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Winning Entries (2): HarperCollins India’s short-story writing contest ‘In Write Spirit’ with #TNIEBengaluru.

We received some amazing entries for our short-story writing contest ‘In Write Spirit’ in partnership with  #TNIEBengaluru.

Five winners have been chosen and this is one of the winning entries!

 

A tale of lotus by Kalyanaraman Durgadas

The night is past
The day is soon to dawn
The sun will rise
The lotus will smile
Thus thought the bee trapped in the lotus
But alas, an elephant dashed the lotus to the ground.
– Old Sanskrit poem
She stood there smiling, her hair conspicuously adorned with a single rose. She had a trick of smiling with her teeth. Kamal hated flowers. His hands itched to remove the rose from her head and destroy it, petal by petal. Actually, his hand itched for more than one reason. He was allergic to flowers. Seeing her, he was inflamed. His cheeks turned red. He was even more allergic to women named Jasmine. He wished, however, he could at least control his sweat glands. He invariably broke out in a cold sweat. It was this that had attracted Jasmine to him. But I am jumping the gun.
Two rows of young girls sat facing each other. A small boy stood at one of the lines blindfolded. The cry that rang out from his line almost made him wet his rompers (the one with a sunflower motif at the back).
“Jasmine flower, Jasmine flower, come stealthily and pinch me.”
Calm before the storm. A stealthy movement. An overpowering smell of attar. A suppressed giggle. A hand at his crotch, grip tightening around it. A sharp twist. An agonising pain. Held for an agonisingly long time before the pressure is gone. A flood of relief. A flood of pee. Humiliation added to pain. A chorus of girls who have discovered a catchy line followed him as he ran home, his eyes flooded as well.
‘Kamal has done kakkaa. Kamal has done soossoo. Kakkaa sussoo Kamal. Kakkaa soossoo Kamal!’
Jasmine came closer, a waft of the fragrance of sweat from Kamal emboldening her. Closing her eyes in anticipation, she whispered: “So, kiss me, Kamal…”
If Kamal hadn’t heard what he did, he might not have fled. He heard: “kakkaasoossoo Kamal.”
Rewind. Flower discovered by mother on father’s loincloth.
“Go, bring that SmallHome of yours and live with her here. I am going. I am never coming back.”
She was true to her words. She never did come back. Kamal never forgave that flower for that either. Later, when his father showed him around the park he was maintaining and said, “One day, son, all this will be yours,” the cliché on top of the chilling prospect was the last straw. He threw up. That was also when he ran away from home.
Nama and Rupa. Name and Form. The name was before the form. First, there was the word. The Word was God.
Flowers. Vegetable genitalia. Garishly painted. Androgynous anomalies. Smelly. Itchy. Scratch any, and get close: a Venus’ fly-trap in every one of them.
O horror. Of horrors. Kamal discovered the etymology of his name.
Kamal. Lotus. Short for Kamalanabha: one who has a lotus growing out of his navel. I wouldn’t let one grow within spitting distance.
Time to act decisively. He fixed up everything with the magistrate. Yes, he would change his name and be finally rid of his congenital affliction. He would strike at the primal cause of his problem.
He lay trampled. These were other mysterious circumstances in his death: Preferential rigor mortis seemed to have set between his thighs. A faint perfume of jasmine lingered around his navel. A pile of
elephant dung lay close to where he lay.


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