Ink Drift - July

J U L Y 2 0 1 7 

FEAR 

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Issue - 12 

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FEAR 

Volume 1 | Issue 12 | July 

CONTENTS 

TAKEN BY A STORM....................................................PAGE 1 

ASHA JACOB 

NEVER ENDING TERROR.............................................PAGE 2 

KRISTYL GRAVINA 

THE FEAR....................................................................PAGE 3 

SIMRAN DHINGRA 

THE CAPITAL SYSTEM...............................................PAGE 4 

TWISHA RAY 

FACE OF FEAR............................................................PAGE 5 

PRAKRITI LAKHERA 

OBLIVION..................................................................PAGE 6 

PARAM MEHTA 

THE LANTERN NIGHT...............................................PAGE 8 

MONALISA JOSHI 

JUST OUT OF FEAR..................................................PAGE 9 

JAIDEEP KHANDUJA 

EXTERNAL DREAM...................................................PAGE 10 

ANUPAMA SARKAR 

THE CREEP FACTOR................................................PAGE 12 

DC DIAMONDOPOLOUS 

BACKING OUT OF UNCERTAINITY.........................PAGE 17 

RUSS BICKERSTAFF 

BANYAN TREE OF DEULI........................................PAGE 19 

KUMAR ADITYA 

MADNESS..............................................................PAGE 25 

AAKRITI JASWANT 

NOT EVERYTHING IS DEAD...................................PAGE 29 

IVANA DUTTA 

AISHWARYA ASHOK:AN INTERVIEW....................PAGE 30 

Ink Drift Publications 

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Section One 

POETRY 

“Infested places and zombie 

plagues, recurring nightmares 

I have to bear”

Issue 12 - Fear 

Taken by a Storm 

Taken by a Storm 

Asha Jacob 

A dramatic fool once, wind-shielded his life. 

And suddenly, with nothing 

To take him, by a storm, 

He had no fears! Plup, plop, plup 

Tup, tip, tip, tup...Then the sounds 

Of water made him jump. Little noises 

Made him dunk, his head into a rug. 

But when his own shadow 

Sent him up, the ladder, 

Up, up to the attic, and left him there 

With his loud breath, he realized that 

Despite his size, he had shrunken. 

He remembered that, he once had had 

More substantial fears, that once conquered, 

Sent him shooting, up in life and 

Not up the ladder, into the dark and dinky 

attic. 

Thus enlightened, the placid wise man 

No more feared the storm. 

PAGE 1 

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Never Ending Terror 

Issue 12- Fear 

Never Ending Terror 

Kristyl Gravina 

Twisted dreams and Distorted faces 

Whispering voices, each night I hear 

Shaking earth and pitch black dark 

All the crazy stuff, which I fear 

Infested places and zombie plagues 

Recurring nightmares I have to bear 

Every night in bed, I shake, 

As in covers the shelter I take. 

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The Fear 

The Fear 

Simran Dhingra 

She wasn’t afraid of the dark, 

Neither of the spark. 

But deep inside her heart, 

There was a scar. 

Which made her helpless, 

And often in stress. 

Her eyes chased the light, 

And filled her head with fright. 

Darkness never feared her, 

Someone’s presence there tears her. 

Every time she hears a step, 

She skips half of her breath. 

The sensation came back every time, 

When she is in a room with no light. 

But she tries not to react. 

She searches for her phone, 

And turns the torch on. 

The way she behaved, 

Made people ponder. 

What happened in the past, 

Which made her heart beat fast. 

Little did she knew, 

That they weren’t few. 

When her friends were gone, 

She was not alone but surrounded by men. 

They touched her wherever they could, 

It was dark, and her mouth was shut with a piece of wood, 

She couldn’t shout but 

Moved her hands like a trout. 

They ran away when they heard a sound, 

Of someone coming when she was profound. 

She was afraid and could not talk, 

It was like a mere shock. 

Then she walked towards her house, 

And it was a sleepless night with the light turned on. 

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The Capital System 


The Capital System 

Twisha Ray 

Let the haunted emptiness 

Let it take me away 

Carry me into deep darkness 

Lift me out of this day 

Close my eyes with nights caress 

And sleep enclose and unwind 

For the relief of my stress 

And I float in a dreaming mind 

The morphing shadows of black 

Swirl in terrifying scenes 

A carnival 

A place of fun and enrichment 

The carny grounds 

Someone ends up hurt 

Dies on sight 

A carnival 

Now a place that is closed 

An empty place 

Full of empty rides 

Silent laughter 

A carnival 

Only a place of dares and bad choices 

More death arises 

More lost souls wandering 

The carny grounds beginning to fill again 

A carnival 

No longer a place of fun and enjoyment 

Screams fill the air in the night 

Rides never stop running 

A haunting of what was once a beautiful 

place 

A haunted carnival 

A place where the spirits roam 

In fear I try escape back 

To such a place without dreams 

Now listlessly awake I lay 

Tired, but unable to rest 

Sleeplessly caught in the sway 

o far gone, drifting in grey 

Spiderweb rooms an corridor covered 

with the entrance to darkness set in place 

with danger light’s, Strobe lights, an a fog 

machine set on auto 

A haunted feel to a shack left cold an 

abandoned. 


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Face of Fear 

Face of Fear 

Prakriti Lakhera 

Her face behind the shadows 

wants to appear 

wants the world to know her 

wants the light to show her 

But she fears you 

Her face behind the trees 

wants to come out and play 

wants to enjoy the beauty of nature 

wants to feel the air 


Her face is hidden 

Behind the walls of her school 

Because she wants to study 


She fears the limitations you have put on her 

She fears the slavery you have bestowed on 

her 

But more than that she fears you 

And now her face appears out of nowhere 

PAGE 5 

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Oblivion 


Oblivion 

Param Mehta 

Never in half a decade had the car 

stopped 

But for that one day when the rain god 

had a point to prove. 

Maybe because bad luck had a point to 

prove too. 

The roaring thunder swallowed the 

worthless cries 

Of the engine that just won’t start. 

Home was yet nowhere near, nor any 

help, 

Except in the form of a bus-stand a few 

meters ahead 

And an umbrella in the backseat. 

Locking the car, I stepped out 

When a gust of wind disarmed me 

And my umbrella faded behind me in the 

rain. 

Retraced twenty steps to notice it 

And a twenty more to regain it. 

While I picked it up, a tune crept into my 

ear. 

The voice of a female singer dead three 

decades ago! 

Coming from the radio of a black sedan 

That I didn’t remember passing. 

Windows open, lights and vipers running. 

The blades swept and all I could see was a 

pair of eyes, 

Staring at me. 

They shone red before disappearing behind 

the drops. 

Reappeared after a couple of seconds, 

Shooting beams of malice that could dissect 

a feeble heart. 

Reaching the car, I peeked from the window. 

What awaited me was nothing! 

As I turned, a creature pounced from 

inside! 

A black cat with a deafening scream. 

I collapsed with a jolt and so did my 

heart. 

As I stood up, adrenaline came to my 

rescue. 

As I passed my car, the yellow streetlights 

started flickering. 

Winking at each other, cooking up a 

conspiracy against me. 

And suddenly, in unison, they all went 

out! 

Leaving my eyes worthless 

But not my ears that heard alternate 

spells 

Of thunder and moaning hounds. 

Though late, I justified the name smartphone 

And opened the torchlight to see 

Where I was heading, or 

To see what was heading for me! 

But suddenly, the flashlights started 

flickering too 

And so did my trust on machines. 

That light died out too 

Returning me back to the infernal blackout. 

With things getting creepier I turned 

about for the car. 

I strode in its direction before a giant 

flash of lightning 

Embraced the sky for more than a second 

And revealed a dark figure sitting in my 

car! 

Behind the wheel and staring at me. 

While I debated if it was a delusion, 

Impulse drove me to the forlorn busstand. 

Exhausted, I sat on the bench. 

But before I could breathe a sigh of relief, 

My phone rang. 

PAGE 6 

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Oblivion 

A number strange and impossibly long. 

I picked it up only to cut it after a minute’s 

silence. 

It rang again and no one but silence talked 

with me. 

A minute passed by and it rang again. 

Though extremely annoyed, I picked it 

up. 

A silence of ten seconds was followed by a 

voice. 

My ears could pick a slow whisper calling 

my name. 

But. 

Not from the phone! 

Just then, the corner of my right eye 

could feel someone. 

A drop of rain and sweat glided down my 

neck, 

Racing with the gulp of air inside. 

After spending a good enough time on 

each degree of the ninety. 

My eyes fell upon. 

It was a lady in white 

Just a few spaces away. 

Long wet hair ran down over her face till 

the bench 

Occasionally blown by the winds 

To reveal a smile that made me wish I 

was blind! 

Poets often said a lady’s smile could kill a 

man. 

Never knew that wasn’t figurative. 

Wildest hopes said she couldn’t run in a 

saree. 

My fellow heart, whiter than her saree 

said she could. 

Heart had surrendered, but not adrenaline. 

Reached the car in a bolt, 

Settled in and locked it. 

As I glanced up on the street, she was nowhere 

visible. 

But that meant there was only one place 

where 

She was supposed to be. 

I didn’t bother to turn my head. 

But involuntarily my eyes rolled on to 

the mirror. 

And I wasn’t wrong! 

Blood dripping from that malicious 

smile 

Torn cheeks revealing cold flesh. 

Visible now was her eyes 

And the evil in them too. 

Brown eyeballs stared at me before suddenly 

disappearing! 

She held up a dagger that was as hungry 

as its bearer 

To taste my blood. 

I pulled the handle but the door won’t 

open. 

Nor the window and that was it! 

Made a last glance in the mirror; 

The smile had grown wider. 

And then suddenly, there was a blackout! 

And she wasn’t there. 

My head was pounding and I felt it 

would explode. 

I tried the door and it did open. 

The rain wasn’t there, nor the busstand, 

nor the same road. 

I could see the sun and my watch 

agreed. 

While I pinched myself, I saw a gruesome 

sight! 

Two bodies lying on the road, in a pool 

of blood 

That wasn’t stationary; 

Until it reached my boots. 

And that’s when I noticed blood 

On my pants, shirt, hands, everywhere! 

Beside the body was a dagger. 

The same that was going to kill me a few 

minutes ago. 

I pinched myself and nothing changed. 

And now, here I am behind the bars; 

Labelled a psychopath 

And counting days to the gallows. 

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The Lantern Night 


The Lantern Night 

Monalisa Joshi 

Darkness outside, the ghostly breeze, 

I stood there alone shivering as it teased, 

The raven sky, with no star that twinkled, 

Not even in the farthest, and my skin 

shrinked, 

In fear, and the trees seemed uncanny, 

With their boughs swishing with the gust, 

Seemed like hands trying to fetch my 

soul, 

I tip toed not to wake the dryads of night, 

I didn’t wanted my soul to be taken, they, 

Were all ogling at me, I was a prey, a 

woman! 

You left me my beloved leaving no word, 

I stood in the middle and couldn’t go 

back, 

My heart was sore, for I had left in our 

hearth, 

Two young naive hearts, lost in sweet 

slumber, 

And that night seemed longer than others, 

My eyes were wet and I had two precious, 

One that was left behind and other I 

hadn’t found, 

Yet, I had to be back home before its 

dawn, 

Before the birds tweeted the morning 

melodies, 

Into their ears, my sons would be awake, 

I had to tread that path of dare and doom, 

Aghast! My heart beats got smelled far, 

At last fell the prying eyes all over me, 

And one step ahead I was to be eaten, 

Ah! My beloved I couldn’t, forgive me! 

I couldn’t cross that line, I knew you 

were, 

Near but far to my eyes, I sensed in the 

air, 

Twain eye yours watched me from afar, 

Reading my fear and timidity, I had but, 

That one night to bring you back, with, 

Sun’s virgin light you shall be gone forever, 

Knowing all I cried, I cried to heart’s 

desire, 

And holding up the lantern for once in 

dark, 

I saw many ghostly faces but not yours, 

With their mouths opened and jaws 

dropped, 

Man was the new ghost in town, 

In your shadow had I been for long, 

It was time for me to return, and so did 

I! 

Inside it was silent as it was, when you, 

Left and I got too beneath the sheets of, 

Despair, clinging to the naive bodies of, 

My innocent offspring, finding solace, 

The dawn arrived filling brightness into 

my hearth, 

Yet I forbid that lantern night, the worst 

night ever! 

But the oil filled lamp, did light our 

dark space in silence. 

PAGE 8 

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Just Out of Fear 

Just Out of Fear 

Jaideep Khanduja 

He was too young, 

Too young to understand it 

The right and wrong of it 

When he got into the trap 

Of a neighbourhood chap 

Who called him with a clap 

And made him sit on his lap 

Forcefully. 

It was a not too young boy 

Who didn’t know what was happening 

But was forced to do indulge in some crap 

On the other hand it was an elder boy 

Carrying some dirty ideas in his mind 

But not caring about cheating the innocence 

of the younger one. 

The younger boy 

Just out of fear 

Didn’t drop a tear 

But is carrying the guilt 

All these years. 

PAGE 9 

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External Dream 


External Dream 

Anupama Sarkar 

A girl finds herself stuck on a Hill.. 

Alone.. Afraid... 

Face to Face with Blood and scream 

I hired a Taxi for sightseeing 

Wanted to explore life in a Touristy way 

To go hiking on High Hills 

Looking down in Deep Valleys 

But scarcely I knew what Life had in store 

for me 

The Driver was Moody 

Left me stranding on Hill Top! 

Wearing High Heels and looking Prim 

and Proper 

I was surrounded with garbage and rotten 

litter 

Oh! What have I done to deserve this Fate 

I stomped my Foot, grumbled choicest 

Phrase 

But on I trotted, slipping, sliding and getting 

up in Vain 

I knew my plans were in a Ditch, Trip 

ruined beyond Repair ! 

Suddenly I stepped on Red sticky, 

blotched Splash 

No it wasn’t Blood, just some Tomato 

Squashed 

I Lost my Balance and went for a topple…. 

Falling down and down without a single 

hand to hold 

I screamed, I cried, Made hoarse groans 

O Lord Almighty! Have pity on Me 

Show me a Path, Give me some Clue 

As I lost hope, There appeared a Magical 

Ladder 

Rickety, Narrow, Steep, Old but Firm 

I held onto it as Noah did to his Ark 

With all the trust, courage and Sanity 

A Drowning person could Muster 

Step by Step I was coming Down, 

Still thinking about the Magical person 

around 

Who has Saved me from Myself and this 

horrendous ground 

Tring.. Tring..the phone screamed… 

I opened my eyes wide and grabbed it 

fast 

I said Hello in a shaking voice, He was 

Calm and Cool 

And asked Was I very busy? 

Naa. I replied, Jolting myself out of that 

silly Dream 

Oh! I was just napping 

And, now I am back to the Eternal 

Dream ! 

PAGE 10 

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Section Two 

STORIES 

“Infested places and zombie 

plagues, recurring nightmares 

I have to bear”

The Creep Factor 



DC Diamondopolous 

Tammy had nightmares of the man she saw 

in her store window. His elongated face 

chased her through the streets of the San 

Fernando Valley, her terror mounting like 

a progression of staccato hits rising up the 

scales on an untuned piano. She always 

woke up screaming before the crescendo. 

It all began after Rachel had a gun held 

to her head for a measly fifty dollars. How 

dumb could the thief be, holding up a pillow-and-accessory 

shop when Dazzles, 

Tammy’s store three doors away sold jewelry? 

It was costume, plastic, some silver, a 

few pieces of gold, but, a pillow store? 

After the police left, Rachel came in 

screaming and crying, “Why me?” her eyes 

red and twitching, mouth pinched. Tammy 

knew what Rachel was thinking: you take in 

more money than I do, why didn’t he put a 

gun to your head? 

She felt that the robbery at Rachel’s had 

been a prelude to something bigger, a feeling—dread. 

It all came back to the dream. 

She was at the Pacoima county-fair, at an 

old-time taffy-pulling contest where the 

taffy wasn’t taffy but the face of the man 

she saw outside staring in at the window 

display, his phantom shape morphing into 

multiple cells until a valley of identicals 

hunted her. 

Tammy had a panic button under the 

cash register. The counter was next to the 

back door for a fast escape. A six-foot bank 

of back-to-back showcases stretched down 

the middle of the long, narrow store, and 

ten others lined the east and west walls. The 

glass doors reflected whoever looked into 

them and gave her time to assess people. 

Still, she thought of buying a gun. 

Tammy stood at the counter with the 

computer on. She was browsing through 

listings of Bakelite necklaces on eBay when 

the door swung open, the buzzer alarmed. 

Since the robbery, Rachel entered her store 

like a bull in search of a red cape. 

“They caught the asshole that held me 

up!” 

“That’s great.” 

“The douche spent my money. Cops said 

I won’t get it back.” Rachel stood just inside 

the door, her arms crossed, and her attractive 

face gaunt. 

“At least he’s off the streets,” Tammy 

said. 

“He’ll be out soon enough. And probably 

come back to rob you.” 

Tammy sucked in her breath. 

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I 

hate coming to work. I’m so afraid.” 

“I understand.” Tammy walked down 

the aisle. “At least you weren’t hurt.” 

“Emotionally, I was.” 

Outside, two women looked at the window 

display. One held a manila envelope, 

the other several letters. Three months 

earlier, new neighbors moved in with a 

shipping and PO Box store. Tammy’s walkin 

business increased. The customers were 

a mix of drifters, aspiring actors and models, 

hopeful reality stars, and self-published 

writers. They talked about themselves and 

shared intimate details, as if she were someone 

without judgment, and perhaps that 

was the reason, for Tammy saw the best 

in people, and she had to admit; it made a 

slow day go by faster. 

The two women left. 

Tammy was about to speak when the 

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man in her nightmares looked into the window. 

“What’s the matter?” Rachel asked. “You 

look like you saw a ghost.” 

He stood hunched over, dressed in a 

long black coat, looking at the second shelf 

in the window display. 

“Tammy?” 

He was a giant but not really. He just 

appeared that way. His face and extremities 

belonged to a man seven feet or taller. His 

features all merged into the center of his 

enormous face, leaving his jaw and forehead 

a wasteland of acne craters. And his 

eyes, they were two dots of sub-zero tourmalines. 

Rachael turned around. “Ew, who’s 

that?” 

“I think he has a PO Box next door. He 

scares me.” 

“You’ve waited on him?” 

“No.” 

“Probably just a looky-loo. It’s the normal-looking 

guys you have to watch out for. 

Like the asshole that robbed me.” 

The man left. 

Rachel opened the door and looked back 

at Tammy. “I keep thinking the next time 

someone will kill me. Or you.” 

Tammy gasped. 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” 

Was she really, Tammy wondered? Even 

so, Rachel left a chemtrail of gloom behind. 

Tammy went back to the counter. 

She entered the fourth decade of her 

life without husband or child. She attracted 

men who used her, takers. It made her feel 

needed, in control, but they always left anyway. 

She wanted to change, but habits were 

stubborn, and men wanted younger women. 

She dreamed of romances like those in a 

Nora Roberts novel. She wanted to love and 

be loved with a passion that could heat Pluto, 

someone to share in the distinctions of 

life, to be swept up a switchback of foreplay 

and countless orgasms. 

She went online to meet guys, lowered 

her standards to the bell curve, where all 

she asked for was a man, under sixty, with 

a full set of teeth and a decent income. Not 

even the Internet helped. 

She glanced at the large framed mirror— 

impossible not to look at—that hung on 

the back of the showcases at the end of the 

counter. There was no other place to hang 

it, and her customers needed to see their reflection 

when buying a necklace or earrings. 

Tammy was without glamour, in a most 

glamorous town, lacked charisma in a city 

brimming with alluring women, but she 

did the best she could: added extensions 

to her lank dark hair, wore contacts that 

tinged her brown eyes green, ran five miles 

three times a week at Balboa Park. And 

she was short in a town where the average 

woman could play professional basketball. 

She might have a humdrum face, one that 

no boyfriend ever lied about by telling her 

she was beautiful, but she had compassion, 

could discover the kernel of beauty inside 

another no matter how hideous the person. 

So it distressed her, made her feel like she 

wasn’t trying hard enough to discover the 

inner goodness of the man in the topcoat 

who looked into her window and tracked 

her in her dreams. He couldn’t help what he 

looked like. She worried that she was turning 

into a shallow, selfie type of woman. 

Tammy passed the day with customers 

and the occasional consignor who came in 

to pick up their check or add jewellery and 

knickknacks to a showcase. 

It was a half-hour before closing. The 

January twilight cast a chill as darkness descended. 

The street lamps on Ventura Boulevard 

illuminated empty sidewalks. A light 

show of pink, blue and yellow neon flashed 

from the Thai restaurant across the boule- 

PAGE 13 

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vard and into Tammy’s store. 

She stood at the counter, matching receipts 

with money she had taken in for the 

day. 

The door opened. The buzzer warned. 

A gust of cold wind swept exhaust and the 

smell of frying fish into the narrow store. 

The man appeared. 

As much as Tammy wanted to see his 

inner perfection, she felt the sensation of 

having her skin peeled. 

She grabbed the money and the receipts, 

went into the bathroom, shut the door, 

and hid her day’s worth in a bag behind 

the paper towels. She looked out the back 

window. Except for her Honda, the parking 

lot was empty. Her phone was under the 

first shelf of the counter. She told herself 

she was being ridiculous. It was always the 

ordinary-looking men who were rapists and 

murderers, not the ones with warped faces 

and mismatched body parts. 

Tammy recited the affirmation that her 

Buddhist friend Qwan had given her: “I see 

beauty in all things and in everyone.” 

She opened the door. The blood evaporated 

from her brain and left her woozy 

with fear. “Can, I help you?” she stammered. 

He stood in front of the counter, his long 

arms stretched from one end almost to the 

other, braced, an anchor for his gigantic 

head. “I’m looking for a jade ring.” His voice 

garbled like nails thrashed about in a garbage 

disposal. His pinprick eyes seemed to 

enjoy Tammy’s terror. 

She thought about lying, but what if he 

saw the ring? “I, um, yes. A man’s ring?” 

“Yeah. A man’s ring.” 

“There’s one in the second case in the 

front,” she said, hoping he’d walk away so 

she could open the back door. What for? To 

run out? And leave him alone in her store? 

Stop looking at his appearance, Tammy told 

herself. 

“I want to try it on.” 

Tammy nodded. She hurried from behind 

the counter, went around the hanging 

mirror and down the west aisle with her key 

poised to unlock the case. 

He lumbered toward her as if he wore 

concrete platforms, his expression smug. 

He stood close beside her. Affixed to his 

long coat was a metallic odor, iron, or was it 

blood? 

Tammy reached in and gave him the 

ring. 

Scars crisscrossed the top of his huge 

hands and knuckles. He jammed the ring 

onto his pinkie. 

She glanced out the front window, hoping 

someone would come in. 

“How much is it?” 

His breath smelled like a jar of old pennies. 

“$285.00.” 

“Gold.” 

“14 carat.” 

“Hmm.” He stared at her and massaged 

the tip of his middle finger back and forth 

over the jade then tapped the stone with his 

teeth. 

Tammy cringed. 

“What’s the best price?” he asked. 

“I can take ten percent off.” 

“Hmm, $255.00, even.” 

“There’s tax.” 

“Not with cash,” the man said. He stared 

at her. There didn’t seem to be any life coming 

from his eyes, not human, more reptilian. 

She expected a forked tongue to shoot 

out between his lips. 

She’d pay the tax. She wanted him out of 

her store, out of her life, out of her dreams. 

“All right.” 

He held out his skillet sized hand—fingers 

that looked like they enjoyed pulling 

the wings off of sparrows—the gemstone 

PAGE 14 

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dwarfed on his pinky. 

“I’ll think about it.” He yanked off the 

ring and handed it to her. “I’ll let you know, 

tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow? Someone else is interested 

in it. It might be gone by tomorrow.” 

“I’ll take that chance,” he said and 

walked away. The hem of his long coat 

touched her leg. 

She shivered, watched him go out the 

front door and realized she had sweated 

through her blouse. The waistband of her 

skirt was damp. He did nothing overt. He 

could have knocked her down and run off 

with the ring. He could have raped her in 

the bathroom. He could have knotted his 

wiener like fingers around her neck and 

snuffed her. 

He didn’t want to pay tax. That was all 

he demanded. 

Tammy prayed he wouldn’t return. 

*** 

The next day was cold, but she kept the 

back door open. She turned the thermometer 

up to seventy-five, thankful for the 

people in the alley: car’s parking, people 

shouting into their phones, UPS and Federal 

Express trucks screeching. 

When she went home the night before, 

she had a glass of wine, then another. She 

had called Qwan, who suggested she meditate. 

She instructed Tammy to go beyond 

the physical to the spiritual world to seek 

answers. Tammy cried out, “I’ve tried that, 

and I’m still scared to death of him!” Qwan 

replied, “Focus not on his body but on his 

soul.” “I don’t think he has one,” Tammy 

whispered. She said good-bye to Qwan and 

found divinity in another glass of wine. 

At four in the morning, she shot up in 

bed, the monster in her dream the color of 

jade. The arms of his coat turned into green 

batwings. He chased her through the store 

until she dived into the mirror and vanished. 

With three more hours before rising, she 

heaped the covers on top of her, shuddered, 

and squeezed her eyes shut. Tears streamed 

sideways across her cheek. 

That morning she put on four-inch 

heels, and for the first time teased her 

hair—like her mother used to do—to make 

herself appear bigger. She carried the only 

weapon she could find at home, a souvenir 

from Disneyland: a tiny Swiss Army knife 

with scissors attached. She never harmed 

anyone, even spiders she’d toss outside. For 

Tammy, all God’s creatures were worthy of 

respect. But nothing could quell her fear of 

the man. 

Tammy polished the counter. She ran 

the vacuum, swept the sidewalk in front 

of her store. Her feet hurt from the high 

heels. When she’d bend over her teased hair 

would smash into showcases, and shelves. 

So great was her anticipation of being 

murdered, that, she began to think of flower 

arrangements and who would give the 

eulogy at her funeral. Her mother would be 

in shock, her father forlorn. Rachel would 

be thinking, glad it wasn’t me. 

Tammy waited and waited. She peeked 

through the bathroom window whenever 

she heard a car, truck or motorcycle. She 

went out the front door and looked in at 

the PO Boxes. She glanced east then west. 

Cars backed up on Ventura. A skateboarder 

headed toward the Galleria, but no man. 

That night, after she got home, she finished 

a bottle of wine, slipped into bed and 

closed her eyes like the lid on a coffin. 

*** 

The next day Tammy dressed in her favorite 

sweater, lavender background with 

tiny pink hearts, and a navy blue skirt 

that showed off her athletic legs. Her hair 

obeyed the brush, and she wore just the 

right amount of make-up to enhance her 

features. 

She felt invigorated from a good night’s 

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sleep and that the man had decided against 

the ring, and therefore, wouldn’t return. 

How foolish, she thought, to work herself 

into a panic. Tammy hated being a victim. 

She was sprucing up a case when the 

door opened the buzzer alerted. 

A young Asian woman walked in, small 

and delicate, with long black hair parted 

down the middle. She went to the right 

aisle. 

Tammy saw her looking into the second 

showcase. “Can I help you?” she asked, 

walking toward her. 

The woman pressed her forehead 

against the glass. “My boyfriend wants me 

to see that jade ring.” 

“Your boyfriend?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You mean—” 

“He was here the other day.” 

The man had a girlfriend! 

“He can’t afford it, but he’s up for a part 

in the new James Bond film.” 

“He’s an actor?” 

The woman looked at Tammy. “Yeah. 

He’s up for the role of the new henchman.” 

“Henchman?” 

“Yeah, the other actor died. They need to 

cast someone scary looking.” 

Tammy felt a hiccup launching in her 

stomach. “So, he’s like getting into the 

role?” The hiccup expanded into a chuckle. 

“I guess.” 

Tammy felt giddy. She laughed. “I have a 

feeling, he’ll get the part.” 

“I hope. What’s so funny?” 

“Me. I’m laughing at myself. Can I take 

the ring out for you?” Tammy asked, feeling 

like the sun, the moon and the stars aligned 

instantly for her. She felt ashamed for judging 

him, stupid for being afraid, ridiculous 

for having nightmares about him. 

The woman sighed and stared into the 

showcase. “No, I’d have to work overtime 

for a month if I were to buy it for him.” 

“Why buy it for him if he gets the role?” 

“Even if he gets it, he can’t afford it.” 

She looked at Tammy. “He has a hard time 

finding work.” 

“Because of his,” Tammy searched for a 

kind word, “distinctive looks?” 

“That, too. People are picky about who 

they hire. So now he’s trying to be an actor.” 

What did she mean by, that too, Tammy 

wondered? 

“He thinks because I’m Chinese, I know 

good jade. I’m about as Chinese as Taylor 

Swift. It’s a nice ring. But he’s dreaming.” 

She turned and walked out the door. 

Tammy went back to the counter and 

sat on the stool. She pondered the meaning 

behind everything the woman told her. He 

was trying to be an actor, had a hard time 

finding work and not just because of his 

looks. What other reasons? Had he a prison 

record? Murdered someone? Would let his 

girlfriend work extra hours to buy him a 

ring—selfish, but so were a lot of men. She 

seemed intelligent. But Tammy knew love 

wasn’t just blind. It could be deaf, too. 

She was reaching for her phone to call 

Qwan when the ringtone let out, “All You 

Need is Love”. 

“Dazzles, Tammy speaking.” 

“I was in the other day.” 

Tammy’s neck and arm hairs became 

stiff as antennas. “I remember.” 

“Don’t sell the ring. I’ll be in tomorrow.” 

“Congratulations,” she said trying to 

keep the tremor out of her voice. 

“What for?” 

“The role, of the henchman, in the new 

James Bond movie. Congratulations.” She 

heard his snicker and then the dial tone. 

Tammy glanced about as if something could 

save her. God help me! 

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Backing Out of Uncertainity 

Backing Out of Uncertainty 

Russ Bickerstaff 

The client did not want to go to Uncertainty. 

How would he know when he 

got there? This is what he was trying to 

explain to a travel agent. She seemed 

reluctant to understand what he was 

talking about. Naturally she HAD to 

understand what she was talking about. 

After all, it was her job to understand 

what she was doing. There is no question 

that she did. And there were going 

to be those people who backed out of 

going to Uncertainty. Of course, she 

knew this perfectly well. She knew that 

people were a bit sheepish about going 

to uncertainty once they have decided 

to go there. And when you make plans 

for your vacation you generally have 

some kind of a better idea of where you 

want to end up in the type of experience 

you want to hang out. But not people 

who went to Uncertainty. People are 

going there had a tendency to want to 

change their minds. 

Her problem was trying to explain this 

to him. She told him that there really 

wasn’t any way of backing out. After 

all, he had paid for his tickets. He had 

made arrangements. Everything was 

perfectly as it should be. And there 

really wasn’t any way that he was going 

to be able to change what was going on. 

It was best just to simply won’t let the 

moment be the moment let his vacation 

because vacation and let everything 

happen as it would. Just act as comes 

naturally and everything will be fine. 

This is what she was telling him. However, 

she wasn’t telling him this in these 

exact words. As much as she might’ve 

wanted to. There were certain words 

and phrases that she needed to use that 

came directly from corporate headquarters. 

And there are certain legal terms 

that she was not allowed to use. Words 

like “desire,” “mind,” “change” and “free 

will,” were a minefield to try to navigate 

around. So she really had to go from an 

approved script. It wasn’t easy. It was 

awful frustrating. But that was earlier. 

Right now she’s been working with the 

company for quite some time and was 

perfectly at home using the exact phrases 

that they had told her views in the exact 

way that they had told her to use them. It 

had been years and she slipped up. Everything 

was going to be fine. Everything 

was going to be OK. She didn’t have to 

worry about anything at all. 

Of course, he wasn’t at all ready to be 

OK with what was going on. He didn’t 

want to go to Uncertainty. That much 

he was certain of. Everything else was a 

little hazy. Clearly she was not doing her 

job. Clearly she knew what her job was 

and when she wasn’t doing it. She was 

in customer service. It was her job to 

make him happy. He knew this month. 

He never personally worked in customer 

service. He never knew anyone who 

worked in customer service. But he knew 

enough to know that they were responsible 

for making sure that people like 

him were happy with the service they got 

from people like her. It was basic. Basic 

consumerism. Basic customer satisfaction. 

It was all there. Clearly it was her 

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Backing Out of Uncertainity 


job to make him satisfied. She was in 

customer service. Surely there would 

be some way of backing out of his travel 

arrangements. And so he try to use 

some form of strategy. He told her that 

it was perfectly OK. He would be fine. 

However, in the event that he was going 

to change his mind. In the event that he 

was going to decide to go to somewhere 

else. What is there anywhere else he 

could go that would be similar but not 

actually Uncertainty? He felt like this 

was a perfectly valid question. 

She decided to humor him. She might 

not have wanted to. It was actually 

part of the standard procedure for this 

sort of thing. It was like so much else 

that come in from corporate. It was 

like so much also been a part of what 

was required of her. There is a flowchart. 

There was very specific reason 

why everything had to go in a certain 

order. This conversation really wasn’t 

any different from so many that you’ve 

had and so many different circumstances 

over the years and the job that she 

had come to so lovingly tolerate. In a 

way that was perfectly in line with what 

corporate had told her to tell people 

who wanted to back out. People had so 

often wanted to back out of this particular 

vacation package. She had told 

him that there were a variety of other 

places in frames of mind in moods and 

things that he could go to. And so she 

asked him. She asked him where else he 

would like to go. 

He paused to think about it. The really 

couldn’t come up with anywhere in 

particular. It was all a blank to him. All 

very vague. So she asked him if that’s 

where he would like to go. Ambiguity. 

Lots of people at vacation there whether 

they realize it or not. He didn’t want 

to go there. He client knew that my for 

certain. He also was very certain that 

he didn’t want to be in Uncertainty. But 

then, it was entirely possible that given 

his current state of mind it was almost 

i’m sure that he actually ended up there. 

And perhaps he was actually on vacation 

and merely calling his travel agent was 

simply part of the whole experience. 

He didn’t want to be embarrassed by 

asking her whether or not he was actually 

taking a vacation at that moment. 

(0r at all.) He didn’t know whether or 

not he was on it at that moment. He 

didn’t know whether or not he may have 

detoured from it already. Whatever the 

case. It was pretty clear that something 

was going on. He was either there or 

on his way. More he could not say. One 

way or another he just didn’t know. He 

sighed. I was visiting a quaint village on 

the riverbanks near Midnapore, in the 

month of July last year. It is one of the 

oldest localities in the area; only one 

road of crumbling concrete leading in & 

out of the community of three hundred 

souls, whose primary occupation, even to 

this day, remains handicrafts and agriculture. 

I had undertaken the task of shooting a 

short film and the specific requirement of 

the plot was a banyan-tree. In Deuli, the 

village we were staying in, some hundred 

feet from the gurgling waters of the river 

stands a gargantuan banyan, claimed to 

be more than four-hundred years old. 

It stands surrounded by dense wilderness 

on all sides, its trunk and branches 

shielded perpetually from the view by the 

foliage. 

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The Banyan Tree of Deuli 


Kumar Aditya 

We started filming the scenes on a sweltering 

summer morning, sweating in 

the humidity of woods, in the pressing 

silence disturbed only by the twitter of 

birds and harsh cawing of crows—there 

were a lot of them, roosting all over the 

overhanging branches of the banyan. 

From the very first take, things did not 

appear normal but not for a moment it 

occurred to us there was a specific chilling 

reason for all that. 

The lead actors fell ill, one with high fever, 

and the other with a severe case of 

throat infection. Our equipment began 

to malfunction; cameras switched on 

and off on their own accord, spotlights 

flickering for no reason. Equipped even 

with an arsenal of spare batteries and 

a generator we could only shoot three 

scenes with the junior artistes, minus 

the lead pair. 

“We wasted a day,” I exclaimed while 

reviewing the footage at my home-stay 

in Deuli. “ Just look at their expressions—it’s 

as if I am looking at wood. I 

cannot believe these are the same bright 

actors who we screen-tested, just look 

at them. My spot-boy can articulate the 

dialogue better than this bunch!” 

“Oh, come on, sir,” my Director of Photography 

patted on my back, reviewing 

the tape. “I think they’re doing fine. It’s 

just they weren’t prepared to face the 

camera before the lead pair. We still 

have a week to go. We can shoot it again 

tomorrow with a fresh mind.” 

I went to check up on my lead actors 

later, apprising them both of the situation. 

The male lead was sallow and sick, 

cooped up in his bed in the company of 

medicines and high fever. The leading 

lady was on her twentieth mug of some 

steaming concoction—a grandma’s recipe 

for sore-throat, which was prepared 

by an elderly village woman. In any case, 

they appeared far from ready to commence 

shooting the next day or the next. 

The next morning I woke up early, had 

a sumptuous breakfast of tea and butter 

toasts before setting out for the location, 

all by myself. When it comes to 

film-making I like to plan ahead, play 

out the scenes in mind before the actual 

filming. The woods were cool, the sun 

still hugging close the eastern horizon 

beyond the trees. There were signs of our 

presence here the previous day—plastic-wrappings 

of biscuits, cigarette stubs 

and styrofoam platters and cups in the 

bushes. 

I lit up a cigarette and began to sift 

through the scenes we were about to 

re-shoot in a few hours. I’d reviewed the 

scenes many times prior to that instance; 

I had spent hours with the screenwriter 

conceiving every single line of the script, 

the very eerie setting for the story. Not 

once had I or anyone else questioned the 

ingenuity of the screenplay. 

But there beneath the banyan tree, in 

the wee hours of the morning, I began 

to find inconsistencies in the script. The 

dialogues sounded naïve and blunt as if a 

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bunch of sophomores in the film studies 

course had written the script and not 

professionals with more than a decade 

of achievements under their belts. Not 

that the setting was wrong—well, there 

and then it felt like it was the only favorable 

factor in the scenario: the impenetrable 

assemblage of tree-trunks 

allowing no sun ray to fall through the 

foliage, the gigantic expanse of the banyan 

and its offshoots; the overhanging 

roots attempting to kiss the ground, 

the rustling dry leaves and the crows. It 

had all the necessary ingredients for a 

crime thriller revolving 

around a serial killer 

and the young girl he 

had kidnapped. 

“No, this needs more, 

something that can 

make the viewers 

straighten up in their 

seats,” my words were 

directed to the sheaves 

of paper in my hand. A crow cawed in 

response. Deep inside I had already 

started reframing the narrative because 

I was holding a script that held poor 

scope to produce a good story; compared 

to my perfect surroundings. It 

was but an inferior piece of work that 

felt more commercial than artistic. 

I wasn’t ready to tarnish my filmography 

in any way. “Something darker, 

something more.” That was when I felt 

the hair at the nape of my neck prickle: 

I wasn’t alone, the birds were silent. I 

turned around in a wide arc and saw 

nothing but the boughs and roots, the 

vastness beneath the foliage pulsing 

with sentience. Then I saw the kid. 

“We can’t shoot here, not 

anymore.” I finally managed 

to speak, now well 

aware of the limp figures 

hanging from the tree that 

no one could see but the 

sole sinner. 

I had seen him before with some other 

urchins, running behind my van when 

we had entered the village. He was from 

Deuli, no more than ten, dressed in a 

worn half-sleeved shirt and shorts. I 

smiled at him and waved but his posture 

didn’t register any response. A moment 

later he bent, touched the ground with 

his hand and then his forehead before he 

ran away. I turned around, puzzled and 

went back to my script. 

A gust of wind ruffled the sheets and 

some pages on the top slipped out of my 

grip. I ran after them, the wind buffeted 

them further. Not a single 

bird could be heard 

anywhere; just the sighing 

of winds and my feet 

crashing through dried 

leaves. 

A movement at the corner 

of my vision made 

me look up as I gathered 

a sheet—two more rogues 

fluttering a few feet away were left to be 

gathered. But what I saw made me drop 

the thick sheaf I had in my hands. In 

fact, I became unaware of anything else 

but the sight before me. 

There were people—seventeen, in all, 

hanging from the branches; necks 

stretched on the nooses, hands, and feet 

limp and rigid with rigor mortis. Three 

of them were women clad in saris, others 

in shirts besmirched with mud and their 

own excrement. Their eyes popped out 

from their skulls under the pressure of 

the noose. 

The loose pages of the script were fluttering 

about while I remained frozen and 

surprised beyond measure, neither able 

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to move nor shout. The foliage above 

me whispered with the voice of the 

wind, and the ropes tied to the branches 

creaked; the sound was a chorus of 

dull moans, almost similar to that of 

doors in an abandoned house swinging 

on rusty hinges: CHIRR—CREAK— 

CHIRR—CREAK. 

Then a crow cawed; another joined, 

then one more before the tree itself 

seemed to burst forth with cacophony, 

cawing, and croaking, making 

the hanging dead swing like pendulums. 

The ugly birds were all over 

the banyan-tree—too many to count, 

like swarms of darkness covering the 

boughs. And they were all looking at 

me; cawing, snapping their beaks furiously, 

flapping their wings in agitation. 

I took one small step backward, then 

another and another. What had the 

people done to deserve such punishment? 

And why were the crows acting 

so weird? I whirled around and sprinted, 

fear and puzzlement pumping my 

heart and limbs. I didn’t care where I 

was heading—just ran; I had never run 

so fast. When my fifty-five summers of 

life and bad knees began to protest I 

stopped, panting and clutching at the 

pain flashing in my abdomen. Drenched 

in sweat, my clothes in disarray I 

flopped on the ground, on my knees. 

I had veered off far from the main path 

leading to and fro between the forest 

and the settlements. But through the 

trees a hundred yards away, I could see 

a uniform ochre wall of wood and hay 

and a thatched-roof of some building. I 

somehow managed to find ingress into 

a courtyard with a house of mud and 

wood, a small barn and a cattle-shed. 

Woven baskets in a plethora of colors 

and patterns lined the wall; statuettes 

and idols of gods and goddesses in bright 

colors lay drying under the sun. 

There was an old man feeding the cows. 

He saw me. His toothless mouth and 

sagging wrinkled cheeks stretch into a 

grin as he came closer. But then his grin 

faltered and disappeared. My sweat-dripping 

face must’ve given away something 

for he began to chatter loudly in the local 

dialect. I couldn’t understand a word of 

the dialect but I was sure his words were 

full of concern, for he offered me a seat 

on a cot and procured some water from 

the earthen pitcher by his door. 

While I was regaining my breath and color, 

he called someone—it was the same 

kid I had seen beyond the banyan-tree. 

The old man must have told him to guide 

me back into the settlement because the 

moment I got up to leave, he prodded the 

boy to lead me on. 

The boy complied rather reluctantly. 

He led me through the twists and turns 

along the forest trails—Deuli was across 

the woods; on dirt trails and game trails. 

He didn’t speak a word and I didn’t feel 

like talking. My platter of thoughts was 

full. Would anyone believe if I told the 

person there were dead bodies hanging 

from the banyan-tree, like the gallows? 

There were still places in rural India 

where mercy-killing was the norm, those 

horrific remnants of regressive thought 

that gave a chosen few to mete out judgment 

on biases of caste and religion. 

The boy began to hum a tune. I knew 

the song, it was a racy tune from a Hindi 

potboiler. 

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“Good song,” I croaked and realized I 

hadn’t uttered a word in the last one 

hour or so. I continued in Hindi - “You 

sing well.” 

“You saw them,” the boy’s reply was 

broken. “Up, on the tree, you saw 

them.” 

“Who were they?” I asked, thinking of 

those alabaster faces drained of life and 

color, hanging on the nooses. 

“They died, long time back; some see 

them. I killed a dog and now I see, too.” 

I only registered the first sentence he 

had phrased for me—they died, long 

time back. I knew what I had seen was 

true, although it was hard to believe. 

My fanciful mind had even considered 

the sight to be a joke for one moment, 

probably played by the locals. That 

thought had ceased to last beyond the 

spectacle of the angry crows of the banyan. 

After fifteen minutes of blindly following 

the boy, I reached Deuli. My motley 

crew was already on the move, carrying 

boxes of equipment. My cameraman 

waved at me. 

“Where were you? I sent one guy to 

the Banyan, you weren’t there?” he 

said. “You look ill. Is everything fine, 

Manoj?” 

I lied by nodding my head. “It’s really 

getting hot,” I said and moved towards 

the shade of a mango tree by the path. 

“But we have scheduled the shoot, 

right? We have assembled the equipment 

there, all ready to rock.” 

I had no reply to that. I checked my 

watch and sighed. Of the boy who had 

accompanied me there was no sign. I 

wanted to say something to my cameraman; 

explain to him what I had seen at 

the banyan tree; that I didn’t want to go 

back there again. The crew was talking 

excitedly around me, exchanging jokes 

and complaining of poor cell-phone reception. 

“You know I just managed to gather 

some scoop about the banyan tree.” The 

cameraman told me, bright with fascination. 

Even the mention of the tree made 

me tremble, but I feigned interest. 

“Have you noticed none of the villagers 

step under the tree’s shade? Apparently, 

the place served as gallows during the 

British-rule. They carried out unofficial 

executions there, of those freedom-fighters 

whose public spectacle would have 

created animosity.” 

“When was this?” 

“Eighteen-hundreds, I guess. Back when 

the East India Company ruled the roost”, 

my cameraman replied. His eyes were 

twinkling with incredulity as he laughed 

and shook his head. “So they worship 

the tree and fear it at the same time. Ah! 

listen to this bit”, he paused to recollect, 

tugging at the leaves of a Jamun tree as 

he passed by. “So if you’ve ever committed 

murder, killed innocents, the spirits 

in the banyan-tree would haunt you, you 

will see the dead.” 

He was trying too hard to make it sound 

scary. He didn’t have to. “Oh, I forgot to 

tell you this bit: what the Panchayat does 

with the banyan tree, you’ll love it, trust 

me. So in the past, the few times they 

had trouble deciding between murder 

suspects, the authorities resorted to the 

tree. The murderer usually confesses his 

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crime even before he is taken to the tree 

because he will be forever damned with 

nightmares and guilt.” 

He went on marveling and laughing 

some more, ignorant of the fact that I 

was lagging behind, once again frozen 

in my steps. I bent down on a knee and 

started to tie my shoe lace again, keeping 

my eyes to the ground. 

“Some see them; I killed a dog and now 

I see, too”, I remembered the words 

of the boy. I killed my wife and I see, 

too, the realization came to me. I had 

learned to ignore the truth but after 

twenty-seven years it came rushing 

through my memories like water from a 

broken dam. It all came back: the sunny 

afternoon in the hills of Mussoorie, the 

sunset, the cliff; that simmering dissatisfaction 

I had harbored against my 

wife; she had inherited a fortune from 

her industrialist father yet was loath to 

invest even a single penny in my dream 

project. 

For her movie-making was only a 

business and when it came to balance-sheets 

and prospects of profit, 

even her husband’s aspirations turned 

to dust. “It wouldn’t work in the first 

place,” she had said, rejecting the script 

brusquely. That was when I had decided 

she needed to go. I had pushed her 

down the cliff. Her death got me enough 

to make a start in film-making. And so 

far I had no reason to complain. All was 

well, until now. 

“Boss, are you okay?” someone placed 

a hand on my shoulder and it took me 

the stupendous courage to stop myself 

from screaming. It was one of my crew 

members bending over with anxiety. 

“You’ve been sitting like that for more 

than a minute.” He pointed at the looming 

foliage of the banyan up ahead. “Let’s 

get into the shade; I’ll get you some water. 

Your face is white, you’re sweating. 

Come on.” 

I took his proffered hand and got up on 

my feet. Dragging my feet toward the 

tree was the most difficult task possible 

then. I didn’t want anyone to get the 

impression I could see the dead. The boy 

gave me a bottle of water and I closed my 

eyes as I tilted my head backward for the 

drink. I didn’t want to see what was up 

there. 

“What are the pages of our script doing 

here,” I heard the screenwriter shout. 

“The pages are all missing. And there 

were notes scribbled on it!” 

My cameraman gestured at me. “Boss, 

the equipment is still malfunctioning. I 

don’t get why. I mean we have fresh cells, 

a tip-top generator, and all other riff-raff 

and yet.” 

CHIRR-CREAK-CHIRR-CREAK—the 

ropes groaned above me. 

I didn’t hear what the man was saying. I 

lifted my eyes and to my immense relief, 

saw only the branches and snaking roots 

hanging down and the crows on them. 

They were still there; blinking their 

beady, dark eyes, cocking their pointed 

bills left and right. They were all looking 

at me, I know I wasn’t imagining that. 

“Boss?” the cameraman repeated. I 

pulled my gaze away, forced myself to 

not look up anymore. For I knew I would 

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begin to scream if it looked up and saw 

the dead swinging on their ropes. 

My associate was frowning at me, his 

face full of concern. I was on the other 

hand, unresponsive, speechless to 

the extent where the connection of my 

mind with coherent thought was temporarily 

shunted. 


ropes creaked. I didn’t look up this 

time I did not have the guts to do that. 

I could see something from the corner 

of my eyes. A pair of naked feet was 

dangling not more than three feet to 

my left. The hem of a green sari waved 

gently above the cameraman’s olive 

hat. They were there, the dead, come to 

remind me of my sins again. 

“We can’t shoot here, not anymore.” 

I finally managed to speak, now well 

aware of the limp figures hanging from 

the tree that no one could see but the 

sole sinner. 

“But why?” the cameraman blurted, 

“You know we’re running on a tight 

schedule and budget. We need to present 

the rough-cut for the festival entry 

and…” 

“Because it’s hot as fucking hell,” I 

screamed in exasperation almost at the 

verge of speaking what was bothering 

me. “There are all these bloodsucking 

mosquitoes, our leads are sick and this,” 

I kicked an empty crate for the camera. 

“None of these shit work here, not even 

cell phones!” 

The cameraman was taken aback, so 

were the rest of the crew members. A 

hush had fallen. All I could hear was my 

own fuming breath, my thudding heart, 

the soft swishing murmur of leaves; and 

the CHIRR-CREAK-CHIRR-CREAK. A 

crow flapped its wings and cawed as if it 

was asking me to go. 

I looked at my screenwriter holding the 

pages of the script, his mouth wide-open 

in confusion. “No need to look for the 

missing pages. We will work on the script 

again. Let’s pack up and leave this shitty 

jungle. I can afford the losses and delay.” 

That broke the trance. Without any 

word, the crew got down to the business 

of disassembling the equipment, 

unscrewing mounts and packing. After 

making myself loud and clear I sauntered 

away, too afraid to look back. 


sounds seemed to follow me; I knew the 

crows still had their eyes on me, their 

piercing accusatory glances drilling in 

my back. I didn’t need to turn around. 

I could remember the faces of the dead 

with stark clarity; the lolling-white 

tongues, the slack jaws, the stretched 

necks. 

I was only able to breathe easy when we 

were on our way back from Midnapore 

and its strange, accursed trees. I still 

hear the sound of the swinging ropes in 

my sleep. I can see the dead swinging 

from the branches of the banyan tree. 

Every time I see a crow on the ledge of 

my twentieth-floor balcony it makes me 

wonder if it’s one of the crows from Deuli, 

come to remind me of what I did. 

I had learned to live without thinking of 

my heinous deed, the crime I committed 

to fulfill my dream. CHIRR-CREAK- 

CHIRR-CREAK—now I see my wife’s 

face, too. In my nightmares, her body 

is also hanging up in the banyan with 

PAGE 24 

www.inkdrift.com


Madness 

the other seventeen, her beautiful eyes I 

had fallen in love with years ago, bulge 

outwards. I just have to close my eyes to 

see her falling down the cliff, flailing and 

writhing against gravity. The banyan tree 

and its spirits won’t let me forget or the 

crows. Fear never lets me forget my sins, 

you see. 

Madness 

Aakriti Jaswant 

The morning rays of the sun fall on my 

face and wake me up. It’s 7:30 am. As I get 

up, my mother peeks into my room at the 

same time, smiles and says - “rise and shine 

my dear! rise and shine”. But I’m unable 

to respond to her chirpiness, a heavy feeling 

of anxiety creeps up and settles on my 

chest. I have to leave for work by 9 but this 

heaviness sitting on top of me, makes me 

wish only if I could stay in bed all day and 

do nothing, even the thought of meeting, 

talking, laughing with people drains me. I 

get up, unsure, hesitant, carrying that feeling 

of burden still latched on to me. After 

freshening up, I go downstairs to meet my 

mother and decide to explicitly tell her to 

stop her irritating morning cheerfulness. I 

meet her downstairs, busy making breakfast 

and as soon as I am about to confront 

her, she says – “good morning dear, I was 

just about to call for you, I thought you 

were still sleeping, come on have your 

breakfast”. As I sit on the table with a confused 

feeling, she asks me – “what is the 

matter, dear? Why do you look so lost?” I 

ask her- “mom, did you not just come to 

my room and say, “rise and shine dear, 

rise and shine”, then why did you say that 

you were about to call for me?” My mother 

responds with another confused look and 

says – “No dear, I never came up to your 

room, I was downstairs the entire time”. 

We both looked at each other for two min- 

utes, unsure, hesitant and I, dreading of 

what was about to come next. I finally say, 

“it’s ok mom, it maybe is just my imagination”. 

My mom’s expression change from 

confusion to perplexity and sitting across 

me she says – “ What is going on? Your 

surly face, your disinterest in work, your 

avoiding all types of communication and 

your frequent IMAGINATIONS!” shrieking 

at the last word and flaying her hands 

in an animated fashion. “I’m genuinely 

concerned now”, she continues, “don’t 

you think we should go see a doctor?” At 

this point I start to feel tense and anxious 

and shout out at her, “Mom, I’m fine, 

stop bothering me! By doctor you mean a 

shrink, so you think my mood swings are 

madness now?” and I leave in a huff, leaving 

behind my concerned mother. 

As I sit on my desk, after completing the 

herculean task of smiling and wishing 

good morning to everyone at my office, 

I go over the recent events of my life. 

Things have definitely changed; I have 

lost interest at work. My desk, my room, 

my life is a mess, I don’t even feel like 

dressing up and my mom is in a constant 

state of worry over me. Maybe this all 

started after my father’s death. I shared a 

very close bond with him. He understood 

my introverted nature, he was my only 

friend, with whom I could share anything, 

I remember the evenings spent over tea, 

where we talked about anything. All this 

changed with a car crash. I lost him. All 

this was fine, withdrawal symptoms they 

fancily call it. But my ‘imaginations’ were 

new and different, they began recently 

and rapidly, clouding my mind completely 

when it happened, making it seem so 

vivid. Sometimes the birds from my window 

I could see not in one colour but in 

all types of different colours, slowly they 

would start convoluting, as I would keep 

on staring, finally causing a sharp heaviness 

in my head and blacking me out. I 

saw my father and myself sitting on the 

same bench in our garden the other day, 

PAGE 25 

www.inkdrift.com

Madness 


laughing and sipping tea, my father’s 

laughter ringing in my ears so clearly, it 

all felt so real and surreal and when I went 

to catch on to my father, to feel his touch 

once again, I fell down, my mother coming 

to my aid. There were also unknown 

voices that I heard at night, low unintelligible 

sounds and then the one time when 

I could clearly see the swing in our backyard 

swinging all by itself on a hot summer 

day. But all these are just my imaginations. 

As I enter my house, my mom 

is sitting on the sofa with a determined 

look, she stands and plainly says – “we are 

going to meet the psychiatrist, get ready”. 

My protestations fall on deaf ears. 

An hour later, mom and I are sitting in 

the waiting room, I feeling disgusted with 

my mother, on her lack of belief over me, 

thinking that I am mad. At the same time 

that feeling of anxiety again creeps up on 

me. Two hours later, the doctor establishes 

that I have schizophrenia, that I am 

on an advanced stage and writes down a 

list full of medications. I see my mother 

fall apart with every word the psychiatrist 

utters, for me; I’m lost in a daydream, this 

big word only heard about in newspapers 

and as statistics. “13.7% of India’s population 

is mentally ill.” the headline said, 

I uttered a low laugh, the headline that 

seemed so distant for me, was now my 

living reality. On the way home, my mom 

spoke some words of encouragement but 

they blurred out in the distance for me, 

I was lost in the running trees, racing 

with our car, which then started swirling 

in front of my eyes and then in my head, 

my head felt heavy again. I looked at my 

mom, pitying her, at this age she’ll have to 

deal with a schizo—or whatever the word 

is, basically, a mad child, she was right 

I guess, I had turned mad. As we enter 

into the parking lot, I casually look into 

the rear view mirror and suddenly catch 

a glimpse of something black standing at 

the gate of our house. I immediately pop 

my head outside to look, but see nothing, 

maybe one of my imaginations again. 

My life changed again, in a matter of few 

days, repeated consultation sessions with 

my doctor and heavy medications became a 

part of me. My imaginations, or what they 

called – delusions, grew intense, weirder 

and vivid by the day, often ending up with 

me shrieking, and my mother half controlling 

me, half controlling her tears. Differentiating 

between what was real and what 

was not became hard; my mind felt mushed 

most of the time, only the remembrance of 

the times with my father made me smile. 

But the sounds at night and the feeling of a 

presence constantly near me felt different, 

they didn’t feel like my delusions, but felt 

concrete. My mother of course looked on 

me with pity, thinking it to be another of my 

schizophrenic bouts. 

Mom used to keep a strip of medicine near 

my bedside table for immediate access, the 

medicines did of course keep me sane till it’s 

effect lasted, the only time I felt sane, the 

other being, when I used to have delusions 

about my father and me, at least he felt real 

and near me during those times. During 

one of these nights, as I was half awake-half 

asleep, I again heard the eerie noises that 

I always hear, now myself believing that 

it’s only my mind playing with me but they 

always could be heard at a distance, today 

they felt like they were coming nearer…nearer 

and nearer, almost at the foot of my bed 

and then suddenly I saw the same black apparition 

that I saw at the gate of our house 

that day, the shadowy spectre, just standing 

there, instead of getting frightened I was all 

the more sure that this was my schizophrenia 

talking, I moved to the side to get my 

tablet, thinking that I might have missed 

the dose and hence these voices and apparition, 

I turned over in the dark to grab the 

strip and feel the medicine but something 

was not quite right, instead of expecting 

to hold a new, unused medicine strip, my 

hands felt a hollow in the strip, one single 

hollow in the whole strip. The voices grew 

PAGE 26 

www.inkdrift.com


Madness 

louder, the apparition now moved towards 

me. The morning rays of the sun fall on my 

face and wake me up. It’s 7:30 am. As I get 

up, my mother peeks into my room at the 

same time, smiles and says - “rise and shine 

my dear! rise and shine”. But I’m unable 

to respond to her chirpiness, a heavy feeling 

of anxiety creeps up and settles on my 

chest. I have to leave for work by 9 but this 

heaviness sitting on top of me, makes me 

wish only if I could stay in bed all day and 

do nothing, even the thought of meeting, 

talking, laughing with people drains me. I 

get up, unsure, hesitant, carrying that feeling 

of burden still latched on to me. After 

freshening up, I go downstairs to meet my 

mother and decide to explicitly tell her to 

stop her irritating morning cheerfulness. I 

meet her downstairs, busy making breakfast 

and as soon as I am about to confront 

her, she says – “good morning dear, I was 

just about to call for you, I thought you 

were still sleeping, come on have your 

breakfast”. As I sit on the table with a confused 

feeling, she asks me – “what is the 

matter, dear? Why do you look so lost?” I 

ask her- “mom, did you not just come to my 

room and say, “rise and shine dear, rise and 

shine”, then why did you say that you were 

about to call for me?” My mother responds 

with another confused look and says – 

“No dear, I never came up to your room, I 

was downstairs the entire time”. We both 

looked at each other for two minutes, unsure, 

hesitant and I, dreading of what was 

about to come next. I finally say, “it’s ok 

mom, it maybe is just my imagination”. 

My mom’s expression change from confusion 

to perplexity and sitting across me she 

says – “ What is going on? Your surly face, 

your disinterest in work, your avoiding all 

types of communication and your frequent 

IMAGINATIONS!” shrieking at the last 

word and flaying her hands in an animated 

fashion. “I’m genuinely concerned now”, 

she continues, “don’t you think we should 

go see a doctor?” At this point I start to feel 

tense and anxious and shout out at her, 

“Mom, I’m fine, stop bothering me! By 

doctor you mean a shrink, so you think 

my mood swings are madness now?” and 

I leave in a huff, leaving behind my concerned 

mother. 

As I sit on my desk, after completing the 

herculean task of smiling and wishing 

good morning to everyone at my office, 

I go over the recent events of my life. 

Things have definitely changed; I have 

lost interest at work. My desk, my room, 

my life is a mess, I don’t even feel like 

dressing up and my mom is in a constant 

state of worry over me. Maybe this all 

started after my father’s death. I shared a 

very close bond with him. He understood 

my introverted nature, he was my only 

friend, with whom I could share anything, 

I remember the evenings spent over tea, 

where we talked about anything. All this 

changed with a car crash. I lost him. All 

this was fine, withdrawal symptoms they 

fancily call it. But my ‘imaginations’ were 

new and different, they began recently 

and rapidly, clouding my mind completely 

when it happened, making it seem so 

vivid. Sometimes the birds from my window 

I could see not in one colour but in 

all types of different colours, slowly they 

would start convoluting, as I would keep 

on staring, finally causing a sharp heaviness 

in my head and blacking me out. I 

saw my father and myself sitting on the 

same bench in our garden the other day, 

laughing and sipping tea, my father’s 

laughter ringing in my ears so clearly, it 

all felt so real and surreal and when I went 

to catch on to my father, to feel his touch 

once again, I fell down, my mother coming 

to my aid. There were also unknown 

voices that I heard at night, low unintelligible 

sounds and then the one time when 

I could clearly see the swing in our backyard 

swinging all by itself on a hot summer 

day. But all these are just my imag- 

PAGE 27 

www.inkdrift.com

Madness 


inations. As I enter my house, my mom is 

sitting on the sofa with a determined look, 

she stands and plainly says – “we are going 

to meet the psychiatrist, get ready”. My 

protestations fall on deaf ears. 

An hour later, mom and I are sitting in 

the waiting room, I feeling disgusted with 

my mother, on her lack of belief over me, 

thinking that I am mad. At the same time 

that feeling of anxiety again creeps up on 

me. Two hours later, the doctor establishes 

that I have schizophrenia, that I am on an 

advanced stage and writes down a list full 

of medications. I see my mother fall apart 

with every word the psychiatrist utters, for 

me; I’m lost in a daydream, this big word 

only heard about in newspapers and as statistics. 

“13.7% of India’s population is mentally 

ill.” the headline said, I uttered a low 

laugh, the headline that seemed so distant 

for me, was now my living reality. On the 

way home, my mom spoke some words of 

encouragement but they blurred out in the 

distance for me, I was lost in the running 

trees, racing with our car, which then started 

swirling in front of my eyes and then in 

my head, my head felt heavy again. I looked 

at my mom, pitying her, at this age she’ll 

have to deal with a schizo—or whatever 

the word is, basically, a mad child, she was 

right I guess, I had turned mad. As we enter 

into the parking lot, I casually look into 

the rear view mirror and suddenly catch a 

glimpse of something black standing at the 

gate of our house. I immediately pop my 

head outside to look, but see nothing, maybe 

one of my imaginations again. 

My life changed again, in a matter of few 

days, repeated consultation sessions with 

my doctor and heavy medications became a 

part of me. My imaginations, or what they 

called – delusions, grew intense, weirder 

and vivid by the day, often ending up 

with me shrieking, and my mother half 

controlling me, half controlling her tears. 

Differentiating between what was real and 

what was not became hard; my mind felt 

mushed most of the time, only the remembrance 

of the times with my father made 

me smile. But the sounds at night and the 

feeling of a presence constantly near me felt 

different, they didn’t feel like my delusions, 

but felt concrete. My mother of course 

looked on me with pity, thinking it to be another 

of my schizophrenic bouts. 

Mom used to keep a strip of medicine near 

my bedside table for immediate access, the 

medicines did of course keep me sane till 

it’s effect lasted, the only time I felt sane, 

the other being, when I used to have delusions 

about my father and me, at least he 

felt real and near me during those times. 

During one of these nights, as I was half 

awake-half asleep, I again heard the eerie 

noises that I always hear, now myself 

believing that it’s only my mind playing 

with me but they always could be heard at 

a distance, today they felt like they were 

coming nearer…nearer and nearer, almost 

at the foot of my bed and then suddenly I 

saw the same black apparition that I saw 

at the gate of our house that day, the shadowy 

spectre, just standing there, instead of 

getting frightened I was all the more sure 

that this was my schizophrenia talking, I 

moved to the side to get my tablet, thinking 

that I might have missed the dose and 

hence these voices and apparition, I turned 

over in the dark to grab the strip and feel 

the medicine but something was not quite 

right, instead of expecting to hold a new, 

unused medicine strip, my hands felt a 

hollow in the strip, one single hollow in the 

whole strip. The voices grew louder, the 

apparition now moved towards me. 

PAGE 28 

www.inkdrift.com


Not Everything is Dead 

After our son turned 

four, my wife and I 

started distancing 

ourselves from each 

other. Irritation built 

on petty things, which 

turned finally turned 

to aggression. I was 

slowly nearing myself 

to the path of an alcoholic 

and I was done 

with her. She wanted 

freedom, and I, being a dominating 

man, wouldn’t let her be. We fought 

daily, be it me coming home late or her 

not cooking up to my expectations. I did 

not want to be with her anymore just 

like she did not want to be with me. 

Our son, was in preschool and like 

every other child, was innocent. There 

were times when he saw us fight like a 

snake and a mongoose, me being the 

mongoose, obviously. He just went into 

his room, slammed the door shut and 

we never bothered to check onto him. 

One night, while I was laying beside my 

wife, hearing her soft snores, I decided 

to finally end everything. Yes, I had decided 

to kill her. I got out of the sheets, 

walked to her side, put my hand on her 

mouth and started choking her. She 

whimpered and started gasping for air, 

but as I was stronger than her, I held 

onto my grip on her throat. Finally, 

after a while, which seemed like a decade, 

she stopped moving. Her widened 

eyes lay there, staring at the ceiling. She 

stopped breathing and was dead. 

I picked her body up and lay it on the 

floor. I walked to the backyard and 

Not 

Everything 

is Dead 

Ivana Dutta 

started digging with a 

shovel. When I had dug 

enough, I walked back 

into our bedroom, picked 

her lifeless body up and 

tossed her into the grave. 

I covered her body back 

with mud as she lay under 

the Earth. 

I walked back into the 

bedroom, closed the doors 

and windows and had a 

long shower. I couldn’t believe that she 

was actually out of my life once and for 

all. The only thing that made me afraid 

was our son. He would ask the next day 

where his mother was. I had to think 

of something to tell him that she would 

never come back. 

But surprisingly, days passed, but he 

never asked for his mother. I was confused 

but also happy at the same time 

that I did not have to face the guilt anymore. 

Until one day, he asked something 

to me, which left me horrified. 

He asked, “Daddy, why are you car Editor: 

Let’s begin with a short introduction. 

Tell us a little about yourself. 

Aishwarya: I’m a passionate writer who 

pens down my thoughts and gives my 

two cents in topics that interest me. 

Apart from writing poems, music blogs, 

and articles, I spend my quality time 

in painting and doing art forms. I’m an 

occasional shutterbug, book aficionado, 

music maniac, and enthusiastic learner, 

and above all—a proud jack of few 

trades. 

PAGE 29 

www.inkdrift.com

Aishwarya Ashok 



An Interview 

Editor: Would you like to tell 

us a little something about your 

book? 

Aishwarya: The book “Whistling 

Silence” is a collective 

effort of 47 amateur 

poets, belonging to 

different parts of the 

world. We ‘Poignant 

Painters’ started our 

journey through a 

blog on Quora, and 

slowly worked towards 

the dream of 

getting published. My 

close friend Rohan 

Sinha started this 

initiative and brought 

us all together to work towards the 

goal, guiding us all through. We have 

never met each other, but our blogto-book 

journey steadied virtually. 

The book is by dreamers who believed 

their dream could turn a reality 

someday. And here, we did it! 

Editor: What motivated you to 

take up this initiative? 

Aishwarya: Passion. Dream. Belief. 

Passion towards writing, dream of 

getting published, and belief that we 

all could work together to achieve 

bigger things motivated me throughout. 

Editor: Do you think writing is 

therapeutic? 

Aishwarya: Definitely. There’s no better 

way of expressing emotions than 

writing. You can write things that you 

even can’t say. Words 

have such power— 

they can dissolve your 

negative thoughts 

and turn them into 

positive ones. Writing 

clears your mind and 

rejuvenates your soul. 

Writing is a therapy 

and your words, the 

therapist. 

Editor: Why only 

poetry? 

Aishwarya: I do write 

other pieces like but I found poetry 

as a medium to express my feelings. 

I believe poetry is born when emotions 

meet thoughts and thoughts 

meet words. Poetry is instilling life 

into your thinking and it’s the best 

way to get others understand what’s in 

your mind. Poetry can make abstract 

thoughts and bridled emotions alive. 

Poetry is an expression that lifts the 

veil off the hidden musings. 

Editor: What difficulties did you 

face as new writers when it came 

to publication? 

Aishwarya: The first and foremost 

hurdle we had to face was hunting 

for the publishing house. Our team 

PAGE 30 

www.inkdrift.com



luckily found StoryMirror actively 

publishing books, and immediately 

we approached them. Getting them 

on board was the next big task, for 

we had to prove our worth before 

they could invest in us. Some of our 

poems (about 11 to be precise) were 

sent as samples to be screened by 

the publishers and finally, they were 

quite impressed with our works. 

They agreed to publish and hence 

took birth our book. 

Editor: In today’s world do you 

feel people encourage young 

authors/poets? 

Aishwarya: Well, I initially doubted 

whether amateur/upcoming writers 

can ignite people around, but surely 

experiences proved me wrong. Of 

late, I’ve been seeing young and new 

authors getting appreciation for their 

works. We’re an example ourselves. 

Our book launch held at TitleWaves, 

Bandra, witnessed enthusiastic audience 

who were happy to see our 

journey. Also, the response our book 

has been getting is convincing, giving 

us joy and scope for further improvement 

in our successive creations. So 

yes, I feel encouragement is getting 

its hold, and gradually it’ll take its 

paramount place. 

Editor: What is the one thing 

you’d want to tell your younger 

self? 

Aishwarya: I’m 22 years old now. 

I’m still young, ain’t I? Just kidding. 

If there’s something I’d ever want 

to tell me, at every walk of life, it’s 

this—Don’t set limits for the things 

you should achieve. Dream bigger as 

you’re totally worth it. 

Editor: Do you believe in the 

term ‘Writers Block’? 

Aishwarya: Yes, I do. You just can’t 

keep walking over a bed of roses for 

the thorns are inevitable. Writer’s 

Block does occur, causing a slowdown 

in your process and curbing 

your creativity. But that’s the time 

you need to relax and put on your 

positive-thinking cap. Work on yourself, 

and build your writing skills. 

Your capacity may be low, but you’ll 

surely rise back with a bang. 

Editor: Would you like to convey 

a message to all the budding/aspiring 

writers out there? 

Aishwarya: Trust your potential, look 

out for exciting opportunities, reflect 

upon yourself, and learn to correct 

your flaws. Above all, dream and 

believe in your dreams. Live the life 

you’ve imagined. 

Editor: What’s your mantra for 

tough times? 

Aishwarya: Tough times are a proof 

that good ones are ahead. The mantra 

is quite simple—Learn to turn 

your CAN’Ts into CANs. Every time 

you feel you can’t do something, 

work towards achieving that. After 

all, what’s the fun if you get what you 

want immediately? 

Editor: Did you self-publish 

your book? 

Aishwarya: No. As suggested earlier, 

a famous publishing house called 

StoryMirror decided to launch our 

book and we’re extremely thankful 

to them for having believed in us. 

It’s great to have your very first book 

launched by a well-known platform. 

Editor: Are you planning any 

PAGE 31 

www.inkdrift.com



future publications? Is there 

any way for our readers to be a 

part of your next initiative? 

Aishwarya: We, at the Project Management 

team of “Poignant Painters” 

are keen to move forward and help 

our fellow amateurs to publish their 

works, just as we did. Our next venture 

would be a Hindi poetry anthology, 

and work is in progress to bring 

bright and creative minds aboard. 

We have started receiving a number 

of submissions (through Quora) and 

soon the screening process would be 

carried out to select the best works. 

Editor: Do you read much and 

who’s your favourite author/ 

poet? (if any) 

Aishwarya: If you don’t find me meddling 

with pen, brushes, and paint, 

you can find me reading. Books were 

my companions, right from childhood. 

Give me a book, and I’ll be 

extremely glad with it. Since poetry 

has been my sole discussion, my favourite 

poet is William Wordsworth. 

The way he describes nature and 

adds beauty to words is simply amazing. 

As an author, I really like Ruskin 

Bond’s works. He’s another person 

who can make scenes waltz in front 

of your eyes through words. 

Editor: What’s your favourite 

quote? 

Aishwarya: I have a couple of favourite 

quotes. Here’s one by Rumi 

– You’re not a drop in the ocean. 

You’re the entire ocean in a drop. 

Editor: Which famous person, 

living or dead would you like to 

meet and why? 

Aishwarya: If you’d ask me this, I’ll 

have a long list to show. With interests 

in different fields, I have a desire to 

meet a number of famous people. To 

pick one from the list is a herculean 

task. A few of them are no longer with 

us in this world, so going by the people 

who’re living, I’d pick Ruskin Bond. I 

will surely love to talk to him to know 

how he weaves magic with his words 

and portrays nature so beautifully. 

Editor: Is there anything else you 

would like to add that I haven’t 

included? 

Aishwarya: Yes, here’s some more information 

about my book ‘Whistling 

Silence’. Our book is creation of people 

from different cultural backgrounds, of 

different age groups (16-62), who started 

as strangers and slowly turned into 

a family. We wanted our initiative to be 

completely social and worthy. That’s 

the reason we decided to contribute the 

profit we get from the sales of the book 

to the Indian Army. They are our true 

heroes and this is a small contribution 

from our side to glorify them. 

Editor: Thank you for your valuable 

time Ms. Ashok. 

Ink Drift Magazine 


© All Rights Reserved 

PAGE 32 

www.inkdrift.com

“ W e m a k e u p 

h o r r o r s t o h e l p u s 

c o p e w i t h t h e r e a l 

― Stephen King 

o n e s . ” 

www.inkdrift.com

Ink Drift - July

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