Language of the soul- a short story by Sampriti Biswas

Hello Friends,

hope you all are enjoying in this wonderful festive season. This story is a small Diwali gift from me to my lovely readers. I hope you all like it. Till then see ya folks!

 Language of the soul

It was noon. The midday blazing sun was high on the cloudless sky, as if glaring at every living, breathing creature. The underground metro station was buzzing with the humdrum of office goers, school students, home makers, college-goers. Popular Bollywood masala songs played incessantly on the suspended flat screens of the station. As an air conditioned train approached, everyone hurriedly jostled with each other to move forward, eager to have a seat in the comfort of the AC; it was after all a blessing for the middle class, a temporary relief in their hand-to-mouth existence. Everyone entered as fast as possible, most of them had to stand-it was still a relief to find some foothold, some space. They complained in their own way- some cringed up their noses at an odour; some stamped other’s feet while adjusting to be more comfortable; some elbowed their neighbours; some pushed; others uttered noises of irritation arghh, ahh, ughh......evident sounds of discomfort.

As station after station passed more and more passengers came aboard. In spite of the Air conditioner the train was literally a pressure cooker, brimming to its full. It smelled of sweat, grease and heat had its own unique smell.

In a particular coach, the ladies section was especially in a very bad shape. A few of them had even resorted to tactfully verbally abusing each other. As the busy women sweated profusely, their impending doom of household chores at the end of the day loomed at large, in front of them. They are always ‘double-burdened’. They were, after all, tired, edgy, after a hard day’s work. “Please keep your feet off my sandal madam, in case you don’t know, it hurts” screeched a lady, irritated clad in a pink chiffon with a black leather bag, her golden danglers sparkling as she moved her head in rage. “Oh in case you haven’t noticed there’s not an inch to move, so just feel free to move away your sandal clad, delicate feet instead”, retorted back her neighbour, a middle aged woman in a white salwar-kameez. She dabbed her head with her kerchief quite frequently. Three sitting college girls, giggled out loudly at some joke-some of the standing women glared. An old lady, eyes closed, went on silently praying, her rosary beads in hand. Few lucky women, sitting, tried to rest awhile. Ne even snored softly, her mouth half-opened, drool lacing her parched lips- someone quipped ‘bloody disgusting’.

Suddenly a baby from a corner seat bawled out loudly. The incessant crying went on for a few minutes. Then, quite astonishingly he gave out a wide toothless grin and then with a peal of laughter ending only with a loud belch. Everyone’s attention quickly, shifted to that one tiny mite, about a year old, in the corner clad in a pretty blue dungaree. His mother, sitting beside him, tried to feed him a bottle of milk which he vehemently refused. As the delightful creature squealed in evident pleasure of catching a lock of hair in his hands from his neighbour, a smile appeared on the women’s tired faces. Everyone became engrossed in watching the little adorable child, his frolics, antics, forgetting for some time their pain, their desperation, their daily monotonous existence, the same crowded metro-train ride, the same struggle for a little footing-without speaking yet in a common language, that little life, united them all. Or perhaps, it’s the unspoken language of the soul.

History of the eternal captives....

Hello,

here's my insight on women; although published, this article is very close to my heart.......I hope you all like it.....                                                                                                    

                                 History of the Eternal Captives.

                                                                              

In our illustrious country India, women are worshipped, respected as deities. From Mata Durga the saviour, Mata Kali the demon punisher, Mata Lakshmi the goddess of wealth to Mata Saraswati the devi of learning; all are held in great reverence; each and every God fearing noble citizen abide by them, seek their blessings earnestly. Fortunes are spent in appeasing them; pujas, yajnas etc are made to do by pious Brahmins. Yet the “fortunate” women do not find such great honour in their individual lives. All over the country they are discriminated, they are the victims of domestic abuse, heinous crimes such as rape, infanticide, killing of girl foetus, murder etc. In this context it is apt to say that brutal crimes are committed against them not only in India but also all over the world. They are that hapless gender, the commodified gender; the eternal captives.

They have lived caged lives from time immemorial; from the valiant emperor’s harem, to the once geisha districts and the hellish red light areas. They are the daughters, the mothers, the wives, the sisters; they are the home-makers, the peaceful ones, the forgiving ones, the embodiment of love, values and honesty, the nurturer of all things beautiful. But they are made the scars of the society forcibly. They are burned in the name of dowry, raped and mutilated; her limbs torn apart in the name of lust, her face disfigured beyond recognition; driven to the brink of insanity with acid attacks by spurned lovers. Can we ever forget Delhi’s Nirbhaya? Or the Afghan women who went through unthinkable circumstances in the Taliban rule? Or the recent abduction of school girls by the Boko Haram? Every other day these crimes are increasing in number globally. The very character of the torture meted out to women is changing. The patriarchal system is trying its very best to repress women from seeking their true destinies. They are blamed for their clothes, their figure, their ways of life, their thoughts, ambitions and so on .Their purity, their modesty is of utmost importance.  Unwritten special codes of conduct exist for them all over the world. In the less developed countries the scenario is even more dangerous. For example the Dalit women face great struggle for their survival.

But most of us, the educated global netizens, know all these. So it will be a futile exercise to support these facts with statistics; the prominent daily newspapers give us our regular dose of crime, their related data and statistics. Instead I would try to shift the reader’s attention to the history of these eternal captives as I strive to uncover the long forgotten tracks that have finally led them to their present situation. These tracks have been well covered by time, blood and soil so the journey will be tumultuous. But the endeavour is rewarding nonetheless as it might unearth the very history of our unfortunate kind. The very first question that plagues my mind is that when did the first discrimination happen? Was it with the early cage dwelling man , our forefathers, who first divided their work, for the ease of their daily difficult existence, the first division of labour; that the women would look after the aged and the young ones whilst the stronger male would hunt for food? If it’s so then physical strength had a substantial role to play in this division. Women are matured yet soft, understand emotions and values and to inculcate all these they may have been given the duty of upbringing of their children. Also nature creates a bond between her and her young ones through its own unique creation. Thus the era of stay at home, vulnerable, women started under the protective wing of their chivalrous men.

A mini snapshot of different parts of the world would help us in the analysis. In the Enlightenment, the philosopher Jean Jacques Rousseau argued that the domestic role of women is a structural precondition for a modern society. The Age of Reason did not bring forth much for women; men including most of the Enlightenment aficionados believed that women were naturally destined to be principally wives and mothers. The higher class women needed to be educated and knowledgeable whereas the lower class women were expected to be economically productive; both for the benefit of their husbands. Here the Nazi Germany deserves special mention. Before 1933 women played important roles in the Nazi organization and were given some autonomy but after Adolf Hitler came to power the activist women were replaced by the bureaucratic women who naturally emphasised feminine virtues; the Nazis believed that women must be subservient to men. But in the time of The Second World War, women worked as nurses, seamstresses, support personnel and in the Luftwaffe although their wages remained vastly unequal and were denied leadership positions. The Nazis viewing the women as agents of fertility murdered two million women in the holocaust. Chinese Women’s Life History is a historical book written by Chen Dongyuan in 1928. This book is thought to be the first to give a systematic introduction to women’s history in China. It intends to explain how the principle of women being inferior to men evolves. He recalls the abuses inflicted on the Chinese women from the ancient times. From McGranan (2010) we come to know how the menstrual blood was thought of as a contaminating agent as she examines the role of the 20^th century women in Tibet. In Russia after the Bolshevik Revolution feminist lobbying gained suffrage and nominal equality for women in education and the workplace. In 2012 feminism was called ‘mortal sin’ by a lawyer representing the Russian Orthodox Church. In South Africa owing to the legacy of apartheid and other extreme social agendas women have become the major victims from drug abuse, gang culture etc. In the United States a pioneering work by Deborah Gray White ‘Ai’n’t I a Woman? Female Slaves in the Plantation South’ (1985) opens up a great analysis of race, slavery, violence and feminism. The foundation stone of contemporary feminism was laid by Simone de Beauvoir’s 1949 treatise The Second Sex. She pens down exquisitely about the atrocities inflicted upon women. Women’s sexuality is of course a tabooed subject all over the world; family planning, abortions etc are thus topics of much debates and discussion. Evils of Dowry are still rampant in major parts of the world. Women have always been the worst affected by the wars; we can easily refer to the comfort women of the Japanese Military. Numerous women were raped, tortured and killed during the Bangladesh Liberation War and before that in the Indian Freedom Struggle. Tahmima Anam’s ‘A Golden Age’ is a heart wrenching read centering on the Bangladesh Mukti Juddha. In the times of the wars especially the world wars the women came out of their homes losing their husbands, brothers, fathers to work in order to support their families. They even worked in the factories to feed their children. This at least gave her liberty to some extent.

But we also have some very powerful women in the history of ‘man’kind. We have women of great merit, valour and perseverance. They were to a great extent the game changers and today’s women owe to some of them significantly for the relative betterment in their existence (for certain section of women in certain parts of the world). Hatshepsut, one of the most successful pharaohs, was the fifth pharaoh of the eighteenth dynasty of the ancient Egypt. Women of the Vedic Period in India (circa 1500-1200 BCE) were epitomes of intellectual and spiritual attainments; Ghosha, Apala, Lopamudra, Maitreyi and Gargi were some of them. Gorgo was the wife of King Leonidas, king of the Greek city of Sparta. She was named by Herodotus and was known for her political judgement and wisdom. The Valide Sultan was the title held by the queen mother of a ruling sultan of the Ottoman Empire. The position was the most important one after the sultan himself and she exerted great influence on the affairs of the empire. The most powerful and well known Valide Sultans and Haseki Sultans in the history of Ottoman Empire are Huerrem sultan, Nurbanu Sultan and Koessem Sultan. Anne Boleyn influenced religious development in England indirectly by leading Henry VIII to divorce Catherine of Aragon and break away from the Catholic Church.

 Mother Mary continues to give solace to the wounded souls of the world. A’isha, wife of Muhammad, the prophet, narrates the largest number of Hadiths.  Parampurush SriRamkrishna Paramhansa saw divinity in his wife Mata Sarada Devi.

Today’s women politicians like Germany’s Angela Merkel, India’s Sushma Swaraj, Mamata Banerjee, Sonia Gandhi, the late Indira Gandhi, Burma’s Aung San Suu Kyi, Pakistan’s the late Benazir Bhutto, Michelle Bachlet the head of UN Women, Hilary Clinton the US Secretary of State, Michelle Obama the first lady of US, Christine Lagarde the French finance minister are some of the notable key players in the global politics. Women like Florence Nightingale and Mother Teresa are immortal in the hearts of millions of people around the globe.

Perhaps there is hope for the freedom for the eternal captives as the above mentioned women and many others continue to inspire and encourage the millions of downtrodden helpless women all over the globe. There is change, of course, it has come with time, but the pace is slow and unequal. The 1987 paper Gender and cooperative conflicts by Nobel laureate Prof. Amartya Sen is a very important and interesting read. Prof. Sen says, Household activities have been viewed in many contradictory ways in assessing production and technology. On the one hand, it is not denied that the sustenance, survival and reproduction of workers are obviously essential for the workers being available for outside work. On the other, the activities that produce or support that sustenance, survival or reproduction are typically not regarded as contributing to output, and are often classified as 'unproductive' labour. So women can be both ‘productive’ as well as ‘unproductive’ on the home front depending on how people perceive it. Again working women face the ‘double burden’ of both working outside the home as well as working inside it.

Novels like Arthur Golden’s ‘Memoirs of a Geisha’ or Katie Hickman’s ‘The Aviary Gate’ or Tracy Chevalier’s ‘The Virgin Blue’, Khaled Hosseini’s ‘A Thousand Splendid Suns’ etc portrays captive women and their sorrows, fear, joy, their undying spirits and their shackled lives. The celebration of the International Women’s Day will have no meaning whatsoever if the society does not change its attitude towards women. The society must acknowledge that she is an independent, free spirited, mature, loving yet firm entity. Given the same care as her male counterparts from childhood she lives longer. Women must be educated everywhere and allowed to pursue their dreams; they must be freely allowed to make their choices and the world must make itself a safer place for them to live in. That unseen chain bordering their lives must be eradicated and this can only be possible if along with the Government, the NGO’s the common man comes forward. Otherwise measures like the Gender related Development Index or the Gender Empowerment Index (started from 1995 by the UN) will never be able to showcase the real scenario and will just be a bunch of data. The over expectations that a common woman face both from her family and the society confines her, confuse her, embitter her and she breaks down both physically and mentally subsequently. Today’s urban women in India are confused in the face of globalisation; should they be traditional or contemporary in body mind actions, what should be the ideal concoction of traditionalism and modernism that  the society might approve of? As the gender politics and positions shift, the society points its finger at women known to be in live-in relationships, or indulge in pre-marital sex etc but never care to stop the commodification of women.

I will end with a positive note; Scottish tennis star Wimbledon champion (singles title) Andy Murray recently chose Amelie Mauresmo as his coach. In the sporting world this came as a big shock. His mother Judy Murray evoked a striking metaphor in a speech she gave in London last month. She said “women are like snowflakes; we float around, we look pretty, and we usually hit a wall and melt away. But if we stick together, we can form a snowball. And snowballs can cause trouble.”

Book Reviews

Hello friends,
Ah! the sweet monsoon is here..........one can curl in a nice, cosy couch with a warm cup of steaming coffee and read a lovely book. Herein comes A Golden Age by Bangladeshi author Tahmima Anam. I tell you my friends it's a must read for all book worms. Also Katie Hickman's The Aviary Gate is very commendable. Friends I will soon be back with the review of these brilliant books and so just stay tuned. Till then, goodbyeeeeeeeeeeee.

Life in a box- a short story

Hello friends,
I am back again.........I hope you are all well. Belated happy poila baisakh to you all, I hope a wonderful year awaits everyone. And here I am with a fresh new short story exclusively for my readers. I hope it delights you. And do give me your much awaited comments...........and then I will be back with more.Till then........bye.

Life in a  box

Everyday Shikha saw the lady with her petty wares on the road. She laid them out with utmost care and diligence, her wares mostly cheap, outdated and dirty to some extent being exposed on the roadside for long. Gently after laying those down, the plastic soap cases, safety pins, tapes, boxes, spools of coloured threads, scrub pads etc, she would dust them and then burn incense sticks in front of a picture of a deity, asking for divine blessings. Her stall was by a very busy, dusty main road with buses, taxis and autos honking loudly all day. But it was the child that caught her eye........... a merry kid about a couple of years old or maybe even less sitting inside a big cardboard box. His mother kept her wares in it every night. The child was not as boisterous as any other children of his age; he was rather a patient, soft and sensitive kid. Sometimes he seemed shy sitting huddled in one corner of the brown hard box, sometimes he laughed out loudly pointing at something and showing it to his mother. At times he even slept inside the box, cosy and unaware of anything around him. His mother looked tired in her threadbare, cotton saree, or frayed salwar kamizes, her sunken eyes filled with a silent grief. Yet the same eyes sometimes lighted up at some antics of her child and she smiled. Sometimes Shikha stopped to buy a packet of cheap ear buds or safety pins for her mother, on her way back from college. It was at these times that she watched Dev, the child, more closely. Shikha was fascinated by Dev, she had never seen a child like him before, small that he was he was so uncomplaining and sensible that she became very respectful of his mother Fulari didi. Even in the hot humid days of summer in Calcutta the duo would be out. Shikha sometimes brought him a sweet, or a lozenge, or an old toy and watched in joy when his soft little fingers clutched them meekly yet with confidence, as if he knew he deserved those.

It happened in the time of Shikha’s final exams. Some of the local goons had threatened Fulari to leave that small space for a friend of theirs who intended to open a cheap dvd stall, selling mostly pirated dvd’s. But Fulari did not go away; it was her only means of livelihood for her fatherless child and herself. So they burned her tiny place down, in the dead of the night, she barely escaping with Dev on her shoulders. There was not even much smoke. As Shikha walked home from college on the last day of her finals, she noticed Dev sitting in front of a shoe store by her mother. The old cardboard box was nowhere to be seen. Fulari lay on the ground, her tear stained face caked with dirt. An aluminium bowl was by Dev’s side, some of the passerby’s threw coins noisily in it without even glancing at the duo. A gaunt man standing in Fulari’s place shouted out loudly with a dvd in his right hand, le jao le jao sabka tis, sabka tis..... A horde of people had gathered around him, of all ages.......busily toying with the much valued items. Shikha bought a chocolate and handed Dev. He took it silently, never meeting her in the eye. His angelic smile was no more on his face, instead, there was a fire in his innocent eyes, they burned with such intensity that Shikha felt afraid, afraid for the civilized world she knew. She touched Dev’s cheek lovingly, he pushed her hand away.

The Decision- A Short Story

Hello friends,
I am back once again with a short story once again written by me just for you all. Its a story about a 'he' and a 'she'.........a story that I am sure many will be able to relate to. This story signifies the pain often faced by unfortunate lovers, their thoughts, their determination. I hope you all like it. Do give me your valuable feedback friends and till then bye.....

                                                                          The Decision

She knew she had made the decision..........she knew it was wrong yet she could not turn back. She knew the Gods were laughing at her, yet she moved on. She knew time could never be turned back yet she trudged on. She needed tranquility, inner peace.......she was too long at war with herself. She wanted an answer once and for all. She knew only then she could move farther. It was never for the best person, oh no, he was far from it. He was fickle-minded, selfish, unsophisticated and brutally realistic. Yet there was a part of her that belonged to him; it was her weakness, her secret which she knew she would carry to her grave. Yet she sought an answer.......an answer which had the potential of changing her life radically forever. She mustered every bit of courage she ever had and with a thudding heart she said what she had discovered long back, “I love you, do you love me?” She knew the answer; it was supposed to be that, anything other than that would have shocked her. She grasped the full meaning of the simple no and the ensuing explanations. He was not a gifted orator and did not choose his words with care; they were like thorns inflicting wounds to her trepidating heart. She understood time had distanced them enough and there was the possibility of another woman...........yet she had perhaps hoped against hope. And when she got the much awaited answer she knew it was all that was for her; it would always be that. Nothing more, nothing less. Yet, she was not unhappy; he was rude, yet she was not unhappy........a heavy burden was lifted off her heart for ever. What remained was a lifetime of bitter sweet memories that would surely fill all her voids in life. What remained was the warmth they once shared........like a flickering fire. What remained was a ray of hope.........maybe someday, a promise to see each other, a hug that had been postponed for years. That was their moment. As tears flowed freely down her cheeks, she could hear their merry laughter ringing in her ears.....hers and his, years before, over a silly joke. She had let go of all that to embrace a lifetime of pain and pretense. No he was never the perfect person, yet she knew she could have had the perfect life with him. But it was all gone, gone forever to never come back in its original shades. The young love was intoxicating, yet never acknowledged. She was foolish not to realise it then, only to lament later. She knew even that she suffered for him was foolish.........yet she pined for his love, his stupid laughs, his stare, his advice. He promised he would always be there, a good friend, even more than that. That was all..........for her.

She had learnt to live her life in her own self created way. She had learned to live in the face of adversities, both big and small. She was on a turbulent sea, an immature, young sailor on a mere raft. Yet she had tried to smile......to carry on. It was then she had understood her true self and realised her mistake. The full gravity of it shocked her. It was too late. Until after years....he came back. His mere words opened the gates to a flood of memories. Oh no, they had never confessed love to each other- their relation was far from that. Yet she knew she loved him in a way, a different way; a love from respect, admiration. She longed to be with him, backing out at the precise moment when they could have met....but they met only to as if lament of the past, to see how they had changed, aged and hardened. There was no future for them........ He was even two faced, at time yet she loved him unconditionally. He kindled her hope and retreated time and again, yet she never could forget him.

Until she made the decision of finally confronting him, was she at deep pain. The pain came back and forth.........sometimes forgotten only to come back with terrible depth. He gave the final reply, she knew it before..........yet she heard the soothing voice, the familiar joking voice, and the sharp reprimands. Yet she found her place back in life, her peace. She knew she had to carry on with life........but she made the final decision too. That she would wait.......wherever she was, whatever she does, whatever he does, she would wait for him even if it took her forever, a lifetime......maybe someday the laughing gods would just pity her; kindly make her happy..........after all that’s all men crave for. She took the decision that she wouldn't deceive any one, not even herself and carry on but she would wait for him and him only as he was truly the man who visited her in her dreams. It was only there he showed his raw, visceral desire for her, his fiery love and promised a lifetime of togetherness. It was only for that dream that her decision to wait lived on.....it was for those wonderfully, precious dreams that her waiting was worth for. She only had to be patient.........for her love.......for her untitled life.........for her unfinished dreams and ........her decision.

The Hospital Diaries-I a short story

Hello friends,
I hope you all liked my last short story Life Untitled. So today I am posting another short story too. The Hospital Diaries-I, written by me. I hope it stays with you. I feel life is all about living in moments.......these moments are precious. And so whatever I write are about these moments......in all its glory. So do enjoy it.....I will soon be back and till then goodbye.

                                                                   The Hospital Diaries-I

It was the fourth day that I had been admitted to this hospital. The dreary days were filled with white coated doctors, nurses in starched uniforms, medicines, injections, saline, and disinfectants; seemed never ending. As I came in and out of drug induced sleep suffering from severe vomiting, nausea, fever and myriad of other problems all I could think of was when I would be able to leave the drab place; they had not diagnosed what I had, yet. The kind looking doctor, with a twinkle in his eye had told me earlier that they would patch me up. I yearned for my old life every second and as I looked out of the thickset glass windows, even the golden rays of the sunlight dancing on the leaves of trees in the tiny patch of a garden seemed enticing. Inside the ward there was a metallic smell, I could taste blood in my mouth. The nights were horrible, the place was stifling like a dungeon, patients screamed in agony and delusion. I was as if in a living hell. By the tenth day I could walk very slowly, I stepped out of my pristine white hospital bed, treaded carefully out of the ward into the adjacent long corridor. I walked clumsily, out of breath with a channel in my right arm, my injections were still on. There were several wards one after the other, busy nurses walked briskly sometimes barking out orders to some timid looking ayahs, a dignified looking doctor dressed immaculately in a black suit with a swarm of junior doctors with stethoscopes behind him rushed past me. But there was only one thing in my mind; when will I get my discharge certificate and resume my normal life, be happy again. Time had stopped for me the moment I had entered the cursed place and tears have been my singular companion. I went on ruminating about fate and destiny nursing my messy swollen right arm ruefully; thought about Foucault’s concepts of discipline and punish and its relations with asylum, prisons, hospitals etc. I had left shame behind and moaned occasionally with pain quite wholeheartedly.

                            Suddenly a strange sight greeted me. A couple of gentlemen were walking too in that corridor together; but there was something peculiar about it........... their stead was more of taking a stroll in the garden rather than a walk in the narrow dingy hospital corridors. They walked casually, often laughing aloud and patting each other’s backs. One of the gentlemen was middle-aged and the other was quite old with a balding patch on his head. They talked animatedly with utter disregard for anything or anyone around them. I could not fathom what their topics of discussion were; religion, politics, national debt, daughter’s marriage or whatever but what caught me off guard was their lively stance. They did not at all seem bored, lifeless, dull or hopeless by falling in the monotonous hospital life. Although they were dressed in the hospital loose shirt and pyjamas their poise and elegance could easily outsmart the suited doctors. I gasped as they turned towards my direction; I saw their urinary catheters slung by their sides. I could see urine, a shade of reddish yellow in those plastic bags. I took a sharp breath- they were carrying around their pee with them! I was amazed. Yet they seemed so unconscious of its presence. But its very presence unnerved me. But they were so frank and unashamed of it that they didn’t even care for a shawl or a bed cover over it. I stared on for a few moments before I inspite of my weakness and jelly legs walked quickly back to my familiar ward, to the familiar warmth of my bed, to familiar circumstances, to a familiar world with familiar pre-conceived notions. Their laughter was still ringing in my ears when I for the first time in several days smiled.

Life Untitled- A Short Story

Hello friends,

I hope you are all doing very well. I do apologize for not coming up with fresh book reviews often..........however I will soon come back with some interesting reviews on some fabulous books. In the meantime, my friends I gift you the following story. Life untitled is a short story written by me..........I sincerely hope you like it. And don't forget to give me your valuable feedback. Till then goodbye.           

                                                                  Life Untitled

They said I will never recover. I didn't doubt them. I was after all ill for quite some time now. I can feel the disease gnawing away at my innards. I have none to worry about, no money or property to put down in a will. I was always a very plain person living a very average life.....till I had the extraordinary disease which is set to finish my short unappealing life. No one has yet turned up with a bouquet of flowers; no one's even sent a get-well-soon card to me. But I am satisfied, I don't like a fuss. Since my childhood nothing for me was ever celebrated, I never deserved such attention. I don't know what it feels to be admired or cherished, I will never know of such things ever.

As hakimji left I stood by the door clasping my hands together, watching the setting sun. It's so beautiful, the orange hue spreading, engulfing the entire sky and then slowly fading away. And suddenly his thoughts crept up, they always have, an adamant habit of finding me when I least expect them. I try to block them but they erupt out, spreading warmth in my cold heart. 

He was a young man, a soldier in the army. They had come to our village for food, he and his dashing, merry friends loudly joking and talking with each other, smart in their uniforms .I watched them out of the corners of my eye, working in the pigs sty. Our family had gone to my uncle's house in a nearby village for a puja and I was left to take care of the livestock lest the wolves take them. I averted my eyes as a piglet leapt up in evident glee. Radha our cow mooed loudly. I quickened my pace at work, a lot was left. Butter had to be churned, cows to be fed, kitchen to be cleaned, floors have to be scrubbed. ‘Hey, miss’, I was startled, my train of thoughts abruptly stopped by a deep, jovial voice. I saw a twinkle in his eye, a patch of roughness on his stubble, hands wringing as if in some kind of nervousness, and a foot tapping impatiently. ‘Can you spare us some bread and cheese, we have been asking at every door for it’, he seemed serious yet there was some playfulness in the way he said. As if he was cracking a joke yet was trying to be somber at the same time. I lowered my eyes and nodded; I could feel his gaze as I went in for what he wanted. I shivered, it was cold and my clothes with years of constant use were frayed and permeable. I looked up for a lump of goat milk’s cheese and some stale dry bread. There were rats everywhere in the kitchen. ‘Maam, can you kindly give me a glass of water, my lips are parched’. Balancing the food and water in an earthen tray I went out to him. His eyes brightened and he eagerly took the tray off my hands. I had put some pickle, a carrot and an apple too on the plate. I watched him drain the glass thirstily and eat the food hurriedly sitting on a stool by the cow-shed. His hands were dirty, his nails long and I saw a mad gleam in his eyes as he ate. He smelled of tobaccos and sweat. ‘Ah the pickle’s delicious;you have a husband? your husband’s a lucky man.’ I was too ashamed to admit that at twenty-seven I was still unmarried, a burden to my family. My nineteen year old pretty sister was already married off. He sucked his fingers clean and brushed off the bread crumbs off his clothes. Handing me the tray back he stood up. He was so tall, as if he overshadowed the noon sun. He saluted smartly and simply said ‘Thank you maam’. As he marched away, out of the garden gates, I looked on; I yearned to know his name so much. I sat down on the stool he was sitting. He thanked me; I thought over and over again, he had thanked me. No one had ever thanked me before. I could feel hot tears flowing down freely over my cheeks. I cried. A gate was as if suddenly opened in my mind and all its pain, regrets, losses freed from its fetters. It was dusk when I crept back in the house. My mind was back to its normal state, but I felt peaceful and happy, that one ‘thank you’ gave me hope that I probably had more to live for.

But that was the last ‘thank you’ I ever received. They didn’t say that when I gave away my only pair of gold earrings to my newborn niece, or when I gave up my room to my younger brother after his marriage, or when I finally bundled off to a distant aging aunt’s house in a far-off village to take care of her. None shedded a tear as I left, not even my mother. She had other important worries. I looked after my aunt till her death; she was ninety years old when she died. Since then I have lived alone in her small house; she was childless and a widow. I have nothing to look forward to and after all these years the only thing welcoming is my death. I can still see him, eating my pickles, pocketing the apple and then saluting me; the bright twinkle in his eyes as he said that my husband’s a lucky man. I smiled in grief; he would never know my life, a fruitless life, a life untitled.

Atonement

My dear readers,

I do apologize for being so irregular but trust me its because of my failing health.But I hereby promise that from now on I will be more frequent. I had earlier promised that I will talk about Ian McEwan's  Atonement. This wonderful work was shortlisted for Booker Prize, 2001 for fiction. It is set mainly in four time periods, with  World War II playing an important role.

Thirteen years old upper class English girl Briony Tallis has a flair for writing. Being the youngest in the Tallis household with older siblings Leon and Cecilia, she is much adored and her writing skills much appreciated. But the adolescent young girl often lives in her imaginations and sometimes goes beyond the thin line separating reality and fantasy. The young girl develops a crush on Robbie Turner, a brilliant, handsome, Cambridge educated young man and son of the family housekeeper. But the sweet buds of romance blossoms between Cecilia and Robbie who were once childhood  friends. Unfortunately Briony makes wrong meaning out of a misplaced love letter from Robbie to Cee and also witnesses some moments of profound sexual tension between them. Also in that time Briony's cousin sister Lola is raped and the unknown assailant escapes after performing the heinous crime. Briony in her own imaginative way, sees Robbie aggressive, villainous and fears for her older sister's safety. It is in this way that she conjures up a story which she sincerely believes to be true. In front of her mother, sister, brother, Leon's friend Paul Marshall and the police she convincingly points her finger at Robbie as Lola's assailant and testifies against him. Robbie is taken away by the police and after two to three years, gets enlisted in the army for freedom from the prison as World War II starts. Cecilia severs all her ties with the Tallis family, moves away and becomes a nurse. Headstrong and adamant yet a loving, mature woman, Cecilia chose never to be with her own family again. Years later, Briony understanding the full magnitude of her mistake, refuses Cambridge and becomes a trainee nurse instead. Later she becomes an established writer and at the age of seventy-seven has vascular dementia. She understands that it was actually Paul Marshall, the chocolate baron, who had actually been the real attacker and had also married Lola. By the end of the novel it is understood that it was Briony who was narrating the events of the story and although Robbie and Cecilia was reunited in her writing, but they, in reality, had died before their union. It was only through letters that they had corresponded and those were their only solace. Robbie had died of septicaemia from his injuries on the beaches of Dunkirk; he died just a day before he could have been evacuated. Shortly afterwords, Cecilia died during the Blitz, when the Balham underground station was bombed. Thus the lovers who had craved each others companionship till death never saw their love fructifying and all because of Briony's half -innocent lie. So Briony atones through her writing, and by uniting them in her novel she tries to give the unfortunate lovers some peace.

 McEwan's style of writing is unique, the phrases he uses are simply extraordinary. He as if paints a delicate picture gently, a picture with words as if chosen with care. The readers gets a taste of the World War II, war at Dunkirk, the horrors of war, its mutilated soldiers. Atonement is not only a saga of lost love, of pain and loss, it is also of a grieving immature girl's unintentionally inflicted wounds and her dedication for redressing it.The way Briony continuously fights with her conscience, trying to do what is best, trying to undo the past is notable. The end of the novel gives us the fates of the various characters of it. Atonement is no doubt a difficult read, but its true beauty lies in it. The readers as if can smell the stench of the wartime hospitals, feel the sands of the beach of Dunkirk on their feet, feel the heat of passion on their cheeks; the passion of young Robbie and Cecilia. This is a must read for all lovers of the genre romance as it will surely intoxicate them.

                                  Do tell me friends if you want to hear more about Atonement. I will be back shortly with more as promised earlier. Till then, Good Bye and Happy Reading.

A Thousand Splendid Suns

Dear friends,

Again I was gone for a long time; had typhoid, it  turned nasty and had to get admitted to a hospital.But now that I am back mates good times are ahead! Bookworm's Corner promises to discuss any book,any novel fiction or non-fiction,any story or article worth talking about no matter  how old or new it is. Friends recently I read A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini. It's an extraordinary novel in every aspect and I literally cried with both admiration of the exhilarating storytelling and the losses of the novel's characters. It's an intense reading, a deeply touching and engrossing saga of love found and lost, a unique tale of a mother and daughter that will keep you bewitched long after you have turned the last page. Also a reader will, I am sure will rediscover Afghanistan-its people, flora and fauna, it's long oppression's and exploitation's, its history and it's indomitable courage and spirit. It is for these reasons that I would like to talk about it first before the other books I promised.

     The phenomenal novel is about mostly the two central characters Mariam and Laila and their lives. Around 30 years of Afghan history is portrayed along with their changing lives.The author was born in Kabul, Afghanistan and came to the U.S. in 1980. So he weaves a tale of his motherland straight from his heart. The novel opens with the sentence " Mariam was five years old the first time she heard the word harami". This illegitimacy shaped her entire life. Mariam was born to Nana and Jalil Khan, a successful businessman of Herat. Nana was a housekeeper of Jalil's house and lived later alone with young Mariam in a kolba in pitiful poverty in the outskirts of the fictional town of Gul Daman.A bitter resentful woman, Nana committed suicide heartbroken when Mariam was only fifteen. Mariam worshipped her father and craved for his attention which he mostly kept aside for his other ten children from his married three wives. Mariam was married to Rasheed, a shoemaker from Kabul, thirty years his senior and a widower. The nikka was done in haste and the poor motherless girl left for an uncertain future in the same day. Although marriage gave her enough to eat, a safe haven and some fleeting happiness, her ill fate soon took over. Rasheed turned extremely violent as his desire to have a son turned awry with Mariam's miscarriages. He beat her mercilessly and yet Mariam resilient as ever did her duties faithfully. But her life changed suddenly with the entry of Laila in their lives. Laila, a daughter of a schoolmaster who lived in the neighbourhood dreamt of marrying her love of life, Tariq who had left for Pakistan but only at fifteen her life was blown apart as a rocket shattered their home killing her parents. She was nursed back to health by Mariam and Rasheed and because of some intriguing circumstances she married the old Rasheed that changed her life completely. Slowly a deep bond was forged for eternity between Mariam and Laila. Mariam became a mother to Laila, something she had always craved for. She loved and protected Laila's children Aziza & Zaimai. Mariam ultimately found her place in life, found love and companionship in Laila and it is for her sake that she sacrifices her life liberating Laila's. Mariam is executed by the Taliban for murdering Rasheed. Laila finds true happiness again with Tariq in Pakistan and after paying homage to Mariam in her old kolba in Gul Daman she comes back to Kabul with her now husband Tariq to become a Farsi teacher in an orphanage.

                           From Soviet invasion to the Talibans, we get to vividly see from this brilliant novel how the lives of the people of Afghanistan, specially it's women were torn apart. A Thousand Splendid Suns shows us how the oppression of the Talibans knew no bounds; they even beat the women severely. Readers will surely be shocked how Mariam was called hamshira (sister) by a Taliban who executed her prior to her execution. Also the way Laila undergoes a Cesarean operation to have a child without anesthesia is beyond comprehension. The wonderfully lucid language will surely transport it's readers to Mariam and Laila's world effortlessly. The precarious struggle against starvation,cruelty and fear along with startling heroism is shown beautifully. It's a gripping tale, a suspenseful epic and definitely a must read for all.I salute the female endurance and their daily struggle.

                          Friends I hope you all like this post and do tell me if you want to know more about it! I will soon be back with more.Till then Goodbye and Happy reading.