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Being an author, the one whose name all the readers chant Oh! He writes awesome, His story has depth, He is a genius in the usage of literary devices, is not easy, not always, in a slight of the slightest possibilities, is possible, for an author, a debutant author, specially. I, Ravi raj, an author, a debutant specifically, aims to do so, or wishes to be peculiar. Not all of my closest of the close friends know, about what, that I was bitten by a writing bug, a bug, which Sayantan, another close friend of mine gave me, no not intentionally, but by-chance, luck or destinys intention, whatsoever you may say so. Editor by chance and a book-reviewer by choice, Sharanya, another close friend of mine, though talkative but selective, she, once in a wagon of her innumerable thoughts flowing out like a timeless waterfall, suddenly, though unexpected said something which I really looked forward to, You write good, send your short story, only well written short stories will be selected, based on the theme-Women, to this email Id. Try your luck to get published, buddy, after which, she again, like before, continued her timeless waterfall, but I was now, though present before her physically, mentally I was elsewhere, thinking about her those words. I, now, finally had to write for a motive, unlike other things I wrote on my facebook wall, gambling for likes and sometimes comments. Women, the only weak point I had, no dont think of me as a pervert, weak in the sense I-got-no-idea. Darjeeling, the place I always fathom in my dreams, once in a childhood I missed it though, for some acute illness-dengue, a mountaineering camp at HMI i.e. Himalayan Mountaineering Institute it was, once in a life time opportunity, that too for free, as school authorities were the one paying for it, taking one with dengue was a danger for me and others, too. We, family, were now finally going there for a trip, but then, like an ultimate distress call, called Ekta Masi, Rohini, Ekta Masis daughter, is finally getting engaged, and the date she called was the date we were leaving to o, to my dream destination, Darjeeling. Seated in the 3rd AC compartment of my train, Gareeb-rath Express, alone, getting in here was not easy though, I cant allow my only dream to visit this heaven let go, like sand. Please, dont tangle me in these relationship barriers, if you need to be there,

then be, but dont expect me to follow all the way back. Darjeeling is it, and, its for sure, I am not going anywhere else I frowned, making my words and dreams for Darjeeling look more realistic, with which continued a series of intake and out give of several words, I was adamant, and here I am, now, sitting on my seat, leaving the rest, for their so called engagement ceremony, I hardly care about it now, breathing my independence was all I wanted and all I had to, for the next four days, two in train though. She came and sat on the seat in front of me, Can I sit here? she asked before that, in a polite way. It was a vacant seat; my mothers seat rather, as the ticket said, if Masi had not called, but as for now, it belonged to none, Yeah, sure I said in my reserved posture. My mind was elsewhere, wandering out of the glass windows of my train, trying to find a link to my story in a fountain of uncertain thoughts, like finding a golden fish in a stream of yellow water, though in an AC coach, everything look black out of the window, it was night. As the train departed, I didnt knew when, my eyebrows were still shrunken, palms rubbing horizontally against my forehead, even a literally dumb person would say, Youre thinking so hard, so did she, as a matter of fact, I was. Its appropriately quoted by Joseph Roux, a French Catholic parish priest Solitude vivifies; isolation kills, moreover, a little conversation, not vivid, would certainly give me a grain of idea leading to a granary of stories, Searching for a story based on women I said to her. Looking at my face with inexplicable perplexity, she said Dont you have a girlfriend?, No I said, soberly, it has to be a firm reply, there was no hiding in it, many might think me of a failure in love, its not true, single, thats the term people use now, I didnt had a problem, never had one. She then smiled, a graceful smile it was, maybe she displayed that curve for my innocence; she might have thought of me as a nave person, it was not a lie either. What kind of story do you want? she asked, spontaneously, maybe she wanted her thoughts connected to my pen, I only wished to, for my brain was not the one helping me right now, Any story with a trending plot, reflecting todays current scenario, related to women specifically. Women she emphasized, I am one, her facial expression seems to say, I can help you out if you permit she said, I looked at her and nodded, meanwhile the ticket collector came and checked me in, while she, with a waiting list ticket, maybe, I didnt ask her, neither did she say me, was given, or she

took with ticket collectors consent, I didnt notice that too, the seat in front of me, my mothers seat. What do you find these days, on newspapers, the more, specially related to women? she questioned, expecting me to answer up to her expectations, Gang rape I said and so it was, a fact rather, two in West Bengal had already happened, gruesome and merciless, which made her say, You can write about it, it surely can increase your reader-base, and you, through this, can impart an idea of moral to those who lack. The topic she indicated was not an easy stair to commence upon; it needed some real description and thought process which not a man, a man who is an author, at least not me, a debutant, could do. Its an intense topic gravely surrounded by different speculations, writing about it, single handed that too, Im way out of the league in this case, going to such a topic without any support, difficult, its very difficult, at least for me it definitely is. I can help you out, plant some ideas in your mind, being an author she missed out the word debutant, you certainly can rope it well. I gave her nod, again, the best way I can, like an obedient disciple to an unknown teacher, she did was going to teach me. I took out my diary, sister didnt allow me to carry the laptop, she was obsessed with it and carried it to the engagement; I was a little less obsessed. So, when do we start from? Wait, where are you going to? I had to ask her this, else, she might leave the story in middle of nowhere and go to her destination, and I, the debutant author, will have nothing to do, but repent and once again, like a spoiled painting, start fresh. New Jalpaiguri, from there to Darjeeling, I am here to visit it and enjoy the beauty of that place she said, so did I hear, what about you? she asked, Likewise I said. Did you, ever, in a newspaper, read the last thoughts of a rape victim? Or any such thing she said, other than the statement given to the police officials, about she; how and when, got raped? She hit me up with this question of her, and to be frank, never in a newspaper, article and story, did I ever read such instance written by any journalist, blogger or author. No I said. A plain and simple no it was, without any question or explanation. Youre, then, going to write about it. It surely will generate some really outreached emotion within your readers, good idea, isnt it? There was nothing to deny in what she said, all an author wants is an emotional connect with his readers, and that they must remember him for what he has written, so this be it, I thought, with the very first piece of my work, though with someones help, it would be my work, Yeah, a good idea it is.

We start it from tomorrow then, anyhow its getting late night, why not do the trip together? This too is not a bad idea, what do you think? I will say you the story entire trip she said, she looked serious about what she was saying, in no way meant to be a joke. Of course it was a good idea, and she being of my age group, I didnt ask her age but the way she looked-slim, well maintained, in todays fashion trends, wearing a blue kurta with a light green slim-fit leggings, I could certainly assert her to my age group It would be great then I said, with a smile, and arranged my berth with those white bed-sheets provided by the railways, head stuffed upon the cozy pillow, draping over a blanket, keeping myself warm in the chilly month of January, I dived into the swimming pool of slumber. Get up, a hand shook my whole body, trying to bring me back to consciousness you surely would not like to go all the way to Guwahati. It was she who said this, the unknown stranger, a good person, why good, because she was going to help me out with my debut story. Travelling with family, though now Im alone, I never had to worry about getting up, Dad was always there to wake me up, unlike now, no one around me, but by Gods grace she did, the unknown but good stranger. Getting up, faster now, I took my only luggage-an airbag, stuffed with two winter wear, a towel, brush and stuff needed to keep me clean with a cash of Rs.8,000 and got down the train. To go to Darjeeling, one has to take a transport, transport to carry 73 kilometers uphill, only a good driver could do that, he has to be good, going with an armature wont serve you any good both for you and your life, travelling through curvy mountain edges with few bumpy roads, the driver has to be extremely experienced and like I said, good! I booked a Tata Sumo, our transport, and the driver; he was a native which assured me that he wont drop us down the hill while travelling uphill. Our journey had now begun, silently. We sat in the middle seat of the SUV, out of a sudden she spoke out; unexpectedly, breaking the impenetrable silence between us, A womans journey in life is similar to the way we are travelling now, through dense woods, with lots of dead end curves, one really doesnt know where it exactly is leading to, until you march on its way, without knowing the consequences, the same way Astha did, but, walking out of her house, that night, that dark new moon night, just because she had a fight with her mother over some petty issue of cleaning the room, she had now started, with her story, this was my cue to be an attentive spectator, listener or whatsoever you may say so, and bringing out my diary, though in

this bumpy ride I would hardly be able to write, but still I did, to note down some points which may come handy, if at all something misses out of my 4 terabyte memory. Then, I asked. I wanted her to continue now, as she had abruptly paused, she was not looking towards me when she said but to the unending ranges which we had passed in an hour of ride, still four more hours were left, with the sunshine dancing, exactly above our SUV, the view was as clear as a spectacle, she seemed to have lost in it, I didnt disturb her. But again, as sudden as before, she continued became the gravest mistake she might have ever thought, to commit, if not, then this was it, the gravest one, changing her life completely, upside down, not normal, not normal at all. What happened to her, next, that gravest mistake, how did it become one? I was eager, to know, the other side of her gravest mistake, she had now bounded me, with invisible ropes, I could, now, do nothing but listen and just listen, she had compelled me to sit, question and listen; and do nothing else. That gravest mistake, she said with utter seriousness became the curse of her life, for she was, on that dark n ew moon night, was forcefully, being held up by seven road-side ruffians, was snatched of her red skirt, her only clothing, in an abandoned building, where, only, eight people could hear her screams, she being 17, wore a simple red skirt any child of her age, wear. She looked at me, a grim look, I didnt say anything; I couldnt say anything, looking at those grim eyes, what was I left with to say: nothing. That ominous night, it brought her, what people in locality say, why localities, all of us say, the harbinger of ill-fate. Being impure, it was what she had now become, but, does ones purity lie only in that part of a womens body? She looked at me with those dismal eyes, which to me, seemed to say, or I felt the same, that humanity now, from the smallest corners of our little hearts have now disappeared, leaving a big hole behind, whose emptiness cannot be refilled, not now, now after, not ever, but forever. Sailing on the waves of uneven thoughts, questionable thoughts, I guess all knew the answer, but, they too, like all others, without making a difference, in a mob, walk with the social stereotypes, hence making it questionable once again, the question she raised, a highly questionable question it was. After everything those seven men wanted to do, with her body, ruthlessly trampling that innocent soul, leaving her in a condition where she no longer can shout, but, could just hush unheard whispers: leave me, dont do this to me, Im a child of your daughters age, with her wide eyes drenched in tears, her both hand covering what we

in our daily lives call a womens shame, long, long after they had already left, doing their deed, leaving that overridden squashed flower like a forsaken commodity, to rot, for rest of her life, with that deed into her body, irremovably tattooed all over her soul she said, at a stretch, without taking any breath, and then when she completed, with a sigh, she once again looked, not at me, but, out of her window, and like last time she stopped, I didnt say anything further. Broadway Annex Hotel, the place where she and I were going to share our room, double bedded room to be noted, as the others were filled, so, respecting our own privacy, no not by drawing a curtain between our beds, there were no bolts actually to tie a curtain rather, respecting our privacy had its own silent meaning for us, which, for sure, was not defined by us to drawing curtains between beds, it rather, happened in Bollywood movies, it didnt even happen in Hollywood movies, in Hollywood movies, it was a completely different take, which often resulted in a regretfully unwanted drunken one night stands. Next day, 5 am exactly, the driver, the same experienced native, who before leaving us in front of the hotel entrance, promised to give us a good tour of the whole of Darjeeling , in the coming two days, honked his horn, to come down and board his SUV, for it was Tiger Hills we were going to witness, distinctly known for its picturesque beauty of the early morning sunrise, which, like a red ball of fire, emerges from nowhere, below the horizon, reflecting its brimming sunshine on the Kanchenjunga Mountain ranges, whose white snow covered peaks appeared to be golden. We both witnessed it with the warmth of joy, though were shivering with spine chilling cold of 4 degree Celsius, shrouding over her woolen shawl with her, and, then, purchasing new hand gloves gave us some more warmth than joy alone gave us. From there, without breakfast, empty stomach, we straight away drove to Batasia Loop, another point, giving us a good view of Kanchenjunga, tea garden and the famous school where the shooting of Mai Hoon Na took place, St. Pauls School, and then finally back to our Hotel room. The driver asked us to get ready, eat and other stuff, by and hour, because next place to visit was the Ropeway, the famous Rope way, where, in 2003, an accident costing four lives, took place, this being 2014, with new sophisticated technologies as the experienced native said, Im 99% sure nothing bad would happen, but, that 1% he left off was the reason of my fear, which I was suppressing since he talked about it. It was comparably a long ride of forty

minutes, mishaps happen in seconds, and forty minutes in the cabin of the Ropeway, comparably a long time, long enough to turn worlds upside down. Time passed, we were now, in the same, yeah the same calamitous cabin, of that dreadful Ropeway, which now hung us, moving all our way to the other side from a fatal distance to that of the ground, a slight disrupt in the pulleys, and we are gone. Cutting through my pernicious thoughts, in a spur of the moment, she, looking at me, spoke Astha was now in the same condition we are now, holding on to her life , without falling apart. Her legs denied her to carry back home, lips still pleading for mercy, she couldnt look the place, the deed was done, but was frozen in the condition she was left with, eyes still wide open, drenched with unstoppable tears, till, after two long days, she was being searched, where people found, her red skirt saturated with red. My fear in heart, for the Ropeway, was nowhere to be seen now, for it was, very drastically that too, been replaced by the fear for Astha, though this a fictitious story, I was submerged with the conclusion of what her future was going to be, will she, all alone, be able to endure the aftermath of the assault, will she be able to recover the red those seven Frankensteins deed caused. She was now, by her finders, taken to the nearest government hospital, thats what her parents can afford, they thought, which was no doubt, absolutely right, first the doctors came to know what really had happened, then her parents, then the locality, then the police, then the media and the country at last. Astha was all over the news, being portrayed in the front pages of not ordinary, but leading newspapers, breaking news, the words used for the most sensational news of the moment, Astha, now, had become one. Candle light marches, black dot as thousands of facebook profile pictures, opposition asking government to resign, police still searching for those barbarians, relatives giving interview of how ethical the girl was, and she was there, unknown to all these facts, lying on the bed with white sheet, among different life supporting machines, external respiration and much more, as a whole, in an I.C.U fighting between death and death, there was no life for her after all. Our cabin, that calamitous cabin, appeared to have stopped; no it didnt appear but actually did, in middle of nowhere? No, but the end had finally arrived, completing the forty minutes. Time passes fast. It really does, when you are so deep in to something, thing which does matter a lot, especially if its a matter of life and death, but, as she said there was no life at all. Rest of the journey, with her, went like dusk, where the sun wants to sink down, silently, into the arms of horizon, when the

twilight of the moon wants to kiss the waves, soaring the tides even higher, my mind now had a similar upshot, concentrating on her words, I felt mankind stunningly sinking into a void of inhumane vacuum, if only I could change that by my writing, I really wish I could. The next day, second day, the last day, of my tour, to Darjeeling, which now was giving me a different meaning, had now begun with our first place of visit to Rock Gardens. Night went slothful, us being tired of the trip; we needed some heavy sleep, spending the whole night sleepily. From there we went to the Japanese Temple and then to Buddhist Peace Pagoda, where being there was a peace of mind, when I heard her say Doctors had now given up, we cannot do anything, she only has a day or two, her parents cried, Astha gained her consciousness, she too came to know of her being a guest of a day or two, I want to get my last day documented she mumbled to the nurse, which, went to the ears of the government, which, in no time was accepted. Now her cot, along with other devices, had a video log, too, similar to that of Jake Sully has in Avatar, only difference was he could at least sit and she was, on her bed, lying helplessly. Being helpless, its a state, where you would never, ever, like to wish yourself see, and knowing that you have only a day to live but you are helpless, is not what you would even desire for an enemy, but, that poor soul was now facing it and the video log, both. It was now, our time for HMI to visit, the HMI I missed, due to an acute illnessdengue, but, now nothing would stop me, from stepping in here, seeing the HMI zoological park and then the museum containing mountaineering artifacts. It was like living a dream, someone has truly said What goes around, comes around. We had some snack in the HMI restaurant, the famous momos it were, Darjeeling special, other than the Darjeeling tea itself. The experienced native, driver, dropped us in front of our Hotel, and then, clearing his hoarse throat, clubbed with cough of that chilly atmosphere, said After a walk of few minutes, straight and then following the turns, you will come across The Mall Road, famous for shops containing different, handmade artifacts, cakes, accessories and not to forget woolen clothes, at a reasonable price, if good at bargaining. We didnt have to worry about that, not that we were good at bargaining, but, we didnt need to shop. Stalking on the road, we sat, when we came across a vacant wooden bench, sunlight falling on to our bright faces, illuminating both our bodies and Darjeeling.

This was our last day, here, in Darjeeling, sitting on those cold wooden benches; she continued Having the video log in front of her, all she had to do, in this deteriorate condition of hers, is whisper, because speaking was way out of what she could do now, in the present situation of her, dangling between death and death, more inclined towards the literal death than the living death. Astha whispered l..last d..day of my life t..this is! Many things left, which I, in this present life of mine, wanted to do, but now, cant. If I had knew, this, coming, I would have had my favorite mother-made biryani, like having it the last time, maybe would have gulped more than usual, keeping my taste buds engulfed in its aroma. Engineer, this was the profession, I wanted to take up, was studying hard for IIT, coming March were my exams, but this January, I am living the last breath of my life, I dont know which one will be one. One last ray of sunlight, I want to feel its warmth, Dad used to say dont play for long in the sun, you will develop sunburns, but, now, I dont need to care for the sunburns anymore, for I have already taken my share of warmth, all I can feel is the cold waves of A.C which I am not liking pretty much, everything below my neck is numb, I dont even know if its there, I can just see the ceiling ever since I got up. I know, I wont, ever, get a second chance, but, if only, God-the almighty, wishes to grant me one, I would undo, just, and only, one single incident, me going out of home. Im afraid, I dont know how death will be like, but only if you people knew how it is to be rap. She paused and never resumed again, never ever, in her life, for she had already spoken her last incomplete word. Her parents mourned, the country mourned, and then, after few weeks the candles vanished, black dots as facebook profile pictures were removed, shifting from the front page of leading newspaper she moved to the last, and at last out, it was now an under-dusty-files news now. And the video log? The video log, after being witnessed by, fifteen odd, committee members, was decided not to be produced in front of the public, but, to be destroyed, with immediate effect, for they thought people dont deserve to see this, as a matter of fact they didnt. That is, in fact, quite a tragic end, to a story, but, anyways, it will help me, in fact, give me ample to write. Im very much thankful to you, I said, being grateful, expressing my gratitude to her, she did deserve it, for my debut story, though with her help, it had now got its existence, she smiled, looked deep into my eyes, as if, she, now, had been free from the captivity she was in, it, to me, felt like she has attained salvation by narrating me this story. Those eyes of her, which, through out the journey looked grimaced, now, had a feel of relief in them. I was so into your story, that, I never did care to ask your name, I said, innocently that too, what is it? to which she said You

are a very good person, my friend, my name is, she paused, and then, unwrapping enigma, slowly let out, in a whisper, as I remember, Astha, saying this, she, leaving me petrified, chilling down my spine with an increase in a rush of blood flowing through my veins, horrifying and then astonishing me to the highest extent, miraculously, disappeared into the thin fog of mist, making me feel that my surroundings, before, were colder than it really was.