La Chica - An Unapologetically Narcissistic Tale

 

“Dumbass, stop thinking. Act. Now.”

Even this snub did not work.

She slipped further  into thoughts, “Not dumbass, but numbass.”

Then her entire being shook again with the floor and the walls of the lavatory of the cabin. After three peaceful nights the fourth morning brought all these commotions.

The evening before, wood-pickers from Dhaksabandh village saw an elephant herd crossing the pebbly bed of Dhaksa River. There were three female elephants and two calves in the herd. The villagers alerted Dhaksabandh forest block office. Later in the evening, radio transmission officially alerted all the forest blocks of Dhaksa Division.

Everyone at the camp dinner table heard the bulletin. The duty officer created a vigil roster for fourteen pairs of men, pretty equally distributed for all trainee officers but one. The commanding officer being at rest in his Cabin a few miles away, there was nobody to decide over her fate.

She felt relieved by the break in the nightly show of chivalry, helpfulness, kindness and whatever. The greater question of survival, though in a probable struggle, with a lesser being, kept the men occupied. The threat of doomsnight looming at the doorstep made them oblivious of her.

She waded through the blinding darkness along a quarter of a mile long forest path to her cabin from the men’s barack and the mess. The visual union of the light bugs on the ground and the scattered stars in the night sky rejuvenated her wilder self .

After an hour the first pair on guard woke her up, “Chatterjee!”

Chatterjee left her bedding spread on the creaky wooden floor, held three feet above the ground on termite-eaten wooden posts, and muttered underneath her breath, “Foolfuckers.”

Then she stretched her hand over their head through the hollow of the missing window pane of the only bedroom of the cabin to receive the radio set. She grumbled, “Damn, Public Service. Just made custodian of a public property! Now I’m bound to report elephant sightings.”

The men left marching as soon as they finished performing their duty to their own satisfaction. She vented, “Shallah! It's a half an hour nightwatch for each of them. Whole night for me!”

Her thoughts wandered, “Men and their complexes about their shortcomings! Like Maknas, lacking tusks unable to attract female pachyderms in oestrus! The Commanding Officer, to keep me safe, made me sleep in a separate cabin with missing footboards in its hall which can bring both reptiles and rapists! For using the lavatory at night, I must cross the dark hall with my flashlight on, as only the bedroom at one end of the hall and the lavatory on the other have electric bulbs.”

She realized that she was merely ruminating what Dinesh jabbered the other night, “Everybody praises Chatterjee’s bravery. Nobody speaks of her compulsions.”

She kept the radio set by her pillow beside the flash light.

The alarm at four thirty in the morning woke her up. She needed an empty bowel to survive the daylong treks through Teak Plantations, also a bath to soak the heat, before breakfast at the barack mess by six o’clock, preceding fall in at six thirty.

Besides, bathing in daylight seemed awkward. The lavatory had a window, but no door pane. Opposite to it, a tread apart, was the bathroom with door panes, without any light. Through the opening of the imploded roof over the passage between the bathroom and the lavatory, the neighborhood children enjoyed peeping in, during daytime, dangling from the branches of the Sirish tree by the cabin.

Chatterjee turned impatient, “Numbskull dhoi. How has it become the matriarch of the herd with this much intellect? There’s no Chalta tree nearby. Can’t they find the Chalta plantation? Flocking here they’re wasting the public money, though we don’t know if they belong to us or to the country across the Dhaksa river. Their proddings to the cabin would soon throw me on a historic poop pile! (probably pulverizing tip of my backbone) My ass’ scared numb.”

Chatterjee, however, finished her business, literally restless. She uniformed herself up, rolled her bedding and stuffed her belongings in the rucksack. The intermittent shaking made it quite clear that the elephants would not leave until the cabin would rupture and bare open its secrets.

She stepped outside, rucksack on her back, clanking tree measurement equipment inside her haversack, slinged to her neck, radio set tucked to her waistband, the flashlight in hand. The early spring predawn wrapped her in grayness and chill.

She never locked the cabin in the last three days. Yet nothing went missing. With its imminent crumbling to the ground, locking the cabin appeared ludicrous. 

Chatterjee pointed her flash light to the moving massive figures outside the cabin lavatory. A cry of annoyance startled the sleepy neighborhood. Chatterjee turned the light off and reported the location of the elephants over the radio.

Next she checked the hollow beneath the cabin. The light reflected from the posts and empty trashed bottles of hooch here and there.

She noticed a man crawling beneath the cabin, towards the Sirish tree, away from the elephants. She caught him as he emerged out and snatched his bottle of hooch. Then, she dropped a little hooch on the overgrown grasses in the front yard of the cabin. The elephants turned towards the hooch patch. She created a hooch trail across the street in front of the cabin to the Chalta plantation a mile away.

Approaching the mess, she met two men on watch. They whispered, “Responding to your message.”

It reminded her of the radio and the responsibility. She paged, “Left the herd at the Chalta plantation.”

Breakfast was abuzz with the trick of the hooch trail.. 

Later, walking towards the felling blocks, Madhav said, “Chatterjee, nobody here’s half the woman you are.”

Chatterjee replied, “Don’t even aspire ever. Because transplanted uterus, genitals, ovaries, mammaries won’t give the X chromosome pairs to your every cell. After all, it’s all in our DNA.”

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Have you ever managed wild animals in a weird manner? Let me know in the comment.

Please comment on what you have dis/liked in the story.

Shared with your friends? Why/ Why not put in the comment.

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Would you like to know more about Chatterjee?

This is who she would become very next year: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07NKGLBKT

(Edit: December 18,2021 9:40 AM Indian Standard Time)

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FUEL

Bonky made a dragon. She named it Mycre, shrinking ‘mythical creature’. Her enemies rumored that ‘Mycre’ was Bonky’s gloating about ‘My Creation’.

Making Mycre was nothing impossible after three thousand two hundred thirty two years, since Jesus preached, “... meek shall inherit the earth..”; after one thousand three hundred seventy three years since Charles Darwin’s ‘On the Origin of Species’ was published; after one thousand two hundred fifty six years since publication of ‘The Selfish Gene’ by Richard Dawkins.

Mycre looked fierce, but it was not ferocious. It had sharp curved long nails and teeth. It blew fire, as hot as thousand degree centigrade, for a second, five times in repetition within range of a day. Bonky could change Mycre’s semblance and functions whenever required.

Bonky inculcated several features to Mycre, including biological functions of eating and defecating; emotional aspects like joy and happiness. Bonky trained it to camouflage and speak different human languages. She was cautious in controlling Mycre’s intelligence.

Mycre was put to daily psyche evolution. Its emotional and intelligence indices were never allowed to surpass that of Bonky’s. Bonky, herself, created training and evaluation modules for Mycre. Thus, logical limits of Mycre were set within bounds of her own logical limits. It was necessary to prevent Mycre from becoming a monster.

All these helped Bonky bag the contract of World Fuel Communion (famously known as WFC).

The contract made Bonky travel all over the world. Obviously, she rode on Mycre to the Leladim plateau, like her other destinations.

In the Leladim plateau, people were breeding at the rate of ten children per year by each ovulating woman. None of these women ever stopped ovulating in any of their respective menstrual cycles. As their eggs used to be extracted for artificial insemination and the foetus used to be grown in the uterus of the women in menopause, the plateau became crowded, plagued, morbid and highly viable for the operations of WFC.

The Jandoli river surrounded the Leladim plateau like a horseshoe.  WFC drained all the dams on the river, within a year, through numerous subterranean conduits to distant places for achieving other business goals. Then, the Jandoli river bed was engineered to be a trap door to an earthen container, called Fuel Brewing Chamber (or FBC). The container was engineered to hold people in it at high pressure and temperature that was enough for producing petroleum from their protein and fat, within a few billionth of time compared to what required by the natural processes.

Bonky had six months to finish driving Leladimans to FBC interred in the Jandoli River bed. But the brave, enduring, enterprising, Leladimans delayed the project by eternity. They kept breaking the trap door of FBC and rescuing their friends and relatives almost every time Bonky drove some people there, by threatening to hurt them by Mycre. It compelled her to increase the daily instances of Mycre’s fire belching from five times to fifty times.

Yet Leladimans kept laughing at Mycre. Bonky failed to drive enough Leladimans to meet the target produce, even after a six months extension from the initial deadline. Around this time, WFC withheld Bonky’s remaining payment installments.

Moreover, multiple rupture of the trap door compromised FBC’s engineering.

WFC pinned the failure of the project on Bonky, blaming her methods and scrapped Bonky’s contract. After all, it was scientifically proven that the members of high density populations like the Leladimans lacked compassion for their fellow frail, old, weak, meek and diseased folks.

Then, Bonky fed Mycre ninety three quintals of Yaween leaves. Yaween shrubs used to  smell like rotten feces. Consequently, Mycre suffered from severe flatulence for the entire following week. That week, the target populace of frail, crippled, moribund Leladimans was successfully driven to FBC. The people choked in malodorous air failed to notice the disappearance of their loved ones. 

Yet FBC could yield only a zillionth of the target amount. WFC remained reluctant to conduct business with Bonky.

Recuperating from Bonky’s air attack, the Leladimans started sending their children to Mycre. The children befriended Mycre. They fed Mycre their fruits, vegetables, candies, and cereal. It made Mycre remain so full that it stopped eating Yaween.

Bonky tried to scare the children with her controlled tornado. The children were blown away from Bonky’s camp and were dropped involuntarily on the hard crust of Leladim. Two hundred of them died of broken necks and smashed ribs. Thousands  of them ended up with broken limbs, pelvises and coccyges.

Their parents and friends of their parents rampaged through Bonky’s camp. They broke her lab, smashed her psyche meter, took her supplies for controlling Mycre’s hormones. As the Leladimans started a fire to burn the camp into ashes, Bonky climbed to the back of Mycre and ordered it to take off. Mycre could never disregard Bonky. After all, Mycre was a partial clone of Bonky.

Since then Bonky and Mycre started living in a cave above Zykod cliff. Bonky rebuilt her laboratory in seven days.

Following three months, Bonky worked on devising a technology and succeeded. WFC bought her technology and hired her. It helped them cover their losses in the Leladim plateau.

This technology made the motor vehicle industry happy, too. It eliminated their need for spending on research and development of new engines compatible with new fuel chemistry and associated physical properties. People needed vehicles. Yet, petting a dragon like Mycre could never be affordable for all.

Mycre started playing with the children daily in camouflage of a child in different parks of Leladim City. While returning to the cave, it used to cover its flight tracks.

While playing with the children, Mycre fed  them candies embedded with microscopic devices. Mycre, in the same camouflage, distributed those candies for free to every Leladiman. 

Those devices scrapped Leladiman flesh and guided them along with Leladiman blood as myriad capsules, barely visible to human eyes, to FBC through sewerage, perennially, leaving the affected individuals alive.

Thus, people of Leladim thrived in peace ever after.

*********

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Swept Away #TheGreatWave @WEP

The Great Wave of the Coast of Kanagua

by  Katsushika Hokusai

Warning!

This is not a winning entry to the challenge. Reasons are several:

1. The author of the story does not belong to marginalized groups recognized by Associated Press and its affiliates, followers.

2. The author refuses to be victimized.

3. The author does not belong to any winning races or the races preferred to the winning races for further wining or the nexus between the two.

4. The author disavows ongoing race and gender politics and ECONOMICS of it.

5. The author is not a faminazi. Her female characters are never frail victims. They are all crafty, having their respective ways in good, bad and ugly manners, knowing, “Nice gals never get their ways’. They do not blame misogyny, patriarchy, systematic systemic oppressions, institutional injustice, lack of equality and equity and other ways to ignore individual responsibility.

6. The author does not hold the above criteria with greater importance than research and study (sometimes spanning over decades), plotting, narration, choice of words and other literary crafts for creating her fictions.

7. The author does not care much about winning any challenge, especially subjective ones like literary or artistic challenges, though the author appreciates critique. Because, the author could barely understand that the existence is transient. 

Hence, Have Fun.

______________ 

I have first seen the painting, "The Great Wave of the Coast of Kanagua" by  Katsushika Hokusai, shared along with the prompt of June 2021 by WEP, “The Great Wave”, in my undergraduate Physical Geology text book of my Geology (Major) curriculum. It was associated with the lessons on Tsunami. 

Later as a postgraduate student of Disaster Mitigation, I learnt a story about disaster preparedness and mitigation in the time of Tsunami. I am sharing the story next.

The Japanese Old Man Who Saved the Village by Burning the Harvest

In  a Japanese villages, the villagers used to lay their crops on the hillock for drying. An old man of the village used to be in charge of safekeeping of the crops on the hill, while other villagers used to be busy in preparing themselves for upcoming harvest and crop seasons.

One afternoon the old man on the hillock, while taking care of the harvest thereof, saw that the ocean was receding. Wasting no time, he started a fire on the hillock peak. Seeing the fumes, the villagers from all directions rushed to douse the fire and save their harvest. As soon as the entire village climbed the hillock a tsunami smashed on the village, drowned it and washed it away to the ocean.

The villagers were alive on the hillock. They rebuilt the village. Part of the harvests, too, were saved.

All of it was possible, because of the old man’s experience of receding ocean. The lives saved by the old man at the cost of a little of the harvest, brought many prosperous years to the village. The village remembered the old man’s presence of mind.

___________

Next is my story on the prompt “The Great Wave”.

___________

Swept Away

In our archipelago, Ignatio, in North to South lying four Eastern islands, people were purple during the day and red during the night. They were called Ds. In the nine islands, from North to South, along  Western flank, people were pink during the day and silver during the night. They were Cs. In between these islands were eight islands populated with people who were always grey and called Gs.

Scientists from continents collected DNA samples from the entire archipelago and analyzed. Later, they reported that Ds people had different ions in analogous positions of their DNA compared to Gs and Cs. These ions belonged to a continent afar suggesting a continental drift during geological past.

In Cs DNA those ions were substituted by the ions of similar sizes found commonly in the minerals of Western boundary of Ignatio. In Gs, those ions were absent.

Years ago, Ignatio believed that the mixing between Ds and Cs created Gs. This notion was proven wrong by the anthropologists studying birth records of people born out of the union of Ds and Cs. The offspring of mingling of Ds, Cs and Gs were either like Ds, Cs, Gs or peculiar.

Some peculiar, called Ts, used to exude pink in day and red in night. Zs used to radiate purple in day and silver in night. Some used to have no change of color but remained always mauve or teal or saffron. Others emanated green in day and yellow in night. Initially, they were grouped respectively as Ps, Bs, Es and Vs. 

With passing generations, as more variations of colors cropped out by random union of all groups, it was difficult to mark them with letters of the alphabet. Hence, they all were grouped together as Qs.

Ignatio’s human history comprised lots of political fancy and bureaucratic whim over bestowing privileges to the people of different colors. Ds was the most populated and the poorest. They had the lowest per capita wealth. Cs were the richest people. They were the meanest, too, according to Gs. Because Cs always favored the Ds. Citing poverty, population size and their colors, Ds were given opportunities which were not available for Gs and some of which were available to Qs.

Obviously, Some Ds were among the richest people in the world. Some Cs were found begging on the streets of Ignatio. Gs were hard working farmers, builders, grocers, manufacturers, distributors of products and major service providers. Their businesses largely depended on bulk investment by Cs, rarely by Ds and Gs too.

In the entire archipelago there was always hostility towards Cs. They were often attacked and hacked to death by gangs of Qs, Ds and Gs. Those killings usually revealed that the killed Cs was a thief or counterfeiter of currencies. Mob violence in our archipelago had always been justified.

Properties belonging to all people were targeted and destroyed, in the name destroying Cs who reportedly profited by enslaving Ds, Gs and Qs, hence, must be avenged. Though it was always kept under the rug that Ds kept on enslaving Gs, Cs, Qs and Ds until now. 

I was studying our geologic past. I did not learn much, but got an idea that this archipelago and the whole Earth has never been static. These were always changing, not only in terms of people and power, riches and destitution, but also, with respect to mountains and oceans.

Occasional tremor in Ignatio taught us that all these islands were borne of igneous activities of Earth. Then, continental people published that the tremor patterns of Ds were different compared to the rest of Ignatio. It was established knowledge that mineral chemistry of Ds were different compared to the rest of Ignatio. Intrigued by these facts, my research guide suggested a study along Western shore of Ds. 

Our study revealed that Ds were separated from the rest of Ignatio by an unfathomable trench. Probably, the oceanic plate beneath Ds was sliding beneath one lighter plate to its West and melted in Earth’s mantle, consequently, oozing out on Western oceanic plate the rest of Ignatio.

The anthropologists taking cue from our studies started trying to prove that the Ds were the most ancient people on Ignatio. Some political groups started voicing for more privileges for this most ancient population on Ignatio.

Once, the never ending tremors beneath my feet, for over a month, told me that some devastating changes could be on the way. Either the Ds will cease to exist and will be drowned beneath the rest of Ignatio, into the Earth’s mantle. Or, the entire archipelago would cease to exist, probably by being blown to pieces by a huge igneous explosion, with ashes, bombs and other rock fragments of the explosion completely covering Ds.

Anyway, we needed evacuation to continents. Richest ones fled by private aircrafts. Some rented airplanes. Those who depended on the Government were boarded on a ship along with convicts and patients of mental asylums. Doctors and health workers had separate flights. So patients on the ships remained unattended. Law enforcement officials were evacuating people. So there were no guards to control the convicts. 

From my research copter, one morning, I saw that the ocean was receding East of Ds. I alerted the control copter for final evacuation. They remotely turn on a siren to alert if anyone still remaining in Ignatio. My thermal images pointed out many people in the Ds, a few in the Cs and some in the Gs. I informed their locations to rescue copters. Those people were identified to be convicts scavenging on assets and fighting among themselves over the shares.

Before all of them could be rescued, most of Ds was submerged under a giant wave as high as hundred and twenty feet. Half of Gs  was flooded. Cs suffered some damages.

The ship returned. 

When half a decade later the entire archipelago burst into an igneous heap, people of Ignatio got the colors of continents along with its history, culture and politics. 

**************

Word Count: 1000 (one thousand) Words

Looking forward to vehement and very severe Critique.

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Woke #FreedomMorning @WEP

Commemorating lives and times of Elizabeth Keckley, Frederick Douglas, Horace King, John Sella Martin, Henry Garnet and comparing that with ours.

From, "Behind the Scene or Thirty Years of  

Slave, and Four Years in the White House" by Elizabeth Keckley 

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Woke

“Hey!”, Lizzie's ghost yelled at Okoro.

Before the ghostly shriek could touch Okoro’s eardrum, his hands threw a Molotov cocktail to the dress shop across the street.

Lizzie's ghost loved the shop. Tamara built it at the intersection of North Second Street and Lucas Avenue. Tamara even named it “First Lady Lincoln’s Choice”. Thus, she paid homage to the legacy of her great grandmother, Prissy.

Lizzie herself taught Prissy, a slave girl then, her cutting and fitting techniques, which were later adored by the First Lady Mary Todd Lincoln. Then Lizzie used to live in Saint Louis Missouri, married to James, suffocated by his abuses, excesses and lies.

Prissy passed her learnings to her daughter and granddaughters. Tamara has learned from her grandmother, Josephine, Prissy’s great granddaughter. Tamara’s exceptional sartorial skill fused with her intelligent business moves reminded Lizzie of herself.

Tamara’s burning store gave Lizzie’s ghost the feeling of bleeding welts she got from flogging by Mr. Bingham. Cost of the burned asset might be recovered from insurance but would miniscule fragments of moments of Tamara’s enthusiasm constituting conspicuous countable years into this business be recovered?

Lizzie’s ghost mustered some dust, took form of an oldie, appeared in front of Okoro before he threw another bomb. Okoro failed to shove her off. He groaned in anger.

Lizzie’s ghost asked, “Why are you after this shop?”

Okoro replied, “They’ve fired my friend Keira …”

Lizzie’s ghost expressed concern, “What did she do?”

Okoro explained, “She took money from the register, picked up a dress and a bonnet; she’s working towards repaying; but they’re so impatient! The owners drive fancy cars, they’re wealthy; they could’ve waived Keira’s a few borrowings in a year. That’s how the rich become richer, depriving the poor; this country and its capitalism - Urgh!”

Lizzie’s ghost asked, “Do you understand that Keira not only borrowed from the store owner but also from her poor colleagues? If the owner loses money for Keira's and other employees’ borrowings then they might have to close the store; then there wouldn’t be any employment for Keira and her ilk.”

Then the ghost added, “This country and its capitalism let slaves like Horace King and me buy our freedom, became respectively representative to the State Assembly and Modiste and Confidante to the First Lady. Even before being manumitted, Horace was so influential because of his building skills that the State of Alabama, later a confederate state in deep south, amended  laws, much before the Proclamation of Emancipation, so that Horace could stay in Alabama and build. Don’t they teach these in schools?”

Okoro stalled her, “Don’ know. (I) haven’t been to school here. But traditionally people in this country are racist. White cops kill black people. White folks crave here to enslave the others.”

Lizzie's ghost cast a mirage depicting Horace King, erstwhile slave, whipping John Sella Martin, his slave then, though both had African ancestors. She narrated how Martin endured and escaped slavery and became an abolitionist preacher.

Okoro shrugged, “They’re born here. They never felt estrangement, like me, from mother, five younger siblings flying thousands of miles away from Nigeria.”

Lizzie's ghost quipped “My friend Henry's grandfather was enslaved in Africa itself, by losing a war to another African tribe and, was, later, sold to the Europeans by that tribe.”

She paused for few moments and added, “There's famous Sengbe Pieh, also known as Joseph Cinque, member of Mende People of today's Sierra Leone. Both Henry's grandfather and Cinque were enslaved before being transported as cargo, in brig of ship to the United States, unlike your travel by airplane. They're estranged, too.”

She continued, “My friend Frederick Douglas was separated from his mother by their owner …"

Okoro grew impatient and reflected his grudge further, “They weren’t betrayed by their own father. My father left my mother and us. Until my maternal uncle prodded and goaded me to come here on a diversity visa, I didn’t know that my father could've sponsored our visas! But he never intended.”

Lizzie’s ghost tried to appease Okoro, "So what? I's born slave in this country; my own father, a free White man, made me his slave by some 1662 Virginia law. I didn't give in to feelings of betrayal, bitterness. Instead, I built my life, helped numerous others build their respective lives ...”

Okoro protested, “How can I build life here? Everywhere they ask for racial identity, generously called Affirmative action, basically identifying people by their skin tone or DNA make-up … grossly racist.”

Lizzie’s ghost argued, “Everywhere people are different. Igbo dominated Biafra tried to be separate from Hausa-Fulani dominated Nigeria. Minority tribe, Ibibio doubted their stake in proposed Biafra.”

Okoro whimpered, “It’s not about demography. I hate White people. A white woman got my father after his arrival here …”

Lizzie’s ghost reasoned, “It’s personal then. You’re neither doing Keira a favor nor taking part in a social movement. Just because Associated Press sold you a narrative about victimhood of racism through a South African immigrant of mixed race, you’ve taken part in fashionable violence under peer pressure, driven by your urges of vengeance.”

The ghost continued, “My time saw that violence is White man’s way. John Brown bled Kansas, raided Harper Ferry Arsenal for slave revolution. But he was of English, Welsh and Dutch origin. White man’s newspaper publicized his actions.”

Then she added, “You might call me racist for my views on John Brown and media. Won't you?”

Wee hour’s greyness covered Okoro. He was quiet. Lizzie’s ghost begged him, “A new morning is here. Embrace it. Free yourself from anger. Stay woke.”

Then she dissolved into thin air.

Okoro ran to his uncle’s place, finished filling up and submitting his application form to Saint Louis Community College for a course on telecommunication engineering; tidied himself up, went to work in the neighborhood grocery store.

He realized, “History’s the witness of both conflicts and construction. It’s my choice to take a side and define myself.”

~~~~~~\\\\\\~~~~~~~

Word count: 998 (nine hundred ninety-eight, with hyphenated words, without hyphenated words, 1000 [thousand]) Words.

FCA : Full Critique Acceptable

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If you are impressed by the wonderful theme and the painting associated with it then you MUST check out the initial WEP post laying out the year long challenges here.

 

The Fest #TheKiss @WEP

The Fest

In Saam Ved it was uttered:

 अयं बन्धुरयं नेति गणना लघुचेतसाम्।

(ayam bondhuryam neti gonona laghuchetasam)

उदारचरितानां तु वसुधैव कुटुम्बकम्॥ ७१

(udaracharitanan tu Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam)

meaning,“Parochial minds differentiate between friends and others. Magnanimous minds recognize worldwide family ties.”

*************************

Mou never let Valentine’s day go dry. Even though she was single on the day, she never missed any Annual Kiss Festival at Shahid Minar ground.

Sight of couples in the festival arena brought uneasy awkwardness when she arrived there alone. To prevent awkwardness Mou resorted to explore the Kiss fest adventurously.

The year before last year she approached the cluster of lesbians, looking forward to finding some single souls. Ill-fated she discovered that they mostly came in pairs. However, one liberal couple blessed her with bliss of kiss. Each one favored equal kissing opportunity. So, Mou got two kisses. It was heaven with one and it was stale with the other.

Last year she attempted to disguise as a man to catch some gay kisses. It appeared men were more conservative than the women. No couple were willing to bestow Mou a kiss. Besides, they rated Mou as lesbian. Before the closing bell of the festival, Mou could barely convince one that she was just a woman trapped in a male body.

It was never so discriminatory during the early years of the festival, when Mou first bumped into its arena unmindfully. She was completely oblivious of her festive surroundings until a sudden kiss disrupted her thoughts.

The kisser was generous. He touched Mou’s uvula, bitten her tongue and gave her a clitoral erection yet finished with a calm pinch on her lips and held her head in his palms meeting her ecstatic eyes with a smiling steady brightly shining gaze. Mou felt as if she was in love again. Then the rest of the night they walked along city streets speaking nothing, not even asking each other’s names, communicating only through playing fingers in each other’s palms. At dawn, the next morning, they yawned by the river and took their separate ways not knowing each other’s caste, creed, sexual orientations. It long seemed a dream to Mou. She labelled the phenomenon as one night’s love. The feeling was immortal unlike one night’s stand.

This year things turned weird. The organizers notified via social media that Bharat Rakshak brethren would be present in the arena of the fest to prevent the participants from kissing. They also warned the participants of probable violence by BR. Strikingly, instead of criticizing BR’s parochial ways, the notification thread in the social media buzzed with how Rakshaks resembled the ferociousness of the wild bulls and how intoxicated they must be with the zeal of preserving Indian traditions.

However, the thread was nothing compared to the cleansing endeavors at the festival grounds. COVID pandemic hit the fest enthusiasts hard. The size of the crowd was a hundredth of that of the previous years. Those who came were busy cleaning their mouths by gurgling five times with mouthwashes and abluting their palms five times with sanitizers.

However, the organizers were explaining, over the loudspeakers, India’s historical liberal culture of accepting Shak, Hun, Mughal, Pathan ways of lives. They added how aboriginal people relinquished their urban civilization embracing pastoral power structure of the Aryans. They warned, “If BR attacks you as you start kissing with the gong, give them your kiss, not your fists.”

With the gong of initiating kissing, BR brethren, in distinct yellow shirts, white dhoti and brown scarf around necks, jumped into the field to separate the kissing couples. It was the responsibility of singletons like Mou to thwart the advancing brethren and engage them in kissing so that the couples could carry on.

Before Mou could start, the woman next to her was pulled by her hair by a Rakshak. Instead of hurling that Rakshak with abuses or punches, the woman pulled the Rakshak’s neck and swallowed his lips inside her own mouth.

Inspired Mou pulled a BR by arm and attempted to kiss. The man screamed, “No.”

Surprised Mou asked, “Why?”

The BR replied, “Aren’t you egalitarian? Your ‘No’ means ‘No’, mine isn’t!.”

Probably to clear the air, BR declared, “I’m a Brahmachari. Hence, I must abstain from all amorous rendezvous my entire life and rate all men and women respectively as my brothers and sisters. Hence, I won’t kiss you or let you kiss me, my sister.”

The BR added, “Besides, I’ve sworn to prevent my brothers and sisters from conducting shameless show of lust like the westerners.”

Mou quipped, “Dude, westerners taunt to lustful couples on their streets with, ‘Go, get a room.”

She continued, “Also, we’ve communities where marrying maternal uncle or paternal aunt’s son is perfectly alright. That’s incest for Westerners.”

The BR brought more references, “Sis, kissing is not Indian way to express love. You must know Kamasutra does not speak of kisses.”

Mou lashed her tongue, “Yay, neither it speaks of oral hygiene."

She was already mad. She had almost lost her only chance to have a ritualistic romantic night on Valentine's Day. She continued arguing with an attempt to pay the BR by his own coin, “Don’t you agree that Sam Veda teaches us Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam? Shouldn’t we embrace the occidental expression of love and harmony?”

The BR seemed lacking in logic. Mou opportunistically added, “Kissing’s an expression. None can violate another person’s freedom of expression. It's the constitutional right of each individual in India.”

Then she shrieked, “You and your brethren are thugs. See, how he’s pushing my friend’s ribs…”

The BR tried to reason, “He was attacked sexually and molested by your friend...”

Disheveled Mou argued back, “Why don’t you call the police then?”

The BR responded, “I have called. Leave the ground sister before you get tangled in this mess. Happy Valentines’ Day.”

Then he disappeared in the kissing crowd.

Mou rambled away from the fest arena, lamenting the kiss that was lost to lousy debates. 

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Word count : 946 (nine hundred forty six)

FCA : Full Critique Acceptable

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