Adam's Helpmeets
(Excerpt from The Hebrew Myths by Robert Graves and Raphael Patai (New York:  Doubleday, 1964), pp 65-69.)

Having decided to give Adam a helpmeet lest he should be alone of his kind, God put him into a deep sleep, removed one of his ribs, formed it into a woman, and closed up the wound, Adam awoke and said: 'This being shall be named "Woman", because she has been taken out of man. A man and a woman shall be one flesh.' The title he gave her was Eve, 'the Mother of All Living''.

 Some say that God created man in His own image on the Sixth Day, giving him charge over the world; but that Eve did not yet exist. Now, God had set Adam to name every beast, bird and other living thing. When they passed before him in pairs, male and female, Adam-being already like a twenty-year-old man-felt jealous of their loves, and though he tried coupling with each female in turn, found no satisfaction in the act. He therefore cried: 'Every creature but I has a proper mate', and prayed God would remedy this injustice.

 God then formed Lilith, the first woman, just as He had formed Adam, except that He used filth and sediment instead of pure dust. Adam and Lilith never found peace together; for when he wished to lie with her, she took offence at the recumbent posture he demanded. 'Why must I lie beneath you?' she asked. 'I also was made from dust, and am therefore your equal.' Because Adam tried to compel her obedience by force, Lilith, in a rage, uttered the magic name of God, rose into the air and left him.

Adam complained to God: 'I have been deserted by my helpmeet'. God at once sent the angels Senoy, Sansenoy and Semangelof to fetch Lilith back. They found her beside the Red Sea, a region abounding in lascivious demons, to whom she bore lilim at the rate of more than one hundred a day.

'Return to Adam without delay,' the angels said, `or we will drown you!'. 

 Lilith asked: `How can I return to Adam and live like an honest housewife, after my stay beside the Red Sea?'

 'It will be death to refuse!' they answered.

`How can I die,' Lilith asked again, `when God has ordered me to take charge of all newborn children: boys up to the eighth day of life, that of circumcision; girls up to the twentieth day. None the less, if ever I see your three names or likenesses displayed in an amulet above a newborn child, I promise to spare it.'

 To this they agreed; but God punished Lilith by making one hundred of her demon children perish daily; and if she could not destroy a human infant, because of the angelic amulet, she would spitefully turn against her own.

 Undismayed by His failure to give Adam a suitable helpmeet, God tried again, and let him watch while he built up a woman's anatomy: using bones, tissues, muscles, blood and glandular secretions, then covering the whole with skin and adding tufts of hair in places. The sight caused Adam such disgust that even when this woman, the First Eve, stood there in her full beauty, he felt an invincible repugnance. God knew that He had failed once more, and took the First Eve away. Where she went, nobody knows for certain.

 God tried a third time, and acted more circumspectly. Having taken a rib from Adam's side in his sleep, He formed it into a woman; then plaited her hair and adorned her, like a bride, with twenty-four pieces of jewellery, before waking him. Adam was entranced.

The girl had come to me, an old beggar, seeking my help. I wish I had refused her then. You can never imagine how terrible it is to die with no loved one near. I should have asked her where she lived. Fates can be so cruel. But I am getting ahead of myself. This is no way to tell a story.

The temple priest gave us our first true lead.

"Ask Khalida; she might remember."

"Khalida," I hesitated, "but hasn't she lost her mind?"

"Naah. Old age does that to some people. They forget recent events but their minds are clear about the past."

I turned towards the girl in confusion, but her eyes reflected a quiet understanding.

"Alzheimer's disease", she said softly," Without the clutter of recent memories, things of the past appear to them like they happened only yesterday. Lets go to her."

Khalida recognized the man in the faded photograph instantly.

"Where is he now? I have not seen him in a while."

Her way of referring to the dead man as though he were alive made me squirm. I reasoned, she had lost her mind sometime before the earthquake, and so to her mind the earthquake had never happened.

"Do not worry though; he comes here often. I will bet he will be here before the week is out”, she continued through her coughs.

"After all he cannot stay long without meeting his friend Rajan, can he?", she finally added with a sly wink. If her last remark had some hidden meaning, it was lost to me. But the name was definitely a lead.

Rajan, we discovered, was the occupant of the brick house that had collapsed, wreaking our dead man's car. The same day, Rajan had moved to another part of the town. With some difficulty we managed to obtain his address. By now, the shadows had started to lengthen. We were tired, having spent the entire day without food or water. But there was no stopping her now. She really was a devoted daughter. She got me a bus ticket and took off on her scooter.

Not many girls had a scooter then; but I guess, a fatherless girl gets to learn to do things on her own. A scooter gives her that freedom.

The doorman at Rajan's place was more a goon than a guard. He did not allow me in, but I stood below the window and listened in.

"So, that old whore, Khalida sent you to me. What? You are shocked? Surely, you are old enough to know that he did not come to her for intellectual conversations. Khalida's girls were known to be among the best in town."

He chuckled and continued,” He was no friend of mine, either. Just a customer - a rich fat customer, that's all. I supplied cocaine, morphine and other drugs to him. That day though, everything that could go wrong went wrong. He OD'ed on morphine and while I was trying to bring him back, the roof collapsed on us. I crawled out and saw his hand sticking out of the rubble. I pulled his dead body out. His trouser and wallet were already lost deep inside the rubble. What a waste ! His fine clothes had been reduced to rags: no use to me anymore.

I, er, did remove his other possessions. What good are ornaments and rings to a dead man anyway?"

Her eyes were red with unshed tears, as she came out of the house.

The photograph was better off faded.

"Take this five-rupee note and go back. Its over."

"But at least we could locate his dead body", I pleaded.

"What use is it now? I could not care less". She rode off on her scooter. From now on, she would remember her father as the naked corpse shorn of all his possessions (material and moral) - a man who deserved what he got.

Rajan came up from behind me. He had been listening to our argument with some interest.

"Go to Sister Agatha. She would be able to tell you where she has buried the poor fool; and under what 'Christian' name. The stupid b***h never realized how many dead bodies she misplaced in her bid to save their souls." He laughed contemptuously and turned away.

Sister Agatha was the one who had first taught me the coin rule. "Always begin the day with a pair of coins, never with an empty bowl," she had said. "Coins have a strange magnetism about them. They attract new coins; but if too many coins accumulate in the bowl, they start repelling more coins. So always take care to remove extra coins from the bowl. Two-three coins - no more, no less - that is the coin rule." Over the years, I have found my own explanation for the coin rule. Two or three coins are easy to clink - the sweet tinkling sound attracts your attention. Too many coins would cause a harsh jangle and put you off. Coins also provide a visual cue - they show you what to do, even when your mind is preoccupied with other important matters. These nuances are lost if the bowl is totally empty. Oh yes, the story...

And so, alone this time, I went to Sister Agatha.

"I need your help, Sister. On the day of the earthquake, did you find a dead body over there?", I pointed, through her window, to the exact spot across the road.

"I am surprised you ask this to me after so many years, but I am happy that it is all coming back to you. I did find a dead body over there. Pasted in blood, no clothes, no pulse, and no breath - dead. A homeless nobody, and yet, too young to die.

But  you did not die then; you lived - didn't you?  By the grace of the Lord, your breathing returned; but your mind was scarred."

Hope is the worst of evils, for it prolongs the torment of man. I cannot describe to you what I have endured in these thirty years, waiting for her to show up again. But now my end is near and I have no hope left. If only I had asked her where she lived. You can never imagine how terrible it is to die with no loved one near...

Opium Coma: At higher doses, morphine depresses respiration, meaning that the patient loses the ability to breathe automatically. A very high dose of morphine can stop a person’s breathing entirely — a common occurrence in overdoses.

The incident I am about to narrate took place thirty years ago, but the details are indelibly etched in my memory. It was nearing sunset when she parked her scooter and looked around hesitatingly. She saw me seated at the steps of the temple; bowl in hand. I shudder to think what impression my tattered clothes and sunburnt features made on her.

She, on her part, was neatly dressed in the then newly-in-fashion western clothes - bell-bottom trousers, checked shirt and scarf. She could have been just about any decent college-going girl.

These days, girls wear very 'unsafe' clothes. You see that bearded old rickshaw-puller lying dead-drunk on the pavement. At the end of day, after he has spent half of his day's earnings on country liquor, it would seem he would not have the strength to stand up on his legs; but you cannot imagine what he did last night. People like him make my blood boil. There was a girl, young enough to be his granddaughter, standing alone on the other side of the road. Some would say that it was probably not right for her to be standing alone in those body-hugging clothes; but truth be told, it was not very late either. It was only eight 'o' clock; but you know how desolate the roads become at that hour. She was probably here for the first time. How could she know? Why blame it on her clothes either? How scary it must have been for her, to be suddenly molested like that? If only I had a strong pair of legs like you have, I would have taught that drunkard a lesson or two. But then, you know how the saying goes - "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride". Let's get back to our story.

The girl seemed undecided at first, but then a flash of determination crossed her eyes and she walked up to me.

"Can you understand me?", she asked.

"Yes"

"All right. I need to ask you something."

This was the first time someone actually spoke to me. I hung on to every word that her sweet voice carried to my ears.

"How long have you been here?"

"As long as I can remember."

"All right. I need your help."

She pulled out a five-rupee note, but did not give it to me right away. My eyes lit up. In those times, it was more than what I usually earned in an entire day.

"Were you here during the earthquake?"

"What earthquake?"

"The earthquake that took place thirteen years ago."

"Yes, yes. I was here", I nodded and reached out for the five-rupee note. She let me have it.

Those were the days of one-paise coins, and five rupees was a huge amount. Giving huge amounts of money to beggars is never a good idea. A few months ago a fat 'foreigner lady' gave a little boy a ten-rupee note on her way to the temple. When this fat lady walked out of the temple, she was mobbed by soliciting beggars from all sides. She nearly fainted out of panic. Heed my word, whenever you feel overly generous, give money to a beggar only on your way out and then move away quickly. But again, I digress.

OK... So she let me have the five-rupee note and continued to shoot questions at me.

"Do you remember what happened that day?"

"What exactly are you looking for?" I shot back.

"I am looking for information... Information on a man who died here that day. I need to know how he died."

She pulled out an old faded photograph of a well-dressed man in his mid thirties.

"His car was found here, under a rubble of bricks. His body was lost amongst the scores of other people who lost their lives that day. But I am here to find out what brought him here and what happened to him?"

"Why do you want to dig up old skeletons?"

"That's none of your business", she retorted angrily and I could see her eyes moisten with tears.

"He was my father... Last night, my mother died of cancer...She died painfully after eleven months of continual torment. It was her last wish..."

She turned away from me, suppressing her sobs silently.

It was dark now and very quiet as well. It all made sense now. Her initial hesitation, her quiet determination, her need to know the truth about her father... Everything made sense now.

"Come here in the morning. We will start our search tomorrow."

To be concluded in part 2.

Rajeev was not so fond of shopping, but then, when she wanted, Shriya could coax a dead body out of its grave. The result was just as one would have expected. Rajeev and Shriya came out of the movie theatre.

“I still insist. Let’s drop the idea of going to the mall. See it has rained a bit and the roads are all wet and dirty.”

“Come on now. This little shower has made the evening lovelier. Only sometime ago, you were complaining about how hot it was.”

 Nothing was going to douse Shriya’s spirits tonight. She continued, “Let's go walking. It’s not very far from here.”

“Only about half a kilometer – not very far.”

“Raa-jeev! This is really a very lame excuse from someone who likes to run marathons for fun. Look, I have heard a lot about this new place and have not once been to it. I have been looking forward to going there with you.”

“I hate to see you girls shopping. You take so much time to decide, and by the time you finish, not a single shop remains unturned. Let’s wait no more then. Its time to do some serious shopping”

They both smiled spontaneously. Hand in hand they stepped out on the road. The weather was very pleasant now and the cool breeze was simply refreshing. They walked on cheerfully. They were having a great Saturday evening together.

“Have you noticed how a little rain makes the roads look darker?”

“So now you are afraid of the dark as well”, giggled Shriya.

As if on cue, a stranger stepped out of the shadows right in front of the two young friends.

“Your money”, he muttered, “give me all you have.”

It was only then that Shriya realized that he was holding a knife.

Rajeev nudged Shriya back and, at the same time, pulled out his wallet and threw it down in front of the mugger.

The mugger picked up the wallet and disappeared into a dark alley.

Shriya was shaking. Rajeev led her back to the main street, and they got into a cab.

“Pretty desperate guy, wasn’t he?” Rajeev tried to break the tense silence that had engulfed them since the incident.

“Why?” Shriya asked, reflexively.

“Muggers generally take on the elderly and the helpless. He must need that money badly.”

Yes – Shriya thought – Rajeev was tall and heavily built. The puny mugger was no match for him.

Rajeev dropped Shriya off at her place and continued to the police station.

“I must file a complaint. That guy needs to be caught before someone gets hurt”, he explained to Shriya as he said his goodbyes.

Shriya was not convinced. Rajeev should have done something to stop the mugger. Instead, he was making lame excuses.

She could not help but think of Gaurang, who had bravely fought off a goon on a bus last year. The entire school had turned up to meet him at the hospital.

Gaurang was neither tall and well built nor athletically inclined. Mostly after school hours, he was to be found in the school library, peering over a book through his pair of rounded glasses. And yet he had dared where Rajeev had failed.

The more she thought about it, the worse she felt. Rajeev had let her down. The very next morning, she paid Gaurang a visit.

 They exchanged pleasantries and soon Shriya came to the point.

“There was a reason why I came to you today”

“Yes”, Gaurang nodded attentively, encouraging her to speak her mind.

“Is it ok if I ask you to tell me about the incident on the bus?”

“Oh, that was nothing”, Gaurang shrugged deprecatingly, “It was just a pickpocket I caught red-handed. I did not know he had a knife. It was stupid of me, really.”

“Don’t be so modest. I think you were very brave. Everyone thinks it was a brave thing to do.”

“No. I am not being modest. I spent two days in the hospital. An old lady was also badly hurt with a deep cut to a major artery.

I nearly lost my life just because of a few bucks in a wallet – she said to me when I met her later.

That is how she saw the whole incident. I think I was right in catching him in the act, but once he pulled out that knife, I should have re-assessed the situation. You know, even Policemen are taught to ensure the safety of the public before taking any action against an armed aggressor.”

“But then, should you have just him go?”

“It was definitely not a do-or-die situation. Taking on a desperate armed man in a crowded bus was probably not a very wise thing to do.”

“Is not letting a criminal go free to commit more crimes irresponsible in its own way?”

“Yes it is. But, weigh that against the damage that was done in my crude attempt to catch him. At times, you have to think of the situation and also of the safety of those who are with you or near you. If a rash action can hurt someone, is it worth the risk?”

On her way back, Shriya thought of how Rajeev had shielded her by stepping in front of her when the mugger had made his appearance. Moreover, he had realized that she was unnerved and had immediately hired a cab to drop her off. So he really had been thinking of her safety all that time.

The next day, when Shriya met Rajeev at school, she threw her arms around him cheerfully – “So you are my hero after all – the hero who was mugged!”

Crone.

The day passed in a daze and when night came she laid her bedding down in the kitchen but did not sleep. Pacing the room with soft steps, she kept trying to think of a way out but in vain. Crone occasionally voiced her disapproval of this untimely restlessness by meowing loudly. However the cat soon realized that her room-mate was not going to sleep anytime soon and curled up in her new basket. For the little girl though, this was going to be one long night.

It was way past midnight when a faint clanging noise caught her attention. Had she not been awake already, she would never have heard it. But in the silence of the night, it was clear to her that the noise had come from the room that belonged to her mistress’s son. Had he woken up? Did he need something? She peered out of the kitchen. The door to the young man’s room was wide open and she could see someone moving inside. Even in the dark, she could clearly make out that it was not him. He was probably still asleep in his bed. Who was this intruder?  What was the sharp gleaming thing that he held in his hand? Was that a knife? Did he intend to kill her young master? If she raised an alarm now, he might kill her master. Her heart beating down her throat, she decided that she would need to get closer to the intruder. Not courageous enough to venture out alone, she picked up old Crone.

“Quiet now, Cronie” she whispered sharply into the cat's furry ear as she trembled out of the kitchen. She now had a clear view of the intruder. He was standing with his back to her, with a long knife in his hand. Her young master was sitting upright in bed visibly shaken. Perhaps the same noise that had caught her attention had roused him from his sleep as well. Was the intruder about to kill him? There was not a moment to lose. She moved as fast as she could, closing in on the killer. The rustle of movement behind him caused the killer to turn around instinctively. That was the moment when she flung the cat right at his face.

“Get him Cronie. Kill him … Get him”, she shrieked, consumed by the madness that arises from being in extreme danger. Crone dug her claws into the man’s face mewling as loudly as she could. There was simply not enough time for the intruder’s mind to register all these acts separately. He must have felt that a hundred demons were suddenly upon him. He tore the cat off his face and running blind in agony, crashed into the little girl on his way out. She was flung clear off her feet onto the cabinet; and as she fell, the room lit up with light.

“Are you alright?” he steadied her with a helping hand. Yes, she was still shaking but was unhurt. And Crone was fine too. Like any respectable cat, she had landed on her feet. There was no sign of the intruder and all the racket had not disturbed her mistress’s sleep, whose room was on the other side anyway.

“Go back to your kitchen and lock the door from the inside. I will see to the rest. You have done enough for today. Say nothing of this to your Ma’am. Good night” He had regained his composure and was now in control of the situation. As she left the room, he picked up the piece of steel lying on the floor. It was not a knife at all. It was an instrument to pick locks. He turned towards the iron safe, and sure enough, its door was ajar.

The next few days, he said not a word about it. He did get stronger locks and bolts installed on all the doors and windows. He even got burglar alarms fitted all round the house. But he did not mention the incident to his mother. Then came the day he had to leave.

Peeping out from behind the main door, she saw him load his luggage into the cab. His mother was going with him to see him off at the airport. He helped his mother into the cab, whispered something to her and hurried back towards the house. Perhaps he had forgotten something behind. She started to move away from the door, but he was quickly beside her. He pulled out a colorful packet from his jacket and held it out to her.

“You were very brave. I stole something from the iron safe that night. It’s a gift for you.” And with that he was gone. As the cab pulled away, she opened the packet with trembling hands – inside was her passport and a ticket to home.

The End.

Mother.

She turned her belongings inside out, rummaged the entire kitchen, but in vain. She had been instructed about the importance of her passport. She knew that without it she could not go back home. How could she have misplaced it? Why did such a thing happen now, when it was time for her to go home?

With tears trickling down her face, she finally approached her mistress. It took some time for the mistress to understand her through her sobs. However, when the old lady gradually understood the predicament the little girl was in, she only had kind words to offer.

“Do not cry, dear. We shall look for it again when my son is gone. You must have kept it in a ‘safe’ place and forgotten all about it. It happens to me all the time. In time, you will remember where you have hidden it. Do not worry now.”

“No Ma’am. I know I am never going to see it again. I am never going to go back home.” she cried out with the conviction of one who has lost everything.

“Tut…Tut … I will not have you talking yourself silly like that. If we do not find it, we will apply for a new one. It will only take a few months. That’s all there is to it. Come now, you have worked hard for me for an entire year. I will increase your salary and also write to your father and explain. Cheer up now and get back to work.”

Words of consolation were not enough, and her heart was still heavy with grief. She put up a brave front during the day, but at night she cried herself to sleep, her arms thrown around the soft white fur of old Crone.

The night’s rest and the arrival the much awaited young man the next day, helped clear the gloom. She almost forgot her worries when the young man opened his suitcase to reveal a number of nicely wrapped gifts for his beloved mother. She peeped in from behind the curtains at the door, as the young man took out one gift after another and excitedly showed them to his mother. He had even brought a sleeping basket for the cat.

“I am glad old Crone is still around to keep you company, mother”, he said with a smile, as he picked Crone up and laid her in the new basket. The cat wriggled out of the basket mewling in defiance.

“Old Crone – ungrateful as ever”, she thought with a smile. At least he had remembered to get a gift for the cat. There was nothing for her though. No gifts to make her happy. She suddenly felt very lonely in this foreign land. Tears again welled up in her eyes. Lost in self pity, she did not realize that the cat had snuggled up next to her feet, and both mother and son were now looking in her direction.

“Who is she”, the young man’s voice broke through her train of thoughts. She blushed, wiped away her tears, picked up the cat and left the room with her head lowered.

However she could not keep away for long. On her return, she realized that she was the topic of the discussion between mother and son. Curious, she unintentionally eavesdropped.

The mother was speaking –“… and that is her story. She has this annoying habit of stealing things, but she is very hard working. Of course, I pay her a lot too, and she has managed to save a huge amount in just a year’s time.”

At this point the voice dropped to a near inaudible level and she had to lean forward to catch the next words.

“I know she is determined to go home and get married to some village guy her father selects, but I have her passport with me. I have locked it away in the old iron safe in your bedroom. Until I get someone to replace her, I will have to cajole her into staying here. I have offered her extra money…”

She did not wish to hear any more. Her head was spinning and she thought she would faint. This was treachery on the part of her mistress. Without the passport she was a virtual prisoner in the foreign land. She went back to the kitchen and sat down in a corner and let the tears roll silently until they dried up.

To be concluded in part 3 …

Maid.

She had a tea tray in her hands as she entered the drawing room, head bowed in abject humility. She was short and extremely slim; with soft rounded features and a very fair complexion. The old lady looked at her with maternal warmth – “There is some of yesterday’s bread left in the cupboard. Have it with your tea, dear.”

“Yes Ma’am”, she said softly as she finished serving tea.

Back in the kitchen, she poured out some milk into a saucer and placed it next to the kitchen door. That was for Crone - her old feline sleep-mate - her only friend in this strange land. She truly believed the huge cat with wicked green eyes to be older than even her mistress. The cat spent most of her time with her mistress, but at night she always came back to the kitchen to sleep with her. This act of loyalty had earned old Crone a special place in her heart.

Having laid out the milk for the cat, it was now time to grab her own breakfast, before embarking on her daily chores. She took out a few slices of bread and a packet of biscuits that she had secretly retained the last time her mistress had given her the keys to the store. She was but a child, hardly sixteen, and at times, temptation got the better of her.

Sometimes the old lady caught on; as she had the last time. She still remembered her mistress’s severe tone –“I know that there were a dozen apples last time I saw them, and now you show me only six”. In the midst of her tears, she had pleaded that she did not know where the remaining apples were. In Dubai, fresh fruits were at a premium. Back home, things were different. She remembered how her brother used to bring her apples cadged from the orchard, almost everyday. He knew how much she loved apples.

However, in Dubai, the costly apples were way out of her reach. The old lady had made her point. She knew exactly what had happened to those six apples, but chose not to press the matter. Perhaps she felt sorry for the motherless little girl; or perhaps her years in Dubai had taught her that domestic servants were not easy to find. She had been lucky to have found this little girl in her visit to Kashmir last year. Life had been a lot easier for the lonely lady ever since.

“Have you finished your tea, dear?” the old lady’s voice floated in. Hurriedly replacing the biscuits in its hiding place, she gulped down the tea – “Coming Ma’am”. But the old lady was already at the kitchen door.

“Oh, do not bother. I just wanted to tell you that my son- the younger one - is coming home tomorrow. He works in America, you see. Here – take these keys and clean up that room over there. It must have been years since I last had that room opened.”

She watched the old lady trudge back to her room at the other end. “So that is the reason for her cloying sweetness and generosity today”, she thought dryly. She was accustomed to the vagaries in the demeanor of her mistress. She had come to understand that honey-sweet words from her mistress generally meant that there was some extra work to be done, or that some guests were to arrive. The sad part was that she still hoped that someday the kindness would be out of genuine concern.

As she got down to cleaning the room, she could not help thinking how big the house was for a lone old lady. She was the only servant who lived-in; the rest finished their chores during the daytime and left. The locked rooms probably belonged to the sons. None of them had turned up in the last one year of her service. She wondered how difficult it must be for the old lady to live all by herself; in perpetual separation from her children. This turned her thoughts to her own father and brother.

She had lost her mother very early in her childhood and was not sure if the memories she had of her mother were real or imagined. She had never been away from home, and it had been hard for her to leave her family behind. But the money was important. She was fast approaching the marriageable age. Her father had reckoned that if she earned some money before her marriage, it would be easy for her to set up her new home.

With the handsome salary that the old lady had offered, a year’s worth of effort was all she needed to make a substantial saving. “Only for a year, Ma’am; no more”, he had struck a deal with the lady. And now the year was coming to an end. She would soon be on her way back home. She had saved more than what she had hoped to. It would have taken her a decade to earn that much in her small village.

 She hurried back to the kitchen, gripped by a puerile desire to count her savings once more. She pulled out her belongings and took all the cash out of her little bag. They were all there – all of her savings! The sight was so reassuring. However just as she was about to keep it all back, she realized that something was missing. Her passport was not there amongst the cash. It was gone.

To be continued in part 2 …

This happened a long time ago, in a land called Aryavarta. This was a land of mighty kings and wise sages. This was a time when young children were sent off to live with their teacher to obtain their education at his feet and learn their lessons in humility. Our story is set in one such Gurukul, an institute not very different from the modern day residential schools. An old and wise sage was the revered 'Guru' of this institute and scores of students had learnt at his feet.

The students were required to assemble under the peepal tree early in the morning to receive their Guru's teachings. Now it so happened that a sleek black cat had made the Gurukul her home. Just when the Guru would start reciting the hymns, the cat would appear out of nowhere and would start frolicking among the students. This amused the  students a great deal. Howsoever hard they tried to keep a straight face, in deference to their teacher, a few titters and chuckles would invariably escape their mouths. The wise Guru was well aware of this source of distraction, but tried to ignore it as best as he could. With a strict glare and a throaty 'Hurrm", he would silence any stray titters, and bring the students back to attention.

Lack of punishment emboldened the cat, and finally the day came when she crossed all limits. The Guru was demonstrating to the students , the fine art of meditation, when the cat suddenly jumped on to his lap and attempted to stroke his long white beard with her paw. The students just could not stop laughing and the meditation lessons had to be suspended for the day.
The next day, the students found a wooden placard nailed to the peepal tree. It had a new rule written on it in bold letters -

"Thou shall fetch the cat before thou begin thy lessons".

There was a wooden cage placed next to the placard, indicating exactly what was to be done with the cat once it was caught.

And so, every morning the cat was caught and caged until the end of the day's lessons. Then it was given a saucer of milk and set free. This routine was followed religiously, and everyone was happy.

As time rolled by, the old Guru died and his place was taken by another. Batches of student came and went and things rolled on smoothly. One day, the cat also died.
As the Guru walked out to the peepal tree, he found the students distraught and confused. "What is the matter, children?", he asked.
One student came forward and told him that the cat was dead. He pointed to the placard

"Thou shall fetch the cat before thou begin thy lessons".

They really did not know what to do. The wise Guru smiled benevolently at his students; their helplessness amused him. Of course, he was their Guru; he must show them the way.

"The cat is a symbol of education. Just as the cat's eyes enables it to see in the dark, education imparts the learner the ability to see through the darkness of ignorance. That is why we always fetch a cat, worship it and study at its feet. Look at the age-old placard. There can be no lessons without a cat. Here - take some money ! Go and fetch a new cat for our Gurukul."

The students took the day off, went to the nearby city and brought back a sleek back cat similar to the one that had died. And so, every morning the cat was worshipfully summoned and placed in its cage beside the Guru himself, until the end of the day's lessons. Then it was offered a saucer of milk and everyone waited in humility until it finished the milk and walked away. This routine was followed religiously, and everyone was happy.

This story is very dear to me. It was told to me by my teacher when I was five years old. He departed from this world ten years ago, but lives on in my heart.

- some ways in which storytelling can be more than just a narration.

Be it movies , novels , short stories , folk tales or just comics - its all about storytelling.
Of course stories stand out in our memories on the strength of their content.
Content really is the king, but human creativity, at times,transcends creating content alone.
Most of the time, creativity begins and ends with the routine "Twist in the Tail".
You can perhaps give me innumerable examples for it but one of the many that strike my mind
is "The Sixth Sense". The twist works best when you do not expect it to be there at all.
However, there are other, more intriguing ways to tell a great tale.
Check out these vastly unconventional ways of storytelling that stand out because they make you say -
"why could I never think of anything like that myself ?"

# Perspective: The world and events as seen by the narrator. While many movies and novels pretend to present a story as seen by a character, they invariably lose all the nuances associated with it and end up as any other story told in the third person.
The "First person" effect would invariably twist the world to go along with the character's perception of it. For a real life person, the world seems to revolve around him; his ideas and beliefs seem better than anyone else's and he sees his actions as invariably the right thing to do.The comic strip "Calvin and Hobbes" is a classic example of how genuine "perspective" can be used to its full potential as opposed to the myriads of lame attempts at this form of styling.The artist shows us the world as seen from the eyes of a child, even to the extent that the child's toy tiger appears to him (and us) as real. Another good use of this style can be found in the classic book - "The Moonstone" by Wilkie Collins where the author uses this style to pack more punch into the final revelation. The movie "Zubeidaa" takes a stab at this style in telling the story of the central character as seen through the eyes of others. A literary device generally known as the "unreliable narrator" is an interesting twist to the perspective style wherein the narrator misrepresents facts to the reader, sometimes deliberately.

# Retrospect:  In a story like this -- one using the format of telling the story in reverse (that is, each flashback is set earlier than the one before) -- the previous scene takes on new, perhaps even different, meaning in light of new revelations.
Of course, it needs a lot of skill and inspiration to create a story like that ! Watch the movie "Memento" to see how retrospect works.

# Epistolary: Written in the form of or carried on by letters or correspondence. The novel "Dracula" by Bram Stoker is a famous example of this style of writing [ There was a movie of this style mentioned by my friend, in which the sequence of letters take the audience beyond the death of the characters. Need to ask my friend to fill me in on this one. ]

# Allusive: Yes, indirect references to well known artifacts from within the story can be a very enriching experience. A story written in this form delights the reader by teasing him/her with subtle references to stuff the reader may be expected to know.It also opens the door for the reader to investigate and explore
beyond the covers of the current book.The 'Sandman' series of comics by Niel Gaiman
is one of the most celebrated form of this art.

# Snake's hands: The tales-within-tales could be called "snakes'-hands," a term coined by John Crowley in his novel Engine Summer to describe those parts of a story that diverge from the main narrative but are fascinating in their own right. Crowley's narrator even suggests that "sometimes the snakes'-hands in a story are the best part, if the story is a long one." The "snakes'-hands" in Panchatantra actually form the main body of this collection of folk tales; and the tales within tales are nested so deep that they continue to fascinate every time you read it.

So what is it that make these stories stand out - the novelty of the idea or the clever way of presentation ? Whatever be the case, the world of imaginenation is richer because of these creative ways of styling.

Footnote: If you have come across any striking form of creative styling , do share it with me too so that we may add it to the list.

Photo: Jackson Pollock's Galaxy, a part of the Joslyn Art Museum's permanent collection qualifies as fair use

It happened today, when I was on my way to work. My office is a few kilometers away from my home, and I usually make a morning walk of the distance. With the sedentary lifestyle that my work imposes on me, this is the only real exercise I get all day.

As I walked down a narrow lane, I sensed a strange restlessness among the street dogs. The dogs were running about in packs and barking threateningly at something round the corner. At this time of the day, they are usually calm and I wondered what the excitement was all about. The moment I walked round the bend, I discovered the cause of their sudden hostility. Parked on the side of the road was a van full of caged dogs, captured to be taken to the pound and possibly to be put to death later on.

The street dogs on the outside were running all around the van, barking intermittently. It was a strange sight and it struck me with awe. Here was a ‘lowly’ animal that not only understood the predicament that its fellow animals were in, but also had the mettle to protest vociferously against the injustice being done to them. If dogs are capable of voicing their protest against an unjust act, shouldn’t we as humans pack more spunk?

Should we not stand up for our fellow men when they need us most?

Standing alone in a narrow lane next to a pound-van was not exactly ‘stopping by the woods’ but there I was, lost in deep thought. And there was more to it. I observed that the dogs inside the van were curiously silent – almost cowering in fear. Did these dogs have the intelligence to understand that they were being taken to their deaths? Have we as humans underestimated the sentience of our fellow animals?

I could have gone on and on, but a sudden realization brought me back to reality. I had been observing the behavior of these dogs for quite sometime. It suddenly dawned to me that I had got it all wrong. You see - dogs are territorial by nature. They live in packs and guard their demesnes passionately. Closer scrutiny had revealed to me that the dogs on the outside were not barking at the men in the van ‘in protest’ as it first appeared to me. In fact their hostility was directed towards the dogs inside!

From the point of view of the pack of dogs on the street, the van consisted of a huge pack of ‘outsider’ dogs, which had invaded their territory. They were simply trying to defend their turf. This also explained the ‘silence of the dogs’ inside the cage. From the point of view of the caged dog, it suddenly found itself in an alien turf threatened by the ‘turf-owners’. Even though the number of dogs in the cage was far more than those outside, these dogs were not of the same pack and were therefore just individuals under attack by a pack of hostile dogs outside. No wonder they were silent and fearful.

So much for snap judgments!