Book Review: Tell Tale by Jeffrey Archer

Title: Tell Tale
Author: Jeffrey Archer
Publisher: Pan Macmillan India

Jeffrey Archer returns to the story format with this book of whimsical, sometimes ironic pieces nearly a decade-and-a-half after his last volume of short stories was published in 2010. This compilation of 13 wonderfully crafted short stories is reminiscent of stories by O. Henry. A few of the stories in this collection, ‘Tell Tale,’ hinges on the idea that nothing is as it seems. True to Archer’s theme, someone gets an unexpected comeuppance in most of the tales. Slightly old-fashioned, all the stories speak of a time that has long since passed and yet come alive for a second time to tantalize the readers. Every one of the stories are marked by simplicity and unpretentiousness — Archer’s hallmark, when it comes to spinning short stories. The fully fleshed characters and absorbing plots would definitely remain on one’s mind long after the book has been put aside.

‘Tell Tale’ begins with “Who Killed the Mayor,” the story of a young Neapolitan detective who has been assigned to a small town in Campania to investigate the murder of the mayor whose presence had been poisoning the idyllic village. The story was immensely enjoyable even though the ending was quite predictable. In ‘A Gentleman and a Scholar,’ a retiring professor — one of the first women to teach at Yale — gives her final lecture on Shakespeare. She becomes a study in grace as she recalls her first day at the university and the challenges she was thrown. ‘The Car Park Attendant’ is yet another of his stories inspired from real life incidents. The ingenious way a man makes his money is worth reading again and again. In “The Road to Damascus,” Archer examines the spiritual and the ironic. While in “The Holiday of a Lifetime” he allows his readers to satisfy their individual desires in the form of three different and equally interesting endings.

Archer, as we all will agree, is a master story teller when it comes to short stories, be it fiction or non-fiction, thanks to his vast experience as a globe trotter. His use of dialogues is seamless and his characters have the capacity to tear the fabric of improbable and come alive. However, having read all his short stories till date, I daresay this latest collection seems somewhat of a rehashing. But the good news is, none of the stories bore. 

Jeffrey Archer, whose novels and short stories include Kane and Abel, A Prisoner of Birth and Cat O' Nine Tales, has topped the bestseller lists around the world, with sales of over 275 million copies.

He is the only author ever to have been a number one bestseller in fiction (nineteen times), short stories (four times) and non-fiction (The Prison Diaries).

The author is married to Dame Mary Archer, and they have two sons, William and James, two grandsons and a granddaughter, and divide their time between homes in London, Cambridge and Mallorca.

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I'd like to thank the publisher for letting me review the book. I do hope you end up liking the book when you read it. Thank you so much for stopping by, and happy reading! 

* I received a review copy from the publisher in exchange for an honest review.

** Picture courtesy: Amazon.in 

Spotlight: Tell Tale by Jeffrey Archer

Title: Tell Tale
Author: Jeffrey Archer
Publisher: Pan Macmillan India

About the Book

Nearly a decade after his last volume of short stories was published, Jeffrey Archer returns with his eagerly awaited collection of short stories, Tell Tale, giving us a fascinating, exciting and sometimes poignant insight into the people he has met, the stories he has come across and the countries he has visited during the past ten years.

Find out what happens to the hapless young detective from Naples who travels to an Italian hillside town to find out ‘Who Killed the Mayor?’ and the pretentious schoolboy in ‘The Road to Damascus’, whose discovery of the origins of his father’s wealth changes his life in the most profound way.

Revel in the stories of the woman who dares to challenge the men at her Ivy League university during the 1930s in ‘A Gentleman and a Scholar’, and another young woman who thumbs a lift and gets more than she bargained for in ‘A Wasted Hour’.

About the Author

Jeffrey Archer, whose novels and short stories include Kane and Abel, A Prisoner of Birth and Cat O' Nine Tales, has topped the bestseller lists around the world, with sales of over 275 million copies.

He is the only author ever to have been a number one bestseller in fiction (nineteen times), short stories (four times) and non-fiction (The Prison Diaries).

The author is married to Dame Mary Archer, and they have two sons, William and James, two grandsons and a granddaughter, and divide their time between homes in London, Cambridge and Mallorca.

Buy Link

Amazon

Cover Reveal: Love, Murder & Mayem by Various

~ Book Blitz ~

Love, Murder & Mayhem

About the Book

Love science fiction stories that all include elements of Love, Murder & Mayhem?
 
Then welcome to the latest anthology from Crazy 8 Press! This amazing collection from 15 all-star authors will delight you with superheros and supervillains. AIs, off-worlders, and space cruisers. We’ve also got private eyes, sleep surrogates, time travelers, aliens and monsters—and one DuckBob!
 
With tales ranging from wild and wacky to dark and gritty to heartbreaking and fun, take the deadly leap with authors Meriah Crawford, Paige Daniels, Peter David, Mary Fan, Michael Jan Friedman, Robert Greenberger, Glenn Hauman Paul Kupperberg, Karissa Laurel, Kelly Meding, Aaron Rosenberg, Hildy Silverman, Lois Spangler, Patrick Thomas, and editor Russ Colchamiro.
 
You’ll never look at Love, Murder & Mayhem the same way again—and that’s just the way we like it.

Goodreads * Amazon

About the Editor

Russ Colchamiro is the author of the rollicking space adventure, Crossline, the hilarious sci-fi backpacking comedy series, Finders Keepers, Genius de Milo, and Astropalooza, and is editor of the new anthology, Love, Murder & Mayhem, all with Crazy 8 Press.

Russ lives in New Jersey with his wife, two children, and crazy dog, Simon, who may in fact be an alien himself. Russ has also contributed to several other anthologies, including Tales of the Crimson Keep, Pangaea, and Altered States of the Union, and TV Gods 2. He is now at work on a top-secret project, and a Finders Keepers spin-off.

As a matter of full disclosure, readers should not be surprised if Russ spontaneously teleports in a blast of white light followed by screaming fluorescent color and the feeling of being sucked through a tornado. It’s just how he gets around — windier than the bus, for sure, but much quicker.

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Book Review: Love In Chakiwara And Other Misadventures

Title: Love In Chakiwara And Other Misadventures

Author: Muhammad Khalid Akhtar

Translator: Bilal Tanweer

Publisher: Pan Macmillan

Review:

If we are to believe Eliot Weinberger, “translators are the geeks of literature.” And rightly so. Though a creative enterprise, translators need to face the challenge of rendering a language resonantly in another. Mere translation of the words doesn’t suffice. In translating ‘Love in Chakiwara and Other Misadventures,’ Bilal Tanweer has proved his mettle. He has done an excellent job of translating the author’s genius. He has successfully got Akhtar’s humour over and across the language barrier. The original story, ‘Chakiwara mein Visaal’ was written by Muhammad Khalid Akhtar in 1964 and even fifty years later, his story holds a charm for the readers.  

The book is set around a small Karachi neighbourhood called Chakiwara, and the chronicler of the daily drama is Iqbal Hussain Changezi. He is a bakery owner and the collector of writers and geniuses.

Akhtar’s Chakiwara is an amalgamation of fiction and reality. It is a balanced concoction of the prosaic and the other worldly. A curious world opens up for us as we follow the author’s narrative. The narrow, labyrinthine lanes of the old quarters of Karachi with its ramshackle shops shadowed by faded and worn out signboards stir a longing in the reader for a chance visit to an era long gone. There’s more than meets the eye with regard to the characters and their ordinary lives but with extraordinary proclivities. A satirical work, this book presents to us a world as bright as a summer’s day and as dark as a moonless night.

The cover design is alluring enough to draw one’s attention towards the book, from wherein, the story takes over and does its job wonderfully. The author’s writing style supports his story very well and creates a captivating atmosphere throughout.

Buy Link:

Amazon

About the Author:

Muhammad Khalid Akhtar was born in 1920 in Bahawalpur, to a family of scholars. An engineer by training, he began writing in his early twenties. Khalid Akhtar produced numerous stories, essays and travelogues, many of which were published in the Urdu magazine Sawera. Love in Chakiwara (Chakiwara Mein Visaal), one of his best-known works, was written in 1964 and won the Adamjee Literary Award. Khalid Akhtar died in Karachi in 2002.

About the Translator:

Bilal Tanweer is the author of the novel the Scatter Here Is Too Great, which won the Shakti Bhatt First Book Prize and was shortlisted for the DSC Prize for South Asian Literature. He has translated works by Sa’adat Hasan Manto and novels by Ibn-e Safi. His writings have appeared in various publications, including the New York Times, the Caravan, Granta and Words Without Borders.

I'd like to thank the author for letting me review the book. I do hope you end up liking the book when you read it. Thank you so much for stopping by, and happy reading! 

* I received a review copy from the author in exchange for an honest review.

** Picture courtesy: Amazon.in

Flash Fiction: My life, your life, our lives

My life, your life, our lives

It’s like I’m her dirty little secret, and I don’t like it one bit. Is she ashamed of me? Am I not worth her? These and questions similar to these kept chasing in my head like a game of hide and go seek. I felt weary and stretched to my limit. I have tried to be patient with her. Initially, it was her broken marriage. I kept supporting her morally as she waded through the thorny bushes of a legal battle. It had been nasty. There was no alimony. Not that she had hoped for or wanted even. She was an independent woman, financially sound and physically fit. All that she wanted was a supportive partner. I had been her anchor then. It gave me pleasure to be the rock on which she wanted to build her shaken self confidence.

That had been some two years ago. In the meantime much has happened but I still remain a figure in the periphery of her life. I don’t blame her. I try to put myself in her shoes. I know it must be difficult for her. I’ve seen her shed tears over me when she thought I was sleeping. She wants to be with me as much as I do. But… and that’s a big but. Some days I’m okay with it. I look forward to the few stolen hours that we can afford for each other behind the closed doors of my studio apartment. It’s not much and definitely not a permanent solution. She says for now it has to be enough. How long is that ‘now?’ I question her.

The fire in her sad eyes burn out every time I pose these unanswerable questions. Those days usually end with me sleeping on the couch. Not because she wants me to but because I don’t wish to be in the same bed with her. I hate picking up fights with her. So, the couch becomes my self-imposed punishment. She knows it too. In the early days of our courtship, she let me be. But not anymore. Now she squeezes herself beside me on the tiny couch and we end up making love. She doesn’t want us to lose any of the allotted time that we have set aside for ourselves.

What she fails to realize is that it leaves me hungry for more. Those days all I can think of is about the softness of her body over mines. Her curves, angles, and squiggles — all of her. It drives me mad. I keep floundering in my work. And I’m so desperate for her that I just close shop and count the minutes to her arrival. Those fiery hours keep me wandering on the street across her office. I don’t dare enter the building, for ours is a secret too big to be handed out to people carelessly.

For now, this has to be enough. For now, two girls planning a wedding is a remote possibility. And for now, all we want is for us to be together. Legitimacy or illegitimacy are issues for the society to ponder. These are not our burden to bear. All we know is love.    

© Jonali Karmakar

Flash Fiction: Shrine

Shrine

I looked at the newest addition to my shrine. A fragment from a broken china cup. I should have thrown it away the moment I had found it in an obscure corner of the cupboard. I wouldn’t have remembered it had I not put it inside a clear plastic. Such a tiny piece! I don’t remember when I had stored it for posterity. But I had. That in itself goes not to show the hold someone’s absence has on you!

Every tiny thing is a chapter to be recalled or an episode to relive. Your relationship may have died years ago but its ghost lives on. It lingers and haunts. Especially if you have rebuilt your heart in the likeness of an altar for that lost love. Though the two of you were never meant to have a future together, the ghosts of those memories reproduced and spawned babies for you to nurture. Now every time you come across something, those babies gnaw at your soul leaving tiny claw-marks that bleed and drive you to the precipice of depression. There’s no moving on. Just tagging along.

You’re tempted to throw every thread, every scrap of paper you’ve collected over the years that had somehow been a part of those glory days. You don’t. You can’t. You have to live with these memories that have only multiplied with time. You eat, you sleep, you drink — in short, be normal on the outside. It’s only when you’re alone that your eyes rove over the altar with a vacant expression. You can’t just dispossess yourself of all that makes you, you. You want to scream and let go. It isn’t easy. It never is. You know it only too well. Those you say otherwise, know it too, but do not want to acknowledge the truth. For truths are cruel. Lies can be handled. Those can be manufactured at will and produced for dramatic results.

Everybody uses these lies to get over things and live. You do too. But the biggest of all the lies that you’ve been telling yourself is that you want to get rid of the shrine. That you no longer need the weight of the holy altar upon yourself. Because when you dispose yourself off these fragments, you’ll no longer be you. You’ll be lost and adrift. These are your anchor. These hold you to the monotony that people call life. So you bear your cross with a martyr’s outlook. Only you know the truth that this your holy grail — these half forgotten but part salvaged memories.   

© Jonali Karmakar    

Flash Fiction: If Then Else

If Then Else

I woke up with a start just when I had started to fall asleep. Those innocent eyes kept haunting me. I knew the truth behind those accusing eyes but could not do anything to save the man. He stood there in my presence screaming silently for help. What he didn’t know was that right then I was more helpless than he could ever imagine. Even when I wanted to set him free, I was duty-bound to not let him escape.

The case had been one of the several that my predecessor had kept stalling. The accused had already been in prison for over sixteen years — more than his actual crime called for. When finally I took over as the high court judge, I was so overwhelmed at the number of pending cases that I decided upon a fast track dispensation of justice. Easier said than done. Unfortunately, I found this out only after I had set the course and there was no backing out. For weeks the lawyers gave me hard stare. They couldn’t complain in open though I understood too well their unhappiness at being ordered around on a short lease. I let their stare glide over my back for the greater good.

Then this man’s case came to me. I heard the arguments of both the sides. All the evidence, though circumstantial, was pointing him out as guilty. But I couldn’t accept it. This man who stood before me couldn’t have committed the crime he had been framed for. He was not the type of man who could hurt another soul. I could vouch for him. But that wouldn’t do now, would it? The law only understands evidence. Not belief and certainly not love.

I have known this man for as long as I can remember. He was there when I spoke my first words. He was there when I took my first step. He was there whenever I needed him. But more importantly, he was there when I…. That my irresponsibility could cost another so dearly wasn’t something I had foreseen. How could I have let him take the fall for me and escaped never to come back? When had I become so callous and self-centered that my reputation and self-preservation had started clouding my judgment? And irony of all ironies, I was the judge for something that I should have been prosecuted!

I couldn’t wait for the morning. I needed to see him. I needed to absolve him and surrender. That was what was right. Then why was I hesitating? He had already suffered for my wrong doings. Surely I was capable of redemption. Or had I throttled my conscience the day I had…..

I didn’t want to think of what I had become. I was successful. Respected and feared. Loved even. I couldn’t just let everything slide because of my guilt. It was true that I was the criminal but it was equally true that he was the cause of behind why I had to commit the crime. He was guilty in equal measure. Was that why he had let himself get caught in the first place? Was it his repentance? Once upon a time we had been friends. But he had taken undue advantage of my friendship. That was what had started this chain reaction. He deserved to rot and he deserved to be punished by me.

No, I am not to be absolved completely of what had transpired so many years ago. I have had to bear my own cross. For months I had battled severe depression until finally I had come clean. It had broken me completely. Threatened my sanity. That had been my punishment. Worse than any prison made of brick and mortar. This time I’d fight for myself. This time I’ll not be a mere spectator.

By the next hearing I had of course changed my mind. He had suffered and didn’t need to anymore. I would be lenient and let him free. My privilege accorded me that right. Nobody would challenge me. There was no reason.

Only, I was too late. The man had hanged himself in his cell and left behind a suicide note. He had conceded to the charges that had been against him. He had absolved me of any wrong doing. But in fact he had only set himself free and made me a prisoner of my guilt.

© Jonali Karmakar

Flash Fiction: Before the Storm

Before the Storm

Do you know what whirlwinds are? Yes, you do. Remember our romance? That was a whirlwind. You rushed into my life pushing off everyone and everything that had made up my life before you. I was a force to reckon with, you said. And you said that a lot. As compliments sometimes, but at other times I heard an accusation in the slight quivering of your voice. You were the calm to my storm, anchoring me to you. To the rest of the world. You feared I would blow away in my own storm. That I’d be reduced to a shipwreck if a captain didn’t take the helm.

You were that captain. O Captain! My Captain! You said often that I was either worth of a hurricane or a calm. Nothing in between would do for me. All I knew was rampage and all you understood was serenity. Opposites attract and I guess that’s what held us together. But not for long you see. We each ran through the other’s life leaving a storm-scattered raft adrift, detritus trailing us in our wake. We left each other parched and famished. And broken at the seams. Wounded yet healed. Burning and freezing. Merely held together with the debris that swirled around us. But never judging.

Then our fearful trip was done. Hurricanes, though capable of generating surges, typically weaken rapidly when cut off from their primary energy source. Did you know that? You must have. You had to. What else defines your walking out? Of taking away my wind? I was a little too much for you, was I? Why didn’t you engulf the storm within the eye?

I tried. I willed us to fuse. You be the hurricane and I the calm. Did that chase you away? The force with which I came? I remember, you had to prise me apart, one limb after another. Accept it, the hurricane never scared you. You were the calm that the storm feared. You were the eye that deflated the hurricane.

You were ….. I was ….. We were ….. Before the storm ….  

© Jonali Karmakar

Flash Fiction: Open Challenge

Open Challenge

Instant death. That’s what I’ve been craving since the hour I’ve been forced into my solitary confinement. It’s a dank room with a single boarded up window and no ventilation. I haven’t had the fortune of seeing the sun for days. What wouldn’t I do for just a sliver of sunshine! There’s no light even. The bulb holder is empty for all I know.

I’m not particularly allergic to dust, having spent most of my life in wilderness, but this dusty room has rendered me wheezy. Maybe it’s because I haven’t had anything to eat since a long time. There was some food upon my arrival but that was that. It seems my captors have all but forgotten about me. I had expected instant execution upon capture or at least by sunrise. But it has been days now. I don’t know how long exactly. You lose count of the minutes and hours once you’ve been shoved into a prison fashioned out of meshed iron. All I know is that my insides are screaming in agony and I’m trying hard to not claw at my parched throat. Survival is neither a necessity nor a desire at this juncture. All I crave for is oblivion. Or food and drink. Whichever I’m offered first.

I’m ashamed of my groveling thoughts. Never in my entire life have I been rendered so pathetic a creature like now. Death or food! I laugh insanely at the two oddities I wish for. My weakened brain can all but think about the basic animal instincts of hunger and existential crisis. So much for evolution and whatnot!

It seems I am the sole occupant here in this prison. I had tried to create a ruckus and draw the attention of my captors initially. That was a huge mistake. I had hoped for execution but these people were in a mood to torture me. They threw boiling water at me. I squirmed and ran to the edge for cover. I had avoided the majority part of this inhuman treatment but couldn’t avoid getting scalded some. Now I’ve blisters on my back.

The man who had attacked me had chuckled at my pitiful whimper. He was a sadist no doubt. Before leaving, he had tried to hit me with a cane. Ironically, the meshed design of the prison had stopped any harm to come to me. I had tried to laugh at him but managed only to squeak out a single syllable. He mistook it for a groan and left in a hurry.

Since then no one has come to visit me. I think they want me to die of hunger and thirst. Have these people grown a conscience or what? If I died on my own, my death wouldn’t be on them. Not literally anyway. Some humans are superstitious like that. I won’t give them that satisfaction. No Sir, not I. I’ll fight till the end and remain alive. I’ll force them to kill me in cold blood. I want them to look me in the eye when they murder me. I’ll haunt them as long as possible. My family will avenge my death. They’ll make sure that these people have a very difficult life.

It’s war. It’s us against them. And I’ll leave an indelible mark. I’ve clawed the carpet and gnawed the wood that was sticking inside my cell. Come on humans, show me what you’re made of. You are but a few and we can match you four to one any given day.

Remember, it’s Rats Vs Humans.

© Jonali Karmakar

Flash Fiction: An Unwanted Guest

An Unwanted Guest

Sometimes there are things that are better lost. They may have been with us for ages but that doesn’t make them welcome guests. We’d definitely do better without their presence in our lives. These things aren’t hard to let go. What stops us from escaping them is their stubbornness at sticking around.

I’ve a friend. Well, calling him a friend isn’t appropriate because I never wanted to befriend him in the first place. We met every now and then but I tried to steer clear of him at every possible opportunity. For years, I successfully avoided him and enjoyed the fruits of his absence. But recently, after taking up a job as a freelancer, I noticed that I couldn’t lose him. He’d come visiting unannounced. He even dared to stay overnight. He was the reason why I was restless always. I couldn’t sleep at night. He’d sit beside me and stare at me non-stop. Not a word did he utter.

There was no running away from him. I felt trapped. My freedom, my independence was suffering because of him. I pleaded and I reasoned with him. Nothing. I bribed and I threatened. More silence. I took up a few hobbies just to keep myself more busy and indulged. I thought it would put an end to his presence in my life. The trick worked initially. But it wasn’t permanent.

One day he caught me in the act of a crime. I thought he’d be scared by my ruthlessness and run away. But boy, was I wrong! Believe me his silence had been better. It turned out he could talk more than I could take in. He’d babble day in and day out on the pretext of helping me hide my crime. He came up with absurd suggestions about dumping the body.

Okay, so I didn’t disclose my crime earlier. Sue me for that. I had murdered a girl. It was a necessity. I needed the money and it had seemed like a quick job. But then things got out of hand and I had no idea how to progress. My genius brain cooked up a solution. Murder. I acted upon my instincts and bam! I had a dead girl with a dead body to dispose off now. Now, don’t me wrong. Murder is okay. It’s easy even. What is difficult is the part that comes after the murder. Police work. Detectives. Media. Trial, probably. Guilt. The list just goes on and on. I had no idea what I was getting into when I committed the murder.

My friend chose just this moment to declare himself the house guest. He said he wouldn’t leave me now. He said he wanted to help. In his own way he was actually trying to help.

He came up with ideas but since I had no prior knowledge or experience, I found myself floundering. I couldn’t choose one option and leave the other for fear of making a mistake.

So now here I am months later still with a dead body to deal with. A crime to organize that has inadvertently been committed. And of course my unwanted guest — Mr. Writers’ Block — who, instead of completely obstructing my work, is throwing at me ideas, each one grander and unrealistic than the other.

© Jonali Karmakar

   

Flash Fiction: Modus Vivendi

Modus Vivendi

I stare at you and loath your presence. Your hair sticks out every which way and as you pant, you look hilarious. The perfect halo that used to be and that you never failed to flaunt has been replaced by wisps of limp strands. No amount of coaxing hides the shiny pate that is all too visible from afar. I’ve seen you combing them with military precision in the hopes of getting rid of the waves that only crest at the two sides leaving a smooth valley at the centre. That is actually your good hair day. Unfortunately, today is not one of those days.

My eyes glide over your flabby torso. Have you noticed how the roots of your chest-hair have started to go grey? I surmise you haven’t. You are vain enough even at this age to have undergone the rigorous ritual of removing those thick, curly body hair. And you’d have enlisted me for the job for I’m nothing to you but a domestic help.

You groan as you heave your bulky body from atop me. You’re done for today. Work accomplished. I can detect a triumphant smile on your face even in this semi-darkness. Now you’ll roll over on your side and snore. You never stopped to ask me if I was done. Not even in the initial days of our marriage. You’re too strung up to waste your words on a simpleton like me, isn’t it? Do you even take me as a human being? Oh you do. Three nights a week you consider me human enough to ride me like a rodeo-rider. Rest of the time I may well be a piece of furniture who doesn’t receive a single glance from the owner.

I stifle a sob that threatens to slip out of my parched throat. I extricate myself carefully from under you and tiptoe to the washroom. The queen-sized bed is dwarfed by your huge frame. You allow me but a sliver of a portion to lie on it. What you don’t know is that for several years now I do not share the rest of the night with you. You are so lost and so oblivious to my presence, that my absence doesn’t dawn on you. So be it.

Crawling on my haunches, I step out of our shared bedroom and venture into the luxury of the other room down the corridor. The door is ajar as usual. I step into the cool interior and smile. On the bed I run my eyes over the silhouette of a petite figure. I sit down on the crispy sheet and stroke her hair lovingly. She stirs a little and smiles in her sleep. What is she dreaming? I hope it’s something really good.

 I snuggle beside her and hold her in my arms. She smells of baby power and milk. I cuddle her some more before losing myself to sleep.

Our daughter is the only reason I bear with your tantrums. How else do you think I tolerate a bully like you? You’ve been the worst husband to me but you’ve been the best version of a father to our daughter. This is not a lifestyle that I’d have chosen for myself but for now the odds are against you. For now.  


© Jonali Karmakar

Flash Fiction: Time Turner

Time-Turner

I twitched my nostril twice. First to my left and then to my right. Then with my right hand I pumped in the empty air. A jump. A tug. The portal had opened. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to drift in the psychedelic light. Tiny shapes fluttered around. Red. Blue. Black. Some rod shaped. A few ribbon like. My lips stretched to form a smile. The best part of the journey was coming. It was right at the corner.

Time stopped. Then it turned. Hesitated for a fraction of a second and began spooling backward. Too rapidly first but then with the laziness of a summer afternoon. I saw tiny windows with images moving behind the shutters. Experience had taught me that I could select any of these windows and enter it. Time played once I had stepped into the scene. I could walk around and relive the scene as it unfolded. Nobody could see me or hear me. I was a ghost, a figment. But I got to experience the time again just like the first time. Better perhaps for there was no suspense lurking at any of the bends.

I chose a window now. Durga puja. Shaptami. A Sunday, unfortunately. I didn’t like any of the five days of the puja to coincide with a Sunday. It meant huge loss in terms of home-made food. But that particular Sunday Shaptami had been different. Dad had returned from service after several months. Mom wanted to compensate for all the missed time. She got herself busy in the kitchen. It was her way of romancing Dad.

The present me smiled as the past me sneaked into the kitchen. I had been around ten then. All gangly and bones. I sniffed the aroma of Mutton Biriyani. Mom’s Sunday special. It hit my sensory organs and titillated my nose. I twitched my nostril twice. A touch. A tug. The portal was fast dissolving around me. Bright light.

“No you don’t. You don’t just march into my kitchen with your eyes screwed shut, sniffing the air like a dog and with those dirty shoes still on your feet,” I heard my Mom say as she screwed my ear mercilessly.

“But Ma, I’m hungry.”

“Clean yourself first and then sit down at the dining table. Wait like the others. And aren’t you ashamed of your behavior? You’re a father. When will you grow up for real?”

Within minutes I had washed and changed. I joined my son at the table.

“Sunday Mutton Biriyani,” my son beamed as the food was served.

“Nah! Time-turner,” I whispered as I dug into the warm comfort of spices.      

© Jonali Karmakar

Flash Fiction: Sojourn

Sojourn

I have been walking for thirteen hours. When I had started out, it had been morning. Now it is dark. I can hear the crickets. Even the occasional howl of a lone wolf somewhere. The terrain has changed too. I don’t know where I am. Only that I’m standing on a deserted bridge with no sign of a living soul for miles around. I didn’t have any particular destination in mind when I left home. Just that I wanted to put some distance between me and the rest of the world. I’ve been letting that distance grow ever since.

How far have I come? Have I crossed an entire state? It’s dark and I can’t see any milestones close by. Not that it matters. There’s no return for me. There won’t ever be. I’m done with my life. That is if my life can be called a life to start with. It has been a pathetic excuse of some disjointed, hastily put years. No achievements to brag of, no friends to call my own. All I’ve been is a loser. But no more. I’m tired. I’m no longer in a mood to drag my sorry story for the entertainment of others. I quit. This is as far as I go.  

I grab the cold steel of the bridge and try to haul myself. I can’t. The railing is too high. Or maybe I’m too short. A shove from behind would have helped. Whom am I kidding? Isn’t this why I’m here in the first place? That I’m beyond any sort of help. I give another go. All I manage is to stumble on the ground. Great! Even death wouldn’t have me, is it?

I grope around in the dark to see if there’s something to stand upon. My fingers brush against something familiar. I pick it up to examine. A camera. Here in the wilderness! Doesn’t quite add up. I switch it on. The library is overflowing with photos of me.

Mesmerized, I keep flicking the photos. There’s a picture of baby me, moments after I was born. Mom and Dad are both holding me in their arms. She looks radiant. He is beaming. Oh you won’t be so happy with me soon, I whisper. The next one shows me in pigtails. There’s another girl in the picture who’s holding my hands. She was my bestie. The imperative word being ‘was.’ We don’t see eye to eye these days. Or is it that I’m the one who doesn’t see eye to eye with her? I’m no longer certain of anything. The anger and desperation that I’d been feeling have morphed into something else.

I keep scrolling through the photos. It’s like a documentation of my life thus far. There are hundreds of shots, each capturing some long forgotten moment. All happy ones. Each one of them genuine. I marvel how these lovely moments had gone unnoticed by me. But more than that I wonder whom the camera belongs. Certainly not to anybody I know.

I look around me carefully for the first time and feel scared. I don’t want to remember why I’m here in the middle of nowhere. I want to go back home. I want to belong. The darkness seems to be pressing down on me. I want the distance to vanish that I’ve put between the rest of the world and me.

“I want to leave. I’m ready to come home, Dad,” I whisper through the steel bars.

“You can take her home. She’s no longer a danger to herself,” I hear the doctor say.

I hear a click. Gentle hands guide me into the blinding sunlight.

“How long?” I croak.

“Six months, darling,” my Dad says.

“Don’t send me back here. I’ll be good, I promise.”

I don’t look back for a last glance at the cheerful façade of the institution. I’ve spent too much time inside its bleak belly.


© Jonali Karmakar

  

Flash Fiction: Friday The 13th

Friday the 13th

The chill invaded the very core of my existence. I blew raspy breath on my numb fingers, trying to get the blood flow. Stamping my feet was not enough to ward off the hungry tendrils of cold that threatened to slice open the thick denim that clad my limbs. My lungs shuddered with every labored inhalation. That I was unaccompanied only heightened the feeling of iciness.

Two mangled bodies lay in a pool of blood with a machete protruding out of one of the bodies. It was the girl, I decided. Her feet were bent at an odd angle. Her body suggested motion. The boy lay prone, several inches away from her. He had tried to get hold of the scared girl perhaps when his fingers had been chopped off. Their tattered clothes suggested struggle. An eerie glow from the loft overhead cast a gloomy and oft fluttering light on the duo.

“Like what you see?” asked a grave voice.

I turned around with a start and was face to face with the perpetrator. His eyes shone with excitement. I could see hunger in those twinkling orbs.

I nodded and clapped.

“I’ve never seen such a perfect art installation in my entire career as a curator. People do not exaggerate about your work,” I smiled as I handed him the first prize. “Can’t wait for you to come and showcase your talent in our gallery,” I added for good measure.

“I’m honored.”

“So am I. This indeed is the best of the lot. What do you call this particular installation?”

“Friday the 13^th.”

I nodded before venturing to the next display.  

    

Flash Fiction: 100 Blog Posts

Blank Space

Pots clang. A crash. Perhaps a few plates from the crockery set just met their death. The aroma of burnt milk wafts and mingles with the fragrance of incense. Sandal? Mogra? Restless ululating of women. A sea of white fills the courtyard.

No words. Some sniffles. A void where there should have been music. Just a blank space, never to be filled. No waiting. Only absence.

Thud. The hands that held the crockery set moments ago now lay beside the porcelain shards. Silence. Frenzied feet scurry on the linoleum.

Impatient screech of siren. Blue flashes.

An announcement. Collective gasps from the sea of white.

A funeral and a birth. Auspicious?  Ominous?

Pots clang. A crash. Perhaps a few plates from the crockery set just met their death. The aroma of burnt milk wafts and mingles with the fragrance of incense. Sandal? Mogra? Restless gurgles of toddlers. A sea of pink fills the courtyard. Cakes dissected. Confetti rain.

Noise. Tinkling laughter. The void no longer blank.

Book Review: Dissent by Deepak Kaul

Title: Dissent
Author: Deepak Kaul

Review:

Broad in scope if somewhat narrow in emotional pitch, Deepak Kaul’s short story collection, ‘Dissent,’ is the outcome of a contest hosted by the Write India Campaign (an initiative by Times of India) over a period of 11 months. The contestants were provided with prompts by established writers and in one case, the title for the story too. Like several aspiring writers, Deepak too participated in this much ambitious project and even if he didn’t succeed in making the cut, at the end of the contest he was 11 stories richer which in itself is no small thing.

The anthology opens with Amish Tripathi’s prompt which was also the first to be shared by Write India. The story was meant to be one portraying women empowerment but somewhere lacks the necessary ingredients. The second story meets a similar fate. From the third story Deepak’s style changes for the better. It is evident that this competition has given him a dose of growth and literary development. This is quite visible in the progression of the collection. The first two stories are a bumpy ride but the writer gets quite comfortable with his third attempt. But unfortunately the stories do not leave any lasting impression.   

The collection is a largely mediocre fare — with a few exceptions. The stories, ‘LCA’ and ‘Mirage’ show potential whereas ‘Taboo’ is a little confusing at the end. ‘Karma Agni’ is one of the finer stories in the collection. The situation described in the story, 'All in,' is perhaps the dream of every filmmaker. Rest of the stories are average. There are a few noticeable typos. The book cover doesn't quite attract either.
However, there is no denying the fact that the writer has tried to come up with out-of-the-box stories. Anybody interested in reading light, over-in-one-sitting book should try this one. I’ve read another book, Corpokshetra, by this same writer which was quite interesting. I feel his stories make for an entertaining read.

Buy Link:

Amazon

About the Author:

Deepak Kaul is a chartered accountant by profession, specialising in international tax. He has over twenty years of work experience, of which twelve were spent overseas in Singapore and USA. Deepak has always been fond of reading; writing is his aspirational hobby and he hopes to pursue it as a vocation.

I'd like to thank the author for letting me review his book. I do hope you end up liking the book when you read it. Thank you so much for stopping by, and happy reading! 

*'I received a free copy from Writersmelon in exchange for an honest and unbiased review.'

Release Day Blitz: Metro Diaries 2 by Namrata

About the Book:

Give life another chance. Laugh a little longer. let go of your past. Hold onto what you love. In short LIVE rather than just exist!

Some told, some untold, some heard and some unheard - this collection of stories will make you look at life in a different light and make you ponder over its definition of it till now.

Goodreads I Amazon

Reviews for Metro Diaries 1:

After touching your hearts with 'Metro Diaries - Love Classics' she is back now with stories that will redefine life for you!

The stories in Metro Diaries - Love Classics are free from any trappings of youthful slang and fashionable language stunts. These young adults are speaking to the readers with Namrata’s maturity shining through, and Namrata’s ideas of love. - Sakshi Nanda 

The language is fairly pleasant to read and the elaborate discussions between characters in each story must have taken a lot of work – because the most difficult job of all authors is to bring out human emotions in proper words. Thankfully, Namrata has concentrated upon it very well! - Dhivya Balaji

About the Author:

Namrata is A Lost Wanderer who loves travelling the length and breadth of the world. A published author in various anthologies and magazines she enjoys capturing the magic of life in her words. She is forever in pursuit of a new country and a new story.

Contact the Author:

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Book Review: Stories of Work, Life & the Balance in Between by Tomson Robert

Title: Stories of Work, Life & the Balance in BetweenAuthor: Tomson RobertPublisher: The Write Place

Review:

Tomson Robert’s ‘Stories of Work, Life & the Balance in Between’ is not a self help book but it aims to inspire a little bit of hope. In this tiny collection of ten short stories, the writer offers, for the most part, variations on a single gimmick and a few limited situations. The stories are essentially fictitious but have uncanny similarity to situations in our everyday life. People in the corporate world — who are meant to work 24x7 365 days a year — can especially connect to these situations.

Success, development and growth come with a price. But is it worth the cost? We all know this truth. We know that when we want to succeed in life, we have to give up the simple joys in order to achieve another kind of happiness. Tomson develops a clear theme in book: success doesn’t lead to happiness. Happiness leads to success. The things we think will make us happier often don’t. And we want to believe it or not, all of us undergo similar circumstances where we prioritize wrongly.

Each story gives a gem of an advice. Some of the worth mentioning pointers are: “It doesn’t matter what you have learned, what matters is your willingness to learn new things;” “It is difficult to say what is impossible, for the dream of yesterday is the hope of today and the reality of tomorrow.” It closes with a fundamental principle of life: “Don’t stop having fun – be it work, life or the balance in between.”    

The content of the book shines through in a clear, sincere way that is sure to inspire the reader even if it lends nothing new to their understanding.

Buy Link:

Amazon

About the Author:

Tomson Robert is a Management Consultant by day and amateur author by night. He is husband to a beautiful wife, father to an adorable baby girl and was raised (along with a smart younger brother) by loving parents in ‘God’s own country,’ Kerala. Currently, he is living in Dubai and working for a consulting firm.

Contact:

email

I'd like to thank the author for letting me review his book. I do hope you end up liking the book when you read it. Thank you so much for stopping by, and happy reading! 

*'I received a free copy from Writersmelon in exchange for an honest and unbiased review.'