Tag Archives: Short

Ten Lakh Rupee Haircut

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“Liked it? Cost me ten lakhs!” said my grandfather proudly, rubbing his left hand on his shiny bald head. A bowl of what appeared to be a murky dal sat in front of him, waiting to be cussed at. “Pimps!”, he snorted as an afterthought, looking at the television screen, as Mahendra Singh Dhoni, the Indian cricket team captain got caught and bowled by a stunning yorker. “Can’t bat against pace, what are these kids getting paid for these days. You know! Gavaskar used to -”

“Bat without a helmet against the West Indians…they were the best team in the world…had the fastest bowlers….had Michael Holding….he was called whispering death!” I completed. “You’ve mentioned it to me once or twice, I remember over the past twenty years..”

Grandfather chortled which turned into a animal like cough. As he gasped for breath he pushed the bowl of masoor dal away and turned towards me, raising his finger. “I thought I’d get to eat some fat and meat when Sheela left us. This is worse than what they used to serve us in training.”

It had been a week since grandfather’s last chemo. My uncle, one of Pune’s best oncologists had taken me to a corner in the hospital and told me it’s my job to let mother know we probably have a month with him left. He didn’t have the heart to break the news to his own sister despite being her closest confidant. Today was my Sunday on the calendar. Grandfather, an ex-army man had changed completely since we told him he had stage four. It stripped him of his age by decades. He started resembling the man my mother had told me stories about since I was small. The man who was the centre of attention at army parties. The man who would laugh in the face of his biggest trials and the man who had turned into a shadow of his old self over years of battling debt, depression and marital problems.

“He was a really nice father”, my mother would tell me. “It was my mother who was a real witch. She would provoke him into a fight, and he’d lose his temper and oh god, he had a terrible temper.”

The last time I had visited grandfather at home, he had smashed a large wine glass on my grandmother’s face. We had found them sobbing in different rooms, their entire crockery cabinet in pieces in the living room. We had rushed her to the hospital, spent the entire night watching her wince as the nurse tweezed out bits of glass out of her cheek. I had vowed never to visit their house again post (I swallowed my pride after he was diagnosed) My mother, though furious at her father at first surprisingly blamed her… “She must have said something really terrible. She would always say mean things. Stretch him to breaking point” just before I left the hospital at dawn. My grandmother stayed with us for the rest of her days, till she passed away a year back. She was eighty. A week into shifting in our house, I saw our crockery cabinet combust similarly, this time at my mother’s hands. The temper that was so famed in the house had luckily by the grace of genetics not been passed to me. I never saw grandfather apologise for that day, you know. He continued to harp that she deserved it till…well…till the last time we brought it up before he –

“We haven’t played Ludo for so many days. Get the old set out. Let’s play some Ludo.”

“Eh Appu! Not Ludo. You always end up winning at Ludo. I know you cheat somehow.”

“You rascal, you accuse your old grandfather of cheating? I’ll show you today”

“Do you want to play chess? I can make you some tea and we can play till mother gets here.”

I got the old wooden board out from ‘my cupboard’. It was actually a single drawer where my grandparents would store all my toys when I was a kid. Out of habit, the first thing I do when I reach their house is open it to ensure all ‘my things’ are still there. There’s my chessboard, unused for years, an old whistle I had driven the neighbours silly with when I was five, a couple of Secret Seven books I had re-read till I knew them by heart and I have no idea why I’m so attached to it, but an old World Book I used to press leaves in during summer vacation. Press leaves? You know, keep leaves in an old heavy book in the Summer of 1999 and open the book again by winter to see them etched as a skeleton? I would love doing it.

“You want black?” I asked him.

“Nope. But I know you want white. Go on then.”

I moved the pawn in front of the king a couple of steps ahead. “Boring, boring. E4, E5, NF3, NC6. That chess class ruined you. You were doing so well sitting on my knee and playing. I keep telling your mother, you would have been the next Bobby Fischer.”

Grandfather taught me how to play chess when I was six. I used to sit in his lap while he would furiously explain what each piece was capable of doing in Marathi. By the time I turned eight, I actually started beating most of my family. My parents’ Indian sensibilities blazed to life, realising there’s a miniscule but very likely chance for monetary opportunity here. They shoved me into an archaic buddhibal gurukul where I would be forced to train for hours at an end on weekends till my head throbbed. In six months, I started hating the game eventually refusing to play it. Grandfather was furious his protege had become a guinea pig for slaughter. He tried making it fun for me, but something in my head just switched off whenever I saw a chessboard then. I don’t mind playing it now, I still get flashbacks about the musty smell of the cloth chess boards and the all too familiar irritating click of kids banging chess pieces out of the board whenever they were captured.

“I’ll make tea, wait. Do NOT touch the pieces! I remember where they all are!” I warned him.

It triggers memories whenever I wander around my grandparents’ house. It’s in the old part of Pune, where time stands still – almost infuriatingly sometimes. Theirs is almost a century old, largely made of stone. I remember it being cold. Really cold. It smells the exact same even today, of burning camphor and incense sticks. Except you can also smell the effort invested into keeping an old man alive. My grandparents brought a television way before we did. It just had twelve channels, but it did have Cartoon Network. I’d make excuses to come here and watch Tom and Jerry or any of the old Hanna Barbera re-runs, whilst grandmother doused me with variations of deep-fried, unhealthy snacks. I digress. Where was I? Yes, in the kitchen. Making tea. Boiling water and milk separately. Waiting for the tea leaves to settle down. “We aren’t savages, like them” my grandmother would say with a heap of disgust, referring to her neighbours from Delhi. Her years in the capital left her with a heavy aversion for how the north would make tea – mixing water, tea leaves, spices and ginger till they were well and truly butchered by the flames.

I used to find the reluctance of all my relatives to embrace my adulthood infuriating. As the youngest kid in the family, I would be spoken to like a small prize winning dog – worthy of attention, but no seriousness. In my grandfather’s case, it was the exact opposite. He made me feel important. I’d sit at his desk as a kid and stamp his bank documents, feeling like my involvement is his paperwork somehow mattered. He’d ask me for advice, which I’d find very endearing. I’d see most of my other defence kid friends have a strict hierarchical culture in their house, which was nice to see my grandfather not give a hoot about.

Grandfather slurped the tea. “Tastes a lot like Sheela’s…”

“It’s because mother makes the same tea. And I learned from her…”

“You haven’t moved any pieces for twenty minutes. Are you going to bother playing?”

Grandfather was a simple man. Post his army life, which I never thought he really liked too much, he became quiet and reserved. He’d always tell me how he missed death by an inch fighting the Pakistanis in ‘71, though grandmother had on safe authority that he never actually touched a rifle the entire stint. He distanced himself from all his friends in the regiment and sat at home post his retirement, immersing himself in hours of television and B-grade Marathi novels. He used to be a lot of fun, mom would always tell me. Always filled with terrible jokes

“I think she was having an affair.” said my mother.

“You know know, or you suspect?”

“Um. They never told me anything, but I always overheard bits from their fights. There would be this ‘uncle’ who would come up to our door and take her away in a car. She would never introduce him to us, so I kind of always suspected…”

Grandfather, like several of Pune’s tea drinking heavyweights, has an intricate ritual circling every sip he takes. He slurps each time to a crescendo and then follows it up with a low bass ‘Ah’ as if to reassure himself that it was a sip well invested. I had come to forget his little intricacies over the last decade I’ve spent working in Bombay. My home trips to Pune had become less frequent and the time I’d get at home to visit my grandparents, even less so.

“You want to see the garden?” he asked me, about eight moves from defeat.

“Let’s go.”

We sat on the swing. He chattered on about how his gardener is quite obviously a crook, since his fertilizer supplies having slowly been disappearing, always punctuating his sentences with a racking cough. We spoke in depth about how the rose plants were there just to show off, and no real botany connoisseur would want to have a plant as common as a rose in his garden. He even offered to field for the neighbours’ kids playing in the yard opposite his house, much to their horror. There was a time he would have been really mean to them when their ball crossed over to his fence, but this was a changed man in his last month. I think of his transformation like that ‘Selfish Giant’ story…we used to have it in our Radiant Reader by who was it? Yes! By Oscar Wilde.

“I wish I could have taken you to my Father’s factory!”, he said suddenly.

“Yeah, you guys would make glass, wouldn’t you?”

“And what amazing glass it was!” he reminisced. “Green, violet, orange glass. I used to get scraps of the colours for your mother and her sister all the time. They’d make ornaments out of it. It was wonderful.”

“What happened to it?”

“Oh, shut down in time. Once the borders opened, a bunch of all these foreign brands came in. They were better. Cheaper. We had to sell.”

“You must miss your village.”

“Terribly sometimes. I miss the small things. You know, throwing stones at the mango trees to eat kairi. Cycle races all around the fields. You wouldn’t know the simplicity in that life.”

“Ever feel like going back?”

“No. Not really. You miss them. But you move on. I don’t feel like going back to the army either. I hate meeting my old mates from there. Going on and on about the good old days. I’m quite done.”

We rocked on the swing for a little while. The skies turned a steelier shade of grey. It was just April. We call this rain ‘valvacha paus’ in Pune. The first rains. Just a premonition of monsoon.

“I think I was way more ready to pop it in 71’. This is just embarrassing right now. Tell your mother from my side. They’ve covered me with pipes. Throw it all away. I’m pissing out of a tube half the time in the hospital, if you haven’t noticed…”

“You’re NOT ‘popping it’!”

“Don’t lie to me. Even a duffer like me learns a few things by the time he turns eighty. This chemo and radiation nonsense is meant for people who want to live more.”

“I…you realise no one’s going to let you just wither away right?”

Grandfather ignored me. He began rocking his legs like a little child on the swing. At his most vulnerable, he always reminded me of a child. He was a simple man. He had always been one. With no ulterior motives. No ambition. No desires. It kept him happy.

“I hope it rains today. Been so hot this summer. I won’t need to water the plants too.” he said, as a gust of wind set the windchimes in motion, their clangs echoing through the garden.

“Whatever happened to those parrots? I completely forgot about them”, I asked him.

“You mean, the ones you forced me to buy from the cantonment? Those were love-birds. One of them died. And then the other one-”

“Oh right. It died as well?”

“No silly. We let it out.”

We sat for a while as he hummed a song I couldn’t recognise. “Right. I’m sleeping in for a while. Your mother’s coming here to make sure I don’t kill myself taking the wrong medicines. I don’t want to disappoint her.”

“Do you want your stick?”

“Let it be here. I don’t actually need it till I go outside. I wouldn’t mind a cigarette though? This weather is quite something”, his eyes hopeful.

“If you actually think I’ll get a man with lung cancer a cigarette…you have got to-”

“Yes. Yes. A simple no would have sufficed. I’m going to sleep.

He slowly walked into the house, balancing his drip. I sat alone, my attention moving to the the touch-me-nots he had planted right in front of the swing last spring. I touched one of them, just to make sure they still work. It closed.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

@sumedhnatu – Twitter, Instagram

Artwork: Aditya Phadke
Instagram: @artyaditya

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Rajaram Shah’s First Red Light

It was about eleven thirty in the night when Rajaram Shah, feeling quite unlike himself realised that only a paltry sum of fifty euros stood in front of his four inch inch penis and the six foot two inch ivory white prostitute standing in front of him.

Impossible, thought Rajaram. He had purchased dry fruits and spices that were more expensive in the past.

He stared at the perfect figure in front of him, ready to be rented out. His mouth watered. The feeling that he could afford her physical shell so easily added to it. This was a primal feeling of power. He felt his wallet bulge fatter than his penis ever had and a euphoric feeling of childlike elation stirred in him. He had never seen a woman look so desirable anywhere in his hometown. Women such as this were seen only in the inner folders of his pornography collection. His own wife back at home refused to undress in front of him, unless he agreed to look away and the lights were switched off. But then, he had been married for only half a year.

Rajaram had been sent to Antwerp to sell two solitaires that were proving themselves to be particularly hard to sell in his hometown of Surat. His family business of crafting personalised diamond sets had taken a rather unhappy u-turn after the economy had majestically crashed over the past three months. Even the most affluent of Surat’s elite who had no problem being fleeced by the Shah’s in broad daylight on a casual Wednesday afternoon were watching their expenses all of a sudden.

Rajaram’s father knew an old Jewish trader near the red light district who he knew would love to be ‘surprised’ by a visit from his Indian allies. Rajaram was packed off with a warning from his father not to eat any meat, drink any alcohol or engage in any activity that would dishonour the clan through the duration of his first foreign trip. He had sworn on different sets of Gods that he wouldn’t. His father knew he would.

The whiteness of her skin fascinated him. His own skin looked so murky in comparison. It reminded him of dirt. He wanted to know what she felt like. He wondered if blonde white girls were blonde even down there.

His deal had gone rather well. He hadn’t sold at the price his father wanted to, but none the less, he had sold at a handsome profit. Taking in account the small cuts he would need to give to bribe out customs officers back at home and the two middlemen that had helped balance out the translations, he would still come back home with enough cash to lavishly splurge through the next five months.

There were at least a hundred women to choose from, in the red light street. Each was standing in a glass cubicle, in very much the same way clothes are displayed on mannequins in stores, like meat hangs on hooks ready to be picked. The cubicles were numbered in a rural bazaar sort of a way. They were all scantily dressed, each with the same tacky neon green palely glowing lingerie.

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Rajaram had walked slowly in the rectangular block, mentally rating and forming an image of how each one would feel in bed. He walked past the first two – chestnut brown latinas with obviously coloured blonde hair. One of them raised her finger and waggled it invitingly at him. His penis was half hard already. But he must be patient. He must see all the goods before making a transaction. He must not make a hasty first timer decision, he thought.

Rajaram had turned right at the intersection. An old wrinkled man had been furiously arguing with an equally old looking transexual. He appeared to have touched her in a place she had warned him not to, and was demanding more money. A small glimmer of fear had stirred in him about what he was about to do.

Rajaram walked silently past women of every shape and size, women with large breasts and small ones, women talking on the phone about topics as insignificant as the increasing price of nail paint remover and women deformed and ugly, struggling at the prospect of getting a customer. They were from Hungary, Estonia, Germany and a hundred other places which had no importance in their lives

A dim red glow illuminated the street. Passers by were lightly painted by the colour at intervals as they walked. As each man paused and stared, Rajaram noticed the same hungry look of abject sexual desperation on each masculine face, dark and dangerous. Some made lewd signs at the women in the stalls. Some hooted and catcalled. A drunk man opened his zipper and pulled his cock out waving it in front of a Turkish woman’s face. He was promptly attacked by brothel security. The world will never be a place for women, Rajaram thought.

Rajaram stopped in front of the Red and Blue nightclub bang in the middle of the stretch. Three fifteen year old schoolgirls with their faces caked with makeup were pleading to the bouncers that they were eighteen, but had forgotten all their id’s at home owing to a very unfortunate coincidence. One of them casually pulled her dress lower, giving the bouncer a very ample view of her breasts.

Raja stared at a cubicle just behind a sex shop promising very attractive discounts on its newest range of vibrators. He went closer, drawn to the stunning vision of sexual perfection in it. She was mouth watering. She was tall, with legs large and muscular. Her bellybutton was pierced, her dark nipples standing erect behind the light fabric on her breasts. Her breasts in question were huge and firm. Rajaram felt an unquestionable urge to throw her on the floor and mount her immediately. The woman sensed his desire and spread her legs just enough for him to get a glipse of a bit of her vagina. Like a dog following meat, Rajaram came close to her cubicle.

The woman opened the door and with a causal air, asked the man in front of her, “What would you like?” Her east European accent was pronounced. Rajaram asked innocently, “What all can I do?”

For fifty euros you can touch me. You can fuck me in any position you like for twenty minutes and I also blow you.

The proposition sounded highly lucrative. Fifty euros to even see her in her nakedness was a bargain. Rajaram would have gladly paid a thousand for her to fondle him, let alone have sex.  But the Indianness in him kicked him. He refused to just agree, even though the amount was chicken feed for him.

Thirty Euros!”, he said, trying to sound like someone who does this everyday.

Fifty is base price, mister”, she replied. Her eyes sparkling blue. They were lenses, Rajaram realised.

“Thirty is all I have” said Rajaram attempting a sad and desperate face that fooled no one.

“Look mister. Forty is as low as I go. You take or you leave” said the woman with a tone of finality that told Rajaram bargaining was pointless beyond this stage.

Fine. I’ll give you forty” She ushered him in.

Money first” she demanded as he entered the brothel. Rajaram counted two notes of twenty and held them in front of her. She quickly stashed them away and guided him to her room, a corridor away. “My name is Christine“, she added giving him a formal peck on the cheek.

The room appeared to be where she stayed. There was an obnoxious red satin bed cover on the bed, which was the only bit of furniture besides a chest of drawers. Three photos were stuck on them. Two appeared to be of her parents and what seemed to be a childhood photo of hers. She was sitting on a swing in the photo, the innocence of childhood stamped vibrantly on her face. Rajaram wondered if she’d have ever thought this day would come back then.

“What are you waiting for? Take your clothes off!”, she demanded. She squeezed a generous helping of lube on her palms and rubbed it all inside her vagina with no hint of hesitation. “Don’t be shy now“, she added, a little more kindly, almost sensing his awkwardness.

Rajaram removed his shirt and jeans and threw them on the floor. He proceeded with his underwear. He faced her stark naked.

You have a big dick”, she said. He knew she was lying, but he felt the ego boost, none the less. Christina made him lie down and removed a condom packet. She ripped it open and slid it on his throbbing penis with a certain professionalism he knew he wouldn’t be able to pull off on himself anytime in the near future. She began to blow him slowly. Rajaram was turned on. He placed his palms greedily on her breasts and pressed.

“NO. Slowly. The silicon. It will break”

Christina slapped his hands away. Somewhere in a corner of Rajaram’s mind it registered. No wonder their breasts looked so firm and large. It was impossible that they were natural. Each and every one of them were loaded with silicon.

Rajaram got up and inserted himself from
the top. Her vagina felt odd, loose yet firm.

Come baby! Come in my pussy”, she droned, sounding very much like a well rehearsed script. She had repeated the same lines with the same tone to countless others. As he began thrusting harder, an animal like urge took over him. He felt nothing for the human being he was having sex with. He didn’t care if he was hurting her or not.

Go on top?” Rajaram panted, not knowing requests didn’t belong in the corners of the room that had only seen demands.
“No”, came her cold reply. “That is all you get for forty. Are you done yet? Have you come?”

It dawned on Rajaram that his usual battle of trying to last longer than the woman who was with him didn’t apply here. He was in the heat of the moment though and had no plans of dismounting anytime soon.

Fine. I’ll give you fifty!”, he mouthed

“Doesn’t work now”

“What do you mean, doesn’t work now?”

“Everyone says they pay later. After coming, they don’t”

” I’ve given you what you asked for till now. I’m telling you. I’ll give you fifty”

“Fine mister. But you don’t pay. I won’t let you leave.”

The promise of ten extra Euros saw a noticeable difference in her participation. She clawed at his back and butt with crude effort, and after twelve minutes worth of mechanised fucking, Rajaram Shah came, restoring his conscious thoughts as every drop of himself collected inside blocked by latex.

Christina was washing the lube off her vagina from a bidet in full sight by the time Rajaram finished wearing his trousers. He peeled a ten Euro note across and handed it to her. He noticed a copy of Dan Brown’s ‘Digital Fortress’ in the room, but decided against asking her for her opinion on whether the end was predictable.

Close the door on your way out mister’ she said, kissing him on the cheek, closing the contract formally, before standing outside, exactly like she had for him, just for another stranger this time.

Rajaram was thinking of a lot of things when he came out. He was thinking of whether there were cameras in the room. He was thinking of the book more than necessary. It made her seem human, almost. He walked into a dingy reeking bar in the same lane and was greeted by twelve African American women, each engrossed in convincing one or more of the men in the bar to take them to bed after buying them drinks and settling on a price for the night.

The world is a dark place, thought Rajaram as two men proceeded to put their tongues in each others mouths at a table nearby. They had a rainbow badge on their tshirts. He had no idea what it meant. He simply sat in his chair comprehending the morality of the past hour in his life and realised that there was no glory in his actions. There would be millions like him over the world, sitting the same way, arguing with themselves about the terrible shade of grey the world has painted mankind with. He swore he would never repeat it.

On his way home, he stopped at cubicle number three. He saw a girl, barely over sixteen shyly showing off her supple body. She was beautiful beyond words. She looked at each potential man crossing her with a gaze of partial fear and hope. Did she know how beautiful she looked, Rajaram wondered. What wouldn’t he do to take her to a place of comfort, of security. As remorse slowly filled him, Rajaram Shah walked home with her picture haunting his imagination with regret and a sadness that would last him for a very long time.

He would fuck her all three times he visited Antwerp the following year.

—————–

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Look Brother! I can fly!

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One dull winter morning, the kind of a morning where nothing of significance happens, where the clouds are a dull grey and the colours of the peacock refuse to excite the eye, Rama woke up to find out that he had grown a beautiful pair of wings overnight.

His initial reaction was one of horror. As muscles in his body that had never been used began to twitch and his eyes saw the outline of this transformation, he wanted to scream in horror, though he did not feel physical pain in any part of his body. His shoulders and arms seemed intact but did not seem the feeble twig like extensions they used to be. He closed his eyes and touched what he could touch of his left wing with his palm and realised that they were made of several folds, and had a much larger span than what he immediately perceived in his mind. Their outer covering was of fur and the inner layer of tight bound muscle.

“How did this happen?” thought Rama as he proceeded to find a mirror to examine himself. His entire body seemed to have transformed to accommodate the wings. He had become toned and lithe, and the cut of every muscle could be seen prominently against his skin. As he willed his wings to open a little and the folds undid themselves, Rama could not remember seeing a sight that was so beautiful. His wings were pearly white against his bluish dark skin tone. He was a picture of perfection, a word that had never been used near or about him since his birth.

“Could I still be asleep?”

It was a perfectly valid question. After all, no one should fall prey to hallucination. He opened the knife he would keep next to his bed and delicately poked himself. A small dot of blood formed at the spot. The pain that came with it, was the sweetest thing he had felt. It was proof that a good thing had happened on an ordinary day.

It’s your turn to milk the deer” brought his elation to the ground. His brother, Lakshman had already woken up and was screaming his set of morning orders from the inner den. Milking the family deer was the least of Rama’s concerns, at this precise moment. How would Lakshman react when he saw the wings? Would he think of his transformation as a disease? And what use were these majestic wings, anyway? Why had he been gifted them? Questions such as these kept wafting through his head.

“Rama!!!!”

The voice intensified. Lakshman had always been the commanding one, though he was older by just a few minutes. The brothers were nothing like twins. Rama was bluish and looked underfed, while Lakshman was a handsome golden bronze oak in shade, handsome as a lion in heat. His legs were like mace irons and his voice sent the python scuttling away despite it being deaf and dumb.

Rama covered himself with his lijaas and walked down the twenty foot passage that connected both their rooms into the common room. The added weight of his wings, as a thoughtful reader might have thought, did not seem to bother him. He was walking with a grace no one who knew him would have ever thought he’d develop. As he opened the door to the common room, he realised Lakshman was nowhere to be seen. He was probably in the kitchen, slow roasting meat. Rama hoped it wasn’t hare. Hare tasted fine, but it didn’t agree with his stomach after a second helping. He would have to exercise control.

Rama cautiously opened the main door, and stepped outside. The sun was just starting to reveal herself, very shyly. The tips of the tallest trees looked scarlet. As he looked up at the sky and saw three hawks cruising through the air currents, he instinctively knew what he was supposed to do and flexed his wings out. The folds of muscle neatly packed to accommodate room for himself crashed outwards in a blaze and stood out in white perfection against his blue skin. He looked like he had been born to tame the skies.

Rama  flapped his wings. His heart gushed blood to every extension, it came to him like the creator had willed it. He began to see every air current like a different person, one calm, one angry, one particularly morbid, one energetic but short lived. As the pressure under his wings started building up and the weight he felt of his own body started reducing, Rama finally came to terms with his transformation. He could fly.

As Rama rose higher, the million doubts that had flocked his mind seemed so breeze away. The trees and man-caves around seemed so small. He could see thousands of miles around. The world was so big. Rama’s eye caught the glance of a current that seemed friendly, so he decided to lock his wings to it. What a beautiful morning, Rama thought, as he levitated peacefully above his door.

“Explain yourself right now!” Lakshman’s voice radiated through the cold winter morning. Rama felt the happiness ebb out of him. How was he to make his brother understand what he was going through. What if Lakshman decided to throw him out of home?

As Rama slowly lowered himself, he prostrated himself before his elder brother and truthfully recounted the events of the morning. Lakshman’s face was inscrutable as he asked an occasional question. As Rama finished the story, Lakshman touched the left wing with his palm, almost with the same look he would have whenever they managed to pan gold at the river bed. He felt his brothers torso, and how hard it had become overnight. He even compared their shoulders, to see which seemed better developed.

The settlement healer was called, to take a look at whether the demons had bewitched Rama. Lakshman didn’t want any bad spirits changing himself, no way at all. As the healer saw Rama fly, he too had nothing to report but bewilderment and awe at the beauty of Rama’s flight. He passed the transformation as the good grace of forest well –wisher. After all, who would gift someone as simple as Rama something so beautiful? The deeper question – why?

Days passed, and news of Rama spread across caves and settlements all around. People would come by making excuses to meet Lakshman in the morning hours where Rama would practise flying. He had become so good. He would be swooping in circles and suddenly dive-bomb to skim the grass. He would levitate like the lazy stream for hours and accelerate like a falling flake of ice the next moment.

Rama’s fame seem to have cast a spell of morbidity on Lakshman. He had become competitive in every small way. He would take small delight in proving himself to be superior in every small aspect, right from who ate more bee honey during breakfast, to who found the fresher catch, when the two went net fishing.

The brothers had felt a strange shift of power in the house. Of course, Lakshman was still utterly dominant. The right to obedience that he once commanded seemed subdued now. A small amount of tension seemed to emerge when Rama finished his hunts hours before Lakshman and always managed to prey on the choicest meat. Once Rama had walked into his bed early to find Lakshman trying to flap his arms in the same way Rama would ruffle his wings after a long flight.

On Lakshman’s twenty-fifth day of birth, Rama bowed his head low and asked his brother what service he could render as the customary slave promise?  Lakshman was quiet for a very long time and asked Rama if he was strong. Rama said yes. He would do anything for his brother.

“Take me for a flight” his brother commanded.

Rama had never been happier. In the two years since his wings emerged, Lakshman had never asked even once how it felt to fly. Rama knew that Lakshman was far too proud to ask him how it felt, thought the curiosity of seeing Rama fly high up amongst the heavens with his trademark arrow like silhouette marked in a haze of blue against the sky had send darts of jealousy through Lakshman every single time.

Gripping his brother tight Rama soared higher than he ever had before. It was a wonderful moment. They were one, for the first time. Rama manoeuvred through giant Aprico trees and hooted at the scabby vultures that would haunt the skies at every alternate hour during the season end. He showed him the spot where the three sisters of Chihara’s family would come to touch themselves.

When they were down, Lakshman started asking strange questions. Do you love me, Rama? He asked. More than my life brother, Rama replied. Would you do anything I asked?

Of course, brother, came Rama’s reply.

“Sit down on this chair and don’t move till I tell you.”

Rama sat. He tucked his wings back into their folds. He wondered what Lakshman could possibly want from him? Maybe he was to go somewhere far and get him something.

As Lakshman came back, he was carrying a strange looking object with him. It looked like a saw, but it had a double blade and a hinge in between. It was almost as if…

“I want your wings”

Rama stared in horrified disbelief at his brother. Surely, he hadn’t just heard what he had heard.

A surge of emotions thundered through Rama’s head. For the first time in his life, he considered physically striking his brother. He felt utterly repulsed at the very face of his brother, the low life that he was proving himself to be. Family were meant to celebrate each other’s triumphs. They were supposed to shelter each other’s faults. He wondered how insecure his brother’s mind was. And yet, Rama sat. He did not unlock his wings and soar away, to a land where family didn’t matter. He didn’t  pick his brother up and throw him from a point in the sky where his head would crack into small fragments if he was released. He didn’t leave and consider never being seen ever again. Rama was a good man and as the observer has frequently observed, nothing nice ever happens to a man who is good.
It was a bound rule of the clan to not deny a person celebrating his day of birth a gift. Rama was bound by family law. He sat in mute silence as his brother smiled to himself and locked his wings in the hinge blade, right at the joint. As he pressed deep, the blade went through the bone with a crunch, as blood oozed out. Rama screamed in pain, but the agony of sacrifice was worse, as he saw the remainder of his beautiful lying on the ground.

No sooner had Lakshman clipped the second wing, than Ram glowed white and returned to the human state he was in. The tight skin and muscle returned to flab. The cuts evened out. The gashes healed on their own and he became once again, what he was so famous for earlier- being absolutely average.

They were equals once more, but as a famous writer had once said – Lakshman was more equal than Rama.

The brothers continued to live together, but never spoke. They did not care about each other’s existence. They just continued to live.

Rama would often wake up screaming, and touch his shoulder blades, the ghosts of wings once present bothering him with their touch. His phantom wings would wince and his mind would ache with the thought of opening them and souring through the night sky with the bats and other creatures of the night.

One winter morning, Lakshman woke up to find out that he had transformed overnight. He had grown a beautiful pair of jet black wings, powerful and strong. As he flew his maiden flight, the cold winter air filled his lungs up like a drug, and he too, wondered what Rama had wondered – How did this happen to me?

As a quiet Rama opened the door to see his brother in the sky, Lakshman looked down at his brother and for the first time in two years, opened conversation with a smile. “Look brother, I can fly” he said.

All Rama could remember was that fleeting last image of Lakshman soaring through the sky, becoming smaller and smaller till he disappeared.

He would never come back…

____

Originally published on Aniket Dasgupta’s dfuse.in

http://dfuse.in/fction/look-brother-can-fly/

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Filed under Fiction, Mythology