Rani Ramakrishnan's Blog

A new goal in the horizon,
As beautiful as the morning sun,
Inviting and invigorating
Beckons you to fasten your laces
Hasten your paces
And push your spirits beyond boundaries
To touch its pristine limits
And experience the heights of happiness.



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When on the journey you set off,
Training your eyes on the prize
Neither did your steps falter
Nor did your mind dwell
On such matters insignificant as:
The trials and hardships;
Costly missteps and treacherous mishaps
Along your path of choosing.



Your fortitude held sway
And ambition swept your fears away.
Every time a boulder blocked the way
Your grit shattered its indestructible causeway.
Alas, a cheating destiny
Snatched your overflowing joy,
When inches before the pinnacle
Your steps faltered and you crumbled.



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All the strength you had known but once,
Deserted you,
They retracted without a backward glance.
Leaving you bereft.
Failure and misery you befriended anew,
Every moment, every step you took,
True companions, they stayed with you
Shaping your thoughts, actions—even your look.




Shake off these brutal naysayers,
Rediscover the bold and brave you.
Hiding in your soul, behind veils of defeat
Are your true soul mates: courage and persistence.
For if at first you don’t succeed, why cry and cry again,
When with mere determination you can try once again
To challenge the loss; make it buckle and scram.
And savour sweet success, like life born again.  



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The Quack House Series – Book 2
A chilling crime thriller

What dangers were the sounds in The Quack House alluding to?

They never knew when their happy lives turned upside down and when they stepped into the line of fire.

The Quack House meant trouble and Sunil wanted the place shut. Manju was defiant, determined to fight to keep her dream venture open. Without either’s knowledge, The Quack House’s destiny ceased to be a harmless tussle between a loving husband and wife. When had the dangerous enemy made the decisive move?

Who was lurking behind the cacophony?

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What was the enemy’s bigger plan? Would Manju or Sunil ever connect the dots? What was the secret behind the Lethal Acoustics?

As Manju grapples with the demons of her past and Sunil moves heaven and earth to help his wife, will everything be too little too late?

Read Lethal Acoustics for FREE on Kindle Unlimited or purchase the eBook on Amazon at http://mybook.to/lethalAcoustics. 

The Quack House Series – Book 1
A collection of short stories

Manju made decisions on the go; Sunil always weighed his options before jumping in. Manju was effervescent, Sunil pragmatic. Manju’s joy was infectious; Sunil’s determination unwavering. Manju and Sunil complemented each other in the best manner possible.

The Quack House was Manju’s dream project. A place for people to be heard without being judged, she termed it. Sunil dubbed it, a venture doomed to fail. His simple question, “Who in their right mind would pay to be heard?” Manju disagreed.

Sunil was wrong! Many were willing to pay to speak their mind. But Manju was wrong too! She never expected to hear what she did.

How will Manju react and what impact will Manju’s mission have on their near perfect marriage?

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Five Stories

Manju’s strange encounters lead her and Sunil down unplanned paths giving rise to five distinct tales, each complementing the other. The yarn is as quirky as Manju’s undertaking. The list includes:

The Quack House
Stinky Smelly Horseshit Lessons
First Among Equals
Love Bytes
The Golden Egg Laying Goose

Here to Hear, a collection of short stories about Manju, Sunil and The Quack House, is bound to warm your heart and keep you guessing until the end.

Here to Hear is free on Kindle Unlimited and available as an eBook on Amazon at https://mybook.to/HereToHear .  

 

Pleased to announce the launch of my latest eBook, The Quack House Diaries- A collection of short stories. 

Fast paced endearing tales of a modern couple and their uncomplicated, yet unique life.

One happy couple: Manju and Sunil.[image error]

Six feet tall and slightly overweight, Sunil is a successful businessman.  His wife, Manju, is a picture of fashion and fun. She is an impulsive individual whose heart dictates her actions.

[image error]One new business enterprise: The Quack House

Manju launches an unconventional venture despite Sunil’s fervent dissuasion.  This new business stirs unexpected entertainment, thrill, excitement, adventure, romance, and much more into their lives.

One collection: Five Stories

Manju’s strange encounters lead her and Sunil down unplanned paths giving rise to five distinct tales, each complementing the other. The yarn is as quirky as Manju’s undertaking.

One common denominator: Love

All the incidents in The Quack House Diaries are bound together by the love shared by Manju and Sunil.[image error]

To read the eBook Visit:here

Note:- Free copies of eBook available in exchange for reviews on Amazon. To obtain your copy, sign up below. 

[contact-form]

Fake News. Do you cringe every time this phrase pops up in discussions?

Ponder over the facts for a while and you will realise that the concept is perhaps as old as humankind is.  That’s right, the human species has always thrived on deception. Power is often quoted as a reason for man’s obsession with lying. Our ancestors went as far as to formalize ways and means to break an opponent’s stronghold with manufactured lies. You may be familiar with the name Artha Shastra, the tell-all guide by a maser kingmaker.

Fake News has reincarnated as an insurmountable Frankenstein in this era of internet-enabled data mining. Therefore, is the snail mail’s capacity to deliver windfall gains using manufactured information less effective with each passing day?[image error]

 

This week’s story, “Love Bytes” tries to create a ripple in the sea of misleading information, using good old snail mail.

Manju and Sunil continue their roller coaster with The Quack House (TQH) in this fourth tale of the series.

***

The plastic miniature in the drawing room’s antique clock peeped out and sang “cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo,” thrice. As if on cue, the fridge in the kitchen restarted after being on standby for twenty minutes. Upstairs, in the little angel’s bedroom, the cherub put out a hand; pulled her snugly teddy into a tighter grip; turned to her left and continued to sleep. Lara’s ears stiffened, she barked twice, then changed her mind and resumed sleeping, on her rug in the living room. Oblivious to all this, the adults in the house, continued to snore in their respective bedchambers.

Sunil’s phone, on silent mode, vibrated and inched closer to the edge of the bedside table with each quiver. Explosions couldn’t disturb Sunil’s deep slumber. Little wonder then that he slept through the phone’s fervent buzzing. Beside him, Manju was different. Even in self-actualization state, her trained subconscious would detect smartphone notifications. Manju’s mind woke up to the phone’s plight.[image error]

Her hand crept out from under the covers and felt around for her mobile. Having gripped it, her left eye snapped open while her extended hand turned on the deceive and took cognisance of its lit up screen. Realising that her phone had been sound asleep, she dropped the gadget back onto its resting place and turned her attention to the bedside table on Sunil’s side of the cot. His phone was caught up in intermittent bouts of shock-induced fits.

Under the bed, Manju kicked Sunil hard on his shin. He grunted. She repeated her manoeuvre, mastered with years of practice. This time he responded with a groggy “what is it?” from somewhere on the borders of Sleepsville. “You are getting a call,” she informed him. He grunted again in acknowledgement. Satisfied, Manju pulled the covers back up over her dishevelled head and returned to sleep, as though nothing had happened.

Beside her, Sunil, now aware of the call, stuck out his hand to see if the caller was important enough to warrant his attention at that time of night. He caught the phone, one centimetre away from the edge of its resting place three feet above the ground. The phone vibrated in his grip and he cursed. Who was disturbing his sleep? When he opened his eyes to check, he found his father’s face smiling at him. He blinked twice. Was he dreaming?

[image error]A second verification confirmed that indeed his dad was calling. Fully awake now, and sitting up in bed, worry lines etching his face, Sunil answered. Before he could say hello, “Open the door.” His father whispered into his ear. “What door?” Sunil replied, his foggy brain crossing out doors from a preset list. Once, his father had gotten himself locked in a hotel bathroom and had SOSed Sunil, who then contacted the hotel’s administration to rescue him. Was this another one of those instances?

“Your front door, idiot.” His father’s voice was louder now. “I informed you last night. Don’t you check your messages?” Confused, Sunil rubbed his eyes while his feet stumbled around trying to find his slip-ons. Once found, armed with his mobile in one hand, Sunil tread softly out of the room, down the stairs, past Lara who thumped her tail but kept her eyes shut, and proceeded to the front door. He was still unsure if all this was happening.

Unlocking the main door, without removing the chain, he peered out into the bright porch. His father was indeed standing at his doorstep. Faster now, he unhooked the chain and let his father enter. “I thought you would send a car to the airport,” his father whispered as soon as he entered. Why was his father whispering? “Don’t you check your messages? What kind of a businessman are you, anyway? I don’t want to wake the whole brood and spoil the surprise.” What the hell was his father saying? To his utter shock, without offering an explanation, his father turned on his heel and left the room, making Sunil wonder for the millionth time if he was confusing a dream for reality.

Trudging back to his room, he checked his messages. Indeed, at 11.03pm the previous night, his father had sent him a cryptic message. “Arriving at 02.30 am tomorrow. Want to surprise my wife.” Sunil scratched his head, trying to recall the last time his father had done something impulsive like this. Memory defied him. He had reached his room by then and climbed back into the bed, ready to sleep. He didn’t believe in wasting time over things he couldn’t understand.

“Who called?” a voice beside him wanted to know. Sunil smiled. His wife was sleep talking again. “Dad just arrived,” he replied, sliding under the covers. “Ok.” A grumpy reply sounded. Lying under the covers now, Sunil closed his eyes, hoping to catch a wink. Beside him, Manju shot up in the bed. “Arrived, as in here?” she demanded, fully awake.

“Mhmm”[image error]

“Wow, that was quick.” He could hear the grin in her voice. How was he supposed to sleep after that? He sat up once again; sure, his wife had a hand in his father’s spontaneous arrival. “Don’t tell me you have gone and done something?”

Read the complete story and many more FREE. Subscribe to One Free Short Story Every Week at https://tinyletter.com/rani_ramakrishnan

What do we notice first when we move out of the city? Cleanliness? Greenery? Okay. What about the first thing we miss? Noise! Think about it. You drive into a suburb, hang out for a while and you will inevitably say, this place is less noisy than the city.

What am I getting at, you ask, noise pollution?

Nope. I am wondering if one can be in a noiseless state. Shut your eyes for a minute or two. Stop speaking and experience the silence. Guess what, for not even a micro-mille-second do you stop hearing your own voice. Even without speaking, you can hear your reflections. Millions of thoughts zip through our minds and we hear every one of them.

Scientists have discovered that there is sound even in outer space. Imagine, background music has been playing in our universe, in our galaxy and on our planett, long before the first living thing evolved and before the first background score of a movie was conceived. How spooky, right.

As you might have guessed, this week’s story “First among Equals” (perhaps you just realised I am an Archer fan. Guilty) has a strong association with the various opposites of noise: silence and music.

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On popular demand, I return this week to The Quack House (TQH), Manju and Sunil and their quirky life. This is the third story in the series. Here are the links to stories One and Two. 

***

The overhead seatbelt sign glowed. Sunil, who had been reading a write-up in the in-flight magazine about yoga and wellness, perked up, excited. The flight prepared to land. He had been away from home for two weeks but that wasn’t the novelty. He travelled alone most of the time; a work requirement that irked Manju beyond reason.

Even before their marriage, when he went out of town, Manju saw him off with a sullen face. She called herself an explorer and couldn’t fathom why she had to stay back every time. The word ‘explorer’ fit her to the T though. Manju had planned all their vacations, including their honeymoon. Sunil had to admit that every trip had been a memorable adventure worth repeating.

This was the only trip on which Manju had shown zero interest in accompanying him.

Sunil informed his family three weeks ago about his plan to visit Rishikesh, in Uttarakhand. No reactions followed his declaration, which was odd. He was a known non-conformist in matters of religion. His voluntary decision to visit the bedrock of Hinduism ought to have evoked a strong surprise, if not utter disbelief.

The lack of reaction was diabolic.         [image error]

“It’s an evil eye, I tell you.” Sunil’s mother declared. They were sitting at the dinner table, attempting to eat the food before them. Sunil struggled to break a piece of rubbery chapatti with his right hand and fiddled with his mobile phone using his left. Manju, sitting to his right, relished the noodles she had opted for. Her mother-in-law was having porridge, which she claimed to love even though she consumed it only when she fasted. With the time way past her bedtime, the family’s little angel was lost in happy dreams in her bedroom.

Finally a reaction worthy of the bomb he had dropped. Sunil beamed. He had announced his intentions as soon as he received an email notification. Looking around the table now, he realised that he had misunderstood his mother. His family hadn’t heard a word he had said. Manju and his mother were discussing something that interested them more than his supposed spiritual awakening. A few seconds later, Sunil knew what that was. The absentee cook.

One week ago, their resident cook had taken voluntary retirement; from their service and joined elsewhere. Her departure coincided with the happy occasion when Sunil’s mother arrived. With Manju working full time and his mother being a choosy eater, the sumptuous fare dished out at each mealtime had varied between yesterday’s leftovers and two-minute recipes.

Manju had never taken to cooking but she could manage a decent meal when time permitted. His mother tried to help Manju, but the results were disastrous. Their preferences in food varied too much. On the first day, his mother made sambar to go with Manju’s slightly overcooked fried rice. The next day, they joined forces and made chicken gravy and plan rice. The chicken was overcooked and the gravy bland because both of them couldn’t agree on cooking times and proportions of spices.

That evening’s chapatti and paneer gravy were the best yet. But both women had opted for safer choices to avoid what they assumed would be a less than delectable meal. They were improving by leaps and bounds, Sunil admitted. His mother had been an excellent cook in her younger days. But since she appointed a cook ten years ago, she hadn’t made a cup of tea. Lack of practice had rusted her skills but she attributed it to the infamous ‘evil eye’.

Sunil was surprised Manju had not retorted the statement. She believed that people had two eyes, and neither was evil. Both women loved to argue on the subject and it was quite unlike Manju to let the comment pass unnoticed. His mother also peered at Manju, waiting for her sassy response. Manju finished chewing and swallowing her food then responded, “Don’t be melodramatic Ma. The new cook will be here at six am tomorrow and she comes highly recommended. Shift your focus from the devil to something more interesting.

“We need to brace ourselves for another premature retirement. Your son, my husband, Sunil, has decided he has had enough of luxuries of life. He proposes to take up an altruistic calling and dedicate the rest of his days to this worthy cause. His new hobbyhorse is to pollute the sanctity of Rishikesh, the holy land of Hindu believers, with his pseudo-atheist ideology. Lend him your ears, Ma.” Manju’s eyes twinkled with mischief as she said the words.

She had heard him. Sunil was thrilled.[image error]

“Really Sunil, what will you think of next. On the one hand, your wife is flushing good money down the toilet on an impractical project she calls TQH and now you are taking off to the Himalayas on a mission of your own? You both are two of a kind. I pray my grandchild has inherited more of her grandparents’ genes than her parents’” His mother barked, gobbling two spoons of porridge with a furious look on her face.

Sunil was taken aback by her sudden temper. The fact that his mother considered TQH a crazy waste of money was old news but that she had such strong views on the matter surprised him. “Don’t worry, Ma. I am going there on business, that all.” Both women burst out laughing making him realise too late that they had only been putting on a show to pull his legs. An unwelcome feeling of utter stupidity swept through him tempting him to retaliate with as much vehemence.

“Nice to see both of you so lovey-dovey with each other. Hope the bonhomie continues through the two weeks I am away as well because I will speak to neither of you during the period.”

“Stop being childish, Sunil. You are too old to play this game.”

“No games, Ma. I mean it.”

“Stop being a cry-baby. You don’t have to go to Rishikesh to sulk. You can do that very well here as well. At least some money will be saved for my new car.”  Manju added.

“I am not a cry-baby and you traded the car for TQH remember.”

“Stop speaking now itself, why wait for another week. As it is you are only arguing.” She replied.

“Fine”

“Fine”.

He hadn’t spoken all night, but the next day when his accountant emailed TQH’s expenses statement for the first month, Sunil had to call Manju. They had another fight. Perhaps it was a good time to go to the mountains for a few days. With the cook’s abrupt exit and the extra workload due to fulltime work, Manju was cranky often. He could use a break. He didn’t discuss his trip with the ladies after that but went ahead and finalised everything.

After checking into the Ashram he was visiting, he dispatched a message to both women, “Arrived. Checked into Ashram. Submitting my phone and all other communication gadgets at the reception. Strict rules. Two weeks only meditation and yoga. Not allowed to speak to anyone. Catch you after two weeks.” Who was laughing now, he told himself, depositing all his devices, knowing that they would spend two agonising weeks waiting to hear his voice.

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Two whole weeks without speaking would be challenging, he admitted but the Yoga Guru running the ashram was rumoured to be on the lookout for a partner to expand operations to other parts of the country. Sunil knew that Yoga was a multibillion-dollar industry and had his sights set on venturing into the sector.

Several attempts by him and his team to reach out to the elusive teacher had failed to bear fruit. That was when he had learnt that the man would be at his ashram during this period. Sunil knew that if he got a few minutes to discuss business with him, a deal could be struck. He decided to take the risk and signed up for the fortnight-long silence therapy at the ashram. How he would manage to win over the guru without speaking was a puzzle he was yet to figure out.

After his first day at the Ashram, Sunil was ready to bolt. The satvic food, the resounding silence, inability to speak to his family, being deprived of his electronic lifelines…, their collective impact was so great, all Sunil could think of was going home. He reminded himself of the business deal he wanted to crack, a million times that day, just to get through it.

But he stuck to his guns and stayed put.

After fourteen wordless days, his voice sounded alien to him. The only silver lining was he had exchanged business cards with several other businessmen (who were there for the genuine wellbeing of their souls) with whom he hoped to have professional ties in the future. The yoga guru continued to remain aloof but Sunil did have a preliminary discussion with someone akin to a CEO in the setup, hours before he boarded his return flight. He was hopeful of a positive result in the medium term.

Above everything else, Sunil was excited to be going home. The moment he had switched on his phone, a zillion messages tumbled out. The ones he cherished the most were those sent by Manju.

“What?” (Seconds after his bombshell)

Five minutes later, “You can’t be serious.”

Ten minutes later. “Don’t be stupid. You can’t stay without speaking for even twenty-four hours.”

Half an hour later. “I can’t believe you are doing this.”

“Call me I Miss You.” One hour later.

“We didn’t speak the whole day today!” accompanied by a slew of ‘horrified’ emojis to emphasise her dismay, sent at the end of the first day. Followed by many more on subsequent days.

She had sent videos as well. He watched each of them on his long drive from the retreat to the airport. He couldn’t wait to be reunited with her. He considered calling her as soon as he received his phone but decided to surprise her in person, instead. He had waited three hundred and thirty six hours. He could endure a few more.

He also decided to book that car Manju had her sight set on, at the first opportunity, the next day. He couldn’t wait to see those dimples appear on her face when she saw her brand new car. He bought a bunch of flowers from a florist at the airport and set off to TQH, where Manju was likely to be at that time. TQH, he signed. How much longer would she pursue this bizarre obsession and how much more money would he have to sink into that black hole?

Their last fight had been about the cost of keeping the place open. Their diverse business philosophies continued to be the cause for regular arguments between them. Even his mother was concerned, but Manju, as always, was cocksure that she would succeed.

She wouldn’t quit and so she couldn’t fail. He could kick himself for having fed her the [image error]idea. Now he would have to talk to her about reinventing and innovating, to divert her zeal from the loss magnet of a venture to something more likely to succeed. He had one hell of a task ahead. But for the day, he was happy to be back and couldn’t wait to take his wife out to celebrate.

A shocking sight at TQH befuddled his senses Sunil hit the brakes in a great hurry, the car screeched; the tyres dragged on the tar leaving dark tread marks on the road and brought traffic to an abrupt halt. Behind him, other drivers also stopped with hair-raising urgency. Sunil cursed at his folly as the incessant horns of those on his tail reminded him of the holdup he had created.

To his utter amazement, a queue had formed outside TQH building.

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Recycling is fashionable.

This week, the BBC news showed how the folks at Wrigley’s (the chewing gum company) were sponsoring recycling of gum. I discovered that chewing gum could contain (most likely contains) petrochemicals like petroleum wax, polyethelene etc (I am not an expert on the subject but it seems to me that they are cousins of the stuff that powers our cars and planes. What all goes into our mouths!) Well if that isn’t gross for you, there’s more.

[image error]Apparently, chewed gum is the second most widely spotted litter on global pavements. It made me realise that spitting in public was not an Indian trademark but a universal human genetic defect. Anyway, scientists have collaborated with Wrigley to recycle discarded chewed gum. Here’s the gross part. The gum ‘somebody’ spit out will return to kiss our lips as disposable glasses! (No comments)

Jokes apart, recycling is cool. We have one life and one planet to live on. Let’s clean up the mess we make and increase the longevity of both.

As you can see, this week, I am smitten with recycling. So I thought, why not recycle a story. It’s not a novel concept. How many versions of our epics are there in the world today? Too many, right?

Every story is unique but it’s also the product of an assembly line (character, plot, setting… common to every tale). Some emerge at the end of the assembly line as Altos and others Aston Martins (all cars, by the way), serving the same purpose with varying finesse. All of them can be recycled.

This week’s reprocessed story, “Woman Power” may be familiar to you in its more traditional avatar. Spot the similarities if you can. On, and this week’s surprise: no animals. (Yes, I can write stories without animals in them).

Disclaimer: Please note, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 ***
Pooja, the bride wore red. The heavy zardosi (a kind of embroidery) on her lehenga (skirt) sparkled golden. Mirrors, flashes of radiant green and pink, fancy add-ons… each one chosen with extreme diligence blended into the fiery red silk of the fabric, just as the sun melted into the sands of the Thar. Their unusual union could be mistaken for a fight for dominance but in reality, they were teasing each other with mutual enjoyment. Both the sun and the sands had moments of victory and each came away unchanged. If the red and gold were analogous, Pooja and pomp were no different.

Beneath the rich ensemble, Pooja was the sand, absorbing all the splendour, yet [image error]retaining her natural mellow demeanour. The guests gazed in awe. How could a bride appear elegant despite being overburdened with grandeur? The only daughter of one of the royal families from Khimsar in Rajasthan, money flowed like the sands in their backyard, making the wedding resplendent beyond measure. Generations of the family had lived and prospered in Khimsar village bordering the vast Thar Desert.

Pooja was to seek her destiny elsewhere.

Her groom, in this arranged match, named Madhav, was the youngest son of a wealthy businessman from Surat. Pooja and Madhav had met but once, yet when they took the seven vows of marriage, they were no strangers to each other. The two had spent the better part of the previous three months, since their first meeting, chatting with each other via social media.

They were in love.

Life after marriage settled into a routine. Madhav’s father, a wise sixty-year-old merchant, had plotted his son’s marriage to rein him in. The young Madhav, studied in the best schools thanks to his father’s generous donations to their managements. He was sent abroad for his graduation mostly because the cost of studying abroad was equivalent to the donations demanded by local private colleges.

The young man who returned from Uzbekistan, where he presumably pursued business studies, was a playboy in addition to being spoilt. He refused to join his father because being a ‘shopkeeper’ was beneath him. His father had to shell out more of his hard earned money to set up a water bottling plant, hire employees and get the venture up and running. Madhav was happy to present himself as the Managing Director and boss over everyone.

[image error]For all his shortcomings, Madhav was a loveable young man. He took care to eat well and grooming had always been a top priority for him. Living abroad, he had developed a palate for non-vegetarian food, which combined with vigorous gymming, helped him sculpt an Adonis-like personality for himself. Thanks to his mother’s constant supervision, he was well mannered and even-tempered as well. His only shortcoming, the way his father saw it, was that he wanted everything on a platter, without any effort from his side.

Marriage was the only remedy.

His father had been right. Marriage did bring about a sea change in Madhav’s character. He developed a hitherto concealed sense of responsibility.  His desire to be Alpha in his wife’s eyes, and her gentle reminders that her honour and pride were both linked to his actions, motivated him to work hard. He loved his wife enough to want to impress her.

Pooja was in seventh heaven.

She missed the warm desert sands where she could rest for hours but she basked in the glow of her new life which she cherished even more than the faraway dunes. Running a home, bonding with her new family, romantic dinners with her husband, going to movies with his siblings…, Pooja discovered new reasons to be happy every day.

Tulsi changed all that.

At first, Pooja didn’t notice. Her husband came home later than usual on some days. She attributed it to extra work. He brought her flowers every time he was late. That helped too. She was an eternal romantic.

The festival season arrived, bringing Navratri along with its dandiya madness. Pooja spent hours practising performances with her sisters-in-law, neighbours etc. She stayed out late and many times, she was too exhausted to sit down with Madhav and ask him about his day. He didn’t appear to mind because he was his usual cheerful self. Pooja’s only complaint was that her husband always had excuses when it came to dancing with his wife. He had no interest in dandiya.

The nine days of festivities sped past in a blur. Pooja and Madhav went to several [image error]partitas together. Madhav escaped to hang out with his non-dancing friends at every opportunity. Pooja didn’t let her husband’s reluctance to shake a leg come in the way of her enjoyment. She had a blast.

The last day before Dussehra arrived and brought with it the most happening party. Arriving at the venue, looking nothing short of a goddess, Pooja was sucked into the dance floor within seconds, Madhav as good as forgotten. As the men and women twirled around in formations, Pooja was surprised to find herself matching steps with her husband. He had joined the group impromptu.

Pooja’s day was made.

When the number ended, she excused herself from her group and set off to find her husband. She wanted to think him for his thoughtfulness. She found him in a secluded spot, speaking to someone; a young woman. They were standing inches from each other. She headed straight to her husband, eyeing his companion with caution. She was quite young, Pooja noted. And her clothes boasted of high fashion.

While a majority of the women at the party had opted for daring necklines and bold colours, they had favoured the traditional ghagra-choli (skirt and blouse). Madhav’s friend was wearing a crossover, which was both bold and unconventional. The outfit had the flares of the traditional ghagra but allowed for the dupatta (scarf) to hang off the shoulder exposing ample cleavage, midriff and belly button. Pooja, modern in her own right, would never have managed to carry off something quite so revealing.

Seeing her, Madhav and the woman opened up their circle to include her. At close quarters, Pooja realised that the woman, whose name she discovered was Tulsi, was certainly older than she had first assessed. Tulsi had been Madhav’s classmate in school and had been living abroad for several years. She had returned to India a few months before and the old friends had reconnected. Pooja, ever the dutiful spouse, invited her home. Tulsi accepted, folded her hands in a gesture of ‘namaste’ (used for both hello and goodbye) and took her leave. Pooja stood transfixed.

[image error]In both hands, Tulsi was wearing large solitary gold bangles that matched a pair Pooja owned.

After that shock, Pooja was too restless to party. Had the jeweller made more copies of the design for other customers? A surprised but relieved Madhav was more than happy to ferry his wife back home, earlier than planned. Once there, Pooja checked her jewellery. The bangles were missing. Most of her jewellery was in the locker at the bank. Perhaps she had put them there.

The locker was in Madhav’s name. She told him to escort her there the next day. That night they had their first major fight. He offered to deposit whatever she wished in the locker but she insisted on doing it herself. Her insistence stunk of mistrust and he was quick to point it out to her. Pooja felt hurt, but her burning suspicion was aggravated by Madhav’s reluctance to take her. She refused to back down.

Pooja roped in her mother-in-law’s support for her demand. Madhav’s mother took things one step further and informed her husband. With both his father and mother breathing down his neck, a stony-faced Madhav was forced to escort his wife to the bank the day after Dussehra.

An empty locker welcomed Pooja.

Her parents had given her one and a half kilo of gold, at the time of her wedding. She had put the whole lot in the locker and kept only a few pieces gifted by her various in-laws with her for regular use. Pooja was disconsolate. Madhav’s father almost strangled his son to death. His two older brothers had to bodily restrain their father. Madhav coldly explained that he had pledged the gold to someone to get working capital for his business. He refused to name the moneylender making matters worse.

Pooja then told the family that Tulsi had been wearing her bangles and all hell broke loose.

Pooja discovered that Tulsi had been the primary reason why her husband had been shipped off to Uzbekistan for higher studies. She was a conniving woman whose interests in Madhav were solely due to his wealth. Tulsi had gone abroad with another boyfriend soon after Madhav left Surat. No one knew that she had returned. Declaring that Tulsi was the one true love of his life, Madhav stormed out of the house.

An inconsolable Pooja watched, heartbroken.

Pooja’s family arrived and Madhav’s parents were left shamefaced due to their son’s [image error]actions. At her family’s insistence, Pooja returned to her village where the unending sands offered little respite from scorching public scrutiny. Less than a year after Pooja had departed draped in red, she returned shedding tears of blood.

Lawyers took over from the families and soon gory details of Madhav’s liaison emerged.

His affair with Tulsi had begun a few months prior. In the beginning, some of her precious jewellery had been presented as gifts of love but later Tulsi had gotten her hands on the rest by bemoaning her penury. Madhav had also neglected his business and run it to the ground. His father, furious at the mess he had created, kicked him out of the family. After learning this, Tulsi deserted him as well.

Since then, Madhav’s whereabouts were unknown.

Pooja’s family hired detectives to ferret him out of the depths of hell. The detectives took six months to find him. A shaggy beard, uncut hair, dirty second-hand clothes, tanned skin, sunken eyes, slight hunch, a weak tremor in his voice… Madhav had become a mendicant. Sympathy was quick to raise its head. Even Pooja’s father couldn’t hide his shock at seeing Madhav.

Madhav requested to speak to Pooja, one last time.

In the privacy of Pooja’s bedroom, Madhav apologised for all his mistakes. He promised to be the person Pooja wanted him to be: honest and hardworking, if only she would give him another chance. She was his last hope, he told her. If she abandoned him, life would have forsaken him.

In the end, his laments proved to be more powerful than his past digressions.

Pooja’s decision to reunite with her husband led to a ruckus in her family, but Pooja stayed firm. That evening, Pooja and Madhav left Khimsar; their intended destination, Bhuj, the historic capital of the harsh Kachch district of Gujarat State.

[image error]Madhav had little money but he promised to feed and keep her in good health. A college friend from Bhuj now lived in Europe. Madhav contacted him with a request to live in his house until other arrangements could be made. With accommodation taken care of, the duo set off to the new city, where they hoped to build a new life, away from the deplorable memories of the past.

They arrived by bus, at night and went straight to the friend’s house. A housekeeper welcomed them and showed them their room. Their first night in Bhuj was as comfortable as they hoped their life there would be one day.

Before they left Khimsar, Pooja’s mother had given her a diamond pendant and earrings. Knowing that the couple was short on cash, her mother had advised Pooja to sell them and set up her life. Pooja had gratefully accepted the gift, knowing that every help was a godsend in the life she was embarking upon.

The next morning, Madhav set off to the jeweller to value and sell the pendant for seed capital to start a new business. Noting Madhav’s bedraggled attire, the jeweller suspected that he was a thief and notified the police. Hours later Pooja received a call from the police station informing her that her husband had been arrested with stolen jewellery.

Panic-stricken Pooja rushed to the station, but by then things had taken a turn for the worse.

An informer, who picked him from a lineup, identified Madhav as a terrorist. Serious charges of perpetrating violence in the state were levelled against him. The police records were rewritten declaring Madhav’s original name to be Ashfaq Khar. When Pooja insisted that she was his wife, she was detained without a warrant and questioned for days.

Five days later, when the police let her go, she had no idea where her husband was, not any clue about what happened to the diamond pendant. She had been poked, kicked, groped, stripped, and . . . rape would have been as traumatic. She had confessed that she was Mrs Mehnaz Ashfaq Khar. They had let he leave after she had signed a declaration agreeing to everything they had fabricated. She was no longer sure if she had ever been Pooja.

She returned to the friend’s house to find her entry barred. Her belongings had long since been picked up by the police and the housekeeper who had welcomed them warmly a week ago, wouldn’t open the door to speak to her. Left with nothing but the tattered clothes on her body, she left to find a phone booth.  With great difficulty, she placed a call to her home.

That night Madhav was killed in an encounter while trying to escape from prison.

Read the complete story here. 

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One Free Short Story Every Week

Have you ever given up on something? Dreams, a diet, or a goal perhaps? We all have, at some point in our lives quit. (What an unsettling word, right?) But, why do we quit? Everyone who has persisted against great odds to achieve success has said that the root cause is fear of failure. Ironic, when we realise that quitting means embracing the same failure. Yet we continue to desert our ambitions fearing defeat. What curious creatures we are.

[image error]

Too much philosophy? Let’s dump the gyan and get on with this week’s story, “Stinky Smelly Horseshit Lessons”(a non-crappy, non-pungent yarn, I assure you). I just realised that I have referred to a four-legged beast again. (!!) I’ll admit the story has a few horses but they only make one brief appearance. I promise.

If you missed reading last week’s story, please check out The Quack House (TQH) . Today, we continue Manju’s journey with TQH.
***
Sunil woke to find his wife standing at their bedroom window gazing at the moon. He squinted in the darkness to reaffirm what he was seeing. A dark form stood in the shadows by the open window. The deep maroon heavy floor-length drapes had been swept aside to reveal a layer of flimsy cream lace curtains. They blew every time the breeze picked up and brushed against Manju’s left cheek. The moonlight kissed Manju’s right cheek and gave her visible face a ghostly glow. Thanks to her navy blue nightgown, the rest of Manju’s torso blended into the drapery, accentuating the eerie glow of her whitened face.

Sunil stretched out his right hand and found the bedside table. Then taking his eyes off his wife, he groped around the tabletop for his mobile. His eyes, more accustomed to the soft glow of the distant moon, blinked when his fingers turned on the device. 12.30 am he noted. Frowning, he pushed aside the bed covers and slid his feet into his bedroom slippers. Once both feet found firm ground beneath them, he rubbed his eyes to push himself awake; a ritual he practised every morning when he woke.

He then strode to the window to join his wife and investigate what was keeping her up when she ought to be smiling in her sleep. Sunil adored this endearing quality of the two bosses in his life, his wife and their daughter. Both of them displayed the most quirky smile in deep sleep.

Manju had not budged from her position but she was aware that he had joined her, because she asked him, “What if I fail?’, before he could say, “Hey, beautiful.”

Sunil had always known that his wife had her heart invested in TQH but he had not imagined that she had defined the yardsticks for its success and failure. He had always imagined that she would get bored of listening to people’s problems and decide to wind up. He had been prepared for a bumpy ride but an outright breakdown, after one working day, was a disaster.

Manju’s earnest gaze rested upon his still droopy eyes. “You won’t fail.” He said simply. They had one rule in their relationship: No lies to each other. They had discovered the hard way that it was easier to be honest, to each other at least. Now, hearing his words, Manju looked accusingly at him. The bright moon accentuating her knitted brows and pursed lips. “You are saying so only to appease me.” She declared, turning away from him, making him flinch.

In a way, she was right. He had uttered the words to ease her tension. That was his job too. He had told her a million times before she jumped on to the launch pad, even when she unlocked the doors of TQH, one day before the inauguration, that time was with her and she could still change her mind. She had breezed past his anxiety with the usual wave of her left hand, which meant, “Don’t worry. I am good.” Now, twenty-four hours later, he couldn’t bring himself to dissuade her, even in jest.

[image error]“Why should I appease you?” Sunil said, trying to get her to understand. “Businesses don’t fail.” Manju snorted loudly. Sunil smiled. She was not all that depressed, it appeared. “It’s true. All kinds of businesses succeed. But every once in awhile, one that everyone expects to set new standards folds.”

“Ahaa..” she snapped. Sunil grinned.

“No no, I am not retracting my original statement. I said “fold”, not “fail”.” Another indignant snort from his wife, which meant, “You never accept your mistakes,” punctuated his statement. Ignoring her, he continued, “Businesspersons fail all the time, Manju. That’s why good companies shut shop.”

“So, I also said, I failed. I never said, TQH did.”

“You won’t fail if you don’t give up.” He replied.

“Everyone thinks I am a quack.”

“They will change their opinion.”

Another snort.

“Look, Manju. You are a businessperson now. If TQH means so much to you, if success means so much to you, then don’t quit. You won’t fail until you quit.” He didn’t know what came over him. He said the whole deal in a rush. What he had intended to say echoed in the words but the manner in which he delivered his response shocked him.

Her reaction stoked his guilt even more. She continued to stare at the trees in the garden, ignoring him. Having already created a mess, he didn’t wish to take things further by speaking any more words of wisdom. Heaving a sigh, he went downstairs to the kitchen to make hot chocolate. He predicted a long night ahead and they both loved hot chocolate. A heart to heart talk over steaming cups would be the best alternative, he reckoned.

When he returned, he found Manju, fast asleep, on the bed. The previously ajar window was now shut tight, the drapes were closed, and the air conditioner was blasting frigid waves into every corner of the room. Had she gone to bed angry? He couldn’t sleep as long as he didn’t know. Waking Manju was not an option. Sunil drank both the cups of the hot beverage, paced the room for an hour and ultimately retired to his study where he got some work done.

After a couple of hours of frantic emailing and catching up with a year’s worth of pending correspondence, he finally passed out, exhausted, on his desk. Manju woke him with a steaming mug of caffeine at 7.30 am. He felt a friendly shove on his back, followed by, “Wake up, lazy bones. It’s your turn to take Lara out. The poor thing’s been waiting for you to open your eyes since the milkman came, two hours ago.”

The strong smell of coffee hit his senses at about the same time he remembered his ‘fight’ with his wife. He shot up in a hurry, startling Lara, who had placed two paws on the table and rested her head between them, inches away from Sunil’s outstretched left arm, on which he had laid his head while sleeping. Lara barked and jumped off the char she was sitting on to run over to Sunil, eager for a pat. Sunil rubbed his eyes, trying to put everything in perspective.

Lara’s tongue found his right hand and her forepaws landed on his things, while her thumping tail almost dislodged the cup of coffee his wife had placed near the edge of the table. Manju had reached the door by then. Still, in her nightdress but in high spirits, she gave him a backhanded wave, which meant that he ought to get his butt off the chair without further delay. She wasn’t angry, he noted. Heaving a sigh of relief, he bundled Lara up and played with her for a few minutes.

When the poodle and master returned from their morning jog, they found Manju dressed for the day. She had opted for a cotton Salwar Kameez with batik print, matching brown flats and a roomy leather handbag. She waved good-bye at a surprised Sunil and set off to work, half an hour before nine.

Sunil’s words from the night before echoed in her ears as she drove to work. She couldn’t fail if she didn’t quit. Repeating her determination to stay on course, despite setbacks, she covered the twenty-minute drive in record fifteen minutes.

At TQH, a herd of horses were feasting on her newly planted shrubs while her most capable receptionist oversaw their feeding, from a safe distance. The property had compound walls on three sides, except in front. Here the mini courtyard merged into the pavement where it met the street. The former tenants had used the space to park and repair vehicles. Manju’s gardener had planted shrubs along the sides of the tiled driveway and a lawn in the rest of the space. He had also promised to tend to the garden twice a week.

Now, horses were stomping all over the grass, uprooting whatever came in the way.

Screeching to a halt, Manju pulled out an umbrella from the glove compartment, and [image error]stormed out of the car. Two of the horses ran away, frightened by her dramatic entry. A third, a filly, scampered up the front steps, trying to find a way through the front shutter of the building. Its mother took an attacking stance, facing Manju.

Onlookers gathered at a safe distance urging Manju to back off. Reminding herself, that she couldn’t fail if she didn’t quit, Manju held her ground. The mare called out to its baby to come to its side. The obedient pony complied. Without budging, umbrella raised and nostrils flaring, she shooed at them with vigorous fervour. The mare immediately raised its fore limbs, tossed its mane and heehawed a battle cry.

The sight of the horse on its hind legs, ready to thump its front hoofs on her chest, unnerved Manju. Without lowering the umbrella, she took two steps back and was horrified to feel her feet sink into warm gooey horseshit. Manju’s nose cringed and every cell in her body experienced a germ invasion. Manju had the strongest urge to abandon her fight and clean up, but she ignored her discomfort and glared at the horse’s raised upper body, trying to discern what to expect next.

When its feet touched the ground, it meekly trotted off with its child, and the audience heaved a collective sigh of relief. Somebody found a bucket of water and helped her clean her feet. The sandals, she dumped in the dustbin. Manju became the unlikely heroine, and all through the day, friendly neighbours dropped in to express their admiration. Manju took the opportunity to establish that she wasn’t a doctor. Everyone was surprised to learn that, but at least, they now believed her.

Manju chided herself for having backed down two steps, because of which her foot sunk in crap. If she had stayed focused, as Sunil had advised the night before, she could have avoided smelling like a stable and enjoyed a sweet smelling triumph as well. She filed the thought away for future application.

From that day onward, there was no backing down.

A month on, the money she had invested in the brunch and her faith in her friends was at last showing promising results. When she arrived at work on 26th February, Monday, at 09.05 am, thanks to a route diversion because of some neta’s visit, a ‘customer’ was waiting in the spotless reception area. Her receptionist was in attendance, offering the visitor the day’s newspapers to read.

Manju smiled and swept past leaving a soft fragrance of lavender in the air. She set up her laptop and signed in to see if any pressing emails were waiting for her immediate revert. The weekend had been a mess. A prominent movie star had passed away and Sunil was heartbroken beyond words. She had cooked his favourite Thai delicacies and yet he had remained inconsolable.

He had spent the entire Sunday moping, making both Lara and their daughter restless. Manju had to fend off a thousand questions from the child and the poodle kept tugging at the hem of her skirt to take her to Sunil, barking and asking her to fix his illness. If only things were that easy.

That morning, Manju had to skip her regular twenty-minute session of meditation because Sunil was useless and refused to get out of bed until eight. But Manju had expected him to be moody and had completed a number of her morning tasks the night before. Therefore, she ought to have arrived at work on time, but the neta had derailed her plans without any effort.

Manju hated waiting and that meant keeping somebody else waiting was a sin she strived hard to avoid. She had begun her week with her foot in the shit, she decided. That horsy experience continued to motivate her to stay the course, weeks after the incident.

Her receptionist informed her that the ‘visitor’ had refused to give any details, including his name. He didn’t want to be disturbed later with promotions, he had informed categorically. Manju smiled. Now she wanted to get his name and phone number, though she had no plans of using the data for any promotions. He was the stubborn mare, her second chance to win back her pride, she decided.

[image error]When the visitor walked in, she escorted him to the garden in the room. Mornings were pleasant by the window, she had discovered. She had also added a miniature artificial waterfall to the setting. Working to the music of water trickling down had a soothing effect on the senses. Therefore, most mornings were spent in the garden, as she called that part of her office.

Offering him, one of the two white garden chairs, she took the other. On the table, she had placed her open laptop and mobile phone.

Wearing a white safari suit, the gentleman sitting before her was around sixty, donned golden spectacles, had a round face, sported a white moustache and had a top of black hair on his head. When he smiled, the wrinkles around his eyes became more prominent. His right eyebrow was slightly crooked and it arched every time he spoke, like when he had said ‘thank you’ before sitting down.

He had a pleasant appearance, and Manju warmed up to him instantly.

She opened the software she had designed to record customer details; an uncomplicated application she had named ‘Iris’ which captured every session’s date, time, discussion details, future appointments etc. She didn’t want to find herself forgetting what someone had told her in session one when they returned for session two. Iris needed a name and mobile number to open a unique file. She began the session there.

Introducing herself, she explained to him that with his consent, she would take notes while he spoke. This didn’t bode well but when she promised to give him a copy of his file, he gave his ready consent. Coming to the sticky topic of name and mobile number, next, she told him they were needed to create the file.

“Do you also offer client information confidentiality?” He demanded. Manju had to explain that such laws applied to professions like doctors, lawyers etc and that she was neither, therefore, such an assurance was beyond her ability. The discussion went on for fifteen minutes, by when Manju revised her assessment of her visitor from “pleasant” to “stubborn”, to “arrogant”, to “pain-in-the-ass”, to “obnoxious”.

After fifteen minutes, all she wanted was for the man to leave. Neither would he vacate his seat, nor would he divulge his name. He insisted that since she could not offer his testimony confidentiality, she was better off not knowing his name and contact details. Exasperated, she opened a regular word file and told him to get on with whatever he wanted to say.

The security guard who worked in a hospital on the same street had referred her, she learnt. “Who were these high profile security personnel who claimed to know her well enough to give references?” Manju made a mental note to find out. The man was asking something and Manju concentrated. “I like coffee. All this mocha, cappuccino stuff is not for me though. A plain strong cup of coffee, with something to bite, would be nice.”

Manju kicked herself. She had thought the idea of offering a beverage to the guest would be in accordance with her role as a passive listener. Her receptionist had been instructed to record their preferences and serve refreshments accordingly. Manju had not imagined a situation where she wouldn’t want to prolong a person’s visit. Now she had to endure the goof up of her own making.

He poured his coffee into his saucer and blew the warm coffee cold before taking a sip. Manju was relieved that he didn’t slurp it up noisily. One disgusting habit less, was not enough, though. While he enjoyed his drink, Manju made small talk. She asked about his family etc. He gave her all those details readily.

He had two adult sons working out of town. His wife and he were living alone, and they had a comfortable life. He claimed that he had taken a few hours off from work to speak with her. Manju was almost sympathetic. But before the emotion could manifest, he informed her that the biscuits were soft from improper storage. Manju decided he didn’t deserve her sympathies.

Half an hour had passed since, the man had landed at her table but he had been digressing from the topic of discussion since arrival. Was he nervous? Manju wondered as he kept stalling the discussion. He had emptied his coffee cup twice and was now cleaning out the plate of ‘soft’ biscuits, as though he was at a restaurant and not sitting across from her. Manju bit her tongue and kept quiet.

He then wanted to use the washroom!

After returning, he talked about the décor and what all was wrong with it. Peach, he informed her was a feminine colour with which men like him could not associate. He liked the green she had chosen for the foyer and that he said would have been ideal for the room too. Manju fumed and listened.

Then out of the blue, he stood up, adjusted his pants, (he did that every time he stood, as though, they were likely to fall off his hip), inserted his hand into a bulging front pocket and pulled out a revolver. He then sat down again. He rubbed the revolver clean with the edge of his safari suit’s tucked out shirt. Manju watched in fascination. Her eyes were round in wonderment at seeing a gun at such close quarters. All her previous experiences had involved a digital medium intervening between the actual item and her hand.

Without thinking, “Is it real.” She asked. He picked it up, pointed it at her and clicked a [image error]lever, as she had watched actors do in several movies, to release the safety catch. “And loaded” he confirmed. The barrel’s tip was fifty centimetres from her nose and she could see the black hole through which the bullet would shoot out to splatter her face to smithereens. She stared unblinkingly, her eyes large round saucers. Perspiration dripped from her brow. Matters weren’t exciting anymore.

Without a word, he placed the handgun on the table, close to her laptop and mobile phone. The small table looked overcrowded to Manju as soon as the handgun landed atop. “I shot a man dead with this gun”, her visitor declared.

Continue reading the rest of the story here

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“What do you think?” Manju asked beaming from ear to ear. Her brown eyeballs turned one shade darker and her eyebrows rose to form perfect arches over her almond shaped eyes. Sunil counted three creases on her tanned forehead. Her small nose too had perked up in anticipation of what he would say. Sunil was at a loss for words.

At six feet two inches, he was tall by most standards. His height virtually camouflaged the few excessive kilos he had gained over the years. Dressed in tan slacks and a cream shirt, a trendy expensive jacket slung casually over his right forearm, while his wife Manju clung to his left arm, he looked every bit the successful businessman he was.

Beside him, standing a few inches shy of his crown, thanks to her stilt inspired heals, wearing a cream pantsuit, her burgundy coloured hair styled into a classic layered crop, Manju looked every bit the businesswoman she wasn’t.

Both of them were standing outside a yellow and white building. When Manju had first spotted the structure, it had been a rundown compound with a dirty greasy abandoned workshop and an unkempt backyard. Sunil had to admit that it looked a whole lot better now. “Nice” he replied, trying to put some enthusiasm into his tone.

“Nice! That’s all you can drum up for the transformation I have brought to the place?” [image error]She snorted, letting go of his arm. “Look at the brightness the yellow lends to the dull white. They complement each other perfectly, making the building sunny and inviting. The place looks much larger than five hundred square feet, don’t you think? Do you remember seeing any shrubs or lawns the last time you were here? Where’s all the grease and grime you complained about, huh? After all this effort, all you can say is, “nice” she mimicked, making a face at him.

“I know you have given the place a complete makeover. I paid the bills for the exercise, remember.” Sunil responded.

“You are not doing me any favours. I did say I don’t want the new car this year.”

“Are you sure, you don’t want that car.”

“We’ll see.”

“I thought so.” Sunil grinned. His wife loved cars and she had been going on and on about a new model that had hit the market six months ago. They had been planning to buy it when  Manju had been swept away by a brilliant business idea. On an impulse, she had decided to invest the money meant for the new automobile in her “business”.

A bright yellow neon sign light up on the top of the single storey building. “The Quack House” it read. Sunil blinked. He couldn’t believe he was backing Manju in this [image error]ridiculous project. After meeting Manju for the first time, his mother had declared that her precious son had been bewitched. The sign, now dangling in clear public view, made him wonder if his mother had been right. The level-headed Sunil would have never agreed to Manju’s bizarre business proposal under any circumstance.

“Nice?” Manju asked in her most sarcastic voice, pointing at the sign.

“Super” he replied with equal spice.

Inside green dominated the entire space. The walls were a mild pistachio green, with furnishings and curtains sporting several darker shades of the same hue. An opulent, deep brown wooden reception desk faced the front door. On either side, three feet shy of the walls were two coffee tables with matching elegant couches. A chandelier hung above the short passage between the door and the reception desk. The shiny granite floor tiles were also dark green.

Behind the reception, a floor to ceiling multicolour abstract painting covered the entire wall up until the glass doors located at both the right and left ends of the wall. Both doors led to the main hall behind the front lounge. This room was bathed predominantly in peach. The far left corner of the room had been converted into an indoor garden, with a window, a few large leafed potted plants, a cobbled walkway and a garden table with two chairs.

In stark contrast, the opposite end of the room was dominated by a home theatre and related paraphernalia, accompanied by two recliners to enjoy the entertainment at ease. Sunil spotted a few weights and other workout equipment stacked along close by and looked quizzically at Manju. She shrugged and moved on without answering. They had been planted to create an impression, he decided.

One corner of the room resembled a living room with a couple of couches, a coffee table, a few short bookshelves etc. The fourth and final corner had a door connecting to the kitchen located at the rear end of the building. Through some strange synergy, the crazy combination blended and formed a cohesive unit. This time, Sunil said, “Nice” before Manju could utter a word.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” H asked one last time. He had been asking her the same question for the past two months. Tired of answering, she ignored him and concentrated on some microscopic dust particle on the leaf of one of the indoor plants.

“I asked a question you know.”

She continued to ignore him.

[image error]“What does a guy have to do to get his wife to listen to what he has to say?”

“You could pay. At The Quack House, we charge by the hour.” She grinned.

“That’s all that’s left for me to do.” He retorted and turned away.

Sunil plonked himself on the comfortable couch and watched his wife check everything one last time, before the guests she had invited arrived. For her sake, he hoped that everything worked out well. She had put her heart into it and he could not bear to see her heartbroken. But he was worried. This was a mad idea.

“Maybe we should have had a cocktail party instead of brunch.”

“I have been sober all this while and I have no idea what you are up to. Do you think your guests will understand anything if they get drunk?”

“What’s not to understand?”

“What are you selling?”

“My time.”

“Who wants to buy your time?”

“Lots of people have the same problem you have. Nobody listens to them. They’ll come here, I’ll listen to what they have to say. We will discuss things and they will leave happier.”

“Sure, if they didn’t have to pay.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“The Quack House!!.. What if someone asks for duck biriyani or something?”

“Sir would you like to add biriyani to the menu?” a male voice intervened. Sunil and Manju looked at him surprised. Sunil was the first to realise that the caterers had arrived with the food for the brunch. As he guffawed away, a red-faced Manju directed them to the kitchen and supervised the setting up of the buffet table for her guests.

**

The idea of The Quack House had come to her while she waited for her shrink at her clinic. She had an appointment at two and it was ten past but the clinic was deserted. Sometimes the prolonged lunch breaks taken by people irked Manju, who was generally a happy go lucky person.

She had started seeing the psychiatrist when she was twenty, after a boating mishap in which her only sibling passed away. During the initial years, Manju had been perpetually disturbed but now well over a decade since the incident; she visited only as a force of habit and not anything else.

By two thirty, the receptionist arrived.

Looking shocked to see Manju, she informed her that the doctor was way and that there would be no session that day. Aware that the doctor always informed her patients in case of rescheduling a session, Manju prodded the girl for an explanation. She was shocked to discover that the doctor had been arrested the previous night for being a fake. The receptionist had come to work that day because the doctor’s father had promised to come over and pay her outstanding wages in the evening.

For ten years, Manju had been visiting a fake doctor and confiding her biggest fears with her! Not only that, she had experienced substantial relief after each discussion. The woman had even prescribed her medicines during her early days of “treatment”. At least three medical degrees had adorned the walls of her office. All of it had turned out to be lies. Manju couldn’t believe the extent to which she had been duped.

Instead of feeling cheated, the incident set off a different stream of thoughts in her mind. The fake shrink had helped her handle her genuine emotional distress by being someone [image error]willing to listen to her. Perhaps most people needed only that much. What if she set up a place where individuals could come, discuss about whatever troubled them, and leave happier for having unburdened themselves?

Sunil was sceptic but she was sure. She could help people and protect them from fake therapists. In fact, many people could come to her because she was not a psychiatrist and there could be no taboo visiting her office for a chat. It would be just as normal as going to an astrologer or an alternate-medicine practitioner.

And thus “The Quack House (TQH); we listen so you can stay happy”, was born.

Read the complete story at One Free Short Story Every Week


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Siddharth Kashyap (let’s call him, Sid), Chief Editor, The Daily Times, was ready to pull his hair out (whatever was left of it, i.e.). The next day’s edition was fifty thousand rupees short on advertisement income, he needed five more stories to fill in the city / regional pages, the maintenance work going on in the press room was delayed because of a spare’s in-availability raising the possibility that fewer papers would be printed that day, . . .  He had to stop to catch his breath. His list of ‘things to look into’ was getting longer by the minute.

As he contemplated, which issue to bulldoze first, his HR (Human Resource) Manager walked in. “Shit”, he had forgotten that he had promised to interview candidates for a photojournalist’s position. In reality, he needed two people: a professional photographer and a journalist. But, the ‘city news’ department was on a shoestring budget. The HR’s solution; take one person for both jobs combined. Easier said than done, but Sid had conceded defeat and agreed to appoint one able two-in-one hybrid.

She had six resumes. Six people were willing to be paid one salary to do two jobs? The market must be worse than he had been reporting, Sid decided.

He tried to reason with her saying that he was swamped but she refused to reschedule. Women were the bosses, no matter who they were dealing with. Sid had postponed the same interviews only on two previous occasions and believed he deserved the option to cancel once more. In her no-nonsense tone, his HR Manager informed him to manage his time better. Other editors and department heads had completed their interviews two weeks before. She also had a timeline to live by and a boss to appease.

With that angry reprimand, she dumped the resumes on his desk and marched out.

Sid looked at the printouts in frustration. If he was to create the position, budget for it, interview candidates, train them and retain them, then what the heck was the overstaffed HR team supposed to be doing? Bossing over overworked editors aside, he was yet to identify any notable KRAs (key result areas) from their daily activities.

He cast a cursory glance over the first resume. Three persons, including HR, had already met him. The next person’s resume revealed much the same. Clearly, everyone had met them and liked them. If there had been one candidate, Sid would have met him for one or two minutes and given his okay. Why were there six?

His mobile vibrated; another notification! Some people had all the time in the world to waste. Case in point: the city’s only MLA (Member of Legislative Assembly). The man’s grandson’s naming ceremony was in an hour’s time and he wanted Sid to send journalists (in plural!) to cover the event. The MLA had been reminding him since six in the morning. The current notification was his tenth reminder that day. Sid had been furiously ignoring his calls so the man had taken to sending messages instead. On cue, his mobile vibrated once more. The MLA was now calling.

Sid wanted to pull out the few remaining hairs on his bald head, again!

A brainwave struck him before he succumbed to the urge. He could kill two birds with one stone. He instructed his secretary to send in the candidates, all together. She hesitated, looking as though she was about to share her opinion about that decision. Overruling her before she could utter a word, he told her not to argue.

Once the six young people were seated, all looking at him as though they were in an elimination episode of Master Chef, he told them what he had in mind. He informed them that they were to go to the naming ceremony and get a story for the next day’s edition. The best piece would win its author the job. The rest would have to be satisfied with a free lunch courtesy the MLA.

Temporary identification papers were issued and within minutes, the group of six were [image error]on their way. Sid called the MLA, apologised for having been unable to accept calls earlier and enquired if the six people he had sent had arrived. “You are sending six people? I wanted only two: a journalist and a photographer.” He cribbed. Some people were just un-pleasable, Sid decided.

“It was six men of Indostan, to learning much inclined,

who went to see the elephant (Though all of them were blind),

that each by observation, might satisfy his mind.”

By 6.00 pm, the group of six were once again seated in a neat row outside Sid’s cabin, reminding him of the interviews he had creatively postponed earlier. They had returned by 4.00 pm, after the royal feast, bursting with excitement about their first assignment. For two hours, each had battled for the two spare computers on the floor, and put together their respective articles that they hoped would be published the next day. By 5.59 pm, they were all set to present Sid their pieces and win the coveted job.When the HR Manager heard what Sid had done, she had fumed. What was Sid even thinking? Dispatching untrained non-employees to cover stories was reckless, according to her. Having decided that Sid had lost his mind, and not wanting anything to do with his maverick ways, she packed up and left at her usual hour, instructing Sid to leave his feedback about the six prospects, on her desk before he left for the day.

Bossy HR Managers aside, Sid’s day had plummeted from bad to worse before it settled into a mediocre normal. Now, he had to meet the six; no excuses.[image error]

Read the complete story at My Shot Story Archive