The Question and the Silence

 

The Question and the Silence

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Prabhakar was fifty-five when he finally realised that his life had passed quietly. It felt as though the years had slipped by before he could even keep track of which days were happy and which were not. There were no significant achievements to fill the pages of an autobiography. Yet he knew one thing for sure: people would still remember him with warmth when they spoke of a “good man.”

He was a bachelor, a retired schoolteacher, and an austere soul whose entire wardrobe could fit inside a pillowcase: one blue shirt, one pair of black trousers, and a pair of rubber slippers so worn out that even they would sigh if they could.

He had spent more than half his life waiting for the tiny private school to become government-run and pay him a regular salary, for recognition as a member of government staff that never came, and for pension papers that arrived ten years later than they should have. And by the time the government finally acknowledged him, he was already past forty and had to work fifteen more years to qualify for the minimum pension.

He taught mathematics with sincerity, lived modestly, and ate frugal vegetarian meals, often with mashed potatoes as a side. People called him a maverick teacher, though even that sounded flamboyant for a man who ironed his shirt with a brick wrapped in a loincloth.

Yet something within him was always restless—not a complaint against the unjust world, but a longing for meaningful dialogue with himself.

When he turned fifty-five, he resigned mid-career, collected whatever little savings he had, and decided to do something he had postponed all his life: think.

He walked to Puri, arduously trudging for fifteen days on foot, sleeping under trees, bathing in public tube wells, and drinking tea only if someone insisted on offering it for free. His beard grew naturally, not by design, and it granted him a dignity he didn’t initially recognise. It was only when a roadside tea-seller refused to accept money and insisted he was serving a sadhu that Prabhakar realised what had elevated his stature.

When he reached the Jagannath temple, he had walked and thought all the way, but could not muster a wish. He had surpassed the usual expectations of human life. He did not desire money, marriage, comfort, or longevity. All he wanted was to ask the Lord one question.

Except… he did not know what the question was.

So he stood, his head bowed.

And stood, his hands folded.

And he stood for twelve straight hours in the sanctum, until the guards gently ushered him out, saying, “Babu, darshan over… gharku jao,” meaning: you have had enough audience with the Lord, now go back home.

He emerged from the sanctum and sat in the temple courtyard. One day passed. Then another. Then yet another. He continued to seek a question worth asking God. He warned himself: nothing trivial, nothing selfishly hedonistic.

But nothing happened. No magic, no epiphany.

A few spiritual squatters were pontificating on eternal truth and human duty. Prabhakar was astonished—how had these people become self-proclaimed possessors of “deep wisdom” without asking even a single question of God? They were merely repeating memorised verses, as if determined to impress others by piling up words.

He tried thinking of regrets, but none seemed worthy. His friends had pursued higher education, earned high salaries, married paragons of beauty, built palatial houses, educated their children overseas, arranged enviable marriages for their daughters, and so on… but despite knowing all this, Prabhakar felt no regret.

He tried to remember whom he had hurt, and because he had always spoken his mind without filters, the list turned out to be embarrassingly long and, in most cases, absurdly trivial. Once, he had made a sweeping remark that “one has to be a refugee to succeed in life.” What he really meant was the resilience to rebuild life from scratch and still flourish; yet it was a careless generalisation—true in some cases perhaps, but still a barbed innuendo that seemed directed at a topper whose family had come from East Bengal during the Partition. She had looked at him with such piercing intensity that, for a moment, he felt his knees might buckle. All his life, Prabhakar had wanted to apologise to her once more, but she had vanished from town after completing her brilliant graduation.

Looking back, he realised that most of the people he had “hurt” were simply victims of foolish, half-joking remarks—slip-ups that time would surely have erased from their memories.

He tried recalling unfinished dreams, but he had never been a dreamer.

He even laughed at the idea of getting married at fifty-five and then asking God whether it was still possible.

On the fourth day, he gave up. With a strange peace, he told Lord Jagannath silently:

“Lord, grant me leave for now. If a question stirs in my heart, I will return.
And if you have a question for me, may it find its own way to my heart.”

He grabbed his jhola and resumed walking—this time in the direction of Konark.

Konark stood in contrast to Puri: whereas Puri focused on God, Konark celebrated Man—sculpted, sensual, unapologetically mortal. Prabhakar sat by the sea, wearing his faded shirt and trousers, pondering what sort of divine sign he was meant to receive here, among stone lovers frozen in impossible poses.

He spent the entire night wide awake on the sand. Midnight passed, and the April breeze turned chilly, but he didn’t mind. He kept asking himself: what question have I carried in my heart all my life?

And then, sometime past midnight, a small childhood memory rose—shyly, like a leaf floating up from the bottom of a forgotten well.

He was seven. He and his father were walking back from his maternal uncle’s village. Somewhere midway, there was a small railway station.

His father had asked him to wait there. “I’ll be back soon,” he had said baldly.

But he didn’t return “soon.” Four trains arrived and departed. Evening faded into night. Hunger gnawed at his stomach like a dull ulcer.

He thought of running away on a train to a distant land where rosgullas were free, and everyone wore wool on winter mornings. He imagined his father being insulted by a moneylender, and that was why he left his son behind to spare him the humiliation. He imagined his father meeting another woman—a secret he didn’t want his son to carry home. Prabhakar had also seen an uncle doing this in the village. He feared the possibility of suicide: a familiar whisper among adults when debts became overwhelming. He envisioned everything a frightened seven-year-old could imagine. Or even more than that, as if he had grown wise before his age.

He slept on the bench at the railway platform, dreaming of food—rosgulla, pulao, meat—the usual feasts hungry children dream of.

And at ten at night, happily for Prabhakar, his father returned.

He was silent.

And he was stoic.

No apology. No explanation.

In stony silence, father and son walked home through the darkness. By midnight, the entire family had gone to bed hungry, as usual. Returning empty-handed from the moneylender was hardly the sort of news a husband would wake his wife to share.

The next morning, Prabhakar and his three sisters went to the fallow, waterlogged fields to gather wild paddy. They sifted it by swinging their winnows in reverse so that the ripe grains fell into the tray instead of flying out, and by noon they had collected enough to make a few kilos of coarse rice.

Life went on, but the question remained. It kept hiding itself, afraid of being dismissed as too trivial:

Where had his father gone that day? And why had he left his little boy alone?

Prabhakar had buried that question for five decades. But on the seashore of Konark, it bubbled up again—raw, intact, wordless.

For the first time in fifty-five years, Prabhakar quietly realised something painful: his father must have been battling his own demons that day—debts, shame, helplessness, perhaps even thoughts of ending it all.

But he didn’t.

He came back. Late, exhausted, silent… But he came back whole.

A man who could have run away stayed.

A man who could have died chose to walk home.

A man with nothing left still carried his son back.

However, it wasn’t an answer to any question. But it was an insight into a father’s hidden war. And that was enough.

Prabhakar walked back from Konark to Puri, and then home—not to ask a question, but to silently thank his father… not the deity.

He reached his village a month later.

He resumed free tuition for those in need. Students gathered around him once again—some poor, others wealthy, pretending to be poor, and some pretending to be even poorer. It was the typical village barter system, like exchanging a haircut for a few kilos of mangoes or paddy. Prabhakar received vegetables from his students' kitchen garden to supplement his mashed potatoes. He smiled at their theatrics and continued to teach everyone as usual.

But in the corner of the small room, facing the children, he placed something new: a black-and-white photo of his father. Not garlanded. Not worshipped. Just there, as a quiet witness.

When curious students asked, “Sir, who is he?” Prabhakar replied, “A man who once lost his way… but returned. And because he returned, I am here today to teach you.”

Their curiosity waned after Prabhakar’s gentle prevarication.

He never asked God another question. But in teaching freely, beneath his father’s photograph, he lived the answer he had been seeking.

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By 

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Balasore, 28-11-2025

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The Slate of Sin

 

The Slate of Sin

Some memories don’t fade; they just ferment.

This story revolves around a chance reunion, an old slate, and the invisible stains that time cannot erase. What started as a simple evening for snacks in my hometown, Suvarnpur, turned into an unforgettable lesson on dignity, forgiveness, and the quiet nobility of a man named Pramod.

It was around five in the evening—that magical hour when the aroma of fried snacks floats through Suvarnpur’s streets like a festival in the air. I was at the bus stand, waiting for tea, when I spotted a familiar face after five long years.

“Pramod!” I called out.

He turned, surprised, and broke into a smile that conveyed both warmth and weariness.

We had been friends since school. Life took me to another town for a white-collar job; Pramod, however, drifted through several uncertain trades—a phone booth, a photocopy kiosk—before ending up as a security guard at a toy factory.

His schooling was unremarkable; he passed the matriculation exam after his third attempt, convincing himself he was not a dropout but merely a misfit for the rigours of examinations. Accepting this reality, he approached job-seeking with confidence, not considering any job too humble for his dignity. He quickly engaged in various ventures, starting with a rice business on a bicycle, then a phone booth with a photocopier added along the way, and finally a coffee shop with two tables in a dingy room—perfect for lovers to gauge and deepen their intimacy in that semi-dark hangout. However, none proved to be a successful business.

The role of a security guard, too, had come after an ordeal. Years ago, he was falsely accused of stealing a customer’s purse at the kiosk, beaten black and blue, thrown into the police lock-up, and kicked out on an empty stomach. A kind stranger—a factory owner out for his morning walk—found him lying by the roadside, offered him tea, and listened sympathetically to his tale of woes. Although the young man was a suspected criminal—having narrowly avoided the courtroom floor in a criminal case—the factory owner had a way of recognising an honest person, sifting through impulses to reject the story of woes, and he finally gave him work as a guard.

“That man changed my fate,” Pramod told me once.

But that day, meeting after five years, we began with lighter things—snacks and tea. He insisted we go to a roadside restaurant, Chandi Jalpan—or Silver Snacks, as people fondly called it—which had become a legend for its fritters, samosas, and sweets. “My treat,” he warned, wagging a finger when I offered to pay.

We entered the small, bustling eatery. The air was thick with the smell of frying besan (chickpea flour) and boiling oil—the golden fragrance of small-town evenings. Pramod ordered samosas, assorted fritters, and a plate of dazzling sweets called mihidana—tiny, colourful, juicy globules that shimmered like fish eggs but melted on the tongue like a cube of butter. Then came tea, not poured from a pre-made pot but freshly brewed on demand—the kind that carries both warmth and dignity.

When it was time to settle the bill, the waiter did not bring a printed bill inside a folder but shouted the amount across the room. We approached the counter, where the cashier—the owner of Chandi Jalpan himself, a man in his sixties who was not accustomed to trusting any of his workers with money matters—was jotting figures on an old black slate with a piece of limestone.

That slate fascinated me. In an age of calculators and digital tablets, he still used a relic from the 1950s… or even more ancient. I, who had once tried collecting old ink pens before giving up halfway, felt a strange kinship with that slate—an object that had silently witnessed a man’s journey from rags to riches.

The owner noticed my curiosity and smiled. “Want to hold it?” he asked.

I was just about to reach out when Pramod stopped me. His face tightened. “No—don’t touch it,” he said quietly.

I was puzzled but didn’t protest. He paid the modest bill—fifty-five rupees—and we stepped out to sit under a neem tree near the bus stand. The evening light was fading.

“Now tell me,” I said. “Why did you stop me from touching that slate?”

Pramod looked into the distance. “Because that slate has soaked up too many sins,” he said slowly. “All the money written on it—it’s built on cheating. The owner underpays his workers, cuts corners with ingredients, and even duped his old partner out of the business.”

I tried to reason with him. “Profit isn’t sin, Pramod. Every business survives on buying cheap and selling with a margin.”

He smiled sadly. “It’s not about profit. It’s about cruelty.”

Then he shared a story with me. Years ago, when he was a hungry teenager looking for work, he had come to that very restaurant. He had no money, so the owner agreed to give him food—only if he first washed a mountain of greasy cooking pots and cleaned the kitchen.

Starving, Pramod obeyed. When he finished, he was not permitted to sit and eat. “Servants don’t sit,” the owner had announced sternly.

Standing in the corner, Pramod was handed two stale samosas—leftovers from two days earlier—scraped from the waste tub. Too hungry to protest, he ate them. That night, he fell ill in the mess he shared with four other strugglers. Thanks to their homemade ORS, he recovered.

“That man will never remember me,” Pramod said quietly. “But I wanted to see if time had changed him. Or his slate.”

I sat there, speechless—ashamed of my earlier admiration for that ancient slate, and guilty for not having known Pramod’s story before.

I muttered, “Then you shouldn’t have taken me there.”

He only smiled. “I wanted to avenge my old insult—by eating while seated, where once I wasn’t allowed even to sit. I wanted to see if the food still tasted the same. Perhaps, in the end, I just wanted to forgive.”

But I couldn’t shake off my discomfort. We parted with a brief handshake.

Later, Pramod called twice, perhaps to soothe any lingering hurt I might still hold in my mind, but I had already buried the unpleasant memory. I didn’t know then that he was fighting an incurable illness—the dreaded “C” disease—that his time was running out. I didn’t realise he had called to share terrifying news, but upon reflection, he decided not to. He was too much of a gentleman to burden a friend with sorrow; to him, it would have been an act of selfishness. He must have known that when the time came, I would discover the truth for myself, and that I would speak kindly of him, recalling the memories of our happy association. That thought alone must have made Pramod content. There was, after all, no need to seek sympathy through what he would have called spam calls.

The last time he rang me, his voice carried that gentle grace that masks pain too well. He didn’t mention hospitals or treatments; he only had very positive things to say about our friendship. He said I was a perfect gentleman, and that he would pray to have a friend like me in every life to come. I laughed it off then, not realising he was quietly saying goodbye.

Soon, news of his death reached me, and the first words that escaped my lips were:

“What an irony! A good soul like Pramod was born to die young.”

Then I remembered that slate—the one I had nearly touched—and understood why he had stopped me.

I felt like reenacting his role of a hungry boy, standing in a corner of Chandi Jalpan’s kitchen and eating a stale samosa, if that was possible! My eyes filled with sudden tears.

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

That evening remains etched in my mind—not for the food, nor for the nostalgia of meeting an old friend, but for the moral weight of a single object: a slate that had recorded both profit and pain.

Sometimes, sin does not reside in people alone. It lingers in the tools of their trade—in ledgers, machines, or even memories—waiting to be redeemed by a conscience like Pramod’s.

When I think of him now, I don’t see the weary guard or the struggling youth. I see a man who quietly forgave a world that had wronged him, and taught me that forgiveness, too, can be an act of courage.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Balasore, 21-11-2025

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Guava Curry

 

Guava Curry

I have heard of apple curry, date curry, and mango curry—of course, everyone knows those—but guava curry? That was something out of this world. When I first heard about it, I thought someone was pulling my leg. But the woman who told me the story was not known for lies. She was a person of impeccable reputation, the kind who never twisted a fact for fun. And this wasn’t a story she told in self-praise—quite the opposite. It was about a mistake she made in her youth, one that turned into unforgettable family folklore.

So, let me tell you the plain and unadulterated story that happened over sixty years ago, and you can decide for yourself whether it’s a deliberate piece of humour or something innocent that deserves sympathy.

Her name was Suma—the daughter of a poor farmer from a remote village. She had studied only up to class three in a lower primary school, the highest level available there. Many of her classmates chose to fail deliberately so they could continue receiving milk powder and bulgur—a cracked wheat grain the government distributed free to schoolchildren. But Suma refused to let her report card be tarnished for such free food.

She left school early, but she could still write letters, read stories, and do basic arithmetic. She was not average—perhaps even better than average.

Had Suma married a poor man’s son, she might have used her freedom and intelligence and eventually become an enlightened, self-taught woman. Fourteen is hardly an age at all—it’s only the beginning of understanding, of learning, of becoming.

But fate had other plans.

When a wealthy family proposed marriage to her solely based on her beauty, her father was overwhelmed. The matchmaker brought the proposal from a prosperous man who owned twenty acres of cultivable land, four pairs of bullocks, a bullock cart, and lent money and grain to neighbours at interest. He lived in a house that, if not entirely brick-built, at least had a tin roof—fireproof, unlike the thatched homes around, which always lived in fear of spark and wind.

So Suma’s father thanked God for granting his daughter a rare chance to prosper and live comfortably. Yet he knew there was a price. What could a poor bride’s father afford to pay? His account had only one balance: his self-respect. He would have to endure insult, stay silent, and accept his inferior status forever.

He couldn’t afford a dowry or gifts for festive occasions, but he comforted himself with the thought that peace was more important than pride. After all, daughters are meant to live and flourish in a different family. And so, he agreed to give his daughter in marriage.

The groom’s name was Damru—Damu, the nickname.

In the days leading up to the wedding, Suma’s father, mother, and aunt took turns training her on how to behave in her in-laws’ house.

“Don’t talk back, and that’s considered rude,” said her aunt.

“Eat only when they ask you to. Merely being in the kitchen does not mean it is proper to eat whenever you feel like,” added her mother.

“Drink the water in which one of the elders has dipped their toes—it’s holy,” her father advised. Then he added, “Wake up first, sleep last, stay in the kitchen, always keep your head covered, and remain in the shadows.”

Her aunt would quiz her like a schoolteacher:

“What will you do after you bathe?”

“Will take a sip of the foot-water,” Suma replied softly.

They nodded in satisfaction. She was ready.

When the day came, Suma’s father confessed to the groom’s father that he could not afford to host a large wedding procession.

“That’s fine,” said the groom’s father kindly. “Invite only me, the boy, the priest, and the barber. After the wedding, send your daughter and son-in-law home in a palanquin.”

And so it was accomplished—a simple ceremony, with no music save the conch, no crowd except a few neighbours, just quiet joy and trembling hope. There was a modest meal of rice, dal, and saag—boiled green leaves lightly seasoned—and the tastiest chutney made from hog plum, which the barber of the entourage remembered fondly even in his old age.

For a week, the young bride stayed at her husband’s house, observing rituals and learning customs. Then, because she was not yet physically mature, she was sent back to her parents’ home.

A year later, when she was ready, she returned—armed with all the advice in the world and determined to be the perfect wife.

Everything she had learned—how to stay silent, how to obey, how to serve—she followed faithfully. Everything, except one thing: what to cook that would please everyone.

Suma was put in charge of the kitchen. Breakfast, lunch, tea and snacks in the afternoon, dinner—she had to prepare them all. She became a machine programmed to produce something steaming on the plate at a specific hour—no slip allowed.

The kitchen had a hearth: not an electric or gas stove, but a firewood chulha with stubborn, spiky twigs that needed constant blowing through an iron pipe to keep the flames alive. She did her work in that dark kitchen, which, in those days, had no electricity.

She was not allowed to go outside—not even to the kitchen garden—because a daughter-in-law must not move freely. The elders believed such beauty, if seen by outsiders, could attract evil eyes or witchcraft. So, Suma stayed indoors, cooking whatever vegetables were brought to her.

Every day, something went wrong. One day the curry was too salty, another day too yellow from turmeric. Sometimes the chillies were missing; sometimes the vegetables were half-cooked. Each meal seemed to fail in turn.

And in that house, no one praised Suma—only criticised.

“A daughter-in-law learns through scolding,” said the elders. Even the children mocked her. No one stopped them; no one reminded them that the cook was their elder and deserved respect.

But Suma stayed quiet. Her silence was her only armour.

Then one morning, her mother-in-law brought a small basket of vegetables: ribbed gourd, yam stem, ivy gourd, and… guava. A strange combination indeed.

Suma looked at the basket and thought hard.

“Yam stem can be boiled or fried,” she reasoned. “Ivy gourd—that’s for frying. But guava…” She hesitated. “Perhaps my mother-in-law is testing me. Maybe she wants a curry with gravy. She told me not to make dal, so there must be some curry with gravy for the rice.”

And thus, she decided: she would make guava curry.

She chopped the guavas as if they were potatoes, boiled them with turmeric, salt, and chillies, and seasoned the curry with a generous amount of mustard. The aroma filled the kitchen, and she felt proud of herself.

When it was time for lunch, she served everyone rice, fried yam stems mixed with ivy gourds, and finally the guava curry.

But as soon as they started eating their lunch, an explosion of laughter shook the house—loud, unstoppable, collective laughter, as if everyone had been waiting for that exact moment.

Suma froze, confused and frightened.

The laughter slowly subsided, and the mother-in-law turned to her son, ignoring the trembling girl.

“Look, Damu,” she said dryly, “I’m at my wits’ end. From today, you will teach your wife how to cook.”

Damru replied, “I don’t know cooking either, Ma. If you say so, I’ll send her back to her parents. Let her learn there.”

And so it was decided.

The next morning, Damru rode his bicycle with his wife seated on the rear carrier, pedalled all the way to her parents’ house, dropped Suma off, and left immediately. He didn’t even accept a glass of water, as if to underline his anger.

The girl, in tears, confessed to her mother, “I made guava curry. Why didn’t you ever tell me not to cook guava?”

The house filled with shame and astonishment. After seven days, her father took her back to her in-laws’ house, begging for forgiveness.

“She will never make guava curry again,” he promised humbly. “Her mother and aunt have taught her cooking all over again.”

The family relented, and Suma resumed her duties in the kitchen.

This time, she had learned one more thing—not from her elders, but from life itself:

When you’re hurt and there’s no one to listen, cry. Crying soothes the heart like nothing else.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Balasore 13/11/2025

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The Residue of Love

 

The Residue of Love

Some people believe that true love and genuine knowledge outlive the body—that they turn immortal, transcending the cycle of birth and death. Kishore never accepted this romantic metaphysics. To him, such theories were often floated by “any Tom, Dick, and Harry” who lacked both logic and evidence, yet proclaimed their beliefs as eternal truths.

“Yes, knowledge can outlive a person,” Kishore argued, “but only through books, institutions, and students. Wealth survives through inheritance or philanthropy. But don’t call it mystical, and don’t tell me that people are reborn with the same wisdom or love. It’s always a hoax! Some even claim to remember their past lives and narrate them like polished TED Talks—no contradictions, no glitches—just pure fiction marketed as metaphysics!”

Kishore grew up questioning everything—enough to unsettle priests, astrologers, and elderly neighbours. At college, he formed a Freethinkers’ Circle that became infamous for grilling teachers with uncomfortable questions.

Once, during a lecture, the teacher remarked, “We are the product of our choices—that is the law of Karma.” Kishore disagreed. Not everyone, he argued, is blessed with options.

He asked, “Sir, how did you come to college today?”

“By a rickshaw,” the lecturer replied.

“And who was pulling it?”

“The rickshaw puller, of course.”

“And why was he pulling it and not you?”

“It was his rickshaw—his choice,” the lecturer said confidently.

Kishore then asked, “Was it really his choice—or simply the absence of choices?”

Silence.

“You can’t label the absence of choice as choice. That’s utter misguidance,” Kishore concluded.

The teacher took offence and marched to the principal. The principal counselled Kishore gently: “You have the tendency to observe everything only in parts. Wisdom will come with maturity. Wait for the right age.”

To Kishore, this was a standard spiritual tactic—a convenient way to marginalise questioning minds: branding youth as immature, curiosity as insolence, and independence as indiscipline. Society, he felt, preferred obedient followers to thinking individuals.

The parents of such rebellious boys dreaded vacations. When the Freethinkers returned home, they debated with pandits and astrologers, creating such chaos that parents would hurriedly pack them back to their hostels.

Once, when someone asked Kishore in a critical tone why the Freethinkers’ Circle had no women members, he replied, “They’re watching us—our stand on gender equality and our rebellion against male dominance. Just wait—soon they’ll join us and lead from the front.”

Everyone predicted a bleak future for the group: “No company wants a doubting Thomas!”

Yet life surprised everyone—all ten Freethinkers secured respectable jobs. They had merely “suspended questioning temporarily” for interviews. Kishore, their leader, even landed a top government post.

His secret?

“I never stopped arguing. I just changed my tone—‘I may be mistaken… with due respect… sorry to differ, sir… there’s another perspective…’ That’s how you win without offending.”

Marriage, however, was where Kishore drew a firm line. He believed marriage turned spirited minds into obedient conformists. Eight of them eventually married (some even shamefully embraced dowry), but Kishore and another hardcore Freethinker held out. Families panicked:

• “We will die without seeing our bahu and grandson!”
• “Those who die without a grandson go to hell!”
• “Unmarried men suffer strange illnesses—migraines, night attacks—even a churail comes in dreams as a wife, sucks their blood, and inflicts diseases no doctor can diagnose!”

Finally, an elderly man arrived at Kishore’s home with a peculiar request.

One of the Freethinkers—the ninth in their band of ten—had refused to marry, and his mother was heartbroken. After the doctors’ prognosis on her health, she was convinced she would die of grief within six months, even before the onset of her third heart attack. Since Kishore was the group’s leader, only he could persuade her son.

Kishore agreed—but when he tried to convince his friend, the friend set one condition: “Only if you marry too.”

 

And so, at forty, Kishore and his friend married two educated sisters, aged thirty-eight and thirty-six. The Freethinkers didn’t fuss over beauty or horoscopes—and certainly not dowries. The brides took just one vow:

“We will remain Freethinkers after marriage.”

The vow-taking was neither ceremonial mumbo-jumbo nor sacrosanct. Kishore simply handed his bride a register documenting the Circle’s discussions—their ideological heritage. That was the formal initiation before the two women became the perfect match for Kishore and his friend.

That evening, with Kishore, his father, and sister seated in the car, the procession set off for the bride’s house. Barely a quarter of a mile away, Kishore asked the driver for his licence. It had expired. Horrified at the thought of being stopped and forced to bribe his way out—illegal and unethical—Kishore returned alone on foot to fetch his own licence. The elders protested that returning once the baraat had begun was inauspicious, but Kishore dismissed the superstition.

It was around 8 p.m. The road lay dark under a canopy of silence—no streetlights, no movement. Near an old banyan tree, an elderly woman in a white sari appeared and softly asked, “Will you take me along?”

“The car is full,” Kishore replied.

She smiled. “No matter—I’ll sit on the roof.”

Kishore laughed. “It’s a car, Mataji, not a bus!”

Her eyes glowed with an odd tenderness. “I’ve waited for this opportunity for years,” she said gently.

When Kishore asked who she was, she didn’t give a name—only said, “I am your best well-wisher.”

Before he could ask more, she had vanished into the darkness.

Later that night: Kishore was driving. The hired driver—licence expired and conscience equally questionable—had fallen asleep beside him, snoring softly. As the night deepened, fatigue crept in; the road stretched like a dull ribbon under the headlights.

And then, in that eerie half-second between waking and sleep, the woman in the white sari flashed into view, running across the road straight toward the car.

Instinct snapped him awake. He slammed the brakes. The car screeched. The passengers lurched forward, startled and disoriented. Kishore gripped the wheel, his pulse hammering—but said nothing. For a man who had spent decades mocking ghost stories, admitting this would destroy his rationalist image. One word, and he’d become the very legend he had spent his life debunking.

Instead, he opened the flask and poured himself a cup of tea, letting the hot liquid burn his throat and his sleep away. It was a conscious violation of the wedding-night fast that forbade food or drink before the ceremonial palm-tying.
Better to break a ritual than break his neck on the highway!

He reached the bride’s house safely, married, and returned home the next morning.

During the post-wedding lunch, a relative joked, “First serve food to Kishore’s aunt—his father’s sister. If her spirit isn’t fed, she’ll come demanding answers! She’s a dabang even in the afterworld!”

Everyone laughed—except Kishore. The remark struck him like lightning. His paternal aunt, the only soul who had loved him as fiercely as his mother, had died when he was in Class V. She had only one wish—to live long enough to lead Kishore’s wedding procession. Fate was merciless. A swift, cruel snakebite had taken her before she could see that day.

That afternoon, Kishore accompanied the cook to the coconut grove, where food was traditionally offered to the departed. As always, stray dogs and crows came to eat. But now, the events of the previous night began to align in his mind.

Could that gentle woman in the white sari have been his aunt? If she hadn’t woken him… would the car have crashed? Would his bride have been widowed on her wedding night?

Kishore never spoke of it—not to his wife even, not to his Freethinker friends. For the next twenty years of married life, he carried one quiet, disobedient thought:

Perhaps love does survive the body—not as mysticism, but as lingering concern; a residue in the air, a vibration that returns when needed.

A Freethinker remained a Freethinker. But one night, love had out-reasoned him.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar

7-11-2025

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To get the author's English novel Ivory Imprint, (ebook), please visit the Amazon link at https://amzn.in/d/8B3V96H 

To get the author's English novel Ivory Imprint (paperback), please visit the Amazon link at https://amzn.in/d/egyKzZA

The Lookalikes

 

The Lookalikes

It’s strange how life occasionally assigns us identities we never applied for. Most people struggle to be recognised; a few of us get recognised for the wrong reasons—twice in my case, years apart and on two different continents.

This story begins in Cuttack in the 1980s and resurfaces thirty-five years later in Tula, Russia. Between the two lies a thread of humour—woven with an unsettling, almost eerie coincidence.

I was a young man then, returning from a friend’s house with a newly borrowed book. Reading was then an interaction in the physical world: no internet, no ebooks, and no social media. On my walk back to the YMCA, I stopped at a small roadside eatery for some snacks and tea. The shop was nearly empty—only one man lounged at the entrance. I placed my order, opened the book, and began planning how I’d fit reading into my week.

Just then, two men entered. One politely asked if he could share my bench; the other sat opposite me. I assumed they would rest briefly and then leave. Instead, one of them leaned in and asked:

“Have we met before?”

A simple ‘no’ would have done, but I courteously scanned my memory, drawing a complete blank. Before I could reply, they exchanged encoded glances, as if cracking a case.

The man sitting opposite me asked with the seriousness of a police inspector:

“Aren’t you Coona from the village called Kalandipur?”

I burst into laughter—not because it was true, but because the question was so ridiculous. Unfortunately, my laughter emboldened them.

“Aha! Look at his reaction! We’ve found him! We’re convinced,” they declared.

They insisted I was a runaway named Coona, and my disbelief only strengthened their conviction. My silence would also have convinced them—in any case, they knew what was to be proved…and how to. The shopkeeper, lured by rumours of a ₹10,000 reward for the missing boy, joined the chorus. He lovingly counselled me to return home with them—young men often leave home impulsively, he said, and return wiser.

I told him that the only mistake in the room was mine; it was a blunder I had made by stepping into his eatery.

To test their “cocksure certainty,” I asked them my supposed full name and my last known occupation. They didn’t know the first, but confidently declared:

You were studying in high school before you ran away three years ago with your father’s money.

I quietly placed my cup on the table and said, “For your information, I have completed my M.A. and am preparing for the I.A.S. exam. I’m an IAS aspirant.”

The transformation was instant and magical. The very utterance of “I.A.S. aspirant” acted like a tantric chant that frightens away demons. Their bravado evaporated, posture softened, pupils constricted. Even the shopkeeper adjusted his stance and tone.

But he made one last attempt: “If you are not that boy at large, show us your belly. Coona, the boy, had a mark there.”

I looked at him, astonished.

So, you believe that in this entire world, only one boy has a mark on his stomach? And I, in your eatery, must partially disrobe to prove I’m not him? What on earth is this—a tea stall or an engineering hostel, notorious for ragging? Or perhaps an airport immigration in a superpower country with the legal authority to conduct cavity searches on third-world immigrants?

Silence. Complete, embarrassed silence.

I paid the bill and left, with the shopkeeper giving me back more change than he should have; he was too flustered to work out the correct amount. For a change, he shortchanged himself!

Back in my room, I showered, inspected the so-called “touch of angel” birthmark above my belly button, and realised something profound: You don’t need to become an I.A.S. officer to command respect. Sometimes, even being an I.A.S.  aspirant is enough.

The incident remained a humorous anecdote for years—until, three and a half decades later, life served a second helping of mistaken identity, this time in Russia.

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

In 2017, I was in Moscow for a conference. With a free day at hand, I decided to explore something beyond the city’s grand boulevards and onion-domed skyline. My escort recommended a three-hour drive to Tula, praising it as a historic town with beautiful churches, museums, and—most curiously—famous gingerbread.

Religious tourism, I understood—Mathura has Banke Bihari, Puri has Lord Jagannath—but gingerbread as a tourism attraction? I wondered if Russians revered it as Hyderabad does its Biryani, or Odisha adores chhena poda—the cheesecake. But I accepted: food, too, can be part of cultural heritage.

Tula was elegant in a postcard sort of way—clean squares, charming churches, and a sky so blue it felt Photoshopped. The churches, though grand, lacked the electric spirituality of Indian temples. The only gingerbread that impressed me was a terracotta souvenir with a fridge magnet.

Our final stop was the Museum of Samovars. As we wandered through the aisles, admiring vessels that once brewed tea for czars and peasants alike, an incident unfolded that none of us could have anticipated.

An elderly Russian gentleman, perhaps in his late sixties, suddenly spotted me, gasped, and rushed forward with arms wide open.

“Raj Kapur! Raj Kapur! Autograph, please!”

Before I could react, I found myself caught in a bear hug with the crushing strength of someone who had either trained in wrestling or had waited fifty years to hug the legendary Bollywood star. I could barely breathe, let alone impart that Raj Kapoor had passed away long ago—and that I was taller than he ever was.

He finally released me, only to break into song:

“Mera joota hai Japani…”

The lyrics were hilariously mangled, but the tune was spot on. He danced, pulled me in, and for a moment, the museum became a Bollywood flash mob. A guard and some relatives rushed in and softly escorted him away. As he was dragged off, he waved sadly.

“I only wanted Raj Kapur’s autograph!”

Back in Moscow, I reflected on the incident. Should I feel honoured at being mistaken for Raj Kapoor? Was I meant to take pride in resembling a cinematic icon—or relief that the man didn’t recognise Shashi Kapoor instead and ask me to thunder “Mere paas maa hai”?

And then it struck me: it was an uncanny echo of that Cuttack afternoon.

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

Twice in my life, separated by oceans and decades, strangers were utterly convinced of who I was—not based on logic, data, or conversation, but with unshakeable conviction.

In Cuttack, two men knew I carried a round birthmark above my belly button. In Russia, a man saw Raj Kapoor in me across culture, genetics, and time.

Science says the odds of two unrelated people looking identical are one in a trillion. Even identical twins differ in personality. And yet, literature thrives on doppelgängers—Shakespeare, Dostoevsky, Bollywood double roles like Golmal, Ram aur Shyam or Seeta aur Geeta—stories that delight in the mystery of two lives sharing one face.

Perhaps life, too, occasionally borrows from literature.

Perhaps identity is not a possession but a costume—sometimes handed to us without rehearsal.

All I know is this: Once, I was a runaway named Coona. Once, I was Raj Kapoor in Tula.

And somewhere between the two, I remain myself—the only one unsure why the world keeps recognising me as someone else.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar

3-11-2025

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Get your copy of  the author's short story collection ebook, The Remix of Orchid, https://amzn.in/d/eLPcHk2

Get your copy of  the author's short story collection paperback, The Remix of Orchid, https://amzn.in/d/9y7cAXF