The Breath of Fire (past tense)

Gouri always woke up at dawn, when the first rays of the sun illuminated the horizon. After performing her morning ablutions, she swept her tiny one-room house clean. Then she took her morning bath and put on a cotton saree. Then she lit her stove and brewed some tea for herself. She drank the tea with puffed rice and then headed to the temple.

By the time she reached the temple, it was already bustling with devotees. The priest was performing the morning puja, and the temple premises were filled with the divine fragrance of flowers, incense sticks, sandalwood paste and ghee diyas. She bowed quickly before the Radha-Govinda idol, seeking their blessings, and then headed straight to the kitchen to cook bhog for the deity.

There were multiple chores waiting in the kitchen. Hari Mama, the elderly man, peeled and chopped the vegetables, rinsed the rice and lentils and washed the utensils. Mohan, the young boy, carried provisions and fetched water. But Gouri alone cooked the bhog to be offered as naivedya. The menu was not fixed — on some days, it was khichuri, on others, it was poori and fried brinjal, and on yet others, mohanbhog was cooked.

After finishing cooking, she carefully served the food on the plates meant for the deities, placing a tulsi leaf on each of them. Then the priest sprinkled a few drops of Ganga Jal around the plates, and Gouri arranged the plates before the deity. The priest's throaty chanting reverberated through the temple: “Om Apavitrah Pavitro Va...”

After the evening arati, when the temple bell fell silent and the courtyard emptied, Gouri packed the leftover bhog in a brass bowl and left for her home. She was a young widow when Hari Mama took pity on her and recommended her for the position of temple cook. Since then, her life had revolved around the temple.

Gouri looked forward to the evenings when, after the day's hard work, she finally got to rest and spend time with Khiroda Pishi. She didn't know much about Khiroda Pishi's whereabouts. She must have been from the neighbourhood. Whenever she asked Khiroda Pishi where she lived, she answered cryptically, “The world is my abode, dear.” It was difficult to guess her age from her features — she might have been eighty, ninety or even a hundred years old. She looked frail and emaciated. Her face was lined with numerous wrinkles; only her eyes looked bright like embers. Gouri never heard her approaching. One moment the doorway would be empty, and the next moment the old woman would already be standing there, smiling.

“Is there khichuri today?” Khiroda Pishi would ask hopefully. Smiling, Gouri would reheat the bhog on her stove and serve it on a plate to Khiroda Pishi.

Khiroda praised her cooking. They talked about small things—weather, temple gossip, childhood memories. Khiroda Pishi's eyes would become moist whenever she talked about her childhood in Radhapur. With time, Gouri began to wait for her every evening. She became her friend and confidante.

One day, the temple authorities announced that there was a widespread LPG crisis due to the war and that there would be no more bhog until the fuel supply returned. Gouri lost her work and her food. She didn't understand the war or geopolitics—only that her stove had gone cold.

At night, when Khiroda Pishi came, Gouri broke down and confided in her friend.

The old woman calmly said, “If fire is your problem, why didn't you say so earlier?”

Then she leaned forward and blew softly into the empty stove. A blue flame blossomed like a flower.

Gouri's eyes widened in astonishment. She became speechless. At last, when she regained her composure, she asked in a shaky voice, “Who... who are you, Kh... Khiroda Pishi?”

“Don't be afraid of me, my child. It's true I'm not human. I'm a wandering spirit. That's why I can only appear after sunset. I starved in my lifetime. That's why I kept coming for the bhog.”

Gouri let out an audible gasp. A spirit!

"But I need to think of an alternative livelihood for you. Why don't you start a tea stall in the evening, child? I'll provide the fire."

"Gourir Cha Ar Ta" started the following week in a cart. Gouri brewed tea and fried tele-bhaja. Workers, rickshawpullers and passersby gathered around her cart. The stall was doing brisk business. Gouri slowly began to regain her confidence and rebuild her livelihood.

One day, the LPG supply returned and temple bhog resumed. But on the advice of Khiroda Pishi, Gouri kept the tea stall. She now had financial independence and she didn't want to lose it.

It was the night of Amavasya. The stove was burning quietly between them.

The old woman watched the flame for a long time and said, "You won't need my breath anymore. The cylinders will come again tomorrow."

"Then you will still come to eat?", she asked anxiously.

The old woman smiled.

"No, child. My time here is over. Tomorrow I must begin another life."

The flame flickered once as she blew gently into the stove — for the last time. Before leaving, she said, "When I come back to this world, perhaps I will again taste your cooking."

The next evening, when she lit the stove alone, she thought that somewhere, a newborn child must have taken its first breath.

Glossary: 

Khichuri: Lentil and rice porridge in Bengali

Arati: A Hindu religious ritual of worship where light from a flame — fueled by ghee or camphor — is waved in a clockwise motion before a deity.

Tulsi: Basil in Bengali

Mohanbhog: A traditional Indian sweet dish made from roasted semolina, ghee, sugar and milk.

Bhog: The act of presenting the food to the deity.

Naivedya: The food prepared specifically for the deity.

Prasad: The food after it has been accepted, blessed, and energized by the deity.

Pishi: Paternal aunt in Bengali

Tele-bhaja: fritters in Bengali

Gourir Cha Ar Ta: "Gouri's tea and snacks" in Bengali

Amavasya: The new moon in Bengali.

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(This short-story has been chosen a winner in the "Pass The Pen" event hosted by ArtoonsInn Writers Room.)

A Bond Without a Name

I watched in amazement as Vijay came back from his village with his newly-wedded wife. Vijay was my husband. That a man like Vijay could secure a wife for himself, not just once but twice, was a real surprise. But then, he hailed from a famine-stricken village where a man like Vijay was considered "a catch" to the fathers of marriageable girls. He worked as a security guard in this large residential complex named "Magnolia Towers." I was his wife and I knew him better than anybody else. That was precisely the reason why I was so scared when I saw him bring home another bride.

"Kamala, come inside. There's nobody to welcome you here. No in-laws problem. You'll reign over my household, my queen!", Vijay tried to sound like an amorous lover besotted with his wife.

The young girl named Kamala smiled coyly at Vijay and stepped inside the house. I wished I could stop her before it was too late. 

One day, Kamala discovered a faded photograph of mine, taken on our wedding night. She showed the photograph to Vijay.

"Oh, that's Prabha— my first wife. She was a crazy woman— always shouting, finding fault with this and that. She died in a freak accident," Vijay dismissed her as if he was happy to get rid of me.

But Kamala didn't let my memories die. She dusted the photograph, framed it and put it in the prayer room. If I ever had a sister, she would be like Kamala, I guessed. 

Soon, Vijay started to show his true colours. He started to drink country liquor, squandered away his hard-earned money on alcohol and beat Kamala whenever she tried to protest. Seeing no way out, Kamala began to work as a domestic help in a few flats to supplement the family income.  This reminded me of my own marital life. It was the same story. One day, Vijay had hit me so hard in his drunken stupor that I lost my balance and fell hard against the wooden table, injuring my head fatally. He didn't care to take me to the hospital. I died without any treatment. 

Now that the same story was repeating in front of me, I was determined to save this girl.

That day, Kamala was washing the laundry while Vijay came back drunk. He had seen Kamala talking with the gardener earlier that day. He picked up a stick to beat her. I knew that the moment had come. I nudged a bucket of water laced with detergent that Kamala kept ready. It splashed on the floor. In a fit of rage, Vijay charged at Kamala and lost balance. He fell hard on the floor and struck his head against the same wooden table. He was dead.

"Prabha didi, I know it was you who saved me," Kamala whispered in front of my photograph. For the first time in years, I felt light. A golden light embraced me, and I became part of that light.

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This short-story has been chosen a winner in the fortnightly "The Spirit of Asia Contest #208, (Topic: Some Relationships Have No Name), hosted by the Asian Literary Society.

Three Generations in Olive Green

It was the day of the historic passing out parade at the Indian Military Academy, Dehradun. The Honourable President of India herself was present to grace the occasion. As the ceremonial tune echoed across the Chetwode Drill Square, Lieutenant Aditi Sen took Antim Pag— the final step that transformed a cadet into an officer. She felt a surge of pride as the realization sank in. Tears blurred her vision as the bittersweet memories of her arduous journey as an army officer in the making came flooding back.

She remembered the stories her grandfather used to tell her when she was a child— stories of bravery, sacrifice and selfless service in the defence of the nation. Her grandfather retired as a Naib Subedar from the Army while her father retired as a Subedar. Papa was absent from much of her childhood, posted at distant corners of the country. She waited for his visits and dreamt of becoming like him one day. It was her mother who always encouraged her to follow in the footsteps of her father and grandfather. When her grandfather was serving in the army, women were not inducted as officers in most branches of the Army. Later, she heard from her father that talks about inducting women into the defence services were underway. Papa was hopeful that something would come out of it, though it might take time.

Aditi looked impressive in her crisp uniform. Her parents had also arrived in Dehradun to witness the parade. Just the day before, IMA had presented the parents of graduating cadets, the Gaurav Padak— a medal recognising the parents' contribution towards sending their children into the service of the nation. Aditi watched her parents gleaming with pride as her mother received the medal in her hand, while her father stood beside her.

Aditi became nostalgic again. She remembered vividly the day she passed the National Defence Academy examination. She was so excited that she could barely sleep for the next few days. Then she cleared the Services Selection Board interview. That day, she was on cloud nine. The three years at the National Defence Academy flew by in a jiffy. There was rigorous training in the academy— cross-country runs, obstacle courses, weapon training and so on, along with male cadets. Friendships were forged for life. The final year of pre-commission training at IMA, Dehradun, had honed her into the officer she was today.

It was time for the pipping ceremony when newly commissioned officers wear their ranks and insignia for the first time. Parents were given the honour of removing the cover of the rank badge on the uniform. Aditi's parents stood on either side of her and removed the covers to reveal the gleaming stars. Then they embraced her in a tight hug. 

Aditi had successfully followed in the footsteps of her father and grandfather, carrying forward her family's legacy of service to the nation. She had not merely inherited those footsteps— she had added her own to the path.

Authors's Note: The story is inspired by the life of Lieutenant Sheetal Mehlan who is among the first batch of women officers to graduate from the Indian Military Academy.

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This story has won a Certificate of Appreciation in the fortnightly "The Spirit of Asia Contest #209", (Topic: Inherited Footsteps), hosted by the Asian Literary Society.

The Same Sky, The Same Moon

Once I dreamt of sharing a life with you,

That was long before life happened

And led us in different directions,

Living different lives in different cities.

I wish the best for you from afar,

Not knowing whether my prayers reach you quite—

Travelling across the distance between us,

Touching you like a whiff of silver moonlight.

I still remember your distinct smell—

Sweat mixed with nicotine

The touch of your callused palm

On the outstretched hand of your queen.

No matter how far you're from me,

Sharing your life with someone else,

I know we both live under the same moon,

And that's my only solace.

Image Source: Unsplash

(This poem received a "Special Mention" in Storyscrapers #RhymeShots prompt, "Under the Same Moon".)

Beneath the Same Umbrella

After days of incessant downpour, the road was no less than a river. A sudden gust of wind broke my umbrella. I shivered involuntarily as the cold raindrops hit me. 

"Madam, please come under my umbrella," a kind fellow pedestrian said.

I was in no condition to argue. I hurriedly took shelter under his umbrella. When I lifted my face to thank him, time seemed to stop.

A decade ago, he had left for his higher studies abroad.

The monsoon had brought us together under the same umbrella.

A married woman. A man she once loved. Under the same umbrella, yet destined to walk separate ways.

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This blog post is part of ‘Blogaberry Dazzle’ hosted by Cindy D’Silva and Noor Anand Chawla in collaboration with Mister Tikku.

A Rain for Every Soul

"Today's rain is personal. Please step outside at your own risk," the News anchor announced calmly. I couldn't understand anything. 

Meanwhile, it had started to drizzle. Pinky, my five-year-old daughter, bounded up the stairs to terrace and started to jump in the rain. I followed Pinky to the terrace.

The raindrops seemed to play hide-and-seek with Pinky. Wherever she moved, the raindrops moved away to make space for her. 

Astonished, I stepped onto the terrace. Soft raindrops fell on me, dissolving years of grief I'd carried since my husband's death.

Then I understood the forecast. That rain was, indeed, personal.

(This story has been chosen a winner in #WordplayWednesdays hosted by "Content Crafters Collective." The prompt was "Today's rain is personal.")

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The Words He Left Behind

My classes had just ended when Nilima aunty called.

"Misti, please come home as early as possible. Your father is not keeping well."

My father had been bedridden after a stroke for almost one and a half years. His sister, Nilima aunty— a widowed woman in her mid-fifties, lived with him and took care of him. For that, I was grateful to aunty. 

I booked the first available flight to Kolkata, my hometown. Even then, I couldn't make it in time. The messenger of death had already snatched my father, the man who always made me feel safe and secure. My mother had passed away when I was a little girl. I was an orphan now.

The next few days were a blur of activities— performing rituals for the departed soul, welcoming guests and so on.

After everything was over, a quiet silence shrouded our house. I was overwhelmed with grief and decided to stay back for a few more days before heading to Bangalore. One afternoon, Nilima aunty handed me a blue, leather-bound diary.

"Misti, your father gave me this diary and told me to hand it over to you. Please keep it."

That night, after finishing dinner, when I was alone in my room, I opened the diary. The first few pages contained practical details— insurance policies, bank account details, investments and other things Papa wanted me to know after he was gone. There were also neatly scribbled notes on menstruation. I smiled through my tears, remembering how Papa was the first to teach me about menstruation during my adolescence. 

After some pages, I stopped abruptly. There was a letter addressed to me.

"Dear Misti,

Hope this letter finds you in good health and spirit. When you read this letter, I'll be far away from you— resident of a different world altogether.

Today I want to tell you something I've hidden from you all your life. I told you that your mother had passed away, when in reality she had abandoned me for a rich businessman. You were just five years old— too little to understand the full import of the word 'divorce'. She didn't claim your custody and I was only too happy to have you in my life. In my bid to save you the heartache and trauma of your parents' separation, I made up the story of her illness and subsequent death. But Misti, please don't misunderstand your mother. She loved you in her own way. She was not happy with me. So she searched for happiness in another man's arms. And everybody, including our mothers, deserve to be happy, right?

I might have been an awful husband, but I tried my best to be a good father. Only you can tell how I fared as a father.

Be happy. My blessings are always with you.

With love,

Papa."

Tears pooled in my eyes. "You are the best father a daughter could ever have, Papa.", I whispered through my sobs.

Image source: Unsplash

This story has been chosen a winner in the fortnightly "The Spirit of Asia Contest #207" (Topic: My Father's Diary), hosted by the Asian Literary Society.

This blog post is part of ‘Blogaberry Dazzle’

hosted by Cindy D’Silva and Noor Anand Chawla

in collaboration with Mister Tikku.