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A Window Seat
A Window Seat
A Window Seat
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A Window Seat

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When a dying corporate professional escapes into a train to somewhere, he finds himself become a storyteller of old mythological tales. Tagging along is ten year old Hari who is looking for his parents he lost in the trains.
Together their adventures lead them to debating with priests, dancing with eunuchs, sharing meals and conversing casually about death with random strangers.
A runaway wife tags along with these annoying mavericks. Taking her first train she is all ready to be an actress.
That night, what begins as a harmless conversations changes their fate completely.
What makes them gold on to each other for longer? Do they find what they were looking for? What happens when they bump into each other few years later? But do all of them make it alive?
A window seat is all about those conversations with strangers that seem to change you unknowingly.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateAug 23, 2022
ISBN9789352016198
A Window Seat
Author

Vishala Katta

Vishala Katta writes about the untold stories that ordinary people carry on their shoulders. She finds extreme gleeful childlike pleasure in conversations with strangers and other creatures that choose to respond.Originally, an engineer, she set out to pursue her love for Communications at Mudra Institute of Communication, (MICA) Ahmedabad. She is currently residing in Delhi doing her daily corporate grind as a marketing and communications professional. While most of her day is spent on her seat at work, the rest of the time she is busy lecturing her better half about feminism and travelling to places with the sound of water.

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    A Window Seat - Vishala Katta

    A Window Seat

    VISHALA KATTA

    ISBN 978-93-52016-19-8

    Copyright © Vishala Katta, 2016

    First published in India 2016 by Frog Books

    An imprint of Leadstart Publishing Pvt Ltd

    1 Level, Trade Centre

    Bandra Kurla Complex

    Bandra (East) Mumbai 400 051 India

    Telephone: +91-22-40700804

    Fax: +91-22-40700800

    Email: info@leadstartcorp.com

    www.leadstartcorp.com / www.frogbooks.net

    Sales Office:

    Unit No. 25/26, Building No. A/1,

    Near Wadala RTO,

    Wadala (East), Mumbai – 400037 India

    Phone: ++91 22 24046887

    US Office:

    Axis Corp, 7845 E Oakbrook Circle

    Madison, WI 53717 USA

    All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

    Disclaimer: The Views expressed in this book are those of the Author and do not pertain to be held by the Publisher.

    Editor: Rajan Bhatia

    Cover: Swapnil Singh

    Layouts: Logiciels Info Solutions Pvt. Ltd.

    Typeset in Palatino Linotype

    Printed at Repro

    Dedicated to Amma and Nana (my parents)

    ABOUT THE AUTHOR

    Vishala Katta writes about the untold stories that ordinary people carry on their shoulders. She finds extreme gleeful childlike pleasure in conversations with strangers and other creatures that choose to respond.

    Originally, an engineer, she set out to pursue her love for Communications at Mudra Institute of Communication, (MICA) Ahmedabad. She is currently residing in Delhi doing her daily corporate grind as a marketing and communications professional. While most of her day is spent on her seat at work, the rest of the time she is busy lecturing her better half about feminism and travelling to places with the sound of water.

    ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

    Sourabh, thank you for taking up my months of oblivious behaviour as I buried myself into my laptop, typing furiously everything running in my head. Your critique (which I needed so badly), foresight (you were a time machine for the characters) and motivation, pushed me to the last mile. My dear husband, thank you.

    Amma, Nana, and Bhagirath, you have all been so integral in making me who I am. With your support, I escaped into the world of musty old books and magnetic libraries. Brainstorming with book names and plot ideas systematically, patiently over the years we got here. Didn’t we? Thank you.

    Rajan - my dear editor, in your reign I have newfound respect for the intricacies of grammar and words. With your constant push, I eventually found my thoughts clearer and my plots somewhat compulsively satisfying.

    Thank you many friends and well-wishers who promptly read every chapter as soon as I wrote them while I nagged them for their reviews. You all know who you are.

    Thank you, every common man, for your infectious ability to cherish the small privileges we all walk into, but don’t appreciate enough.

    CONTENTS

    About the Author

    Acknowledgements

    1.  Is It Really You?

    2.  An Escape Awaits

    3.  Everybody’s changing

    4.  What you Resist, Persists

    5.  Conversations build Impressions

    6.  There’s no going back now

    7.  I’m here

    8.  Just being yourself

    9.  There are loads Of Free lunches

    10.  A Sudden Freedom

    11.  A Rendezvous

    12.  You better mind your business

    13.  My dreams are more important

    14.  Looking for Money

    15.  Follow your Impulse

    16.  Everyone unites against Death

    17.  Everyone gets what they want

    18.  Miracles Happen

    19.  It’s all coming back to me now

    1

    IS IT REALLY YOU?

    Ma’am you’re really late, he said, glancing at his watch, admiring the prettiest woman he had ever seen.

    There’s no such thing as really late, said the brown-eyed face that had launched hundreds of movies and brands.

    Her bodyguard opened the door for her, while she stepped out balancing her shades on her head, a purse in one hand, and a mobile phone in another. Her skin was spotless and white, while her hair was straight and black reaching her waist, as it dangled near her navel, revealed from her sari. Her heels were red and pointed, carrying the petite little powerhouse that she was.

    Stop staring! she joked, as she adjusted the pleats of her perfect white sari, showing her rather sculpted collar bone, peeping from her bright red blouse, staring at the world outside.

    I am late by just 30 minutes, she said, surprised at the outburst. Nobody had ever asked her why she was late.

    She looked at the tall and muscular boy in front of her, dressed in a crisp white shirt and black jeans. He is just a boy, she told herself, observing his pimples and half-formed beard. Was he running this world-renowned orphanage?

    Ma’am, but the kids are hungry, he retorted, oblivious about her stardom. She could not make the kids wait.

    Well why are they hungry? she asked mindlessly, as they walked into the gates of the orphanage.

    Spread across many acres, Miracle Foundation was a different kind of school. Housing over 300 orphans, who were abandoned on the streets or roaming in trains, buses and shelters, Miracle Foundation was a godsend to many. The school had a different style of teaching, with special emphasis on sports, languages and music, the focus was on real learning rather than stipulated syllabuses. Kids could attend any classes they liked, depending on their likes and dislikes. Besides the general education basics, the kids were encouraged to excel in life sciences and arts. In the last five years, two footballers and one young researcher had graduated from Miracle. The kids were so well trained that after a few years, many of them were self-sufficient with their skills. Some of them even opted out of being adopted.

    Hari walked alongside the actor, as he led her to the large iron gate of the school. She could see a huge playground with basketball, cricket, and baseball pitches. Within the other end of the playground was a large castle like set up, which probably housed the classes and the dormitories. It looked like a university from a dream movie!

    Ma’am they eat only after their story telling session, he said, wondering why she did not remember that.

    He had told her that many times during their earlier phone conversations.

    Yes...yes, I remember your team contacted us for this, she said dreamily.

    Ask them to eat, then, she said, putting her shades back on her eyes and quickening her pace, along with the very young, almost boyish teenager, Hari, who seemed to sprint faster than she could.

    I am wearing heels, can you walk a little slowly? she requested.

    Her entourage was asked to stay in the car, while she and the boy sped faster inside the complex. They had to cross the entire playground before they could get to the castle, she told herself.

    Ma’am, you can hold them in your hands and run with me, he offered rather boorishly.

    Who does that? she quipped, angry at the unprofessionalism and the sudden sun burning their heads.

    Where is the guy, Mr Nair right? He owns Miracle right? she asked, demanding to meet him.

    She was walking slowly, while the visibly agitated boy walked along with her.

    Mr Nair is busy with the evening preparations. After the story telling, we have our Annual Sports Event, he said.

    Well you could have asked the kids to eat, she said, almost not feeling guilty.

    Ma’am we teach them ‘Athithidevo Bhav’ meaning guest are like gods. They will wait for you to have your first bite, only after which they eat, he added with pride.

    He seemed to have been associated with the cause for a long time, she told herself.

    Young kids are now taking up meaningful jobs, rather than the general corporate jobs, she noted mentally.

    How old are you? she asked, while they walked side by side on the ground, a few minutes away from the school.

    I’m 20, he said.

    And you are working here full time? she asked, wondering why he did not take up the other jobs in the city. Why would one want to spend their youth in a village, far flung from the cities and with orphans?

    Yes, he added with pride.

    Family? she enquired.

    No.

    Accident? she prodded.

    Kind of, he offered.

    Girlfriend? she asked him, while keeping pace with him, as they began to enter the school.

    No. Never found the one, he said, What about you Ma’am?

    Ha...I have hundreds of prospects, she said, tossing her hair from the left to the right, rather carefully.

    But nobody is interesting enough for me. It’s as if they are not man enough. Most of them do what I ask them to. Boring isn’t? she asked, wondering if the young generation related to this.

    Ha! he smiled suddenly.

    But really, I don’t want to wait for a man to do what I want to do, she blurted.

    She was feeling rather relaxed without her entourage. And today was one of those different days. She would be reading stories to the kids at the orphanage. Her PR team had told her it was good for her image. But frankly, she was excited to see how the other side of her star-studded glamour world would be.

    I really look up to self-made leaders. Especially people like you, who have come from nowhere and made it really big, he said.

    Everybody knew she had been a small town girl.

    Maybe, she said, not sure, what he knew about her past.

    You are not star struck. I see people hesitate and stutter in front of me, she questioned rather genuinely.

    The boy smiled. Ma’am everybody is equal here! he said, and frankly, I haven’t seen any of your movies.

    What! she screeched, surprised.

    Wow, it’s been long since I have met common people you know, she said.

    Oh I’m common now? he smirked, But yes you are more sensible than you show, ma’am.

    Oh, don’t say that outside. The media loves arrogance, you see! she laughed, feeling relaxed with none of her entourage around.

    With her entourage, she could never show her real side. She would be snooty, demanding, and generally strict. But without them, she could be her, as if she was in the bed every night, alone.

    So I heard you like travelling? he asked her, while they walked towards the assembly hall of the orphanage. She could see large life size framed photographs of kids, who may have passed out from the school.

    Oh, I travel mostly for shoots and inaugurations, she said, walking swiftly with him.

    She was excited to see the kids. She had a story in mind. Something kids would love to hear. She would read it out from her phone with all her dramatic accents, if needed!

    Ma’am have you ever travelled in trains? he asked.

    Never! she lied.

    She remembered every bit of her travel in the train that she had taken 10 years ago. And after coming to Mumbai, she had never looked back.

    Ma’am not even during your childhood? It’s a lovely experience you must! he said.

    Maybe I should do a movie in a train! she said, smiling at her own intelligence.

    Ma’am you would know so many stories from your movies! he said, beginning to prep her for the upcoming storytelling.

    They were already late. He quickened his pace, while she attempted to walk faster.

    Oh I have many! she said, now feeling nervous. She was accustomed to shoots, dances, and martial arts. But engaging kids would be a first to her.

    What’s your name? she asked.

    Hari, he replied, walking faster.

    Ha-ha... that’s a rather boring name, she said.

    What’s your real name ma’am? asked Hari.

    Someday, I’ll tell you kid, she said, smiling at the warm memory of who she was before.

    Well people say you came from a really small town and established everything yourself. That’s amazing you know, he said, gently.

    Well! she hesitated, not always ready to speak about her past.

    You are way more mature than your age, she said, adding quickly, So where is this story telling session?

    He caught her by her hand to take her through a door on the left, which was slightly low roofed. He bent down now, holding her hand lightly to take her though. The feeling was electric. His hands were soft and big. Hers were sturdy and small. And it felt as if they knew each other.

    He let go of her hand as soon as they emerged from the door onto a huge assembly hall.

    As soon as they entered, they were greeted by a huge roar of, Good afternoon Madam, as the kids ran towards them, hugging their favourite Hari and folding their hands in front of the guest.

    She looked around at the kids, who were rather smartly dressed. Many of them had nice hairstyles. Each of them held a mug of milk and a plate with snacks. They seemed to be waiting for her before they could eat!

    A little girl quickly ran and hugged her by her knees, looked up and said, Aunty please eat with us, as she gave her a small plate, with the same snacks that they were eating.

    They have made this plate for you, said Hari, pointing out at the chocolates and snacks neatly piled up.

    Thank you! she said exhilarated at the love. But don’t’ call me Aunty! she corrected the kids.

    The little girl ran back to her friends, who were all sitting by colourful desks and chairs.

    She stood at a distance, looking at them.

    What story today Hari Sir? they shouted in unison at Hari, who was their daily company for storytelling.

    Today, she will be telling you all a story! he said, looking at her standing at a distance.

    Please come here, he directed to one of the top actors of India.

    She seemed to feel a familiarity with him. It felt as if he knew who she was. But she couldn’t remember who he was. Why did he behave as if he knew her? She walked towards him and the kids.

    Ma’am, tell us a real story, they demanded.

    I don’t know real stories! she said, looking at Hari. She had fairy tales and movie scripts. But no real story.

    Ma’am you know so many, he said, looking up at her.

    No, I don’t. But I can read an almost real story, she said, looking at the kids around her.

    She almost forgot she had to eat, while she quickly took a bite of the chocolate wafer.

    Yay, the kids shrieked, beginning to eat from their plates.

    Ma’am what about the story of a ghost in a train? he hinted suddenly, while she stood a few meters away.

    She froze. How did he know about that? Or was it just a co-incidence?

    What story are you talking about? she asked, surprised.

    Remember that night in the train? he said in a breath, almost as if he rehearsed it many times.

    No? she said.

    Remember Stalin? he asked, looking at her dearly.

    What! she said.

    Isn’t that you Kuhu? said Hari.

    What? she said again surprised that he knew her name.

    She was shocked. Somebody knew the real her. Her past was so well hidden from the media and her friends. Nobody had ever known where she came from or what she did before. She wondered while her heart beat faster and sweat drops collected around her lips.

    You know me? she said with her guard down, completely.

    Kuhu, I’m Hari! The kid you met in the train 10 years ago! he said, gushing with all his heart.

    Was it really him? Had it been that long? That little boy was all grown up now. It was so long ago. Her past had never caught her up like this. Sometimes, she wondered if she would bump into her parents, her husband, or the few others she had known. But she had never thought she would meet this boy again. She wondered about the other man with them. Did he make it? She thought about them every day for the past few years.

    Kuhu looked at Hari. She couldn’t help think about the other gentleman she had met that night with him.

    She quickly removed her heels, tucked her sari by her navel, and sat down cross-legged on a small dais.

    Hari sat next to her, while the kids surrounded them in a circle, waiting to hear a real story.

    And thus began the real story of Hari, Kuhu, and Stalin.

    2

    AN ESCAPE AWAITS

    The train rambled through the gangster city of Khawali. The eagle’s shrill shrieks sang along with the trains ‘chuk chuk’, as a special effect. If you ask anyone they’d say, What chuk chuk? The sound of the trains is engrained into our DNA, as if it’s a part of our heartbeats.

    The heat scorched onto the train, as if the deserts were not enough. The ever loud and animated sleeper classes of the Bhuj Express saw a din. The heat seemed to penetrate the turbans of the men. It made the women hide behind their pallu’s wishing for air, while the kids roamed half-naked in the train, running from one corner to another.

    One such urchin was hoping to climb his way into B2, the air conditioned coach from the sleeper class, hanging on the train windows, travelling like a lizard from one coach to another. His circus feats were overlooked by people in the train, while some cheered him and sympathizing mothers scolded him, while he passed by the windows. It looked as if a boring afternoon ride just became more fun with his monkey antics. Teenage boys cheered by the door, while the urchin refused to stop at the doors. He kept travelling, swinging his hands by the windows and doors to reach the AC coach B2 that seemed just a few swings away!

    On the other end of B2, standing by the door was the tallest man Hari had ever seen. He was as tall as the door of the train, standing in a cream colour kurta, wearing black sun glasses and puffing a beedi sending huge smoke circles out, as if accompanying the trains own chug. His curly hair dangled from his head, almost carelessly, like a climber seen in the balconies of the houses of rich men and women. He looked as if he had just come from a city and was travelling to some other place important.

    As the train sped through, the tall man heard the commotion in the next bogie, spotting a young boy trying his best to balance his way into B2 from the sleeper coaches. The boy had courageously balanced, while the dry winds of Kutch blew past him, peeling some of his skin into the air. He held one hand on the train window grill and the other reaching for the AC coach. His entire height must have been lesser than the distance he wished to cross. All he needed was one pull into the coach by the tall man standing at the door. The tall man extended his hand forward to which the urchin shrugged his head vigorously.

    The curly haired man looked at him, amused at his death defying antics. The people in the other coaches were still cheering and clapping, while he stayed suspended in between the sleeper coach and B2, waiting for a miracle. The boy’s black marble like eyes, wheatish skin,

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