We need true artists

To a casual bystander he looked like a dumb cow gaping at a vast plain of greenery. The analogy isn't quite inapt. On his screen were some of the best stories he ever read. He wondered how he had never found this online or how those stories never made it to a published book. Kesari, upon being informed by his mom, decided to read these himself. A feeling of pity for the author who, he now certainly believed, had a flair and talent for writing, mixed with disappointment, anger and other feelings he couldn't quite name filled him. He was about to leave comments for the author but then desisted - for more than one reason.

He, still in a state of shock, hesitantly switched off his laptop. His movements were slow and dazed. The light in his room was switched off. He had started reading the stories early in the afternoon with an estimate that he'd be done in an hour or so. He looked at his watch now to realize it was well over 5 hours now. And then it was only a set of short stories he had read. He was surprised how he never realized so much time passing. The stories just gripped him. And when he tried to decide which the best of them was, he couldn't. They all seemed amazingly simple, yet interesting; unique in that they were different stories and genres, yet common and comparable in that they were all good reads. No wonder, then, time flew by while he didn't realize it.

Presently the room was dark. He was still. The room was calm. Or so it seemed, considering the clutter in his head. No other noise seemed to penetrate the room. His mom was perhaps in the kitchen, making preparations for a delicious dinner. His mind diverted for a bit to his mom's cooking. Her dishes were a blessing for anyone's tongue. He thought they were even a privilege. He decided that whoever had an occasion to be privileged to taste his mom's cooking was blessed. He thought about his father. He thought about the entertaining stories that his dad told him about his college-time romance with his mother. His mind returned to his main chain of thoughts. His face became grim now. He remained seated on his couch.

He didn't want to move until he cleared the rubble from the storm in his mind. It was barely a minute from when his face became grim when he picked up the phone. His movements were not as slow as when he had switched off his laptop and reclined on the couch thinking all his thoughts. His fingers frantically searched and dialed his dad's cellphone number.

In the room designated Senior Vice-president (SV), on the eleventh floor of the building, a bald man in his early fifties was standing by the window. It opened to the west. Pavan Jandhyala, the SV of a medium scale company which dealt with consultancy of embedded systems and microprocessors - design, development and testing, had watched the sun sink into the sea. His brows were furrowed and his forehead had wrinkles that come to a man who thinks a lot. Those who knew him closely - his family and friends - would always say, "He thinks a lot! And sometimes it is unnecessary to think so much." His answer would be, "I can't stop my thoughts. They are just an integral part of me. And as for the usefulness of my thoughts, I never think of it. I don't think a lot. I just think." On occasions when he'd want to be funny he'd just say with a wink, "You don't want me to think about the usefulness of my thoughts, do you? That is not just ironical, but also adds to the thoughts I think."

This is about the time he generally walks about in his room if he isn't in a meeting. He kept himself physically active all his life. If not rigorous exercise, he made sure he walked often, took stairs to immediate floors. His generally serious thoughts never took the humor out of his public or social face. While people half his age, let alone contemporaries, moved about with a slouch, he would walk upright and with quick and long steps.

Pavan was just left with some files related to the client for the day. It would take him hardly an hour, he estimated. He had to read the requirements for some of them. For others he had to read about the clients and their background so as to be able to give the best consultation for how they should design their product. He took pride in his work. He earned it through his merits. His position as a SV, was a natural result of his smartness, assiduous work and professional ethics. Before getting back to his work, he wanted to clear the clutter in his head. Sometimes he wondered if he really gave things more thought than was necessary. If so, he wished he didn't do that. His work life was smooth. His personal life was not something to cheer about. He decided to get himself a mug of coffee from the pantry.

At that precise moment his cellphone rang. He turned towards the table and walked up to it to see who it was that wanted to add noise to his disturbed mind. With a peeved face, he read the screen. His face mellowed a bit, only for a moment. He answered, "Yeah!" The voice on the other end was soft and appealing.

"Dad... Can we meet in the coffee shop near your office? I want to speak to you about something important."

The coffee shop near Pavan's office was about about a couple of kilometers away but it was not the distance that he was bothered about.

"You need money for something?” he said in an austere tone bordering on callousness. At least that's the way he wanted to sound - callous.

There was a deep exhale on the other end. Pavan knew his son didn't like the tone. He anticipated it. But he didn't care. At least that's what he wanted to show. What he didn't anticipate, though, was that his son's voice would continue to be soft and appealing. But then that was because he wanted money or some such favor as usual, he thought. Or was his mind thinking unnecessarily now?

His son continued, "I need your guidance dad. I need your help. And that's why I want to meet you urgently before you get back home."

In choosing his words to get the best result, Kesari couldn't have done better than that. He was smart and he knew how to please people. He was, after all, his father's son. He had a secret admiration for his father's tact and was conscious that he inherited his tact and glib ways from his father. Kesari came across as an irresponsible, careless, happy-go-lucky person, but when he had to or when he wanted to, he could melt hearts. He could nicely talk a person into his way though often, he'd just choose to be rash and speak as if he never cared about the other person's wishes. By emphasizing on the words, "need guidance" and "need your help" he broke the ice between him and his father.

Pavan, with more furrowed brows and intense gaze into nothing particular while his mind's eye was trying to discern the view on the other end of the call, asked, "Something that urgent eh? Where are you?"

"I'm at home but I wanted to speak to you at your favorite coffee shop. I owe you some time and I wished to discuss some things with you. Please dad!"

"Okay! How long will you take to be there at the shop?"

"I'll be there in not more than half an hour."

"Sounds fine. Don't keep me waiting."

"I won't. Bye dad!"

"Yeah. Okay."

Kesari noted that his dad didn't end with a "Bye." That is a sign of anger. The extent of anger, though, was not as much as when he disconnects the call without saying even so much. He knew his dad would be confused by this call. His dad would surely be wondering about the motive behind such a call. But then he knew, his dad was giving him a chance. Otherwise, the invitation to the coffee shop would have been declined. He often felt his father was ruthless to him. "Yeah I know he tells me stories of how a caring father should be ruthless to his child for the child to be surviving, thriving and succeeding. Yeah I know the story of how the zebra kicks its newborn to stand up and get walking, instead of caressing and pampering, because if it didn't do so, a predator would soon be feasting on the newborn. But then he takes it to extremes," he'd often think or say to himself.

Without further thought, he washed his face. Splashing water on his face brought about calming his mind. He could almost hear his mind hissing as thought it were a hot pan being cooled by a splash of cold water. It also physically cooled his head. He went to the kitchen to drink water. His mother, a lady of late forties and just about getting to fifties but hardly looking a day older than forty, greeted him. She was of slim to medium build and her hair was just about graying. Her face had a radiant smile and her eyes were pretty and expressive. Looking from a third person's perspective, Kesari often wondered if his dad wasn't plain lucky to have such a pretty wife. Surely in those days his mom would have been very pretty and attractive. To add to her beauty was the fact that she was an engineer just like his father. By no means was she a beauty without brains. She voluntarily quit professional career to take up his upbringing. As a kid, Kesari would wonder why his mom married his dad because looks-wise they didn't seem to match up so much. "Oh no Chinna (Little one/son)! He was the best man. He was humorous, smart, talented, tactful, intelligent and caring. He looked fine too," she'd explain. On different occasions, she'd patiently explain why those qualities were what she valued a lot in a person who was to be her husband. But it was only as he grew up, as his naive mind developed, that he understood what his mom meant.

"Did you fall asleep Chinna? I thought you did, and so didn't disturb you."

"No Maa! I... was uhhmm... reading the stories. Didn't realize the time."

To Kesari, his mother's voice always had the effect of a lullaby to a restless baby, a cow's moo to call its calf - gentle, pacifying, soothing and affectionate.

Presently his mother uttered an "Oh!" She momentarily looked at him to see if he was continuing to speak. He didn't seem to be continuing. So she turned back to her work, hiding her inquisitiveness. After all, she had suggested that he should try those stories.

"Maa... I am going to meet dad near his office. Will be back with him for dinner." He hugged her from behind and kissed her as he said, "Bye!"

Immediately as the door shut Pushpa wondered what it was all about. What was Kesari up to? Although surprised, she was confident it was something positive that her son was up to. Father and son clashes were not known to her as a topic or by experience. She was the only child of her parents. She only heard from her mother-in-law how it used to be when her husband had fights with his father. Of late Pushpa was seeing a lot of fights. She was worried about the latest one because this time her husband didn't seem to want to budge. Her son wouldn't listen too. For about a week now there was a cold war in their home. They both were not speaking to each other. She just let them both be but it didn't seem to settle like their usual ego clashes.

"It is hard when both father and son are similar in attitudes, have an ego and are adamant," her husband's mother would recount to her some incidents from the past. "As a wife and mother, your job is the toughest, you will be tested and pressurized, but you have to care for both of them. That is a challenge which, in the words of professionals, if successfully completed, adds to your resume in your homemaking career," she once said to Pushpa with a chuckle when Pushpa sought her advice.

Pushpa closed her eyes for a moment praying that all should be well soon and then got back to her work.

Kesari was riding his bike to the coffee shop. On the way he stopped at a printing shop to take prints of some mails. Pavan liked coffee. It brought him a sense of calm and a feeling of strength. He was amused at how his son called him up to speak to him after about a week of avoidance. More than that it was the timing of his call - just when he was about to get himself coffee from the pantry. "You never know why some things happen the way they do, but you have got to let them happen. It is God's way of surprising you." That is what he learned from his mother.

He informed his immediate subordinates and the receptionist that he was leaving for the day. And within ten minutes of the call he was out of his office building. It was drizzling outside and the intensity of the drops increased. He was getting into the parking lot, but then on the way he stopped. He looked back outside and saw that it was raining not so heavily. He quickly turned back, having decided to walk to the coffee shop. He loved to walk... Especially when it was raining. He loved to do things differently. Presently his life was seeming monotonous with success in professional life and tumult at home. He saw this as an opportunity to break the monotony. In a way it was like celebrating the fact that his son called him. It reminded him of those days when his son would throw up his arms, tired of taking those tiny steps learning to walk, begging to be carried. Oh! The joy it used to bring him to pick his son up and carry him around in his arms or on his shoulders. There was a time when the only thing in his life was his son.

He was on the streets now, getting wet by the sprinkle from the heavens, as he was thinking these thoughts. He was looking around him. There was the usual buzz of downtown crowd. It was time to leave for home for many. He stopped at an intersection. He watched the vehicles go by. He watched people running about, trying to get to a shelter as soon as possible. He found it strange that people don't give time to the elements. They pray for the rains to cool down the Earth; to bring relief from the summer heat. And when it drizzles, let alone rains, people run for the nearest shelter refusing to let the drops fall on them. He had a strong desire to stand in the middle of the intersection, grab a microphone and penetrate the insensitive heads to convince them to give the drizzle a chance to soothe them.

He, however, shook himself to reality and continued to cross the intersection and on towards the shop. Soon he reached the shop and if his son was prompt, he should be there in no more than five minutes. He got in and sat at a table for two next to the big glass window through which one could have a view of the busy street outside. He smiled at the waiter as he took the menu card from him.

"Waiting for someone..." he said to the waiter as he put down the menu on the table. He unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up above the elbows, placed the elbows on the table and rested his chin on his fists, looking to his left outside the window. His attention was drawn to the streetlight. He could see the drizzle, the light drops in the light from it. It was like a play with the actors coming into the spotlight and going out of it. He noticed how the drops seemed to move slowly, assuredly and quietly at the top near the bulb, but move fast, chaotically and noisily at the bottom, near the foot of the streetlight.

It reminded him of how, at the start of his career, he was uncertain. The people at the top of an organization or the industry seem so settled. Their lives seemed so easy. Their lives seemed devoid of any pressure. No need to please the boss. No worry of someone judging you all the time. No stress of a boss venting his frustration, often out of his inability, on you.

Now he knows that it was all an illusion. Although it is a cliche, the adage, "with great power comes great responsibility", isn't false. And it became a cliche because no matter how many times you say it, it is still not emphasizing the point enough. As a SV of his organization, he seems to have more pressure than as an entry level employee. Perhaps that is true of the rain drops and streetlight too. From a lower level, the drops seem to be calm and steady at the top, becoming chaotic towards the ground. When you go higher, the ones at your level seem chaotic while those at a still higher level seem peaceful.

He had seen it all. From an entry level position to now, professional life was supposed to move from 'hardest' to 'easiest' on the difficulty scale. However, the pointer remained at the same place. His father once said, "Everyone has his/her own worries in life. And to each one of them those will be difficult." How true!

Kesari, after parking his bike on the street, briskly walked to the shop, entered inside to find his father looking outside the window immersed in deep thought. He saw that he was no more than a minute late for the appointment, technically. He knew that stopping by the print shop would delay him but he accounted for it and was confident he could still make it. The minute's delay could be attributed to the fact that as he logged in to check his mails his girlfriend pinged him.

"Hey sweets! Whatcha upto? You were supposed to be going somewhere? :p"

"Hey pretty! Yeah. I am busy. Sorry  I'll call you later. Will explain."

"Everything alright?"

"Yep! Relax pie! Meeting my dad for coffee :)"

"Oh! Nice..."

There was a pause during which he was away printing things.

"Gtg now. Bye" he typed when he was about to log off. He didn't even wait for her to say bye in reply. He logged off. He knew he could explain everything to her later. Besides, she knew of the situation at his home. Although not yet married, she was learning, from Kesari's mother by observing her, how things can be when a father and child don't see eye to eye on certain things. An ambitious and demanding father can be hard on a son who hasn't yet discovered what he likes to do. Kesari, during those soft moments, confessed to his girlfriend - Megha - that sometimes the reputation of his father intimidates him more than assuring him that he has his father's protection upon him, just in case something goes wrong. Kesari was talented. He wrote well. His writings interested the readers. They captivated the hearts. They, at times, inspired people. That apart he had an interest for music. He was a key member of the college rock band. He was mainly a drummer but could also play the bass guitar well. He was one of the top students in college, sure to get a job in any finance firm or department, if he puts his mind to it. That has been the problem with Kesari. He hasn't put his mind to anything particular with respect to his career. That way, he still was a jack of all trades. Megha didn't worry a lot about him but of late his clashes with his dad seemed to get intense. That was one of the reasons why she couldn't visit his home as frequently as before. She didn't want to be present at an awkward moment for both her boyfriend and his father.

Kesari stood for a moment at the table waiting for his father to turn and acknowledge his arrival. Despite the cold war, subconsciously he perhaps still wanted every act or move of his to be approved by his father. Pavan looked at his son without looking into his eyes and half-nodded. Kesari sat in front of him. He quickly looked at the menu and then looked up at his father. He didn't know what to speak. "It was strange how you didn't find words to speak to your own father after a week of not talking to him whereas you could easily talk to someone after years of being out of touch," he thought. So he decided to fill up the silence by nervously asking, "Did you order anything?"

Pavan shook his head, continuing to look everywhere except at his son, and then he looked for the waiter. He had his favorite coconut flavored coffee in mind. Kesari ordered a plain cold cafe latte. He wanted to keep focus on what he was going to say and so didn't mind drinking anything that came his way. Unfortunately waiters are trained not to take 'anything' as an order. So Kesari just blurted out his order.

A story by the river...

“… we have no time to stand or stare.” We have no time or we make no time. Whatever it is, the truth remains that every one of us has a story to tell. Walk down the streets, look at people, and observe them. Some would be walking nonchalantly while others would be rushing to some place. The old man sitting on the bench in the bus stop must be eagerly waiting for the bus which would take him to his newborn granddaughter. The man standing at the corner, waiting for the bus could actually be hoping that the bus never arrives so that he doesn’t get to go back home to his troubled married life. A young girl standing in the bus stop shelter, seemingly calm while awaiting the bus, could from inside be restless to meet her friends and tell them the story of her new-found love. One should just have a little time to scratch the surface and there will be stories after stories, waiting to be told.

Everyone cannot afford time for such interesting tasks. People are more engrossed in survival, trying to improve their quality of life – merely materialistically - earn that extra buck and find happiness, though ironically they struggle throughout their life for it, thus spending many discontent and unhappy moments in their lives. For example, a family would buy an expensive home theater system, watch events (news and other events) all over the world, watch movies (mere stories told by others) or watch sports to see a fight between victory and defeat (the same old story since the beginning of the universe). How many people would know what is going on in the life of that smiling and charming new neighbor or the wrinkled widower living across the street?

I am a writer. I thank God for making my job implicitly require me to find such stories and also give me the time for it. Sometimes the purposeful observation gets to you. However one might argue, it is another regular task after all. I quickly decided that I needed a vacation. This is another luxury of my profession. I could call it a break from work to enjoy the beautiful nature. I could also use this very break to think away from the crowd and yet be working by writing something - story or a descriptive article about my trip.

On the last occasion that I made a quick decision, I found myself going to Cauvery river's jungle lodge resort. This was about a hundred kilometers away from Bengaluru, the technology capital of India. I enjoy a special rapport with the staff and the in-charge of this lodge. I called up Andrew, the in-charge of the lodge, my special friend. I gathered that he was going to be out of office for a couple of days. So the first two days of my stay for about four days was going to be without the company of my fellow philosopher with whom I shared many intellectual conversations.

Early one monday morning I kick-started my bike and, off, I set to the lodge. It was a typical pleasant Bangalore day. Cloudy, cool and gently breezy weather made riding a bike a very pleasurable activity. A cup of coffee with biscuits was to keep me going till I reached the lodges in time for a heavy breakfast. Breakfast, for the quantity, quality and variety of dishes was what I liked best about this lodge. Andrew, who is a nature-lover and who is vegetarian by choice like me, ensures that food served in the lodges is vegetarian, yet tasty. The meat-lovers never had an occasion to complain about the lack of taste that they generally have elsewhere. Stopping for photographs on the way, where the views looked breath-taking, was all that interrupted my ride.

Andrew has some creativity in his schemes, themes and work. He was instrumental in changing the interiors of the rooms and having a close-to-nature color scheme for them. The rooms were wooden and green artificial turf carpet covered the wooden floor. The curtains and lampshades were of light green shades. Upon entering any of the rooms, one would get the feeling of living in a tree house, or for a more imaginative person it would be like living on the tree. I chose Room 7, not only because I liked the number but also because that room was special for me. On occasions in the past when I was fighting states of depression or was struggling over something in life, time spent in this room triggered an improvement. This room also happens to be the one closest to the river bank. River Cauvery flows from Karnataka to Tamil Nadu. In this particular stretch, the river flows from west to east. The lodges are on the north side of the river which means that looking out from the south-side window the river would flow from the right to the left. It is surely a quarter of a kilometer wide on average and looking out of the south-side window, the opposite side of the bank is very scenic. The land quickly rises up and hardly would one see water surface level land as more imposing is the hill that sits in the background as if threatening to fall on you.

The whole bank is green. There is hardly any soil visible. The hill is covered densely by trees. It is eerie in a way because the stretch is known to be a good catchment area. Given that, it is natural to expect one of nature's fiercest and strongest predators to lurk in the waters. It is not uncommon to find carrion of deer floating by the river bank gently being tugged from underneath. In moments, the carrion would disappear. The thought of being stranded on the other side of the bank often gave me shudders. There was no place to run and escape a preying alligator there except climb a tree or the hill. The thick tree trunks surely make it difficult to climb them, especially with an alligator breathing down one's neck.

Dark nights in such forest areas are scary. It is the moonlit nights that are more terrifying. It is the partial sight of things that puts doubts in the minds. Standing at the banks of the river it gives me shudders seeing small dots glowing in the moonlight in the middle of the stream. I stop whatever I was doing and rush back towards my room when I see such things. I ordered beer for that night. A tiring day in the sun in the village area can be ended on a good note by beer. I recently tried writing when I was a little tipsy. What came out was well appreciated by people. What better than to get tipsy in room 7 to kick start a story?

As I do on occasions like these, I don't start writing until 11:00 pm, when surely all other campers retire to their rooms. That night I was going to do what I wanted to do for a long time - write a story by the river. I had enough beer to make me slightly tipsy. It was about 11:30pm. I looked outside the window. The crescent moon that night looked beautiful and the sky was studded with fine diamonds. It was only a look down at the forest that could spoil these adjectives for the night. I stood there pondering about the topics I could write about, people I could write about or just the night, to start with. I opened another bottle of beer. It looked like I had to up the level a bit to get started. I perambulated within the room for a while. It was the frustration of not being able to come up with an idea that stopped any new idea from entering. I was stuck in that rot. Strange that when some people want to tell a story they never get to tell it while others tell their stories no matter what.

When I looked out of my window this time, to the right, at a distance I spotted what looked like a carcass to me. It was flowing slowly downstream and it was only after fixating on the object for a while that I could discern it was a human body. A chill ran down my spine. When you see such things, you can hardly do better than that. Under ordinary circumstances I'd have watched it flow beyond my eyesight from where I was. Being tipsy removes fear. I opened the door and briskly walked towards the bank to catch a closer glimpse of the body. I could serve as a witness if there would be a case in future. The slowness of the drift seemed a pointer to the kind of death the person had. I could gather that it was a man. “Surely a sorry way to die, ” I thought. A feeling mixed with pity, eeriness and horror filled me. I only stared at the body and watched it drift closer to me from far. “I wonder if he drowned himself or he was killed,” I thought.

“He was killed sir!”

My heart seemed to come up to my mouth! With a sudden jerk I turned back. I wasn't alone? I surely heard a man! I saw a movement just as I turned back. My feet froze and my head became heavy. My heart was banging against my ribs. I stood there. I know that for sure. I couldn't think, let alone act. What was happening? Who was this? What was he doing here? He wasn't a person working at the lodges!

“He was my father! They killed him.”

It is horrifying when I recount it and I wonder why I didn't react. What if, instead, I spotted an alligator behind me. Would I have stood still while it preyed on me? Was it because I was tipsy or would I have been this way anyway?

He sounded more human than a spectre, the longer I stayed there. My frozen body slowly started to twitch. I started following his movements. I looked alternatively at the body and the man. He had an indignant look on his face.

All this was not making sense. What was the link between the man getting killed and his son sitting by the banks as if expecting the body to flow by at this hour of the night?

“He was innocent sir. They accused him of a abetting in a theft of money, jewels and valuables from the temple. When he threatened to reveal the truth about them, they killed him by drowning him.”

I stood there like a zombie. I was staring at him without reacting. He too joined me in following the body of the deceased.

I found words at last. “What exactly happened?'

“They say that when some people have some stories to tell, no matter what, they tell them. My father had a big truth, about them, to reveal. They killed him so as to shut him up. There were half a dozen of them who drowned him. They escaped sir. And the blot of the theft is on Nagappa – my father. I see this body every year on this day – the day of this brutal murder. It is as if he wants to tell a story. I can only sit here and cry my heart out, sir,” saying which he broke into subdued tears.

My heart went out to the man. I couldn't decide which part of the whole incident was my hallucination. How could I see a body of a man killed, by the words of the man, more than a couple of years ago? I could understand a grieving son imagining seeing his father. Why me?

“They stole the valuables from the temple for their own pockets. My father, an honest and God-fearing man, refused to let it pass. He threatened to reveal the conspiracy to the officials. But before he could do that...” the weeping intensified.

I continued in the flow of the chat which was more like that man's soliloquy so far. “Why don't you tell the officials? Surely you know it all too!”

“They won't take my word sir! I am just left with no one to believe me. My guiding light has been removed from my life!”

I didn't know what to say. What could I say? I couldn't believe it was just beer that did so much to my imagination. No! I surely heard so much. “It can't be my imagination,” I convinced myself.

I had nothing to say. I couldn't find words to say anything to the weeping man. I seemed in a vague sort of dream of my own where strange things appeared and disappeared. The story seemed clear. Though I didn't ask for a complete chain of events from the weeping son, I gathered enough to know that there was a murder and the murdered man knew things which weren't allowed to come out into the public.

I slowly walked back to my room. I hardly may have entered my room and mustered enough energy to lock the door behind me. I just couldn't take it anymore. I fell asleep. I don't think I dreamt that night. I woke up late that morning. There was a hangover. It was more from the disturbing night than from the beer, I felt.

I made my way to the police station. I was curious to find out about the incident. The officials there knew me as a regular visitor of the lodges.

“I was curious to know about some Mr Nagappa's case in conjunction with the theft at the temple some years back...” I asked inquisitively.

The name wouldn't have struck chords but when I mentioned the theft, the officer seemed to recollect quickly. “There were a few theories, but in any case he drowned himself. They say he stole the valuables and was planning to sell them in the city. He couldn't swallow the guilt and so he killed himself. Why he killed himself is not exactly known but the evidences we have point at that as a reason.”

My brows furrowed as I thought, “So what I heard from the son was correct? That he died was for sure. But it is very possible that he was killed. So indeed some people tell their stories in some way or the other.”

I was about to bring up the topic of the son, when the officer said, “And the very next day, his son committed suicide too. He had no one else but his father and he couldn't bear the accusation and the blot on his father (his only family member). He thought he'd always have to bear the wrath of the villagers. It was too much for him. Both the cases are closed.”

I don't remember what more the officer said. I was just nodding. That I was shaken is an understatement. Could I even say anything about the previous night there? Once again I couldn't tell a story. I headed back home by that evening. I wanted to write a story. But here I was. I wondered - through my painful moments in room 7 trying to think of a story to write - how some people tell stories when they have to, no matter what. Here was the example. Should I say Nagappa had a story to tell, which he told me and his son? Should I say the son had the story to tell which is why the whole incident happened? Let us just say it was a story by the river... A story by the river...