21 Tales to tell

By Notion Press

From a unique and path-breaking online Fiction contest comes this very exciting and wonderful anthology of short Stories - 21 tales to tell.
The Notion Press Social Short Story Contest 2014 brought together authors and readers in a wonderful amalgam of Creativity and appreciation, of talent and technology. 500 plus Authors had more than four lakh readers rate their stories on
Social media. Offering a new twist to the ever evolving tale of the printed word…
So, just breathe in, and let the words run through your veins Amok; let them peel your eyes a bit wider, as you sit back, relax, And enjoy a rollicking ride to places close and distant, in a way you May have never perceived them before. Expect the unexpected as you flip through these pages – and enjoy the ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Notion Press
• Release date: Nov 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9789384049195

Book preview

Way

An Obituary

Shagnik Saha

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General Literary

Silent lips moving in a restless fashion, do you know when that happens? When, you’re being choked by your own spit and blood. Warm drops of tear gently rolling down into the moist dirt, do you know when that happens? When you’re lying on a road, your face smeared. Gazing eyes, seeing nothing, looking into nowhere, do you know when that happens? When you eyes are no more than just eyes, they no longer have a soul to show. You’re much too long gone.

This is how Sachin was found yesterday. At the crossing of two major roads, in the midst of a thousand staring eyes, a thousand tongues, a thousand ears - capable of saving him. But, yes, he died, bleeding out slowly.

With each sob and each choke, a little bit of him passed away into the beyond, the breathing slowed down ever so gently, the fingers stopped trembling, the broken jaw ceased to make its deliberations, eyes grew duller every passing second as the gazers gathered in great numbers to witness the reminder of the fact that they too were no more alive than he was, perhaps even less. He died that day, yes, but they had always been dead, in soul, in heart, in belief, in humanity. All too dead.

Sachin was found with a pool of blood around him, a giant space of red, oozing warmth even in death. His face, so peaceful, even though his jaw was barely a part of his skull anymore, it still seemed as if he was smiling, his cheek, hanging, flaccid, his tongue peeking from beneath his forsaken jaw as if tasting the warm summer air, one last time, uttering silent breaths, one final time.

But the people looked on, like stargazers watching the midnight sky, motionless, silent. It must have been beautiful to watch him die, lest they should save him. But he died, under the quiet, motionless, watchful gaze of a thousand soulless eyes. He must have felt safe, he must have, so many eyes watching him, he could rest in peace, yes, this world was not a place for those alive. He made a mistake, he came to the wrong place, he thought he could change them, he could teach them to be alive, but he was necessarily mistaken. It was kind of these people, unknown faces, deaf ears and blind eyes, and cut tongues, to watch over him as he left for whence he came.

Who says people are not kind? They are all affectionate, too affectionate to see the world through a pair of living eyes; eyes that could really see, hear the world through ears that could really hear, speak with a tongue that could really speak - but they never needed it; never will, perhaps, clinging to rotting flesh, believing it to be divine. After all, cancer is not a disease if you don’t consider it to be one. Being soulless is not considered a loss, if no one has one. But being alive is a mistake, if no one else is.

When reaching out is the same as limbs being lopped, you can only reach out till you have limbs to spare. What then, what do you do then? Do you give up? Do you surrender? Do you turn passive but, when no one is looking, and you’re all by yourself, you laugh to yourself, mocking? Or do you put out your head, when you don’t have limbs to spare? Yes, you put out your head, killing your own soul, could you go any lower? At least those people were ill-informed, they didn’t understand their part of the deal, when they signed off their uniqueness to own a uniform, letting them be a speck in the mass, albeit safe from harm. I say albeit, yes, it’s better to be dead, than be part of the societal machinery so sorrowfully churning away on the fuel of fear.

Sachin died that brisk night, yes, but he lived, really lived, not the pretentious mockery of acts of true humanity that you seem so delighted to designate as life, and then when he couldn’t take it, suffer in your silent complacence no more, he came out, he begged for change, he begged for humanity, he preached for understanding, he fought for acceptance, maybe he shouldn’t have, he seemed to simply waste his breath, no heed was paid to his painful and passionate screams, his rebellious and heroic sacrifices, his meek, innocent, beautiful life.

People understand, yes, but only what they need to, only that which threatens their survival, only what threatens their pitiful existence, only what threatens their artificial mock play of life. They are so happy playing the game of survival, they refuse to live. Questions buried so deep, they seem like answers, hopes and dreams so rare, they feel like diseases. People somehow, have learned to love the suffocations the world so gratefully provides, so habituated, their annoyance knows no bounds upon the failure of manifestation of the results of their expectations. So used to being poor, you chastise riches.

Sachin wasn’t wise, he wasn’t a scholar, he wasn’t a powerful person, all he was, was innocent. He made a mistake, yes, to see the world with more colors than what existed, to hear the silent barbaric screams of sorrow, you’d call sacrifice; he chose to speak, speak loud and clear, and let the words from the bottom of his red, beating, heart, echo in the mourning ruins of your long beloved ideals and dreams, he chose to hope that you could be set free, free from yourself; he believed in you, when you had banished that word from even the mistakes of a dictionary, he saw the fight in you when all you saw was how dangerous he was to you, he chose to die than to be amongst you.

You feared him, yes, the people feared him, he was real, he didn’t have to be, he just was, just like you are, just like everyone is, until you decide to sign it off for some sadistic merchandise, and front row tickets to the screening of masochistic humor. You were all afraid of him, he was what you wished each day, to be, but never could, he did what you wanted to, but never would, he laughed when he wanted to, not to show his allegiance to a certain group, he cried when he needed to unburden himself, not to gain sympathy of me and you. He ran when he wanted to feel the wind in his face, not to escape his urgencies, he jumped not to show his impatience, he jumped to touch the moon, he danced to feel his body move in the music with joy, not to swoon the lady next door, he sang to let the world know of his pleasure that he could sing, not to gain popularity as someone who could sing, he painted to capture life in its purity unadulterated by the tendrils of new age comforts, not to sell it for money at the next auction, in short, he was what you always wanted to be, even in death he was more alive than you will ever be. Sachin, a martyr, whom you killed, while he fought for your own liberation.

So slowly and slowly, the heat seeped into his blood from the passing cars and street lights; soon it was just one of the myriad of dry pastel colors that go into coloring life. The people still looked on, nobody dared to move, not because they cared, had they cared, he’d be alive, no, they were scared, of what they had accomplished, what they had achieved. Sideward glances were met with averted gazes, all stood there, horrified. Horrified of how lost they were, of how powerful they were, of how helpless they perceived themselves to be.

Then like a skin that can only protect you so much, they broke. One after another. One boy, high school, then a man, aged, fell to his knees, then a woman, clutched her breast, sobbing desperation, this went on and on. One, after another. Nobody knew Sachin, no, all they knew was that they were responsible, he was no more. They all were. As tens fell to their knees, others frantically tried to collect the pieces of Sachin, dire, useless hopes of saving him. He was gone.

The shrill sound of the ambulance now echoed; sharp, piercing, hurting. The medics had arrived to collect a dead body. The guardians of health, the janitors of human flesh and dreams. The police closely followed suit. No witnesses, they expected.

But things changed, yes. People reported, somehow their instinctual need to protect themselves and feed off of others, survival of the fittest, was overridden. Accurate descriptions were given, life was put at stake. Criminals must be punished, the raw, coherent, blaring voice of the crowd echoed. Criminals must be punished.

Sachin Joshi. 22 years. College student. Heavily injured; dislocated jaw, ruptured core arteries, torn limbs. Dumped on busy crossing to set an example. Attacked due to processions taken out by Sachin to support homosexuality. Died due to societal impotency.

Killed by society. Mourned by society.

He died, yes, but you never lived. I hope you do, now.

A Choice Between India,

Pakistan, and Bangladesh

Ayan Pal

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True Story

One’s motherland, like one’s mother tongue, is the one that is always meant to appear the sweetest to one. Like bees possessed with the pursuit of honey, one’s motherland always finds a way of remaining in one’s heart, and reminding you where your patriotism should lie.

The above lines were orated to me by Ma when I was about 10 years old and have somehow managed to remain in my memory ever since. Well no, she wasn’t giving me a lecture or reminding me why it was considered patriotic to watch the Republic Day Parade on Doordarshan, not that I had any other choice, the year being 1990! Instead, Ma was helping me out with an essay I was supposed to write, and that too, in Bengali, for a school assignment!

Well you see, I could read and write the world’s 6th most spoken language, which was also my mother tongue, but, and here’s the catch - with the kind of flourish that had no match! Had Rabindranath Tagore been buried, he would have surely twisted and turned with utmost embarrassment to see what Bengalis like me were turning into. It did not help that my mother, a double MA, B.Ed had at one point of time tutored the granddaughters of the Bengali literary legend and state poet of Bangladesh – Kaji Nazrul Islam. What was worse was that my grandfather was a triple MA, as well as doctorate and to top it, the professor of a reputed university of Bengal.

I on the other hand, was pathetic in Bengali, especially of the written kind. Hence it wasn’t surprising that all the flair in the written word ended up with the brand of my pen (pun intended). But thanks to my mother, I was able to compensate for it for the most part. Ma, you see, was born in what was once India, what was then Pakistan, and what is now Bangladesh. She is thus the primary reason behind me often wondering, what really is her choice of