Millions of Views Dangling from the Sky

Here’s another day of feeling special. Another day to adore one’s own self with insane inane ideas ideals (intangible thought provoking merchandise from ambiguous sellers pretending to be benevolent thought leaders and social uplifter).... Another day of being as needy, attention begging, victimhood celebrating kaput as possible.

But an occasion is enough for an opportunist like me to post and promote another fiction (my merc)  about a fiery life. 

So no objection to whatever it is …. Here’s the short story …

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Millions of Views Dangling from the Sky

They said, “The hoardings! Arrgh.”

Yes, they said the hoardings were making the city sky dirty. Even they had some taglines, floating without a title, “The faces are covered under the ads.”

I was less than ten years old then. I wanted the truth. I wanted to see how dirty the hoardings were.

My mother was too supportive. She promised herself to fulfill all my wishes. She made it very clear to me even then, before I turned ten.

She went to war against everything that stood against fulfillment of my wishes. It was not easy for me though. But I had her fighting some of my battles.

So when I spilled to her, “Ma, I wanna be up, among those hoardings …” she clearly laid out choices before me, “Either you are on the hoardings or you’re flying much above them.”

It seemed unfair. She asked me to choose between my own wishes. But it was true that the week before I wished to become a fighter jet pilot.

She explained, “To become anything, you’ve to put time and effort. Till you’re twelve or even fourteen, you could have time for both of your goals and some preparations may be the same and some are similar. But after that, there would be a point of no return from which you'd have to choose one or the other. Because, money can be arranged somehow, but time can never be borrowed.”

So my time was divided between advanced level physics, calculus, karate and kathak. I loved all of them like my siblings, which I never had. I could barely leave any one of them. But while flying from my aunt's place at Agartola to home in Kolkata, I realized that jets fly farther above and I could barely see the ground from above, from so high. So, on the decisive birthday, I chose the hoardings.

My mother explained to me very clearly, “Whatever you want to do, do it early. You can never learn a hundred percent of how to live your life. Everybody learns to live by living. So start early.”

So my journey took off on a ramp in the city. Then, I stepped into some beauty pageants. And, before entering the second decade of life, I stood out on those hoardings, in my city and in other cities in the nation and abroad.

My agent loved me. She used to price me the most and used to earn the most from the shares of my performances. She used to pamper me for my eccentricities, too. She put on every contract of the hoardings with my photo that I must have a chance to touch all the flex banners before they were fixed to skyward iron frames. She used to tell the agencies, “Attitude and tantrums, you know.”

She told me, “Better than nagging for a bite from a poisonous cobra.”

I did not understand if I was throwing tantrums or if it was less tantrum compared to the tantrums thrown by my colleagues. But I kept attaching cell fragments from the pupils of my eyes to those flex banners by gummy tapes.

Yes, I was rich by that time. Rich enough to carefully remove a few cells from within my eyes and trap them in between contact lenses, alive with some elixir I purchased from an eccentric chemistry professor from Pinceton.

Rich enough to preserve eggs from my strong young nourished vibrant body in cryogenic fluid to have my biological offspring at a well planned pause in my career from thirty-five to forty-five. If I could not decide about the mate by then, then I would buy sperm. If my body would not support pregnancy, then I would hire a surrogate.

It was the time when I was carefully choosing my expenses and saving a lot for the future. My only fancy was the retina cells scratched from my eyes through the pupils and preserved in the elixir from Princeton.

Sole purpose of this eye cell scratching was to see the surrounding of the hoardings and experience it. Those cells used to send me remote signals from all over the city. It was fun. Seeing the parting between the central incisor teeth of my colleagues, the annoying irregular sudden hair strand in the eyebrow of an world class model even after rigorous photoshopping, the impossible furrows of a six pack in a sculpture like male body.

There used to be the “Aha!” moments, occasionally. In autumn, after sunset the whole sky was painted pink as if by a potion of blood and milk! 

Those moments were, “Finally. I’m part of the scene.”

The solace was that no fighter jet seemed any closer from those high hoardings. They remain as high and as far as they used to be from the ground.

For the change, I once observed a rally of women in blood stenched skirts on the streets below. They claimed that those bloods were menstrual blood.

Funny. Hypocritically funny.

Menstrual blood, if it could overflow, always caught in the hemlines and about six inches above it. It could never seep up against gravity towards the waist. The fakeness of the stance, failed the cause in no time. 

Hand in hand to the fake menstrual blood people came the ‘Me too’ army.

“Fuck ‘Me too’.”

Oops! That came out wrong. “Fuck! What’s ‘Me too’?” 

Did ever anyone touched my body for their sexual pleasure without my consent arousing my discomfort and displasure?

I broke the limbs that sought opportunities with my body.

Didn’t I tell you? I was a karate blackbelt.

Besides, kathak lessons not only made my moves scintillating on the ramps, but they also strengthened my legs. My kicks were jaw breaking. 

Yes, I lost a few jobs. I was hot headed. Thick headed. I was naive and young. Too young. A teenager.

My calculus and physics lessons were too live then for alternative career choices. But I never thought of that. All I knew was that the sneaky losers never had the confidence and courtesy to ask for my permission before touching my breasts and genitals and hence, their lack of confidence would prevent them from assassinating my character and career.
My character and career were not formed yet. I was building my character and career then and any job proposal used to go through my mother. She had a proven iron strong character and a profound career as a Physics professor. Nobody would pay heed to the rumors that she sold me out for a few more bucks. Money was not a problem in my family. Fame was never enough enticing to compromise peace of mind.

After all, my entire life seemed like an experiment of living by the conditions I laid myself.

Those conditions excluded desperation. I never shied away from a quarrel. I enjoyed my fights.

And those brawls with sneaky losers? Those further strengthened my limbs.

Cry babies could never get justice from anyone or institution, administration and all heavy wordy succkers (I should have said ‘pillars’) of society. Cranky bitches could get all and a few bites and beats always sped them up their ways.

Besides, sneaky losers never had enough strength to cancel my assignments on the grounds of their broken fingers, jaws and penises. It would have been the announcement of their respective defeats and attestation of their own characters or lack of characters.

Plural? Yes. There were a few of them.

This hypocrisy, of course, did not kill my wish to hang by the sky. I enjoyed the view of pregnant women doing yoga in the park. I enjoyed swimming elderly people trying to stay fit and celebrating aging.

I found my new philanthropy targets on the streets. I established ‘Schools on the Trucks’ for little kids working on the streets during the day. The trucks were their school and shelter. I purchased spaces and built toilets and bathrooms for them. 

There were similar services and shelters for the elderly people on the streets, too. The sister-in-law of the ex-chief minister of the state was among them. Hence, there were facilities to take care of psychological ailments, too.

My life on the hoardings was paying me enough to keep all these afloat. Besides, there was international recognition followed by national recognition. I was planning to start a career in politics.

I was on my way to a meeting with my agent to discuss the opportunities in politics. A mild storm has just passed. My car was on the downward slope of a bridge. A flex banner came down swiftly on the bonnet of my car covering the entire frontal view of the driver.

The driver stopped the car abruptly. We were not hurt. But the third car on the trail got hit from behind. The rider was an octogenarian neurosurgeon of the city. His vertebrae broke. He later succumbed to his injuries in a city hospital.

That evening I launched my political party. Our primary promise was to clean up the city from ugly and dangerous hoardings and cutouts. 

I had enough of skytime. I was glad that I had. My time in the sky gave me so many purposes and goals in life.  

But it was fatal, not to me, but to others. Since, it had already been made about others, it would certainly bring me win over power.

Then, I could have an opportunity to ride fighter jets, too.

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IF YOU HAVE WRITTEN AND PUBLISHED SOMETHING ABOUT WOMANHOOD PLEASE SHARE THE LINK IN THE COMMENT. IF THE PUBLICATION IS TRADITIONAL AND NO VERSION IS PRESENT IN DIGITAL MEDIUM THEN UPLOAD PHOTOS OF THE WORK AND POST THE LINK OF THE PHOTO ALBUM.

"WE’RE TOGETHER IN THIS." ('This' means scratching each others’ back shamelessly ;P).

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Here’s an older one about a Granny of a Gen Y person: https://projectionofnaught.blogspot.com/2021/08/grannys-philosophy-freedomofspeech-wep.html

Here’s another old one about a Gen Y person: https://projectionofnaught.blogspot.com/2021/12/la-chica-unapologetically-narcissistic.html 

A book of the empowered women, for empowering women by powerful women : https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09GL3HDGK

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Here are some collections of I have liked reading these days:

Witch Hazel by Gabriela Denise Frank : https://iselemagazine.com/2022/01/15/witch-hazel-gabriela-denise-frank/

Bitch, I am (not) a Mother! By Temi Chukwumah: https://iselemagazine.com/2021/12/21/bitch-i-am-not-a-mother-temi-chukwumah%ef%bf%bc%ef%bf%bc/

Oh Womania by Deepa : https://link.medium.com/j5Unumogaob

Too much ado for a review.

A review is the freedom of expression of a reader and/reviewer. I practice that in life.

As an author I simply evolve with reviews and feedback. Feedback helps me make my craft more presentable, helps me polish the nuances and helps me perfect the technicalities.

That is why I rely a lot on beta readers and feedback sessions.

This is the reason that enables me to weed out entrepreneurial statements in the form of feedback and reviews. The entrepreneurs play with the quandary and general statements like, “Your piece needs edits'', “Needs edit”, “There are misplaced articles and prepositions.” “The sentences are clunky.”, and also “I could not read a single page of your book as the file is not formatted properly and words have been breaking in the middle of lines, at page breaks.”, “I can format your file as the words have been breaking here and there.”

I do always ask from this “format” issue raisers to share a screenshot of the damaged file. They never revert. If they revert, they say, “Can’t share the screenshot.”

I laugh. If you are technically so efficient that you can format my files better than I do, then why can’t you share a screenshot of the damaged file?

The “edit” issue group is subtler. They never ask “I can edit.” Instead they put separate ads for their editing business. Besides, they never mention which article is missing and where the preposition is wrong. They always play with generality. Because, when your piece is a hundred thousand word plus document, then it will be cumbersome to hammer every loose piece in place. Thus, with respect to editing, infinity is the limit. 

Artificial intelligence has not been as good as it has been since 2020. AI eliminates ninety per cent of proofing errors now. AI is now smart enough to resolve simple grammatical issues. But it still messes up a lot of complex phrases. Besides, language evolves like living beings. Grammar codifies the dominant usages. Often we forget that usage first, grammar later. The reason is that language is used by all, literature is pursuit of many, as creator and as consumer, but linguistics is not attractive to many. Nothing is attractive to all. 

However, reviewers can speak of anything from grammar to structure to packaging and everything. A specific review is always more transparent than vague mentions of errors. Mention of errors never downgrades the rating (the stars). Ratings come as a result of wholesome reading experience. 

Recently, I have reviewed a book with a lot of mention of its errors. While in the review I have mentioned only Developmental (Back story/world building) errors and Structural (Plot) errors I have ignored the unappealing writing and lack of proofreading. Since, I managed to finish the book even with all the lacunae I have gone for a five star. [I have read far worse books.] I have explicitly justified that even though I was not all praise about it, I find it more or less good writing and hence I was going with five stars.

The author reached out to me and asked me to change my rating to “One star.”

I have denied respectfully and mentioned that I have already justified my rating in the review. Putting my best foot forward, I suggested she should correct the proofing errors with a pointer like what error at which page. She came after me challenging my credentials as reviewer! She wrote, “You know nothing about the rating system.”

Condescension? 

Seen that. Digested that. Life has taken me to strange places and to strange people.

I don’t get into rat fights [I don’t want to use cliched phrases “rate race” and “cat fight”, I am trying to create unique phrases with the same effect]. I avoid them. I don’t read to show the Goodreads community that I have been reading. Because, like everyone else, I have been reading since I have become literate. I have read classics during Moroccan leather binding with golden lettering days of books. [Oh! I’m ancient. Yes, I wasn't born yesterday.] I read to make myself happy. I don’t rate books. They are part of my experience. I have discussed them with friends at length.

The particular review I am bitching about was not in want of killing the readership of the book. While it has been honest with its mention of errors in the book, it never mentioned where the book has failed. [More about that in the next paragraph] Instead, the review highlights that even with the inconsistencies, the book is perfectly readable.

If I would have harm in mind then I would have written, “For a fiction of erotic romance genre, this book failled all from ‘Fanny Hills’ to ‘Fifty Shades - Sereis’. Even in ‘11 Minutes’, the 2003 novel by Paulo Coelho, the erotic culture of ‘Bondage and Discipline, Dominance and Submission, Sadochism and Masochism’ were treated as passe and perversion. The success of ‘Fifty Shades - Sereis’ was in making the hither to unpopular erotic ways of BDSM maninstream and poplar at household levels. ‘Fanny Hills’ is remembered for its literary nuances where it never named the genitalia by common or scientific words. Instead, it used descriptive words to create perfect sense. This book is neither as arty as ‘Fanny Hills’. Nor is it as powerful as ‘Fifty Shades - Series’. Above all, unlike Mills & Boon, the intimate moments felt to create arousal.”

That is why I am not sharing the name of the book. Not sharing the screenshots of my messenger window.

If I would have put a one or two or three star rating with my review, then I would have been ridiculed to be of ‘vernacular’ culture, of feeble mind and bucolic vocabulary or clunky expressions.  That’s what happens in general. Instead of understanding that the language is the vehicle of litterateur and tool of the author, one school always argued that the English should always be of Queen’s, with intermittent bumps in reading for totally unknown words. The other school preached, English should be en masse, ‘chalta hai, yaar’ type. Language of literature can be both and many things else (adverb sense) [I am aware of the phrase ‘anything else’. This is my blog so I’m playing a lot.]

Besides, most of the community moderators [online and offline] set the rules as if the moderators themselves are above the rules. As if the rules are for minions. That is why I prefer not to take prominent part in any community activities.

I reviewed the book as a fraternal gesture. Now, my freedom of expression has been attacked.

I am not worried. Just annoyed, hence sharing.

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Please comment. Share your views Let’s celebrate Freedom of Expression.

The India Complex

  Sayan was pacing up and down in the conference room. His father was sitting by the narrow end of the long table in the room. If asked, his father would say, “Not bored at all. I’m reading the newspaper. I always carry it along whenever I am going for a meeting with someone.”

If asked, he would even reply, “There’s no waste of my time. Time’s all I have. I have more than plenty. My problem is killing it. Every now and then I’m short of tricks to kill it.”

Sayan’s wife, Abby, was fiddling with a cell phone. WIth an electronic sound she shouted ecstatically, “Blew it.”

Sayan hissed. He was annoyed at all the noise in the room. Sayan’s father laughed out loud. Then he suggested, “Abby, let’s go outside, stretch legs and drink tea.”

Abby stretched her arms over the table. She was sitting by the middle of the table and, thus, by its widest part. Then, she replied, “Nope, old man. You save the tea for my old man.”

Sayan declared, “They seemed lost at the building entrance. I’m going to grab them.”

Abby sank further into her cell. Sayan’s father dived again into the pool of news.

Ten minutes passed. A man entered the room and served water to Abby and her father-in-law.

Ten minutes later Sayan entered the room. An elderly couple followed him. Sayan’s father tried to stand up. But he rolled over the wheels of his chair over the straps of his sandal. He got caught in untangling the strap.

Sayan pulled chairs near Abby. But the couple ignored those chairs and went forward to Sayan’s father and sat on his both sides. The woman, on his left, asked, “I don’t see Ms. Moitro. Is she alright?”

  Simultaneously the man asked, “How long have you been waiting, Moitro Moshai?”

Moitro moshai replied, “Lady’s first.”

Then he turned to the woman and replied, “She had a performance today with her band. As far as I know she shares her performance videos with you over WhatsApp… Hadn’t she told you about today’s program?”

The woman answered, “Nope. I am going to have a talk with her.  She begged me to come. She said if don’t show up then Abby may be disheartened. She never said a thing about her show. She made me be here so that she can skip.”

Moitro Moshai responded, “I didn’t know that. Let her leave alone. How are your knees? Are they aching? What’s the doctor say?”

The man answered, “She never listens to the Doctors. She’s her own doctor. Let’s leave her. Would you have tea?”

Abby quipped, “Told you to save the tea for the man who ignores her own daughter in excitement of meeting his daughter’s father-in-law.”

Sayan moderated, “It’s not a picnic. We've got a flight to catch. Hence, no one is stepping outside this room until my job is done.”

A woman entered and announced, “Mr. Moitro, here’s the final draft.”

She left on the table a bunch of papers with a hundred rupee stamp paper on top of it. Sayan sat by Abby with the papers. Abby brought out a small folded piece of paper from her purse and unfolded it. Sayan fished out a pencil from a pocket of his backpack. Abby read from the unfolded small paper, “Name, spelling, father’s name, spelling; check yours then I’ll check mine. In the last draft they wrote my surname Moitro while none of my identity documents have “Moitro” as my surname.”

Sayan grumbled, “Nasty and cheap tricks to start unnecessary fights . They had copies of your identity documents. Yet they miswrote your last name. They could’ve called us to check if they’re confused about the last name. Morons!”

Abby made a shushing sound through narrow tunnels she made with her lips. Sayan stopped badgering and paid attention to the job in hand. He said, “Flipping page one.”

Abby said, “Para two, Sentence two, one thousand four hundred square feet.”

Sayan repeated, “Para two, Sentence two, one thousand four hundred square feet.”

Moitro moshai exclaimed, “You have the draft on your phone!”

Abby’s father murmured, “I asked Abby to print the pages…. Phone’s screen is small, if they miss anything between small sized letters..”

The woman scolded, “Stop it. They are adults; a married couple. They know how to deal with things. They have been dealing with things all over the world without your support for more than a decade now. They don’t need your badgering. Besides, you can’t handle mobile technology and you think no one else could. You don’t even know that they can enlarge the letters.”

The man said in response, “Whatever. I would keep badgering to keep her cognizant all the time. I am her father after all.”

Moitro Moshai supported, “Correct, Toru babu.”

The woman murmured, “It would have been better if you two would have gone out for tea.”

Toru Babu criticized, “Why are you so anxious that my suggestions may offend her?”

Moitro moshai seconded, “Same at my home. Ever since my son started working, his mother always finds my opinion at fault.”

By this time, Sayan pushed his chair back and declared, “All checked.”

Abby said, “Go, grab them. We’re waiting for two hours, with all the witnesses ready for the last one hour. Why are they delaying the execution of the registration now?”

Sayan went outside. The man in a T-shirt entered with cups of fuming tea. Toru babu shouted in excitement, “Tea!”

Moitro moshai, Toru babu and the latter’s wife started sipping tea. Abby walked up to their end of table and said, “Next month you’re coming to Bangalore. I’ll book appointments with the Orthopedic Surgeon and I’ll get you checked.”

Sayan entered the room and looked at Abby. Abby walked to him, He said, “There’s a legal issue. The fee of the registration has been doubled. At the time of starting of the project, the street in front of the plot was thirty feet wide. In the past three years, it has been widened to sixty feet. Hence, the rate of the registration for any construction on the plot has hiked.”

Abby commented, “So what? That’s totally legal and we’re paying the revised fee for registration.”

Sayan left the conference room. Abby started strolling along the lengths of it. She was weighing her options. She had arrived at the point where the clerk from the registrar’s office would ask for a bribe.

Whatever her father and Sayan’s father would suggest, she was determined to pay the bribe and fulfill the purpose of her current visit to Kolkata. Otherwise, the money she spent on the flights would keep her biting every now and then.

She was thinking oblivious of her surroundings, “I cannot afford a delay. I must arrive in Bangalore tonight and must have a good night’s sleep. I’m starting a new job tomorrow. It’s not a new company, but in a new role with a pay hike and more  responsibilities. None in my old team wanted me to have this. There would be many in the new team to bite my back, naturally. I must not miss the flight this evening.”

Sayan appeared and hummed, “They’re saying that the registration cost can be halved, to the cost if the road would have been thirty feet wide,  if we pay five thousand rupees to the clerk from the registrar’s office. Cash only.”

Abby was ready more than ever, “Then find an ATM. Withdraw five thousand rupees or thirty-five thousand rupees, as needed. Let’s get over this. Let’s finish here ASAP.”

Sayan went back to them. Abby was so deep in her thoughts that she did not notice when she left the conference room and stepped into the lounge. She returned to her senses by abuses, “Shalah, Son of a Bamoon.”

She noticed the speaker is a dark man in white shirts and gray pants with jade black hair. Under hairline, his skin was lined up to give his age around the funny side of the fifties. Also the lines on his forehead were mocking the fake black on his hair. His slim figure was carrying his shirt almost like a hanger. Without the shirt, he could have been mistaken for a wooden plank. All his fingers were scintillating with gems of different colors. A turquoise, a topaz, a ruby, a moonstone, a pair of garnets, both white and red corals and a ring of iron were the occupants of his fingers leaving the thumbs. A thick garland of knots on a red thread with dark twigs fastened to it was slipping from his right biceps to the elbow.

He was talking over his cell phone. The phone was not on loud speaker mode, yet the person on the other side was audible. The man kept a gap between the speaker and his ear while holding the phone.

Abby heard, “Is the man in the party a dwarf? You should not be harsh to them. These days they can slap you with a misdemeanor lawsuit.”

The man replied, “Are you a Bengali? I meant Brahmin. In my neighborhood the Brahmin lady used to drive us away like animals if we, the lower caste boys, ever tried to tear a fruit or a flower from her garden. She used to ask us not to touch her flowers and fruits as she dedicated those to her God. She claimed our touches would make the fruits and flowers unholy. Since her, I can’t stand a Bamoon.”

Abby was drawn to the conversation. The voice on the other side chattered, “Ow! That’s why you’re vying for five thousand rupees instead of standard three thousand. It’s your revenge on the oppressive upper caste, I see. It’s the revenge that made you enroll as scheduled caste, though you’re not the real Namahshudra but a Vaisya!”

The man was very annoyed, “What do you mean? There are Brahmins and Kayasths. Rest of us, scheduled or not, are exploited by them. Since when have we become puritans?”

The voice on the other side quipped, “I’m not. But you did not let your son marry his Harijan girlfriend. You still roar, ‘not in my lifetime, not in my house’. That’s why I never asked you to set up my youngest brother with your daughter.”

The man fumbled, “I did not know that you would bring my personal things in the matters of the office.” 

Then he started with rejuvenated enthusiasm, “All those years Bamoons danced above our heads. Now, Independent India has made us powerful. Why don’t we make use of it and put the Bamoon in his new place! And don’t pretend that you’re the righteous here. You, and your Mochi self, too, enjoy your share from the monthly collection…”

The voice on the other side was curt, “So does Mookherjee. What’s the advantage here for you Saha Babu if we extract an extra two thousand from a Brahmin and pass it onto another?”

Saha Babu tried to strike a balance, “Look we’d give the standard  three thousand to the collection of the department. The remaining two thousand we would divide equally between you and me.”

Mochi or the other voice seemed in agreement, “Sounds like a deal.”

Then the voice reflected some eagerness, “Now give me the name of your Bamoon, I have to close at least two more deals today before the closing of the portal by four o’clock.”

Saha spat his gutkha juice into the planter of Erica palm kept by the corner of the lounge. Then he fished out a chit of paper from a hidden chest pocket of his shirt. Then he uttered, “Moitro.”

Abby found her feet were hooked into the lounge. She was thrilled that her instincts were correct about the bribe monger clerk of the registration office. But she never thought that Sayan’s caste would be a factor that may increase the bribe amount.

The shock in the voice of the other side was hilarious, “You meant the document of Sayan Moitro?”

Saha expressed his affirmation, “Yap.”

The voice shouted, “It’s a joint property. With a Muslim!”

Saha seemed shaken, “What?”

 He changed his laid back posture into an upright one.  

The voice repeated, “Yes. Aren't you at the office of Tortoise Properties?”

Saha affirmed, “Yes, I am.”

The voice added, “They are registering the flat in Skylark Apartments at Sulanguri.”

Saha agreed, “Correct.”

The voice confirmed, “The party is not only Sayan Moitro son of Sadhan Moitro but also some Nenmini Tariq Aabidah daughter of Nenmini Abdur Tariq.”

Saha seemed perplexed, “How come? The woman is wearing a bindi. Even her mother is wearing one, too. None of them are in burqas!”

The voice from the otherside threw his two cents in a know-it-all tone, “That’s it. Taqiah. The perfectly religious deception. The Muslims always do that.”

Saha tried to get back to his nonchalance, “I have heard that the Muslims came by their own car. I was thinking of a Bamoon with rich in-laws. Hence, I was thinking of five thousand for our job.”

The voice rectified, “Add two more thousand rupees. Fine for deception and being rich. These extra two, too, for us only; not a paisa of these would be shared. Neither with Mofizool, nor with Mookherjee.”

Saha agreed, “Needless to say. This Bamoon and the Muslim must pay more than anyone else. They have done an obnoxious thing.”

The voice repeated, “Obnoxious and heinous. They married outside their own religions!”

Abby could not watch the drama anymore. Sayan was calling. She left the lounge and entered the conference room to respond to the call. But the call was disconnected by then. She rang back.

Sayan was anxious, “Hey, No luck with the ATMs. I have walked upto College Moar. Here the ATMs are out of cash. We can’t miss the flight. Let’s postpone the registration.”

Abby was perplexed. The idea of traveling this far for nothing irritated her. She felt helpless. Also, she realized that next time the bribe could be higher.

If they would somehow figure that Abby’s not Bengali but Keralite then they would hate her more. Her fluent Bangla would then be considered as deception, too. Nobody would pay due respect to the agility of her Malayalam mincing tongue. None would appreciate her parent’s endeavor to assimilate in the Tollygunge crowd and live like Bengali and prepare fish curry with fried pieces of fish. All her life she paid more attention to Durga Puja than Onam. But that was probably her existential strategy and not her broadmindedness. At least this plank like man and the voice across his cell phone could interpret things like this.

Sayan was expecting a response from her. He badgered, “Hello, are you there?”

Abby reluctantly uttered, “Come back. Got to catch the flight.”

Sayan entered the conference room with a battalion behind him. Among them was Saha. A go-to man, evident from his over enthusiasm in the event, laid out the fingerprint scanner, camera and all other devices and powered them up.

A woman in the uniform of the employees of Tortoise Properties approached Abby with a print out and explained, “Ma’am we’re extremely sorry. Systems at Mr. Saha’s office aren't allowing his counterpart to edit information about the road in front of the apartment and also their system is not allowing to edit your final payment amount. You’ve to pay the entire registration fee as appeared on their computer.”

Abby just passively acknowledged, with apprehension of what was about to come next, “Ok.”

The woman showed her the figures on the print out, generated from an email with domain names of the State Government. Abby saw a link on the print out. Then she noticed that she received an email from the same domain name. 

She found the invoice and payment link in that email. The link led her to pay into the current account of the State Government. She even got an electronic money receipt.

She expected to receive the electronic copy of the deeds just after the fingerprint scanning and photo capture was completed. But the go-to man informed Sayan and her , “Once the registrar’s office receives your fingerprint and your photo from us, they’ll finalize your deeds. Both the original and a certified copy would be with your financier. The financier would let you know when and where you can collect the certified copy.”

Abby asked, “Won’t there be any notification from the Government registry office?”

The go-to man answered, “We’ll try to have one. Maybe you’ll get one when you buy your next flat, three to five years later.”

Then he grinned wickedly.

 Sayan was explaining things to Toru Babu and Moitro Moshai as they finished signing for the witnesses. Abby’s mother was asking Saha about his astrologer.

Abby asked the go-to man, “How much cash would Saha take?”

The go-to man grinned again. This time triumphantly, “None. His trick was showing properties downsized and reducing the amount of the revenue payable to the Government. We don’t ask for property size reduction as in multi storeyed apartments all types of apartments are defined by their respective sizes, we cannot alter one in a particular floor for a particular client. Sometimes clients insist on downsizing the property on paper. Then, Saha earns balck money. Since you haven’t asked for downsizing…”

Abby was surprised, “Even in 2019, years after demonitization, people are seeking bribes and people are greasing those palms.”

Sayan called, “Abby, it’s time. Say bye to Kaku, Kakima.”

Toru Babu said, “We’ll drop Moitro Moshai on our way back home. Wish you a safe journey.”

Abby’s mother said, “Call me and Ms. Moitro as you reach your flat. Whatever may be the time.”

Moitro Moshai badgered, “Book a cab. Hurry.”

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Indian Citizenship Decoded

A Hundred Years to the Life

             

         Toronto went under a blanket of snow in November of 1921, as usual. With the holidays around, it was difficult to find a doctor for Leonard.

Leonard had been ill awhile. His breathing filled his room with the smell of fruits. Florence was running up and down the stairs. Harry was about to bring the doctor. 

Florence had nothing in mind other than prayer and fear. Kneeling by Leonard’s bed she was murmuring, “God, please don’t take Leonard from us.”

Earlier in the week, Leonard was calling Cecil now and then. He used to be a perfect big brother to Cecil. Cecil was five years younger than him.

Harry went to serve his country in the front during the war. Then Cecil just started walking. Two years later, Harry learned by a letter from Florence that the toddler he left at home was no more. Each word in that letter was soaked in teardrops of a heartbroken mother. It was five years ago.

Few weeks ago, Leonard was frequenting the bathroom. Harry scolded him, “Can’t you finish your work before going to the bathroom?”

Florence smiled and protested, “He’s only fourteen, leave him.”

Then she added, “He’s now too hungry. He always asks for extra cheese and salami after breakfast… even after meals.”

Meanwhile, Florence was worried when Leonard started complaining about a disgruntled bowel. Yet, she did not lose her patience, until Leonard started getting confused about his whereabouts and losing the sense of days and nights. It was the time when Florence first confided in Harry about Leonard’s condition.

Harry thought of consulting doctors after Thanksgiving. But his fear of losing Leonard drove him to find a doctor right away. The trauma of losing Cecil was still gnawing at him.

The doctor tested Leonard’s blood sugar. It was alarmingly high. Then the doctor put Leonard on a diet. It did not lower Leonard’s blood sugar. Within days, he started losing weight drastically.

Few miles away from the anxious home of Harry J and Florence Thompson, scientists at the University of Toronto hit a roadblock in their research. Dr. John James Rickard Macleod declared, “No more surgical removal of dog pancreases in my lab.”

Charles Best, the expert in blood sugar measurement, was disappointed, “That ends our experiment. The success we’ve seen so far would go nowhere.”

Principal researcher Dr. Frederick Grant Banting suggested, “I’m going tomorrow to the nearest William Davies slaughterhouse.”

Dr. Macleod asked, “Would insulin from beef and pork work as good as that from dogs?”

Dr. Banting did not come this far to accept further human death due to Type One diabetes. A year ago, he had read about creation of insulin in the cells comprising islets of Langerhans, within the pancreas. He also noted their slower decay compared to surrounding pancreas. Since then, he was confident about curing diabetes by insulin injections. He only needed to further an experiment he had read about to extract insulin. Insulin injections revitalized diabetic dogs at Dr. Macleod’s lab . Those dogs got diabetes after their pancreases were removed surgically.

Dr. Banting assured, “Provenance of insulin doesn’t matter. Only concentration matters. Concentration varies from species to species. We need to find appropriate concentration for our test dogs and then for the humans.”

Dr. Macleod proposed, “I’ll bring James Collip. He’s a biochemist. He’d purify canine and cattle insulin to get insulin of different concentrations.”

A month passed. Collip purified cattle insulin and administered them on the test dogs. Best found that the cattle insulin was working fine on diabetic test dogs.

The team of four was eagerly waiting to try their methods about insulin injections on diabetic humans. It was the most important and the ultimate step in the experiment. Their colleagues at all the hospitals in Toronto were aware of their needs.

Around this time, Thompsons were reeling under bereavement of their child, Cecil, and was worrying about the health of the firstborn, Leonard. The horror for Harry and Florence heightened one afternoon.

Leonard went to the bathroom. He was taking longer than usual. Florence started knocking on the bathroom door and asking, “Leonard, are you alright?”

Leonard responded a few times. Then he stopped.

Florence called Harry. Harry asked a few times, “Son, come out, your mother’s worried.”

There was no response from Leonard.

Then Harry announced, “I’m coming in, Son.”

He forced open the bathroom door. They found Leonard lying on the floor, soiled in feces, soaked in urine.

Florence started cleaning Leonard then and there. Harry rushed to Leonard’s room and brought clean clothes from the dresser. They together changed their boy.

Then Harry picked Leonard’s head up and Florence took the feet. The parents carried their son to his bed.

Since then, Leonard came to senses intermittently, only to talk deliriously. Sometimes, he was talking to his playmates, sometimes to the boys in the school, gradually sinking deeper down in an unfathomable realm of unconsciousness. The doctor asked Harry, “Try a hospital, now.”

Toronto General Hospital contacted Dr. Macleod’s lab for Leonard. Yet, Banting and the team were hesitant. They doubted if the Thompsons would allow them to treat Leonard with insulin extracted from animals.

Florence told them, “Leonard’s all that we have. Please, save him.”

Harry emphasized, “We’re ready to go at any length to save his life.”

Collip injected canine insulin on January 11, 1922, into Leonard and said, “Congratulations. You’re the first human to receive external insulin.”

Becoming history appeared painful. Leonard’s needle puncture grew into an abscess. His ketone levels shot high. His blood sugar level lowered, though.

Collip went back to the anvil. He burned the midnight oil. After twelve days of toil, he purified canine insulin further. It saved Leonard’s life.

In 1922, Banting and Macleod gave away the patents for commercial production of insulin from beef and pork. Countless lives have been saved from Type One diabetes, since then, a hundred years ago.

Following year, Banting and Macleod were awarded the Nobel Prize for Medicine or Physiology.

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