Shivish's Blog

Folks! 13 girls can’t lie and definitely not together! But, what’s ridiculously amazing is that these 13 girls never really fought back, until now! (I really wonder why they were so meek, coming from such an extensive educational background) I’ve read some of the chat-transcripts (not all, sorry am not patient enough, as its all crap) exchanged between the notorious literary sexual-pervert #Ekalavya Chaudhuri and some of his equally eloquent victims. Most of the times these girls were so dumb that their replies seemed to be in awe of Ekalavya’s predatory lascivious messages. Sample this…

Ekalavya: “Uff, Plz don’t slap me for saying this, but your breasts are gorgeous” (sic)

Victim: “You had to say that didn’t you” (sic)

Hello Victim, are you dumb? He has just passed a sick warped-up ribaldry to get you laid. You could have said, ‘Excuse me, you need to stop flirting so openly cause I don’t like jerks like you.’ And yes, you definitely should have blocked him immediately after that, but your half-willing reply made the pervert add more depraved nonsense, and he went on

Ekalavya: “Well, they are. There’s no getting around the fact” (sic)

Sample one more,

Ekalavya: “I love this dp. Make me want to rub my musty cock all over your face” (sic)

Victim: “I don’t remember my dp anymore. Oh okay yeah that” (sic)

Dear Victim, again your answer is wrong. Why do you want to remember on which dp he wanted to rub his musty cock? You should have just said. ‘Shut the hell up bastard!’ and blocked him. Because you tried to remember on which dp pic of yours he wanted to rub his ‘musty cock’ on, he went on…

Ekalavya: “Yeah it makes me want to rub my cock all over your face. Make you smell the mingled sweat and musk and dried cum. Then push you down and smear my chest to yours” (sic)

Check out this conversation…

Victim: “Mona Lisa is dead… And so is Davinci… I really wish the same fate for you…” (sic)

Ekalavya: “You wish me dead?” (sic)

Victim: “Me? Hah, such ideas dearie… Did I ever say such a thing? Could I ever?” (sic)

Ekalavya: “If you were here now I would smear your entire naked body with paint and mash you against me…” (sic)

Victim: “Do I look like potato to you? What’s with all the mashing?” (sic)

Ekalavya: “With paint smeared on both our bodies and rubbing against each other?” (sic)

Victim: “Are you an allergen? Cause I don’t have asthama. Leonardo Da vinci would be proud of you boy, you’re taking figure painting to new levels” (sic)

Ekalavya: “You’re making me so hard. I’d be your Davinci if you’d be my Mona Lisa.” (sic)

This conversation goes on and on and nowhere does the victim seriously try to shove a pole in Ekalavya’s ass. Any third party reader would find it as a flirtatious bonhomie between acquaintances.

Atleast one or more of these fervent message-sharing victims are part of that 13 girl group. I really haven’t gone through exactly what #Ekabali Ghosh has exchanged in her transcripts with Ekalavya, (practically, I haven’t found any) but she vocally says that Ekalavya along with his female muse, Janhabi Mukherjee, physically abused her. On the face of it, I buy her words completely. But Ekabali! What happened to your two hands and your two knees, you could have slapped the shit out of that devilish-duo, you could have even crushed those chauvinistic balls with your knees and made him a fucking eunuch. Don’t be so sensitive about your body. You are born in the ‘Land of Kaali.’ So what if you have boobs, your adversary has got his entire reproductive system hanging loose off guard. He’s more vulnerable than you. Trust me!

All you 13 girls, trust me when I say you’re my mothers, wives, sisters and daughters! Trust my sincerity when I reprimand you for not being tough enough almost immediately and trying to be cohesive with a psychotic debilitating bastard. He definitely was eloquent and charming in his flirtatious rhapsody. But he is a jerk and you should have been enlightened of that fact the very instance he came up with sexually–explicit exquisitely-camouflaged eloquent adjectives. But hey! I’m still your father, brother, husband and son. I have every right to be angry with you. Don’t I? Ok, Now that I have gotten your attention, you have mine!!

Hello #Ekalavya Chaudhuri! Trust me when I say prison is full of bigger jerks than you and they all have ‘bigger’ and ‘mustier’ cocks than you. Trust me when I say those jerks are not literary juggernauts like you, who try to fuck your mind first and then try to appease you with their mustier cocks. They literally, will shove up their mustier cocks up your ass without even saying a ‘hi,’ and then make sure they offer you a continuous stream of derogatory literary-rhapsodicals whenever you’re crying your lungs out. Hope you’ve read about the fate of the highly-publicised ‘Nirbhaya’s main-molestor,’ ‘Ram Singh.’ If you haven’t yet… I suggest, you read him up quickly now. He was continuously raped by his fellow convicts in jail and then hanged to death, by them. Do You know why fellow convicts pick on rapists and woman abusers in prisons world-wide? Because they all are there sincerely working their ass-out in this competitive capital society trying to feed their mothers, their wives, their sisters and their daughters and they fucking don’t like it when someone messes up with their mothers, wives, sisters and daughters in their absence. Trust me when I say that the present crop of generation identifies themselves more with Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose’s ideals rather than with Mahatma Gandhi’s. Trust me when I say I’m someone from that very same prison, that’s awaiting your arrival, reading about you this very instant, lubricating my musty hard-on cock with ‘mingled sweat and musk and dried-cum’ and  Trust me when I say, You’ve already booked your place at a bloody prison orgy full of sadistic people like me hankering for your blood. Trust me when I say, if you don’t end up in a prison, You’re equally dead! You’ve already earned your rightful place in this  defamatory hell which will forever look upon you as an untrustworthy lecherous cock-roach that needs to be flushed down the toilet and never be seen again. Trust me, you really are already dead, my dear eloquent degenerative slimy cancerous barbarian-boy!

Please girls! Don’t stop. I’m with you. All dutiful, sincere, loving fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons of mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters are with you! But remember, everyone will reprimand you. Yes! Be prepared. Don’t be frigid. Agree to your mistakes and you shall have a voice!

We’re the authors of ‘The Unconquerable Heart: God’s Fist’ and our book stands for the rights of the prejudiced. We’re highly passionate and supportive about the subdued souls of this society and we sincerely love to stand by them.

Folks! 13 girls can’t lie and definitely not together! But, what’s ridiculously amazing is that these 13 girls never really fought back, until now! (I really wonder why they were so meek, coming from such an extensive educational background) I’ve read some of the chat-transcripts (not all, sorry am not patient enough, as its all crap) exchanged between the notorious literary sexual-pervert #Ekalavya Chaudhuri and some of his equally eloquent victims. Most of the times these girls were so dumb that their replies seemed to be in awe of Ekalavya’s predatory lascivious messages. Sample this…

Ekalavya: “Uff, Plz don’t slap me for saying this, but your breasts are gorgeous” (sic)

Victim: “You had to say that didn’t you” (sic)

Hello Victim, are you dumb? He has just passed a sick warped-up ribaldry to get you laid. You could have said, ‘Excuse me, you need to stop flirting so openly cause I don’t like jerks like you.’ And yes, you definitely should have blocked him immediately after that, but your half-willing reply made the pervert add more depraved nonsense, and he went on

Ekalavya: “Well, they are. There’s no getting around the fact” (sic)

Sample one more,

Ekalavya: “I love this dp. Make me want to rub my musty cock all over your face” (sic)

Victim: “I don’t remember my dp anymore. Oh okay yeah that” (sic)

Dear Victim, again your answer is wrong. Why do you want to remember on which dp he wanted to rub his musty cock? You should have just said. ‘Shut the hell up bastard!’ and blocked him. Because you tried to remember on which dp pic of yours he wanted to rub his ‘musty cock’ on, he went on…

Ekalavya: “Yeah it makes me want to rub my cock all over your face. Make you smell the mingled sweat and musk and dried cum. Then push you down and smear my chest to yours” (sic)

Check out this conversation…

Victim: “Mona Lisa is dead… And so is Davinci… I really wish the same fate for you…” (sic)

Ekalavya: “You wish me dead?” (sic)

Victim: “Me? Hah, such ideas dearie… Did I ever say such a thing? Could I ever?” (sic)

Ekalavya: “If you were here now I would smear your entire naked body with paint and mash you against me…” (sic)

Victim: “Do I look like potato to you? What’s with all the mashing?” (sic)

Ekalavya: “With paint smeared on both our bodies and rubbing against each other?” (sic)

Victim: “Are you an allergen? Cause I don’t have asthama. Leonardo Da vinci would be proud of you boy, you’re taking figure painting to new levels” (sic)

Ekalavya: “You’re making me so hard. I’d be your Davinci if you’d be my Mona Lisa.” (sic)

This conversation goes on and on and nowhere does the victim seriously try to shove a pole in Ekalavya’s ass. Any third party reader would find it as a flirtatious bonhomie between acquaintances.

Atleast one or more of these fervent message-sharing victims are part of that 13 girl group. I really haven’t gone through exactly what #Ekabali Ghosh has exchanged in her transcripts with Ekalavya, (practically, I haven’t found any) but she vocally says that Ekalavya along with his female muse, Janhabi Mukherjee, physically abused her. On the face of it, I buy her words completely. But Ekabali! What happened to your two hands and your two knees, you could have slapped the shit out of that devilish-duo, you could have even crushed those chauvinistic balls with your knees and made him a fucking eunuch. Don’t be so sensitive about your body. You are born in the ‘Land of Kaali.’ So what if you have boobs, your adversary has got his entire reproductive system hanging loose off guard. He’s more vulnerable than you. Trust me!

All you 13 girls, trust me when I say you’re my mothers, wives, sisters and daughters! Trust my sincerity when I reprimand you for not being tough enough almost immediately and trying to be cohesive with a psychotic debilitating bastard. He definitely was eloquent and charming in his flirtatious rhapsody. But he is a jerk and you should have been enlightened of that fact the very instance he came up with sexually–explicit exquisitely-camouflaged eloquent adjectives. But hey! I’m still your father, brother, husband and son. I have every right to be angry with you. Don’t I? Ok, Now that I have gotten your attention, you have mine!!

Hello #Ekalavya Chaudhuri! Trust me when I say prison is full of bigger jerks than you and they all have ‘bigger’ and ‘mustier’ cocks than you. Trust me when I say those jerks are not literary juggernauts like you, who try to fuck your mind first and then try to appease you with their mustier cocks. They literally, will shove up their mustier cocks up your ass without even saying a ‘hi,’ and then make sure they offer you a continuous stream of derogatory literary-rhapsodicals whenever you’re crying your lungs out. Hope you’ve read about the fate of the highly-publicised ‘Nirbhaya’s main-molestor,’ ‘Ram Singh.’ If you haven’t yet… I suggest, you read him up quickly now. He was continuously raped by his fellow convicts in jail and then hanged to death, by them. Do You know why fellow convicts pick on rapists and woman abusers in prisons world-wide? Because they all are there sincerely working their ass-out in this competitive capital society trying to feed their mothers, their wives, their sisters and their daughters and they fucking don’t like it when someone messes up with their mothers, wives, sisters and daughters in their absence. Trust me when I say that the present crop of generation identifies themselves more with Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose’s ideals rather than with Mahatma Gandhi’s. Trust me when I say I’m someone from that very same prison, that’s awaiting your arrival, reading about you this very instant, lubricating my musty hard-on cock with ‘mingled sweat and musk and dried-cum’ and  Trust me when I say, You’ve already booked your place at a bloody prison orgy full of sadistic people like me. Trust me when I say, if you don’t end up in a prison, you’ve already earned your place in a defamative hell which will forever look upon you as an untrustworthy lecherous cock-roach that needs to be flushed down the toilet and never be seen again. You’re already dead, my dear eloquent barbarian-boy!

Please girls! Don’t stop. I’m with you. All dutiful, sincere, loving fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons of mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters are with you! But remember, everyone will reprimand you. Yes! Be prepared. Don’t be frigid. Agree to your mistakes and you shall have a voice!

We’re the authors of ‘The Unconquerable Heart: God’s Fist’ and our book stands for the rights of the prejudiced. We’re highly passionate and supportive about the subdued souls of this society and we sincerely love to stand by them.

Folks! 13 girls can’t lie and definitely not together! But, what’s ridiculously amazing is that these 13 girls never really fought back, until now! (I really wonder why they were so meek, coming from such an extensive educational background) I’ve read some of the chat-transcripts (not all, sorry am not patient enough, as its all crap) exchanged between the notorious literary sexual-pervert @Ekalavya Chaudhuri and some of his equally eloquent victims. Most of the times these girls were so dumb that their replies seemed to be in awe of Ekalavya’s predatory lascivious messages. Sample this…

Ekalavya: “Uff, Plz don’t slap me for saying this, but your breasts are gorgeous” (sic)

Victim: “You had to say that didn’t you” (sic)

Hello Victim, are you dumb? He has just passed a sick warped-up ribaldry to get you laid. You could have said, ‘Excuse me, you need to stop flirting so openly cause I don’t like jerks like you.’ And yes, you definitely should have blocked him immediately after that, but your half-willing reply made the pervert add more depraved nonsense, and he went on

Ekalavya: “Well, they are. There’s no getting around the fact” (sic)

Sample one more,

Ekalavya: “I love this dp. Make me want to rub my musty cock all over your face” (sic)

Victim: “I don’t remember my dp anymore. Oh okay yeah that” (sic)

Dear Victim, again your answer is wrong. Why do you want to remember on which dp he wanted to rub his musty cock? You should have just said. ‘Shut the hell up bastard!’ and blocked him. Because you tried to remember on which dp pic of yours he wanted to rub his ‘musty cock’ on, he went on…

Ekalavya: “Yeah it makes me want to rub my cock all over your face. Make you smell the mingled sweat and musk and dried cum. Then push you down and smear my chest to yours” (sic)

Check out this conversation…

Victim: “Mona Lisa is dead… And so is Davinci… I really wish the same fate for you…” (sic)

Ekalavya: “You wish me dead?” (sic)

Victim: “Me? Hah, such ideas dearie… Did I ever say such a thing? Could I ever?” (sic)

Ekalavya: “If you were here now I would smear your entire naked body with paint and mash you against me…” (sic)

Victim: “Do I look like potato to you? What’s with all the mashing?” (sic)

Ekalavya: “With paint smeared on both our bodies and rubbing against each other?” (sic)

Victim: “Are you an allergen? Cause I don’t have asthama. Leonardo Da vinci would be proud of you boy, you’re taking figure painting to new levels” (sic)

Ekalavya: “You’re making me so hard. I’d be your Davinci if you’d be my Mona Lisa.” (sic)

This conversation goes on and on and nowhere does the victim seriously try to shove a pole in Ekalavya’s ass. Any third party reader would find it as a flirtatious bonhomie between acquaintances.

Atleast one or more of these fervent message-sharing victims are part of that 13 girl group. I really haven’t gone through exactly what @Ekabali Ghosh has exchanged in her transcripts with Ekalavya, (practically, I haven’t found any) but she vocally says that Ekalavya along with his female muse, Janhabi Mukherjee, physically abused her. On the face of it, I buy her words completely. But Ekabali! What happened to your two hands and your two knees, you could have slapped the shit out of that devilish-duo, you could have even crushed those chauvinistic balls with your knees and made him a fucking eunuch. Don’t be so sensitive about your body. You are born in the ‘Land of Kaali.’ So what if you have boobs, your adversary has got his entire reproductive system hanging loose off guard. He’s more vulnerable than you. Trust me!

All you 13 girls, trust me when I say you’re my mothers, wives, sisters and daughters! Trust my sincerity when I reprimand you for not being tough enough almost immediately and trying to be cohesive with a psychotic debilitating bastard. He definitely was eloquent and charming in his flirtatious rhapsody. But he is a jerk and you should have been enlightened of that fact the very instance he came up with sexually–explicit exquisitely-camouflaged eloquent adjectives. But hey! I’m still your father, brother, husband and son. I have every right to be angry with you. Don’t I? Ok, Now that I have gotten your attention, you have mine!!

Hello @Ekalavya Chaudhuri! Trust me when I say prison is full of bigger jerks than you and they all have ‘bigger’ and ‘mustier’ cocks than you. Trust me when I say those jerks are not literary juggernauts like you, who try to fuck your mind first and then try to appease you with their mustier cocks. They literally, will shove up their mustier cocks up your ass without even saying a ‘hi,’ and then make sure they offer you a continuous stream of derogatory literary-rhapsodicals whenever you’re crying your lungs out. Hope you’ve read about the fate of the highly-publicised ‘Nirbhaya’s main-molestor,’ ‘Ram Singh.’ If you haven’t yet… I suggest, you read him up quickly now. He was continuously raped by his fellow convicts in jail and then hanged to death, by them. Do You know why fellow convicts pick on rapists and woman abusers in prisons world-wide? Because they all are there sincerely working their ass-out in this competitive capital society trying to feed their mothers, their wives, their sisters and their daughters and they fucking don’t like it when someone messes up with their mothers, wives, sisters and daughters in their absence. Trust me when I say that the present crop of generation identifies themselves more with Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose’s ideals rather than with Mahatma Gandhi’s. Trust me when I say I’m someone from that very same prison, that’s awaiting your arrival, reading about you this very instant, lubricating my musty hard-on cock with ‘mingled sweat and musk and dried-cum’ and  Trust me when I say, You’ve already booked your place at a bloody prison orgy full of sadistic people like me. Trust me when I say, if you don’t end up in a prison, you’ve already earned your place in a defamative hell which will forever look upon you as an untrustworthy lecherous cock-roach that needs to be flushed down the toilet and never be seen again. You’re already dead, my dear eloquent barbarian-boy!

Please girls! Don’t stop. I’m with you. All dutiful, sincere, loving fathers, brothers, husbands, and sons of mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters are with you! But remember, everyone will reprimand you. Yes! Be prepared. Don’t be frigid. Agree to your mistakes and you shall have a voice!

We’re the authors of ‘The Unconquerable Heart: God’s Fist’ and our book stands for the rights of the prejudiced. We’re highly passionate and supportive about the subdued souls of this society and we sincerely like to stand by them.

The long, yet painstaking travel of, ‘the brothers in arms’ in shaping ‘The Unconquerable Heart.’

http://www.facebook.com/theunconquerableheart/,  www.authorshivish.com

The story of ‘The Unconquerable Heart’ was originally conceived by me, Shiva Thejus, twelve years ago. I’m the original film junkie in our family. Ours is a business family and my bro was always more into family business and not into film stuff. Being the younger of the two, I was not burdened with family business issues and had all the time to pursue my interests. The initial seed to the story was very small and in fact just a one-liner. One of my good friends, who also happens to be a film junkie, woke me up from an after- noon slumber abruptly (I happened to be holidaying at his guest house). I cursed the compulsive yapper for disturbing my good sleep. ‘Macha… I have an idea!’ (Don’t be alarmed. ‘Macha’ in Tamil language means ‘buddy.’) He said enthusiastically peering out of his extra-myopic glasses. He wears one of those over-thickened glasses that scares the shit out of you. But, he sure he is a genius. ‘What da useless blob! Why did you wake me?’ I groaned restlessly.

‘Listen! Listen! I have an idea…!’ he kept blabbering without a full-stop. ‘A boy is born deaf and dumb in a small village, and he is raised by his elder brother to become a Heavy Weight Boxing champion…! Howz the idea?’ he asked me, looking at me, even as I buried my head stiffly into my pillow and cursed him incessantly, murmuring to myself.

‘Ok, Get lost! Let me sleep you psycho!’ I shooed him away. Dejected, he went away without saying anymore. Not even one good line of appreciation for a good thought! But surely, you will find his name etched first, in the friends section of our dedication page. Buy, our book and know his name, if you’re interested. I ain’t telling it loud here. Some benefit I should get, for telling you all this. Don’t you think so?

I always wanted to be a ‘STAR’ not just any actor and I never really tried to approach any film producers or directors for roles. I wanted to make my own films. I always dream big and it’s an inborn thing. I have this twin bug in my brain, which positioned itself very tightly, somewhere behind my cerebrum and constantly egged me to write my own stories. So, there I shot off expanding the one line thought into a full-fledged story, with all the twists and turns. My initial aim was making it suit for a ‘Tamil movie.’ Of all Indian ethnicities, Only Tamilians make and watch the most radical movies. Period.

Over, the course of the next few days, after I returned home, I shut myself in my room and started typing my thoughts into my laptop. Occasionally, I shared my thoughts with my big brother, Sri Vishnu Tanay. He always loved watching films, but he was never inclined to be part of films. He is a discerning movie-goer by nature, and he always dissected movies after he watched them and gave me logical reasons on how things should have been in a particular movie. We used to discuss a lot of movies and naturally, I shared my initial thoughts and asked for his advice. He said it was brilliant and egged me to finish the story. One valuable input he gave about the female lead, was to make her a useful part of the story, instead of just making her a bimbette, like what the majority Indian commercial movies did till then. He even suggested that I make her a journalist, so she would form an essential part of the story. And, there with that suggestion, I finished the story in a fortnight. The finished product was roughly about 80 pages in word doc and I was highly satisfied with myself.

I, originally titled it ‘RISE of the LEGEND.’ It was a hero-centric subject, with other characters just playing out their roles as part of the story. My original perception of the protagonist, Munna, (Yes, Only Munna and not ‘Munna Kaalika’. The ‘Kaalika’ tag came in when my brother got himself attached to refurbishing the project.) was of a strong-headed individual with highly opinionated thoughts. If he fixed his mind on anything, he would just go for it. No matter what!

Here goes, the original story, ‘RISE of the LEGEND,’ as conceived by me 12 years ago.

Munna, the protagonist, born deaf and dumb and raised by his doting brother and sis-in-law, in a remote village in South India, eventually journeys to Kolkata, along with his childhood friend, for livelihood, befriends a female journalist. And, when she is being victimized, on account of her daring coverage of drug operations, intervenes to save her from the local goons, but is eventually humiliated very badly at the hands of the drug lord. Munna, with his self-esteem hurt, eventually self- teaches himself on how to fight back and finally succeeds in scaring the shit out of the drug lord, who embarrasses him. He then returns back to his village. Upon his return, Munna’s doting brother learns of Munna’s tryst in Kolkata with the drug lord, through Munna’s friend, and decides that his brother is a born fighter, destined for greater recognition. He eventually sells everything he has and takes his brother to Mumbai to train with an ex-professional boxer who had to retire from boxing due to a bike accident. The ex-boxer spots talent in Munna, sees himself in him and trains him to the best of his abilities, but is faced with the odds of lacking the proper clout to get him a shot at the title, as, one influential promoter, who’s determined to make his own son, the heavyweight champion, forms impediments in Munna’s path. Now enters the female journalist (the same one from Munna’s past), who also incidentally happens to be the ex-boxer’s sister. She exposes the promoter’s double game through media-trumpeting and helps Munna, in securing a shot at the heavyweight boxing title. And, through the ex-boxer’s able guidance, Munna eventually becomes the World Heavyweight Boxing Champion.

Now, over to my big bro…

My lil bro’s script was as amateurish as it could be with just around 80 pages and meant exclusively for the Indian celluloid.

The entire script was raw and completely one-sided, i.e from the stand point of just the protagonist, and it lacked a ‘soul.’ But it seemed to be a perfect commercial pot-boiler for the Indian movie market, where commercial cinema was the norm. But, my bro always dreamt big. He journeyed to the ‘Land of the Dreams’ and secured an appointment with a big Hollywood star, (I’ll just call him Mr. S for now. Can’t reveal his name folks, Confidentiality issues.) in 2011. My bro narrated the script to him, and he immediately fell in love with it. He said that it was ‘Oscar material.’ Though, we wanted to change the protagonist’s ethnicity to Hispanic, (to suit Hollywood) Mr. S insisted that we keep the protagonist Indian, and said, if we so desired, we could change the protagonist’s brother’s ethnicity to Hispanic and make him a step brother instead. That time, my bro offered Mr. S, the role of the coach and also asked him to direct the film. Unfortunately, our family business back in India was going through a rough patch and we had to rush my bro back for some issues and couldn’t shape up his Hollywood dreams then.

This is where, I stepped in. Back in India, My bro had moved to writing newer scripts and he left this one in the can. But, for me, I really didn’t understand how an average-commercial Indian story could be an ‘Oscar Winner’ as envisaged by Mr. S. Either my brother was grossly lying to me, or definitely Mr. S, a stalwart, saw something in it which neither me nor my bro had seen. Sometime later, for a few days, I noticed films that won the Oscars and arrived at the conclusion that there was either a message in those films or they had touching human emotions. Then, I thought, why not combine the both of them, and make it a ‘DEFINITE OSCAR WINNER.’ This was all back in 2012, when in spare time, I thought of ways of changing the script to make it a ‘DEFINITE OSCAR WINNER.’ Then, one day, I accidentally happened to read about ‘Quentin Tarantino’ and an article on his cult movie, ‘Pulp Fiction,’ which, I don’t even remember how I chanced upon. I was strangely attracted to his non-linear style of story-telling. I have never seen that movie till date though, but I’ve read the ‘Wikipedia’ article on that film 3, 4 times that day and suddenly everything started to fall in place for me, on how to refurbish ‘our gold in the bin.’

I concluded that the story has to be told from, the point of view of, each of the main characters to make it a more compelling watch. Then, while having that afternoon’s nap, the new sequence to the story flashed in my mind almost suddenly, and I immediately put keystrokes to my laptop. I, myself, was amazed at how quickly and finely the story shaped out in just one afternoon, after reading an article on ‘Pulp Fiction.’ That afternoon, I wrote 5 pages illustrating a brief of the actual screenplay, to be followed in re-shaping the story. I illustrated, to myself, in simple words, how the story would proceed through the eyes of the five main protagonists. It was no more a straight story with one central character. It was a story with five central characters, with a non-linear approach and a constant revisiting of their past events and their travails, through their eyes. With that, the title needed to be changed too and I named it, ‘The Unconquerable Heart,’ and why not? When the story talks of the travails faced by the characters and their eventual triumph through severe perseverance. There had to be no better title than ‘The Unconquerable Heart.’

Once, I was done, I told my bro that I have a new idea for the script and that I’m gonna make the protagonist’s brother a Eunuch (An Indian word for the MTF transsexual). He was shocked at first, (not that he’s a gay hater, but he disliked changing the original line – we both sincerely are emotional to every human’s feelings) and he vehemently denied the idea. But I told him, if we were ever to win an Oscar for this script then we had to make it deliver a message or else we had no such chance. He calmed down and saw light in my argument. Though, I wrote the entire screenplay in just one afternoon, I was not free enough to dedicatedly sit down and write the entire novel. I managed to scramble some forty pages, in all, in the next thirty days hence and stopped writing altogether. I had to take care of family business and really couldn’t allot it time.

My bro, kept with his efforts of trying to break into ‘Bollywood.’ We wanted to make our own movies and sometime in 2014, we were almost close to securing a very big name from ‘Bollywood’ and even spent a bomb on piecing that project together. But for reasons, only known to the star, we have been negotiating with, he backed out in the last minute and our entire investment in the project went to the dogs. With all these set-backs, in 2015 first half, I took a break from family business, sat down dedicatedly, and finished the ‘Final draft’ for ‘The Unconquerable Heart’ in just about 75 days. In those 75 days, I researched a lot on topics like LGBT, Nazism, Racism, Misogyny, and Bigotry. While the first four elements dealt with prejudice concerning particular groups, the last one – ‘Bigotry’ was a Universal characteristic encompassing all sets of prejudice. I wanted to shape my story from the point of view of the most abused groups.

Already, my protagonist’s brother/mother, Kaalika, a Colombian settled in Kolkata, (Her ethnicity was an inspiration from Mr. S’s advice) was a MTF transgender, and she had a story of her travails, (I made her travails as poignant as they could be. As, a mother’s devotion to her children is limitless, and she would endure the harshest possible situations, if need be, to see her children through. No human would disagree on a mother’s magnanimity. And, that’s precisely what the stealer of our story, Kaalika Devi’s character is all about.) and her natural love for her adopted son. I wanted her partner to be a FTM transsexual, who faced his fair share of indiscrimination and the character Hazeem, a natural philosopher and a social activist with a firm resolve to change the world’s perceptions towards ‘Gender Identity Disorder’ (GID) was born. He wants a platform from where he could sound the shrillest trumpet, blowing ages-old conformist attitudes, and he eventually finds the protagonist, Munna Kaalika, to be exactly that apt-platform and back him with all his vigour. He would stop at nothing until he sees Munna win the Heavy weight Boxing Title.

And even before, Hazeem, I had Sylvia all shaped up. Infact Sylvia’s character opens the story in a non-linear fashion (courtesy of my knowledge of ‘Pulp Fiction.’) Sylvia – the compulsive lover who would sacrifice anything for her lover, Munna, because she feels indebted to him, for having saved her, from being raped by the evil drug lord of Kolkata, is a very strong individual in her own right. I made her a Jewish woman, as I wanted to highlight the vicious roots of Nazism, (read as hatred of other ethnicities) and the biggest genocide in modern Human history, through a direct confrontation of a ‘Jewish woman’ with the ‘Villain of the Story,’ Tretan Bliecher – Billionaire boxing promoter, a Nazi sympathiser and a sworn Jewish hater. Her perseverance to endure utmost physical pain in a BDSM dungeon at the hands of a ‘Nazi,’ and her eventual triumph in securing what she yearns for is all reminiscent of the ‘Holocaust’ and the eventual perseverance of the Jewish community to emerge as a force of reckoning, on the American soil.

As for the main protagonist, Munna Kaalika himself, I added an extra dimension to his already short-changed life. I gave him traits of Autism. But whether he really is autistic or not, I left it to the reader to conclude. What I added to him, is much more than just the impairment. I added pure-raw devotion to his loved ones, most of it towards his mother. He no more acts for, or on behalf of, himself. All his thoughts, emotions and actions are guided by his utmost love for his mother. He is a total dependant on his mother and would burn down hell itself, if his mother is threatened. His devotion towards his mother is what makes him stand out. We both are mama’s boys and surely identify ourselves with Munna’s character. That’s where the inspiration for his character comes.

Last but not the least, the story as per the new sequence had to conclude through the eyes of the Fifth protagonist, the ex-boxer (the role which we offered to Mr. S) But, after all these changes to the other protagonists, the ex-boxer’s character of just having an unfulfilled ambition, of achieving the heavyweight title, which he wants to fulfil through his disciple seemed a tad beaten. I had to think radical for him, to make him at par with the other characters emotional depths. And, more so, because his story was being told in the climax. So, while writing the script (not the novel, the Final Draft script was the first), I was a little worried, but then when I came to his part, it suddenly dawned upon me that I could make him a victim of ‘racial-prejudice’ and at the hands of his own step-brother, who would violate his mother, though he very well knows that she is his late father’s mistress!! How deep could that racial hatred be, to violate a step-mother who cared for him? And, how deep could the pangs of emotion of a victim, who’d experienced such prejudice be? So came, Ethan Chapman, half Afro and half German, who’s pining to teach his evil step-brother, Tretan Bliecher, a lesson on morality and restore his mother’s forsaken inviolability. The epitome of his devotion to his mother’s cause makes the climax most endearing.

Apart from these five characters, there is one character, which I personally love the most – The character of ‘The Big Sister.’ The Big Sister is a ‘Eunuch elder’ who shelters Kaalika Devi and helps to raise Munna Kaalika. Single-handedly, she gathers the sympathy of the entire Hijra (Eunuch) clan for Munna’s cause and plays an instrumental role in shaping his outlook and his fighting techniques. She is a wall. Period. A wall so strong that thousands of prejudiced souls from the Sonagachi area (the biggest brothel area in all of Asia), vouch by her and live by her principles. Her character is enigmatic, and down to earth. She is an inspiration of our very own four elder mothers, who stood by our mother, their lil sister, throughout our financial problems.

The story is a mutual effort, and we both brothers shared views, throughout the ordeal of shaping it to perfection. With the Script in place, the novel was a breeze. But, even that took, us brothers, almost 75 more days. (Novels are simply cumbersome compared to writing scripts) Now, my lil brother, is single-handedly faced with the herculean task of materialising this mammoth story into celluloid drama. Definitely, it’s a breath taking saga, but marketing is a different ball game altogether, and only he is best suited for that turf!

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The dark skies roared relentlessly engulfing this part of the world in a heavy down pour. No one would suspect it to be a full moon night, but it was in fact a pleasant full moon night with clusters of distant stars shining brightly around the nightly torch of the skies, like the arms of an intricately encrusted diamond necklace, just until an hour ago, when the skies suddenly decided to take a leak. Streaks of lightning flashed across the sky and illuminated the meagre suburban neighborhood which otherwise was deprived of electricity, owing to a short circuit at the nearby powerhouse.

The drain-pipes were not yet installed to the unfinished building and water got completely clogged on its rooftop. Relentless spluttering of the skies caused rhythmic splattering noises on the rooftop, as large rain droplets continuously hit the already stagnant pool of water. Joining chorus with the rain droplets splatter was a steady splashing sound that was created by the bouncing of a dark skinned muscled man, on his toes.

The Pitch-dark night, made it impossible for anyone in the vicinity, to notice that there bounced, a heavily bearded man, with long tresses tied into a ponytail, on the rooftop of the unfinished building. Rain droplets slid off the obscure man’s forehead continuously, irritably blocking his vision, but his eyes were focused as if he was about to thrust a thread into the eye of a needle – His steadfast piercing eyes would convince anyone to easily summarize that he never once knew how to smile or blink his eyes, but neither of it was true…

‘If I could speak, I mighta sounded just like this… But hell no…’ The obscure man’s tumultuous conscience echoed within him, giving him ample conviction to stay focused as he bounced on his toes, on the muddled pool of water, clenching his blood smeared bandaged fists closer to his chest.

‘– Silence is all I speak, Silence is all I hear and Silence is all I got…’ his conscience continued, ‘but, am no dumb ass… You’ve hurt the one I love the most, you’ve ridiculed her, you tore her apart… Now am gonna tear you apart… flesh… blood… bone and nerve… until you suffer and die a death that’s even horrible for the hell’s ghouls to imagine…

I’m Munna Kaalika, son of Kaalika Devi and I ain’t taking it lying back… NO MORE…’

As his riotous conscience roared from with him, a wild scary smile crossed his lips and he suddenly shot off his right fist, slicing it through the rain droplets. ‘NO MORE…. NO MORE…’ his conscience echoed intermittently but loudly from within him and his fist landed with a sharp thud on his target – ‘A Reinforced Concrete Pillar,’ which was now glaringly visible, courtesy of a streak of lightening that flashed suddenly from across the darkened skies.

The impact of his punch caused to emit a sharp cracking noise and a sizeable chunk of concrete got chipped off the reinforced concrete pillar, and it flew into the air along with a few droplets of the man’s boiling red blood, and it fell into the stagnant pool of water, causing a splash.

A lengthy streak of lightening again shone brightly over the rooftop revealing other pillars that were similarly chipped off on either of the sides, baring the underlying knotted bars of steel, uglily. The turbulent skies emitted a protracted roar, subtly offering a voice to the otherwise alarmingly silent man’s subdued emotions; neither the thunderous downpour nor the man’s emotions were in a mood to die down any sooner.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Hazeem was born, Hazeemah – genetically female, but she always cherished to be on the male side from a very young age. She was born to a devout single Muslim mother, who migrated to America from Nigeria even before she was born. Throughout her formative years, she was marginalized by society and family. In her junior high, she was branded a tom boy and was looked upon as a pariah by fellow gals, as she hanged with boys. As a teenager, she was rebuked by boys and scorned at by gals for exhibiting her ‘Alternate sexual identity.’ She yearned for a gal’s company but there were no takers for her, in her orthodox neighborhood.  Even her mother, Isoke Okonjo, fought to change her daughter’s ‘peculiar’ attitude throughout.

But, Hazeemah was a natural philosopher who was rigid to the core. She had her own set of beliefs and she never backed down from standing by them. She had a rebellious streak to her, and she often argued at college debates that the words ‘Liberalism and Equality’ that were ordained in the American constitution, were not completely exhaustive and were just phony adjectives formulated by the ‘Founding fathers,’ to trump up a false American spirit, and that those words were never true to their spirit in letter and word, in all of the ‘Great Nation’s’ democratic existence, as they never got ingrained in the American soul. She cherished to break free from the conformist attitudes of the hegemonial society and desired to live in a Liberal and free thinking society that was more welcoming of people with alternate opinions and sexualities.

It was one such rebellious days during her college sophomore year, when Hazeemah decided to end her agony and make peace with herself by turning as Hazeem in at least her outward appearance. But little did she know that her own mother would form the first impediment in that transition. She trimmed her hair, bandaged her chest tightly, wore a sweat shirt and jeans and stepped out of her room. Isoko had just completed her midday Namaz, and she went about slicing vegetables in the kitchen. She noticed Hazeemah as she stepped into the Kitchen to fetch herself some corn flakes, and Isoko was completely shocked to see her daughter in a completely new, trimmed close cut hairdo.

‘Back in Nigeria, people would have stoned you to death…’ Isoko said viciously as Hazeemah picked a cereal packet from the shelf.

‘Mom, I ain’t Nigerian…’ Hazeemah said calmly.

‘Allah, will not spare your soul…’ Isoko shouted restlessly. ‘You’re committing a heinous crime…’

‘Let Allah, decide that…’ Hazeemah said, tossing cereal into a bowl and mixing it with milk, trying to be as patient as possible.

‘Just marry Bashir, he’ll take good care of you…’

‘Mom…’ Hazeemah looked seriously into her mother’s eyes. ‘I ain’t marrying your brother or any male for that matter n that’s final…’ she said chomping on her late breakfast.

‘What is everyone going to talk about our family? You have three more sisters… How will they get married…?’

‘Am looking for a job, I will leave the house soon… Don’t you worry…’

‘You have no respect for your community, for your faith, for your family and not even for me… your mother…’ Isoko nagged without caring for Hazeemah’s feelings.

Isoko’s nagging got onto Hazeemah’s nerves and she impatiently threw the cereal filled bowl onto kitchen floor and stormed out of the house, closing the main door behind with a loud thud, even as her anguished mother looked on with disdain filled eyes. Hazeemah had been through with her mother’s conservative grooming for a long time then and she just couldn’t take it anymore.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Later that evening, when Hazeemah returned home, she found Bashir, her mother’s younger brother, seated beside her in the living hall watching Television. Their faces were forlorn and they flashed inimical looks at her. Hazeemah owing to the morning quarrel, didn’t feel like wishing her uncle, so she just proceeded towards her room without even bothering to give him a glance.

Bashir was offended at Hazeemah’s insensitivity towards him, ‘Hazeemah, let’s go out for dinner…’ he proposed all of a sudden.

‘Sorry Bashir, am not interested…’ Hazeemah replied without even bothering to look back. She closed the room behind and Bashir looked at his sister. Isoko raised her hands expressing helplessness. Having had resolved something, Bashir nodded his head sympathetically at her and then got up. He approached Hazeemah’s room slowly… Steel hand cuffs hung by the back pocket of his jeans. Isoko looked on as Bashir entered the room and locked it behind.

A little while later, Hazeemah’s shrieks were heard in the living hall, but Isoko stayed indifferent and raised the volume of the T.V channel, trying to drown her daughter’s helpless screams in the din of the idiot box. Her other three school going daughters rushed down the stairs, from their upstair rooms, overhearing their elder sister’s screams.

‘Go back to your rooms…’ Isoko shouted at her daughters and the three bewildered gals meekly traced their steps back to their respective rooms.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

It was around eight in the morning, the next day, and Bashir had just left Hazeemah’s room after a whole night’s unabashed forcible romp with his niece. The ‘Giver of Light’ hadn’t dared to resume his duties as yet. The weather was foggy and the thick curtains shrouded the room in absolute darkness.  A small bed bulb flickered in a corner of the room relentlessly, trying to make its presence felt on its sole occupant – a hapless naked soul which nurtured a rebellious streak to stay different.

Hazeemah, fully naked, laid on the bed face down with her left hand cuffed to the frame of the wrought iron bed. She and the bed sheet were soiled in blood and the room reeked of its rancid smell. She was famished, her head ached, her loins pained and she was devastated psychologically at having been marginalized so brutally at her own home and that too at the hands of the very soul that birthed her. She had tried all night not to hate her mother, she reasoned to herself that her mother was a just a prisoner of her beliefs, but then she couldn’t come to terms with the barbaric idea of a mother stooping so low to get her point across. That whole night, her thoughts bled and bled, until her cannabinoid receptors became anemic and totally unreceptive to the idea of familial bonds and emotions all together.

Isoko slowly approached her daughter’s room, with a plate full of toasted bread and a cup full of minced lamb gravy. She planned to appease her sulking daughter by baiting her with her favorite dish, but little did she know that her daughter was pretty difficult to be baited upon. The unlocking sound of the door knob startled a half awake Hazeemah. She rolled sideways, shivering in fear to take a glance at the door. It was her mother, but Hazeemah was not pleased. Isoko, pulled up a chair and sat by Hazeemah’s bed side. She didn’t carry the slightest hint of remorse for having administered her own daughter’s rape.

‘Come-on break a little bread, I made your favorite… minced lamb gravy…’ Isoko goaded placing the plate beside Hazeemah.

‘Mom, nothing is going to change. Plz don’t let me suffer…’ Hazeemah begged without bothering to look at her morning morsel.

‘It is Allah’s command, that I put you on the right path…’ Isoko replied calmly.

‘That bad ass mother fucker is raping me mom…’ Hazeemah cried in pain. ‘Howz that Allah’s command…?’

‘Eat up…’ Isoko said with a stern face. ‘Bashir has given his word to marry you…’

‘To hell with him…’ Hazeemah shouted, kicking the plate off the bed. ‘I’m not marrying that mother fucker in a thousand lives…’

Without responding any further, Isoko stood up and turned around to leave…

‘Mom… Mom… Plz untie me… Plz…’ Hazeemah begged her mother heart-rendingly.

‘Not until you get pregnant…’ Isoko declared mercilessly, and she closed the door behind her.

Hazeemah, a champion arguer and a beacon of liberalism broke down, her pathetic cries drowned in the dark room, muffled between the cushy pillows.

True to her word, Isoko kept her daughter captive for the next one month, until she got pregnant. Later, one of Hazeemah’s younger sisters who pitied on her, mustered enough courage to saw the iron bar of the bed, with a hacksaw blade from the garage and let her loose. Hazeemah ran from her home, got herself aborted and never returned back.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The Dining Hall of Hazeem’s House:

The pangs of desperation and a sense of nothingness that were forcibly injected into Hazeem’s psyche during that horrendous month, continued to shape his outlook. Hazeem was a changed person… That day on, he no more identified the Gender Identity Disorder (GID) that he faced, as an individual problem but identified it as a societal issue that needed to be addressed.

He felt the need to create an awareness among the ‘conformist crowd’ on the issue of ‘Alternate Sexuality’. People needed to talk about it, people needed to think about it, and people needed to be sensitized about the subject, so that they could be more welcoming of such people, thereby creating a favorable environment to kids of future generations who experienced GID. He dreamt of a day where no individual was discriminated against, on the basis of his/her sexuality and every kid who faced GID was encouraged to choose the manner in which he/she preferred to shape their lives, and not in the manner in which the ‘conformist society’ wanted them to be.

This was something that was on the back of his mind always from then on, but with her limited financial resources, she couldn’t do much. She was forced to fend for herself and the opinions just stayed within him. But the opinions didn’t die – they shaped his body and soul. He was determined to change the world. But he needed a launch pad and ‘GOD’ sent him ‘Munna.’ Early on, he identified Munna, as the perfect ‘Face of the Marginalized Soul,’ that would make heads turn and take notice if he said something, standing beside Munna.

Munna was his statement to the world. He was his weapon – A weapon with which he planned to quell the prejudiced notions of the conformist crowd. He would do anything, to get him to the pinnacle and he wouldn’t rest until he achieved it. He had already sacrificed his identity as a male and reverted back to his biological female status officially, and had gotten her marriage to Kaalika Devi, now Carlos Daniel, as per legal proofs of Identity and sanctified as per U.S Marriage laws and had brought Munna to the U.S on a dependent Visa, which otherwise was impossible owing to the prejudice the LGBT community faced at the hands of the Immigration Department.

Now all of Hazeem’s efforts were about to vanish into thin air…

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Perseverance of Motherly Love:

Munna heavily battered and bleeding all over, knelt with his hands tied backwards. He was over powered and surrounded by Ganguram’s cronies. It had only been a while since Sylvia was removed from the scene by the local Police Inspector. The Inspector had no reservations as to what Ganguram planned to do with Munna. He only feared a backlash from the media if an American was involved, little did he care for the life of a fellow Indian… After all, India had a billion population and snuffling a few, here and there wouldn’t really matter. They would always breed again. The Inspector only did the country’s bidding, leaving the wretched soul, at Ganguram’s mercy.

Ganguram, a mid-thirties, big burly dark man with over-fattened muscles and an unruly beard sat on the bonnet of his jeep, smoking a cigarette and facing a helpless Munna. He wore a blue-colored jeans and a brown colored cut-banian with knitted holes all over, and he had a big diagonal scar that cut through his left eyebrow and left cheek, right from above his forehead. Together with the scar and his intimidating personality, he looked more like a fiend from hell than a human. A pickaxe lay by his side and his face exuded an extremely large whiff of arrogance and authoritativeness, as he smoked, watching the beaten down man, who knelt before him awaiting his exalted decision.

Ganguram was absolutely in ‘POWER.’ He always visualized himself as the uncrowned king of the locality. The presence of hundreds of residents gathered all around the busy street, meekly witnessing the injustice being meted out to Munna, without offering any opposition whatsoever only enhanced his ego. But the captor, Munna, still smiled weirdly even though he was in great pain, and Ganguram was greatly miffed at not being able to elicit his desired frightening response from a subject under his control.

Meanwhile, Kaalika Devi, who had stepped out of the canteen a few hours ago, for procuring weekly purchases, was just around the corner, approaching the street that led to her canteen. Seated in a rickshaw along with tightly stacked bags of flour, sugar, oil, meat and vegetables, she was just returning from the market, when she saw a police jeep approaching her rickshaw from the opposite direction. A police jeep in her street was a rare sight… Curious that she was, she turned back to observe the open trunk of the jeep and she found a girl seated in the trunk, wrapped up in a blanket and escorted by constables on all sides.

The girl was crying and Kaalika immediately recognized her to be the same gal, whom she knew as someone, recently moving closely with her son. She was a little surprised at first, to find her sobbing and sitting in the midst of police men in the back of a police jeep. As she tried to analyze what could have happened, the hooting whistle of the rickshaw man – usually applied by the rickshaw puller, to make way through a crowded street, caused her to turn back and notice the large group of people gathered all around the street, blocking the way to her canteen.

Now, she was even more surprised to see a large group of people gathered all round. She knew from experience that whenever people gathered in hordes on Calcutta streets, there was either a street fight or a street performance. She suspected the former now, as Durga didi was not there to make Munna perform and she herself forbade Munna from breaking rocks long ago. The sight of a sobbing Sylvia seated in the back of a police jeep and the presence of a large crowd gathered in front of her canteen, together, caused her to sense trouble. No sooner had the thought of her son being in trouble flashed across her mind than she instantly jumped out of the rickshaw, leaving behind the hard bargained purchases and jostled her way through the crowd.

To her horror, as she emerged out of the crowd, she found Munna kneeling and bleeding all over. She immediately ran up to him, knelt before him and hugged him to her hearts content. ‘Munna… mere bete…’ (Translation: Munna, my son…) she called out anxiously fondling his battered face. ‘Maa… maa…’ Munna coughed up the only syllables he could utter and smiled weirdly in response. She discovered that his hands were tied up and she frantically tried to untie him without noticing the cronies who stood guard.

‘Abhey woh Hijde…’ (Translation: Hey you fucking eunuch…) a heavy baritone voice calling out for a eunuch shocked her. She was used to being addressed derogatively, but the rough menacing tone of the caller baffled her, she looked around to find Ganguram seated on the hood of a jeep and exhaling a puff off a cigarette.

He gestured her to come along, Kaalika had seen Ganguram before and had even heard of his barbaric reputation, but she never knew him in person. She meekly ran up to him, knelt before him and held his feet. ‘Use chod do, bhai… bacha hai…’ (Translation: Please leave him, bhai… he’s just a kid…) she urged him earnestly.

(NOTE: Bhai means Big Brother in Hindi. It is a word denoting veneration. In India, people address a person as ‘Bhai’ when he commands a lot of respect by virtue of his position in society or sometimes just out of fear for him, as he might cause harm if his ego is not properly respected. The latter is true in this case.)

  (ALSO NOTE: The following conversation happens in Hindi language, but to keep you engaged in the story without any distractions while reading, we, as authors have decided to present the conversation in English itself… Thank you and Happy reading…)

‘Kid…!!’ Ganguram expressed his shock at Kaalika’s downplay. ‘He’s grown like a fuckin Ox… he beat the shit out of my men… shamed me in front of all these mother fuckers…’ he shouted pointing at the crowd that stood watching.

‘Please excuse him bhai… he’s mentally challenged…’ Kaalika pleaded fervently pressing Ganguram’s feet.

Ganguram mellowed down a little after hearing that his shamer was mentally challenged. How else a sane person would challenge him otherwise, he thought.

‘What’s he to you…?’ He asked Kaalika nonchalantly, all the while continuing to smoke.

‘He’s my son… Bhai…’

‘Ha-ha… Since when have eunuchs started birthing babies…?’ Ganguram laughed meanly and his cronies too joined in the banter, insensitively laughing along with him.

‘He’s my brother… Gangu bhai… I have raised him as my own son…’ Kaalika explained.

‘This bastard killed my reputation…’ He said and picked the pickaxe lying by his side. ‘Now, I’ll fuckin cut off his arms…’

Ganguram’s menacing voice and his intimidating look caused Kaalika to shudder in fear. She caught his knees tightly ‘Bhai, he’s not only mentally challenged but deaf and dumb too… I beg you for forgiveness on his behalf. I will compensate you with protection money every month… I will do whatever you ask of me to do… Plz just forgive my Munna just this one time…’

‘Then tell him to come and lick my feet…’ Ganguram said lighting up another cigarette. ‘…then I’ll forgive him…’

A nervous Kaalika quickly removed Ganguram’s shoes and socks, ‘I will lick bhai… I will lick…’ she said and began to lick Ganguram’s foot.

Munna was visibly hurt watching his mother lick a goon’s foot, he shrieked expressing his sadness and tried to stand up, but he was beaten down quickly to his knees by Ganguram’s cronies. Shaky and skittish, Kaalika continued to lick Ganguram’s other foot too. Munna unable to watch the horror, closed his eyes tightly and cried in pain. Ganguram insensitively puffed smoke in circles and smiled wickedly, witnessing his shamer in pain for the first time, since he got him on his knees. His barbaric ego was a little satisfied, but then Munna’s ardent reaction triggered something even more heinous in his evil mind all of a sudden.

He caught Kaalika by her hair and pulled her up, ‘Aaaggghh…’ Kaalika squealed, reeling in pain as Ganguram tightly pulled on her hair. ‘Does he love you just as much as you love him…?’ he asked sadistically looking into Kaalika’s eyes.

‘Yes Bhai… he loves me a lot…’ she replied servilely

Hearing that, Ganguram smiled wickedly. He squished the burning cigarette on Kaalika’s ‘left side of the collar bone.’ ‘Aaarrrgghhh…’ she shrugged at her shoulder with her hands and cried in pain tapping her legs frenziedly, as the flame burnt through her flesh. Witnessing his mom in pain, Munna tried to stand up once again, but he was again beaten down mercilessly with hockey sticks.

Ganguram picked the pickaxe and Kaalika felt that he was about to approach Munna. She caught Ganguram’s cheeks and pleaded earnestly, ‘Bhai… bhai… Please bhai… Please…’ Exhibiting nil sensitivity, Ganguram caught her by her hair again and pinned her face down to the bonnet of the jeep. He then unbuttoned his pant with one arm, loosened it to his knees, pulled down his underwear, pulled up Kaalika’s sari to her waist, exposed her naked derriere, and then he pushed his manhood inside her and humped her mercilessly holding her neck tightly to the bonnet.

‘Aaaaarrrrrggggghhhhhhh…’ Kaalika cried in pain as Ganguram barbarously tore apart her loins.

A loving son that he was, Munna, though in great pain himself, shrieked relentlessly objecting to the barbaric act and made another valiant attempt to stand up once again, but he was again promptly beaten into submission with sticks and chains. Ganguram while continuing to hump Kaalika, looked at Munna, waved the pickaxe at him menacingly and stuck his tongue out implying that he would cut him to pieces if he were to resist anymore. Munna tightly puckered his eye sockets, closing his eyes shut and helplessly cried his heart out, cursing himself for having gotten his mother into such a deplorable situation.

Ganguram was highly satisfied, as he ultimately triumphed in extracting the much-desired pain from his shamer – the deaf and dumb idiot. Having had his fill, he buttoned up and ordered his cronies to ransack Kaalika. Insensitive barbarians that they were, a dozen of Ganguram’s cronies then took turns to unleash pure devilry on a poor eunuch, in complete broad day light, in the presence of hundreds of souls who were long eunuchized off of their guts. After almost two hours of unhindered barbarism, Ganguram left the hapless eunuch mother and her beaten down deaf son on the street to fend for themselves…

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

It was the summer of 1973, July 4 to be precise. The entire country was submerged in Independence festivities, bursting crackers and lighting up the evening sky. Young Ethan, then a fifteen year old, came running into the horse ranch, his home, in search of his mother, to show her the offer letter that he got from a prestigious university. The ranch was quite big, and he shouted for his mother, searching through the stables, thinking that she might be somewhere in there, feeding the studs their nightly dinner. But he couldn’t find her in any of the stable compartments. He had already checked their meagre dwelling and she was not there either, now the only other place, she could be at this time, was the barn where the hay was stacked. Expecting to find his mother there, he approached the barn.

The barn was a huge rectangular wooden structure with a gabled roof, a single big wooden door on one of its smaller sides and four large grilled windows on the lengthier backside. Ethan came running to the barn and pushed the door in, but it was locked from the inside, and all of a sudden he heard muffled cries and those cries resembled to be that his mother’s. Young Ethan was alarmed. He feared for the safety of his mother. He banged on the door relentlessly and shouted for his mother, but there was no response at the door, all he could hear were more squeals coupled with the abusive jeering of multiple male voices.

The loud jeering only raised his anxiousness and he ran towards one of the grilled windows on the backside, but alas the windows were almost eight feet high for him to reach out, so he dragged down some of the wooden crates that were used for feeding the studs, turned them upside down, stacked them one above another and reached out to one of the windows.

To his horror, he found his mother, completely naked and facing the other side of the wall. She seemed to be gagged with some small ball in her mouth, her limbs were parted tightly and tied up against a Saint Andrews cross. A naked Tretan Bliecher, the haughty son of the same man who sired him stood on an up sided wooden crate behind his mother, pulled her hair tightly and humped her mercilessly, even as she wailed in pain and bled from her crotch. There were five more of his fiendish friends in the barn along with him, they were also completely naked and they sat on up sided wooden crates all around his mother and smoked pot, passing filthy comments, hooting and goading Tretan over and again to tear the ‘filthy animal’ apart.

Young Ethan was devastated… How could Tretan do this to his mother…? After all even he knew that she was his father’s property. She was more like a mother to him and cared for him as a child and Ethan too knew all that pretty well, Tretan was a year younger to him and even called his mother ‘mama’… How could he become so hideous all of a sudden…? Pained by thoughts, he shouted… ‘Tretan… bastard… what the fuck are you doing man…’

Tretan’s friends looked up at him, ‘The hinny’s back dude…’ one of them commented. Makayla Chapman, helplessly squealed and nodded her head in shame having been spotted by her son in such an embarrassing situation

‘Let him watch… he needs some fun too…’ Tretan commented slyly continuing to hump Ethan’s mother.

‘Tretan… you mother fuckin bastard, leave her now… or am gonna rip your balls…’ Ethan growled tugging furiously at the window grill.

‘Ungrateful bastard…’ Tretan muttered and turned to his friends, ‘Dick heads… go pin him down…’ he ordered them even as he continued with his romp. Makayla was pained to hear that her young master was about to hurt her son, she squealed and resisted wildly tugging at her limbs, but alas the straps were too tightly secured, ‘Shut the fuck up bitch…’ Tretan snarled at her holding her by her ears and continuing to hump her with no regard for her feelings.

Eager cronies they were, Tretan’s fiends stormed out of the barn. Ethan was ready for them outside the barn door, he tried to push his way inside through them to save his mother, but five of them were too much for him to handle. They punched him and kicked him hard, until he could take no more and he fell to the ground rolling into a cocoon and trying to protect himself, helplessly crying his heart out. The naked fiends then took turns to piss on him and young Ethan could do nothing, but just coil up and cover his head with his arms in shame. A while later, which seemed like ages for the heavily bleeding tormented son, the evil scion of the family his mother served all her life, came out of the barn and stood before him.

‘Pretty big rumps… mama’s got… I’ve been pining for em for long…’ Tretan said standing over Ethan, wearing his pants. Pained with the hideous comment, Ethan tried to stand up to fight back, but Tretan’s friends promptly beat him down and put him back in his place.

‘Why…? Why… Did you do all this…?’ A subdued Ethan asked painfully covering his head with his arms, in a bid to protect himself from the fiends’ harsh kicks.

‘What do you mean why…? Bro…?’ Tretan said sarcastically. ‘She’s my slave… ain’t she…? I can do as I please…’

‘That’s your mama too…’ Ethan, beaten and torn apart, still growled.

‘Shut the fuck up you bloody hinny…’ An enraged Tretan kicked Ethan in the gut with all his might, ‘I call her mama… it fuckin ain’t mean that big black ass is my mama….’ He roared meanly.

Tretan’s insensitive comment caused his fiendish friends to erupt into wild peals of laughter, and they all finally kicked him once again and left the place.

Ethan rolled in pain… The evening skies slowly darkened but turned more and more translucent and colorful with each passing moment. Independence festivities had already quadrupled. Fireworks pillaged the sanity of the skies as did despicable thoughts of anguish that run amok inside the consciousness of a teenage Ethan Chapman as he rolled in the mud soiled with the ‘urine of hatred’ that reminded him, he was not to be treated an equal even by a brother, who was born of the same sire as him. It was ironical that, Ethan Chapman was revealed of this bitter truth by ‘GOD’ on a day that actually symbolically stood for ‘Equality and Liberation’ of the human spirit in modern history.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

‘Well, that was expected anyways…’ Tretan sighed loosening himself from Sylvia’s vagina and he walked towards his sofa on the dais, ‘Yahweh, seems to be working here a little bit… but Fuhrer is not gonna relent…’ he declared swinging his right index finger at her. Though Sylvia could not see his theatrics, she understood the tone in his voice.

Tretan sat back on the sofa, picked up the glass plate again and snuffled the remaining six big lines of cocaine in one go. Six big lines of Cocaine in one go were a little too much for a regular like Tretan too. His heart beat raced up drastically and his brain resonated with a thousand drum beats. He silently collapsed back on the sofa as his body tried to adjust to the abrupt shock. The sudden lull in the room caused Sylvia to wonder what was happening, but then Tretan suddenly choked and vomited on the floor. The sound of the choking vomit, made Sylvia ascertain to herself that Tretan was overdosing himself.

‘So, where were we…?’ Tretan asked wiping his mouth with the hand towel that was already on the table. Sylvia stayed silent. ‘Speak up bitch…’ Tretan shouted.

‘You said, your grandpa was an officer at Auschwitz… Fuhrer…’ Sylvia replied.

‘Aah… that’s like a good gal…’ Tretan poured himself another peg of Absinthe and took a sip.

‘So, one fine day…’ Tretan, gulped down a sip and continued the story, ‘this particular middle aged Jewish lady in the camp offered to make my granddad filthy rich, in return for a safe exit for herself and her son from the camp…’

Sylvia listened carefully. She already knew Tretan was a sworn hater of the Jewish faith, but then she wanted to know how deep it ran in him.

‘This lady… She was the wife of the wealthiest Jew in all of Poland that time… She was like royalty… My Grandpa… He retrieved all of her jewels from hidden locations… booty was really big… fetched him a mighty bomb, when he sold em in the US later on…’

Tretan continued, pausing in between to sip on Absinthe and occasionally stare at Sylvia’s naked rumps. He desired a hard on desperately, but it was not coming for him naturally. That day, somehow he was very anxious and doctors had strictly advised him against using Sildenafil when he did cocaine. But then he was not someone who really needed an erection to satisfy himself. He always had other means. His psychotic brain always conjured up wicked and innovative means to deliver him the perfect bliss that equaled a hundred oxytocin shots in one go.

‘Mother fucker… he was not satisfied…’ Tretan broke into a wild peals of laughter. He went on laughing wildly for well over a minute and then the laugh slowly spilled over into a chronic cough that resulted in him falling back in the sofa and gasping for breath. He filled himself up with another glass of Absinthe. Water was a strict no-no for him and his attenders never placed it near his table unless they were asked to.

Hearing Tretan cough up and fall back into another bout of silence, Sylvia felt pity for Tretan. She concluded, that he was too consumed with hatred, that he had lost control over his body altogether. She also concluded, that his mind fed off his body like a parasite and it would eventually lead him into a total breakdown very soon.

Having had enough, Tretan left the half emptied glass and walked over to Sylvia, ‘This Cunt… she had a pious tag attached to her…’ he continued the story even as he walked over to her. ‘His diary said… Even at the camp, she prayed almost every day… My Granpa… he was intrigued and fascinated with her outlook n demeanor…’

Tretan stood over her and looked at her for a wee second and then bent down to look into her eyes… ‘Like I’m… with you now…’ he said making a firm eye contact with her. Sylvia looked at him with bland eyes. She tried to understand where he was getting to with the story, but his psychotic mind was beyond her comprehension.

‘You have a soul…’ he said in a diabolic tone maintaining the eye contact. ‘Just like that woman from the camp…’ he mentioned and then suddenly straightened himself up and walked away from her towards the closet. Sylvia still couldn’t understand what he really meant by wanting her soul and how he planned to tarnish it.

‘My Grandpa, was hell bent on unravelling her mysticism…’ He continued even as he walked. ‘So he proposed a fuck… He wrote, the pious lady readily agreed probably in a bid to save her son…’

Tretan picked up a hollow strap on from the closet, ‘Interesting as it may sound, she requested that he never remove her Tichel… Just No matter what…’ he continued with the story even as he slid his penis into it and then fastened it around his waist.

With the mention of the lady, from his grandfather’s diary, requesting not to remove her Tichel, Sylvia now precisely understood, why Tretan had extracted an answer from her beforehand about her devotion to Munna and why he’d commanded her to tie a Tichel.

Tretan had a fetish for pious women and the presence of Tichel along with the acknowledgement of her devotion to Munna established it for a fact to him that she was in fact a pious Jewish woman fiercely sworn to just one true love for eternity.  She now understood, what he really meant by saying that she had a soul… And Yes, It was her soul that he wanted to sully and not her body. But then this was something that she’d thought of even before she signed the agreement. Her soul was not with her for Tretan to dip his malicious fangs into. It was already with Munna and there was no way Tretan could even touch it.

‘See, you bitches would do anything to survive, yet you wanna score with the world and your YHWH…’ he said aloud as he walked back towards her with the dildo dangling by his crotch.

He stood over her and Sylvia got a glimpse of the ten inch dildo that was about to pillage through her body mercilessly. She was scared, but then she assured herself, physical pain was nothing in front of what she was about to achieve. She visualized Munna’s innocent smile and it gave her tremendous tranquility.

‘My Granpa agreed…’ Tretan said looking amorously at Sylvia’s Tichel. After a brief glance, he stepped backwards and positioned himself between her thighs, ‘In his book, he wrote… the Tichel’s presence gave him a monstrous high…’ He positioned the dildo right against Sylvia’s vagina, ‘whenever he jabbed the pious Jew sow’s holes…’ With those words, he thrust the dildo into her vagina with a big push. The large dildo tore open into Sylvia’s vagina… blood spilled over and she let out a heart wrenching shriek. But for Tretan, the sound of Sylvia’s helpless cries, sounded like soothing music and they overwhelmed him with a sense of extreme tranquility and he just mindlessly continued to molest and tear apart her vagina mercilessly.

Meanwhile outside the suite room, an eerie calm prevailed. The room was properly sound proofed and there was no chance of anyone hearing Sylvia’s helpless shrieks. The anti-depressant pills that Miranda took were finally showing up on her. She felt sleepy, her senses dulled, but she forced herself to stay awake. Sylvia’s phone vibrated incessantly. It was Hazeem, but Miranda was in no mood to take the call, she switched it off finally and sat back in the sofa, tapping her feet and biting her nails. There was nothing, she could do… except wait until dawn when the time mentioned in the agreement lapsed.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Meanwhile, in the suite room, Tretan had had his fill on the spanking bench and gotten Sylvia gagged up and strapped to the upright stocks. Sylvia’s entire body had turned red. The constant slaps and beatings she had at Tretan’s hands had taken their toll and ruffling and pulling at her hair had caused it to turn unruly and shabby – her face had completely lost its charm and her eyes had gone sore. She just hanged in there bearing excruciating physical and mental pain.

But, Tretan was never known to be compassionate, he was in no mood to relent any sooner, he’d just gotten her on the upright stocks and was keen as a mustard to get the most out of her from that position. He just humped her, humped her and humped her even more – it didn’t matter which hole the monstrous dildo slipped in, he just humped her. Sylvia was just a meat bag now that needed to be punished. He had gotten his point across –It didn’t matter whether she’d agreed with it or not. He didn’t need anybody’s acceptance. He just wanted their subjugation…

Sylvia, on the other hand, tried hard to focus on the power of her love to give her the courage and the will to tide over those heinous barbaric episodic sessions…

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

END OF CHAPTER

‘Well, that was expected anyways…’ Tretan sighed loosening himself from Sylvia’s vagina and he walked towards his sofa on the dais, ‘Yahweh, seems to be working here a little bit… but Fuhrer is not gonna relent…’ he declared swinging his right index finger at her. Though Sylvia could not see his theatrics, she understood the tone in his voice.

Tretan sat back on the sofa, picked up the glass plate again and snuffled the remaining six big lines of cocaine in one go. Six big lines of Cocaine in one go were a little too much for a regular like Tretan too. His heart beat raced up drastically and his brain resonated with a thousand drum beats. He silently collapsed back on the sofa as his body tried to adjust to the abrupt shock. The sudden lull in the room caused Sylvia to wonder what was happening, but then Tretan suddenly choked and vomited on the floor. The sound of the choking vomit, made Sylvia ascertain to herself that Tretan was overdosing himself.

‘So, where were we…?’ Tretan asked wiping his mouth with the hand towel that was already on the table. Sylvia stayed silent. ‘Speak up bitch…’ Tretan shouted.

‘You said, your grandpa was an officer at Auschwitz… Fuhrer…’ Sylvia replied.

‘Aah… that’s like a good gal…’ Tretan poured himself another peg of Absinthe and took a sip.

‘So, one fine day…’ Tretan, gulped down a sip and continued the story, ‘this particular middle aged Jewish lady in the camp offered to make my granddad filthy rich, in return for a safe exit for herself and her son from the camp…’

Sylvia listened carefully. She already knew Tretan was a sworn hater of the Jewish faith, but then she wanted to know how deep it ran in him.

‘This lady… She was the wife of the wealthiest Jew in all of Poland that time… She was like royalty… My Grandpa… He retrieved all of her jewels from hidden locations… booty was really big… fetched him a mighty bomb, when he sold em in the US later on…’

Tretan continued, pausing in between to sip on Absinthe and occasionally stare at Sylvia’s naked rumps. He desired a hard on desperately, but it was not coming for him naturally. That day, somehow he was very anxious and doctors had strictly advised him against using Sildenafil when he did cocaine. But then he was not someone who really needed an erection to satisfy himself. He always had other means. His psychotic brain always conjured up wicked and innovative means to deliver him the perfect bliss that equaled a hundred oxytocin shots in one go.

‘Mother fucker… he was not satisfied…’ Tretan broke into a wild peals of laughter. He went on laughing wildly for well over a minute and then the laugh slowly spilled over into a chronic cough that resulted in him falling back in the sofa and gasping for breath. He filled himself up with another glass of Absinthe. Water was a strict no-no for him and his attenders never placed it near his table unless they were asked to.

Hearing Tretan cough up and fall back into another bout of silence, Sylvia felt pity for Tretan. She concluded, that he was too consumed with hatred, that he had lost control over his body altogether. She also concluded, that his mind fed off his body like a parasite and it would eventually lead him into a total breakdown very soon.

Having had enough, Tretan left the half emptied glass and walked over to Sylvia, ‘This Cunt… she had a pious tag attached to her…’ he continued the story even as he walked over to her. ‘His diary said… Even at the camp, she prayed almost every day… My Granpa… he was intrigued and fascinated with her outlook n demeanor…’

Tretan stood over her and looked at her for a wee second and then bent down to look into her eyes… ‘Like I’m… with you now…’ he said making a firm eye contact with her. Sylvia looked at him with bland eyes. She tried to understand where he was getting to with the story, but his psychotic mind was beyond her comprehension.

‘You have a soul…’ he said in a diabolic tone maintaining the eye contact. ‘Just like that woman from the camp…’ he mentioned and then suddenly straightened himself up and walked away from her towards the closet. Sylvia still couldn’t understand what he really meant by wanting her soul and how he planned to tarnish it.

‘My Grandpa, was hell bent on unravelling her mysticism…’ He continued even as he walked. ‘So he proposed a fuck… He wrote, the pious lady readily agreed probably in a bid to save her son…’

Tretan picked up a hollow strap on from the closet, ‘Interesting as it may sound, she requested that he never remove her Tichel… Just No matter what…’ he continued with the story even as he slid his penis into it and then fastened it around his waist.

With the mention of the lady, from his grandfather’s diary, requesting not to remove her Tichel, Sylvia now precisely understood, why Tretan had extracted an answer from her beforehand about her devotion to Munna and why he’d commanded her to tie a Tichel.

Tretan had a fetish for pious women and the presence of Tichel along with the acknowledgement of her devotion to Munna established it for a fact to him that she was in fact a pious Jewish woman fiercely sworn to just one true love for eternity.  She now understood, what he really meant by saying that she had a soul… And Yes, It was her soul that he wanted to sully and not her body. But then this was something that she’d thought of even before she signed the agreement. Her soul was not with her for Tretan to dip his malicious fangs into. It was already with Munna and there was no way Tretan could even touch it.

‘See, you bitches would do anything to survive, yet you wanna score with the world and your YHWH…’ he said aloud as he walked back towards her with the dildo dangling by his crotch.

He stood over her and Sylvia got a glimpse of the ten inch dildo that was about to pillage through her body mercilessly. She was scared, but then she assured herself, physical pain was nothing in front of what she was about to achieve. She visualized Munna’s innocent smile and it gave her tremendous tranquility.

‘My Granpa agreed…’ Tretan said looking amorously at Sylvia’s Tichel. After a brief glance, he stepped backwards and positioned himself between her thighs, ‘In his book, he wrote… the Tichel’s presence gave him a monstrous high…’ He positioned the dildo right against Sylvia’s vagina, ‘whenever he jabbed the pious Jew sow’s holes…’ With those words, he thrust the dildo into her vagina with a big push. The large dildo tore open into Sylvia’s vagina… blood spilled over and she let out a heart wrenching shriek. But for Tretan, the sound of Sylvia’s helpless cries, sounded like soothing music and they overwhelmed him with a sense of extreme tranquility and he just mindlessly continued to molest and tear apart her vagina mercilessly.

Meanwhile outside the suite room, an eerie calm prevailed. The room was properly sound proofed and there was no chance of anyone hearing Sylvia’s helpless shrieks. The anti-depressant pills that Miranda took were finally showing up on her. She felt sleepy, her senses dulled, but she forced herself to stay awake. Sylvia’s phone vibrated incessantly. It was Hazeem, but Miranda was in no mood to take the call, she switched it off finally and sat back in the sofa, tapping her feet and biting her nails. There was nothing, she could do… except wait until dawn when the time mentioned in the agreement lapsed.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Meanwhile, in the suite room, Tretan had had his fill on the spanking bench and gotten Sylvia gagged up and strapped to the upright stocks. Sylvia’s entire body had turned red. The constant slaps and beatings she had at Tretan’s hands had taken their toll and ruffling and pulling at her hair had caused it to turn unruly and shabby – her face had completely lost its charm and her eyes had gone sore. She just hanged in there bearing excruciating physical and mental pain.

But, Tretan was never known to be compassionate, he was in no mood to relent any sooner, he’d just gotten her on the upright stocks and was keen as a mustard to get the most out of her from that position. He just humped her, humped her and humped her even more – it didn’t matter which hole the monstrous dildo slipped in, he just humped her. Sylvia was just a meat bag now that needed to be punished. He had gotten his point across –It didn’t matter whether she’d agreed with it or not. He didn’t need anybody’s acceptance. He just wanted their subjugation…

Sylvia, on the other hand, tried hard to focus on the power of her love to give her the courage and the will to tide over those heinous barbaric episodic sessions…

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

END OF CHAPTER