My Interview with Ravish Kumar
I am so grateful to have interviewed Ravish Kumar, one of India’s best-known journalists and the winner of the prestigious Magsaysay award. He is known not only for being a television star, but also for raising issues that no one else raises. He spoke to me about media today and what young journalists need to do to prepare for the profession.
The State of the LGBTQ+ Community in India
Previously published in Outlook.
Recently, an ad for a fairness cream which showed a couple fasting on Karwa Chauth was taken down after strong protests. If you thought that people were protesting because they found fairness creams or even Karwa Chauth regressive, you would be wrong. The reason that the ad was so objectionable, so offensive, was that it featured a lesbian couple fasting for each other on Karva Chauth. It was seen as an assault on our “ancient” culture, our glorious tradition.
But was homosexuality alien to the Indian experience? No. In the Mahabharata, a warrior in the Kurukshetra War was born a girl, but later transitioned into a man named Shikandi. Agni, the God of Fire, was married to both Svaha (a Goddess) and Soma (a God).
Homosexual and LGBTQ+ themes have been written about in ancient mythology and depicted in the designs of historical monuments for centuries. It has always been a part of India’s history. So why can’t we accept it even now?
Queerness may have been part of our mythology but homosexuality used to be considered a crime punishable by torture – their hair used to be shaved off, their fingers removed, their caste revoked. In parts of India, it was even worse – girls and women were subjected to “corrective rape” as a “cure” for being lesbians, which was prescribed by pandits, and often even their own family members.
In the late 1800s, certain sexual activities were criminalized. These included non-consensual relationships, paedophilic relationships, and (surprise, surprise!) LGBTQ+ relationships as well.
It was only in September 2018 that being gay became legal once more. But legalisation is far from acceptance.
Studies show that even in a current urban India, one of the major factors of stigmatisation of homosexuality is the reaction from one’s own family members. In many families, members of the LGBTQ+ community are only accepted if they agree to “behave like heterosexuals”.
Even if they try to be accepting, parents treat questions or discussions about homosexuality as a hush-hush topic – something that children under a certain age are, in their opinion, too young to know about or understand. But why is someone too young to understand homosexual relationships but old enough to understand heterosexual ones?
Trans people don’t have it any better. Some doctors refuse to treat trans men and women, fearing that they might get “infected” with what they consider a disease. Vyjayanti Vasanta Mogli, an Indian trans woman, has spoken about her experience after coming out. She was forced by her family to undergo “corrective therapy” in a psychiatric hospital, which she described as somewhat like a prison with high walls and electric fences where she was treated as a criminal.
The lack of support from one’s family comes as a huge blow, especially since we live in a society with a rigid social structure. You might have heard of the phrase “blood is thicker than water”. What you might not know is that the complete phrase is in fact “blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb”, meaning that bonds forged by choice are so much stronger than the ones you are born with. You can make your own family that accepts you for who you are.
While the legalisation of the LGBTQ+ community is certainly a step towards acceptance, we still have a long way to go. If you know someone who is a member of the LGBTQ+ community, please try to make them feel accepted. You never know how far some kind words can go.
Going Rogue
“Agent Bentley, can you hear me?” a crackly voice is transmitted through my earpiece.
“Yep,” I say, excited at the prospect of another mission. I have been working with Moonfire Intelligence for three years, and what can I say? I just adore the adrenaline rush that overcomes my bones every time I am assigned a new operation to complete.
“So, what do I have to do today, Hunter?” I ask, and wait for a response.
“It’s Harlow,” says my partner, Hunter Green, through the speaker. “He recently found files from our database which could ruin all our plans if he opens them. You have to track him down… and I hate to say this, but it would be dangerous to keep him alive.”
My lips part in surprise.
“You mean… kill him?” I say, shocked.
“Well, he knows too much, Rosé. Allowing him to survive would be a danger to our organisation if he’s read those files.”
Elijah Harlow is the Director of R.O.G.U.E., Moonfire Intelligence’s rival organisation. His agents mainly deal in underhanded operations, selling secrets (usually lies) against the government. Now that he’s got his hands on those files, it makes him quite a formidable foe.
No matter how formidable, however, I have never been ordered to kill any of our enemies or contenders before, so it is surprising to receive a kill order for the very first time.
“How much does he know?”
“A lot. Enough to take down our entire organisation. Mostly intel about how we built Moonfire Intelligence up from the ground, and how we get our information.”
Oh, dear. If Elijah has that data, there’s no telling what he can do.
“We’ll send another agent into the field with you,” continues Hunter, “Jeremiah Frost. Just in case you chicken out.”
I snort, shaking my head. “I never chicken out.”
I can almost hear Hunter smiling through the microphone. “We’ll see, Agent Bentley. Anyway, the operation starts tomorrow. Agent Frost will meet you outside Headquarters. Remember – take out Harlow, get our data back. Make it quick and clandestine, in and out.”
I nod, before remembering that he can’t see me, and then I quickly say yes.
I can’t wait to get back in the field.
–
I walk up to the Moonfire HeadQuarters, dressed in a plain black hoodie and jeans. In operations like this, it’s better to blend in than to stand out. If you look closely, you can probably see the faint outline of my gun underneath my hoodie, but people these days are so self-absorbed that they are unlikely to notice.
I see a scrawny boy with messy curls standing under a tree near the main entrance. I can tell that he is my new partner, Jeremiah Frost, by the emblem of a moon engulfed by flames emblazoned on his jacket. The emblem of our organisation.
I stroll over to him, as inconspicuous as possible, and he looks up as I come closer to him. He flashes me a small smile, his bright green eyes crinkling at the corners.
We walk together a few kilometres, getting closer to the place that Moonfire told us we would find Elijah Harlow. Jeremiah constantly tries to make small talk on the way, but I remain curt and abrupt (borderline rude) since I have learned from an early age never to make friends with your business partners. After an hour or so of walking, we reach a deserted, eerily quiet building – more of a shack, really. The original colour of the walls has long since faded away, covered by layers upon layers of graffiti. It seems like just the sort of shady place where Elijah would meet his cohorts.
Sure enough, about five minutes later, I spot a tall man in a suit, looking somewhat out of place in the barren area. His hair is neatly styled back, and large glasses rest on his pointed nose. Elijah Harlow.
Next to me, Jeremiah lets out a strange kind of feral growl and lunges forward at our target. He tackles Elijah to the ground, and after a few kicks to the stomach, Elijah is rendered weak, and unable to fight back. Jeremiah wraps his arms tightly around Elijah’s neck, holding him in place as I raise my gun.
Perspiration trickles down my forehead, and my nerves tingle with a strange mixture of excitement and anxiety. Taking a deep breath, I pull the trigger, and a loud BANG! fills my ears.
I watch, as he falls to the ground like a rag doll, crimson blood spurting from the wound. I’ve done it. For the first time, I have killed someone. I cannot deny the slight twinge of guilt I feel in my chest, but I know that I must always be loyal towards my organisation, and if this is what it entails… I am willing to do it.
Elijah Harlow steps over Jeremiah Frost’s lifeless body, and smiles at me.
“Well done, Agent Rosé Bentley. Welcome to R.O.G.U.E.” he says, holding out his hand.
I grab his hand, shake it, and smile.
Women and Girls in Science
If you are a girl, chances are that you’ve been told too often that “science is for boys”. I still remember someone telling my younger sister to choose dance classes over science, simply because she belonged to a different gender.
Science has always been widely regarded as something that girls are bad at, or not interested in, but in reality, ground-breaking research all over the world has been led by women. Despite their contributions to the field of science, women continue to be excluded by the gender gap. Some might say that the reason women are disregarded in the subject of science, is because ‘there aren’t many women scientists’, or ‘girls never choose science’, but the studies show otherwise.
Research shows that women are usually given much smaller research grants than men in the same field, and while they represent almost 40% of researchers, they make up a mere 12% of national science academy members. Women like Marie Curie and Rosalind Franklin have been the brilliant minds behind major scientific discoveries, and yet they are still not taken seriously by society.
In 2015, the General Assembly of the UN declared the 11th of February as ‘International Day of Women and Girls in Science’, to promote equal access to and participation in science for women around the world. The world needs science, and science, in turn, needs women. We celebrate this day to recognise the achievements of women and girls throughout history and all over the world, and encourage them to continue to break the glass ceiling, crush stereotypes, and close the gender gap.
Let’s create a world where no one has to be told that they can’t do something; where no one is unappreciated or under-represented; where all genders are equal. Science is one of the most important languages of the world – we need it to solve some of the universe’s greatest mysteries. Why can’t that be for people of all genders?
Audre Lorde
“I write for those women who do not speak, for those who do not have a voice because they were so terrified, because we were taught to respect fear more than ourselves. We’ve taught that silence would save us, but it won’t.”
These words were spoken by Audre Lorde, self-described “black, lesbian, mother, warrior, and poet” who was one of the first people to criticise the second-wave feminist movement and call it out for advocating the rights of only heterosexual, white women. She noticed that the movement did very little for women from minorities, and she urged them to address issues such as racism, homophobia, ableism, and classism.
Lorde’s writing about her struggles with homophobia, racism, and sexism were often described as ‘angry’ – a word which usually has negative connotation. But rather than being discouraged, Lorde embraced this ‘anger’, and encouraged other women to acknowledge their emotions and translate them into actions by being vocal about their struggles.
In a collection of her essays and poems, Lorde wrote, “It was hard enough to be black, to be black and female, to be black, female, and gay. To be black, female, gay, and out of the closet in a white environment.” She spoke about why it is so important to acknowledge the fact that feminism must be intersectional; the feminist movement cannot be separate from other forms of oppression. To close the gap between genders, we must close the gaps between diverse women.
‘Feminism’ means equality for all women and men – not just the privileged ones. As someone who grappled with many aspects of her identity – her gender, race, class, and sexuality – Lorde viewed the differences between us as strengths rather than weaknesses, and she believed in the upliftment of women from all walks of life.
“I am not free whilst any woman is unfree, even when her shackles are different to my own”. Audre Lorde helped countless women break free from the shackles of patriarchy, and her views hold importance even in today’s world.
A Gatsby New Year
New Year’s Eve has always been quite an extravagant affair in the Gatsby family. Every single year, without fail, my Aunt Ruth prepares a lavish New Year’s feast and decorates her large home with such gusto that one sometimes feels as though they have entered a shop selling nothing but decorations. I have always looked forward to Aunt Ruth’s parties – catching up on the family gossip, getting lost in the neverending corridors, admiring her outrageously luxurious bathrooms. But what I look forward to the most every year is the feast. Aunt Ruth’s New Year’s Eve parties aren’t Aunt Ruth’s New Year’s Eve parties without the feast.
The table would be draped in a red-and-white checked cloth, tall candles flickering above it, with little sprigs of mistletoe here and there. A deep dish of baked potatoes, an assortment of cheeses and meats, a whole roast chicken resting on mashed potatoes and gravy, and maple carrots and peas. Salads with little cherry tomatoes, a bowl of grilled vegetables, a large warm loaf of freshly baked bread, and, right in the middle of it all, a big fat roasted pig, with a poached apple stuffed in its mouth.
So you can imagine my disappointment when Aunt Ruth called to say that she was down with the flu.
I was sitting in my library-cum-cupboard, flipping through a book but not actually reading the words, as I was too busy daydreaming about roast chicken, when I heard the telephone ringing from the other room. I knew almost immediately that it was Aunt Ruth calling, for the phone somehow always rings more aggressively when she’s on the other end.
Sure enough, as soon as I picked up the phone I was met with the sound of Aunt Ruth’s scratchy voice – perhaps scratchier than usual.
“Frederick,” she said, “I’m sick.”
“Of what?”
“The flu.”
“You’ve got the flu?” I asked incredulously.
“Yes, that’s what I just said,” snapped Aunt Ruth meanly, “so I’m afraid there’ll be no New Year feast unless you’d like everyone at the party to catch the flu too.”
“NO NEW YEAR FEAST?” I yelled at a volume that wasn’t quite acceptable to use over the phone. “But there’s no New Year’s Eve without the feast!”
“Well, why don’t you make then, huh boy? Your aunt is lying in bed with a fever, and all you can think about is food?” said Aunt Ruth rather waspishly.
“Fevers happen all the time, Aunt Ruth!” I argued, “but the New Year’s Eve feast only happens once a year!”
“Selfish, ungrateful boy,” muttered my aunt under her breath, but loud enough for me to hear, “make yourself then, why don’t you? It’ll be a disaster either way.”
And with that, she hung up the phone. Honestly, I only put up with her so that she invites me to the party each year, so why should I be bothered if she has a slight sniffle? The next year would be terrible if we didn’t end this one with roast pork.
As most you should probably know, a Gatsby never gives up, no matter what. And as a Gatsby myself, I shan’t either. I, Frederick Arthur Gatsby, shall be preparing this year’s New Year’s Eve feast.
_
I suppose I forgot to mention earlier that I cannot cook to save my life. I usually resort to either basic ham and cheese sandwiches, or luncheons at restaurants I cannot afford to eat at. But I had to try, or countless lives could be ruined. Besides, how difficult can it really be, anyway?
The answer is very, very, very difficult, Extremely difficult. It was a struggle simply to boil the chicken before roasting it, so I decided to give Aunt Ruth a call.
“You aren’t supposed to boil the chicken before roasting it,” she said flatly, and promptly hung up.
Well, I thought to myself, I can’t do this by myself. There’s only one person left to call.
“I suppose you think I’ve forgotten what you did to me last month?” said William ‘Bill’ Ainsworth, “You robbed me of the money I needed to pursue a career in accounting.”
“I robbed you of nothing, I earned that money myself,” I said, quite proudly. You see, about a month or so ago, Bill asked me for help with… Oh never mind, that’s a whole other story.
“Why should I help you if you didn’t help me,” Bill demanded, his chin sticking up defiantly, but his trembling voice betraying his confidence.
“Because,” I said, walking towards him and taking hold of his broad shoulders, “if you don’t help me, there is to be no New Year’s Eve Feast.”
Bill’s eyes widened, and he let out an audible gasp.
“No – no New Year’s Feast?” he questioned anxiously.
“None,” I said.
He shook his head in disbelief. “All right,” he said, “all right then I’ll help you!”
I smiled victoriously.
“We’d better get to work then, eh?”
_
It quickly became evident that Bill was no more of a culinary connoisseur than I was. But at least he knew how to shell peas, which was more than I could do.
“All right,” said Bill seriously, “the next step is to put the chicken in the oven.”
I lifted the tray that the headless raw chicken was perched on, and slid it gently into the oven. Everything was going rather splendidly, to my surprise.
I had used my aesthetic skills to arrange cheeses and meats beautifully on a platter, along with some grapes and olives.
“Nice work, old bean!” said Bill approvingly.
“Thanks, old chap. The mashed potatoes will be ready in a bit too.”
“I say, we seem to be doing rather well!” said Bill, puffing out his chest with pride.
I agreed with him before saying, “Let’s get on with the salad and the vegetables, shall we?”
“We shall,” said Bill.
We worked on grilling the broccoli and onions while the chicken roasted in one oven, and the bread baked in the other.
“The bread should be done by now, don’t you think?” I asked Bill as I wiped my hands on a towel.
“I’ll go check,” said Bill, putting on a pair of oven mitts that were at least three sizes too large.
“Oh,” said Bill, “oh dear.”
I hung the towel back on the rack and walked over to see what Bill was ‘oh’ing about.
“Oh,” I said, “oh dear.”
The bread was utterly deformed. It didn’t look like a respectable loaf of bread at all – it looks rather as though a six-year-old child had decided that it would be a good idea to take a perfectly good loaf of bread and play with it as if it were clay.
“Well,” said Bill ruefully, “hopefully it tastes good, even if it looks like a catastrophe.”
“It doesn’t do to dwell on the past,” I said wisely, “let’s take a look at the chicken.”
The chicken hadn’t cooked at all. It was as raw as the day it hatched out of an egg, and that was probably because we had forgotten to turn on the oven.
“Disaster upon disaster!” cried Bill, looking as if he would burst into tears any second.
“It’s all right, don’t fret. We don’t have time to roast the chicken now, but we can boil it.”
“But it won’t look half as good!” wailed Bill.
“That doesn’t matter, it’s the taste that matters! We’ll boil the chicken, and salt it nicely. Add a bit of pepper too. I’m sure it’ll taste just as great as Aunt Ruth’s!”
“Aunt Ruth’s chicken,” said Bill rather crossly, “is roasted.”
“And ours is boiled! Come on Bill, we must get a move on.” I turned around to walk towards the counter.
“FRED!” screamed Bill suddenly, “the potatoes that were boiling for the mash! They must be done by now.”
Oh, dear. They must be overdone by now. And we were right, for as Bill spoke those words, the potatoes exploded all over the counter – and us.
“Great,” said Bill, “we’re no closer to finishing dinner and on top of that we’re covered in potatoes.”
But that wasn’t the worst of it. In all this commotion, we had completely forgotten about the vegetables that were still on the grill. I ran towards the grilling vegetables, and sure enough, they were burnt. To the crisp.
“Oh Fred!” said Bill, “We can’t possibly serve all this! And we haven’t even started on the pig!”
“Forget the pig,” I said, “and you’re right, we can’t serve this to all the guests.”
“Then what will we do, Freddie, what will we do? We promised your Aunt Ruth!” cried Bill, wringing his hands anxiously.
I thought. I thought long and hard, ignoring the impatient look on Bill’s face.
“I’ve got an idea. Bill, the counter was clean before we started cooking, right?”
“Of course! You know I’m a stickler for cleanliness.”
I knew no such thing, but I decided to believe him this time.
“Well then,” I said, handing Bill a spatula, “start scraping the potatoes off the counter.”
_
An hour or so later, Bill and I were ready with the New Year’s feast. Well, we could hardly call it feast, so let me make an amendment to my earlier statement. An hour or so later, Bill and I were ready with our New Year’s meal.
We had used the bread to line the insides of a large pie tin, and stuffed all our disastrous dishes into it to make a chicken-broccoli-carrot-cheese–potato-lettuce-tomato pie.
“Light the candles, Bill, while I go get ready for dinner,” I said, before waltzing up the stairs to put on the electric blue corduroy suit with a white scarf that I had kept ready for the night.
“Are you – are you going to wear that for dinner?” asked Bill somewhat nervously, “In front of your entire family?”
“Why, do you think I’m going to upstage you?” I chuckled. Poor Bill. Didn’t have the best fashion sense, poor lad.
He blinked furiously, and shook his head.
“Let’s call all the guests in to eat,” he said, changing the subject.
_
“This is absolutely atrocious,” said Aunt Ruth after one forkful of the pie.
Bill looked dejectedly at his plate, tears brimming in his eyes. He had always been a sensitive chap, old Bill. I, on the other hand, knew my worth. That old crone Aunt Ruth was only jealous of my culinary success, considering that hers didn’t even compare.
“Oh, Auntie,” I said humorously, “don’t be upset! I’m sure you’ll do better next year! Right, folks?” I turned to the rest of the guests, who were determinedly avoiding each other’s gazes.
Well, who cares about them? I bet they can’t look as great in an electric blue corduroy suit as I can.
Dune
No one was more excited to watch the film adaptation of ‘Dune’ by Frank Herbert than my father was. He had forced me to read the book before there was even any vague concept of a new movie being made, and I guess I should listen to his advice more often, because ‘Dune’ is one of the best science-fiction books ever to be written.
If I’m being honest, when I first heard about the upcoming film, I was a little skeptical. People have always considered ‘Dune’ to be somewhat… unfilmable. There are so many fantastical elements and characters and creations that I thought would only be possible to envision in my mind, and the 1984 movie adaptation by David Lynch only proved this belief (Spoiler alert: it was a disaster). So, I was pleasantly surprised when the ‘Dune’ movie, directed by Denis Villeneuve, managed to recreate everything almost to perfection. The experience of watching it was immersive in a sense, something that the 1984 film couldn’t achieve.
With its star-studded cast (Timothee Chalamet, Zendaya, Jason Momoa, and Josh Brolin among others), this movie was destined to be a box-office hit, and sure enough, it earned over $40 million in the opening weekend itself.
Timothee Chalamet was perfectly cast as Paul Atreides, a royal heir who is speculated to be the ‘Kwisatz Haderach’, which is something of a superbeing in the world of ‘Dune’.
The movie sounds great, right? But here’s the catch – you will not enjoy this movie until you have read Frank Herbet’s book first. Although the movie tried to keep the made-up languages of Arrakis and Caladan, there’s a high chance that the film will make zero sense to you unless you read the book first. I loved watching it, so did my father (although he was a bit disappointed), but my sister, who has never read the book, had a confused look on her face the whole time.
In my opinion, the ‘Dune’ film adaptation was incredibly well-made, but it was incomplete. They appeared to have expected their entire audience to have read the book, and did not spend enough time introducing the characters, or giving a background to the story. The story itself felt somewhat rudimentary – the film did not manage to capture even one-fourth of the book’s intricate plot.
My suggestion is to either read Frank Herbert’s ‘Dune’ before watching it – or watch Denis Villeneuve’s adaptation for its art rather than the story.
R.E.M.
I’m not superstitious. I don’t usually believe in the supernatural – ghosts, vampires, werewolves, and the like. But the dream – oh god, it was so terrifying, and so real. The dreams that I usually have are fleeting, scattered, and I can hardly remember them the next morning, but there’s no way that I’ll ever be able to forget this one.
The strange thing about it was that the entire dream was so vivid… except for the man’s face. It filled me with a sense of dread to know that my brain had not managed to retain the visage of the man who killed me. Who would kill me. All I remember of his appearance is the distinct scar on his right hand, a long, red scar stretching across his palm. As I mentioned before, I’m not one to believe that dreams can come true, but I know that this wasn’t just a dream – it was a premonition.
“Relax,” said my sister over the phone, “it’s just a dream, it’s doesn’t mean anything. Don’t be so silly!”
The same thing was said to me by my mother. And my father. And everyone else I sought counsel with.
I think I became slightly insane. I was wracked with fear and paranoia, triple-locking each door and window, tossing and turning in my bed, unable to close my eyes to sleep. And when I did sleep, I saw the man – somehow I never caught sight of his face, but the scar on his hand was clear as day.
How much longer could I go on like this? Nights haunted by that ghastly scarred hand tightening around my neck, days haunted with the memory of the scene? I was positive that it wasn’t a mere dream, and there was no way that I could spend the rest of my life living in sheer terror, awaiting the day that I meet the man with that awful, awful hand.
I was young, too young to die, and far too young to have a dark cloud of fear hanging over my head, fear of imminent death.
I dreamt the dream again that night, although it was in some way even scarier than before. I woke drenched in a cold sweat, gasping for breath, and I could almost still feel the man’s hand choking me to death. At this point, I could feel nothing but blind terror, so I made a midnight trip to my sister’s house, knowing that I would feel much safer in her cozy home.
She was worried for me, I could tell. She noticed the way my hands shook as I removed my coat.
“I think you should see a psychiatrist,” she said, “or a therapist. I can send you the numbers of a few that my friends go to. You should give it a try.”
And so I did. Somewhere inside, I knew it would make me feel better to talk to a professional about the horrific dreams I had been having.
I walked into my new psychologist’s office, which smelled clean, like fresh laundry and a faint scent of lemon.
He was an average-looking man, looking rather small seated behind a desk that was way too high, but the various certificates of commendation that he had framed and hung on his wall put me at ease.
“Good afternoon,” he said, flashing me a charming grin, “I am Dr. Becker.”
I smiled back at him, taking his hand in mine and shaking it.
He withdrew his hand quite quickly. But not quickly enough for me to miss the long, red scar stretching across his right palm.
Roommate
James slammed the door upon entering the flat, angrily kicking his shoes off, and flinging his backpack to the ground.
“Woah, woah, woah,” chuckled Sebastian, “Calm down!”
James did not reply, choosing instead to shove a frozen dinner into the microwave and setting the table for one. He sat at the table and wolfed down his food, not even looking up to watch as Sebastian sat down in front of him.
“How was your day?” asked Sebastian, fiddling with his fingers as he spoke.
James did not reply.
“I had a pretty slow day,” continued Sebastian, “I just sat on the couch and thought a bit. About life, you know? It’s so strange that-”
WIthout bothering to listen to what Sebastian was saying, James pushed his chair back, creating a high-pitched scraping noise, got up, and left. Sebastian would be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit hurt by James’ behaviour, but he would also be lying if he said he wasn’t used to it by now.
Sebastian didn’t like to be treated this way – it felt like James couldn’t even see him, or hear him. It made him feel unwanted, unloved, alone. They were so close in metres, yet so far apart in the soul. Sebastian missed the times when his roommate and best friend would laugh with him, compliment his cooking, or just acknowledge the fact that he was there. But now when Sebastian tried to make him laugh, he wouldn’t even look his way. When Sebastian cooked, James would heat up another frozen meal in the microwave. But the worst of all was that James had been completely ignoring Sebastian since… well, for a long time. Sebastian would feel a sharp pain in his heart every time James neglected him – like a thousand daggers being stabbed into his chest, all at once. He was right there, right there – but at the same time, he wasn’t.
Sebastian watched as James opened his phone to accept a call. He pressed the phone to his ear, and for the first time in what felt like decades, Sebastian could hear the sound of James’ voice, even if it wasn’t directed at him.
“Yes, that is correct,” James was saying into the phone, “yes, I am looking for a roommate.”
Sebastian swore that he could feel his heart drop to his feet. A new roommate? Did James really hate him so much that he needed a new roommate?
“All right, sure, yes that’s perfect,” James said. “I’ll bring my stuff in a few days.”
“James!” cried Sebastian, “Why are you doing this? Why are you replacing me?”
James did not reply.
He put down the phone and burst into tears. Sebastian was unhappy with James, but how could he see his best friend crying and just stand there doing nothing? He rushed over to where his roommate sat sobbing on the couch, and he rubbed his shoulders with his cold hands.
“It’s all right,” soothed Sebastian, “why are you crying?”
James did not reply.
“Why,” said Sebastian, “why won’t you just talk to me? Acknowledge my presence?”
James did not reply.
James was heartbroken. He felt as though his heart had been ripped out and repeatedly stepped on. In a few days, he would be moving out of the home he had shared with his roommate and best friend, Sebastian. He looked around the room, trying to soak in all the memories he had made with Sebastian in here, trying to imprint them in his mind so that he would never forget them.
He would miss Sebastian, he always would, but he needed to leave this house. And he knew that as he packed all his things into suitcases and bags, he was taking all the memories with Sebastian too.
And so Sebastian watched his best friend leave the flat that they had shared for so long, trying so hard to find a way to make James see him, to hear him.
James drove to his new flat, an occasional tear trickling down his face, but not before making a quick detour. James couldn’t control his tears as he placed a bouquet of roses on Sebastian’s grave.
He had never been the same since Sebastian died three years ago – he cried more than he even smiled, and he couldn’t live in that apartment without the memory of his best friend filling his mind with every step he took. It was almost as if James could still feel his presence in the house, even years after his death. Which is why he needed to move on. But he new he would never move on from Sebastian, his best friend and roommate, no matter what.
All My Writing
Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl
A famous painting, ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’, is stolen from the Prestonheim Museum. The police are working on the case… the only problem is that there is no way anyone could have committed the crime! It’s up to Genevieve Sinclair and Elijah Fraser to solve the case before the police can.
The Gatsby Series
Frederick Arthur Gatsby needs a job – badly. So when a job offer as a translator turns up, how can he say no? He must take the job to earn money… even if he can’t speak the language he’s supposed to be translating!
Frederick Arthur Gatsby would do anything for his best friends. Including impersonating said friend to help them inherit their uncle’s fortune.
Frederick Arthur Gatsby and his friend Bill are tasked with preparing a New Year’s Eve feast. But, of course, everything goes terribly wrong.
James Sturrock’s best friend, Olivia, invents the first ever time machine, and James wants to test the prototype. He’s very excited (who wouldn’t be?), but things take a turn when he ends up in Nazi Germany.
A writer’s fictional characters somehow come to life every time he writes about them. He’s working on his latest villain, Mr. Muggins – but he knows that if he completes the story, Mr. Muggins will come to life. Needless to say, everything goes wrong.
James and Sebastian live in the same flat – but James barely acknowledges Sebastian’s existence anymore.
It was a really, really terrible nightmare. But it was just a dream… right?
De Omnibus Dubitandum 