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Every Ghost Has a History

It was the eeriness of the song that woke up Kavita. She looked at the time on her mobile phone. 1.23 am. Ah, there’s something musical about that number too. The song came from the hill behind her house. Kavita and her husband Vijay had shifted their residence to this village just a few days back. They worked in the city but didn’t like to live in the city. They would agree with Shelley that hell must be a city. The city is a roaring rage, Kavita said to Vijay many a time. I want the sound of cicadas in the night coming from green all around me. Vijay found her a lush green habitat. Kavita was the music of his life. Her desire was a command for him. No wish of hers would go unfulfilled as long as Vijay had the ability to fulfil it. You want the saugandhika and I will go to Gandharvamadana to get it. That was Vijay. Kavita’s own Vijay. When he took this lovely house on rent, Vijay was warned that the hill that towered behind the house was haunted. A haunted hill? No, not the wh

History and Fiction

Book Review Title: Conversations with Aurangzeb Author: Charu Nivedita Translated from Tamil by Nandini Krishnan Publisher: HarperCollins India, 2023 Pages: 335 History claims to give us truths and fiction really gives us glimpses into truths. Tamil novelist Charu Nivedita’s Conversations with Aurangzeb is in fact history masquerading as a novel. It is fiction inasmuch as Aurangzeb makes an apparition through a medium to the narrator who is a writer doing some research for his next novel. But it is not a novel because there is nothing that can be called a plot. It’s all conversation between the narrator and the spirit of the Mughal emperor. Occasionally a few other characters make their appearances, but they don’t add anything to the plot. How much can we trust history? This is the question that the writer explores in this novel. It is a cliché that history is written by the winners. It gets rewritten when new winners emerge. For example, India’s history is being rewritt

From the Heart

Fiction Yashvardhan was sitting on a bench in the park when the student appeared before him as if from nowhere.   The sun was inching toward the western horizon beyond the Arabian Ocean.   “Can I talk to you, sir?” the student asked. “Why not, Sid?   Sit down,” Yashvardhan motioned towards the empty space on the bench.   The boy’s name was Siddharth and everyone called him Sid. “I wasn’t joking when I told you the other day that you’re damaging the students’ faith in gods and religion,” said Sid. “Is your faith damaged because of me?” asked Yashvardhan. “No,” he said, “not mine.” “Then whose?” “The other guys.   Some of them.   They’ve started discussing things like whether Rama and Krishna were merely mythical creations of man and not gods.” “It’s good to question, isn’t it?” “But, sir,” Sid hesitated. “Hmm, go ahead,” Yashvardhan encouraged him in his usual style. “Why don’t you believe in religion and gods?” Sid asked. “I w

The Artist Makes his Funeral Pyre

Fiction Once upon a time, not so very long ago, there was a kingdom.   The King was very particular about law and order, discipline and cleanliness, uniformity and conformity, and so on.   So he ordered that no one should criticise the administration overtly or covertly, explicitly or implicitly.   He had soldiers and spies throughout the kingdom to catch anyone who disobeyed his orders.   Divyanshu was arrested by one of those countless, nebulous officers.   His crime was that he had painted a portrait of the King.   In fact, the King looked more handsome and imposing in the portrait than he really was.   The King was displeased by something about the portrait.   Divyanshu was never told what it was that displeased the King.   He thought he had made a magnificent portrait.   He had placed in his prayer room along with his gods.   But the King was angry.   Without even seeing the portrait. Divyanshu was given the usual punishment.   He was ordered to set up his own