“Existence” – A Never Ending Search


Author Bansh Kishor has recently launched his fiction “Existence” – A Never Ending Search. The book is printed and published by Authors Pride Publisher and it is also available at Amazon and Flipkart with a price tag of Rs. 199 only.

This is a story of the struggle to find his identity, his face, his dignity of a man whose private parts are damaged in an accident and converted into a woman. Chaand, a guy from a poor family leaves his home happens to Delhi where meets a girl Sonam. Andy, another lead, co-incidentally is available at the accident place and takes him to the hospital. He is operated and changed to a woman by the final signature of Andy. Dr. RK Sharma operates him who later realized that he had made a mistake. In regression, he resigns and goes to his home place. Chaand wanders from here to there to find his identity. He is rapped twice during this journey. He meets a dancer at Kotha who helps him to be more women, but that didn’t work for long. Next, Andy who lives in Singapore realizes his mistake and comes to India with his girlfriend, Debbie to see if Chaand is fine. He put in all efforts to find him, meeting the doctor and his family but nothing helps. His girlfriend was also killed during riots in the city. At the end, he finds some important people and Andy somehow could make him free and takes Chaand to Singapore. They both happily lived with each other.

About the Author: The Author, Bansh Kishor was born in Agra, Uttar Pradesh and later destined to Delhi. He completed his Masters in Technology (ECE)in 2015 from MDU, Rohtak. When his imaginations became out of control, it turned him into an Author from an engineer and he could no longer continue with the engineering industry.

After having worked for seven years in leading multinational service and telecom companies, he started his business while pursuing his writing career. Being a philosopher, psychologist, and motivational speaker; he helps mentally challenged people by counseling session and personality development workshops. He is known for his business techniques, training skills and as a great career advisor for students. His friends call him a multi-dimensional creative person. In his free time, he loves to unearth himself and tries to find out the facts and truths of life.

Apart from stories, he also enjoys screenplay writing and poems. His poems are published in different books and other corporate magazines. His recent poems “Dream of Glasses” is published in Once Best Friends.

Fiction: ‘Monkey Matters’

1. Monkey Circus Comes to the Village

Collared on string leads, the charade began: husband sat on a can. Wife complained in monkey tongue. He cupped hands over ears. Her complaints got louder. Sick and tired, he cuffed her. She ran off screaming. He’d done it now. The turbaned trainer passed a banana. Husband offered, wife took, twisted off the squishy neck, ate; then eyeing spouse — gave half back. Peace was restored. Years away from arranged marriages, children whistled and clapped. The white-cheeked macaques walked forward on hind legs. Time to pay. The foreign teacher dropped three grubby rupees into the monkey cup, one for each ex-husband.

2. Interview With a Simian God

The Bollybuzz reporter came for an exclusive interview with baby Hanuman, a chubby six-year-old.

“What do you like about portraying a monkey god?
Doing the flying stunts and fighting evil.

What do school friends say?
They ask about the show. Some call me as Hanuman only.

Do you have a Hanuman doll?
No, but we keep an idol of Hanumanji in our house and pray.

Do you watch the show at home?
No, Sir. I play with my cars and on Play Station.”

The make-up artist painted on the red circle, suggesting a monkey-mouth. Then, the little god left for the shoot.

3. A Monkey’s Tale

The medical delegation came to see the living monkey god. Born with a 33cm ‘tail’, the spina bifida man had become a rare object of devotion. He monkeyed about and gobbled bananas. Believers touched his exposed stump to get healed.
One foreign doctor offered to remove it.
“No!” he said. “It is Lord Hanuman’s blessing.”
Meanwhile, twenty women had rejected him. “I will only marry she who loves my tail, otherwise I will stay bachelor like Hanumanji.”
Next, someone mentioned Spider Devi in Bangalore — the girl-child with 4 arms and 4 legs. The eminent delegation rushed to catch their flight.

4. Monkey Art

At the station, they saw the god on the pavement. He wore a gilt crown, loin cloth, his whole body painted orange-red. Garlanded with marigolds, he also had a yogi’s traditional rudraksha rosary about his neck and upheld a big gada, a shiny mace – his symbolic weapon. That would have been a marvellous feat of strength, had the club not been paper mache. Thus, the divine idol stood unblinkingly, waiting for passersby to drop money in his bowl. Then some cynic walked up and eyeballed him. The mischievous god gave a sudden primate-bark and the unbeliever ran for his life.

5. A Blind Eye

Mahatma Gandhi owned one possession – a statuette of the Three Wise Monkeys, who, together embody the proverbial maxim to “see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil”. When India was partitioned in 1947, slicing Punjab like a melon down the middle, M.K Gandhi could not turn a blind eye. Neither could he stop the exodus and mutual slaughter of millions of Hindus, Sikhs and Muslims. After the killings, Nathuram Godse, an anti-Muslim Hindu Nationalist fired 3 bullets from his Beretta point blank into Gandhi’s chest. “Hey Ram!” uttered the god man dying. Hanuman’s brethren munched fresh contraband in the trees.

6. The US President and the City of Monkeys

When Barak Obama came to Delhi, everyone went on primate-alert. Already the deputy-mayor, attacked on his balcony had fallen to his death. Delhi police risked monkey uprisings, vowing to sacrifice their lives for the nation’s prestige. Monkey-catchers came out in force baiting cages with bananas. Public boulevards were patrolled by Gypsy jeeps; the Black Cat squads had anti-insurgent strategies in place; but the Government’s secret weapon and the macaque’s jungle rival, lanky langur monkeys, unleashed by handlers were set roaming around the President’s walled residence. Meanwhile, special prayers were offered in the temples appealing to Lord Hanuman to keep the peace.

7. Monkey Rule

Despite the lying of the microphone
there will be the noble bellowing of a buffalo,

despite hydro-electric schemes and promises
there will be a cuckoo drinking only raindrops,

despite the hunting season on dissidents
there will be another mongoose on the road,

despite machine guns in the bazaar
there will be a militia of mynah birds,

despite the cost of dignity
there will be a sacred cow to stop the traffic,

despite the lure of the city
the night deer will dance in the wheat field,

despite the rise of fanatics to government
there will always be monkeys to rule the ruins.


Chris Mooney-Singh

Fiction: The Oracle of Silent Days

By Abhirup Das
Her Quiet Burial

The black shadow of death had slithered away into the darkness of the night. A veil of pallor had lightly fallen over her beautiful face, she seemed so alive, but the frigid sheen of mortality had stolen her away…and then, she was gone…six feet into the deep…into a world from where there was no return. She had fluttered into my life like a butterfly in the winds of March, she was so delicate, so fragile…I was afraid to touch her for the fear that I might break her.

She was a lovely girl, and so she lived a life worth living for, a life worth dying for…she would sing me her lullabies, when sleep eluded my company, and now she is asleep…and I am still awake. She has gone beyond all existence, and I can’t hope to meet her once again.

My soul rages at the heavens, my heart is dying for her love. What a cruel destiny!…that a girl like her should die of cancer while sinners like me keep living our much accursed lives…to see our love slowly dying, to quietly see her melt away, to hear her words of strength and weakness…until she is able to speak no more…

Tonight, I feel a deep numbness down my heart…and the coldness catches up with me…in the middle of this scorching summer night. I don’t really know what to hold sacred anymore. Love is all I ever asked for, and my Gods took that away from me. Oh! What did I do to incur such wrath from the Heavens? Which heartless God knows no compassion…even for a sinful soul like me?

I am in despair; this darkness engulfs all the light of my universe. Yet I cannot cry; not even when my eyes are burning with grief. Or when my blood is freezing in my veins…No, I cannot cry. Who can console me, but death, today? Who can take my pain away? The sleeping pills take me into the forgetfulness of my dreams, where she lives with me. And each morning brings a sharp pang of reality; just as it renews the sunlight and the birdsongs…every dawn brings me a terrible heartache and nothing else…nothing else.

I roam through empty parks and streets when the day is dead and the night is old. Her memories return to haunt me…breaking me, and taking me, by surprise. Yet she is cold and motionless…she decays beneath the graveyard ground. I travel to new lands and I gaze at the sea, there’s just loneliness in each shore, and I lack her sweet serenity. Where are you, my nightingale? I call out to my own emptiness. I think that she’ll call out to me from beyond the beyond, but this time, there’s no reply.

In this overcrowded world, I am all alone. Alone, among the forests; alone, among the mountain trees; alone among the market streets…alone in a world of the living. I feel like Orpheus…who’d lost his lover Eurydice, and chased her to the depths of Hades’ Realm…and finding her he lost her again. I want to believe in fairytales, trust me; my greatest desire is a fantasy.

Do you want to hear me? It’s very…kind of you. No one cares about the barely living…not about their hunger, their grief or loss.

Until I waste my remaining days in my dreams of her memories…I will go on ranting. There is no remedy for this madness, except death, sweet death, which shall be my saviour, my own messiah to shepherd me, from this world of untold misery.
I scream at the world:
“Who am I to deviate from God’s will? I cannot change the past, and that is not my desire, I want to change the future…I want her back in my life…take my sorrow or take my life. Return me those days of love, when I held her…her skin…so soft against mine…my bones are strong, they can withstand what my heart cannot…it is broken…it is shattered…is there a way to fix it?

Do I ask for success? Or lust? Or wealth? All I ask for is my lost love…is that too much I ask? Return me my bride! Bring her back from paradise! I seek not her love, I seek not her virginity…all I seek is her company.”

My soul is torn but I can’t be shattered, for the hands of God have pulverised me.

Only silence calls back from the wilderness.

Fiction: Necromania by Kristofferson Soriano

The Literary Jewels
Vol. 2, Issue 3


by Kristofferson Soriano

            He couldn’t concentrate on what his professor in current issues was discussing. He understood the word posthumous only because his ears caught the word death. He heard him mentioned Dolphy and the National Artist Award more than three times. He looked at the professor then thought about the fact that he only got interested with Dolphy after his death; that he never actually watched a movie with the so called King of Comedy in it. Then he looked intently at the vacant chair near the door.

He raised his hand. “Sir, may I go out?”

“Why, Mr. Ilagan?”

“My stomach is aching sir.” He lied.

“Sure.” The teacher prompted him to leave.

Once outside, he was certain that he wouldn’t be able to go back to the room. Anyway, the professor had already checked the attendance. He couldn’t wait to confront her. She had to pay for what she had done to him and to Junior.

He couldn’t believe that she could afford to do such a selfish thing.

“Are you gay Dan?” His father had asked him.

It was exactly three months, one morning before he went to school, when his father had thrown him that tasteless question. Well, it’s not that he hadn’t been expecting him to ask that. He was already eighteen, but he had never introduced anyone to him as a girlfriend. He knew that his father had his first girlfriend at twelve years old and that he had expected him to break that record.

“No.” He had almost shouted.

That was when he had to start paying attention to Gina. She was the girl whose lips were always ready to smile at him everywhere at school or anywhere she just could just suddenly appear. He could never be surer that he would earn his father’s respect, because she was pretty and tall enough.

“Let’s go to the canteen.” Dan had said.

He had seen how she almost looked like she would cry when he had invited her for snacks. They had gone to the canteen without saying anything. He had been feeling totally uncomfortable while she had been playing a refrain of at long lasts in her head.

She had agreed to become his girlfriend before the snack time ended. He had to kiss her cheek before they had said their good byes. He could still remember how he had smiled sweetly at her that night, because he had been thinking of his plan to show his father his proof, but he had to wait for a few more days.

What was more vivid to his memory was what he had found after that required kiss. It was a dead cat just a block away from his house. Somebody’s car had surely rolled on it. He had inspected the cat remains. It’s either he had never seen the poor creature in the neighborhood or he had never paid as much attention. He had tried constructing the cat’s living image in his head. He had tried visualizing its bloodied eye sockets with the green eyes still in place.

“It will take time.” He had finally uttered.

He had to act fast. He remembered that with one swift motion, he had scooped it off the road with a white towel from his knapsack. He had carefully wrapped the thing and placed it in his bag. He had excitedly traced his way home. He had to skip most steps of the stairs on the way to his room.

He had entered his private space with that look on his face that could tell anyone that he would have a long sleepless night ahead of him. He had clicked the lock and only he may describe what he had been doing with those that he found—those that he had been keeping in a chest under his bed since he turned twelve.

He had seen him smiling. They had just finished eating dinner.  His father had not said anything while he and Gina were going upstairs to his room. She had agreed to sleep in his house that night. He had convinced himself more.

Many first had happened that night. He had experienced first torrid kissing and beyond that. She was his first. That night didn’t last long though. They did the deed once. It was fine, but it was not as thrilling as imagining the cat’s broken bones in the right places and the clean white and brown fur covering its entire body.

“What’s that smell?” She had asked.

“Maybe a dead rat somewhere.” He had managed to reply casually.

It was also the first time that someone violated his privacy.

“I’ll bring you home.” He didn’t have any intention of prolonging that violation. She didn’t have to stay.

“I want to stay. I’ll sleep here.” She had insisted.

“No. Dress up.” He had thrown her clothes to her.

She had dressed up.

“Maybe, that’s the reason.” He started to find reason for what she had done. She had tried to follow him for days. Of course he had managed to avoid her. He felt allergic to whatever he would have to do if he had kept that connection. He just couldn’t. He clenched his fist.

That morning that hand was a lot more careful. Tears had rolled down his cheeks upon finding out what the LBC package that had arrived earlier contained.

I’m returning this to you. I hope you are happy now.

            It was too brief—angry! Remorseless!

            He hadn’t known she got something from him that night.

            That bottle stood out among the others that she sent. Her note was wrapped around it to obviously conceal it from the courier staff inspection.

            “She will see how angry I can be!” Again, told to his self. He was walking auto-mode.

            He stopped at the front of her door.

           “Gina!” He shouted while knocking.

           “We need to talk…” He lowered his volume. He turned the door knob. It’s open.

           He went in only to be greeted by a familiar smell.

           His heart beat raced.

           He rushed to where the stench was coming from. The room was dark but he could trace her silhouette. He turned the light on. She was there alright. She was about a meter from her room’s ceiling.

           She hanged herself.

           He took her from the rope.

It was the first time he ever felt so much loss.

Tears rolled down again on his cheeks. He never knew that they had that much connection. Just that morning, she had received from her his child. He felt so much love for the baby from one of the peanut butter bottles. He felt loss too, but not as much now that he was staring at her lifelessness. For the first time, he was not thinking about reconstructing her pink cheekbones in his head. He didn’t have a hard time remembering how attentive she had always looked despite his not saying a single word to her while they were having their snack at the school cafeteria.

He blamed himself. It was his fault.

For the first time, a roll of what ifs ran in his head. For the first time, he constructed a future with her. He envisioned a happy house—him providing for his family, him kissing Gina’s lips after work, him telling moral stories to his kid, his whole imaginary family kneeling at the front of the crucifix on the altar—when it was already very late.