Tag: Shortstory

SHORT STORY|RIOTOUS LOVE – Part Two

On By Mahvash K. M.In Fiction, fictionlog, SriLanka, writingLeave a comment

Two weeks after Dharshini’s fall on the dance floor, the pain was gone along with any memory of it and all the wise resolutions made around preserving and safeguarding fragile body parts. Tuesday evening’s dance class was full of kinetic energy and impressive manoeuvres. Everyone had now been in the class for at least a month and even the most ungainly ones were showing glimmerings of talent; the improvements motivated by instructor infatuation and cheerful sociability were vast and pervasive. Dharshini had missed a fortnight of classes but she made up for lost time with her innate sense of rhythm, a natural vigor and the impetus of new love in her heart. So she danced and pranced and leaped around with wild abandon, taking many of her contemporaries by surprise; so much so that a number of times, the floor was left entirely to the explosive gymnastics of Dharshini and her gratified partner of the moment.

After class, while she was still wrapped in the warm glow of her recent exercise, Daniel approached her. He was happily surprised at her performance, he said. She was gifted. Dharshini smiled coyly and looked at him from deep, chocolate brown eyes surrounded by their fringe of thick lashes. Her undeniably superlative feature, her eyes were less windows to her soul and more her covert Weapon of Rapture. She blinked them, looking down and then up and then to one side, interspersing her optical guiles with little smiles and other enchanting expressions that left the object of her visual assault weak in the knees and short of breath. Daniel too capitulated under that focused bewitchery.

They went out to lunch twice and then finally to dinner. Dharshini had early on analysed the situation in minute detail and had decided that she would take this fabulous chance at romance. She had protected her tender heart for just such a once… twice … in a lifetime occasion. So for her, these meals and meet-ups were the steady, respectable progression to an ever lasting union. She was already feeling like a new woman; her old marriage now increasingly morphing into a burden that was best laid to rest at the earliest. She had thought about that aspect too. She would go about it civilly. There was no love lost in that equation as things stood right now; they were both in it because it was convenient and because they were partners in a shared business. She’d break off the marital ties but keep the business partnership going. She was shrewd enough to realize that while she would couple up with the new love of her life, it would be wise to remain the mistress of her own fortunes and the bills that came with it. Her husband was a practical man and wasn’t given to the egoistic bouts of anger and retribution that came so naturally to so many men concerning their women and their finances. After all, they’d been physically estranged for the last ten years and separated for the last eight. He would understand. She had invited Daniel over for dinner to her house the following evening. She had also asked her husband to come earlier that day to have a chat. She hadn’t explained any specifics; just that she wanted to run something by him. Both men had accepted their respective invitations.

Daniel was on the rebound. He had realized that when he began to respond to the advances of his most vivacious student – 57 year old Dharshini. The age difference notwithstanding, there was an almost predictable old-world doggedness with which this romance was progressing. He enjoyed her company immensely and felt the physical pull of her loveliness, but he was also acutely aware of his prevalent state of mind: He was loathe to commit to anything traditional or long term at the current time. He was footloose after years of being shackled in a loveless marriage and knew that he wanted to remain fancy free for a while. She was a good sort; a convent bred girl of conventional values. She was definitely not the sort you conscripted for your rebound shenanigans. And now she’d invited him over to her house – the ultimate gesture of commitment to a promising potential mate. Daniel sighed resignedly. He had to back off.

The next day, Dharshini got the text message an hour before her husband was due to arrive. It was simple and to the point. Daniel couldn’t make it for dinner; he was tied up somewhere. Also, he wanted to assure her that he was committed to their friendship but nothing more. He was sure that she already knew this but as a rule he liked to keep things above board and crystal clear for the benefit of all concerned. He hoped she had a good evening and that he looked forward to seeing her at the next dance class.

She looked at her phone for a long while, the screen darkening and then lighting up when she pressed on it, the words misting over and then reappearing alternately. At first she felt only numb; then injured and somewhat misled and betrayed. There was no anger however; just a strange sense of dejavu. Like she’d seen this pattern before; knew it from somewhere. In a disconnected, detached way, she’d visualized it play out numerous times before as she’d walked away from each one of her ardent entourage of devotees; only this time, she was at the receiving end. She blinked in disbelief and amazement and even managed to smile ruefully in a momentary pang of realisation and mortification.

She finally put the phone away and looked at her watch. Her husband would be here any minute now. They’d have some coffee and she would ask him if he was selling his grey Toyota Aqua. He had spoken of putting it on the market and it was time that she acquired a new carriage for herself.

Read Part One here: https://theroamingdesi.org/2021/06/03/riotous-love-part-one/

SHORT STORY|RIOTOUS LOVE – Part One

On By Mahvash K. M.In Fiction, fictionlog, urbanfantasy, writing1 Comment

Dharshini got into her red Honda Fit, wincing in pain. The visit to the orthopaedic specialist had become essential after a week of agony; her whole right leg throbbed like the devil! She knew she had weak knees, troublesome joints and yet, she’d whirled about that room like her behind was on fire! God! Hormones … or was it the lack of them … she thought wearily, the thrill and the motivation of that performance both now squatting in her head like large stupid birds, staring blandly at her. She grimaced as she gently pressed the accelerator, and drove into the Galle Road traffic.

Dharshini, known fondly and unfondly as Dharshi by her various circles of friends and frenemies was 57, bold and beautiful. The perfection marred, just as all sublime things tend to be, in this case, with osteoarthritic joints. Still, she carried herself with the easy confidence borne of almost always standing out in a room full of people. The occasions where she was upstaged, were few and summarily forgotten under dutiful bouts of social amnesia; both, by her and her coterie of cohorts. She was hands down, the alpha of her group, a fact that nobody could deny or indeed, had the temerity to.

A month or so ago, Dharshini had signed up for social dancing classes. She’d heard rumblings of this venue of perspiration and contortions being the place to meet “Good” people. “Eligible” was of course not what she was looking for; after all she was a married woman. Not entirely happily, and not quite cohabiting with her somewhat estranged spouse, but still to all intents and purposes, secured in sacred wedlock. That fact had been conveniently relevant thus far in keeping at bay, the droves of ill suited middle aged and senior hopefuls who constantly vied for her hand and her heart. She had developed a rejection strategy all her own: with every new admirer, although she knew from the outset how it would end, she would only gently, gradually pass on that knowledge to him; after exacting a few lunches, a trip or two for herself and her girl friends and maybe even a bauble or two, in at least silver. It was a sweet, harmless enterprise she always thought coyly, where both parties benefited. She was not one given to dwelling on the aftermath of a broken heart; her moral due diligence ended with her making it resoundingly clear at some point, that she was only ever a friend. And that even if there was some misunderstanding that she hoped that her most recently crushed courter had enjoyed their camaraderie and that they’d continue to be genial with each other. She’d bestow her most beatific smile and come away contented and cheerful, warm in the glow of a problem solved and her moral compass pointing truly heavenwards.

It was on the Dance floor – that battlefield of laborious leg work and fitful grace, that she’d met Danny. A 45 year old divorcee, Daniel had recently moved back to Sri Lanka after a 10 year stint at marriage and business in Brisbane, Australia. Both had come crashing around him about a year ago. He’d decided then that home was where the heart really was and had, bag, baggage and a dog, returned to his hometown of Colombo. He had always loved dancing and was quite consummately professional at executing the lusty, physical moves of the salsa, bachata and the waltz. In an effort to forget the last decade, he plunged into everything that had defined him before he moved abroad and that ironically, went against many of his predilections now. And so, one of the first things he’d done was to sign up as an instructor at his old social dancing school. A decade ago, he’d been one of their more popular teachers with an avid throng of female admirers who were obliged by their fluttering hearts to sign up as students too. It was a lucrative scheme for dashing Danny and a two hour theatre of titillation and thrills for the dancing brigade. Danny had in fact, met his ex-wife at that very school. She had no talent for the Waltz but had sure-footedly danced her way into his heart. That was really the only time they had ever danced for the sheer pleasure of it. After matrimony settled them into its no-nonsense folds, she realized that she quite despised the art form and he realized with some alarm and then resignation that that fact was the least of his marital woes.

Like the other women, Dharshini too had found herself responding to the agile charms of her dance instructor. He had, on more than a few occasions, taken her as his partner to demonstrate to the rest of the class, a particularly complex move full of wild, rousing acrobatics. She came away from these twists and spins breathless and reddened with exertion and excitement. She was sure he too felt his heart strings being jiggled and jostled in all that animated physicality and closeness. He was different though. He wasn’t smiling too readily at her; or babbling; or otherwise showing any signs of being under the influence of her enchantment and allure. Traditionally she was the pursued and the besotted men did all the labour-intensive pursuing. He was congenial but just distant enough to show that he was in control of the situation and if this … this thing… had to go anywhere, it was for her to make the first move. This realisation was both heady and new. She had smiled to herself. There was something else that was new here too: her heart after ages, was beating for someone else!

And so Dharshini had thrown herself into her Salsa and Bacahata lessons, three times a week. A fortnight into the enterprise, she had slipped and fallen on the tiled floor, landing directly on her knees. In the heat of the moment and in the insular glow that now surrounded her at every class, she didn’t feel the pain nor the ominous creaking of her joints every time she bent her knees or leaped deer-like out of her partner’s arms onto the hard floor. She went to bed in a haze of contentment and love. She even felt a random gentle wave of affection rise for all her other unfortunate suitors who had gone their own way. I hope they’re all happy just as I am, she’d thought charitably, big-heartedly. And with that she drifted off into a dreamless, restful sleep.

‘Why was I jumping like a monkey on steroids? Why? Why?’ Dharshini complained bitterly to Sabeena on the phone the next morning. Her mid morning phone chats with one or another of her friends marked the start of every day. She always came away feeling invigorated, light of load and rearing to get on with the rest of her day. Sabeena too came away from the phone call, her inner calm now quite shattered by the torturous raving and ranting of her bossy but well-meaning friend.

The morning after her fall, Dharshini hadn’t been able to bend her right knee at all, and had thought it was best if she stayed in bed. These restful, placatory measures had often worked when her joints occasionally rebelled in the tropical rains and humidity. This was the first time, however, that she’d subjected them to such pounding, ceaseless torture. For two whole weeks! They were obviously going to act like petulant, griping grande dames. For Dharshini, her ankles and her knees were like a twinsome of spinsterly companions that had set up permanent residence on her person. While everything else felt youthful and sprightly, these joints never matched up. They creaked and complained at the slightest intrusion of weather or activity and it took large doses of rest and relaxation to get their grumbling soreness to settle.

The pain had not subsided even after a week of missing classes and tending to her knees. She had finally decided to see her orthopaedic specialist. The doctor and she shared a love-hate relationship on behalf of her joints which he quite practically considered his wards too. He knew that Dharshini only ever came to him when things had gone from bad to worse and when he’d have to resort to strongly advising, cajoling and then threatening, to have her be more compliant. She knew that the good doctor meant well but he was always so grim and pessimistic; always making her feel old and doddery.

‘Mrs. Gunaratne, have you been trying to run relays lately?’ he asked feeling her swollen right knee. She grimaced and mumbled something unintelligible. The universe and he both knew what she meant.

‘You have weak joints Mrs. G. There is hardly any cartilage left in your right knee and the gel* injections are soon going to be insufficient to keep it going. It’s knee replacement surgery for you if this goes on’, he said darkly but also with some satisfaction. He was really quite at his wits end with patients like Mrs. Gunaratne who refused to take supplements, had congenital osteoarthritis and were always up to some joint-jarring misadventure.

‘Doctor Herath, please just give me the injection and I promise to take the pills. I have to go soon. I have another appointment’, Dharshini said somewhat testily. But not too aggressively. He was after all the best orthopaedic surgeon in town. And when it was absolutely necessary, he would be the one to endow her with a set of new knees. She always balked at the idea of surgery and not even the prospect of agreeable, maiden knees could dispel her horror of the surgeon’s scalpel.

* Gel injections: One of the more effective treatments for arthritis is gel knee shots — also referred to as viscosupplementation or hyaluronic acid injections.

Read Part Two here: https://theroamingdesi.org/2021/06/05/riotous-love-part-two/
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LONGLIST | ZHR PRIZE FOR WOMEN WRITERS

On By Mahvash K. M.In Awards, Shortstory, socialissues, womenwriters, writingLeave a comment

My story “THE GLIMMER” has been long listed in the Zeenat Haroon Rashid 2023 Writing competition for Women.

Zeenat Haroon Rashid (21 Jan 1928 – 8 April 2017) was the daughter of Sir Abdullah Haroon. She was a young stalwart of the Muslim League and founding member of the Women’s National Guard at the time of Independence, and throughout her life promoted a vision of Pakistani women as equal partners in the struggle for building a modern Pakistan. The Zeenat Haroon Rashid Writing Prize for Women has been set up to promote and provide support for women who wish to pursue writing as a career.

Thank you to this year’s judges, Amina Ahmad, Shandana Minhas, Mohammad Hanif, Sarwat Yasmeen Azeem and Shan Vahidy. Grateful and chuffed 🙏🏼🌸

YOU CAN READ THE LONGLIST HERE: https://www.zhrwritingprize.com/read-the-longlist

SHORT STORY | RESTFUL DREAMS

On By Mahvash K. M.In Fiction, Shortstory, womenwriters, writing2 Comments

G— has passed away, love.

That was what I saw at 1 in the morning. My screen glimmered with the same vitality as it had when it had announced the birth of a nephew an hour ago, my cousin’s son. I stared at the message uncomprehending, detached, suspended in the ether of all existence for a moment. But just for a moment. And then the physical reality caught up with me, bound as it is in gravity and empty space that was once shared, and time that becomes agonizing in the thrum of organs that keen when tragic things happen. I felt an overwhelming grief. But it was a quiet grief, devoid of the frenzied heart-bursting pain that I had experienced only once before when my mother had passed away. Loss after that had become inevitable, unremarkable and oddly peaceful. Like I was now awake at a deeper infinite level and privy to a soul moving on to other things, embarking on new adventures in other realms, a sojourn for which i was still biding my terrestrial time.

G— was my partner’s best friend. By association and by the fact that he was larger than life wherever he went, he had become my good friend too. Every weekend we, A— and I, would bump into him somewhere as he floated around the city socializing and networking, and encouraging and supporting entrepreneurs, students and the odd soul who had fallen on difficult times. “Hello darling!” he would say to me, his ready smile lighting up his face.

G— was also a drinker and a smoker. His days had taken on a curious upside down quality where he would retire for the night at 6pm, stupefied and benumbed in the gaunt fingered clutch of alcohol and nicotine. He would be dead to the world while it heaved and glimmered in its nighttime cadence. He would then wake up at 3am, before any haplessly insomniac bird had, or any other creature that had suffered the rigors of a disrupted circadian rhythm. The sunrise and all its ephemeral promises of a better day, a gentler horizon, and the companionship of loved ones were therefore never seen or heard by him. He was already in the throes of a day a quarter spent by the time the sun and its new-dayness swept across the rest of the just-rising world. In his solitary state in fact, G— was quiet, wistful and melancholy. Unbeknownst to so many who considered him the epitome of a life fully lived, he was an unhappy man with a heart that beat to a forlorn drum. How did I know this guarded, covert state of his being? I wouldn’t have but for my partner who is intuitive and insightful in his own right. Even between them, there were things that were spoken and things that were not, and the un-uttered things had the loudest echoes, vibrating in the flesh of the heart and then settling somewhere in the left ventricle. In G—, these unsaid things beat pensive, irregular rhythms that flowed out into the world through some of the saddest eyes I have ever seen even while his face wore its sunny smile.

Over the next few days, G— circled the periphery of my thoughts constantly. I was home with my family: my father, my sisters, my niece and a bevy of aunts and cousins. And still, I found myself washed over by regular floods of sadness. G— had been a friend, a good friend, but the heartache I was experiencing seemed to go deeper. There was no time to reflect on the brimming emotion that I felt while I was surrounded by the energy and chatter of extended family.

Then I got back home to SL. Back into the routine of my life there. And I was able to finally sit with my thoughts. The fact that he had passed away just one day after I had spoken to him when A— had gone to pick him up from the hospital; the fact that he had sounded exactly like his usual self: cheerful and bright; the fact that he had only months ago begun to take an interest in the wellbeing of his body, his mind and his heart; the fact that at 48, he had died so young; and finally, the fact that A— had lost his best friend, and I, one of the purest souls that I have known, all huddled together in my head. I picked up each one gently and put it away where one safekeeps memories of loved ones. He would live on in our thoughts, mine and A—’s. Despite the grief not having fully settled, I had clinically unravelled the state of my sadness and addressed it as I thought fit. And that should have been the end of that.

And then it popped up. Like a ghost in my phone. A little message bar at the top of my screen: “Say hi to G—, it’s been a while”. I stared at the message and at G—’s smiling face. I have to admit, I felt petrified for a moment, but only for a moment, and then I let my gut speak. My wise one sits there. It was a message from beyond if you will; a little missive to say, I may be gone but I hope you haven’t forgotten me. And here’s a cheeky little hello from me. Over the next few days, again and again the message (a queer quirk of social media algorithms and I believe, a sentient universe) would skip out to the top of my screen, reminding me of unsaid final farewells. I knew then that I had to visit G—’s resting place to pay my respects, to say one last goodbye.

I also realized then that while I had neatly compartmentalized my sadness, I hadn’t sat with it until it had settled into its forever place. In my faith and culture, on birthdays and death anniversaries, one visits the graveyard to say a prayer and to scatter fragrant rose petals on the final resting place of loved ones that are gone. Even though in line with Buddhist tenets, G— should have been cremated, he wasn’t. There was a sticky little detail whereby the needful could not be done without the nuclear family being present; and as fate would have it, and in the ever mysterious meanderings of the universe, his next of kin, his daughters lived overseas. So now there was also a grave, a place where I could go and say a little prayer. There was no reason not to, and a luminescent cosmos of reasons why I should. I had to convince my partner. Paying graveyard visits was not a cultural norm for him. But we decided on a day for the visit. I got some flowers, white and yellow – the pristine for the purity of new beginnings and the sunny for the joy of new adventures.

A— wasn’t sure of the exact location of the grave so while we looked for it, I also invoked my spiritual sixth sense to somehow point us in the right direction. We found the burial spot ultimately. I gazed at the slightly despressed patch of fresh earth in front of me and then looked inside at the feelings that were washing over me now: Joy for the man G— had been, teariness for the loss of him and an odd elation for the cosmic trip that he had started out on. I laid the flowers and said a little prayer, Restful dreams, dear G—, I whispered at the end. There was a resplendent Indian laburnum tree just a few feet away swaying gently in the breeze, scattering dappled sunshine on G—‘s grave. Even as both of us stood there, holding his memories close to our hearts, I could almost see him leaning against the tree, eyes twinkling, his trademark smile on his face saying, “Thanks for the flowers darling. Take care of each other you two, and see you somewhere, sometime”.