Debugging Life

(I am excited to share with you, dear loyal readers, an excerpt from the first chapter of my upcoming YA novel. Enjoy! Tell me what you think in the comments)

In the vast grid of Mumbai, Aarav Mistry was a rogue element, a sleek line of code in a city jammed with excess. His days looped like a well-worn track—predictable, precise, and to anyone peeking over his shoulder, mind-numbingly repetitive.

Home was where the old algorithms ran the show, a fortress of outdated systems that defied any new updates. His mother, a software engineer from the dial-up internet era, orchestrated their lives with a blend of old-school command lines and a sprinkle of the mystical. She tried, time and again, to upload her traditional software into Aarav’s modernised mindset, only to hit a compatibility error. But one programme did run. On his ninth birthday, his mother—a woman whose intellect could outshine a supernova—slid a gift across the table. It was wrapped in star-speckled paper, a nod to the cosmic gap between Aarav and the world. Beneath it lay Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time.

Ripping off the wrapping like he was tearing through the continuum, Aarav was met with the cover: a galaxy spiraling into the unknown. His mother’s smile was a sliver of moonlight as he plunged into the opening lines. Hawking’s prose was a brawl—funny and unapologetic about our speck-like existence. Black holes? Cosmic thugs, making even light sleep with the fishes. Quantum mechanics was a wild playground, particles the mischievous children playing hooky with the laws of physics. The book was a livewire, each chapter zapping another shock of awe. Wormholes were the universe’s sketchy shortcuts, dim alleys where time got roughed up and spat out looking all wrong. And time itself? The slickest con artist, peddling the lie that it ticked away evenly when it was really picking our pockets.

In the pages of A Brief History of Time, the universe wasn’t just vast; it was personal. Hawking’s universe had teeth, and it bit Aarav hard. Time bending around a black hole wasn’t just physics; it was his life hack on how to bend the rules when they got in your way. The book was a map to a treasure that didn’t glitter but glowed with the cold light of distant stars. It was a permission slip to question everything, to see the universe not as a machine but as an algorithm—complex, yes, but not beyond understanding. Aarav found his tribe among the rebel particles and law-defying physics he read about. He was the bug in the social code, a kid fluent in binary but stuttering in the language of people.

The universe, as Hawking painted it, was a rule-breaker’s paradise, and Aarav felt seen. It was as though the cosmos itself winked at him, recognising his outlier essence. His mother, the instigator of his cosmic quest, knew the gears she had set in motion. She’d handed her son an enigma that stretched across the infinite—a front-row ticket to a cosmic magic show, with black holes and vanishing galaxies as the main act.

In Aarav’s room, the bookshelf was less IKEA, more intergalactic command centre. Each book was a launchpad: some shot you to the stars, others slingshotted you around the dark side of the moon for a gravity assist. Carl Sagan’s Cosmos wasn’t just a book; it was a starship with its hyperdrive stuck on ‘philosophize’. Sagan was the captain, and Aarav, his wide-eyed ensign. They time-traveled, from the Big Bang to the far-flung future, where humans might actually get their act together. Richard Feynman was the mad scientist who taught Aarav that physics wasn’t just about atoms and voids—it was about bongo drums, safe-cracking, and painting in oil. Aarav chuckled through chapters, thinking, “If Einstein’s hair was wild, Feynman’s brain was a full-blown quantum entanglement.” Asimov’s Foundation was less a series of books, more a brain-bending binge. Psychohistory? More like psycho-awesome! Aarav was drafting his own mental encyclopaedia galactica, with less psycho and more history.

2001: A Space Odyssey was Arthur C. Clarke’s love letter to the future, HAL 9000 the poster child for when smart homes go rogue. Aarav gave his laptop a wary side-eye and whispered sweet nothings to Siri, just in case. Dune was a desert trip without the need for peyote. Frank Herbert was the eco-warrior bard, and Aarav was ready to ride sandworms through the silicon dunes of his motherboard. Snow Crash and Neuromancer were the cyberpunk scriptures, Gibson and Stephenson the prophets. Aarav devoured their words like a hacker guzzling energy drinks during an all-night hackathon.

Each book was a round in the chamber of Aarav’s mind-gun, ready to blow the doors off the universe. Aarav wasn’t just growing up; he was leveling up, one quantum leap at a time. Aarav’s time obsession wasn’t about mastery but comprehension of its language. Time, for him, was the grand code woven into the universe’s fabric. In the tangled web of Mumbai’s chaos, Aarav was a quiet anomaly, a kid who found solace in the crisp, clean lines of code rather than the messy scrawl of human interaction. Time in code was his to command—a loop could run to infinity or stop on a dime, all at his whim.

At seventeen, Aarav’s life was a confusing installation he was constantly refining, debugging, optimizing. His father, the financial analyst, dealt in probabilities and predictions, a different kind of code—opaque and uncertain. Friends were constants, and girls—well, they were the wildcard functions that defied logic. College was Aarav’s daily debug session, a place to troubleshoot the social code that everyone else seemed to run effortlessly. His classmates were like pop-up ads, intrusive and irrelevant, distracting him from his real work. But in the glow of his screen, Aarav was the artist. Each keystroke was a deliberate stroke of his brush.

The symphony of Mumbai city, a chaotic code outside his controlled environment, was a constant reminder of the raw script of existence that awaited his input. His crew, a tight-knit cluster of code-slingers, were his debuggers in arms. They were his tribe, a collective of coders, yet even among them, Aarav felt like an outlier—an open-source spirit in a closed-source world. The upcoming hackathon in Varanasi loomed not just as a competition but as a crucible to test his code. It was a chance to commit changes to his life’s repository. Packing his tech was like gearing up for an odyssey. He was poised for a pilgrimage to a place where the metaphysical and the physical intertwined. Zipping his bag, Aarav smirked at the paradox. He was venturing into a city steeped in spiritual source code.

The Banyan of Barmer

(The following is an extract from short story in my upcoming anthology set in India, which blends magical realism, folklore and cli-fi)

In the village of Barmer, where the Thar desert unfurls itself like a vast, unending scripture written in the hand of a god long forgotten, there stands a Banyan tree. Its roots claw deep into the earth, gnarled and thick as a man’s body, and its branches stretch towards the heavens, seeking communion with the celestial. Legend has it that the tree is a Kalpa Vriksha, wish-fulfilling relic, standing defiant in the face of the ever-encroaching modern world.

The villagers had a saying: “The Kalpa Vriksha sees all but tells little.”

Anwar sits beneath this colossus, his sarangi cradled in his lap like a child born of the union between him and the ancient silence of the desert. He is blind. His fingers move with a grace that belies their age. The villagers gather, drawn not by the man but by the melody that seems to rise from the very earth. Ratan Singh, the government contractor, watches from afar. His eyes are the colour of the desert sky before a storm. He sees not the sacred tree but the space it occupies, a space where a road will soon run, a scar of progress cut into the face of the ancient land. He has no ear for the music. His world is one of dust and diesel.

The tree’s roots are a network, a web that holds the soil, that keeps the encroaching desert at bay. It is a bulwark against the shifting sands. As Anwar’s bow draws across the strings, the music swells to fill the silence left by the wind’s hush. It is a dirge for what is to come. The villagers feel it — a resonance in their chest, a vibration that speaks of the end of days. And when the music dies, it is not with a flourish but with a whisper.

The sun blazed down upon Barmer. The bulldozers, alien beasts of metal, growled at the edge of the village. The villagers, adorned in their leheriya dupattas and bandhej turbans, formed a circle of resistance around the beloved tree. Their hands, roughened by the toil of the land, were clasped in unity. They sang the songs of the desert. Anwar became the conduit for their plea, but it fell on deaf ears.

Ratan Singh’s commands cut through the air, sharp and cold as the blade of a scimitar. “Make way,” he demanded. But the tree’s roots ran deep. It was the stage upon which the village’s history had been performed, from the puppet shows of the Kathputli to the vibrant swirls of the ghoomar dancers under its shade. It was the silent witness to their joys and sorrows.

As the chainsaws bit into the tree’s flesh, a cry rose from the village, a sound more piercing than the machinery. The sap that bled from the tree was dark red and thick. Upon the severing of the first limb from trunk, the air itself took to mourning. A gale rose, a silent keening for the sundered wood. The desert’s breath was hot and dry as it swept through Barmer, carrying the chant from the sarangi. Ratan Singh felt a tremor of uncertainty. The tree’s bleeding sap had stained his plans, and the villagers’ unified front was an unexpected defiance. He stopped the operation abruptly.

As dusk approached, the tree stood wounded. The government workers found no solace in the evening’s reprieve. They gathered in the dimming light, their faces etched by the day’s labours, and spoke in hushed tones of the tree’s defiance. The fire before them cracked and hissed. The village of Barmer watched and waited. The struggle was not merely for the tree, but a dance of life and death played out beneath the watchful eyes of the desert gods.

Around the world, tales abound of trees like the Kalpa Vriksha – ancient, wise, and brimming with unseen power. From the sacred figs of Buddhism, under which Siddhartha found enlightenment, to the mighty oaks of Norse legend, home to powerful gods, trees have always been more than mere plants in human folklore. They are symbols of life, knowledge, and often, a bridge between the earthly and the divine. This Banyan tree was a Kalpa Vriksha, a wish-fulfilling tree. Its roots holding not just soil, but the silent prayers of generations.

(Read what happens next in the anthology. Out in December 2023)

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The Yakshi of Malabar

(The following is an extract from my upcoming anthology of short stories set in India blending magical realism, folklore and cli-fi. Keep your eyes peeled for more details on the book)

Anita Matroo hits the dirt, boots kissing the mud like they’re long-lost lovers. The village is all whispers and winks on the sly side of Malabar, throwing a wet hug around her city bones, the air thick with jasmine and the smell of rain-kissed earth. The monsoon has had its way, scrubbing the world down to a shine, slapping up a scene of greens and greys that is mumbling secrets in the shadows. Her eyes, sharp from years of digging dirt for the news rags, are scoping out the lay of the land. The clay houses are hunched, their backs bowed from too many dances with the rain gods. The coconut trees are throwing shapes, their fronds buzzing with the wind’s tune.

Onam is in the air. The women are dolled up in the traditional Kerala saree—white and gold—tossing flowers into pookalams like they’re spilling their hearts out. The kids are throwing giggles into the mix, shattering the calm. Cue Rajeev Nair, strolling into the frame. He’s the real deal, the spirit of the place with a dash of outsider vibes. His smokescreen eyes lock with Anita’s, and it’s like he’s asking the big questions without moving his lips.

“You’re here for the festival?” He’s all bass and echoes, like the backbeat of this land’s coffee—thick, rich, and full of hidden notes.

“Yeah,” she fires back, the chase already lighting her up. “I’m here to bottle the spirit of Onam, spin a yarn that’s maybe slipped through your fingers.”

Rajeev’s got that glint, a crack of lightning in his smirk. “Hmmm, the outsider thinking they can school us on our own old stories. But sometimes it’s the drifter who can spot the colours we’ve gone blind to.”

They’re trading words, and the sky’s breaking open for the sunset, like it’s all part of the show. The village, the people, even the rainy season’s in on the act, the whole lot cast in some high-stakes drama. Anita is stepping in, the weight of untold tales heavy on her shoulders, diving headfirst into the Malabar mystery.

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Dusk wasn’t falling; it was crashing down. In the village, every breath was thick with incense. The temple courtyard was tonight’s theatre. Oil lamps sputtered to life, throwing light on the Kathakali dancers’ faces, turning them into grotesque parodies of gods and demons. Anita sat, her body folded onto a mat. The dancers began to move, their limbs telling stories older than the fossils underfoot. The drummers’ hands were a frenzy, beating out rhythms that could restart a dead heart. There, in the shadow, was Amma, the village’s own walking, talking black box recorder. Her hair was a crown of cobwebs, her skin a roadmap of all the places she’d been and all the years she’d seen. As the performance hit its stride, the dancers’ limbs spelling out the eternal face-off of good and evil, Amma’s eyes found Anita’s. It was like being seen by a ghost.

“Want to see how deep the rabbit hole goes?” Amma’s eyes were twin black holes, pulling Anita in. “Stories, like people, can bleed into places you never expected. And the Yakshi’s story? It’s a bleeding river.”

Her eyes flicked across the crowd, a challenge to anyone who dared to disbelieve. “This village isn’t just a place; it’s a living, breathing thing. The Yakshi, she’s the heartbeat, sometimes nurturing, sometimes a fist squeezing tight.”

Anita felt the adrenaline kick, the kind that comes when you’re too close to the edge. Her mind was on the scent of a story.

“The Yakshi,” Amma’s voice was a scalpel, cutting through the noise. “She’s the breath on your neck, the chill in your spine. She’s proof that not all stories have the decency to end.”

As the performance ended and the crowd erupted, not with applause but with relief, like survivors at the end of a horror movie, Anita knew she was about to walk into a story with no clear exit, a narrative maze where the walls were made of whispers.

(Read what happens next in the book. Out in December 2023)

A Dickensian Flash Fiction Story

[Imagining how a story of a time traveler from the pen of Charles Dickens would read. Let’s call this Dickensian ‘The Haunting of Time’s Passage’]

It was a misty evening in the year 2023 when the quaint streets of Mumbai were visited by an unexpected guest from a bygone era. The city, bustling with the relentless march of progress, was interrupted by the arrival of a young girl in a peculiar dress, bewildered by her surroundings. Her name was Eliza, a seventeen-year-old girl who had unwittingly stumbled upon the enigma of time travel.

Eliza, hailing from the seventeenth century, had been captivated by an ancient manuscript that had mysteriously transported her through the corridors of time. As she emerged from the ether, her eyes widened in astonishment at the towering buildings, electric lights, and the chaotic symphony of car horns and human voices that assaulted her senses. Fear mingled with curiosity in Eliza’s heart as she roamed the streets of this unfamiliar city. She witnessed the extraordinary: people speaking into tiny boxes, their eyes fixed on glowing rectangles, seemingly oblivious to the world around them. The cacophony of languages and the kaleidoscope of cultures overwhelmed her, but she pressed on, determined to unravel the secrets of this bewildering age.

Her journey led her to a bustling marketplace, where vendors hawked their wares in a frenzy of colours and scents. Eliza’s eyes widened at the sight of exotic fruits and spices she had never encountered. She approached a kind-faced merchant, whose eyes sparkled with intrigue.

“Prithee, good sir, might thou guide me? I find myself lost in this strange land,” Eliza implored, her words sounding archaic amidst the surrounding chaos.

The merchant, bewildered by her archaic speech, regarded her with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “Who are you?”

Eliza hesitated for a moment, pondering how to explain her journey through time without sounding utterly mad. “I am Eliza, a humble traveler from the past, thrust into this bewildering future. Pray, might thou offer me thy guidance?”

The merchant’s bewilderment turned to empathy as he recognized the girl’s genuine confusion. “Don’t worry baby.”

Under the merchant’s guidance, Eliza ventured further into the city, her eyes wide with wonder at the marvels she beheld. She marveled at the swift-moving carriages that lacked horses, the towering skyscrapers that kissed the heavens, and the colourful saris intermingling with jeans and T-shirts. As the day grew darker, Eliza and her newfound guide arrived at a tranquil park. The noise and chaos of the city faded into the distance, replaced by the whispers of the wind and the rustle of leaves. They settled on a bench, Eliza’s eyes filled with longing for the simplicity of her own time.

“Tell me, good sir, what dost thou make of this world?” Eliza inquired, her voice trembling with a mixture of awe and trepidation.

The merchant, now her companion and confidant, offered a gentle smile and spoke like a philosopher. “The world is an ever-evolving tapestry, Eliza. It moves forward, leaving behind fragments of the past. Yet, amidst the chaos, there is beauty in the resilience of the human spirit, in the bonds that transcend time and place.”

Eliza pondered his words, her mind swirling with conflicting emotions. She yearned for the comforts of her own era, yet felt a growing fascination with the possibilities of this future. As the night sky filled with stars, Eliza made a decision. She bid farewell to her guide, knowing that she must find a way to return to her time, to her family and friends. But she vowed to carry the memories of this extraordinary adventure within her heart forever.

With a final glance at the city’s glittering skyline, Eliza stepped into the mist, disappearing into the folds of time. And though the streets of Mumbai would eventually forget the girl from the seventeenth century, her spirit remained, a ghostly reminder of the enduring power of human curiosity and the eternal dance between past and future.

Pages from the Diary of an Alcoholic

The days bled into one another, an indistinguishable blur of longing and despair. Through the smoky haze of a thousand whiskey nights, I wandered lost, a shattered soul adrift in the ruins of my own making. Drink was both my companion and my tormentor. It held me captive, its seductive embrace suffocating any flicker of hope. But amid the darkness, a glimmer of something unyielding stirred within—a primal instinct to reclaim what I had lost.

Each morning dawned with a whispered promise, fragile yet resolute. I stared into the mirror, my gaunt face etched with the cruel lines of excess, the haunted eyes reflecting the wreckage of a life consumed by addiction. The reflection was a bitter reminder of the countless battles waged and lost. But the man I once was still lingered somewhere beneath the ruins, a faint echo of resilience waiting to be awakened.

With trembling hands, I reached for the bottle that had been my constant companion, the siren’s call that whispered sweet oblivion. But today, in a moment of agonizing clarity, I set it aside. The glass, cold and empty, reflected the weight of my decision—a fragile vessel filled with the poison of my past. I turned my back on it, on the numbing embrace that had devoured my spirit, and stepped into the uncertain realm of sobriety.

The road to recovery stretched forth, a treacherous path littered with the wreckage of broken promises. Each step was a battle, fought against the relentless cravings that gnawed at my resolve. The demons of addiction snarled and clawed, seeking to drag me back into their dark embrace. But I clung to the flicker of hope, a fragile flame that refused to be extinguished. In the rooms of the recovery fellowship, I found solace amongst fellow travelers who had braved the same desolate terrain. Their stories echoed with the raw ache of redemption, a chorus of fractured lives on the mend. We shared our darkest secrets, whispered our darkest fears, and in the collective vulnerability, we found strength.

The path to healing was paved with brutal honesty. I confronted the wreckage of my past—the relationships shattered, the trust betrayed—and sought amends with a heavy heart. Faces scarred by my actions, etched with skepticism and pain, met me with cautious acceptance. And in their forgiveness, I glimpsed the possibility of redemption.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, as I navigated the labyrinth of my own self-destruction. The cravings waned, but the scars remained, reminders of the war waged within. I found solace in the simplicity of each sober breath, a respite from the torment that once consumed me. With newfound clarity, the world took on vivid hues, colours long dulled by the numbing haze of addiction. Through the trials and tribulations, I reclaimed fragments of the person I had lost—the laughter that had been silenced, the passions buried beneath the bottle’s embrace. Sobriety became a canvas upon which I painted a new life, splashing vibrant strokes of purpose and meaning across the desolation of my past.

And so, I stand on the precipice of an uncertain future, my footsteps marked by the indomitable spirit of recovery. The road ahead remains untrodden, the journey never truly complete. But armed with the lessons learned from the depths of addiction, I face the world with newfound resilience.

The scars of my past still bear witness to the battle fought, but they no longer define me. In the crucible of recovery, I have found a glimpse of redemption—a testament to the enduring human spirit, capable of rising from the depths of darkness and reclaiming the light.

She Saw Her Self, She Conquered

She stood before the mirror, her gaze tracing the contours of her body, her eyes searching for flaws, for imperfections that had been etched into her psyche by a society obsessed with physical standards. The world had taught her to judge her worth by the shape of her body, by its adherence to an elusive ideal. But she refused to bow to the tyranny of beauty, to be enslaved by a system that sought to commodify and control her very essence.

In the desolate wasteland of body image, she sought solace in the notion of body neutrality. It was not a rallying cry for self-love or empowerment, but rather a whispered rebellion against the relentless scrutiny of her physical form. In a world that demanded her constant evaluation, she chose to redirect her gaze inward, to find worth beyond the superficial. The battle was fought in the recesses of her mind, where she forged a refuge against the onslaught of comparison and self-doubt.

Every stretch mark, every scar, every curve was a testament to her existence, a roadmap of her lived experiences. She refused to see them as flaws but rather as stories etched upon her flesh, narratives that spoke of resilience, strength, and the capacity for growth. Each line became a battle scar, a reminder that she had weathered storms and emerged on the other side, battered but unbroken.

She recognized that her body was not an object to be critiqued or sculpted for the pleasure of others. It was a vessel, a vessel that carried her through the trials and tribulations of life, an instrument through which she experienced joy, pain, and the myriad emotions that make us human. Its worth transcended the limitations of appearance, for within it lay the capacity for love, creativity, and empathy. She rejected the notion that her body defined her worth, that its size, shape, or colour determined her value as a woman. She knew that the power of her voice, her intellect, and her compassion could not be measured in pounds or inches. The flesh that clothed her bones was but a vessel, a temporary abode for a soul untamed by societal expectations.

In her journey towards body neutrality, she found freedom. She liberated herself from the chains of self-criticism, of constantly striving for an unattainable ideal. She embraced the beauty of imperfection, the raw and unfiltered reality of her physical form. And in that acceptance, she discovered a profound sense of peace, a resolute determination to love herself unconditionally.

The world around her might continue to demand perfection, to perpetuate the cycle of self-loathing and comparison. But she had found a sanctuary within herself, a sanctuary that celebrated her body for what it was—a vessel of life, a conduit of experience. In the face of a relentless storm, she had unearthed a quiet strength, an unyielding resolve to exist on her own terms.

Other Worldly

The room was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioner. He lay there, eyes closed, in a state of deep meditation. His mind was focused on a singular thought – the idea of astral projection. It was a concept that had fascinated him for years, one that had captivated his imagination and left him pondering the mysteries of the universe.

The notion of astral projection was not a new one. For centuries, people had believed in the existence of a non-physical realm, a world beyond our own. The idea was that through the process of astral projection, one could separate their consciousness from their physical body and travel through this otherworldly plane.

There were many hypotheses surrounding the mechanics of astral projection. Some believed that it was a form of lucid dreaming, where the mind was able to enter a heightened state of consciousness and explore a different reality. Others speculated that it was a form of telekinesis, where the mind was able to move objects or manipulate the environment around it.

But for him, the most compelling hypothesis was that astral projection was a form of spiritual enlightenment. The idea that the mind could transcend the limitations of the physical world and enter a realm of pure consciousness was a tantalizing prospect. It was a concept that spoke to his deepest desires and left him yearning for a deeper understanding of the universe.

As he lay there, his mind focused on the idea of astral projection, he felt a strange sensation wash over him. It was as if his consciousness was lifting from his body, separating from the physical plane and entering a realm beyond. He felt weightless, free from the constraints of the physical world, and a sense of awe washed over him.

For a moment, he floated there, exploring this otherworldly realm, and marveling at the vastness of the universe. It was a moment that would stay with him forever, a glimpse into the mysteries of the cosmos and a reminder of the power of the human mind.

And as he opened his eyes, returning to the physical plane, he knew that he would spend the rest of his life exploring the mysteries of astral projection, searching for a deeper understanding of the universe and the secrets it held.

What if… Douglas Adams wrote Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland?

Alice in Wonderland… the story of a young girl who falls down a rabbit hole and finds herself in a world full of peculiar characters and strange adventures. It’s a tale as whimsical and wild as the mind of Douglas Adams himself. Let’s imagine for a moment that the author of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy had decided to tackle Lewis Carroll’s classic story. How might he have approached the Mad Hatter’s tea party, or the Queen of Hearts’ notorious temper?

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Well, for starters, the White Rabbit would likely have been upgraded from a pocket watch-checking nervous wreck to a tech-savvy being with multiple communicators and a voice-activated rabbit hole. And the Mad Hatter’s tea party? Let’s just say it would have included some questionable choices for refreshments, such as Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters and Cheese-Flavored Time-Distortion Biscuits.

AI generated image of a futuristic Queen of Hearts

As for the Queen of Hearts, Adams might have portrayed her as a space empress, with a tendency to yell “Off with their heads!” as a quick solution to all her problems, much to the chagrin of her less-than-enthusiastic subjects.

Hybrid Cheshire cat from space

And let’s not forget the Cheshire Cat. In the world of Douglas Adams, he would have probably been a holographic being with a mischievous streak, constantly disappearing and reappearing to spout absurd non-sequiturs and confuse poor Alice even further.

If you’re ever in need of a good laugh, and a break from the everyday reality, take a trip down the rabbit hole with Alice in Wonderland. Just make sure you’ve got a good supply of towels and a wide-eyed sense of wonder.

The tribe upstream

There once lived a girl in a hamlet. She was quick to learn new things and had a keen eye. However, she had no friends. The children in the hamlet bored her to bits. They were simpletons with simple desires.

“Why don’t you play with your neighbours?” her mother would ask. To which she would shrug her shoulders, “They are so plain ma, with their sad little marbles and unimaginative toys.”

“Why don’t you come out and play with us?” her young neighbours would beckon in all innocence. She would give a shrug and go back to daydreaming about all the things she’d do when she left the wretched hamlet and all the annoying people who wouldn’t leave her alone.

One day, she went to the market to buy bread. The shop next door had a sign put up: “Apprentice wanted.”

She knew she would get the job if she tried, because she had taught herself to read and write. That wasn’t where her learning ended either. You see, she was smarter than the other kids in the hamlet who didn’t try to learn what they weren’t taught.

She ran home from excitement that day. She had got the job, of course, and would earn enough coin to feed her family and the cat. By and by, she became familiar with the marketplace and the route thereto. The buyers and sellers, the vendors and shoppers.

Among them was a group of kids, who did magic tricks and stunts for kicks. They would talk of travels to lands afar, of shamans and potions, ancient science and mandalas. They lived upstream where there was no struggle, to eke a living out of rubble. The rich upstream had time to kill, complicated pastimes to chill.

The girl was intrigued, she wanted to know it all. She joined their gathering and listened rapt, to their stories till nightfall. It became a ritual to go upstream after a day’s work, listen to their stories and romanticize their every quirk.

Her mother was intrigued. This was unusual for her child, to stay out so late especially since on the route ran animals wild. “Who are these folks upstream, you’re ignoring us for? It’s not just your family; your work, your pets are taken granted for.”

“Stop pestering me,” said the girl. “I’ve found my tribe. The tribe upstream gets me like you never will. You won’t understand it.” Her hamlet gathered around her to weep, she was leaving them for good. Yet they were happy since adventures have, she would.

She went upstream again to join the tribe for a feast. They were having a celebration, you see, for foreign guests from exotic sites. However, she was stopped at the door. “Sorry girl,” said a tribesman she knew, “No riff-raff allowed here tonight.”

Misogyny

A man walking down the alley slipped on a banana peel he didn’t see, and fell on his arse. Someone from a pack of onlookers nodded his head.

“What a fool that man is,” he scoffed.

A woman rushing through the same alley slipped this time. After getting a lascivious look at the woman lying prostrate, the onlooker shook his head and declared:

“What fools women are…”

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