she never wanted to do anything that offended her parents. A sudden melancholy had occupied her life as her parents changed their behavior towards her. They were commanding and nosy to her. The two best possessions of her life, didn't seem to be as before, they changed!

"Mannat come here!" her mother called her, as she sat in the corner of the party hall unaided. She had accompanied her parents to a party hosted by her mother's friend. She walked towards her mother who was surrounded by a bunch of women, all dressed up in expensive sarees and jewelry.

"This is my sweet daughter Mannat!" her mother introduced her to those women and they smiled at her. Mannat joined her hands to wish them Namaste with a little bow.

"She's so pretty, Mrs. Sharma! I'm so sure Nikhil would love to meet her!" one of the women conversed. As soon as the woman's words got clearer to Mannat, she looked at her mother in amazement.

"Who is Nikhil?" she thought aloud.

However, her mother just nodded and smiled, agreeing to every word that the woman said. Mannat sensed something terrible coming up for her.

"Who was that lady, mumma? And who is Nikhil?" Mannat asked, agitated.

"That is Mrs.Mehta, my kitty friend and Nikhil is her son. Out of the blue, today we realized our children are at a marriageable age, and ended up thinking Nikhil and you could make an amazing couple." Her grinned ear-to-ear as she spoke. She was evidently quite proud and elated at her plan, but to Mannat it only sounded sinister.

"What about me? You never asked me what I feel about this!" Mannat spoke in a low tone, she felt as if she would just break down.

"Beta! Your graduation is about to get finished. You'll have to marry someone eventually.:

"Mumma I want to follow my dream! You, over everyone else in the whole world, know how badly I want to become an architect!" Mannat said. The tone of rebellion was evident in her voice.

"Mannat! Why do you always have to oppose everything I say?" her mother said firmly.

"Because you have changed, mumma! Just because Mrs. Mishra comes one day and tells you that I was behaving inappropriately, you lost all your faith and trust in me and your upbringing. You've forbidden me from living as I want, just because I'm a girl and I need to think about everyone around me, regardless of what their mental setup is. I have to think twice before making myself happy because that could probably make society unhappy! I'll have to marry some random guy and give birth to his children because I'm a girl, mumma? I'm bound to do these things. Society has set the limits for me; how can I cross them? And the best thing is, my parents are a part of this society!" Irritation was rife in her voice now, and tear drop slithered down the corners of her eyes.

Her mother fell silent. She didn't think it was an appropriate time to argue with her daughter, but she believed that Mannat would agree to marry Nikhil, sooner or later.

Late that night, Mannat sat near a huge picture window in her room, peeking outside at the stars and the moon. Tears had made her face wet and her eyes were red and swollen. She sobbed in silence, one worse feeling after another hitting her time and again. Seeing her dreams getting crushed in front of her by her own parents was a terrible feeling, but she could never blame them; they were just walking the talk. They were following what was prevalent in the society. But the worst sufferer was her, and only because she was a girl. She kept sitting there the whole night, as her thoughts kept drowning her spirit of living life to the fullest and enjoying. But in the morning, she got up, determined to change things.

"When are the campus recruitment interviews scheduled?" Mannat asked over the phone as soon as Faizan picked her call.

"Next week!" Faizan replied in his sleepy tone.

"Okay!" Mannat said and disconnected.

She promised herself that she would prove herself. She worked like a Trojan day in and day out, in the college library and at home. Within a week, she gathered everything that she could to capably answer every single question at every single interview board.

The Interviews

Three out of four interviews went well for her. She sat in front of the last interview board who were throwing the toughest questions at her, but she was strong and prepared enough to tackle them smartly and tactfully.

At the end of the interview, one of the board members asked,

"So, Miss Mannat! Tell us — why do you want this job?" he asked with a smile.

Mannat took a pause as she looked into the man's eyes. She smiled lightly and replied, "Sir! I want this job because I don't want anything or anyone to crush my dreams!" she kept smiling. The board members replied her with smiles and asked her to leave.

The interview results were announced and Mannat was offered three out of the four jobs she gave interviews for. That was her greatest call; she now had to choose the best. Her friends went crazy and asked for treats but she told them to wait. Every teacher of hers was proud of her. The principal of the college himself called her and congratulated her. He called her father and told him the happy news as well.

As soon as Mannat reached her home, her parents welcomed her warmly, but she couldn't even smile at them. She wasn't happy with her achievements but she was content that somehow, though at a very little level, she had proven her mark.

That night, in her room, Mannat again peeked out of her picture window. In those days, only the moon and the stars seemed to be her best companions as they were so patient to listen to her sorrow that had seeped into her soul because she had witnessed an ugly face of life, like any other girl of the society. But she was proud of herself that she didn't take it any other way and let things spoil her, but she worked hard to prove herself, to prove her capabilities and to prove that being a girl, marriage wasn't the only option after graduation. She smiled through the storm of her thoughts that had stirred her up and through that smile, tears made their way. The tears that were a blend of many emotions.

After Two Years

Mannat sat on the chair reserved for her and by her side sat her father and mother. She gazed blankly at the huge stage where the curtain rose slowly.

She thought of her journey of two years to that hall and that event in which she was sitting. She would just smile every now and then, thinking of how life changes and how things start to push you into doing something for yourself because nothing can be achieved by going easy.

"And today, we all are gathered here to honor this woman who has exceptionally amazed the world around her by her exquisite work in the field of architecture. Just two years in this technical field and she has achieved these heights. It gives me great pleasure to invite this very special woman of the evening, Ms Mannat Sharma, to accept this award of youngest achiever of the year! A huge round of applause for the lady!" one of the chief guests spoke with great zeal as he did the honors.

Mannat felt like a sweet sound of rain playing in her eardrums when she heard the applause that had surrounded her. She looked at her parents — they felt so proud and honored themselves. Her mother had damp eyes and a smile, the feeling behind which can never be described by a mother.

Mannat walked to the stage elegantly making her way to the stage. All eyes were on her and as soon as she received the award, the applause multiplied.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!" Mannat spoke as soon as she reached the podium. A silence prevailed in the entire auditorium.

"It makes me feel super euphoric to receive this prestigious award this evening. Things like this happen rarely!" she spoke and giggled gracefully.

"I would just like to say that, please, give women a chance to prove themselves. And this message is for the entire society that we live in. We are a part of the society too and we deserve to be treated equally because contrary to this, girls are always forbidden, banned and punished when they want to live a life of freedom. Their blooming dreams are crushed and they are made aware of the fact that in the eyes of the society, they are just meant to be suppressed. But that is never true, it's just the matter of mentality. If we crush their little dreams, we'll not be able to know what they're worth for. We'll not be able to know that they're capable to swoop thousands of these." She held her award aloft. The applause filled the ambiance once again.

"Thank you very much!" she said, smiled, and walked down.

Her parents looked at her with moistened eyes as they finally found out that they were wrong!

# If There Was a God

## \- Vishal Sah

 Vishal Sah is the author of 'First Love Matters... So Does the Second'. He is a 20-year-old student from Nainital. He completed his schooling from Sacred Heart School, Haldwani. Currently he is pursuing his Bachelors' Degree from the Banaras Hindu University at Varanasi. He is a prolific blogger, cricket lover, sports enthusiast, and loves travelling and music. He also has a Computer Hardware Engineering degree from TATA CMC. He loves campus novels and is fond of reading while traveling. He is active on Facebook. His official page is www.facebook.com/authorvishal or follow him on twitter at www.twitter.com/Vishal_Author. To follow his blog visit www.authorvishalsah.blogspot.in and you can mail him at authorvishalsah@gmail.com.

He has written If There Was a God exclusively for UnBound.

___

When I was a child, I used to have a favorite hiding spot in my home. My mother would ask me to hide under the bed of our living room.

"Close your eyes and count till hundred, then come out and find mommy, okay?" that's what she used to tell me. I sometimes used to count only till fifty or seventy and start finding my mother. Sometimes I found her sitting in the corner of the kitchen, crying silently; and sometimes I saw her on her bedroom, trying to hide the bruises on her skin. My mother always used to tell me that God had punished her because I didn't count to hundred completely.

"Please God, don't punish my mommy. I promise I will count to hundred." I would pray to the Almighty and would count till hundred. But still, I would find my mother crying in pain, trying to hide her blemishes on her skin from me. I was confused—why was God punishing mother even after I counted completely every time? Was I counting it wrong? For years, I blamed myself for the miserable condition of my mother. But one day, I saw something—I saw him, shouting at my mother and slapping her again and again. She begged him to leave her alone, but he never listened. He was my father.

*****

"It's been more than 25 years, mom. Why don't you leave him?" I asked my mother one day when she was busy preparing gajar ka halwa for me. A perk of being home after a long time—is that you get to eat whatever you want, and that too homemade.

"Why do you ask me the same question every time?" she asked in return, without showing any signs of aggravation on her face. She was now used to it—the beating and the curses that she got to hear every single day since she had refused to ask her father for more money as an 'investment'. Nanaji had already given my mom everything they had including the house that he had kept on mortgage just to help his son-in-law for the new business he wanted to invest in. But neither had his business succeeded, nor had he fulfilled the promise he gave to Nanaji that he would get the house released in a year. Eventually Nanaji couldn't pay the debt and he had to move out and shift in a rented house.

"Because every time I come home, I find you in a worse condition. He is a monster, mom. I can't leave you with him anymore. You have suffered enough. Come to Mumbai." I held her hand and told her. I could still see the cuts and marks on her wrists.

"It is nothing, they are just temporary." She said when she saw me looking at her hands.

"But the pain is permanent. I don't want you to live in this pain when you could live a better life in Mumbai mom." I pleaded. My mother sent me to an engineering college as soon as I passed out from my school. She clearly didn't want me to rot in that hell along with her, so she had sent me to Mumbai—far, far away from the shadow of my father, far away from her and far away from Delhi. We were a lower-middle class family so most of my college fees I paid were from scholarship money. Since I had no choice other than to study hard for years, I ended up bagging a pretty good job in a reputed MNC in Mumbai. I had my own flat, my own car and a servant. Being nerdy has its own benefits.

"We live in a society dear and I think you are old enough to realize that what the people will say if I do something like that." My mother looked at me and gave me a smile, a mirthless smile to be precise. She was an 'ideal woman' for our mediocre society. She was supposed to leave her studies, kill her dreams, marry some stranger her parents thought could become her soul mate, and live a married life, no matter what. She was fulfilling these criteria pretty well by now.

"People are supposed to say bad things about you when you do something which they think are 'out of the norm'. But you don't have to worry about people. They will shift to some another topic as soon as they find one." I said and tried to convince my mother once again.

"You know that isn't going to happen. God is watching all of us. Sinners will be answerable to God one day." She replied. I saw her eyes, they were moist now. She talks about God, sins and other things but she too knew that if there was a God, then probably she wouldn't have to suffer like this.

"Do you really think that there is a God, mother?" I asked. "I don't think there is, because if there was one, then you don't have to get beaten everyday by your husband, You don't have to live your life like a living corpse, You don't have to live with my father, that monster...I wish he would be dead by now." My voice was now raised. She knew I was right, but the 'society' didn't let her accept that.

"Your father might come home anytime. I think you should go to your room." She changed the topic immediately and got busy once again with her kitchen chores.

"He's not my father. He is just a man whom I unfortunately share my DNA with." I replied. She looked at me but said nothing. I left.

*****

I was still in my room when I heard the sound of the door bolt open. He was home. I was told by my mother not to interact with him unless it was very important as we both always ended up fighting. Our ideologies never meet. He always believed that women should be the ones sacrificing for the man of the family—let it be her ambitions, her dreams, her life, even her surname. But I always thought differently. I always supported the freedom of women to which he always used to say that "If women were meant to do other things, God wouldn't have created men." This was the level of ridiculousness my father had in his mind towards opposite sex. That was the reason my mother sent me to Mumbai just as soon as I passed out from school.

"Radhika...RADHIKA, where the hell are you?" I heard my father shouting for my mother.

"I am here." mother replied to him.

"Did you ask your father for the money?"

"No, and I won't because he already helped us as much as he could." My mother's voice was heavy now.

"What do you mean you won't ask? You have to... I am ordering you." My father told my mother. With his tone being louder with every word, I sensed that he came home drunk—just like most of the times when I lived here.

"My father has helped you in every way possible." My mother said in disbelief. "He now lives in a rented house and you still want money from him? Don't you have any humanity left inside, Sushant?" she said in disbelief.

"Now you will teach me, haan?" I heard my father saying these words which were followed by two sounds of slaps. I could hear my mother beginning to sob. I couldn't take it anymore so I rushed out of my room and stood in front of my father.

"How dare you to talk to my mother like that?" I shouted at him in full rage. I saw my mother who was still signaling me not to engage with my father and leave the room.

"This is none of your business." he said and approached once again towards my mother.

"She is my mother and I won't let anyone abuse her like this." I replied and grabbed his hand firmly.

"Leave me you scoundrel, I am your father." He tried freeing himself from my grip but you can't expect a 50 year old drunkard to get rid himself from a healthy 20 year old boy's grip.

"You lost that privilege a long time ago." I replied, still not letting go of his hand.

"Leave him son, please." My mom said who was standing at some distance, trying to absorb all the things which were happening at that time.

"But mom..."

"LEAVE HIM." she yelled and started crying. I couldn't see her crying so I left his hand but as soon as I did that, he grabbed my hair and landed several slaps right on my face.

"DO NOT ever try to come between me and my wife, you rascal." he said and walked towards mother. She was still crying, but he dragged her to his room and closed the door. I could hear the sounds of beating and my mother pleading with him to leave her, and with every passing moment the sounds became more prominent. I was blank and didn't know what to do. I stood there numb, trying to absorb all the things happening at that time. I stood there, dumbfounded. I felt weak, I felt defeated. But most of all I felt disappointed—disappointed by the fact that I happen to be the son of such a man who treats her own family like slaves, disappointed by the fact that my mother still wanted to save her marriage irrespective of how much cruelty she has to bear. After some moments, the abusing stopped, and what left was the sound of my mother crying. There was no God, for sure.

*****

"Can't you stay back for a few more days?" mother asked me even as she helped me pack my bags. I looked at her. Her face was still swollen, her eyes moist, and her hands had become purple due to the swelling and bruising. I could see regret in her eyes—for choosing such a life, and helplessness that she could do nothing about it but she was wrong. All she had to do was to stand up against the injustice and step out from the cubicle of 'what will people?'

"I can, but I won't. I don't want to rot in this hell for one more second." I told her coldly. Probably she sensed the disappointment in my voice and that's why she didn't say anything.

"It's not completely your fault either. It's the society, the culture, that I want to blame. It has always restricted women from taking a stand, from fighting for their self-respect, and always encouraged us men to rule over the women and become dominant. So it's okay for you to be with him and be a victim of this domestic violence for the rest of your life." I told her, hoping to ignite something in her, something which could encourage her to stand against the wrong, but all I got was silence—disappointing, unhappy silence.

There were still 4 hours left for my flight, so I decided to take a quick nap in my room. When I woke up, I heard voices from the other room. They were fighting again. My father was calling her names and was abusing him that she was a useless creature and other things, to which my mother only responded with her sobbing and crying. I got up and walked towards their room.

"Atleast have some fear of God, he is watching all of us. For God's sake, leave me alone, please." my mother said to him when I entered in their room. I saw my father with a belt in his hand and my mother was lying on the floor, trying to defend herself from the leather.

"What the hell are you doing here? I told you not to interfere in our personal matter." He asked me. I said nothing.

"YOU, you asked him to come right? Tu ruk jaa." He said to my mother and once again started to beat her with the belt.

"Please leave me." My mother begged in front of him but he didn't stop. I stood there for some more time, with rage and disappointment growing inside of me with every passing second. I wanted to grab his neck, push him towards the wall and bang his head against the wall, again and again, I wanted to beat him to death by the same belt which he held, I wanted him to pay for his cruelty and brutality that he was showering from years, I wanted him to feel the same pain that my mother felt for the last 2 decades...but I didn't want to do all this myself, I wanted my mother to do it for herself. She kept looking at me, hoping that I would help her but I didn't.

"You don't have to bear this." I said and left the room. As I was walking away, the crying of my mother kept increasing more and more and the cursing from my father kept going on till something happened. I heard a loud 'thud' sound from the room, and a long silence followed that sound. I knew something terrible had happened so I quickly rushed towards their room and found my mother standing with a metal vase in her hands and my father was lying on the floor, almost unconscious. She had hit him—that's right, she hit him with a vase.

"I don't have to bear this." My mother said and looked at me. Father was still lying on the floor, crying in pain and holding his bleeding forehead. I looked at mother who was still standing there, repeating 'I don't have to bear this' every time she looked at him.

"He is unconscious. We should call an ambulance." I said to her and was dialing the number but she stopped me and said.

"Let him suffer a little, he won't die. People like him don't die that early." She said and kept the vase on its own place. It was the first time in my life that I saw my mother fighting against him. That was the day I realized everything happens for a purpose. I looked at her and smiled, she was still looking at my father and kept saying those six words—'I don't have to bear this.'

"You don't have to bear this." I said and hugged her. I felt relief.

# Freedom and Feardom

## \- Reena Saxena

Reena Saxena has this to say about herself, which beautifully encapsulates who she is:

Who am I? Where have I come from? Where am I going? What do I do? What I do, or do not have? I gave up seeing myself through these filters, sometime ago. All that matters is that I am on a life-changing journey of carving out the best pieces of myself, honing them to perfection, and finding ways of enhancing other lives through it – all while remaining true to my core values.

She has written Freedom and Feardom exclusively for UnBound.

I think, therefore, I am free.

Thought is not an expression. You cannot curtail it.

Thought is not a body. You cannot imprison it.

Thought is not conduct. You cannot discipline it.

Thought is not wealth. You cannot snatch it.

Thought is not a house. You cannot evict it.

I work, therefore, I am free.

The world is a riddle. You can solve it.

The world is an idea. You can conceptualize it.

The world is a process. You can execute it.

The world is geography. You can travel across it.

The world is history. You can excavate it.

I visualize, but am I free?

Intangible as energy, weightless beyond gravity,

A sage dreamt – "Where the mind is without fear..."

But missed the body that is fuelled by tangibility.

It was a plea to God

Who ironically created the anti-gods.

Fear is hunger. You can create it.

Fear is poverty. You can impose it.

Fear is insecurity. You can spread it.

Fear is society. You can influence it.

Fear is pain. You can inflict it.

Freedom is release from an agliophobic mind.

I fear pain, therefore, I am not free.

# Ahalya

## \- Aindrila Roy

Primarily a horror and fantasy writer, Aindrila Roy has published a couple of movie reviews in the MONSTER! magazine. Her first standalone horror novel is in the works and is set to publish soon.

She has written Ahalya exclusively for UnBound.

___

As the sands of time passed by, I waited. Trapped in my prison, I awaited my freedom. Absolution from a crime I had not committed. I sat there, alive merely in spirit, watching the world go by even as I remained hidden from its eyes. Imprisoned for a transgression I wasn't guilty of. If a transgression was committed, it was against me. But such was justice that I was punished. I was wronged by one man, punished by another and waited to be freed by a third, a woman shackled by the rules of a man's world. I am Ahalya.

I was born, no, that wouldn't be the right way to describe my coming into existence. Let me start anew. I was created by the Parampita, the creator of the universe, Brahma. He created me from the pure energy that is imbued in everything alive. Bit by bit, with great effort, he molded me to be the most beautiful woman ever. And, if I maybe allowed a moment of unabashed truthfulness, beautiful I am. A small round face, adorned with eyes so black, one wondered if Brahmadev borrowed them from midnight. A long, sculpted nose perched atop lips soft and red as a crimson rose on bloom. Dark, long tresses surround my face like thick clouds surrounding the full moon.

If there is was a sin I was guilty of, it was pride. I loved the person who looked back at me when I peered into a pool. So enamored was I with my beauty that I couldn't stand the thought of it being despoiled in anyway. I decked myself in flowers, lined my eyes with kohl and applied a scented oil so I wouldn't reek of sweat. Little did I know that it was this very beauty that would become my biggest curse. And that was my first mistake.

I lived with Parampita till such time that I was eligible for marriage. Parampita organized a contest, the winner of which would win my hand in marriage. He declared that the first being to go around the three worlds (Swarga, Bhulok and Patala) would be the one I would be married to. Many devas and asuras tried but it was Maharishi Gautama who was declared to be the winner. According to Narad muni, the Maharishi had circumambulated the wish-bearing cow Surabhi while it was giving birth, as a part of the puja, making the cow equal to three worlds. This was in accordance with the vedas and so Parampita agreed. Even though it did feel like a bit of a cheating to me, I didn't have a choice but to accept. As a woman, I didn't have much say in the matters of my marriage. Unbeknownst to me, another suitor had completed the task and had approached Parampita for my hand in marriage. But he was rejected because by that time, I was already married.

Maharishi Gautama was an ascetic in the truest sense of the word. He spent his time praying and meditating. He was completely devoted to Lord Vishnu and loved him with every pore of his being. As his dutiful wife, I too spent my time praying, meditating, cleaning and serving those rishis and travelers who stopped by the hermitage. I even begot two dutiful, wise sons and was quite content with my life.

On hindsight, my downfall began on that day. A beautiful, bright day of the Shraavana month. It had been raining continuously for days and the earth was celebrating. Everywhere the eyes saw, it was lush green dotted with brightly colored flowers. The Godavari River was dancing, the nectar of life bubbling along its path, blessing everything it touched. Having finished my ablutions, I was sitting by its banks, weaving flowers in my hair. Even after all these years, I had not stopped this one ritual. My vanity wouldn't allow it. It was then that an unfamiliar, masculine voice startled me.

"Harken my voice, O beautiful one. I come to you with a query."

Hastily I stood up, covering my head with my pallu, "O traveler, pardon me for I cannot suitably answer your questions. My learned husband and lord, the rishi Gautama would be able to answer any query that you may have. The hermitage is nearby. Please hasten there."

I began to hurry to the hermitage but the man called after me, "But beautiful one, I come to you. Perhaps you have not recognized me?"

I paused and turned a little and looked at him in askance. My eyes beheld a man of majestic stature, decked in resplendent finery and a bejeweled crown sitting atop his head. I had never seen him before, "Do I know you?"

"My ethereal maiden," the man cried. "I am none other than Devraj Indra, the King of the Gods."

Instantly I bowed, folding my hands in welcome of my esteemed guest, "Forgive me Devraj, for I did not recognize you."

"Oh please do not beg for forgiveness, my dear Ahalya."

"Devraj, please come to our hermitage and bless it with your august presence."

"No devi," Indra replied. "I would have to regretfully decline your generous offer. I do however have a favor to ask of you."

I frowned. What could the King of Gods want from an ascetic like me? "How can I be of any help to you?"

"Ahalya, my fair maiden, mayhap you are unaware, but I was the first being to actually go around the three worlds. Rishi Gautama won your hand based on a mere technicality. I was the one that truly completed the task. I should be the one –"

"Devraj! I'm a chaste woman. I shouldn't even be hearing these words for it is tantamount to blasphemy. I suggest you leave before my lord comes looking for me and finds you here. He is quick to anger and not easy to placate. He would not listen to reason and will curse you for your insolence, not that I will try to stop him in any way."

With that proclamation, I turned around and walked away, ignoring Indra's impassioned calls after me. When I returned to the hermitage, still seething from Indra's insolence, I had planned to tell my husband everything immediately. But when I stepped inside, something entirely unexpected was waiting for me. My younger son, Nodha had fallen down a tree and hurt his leg badly. It was bleeding and I got busy cleaning the wound. So engaged was I in tending to my son that Indra and his little insolence was forgotten. And therein lay my second mistake.

Days passed and I got engrossed in my work and meditation. It was the month of Kartika and it was getting colder. The air was abuzz with a multitude of insects, each vying just that much harder to be heard over the din. My sons had gone to pick up some fruits and vegetables and my lord had gone for his ablutions. Alone in the ashram, I was cleaning when a shadow fell across the floor. Looking up I saw my lord standing at the door. Perhaps it was the way the sun was hitting him, but he looked radiant.

"My lord!" I exclaimed in surprise. "I thought you were away for your ablutions."

"I finished," he answered shortly. "Ahalya, come to me, my love. I thirst for you."

To be honest, I was a little taken aback by his sudden change but I was happy. I had been craving his attention and love for a while but so engrossed was he in his meditation that he had no time for our conjugal relations. It had been years since I had felt his touch and so I brushed aside the rather irrational doubt I had about the sudden change in him and rushed into his embrace. We had a little window before our sons came by.

My lord showered me with passionate kisses and I responded with equal fervor. He stepped into the ashram and closed the door behind him, not breaking our contact even once. Every spore in creation seemed to sing as we celebrated our union. In my lord's arms, I felt loved, needed and complete. There was nothing more I could want or ask for.

However, as soon as our coupling was done, he seemed to dress in a hurry, casting furtive glances everywhere. "My lord," I asked, straightening my hair and arranging my clothes. "You seem worried."

"N-no, nothing like that," he answered rather hastily. "It's just that our sons would be here soon. I want to be dressed before they come."

I agreed and was just tidying myself up when an utterance stopped me cold on my tracks. My lord was calling me, only not from within the hut, but from outside. I looked at my lord standing next to me and couldn't help but notice how stricken he looked. A tiny sliver of panic germinated in me as I began to wonder what kind of maya was this. My heart was beating so loudly that I could hear it. With one last glance at my strangely terrified looking lord, I went forth and opened the door, still a little disheveled from the coupling.

My lord stood outside, a terrible wrath etched in the lines of his wizened face. But my lord also stood inside, his face waxen and ashen. What was going on? What terrible maya was this? I stood at the threshold, caught between light and dark, unable to comprehend what was happening.

"Show yourself, imposter!" the one standing outside demanded. "Who despoils my home and my wife with his filth?"

The man inside trembled, his eyes darting hither and thither, as if looking for an exit. This man was not my lord, he couldn't be. The severity of what had happened came crashing down on me and everything in front of me went black. When I came to, I was lying on the ground, my still seething lord was staring at someone standing behind me. I sat up, weakened from my fall and turned to look at what my lord was seeing. No longer was I staring at the doppelganger of my lord but at a face I had never expected to see.

"Devraj?" I gasped. The one meeting by the river came back to me and I now understood everything.

"You know him?" the accusation in my lord's voice cut me deep. "How long has this been going on for?"

"My lord," I cried and ran up to him. I fell prostrate on his feet. "I'm innocent. I have only met him once before. And he came disguised as you. I didn't recognize –"

"And you call yourself a chaste woman?" my lord screamed. "What woman doesn't know the difference between the touch of her lord and another man?"

Tears streamed down my eyes as I tried to explain, "I didn't recognize him, my lord. Please, have mercy on me. I made a mistake."

"You have dishonored me and your creator, Parampita Brahma. That is not a mistake, woman. That's an offence! And for that I curse you."

"No my lord!"

Ignoring me he continued, "I curse you that as the sun sets on this day, your conscious will remain within you but your body, the one you are so proud of will be turned into a stone."

"No my lord!" I cried, begging at his feet. "I am begging you, please have mercy! I am ever your chaste wife. I did not willingly or knowingly allow another man to touch me. I thought it was you my lord. Devraj deceived me. I'm blameless here."

"And you Indra," my lord said, ignoring me. "You I curse with a thousand rebirths in the human world."

Indra merely bowed accepting his curse and disappeared. I was however left crying at my lord's feet. "My lord," I implored. "Please, have pity on me. I am your dutiful wife. The one who has stood by you through thick and thin. I am the mother of your sons, the one who has loved you beyond all else. Please, have mercy!"

I believed my pleas fell on deaf ears but then my lord sighed, "Fine. I will show you mercy. I can't take the curse back, but I can reduce the time. You will be relived of your curse in Treta yuga when Lord Vishnu takes avatar as Shri Ram. Only with the touch of his lotus feet will you become a woman again."

I touched my lord's feet again, "Your mercy is infinite my lord."

That day I sat hugging my sons and crying for it was the last time I was going to see them. My lord wouldn't talk to me, wouldn't even look at me. I was cursed. Forced to endure a punishment that was disproportionate to my crime. But the dutiful wife in me couldn't oppose to it. I accepted the verdict with my head bowed. As the sun dipped in the horizon, I saw my own body stiffen and turn to stone. Since then I have waited. For sixty thousand years.

Sixty thousand years is a long time. Time enough for resentment to build within one's mind. And I truly resented everything that had happened to me. What was my fault? That I couldn't see through Indra's deception? I did not feel a difference between his touch and my lord's because it had been years since my lord had touched me. Was my crime so great that it merited a punishment this severe? If anyone was at fault, it was Indra, not me. He knew what he was doing was wrong and yet he went ahead with the deception. I was not to be blamed. I was the one wronged. It was my honor that was vilified. And I was punished.

Anger. Resentment. Madness. Loneliness. Sadness. All emotions churned within me for eons, driving me to the precipice of insanity and back. Over and over again I lived through that one day, each time wondering where I went wrong. What was my fault that earned me a punishment so harsh? Finally the day came. The day of my freedom.

I sensed his presence for the Earth thrummed with a music that would be unheard to human ears. Birds chirped louder than ever, the air sang and the leaves danced. Mother Nature was celebrating for the Palanhar was here. I knew it and for the first time in my imprisonment, I smiled.

The sixty thousand years I'd spent as a stone seemed like mere moments compared to the few moments that I had to wait for Shri Rama to come, listen to maharishi Vishwamitra narrate my story and for him to touch me with his feet. There aren't enough words in any language or in human comprehension that can describe what it felt like when the stone form collapsed and I emerged as a human again. I took a deep breath of air, my first in years, and exhaled. I had to relearn the sensation of breathing. I had waited for this moment for so long. Thought, practiced, rehearsed everything that I planned to say. And I did have a lot to say.

With my hands folded, I knelt before Shri Rama and touched his feet, "My savior. O Lord. O benevolent one. Even a thousand thanks would not be enough. You have freed me."

"Rise Ahalya," he said, his voice music to my ears. "You have earned your freedom. Your punishment far exceeded your crime. It was time you were freed of your curse."

Was it possible that a man understood my pain? Of course it was. This was Lord Vishnu, in his manav avatar. He knew, he understood. He would know what I truly wanted and he could grant it to me. But I couldn't frame my words. What was I to say? Trapped in the stone, it had been easy to think up of things I would say but now, standing in front of the Shri Rama, I couldn't find the words to articulate my deepest desire.

Not for nothing was he the Palanhar of the world. He knew. A small smile danced on his beautiful, dark face, "Ahalya, your plight has touched me mahabhaga, the unfortunate one. Ask for a boon. Ask for something and I will grant you."

Tears streamed down my face. Tears of joy. For the first time, a man understood me, "My Lord! You know my pain. All my years of imprisonment have not been in vain. All I ask Lord, is free me."

Shri Rama's brother Lakshamana looked at me in askance, "Free you? But devi he has already freed you."

Shri Rama smiled, "Not really. This isn't the freedom she wants. Am I right Ahalya?"

I nodded. The flood of tears wouldn't stop, "I want to be freed of this body, Lord. There is no honor in this world for a woman. I wish to leave this world and be free of its rules."

The ever benevolent smiled, "Tathastu."

I folded my hands and stood in front of him, his smiling visage the last thing I saw before I disintegrated into pure energy. I was free.

END

# How I Became a Freedom Fighter

## \- Kapil Kumar

Kapil Kumar is a student pursuing his graduation. He lives in Bareilly in Uttar Pradesh, India. This young writer plans to make his debut soon with the autobiography of a fictional character titled How I Became a Freedom Fighter. The book details an event from Abhay Raj Pant's childhood which inspired him to participate in the Indian freedom struggle.

This story, which is Kumar's first published work on a recognizable platform, features in the second chapter of his book which bears the same tilte.

___

Well, honestly I never understood why these men of my clan who carried cartridges on their waist and guns in their hands were always aggressive.

Being the son of the headmaster of the only school in my town, I was treated in an environment full of intellectuality. Excluding my mother and my grandmother, everyone in the Pant family had good knowledge of the social sciences and astrology.

In my blurred childhood memories, I remember my father talking about some East India Company. Well, you do not need me to elaborate what that meant to a seven-year-old kid.

So one fine morning, my father was approached by a villager (as far as I can remember it was the landlord of our town).

"Upadhyay ji, do come in. Have a seat sir!" My dad invited him to sit on the smooth handmade mattress.

"How come you are here, Upadhyay ji?" my father asked him as he took his seat. "Are the firangis bothering you? I read yesterday's Gazette. Some kind of land revenue bill has been passed in the Assembly. What is that about?" Then, he told my bua to prepare some tea for this not-so-impressive guest who spoiled my Sunday morning.

"They are not firangis, Master ji, they're monkeys. Like, seriously, they can snatch everything they can lay their eyes on, even things from your hands! Now... now... they've a new weed to get high on..." At this point, Upadhyay broke into a cough. It was a relief to be now sheltered from the rain outside. He sipped on the tea that had been brought to him.

"And what's that? Are you referring to yesterday's news headline?" My father copied his actions, except the cough.

"Yes, absolutely. These goras are getting hungrier with each passing day. We can do nothing but plead with them to spare our land. And that's why am here. If you are free, Master ji, please write an affidavit for me. I've to submit it by this evening in the Viceroy's office. It won't take much time." Upadhyay emphasized on the last sentence, but he sputtered, and spilled his tea over the table.

My father didn't mind that. In any case, who would have minded such a petty mistake when they were getting fifty kilograms of wheat in return? So what if it was colonial India? Hypocrisy wasn't an alien concept.

But the only thing that fascinated me, even when I heard all my friends talking about freedom and patriotism, were my plans to earn money.

Money was the only thing that I loved to have; more than freedom I loved talking about money, and sharing thoughts about money.

And I was always chasing some monetary deal or another, until an incident happened.

A group of the goras on horses burned down the only school in my town. The school was the only source of livelihood for father and the only way of learning for my brothers.

My father came home, devastated and injured, and he sat on the cot and called me,"Abhay, bring me some water."

"Alright pita ji," I said.

After fetching water for him, I tried to read his face for the first time. I saw a mixed expression of rage, pain, hatred, and anger.

"Do you know why they burned the school down?" my father asked me when I was massaging his feet that night in the dim glare of the moonlight. His face was covered with an even layer of sweat and an expression of worry, which turned into his permanent expression till his last breath.

"No, why?" I retorted with utmost innocence.

"Because of that dog, that landlord... I... I am feeling guilty of myself now..." he said, sinking in his bed in atonement.

"But why?" I asked.

"I wrote that affidavit for that landlord. And some scoundrels of the EIC reported it to the battalion resting in the countryside forest. Just for a few bags of grains, I ruined the Saraswati Sadan." Pitaji said that and turned to the right and switched the lamp off.

"But you did nothing wrong! After all, if you don't help our folks, then who is going to do that in this town?" I knew that was yet another failed attempt to end my father's sadness.

"Ah, but, it happened all because of me. You see, son, they've stepped on an axe by burning our school." My dad turned a bit philosophical and I so hated it, but what he said next was worth listening.

"The students were all poor and somehow their parents were managing to send them to school."

"Now, what will they do?" he continued. "They will lack funds, and their children won't be able to get educated and cut the chains of slavery that India is roped in. But God works in mysterious ways. If one door is shut, hundreds are opened. You know, if they get educated, they might opt for different professions, and some of them could maybe even work for the British officials themselves. But now, even if a few of those guardians manage to send their wards out of town, they'll get trapped by the battalions in the forest, and that's the worst eventuality. That's enough to mend their decision of sending them out. Now, I'll begin another secret school and will teach them how to teach these whiteskins." My father finished his monologue filled with devilry and patriotism.

And then he added something more to it.

"I'll make them rebels, train them like militaries are, and, after that, I'll set them free to free the country from those goras." And then he fell into snoring.

The twist in this plot was that he was talking subconsciously. He didn't remember his master strategy the next morning when he woke up. But I remembered it as now I had no other lessons to learn.

For a few days, I enjoyed listening to lullabies from my mom and eating chabena given by my grandmother. But as the days passed it turned out to be very boring. I was not familiar with the street-games my ex-schoolmates played, and felt disconnected from them.

And the situation got even worse when I suffered from an inferiority complex and later from a superiority complex.

But in the midst of all this, the words said by my dad kept playing on in my mind.

Whenever I watched any of the town guys stretching his gulail at a bird, it gave me an instinct of a man ready to shoot at a gora.

Is fighting the only way to attain freedom? Why shouldn't we do it in the same way the British did — let us establish a small business, and after turning it into a bigger brand, sell it in England?

We can never obtain freedom under the influence of guns and bombs. What did we actually need at that time?

Peaceful agitations?

Nonviolence as their weapon?

No! According to me, one needed money to rule and to overcome the rule of another.

I know my father was right though; that by turning the local folks into rebels and freedom fighters or patriotic dacoits (it was a clan in existence that time who looted government treasures and used that for public welfare) we could get freedom after some much needed struggle. But I never had time for that useless struggle leading to the death of so many human resources. I rather preferred to work in my mill and help me in establishing an international firm. My father realized the value of freedom after burning of school and I realized the value of freedom after watching that bird got shot by the gulail in that boy's hand.. Amazing, isn't it, how we realize the values of big things after watching small events happening?

Well, another small event that's happening right now is that the lamp has run out of fuel. I will need to go now, but will return to tell you how I became a freedom fighter as soon as I get time from my business.

END

# Boxed Up / Requiem for Autonomy

## \- Biswadeep Ghosh Hazra

 Biswadeep Ghosh Hazra, 22 years of age, has freshly graduated in Electronics and Communication Engineering from Haldia Institute of Technology, Haldia. He also has a passion for writing poetry, short stories, novellas and plays and has published his works in various national and international magazines, books (anthologies) and journals. Introvert, dreamer, pre-occupied, fighter, poet, are the adjectives that you might use to describe him. His debut book, a poetry one (The Tapestry of Time) is going to hit the markets soon. He blogs at The Pretentious Panda Biswadeep.

He has written Boxed Up / Requiem for Autonomy exclusively for UnBound.

Burdened by the pillars of insanity, I desperately try to clutch onto my conscience—

Bureaucracy is akin crooked yellow-stained teeth-gnashing people by the numbers;

Nobody is free; not even the indolent beggar; He is answerable to God (or so he thinks)...

The infected and the diseased crying out with their hands outstretched,

Calling out to the Valkyries of death, for freedom is another fancy petite word,

Independence, its incestuous cousin.

The jingle of pennies silences the perennial poet; hunger can never be replaced with sweet poesy—

In a sodden room deep into the guts of a brothel, the man leeches pleasure from his prey,

The poet is shackled to his passion; as is the prostitute to her profession;

As dusk approaches the cacophony of the birds is replaced by the ripping away of brassieres,

And the din of escaping bullets

No one is free, unshackled, or unbound—

Boxed up gangrene of thoughts indulging me

No less than an intoxicating drug—

Someone said, "Anarchy and freedom are two sides of the same coin."

I don't trust them, do you?

# The Midwich Messiah

## \- Varun Prabhu

**Varun Prabhu** **** authors mythological, historical, and fantasy works. He is currently writing the Mahabharata Simplified Series, of which the first book titled Exodus is published. He purposes to publish a Norse mythology based dark fantasy and an epic mythological fantasy (on the lines of Lord of the Rings) under another pen name, V P Allasander. Apart from being a writer, he is founder-partner of Pen Paper Coffee, an online writing and editing services company. He also admins the Facebook group For Writers, By Authors along with Neil D'Silva. He is also an avid reader and a TV Show maniac.

To know more about him, visit his blog at http://theadventuresofafictioneer.wordpress.com or email him atvarunthecool@gmail.com. His Twitter handle is @VPAllasander.

This story is a chapter from a novel Varun Prabhu intends to write in the near future.

___

The Messiah arose from his unkempt bed after much deliberation about the riot-stricken lands. He had already brought peace, once twenty years ago, and at his friend's behest, sought to do so again.

He put on his dress — a maroon shirt and a black trouser covered by a golden yellow jacket — and walked towards the windows. He looked out of them only to meet the windy night and the empty streets. For a moment, he considered postponing his journey, but convinced himself that this was the right time to go. Any delay would be playing right into the hands of those who preferred chaos.

Recently, he had heard of some riots across the land, an unfortunate news his friends had brought him after their travels. He could not understand why the people were fighting.

Making sure the wardrobe and the windows were closed, he left his house — a small mansion his father had built in his name. The horse-carriage had already arrived and was standing at the gate. His servant, or rather his companion as he addressed him, was sitting on a wooden seat just before the small cabin that rode on wheels underneath. The servant's hands held tight the reins of the two horses that pulled the carriage.

"Malcolm, I wouldn't need the carriage today," he said.

"But, Sir, the night be windy! It not be so safe to ride," said the servant as the wind howled around him. The leaves fell from the branches, landing on the ground, but not before swirling in the air for a while before they settled down. For a moment, even The Messiah considered going back to the hut, seeking the warmth of his hearth and being at peace; but then, that would mean abandoning a nation to war. Would he be able to pacify his conscience after that? He didn't think so. He had made sacrifices during the war for freedom and it was his duty now to see that those sacrifices would not go in vain. Only when the lands were back to its peaceful state would he be at rest. So whether the night was windy or not, it did not matter.

"I need to go to Stratmoor, Malcolm, and you know why. So you better not tarry me here where I am worthless and will become restless if I did not do something."

"I understand, Sir, but the risk be in you losing your way in this weather. It be not good, Sir, and I think we better wait for the sun to come up. It be no good if this country loses you in this darn wind."

The Messiah deliberated for a moment. While his mind was thinking both ways, his heart and conscience egged him on. They wanted him to go. He had braved the cold weather and heavy snows before. He could do it again.

"I have no choice, Malcolm. I have a duty to this country; and this weather, it shall not hamper me."

The servant sighed. He knew he could not persuade his master. Not when he was this adamant.

"Which horse will you take, Master?" the servant asked.

"Does it matter, Malcolm? Hand me the reins of any one. Urgency is of the essence, not the dearness of a horse."

The Messiah's voice was brusque and tough, a tone which scared him. Quickly, he untied a white mare from the carriage and handed over its reins to his master. From a ledge underneath the carriage, he took out a comfortable saddle and placed it over the horse. And then, he bowed.

Looking at his servant hurrying with his chores upon him being rough, he felt a little apologetic. He wanted to say sorry, but time had never stopped for those who hung back. That was one thing his father had taught him and he had never forgotten it. With his face passive, his long black hair flowing backward as the wind grazed his head, he climbed onto the horse.

"Hyah!" he cried out loud and shook the reins. The horse neighed and trotted off. As the hair blew across his face due to the strong winds, he was forced to look backward, his hands still holding tight the reins of his horse. He saw Malcolm standing in front of his hut, looking up into the sky, his hands held in front of his face, palms open. Slowly, Malcolm was just a figure in the dark.

*****

He had not gone far from the town of Mord when he encountered a group of people making way towards it. He could see they were struggling.

"Where are you going, my people?" he shouted to them.

"Until the next town for the moment," shouted back one of them. "We are looking for a way out of this country. Fires spread and ravage the countryside. Men are angered and want revenge."

"Have the riots reached Stratmoor yet?" asked The Messiah.

"That place be affected the worst, kind Sir," replied back another. The Messiah turned towards the voice. It was that of an old man who was leaning on a wooden stick. "I be from that very place. My house lies in shambles, its roofs burning. Smoke be seen for long distances, Sir. If you be going that way, I ask you not to. Turn around, Sir."

"I cannot. Duty calls me and I would see it done. I did not bring peace to this country to see it come to this state. It seems I have been idle too long. I have been selfish, and may God punish me for that!"

"Then you had better be careful, Sir," said the one who had spoken first.

He nodded. "I will be."

Both parties, bowing their heads, went their separate ways.

*****

The night had given way to dawn. The once familiar farms had now been turned to ashes. Tired, he brought his horse to a halt.

His sad face turned towards the billowing smoke that arose from the rooftops of the town not far away. Stratmoor! He cursed as if he was responsible for its sad state.

He leaned against a tree and sat down, his body weary from the travel.

As he looked at the smoke rising, he heard a voice. Turning, he found a young girl, about eighteen years old, standing a few feet away from him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Come here, child!" he called out to her.

The girl warily walked towards him. He could see her feet were hesitating.

As the girl sat beside him, he asked, "What is your name, girl?"

"Samantha" she replied.

He caressed her hair. "Are you lost? Where are your parents?"

The girl kept mum.

"Do you want me to take you into the town?" he asked again.

The girl still kept silent.

He had had no prior experience with kids. He had always felt he was bad with them. The teary girl in front of him presented a challenge to him, a challenge difficult than the war he had fought twenty years ago. He was thinking about another question to ask when fortunately, the girl herself opened her mouth. "Are you The Messiah?"

The question made him smile. "Yes, Samantha. How did you know?"

"My friend used to paint your portraits and sell them to his customers. I recognized you from his pictures."

"Ah! Now, tell me, child, why are you alone?"

"I will tell you my story if you tell me yours," she answered with an innocent but curious face.

He raised his eyebrows at her request. And then, looking at her eyes, he faltered and sighed.

"All right. It started twenty years ago when -"

*****

Twenty Years Ago...

The kingdom of Monarchest was in no better state. By the order of The King, the soldiers marched through towns, oppressing people. Unnecessary and cruel it seemed to many, but not one lifted a figure. Now, most would call them cowards, scared to fight for their own rights, but in some ways, they were right. Who could defeat an army heavily armed? The peasants?

People had calmly accepted their fate. They cursed their king and their prince, but that is all they did. Oh, some parts of the kingdom did send their own ambassadors, requesting the king to stop the cruelty with which he made his people suffer. Did their missions succeed? No. They all met with a gruesome end and their heads were sent back as a message. The soldiers who delivered it shouted, "The King's words are laws."

In one such village, Stratmoor by name, there lived a young boy who was nearing the age of thirty, and he was too excited. Thirty was an auspicious age to reach. He wanted that day to come fast, and today, time was not flying.

He sat alone in the arm chair his father had bought for him not a few days ago. In his lone time, he loved sitting there, rocking the chair. His father was in the kitchen making his usual afternoon tea. Suddenly, he heard voices, loud and clear. Men were shouting, and he was pretty sure he could hear the shrieks of women. Just like his father who raced out of the kitchen to see what the commotion outside was, even he rose up and walked fast towards the wooden door.

The warm air greeted them outside. "What is happening?" he asked his father.

"The King's soldiers again! They are back in town, subjecting people to cruelty like they are their servants."

"They are four. We are a hundred. We outscore them," he said.

His father gave a narrow smile. "If we do that, Galbraith, we declare war on the kingdom. It will result in civil unrest and riots. And then the soldiers will swoop in and destroy what is left. We have no arms, son. Not as good as they have."

"So, we should keep suffering like mutes. Don't we have a say in anything?" he asked, looking up to his father.

"No. We do not have much free will in anything. And, Galbraith, the soldiers! They are not entirely to blame, you know. They are doing their duty. They are following their king's orders."

"But..."

His father cut him off. "Galbraith, remember what I say now. War should always be your last option. Peace should always be given a chance."

He nodded in admiration of his father's wisdom.

The next day, the sun rose up bright and clear. As usual, Galbraith left the house to get some milk from the cowsheds when he saw an old man, who he remembered living in a hut in the fields, walk with a stick pounding the ground. Galbraith looked surprised as he could never recall a moment when this old man had ever set foot in the village. Usually, it was his sons or grandsons who did business with the village people.

The old man, Galbraith saw, had a strange aura radiating from him. It felt like resolve to him, a determination to do something, and he knew it came from anger and frustration. The old man's eyes held a powerful glare. It seemed to Galbraith that the old man was looking at the villagers with pity and sympathy. He also remembered that it was the old man's sons who were being tormented and oppressed by the king's soldiers the day before. Somehow, this act seemed to have stirred something in the old man's heart. Perhaps, he craved revenge. Perhaps, he wanted justice. Retribution! The old man did not even give him a look and he just walked on towards the center of the village. Something in the old man's walk compelled Galbraith to follow him.

Leaving the vessel in front of his door, he followed the old man, but not before shouting to his father. His screams also seemed to have awoken his neighbors who also looked out of their windows and soon, their eyes were surprised just like he was a few minutes ago. Many people had only heard of the old man who lived in a hut but had never seen him. People began to rush out of their house to get a glimpse of him. And like Galbraith, they all began to follow the old man.

At the center of the village they all assembled. Seeing the people gather, others joined too. Galbraith stood in the front of the congregation, his eyes fixed upon the old man. It seemed clear to him that they had something to say. And Galbraith, like the rest of the people, wanted to hear.

"Hail, people of Stratmoor!" cried the old man as loud as he could. "We have all assembled here, or rather let me say, you have all assembled here of your own volition to discuss the matters which have transpired of late. The King has been committing atrocious crimes and never been questioned for it. Those who tried were mercilessly cut down. It is a sad state, this. We all acknowledge it, but do we do something about it? No. We just keep mum. We need to rise and prove we aren't mutes. We have strength left still."

A section of the people huffed. One from that section stood up and shouted, "We not have the strength to fight the king's army, Sir."

The old man smiled. "Strength is not just a quality of our bodies. It is a quality of our souls as well. Let us not forget about that."

All fell quiet. The murmurs died down.

"What we need is a determined assault. An united assault. We have been so disconnected with the outside world. It is not just my fight, not just my blood. It is everybody's fight. A battle must be fought if we are ever to dethrone the king. Remember, men of Stratmoor, we are born free and thus we deserve the right to live free. Do you all not agree?"

Most men nodded. Women too.

One person, however, stood up. "Look at him. He stands up for the cause only after his family was targeted yesterday afternoon. Where was he when all of us were being oppressed and treated cruelly? Is he not selfish? Is it not wrong that he ignites a fire within us all to desire his revenge? We all want justice. We all want a leader. But we want one who is not selfish. We want one who has no defined ambition. Just the single goal of dethroning the king. What you are doing, Sir, is wrong. It is imperative that you cannot fight this battle of yours alone. You need us. You need the whole kingdom."

The men around him seem to nod.

"It is okay to desire justice," he continued, "but it does not give you the right to play upon our hearts, ruined and hurt as they are."

The murmurs continued to ascend.

Young Galbraith stood up. "You say, Mr. Henderson, that this man is standing up only because of his family's problems. But at least, he is standing up. What did you do, Mr. Henderson, when the soldiers targeted your family? Hide in the sewers? As far as I remember, you hid until the soldiers found and flayed you. So, instead of demeaning the one person who is willing to stand up for this town, you call him names. That is so wrong, don't you think? This man could have stayed in his house, accepting his family's fate, but he is here now, speaking to you all, asking you to do something about it. The King has been on the throne for long now. He must be dethroned. Is that not your vote too?"

The man who had spoken against the old man fell back quietly, looking ashamed.

"We need to act now," continued the old man. "This is an opportunity. If we could spread the message, if we could gather enough people, we could strike. Strike when the rod is hot. Do not let your inner fires and thirst for justice fizzle out. This war is not for revenge. It is for justice. It is for our freedom. Who is with me?"

Everyone nodded. "We are all with you," yelled the people.

The old man and young Galbraith stood there, smiling. It was time for a revolution.

*****

"It was brave of you to stand up thus. I could never do that. My heart would partly be afraid," said the girl.

He laughed. "Courage is a fickle thing. It can sometimes lead you to do stupid things. But other times, it can prove to be extremely useful. I did not know what spurred me to speak out against Mr. Henderson. All I know that my conscience was lit on fire and I could no longer bear to see the people of this country hurt by the ones who rule it. I had to speak up for if I had not then people would have started condemning the old man and then, the flame of justice would have fizzled out. Courage can be a good thing in situations like this, and remember, child, courage does not mean lack of fear. It is the strength to overcome any apprehensions you might have. I know. I was terrified that day."

She gave him a cute little smile. "You are going to the town, aren't you?" she asked after a while.

He nodded.

"So, how do you feel now?"

"I feel determined," he replied. "I need to end this war once and for all, but I am in doubt too. Doubts about whether they still have the sense to listen to me."

"Oh, they will! At least some of them will. It takes courage to stand up there and I know you have it in you."

For a moment, he looked at the young girl and saw great maturity in her. She seemed to be understanding of the situation at hand and could see through his feelings. Right now, his mind was in two states. Even though he had set out determined to quell the rioting manners, his heart was surrounded by doubt in the morning.

"What happened next?" asked the girl, changing the subject.

*****

A fortnight had passed since the speech. The message spread across the lands, people bearing them in secret. The village of Stratmoor became crowded as many from the outside world fleeted in, eager to see the old man who had planned a coup. Army caravans were invaded and their supplies hijacked and distributed. Some people torched the houses of the rich and the noble, but Galbraith and his father stopped them. The old man requested the mutineers to stop the violence, that things could be done peacefully.

Ambassadors were sent to the army-general Klaxon but they were sent back to them with no answer. The king's soldiers tried to dismantle the revolution, but failed. They were pushed back. And then came the news.

A messenger rode in one day to the jubilant town of Stratmoor, celebrating their victory against Klaxon's soldiers.

"A youngling in the east has spurred the people into violence. People are retaliating against the king's soldiers, using the pilfered weapons against them. They are becoming reckless. This young man could be dangerous, Sire!"

The old man sighed. "Young men and their impatience! Why can't we just fight for justice peacefully?"

Galbraith stood up. "Let me go talk to him. Perhaps I could sway him, bring him back into the fold."

The old man surveyed him with glaring eyes. After a short while, he nodded. "Go ahead, young Galbraith. See what you can do about this young leader of men. See if you can make him come to his senses. After all, war will get us nowhere. It only leads to destruction."

Galbraith left immediately to the eastern fiefdoms.

A few days later, the old man received news that Galbraith had failed in his mission and was returning to Stratmoor two days hence. This disappointed the old man. He then decided to go himself. Putting on his dusty jacket, he walked out of his house, an isolated remains of what was once a wealthy farm.

"Aaaaa" he cried aloud in pain as an arrow pierced his heart. Life leaving him, he slid down to the ground, his back against the walls of his house. Hearing the voice, the villagers started to assemble around. His two sons came quickly to him and knelt beside him, crying.

Galbraith returned sooner than he would, picking up the pace as soon as the death of the old man reached him. As the townspeople buried him near the farm, Galbraith looked around. The revolution was failing. He could see that the people were losing heart.

*****

"Who do you think killed him?" asked Samantha.

"I for long thought that it was the young man from the east. When I had first met him, he did not come across one who I could trust easily. He knew the right words to say. He was cunning and devious. An able manipulator. Not long after my mentor's death, he swayed the people of the kingdom to his cause."

"That's sad."

"Yes, sad indeed. I and my father dissociated ourselves from the revolution and went back to our daily chores. We left the country to its sufferings."

"Why?" asked the girl.

"The young leader had turned the men against us. Well, almost. Some still wanted to take our side, but they also wanted to be rid of the king. Their conflicted hearts did not allow them to make the right decision. So we preferred not to do anything that is even remotely related to the coup."

The girl looked at him with a straight face. "What happened to your duty to the country then?"

"Doubts gnawed at us, child. Doubts at our own endeavors."

"What happened next? How did you get over your doubts?"

*****

A month had passed since the old man's death. Galbraith was busy feeding the poor beggars when a rider approached him.

"Ah, Dorian! What brings you here so early?" asked Galbraith, taking a break from his usual chore.

"News, my friend, news! To be exact, bad news."

"Oh, is your rebellion crushed?" he mocked. After a while, his contempt reduced. "I told you so. He wouldn't last a year."

Dorian nodded. "Yes, the rebellion is crushed. Well, almost. Our young leader met an untimely death, and now the rebellion is in chaos, leaderless. Groups of men are going about doing what they will but the majority is staying put deciding what to do. I thought you should know."

Galbraith smiled. "As much as the fate of the rebellion affects me, I have half a mind to shun you all and return to my old life. But if I do so, I would be shirking off the responsibility I bear towards my country. I guess you are here to ask me to do something, right?"

Dorian coughed. "Yes. Our people need you. After the death of two of our leaders, we need another one. One who is able to motivate people the right way. You are the right candidate, Galbraith."

"You didn't believe in me then. Why believe in me now?" asked Galbraith.

"Because we made a mistake then. The young one was ever so ruthless in his quest. He was too headstrong and too rash. He made mistakes and he was inexperienced in matters of war despite his visionary talks about how violence could achieve our dreams. And we believed in him. We were fools, and fools we will be if we did not pay you the same respect we did for the old man, may he rest in peace! And now we need you more than ever. The situation is futile and without hope. Without a strong leader to guide our revolution, everything we have fought for will be lost and soon, we will come once again under the shadow. Help us, Galbraith. You know you want to, deep in your heart."

"Help I shall. Do you not worry about that. I asked only to know what changed all of your minds."

He sighed. "Come, let's go. Time flies and we have a lot of work to do. But Dorian, know this. None shall go against my word. Whatever I speak shall be the law until all of this is over and we think about what to do next if we succeed."

Dorian nodded. "As you say, Sir Galbraith."

*****

"Who is Dorian?" the girl asked.

"An old friend of mine. I grew up with him. His father and mine were best friends. Even though his father deserted the revolution to be with us, he took the other side, believing that violence was the only solution to his problems."

"Dorian said that the young leader was reckless, but you said that he was cunning and devious."

He laughed. "He worked from behind the scenes. He could stand up to people. He had courage within him, I agree. But this courage made him feel overconfident, made him rash and impatient. This cost the revolution dearly. After he died in a reckless battle, perhaps his passing devised by his own cunning, Dorian and the people sought my help. Like courage, loyalty is also a fickle thing. Remember that, child."

Samantha smiled. "But not always."

"Not always."

"Continue your story, Sir. It is most interesting."

*****

Two days had passed after Dorian first came to ask for help. Galbraith rode through the huge crowd, made uncomfortable by their glowing stares. Soon he came to the tents of their council. Three of its members came walking fast towards him and bowed their heads.

"It is very kind of you to come here to assist us, Sire. We beg forgiveness for the part we played. The old man believed in you. We should have too, but we erred. Forgive us."

"We are men. We all make mistakes. Even I have." He sighed. "We must continue talking about our future endeavors."

"Yes, yes, please come in."

A short while later, he was seated amongst the most notable members of the Council, people who had foolishly trusted in the young one's visions. Each of them begged for their forgiveness and reiterated the fact that they should have followed him and his father after the old man's unfortunate demise.

It was a cold night. The breeze was too strong and the flames within the bright yellow lamps flickered. For a while, Galbraith's eyes focused upon the tip of the flame in front of him, trying to determine the next step. It was too late to embark upon a mission to dethrone the king through peaceful measures. For the moment, violence seemed necessary. But on what scale? He questioned himself.

"What is the next step, Sir Galbraith?" asked Mr. Henderson. His tone was almost mocking. Clearly, he hadn't forgotten my earlier retort. Galbraith was even surprised to see him sitting on the Council, a coward who initially was against the very idea of a widespread revolution.

"The king must be done with once and for all. You have all gone out too far with the violence and war. This makes any movement of peace almost impossible. I know some of you question my wisdom, given that I am younger than the lot of you. And I feel really honored that you have chosen me to lead you all. But I must tell you, what I am about to say is the right thing to do. At least in the now."

Everybody started to murmur.

"My father always said that wars do not lead to peace; it only leads to annihilation. But I must say that with all the events happening, violence has become a necessity even though I do not endorse it. The king must rule the land no longer. It is time we take him out of the equation."

The whispers were whispers no longer.

"What are you implying?" asked the men together.

"We infiltrate the palace and kill the king, and the general. Without the top brass, the army would be helpless and chaotic. We could then install a leader of our own choosing on the throne."

"And how do you think we do that?" asked Mr. Henderson.

"I have a plan," winked the young leader.

For ten days, they debated. After a lot of deliberation, the Council finalized on one. It seemed to be the one which had a high chance of success. Galbraith knew it was a suicide mission. If they failed, then the entire revolution failed. On the other hand, if they succeeded, they would be free of the oppressors once and for all.

Two days after the plan was finalized, he stationed a few men to form a perimeter around the royal palace. They could see the guards patrolling the walls.

"We need a distraction," said Galbraith. "It is time."

A man brought out the army uniform he had plundered a few days ago. Wearing it quickly, he mounted his horse.

"You know what to tell."

The man nodded and reared his horse.

"Come," he whispered to the others after the man had ridden off. They waded through the long grass that circumvented the palace walls, careful not to make any noise. "Ropes, quick!"

Quickly they climbed over the stone walls, making as little noise as possible. In the distance, they heard one of their men shouting gibberish near the gates. Most of the guards had seen an incursion and heard the commotion, and so had gone off to the gate. Senam was doing a very good job of it. Quickly, they led themselves down the walls to the other side. Hiding behind the trees in the palace orchards, they moved, one at a time, ever towards the palace doors.

"Remember, we only want the king dead. And the General. Try little to hurt anyone else."

"But Galbraith, the soldiers are bound to attack us," cried Dorian.

"Aye!" said everybody else.

"All I and Dorian need is you people engage the soldiers. We will do the rest."

They nodded.

*****

"What happened then?" asked Samantha, very curious about his story.

He smiled. "Like we planned, we all went in, swords held aloft. Yes, even I held one, much to my detest. Dorian and I moved quickly into the palace, right through the front. Soldiers came down upon us, but like I had planned, my men engaged them, fighting as bravely as they could."

He sighed. "I knew they were no warriors, but they had been trained by a few. I hoped against hope that the training would come in handy. Fortunately for us, it did."

Looking down to the ground, he fell silent.

"Sometime later, news reached my ears that General Klaxon had fallen at the hands of Dorian. My friend had killed him in his slumber, an action I abhorred. It was not an honorable deed. But it was done. So I moved to the king's chambers."

*****

The king was sipping a cup of wine, in his huge chambers, oblivious to the happenings outside.

Galbraith brandished his knife and laughed, inaudibly. With light footfalls, he walked, and upon nearing the king who was resting upon his rocking armchair, looking out of the windows.

"A good night, Your Majesty?" asked Galbraith, clutching his knife hard in his hands. As the king rose, surprised and rattled, he hid the knife behind him. A smile encroached upon his face.

"What are you doing here?" shouted the king. His voice was brusque, angry.

"I have to regretfully inform you that your reign is coming to an end. I am sorry it has to come this, but then, you brought it upon yourself, didn't you?" he replied, mocking.

"What are you talking about?" asked the king angrily. "Where are my guards?"

"Dead or captured," answered Galbraith.

The king flared his eyes. "You..." he shouted, coming towards the young rebel leader. But Galbraith swerved before the king could grasp him. The king attacked him again, but this time he blocked the attack. Holding the knife, he drove it straight into the king's abdomen, the blade bloodied. The king's eyes bulged outward and his face winced in pain.

Galbraith removed the knife and with a brutal force, slashed the king's throat. The lifeless body of his king fell down on the ground, blood forming a crimson pool.

*****

"That must have been a difficult choice for you, a man of peace," said Samantha.

He nodded. "Yes, it was, but it needed to be done. I gained independence along with many of my peers for the people of this nation. A lot of blood was spilled that day. I still mourn for them."

"What happened after?" she asked.

"We all assembled at the town Midwich, where we decided how it was going to be sans the king's death. We decided that it was going to be a democracy, where people would have a say on matters of who ruled whom. That was a very eventful day for our country."

"Why?" she asked again.

"That was the day when Monarchest was no longer, and Demostrat was born."

For a moment, their faces turned happy.

"Now that you have told me the story, Sir; why do you think that people will not listen to you now? Why the doubt?" asked Samantha.

How did she even know what he was thinking? He asked himself.

"People listened to me back then. Now, they do not. The government has become corrupt, the youth have become rash, and the old have become meek. Me included. While all this was going on, did I lift a finger? No. Only when the riots escalated and people died was I brought to my senses. I ignored the world for too long. I doubt there will be people who will even hear me out."

"You have lost your faith, your conviction, but those you have to regain. You must try to speak to the people. Perhaps you can save our country again, put the lands at peace."

"How can you be so sure, child?" he asked.

She smiled. "Unlike you, I haven't lost my faith. I trust you to do something. And you must. Because if you do not, the country you so courageously fought for, the country for whose freedom you relinquished your father's words and had to resort to killing, that country, Sir, will perish, fire engulfing the last remains. Will you let your sacrifices be in vain?"

Touched by the young girl's words, he stood up, strength rejuvenated. He had rested enough.

"If only the people were as mature as you, child..." said the Messiah, caressing her hair.

She smiled. "They are blinded by their ego, their hate. They will come to their senses when all that they have fought for comes to naught."

He returned back her smile. "Take care, child, be safe," he said to her as he mounted his horse.

"You too, Sir."

Nodding his head, he shook the reins and his horse rode forward.

As he rode down the green slopes of the small hillock that overlooked the familiar fields, he looked back. The girl was there no longer. She had disappeared into thin air. He frowned, but the task in front of him was clear. Resolve strengthening inside him, he entered the gates of the town everybody knew as Stratmoor.

*****

The crowd had assembled as soon as the horns had been sounded. The Messiah stood at the center of the podium, the same place his mentor, the old man, had stood twenty years ago. He looked at each and every one of them. All were young. Of the old people, he remembered only a few.

"I have called all of you here to address the issue that now confronts us. The riots have been going on for a while now, and while it has been affecting our livelihoods, none of us have been paying any attention. I have ignored the country for too long and when I heard the terrible news, I came hither as swiftly as I could. I am of the belief that peace should be restored to this country as soon as possible. Whatever the problems, whatever the disputes, I am sure we all can amiably solve them. We just need to talk it through," he shouted over the din.

"We've talked before. What good has it done us? The Mesiams refuse to budge." shouted a person from the back.

"So talk again. Persistence, most of the times, pays off. What will all this violence get you?" asked the Messiah.

Everyone started listening intently.

"As I said, we must come to a peaceful resolution. This fight over which land belongs to whom must come to an end. The Inuits and the Mesiams must call a ceasefire."

The young lad who had spoken earlier came forward. And then, he laughed. "And why should we listen to you, old man? Your time is over. When you lived, you ignored us all, and now that you have come to recognize the consequences of your inactions, you come to lecture us about peace." He spat. He looked into the Messiah's eyes directly, and then from the back, in a quick motion, he threw something in the Messiah's direction.

The old leader of men felt a punch below his sternum and staggered back. He winced in pain and as he looked down, he saw he had an arrow stuck inside him. Slowly, his hands clutched it and tried to take it out. He screamed in pain.

A hot burning sensation surged inside him. He knelt down, his vision getting blurry. "So this is what I get for trying to help the lot of you," he said, stuttering. "If you think fighting and killing over land can give you peace, then you are mistaken, but that is what you all desire. So be it. Perhaps by the destruction you will wrought, you shall come to your senses. I cannot believe that this is what we do with our freedom."

He sighed. His life force was beginning to leave him. "Samantha was right. They shall all come to maturity when everything they are fighting for shall come to naught. She was right," he whispered under his breath as he fell to the ground. With his last breath, he looked at the gathered crowd, and then smiling, closed his eyes. His last thought was: what he felt earlier this morning was not doubt; it was fear.

END

#  Of Monsters and Men

## \- Pritesh Patil

Pritesh Patil is a writer, reader, photographer stricken with wanderlust, football aficionado, demon-slayer, Monster-hunter, entrepreneur supreme. He creates worlds with words and can be found on Twitter as @TheQuillseeker. He is currently working on two novels and a collection of short stories. When he isn't writing, he can be seen inhaling copious amounts of coffee and talking to the many voices in his head.

He has written Of Monsters and Men exclusively for UnBound.

"What would an ocean be without a monster lurking in the dark?

It would be like sleep without dreams."

-Werner Herzog

___

The Abyss had been their home for as long as they could remember. Freedom was a long forgotten wisp on the edge of memory. A dream which had long turned to nightmare, a far flung hope which had turned to despair long ago. Memories of the outside world had almost crumbled to nothing, and the endless abyss of the Eternal Prison was all that they knew. Life was a lie, and the search for freedom had turned out to be a false hope.

A prison without bars, a prison without guards, for who could escape a prison which was an entire dimension in itself? A place where the worst of earth's elements came together to form a harsh land, full of unadulterated malice.

Each failed attempt at escaping the accursed prison had led to the slow death and agonizing death of faith.

Until today.

Under a blackened sky, over a harsh, rocky plateau, the denizens of the prison gathered. A miniature sun hidden high up above the despairing abyss was the only source of illumination; its ghastly red rays the colour of poisoned blood lightening the world, bathing the monstrous shapes and rocky outcroppings in a surreal miasma.

The Eternal Prison.

It truly lived up to its name. There could be no escape, all hope was a lie. A lifetime of imprisonment and then some. It was truly eternal, in every sense of the world.

Under the unholy light of the false sun, a stream of prisoners marched towards a lone rock, standing tall and jagged. They streamed in from all directions, many shades of darkness moving against an even darker land of cruel obsidian.

The swarm of prisoners marched and stopped before the pillar of basalt rock like an army standing by its flag. A horde of thousand strong stood in ranks of hundred. The ten strongest of every century stood at the front. Dark eyes glistening with equal amounts of rage and despair gazed at the pillar, waiting.

One of the prisoners who looked like a small, misshapen, bundle of rags looked to the taller, gnarled, one standing beside him.

"Been a while since I've seen so much excitement at a Day of Remembrance".

The taller one grunted his agreement.

"What do you reckon's so special about this one?" He asked.

The taller one merely stared back at him and nodded.

"Personally I think this is another power grab. Y'know, a few of them actually think that there's a chance the old leader's gotten a trick or two up his sleeve, but I doubt it. He's old as the hills - nay, older - and probably even more senile. This is gonna be another of those power struggles, and this time the old man may finally chew off much more than he can handle and be hacked off by the new leader, what'd'ya reckon?" He bit off a chunk of charred grub of some sort as he spoke.

When he got only silence in reply, he continued speaking, "All these old fools coming out of who knows what crevice in the sands and rocks, waking up after so long, they're gonna be damn pissed when they find out its just some petty plan to gain more power and another failed attempt at freedom from the eternal shackles of this place". The last part was said in equal parts despair and cynicism.

He looked at the tall lump besides him, expecting an answer. The taller one grunted, finally relenting under his continuous stare and answered, but it wasn't the answer he was expecting.

"You are a fool".

"What?"

"I said you are a fool. Have your years in prison lessened your hearing as well?"

"Now look here you-" blustered the first one, before he was cut off midsentence.

"Shut up."

"You can't te-" He began before he was cut off again.

"Shut up. It is beginning," The taller one said.

And so it was.

The only day which was celebrated by the inhabitants of the Eternal Prison. The day they remembered their past, the day they remembered their lives before capture. The day they remembered a world before the creation of the prison - when they were free and had lives of their own.

The Day of Remembrance was celebrated religiously every year to keep a hold of the past - of their memories - for time and space often worked in erratic and mysterious ways within the prison, and those who wandered too deep were lost forever.

Some did it purposefully, for it gave them a feeling of freedom and made them feel that they were explorers and adventures, but it was only a pale imitation of life beyond the prison, leading to insanity and madness.

Thus, the Day of Remembrance helped them keep hold of their mind. It prevented them from turning into mindless beasts \- a fate that had struck many who had gone exploring deep. Those few who had returned had been twisted beyond recognition and had been killed or trapped in prisons of blood, bone, rock and stone by their fellow prisoners.

Life within the Eternal Prison was cruel, often heartbreaking. It was a graveyard of dreams, hopes, and of once strong lives now turned to cinder and dust.

Smoke spiraled out of the ground by the jagged piece of rock. The prison horde which was standing in a circle with the basalt peak at its center began chanting in different tongues as the smoke rose higher and higher, swirling and twisting into a physical shape.

As the chants grew louder and reached a crescendo, the smoke coalesced into a shape of darkness, twice size of a man, with huge legs and sharp, clawed, arms. Red eyes glowed like two small suns staring out of the sunken darkness, wisps of black, red, and silver flowed around the being's shape in chaotic patterns, like small tears in reality.

"Welcome brethren," He spoke in a deep, guttural voice laced with command.

"Welcome to what I believe will be our final Day of Remembrance in this accursed place".

Raucous applause, loud shouts, and the sound of hands hitting stone filled the land at his words.

He raised a hand and all of it died off almost immediately. He had their attention. The stage belonged to him. The seeds of revolution had been laid.

"Many eons have passed since this evil place was created, and only ten here remain with any semblance of sanity out of the many who first interred in this place. Many of you who came later have seen the numerous failed struggles and battles to escape, only to see our brethren fall, die, and fade from existence itself. But no more. No more shall we be shackled by these invisible walls. No more shall this vile prison hold us. We who were imprisoned for the mere act of following our nature, for pursuing food and drink to quench our hunger and thirst, we will not stay caged any longer. Freedom awaits us!"

A great cheer erupted from every one of the prisoners at his words. Hope. Even in a place as vile and malevolent as this, hope had been born.

"I have received word from outside," He spoke softly for gravitas, hooking his audience, grabbing their attention and enticing them with the choice of freedom.

"I have spoken with one of us who managed to escape the purge - one who was still managed to remain free and in power despite the best efforts of those bastards who captured us. Our mighty leader, the oldest of our ranks. Our salvation comes and freedom will soon be ours. He has managed to send word within the unbreachable prison itself, such is his might! Rejoice, brethren, the day of our freedom isn't far away!" His words rang loud, and the cheers which followed rang louder. The audience was hooked with the thought of freedom. They believed in him.

How fickle the nature of hope, so tough to kill, so easy to revive.

"Are there any who will challenge my claim? Any who don't believe in my words? Let all naysayers come forth now, or hold your voice forevermore!" He shouted. This time his words were met by silence and people trying to avoid his eyes.

Silence. No one spoke. No one dared moved. This was where he would get rid of all dissenters. The road to freedom needed those willing to believe in him and sacrifice for the cause. There was no place for naysayers.

"I do," said a voice from the gathered crowd.

"And who are you? Come forth and challenge my claim."

A small, misshapen, bundle of rags came forward. The same one who had been cynical to his partner.

"I am Dracwkraz, Old One," He addressed the Elder.

"Drawckraw, I see you do not hesitate to speak your mind. Good, good. Bravery should always be rewarded. Come, and put forth your view".

Drawckraz bowed deep. "Thank you, Old One," He began. "I believe attacking the wall and attempting to go through is an exercise in futility. There is no way to cross those borders, and they are the weakest parts of the prison. No exit exists, it is impenetrable from within, and even from beyond it can only be opened by a willing Keeper of the Keys, and no Keeper would do that."

The Old One nodded. "Fair points, Drawckraz Moon-Stealer, but you assume I want to go through the walls. Nay, the way I want to exit is with dignity. With pride. Not like thieves in the night, but like the legion of power that we are. We will exit through the door. The way the first of us were thrown in."

Dead silence greeted his words. His ambition had shocked everyone. Getting through the gates? An impossible task. Only the Keeper or one of his blood could open it, and that too only if it was done willingly. No, this was futile. A failure even before it was begun.

"That is impossible," Drawckraw said. A few from the crowd nodded their heads and shuffled. Had their leader gone lost his hold on sanity? This plan was doomed to fail even before it began.

"Impossible is a word the weak use to hide their failings," said the Old One with a cruel rictus of a smile.

"Voila! I present to you the Keeper of the Keys," and with that, the Old One thrust his hand to his side, and pulled a comatose man out of thin air.

Shock. Everyone looked at the scene in abject shock. This was a feat unparalleled in all of history. The Keeper on this side of the wall? Impossible!

"Ho-how?" asked Drawckraz. "And the Keeper can only open the door if he's willing. He doesn't even have his staff to open it even if he were willing."

"The how is not important. Nor is his will or staff important. What is important is emotion. One of his blood will follow and open the door to rescue him. And that is when we pounce," The Old One eyes lit with morbid pleasure as he spoke.

"Forgive my impudence, Old One, but that sounds like a flimsy plan...the mortal will die long before that happens," Drawckraz said, his ingrained cynicism not letting him hope.

"You are right, Drawckraz. That is why we shall perform the Bloodbond Ritual to keep him alive," the Old One smirked.

"Blo-Bloodbond Ritual? Whose blood shall we use, Great One?" Drawckraz stuttered.

"Yours," said the Old One, and in a flash, a weapon of inky darkness smoked into existence in his hand and cut off Drawckraz's head from his body.

The Old One sneered at Drawckraz's face which was locked in a shocked appearance. "Bond with our guest, Drawckraz. Bond with him and keep him alive until the right time. Your sacrifice will not be forgotten." And with that, he picked up the lumpy body and poured all the blood out of the neck, onto the comatose Keeper of the Keys. As he chanted a spell to bond the blood, the essence of Drawckraz, and the man, the crowd chanted with him.

They'd begun on the path to freedom, and it looked like they would finally succeed in their age old quest.

The Old One looked to the rest of the gathered horde and shouted, "Long have we been shackled. No more! Now we move out. The world awaits. Fresh human blood, soft human flesh, delicious human bone awaits! No more shall we go hungry or have to fight our nature. Freedom will be ours, vengeance will be ours! We will bathe in their blood and the seas will run red with it, the skies will be painted red with it!"

A chorus of guttural, growling voice greeted his words.

"Freedom!" He yelled.

"Freedom," they responded, bloodlust and battle-rage taking over them.

The revolution had taken form. The monsters were about to tread into the real world once more. Earth was going to turn into a battlefield for the ages, like it had long ago.

The long break was over. The Infinite War would rage again, and to the victors would go the ultimate prize: Freedom.

As the monsters cheered, the Earth trembled in the middle of the night, a young boy shivered in the middle of the night with the feeling of someone walking over his grave. His peaceful dreams were suddenly shaken by a nightmare and he woke up with a start. Eyes wide, heart racing, he just said four words, "The Daemons are coming... The Daemons are coming."

*****

Oh reader beware, for you may think this is a mere story, a story of Monsters and Men, but all stories have their origin in reality, and reality itself is a story being woven on the tapestry of time.

Run, ye mortals. Run for the hills! Hide beyond the stars, sleep with one eye open... for the Daemons are coming...

END

#  Free in Chains

## \- Asif Uzzaman

Asif Uzzaman lives in Patna, Bihar in India. He was a millennium child and is now in his Grade 10. He began by writing short stories and poems as a hobby, which has now grown to a full-blown passion. He aims to be an author of repute someday. You could follow him on Twitter at @asifuzzu.

He has written Free in Chains exclusively for UnBound.

War is over, all my kinsmen are killed, and I am from the few who are chained,

Seventy-two are martyred for the sake of truth. What a legacy we have gained!

Now I lie unconscious in a gloomy dungeon, laced in weighty metals,

Because of my faith and love for truth, metals feel like soft flower petals.

Satisfaction that I've attained by suffering for truth, soothes all my pains.

Never mind the hold of these metals on my body, my soul is free in chains.

Those who combated for defending falsehood, have now in their hearts some guilt,

They have come in power by butchering our chief but their honour themselves they killed.

Angels must've cried when horses ran on sand, when tyrant swords were flung in the air,

When my half-a-year-old little brother was slaughtered and lost we were declared.

Lo! No rope can bind the strength of verity, smoke cannot block path of the rain,

Never mind the hold of these metals on my body, my soul is free in chains.

I experience freedom and I'm sure to say that most men don't know what it is actually,

People compare it with material things because they themselves are not truly free.

All men are slaves to their ideas or desires, what freedom really is, can you tell?

It is a domain within our conscience; a soothing abode for our souls to dwell.

For shortsighted it is in things of this world, it is a state of mind for wisely sane.

Never mind the hold of these metals on my body, my soul is free in chains.

Behold and ponder over your deeds, are you striving in the way of the just?

Isn't what you call freedom misted with, immorality or immaturity or lust?

My soul is departing, I am happily dying, and I can no more accurately blubber,

You just need to learn to discern right from wrong and true freedom you'll discover.

Let this be the last words of mine, let me quote my repetition once again,

Never mind the hold of these metals on my body, my soul is free in chains.

# 

# Remote-Controlled

##  -  Lata Sony

Lata Sony works as a Senior Technical Writer for one of world's top ten IT companies. She loves blogging and writing stories, a few of which have been published in magazines and leading newspapers. She also loves to observe human behavior and factors influencing the behavior. As she has personally experienced the reality of her soul and spirit through meditation, she wants to write as many stories as possible bridging the gap between science and spirituality. She has written several blogs on this subject under a pseudonym.

She is the author of a metaphysical sci-fi book The Ray Synchronicity this year from where you can learn more about MUSS introduced in her story Remote-Controlled. You could check out The Ray Synchronicity here.

She has written Remote-Controlled exclusively for Unbound.

___

Pop! The overhead TV flickers and dies. It takes a moment to return from the jungles of Animal Planet to my musty one-room office. I throw the remote into the last drawer of my desk. Might as well throw the TV in the dustbin. Repairing the old set will cost more than a new one.

The whirring sound of the ceiling fan makes itself audible. Outside, the crunch and clang of machines compete with the chug of power generators. No point peeking outside to pass the time. With high-walled factories for neighbors, not one chance of lay conversation with anyone on the street.

What else can I do to banish the uneasy silence? The computer on my right is an empty box without the internet connection. As empty as the chair opposite my desk has been for the last three days.

One more day without a client and I'll... I turn a little. No. Don't even look at the cabinet behind. None of the cases are ready yet. Wait it out, as sir used to say, it's all about timing.

But waiting in this dreary place is a task without TV. I need money for a new TV. I'm about to turn towards the cabinet when something else catches my eye. Below the wooden half doors to my office, I see tall well-adorned legs of a man.

He opens the half doors. I fight down the sudden warm glow on my face.

A beaut of a client, if indeed he is a client. His aura of affluence belongs to a five-star hotel or a magazine for the tycoons and jet-set. Not in this polluted industrial area where my office stands. He looks a little lost, all signs of impending doom pulls at his face. Those too are welcome. He wouldn't be here otherwise.

He doesn't return my smile but occupies the chair. He leans to speak.

"Someone controls me... like, with a remote control." He clicks his fingers on an imaginary remote.

I nod. I get all sorts of clients. Some sound gibberish until they come down to specifics.

"Someone sent you to me?"

"No, or maybe yes. Maybe he makes it look like I'm in control sometimes."

'He.' I rule out the wife.

"Like he made me drive to this place. And then, when I came to, I was staring at the name plate of your office."

"Why did 'he' send you to me?"

"I... have no idea."

I wait. He leans closer. Here it comes.

"It's been over a month now. I do things I don't want to. I do things I don't even know how to. It just takes me by my head."

This isn't going anywhere. The first thing I usually hear is the name of the opposite party - vendor, partner, boss, rival, wife, friend, girlfriend, parent.

"Who do you suspect?"

"Someone mad or a genius," he shivers a bit.

"What about enemies... like your competitors?"

He blinks.

"Those fools? Nah." He dismisses the thought with a wave of his hand. "This is beyond them." Arrogance flits across his face.

A formidable man. Someone who's fooled many.

"What do you do?"

"I'm doctor Bansal. Heard of Bansal hospitals?"

I look impressed and he nods. The day will end well yet.

"One of your dissatisfied patients perhaps, sir. " I struggle to continue the conversation in an even tone. A note of awe creeps in nevertheless.

"You don't get it. I..."

The piercing siren from the factory adjacent to my office startles me; twelve years hasn't accustomed my ear drums to the shock every lunch hour. When I turn back to the stranger, the sight doesn't help me recover any faster.

He sits ramrod straight.

"No... oh" He whimpers.

He springs up to stand 'at attention'. His paunch puckers in and chest puffs up. 'Chin up' and 'shoulders back' complete the military look, but there's more.

Nervousness makes me grin like a fool. Right before my eyes, the skin on his face smoothens, blanks out all wrinkles of aggression and anxiety. Sheen appears on the skin of his face and his now hairless hands.

I shriek.

I have seen a few man-turns-werewolf scenes on HBO when I'm bored enough to give myself some heebie-jeebies. For the first time, I see a man turn into a robot. And it isn't half as funny.

His breath still sucked in, he moves towards me. His glassy eyes are at the wall behind me. I turn to face my cabinets, open racks, and shelves. Neat stacks of CDs, not-so-neat dusty tapes, hard drives packed in bubble wraps, boxes of pen drives and files and files of paper documents everywhere else.

He walks in jerks and moves to the cabinets on the left side of the wall.

Wait. I dart towards him. With one swing of his right hand, he shoves me down like a ragged doll.

I try to stand. Aaargh! My right knee buckles. My knee, or a part of it, moves as I clutch it. Shit!

I turn my head to see him opening the cabinet door. The cabinet door.

I try to lift my body but I can't. I end up rotating on my right hip towards him.

He looks inside the cabinet. He possibly can't know, can he? He pulls out the exact drawer. His hand fumbles inside. Nothing of value there...unless. No, he can't find the false partition, he possibly can't.

He does.

Gotta do something. My phone is on the desk, within reach. I need help faster.

I look back at him. He's looking at I-know-what. The safe is small but he can't miss it. Thank god for number locks. The password is safe in my memory, nowhere else. He can't possibly...

I hear the clicks. The small one for 2, the even smaller sound for 1, then the bigger one for 9.

I spot a pile of bricks, stacked one top the other against the wall on my left. I lift one up.

I hear the door of the safe open. I'm about to aim the brick to his head when it happens again. In reverse.

Like air going off a balloon, his shoulders slump. His head falls a little sideways as if asleep. His empty hands fall back to his sides. Good, as long as they are out of my safe.

I put the brick down. He turns around and blinks. I lift my body up, with support from the desk and the other wall.

"Why are you limping?" he asks.

"You did it." What an actor.

"Ahh, yeah I remember. Do you believe me now? Can you help me be free of whoever is toying with me?"

I glare at him and then limp to the cabinet, refusing his help on the way.

"Let me see. I'm a doc, you know."

I change the password on the number lock, put the partition back in, push the drawer and shut the cabinet door. I need a new hiding place now.

His eyes are still on my knee.

He bends down and touches the sides of the knee.

"Patellar dislocation" he mumbles. He touches for a few seconds more and then, without a warning, clicks the knee sideways into place.

I scream, more from my idiocy at not turning this Dr. Jekyll out right away.

"Try to walk."

Surprising that I can and I do.

"You are lucky," he says and wheels the chair beneath me. "No ligament tear as far as I can tell. Do you have ibuprofen or acetaminophen with you?"

When I nod in the negative, he says, "I have some medication in my car. Come."

No way.

"No, thanks. I'll get them later."

"And do ice packs."

"I will and I can't help you."

He pauses and then sighs. "It's time for my rounds. I just hope whoever's controlling me gets bored soon."

I can't imagine this doctor in a place full of patients.

He waits for a few seconds, then turns and walks away.

He knew my password. I'm too freaked out to find how or why. What if he knows what's inside the safe? I'm a goner. All that work of more than 10 years, the risks I took, my dreams, and the danger. How can I forget the danger? If it goes out there before it's time.

I hear a car start. Ask for his card, quick. I start from my seat and try to walk. I reach the door, just in time to see the back of the car speed away from my view.

An eerie numbness settles in the room. Did it really happen? The biggest proof is the pain in my knee.

I sit for a while and replay the events. I had never seen a robot before. In movies, yes, but not in real life. Not even in school, unless you count the paper and Thermocol models.

Why me?

There has to be a reason why this android-man walked into the room, opened those half doors, pretended to look lost.

Below the half doors, I see his tall legs walking towards me again. I blink rapidly. His legs are real.

I start as the wooden doors swing open. I expect to see the dreaded robot face. But the face is still human. No more lost or hesitant as before. This time no warm glow spreads to my face.

"Something happened." He says.

I rise from my seat.

"I checked my messages and calls on my phone at the crossing. This morning I took out 50 Lakhs from my home safe, for no reason at all!"

50 Lakhs!

"Sometimes the memory of what I did when remote-controlled, doesn't come immediately. I saw an alert triggered by the safe and remembered."

How can one forget 50 Lakhs!

"Is the money still in your car?" I find my voice.

"No, I..." His hand rubs his temple. "Come quick. Let's see if it's still there."

This time I don't hesitate.

We drive, without a word between us, for around half an hour till we reach the outskirts of the city. A vast forest area serves as the boundary between our city and the next town.

Leaving the car parked at the road side, we venture into the forest through a snaking path. In about ten minutes, the path disappears into a thick bed of bugs, twigs, gnarled roots, and dead bark. We duck sharp criss-crossed boughs from trees at each step.

I smell smoke. Perhaps the place isn't as un-traversed as it looks. The doc quickens his steps to hit, fall, and crawl in his trek.

It strikes me then. The smell of burning paper.

Cinders fly in the air as we close in to a still burning pile on scorched ground.

He stamps with his feet, then throws a sack hung on the tree to quell the flames.

Half-burnt, quarter-burnt, and almost full burnt thousand-rupee notes lie scattered by the wind away. Not a single note of those 50 Lakhs is intact.

A colossal waste. What wouldn't I have done with that kind of money?

He makes a tiny sound and squats in front of the pile, hands on head.

A long moment passes. I finally speak my mind, "Are you sure it isn't some kind of schizophrenia?"

He lifts his head up. "Yes, I'm sure. No disorder can make you look like an android."

I can't argue with a doctor about that.

"What's your diagnosis?"

"A foreign or external thing inside me. Someone's put a chip inside my head."

I wait.

"You are the only one who's seen it. You have to believe me. I won't burn my own money, would I?"

A lunatic can do anything.

"And the chip knows everything."

Good enough reason for me, actually, but I better not show.

"How much do you want?" Now he talks.

I speak. "What do you want me to do?"

He sighs. "First, let's start with the police. Tell them what you saw. I doubt they can do anything. But that's the right channel to get to the resources I need. You'll have to be with me all through."

"What will I get?" I speak in the forthright manner I use to bargain on my cuts.

"One Crore?"

I don't gape but I'm sure my eyes are about to pop out.

"Two Crores?"

I nod through my speechlessness.

"Deal then."

The walk back to the car is slower on legs drunk with anticipation. I can kill for one Crore. I take my seat in the car with thoughts of the massacre this money might entail.

Five minutes into the drive, he asks, "Do you believe me enough to testify with confidence?"

With a hand in my trouser pockets, I click a few buttons on my phone. I don't need to see the phone to put it on sound recorder. I have enough practice.

"I'll tell them what I saw, but it might sound better if we have a suspect."

"I've no idea who would do this. It's someone powerful. Around these parts, I can think only as far as the government of India."

"Think hard. You must've wronged someone real deep."

"I've never wronged any one person. Some jealous ones call me unethical. If making money is a crime, then I'm a criminal." He sounds gruff.

"No point being defensive if you want to be free of this problem. Tell me every little unethical thing people say you do."

Very casually, I shift the phone from my trousers to my chest pocket for a clearer audio.

After a pause, he mentions hypochondriacs. "You know how they are. No matter how many times you tell them they are fine, they don't believe you. They think you aren't good enough to detect their problem. So I make skin incisions, stitch them up in the name of appendectomy or do deeper, full surgeries if that satisfies them, charge the price they can afford, anywhere between Rs. 2000 - 20,000. And they leave, feeling fine and happy."

I chuckle. His eyes twinkle as they meet mine. I bet not all were hypochondriacs.

"What else? Taxes? Name one person who doesn't dodge tax."

"Only the smart ones do it well," I nod some empathy into my smile.

"By jove, yes! You know what I do. I split a hospital into different setups and sub setups, in reality just divide the number of beds. When one gets dis-empanelled, I re-launch in another name."

He leans back relaxed. I stop my hand from patting my chest pocket.

"Hospitals are empanelled with central government health schemes, right?"

"Yes, cGHS and ECHS schemes. Just the schemes for a mind like ours." He slaps my thigh with a laugh.

"I have agents everywhere, from rickshaw-pullers to quacks to DMs, Commissioners, Judges, IGs, and DIGs. They get me all kinds of patients – ex-servicemen, senior citizens, rich, poor \- anytime, for any length of time. I have an entire department for cooking up bills. I pay the fake patients a percent to list their names and stay in the hospital. Sometimes I admit patients who..." His voice goes hoarse as it lowers in pitch, "exist only on paper."

He slows down. The turning to my office will take five minutes more. We'll skip that. The police station will be two turnings after. The road is deserted. The day shift for the factory workers end late in the evening.

"Real patients are a gold mine too. You need this," He taps his head. "...to weave gold outta them. I have all the equipment and services for any sort of medical investigation under my roof. But how do you justify a CT scan for a cardiac patient, eh? Sample this - put the blame on blood thinners, record a symptom of drowsiness, and there you are – a need for CT scan to rule out bleed or brain hemorrhage. Creative, eh? Know why my bills come to Rs. 1.5 lakhs when an ordinary doctor would charge just Rs. 30,000."

"And you get away with it every time?"

He guffaws. "Bills are passed by government but who sits there? Mere humans. They have a system for physical verification, scrutiny of bills; they pose queries, and only then allow the bills. But not for me." He thumbs his chest, "Why? Because I feed the hands that sanction the bills."

Sounds exciting and magical - to be in a place like that, to create an acquiescent empire and build a treasury out of nothing.

"I didn't build the biggest private setup in the city overnight. It takes a lifetime of planning, learning the ropes and the loopholes. At one time I was the president of the city's medical association. The making of the Bansals group started there. Name anything related to medical, we are there. Wanna be a nurse or a technician? Come to our training programs. You need learn nothing. Our certificate is enough. Just show me the money." He rubs his thumb over his finger tips.

You need horizontal growth along with vertical growth. Networking is important. – Sir's exact words.

"Let me touch your toes, you god of cuts and commissions." I bend to reach.

He laughs with his mouth wide open. I join and catch a glimpse of steel on his teeth. Before I can choke on my laughter, his hand snatches the phone from my pocket and throws it out of the window by my side. I see it smash into two as it hits the ground.

"Stop the car!" I scream.

I look back to stare into the whites of the eyes that have lost their pupils, his head at an odd right angles to his torso, his mouth ajar in a frozen laugh.

I open the door, jump out, and roll over surfaces that tear, pierce, and bump. The last thing I hear is a loud crash.

The world glides by, clouds, trees, buildings. A bit too fast. I've never been carried on a stretcher before. Feels like flying on a magic carpet. A hospital I haven't seen before stands tall. The sun glints off the glass walls to make them shine. As the stretcher moves inside, I see walls tiled with mirrors. Funny, I don't see any reflections in them, neither mine nor of those who carry me on the stretcher.

Wait. Did I just see purple vapor rising out of a mirror?

More of it ahead. Vapor turns to molten lava, purple turns to steely grey. Lava molds to robotic faces before turning back to vapor.

Please no more robots. I cannot take it anymore. A nightmare. That's what this is.

It goes on. Like genies, robots pop out of mirrors, expressionless but curious to check me out, and then vaporize back into the mirrors.

The stretcher stops in a room. I don't feel it, or anything else, beneath me anymore. I fold into a seated position, facing a mirrored wall. No reflections again.

Tiny bubbles sprout on the mirror I face. Like someone's breathing behind the silver. A voice speaks, making the bubbles grow and spread.

"Welcome to Maker's Universal Soul Services. You may call us MUSS. We will now implant a soul inside your head."

My brain freezes at the thought of a chip in my head, even if it's called something as inane as 'soul'.

"I object to any sort of implant in my body." My voice is firm, though the prospect of turning into a robot scares the shit out of me.

"This is not a courtroom, lawyer. We are here to rectify a fundamental error inside you."

"What error?" I know of no health issues.

"The error was from our side. We sent a number of soulless mortals to Earth. To rectify, we decided to put the soul back into those mortals."

I try to make sense of the words that race miles above my mind, construct legal arguments in a language I understand. 'The error was from our side' – incriminating evidence.

Nothing is conclusive without evidence.

"What proof do you have of my so-called error?"

A torrent of bubbles gushes forth and scatters to all corners of the mirror. The mirror laughs.

Robots from side walls lean forward like cuckoos from a row of cuckoo clocks. Though expressionless, the way they rock up and down, I know they laugh.

"As a lawyer, you made a mockery of justice. What more evidence do we need? You live on your clients, but work in favor of the opposite parties. You do sting operations on almost everyone you meet, with the sole intent of blackmail."

"Ethics! You talk about bookish ethics. What do you know of the life of lawyers? We live hand-to-mouth. We have to employ all means to earn money. If professional ethics is your concern, catch the rich ones. Like Dr. Bansal."

"We have Dr. Bansal too with us for soul implantation." The mirror shows him.

He lies inert and submerged in a liquid light.

I swallow. The image of the doctor disappears.

"We do not understand money. We work for universal happiness. Dr. Bansal takes government's resources from those who are needy and starving. You betray your client's trust. The likes of you make it impossible for poor people to fight injustice."

Change the line of defense. The incriminating evidence, yes.

"You admit error from your side. Why should I pay for your mistake?"

The robots stop rocking, and disappear back into their mirrors. The mirror in front is still.

"We did what we could to compensate. For the doctor, we tried to replace his body. New souls need fresh bodies, no memories, no experiences, to begin from scratch. Babies work best. Our enBots that you see here aren't equipped to handle adult bodies. The results were robotic caricatures, as you saw in Dr. Bansal. A wiser way is to bring the bodies here and implant the soul. It's your turn now..."

"But wait, you can't...No" I shout.

Mirrors turn to pools of silver light, whirl, and suck me in, head first. My thick mop of hair is caught in the ripples. When the last strand unravels, I slip down. My head pounds and heart hammers against my ribs. I thrash and kick and then lay still. Lay still, don't breath, don't give in. I exhale.

I can hear the whirlpool roaring beside my ears. A hand turns me over, feels my temple and other sides of my head.

I open my eyes to see Dr. Bansal leaning over me.

"No serious injuries, thank God!" He says.

I'm lying at the edge of the city's wide open drain. Water gushes through it oblivious to the danger it poses.

I sit up and pat down the dirt and bits stuck on my hands and hair.

"How about you?"

"I feel great. It's a miracle we escaped that." He points to his car crashed against a lamppost. "and that." He points to the drain. "Help will be here soon, but I guess we'll be okay."

"Yup. This isn't a police job at all."

"Not at all and I feel free anyway," he meets my eyes. I nod. "No more sleepless nights, jealousy, fear of rivals, distance from friends. All I want is peace." He sighs.

"Me too. Free from the scheming, the racing. All I need to do is build trust with clients, prove my intelligence and honesty. Cases will come."

"Makes perfect sense. Now if only my past wasn't such a mess. From where do I start to undo?"

"I know where I'll start. All those videos and audios in my safe. I'm going to reveal them at the right places, get the truth out in the open..."

"Good. I'll need your help when I do the U-turns with my previous policies. It'll be tough, but not as tough as death would've been, right?"

"Nope, and not as bad as being soulless either." I say.

END

# Liberty in Death

## – Shubham Mamgain

Shubham Mamgain is a young literature enthusiast and a story freak currently pursuing his English honours from Delhi University. He loves reading, watching anime and movies, playing soccer, and of course writing. He hates boredom, plagiarists and plagiarism, and disappointing others. He aspires to be a fantastic storyteller by writing stories and adapting them into movies.

He has written Liberty in Death exclusively for UnBound.

___

Part 1 – The Aidnian Wanderer

The ideal city of Wregan cheered in the wake of upcoming event. The wide road that originates from the Fang, the emperor's grand palace, and traverses the entire length of the prosperous city was flanked by thousands of Wreganians.

The cheering was so loud that the Wreganians who lived in the outskirts of the city – mostly business-people, to entertain the tourists – couldn't help but smile in excitement. Many ignorant visitors wore bewildered expressions as they walked into one of many inns and eateries.

Mr. Rint Agare, the keeper of Eregant Eatly, hailed one such person. The very appearance of this visitor had caused him to wrinkle his nose. If a hooded man carrying a sword were to arrive at any such place, it only meant trouble.

These Wanderers!

But it was his duty to accommodate any body. Especially when his mundane shop was running low on customers. Hence, he tossed the disgust to the recesses of his mind and welcomingly nodded at his customer.

"Welcome, sir."

The Wanderer walked towards a round table surrounded by four empty seats. He propped his sheathed sword against the table and sat on a seat. Mr. Rint approached his newest guest.

"What'd you like to have, sir?"

"Information," the hooded stranger replied in a slow yet stern voice as he focused his brilliant jade eyes towards his host.

Given his Pigent-eye, the young Wanderer was certainly not a Stray-blood. At least Mr. Rint wouldn't be hazarding his pride by entertaining this particular Wanderer. As a gesture of acknowledgement, he, therefore, took a seat opposite to his customer.

"As you wish, sir."

"I am puzzled, really," the Wanderer began. "Why this commotion? What are you celebrating? And why did you make a queer face when you first saw me?"

The youth's innocent query put Mr. Rint in the defensive. And his declaration of Mr. Rint's behavior embarrassed him. He had never wished to get his customer upset, no matter what. And it was not his fault, not even the Wanderer's. The emotion inspired was instinctive. If someone was culpable, it was the Wreganian culture.

"Pray, excuse my misconduct," Mr. Rint apologetically eyed the Wanderer. When he genially nodded, Mr. Rint heaved a sigh and said –

"Your query leads me to believe that you are not from around this place, are you?" Mr. Rint gently asked.

"No. I come from Aidni."

Mr. Rint's face lit up. He had rightly guessed so. Now, certain of the Wanderer's home, he softened further. Aidni was a place located near the fourth-pole. It was natural for Aidnians to be ignorant of the Wreganian nobility and victory. And it was Wreganian pride to enlighten the ignorant. Hence, the elated Mr. Rint couldn't let this chance slide by. Driven by the Wreganian sense of duty, he began:

"Let me start from the scratch then. (The young Wanderer nodded.)

"Not to blow our own trumpet, it being against our pride, but we, the Wreganians, are the purest descendants of the mighty Dragons who once ruled the Sphere. Now, the Sphere carries two distinct races in her bosom – the Dragon-bloods and the Stray-bloods."

"Umm-hmm," the Wanderer nodded.

"The great Dragon-art, or Magic, runs in the vein of the former. Our Pigent-eyes are an evidence of the great magic infused within us. While the latter are devoid of it. Hence their Void-eyes.

"Now among the Dragon-bloods themselves, there were people, relatively few, who could actually perform the Dragon-arts. Many such Dragonards went to the fourth-pole to settle. Aidnians are supposedly the descendants of the Dragonards." Mr. Rint grinned ear to ear as he eyed the Wanderer who gaped in amazement.

"I am happy that you are enjoying the tale. And I hope you begin to appreciate our history." The Aidnian youth nodded. Mr. Rint continued.

"The majority of the Dragon-bloods, however, had Magic imbibed within them so deeply that it couldn't be put to practical use. Such people called the First-pole their home.

"And the Third pole was foolishly called home by the Stray-bloods." Mr. Rint sighed.

"Err... Why foolishly?" the Wanderer made an agonized face.

"Of course it is foolish! The Sphere had disowned them once they had deviated from the Dragons' blood-line. Even the Providence abhors the Stray-bloods. It is evident in their troubled history. The Stray-bloods' vices manifested themselves into violence and death, and consumed them.

"We, the Dragon-bloods, were favored by the Providence. So it can be concluded that we are the ones who are chosen by the Providence to own the Sphere. However, we, the Wreganians, the strongest and the wisest of the Dragon-bloods, have prospered more." Mr. Rint gleamed. Then, almost bizarrely, his expressions overturned.

"But the Stray-bloods have tried to oppose their fate. In vain, if you ask me. And as a consequence, the second-pole has been in a constant state of war between the Dragon-bloods and the Stray-bloods, the good and the evil, the Pigent and the Void.

Mr. Rint sighed again and his vision shifted to his feet. When he raised his head to face the Wanderer again, his elation leaned towards lunacy.

"But the war is over now! And as expected, we have emerged victorious! Again the Providence has passed the judgment upon the Stray-bloods, and damned them!" Mr. Rint panted after the explosive proclamation.

"The story is brilliant, mister," the young Wanderer smiled. "So I guess this celebration commemorates the end of this war?"

"No!" Mr. Rint almost screamed. "We are celebrating the enemy's downfall. We are celebrating our victory."

After a momentous pause, the Wanderer said – "I did know about a war waging in the Second-pole. I didn't know the details, though. Thank you for filling me in." The Wanderer grabbed his sword and rose to leave. Mr. Rint also rose and dashed to intercept him.

"Wait! Are you sure you don't want something to eat and drink? We have fresh Ulcino juice. There's a heavy discount on account of the celebration." Mr. Rint's left hand pointed at a poster which showed a large tilted glass-jar from which pitch-black liquid showered upon the rejoicing Wreganians.

"Err, no thanks. I should get going. I am on a mission."

"Is that so," Mr. Rint muttered. "You may as well be the first Wanderer with a mission, eh?" he chuckled. The young Wanderer smiled.

"Maybe. I don't care, though. I am looking for my friend. He ended up being dragged in the war. But I have information that he is alive, and in Wregan."

"Oh! Your friend got involved in a nasty situation, then," Mr. Rint said grimly. "Tell me about him. I'd be happy to help," he genially added.

The Wanderer's face lit up. Grinning, he said – "You're a saint, mister! Err... His name is Etoras, alias the Phoenix. He is tall, muscular, black-eyed, black hair –"

"Wait, wait, wait! What is BLACK?" Mr. Rint turned anxious. "Could you possibly mean void?"

"Err... I don't know what colour void is," the Wanderer said, feeling uncomfortable at Mr. Rint's interruption. "Black is, err, something dark, err... Yes! Like that, mister. That is black." The Wanderer pointed at the poster, at the liquid in the jar, at the Ulcino juice.

Mr. Rint was left thunderstruck. His pupils dilated and his gut almost peeped out of his widely-separate jaws. A Stray-blood in Wregan could only mean...

"Son!" Mr. Rint turned hysterical. "Get out of this place! Leave this city! You don't know about the highlight of the celebration yet – it'd better stay this way."

The young Wanderer frowned. Something was fishy. This inn-keeper certainly knew about Etoras.

"Mister," the Wanderer suppressed his impatience behind a veil of calmness, "Where is the Phoenix?" The Wanderer's stern gaze, however, were betraying his feelings. When Mr. Rint tried to evade his stare by looking elsewhere, he added – "Sir, I am an Aidnian, remember? Please, don't make me use it on you."

Mr. Rint had no choice but to give in. "Listen well, son. You may not like it, but here it goes. Six days ago, the emperor embarked on a tour round the kingdom. It is a sort of demonstration. Today, he is returning. He could reach here anytime. The highlight is –"

Before he could finish, a loud bugle sounded. Mr. Rint and the Aidnian Wanderer both had their gazes steered towards the exit of Eregant Eatly. Abruptly, the town erupted into a cheer. The din was punctuated with thrumming of slow foot-march.

"He's returned," Mr. Rint murmured. Then turning to face the Wanderer, he said: "Now it's futile for me to explain. Please go ahead and see for yourself." He backed a little and gestured towards the exit.

The Wanderer slowly started to walk, anxious as to what he may behold. He was about to pierce through the brightness of the exit, but was stopped by Mr. Rint's voice: "Son," he said in a slow voice, "you may not like what's out there."

The Wanderer remained stationary. He was trying to decipher the situation based on a meager view of the outside audacity. But all he could make out was a bubbly crowd which blocked his view. The Wanderer sighed and donned his hood. Without even a back-glance, he walked away, into the mob.

He struggled to wade through the sea of excited people. He endured painful stomping of jumping people and their bruising elbows as threw their hands in air. He endured their crazy roars which dazed him. At last, he fought his way through to the front. And what he saw sucked his very soul out of him.

The emperor was leading a band of soldiers in his steed. The emperor waved his hands at his people, and kicked his steed at the same time. But they were progressing rather slowly. At first, the Aidnian youth thought he mistook what he beheld. But as he continued to stare, he kept losing sight of his sanity. For he had spotted his friend. Etoras, the Phoenix. He kept moaning, shaking his head. The youth could almost see the dripping sweat and the teardrops that moistened the cruel earth. Etoras wasn't wiping them off. He could not. Because he was on his knees, working all four of his limbs to carry him forward. Him and the emperor. The Phoenix was the emperor's steed.

*****

Part 2 - The Phoenix Rises

(17 years ago. Somewhere in Aidni, the Fourth-Pole)

The sun shone over the lush grassland. Two vibrant boys ran through the dense orange outcrop, crushing a few blades under their feet. Only when they reached their favourite place, the top of a giant rock sticking out of the orange grassland, did they stop to catch their breath.

"Hey Brozis," the ten-year-old said, "What do you want to become when you grow old?"

"Me? Err... I shall become a Wanderer!" The eight-year-old replied.

"OOOh! You want to roam all the fourth poles, na?"

"Of course! And it's all because of your stories about other poles."

"Hehe! I too hear them from my father. He has roamed a lot," Etoras said.

"It must be his duty. He is the chief of your tribe, after all," Brozis said in awe. "Tell me more about the First-pole, Eto!"

"Let me see..." Etoras went into a pensive state. "The First-Polers cannot use magic, like us, did I tell you this?"

"NO!" Brozis shrieked. "I thought that only you couldn't do it. This is so wicked!" Then he sheepishly added: "I cannot do it too."

"You are still a kid, idiot," Etoras playfully hit Brozis on his head. "You will learn. They cannot."

"Err... So they are like you, na?"

Etoras laughed. "I had asked my dad the exact same thing. He had laughed too. Then he had said, 'Everybody on this Sphere is equal.'" Etoras mimicked his dad's gruff voice.

Brozis screwed his face. Etoras burst out laughing. This annoyed Brozis further.

"What I mean is that he was lying," Etoras explained.

"Why?!" Brozis shrieked.

"I don't know why. But I had once eavesdropped during their meetings at my home. From what I understand is that the First-Polers have colourful eyes like you Aidnians but cannot do magic. In that respect they are like us. But they think themselves superior than us, in fact, everybody. I have heard that they look down on everybody that is not a First-Poler."

"How do you look down on somebody?" Brozis asked, puzzled.

To illustrate, Etoras slanted his eyebrows towards each other and wrinkled his nose. At this, Brozis chortled.

"First-Polers are queer!" Brozis exclaimed. "When I become a Wanderer and go to the First-Pole and if they make queer faces at me, I'd be sure to ask them why they do it!"

"Why would you ask that? I have told you already. They think they are superior to others. They think that the rest are scum."

"Err... Just to give them a hard time, I guess."

At this, both the boys guffawed. When they cooled down, Brozis asked:

"Hey, Eto."

"Hmm?"

"What do you want to become?"

"Me!" Etoras' eyes widened. "I am so glad that you asked me that! I want to become two things. First, I want to become a great warrior."

"A warrior!"

"Yes. Just like my father!" Etoras beamed with pride.

"Why?"

"That's a stupid question, Bro! I will become the greatest warrior and protect my family, my people and, of course, my friends."

Brozis listened in awe. Then he said, "Eto! I will also become a great warrior and protect you."

Etoras grinned. "A puny kid protecting a warrior?" He playfully laughed. "But, Brozis," Etoras added in a serious note. Brozis stopped grinning and prepared himself to listen to his friend.

"My father has taught me things. I'll tell them to you."

Brozis sincerely nodded.

"Father says that warriors only live for their pride. They must do everything in their power to defend their warrior's pride!"

"What's a warrior's pride?"

"You are an idiot of highest degree, you know that?"

Brozis screwed his face.

"Listen well, then. A warrior never expects pity. There is no greater dishonor for a warrior to be shown pity at. If a warrior is defeated, they accept the consequences with pride. A warrior with no pride is worse than scum!"

"So wicked!" Brozis exclaimed. "Then how will I help you, if it is against your warrior's pride?"

"You can help me. But as an equal. Like, you can help me by covering my back while I cover yours. And if I lose my foothold and an enemy is about to impale me, you can kill that enemy in my stead."

Brozis gaped in amazement. He waited for all this to sink in. When it did, he said –

"Then let us make an oath. We will never hurt each other's pride."

"NEVER!" Etoras shouted at the sunset. When they had laughed to their hearts' content, Brozis said –

"So what's the second thing?"

"I want to become a Phoenix as well."

"What's a Feeniks?" Brozis asked in awe.

"My father told me about them. They are big red birds. They never die."

"Never?!" Brozis shrieked.

"Yes. When they grow old, they burst into flames and then are reborn from their ashes," Etoras explained.

"Wicked!" Brozis exclaimed. Then he added: "What do you want to become a Feeniks for?"

Etoras reflected for a moment before replying – "I want to become free and fly off to wherever I like. Even to the First-Pole. And beyond."

Brozis again screwed his face. "Why don't you become a Wanderer like me, then? We could roam together! Then we will both become great warriors and fight together!" Brozis grinned at the prospect.

"Yes, I could. But unlike Wanderers, Phoenix is immortal, na?"

*****

(The Present)

The cheering continued, but Brozis did not perceive the noise. All he could hear was Eto's painful groaning and creak of his limbs. Brozis was lost in a limbo. The real world did not matter anymore. The world where unthinkable happens is not the real world at all. Brozis unblinkingly kept on watching the Wreganian lunacy. He watched the emperor's hunky structure crushing his best friend's spine. He watched the rough earth peeling away the war-prisoner's skin. He watched as tears dowsed the flames of the Phoenix.

After relentlessly crawling like an animal, Etoras stopped to the complaints of his body. But one of the soldiers behind him lashed a whip dangerously at the Phoenix. Brozis saw Etoras biting his lips. Next the emperor delivered a heinous heel-kick at Eto's abdomen and as a result he coughed blood.

The spectators rejoiced at the torture being imparted at their enemy. It wasn't just regular enmity, but unconditional hatred.

"The greatest warrior! Our king!" somebody shouted. At once the crowd broke into a chorus: "Long live the king! Long live the great warrior!"

The chorus brought Brozis back to the real world. Warrior?!

"What happened to their pride?" Brozis muttered.

A vibrant young man, quick of hearing, responded – "Why the lousy face, buddy?"

"What happened to their pride?" Brozis repeated, in a reverie.

The young Wreganian cackled. "What pride? Even animals don't have no pride. And these are our enemies. These are scums, for Wregan's sake!" the man laughed.

Enemies?! After a war, enemies cease to be enemies. When both sides shed blood, no bad blood prevails...

Brozis slowly turned his head to face the man. His eyes gleaming with a murderous aura. The young Wreganian frowned. In a flash, the Aidnian Wanderer's eyes flickered and turned red. Before the Wreganian could comprehend anything, he lost his senses.

Brozis turned away and walked slowly along with the procession. Brozis tightened his grasp on his sword. Blood raged within him. All he wanted was to unsheathe his sword and decapitate the emperor. How he wanted to save his friend... But his temptations were pointless if Etoras did not want to be saved at all! And he must not cry. He must not pity a great warrior. He must honour their oath.

***

Within an hour, the procession entered the royal estate. Etoras dragged his now near-lifeless body on the wide road that connected to the palace. The hooded Aidnian Wanderer's eyes never wavered off the great warrior. Only if the Phoenix had stumbled in a fight...

A few metres away from the castle stairs, Etoras collapsed. The emperor stood on his feet, probably for the first time in his tour. And then he kicked the Phoenix. As soon as he did that, the Wreganian mob erupted into an even louder cheering. The Aidnian youth gripped his sword so tightly that his skin peeled off and started bleeding. His breath came out in short ragged gasps. He couldn't tolerate breathing the same air as these shameless scums of Wregan.

The emperor continued to kick, laughing as he did so. Unable to bear the sight, Brozis turned his head sideways. But he was compelled to look at Etoras again. A loud collective gasp of the Wreganian cluster encouraged him to do so. And when he did, tears welled up in his bloodshot eyes at last.

It wasn't out of pity. But a warrior's pride.

Etoras had stopped the emperor's kick mid-air with his left arm. And then he slowly rose from the ground. Before standing erect, he threw the emperor on that very ground which had endured a true warrior's defeated embrace. Etoras struggled to stand erect. The entire city of Wregan fell silent for the first time.

The soldiers behind him attempted to impale Etoras. Brozis smiled.

In a flash, he appeared out of nowhere to stand in between his friend and the royal soldiers. To cover the back of a fellow-warrior was a thing of honour. In one swift motion of his blazing sword, Brozis sliced through the entire army. The ideal city of Wregan was struck by panic.

"A DRAGONARD!" It screamed.

The emaciated Etoras was oblivious to all this commotion. Only when Brozis yelled at the great Wregan city, which got shushed like a terrified animal, did the Phoenix struggled to turn his head and behold a friendly figure.

"I am no Dragonard. I AM AN AIDNIAN WANDERER!"

Having said this, Brozis turned, held his friend Etoras in a warm embrace, and right in front of thousands of Wreganians, the Wanderer and the Phoenix disappeared into thin air.

*****

Part 3 – Liberty in Death

The two warriors materialized out of oblivion in the deserted former-battlefield located in the Second-Pole. The once green surface now looked crimson as the setting sun caused the frozen blood, accrued on the blades of both the fallen warriors' swords and the injured nature's leaves, to sparkle. The land, laden with corpses of the Third-Polers, reeked of death and decay.

Brozis rested Etoras on the scarlet earth. He had intended to reappear in Aidni. But Etoras had protested.

"Take me to my father," he had managed to whisper.

Brozis sat beside his friend. "Hey, Eto," he gently uttered.

Silence.

"I became a Wanderer and learned Magic!" Brozis feigned cheerfulness in his voice.

Silence.

"Right after you departed for the Third-Pole, eight years ago, I swore apprenticeship under my grandma. Can you believe that?"

Silence.

"And, you know, grandma would always look in her crystal-ball and tell me how you are being wrought into a fine warrior by your father. It'd make me envious." He managed a chortle.

Silence.

"Then two years ago she told me that you became second-in-command of your country. I was so happy that you had become a great warrior –"

"Brozis..." Etoras muttered in a cracked voice. And when Brozis looked at his face he notice beads of regret escaping from his friend's eyes.

"I have disgraced my father... My people... my pride..." Etoras covered his eyes with his right hand.

Brozis screwed his face in acute sorrow.

"Hey, Eto –"

"BROZIS!" The unexpected yell put the Wanderer in the defensive.

"I HAVE HAD MY PRIDE STEPPED ON BY THE WREGANIAN SCUMS... THEY KILLED MY FATHER, MOTHER, AND-AND MY... MY SISTER! I WAS PREPARED TO DIE... BROZIS! I WANTED TO DIE, BUT THEY STRIPPED MY PRIDE... THEY MADE ME A SLAVE, BROZIS! THEY MOCKED MY PRIDE!" Etoras broke down crying.

Brozis watched in horror at his friend. To have endured such a fate; to have denied death to a true warrior when he was prepared for it... Blood boiled in his veins. His jade eyes flickered and turned crimson. Etoras sobbed for a long time.

"Brozis," the now calmed Phoenix muttered, "I beg from you. Let me be free again. I cannot bear this cursed life anymore. I don't want to remain a slave anymore... Brozis..." The following words came like a shock to him, even though he had expected them sooner or later –

"Brozis, kill me."

Brozis pressed his warm hand against the cold head of his friend.

"Eto... You are a Phoenix, na? You can rise from your ashes, na?"

Silence.

"They have burned you. Now you can –"

"Brozis!" Etoras grabbed his hand. "Let my memories burn in your heart. Let me rise again, as your rage. Let my fire damn them to hell. BROZIS! LET ME AVENGE MY PEOPLE THROUGH YOU!"

The Aidnian Wanderer stared blankly at the scarlet earth.

"BROZIS! I BEG YOU! KILL ME. I COULD NOT WIN FOR MY PEOPLE... YOU ARE MY FRIEND, NA? YOU WILL FIGHT FOR THEM IN MY STEAD, NA?"

Brozis looked at his weeping friend. Now, he let himself feel pity.

"Stupid Phoenix!" Brozis wept. "I WAS GOING TO AVENGE YOU ANYWAY, YOU MORORN!"

Eto's grip loosened. Brozis wiped his tears and looked at his friend. Calmness was spread over his face now. The injuries from the weeklong tortures, and denial of food and water had claimed his life. But, in death, he was smiling.

The Phoenix was free at last.

END

# Riva's Song

## \- Ashwini Gopalakrishnan

Ashwini Gopalkrishnan is a self-employed professional. She is a blogger and has written many short stories for different eMagazines and websites. She has also participated in various contests conducted by Pepper Script, Readomania and other publication houses. One of her short stories is published in 'Ishq: an Anthology' which is published by Inklovers.in. She can be contacted at Short Stories for Children and Quotes, which is her page on Facebook.

To read and appreciate her creative work, please visit her blogs Chocolate Loving Gal  
and Funtime with Krishu and Niharika.

She has written Riva's Song exclusively for UnBound.

Are we totally free?

Freedom is such a wonderful thing to have,

We abuse it as we don't care.

Are we totally free?

Child abuse, rape, and abortion are easily possible here,

As we have easily laws that which bails out criminals dear.

Are we totally free?

Politicians fight amongst themselves,

Public looks like a child in distress.

Are we totally free?

Increasing sound of loudspeakers during Sarvajanik Ustav,

Make us go helter-skelter.

Are we totally free?

Are we totally free?

Of what use is this freedom when people fight among themselves,

On the grounds of what they call 'dharma' as religion and wealth.

Are we totally free?

Is there peace here where children of my age form groups?

Only to make them feel like some hopeless 'bhuddhus'.

Are we totally free?

Of what use is this freedom when our society cannot accept the crippled and disabled,

According to Santana Dharma we have to see lord in each and every soul,

Then why are there biases?

My friend's lover is practically a loser,

As he is not able to see the kind of love my friend showers on him,

According to him breaking my friend's heart is freedom from this suffocating relationship.

What is so suffocating about this relationship?

Arre it is our attitude that matters the most.

Thy love is unconditional,

Thy providing is satisfaction,

Thy care is perspiration,

Thy liberty is inspiration.

But we all consider it as freedom,

Just because He, the Lord of Lords, keeps quiet, we do what we want,

What we want is to hurt others,

This is what freedom has taught us,

Shame on us and the freedom which we have gained.

There is a intolerable sadness as we say 'Bharat Mata ki Jai'

What is Jai about this country?

Where good is bad and bad is good.

So what's the use of moral science education?

Ours is country where we give the country our dictation.

Are we totally free?

Are we totally free?

# What Does Freedom Mean to Me?

#

We asked our fellow writers on For Writers, By Authors this question. These are a few of the answers we received.

It churned and ensnared me into the cobwebs of negativity. I gasped for breath and struggled – out of the chaos came a period of calm – that was freedom! Believing in possibility thinking – that's freedom to me. I exert myself from the pull of negativity and criticism and realize one can't change people – one can definitely change one's thinking. – KAVITA JHALA

For me freedom is the action of empathy towards past. – ANKIT TIWARI

Freedom is the choice to rejoice on one's own path, Free to face the fluctuations of the game. – ANKIT TIWARI

Freedom is the Sacred Scripture of life that lets us explore the unexplored, Free to flourish in the garden of faith. – ANKIT TIWARI

Freedom is accord to dance with abandon on the beats of rain,Free to feel the waves of nostalgia. – ANKIT TIWARI

Freedom is a mental state – of not seeking acceptance, of not being in dependent relationships, of not doing anything because you are expected to do it. – REENA SAXENA

Freedom is a spiritual state – of believing that you are immortal and complete and free, in transition from one state to another, one never born and will never die. – REENA SAXENA

I want Freedom from tainted people representatives. If it happens then in the real manner we would get our independence. Only then our country will move ahead. Till then the same situation will remain at any cost. – SIDDHARTHA BHARADWAJ

Freedom means never having to say Yes when I mean No. – LEENA PANDEY

Freedom to me is being locked up, alone, in a dimly lit room with its windows boarded up. No one to talk to. No one to keep me company except of course my computer; or a pen and paper.

Freedom to me is to write. Freedom to me is to play God as I create life and death on paper. – YAMUNAI SATHYA

Freedom to me is the ability to think and feel what we want, without censure. – AINDRILA ROY

Set the caged bird free, let her wings flapper and let her find her own sky. Freedom for me is "being free" from the cliché mentality of judging women as inferior to men. The day the idea of equality would emancipate from papers and get accommodated in people's minds and living styles I guess that day I would be free. – SUKHAMANI GANDHI

If I want to fetch bliss on someone's face, i have to refrain from political, economic, social, cultural, linguistic, religious and demographic factors prevails in the society. These factors create hurdles at large extent to me in the path of freedom. Freedom is what; my heart pours compassionated blood for inducing my soul towards someone's spree. – MOHAMMED ISRAF

Freedom, ever since 1945 we had been celebrating it every year on the same day. But do you still think that we are free? Are we free from the false beliefs that kill infants, from pollution and corruption? Can women freely walk around the stree today? To me freedom is unity of humans and thoughts. But are we 'unite' today? – POOJA SHARMA

Freedom for me equates to being comfortable with my own body, thoughts & ideas in order to be in harmony with outer world. To follow my passion to resurrect dying humanity without allowing expectations to play a role! – AMIT YADAV

