Dignity and Other Stories

By SmitaBe

When nothing's going right, someone's gotta give. Three unusual stories of perseverance, tenacity and cleverness, with surprising endings. 

 

Dignity: Formerly published in Writer's Guild. A journalist has a chance encounter with a young woman in a government office. The woman's disturbing past makes the journalist question everything she believes in and stands for. 

 

Paper Cut" Formerly published in The Junction. In a rich neighbourhood of Mumbai, two scrap dealers are facing destitute times. Supply is limited, costs are rising, and they're competing against each other on the same turf. But desperate times deem desperate measures, and redemption comes in the only possible way.

 

The Priest's Concubine: Formerly published in Planet Scumm. A priest and his wife rule a small, isolated village with an iron hand, using the smokescreens of religion and superstition. Until one of their victims turns the tables on them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SmitaBe
• Release date: Jun 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201565053

Book preview

1

Dignity

‘It must be cool down there?’

I said that with a smirk on my face, only because I was irritated. Honest. I’m not one to scoff at the poor and downtrodden. I feel for their plight, feel sympathy and all that. I’m not unkind.

She looked up startled.

No,’ she replied simply. ‘It’s hot here too.’

I’d asked the question in broken Hindi and she’d replied in English. I felt somewhat ashamed.

‘Why are you sitting on the floor?’ I asked in English this time, slowly though, unsure if she really understood the language or the last time had been a fluke.

‘I’m used to it,’ she said. ‘I prefer it.’ Then lowering her head, she drew an indistinct shape on the floor.

We were the only two people in that corridor. She had looked up when I’d walked in. She had to. The new pair of heels I had on were clapping like thunder on the freshly mopped floor.

She’d looked at me and smiled. A soft, benign smile. Our eyes had met. I’d missed a step. Or two.

They were remarkable eyes. In her small, oval face, everything was small and knew their place. Her eyes though were big. Sparkling and overpowering. Of endless depth. Eyes that had seen everything of this world, and thus sought something beyond.

Seated on the empty wooden bench next to her, I took a closer look. She was a frail young thing, probably in her late teens. Her face was dark, very dark, her skin luminescent, her hair oiled and pulled straight back into a tiny bun. She wore a neatly pinned yellow chiffon sari over a faded blouse, her bony arms sticking out from frayed sleeves. Every so often, she dragged her fingers through the floor, making circles and squares, then leaned back as if to admire her masterpiece, brushing against the legs of my seat.

It was a warm, sweaty day. No air-conditioner or ventilation in the corridor running past the minister's office. I fanned myself vigorously with my notepad and grumbled about the heat, the traffic, the pesky guard outside who’d given me a lecherous once-over before waving me to pass inside. I talked to no one in particular, I think I merely thought all of these, but the girl next to me nodded and smiled, so I must’ve said at least a few of them aloud.

Fifteen minutes passed. No word from the minister’s underlings. I had a story to file by afternoon.

‘How much longer?’ I complained to my nails.

‘He’ll be busy until noon signing papers and talking on the phone,’ the girl at my feet murmured. ‘September is a busy month for them.’