THE BRASS DOOR KNOB

Many hands have mauled me over the years. Many men and women have smiled at me and wiped my face. Couples have said goodbyes through kisses, sometimes gassing me by their embarrassment, sometimes smearing powder, rouge and lipstick on my golden crown. I have heard tales, legends, confessions, grunts, moans and screams.  But one day… One day I was wrenched out of my home and thrown into the wilderness.

She was inside and he was out. Through the solid wood they continued to shout.  

“Go away!” “Please” “It can’t be” “Please” He constantly pounded on the door sending the shocks of his heart beat through me. She stopped responding. “I promise. I mean it this time. Please…” Silence. “please….” Silence. “Please…” ….

With one final assault on the door he turned around and paced up and down a portion of the carpeted corridor for a few minutes.

…

She peeped out.

He ran to the door with a mind to force it open. But before he could reach it, she managed to slam it shut and turn the lock.

He rattled me, tugged at my neck. Squeezed and twisted me with all his strength. He strangled me with all his hurt, anger hatred and desire, trying to coerce me into cutting through the door and hurting it enough to make it give way.

He failed.

Instead I was sponge bathed in the sweat of his defeat, drowned and suffocated by the heat of his palms as I was pulled away from the door at rocket speed and thudded on the opposite wall, face first, couched by the flesh of his hand.

He raised me to the level of his eyes. They were green-brown. The vapor from his red skin condensed on his face. His nostrils flared with the rush of processed adrenaline being ejected from his body.

And slowly, his eyes solidified. The anger and pain changed into opacity. And he dropped me into his coat pocket and began to walk; a calm, measured swing in his step. He walked and walked. The warmth turned to coolness. Then an icy gale churned a whirlwind inside this pocket, stirring up the fluff and biscuit crumbs that lay trapped and slumbering at the bottom.

I could tell that he hadn’t washed this coat, probably ever. It was damp and smelled of sweaty socks. Mixed with the chill of the breeze, it brought out my brassy smell.

He walked on and on; through the crunch of dry leaves and the beat of the pavement, through the quietude of wet soil and the race of the grey and white clouds across the pure blue sea of nothingness above.

And then suddenly, after long and short minutes of our times, I slammed down and hit my head on something sharp and hard.

When the dizziness passed, I realized that he had sat down on a bench. Its wet metal bars began to steadily seep in through the dying fibers of the coat pocket. A mingled smell of flowers and freshly cut grass began to musically waft in. The stillness of the evening came and curled up inside me. Seconds passed.

Then he started swaying. He kept swaying to and fro, back and forth; rocking his guilt and despair to sleep in his heart so that he might bury it with excuses, justifications and consolations; constantly and periodically banging me on the loose rivet that shivered under the point where the coat pocket lay on the bench.  He sobbed and sniffed and cluttered the air with his desolation.

Oh, the stench in here! The suffocation! I shall rot and melt into the fluff that I lie on. When shall I be free from this dungeon? A thorny vine that has almost made it out through the space between the bars of the bench threatens to pierce the coat and stab me.

Soon.

Soon he held me gently and brought me to face his eyes again; eyes full of love and tears. He smelled me and kissed me and tied around my neck the thread that lay twirled over the finger of his other hand. And I had my first pendant. A picture of the man who had taken me when he lost his woman and her.

He held me down to the bench and made me watch as under the orange and violet of the twilight sky he scraped out a cup of mud from the ground. He lowered me into it. My eyes he could not see, but his I saw were ablaze with madness and desperation. He did not hear my screams.

He let the mud trickle down around me, kept his foot over the crown of my head for a few seconds. Then he left.

That is how I remained for what seemed like years; a lifetime. Shoes and slippers mauling me instead of palms, cotton and rings.

I have, since, smelled plastic and wood and rubber and stone. I have seen the world through polythene and dwelt among other queer and orphaned artefacts of the world in a small shoe box. I have smiled at the colors of gatherings through glass, in an apartment. And recently I have begun to silently tell my story to those students who choose to raise me to their wide eyes and calm noses in the writing classes run by my owner, so that they may make of it what they wish and retell as they deem fit. 

THE YELLOW DAHLIA

They say that two people aren't close friends if they don’t find it exceptionally normal to do the silliest things together. And it is because of this frankness that they remain dearest to one’s heart.

The memories of the times spent with close friends roll into a ball like a ball of wool, where pulling at one unwinds all others. For some time now, in my world, it has been the yellow dahlia that has unfurled this spool of memory.

It all began one afternoon. Two young women sat facing each other, their constant smiles breaking into carefree laughter every few seconds.  They were in a corner in a long cozy room, the black walls of which bent to meet at the ceiling and sheltered the small, white, marble - top tables that were lined along the length of them. A yellow dahlia lay buttoned at the center of each little table.

“The item I order always arrives the latest.” She said, while she rolled her thoughts up and down the menu book. “I am always left to stuff scalding food into myself when everybody else is ready to leave.”  

She had to yell over the crowd of words and laughter that zoomed across the room. Waiters spun and glided through the buzz. The whole café was a Ball. And there she was, in a corner, pouring packet after packet of sugar into her Kenyan coffee, watching her friend devour her salad and fish-n-chips. Life was refreshing. This coffee was art.

They say that every time you open your eyes, you see the world anew.

That day she appeared a flower. Today, looking down upon her, sitting quietly at the table, it is hard to say who complemented whom: the yellow dahlia, her or she, the yellow dahlia.

The two women had spent their college life together. That wasn’t a long time. But it was time enough to have grown together and have inspired a thicket of memories. That afternoon they were there, beside each other for the last time. The next day they’d each fly with the wind and find a new home in another wood.

A golden light swung across strings of bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Her sandwich arrived. They chatted away the afternoon and when more people stumbled into the room and it began to overflow, they moved to stroll among the maze of books in an adjoining room. Their last adventure became one among wishes and memories.

The thing with people is: they make you smile. They let you wrap them up in your heart. And then they leave your life; like the brook that flows past its banks. And you leave theirs. And nobody ever knows how to say goodbye.

“We’ll skype.” She said through her fluttering smile.

In a few seconds a train will take her away. In a distant wood, there will be another yellow dahlia.

“Of course.” I smiled back. 

THE COLOURS OF OUR BEING

For a while this afternoon the rain washed down the sunshine and we sat at the same table for the last time.

I walked in. They looked up and burst into two sly grins. I let loose my evil cackle to turn off their smirks. Pauline and Nokdy: the Art and the Heart of our organism.

Pauline was a splash of red and gold today. She didn't know it, but she was. So this time I believed her when she told me that I could do it, that I already knew how to touch my dreams. She had been soft green, happy yellow and royal purple in the past. She had been a dancing piece of silk and a cold stone. Yet each time I’d either laughed or frowned. Today she was a plain splash and I believed her.

Nokdy was warmth. She was the calm flame in the fireplace of our lives, shooting occasional sparks of playful teasing. And she had always been such. She had grown but she hadn't changed. Today I saw why I had waited for her at the metro station everyday all these years, why we shall remain together. Without love and care our organism couldn't live. The quiet energy, the bare curiosities, the simple joys and the silly conquests; they keep us alive, they show us the way.

“Here. Ningning’s gift to you.” They said, and handed me Ningning in a wooden frame. The Soul of our organism. An elegant wildness leaped out and her bouncy bright laughter from all the years past pranced around me, tugged and hugged me a little. “You know what happened today?” her excitement began before trailing off into the distance calling “Himshu!” for her daily dose of chubby cheeks.

And in strode Neha. “What did I miss?” she asked as she sat down in her chair. The Good Sense of our organism had come and brought with her the rational plans to keep in touch after we parted. There were many things she could be and had been for us these years past: the signpost at the fork in the roads, the quilt large enough to hold the four rolling babies inside us, the ice pack. But today she was beautiful; just beautiful. She squeezed her strength into me; her parting gift.

I was the one leaving. Perhaps, leaving for good. It was my goodbye. The Will to Persevere in our organism. But I was happy, full. I could see today the pages and pages of me that I had hammered into them over the years. I knew: like me, they too saw the colours of our organism reflected in the world. 

We had grown, spilled ourselves over each other and into life, into the silken blue oceans, the cotton white clouds, the sharp green grass and glossy gray skyscrapers.

And so for a while this afternoon the rain poured into the earth and they ate their last meal together. Then, as their memories washed the tears clean off their minds, the sun smiled through the clouds once again. 

WHEN THE SKY LIT UP

I

“There are twelve fire-trucks. I counted. I've been here for quite some time.”

Deben and a bandaged Tara were seated side by side at the rear of an ambulance near the Leopold Cafe.

“How did you get here?” Tara asked Deben.

“Oh, I lived up on the third floor. A little way off from that charred window.”

“Hey! How are you feeling now? Are you okay? Are your insides all fresh?” Arnav had jogged up to them after having talked to one of the firemen for a while.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

"Alright, we've got to wait till the firemen have finished their work before we can get back to our car. It’s going to be late.”

“Okay.”

“Hello! Nice to meet you. Are you okay baba?” Mir asked, having arrived at the spot unnoticed.

 “As good as I can get.” Deben replied, grave and slightly morose.

“Hope we meet again.” Mir smiled to Arnav and Tara as he helped Deben up. 

II

It was that time of day when the bright summer sun was beginning to weary of its day-long duty of looking after the earthlings. Shadows had begun to stretch their limbs all around the regal circle. The stalls and meagre shops that nudged each other for space through the length of the footpath opposite the metro house building -- and sold everything from food to earrings, clothes, toys, jewellery, other accessories and electronics -- began to get a busier as more tourists walked into their open arms now than only a little while earlier.

  Drained and famished from the trip to the Elephanta Caves, Arnav left his sister, Tara, in their car to wait for him till he returned with burgers and fries from McDonald's. Their red Suzuki Dzire was parked in a cosy spot on the narrow street behind the Regal building, Lansdowne road; a lane that also served as a sort of side alleyway for the Metro Plaza building and led away from the row of shops straight to the Gateway of India. The front of the Regal building looked directly toward Madame Cama Road emerging out of the shade of the University buildings via The National Gallery of Modern Art; the one that the two tourists from the mall were ambling down at the moment.

 

Tara sat in their Dzire, feet up on the dashboard, window pulled down two inches, eyes closed and head swaying to the melody of her playlist floating out from the speakers. 

“Here in these... deep city lights.... girl could get lo-oo-ost tonight. I’m finding, every reason to be gone, there’s nothin’ here to hold on to-oo-oo... Will I find..” A scream, yells; Tara opened her eyes to the fart of a fat man hurrying his family into their SUV. On the rear view mirror were people rushing out of the Metro Plaza building, hollering at each other. A group of young men ran past the Dzire, one of them losing his balance and crashing into it, rocking her off her comfortable position. 

 Before she could register the sudden burst of frenzied running, a tumultuous dispute of car horns and yells had ruptured that world -- people mercilessly shoved and tugged at each other, cars backed up and left, the whole population around that building erupted in a manic erratic charge down the adjoining roads.

And then it hit, with no warning whatsoever: the torrent, the deluge, the barrage of black smoke and debris gushed out from the alleyway behind the Metro Plaza building, only a few feet away from where Tara was. Darkness devoured the car; the toxic blackness seeped in and choked it.

Tara groped at the door lock in panic and yanked it, letting the door fly out and smash against the rear end of a passing bus that had been diverted back to the regal circle due to the chaos. She jumped out, slammed the door shut and began to run towards the front of the building, trying to force her way through a bombardment of bodies. Arnav hadn’t come by the car.

The air grew denser by the second. Fists, palms, elbows, torsos, knees, shoulders kept smashing into her small form, turning her around in every direction possible, driving her along with the raging horde. Without breath, space or foothold she drifted to the intersection of one of the lanes leading out to the main road.

All air and light had been expelled from those streets. The smoke was creeping into her whole being, taking her soul hostage. The crowd crushed her gasps, her agonizing shouts to Freedom. And as though in answer, the thick sooty blackness of the air began to give way to a peaceful obscurity. A cool serenity eclipsed the heat of the fire in her body. She was floating, tranquil. Her eyes didn’t burn anymore. There was nothing to hear, soft or hard. A simple void embraced her.

 A gigantic force jolted her back to consciousness. In a fuzzy world she found herself being carried down the lane by a broad chest, beyond the toxic fog and away from it. Phantom faces floated out of the mist towards her. And then she crashed into a parked car. A searing pain shot up her head and threw her back into oblivion.

“Tara... Tara...” Arnav was shaking her. His face was beginning to pierce the hazy daylight that had begun to stream through the slits in her eyes. The acrid taste from the smoke still filled her mouth. Arnav hauled her up by her arms to a standing position and with her weight on his shoulders she dragged herself to an ambulance. A deep gash sat on her forehead on its left side.

III

 “Oh! There it is. CR2 Mall. I’m sure we’ll find a good place to lunch in there.”

“There are quite a few restaurants here according to Google.”

 “Food court upstairs.”

“Looks like it’s been closed for a while.”

“Oh, come on! We can’t very well stand and try to stuff a gigantic hot dog into our tiny little mouths, can we? I don’t want any ketchup and onions on my dress!”

“To the Italian one then; although pasta makes me feel heavy for a long time later.”

“It’s okay. We’ll walk it off.”

“So it didn’t occur to them to provide spoons and forks to eat, the food came in a teeny little pothole at the centre of an ocean of a plate – I could probably fit it within my hand-span and THAT is less than the average second grader – and they sneered at us for ordering vegetarian.”

“I think they understood that we did it for its lower price.”

“And they have the nerve to hand a feedback form to us! Oh, and look: the lowest check-box reads average. As if it couldn't be worse!”

“A light drizzle! Pleasant, isn’t it?”

 “You know when I first came here, I thought this place looked like a post apocalypse city that had reconstructed itself. Such an uncanny mix of old modern buildings and shiny Victorian buildings. So different from Delhi. And there is some kind of peace to the existence here; you don’t have to be on your toes all the time. People are good to you.”

“ And have you noticed that we've come all this way and not once did we see a car jump signal or go the wrong way.”

“Not much honking either. No people walking in the middle of the narrower roads. Turn right.”

“Very responsible driving too.”

“Maybe we are overwhelmed because we come from Delhi.”

“That place! Gosh!”

“Even the weather’s better here. It’s not as humid as I thought it would be. I imagined it to be like Kolkata. I can’t breathe there.”

 “I could live here. You know, settle down and have a family and shit?”

“Yeah whatever man.”

“Left. I think. Wait. I’m confused. The Google map is so not like the real place!”

“Hey lets go over to those shops there. We can ask one of them the way after we’re done shopping.”

“Okay.”

“Oh wow, a Kashmiri emporium!”

“These earrings are so cute.”

“Yeah we’ll pick up some later.”

“This place is so happening. I think we’re here.”

“Here? Where?”

“Cafe Mondegar.... Regal....Gateway is straight ahead.”

“It’s too costly.”

“What?”

“That kaftan at the Kashmiri emporium. That one.”

“There are more emporiums down this road.”

“Oh. Look, there’s smoke coming out of that third floor window over there, above Cafe Mondegar.”

“Shoot, you’re right. That can’t be good.”

“It isn’t much though.”

“Nevermind, let’s just go to Gateway. It’s through that lane by the Cafe.”

“Alright.”

“Oh my God! This is crazy! Everyone is running out of the building! Shoot! Where did all that smoke come from?”

“This way! Come on, we can’t (cough cough) run through the smoke.(cough) It’s toxic. Through here. (cough cough cough). Follow me! (cough) RUN!”

“Careful! You’ll get run over!”

“Come on, we’ve got to outrun the smoke!”

“Ouch! Douchebag pushed me!”

(panting) “We made it out good. They’re closing down all roads that way now, see.”

“I think I hit a girl on her head with my purse on the way.”

 “Yeah.  ... Hey, let’s join those people there and watch the fire. This isn’t something that happens in everyone’s life right?”

“Three fire-trucks already. That’s prompt.”

“And an ambulance too. I hope no one’s hurt.”

 “Remember our PG? We had planned to jump out of the balcony and all, but all of us knew that it was a disaster waiting to happen.”

IV

“Well, hasn’t it been a day to remember!” Deben sighed, the feather of a mellow smile floating down onto his lips as he placed his cup and saucer on the table. Mir had only just come out to the veranda to chat away the drowsiness of a forced awakening from an afternoon nap and was sinking into one of the cane chairs beside Deben.

“Hmm”, he grunted in reply and followed it with a mammoth yawn. 

“It’s almost eight, and so bright yet! ” Deben continued, turning to Mir. “In Kolkata it must be dark by now. Oh, but this is the best time of the evening. The birds are on their way back to their nests. Look, that tree down there is where the crows are, and that there on the opposite complex is where the parrots go. And the pigeons of course are all over the buildings. That...”

“Baba, you’re sure you’re alright?” Mir broke in.

 “Yes, yes, don’t pester me”, Deben snapped irritably, resuming his skyward gaze. “You’d do better asking about what really happened inside that building”, he continued after a pause, much more composed, although still annoyed.

“Alright then, what happened?” Mir asked quickly, resigned, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand and adjusting himself to a cross-legged position on his chair.

They were both staring out into the city, the deepening sky, the louder lights, the growing bedlam of birds chirping as they bickered over branch-space and let loose the deluge of their day’s happenings.

“I was in my bed taking a nap, Aarti was reading or something. Well, at least that’s what she says she does in the afternoons. Anyway, I woke up at some point feeling a little bit too warm for the day and called out to her. But there she was, hurriedly gathering her things and making a dash for it. ‘There is a fire Uncleji, big one. It is catching fast. My two childrens, what I can do? I am going. Sorry. Bhagwaan raksha Karen aapki.’ That’s it. She said this much, flinging her arms about, and ran out by the time my feet had found the slippers! And she left the door wide open too!”

Mir’s back had shot up straight by now. He was a pursed lipped statue of contempt.

“I don’t blame her of course, in hindsight. Such a tiny little thing, and she is, after all, the only one to feed her children. She got scared that’s all. But she could have at least passed me my walking stick before she left,” Deben continued, unaware of the grimace beside him. “Anyhow, I helped myself up by the bedposts and hobbled to the window where my walking stick stood. I picked up the phone from the table to call you. And that’s when I saw; the black smoke gushing out of the fourth floor like a flooded river discharging itself to the sky. It was the window near the stairway area. It was monstrous! I thought I would never escape! So I wrapped my muffler around my face, whisked myself around and shuffled along to the door as quick as I could. But the air was thick in the hallway by now, dark grains that hit your skin like pebbles and stoke it like you would burning embers of coal. Oh, yes! That’s how the skin feels: as though you are the one ablaze, not the wood.

“The acridity poured in through the wool and scraped my insides, but I still pushed on toward the main stairway. The neighbours were gone. The other end of the floor was afire. It wasn't a crackle; it was a roar! A maddening, deafening roar of laughter mocking me, calling out to me: a hungry fiend!” 

Deben paused, his nose flaring with a fiery breathlessness.

Mir and his sister Bela were staring at him wide eyed. A nacho lay on the tray in pieces, crumbled and fallen from Bela’s hand by the force of the worry that her father’s blood pressure would rise.

“At this point, a loud crash thundered. A stairway had given.” Deben began again. “This was impossible. I could not see anything much anymore. I was burning inside and out! I thought the window might have fresh air to give me, so I turned around, dragged myself back to our apartment and opened the window. It was hardly any better other than that it seemed like the firemen had arrived. I leaned out wanting to wave to them, but ... jah! I can’t remember this part.

“Never mind; after that I found myself lying in an emergency ambulance a little way off from the building, one of those ridiculous breathing masks on my nose. Apparently, I had fallen unconscious and been rescued!”, he said and turned to his own two children. “Don’t look at me like deflated balloons! I’m real; not a character from a movie.”

“It does seem like you've watched too many of them.” Bela winked, exploding into a giggle.

“And what about your heroic dismissal of healthcare?” Mir added, grinning.

“Yes, yes, you young generation keep making fun of everything,” Deben grumbled, looking away into the sky.

 “You did tell it well, I’ll give you that!”

“You will give me nothing! Grew up in my lap and now telling me what is real and what is not. What days have come!”

“Come now, I was only joking.” Mir laughed.

He was looking out into the sunset sky, a testimony of the story he had just seen play out on its canvas. Bela, too, had lost herself to the deepening dusk, one leg crossed over the other, her cat clawing at her dangling pyjama strings.  The ghosts of their voices faded into the spectrum of twilight, dispersing itself in the rings of occasional chirping, distant honking and cold sweat-beads trickling. Then was as withdrawn from now as it was within.

“Well, that’s that then!” Deben declared suddenly, struggling up from his chair and adjusting himself against his walking stick. “I’m going to flip through the news. What’s for dinner?”

A VOYAGE AROUND MY BEDROOM

My bedroom is not an adventure.

It is white, black and brown with only the occasional splash of colours on the calendar, the bookshelf or the one open window.

Through the silver vines cracking the black curtain you must pass and enter. Each object, lined up against the walls, placed amid the stones of the mosaic floor, you must touch.

First: to the crowd of words and colours, furiously haggling with each other, shouting out their theories and opinions from their spots on the brown shelf. The lines on the wood, the stones on the floor, the stars on the roof have all gathered for conference; for someone must walk into each book, must live with the people of each new world, must learn the problem or the proposition, and must choose the postulates that form the constitution of the Land of the Books.

Second: to the point of the calendar. She prides herself as the only poster in the room, talking of the countryside of North Eastern India. She stands glaring at the window on the opposite wall who claims his is the greenery that is real, while hers are the confused colours of memory. You must look at the window: a picture of a fern and a neem and a large tree and a skinny one, gossiping at the street corner, caressing the signpost and the lamp-post. Is it real or magical; is it a truth or a lie? You must tell the calendar if she is wrong or right. Who will be the room’s supreme poster: the quiet countryside of the North-East or the bustling street-corner of the Capitol.

Third: to the desk, the shrine of the Oracle. At its centre sits the priest, not vain, not boasting, the medium of a God all-knowing. She remembers what you say, as she hears the billion other voices that confide in her. When you are lost she will guide you. If you ask the right questions she will show you the world. But first, you must solve the riddle she has put to you.

Fourth: to the electric piano and its band of speakers. Touch the keys to give your command. And they will carry you to the clouds above or a day in your past, to a concert or a house of cards.

Fifth and final: To the bed for one and a half. Turn off the lights and wait until that rare night; when the sun and the moon are both asleep in their chamber and upon the earth shines no light. The street lights and car head-lights throw amber cones onto the roads across the globe. But my bedroom becomes a world of shadows. And you, too, will melt into the dark; become no more than a wisp of smoke. The room will spin and take you along to other worlds that are more alive than the World of Lies from whence you stepped into my bedroom, where you may win conquests, solve crimes, walk around or make love under the sea.

And when morning arrives, wise and victorious, you will find yourself at the centre of a room brown, black and white: a bedroom, my bedroom, that offers no extraordinary sight. 

10 VOICES, 1 STORY : TOAD

NUMBER 1.  The Musical.

“I’m scared!”

“You’re scared?”

“I’m scared.”

“You’re scared.”

“Oh, what a terrible night.”

“But why?”

“Next to the closet.

Upon the faucet.

Sits and croaks

The Mighty Toad!”

“In a cottage in the woods we are

From towns and homes afar.

For God’s sake Looee!

What did you think you’d see?”

Croak croak. Croak croak.

I am the Mighty Toad.

This is my home, you see.

So out of it you must be.

“Mighty Toad indeed!

This house is mine to keep.

And if thou dostn’t, this instant, leave

To my pet snake I will thee feed.”

And so Lady Bree

Grew famous in all the land of Pyree

Along with her pet snake Slymee.

For, she could make the toads flee!

NUMBER 2. A Column in the Papers.

At his Annual Christmas Ball, Prince Curree danced and dined and even had a special dish prepared for Lady Bree, whom he officially recognised as the First Superhero of Pyree. Her pet snake and partner, Slymee, was lavishly fed with toads found in the royal household. Caught on camera at the dinner table, she was seen giving a speech where she said that she had merely stumbled upon her talent and ability to hunt toads while at a retreat in a cottage in the Tropical Woods outside the Capitol with her husband, Looee. She said that this was about a year before she became well-known and at that time, she had only bought Slymee off a pet shop in Moscow. She later stated in an interview outside the palace, “I am honoured to rid my country of the toad infestation that has plagued it for more than a decade.”

NUMBER 3.  At the Dinner Table.

“So, Lady Bree, tell us. What, made you, take up, the profession of Toad Hunting?” Lord Humphree asked, between forkfuls of pancake.

The whole table turned to her. 

“Well, it’s rather ordinary really.” Lady Bree began with a flattened-with-flattery smile. “It was the summer of 2009. Looee and I were taking a break from life at a cottage in the Tropical Woods. It was our rather late honeymoon, you see. We had been to Moscow that New Year to visit an ill aunt of his, right after our marriage. That’s where I bought Slymee.

In the cottage, Looee – I’m sorry dear if it’s a little embarrassing. It is damningly hilarious. – Looee called out to me one night, frightened out of his wits, by a bully of a toad on a faucet. At first I thought it was simply a toad and that I’d simply pick it up and throw it out. But when I approached it, it turned rather vicious and kept snapping at me! It was obnoxious.

So, I brought Slymee to the bathroom.” She finished, with a shrug of her shoulders.

NUMBER 4. Prime Time Celebrity Gossip.

Lady Bree, after five glorious years in the Toad hunting career, is all set to publish her first book. She was spotted wearing this toad-skin outfit at the book release event, which was sponsored by Prince Curree. With hundreds of fans from Pyrree alone, the event was a grand success. In fact, when this picture was taken, Prince Curree was inviting her to his son’s birthday party next month!

In an emotional pre-release speech she gave special thanks to her husband, Looee, whose discovery of an insolent toad on a faucet, in the cottage of their honeymoon retreat five years ago, is where all this began. She also surprised her fans -- and shockingly, even Prince Curree – with the announcement that she’d been approached by Bill Gates who was willing to sponsor her Toad Hunting company. She is all set to go international. Take a look at this exclusive clip.

P.S.: We missed Slymee.

NUMBER 5. A Snippet from ‘The Ultimate Toad Hunting Guide’.

WARNING: POST TOAD-SPOTTING SHOCK CAN LEAD TO HEART FAILURE AND SUBSEQUENT DEATH.

Thus, it is important to have comprehensive knowledge of a Toad before you go hunting.

7 DEADLY FEATURES of a Toad:

• They are heavy. Taking hold of them the wrong way might lead to a wrist sprain; in worst cases, a fracture.
• They are slimy. They will attempt to wriggle out of your hands and slide into your clothes.
• They are malodorous. They leave their stench on your being and your home. It usually takes up to a whole week for the stench to disperse.
• They are spiteful and arrogant. They snap and spit at you if you attempt to reason with them.
• They bite and lick. The points of contact tend to turn sore and develop rashes that can stay up to a month and have no faster cure.
• Their hideouts are the coldest and most visible places. You must look for them in those parts of the house that fulfill both these conditions. For example, a faucet. They do not compromise.
• Their croak echoes and is deceptive as regards the giving away of their location. 

2 ADVANTAGES OF HUMAN over Toad:

• They are afraid of snakes.
• They are afraid of threats. 

NUMBER 6. Not the Frog Prince.

“Mmm... you’re neck tastes so good wet.” She whispered, face buried under his chin, the water trickling down the softness of their skin.

“I know.... I know...” he breathed back, deep in passion, cushioned snugly by the faucet in the steamy shower cabin.

All of a sudden she hardened.

“What’s wrong?” He kissed and caressed.

“My buttocks are slimy.”

He paused and fixed her in a Ross-like stare. They sat still as stones for a few seconds.

It moved.

“Aaaaaaa”

“That thing!”

They were faced by a gigantic croaking toad which had, now that the space was free to use, sprawled itself over the faucet.

“Shoo. Shoooo!” he waved. “Not my toothbrush! Bree!”

 Croak. Croak.

 “Gosh, it won’t budge.”

They paced up and down and racked their brains in their dressing gowns. Till Bree said, “I’ll go get Slymee.” 

NUMBER 7. Lady Bree Makes Her Way Into Folklore.

(In the tune of Sing a Song of Sixpence)

Sing a song of pet snakes

Cottage fulls of slime.

Four hundred twenty proud toads

Slain for their crime.

Perched on the faucet

The toad began to croak.

Now, wasn't that a mighty shock

For Looee, poor old bloke.

When Bree was in the parlour

Feeding pet Slymee

A shout came and startled her

That was from poor Looee.

Mighty Toad snapped at Bree

And Bree in rage did sway

Then forth came the pet snake

And scared it away.

That was how it all began

The Toad hunting spree.

Cured of the mighty plague

Pyrree lived on with glee.

NUMBER 8. Silver and Green.

A fat green toad like a fat green gourd

On a sliver tap did sit and goad.

Dear Looee and Miss Bree,

Leave the cottage and flee.

But Slymee the snake scared away the green gourd.

NUMBER 9. The Toad Grew Old.

I sit here at my old oak desk, in a leaky old age hole, set out to write this memoir. Today is my birthday and I turn ninety one. But back in my prime I was the Chief of Toadee, our tribe, for a whole decade. I’d like to begin my book by recalling those grand times; the Golden Age of the Toads of Pyrree.

For a decade we conquered all creatures on this land. We grew rich and were feared. New laws and pacts were made and the toads became prosperous and the other creatures, peaceful and content with our generosity and the stability we offered. All, except the pests humans who continued to live by their trickery and deceit. We toads took it upon ourselves to banish them from the land.

This proved to be a difficult task indeed. They wouldn't understand law and honesty and harmony. So we went to war. For ten years we kept them checked and took back what they stole. Our forces achieved wonders. I became loved and revered.

Sadly, this was not to last. One day, a couple came to a cottage in our forest. That cottage had been reclaimed by us eight years ago. It was the spiders’ school house and the ladybugs’ warehouse. This couple, however, slaughtered all who were there and destroyed their home.

I attempted to confront them. I had intended to reason and hadn’t taken any soldiers with me. But they didn’t listen. I had to attack and fight alone.

They knew they couldn't fight me. So they brought out a snake. At first I thought they had befriended the snake clan. But I soon realised that it was not so. This snake did not speak our tongue. He did not know our ways. And he was no friend to Toads. I could sense it. He had been the cause of all the deaths in the cottage. I fled.

The law was clear. I had forfeited a battle and compromised my people. I had to give up my kingship. That was a good thing though, because I then traveled far and wide. But that is a story for another day.

NUMBER 10. Slymee’s Legacy: A Note in the Museum.

Queen Pyra Cobthon the Two Hundred and Eighty Third, of the snake clan, had built a shrine for Slymee.  On their Tree of Poison, was hung up Slymee’s best skin, dyed blue. He got written down in their history books as The Notorious Mass Devourer of toads, bugs, bees and spiders. The shrine would be a common school hate trip destination where the snakelings would participate in a pledge which involved the glorification of simplicity and humbleness in living as opposed to Slymee’s hubris, gluttony, fame and lavish life. They would then sing the national anthem in praise of their Queen. The tradition has continued down the centuries.

Among the humans, Slymee began to be worshiped as Satan’s reincarnation. In their history books, God became the deceiver who had made the plague of Toads descend. Slymee came as their saviour. Long after his passing, Church walls rang with hymns to him, Voices from Mosques called out to him, Rituals and Pujas were done in honour of him. The whole world united in prayer to Slymee.

Slymee had saved Lady Bree and Looee in that cottage all those centuries ago. Slymee had eaten all those vicious toads until there were no more. Slymee lived on. 

THE UNSCREWED COMPASS

“If they be two, they are two so

As stiff twin compasses are two

Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show

To move, but doth, if th’other do.”

n  John Donne

in A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning

While the soft earth caressed the dreamy breeze on the lawns covering the vast gardens surrounding the airport building, Tess and RJ strolled along the length of the broad pavilion outside the departure gates. Their palms locked tight, looks pensive; they walked side-by-side, silent, calm. They had been like this for the past twenty minutes. They had been like this on the train to the airport. They had been like this all that morning. Now they were closing in on noon.

The night before, the full moon had looked down upon their smooth sleeping bodies and smiled.

“Wake up, you boar!” Tess yelled as she bustled about with her dress and toiletries. “It’s 7 a.m.”

“Hmmmm...” In the mirror, behind Tess’s right earring, RJ turned over and began to snore once more. 

So, without a moment’s hesitation, she curtly picked up her pillow and repeatedly brought it down on his head till he sat up straight and wide eyed.

“It’s 7 a.m.” she repeated, glowering through shabby black hair and continuing to glare till he closed the bathroom door behind him. 

Twenty minutes later they were singing duets in their car, rolling down the highway towards the caves.

It was dark inside. Green drops of water fell from the mossy roof as they scraped their way through the series of rough rocks and climbed over boulders.

“My forehead’s itching with this tight band on.” Tess remarked.

“It smells great in here though, doesn’t it?”

“I wonder if it’s the odour of all the tufts of slimy moss clinging to the walls, preventing us from taking their support.”

“Awww, you little grumpy. Come on. This is a good spot for a picture.”

It was raining outside. The air became cooler, the earth softer. Out of the caves now, Tess and RJ sat at an adjoining cafe, grinning at each other over coffee, as they had done so often the past three years. An energetic breeze blew the rain horizontal and brought the drizzle into the cafe which only had an overhead covering and whose sides were bare. The air swung on branches and blew at leaves, hopped over drooping dandelions and rolled onto the mud before rushing into the cracks and pores of the rocks in the caves, tickling the earth’s belly.

“Now it smells good.” Tess said, winking at RJ.

He drew a long deep breath.

“Wet eyes can see clearer, don’t you think?” he replied, grinning again. “Or perhaps it’s the coffee that has mellowed you.”

“You’re a beast. Beastie.”

“And you’re Snow White’s dwarf, Grumpy.”

“Screw you!” Tess scowled.

“You bet.” RJ laughed with an amused smirk.

When all the rain had crossed over from the clouds to the earth, the air broke out in a warm, relaxed smile. The trees swayed to the melody of the chirping birds and squirrels began chasing each other once more. It was Tess’s turn on the wheel and they played Atlas all the way back to the city.

“Let’s go bowling tonight,” RJ suggested while they sat, one among the crowd of vehicles waiting to enter the city when red light retired and green light came out for her shift.

“Sure,” Tess replied.

And so it was that they found themselves laughing and challenging each other over drinks, game after game, at the bowling arena that stood conveniently beside their hotel.

“Wanna go dance a little?” Tess asked.

“Will you sing with me at the karaoke after that?”

“Nothing happens straight for you, does it?”

But the moment they entered the pub, a large room in the gaming parlor, RJ pulled Tess along to the front of a crowd gathered at a center table. Exuberant, glowing faces pressed in on them from all sides under blue neon lights. At the table were two old ladies downing shot after shot.

“What’s happening here?” Tess yelled to her neighbor, trying to reach him over the crowd’s roar and the loud trance music.

“They bet about being able to take ten shots of tequila in a minute and still stay standing. This sort of thing’s never happened before. Five shots are on the house.” The man shouted back.

“That’s a lot of tequila.” Tess yelled in reply and they both rejoined the cheering.

The minute ended with both ladies having downed six and they were being congratulated by the dispersing gathering while they got up to leave and staggered through to another table.

“I challenge this young lady here,” RJ hollered suddenly.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Tess scolded back.

“What? You afraid?”

“Huh, what... hey!”

“Well, are you?”

Tess sensed the tension. The crowd had turned towards them. About thirty eyes were staring straight at them in total silence.

“Fine. Challenge accepted. But you pay.”

“Done.”

The crowd began their cheering once again. Men pulled their chairs for them. A waiter was summoned and soon arrived with the tray of shots. For one more time that night five shots were put on the house. And the game finished as fast as it started. RJ won 10 to 7.

“For my reward,” he announced, “Tess here, who lost by three whole shots,” he paused to let the performance gather full effect, “has to sing for me You've Got Time.” Bang! He let his fist drop on the table as a dramatic finale to his speech.

Thus the evening rolled on and culminated in furious head banging to hard rock.

Tess and RJ wobbled to their hotel room at about 10 p.m.

RJ began to nervously search his pockets and the insides of his pants for the key.

“Oh move over.” Tess barked. The key had been in her purse.

“Give me that” RJ drawled, trying hard to grip the key and snatch them from Tess’s fingers.

And then he fumbled with the keys, making a very strenuous effort to place it in the key hole and turn it. Then Tess made an attempt. Then RJ. Tess again. And so on till the door, catching them unawares, swung open and both tumbled into the room.

As the earth looked up at the moon, melancholy that air had left her and flown to the sky for nocturnal refuge, the two lovers in the hotel regained their wits at the simultaneously and immediately realised they were star-crossed.

And in their shock they began to rip off each other’s clothes with great ferocity and kissed and clawed at each other savagely while climbing onto bed. There they fell to their pillows, their naked bodies gleaming in the moon light, and drifted off to sleep. 

“So, this is it then. Isn't it.” RJ said, staring into a blurred world.

He squeezed Tess’s palm a little harder; as though that would keep her with him. 

For the first time in twenty minutes, they had spoken. Tess broke away from RJ and went over to look out onto the vast lawns. It seemed the air and the earth had warred the night before. Both were still, the sky was dark. Leaves and flower petals were strewn across the ground in a colorful wreckage. The moon still watched over them. Sweet smelling springs had sprouted on all the bare branches of a tree next to Tess, despite the gloom, and dew drops rested on their waxen skin.  The rest of the world was lost to her. 

“I loved our little infinity,” she whispered to RJ’s warmth that embraced her.

“Hey” he said, and turned her around to face him. “We’re not dying. We’re only going to be an ocean away.”

“We’re an unscrewed compass. We had to be.”

Ten minutes later, Tess walked through the gates for her flight to Berlin.

RJ waved her off and walked over to the McDonald's in the waiting lounge. He needed some fries. 

Memoirs of An Eventful Life

I wasn't always a table cloth.

I began as a window model.

The sleekest and most beautiful;

Just the right size, the perfect hue.

And that’s when she came

The small charming lady,

Said I had caught her eye

And that I would fit her design.

Thus, it happened that I

To a new home came.

For a few hundred rupees

I was more than happy to please

A dear young lady

Who said she’d dress me up.

Make me up perfect

As a gift to her niece.

She worked and worked

Day after dreary day

Till upon my belly

In perfect symmetry, lay

Two sisters at the foot of

Their dear old granny’s chair.

On the four corners of my being

Were four pandas drooling.

But oh! The wicked niece

Locked me into a dusty cupboard

And left me there erode

By the mold and cold and

I remained shut up and closed

In there, until I grew old.

My spirits gleamed no longer

My skin shone no more.

No one, although, knew

The family better than I

For what seeped into the closet

Got soaked into my yarn, like dye.

The niece died, the house was let.

Out came the dust covered I,

Or pardon me, ear.

My journey at the second home begins here.

At the back of a venerable couch

I lay sprawled. I had been

Washed and cleaned and

Ironed and preened.

But I was old. And an aged

Companion I had found.

This was, however, the house

Of a certain working bachelor.

Soon enough his wife arrived.

All rosy and slender and bright.

She reminded me of my days of yore

At the window of a humble shop.

From the couch I was snatched

And on the table I was laid.

Back to a place where

The family drama was played.

There I lie, happy and comfortable

Hopefully, till I die. You know,

I did have tragedy one day.

A corner of me burnt away

When the lights went out and

A candle was placed on me

The wax cracked, it fell over

To its side. The candle died.          

MY NINA

She walked in through the door, that elephant of a school bag on her shoulders. Daddy was on the couch as usual, flipping through the television without the volume on. It was his routine: to watch TV from afternoon on till Arnab Goswami’s news hour at 9 p.m., all muted. What he gets out of it I don’t know. 

But then there’s my nephew who always has the TV on no matter what he does. He is seated opposite that TV the whole day doing something or another; either reading or texting or talking on the phone, but never really watching or listening to that box. He visits often.

Jordan joins Daddy at the news hour. He doesn’t turn up the volume because it is forbidden by Nina, and a father couldn't refuse his daughter, could he?

The prime time news hour is the twilight of Nina’s daily study time. She really is an unruly child. Only for those four hours in the evening she sits down quietly immersed in her homework. So, naturally, this is time at which all other house work is also frozen for fear of disturbing her, and consequently, the peace. We have a humble home: three small bedrooms all attached to one end of a common hall, at the other end of which are the kitchen, a balcony and a bathroom.

On July the 27^th, at 2 p.m., Nina burst in through the front door and flew into her Grandpa’s arms. It was her routine. She would break into a grin and in an excited blast of energy she would narrate all of the day’s happenings. She wouldn't be taken away to freshen up and eat until she’d finished her stories. And what stories they were! She could make trees walk and birds and bees talk. Sometimes I feel her school turned out to be just right for her, taking them on nature walks into botanical gardens, insect hunting at the fringes of the school yard, wall climbing, ghost story sessions in tree houses, craft sessions at schools for the physically handicapped, terrace yoga sessions, candle making and sale of them at the bazaar on a particular day and so on; keeping them busy with unconventional activities all year. And on days when it was regular school for them, she’d have stories about teachers that she’d analyse rather grumpily. 

Nina was a grumpy child. She wore a certain grimace on her face that scared off anybody who didn’t know her and had caught her unawares. On the contrary, anyone who met her while she was in the mood for socialising found the best friend in her. She saw the good in people; refused to believe that anybody was bad. Nonetheless, that changed as she grew older, I dare say.

As usual, here I was washing her tiffin box and readying the table for her to lunch at while she told her stories to Daddy. Oh, dear little darling!

“Mamma! Mamma!” She had come running into the kitchen and toppled a box of hot roasted groundnuts in her excitement.

“Oh bother! Go wash up while I clean this ghastly mess you've made.” I had scolded.

She was a messy child; always breaking or spilling things. When she was a toddler, it had been a penchant of hers to snap the heads off all her dolls and play with those heads alone, loading them into a truck or a toy train and so on. But she never purposely destroyed her study things or her clothes or anything else, for that matter.

That day when she had galloped into the kitchen, she had come to confess to having lost her watch, one that was designed as the Power puff Girls and was a gift from a cousin of hers. She had scuttled away to the bathroom, crying, after my admonishment and I hadn’t run after her to comfort her. No one had. And so it has been on many occasions through her school life here at home.

Thus, it wasn't surprising to me that she chose her grandfather to tell her stories to rather than me. She thought I wouldn't listen. I had to eavesdrop and Daddy knew that I did. 

Three years after that day, Daddy died in my brother’s house. He was 94. All Nina said about the death at the funeral was, “I liked Grandpa. His face drooped. And the more it drooped, the chubbier it got.” 

Within a year of that, deaf Mummy died too, in the same house as he. She was 86. That’s when Nina began to grow. She matured into a beautiful and sensible young lady, albeit one that still distrusted my confidence in her.

She always says that I don’t understand her and that I’m always too worried to think clearly. After Daddy’s death, she had no one to tell her daily stories to and she never did; at least not under our roof. Jordan had always been aloof and still is. He made sure of the monetary side of things at home and that was it. He never wanted much out of life. When not working, “sleeping and reading the paper were the best things to do,” he said. And of course those prime time news sessions with Arnab Goswami. 

As Nina grew older, she permitted him, one by one, to turn up the TV volume at 9 p.m. and to smoke inside the house with the windows open. Yet he kept the old habits. I rather think he vented out his daily frustration by imagining himself shouting and abusing in Arnab Goswami’s guise. That aside, 25 years together hasn’t taught me whether his mind is simple or hidden. 

Nina has gone away to college now. She lives in a hostel. I haven’t seen her for a year and on the telephone she only tells me a bare minimum of her life, enough to keep me content with the knowledge of her good health and pure faith. But, you see, I know everything. I always have. I have never depended on her to tell me. I have only ever needed Daddy. 

When my sister died, twelve years ago and three thousand miles away from me, I was the first person she told. When my second sister died eight years ago in the same house as the first one, it was in her arms that I cried from three thousand miles away. Mummy got her hearing back after death and has been a good gossip collector. And Daddy, well... he still lets me eavesdrop on his conversations with Nina. 

So you see, Ive always known all about Nina and I've always understood her for who she is. And she has always been a good girl, she has. My Nina. 

ONCE UPON A TIME AT THE HEART OF THE CAPITAL.

I will always remember this one day in my life. It isn't the only day permanently residing in the luxurious private suites of my memory. But it is one of those perfect few. It hasn't to do with a war or a revolution, or a medal or a journey. It is composed only of those simple little moments that sprinkle themselves over the unlikeliest portions of our world; their purpose solely to turn our eyes into a smile and to leave a legacy behind.

But while I let this memory feast itself at the back of my head and bade it not to bother me, San, the man who wove it with me, put it down in his diary. 

I tried and tried till I begged and cried and still, against its will, the beast of a memory would not leave its feast of luxury. 

And so, with his permission, I attach this diary entry of San's here, for you dear Reader. 

Enjoy: 

THE RED VELVET AFTERNOON

Here we were, sitting side by side, right under the peak afternoon sun, together plucking the grass that lay below, as the dogs barked continuously...

It was our first meeting in this new land, a meeting we had decided ages back. Someday, eventually, definitely, and here, the moment was now.

My name is San. I call her Tiya. Tiya means "parrot". But for me, she's just a rabbit waiting to emerge from her burrow. I realised her resemblance to a rabbit later in the day -- the first time in all these years, while she came towards me from inside the metro station. 

A new city, a new place, lots of new people who looked the same, new surroundings; one thing remained the same though -- Tiya. It was just another moment waiting to be explored. The place was Central Park -- not the one in the United States, but somewhere a little bit closer to home, in Delhi, India. 

Then there came the red velvet cake. Something she made me try for the first time in my life. Needless to say, she was trying it for the first time as well. And she told me that there was no better place to do so than at Connaught Place, at the heart of Delhi.

"Aren't you getting bored? We're doing nothing over here, just sitting and waiting for the beggars to come disturb us..." she asked at one point. I could sense something in her question, in the way she threw it. She knew a moment like that was happening for the first time in her life, and she was, very diplomatically, trying to find out whether I felt the same. 

"Trust me, I am." I replied, almost with a sly wink.

Sitting there, plucking grass, looking at the giant flag of my country, I was feeling anything but new. The moment had taken me straight back to school and made me realise that no matter how old we became, we still kept plucking grass -- a sign that usually signified shyness and inquisitiveness being felt at the same time. It had taken me years to analyse that! 

No, seriously, it seemed to be quite a boring moment with a winter sun hovering right above us. Then again, I've seen a lot of boring things in life and have been a part of them. This time at least I wasn't alone. I had someone with me. And she was right beside me. And at that moment, history was being written.

There was lunch, there was a conversation that we've never since had in any of these years, there was a walk, there were stories none of us spoke, and there were two cute puppies running around as well, speaking the language of love. Somewhere, not very far, we stood, watching as things happened.

"Just another day?", you ask me. Not really. That was my first day in Delhi. It took a year, a journey, a simple metro ride, and someone for things to begin to fall into place. Tiya made it happen.

I was already thinking of our next outing together, when she called me for another walk along the inner circle of Connaught Place.

Me: "Why not... the red velvet's just happening."

Tiya: "Errr... What?"

Me: "Never mind, it isn't a very short walk right?"..... 

And here endeth the picture of a very emotional historical moment. Two people found parts of themselves under the nation's flag. And yet, the flag had nothing to do with it. 

P.S.: I still owe San seventy five rupees from our second outing a few weeks later: The Doughnut Afternoon.

FISH MARKET

As I walked towards the fish market it stank.  I had, and still have, a strong dislike for the stench of uncooked fish. But I approached the low opening in the tent-like enclosure around the market, I walked through. And at that point, the smell became a natural part of the environment. It didn’t feel pungent and nauseating anymore. 

As I passed through the entrance, I raised my eyes to a world of sparkling fish and bright voices harking at the few buyers. It was a village in itself. The outside world did not enter there except to buy. It reminded me of the ‘goblin market’: the silver, white and pink of the fishes heaped onto one another by kind, calling out to our eyes.

 A hawker splashing water here, a hawker slicing a piscine head there; a trail of blood left behind on the scimitar, wiped onto it by a brain split smoothly down its edges, and the silver scales beginning to glitter evermore under the drops of water that clung to them.

Bulbs hung above hoardings painted with pictures of fish and names of stalls; bulbs that swung when the wooden posts holding the stalls together creaked and swayed by passing hands taking their support. Yellow and white and gas-lit lamps twinkled in the eyes of the hawkers who called out to the buyers, the hawkers who were your friends the moment you stepped into their den.

“What fish will you take, sister?” called out one, blocking our passage through the narrow cobbled paths. He turned to another who sat, legs folded and a grin wide open, above his stock: a fine collection of slender and fat, large and small, half kilo ilish and ek kilo ilish, thrashing black fish and quiet white ones. “Same quality we are giving at half the price!”, he beamed.

“That cannot be quite right,” my mother replied, indignant and half full of spite. “This fish is not as fresh as the one on our plate the other night!” 

“Fresh it is, sister! Take a look!” the first one said, and he picked up a fat one and thrust it straight at her head. “See how good it smells and the gills are so red! Now tell me sister, have you seen a fish more fine than the ilish of the Podda divine?”

“From the podda it may be, but it does not smell divine to me!”

“There brother, slice it well. We’ll give it to our sister at half what we said,” the first one declared, tossing the fish up to his counterpart at the scimitar.

I turned around, I left the stall, I walked back to the corner by the door. Whether the fish we’d bought was a king or not, the stench of it stung me no more.