Creative Writing

Short story - The psychic experience

SENARATH TENNAKOON

"Mind you, not to fall asleep" I warned my wife and daughter while occupying the front seats that were numbered. There was a heterogeneous audience around us dominated by youngsters and school children. The adults were few in number. However, almost every seat was occupied by some one.

When the doors and curtains were becoming close the dim lights that faintly illuminated the stage too flicked away and for a moment there was complete darkness. None-the-less with the gradual emergence of a soft music three bulbs-red, green and blue blossomed out on the stage. Even with these lights the stage looked dreamy and dim when all of a sudden Mr. Manoj appeared on the stage.

Mr. Manoj was dressed in black. The overcoat and the trouser were dark black in colour like the folded stage curtains. He wore a red waist belt. The top hat was blue and he was armed with a multi coloured striped short wand which he waved up and down to a slow rhythm of the soft background music.

The buzz of the audience ceased while my head began to buzz of a feeling of excitement. Mr. Manoj stealthily paced to and fro on the stage slowly waving his multicolored magic wand and spoke in an appealing voice.

"I welcome all of you for the interest shown in experiencing a psychic experience with me .... Now you listen carefully and follow my instructions. All of you without an exception have to surrender your minds to me as long as you are within this hall. O.K., let's begin..."

The three burning head lights began to shimmer and fade out. The background music too drowned in complete silence. Breaking the deep silence was heard the commanding sonorous voice of Mr. Manoj.

"It's beginning to-to be dark..dark...dark. The entire world is going to sleep. Your eye lids are getting heavy...heavy and heavier. No sound what so ever. Now sleep...sleep...sleep".

I pinched my wife and my daughter to prevent them from falling asleep while I could very well hear the snoring noises of some members of the audience.

Gradually the temporary darkness that was created by Mr. Manoj was replaced by light. As I turned around I noticed that the majority of the onlookers were fast asleep. Even my eye lids too were heavy and urging for sleep. It was with great difficulty that I prevented my wife and daughter from falling asleep.

Mr. Manoj spoke once again pointing his wand at some members of the audience. He called some numbers. I saw five young girls walking up to the illuminated stage. Then he issued a command to the rest of the audience and said 'Now you can awake". I was already awake.

Mr. Major called one of the girls to the centre of the stage and waving his magic wand instructed her to go back in years to her childhood-infant-birth and foetal stages in her life.

Accordingly she made body movements until she curled herself imitating the foetal position in the human womb. Then she was ordered to enter the realm of her previous birth. Then Mr. Manoj put the following questions:

"Where were you in your previous birth?"
"I lived in South Africa"
"What was your name then?"
"My name was Jikki"
"How did you die?"
"I met with a road traffic accident and died."
"O.K. now wake up."

The girl woke up and began to blush and walked away from the stage. Mr. Manoj made another girl dance on the stage. He held another girl to lie transversely free on the stage without any support. I thought that this could be black magic.

One girl sang a song and Mr. Manoj told us that the language was French which the girl did not know at all. He said that she was a French girl in her previous birth. Another girl was asked to perform a Russian dance the scorpion dance which she performed with Mr. Manoj by holding their arms and rotating about. When she came back to her senses she blushed and looked down.

After the girls on the stage were brought back to their proper senses they were asked to occupy their seats among the audience. Again the audience began to buzz. "

"Now ladies and gentlemen, you may ask any drink and I will offer it to you" said Mr. Manoj.

Some asked for ice cream while some asked for cool drinks. My wife told me in secret "Ask for a hot cup of plain tea". Accordingly I rose up and informed Mr. Manoj "My wife likes to enjoy a very hot cup of plain tea".

"No problem sir. I am at her service". He came straight down to our row and stood in front of my wife who tried to stand up.

"No madam you be there" said the magician. He waved his multi coloured magic wand, uttered some queer syllables and gave a quick twist to his right arm that was covered with his dark coat sleeve.

I could not believe my eyes when I saw a cup of some dark liquid on a saucer appeared on his palm. "Here you are madam. Its too hot please don't burn your lips" observed Mr. Manoj. So saying he went to attend to another request. My wife tasted the black coffee and declared that it was hot and tasty. I too held the hot cup, saw the shreds of coffee smoke. I too tasted the coffee.

My daughter too sipped some of it. Looking around I could see the audience enjoying cool and hot drinks. The audience have turned out to be an entertainment party or a birthday party of Mr. Manoj.

Why was coffee offered to us instead of plain tea??? How on earth did this happen. I never thought that a human being could perform such miracles. When the buzz subsided Mr. Manoj was seen on the stage and it was the question time.

How can you explain these miracles was the dominant question that was put forward by some members of the audience. Mr. Manoj observed that this was the question that was put forward at every previous performance.

He said that the latent power of the subconscious mind was quite unlimited and unfathomable. He compared it to the hidden part of a floating iceberg. He himself could not give a definite explanation.

After the show, many viewers went up to the stage to express their pleasure. It was a unique memorable experience. After leaving the audience hall I experienced a headache behind my forehead. Even my wife said that she was having a cluster headache while my daughter was sleeping in the car during the one hour drive.

The best part of this experience was observed late in the evening. I found my daughter dressed like Mr. Manoj, waving a colour pencil and trying to make my wife sleep muttering Mr. Manoj's secret formula.

Profile of a scribe:

Soldier who hid behind wife's name to avoid censorship

Yasmina Khadra is the pen name of the Algerian author Mohammed Moulessehoul (born January 10, 1955).

Moulessehoul, an officer in the Algerian army, adopted his wife's first two names as his pseudonym to avoid military censorship. Despite the publication of many successful novels in Algeria, Moulessehoul only revealed his true identity in 2001 after leaving the army and going into exile and seclusion in France.

Anonymity was the only way for him to survive and avoid censorship during the Algerian Civil War. In 2004, Newsweek acclaimed him as "one of the rare writers capable of giving a meaning to the violence in Algeria today."

His novel set in Afghanistan under the Taliban The Swallows of Kabul was shortlisted for the 2006 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award. L'Attentat won the Prix des libraires in 2006, a prize chosen by about five thousand bookstores in France, Belgium, Switzerland, and Canada.

Khadra pledges for becoming acquainted with the view of the others. In an interview with the German radio SWR1 in 2006, he said: The West interprets the world as he likes it. He develops certain theories that fit into its world outlook, but do not always represent the reality.

Being a muslim, I suggest a new perspective on Afghanistan, on the religious fanatism and the, how I call it - religiopathy. My novel, the "The Swallows of Kabul" gives the readers in the West a chance, to understand the core of a problem, that he usually only touches on the surface. Because the fanatism is a threat for all, I contribute to the understanding of the causes and backgrounds. Perhaps then it will be possible to find a way to bring it under control.

Some of his novels are: The Swallows of Kabul, The Attack, Wolf Dreams and Sirens of Baghdad.

Quite calm, quite quiet. He has a brooding intensity that is hard to miss even when he smiles. Which is neither often nor does it come easy? That is Yasmina Khadra. Does it ring a bell? Well, not quite. Never mind. Here is another clue: He is a man who started writing under a woman's pseudonym to avoid censure, and may be popularity because he was an officer in the Algerian army.

But as a writer he was good, in fact too good to live under the cover of obscurity for long. So, the guys with guns got after the guy with the pen. Off went the cloak of Yasmina and the world got to know Mohammed Moulessohoul, the man who writes on West Asia with a felicity and insight that few manage.

The Algerian writer had come to India to participate in the Translating Bharat deliberations, as part of the Jaipur Literature Week recently. He was not mobbed, not too many ran for a picture with him.

But in a brief conversation, he left an imprint, revealing through a translator, why and how he has helped build bridges between the West and the Arab world. And what it means to be a writer in a closed society.

Humorous in hindsight

"I was in the Algerian Army. I was a soldier who was fond of writing. I had written eight novels under my real name when the Army thought I was becoming too famous, so they imposed censorship on me." If you thought he would become one brooding middle aged man - he was born in 1955 - think again. He is ready to smile about the Army today.

"There was a time when the Army did not like it. Now, they do! I had won the battle of the bullet with the pen."

So, how does his pen bring about a better understanding of the Arab world for the West? Explains the author whose book The Sirens of Baghdad relates the story of a terrorist-to-be who is radicalised by the humiliation of his father by the American forces.

"The West mistakes us. It does not understand the culture, the polity. The media is spreading disinformation. Eventually, the people of the U.S. themselves turned hostile towards their Government. They are sandwiched between the Government policies and the bleeding, ground reality.

When my earlier books were released, the American media praised them. When The Sirens of Baghdad was launched, there was a different reaction. America is not ready to understand how an Arab sees the Americans. I feel sad because my books could have given important clues to them."

Earlier Khadra had penned The Swallows of Kabul, and told the world that "fanaticism is a threat to all". Now, he wants West Asia to be left alone. "If the Arab countries are left alone, there would be peace. Rulers are fairly vulnerable. Many of them are corrupt, debased, depraved and not intelligent. They can be changed." So, what is the impediment?

Says Khadra, who speaks in French and Arabic with only a few words of English thrown in, "America has made the situation disastrous in Iraq. It is like an elephant in a china shop. But the U.S. cannot leave like this, leaving behind the ruins of a great civilisation.

It has the responsibility to rebuild. The mistakes are entirely American". Fine. But what can a writer or a journalist do in times of a colossal tragedy? "Literature has not the sole purpose to talk of everyday news.

There is a moral role to play too. A writer is meant to be enlightened. It is his duty to involve himself in major conflicts, engage in dialogue because he has the power to bring about a solution.

My books have been a ferment of change in Algeria. They have helped the West to understand the Arab world."

A wider audience

Though his writings are not quite the stuff of dinner talk in India, he aspires to be there. "In translations lies my hope. My book In the Name of God was translated into Malayalam two years ago. And my other books have been translated into 30 international languages. In India, publishers have evinced interest in translation but it is too early to say when the books can come out."

As the conversation veers towards closure, Khadra reveals his humorous side again. "After the session here I am putting up in a guesthouse in Delhi. It does not seem too reputed or safe. Maybe, they feel writers are not so safe or I am not so well reputed!"

Courtesy: The Hindu

Premi's love

Thangam J. Prathapan

The house was a beautiful spacious two storeyed building, the last down a blind lane in Colombo South. Premi's father, an engineer by profession, was very proud of the house as he himself had designed and built it.

Four young coconut palms planted in a row and the beds of flowers of various hues added colour to the front garden. Along the lengthy wall to the right of the house, were sprawling jasmine creepers. The house was adjacent to Premi's dance teacher's house, quite convenient distance for Premi.

In the afternoons, the lane was a hive of activity. To the boys on the road, this lane was the cricket pitch. Little boys played marble on one end. Girls of all ages, learning Bharatha Natyam (classical dance) as the second house in the lane, were dropped off and picked up by their parents. Very often, girls hanging around the place, waiting for their transport, spent their time playing hopscotch or watching the cricket matches or chatting to the boys.

Tilak was one of the budding cricketers. His attractive personality and friendly nature made him a popular figure, specially, among the girls.

He, however, was fascinated by Premi and often commented on her lovely sparkling eyes and her long wavy black hair. The more he tried to impress her, the less he succeeded. If their eyes happened to meet, she flared at him and his heart would sink.

In no way could her indifference deter his ardent spirit. He longed for her company which gave him a joyous feeling. He irritated her in various ways to rouse her anger.

Continued dripping on a granite causes a depression on the hardy surface. Likewise, his continued teasing and taunting started to have an effect on her. Strange though, a transformation slowly came upon her. She indulged herself in watching him.

He was no longer the bully he seemed to be, but an extremely amiable handsome young man. His height, his sharp raised nose, his commanding eyes - all spoke of the leadership qualities in him.

Encouraged by their friends, they loved each other passionately. Cricket days down the lane were a past to Tilak. He was now employed in a bank. Knowing the nature of her parents, Premi was reluctant to speak to them about her friendship towards Tilak.

Premi's parents were from a conservative family in Jaffna. They believed in giving their children a sound education and teaching them the right values in life. They also taught them dancing and music, but kept them always under their protective wings.

Premi had reached the highest level in her dancing class and was to hold her Arangetram - her first solo performance - the test and proof of her ability which entitled her to conduct classes of her own, thereafter.

The elegantly decorated hall overflowed with friends, relatives and well-wishers. The curtain rose amidst the cheering clap of the fully packed audience. Standing in the centre of the heavenly setting of the stage, Premi appeared to be an ethereal being. One item after the other moved fast and rhythmically.

Her performance of an excellent standard came to an end with the tumultuous applause of the delighted audience and in a row, they began to find their way to the stage with flowers and gifts to congratulate her and express their appreciation.

Seated at the back of the hall, Tilak had, with awe admired Premi throughout the event. He was impatient to meet her. He rushed with a bunch of lovely red roses and kissed her on her rosy cheeks. With a flush of blood to her cheeks, they glowed brightening further her beautiful face. Her passionate eyes twinkled with glee. Her joy was only momentary.

The blood-shot eyes of her parents stared at Premi and Tilak and the joy vanished immediately. She shuddered to think of the rough treatment that would await her from her antagonistic parents, once they got home.

There was not a word of praise for the hard work and the praiseworthy achievement of the daughter. Instead, the father roared, "You've disgraced our family and our whole community. That wasn't the behaviour we expected of you and your boy friend." From that day onwards, the warmth that prevailed in the family disappeared.

Her parents met her uncles and aunts in secret counsels. A holiday was planned for her and she was to spend a couple of months with her aunt Susi in London.

It was time for Premi to check in at the Bandaranaike International Airport. She was a trapped animal with a dazed look on her face. When she was about to wave 'goodbye' she spotted the image of Tilak at a distance. Was it her own mind's projection? No, it wasn't, It was real.

A sudden tremendous force overpowered her. Propelled by that force, she flew to him, tearing through the crowd. Like a little child she clung on to him, sobbing.

The shocked parents remained still, rooted to the ground. The spontaneous true love knew no barriers - caste, creed, race or religion. It was love genuine; it was love sincere.

No power on earth could put the loving hearts apart.