Issue #6 – SAMYUKTA FICTION

LOVE STORY?

Priyanka Sarkar

Left. Right. Oh, hard left. Right. Right. Right. Super swipe. Left.

Done with swiping for the day, Akash closed his Fumble app and went back to checking the proof corrections the freelance proofreader had marked. The work seemed to be ok, so after running some sample checks, he sent the pdf to the typesetter. He leaned back on the uncomfortable and rickety office swivel chair that had been supporting his weight for a year now. Time for his forty winks!

Unfortunately for him, just then , the department’s head barged into the hall meant for editors of academic books. Fortunately for him, she chose someone else to fire the first missives of the day at and her angry roars alerted Akash. He sat up and opened a long author mail, pretending to read it again.

‘Hey you, have you sent Sustainable Development and the Economy of India for printing?’ Veena stood behind him and demanded in her high-pitched voice that Akash thought banshees probably sounded like.

‘No, Ma’am. It has been sent to the typesetter with proof corrections.’

‘How many times have I told you to not call me Madam or Ma’am. You are not in college anymore and I sure as hell am not your teacher. Better pull up your socks and not delay the book on waste management like you have this one. And I want Sustainable Development sent to press by the end of the week. I don’t care if you have to work round the clock, just do it.’

The Missing Man

Original: Ghazanfar

Translated from the Urdu by Zainab Fatma

As soon as the walls of our house were painted the colour I chose, my children began to wrinkle their noses in disapproval.

My son said, “Papa! What kind of colour are you having done? Please stop this.”

“Yes, Papa! This does not look good at all. You should consider mauve or any other newer colour.” My daughter added.

“Why? What is wrong with this colour?” I asked them.

“Papa, this looks very dull and clumsy. It will ruin the beauty of our house.” My son listed the flaws.

“Yes, Papa! Sunny is right. This colour is very unpleasant.” My daughter chimed in.

“No, no. This colour is good. It will be perfect.”

“What, Papa! What kind of taste do you have? Look, this colour does not suit at all. Please stop.” My son began to insist.

“For God’s sake, Papa, do not go with this colour.” My daughter also pressed me.

“No, this will be good. I like this.” I resolved to stick to my decision.

“Papa, you are being stubborn.” My son said.

“Yes, you are being stubborn, Papa.” My daughter was one with his opinion.

“Yes, I am being stubborn; I am stubborn, and I am determined to have things my way.” My tone grew harsh.

My children turned sad and walked away.

“You are being stubborn.”

Naxalite

Hindol Bhattacharjee

Translated by the author from the original Bangla story first published in Krittibas, March 2023.

On the pink wall, a square marble slab bears the inscription “Kutir.” Below it are the names Amalendu Roy, Chitra Roy, Kaushik Roy, Megha Roy, and Simli. The marble has become a bit dirty. The wall bears an iron gate that, when opened, creaks loudly, as if announcing an arrival. That’s when Simli’s barking starts.

This two-story house is home to Amalendu Babu and his wife, Chitra, on the first floor. Both are over sixty. On the second floor live Kaushik and his wife, Megha. They have no children, but they do have a young Labrador named Simli.

Houses like this are common in Kolkata, especially near the outskirts. So, why mention it? First, this is the only house of its kind in the area. The rest are all new apartment buildings. The tall buildings surrounding this pink house seem to gaze at it like giraffes. Sometimes, the house appears to be a prehistoric creature, surrounded by trimmed hedges and standing awkwardly in the midst of a concrete jungle.

The Shoes

Ranjita Biswas

Malti saw her from a distance but recognised her instantly. Her malkin in whose house she used to work as a domestic help until some years ago. But this area was not where they used to live, was it? Had they changed their house? Should she go and greet her, folding her hands with a ‘Namaste, Ruma-didi?’ Malti wondered. Would she recognise Malti in her new look? After all, it was more than six years since she had left the job to return to her village. At the time, she was much younger too.

Malti looked down at her shoes, smart and bright in a combination of pink and white. The logo ‘Nike’ was clearly visible. She was dressed in a pair of Levi jeans and a cropped top in bright pink with flowers all over and her hair was tied in a ponytail. Her eyebrows were nicely threaded to make a perfect arch and her lips were coloured in a light shade of pink to match the blouse. Her young dark skin glowed with a touch of moisturiser.

Malti hesitated. Would malkin snub her or worse, ignore her? After all, you could never tell with city people. They forget people when it suited them, or when a job was done. But she scolded herself, malkin was not that bad, only a little aloof. Suddenly, a scene, and then many scenes, one after another, flashed in her mind and she closed her eyes for a moment.