Sunil Sharma
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Sunil Sharma is currently Vice-principal and Reader, Department
of English, Model College—an A-grade college affiliated to the
University of Mumbai—MIDC, Dombivli (East), in District Thane,
state of Maharashtra, India. He is a bilingual critic, poet, literary
interviewer, editor, translator, essayist and fiction writer. Some of
his short stories and poems have already appeared in
prestigious journals like: New Woman (Mumbai), Creative
Saplings, Muse India (both of them e-zines), the Seva Bharati
Journal of English Studies (West Bengal), Indian Literature (of
Sahitya Akademy, New Delhi), Indian Literary Panorama
(Mumbai), Contemporary Vibes (Chandigarh), The Plebian Rag
(USA), and Indian Journal of Post-colonial Literatures (Kerala),
Kritya (online). Besides that, he is a freelance journalist in
English. His areas of strength are Marxism, Literary Theory and
Cultural Studies. His book on the Philosophy of the Novel—A
Marxist Critique is already published. His debut novel—
Minotaurch—is forthcoming from Jaipur (India). He can be
contacted on +91-9819997123 or through email at: drsharma.
sunil@gmail.com
of English, Model College—an A-grade college affiliated to the
University of Mumbai—MIDC, Dombivli (East), in District Thane,
state of Maharashtra, India. He is a bilingual critic, poet, literary
interviewer, editor, translator, essayist and fiction writer. Some of
his short stories and poems have already appeared in
prestigious journals like: New Woman (Mumbai), Creative
Saplings, Muse India (both of them e-zines), the Seva Bharati
Journal of English Studies (West Bengal), Indian Literature (of
Sahitya Akademy, New Delhi), Indian Literary Panorama
(Mumbai), Contemporary Vibes (Chandigarh), The Plebian Rag
(USA), and Indian Journal of Post-colonial Literatures (Kerala),
Kritya (online). Besides that, he is a freelance journalist in
English. His areas of strength are Marxism, Literary Theory and
Cultural Studies. His book on the Philosophy of the Novel—A
Marxist Critique is already published. His debut novel—
Minotaurch—is forthcoming from Jaipur (India). He can be
contacted on +91-9819997123 or through email at: drsharma.
sunil@gmail.com
The Cacti, a Short Story by Sunil Sharma
My elder brother has an impressive collection of the sturdy cacti!
More than 300! He told me excitedly. More are on the way.
This was a pleasant discovery for me. I hardly knew about his strange hobby of
collecting cacti—among other flowering colourful plants, why he selected the
cactus as his fave garden plant is a mystery still unsolved for me—and keeping
them in his wide penthouse terrace garden. But how will I know? I was visiting him
after more than five years. In fact, I was never invited earlier also, at his new posh
home, at Backway Reclamation, the upscale section of Mumbai. This Sunday
afternoon, I was part of a small family reunion. Small: my only younger sister was
the other member. It was raining very hard, the way it can rain in the coastal
Mumbai only. Cold sheets of water hung down from the gray sky like some badly-
stitched gargantuan shimmering curtains flapping on the overcrowded drenched
city. Totally wet and shivering, I reached his flat, cleared by the security, first at the
ground floor and then, by his secretary and a suspicious body guard. The
opulence of the 3000-feet 5-room apartment left me speechless. I felt inferior and
insignificant before the luxurious furnishings and well coordinated colour schemes
of the walls and matching plush interiors. Then I saw slim Ketki, draped in a saree,
quietly sitting in the covered terrace, enjoying the rain and the view of the Arabian
Sea from the top floor of the costly high-rise.
“Come on, bro!” she said. I sat down in the nearest lounge chair, unaccustomed to
the luxury.
“How are you?” I asked.
“I am good. And you?”
“Not bad, either.” Her tone was flat, neutral, devoid of any emotion. She continued
to stare at the bulging sea…to avoid eye contact or small talk.
We remained silent. The heavy rain droned on. The twisted sea was angrily
lashing out at the sea wall. The mist reduced the vision.
“So you have come, at last!” the booming voice was heard first, followed by my
elder brother’s corpulent body. I stood up. We shook hands. Then sat down
again…just like that.
“Is it not strange we live in same city and hardly talk or meet?” Said my elder
brother, gold gleaming on his neck and hands. “I decided to have a family reunion
to-day to catch up,” He said. We did not say anything.
Our last meeting was not very cordial. Lots of arguments and counter arguments,
serving no purpose. Ketki had married a Muslim colleague in her bank and almost
severed relations with me, after her conversion to Islam.
“Let us all forget old differences and begin anew. We are family,” declared
Prakash, my brother. Ketki just nodded. Her in-laws were rich. She was three years
in Saudi along with her husband and earned lot of money there. I was told so by
one of her colleagues.
“Before the food is served, let me show you my priceless cacti collection,” Said
Prakash. He acted as our willing guide, on this educational tour of this columnar
ribbed species spread out before us. He was giving a swift commentary about the
species like a pro.
There are almost 2000 known varieties of this species, often used as ornamental
plants for homes and gardens. Little maintenance for them. A favorite everywhere
in the world with the landscapers and decorators. His private and expensive
collection included major types of the flowery plant. There was the fascinating San
Pedro Cactus of 6” and 12” cuttings; the ribbed Peruvian Torch Cactus, the Barrel,
Fishhook, Hedgehog, Prickly Pear, Totem Pole; then a mix of the different regular
types followed. There were the desert, seashore, and mountain varieties of the
hardy cacti and succulents, contrastingly arranged in a sloping landscaped
garden, giving the concrete terrace an exotic, surreal look.
He could not finish off the little tour in the garden. Between cacti and his constant
business calls from the Gulf, he could not complete the oral presentation on this
elevated flowery paradise of his. Many important clients were calling. Lakhs of
rupees were at stake. So, we all returned to our lounge chairs and plopped down
on them, watching the rain beat a fierce Arabian Sea from a great and safe height.
Before lunch, Ketki presented a diamond pin to Prakash, as a little gift from a
remembering young sister. I felt like an idiot. I had not bought even a rose for him. I
never felt the need for a formality.
“You came by car?” Prakash asked Ketki. Pleased with the gift.
“Yes. A BMW.”
“Wow! Saudi proved to be lucky to you.”
“Yes. So did Iqbal. I am very happy with him. His family is very nice.”
“And you?” Prakash asked me, suddenly.
“I came by bus.” I said, feeling low, in this sudden display of recently-acquired
wealth. A nobody!
“No problem. My Mercedes will drop you home, in this rain. Where do you live
these days? The same stinking primitive place?” I nodded sheepishly. He smirked.
“Leave that shabby far-off place now. Too down market and distant from Mumbai.
Think big. Why you stuck up in that damn location for last ten years. Be bold. Take
risk like me. I started like you. Now, look at me,” and he continued a narrative that I
ceased listening suddenly, closing my ears to his croaking voice dripping with
arrogance and contempt for people like me.
Suddenly, this family reunion looked staged. It looked artificial, empty, and sterile
for me. I realized we can never meet now. Our priorities have changed. We were
no longer family but a bunch of fierce competitors. They were the top; I was the
bottom of the social hierarchy. Money has seeped into the traditional Indian
psyche in a big way. Blood ties, important two decades ago in the family-oriented
India, were replaced by the cash nexus. Relations were getting measured on that
monetary scale only. I stood no chance---a poor high-school Hindi literature
teacher, living in a remote suburb of glossy Mumbai. They talked earlier from a
bleeding heart and understood my struggles as a poorly-paid teacher of literature
in a money-crazy society. Now, they spoke a different language. It was the
discourse of power and domination; a social position created by wealth that divided
us three unevenly, within the once-close family of common strugglers, glued
together by a shared humble house, a happy past and common family bonds. The
two had hit it big. I was the typical underdog, teaching poetry to a bored class of
the deprived kids, in a leaking municipal school with the broken glass and windows,
standing quietly in a derelict corner, amid the urban squalor. Even if I wanted to
talk to them about my hurts and pains and humiliations and helpless fury and
frustrations, that was no longer possible, in the changed context now. In their eyes
they had grown vertically, while I had shrunk down. Gold, penthouse and cacti
combo has turned them into my superiors, if not exactly my adversaries. The whole
thing looked so unreal. Genuine dialogue was not possible with them. There was
no heart in the remains of this unequal relationship between a brother, sister and
brother and brother. There was no chance of any renewal of the lost relation or
recovery of the earlier innocence. This realization made my weak heart heavy with
silent grief of a mourning mom for her dead son.
Certain relationships can never be repaired, howsoever you wish, as they come to
be based on different standards, expectations and yardsticks of life. The natural
ties have been usurped by Sensex. The world belongs to the rich only. Others are
trash.
When, finding no response from thinking me, he turned around and faced me
directly: the lips open, teeth visible in that half-open mouth. I saw…for a full
horrible second…cacti growing in his broad face… sprouting in his furrowed
forehead, mean glittering eyes, narrow mouth, wide hairy nostrils, sloping ears,
squashed nose and the receding Chimp chin…lots of cacti growing on him, burying
his human features… cacti bursting out from every crevice and hole, in a pulsating
continual formation, finally drowning him, in that hissing convulsing sea of live
desert cacti, swallowing his human features one-by-one, spilling out and
moving…till they overran the entire expensive place.
Then, the cacti attacked my sister, the slim and arrogant Ketki and invaded her
person and turned her also into a garden of the same species!
Still, they were not satisfied. They continued to nibble away.
The whole set up was finally gobbled up by the tall marching cacti, touching and
turning the costly furnishings and objects and the flat into tall ribbed cacti only.
Soon, the place became a cold bleak Mexican desert of columnar cacti only,
growing into 15 feet of height. Nothing human, only the plants.
Dali would have loved to paint that strange transformation of a human duo into
serrated tall thorny plants… that strange scene that still unsettles and makes me
wonder if my brother and sister are another variety of the cactus plant that can
grow in the splendour of a lonely desert only.
My elder brother has an impressive collection of the sturdy cacti!
More than 300! He told me excitedly. More are on the way.
This was a pleasant discovery for me. I hardly knew about his strange hobby of
collecting cacti—among other flowering colourful plants, why he selected the
cactus as his fave garden plant is a mystery still unsolved for me—and keeping
them in his wide penthouse terrace garden. But how will I know? I was visiting him
after more than five years. In fact, I was never invited earlier also, at his new posh
home, at Backway Reclamation, the upscale section of Mumbai. This Sunday
afternoon, I was part of a small family reunion. Small: my only younger sister was
the other member. It was raining very hard, the way it can rain in the coastal
Mumbai only. Cold sheets of water hung down from the gray sky like some badly-
stitched gargantuan shimmering curtains flapping on the overcrowded drenched
city. Totally wet and shivering, I reached his flat, cleared by the security, first at the
ground floor and then, by his secretary and a suspicious body guard. The
opulence of the 3000-feet 5-room apartment left me speechless. I felt inferior and
insignificant before the luxurious furnishings and well coordinated colour schemes
of the walls and matching plush interiors. Then I saw slim Ketki, draped in a saree,
quietly sitting in the covered terrace, enjoying the rain and the view of the Arabian
Sea from the top floor of the costly high-rise.
“Come on, bro!” she said. I sat down in the nearest lounge chair, unaccustomed to
the luxury.
“How are you?” I asked.
“I am good. And you?”
“Not bad, either.” Her tone was flat, neutral, devoid of any emotion. She continued
to stare at the bulging sea…to avoid eye contact or small talk.
We remained silent. The heavy rain droned on. The twisted sea was angrily
lashing out at the sea wall. The mist reduced the vision.
“So you have come, at last!” the booming voice was heard first, followed by my
elder brother’s corpulent body. I stood up. We shook hands. Then sat down
again…just like that.
“Is it not strange we live in same city and hardly talk or meet?” Said my elder
brother, gold gleaming on his neck and hands. “I decided to have a family reunion
to-day to catch up,” He said. We did not say anything.
Our last meeting was not very cordial. Lots of arguments and counter arguments,
serving no purpose. Ketki had married a Muslim colleague in her bank and almost
severed relations with me, after her conversion to Islam.
“Let us all forget old differences and begin anew. We are family,” declared
Prakash, my brother. Ketki just nodded. Her in-laws were rich. She was three years
in Saudi along with her husband and earned lot of money there. I was told so by
one of her colleagues.
“Before the food is served, let me show you my priceless cacti collection,” Said
Prakash. He acted as our willing guide, on this educational tour of this columnar
ribbed species spread out before us. He was giving a swift commentary about the
species like a pro.
There are almost 2000 known varieties of this species, often used as ornamental
plants for homes and gardens. Little maintenance for them. A favorite everywhere
in the world with the landscapers and decorators. His private and expensive
collection included major types of the flowery plant. There was the fascinating San
Pedro Cactus of 6” and 12” cuttings; the ribbed Peruvian Torch Cactus, the Barrel,
Fishhook, Hedgehog, Prickly Pear, Totem Pole; then a mix of the different regular
types followed. There were the desert, seashore, and mountain varieties of the
hardy cacti and succulents, contrastingly arranged in a sloping landscaped
garden, giving the concrete terrace an exotic, surreal look.
He could not finish off the little tour in the garden. Between cacti and his constant
business calls from the Gulf, he could not complete the oral presentation on this
elevated flowery paradise of his. Many important clients were calling. Lakhs of
rupees were at stake. So, we all returned to our lounge chairs and plopped down
on them, watching the rain beat a fierce Arabian Sea from a great and safe height.
Before lunch, Ketki presented a diamond pin to Prakash, as a little gift from a
remembering young sister. I felt like an idiot. I had not bought even a rose for him. I
never felt the need for a formality.
“You came by car?” Prakash asked Ketki. Pleased with the gift.
“Yes. A BMW.”
“Wow! Saudi proved to be lucky to you.”
“Yes. So did Iqbal. I am very happy with him. His family is very nice.”
“And you?” Prakash asked me, suddenly.
“I came by bus.” I said, feeling low, in this sudden display of recently-acquired
wealth. A nobody!
“No problem. My Mercedes will drop you home, in this rain. Where do you live
these days? The same stinking primitive place?” I nodded sheepishly. He smirked.
“Leave that shabby far-off place now. Too down market and distant from Mumbai.
Think big. Why you stuck up in that damn location for last ten years. Be bold. Take
risk like me. I started like you. Now, look at me,” and he continued a narrative that I
ceased listening suddenly, closing my ears to his croaking voice dripping with
arrogance and contempt for people like me.
Suddenly, this family reunion looked staged. It looked artificial, empty, and sterile
for me. I realized we can never meet now. Our priorities have changed. We were
no longer family but a bunch of fierce competitors. They were the top; I was the
bottom of the social hierarchy. Money has seeped into the traditional Indian
psyche in a big way. Blood ties, important two decades ago in the family-oriented
India, were replaced by the cash nexus. Relations were getting measured on that
monetary scale only. I stood no chance---a poor high-school Hindi literature
teacher, living in a remote suburb of glossy Mumbai. They talked earlier from a
bleeding heart and understood my struggles as a poorly-paid teacher of literature
in a money-crazy society. Now, they spoke a different language. It was the
discourse of power and domination; a social position created by wealth that divided
us three unevenly, within the once-close family of common strugglers, glued
together by a shared humble house, a happy past and common family bonds. The
two had hit it big. I was the typical underdog, teaching poetry to a bored class of
the deprived kids, in a leaking municipal school with the broken glass and windows,
standing quietly in a derelict corner, amid the urban squalor. Even if I wanted to
talk to them about my hurts and pains and humiliations and helpless fury and
frustrations, that was no longer possible, in the changed context now. In their eyes
they had grown vertically, while I had shrunk down. Gold, penthouse and cacti
combo has turned them into my superiors, if not exactly my adversaries. The whole
thing looked so unreal. Genuine dialogue was not possible with them. There was
no heart in the remains of this unequal relationship between a brother, sister and
brother and brother. There was no chance of any renewal of the lost relation or
recovery of the earlier innocence. This realization made my weak heart heavy with
silent grief of a mourning mom for her dead son.
Certain relationships can never be repaired, howsoever you wish, as they come to
be based on different standards, expectations and yardsticks of life. The natural
ties have been usurped by Sensex. The world belongs to the rich only. Others are
trash.
When, finding no response from thinking me, he turned around and faced me
directly: the lips open, teeth visible in that half-open mouth. I saw…for a full
horrible second…cacti growing in his broad face… sprouting in his furrowed
forehead, mean glittering eyes, narrow mouth, wide hairy nostrils, sloping ears,
squashed nose and the receding Chimp chin…lots of cacti growing on him, burying
his human features… cacti bursting out from every crevice and hole, in a pulsating
continual formation, finally drowning him, in that hissing convulsing sea of live
desert cacti, swallowing his human features one-by-one, spilling out and
moving…till they overran the entire expensive place.
Then, the cacti attacked my sister, the slim and arrogant Ketki and invaded her
person and turned her also into a garden of the same species!
Still, they were not satisfied. They continued to nibble away.
The whole set up was finally gobbled up by the tall marching cacti, touching and
turning the costly furnishings and objects and the flat into tall ribbed cacti only.
Soon, the place became a cold bleak Mexican desert of columnar cacti only,
growing into 15 feet of height. Nothing human, only the plants.
Dali would have loved to paint that strange transformation of a human duo into
serrated tall thorny plants… that strange scene that still unsettles and makes me
wonder if my brother and sister are another variety of the cactus plant that can
grow in the splendour of a lonely desert only.