Jayant Swamy's Blog
May 1, 2015
Snippet 4
Karan’s mind was a veritable battleground. Of images and smells and sounds and tastes.
Anita’s screams. The white sari with the huge maps of blood. The salty taste of his own tears. The prickling wetness of his father’s face. The prick of the doctor’s needle plunging into his hip.
The five gunshots in quick succession, their multiple echoes resonating forever on the empty second floor. The smell of gunpowder. Vikramaditya’s serene face -- the nostrils plugged with cotton wool, the blue immobile body.
The sounds of silence. The vacuum within. The blackness around.
The thronging crowds. Their continual chatter. Eulogies for the departed souls. Sympathy for the solitary surviving soul. Commiseration with each other. Barbs and venom for everyone else.
The white-clad priests. Smoke in their eyes. The smoking butt of the double-barrelled gun. The holy fire in the havan. The incessant chants of the Gayatri mantra. “Om Bhoor bhuvasuvaha tatsa viturvarenyam. Bhargoho devasya deemahi. Diyoyonah prachodayaat.” The brown copper pots filled with ashes.
The fragrance of incense. The pungency of gunpowder.
Anita’s tear stained face, a fleeting memento of the agony within. Anita’s ever smiling face, the eternal memento of the ecstasy that once was that would never be.
The cool soothing touch of her cold fingers on his burning forehead. The hot scorching flames of her maternal care that engulfed his troubled mind. Cold hands. Warm hearts.
Anita’s screams. The white sari with the huge maps of blood. The salty taste of his own tears. The prickling wetness of his father’s face. The prick of the doctor’s needle plunging into his hip.
The five gunshots in quick succession, their multiple echoes resonating forever on the empty second floor. The smell of gunpowder. Vikramaditya’s serene face -- the nostrils plugged with cotton wool, the blue immobile body.
The sounds of silence. The vacuum within. The blackness around.
The thronging crowds. Their continual chatter. Eulogies for the departed souls. Sympathy for the solitary surviving soul. Commiseration with each other. Barbs and venom for everyone else.
The white-clad priests. Smoke in their eyes. The smoking butt of the double-barrelled gun. The holy fire in the havan. The incessant chants of the Gayatri mantra. “Om Bhoor bhuvasuvaha tatsa viturvarenyam. Bhargoho devasya deemahi. Diyoyonah prachodayaat.” The brown copper pots filled with ashes.
The fragrance of incense. The pungency of gunpowder.
Anita’s tear stained face, a fleeting memento of the agony within. Anita’s ever smiling face, the eternal memento of the ecstasy that once was that would never be.
The cool soothing touch of her cold fingers on his burning forehead. The hot scorching flames of her maternal care that engulfed his troubled mind. Cold hands. Warm hearts.
March 20, 2014
Snippet 3: Colours in the Spectrum
Memories haunted him. Nightmares kept him awake at night.
Karan’s energies were expended on one obsession. What if he was not Vikramaditya’s son? If he had some unknown genes? It bothered him that he bore little or no resemblance to Vikramaditya.
Yet, Anita had always told him how father and son were so alike -- both fanatically meticulous about maintaining the car; they loved the same foods, hated the exact same vegetables; the irritating habit of checking and re-checking the locks several times before leaving the house. Most important -- when they argued -- they were dispassionately logical, incapable of seeing the other person’s point of view; even their voices sounded similar, many people had confused one for the other over the phone.
Karan dug through the contents of Lila’s trunks several times over in the hope of finding some evidence, any evidence, that he was Vikramaditya’s son. He ransacked every closet and cupboard in the house in a bid to find the proof of his parentage.
Maternity is a matter of fact; paternity is a matter of opinion -- he was reminded of one of his public speaking contests from the Xavier days. Only a DNA test could have confirmed his paternity. That opportunity had been lost forever.
Karan’s energies were expended on one obsession. What if he was not Vikramaditya’s son? If he had some unknown genes? It bothered him that he bore little or no resemblance to Vikramaditya.
Yet, Anita had always told him how father and son were so alike -- both fanatically meticulous about maintaining the car; they loved the same foods, hated the exact same vegetables; the irritating habit of checking and re-checking the locks several times before leaving the house. Most important -- when they argued -- they were dispassionately logical, incapable of seeing the other person’s point of view; even their voices sounded similar, many people had confused one for the other over the phone.
Karan dug through the contents of Lila’s trunks several times over in the hope of finding some evidence, any evidence, that he was Vikramaditya’s son. He ransacked every closet and cupboard in the house in a bid to find the proof of his parentage.
Maternity is a matter of fact; paternity is a matter of opinion -- he was reminded of one of his public speaking contests from the Xavier days. Only a DNA test could have confirmed his paternity. That opportunity had been lost forever.
March 14, 2014
Snippet 2 from Colours in the Spectrum
Sofia was jade green. Royal and romantic. Karan continued to go steady with Sofia despite her act of hyper-impudence for the sole reason that she may one day be the mother of his child, the treacherous act notwithstanding. He seemed to be in perennial denial, his deepest fears obfuscated by the consolation that her infidel act was but an arbitrary aberration.
A few weeks later Sofia dumped Karan. His crime? He had dared to point out that she could show a little more respect -- she had been bitching more than usual about her mother.
Sofia had looked at him with stunned surprise. “No one ever tells me what to do. Or what not to.” She threw him out of her house that very minute. In the middle of the night.
Karan had tried to reason with her. Silence was her weapon. Deadly and effective. Karan had no ammunition that could stand up to it. Luckily, he had not yet vacated his old apartment.
The next night, Karan parked his BMW Z4 in her driveway and rang the doorbell incessantly. He knew Sofia was inside -- the lights were on, in the living room and her bedroom. There was no response. He rang the bell again and again and again. So intently was he concentrating on this repetitive action that he did not hear the siren of the approaching police car. Or see the flashing red and blue lights.
“Sofia, give me another chance.” He was still screaming when the police officer had got out of his car and aimed a gun at him.
“Get back in your car.” The police officer instructed Karan to drive his car to the Beverly Hills police station and followed him closely, his car lights flashing.
A few weeks later Sofia dumped Karan. His crime? He had dared to point out that she could show a little more respect -- she had been bitching more than usual about her mother.
Sofia had looked at him with stunned surprise. “No one ever tells me what to do. Or what not to.” She threw him out of her house that very minute. In the middle of the night.
Karan had tried to reason with her. Silence was her weapon. Deadly and effective. Karan had no ammunition that could stand up to it. Luckily, he had not yet vacated his old apartment.
The next night, Karan parked his BMW Z4 in her driveway and rang the doorbell incessantly. He knew Sofia was inside -- the lights were on, in the living room and her bedroom. There was no response. He rang the bell again and again and again. So intently was he concentrating on this repetitive action that he did not hear the siren of the approaching police car. Or see the flashing red and blue lights.
“Sofia, give me another chance.” He was still screaming when the police officer had got out of his car and aimed a gun at him.
“Get back in your car.” The police officer instructed Karan to drive his car to the Beverly Hills police station and followed him closely, his car lights flashing.
March 4, 2014
A snippet from Colours in the Spectrum
“Tell me the truth.”
“Love does not mean I have to possess her, marry her, and be with her all my life. I want her to be happy.” Karan handed over the cue to Arjun and stood up straight.
Arjun felt the pangs of Karan’s sorrow tear through his own body as he held the cue vertically in his hand. Life had always betrayed Karan. He wished he could make up for it somehow.
“I know she will be happy with you -- she has chosen you.” Karan’s eyes were shining.
“Today you have really lived up to your namesake. Daana Veera Shoora Karna.” Arjun dropped the cue onto the pool table, scattering the remaining balls.
“The more things change, the more they remain the same.” Karan engulfed Arjun in a tight hug.
Arjun wiped a tear from his eye. Karan’s nobility had touched his soul. Always the giver. Never the receiver.
“Love does not mean I have to possess her, marry her, and be with her all my life. I want her to be happy.” Karan handed over the cue to Arjun and stood up straight.
Arjun felt the pangs of Karan’s sorrow tear through his own body as he held the cue vertically in his hand. Life had always betrayed Karan. He wished he could make up for it somehow.
“I know she will be happy with you -- she has chosen you.” Karan’s eyes were shining.
“Today you have really lived up to your namesake. Daana Veera Shoora Karna.” Arjun dropped the cue onto the pool table, scattering the remaining balls.
“The more things change, the more they remain the same.” Karan engulfed Arjun in a tight hug.
Arjun wiped a tear from his eye. Karan’s nobility had touched his soul. Always the giver. Never the receiver.
