The Larceny of Fate

By Amar

The Larceny of Fate, is an engrossing literary story that will make you fathom the perseverance that a child makes in order to overcome an identity crisis.

The evocative narration will immerse you into social constructs and the human psyche. How ideologies, numbers, symbols and elders chisels a child into adult reflects in friendship of both when Aman with a marginalised identity follows Hemant to the corridors of a jungle in central India.

Darkness of being born as an unprivileged mirrors as an incremental Larceny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: One Point Six Technologies Pvt Ltd
• Release date: Jan 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9789356109360

Amar

Amar is a government employee and has been working in the capacity as Block Development Officer for the last ten years. He has done post graduate diploma in English Journalism from Indian Institute of Mass Communication, Delhi. After a brief period of journalism, he joined the civil services.He is married and lives with his wife and kid. He was inspired to write in order to bring the unseen and invisible part of the life of the downtrodden with the belief that it will bring some change in the vision of the society.Amar juggles with his hectic duties and responsibilities and in his free time realises his passion for writing. He is interested in Human rights, Identities Crisis, Social and Psychological-Bias that affects equality. The complex and sensitive nature of work reflect in his writing.In his debut novel, he highlights the physical, social, economic, ideological and psychological journey that an individual from a marginalised section of society goes through in their life in search of catharsis.

Book preview

1

Immortal Depletion

Hemant’s email triggered something inside him; in the vault of his soul. His faith had the same connotational confluence as the email read. Aman was not ready in principle, but Hemant’s words incessantly created an ambience that originated from his subconscious. It was full of a vortex; his soul oppressively tried to decipher the mail in his circumstantial similitudes.

His Saturnine face was full of grimaces, which flickered innuendos. His melancholic mental landscape eulogised his ignominy ironically. He conceived his gloomy psychic accumulation as generational. He reread the mail.

Inequality is in the bloodstream; existentialism is confined; Identities are the bestowed fate; life is the prize.

I am a sympathiser. Remember your old friend? See you tomorrow at Gandhi Maiden. 4 pm sharp.

But now as he had got some vent through the mail, he waited to have a rendezvous with him the next day.

The next day was hot, like usual days of summer – fervid. The scorching heat drenched everyone with sweat. The whistle of the Loo remained cacophonous throughout the day. The night struggled to outcaste itself till the wee hours. The city is surfeited with per venue apartments breathed through its lungs of moss green banana plantation in levees of the Ganga River on another bank. Traffic festooned the city with its vehicles. Omnipresent yells and howls could be heard wafting. Days generated more heat than before. Polluted air complemented its accomplice – the reduced air traffic. Buildings smelled in search of growth; development surmised. Old roads lost their identities to intervening flyovers. Roads became streets; streets lost their identities. Old men searched for their lost life after retirement sans recreational avenues. Children masqueraded as adults to compete with them in the rush of traffic.

Aman smelled this reeky and musty city as well; the smells of the walls of his house, and his neighbourhood buildings. He waited for some fresh air in his life but was too bothered to feel anything else. Aman had smelt them before as well, a decade back. He was not that old then – merely an adolescent… ignorant… something in the process of building; unknown to his subterranean urge that he would face later, busy in streets with friends, strange about adulthood. Many a time, his subconscious floated his urge to his conscious. He overruled it every time as his fate, the truth of his life – acceptable, undeniable and adamant as destiny. But when he saw the email, it hit him profoundly. The empathetic words of Hemant had appeased him somewhere inside and had touched his brimming feelings.

In the scorching afternoon, they rendezvoused in sprawling Patna, near its pre-independent, glorious and revolutionary field, The Gandhi Maidan, where many aspirations echoed in the formation of the nation. Staggered at the quirk of his fate, Aman searched for an answer. He wondered how Hemant had come back to his life again after a decade. Aman rarely remembered him, nor had he ever had any acknowledgement that he would be contacted by email. But now, as he was here and had mailed him, he was thunderstruck by the tryst of his destiny. However, he kept his patience intact. He never knew Hemant would email him on the same email (the buzzword during their school days). It was a time when only two computers were installed in their school lab and Hemant had created this buzzword for him.

Aman was in a quandary over his subconscious serendipity, over how he found his chum after so long. He kept asking himself continuously, Is it an accident? Abysmally into his thought to understand his alter ego, Aman tried to fathom his labyrinthine subconscious and extrapolated the direction of his destiny.

Aman was hesitant when they both saw each other. It had been almost ten years since they last played or talked. The whole world for them had changed since then.

Hemant was seven years senior to him, but both had a great liking for each other in their school days. They played together; ate together and cried together. Both were new to their school; both were admitted the same year. They chose each other. Hemant patronised him like an elder brother. Aman always felt secure under his aegis; free from any ragging or bullying; Hemant knew how to handle them. He was not new to these environments. In his last school, he faced them well. He self-applauded many times to Aman at the time about how good he was at controlling the ventures of adolescence of his seniors. ventures of his seniors in his previous school, ‘The Boulevard’, where he lived as a hosteler for eight straight years. Hemant told him how he became a hero for his father; when he was in the third standard when he travelled around 300 kilometres by bus, alone, from his school to his home in Purulia district. This after having changed his vehicle at three locations. He extolled him about his ventures of the night out; eloping with his friends from the hostel for hours to watch late-night movie shows, but he never told him why he left for his home alone in the third standard during his vacation.

When they met, Hemant smugly gleamed on the rediscovery of his childhood affection, whom, he had groomed, and cared for like his younger brother. Hemant had no siblings. He missed having one, whom he could have told his stories to; about his perseverance in finding himself. After he departed from his mom, he never said I love you, Mom so intimately, like he said before; before reaching the Boulevard school. His father always believed that his admission to Boulevard school was the fittest decision of his life. Aman was the first in this world who listened to him, in the time of his destitution and differential social life of adolescence.

Both hugged each other; Aman was a bit shy now. Hemant punched him mildly on his chest; and expected the reciprocity, but Aman was lost in his deep brooding, filled with hesitation and depleted aplomb. Hemant reminded him of the fisticuffs and punches that they would indulge in every morning in school. Aman would always reach two hours before the assembly and would go to Hemant’s room in the hostel, meant for outsider students. Hemant shared his breakfast with him daily. Their togetherness was like faith for them… indispensable.

Aman regretfully joined him,seeking his petition, which poured from his dilating pupils to be approved. Hemant hugged him properly, jostled and shook him a bit and enquired about his wellbeing. His fluctuating grimaces and absconding eyes made Hemant feel something unconventional in him. He realised Aman was lost somewhere. He never expected him like that.

But Hemant pretended not to indulge much into him then, instead he only surfed him. Somewhere he knew his condition; his intolerable rationality of being a second-generation literate. In the pseudonymous dark decade of their school days, when caste hierarchy was challenged by the ruling caste, Hemant cared for him passionately; he would enquire about his home, his dress, his eateries, and his demeanour. He guided him on how to perceive the world around him. Then Aman and his family had lesser identities, now they had mundane survivability.

Conquering himself, Aman retorted I am good and reciprocated him with his mundane punches, the gesture of their intimacy, as if he was afraid of touching him; insouciant; insipid, like a maverick- who has lost faith in his soul. Continuously contradicting his truth of being antagonistic to the colossal hillock of truth in his soul, that he wanted to unburden. His conceivable mind looked for validity, vigour and vitality so that he could choose one path – the one he felt to be true – the only truth that he garnered in his life was invalidated by everyone, along with his father, Vinod.

Hemant was unequivocally convinced by then, that the Aman he knew, was lost and ready for co-option. His punches were milder, not like earlier; crispier and crunchier; they lacked the taste of tangible cohesiveness of the zygote, which forms after rejecting everyone but one. The glittering eyes that used to flash with his smile with his every punch were gone.

He conceived Aman’s dilapidated and fragmented self as wondering somewhere in darkness; struggling for its survival; seemingly suffering from the leprosy of the soul – half was gone and the other half yet to be spoiled.

Hemant hurriedly asked him about lunch. The sky was clear then, the sun shone brilliantly after crossing the meridian of the noon. Tilted towards the west, the sun tried to enter every household, from the top edge of every windowsill. The day was at its pinnacle of hotness; becoming ready to decline after a few hours from then. The zenith was sharp – distant objects and buildings were visible. Loo was at its youth of the day, whistling hard like the commander of a troop. Commuters and passers-by searched for shadows of the buildings while they walked; they crisscrossed each other in haste for shade. At a distance, dust with garbage, plastic, and torn papers made small whirlpools, westerly, anticlockwise in a crescent shape with small central eyes. At many locations, they died every few minutes while catching each other, like unfulfilled souls. Aman watched these all without an umbrella, but with an umbra on his soul, known only to him only. The roadsides had many carts of raw mango juice and Sattu (Gram flour) beverages to help passers-by to assuage their thirst and hunger, and to save themselves from a heat stroke.

Hemant stood there, like a maverick, unable to bear the heat and suddenly asked him about lunch. Aman hesitantly said, No! Unable to bear his denial, Hemant became obstinate and said, I will ask you once more, and then I will carry you on my lap, without asking you further, you know how patronising I am! Listening to his words, Aman relived his old days, and before being asked again, he nodded positively.

Hemant was around 6’2’’ now, heavy build with a protruding chest, biceps pumping like frog and shoulder as if he wore a rugby dress. He was fair as he was earlier, had a pointed nose, long natural brown hair like a model, like the school days, with thin pink lips and a v-shaped chin. He wore a white Kurta and Pyjama with Kolhapuri Chappals. His nails and fingers looked slim and beautiful; rimless specs gave him a sophisticated look. Aman, on the other hand, was 5 feet 10 inches tall, swarthy, lean and thin, with bulging black eyes, black curly hair, protruding nose and thick lips with a u-shaped chin. He wore blue jeans and a maroon t-shirt, and a torn pair of blue flip-flops, his dusky forehand shimmered with sweat.

Since they met, Hemant kept whispering some gibberish to himself intermittently in an agitated mood. Aman realised it to be a new addition to his personality, unlike his school days. Till then Aman didn’t know that he had some retinue as well. Two men came walking closer to him as if they were guarding him. Hemant talked to them in gestures once. The city was in ruckus as usual. The two retinues suspiciously stared at Aman and then grinned at him. It pushed Aman into perplexity and he asked Hemant about them hesitatingly, but Hemant avoided answering his question in detail and informed him that they were with him.

Hemant wanted to go somewhere, where he could feel comfortable. He was losing his equanimity sporadically. He suggested a restaurant near the movie theatre that played Bhojpuri movies to Aman. Then he asked him to wait for some moments, while he came back. After a few minutes, he appeared again with a red Hero Honda motorcycle, SS model.

Aman saw him coming from the bike stand at the movie theatre. He wanted to enquire about the surprising availability of his bike but kept shut. He thought Hemant never watched any Bhojpuri movies but rather Hollywood alone. He always told him that Hollywood movies are more rationally tuned into educating and showing views about politics, technology, and the world. Among his favourites were Sylvester Stallone’s Rambo: First Blood Part 1 and Rambo First Blood Part 2 and Arnold Schwarzenegger’s Terminator, predator and commando. He narrated their stories many times to Aman. Aman would recall those scenes vividly, word by word, as Hemant had told him when he watched those movies on pirated CDs later.

Aman saw the obfuscated number plate of his bike; it was its MR-IK or MR-IR, not clear. The four-digit license number was not visible either. 4493 resembled 4488; 4438; 4439. K resembled R and vice versa. The number plate was greased black in some places.

He ignored it, and sat behind Hemant, without a helmet; pillion riders were not mandated to wear one. Hemant drove his bike with a full covered mask having a black face shield. They rode for about half a kilometre, and then he suddenly stopped the bike near a restaurant. Aman saw a big board (LION’S RESTAURANT) in neon light. Hemant scampered into the restaurant and insisted that Aman follow him fast. The two-storey restaurant was completely walled black with glass, from the outside. Hemant entered it with his accommodating temper; he ensconced himself onto one of the chairs encircling a circular glass table near the glass wall. One could hardly judge his temper and mood. He chose the first floor to sit on, where it seemed that his table was already booked. From there both the Gandhi Maidan and the road encircling the Gandhi Maidan were visible. The glass wall of the restaurant with two floors had translucent glass till the height of the hip of a six-feet tall man and the rest was transparent from the inside.

Hemant offered a seat to Aman and abruptly asked what he would like to drink a mug of beer or a glass of whiskey. It was almost as if the pace of his life picked momentum again.

Aman shyly opted for the whiskey. Hemant ordered drinks and some snacks. The restaurant had a cosy ambience; Gulam Ali’s Gazal reverberated in every nook and corner of it – his soothing mellifluous voice wafted around, yet one could indulge in a personal parley. The euphonious music provided the stimulus that the conversation at each table would remain private and discreet.

Some ruckus was going on outside the restaurant. Hemant goggled outside like a child through the glass wall, with only insinuating responses to Aman in conversation, as if, he was lost elsewhere. Aman too looked outside with the same curiosity. The ruckus was going on far at a distance, there was a mob surrounded by police vehicles, and hardly anything was visible.

Aman curiously inquired what had happened there.

Hemant retorted ignorantly, I don’t know. To steer the mood in a different direction, he suddenly asked Aman, how is our sister, Bibha?

She is fine and living with us along with her son; she lost her husband and in-laws in the caste massacre, said Aman.

Hearing this, Hemant asked shocked, How?

The whole village was burnt alive, and everyone was shot dead. In total 47 people died, including 17 women and 7 children; of them, one child was less than a year.

Hemant remained thunderstruck for some moment, then clasped his forehead with both his hands, as if tsunami waves had stricken his shore.

Hemant met Bibha at her marriage. He was studying in Jesus’ Infants then with Aman. Hemant was the only invitee from his school for her marriage.

Life is like that only, said Hemant consoling him. Don’t be so pessimistic, you look broken from everywhere. The shrugs of your soul are visible!

I am living in an abysmal quandary. I don’t know how to figure out my life, said Aman. I feel stuck in this quagmire. Discrepancies are hovering in my mind; there is nothing left in me to cherish. I don’t relish any identity – my soul, my social image and my self-respect, but it hardly affects the members of my family; they are accomplished enough to live without it. But I cannot afford to live.

Judging the situation, Hemant empathised, and said, If you are seeking any help, I can’t help you directly, but I have a panacea – Mr Dutta. He can help you bring back, if not all, but your self-respect for sure.

How? Aman enquired.

Hemant, like a braggart, said, Mr Dutta is a reverential man with authority, power, network, influence and aggrandising psychic tendencies to help the youth in destitution like you. He runs a parallel servicing-help group in his bailiwick to help people like you.

I have not seen his face ever in any newspaper or television! He seems a strange and mysterious man! Is he capable of acknowledging my destiny?" Aman asked him, surprised.

Hemant excitingly gained his attention again. In my knowledge, he is the only one who can help you, he stressed. Many like you went under his aegis. He patronised them all, who then left their life of servitude, and gained their identity by metamorphosing themselves.

Aman figured his patronising brotherhood as in their school days. Hemant was adamant then and often told Aman that the world, like his previous school – equalising and socialising, is better to live in. Hemant studied till the 9th standard at Boulevard School.

Hemant applauded again "Mr Dutta has promoted democratic debate. He has a proper cadre to