Broken Bangles: Travel, Stories, Thoughts

The story they told me begins with a shipwreck on the coast of Kochi. The ship was full of slaves from Africa brought to labour in the naval yard of the Dutch-controlled port. They were starving, battered by dysentery and skin diseases from the long voyage, crammed inside the ship’s basement, and close to death’s door when they arrived. The shipwreck was near the shore and many passengers swam and survived. They were all scattered and one young black slave was rescued by an old fisherman living alone, a couple of miles away from the port.   The fisherman knew he was a slave but kept it a secret. He had an idea of what travails awaited a slave on these shores and the kind and innocent eyes of the slave roused a fatherly affection in him. His remote house was isolated and he had little connection with the community. He nurtured the boy back to health and taught him his language and his ways. A few months went by. The boy knew that desertion would bring severe punishment to him. ...

 The Slave's Promise: A Minifiction Series: Chapter 2 We reached a high wall. He stopped and leaned on it and looked at me with an odd light in his eyes. His face was brightly hallowed by the moonlight. I found myself touching his face, and he kissed me on my cheek. I closed my eyes.  I woke to the sound of a heavy chain and strained breathing. I was standing near the same wall with my ears pressed against the wall. Then I realised the sound was coming from inside the wall. I was no longer myself as I found tears running from my eyes, and a piercing sorrow travelled through my body convulsively. In a last attempt to take control of myself, I tried to think about what was happening. Then, I lost myself to a stranger within me. I was pushed into the role of an observer, and the stranger was me.  I saw a white man with a hat on his head coming closer. “Please, please, let him live,” I pleaded with him. “Come to my house, we will discuss that,” said the man, and he walked awa...

  The sights outside the metro train fleeted before my eyes, creating a mirage of green, grey, and blue. The evening metro was packed with office goers as they got cooked in the day’s sweat accumulated from their toil in hot offices. Summer was at its peak, the sun mercilessly scorching the steel body of the train. My childhood city, an ancient port on the western side of the Indian peninsula, is bound to drown in the Arabian Sea in the next 25 years when sea levels rise, if climate experts are to be believed. As I sat on the train, experiencing the extraordinary heat, I felt like I was inside a burning furnace about to fall into the sea. This teeming seaport of colonial verisimilitude, where the Dutch, Portuguese, and English built their forts and cemeteries to rule, live and die, had been a second home to me where our family lived when we were kids. Here, my father had a job, and I still have many friends from my school. In contrast, my village, where our family settled afte...