Palanquin of Heaven
H. R. Krishna
Vamptasy Publishing
Copyright of H. R. Krishna
All rights reserved
The right of H. R. Krishna to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
Published by Vamptasy Publishing
Cover picture by
Nicola Ormerod
Photo from Stock
This book is dedicated to my loyal bunch of crooked friends Rahl, Gomes, Terror and Blufontaine along with my mentor Mary An Negi; to my wonderful parents, Uma and Rengaraj and to my dear little sister Janani
and finally to my imaginary friend Aditi
Foremost I would like to thank my beta readers who invested their time in reading the unedited versions of this book and for providing their valuable feedback the list includes Vikram, Vaishnavi, Asha Sunil, Namitha Itti, Asha Varghese, Anusha and Madhumitha. I would also like to thank a few writers from whom I learnt humility namely Mark Lawrence, Kevin James Breaux, Sneha Kedar, Charlotte Blackwell, and Krishna Kumar. Finally I would like to thank my multitalented superhero publisher Nicola Ormerod and her kickass sidekick Rue Volley.
01
Aditi
The tall tower welcomed us with its emblazoned goldenwords plastered across the grandeur glass building, ‘CHOWDHURY CONSTRUCTIONS’ it read.
I strained my neck and counted, my juvenile eyes reached all the way till the pointy tip that kissed the azure sky, ‘twenty four floors,’ I beamed in awe and my grip tightened around my father’s neck.
He firmly held me despite my struggles which relentlessly tested his patience. He seemed to enjoy it all the more and rubbed my shin occasionally chuckling.
“Oh Ditti, looks like our five year old princess can finally count,” he looked at my mom, a slender woman in mid thirties who was patiently helping a little boy walk across the well groomed lawn which had statues of gnomes staring in different directions.
My mom wore an intricately embroidered green sari that curled around her waist in folds covering most of her fair flesh as it climbed up her shoulder and slid down the tightly woven jacket, which gracefully complimented her aging figure. The bright red Sindhur at the centre of her forehead, the upturned crimson lips, the auburn locks of hair that fell down her face, the long golden mangala sutra that rested on her chest, and the clang of the red and white bangles, demurely announced her Bengali descent.
“And our three year old prince has found his sturdy legs,” she chuckled and withdrew her arms.
The little boy was surprised; he staggered initially but rushed to my mom’s open arms.
“Daddy, did you build this?” I messed his greasy black hair staring back at the giant of a building before us.
Mom cuddled Pravin for a moment longer and then dragged my reluctant brother towards us.
Pravin stopped his struggle and looked at me as I mightily perched on top of our father’s shoulders.
“Up papa, up!” he whined.
My father laughed heartily, “I can carry you both,” he bent down and single-handedly lifted Pravin too. He stretched and arched his hands so that my little brother stood next to me on my father’s strong shoulders. He was scared as usual and held on to me.
