The Weight of Water

Jawahara:

This story touched a nerve by reminding me of a cousin who had to suffer through a lifetime of loneliness (at the time, girls from rural Bihar were not very well known for obtaining a divorce and building independent lives) while the unconcerned spouse immigrated to England and built up a whole new nest. In my view, such “double” lives lived by many individuals upon immigration to foreign lands is an underreported problem. (It probably was an even more serious problem 15-20 years ago, when both inter-continental communications and travels were limited.) Many men use obtaining a green-card or permanent residence status as a justification – while the REAL explanation is simpler – such men are heels and need to be exposed as such – especially by their friends and acquaintances (who typically prefer to look the other way) – and especially to immigration authorities!

I am a little curious whether “The Weight of Water” was your original choice for the title.

Notes:
[“Women are like water,” her father used to say, “they are gentle and patient and they take the shape of whatever situation into which they are poured.”]
And what a tragedy that is! The bigger tragedy is that unscrupulous individuals know exactly which buttons to press to take advantage of that weakness!

[Zara knows she will never get the answers he could have given her. Those were his to give or hold on to…]
Of course, human nature being what it is – it’s not likely to stop her from continuing to seek the answers in her own ways and using her own limited resources, logic put aside, perhaps for a real long time!

it is well written; but why the transformation??? why she didn`t feel the weight of water in the end......bcs she yelled at the counter person???


it could`ve been a better story/plot.

#2 Kaura
[it could`ve been a better story/plot.]

Dear Kaura: Go for it.

A few alternate endings for your consideration:

(1) She beat up the airline guy
(2) She beat up the airline gal
(3) She beat up the airline guy and gal
(4) She beat up the whole gang of them
(5) It was all a dream
(6) Her dad was actually alive and playing a prank on her
…..
(n) She emerged from the story and beat up Kaura, who was seen running away – yelling “help, help!”

Very well written and compelling read. The interminable wait in the airport and the sheer frustration is captured whole. I could not get to kiss his forehead if he did what he did and put me through the ordeal on his way to hell I would think. May be the woman in her made her capable of excusing him despite the massive deception.
Great Read.
PRK

Jawahara - Are you planning to get these gems of your published anytime soon? You do have an impressive collection at Chowk - time maybe for a wider audience?

``I always wanted someone to love me for me‚`` Zara said‚ ``not for who I was. That was so naive. Nowadays‚ I could care less about anybody but me. I am not about to care for someone else. It sounded cruel and selfish‚ but I’ve been there and done that.`` With these words I knew my fate was sealed. I was destined to be Zara’s slave!

It all began one day at work‚ ``Sol‚ you have a visitor up front`` came across the intercom. I wasn’t expecting anyone but I was curious so I dropped my tools and went to see what was up.
I arrived up front and there she was‚ Zara! I couldn’t begin to imagine why she was here to see me. Heart thudding in my chest I approached her all the while my eyes locked with her implacable stare.

``Hello Zara`` I said‚ my soul in knots just by her presence. ``How can I help you?`` Not saying a word‚ just staring deep inside of me with those eyes‚ (those eyes!) she crooked her finger in my collar‚ turned around‚ and walked out of the office with me in tow. The shocked looks of my co–workers followed me as I fell under her spell.

We reached her truck and she turned to me placing her hands on my shoulders. ``All my life I’ve dealt with people wanting to use me‚ exploit me for their own wishes`` she said‚ her hands pushed me down till I was on my knees before her. ``Well‚ the way I see it it’s my turn…I will never love you‚ I might grow somewhat fond of you as a pet‚ but nothing more interests me about you other than your complete servitude to me``. My thoughts come crashing on me‚ I will not be a slave‚ no‚ not even to her! She continued ``You have perhaps one final choice you’re allowed to make so here it is. You only have this one shot to decide if you accept me as your Goddess‚ to defer all freewill to whatever whim might suit me at that moment. Or you may rise‚ turn around‚ and continue on with your life. You only have this one opportunity so decide now.`` She finished in that lilting voice of hers.

Stunned I look up at her…her eyes met mine in a contest of wills. I should have known I hadn’t a chance. My chin dropped to my chest as my eyes looked downward. I didn’t see the slight smile upon her face. She reached into the truck and retrieved the collar she brought with her. Placing it around my neck she cinched it tight‚ locking it in place with a tiny gold padlock.

Walking to the rear of the truck‚ she slapped her thigh expectantly. I started to rise but then I remembered…I’m owned. I’m nothing now but property. I fell onto my hands and crawled to the back of the truck. Grabbing my hair she pulled me up into the bed to the rear of the cab.

Fastening a chain to my collar she said ``Your life as you knew it is over…you are now as you chose‚ a slave to me‚ of no more worth to me than a piece of old furniture. I’ll keep you as long as you amuse me and serve my fancies, to discard you as I claimed you. Know that‚ and take some comfort that I allowed you to serve.``

Walking back to the cab she started the truck and we drove away to my life of slavery to my Goddess, Zara!

I don`t like ``men`` who write stories and essays `glorifying` women and the `female`.To me they are traitors.``Cause of them, we real men find ourselves at the receiving end of incessant demands from one witch or another , at work or at home.These so-called `men` will rot in hell and face the wrath of god in their after life.Look what happened to Adam.

Very powerful writing, though the end was a trifle disappointing. I was half expecting Zara to walk back to her old life, not burdened by the complusion of having to be ``face to face with their shared pasts; replete with the layered, textured secrets she can unravel for herself.``

But good, nonetheless.

Jawahara,
good writing.

`they are gentle and patient and they take the shape of whatever situation into which they are poured.”
thats why every one expolite them.

sinf e naazuk
sinf e naazuk ki
poochti ho kya
yar jawahara
naazuk, naazuk andaam
tez, aur tez ter bhee
subuk, subuk raftaar
and a conundrum
na samajhnay ki
na samjhanay ki
gur mil ja`aye tou
jannat zameen per
na milay tou living hell
tum kehti ho paani
hum kehtay haiN tsunami

:)

Wah, Temporal. :-)

Thanks for your comments everyone.

Soulat, interesting. I don`t know quite what else to say :-).

Subroto, short story collections are really, really hard to sell. Of course, once my novel is sold...maybe :-). It has been sold in the Indian subcontinent already (coming out in first quarter of 2006) and though my agents (say) they are working on it there are no offers from the US and UK yet. A couple of editors were interested but they had already signed their Indian woman or Indian Muslim author for the year. That`s life in the quest of publication.

Anyway, writing is more important to me its than actual publication so I`ll continue with that.

#6 Soulat

What the Janitor saw

At 8:10 a.m. Mr. Soulat showed up for work (fully 10 minutes late). He had a vacant (almost slavish) look on his face. His attentions were preoccupied elsewhere, I could tell that from the way he failed to respond to my “Hello, Mr. Soulat” greeting.

At around 8:30 a.m. the intercom (Note: I still need to fix its high-squealing pitch) boomed aloud: “Sol‚ you have a visitor up front”. Mr. Soulat looked perplexed, clueless, and almost ready to vomit. With unsteady steps, he walked to the front and greeted a woman (no head-turner, if you ask this janitor) who for some inexplicable reasons, made his condition worse (he almost appeared ready to involuntarily and spontaneously relieve himself in his pants (I almost had the mop ready))

“Hello Zara” he stammered‚ “How can I help you?”

The woman did not say a word‚ just staring at him with her eyes (not much there either!). She then crooked her finger in his collar‚ turned him around‚ and walked out of the office with him in tow – finally leaving a trail of thin line of yellowish-water-like substance behind. I followed with my mop! (A janitor’s work is never done!)

They reached her truck and she turned to him, placing her hands on his shoulders. “All my life I’ve dealt with people wanting to use me‚ exploit me for their own wishes”, she said‚ her hands pushed him down till he was on his knees before her. “Well‚ the way I see it it’s my turn…I will never love you‚ I might grow somewhat fond of you as a pet‚ but nothing more interests me about you other than your complete servitude to me”. At this point, Mr. Soulat puked. (I did not attend to his upchuck, since the parking lot lies outside my jurisdiction.)

That woman continued “You have perhaps one final choice you’re allowed to make so here it is. You only have this one shot to decide if you accept me as your Goddess‚ to defer all freewill to whatever whim might suit me at that moment. Or you may rise‚ turn around‚ and continue on with your life. You only have this one opportunity so decide now.” She finished in a highly screech-like voice.

Mr. Soulat puked again and dropped on his knees. The woman had an evil grin on her face as she reached into the truck and retrieved the choke-collar she had brought with her. Placing it around his neck she clinched it tight‚ locking it in place with a tiny gold padlock. Mr. Soulat fell onto his hands and crawled to the back of the truck. Grabbing his hair (as if he were a pig about to be slaughtered) she pulled him up into the bed to the rear of the cab.

Fastening a chain to his collar, she muttered some words which sounded like “Your life as you knew it is over…you are now as you chose‚ a slave to me‚ of no more worth to me than a piece of old furniture. I’ll keep you as long as you amuse me and serve my fancies, to discard you as I claimed you. Know that‚ and take some comfort that I allowed you to serve.” Then she gave him a MIGHTY kick into his posterior, and kicked him out of the truck bed. At this point, Mr. Soulat passed out!

The woman turned to me and said, “Dear Mr. Janitor, could you perhaps haul this sorry ass back to his cubicle!”

At 8:30 a.m., we called to obtain medical attention for Mr. Soulat! At 8:50 a.m. the ambulance took him away.

Mr. Soulat has not been heard from since.

Sublime!

Re: # 10
The last two lines simply elegant.
PRK

re # 14:

aadaab