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.