A few months ago, barely weeks into lockdown, I was having chai with my grandparents in the morning while they regaled me with anecdotes of their childhood. As they took turns describing what life was like in the villages and towns of India on the heels of attaining independence, they peppered their tales with rustic colloquial terms, terms I had never heard before. One was about furniture - a cross between a chaarpai and stool. Another was a technique to separate and chop strands of vermicelli noodles. They had their own tweaks on the words too, spoken differently in their families. They did their best to explain it but I couldn’t visualize it. My mother, the generational bridge between us, wasn’t home. The conversation changed its course like a river charting its own flow and it deposited the silt of those words behind.

The cousins of my grandparents have since either passed on or have no contact with them. The time they talked of has gone. The things they described aren’t here. The words they spoke were so rare that I may not hear them again. Ever.

Where do words go when people stop speaking them?

The words I’ve grown up speaking at home come from three languages – English, Hindi, and Punjabi. Or Punjabi, Hindi, English. Or Hindi, English, Punjabi. The order is beside the point. At times, a thought started in one language streams into another mid-sentence. There is no consensus on replying in the same language. Conversations at home have been a trilingual affair – a yarn of three threads wound so tightly that you’d have to snip one to separate the three.

I find videos on YouTube that build on the richness of a brain fluent in more than one language. I secretly pride myself on the claimed richness the creases and folds my grey matter possesses although I have nothing to show for it except words. But words can fail and pride can stumble.

The other day I couldn’t recall the Hindi word for kidney. I tried to pass it off as a momentary lapse. It was slipping my mind, as the phrase goes. But minutes turned to hours. I started thinking of other organs in Hindi. Repeating them over and over. As though remembering others was enough to excuse this failure. As though I could trick my brain into conjuring what it hadn’t deemed important enough to remember. Like oil that lubricates the rusty chains that hinder the cycle’s motion, I wanted to get my mental gears greased enough to churn up the word. It had indeed slipped my mind. But after slipping, it might as well have fallen off a cliff. Like the Memory Dump in the movie ‘Inside Out’ – the chasm where memories and words and phrases and sentences pass into oblivion.

गुर्दा. That’s kidney in Hindi. I had to call upon Google for help. My pride was shattered in all three languages.

Where do words go when people start forgetting them?

I wish it were a one-off incident that a word in Hindi eluded me. When you stop exercising your muscles, they begin to atrophy. Use it or lose it, as the phrase goes. But it’s not as if I know everything there is to know in English. I slip, slide, and fumble my way through it too. At times, I think of a word like ridiculous and I think and think and think until the spelling stops making sense. My brain has no time for whatever cerebral duel I wish to engage it in.

When my slipping grip begins to concern me, I turn to a book I purchased a few years ago from the Delhi Book Fair. It’s a collection of short stories by Premchand. प्रतिनिधि कहानियाँ. Representative Stories. I turn to them to prove to myself, Look, I can do it. It’s like turning to Shakespeare to validate your English. But I confess to not having read beyond a few pages. The first story is one I had read in my textbook in Class X and I like re-reading it because it reminds me of my class. The book sits on my bookshelf, embarrassingly, the lone Hindi book in a sea of authors from over the world, mocking me. You said you could do it, but did you?

I think to myself, I’m just as comfortable articulating in Hindi but on occasions when an app or website switches to Hindi due to some error, I reach for the English button as a reflex. I’ll indulge myself now and then but that’s what it tends to be. An indulgence. A moment given away. Let’s see what this post sounds like in Hindi. Oh, that was fun but it’s enough for today. Hindi pervades my music, movies, conversations, and in moments of frustration, curses. But it hides during my reading, playing second fiddle. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, as the phrase goes.

Where do words go when people start avoiding them?

When I was in Europe last year, me and my friends spoke a lot in Hindi. More so than I recall doing in the last few months, if not years. It was fun. It was a tether to home. It was conspiratorial. It raised eyebrows. It turned heads. It broke the ice. It froze it further. It was the most rebellious a bunch of law-abiding exchange students could afford to be. Those who believe that language always binds, haven’t been in a land where no one else speaks it.

On a tram in Lille, France, I spotted a woman reading a French translation of Harry Potter. She was at ease with her book, unbothered about challenging the purity of the author’s words in the original language, unperturbed about what may be lost in translation. Why didn’t I ever do it? I grew up watching (some of) the Harry Potter movies in Hindi but even then, among myself and my friends, there was an implicit understanding that this experience was a placeholder until we got access to it in English – ‘the way it is supposed to be’.

Dur-e-Aziz Amna, the author of the award-winning essay, Your Tongue Is Still Yours, writes, “I have the privilege of knowing English and choosing to intermittently reject it, like an on-again off-again lover on speed dial.” Why can’t I?

A lyric in an Annie Lennox song goes, “Language is leaving me”. I feel that now.

My guilt over my Mother Tongue is a wave that drowns and lifts me alternately. Like Holden Caulfield, I must be the Catcher in the Rye and make sure no word falls over the cliff. I have nothing to show for my guilt except words. I have nothing to show of my resolution to erase that guilt but words. They have traced their way from the recesses of my mind onto this prose. What do I hope to achieve with them? It’ll suffice that they are read by you. If not…

Where do words go when people stop reading them?

Dionysus, I invited you over today to clear a charge put upon me.

I know you are the Greek god of wine and the master of fertility.

Although, you know nothing about me or any of my silly ways.

It is pertinent that I entertain you, so that I may live for many days.

I am a creature of my belonging, a shoemaker by hand.

If that is not crazy enough, I will show you to make you understand.

I drink a glass of wine each day, and I’m sure you need one now.

Several glasses I will feed you before you have to sit down.

Once you sat down and remove your shoes to get very comfortable.

I will snip and remove your pinky toe, that will be inevitable.

You will be so drunk that I promise you will not feel a thing.

And to keep the room lively enough, I work and I sing.

As I am singing, I made some shoes, for a man that has four toes.

And as you come out of your drunken stupor, my hospitality shows.

I will walk you to the door, with your brand new shoes on.

You will chuckle, we will fist bump knuckles, and all my charges will be gone.

Emma had been told she was funnier when she was drunk. Subsequently, she’d also been told she possessed bigger cajones during her most intoxicated moments. She wasn’t sure she believed those things herself just yet but—given the present situation— she figured it couldn’t hurt her case.

So, before her meeting with the god, Emma drank.

This was the result.

“Hi,” Emma said to the beautiful nymph guarding the door. She knew that the woman was a nymph because she was wearing a nametag that said HEAD SECURITY NYMPH. “I’m here for my interview with Dionysus.”

“Interview?” the nymph said, arching an eyebrow. She wore only a thin white shift and had biceps that rivaled those of any man. A tattoo of a chalice wrapped in ivy encircled one shoulder. Her facial expression, although exquisitely arranged, looked like she ate nails for a living. She held a plain brown clipboard in one hand.

“I’m not sure what else to call this.” Emma said, “It seems sort of improper to refer to it as a trial determining whether I’ll be executed or not.”

The nymph didn’t laugh, which Emma took as a bad sign. “Fair enough.” The nymph said instead. She scanned the clipboard. “What’s your name?”

“Emma Wilson.” Emma said.

“Ah. I see you. And you filled out your paperwork already? Do we have your Social Security card on file? Your Five Wishes?”

“I mailed everything in last week. So I sure hope so.” The paperwork had been extensive, containing over 46 grammatical errors over the space of 23 pages. Emma had underlined every one before she mailed it in. Purely for spite. She doubted that anybody actually looked at it anyway. The nymph nodded her head. Although Emma tried hard not to look, she couldn’t help but notice that the nymph wasn’t wearing a bra underneath her shift. Her nipples pointed out at Emma like tiny traffic cones. Emma wondered if maybe it was a cultural thing. Based on information she’d read in the 8th grade, Nymphs usually lived in the forest. Perhaps they didn’t wear bras there.

“Do you have any questions?” The nymph asked. Emma tore her attention away from the nymph’s nipples. She focused on the nymph’s eyes instead. They were a pale green color. Fitting for a creature of the trees. Emma was dazed by them momentarily.

“Just clarification on something, if you wouldn’t mind.” Emma’s mother had raised her to be polite when asking for information and she honored this, even in the face of death, “So I haven’t really been in this situation before. I wasn’t expecting my name to be called in the lottery. You must hear that a lot,” Emma stopped and smiled at the nymph who definitely did not smile back. “Everybody keeps telling me there’s only one rule. I have to make Dionysus laugh. And if I don’t, I die.”

“Yes,” the nymph said.

“Okay. Well if I do make him laugh, what do I get? The paperwork wasn’t really clear on that.”

“Life.” the nymph said simply. Like it was obvious. “And we’ll take your name out of the next lottery.”

“Well, that’d certainly be wonderful.” Emma said. “Wouldn’t want to get that lucky twice.” The nymph didn’t even blink. How many lottery winners had she seen before Emma? Was she this unenthused about her job every day? Or was Emma just that unfunny?

“Anything else?” The nymph asked.

“No,” Emma said, a little subdued. Up until now, the situation hadn’t seemed all that dire. Death hadn’t seemed like it was in the cards. Possible, yes. But not in a serious way. Now Emma wasn’t so sure. She was starting to feel frightened. She wished she’d had more to drink. The nymph scribbled something on the clipboard. Then, without looking behind her, the nymph tapped the knuckles of her left hand against the door. A voice from the inside cried, “Come in!”

“Go ahead,” the nymph said, and, in a lower voice, “Good luck.” She opened the door and smiled the tiniest smile that Emma had ever seen. So maybe she only ate nails every now and then, Emma decided.

She walked inside.

Given that he was a god, Emma figured that the room would be big. Magnificent. Filled with gold and jewels and naked women. Maybe a fountain or two. The room possessed none of these things. Instead, to her slight discomfort, the room resembled that of the average bar. It had a sign near the doorway that said “MAX OCCUPANCY: 39 CREATURES.” Bottles of wine were stacked neatly on shelves on three of the four walls. At least, she assumed they were wine bottles. The lighting was way too dim for her taste.

“Woah,” Emma said, “the lighting sucks in here.”

“You’re not wrong,” a voice said, “Thanks for the feedback.”

“Where are you?” Emma asked, peering around. As far as she could tell, there was nobody sitting at the bar stools lining the counter. Nor was there anybody sitting at the surrounding tables.

“I’m sitting behind the counter.” The voice replied. “On the floor.”

“Uh,” Emma said.

“It’s where I think the best.” The voice said. “Come here. Let me see you.”

“Uh,” Emma said again. But her legs moved of their own accord and in just a few moments she stood behind the counter, looking down at the most average looking god she had ever seen. What a letdown, she thought. A part of her had hoped he’d look a bit like Hercules.

“Hi there.” Emma smoothed her shirt down self consciously, hoping Dionysus couldn’t read minds or anything. “I’m Emma Wilson.”

“Emma Wilson,” Dionysus said, reaching out a hand, “It’s nice to meet you.”

He was scrunched over on the floor, with several bottles scattered around him. He looked like he was in his thirties. His face was long and his nose small. There was stubble on his cheeks. His hair was receding somewhat. Emma shook his hand. It felt warm and sweaty. His grip was light.

“You too, Dionysus.” What else could she say?

“You can go ahead and take a seat, Emma.”

“Okay. Next to you? Across from you? Or…”

“Across from me is fine.” So Emma sat across from him. He smelled like he’d been drinking.

“Can I get you anything to drink, Emma? Water? Beer? Wine, perhaps?” And then he chuckled, like it was just the funniest thing. The wine god offering wine.

“I’ll take whatever you’re drinking.” Emma said.

“Excellent choice.” Dionysus grabbed the closest bottle next to him. It was still corked. He stared at the cork for a second or so, his eyes narrowing in a determined way. With a sudden pop! the cork shot against the wall. Emma jumped. Grinning, Dionysus handed her the bottle. “Did you like that?”

“Yes.” Emma hadn’t liked it at all. “Is that a god thing?”

“Oh yes.” Dionysus said. “It’s a god thing.”

Emma took a drink. Again, her expectations for grandeur were shot down. It tasted like the cheap wine that she’d buy at a liquor store.

“It tastes wonderful,” She told Dionysus, “Is this what the gods drink?”

“This is what I drink,” Dionysus said, “The higher gods wouldn’t touch this stuff with a ten foot pole.” He paused. Examined her for a moment. “You’re a flatterer, I can tell. Not a bad thing when it comes to the gods.” He took a swig out of a different bottle sitting next to him. Then another.

“It just seems like the best course of action.” Emma answered honestly, feeling a little lightheaded. The drink may have tasted like cheap wine but it hit her system like a freight train. It’d been what? A few minutes at the most? She blinked rapidly, feeling muddled and bubbly at the same time.

“I know.” he said, smiling, watching her reaction, “I may not have all the luxuries of the higher gods, Emma. But I am the god of wine. That wine is special. Diluted, but special. Your mortal body couldn’t handle it otherwise.”

“Is yours diluted, too?” Emma asked.

“Yes. It’s only polite to drink what your guest is drinking.”

“Oh,” Emma said. She supposed that made sense. She drank some more.

“So,” Dionysus said.

“So,” Emma echoed. She didn’t know what to do next. Should she start cracking jokes? Was there a limit on how many attempts she had? Nobody who survived the lottery had ever talked about their experiences with the god of wine.

“What are you thinking?” Dionysus asked her. He seemed genuinely curious. Emma looked at him. She felt she could tell him what she was actually thinking.

“Honestly,” Emma said, “I don’t know where to start with this whole thing. It seems kind of fucked up to me that I have to make you laugh in order to like, not forfeit my life. Why is that your shtick? I’d like to understand the thought process behind it.”

“Ah,” he said. “The wine is affecting you, already, I see.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a little like a truth serum.” Dionysus said, “It wasn’t intentionally manufactured that way. It just seems to have that effect on humans.”

“Oh great,” Emma said, “So this is stuff I normally wouldn’t be saying and should probably be holding back.”

“Probably,” Dionysus agreed. He leaned back against the counter. “But it’s not a bad thing. It is fucked up, Emma. You’re right. So what do you say we do away with the game? No threat of death.”

“We can do that?” Emma asked, surprised. “Like I can leave?”

“I can do whatever I want,” Dionysus said. “I’m a god. Sure, you can leave. But let’s talk for a little while first. I’m sure there’s things you’d like to ask me. The meaning of life maybe? The secret of our immortality? Just to name a few.”

“Do I have your word that I can leave?” Emma asked.

“Yes.” Dionysus said. “You have my word. Don’t you want to know the answers to those questions?”

“Not really,” Emma said, beginning to stand up, “I’d like to leave. Those subjects sound kind of pretentious coming from you.”

“Ouch.” Dionysus placed a hand over his heart. “Maybe we shouldn’t do away with the original game.” Fear must have registered on Emma’s face because he quickly added, “I’m just kidding, Emma. I won’t take what I said back. But I’m curious. Why are those things pretentious coming from me?” Emma sat back down. She took another two swallows from the bottle. Then another two. Plus two more.

“Well,” Emma deliberated. “For one, it seems like you didn’t give us the answers to questions like those in the first place precisely because you wanted us to ask you what the answers are. So you can feel wise and mighty.”

“Ouch.” Dionysus said again.

“And two,” Emma went on, “Why should I care if you guys are immortal? That just highlights the fact that we’re not. It’s not like anybody forced you to create death. And, by the way, since you’re immortal and all, let me tell you: death sucks.”

“Technically I didn’t create death,” Dionysus started, “That was the god of the underwor—”

“And a third thing,” Emma interrupted him, “Why should I trust the answers to those types of questions anyway? Given what I know of Greek mythology, it doesn’t really seem like any of you have it all together. Why are there higher gods? Shouldn’t all of you be equal? Don’t you want to be equal to them, Dionysus?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“I’m not here to make you feel better about yourself.” Emma finished. “And I don’t have any questions for you. Unless you can tell me who your secretary is, because I counted 46 grammatical errors in all the paperwork I had to sign for this stupid game. For such high stakes, that’s pretty unprofessional.” She was silent for a moment. “Or, if you can tell me who my soulmate is. I suppose I am curious about that.”

Dionysus looked a bit stunned. “I don’t know who your soulmate is. Only Aphrodite knows that type of information.”

“Then we’re done here.” Emma said. And she stood up, finished off the drink, and set the bottle neatly on top of the counter. “Thank you for the wine.”

As Emma left once more through the door guarded by the nymph, she felt as she imagined the gods felt at all times. Invincible. As if she could do anything she wanted to and there would be no repercussions whatsoever.

From behind her, she could hear Dionysus laughing.

It was a warm, sunny day as Calliope, a Demigod, daughter of Athena, ran down a hill covered in vibrant, warm, green grass. The picture was almost perfect, execpt for the fact that Calliope was running from three monsters, they looked like hellhounds, and they would most definetly snap her neck off if she dared to stop running. “Help! Please, help!” she screamed, as she lost momentum. Sundenly, Calliope was no longer on that field. She was on Mount Olympus. “Come here, child” a voice boomed. Looking around frantically, she spotted a squat man with an olive wreath sitting at a large table, empty exept for him.“I have answered your prayers, but it comes with a price.” Calliope breathed a sigh of relief. She was safe. “you have to make me laugh, if not, I send you back to die in that field. “I accept your challenge” she said, knowing very well that if she didn’t, she would be dead in a heartbeat.

Soon, three maids scuttled up to her with three objects. A sword, a rope, and a leaf. “You must include one of these items into your performance to make me laugh. You have three chances. Use them well.” Calliope looked thoughtfully at the objects before choosing the leaf. Dionysus gave her a look of surprise. “interesting choice. Your deadline is sundown.” Now it was Calliope’s turn to be surprised. Sundown was in two hours! How on Earth would she make him laugh without a proper day to prepare? Surely she would die! She grabbed the leaf and began to think.

It was sundown, the cursed time. The Olympians had gathered at the table to watch the show. Her own mother was missing. Her mother should at least come see her last moments, before she was eliminated by the god with the best poker face! “It is time” Dionysus boomed. “Begin” Calliope, being intelligent and witty, took her leaf, and multiplied it into four, then eight, then sixteen leaves, a mortal magic trick. Dionysus did not even smile. One chance wasted, she thought. Next she told a story of three goats, turned to humans, who did not know how the world worked, A couple of the gods cracked a smile, not Dionysus. She had run out of ideas and the sun was five minutes to completly set, the colors fading from the sky. She would die, all because she did not make him laugh. But, she did not was to die at the hands of a god.

With all her strength and courage, she burst out the doors of the throne room, into the fresh evening air on top of the mountian, then she leaped. The last thing she heard was a laugh, a strong chuckle, turned into a giggle, then full on hysteria.

There you sit on the throne

glancing at my dainty form,

raising your mighty baritone voice

to say the words, that will determine my worth

"Dance, talk, make us laugh.

Your success will maybe grant you an escape."

Taking a deep breath, filled with fear and hysteria,

the sweat already dropping out of my pores,

my body no longer carrying a human color,

How should I succeed in this challenge to come?

"Vigorous God of ecstasy and joy,

I bow my head to you in awe and respect,

hereby making my promise

that all of you will laugh to death."

Citing divine comedies and poems,

of some written by my own hand,

the crowd responds with a laugh or a chuckle,

enjoying all of my troubles,

while gambling on my end.

Minutes pass, they feel like years,

No longer I know what to say to make ends meet.

And when the final drop of red velvet liqueur

vanishes on the master's tongue,

I know that my time has come.

From where I sit, this house looks like all the others along the tree-lined suburban street. It is a cool, calm night. I know such nights can be dangerously deceptive.

I step out of my squad car. The peace of the night is broken by blaring music. The neighbors got that much right. I walk up to the front door. I pause a moment taking note of the unusual curlicue doorknocker.

As I raise my hand to the knocker, the door opens. A young fellow in a toga stumbles out and vomits on the lawn. Great, this is some sort of frat party. The last thing I want to deal with tonight is a bunch of drunken college kids.

I step through the wide open door into a crowded living room. To my surprise, a middle aged man is looks to be holding court upon an expensive leather sofa. His cheeks are red. His engorged midsection is straining to break free of the bed sheet turned toga wrapped around him. He even sports a vine of grape leaves like a crown across his brow. Wine bottles lay scattered about him. His stemmed glass is nearly empty. But fear not, a young woman, lounging at his side, carefully, cautiously refills it.

Not your typical frat party, after all.

“Excuse me, sir,” I address the room’s centerpiece.

“Good evening, officer,” he replies.

“Good morning would be more appropriate. Listen, we’ve had complaints from the neighbors about the noise.”

“Sorry, my good man. We shall turn it down forthwith.”

He waves a hand in the direction of a furry legged young man. Quite a good costume this one has. I wonder how he managed to squeeze his feet into those little hooves. What are those goat-legged guys called? I can’t remember. The music dies down to a low hum.

“It is not just the music,” I continue, “current Covid-19 regulations in this county prohibit gatherings of more than . . .”

My last few words are drowned out by a groan from the goat-legged man. I look over and watch him stumble to the floor.

“Is he all right?” I ask.

“Oh, Pan is fine.” the fellow opposite replies. “You can ignore him. I try to. What were you saying, before, about the regulations?”

“What I mean is,” I straighten my belt and put on my most commanding voice, “the party has to end.”

The man looks at me confused for an instant. Then, he burst into laughter. The sound echoes around the newly subdued house.

He tries to calm himself. Failing, he bursts out in laughter once again.

“Oh, ha ha, ha ha ha ha. That is a good one.” He finally manages a discernable sentence. “Pan, did you hear? The party end, that is a good one. For a second officer, I thought I might have to kill you. But my,” he begins to chuckle again, “what a good joke.”

“Kill me?” I blurt out. “Is that a threat sir?”

The fellow falls back into his uncontrollable revelry.

“I need to step outside for a moment,” I declare. I am going to need backup.

“Ah, my master, Dionysus. I drink to your health, your wealth and your Godly stealth. You are highest among Gods, oh grape one!

God of wine; God of fruit and God of fruitfulness. God of fertility, though when feasting on the fruits of your grape, we find it hard to be fertile – hardly able to rise to the occasion. Unlike your esteemed thyrus, wound with ivy and dripping with honey, I – a mere mortal – am unable to drip my honey from my own thyrus, as my staff falls limp after several barrels of your sacred wine.

Though the maiden may be naked and wound around my thyrus – urging my staff to rise and send lightning through her body, in imitation of your father, the great Zeus, the power of your grape overcomes all my manly desires and though I dance and sing in ritual ecstasy and virtual insanity, I can raise nothing more than a smile – and my voice, as I sing your praises in drunken celebration.

Through the power of your wine, I lose my ability to make the maiden moan –and am reduced to making her whine.

That is my sacrifice to you, Dionysus…”