Writer’s Block
It’s my publisher again. I have ignored four calls and 12 WhatsApp messages from her in the past 24 hours. I was supposed to hand in the final draft of my latest novel two days ago. And, I still haven’t. The funny thing is that it has been sitting, almost ready, on my desk for over a week. I just have to decide, what to do with Muggins.
You see, Muggins is the key character in my murder mystery. He is a non-descript gardener in a quiet English village. He is gentle, polite and never speaks out of turn. He keeps his sparse hair in a combover across his balding pate, wears thick glasses and walks with an almost apologetic shuffling gait. People wouldn’t even notice he was there till he coughed. It was a habitual rasping cough, which made the young boys of the village call him Mr Coughins!
But, Muggins is a killer. A ruthless, cold-hearted beast who murders old ladies for no apparent reason. Now, I won’t give away the entire plot, since I want you to buy my book. All you need to know is that Muggins is a villain and I have to take a decision on whether to have him killed by the police, or let him escape to reappear in some sequel, like a latter-day Moriarty. I am sure, old Arthur Conan Doyle didn’t have to much sleep over it.
But, then, the criminals Sherlock Holmes caught didn’t come alive. The villains of my novels do. I know, you will find it impossible to believe. I didn’t believe it the first time it happened. It was right after my first novel, The Case of the Dead Dancers.
If you have read it, you would know that the story, set in the colonial period, revolves around the multiple murders of Bharat Natyam dancers in Chennai. My detective, Miss Molly Wright, manages to unravel the mystery from the traces of talcum powder found on the victims. The murder turns out to be Chandrababu, a tabla-player who was often seen accompanying classical dancers on stage. Chandrababu’s sister was a talented dancer who had killed herself because she couldn’t make it as a performer. In a bout of spite, the brother went about killing famous dancers. His talcum powder, that he used to lubricate his tabla, gave him away.
That was my first story. So, you can imagine my surprise when I read in the papers that two Bharat Natyam dancers had been killed and talcum powder had been found on their bodies. The police arrested their tabla-player for the murders. And, his name was Chandrababu! The 70-year old man had committed similar murders in the 1940s and had spent 25 years in prison. What is even more spine-chilling is that the Chandrababu confessed that he had killed to avenge his sister’s suicide. My character had come alive.
The exact same thing happened, after my second murder mystery was released. Similar real-life murders took place within a week. The modus-operandi was the same, and the murderers name and motive was identical to my story. Villain No.2 had also come alive.
You can, now, understand why I am so scared of finishing my latest novel. If I let Muggins escape, or even be sent to prison, he will definitely turn into a real-life person and commit the murders that have taken place in my imaginary English village. On the other hand, I don’t want to kill a living human being, even if he is just a person made of ink and paper.
As I sat in my dimly lit study, thinking about how to resolve my dilemma, the doorbell rang. My publisher had clearly decided that enough was enough and turned up in person. She must be really annoyed that she made the trip to my home so late at night.
As I turned the lock and opened the door, I began preparing a speech on why I had been avoiding her all these days. But, it wasn’t she who stood at my doorstep. It was an oldish man, who I didn’t recognise. Yet, he looked oddly familiar.
“Hello,” he said in a soft meek fashion as he blinked at me through his thick lenses.
And then he coughed. A loud rasping cough….
Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl: Part II
I hope you enjoy reading Part II! You can find Part I here.
“Well, Elijah, I must say, this case is proving to be baffling!” said Gigi frustratedly.
She was lying on the sofa, pensively chewing on a cheese stick, her long dark hair tied back. I was going over my notes, again and again, trying to find even the tiniest clue that could help us solve the case.
“The police aren’t close to solving it either,” continued Geneviéve, “they’re as much in the dark as we are.”
Suddenly, Gigi slammed the cheese stick down and jumped to her feet.
“What happened?” I asked, shocked at her sudden outburst.
“If the lights went off at some point, the CCTV cameras wouldn’t have been able to catch whatever had been going on at the time!”
“Yes,” I sighed, “but that policewoman told us, remember? The power cut wasn’t long enough for the person to leave.”
“But long enough to take it down from the wall!”
“But Gigi,” I said exasperatedly, “even if they managed to take it down, the painting was huge! I’m sure someone would have noticed if a visitor was walking around holding a giant painting!”
Geneviéve shook her head, an evil glint in her eyes.
“Let’s do a bit more investigating in the museum.”
_
“I have a feeling,” said Gigi once we were back inside the gallery from which the painting had been stolen, “Let’s search this room more thoroughly. I think we might just find something interesting.”
We tried to search the gallery as politely as possible – well at least I did… Gigi was upturning all the benches in quite a rowdy manner, while the security guard in the gallery looked at us disdainfully.
“Look!” she shouted, pushing open a small door in the corner of the room which was almost camouflaged with the wall.
It led into a tiny, stuffy utility room, filled with brooms, mops, cartons – and a broken picture frame.
Gigi was jumping up and down excitedly, saying “I knew it, oh I just knew it!”
“So the painting wasn’t too big at all,” I said, amazed, “the thief could have just folded it or rolled it up!”
“Of course, this only a tiny bit of the case solved,” said Gigi, “we know how they managed to take the painting out inconspicuously… they somehow initiated a power cut, causing the lights to go out, during which they removed the painting from its frame and hid the broken frame in the utility room. But that doesn’t explain how they managed to actually leave with it in the end – everyone was checked!”
“Well, at least we’ve solved this much,” I said encouragingly, “I’m sure we’ll manage the rest too!”
“I like that attitude, Elijah,” said Gigi approvingly, “let’s get to it then!”
“What are you kids doing?” the voice of the security guard boomed through the gallery for the first time. All throughout our search, he had been standing by the door, not saying a word.
“We’re helping with the investigation,” I said before Gigi could say anything rude, “we have permission from the police officers here.”
The guard looked at us suspiciously for a few seconds, before nodding curtly and resuming his position by the door.
“See!” said Gigi as we were making our way back home, “the thief managed to get the painting out of the frame, but how could they do it with Ryan right there?”
“Ryan?” I asked, confused.
“The security guard in that gallery!” said Gigi as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “it was written on his nameplate.”
“Ah,” I said, kicking a stone across the road, “hey, what if we sneak back in tonight? We can explore the museum undisturbed, and maybe find some more clues.”
“Oh yes, that’s a good idea! Perhaps we can stage a recreation there!” suggested Gigi enthusiastically.
And so we entered the Prestonheim Museum for the third time for investigation purposes. We were about to sneak into the gallery but stopped at the door, at the sound of Ryan the security guard talking to someone on the phone, his usually booming voice reduced to a timid murmur.
“Don’t worry, mum,” he said into the phone, “I’ve got it… yes, yes, I said not to worry… yes… all right, I’ll call you later. ”
I let out a breath that I didn’t know I had been holding and felt disappointment wash over me. I had been really excited, thinking that this could be a clue, but he was only talking to his mother. I could tell that Gigi, who had been listening intently, shared my feelings too.
She looked at me dispiritedly and motioned to me to get up.
“We can’t go in while he’s there,” she whispered, holding out her hand to help me get up.
“What now?” I asked quietly once we had left the museum again.
“Let’s discuss,” said Gigi.
“So we know that there were only about eight people in the museum that day,” I said as I went over my notes, “The tall man, the couple with the baby, the middle-aged woman, the boy, the old lady, and the other man.”
“I think it was either the couple with the baby or the old lady,” said Gigi confidently.
“How do you know?” I asked, surprised.
“Because they’re the least likely people to have done it,” she replied, “in all mysteries, the culprit is always the one who seemed least likely.”
I laughed, but then quickly returned to being serious and said, “It might have been the boy – he looked quite nervous to be there.”
Gigi hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose it could have been him. But then it could have been any of them – or should I say it couldn’t have been any of them.”
We lapsed into silence, both of our brains buzzing with a thousand thoughts but not reaching any answers. Or so I thought, but it turned out that it was only I who had not reached any answers, for Gigi jumped up with a feverish look on her face.
“Elijah Fraser,” she said, “We must go back to the museum this instant.”
_
We rushed into the gallery once again, and Gigi immediately pulled me into the small utility room. She rummaged through one of the cartons, let out a tiny shriek, and pulled out – the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fish Bowl’.
I goggled at it, completely and utterly gobsmacked.
“Wha- er- who- why-,” I stuttered endlessly, “what on earth is it doing here?”
“This entire case, my friend,” said Gigi, a mischievous smile glinting on her face, “has been a ruse. A distraction, if you will – a red herring. It wasn’t the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’ that was stolen that day – well it was, but that was just to cover up an even bigger theft.”
“I – how did you know?” I spluttered, still taken aback by the whole thing.
“I didn’t,” said Gigi, “but I do now. I still don’t know which painting was really stolen, nor who stole it, but I do think it was pretty clever to create this distraction.
‘You see, the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’ was famous… but not that famous, so it wasn’t too difficult to steal it. On the other hand, an even more famous painting would have proved to be more of a challenge. The thief’s plan that we know of so far was quite ingenious, really – after creating a commotion by stealing ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’, no one would notice if they stole something else.”
“But… surely they would have noticed if an even more famous painting had disappeared!” I said.
“Hmm,” hummed Geneviéve, “would they have, though?”
I ignored her cryptic comment because I knew she wouldn’t explain it to me. I leaned back against the wall, trying to take it all in. So the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’ never left the museum at all!
“I think,” said Gigi, “we need to know exactly how each person was checked as they left the museum.”
_
After much convincing (mostly begging), we managed to assemble everyone who had visited the museum that day near the exit, along with the security guards, who had agreed to recreate the checking of the visitors.
We started with the couple with the child. They were carrying a handbag along with a diaper bag for the baby, both of which were put through a conveyor belt. The lady looked slightly disgruntled at having to do this again, and so did the man. The baby didn’t seem to mind too much, seeing as it was asleep, head resting on its father’s chest. The x-rays of the bags were looked at, after which the couple were both asked to upturn their pockets, and they were checked with a hand-held scanning machine.
Next was the tall, gaunt man, who was carrying a handbag. The bag passed through the conveyor belt just as the couple’s had, and his clothes were checked the same way as well. He was asked to remove his hat, a request at which he seemed to be quite flustered. He refused a few times (suspicious, so I made sure to note it down), but he gave in in the end. It turned out that he had a shiny bald patch at the top of his head, which is why he was hesitant to take off the bowler hat.
Next was the old lady, who was carrying a moth-eaten handbag so ancient that it looked as if it had been taken straight out of the Victorian era. As I looked at her, I realized that she looked strangely familiar… like someone, I had seen before. Then it occurred to me that I had seen her before, so that’s probably where I recognized her from. The bag was passed through the conveyor belt, as with everyone before her. It was slightly more difficult to check her body since she could barely stand up without her walking stick. One guard had to hold onto her walking stick, another had to hold on to her in order to support her, and yet another guard had to do the actual checking. Nevertheless, they managed to check her efficiently.
The middle-aged woman was carrying a backpack, which, once again, went through the belt, and she was then checked by the hand-held machine.
The teenage boy and the other man weren’t carrying any bags or luggage, and the boy didn’t take much time to check, since his pockets were virtually empty too. The man, on the other hand, had pockets full to the brim with random junk. Newspaper clippings, toffee wrappers, a small mirror, glasses, a hip flask, and a ukulele. I had no idea how anyone could fit an entire ukulele in their pockets, but if I ever wanted to do so, I made a mental note to ask that man.
“Does that old lady look familiar to you in any way?” whispered Gigi in my ear.
“She does, actually,” I said, “but it’s probably insignificant, right?”
Gigi shook her head, flashing a smile at me that scream ‘I know something you don’t’.
“I know who the thief was,” she said.
“Who?” I asked urgently, “who?”
She just smiled knowingly and did not reply, which made me feel a sudden, intense urge to punch her in the face.
“I know who it was,” she announced, looking rather pleased with herself.
Everyone in the museum looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to carry on.
“The ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’ was never stolen,” she said loftily, “rather, something else was.”
Much to everyone’s amazement and shock, she lifted the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’ for them all to see.
“Ryan,” she said, turning to Ryan the security guard, “the unemployment office closes at 5 pm. You could do with that information, since you won’t have a job here for much longer.”
Every single head turned to look at Ryan the security guard, including mine. Ryan immediately dropped his head, looking up at Geneviéve with an anxious expression on his face.
“Well, Ryan, I can’t say I entirely blame you,” said Gigi slightly condescendingly, “you were just listening to mummy, weren’t you?”
Ryan’s eyes instantly flitted to the elderly lady, who looked absolutely livid with rage. And then it dawned on me – that’s why she looked so familiar! She was Ryan’s mother, so she looked like him!
“Ryan, you helped your mother steal the painting, didn’t you?” Gigi said, circling Ryan like a vulture circling a carcass, “You initiated the power cut, took down the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’, and stashed it away in the utility room. You were able to do all this unnoticed because you were the security guard; no one would suspect you.”
“And while the commotion was going on,” she continued, “your mum was able to steal another painting – a more valuable one.”
I had been taking notes furiously, but for a moment I looked up to see everyone’s reaction. They all looked surprised, confused, and slightly nervous at the same time. Ryan looked ashamed of himself, but if looks could kill, his mother would be in jail for murder.
Gigi turned to face the old lady. “Tell me, madam,” she said, “do you really need that walking stick?”
Gigi snatched the stick from Ryan’s mother, and I was shocked to see that she was able to stand quite straight even without it.
Much to everyone’s dismay, Gigi held the stick horizontally and brought it down on her knee, breaking it in two. My jaw dropped. The stick was hollow inside – and inside was a rolled-up piece of paper – when unrolled I imagine it must be quite large.
Gigi unrolled the paper – and the room erupted in gasps and cries of ‘oh my god’.
The old lady had hidden the ‘Mona Lisa’ in her walking stick. The original ‘Mona Lisa’.
Suddenly, it all made sense to me. The walking stick was never scanned or checked! That’s how she managed to leave the museum with the painting and not get caught.
An ingenious plan, I thought to myself.
“But… but the Mona Lisa was never stolen! It’s still there, I saw it this morning!” said the manager of the Prestonheim museum.
And then it dawned on me.
“I think you’ll find that that isn’t the original,” I said, proud of myself for figuring out at least one part of the mystery.
The manager fainted.
_
“See, Gi,” I said, “I knew we’d get a case in the end.”
“Mhm,” said Gigi, “here’s to many more!”
Right after arresting Ryan and his mother, the museum staff immediately went to remove the fake ‘Mona Lisa’ from its frame.
It was the ‘Mona Lisa’ printed on plain cartridge paper. It looked quite similar to the original one, so I understand why they didn’t notice the difference. However, I’m a bit surprised that they didn’t notice the words, printed in big letters at the bottom of the fake painting, ‘SCANNED WITH SCANNER PRO’.
Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl
Hi everyone, I will be posting this story in two parts. I am posting Part I today, and Part II in a few days. I hope you enjoy reading it!
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a detective in possession of a good brain must be in want of something to detect. Such was the plight of my best friend, Geneviéve Sinclair. She’s got the brains, the talent, the impressive name, but the only cases she has solved so far are the crosswords in the morning newspaper.
“Don’t worry, something will come up,” I said soothingly as I watched Geneviéve aggressively stab the innocent newspaper with her pencil.
“It’s utterly useless,” she grumbled, tucking the pencil behind her ear, “we’ve put about fifteen ads in the paper by now. Not a soul has called us.”
I did not reply. People were unlikely to hire an unknown, underage detective even to find a missing earring, no matter how many ads she had put in the newspaper. But I wasn’t about to tell her that, for it was sure to bruise her relatively large ego.
“They are simply underestimating my brainpower, aren’t they, Elijah?”, Geneviéve demanded, flinging the worn-out newspaper on the desk.
I didn’t lift my eyes from my book but hummed supportively.
“Turn on the television, Elijah,” she said, plopping down on the sofa next to me, “TV corrupts the soul and rots the brain, it is true, but sometimes even the most brilliant detectives need to watch some.”
I turned on the news and went back to my book.
“FAMOUS PAINTING STOLEN FROM THE PRESTONHEIM MUSEUM!” roared the reporter on the TV.
My head perked up at the news, and as I closed my book to pay more attention, I saw that Geneviéve, too, was looking at the television with an expression of mild interest on her face.
“A famous painting, ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’, was stolen from the Prestonheim Museum sometime last night. The museum staff has absolutely no idea how it was stolen, or who might have stolen it. Investigators are looking into the matter as we speak.”
Geneviéve jumped off the sofa excitedly and smiled widely at me.
“This is it, Elijah,” she said, “the moment we’ve been waiting for!”
“Yeah, it’s fate,” I agreed with her.
“Don’t be silly,” she said rolling her eyes, “there’s no such thing as fate! It’s our choices that determine everything, not fate.”
I sighed but decided not to say anything.
“We must head to the museum this instant,” Geneviéve said, grabbing her tweed cap, which she insisted on wearing all the time.
“They’re not going to let us in, Gigi,” I reminded her, “the museum is probably closed right now for the police to investigate.”
She scoffed.
“Everyone knows that we can do better investigating than them, can’t we?”
“Well, we know for sure,” I said, “but I doubt everyone does.”
“Well, then we shall simply have to let them know.” Geneviéve adjusted the cap on her head, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me out of the door.
_
When we reached the Prestonheim Museum, we quickly realized that we weren’t the only ones interested in the case. A swarm of civilians had gathered around the museum, jostling each other to get a glimpse of whatever was going on inside.
Geneviéve pushed her way through to get to the entrance, while I trailed behind, apologizing on her behalf to all the offended people she had shoved past.
A burly museum guard who was blocking the entrance stopped us as we reached him.
“What’re you doin’ here, kids?” he asked.
“We’re here to investigate the case of the missing painting”, said Geneviéve, “let us in please.”
“You kids be doin’ the investigatin’?” the security guard laughed, but not unkindly.
“Indeed,” said Geneviéve, rather frigidly. “Now if you don’t let us-”
“Please sir,” I intervened, “we’re only kids. We’re doing a school project on art theft, and when we heard about this case, we just couldn’t resist seeing what all the fuss was about.”
Geneviéve looked at me irritatedly.
“Well…” faltered the burly security guard.
“Ach, just let ‘em in,” said another guard who was standing a few feet away, and appeared to have been listening to the conversation, “they’re only children! What can they do?”
I could sense Geneviéve seething with fury beside me.
“I happen to be-” she began, but she never got to finish her sentence, because I quickly pulled her into the museum before she could anger the security guards.
“What do they think,” she muttered as we walked further inside, “think we’re babies?”
“Calm down, Gigi,” I said, “we’ll show them.”
“Yes,” she said, “yes we will.” And she seemed considerably less enraged after that.
There were several people and police officers assembled in the foyer, all seated on the benches.
“Oh look!”, I said, “that’s my uncle! He’s one of the head police officers, but I didn’t know he’d be in charge of this case.”
“Well that’s wonderful,” said Gigi, “now we have a much better chance of getting in.”
“Good afternoon,” said Geneviéve in a dignified manner, evidently trying to appear older than she was, “I am Geneviéve Sinclair, and this is my friend, assistant, and your nephew, Elijah Fraser. We’re here to investigate the missing painting case.”
My uncle, the head police officer smiled indulgently as if he were looking at a toddler.
“How lovely to see young adults interested in the work of police officers!” he said, with a most patronizing tone, causing Gigi to grimace.
“Uncle, we’re doing a school project on art theft,” I said, “We really want to learn more about this case.”
Gigi seemed to have caught on to the fact that lying made things easier, so she agreed with me, saying, “Yes! We’d love to look around and find some more information for our project.”
“You’re welcome to tag along,” he said dismissively, “if you want to, of course. You may look around, madam, but don’t touch anything.”
Gigi looked slightly mollified at having been called ‘madam’, but she lifted her chin and strutted out of the foyer.
We walked to the gallery where the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’ had been showcased before it was stolen.
“No glass,” observed Gigi, scanning the gallery for any clues she could find, “highly irresponsible, of course. A glass barrier would have been better for security. Well, not everyone has common sense.”
“Yup,” I said, “dunno why it’s called common sense when it isn’t common at all.”
“I don’t see anything significant… do you?” questioned Gigi.
I looked around, but I couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary either, except for the giant space between two paintings, where the ‘Portrait of a Cat and Fruit Bowl’ had been.
“Why would the thief steal that painting, of all paintings? It was quite mediocre, in my opinion,” said Geneviéve, eyeing the other art in the room.
“It was quite famous, Gi,” I said, “anyone could make a lot of money by selling it. I doubt the quality matters much to them, it’s just the value.”
“Hmm, you’re right,” agreed Gigi.
“I wonder how the person managed to smuggle out such a large painting without being seen,” I said thoughtfully.
“I was thinking that too. Shall we go back to the foyer and get some more information?”
“Yes, let’s,” I said.
“What happened, exactly?” Gigi demanded of the police officers once we were back in the foyer, “I’d like to know.”
“That’s confidential information, Miss,” said a young policewoman, “I doubt we can tell ya.”
Geneviéve put on a miserable expression, one so convincing that I felt an urge to pat her on the back and comfort her. But I knew she was just acting, something she could do rather well. I could have sworn I saw some crocodile tears leaking from her big brown eyes.
“Oh dear, Elijah,” she said sadly, turning to me, “I was counting on finding out! Now we have nothing to write about for the school project!”
“I know,” I said, trying my best to act convincingly, “we’ll definitely fail now. We might even have to repeat this year.”
We must have pretended rather well, for the policewoman seemed to take pity on us, and sat us down to inform us of all the events that had occurred so far.
“Well listen,” she said, “it was yesterday. The museum was havin’ a pretty slow day, so there were only a bunch o’ people there. Honestly, the thief coulda been anyone, since they all had ample opportunity to be with the painting alone long enough to steal it.”
I whipped out my notebook from my pocket and started writing everything the lady was telling us.
“So anyone could be the thief?” asked Gigi.
“Naw,” said the policewoman, “no one coulda done it. Each and every one of the visitors was checked before entering, as well as before leaving. Their bags were checked, bodies were checked. There’s no way anyone coulda done it.”
I chewed on my bottom lip, deep in thought. If everyone had been checked, how did the thief manage to get the painting out of the museum, especially such a large one?
“Could they have left through the windows or emergency exits?” I asked.
“Nope, there are security guards, and they wouldn’t let you leave from the windows or emergency exits.”
“Did anything unusual happen?” asked Geneviéve.
“Nothing really. There was just a small power cut, and that was about it. It definitely wasn’t long enough to steal the painting and leave the museum, though.”
“May we see the people who were in the museum that day?”
“They’re just over there,” said the policewoman, pointing at a group of people near the foyer entrance.
Gigi and I looked each person up and down, and I wrote down a short description of each person. There was a tall, gaunt man, who was wearing a black suit complete with a bowler hat to match. His bright blue eyes were a contrast to his dark skin tone, and they were so clear and cold that I felt strangely intimidated by him. There was a young couple with a little baby. Both of them were rather short-statured, and what I presumed to be the father was rocking their baby back and forth in his arms. Next to the couple was a middle-aged woman, squarely built with extremely broad shoulders, which made her resemble some sort of boulder. Next to the middle-aged woman was a boy, either a teenager or a young man in his early 20s. He looked frightened and nervous, which I suppose is natural when you are standing in a room filled with police officers, but I won’t deny that it made me a teensy bit suspicious. There was an elderly lady, the only one in the group who was sitting on a bench, a walking stick leaning on her legs. And the last person who had visited the museum that day was a man, whose age I can’t quite put my finger on, wearing a checked shirt with tweed pants.
None of them looked like someone who would steal a painting, but appearances, I suppose, can be deceiving. At least one of these people had to have stolen the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’. The question is, how? As the policewoman said, it was impossible for any of them to have done it. For starters, there were security guards in each room in the museum, and each person was checked thoroughly upon entering, and before leaving. Secondly, the ‘Portrait of a Cat and a Fruit Bowl’ was one of the larger paintings in the gallery. Besides, there must have been CCTV cameras in the galleries as well. How could anyone have carried it out without being noticed?
_
Did you know that even Agatha Christie stories and the Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle were published in parts? The whole story was never released at once – even the short stories used to be published in chapters. That’s how I will be posting this story! I hope you like it!
Feminine Agency in Charlotte Bronte’s Jane Eyre: A Review
Art and writing by Nayantara Maitra Chakravarty
“ Do you think I am an automaton? – a machine without feelings? And can bear to have a morsel of bread snatched from my lips, and my drops of living water dashed from my cup? Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong!”
‘Jane Eyre’ by Charlotte Bronte is a romance set in the Victorian era. It would, however, be a disservice to the novel to limit it to the genre of romance – It is, in reality, a radical story of a strong female character navigating through the obstacles posed by a predominantly patriarchal society. Considered to be one of the cornerstones of feminist literature, Jane Eyre holds you from beginning to end and has elements of comedy, romance action and suspense. Feminist critic Elaine Showalter categorises Jane Eyre as a “classic feminine novel” with a few “explicit feminist passages.”
From the very beginning, Jane is set apart not by her looks but by her intellect and emotional prowess. Though ‘plain’ she is ‘strong-willed’, ‘passionate’ and ‘outspoken’. She shuns a life of convenience and conformity, in the pursuit of true love and equality, and breaks the social conventions of her age. The novel ‘Jane Eyre’ was unique and pioneering in its depiction of women and their place in society. This portrayal makes Bronte’s work revolutionary in its representation of women and their role in society.
In juxtaposition to Jane, stands Mr. Rochester, a rude impetuous man with a secret. Though at first one might think of him as the quintessential Byronic hero, when placed across Jane, he serves as a foil to her character. He is often self-pitying and manipulative, thus accentuating Jane’s tenacity and independent spirit.
Perhaps what is most interesting to me is the character of Bertha Mason, who is “morally insane”. Showalter writes: “the mad wife locked in the attic symbolizes the passionate and sexual side of Jane’s personality, an alter ego that her upbringing, her religion, and her society have commanded her to incarcerate”. In fact Bertha became the inspiration behind Susan Gubar and Sandra Gilbert’s famous work on 19th – century female writers titled “The Mad Woman in the Attic”. In bringing in the character of Bertha, I feel that Charlotte Bronte brings the treatment and concealment of mental health issues to light as well and the solution employed of simply locking the person away.
Jane chooses to come to Mr. Rochester on her own terms in the end, when he himself is in greater need of her and she is a financially independent woman, thus reinforcing her agency and subverting traditional gender- led power dynamics.
In an era characterised by the subjugation of women, Charlotte Bronte writes about a woman who believes in her autonomy, and refuses to be marginalised by her class and gender. Though written in the Victorian era, this is an enduringly relevant not just for women. This compelling read is definitely worthy of a place on your bookshelf.
works cited:
The Bronte Sisters Complete Works, Wordsworth Editions, 2008.
Showalter, Elaine. A Literature of Their Own : British Women Novelists from Brontë to Lessing. Princeton, N.J. :Princeton University Press, 1999.
Gilbert, Sandra M., and Susan Gubar. The Madwoman in the Attic: The Woman Writer and the Nineteenth-Century Literary Imagination. Yale University Press, 2020.
Art for the Heart
As a young child, it’s unlikely that your anger will ever be taken seriously. Your parents will probably laugh at you or make jokes about you, because apparently they find the way we express our anger ‘cute’.
A friend of mine devised a method to deal with this anger, and she called it her ‘Cyclone Anger Management Page’. No, this has nothing to do with Cyclone Tauktae – she would take a piece of paper and aggressively draw cyclones (essentially scribbles) on it. I tried it myself one day, and, surprisingly, it helped a lot. At that point, we thought we had discovered this method of therapy, but we had only re-discovered it – art therapy is a scientifically verified form of therapy, used since as early as the 1940s. There are different forms of this: art psychotherapy, in which your psychologist would analyse your art to get an idea of what you are feeling inside, and simply art therapy, where you use art as a way to express your feelings and emotions, or, to put it in modern terms, as a way to ‘vent’.
I’d like to say that my art has improved since my cyclone-drawing days. A more recent encounter of mine with art therapy was a few weeks ago – I felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to paint my phone case, and so, after watching many videos, I did. And I would definitely say that it counted as a form of therapy. Watching my brush coat the clear phone case with shiny acrylic paint, dedicating my mind to focusing on the details, and listening to Dark Academia piano music, for me, was a form of therapy and mindfulness, and helped me to take my mind of everything that is going on in the world right now.
Now, I’m not saying that you need to customise a phone case for mindfulness, or even restrict yourself to just art. For you, it could be something completely different. It could be reading a book or programming a video game, writing a song, or decorating your room, but I believe that, especially during these times of quarantine and this virus, each one of us should have a hobby that makes us happy. Something that keeps us mentally and emotionally at peace.
The Styles of Harry
When you hear the name ‘Harry Styles’, you immediately think of One Direction, one of the most popular boy-bands in the world. People often underestimate his music, assuming it to be the same teenage pop music that One Direction was making, but, surprisingly, Harry Styles went in a completely different direction. With elements of Fleetwood Mac, The Beatles, Simon and Garfunkel, The Rolling Stones, and even a hint of Pink Floyd, he has made a dramatic change in his musical style from pure pop to a mixture of soft rock and indie.
Although his most popular songs are ones like ‘Watermelon Sugar’ and ‘Adore You’, I prefer listening to ‘She’, ‘Sweet Creature’, and ‘Two Ghosts’. The song ‘Sweet Creature’ is distinctly Beatle-esque, and the opening finger-picked guitar riff is not unlike the one in the Beatles’ song ‘Blackbird’.
BLACKPINK IN YOUR AREA!
Blackpink, a South-Korean girl group consisting of Park Chaeyoung, Lalisa Manoban, Kim Jennie and Kim Jisoo, took the world by storm in 2016. I was first introduced to K-pop by a friend of mine a few years ago, and… I didn’t like it. I had a mental block against K-pop, so I did not even try to listen to any songs – that is, until I heard ‘Kill This Love’ by Blackpink. The song is unabashedly pure pop, but the tune and the synth beats were stuck in my head for weeks! I found myself playing it on repeat, and even though I didn’t understand the Korean lyrics, it didn’t stop me from singing pure gibberish in the tune of the song. Eventually, I started to listen to more songs, and I realised that all of them were just as catchy and fun to listen to. I can now call myself a ‘Blink’ (a Blackpink fan), having listened to almost all their music.
Blackpink is now one of the most popular groups in the world, being the most-subscribed groups on YouTube, with two songs with over a billion views. One of their latest songs, ‘How You Like That’, received 80 million views within a day – making it the most viewed video ever within 24 hours. They were the first Korean girl group to chart in the Billboard Top 100, and their albums have broken multiple Guinness World Records. At this point, it would be easier to list the records that they haven’t yet broken! Perhaps their iconic slogan – ‘Blackpink is the Revolution’ – really is true!
We Selfless Gatsbys
We Gatsbys have always had an altruistic desire to put others before ourselves. We are humble, modest, and kind-hearted sort of chaps, and the smile on someone’s face is always worth the hassle of trying to put it there in the first place.
This particular story begins in my library. Well, I suppose it isn’t a library really… it would be more fitting to call it a cupboard with a few books and a bean bag. Nevertheless, I was curled up in my library, sipping on a cup of piping hot tea and nibbling on a few biscuits, when the doorbell rang, shaking me out of the state of bliss that one generally feels when reading a good book.
Muttering angrily to myself, I left the library-cum-cupboard, and opened the front door, only to be confronted by a childhood pal of mine, William Arthur Ainsworth. We had bonded, in our days of youth, over a shared middle name, but I hadn’t seen him since graduating from Cambridge. Until now, that is.
“Why, if it isn’t Bill Ainsworth!”, I exclaimed.
“Oh Freddie, it’s good to see you again.”, he said.
“What brings you here, old bean?” I asked.
William bit his lip nervously.
“I think we should discuss it over brunch tomorrow, my friend. It might be too heavy a topic to discuss at your front door.”
Now I was getting suspicious. A fellow I hadn’t seen in over 10 years, suddenly wanting to discuss heavy topics over brunch? Fishy, very fishy. Regardless of my suspicions, I agreed to meet him at the Savoy the following afternoon.
_
I found old Bill the next day, occupying a window seat at the Savoy, chewing on a bread stick rather pensively. I sat down opposite him and flashed him a radiant smile, displaying my lovely set of pearly-whites. I’m not sure why Bill grimaced when I smiled at him, but then again, he had always been slightly touched in the head, poor boy.
“Freddie, old chap, I have to ask you a favour.” said William.
“Ask away, old chum, ask away!” I said encouragingly, and grinned, inciting another grimace from William.
“First, have a bread stick.”, said William.
I politely declined.
“Some kippers?”
I shook my head.
“Oh, an omelette!”
“No thanks.”
“Toast?”
“I’ll pass.”
William sighed, anxiety casting a shadow over his round face.
“Well Fred, I don’t know how to say this. I feel like I’m asking a lot from you, but I know you will do it for me. I remember how kind-hearted you were when we were in school, always helping people out.”
This affair was getting fishier by the moment. Even fishier than the kippers that lay uneaten on William’s plate.
“You see, Freddie, I’ve been trying to get a job for the past few months, but nothing appears to be working! So I have decided to start my own business; but unfortunately I don’t have enough money to do it! I-”
William Ainsworth was cut off mid-sentence by a waiter who had come to inquire as to whether we wanted some more tea.
“Ah yes,” said William, seeming relieved at the interruption, “ we’ll have some. Mine should have five lumps of sugar, a teaspoon of milk, a spot of honey…”
He droned on and on about the specifics of the tea, while I wondered how a jobless man was eating at the Savoy. Finally the waiter stepped away, leaving me alone with Bill again.
“Well Freddie… I’m awfully afraid that you won’t like the request I have to make, but I know that-”
“Get on with it, Ainsworth.”, I snapped, causing William to blush in a flustered manner.
“See here, Fred, here’s the position I’m in. I want terribly to start an accounting firm of my own, but as I mentioned before, I have no money! The only way I can acquire the funds to start the firm is if my uncle endorses me. He’s a rather rich old thing you know, and a few thousand pounds is nothing to him, but could save my career.”
“Career? What career? You haven’t got one.” I said rather nastily. As I reflect on the situation, I realise now that I might have come off as rude.
William looked as though he were about to cry.
“Oh Freddie! Don’t say such things! I’m trying my best, you know!”
“All right, all right. So why don’t you just ask your uncle for the cash then?”
Bill dabbed at his eyes with his handkerchief and sniffed. I tried my hardest not to roll my eyes at his behaviour, but they seemed to roll of their own accord.
“Ever since I was born, I have never quite managed to make a good impression on my uncle. He has always considered me somewhat of a good-for-nothing.”
Which you are.
“I always seem to say the wrong things,” he continued tearfully, “and even though I try my hardest, he never seems to like me! So here’s what I ask of you, my old friend, my best mate, my favourite pal, my chum, my brother. Please, please, please, could you go over to his lodgings… and pretend to be me?”
Have you ever choked on your tea so hard that the hot liquid goes up your nose and into your head until your brains are swimming in the stuff, and your thoughts are stained brown with tea? Well, that’s what happened to me. I stared at my old friend in shock.
“What on earth do you mean?”
“Well Freddie, you have always had a way with people! All I’m asking of you is to go to Bentley Court, pretend to be me, and ask for the money!”
“But won’t your uncle realise that I’m not you?”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out, Fred! Well? Will you do it?” asked William hopefully.
I had a long hard think, and ultimately decided to break the news to him in a polite, gentle manner.
“No”, I said.
“No?” faltered the Ainsworth.
“No”, I reiterated.
Bill sank back into his chair, and shook his head.
“That was a straightforward answer”, he said ruefully.
“I’m not in the habit of beating about bushes.”, I said rather frigidly.
“Have some bread with butter, Freddie.”
“Absolutely not.” I was not going to let him butter me up with actual butter.
William’s eyes swam with tears, and he began sniffling uncontrollably. His demeanour was starting to remind me of a lost puppy, all miserable and helpless and…
“All right, old chap, I shall do it” I sighed defeatedly. You see, I will forever be a Gatsby at heart. The selfless, altruistic Gatsby blood shall always flow through my veins.
Bill’s face split into a wide smile, and he looked as if he was about to get down on one knee and ask me to marry him. He began thanking me profusely, which rather warmed my heart, but the moment he started kissing my feet, I decided I had had enough and left the restaurant hurriedly.
_
A week or so later, I entered the residence of Sir Wilberforce Bentley; although you might know him better as William Ainsworth’s uncle. I had put on my best suit for the occasion, the same one that I had once worn when I had a job as a translator for an English duke. It was a marvellous suit, a sprightly yellow outfit, accentuated by lovely white frills.
Before entering ‘my uncle’s’ drawing room, I took a deep breath. I must forget that I was ever Frederick Arthur Gatsby. I am now William Arthur Ainsworth.
“Uncle!” I exclaimed jovially, slouching slightly to further imitate the characteristics of the real William Ainsworth. “It’s me, your nephew, Bill!”
I looked around, trying to spot my so-called ‘Uncle’. I couldn’t find him. The only other living creature in the room was a rather large, wrinkly, Rhesus Macaque monkey. I wondered incredulously as to why a monkey was sitting in Sir Wilberforce Bentley’s armchair, but upon closer inspection I noticed that it was not a monkey, but Sir Wilberforce himself. It was just that he bore a striking resemblance to a Rhesus Macaque monkey.
The monkey-man squinted his eyes at me, looking me up and down.
“Where’s William?” he asked. From this question, I quickly gathered that he knew I was an impostor.
“Uncle! What do you mean? It’s me, William!” I cried, trying my utmost to sound like his real nephew.
“No, it isn’t. Last time I saw William, he had brown hair and brown eyes; how do you explain your blonde hair and blue eyes?”
“Oh, I simply bleached my hair and wore blue lenses in my eyes. It’s the fashion nowadays, you know.”
“I see?”
“Yes, you do see.”
“Well, perhaps I’ve gotten old,”
“Not at all! You don’t look a day over 90, uncle!” I said sweetly.
This comment did not appear to sit well with the old man. I attributed this to a shared mental issue with his nephew. The wrinkled old chap scratched his ribcage, and the striking resemblance that he bore to the Rhesus Macaque struck me even harder than before. I unsuccessfully attempted to swallow the guffaw that was building in my throat, but successfully disguised it as a cough.
“Uncle, I’ve come to ask a favour.”
Have you ever seen a Rhesus Macaque monkey roll its eyes? Well, I can say I have.
“A favour, eh?”
“Quite.”
“Well what is it, boy? Spit it out.”
“Uncle, it has always been my life’s ambition to start an accounting firm, but the measly inheritance that my late parents have left me has unfortunately hindered my ability to do so.”
“Of course. Your parents were good-for-nothings, just like you.”
By now, I had gotten quite accustomed to being William Ainsworth, so this insult to his birth-givers felt like an insult to mine. I fought back an angry retort, and instead forced out a curt laugh.
“Ha. Ha. Ha.” I left a pause after each ‘ha’ so that my fake uncle knew that I was offended, but was trying not to show it.
“Well, my useless nephew, what do you want?”
“I would be ever so grateful if you could give me a few thousand pounds to start the firm.” I asked the question as sweetly and gently as one could possibly ask a question to an overgrown, talking, Rhesus Macaque.
“Accounting, eh?”, said the monkey-man hybrid, “interested in accounting, are you?”
“Yes, uncle, I am absolutely infatuated with it! In fact, I do accounting in my free time!”
“Accounting in your free time?”
“Quite.”
“I see,” said my pseudo-uncle, “well, can you answer me this question, William? What is a balance sheet? You must know that if you want to pursue a career in accounting.”
Oh dear. I was not expecting this. However, I have always prided myself on my quick and brilliant mind.
“One thing only I know; and that is that I know nothing. This makes me very wise, uncle.”
“Who said that quote?”
“A friend of my late father’s, uncle.”
“No, I’m quite sure it was Socrates.”
“Yes, uncle. Socrates was a good friend of my father’s.”
“That’s impossible, boy.”
I was beginning to grow rather exasperated. I explained gently to Sir Wilberforce Bentley that it was indeed possible for Socrates to be friends with my father. It wasn’t as if my father couldn’t have any friends!
“But – Socrates lived thousands of years ago!”
“Not at all, my dear uncle. He is, in fact, the same age as my father would be if he were alive. So that’s where you’re wrong.”
“Oh dear. I must be getting old.”
“Indeed.” I agreed.
The old Bentley then proceeded to tell me about how he, too, was interested in great philosophers like Socrates, and how his impression of me had improved a good deal.
“But I have one objection, boy,” said my irritating ‘uncle’, “so far, you haven’t done particularly well in your other jobs. What do you have to say about that, boy?”
“One cannot step twice in the same river.” I said, wisely.
“Heraclitus said that.”
“Yes, he was a great friend of my mother’s.”
“Ah. I never knew that you were this interested in the great philosophers of the world! We must talk about philosophy more often, my boy!”
“Indeed, uncle, indeed. We certainly must.”, I concurred.
“You know what, my dear nephew? Here is a cheque for 5,000 pounds. Start your firm! I have faith in you, my boy!”
Have you ever seen a Rhesus Macaque monkey smile proudly, with tears of pride prickling in its eyes? Well, my dear reader, I can say that I have.
I gladly and gratefully took the cheque from my ape-esque uncle’s wrinkled hands. I thanked him profusely, and a few minutes later, exeunt Frederick Arthur Gatsby and his gorgeous frilly yellow suit.
_
I walked into my house to find the real William Ainsworth seated comfortably on my couch.
“Did you do it?” he asked eagerly.
“Indeed, I did.” said I.
“Well then! Hand me the check now, old bean!” exclaimed my childhood friend enthusiastically.
I smiled at him.
“No. No, I don’t think I will. I think I shall keep my hard-earned money, thank you very much.” I said. You see, I had grown quite attached to the elderly Sir Bentley, but I had grown even more attached to the 5,000-pound cheque that I clutched tightly in my hand.
Poor Bill’s face fell, and his eyes no longer held the crazed, euphoric gleam that they had a few minutes ago. But this time, no matter how much selfless blood ran in my veins, I would not let myself be used as a device for William Ainsworth to open an accounting firm.
“But Freddie! Don’t you remember when I saved you from drowning in the school swimming pool?”
“ I remember no such thing.”
“Oh, perhaps it never happened.”
“Rather.”
“Sorry, old chap. I’ll go now. I hope you have a great life.” he said, woefully.
“I shall.”
William walked to the front door, but just as he was about to leave, I called for him to wait a moment.
“Oh, William, wait!”
He turned around, his big brown eyes filled with hope.
“Your uncle looks rather like a Rhesus Macaque monkey.”
And with that, I shut the door.
“That Rock ‘n’ Roll, Eh?”
My uncle recently introduced me to the Arctic Monkeys, and I am not afraid to say that I loved them immediately. Their music is is a mixture of R&B, Garage Rock, and Indie Rock, with elements of David Bowie, Black Sabbath, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones; at the same time remaining unique. The Arctic Monkeys, formed by Alex Turner, Matt Helders, Nick ‘O’ Malley and Jamie Cook, are possibly one of the only rock bands formed in the late 2000s, and still playing today. Some of my favourite tracks by them include ‘Four out of Five’, ‘Mardy Bum’ and ‘Snap Out Of It’, but my most favourite songs by far are ‘R U Mine’, and ‘Do I Wanna Know’. When I first heard ‘Do I Wanna Know’, my fingers were itching to learn it on the guitar for days… and when I finally learnt it, I couldn’t stop playing it! The guitar riff is catchy and cool, and is sure to get stuck in your head for weeks.
So, I have decided to share with you, my guitar covers of “R U Mine” and ‘Do I Wanna Know’. As Alex Turner himself once said, “That rock ‘n’ roll, eh? That rock ‘n’ roll, it just won’t go away. It seems like it’s faded away sometimes, but it will never die. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“Music is the Emotional Life of Most People”
Leonard Cohen once said, “Music is the emotional life of most people.” I couldn’t agree more.
One of my favourite things in the world is music, so I thought I’d share a cover of ‘Hallelujah’ by Leonard Cohen, that I played on the piano. When I’m not reading, I love to potter about on the piano or guitar, so watch this space for more covers soon!
De Omnibus Dubitandum 