Diego Martinez was born into a farming family in a remote Spanish village near Madrid in the early 1600s. Having been raised as a farm hand from a young age Diego had lived through harsh realities. Work would start at the crack of dawn and would involve among other things, reaping, sowing, plowing, binding, haymaking and threshing. After a long hard day of work Diego would feast on a humble bowl of porridge. By the time he was twelve Diego could manage his father’s farm all by himself. Yet Diego’s dreams lay elsewhere. Whenever Diego got a free moment he would start drawing on an empty patch of mud. Sometimes he would etch out a view of the hills close to his village flanked by the setting sun, or a nude outline of the neighbor’s daughter who stirred up passion in him and at other times a bird announcing in mellifluous chirps the arrival of dawn.
One day as he was working on the farm he noticed some activity on a neighboring patch of untended land that was covered in grass and wild red flowers that the natives called rozelias. As he looked closer he found a lizard being chased by a Montpellier snake. The little creature, zigzagging its way through the grass was running for its life. Hunger beckoned the snake to swiftly strike its pray with a venomous bite. As the venom spread through the lizard, it lost consciousness and died. Then the snake swallowed the lizard and slithered away to digest its pray. This scene had a deep impact on Diego. He knew he wanted to draw this scene.

He began sketching the curving body of the snake, gliding along the grass, light rippling on its scaly body, arching out to strike its pray, the terrified lizard. The sketch was a brilliant depiction of the game of life and death. No sooner had he finished the sketch did he notice his father standing behind him, observing the painting. His father could sense that Diego had talent for painting. He immediately made plans for him to be sent to Madrid where his cousin Hugo worked as a butcher. The butcher took him to the studio of Diego Velazquez. Velazquez did not take on Diego as a painter as he had no letter of introduction but he needed someone to keep the studio clean. So, Diego Martinez began his career as a servant in the studios of Diego Velazquez. But Diego did not waste his time. When classes took place at the studio he would secretly listen and imbibe all that was taught.
After a few months when Velazquez was away at the court and the studio was empty he found a blank canvas. He had been aching to draw and began sketching the outline of the snake and the lizard that he had seen at his farm. The snake looked lifelike, the effect of lighting and depth portrayed beautifully the scene, as if it were taking place just then and there! Diego was so lost in the moment that he had not noticed that Velazquez had returned and was observing the boy. When he was finally done, Velazquez spoke, “You sketch beautifully, but what you sketch is heretical. Our patrons are the kings and the clergy. We draw to please them. I will take you on as a disciple and teach you how to draw.”

Diego Martinez drew the outlines of many kings, queens, princesses and counts making them appear more regal, compassionate and beautiful than they were in life. He even drew the Son of God in multiple poses bleeding to his death, a macabre series of lost hope. But this did not satisfy Diego. He wanted to go out of the ecclesiastical and royal domains and paint life as he saw it. Thus, began a series of paintings that he painted only for himself. The first of them was of a snake killing a rat and swallowing it whole. The next set of paintings had haunting themes which became more intense. These included a rotting apple with a dead worm, the anguish of a butchered calf, a man driven to madness by debt, an old naked woman on a divan whose skin was wrinkled by age, the murder of a priest by a beggar, a priest having sexual intercourse with a nun and finally the most extraordinary work in the series — a painting of Satan kissing Christ. Although his collection was private he showed it to some of his close confidants. It was this unfortunate act that would be the undoing of Diego Martinez.

Word was leaked to the Bishop that Diego Martinez was indulging in heresy. Before he could be arrested he sent all his paintings to a close friend who locked them in an unused room in his house. Diego was found guilty and sentenced by the inquisition to be burnt to death in the auto-da-fe, a public execution for heretics and apostates in the Plaza Mayor at Madrid.

The crowds cheered as Diego was dragged in through the entrance of Plaza Mayor. His friends had arranged green wood so that he would did due to choking rather than burn slowly to death. As the King took his place at the center of the Plaza, the ‘festivities’ began. Diego was first crucified. As each nail was hammered into his flesh, his screams echoed through the plaza followed by cheers from the leering crowd. Diego became unconscious from the loss of blood. Just then another nail was driven into his leg which got him back to consciousness and renewed his screams. His father was by his side and was left wondering why he had encouraged Diego to go to Madrid and take up painting on that fateful day lost to the past. Finally, the pyre was lit and as Diego choked to his death, the people cheered their approval. Only his father could be seen shedding tears for his dying son. Finally, when Diego and the other apostates sentenced on that day were reduced to ashes and the King took his leave, a feast awaited the crowd, which then broke into an open orgy. Men and women filled themselves on lavish food and finally when food had sated their bellies, lust took over. The Romans would have been put to shame had they seen the orgy at Plaza Mayor during the Auto da fe…

Fast forward 200 years to the Madrid of the late 1700s and we meet a young Francisco Goya who is staying in a house that has 3 rooms. One of the rooms has been unopened ever since Goya could remember. Francisco Goya would later paint the black paintings during a difficult period of his life which would herald the era of modern art. The ashes of Diego Martinez are blown by the warm winds of Spain, across time to an era that is more liberal and appreciative of his style of art.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. There may be no semblance to reality.

Buried in History was originally published in Dancing Hues on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The temple is bustling with activity,
Young ballala is observing silently,
The pujari is ringing the temple bell,
In a fever pitch, hoping to awake the temple deity,
The head priest lights the lamp,
And sways it in a clockwise circular motion,
The devotees stand patiently,
With prayers on their lips,
Some are Praying to the God,
Hoping to get absolved from sins,
Commited or yet to be commited,
Some are Hoping to get rid of their problems,
Some are seeking protection for their families,
Most are praying to seek a change in fortunes.
The aarti done, the head priest carries the lamp,
to each devotee, to bless them with the temple flame,
Keeping an eye out on the coins that tumble into the plate.

The sanctum sanctorum houses 2 other dieties,
with their own caretaker priests,
Each vying for the attention of the devotees,
Trying to blare incantations,
The chants have an effect,
Visitors trickle in trying to hedge their risk,
With multiple Gods.

Ballala notices a pujari,
handing out ash and vermillion.
Another handing out spoonfulls of panchamrita,
And another handing out spoonfulls of holy mint water,
The water and amrit libations for the deity
A blessing from the gods.

The barefooted devotees prostrate, concentrate, contemplate,
The regular motions done they perambulate the temple,
And finally they collect the prasadam,
A mix of jaggery and rise, banana and spice,
And file out of the temple in contentment.

Ballala notices a little boy,
Playing pachisi with an elderly man,
On a board carved on stone,
The boy throws the cowrie shells,
Hoping that his pieces reach the charkoni first.
They are lost in their game,
Giving little thought to the world,
Or to the Gods,
To the display of wealth,
To the din of frenzied prayer,
All that matters is their game..

The temple is still buzzing with activity,
The diyas are still being lit,
The people are still looking for answers,
The deity is still frozen in stone,
The questions are asked,
The answers do not come..
The little boy still continues to play,
With the ring of cowrie shells in his ears,
Ballala walks away with a smile on his lips.

Ballala was originally published in Dancing Hues on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Bhaskar, shared his name with the Sun God. Though not religious he respected the majesty and power that was associated with his name. Today was a very important day for him. As he readied his satchel his mind drifted back to the earlier days of his life. He had finished his B.A. from the Government College of Coimbatore. He had performed well and had secured a silver medal — a prized possession that was hidden away in a dark and dusty cupboard of his ancestral home in Coonoor. He had always liked to debate and discuss politics. On completing his degree, he decided to take up the civil services examination. Two failed attempts later Bhaskar found himself as a teacher in a Govt School in Madurai. He taught little children English and Tamil. At first he oversaw Classes 1 to 4 but in a couple of years he was teaching students from Classes 4 to 8.

Bhaskar loved teaching the young children. He knew that he was providing his students essential skills that would help them throughout their lives. While the other teachers would absent themselves from time to time, Bhaskar was very punctual and took his job very seriously. Government schools are known for inefficiency, understaffing, and very large student to teacher ratios. But Bhaskar would never do a shoddy job. He took his students on a journey of understanding and discovery. From the history of the alphabet, to the basic rules of grammar, onward to the power of metaphor and the magic of poetry, Bhaskar ensured his students would ignite their imaginations and take flight as delightful practitioners of ancient and beautiful languages. During his time as a teacher he had been exposed to various political movements. He was a keen follower of politics and wrote articles and opinions on things he felt strongly about. While he never wrote anything that could be considered inflammatory, his thoughts were radical. He was a staunch supporter of Hindi integration in the Tamil way of life. The rest of India functioned mostly in Hindi while the average Tamilian could hardly speak the language. This caused him great grief. He had even started taking Hindi tuitions on weekends for students who were interested at no extra charge.

As time went on Bhaskar was married to Kanimozhi. She was a journalist with a leading Tamil newspaper. She covered political events. Bhaskar knew that their interests aligned and had married her without a second thought. They spent long weekends arguing about the latest turn of events. Opinions were laid bare and discussed, debated and on some very good days, agreement was finally reached. It took Bhaskar about a year to figure out that his wife was a sympathizer of the Tamil Eelam. She felt motivated to join the cause of the Tamils fighting for independence in Sri Lanka. At first he tried to reason with her but as time went on he realized her mind was made up. After 2 years of marriage, ‘Kani’ as he fondly called her, decided to leave home.

A year after her departure she decided to contact him again. She had come to bid him goodbye. The LTTE had designated her to the suicide bomber squad and they were going to finish of an important target. The target was a member of the Sri Lankan parliament who had come to Madras on a diplomatic mission. He had been very vocal against the LTTE and was inclined to fight the LTTE with greater military might. Bhaskar had tried very hard to persuade her from giving up on the mission but her mind was made up. She provided him a few details of the attack. The target would be presiding as the Chief Guest at an event in a private school. His felicitation would be the trigger for the attack.

Which brings us back to the present. Bhaskar is adjusting his satchel and sitting under the canopy of a tent. In the backdrop is the administrative office with a stage built to the side to seat the graduating students. The playground has been covered with carpet, and chairs are neatly arranged for parents to watch as their wards proceed to a new chapter in their lives. Bhaskar has arrived early and is seated in the corner of the front row. He notices Kani among the support staff who are helping with the last-minute stage setup. As Kani walks out of the stage and beyond the tents, Bhaskar scales the barricade and stealthily follows Kani. As soon as he turns and enters the administrative building he notices a makeshift changing room. Kani is inside and is donning the explosive laden belt with which she hopes to take the Minister into oblivion. Bhaskar removes a sickle from his satchel, knocks on the door and slashes Kanimozhi’s neck. Her scream reverberates across the playground and a security guard with a loaded gun enters the scene. He quickly takes aim and shoots.

Bhaskar’s father is performing the last rites of his son. Bhaskar is placed on a pyre of wooden logs waiting to be lit. His lips are curved in a gentle eerie smile. His father remembers a particularly happy day from the past. Bhaskar was just 6 years old. His father had taken him to a tea plantation. The fog had just lifted and the entire valley was visible. It was as if nature had scooped the earth to form a bowl filled with green tea and the pleasant smell of Spring. It was a viridian wonderland. In the distance the toy train was chugging along, topped with a plume of cloudy smoke. The birds were chirping and their pet dog was barking and wagging its tail in a playful manner. Bhaskar, generally a dull and grouchy boy, had broken into a smile.

Bhaskar was originally published in Dancing Hues on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Note: This is a work of fiction and is not mean to harm or hurt the sentiments of any community either knowingly or indirectly. I have borrowed sayings from elsewhere for this work.

It was under the 17th Century rule of Mohammed Adil Shah that the Deccan saw a large empire flourish for a brief period. The Shah ruled from Bijapur under the blessings of the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan. India of the 17th Century was completely under Islamic rule. While the Mughals had a general respect for all religions, the current crop of rulers was much more orthodox and discriminating than their predecessors. Shah Jahan adhered to the strict tenets of Islam and did not marry any Hindu women unlike his father and grandfather. His reign saw forcible conversions of Hindus to Islam and the demolition of many Hindu temples. Under this political backdrop, hardliners who believed in the literal interpretation of the Quran had sprung up in all corners of the empire and were wreaking havoc on the ‘infidels’ who had not yet taken up Islam.

It was during this period of turmoil that the Nizam Shah who ruled over Elapura, in present day Maharashtra, was defeated by one of Shah Jahan’s generals. Elapura was a sandy arid place. The fort of Daulatabad, located nearby, had been a center of power for centuries but a lack of water had led to its decline. Harsh though its surroundings were, Elapura held a beautiful secret. It housed some of the most beautiful cave excavations of Hindu, Jain and Buddhist temples wrought by the hand of man. If a poem could be strung from anything other than words, it would have to be the rock at Ellora, carved into a living temple! The pinnacle of rock-cut excavation craftsmanship was reached at The Great Kailasa Temple of Elapura, carved out of ten thousand cubic meters of solid rock. Paying homage to the Hindu God Shiva, this temple takes you on a spiritual journey to Mount Kailasa, the home of Shiva. One cannot but stand before this monument and gaze at it in awe. A jewel adorning the face of eternity.

One of the lieutenants of the General, by the name of Mahmood Khan was hungry to make a name for himself. Upon his arrival at the Daulatabad fort he was made aware of the existence of the caves at Elapura. Sensing an opportunity, he took a clutch of soldiers with him to visit the caves. No sooner had they laid their eyes on the impressive Kailasa temple, did they begin to wonder how a human hand could have possibly made something so remarkable. The grand entrance with rich friezes on either wall welcomed one into a large courtyard. There were large sculptures of Saraswati, Ganga and Yamuna purifying you before your entry into God’s own home. Two huge stone pillars with many sculptures silently spoke of the long-lost glory of the Rastrakuta kings. Beyond the pillars, the Shikhara of the temple rose to the sky, mimicking the Himalayas that housed Shiva. Rich friezes executed from the Ramayana and the Mahabharata embellished the side walls of the temple. Gigantic sculptures of the ten ‘Avatars’ of Vishnu adorned the outer walls of the courtyard. On the right wall to the side was a massive sculpture of the Demon Ravana trying to shake Mount Kailasa while the Gods Shiva and Parvati sat serenely watching him in his futile struggle. The Gods would not be troubled by the belligerence of a mortal.

Among the soldiers in the group, the captain was a man named Mir Usman. He had fought many wars, killed many men, plundered many lands and committed many crimes that no God would ever forgive. He had never laid his eyes on anything so beautiful. Seeing such a sight filled him with a deep joy that words could not express. No sooner had his inspection finished, did he get the command from Mahmood Khan to vandalize the statue of Ravana trying to shake Kailasa. At first he tried to reason with Mahmood Khan to not allow such a thing of beauty to be so easily destroyed. Mahmood Khan said, “Only Allah can make the image of man, naught else. Destroy these heretic sculptures for they are but the foolish idling’s of long dead men. Do this on your honor as a devout follower of Allah.” Mir Usman replied thus, “Allah does not require us to chip away at rocks. If we cannot turn the hearts of living men what good could we achieve by defacing these statues of stone?” Mahmood Khan replied “Islam is the only religion that is true. All other Gods are false. Do you want this ode to a heathen God stand tall when Islam rules over this country?” Mir Usman: “Islam is my religion but that does not mean I will indulge in needless destruction of beauty.” This led to an argument between the two of them until Mir Usman ordered him to destroy the statue or forfeit his life.

Mir Usman’s life flashed in front of him. Many of the things he had done in the past were unpardonable. He had raped helpless women, ended the lives of many young men, desecrated and defiled many temples. But somehow the sight of this beautiful temple had erased all that hatred that he felt. Now all he could feel was a tinge of melancholy and an outburst of guilt. He took out his sword and plunged it into his guts. As he lay dying, he saw the statue of Yama smiling down at him. He smiled back, thinking of the vicissitudes of fate that had led him to his death. A thing of beauty is a joy forever.

Mahmood Khan was shocked at this turn of events. He had just lost his top soldier and knew that this would incur the wrath of the General. He struck the foot of Ravana with his spear. It chipped off a toe. The Gods continued to smile serenely unmoved by the mortal world. Mahmood Khan took one last look at the dying Mir Usman, and then walked away..

Elapura was originally published in Dancing Hues on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Anshul was nervously pacing in the study. His palms were sweaty and he appeared visibly agitated. His wife Kanchan was heavily pregnant and her delivery date was due in a couple of weeks. This was their second attempt at having a child. Anshul remembered the last delivery and how everything had gone wrong. Kanchan had delivered a still born child, and with its death had vanished all the happiness that they had ever known. The following months took them to the brink of depression until one day Kanchan became sick and threw up. Anshul knew what this meant but his heart was crushed by a swirl of emotions. His reality had suddenly become like a beautiful red rose ensconced in the clutch of sharp thorns, a beautiful yet terrifying doorway to the future.

Anshul did everything a good husband would do. He regularly took Kanchan to the hospital. He called his old mother from his hometown to stay and help with the delivery. Kanchan was given food that was healthy for both her and her unborn child. Anshul left no stone unturned in ensuring every possible care to his wife in this crucial time. In the last month of pregnancy Anshul had even started working from home to ensure that he was there for Kanchan in a moment of emergency.

His mother called out to him when lunch was ready. But he was in no mood to eat and sunk into his bean bag all the while looking at the old grandfather clock in his study room. As the hands of the clock met in their periodic dance across the mother of pearl clock face, a cuckoo sprang out and announced to the world that it was noon. Just then Kanchan’s water broke and she cried out loudly from the bedroom. As the Cuckoo continued its announcement, Anshul jumped into action. He rushed to his car and asked his parents to get Kanchan into the back seat.

Kanchan had always been frail, of body and mind. A life of comfort had not prepared her for the grueling act of childbirth. She was panting and puffing, carrying the burden of the future in her womb and more importantly in the ever-churning landscape of her vacillating mind. Anshul began driving, taking the fastest route to the hospital. He was already on the phone talking to their Gynecologist. Unfortunately, a series of events would compromise any plans that Anhsul had, to reach on time. As the car hit the main road the signal turned green. Just then a couple of trucks trying to beat the signal drove very close to each other. One of them had to take a U-turn and angled out of its lane all the while not noticing the other truck speeding in to beat the signal. One was carrying sand and the other was carrying bricks. The truck with the bricks turned over and deposited its cargo on the other side of the road blocking traffic both ways.

All hell broke loose as the drivers got out of their trucks and started yelling. A crowd gathered and before long a fist fight broke out between the two. No one noticed as Kanchan panted heavily and Anshul saw his life flash in front of him. His mother watched helplessly at the sight, choking down her sobs. Only a moment ago he seemed to be in control but now his life had suddenly taken a darker turn. A cry from his wife brought him back to reality. He got out of his car and started screaming for help. The fight stopped and the crowd turned its attention to him and his heavily pregnant wife. Kanchan had by now become hysterical.

An old beggar woman who had recently started begging at the signal noticed a pregnant woman dying. She immediately swung into action and got an old saree from her makeshift tent house at the footpath and unrolled it. Next she took Kanchan and lay her down on the saree. Kanchan was locking her legs, which was not a good sign. She calmed Kanchan down and told her to bend her Knees and spread out her legs. She noticed that Kanchan was having rapid contractions and this was a signal of imminent childbirth. The crown of the baby was now visible. No time was to be lost. She called out to Anshul and signaled him to calm her. As he held her hand she vomited. The old beggar immediately turned her head to the side so she would not choke on her vomit. She asked Anshul’s mother to clean her up. Now she asked Kanchan to look at her and signaled her to push.

Time stood still for Anshul as Kanchan pushed the baby out. The baby’s head popped out and the old lady cleaned out the mucus that would prevent it from choking. She then supported the head while the shoulder was pushed out of Kanchan’s womb. The beggar woman noticed that the umbilical cord was around the child’s neck. She quickly slipped the cord over the baby’s shoulder. Finally, the abdomen and hips emerged. The old lady was now holding the baby girl with both her hands. One final push and the baby was born. Now the old woman picked it up to allow all the excess liquid and mucus to drain out. The baby finally let out a cry, a cry that heralded the beginning of a new life!

The old woman finally placed the baby on Kanchan’s abdomen. By this time one of the drivers seeing the situation, had with the help of the crowd pushed his truck ten meters to the front. This created the space for a single car to pass. Anshul immediately jumped into the car while a few good samaritans helped the mother and child into the car. As Anshul drove off he noticed from the corner of his eye, the beggar woman slipping away from the crowd. Aarushi was born by an act of incredible kindness from an unknown stranger of unfortunate circumstance…

After reaching the hospital and ensuring the Mother’s safety Anshul went back to find the old beggar. However, she was nowhere to be found. Her tent had disappeared and no one seemed to have any clue to the whereabouts of the old beggar woman. She had touched his life and filled it with the sweetness and magic of love, and stepped out just as soon, never to be seen again. Who was that lady? Why had she helped him? How could he ever repay such an act of kindness? Anshul would never get the answers to these questions.

The Beggar was originally published in Dancing Hues on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Conain was twelve years old. He had fallen into an elevator shaft and died. Police were suspecting foul play. The incident took place on a damp evening. Earlier that evening grey clouds rumbled ominously as if to warn the keen observer of the grim events that would unfold. Conain was playing alone with his football. Suddenly the sky roared with thunder, a long loud peal. The downpour, a thick curtain of pearls, restricted visibility. It was almost an hour before the rain receded. Conain’s mother had got worried as he had not yet returned for dinner. In a short while she had gathered the neighbors and after a brief search the boy’s body was found in the elevator shaft of a nearby construction site. His skull had been bashed in by the impact. A scream full of sheer terror was frozen on his innocent face echoing into the abyss of his afterlife. His mother let out a wail of sorrow that careened off into the empty darkness of a long night.
That morning, Conain’s mother had caught the boy stealing from her purse. She was not aware that Conain had made a habit of stealing from her purse. Usually the sum was so small that she would not even be aware of the theft. Realizing that her boy was heading down the wrong path, she slapped him hard across his face. After he had finished crying he had confessed to his mother that he was stealing the money to buy cigarettes. This had led to a further altercation between the two of them. It finally ended with Conain’s mother thrashing the boy and cursing his father, who had long ago abandoned them.

A week ago Conain had kissed a girl at school. His closest friend and confidant. They had been friends since childhood. Conain had always liked her. With puberty that affection grew. Conain did not understand why that kiss felt like butterflies in his stomach. He had done what instinct commanded by testosterone would have him do. The kiss was in an empty classroom in the left wing of his school that was under renovation. They had hidden in a cupboard. At first he pecked at her lips like a parrot that was offered a tempting chilly. As she became more comfortable his confidence increased and their tongues danced a dance of dying innocence. Curiosity led them down the road of unfamiliar intimacy.

The police needed to find a scapegoat as there were no clear leads. A scape goat was found. The watchman at the construction site was a known drunk and no one in the neighborhood liked him. He would pick a fight with the children if they let a ball fly into the construction area and then shout at their parents. On that fateful evening, he had had one drink too many. A constable began interrogating him. But the crowd was furious and decided to swiftly deliver justice with only past prejudice serving as evidence of guilt. Pent-up emotion was unleashed and the mob beat him down to an inch of his life. It was then that police intervened and carted off the watchman to the police station to further interrogate him.

Earlier that month Conain’s had just finished his midterm exams. The results had come in two days ago. He had secured the highest grade in every subject. His scholastic achievements would always confound all his teachers. None of them understood the boy and some did not like him. He was extremely talented and misbehaved. After the results were announced he decided to celebrate by making a paper glider that he had seen on an origami website. It was a complex task that involved more than 60 folds, a feat that took him more than four hours. It was aerodynamic, and would cut through the air and land further than any paper plane the school kids had seen before. Instead of flying it in the playground he decided to land the plane on the thick curly tresses of a teacher that he disliked. Conain’s mother was called by the principal and he had been suspended from school.

In the aftermath of Conain’s death his mother and his teachers were filled with guilt. Were they too harsh on the boy? Did he purposely fall into that elevator shaft? Did they make a mistake in understanding him? A thousand similar questions raced through their minds and struck them like arrows. His girlfriend felt a void in her life. An emptiness which she could not describe with words. The grief spilled over into early signs of depression. A burden too large for a child so tender of age.

But what did happen on that day? Did Conain commit suicide? Did he slip into the shaft by mistake? Was he chased by the watchman? The truth is very far from reality. Conain was playing in the rain with his football when he saw a young puppy. The boy had a dark side to him. He quickly hit the pup with his football and then started kicking it repeatedly. The pup whimpered in agony. Meanwhile the pup’s mother which was not very far away heard its cries and quickly confronted Conain. With a single snarl, she had displayed an impressive set of canines that had scared little Conain. He quickly ran, and the dog darted behind him. The rain was so thick that Conain could not clearly see where he was going. By the time he realized that the elevator shaft was ahead of him, it was too late. The dog gave one last bark and then left Conain to die.

Conain was originally published in Dancing Hues on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The sun broke through the horizon and lit the tip of a cloud on fire. The radio broke out with a popular version of Shiva Suprabhatam. Shishupala wiped his brow and began to pour liquid milk over a Shiv Lingam. Bald headed, hardly out of his teenage years, Shishupala had embraced asceticism. He had devoted his life to the service of Shiva. Swearing himself to celibacy, Shishupala had given up on all material comforts. He had a bony frame, his muscles rippled like waves on the surface of a calm lake. Three lines of ash crisscrossed a single dot of vermillion on a forehead indicative of brilliance. The village folk adored Shishupala. It took great courage to give up material comfort and devote an entire lifetime in the service of God. Every morning the devout would gather to awaken the lord and lavish upon him the choicest offerings under the guidance of Shishupala.

The village was teeming with young boys. Every day before walking five miles to their school, they would make a point to visit the Shiva temple. Their parents had after all passed on the values that their forefathers had instilled in them. Many young boys would smear ash on their foreheads and drink sweetened milk that Shishupala offered to them in the hope that their day would go well. Rama was one of these kids. He was from a family of tillers. His parents did not own any land and they would work as contract labor in the farms of wealthy landlords. He was tall, lithe, had a fit physique and looked like a younger version of Krishna himself.

Shishupala had a very layered personality. He would chant to the Sages of yore to grant him wisdom so that he could usher in a new day. At the same time from the corner of his eye he would eagerly await the arrival of Rama. As he poured the holy milk over the lord he would imagine Rama as the beneficiary of his ministrations. Shishupala had not felt these kinds of feelings and did not know how to channel them. Every day he would wait for Rama to visit the temple and as soon as he would lay his eyes on him his penis would deliver its undivided turgid attention to Rama. Rama was too young to realize that this kind of attention was unhealthy.

Slowly Shishupala befriended the boy and began providing him guidance colored with his own desires. He would help him with simple math problems, give him an overview of the role of God in one’s life and then make him understand the impact of rituals and traditions. Rama, possessing a naïve mind, yet to be molded by the vagaries of life, completely fell into the spell of Shishupala’s friendship. He began to see him as a brother he never had and would disclose to him his deepest secrets and desires.

Rama mentioned that he hated math. He also said that he had fallen in love with Sathvika a pretty girl who had just hit puberty. He also confided in him that his parents were finding it very difficult to make ends meet. If things continued in the same way, he would have to leave school and join his father in helping with the harvest. Shishupala provided an outlet for the boy to reveal his innermost fears while deriving vicarious pleasure by imagining what he could do to the boy. Every time Rama opened his mouth, his tender lips would pout and it would take Shishupala, a practiced composure and a modicum of self-restraint to not kiss his luscious lips.

Shishupala did not enjoy his homosexual tendencies. He was at once torn by what came naturally to him and what was permissible by society. Every morning he would fantasize about Rama and every evening he would punish himself by fasting. Such were the strict constructs of society that certain behaviors were strictly frowned upon. On days where his desires would take extremely devious turns, Shishupala would punish himself by lashing his body with a leather lash that he had specifically procured from the local gypsies. Every moment that he would spend in admiring the body of little Rama, he would punish himself. He would justify this by believing that this was against the tenets of his religion. He could not forgive himself for taking on Bramhacharya and yet having feelings of immense tenderness and violent love for the scrawny boy. It was as if such emotions were cursed by the Gods themselves.

One fine day, the boy, unaware of Shishupala’s desires wore only a dhoti and visited the temple before daybreak. Shishupala could not face the boy as he was too ashamed to show him his erect penis. But after a while he could no longer hold back and showed himself to the boy. The boy unaware of his erect penis, peeking through the saffron loin cloth that decked his skeletal frame, immediately began conversing with him. Shishupala could no longer control himself and immediately gave the boy a gentle kiss on the lips. It was at this inopportune moment that the village head entered the temple and was aghast to see the temple priest locking lips with a young village boy. At once hell broke loose and he gathered the entire village.

Shishupala, the devout village priest could not face this scrutiny on his character. His religion and his vows demanded a life of celibacy. Yet he had tasted the fruit of pleasure and acted in contravention to religion by kissing a young boy. He was overcome with guilt. He found a hemp rope and hung himself on a branch of a banyan tree in front of the temple before the village could discover his shame. As dawn broke, the radio blared with a song to wake up the Gods. But Shishupala stared aimlessly into the endless night dreaming of lost love and other tender emotions.

Shishupala was originally published in Dancing Hues on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Sitaram was originally published in Dancing Hues on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Everytime a tyre runs over the slipper,
A woman is raped,
A girl is molested,
Another becomes the subject of lewd remarks.

Each time the slipper rips,
A child is rendered homeless,
A farmer commits suicide,
A village loses its people to the city.

A tear runs down the eyes of a beggar girl,
She alone stands and watches the slipper,
No one looks at her,
The world hums like a Rolls-Royce engine,
Not waiting for the laggards.

The beggar girl is joined by another,
Who wipes the tears off her sister’s eyes,
She takes out a penny and buys a candy from the nearby vendor,
Together they munch on the sugary treat,
All the problems of the world left behind.
They hold hands and watch the signal lights turn green,
As the mad mad world leaves everyone behind.

A ladies’ slipper was originally published in Dancing Hues on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Dussehra was originally published in Dancing Hues on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.