God for Sale: And Other Short Stories

By Anand Prakash

Everyone in the market had heard the rumors, it was difficult not to. They all talked about it in whispers. The rumor had spread though the undertones of their voices and through their fidgeting bodies when they discussed it. They could not help themselves but talk, and yet they did so in fear of being found out. It had appeared that the entire market was afraid of being caught debating something which was, in their public view, a ridiculous notion or, at best, a fantastic theory.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Mar 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781482872767

Anand Prakash

He is an upcoming Indian author with a keen sense of observation towards social problems. A software engineer by training, his interests lay in humanities, varying from psychology and anthropology to sociology. Coupled with a love for literature, it provides him with a unique opportunity to explore various dimensions of human life.

Book preview

© 2016 by Anand Prakash.

ISBN:            Softcover               978-1-4828-7277-4

                     eBook                    978-1-4828-7276-7

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Partridge India

000 800 10062 62

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Contents

Acknowledgements

1. God for Sale

2. The Kind Man

3. A Knock on the Door

4. Her Eyes and Her Smile

5. The Farmer’s Widow

6. Zariya

7. The Demise of a Storyteller

To

Mom and Dad

Acknowledgements

I would like to acknowledge the help and support I received from Vikash Kr. Singh, Shweta Singh, Sourav Roy, Vidya Bhandarkar, Alysha Tharani, Kavita Rai, and Shubham Prabhat throughout this work. Thank you for reading, criticizing, and encouraging me all the way.

God for Sale

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I am looking around for a sign. They are coming. They would find me. They always find someone. This time it could be me. No! This time it would be me. They would arrive shortly or in time, but they would come. I could let my guard down, ease my shoulders a bit, let the pain on the back of my neck prevail, for what good was a vigil? My alertness would be inconsequential upon their arrival, almost wasteful. The strain is depleting me, eating away my sanity. I know I am going mad, not through my decaying brain but through loss of reason. I should relax, let myself wander in bliss, but how could I when I know that they are coming?

The coffee is bitter; the coffee house empty. The rain has been incessant, and soon the owner will ask me to leave. There is something about rainy nights that gets people edgy—I know the cause of mine. I would have to leave soon, but where would I go? They must know my address by now. They must have been watching me. They would probably be there already, waiting. If I could somehow delay my arrival, they would surely feel annoyed. Yes! I could have this last pleasure of irritating them. They would do what they came there for, but at least their brows would be tucked in annoyance. I should add some sugar to my coffee. Going away with a bitter taste in my mouth would be rather more tragic than this whole episode needs to be.

I can see myself leaving the coffee house. It is odd but not entirely unknown that one can see oneself as if observing a different person. I can see myself or at least the idea of my self taking leave, with a bittersweet taste in my mouth. I would have to walk home, no taxis in this weather, and it would be better too—the last walk should always be a long one. Walking lets one think, allows one to be detached and put thoughts into perspective, but for now such axioms are just so. I have too many thoughts in my head to be categorized or analysed. My mind is scrambling all my sensations, burdening me with a lump of abstract notions. My stomach is crumpled in anticipation and my fists clenched. My walk, I see, is mechanical.

Yes, I am afraid, why wouldn’t I be? I cannot reason with them, cannot explain to them the futility of their acts. I cannot tell them that what happened was bound to happen anyways and that I had no role in it. I cannot tell them that it was they who were weak to cry foul in cohorts like hyenas and that they needed to rein in their lust for blood. I cannot tell them that I am nobody—harming me would serve no purpose—and that what they really needed to understand was their own sense of enslavement. No! This would enrage them further, and who knows what they would do in such a state. I could—to some extent, probably if it’s not completely beyond me—take on the wrath of a self-righteous man, but it is their plurality that scares me. After I die—and if I die—it should not have mattered to me, but it does bother me somehow that my body is not mutilated, which I am sure, in their exaggerated fury, they would make it so.

I continue walking down the known dark alleys,